Reflections on 2020, Prayers and Wishes for 2021

About 2 am on New Year's Eve day, I left the computer and set my alarm for “early,” not wanting to miss a minute of productivity on the last day of the year. That’s how holidays flow for freelancers.

You work when you can and when you can’t, you figure out what you can work on next until more work appears. I’ve been blessed with work to the point that on these “holidays,” I am still found at the computer, my choice, my pleasure.

So when the day unfolded, I had no idea what awaited me that would bring me such excitement and amazement.

Throughout the holidays, friends-as-family have been abundant in reaching out and keeping tabs on me, how I’m doing, making sure I never feel alone.

I call this a blessing—and I’ve had so many of them during the holidays this year. This morning my checklist only had two items on it, but the text message that came through added a third, which is not unusual. That blessing would come later in the day.

The year 2020 has been what my late friend, Dr. Thyra Plass, used to call “a whale of a year.” Meaning open to interpretation, but at the minimum—overwhelming. As the past 365 days have passed, the mere mention of the year 2020 causes people to wrinkle their faces, as they jump immediately to people and things we have lost in our lives. That’s natural as for many of us the ravages of COVID-19 have impacted us all directly and indirectly.

Children have been resilient in their willingness to adapt to new kinds and forms of education; my favorite 8.5-yr-old pal shared, earlier this summer, that he was not going to have a traditional birthday party this time due to ‘coronavirus’ and didn’t have a single ounce of regret in his voice, only acceptance. Said the entire word better than most professional news anchors, too.

At the time I recall thinking about how I wished others were more stalwart about the limitations our world had been dealt to combat an unanticipated foe. His ability to cope with disappointment about his party hit me like a ton of bricks…natural leaders are born and this is how they grow up. This year we’ve seen leadership of all styles from exemplary to horrible and at the end of the year, all any of us want now for the next year are essentially empathy, kindness, and health and safety for all whom we love.

That’s not much to ask for and we also need it as much as want it. Thus, 2021 is welcome and as everyone scrambles to find black-eyed peas to cement the deal, so will our hearts seek out validation for understanding how we all managed to make it through last year.

The first line of defense includes our medical and safety emergency front line teams—from doctor’s offices with gifted nurses to hospitals and specialists, to police, fire, and 911 teams, our community has been fortunate in leadership, including Dr. Seth Sullivan and our municipal leaders in Bryan, College Station, and Brazos County, who stood together in unity, addressed issues early and head-on and always gave us reason to trust in their word, and we followed their directions for the most part.

All year long we’ve seen and heard of neighbors’ kindnesses to each other, the amazing things that our community has done in collecting food for the Brazos Food Pantry, serving hot meals to our healthcare providers, making sure children had meals at school with continuity, and our own BTU utility gave us 15% discounts two months in a row (at least) to help with the costs to survive COVID while jobs were eliminated, reduced, or strained.

Overall, we have emerged stronger and even more empathetic as ever. It’s not safe to take chances and we are still safest at home, but our spirits have been uplifted with every telling of tales of kindness shown on a regular basis. It’s one of the reasons, of many, I remain here as my home. In 2021, we will continue to make progress towards achieving health and returning life to normal for as many people as we possibly can, because we all work together to do that. People take time for each other here, and one dear friend is constantly my inspiration as I see what all she does for so many.

Other friends are strong in their faith, others strong in their actions, more are strong in prayers for those in need, and on and on it goes. We all have our special gifts to offer and every action and gift means something to others. Meeting the needs…that’s what you all do for all of us here.

It was close to noon when I scanned Facebook and saw a post from a young woman who was reaching out to anyone who happened to be reading—it was on a private group page that will stay private for purposes of maintaining anonymity but that person, whose name was previously unknown to me, posted that she had reached her very lowest point and felt close to ending her time on earth, in need of a professional to talk to today but not knowing how to find one.

Within minutes, group members posted phone numbers, prayers, two strangers said she should go to the ER and she could private message them her phone number and they would meet her there so she wouldn’t be alone.

New Year’s Eve; the end of a year in which despair was an operative emotion, where depression was so common none of us want to admit it was real to us, but it was, and here is an honest soul reaching out. The answers were overwhelmingly positive and uplifting and one more time, love was shared, hope was offered, and faith flowed freely. A final update on the post tonight confirmed that things were better for her and that good care was being given. Prayers were answered and it was the miracle of the day. Turns out it wasn’t the only miracle of the day.

Later in the day I received notice that a family whose loved one they’d been expecting to pass away today had occurred, and we made arrangements to meet this afternoon. Before I left the house, the strangest feeling came over me. I had 3 Russell Stover chocolate candy bars on my dining table, remaining from stuffing little cherubs’ stockings. I looked over at them and thought about taking them with me, but I couldn’t figure out why. I ignored the impulse and headed to the garage. At the laundry room, I paused, turned around and shook my head as I picked up the candy bars and put them into my jacket pocket and off I went.

In my five years as a celebrant, I have never taken anything but my pen and notebook to meet with a family. So, as I walked in and greeted the family members, I had no control over what I said or did as I reached into my jacket and pulled out the candy bars and said, “These are for you!” and I had no more wondered why I offered up the candy or where those words had come from, but I had my answer in the blink of an eye. The looks on their faces said it all. “He loved chocolate” they both said in unison!! “It was his favorite thing!” The visit was wonderful as they shared the many reasons they loved him.

Then, on the way home I saw a text where a favorite memory had been shared on Facebook, which reminded me instantly of another God moment that had happened, January 2016, when my best friend was reflecting aloud about something she never knew about her parents' lives before she came along. We can all relate to not having asked enough questions while they were here.

Another of those fortuitous happenstances produced an answer in the blink of an eye as we went looking through some things. Presto, that answer appeared almost like magic, a supernatural gift, particularly as her parents had been gone for many years. Some five years later, that memory came up again today—a reminder that miracles happen every day, and that memories of those miracles are new once again, each time they come to mind.

I can only conclude that because so many of us have texted, Facebook IM’d, posted, talked on the phone, Skyped and Zoomed through 2020 about how we couldn’t wait for this year to be over, that there is a collective sigh of relief as we turn the page onto 2021. But I’ve determined to remember all of the good things that happened as people gave from their hearts, of themselves, in faith, hope, and love for others as we banded together to survive.

The lessons of 2020 included the loss of several people close to us, unexpectedly, some from COVID and others gone too soon to cancer, as well as a few other reasons. Alumni from my childhood school (grades 1-12) remain close some 50+ years later on yet another Facebook group. This year we learned of the passing of some of our classmates, each one of us impacted by the loss of one of us. One especially stood out in our hearts and minds as he was the unofficial “Dean” of the group—a wise attorney and brilliant humorist named David. David had gone to Keystone School for 12 years and was another school "lifer." Brilliant, wise, and funny as heck, David always knew the right thing to say. He was a caring, brilliant attorney, and the word “wise” should be specially reserved for David.

It was memorable that Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg died on Rosh Hashanah, the “cusp” of the end of the year, symbolic in its own right as she is considered “a person of great righteousness.” David, a man of decided righteousness, died the next day, September 26. Surely, the Justice needed a solid right-hand attorney to work up responses to cases that would eventually find their way to us. Justice is ahead for 2021.

Throughout this year, I, and so many others in our community, have been blessed by the example of faith of a young 18-year-old woman, Rebecca, whose life serves more than just one purpose in this world. Coming from the loving family of faith she does, if ever you considered yourself a person of faith, you've been praying for her, joining in the legions of us who know her story.

For those who approach life from a different faith journey, just the fact that she is among us still today would cause you to understand that when logic, reason, and rational thought fail, faith fills that gap and explains so many things. Why this precious child and her family have had such a decade of suffering is a question I will one day demand answers to, should I gain entry into the great beyond.

It hurts to know what she has endured, and still, and yet, this child is an angel on Earth, sent in part to remind us that we must believe in things unseen, any way we can find our way to do so, because love and faith explain why science and medicine cannot.

Answered prayers are the only reason that makes sense, and her Earthly work is not done, not by a long shot. She plans on graduating from Harvard and all wise bets are on her to do just that, as she received word of her early admission already.

Yes, 2020 was a year we bid farewell to many in our lives whom we would prefer would still be here with us, anticipating the great things to come in 2021. They should be here with us to see how things turned out, to experience the good times that are hopefully on their way. It just emphasizes that each moment with those we care about, love, and call our family—real or extended—is precious and we should not take a moment for granted.

This coming year comes with no guarantees and indeed we face many challenges to come, but with faith comes hope, and in hope we find love, for real, for always. May each of us be blessed in all the ways that we need to succeed to have a healthy life. May we remember always to be kind. We may not know how others feel but we can have empathy, a quality long missing in 2020 as we all had plenty of reasons to miss it in some leadership, and may we seek and model truth in all that we say and do this year. Happy New Year!

Lots of love and thank you to each of you who have filled my life with joy, hope, and friendship,

Dawn Lee

An Eight-Year-Old Perspective on Election Day, Education, Faith, and Freedom

This morning I greeted the day enthusiastically, calmly, and confidently…for about five minutes at which point my brain started doing its usual analysis of the fact that it was the birthday of John H. Eargle, Jr., co-founder of Keystone School, long since gone from this world, about how important education had been to my mother, and how our school used to hold mock elections every four years to teach civics and garner enthusiasm in voting, which we can all benefit from, those of us who have gone through levels of enthusiasm and anxiety when it comes to “politics.”

As a child I used to sit quietly around the table as the grownups had interesting and active discussions of the politics of the days, the 1960s, and at first I found the entire topic boring. I never once heard the sharing of differing opinions rise about conversational level, though. By the 1970s, my high school classmates and I were watching presidential hearings after school or the reruns late at night.

Though family and friends' discussions were passionate, there was always a collegiality about the discussion of opposing sides and when it was done, and the visit was concluded, or moved to another topic, the visits always ended with hugs and kisses. I grew to like politics or at least tolerate them long enough to pay attention to details, make up my mind and await the day I was old enough to vote.

I remember even in elementary school, asking my mother why politics were so frequently talked about and she said, “it’s a good thing in our country when there are two sides and people talk about the benefits of each side.” She continued, “Dawnie, the day people stop speaking aloud about politics is a day to beware of, because that will mean we are no longer a free country. I hope you will never see a time like that.” Some 50 years later, it had almost reached that point.

Facebook, Twitter, and other mediums where platforms are frequently expressed became a graveyard for anger, epithets, mockery, and hate-filled speech. Many people were quick to write about who they supported and voted for, and why those who didn’t see that way could remove them from their list of friends. And so we arrived today at many people afraid to say who they voted for, lest they lose half their friends, or make someone mad, or anger their bosses and scotch any chances of a raise—win or lose, you could lose. That’s not how it is supposed to be, but it is.

This morning, something more important in the lives of some I care about was going on—something far more important than the country’s future…was going on. A beautiful young woman in San Antonio was in the midst of critical life/death surgery to try and repair some major damage that had happened during a prior surgery. This beautiful young brilliant woman has been through about 90 of these surgeries in the past decade, and what she experiences would crater most mature individuals, while she is in massive pain but copes with it with what can only be described as “the peace that passes all understanding.”

Rebecca, her name, is not originally of this world. Really, I’m fully convinced she was an angel let out of Heaven long enough to be born and to live and to grow to teach people she knows, and others she doesn’t, how to pray—unceasingly, fervently, and to expect a perfect outcome of an answered prayer. That’s the only reason I can think of (logically) as to why a child should ever have to endure what she has while here on earth, and her family to have to experience these ongoing tests of faith. This is an answer I’ll have to wait until I get to Heaven to understand but it’s high on my list of questions. Of course, I have a list of questions…you know me.

Following a prayer in my early morning path that involved me actually speaking out loud with the Lord, when my prayers are usually silent, I then took to scanning the local paper online. I indulged myself in a moment to enjoy the diversion of my horoscope. I wasn’t looking for answers outside God. I was looking for what might be there to surprise me. It read:

Consider consequences and options first. Quiet the mind through meditation. Psychic communication with wild creatures will be especially lucid. Your creative talents shine. Use your imagination. A child or new friend inspires you. Tonight: You might just want to luxuriate and take a nap.

Hmm…I’d been quiet and meditated (if that’s what you perceive as meditation, quieting the mind to receive a gift of thoughts). No wild creatures here…Barney’s still across the street, sleeping, and won’t arrive for a while. Luxuriate and take a nap? Not a chance. Hmmm, a child or new friend inspires you. Wasn’t planning on being out except a trip to the post office.

And then my phone rang, it was FaceTime and it was my eight-year-old pal! I immediately smiled as the call connected and I saw the sky. The sky, not my pal. He said, “Hi there!” and I said, “Hi! Whatcha doing?” “Fishing,” he said. “Did you get the day off from school?” I asked. He said, “Yes, it’s Election Day.” I said, “Oh, that’s interesting. Are they using your school as a polling site?” I am entirely forgetting he’s only eight and might not know what a polling site is. I worry too much.

He said, “No, it was a polling site last year but not this year.” Eight years old. Okay. I said, “Where are you?” as I could see only sky. He said, “At a creek not far from my house.” I said, “Beautiful sky, honey” and he said, “That’s what Pippa said when I talked to her a few minutes ago.” I laughed. Pippa and I often postulate how pretty clouds are during drives along the roadways.

So, he explained that he had just caught a channel catfish that was fairly large but he threw it back into the water. I asked about his bait and he said, “Today, I brought some bread and it’s working pretty well.” We discussed bait, hooks, fishing poles (he has two fishing rods, thank you very much), and how we were both not fans of minnows. Worms didn’t rate discussion. He said quickly, “Let me call my Dad to check in.” “Okay,” I said, brightly.

We talked about school and his favorite subject. He knows I groan if he tells me “Recess” whenever I ask, so he said that Math was pretty good. He also said that one of his neighbors used to come fishing with him but couldn’t be away from the house right now. He was actually under about 14 watchful eyes by phone who can keep the proverbial eyes on exactly where he is and use the GPS to be there in two minutes. So if you have concerns about his being “on his own,” forget it. Lewis & Clark were solitary explorers. The training wheels are still on for him, but he’s not aware of them.

He said, “I’m going to leave the iPad where it is and then move over to a different spot to see if I can get better fish there. You probably can’t see me, but I’ll be there.” Oh wow…this child…channels messages to me in a way that hit me like the proverbial 2x4…my concerns and fears this morning for Rebecca and her surgery….it was like God telling me, “You can’t see me but I’ll be right there.” Trying not to tear up, I said, “Okay, honey.”

We got back to talking. He asked me whether I’d voted in the Election this year. I said, “Yes, I voted on the second day of Early Voting.” He paused and said, “Who did you vote for?” I paused. I said, “Actually I voted for a lot of people this year. There were so many on the ballot.” I was being cautious not to influence him with ‘my’ politics when he was at an age where discernment of who a family votes for, who extended family votes for, who the country votes for—all those factors are in play. I didn’t want to say anything wrong.

I thought about all the ways in which my friends whose careers in entertainment had given their time to encourage voting. Carl Giammarese recorded a version of James Holvay's and Gary Beisbier's hit for The Buckinghams, "Susan," for a group called "You Can't Stop Me from Voting." Then, Kiki Ebsen and others joined voices at the invitation of Terry Wollman on his fabulous collaborative song (with Lillooet Fox and Rachelle Lynn Gislason), "Beautiful (The Sound of Us)," featuring Ray Jupiter and Donald Webber, Jr. and a multivoice choir to encourage voting this year. Also, Kiki was invited to contribute two songs to a genius playlist ,"Music to Vote By," designed by Kelly Fitzgerald, John Diggins, and Michelle Mangione. If you're stuck in line, you're not stuck when you have music. All these wonderful events with talented musicians using their gifts to uplift were developed to encourage Americans and inspire them to get out and vote this year. My mind wandered and I found myself so proud, smiling at my friends' accomplishments, staying positive while they couldn't pursue their own careers, and taking time to give to others.

My eight-year-old future Supreme Court justice pushed me, “Who did you vote for in the Presidential election?” Yes, he speaks this way in full, intelligent, complete sentences all the time because that is how his parents and others speak to him, with him. I paused and said to myself, “I have always told this child the truth and I’m not about to change now, and I’ve always answered his questions.” So I told him. He said, “What do you like about him?” and I gave a one-sentence true answer. He said, “Okay.” He said, “How do you feel about (the other guy)?” and I said, “I’m not a fan. He took it all in, didn’t question, didn’t comment. I liked that. He asked, I answered.

Our discussion went back to Halloween and I said, “What did you all do for Halloween?” He said, “on Halloween itself, we didn’t go out. It wasn’t safe.” I said, “I’m sorry about that honey, I think next year things should be different.” He said, “Longer than that, because (presidential candidate he said by name--they are currently both presidential candidates so no guessing allowed) said the vaccine won’t be ready until 2022 at least.”

I wanted to cry and beam with pride at the same time. Eight years old. Knows what a vaccine is and that next year might not be a time when kids can return to normal Halloween. This was the same child who explained matter-of-factly and not at all sadly that “this year my birthday doesn’t have the usual kind of party because of Coronavirus.” He didn’t say anything less than Coronavirus. I know adults who forget its formal name and refer to it as “this thing.”

Birthday and Halloween denied to my little pal thanks to the pandemic. His parents had created loving, wonderful alternatives to celebrate both events but what the usual was, wasn’t this year. And he was not the least bit feeling sorry for himself. This child, Lord help.

Ha. “Lord, help” was a trademark expression of the cofounder of Keystone…a native of deep east Texas and it was his point of exasperation that was reached before he uttered it. I laughed as that is what I find myself uttering as a prayer without even realizing it. Ah, the things we learn as children.

I asked if he had packed anything for lunch. He said, “I might have some of the bread I brought for the fish, but I am getting a little hungry.” He said, “I will stay here a little longer.”

"Would you look up places to find turtles in (the name of his subdivision)?" he requested. Off to Google I went and then we discussed a particular nature conservancy, and he knew exactly where that was. I said, “You really love turtles, don’t you?” and he agreed. He knew all the correct names of the parts of a turtle. Asked him about reading and I was delighted to hear he’d been enjoying two books recently and I said, “That’s good; I love it when you like to read.”

He said, “It didn’t used to be something I like, but I like it right now.” I said, “Well, I’ve got a series of books that may be a little old for you because the oldest boy in the family is 12, but maybe you would like it. If you like one, I have a whole series.” I’m thinking that I want to send him “The Happy Hollisters” from my young days as a budding solver of mysteries that would lead my mother to christen me “Miss Marple, Jr.” or “Nancy Drew, Jr.,” depending on her choice at the time. Only those old enough will know who or what a Miss Marple is.

My heart was thrilled when he said, “I’ll try one and see how I like it.” I’ll be wrapping up volume one for mailing soon. Fingers crossed.

He proclaimed, “Next year I’m in 4th grade!” and I said, “Yes, that’s great.” He said, “But I love 3rd grade right now. It’s my favorite so far!” and his heart soared, you could hear it over the phone. I was working on something on the computer and he was busy fishing while we conversed, just two pals hanging out while we accomplished our goals. He is one of two pals I do that with; especially during the isolation of the pandemic, it makes a difference to be on FaceTime, Skype, and Zoom with your friends and to just hang out for a while. You emerge from that renewed as it’s the next best thing to being there. The fact that he is eight is irrelevant. Any time spent with him is time well spent.

All of this to say that today the future of our country will be determined when all the votes are in and counted and the winner is announced. As long as we are alive, I hope there will always be at least two parties and room for an independent when it comes to needing an option. I hope that people will always continue to vote and remain active in each election. Whether or not they wish to share their opinions on a public social forum that can often lead to separation and bad feelings, may we always live in a society free enough to express our opinions openly, without fear or favor resulting. And may we always have gratitude for the blessings we have received in life so far and reasons to always be optimistic for the future ahead.

May each of you have a powerfully fruitful Election Day and Evening. May we improve our circumstances and quality of life to preserve life, rather than lose any more lives. That continues to be my regular prayer. And, if a miracle for Rebecca is your will, “Lord help” remains my fervent prayer. May my eight-year-old pal continue to be a fisher of men as he is today a fisher of fish. I see his future unfolding and he will be whatever he was destined to be, or wants to be, and it might just be that he will be a Supreme Court Justice. To me, he will always be supreme. As Ruthie Foster sang on "Austin City Limits" last Saturday, “Woke up this morning with my mind, stayed on freedom.” To which I add the other lyric, “Woke up this morning with my mind, stayed on Jesus.”

May God bless America, always. Amen.

Lamenting the Loss of a Dear Friend I’d Never Met—Ana M. Lord (1948–2020)

In these days of working from home, powered by social media especially if you’re in the entertainment world, it’s easy to begin friendships over the Internet. Two people begin to correspond for business and learn from one another about a common interest. With time, you start to address one another as friends. Later, you’re good friends. And for some, you are eventually dear friends.

Ana M. Lord

On Tuesday, August 25th, I received an e-mail from a dear friend that our mutual Facebook friend via music, Ana Lord, had passed away. No cause of death was known nor any details. He’d actually learned from another member of his band about her passing. Grief washed over me inexplicably. She was gone…before I ever got to meet her. The friendship didn’t vanish just because we’d never met. It was just delayed and postponed until “some other time” in the future.

For a few minutes I sat in silence at my keyboard, blinking back some tears that wouldn’t come. Logic was too busy overriding my grief. Wait, there had been no storm in the Bahamas that few days prior—there were the days when our large music community began to reach out to her to make sure she updated us on the storm surges through the Bahamas that could ravage cities in the blink of an eye. She was gone. I really respected and admired her for so many reasons. And yet, I’d never met her in person.

Our friendship began nine years ago, in 2011, the year when the beloved famous horn band, The MOB, was to be inducted in the South Dakota Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. The MOB, to anyone from Chicago, is a beloved iconic band, precursor to the bands “youngsters” think of today as Chicago, Chase, and a few others. The MOB was horn driven, heavy into R&B, their own soul sounds, and some pretty damn snappy dance moves on stage for 11 or so guys to perform in unison while doing their thing. This genuine soul band had heart, soul, and a whole lotta love for music. Here's a brief video of the induction ceremony:

The MOB was led by consensus, better than most do today. Famous members of the band depended on what they were famous for. James Holvay and Gary Beisbier were famous for cowriting the earliest hits of The Buckinghams (Kind of a Drag–James; Don’t You Care, Hey Baby, They’re Playing our Song, and Susan—James and Gary). They had a way of writing and arranging songs for The MOB that created a singular sound dimension of joy when you heard them.

Jimmy Ford, trumpeter and band leader in his own right had been a major part of early Dick Clark “Caravan of Stars” players who toured with the music stars of the day. Larry McCabe’s trombone was unforgettable. Singing sensations “Big Al” Herrera and his brother Artie, originally from Waco, Texas, eventually affiliated with the band. Almost as soon as they’d joined, Artie entered the service, and Big Al took over lead song duties. Drummer Bobby Ruffino, keyboardist Tony Nedza, guitarist and singer Mike Sistak, and eventual bassist Albert Maligmat were all-stars in their own right on stage.

From 1966 until 1980, The MOB evolved, got better and better, released singles, signed recording contracts for albums and other standard band fare, and yet they were more famous long after they had disbanded than while they were together. Why? Because they were an unforgettable SHOW BAND that you could best appreciate by seeing in person to get that cool R&B vibe they were dishing out.

Ana Lord heard the group live in 1967 in Jacksonville, Florida for the first time. It would begin an entirely new chapter in her life that gave her great joy just to hear their music. I originally shared her story in 2011.

Make no mistake. Ana was no groupie or devotee who went everywhere the band did. At the time she was in San Antonio, she was an integral part of promotion in an advertising and marketing for a firm she helped start, Total Marketing Concepts. When there was a special event on the horizon, she tried to locate the group (before the Internet), all she found were dead ends. That would not be the end of the story though. Armed with one goal, trying to create a “one last time” reunion for The MOB would be a musical coup and something people would absolutely love. She was determined to make it happen and found a few ultra-talented music lovers who were like minded and a small group effort began to take flight. Music lovers all know that there are groups of people on the Internet who find ways to communicate mutual interests about music with each other.

In the early days of dial-up modems, there was a message board called Spectropop. Other Internet services had their own boards, plus the creation of Yahoo groups, and other collaborations, long before Facebook.

There are numerous chapters in the story of how Ana Lord, Alan Schrank, and Joseph Pytel researched and found their way to locate various band members. The ultimate product of all their hard work was the occasion of the South Dakota Rock and Roll Hall of Fame preparing to name a new class of honorees. Lord and Schrank wrote the proposal and in April 2011, James Holvay “got the band back together” or most of it, and there was an amazing night at the Ramkota Hotel Exhibit Hall that it rocked the living daylights out of South Dakota, powered by the brilliance of the newly rehearsed MOB, with a few new guest inductees playing instruments for those originals who couldn’t make it.

Here's "Who's Making Love (to Your Old Lady)" performed by James Holvay and Al Herrera.

The most ironic and sad thing is that Ana never got to attend that reunion. She had long relocated to Nassau, the Bahamas, where she proudly worked in ad sales for The Nassau Guardian, whose staff remembered her with great regard recently on her Facebook page, posting the first notice of her passing.

I never asked why she couldn’t go, but one can imagine travel and lodging costs—Bahamas to Sioux Falls, SD—for the weekend of unforgettable reunion music was prohibitive. She never let on how she felt, but at the time, I remember it crushed my heart not to have the extra funds to send her myself. Plus, you never know when someone simply cannot afford the time off from work due to deadlines, so you don’t say anything to anyone else. There are times you feel comfortable in offering to help. Other times, you sit quietly and just pray. The reunion event was spectacular, and yet Ana’s role in it was established among all who knew the behind-the-scenes machinations to make it happen. In her heart, though, she was content to know that she had played a vital role in bringing the group back together after 40 years.

Ana may have easily been overlooked if anyone in the crowd was looking for someone who might one day be a reason this band found a reason to come together after 40 years apart. The MOB had a legion of fans, from primary home base of Chicago, to Los Angeles, CA, where they had regular house band status at Barnaby’s and PJ’s, or to various casinos in Vegas where their late night shows just might have Elvis or Frank Sinatra in the crowd, after they’d finished their own shows and they were winding down.

South Dakota, meanwhile, boasted its own claim to being at least one more home base for The MOB, thanks to the iconic venue, The Mocamba Club. Famous for booking the best of the best before they were discovered nationally, this club was a frequent favorite for The MOB to play, and Sioux Falls rocked hard whenever they were in town.

What Ana didn’t really get to know or hear about was how each individual band member, original and guest for the evening, felt about that single event in their lives, the reunion, meant for them. Finally, at long last, they received more than a footnote, or a modicum of stingy recognition for their true role in taking their own original horn band sound out of Chicago and into the world. Recordings could not capture the crowd dynamics when they played as live albums were not all that common then.

On the plus side, Alan Schrank is a master photographer and graphic artist who took videos and still photographs enough to make you feel like you were there, even when you weren’t—the next best thing. He created a one-of-a-kind group of memories that are still fun to look through today and he readily shared his photos with me to publish in my online stories and blog. In the nine years that have passed since the April 2011 reunion and honor for The MOB, much has happened in all of our lives. James Holvay wrote new songs and was a major powerhouse part of a hit Los Angeles musical production, “Eastside Heartbeats,” and Gary Beisbier released a new album after many years away from the studios.

Other band members did interesting things as well, but for at least that one weekend in South Dakota, those band members were all 20 years old again, in matching suits, with carnations in their lapels and a genuine new lease on life in their hearts one more time when that first downbeat began. It was 1967 all over again, for all of us.

The MOB didn’t make any more public appearances together, but the guys stayed in better touch with each other and that alone was worth the outcome of a reunion. Finding your ”teenage” friends once again at a point in your life where you can take the time for one another is a rich blessing.

Meeting new friends was something that also resulted from the catalyst that Ana provided to reigniting the interest in the band and their music, all the way since the 1980s. She never gave up. She didn’t quit. She had many years of waiting in the interim. And, in the end, she never got to see the product of all her good works (together with the works of others) in person.

Many of my “friends through music” became Facebook friends with Ana—our neighborhood online music community had a subdivision of our very own, held together by those first music beginnings. It was just so easy to drop a note on Facebook and check in to one another’s lives, which felt as valid as having coffee with your next-door neighbor in person. Ana was blessed with two children, a daughter and a son, both of whom live in Florida. She was very proud of them. She was also devoted to her various wonderful doggies who had good lives with her for as long as they did.

Her life of late was simple. The Bahamas utility company didn’t seem to have their acts together. The Nassau Guardian paper where she worked in advertising was filled with many colleagues she enjoyed being associated with. She loved her dogs.

Ana was also a fan of The Buckinghams, another Chicago-based horn band that brought a more pop rock sound to fans who loved horn. On one of their previous years Concerts at Sea, the tour stopped at Nassau, The Bahamas, and Ana gave the band a lovely tour of the paper on their day off, hoping to introduce them to some entertainment producers in hopes of booking a Bahamas gig for them at some future point. Though the concert date never happened, it was a lovely day for friendships old and new to be renewed.

This journey of music, whether you’re the artist or the music lover, is a seemingly never-ending journey of joy…people appreciating the gifts and talents of musicians means a lot to the band members. Similarly, when you have time to spend a few moments in genuine conversation with those whose works you’ve admired a long time, it’s often a once-in-a-lifetime experience that stays with fans all of your life.

So many people at the beginning and end of their lives have only memories to remind them of where they’ve been, who they’ve seen, and how they’ve felt. Few have photos or albums left to leave to others as people are forever downsizing to relocate and reposition their lives. Sometimes the only pictures are in our heads, waiting to be summoned at the times that present themselves.

Sometimes, you get lucky and someone finds some lost tapes (that could mean reel-to-real, cassette, or maybe even 8-tracks), and shares them as in this case:

Hearing a familiar strain of music on a radio station or one you call for on Alexa, or one you hear playing on an old turntable in a seaside store brings back childhood, brings back love and joy, and brings back the best days of your lives, before adulthood came along and pushed everything else into the closet and locked the door.

Ana Lord came into the lives of many less than a decade ago. She brought with her an avid memory of the music of The MOB, shared her excitement and enthusiasm for their music, recruited many supporters and friends to join her in trying to “get the band back together just one more time,” and she did what she set out to do. And then, at the end, after she’d worked her magic kindness and spirit into many lives, she transitioned into the next life, most likely to continue her goodness and good works.

Although I didn’t get to say goodbye, to a good friend I had not yet met, I take consolation in knowing that time and distance separate many of us, but it’s the things that bring us together that remain most important. Ana Lord’s life and work live on beyond her days here on Earth. And as records and historical writings of the music of The MOB will go on, down the line, she will always be remembered with fondness for her contributions.

Her published obituary is here, if you wish to leave a message or note in her online guestbook.

So, I ask you to join me in raising your glass or coffee cup at whatever day and time you wish, and say a little prayer of thanks for Ana’s life. And let the great music play on…and on. Amen.

Memories of an Aunt Who Lit Up the World with Her Trademark Joie de vivre

If we were given the chance to choose the day on which we departed planet Earth, and only the day, and nothing else, one wonders what day we would choose. As I pondered the phone call I’d received from my cousin, Craig, letting me know that my Aunt Beatrice had transitioned into her “next place” of afterlife, Heaven, I had to stop and think about how amazing it was that she was going to get to spend her first Mother’s Day in 56 years with her own mother, and rejoin the company of her older sister, my Mother, who helped raise her as a young child. Not thinking back on those left behind who would miss her terribly, I focused instead on what life had to offer her, at long, long last.

[Left: Aunt Bea and Mom, 1988, in Houston]

When you reach the point in life where medical issues overtake your world and pain and suffering are a regular expectation of each new day, to quote Aunt Bea, “It stinks.” She admonished all of us from time to time: “Never get old. It’s a bore.” I used to laugh when she said it because she herself was laughing. Her trademark laughter was good enough to yank you out of whatever crummy mood you were in and jerk you back into a better frame of mind.

All of 86 years ago, when Bea was born in 1933, in St. Louis, Missouri, she was born at home, the way most babies of the day were. Hospital deliveries were still coming into being. The world as we knew it then was in the midst of the worst year of the depression. There was 25% unemployment and Hitler had just come into power. There was a drought in the Midwest, times were tough everywhere. My Mother was only 10 years old when her baby sister was born, the sixth child of her family to arrive, but one who’d been many years following the first group of five children. Her brothers had brown, blond and red hair, and she took after her brother, Douglas, whose trademark red hair and green eyes set them apart from their sibings, but only slightly since they all resembled one another in many other ways.

A truly sensitive creature, Bea grew up empathetic towards any living creature God created, as well as giving friendship, love and time to all the people in her world. She was a delight and especially did her older brother Douglas use some of the money he made from delivering prescriptions on his bicycle for Walgreen’s Pharmacy, a chain founded in neighboring Chicago in 1901, to buy his baby sister lots and lots of penny candy, and she’d squeal with delight when he came riding up, a little sack in his basket just for her. Going through school, she was a beautiful girl, with long red tresses and Mom spent hours helping her style her hair just so, and delighted in shopping with and for her as she dressed for school. In fact, Bea was Mom’s “practice run” on raising me, I do believe. We’d compare notes from time to time and I must say that Mom was consistent, if nothing else, ha.

When Bea married and eventually became a mother to Craig and his sister Cynthia there were two children who were adored, loved, and who formed the world around which she orbited. She loved being a mother and she had a “day job” to boot while they were in school. During the years when the entire family got together at our grandparents’ home, there was always a lot of laughter, good food, and many happy memories were created.

Fast forward to when my grandmother became a widow at an age far younger than she’d expected. I’m blurry on the details of exactly when, but Bea and her family moved in with Grandmother to make sure she wouldn’t be alone and to help take care of her. Both Bea and her husband Roland were devoted to her and she stayed young by having Craig and Cynthia around the house with daily updates from school to report. She was a good babysitter until the parents got off work and she felt needed, the most important factor of all.

Grandmother died in1974, and Bea and Roland bought the house as their homestead so Bea had only lived outside of the home she was born in for a very short time, relatively speaking. This home was the smaller of the homes my Mom and her siblings had grown up in. They’d had a much larger house before the depression but my Grandfather found his salary cut in half one day so the family had to move.

It was a typical midwestern house with two stories plus a basement, and it backed up to where a giant hospital complex was slowly overtaking the neighborhood. For the past 30 or 40 years, the family could have sold the house but Bea refused. She was determined to stay in the home she was born in, even though living primarily on the second floor of the home where the plumbing necessitated such was to the consternation of each family member who knew how hard it was for her to navigate stairs. There were some points on which she would not budge. Her rules. Her way.

As time went on and her children became adults she was blessed with two grandsons, Andrew and Aaron, and her world propelled back into massive joy once again because she loved little children and loved being a Grandmother. She loved the name too, and didn’t need another moniker, happily accepted Grandma or Grandmother as he own mother had been called.

As is typical in our family, not every family member is in sync with the lives of the others. Geographical distance often makes it an impossibility to stay connected and then time does some more separating and people get busy with their own lives. In 1988, I decided that what my Mom needed was to see her sister in person, and since she was not a fan of airplanes if she didn’t have to travel, Aunt Bea was willing to come to Texas. I decided to make it a surprise for Mom’s birthday.

I will always remember the day that I told Mom I was taking her to lunch but to get dressed up for a nice treat. Both those gals always dressed to the nines in those days, whether or not it was casual Friday in some office. They were raised to dress for the airplane; heck, so was I. Today you see kids traveling in glorified pajamas but…I digress. At any rate, I don’t think I’d been able to come up with any other present before or since that brought Mom as much joy as seeing her baby sister once again. It had been 14 years since my grandmother’s funeral…but it might as well have been 41. It was just too long between.

There were tears, squeals of joy, and I couldn’t stop smiling…as an only child, I’d never known or experienced what it was like to have a sibling, but from my POV, it was awesome to see. We drove across town to meet up with Virginia, another sister, and then we were joined by youngest sister, Sharon. There were enough photos taken that day to fill scrapbooks for years. Bea stayed with us for two weeks and I delighted in having her with us in College Station as it intersected with a program that one of my graduate classes in educational administration was having.

The class was Educational Futures and the instructor was an inspirational critical thinker who had each of us planning what our futures would be like, as we saw them, 20 years hence. We could invite guests for our presentation, and I had two of my buddies coming to participate in my segment (my script called for guest stars)….so I invited Mom and Aunt Bea to see what I’d cooked up. It had been a good 30 years since any kind of elementary school program, ha, and it was a hoot to have them there.

Following the presentation, Aunt Bea rushed up and told me how proud she was of me, that she loved my presentation and that I was “simply wonderful!” I said, “Thank you so much but do you know why I can do what I do?” She said, “No, darling, but you’re just grand at it!” I laughed and said, “Don’t you remember when I finished my undergraduate degree that you told me you’d have been proud of me even if I flunked kindergarten?” She paused and said…”yessss.” I said, “Well, with that kind of unconditional love and support, I don’t fear failure!” She seemed moved by the revelation but I was perfectly serious. Mom, of course, was proud but she stood back and let her baby sister have center stage with my time, as she would.

That would be the last in-person visit between the sisters for the next 16 years, but not the last communication. In the weeks, months and years that followed, the girls exchanged notes, cards, gifts, cassette tapes with recorded messages that brought delight between the sisters upon each hearing. Many tapes were recorded over as the messages went back and forth. I wish they could have had Facetime back then but they were happy for whatever technology offered them at the time.

In 2005, for the first time, I could no longer take care of Mom in my home. Her health required more intensive care and I couldn’t lift her by myself when she needed assistance. It was the toughest decision that we made but we made it together, to make the move to a local nursing community. And Aunt Bea roared into the next gear and made sure Mom felt vital, active and not like a burden that needed managing, the way she’d felt.

Instead, she helped Mom understand that I loved her enough to find her the very best place for care and reassured her that whenever I could I’d be there. She convinced her to help me help her. Aunt Bea did all of that, and I never expected to need it, but when it was needed, she was right there and knew exactly what to say when I didn’t. Of course, I was present at the senior community three times a day and on every shift. It was only 3 months that passed before Mom passed away, but every day was made pleasant because of Bea’s help. Bea called her at least three times a day as well.

Bea and her daughter, my cousin, Cynthia, came to see Mom there in March for a week, and that made Mom so happy. In April, Bea came back on her own, rode the bus all the way from St. Louis, and was with Mom during what would be the close-to-final days of Mom’s life. Bea had a hard time, too, seeing her first hero beginning the transition, so the price she paid was bigger than she’d imagined. But that’s what love is, and that is what—sometimes—families do for one another. It all depends on so many variables as to what is or is not the relationship between siblings. Suffice it to say that “your mileage may vary,” but in this case, the sisters were faithful presences to other all of their lives as best they could be given time and circumstances; they did their very best.

Many of the cousins have their own memories of Bea…she was an advocate and hero to my cousin Diana, she adored the next-gen grandchildren, too, but especially to her grandchildren and great grandchildren. Her children were always, in her retelling, doing fabulous things, she was always so proud of them, and they brought her great joy as they took care of her during her lifetime. Her husband Roland and she cared for her widowed mother-in-law in their home practically all of Bea’s adult life. Her mother-in-law lived to the age of 106, so there was really not much of a time that Bea and Roland had their very own home together, no empty nest, per se. Bea wouldn’t have known what to do with an empty nest; such a foreign concept would have confounded her.

In our lifetimes we find people in our path who are our advocates, with unconditional enthusiasm, love and support for our success, true kindred spirits of the creative soul, and sometimes they are not even related to us directly. For all the lives she touched in her career work, whom we didn’t know about but existed anyway, for the childhood faithful friend she kept all of her life, Janet, and whom she got to see usually once a year, for her sister-in-law Maxine, who was like another sister to her, and for all she loved who were fortunate enough to see her in action—we all learned how to give and receive love. No phone call is complete without exchanging “I love you’s,” and no family gathering takes places without hugs and kisses. It’s just the way we all are and again, your mileage may vary. James Taylor described Bea best with the lyrics, “Shower the people you love with love, show them the way that you feel. Things are going to work out fine, if you only do as I say to you. Shower the people you love with love.”

As I write this tonight, the tail end of Mother’s Day, I have to smile to think about the first Mother’s Day in heaven for Bea. There had to have been massive rejoicing as family members gathered round to welcome their baby sister into the world they now live in. No matter what it looks like or how inept I am at imagining it…one thing I know for sure….there is great joy for Bea tonight as she is no longer in pain. I choose not to feel a loss as much as I choose to be grateful for her release from the bonds of earth.

Ha…she’d have been proud of me if I’d have flunked kindergarten….now that, my friends, is unconditional love in a beautiful box with a bow all over it. Happy Mother’s Day, Aunt Bea, and tell everyone I said, “Hello” and give them my love. We’re all doing fine down here, and we’ll keep going on as we’re supposed to. I know you will.

Album Covers, Mothers, and Remembering Days Gone By

Last week, longtime family friend, Jeffrey, nominated me for the 10-day album cover challenge—you know the one where you post only the album cover without a word of explanation—just the album cover. For someone who always feels motivated to explain (to perhaps prevent ridicule, anticipating it in advance), I knew it would be a challenge but I accepted. For so many years of my early life, I can remember being made fun of. My mother told me to ignore it if people made fun of me. I said, "okay" and never worried about it again. In fact, I got good at ignoring it.

I was 18 months younger than most of the kids in my class. Please understand, I was far from a prodigy, nowhere near one. It’s just that to repeat kindergarten to get to the acceptable age of entering first grade would have been a waste. I’d started learning phonics and loved reading. And so began my time in a school whose motto was “for those who can meet the challenge.” Custom made for this one…I was a challenge all right. My mother had told her family for years that she wanted five children. After all, she was one of eight children and she loved the entire concept of a large family, and she even mother-henned the youngsters who came after her. She had two older brothers who adored her but inevitably she was the one worrying about the rest of her brood.

And so I found it amusing one day when I was about age 13, I quizzed her about wanting five children. I said, “Are you disappointed you just had the one child? Would you rather have had all five?” Without hesitation she answered, “Honey, you were my five.” And she smiled sweetly. Oh dear. I guess I was. Sorry, Mama. But no matter what my question du jour was, she had an answer….she must have developed that practice after some initial field training because my go-to question was always: “What are we going to do next, Mom?” And, she always had an answer. It might, “go to the grocery store” or “we’re going to get Aunt Emma and Charlotte and bring them to the house,” or it might even be, “we’re going home so you can get a nap.”

As long as I had an answer and knew what to expect, I was fine. It was the unknown that used to bother me. I liked to plan. I was an organized little kid and nothing made me happier than a new binder, a package of loose-leaf filler paper (narrow-ruled please), a new package of Bic pens (oh, I had much to learn about pens, but…that would come), and a pencil protector. In my first seven years on earth, I’d undergo many changes in my routine, if you could call it that. Expecting the traditional two-parent household was something I never expected because my parents divorced when I was five. It was far from acrimonious, fortunately, and it didn’t leave me scarred. It simply prepared me to always have a Plan B, and the option to fall back on it if Plan A went south.

Then in the two years that followed, I lost my godfather and my grandfather, all by the age of 7. Expecting to have the advocacy of the elder statesmen in my world went flying out the window, too. So, I started to search for others in whose continuity and consistency I could place my trust. They were there, in family and extended family, so I cannot claim there was a void. And, it was in how my mom prepared me to say goodbye when those we love on Earth transition into the next place, which she called Heaven. I learned about how to attend a funeral, and from my mother I learned to be brave at all times, and to have faith, and remember the ones we loved always.

Over the years, I’d be attending the funerals of mentors, teachers, and even classmates all too soon, but I was never afraid to go in a funeral home. Another place I was comfortable was in hospitals, both in waiting rooms and in the patients’ rooms. One of the two men who started the school I attended from grades 1-12 vowed to be a parental influence on me from the day I walked into the admissions office with my Mom. Timing was right for both of us, as it turns out he’d been caregiving for his mom, and she would come to pass away shortly after my arrival there. My parents’ divorce had occurred a few months before I’d entered school. Void filled.

And yet, there were several instances I observed (without my mom seeing me observing them) that showed me that not all was right with the world. It was the 1960s, and women were second-class citizens back then. Women could not apply for credit in their own name, usually, and even if they wanted to sign a document for which they were fully qualified, a husband’s name was always required as co-signator. Today’s newest adults still appear shocked that such was a reality for the generation that came in their grandparents’ generation, but it was a different world back then, too.

The local pharmacist wanted to shut down the monthly “tab” that we’d had for 5 years simply because my parents divorced. I do recall hearing him say, “But who will be responsible for this bill each month?” and my mother saying, “I will, because I was the one who was working to pay for it every month before it.” He had no snappy comeback answer and her determination convinced him he needn’t worry that it would be paid. He was paid and he never had to worry. I do believe that she told him that I would be asking him to buy a small ‘ad’ in the school yearbook in a few weeks and she’d appreciate his careful attention to my request. Mama was something else again. Did I mention she was Irish? Well, there’s that and several other genetic heritage combos in the mix but…just the Irish part explains everything.

Mama taught me never to fear hearing the word, “no.” There were many things we could not afford when I was a child but I was always to tell her what my wishes were and the item would go on her list. Then, if and when we could afford it, she would get it if I still wanted it. My grandmother chastised her for being so brutally honest about finances with me as a “child,” but Mom overrode her mother’s protests, explaining that I would adapt better if I heard “why” the answer came back “no,” rather than feeling negated. She was right. I needed to know “why” and “what was next” as my earliest precepts. Mama could do pretty much anything she put her mind to. She could reupholster a chair, put down a new tile floor in the kitchen (although at age 10, I got pretty good at it myself and sat her in a corner while I finished up under her watchful supervision), she painted the entire outside of our one-story house and for a woman who hated heights to be up on a ladder, you just had to know Mama. No one else there to do it, she just accepted it and got it done, with not one complaint.

She even, to the shock and awe of our next door neighbor, changed the spark plugs in our old Ford Falcon one day, without the proper tools, and the car started and ran fine. I thought my neighbor was going to faint as he said, “But you have to have a kit and a timing light to know where they go in” and Mom’s answer was, “Well, I looked at how they were set, lined it up in my sight, and put them in the way I thought they were before. He gave me this smile like “Your Mom is extraordinary” and he went home telling his wife, with whom I’d been visiting, how he’d never seen anything like it before.

I loved talking with grownups, neighbors and parents of my classmates….in fact anyone who was a good 20-25 years older than I would qualify as fascinating. It was a good thing to keep me from getting bored, I think, so Mom encouraged me to learn from everyone around me. And I did. Now, back to the album covers. In posting the album cover for day 3 this week, and the approaching date of Mother’s Day, I dropped into Memory Lane, forgetting for a time as the breeze blew past me, sitting on the wall of my flower boxes outside my home. The sun was out, the wind blew gently, and the locusts or some other creatures were making gentle noises in the trees outside.

How had I come to pick Skeeter Davis’s album, “I’ve Forgotten More Than You’ll Ever Know (About Him)” for my day 3? It started like this. Recorded in June 1962 at the RCA studios in Nashville, produced by Chet Atkins, with Floyd Cramer on piano was a two-minute song called “The End of the World.” The artist who sang it was Skeeter Davis.

Part of it was the sorrow-filled strains of the steel guitar and the countenance of the lovely young woman singing, “I can’t understand, no I can’t understand, how life goes on the way it does.” I was five years old and I got it. The spoken part of the song “Why does my heart go on beating, why do these eyes of mine cry?” That part just ripped my heart out as I was the most literal little child you’d ever met. I felt her pain as she sang and the words seared through me as I felt so badly for her pain. Every time I heard that song on the radio, I’d just break down and cry.

Usually, I was a happy child and laughter was my normal response to life, just as my Mom’s was. But not when this song came on. Mom was usually good with using logic with me, as I had to work my way through things. Things I did not understand then, as still today, make me cranky when they don’t make sense. If it defied logic, it disturbed me. Mom tried more than one time to explain that Skeeter really was not unhappy, she was not crying and that it was “just a song.”

I wasn’t having any of it. I countered with, “She would not be saying those words if she didn’t mean them. She is in pain!” And so it went for a while. That song would be around for a total of nine months as it eventually reached the #2 spot on Billboard’s chart by March, 1963. But somewhere in the middle of that, Mama found the solution to my woes.

Turns out the Grand Ol’ Opry was coming to San Antonio’s Municipal Auditorium and the entire big league “A” team was on board. I believe the bill included Hank Williams, Lefty Frizzell, Hank Locklin, Little Jimmy Dickins, Miss Minnie Pearl, and Skeeter Davis herself would be appearing. The tickets were $3.00 each and friends, back then, a box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese was $.25 and a loaf of bread was $.22. The average wage was $4,400/year or $84/week. The tickets at $6.00 was substantial.

The first thing Mom did was buy the tickets. Next, she began her quest to locate where Skeeter was staying in San Antonio. Mama should have been a private investigator (but she trained me well, haha) as I heard her dialing all the hotel switchboards and asking for her, and explaining why she was trying to reach her. As fate would have it, Mama eventually found the right hotel and was put directly through to Skeeter when the operator heard the “why” behind the call.

It only took about three minutes before I heard Mama saying, “That is wonderful. I appreciate this so much.” What “this” turned out to be was our arriving early, long before the show started at the Municipal Auditorium. This event is marked in time as amazing as Mama was early, something she wasn’t very good at sometimes. If it was important to me, she was early or on time, but the rest of the time, not as much.

I was wearing a little white sailor dress, my little white hat, matching Mary Jane shoes and gloves, if I can recall. I had my little autograph book in my hand, and we entered a side door where my mother gave her name to the security guard and we were ushered backstage and for the first time, the other side of the stage was revealed to me. I loved it. I loved the lights, the ropes and pulleys and curtains and massive ceilings. It seemed very, very big to a little girl. That, I thought, was where all the magic happened.

We were shown to Skeeter’s dressing room and I rushed up to her and she had open arms waiting for me. I turned around and looked at Mom, and said, “She’s okay! She’s not crying!” And it only took Skeeter a few minutes to explain how these people came to write this song about a sad experience, but it wasn’t hers personally. She liked the melody and how the band played it and whenever I heard it in the future, she wanted me to remember how much she liked how the band played it for her. I promised I would.

Before I left, her manager came by to bring her an 8x10 b/w photo for her to give me. She signed it right in front of me, dedicated it to me, and she signed my little autograph book, which I still proudly have today. Music fans don’t always get the chance that I did. I realize that. An entirely new world opened up to me that day in 1962. I saw the lights, the glamour, the glitter, of the behind-the-scenes things you do before the magic happens.

As I sat with mom in fabulous general admission seats (they’d saved us two really great ones), and the band began to play “The End of the World,” as she sang my mother witnessed a miracle. It was the first time I’d ever listened to the song and all I did was smile. Before she sang she introduced the song and how there was a special little girl in the audience who thought that she was sad when she sang it, but she reassured me that she wasn’t and she wanted all the little girls to know that, too. And that was the very first time I’d ever had a song dedicated to me from the stage. It would not be the last. I think I was on Cloud 9 for days, but the reality is that I’ve been on that same cloud for about 58 years now, as the real hero of the story, Mama, showed me many things that week. She showed me how important it was to be receptive and attuned to the people in the world around you, to try and anticipate their needs, and do what you could, if you could, to help them.

I also learned not to take “no” for an answer if it was something I really, really wanted, and to be sure, I never have as I was fortunate to learn that early. And, from Mama that day, I learned how to love someone and then watch with pride as their world turned on its axis and everything wrong was made right again. Not once did she ever tell anyone of her contemporaries or colleagues what she had done for her daughter. That was just what being a Mama is all about in her book. Mama being Mama, she won my respect and love every single day, no matter what she did, or didn’t do. Fearless, faithful, faith-filled, and full of love and a sense of humor that would not quit, I grew up learning from the best teacher I could hope to have. I still learn from her today as I process the how and why of various life lessons and reasons she had for doing things her own way and walking her own unique path. Turns out, I’m a lot like she was.

My experience is not unique, though. Not by a long shot. Every one of us has a mother or mother surrogate or advocate in our lives who would walk through fire for us. We have unconditional love and understanding from doing absolutely nothing to earn it other than being ourselves. It’s easier to see, when you’re an only child, and you have one parent who is your world, but you can look to your left and to your right and see how a woman with 12 children worked on campus for 30 years and all of her children went to college and graduated, because they wanted to do right by what their moms had done to give them goals and let them dream.

Every parent who brings a child into this world is blessed with a chance to make right what may or may not have been right in their worlds growing up. For those of us who did not have children of our own, I’ve been abundantly blessed with the love of others who share theirs with me. Plus I have a fur baby that I’m part-time supervisor and Mommy #2 for. I love being Aunt Dawn and Miss Dawn Lee and whatever else they will want to call me in the coming year. The definition of a mother is one thing. It is simply “one who loves.”

For all of you who still have your mothers’ necks to hug, run and hug them, or call them, hold up a sign outside their windows, and cherish every moment you have with them. And for many of my friends, and as it turns out just tonight, for my family, for whom this is the first Mother’s Day without your Mom, don’t cry. Don’t be sad. You take all of the love that she showed to you, and you find someone to gift it to. Doesn’t have to be a mother. It can be anyone. Show love, be love, live in love. Those who know me well know I will quote my beloved academic, the late Professor Leo Buscaglia, who proclaims it, and I believe it to be true. “Love never dies.”

Happy Mother’s Day 2020, with love.

Seeking Inspiration, My 7-Yr-Old Pal Reminds: You Get What You Give

—Dateline Bryan, TX, 2 April 2020

My 7-Yr-Old Pal and I reconnected this evening via Facebook Messenger for Kids. For those of you who haven’t heard of this yet, it’s a great means of parents being able to set up a specific portal for children to be able to see and hear their friends on Facebook Instant Messaging, but they don’t have to have their own Facebook accounts. It also gives parents direct and total control over who their children have access to speak with, and his wonderful Mom included me on the approved list.

It’s been 8 weeks since we last saw each other at his younger brother’s birthday party. How much he’s grown! I don’t know how parents manage as well as they do to keep children clothed and fed as my pal has added at least two inches. Some more of his big boy teeth have appeared and his smile is even broader now. But all children grow so quickly! You blink and…one day he’ll be my attorney (maybe), or perhaps I’ll be traveling to his NBA games. Either way, it’s all good.

His hair was not styled in the way I’ve been used to seeing and as if sensing my thoughts, he volunteered, “You know all the haircut places are closed right now.” I smile at his intelligence in constructing clearly factual statements so young. But I’m used to that from him, so no surprise.

Thanks to Kids Messenger, he was broadcasting from up in the children’s playroom. He asked if I’d like to watch him play basketball and my answer was “Absolutely!” He was trying to get me to say “Sure,” but I didn’t fall for his ploy. It costs me $.10 every time I say that word, based on a prior challenge we’d cooked up.

I was watching his dunking technique and seeing when he was successful and when he was not, and I made one small suggestion “to see if it might work” and he was delighted when he did. He was sort of celebrating the dunk before assuring it dropped through…not uncommon when your faves on TV do that. He made his adjustment like a pro and we still celebrated.

Next, to underscore my point I pulled up YouTube of Alex Caruso (former Aggie player now with the Los Angeles Lakers (whoop!) and showed his dunking technique. Now how I did this was to turn my camera the other direction so he could watch the big screen and he paid attention. We watched the entire thing together.

He said, “I remember Alex Caruso. When I was little, I got to see him play!” Yes. He. Did. His recall is phenomenal and it’s always a joy to explore memories with him. Like a sponge, he absorbs every nuance, correctly.

And he said, “Would you like to see my new basketball shoes?” and the answer was “I would love to!” and then he said, “Okay, pull them up on your computer, I’ll tell you the style they are.”

I did a search and found a pair and it said they were available for $1,145.00 and he said, “Oh, that’s not right, go look at Foot Locker and in the kids section." "What size?" "2y." Awwww my 7-yr-old pal is already into the single digit threshold of growing boys feet…too precious. But his discerning skills were equally precious. He knew that the pair I’d pulled up was a collector’s item or something priced incorrectly.

I went over to the Foot Locker site and as he said, I saw the Jordan’s, or specifically the Jordan AJ 1 Mid.

We then began a discussion of shoes. The thing that surprised me was that his favorite player is Steph Curry and he does have the exact blue Warriors type shoes that Steph endorses but he’s actually outgrown those. He also loves the Jordans and the KD Trey 5s…that’s code for Kevin Durant.

I remembered that Kevin had joined the Oklahoma City Thunder out of college and my pal added, “That’s right and then he was a Golden State Warrior for a while but now he’s with Brooklyn.” I didn’t know KD was with Brooklyn. My new ESPN source knew, though.

We spent a good twelve minutes on my looking up different shoes, searching for some customizable ones with potential, his announcing that they were the “best ever” but if they were not available in his size, he said, “There are other brands and models that I like. Let's look for some with blue and red on them.” "Okay," I said, and it went like that.

He’s flexible and I like that. Bodes well for his future. He is also price-conscious and prefers the ones on sale. You have to love him. He’s aware of the word “budget” and respects that.

We discussed a lot more about basketball, and then our connection stopped and we got disconnected. I waited and he called me back on FaceTime on his iPad. He said, “I guess I’d exceeded my allowed time on Kids Messenger and it knocked our call off.” Hmm, I know and love dear adults who couldn’t have come up with that assessment so quickly. He continued, “I believe that happened to me once before and Mom said that might have been how it happened.” He’s a sponge, I tell you. But he found a workaround on his FaceTime. Love his ingenuity when he’s on a mission.

I told him that I’d kept his giant box that he made when he was here last year (until February it stayed in my back room and then I’d moved it to the office I’d outgrown in the back and finally it went to the garage).

He said, “I’d like to see it” so I went to the garage, phone in hand, and showed him. He didn’t doubt my word because he trusts me to always tell him the truth but he really just wanted to remember what it looked like.

I showed him the two parts I had to separate it into because it would not have fit in limited available space. He was fine with that.

He said, “Did you keep the mailbox, too?” I said, “Yes, but it’s in the back office.” “Okay, let’s see that, too.” “Okay,” I said and marched back to the back office. I said, “I have your mail waiting right here for you,” and he said, “How about my money from the fines?” I laughed and pointed the camera at the bottom of the little mailbox sprinkled with dimes and nickels and quarters I’d been assessed for saying “Sure.” He laughed sweetly and asked me a question, but I was on guard…I said, “You’re trying to get me to say that word that costs me, aren’t you?” "Yes," he giggled and I said, “Good try.” We continued in conversation and I swear I was not focused when I replied “Sure” to another question he asked. “Ten cents please” would be the charge and I just smiled to myself and put my hands on a dime to add.

I liked that it was important to him to see as best he could what he’d built on his last visit. The project we were going to do went out the window when he spotted the boxes. His creative process is so intuitive; and my job is to answer his questions about “Can we” and “Do you have?” for supplies and tools. We did a real number on a pair of office scissors against the cardboard last time but they were the safest thing for him to wield…no Exacto knives or box cutters at this age. Not yet.

We then discussed a book series that he is still following and he had me go through Amazon to see what he already had read and what was new. He knew which ones I’d given him by title and the ones from his Uncle and then one he’d purchased on his own. This child. That mind. Brilliant. It’s because his mind is not bogged down with worry and fear and long-range concerns. He can live in the moment and give it his all.

In about 25 minutes’ time he turned my mood from pensive and serious into relaxed and creative. I worked to complete a project that took much of the day but I was in a far better mood when I dove back into it. His wisdom brings me joy. The perception he has at this young age, plus his empathy and compassion for others and patience is like no other. Even when his little brother wanted to interrupt what he was doing, he didn’t raise his voice and yell at him. Simply, he said, “Now, don’t do that. I’m doing something here so you find something else to do.” See why I’m over the moon about him? He thinks before he speaks. He answers with love, not accusation. Certainly there are times when he can likely lose patience and be like a regular boy, without wings, but those times seem few and far between.

Before I call it a night this Monday, I just have to share some of the great things I learned today. Much work was done, beginning very early this morning after a somewhat late night on the Book of Faces last night, having what I call “too much fun” connecting with people. It may seem to you that many people from your “past” are popping up with IM’s, checking in, saying hello, and in general, remembering you with their time and interest.

For some it’s a cursory check-in to see how you are, and with others, it’s the memories of time that have urged them to stand in your queue and wait for you to see they’re present. It’s been a nice time. It’s also a time of purging people who, for one reason or another, contribute nothing positive to their own lives or anyone else’s. The saying “ain’t got time for that” applies there. I’ve owned my own business since 1993, and I’m used to working from home, so every day is just like every other day, except I can’t enjoy meals with friends at restaurants. Yet, drive-thrus are open and creative options abound. Several of us are in #triviateamwithdrawal I have to admit.

Over the weekend I had one computer monitor fizzle on me, and I was shocked that Office Depot didn’t have a single monitor in stock that I needed. Neither did Huntsville, Conroe, or even Montgomery, TX. Ridiculous. Add computer monitors to toilet paper on the list of items people went nutty over in shopping. Makes sense when they live on their laptops for short work spans but now they’re working from home, that’s too much time to spend staring at a little screen. I know. Hence the run on monitors. Fortunately, I found a good deal at smile.amazon.com and it was in stock, so I’m back in business with three screens, these days the minimum I can function with.

Why three screens? It’s because I have at least 20 browser tabs open at all times as I truly NEED them open. Many browsers are holding a single fact, citation, reference or other critical piece of information that I don’t want to waste time writing down. So, the tab stays open until I can add the fact in to whatever I’m writing and once it’s cited and the link embedded, boom, tab closed. As of 1 am, I still have 26 tabs open. Quite the challenge to “Mission Control,” the system that seemingly takes longer to react than the split-second timing I’m used to. It’s overtasked, I realize. I can’t change my browsing ways, though.

Browsing leads to creativity, the “what-if” factor that people always seek in creating new things, whether articles, blog posts, songs, or anything else new, all boils down to asking, “What if?” And the inspiration of happy children is a perfect means to be lifted, up and out, of the morass of moronic activities that people undertake in the absence of intelligent thought.

Hence the benefit in the uplifting perspective of a child to erase the memories of adults who don’t make sense or who act out of unkind intent. And here it is Friday night, a day later with today’s news bringing even more developments that make me shake my head. At least I have Kids Messenger to look forward to in days ahead, and to all whose children infuse the world with brilliant young minds and happy faces, you know what I mean. More of following their lead. And now if you’ll excuse me, I need to put all of my pal’s nickels and dimes into a Ziplock so I can mail them to him. I’m really cheered now. In fact, thanks to my 7-yr-old pal, I was reminded: We get what we give. He always gives his best to all the people in the world whom he loves, not just me. He always shares love so generously. And then I remembered that song by the New Radicals…

“But when the night is falling And you cannot find the light If you feel your dream is dying Hold tight You’ve got the music in you Don’t let go You’ve got the music in you One dance left This world is gonna pull through”

Indeed it will. Thank you Hunter, I love you.

When COVID-19 Becomes Real in Your World, How Do You React?

For the past three weeks I’ve stayed atop all the developments of the pandemic that is fueled by the coronavirus called COVID-19 by faithfully viewing TV news channels that report true facts calmly without hysteria, frankly rather than with duplicity, and with practicality rather than delusion. I’ve been proud of Bryan and College Station and Brazos County civic leaders, who acted early and wisely to contain activities that put our community at risk. And I’ve been blessed by friends as angels calling to check on me, bringing me thoughtful things they know I would be out of, and Skyping, Facebooking, IMing and texting daily to share their love. It’s been painless and has only reinforced love for me so far. But that all changed early this morning when the impact of the coronavirus landed safely in my Mayberry backyard, in the death of TAMU Mathematics professor Jack Bryant.

I became aware of the passing of our county’s first victim of COVID-19 only by the name when it was announced. When I saw it, I immediately flashed back to my days as an engineering undergraduate student, and he had been my instructor in what had to have been the most challenging of all the math courses they required, Math 308, Differential Equations, known to most as “Diff EQ,” and named by me as “Difficult Equations.” Derivatives made sense; integration was evil. I made a D and I was so proud of that D. It meant I hadn’t flunked! But I never once forgot that I had a tremendous instructor, Dr. Jack Bryant. Even when I was living in “D-land,” I didn’t blame him or his teaching. In fact, he was a great teacher.

Despite his seemingly unique appearance, this man had the most logical mind, strong voice and gracious manner. As in my lifetime, I’ve been (perhaps unfairly) characterized before as a “Typical Chemist” (code for “nerd”). Similarly, Physicists and Mathematicians are often described as having hair that might not always be combed, a proclivity for t-shirts, sweat shirts and hoodies. In fairness, that’s true of many, but not all, Math folks. Let's face it, science is creative and that means thinking outside the box and intelligence has nothing to do with hair, wild or perfectly coiffed.

After graduation and an engineering career, when I returned to Aggieland to work in academe, I had the responsibility for fundraising for the College of Science. It was part of my job to introduce prospective donors to key faculty members and to help them find common ground and interests in funding and then get out of their way as they forged their own friendships and funding ensued. At the time, the Mathematics department head (long ago deceased) was a truly off-the-charts personality.

That Department Head’s attitude veered from Wally Cox as Mr. Peepers to wild-eyed mad scientist in five seconds flat if you happened to trigger his temper. Simply saying hello could do the trick. Then you had his number two deputy, Assistant Department Head, as the calm, easy-going type who had a joke for you, a smile, and he would out-talk the dean out of funds destined for another department without his even knowing it. He was the good cop to the department head’s bad cop. And all the faculty members were supposed to function normally under the rather rocky steering of bright but unpredictable "leaders."

And yet in the Math department were these wonderful professors who taught and did research and had wonderful, normal, happy lives, though they lived quietly and far under the spotlights usually cast on others in the college. Their headquarters was, at the time, Milner Hall that was freezing in the winter and stultifying in the summer, and that was on a good day. Today they’re in the newer Blocker building. No matter where they were, you could almost count on seeing Jack Bryant any day on campus and he’d be walking to his next destination no matter how far.

He walked everywhere and he was easily recognizable, most comfortable with his early silvered hair below his ears, that hip 1970s look up north and out west for sure, and he had a devotion to Converse basketball shoes and a Polo shirt in the warm weather and a sweatshirt over it when it was cold. And he was one of the kindest people you’d ever want to meet. A brilliant man who didn’t have any trouble discussing any topic with anyone. He was a tad shy though, so if he looked slightly to the right or left of your eyes, he was just thinking on both sides of his brain, and you still had his full attention.

His career began in Wichita Falls where he graduated from high school in 1953. He earned his undergraduate degree from the A&M College of Texas (as we were called then) in 1958; a B.A. in Math and in 1962, he earned his M.S. degree, also in Math. He then enrolled at Rice University in advanced mathematics studies in 1961-1965. He received his doctoral degree from Rice on June 5, 1965. Jack’s dissertation topic was “Theorems Relating Convolution and Fourier Series.” As are all dissertations, new and groundbreaking work was expected and achieved; his graduate advisor was Richard O’Neil, another renowned mathematician.

In September 1964, Dr. Bryant was hired to teach Mathematics at Texas A&M, and in 1990 was named Professor Emeritus. During his career at A&M his research was supported by NASA and others know far more about his areas of expertise than I. He addressed students by their last names, preceded by Ms. or Mr., the way you’d expect in a northeastern school, and it was nice that he actually knew our names as there were close to 40 of us in the class at the time.

Like any Aggie who remembers a professor who stood out in their minds as memorable, the memories become associated with the way we were progressing in our goals and dreams on our own ways to graduation, careers and life beyond Aggieland. He loved A&M and this community enough to not only want to come back but to make this his permanent home. And although Prof. Bryant’s granddaughter was quoted (in the KBTX story online tonight) as saying that her grandfather would not have wanted to be “that kind of statistic,” the fact is he is the first person whose name I knew and whose passing hit home in a personal way. Today’s kids would say, “This just got real.”

COVID-19 today is a real thing in our community. We have tremendous city leaders and county officials who are proactive and in these times of sorrow, loss, lockdown, shut-in, we are finding reasons to reach out together via virtual means via Facebook, FaceTime, IMs, Skype and Zoom.

We are not to fear, we are not to panic, we are to stand ready and stand together, reaching out (at a socially safe distance) for our friends, neighbors, and loved ones, to let them know we know they’re here with us and we are here for them, too. Everyone can do something, even if it is “Just to pray” for the safety and security of all first responders, emergency personnel, health care workers, and teachers who face online challenges, self-employed people and those whose financial stability has been upended with no warning. There is no “Just” in prayers—every prayer helps.

Our childhood passes away from us every day. We lose family members, mentors, neighbors and friends of a lifetime, in our lifetime. Prof. Jack Douglas Bryant will not be remembered as a statistic, the “first” to die in our county from COVID-19. Instead, he will be remembered as a fellow Texas Aggie, a bright Math prof, and a kind and gentle soul.

May his family be comforted at this time of sorrow and loss. As we all prepare to transition from this life into another eventually--now, or down the road--it’s about the amount of love we can share while we’re here that can make an impact. The number of “I love you’s,” and “I appreciate you’s,” and the “Thank you’s” can always be increased, exponentially in fact. The way kindness begets other kindness…it’s exponential; it has to be. And someone can likely find a way to put that in an equation. I won’t integrate it, but I will find its derivative….it’s called love.

Rest in Peace Dr. Bryant. Amen.