Partying Priorities and Puzzle Pieces

               Never a hard-partying kind of girl, I look to New Year’s Eve with a sobering recollection of my first New Year’s Eve as a parent. 

               As young adults, couples greeted the New Year in each other’s homes, having dinner, eating chips and dips, sipping adult beverages, and watching the ball drop at earlier and earlier hours. Add a baby or two to this mix of partying and parenting and the story of the Last Whoopty-Do New Year's Eve springs to mind.

           

David was right at four months old when we received one of those fantabulous invitations for a New Year’s Eve. It was a glittery event complete with Dinner, Dancing, an Open Bar, and Breakfast at the Pinnacle Club (Top of the 100) in Memphis. Of course, we said, “YES!” and plans were underway. The most critical component of the plan: a baby-sitter.

            Talk about friends. Our next door neighbors volunteered for David to spend the night at their home. After all, they had a couple of young children who would be sleeping away and they did not plan on going out on the town, anyway. Again, we said, “YES!”

            What a trip! The “in crowd” boogied and gyrated around the dance floor in the most current form of group line dancing and slow dancing, all to the music of a live band. The night flew by. We called our neighbors and David was sleeping like…well, a baby. “Remember,” we said, “if he wakes up, don’t turn on a light, don’t speak to him, just give him the extra pacifier, and he’ll go back to sleep.”

            The last of the real party-goers, we drove home sometime after the midnight celebration and breakfast, an early hour on New Year’s Day. We fell into bed about 2 AM. At 3 AM, the phone rang and we heard, “WAAAHAAHHAAA!” in the background. “NO!” we mimed with a silent scream.

This baby wanted his mommy. In the driveway, David was passed over to welcome the New Year in his own home. He was wide awake and smiling that smile I’ve never been able to refuse. He did not go back to sleep until the Tournament of Roses Parade was winding through Pasadena.

            I was bleary-eyed and in one heck of a cranky mood. It was the last time we said, “YES!” to a New Year’s Eve Late Night Party ‘til You Drop Event. Partying on New Year’s Eve became a dinner out with kids completed by the highlight of the evening: a luscious dessert, most likely laced with double chocolate, whipped cream, and a cherry on top.

New Year’s Eve Party Priorities do change. Tonight, David is beyond a pacifier and my husband and I are fitting the final pieces into a puzzle Richard gave him and we all started on Christmas Day. Talk about a night of togetherness. It makes for a much happier Black-eyed Peas kind of morning. 

December Storms

December weather must have offered Camden, Arkansas, one heck of a ride in 1931. December can bring snow mounds or storm debris; it’s ever so chancy in Arkansas.

Under a tornado watch at the moment, I sit in my comphy writing and reading chair at home in Clay County, thinking of how many warm Christmas seasons I’ve witnessed. The December of the Smurf Car is one, the pedal-car gifted to David by Thomas one hot Christmas Day, I recall. We opened the windows rather than turn on the air-conditioner in Memphis.

During another fateful December, we out-distanced a tornado outbreak, driving from the Pyramid’s showcase of the Arkansas Razorbacks basketball team toward home with sirens blaring around us. The tornado tracked east as we drove that same direction, but paralleled our Walnut Grove Road to the south, headed for the Dogwood subdivision and Houston High School in Germantown rather than Walnut Grove Woods in Cordova.

It’s not a new thing, this unsettled, warm weather. Mid-South Decembers are volatile, to say the least.

In one of the chapters in The House on Harrison Street, a December tornado tears up the Methodist Church and the Ouachita County Court House in Camden, Arkansas, both situated across the street from the house where Mother and her brother Gordon huddled with their parents, their grandmother, and their aunt, Janie:

“Get up! Get the children. Downstairs! Quickly.”

Ella Gordon must have been startled awake as the wind howled with a deafening roar. Her daughter and son-in-law awoke, also, and Claude bounded out of bed, sensing what was just out the front window roaring toward Harrison Street. As he approached the bedroom door, he heard his mother-in-law, “It’s a tornado! Everybody downstairs! I’ll get Janie.”

            Claude must have grabbed Gordon, age six, and Mildred jostled Margaret, age 8. A mid-December storm, December 12, 1931, surprised everyone.

            Shaken awake by fear and the roar outside, both Margaret and Gordon hurried with their parents and grandmother down the stairs, most likely toward the back hallway, the lowest point in the house, the smooth concrete, cold storage area used to keep all the jams and jellies, peas and beans the family canned and preserved. They could have stolen a peek outside as they were hustled past the windows in the stairway; they might have gaped at the hundred year old trees being whipped about, their naked branches reaching toward the ground.

            The storm didn’t last long. It jumped and hopped neighborhoods, picked up, set down, wrecked havoc through any area it touched. What must have been an especially violent tornado, the first ever for Camden, tore up the downtown area; the beast reigned destruction wherever the funnel landed. Damage was significant throughout the incorporated area, even in a south neighborhood around Chestnut and Maple Streets. One child was killed in the outskirts of Camden where the storm made its exit. Many residents of Ouachita County close to Camden City Limits were severely injured, and property damage registered in the tens of thousands of dollars, hugely devastating in that era.

            Tornados usually form in volatile air masses and follow a southwest to northeast path, carving a trail of destruction where they choose. Camden, positioned on the Ouachita River bluffs, experienced this tornado that must have moved about indiscriminately because it arrived from the north and traveled south, hitting Greenwood Cemetery located in the north part of the city, inflicting wind damage on its trek to downtown.

Photo: Ouachita County Historical Society archives. First Methodist Church, December, 1931. Visible is Jefferson Street. Harrison Street runs perpendicular at the center of the photograph. The fencing surrounds the Court House property. (According to church records, the Board of Trustees had debated renewal of storm coverage just two weeks prior. They voted to renew the policy and dodged the bullet of financial devastation.)  

It dropped on top of the Methodist Church, gutting it west to east, threw debris onto a car dealership and garage behind the church on Jefferson Street. After smashing cars and caving in the dealership, the massive storm jumped across Jefferson and demolished the “pride of Ouachita County,” the gorgeous, massive, red brick court house built in 1888 and completed the following year.

            The children and their parents, their grandmother and her sister and ward, their aunt, lived across the street from this devastation and their home suffered only roof damage, wind damage, and took scattered debris from the rampage into the yard. The Courthouse was gutted; only a few of the outer walls remained standing. The bronze statue of Justice which stood atop the courthouse pergola was found near the river, south of town.

            The Methodist Church suffered the same fate with the sanctuary completely blown apart. The communion table inscribed IHS was lifted by the wind, removed from the altar, and transported to the court house lawn. There it was set down, intact, with little damage whatsoever. The steeple somersaulted down Jefferson Street.

From their shelter inside the house on the corner of Harrison and Jefferson, this huddled family watched the devastation. They knew they had escaped injury and possible death, left to ponder how such disaster could occur immediately across the street and their home be left virtually untouched. How the house must have shuddered and ripped, yet bravely stood against the horrors of the rampaging wind.

It withstood other horrors, too, including a fire ten years later. But that’s another story.

The House on Harrison Street will be available in early 2016.

Kitchen Saints: The Gordons at Christmastime

           I have called on the Gordon kitchen saints once again.

Gordon Rocks have been made (double batch) and shared. Christmas would be incomplete, however, without another traditional favorite of the Gordon clan: boiled custard. If the South is not your home, if your stomping grounds are not from around these parts, you may be unfamiliar with this traditional delicacy.

            Custards are often baked into pies or refrigerated and eaten with a spoon like a pudding. Not so for boiled custard. Taken either sip-by-sip from a small fancy-shaped glass or used as the base for egg nog, boiled custard is always served at Christmas gatherings of the Gordon family. The gentle thickness of boiled custard is just right for putting a little milk-like mustache on a toddler’s lip; boiled custard initiated a babe into the folds of Gordondom.

Ella Gordon and family lived across the street from the Methodist Church where she occupied a front pew and had a women’s missionary society circle named in her honor. Ella Gordon was a “t-totaler,” a duty and obligation lady, but at Christmastime, all bets were off. Ella sent for “good whiskey.” 

Mind you, she never bought it herself. She sent a man to the liquor store and listened for the secret knock at the door so Aunt Bessie might retrieve the hooch. The whiskey or brandy was not for drinking, but for cooking. That's altogether a different situation, don't ya' know. The liquor would “cook out,” and the finished product would be all the more moist or flavorful due to the addition of the booze.

Lifting the lid to the cookie tins filled with Rocks could set a sober person into a spin with one whiff. Egg nog shared with little Gordons on Christmas Eve sent them to their beds earlier than they had planned – about passed out from the nog’s not-so-secret ingredient. Thomas would literally stagger to bed, all the while begging for more.

Ella Gordon, also known as Banmama, carried on the tradition of Rocks, Boiled Custard, a multitude of confections, and batch upon batch of salted pecans kept in a Mrs. Seay’s Candy Box. She and her girls also made fondant, shaping colored fondant balls into ovals and pressing pecan halves on either side. Pam and I have tried to replicate a caramel candy known as “Tattee’s Candy,” but we grew impatient and let it remain Tattee’s Soup, still delicious, filled with goo-gobs of chopped pecans, and laden with sugar.

            Banmama also made a Nut Cake during the holidays. The Nut Cake made with lots of eggs, a bit of flour, a healthy cup of pecans, plenty of sugar (a Gordon absolute), also called for a tumbler of “good brandy.” Upon first reading the recipe shared by Mrs. W.W. Brown, Mrs. Chas. Gordon, and Mrs. S.B. Lide, I thought the notation indicated a “thimble” of brandy.  

In re-reading the list of ingredients, it appears this is a fruit cake without the fruit, but plenty of nuts and quite a bit of brandy. I modified the recipe to bake a cake similar to one that a writer friend’s mother made and it is cooling on a wire rack in my refrigerator, waiting to be served with a dollop of whipped cream (or Cool-Whip).

            Baking with recipes gathered from family recipe books brings a warmth to me as real as if my great grandmother, grandmother, her sisters, and my mother are all in the same kitchen. I am in tune with these women and their laughter, their enjoyment of the Christmas season, their unbounded generosity never more present than at Christmastime.

            And, dear cousins, for the record, I also made several batches of palted secans.

Joy Come To You

Joy Come To You - published Clay County Times-Democrat - December 16, 2015

               “Mom, can I open just one little-bitty, teeny-tiny present now?” Small fingers held almost together show about one teeny-tiny inch. “I just can’t wait ‘til Christmas!”

“Christmas Eve will be here before you know it, and you can open one of your presents. Don’t go snooping under the tree. You know what that’ll mean.” Under her breath she chuckled, “You’ll shoot your eye out!” The child did not understand her humor.

How marvelous to be the lucky child who counts gifts under the Christmas tree and opens one on Christmas Eve. Luckier still is the child who can con a sibling into snooping and peeking; it’s a risk because searching through the closets could result in a gift’s prompt return to the store.

Adults celebrating family food traditions prepare tins of candies, cookies, and favorite Christmas dishes following generational recipes. During this joyous December time frame, the kitchen counter is laden with specialty items enjoyed at no other season of the year. Christmas just wouldn’t be Christmas without Aunt Bethany’s green Jell-o salad.

The tradition of allowing children to open one gift on Christmas Eve, one gift before bedtime, began several generations prior to this one. Pajama sets, most likely patterned Christmas pajamas only Aunt Gladys could love lay nestled in tissue paper; no toy requiring assembly or batteries appeared on Christmas Eve. “Now, put on your PJs and hurry to bed. You know Santa won’t come if you are awake!” How many children never went to sleep, insisting they heard reindeer prancing and sleigh bells jingling! “I’m asleep, I’m asleep. Really, I’m asleep!”

Christmas is filled with family traditions, special events children remember and replicate when they have children and Christmas seasons of their own. One tradition I enjoyed involved the beauty of The Peabody Christmas Tree. We dressed up, spruced up, and traveled down to the The Peabody lobby where ducks paraded. The decorated tree occupied a substantial portion of the lobby, reaching beyond the mezzanine. A musician dressed in a tux serenaded on the Grand Piano, entertaining the holiday-happy crowd with Christmas tunes. We took photographs, sipped specialty coffees, and gulped soft drinks, usually adorned with a long-stemmed cherry, and let the glittery ambiance wash over us.

We’d also map out a route to follow, thrilling at all the houses and yards nominated as “best of the season.” We’d drive by the fancy displays, the addresses advertising orchestrated lights and synchronized music. The Starry Nights drive-through spectacular always topped the Christmas To-Do list.

One tradition held from my own childhood became my own family’s most important tradition: the candlelight Christmas Eve service at our church. Traditional hymns rang out Gloria! Scripture readings foretold of the holy infant’s birth. Families from near and far lined the pews as lights dimmed to Silent Night, the final hymn. We looked at the glow upon each face among all the families represented there.

Traditions change because families change; circumstances dictate new traditions. It’s important to embrace that change and create new traditions when the opportunity arises. Several churches in our small community offer a Christmas Eve service. There are plenty of festive and colorful light arrangements designed for car tours. The drive-through display at the old Air Force base in Blytheville, Lights of the Delta, is lovely. A home between here and there, in Steele, MO, Lights on the Z, showcases synchronized music and lights with donations going to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital, always a worthy cause. Driving around to admire Courthouse Square lighting and upgraded downtown lights can contribute to a lovely evening for adults and children.

As for my grown-up family, I’ve taken to entertaining them with iconic Christmas movies, complete with games and awards, such as membership in the Jelly of the Month Club and our Christmas tree housing a Ty-baby squirrel. A grandchild once received a gift-wrapped bar of soap after guessing a correct answer attached to the question about Ralphie’s bad word. “You’ll Shoot Your Eye Out,” was the classic response to any request made during that evening. Dinner and desserts always coordinate with the movie of the year. Laughter of adults and children mingle, creating memories and new traditions. What Mom would come up with for the next year left family members puzzled, but in good humor.

Family gatherings make great traditions, regardless of the season or the reason. When children are involved, plans need not be elaborate or costly. An antique Advent Calendar passed down from grandmother’s childhood, the proclamation of good tidings of great joy read aloud, a simple moment of planned reflection, a prayer together for Peace on Earth, a grateful acknowledgement of continued health, any heart-felt, shared event is special. The children will remember.

Make memories, honor heritage, celebrate childhood, and magnify the advent of the Holy Child. Capture the wonder and twinkle from a child’s eye and put it in your own – for today, for always, for yourself and for your children. Let joy be your tradition.

Color Me Christmas

Christmas colors reduce anxiety. Red does not signal alarm; instead, Rudolph’s nose comes into focus. Golden yellow candles with evergreen holly adorn light posts throughout our small towns. Lighted angels and fabricated representations of the Holy Family add warmth to winter scenes. Neighborhoods brighten; downtown businesses sparkle. Royal purple candles are placed within Advent wreaths. Christmons in luxurious symbolism adorn ten-foot trees which add a regal appearance to churches in the area. Towns are awash in Christmas colors.

Color and Christmas go together like peas and carrots, Forest Gump would suggest. Coloring pages keep little ones entertained while adults breathe deeply to the count of ten. The eight crayons are all any child would use to give Santa a red suit and the elves a short green costume. Brown reindeer frolic on white snow and Frosty’s eyes are coal black.

Children find a way to graduate to the hefty box of 64 crayons, giving children 56 extra crayons to crush into carpet and jam into pencil sharpeners. Memory of coloring, especially coloring at Christmas, stirs smiles and invites reflection on a simpler, calmer time.

Perhaps that’s why Adult Coloring Books are the hot item for Christmas this year. Said to reduce stress and provide hours of pleasant memories, Crayola and other coloring companies are capitalizing on the adult who longs to return to childhood, even for a few moments.

In my case, I don’t think coloring would relieve stress. As a child, I was slow to develop fine motor skills and was intimidated by displayed art projects produced by classmates. They never colored outside the lines and their color combinations were delightfully pretty. They outlined first and shaded within the outline, to create a masterpiece worthy for the bulletin board. My rendition of a birthday cake showcased the entire cake in jet black with brown squiggles around the bottom edges. My parents thought I needed psychotherapy. When asked why my cake was colored black and brown, my answer was most logical: chocolate cake.

Lately, on the internet and in retail stores, I’ve been intrigued by books of black and white designs, ready to spring to life with color. Intricate designs, mandalas, kaleidoscope patterns provide opportunities for adults to create meditative art. I’ve looked at the patterns and while I’d enjoy coloring those pages, I feel sure I’d stress out; I’d see someone else’s design and think I should have colored mine like theirs. Old habits die hard.

This Christmas, do enjoy the brilliant colors, reflect on outward and inward beauty, and find ways to reduce stress. Perhaps the best way to accomplish that goal is by spending time with a child of any age; coloring pages are optional.

No Time for Hibernation

     It would be easier to hibernate. You know, read the paper, drink morning coffee, go to the gym, come home, sweep up some caked dirt from someone’s boots, do a little laundry, test the thawing progress on next week’s main dishes, admire the Christmas trees, order some things through Amazon, follow through on a brainstorm or two, and ignore the invitation to the Christmas party.

             It’ll mean a holiday outfit, heels, and a smile. That might be a bridge too far.

            Then, I flip the switch for some music to elevate the attitude and David Foster’s orchestra plays “Carol of the Bells” a rendition that lifts my mood immediately. Before I can blink twice, John Williams “Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas” from the Home Alone soundtrack raises the roof. “Christmas Eve in Sarajavo,” the signature piece for the Trans-Siberian orchestra, rings through the rooms and I’m a new creature, ready for Saturday night and a Christmas Party, the first of the season.

          Getting ready for Christmas parties means dressing up, saying Merry Christmas, Y’all!, and seeing new friends in what have become familiar locations. My Scroogie Christmas fault is I long for Christmas Past. It can’t be. This is Christmas Present.

            I vow to enjoy every day of this Christmas season. I will wear my Christmas jewelry and jingle all the way. I’ll make Gordon Christmas Rocks and celebrate RockFest; I’ll also try a few new recipes. Christmas music will fill my house and I’ll laugh when Aubrey sings “Up on the Housetop” at full tilt. What a joy to share Christmas with a four-year-old angel.

            Soon the Christmas presents will start to accumulate in their secret hiding places and one day, I’ll conduct a Wrap Session, to the beat of “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer.”

            I love Christmas and everything it represents. Christmas music at church reminds us the Manger is waiting. The advent candles are lighted as we anticipate the Christ Child’s birth. That blessed time is magically blended with Santa’s promise to Virginia and children of all ages.

It’s my favorite time of the year and I won’t spend it in hibernation.   

Sugar Lovers Go Cold Turkey

              Imagine Buddy the Elf’s startled look as he chows down on a whole roll of Toll-House cookie dough. His reply to the FDA and their findings regarding sugar and health might be surrounded in a cloud of…cotton candy. He’d find a way to smile through the upstart suggestion that Americans “cut back on sugar.”

The Food and Drug Administration has gotten well into the sweet-toothed consumer’s business now. Cutting back on fats came first. Cutting back on carbs came next. Cutting calories, cutting red meat, cutting this, that, and the other. Now, it’s sugar.

            Empty calories like empty words may fill a void, but are not satisfying and the body knows it. With few nutrients and few real, meaningful calories, added sugar, such as sugars that are in soda, fills a body for a brief time, but evaporates like a puff of smoke, leaving the consumer unsatisfied.

            Grandma’s secret ingredient for whipping up the best green beans is not really a secret: she adds a “pinch” or two, or three, or more of sugar. No wonder her vegetables are such a hit with the family; even the kids will eat Granny’s green beans.

            Thanksgiving dinner is past and Christmas treats’ aromas lurk around the next bend. Kitchens are busy places; holiday chefs don festive aprons and whop up family recipes of cookies, brownies, candy, and treats designed to satisfy Santa and all his elves.

Health conscious cooks buy low-fat, low-calorie, low-carb, sugar substitutes, all in an effort to satisfy the craving for delicious confections. However, low on one side means high on the other side. Low-fat is laden with sugar.  Low-sugar bursts with fat grams. There is no win, it seems.

            With a picture of fruit on the packaging, one would assume the product contains fruit with its natural sugar content. Drat it all! Fooled, again. Just because a picture is on the label, don’t count on there being much fruit; instead, the strawberry yogurt is loaded with added sugar so the taste will be palatable. Same with fruity drinks, fruity cookies, dried fruit, fruit cocktail, and the like.

            It’s healthier, of course, to cut back on added sugars. Our heart health demands that we sit up, pay attention, and make changes. So, what’s a good Southerner, those of us with a seldom-satisfied sweet tooth, to do? We will look for other ways to satisfy sweet cravings.

            Perhaps humming songs from Mary Poppins would help. She recommends keeping a spoonful of sugar handy to make the medicine go down. Another remedy would be to make sure the kiddos and grandkiddos are around so they can fulfil the request to “gimme some sugar!” An over-abundance of affectionate terms like “Sugar” might spill from the lips of strangers who are not flirting, but who are in the throes of sugar deprivation and crave to speak the word at every opportunity. Perhaps listening to oldie, goldie tunes such as “Sugar, Sugar” or “Sugar Shack” could supply the satisfaction.

            Cutting back on sugar might be impossible, especially as the candy-cane season approaches. Watching the movie Elf is the only solution. Everyone knows that Buddy is addicted to sugar. He says, "We elves try to stick to the four main food groups: candy, candy canes, candy corns, and syrup." He pours maple syrup onto his spaghetti. With a flask of “yes, there’s sugar in syrup” kept with him at all times, concealed up the sleeve of his green, fur trimmed coat, Buddy’s antics provide sugar-sensory overload, a sure-fire remedy for sugar cravings. After watching Will Ferrell as Buddy the Elf, sugar-lovers will head toward the refrigerator for cold turkey.         

The Southern Pecan: the Critical Ingredient for Holiday Baking

            Tis the season to harvest pecans. That skill I have honed since I was able to toddle along behind my mother and grandmother, picking up pecans that had fallen from the pecan trees canopying the corner of Harrison and Jefferson in Camden, Arkansas.

            Tuesday afternoon, we gathered pecans from Mrs. Gatewood’s trees in her back yard and were able to gather about half a bucket full. The trees are still heavily laden with the delicious symbol of fall harvest.

Rock Fest 2008

            Every holiday dessert I was raised on contained pecans. Even fruit salad had chopped pecans. Cookie tins brimming with salted pecans were a constant throughout fall and into winter. Fondant ovals colored deep pink and mint green were sandwiched between two pecan pieces. Karo Nut Pie, erroneously called Pecan Pie by my northern friends, Pineapple Upside Down Cake, Icebox Cookies, and the Gordon family’s famous Rocks are filled with the nutty delicacy. Oh, pecans!

            I’ve used all the pecans I had in the freezer, so I purchased a bag of chopped pecans, a bag of pecan halves at each of my grocery store ventures. Now, any recipe calling for any amount or style of pecans is under control.

            Until today, that is. I’d read a recipe in the newspaper during early November. The ingredients of a delicious sounding pecan pastry were listed and knew I had all items available and was ready to bake today. It’s a good thing I was planning a day at home because what I did not read was “this recipe will take you the whole live-long-day.” The newsprint continued with “pulse until the mixture looks like coarse meal…” “You may have to divide the recipe into two parts,” the fine print suggested.

The dough formed quite well as did the filling, but here came the kicker. “Cover the rolled out dough with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 30 – 40 minutes before transferring the trays to the freezer for another 15 minutes.”  After all that rig-a-ma-role, I was instructed to roll out the dough into a rectangle at least double the size and shape it originally formed. Spreading the filling and folding the dough came next and then another stint in the refrigerator for the two crescent shaped pastries.  “Refrigerate the formed crescents for between 4 and 12 hours.” 

Say W H A T!  Will I be awake?

            I gave the critters 4 hours and then brushed them with an egg wash and popped them into the preheated oven, rotated them, turned them, flipped them alternately every 15-20 minutes for a total of 40-50 minutes. After they came out of the oven, they were to cool on a wire rack for another 30 minutes then be glazed and “allow the glaze to set” for 10 additional minutes. Whew!

            They tasted great. As they baked, they gave the house a holiday aroma. But, when God made pastry dough and filling, He also made pastry chefs and bakeries.  As long as I can throw a few fingertips of flour in my face, as long as I can heat a pan of water with delicious smelling cinnamon sticks, and as long as Wal-Mart and Bath & Body Works make caramel vanilla and cinnamon spice heat activated aroma devices, I’ll use my time to harvest pecans and prepare for making Gordon Rocks, 

            It's almost time for Rock-Fest 2015!

The House on Harrison Street: The Ritchie Files

Just when I thought it might be safe to upload my creative nonfiction book to the cyberworld of CreateSpace by Amazon, I decided I better check one more time with the cousins. Someone might have one more thing to share.That one thing could be a major game-changer.

.

Today, I was able to speak with my cousin from Ruston, Louisiana. Not only does she have photos, she has journals.These journals are like nothing I’ve even imagined I could touch. The one from which she read seems to be an accounting of finances and donations to various charities around Camden.

John Campbell Ritchie 

The writer was either former Mayor John Campbell Ritchie or cotton merchant George Louis Ritchie, as the writer listed an entry about “sister Ella" and the Ouachita Valley Bank. Since J.C. Ritchie is Susan’s great grandfather, I’m thinking these journals are his, once in the possession of his son, Stith Bearden Ritchie, her grandfather.

She is boxing up these photos and journals and putting them on the road to my house via Wilderness Express. I've promised to copy them and return the originals to her. She has a treasure and did not know it. It may be that a major re-write in some sections of the book will be forthcoming.

Waiting for the box to arrive is like waiting to meet a long-lost relative, someone I’ve known but have not made contact with in years.Touching what they touched, reading what they wrote, learning what they believed to be important all make these ancestors come alive to me.Their decisions, the names of the individuals in the journal, the places mentioned give life to historical genealogy.

To affirm that the book I'm putting together is important for our family and for Camden, I recognized the names and knew their relationships and how they were significant to the family and to Camden. The failure of the Ouachita Valley Bank during the 1930s impacted the brothers and the family and there is information in the journal about the bank. She did not know what I have learned through research. That is the focus of the book; if I don't share the stories and the information, everything will be lost, because the information is fragmented, scattered among the cousins.

What my grandmother would have possessed went up in smoke from the fire in either 1941 or 1959.

I’m so grateful to these cousins who have unearthed the archives and have chosen to share what they found.

Way Back with Arkansas and Ole Miss

"I'm old enough to remember the Arkansas-Ole Miss games from the 1960's; in fact, I remember the 1960 game. No I was not there. I was hiding in my grandmother's bathroom, waiting for the final score, fingers in my ears because the radio volume was turned up full blast. No amount of wishing and hoping changed that result. Even Lance could not save the day and I'm sure I cried from disappointment and coming face to face with a flagrant violation of the rules of fairness.  

                         Ole Miss 10 – Arkansas 7

The 1960 contest between the teams was won by Ole Miss 10–7 at War Memorial Stadium in Little Rock, Arkansas, on their way to a final record of 10–0–1 for the 1960 season and the second of their three claimed national championships. Sometimes called the Tommy Bell game by Arkansas fans, he called a timeout in an attempt to quiet Razorback fans. Rebel Allen Green did not hear the whistle and kicked the ball through the uprights. After the timeout, fans swear Bell signaled that the kick was good as soon as Green connected with the ball. Fans also swear that the kick was no good. Fighting broke out all around the stadium and because of this, the annual series between the two schools was played the next year in Jackson and then canceled until the two teams renewed the series in 1981.

It seems no Arkansas-Ole Miss game is without some kind of down-to-the-wire heroics or villainous call by referees paid by scoundrels. Remembering seven overtimes with Matt Jones and a one point victory comes to mind in the arena of heroics.

Like the victory being savored tonight, this win is one Hog fans will be celebrating and Ole Miss fans lamenting for years to come. Our old family friend Billy Newton in Heaven called on many Razorback Saints, including my parents, to avoid a tragedy that almost befell the team when a throwback flip was caught and Alex Collins piled up more yardage during the overtime period.The RazorSaints in Heaven danced a jig and helped conclude the game. I'll say this, "It was a flagrant face-mask violation and Brandon Allen did go for two and make it!"

Hogs Win Again in Overtime

The House on Harrison Street: The Gordon-Ritchie Saga

It’s time. Time to launch my new book: The House on Harrison Street: The Gordon-Ritchie Saga

It’s not a novel. Neither is it a non-fiction recounting of dates and events on a timeline.

The book contains speculation and stories which are “just a tad” subjective. It’s told from a narrator’s point of view: I am that narrator. My cousins have provided incredible insight into portions of the family story that I did not know. I’ve written letters and received responses along with their insights. Several cousins have provided photographs for use in the book.

The family tree has reached into history, dating to the mid-1600’s.  Neither you nor I ever met any of those individuals, but you, like I, have heard their stories, time and time again, so many times that we feel as if we know them personally. I’ve brought that feeling to the manuscript.

Perhaps you’ve read about the Tooke family from England who arrived in the Virginia plantation to begin a new life. It was the Tooke ancestors who were some signers of the Magna Charta, The Great Charter.

You have read of the Ritchey family (also spelled Ritchie) along with the Caldwells and Calhouns of South Carolina. Dig into your US History class notes and conjure the vision of John C. Calhoun, noted SC senator. His middle name was Caldwell. Old District 96 in South Carolina was home to these ancestors. Find out how the Caldwells, Calhouns, and Ritcheys are related.

How about the Gordon family? Revolutionary War soldiers, plantation owners from South Carolina and Georgia. Then, learn about the Campbell family of Virginia who emigrated to Tennessee and then to Alabama. From Alabama’s Black Belt came groups of pioneers and settlers into south Arkansas. Learn why they chose Arkansas and why Ouachita County which was formed out of the once larger Union County.

These four families combined to establish a lineage of greatness that eventually provided leadership and substantial influence in Union County and ultimately Ouachita County, Arkansas.

In this book are stories told from my perspective, based on research as well as family lore. Included are end notes, a full bibliography, a Family Tree, photographs, and an index.

My brother and I agree that the book should be made available to family members, extended family members, the Ouachita County Historical Society, the Arkansas History Commission, those interested in genealogy, and Ouachita County residents who have even a minor connection to the county’s history. It is not a book which would command a commercial audience, however.

Look for its release before the first of the year, hopefully around Christmas.

What a wonderful gift it would make! Wouldn’t you like to read an oration by Professor Charles T. Gordon? Would you like to glimpse the wedding of John Campbell Ritchie to his second wife Minnie Barker, the young socialite who came to Camden to help care for her brother’s child and remained, marrying the former Mayor of Camden?

Be present at the Oil Boom in Union County and Ouachita County. Witness the results of the horrific gas explosion that claimed the life of three young Camden ladies, one of whom was a cousin, Margaret Ramsey. Meet for the first time as a young teen our little known aunt Janie Gordon. Grimace at the demise of a family brought on by the untimely and tragic death of an only son. See Camden change and grow from photographs taken in the front yard of The House on Harrison Street.

Those stories and more are included in The House on Harrison Street: The Gordon-Ritchie Saga.

A Visit With Aunt Betty

            What is it called when the opportunity comes to look into the eyes of a close relative and the decades fade into oblivion? The hands of the person are also the hands of her mother and her brother (my dad). What is that phenomenal occurrence? Is it a form of time travel? Is it transference? Or, is it a soul-satisfying emotional connection, comfort, and a rare privilege?

            My aunt is 94 years old, born in August 1921. She’s the only remaining family member of my parents’ generation. She is three years older than my dad who died in 2001. We Dansbys have the same brow, nose, chin, shape in the face. I wonder, should I live to be her age, if I will look like my Aunt Betty?

            When she realized that seated before her, indeed, was her niece, her brother’s daughter Margaret Jane, all the way from Arkansas, we embraced. I felt the arms of my family wrap me in love and heard them say, “I’ve missed you so much.” I cried; the tears were spontaneous. I was not sad, except I miss my dad so much and I felt his presence in his sister's arms, the arms that enfolded me.

            Sometime during our conversation, which was more like a monologue with response on her part, she commented, “I’ve been looking forward to your visit for such a long time.”

           

               She has been my female hero, always. When, as a child, I learned she was a nurse, I wanted to be a nurse. She convinced me I did not. “You don’t want to clean up slop jars, darling girl. And you have to give people shots…” she continued. She’d convinced me with ‘slop jars.’ The point, though: she was independent, savvy, smart, beautiful, and a powerful woman who was, I believed, making her own way in the world. I wanted to be like my Aunt Betty.

            While she hated the strict nuns at St. Vincent’s School of Nursing in Little Rock, that school was her ticket and she punched it with relish. She was happiest, her daughter and I have discussed, when she was an Army Nurse, stationed in various areas in the South Pacific during WWII. After her tour of duty, she went to the University of Illinois and then transferred to Northwestern where she met and married Uncle Bill Stanton and became a wonderful mother to Kathleen and Bill, Jr.

            When I looked into her eyes, the years vanished. Her voice was the same as I remembered. The feel of her hands in mine and the lingering hug we shared answered a longing that I attribute to a deep desire to be in my parents’ embrace once again. It was a deeply satisfying emotional connection for which I will be eternally grateful.

            I’d intended our visit to be mutually satisfying, but I think I received the most profound blessing from our connection.