Travels Down Memory Lane vs. Diving Down the Rabbit Hole

My trip down memory lane began innocently enough. It was an afternoon of intense work at the computer, where you don’t want to stop what you’re doing for a full break, but instead “lunch” can be a snack from whatever is in the fridge. Peering into the fridge, I scored a yogurt, a pre-saved iced tea and a banana from the counter, so back to work at the computer I went.

If you know me well, you are laughing at me for two reasons, first because I don’t cook, and second because I call my ice box a “fridge,” that is when I’m not calling it an ice box. I rarely use the word refrigerator; mine is in good standing with AARP. Buddy’s Brazos Appliances really does sell quality products. Twenty-one years and holding—thank you Hotpoint. And from there…off I went, diving down a rabbit hole...or two.

Hotpoint…that brand has been around almost as long as my old Sears Kenmore “Commander” tank vacuum. More on that later. Remember the old Hotpoint TV commercials during the very earliest days of tv spots? Remember who was Happy Hotpoint?

Here’s Happy Hotpoint herself, the dancing elf of all appliances, Mary Tyler Moore, in her earliest role of national prominence. From there, her dancing skills would find uses throughout the rest of her acting career as Laura Petrie and Mary Richards.

Safely sliding down the rabbit hole, I remember a great snack I used to enjoy as a child, when I went to see my Great Aunt Emma.

Known for her ability to save, save, and save some more, she lived a superbly careful life without debt as an early widow who had no college education or prior work experience before marrying my Uncle Mitchell, a painter by trade. She used her skills as a seamstress to find a job at the St. Anthony Hotel (back then, they hand-repaired linens and uniforms, etc.) After we picked her up from work on Saturday, we’d go for brunch at Sea Island in San Antonio, a favorite place that was as good as it was affordable.

Then, we’d go to Kresge, over in North Star Mall, to stock up on a few items for the week that she’d select. As though it was 55 years ago all over again, there would be a Dak canned ham, at the time running for about $1.88. At home she already had the magic combo awaiting me for my evening snack as I watched TV and all the grownups talked and chatted in the kitchen.

Where was I going with this? Oh, the Dak canned ham. Ah yes. So, this fine product came to us from Denmark, and the vacuum sealed container could be breached using the small aluminum key that was affixed to the outside of the container. I felt very grown up at age eight, when Great Aunt Emma allowed me to be the key-bearer and open the ham. Adults have a wonderful habit of encouraging children and saying, “Good job!” to affirm the contribution of the youngsters as they make progress in household chores.

The menu was Uneeda Biscuits, Falfurrias Sweet Cream Butter, Homemade bread and butter pickles, and ice water. If you’ve never dined this high on the hog before, allow me to explain what you missed. Uneeda biscuits were an early offering of the National Biscuit Company, eventually Nabisco.

Uneeda biscuits had substance, thickness, proper taste, and just a tad of salt (although they sold the unsalted version as well). Their thickness is perfect because if you put a small amount of butter on a knife and apply it to a standard premium saltine cracker, the pressure will break it. Maybe that’s too much fuss over a cracker, but if you never had one…To this day I have not been able to find anything that comes close.

Falfurrias butter came from Falfurrias, Texas, and they're a Texas product since 1909, and it used to come in more spreadable tubs, but at least the butter sticks are still available today. They focused their marketing all over Texas, Louisiana, and into Oklahoma, and they have a tremendous market for their irresistable, tasty product.

The pickles were from a kitchen of a lady down the hall from my great aunt, as she lived in the apartment complex of rooms over the old Pep Boys garage downtown, with close proximity to take the bus to and from work. If her pickles ran out, Vlasic's bread-and-butter pickles would be great, or Del Monte sweet gherkins. Mmm. For those of you who enjoyed buying a dill pickle at the theatres to last you the entire movie, God bless you, but I am not in that group. At home, our popcorn was Jiffy Pop or made in our own 5-quart pan the hard way (not-so-jiffy). Premicrowaves, we all did just fine, I think.

The Dak ham purchase at Kresge’s in the Mall also started another rabbit trail…Kresge’s was the same as the Kress stores in various malls across San Antonio, if memory serves, and then ultimately S. S. Kresge founded K-Mart and after inventing the blue light special, off and running they went for many years. Then, a little business called Fed Mart opened in San Antonio and one even found its way to College Station.

By 1974, College Station’s property was being seen as valuable so a California investor managed a good deal price on the property and built a bowling alley there and a strip center for various other businesses. Once it was confirmed that President George H. W. Bush (41) would be bringing a Presidential Library to town, the bowling alley had gone kaput, and was sitting there essentially vacant. Someone had the bright idea of using that property as a storage facility for the materials that could be transported from DC up here until the library was actually constructed, again if memory serves. Nice donation of vacant property, too.

Once the Library was up and running eventually the property was sold and now Republic Steakhouse and Primrose Path now occupy the space, featuring tapas, wine and cocktails. I felt like I was from Hooterville when I asked restaurant expert Mike Green what a tapas was…or were…and he kindly said, “tapas, you know, tapas, little items you get to eat along with drinking your wine and cocktails.” I said, “Oh, snacks. I get it, snacks.” Of course the word in Spanish means small plates…it’s sophisticated cuisine. I’ll have to confess that I’m new to tapas and I have yet to patronize the place, although I’m delighted to have many friends who rave about the ambiance. Another rabbit hole, oops.

Now, I got tremendous affirmation from my mother for my vacuuming skills, and frankly, I was worth every amount praise she could muster, because my dad was responsible for the purchase and delivery of the Kenmore “Commander” horizontal canister vacuum. There were two different hose attachments (for the couch and other chairs), a brush attachment (for the curtains), and then the major vacuum piece itself with the rollers for the floors.

The Kenmore Commander weighed about 40 lbs all told, and at the time, I weighed right at 60 lbs, give or take a few. I lugged that thing all through the house, wanting to contribute to housework because I knew Mom worked hard from 8 to 5 and I wanted to make her to-do list shrink as much as I could. I also got a little stepstool and did the dishes each night, and foreshadowing a future interest in chemistry, I started exploring mixing different sink cleansers in the effort to have the most sparkling sink in the city. No, I didn't have any gaseous or toxic accidents. Guess I really was born to be a chemist. Sort of.

I blush at my early aspirations for greatness, but you have to dream big when you’re a kid if you want to make something out of yourself in this lifetime. Morning breakfast was a good place to start. Butter Krust bread was a hit in my home, and the billboard on Broadway Ave. gave me a reason to smile.

A schoolmate of mine about five years ahead of me was the model young lady for the famous character they used for years. The adorable blonde in the gingham dress was my friend, and her inside was as beautiful as her outside is. She and all four of her siblings had the most exquisite mother who could easily make Princess Grace look dowdy. Fortunately, all the children resembled their mom.

Butter Krust also gave out plentiful amounts of new #2 specially coated, smooth pencils and brown paper bookcovers to all of us, and a bakery tour each year kept all of us happy.

San Antonio was also home to Lone Star Brewery and Pearl Brewery, and schoolchildren loved being able to take the tour of the brewery, not with the hops and the process in mind, but for the complimentary root beer at the end of the tour. Just like Brenham's little Blue Bell Creamery not 30 miles away from here.

Things we remember. In the 1960s, a fellow graduate of my school became CEO of the brewery. Today, Pearl Brewery has been refashioned into a destination center with fabulous restaurants and a fun venue, Jazz, TX, where you can hear the best in live jazz. Word to the wise: Look for the Steve Soares Trio at least once a month at Jazz, TX, as the leader is Doris, my high school classmate's, husband.

Back to breakfast. There was Carnation Instant Breakfast for those on the run, Eggo ("Let go my Eggo!") Waffles, and much later down the road, Kellogg's Pop Tarts. Tang also made a snappy breakfast drink. Malt-O-Meal was a solid breakfast on a cold morning, too.

Afternoon snacks could be milk with Nesquick powder stirred in. Strawberry was a go-to flavor for me.

Speaking of dairy delights, Knowlton Milk was still delivered to the house in the 60s and a dear relative of mine used to drive one of the trucks. The Knowlton Creamery was also down the street from our school.

Our unique school that ran from grades 1-12 (later, K-12) was a series of old Victorian homes in San Antonio's historic district, where they had been remade into classrooms. Many of us had no idea what other school rooms looked like for years until it was time for driver's ed. We were in the middle of downtown San Antonio and so almost all of us were driven to school, and many took one of several school parents' station wagons to arrive for the day. Others would ride the city buses each day. One rarely thought at the time about the sacrifices our parents made back then to afford for us to obtain a special educational experience. I did, but I had plenty of time to think and reflect on "old days." Even back then, I enjoyed the concept of reminiscing.

One other special evening treat might be a scoop of ice cream from the Carnation Ice Cream Shop on San Pedro. They had more than 50 flavors, advertising that fact if only to irritate Baskin Robbins. There was a "Tower of the Americas" sundae, named in time for the Hemisfair '68 year-long San Antonio celebration. The sundae had 48 scoops of ice cream, syrups, whipped cream, and cherries. It was pricey back then even, probably about $20 or more, but if you could eat the whole thing, it was free to you. I only had one classmate who won their sundae that way and his metabolism caused him to gain zero pounds after that one episode, or ever, in his lifetime. Doubt he ate it a second time.

As I grew older, I recall the joy of discovering General Foods Instant Flavored Coffees—what a joy. Just fill your tea kettle with water and heat until it sings and then pour your cup and add two teaspoons of the powdered mix and presto, a delightful, tasty beverage to enjoy.

Now, what’s the perfect treat to go with?

Mom’s and my favorite tapas was 2 Stella D’oro cookies. Remember those? With the colors of the flag of Italy atop the packaging, each pack had 10 or 12 cookies and for $2.19 at Handy-Andy, you couldn’t beat them! I was Skyping with a dear friend the other day, lamenting that I couldn't find any of these "old-timey" cookies I used to love. She remembered them, when I said their name aloud! I brightened up. Someone remembered the same cookie I did! Then she countered with, "I never liked them." All I could do was laugh for three minutes. It wasn't a buzz-kill but her comedic time was perfect. Meanwhile...

I was delighted to see that Amazon could get them for me, especially since I have not seen them in any local grocery stores in at least 10 years. This time, they’re about $6.00 per package, but you can’t beat a walk down memory lane, so what the hey?

Speaking of grocery stores, I certainly do miss the trading stamps that a store would bonus for having grocery brand loyalty and frequency of shopping. Remember double stamp day? I don’t know where you grew up but we had TV stamps, the abbreviation for Top Value at Handy-Andy, then Texas Gold for HEB, and S&H Green Stamps for Piggly-Wiggly and selected Sinclair Shamrock gas stations (and you’d get a lovely Libbey glass and stamps with your gas that they pumped for you).

The duty of collecting stamps and pasting them in the various books and saving/organizing those books to keep an eye on the catalog to see what might be a future worthy prize to redeem was always fun. I won’t say that they exclusive items, but they certainly were not junk either.

Back to the road trip and the little Styrofoam ice chest for $1.99 or $.99 if there was a sale at the store, the reason you filled up your coolers with your own snacks was to avoid some of the temptations from the road. Take for example, Stuckey’s. Road trips with my grandmother and Aunt Sharon going from San Antonio to Houston or Galveston were not complete without Grandma reading each sign Stuckey’s had posted along the old highway every. darned. mile.

Not until I saw Billy Crystal and the actor who played his father in “Forget Paris” could I appreciate that sometimes people, when they are looking for something to say as a space filler, choose to read billboard or recite familiar jingles (“You asked for it, you got it, Toyota.”) and it’s quite charming, particularly when they’re no longer with you and you want to find something to recall to make you smile again.

Which reminds me…we took Grandma to Shakey’s Pizza Parlor when she and Aunt Sharon came to town, and they had two entertainers: Bob on the player piano and Curly on the banjo. Saturday nights would assure you a good affordable pizza, free refills on sodas and music courtesy and Bob and Curly.

Sometimes the patrons enjoyed singing and Bob and Curly would back them (not just anyone, you had to have some chops before they’d let you have the stage). And the music and singing along could get a little loud at times. One evening when we were on the way home, Grandma said, “Gosh I really enjoyed going to Shookey’s with you girls!” Aw, how sweet.

Today is another day, the 1st of September, and with a new month comes a clean slate. Maybe I’ll work a little harder at keeping a few tapas in the fridge. Or then again, Sonic has happy hour from 2-4 pm every day. Rabbit, rabbit!

The Rev. Billy Graham, Angels, and Tiny Bubbles: A Story of Hope and Love

On Wednesday, Feb. 21, a man some described as “America’s pastor,” the Rev. Billy Graham, died at age 99. That single event set in motion an adventuresome trip down memory lane for me, as I reflected at length and in depth about my childhood, where I’d first heard him preach in person. He was appearing at the open-air Alamo Stadium, constructed in San Antonio’s Monte Vista district, in 1940 as a Works Progress Administration project (thanks Wikipedia). In those days…life was different.

My mom had decided that since my great aunt Emma and our family friend Charlotte wanted to go hear him, and they didn’t drive, we’d all go to hear him. As a child of six, I was naturally inquisitive, pelting my mom with questions before the service began. Why was church outside and it wasn’t a Sunday? Were these bleachers called pews? Why was there such a long distance between the “congregation” and the minister? Mom patiently answered my questions, the woman who should have been awarded some kind of medal for surviving the raising of an overly inquisitive child.

And then it began. George Beverly Shea sang. I think that’s what I’d once thought the “voice” of God must sound like. Booming, full, inspired, and amazing. I listened to Shea’s voice on his songs, not the lyrics, all except for the alter call: “Just As I Am.” That one, I found myself singing along to, as best I could back then. I was oblivious to the thousands of people around me that day. I was remembering this week what might be my first memory of being lost in meditation or fully in faith.

As an adult, I’m less fixed on structure for terms that relate to a higher power by a name. I generally describe my faith in terms I learned growing up, but I’m open to a greater, more inclusive or less restrictive understanding wherein there is essentially the presence of the spirit I feel is holy, wholly.

At the end, Rev. Graham invited the audience to come forward if we wanted to be “saved.” Again, I whispered to mom, “Mom, do I need to go down there to be saved?” She smiled her angelic smile and shook her head no, saying, “No, honey you were saved when you were born because I gave you back to God. You are his child. You’ve been baptized and there’s no need to go down there.” “Okay,” I answered, strengthened in my decision to remain in my bleacher, err, pew.

Fast forward many decades. Church worship is a subject fraught with a list of “terms and conditions” that many impose on what it feels “right” to do, and when and where and how one can worship. Some Sundays I find comfort in gathering in pews or folding chairs, with longtime friends as family, surrounded by love and belonging. Other Sundays, I can walk in nature, observing the awesome wonder of the world we live in, expressing my appreciation as best I can. There’s no right or wrong for me, really, just a choice that feels like I’ve emerged from my reflection on the week as a stronger person, renewed to try the week ahead with energy and intention. I acknowledge my sins in prayer and ask for forgiveness and a clean slate to try again to do better. I don’t like hearing politics in church, ever, so when I do, I tend to bug out and head for the hills until I’m prepared to return with a calmed heart.

The week behind me had been filled with challenges, some exciting and delightful; others found me in uncharacteristic intense melancholy. I was “stuck” and I didn’t seem to be able to get out of the mud. Along my path came a call from dear friend, to chat about things we had an exciting time discussing, and that conversation cheered me greatly. I had almost snapped out of my blues, intensified by the gray, sun-scarce skies and falling rain. Even with every light in the house on, it wasn’t quite enough to turn the melancholy to cheer.

I kept my head down and kept working, a sure-fire cure for what ails you…make forward progress every day if you can. If you can’t, try anyway. Keep trying.

When she called back an hour later, I fully expected to hear more surprising delightful news. Instead she asked me point blank: “Are you happy? Is everything in your life the way you want it to be right now?” I blinked, swallowed and said, “Well, it’s okay. It will get better. Just staying focused.”

“That’s not good enough,” she said. “What are you going to do to change it?” Fast forward to my receiving a lovely good “talking to,” one that left us both reminded to never give up on our dreams, no matter how absurd or outlandishly unrealistic.

It was in that moment that I snapped to…and was grateful for someone bravely stepping out and sharing truth…I let go of the need to control. And I returned to wait patiently, eyes wide open. Whoa, Nellie. Answers began appearing everywhere around me.

Back to Billy Graham. I thought about him being the minister for so many presidential inaugurations, during the days he preached actively, and his may have been only one of the people in the 60s you could send something to by mail (for a $.03 stamp) just addressed to “Billy Graham, Minneapolis, Minnesota” and it would reach him. That’s impressive.

Plenty of time to reflect in the past 72 hours and seeing challenges met, obstacles overcome, and a renewed focus on my dreams, with no need to control the outcome. All because a faithful friend reached out to ask a question: “What are you going to do to change it?”

Can’t speak for everyone, but the more I thought about the lifelong goal of Billy Graham to serve God and help others, the words to “Just as I am,” and the words of truth I’d heard, they were signals of changes coming for the good, in not only my life but in the lives of many around me who similarly needed to know that they’re not “stuck.”

Saturday morning was priceless time spent, surrounded by 120 (we know, as we counted them) Crayola Crayons, paper, and an active imagination of a 5-year-old and an almost 1-year old and their Pippa. I witnessed unbridled inspiration at work. These are two youngsters who inspire more than they’ll ever know, and they teach equally as much as they enjoy life.

When the 5-year-old was building a house from box and paper, and little brother crawled over to “participate” and ripped the roof off while smiling, I saw an angel in action as his older brother smiled at him, retrieved the paper, and put the roof back on without even as much as a blink of an eye. A little later I suggested we put some of his little brother’s building blocks inside the house to elevate his project. He shook his head no.

“Why not?” I asked. His reply: “Because if we use up a lot of his blocks, he won’t have many left to play with.” Facepalm. V-8 moment. I’m so jazzed about the unconditional love I saw so early between two angels, seen only because I was lucky enough to be there at that moment. If only adults could be so wise.

Saturday night we blew bubbles. Well, I did. And he karate kicked and kung-fu’d them, complete with gales of laughter, a rap verse he made up by himself, and some awesome dancing to a song he heard in his head. Whoa, Nellie. Children are smarter than the rest of us. All the time.

He asked my opinion about how to decorate the roof (now safely reaffixed to the house). Wisely, I didn’t answer his question with my thought, but with another question, “How do you think you’d like to decorate it?” That wasn’t original to me. I’d learned that process from a wise creative named Thomas Bähler, whose own father used that same technique to answer the question “How do you be creative,” asked that way when Thomas was about the same age as my young pal. His answer? “I think it should be a rainbow,” he said, and he proceeded to create a marvelous rainbow.

And then another amazing angel went on an errand with me at my request. Without even questioning why, off we drove in order that I could find a way to break through one final barrier of languishing in “shoulda, coulda, woulda, used to, don’t any more,” and I emerged, quite quickly, renewed and affirmed that life has always been grand, and the past is the past and is just fine safely tucked in the past, and today is the future just around the corner. Put a bow on that box of regrets, sealed it shut and sent it off to the Dead Letter Office. Zoom! Path cleared.

My Sunday morning began beautifully, though, because before I went to sleep last night, a very overworked but very strong friend of grander faith than I have ever had reached out to me to send me an inspirational set of lyrics she wondered if I’d heard…they were new to me, but wonderful. As we “chatted” back and forth via e-mails later into the night, she asked me what had been on my mind this week. And I told her. Her reply to me and the devotional she wrote for me personally arrived this morning on my e-mail. And I smiled, uplifted, and got ready for church. She’d taken the time to start a grand day in motion. Was I ever lucky!

Made it to church, only four minutes late. Thanks to dear friends insisting I sit with whenever I’m there…I took a seat in the pew in front of them and felt welcomed. I was about to stare a hole in the stained-glass window to my left as I waited for inspiration. Nothing was flowing to mind as I waited.

Suddenly, 10 minutes into the service, the children’s anthem, “This Little Light of Mine,” blew me out of my discomfort and into sheer joy. I saw the oldest daughter of two dear friends singing her heart out, correctly with all the motions, joyfully. And then there was one voice up there not quite in sync with the rest of them.

Not quite sure who it was—she had a good, strong, voice, but she had her own timing, and her own movements—she had the “X factor” of pizazz. She just wasn’t in lockstep with the rest of the children, but she didn’t seem perturbed, nor did her fellow singers. Again, with children and their unconditional ability to love.

I’d spotted my kindred spirit up there…I understood her. At the end of the song, the audience, err, congregation clapped, and the one I’d spotted, sure enough, waved joyously to the crowd after the applause, in you know, “the God bless you, thank you, and drive safely” benediction, with joy. Reminded me of another dear friend right after she’s received a standing ovation. That unparalleled joy and showing love of music—that’s what to aim for! Sing your song, shine your light, make a difference, even if you don’t accomplish it in a traditional way.

Five minutes later, at the end of my pew came a gentleman whose appearance was slightly disheveled, though to be fair, there had been quite a bit of wind and weather that had blown all of us through the doors of the sanctuary this morning. Two people in a pew, as far apart from one another as one can possibly be spaced, because we’d both entered the pew from different doorways to reach our spot du jour.

As my mind wandered slightly during the service, I’d contemplated my seatmate, who focused straight ahead, intently, doing a far better job of paying attention, I suppose, than I was. As the end of the service approached, I’d reached the inevitable decision point. You know how, at the end of services, the minister asks you to reach out and take the hand of the person next to you during the group prayer? I knew that was coming.

And I didn’t fear taking his hand. I just didn’t want to scare him off. Sometimes when you’re in the company of people who all seem to be different in that they all seem to know each other, the separation created by being “new” or “different” can be more daunting to the newcomer.

One thing our church does well, at least by many members, is to welcome people around them with sincere greetings and warm handshakes and exchange of kind words. I love that. Two of my three seatmates/buddies behind me grew up in this church, and they are primo at inviting people to join them. But it was all about my duty to be welcoming, and it was just me and the stranger in my pew.

After the sermon and the acolytes had extinguished the candles, the pastor was inviting us to stand. So, I stood and moved gently down the pew to the stranger, all the while thinking that, even though he didn’t know me, I hoped he trusted me to stay there and not take off out the door wanting to exit before the rest of us. He stayed firm.

The pastor then invited anyone in the congregation to come forward to the altar rail to pray as long as they wanted to (shades of Billy Graham again) as the organist began to play, and we began to sing, all the verses of “Just As I Am” (Really? I’d forgotten just how many verses there were. Oddly I didn’t have to look up at the big bouncing letters on the screens…they just came back from my retrograde memory).

With the first note of the song, he left the pew and went down to the altar to pray. My three pewmates behind me jettisoned down the same direction so that he wouldn’t have to be up there alone while praying. Still others went down to pray. I stayed behind. Before the end of the song, he returned to our pew again. For that entire song, I’d felt his pain. Whatever was seemingly troubling him, or was it me, just seered through me like a lightning bolt. I began to find tears welling up and then stinging my eyes as they rolled down my face. Darn it. Why did I have to cry? BFF says, “Don’t fight the feeling when you cry; you need to cry.” Okay. Noted.

When next the congregational prayer time came, I reached for his hand and he held mine securely. His hands had seen a hard day’s work, but they were gentle as he held mine in his. I placed my left arm on the right shoulder of the young man in front of me, whose hand I have held the past few weeks. He is an amazing child whose struggles with a spectrum make his accomplishments more powerful than grownups twice his age.

Children, you know, feel everything even when they don’t understand it. He saw the tears in my eyes and moved his left hand around his chest and up onto his shoulder placing it over mine, comforting me. A powerful healing and repair of my spirit of hope happened, and I felt it. As the prayer ended, the gentleman looked at me, even though my red eyes and tear-stained face were probably pretty scary.

“God bless you,” he said, as he looked deep into my eyes, waiting for mine to look back and see his spirit behind his face. I did. I found my voice and said, “Thank you, and God bless you.” He smiled and said, “He has blessed me. You see, I’m an evangelist and I travel all around preaching God’s word, and starting all kinds of trouble everywhere,” he said with a light smile. I knew what he meant. Disrupting status quo can freak some people out, but the true search for a higher power, some call it God, some call it Spirit or the Divine, means searching your own soul for truth and finding kindred souls and spirits who resonate on the same wavelength you do, I think.

As he left the church, a friend behind me said she’d seen him outside the church before service began, seemingly walking past our church and down a few blocks towards the main intersection. She said, “I guess he decided to come back into our church this morning.” I nodded and said, “Yes, he did. He picked our church to join us this morning.”

People have their choices of worship across our twin cities. Some congregations gather together because they believe the same thing. Others gather in mega groups to provide a haven from those who believe the same thing or their thing or our thing. I’m the most multi-ecumenical person I know, in that I feel at home in every denomination and those places without, because I’m there to hear a word of hope and reassurance that this world with all its imperfections is not “all there is.” And I find comfort in that.

I went to church this morning, and “they took me to church this morning.” The little girl who waved broadly and smiled at the crowd when she’d completed her song. The gentleman stranger who revealed himself as an evangelist before leaving the congregation. And, the appearance of loved ones in my life throughout the past four days, finding their way into my world from places seen and unseen, and the powerful lessons of never giving up on your dreams really packed a wallop. Yet, I was rejuvenated rather than exhausted with the transformation that happened.

My takeaway from the activities and experiences is this: angels are all around us, some we see, others we can’t spot. We have this day to express love to all those in our lives, whether we know them or not. Children are the most honest group of people you can ever hope to meet. The love of children heals adults with hugs.

As our nation heard from young adults in Parkland, Florida this week, the future of our country is in good hands. We are right to have hope, even when you think it’s time to throw in the towel. This is not about politics. It’s about the willingness of young people to speak up and take a stand, any stand they wish, but to speak up and express their opinions. These young people who needed healing the most were the ones doing the healing by reassuring a nation that they were determined is the major gift of the week. Powerful.

And while Billy Graham went to his heavenly home this week, if you’ll allow me my childlike construct of what we all call “the next place,” it seems that hundreds of angels appeared in our world to continue his spirit of goodness, love, light, and sharing what they believe with those who will listen.

To share unconditional love with others is a wonderful goal of the day, every day. Tiny bubbles blown into the air that caused a child to laugh with joy and gift me with his wisdom; the silent expression of love that an energetic infant makes as I hold him close and he surrenders his energy to my shoulders, to take comfort and rest; worship songs from old hymnals reminding us of rituals of childhood that were as much a part of our DNA as they remain today. Sharing time with friends and loved ones, in person or by phone or by e-mail—all these things together represent so many reasons to be joyful, optimistic, and unceasing in being hopeful about tomorrow.

Just as I am, indeed. Rest in peace Rev. Graham and thank you for reminding us through your life that one person can make an impression, one that can last a lifetime. Here’s to a grand week ahead for everyone.

When WAZE Takes You Back 50 Years on Your Way Back Home

Last week provided a splendid reason to travel to San Antonio to briefly revisit lifelong friendships with two schoolmates in a quick up-and-back trip. As a dear friend reminded me recently, "Never miss something important that only happens once." I've been holding fast to those wise words for weeks now. Love how that's working out. With planning, everything you need to do still gets done, but you don't have to miss things and regret them later. And a phone app called WAZE would make the journey easier and do more than that in the course of a day.

Before the fantastic celebration of the arts in San Antonio had started, as Patricia Boyd Contreras and I had seen our dear friend and classmate, Dr. Carmen Tafolla, honored by the City for Distinction in the Arts (more on that later), I sat in reflection. Only three years old in its present updated, yet historic setting, I knew the Tobin Center best as the "Municipal Auditorium."

So, I sat in the Tobin parking lot for a moment...reflecting. The outside of the building bore no resemblance to the "Spanish colonial," as a Texas Monthly writer described it--the Municipal Auditorium I'd grown up seeing. And yet, it was beautiful in its new facade, thanks to HEB Grocery Stores and other donors. Inside the design is brilliant and the iridescent colors are so attractive that it's almost possible to forget what it used to look like.

In that old building I'd first heard the San Antonio Symphony, conducted at the time by Victor Alessandro. We were excited to sit in the comfy, cushy grown-up chairs, surrounded by lush carpet, and hear beautiful music played for hundreds of area schoolchildren. I recall taking new stuffed animals to the U.S. Marines' Toys for Tots concerts there, the price of admission.

It was a precious $3.00 to see The Buckinghams, Sunny and the Sunliners (Sunny Ozona), and Archie Bell and the Drells, and others. My handwritten memo on the back of my Polaroid b/w Swinger camera noted 12/14/69. Many of my pictures that night (including The Buckinghams) had faded, but seeing this one, and the fabulous seats my Mom managed to secure made me remember how magical she was all over again (I do recall her talking to one of the Marines expressing how much I loved all the performers on stage that evening, and...you'd just have to know Mama to know how that stuff happened all the time). Another concert favorite was to hear the Grand Ol' Opry with Ferlin Husky, Little Jimmy Dickens, Miss Minnie Pearl, and Miss Skeeter Davis. That evening I got to meet Skeeter Davis in person (Mama again. Another story, another time.)

I didn't know the word "foreshadowing" at age five, but it would appear that anxiously watching the rise and fall of the red curtain would be part of a very happy future.Those early concerts began my fascination with the amazing world of live concerts by brilliant artists.

That night staring at the powerful neon lighting in the Tobin Center, I saw the past, present, and future of the lives of my friends and my own life, boundless, multiple possibilities beckoning, new challenges inviting. As girls, now women, and all those along our journey, we were told we could be anything we wanted to be. Convention never defined us, barriers were made to be broken, and we went to the school that insisted we could be more than even we had imagined we could be.

It's strange having to consult a map (or my phone) to navigate downtown San Antonio...I used to know exactly where to go by rote. For the first two decades of my life, I knew every twist and turn by landmark for downtown from anywhere. The freeways and side streets were great to navigate, before all the name changes and new routes and subroutes and boom, you're there. Because there's so much construction downtown and on IH-35, I needed options only my mapping app would provide.

For about two years I've been estranged from Google Maps as I've enjoyed the WAZE navigation app, thanks to the recommendation of my friend Nancy. WAZErs are a friendly lot, and alert you to real-time travel conditions. Starting out from The Tobin Center, WAZE offered me three choices home, the total distance traveled and trip length, so I could choose. Much data, several choices.

From the Tobin Center, the first turns would get me to Broadway and then to...oh my gosh, I knew where I was going, and found myself just 2 blocks away from the historic Witherspoon Building at 320 E. Sixth Street. Why is that magical? It's like many other buildings downtown and it's old; therefore it's historic. The apartment at the far corner of the building in the back was my Great Aunt Emma's residence for most of the years I knew her; there had been a little residence on E. Grayson Street, I am pretty sure...at least from the 1960s...all the way until 1991, when she passed away at the age of 98. Now, this is relevant and sort of fascinating (if only to me) for a number of reasons.

Great Aunt Emma and her husband Mitchell had a son, Robert, who died very young due to polio, which was devastating. It was a time of no vaccines and hard economic times. Uncle Mitchell was a house painter by trade, and he died very young, leaving Aunt Emma with no visible means of supporting herself, and no education beyond the school of hard knocks, one of the best teachers of how to work. She was, however, a great seamstress, so that is what she did in her longtime job at the St. Anthony Hotel in SA. Today it's an historic five-star international hotel, but even in the 1960s the hotel was "all that and a bag of chips" in terms of prestige. Many private residences were held by several of S.A.'s most influential businesspersons.

Early on, working at the St. Anthony, Aunt Emma knew she couldn't afford to keep the home she'd shared with Uncle Mitchell, so she decided to rent a more affordable apartment in SA, and one of her coworkers at the hotel, Charlotte, was looking for a room to rent. Charlotte was working as a hostess in the St. Anthony's main dining room. Celebrities traveling to SA always stayed at the St. Anthony, and Charlotte got to meet all of them and they would ask for her by name. Charlotte had been recently divorced from an unhappy marriage and so, as God always seems to know what people need and when, Aunt Emma became a perfect mother figure and Charlotte the good daughter.

The two of them remained friends for their lifetimes, and Charlotte became a joyful part of our extended family, too. Except we never used the term "extended," as she was true family, especially to me. She always had time and attention to share and was always interested in whatever I had to say. By sharing expenses, they managed to do well and Aunt Emma was a faithful saver of money...in her lifetime, she never believed in banks keeping your money safe, because she'd lived through the great depression and remembered when "they had one thin dime to get them through a week"...a dime was enough for bread and milk and that was about it, back then. Aunt Emma taught Charlotte how to save, and I recall, as a child, hearing admonitions, lest anyone think of not saving something that could be reused.

Aunt Emma saved everything she could for reuse, e.g., aluminum foil. She shopped at Kresge's (the ultimate parent company of K-Mart), and bought Dak brand canned hams for $2.89 or so in the 1960s. They made four or five meals out of them. As was a member of 75+ years of Farm and Home Savings & Loan...Aunt Emma received a certificate for that notation. As a child, I didn't see how that was relevant, but Mom congratulated her savings talent and I learned then how important it was to save, for when you might not have income you were counting on having. That lesson I'd learn to value sooner than I'd realize. Today's young people walk into Target or WalMart and they're used to just picking what they want. Few have cause to learn to save allowance for weeks and wait with anxious anticipation for something worth saving, and waiting, for. That saddens me, until I see contemporary parents teaching their children that lesson, and my heart is warmed all over again. It's a miracle this photo of Aunt Emma even exists, but perhaps there was a special at Corona Studios (May 12, 1956) for this beautiful photo to be taken. No matter how it happened, it's a cherished photo.

She took no vacations nor did she travel out of town....not even on the bus. Grandma Daisy came to San Antonio for two weeks, once each year and the first week she spent in SA, staying with us, and we saw her sister, Aunt Emma, every day of that week, then we drove to Galveston for every July 4th on the beach there. Great Aunt Bird (Berta) lived there, and she was Grandma Daisy's half-sister, but Bird raised Daisy in a family of 16 kids...eight from the dad and eight from the mom blending together when the widow married the widower...these brief visits kept the 'family' together.

Great Aunt Emma wasn't long on conversation but she was kind....Charlotte was more talkative and fun to be around, but Aunt Emma had lots and lots of stories about their growing up. I remember a few, a very few, but could kick myself for not paying closer attention. When you're 8 and 9 though...you don't think in those terms anyway.

In the day and time of the 1960s, their rent for that one-bedroom apartment was about $50-$75/month. If you had a down payment for a house, maybe a mortgage payment could run $70-$90/month for a small home, $400/month for a mansion perhaps. Hard to know much about pricing when you're in elementary school. Charlotte had the bedroom and Aunt Emma had her big poster bed, armoir, dressing table and sewing machine, all in the back half of the very large living room.

It seemed such a vast living area...and today's rent there, for the same place, I see online, is $895/month. It had (I hope this is a correct memory) 37 cast iron steps and Aunt Emma marched up and down those steps two and three times a day...which is how she stayed in shape. She walked to the bus stop and took the bus to the St. Anthony, as did Charlotte. It was not ever a safe neighborhood by any standards, really. But when you pray for safety, which they did, safety was there.

The Witherspoon Building was home above the Pep Boys garage underneath...the garage saw a lot of traffic during the daytime but shut down about 6 pm. You could park in the lot directly behind the building. I do remember as a kid learning to be aware of who was around when you went to get in the car, and to first walk all around the car before getting in it, lest someone try to enter from the opposite side and drag you and the car off with them. Yet, it didn't deter Mom (and me, in tow) from visiting Aunt Emma. Mom and Charlotte were both concerned when someone grabbed Aunt Emma's purse and took off one day...and they looked for another place to live.

They moved across about 5 miles to "The Rex Apartments" that were not necessarily in a better neighborhood, but it was landscaped beautifully. That lasted 5 days and they moved back to the same building that was being managed by their friend, Mary, widow of Ed, who'd been a night typesetter at the San Antonio Light newspaper. Mary welcomed them back with open arms and there they stayed. All three of them looked out for each other.

Aunt Emma never let you carry her purse, which weighed a good 30 lbs (slight exaggeration, only slight), and insisted on carrying it up and down those stairs...Mom feared constantly that the weight of the purse would send her careening down the stairs but it never did...these days if you asked me to take those stairs once a day, I'd have to think twice about the potential of tripping...but she never did worry....the best attitude.

Final thoughts...when Aunt Emma was a younger woman, early bride, Mom and Aunt Virginia would ride the Frisco Railroad (free) each summer to spend several weeks in both San Antonio and with Aunt Emma. Mom said she was lighthearted, funny, loving and kind. It was those times, I am convinced, that were some of the most special of the very hard life and times Mom's generation had, growing up in St. Louis. Ultimately, Mom would move permanently to SA, where she took a job in civil service, with a government office located on the base at Ft. Sam Houston, very close to where Aunt Emma's original house was.

It's hard to tell what a person is like by one semi-serious photo pose, but among the pioneers of our generation of strong women...you never saw her pity herself and how little she had to live on....she had faith in God, even if she didn't attend church each week, and that's the perfect example of how being in a church each week doesn't make you religious any more than being in a garage every night makes you a car...it's how you live your life and if you trust someone or something outside yourself to have gotten you here as who looks in on you at times when you don't even think you have a right to ask for help. All those thoughts came rushing back into my mind simply by driving down that street (that my Waze GPS programmed me to take) on my way back home from SA...the first hometown I ever knew.

Eventually, I arrived back home, spending those 210 minutes in deep reflection, being alert enough to avoid two standstill traffic jams along I-35 (thank you many, many exit ramps in SA), but the joyful events of the day--seeing a longtime friend after too long, and seeing another longtime friend of ours honored by the most creative and talented artists, academics and dignitaries in San Antonio, had me on the proverbial Cloud 9. WAZE got me home safely, but it took me via a small detour of five decades of my life. I had to forgo the usual Buc-ee's stop with my new route, darn the luck, and I left with no Bill Miller iced tea refills in my car, yet I had a perfect view of my childhood, thanks to a heavenly intervention of memory, and a technological invention called WAZE. Thanks for the memories, WAZE. I owe you one.