Archives for category: Memories

Looking back to 2005…Hurricane Katrina comes to Oklahoma

September 11, 2013 //

Coming home from the Gulf Coast, I remembered this piece I wrote at the time of Hurricane Katrina. It’s long, but it’s an experience I’ll never forget and we should all remember what these people had to go through. It was cathartic for me to write at the time…

Bear with me, guys.

My family spent a lot of time in New Orleans since my husband’s parents lived there for over 30 years, ironic for those strait-laced Yankees from Massachusetts to be transplanted for the final time into the deep South. I’m not sure they loved living there, but we were taken with its uniqueness, its flavor, its sense of fun and the magic we felt when we visited. We went to the World’s Fair with our kids and to Mardi Gras without them. They grew up on Bourbon Street and Jackson Square, eating at Commander’s Palace in the Garden District and the alligator sandwich place in the French Quarter. We walked to the Mississippi River levee two blocks from my in-laws’ house and climbed the hill to watch the ships go by. We brought back pralines and shrimp and music. Our kids grew up listening to me try to read the “Cajun Night Before Christmas” in my non-Cajun tones. As they got older, they explored the cemeteries and Marie Laveaux’s voodoo shop, which was much spookier on Bourbon Street than when they opened a branch in the mall by the river. Catcalls from the strip joints and peeks into the clubs were exotic and probably stirred their imaginations, but they grew up unscarred. My son and his wife went there on their honeymoon. And we never never missed a chance to sit at Cafe du Monde for coffee, hot chocolate and beignets.

Sure, we drove by neighborhoods of poor and met them on the streets and knew that our white skins were the minority. It was a sad thing about the city that you didn’t ignore, but didn’t know what to do to change. We were just visitors.

The hurricane and the ensuing disaster has been painful to watch and too riveting to turn off. The images are haunting along that southern line, the worst being in New Orleans. What can we do? By Friday, I could watch no more. I woke up and sent money to Red Cross online and packed up supplies for my grandson to send with his cub scout pack. I kept thinking that there must be more. I served as a volunteer at Red Cross for many years and worked there for two years, receiving all the training I could cram in, but barely got to use before they closed our department. My hours, days, in classes were interesting exercises required by all, but my stack of certification cards was in a drawer someplace. I was never going to go back there. Never say never.

Friday, my friend called and asked if I wanted to go help. She couldn’t stand it any longer. She went to the shelter in Tulsa and saw some of our former coworkers who were thrilled to see her. I said I’d go. We met at the shelter in a church at Admiral and Harvard Saturday morning and worked in Family Services where they open case files on the people and start helping them meet basic needs. It was quiet at first, a few kids in the playroom, people lined up at the medical station, more eating donuts and chatting with volunteers, telling their stories. I filed their paperwork, trying to keep up with the stack. I could read all the notes from the caseworkers. These were the people who got themselves out and came to Tulsa to stay with friends and relatives. They had some means although one young couple had spent all their money on gas and the motel. Families walked out with diapers and pillows and voucher cards for medicines and clothing. A family of twenty Asian people of all ages showed up. A young family in that group looked very calm with their two small children, but he had lost his shrimp boat – not much call for that in Tulsa – and her nail salon had been destroyed. Their annual income was under $10,000, but they were hard-working people. It was orderly there with seasoned staff and volunteers who had worked countless disasters doing what they know how to do.

Around noon, my friend was sent to the Red Cross chapter and called me to join her team and go to Camp Gruber to meet the incoming buses with 2,000 evacuees from the Superdome in New Orleans. I thought, sure, why not? What possible excuse would I have not to go? I hustled out to that familiar site, smiled at a few former coworkers, hugged a couple, got a new badge issued and we checked out a Red Cross van, which we filled with supplies donated by people stopping by. We had water, baby supplies, personal hygiene stuff, toys. Three of us took off, my friend who is half Muscogee Creek, an Hispanic woman who is a former Tulsa policewoman now working for Camp Fire (very fun woman), and lily-white me to meet 2,000 mostly black poverty sticken folk who have been stuck on a bus for God knows how long.

Camp Gruber is where Oklahoma National Guardsmen are trained, so it is military to the hilt. I’d never been there, but it’s close to Muskogee, near Braggs. You know. We found our way to the main place, a room that looked like it might hold one or two busloads, plus the Red Cross teams. There were tables set up, snacks stacked around, and comfort kits for all groups. One of the first things they would receive was an individual kit with toothbrushes, toothpaste, soap, shampoo, deodorant, etc. There were kits for men, women and children with the basics they need to clean themselves up. This happens in every disaster. They hadn’t received enough standard issue kits from Red Cross, so a group was assembling kits from the items donated by citizens. We unloaded part of our load at a warehouse down the road where they were taking water, toilet paper, and food products. Another location, air-conditioned, took baby supplies, toys and clothing. They were sorting the clothes by sex and size. The medical center took the allergy drugs we brought with us. We passed the media center and saw trucks from all the local broadcasters and cars that probably had the print reporters. I’m sure they were carefully controlled, knowing how all that works.

The main place was full of groups of people, some trained, some who showed up. There were people in the mess hall with food. Our building had the people who would do the first intakes and everybody was assigned a team. The plan was to take these people to security first, search them and their buses, then triage the medical cases, then get their basic information and assign them to barracks, walk them there, then feed them. They would be sorted by men, women, families, those 65+ or with special needs (there were one story buildings closer to the mess hall for them). It seemed like a plan to me.

I was on a Human Relations team, which basically is to make sure they were treated kindly and decently and to see if they needed a translator, be it a foreign language or a signer for the deaf, etc. I was finally told I would be with the group that got on their buses, welcomed them, got them registered and rode to the main office where we would leave them and head back for another bus, etc. Sounded simple to me. Smile, pat them on the back, fill out a form, get their signature. All the teams rehearsed over and over, ad nauseum. There was a tv camera, almost in my face. I never saw the media later in the evening.

Now for the reality. Many of the volunteers had been waiting for these buses since the night before. The arrival time had been moved from 6 pm Friday to 7 am Saturday and I was there at 5 pm and nobody knew where they were. These 2,000 people had been on the bus for days, literally, and we had no idea when they would arrive. So we drilled on the routine, the leaders met, and the routine changed – over and over.

In a disaster, there are many people who respond. I call the main group Disaster Junkies. These are the ones who will go to disaster after disaster for the three required weeks and then go back again. These are the ones who make it their lives, whose adrenaline pumps at the news, who live for their pager to go off in the middle of the night. Some are saner than others. Some are wonderful, kind people, who want to give their time, skills, love. Others are in it for baser reasons and live for the power, the sense of importance. They make friends with other Disaster Junkies across the country. Just like the rest of life. So you get all kinds and, somehow, it miraculously works, God bless them. If you can stand it. I’ve always thought it was a fascinating spectacle of human nature and loved it in small doses. I’m not one of the junkies. Just give me my job and let me help. Then I can go home.

Shortly after we arrived, the skies blackened and a thunderstorm opened up, pounding on the metal roof of our building. It cooled things off, but it left deep puddles and muddy places around the area. We thought it was a pretty sad welcoming sight for those who had been walking through worse. If they’d ever get here. You have to picture an ever growing crowd of Red Cross do-gooders, surrounded by the National Guard, Oklahoma sheriffs, officers from the Muskogee police, medical workers, and who knows who else, standing around for hours waiting to hear where these people were. First we heard they were still in Dallas, stalled by FEMA’s attempts to get Oklahoma declared as a stopping place so we could get federal funds. Why were they even in Dallas on the way from New Orleans? Nobody knew. We empathized with their feelings, whatever they would be. Tired, frustrated, angry, frightened, confused. Next we heard they were at the state line. But the clock ticked on and the plans changed. A couple of women were screaming orders, their blood pressure rising, making everyone else’s eyes roll. Calm down. I saw a woman whose heart was pounding so hard her shirt was moving. They reassigned her before she irritated anyone else. There were college students, people who drove over to help with no training, veterans of 9/11, and the military. Who the hell was in charge? The longer we waited, the more the plans changed. The room must have been reconfigured twelve times to see which way they could move more people through faster. It didn’t matter because it was all going to change again anyway. News came that one bus was having mechanical problems so all the buses slowed down. They must have been driving 15 mph – a caravan of 37 buses. Or 39. Or 32. Whatever. That too changed.

Finally, finally, we were told to go to our sites. There were two places the buses would stop first once they were on the base. I now had my own team – four women who showed up to help with no training. They were from Muskogee – normal people. We didn’t even have stick-on name badges for them, so I scribbled their names on a piece of cardboard so I’d remember. I can’t today. I told them they were lucky – they only had to come do their jobs and not go through all the changes of plans. I think it was another two or three hours after they arrived that we finally moved. We also had a greeter, who would enthusiastically welcome the busload to Oklahoma, tell them how happy we were to see them, and explain that we would be coming aboard to get them registered. We were down to taking their name and age and asking them if they had children with them. If they had missing family, we starred their form so someone could help them find the family or get them mental health professionals to speak with. We walked across a muddy field, sinking in the rainwater, walked a block and stationed ourselves to meet the people. There were men with drug dogs, a line of soldiers to meet them, the scanners like they have at airports, and a line of soldiers with hand-held scanners to run over their bodies. All their belongings were searched, as was the bus. There was a bathroom there, which they could use. There were medical teams and mental health workers. This was on a brightly lighted covered concrete pad. We were standing in the mud in the dark beyond to meet them as they got back on the buses to take them another block to start the process.

The news spread that they were at the gates, on the base. Not far. It took forever. In the meantime, we learned, from a Disaster Junkie mental health worker, who was a little mental himself and overly pumped for his assignment, that there was news of people who had died on the buses, and bleeders were sighted. There was rush to put rubber gloves on all of us. I was too hot & couldn’t get mine on & threw them away. I was only going to ask their names, not exchange bodily fluids. I used to teach this stuff and I wasn’t afraid of getting hepatitis from them on a block ride. How comforting for them anyway to think we were afraid of them. We were told what to do if they were hostile, what to say, how to react. We didn’t know what awaited. Some might be criminals. Who knew? Overkill. Where the hell were they? Someone in our two groups wanted to pray, which seemed appropriate, even for the least religious in the group – most of the people were anxious. A rough circle of former strangers formed, holding hands, and someone started the Lord’s Prayer. We stood in a circle in a muddy parking lot on a military base in the middle of Oklahoma late at night and hoped for the best. Help!

Then a line of lights appeared, an endless line of lights. Please, let these people off the damn buses. They had to be numb. It was around 10 pm.

My first image was a black family, dressed in very new, very clean white t-shirts. The children’s were oversized adult shirts that hit their ankles. The first face was a handsome young boy and, in the glare of the lights, he looked like an angel. Our first family was a group of angels. Not too threatening. I could feel the relief from our teams. And they looked exhausted. We weren’t allowed to get close to them, so we watched, taking in the faces of the people we would soon meet, a few inches from their faces. Many lit cigarettes (how do the poorest of the poor afford cigarettes – always a question), they stood around waiting one more time. There were elderly people put in wheelchairs, nurses talking to them. We watched the men remove their belts as the scanners went over them. It was pretty calm, everyone was too tired.

I met the National Guardsman who was in charge of this whole deal for the base, a pleasant young man with an Oklahoma drawl who told me he’d been up for 61 hours. Still smiling. He wanted a drink of water.

The bus pulled to our side and we helped them cross a patch of sloshy mud to reboard the bus. We smiled, not knowing what to do yet. I reached out to an elderly woman so she didn’t slip in the mud. The first team left with their busload, our team was next. Our bus unloaded. It’s hard to remember who we saw. A sea of black faces of all ages, all tired. A few white faces in the group. Varying kinds of dress. A guardsman told us the smell of the bus would knock us out. I think they’d been riding for 31 hours, maybe longer. I doubt they got off. My greeter was a nervous wreck, but my team was game. Good women, nice people. We were laughing as I told them I was not a very good leader because I had no idea what the latest change in plans was. I told them to do their best, the forms could get corrected later, these people mostly needed us to be kind. We welcomed the people crossing the mud path to the bus, our greeter gave her spiel and we boarded.

We had to lean down to hear their names, so we were inches from their faces. It was loud from the bus engine. The bus lurched, so I balanced myself against the seats to write and hear. I think I only had about four to do before we were there. That was fast. Our team was through, we waved goodbye and cleared the bus to return to the starting site for our next group. My people were grateful. A couple handed me ID so I could write their names. It was hard to hear the spelling over the noise and I was leaning across them to get signatures. Many apologized for smelling bad, but heck, I’d been standing around for 14 hours by now, so I wasn’t much of a flower myself. I was at the front of the bus – I heard the back was worse – by the bathrooms.

My friend called my cell phone from the other site. It was night and day from ours. The military people there were rougher, tougher. At our place, they were friendly, asked if we wanted chairs while we waited, seemed kind to the people. The other site was not so nice for anyone. Who knows why? Some gung-ho type over there. The first group at the other site included people who brought their dogs – a Great Dane and a German Shepherd. Red Cross shelters don’t take pets, mainly due to logistics & sanitary issues, although there are people who are trying to change that. Too many people die because they won’t leave their pets behind. Sheltering your pets, livestock, exotic animals is a huge issue and part of disaster planning. Who was going to tell these people “no” after they’d come through a hurricane like Katrina? Nobody.

We thought the process would speed up. They added another team to our site, which only meant we waited longer between buses. Later that night, I figured we were doing a bus an hour, although our part only took minutes. It was the search and medical assessment process that was the hangup. So we watched a lot. A bus arrived and I counted 7 dogs, all small. The owners were clutching them and the teams were petting them, admiring them. We would have dogs at this place, for sure.

My second group included a cute man with a Cajun accent who laughingly told us he would have to get used to our accents. He said he was getting us first. He was my first stop on the bus. The driver vanished, so we finished quickly and had time to visit with this group. My new Cajun friend moved to New Orleans in 1972, but left and came back many times. He was a jockey, race horses. He said he was single and liked to move around. Not a successful jockey, I guessed, but he was friendly and glad to talk to me. He said the bus was like heaven after the Superdome and apologized for not being cleaner. He asked me if I could imagine sleeping on a bleacher. I asked him what it was like when the roof blew off and he just said, “Oh, man.” He thanked us for our hospitality, but said he wouldn’t be staying long as he had friends who could get him a job in another state. He thanked us and said he wanted to get moving in a day or so to let us take care of the ones who were needier. Nice guy.

Mostly, the people were tired, hadn’t eaten since 7 am, wanted a bath and bed. None looked too threatening simply because of fatigue. While we waited, one man griped about the long wait for help. He said it was too little, too late, always too late. He was angry, but not in a bad way. One of my teammates, Lana Turner, a black woman from Tulsa who joined us late, and I listened. I told him I agreed with everything he said, which I did. He’d watched a baby die waiting for help. He had the right to be upset.

It was after midnight. We were waiting for our third?? bus. The line looked endless, headlights in the distance. By now, we were shaking hands with the people as they walked on the bus, welcoming them, smiling. They were smiling back, thanking us. My next group included a young mother with a sleeping two year old and a nine year old child with a different last name. She told me she had no idea where four members of her family were. I assured her we would do everything we could to help her get information. A woman on an earlier bus had been separated from her children. They were put on a bus that went to Houston, she ended up in Oklahoma. She knew who they were with, but not where. She was worn out.

I visited with a nice looking man, dirty but decent clothes. I’m not sure what his problems were as he could pass for normal on the street. I patted shoulders of worn out folks. Behind me a couple of rows was a baby, almost one year old. I think her name was Jediah, something like that. I could have eaten her up. Beautiful face, smile that lit up the night, happy baby. Clapping her hands, bouncing on the man’s lap. I played peek-a-boo with her. Her eyes were as shiny as could be, her hair pulled up in three little bunches. I would have loved to hug her. The family said she entertained them the whole trip. They were laughing.

This time, we had to wait when we got close to the building – some kind of backlog. I don’t know. I found my friend and she said she wanted to ride back with me. We found our van and she told me stories from the other side of the driveway. At her site, they had immediately filled four containers with contraband, drugs, knives, guns. One bus had more dogs than people on it. One bus had bags of feces and the smell was overpowering. The people had to resort to plastic bags. They found a drug addict and took away his drugs. One man told them he is HIV positive, another was mentally ill. Bodies were removed from the buses before we got on. There was a young woman with a three day old baby – the mother was bleeding. They stopped her for some reason rather than taking her to the medical unit. There was a deaf man, a blind man. Our driver said a man peed in the van. We could see people lined up to get a change of clothes as we drove. It was a surreal vision in the night. I could see people in the barracks, sitting on beds. Saw people wandering to the mess hall in search of food. They’d run out of lasagna early & had MREs for them. That’s military for Meals Ready to Eat – like in battle. They’re not bad. I had them in Alaska. These people said they were so sick of snacks, wanted real food. Not yet, sorry.

I heard the story of a man who said they were all taken to the Superdome and left there. Anarchy broke out and people began breaking into the concession stands, selling cigarettes for $10 a pack. Gangster types took over. Another man had been sleeping on a mattress in a factory in Algiers (a section of New Orleans across from the French Quarter) where his group had been taken and left. There’s an untold story, isn’t it? All these people were taken to evacuation sites and left to fend for themselves. They said sanitary conditions deteriorated. There was no way to clean anything or find help.

The stories abounded. The other landing site had turned into a mess because someone in the military started issuing insane rules, so those teams were through for the night, disbanding. Our site was running like the plan. Why the difference? We don’t know.

My friend told me I had to quit, 15 hours was the maximum for a disaster worker and I’d been going for over 17. I told her she had to come back, too. I told my team goodbye. I think there were only a handful of buses left all of a sudden. We found our friend and I stood there for my last look around the main center.

There was the young white couple with the hugest Harlequin Great Dane you’ve ever seen sprawled across her lap while he sat with the tiniest gray kitten in his. I think they had another dog, hard to tell. Dogs were sniffing dogs, trying to figure it all out. I noticed another category of barracks had been added – Co-Ed with pets. I heard there were more cats, a bird. Who knows. Can you imagine living in a non-air-conditioned barracks with pets of all types and sizes? Not to mention the people? Humorous. The four-legged animals all seemed to be getting along.

The room was a swirling late night blur of red disaster vests mixed with camouflage uniformed troops, tables with volunteers, people milling. Most had moved through the line of snacks and drinks to be registered, assigned to a barracks and assimilated into this new world. I wondered how it would look in the morning. One man said he knew he was in the middle of nowhere – he couldn’t see a Pizza Hut. I think he thought he’d been moved from one hell to another. Mostly they were grateful.

It was close to 1:30 am when we left, a thousand stories later. I drove, not well. The ex-policewoman in the back seat kept telling me to watch the speedometer in a pleasant voice as I sped along. I got home well after 2:30 am and hugged my dogs. I was too pumped to fall asleep, even after I stood in the shower and cleaned off mud, rain and the sweat of a hot day in August. My Cajun friend told me it was ironic that the hurricane hit in the holy month of August. I looked puzzled and he said August in New Orleans is so hot even the devil leaves town and we both grinned and shook our heads at the humor in that.

I didn’t go back today, although my friend called at 7 am. She was taking a new recruit. She gets into this more than I do and I could feel the fatigue in my bones. I couldn’t envision what today would bring and I could hear the rain. She’ll bring me more stories. I don’t know what will happen to these people who were put on buses, not told where they were going (two men said they had family in Memphis, but were put on buses going the opposite direction anyway), have nothing to go back to, no immediate help in the future. This is a stopgap measure, not a solution. This is not even a beginning for these people, just one small step out of their misery. I know it’s going to affect us all in many ways in this country.

For me, it was a day to assuage my feelings of helplessness. For these people, it’s one more day in lives of constant struggle. They said “God bless you” to us. God bless them.

Tags American Red Cross, Camp Gruber, flood, Hurricane Katrina, New Orleans

Categories Events, History, Memories, Nature

Meeting artists along the way…

September 10, 2013 //

All travel is enhanced by the people you meet along the way. You can look at photos, read books, study history, but it’s the people who bring it to life and give you a real sense of a region or country. I could write about the waitresses and waiters I’ve met along the way or the tour guides and just the people I’ve encountered through the years. Some of my favorites, some of the people who have made my trips the most memorable are the artists…performers, musicians, actors, painters, sculptors, photographers, and writers…the ones who stick in my mind because they bring places to life.

In Memphis, I met David Bowen while he was singing at the King’s Palace Cafe on Beale Street. He’s been playing there, or elsewhere in the area, for years, a backup player, whatever it took to keep playing the music. These guys are everywhere, playing for the love of the music whether they get rich or mildly successful or not. He just has Memphis written all over him and his playing.

I watched plein air artists in Great Smoky Mountain National Park, but they weren’t selling.

When you’re in Charleston, you see the ladies (and gentlemen) with their sweetgrass baskets everywhere. Our tour guide warned us that the prices sound expensive, but not so much when you know how much work goes into the weaving and sewing of this traditional art, brought from Africa and seen in the Carolinas since the 17th century. I stopped by the tables of this sweet lady, Neantha Ford, just off the corner of Broad and Meeting to admire her work. She was all smiles, which made her a winner. She signed my basket, as all artists should…

I don’t blame the ones who were so solemn because I’ve worked a booth and it’s not always fun to sit all day waiting for some tourist to purchase your work. I love the basket I purchased, which is a nice usable size or easy to hang on a wall. I stuck the sweetgrass flowers, called Confederate Roses, that I purchased in the handle for this picture. I bought several from a vendor in the market and then bought one from a young man standing in an alley making them and another from an elderly man who approached me in Savannah. Making these roses must be one of the first things learned in this area.

Fairhope, Alabama is an artists’ haven, fueled by the creativity encouraged in the Organic School (similar to Montessori) that flourished there in the 20th century and still is active. I met several artists and it seemed they had all emerged from that background. It is a charming place to live along the Gulf across the bay from Mobile. I was enchanted with these bricks made by a local potter, John Rezek, that made up a walk in front of the Organic School and another one by the Fairhope Museum of History, a delightful small, well run and interesting museum of the area.

John was working on one of the walks when I met him and I asked our hostess to take me to his studio, where I purchased a coffee mug…

She then took me to the studio of Tom Jones, a studio made of bricks from the area, known as Clay City.

He had a kiln from Clay City that most of my potter friends would covet…

Tom was another product of the Organic School. He was off to Italy so I was lucky to meet him…such a genuinely nice person. I would love to have one of his Halloween jack-o-lanterns, but they are sold out for the year. I’ll need to get an order in early. I did purchase one of his platters, which also celebrates Jubilee, an event that takes place annually or more often when shrimp, crabs and other fish swarm into Mobile Bay. When the call goes out, “Jubilee!,” people rush to harvest a seafood feast. Sounds crazy and fun!

No surprise that New Orleans is teeming with artists. There are musicians on the streets from the man who plays for Jesus outside of Cafe DuMonde and starts your morning off with a smile…

…to the three kids who looked like they were skipping school to play…and could they ever play!
That little girl on guitar was incredible…

There are always performance artists by Jackson Square. I saw this guy change positions once during the day and saw several wannabes nearby who couldn’t begin to freeze in position like he did.

Of all the street painters, Sean Friloux was the best on that particular day. I walked by and came back, loving his images. He was working on a painting of the corner by Cafe DuMonde and I loved it. I came back to get it and he kind of posed for me. He was a quiet guy. Love my painting…

You can find Sean’s work at https://www.facebook.com/sean.friloux. Enjoy!

You can see why I always stop for artists. I thank my mother who taught me to buy art when I traveled. Way back, you didn’t have to pay duty on it, so it was a good deal, another bonus for her. I’ve met artists all around the world, including in my own hometown, and love supporting them. They are entwined with my memories wherever I’ve been. I encourage you to make it a habit yourself to bring any trip to life!

Tags artists, Charleston, David Bowen, Fairhope AL, John Rezek, Memphis, Neantha Ford, New Orleans, painters, Savannah, Sean Friloux, Tom Jones

Categories Art, History, Memories, Photography, Places, Travel

Southern Cities by the water

September 4, 2013 //

My trip through the South a couple of weeks ago led me through several of the most important cities of the region, all of them located by water. Friends have asked me which one I liked best…it’s hard to say because they’re all so unique. There is definitely something about these places, something shaped by the flow of the rivers, the people who first settled on the banks or shores and all the stories that have flowed through history until now. My impressions are quick, not based on long stays, postcard impressions of cities, some seen for the first time, one of them much loved already. I had the advantage of seeing them all in two weeks, so my thoughts are fresh for each of them.

The first day, we drove to Memphis, crossing the mighty Mississippi to enter the city. I’d been there a couple of times before, but just passing through, not long enough to even have an impression. This time, we started at Mud Island, a peninsula with an incredibly creative scale model of the Mississippi River that you can walk along or in, seeing all the twists and turns, changing depths, and cities along its banks. There is also a museum with a history of the river that gives a good overview. Mud Island is a nice way to spend a few hours in a beautiful river park. You can think of Tom Cruise running through the tram in “The Firm” as you cross over to the park.

I had seen the ducks at The Peabody, so we headed down to Beale Street, famous for barbecue and blues. We lucked into the last two days of Elvis Week, where fans come from around the world to pay homage on the anniversary of his death, the 36th this year. I don’t know how crowded it is normally, but it was a festive mood on this Friday night. Beale is bright lights and music in the air from the restaurants. Two small boys danced in the streets, then asked for money. We found a place to eat with delicious barbecue and a great guitar player, one who had worked this street for many years. He smiled and did his thing while we ate fried green tomatoes, ribs and pulled pork. It was nice and easy. When we left, the streets were lighting up and the action was just beginning. There was a party going on and I want to come again…

This was my favorite neon sign of the night.

Our travels took us to some smaller river cities with their own charm. Paducah, Kentucky is an important stop on the Mississippi and is working to populate their historic district. Owensboro, Kentucky is on the Green River and has one of the most beautiful river parks I’ve seen next to their historic district. We found it by accident while off the highway looking for breakfast on a Sunday morning.

Our next city stop was Nashville. This was really a stopover, partially due to curiosity after watching the views shown in the television show. It was Sunday night and there was definitely a party atmosphere on Broadway.

We had driven around, very impressed by the city, and stopped to walk and find a place to eat. There were restaurants everywhere, mostly chains which we wanted to avoid. There was also a cover charge to eat when there was music. We found the Ryman Auditorium, the original home of the Grand Ole Opry.

and walked up and down the street taking in the music coming from every bar along the way. My impression was that this really is music city with the happening street backed by the skyscrapers indicating the industries that thrive there.

Nashville is cool, a fun place to visit and a beautiful city. We never did find a place to eat, settling for homemade ice cream at an old parlor on the edge of Broadway.

The next major city was Charleston, historic Charleston on the Atlantic coast. It was as beautiful as I imagined with a far larger historic area that is alive and thriving. There were the homes on Rainbow Row…

…and elegant mansions in Battery Park…

You can easily picture life in this city from Revolutionary times through the Civil War to now. Their historic preservation efforts are exceptional and well rewarded.

The City Market was fun to browse through the classy souvenirs…regional food, beautiful books, paintings, the ladies of the islands with their sweetgrass baskets, along with t-shirts and other fun things to remember your stay.

We took the carriage ride around the historic area, a great way to get an overview of the history and the city. In the evening we walked to the pier, where there were porch swings and benches to watch the ships come in and the sailboats go by.

Walking back to the hotel through the twilight streets, there was a quiet calm. Any parties in this city must have been private and inside on this particular evening. Charleston seems the most gentile of the cities we visited. It wasn’t formal particularly, as ladies wore cool cottons and linens with hats to shade their faces from the sun and heat. It wasn’t as hot or as humid as it could have been, lucky for us.

The next day, I toured the last remaining Slave Market Museum, a small but sobering visit. Among the others there was an older African American woman and her daughter. She was just sitting in front of one of the displays. I had great respect for what her thoughts may have been. The man at the desk had told me it was pretty brutal, as it was.

My memories of Charleston as a city are lovely. The food we ate was great, although we didn’t try any of the fancier restaurants. We took the trip around the bay, toured the city and I went to one of the plantations outside of town. Our two days leave me with visions of beautiful gardens, flowers and well-kept homes.

I love the Charleston Hat Man, a painting that was uncovered and said to be painted in 1892 to advertise the haberdashery inside. There are 16 hats that make up the man.

I love the steeples…

and the alleys…

Broad Street and Meeting Street…

Charleston is everything you ever imagined about Southern charm.

Our next stop was Savannah and we arrived late in the afternoon, in time to find a hotel and meet people for dinner by the river. This was a change from Charleston. The riverfront was busy with tourists and partygoers. I noticed that one of the popular t-shirts for sale was of all the pubs in town. There were batchelor party and batchelorette party groups one night. This was an old port town and the riverfront area is where they goods were purchased by brokers. Although you have to walk down steep ancient stairs and walk on cobblestone and old brick streets, it is a city that introduced itself to us as a fun place to be.

The next day, we were treated to a trip to Tybee Island, a stop at Ft. Pulaski, a boat ride along the coastal waterways with lunch at a small Jimmy Buffet-like restaurant, and a return visit to Bonaventure Cemetery before it closed. The cemetery was made famous by the novel and movie “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil,” and it lived up to its mysteriously beautiful reputation.

We visited the graves of Johnny Mercer and his family and left before we got locked in for the night. Our hosts said they picnic and ride bikes there and have been to a Halloween event. I was beginning to see why the tour companies offered ghost tours of Savannah. With the pirates and specters of the cemetery, there was an edginess to the city.

Our tour of the city showed us the lovely homes built around 22 squares. Historic Preservation finally came in the 1950s or much would have been lost. There were homes from all eras with a large Victorian area.

I left Savannah with mixed thoughts. I had thought it would be more like Charleston, but it has its own flavor and vibes. It’s a little darker, a little more mysterious when you see them both together. It’s a place to keep exploring, for sure!

Our final city was New Orleans. I have been to New Orleans many times. My in-laws lived there for a long time and we visited in different seasons, went to the World’s Fair, Mardi Gras, and always loved it. My kids grew up knowing this city. I hadn’t returned since Hurricane Katrina, so I was anxious to see how it looked.

I have found out since I had been there that my great-great-great-grandfather brought his family to live in New Orleans. He was a physician and died while treating people during a Yellow Fever plague. Maybe there is some DNA in me that makes me love this place. There is nothing like New Orleans. I loved all the other cities we’d visited, but New Orleans is just its own self. Some people don’t like the smell, but it’s just part of the place to me.

When we hit Jackson Square on a perfect day,

and headed for Cafe du Monde for beignets and coffee, I felt like I’d come home.

I like the musicians, the artists, and the street performers.

I like the architecture,

the home where Tennessee Williams wrote “Streetcar Named Desire,”

Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo on Bourbon Street, a place that intrigued my son from the time he was about eight years old,

and I like the mixture of all the exotic cultures, French, Spanish, Italian, Creole, Cajun, American Indian and European Americans, that blend to make this city and influence its food, its music, and its vibe.

I guess I have a favorite city of the South. New Orleans won my heart a long time ago as the most unique of all our cities. But, I’m so glad to welcome Memphis, Nashville, Charleston and Savannah into my places of the heart. They are all unique and interesting and are important parts of what makes this country such an incredible mix of regional voices and tastes. I have more to say about my trip to the South and all the beautiful things I experienced. I hope you get to head in that direction in your lifetime…

Tags Charleston, cities by rivers and oceans, historic homes, Memphis, Nashville, New Orleans, Savannah, South

Categories History, Memories, Music, Places, Reflections, Travel

Travel Souvenirs from the South

September 3, 2013 //

OK – I can’t be the only person who brings home a carload of souvenirs from a road trip…can I? It’s not like I can’t remember the place or person, but I do tend to forget after a time and the things I pick up along the trails of my life make me smile as I walk by them or dust them and shake up a memory from a wonderful experience. My home is packed with such memories and I’m old enough to know I’ll never be a minimalist in any way. So, here’s what I brought home from my travels through the South this past two weeks…think what you will.

First are the general, sometimes tacky, souvenirs: hats, t-shirts, magnets, lapel/hat pins and a few books, including a Cajun Little Red Riding Hood, “Petite Rouge,” because I have other Cajun children’s stories and love to read them out loud. You can’t help but sound a little Cajun…

I’ve collected the pins since I was in Vienna way back in the 1970s and saw a man with pins on his hat in European fashion. I used to be somewhat casual about it, but ended up with quite a few and now always look for them. I have them on a little bulletin board in my laundry room that I pass by every day.

The refrigerator magnets are a new deal and I have to promise to stop…

I just bought a hat and t-shirt in the town where my father was born because that’s all they had. I bought a ball cap in Savannah to wear out on the water and a cute painted t-shirt in Charleston because I liked the artist.

Then there’s the food category, which really can get out of hand in the South…

After all, I can’t get boiled peanuts and okra chips at home and who could pass up the Peach or Cherry cider and the Sweet Potato anything? And I wanted to see what was in red rice, so I bought a package, and then we went to Avery Island where they make Tabasco sauce and had to buy some of the new flavors. This is nothing compared to the souvenirs that didn’t make it home because they were eaten along the way…another blog. I did buy a cookbook from one restaurant to get the recipe for the best sweet potato soufflé I’ve ever eaten.

And we had to have things from the nature part of the trip, so I have seashells from the Katrina-wrecked beaches of the Gulf and puppets of animals from the National Parks we visited, Mammoth Cave and the Great Smokey Mountains.

Finally, there were the antiques and art I had to have. I’ve always liked to support local artists, especially when they have pieces that represent what I’ve come to love in their home. So that is why I came home with a ceramic mug and platter from potters in Fairhope, Alabama, a painting from the streets of the French Quarter in New Orleans, and antique tobacco basket from Thomasville, Georgia (what am I going to do with this huge piece even though I love it and got quite a deal on it) and an antique framed book plate by a well known artist of the Charleston Renaissance period (I learned about that). Each piece of art came with a story to make it even more special.

Maybe because I’ve owned a gift shop and know what it’s like to have people wander in and not buy anything, maybe because I’ve worked with artists for years and want them to be appreciated, maybe it’s the things my mother taught me, but I never, NEVER come home empty handed. The end result is that my home is a warehouse for some pretty exciting travels that I love to remember. I can only hope my children will smile and laugh a bit when they have to clean this stuff out when I’m gone! I can feel their eyes rolling…

Tags Cajun, food, memories, South, Southern food, souvenirs, travel

Categories Art, Books, Family, History, Memories, Nature, Places, Reflections, Travel, Uncategorized

Meeting people of the South

September 2, 2013 //

Some of my fondest memories of my trip through the southern states will always be the people. I loved to sit still to hear their sweet southern drawls, which varied from region to region. Here are a few of my favorites…

Bonita was our first guide at The Hermitage, Andrew Jackson’s home outside of Nashville. All the guides dressed in period costume and this was her appropriate garb. I wondered how she felt about having to be the slave, but she was a gracious and wonderful guide, even posing when she saw me lift my camera. One of our other guides was asked if Jackson was a good slave owner and she answered that there was no such thing as a good slave owner. Bonita was a tribute to new attitudes in the south.

In Charleston, I saw an interesting antique shop while walking one evening and returned the next day on a whim. The sign said not to ring unless you were a serious buyer, which I always am. What a treat! The owner was Fred Le Clercq, who turned out to be a true southern gentleman. He is a retired law professor who has collected art and antiques for many, many years. The shop was actually his home, on the third floor at least, and it was filled from floor to ceiling with beautiful objects. I walked around taking it all in for awhile, tempted by so many things, and then started asking questions. He told me about many of the artists of the area and graciously took me around. He has another gallery at his lake home and I regretted not meeting his wife, who is the daughter of the famous Mrs. Whaley and has written garden books and other books. I decided on a small book plate by Alice Ravenel Huger Smith, one of the Charleston Renaissance artists of the early 20th century. I realized I had no checks with me, but Fred told me to just send a check when I got home. After he wrapped my purchase, he took me to their living quarters and showed me the original painting they own by this artist, as well as others. I glanced around their home, which was furnished in beautiful antiques and art. When I left, Fred took my hand, leaned down and blew gently across it, speaking in French. He asked me if I knew what that meant. I was so charmed that all my French lessons left me. He translated it as “until your return” or something close to that. Who wouldn’t love that? A lovely hour that reflected all you would dream of in Charleston.

In Savannah, we met Captain Dan and Penny. Dan was the old friend of an old friend of my friend, which is how we were introduced. They met us for dinner on the riverfront in Savannah soon after we arrived. It’s always such a treat when you have no idea what to expect, kind of like a blind date, and then it turns out to be something special. Dan is a musician and actor and had lived in Hollywood and Nashville before returning to his hometown near Scarboro, Georgia. Penny is a true Georgia girl with the best drawl in the world and loving, open arms for all. They live in Dan’s family home, a house built in the 1700s on 5,000 acres along the Ogeechee River. Penny works in Statesboro and they spend their weekends at their apartment on Middleton Island, close to Savannah and their boats docked at Thunderbolt Marina. On the weekends, Cap’n Dan takes charters for visitors from Tybee Island to fish or tour the islands. I told them at dinner that I was very interested in the islands and they invited us to join them the next day. They picked us up and drove us to Fort Pulanski for a great historical tour, complete with a cannon demonstration, out to Tybee Island, where I could have kicked back all day at the beach, back for a boat ride around the islands and to lunch at their favorite place on the water, a yacht club with a Jimmy Buffett atmosphere (Cap’n Dan’s description), and then for a tour of Bonaventure Cemetery. It was one of those days where you feel like you’ve been with friends you’ve known all your life and you know you will remain friends because the more you know about them, the more you like them.

In Fairhope, Alabama, across the bay from Mobile, we stayed with my traveling buddy’s friend, Graham. Fairhope is a beautiful town, full of artists and creative people of all sorts with an interesting and unique history. Graham attended the local Organic School as a child and his wife, Maggi, is now the director of the school’s museum. I knew Graham, but it was my first time to meet Maggi and she was a delight. We met for breakfast in the oldest cafe in the county, which didn’t disappoint. We walked over to her museum for a tour and she gifted us with books about the school’s founder, a book about Fairhope, and a novel, the last two written by Graham’s sister. We toured the very impressive museum of Fairhope History and met the director, another graduate of the Organic School. Maggi and I took a driving tour of the town and went to two pottery artists’ studios, since I expressed interest, especially since there is much history of pottery in the area. Again, I have a new friend, a lovely woman, I hope to see again very soon.

My last person I’ll tell you about is L’il John, our guide on a tour of the swamps in southern Louisiana, near Gibson, which is near Houma. I picked this tour because it was on private property and there would be no other boats. It turned out that the property had not been hunted or fished in 30 years, so the swamp was pretty pure. L’il John was Cajun and I loved listening to him talk about dem and dat, dropping any hard consonants at the end of words. I love listening to Cajuns talking anytime, but it was very appropriate while cruising through a swamp. L’il John has traveled a lot, but he was born in the area and told us he’s done everything legal and illegal back in those swamps. I believe him. There were only the two of us with him on the boat, so he didn’t have to fill the time with stories for the tourists. He said that most people don’t understand the lifestyle down there, haven’t had to live off the land. This was a man at home in this environment, which is so beautiful and so threatening. He tried to get us close to a 13′ and 16′ alligator, wanting them to come to the boat, but they swam off into their dens and hid under the water. I was fine with all the smaller ones that did get close. Alligators are not to be messed with, in my opinion. I held out meat for a smaller one, who jumped up to get it, making the pole I was holding snap. That’s close enough. He obviously knows every inch of the tour area and every critter living there. He told us that he usually shoots an alligator, showing us the hook that is used on the popular television shows. He said that using a hook to bring them in causes great pain to the alligators as it twists inside them, deeming it a stunt for the cameras. In a conversation a few states back, someone had told us that only the tail of the alligator was used for food. I asked L’il John about that and he said that the whole gator was good. I knew he’d tell me that. People who depend upon hunting for food don’t usually waste any of it. We had a good morning in the swamps and I’d like to think he was as sorry to see it end as we were.

Those are some of the people I met in the southern states that I bring back as special memories and special friends. You can tour and read and take pictures, but you can’t really understand an area until you meet the people who love it as much as you love your own place on earth. One of the joys of travel…

Tags Alabama, antiques, Cajun, Charleston, Fairhope, Georgia, Louisiana, Organic School, potters, Savannah, Swamp, Tennessee, The Hermitage, travel

Categories Events, Friends, Memories, Nature, Places, Reflections, Travel

My River Kinfolk

August 20, 2013 //

Knowing where your relatives came from is intriguing, at the very least. Maybe it will explain something, anything about us. All those questions…

The family member I know the most about is my father. I have pictures of him from baby to the end of his life. He was born in 1912, so way back there. I have a book someone did of Hamilton genealogy that goes back to Thomas Hamilton leaving Scotland for Maryland and then joining a group that moved to Kentucky.

The greatest source I have is a book, “The Sun Shines Bright,” written by my great-aunt, Sue Hamilton Jewell, a book of stories about the family in Uniontown, Kentucky in the late 19th century into the early 20th, including a few about my Daddy as a child.

My great-grandfather, grandfather, and father were all born in Uniontown. Here’s a photo I found that must be the Main Street that she wrote about, where even a 3-year old could be sent on errands.

Last week, I journeyed to Uniontown on the Ohio River, near Illinois and Indiana. I had no idea what I would find. Getting closer made me very emotional as I drove past fields of corn in rich agricultural west Kentucky, called the Upper South.

My great-grandfather was a grain dealer with an office in the warehouse on the river. My great-grandmother was from a plantation near New Orleans…another story to find. How did they meet? They had a great love story. Nine of their 12 children survived to adulthood, living a Tom Sawyer childhood along the river, “Our River,” as they called it.

…and later…

They had a staff of servants to help with the large home they finally moved into. Their land covered about half a block, with a diversity of neighbors on each side. There were 14 rooms with a 40 foot hallway the younger kids raced up and down on velocipedes pulling wagons. My great-grandfather was never bothered and must have been the kindest of gentlemen.

So, I drove to Uniontown with this info, along with the knowledge that the town had suffered greatly from the Ohio River floods of 1884, which brought Clara Barton to town for the first Red Cross relief effort as the river raged for weeks through the Ohio River Valley and all the river towns in its path. The 1937 flood left my widowed great-grandmother to be rescued from the second floor balcony by rowboat. The damage to the house and the remnants of the flood led to her death by pneumonia. This must be just a regular flood in this faint photo…

I knew the latest population was 1,000 and I found it on the map, but it was missing from my iPad map. How do you lose a town in an aerial shot? Scary. What would I find?

There was a town still. A levee keeps the flooding away, but the river has changed. I first looked across, imaging a shore where kids could swim across, barges and riverboats coming ’round the bend with my relatives waiting.

There was more than I expected actually. No old buildings, but a post office, VFW, cafe, two grocery markets and a marine store for the boaters who launched their boats on the river. I drove around enough to get a feel for where the house might have stood, picturing what I could from stories…the family eating fried chicken, Kentucky ham, homemade peach ice cream, and asparagus they grew in the yard. They gathered with their friends for burgoo, a community stew of whatever was brought. Such an isolated little town, a river town.

A young girl with a Kentucky drawl at Floyd’s Food Market gave me directions to the cemetery and I hurried before dark to a small cemetery surrounded by cornfields ready for harvest. Where to look? It was all very clean and well kept, divided into about four areas. In frustration, I parked and walked up the little hill. I remember Aunt Sue writing about the babies buried on the hill.

Suddenly, there it was…

…my great-grandparents. And the babies were beside them, touching little headstones for Annie, Nell G. and Merritt.

Behind them were my great-great grandmother and their oldest son, who I actually remember. Then I found two of their daughters. One died after the birth of her second child and her sister married her widower. All three of them, Verg and the two sisters he loved, all buried together. There were some others near, too. I looked and looked for any of my grandmother’s people because she grew up here, too. I didn’t find anyone…another story.

In the end, I stood by the gravestone and put my hand on it and my eyes were overflowing with tears. I thanked them for all the love they passed down. I thought of all the generations that have followed them…

One last look at the wide Ohio River, which is now kind of My River, too.

Then back to Floyd’s for a souvenir…

What did I find out? Lots more than I ever dreamed, but I’ll leave it with this…some of the best things about my family were born in a little town on the Ohio River. No flood will ever take that away. And now that river runs through me…

Tags family, Kentucky, Ohio River, Ohio River floods, Uniontown Kentucky

Categories Family, History, Memories, Places, Reflections, Travel, Uncategorized

Goin’ to Graceland

August 19, 2013 //

You gotta go to Graceland…right? Twice before I’ve been at the famous gates after it closed. This time, I had to go inside. By pure chance, I promise, it was the end of Elvis week in Memphis, the 36th anniversary of Elvis’ death. I still remember where I was when I heard the news…my husband, four kids and I were visiting a high school friend in Austin that day. The shocking news came over the radio. Another icon gone…

This time we started early, arriving just as the 5K Elvis run/walk ended. There were the gates…

and various Elvis fans and Elvis look-alikes…

You can’t walk up, so we bought our tickets, got our audio guides, and took the shuttle up the drive. This is how they control the never-ending stream of visitors. The house isn’t really huge, but the grounds are lovely. The neighborhood isn’t the best, but it fits. Elvis’s family reigned as the ones who came from so little to reach the top.

My audio guide didn’t work, which was ok with me. The effect of the crowd all listening to the guides creates a reverent quiet as you tour. Or, maybe they really were in that much awe.

The decor is perfect for a 22 year old, newly rich phenom who purchased a dream home for his Momma and Daddy. It speaks for itself…

Elvis was part of my growing up years, even if I wasn’t a rabid fan then or now. I love a lot of his songs, I love his story, but I didn’t swoon. But, I can’t help but love anyone who left such a legacy. Walking down the rows of gold and platinum records and albums…

…then a room with records to the high ceiling, I had to wonder how many more came after he died.

My favorite place is the wall outside where so many fans sign that they must have to clean it yearly to make room. It’s a lot of “Love ya, Elvis,” like yearbook signatures of your past.

How many generations are in this picture? I think at least four. Elvis lives on…

On the 36th anniversary of his death, I joined the mourners at his grave, reading the notes on arrangements from fan clubs around the world and tributes from individuals.

I saw one more Elvis wannabe…

…and completed the tour. I’ve been to Graceland…

Tags Elvis, Elvis Week, Graceland, Memphis

Categories Entertainment, Events, History, Memories, Music, Places, Reflections, Travel, Uncategorized

Travel Lite

August 12, 2013 //

I’m trying to plan a vacation, a meandering trip through several states. A leisurely look at our beautiful country. I’ve decided which way I’m headed…now to get ready. What the heck? Getting ready to leave is a trip of a different kind.

So, I need to clean the house. That’s for the house sitter or whoever takes care of the pets, picks up the mail, etc. Heaven help me if they have to experience the level of mess I overlook in my day-to-day living. I need to make sure I have my long list of what to stick in the car updated. When I drive, I pack for most every emergency, so there are first aid kits, flashlights, snacks and water, radios…not to mention clothes, maps (well, iPad), etc. I’ve learned to take a power strip to plug in all my electronics.

I’m taking another trip this fall by plane, so the packing will be very different, especially with the weight rules. To see the difference in travel packing, I always think of the time my in-laws traveled by car to see us. They were going to stop along the way, so they had fishing poles and tackle boxes, lots of bags, and coolers. On the way, they had a wreck that totaled their car and put them in the hospital. When they recovered, they flew home and my husband went with them. This was way back in the 90s, before all the travel restrictions we have today. He had to wrestle them (in wheelchairs) along with all of their car gear through the airports…a nightmare at the least. In spite of it, we treasured the mental picture of him getting them home along with his version of the trip. I still smile as I remember him telling me.

As you can see, I’m not cleaning the house or packing…I’m writing. That’s another thing…as organized as I am, as much reading and researching as I’ve done to make sure to not miss anything of interest on the trip, I’m still procrastinating on getting life at home ship-shape. Oh well, I know I’ll get everything on my list checked off…even if it’s midnight the night before I leave. It all gets done somehow…or not. And, it’s all ok.

Tags car trips, maps, planes, travel

Categories Memories, Places, Reflections, Travel

The Perils of Childhood

August 9, 2013 //

It’s been a long time since Aunt Polly said to Tom Sawyer, “Well, go ‘long and play; but mind you get back some time in a week, or I’ll tan you.” I was thinking of the changes in the freedom children used to have and how cautious parents must be today. What I realized is that there always have been perils for children and there always will be.

A friend of mine says his grandfather remembered running away from an orphanage in Texas with his older brother at the fence telling him to keep running. He was 6 years old and was on his own from then on. That was in the late 19th century and there were many dangers for a young child, from natural dangers to human ones, but he survived to a ripe old age.

My grandparents were raised in small towns or on farms where they had the run of the place. My grandfather wondered around town because everyone knew who he was and watched out for him. I know parents have always worried about what would happen to their children, but they used to be able to let them stretch their wings and explore.

My father spent many years in the same small town his parents grew up in and played with his brother and sister and cousins. The Ohio River ran right by the town, but none of them ever drowned in it. There were few cars, but I guess you had to watch out for buggies and horses, too. They probably knew who the creepy people in town were and stayed away from them. There have been sick minds since man was created, so we didn’t invent perverted behavior in this century. I can picture these kids running around that small town with all the freedom in the world, as long as they didn’t get into trouble, which meant damaging property or bothering someone.

In 1909, Bud and Temple Abernathy, the Abernathy Boys, rode horses alone from Frederick, Oklahoma (barely a state then) to Santa Fe, New Mexico. They were nine and five years old. Alone! Of course, their father was “Catch-’em-alive Jack” Abernathy, a US Marshall whose reputation as a marshall, a hunter and a cowboy helped save them from Indians and crooks they met along the way. Still, they had to cross a lot of land with the dangers of wild animals and the terrain. After that trip, they rode from Frederick to New York City and drove a car back (when there was only 150 miles of highway in the entire country). They did it alone and they were only ten and six! Even then, that was quite a big deal and they became national celebrities. Can you imagine any kids that age being able to do something like that today? Kids should read “Bud & Me” to at least be able to know that those kind of experiences once existed.

I grew up in the city, in the suburbs. We walked everywhere and I don’t remember too many restrictions. We had to watch for cars, but we were allowed to explore and walk to our friends’ houses blocks away. The biggest dangers were falling off your bike (we had no helmets) or jumping out of a tree. I’m sure there were cautions from our mothers, but we just went out and did what we did. If there was an accident, we went home and our mothers put a bandaid or iodine on it. Most, maybe all, of my friends’ mothers were at home and the neighbors all knew who we were, so there was a safety in that. As we got older, we moved where there was a creek behind the neighbors’ houses and we played in that, especially when the water was rising. We played on construction sites, we played with matches, we played after dark and we snuck out to play in the moonlight. We got scratched and banged up from time to time, but that was just part of it.

When I was a teenager, we drove everywhere. There were no cell phones or GPS, so our parents just had to trust us to get home safely. We explored all parts of the city and did crazy stupid things. We weren’t always smart, but we learned how to use our freedom the best we could. I’m sure my parents worried some, but they let us experience what was out there and find our own limits. We were lucky in that drugs weren’t common until I was in college and the worst that happened was that kids got into their parents liquor or drank too many beers.

By the time my children were growing up, it was a little scarier. There were so many more cars and we had television to tell us of kidnappings and other evil things. Some mothers were working and there wasn’t always the safety of knowing that there were other moms to let you know what was going on. We had creeks by both of the houses my kids grew up in and they played around them. I didn’t know until they were much older that they used to follow the creek all the way to the busy street and under the street to the other side. There were snakes and critters and all kinds of exciting things in the creek, but it didn’t bother me. That was part of childhood. I did caution them when we had a big rain and the creek rose and could have carried them away, but I’m sure they watched that rushing water with the same fascination I did. They also were free to walk around the neighborhood as long as I knew where they were headed. There were a lot of other kids around.

When my children were teens, insurance rates were rising for their age group for drivers, drugs were more common and alcohol was a bigger factor. City-wide curfews were coming into being and kids had to move from place to place to gather when they were out. The fun was getting harder to find.

Now, I’ve watched my grandkids grow up playing mostly inside with television and video games. They ride their bikes, but not with the same freedoms we enjoyed when we could ride for miles alone. There is the fear of having the bikes stolen, the heavier traffic, the crazies we all know are out there. It’s just not as safe as it used to be. They don’t ride to the park for a quick game of ball or to climb rocks or explore creeks or make new friends in random places. They have helmets and padding and cell phones to check in and every protection there can be. It’s dangerous out there.

Today, it’s all organized for kids with parents swarming over everything they do. I’m not saying they’re over-protected, because I’m well aware of the dangers. I just don’t know how far we have come. We’ve conquered many of the childhood diseases that killed so many in the past, but we’ve taken away the ability to explore and learn what you can do by yourself. There’s a certain pride in knowing that you’re able to walk to the store by yourself or ride your bike to a far away place and return without anyone helping you. You gain confidence in your own abilities and skills.

This weekend, I watched a news story on the new plague of heroin users among our teens across the country. Heroin in the suburbs. What can you say?

Sigh…I guess we can’t go backwards. I wish I had answers other than turning back the clock. How can we find ways to let our kids be kids and explore this world safely? Something to think about…

Tags Ben & Me, children's freedom, growing up, kids, riding bikes, the Abernathy Boys, Tom Sawyer

Categories Family, Memories, Reflections, Uncategorized

Five Questions I Wish I’d Asked My Parents and Grandparents

August 6, 2013 //

Some friends and I were talking today about how we’ve reached the age when we’re really interested in our ancestry. Not that we weren’t before, but we probably just didn’t have the time to do the research and find the stories. And one of the things we all agreed was that we wish we’d asked our parents and grandparents more questions, learned more about them in the days before they knew us.

There was a day when I asked my mother about her grandmother and she started telling me the most interesting stories. I went home & came back with a recorder a few days later and had her repeat them, not knowing about the recorder. She sat at her desk illustrating her memories for me to explain things I wasn’t familiar with. That recording is a treasure, my mother talking and me asking the questions. Why didn’t I do more of that? How did I miss asking my grandparents and my father and my in-laws things that I wonder about now.

In this age of technological advances that change so quickly we can’t keep up, it’s amazing how little we had when I was growing up and how much I’ve seen in my lifetime. They were watching the changes, too. What did they think?

Here are five questions I wish I’d asked. I know there are more, but here are my first five good ones!

1. What did you do during the war? My father was a Lt Colonel in the Army Air Force in World War II and received the Distinguished Flying Cross. Why didn’t I ask him more about what his time overseas was like? My grandmother worked in a parachute factory. What was that like? My grandparents sent three sons and a son-in-law to serve and their youngest son didn’t come back. Why didn’t I ask more questions?

Here’s my father during the war…

He told me some stories, but not all.

2. What did you do for fun when you were young? Who were your friends? What did you play with? Where did you go when you were young adults? They didn’t have electronic games or television…what did they do?

Who is my grandmother’s friend in this photo?

What kind of lodge was my grandfather in?

Here’s my other grandfather’s fraternity picture…

3. What kind of work did you do or what did your parents and grandparents do? Or maybe, what was your first or favorite job? I know one great-grandfather ran a mill on the Ohio River and another one was a farmer and another one ran a wagon yard in Ardmore. One of my grandfathers worked for the telephone company on the wires when that was a new thing. What did the women do? One grandmother ran a neighborhood grocery store and rooming houses.

4. What was your house like growing up? How big, how many rooms, how were they furnished? That sounds so simple, but I know it was so different from the way we live our lives today. The way I grew up is different from my parents. I can remember our first dishwasher, clothes washer and dryer, television set, air conditioner. Our homes are so much more complicated today.

5. What were your dreams? I don’t know if they did as they were expected to and dropped their dreams behind them and found new ones or what they expected out of their lives.

It’s universal among my friends that we wish we’d asked more. We’re getting to the age where our children and grandchildren should start asking us. One of the problems is we think our life isn’t that interesting. We need to get over that and just remember and share. All of us have interesting stories…all of us.

Tags family, grandparents, memories, parents, questions, relatives, time

Categories Family, Friends, History, Memories, Reflections

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