Watching Life Unfold in God's Glorious Plan

Really. I'm not an outdoorsy-type girl.
In, fact, I'm sorta prissy.

But, I love this time of year, even with the sheets of rain that have fallen and the unpredictability of a full-of-sunshine day. Those will come soon enough...say, July.

Marvin and I have taken great delight in our koi and goldfish. The koi from the original group are rather large now and there are several juveniles and a "kiddo." One is named Dreamsicle, reminiscent of those delicious light orange dessert pops. Another is "Whale." We have "Dot" and "Stubby."  A little less politically correct is "Jap" who is a small, lightening fast white goldfish who sports a red circle on his fan-tail. "The Joker" has a green hue. Not all are named, but we get a kick out of feeding time.

The bluebirds are nesting in the box Marvin made last spring. We saw them checking out the floor plan and watched as they moved in. Now, they are taking turns going in and out of the house. Sometimes both are outside. Mama needed some breathing room, I'd imagine. The male's gorgeous neon blue is suggestive of a bunting, but they are not - just regular, beautiful blue birds.

Cardinals, bluejays, and those chatty mockingbirds along with turtledoves populate the area. There are wrens and fortunately, some martins.

A bonus is cherry tree season - it's almost time for harvest. Perhaps this weekend.We must keep a close watch because within a few days of the ripe harvest, the birds will strip the trees. We've considered netting, but decided to take our chances.

The other day, Marvin spotted a field-dee's nest among some gravel and rocks near a lot he mows. We went by to take a look and spied with great difficulty the two eggs that looked like gray and black speckled rocks, disguised perfectly. Both mama and daddy bird behaved as they usually do to lure any invader away from the nest. They are some  crazy-acting, dramatic birds.

Within a few weeks of our original sighting, the baby birds hatched.We took a picture.They were downy and did not move a lick.
Yesterday, both babies were up, running around the lot. I'm attaching a photo of the one that came to visit me. This bird was, indeed, "born yesterday."

Now,the nest of a brown trasher with four little eggs is in the knock-out rose bush by the mailbox. Yes, I've peeked in, but when I get the mail, if I'm really quiet, mama won't budge.

While I don't cook potatoes in the ground, nor do I camp in the wilderness where there might be mosquitoes or spiders, or where one would have to drive for miles to find a bathroom, I do love to watch life unfold within God's glorious plan .

Cue the Soundtrack

          We'd arrived at the cinema at the last moment, just before the movie began. The theater seating area was darkened. We walked further and further to the front, seeking two seats together.Stepping over several people, we tried to sit quietly and get situated before the big screen illuminated and the soundtrack began. To my right was my husband; to my left sat a 10 year old boy.
          The movie:  Jaws. The blockbuster event still keeps swimmers alert for great white sharks that happen to swim near beaches.The prospect of Jaws showing up also keeps swimming pool antics lively.
           Hum the soundtrack's few telling DAH-DA, DAH-DA, DAH-DA-DAAAA! and squeals will be heard from little swimmers who never saw the first scene in the movie Jaws!
            Before Jaws made his first appearance on the screen 40 years ago, the tension in the theatre had grown to a fever pitch, partly because we knew he was going to show up. We'd seen the previews; we just didn't know when he'd pop out of the ocean and into our laps.The music kept us on the edge of our seats.
             Then, there he was!

 FULL VIEW on the Big Screen, all gray and ugly, with a mouth full of about a zillion sharp teeth. I screeched, of course, and covered my face as soon as I could.  After about 30 seconds, the little kid to my left gave me an elbow jab and said, "M'am, you can look now."

A Ruined Palace

          History has been a favorite study course over the years: not enough hours in my college schedule for electives in history, though. To feed my hunger, I watch the History channel, make selections for the DVR , read biographies, and have a soft spot for Rehab Addict: Nicole works to fuel her passion by restoring abandoned, on the auction block, due for demolition, historic homes.

            Even the shotgun houses of tenant farmers or plantation slaves hold fascination. Some of these relics have been reclaimed and are now used for overnight accommodations along Hwy 61 in Mississippi. Then there’s the Johnny Cash home in Dyess Colony, a Delta Byways Historic Site. Johnny would not know the place; it has been restored and furnished with period pieces including donations from the Cash family treasures.

            A fine line must be noted when determining whether to become involved with National Register of Historic Places. Especially if the historic place is an old home, care should be taken to research the stringent requirements for compliance with the US Department of Interior. Some shy from such dictates. A marker on the doorpost designating the home as historic with the date of the original structure would be a nice touch, adding to historic significance.

Original Home, pre-Civil War home.

            I’ve grown especially nostalgic regarding old homes as I’ve worked extensively on updating family history with new information available through various websites and family interviews. Those family members who lived in The House on Harrison Street, including my brother and me, watched Camden, Arkansas, grow and change from a remarkable vantage point.
Across the street from the Ouachita County Court House, the First Methodist Church, and the Ouachita County Public Library, the house served as home for the entire group of Gordon siblings at one time or another. From the original structure dating pre-Civil War, to the new three-story (full attic) dwelling built in 1913 and remodeled in the early 1940’s, that house is filled with family legends. It was a forever home, until one August afternoon in 1959.

A 1932 winter scene of The House on Harrison Street

            A particularly poignant story I’ve written for a future book of creative non-fiction, a family history, has a working title, “Oh, Nana!  It’s really flaming now!” While I understand with clarity the reasons for the house being razed after the fire, my desire is to infuse life into it and other family homes that no longer exist. I’ll attempt that feat through stories that beg to be told.

When I see an old house neglected and in ruin, when I look up at “Cracker Barrel Portraits” someone has thrown away, I wonder at the tales contained within the walls, marvel at the lives once lived by those gazing at me as I devour a delicious breakfast.

            A quote from the Arkansas Gazette this morning is from a Chinese poet with a soliloquy on “Passing a Ruined Palace.”

            “Heavy dew. Thick mist. Dense grass.

            Trees grow on the broken balconies.

            Willows choke the empty moat.

            Fallen flowers litter the courts…

            The road has vanished. The landscape the same.

            The works of men are being obliterated.

            When I pass by the broken gate

            My horse whinnies again and again.”

Mirror, Mirror, Morph Me, Please

         If having a phone that’s smarter than I am were not bad enough, now the dressing room mirror at the department store is smart.  It promises to interact with me.

         The risk is bad enough in trying on clothes in a fitting/dressing room. Potential exists for perverts to ogle through “security cameras.” We older chicks don’t have too much to worry about in that regard. Even jeepers-creepers-peepers would gag upon viewing a body with sags, bags, wrinkles, and cellulite.

         

     The Wicked Queen, Snow White’s step-mother, had a talking mirror. Everyone knows what happened to that mirror when Her Royal Wickedness heard that she no longer was the fairest in the land. Risk is always involved with a talking mirror. “Yes, Dearie, those slacks do make your butt look big.”

    Stacy and Clinton from What Not to Wear will not burst forth from the wings, gift card in hand. Stacy will not comment, “What were you thinking?”  No magic eraser will be associated with this 360-degree mirror. No fashion-forward wardrobe will accompany these new smart mirrors. A coupon for a hair and make-up make-over could be printed from the mirror, however; I’d take that. 

            I once wondered what I must have looked like walking away from some cad as I wheeled around with a toss of my hair, and said, “Not in your wildest dreams.” I sashayed away in my mind with style and class thinking, “Eat your heart out.”  In reality, today, the mirror would give me opportunity to see my rear-view as it wiggles and jiggles and looks like a Jell-o mold in death throws.

          The magic mirror promises style comparisons. I now can choose several tops or blouses and see how they look, without ever trying them on. I can compare the looks through the mirror’s magic. I must know, though, after all these years that certain shades of green are not “in my palate.” Perhaps one of the choices could flash a red X several times to remove all doubt and chant, “Abort! Abort! Call the paramedics! Chartreuse: Death-bed sick. Try again!”

           What would be smart about a mirror surveying my overall look as I try on clothes is the advice my mother gave me long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away:  “If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”

On the other hand, if the mirror were truly smart, it would make me look 10 pounds thinner with hair and make-up like Kate Middleton. I’d buy the outfit and the mirror on the spot.

I Heard Her Voice Today

Today I was able to speak with my cousin Alicia. We talked for almost an hour. I'd written to her and asked questions to jog her memory about our common family stories.
Alicia confirmed many of my memories and gave me insight into the personality of those family members I never knew.

I remembered her grandmother - my grandmother's sister.  Through memory, I felt a darkness and sensed an austere persona surrounding Aunt Alice. Alicia confirms that the house was dark, needing the curtains opened because cedar trees covered the front of the house and kept the huge porch secreted away.

Mother at Aunt Alice's house.

Alicia remembers sitting on the porch watching the world go by on Washington Street without anyone knowing she was there. Aunt Alice drove a black Cadillac and was not a "warm and cuddly grandmother."Nevertheless, Mother and her parents and brother lived with Aunt Alice when the "big house" was being rebuilt after the fire in 1940 (approx).

Alicia's mother whom we called "Little Alice" remembered my great grandmother - Banmama - Ella Jane Ritchie Gordon. Ella Gordon was a calm lady, serene, and duty-bound in decisions. One of her daughters experienced a brain injury at birth and remained at home her entire life (Janie). Caring for Janie was a monster task, one that fell to my grandmother when she inherited the "big house" from her mother. Ella Gordon died in 1937. Banmama I never knew, but I met her today.Alicia told me that Little Alice recalled Banmama managed to care for Janie with such grace. When asked about it, Banmama said, "It keeps me humble and on my knees (in prayer)." That description and statement affected me in a profound way. I heard her voice.

George R Gordon home on Washington Street.
Jean Gordon is pictured on the front porch.
Later served as Methodist Parsonage

Our family, like most others, has feet of clay. We are some colorful characters with tremendous highs and devastating lows. A remarkable home that the Gordon sisters' brother (George R) built remains on Washington Street today. I'm sure my mother told me about this house, but for whatever reason, it did not register.
The Methodist Church bought the house sometime after George R's death. It had been fashioned into apartments at one time, but he is the man who built the house. My high school classmate David Ivey lived there with his parents George and Doris Ivey when Dr. Ivey was minister at First Methodist. I was dumbfounded about this revelation.

Fred Hamel, Thomas Lockett, Dorothy Ritchie, John Ansley Ritchie, Jack (John C) Ritchie
Goss Dansby holds Thomas Gordon, Margaret Horne Dansby, Gordon Horne, Helen Horne,
Ann Usrey holding James Cooper, John Ritchie Usrey.
Jean Gordon, Emma Sue Gordon, Alice Gordon Lide, Susie Gordon Ritchie
Mildred Gordon Horne, Frances Usrey Hamel, Charlotte Lide Lockett
Orlando Lide Lockett, David Hamel, Martha Ellen Usrey, Margaret Jane Dansby,
Pamela Gail Horne, Susan Ritchie

Today has been "one of those days" when family stories came to life and played out as a saga I wish I remembered more fully.

What's in a Name? A rose by any other name smells as sweet...

Princess Charlotte Elizabeth Diana
There's something about a little princess that captures imagination.
What captured my imagination more was the remarkable tribute to family that the royal couple managed to package into this new heir's names.

It would be my wish that my children would care so much about identification with family heritage that they would do the same. The naming conventions were prevalent in older generations. Genealogy study is difficult enough even if families follow conventions of using family names in careful combination. If names appear random in selection, linking the child to generations of family becomes tedious, unless family Bibles carry excellent documentation.

Margaret - Mildred wrote in her daughter's baby book that she and Claude "just liked the name."  Nevertheless, the name is used multiple times in the Gordon and Ritchie families. One Ritchey (also a spelling) relative had multiple granddaughters named Margaret. Margaret (Mother) then chose to give me her own first name plus a middle name. Margaret means "Pearl."

Jane - My parents selected Jane as my middle name to honor the multiple "Jane's" in the family tree. I often wondered why I could not have been "Janet" like my beautiful next-door neighbor.  Or could the Margaret not be "Margie" like the heroine in a love story I adored. My favorite math teacher called me "Margo" - Margaret Jane was too much and too "stodgy" at the time. I did not realize the history attached to my name. Jane means "God is Gracious."

David - My son is named David as in a man after God's own heart  and in Goliath-slayer fame in the Bible, and as a tribute to the various sons named David in my family. We added Gordon as a tribute to my mother, her mother, and a family whose legacy I admire. Attention should also be given to a man's monogram. David means "Beloved."

Richard - My son is named Richard for several reasons. One reason is that family name Ritchie is taken from Richard. Second, a dear friend's name is Richard. Lyell is in tribute to his father's great grandmother from Tennessee, Susannah Lyell. The man's first initials are important (R.L.) for a confident business signature. Richard means "Strong, as in lion-hearted."

I'm writing our family's history and have enjoyed "getting to know" our ancestors on a more personal level. The names explain relationship and family origins. Studying names and wondering if the person had a nickname has brought greater interest to the story. What did the wife call her husband besides his title of respect.  My great-grandmother called her husband "Mr. Gordon" when others were present.

That same great-grandmother used only her first name "Ella" rather than the double "Ella Jane." Her husband Charles Thomas Gordon used "C. T. Gordon" in most circumstances. I read a letter between sisters, however, that stated, "I guess you know that Ella Ritchie is going to marry Charlie Gordon..." Charlie! Imagine that.

As we choose names for our babies, let us remember our families and their goodly heritage. Remind me to tell you the story of little Silver Mercedes - named for "the prettiest car I ever saw."

Good Morning, Vietnam: It's a Wonderful World - A Perspective

            

Sitting in the Student Union at Henderson State University between classes during the 1966-1969 years, we students read the newspaper and would, on occasion, see the list of dead in the southeast Asia, Vietnam theaters of operation. We had watched friends graduate and receive their commissions as 2^nd Lieutenant after four years in the Army ROTC program at Henderson. Many of these young men were deployed immediately to Vietnam and many did not return. Seeing their names listed as Killed-in-Action was quite sobering.

            Fast forward twenty-five years to my first year as school administrator at Bartlett High School: 1994. It was one heck of a year.

One of our beloved assistant principals and star athlete-alumni died of a massive heart attack during the horrendous ice storm. The county faced an outbreak of measles and we documented that each student (over 2500) was vaccinated against the disease. Our Panther cheerleaders fell upon bad times and scandal broke out among administrators, sponsors, parents, and cheerleaders. The yearbook was sued over a free speech issue that carried racial overtones. The Sons of Confederate Veterans filed an injunction against publication of the entire book. Confederate flags flew in the back of pick-up trucks that circled the front driveway of the school and Dixie blasted from vehicle horns. The Senior Parade turned from celebratory to contentious. Oh, how many regrets I have and how many sad memories overshadow so much good during that 1993-94 school year.

I was a new administrator, fresh from the classroom, full of lofty ideals. Love for students and the school caused me to push for ways which I thought would improve the entirety of the school’s philosophy of operation. How I wanted to make everything better and take the school’s student activity program into a new and progressive era. How wrong I was to strong-arm such an undertaking. Add to that, as female, I felt I had to assert my authority as assistant principal. My principal did not let me down, but did advise me to consider the impact of my decisions 10 years down the road.  What about 21 years down the road? Those 1994 teenagers did not appreciate my forward thinking. I held firm and absorbed the blows to my ego and my persona.  The changes I proposed and enforced were too much, too quickly, and I regret that year’s battles and the resulting ill-will. So very much during that year I regret. 

What I do not regret is being a part of the high school life of many wonderful citizens of Bartlett and our nation. Brent Morel was a thorn in my side. He rebelled and led the charge against just about any decision I made. The homecoming pep-rally and evening pre-ceremony were disasters. He also led the charge as an officer in Desert Storm. He received the Marine Corps medal for valor. I attended his visitation and have been to UT-Martin to see the bronze bust in his memory.

David Reaves is Shelby County Commissioner and has weathered many storms politically in his young career. I had the privilege of voting for him in Shelby County elections.  What a fine football captain he was and what a wonderful man and leader he is for Shelby County.  His future is unlimited.

I will never forget the class Valedictorian:  Ai-Van Do.  She was #1 in her graduating class of 421 students. This charming young lady was an absolute pleasure to know and joy to teach. Her smile, her demeanor, her endearing qualities would have made her unforgettable, regardless. While I knew something of her story, I did not know it all.  She offered  her Valedictory Address that graduation night and told the audience at the Mid-South Coliseum about her family’s escape from Vietnam and subsequent arrival in California.  She went on to explain how families in the Mid-South, Memphis, Bartlett areas served as host families welcoming survivors of the boat trips out of Communist occupied Vietnam. There she stood, a survivor, telling her story to over 3000 audience members. People wept. A standing ovation followed her speech.

Today marks the 40^th anniversary of the fall of Saigon, now Ho Chi Minh City.  The story is buried on page 6A of the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. I remember watching the evacuation of the US Embassy on news reports:  the helicopters rising in dust and frantic noise, the chaotic screaming.  The newspaper states: “Hundreds of thousands of Vietnamese fled the south in the days and years after the war, with many taking rickety boats in search of freedom. The majority ended up resettling in the US.”

Hearing Good Morning, Vietnam! soundtrack brings tears to my eyes, especially the scene filmed from a helicopter as it passes over the rice patties. Strains of Louis Armstrong’s It’s A Wonderful World lilt as the audience sees American soldiers and Vietnam civilians on a bright, blue-sky afternoon.

While I have many professional regrets about 1994, I will never regret learning about and knowing Ai-Van Do, her sister Ai-Thuy (2001) and her brother Daniel (2005). Their story is a part of me and I cherish that relationship.