Dr. Smelly

While shopping the other day, I overheard a woman say, “I need candles; my house is smelly,” and it brought back a memory of Lorene so vivid that I almost burst out laughing. And then, I felt sad.

Lorene was Bill’s stepmother and in her eighties. Although she was financially secure, and could have done just about anything she wanted, she never went anywhere. Her friend, Mary, handled her finances and chauffeured her around; other friends mowed her lawn and did odd jobs around her house, offering to take her to church and out to lunch or dinner. But she spent most days in her blue recliner, her Chihuahua perched in her lap, gazing out the window.

We visited her two or three times a year, and when we arrived at her house just about this time last year, she met us at the door in her pajamas.

"I thought y’all would be here sooner!” she said, “I was getting ready to just lock up the house and go ahead on to bed!"

She dropped her long, thin body into her recliner and pulled the lever, sending her feet high in the air. "Bella’s walking funny,” she said, “Y’all have got to take us to the vet."

I looked at Bella, and I could have sworn she rolled her eyes at me. The dog had been taken to the vet so many times in her 11 years that her tiny body quivered and quaked at the mention of “The Vet.”

“Y’all have got to take me to Dr. Smelly tomorrow, too,” she said.

“Smelly?” I said, trying to stifle a giggle, “Did you say ‘Dr. Smelly’?”

She pulled the lever again and slid to the edge of the chair. “Yes, her name is Dr. Smelly,” she said, “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” I said, “With a name like Wooley, I can’t talk. But you should not be going to a smelly doctor.”

She jumped up, glowering at me, and I broke into a torrent of giggles. We always tried to deal with Lorene’s crankiness with humor, but I knew I was carrying it a bit too far.

"I don't believe in making fun of nobody," she said, "Dr. Smelly can't help what her name is!"

"Does she stink?" Bill quipped.

"Y’all ought to be ashamed of yourselves," Lorene replied, "Dr. Smelly is a very nice doctor!" She got up, stormed to her bedroom and slammed the door.

The next day, we drove her to Dr. Smelly’s office and the pharmacy.

"Y'all are gonna have to take me to Wal-Mart," she said, after we picked up her prescriptions.

We accompanied her up and down the aisles of Wal-Mart, looking for batteries, denture adhesive, a special unscented hand lotion, and hot chili peppers. She mixed them with everything she ate—from beans to scrambled eggs.

As we were heading toward the check-out, Lorene stopped, “I need rubber gloves.”

I volunteered to get the gloves for her, since they were on the other side of the store, but when I handed them to her, you would have thought I had presented her with a dead rat.

“They ain’t the right kind,” she said, wrinkling her nose, “These ain’t worth a toot!”

The following day, we took Bella to the vet. The diagnosis was arthritis, so we went back to the pharmacy for dog medication and back to Wal-Mart for dog food.

When Bill said he would wait in the car, I made a face at him.

I thought things were going well. We strolled along, laughing and talking, filling the cart with everything she wanted, and I was congratulating myself on being such a congenial companion. But something changed on our way back to the car.

“She run off and left me," she told Bill, “She run clear off!”

Actually, I had stepped over to the next aisle for Pepto Bismol. For some reason, my stomach was upset.

Evenings, after dinner, Bill and I usually retired to the front porch. Lorene couldn’t join us, she said, because she was allergic to mold.

We enjoyed those times; being back home put Bill in a reflective mood. He talked about growing up in the Deep South, running around in the hills and hollows of Alabama, the church where he was subjected to hellfire and damnation sermons each Sunday, and being pushed out of his home when he was only 15.

“I had to leave,” he said, “I tried to get along with Lorene, but she lied to Dad, telling him I wouldn't do my chores and causing all kinds of trouble.”

“I’m surprised you even want to visit her now,” I said.

“She’s just an old, lonely woman, now,” he said, “With nobody, really.”

“Well,” I said, feeling guilty, “I guess you’re right.”

Suddenly, Lorene appeared. “Y’all are sitting out here because y’all don’t want to be around me!” She placed her hands on her hips and gazed at her neighbor’s neat little house, “Has Buford been over here?”

Buford was in his eighties and a very nice man; Bill had known him all his life. He sometimes stood at the fence, talking to us, when Lorene was not around.

“His granddaddy was his daddy, you know,” she said, “And I don’t want to have nothing to do with people like them.”

"I don't know how much more we can take," Bill said as we were preparing for bed that night.

Lorene burst into our bedroom the next morning, Bella at her heels. “Y’all have got to take us to The Vet,” she said, “One of Bella’s eyes don't look right.”

Bill and I looked at each other, and Bella looked up at us. Her body began to quiver and quake, and I could have sworn she rolled her eyes at me again. Was there actually something wrong with her eyes, or was she the most intuitive pooch on the planet?

“You’re gonna have to take me back to Dr. Smelly, too,” she said, “My sinuses are acting up worse than ever.”

We made another trip to Dr. Smelly’s office, then on to The Vet’s office, where he determined there was nothing wrong with Bella’s eye.

"We're going home tomorrow," Bill said that night, "And I don't know if we'll ever be back."

The next morning I found Bill and Lorene drinking coffee at the kitchen table. “I just don’t know what I’d do without Dr. Smelly,” she was saying, “I dearly love Dr. Smelly.”

I burst out giggling. "I smelled a foul odor in Dr. Smelly's waiting room," I said.

"It was Dr. Smelly," Bill said.

Lorene grabbed a bag of Doritos and a jar of chili peppers, stormed into the living room and reared back in her recliner. She pulled the handle, feet flying into the air, and turned the television to the Andy Griffith Show. She hardly spoke to us the rest of the day.

As we were preparing to leave the next morning, the pharmacy called to tell Lorene she had forgotten a prescription, so we headed to Tuscaloosa again. On our way home, Lorene started to cry.

“I wish y’all would move in with me,” she said, “Then you could take me everywhere and I wouldn’t have to pay Mary to take me around.”

“Lorene, we’ve told you before,” I said, “You could move to Kentucky.”

She cocked her grey head, “Now, what would I do up there?”

“The same thing you do down here,” Bill said.

She burst into tears again as Bill was loading our luggage. “I ain’t no good to nobody,” she said.

“Oh, Lorene,” Bill said, patting her shoulder, “Don’t talk like that.”

We both hugged her, and I hooked my arm through hers as we walked to the car. “I bet I never see y’all again,” she said, wiping her tears with a crumpled tissue, “Never.”

“You say that every time we visit,” Bill said, “You know we’ll be back, maybe Christmas.”

“Nobody cares nothing about me,” she said, “And I always treated folks real good.”

“I know,” Bill said.

“I always treated you real good, didn’t I, Billy?”

“Yes, Lorene, you did.”

As we drove away, Lorene stood in the yard, Bella in her arms, waving until we were out of sight.

Bill sighed as we pulled out on the highway, “Maybe we will come back around Christmas time,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, “Maybe we will.”

Elvis: He gave us all he had.

As most everyone knows, today is the 30th anniversary of Elvis Presley’s death, but since we still hear his songs often, it is hard to believe he’s gone.

It was January, 1956, when I laid eyes on Elvis for the first time. I was 15 years old. Mother had just finished hemming a dress she had made for me—green-and-white checked, with a dropped waist and square neck—and I was pressing it on the ironing board in the living room. The rest of the family was back in the family room, watching the Jimmy Dorsey Show.

I had just tried on the dress, and Mother was checking the hem, when all of a sudden we heard clapping and screaming coming from the television. We rushed out to the family room, where we saw a handsome, young, greasy-haired guy jumping around and swiveling his hips. “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog,” he squalled, “cryin’ all the time...”

“What on earth?” Mother said.

“Good god!” Daddy said.

Terry, Patsy, Mary Ellen and I were spellbound, and our little brothers and sisters didn't know what to think. Terry looked at us and raised his eyebrows, and we all burst into laughter. I wanted to start jitterbugging, which I had never been able to do every well, and I knew my sisters wanted to do the same. But we knew better; Daddy would never stand for that.

My mother, siblings and I stood in amazement. Daddy? He was tapping his foot, a look of disgust on his face.

The next day at school, everyone was talking about “that swinging singer from down in Memphis.” My friend, Sarah Mae, talked about him all day long and confided that she had a sexy dream about him that night after the show.

Elvis appeared on the Dorsey Show several more times, and we never missed it. By the time he appeared on the Ed Sullivan show, on September 9 of that year, every teenager I knew watched it. (I later learned that an estimated 52 million people—one out of three Americans—tuned in.) He did not disappoint us, singing Don’t be Cruel, Love Me Tender, and Hound Dog.

Church people all over the country were outraged, some ministers ordering teenagers to destroy their Elvis records. “We are not going to stand for this,” one said, “This is the work of the devil!”

“The world's going to hell in a hand basket,” a neighbor said.

In November, Elvis’s first movie premiered. Patsy and I went to Memphis with Maw Maw Wilson to spend Thanksgiving with Aunt Mora and family, and cousin Clydeane took us to see Love Me Tender.

“He can’t act very good,” I said.

“Yes, especially when he died,” Patsy said.

The next night, we were in for a surprise. “Do y’all want to go see Elvis's house?” cousin Joe said.

We were beside ourselves. Here is my journal entry from November 22, 1956:

Joe took us to Elvis’s house! When he pulled up in front, we saw a pink Cadillac and another Cadillac in the driveway. There were two or three motorcycles, too. Joe said Elvis must be home. THEN, all of a sudden we saw somebody in the living room looking out the blinds. Joe said it looked like ELVIS! And it DID look like Elvis! I kept wishing he would come OUT! THEN a police car drove up and we had to go!!! There were music notes on the FENCE, and it looked just like it did in the movie magazines!!!

(Before Graceland, it was the first home Elvis bought for Gladys, a ranch-style house on Audubon Street.)

I saw Love Me Tender again, with Sarah Mae, when it came to Bardwell. She was mesmerized. I kept punching her arm to get her attention, but it did no good. She simply did not hear me.

“I love him,” she said as we walked out of the theatre, “I absolutely love him.”

The following year, word went around school that Elvis was coming to Paducah.

“When he comes to Paducah,” classmate Joyce Gail said, “My daddy said I could go.”

I knew I didn’t have a chance in the world of going. Someone said the tickets would be $6.50.

As it turned out, Elvis never came to Paducah. But he and a bunch of friends came through Bardwell in his pink Cadillac one night in 1957. They stopped at the D-X Station on Highway 51, and, according to the little man who owned the place and several lucky customers, he bought gas, RC colas, Moon Pies and candy bars. Patsy and I never forgave ourselves for not being there for the big event, since we often stopped at the D-X for Cokes.

The years slipped by. I graduated from high school and business college, got married and moved to Chicago, then Bloomington/Normal, Illinois, where Suzanne was born.

In the early fall of 1976, I learned that Elvis would be performing live at the University of Illinois in Champaign.

“We’re going,” I said.

“We’d never get in,” Carroll said, “There'd be such a crowd.”

“We’re going.”

“I don’t want to go,” Suzanne said, “He’s a has-been.”

Suzanne had been forced to listen to my music—Elvis, Fats Domino, Jerry Lee Lewis, Little Anthony and the Imperials, and other fifties singers—while she was growing up, but now she was becoming her own person. She was into Captain & Tennille and Abba, Elton John and Kiki Dee, and TV shows like Cher and Charlie's Angels.

Nevertheless, on Friday, October 22, 1976, we rushed home from work, changed, and after a quick supper, drove to the University of Illinois in Champaign. The show would not begin until 8:30, but Carroll wanted to get a good parking place.

We were in for a shock, totally unprepared for what we saw when we got to the Assembly Hall. Traffic was moving at a snail’s pace, policemen were everywhere, and cars were lined up as far as the eye could see.

“I knew it would be this way,” muttered Carroll.

Still, I knew he was excited. He kept putting the back of his hand to his mouth as we eased along, which he did only when he was nervous. Suzanne, an astonished look on her face, sat perched on the edge of her seat.

After finally finding a parking place, we joined thousands of people in the long trek across the parking lot, fighting hundreds more to get inside.

“I’ll give you $200 for every ticket you got,” yelled a man in a wide-brimmed hat.

“I’ll give you $250,” yelled another.

“We should sell these tickets,” Carroll said, “That’s a profit of about $700!”

“I’ll sell mine,” Suzanne said, “If I can keep the money.”

By the time we got in and seated, excitement was accelerating. The place was packed, and it’s no wonder; I later learned 17,000 people attended the concert. There were young couples, mothers with babies, elderly people (some in wheelchairs), teenagers, people dressed in jeans, others dressed in formal clothes, and one woman wearing a sequined shirt, Elvis’s face splashed across her breasts.

When they began playing C C Rider, a hush swept over the audience. The music got louder, the lights flashed on, and there he was. The King. In person!

He was heavy and looked uncomfortable in his glittery white suit and cape, but he gave the audience his beautiful smile and immediately belted out the first words of Jail House Rock.

Everyone jumped to their feet. I don’t even remember jumping up; all of a sudden I was up. Along with Carroll and Suzanne. The roar of the crowd was deafening, the air filled with electricity; the excitement palpable.

He sang many songs, including You Gave Me A Mountain, All Shook Up, Hound Dog, and three of my early-Elvis favorites, Don’t be Cruel, I Want You, I Need You, I Love You, and I Was the One. His last song was Dixie, and he sang it with such passion that I thought my heart would break. Although he was heavy, and not as handsome as he once was, his voice was still the same.

The crowd couldn’t quit clapping and cheering. He came back several times, waving and bowing, and, despite never wanting him to leave the stage, I knew he should. He looked exhausted, spent, his face wet with perspiration. He gave us all he had.

When the announcer said, “Elvis has left the building,” there was almost total silence, and then we quietly and solemnly filed out of the auditorium.

On August 16, 1977, I turned on the radio as I was heading home from work. The first words I heard were, "Elvis Presley...dead at 42.”

Elvis? Gone? Was this a joke?

Sadly, it was not a joke, and I spent the rest of the evening in shock.

“Thank heavens we went to see him when we did,” I said.

This time, Suzanne and her father agreed.

Especially Mother

Last Sunday was my birthday, so Bill and I drove to Bardwell to celebrate at one of my favorite places: Mother’s house. Suzanne joined us, as well as sisters Patsy, Mary Ellen and Eva, and brother, Tom, Aunt Mona and cousin Dennis.

We enjoyed birthday cake (made by Mother, of course) and chocolate ice cream (my favorite), then we sat at the dining table, sipping coffee, catching up on the latest happenings in Bardwell, and bragging about our grandchildren, and in some cases, great-grandchildren. (Mary Ellen has a new great-granddaughter, and Patsy is eagerly anticipating the arrival of her first great-grandchild, a boy, in October).

After all my gifts were unwrapped, cards read, and everyone thanked and hugged, we reminisced about my 15th birthday, when three of us--and Mother--almost drowned in Maw Maw Wilson’s pond. We also talked about the cold February night when Maw Maw and Paw Paw George’s house burned, and, as she does every year on each child’s birthday, Mother reminisced about the night I was born.

Mother was 19 when she gave birth to me at home on that hot and muggy night in August. The family doctor came as soon as he was called and stayed throughout the night, delivering me at 11:59 p.m. on August 5th. My 23-year-old father and both grandmothers were there, as well as 20-month-old Terry, who slept through it all. Maw Maw Wilson and Maw Maw George gave me my first bath by the light of the kerosene lamps. Electricity had not yet come to our part of the world; we would not have electric lights until we moved to the big brick house Daddy built when I was seven years old.

Since that August night so many years ago, Mother has given birth to nine more children. We lost Terry when he was 37, and Tim, when he was 28. Another brother, Tommy, lived only five days.

Despite the heartache and grief of losing three sons, two grandchildren, as well as Daddy (the love of her life), and many other loved ones, Mother just keeps on keeping on.

“I had to,” she says, “for you kids.”

Eighty-six, and looking a good 10 years younger, she is truly the heart of our family. Selfless, devoted, loving and always there for us, I really don’t know what we would do without her. (The photo above captures her essence; it was taken by my lovely niece, Christa.)

Mother and I are night owls, so we have long, late-night phone conversations at least four or five times a week.

“Hello, Brenda Gail,” she says, “How are y’all?”

Mother and I are alike in many other ways; we love poetry, good books, antiques, old family pictures, comfortable, worn furniture and cozy rooms with crackling fires. We enjoy thunderstorms, foggy nights, frogs croaking, the Katydids’ song, and the scent of fresh-cut grass. We love the silence of new-fallen snow on cold winter nights, the scent of beef stew or hearty soups simmering on the stove, and curling up in our warm robes, writing in our journals or reading. And we love tear-jerker movies, such as “Trip to Bountiful,” “Driving Miss Daisy,” and “The Whales of August,”

We also read The National Enquirer. Why? Because inquiring minds want to know!

“Mary Tyler Moore looks like a caricature,” I say, “She’s all mouth.”

“If Barbara Walters has another facelift, she won’t be able to open her mouth,” says Mother, giggling.

We have read every book written about the Kennedys and thirst for more.

“Did you see on Larry King where somebody has written another one?” Mother says, “We’ve just got to get that.”

“Is it the one about Jackie and Bobby?” I say, “There’s no telling what we’ll find out.”

And the Royals:

“I don’t care what they say,” Mother says, “Princess Di was murdered!”

“Yes," I say, “Common sense tells you that!”

Mother and I often have the same ideas at the same time. When she began reading Longfellow’s poem, “A Psalm of Life,” at our literary meeting last month, I was amazed. No more than a week before, I had copied the poem and put it into my “Favorite Poems” folder. Mother had no idea I copied the poem, and I had no idea she was going to read it. We had never even talked about liking the poem. And she read it from a book of poetry I had given her in 1974. One of many synchronous moments!

Late that night, after my very enjoyable day, I sat in quiet contemplation, giving thanks for all the people in my life: my husband, daughter, grandson, and my large, supportive family whose unconditional love is always there. Especially Mother. Who, whether she knows it or not, is still achieving and still pursuing.

Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

From My Journal: July 28, 1965

LeRoy, Illinois

I’m watching a special report on Vietnam by President Johnson. Things sound bad. They’re going to double the draft call and are sending 50,000 more men over there. It’s terrible…every day at least two or three American boys are killed. It scares me. They aren’t calling reserves yet, but if they do, Terry might have to go because I think he’ll be in the reserves for another year. And if there is war, there’s a chance Ted might go. In the Korean War, 18-year-olds were called.

President Johnson just said, “This is the most sorrowful and agonizing decision your president has ever made.”

I hear my sweet little girl waking up. She slept a long time today. She talks so much now. I can't believe she'll be two years old in September! The other day she toddled around the side of the house to get her ball, turned to me and said, “See you later, Mommie.”

Didn’t do much today. This morning, I washed two loads of clothes and hung them out on the line (I love that fresh-air scent that you don’t get when they come out of the dryer), did the dishes, straightened the house and dusted, and watched “As the World Turns.” After lunch, when Suzanne was taking her nap, I washed my hair and ironed while I was watching “The Guiding Light,” then I cleaned the bathroom.

It’s about time to start fixing supper. I’m not having much. I’ve got a beef roast in the oven, and I’m just going to have potatoes and gravy, corn on the cob, and sliced tomatoes to go along with it. (I’m not going to make a dessert. I’m still trying to lose weight…I now weigh 120 pounds!!!)

I just don’t have enough to do, and at times I get bored, but I will not leave my precious baby and go back to work. No one can take care of a baby like her own mother!

Twila Olsen called this morning and invited me to a Tupperware party tomorrow night. Don’t know if I’ll go or not. I’m kind of sick of Tupperware parties. Went to one at Irma’s last week.

Mike and Janet are coming Friday night for a cook-out.

I’m about to run out of books to read. Need to go to the library tomorrow. I’ve read just about every magazine on the news stands, and I know I shouldn’t spend so much money on them. I’ve read this month’s Ladies Home Journal, McCall’s, Better Homes & Gardens, Good Housekeeping, Glamour, Redbook, Cosmopolitan, Family Circle and many movie magazines. I also joined the Doubleday Book Club. Can’t wait for my first books to come! Two of them are “Kennedy,” by Theodore C. Sorensen, and “A Gift of Prophecy,” by that psychic, Ruth Montgomery. I just love books about spirits and the hereafter.

Simon and Garfunkel’s song, "The Sound of Silence,” is playing on the radio. I LOVE that song, and I’m going to buy the album, no matter how much it costs. Another one I really like is “Mr. Tambourine Man,” by Bob Dylan. The Byrds also have it out now, but I like Dylan’s version better. There’s just something about his voice.

We’re going to New Orleans in August. Suzanne will stay with Mother and Daddy. This will be the first time I’ve been away from her overnight, and I know I’ll miss her. But she’ll be in good hands.

Bob Seger: Never give up!

(Edited: I've had such a great response to this post that I've dug up a couple more pictures.)

At any time, day or night, you can turn your radio on, flip through the stations, and almost always come upon a Bob Seger song. Much of his music exudes deep loneliness and nostalgia, but it is also affirming, celebratory and uplifting. At the end of a Bob Seger song, you feel there is hope.

Although I had always enjoyed his music, the first time I was stopped in my tracks by one of his songs was in 1980. My daughter and I had moved back to Kentucky, and I was depressed and overwhelmed about starting over. Suzanne, like most teenagers, loved her music and spent most of her allowance on albums. One day she burst into the house.

“I got it,” she yelled, sprinting up the stairs to her bedroom, “I got the album!”

Loud, uplifting music burst from her stereo, followed by a familiar, soulful voice; a voice that articulated exactly what I was feeling. Against the Wind is still my favorite Bob Seger song.

Years later, my husband, Costa, and I often visited his family in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, a suburb of Detroit. And in August, 1990, we were there when my birthday rolled around, so my sister-in-law, Rita, decided to take us out for drinks and dinner to celebrate. She said her friend, Nita, and her boyfriend and another couple would be joining us.

“I have a surprise for you,” Rita said.

“What kind of a surprise,” I said, picturing a testosterone-pumped guy in a thong, thrusting and bumping around me to Play that Funky Music.

“You’ll find out when we get there!”

When we got to the restaurant, the other couple was there, but Nita and her boyfriend had not arrived. A short time later, people around us began whispering and looking toward the entrance, where Nita and her boyfriend were coming through the door.

When they reached our table, Rita jumped up, “This is my friend, Nita, and her boyfriend, Bob Seger.”

Before I could say anything, Bob grabbed my hand. “Happy birthday!” he said, smiling, “Set everyone up at this table with drinks,” he said, “It’s Brenda’s birthday!”

Bob was down-to-earth and very friendly, and when he smiled, his whole face lit up. He was a very good conversationalist and listened intently when others spoke. Several people around us asked to join our group, and Bob graciously invited them over. Rita rushed out to her car, bringing back party hats and favors for everyone, and the party accelerated.

When we finally decided to have dinner, it was past closing time, but the restaurant was still full. After dinner, Bob bought a round of drinks and made a toast to me, and then he led the group in singing happy birthday. By the time the song was over, everyone in the restaurant was singing along.

As we were preparing to leave, Bob invited us to his house for a swim, so we piled into our cars and followed Bob’s Mercedes out to the suburbs. We were all pretty well loaded, but Rita rose to the occasion and drove our car, and we hung on for dear life as we careened down Telegraph Road.

At Bob’s house, Nita took us out back to the bath house and gave us swimsuits, and then we all cavorted in the kidney-shaped pool. Later, we gathered in his family room, where we talked and listened to music, and in the early morning hours, Bob asked us if we would like to listen to a tape of songs that would be coming out on his next album. Two of them were Real Love and The Long Way Home, which I really liked. I was struck by Bob’s face as he watched our reactions, and I realized that no matter how successful entertainers have become, they are still vulnerable to the opinions of others.

Later, Rita, Nita and I went into the family room and plopped down on the carpet in a circle so we could talk privately. Nita was very nice and unaffected. She reminded me of Suzanne, in her honest, straight-forward approach to life. Bob later joined us, his cat at his heels. The cat was black, with a strange shock of yellow over one eye. I tried to pet him, but he backed away and curled up close to Bob, looking at me suspiciously.

We talked about all kinds of things, and in the course of the conversation Rita mentioned that I wrote short stories. Bob asked if I had published anything. I told him I had only published a few human interest newspaper stories and one poem.

“It’s hard to get anything published,” I said.

“Just keep on,” he said, petting his cat and scratching him behind his ears, “If you keep on, you will get your stories published. That’s the way I was with my music. Never give up.”

Bob went on to say that he almost gave up in 1969, to go to college, but he decided to give his music one more chance. That’s when all of his hard work began paying off.

It was around 4 a.m. when we began running out of steam, so Bob insisted we spend the night. And it was around noon the next day before we began meandering downstairs. We were all suffering from hangovers, so after consuming gallons of coffee we headed home.

"Have a safe trip back to Kentucky!" Bob called as we drove away.

We visited with Bob and Nita again a couple of years later, and Bob asked if I was still writing. “Remember,” he said, “Just keep on writing; never give up!”

I lost touch with them after Costa and I went our separate ways. Through the years, though, I’ve kept up with them through the tabloids and television. He and Nita had a baby boy, Cole, and when he was a toddler, they got married. They had a daughter, Samatha, a few years later. I was thrilled when Bob was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2004, and his song, Old Time Rock and Roll was named one of the Songs of the Century in 2001. I felt the accolades were long overdue, since he more than paid his dues by selling 50 million albums and writing songs, singing, recording and touring for over 40 years.

Nowadays, as I write, I listen to all kinds of music—oldies, classical, blues, country—but sometimes I get stuck on a particular story, and that proverbial little voice whispers, Why are you doing this? That’s when I put on a Bob Seger CD, fast-forward it to Against the Wind, turn the volume up and get a great big dose of inspiration.

Never give up, I tell myself, never give up!

William Faulkner

I have long been an admirer of the great writer, William Faulkner (1897-1962). I've just finished reading his biography, and I can't believe how much I did not know about one of my favorite writers.

Faulkner was noted for the eloquent richness of his writing style and the unique blend of tragedy and humor in his works (especially in "As I Lay Dying," one of my favorites). His prose style and complicated plots made some of his works difficult to read, but it is well worth the effort. He accomplished more in a decade than most writers accomplish in a lifetime of writing, and he won both the Nobel and Pulitzer Prizes for literature.

Although Faulkner dabbled in drawing and writing poetry at a young age, he wasn't a good student and dropped out of high school after a short time. He also dropped out of the University of Mississippi after only three semesters. He held many odd jobs, one as Old Miss University postmaster, where he spent most of his time reading or playing cards with friends, misplacing or losing mail, and failing to serve customers. When a postal inspector came to investigate, he agreed to resign.

Faulkner was an alcoholic. He wasn't an every-day drunk; he sometimes went for months without having a drink, but when he did drink, he drank until he passed out. When he awakened, he drank until he passed out again. This usually went on for about a week, when his wife, friends, (or his agent, if he was away from home on a book promotion) put him to bed and nursed him back to health. Once, when he had been on a binge and a friend had taken him to his home to dry out, Faulkner told the friend's wife, "Dorothy, I've misbehaved." (I thought that was hilarious!) As he grew older and his health deteriorated, he was taken to a sanitarium to dry out. He was usually up and about in a week or so, getting back to his writing and looking after his farm. He was in a much better mood after one of his drinking "spells;" it apparently served as a catalyst for him. This went on all of his life.

He stayed in a loveless marriage, mostly for the sake of their daughter, Jill. His wife, Estelle, wasn't very interested in his writing, and rarely accompanied him to New York, Paris, Italy, or other exciting places, preferring to stay home in Oxford, Mississippi. She was a spendthrift, and he was often forced to go to Hollywood and write movie scripts (which he hated) to pay their bills.

Faulkner did not, however, lack for female companionship. He had several long-term affairs with much younger women, continuing to be friends with all of them and writing them letters long after the relationships ended. Early on, Estelle was jealous, but she later accepted it and told a friend, "I guess Bill just needs younger women."

At least two of his books were made into movies, "The Reivers" and "The Hamlet," the title of which was changed to "The Long Hot Summer," starring Joanne Woodward and Paul Newman. (That one really made my blood boil; I saw it when I was 17!)

In later years, Faulkner was a writer in residence and lecturer in American literature at the University of Virginia. He also lectured at Princeton.

Since I’ve been writing most of my life, I'm always interested in what well-known writers have to say about their craft.

"Keep it amateur,” Faulkner said, “Remember, you're writing about people, not about a city or some other place, but about people; about man as he faces the eternal truths of love, compassion, cowardice, protection of the weak. Not facts, but truths. You're going to write about truth: man as he comes into conflict with his heart."

He also said he had never met anyone who could not find the time to write if he really wanted to write. "Don't be a writer," he said, "Be writing!"

Think I'll take Faulkner's advice and get back to my writing!

May the Road Rise Up to Meet You

My grandson and his girlfriend roared into our driveway yesterday morning in a big U-Haul truck, sweeping into the house with the energy and exuberance that only come with youth.

Chase and Tasha are moving into their first house together. They had just come from Suzanne's; their contribution, a huge leather sofa and matching chair, sitting regally in the truck, and they swung by our house to pick up a dining table and chairs.

“I guess that’s it,” Chase said, jumping out of the truck and slapping his cap back on his head.

As I watched them cruise down the street, over the hill and out of sight, I was suddenly transported back in time to my first place.

It was August, 1959, and Chase’s grandfather and I were newlyweds. Just short of our 19th birthdays and students at Draughon’s Business College in Paducah, we were thrilled about our first home, a furnished, second-floor apartment at the corner of Harrison and North 6th Streets. It is now the beautifully renovated home and gallery of artist Mark Palmer.

Bobby Darin was belting out “Dream Lover” from our little radio as Carroll trudged up the steep steps with cardboard boxes containing our few possessions.

“Wish we had a television set,” he said, dropping the boxes on the living room floor.

“There’s no place to put it if we did,” I said.

The living room was not much larger than most bathrooms of today. It contained two green plastic armchairs, a tiny, low end table squatting between. A yellowed picture of President Roosevelt hung lopsided over one chair; it looked as if it had been there since the thirties.

As the Platters’ “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” drifted through the apartment, we swept and mopped the cracked linoleum floor, and by the time we finished, we had joined the Shirelles in “Dedicated to the One I Love,” Carroll swaying from side to side and mimicking them in a high, squeaky voice.

Still giggling and snapping each other with dish towels every now and then, we unpacked our wedding gifts. I draped new, stiffly-starched doilies on the backs of the armchairs and placed our tall turquoise lamp, which sported a two-tiered fiberglass shade, on the spindly table. Although I protested, Carroll completed the ensemble with a giant orange ashtray, a wedding gift from his Uncle Bus.

A decrepit gas stove held court in the long narrow kitchen alongside a refrigerator similar to Lucy and Ricky Ricardo’s in early episodes of “I Love Lucy.” Our chrome dinette set had seen better days; one leg propped up with a small block, and we surmised the landlord dragged our iron bed out of the city dump late one night when no one was looking. Rusty and wobbly, it sagged in the middle. When I tried to dress it up with our new green bedspread with a pink rose stitched in the center, several slats crashed to the floor.

We didn’t care though; we were young, enthusiastic, and embarking on our life together. It was only temporary, anyway. We were tired of small-town life, planned to move to Chicago after graduation. We had places to go, people to see. Bigger fish to fry.

John F. Kennedy was running for president and the United States was on the brink of the New Frontier when we graduated. Some of our friends were moving back to their hometowns, some were moving to St. Louis; others were staying in Paducah.

Carroll and I? Well, we packed our clothes in the big cardboard boxes, tossed them in the back seat of our red-and-white ’55 Ford, and headed for Chicago to seek our fame and fortune.

But that is another story. And I’m working on it.

So, as Chase and Tasha begin their life together in their new home, one of my favorite Irish blessings says it all for me:

May the road rise up to meet you,
May the wind always be at your back,
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
And rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.