Alabama Memories

Huntsville, Alabama is a town not well known for its culture of the arts and music. While it has beautiful rolling hills and tall, skyscraper almost, 50 foot pine trees, it also allows its residents to speak with a twang and be happy sitting on the back porch eating fried chicken on a Saturday night.

I was fortunate enough to live in Huntsville in the late l960’s, on the US Army Base, Redstone Arsenal. We had, what I believed at the time, to be a nice, roomy house, on a hill with a creek across the street, and a steep hill behind the house with a rope swing hanging from one of the trees. My younger sister Jennifer  and I would go there to play with our dolls and would make up stories about their castle on the hill, whereas my older sister was at school.

In the sixties, parental guidance was maybe not so stringent as it is today, and Jennifer and I, ages 4 and 5, would sometimes take a walk down to the creek. (If  you are wondering why I wasn’t in kindergarten – I didn’t go. It either wasn’t offered at the private school my sister attended, or possibly not at public school at the time either.)

One day, whether or not our mother knew it or not, when we wanted to do some exploring and possibly see a few minnows, a turtle or a frog, we noticed that our two year old brother Chris had followed along. A bit bothered, but allowing him to tag along, we meandered through the trees and stepped over rocks, squatted to see movement in the water, and threw in rocks. Chris dilly-dalleyed and poked along, sitting longer to observe. “C’mon!!” we insisted several times. Enjoying the beautiful day, we pounded sticks in the water and collected pebbles in our pockets. We wound down along the bend and when we had had enough, we turned around and went home.

Imagine our surprise when we arrived home and our mother asked us, “where’s Chris?”

And imagine our mother’s surprise when a neighbor called an hour later to report that she had picked up our brother on a busy street!

The word I wanted to note was actually a name that we made up with another family who had a similar number of children, that lived on Redstone Arsenal at the time. Their last name was Butler, and ours was Merlick. They had four children of almost the exact age as us, with each of us having a child born on the same day – my little sister and jenny – both overseas. Anyway, the name we came up with was “The Mertlers,” because the other name combination just did not work!

Written at the Lake Travis Library Memoir Group meeting, August 4, 2015

I wrote this after returning from a trip to Hunstville, and Redstone Arsenal, the weekend before, for Chumley's 50th birthday party. 

Oh, The Places You'll Go!

I think as a child that I would have resisted the book, Oh, the Places You’ll Go by the incredibly imaginative Dr. Seuss. The story involves a lovely, chummy little man who travels the world, encountering all sorts of friends and beasts and tells the reader that he or she can overcome and be successful through it all. But as an adult, who had already lived over 30 years on this earth, experiencing the ups and downs of life and the pursuit of them, I very much welcomed the book my father purchased for our first daughter when she was born.

I opened the book hesitatingly, because it was a larger size than the 7x10 or 6x8 of other children’s books that I had grown up with and had already received from other well-wishers welcoming our new baby. It also had many more words per page and was a deeper story.  Would my child understand it as I read it to her?

But the real reason for my hesitation, yet welcome, may have been that the story was a replication of what my father had instructed, preached, sermonized, encouraged and prompted me and my four other siblings to do our entire lives. “You’re a top ten percenter,” he said, “You can do whatever you want to do.” My father was very sunny about the future, not acknowledging the possible pain potential. This prompted me to consider, had I met what my father expected?

At the time that I received the book, I felt that I had met Dad's expectations. I had graduated from college early, obtained a successful job and moved on to more exciting jobs with greater expectations, relocated several times,  ran several marathons, and was happily married. So what was holding me back?

I suppose that through my successes, I had also had failures. I had made more than one C in college, went through a divorce, been laid off twice, had endured medical conditions including brain surgery, and now had doubts about my success as a parent.

As I began to read the book to my child, and then to her younger sister, the words eventually came to be part of my new narrative for my children, mimicking what my father had told me. The difference was that as we read through the book, it acknowledged that there will be challenges, even though we will see success at the top. 

Now, it is a favorite book of mine that I love to read to my nieces and nephews, friend’s children, and anyone who visits the house and would like to be read to. I keep it on my living room bookshelf just in case. 

Memoirs about Love - Sisters

Today, in my memoir writing group, we were given a prompt that since February is the month of love "in all its glory," and to write about love. Who do you love? Why do you love him or her, or them? I just happened to request that my students write to the same prompt, so it with little hesitation, I wrote about my love of my sisters. Now, that doesn't mean that I do not have more love for my husband or children or parents, but to write in an atmosphere where I could write "off the cuff" and be able to read it without hesitation to the group was the intuition I needed to write about my sisters.

And in respect to the month of Love, I hope to write a memoir to my husband, my children, each of my parents, my brothers, extended family that are both alive and dead, and a few friends. That will be my Valentine gift to each.

Sisterly Love

I love my best friends, my two sisters, dearly.And to single one out would just not be right. Some, maybe most, do not know of the love that one girl/woman/person can have for another who is related to her. I very blessed to know that love. To describe it would take endless word and character count, not only because love cannot be described, for love is everywhere. God is love and is in everything. See how I stray?

Before I describe the love I have for my sisters, I'd like to acknowledge that my family love instilled the precious relationships with my siblings. From an early age, I could see the love of my father and mother for each other. They, in turn shared that love with we children, which developed into love for each other. On top of that was the love handed down to our parents from our grandparents, who also shared, if not a deep love for each other, demonstrations of love toward their children, our parents, and we grandchildren.

So now that you have the history, what about the love? I love that they are "there" when I need them. To vent, to talk, to laugh, to cry. That possibly tops the list of the reasons I love my sisters. Pursing the same interests together such as baking and cooking, writing, eating, enjoying music, reading and exercise make us fit together like pieces of a large puzzle.

During our shared time together (another favorite love - being together), we compose a symphony of conversation, swelling with descriptive trials and tribulations, as well as jubilant piping, with an occasional crescendo of laughter. The talking could be as repetitive as Ravel's Bolero, with some of the events re-played with different characters, places and time replacing the various instruments.

A short answer of why I love my sisters is because of our shared experiences, whether it was while we lived under the same roof as children or as young adults, or shared in that we all lived through it and are able to solve our own problems and those of the world!

Written at Lake Travis Library Memoir group time - 20 minutes on 2/3/15

Memoir from the Perspective of a Friend

I've heard more cuss words than possibly anyone else in her life. They may be directed at me, the people she works with, family members, pets, money problems, government, people she doesn't know, or things over which she cannot control. She has never harmed me physically, however, for she knows I'm much to valuable and know to much to ever hurt me.

I'm able to see her day and night; from early in the morning before daybreak to early in the morning long after the sun has set. These "early" times are when she is at her best, for the house is typically quiet and she can often see more clearly at these times. Of course, the later in the evening means she may be slower and not so exuberant about spending time with me.

We generally are working together, but sometimes we shop, play, or are creative together. The work we compile and the people we talk about is incredible; from surgeons to candy manufacturers, and from jewelers to consulting groups. Just recently we moved into attacking numbers together, figuring out how to track all sorts of categories of spending and earning while keeping as much money as possible.

Shopping can take long hours or is quick and speedy, with sometimes a quick decision for a particular product and others just looking to see what is out there. There are endless shopping destinations with me, and I enjoy pursuing it as much as she does. I try to make it as safe as possible, but sometimes I hear the cuss words because of the protections in place to keep her money in her hands and not somebody else's.

Playtime is somewhat limited, with only a couple games that are preferred. One is a rather dull game that changes but is repetitive, while the others she chooses for her students. Creativity is endless with me, and I have so many opportunities, but sometimes she just wants to go see what her friends are doing with me.

The cuss words aside, she is a faithful friend, visiting me on a daily basis, and I will be with her until my memory is full, or until she upgrades to a new laptop.

A Daddy Memory without Daddy

It was the beginning of 1967. I was one of four children living with our mother in Fort Worth, without our dad. You see, daddy was in Vietnam at the time, a war that we knew little about and was very far away. Daddy sent us packages from Vietnam, with little gifties and messages to each of us. It was always so wonderful to receive those personalized packages containing fabrics, toys and treats from another world.

I shared a room with my two sisters, me on the top bunk, my little sister on the bottom, and my older sis on a separate bed all by herself. My baby brother had his own room, as did my mom.

For some reason, that evening I could not sleep. It could have been that I had had an active day and was hungry, or it could have been the television in the next room, that seemed to be trying to get my attention. Slowly, quietly, I climbed down the steps to the top bunk and crept into the kitchen, from which one could see the TV in the living room. I could see what was on, and it was a little girls dream show, the Miss America pageant.

My mother was sitting on a chair, exhausted looking, with a kitchen towel in her lap. I can’t imagine the strain of living with four children six and under, on my father’s military pay, in a city where she did not grow up, but where her in-laws lived. Dad had moved the family there before he left to have, supposedly, someone to watch over mom and the family, but I recall my mother telling me in later years that it was not the best move for her personally. She would have rather been in the same city with her parents and siblings.

“I …, I’m hungry,” I said, to call attention to myself, just as an announcer made a pitch for some soap flakes, and interrupting the procession of lovely ladies down the runway. Mom looked startled to see me at first, and then her face softened with pity for her child who basically just wanted some attention, and alone time with her.  

She stood up from the easy chair and came to hug me. I had wanted to say, “I miss Daddy,” his playfulness, his loud voice, and his nightly kisses before bed, but I substituted those words with the more easily awarded request for food.

“What would you like to eat,” she asked, never hesitating to grant my request for food. “I don’t know, how about Cheerios,” I stated, looking forward to my favorite cereal that floated like little tan-colored life savers on a creamy sea of milk.

She served the cereal and I unexpectedly devoured it, and I remember not finishing the final few floaties in the bowl. I don’t remember who won the beauty contest, or even if I finished watching the show. But I remember my last question to mother before she ushered me back to bed.

“Mommy, when is daddy going to be home?” I inquired.

“I don’t know, sweetie, but we will pray that it is soon,” she answered, with a wistful smile on her face. She kissed me and I clambered up to my bunk, and visions of floating Cheerios lulled me to sleep.

The above entry was written at the Lake Travis Library Memoir Writing Group that I attended. The prompt was to write our earliest memory, and this one came to mind. 

2015 is the Year of Love

Sunday, I heard a message at church that set the tone for my year. Our pastor's daughter is a missionary with YWAM (Youth With a Mission), based in Hawaii, and she travels the world, supervising, initiating and offering support to youth who are spreading the Gospel around the world. She is 20 something and celebrates five years with the organization.

Arriving later than usual, but not so late for my family (after worship music, and today, after meet and greet, and the offering), we probably missed the first 5-10 minutes of her message, but came just in time for the meat of her story.

Her message was this; If we are to be the hands and feet of Jesus, the only way to ensure it is to show it with love. She showed a short video that exemplified love with a missionary and his wife's example by living in Nepal and serving and giving to the poor there. They arrived with a mission to share Jesus, but their example of self-sacrifice demonstrated Jesus's character. By observing their loving their actions, people wanted to know how and why they were there. All the inquirer had to do was ask, and the missionaries were able to share how they had been impacted by Christ, and were thus motivated to serve. She went on to share that we can adopt this attitude if we are willing.

God is Love. Love can be found in everything. It can be shown in millions of ways. If I think LOVE, how can I speak, think or behave badly?

If you think, "I cannot do that," as I am prone to doing, remember the beginning words of Psalm 23, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want." Where there is a will, there is a way. God will provide what I need to share that love that I have in this new year.