A Missing Part of History by Carol Perkins
When the Sears Christmas catalog arrived, I quickly flipped through the pages straight to the toys and then spent hours pondering what I hoped Santa would bring. The most exciting preface to Christmas was its arrival, although I never knew my parents to order anything from a catalog. That didn’t keep me from hoping Santa would have the same catalog directly from Sears that I had.
My great uncle often told stories about carrying the mail by horseback and dreading the arrival of the Sears catalogs each season. They were bulky and bundle some and the poor horse felt the weight of the books as they slid into the saddle bags. It took several days to deliver them all, but families were overjoyed when they arrived. With nothing but a radio as entertainment and often a coal oil lamp the only source of light, the catalog brought a distraction from hard work on long nights. The hundred and ten year old company gave hope for boys and girls for new leather shoes for winter, heavy coats, and boots. Women yearned for store-bought dresses in the latest style, but most patterned their own after the latest fashion in Sears using fabric from the local general store. Sears back then was the Amazon of today.
My great uncle also told of stories he heard of mail carriers throwing catalogs over banks alongside the road when their saddlebags were too heavy and the horses were having too much to carry! Imagine seeing a prize such as this along the roadside and the disappointment of awaiting families that did not get their catalog!
When I was a child, the catalog offered me hours of play. After the season ended and a new one arrived, I cut paper dolls out of the book and all that went with creating a home for them, which I set up on my bed. All day I played paper dolls. Sometimes, I took my cardboard store bought paper doll, laid her on a sheet of paper, and traced around her, creating a dress that looked as much like one in the catalog as I could get. I colored the dress, put tabs on the shoulders, and made her a wardrobe. I think my love for sewing came from those times.
When Sears began to open retail stores and travel became easier, catalog sales went down so the company stopped mailed them to homes. However, the Christmas book kept coming for a long time. After all, Santa needed help. I would almost bet there is an old Sears catalog in attics right now dating back to your youth. If I find one at my mothers, it will be cut up. Most of the time, the pages ended up being used to start a fire. In some homes, it was used for “other things.” The end of something that once was larger than life is sad and brings moments of nostalgia. I’m having one now.
My great uncle often told stories about carrying the mail by horseback and dreading the arrival of the Sears catalogs each season. They were bulky and bundle some and the poor horse felt the weight of the books as they slid into the saddle bags. It took several days to deliver them all, but families were overjoyed when they arrived. With nothing but a radio as entertainment and often a coal oil lamp the only source of light, the catalog brought a distraction from hard work on long nights. The hundred and ten year old company gave hope for boys and girls for new leather shoes for winter, heavy coats, and boots. Women yearned for store-bought dresses in the latest style, but most patterned their own after the latest fashion in Sears using fabric from the local general store. Sears back then was the Amazon of today.
My great uncle also told of stories he heard of mail carriers throwing catalogs over banks alongside the road when their saddlebags were too heavy and the horses were having too much to carry! Imagine seeing a prize such as this along the roadside and the disappointment of awaiting families that did not get their catalog!
When I was a child, the catalog offered me hours of play. After the season ended and a new one arrived, I cut paper dolls out of the book and all that went with creating a home for them, which I set up on my bed. All day I played paper dolls. Sometimes, I took my cardboard store bought paper doll, laid her on a sheet of paper, and traced around her, creating a dress that looked as much like one in the catalog as I could get. I colored the dress, put tabs on the shoulders, and made her a wardrobe. I think my love for sewing came from those times.
When Sears began to open retail stores and travel became easier, catalog sales went down so the company stopped mailed them to homes. However, the Christmas book kept coming for a long time. After all, Santa needed help. I would almost bet there is an old Sears catalog in attics right now dating back to your youth. If I find one at my mothers, it will be cut up. Most of the time, the pages ended up being used to start a fire. In some homes, it was used for “other things.” The end of something that once was larger than life is sad and brings moments of nostalgia. I’m having one now.
Fish Face by Carol Perkins, columnist
I am a victim of mass marketing. Not that I have not benefited from owning a “my pillow” and a “Red Copper” pan, but they typify my need to order things. Guy gives them both two thumbs up. I honestly do not rest as well on any other pillow. I use the pillow more than the pan.
When I hear that “things” work for problems I have, I give them a try. I finally threw away canisters of herbs that I decided NOT to take a chance my body would say, “What was that?” and give it back. Guy likes to put his finger in the corner of his mouth as a pretend fish hook and drag it as if he’s caught a “big one.” He says he’s going to put a fish hook on my tombstone. Observers would say, “I didn’t know Carol liked to fish.”
My recent leap has been into the world of oils. Because nothing seemed to help the arthritis in my knee or Guy’s headaches (more like pressure), I ordered a starter kit. First of all, any of them in a diffuser smells wonderful, but Guy’s immediate reaction was, “What is that awful smell?” If it isn’t the scent of a sugar cookie Yankee candle, he thinks it stinks. I argued that the aroma was cleansing. “Only if it makes a person sick!” I turned off my diffuser.
I began my treatments (which included for sleep) by rubbing lavender on the bottom of both feet (that was exercise in itself) and behind both ears. “What is that stinking smell?”he said as he climbed into bed. Here we go again. I explained. “If you think some oil on the bottom of your feet will make you sleep have at it!” In the meantime, he covered his head. I have slept better since using the oil, but I’m not sure about Guy.
After reading my “oils” booklet, I discovered one that helps with headaches. How do I get this behind Guy’s ears without him acting like a child?” I put a dab on my finger and said, “Hold still.” Before he knew what I was doing, I had gotten a dot or two behind one ear. He came to the edge of his chair. “What is that stuff?” I explained. “It smells like a skunk.” It didn’t. I argued that if I had a headache the way he does all the time, I would try anything. He wasn’t interested in listening; however, he did sit still for a dab behind the other ear. Later in the day with a feeling of success in my pocket, I asked him if he noticed any difference. “Yeah, the smell is gone.”
“Did you wash that off?” He gave me the look that said he did. “Well, it might have worked, but now you won’t know.” He gave me the same look. I use an oil on my arthritic knee and another for stress relief. One for cleaning and another for focus. I am so oiled, I could slide across the room (remember my feet).
I may never be the poster child for these essential oils, but if I can sleep better and walk without a limp, I will be speaking at their next convention! Guy would say, “Where is that hook?” He would have said to Ben Franklin, “Put down that kite before you get struck by lightning.”
When I hear that “things” work for problems I have, I give them a try. I finally threw away canisters of herbs that I decided NOT to take a chance my body would say, “What was that?” and give it back. Guy likes to put his finger in the corner of his mouth as a pretend fish hook and drag it as if he’s caught a “big one.” He says he’s going to put a fish hook on my tombstone. Observers would say, “I didn’t know Carol liked to fish.”
My recent leap has been into the world of oils. Because nothing seemed to help the arthritis in my knee or Guy’s headaches (more like pressure), I ordered a starter kit. First of all, any of them in a diffuser smells wonderful, but Guy’s immediate reaction was, “What is that awful smell?” If it isn’t the scent of a sugar cookie Yankee candle, he thinks it stinks. I argued that the aroma was cleansing. “Only if it makes a person sick!” I turned off my diffuser.
I began my treatments (which included for sleep) by rubbing lavender on the bottom of both feet (that was exercise in itself) and behind both ears. “What is that stinking smell?”he said as he climbed into bed. Here we go again. I explained. “If you think some oil on the bottom of your feet will make you sleep have at it!” In the meantime, he covered his head. I have slept better since using the oil, but I’m not sure about Guy.
After reading my “oils” booklet, I discovered one that helps with headaches. How do I get this behind Guy’s ears without him acting like a child?” I put a dab on my finger and said, “Hold still.” Before he knew what I was doing, I had gotten a dot or two behind one ear. He came to the edge of his chair. “What is that stuff?” I explained. “It smells like a skunk.” It didn’t. I argued that if I had a headache the way he does all the time, I would try anything. He wasn’t interested in listening; however, he did sit still for a dab behind the other ear. Later in the day with a feeling of success in my pocket, I asked him if he noticed any difference. “Yeah, the smell is gone.”
“Did you wash that off?” He gave me the look that said he did. “Well, it might have worked, but now you won’t know.” He gave me the same look. I use an oil on my arthritic knee and another for stress relief. One for cleaning and another for focus. I am so oiled, I could slide across the room (remember my feet).
I may never be the poster child for these essential oils, but if I can sleep better and walk without a limp, I will be speaking at their next convention! Guy would say, “Where is that hook?” He would have said to Ben Franklin, “Put down that kite before you get struck by lightning.”
In
the Rearview Mirror by Carol Perkins
Not
long ago a guest on our radio show talked about playing baseball in the
courthouse yard in Edmonton and how he bet that there was not another small
town in the United States that allowed their courthouse yard to be used as an unofficial
baseball field. “We broke out a few
windows in the courthouse and a few car windows, too, but nobody said we had to
stop.”
Small
town living is still special that way because there is a certain naivety to it
all. Back then, if a ball were hit into
the street, a player dashed out to save it without much thought of
traffic. Cars were not going very fast
and chances were the driver saw the young man leap across the iron railing in
time to stop. The same thing applies to
roller skating on the sidewalks as many kids did when they got their first pair
of roller skates (key skates for sidewalks).
If the shoe came out of the metal skates, the skater went down on the
concrete and sat there until she wriggled her foot back into it and tightened
it with a key. People on the street
walked around her and smiled. No one
said, “You better skate somewhere else, little girl.”
Many
boys, long before they could drive, stood at the edge of the square under the
blinking red light and waited for a farmer to come to town to find workers for
the tobacco patch. By dark, the boys
would be dropped off at the same location only this time unrecognizable. Parents knew their sons were working
somewhere, and that night over supper would find out where. Chances are they could work several days in
one patch and then more days in the barn.
Trusting that no harm would come to a child or teen was a way of life in
a small town.
Fathers
put sons behind the steering wheel of a truck (before he had a license) if he
needed someone to drive while loading tobacco.
Some girls drove tractors before cars and both girls and boys knew how
to drive a “straight.” (Most of
them). That was just the way it was
with no fear of a truck or tractor turning over or burning out a clutch.
The
innocence of the times was possible because we didn’t know everything going on
in the world, minute by minute. A
conversation at the supper table might be about building a fallout shelters in
the backyard for fear that Khrushchev might bomb us, but the barbershop talk
was more than likely about the basketball game that week.
As we
get older, we long for the times of innocence for our children and
grandchildren. For their chance to play
in the woods, skate on sidewalks, hit a ball in the courthouse yard, or learn
to drive in a field of tobacco (soybeans, corn). The older we get, the better those days
looked from the rearview mirror.
My Easter Memories by Carol Perkins
My dad used to sing Irvin Berlin’s “Easter Parade” every Easter morning as we were getting ready for church. As I put on my Easter bonnet and slipped into my new dress bought for the day, I listened to him singing in another part of the house. To me, he sang just like Fred Astaire from the movie “Easter Parade” or Bing Crosby from the movie “Holiday Inn”. The lyrics brought the movie right into my home.
With shoes shined and baskets the Easter bunny had left on the doorstep in hand, my brother and I would head off to church where the other children would look as festive as we did. Ladies all wore new dresses and men sported new ties. This was the kick off to the spring season, as well as a religious celebration, which I would later learn much more about than I knew at the age of eight. Adults hid Easter eggs on the sloping side yard of the Edmonton Methodist Church, and we Sunday school students went out to hunt them, often coming back with grass stain on the tail end of our dresses.
Easter dinner at home was ham with the trimming and homemade chocolate pies; then we visited my grandparents in the afternoons where I would find my cousins out of their outfits and ready to romp in the yard. We might have hidden Easter eggs (real eggs), but the main Easter egg hiding was done at school. The smell of boiled eggs still gags me. I certainly wasn’t going to eat any of the ones I found, but was forced to sit in a classroom and witness boys scoffing down more than one.
We never had plastic eggs and made a mess coloring our eggs over the kitchen table. No one made any money from finding eggs; however, the one who found the most won a chocolate bunny! I never had a chocolate bunny until I bought one for myself!
My daughter Carla asked me this week if I had a new “frock” for Easter. Very few seem to follow the tradition of the new Easter outfit anymore, but I assured her I would have something new to wear. It may be a necklace or a scarf, but I can’t let go of that tradition of years ago. “I may not have an outfit, but I’ll have on something new! After all, this marks the day of a new beginning.”
I miss my dad singing, but there has never been an Easter since he passed in 1977 that I don’t think of these lyrics every Easter morning when I get ready for my own Easter Parade.
“In your Easter bonnet, with all the frills upon it,
You'll be the grandest lady in the Easter parade.
I'll be all in clover and when they look you over,
I'll be the proudest fellow in the Easter parade.”
What do you remember about your Easter mornings as a child?
With shoes shined and baskets the Easter bunny had left on the doorstep in hand, my brother and I would head off to church where the other children would look as festive as we did. Ladies all wore new dresses and men sported new ties. This was the kick off to the spring season, as well as a religious celebration, which I would later learn much more about than I knew at the age of eight. Adults hid Easter eggs on the sloping side yard of the Edmonton Methodist Church, and we Sunday school students went out to hunt them, often coming back with grass stain on the tail end of our dresses.
Easter dinner at home was ham with the trimming and homemade chocolate pies; then we visited my grandparents in the afternoons where I would find my cousins out of their outfits and ready to romp in the yard. We might have hidden Easter eggs (real eggs), but the main Easter egg hiding was done at school. The smell of boiled eggs still gags me. I certainly wasn’t going to eat any of the ones I found, but was forced to sit in a classroom and witness boys scoffing down more than one.
We never had plastic eggs and made a mess coloring our eggs over the kitchen table. No one made any money from finding eggs; however, the one who found the most won a chocolate bunny! I never had a chocolate bunny until I bought one for myself!
My daughter Carla asked me this week if I had a new “frock” for Easter. Very few seem to follow the tradition of the new Easter outfit anymore, but I assured her I would have something new to wear. It may be a necklace or a scarf, but I can’t let go of that tradition of years ago. “I may not have an outfit, but I’ll have on something new! After all, this marks the day of a new beginning.”
I miss my dad singing, but there has never been an Easter since he passed in 1977 that I don’t think of these lyrics every Easter morning when I get ready for my own Easter Parade.
“In your Easter bonnet, with all the frills upon it,
You'll be the grandest lady in the Easter parade.
I'll be all in clover and when they look you over,
I'll be the proudest fellow in the Easter parade.”
What do you remember about your Easter mornings as a child?
"A Klutz" by Carol Perkins
Children are expected to wear what they eat. Parents use bibs to protect their clothes. They spill milk; get gum stuck in their hair, and ruin their pants with grass stain. That is just what children do. Evidently, I have never grown out of that stage because I usually end up wearing what I eat or spilling something on me.
More than once I have toppled over a glass of tea and grabbed napkins to soak it up. When I was at a grape stomping, I tripped in a mole hole, went to the ground in my white Capri pants and came up with grass stains on both knees. I met my future son-in-law looking like I had been playing football.
Recently, I was eating a salad from a salad bar. Any salad usually falls off the fork on its way to my mouth and lands either on my top or my pant leg. This time I was going to be so careful because from the restaurant, I was headed to Bowling Green. With each bite, I held a napkin under my chin like I have seen caretakers do in nursing facilities. French dressing would not look good on a white top.
When I finished, I was relieved that nothing spilled. At least that is what I thought until I saw a coffee spot the size of two quarters on my top. I went to the ladies’ room, turned my top around, and hid the stain. This was not the first time I had worn my top backward.
One of the most embarrassing times happened when Jon (our son) was participating in a “semester abroad” program in London with several of his Center College classmates, and we were all to converge at the Cincinnati airport.
Jon, Guy, and I were having a cup of coffee at a coffee bar in the waiting area. I don’t know how it happened, but in the blink of an eye, I flipped over the entire cup of coffee right on my white pants. Even though totally embarrassed, I acted as if nothing was wrong, but everyone could see my coffee leg. Poor an impression I must have made!
Sometimes what happens isn’t my fault. When Carla was in elementary school, she won the local spelling bee, which meant she would compete in the state contest in Louisville. Guy and I, proud as punch, took her to the Galt House and sat as she spelled her way through a few rounds. After the contest, we went to the hotel restaurant.
As the waitress was pouring water into our “crystal” glasses from her chilled silver pitcher, she missed my glass and poured ICE water in my lap. She kept pouring and pouring! Honestly, if I had not known better I would have thought I was being punked! My lap was soaking and when I stood, water ran into my shoe. I went to the bathroom, took my pants off, and wrung out the water. To make matters worse, she said, “I’m sorry. This is my first day.” Lucky me.
Not long ago when I was eating out and holding my napkin under my chin, a woman at least in her fifties said, “You remind me of my grandmother. She always ate like that.” Guy choked his laughter in his own napkin, but I could see his dancing eyes! He finally composed himself and said, “I can’t take her anywhere!”
After all these years, he has likely discovered he did not marry a graceful, refined lady. Poor man.
Ernie and Joe
Ernie and Joe
During Black History Month, I reflect on writers I taught in American literature. Although far more white authors listed in the table of contents than black; and more men than women, but among the few black writers were giants. Two I always loved were Langston Hughes’ “Madam and the Rent Man” and Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.
Lessons during Black History month should not be limited to the famous, but should include those with whom we have lived. How interesting would it be to tell students about the 50’s and 60’s when segregation was the norm. Tell them of “colored” water fountains and “black only” areas in movie theaters, and about black students and white students not going to school or socializing together right here in our own counties. Invite guests who remember the burning of crosses, church raids, and men in white hoods on the loose right here in our area. Students will be appalled at the insanity of the times. However, the truth about those days is part of the history.
Integration came to Metcalfe County High School when I was a senior. Word spread during the summer that black students normally attended Ralph Bunch in Glasgow were enrolling. Neither my parents nor my friends discussed this topic, so I entered school with no prejudice or negative expectations.
When the two black students joined our class, I was not anticipating any hateful words or comments, although I’m sure I was naïve. They played sports, which could have been tense, but if anything were ever said about a black boy playing (which I’m sure some parent complained if a black boy took a white boy’s spot), our coach, Cortez Butler, would have nipped it in the bud. They rode buses to games as a team.
At the time, I didn’t think about how these students felt. In retrospect, why would they want to give up their high school experiences at Ralph Bunch to come to our school? Why would they want to part with their classmates to attend a school of strangers? Did I think they were happy to get to go to a “white” school? I didn’t think about it at all.
We graduated and class reunions came and went, and neither of these students attended. Joe Edwards, one of the two men, passed away a few years ago, but I didn’t know much about what happened in his life. Then just this last week, I heard about the death of Ernie.
Husbands and Wives and Doctors
by Carol Perkins
I scheduled an appointment in Louisville with a specialist renown for dealing effectively with blood pressure and heart conditions to make sure Guy and I were going to live a little longer. Actually, I wanted a second opinion that we were, indeed, both healthy. Guy has blood pressure issues, and I have periods of shortness of breath and palpitations. We were both put through a series of tests with our regular doctors and passed. However, I wasn’t content with his sack of pills, feeling that six per night for blood pressure was a little excessive. I also worried about his heart rate being in the fifties. I made the appointment for his sake.
He assured me he wasn’t going. I told him that if he would go, I would get a second opinion about my shortness of breath. Not wanting me to fall over with a heart attack, which he has been telling me was going to happen if I didn’t see about myself, he agreed to go. Then he backed out. “I don’t need to go.”
“I’m not going if you aren’t going.”
“But you NEED to go; I don’t.”
“What about the fact you complain your head feels like it is going to explode?”
“That’s just sinus.” So until an hour before time to leave, we were still dancing. Finally, he caved.
A husband and wife should never go into an examination room together.
I have known this doctor for years because I have been taking my mother to him. He looked at me and said, “You first.” He already had my records, so it didn’t take long for him to tell me that my shortness of breath, my knee problems, and other problems with overweight people would go away when the weight did.
“Her main problem is breathing. She can’t walk across the room without losing her breath,” Guy said. He asked Guy if I snored. I answered, “Like a freight train.” I told him about the CPAC machine, etc. What he said next to me made Guy want to fall to the floor in hysterics, “You are short, and you have no neck, so air has trouble getting into your air passages.” I didn’t listen to the rest. I have NO NECK? I used to have a neck. I now have two chins and no neck?
Then he turned to Guy. When the doctor asked him if he felt dizzy, Guy said, “Sometimes.” I chimed in, “Every time he gets up he feels dizzy.”
“What is going on inside your head?” the doctor asked.
“Well, I think it is sinus,” Guy replied.
“It isn’t sinus. You don’t have sinus problems for two years every single day,” I said.
“Two years?” the doctor said.
“Yes, at least that long.”
By then, the doctor asked a question and looked at both of us for an answer.
He told Guy not to bring home any candy, and that if he wanted to help, he could buy me a chair bike. It fits under a desk or in front of a chair. I wasn’t listening because I was still thinking about having no neck. How long has everyone else known I have no neck? Guy confessed he knew it; he also said that I used to have one. Were my friends saying, “Poor No-Neck Carol.”
He sent us to the front desk to pick up a lab order for Guy to take to a local lab for some blood work to see what might be causing the pressure in his head. I thought he was looking at me when he said, “And order her a stress test and an echo.” A sinking feeling weakened my knees. When the nurse didn’t give me an order, I said, “Am I supposed to have some tests, too?” She looked at me puzzled.
“Didn’t he just say for me to have a stress test and an echo?”
“Not you,” she said, “the lady behind you.” I turned around and she smiled.
It was time to head back to Edmonton.
He assured me he wasn’t going. I told him that if he would go, I would get a second opinion about my shortness of breath. Not wanting me to fall over with a heart attack, which he has been telling me was going to happen if I didn’t see about myself, he agreed to go. Then he backed out. “I don’t need to go.”
“I’m not going if you aren’t going.”
“But you NEED to go; I don’t.”
“What about the fact you complain your head feels like it is going to explode?”
“That’s just sinus.” So until an hour before time to leave, we were still dancing. Finally, he caved.
A husband and wife should never go into an examination room together.
I have known this doctor for years because I have been taking my mother to him. He looked at me and said, “You first.” He already had my records, so it didn’t take long for him to tell me that my shortness of breath, my knee problems, and other problems with overweight people would go away when the weight did.
“Her main problem is breathing. She can’t walk across the room without losing her breath,” Guy said. He asked Guy if I snored. I answered, “Like a freight train.” I told him about the CPAC machine, etc. What he said next to me made Guy want to fall to the floor in hysterics, “You are short, and you have no neck, so air has trouble getting into your air passages.” I didn’t listen to the rest. I have NO NECK? I used to have a neck. I now have two chins and no neck?
Then he turned to Guy. When the doctor asked him if he felt dizzy, Guy said, “Sometimes.” I chimed in, “Every time he gets up he feels dizzy.”
“What is going on inside your head?” the doctor asked.
“Well, I think it is sinus,” Guy replied.
“It isn’t sinus. You don’t have sinus problems for two years every single day,” I said.
“Two years?” the doctor said.
“Yes, at least that long.”
By then, the doctor asked a question and looked at both of us for an answer.
He told Guy not to bring home any candy, and that if he wanted to help, he could buy me a chair bike. It fits under a desk or in front of a chair. I wasn’t listening because I was still thinking about having no neck. How long has everyone else known I have no neck? Guy confessed he knew it; he also said that I used to have one. Were my friends saying, “Poor No-Neck Carol.”
He sent us to the front desk to pick up a lab order for Guy to take to a local lab for some blood work to see what might be causing the pressure in his head. I thought he was looking at me when he said, “And order her a stress test and an echo.” A sinking feeling weakened my knees. When the nurse didn’t give me an order, I said, “Am I supposed to have some tests, too?” She looked at me puzzled.
“Didn’t he just say for me to have a stress test and an echo?”
“Not you,” she said, “the lady behind you.” I turned around and she smiled.
It was time to head back to Edmonton.
John Denver...The Memorial Service
Those who know me well know what a John Denver fan I am. When he died so tragically in October, 1997, I seriously grieved for the man and the loss of his music. I watched the news as thousands of fans made their pilgrimage to Colorado to pay their respects. I didn’t take my adoration that far; however, but after searching the internet, I did locate several sites in Kentucky where fans were gathering to honor his memory. I wanted to be a part of some type of closure, or thought I did.
I convinced my saintly husband Guy to go with me to Lexington. “We’re going to meet in a park, plant a tree, and then leave.” Simple as that. At this point in our marriage he was used to my outrageous ideas. I contacted the organizer for details and off we went.
Snow fell angelically in the park where we met a group of strangers. Someone brought an engraved stone to place next to the tree we were about to plant. Quite an expensive gesture! An elderly woman made rainbow ribbons for us to wear in memory of John’s hit series for children: The Rainbow Connection. We proudly pinned these rainbow ribbons to our coats, held hands in a circle, and sang, “Sunshine on My Shoulders” as one of the men planted the tree. By then, dusk was creepy across the snow laden sky.
Not that Guy wasn’t already feeling a totally ridiculous, but to make matters worse a news reporter from a local TV station filmed the ceremony for the evening news. “I’m standing in this circle with a bunch of kooks as the TV camera pans the crowd,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth. His fear was that his business associates in Lexington would see this and think he was as loony as the rest of us.
At the close of the memorial, we followed the crowd to a restaurant where the planner had reserved a private room. How could we refuse to go? I assured Guy that we would eat and leave.
As the luncheon progressed, a fan brought out his guitar and began singing, “Annie’s Song.” Some of the women sobbed while others stared into oblivion with no visible emotion. Guy ate his roast beef and watched a goat on a hill outside the window.
One by one each attendee shared John Denver stories. A young woman, being comforted by another, read a letter she had written to John the night of his death, telling of how she had wanted to marry him and have his baby. I knew I had to get out of there fast or Guy was going to leave without me, so I told about being a fan (it was my turn) and then we left.
One the way home, we laughed and promised never to tell anyone about this event. “This is one of your best!” he vowed. I didn’t tell anyone for a long time but eventually found it was too good to keep.
A week or so later, our daughter happened to be in my car looking for something and came into the house carrying our leftover rainbow ribbon pins.
“What is this?” she asked with a smirk.
After I confessed where we had been, she said,”Did you wear these anywhere else?”
“Yeah, we wore them all day. Why?”
“Mom, these are Gay Pride ribbons.”
I would later recognize these ribbons on TV and in movies, but at the time I was clueless.
That story brings me to this. The phone rang about 11:00 one night and Carla said,” Mom, turn on PBS, quickly.”
The channel was running a program on the life and music of John Denver. I admit the loss I still feel is akin to losing someone I knew well. My daughter and son grew up on his music. I still miss his concerts and his TV specials and the way he said “FAR OUT” I’ve moved on to George Strait, but when I hear “Country Road,” my heart grows heavy. When Guy hears John Denver’s name, he thinks of circling a tree in Lexington surrounded by a bunch of nuts. This was one time when he was right.
Those who know me well know what a John Denver fan I am. When he died so tragically in October, 1997, I seriously grieved for the man and the loss of his music. I watched the news as thousands of fans made their pilgrimage to Colorado to pay their respects. I didn’t take my adoration that far; however, but after searching the internet, I did locate several sites in Kentucky where fans were gathering to honor his memory. I wanted to be a part of some type of closure, or thought I did.
I convinced my saintly husband Guy to go with me to Lexington. “We’re going to meet in a park, plant a tree, and then leave.” Simple as that. At this point in our marriage he was used to my outrageous ideas. I contacted the organizer for details and off we went.
Snow fell angelically in the park where we met a group of strangers. Someone brought an engraved stone to place next to the tree we were about to plant. Quite an expensive gesture! An elderly woman made rainbow ribbons for us to wear in memory of John’s hit series for children: The Rainbow Connection. We proudly pinned these rainbow ribbons to our coats, held hands in a circle, and sang, “Sunshine on My Shoulders” as one of the men planted the tree. By then, dusk was creepy across the snow laden sky.
Not that Guy wasn’t already feeling a totally ridiculous, but to make matters worse a news reporter from a local TV station filmed the ceremony for the evening news. “I’m standing in this circle with a bunch of kooks as the TV camera pans the crowd,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth. His fear was that his business associates in Lexington would see this and think he was as loony as the rest of us.
At the close of the memorial, we followed the crowd to a restaurant where the planner had reserved a private room. How could we refuse to go? I assured Guy that we would eat and leave.
As the luncheon progressed, a fan brought out his guitar and began singing, “Annie’s Song.” Some of the women sobbed while others stared into oblivion with no visible emotion. Guy ate his roast beef and watched a goat on a hill outside the window.
One by one each attendee shared John Denver stories. A young woman, being comforted by another, read a letter she had written to John the night of his death, telling of how she had wanted to marry him and have his baby. I knew I had to get out of there fast or Guy was going to leave without me, so I told about being a fan (it was my turn) and then we left.
One the way home, we laughed and promised never to tell anyone about this event. “This is one of your best!” he vowed. I didn’t tell anyone for a long time but eventually found it was too good to keep.
A week or so later, our daughter happened to be in my car looking for something and came into the house carrying our leftover rainbow ribbon pins.
“What is this?” she asked with a smirk.
After I confessed where we had been, she said,”Did you wear these anywhere else?”
“Yeah, we wore them all day. Why?”
“Mom, these are Gay Pride ribbons.”
I would later recognize these ribbons on TV and in movies, but at the time I was clueless.
That story brings me to this. The phone rang about 11:00 one night and Carla said,” Mom, turn on PBS, quickly.”
The channel was running a program on the life and music of John Denver. I admit the loss I still feel is akin to losing someone I knew well. My daughter and son grew up on his music. I still miss his concerts and his TV specials and the way he said “FAR OUT” I’ve moved on to George Strait, but when I hear “Country Road,” my heart grows heavy. When Guy hears John Denver’s name, he thinks of circling a tree in Lexington surrounded by a bunch of nuts. This was one time when he was right.
The Wedding and The Snow by Carol Perkins
Three o’clock and the snow had not stopped. Just the night before, the stars had not indicated bad weather, and the weatherman missed the call. New Year's Eve, 1967, brought one of the biggest snows of the year and created nothing but havoc for my wedding day to follow.
“You’ll just have to call it off,” my mother said as she flung back the curtain to reveal the stillness of the morning as the snow pelted the highway, covering tracks behind a few moving vehicles.
The cake sat in the living room; the dress hung on the back of the door, and not even the snow was going to ruin this day. “We can’t cancel it now!” I said.
Just about that time, Guy called. “I don’t think I can get there.”
He was staying in Barren County with his sister, Carolyn Berry and her family. His parents, stranded in Nicholasville, Kentucky, and his other sister, stranded in Bowling Green, would miss our wedding. However, the groom who had sailed the seven seas surely could find his way out of Barren County. I knew Arnold Berry would ride him out on horseback if necessary.
“You MUST get here,” is all I said. What I didn’t know was the effort it took them to make the thirty miles.
The snow was a gorgeous backdrop for my wedding day, but the obstacles it caused kept it from being the wedding of my dreams. The only family from Guy’s side was his sister and brother-in-law who was the best man. No cousins, aunts, uncles, and friends from his side were able to get there. My extended family showed up because those from out of town had come the night before the wedding and the others lived within a mile of the church. My poor father cleared the steps to the church until he was exhausted and then marched me down the aisle. We were going to Louisville for our honeymoon, but that never happened. We got as far as Glasgow.
Over the last forty-eight years, I have thought about that day and how our life together began. We didn’t know each other very well. We had dated only a few months in high school and after graduation, Guy went to the Navy and I went to Eastern. We made no promises to each other, but we both understood our intentions. I knew I wasn’t looking for anyone else; I assumed he wasn’t either. We wrote letters; he came home on leave a few times a year, and we never talked about whether or not we were dating other people. I can’t explain how we both knew we would eventually marry, but we did. We were so different in most things, but so alike in what mattered.
For years, friends and family would retell the day of our wedding. “Worst snow storm in years!” I now smile when I think of that couple who barely knew each other following the snowplow out of town. It isn’t how big or small, how perfect or imperfect a wedding day is; it is how life progresses after the “I do.” After forty-nine years, we have overcome snowstorms in life and plowed through to the sunny days, but he still reminds me each year how he almost missed our wedding day! I never doubted he would arrive.
“You’ll just have to call it off,” my mother said as she flung back the curtain to reveal the stillness of the morning as the snow pelted the highway, covering tracks behind a few moving vehicles.
The cake sat in the living room; the dress hung on the back of the door, and not even the snow was going to ruin this day. “We can’t cancel it now!” I said.
Just about that time, Guy called. “I don’t think I can get there.”
He was staying in Barren County with his sister, Carolyn Berry and her family. His parents, stranded in Nicholasville, Kentucky, and his other sister, stranded in Bowling Green, would miss our wedding. However, the groom who had sailed the seven seas surely could find his way out of Barren County. I knew Arnold Berry would ride him out on horseback if necessary.
“You MUST get here,” is all I said. What I didn’t know was the effort it took them to make the thirty miles.
The snow was a gorgeous backdrop for my wedding day, but the obstacles it caused kept it from being the wedding of my dreams. The only family from Guy’s side was his sister and brother-in-law who was the best man. No cousins, aunts, uncles, and friends from his side were able to get there. My extended family showed up because those from out of town had come the night before the wedding and the others lived within a mile of the church. My poor father cleared the steps to the church until he was exhausted and then marched me down the aisle. We were going to Louisville for our honeymoon, but that never happened. We got as far as Glasgow.
Over the last forty-eight years, I have thought about that day and how our life together began. We didn’t know each other very well. We had dated only a few months in high school and after graduation, Guy went to the Navy and I went to Eastern. We made no promises to each other, but we both understood our intentions. I knew I wasn’t looking for anyone else; I assumed he wasn’t either. We wrote letters; he came home on leave a few times a year, and we never talked about whether or not we were dating other people. I can’t explain how we both knew we would eventually marry, but we did. We were so different in most things, but so alike in what mattered.
For years, friends and family would retell the day of our wedding. “Worst snow storm in years!” I now smile when I think of that couple who barely knew each other following the snowplow out of town. It isn’t how big or small, how perfect or imperfect a wedding day is; it is how life progresses after the “I do.” After forty-nine years, we have overcome snowstorms in life and plowed through to the sunny days, but he still reminds me each year how he almost missed our wedding day! I never doubted he would arrive.
Fifty Two Gifts and Counting
After forty-eight years of marriage and almost fifty-two years of buying gifts for him, what can I possibly buy for my husband Guy? Tools-he has what he wants and needs; clothes-he has what he wants and needs; lawn care items-he has what he wants and needs. You get the idea!
Over the years, I have given him some memorable gifts-at least to me at the time. However, I can’t remember any of them. Do any of us remember the gifts we have given unless something goes wrong? For example, last year I bought Guy a Masterbuilt Smoker. The reason I can remember this is because it was a fairly recent gift and because it didn’t work after three uses. Actually, it worked one time; the second time it halfway worked and the third time-not at all. I took it back to the store (naturally, I don’t have the receipt-I’m bad about trusting things will work) and without the receipt, the manager would not make an equal exchange but would give me less than half of what I paid for it knowing I bought it less than a year before and at THAT store. Something not quite right about that deal. I must have paid in cash because I can’t find a credit card statement with the amount spent at this store. Lesson Learned. My choices were to take the money or take back the smoker and see if someone can fix it. That is why I remember this gift so well. Does anyone know how to fix a thermostat on a smoker?
One of the worst gifts I ever gave him (and I must have been living in Hollywood land) was a velvet jacket (I think it was red). This was in the seventies when velvet jackets were popular-in Hollywood. In Edmonton, this would have been considered very feminine unless he played in a band. Why I thought this was such a good gift, I don’t know. Needless to say, I took the jacket back and replaced it with something more practical. The look on his face when it opened this gift was a gift in itself!
Golf gadgets and clubs are always welcomed but that would mean he would have to pick out his own. “I don’t want to know what I’m getting,” he declares. I don’t know the first thing about what he has and what he might want. “I’d like a new putter,” he said recently, “but you can’t pick it out.”
“Then you pick it out and I’ll buy it.”
“But then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”
I could no more choose a putter than he could choose a pair of shoes for me or a purse. Women have to pick out their own shoes and handbags!
Giving gifts is rewarding, but buying those gifts is often stressful. What to get a man after all these years? Right now, it may be a surprise to both of us!
After forty-eight years of marriage and almost fifty-two years of buying gifts for him, what can I possibly buy for my husband Guy? Tools-he has what he wants and needs; clothes-he has what he wants and needs; lawn care items-he has what he wants and needs. You get the idea!
Over the years, I have given him some memorable gifts-at least to me at the time. However, I can’t remember any of them. Do any of us remember the gifts we have given unless something goes wrong? For example, last year I bought Guy a Masterbuilt Smoker. The reason I can remember this is because it was a fairly recent gift and because it didn’t work after three uses. Actually, it worked one time; the second time it halfway worked and the third time-not at all. I took it back to the store (naturally, I don’t have the receipt-I’m bad about trusting things will work) and without the receipt, the manager would not make an equal exchange but would give me less than half of what I paid for it knowing I bought it less than a year before and at THAT store. Something not quite right about that deal. I must have paid in cash because I can’t find a credit card statement with the amount spent at this store. Lesson Learned. My choices were to take the money or take back the smoker and see if someone can fix it. That is why I remember this gift so well. Does anyone know how to fix a thermostat on a smoker?
One of the worst gifts I ever gave him (and I must have been living in Hollywood land) was a velvet jacket (I think it was red). This was in the seventies when velvet jackets were popular-in Hollywood. In Edmonton, this would have been considered very feminine unless he played in a band. Why I thought this was such a good gift, I don’t know. Needless to say, I took the jacket back and replaced it with something more practical. The look on his face when it opened this gift was a gift in itself!
Golf gadgets and clubs are always welcomed but that would mean he would have to pick out his own. “I don’t want to know what I’m getting,” he declares. I don’t know the first thing about what he has and what he might want. “I’d like a new putter,” he said recently, “but you can’t pick it out.”
“Then you pick it out and I’ll buy it.”
“But then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”
I could no more choose a putter than he could choose a pair of shoes for me or a purse. Women have to pick out their own shoes and handbags!
Giving gifts is rewarding, but buying those gifts is often stressful. What to get a man after all these years? Right now, it may be a surprise to both of us!
Pole Dancers
Each month a group of my friends and I go out for lunch. I suggested going to Mama Lou’s in Uno because my friend, Marge Kinslow, suggested it. She and I talk occasionally about my articles, and she recommends good places to eat. I passed this along to my friends when we were trying to decide on our November get-together.
We drove in from different areas and met at Mama Lou’s one Thursday for lunch: two came from Russell Springs, one Campbellsville, one Liberty, one Green County, and two from Metcalfe County. Usually, there are three or four more, but this day there were the six of us. As usual the place was packed and as usual, we made a lot of racket with our constant talking and catching up from the previous month.
As we were finishing, two military men came in, sat at the table near us, and said something about how much fun we were having. “You all must be the knitting club,” the older one said sarcastically. (We must have looked like knitters, whatever they look like because not a one in the group, as far as I know, has ever knitted one single thing.) Not to be outdone, one of the ladies, who is very quick witted, shot back.
“Heavens no. We’re retired pole dancers.” That threw him for a loop.
That man almost fell out of his chair, tears of laughter streaming from his eyes. He was laughing so hard napkins stuck to his eyes. Perhaps because the six of us looked more like retired teachers, which some of us are, than pole dancers. Perhaps because the other half looked more like retired state employees, who they are, than pole dancers caused such a reaction. He thought he was being the funny one! If we had been young, perky, and cute, there would have been no humor! The younger soldier with him didn’t know what to say. I could see his mind working; they must have looked a lot different when they were young!
The entire room roared as we all carried our “take out pie” with us through the side door where we continued our socializing and gave other customers a place to sit. Not long after we gathered around the picnic table, the soldiers came out. “See that pole over there,” one of the ladies said, pointing to a security pole that was so large three people could stand with arms stretched around it? He looked. “That’s the type of pole we use!” He shook his head and headed for the car. I’m sure when he returned to post he retold the story of these “little old ladies.”
Mama Lou’s husband came outside. “I have to know what you all were laughing about,” he said. “I was in the back and I heard the place erupt but no one back in the kitchen knew what had happened.” We retold the story.
We will certainly make the trip to Uno again for the delicious food and friendly service. They are not likely to forget the “retired pole dancers” any time soon. (On a good day all of us can walk without limping!) We have learned through many years of being friends (some of us for over 65 years) that when we are together, we are teenagers once again.
Each month a group of my friends and I go out for lunch. I suggested going to Mama Lou’s in Uno because my friend, Marge Kinslow, suggested it. She and I talk occasionally about my articles, and she recommends good places to eat. I passed this along to my friends when we were trying to decide on our November get-together.
We drove in from different areas and met at Mama Lou’s one Thursday for lunch: two came from Russell Springs, one Campbellsville, one Liberty, one Green County, and two from Metcalfe County. Usually, there are three or four more, but this day there were the six of us. As usual the place was packed and as usual, we made a lot of racket with our constant talking and catching up from the previous month.
As we were finishing, two military men came in, sat at the table near us, and said something about how much fun we were having. “You all must be the knitting club,” the older one said sarcastically. (We must have looked like knitters, whatever they look like because not a one in the group, as far as I know, has ever knitted one single thing.) Not to be outdone, one of the ladies, who is very quick witted, shot back.
“Heavens no. We’re retired pole dancers.” That threw him for a loop.
That man almost fell out of his chair, tears of laughter streaming from his eyes. He was laughing so hard napkins stuck to his eyes. Perhaps because the six of us looked more like retired teachers, which some of us are, than pole dancers. Perhaps because the other half looked more like retired state employees, who they are, than pole dancers caused such a reaction. He thought he was being the funny one! If we had been young, perky, and cute, there would have been no humor! The younger soldier with him didn’t know what to say. I could see his mind working; they must have looked a lot different when they were young!
The entire room roared as we all carried our “take out pie” with us through the side door where we continued our socializing and gave other customers a place to sit. Not long after we gathered around the picnic table, the soldiers came out. “See that pole over there,” one of the ladies said, pointing to a security pole that was so large three people could stand with arms stretched around it? He looked. “That’s the type of pole we use!” He shook his head and headed for the car. I’m sure when he returned to post he retold the story of these “little old ladies.”
Mama Lou’s husband came outside. “I have to know what you all were laughing about,” he said. “I was in the back and I heard the place erupt but no one back in the kitchen knew what had happened.” We retold the story.
We will certainly make the trip to Uno again for the delicious food and friendly service. They are not likely to forget the “retired pole dancers” any time soon. (On a good day all of us can walk without limping!) We have learned through many years of being friends (some of us for over 65 years) that when we are together, we are teenagers once again.
The Lizard
Late one night as I was binge watching “Reign” on Netfix, I heard a rustling sound coming from the kitchen. Usually, I brush off sounds without fretting about the source, but this was too loud to ignore. I walked through the kitchen, looking but hoping not to find anything too large to conquer. When I didn’t find a source for the noise, I went back to the TV and my recliner. Then I heard it again.
From my chair I can see the major part of the kitchen, so I glanced through the dividing doors and there it was, staring at me. A lizard! I am not comfortable with lizards or snakes, no matter how innocent they may be; so I lower my chair and looked for a weapon close at hand. I could find nothing but a magazine. By the time I rolled up a magazine and bent over to kill the creature, it would be gone and then I would have to search for it. I put down the magazine and tiptoed to the utility room for a broom. By the time I got back in sight of the lizard’s spot, it was gone. Now I had a real problem. A lizard is one thing but a hidden lizard brings on a new set of problems. I was not going to be able to go to bed with a loose lizard in the house.
I sat with my broom and waited for the lizard to reappear, but it was smart. I don’t know where it was hiding, but it wasn’t coming out. I could either sit up all night watching for it or go to bed and hope it found its way outside. How it got in was another of my concerns, but if it got in maybe it could remember how to get out. With that thought satisfying me, I went to bed and tried to forget about the lizard.
The next morning when I went to the kitchen to make coffee, there it was. Right in the middle of the floor, staring at me again. Our eyes met and mine signaled I wasn’t through with him. With broom in hand, I began to swat at him and he headed for the floor vent. Half way in with nothing but its tail in view, I had a choice. I could grab its tail and throw him out the door or hope he goes through the vent. I didn’t want to touch it.
He backed out of the vent and slithered toward the breakfast area where I planned to corner him. The limp broom was not stout enough for killing, so I picked up my floor steamer and once cornered him, I blotted him out like a rubber stamp. Wham! The tail danced across the floor while the body went belly up with its blue stomach in sight. I swept both out the back door.
When Guy called home from his business trip, I told him about the lizard. “It wouldn’t have hurt you,” he said. This was coming from a man who would push me in front of a snake.
Any child would have caught the lizard and thrown it out the door to reunite with its family. However, the only good lizard for me is a dead one.
Late one night as I was binge watching “Reign” on Netfix, I heard a rustling sound coming from the kitchen. Usually, I brush off sounds without fretting about the source, but this was too loud to ignore. I walked through the kitchen, looking but hoping not to find anything too large to conquer. When I didn’t find a source for the noise, I went back to the TV and my recliner. Then I heard it again.
From my chair I can see the major part of the kitchen, so I glanced through the dividing doors and there it was, staring at me. A lizard! I am not comfortable with lizards or snakes, no matter how innocent they may be; so I lower my chair and looked for a weapon close at hand. I could find nothing but a magazine. By the time I rolled up a magazine and bent over to kill the creature, it would be gone and then I would have to search for it. I put down the magazine and tiptoed to the utility room for a broom. By the time I got back in sight of the lizard’s spot, it was gone. Now I had a real problem. A lizard is one thing but a hidden lizard brings on a new set of problems. I was not going to be able to go to bed with a loose lizard in the house.
I sat with my broom and waited for the lizard to reappear, but it was smart. I don’t know where it was hiding, but it wasn’t coming out. I could either sit up all night watching for it or go to bed and hope it found its way outside. How it got in was another of my concerns, but if it got in maybe it could remember how to get out. With that thought satisfying me, I went to bed and tried to forget about the lizard.
The next morning when I went to the kitchen to make coffee, there it was. Right in the middle of the floor, staring at me again. Our eyes met and mine signaled I wasn’t through with him. With broom in hand, I began to swat at him and he headed for the floor vent. Half way in with nothing but its tail in view, I had a choice. I could grab its tail and throw him out the door or hope he goes through the vent. I didn’t want to touch it.
He backed out of the vent and slithered toward the breakfast area where I planned to corner him. The limp broom was not stout enough for killing, so I picked up my floor steamer and once cornered him, I blotted him out like a rubber stamp. Wham! The tail danced across the floor while the body went belly up with its blue stomach in sight. I swept both out the back door.
When Guy called home from his business trip, I told him about the lizard. “It wouldn’t have hurt you,” he said. This was coming from a man who would push me in front of a snake.
Any child would have caught the lizard and thrown it out the door to reunite with its family. However, the only good lizard for me is a dead one.
A Johnny Rodrigouez Spotting
Almost every time I travel by plane, I have a celebrity spotting. This time, however, Guy spotted first. We were coming home from his annual business trip to an industrial show in Las Vegas, and I noticed this guy who took a seat behind me but didn’t recognize him. He had “star power” in his looks, but so many travelers headed to Nashville have that look, especially if carrying a guitar.
Guy was sitting across the aisle from me, so when the flight ended Guy stood leaned over the man behind me and said, “Aren’t you Johnny Rodriguez?
“Yes, sir, I am.” They shook hands.
Guy told him how much he liked his music, especially “Desperado.” By then, I had joined the conversation when Guy asked him if he ever knew Lonzo and Oscar? Of course, he did and even hung out with them behind stage at the Opry. “I was so young,” he said, “that all those stars used me to be their runner. Later, I was playing with them on stages! They called me …. ant!” It was actually Bobby Bare and Tom T. Hall who encouraged him to come from Texas to Nashville after hearing him play. A small man in stature, but a giant in the music world, especially in the 70’s and 80’s, he recorded fifteen number one hits.
Guy continued, “Do you know the Kentucky Headhunters?” He lit up. “Of course I do. I’ve played with those guys.” He went on to describe Richard with the big hair and Fred with the sideburns. Then Guy told him I was their English teacher. “My favorite teacher was my English teacher,” he said.
He was in Nashville to do a host of TV interviews having just done a gig in Utah the night before. “Somebody who calls himself Mr. Nashville is interviewing me. I don’t know who he is, but he must be somebody special to call himself that.” Then he laughed all over. That was when Guy said, “You should do Carol’s radio show!”
“You have a radio show?” Suddenly I was famous.
“Yes, just a small station in Cave City.”
“I’ve been to Cave City,” he said. “Went through that Cave with a girl I was dating there. She dumped me.” He laughed again. (I think he has been married three times.) “That cave wasn’t very large best I remember.”
“You must have been in one of the smaller ones,” I said. “Maybe you just thought you were in Mammoth Cave!” He gave another big laugh.
“I would love to do your show. Just text me.” Then he wrote his cell phone number on a piece of paper I dug out of my purse. All of this occurred while we were waiting to get off the plane. Later, while waiting for our luggage, a nice young man came up and asked, “Do you mind if I ask you who you were talking to?” He didn’t know Johnny Rodriguez, but I told him to Google him.
Stars from his generation are still as dynamic as they once were. They have a string of hits that people like Guy and me still want to hear. At running the risk of sounding my age, most of these singers of the last ten years all sound alike. They have no specific sound the way Johnny Cash did or Willie Nelson or Dolly Parton or---Johnny Rodrigeuz.
I look forward to interviewing him and hope he answers his phone when I call.
Guy was sitting across the aisle from me, so when the flight ended Guy stood leaned over the man behind me and said, “Aren’t you Johnny Rodriguez?
“Yes, sir, I am.” They shook hands.
Guy told him how much he liked his music, especially “Desperado.” By then, I had joined the conversation when Guy asked him if he ever knew Lonzo and Oscar? Of course, he did and even hung out with them behind stage at the Opry. “I was so young,” he said, “that all those stars used me to be their runner. Later, I was playing with them on stages! They called me …. ant!” It was actually Bobby Bare and Tom T. Hall who encouraged him to come from Texas to Nashville after hearing him play. A small man in stature, but a giant in the music world, especially in the 70’s and 80’s, he recorded fifteen number one hits.
Guy continued, “Do you know the Kentucky Headhunters?” He lit up. “Of course I do. I’ve played with those guys.” He went on to describe Richard with the big hair and Fred with the sideburns. Then Guy told him I was their English teacher. “My favorite teacher was my English teacher,” he said.
He was in Nashville to do a host of TV interviews having just done a gig in Utah the night before. “Somebody who calls himself Mr. Nashville is interviewing me. I don’t know who he is, but he must be somebody special to call himself that.” Then he laughed all over. That was when Guy said, “You should do Carol’s radio show!”
“You have a radio show?” Suddenly I was famous.
“Yes, just a small station in Cave City.”
“I’ve been to Cave City,” he said. “Went through that Cave with a girl I was dating there. She dumped me.” He laughed again. (I think he has been married three times.) “That cave wasn’t very large best I remember.”
“You must have been in one of the smaller ones,” I said. “Maybe you just thought you were in Mammoth Cave!” He gave another big laugh.
“I would love to do your show. Just text me.” Then he wrote his cell phone number on a piece of paper I dug out of my purse. All of this occurred while we were waiting to get off the plane. Later, while waiting for our luggage, a nice young man came up and asked, “Do you mind if I ask you who you were talking to?” He didn’t know Johnny Rodriguez, but I told him to Google him.
Stars from his generation are still as dynamic as they once were. They have a string of hits that people like Guy and me still want to hear. At running the risk of sounding my age, most of these singers of the last ten years all sound alike. They have no specific sound the way Johnny Cash did or Willie Nelson or Dolly Parton or---Johnny Rodrigeuz.
I look forward to interviewing him and hope he answers his phone when I call.
A Serving of "Baloney" from my newspaper articles
As most who know him will attest to, Guy is usually a laid back kind of “guy.” Only when he has had it “up to here” does he lose his patience. This has happened twice in the last month, which concerns me that he might get stuck this way.
The first occurred on a business trip. He had gone into a chain restaurant for a steak. After being seated and studying the menu, he waited for his server. He waited and waited. He shuffled his menu, hoping to attract attention from one of the many servers he said were “just standing around.” After twenty minutes of being ignored, he laid the menu down and walked to the entrance where a friendly hostess asked how his meal was. After all, she evidently thought he had been there long enough to eat. Of course, this lit him like a firecracker.
“I’m sure it would have been a good one, but I was never waited on.”
“Oh sir, we’re so sorry. Please let us tend to you now.”
“I waited twenty minutes, so I don’t think I want to sit back down. I’ll go across the street where I’m sure they will appreciate my business.”
I said, “Guy, surely you didn’t say that.”
“I could have said more, but I decided I’d made my point.”
The servers probably gathered and talked about the rude man who said he didn’t get waited on for twenty minutes, doubting his story.
The next event occurred in my presence. We were in Bowling Green, and before going home I love to get “ice cream” at a certain place that boasts about making the food as it is ordered so it is fresh. I ordered my concoction while Guy asked for two scoops of chocolate. Nothing fancy for him! There were two cars ahead of us, so I knew by the time we reached the window he would be antsy. Waiting is not his forte.
Once to the window, the server handed my order to Guy and then handed him his two scoops. Guy looked at me in a childlike way and said, “Look how this is running down the sides.”
“Hand it back and tell her you want a new one.” It had obviously been dipped two cars back.
“This one is running down the cone; could you give me a new one?” He was nice to the server.
She took the cone and disappeared. In a few minutes, she came back with the same cone, which was by now running down on her hand. She said, “The manager said that all our chocolate melts like this.” I couldn’t believe any manager told a server to carry a melted ice cream cone back to a window and tell that to a customer.
Instead of asking to see the manager, which I would have done, Guy simply said, “I tell you what; you just keep the ice cream.” Off he drove, leaving the girl in the window quite perplexed. I felt sorry for her.
“Guy, you just drove off after paying for that ice cream!” I would never have done that.
“By then I didn’t want it.”
We later laughed about what the manager had told the poor girl to tell us. She knew that wasn’t the truth, and he knew all his chocolate didn’t come out of the tubs of ice cream in the frozen display-melted.
The older both of us get the less tolerance we have for baloney. What am I saying? We never have had much tolerance for baloney. The trouble is there is so much of it being served.
The first occurred on a business trip. He had gone into a chain restaurant for a steak. After being seated and studying the menu, he waited for his server. He waited and waited. He shuffled his menu, hoping to attract attention from one of the many servers he said were “just standing around.” After twenty minutes of being ignored, he laid the menu down and walked to the entrance where a friendly hostess asked how his meal was. After all, she evidently thought he had been there long enough to eat. Of course, this lit him like a firecracker.
“I’m sure it would have been a good one, but I was never waited on.”
“Oh sir, we’re so sorry. Please let us tend to you now.”
“I waited twenty minutes, so I don’t think I want to sit back down. I’ll go across the street where I’m sure they will appreciate my business.”
I said, “Guy, surely you didn’t say that.”
“I could have said more, but I decided I’d made my point.”
The servers probably gathered and talked about the rude man who said he didn’t get waited on for twenty minutes, doubting his story.
The next event occurred in my presence. We were in Bowling Green, and before going home I love to get “ice cream” at a certain place that boasts about making the food as it is ordered so it is fresh. I ordered my concoction while Guy asked for two scoops of chocolate. Nothing fancy for him! There were two cars ahead of us, so I knew by the time we reached the window he would be antsy. Waiting is not his forte.
Once to the window, the server handed my order to Guy and then handed him his two scoops. Guy looked at me in a childlike way and said, “Look how this is running down the sides.”
“Hand it back and tell her you want a new one.” It had obviously been dipped two cars back.
“This one is running down the cone; could you give me a new one?” He was nice to the server.
She took the cone and disappeared. In a few minutes, she came back with the same cone, which was by now running down on her hand. She said, “The manager said that all our chocolate melts like this.” I couldn’t believe any manager told a server to carry a melted ice cream cone back to a window and tell that to a customer.
Instead of asking to see the manager, which I would have done, Guy simply said, “I tell you what; you just keep the ice cream.” Off he drove, leaving the girl in the window quite perplexed. I felt sorry for her.
“Guy, you just drove off after paying for that ice cream!” I would never have done that.
“By then I didn’t want it.”
We later laughed about what the manager had told the poor girl to tell us. She knew that wasn’t the truth, and he knew all his chocolate didn’t come out of the tubs of ice cream in the frozen display-melted.
The older both of us get the less tolerance we have for baloney. What am I saying? We never have had much tolerance for baloney. The trouble is there is so much of it being served.
Looking for the Microwave from my Glasgow Daily Times Articles
Guy travels with his job so he most often will use Priceline for finding good deals on lodging. Most of the time he will end up in a Holiday Inn Express or an equivalent, but this time was a huge surprise. He would be staying at the Renaissance Resort at Ross Bridge in Birmingham. This just happens to be a famous course where the Champion Tour is played. Since he is a golfer, he was impressed to be right there where the seniors played. The area was also surrounded with shopping places in what was called The Village. I could see myself strolling from shop to shop. Instead, I was home watching a Hallmark movie.
When he came home he had a story to tell. He really didn’t want to tell me but it was just too good to keep. It is so good I need to share with you.
He had dined in a rather nice restaurant and returned to his room to watch TV. This is a typical night for Guy whether at home or on the road. Not the fine dining but the routine. His room was more like a small apartment. A refrigerator and sitting area and a kitchen area for the home away from home experience were more than he needed but once in awhile it is nice to be surrounded in luxury.
Around nine o’clock he is in the habit of having popcorn. He looked around but didn’t find any complimentary popcorn (I would assume the hotel management did not want the smell of popcorn wafting through the halls of their fine hotel) but that didn’t occur to Guy. What did occur to him was that he had saved a bag of microwave popcorn from another hotel at another time, so he happily retrieved it.
The microwave, according to Guy, was located above the refrigerator as many of them are in other hotels. He opened the door and put the bag inside but noticed that there was no “popcorn” button like we have at home on our microwave. “Around three minutes should do it,” he thought, so he pushed the three and two zeros. Then he looked for the start button but couldn’t find it.
“I knew I better get my glasses at this point if I wanted to see how to operate this thing,” he said, building up to the climax of the story. I was clueless where this was headed.
“I put on my glasses and went back to what I thought was the microwave but soon realized this wasn’t a microwave at all.”
Guy had tried to pop his popcorn in the room safe.
When he came home he had a story to tell. He really didn’t want to tell me but it was just too good to keep. It is so good I need to share with you.
He had dined in a rather nice restaurant and returned to his room to watch TV. This is a typical night for Guy whether at home or on the road. Not the fine dining but the routine. His room was more like a small apartment. A refrigerator and sitting area and a kitchen area for the home away from home experience were more than he needed but once in awhile it is nice to be surrounded in luxury.
Around nine o’clock he is in the habit of having popcorn. He looked around but didn’t find any complimentary popcorn (I would assume the hotel management did not want the smell of popcorn wafting through the halls of their fine hotel) but that didn’t occur to Guy. What did occur to him was that he had saved a bag of microwave popcorn from another hotel at another time, so he happily retrieved it.
The microwave, according to Guy, was located above the refrigerator as many of them are in other hotels. He opened the door and put the bag inside but noticed that there was no “popcorn” button like we have at home on our microwave. “Around three minutes should do it,” he thought, so he pushed the three and two zeros. Then he looked for the start button but couldn’t find it.
“I knew I better get my glasses at this point if I wanted to see how to operate this thing,” he said, building up to the climax of the story. I was clueless where this was headed.
“I put on my glasses and went back to what I thought was the microwave but soon realized this wasn’t a microwave at all.”
Guy had tried to pop his popcorn in the room safe.
"The Land of My Ancestry"
Guy is a good driver. He has driven thousands and thousands of miles because his job requires travel. If a person can drive through Atlanta, he can drive anywhere. However, there is a vast difference between Atlanta and Dublin where we landed for our “driving tour” through Ireland, a trip he had wanted to take for years and the home of my father, Henry Sullivan.
My first concern was that Guy would be driving on the “wrong” side of the road. “No problem,” he said. Next, the stirring wheel was on the “wrong” side of the car. “I can adapt,” he assured me. I trusted that he could, but I was still nervous.
We (our grandson Luke was with us) arrived in Dublin at five in the morning and by 6:00 we were in our rental car headed toward our hotel, located in the busiest section of the city. As we departed, the clouds opened with a slight drizzle. “Where are the wipers? I can’t find the wipers!” he said in a panic. He was trying to navigate with no vision while I was listening to the GPS speak “Irish” when the drizzle turns into a downpour. Suddenly, we came to a very long tunnel that allowed him to see the highway and by some miracle find the wipers.
Not knowing if we were even going in the right direction, he continued straight ahead, which led to a toll booth. He drove through an open lane only to discover no one was attending that booth, and because we had no Euros to toss in the basket, he had no choice but to back up and go to another one. As he was backing this small version of an SUV, I heard an unmistakable sound of metal scraping metal. He had just sideswiped the passenger side of the car against a barricade. We continued toward the city without looking at the damage. By then, I had gripped my door handle so tightly my knuckles were throbbing.
There are no street signs in Dublin. I should say there are none as we see them in the states; signs were posted on sides of buildings and in the rain, impossible to see. Therefore, we couldn’t find our hotel; so Guy asked five people (a garbage collector we stumbled upon down an alley, a taxi driver, a pedestrian, a garage attendant, and a delivery man.) He would get out, listen to the directions, and then come back to the car and say, “I couldn’t understand a word he said.”
As we circled the same statue at least five times, a cab driver pulled up beside us and pointed to our bumper. I rolled down the window. “You’re going to lose it.” Guy had already “Lost it!” but not the bumper. He found a place to pull over, popped the bumper back into place and observed just a small scratch that he hoped would go unnoticed.
Finally, traveling down a cobblestone street at seven in the morning, we stumbled upon our hotel. Naturally, we couldn’t check in that early, so we unloaded, had breakfast, and by nine we were on a Hop-on and Hop-off tour of the city. We didn’t hop on or off! When that tour ended, we checked into the hotel-dead tired. “Let’s rest a little while and then we have reservations for Irish storytelling and dinner,” I said setting my phone alarm.
We woke up at midnight, rolled over, and didn’t wake up until the next morning. Guy said, “I didn’t want to do that anyway!” I don’t remember turning off the phone.
By then, our thirteen-year-old grandson, Luke, knew he was on an adventure with his grandparents he would never forget.
(Continued)
My new book, A Girl Named Connie, is available on Amazon, the Lighthouse Restaurant, and the Edmonton/Metcalfe Chamber of Commerce office.
My first concern was that Guy would be driving on the “wrong” side of the road. “No problem,” he said. Next, the stirring wheel was on the “wrong” side of the car. “I can adapt,” he assured me. I trusted that he could, but I was still nervous.
We (our grandson Luke was with us) arrived in Dublin at five in the morning and by 6:00 we were in our rental car headed toward our hotel, located in the busiest section of the city. As we departed, the clouds opened with a slight drizzle. “Where are the wipers? I can’t find the wipers!” he said in a panic. He was trying to navigate with no vision while I was listening to the GPS speak “Irish” when the drizzle turns into a downpour. Suddenly, we came to a very long tunnel that allowed him to see the highway and by some miracle find the wipers.
Not knowing if we were even going in the right direction, he continued straight ahead, which led to a toll booth. He drove through an open lane only to discover no one was attending that booth, and because we had no Euros to toss in the basket, he had no choice but to back up and go to another one. As he was backing this small version of an SUV, I heard an unmistakable sound of metal scraping metal. He had just sideswiped the passenger side of the car against a barricade. We continued toward the city without looking at the damage. By then, I had gripped my door handle so tightly my knuckles were throbbing.
There are no street signs in Dublin. I should say there are none as we see them in the states; signs were posted on sides of buildings and in the rain, impossible to see. Therefore, we couldn’t find our hotel; so Guy asked five people (a garbage collector we stumbled upon down an alley, a taxi driver, a pedestrian, a garage attendant, and a delivery man.) He would get out, listen to the directions, and then come back to the car and say, “I couldn’t understand a word he said.”
As we circled the same statue at least five times, a cab driver pulled up beside us and pointed to our bumper. I rolled down the window. “You’re going to lose it.” Guy had already “Lost it!” but not the bumper. He found a place to pull over, popped the bumper back into place and observed just a small scratch that he hoped would go unnoticed.
Finally, traveling down a cobblestone street at seven in the morning, we stumbled upon our hotel. Naturally, we couldn’t check in that early, so we unloaded, had breakfast, and by nine we were on a Hop-on and Hop-off tour of the city. We didn’t hop on or off! When that tour ended, we checked into the hotel-dead tired. “Let’s rest a little while and then we have reservations for Irish storytelling and dinner,” I said setting my phone alarm.
We woke up at midnight, rolled over, and didn’t wake up until the next morning. Guy said, “I didn’t want to do that anyway!” I don’t remember turning off the phone.
By then, our thirteen-year-old grandson, Luke, knew he was on an adventure with his grandparents he would never forget.
(Continued)
My new book, A Girl Named Connie, is available on Amazon, the Lighthouse Restaurant, and the Edmonton/Metcalfe Chamber of Commerce office.
Watermelon and summer. It is hard to think of one without the other. When I was very young, watermelons took the place of cakes and pies, both of which we seldom had. We had watermelon in the summer and hot chocolate and toast in the winter. Those were desserts and good ones, too.
I never think of watermelons that I don’t think of Beech Bend Park. Once or twice during the summer, the family (extended as well as immediate) spread out a picnic lunch under a big oak tree near the river. At the end of the meal, men flipped open their pocket knives and sliced pieces of watermelon that were usually placed on newspapers for a quick clean up. The little ones would sink their faces into the watermelon, but the men would cut off hunks with their knives. Women usually used forks and tried not to get the juice all over their peddle-pushers (pants).
The bigger boys had seed spitting contests. They would throw their heads to the side and try to sling each seed farther than the last person. Seeds were nuisances to us girls, so we flicked them aside with our fingers as if they were ants. Sometimes the boys would throw the rinds at each other, starting a war among the trees. Mothers soon put a stop to that while fathers laughed at their antics. “Somebody’s gonna get hurt,” I can hear my grandmother saying as they chased each other.
These watermelons, most likely, were not “store bought” or seedless. Most in the group raised gardens and always planted watermelons at the end of the patch, so the vines would not overcome the rest of the vegetables. At picnic time, they would go through the garden and thump on several before they found the ripest ones. I still thump watermelons in the grocery store.
Watermelons are still a part of family gatherings. They are the “fly catchers” of the picnic. If you have sliced watermelon on your wagon, the flies swarm toward that end of the wagon. Eating a big juicy piece with one hand and swatting flies with the other is an art. Speaking of juicy, watermelons are 91% water.
Summer means many things, but it is not really summertime until we see trucks overloaded with watermelons going through town or setting up on the square. Until we can go to the Farmer’s Market and find “homegrown ones.” It isn’t summer until we slice one open over the sink and cut out the heart (that’s my favorite part) or slice it into small bites and eat it over the sink, which is what Guy does. Then we spend the rest of the night running to the bathroom! Watermelon, watermelon, watermelon rind….what was that rhyme?
I never think of watermelons that I don’t think of Beech Bend Park. Once or twice during the summer, the family (extended as well as immediate) spread out a picnic lunch under a big oak tree near the river. At the end of the meal, men flipped open their pocket knives and sliced pieces of watermelon that were usually placed on newspapers for a quick clean up. The little ones would sink their faces into the watermelon, but the men would cut off hunks with their knives. Women usually used forks and tried not to get the juice all over their peddle-pushers (pants).
The bigger boys had seed spitting contests. They would throw their heads to the side and try to sling each seed farther than the last person. Seeds were nuisances to us girls, so we flicked them aside with our fingers as if they were ants. Sometimes the boys would throw the rinds at each other, starting a war among the trees. Mothers soon put a stop to that while fathers laughed at their antics. “Somebody’s gonna get hurt,” I can hear my grandmother saying as they chased each other.
These watermelons, most likely, were not “store bought” or seedless. Most in the group raised gardens and always planted watermelons at the end of the patch, so the vines would not overcome the rest of the vegetables. At picnic time, they would go through the garden and thump on several before they found the ripest ones. I still thump watermelons in the grocery store.
Watermelons are still a part of family gatherings. They are the “fly catchers” of the picnic. If you have sliced watermelon on your wagon, the flies swarm toward that end of the wagon. Eating a big juicy piece with one hand and swatting flies with the other is an art. Speaking of juicy, watermelons are 91% water.
Summer means many things, but it is not really summertime until we see trucks overloaded with watermelons going through town or setting up on the square. Until we can go to the Farmer’s Market and find “homegrown ones.” It isn’t summer until we slice one open over the sink and cut out the heart (that’s my favorite part) or slice it into small bites and eat it over the sink, which is what Guy does. Then we spend the rest of the night running to the bathroom! Watermelon, watermelon, watermelon rind….what was that rhyme?