The Apple Of My Eye

Chase

* * *

When Chase was little, he often spent Friday nights with me. And one of our rituals on Saturday mornings was heading over to Red's for fresh, warm doughnuts. I let him pick them out, so we usually ended up with just about every kind of doughnut in the place.

I snapped the above picture in July, 1991, when he was six years old. He was carefully bringing the doughnuts into the house, his chocolate milk resting on the hood of the car.

My grandson is 25 years old today. We will all celebrate at his mom's tonight, and I am so looking forward to it.

He's the apple of my eye.

Happy Birthday, Elvis

It was a Saturday afternoon in the spring of 1956, and Pitty and I were doing the dishes, giggling and snapping each other with dish towels every now and then. Our little Philco radio, perched on top of the gigantic hot water heater in the corner, was going full blast.

"And now, guys and gals" squalled DJ Ed Hill, "Y'all are gonna looove this one! It's Elvis the Pelvis's latest!"

Like most teenagers, I loved all of Elvis's songs. But this one struck a chord, shook me to my toes. Pitty loved it as well, and we were soon singing along: Ha-ho-hold me close, hold me tight, make me thrill with delight...

It has been over fifty years since I first heard I Want You, I Need You, I Love you. And each time I hear it I am fifteen years old again, back on the farm in that little kitchen, dishes piled on every surface, Mother's flowered curtains fluttering in the gentle breeze.

We sway from side to side, moving to the center of the kitchen, whirling around and around on the blue-and-yellow tile floor, singing at the top of our lungs. I am weak in the knees, euphoric, longing for something I cannot not define. As the song nears an end, we stop and stare at each other, waiting to join Elvis in the conclusion: With all my hear-r-rt...!

Happy 75th birthday, Elvis. And thanks for the memories.

Nicknames

Terry, with Duck, Chicken and Goose


* * *

Southerners have a penchant for nicknames. Much more than anywhere else in the country, I think. When I was growing up in Carlisle County, Kentucky, it seems everybody and his brother had a one. Classmate James Earl was "Fuzzy," Roy Wayne was "Kayo," Glyn was "Mousey," James was "Peanut," Edward was "Bubba," Luke was "Lab." And would you believe "Catfish" had a son nicknamed "Minnow?"

I became obsessed with the subject, so I started a list. But the list kept getting longer. Then I suddenly remembered I once had a nickname. Terry called me "Goose." Pitty Pat was "Duck," and Mary Ellen was "Chicken." (By the time the above photo was taken, he had quit calling us those fowl names, thank goodness!)

I have a confession to make. I've nicknamed a few people through the years. But I didn't think about that until I was well into the list. I guess we Southerners just can't help ourselves!

I decided to do a post on the subject. But after the post was up, I kept thinking of more, so I took it down, added more, and submitted it to a literary magazine.

Nicknames is on the website of Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal. I hope you enjoy reading it much as I enjoyed writing it.

Happy Birthday, Mother!

She has the heart

that cares so completely.

She has the hands

that do things so sweetly.

She has the wisdom

that families treasure.

She has the love

that brings joy beyond measure.

Merry Christmas, Dear Friends

I heard the bells on Christmas Day,
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet, the words repeat,
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow~

Thank you, Frank.

Frank H. Chambers

(Photo: The Journal Star)

* * *

Sixty-five years ago, on December 16, 1944, one of the greatest battles in American history began: The Battle of the Bulge. Seven hundred thousand troops, mostly American, participated. And when it was over, on January 25, 1945, 19,000 Americans were dead, 47,500 were wounded, and 23,000 missing.

Fast-forward fifteen years: It is a cold, dark morning in 1960. I am nineteen years old and beginning my first full-time job. As I gaze at the tall, intimidating building at 43 East Ohio Street in downtown Chicago, I consider hopping on the next south-bound Greyhound and heading back to Kentucky. What's in store for me? Can I do the job? Will I mess up and be fired the first day? What will my boss be like?

As it turned out, I had two bosses: Cullen B. Sweet and Frank Chambers.

Mr. Sweet was a laughing, gregarious man with white hair. He was very kind, but I was a little uncomfortable around him, reluctant to ask questions, afraid of doing something wrong.

Frank Chambers immediately put me at ease with his open, friendly manner. He took an interest in me as a person, wanted to meet Carroll, hear all about my family in Kentucky. When I needed help, he told me what I needed to know, how to do it. When I was ready to throw up my hands in despair, he appeared and made things right.

"You're doing a great job, Brenda," he often said, "This letter is perfect!"

"I'm glad you changed the wording in this report, Brenda. It reads much better!"

He took Carroll and me under his wing, invited us into his home; he and wife Doris treated us like family. (I will never forget what fun we had one Saturday night playing cards, their two little ones, Margie and Johnny, giggling and playing nearby.) After we relocated with the company to Bloomington, Illinois, we often dined out together, went to their home for cook-outs.

In the mid-seventies, Frank took a position with the Nebraska Farm Bureau Federation and he and Doris relocated to Lincoln. A few years later, Carroll and I parted ways and Suzanne and I moved home to Kentucky.

After exchanging Christmas cards and letters every now and then, we lost touch. But I'm happy to say Frank and I recently reconnected and are corresponding frequently, catching up on each other's lives, reminiscing about days gone by. He is 86 years old now and still going strong. He has changed little in the thirty years since I last saw him.

I knew Frank had served in the Army in World War II, but I had no idea he had participated in The Battle of the Bulge. He kept a journal during the war and his younger brother saved all of the letters Frank had written him while he was overseas. He recorded his experiences on DVD and sent me a copy; he also sent me this story, which made the front page of the Lincoln Journal Star on December 16th.

Thank you, Frank, for your service to our country. And thank you for being such a good friend to me.

Life

Life is a process of becoming,

A combination of states we have to go through.

Where people fail is they wish to elect a state and remain in it.

This is a kind of death.

~Anais Nin~