Happy Birthday, my little girl!

Brandi: A Very Odd Cat

I once had a huge calico cat with topaz eyes. When we adopted Brandi at six weeks, she was wary of everyone and would have nothing to do with anyone but Suzanne and me.

A few years later, Harry joined our family. A Chow/German Shepherd mix, he was two months old and thrilled to have a playmate. But Brandi put an end to that with a hiss and a slap of her paw. Later, as a dumbfounded Harry looked on, she sat bathing herself, shooting daggers at him each time he moved: Back off, you little toot or I’ll do it again!

Though Harry grew into a gigantic, formidable dog, the two lived in harmony the rest of her life.

Brandi had no use for small creatures. When Chase was a baby, she sat on the arm of a nearby chair, a look of disbelief on her face: What the heck is that?

Each time he visited, her big tail ballooned to twice its size and she scurried away. Then she fluctuated between hovering and recoiling, flinching each time Chase moved. When he began crawling she became even more alarmed, skulking here and there, hiding under furniture, peering around doorways.

As time went on, though, and with much work on Chase’s part (he loves animals), Brandi came around. But she was still a little guarded; lowering her head when he petted her and not completely relaxing until he was around six years old.

After much scrutiny, Brandi allowed a few more people into her circle: Gina and her husband and two daughters, Pitty Pat, Mother and Daddy. But she hid when anyone else came calling. And after our guests departed, she strolled back into the living room, ears back, looking up at me: About time they left!

Brandi hated the outdoors. When I tried to coax her out, she balked. A few times I picked her up and carried her out, but as soon as I set her down, she sprinted back to the door, looking around with apprehension: No telling what’s out there!

She was very picky. She only drank water (didn’t much care for milk), ate Purina Cat Chow, and tuna (water-packed). If I offered her anything else, she gave me a dirty look, flicked her tail and sauntered away.

She was brought to her knees a few times, though, by several catastrophic events in her long life. It’s a wonder she survived some of them.

One incident occurred when I went to Michigan for a visit.

I had left her alone many times before, with everything she needed: two big bowls of water, two big bowls of Purina Cat Chow. Litter. If I planned to be away longer than a day or two, I had someone check on her. And she always did just fine.

But after I had been in Michigan nine days, I suddenly realized I had forgotten.

I called Gina.

When she called back, Gina’s voice didn’t sound quite right. “First of all, Brenda,” she said, “Brandi is fine….she’s just fine. Now.”

My heart dropped. “What happened?”

When they got there, Gina said, Brandi was nowhere to be found. Her food and water had not been touched; her litter was unused. And from the bedroom, they could hear a faint meow.

“I was afraid to open the door,” Gina said, “I just knew she’d be nothing but skin and bones. And maybe dying.”

But when Gina peeked in, there Brandi stood, looking up at her. And none worse for the wear. “She was really glad to see us,” Gina said, “She couldn’t get enough petting!”

As it turned out, before I left for Michigan I had gone to my bedroom and grabbed a sweater, and rushed back out to the car. Apparently, Brandi had followed me and I had closed the door, not knowing she was there.

Brandi acted less haughty for several days thereafter and seemed much more appreciative when I fed her. Before long, though, she was back to her old self.

Another incident occurred when Brandi spent time in the country with Mother and Daddy. She somehow got out one night and Daddy found her on the deck the next morning, her throat almost slit in half. We determined she had gotten into a fight with a Coon or a Possum. Maybe both, knowing Brandi!

After a trip to Lone Oak Animal Clinic, she soon recovered.

Since she hated the outdoors, I never figured out why she sneaked out that night. Maybe she considered the deck just another room. Or maybe she saw a Coon and went after him. Or maybe she just stepped out to get a breath of fresh air.

As Brandi grew older, I began worrying about the inevitable. “She’s 10 years old,” I said to Suzanne, “What if she dies?”

I said the same thing the next year, the next. And the next.

And then one day I didn’t have to coax her to get into my lap. She just climbed up there and laid her big furry head on my knees. Which was unusual for her.

“What’s the matter, Brandi?”

She looked up at me and meowed, topaz eyes sad.

She was still eating well at that time, though, and acting normal. So I put it out of my mind.

A few days later, she walked up to me and meowed, and when I invited her onto my lap, she was unable to jump.

“It’s her kidneys. That’s what gets most cats when they get to be as old as Brandi,” my veterinarian said.

“What can you do for her?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “We should probably put her down.”

I refused and took her home, where she spent the next few days on my bed. She was getting worse, and I knew I would soon have to make a decision.

Suzanne and Chase came over the last night we had with her, and we all sat on the bed, holding her, petting her, and talking to her. Tears were shed.

The next morning at the Lone Oak Animal Clinic, I held her paw as she quietly slipped away. She was 17 years old.

Yes, Stanley, you are remembered.

I was so happy to learn that Stanley Walker has been inducted into the Rockabilly Hall of Fame.

Adam Shull wrote a great piece in Sunday's Paducah Sun about Stanley's career, much of which I did not know. Not only did he play with country rock legends like Ray Smith, Jerry Lee Lewis and Hank Williams, Jr., he did a two-year stint as a session musician at the Grand Ole Opry. And barely missed a chance to join Johnny Cash's band.

When I returned to this area in 1979, people often talked about a singer named Stanley Walker. So one night when he was playing at a bar in Paducah, I went along with friends. And I was glad I did. His voice was wonderful, deep and soulful, kind of a cross between George Jones and Travis Tritt. And his guitar-playing? Well, that was something else.

"He’s great!" I said, "I can't believe he isn't famous!"

In the 1980's, his band played regularly at the Executive Inn. I worked for the city then, and co-workers and I often headed there for Happy Hour on Wednesdays, sometimes staying later into the evening just to hear Stanley play.

Although I didn't know his name back then, I had already seen Stanley play. Years ago, and many times.

I was a junior at Bardwell High School when a bunch of us began going to the play-party in Wickliffe. Unbeknownst to our parents (They drink and do no telling what over there, Mother warned.), Patsy, Karen and I, along with other friends, piled into Billy Byassee's big old black car and headed to Wickliffe on Friday nights. The dances were held in the VFW hall. I think. But I don't know for sure which hall it was.

What I do know is things were really hopping in that big, smoke-filled place, people of all ages having a great time. Ray Smith was a skinny guy, enthusiastic, energetic, and singing like there was no tomorrow. It was obvious how much he loved his music.

One song he always sang was Elvis's Hard Headed Woman, and when he belted out those first few lyrics, everyone hit the dance floor, crinoline petticoats swishing, ponytails bouncing; Old Spice cologne wafting through the air, crew-cut heads bobbing to and fro, and white bucks slipping and sliding across the floor. The air seemed to snap and crackle.

Early on, Raymond Jones, a classmate of mine, played guitar in Ray's band, and when Raymond left, he was replaced with a boy who could really pick the guitar.

That boy was Stanley Walker, and he went on to play lead guitar for Ray Smith's Rockin' Little Angel, which sold several million records. It was recorded at Sun Records in 1961, and there were other songs as well. He toured with Ray Smith, appeared on Hee Haw, did solo recordings. And much more.

Not long ago, Stanley received a letter from Dr. Hank Davis, a music buff in Canada: I really love your guitar playing and think you contributed immensely to Ray’s records.

“I just can’t believe anybody would write that to me,” Stanley told Shull, “I didn’t know anybody knew me anymore.”

I agree with the good doctor; he did contribute to Ray’s records, and I, along with many people in this area and fans all over the world, certainly do remember him.

Congratulations, Stanley. No one deserves this honor more than you.

What I Didn't Know About Paw Paw

Paw Paw and great-granddaughter, Suzanne

* * *

My maternal grandfather was a very tall man with a head of thick, white hair. When he got dressed up in a suit, white shirt and tie, complete with a gold watch chain dangling from his pocket, he looked like a judge. Which he was for a time.

Paw Paw George had many friends in Bardwell and surrounding areas, and when he drove through town he was always sticking his head out the window and calling out to friends along the way. And they to him. In his later years, he could often be found at Bardwell City Hall, playing checkers with many of those lifelong friends. He outlived most of them.

He had a great sense of humor, loved playing jokes, and seldom visited without a bag of candy: He kneels, all of us kids gathering around him. "Who do y'all love?" he says. "Paw Paw!" we chorus. We all give him a hug and then he opens the sack and passes Mounds candy bars around. (My first bite of the moist coconut, sheathed in rich dark chocolate, brings tears to my eyes!)

When we spent the night with him and Maw Maw (which we often did), he kept us laughing: At the supper table, Paw Paw picks up a bowl of potatoes: "Would you care for some potatoes?" he says. He sets the bowl down in front of his plate, then picks it up again, "Why, thank you; believe I will have some!"

No matter how many times he did that, it was always funny to us. (We laughed so hard one night that Terry spewed iced tea all the way across the table!)

After we lost Maw Maw, we were worried about Paw Paw. He was 80 then, and she was his rock. What would he do without her?

He stayed in his home, Mother helping out, for years thereafter. I lived out of state at the time, and I imagined him there alone, sitting in his big recliner at night, dozing, watching television. And then dozing some more.

Long after his death (when he was almost 92), Mother showed me a poem Paw Paw had written when he was 87.

"Paw Paw wrote poetry?" I said.

"Yes," said Mother, "He wrote lots of poems to Maw Maw when they were courting."

So I had to revise my mental image of Paw Paw in his last years. Now I see him at his kitchen table, pen in hand, drawing on his wealth of memories as he writes a poem. More than likely, he's enjoying a bowl of ice cream (he loved ice cream).

I like that image much better.

* * *

School Days on College Hill

Edward T. George


When I was six years old, I lived on College Hill,
Haven’t forgotten it yet, and never will.

I started to school about 10 till eight,
Had a First Reader and 10-cent slate.

Teacher rang a little bell about 10 till nine,
All the kids would run and get in line.

We marched to our room down through the hall,
In about five minutes, we had roll call.

If anybody was late or played hooky that day,
The teacher called him up front and made him pay.

He’d have to stand in the corner ‘bout an hour and a half,
When the teacher wasn’t looking, we all had to laugh.

Some walked to school, ‘bout a mile or two,
Waded water and snow, but they got through.

They got to school with a smile and no fuss,
And there wasn’t such a thing as a car or bus.

We had a good time as I recall,
Playing “Wolf Over the River,” marbles, and ball.

The girls had a good time jumping rope,
Never heard of such a thing as kids taking dope.

Most all of my school friends have gone on before,
But someday I'll meet them on the other shore.

Or Something Like That

I'll be honest with you. I haven't been working on my novel lately, nor have I been working on a short story. I'm kind of at a stand-still. Nothing serious; this happens occasionally. So I've been occupying myself with other things...housework, cleaning closets, reading Anne Rivers Siddons' Off Season, sipping Diet Coke. Thinking.

I'm also wondering what Eudora Welty did when she went through a dry spell. (That's her desk in the picture above.) Maybe she worked in her garden. Or baked a cake. Or played with her cats (don't know if she had cats, but she seems like a person who would).

As for me, after I have done everything else, I motivate myself by going through my Works-in-Progress folder, reading the first paragraphs of some of my stories:

Murder at the P. O.

C. J. Pickens loved walking to the post office. Excitement swept through his body as he awoke each morning, eagerly anticipating his two-mile trek into town to see what was going on, catch up on the latest gossip, and check his post office box. He never knew what to expect. Would it be Publishers’ Clearinghouse sweepstakes information? Entry forms for a trip to the Bahamas or Disneyworld? A letter from his cousin in Tiptonville?

* * *

Greek Grandma's Funeral

She looks peaceful, thin lips forced into a smile, white hair ratted and stiffly sprayed. Spit curls, like tiny bird nests, rest in front of her ears. Dressed in a blue satin ensemble, a brooch pinned at her squashy neck, her cheeks are covered with lipstick prints from grieving female relatives, their wails and moans echoing throughout the sanctuary of St. Constantine and Helen Greek Orthodox Church.

* * *

The Rise and Fall of Boyd K. Wilkins

From the time Boyd K. Wilkins was old enough to think, he knew there were great things in store for him. He couldn't wait to get out in that great big world and experience everything life had to offer. And the quicker, the better. He had long ago decided he would not be living out his life in a tiny, dilapidated old house, wearing bib overalls and worrying about how to pay for groceries. He would not marry and have a bunch of kids he couldn't afford. And he would, by god, have the things he had always wanted.

* * *

Aunt Fanny's Drawers

Uncle Robert was old when he finally got married. Forty-six was too old to do much of anything, let alone take a wife. And it was so unlike him. The Uncle Robert I knew wore bib-overalls, farmed, milked cows, fished, and spent his evenings reading The Louisville Courier-Journal and Time Magazine. A wife just didn't fit into the picture.

* * *

The Night Has Passed

We drive into Beech Grove, Kentucky on a cold Sunday afternoon in early March, turning down the street where most of the stores are perched: the little restaurant that serves up delicious slaw burgers each day; the small dry goods store where Momma bought our shoes when we were little, and a mom & pop grocery store, the aisles so narrow you are forced to brush against familiar-looking people to get by.


* * *

Jake, Duke, Dolly and Me

Jake Turnbow was 52 years old and owned the Jiffy Mart when I met him. The clerk hired me, and I didn’t see him until I’d been working there for a good little while. He never said nothing to me when he was around the store. But that was before I jumped into the back room. I used to jump a lot. Instead of walking from one room to the next, I’d kind of hang onto the door frame and jump into the next room. Of course, I was only 17 then. I don’t jump nearly as much anymore. Anyway, I jumped into the back room and you would not believe what Jake Turnbow did.

* * *


Maybe I'll get motivated tomorrow. Or the next day. Or something like that.

Join the Queen, the Corgis and me...

Elton John and Davey Johnstone

I've been enjoying the songs of Elton John for the past few days, which I do quite often. In my opinion, no entertainer on the planet today can compare to him and his music.

I'll never forget the first time I was mesmerized by one of the British singer/songwriter's songs. It was in 1973, and Suzanne and I were meandering around a book store at Eastland Mall in Bloomington, Illinois. I had just stopped to thumb through Kurt Vonnegut's new book, Breakfast of Champions, when I became aware of a song playing somewhere faraway in the mall:

Oh I've finally decided my future lies
Beyond the yellow brick road...

I stopped and looked around: Oh, my goodness! Who is that? The lyrics and music were outstanding; the singer's voice spoke to me.

I bought the album that very day, and I played Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road over and over for months, not knowing, of course, that it would go on to become Elton John's best-selling studio album, or number 91 on Rolling Stone's list of the 500 greatest albums of all time. I also had no way of knowing that Elton would become the biggest pop superstar of the early '70s.

In the years since, Elton John has recorded many wonderful songs (charting a Top 40 single every single year from 1970 to 1996!). A few of my favorites are Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me, Can You Feel the Love Tonight, Your Song, Sacrifice, Daniel, Something About the Way You Look Tonight. But my all-time favorite is The One, which he recorded in 1992. So romantic!

As you know, Elton is not tall, muscular and handsome, as are many celebrities of today. But I'll take that little fellow in his earrings, odd spectacles and elaborate costumes any day over just about any other singer. Well...Bob Seger does have his place in my heart, as does Elvis. And a few others. But Elton John touches my soul with just about every song he records. They are classics.

Apparently, Queen Elizabeth II feels the same; she knighted him in 1998. (I can see her now, watching the video of Can You Feel the Love Tonight, head back, eyes closed, Corgis draped here and there: Their ears perk up and they begin yelping as the lions cavort across the screen. "Emma! Holly!" HM says, "Quiet, you bloody pooches, quiet!")

I would be remiss if I left out Bernie Taupin, Elton's lyricist. How did Elton find him? Believe it or not, Bernie responded to an ad Elton placed in a newspaper for a songwriter. So he has written many of those great lyrics (bless you, Bernie!), and Elton put them to music. What a collaboration!

I have long wished I could meet Elton and thank him for all the hours of pleasure his songs have given me. It's unlikely I will ever be near him, of course, but I was once near someone who is. And has been for years.

I was in London, along with Mother, Pitty, and my brother, Tony. We stopped at a restaurant in Kensington, that June day in 1996, for lunch. And as I sat in the cozy little restaurant, digging into my delicious meal and enjoying the lovely British accents floating through the air, I noticed a group of several men at a table a few feet away.

They were a lively group, not loud or obnoxious; just a bunch of British chaps chowing down on their fish and chips. They looked a bit different, though; kind of like hippies. Older hippies. One was tall and very thin, with long blond hair. He looked vaguely familiar.

It wasn't long before I realized a big commotion was going on around the hippies' table. Waitresses, faces flushed, were hovering over them, others standing in the doorway of the kitchen whispering and tittering among themselves. The cook peered over their shoulders.

Pitty and I looked at each other, then at the group. "They're really excited," she said, "They must be someone important."

We had finished our meal, and Mother and Tony were headed toward the register, when one of the waitresses rushed out of the kitchen.

I stopped her as she started past our table, "Who are they?"

"Elton John's band!" she said.

"Where's Elton John?"

"He's not with them today."

Darn!

I gave Pitty my camera. "Act like you're taking a picture of me," I said, "so we can get one of the band!"

I know, I know...I look like a ghost, but I had to lighten the picture so you could see the band in the corner. (The little guy on the right was oblivious to all the activity; he just kept right on eating!)

As the band members were heading out the door, deep in conversation, the blond man hesitated in the doorway. So I grabbed my camera and snapped this picture. (I later learned he was Davey Johnstone, Elton's long-time guitarist.)

I considered asking him to tell Elton how much I appreciate the hours of enjoyment he has given me through the years with his timeless songs. Davey appeared to be a nice, friendly bloke; he would probably have smiled and said he would be happy to do so.

But I didn't. Now, I wish I had.
Be that as it may, if you are reading this post, Sir Elton John (and you probably are), all I can say is keep singing, my friend, and I'll keep listening.

And now, if you have time, relax with the Queen, the Corgis and me, and enjoy Can You Feel the Love Tonight.

Godspeed, Senator Kennedy

Until late last night, I was disappointed with the Democratic National Convention. When we turned the television on early in the evening, most were behaving like crazed teenagers at a rock concert...screaming, grinning and gesturing at the TV cameras, gyrating and swaying to loud rock music. I expected them to start waving their lighted Bics at any moment.

Don't get me wrong; conventioneers should be enthusiastic, but I think it has been a little "over the top" this year.

Nevertheless, I tuned in again sometime after midnight. And I'm glad I did; I was just in time to watch a tribute to Senator Ted Kennedy. Although ill with a malignant brain tumor, he gave a patriotic and moving speech.

Senator Kennedy is currently the second-longest-serving senator. My admiration for him stems from his more than four decades of devotion to the everyday working men and women, the less-fortunate, children, and the elderly.

Among other things, he helped pass the 1964 Civil Rights Act, the Kennedy-Hatch Bill of 1997 (providing health insurance to children), allocation of 1.2 billion for AIDS testing, treatment and research, the 1990 Americans with Disabilities and the Family and Medical Leave Acts. He helped pass the Medicare and Medicaid bills, and pushed for cancer research funding. He has worked for decent health care, the environment, education for all Americans ("It should be a right, not a privilege," he says), increases in the minimum wage, the Meals-on-Wheels program for shut-ins and the elderly. All while serving as a father figure to his two slain brothers' children.

Despite all of the above, some still talk of only one thing when his name comes up: Chappaquiddick. And I understand their bitterness; a young woman's life was lost. But I would be willing to bet seldom a day goes by that he doesn't think about that terrible July night in 1969; what he could have done, what he should have done, why he put himself in that situation in the first place.

When a man spends his life as an advocate for you and me and all Americans, I think he deserves some redemption.

Thank you, Senator Kennedy, and Godspeed.