Category: Living my Life

Yesterday at the UMY (United Methodist Youth) yard sale, I spotted a piece of wood carved in the shape of a pistol. On the butt of the gun was fastened a clothes pin, the type with a spring, so that when one squeezed the ‘trigger’ one also applied pressure on the  wooden pin attached to the handle.  I knew what sort of toy this was, so I bought it to take home to show my youngest son.  I wondered if he knew what it was, but when he saw it, he said, “Oh a rubber band gun.”

When I was a child most boys had one of these (girls didn’t) – larger, probably made from a 2×4 piece of wood. We called them ‘rubber guns’ because the projectiles they fired were made from sliced inner tubes and when they struck their mark they left a whelp as thick as your finger. Both my brothers had this particular weapon, as I remember, and though Mother admonished them to not point it at people … well … how do you think I know about the wound it left?

Having been the victim, I wanted to be the victimizer. So one day I found one of the unattended guns and attempted to load it. I had seen my brothers hook the piece of rubber on the barrel, pulling it out the length of the wood until it was held in place tightly with the clothes pin.  I tried this, but because the strip of inner tube needed to stretch about twice as far as it was ever meant to, it wasn’t as easy as it looked. The rubber slipped off the end of the gun and slapped me on the side of my face. When Mother noticed the red mark, this caused some questions and brought the pronouncement that I could have put my eye out.

I suppose this is the basis of my lack of interest, avoidance really, of any sort of weaponry. I don’t want to put meaning to the words, “This will hurt me more than it does you.”

Across the USA, virtually every city sitting on a river enjoys some sort of River Celebration.  The first I remember attending was the HemisFair, in San Antonio, Texas in 1968.  They had cleaned and spiffed up the banks of the river that runs through town, built a huge tower (Tower of the Americas) and put up hundreds of exhibits, because this was after all, not a State Exposition, but rather an international one.  I don’t know if this was the beginning of the River celebrations, but it does seem that after that, cities with rivers running through began to take advantage of that natural attraction.  Nashville, Chattanooga, Little Rock, and several others have, during the past 20 years or so, begun to hold their own version of Riverfest.

And so it was that last weekend I took myself to Riverfest in Clarksville, Tennessee, to hear my grandson Stephen’s band play in one of the venues.  Clarksville sits just north of Nashville on the Cumberland River.  It’s a sprawling college town, home of Austin Peay University.  My granddaughter, Stephen’s sister, lives in Clarksville and other family members and friends met there to have a weekend together and visit Riverfest. And so, we gathered with in the Saturday night crowd to hear the “Technikillers.” (Actually, the Technikillers are well known and appreciated around middle Tennessee, staying busy most weekends.)

This band plays what is called ‘experimental’ music. I have to admit that often I didn’t understand what they were doing, but I could fully appreciate the talent it took to do it.  Stephen and his partner, Rusty, have been playing together for over ten years. This was evident when I watched them as they ‘experimented’ in key/rhythm/mode. Suddenly, they make eye contact and move together to the next. While sometimes their music sounded all over the place to me, I could see/hear that they were together. That is really amazing when fingers, guitar picks and drumsticks are moving quite rapidly.

Sometimes it’s a challenge to appreciate what we don’t understand. It’s much easier to toss it out as unworthy of our time. Whatever. That’s my grandson up there and I’m proud of him.  

It was a great weekend.

My mother’s name was Anna. That is a wonderful name to have. Do you know how many people are named after her?  Off the top of my head, I can think of 14-15.

Not one single person is named after me. Well, let’s face it. I don’t have that sort of name. My middle name is Wendell. I was named for a beloved aunt who was named for Oliver Wendell Holmes, who my grandfather admired. That aunt’s husband was Theodore, which is the masculine form of Dorothy (think about it), so I guess I was named for both of them.

Dorothy is a grand old name … well, the song says “Mary” but still. The fact is, Dorothy has become an old fashioned name, as Sarah or Hannah used to be. The top three choices of girls names in 2009 were Isabella, Emma and Olivia.  Anna was number 29 and Dorothy did not even make the list of the top 50. (www.parent.com)

In my baby book it says that Mother chose my name because of its meaning – which is “a gift of God.”  As the third baby born during the Great Depression, I appreciate my mother’s outlook.

Someday, generations from now when my name is found in old family records, perhaps it will leap back into favor. Pre-pre-K classes will be filled with little Dorothys and Dots and I will look down from heaven and say “Finally!”

My daughter and I spent Saturday in the flea markets – three of the several in my small town and others around Central Arkansas. We experienced “antique stores” that were really flea markets and “flea markets” full of old, potentially valuable, hidden treasures.

I have to say right here that my china, circa 1952, must be rare beyond compare. I have looked for several years hoping to replace some broken pieces but have never seen my pattern hidden away amongst the other dishes.  But I digress.

I love browsing through these stores, though I’ve never collected antiques. I like to look at the arrays of old books and music, or poke in the vintage ricers, dicers and whips, remembering the things my mother had in her kitchen. Occasionally, I buy a small token that brings a memory.

Like a metal top, a child’s toy with a handle you push to make the top spin rapidly. Or an old Prince Albert can. My dad was a heavy smoker for many years and often rolled his own, probably to save money.  Later when filter tips came in, I think he continued the habit because he preferred the taste of the pure tobacco.

Dad was always very comfortable with who he was, and in the 70’s there were hardly any smoking bans. Once, on a business trip to New York City, he drew smiles and curious looks when passersby saw the distinguished business man in a three-piece suit pull out cigarette papers and the makings and light up what looked for all the world like a joint. (or so they tell me.)

In 1995 I was in a car wreck. It amazes me now to think that happened 15 years ago. We were crossing a state highway in East Tennessee and a pick-up broadsided the passenger door, where I was sitting working a crossword puzzle.

Let me say here we were technically at fault. The truck, which we didn’t see at first, had the right of way. Because the visibility at that intersection was so poor, the accident was ruled “no fault.” We weren’t ticketed but also there was no big financial settlement. (People always want to know this.)

The big farm truck lay down no skid marks before it plowed into our car. I wish I knew he had at least TRIED to avoid hitting me. I also wonder if he was even mildly curious about the welfare of the woman who was life-flighted to a Knoxville hospital.  Or if he was only bothered about the dent in his front bumper, which my insurance repaired.

Diagnosed with a broken pelvis, I spent time in a hospital, a hospital bed, a wheelchair, on a walker and a cane before I went back to work two months later. Here are some lessons learned from that experience:

The value of good insurance. My wonderful State of Tennessee Blue Cross paid 95% of my hospital bill and wonderful Geico paid the value of my car and never raised my rates. I had enough sick days banked to see me through.

Just a bit about being handicapped. A server in the mall cafeteria asked my daughter what I wanted to eat (like I couldn’t hear or speak). An automatic door closed on me. I missed singing the Christmas cantata.  Most choir lofts are not handicap accessible.

Another lesson about children. Our six-year-old boy was in the back seat. He was unhurt, but told his aunt it was his fault. He had been playing with his action figures and “probably making too much noise.”  Why do children blame themselves no matter how far fetched the scenario?

The sustaining grace of intercessory prayer. As news of my accident spread to family and friends I was placed on prayer lists. By Sunday, I knew I was being lifted in prayer in 10 different congregations (that I know of) from three denominations. I felt confident this would not be a permanent injury – I would recover completely. And that’s exactly what happened.