Tag Archives: memories

Jan28

Script

Posted on January 28, 2015 by 805diva

Lost arts, letter scraps and putting pen to paper…

I read somewhere recently that many schools are no longer teaching cursive handwriting to their students, and I was flabbergasted that the world has come to this! While the advent of computers and word processing has changed the landscape of written language, it seems to me that cursive handwriting is still a valuable skill to have in one’s communications arsenal, if for no other reason than developing a distinctive signature for legal documents. For me, though, it goes far beyond the need for a signature. I believe that cursive handwriting, whether it is especially beautiful or not, is needed for civility and a personal touch in communication.

I’ve been on a bit of a pilfering jag lately around the house, and as is usually the case, I haven’t always found the thing I originally went looking for, but I’ve found other things I had no idea were in my possession. It’s like Christmas finding such wonderful surprises! For at least a decade, Dad has been asking me if I had the recipe for Mama’s Sherry Cake, and I always told him I didn’t think so, but if I found it I’d let him know. A couple of weeks ago in my search for something I didn’t find, I came across a treasure trove of old recipes, including Mama’s Sherry Cake. I gave it a try and took the resulting cake to Dad and Carole’s for them to try and see if it was anything like Dad remembered. It was a yummy taste of nostalgia, although Dad and I both seemed to remember a thicker coating of glaze on top, and we decided that Mama must have double-glazed the cake and didn’t write that part down. I’ll try that next time I make it. And there WILL be a next time. It was delicious!

Seeing her handwriting on that slip of ruled paper, the kind she always kept around the house for letters and lists and recipes, brought me back to the days when I was young, she was healthy and life was simple. Typewritten documents, as neat and easy to read as they are, lack personality and don’t provide that sense of nostalgia. My fear is that writing things down is becoming a lost art, and that future generations literally won’t know how to write their names, because writing things by hand will have become obsolete.

I make it a point to write letters to people now and then, because I think it’s important to do so, especially to convey to them that I love them, that they are special and they matter to me. I have boxes filled with notes, cards and letters from people in my life, past and present, people who took the time to write something down by hand and send it to me. The recipes are another precious source of insight into the people I have loved, memories of food and caring shared among us.

Computer-processed documents have their place, of course. I don’t dispute that. But I will always believe in the importance of handwritten communication, letters, notes, recipes and the kind of one-on-one exchange that only happens when we put pen to paper. So, be checking your mailbox. There might just be a letter from me in there… an honest-to-God, snail-mail, handwritten letter. I might even include a recipe!

Dec27

Glass, Brick And Mortar

Posted on December 27, 2014 by 805diva

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How Santa’s helper packed up my memories…

A Knoxville landmark is being demolished brick by brick as the old Baptist Hospital comes down. It has sat for decades on a little parcel of land just south of the Tennessee River and, after generations of patients were born, cared for and died there, the facility was sold and plans for a lucrative complex of residences and retail spaces were made and revealed to the public. Progress, I guess.

It breaks my heart.

This little area of town desperately needs a full-service hospital and emergency department. The extra minutes required to travel to UT Medical Center or Fort Sanders (both of which are fine facilities, just not as close-in as Baptist) can cost lives. My main heartbreak, though, is personal. I was born and raised in South Knoxville, and Baptist was the hospital I and my kinfolks always used when we needed a hospital. Reed and I were born there. Both of our Uncle Johns (Flanigan and Bryant) died there, just about 6 months apart. Mom and Pop Cutshaw were patients there. I was a patient there more than once, and a caregiver more times than I was a patient. I spent the last days of Mama’s life with her there, and that’s where she left here for Heaven. That building, and the land on which it sits…those places are hallowed ground for me.

A number of months ago, I called Reed up and told him I wanted to pull a caper, and hoped he would be a co-conspirator. I wanted a piece of the hospital from the demolition site, a brick or piece of a tile or fixture…just some little piece of the place that has meant so much to me for so long. Soon it will be nothing but a memory, and an unsightly but profitable modern complex will stand in its place. I told him that, yes, it’s strange, but it’s important to me. He was gracious and non-judgmental about my idea, saying that he has probably done things that could be viewed at least as strange as this. Sweet Pea thought it was a fool’s errand and said he didn’t want to have to bail me out of jail or the loony bin if I got caught after hours on a demolition site stealing a piece of rubble. Anyway, we talked about it, but talking was as far as we got.

Flash forward to last month sitting around the Thanksgiving table. We didn’t talk about the hospital caper, at least not that I remember. But we did get started talking about other things from our childhood. One of the most vivid memories I have is drinking out of jelly jars. When we weren’t eating homemade jelly, we ate Bama brand jellies and preserves, and whenever we used up a jar, Mama saved it. Those Bama jars were the perfect size and shape for a glass of tea! Over the years, they all got broken or discarded, and I remarked that I would love to have an old Bama jelly jar glass like we used when we were growing up, and that I had looked online but didn’t find the exact thing.

Reed and I got together and had lunch on Christmas Eve. We didn’t know what the Massengill-Hickman branch of the family tree was doing or not doing that day (long story) but we got together on our own. And even though we had not drawn each other’s names for gift giving, we had a little gift exchange. I gave him a little Baptist Pound Cake and a goofball present, and he gave me a Bama jelly jar glass he had found! I was tickled to death. He also gave me a bag with presents for the Christmas night gathering with the bonus family because he wasn’t going to make it there. And he casually mentioned that there was another little something in there that I could open on Christmas night because it would be entertaining.

The box was from Santa. And it was heavy. The card was both cryptic and sweet.

Inside I found another jelly jar glass…and the heavy part.

If I had opened it when it was just the two of us, I probably would have cried, which is probably why he had me open it later on. I texted him and asked how he had pulled it off, and he said he knew a guy who had access to the site and some favors were exchanged, resulting in my Christmas brick.

I did cry privately, tears of happy gratitude for the thoughtfulness of a big brother who understands why something so crazy means so much to me. The Spirit of Christmas shows up in the strangest ways sometimes. Santa’s helper rescued my Christmas, packing up memories from my childhood.

Dec11

Ghosts of Christmas Past

Posted on December 11, 2013 by 805diva

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Nostalgia has me going in circles…

I was invited, and very much looking forward to, a wedding this evening. However, my body had other plans. After a week and a half of not feeling well I finally dragged myself in to the doctor’s office today and left with a prescription for some strong antibiotics, as well as a medium-sized dose of self-pity. It’s very cold outside, and that cold seems to have seeped into my very bones tonight. Oh well, I thought, if I can’t be at the wedding of my two friends, at least ‘The Grinch” is coming on and I can enjoy that. Imagine my disappointment when, instead of the animated 1960’s television classic, the opening credits to the modern-day theatrical release blared from my TV screen. Not that there’s anything wrong with the movie, I guess. It just is not what I was expecting, and not what I wanted.

Hence this blog post. This time of year finds me revisiting Christmases of my childhood, youth, early marriage…ghosts of Christmas past, I suppose, the circle of years. I remember kid-Christmases with Reed and our cousins at our house on Ford Street and their house on Arnold Street, when dolls and teddy bears and toy trucks were the things our fondest little dreams were made of.

I still have my last Christmas present from Granny before she died, a little black and white panda bear. It has a music box inside it that used to play “Frere Jacques”, but the winding key was lost decades ago. Later Christmases on Ford Street, and then on Denwood after the bridge took the Ford Street house, included a big supper with lots of family coming and going on Christmas Eve, which was always when we opened presents and had our gathering. Mamaw and Papaw would be there, after Dad or Reed would go and pick them up. Mamaw and Papaw were homebodies and often huffed and puffed about coming over, but they always had a wonderful time once they were there. One year I remember we all got watches for Christmas, Mamaw and Papaw included.

Often Aunt Ruby and Aunt Martha spent the evening with us as well, contributing something to the dinner table and providing lots of love and laughs. A highlight for me was always after supper and presents, when we’d gather around the piano and sing. Mama always played beautifully and sang alto, and the rest of us harmonized on familiar Christmas carols and old-timey songs out the hymnbooks that are in my collection now. Aunt Martha singing “Ivory Palaces” echoes in my soul to this day, her sweet soprano drifting through the recesses of my memory.

For a large part of my life, I was unaware that my Mamaw played both piano and organ. Once she asked Mama if she could play the piano, and Mama said, “Why, sure, Mamaw, play it all you want!” And she did, like a house afire! This side of Mamaw was a revelation to me, and what a kick we all got from seeing and hearing her play with such vigor and pleasure.

Papaw enjoyed our musical holiday tradition as well, often adding his voice to the female chorus. Dad would usually sit reading quietly, and Reed generally took the pictures, including, I believe, the second and third ones posted here. He was a photographer from a very young age.

Some of my Christmas gifts have been memorable, like the “watch” Christmas, and the year Granny gave me the musical panda bear. One year Mama and Dad gave me my “hope chest”, a lovely cedar box with its natural striated red and golden grain left showing, a gift which made me weep with joy. The year Jeff proposed and gave me my ring and the first place setting of our good china was a milestone Christmas, as was our first married Christmas when all I asked for was a good winter coat (which I still own and can once again fit into!).

Some years the gifts were quickly outgrown or forgotten. Some gifts, I am ashamed to admit, were disappointing to me. Looking at all the decades of Christmases, I realize that the true gifts did not come stowed under the tree wrapped in shiny paper. The true gifts came as we made circles. Circles around the supper table sharing food, laughter and well-worn family stories. Circles around the piano, blending voices in harmony as we sang other well-worn stories from out of the hymnbooks. Circles now incomplete down here because Mama, Mamaw and Papaw and The Aunts have gone to celebrate their Christmases in Heaven. I look forward to the day when in Paradise every day will be like Christmas…when once again our circle will be complete.

Nov13

Old Scores

Posted on November 13, 2013 by 805diva

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Musicians’ tools of the trade…

This past weekend was a musical extravaganza for me, very busy and extremely rewarding. Knoxville Choral Society and Chamber Chorale, accompanied by members of the Knoxville Symphony Orchestra, performed our annual Fall Concert on Saturday evening at the historic Bijou Theatre downtown, and presented an encore performance Sunday afternoon at the Community Church in Tellico Village. I was indeed blessed to take part in these concerts and to have been chosen as a soloist. I no longer take these blessings for granted because I know my days as a soloist are limited. I’m getting older every second, after all, and nothing lasts forever.

Between those performances I also had the communion solo for two church services. So it was a very busy weekend, and I will admit that by the time it was all finished, I was pretty worn out. Still, this kind of activity gives me much more than it takes out of me.

Part of the concert program was the Christmas portion of Handel’s “Messiah”, a familiar and beloved sacred choral and orchestral work, and a demanding one. My “Messiah” score is the one I have used for every performance I have ever done since college. It is 31 years old. I purchased it as a college freshman because my voice teacher wanted me to learn some of the soprano solos in it, and even though we did not perform “Messiah” that year, he knew I’d need the score for the next year (and for the rest of my life!). So he told me to go ahead and buy it. It may be the single most-used piece of music I own to this day.

Even when I have sung portions of the work with church choirs that used a different edition, I have always used my own score. It is old and worn, with some dog-eared page corners and rusty marks from paper clips of years gone by, like little scars on the page. It contains markings from the conductors I’ve worked with and from the voice teachers who have coached me, as well as my own unique system of symbols and notes to remind myself to watch, to straighten my tone, to shape a phrase or to raise my eyebrows so I don’t go flat. It’s a sort of shorthand developed over decades. I have my own language of markings, and every other musician I know has theirs as well. It’s as unique as a fingerprint, and just as personal.

As I have asserted before, I am a collector, of objects and of memories, and I am sentimental about all of them. My “Messiah” score is much more to me than a piece of music. It is Scripture set to music, the story of Jesus in types and shadows, and as substance and promise fulfilled. It is also a sort of scrapbook, a memory album of the many times I have raised my voice to offer the gift God gave me back to Him, alone as a soloist and with a chorus of other musicians. So much more than words and notes on paper, my ‘Messiah” score is a trusted friend, filled with my memories of musical offerings past and dreams of the ones yet to come.

Nov1

Piercing Memories

Posted on November 1, 2013 by 805diva

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Style, substance and sentiment…

Aunt Ruby pierced my ears the first time when I was 7 or 8 years old. I don’t remember exactly when she did it, but I remember the setting vividly. I sat at the end of the kitchen table in the house on Arnold Street. She rubbed my earlobes with alcohol while Mama looked on, probably expecting me to change my mind at the last minute. After each earlobe was sterilized, Aunt Ruby took a blue ballpoint Bic Stic pen and marked a spot on one ear and then the other, making sure they were straight and even. After this, she sterilized her sewing machine needle with alcohol and poked holes in my lobes as quickly as possible, (she never bothered with trying to numb them using ice cubes) inserting a pair of her own 14-karat gold stud earrings as my starter pair. She had cleaned them with alcohol as well, and instructed me to twist the posts around several times a day and to dab more alcohol around them daily to avoid infection while they healed. I was not to remove or change earrings for 6 weeks, again, to minimize the risk of infection.

I remember that it hurt a little, but it was not too bad, and there was only a tiny little bit of blood. Most of the shots I’ve had in doctors’ offices have hurt worse than getting my ears pierced. I couldn’t wait for my Daddy to come home from work so I could show him my newly pierced ears. I felt very grown-up and sophisticated, like I had taken a step toward adult ladyhood.

Mama always joked that her body would reject anything that was not at least 14-karat gold, and she always wore good earrings because her ears were sensitive. And she insisted on my wearing good earrings as well to avoid irritation and infection. She began to build me a small but good quality jewelry collection and taught me how to appreciate and care for good earrings, rings and necklaces. Once I got older and realized that my ears were less sensitive than hers were, I ventured into the world of fashion or “costume” jewelry. I’ve even been known to wear colorful thumb tacks in my ears if they matched an outfit!

When I left for my freshman year of college, I received 2 pairs of earrings as gifts. From Dad I received a pair of gold ball studs to go with the add-a-bead necklace Mama had been adding to for me (they were all the rage at the time). And my brother, Reed, gave me a pair of small, beautiful pearl stud earrings almost exactly like the ones of Mama’s that I had borrowed so many times for dressy occasions.

Summer after my junior year of college I had Aunt Ruby pierce my ears a second time. I was engaged and my sweet husband-to-be had given me 2 pairs of earrings while we were dating, and I knew I wanted to wear both pairs on our wedding day. Once again, I sat at the end of Aunt Ruby’s kitchen table with alcohol, Bic Stic pen, and sewing machine needle at the ready, the accoutrements of the familiar ritual of piercing and bonding. Again there was a sting and a bit of blood, and the familiar instructions for keeping my new piercings infection-free. This was June of 1985. I remember the date because a friend from school got married the next week and she noticed my new piercings at the reception.

Flash forward 20 years to 2005. It was October and the weather was cooling off. Aunt Ruby was 80 years old at this point and her eyesight was failing. I’d been wanting one last piercing in my left ear for quite a while and I figured I’d better go ahead and have her do it before she got to the point that she couldn’t anymore. This last ritual did not take place at the kitchen table on Arnold Street. Aunt Elaine’s husband was dying with cancer, and Aunt Ruby was staying with them for comfort and moral support. So my last piercing happened in Aunt Elaine’s bathroom. It was, I am positive, Aunt Ruby’s last piercing as well. She didn’t have the hand strength she had enjoyed when she was younger, and she had a little more trouble getting the sewing machine needle through my earlobe. Again, a little sting and a bit of blood, piercing and bonding.

I am very sentimental about my piercings because of the stories behind them. Aunt Ruby pierced countless ears of family members and neighborhood girls (and the occasional boy). Each earring has a story as well. Some were Mama’s, some gifts from The Aunts, some from Jeff, my sweet husband.

And you might ask, why 5 piercings and not 6? It’s a good question. The best answer is that I’ve always felt a little bit askew, like nothing about me really “matched”. The 5th piercing reminds me that it’s OK to be a little off-center, a little quirky. Aunt Ruby loved me, quirkiness and all.

Oct21

Beauty, Truth And Goodness

Posted on October 21, 2013 by 805diva

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Thinking upon these things…

This weekend was Homecoming on the campus of my alma mater, Carson-Newman University (although it was still Carson-Newman College when I graduated), an event which I always anticipate with excitement and joy. This particular weekend was unique in that on Friday, current and alumni members of A Cappella Choir gathered in the sanctuary of First Baptist on the corner of campus to rehearse and record a Christmas CD. Approximately 180 singers assembled, graduates from the 1950’s all the way up to last year, as well as current student members of the choir. This event was held in honor of Dr. Eric Thorson (“Doc”) and his 30th anniversary directing A Cappella Choir.

I looked forward to this for months, imagining the fun of seeing old friends and sharing memories and fellowship, as well as the chance to make music with them and a number of my current crop of Delta Omicron students for whom I serve as Chapter Mother. I knew it would be a special time together. In my head I knew this…but I had no idea how glorious the experience would actually be. I am still overwhelmed and processing all of it as I write and share here.

We began the day with a welcome and some announcements from Doc, and for our sound check we sang the college hymn, “God of Beauty, Truth and Goodness”, a beautiful hymn commissioned for the 150th anniversary of the college. My ears and heart were filled with the sound of all of us lifting voices to one another and to the God we honored with our hymn. And tears began to flow as I remembered so many wonderful times in the choir when I was a student.

My years in A Cappella happened on the cusp of a changing era. Prior to Doc’s tenure with the choir, A Cappella was directed and led by Charles Harrison Jones, affectionately known by decades of students as “Fessor”. This man was a legend and lots of my peers were so intimidated by his reputation that they would not even audition for him. I guess I didn’t have sense enough to be scared, because as a freshman I auditioned and was accepted into A Cappella in the fall of 1982, my first semester of college. In the second semester I was accepted into a select group from choir known as “Renaissance”, which sang featured selections as we toured during spring break. Fessor could be intense at times, and he was a big personality with a conducting style as unique as his DNA. I remember how he used to go down the row and have people sing phrases individually, sort of like a vocal pop quiz. One day he did this with the sopranos, and when he got to me, I sang my phrase and he pointed and me and shouted “GOOD!” And I shouted back just as loudly, “THANK YOU!” Someone told me later on that they couldn’t believe “a freshman had the nerve to do that!” It was just me being me, even way back then. And Fessor appreciated that. My freshman year was his last year directing A Cappella, and I have always been so proud to have sung in Fessor’s last A Cappella Choir. After he retired and I had graduated, he was directing another choir and he graciously hired me as a soloist for a couple of concerts, which were my very first paying gigs as a singer. He referred me to another director who hired me for more work. Fessor demanded musical excellence and valued work ethic and character. He was a gifted musician, and one of the humblest people I ever met.

My sophomore year was when Doc took the reins of A Cappella upon Fessor’s retirement. Doc also had the “joy” of being my academic advisor for my college years. I have always said that he did a tour of duty getting me out of school on time and deserved combat pay and a medal for doing so! In his own humble way, he always chuckles and says it was no big deal. HIs conducting style was, and is, very different from Fessor’s, and there was a period of adjustment as he began his tenure with the choir. As different as their personalities and conducting styles were, they shared a passionate commitment to excellence in musicianship and a self-effacing humility. I consider myself doubly blessed to have sung in Fessor’s last A Cappella Choir and Doc’s first one. Now I sing with Doc as he conducts Knoxville Choral Society and Chamber Chorale, and it is a joy to have the opportunity to continue my musical journey in this way.

On Friday as we sang the college hymn for sound check, the voices of generations of alumni and current students washed over me in a wave of emotion. I felt a surge in both my soul and body and almost came completely undone by the magnitude of it all. And I distinctly felt the presence of our beloved Fessor, who passed away several years ago at age 92. He was with us in that room. And I believe that both he and the Lord were pleased by our efforts as we sang and recorded our Christmas offering, adding “The Benediction” at the end. I had the best seat in the house, on the front row between 2 of my very talented Delta Omicron students with a row of my peers from the 1980’s right behind us. Past and present folded around me like a warm hug.

“The Lord Bless You and Keep You” by Peter C. Lutkin has been A Cappella’s closing benediction for decades, even since before Fessor’s time with the choir. It is as sacred to us as scripture, which, in fact, it is. The words are taken from Numbers 6: 24-26. It binds us to one another, to members past, present and future. We hold hands as we sing it, a tradition that I believe my peers in the 1980’s started, although I could be mistaken about that. We never use music. We don’t need it. The singing of it evokes memories of tours, concerts, musical and spiritual moments shared, friendships forged, lessons learned and, I believe, a foretaste of what Heaven must sound like.

Beauty, truth and goodness indeed.