Feeding Sons

                 When they were little, I worried if they were getting enough of the “right” food, and milk, and vitamins.  How can PBJ and fish sticks be adequate for healthy, growing boys?
                 

                 Today, they are men at my table. They eat plenty, probably making up for the years of PBJ and fish sticks. Announcing requests – “Can we have chili one night, and chicken casserole, and meat loaf?”  “Can we have BBQ and catfish?” I know their favorites and had planned accordingly.

                 I also watch them interact: as men, as brothers.
                 How they seem to admire each other, how they collaborate and communicate. They are 8 years apart in age, but they relate in a closer way.
                  Feeding sons is an important task, one a mother takes seriously. 
                  Feed them well, but always, with more than food.

Never Too Old: Christmas Stockings

Too old for a stocking? Never.

Apples, Oranges, Candy, and Nuts…(www.pittypatter-pitterpatter.blogspot.com). Not so much the nuts, but the other items were staples in my stocking- with a gi-normous candy cane!

What’s this “stocking stuffer” propaganda encouraging me to fill a stocking with $50 cologne, keys to a Land Rover, and an IPhone 5?

Mother and Daddy would bring us our stockings, first thing! No getting out of bed on Christmas Morning! That’s the rule. Stockings started the festivities and provided a hint of jubilation to follow.  

I did the same for my sons, but they’re men now, and that’s rather creepy. Besides that, they roll their eyes. But, no Scrooge here, they’ll have a stocking on Christmas morning.

This year, the stockings will be hanging, but on the tree, not above the fireplace. Apples and Candy and always Batteries, because they are “not included.”

Problem is, as the recipients have grown, the stockings have not. They are the same ones as always, matching mine from the 1950’s. They tell me that Green goes well with Red on Christmas. How Boring. Stockings should be a creative delight!

My Christmas wish for you: Go forth and stuff stockings-Forever!

Merry Christmas to All and to all, a Good Night!

Ice Dome

Coleridge’s Pleasure Dome of Kubla Khan:

It was a miracle of rare device,	35
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

One cold day freezes into the next.
Sunshine momentarily warms ice droplets, refreezing in saber-tooth jaws.
Hazy-hued dome of white reveals naked branches casting stark on the horizon.
White tomorrows promise rare pleasures Kubla Khan cannot know.

Darth Vader Invades the Sports Universe

            After reading my friend Talya’s Blog post from Grace, Grits, and Gardening about fanatic response to Alabama's defeat, I was motivated to comment. Many  fans breathe in relation to their sports teams victory or defeat. So do the universities, themselves.
            The Sunday morning headlines might acknowledge that the Razorbacks  lost. As a teenager, ups and downs swung radically and any loss was a downer. Sometimes, though, I did not want to get out of bed to face the disappointment: Texas came from behind to win.  Once, a hometown man died of a heart attack in the stands at War Memorial Stadium when Ole Miss got 2 chances to kick an extra point for the win. This was serious football.
                    

Memphis basketball is loaded with the  passion of Louisville, Cincinnati, and Final Four.  Tuesdays and Saturdays focus community attention on each bounce of the ball: victory or defeat.  The city holds its breath when the Tigers take the hardwood. Serious basketball for serious fans.

                Things have become  too charged with fanaticism, gotten out of hand in many respects.  Sports should be a positive enterprise:  competitive fun and economic fuel for a community, university, or state.  In my opinion, however, it hasn't been "just a game" for a very long time. Ask a coach who is fired if he thinks the sport "is just a game."  Check the financial contributions to the university in the name of this "game."  When did sport become so serious?  Young men still in their teens and early twenties are lining up for football or basketball with much more to lose than a game.  And that mentality filters down to babies in uniforms, and their parents. 
                 Taking a game seriously and being a fan-fanatic, in proper perspective, can be exhilarating. But, death threats? I’ve heard news reports of such after the Auburn win over Alabama.
                 Winning and losing.  That's life. We learn to rebound from fender benders or family tragedies and face the next day. People who do not learn to balance life can become bitter and jaded. And make threats that turn our stomachs.

                 Darth Vader must be their father.

With a Click of Ruby Slippers: An Island in the Sky

              Rusted vehicles crippled by exposure and neglect lean against abandoned store fronts.  Chicken houses open to the elements, their coverings billowing in the biting wind rise into view. Unremarkable towns, houses, and crumbling shacks populate the area.  It’s old, rural, and poor. Hwy 64 leads to Paris, AR; now, make a turn onto Hwy 309, and experience more of the same. Suddenly, at just the right elevation, Ruby Slippers click.
               Sunlight streams through branches bathing treetops not shadowed by the mountain. Easy curves become switchbacks ascending to Arkansas’ highest point, Mt. Magazine.  Stretching ahead are fields of hardwood, pine, and stone in a rustic landscape.  The Lodge at Mt. Magazine, a luxurious salute to The Natural State, dominates the mountaintop with Cottages in clusters, hidden among the trees. 

               Within the Lodge, an expanse of windows invites majestic views of sunlight and shadows, sunrise and sunset. Three-story Arkansas fieldstone fireplaces dominate the dining room with another in the lobby opening into an inviting sitting area.  The stone and pine interior, accented by tile and bronze hardware, shines. Craftsman-Mission style lighting, with clean lines and motifs of bear, deer, and pine boughs add a golden glow of ambiance.
                         Dominant artwork of flora and fauna seen during spring and summer, depicting wildflowers and butterflies of varying types, line the hallways and common areas. The meadows would be lush then, but now, it’s Thanksgiving Week in late November, and a cold blast has plummeted temperatures, bringing snow flurries to the area.
                           A natural area for all seasons, just a short distance from Mt. Nebo and Petit Jean Mountain, Mt. Magazine State Park and the Lodge do create an Island in the Sky.

The Royal "Boogie on Down"

            Did you once surrender your royal crown to the next “queen?”  Or, did you not ever have a crown in the first place?  Great! Now, you are free to “get your own.”  Get a crown you never relinquish, and, while you’re at it, your own majorette boots! It'll help.
           Jill Conner Brown and her Sweet Potato Queens laughed their way into my life about 10 years ago, and their Zippity-Do-Dah attitude plays well. 

Another fine gaggle of girls takes as their goal “stamping out global boredom.”  The Red-Hat Society gathers as a social club with no philanthropy, no fund-raiser.  No other goal than to have fun together, the majority of these members claims to be above age 60.
          While I am not a card-carrying member of either group, their good humor and wacky-attitude provide sugar for morning coffee. Add Mary Engelbreit's wit and my attitude improves. That will be important, as it's about time to boogie on into the age of Medicare.  

Spiders: the Spookiest of Halloween's Tricks

                Even while hearing childhood's rhyme about Miss Muffet enjoying her curds and whey, minding her own business, I've thought spiders to be most rude.
                Hiding, sneaking out when you least expect them, they drop in uninvited.  They are bold and move rapidly in aggressive mode.
                Their housekeeping skills are questionable. Webs are vile.  Where there is a web, there is a spider, rather like the combination of smoke and fire.
                Once I brushed a web from my car door as I seated myself behind the steering wheel.  I brushed away the web, but somehow the occupant flipped inside the car. Something moved, so I brushed my hair, glancing into the rear view mirror in time to see the "tarantula from the black lagoon" scurry onto the visor. Still in the neighborhood, I screeched the car to a halt, threw open the door, jumped out, jumped up and down and screamed.  Recognizing that would not kill the monster, I calmed a moment. I took off my shoe, leaned inside the car, flipped down the visor and watched the arachnid fall onto the seat. There I took his life with great pleasure and abandon, wailing away at his fragmented body with the entire shoe's surface.
             Perhaps spiders in general seek revenge for the death of their leader at my hands, for spiders show up to scare me, behaving like mischief-making boys who run away after chunking their dirt clods at dressed up girls.
             I've written a story that combines several elements that make me nervous:  spiders, self-centered women with black hair, Miss Haversham, and guys named Jake.  I hope you'll enjoy "Black Ice." It's located in the Pages section to the right of this BlogPost.

Legend and Lore: Oil and The Goat Woman in South Arkansas

              Smackover Oil Field – the Smackover Formation in south Arkansas. Located on the road to El Dorado from Camden, Smackover was noted for a dress shop downtown and football bleachers with the marker “coldest on the face of the earth.”  And oil. And, of course, The Goat Woman.
              What history explains about Smackover relates to black gold. Multiple oil wells in Union, Ouachita, and Columbia counties set the tone for wealth, prominence, and politics in El Dorado, Camden, and Magnolia.
              A gusher, the first of many in the area, boomed on January 10, 1921.  Almost overnight, Smackover was bursting at the seams and by 1925, the Smackover Field ranked #1 in US Oil production. The oil supply dwindled, and the town’s population plummeted.

What my friends and I remember most of Smackover is the legendary Goat Woman.  “I have Goat Woman hair, today,” we’d lament.

              She and her husband, according to research, drove their Circus Wagon from the New England area into south Arkansas during the Oil Boom and never left. Once the circus closed in Camden, they motored on down the road. A musical couple, they performed for the locals and became part of the Oil Boom lore. The Circus Wagon had a performance balcony and  kind-spirited Rhena Salome Miller Meyer often performed there, entertaining children with her one-woman band. The wagon was like today’s travel trailer or motor home.

              Her husband died, but Rhena Meyer remained outside Smackover, with no children, raising goats -many goats– gradually becoming a recluse. The circus wagon was retrieved and is located at the Oil and Gas Museum outside Smackover, AR. Rhena died in 1970.
             Far more legend about The Goat Woman exists than fact. Our childhood adventures in the 1950's and 1960's centered on The Goat Woman as families traveled from Camden to El Dorado for doctor’s appointments, shopping, or athletic events.  No round trip was successful unless The Goat Woman was sighted.

I’ve continued to be fascinated by The Goat Woman and other pieces of local lore swirling around South Arkansas. A fictional story about the Goat Woman is available by clicking the link to the right.  I like this story better than the truth.  My memory of her is far richer than any facts, and imagination coupled with legend creates stories of miracles.  Join me “As Two Memories Collide.”

Magical Visitor Vanquishes Killer Beige

When ice cream selection is between plain vanilla and strawberry-cheesecake swirl, I prefer the richer, creamier, fruity choice scooped into a waffle cone. It has not always been that way. 
            Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream with their pints available in the grocer’s freezer case changed my preferences.  The same is true with a change in my color preferences after a magical visitor swooped like Mary Poppins into my den.
           In the mid-seventies, my Mamaw left me a bit of cash to use for my new house.  Down to Ethan Allen Gallery I journeyed, dog-eared catalog pages and budget in hand. Selecting a full array of den furniture, I was a happy shopper. 
           At home, I leafed through magazines looking for color combinations and fabric inspiration.  I decided on the oh-so-70’s look of navy blue, burgundy, and cream. I still needed to choose the fabric and patterns, but was gridlocked in indecision.
            “You know, with your purchase, our design services are free,” the sales-clerk explained.  “Free?”  “Yes…when would you like her to come out?”

           The doorbell rang and the fashionable Virginia Rippee breezed into my den; countless flip-books swirled around her. She placed fabric swatches before me, adding a spoonful of sugared suggestions. She encouraged me to be bold in choices of color, pattern, and texture. She exclaimed, “You’ll also need an area rug to pull it together and some window treatments, also.What colors would you like to look at?”

            I’m silent, thinking…what color would tie all this together?
             I say, “hmm….beige…maybe?”
            “Excuse me?”
             I repeated my hesitant choice in a whisper.
            “Ultimate dread, pestilence descend, and a Plague upon your House. Might I have a glass of ice water and some digitalis, perhaps with a bit of sugar?
             Surviving the attack of killer beige, she opened my world to a mix of plaid, floral, solid, and print… as long as the colors compliment or are in the same family. She pulled the cream-color film from my eyes and let color dance across roof-tops and slide down banisters.
             Her lesson left me no longer anchored in neutral, but roaming free, experimenting in patterns, combinations of color as festive as a carousel.
              Like Ben and Jerry challenged me to try chocolate turtle caramel supreme, cookie-dough, and chunky monkey flavors, the designer from Ethan Allen encouraged me to mix it up with the aid of her rather extraordinary magical powers.

          My magical visitor Virginia Rippee, now retired, is much respected among the design community and by her clientele. In her days before Virginia Rippee and Associates Interior Design, she was a design consultant for Ethan Allen Gallery in Memphis.
        
            Rector Crafts Fair - Saturday before Thanksgiving - Rector Community Center - "2-Cute Aprons" will debut with new designs and colors for all seasons.  (The purchase of an apron carries no expectation of cooking!)-
see BLOG: More Than a Bracelet
 

Rocky Road Ice Cream with an 8-Track

      Once providing support for a friend hell-bent on eloping in Oklahoma, I know about riding-along.
      Bonnie experienced a fatal “ride-along” with Clyde.
      Movie couples, including Thelma and Louise, have ridden along – off a cliff.
      Saturday, I rode-along, again.

      An off-road adventure offers new experiences: climbs and descents through mountain rocks, trenches, and timber. No incline too steep for the radical Land Cruiser.

      Imagine the Quapaw swarming this Ouachita mountains landscape.  Horseback pioneers urge their steeds onward, upward and over hillsides fit for mountain goats.  Rocky road ice cream is not as chunky as these trails.

       Today’s off-roaders program the instrument panel and a mechanism grips the boulders like a roller-coaster car as it engages, grinding upward prior to the death-plunge.

       The driver contemplates aloud as we climb terrain littered with boulders and exposed roots within craters and crevices, “Yep, it’s time to switch to the 8-track.”

       I ponder his sanity.  
“8-track” has not been around for over 40 years. I become concerned and voice a question.

      “No,” he chuckles. “Not 8-Track…A-Track.”

      Oh. OK.  Nevermind.

I’m just riding-along.

Fall: The Second Spring

Fall - the second Spring; every leaf is a flower! - I posted the accompanying photo and statement because it touched my spirit.  I love Fall.

Below are the final stanzas of "Autumn Days" by Mildred Gordon Horne
...

Trees in beauty

 All arrayed
With gorgeous leaves
Of every shade.

Pink and red
And golden brown
Soon will nestle
On the ground.

Was e’er a people

So richly blest
As we,
With all this loveliness?

Our hearts are filled
With thanks and praise
To God above
For Autumn Days.

Memory Banks Contain Little Cash

               Souvenir shops inside Stuckey’s have given way to swanky Gift Shoppes in every conceivable venue. I shopped at all of them while touring many of the National Parks out West.  
               The Teen Tour to Washington, D.C. after 8^th grade firmly clings to my memory and taught me many valuable lessons in souvenir purchasing. While the cost of the trip included quite a large number of pre-paid meals and activities, we were on our own for souvenirs.  Daddy gave me a set amount of money and warned, as only he could, “Now, that’s all you have. Don't call for more. These travelers checks should be budgeted…” and on.  His words made a huge impression, so much that I was really scared I’d run out of money.
                      Charm bracelets were the rage, so many of the girls on the trip bought replicas of Rock City and Ruby Falls, the Naval Academy, Arlington National Cemetery, the Lincoln Memorial, the White House, the Capitol, and the Washington Monument…something at each stop. I didn’t.

By the time we were on the homeward portion of the trip, special moments and opportunities had passed.  Did you know there are no souvenir shops on the West Virginia highways as they wander into Kentucky and Tennessee?  I had money remaining when I got home. I’ve determined that is NOT the way to preserve a sight-seeing trip.
                   With digital photography and debit cards, I'm dangerous. I prefer pictures with companions in the photos – otherwise, a book or a postcard by professionals. Items that do not require dusting are favorites. My first choice is jewelry. Second in preference is a pair of fanciful socks or perhaps one special Christmas tree ornament.  Since I don’t often wear t-shirts, I’ll buy one for yard work or house cleaning days. Since those times are rare, a t-shirt is not a good investment. With NE Arkansas weather, though, a hoodie comes in handy.
                  On our most recent trip, I found jewelry that defies description in both beauty and price. The turquoise pieces in multiple radiant colors were favorites (at very expensive prices). A tiny ring, a Pandora charm, a coffee table book of Wyoming’s National Parks and beautiful scenery, and pairs of Yellowstone and Mt. Rushmore socks will delight my memory along with the numerous digital photographs designed in a Shutterfly book. 
                 I did not return home with lots of cash, but with a memory bank filled to overflowing with America’s gorgeous landscapes and priceless experiences shared with wonderful people and my dear hubby.
                You might also enjoy:  More than a Bracelet - BLOG listed at the right of this Post.  "Lady Bug Souvenir Fashion and Décor Tips"

Celebrating American Pioneer Spirit

                              I would never have made a good Pioneer.  I’m grateful others did.

               An adventuresome, tough-minded spirit was required to leave even the most primitive of homes to traverse the Smokey Mountains, across the Appalachians into Kentucky, Tennessee, and points west. Being invited to drop-out of Girl Scouts would disqualify me as a candidate for Pioneer-Settler.
               The Mighty Mississippi offered another hurdle, and beyond that, the Ozarks, or further north, the expanse of the Great Plains. Think of Laura Ingles’ family as they farmed north into southeastern Dakota territory, that account I read through memoir in the “Little House” books.  Movies such as "Dances with Wolves" starring Kevin Costner portrayed a classic depiction at that incredible time in history. I can experience through imagination, but my desire to participate is nil.

             The Badlands, “badder” then than now due to centuries of wind and water erosion, appeared like a foreign spectacle. 

Crossing the expanse of forbidding and treacherously rugged terrain, nothingness and barren mountain ranges, imagine the settlers astonishment as they encountered the Rocky Mountains. A  pass through the Rockies allowed a push to the Pacific, with pioneers gazing upon forests thick and primeval, and rivers plunging into cascading waterfalls.

Our country's glorious landscape  was fearsome when the country was in its infancy.  Add to that, the hostility settlers encountered in pursuit of land and the defiant reluctance of the Native Americans to relinquish what was theirs by heritage wrote a difficult and sad chapter of history.
               Wealthy easterners ultimately flocked by automobile to experience the American West. Many men came West in search of jobs or wealth through gold mining.  Artists, architects such as Frank Lloyd Wright, and entrepreneurs opened the West as President Teddy Roosevelt challenged Americans to preserve and conserve the natural beauty that is America.  

Grand and colossal exclamations in artistry were created to mimic the American spirit.

The movie depicting a search for connections, "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" was filmed at Devils Tower in eastern Wyoming. Richard Dryfuss and Stephen Spielberg thrilled patrons with an unusual encounter, a lava rock formation created not by a volcanic eruption, but by erosion wearing away the soil to reveal the stone. Native American legends regarding its formation underscore the spirituality of the Natives.  The land is formidable in Wyoming, with beauty in rare forms creating a perimeter from Devils Tower to Cody, Wyoming and the Rocky Mountains into Yellowstone area.  South through the Tetons and across the forests into the Hole let me know the extremes of the area. Prior to leaving the eastern area of Wyoming, I recognized Sundance, WY, home to multiple stars of the current era, including Robert Redford. My interest was for the beauty of the land and landowner.


                I’ve not seen all areas of the USA, but what landscapes I have gazed upon swell my heart with inspired joy.  Amazed at the diversity of our USA’s landforms and agriculture, I thank God for this country, and for my ability to see it and celebrate its beauty. Textbooks, family photos, slide shows, and Facebook photo albums cannot clearly share what the mind’s eye can behold.

 

                We saw more wildlife than I would have imagined. 

Antelope, Bison, Elk, Wolf, and a Raven. I’d never actually seen a Raven.  A crow, a vulture, an eagle, yes, but a Raven? Never had I come up close and personal with that bird of ancient lore. But, I spent 10 days with one.

While I can exclaim the marvels of this trip over and over again, in the same sentence, I can mutter: “Nevermore.”  Out here, out West, in the Yellowstone area, at the front of our tour bus, this particular Raven is a Raven-Lunatic.

Our tour guide personifies the Raven-Lunatic. We won’t be doing this kind of bus-adventure again anytime soon, and not ever again with The Raven.  We believe in The Mama’s and the Papa’s version of travel:  “Go where you wanna go; Do what cha’ wanna do, With whomever you wanna to do it with…”

The Raven is “certifiable.” By definition, a tour guide should ‘guide.’  She needed guidance, herself, “bless her heart.”  She guided us to McDonalds and Wal-Mart.  I kid you not.  Lunch on your own – the bus with 50 people pulls up to McDonalds. She refers to it as a “squat and gobble.”Yick. 

If we weren’t parked at McDonalds, she was getting the bus driver to pull in at Wal-Mart, because she forgot a jacket.  Another Wal-Mart in another town to exchange said jacket and get another size.  Really. Had it not been for the bus driver and his wife, the “tourists” would have exhumed Frank and Jesse James and considered Murder for Hire.

On the flip side of the coin, all pre-paid meals presented a cruise-ship amount of food that was delicious and filling.  And, we traveled to sites we would never have discovered were it not for our bus driver and his wife who orchestrated the trip to a large degree. We saw it all – unless the snow, rain, or clouds covered the opportunity. Still, it was beautiful USA and I would not have missed it for the world. The adventure was terrific, and I finally just quit listening to The Raven, regardless of what she “quoth-ed.”

As long as Bossy Bertha keeps her cool and speaks in a calm voice, “Make a legal U-turn…,” we will drive ourselves and create our own Fly and Drive Fall Foliage or Pacific Northwest Tours.  I hold a map really well and USA’s open highways and gorgeous landscapes lure us to explore from sea to shining sea.

Native Americans declared the lands "BAD."

Highlighting the third day on the trail was the awesome cliffs comprising The Badlands National Park.  A scenic loop through this park was a wonder to behold – in the middle of prairie land, grasses, corn and hills.  As far as the eye can see, fields of grain (as in amber waves of…) give way to grassy hills beyond description. They are not rolling hills as in East Arkansas, but unbelievable humpy hills.  Fields of sunflowers reaching for light add a different dimension, and then, all at once, the limestone/sandstone rock formations jut skyward.  Coming out of the Badlands, back onto more of the prairie, we saw colonies of prairie dogs perched upright looking at our covered wagon ambling across the landscape.

Cotton Landscapes Take My Breath

                    The cotton is flowering; some is making bolls.  Soon, the fields will be covered with white gold, like snow blanketing a winter landscape.
                    Cotton picking is coming later and later, it seems. My husband’s memory of Labor Day involves picking cotton for cash to be spent on carnival rides, games, and cotton candy during the annual Rector Labor Day Picnic.  I have no personal knowledge of that, of course, as my knowledge of cotton once came from a garment tag.
                    Being raised in south Arkansas, I was indoctrinated with the timber business and oil.  Becoming a baroness of either or both was a goal, never accomplished.  Planting pine seedlings, walking the rows, selecting cut areas happened under my turned-up nose.  If it involved dirt, I was not really interested.  Royalty checks were another matter altogether.

              In northeast Arkansas, though, farming is a way of life.  Today, farms are enterprises and conglomerates.  Farm managers direct the multi-million/billion dollar business.  Watching the markets for cotton as opposed to corn is of great interest, and farmers often plant both.  I’ve learned a lot.  The business end of cotton growing and harvesting is very interesting, but it’s the beauty that captivates me.
               As far as the eye can behold, horizon to horizon, cotton will soon cover the land.  Machines that resemble dinosaurs will rumble through the fields, picking, tumbling, aerating, and forming the fluffy bolls into compact modules ready for the gin. My husband’s dad was an expert ginner, always able to provide his customers the best dollar for the longest and finest strand, so his son's stories about ginning cotton interest me.  When I visited my first cotton gin, the sights and sounds were stunning.
            Living over 40 years in Memphis, the Mighty Mississippi elevates my heart rate.  Rivers, railroads, and magnolia blossoms still quicken my spirit. But, as of late, cotton landscapes take my breath.





(Jared Vaughan Artworks, NE Arkansas cotton field)

Whispers from Heaven's Front Porch

          What is it about the Front Porch and the South? In warm weather,  it is coolly inviting. Families congregated on the front porch for conversation, a cool glass of tea, and for watching neighbors and friends pass, signaling a greeting. The Front Porch is a Southern staple, as much as sliced tomato and cucumber summer salad.
                Back yards, patios, decks, and privacy fencing have moved our porch sitting habits to a more secluded area. Outdoor living spaces include grills, swimming pools, and outdoor lighting located in the rear of the home. Nothing replicates the inviting community feel of a beautiful front porch, though, as it welcomes folks to experience “porch sitting.”

Iconic Front Porch in Rector, AR

       In my imaginings, Heaven has a Front Porch. Family ancestors are occupying rocking chairs, or a porch swing, as I remember from childhood experiences. To me, Heaven’s Saints rock in oversize chairs on that Front Porch; the Cloud of Witnesses observe my life and yours as they sip sweet tea with a sprig of mint. 

                              Hebrews 12: 1 (NIV) - Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.

                   This passage and the sermon preached called attention to the church balcony inviting us to picture there our own "great cloud of witnesses.” The pastor exhorted us to populate the balcony with the people in our lives who impacted our spiritual walk, our daily commune with our fellow man, and our interactions with the world.  These persons who occupy the pews in the imagined Balcony of Heaven observe us, witness our lives.  They live in us through their profound influence. 

In addition to the faithful whose stories are told in the Bible, we recall more people in the “great cloud." Teachers, Sunday School and youth leaders, neighbors and family members have shared their faithful lives with us and are on Heaven’s Porch, witnessing.  Listen for their encouragement.  It may be in that breeze that just whispered across your Front Porch.  Pictured: grandmother (L)Mildred Gordon Horne and great aunt (R)Frances Gordon Usrey.

If I Can Dream, Let My Dream Come True - It's Elvis Week

           Dig out your diary and your memories of Elvis.  It's Elvis Week. Did you attend a concert/Live? Did you have tickets to the concert in Memphis that never happened?  Which albums did you buy?  Which singles? What were your favorite Elvis movies?  After all, Elvis and James Dean were the original "bad boys" or our era.  Elvis, though, gyrated his hips.

Do you remember where you were when you learned that Elvis Presley had died in Memphis?

                                              August 16, 1977.  36 years ago.  He was 42.
               
                 I was leaving Germantown Middle School, driving toward Poplar Avenue, just at Germantown Village Mall.  Dinstuhl’s Candy retail store was my first stop because Becky and I were good friends.  She had the inside scoop; her then-husband was a Shelby County Sheriff’s Deputy and often had some security detail for Elvis Presley.
               Memphis went nuts. Screaming, crying fans threw themselves upon the walls of Graceland. Drive-by motorcades stopped traffic on Hwy 51-S, later renamed Elvis Presley Blvd.  Elvis never made it to his customary floor at Baptist Hospital- Central, a structure that has now been razed.  He died, ungracefully, alone, on the bathroom floor of his upstairs, darkened retreat at Graceland.  By that time, he was a tad overweight, known now as the 'Fat Elvis.'
               

         In 1977, he was still handsome, but not the Elvis we remember from his Army photo, or the hunky Elvis with that sexy, one-sided smile in GI Blues or Blue Hawaii. Even at his fluffiest, Talya would have driven from east Arkansas and paraded at a crawl by his hospital room, hoping to glimpse any movement, even as the sun reflected from the foil covering his windows.  Mary Ellen was certain I knew Elvis personally, and was privy to the inside scoop since I lived in Memphis and so did Elvis.
               When someone dies young, the person remains ageless in our collective memory; our Elvis will never be old, will never walk with a cane or forget the way home.  We’ll never see Elvis with gray hair and wrinkles and will never hear him trying to belt out his signature #1 Singles, trying to hit the notes or remember the lyrics, similar to the most unfortunate Glen Campbell, a victim of Alzheimer’s disease.
             During Elvis Week, sightings are common. The Big Screen at the Orpheum features the Aloha from Hawaii Concert (January 14, 1973) and this year, the movie Viva Las Vegas will be shown at another venue. My favorite event featured The Memphis Symphony Orchestra in a pops concert with huge backdrop of Elvis video feeds. The musicians thrilled the audience with well-loved Elvis standards and Elvis’ gospel tunes, as Elvis himself crooned and moved about on screen.
              There is no separating Elvis from Memphis. Elvis will continue to stroll the streets and attend all Memphis Tiger athletic events, regardless of how often we are told that he has “left the building.”

Sizzling Wonder Bread, Bubbling Butter, and Melty Cheese Spillage

                 Comfort food needed. In today's unsettling atmosphere, the country craves comfort.  And, it’s not chocolate. 
                 It’s a Grilled Cheese Sandwich.  The kind of delicacy served with a mug of Tomato Soup…on a Sunday night.  It’s the Grilled Cheese Sandwich with perfectly grilled, buttered bread, sliced to reveal oozing, warm cheese constituting a perfect side to vegetable soup on an autumn day.  After all, how can you ruin bread, butter, and cheese?  Unless you burn it.
                Richard is my Grilled Cheese Connoisseur.  As a child, he did bring down the gavel on the best fish sticks or pizza or hamburger.  It was popsicles and grilled cheese that satisfied Rich.
               So, when the first-grader would spend the week before school started with Nana and Poppy, he was the center of their universe.  Poppy played war and trucks and watched Cartoons; Nana cooked and catered to his every desire; and Lou, our neighbor, took him to the one and only McDonald’s for some fries and an adventure on the playground.
              I should not have been surprised when he handed me Nana’s Recipe for A Grilled Cheese Sandwich. “Oh, Nana,” my young'un reportedly said, “this is sooo good.  You make the best grilled cheese sandwich.  Would you write down your recipe for my mommy?” I have yet to live down that day in family history.
             Lately, I have been astonished to learn of the Grilled Cheese International, the 11^th annual competition to determine who makes the best Grilled Cheese Sandwich, with Categories.  The Missionary is the grilled plain bread, butter, and cheese variety and the Karma Sutra is “anything goes,” with an endless variety of add-ons grilled with zesty cheeses between two slices of who-know-what variety of bread.  How did this happen?
              In addition, there is The Grilled Cheese Truck in Southern California, making the rounds and scheduling various towns and avenues for stops so folks can order and pay over $5 for gourmet grilled cheese concoctions and more for sides of pickle spears, chips, or a cup of tomato soup.
              A stylized school bus, decorated, fabricated into the Grilled Cheese Childhood Experience food truck, promises to recreate the delicious comfort sandwich that your mom made for you.  By savoring one of their sandwiches, you relive a moment from your glorious childhood, unless, of course (they have a disclaimer), your childhood sucked. 
Their varieties include the Kindergartener and Pre-schooler (which is the same as the former, but with the crusts cut off!)

            

Where was my brain when these entrepreneurs began their journey to fortune with a Grilled Cheese Sandwich? 

After all, I have the perfect recipe!

The Serendipity of Facebook

                             Today, and for many days over the past months, I have experienced “writer’s block.” Nothing is worth the expenditure of creative energy…nothing seems funny or especially interesting, except for the exchanges between classmates from CHS, C/O ’66.
                           I’m a listener; I hear your voices, but I’m quiet, so you won’t realize I’m enjoying your good-natured banter.  I guess it’s rude to eavesdrop, but I’m allowed, through Facebook. Your comments transport me to a time I had forgotten.  I’m there, and you are, too.
                            Vicariously, I travel with you as former neighbors and classmates. Everyone is gracious and shares pictures and comments.  It’s  a pleasure to ‘like” your insights, recognize the same things as amusing or poignant.
                           Seeing photos of your children and grandchildren on vacations and at birthdays allows me a familiarity I once spent every day enjoying. Where did the years go?  I’m so glad to have a reunion with you daily.
                         

From the ages and days now spent, from the seconds that separate us in time, a singular thread emerges and weaves our lives together; we share memory, rich and full.
                           
This connection has been the serendipitous discovery in Facebook, and I am grateful to you all.