Reflections

First Impressions

The days immediately preceding my freshman year of college were bittersweet ones. My heart was still tender and nothing was ready for my leaving home. Since I’d given up my scholarship, it meant Daddy having to get a bank loan for my meals, housing, books and tuition; and it meant my having to work on campus at the infirmary for anything else I might need. My sister Gerry helped me with the last minute preparations, remembering many things I hadn’t even thought of, such as an alarm clock, iron and ironing board.

A few days before leaving for college, I was browsing through a friend’s yearbook from the school. One photo in particular caught my attention – that of a young man whose face was literally, vertically half handsome and half distorted. I’m not sure if he had been born that way or at some point in his life had experienced severe nerve damage. At first glance, his face was disconcerting, and a giggle nervously escaped my lips. My friend glared at me, and said “that’s John and he’s wonderful”.

The next few days were extremely busy as I packed and my parents drove me the four hours south of Memphis to school. The weekend before registration was hectic as I unpacked, set up my room the best I could and slowly met a few people. Honestly, I was still feeling very much alone and lonely.

It poured rain the Monday of registration. We stood in line, outside of course, with a line of umbrellas stretched one after the other. My umbrella accidently hit the umbrella behind me. I turned around to apologize…and there stood John. I looked into one of the sweetest faces I have ever seen in all of my life. He laughed, made some joke about the weather and we were instant friends. John was a senior at that time and a leader on campus…president of half the organizations there as I recall. He was a strong Christian and a great speaker. John became my good friend.

I learned a lot from John that year…I learned about overcoming from someone who had overcome and found great joy. I learned not to dwell on what could have been but to look forward to what my Heavenly Father had in store for me. I learned to look for what’s on the inside of someone’s heart…rather than the outside…and that first impressions aren’t always right.

My friend John graduated with high honors and married one of my closest friends…a sweet and loving young woman who also just happened to be one of the most beautiful girls on the entire campus. I love it when God smiles…

Seventeen…

My Southern Heart, Reflections

The first time I saw Josh Lucas in Sweet Home Alabama, I was propelled back in time…as swiftly and surely as any time machine could have managed. It was June 1963 all over again and a Saturday night in Memphis. Two sisters and friends from church, Diane and Yvonne, and I had just arrived a little late to the Saturday night gathering for Youth for Christ. They were showing the film A Man Called Peter, the story of Peter Marshall’s life, and we had been looking forward to it.

It was crowded that night, and so we slipped quietly into the nearest row of open seats that we could find. I glanced around at those seated nearby…just as he glanced back at me…blonde, blue-eyed and a dead-ringer for a young Josh Lucas. I think that was the first time my heart had ever truly skipped a beat. I really did enjoy watching the movie that night, but I also spent a good bit of time checking to see if he was still there, usually just about the exact time he was doing the same thing.

When the film was over, I glanced around to see if he was there, but he was gone. For some reason, I was immediately disappointed. About that time, John, the director of YFC and an Irishman with a lilting brogue I can still remember, made his way over to Diane, Yvonne and me to ask us to go with a group to Pasquales for a pizza. Since none of the three of us had a car, I think we called their dad to arrange for a ride home later…at any rate, we said yes we’d love to go. There was already a crowd in the parking lot waiting to go to Pasquales. John pointed to the car waiting for the three of us. I opened the car door and there he was. It was one of those “you would have had to have been there” moments.

I remember sitting at a small round bistro table in a little Italian cafe named Pasquales in Memphis and falling in love at the age of 17 and a half…with a young man named Ross who was far from home. He was dressed in khaki trousers, a navy blue blazer with a baby blue oxford cloth shirt, a tie and loafers…so I had no way of knowing at first sight that he was a sailor. I had a “policy” that I didn’t date sailors…my little rule that I would soon break for him. He was from Oregon…of all places…the son of a newspaper owner and publisher. He’d been to college in Oregon and then joined the Navy. He was headed to the U.S.S. Forrestal…at the age of nineteen.

Ross and I spent as much time as possible together over the next few months. He gave me a diamond solitaire engagement ring and I said yes. Now, as a mother of three young adults and a grandmother of six, I can see why my parents and older sisters were “fit to be tied”. There were two obvious strikes against us from the start: Ross was from much too far away and I was only seventeen. My parents and sisters couldn’t bear the thought of my moving so far away. An honor society student, my plans for college had been disrupted when I had given up my scholarship to a college in Tennessee. My life was in turmoil at that moment.

There are crossroads moments in each of our lives…the sad day came when I gave Ross his ring back and temporarily broke both our hearts. I ended up going to a Baptist college in Mississippi. Ross came to visit me once there, and we wrote to one another for a couple of years after that. When the time came, he got out of the Navy and returned to Oregon. My guess is that he still lives in the same little town where he grew up. I truly hope he has had a good and happy life.

Life has a way of turning on a dime. Who would have known that 45 years later, I would be in Oregon anyway.

A moment in time…

My Southern Heart, Reflections

Forty-six years ago we were standing there smiling…the shutter was pressed…and a moment in time was captured forever.

It seems to me I can remember that day. I’m not positively sure where the three of us (L-R: Nancee, Dianne and Kathy) were going, but I believe it was the Cotton Carnival. It would have been May or June 1962 and definitely already quite warm in Memphis.

I’m sure we took in a few exhibits, lots of rides, cotton candy, pronto pups, corn-on-the-cob, ice cream and, no doubt, checked out the cute boys. After all, we were almost 16 at the time.

We’ve all said it a million times…where did the years go? We grew up, got married, had children, grandchildren, joys and heartaches. Each of us had some dreams fulfilled and some disappointments. Life has a way of not waiting for us to realize it’s moving on, and before you know it…forty-six years have passed!

Nancee always had the gift of music…a beautiful voice even as a teenager and that has definitely continued. She has worked in the music industry for years and has recorded several CD’s. Nancee has also traveled extensively sharing her amazing story through her Whole Life Precepts. You can hear her beautiful rendition of Tennessee Waltz here.a teenager and the same soft Southern voice. The minute the two of us get together, we’re teenagers again and time never moved…it’s like it’s yesterday all over again.

Our graduating class had its 45th class reunion just a few months ago in Memphis. I wasn’t able to be there, and I’m truly sorry I missed seeing faces I have not seen since graduation day in 1963! Sadly, we’ve lost so many during these years…I would like to have known about their lives. The funny thing is seeing photos of one another after all these years. I’m sure my classmates are wondering where the cute, skinny girl went…oh, well.

Chicken and dumplins’…

Family, My Southern Heart, Reflections

Just as music can take us back to another time, so can the memory of certain foods…the sweet aromas coming from the kitchen of our childhood…

Mama’s kitchen was painted a robin’s egg blue with crisp white trim and white curtains. The cabinets, stove, refrigerator and clothes washer were white. There was no dishwasher – that would have been Sharon and me. One of us washing, one of us drying and singing while we worked. There was no clothes dryer…that would have been a clothes line outside and the bright sunshine. I was trying to remember the other day how she would have dried the clothes in the wintertime when the sun wasn’t shining. Seems to me, there were clothes lines in the attic for those dreary winter days. I’m sure it would have taken twice as long to dry.

Mama had so many specialties that it would be hard to say which I liked best. She made a wonderful roast, mashed potatoes and gravy, fresh green beans, fresh butter beans…all those fresh summer vegetables. Every Thanksgiving, I long for my Mama’s chicken and dressing. My sisters and nieces and I have all tried our best to duplicate it…somtimes we come close. Mama made the best meatloaf in the world which made great sandwiches the next day if there was any left. Her biscuits were legendary, and I loved her desserts.

It’s her chicken and dumplings and my longing for those that prompted this post. I tried last night to duplicate them. I sauted a chopped onion in a little butter and added a little celery, garlic and thinly sliced carrots too. I added some water and a nice 5 pound chicken, along with some salt & pepper, and cooked it slowly. After the chicken was done, I deboned it carefully. I sifted the flour, cut in the shortening, added the milk and rolled the strips out to just the right size. I dropped the dumplins’ into the boiling stew and put the lid quickly on. After dropping the the temperature to just a little above simmering, I waited patiently for about 20 minutes, resisiting the temptation to lift the lid and peek.

Had I not had the best chicken and dumplins’ in the world, I might have thought these were really good…but I know better.

Early morning quilting…

Family, Reflections

After the harvest was over and the canning was done, winter signaled the time for Mama to begin quilting again. I remember her piecing together some of the most intricate designs. An artist with a needle and thread, she made some of the most beautiful quilts.

Once Mama had pieced together the quilt top, Daddy would set up the wooden “saw horses” in front of the living room windows. There, I would find her early of a winter morning, focused on her work…one tiny stitch at the time…creating the wonderful quilts that would keep her family warm for years to come.