Back in the 90's, we had a ’77 Jeep CJ 7 with a V8 motor. It was big. It was loud. It was powerful. It was obnoxious and I loved it. Sometimes I’d drive it to work in Dallas and motor up three levels in the parking garage rattling windows and setting off car alarms. It was great! We took it to Colorado and climbed mountains. In New Mexico we maneuvered up narrow forest roads to come out on a ridge where you could see all the way to Mexico. But the trip to Big Bend National Park is what this story is about.

Pretty much all the roads in the park are accessible by most vehicles. But Glenn wanted a “skull and crossbones” type trail to take the Jeep down. Most all the roads had warning signs to beware of flash floods during a rainstorm. Hey, it was the desert, what rain could there be? We found a road on the park map marked “Not Park Maintained.” That was what he was looking for. At the beginning of the trail a hand lettered sign said something like ‘proceed at your own risk.’ Glenn grinned real big and off we went.

Being in the Chisos Mountains in that far corner of Texas is like going back in time. Stone water troughs beside skeletons of wooden windmills mark where pioneers tried to create civilization. By and large, that didn’t work out. It is a harsh environment, suited for rattlesnakes and javelina, a herd of which roamed through the motel grounds every evening at dusk. The little pigs, not the snakes, of course.

Many of the maintained trails led to the Rio Grande. It was kind of odd standing there on the bank of that slow, muddy river knowing one could throw a rock to Mexico. Somehow we got off on what we thought was a road but turned out to be a sandy river bottom, likely an area the Rio Grande had run at some time before changing course or maybe just a sand bar. I was driving and did all right until it got pretty deep and I knew it would be better for Glenn to drive. That was wild, spinning tires, slinging sand, and inching forward. Getting back on the gravel road was a relief.

The scenery is majestic, worthy of the National Park status. But the land is as harsh as it is beautiful. However, there is a true peace there. Artists come to paint, hikers to hike. Us, we ride around. The rumble of the V8 Jeep sort of shattered that peace as we motored off into the back country.

The “unmaintained” trail was one of those places often called a “wash’ or an “arroyo.” Basically, it was a dry creek bed filled with sand and rocks fallen from who knows where. Glenn drove very slowly, picking our way through the obstacles. Often you could see where some off road maniac rolled a rock into a gap so tires could get across. Several times we were at such a sideways angle I could put my foot out and touch the rock. It was a slow go and Glenn loved it.

Then, some dark clouds blocked out the sun. In the distance we could see rain. There we were, in a dry creek bed which would likely carry one of those forewarned flash floods. We got nervous, but there was nothing to do but keep going and get out of there while the clouds grew ever closer. A couple of times we could smell rain. I cannot lie, I was scared.
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At long last we emerged from the trail onto the top of a mesa. What a huge relief! Glenn conquered the extreme trail and the Jeep came out unscathed. He climbed up on the Jeep to get a look around and had a beer. I’m sure I had a Diet Sprite. A few raindrops fell on us, but we didn’t care. We made it out all right. That Jeep is long gone, but recently I found the photos and thought I'd share the story.

It’s kind of funny, while I don’t “get” abstract art, I am drawn to nontraditional quilt patterns with an abstract quality. Repetitive star block quilts just don’t turn me on. And I seem to have an eye for color. An artist, my friend Bettye’s mom, once complimented me, “Elaine, you understand color…” Anyways, somewhere I found a cool, free pattern in a technique called “Bargello.” An ongoing debate exists if the pronunciation is Bar-Jello or Bar-Gello with a hard “G.” For the record, I asked an Italian quilter, she said definitely Bar-Gello. Tomato, Tomahto, Potato, Patahto. Anyways, the technique is enthralling. So, I printed this pattern of an asymmetrical heart and read the instructions. Such as they were. It was Greek to me. I set it aside for several months, picking it up occasionally to see if the words made any sense.

Finally, I scanned a page of the Greek and posted a question on the Bargello quilt FaceBook page. Ah, help arrived with a couple of clues and the light bulb came on. I figured out what to do, picked fabric from the “stash,” got to cutting and sewing. There was no plan for what to do with the finished quilt, I was just making it for the heck of it, using what I had and trying not to spend any money. About half way through the assembly process, my friend Brenda’s mom passed away. I looked at the pink and mauve fabric and thought, this will be for Brenda. Now with a purpose, I happily continued on. But when the top was complete, I had a problem.

The colors blended too much. They were quite complimentary, but you couldn’t see the heart very well. Darn. I realized I should have used more contrasting fabric, but it was too late.  A couple of months before this I discovered a casual friend was a “long-arm quilter,” meaning he has the big, computerized machine to do fancy quilting on large pieces. Plus, bonus, he lives about three miles from me. I showed it to him and he thought on it a while. The solution was to double batt the heart with a loose quilting pattern, and use single batting and a tight pattern on the background. This allowed the heart to literally “stand out.” I finished it and made my plan to surprise my friend.
About this same time, I had the opportunity to coordinate a quilt exhibit at the local arts council gallery. Ooh, think I, I’ll hang the heart bargello in that exhibit and ask Brenda to come to the reception. I sewed on a label to show it was in memory of her mother. I kept the secret for over a month. The fine arts director thought my plan was great and chose to put it right in the lobby.

During that reception, I was visiting with some people and suddenly, there was Brenda. Now, this gal is a special friend. We go back forty years to college days. She’s a character in my book, “Ridin’ Around.” Every time I hear Earth Wind and Fire’s song “September,” or Gerry Rafferty’s “Baker Street,” I think of her practicing her modern dance routines to those songs in the hallway of our college dorm. She was there for me when I was recovering from a motorcycle wreck. I took her to the hospital when she fell off a ladder and broke her foot. These days, we attend a weekly line dance class together.

Anyways, I grabbed her hand and led her back up to the front. The fine arts director followed us, and took photos and video. I explained how that stunning quilt hanging there in the front lobby of the gallery was for her, for her mom. Yes, we cried together. It was a truly special moment. A few weeks later she came by the house to pick up the quilt and take it home. We cried again.
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Every quilt has a story. I’m pretty emotional about this one, but it was a special moment. It should be hanging in her house now so she can see it every day. That’s a powerful connection between good, good friends.

How 2020 Almost Gave Me an Ulcer
 
The year 2020 and a promise of a perfect year. I had a new book in the works-my sixth full length novel, was singing in a ladies’ barbershop group and a community choir, a documentary accepted to several film festivals, a screenplay up for an award, club meetings planned, workshops and a poetry festival to attend, and hope of travelling about the country in a new to us RV. I figured my Mama in Heaven was happy I was safe and happy. Being raised by children of the Depression, I am familiar with bad times. There was hope in the air and life was good.

Then came COVID. Boom. Lockdown. Everything was cancelled. People feared each other’s germs like never before. For me, as my husband said, that really cramped my style. No line dancing. No group singing. No club meetings. No big book launch party. Credit given for the poetry festival and the line dancing workshop. The message: wait and see if we can have it in 2021. Home delivery of groceries. How thankful we are we live in the country where we have room to move around, small businesses which are ready to serve, and, a key point: we didn’t run out of toilet paper.

Even when things loosened up around the end of summer, it was still dangerous to go out in public. I haven’t been in WalMart in months, not necessarily a bad thing. But we got that travel trailer and tried it out at a nice RV park we knew of in Central Texas. They have the coolest pool built right into the rocky outcrop near a large lake. It was closed. The pool, I mean. Neither could one go into the office and get a Tshirt. But the lake was open and nice. It’s hard to shut down an entire lake.

And the mandatory mask rule really altered life. Photos taken with masks. Who are those people? Trying to talk through masks. Muffled conversations. It became normal to walk into the liquor store with a mask on. Who’d a thunk it? I guess as long as the masked person isn’t pointing a .357, everyone is OK. The 41st presentation of the Messiah in which I’ve sang many years was cancelled. It’s no wonder that whole situation weakened my stomach lining.

Back in February 2020, I applied to be a Census Field Supervisor. I got a call in early March and was hired. Then an email came that the whole operation was on hold. Toward the end of June, I got an email to attend training for one week. They squeezed two weeks of info into that one week…through masks. Then two weeks later, back to that place for another week to train the “field enumerators.’ I called them the door knockers. There, a whole day of training was squeezed into three hours. Through masks. Then the operation went live. Quickly, it appeared the system had not been thoroughly tested.

There were duplicate records, bogus addresses, and a high percentage of the cases had obviously incomplete addresses. Instructions: find “Hwy 67, Stephenville, TX” and do an interview. Right. You wanna narrow that down a bit? And no names were on the records. It was a big, hairy mess and no one could seem to do anything about it. The Census wheel comes around only every ten years, and one can imagine said wheel must be reinvented each decade. So experience didn’t help much.

Then the powers up in Washington D.C. shortened the open period one whole month. Panic ensued. Overtime was approved where before it was forbidden. Every day something new and uglier seemed to happen to the point one just said, “Whatever.” Such is working for the Federal Government, I suppose. But the money was good and they said we could draw unemployment. It went down to the wire, and the job got done. Stress I didn’t need, for sure. But I needed the money. It’s weird being cash poor and asset rich. It was awful having another layer of your stomach lining affected.

The next thing which helped ruin 2020 for me was that unemployment thing. I applied, did everything I was supposed to do, but got nothing. Not an acceptance or a denial. Nothing. But I went through the motions for the next two months, calling the 800 number and getting no one, filing my payment requests, but receiving no news. Then I was ill the week of Christmas and I missed the request date by three days. The website said, too late, you have to start over. Crap, say I. But I did it, just because, dang it, I am due those benefits. To date, some three weeks later, still nothing has happened and I still can’t get through to a person on the phone. Oh, and all the negativity of the 2020 election and hate spewed about the country didn’t help. Between the two, the tummy lining was in grave danger.

That illness I mentioned above manifest itself into a raging, burning pain in my left abdomen right after Thanksgiving. At the same time, I suffered rampant diarrhea. I couldn’t eat much, lost weight, and woke in the night with both the pain in the front and pain in my back. Spasms attacked me from both directions so much they often met in the middle of my body. It was horrible. The doctor finally decided it was likely a pre-ulcer and prescribed an antacid and said stay away from spicy food and let it heal. His words were, “treat it like a skinned knee.” Don’t pick off the scab.
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Thankfully, now looking at the end of January 2021, that horror seems to be behind me, now. I’m still healing, but am a lot better. This year will have to be better. I will strive to not let things bother me. If stress creeps in, I will ignore it’s bullying and maybe it will go away. It is safe to say most of the world was glad to see 2020 fade into the past. Unfortunately, the long range look at 2021 isn’t looking a whole lot better. But I will recover, we all will. And maybe be able to sing and dance and launch that book, and finally make my mama happy by ending my “bellyaching!” 

January 1981. Forty years ago. I was in my last semester of college, had pretty well recovered from the devastating broken heart suffered some months prior, was fresh off a rebound relationship with a little, blonde, freshman, and felt like I had the world by the tail. I got the part of Elaine in the TSU production of “Arsenic and Old Lace.” I lived in a decent two bedroom apartment with a cool gal from Colombia. We ate Ramen noodles with sour cream mixed in and sat on tacky lawn furniture at the makeshift table. I had good friends, a fast car, and my daddy’s Gulf gas card.

One nice piece of furniture in the apartment was the rattan peacock chair my sister brought back from Burma and gave to me. I still have that chair in my bedroom forty years later. The bedroom suit I used was kept for some thirty-five years before selling it to someone in need. There was a Duncanville Panther sticker on the mirror. I added a TSU sticker. I won’t go into the visitors I had in that bedroom, but, I had fun seducing a few guys. That was some three months before I met Glenn. After finding him, there was no longer a need to “make myself available.”

Back to the play. I had to wear false eyelashes, wear heavy makeup, and roll my long hair into a 1940's hairstyle. When I took that roll down, the hair went wild. One night, after the play, I left all the wild makeup and false eyelashes on, (funny how those things are in style now) and went to an apartment where some friends were having a party. I felt wild and looked like something out of Rocky Horror Picture Show. That little, blonde, freshman ex-boyfriend was pretty drunk and said, “I used to know her.” I tossed my head and quoted a line from the movie, “But not anymore!”
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It is odd to realize that was forty years ago. I don’t feel forty years older. Looking at that peacock chair, I can transport back to that time, when, as Rick Springfield sang, “I’m going out on the town tonight to get as wild as I can be. I’m gonna find out what it’s really like to be loose, high, and free.” High on fun. Loose and free to do as I pleased. Me, the green Nova, my friends, and the unique time bring a smile to my face and make me want to go Ridin Around. 

​E

May 1981. Bettye Grauke at her bachelorette party in my apartment sitting in the peacock chair. She married Lloyd Huggins a few weeks later and they will celebrate 40 years this May. 

The peacock chair in my bedroom today. 

A very unique happening came about this last weekend. Rewind back to the late 70’s to mid 80’s when many close friendships were established. Glenn and I were in the wedding party for two sets of these friends. First was Mike and Sandy Thompson in 1985 and then Kip and Trudy Woody in 1986. We watched as their children were born, as they grew, and now are adults.

In the past two days, Glenn and I attended the graduation of two wonderful young ladies from Tarleton State University, where Mike, Sandy, and I graduated moons ago. Kip and Trudy both drove by TSU during high school while ridin’ around. Glenn was known to burn a little rubber around the “college.” So we all had ties to Tarleton.

I realized a couple of weeks ago that both of the girls graduating were children of marriages we witnessed while dressed in shades of pink and gray. Friday, Taylor Woody received her Registered Nurse degree. Katie Thompson received her Bachelor of Arts in Music degree on Saturday. Gosh, we were proud to be part of these ceremonies, too!
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Imagine attending the college graduation of kids of friends who loved us enough to have us in their weddings! Not only that, Sandy was in ours, Mike ran the tape recorder, and Kip was also there. Having such history with friends has jumped out at me as very unique and important, and I wanted to put this down in writing with photos from that time and this.   

Heart Friend

Heart Friend. After the sudden death of a man I’ve known for over forty years and shedding tears over his passing, I thought of that term. We had a friendship that traversed time and space. We had history from childhood and during college, and made another memory in 2016 when I got to see him in New York City. He once saved my life by pulling me from the street where I’d stepped out in front of a car. He held me as the vehicle, with brakes locked down, slid past us. He called me to offer love and support when my father, whom he knew well, passed away and again when my mom died.

Heart Friend. There are few during a lifetime. Their love is rooted in your soul. Your love is rooted in theirs. Your hearts are forever bonded in close friendship. It is beyond being friends, you are linked by your hearts.

Heart Friend. I lost another such friend seven years ago to inflammatory breast cancer. Another such friend was saved from cancer and I held her closely as recently as this past Sunday. Now those who have passed can visit in my heart since they are still rooted there. I feel Nanci sometimes, a flashing, bright white light zooming by to give me a smile. Joe has visited me twice now, offering his love and support.

As we grow older it is inevitable people we love will leave their earthly bodies and enter the universe in whatever way is open to them. I believe these spirits are real, they can visit my heart, and I can recognize them in my mind. I draw comfort from their freedom, their joy, and we can come to know all is well.

​Elaine

This is Virginia Reger, an amazing and wonderful 89 year old woman who asked me to write her biography. Boxes and boxes of photos and news articles, numerous scrapbooks dating back to the 1930's, and many hours of talking have culminated in me actually putting it together. The exciting news is that we are submitting it to the Texas Tech Press today (unfinished, though I continue to work) for consideration. They published a fantastic biography for a man Virginia knows well, Dean Smith, who was an Olympic track star, rodeo competitor, and amazing stuntman in Hollywood. We hope Virginia's biography will be accepted and we can work with that great institution to create wonderful book about her life. E

                                       Writing Exercise     I Remember

I remember Village Burger in Duncanville, TX on Oriole Street. Homemade burgers cooked over a charcoal fire. We didn’t get food from there much, but the smoke billowed from the small white building daily. It was beside a BBQ place where we would get pounds of brisket when company was coming. It was a splurge, but one had to put up a good front for company. Funny, I don’t remember the actual name of that place, but do remember the Village Burger. Maybe their sign wasn’t impressive. Or, I’ve driven through Glen Rose ten thousand times and Hammonds BBQ is emblazoned on my mind. Back to the BBQ, that trip into Duncanville for brisket was likely before the Baker twins started keeping their FFA project steers in our back two acres. For the rest of his days, my father compared every cut of meat he had to the quality of Abner. Ah, Abner, you were one great sirloin steak.
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I remember how my ribs hurt after the horse accident. I had an itch to have a paint horse, and our neighbor sold me one. It wasn’t Chief’s fault. I like to blame it on the neighbor, but it was my weakness not telling him “We are NOT going to jump over that puddle.” He jumped all right. I flew onto his neck and tumbled down to the ground. Knocked the breath out of me and probably cracked a rib. It still hurts occasionally. Now Glenn has cracked a rib by falling against something and I send him to a chiropractor for the first time ever because I know and trust the Doc’s wife. Could be it follows if the spouse is okay, you’ll like the other spouse. But that’s not always the case. Luckily this one worked out. Ribs are very vulnerable bones.

I remember walking from the dinner table to the fridge all through my childhood, to get something. I would lean on the little wall, open the fridge door, and completely forget why I was there. Usually it was for the ketchup, so I’d get that. Back at the table, the original need would appear in my mind. Most times, having the ketchup bottle in my hand worked, but often another trip to the fridge was needed for mustard or Worchester Sauce or margerine. Now my belief is that the idea falls out of your head and stays back where you were. If you backtrack, take in the sensory cues, the idea will pop back into that blank place in your head.

I remember my Aunt Della. She had no children and widowed, and I was the only niece she didn’t see often or wasn’t already grown. She taught me to play marbles on her wool, Persian type rug. It was red and beige with black accents in a swirly pattern. We would set up the marbles in one circle and shoot them at marbles in another circle. We sat on our knees until they aches and my knuckle was raw and slightly bleeding. She made lemonade. Her house smelled different than other houses. The lack of children or animals or something. But she had a grace I admired, even wearing the horn-rimmed glasses which were the fashion of the day. Aunt Della was thin, and she moved like one who used to love to dance or maybe she still did there on her ornate woolen rug.

I remember the color red. It was my mom’s favorite. In fact, Carol and I made a special trip to Arlington after her death to buy a pretty red dress in which to bury her. We knew she’d like that, but would have said it was unnecessary. She always wanted to make things one could buy more easily. But she was gone and her body was done. Then the makeup person at the funeral home put too much blush or the lighting had too much pink and she glowed almost like neon red, contrasting against the white satin lining in the coffin. Personally, I find the custom of the “viewing” somewhat macabre. People stand around, talking and laughing while the deceased lies there unaware. It is for the survivors, the family to receive the sympathy they need to heal, but it really isn’t necessary to have an open casket with one’s deceased mother in the background. But at least she glowed.  

Standing with a dozen other singers ranging in age from fifteen to seventy, we performed the patriotic songs prepared for the Veteran’s Day theme of the club meeting. The audience consisted of about 30 women and one man, the Mayor of our city. Smiles were everywhere, as we sang “This is My Country,” “Giant,” and the silly song about how you can always tell a Texan from the rest, he’s got no buttons on his vest from sticking out his chest and shouting I hail from Texas!

But when we began singing the service hymns, ladies sang along and stood during their favorite song with tears in their eyes. “The Caisson Song” for the Army, went right into “Anchors Away” for the Navy. We soared with “The Air Force Song,” and, starting softly and ending with a roar, the "Marine’s Hymn."

What I saw was the love they had not only for the husbands, sons and friends who served in the armed forces, but for all servicemen who sacrificed for our country. That love came to the surface and trickled down their faces in tears. I could feel their pride, their sorrow, their love. It was a connection unlike any I had ever felt while singing.

We then went into a resounding version of “God of our Fathers” and when we began singing “The Pledge of Allegiance” one by one, everyone came to their feet. Some with hands over their hearts, tears streaming down their cheeks and looking out the windows to the sky. I felt my own tears well up, but kept on singing through to the last line: “…liberty and justice for all.”

What a unique and marvelous moment. My father, the Air Corps Vet and lifelong singer likely knew that feeling. I felt his hand on my shoulder telling me, “Well done.”