Diva Dreams

Dream cars scream Identity. In anticipation of my upcoming Sweet 16^th Birthday, my parents did not buy me a car, but they did one just as good.  They allowed me to dream with a car catalog and choose.  Yeah, choose.

Like going into Dinstuhl’s Candies in Memphis today and choosing both a Turtle and a chocolate-covered strawberry.

Favorite color:  Baby Blue.  Favorite style:  sporty, classy.  Favorite accessories: trendy.

Car language:  Light blue Oldsmobile Cutlass with white leather interior, bucket seats, automatic on the floor, radio with rear speakers, and two-door body style.  Daddy ordered it from Laney Motors in Camden and they found one just like I dreamed and it was available for me to drive to school in January. 

It was to be our family “sedan” and the worst decision Daddy ever made regarding a vehicle.

            I loved that car.  I felt like a Diva, Movie Star, and Fashion Model rolled into one when I drove through town with enough savvy not to perform the royal wave. With the windows rolled down that spring while drinking Cherry Dr. Pepper and Vanilla Coke from the Cow Bell, my girlfriends and I paraded to rock ‘n roll classics, serenading the various neighborhoods and downtown avenues.  We were hot stuff.

Sometime in July, the family received an invitation from our well-to-do friends, The Phillips. John G. “Bud” Phillips said “come on down” and spend a week in New Orleans. The Future King of Mardi Gras (1968) and soon-to-be CEO of LLE (Louisiana Land and Exploration), he is a native of Camden, a classmate and honky-tonk buddy of Mother and Daddy. He had fled the snares of IPCo. It’s not a big deal, except that my Cutlass and I fit with the image of the rich and famous. I could hardly wait for the adventure to begin.

Thomas (my younger brother) and I folded ourselves into the back seat of our two-door sports car with Mother and Daddy in the front bucket seats. Parents in control of the radio, parents smoking like two chimneys with the windows rolled up and the AC blasting, off we went to New Orleans. When the radio lost its KAMD signal, Thomas and I prayed for a flux capacitor.

What a trip that was! It was Bourbon Street by day and the Roosevelt Hotel’s ClassicBlue Room at night, with a stage floor table to see my favorite trio: The Lettermen. We toured around New Orleans in Bud’s Thunderbird with the trademark doors opening from the center outward. Yep, I was something! I have people. I know folks. I’m riding in a T-Bird! I drive a Cutlass!

Soon it was time to motor home with more to pack for the return trip.  Thomas and I had packages under our feet; the trunk was full.  And we had to transport fresh shrimp across state lines, as was the tradition.  Dry ice in an ice chest would keep the fresh Gulf Shrimp safe and healthy.  The cooler had to go in the trunk. Since no luggage rack was on this vehicle, Daddy rigged up one.  Somehow.  Don’t ask.

He covered the luggage with a tarp and strapped it down.  On top of the trunk.  The sound of wind ripping through the tarp was deafening.  The tarp began to come apart and the luggage shook. Daddy could hardly keep his eyes on the road ahead for glancing in the rear-view mirror and the side mirrors to be sure we did not litter the highway. Stops along the side of the road to secure the tie-downs lengthened our journey. We looked like the Jed Clampets without the Rocking Chair. So much noise whipped around that Daddy did not hear the siren of the Louisiana State Highway Patrol car.

Daddy rarely cursed in the presence of women and children.  He broke with tradition.

I slunk down in the back seat and tried to be quiet. Thomas, on the other hand, gave commentary on all the events as they unfolded. He was especially impressed with being pulled over by a future Rosco P Coltrane.

We returned to our driveway that Sunday night with our exhausted bodies, battered luggage, and iced shrimp. And a ticket, the coup de grace.

That was the last night the Cutlass spent in the carport at 980 Truman.  Daddy drove it to Laney Motors Monday morning and I never saw that car or the movie star life again.

Say "Hi!" to Cher for Me

Say hello to Cher for me!

She’ll be at NLR’s Verizon Arena this weekend in her Dressed To Kill-Return from the Farewell Tour.

Last time I saw her, she was in Memphis at the Pyramid. She looked phenomenal.

But, now, without Bob Mackie, what’s a girl to do?  Pull out some old rag and try to squeeze into it?

I forgot. This is Cher who has not gained a pound in 40 years.

She’s an eye-full of excitement.

Several of us thought about attending the concert in full-out Cher regalia. We thought better of it. Some ladies did not stop to think.The audience was sparkly itself:  Rhinestones. Feathers.Bejeweled Cowgirl hats.  Mesh to cover flesh. Flesh, uncovered. 

None did justice to Cher, but the attempt was full-blown.

Her performance then (Farewell Tour) was all anyone would hope for in a concert by Cher. Mesmerizing would be the word. Colored, flashing Lights, an orchestra, multiple costume changes, Las Vegas choruses and pizazz, plus, she rode an elephant! Old songs and the drum beats brought memories flooding to the heart.  Deep breaths and dancing in the aisles.

Cher is both Dazzling Diva and an all-knowing girlfriend. Costuming makes her appear larger than life. When she sits down to chat, she's just a girl...well, not just any girl, but you get my drift.

I’m sure she’ll ask how I’m doing, so tell her that my friends and I send greetings and we are clicking our heels quite nicely.You might add that, no matter how old we get,

We’ll never be older than Cher!

All's Right With the World

Burst forth today

Pink coming soon

         

      Little baby buds of Spring burst into the breeze today.From under the river birches peek stems promising purple and pink hyacinths. Varying shades of daffodils promise appearance on hillsides and under the crepe myrtle. Lily of the Valley, even the tulips can barely contain their exuberance at the breeze, gentle rather than biting.The world welcomes Spring in a different voice this year:  it's warmer, more sincere. We're ready for God's announcement that 

All's Right With the World. 

A Chicago Celebration: Go, Tigers!

We thought we were somebody!

That is, until President Lane Rawlins declared, “Everybody off the bus.”

                 The parade started from the back. Once inside the hotel, we realized we were the only ones who got off the bus.  We, and Mr. Smith, who didn’t get the message. He was old, partially deaf, and clueless. The tour directors escorted him back onto the bus, and it motored on to supper, without benefit of our entertainment.

                 Every year, when St. Patrick’s Day engulfs us in green, and when Conference Tournaments dominate the TV channels, I remember the Chicago River dyed emerald.  We celebrated among the high rollers at the University of Memphis as the Memphis Tigers exploded with wins in an extravaganza of excitement. Penny led the charge and we led the cheers. Traveling with the daughter of the AD, we were in-like-Flynn, until we were out.
                It was conference tournament time for the Great Midwest and that fan-favorite was held in Chicago, during our Spring Break, as Irish Eyes smiled  upon us.  The tales we have stored in our collective memories could torch Chicago again, should we divulge our escapades, like trying to drive the Chicago streets ourselves, happening upon a potential gas station hold-up.
             The basketball tournament games were held in the old Chicago Bulls arena; we saw where Michael Jordan began his flying lessons.  We beheld the center court Bulls insignia that was ultimately moved to a location of MJ’s determination.  Our prime seats were below the Finch family, including “Sister” who must have coined the term, “D-Up.”  The more the Tigers won, the more Memphis fans arrived; the more times the Tigers won, the more we were treated to fancy dinners among those whose wallets carried plenty of dollars earmarked for Tiger Celebrations.
         Then, the finals happened, and we lost.  Don’t remember to what university.  Maybe Cincinnati.  We were robbed, as usual. Regardless, it was over. The bubble burst. We girls enjoyed a pizza dinner in a small bistro at the hotel.  After several hours, there was a “Tiger Sighting.” 
           And, getting off the bus was not so bad after all.

PS - We paid for our hotel rooms, transportation, tickets, tours, food, and taxi rides.  With the NCAA looking down from on high, I must divulge that we are not scouts, agents, family of players, car dealership owners, or university employees.  We are just old school teachers who love the Tigers and enjoyed a whirlwind opportunity to buy tickets and follow the team for a short time in our lives.  Go, Tigers!

Two Looney Toons

Should be a very interesting ride to the crazy farm.
This weekend, I pulled a Margaret.
Mother actually got into the car with a strange man.
Parked at Walgreens, his car was blue like mine and she never looked twice, until the old dude said, "Well, hello there!"
I had been circling the parking lot and could not get out of the car fast enough to stop her.
We got it taken care of though, and she went home with me.
As for my part on this slippery slope to the nut house, I'm not paying real close attention.
I opened the truck door and began to put my groceries inside another man's vehicle.
Having seen Marvin in his truck coming my way, I did not see another truck.  So...I just opened the first available truck door that pulled up and stopped.  Right in front of me, I might add. And there you have it.
The lady standing by said, "Ma'm, this is my husband's truck."  In other words, "Get your hands off my man...and his truck."
Marvin is gaping at me, shaking his head.
If that were not crazy enough, later in the weekend, Marvin said he hoped for "Cottage Cheese Sandwiches."
He HATES Cottage Cheese. Detests it.
Call the medics.
We were pulling out of the driveway with potato soup in the crock pot, going to Soup and Sandwich dinner at church.
Probably desiring a pimento cheese sandwich or grilled cheese with his soup, he said instead, "Oh, I hope they have cottage cheese sandwiches tonight."
What?
I looked at him like he'd lost his marbles.
He said it again.
"Honey, what are you saying?"  I've got 911 ready on speed dial.
"What did I say?"
And I told him.
"No, no, no.  I meant pimento cheese sandwiches."
What a relief.
I'm not going to the crazy farm alone.