Tag: writings (Page 10 of 63)

We started changing classes in fifth grade, and maybe that made the science teacher think we were too old for experiments and switch us over to a menu of lectures and tests. Whatever the reason, I found it dry, boring, and with every word she uttered, I saw dust flying out of her mouth. So I did what any fifth-grade girl would do: I volunteered to take over the teaching responsibilities.

Using my science book as an outline, I’d go home every day after school and turn our kitchen into my science lab, concocting all sorts of hands-on experiments. Because I couldn’t bribe the teacher to loan me her teacher’s book and it being before the internet and all, I had to conjure up my own experiments. And let me tell you what: there would be no banal and commonplace volcanoes exploding during my reign tenure.

One of my finest, if I do say so myself, demonstration was illustrating how mountains are formed. Here’s what I did, in case you want to try it yourself at home: I mixed up a batch of orange jello and poured a little bit in the bottom of a glass bread pan then put it in the fridge to set up. Next I mixed up some lime Jello, poured a little bit over the congealed orange Jello, and put it in the fridge to set up. Then I mixed up some grape Jello (my favorite, next to Cherry and Watermelon), poured a little over the top of the lime Jello, and set the glass bread pan in the fridge to set up. While it was in the refrigerator, I went out to the barn and found a board, a saw, and my daddy to operate the saw cutting the board down to a size that would fit in the end of the glass bread pan. Obviously I’d already studied about how mountains are formed, so I made notes containing the highlights of what I wanted to say then loaded up some wax paper, paper towels, my notes, and the board in my briefcase green overnight bag.

The next morning, I retrieved the glass bread pan from the fridge, set it inside my bag, and headed out to school. During science glass (which was fortunately second period because the lunchroom women didn’t have room in the fridge for my science experiments), I gave a little talk about mountains, then pushed that board in one end of the glass bread pan and started pushing it towards the other end, causing the layers of jello to rise and ripple just like mountains do.

Turns out I should’ve brought the entire box of wax paper and two entire rolls of paper towels.

Once I built up a little confidence in my teaching abilities, I created (with a little lot of help from Daddy again) a multi-media extravaganza light-up board. Just the thought of that thing brings tears to my eyes. Those wires covered in red and green. those words and photos cut from magazines, that piece of paneling I sanded and stained, the hinge Daddy and I developed so the board would stand alone, those adorable little tiny light bulbs I took from every flashlight I could find. It was one of my finest, that’s for sure.

Another time on the eve of the earth chapter, I was walking through Alford’s when I spied a workbook that covered just about everything I wanted to cover in that segment. So the next day, after showing the class my copy of the workbook, I proposed that everybody bring in 59-cents for me to buy additional copies for them. They did, I did, and I don’t know about my classmates-turned-students, but I loved that workbook with all it’s color illustrations and fill-in-the-blank questions like you wouldn’t believe.

You’re probably wondering what final grade I got in science that year. Well, here you go:

Personally, I think I deserved an A+ – maybe even an A+++ – but, alas, grading and doing report cards didn’t fall under my student teaching responsibilities.

~~~~~~~

Dear Reader,
Please excuse Jeanne for being a day late with story #44. She was so tired yesterday, that she laid down for a nap at 4:15 p.m. and didn’t wake up till 10:30 this morning.
Signed,
Jeanne Herself

In another lifetime when the children were about 5 and 6 years old, we bought the shell of a house and set about finishing it. It was bigger than we needed – 4 floors, if you count the basement – so, being the girl I am, I created a schedule, giving each contractor an entire floor to work on then rotating them through the other floors. That schedule was a beautiful thing to behold, if I do say so myself. Framable.

But sometimes on paper is the only place things look good.

Things rolled along nicely for the first two or three weeks, then one morning the finishing carpenters, who were slated to come in and finish the crown molding on the first floor, didn’t show up. I started calling. No answer. No voicemail. No calls from them to explain. By the thirteenth day, I was beyond frustrated, but not knowing what else to do, I let my fingers do some more walking on the telephone, and this time somebody picked up. “Hello?” a female voice said.

“Hello. This is Jeanne Hewell-Chambers. Is Jim available?”

“No, he isn’t. This is his mother. Can I take a message?” she asked, and with that, the dam broke. Tears flowed as I told her between sobs that I’d been waiting on Jim for two weeks. He’d promised he’d be here in two weeks and figured he’d need about two weeks to get finished, and I hadn’t heard from him since. Now my schedule was getting all messed up because it was about time for the carpet and hardwood floor people to come in, but they couldn’t possibly lay down flooring with Jim and his crew working on scaffolding to finish the crown molding.

“When do you want him there?” she asked.

“Tomorrow morning would be fine,” I told her. “I get here at 7 to get ready for everybody.”

“Jim will be there at 7,” she assured me. But he wasn’t – he was there at quarter till 7, and he showed up every morning and worked till quitting time until that beautiful crown molding was in. Took him about five days.

From then on, I never waited more than 30 minutes on anybody. After half an hour, I’d start calling and when somebody answered, I led with “Hello. My name is Jeanne Hewell-Chambers, and I’m calling for Bob’s wife or mother.”

~~~~~~~

Finally it was time for the carpet to be laid, something I’d saved it till last for obvious reasons. I’d been rear-ended while stopped at a traffic light, and the soreness just wouldn’t seem to go away.

The morning the carpet layers were to come, I got to the house early and soreness or no, moved everything (paint, boards, boxes of nails, 5-gallon buckets, ladders, and such) into the garage so they could cut the carpet in the great room where it would stay dry if the predicted rain did come. I was tired but pleased when they showed up an hour late. The man in charge of the crew walked behind me as I showed him around and told him about my plan and how I’d moved everything into the garage in case it rained.

He spat his toothpick out onto the ground, glared at me, and said, “We will not cut the carpet in this room, we will cut it in the garage. Now we’re going to breakfast, and if you don’t have the garage cleaned out when we get back, we’re going home and you can call us when you’re ready for us to come back down.” And they turned to leave.

“What?” I asked. “Wait. I thought I was doing something good for y’all – saving you the time and effort to clear a place to work. A dry place where neither the carpet or y’all will get wet.”

“I’ve told you what to do,” he said, “if I was you, I’d get to work. We eat fast.”

That, my friends, was the camel that broke my last straw.

I called The Engineer, who was at his office an hour away, and told him what had just happened. I also told him that I was leaving, that I wouldn’t be here when these fellas got back, that I’d had it. I’d absolutely had it. I was tired of having workers from other houses in the neighborhood stopping by to tell me how my people were doing it all wrong, I was tired of having to fetch these men drinks and food. I was tired of having to wait on people and call their wives and mothers to get them to do what they were hired to do. I was tired of having them pressure me to pay them at noon on Friday, something I wouldn’t do because I’d already learned that if I paid them early on Friday, I didn’t see them again till Monday afternoon or Tuesday morning when they’d sobered up. I was leaving. I didn’t care if this house never got finished. I was leaving, and I didn’t know when I’d be back. “Stick a fork in me,” I told him, “cause I’m done.”

And being as good as my word, I left.

I stayed gone about an hour – just long enough to stop crying – then I headed back to the house. There on the top step, sat The Engineer and the carpet laying foreman, laughing it up like they were old buddies while the worker bees were inside, cutting carpet . . . in the room I’d cleared for them that very morning.

It took them about four days to finish laying the carpet, and the carpet man said not another word to me the entire time. Nothing at all. They arrived in the morning and walked straight past me without so much as a nod in my direction. They left for lunch without a word, returned from lunch without a word, left at the end of the day without a word. The only time the man spoke to me again was when they’d completed the job. He handed me the bill and told me who to make the check out to. I wrote the check – entered the payee’s name, the date, the amount. I even wrote our new address on the memo line. I filled out everything on that check, but I didn’t sign it. Without uttering a sound, I handed him the check and turned to leave.

“Wait a minute,” carpet man said brusquely, shoving the check back at me. “You need to sign this check.”

“Oh, do I now?” I said coolly. “I tell you what. I’ll sign that check for you when you apologize to me.”

“Apologize for what?” I swear, he seemed genuinely surprised.

“For the way you talked to me when you first got here and for the way you’ve behaved every day since. Let me ask you something: who hired you?” I asked him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, who is the one who initiated contact with you, interviewed you, called you back to say you had the job? Who is the one who was here waiting for you the day you were supposed to show up an hour and half earlier than you did? Who is the one who’s been here every day when you arrived, having the house open and ready for you to get right to work?”

“Y’all did.”

“Oh no, no, no,” I cut him off. “You think about that again. There’s no ‘y’all’ that comes into play here. Think about it and answer my question.”

Finally, with his hands on his hips, he said reluctantly, “You did.”

“Damn right,” I said. “It was me. I found you. I hired you, I’ve been here every day when y’all got here. I’ve been here to lock up after you left. I’m the one who cleared the room you’re working from to keep you and my beautiful carpet dry. I am also the one you talked so ugly to, the one you treated so badly. When I got back that day, you were looking my husband in the eye and smiling and talking and carrying-on like y’all were best friends. My husband didn’t hire you, and not only is he not here to sign your check, he’s not going to come to sign your check. I am going to sign your check, but not until I get an apology from you.”

I stood there, prepared to wait till hell froze over.

“But my wife has brain cancer,” he blurted out.

“I’m so sorry to hear that. How long has she had it?”

“About nine months.”

“And when did I first call you? Never mind. I’ll tell you: I called you two and a half months ago. She had brain cancer then, and you were downright friendly to me – at least compared to the way you’ve behaved on the job – cause you were trying to get this job. Since then, you’ve behaved very badly. And while I’m sorry about your wife, I’m appalled you would use her as an excuse for your unacceptable behavior.”

After several minutes, he apologized . . . to his toes.

“Not good enough,” I said. “You have to look at me – look me in the eyes – and you better sound convincing cause my ink pen stays in my pocketbook till you do.”

Eventually it became clear that while I might hear the words, I’d have to forego the sincere delivery if I wanted to sleep in my own bed that night, so I signed the check.

I’ve not had carpet in a house since.

The Daily Dahlia for 9/11/15

Though I don’t agree with all that was done in the wake of the horrible events that happened 14 years ago today – the laws, the policies, the rhetoric – I do consider the events of 9/11 and the aftermath another Declaration of Independence, of sorts. All the talk of not fearing continues to baffle me. Of course I fear. I don’t let it consume me, but I still fear – how could I not? That day that lives in infamy is more of a Re-Independence Day for me personally, a day when I re-declare life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. When I re-commit to gratitude. When I re-avow to live until I die.

Some say they watch certain news channels so they can refute what others say, and I imagine myself asking them why they feel the need to refute anything. Everybody can watch and believe what they choose. Period. Your news channel – any news channel, for that matter – might make me come-up-off-the-seat-crazy, but I’ll never even suggest that you turn the knob. I wonder what makes the would-be refuters so sure that the news they watch is truer and more accurate than any other news coming through the sound waves. What makes them right and everybody else wrong?

They say get right with the Lord or dance on a bed of hot coals for all eternity, and I wonder why they can’t live the best life they know how to live in accordance with their own belief system and leave me be to live my best life with my belief system. Why isn’t it enough to do no harm, to behave responsibly and compassionately, to live a full, rich spiritual life without infringing on the right of others to do the same?

Some declare publicly “This is my candidate, and if you don’t like it and dare say anything against her, I’ll unfriend you and never speak to you again.” And I scratch my head and wonder why they are the only ones with freedom of speech.

It does make me appreciate even more my friends and family who . . .
~ have deeply held religious beliefs and never pull the arrogant card, trying to force their beliefs on me
~ have differing political preferences and opinions and aren’t belligerent about them
~ love me deeply enough, are mature enough, are comfortable in their own skin enough to talk about these differences with an open mind, listening and asking questions and remaining open instead of arguing and slamming and storming off.

I’ve long harbored a secret notion that if folks who differ in their beliefs and opinions would talk openly and honestly with more patience, curiosity and openness than arrogance, anger and argument – if we could sit with the intent of conversing instead of converting – we’d find that we actually agree on more than we disagree over. That’s something that’s surely proven true with a cousin I especially love, admire, and respect more than I can quantify. Oh, the conversations we have. They prove my secret notion possible, charge my batteries, feed my soul. We ask questions of each other, listen deeply and patiently to the answers, and frequently find that we’re talking about the same thing, just using different words. Yes, all too often, it’s the words we use that prove the hurdle, and the mindset we keep that proves the key.

It’s a rare thing that I wish would become commonplace, conversations like this. Can you just imagine what a different world we’d live in if people put their energy into living the best life they know how to live and supporting and encouraging others as they do the same?

I don’t usually go public with my beliefs and opinions – that’s not my thing – but sometimes I would like to have my say just because I think it’s important – not the content of what I’d say but the act of saying of it. A lot of people have died making sure we all – and that includes me – have that important right and enjoy that freedom, and what better way to show appreciation than to speak up instead of just listening up?

~~~~~~~

Okay, soapbox is going back under the bed now.
You’re welcome.

these shoulders have worn . . .

a diaper to catch baby’s spitup
pads to reshape my figure,
a beautiful hand-dyed silk jacket
that kept sliding off.

they’ve cradled grieving friends
and proved a basin for their tears.

they’ve worn honor cords
and hand-knit shawls.

they’ve been a crutch
for those needing a little assistance
and a collection plate
for stress
both home grown
and adopted.

they’ve carried pocketbooks
and totebags
diaper bags
and computer bags.

they’ve stood straight enough
to behave responsibly
and broad enough
to be a good caregiver.

i stand on the shoulders
of so many
of so so many.
women and men,
sometimes even children
who lend their shoulders
to raise me up,
to new perspectives,
teaching me important things
making me a better person.

and i hope to reciprocate by
standing tall
by straightening and strengthening
my own shoulders,
readying them.
by living in such a way
that others will
be changed for the better
when they land on mine.
it seems the least i can do
and the greatest i can do.

~~~~~~~

in addition to the 100 stories in 100 days,
i post a photo i call
the daily dahlia.
this is today’s.
Subscribe if you want,
share if you will.
Either way, thank you.

I remember when my mother and her brothers and sister gave my grandmother an automatic dishwasher for Mother’s Day. They were so pleased with themselves, sure that she would be delighted with the time saver, secretly thrilled at the thought they’d never have to wash another dish after a meal at her house. It was on wheels, this shiny new dishwasher, which is what my grandmother liked best about it: she could roll it right into the corner and use it for much-needed extra storage.

We were walking from school to cheerleading practice.

Little League.

Blue Devils.

We wore the prettiest shade of blue corduroy circle skirts lined in white sheets and blue bloomers out of a different shade of blue fabric because we couldn’t match the blue of the corduroy. Our feet were clad in fold-down bobby socks and saddle oxfords, of course, and white pull-over v-neck sweaters over white short-sleeved blouses with Peter Pan collars topped off the outfit. In what I thought was a fairly brilliant idea, we attached this “F” onto the front of the sweater with snaps to make laundering the sweater easier (sewn-on letters that went through the washer and dry just never came out looking quite the same again). For our pom-poms, we bought blue and white crepe paper from Wayne’s Five and Ten, cut it into strips, folded it in half, and put a rubber band around the fold. When the blue faded on our hands and threatened our white sweaters and white short sleeved blouses with the Peter Pan collars, I brought some plastic covers from the dry cleaners, and we cut it up and covered the handle/fold to stop that.

We practiced at the log cabin (VFW) in town, and Mrs. Massey (her husband was a coach) and Mrs. Jones were our sponsors, which is to say, they taught us everything we know about enthusiastically cheering for the boys on the field. Those women may have been old in their twenties, but they could still leap and arch their backs and throw those hands in the air like any magazine advertisement you ever saw.

Mrs. Massey’s daughter, Robin, had hearing difficulties and wore a hearing aid device with the control hanging like a necklace on a cord around her neck. When her mother would get mad and scold Robin (which was kinda’ often cause Robin was, well, let’s go with “spirited”), the adorable little girl would stop dead in her tracks, look her mother square in the eye, pick up the pendant that controlled the hearing aids, and with great fanfare, turn her ears off. Robin always had the last word.

“Push ’em back, push ’em back, wwaaaaaayyyyy back,” we’d yell, choreographing our motions and clapping and hopeful bouncing.

My cousin, Elender, made up a cheer for us, and our sponsors were so delighted with her initiative and creativity, they let her teach it to us and we used it at least once during every game from then on.

Fe fi fo fum
I smell the blood
of a [insert team name of opponent] one.
Be he alive
or be he dead
We’re gonna’ win
just like we said.

My mother’s side was never known for their creative way with words. Poetry runs deep in my family.

One afternoon Mrs. A was stopped waiting to turn left from Hwy. 85 onto Stonewall, her daughter T babbling away in the passenger’s seat. We’ll never know what caused Mrs. A to turn her blinker off and decide to go straight instead of making that left turn, but whatever the reason, the result was catastrophic because my fourth grade sister, Jan – seeing that Mrs. A had her blinker on to turn left – had already started crossing the street. When she changed her mind, turning her blinker off and hitting the gas to go forward, Mrs. A ran right into and over Jan.

Before you ask, there was no traffic light there. Shoot, there were only two lights in the entire town – maybe the entire county – at that time. There was no crossing guard and no need for one. No loud speaker chirped or croaked when it was okay to cross the road. We looked both ways and had the good sense to know when nobody was coming.

Fayetteville also had no ambulance service, but we had a shiny new funeral home complete with a shiny white hearse, and here it came with C. J. behind the wheel, stopping in the middle of the intersection, then pulling forward and backing up a few times to get himself in a better position to put Jan on the stretcher and load her into the back.

Now when Mrs. A’s bumper met Jan’s fourth grade sized body, I was in the dentist office at the end of the block up on the second floor, getting my regular braces tune-up. Greg E. came barreling up those steep stairs, throwing open the door to Dr. Waters’ office, and with his hands on his knees to help him catch his breath, rasped out “Come. Quick. There’s. Been. An accident. Jan’s. Been. Hit. By a car.”

I raced past him, running the 57 steps to the intersection to see Jan laying on the pavement, and that’s when my knees turned into jello that hasn’t quite set up yet, leaving me with no choice but to lay myself down on the tailgate of McElroy’s Furniture Store delivery truck. From that vantage point, I turned my head to the side to watch C. J. come speeding over in his hearse and a few minutes later, Mother come running over from the nearby Board of Education office. Her tight skirt and spiked heels of that particular fashion era didn’t slow her down one little bit.

The hearse left, the crowd disbursed, and I got somebody to take me out to Grandmother and Granddaddy’s house. They hadn’t been told, of course, so I told them everything I knew, then called Daddy to fill him in, instructing him to come pick me up so we could go to the hospital together. Fortunately, he was good at following directions.

Well, he did as he was told that day, anyway.

The waiting room at the hospital was fairly full, but not everybody could come cause somebody had to stay home to tend to homework and supper, so I made a list of people who needed to know as well as the names of those who’d come over to cock their head and look down at me while I laid on the tailgate, telling me to be sure to keep them updated. With a roll of quarters in hand, I set up at the pay phone in the waiting room and worked the phone, establishing a phone tree to take some of the pressure off me and keep a smile on the face of Those Who Like To Know Bad Things First.

Right away, Jan had surgery to remove her spleen, then they set about setting her broken bones. She was in the hospital for a good while, and when she came home in her full body cast, it was with the understanding that the medical folk weren’t at all sure she’d walk again.

Her cast – and these were in the days when casts were casts – plaster. Heavy. Immovable. Showed dirt easily. Well, both Jan’s legs were in this cast that came up just above her waist. Mother used the bar that had been conveniently located between the two legs of the cast to help her move Jan around as needed.

Jan got a lot of loot, let me tell you, because these kinds of spectacular things just didn’t happen in Fayetteville she was so well loved. One time The Jeanne I Wish I Wasn’t confided to Helen Graves how I was getting sick and tired of Jan getting so many cards, flowers, and gifts – GREAT gifts, mind you – and Helen came back the next day with a little something for me: a dickey (not the coveralls but the turtleneck with a bib down the front and back) that was burgundy on one side and a green-yellow-white-blue-and-burgundy print on the other. The only thing that could make me love that dickey more is if I knew that her son Jimmy coveted it.

Eventually the cast came off, and Jan was transferred to a wheelchair . . . which is harder than you might imagine to push around on a dirt driveway when you’re playing basketball, so I just decided to park Jan and her chariot to one side and let her watch. Having grown quite accustomed to being the Little Sweetheart at the center of Everybody’s Attention To make herself useful, she pushed herself out of that wheelchair when the ball bounced her way, and she walked from that moment on.

Fast forward seven years . . .

I am a sophomore in college, engaged to The Engineer who’s finishing up at Georgia Tech. It’s Friday of a busy weekend. The Engineer has finals and has contracted with me to type his papers up and have them ready to turn in on Monday. He is also to be in the wedding of his best friend from high school, and the rehearsal dinner is that night with the wedding following on Saturday afternoon. My family is out of town, camping in the new Winnebago, leaving Grandmother and Granddaddy to move into our house so that I am chaperoned appropriately.

I work as an administrative assistant to the administrator of Doctors Memorial Hospital in Atlanta, and as I leave work that fateful Friday afternoon and start across Linden Avenue headed to the parking lot where my chariot awaits, a car that had been parked along the curb pulls out quickly and guns it – you guessed it – causing him to run into and over me.

You’ve seen those cartoons where some character is on the ground looking up at the faces that surround her? Well, this time that character was me. I recognized the hospital’s security guard, so I grabbed Tom’s tie, pulled him down further than he thought he could bend, and said, “There’s a gurney in the front hall next to so-and-so’s office. Go fetch it and bring it out here. Get Hazel (in her office, third one on the left) and John (across the hall from Hazel) to come back and help you get me on it.”

Off he went, leaving me there to entertain the onlookers. Eventually he was back, seemingly surprised that the gurney and the people I requested had been right where I said they’d be. Doctors Memorial didn’t have an emergency room, so I kinda’ had to direct things. “Pull the gurney up alongside me,” I told Tom, “and mash that lever right there to lower it down as close as possible. Now, Hazel, I want you to take my left shoulder, John you take my right shoulder, and Tom, I want you to get my feet, and on the count of three – when I SAY ‘3’ – y’all lift me up as gently as you can and lay me down on the gurney. One, two, three.”

Then I had them roll me back into the hospital and bring me a phone so I could call The Engineer, Grandmother and Granddaddy, and an orthopedic doctor cause though I didn’t know specifically what, I knew I’d broken something. Turns out it was my left knee, and I had a full-leg plaster cast to call my own. Dr. S. Bethea later tried to hire me away from the hospital, but based on what he offered, I didn’t think he appreciated my skill sets nearly enough for me to make the change. I mean, shoot, if it’d been up to the Doctors Memorial security guard, I’d still be laying in the middle of Linden Avenue, blocking traffic.

Mother, Daddy, and The Engineer made up a taxi schedule, getting me to and from work. When The Engineer and I went on dates, I rode in the backseat where I could stretch my casted leg out on the seat, and we held hands over the back of the front seat, leaving him to steer with his left hand. Once we went to a place that offered valet parking, and you should’ve seen the look on the parking attendant’s face as he tried to figure out which door(s) to open. Fortunately for him, I had it all figured out by then and could direct.

When I went in for my fifth week checkup, The Ortho took an x-ray and said he didn’t think my leg was ready to come out of the cast. I grabbed him by the tie, pulled him down to my eye level, and said, “Go get your saw ’cause I’m getting married next weekend, and I’m not wearing this plaster cast under my pouffy white dress or on my honeymoon. Now scoot.”

He did, and I didn’t, and well, I’ll tell you more about that another time.

Oh, and the worst thing about when I got hit by the car (depending on who you ask)? I was wearing Jan’s dress, and when the car pushed me along Linden Avenue, the asphalt rubbed a hole in the upper back shoulder area. She was not happy, even after the dry cleaners did what I thought was a decent job of mending.

~~~~~~~

If you’re enjoying even some of my 100 stories in 100 days, why don’t you subscribe by mashing the black “right this way” button in the orange bar at the top of the screen and suggest your friends do the same? Thank you for being here. It’s more fun trekking down memory lane with others.

Even in the days of student populations that were minuscule by today’s standards, even in the days when students brought their own tissues, pencils, erasers, paper, and other needed supplies (the school did, however, supply toilet paper and paper towels in the bathrooms) (at least in the girls’ bathrooms), funds were always needed for something or other.

So . . .

Our parents laid out for We, the students, sold:
* Krispy Kreme doughnuts
* magazine subscriptions (Mr. Merlin O. Powers, the FCHS Principal, (and no, we never once called him MOP) gathered us in the auditorium one year and rallied us by saying how much you could tell about a person, about a person’s parents, about a person’s entire family by the magazines they had in their homes. I don’t know about everybody else, but that really helped me sell the heck out of The New Yorker to my Fayette County neighbor.) (Yes, singular.)
* ribbons on game days (gold foil footballs with 2 ribbons attached underneath: gold and black, our school colors)
* yearbooks
* gift wrap
* books
* those big, chunky candy bars in the white wrappers that came in corrugated cardboard boxes with conveniently located handles at the top
* ads for yearbooks

And . . .

We held:
* car washes
* car bashes (50-cents would get you one swing at the car with a sledge hammer.)
* bake sales
* cake walks

We paid a buck 50 to ride the student buses to away games, and we bought tickets to all the games, too. Home and away. There were no student id cards, unless you bought the school insurance. And that didn’t get you anything, really.

Every club had dues, and when I discovered that any funds remaining in club accounts at the end of the year automatically got quietly dumped into the football fund, I spread the word and advised clubs to spend every – last – penny. (Unfortunately for next year’s officers, this meant no seed money, but that simply couldn’t be helped.)

One year we had a business manager on the yearbook staff who didn’t quite understand bank account reconciliation or ledger books or math or something. She just kept saying “Sell more ads” – at every meeting, she stood and said “Sell more ads” – and we did. We sold more ads. Finally, when all eleven businesses in town had not only bought an ad but upgraded to a full page size ad, somebody had the good sense to look over the business manager’s shoulder. Seems she’d made a few mistakes, and instead of needing to – say it with me, Sell more ads – we were, in reality, flush with funds. So we held a Spring Fling (complete with invitations), laid out for the Deluxe yearbook cover, paid for two color photos inside the annual, and took the entire yearbook staff out for a steak dinner at the Dairy Queen to celebrate when the yearbook went to press. We closed out that year with nary a penny to go towards football funds.

And you wonder why I was never elected Homecoming Queen.

Today was the day.

They went to the chapel,
and they got married.

Larry and Becky Voyles.

Larry enters,

and takes his place, sighing audibly as if to say “Finally.”

Then here comes Bride Becky

who, in one of the most symbolic, meaningful, and foretelling acts ever,

is met halfway by Larry, who walks with her the rest of the way.

Afterwards there are flowers, food, and fellowship.

Jeanne and her Other Little Brother make merry.

and are joined by our spouses in The Classic Hewell Pose
where everybody looks in any direction away from the camera.

Eventually (though not nearly quick enough to suit The Groom)
the couple is bubbled out

where they take their seats in
Clifford, the Big Red Truck
and make their way into happily ever after.

I don’t use the word “joy” very often, but this was one of the most joyous weddings I’ve ever been to, and I’ve been wondering all day why that is. For one thing, they’re in love, and it’s an inclusive love. They invited us there because they want us to share in their love, to witness their vows, to infuse their union with joyous energy. They want us to support them, to stand with them, to celebrate right alongside them because they know that no marriage is an island unto itself.

“You made him laugh,” Becky whispered to me at the end of the first supper we shared last year. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever hear that again.” I knew right then and right there that I loved this woman as much as I love the man who is now her husband. Their union isn’t about possession and hierarchies of love. Their love is deep and pure and wise.

There is no tug of war, no drawing of lines in their love.
They make an opening in their circle and bid loved ones join them.
Their love is large enough and sure enough to let others in.

Yep, today set me to thinking a lot about weddings . . . but those are stories for other days. While this morning was devoted to wedding bliss, this afternoon devoted itself to napping. Alison overdid things yesterday, behaving more like it was six months after surgery instead of one week, and she’s paying dearly. And me, well, I guess it all caught up with me today. I’m giving myself two more days of moving slow and napping at will, though right now I’m not at all sure two days will prove enough restorative time.

~~~~~~~

Every day is a story. Feel free to join me here by mashing the black “right this way” button in the orange strip at the top of the screen and following the directions or on facebook. Either way, I thank you for reading along.

He squeezes her arm, her hand, her thigh.

She can’t stop smiling.
He can’t stop smiling.

They dance to music only they can hear.

They hold hands.

They tilt their heads back and laugh in unison.

Their eyes are wrapped in glee
and each other.

Becky and Larry.

They’re in love.
It’s the eve of their wedding
and they’re obviously, undeniably in love.
And their love makes those of us who love them
deeply, warmly
happy.

I’ve been asked to emcee the
pre-wedding dinner
and to offer the toast,
something I am honored
and downright delighted to do.

I tell a few stories –
embellished, as is the
storyteller’s prerogative –
and I close with a reminder that
Stories are the glue that hold us together.
Stories define who we are when we’re together
and anchor us when we’re apart.
Stories are souvenirs of a well-lived life.
And a wish
that their togetherness be filled with
stories that are more good than bad,
more on the richer side of things than the poorer side,
and that they have more healthy stories
than stories of woe and illness.

Glasses are raised to
their genesis story
and the journey stories
that will take them through
the happily ever after.

His sister Valerie died last year.
I talk to her this morning, asking her to
be with me tonight
to whisper what she wants me to say
and suggest that maybe she let me know
she’s near.

On the way to the pre-wedding dinner tonight,
the program from Valerie’s funeral falls out.

Signs.
And stories.
They’re all around.
Isn’t that wonderfully, delightfully, exquisitely
astonishing?

~~~~~~~

There may not be any free lunches, but around here there are free stories. Interested? Mash the “right this way” button in the orange strip at the top of the screen and follow the directions.