Author Archives: 805diva

Oct28

Eulogy

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Radio, roses, rat-tails and River Phoenix…

The year was 1993 and I had taken a short-term job at an AM/FM in Morristown, TN, about an hour up the road from where I live in Knoxville.  I did a live mid-day shift on the country AM, and then production and voice-tracks for the night shift on the FM.  The job lasted 3 months.  The friendship with Ron that began there lasted 22 years.

When I met Ron he had a rat-tail, which, for those unfamiliar with 90’s hair trends, was a long, thin strand of hair hanging down the neckline of an otherwise short haircut.  It could be considered a cousin of the mullet, I suppose.  I’d never had a friend with a rat-tail before, but Ron didn’t hold that against me.  In fact, he never held anything against me, ever.  Oh, he’d call me on the carpet if I wasn’t being honest with myself, but he never made me feel judged.  He was one of my “easy” people…easy to like, easy to talk to, easy to be with.

It was just about this time in 1993 that the young actor River Phoenix died outside a nightclub from a drug overdose.  When I returned to work the following Monday, as Ron and I were talking about the story we looked at each other and, at the same time, said, “Poor dumb b@$&@%d!”   I think this might have been the moment when I realized that, yes, we are going to be friends.

My last day of work at the station, he sent me 3 red roses, one for each month I had worked there.  I still have them, dried, in a wreath with other flowers from years gone by.  We promised to keep in touch.  And we did.  And in those days, keeping in touch meant actually writing letters, since there was no e-mail yet, (certainly no Facebook!) and phone calls between us were long-distance.  For years after I left the station he continued to call me by my middle name, Diane, which I had used on the air, even addressing letters to Diane.

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Later on, when he was working Friday overnights at the big Knoxville country station and I was working early Saturday mornings on the big adult contemporary station across town, he would visit me in my studio before heading home.  He knew the layout of our building about as well as I did, especially the location of the coffee pot and the men’s room.  And I visited him at his place several times on nights when I was free.  All this was before security cameras were everyplace and “unauthorized visitors” were so strictly forbidden.

He gave me so many gifts.  When something was disagreeable, he would often say, “This sucks pondwater!”  This expression comes from me often to this day.  And his favorite line was, “Lord help us on the broadcast!”  For me, “the broadcast” has become a metaphor for my life, and anytime I am facing some important event, good or bad, I catch myself whispering, “Lord help us on the broadcast.”  When I went into the funeral home the night we received friends when Mama died…the day I stepped onstage to sing with my chorus at Carnegie Hall…when I’ve interviewed for jobs or auditioned for solos…”Lord help us on the broadcast.”

I had the chance to visit with Ron in the hospital the night before he died.  He was in a lot of pain, but we still had a good visit together, talking about my husband and dog, and his children and both our workplaces, as well as the old days we shared in radio when we first got acquainted.  He was flat on his back and unable to move, so when his supper arrived, I said, “If you feel like you’d like to try to eat, I’m happy to help you with your supper so you don’t have to hurt yourself moving around.”  He said that would be good and I joked, “It ain’t nothing for me to cut up a man’s meat for him.  I won’t tell anybody, but you can tell people this cute brunette with big hair and big boobs hand-fed you your supper!”  And we laughed.  He ate decently considering the pain he was experiencing, and after he ate I asked, “Now that your belly has something in it, do you think you could sleep if I went on home?”  He said yes, so I got ready to leave.  But not before we had the chance to exchange “I-love-you’s”.  At that point there was no indication that less than 24 hours later he would be gone.

Now as I face the grief process for yet another treasured friend who died too soon, I feel many emotions.  I am sad, of course.  But I’m also grateful, for more than 2 decades of friendship and memories, for the clock he sent me as a housewarming present with a note saying he’d try to get by the studio that weekend for a visit, for the t-shirt from his station that he gave me and that I treasure (and can now fit into).  And I am especially grateful for our last “supper date” when I was able to offer him some nourishment for both his body and, I hope, his heart.

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And once again I find myself walking into a daunting place, whispering, shouting, praying…

Lord help us on the broadcast.

Oct1

Stoplights And Sticky Notes

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Encounters with God…

Scripture tells us in 1 Thessalonians 5:17, “Pray without ceasing”.  It sounds simple enough…but who among us has ceaseless hours to spend in prayer?  While I do try to spend meaningful chunks of time with God, more often than not, my prayers come in smaller pieces throughout the day.

I believe that God honors whatever time we offer back to Him, wherever we are.  Oftentimes I’ll read a prayer request on social media, and I take a quick moment right then to lift that person and the need up in prayer, and acknowledge that “One just went up,”.  And anytime I think of it, another one will go up.  The social media prayer army is a powerful tool we have to reach a lot of prayer warriors at one time, and I’ve seen many people join together to intercede on a friend’s behalf in this way.  This is technology at its very best.

Sticky notes live in my Bible, reminders of someone I have promised to pray for, situations needing God’s attention and intervention.  It’s not pretty, but it’s a handy way to remember a request until I can write it down someplace more permanent.  For a while, Jeff and I kept a list of prayer needs on the fridge door, because we knew that was the one place where we’d both see them regularly!  I need to reinstate that routine, especially now, when I am praying for so many needs and situations.

Then there are the “stoplight” prayers.  After I began my extended unit of CPE several years ago, I realized in a whole new way how a blaring siren and flashing lights can signal a life being changed, or ended, often in the blink of an eye.  Anytime I see or hear an emergency vehicle, I say a quick prayer for everyone involved in whatever that crisis or situation is, including the chaplain who is likely to catch that call and help in tending to wounds both seen and unseen.

All of these are little ways I can care for the people around me, the ones I know and love, and the ones I will never even meet.  Ways I can love my neighbor.  Ways I can encounter God and pray without ceasing.

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Sep23

Happy Fall, Y’all!

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Chilly weather, and chili weather…

My cousin Judy has lots of kitchen traditions she has built with her family over the years.  The first snowfall of the season always brings a homemade pie, for example.  For the last couple of years, Judy has opened her kitchen up for “Fall-Chili-And-Hot-Tamale-Making-Day”.  And we’ve already started talking about this year’s installment!  I can’t wait to spend time together, stirring the chili pot, making the mixtures of meat and meal, assembling those little packages of tamale goodness!  We share the work and then share the finished product, with me and anyone else who helped taking some home to enjoy later. And of course, we have to taste and see that what we made was good!  Quality control, after all.

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It reminds me of the times when Mama and “Mamaw” Allred, Aunt Martha, Aunt Ruby and/or any combination of them, would gather in someone’s kitchen to make tamales, or candy, or to can tomatoes and green beans in the summertime.  Shared work provided shared goodies, as well as lots of laughs and fun.  The foods they prepared nourished both body and soul.

I look forward to chili-and-hot-tamale-making-day, for the yummy food we hope to make.  But even more than the physical food, I look forward to the comfort of time spent together with Judy and whoever else can join us (both Reed and Jeff have helped in the past), carrying on the traditions of the generation before us.  And I think this year, cake may need to happen!

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Sep10

Puppy Love

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Our Four-Legged Fur Family…

Last night driving home from work I received a text message from Jeff telling me he was at the vet with Our Boy Roy.  When Jeff got home from work, he let Roy out and at first the dog seemed fine.  Then he began to whimper and would not put one of his back legs down.  Roy is not much of a complainer so Jeff knew that he must have hurt himself and got to our vet hospital right away.

Dr. Rick examined Roy and said it was a stretched tendon, gave him a laser treatment, sent him home with pain medication, instructions for us to try to limit his activity, and a follow-up appointment for Monday next week.  Dr. Rick also said that at some point the tendon could break and that would mean surgery.  Jeff and I have been down that road before, and neither of us relishes the thought of revisiting it.

Just last week was Roy’s “birthday”, the 8th anniversary of the day we brought him home from the shelter.  Since his estimated age at that time was about 2 years old, he is about 10 now.  Definitely a senior statesman, but still very puppy-ish in his personality.  Little dogs seem to stay that way longer than larger breeds do.

We never really intended to, but we became “those people”.  Our dogs have been like kids to us, and Roy’s injury brought back memories of our last year with Ernie The Wonder Beagle, who died from mast cell cancer.  We went through tumor surgery, medication, more tumors and more surgery and more medication, before Ernie’s llittle body just gave out and he died.  Jeff said he was concerned that, at Roy’s age, “this might be the beginning of…”.  I tried to reassure him, and myself, that this is just an injury, a temporary situation that Roy will overcome.

Roy is an agile little 22-pound Terrier mix who loves to jump onto the couch.  One evening last year Roy jumped up on the couch like he does dozens of times every day.  But this time, he got a weird look on his face and began acting like he was in pain.  Somehow he had landed in such a way that he got a hairline fracture in one of his little ribs!  Medication and rest took care of that and soon he was back to his old self.

And I am hopeful that rest and meds will take care of him his time as well.  He is usually a pretty light sleeper, but not long after he got his half a pain pill, he was bearing weight on his leg again, and he slept well through the night.

I’m glad one of us did.

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Aug21

The First To Fall

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Drifting and settling…

It’s that time of year again.  School is getting underway once more, and college students are moving back into the dorms and preparing for another academic year.  I always loved moving back into the dorm.  The first thing I did was to put up pictures…on the walls, on top of my dresser and night table.  Those photographs made me feel at home and comforted me by reminding me of the boyfriend (who became the fiance’) I would only see on weekends.

Subtle signs tell me that the seasons are about to change.  My musical activities are about to resume, and I look forward to the discipline of regular singing and the vocal rehab I’m about to experience.  Blowing the summer’s rust off my vocal cords is a humbling, but exhilarating, process.

The first leaves are starting to fall.  Here and there, among all the green-ness of late summer, a lone leaf turns color, and then turns loose from its warm-weather home.

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Soon enough these earliest of falling leaves will be followed by multitudes of their tree-mates, scattering warm layers of color through the air and upon the ground.

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This seasonal rhythm grounds me in ways unlike the other changes throughout the year.  The air becomes cooler and easier to breathe.  It’s as though the frenzied molecules of my life settle themselves somehow, much as the falling leaves settle to the ground after their brief period of drifting.

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Aug16

Ties And Friendships

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How music binds us to one another…

Recently I had the pleasure of attending the 2015 Triennial Conference of Delta Omicron International Music Fraternity. The fellowship of musicians from all over the country is one of the best parts of attending Conference, as well as getting to know students from my own chapter better. I have mentioned that I serve as the Chapter Mother for the Alpha Gamma Chapter of Delta Omicron at Carson-Newman University. But I have never shared how my association with Delta Omicron began or how I came to my current place of service.

I was initiated into Alpha Gamma Chapter as a second-semester freshman at Carson-Newman, the earliest chance I was eligible to join. The ideals of Delta Omicron appealed to me, and many upperclassmen I respected were members. Plus they seemed like they really enjoyed themselves and each other. I just knew that Delta Omicron was something I wanted to be a part of.

My student days as a member of Alpha Gamma Chapter provided me with many opportunities for growth as a musician, a leader and a servant, including some experiences I never imagined. My first Conference experience was as a student when, in 1984 as a rising junior, I attended the 75th Anniversary Triennial Conference. It was held at Kent State University in Ohio. A few weeks prior to the event I received a letter from the Board of Directors inviting me to be the speaker for the Collegiate Dinner, sharing my visions for Delta Omicron’s future. I’d never given a speech before and I had no idea why they had picked me to do it! But it was then that I learned that public speaking is fun and I actually enjoyed it. It was an honor to sit at the head table with “the grown-ups”!

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Our chapter had established a long and distinguished heritage of excellence even when I was a student. Established in 1966, Alpha Gamma has been guided throughout its existence by Chapter Advisor Ann Jones, a consummate musician and educator, a humble servant and a treasured friend. She was a huge influence on my college career and a large part of why I wanted to join Delta Omicron. I think many members of Alpha Gamma Chapter through the decades feel the same way.

My senior year, 1986, was Alpha Gamma’s 20th anniversary.  Alpha Gamma was blessed at that time to have Mrs. Daisy Heard as our Chapter Mother. This dear lady knew all sorts of interesting people and famous musicians, and she had accumulated tons of memorabilia from operas, concerts and events she had attended over the decades. I always describe her as an expansive presence and a force of nature, the kind of lady I’d like to be when I grow up. Our chapter has always been filled with people like that, the kind I want to emulate. The kind I want to have as friends.

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(Alpha Gamma’s 20th anniversary photo.  I am front row center seated next to Mrs. Daisy.  This picture is a treasure!)

Flash forward to 2006. I had been to my 20 year reunion at Homecoming and had finally started to feel like an adult (more or less!) and I was looking for a way to give something back to the school and the music department. So I met with Ms. Jones and asked if Alpha Gamma had a Chapter Mother, and at that point, they did not. She got the ball rolling and I was installed in December 2006. My next Conference (and first as a Chapter Mother) was the Hundredth Anniversary Conference in 2009, with Ms. Jones and our chapter delegate, Allison (now the Zeta South Province President and giving back as well).

2009 to 2015

(Me with Allison Hill Hendrix and Ms. Ann Jones, friends and sisters in Delta Omicron, from 2009 and 2015 Conferences)

The Fraternity that meant so much to me as a student welcomed me back to encourage new generations of student musicians! When I meet new students who are considering membership, I always share what my student days in Delta Omicron meant to me, so much so that I wanted to come back and serve as Chapter Mother. I have watched students come and go, perform recitals, graduate and carry music into the rest of their lives. Some have married and had children; some have earned master’s degrees and beyond; many are church musicians and school music teachers. And I am proud of them all.

With the advances in technology and social media, we are now able to connect with members of chapters far and wide, sharing ideas, experiences and stories. It is a joy for me to be able to see what Fraternity students and alumni are doing in their lives, musically and otherwise. And it is a blessing to share face-to-face fellowship with “my kids” of Alpha Gamma as often as I can be with them.

The gifts of music and friendship tie us to one another here and now. They also bind us to generations of other Delta Omicron members from the past and those yet to come. It is a blessed heritage indeed, one of warm memories and exciting possibilities.

The Prayer of Delta Omicron that we sing at meetings, ceremonies and senior recitals is as follows:

“O Lord, Thy blessing now shed down

upon dear Delta Omicron.

May all our ties and friendships be

strengthened and honored, Lord, by Thee.

Amen.”

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(Me, Allison and Ms. Jones, courtesy of Delta Omicron Triennial Conference 2015.  I am so grateful that this moment was captured. A true illustration of how music ties generations of friends together.)

Jul29

Farther Along

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We’ll understand it all by and by…

This past Sunday, July 26, was the first anniversary of my friend Lola’s death.  I have written about her several times here in Patchwork And Potpourri, sharing bits of my grief journey as I have tried to process her passing and make some sense of it.  While I have not been able to accomplish the sense-making part, I have found amazing pieces of comfort and blessing along the way.

Some months back, my church music director, Joan, planned an old-fashioned gospel singing (or as we in the South sometimes say, a “SANGIN'”!) for this date.  I cut my teeth on many kinds of music, but old-timey hymns and gospel songs are like mother’s milk to me, so I naturally jumped on the bandwagon…and then I realized what day it was, becoming uncertain and unsettled as to whether I’d be up for this gathering on such a poignant anniversary.  Oh, me of little faith!

At this point I need to back up and recall last year.  Lola had died on a Saturday, and I had committed some weeks before to sing a duet with my friend Marc the next day at our friend Greg’s church.  Part of me feared a complete breakdown in the middle of the song…but my inner musician kicked in and soldiered on.  Moments like these are when God works in ways that are beyond understanding, providing His strength in my weakness.  We sang, our voices blending in that unique way that Marc and I always seem to achieve, God singing through us to speak to those gathered there, and ministering to my soul in the midst of such overwhelming sadness.  Afterward we sat together behind the piano, and I began to cry silent, uncontrollable tears.  Marc reached for my hand and mouthed, “What…?” and I mouthed back, “Lola died yesterday.”  He had known all about her illness, prayed for her along with others I had asked to pray, and when I shared that she had died, he just held my hand and petted my arm.  No more words were needed.

The whole rest of last summer, God added feathers to my growing collection, signs of His eye upon the sparrow.  I had started collecting them years before, but in the wake of Lola’s death, I started finding them eveywhere!  Tons of feathers, showing up to remind me that she and my many loved ones in Heaven are all OK…and that I eventually would be OK, too.

This past Sunday, on Lola’s anniversary, once more I sang and made harmony with my longtime friend Marc, recalling last year’s moments of comfort in sadness, strength in weakness, music in tears.  We hugged and talked and laughed…and sang, the old gospel songs about Heaven and hope.  And as Marc and I left the church together, I found another feather, my first one in months.  “Feather!” I exclaimed as I  reached down to pick it up.  Marc said, “Oh yeah…”  I said it must be a Happy-First-Anniversary-In-Heaven-for-Lola feather, and he agreed.

A favorite old song of mine is “Farther Along”.  Granny used to sing it and Mama taught it to me.  It has been recorded by artists ranging from Southern Gospel quartets to The Byrds, Johnny Cash and Elvis Presley.  The chorus states:

“Farther along we’ll know all about it,

Farther along we’ll understand why.

Cheer up my brother, live in the sunshine.

We’ll understand it all by and by.”

As I sang it this past Sunday I thought of Lola, her death and her life, and how much I still don’t understand why she had to leave us so soon.  I thought about Joan and the lovely blue hydrangeas from her garden that she had brought in to decorate the tables, reminding me of the ones from Mom Cutshaw’s backyard.  I thought of the almost mystical harmony that happens whenever Marc and I sing together.  I thanked God for these gifts and mysteries.

And once more I looked forward to that day when things I wonder about now will somehow make sense…farther along, by and by.

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Jul22

In Stitches

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Mama, The Aunts and the fabric of memory

I’ve been missing Mama and The Aunts a lot lately.  Mama’s birthday was July 4, and the second anniversary of Aunt Ruby’s passing is coming up on August 12, so I guess those are a couple of reasons they’ve been on my mind.  While I was blessed to know all of Mama’s sisters well, when I refer to The Aunts, it’s Aunt Ruby and Aunt Martha I am thinking of.

They were the ones who sewed quilts together with Mama, along with Ruby Allred, our next-door neighbor on Ford Street.  I and many of my family members possess these works of art and craft, some stored away in cedar chests while others decorate our beds and couches.  Their colors and patterns brighten our lives and homes with warmth, both physical and spiritual.

It is fairly easy to determine the age or era of our family quilts by the fabrics used to make them.  Lots of the older ones contain material from many of Granny’s old dresses, and they are backed with a type of cotton fabric that Mama and The Aunts called “domestic”.  It was basically a coarse cotton muslin near as I can tell.  Later quilts were backed with king-size bed sheets.  They provided a good expanse of seamless fabric and were smoother than domestic.  I think that domestic had become more costly as well, which may have contributed to the switch.  Some of the later quilts also had lighter-weight batting inside between the patterned top and the plain backing.  These lighter quilts are perfect for use in warmer weather.

The older quilts backed with domestic seemed to pucker up more after laundering, especially if the batting was also all-cotton.  I love that almost seersucker-y texture of an old quilt, as well as the weight and substance of it.  I love the contrast of white stitching against solid-colored fabric.  Mama and The Aunts and “Mamaw” Allred sewed with such precision!  They made such teeny-tiny, evenly-spaced stitches, as Aunt Martha would say, “Ever’ stitch a stitch of love.”

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Nowadays quilts are available in many stores, mass-produced, machine-made items, often designed to look like their older, handcrafted counterparts.  And many of them are good quality and beautiful.  I’ve actually bought some retail quilts over the years.  But even the nicest ones can’t rival the quilts made by Mama and The Aunts and “Mamaw” Allred.  The hours spent choosing the fabrics, cutting and marking, and the late nights sitting around the frames as their thimbled fingers sewed—no amount of money can buy the love they left behind, in stitches.

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Jul9

Plus Size

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It’s not always a bad thing…

Patchwork And Potpourri is not my first foray into the blogosphere.  For anyone who does not know, I underwent radical weight loss surgery 3 years ago in an effort to improve my well-being and quality of life.  As part of the weight loss process, I wrote a blog about that journey, from my first consultation with my weight loss surgeon through my 2-year surg-i-versary, which happened last year while I was in New York preparing to sing a concert with several choral groups at Carnegie Hall.  It was a no-holds-barred look into my experiences with medically-supervised weight loss prior to surgery, the tests required for insurance approval, surgery and recovery and all the nitty-gritty-nuts-and-bolts ranging from periods, poop and vomit to changed relationships resulting from my changed appearance.  The weight loss blog is located at:

http://www.incredibleshrinkingdiva.blogspot.com

I encourage anyone with weight or self-image issues, especially anyone considering weight loss surgery, to visit there and read about the good, the bad and the hilarious stops along my weight loss path.

My total weight loss was 136 pounds, and at my lowest weight I actually dipped a few pounds below my dietician-recommended minimum (although that didn’t last very long!).  In the past year I have regained a bit of the weight because I’ve been trying to comfort myself.  Three friends died from cancer this past year, and, while some people turn to alcohol or drugs to medicate their pain, my substance of choice has always been food.  And as I said to a friend yesterday, nobody eats broccoli for comfort!  “Comfort food” for me is generally laden with starch, fat and sugar.  Delicious stuff for sure…and deadly for some of us if we indulge too much or too often.

The good news is that I have visited with my dietician and started to unpack the pounds I packed on this past year.  I have a conference next week which involves a dressy dinner, and I can zip myself comfortably into the dress I bought for the occasion, which is a victory—and a relief!  I’m still well over a hundred pounds down from my highest weight and largest size, and I’m on the healthy wagon once more hoping to shrink back to my lowest weight and smallest size.

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Even at my smallest, I am not a skinny person.  I never will be.  I have way too many boobs and hips to ever be skinny!  And that’s fine.  God made me curvy.

God also made me sensitive, more than some people in my life have been comfortable with.  Sometimes folks have made me feel bad, ashamed of my tender nature, as though sensitivity equals weakness.  More than once I’ve even tried to “change” how I am, without success, of course.  I have come to realize that big feelings are just part of my basic wiring, and, while sensitive people do require a bit of special care, we’re not broken, as some people would have us think we are.  The same critics who say I’m too sensitive always seem to be grateful for my compassion when THEY need it.  It’s funny how that works sometimes.

Parts of me will always be plus size.  And that’s fine, too.  I laugh and cry bigger than most people, because I feel my feelings more deeply.  Dolly Parton once described herself as having a brain underneath the hair and a big heart underneath the boobs.  I’d like to think that’s me as well.  (Maybe we’re related!)

Am I glad I had surgery and shrank my body?  Absolutely!  Would I do it again, knowing what I know now?  In a heartbeat.  My hips and ankles don’t hurt anymore.  I feel healthier and stronger.  And I feel more free to live my life no longer being ashamed about the parts that are stil big: my personality, feelings, hips, boobs and HAIR!

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Jul1

Tempest

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It was a dark and stormy night…

After a few weeks of very dry weather, we finally received some rain, accompanied by lightning and thunder. It wasn’t scary, loud thunder that shook my house.  It was more that rumbly, distant kind of thunder that can be relaxing, almost musical, to hear.  I love this kind of storm and the way it can lull me to sleep.  But the other night was a different story.

After trying to sleep for a while with no success, I got out of bed and went downstairs to read for a while.  I thought I might even attempt to write a blog post.  My mind has been both full and empty recently; full of conflicted thoughts and empty of anything worthwhile to write about.  At least, it has felt that way.

As usual, when I got up, the dog got up with me.  Once settled in on our comfy couch, though, he was back to sleep soon enough.  I envied him for his ability to rest so peacefully.

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Since it had been a while since I wrote a blog post and ideas were not coming to me, I retrieved a book from my shelf in hopes that it would spark meaningful thoughts that I could share.

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I was not in a good place for writing, because every writing prompt I looked at and thought about seemed to have some sort of painful memory attached to it.  Recent conversations have opened old wounds and have made new ones.  I’ve found myself confronted by a kind of hate I was unprepared to face.

Writing, or speaking, the truth, is not always nice, or pleasant or pretty.  But it shouldn’t be hateful.  We all have opinions, and we all have a right to express them.  And if people choose to be hateful, I guess they have that right as well.

By the same token, we have the right to minimize our exposure to the hate, even if it comes from within our own family or “friends”.  Gracious God, help me to hand over to You my pain and my anger, and to keep handing it over until I can leave it with You once and for all.  Soothe the tempest that threatens me.  I come to You with open hands and a broken heart.  Fill me so full of Your love that there’s no room for anything else—Amen.

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