It's Been 12 Years . . .

            Today marks 12 years since Dad died. 

           Just the other night, several of us were sharing some funny stories about Dad, and we laughed ‘til we had tears running down our faces.

            We talked about the old green Studebaker Dad used to drive.  Well, actually, it wasn’t just green.  Dad had used a spray gun not far from the car to paint something white.  While he worked on whatever that creation was, white paint splattered onto the Studebaker, changing it from solid green to green with white dots all over.  He left it that way.

            And the outside of the Studebaker was the better part of the car. 

            Once the door to the car opened, one could see an emptiness – of sorts.  Dad had removed the back seat from the car.  What this meant was that we children had to either stand in the back or sit on the floor when we rode in that car.  Yes, this was before seatbelts and other modern conveniences. 

            We also had an old Pontiac convertible.  Or perhaps it was an Oldsmobile.  I just remember it was from the late 50s or very early 60s; it was tan; and it was l-0-n-g, like most cars of that era.  There was an expanse of tan between the back seat and the trunk. 

            And it was in the trunk that Dad had placed the old back seat that came out of the green-and-white Studebaker.  Dad had removed the cover or top of the trunk from the long convertible and put the Studebaker’s old bench seat in that empty cavity.  When we rode in that green seat way back in the trunk area, it was like traveling in a separate vehicle; we were that far away from the driver!

            Yep, as Mom said the other night, Dad is still keeping us laughing 12 years after his death.

Where Have All The Flowers Gone?

           Remember the song “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?”

            Sure you do.  It was a popular folk song in the 1960s.

            The song crossed my mind this week as I was thinking about next Tuesday.  What’s next Tuesday?  It’s 9/11.  It’s the 11^th anniversary of the several tragedies we collectively call 9/11: the twin towers in New York, the Pentagon, Shanksville (PA) and the whole country. 

            I remember the hours following the New York events, then the days followings, and then the weeks following.  There were flags everywhere.  “Old Glory” was on lapel pins, car windows, front yards.  We proudly flew our flags; we waved them; we wore them; we showed our colors, proclaiming we would cower to no one. 

            And now, I wonder: Where have all the flags gone?  Where are the lapel pins? 

            For months after 9/11 we displayed signs that said “Never forget.”  Somehow, they seem to have disappeared. 

            But have we forgotten?  Have our flags gone to closets everyone?

            I hope not.  I hope the horror of 9/11 does not fade with time.  Sure, we all want the pain and grief borne by the thousands of surviving family members to become easier to bear as time passes. 

            At the same time, though, we, as citizens of the greatest country and with our varying opinions and views, must be together as Americans. 

            While the lapel pins and flags are only symbols of our nation, we must not toss them aside or hide them.  We should show our colors as reminders to ourselves and to our neighbors.

            Otherwise, when will we ever learn?  When will we ever learn?

 

 

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Just Like Old Times?

            We never stop learning, and that’s a good thing.  And sometimes we can be quite surprised by what we learned.

            Just recently, our high school class marked 45 years since graduation.  Many members of the Lexington High School Class of ’67 gathered, some with spouses, some without.

            Unfortunately, we didn’t have any of our teachers with us but we did have our principal, Joe Bedenbaugh. 

            What we learned – and what we were surprised about - was that our high school principal actually has a sense of humor.  Maybe it’s a new persona for Joe Bedenbaugh.  Then again, maybe he has had a sense of humor forever and we just didn’t know it.

            We were all scared to death of the man.  He was tall, always in a dark suit, and seemed quite formidable.

            Getting sent to the principal’s office was not a treat or a reward, of course.  No one ever bragged about making an assigned visit to see the principal.  No one ever wanted to take home a note to have a parent call the principal.  No student ever wanted to see a parent chatting with the principal at a football game or anywhere else.

            When Joe Bedenbaugh was recognized at the class reunion, he stood – still as tall as ever – and, lo and behold, he smiled!  And then he said a few funny things. 

            Could this be, was this really the same man who struck fear into our very beings in high school? 

            He told us he had attended a Newberry College reunion where someone told him he was looking more like himself than he used to!   (Go figure that one out!)

            As I ate my meal that night, someone came over to me, leaned down and said, “Mr. Bedenbaugh would like to see you.”

            Forty-five years later and, just like old times, those words still caused me to gulp.  Turns out, he just wanted to tell me he enjoys reading my weekly newspaper column, which is usually on my blog as well. 

            So, Mr. Bedenbaugh, this one’s for you! 

            And, by the way, thanks for reading.  That means we’re now up to about four regular readers.

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Is It Music?

            Just the other day, my friend Iris and I were in a place where there was music playing the background.

            Except it wasn’t really music.  It was what some people call “music” these days, but it wasn’t real music.

            Today’s hits have titles like “Young, Wild and Free,” “A__ Back Home,” “Set Fire to the Rain,” and “Drive By.”

            Even when the titles are okay, it’s hard to understand the lyrics (even those we might want to understand – as opposed to those we don’t) and it’s difficult to find a tune in what some call “songs.”

            Iris and I asked the guy to play some real music.  He asked, “Like what?” 

            And we responded that we liked Frank Sinatra, for example.  And Perry Como and Andy Williams.  The Righteous Brothers and the Everly Brothers.  No, we're not from another planet.  An earlier time?  Yes, maybe that explains it.

            What about Sam Cooke, Simon & Garfunkle, Al Green?  They made music.

                     I started looking through old sheet music for some of the familiar and favorite melodies.  I found beautiful music: “Melody of Love,” “Fascination,” “When I Grow to Old to Dream,” “Red Sails in the Sunset,” “Moon River,”  "Wonderland by Night," "Misty" and more.  That was real music.

            But I also found that today’s hits aren’t the only ones with unusual titles.  Some of the ones from yesteryear: “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree With Anyone Else But Me,” “Chong, He Came From Hong Kong,” “Throw Another Log on the Fire,” "Shoo-Fly Pie and Apple Pan Dowdy," "Any Little Girl Can Make a Bad Man Good," "I'm Tying the Leaves So They Won't Come Down," “Sam, You Made the Pants Too Long,” “Ma, He’s Making Eyes at Me,” “Bury Me Out on the Prairie,” and, one of my favorites, “How Could You Believe Me When I Said I Loved You (When You Know I’ve Been a Liar All My Life)?”

            Even with odd-sounding names, the music had a tune and it had a soul.

            Ah, for the good ol’ days!

           

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Statlers, Sprockets and Such

I’ll never forget the first time I heard my children talking about smashing pumpkins. I thought they were up to no good.




Smashing Pumpkins from discog





Turns out they were talking about a rock band, The Smashing Pumpkins. What a name, I thought.




I was reminded of this a few days ago when the TV was on; a guy was being interviewed and the identifying caption on the screen was “Toad the Wet Sprocket.” The Duppster made some comment about what in the world that combination of words might mean.



from MySpace




Yes, Toad the Wet Sprocket is another band, one that happened to be playing Charleston that night.






Do musicians and would-be musicians sit around trying to figure out the weirdest possible name for a group?

Just consider some of the other names: Gorilla Biscuits, The Germs, The Casualties, Public Enemy, Bad Brains, Black Sabbath, Velvet Underground, The Black-Eyed Peas, Pink Floyd, Flying Burrito Brothers, Counting Crows and Mott the Hoople.



Mott the Hoople 2009 Reunion from Wikipedia



Mott the Hoople?



Black Sabbath from Wikipedia



There’s Insane Clown Posse, Nine Inch Nails, Velvet Revolver, My Chemical Romance, Neutral Milk Hotel, Iggy Pop, The Arctic Monkeys. And, yes, even our South Carolina guys, Hootie and the Blowfish.

Certainly there must be a reason behind each name, although I can’t imagine what. In fact, with some of those names, I don’t think I even want to know!

Toad the Wet Sprocket took its name from a comedy sketch by Monty Python’s Flying Circus, a name which must have a story of its own.



Statler Brothers from Wikipedia





The Statler Brothers, a country-western/gospel group, got its name from a company that manufactured paper products. The guys were in a room, trying to come up with a name, when one of them spotted a box of Statler tissues.



from http://www.originaldrifters.com/



Whatever happened to “regular” names like The Ink Spots, The Temptations, The Drifters, The Coasters and The Moonglows?



Maybe those band members didn’t have the creativity and imagination of more modern groups, as weird as that creativity and imagination might be.



But at least their music was real music with melody and understandable words.

Ah, for the good ol’ days.




from discog

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Cuckoo - And Those Crazy Camp Songs

For a while now, I've had one of those crazy camp songs stuck in my head. 

Actually, only parts of one particular song are stuck in my head.  Several parts - and none of 'em go together exactly.  When I try to recall the song, The Duppster looks at me like I've lost my head.

Does anyone remember a song that starts like this: "Oh, I went to Peter's flowing springs, where the. . . ."

Then the chorus, which I've never seen in writing, is similar to: "oh, eee, ah, oh, eee, ah, cah tiki, oh, eee ah eee ay. . . " or something crazy like that.   

Help!  Does this ring a bell for anyone?  

~                         ~                            ~                              ~

Father's Day - Without Dad

This Is A Repost -- NOTE: Usually I post only light-hearted stuff, but today is Father's Day, so I'm doing something a little different. It has been 10 years since my dad died. The following is what I wrote that appeared on the op/ed page of Charleston's Post and Courier on my first Father's Day without Dad:



This is my first Father’s Day ever without a father.

He was “Dad” for 52 years and now he’s gone, but memories will cause him to live on forever, and what wonderful memories they are.

Today, on a bittersweet day, I celebrate his life – the person he was, the father he was, the qualities he shared and the principles for which he stood.

Dad was adopted as an infant and then lost his adoptive father before he started school. At the age of 6, he was the “man of the house,” with the chore of plowing the field each day. He used to tell us stories about starting his day staring at the back end of a mule.

At the 10th-grade level, Dad quit school and went to work in Charleston as an apprentice pipe fitter. In 1942, he joined the Navy, saw action in the New Guinea, Borneo, Gilbert Islands, Marshall Islands and Saipan campaigns and in the liberation of the Philippines. He survived the sinking of the USS Hugh L. Scott and a gunshot wound to the neck before receiving an honorable discharge on Jan. 6, 1947. I remember being in the back seat of our car when he was driving, looking at the scar left by a bullet on the back of his neck.

Although he earned his high school diploma while in the Navy, he returned to Batesburg-Leesville High School to “brush up: for college. It was there that he had a math teacher named Elsie Elizabeth Porth. One day, instead of turning in his assignment, he wrote a note to the teacher, asking her for a date. On June 15, 1947, she became his wife.

In the early 1950s, he became a candidate for the S.C. House of Representatives; he had never been in politics, had no relatives or friends in politics and had never been inside the Statehouse. He won, and went on to win more.

The first election he ever lost was after he was offered $50,000 to change his vote on an issue or otherwise have the $50,000 spent against him. Dad didn’t budge; he lost that election by only nine votes – and he didn’t request a recount.

Frequently referred to as a maverick, he was unconventional in his approach to numerous issues. When other committee members studying the navigability of the river system from Columbia to the Charleston harbor decided to go by boat between the two cities, Dad stayed behind – literally: He made the 180-mile trip on skis and repeated the trip later. The same journey was made in the late 1990s by his two sons (my brothers), Rod and Shawn; Dad was inside the boat for this trip.

During his 24 years in the Legislature, he became identified with several issues, most recently with the lottery. He was the first public official in modern history to promote a lottery referendum. Starting the early 1980s, he introduced lottery legislation every year until he retired in 1992. Dad traveled the state, laying the groundwork for lottery support and answering critics. [Interestingly, he was an adamant non-gambler himself.] He also held the best legislative attendance record – never missing a day – and best roll-call vote record for 23 years.

As a House member, he held a long-time filibuster record when he opposed price-fixing legislation; a notable filibuster in the Senate was his 27-hour diatribe on the accommodations tax.

Over the years he worked as a farmer, clerk, laborer, salesman, teacher, businessman and, for several years, was a professional boxer known as the “Blond Tiger.”

To me, he was Dad. What a family man he was. He and Mom had been married almost 54 years when he died in March. The five children never heard Dad say anything negative about Mom; he treated her like a queen. He had a glass of juice waiting for her at her bedside every morning for many years. He gave up the practice of law, which he loved, when her promotion necessitated an out-of-state move [to Tennessee from SC], and he became a real-life “Mr. Mom.”

At night, he read to all five children when we were young – and since the age span runs 52 to 32, that adds up to a lot of reading. And he continued to set an example as he spent hours and hours just reading to learn.

He taught himself to play the piano, banjo, guitar, accordion, ukulele and mandolin and encouraged us in musical fields.

He taught me how to use a sling-shot but forgot to impress upon me the direction in which to use it, so I successfully shot a rock straight back into my face. He made us swings with bushel baskets from a farm.

Dad didn’t place many restrictions and boundaries on us: There were a few basics that he expected. We knew he expected those things, not because he said so, but because that’s what he demanded of himself.

He and Mom also taught us the importance of laughter. We laughed about things we could not change – like the time he built us a three-room cement block house to live in. This was his first effort as a “builder.” He installed what we called roll-out or Florida windows – but he put them in backward. Every time it rained, we had to run outside to roll the windows shut. They were cemented in place, so there was nothing left to do but laugh.

First diagnosed with cancer late in 1974, he was almost like a cat with nine lives. In addition to surviving the sinking of his ship, the gunshot wound and his boxing career, he later was diagnosed with three kinds of cancer, suffered a light stroke, suffered with arthritis and had three pacemakers. When he received his first pacemaker, the doctor advised him to go home and not use his left arm for a while. Instead, Dad drove to the golf course and played a round of one-handed golf.

Up until a few months ago, he played golf often, learned to use a computer and kept reading. The garage is full of stuff that he “almost invented “ – a/k/a contraptions. And then, in March, he slipped away, finally at peace and out of pain. But before he left us, he wrote “good-bye” notes to each of the five children and a final note to Mom, his high school math teacher and wife.

After he died, someone described him as a “character with character.” Indeed, he was a character; and, indeed, he had character.

Just before he died, he asked for watermelon and a small bottled Coke. After a frantic search, I returned to the hospital with those items. He slowly ate three pieces of watermelon and took three sips of that small bottled Coke. These were the last things he had.

Such simple requests – but so very typical of him. He never asked for much for himself in life; he was a giver.

Oh, Dad, I miss you.

Happy Father’s Day.

Love,

Sherry

~               ~                ~                ~

Memory Day????

In case you missed it, Monday was National Memory Day.

Memory Day isn’t an observance like Memorial Day or Labor Day. It’s a time to concentrate on your own memory, I think. Or perhaps it’s a time of recollection and memories.

Ah, memories. I’ve got lots of those. And the strange thing is that when I start recalling times gone by, I remember the good times, the good things, the fun times. This doesn’t mean there haven’t been some times that weren’t quite so pleasant or fun-filled, but somehow, as I think back, the good memories flow first.

However, if Monday’s special day was to celebrate one’s own memory, I’m beginning to think I’m sadly missing out. My memory seems to be fading in and out.

I open the refrigerator door, but can’t remember why.

Or perhaps I’m heading home and realize I need to run into the grocery store. Then, once inside, I can’t remember what it was I needed.

Sometimes I’m driving and miss a turn, simply because I forget where I’m going.

Another frequent memory problem occurs when I’m in the kitchen. A pound cake recipe may call for six eggs. In the midst of adding the eggs to the mixture in the bowl, I can’t remember how many I’ve already put in – unless I take the exact number out of the carton and put the carton in the refrigerator, away from the ones I’m using.

These are just a few of the typical examples.

Oh, yes, there’s one more. (See? I almost forgot.)

One morning, as I went to warm up something to use in fixing breakfast, I opened the microwave door. That’s when I found the beans I had warmed up to go with dinner the night before!

 

 

 

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A Dickens of a Time!

Last year was a Dickens of a year.

You see, I’ve always been intrigued by Charles Dickens’ opening line in Tale of Two Cities: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times….”   How could any time be both?

Now, I think I understand. In fact, that’s sorta like 2010 was for me. It was a very good year and it was a very bad year. Yes, it was the best of times and the worst of times.

Last year, I was fortunate enough to meet and marry Karl, i.e. The Duppster. What a treasure he is; every spouse ought to be so fantastic. This good fortune that came my way definitely made it the “best of times.”

But I also lost a brother last year. Rod was only 56 when he died in August. Yet, quite paradoxically, even his death was, perhaps, the best of times as well as the worst of times.

Losing him was horrible for us. But, for him, it’s now the best of times, in that he is enjoying the fulfillment of the promise of eternal life. Even for family members who remain here on earth, though, it was the best of times in a paradoxical way, because his suffering ended and for that reason, his death was a blessing.

Of course, Rod himself made it relatively easy for us. He had written a column entitled “It’s Me Again, Jesus” and in it, Rod wrote humorously and seriously that, if it was his time, he was ready.

Another example had to do with our family, including extended family. Some experienced job losses; fortunately, some once again found employment. Last year we faced the daunting realization of unemployment in a tough economy - and the joy and relief of new-found employment.

One daughter and her husband dealt with the disappointment of ectopic pregnancies. As the year ended, however, they were awaiting the birth of a second son in a few days.

And then there was my surgery – the hemorrhoidectomy.

Now, that was a Dickens of a time all by itself. I’m still waiting for the best of times from that!

~                    ~                      ~                       ~

{Book photo from Amazon.com}

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A Reindeer Named Rollo?

All kinds of thoughts and questions have been running through my head lately, partly because of the time of year.

For example: at what age does a person go from anticipating Christmas parades to trying to avoid them at all costs?

Why aren’t children excited and enthused about getting oranges and apples and candy in their stockings? Weren’t those the things that were used to fill stockings in by-gone years?

At what point did children quit making “wish” lists for Santa and start presenting “demand” lists – or at least semi-demand lists?

Was the name of one of the reindeer “Donner” or “Donder”? Clement Moore used “Donder” in his poem “’Twas the Night Before Christmas” or “A Visit from St. Nicholas.” “Donner” was the name used in “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

By the way, I just recently learned how Rudolph came into existence. He, of course, was not one of the original reindeer. Rudolph was created by advertising executive Robert May, according to www.carols.org. May was asked to come up with something the Santa could give to children who visited him at a department store during the holiday season.

So, May wrote the now-famous poem for Montgomery Ward. During the first year, about 2.4 million copies were given out to children. In 1947, Rudolph became a short cartoon shown in theaters. Subsequently, Johnny Marks composed music for the poem and Gene Autry made his famous recording of the new song. Marks was the brother-in-law of May. (www.snopes.com)

May first considered other names, including Rollo and Reginald, before settling on Rudolph.

Can you imagine singing about “Rollo, the Red-Nosed Reindeer” or “Reginald, the Red-Nosed Reindeer”?

No, I can’t either.

Yes, there are more questions running through this old head but I guess those have to wait ‘til next time.

Cookouts? Beach Trips? Golfing?

It's okay to spend Memorial Day with friends at the beach or lake, or having a cookout, or even golfing.  The important thing, though, is to take time to remember those who made the ultimate sacrifice so that we might enjoy our freedoms and lifestyles. 

Whatever the war, wherever the battle, we must not ever forget!

Several people e-mailed the following to me and I thought they were worth sharing on this site. 

PH: Fast. Yes, Too Fast.

Fast.  That's the theme for this week's Photo Hunt, and  I'm posting a rather strange take on the theme.

This is a sunset I saw while driving earlier this week.  It seemed almost red in some places.  December sunsets are so beautiful, and this one was gone too fast.


And this is "The Dawg."  Christmas Day will mark six months since he died.  Like the December sunset, he was gone too fast.  We had such a short time together, but that time was wonderful! 

To see other FAST photos, click here.
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Just Got a Phone Call - Guess Who?

Just got a phone call from Joe Wilson. 

Yes, THAT Joe Wilson.  The congressman who yelled "You lie" - the yell heard 'round the world.

He is actually a long-time friend.  (More about our friendship of several decades HERE.)

Joe called to remind me that he had been reprimanded before, or perhaps chastised is a better word. 

It was back in 1970, back in the "ancient days" when we both were younger.  At that time here in South Carolina, our political party was small although growing fast, but small enough that we nominated by convention rather than by primary.  Also at that time, the minimum voting age was still 21.

In February of that year, I announced as a candidate for the SC House of Representatives.  I was a junior in college and only 20 years old, not yet old enough to vote, although I would turn 21 eight days before the election in November. 

Joe is the one who made the nominating speech for me at our county's political convention.  He did a great job. 

In his phone call today, Joe reminded me that he was chastised, fussed at, berated, etc. after his nominating speech.  Didn't he know I couldn't win? he was asked.  Didn't he know I wasn't old enough to vote?  And, worse yet, didn't he know I was a girl?  

Thanks to Joe and hundreds of other brave, energetic volunteers, we pulled through and won the election.

A lot has happened in the ensuing years, but some things haven't changed.  Joe is still getting fussed at, and I'm still a girl, although a much older one.

News Clipping from February 1970

I Remember Hugo: Twenty Years Later

Twenty years ago tonight, Hurricane Hugo came ashore in coastal South Carolina and then moved inland.

At the time I was a member of the SC state senate. The district I represented bore the brunt of Hugo. It was a long but relatively narrow district along the coast, including McClellanville, Awendaw, Isle of Palms, Sullivans Island, Mt. Pleasant, Folly Beach, James Island, Johns Island, Seabrook Island, Kiawah Island and surrounding areas.

As much as I like to write, I just can’t think of the words to adequately describe how ravaged the area was, how extensive the damage was. It was just beyond comprehension.  In South Carolina, 13 lives were lost.

Where there used to be a home, there was a single chimney or perhaps just the remnants of a bathroom. Another house was literally split in two. There were mattresses in what used to be front yards. Thousands and thousands of trees were upended. Trees made holes in rooftops – where rooftops remained. The only bridge leading to Sullivan’s Island and on to the Isle of Palms was damaged and could not be used. People could not return to their homes, or even visit to find out if their homes remained. Water flooded many homes that actually remained standing.

I could go on and on and on about the devastation, because it certainly went on and on; it was widespread and far-reaching. Instead, I want to share three particular remembrances.

Within days, I went up in a Black Hawk helicopter with Billy Graham, Gov. Carroll Campbell and Rep. Harry Hallman. We looked at the destruction from the air. What a view that was! Billy Graham, who certainly has traveled throughout the world, said it was the most extensive destruction he had ever viewed.

A second vivid memory is the spirit of community that came out of this terrible event. People helped each other. People worked together. There was a charitable, giving, caring, helping spirit among all. For weeks many of us didn’t have electricity and water. We were all dirty together. Neighbors shared food, chain saws, the much-treasured ice and water. It was a heart-warming experience.  At our home, since we had a large outdoor grill, families gathered nightly for food.  People brought food from freezers that were no longer working and we all cooked and ate together.  And churches that could be used were used.  People returned to worship services in tremendous numbers.

The third memory is of a sight in the small fishing village of McClellanville. In the midst of piles and piles of rubble that used to be homes, someone had planted a large American flag. It represented the epitome of the American spirit. It said, “We are going to be okay.”

It took many, many months, even years, but, yes, we eventually were okay. People joined hands and made it through those times which, at first, seemed overwhelming and almost insurmountable.

 
 
 
Flickr photos by scmikeburton, band4atl, japee and michelinecallicot.