One of the gifts I received at the retreat in Comfort, TX, last week was learning how a "third thing" can open my heart and speak to my soul. These "third things" include poetry, music, images, movement and nature, to name a few. For example, Enya sings:
Each heart is a pilgrim,
each one wants to know
the reason why the winds die
and where the stories go.
Pilgrim, in your journey
you may travel far,
for a pilgrim it's a long way
to find out who you are..."
("Pilgrim," A Day Without Rain)
The lines "each heart is a pilgrim" and "where the stories go" resonate deeply in me. Telling our stories is how we share our hero/heroine journeys and diverse cultures. Where do the stories go? They lead us on daily quests, both exterior and interior.
I am on a pilgrimage into the world collecting stories from life about what matters, making connections and forming relationships. Each time I share, whether by telling my own or listening to yours, I refill my heart with love for the human spirit.
And that, dear friend, is what makes TOAST so yummy.
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Sunday, May 18, 2014
When the well is dry
I love the clatter of the keyboard against the pads of my fingertips that sounds like rain on a tin roof. When I'm in the flow, the story gushes forth, like a torrential waterfall from a crevice in my imagination, pouring out almost effortlessly. I'm high on creative adrenaline.
But it isn't always that way. There are times when I begin to question myself, my artistic talent, my wordplay. That's when writing is hard. And the more I question myself as a writer, the more I allow doubt to rise in my chest and cripple my fingers. Everything I write sounds silted, forced, tired, and shallow. Fear opens wounds of unworthiness. Darkness gathers, and I feel I am a fraud.
In the old days, that is to say, in the days of my youth, when these feelings came over me, I'd shut down and sink into an abyss of depression. Now, however, I know these feelings aren't an indictment of my being an interloper. Instead, they are an indication that the well is dry.
The reality is, creativity needs nourishment just as the body needs food. When the well is dry, I need to take care of myself, nurture my creativity, let it drink from other streams of life.
Poetry feeds me. The way poets can turn a phrase helps unlock my mind to new possibilities. I delight in another's palate. Tasting, savoring Rumi, Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, Langston Hughes, the Psalmists.
Nature satisfies me. Summer is approaching and seeds have burst, forming into tomato plants, yellow squash, peaches, watermelon. A mother dove made a nest in the eaves of the roof over our back porch. I've watched the babies hatch and grow until they could fly on their own and leave the nest for the trees in the backyard. Along with the red birds, the mockingbirds, and martens, they greet me with song in the mornings. The squirrel, who lives among the pecan trees, shares with the birds the grain in a bowl that my sweetie fills every day. The birds sneak water from the dogs' bowls when they're dozing in the shade or chasing the neighbor's cats.
I am packing for a week-long retreat in Comfort, TX, to steep myself in the philosophy of the Quakers, as shared by Parker Palmer, and open my writer's soul to renewal and wholeness. As Palmer writes: "It's time to slow down, do more with less, and listen to the rhythm."
My well is being filled.
What do you do when the well is dry?
But it isn't always that way. There are times when I begin to question myself, my artistic talent, my wordplay. That's when writing is hard. And the more I question myself as a writer, the more I allow doubt to rise in my chest and cripple my fingers. Everything I write sounds silted, forced, tired, and shallow. Fear opens wounds of unworthiness. Darkness gathers, and I feel I am a fraud.
In the old days, that is to say, in the days of my youth, when these feelings came over me, I'd shut down and sink into an abyss of depression. Now, however, I know these feelings aren't an indictment of my being an interloper. Instead, they are an indication that the well is dry.
The reality is, creativity needs nourishment just as the body needs food. When the well is dry, I need to take care of myself, nurture my creativity, let it drink from other streams of life.
Poetry feeds me. The way poets can turn a phrase helps unlock my mind to new possibilities. I delight in another's palate. Tasting, savoring Rumi, Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, Langston Hughes, the Psalmists.
Nature satisfies me. Summer is approaching and seeds have burst, forming into tomato plants, yellow squash, peaches, watermelon. A mother dove made a nest in the eaves of the roof over our back porch. I've watched the babies hatch and grow until they could fly on their own and leave the nest for the trees in the backyard. Along with the red birds, the mockingbirds, and martens, they greet me with song in the mornings. The squirrel, who lives among the pecan trees, shares with the birds the grain in a bowl that my sweetie fills every day. The birds sneak water from the dogs' bowls when they're dozing in the shade or chasing the neighbor's cats.
I am packing for a week-long retreat in Comfort, TX, to steep myself in the philosophy of the Quakers, as shared by Parker Palmer, and open my writer's soul to renewal and wholeness. As Palmer writes: "It's time to slow down, do more with less, and listen to the rhythm."
My well is being filled.
What do you do when the well is dry?
Sunday, May 11, 2014
The heart remembers
My mother died in 2009, but her memory lives on in my heart and my brothers' hearts. That's the way it is with those you love--their life story and its impact on you continues for as long as the heart remembers.
After my father died in 1996, my younger brother called my mother every day. I know his calls pulled her through her grief until she cold find her spark for life again. Mother loved all three of her children, but Mark was her favorite and no wonder. He adored her as only the baby boy in a family can adore his mother, and their daily conversations were filled with gossip, sports, and laughter.
After she turned 80, Mother started pulling in her world. She went to the nail salon and the hair salon, but she had Mr. Ennis do her grocery shopping, pick up her mail at the post office, and run other errands around town. She stayed home, watched sports, and read books that Mark brought her by the armload. She loved to read, but had to put her initials at the end of a novel so she would know she'd read it already (or she'd begin it again and be half-way through before she realized the storyline was familiar). I have to admit, though I am still in my 60s, I have to put my initials at the end of the books I read.
One of my strongest memories is a time when we had driven to Oklahoma City to see relatives on my dad's side of the family. We stopped at I-Hop for breakfast, and we both got the Senior Special. Her mother had died when she was in her 30s, so I always felt blessed that Mother and I were able to grow old together .
We called her the Queen Mother, and I grew up in her shadow, for she was so boldly beautiful and steely strong and people smart and just so darn dazzling that I felt like the waning moon to a bright, bright sun.
But the truth is, I have her genes... which makes me the Princess-of-Quite-a-Lot.
Happy Mother's Day, everyone.
After my father died in 1996, my younger brother called my mother every day. I know his calls pulled her through her grief until she cold find her spark for life again. Mother loved all three of her children, but Mark was her favorite and no wonder. He adored her as only the baby boy in a family can adore his mother, and their daily conversations were filled with gossip, sports, and laughter.
After she turned 80, Mother started pulling in her world. She went to the nail salon and the hair salon, but she had Mr. Ennis do her grocery shopping, pick up her mail at the post office, and run other errands around town. She stayed home, watched sports, and read books that Mark brought her by the armload. She loved to read, but had to put her initials at the end of a novel so she would know she'd read it already (or she'd begin it again and be half-way through before she realized the storyline was familiar). I have to admit, though I am still in my 60s, I have to put my initials at the end of the books I read.
One of my strongest memories is a time when we had driven to Oklahoma City to see relatives on my dad's side of the family. We stopped at I-Hop for breakfast, and we both got the Senior Special. Her mother had died when she was in her 30s, so I always felt blessed that Mother and I were able to grow old together .
We called her the Queen Mother, and I grew up in her shadow, for she was so boldly beautiful and steely strong and people smart and just so darn dazzling that I felt like the waning moon to a bright, bright sun.
But the truth is, I have her genes... which makes me the Princess-of-Quite-a-Lot.
Happy Mother's Day, everyone.
Sunday, May 4, 2014
Church Street Retreat
Yesterday marked the inauguration of my writing retreat in Navasota. The Church Street Retreat house opened its doors to nine women who drove from Houston to write about "Life Matters," which was the theme for the day.
We had a grand day writing out bucket lists of the future plans, dreams and aspirations we have while we listened to a MP3 of Tim McGraw singing "Live Like You're Dying." The exercise helped us focus on what's really important to each of us at this stage of our lives and put us in the right frame of mind to compose legacy letters.
Legacy letters are similar to ethical wills, except ethical wills are usually kept with people's last will & testament and read after their death. People leave their material things in a last will & testament, and they leave their wisdom and values in an ethical will.
My sweetie's mother left an ethical will to her children in which she told them to prepare for heaven and the rapture by reading and living by the Word. She wrote that she loved each of them dearly and that she would see them again in the next life. A gold framed copy of that ethical will sits on the mantle in our living room.
A legacy letter, on the the hand, is one that you write and present to someone important in your life. It is one that expresses your love for that person as well as the insights you've had about life, thus far in your life (because you can write a legacy letter at any time in your life, not just toward the end of your life). For example, you could write a letter to your grandson as he is graduating from high school and traveling to another city, maybe even another state halfway across the country. You could share with him what you know now in your 50s or 60s that you wish you'd known when you were his age going off to college. Words to the wise, right?
My 40-year-old son Matthew earlier this year wrote me a letter that could easily fit the category of legacy letter. Being a modern day man, he emailed the letter rather than handwriting it, but I promise you, it is the most treasured gift he has ever given me.
The nine women yesterday wrote heart-warming letters, too. If you are one of the recipients, you will be exceedingly blessed by receiving one. If not, perhaps you can write one to someone you love or admire. In fact, if you will send me your email, I'll send you an outline for a legacy letter to get you started.
In the meanwhile, a heartfelt thank you to Carol, Diane, Dixie, Gayla, Imelda, Lil, Nancy, MaryLynn and Wynell for making this first writing retreat so remarkable.
What's on your bucket list?
We had a grand day writing out bucket lists of the future plans, dreams and aspirations we have while we listened to a MP3 of Tim McGraw singing "Live Like You're Dying." The exercise helped us focus on what's really important to each of us at this stage of our lives and put us in the right frame of mind to compose legacy letters.
Legacy letters are similar to ethical wills, except ethical wills are usually kept with people's last will & testament and read after their death. People leave their material things in a last will & testament, and they leave their wisdom and values in an ethical will.
My sweetie's mother left an ethical will to her children in which she told them to prepare for heaven and the rapture by reading and living by the Word. She wrote that she loved each of them dearly and that she would see them again in the next life. A gold framed copy of that ethical will sits on the mantle in our living room.
A legacy letter, on the the hand, is one that you write and present to someone important in your life. It is one that expresses your love for that person as well as the insights you've had about life, thus far in your life (because you can write a legacy letter at any time in your life, not just toward the end of your life). For example, you could write a letter to your grandson as he is graduating from high school and traveling to another city, maybe even another state halfway across the country. You could share with him what you know now in your 50s or 60s that you wish you'd known when you were his age going off to college. Words to the wise, right?
My 40-year-old son Matthew earlier this year wrote me a letter that could easily fit the category of legacy letter. Being a modern day man, he emailed the letter rather than handwriting it, but I promise you, it is the most treasured gift he has ever given me.
The nine women yesterday wrote heart-warming letters, too. If you are one of the recipients, you will be exceedingly blessed by receiving one. If not, perhaps you can write one to someone you love or admire. In fact, if you will send me your email, I'll send you an outline for a legacy letter to get you started.
In the meanwhile, a heartfelt thank you to Carol, Diane, Dixie, Gayla, Imelda, Lil, Nancy, MaryLynn and Wynell for making this first writing retreat so remarkable.
What's on your bucket list?
Sunday, April 27, 2014
Riding the wildflowers
I love riding a motorcycle with my man. I used to ride my own Harley, but I prefer the view from the "queen seat" now. I can look around and think how blessed I am while Ronnie keeps us upright and between the lines.
We spent last weekend riding the wildflowers on the back roads around Navasota, TX, our new hometown, which, with a population of 7,000+, is the largest town in Grimes County.
On Friday we stopped first at the Filling Station Cafe and Restaurant on E Washington Ave., for breakfast, where our favorite waitress served us omelets and biscuits and coffee. After gassing up at the Valero station, we headed for Anderson, the county seat. We had business there, such as getting our vehicles registered and obtaining a DBA for writing retreats at our 1875 Victorian house.
According to the website, the county clerk's office is open from 8 am until 4:30 pm. We'd called to be sure and an answering machine repeated the same hours listed on the website. However, the door was locked when we arrived. We weren't surprised. Not really. Last Friday was Good Friday and Grimes County is a Christian stronghold, not full of profit-driven heathens like the big cities have. We, being more Christian than heathen ourselves, saw it as a sign to enjoy the countryside and took a farm-to-market road to Carlos, TX.
The sun warmed our backs and the scents of bluebonnets, buttercups, lavender, wild lilies and other field flowers filled our noses. We passed ranches where Herefords and Brahmans and Texas longhorns moseyed the pastures and glimpsed other pastures that were home to Palomino horses and goats. Vegetable gardens and lush rose bushes bumped up against ranch houses and mobile homes. Such a startling and welcomed contrast to Houston skyscrapers and concrete.
The next day we got a late start and headed in the opposite direction to Washington-on-the-Brazos. We stopped at the state park where Ronnie had to surrender his Derringer pistol while we toured the museum. Men and their guns! But I guess, after seeing Easy Rider in the 60's, a biker, war veteran and former police officer wants to be prepared for the worst on the road.
We learned some Texas history that we didn't know before, thanks to a documentary produced by Blinn College in nearby Brenham. Afterwards, we rode a back road to Chappell Hill. Farmers had planted bluebonnet seeds in fallow land, and we enjoyed the contrast of deep blue-purple against green clover and greener grass. A miniature pony farm caught our attention, but our tummies grumbled so we continued following the road to town. We stopped at a place that advertised great homemade pies, but stuck to roasted meat and mashed potatoes and collard greens. (I'm off sugar these days and Ronnie is supportive in that he doesn't feed his sweet tooth when I'm around. One more reason I love him.)
We found a pretty little nursery with big pots of lavender. I love the slender beauty of lavender stalks and the calming scent of its flowers. I did not know lavender is a natural mosquito repellent. Ronnie plans to return in the Jeep this week and load up 6 pots for our backyard patio. (See how easy it is for me to find reasons to loved him?)
We looked for roadside vendors selling homegrown tomatoes on our way home by way of Hempstead, but only saw truck beds loaded with watermelons. Oh well, no worries. Wed just have one more reason to mount that bike and ride the wildflowers.
What do you do to enjoy the Texas springtime?
We spent last weekend riding the wildflowers on the back roads around Navasota, TX, our new hometown, which, with a population of 7,000+, is the largest town in Grimes County.
On Friday we stopped first at the Filling Station Cafe and Restaurant on E Washington Ave., for breakfast, where our favorite waitress served us omelets and biscuits and coffee. After gassing up at the Valero station, we headed for Anderson, the county seat. We had business there, such as getting our vehicles registered and obtaining a DBA for writing retreats at our 1875 Victorian house.
According to the website, the county clerk's office is open from 8 am until 4:30 pm. We'd called to be sure and an answering machine repeated the same hours listed on the website. However, the door was locked when we arrived. We weren't surprised. Not really. Last Friday was Good Friday and Grimes County is a Christian stronghold, not full of profit-driven heathens like the big cities have. We, being more Christian than heathen ourselves, saw it as a sign to enjoy the countryside and took a farm-to-market road to Carlos, TX.
The sun warmed our backs and the scents of bluebonnets, buttercups, lavender, wild lilies and other field flowers filled our noses. We passed ranches where Herefords and Brahmans and Texas longhorns moseyed the pastures and glimpsed other pastures that were home to Palomino horses and goats. Vegetable gardens and lush rose bushes bumped up against ranch houses and mobile homes. Such a startling and welcomed contrast to Houston skyscrapers and concrete.
The next day we got a late start and headed in the opposite direction to Washington-on-the-Brazos. We stopped at the state park where Ronnie had to surrender his Derringer pistol while we toured the museum. Men and their guns! But I guess, after seeing Easy Rider in the 60's, a biker, war veteran and former police officer wants to be prepared for the worst on the road.
We learned some Texas history that we didn't know before, thanks to a documentary produced by Blinn College in nearby Brenham. Afterwards, we rode a back road to Chappell Hill. Farmers had planted bluebonnet seeds in fallow land, and we enjoyed the contrast of deep blue-purple against green clover and greener grass. A miniature pony farm caught our attention, but our tummies grumbled so we continued following the road to town. We stopped at a place that advertised great homemade pies, but stuck to roasted meat and mashed potatoes and collard greens. (I'm off sugar these days and Ronnie is supportive in that he doesn't feed his sweet tooth when I'm around. One more reason I love him.)
We found a pretty little nursery with big pots of lavender. I love the slender beauty of lavender stalks and the calming scent of its flowers. I did not know lavender is a natural mosquito repellent. Ronnie plans to return in the Jeep this week and load up 6 pots for our backyard patio. (See how easy it is for me to find reasons to loved him?)
We looked for roadside vendors selling homegrown tomatoes on our way home by way of Hempstead, but only saw truck beds loaded with watermelons. Oh well, no worries. Wed just have one more reason to mount that bike and ride the wildflowers.
What do you do to enjoy the Texas springtime?
Sunday, April 20, 2014
The Holy Land
Today is Easter Sunday, which reminds me of my trip to the Holy Land in October. The memories of that trip have forever changed Easter for me.
Thursday I was reminded of our group's vigil in Gethsemane. I was sure I could stay awake as we remembered and honored Jesus's hour in the garden. Only one hour, 60 minutes, to show Christ Jesus that I could be vigilant where his apostles had failed. But... I fell asleep. Twice. The ego is strong, but the flesh is weak.
In Jerusalem our group made pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulcher. My spirit broke as I dipped my hand in the space where it is believed the cross of Jesus was erected. I could not control myself--tears streaked my cheeks and sobs racked my body. To think God chose, actually made the choice, to be born a helpless baby to a Hebrew mother, and then to grow into manhood to be scourged and crucified without mercy is mind-blowing and heart-breaking.
Because I was part of a Franciscan pilgrimage, my group was able to celebrate Mass and receive Holy Communion inside the burial tomb where it is believed that Jesus laid for three days. To receive Communion in the tomb, from whence Jesus rose from the dead so that we could be born again, is a definitive life-changing moment. I shall never forget the grace I felt that morning, and continue to feel every time I receive Communion.
Jerusalem today is filled with Jews, Christians, and Muslims, and they are fighting over God just as piously, righteously, and unrelentingly as always. All three of these world religions teach tolerance and love, but we are willful children who are more interested in being the rightful heirs to the kingdom than in being tolerant and loving. So we continue to marginalize and persecute each other.
God must be so weary.
Thursday I was reminded of our group's vigil in Gethsemane. I was sure I could stay awake as we remembered and honored Jesus's hour in the garden. Only one hour, 60 minutes, to show Christ Jesus that I could be vigilant where his apostles had failed. But... I fell asleep. Twice. The ego is strong, but the flesh is weak.
In Jerusalem our group made pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulcher. My spirit broke as I dipped my hand in the space where it is believed the cross of Jesus was erected. I could not control myself--tears streaked my cheeks and sobs racked my body. To think God chose, actually made the choice, to be born a helpless baby to a Hebrew mother, and then to grow into manhood to be scourged and crucified without mercy is mind-blowing and heart-breaking.
Because I was part of a Franciscan pilgrimage, my group was able to celebrate Mass and receive Holy Communion inside the burial tomb where it is believed that Jesus laid for three days. To receive Communion in the tomb, from whence Jesus rose from the dead so that we could be born again, is a definitive life-changing moment. I shall never forget the grace I felt that morning, and continue to feel every time I receive Communion.
Jerusalem today is filled with Jews, Christians, and Muslims, and they are fighting over God just as piously, righteously, and unrelentingly as always. All three of these world religions teach tolerance and love, but we are willful children who are more interested in being the rightful heirs to the kingdom than in being tolerant and loving. So we continue to marginalize and persecute each other.
God must be so weary.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Hometown memories
I'm facilitating a workshop at Story Circle Network's national conference today. The topic is "Home is Where the Heart Is," and I've been thinking about the different places I've lived, the different homes I've had, and that thinking led to the idea that one's hometown is the larger home that we all share.
Songwriters have certainly used the hometown theme to evoke strong emotional memories. The first, "Home Sweet Home," was written over 190 years ago by John Howard Payne about his early life at his grandfather's house in East Hampton, Maine.
More recently, Eric Church's "Give Me Back My Hometown" is a bittersweet ballad of faded love and bright memories. The lyrics are emblematic of every small town across the south and southwest.
I was born on an Army-Air base in upstate New York at the end of World War II, but I grew up in Texas and call Huntsville my hometown. There is a state college and a state prison in my hometown. The college, a university now, was the first teacher-training school in the southwest United States. The state prison housed the electric chair where 361 convicts died between 1924 and 1964. Most kids' parents worked at one of these institutions.
My dad was hired to teach at the college in 1949 after receiving his graduate degree from Harvard University in teacher education. When a colleague who was showing him around found out he was Catholic, the colleague turned a stone ear to any more conversation. It was awkward, to say the least. My brothers and I were oblivious to this act of unkindness. As we each entered school through the next five years, we took our turn to pray over the loud speaker which carried the message through classroom intercoms. We were supposed to write a prayer, but sometimes I forgot and so I would say one I knew from memory. Looking back, I'm sure more than one teacher, most likely a Southern Baptist or a deacon in the Church of Christ, trembled and quaked when I began reciting "Hail Mary, full of grace...." But if anyone gave me even a disapproving look, I don't remember. God looks after the innocent children.
We lived in five houses, from 1949-1967, while I was living at home full time, or hanging out between college semesters.
Our first home was a rehabbed army barracks in a place called Country Campus, east of Huntsville on Hwy 19. It had been a prisoners of war camp during the war and turned into faculty housing for a time afterwards. Families came together for family picnics. I remember watermelon, iced down in galvanized tubs, and eating out the hearts. I remember spitting seeds or taking a few and planting them. I remember hand-churned ice cream parties and adding fresh peaches or strawberries to the mix. I remember dirt-daubers and honey bees, and I remember getting stung more than once while tagging after my brothers. Today there's an 18-hole golf course there, but nothing much else.
Our second home was in town. In 1952, we moved into a two-story brick house on 15th Street. My older brother talked my younger brother into jumping off the second story soon after we'd seen Peter Pan. Stone convinced Mark he could fly, but of course, he could not. Mark missed the concrete patio by about ten inches and because he was five and still growing his bones, he suffered only a sprained ankle. God looks after the innocent children, indeed.
Our third home was across town near the college. My dad was not ready to cash in his GI bill for a mortgage, so we stayed in what my older brother called the "slump," the combination of a dump and a slum. It was in the living room of this house where my dad offered me the humongous amount of one hundred dollars to read ten books over the summer between my third and fourth grade in school. It was in the living room of this house where my older brother gave me a black eye for turning the TV channel. It was in the living room of this house that my younger brother watched Saturday westerns while dressed in his fringed Roy Rogers cowboy outfit with his 6-shooter guns strapped on.
Our fourth home was across from Piggly Wiggly grocery store. It was my favorite. Maybe because Johnny Campbell taught me how to kiss in that backyard. Probably because several other boys kissed me in the driveway and on the front porch, but none was as loved as Jimmy Scott. Both Johnny and Jimmy were victims of Vietnam. Johnny's plane crashed in the Indian Ocean; Jimmy took his own life when he couldn't re-adjust to civilian life after his year-long tour, which consisted mostly of sending home the dead in body bags.
Our fifth home was an old Victorian house next to the Methodist Church. It had stained glass windows, mahogany sliding doors, wide wrap-around porches, 15-foot ceilings, and a staircase built by convict labor in the 1800s. In 1971 I got married in that home. My dad was walking me down the stairs when he whispered, "We can keep walking, honey, and go right out that front door." I thought it was a bad joke, but I should have listened--the marriage lasted only 5 years.
Interstate 45 bypasses Huntsville, and the town has grown toward the freeway. The drugstore and clothiers around the courthouse have been replaced by "antique" stores, filled mostly with second hand furniture, Fiesta dishware, art decor perfume bottles, mismatched china, crocheted lace doilies, plastic dolls, wooden trains, and Mexican pottery. My parents are dead and so are a number of my friends. Most of those who are still living have moved away, many to the suburbs of Dallas or Houston, but some live out of state, one as far away as Alaska. I'll return to Huntsville this summer for my 50th high school class reunion. I'm amazed, and heartened, by how many are coming. There is no doubt, we'll listen to the music of Eric Church, and through the fragments of our shared memories, take back our hometown.
Where is your hometown?
Songwriters have certainly used the hometown theme to evoke strong emotional memories. The first, "Home Sweet Home," was written over 190 years ago by John Howard Payne about his early life at his grandfather's house in East Hampton, Maine.
More recently, Eric Church's "Give Me Back My Hometown" is a bittersweet ballad of faded love and bright memories. The lyrics are emblematic of every small town across the south and southwest.
I was born on an Army-Air base in upstate New York at the end of World War II, but I grew up in Texas and call Huntsville my hometown. There is a state college and a state prison in my hometown. The college, a university now, was the first teacher-training school in the southwest United States. The state prison housed the electric chair where 361 convicts died between 1924 and 1964. Most kids' parents worked at one of these institutions.
My dad was hired to teach at the college in 1949 after receiving his graduate degree from Harvard University in teacher education. When a colleague who was showing him around found out he was Catholic, the colleague turned a stone ear to any more conversation. It was awkward, to say the least. My brothers and I were oblivious to this act of unkindness. As we each entered school through the next five years, we took our turn to pray over the loud speaker which carried the message through classroom intercoms. We were supposed to write a prayer, but sometimes I forgot and so I would say one I knew from memory. Looking back, I'm sure more than one teacher, most likely a Southern Baptist or a deacon in the Church of Christ, trembled and quaked when I began reciting "Hail Mary, full of grace...." But if anyone gave me even a disapproving look, I don't remember. God looks after the innocent children.
We lived in five houses, from 1949-1967, while I was living at home full time, or hanging out between college semesters.
Our first home was a rehabbed army barracks in a place called Country Campus, east of Huntsville on Hwy 19. It had been a prisoners of war camp during the war and turned into faculty housing for a time afterwards. Families came together for family picnics. I remember watermelon, iced down in galvanized tubs, and eating out the hearts. I remember spitting seeds or taking a few and planting them. I remember hand-churned ice cream parties and adding fresh peaches or strawberries to the mix. I remember dirt-daubers and honey bees, and I remember getting stung more than once while tagging after my brothers. Today there's an 18-hole golf course there, but nothing much else.
Our second home was in town. In 1952, we moved into a two-story brick house on 15th Street. My older brother talked my younger brother into jumping off the second story soon after we'd seen Peter Pan. Stone convinced Mark he could fly, but of course, he could not. Mark missed the concrete patio by about ten inches and because he was five and still growing his bones, he suffered only a sprained ankle. God looks after the innocent children, indeed.
Our third home was across town near the college. My dad was not ready to cash in his GI bill for a mortgage, so we stayed in what my older brother called the "slump," the combination of a dump and a slum. It was in the living room of this house where my dad offered me the humongous amount of one hundred dollars to read ten books over the summer between my third and fourth grade in school. It was in the living room of this house where my older brother gave me a black eye for turning the TV channel. It was in the living room of this house that my younger brother watched Saturday westerns while dressed in his fringed Roy Rogers cowboy outfit with his 6-shooter guns strapped on.
Our fourth home was across from Piggly Wiggly grocery store. It was my favorite. Maybe because Johnny Campbell taught me how to kiss in that backyard. Probably because several other boys kissed me in the driveway and on the front porch, but none was as loved as Jimmy Scott. Both Johnny and Jimmy were victims of Vietnam. Johnny's plane crashed in the Indian Ocean; Jimmy took his own life when he couldn't re-adjust to civilian life after his year-long tour, which consisted mostly of sending home the dead in body bags.
Our fifth home was an old Victorian house next to the Methodist Church. It had stained glass windows, mahogany sliding doors, wide wrap-around porches, 15-foot ceilings, and a staircase built by convict labor in the 1800s. In 1971 I got married in that home. My dad was walking me down the stairs when he whispered, "We can keep walking, honey, and go right out that front door." I thought it was a bad joke, but I should have listened--the marriage lasted only 5 years.
Interstate 45 bypasses Huntsville, and the town has grown toward the freeway. The drugstore and clothiers around the courthouse have been replaced by "antique" stores, filled mostly with second hand furniture, Fiesta dishware, art decor perfume bottles, mismatched china, crocheted lace doilies, plastic dolls, wooden trains, and Mexican pottery. My parents are dead and so are a number of my friends. Most of those who are still living have moved away, many to the suburbs of Dallas or Houston, but some live out of state, one as far away as Alaska. I'll return to Huntsville this summer for my 50th high school class reunion. I'm amazed, and heartened, by how many are coming. There is no doubt, we'll listen to the music of Eric Church, and through the fragments of our shared memories, take back our hometown.
Where is your hometown?
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