My Traveling

When I started writing this blog I was listening to a James Taylor CD at my old apartment and heard the song "Traveling Star." It might have even been the first time I had heard the tune, if it wasn't the first time it was the first time that I had actually listened to the words. In a way that song was the inspiration for many of the stories and profiles that I have shared through my blog. So many words in this song explained the way I was feeling and gave me the sparks or epiphanies, if I may, to write about the topics that I chose.

"Never mind the wind, never mind the rain, never mind the road leading home again, never asking why, never knowing when, every now and then - There he goes again."

So many days I felt like that. Trying with all my heart not to worry about how these entries might make me look to others and just write. Not always knowing why, or how, or when, just writing about how I felt and the things that make me happy and make me tick. Three people that I have respected to the highest degree in my life were and are storytellers. Not to be confused with the art of telling tall tales, but real story tellers. People who could just as easily catch your attention with a story about going to the grocery store as they could with a story about climbing a mountain. I can't begin to imagine how much time I have spent listening to these three tell stories. Often about their life, people that they knew and the way it all happened. I learned a long time ago that people tell stories and reunite with the past and to bring back good memories. Memorable stories that go on and on through families and groups of friends are usually a memory that that family or group just could not let go of. And when I would sit down at my desk and begin to type the words "Traveling Star," reminded me of where I was going and many times of where I had been.

Words click with me - and once I read in the book "Wonder Boys" a phrase that one character used to describe his girlfriend that stuck with me. He said that she was "a junkie for the written word." I associated with that immediately and never forgot that very literal description. I enjoy few things more than reading or listening to words about life. My Papaw, my Step Grandfather Buddy, and my Great Aunt Aminell have told me stories all my life. Stories that connected me with family members that they felt I needed to know regardless of the fact that I would never meet them in person. They each told these stories differently and I am not so sure that they would have ever labeled themselves in this way. However, when I look back on our many conversations that was exactly what they were doing…telling stories. They were my inspiration as well. As I get older and after moving away from my home and my roots these stories and memories have become more and more important to me and to who I am. Sharing them with others by talking has always been something that came easy to me, but writing them down has been difficult at times. Some stories are sad - but sad can be valuable too. No matter what the pretense or what the topic has been my goal was not to create something that would be monumental or perfect, not at all. My goal was to share with others the wealth of stories, good times, people and love that have been a part of my journey.

As this year quickly nears its end and I look back over many of the blogs that I have written throughout it, I noticed that I told many stories about other people's lives. The incentive to do this was to shine some sort of light of people that I have know over my life that were awesome. Borrowing that idea from my Grandfather, Decola Franklin, who did the exact same thing in a series of stories published in the mid to late 1970s in the Dawson Springs Progress. His articles were titled: "Characters I Have Known." Having an affinity for some of the same things and ideas that he did, in another time and place, intrigued and pleased me due to the fact that I never had the chance to meet him. I would be typing away and think to myself: "I wonder what he might think of this?" And so was the case with every blog I wrote that became a profile. My thoughts would linger to the person I was writing about and what their feelings might be about my thoughts of them.

Interestingly enough many of my Facebook friends from home would read these blogs and comment on how they knew this person or that. Giving me yet another impulse that this was not all for me. I found that in writing a blog about my Nannie or Decola, both family members of mine who passed away years ago, brought them up in a sort of conversation. Like the age old saying I have read on so many dreary funeral wreaths: "Gone but not forgotten," comes to mind. The response from my friends, acquaintances, and some complete strangers has been very uplifting and well received. Knowing that often I hadn't dotted every "i" or crossed every "t," and that wasn't the point. The point was and is, that over the course of my life the people and places that I have known, impacted me in ways that are hard to explain. Regardless of that difficulty I have tried to explain it anyway. Taking thoughts that swirl around in my head and giving them to others has been something that has been extremely beneficial to me. Going back down roads that are too many miles away from me with some people that I will never again see on this Earth, just because I felt it was too great of an experience not to share. So I have.

I have been so blessed. I woke up to a world filled with love and opportunities for me and I know that so many people haven't had it so easy. As this year closes and we begin a new decade I know that I have left on the web a piece of my heart. If you were ever curious as to what makes me smile, laugh or what I love, read this blog. Sitting on the sofa with my Dad growing up while he strummed his Fender teaching me songs from his heart and introducing me to the music that would always be with me - I realize that we shared a love of words as well.

"Soft as smoke but as tough as nails…my Daddy."

That is the way James Taylor described his Dad, and again I connected with that phrase immediately. Dad used to play a song by Gordon Lightfoot called "The Edmunds Fitzgerald," and while exploring Lightfoot's albums I found the title for this blog: "If you could read my mind…what a tale my thoughts would tell." My Mom would be cross stitching on the other end of the sofa while my sister and I would sing along to Dad's favorites, favorites that become ours as well. Never minding the wind and never minding the rain I go back there to that treasured memory so much. I go back to our house on Rosedale Lane where in their youth they created a safe and loving place for my sister and I. I know now that way back then it was there that I developed the confidence that would help me to leap off of creative plateaus, like this one - not allowing my fears to stop me or hold me back. My Mom and Dad - there's not enough time for me to go there. They inspire me too.

All the thoughts that I have expressed, all the people that I have discussed, all the time and all the focus that I have put into this reveals a part of me that for some reason is hard to reveal. I don't know where this blog will continue to go. But I do know that I am not finished telling stories or writing them down for that matter. And I am certainly not finished making memories or meeting new and inspiring people. I wrote over a hundred blogs and those stories took me too good places in my mind and in my heart. I think that is so important. Being able to identify with where you have been helps to figure out where you're going. I came from such a wonderful place and I am proud to say that, but more than proud, I am very grateful.

I hope you all have a Merry Christmas and I hope that the New Year brings you good health and happy days. Follow that "Traveling Star" next year, it's out there.

God Speed Elizabeth Edwards

Yesterday as news hit the airways regarding the death of Elizabeth Edwards a soft sigh seemed to be in the air. People from both sides of the party lines took this news as sad news indeed. In recent years the reportage regarding the Edwards' has been more of terminal illness and of extra marital affairs. However, earlier in this decade she and her husband, John Edwards, were known more as politicos in the John Kerry campaign and later in John Edwards' own run for the White House. Regardless of the publicity the couple received Elizabeth Edwards' has maintained her highly regarded reputation of a strong mother, a stealthy advocate for our country's healthcare system and a warrior against the disease that ultimately has taken her life. Always leaving her audiences and supporters with a sense of hope and a charge to fight for life and not succumb to death.


Refusing to hide the fact that she had cancer, she became the voice of so many Americans. Americans who struggle each day to find the balance of living with a deadly disease. Always bringing to the table the essence of resilience, grace and strength, among the very trying times that she faced over the last few years. Elizabeth Edwards was a famous woman that died of a famous disease. And as our hearts go out to her family for their loss, I am reminded of the many people that are faced with these situations each day. The many people that are not famous. I think that Elizabeth Edwards was mindful of these masses too.

Mrs. Edwards life reminds us that gaining a place in the hearts of others has little to do with the problems that you face or the struggles that you may go through in life. In fact many of her supporters might argue that they gained their affinity for this public figure because of the way she handled life's problems and daily struggles, not just because she was plagued with them. I think the important lesson to learn here is that what defines us can never be a disease or marital scandal. What defines us is in our hearts and souls, and the integrity that those two parts of our being allow us to have. Yesterday I feel that we lost a voice that spoke out to the darkness, a person that advocated the things that are hard to deal with and almost impossible to change. But what we did not lose was her message, a message that we should all carry forward. Gracefully telling us that we don't have to give up - a message that will most certainly live o

Give a little bit!

This morning as I climbed on the bus and I swiped my bus pass bidding a good day to the driver - the Indigo Girls song: Galileo began to play. My morning ritual is so intact that I could do it in my sleep and I often do - for those of you that know me well, you know that mornings aren't a peak time for me. But this particular morning was different in several ways, so when this particular iTune began to play I knew that the day would be a good one.


My Aunt Judy always comes to mind when I hear this song, she is among a group of people in my life that I owe a great deal. Our life's paths have crossed so many times at just the right juncture. It is funny how that happens. Times when you know you need something or someone and you just can't pin point what or who that may be. Each time I learned that that person was Judy a grin would appear on my face and the thought: "this should be fun," would pop into my mind.

With an innate ability to come to a higher understanding she tackles life's ups and downs with grace and always humor. And over the years she has opened my mind to so many ideas and so many things that seemed off the beaten path that shouldn't have been. I love her for that but not that alone. I think in time we learn that there are times in our lives when we need a co-pilot, so to speak, a sort of guardian to our own life. Times when our mind becomes clouded with the dreariness of problems and insecurities. Thankfully she was the guardian to mine during one of those short lived dark periods. In a time that I felt very needy and helpless at the same time, I struggled to dignify my place in the world and understand what it was that I had to offer, she gave me these wise words. "Sometimes all you have to give is your time." How true.

We all live through those periods and we certainly need those people that conveniently pop up to lend a hand. Sifting through boxes of her life's travels and treasures we came to a greater understanding of one another. With alarm clock radios turning on and off in the back ground and the occasional outburst of laughter we both worked diligently through separate hard times. Not knowing which direction the wind would blow us next, we patiently waited for that breeze to rise and when it did we smiled again. But this time a wider smile.

Words about time coming from a lady who has given her time to loved ones, friends, and all those who come into her company for a lifetime: time. The same person who told me with a laugh that if she won the lottery she would give it all away, and I believe that too. It's usually not one thing that draws you to person it's the collection of qualities that make a person unique and interesting. Judy has a myriad of these types of traits. That's why when hearing "Galileo," this morning my mind went straight to a thought of my dear Aunt. A song that illustrates questioning, growth, and thought - things that MY Aunt Judy is never afraid of. Thank God for people like her, wildflowers that bloom over and over again, raising their heads to the sun as if to say: "Thank you!" Thank God for her!

The best part of knowing these types of people is that you have the opportunity to learn from them and their journey. I have distinct privilege of knowing many people of this kind. When I look upon these kind souls, deep within I hope that I may have the opportunity to touch and reach out to others as they have. It's people like Judy that remind me to live life to the fullest, to smile wider, to try harder, and to go farther. Knowing all the while that my time is valuable to others and in certain situations that is worth more than anything. Knowing this to be true after having experienced it myself. After a lifetime of benefitting from others giving of their time to me. What a simple concept from a not so simple lady: Judy Tomlinson.

Treasure

I dance very poorly, but I still love to dance - a blessing and a curse I suppose. One of life's very small obstacles that I have repeatedly stepped over, around and on the feet of so many to enjoy. I guess we can learn from even the smallest things, that we are better off to know the joy and feeling of dancing even, rather than never trying it at all. I would even go so far as to say that I am somewhat reserved and a little shy at times - an unbelievable statement I know! However, sometimes I have to push myself to speak first or join in - but it never stops me.

Life is a collective process of which we are always learning and growing - simultaneously adding to our wisdom and our persona. A process that so few expose - our motives, our insights, our passions, strengths and weaknesses. The things that we know and often never share make us mind boggling creatures to think about. We begin our lives knowing nothing and we end it knowing "only" everything that we allow ourselves to learn and experience. The lives that touch us so ordinarily throughout our time here make us who we are. The things that we come to understand help us to develop our own perceptions of the people and places that surround us. Uniquely, we create our own ideas and personalities, no one is the same. Isn't that wonderful?

Saturday night I enjoyed time with friends as I often do - thank goodness for friends. I laughed so much and felt so happy to be alive. The company definitely had a great deal to do with it - maybe the weather added to it too. Maybe the atmosphere, who can tell? Regardless of any of these factors, days and nights like Saturday stand out to me as days that I lived fully from the time I opened my eyes until the time I closed them to sleep in the evening. And if I could go back through my mind and remember every conversation I have ever had, if I could remember the long talks I have had with strangers on bar stools or in waiting rooms - what would I do but smile. To go into that thought and march around a bit like it were a room with furniture and pictures hanging on the wall. If I could go there and think more about those conversations I would realize that it was these scenarios that taught me or even made me force myself to open my mouth and speak first. The thought of missing something. That same desire to know and hear and live that keeps me up at night reading one more paragraph or talking to another friend a million miles away. I realize sometimes that on a daily basis we push ourselves to go farther, to think harder, to overcome certain insecurities that would normally hold us back. We often refuse to let that happen.

I am more proud of my friends and family than they know. I am proud to know them, to share in the experience of life and to be a part of the time period that we all share. Knowing that ages from now when the pages of history open to a section of time that we call "now", a section that will be thought of as an ancient "then." I know that I would not want to walk life's path with any other group and this time will be marked how we live and how we progress. The sadness of knowing that we can't go on forever evaporates in the idea of the things out there that I have yet to know. The people that I have yet to meet and the laughs I have yet to have.

It shouldn't be a challenge to live life - it is our treasure. Every day I know that there is more out there, but I don't know exactly what is out there for me. What will be there for me today? And if goodness and mercy have followed me thus far, why should it not keep following me? As I type these words I listen to music created by a friend. I hear in that music her vision - her insight and her love for music (Molly). The magic of it is too splendid for me to put into words - although my excitement is very deep. The thought of creating something that would urge people to dance…amazing!

Words, what can I say about words to magnify my love for them. My love for the poet who can pour his or her heart into phrases and imagery that change lives and spawn romances. The writers who describe dew drops on a lilac leaf - something so pure yet insignificant. Why do they bother? It's beautiful, that's why! My Grandfather is a poet - words spinning in his mind that are also spinning in mine. Do we share that gene? Should I even put us on the same plane? Probably not - but the thought of it makes me proud. The well spoken phrase - there's nothing like it. Changing sentences into perfect compilations is a wonder to me. And should life be explained in this way it might resemble a picture of little pieces of paper spread out on a million tables with scraps of fortune cookies lying about. I hope someone takes a picture taken by someone who refused to forget the moment. Or maybe not. Life being the mystery that it is, keeps ups running the race - fighting the fight - working hard for all those passions, using our strengths to fight our weaknesses. We blink, October is gone and now November, what next? I suppose the only thing we have to learn is not to bury our treasure - there will be no joy in that.

New Deal - Cemetery

When I was growing up our house was on the same street as the towns Cemetery. Rosedale Cemetery a dignified garden of stones and artificial flowers arranged among old cedars and walnut trees. The cemetery was one of the gifts left to the city by the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) or the Works Progress Act (WPA), who can remember? Now that I think of it I was never afraid of living a couple of doors down from the cemetery. That said, I don’t remember ever going over there at night either, and maybe that wasn't out of fear as much as out of respect.

As parts of Franklin Roosevelt's "New Deal," the CCC and the WPA were a work relief program specifically for men between the ages of 18 and 33. This program existed from 1933 until 1942 due to the lack of jobs for men of this age during the Great Depression. I have heard of many stories about the CCC and the WPA's Camps coming to Dawson Springs bringing men that would work to repair and replace streets, build the state park, the cemetery and other landmarks of my small hometown.

Rosedale cemetery is surrounded by a rock wall and rock retaining walls made from native stone and now seems like a sea of granite divided by concrete paths. Monuments of all shapes and sizes dot the terrain with names to be read silently noting the presence of he or she or both. I use to ride my bike over there and many people walked the paths for exercise - my Mother included. I, as almost everyone in town have family members buried there and I remember as a child often seeing widow creeping through those paths in long cars, somberly checking on the resting place of a husband, a father and mother, a child or even a friend. My own grandmother was one of those diligent ladies. An emblem of our temporary existence right down the street.

The CCC built those walls along with a grounds keepers work shop, a crypt, a pavilion and a grand arch to mark the entrance. What a depressing job I think now - building a cemetery - but these things must be done too. I wonder if those young men knew the importance of this small southern town's cemetery…and if the events that would take place there couldn't possibly resonate? The rainy days and green tents covering green chairs and Astroturf? There is no way that they could have really known the important moments that would go down there.

Driving into Dawson Springs from the Western Kentucky Parkway, those that come and go there drive past Rosedale Cemetery, where an American flag waves day and night. Where the names of those that founded, built and lived in my hometown now lie and even though this might seem crazy, Rosedale Cemetery is a peaceful place. A dignified place to rest for the ages under stones that have not the space to list all the things done in one's life and I suppose that is the point. Epitaphs should exist in the minds that are touched and not etched on any stone. I don't know why this came to mind today…maybe it is the dreary weather that has been lingering. Who knows?

Regardless, why not? Who says I can't write about cemeteries - I'm still not scared of them.

Nostalgia

When I was very young Granny taught me and my cousins to play Canasta. I'm twenty nine years old now and I hardly know a soul that knows what Canasta is, or for that matter would want to play. But it's a good game to play on a cold day - a day that you can concentrate on a hand of cards and look out the window. I love Canasta.

My parents were never much on take out, we seldom had, what I would refer to as a hunt and peck night. Whereas, you just get in the kitchen and hunt and peck for what you can find. But occasionally we would order a pizza or cook a frozen one at home when schedules got really hectic. On those nights that we had pizza we also had plain Lays or Ruffles potato chips and pickles around the table. Naturally, now when I have pizza, which is much more frequent than it was in those days, I love to have a hand full of chips and a pickle to go along with a slice or two. When friends see me doing this they always ask why? My answer never changes, it's just the way I have always done it. That's the way I like it.

When I was really little and was staying at Ami and Gar's house (Aunt and Uncle), Ami would often make Kool Aid for me to drink. She made it in a big plastic pitcher and while she was making it she always let me sit up on the counter and watch her. With the Kool Aid powder in the bottom and the right amount of water she would pull out a orange plastic spoon and stir that batch. She would always spin the spoon around really fast and then let it go. The spoon would stir itself for a while…then I would have to try. I rarely make Kool Aid but every time I do I have to give her old spoon trick another shot. I can't resist.

Nostalgia. The bridge that gaps the past and the present. The silent reminders of a different time and a different place. Smells, sounds, familiar settings and similarities that draw our minds to wonder back through the years. Over the river and through the woods of time to those places that bring back those warm feelings of belonging and entitlement. Back to my family and the faces of my neighbors and friends over the years. The same nostalgia that led me to write this blog and to do so many other things. Why do we need it? It's love…it's the things that we can't necessarily see or touch at the moment but we can always feel. We need this collection of ideas to reassure us on those days that we are not so sure. To guide us through the darkness like a friend along the way. Nostalgia - stay with me.

A Life of Seasons

Things happen every day that remind us that we all have things that we are good at, loved and thought of for. The things that make us unique individuals make us interesting friends and family members. As we go about our daily life we often demonstrate our uniqueness without even knowing that we are doing so.


Henry David Thoreau said:

"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away. "

Last night I spoke with a friend over the phone about similar schools of thought and this morning I found an e-mail in my inbox from another friend touching on the same ideas. It seems that when such themes are brought up from different angles yet simultaneously, I should take heed. Both encounters became significant reminders that for every season of our lives, be they a few days or a few years, there is a purpose. And during that season there is something we will bring to the table and there will be something that we take away. As these so called "seasons" come and go we will find that as a result of enduring them, good or bad, we will become richer individuals.

It is not always easy to look at life this way. Especially during those periods that are harder than others. During those phases it is important to listen to the music that Thoreau spoke of. Earnestly try to seek out it's beat and as we seek that internal cadence we should prepare to march to its rhythm like we never have before. Rising to every occasion with the confidence in our own persona, knowing that our purpose will guide us on into the next season.

As these words appear on this screen I can't help but think of so many people that I have known throughout my short life. People that I've loved throughout my life and people that I met along the way and grew to love. And as these faces pop into my mind - more than not - I am reminded of times when we had smiles on our faces and were in rooms filled with laughter. I am reminded of kindness and goodness that has been mine. I am reminded of seasons of my own life, now a part of my history that I made it through unharmed. All along the way I asked myself: What is my purpose? What am I hear for? And I didn't find the answer to those questions until the season of which I was a part of at the time was complete. Stepping out of one day into the next, singing to the tune that lingered in my mind at the time, I locked those doors and opened others. Only to find a completely new phase with a new, yet unknown purpose. And years from now when I look back over my life and the seasons within it, I may find that I didn't just have one purpose, but many. The collection of which will have been me.

Beyond the Cut Grass onto a Path

Down a beaten path at the edge of our lawn, a winding and narrow pass through the woods made up of gullies and thickets that were just a stones throw from our back door. Jaunts that I would call a hike now seemed like aimless wondering then. From an early age I drifted onto that path to see what was beyond our yard. Usually finding a stick perfect for the journey, one that would sweep spider webs out of my path, and make idle noises to scare away the snakes, that were undoubtedly around and just out of sight. Warn stones marked the way, maples, pines, oaks , locusts and a score of other swaying trees painted the breeze in those days in that forest. "April showers bring May flowers," and that's the truth; deep in the forest where the light of day is a few shades darker and the smells and sounds are sharper and purer I saw some of the most beautiful things that I have ever seen in my life.


Past the pine tree on a knob hill, surrounded by a briar thicket - a protected watch tower - an imaginations dream this forest was. Just beyond there where the earth gave way to itself, a valley was dissected by a trickling creek that bubbled and passed the leaves from autumn's past to another location in another crook along the way. A rotting timber bridge that must have fallen twenty years before, a deteriorating bridge that fell in just the right place to let me pass over the high end of this stream. And even though an easier passage was just down the way a boy needs a bridge and that is all there is to it. Tiny shade loving wildflowers reared their heads in the spring time and few saw their beauty. A treasure for the single wonderer, and as the leaves crumbled beneath my sneakers my mind was too innocent to realize what I was experiencing. As the bird's calls echoed through that place untouched by time as if to say to me: "inhale this air child, this is your home."

Beyond the bubbling creek and the old access road made by lumber jacks who's graves were marked long before I pilfered there the squirrels practiced acrobatic acts in Sycamores and Birch trees. Barking to be tune of the next acorn falling to the forest floor only stopping to notice where I was and where I was going and in this memory I see more that I can explain. The greens and browns that inspired the idea of camouflage, a play ground for creatures that inspired glass menageries in lit curios tucked away in parlors with musty damask drapes and drop leaf tables. A place that brought validity to my Grandmother's Ray Harm prints…an untouched zoo that I knew it all too well.

Muddy sneakers and beggars lice were all souvenirs of the days adventure and with each stride there was something to be seen. As my mind drifts back there I realize that it is not only a place for me but a moment in time. A place just as sure as the world that could compare to the setting of "Where the Red Fern Grows," but I didn't know to appreciated it that way then and maybe that is good. With wide eyes and my trusty stick I walked longer and farther day by day searching for what was beyond that forest and I suppose I have found that out time and time again, over the years. And though my foot prints have been erased a million times and new things grow in their place I was there. I was on that path in those woods and I know that place like the back of my hand. Just beyond a gray house with white shudders I crossed winding paths while ground hogs scurried to nearby holes and mosquitoes buzzed. And now that I have seen what was beyond the forest I realize it's monumental significance. This that is a memory now may only be a brick in the foundation but that brick is there and an import part of the solid rock upon which I stand. When I look back there this morning I realize that I was walking through a portion of Heaven, a reminder of why the hunter takes to the field and the forest even though his table is already set. The reason is so apparent as to why the fisherman longs for the open water or the riverside. I now know why the hiker seeks the far off regions and the jetsetter must find a serene place to take a load off. And with another blink I see my the back of my father's canvas chaps covered in cuckoo barrows and beggars lice, following dogs all across the country side and I followed too, my stride downtrodden from the journey. I know why.

I never understood then the importance of the feeling. Tied up in my own ancient history I realize that these memories just beyond my old back door are worth more than a gold bar or a bag of pearls. If I live to be one hundred and memories dart in and out of my mind like bats in the moonlight - I hope my memory allows me to go back there. Back to the bubbling brook of my youth, back to the pine tree that became a lookout tower and even though I have jumped from one metaphor to another, this memory is as sound as the timber that creaks within it. Knowing all the while that Faulkner, Welty and Frost among others shared these memories - I mean really shared them. I know why. I know why because I too was there in the shade of natures ceiling, a place that housed as many living things as do the concrete jungles that dot the globe. I know why I go back there and I know why you do too. Beauty may be for the eye of the beholder, but beauty, whomever beholds it, is in escapable. And although I was not along a path that "diverged in the yellow wood," I speak that language.

One day I will return to that very place - it will be different then. It will have been the scene of another young boys paradise, I am confident in that. Like my father and his father and all those that go back into a line that can be drawn across the mountains and hills and then across the seas - deep within us all there is the sense of adventure. I pray that that sense is one within me that is never extinguished.

The Impressive: Minton Sparks

A phone call from a friend recently brought up old laughs, old memories and a smile to my face. Who knew that losing my iPhone could reconnect me with so many folks that for some reason or another I had gotten out of touch with. Life is busy for me and before I know it one month ends and it is on to the next, and the list of people in my mind that I can't wait to talk to goes from one page on the calendar to another - they'll understand. Right? And then there is Facebook, which keeps me from calling so many people because I feel as if I have already talked to them. After all, I have seen their faces in photos from their latest post, clicked "like" on so many comments and wished them Happy Birthday's on their wall's. However, no matter what Facebook does to help us network with one another, there is nothing like hearing that friend's voice. Sometimes it helps you to remember why you are friends in the first place. Regardless, my friend Molly and I had a good enough excuse for our hiatus from phone chats. We had taken a break from long phone talks over a glass of red wine earlier in the year as she was leaving Nashville on an international music tour in Europe for three months. We had our bases covered and I was thrilled to keep up with her travels via Facebook as well.


Nevertheless, we laughed, caught up and reminisced a couple of nights ago for an hour or two. During that time she brought to light a name of an artist that has since intrigued me. I am a storyteller. I love to listen to a good story and I love to tell them. My Papaw and my Step-Grandfather Buddy are and were storytellers, among many other members of my family, friends, and mentors. I have been intrigued by this art all my life and this is precisely why I was so interested in the work of Minton Sparks. Ms. Sparks is a storyteller too, a poet, a character actor, author, songwriter - among other things. After looking over her website and viewing some of the videos posted there of her performances I was completely wowed by her art form. Sparks unique art is different from anything that I have ever seen. Although different, it could only be comparable to some of the few great "one-man/one-woman" shows I have seen. Including "Elaine Stritch at Liberty," Bea Arthur, Lucille Ball, Carol Burnett, Carrie Fisher and others have done these sort of theatrical numbers…but not like this.

Minton Sparks reaches into her mind and pulls out a part of the South that only the true Southerner has seen. She knows the combination to that safe and when she reels into her music backed soliloquies she takes you down the street, around the corner, and into whatever room she is describing. You feel as if you were right on her heels. Using phrases and language that are all too familiar to me made me eager to hear more of her twangy charm. Minton Sparks' diction and syntax, aligned with impeccable timing are not only intense, but moving, realistic and often hilarious. Honestly, I could not get enough. I am eager to see if and when Ms. Sparks will be performing around Austin anytime in the future, if so I am sure to be in the audience!

Check out her work at:

http://www.mintonsparks.com/

A Documentary Lover's Treasure: Must Read After My Death

With a crisp and sharp New England accent the verbiage of a woman, a wife, and an intellectual in her own light, tells the story of a marriage and a life. Recently on the recommendation of a friend I purchased and viewed the documentary "Must Read After My Death," by: Morgan Dews.

Looking for closure or solutions to the everyday problems that a growing family faces, Allis, the true author of this record keeping masterpiece - tells it like it is. When the demands of Allis's husband Charly's work take him abroad for long spans of time, the use of recording devices seemed to be an idea that would keep a husband and wife - father and children in closer communication . I don't think that this is what she accomplished but the result of the process leaves behind a chilling grip on the reality that lies beyond many closed doors in our society. Speaking early on in her recordings she mentions her lack of interest in collecting these audios for posterity, but indeed does just that. All those who view this will come to know the cushioned chaos of an upper-middle class family revealed after the death of their matriarch. A lifetime of memories and secrets found in a shed labeled "Must Read After My Death."

This film leads my mind on a path through this family's life. A life that seems to explore an open relationship between a husband and wife in the 1950s and 1960s - an idea - which seems to me would have been extremely uncommon if not unheard of. The film's narrator discusses various psycho analysis' made of herself and her family. The intensity of this tale, although chilling does not involve much violence, there are no Hollywood style adventures or fairytales. Just an American family struggling to make things right in their world. Unfortunately, this story is one that is not unheard of, just most commonly not discussed. Not solely making Allis' family unique, just making them the whistle blowers and setting them apart due to other such families reluctance to expose such familiar chaos. It leads one to wonder what deductions can be made from the items found in their own shed…

Check this out.

Thoughts on a Sunday Stroll

Suddenly the wind blew into my face as if to wake me up from a daydream and I began to realize the beauty of the evening before me. A cool breeze had replaced the muggy heat that had been so prevalent throughout the summer and the sky was remarkably clear. There was a renewed sense of enthusiasm in my stride and my mind began to work again. As the wind blew through my hair I had a real feeling of being alive.

I was strolling through my neighborhood and of course as I would have loved to have had some sort of amazing mental discovery, I did not. I was consumed by the difference in architecture, colors, automotives, landscaping and many other aspects of my neighborhood. I became mesmerized by people's gardens and flowers - I appreciated their personal touches and creativity. And once again I fell in love with the very idea of individuality.

When I was young I loved to draw houses. I was intrigued by architecture in all its capacities. I loved to look at buildings, bridges, barns - you name it…but houses always caught my eye and held my attention. The affinity was derived I am sure from a mixture of ideas and feelings, but just the same it is an affinity that I have retained to this day. The very idea of the prominence of brick, a chimney covered in ivy, dormers, a brick sidewalk, copulas and spires. The added details that make a home stand out speak to me like paint on a canvas and in many ways our homes, be them big or small, say a great deal about who we are.

As I mention often, I grew up in the small Western Kentucky town of Dawson Springs, where little old ladies raised red geraniums in concrete planters. Slathered with a fresh coat of white paint each year, these urns and geraniums were fixtures on many southern porches. Lawns and porches kept as clean as their Duncan Phyfe filled parlors and dining rooms - they knew what they were doing. On a less beaten side street on a beautiful Sunday there is always a chance that someone might drive by…and be delighted to see the effort put into a yard, a house - a home. I did, try it! Take a walk!

9/11

The questions that don't really have answers sometimes leave us in a place of unsettled injustice. These questions make us stumble away from our innocence scathed by factors that we had no hand in. The life we lead brings us to these places with the distant hopes that the courage, strength and love that it takes to be a hero is an instinct and not a procedure. Nine years after the planes struck the World Trade Center's Twin Towers in New York City, we are still left with questions that are not answered. Questions that make us wonder why humans throughout history have felt the need to kill and destroy.

Looking over a slideshow of photos posted on a media outlet on the internet a couple of days ago brought tears to my eyes and a pain in the pit of my stomach for those men and women lost on that horrible day. Seeing those photos rekindled a pain for the survivors of these men and women, a thankfulness for the brave men and women who went to Ground Zero to risk their lives to save others and a renewed since of pride in our country. A country that always heals but never forgets, a land of hearts and helping hands, a people of strangers willing to come together when the chips fall and on that day unlike any other … the chips fell.

Spending the weekend with good friends the date 9/11 was brought up a few times, somberly, as we looked back on where we were on that day. Flashbacks of news coverage and photos plastered on every media outlet known to man were only ideas tossed around in our heads compared to those that had to witness this horrible event. Not to mention those that were in the towers. A day that claimed thousands of lives goes down in history and as we remember it is hard to believe that something this terrible could ever happen.

Unfortunately, we live in a world that terrible things like this do happen. Ideas and misunderstandings can become so extreme that such things have happened throughout all of history. Lives that have been taken for reasons that seem to have no merit. Murders, acts of violence, terrorists attacks and wars represent a push for power that involves fear, bullying, and distain for humanity. I remember clearly the discomfort and anxiety that I felt in the days following September 11, 2001. I remember firefighters and policemen searching the rubble in New York, at the Pentagon and in a field in Pennsylvania. Thoughts that only lead us to more questions and less answers. Thoughts that make us wince and give us hope for better a understanding of why we need to do such things. Why we as people, why nations, and cultures feel the need to shift our weight in such way. Answers to questions that we may never understand, and truthfully, if we did it may reveal a part of the human psyche that would scare us and disgust us even more.

No matter what these questions do to us, and no matter how many times they arise in our minds, it is my hope that they never allow us to lose hope in the goodness that is in the world. I hope that we don't ask these questions to lay further blame or to validate these unknowns. I hope that we ask these questions to gain a truer knowledge of ourselves. I know we will never forget that day and the days that followed. Those moments in time that have been engrained in our memories that represent some of our darkest fears. Fears that fade away but come back like phantoms from the past as if to remind us that we are all mortal and that we do not know what the future holds. I hope that as we continue to remember and as we remember I hope we continue to heal.

I Like September

As the rain peppered my window this morning I welcomed the sound and the thought of fall lingering into place. All through life we face transitions and just as the seasons change these transitions make us stronger and more adaptable to the next phase. The month of September has always held some significance to me as it is the month of my birth. That said, it always becomes a month to reflect on where I have been the past year and where I am going within the next. However, two years ago my move to Austin added more significance to the month of September - in just a few days I will reach my two year mark in this vibrant city.


Personally, my birthday has and always will have its place as a yearly milestone, but with each passing year it has become less and less important. On the other hand, the anniversary of my move here has become extremely important to me. It would be hard to convey the meaning of all the thoughts, fears, excitement and new experiences, that have passed through my days over the last two years in Austin. However, I would be lying if I didn't say that each day here I have gained a bit more confidence in myself and I feel like I have grown as a person during this block of time as well.

Life began for me in a small town - Dawson Springs, Kentucky was my home for eighteen years and some change. In my heart that will always be home, my family lives there and it was there in that quaint little town that me and my friends cast our dreams on shooting stars and skipping rocks. It will always be there that my mind goes back to. After leaving home I lived in Murray, Kentucky while attending college and later I lived in Nashville, Tennessee. Both places that I loved and enjoyed and have strong ties with many fond memories and friends that are still in each of those cities. But two years ago on a "wing and a prayer," as they say, I left my comfort zone and moved to Austin. A decision that I was confident about but still had my fair share of anxiety toward. Fortunately, this move has been a successful move for me. Looking back on the past two years is a pleasure thinking about all the new experiences and people that have come into my life. Experiences and people that have challenged me, inspired me, and helped me to recognize that life has to be lived.

I have taken a sabbatical of sorts from blogging over the last couple of weeks - but as this month peaks near two very important dates in my life, I feel recharged and ready to tap at these keys again. I feel like life is good and that I have been very fortunate. I know that there are things that I need to work harder at, new things that will be learned, new experiences to have, as well as new people to meet. Those things will fall into place as they always do - and as they do I hope that I allow myself to embrace them with a renewed sense of self and a vigor that reaches out to the stars.

Twenty nine here I come, I can't believe I am saying that, and here's to two awesome years in Austin!

Brunette: Brunette Russell Franklin Cato

When I was growing up I don't recall Nannie doing a great deal of cooking, although I know that in years past she had. I have heard many stories from within the family about her cooking this or that, in fact my Mom and Aunt Trisha pass her Pecan Pie recipe back and forth over the phone every Thanksgiving and or when the craving calls. Nonetheless, by the time I knew her that was a chore that she had abandoned. I do however remember going out to eat each Saturday and Sunday throughout my childhood. One of those days of course was reserved to a lunch meal in Madisonville, to be followed by an afternoon of shopping at Baker and Hickman's Department store; afternoons my Mom and Sister enjoyed and I muddled through. The weekend lunches were like clockwork - she would arrive at our house just before noon drop in to chat for a minute before heading back out to the car. When we lunched in Dawson Springs we ate at the Hickory Pit, Dudes, the dining room at the Lodge of Pennyrile (State Park), The Place, or Corky's a hamburger dive that was later bought out by Dairy Queen. In all of these locales we would see familiar faces and Nannie knew everyone. She glided through these restaurants smiling and talking to almost everyone in these places, and so it was no surprise that my sister nor I have ever met a stranger.


On nights when I would sleep over at her house and we were alone she always expressed a large interest in my thoughts and my ideas about my future. She often talked about the old days with me and encouraged me to draw more, learn more, and talk more. She also inadvertently encouraged me to spend more time with Buddy, because she often went to bed really early. On those nights I would go out and sit in the family room with him and we would cook up pranks to pull on her, talk more about the old days, eat club crackers and drink Coca Cola out of a wine glass. One night Buddy and I even developed a little skit by using a couple of canes that they had lying around the house, along with his hats and a record (I believe) of Frank Sinatra singing: "I did it my way." A sight to behold I am sure - a sight that made her grin from ear to ear - laughing and clapping.

My sister and I were the only grandchildren on Mom's side of the family and we were spoiled a little because of that. But what is most important is that we were brought up with a great amount of love. There were so many people all around us that wanted to make sure that we had good lives. There is six years difference between Shannon's and my age and we really never competed against each other for anything and certainly not love. We grew up fast when I think about it and I doubt we thought much about how lucky we were then. I was in the 6th grade the year that she graduated and left home to go to Western Kentucky University. I know it was an exciting time for her but it was also a sad time for me…I think we were all a little sad. On her last day in town we went around to all the relatives houses so that she could say good byes, and our last stop was Nannie and Buddy's. Nannie cried from the time we got there until the time we left, and as we were walking to the car the two of them were still crying. A year later she was gone too.

Only gone in a different way - a way that I had not been accustomed to - she was really gone - not coming back gone. On an ordinary fall evening, Mom and Dad were moving about in the kitchen cooking dinner just like clockwork and the phone rang. Oddly, it wasn't Nannie making her routine call while Mom and Dad were cooking dinner - I don't even know who it was. I just remember Dad saying I'll take care of this you just go. I didn't know what was happening I just followed Mom, got into the car and headed across town. I guess Dad turned off all the things on the stove and hurried over himself - if he hadn't been there we might have just left it all turned on. The rest of the story is quite sad, but a peaceful sort of sadness, and with all due respect I will leave it at that. Nannie died on November 1, 1995, she was sixty eight years old.

My Uncle Bill a few years earlier had just completed an assignment in Jamaica and had accepted duties that would be carried out in Bratislava, Slovakia in the near future. The two of them were already in language classes that would help them abide in that culture for a few years. Mom's first phone call was to her sister and she was en route to Dawson Springs immediately.

Softly and tenderly she had slipped the bonds of this earth - just like that. Friends began to call, as they say, and the house was soon filled with women with casseroles, meat loafs and fried chicken. Family members were called and arrangements were made and then, as we have many times since, we gathered in the blue chapel at Beshear Funeral Home to grieve. It was somber, it was gut wrenching, it was scary and it shouldn't have been so bad at fifteen. Maybe I was ill prepared but the feeling that I felt on those days has been surpassed very few times. So few that I am reluctant to go into it here, at least not any farther than this.

I think that it might have been the first time in my life that I had seen so many adults crying. Grown men and women that were members of my family that had always seemed to have it together, but they were crying. People coming in and out saying kind things, sharing stories, feeling sad, all those things took place too. I remember my Mom, so stoic, so solid, she and Trisha greeted guest and shook hands while Buddy, Dad and my Uncle Bill created a separate wall of hand shaking and greeting themselves. I don't really know what they were all thinking, I had no way of knowing rather than asking and even that I put off for another day. Nannie joined my Grandfather Decola Franklin at Rosedale Cemetery.

Days turned into months, months blended into years, and before we knew it so many things happened to us all. A phrase that I like to borrow says it best: life happened to us. She would have been proud to see us gather for holidays for many years in her living room with Buddy at the helm, a man who would often mention her name and lend me many stories that have helped to fill these lines. A man who changed my life through his love, generosity, and confidence in me over the years. He would leave their home just as she had left it and for many years until his death she was ever present at the house at 600 Russell Street. Buddy passed away in 2002 and was buried next to his Grandfather on his mother's side, T. C. Cash, in Ausenbaugh Cemetery, just outside of Dawson Springs.

Bill and Trisha would go on to serve the Foreign Service in Bratislava, Slovakia. I was lucky enough to visit Bratislava with Mom in those years, among other places in Eastern Europe. Their careers, travels and life in general would be a breath of fresh air in ours and as I have said before, they helped to make the world a bit smaller for all of us. During the final years of Nannie's life Trisha completed her PhD, graciously mentioned in the introduction of her dissertation is the acknowledgement of a loving and supportive mother. My Aunt and Uncle still reside in Washington, D.C. and have both recently retired respectively; Bill from the State Department and Trisha from the Foreign Service Institute.

Just as much as she would have enjoyed being a Great-Grandmother, Nannie would have loved to see my Mom and Dad fill the rolls of Nana and Poppy. The year after her death my sister married Steven Parker in a ceremony at the First Baptist Church, a celebration that Nannie would have so enjoyed. Something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue - the day was a beautiful day and Nannie would have shined to see my sister look so beautiful.

Of course there have been so many things that have happened to me over the past fifteen years as well…but there is no great need to go into all that here. Life has happened to me in the best ways more than the worst. I suppose that above all with all things considered, the greatest gifts both sides of grandparents gave me were my parents. Parents that have loved me no matter what steps I have made, what jobs I have chosen to take, or what places I have decided to move. Lots of love. I suppose that is what brought this entire piece of wordage together…love. When my Grandfather Buddy passed away I was fortunate enough to inherit a few pieces of furniture that have made their way to Texas with me. Every day when I enter my home here in Austin, these things remind me of their steadfast presence in my life.

In going back through her life, producing a sort of meaty timeline, I have questioned myself many times as to what my purpose has been. I have often wondered if it was really okay for me to expose someone in this way when they really have no choice in telling me to keep going or to stop. All through this process I knew that this was something that I always wanted to do. You see, this process has had more to do with me than it did with her. Nannie, a title that she chose and wore well - a loving wife and a dear mother, did things for me and my sister that only we can describe. She was beautiful - inside and out and to borrow a phrase from my dear Aunt Ami, "she had a heart as big as all outdoors."

At Beshear Funeral Home and then on out to Rosedale Cemetery, on that dreary November day, we all said good bye to her. Knowing not what the future would hold for our family without her. Without her love, her laugh, her generosity and her grace. I am sure we all wondered deep within our thoughts about how the structure of our family would change, and it surely did. But she achieved something that every person that lives on this earth does not have the power to achieve - she kept going. Her smile is present at every Christmas dinner that our family has shared since then on the faces of her two daughters. Stories of her have been brought up time and time again, and I suppose that so long as I am able to speak and write those stories will continue.

She walked a line that was so fine - I think that she was the only one that could see it. Her strength outweighed her weaknesses and she tackled life with a distinct class and grace that I have yet to see perfected so well since. "Her heart was as big as all out doors," and there was nothing that she would not give or do to make the lives of those around her richer and better. And over the fifteen years that I had the honor of knowing her she captivated me and has held my attention long after her death.

In an old reel to reel film that belonged to my Uncle Gar and Aunt Ami, a film that I have watched over and over again. There is a portion backed with music to the melody of the song "Memories." In this particular film she is getting out of her car at the mines in one of her trench coats, hat and gloves to match. She starts toward Gar and Ami who had been babysitting my Mom there at the mines. Mom was probably around three years old and she too had on a long coat with a high button - a beautiful little girl dressed in late fifties fashion. When she realized that her mother was there the biggest smile came across her delicate little face and she ran and jumped into her arms. Nannie spun around with her little girl in her arms and the scene closes out with her holding her tight…clinging to her little girl and smiling. A smile that I can see to this day, a smile that could warm the coldest day and raise the lowest spirits. A smile that I knew all too well and knew not how to deal with its absence.

Fifteen years has passed since she went away - years that have seen our family well. Nannie would be proud to know that we are all doing fine. If it is possible I hope she has gotten glimpses of her two beautiful Great Grandchildren: Cole and Sloane Parker. These two would have been the light of her life, I know they have been the light of ours. She would have smiled over her daughters and their husbands as they have followed life's path so graciously and kindly just as she did. And if she can read these words and feel my feelings as they pour on to this screen I hope that she knows that did do this for her too…not all for me. I guess it is the selfish little boy inside me that needed to get all of this off my chest. I needed the world to know that I had this grandmother that was so great, because I lost her so early. So as I turn this page in my mind and soon I will get up from this seat and turn off this device, go over and curl up on her sofa and read someone else's narratives - I hope she knows that I am fine too now. And in so many ways I hold her responsible. She and a score of other people who loved me often more than I deserved over the years. Life is what it is and we all know that we can't live forever. The ones that are lucky, find out what matters to them far before those things or people are gone. We grow to learn that life is a journey of reaching a certain understanding and just as you think you are getting everything figured out an obstacle arises that may have never occurred to you.

I have grown to feel a deep responsibility to my family and to go even farther to its history. I have felt compelled for several years to write about such thoughts and especially about the great people that I have known. The people that changed my life. Nannie was one of those people, one of those dear, sweet, people that devoted part of her life to mine. That matters. Fifteen years of memories and fifteen years since and I am still talking about her. But what still amazes me, after all these years of inquisitive talking, is that I always find another person that she has influenced or touched - lives she changed just by living. So now it's done, the only way I knew how to do it, and with misty eyes I will post this blog of many sorts onto the world wide web. On to this web with many messages in one but one that I must add just in case she sees it: Thank you.

Many, many, years ago, in a little community called Menser, just outside of Dawson Springs, Kentucky, a little girl was born, and they named her Brunette. She was my grandmother.

Brunette: Turn the page.

As memories fade and then resurface I am reminded of the true beauty of the phases of our lives. The moments that separate time from ordinary into spectacular - the happiness and joy that is paired with tragedy and sadness. Sometimes it is more difficult than others to realize the true gift it is to live the lives we are given. I think Nannie new that and although she was fragile at times she had the strength to smile and rise again with the same grace and class that she had embodied before. Always.

In 1979 Nannie would marry John Edward Cato, who was known by friends and family as Buddy. Buddy had retired from the United States Postal Service in the early 1970s after serving in a long time position as Postal Inspector. A job that was based in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Upon retirement and a divorce he had returned to his hometown where his only family resided. After a brief stay at his Uncle and Aunt, Clyde and Beatrice "Bea" Woodruff's home, he settled into the Wingo Apartments on Hall Street next door Mr. and Mrs. (Christine and Harold) Wingo's florist and he later purchased a home on the corner of Hamby Avenue and Russell Streets. Buddy was the son of Joseph and Dessie Cash Cato, whom at the time of his return to Dawson Springs had both already passed away. Nannie and Buddy's courtship led to marriage and the two moved into Nannie's home on South Main Street. They would later sell this home in addition to Buddy's home and purchase a home together at 600 Russell Street. The home on Russell Street had been built and lived in By Edward and Dorothy Simons.

It would be during this time in the fall of 1981 that I was born, I would grow up to know Nannie and Buddy as my grandparents and they would live there at 600 Russell Street until both of their deaths. It was also during this short period that Nannie would suffer an injury while working at Ottenhiemers that would lead to back surgery, and her retirement. I would come to know her in a time when her life was slowing down, she had more time to visit with family, decorate and shop. In the early eighties she would also lose both of her parents.

First in 1981 her father, Ollie J. Russell, would die at the age of eighty one from lung cancer. The loss of her father would be one that would strike her to the very core. A man who had been known as Ollie J, Judge, Daddy, and Papaw, died in Caldwell County Hospital. He had been retired for many years from the VA at Outwood. He was an avid gardener, a faithful Christian, and beloved husband. Nannie would recall her days of milking the cows with her Dad, among fond stories of sitting next to him at the family table at the "old home place" while growing up. Papaw Russell had long been revered as an honest and good man. A man that was often called upon to say prayers over the sick, a man who had worked hard, good to his family and to his neighbors. I have often been told that he had the ability to witch water, a gift in those days that helped determine a lucrative spot to dig wells. He was certainly a jack of all trades. He had been married to Myrtle Johnston Russell since 1919, adding up to sixty two years. Papaw Russell was the father of eight children, and had lived to experience the loss of one of his sons William, who died in a car accident just outside of Saint Louis, Missouri in 1965. He was a grandfather of eleven grandchildren who loved him and enjoyed spending time at his house "up on the hill." The family gathered at Beshear Funeral Home where "When the Roll is Called Up Yonder" was sang and he was buried among many family members in the Isley Cemetery.

Later in 1983, Nannie's mother Mrtyle Russell died at the age of eighty five. Mamaw who had been ill for several years was spoke of as a constant source of kindness. A resourceful and hardworking mother, who loved nothing more than to have her family gathered around her for Sunday dinners, holidays and special occasions. Mamaw had pinned yellow ribbons to her porch in the days of the second World War and prayed that her two boys would return to her safely. She had been the person that wanted the family to move into town. She had boiled clothes and linens in an iron kettle over a fire and scrubbed them over a wash board. There is no possible way to imagine the amount of goods that she preserved and canned for the winter months over the years, the meals that she cooked, the clothes and quilts that she made. The thing that were all in a days' work for her, she would live to see become easier tasks, task that her own daughters would later find ways to make quicker or obsolete.. But never would they try to improve the Sunday dinners that she hosted - fish fries, barbeques, the fried chicken, the roasts, the holiday turkeys and hams, and never in this family could we forget the desserts. We all know that the Russell's love desserts! After all this… she too would pass the baton and leave a large family to mourn her loss. She joined her husband at Isley Cemetery, surrounding the church that they had been members of for so many years.

I know that the burden of losing both of her parents so close to the loss of my grandfather Decola was a huge weight on her heart. After the loss of her parents she would work together with her cousin John Lush Russell and her own brothers and sisters to create the Russell Reunion. An event that would be held annually to gather the descendants of William and Lenora Russell, the original group that had once lived, romped and played on the lane near the "old home place." This reunion would be an important undertaking in her life and over the years she would reunite cousins and family members that would gather long after her death, as this reunion still takes place -although the crowd has grown sparse.

Also, during this time of her life Trisha and Bill would move to Washington, D.C., where Bill would work for the state department. A job that would lead to their first assignment in Brasilia, Brazil. A mixture of worry and concern would be paired with a great deal of pride surrounding this move and Nannie would look forward to their return but boast of their good measure while they were away.

It is around this time that my own memory kicks in. I remember quite well Christmas Day Dinners in the living room at Nannie and Buddy's house. To me her house was a show place and the living room was a room that we did not inhabit much, except on holidays and special occasions. A stately brick home nestled on a street with no outlet, made for less traffic and a peaceful existence. The basement was the home of their two Oldsmobile's, usually a ninety eight olds and a delta eighty eight, the same year but different colors. It was in those days that my sister and I would receive our three dollar a week allowance from Nannie - money that I often saved or hoarded - a trait I wished I had today. Nannie's room had a sitting room as well, equipped with a sofa, a rocking chair and an arm chair and of course her beautiful twin bed set that is now in my Mom and Dad's home. The living and family rooms were parallel to one another and this is where Mom and Trisha would prepare the Christmas dinners to go along with Buddy's turkey. In the family room the men would gather in the sitting area discussing what was happening in the world at the time or the current sports season - Buddy keeping the tempo. While my sister and I would be making snow angels on the plush and almost white carpet. It was there in the living room surrounding a fully decorated and lit tree that my sister and I would open present after present at that time of year. Seated near a regal mantle piece over a fire place that was never lit we enjoyed many happy times. The furniture and things in that room seemed to sit as if they were made to be there and it was this room that I felt was one of beautiful rooms of my life. And year after year my sister and I would look forward to our picture being taken with Nannie before the fireplace.

To be continued...
 
{This is part of a series of blogs about my grandmother, Brunette Russell Franklin Cato, titled: Brunette.}

Brunette: Sixties blend with Seventies

As if to make a loop around someone's life it is very difficult to sweep in and out of the important moments and not leave anything out. Obviously it would be absurd to think an entire decade could be squeezed into one page. However, I must remind myself that I was not there so my memory is there only by direction and stories retold time and time again. I have to continue to keep myself on track but be mindful of the fact that I am only a visitor to these moments in time and that I really was never a part of them.


The late sixties would see an end of the coal mining business, the mines and equipment would be sold and retirement from this phase of the family's life would take place. Somewhere during this time period with both her children in school Nannie would join the working force again at Ottenhiemers, a sewing factory that had been in operation in Dawson Springs since the late 1940s, she worked in the shipping department. A phase in time that pant suits would come onto the scene Nannie would blend in nicely. Also during this period Nannie and Decola would embark on business ventures other than the mining business such as a men's clothing store called Dad's Duds. Dad's Duds would have a store located in Madisonville and in Hopkinsville - these venues would expand their group of friends as well as their time schedule. Earlier in this period Decola had opened a franchise called Gambles, and housed it in downtown Dawson Springs. Gambles was located on South Main Street. This was a building that during my childhood was the location of Rex Parker Insurance Company. My Uncle Joe Russell was hired to manage Gambles and he later took over the business until it closed in the latter part of the seventies.

Decola would also dabble in real estate during this period, buying, selling and renting properties in and around Dawson Springs. State Representative Fred Beshear, a former Dawson Springs resident and businessman had been instrumental in having two water sources dammed to create a lake that would later be named Lake Beshear in his honor. Lake Beshear was to be a huge benefit to the city of Dawson Springs in the eyes of the legislature and this proved to be true over the years. The benefits would be that the lake would create a permanent water source for the city, add to the fish and wildlife habitat of the region, create recreation such as boating, fishing, swimming and skiing, as well as real estate development. It did just that.

The early seventies would prove to be a very busy period of time. The house on Hospital Road would be sold to Joe and Auntie, Nannie, Decola and Mom would then move to a home on Kentucky Avenue that had been built by Decola's sister Wetona in the late fifties to early sixties. A modern and sprawling home, two levels, and equipped with a pool. Nannie still felt tender toward her home on Hospital Road but really never had to let it go since her brother and sister-in-law had purchased it. In later years the family has spent many happy occasions in the home on Hospital Road as Joe and Auntie's doors have always been open to us. Nonetheless, Mom would leave home to attend school and Nannie and Decola would then move to Dawson Village Apartments, which had been newly built, and later to another home on South Main Street.

In 1973 my Mom would graduate high school and attend Murray State University. In 1974 she would marry my Dad, Edward Eugene Storms II, the son of local business owners Edward E. and Billie Carter Storms. Gene and Billie as many referred to them, were known to me as Granny and Papaw. They owned and operated Storms Antiques in Dawson Springs for over twenty years after my grandfather's retirement from the United States Army. A June wedding would unite the two families for life - a union that exist today after thirty six years. Their wedding would be around the same time of the city's centennial celebration.

Later that year Decola's mother would succumb to cancer, she was seventy six. Orvy who had acted as the matriarch for the Franklin family for many years would pass the baton - a hard blow to the family. Orvy, a classy and beautiful lady would fade away with dignity leaving her family to mourn the loss of a faithful mother and grandmother. She would join her husband and infant child in Old Petersburg Cemetery. A woman who had left home in the late teens to marry her sweet heart Chesley, would make their house a home as they started their family. My Aunt Trisha often shares affectionate stories about Orvy with me after spending tons of time with her while she was growing up. One particular story she has shared with me involved her and a co-worker at Outwood State Hospital of which she was an administrator during the seventies years. As the story goes she and this co-worker were driving through Dawson Springs on their way to lunch when Orvy was making her way down the street toward the Commerical Bank. Orvy who had always been known for being impeccably dressed was now in her seventies. Gracefully adorning a fur and walking with a cane Trisha's co-worker asked: " I wonder who that beautiful elderly lady is?" My Aunt's response was: "That's my grandmother." And so her memory exists this way still.

As we all know there are endings and beginnings and these transitions come with great sadness as well as great joy. The loss of Orva Teague Franklin would be followed by the birth of Shannon Danielle Storms. The decision to be called Nannie would be made and practiced in the months following November 5, 1975, when my sister was born. The Franklin's first grandchild would charm them like no other gift and they would then become Nannie and Grandad. In pictures and in memories retold it is easy to see that Nannie and Grandad were not the only people that this little one wrapped around her tiny fingers. The family grew and with that growth came more love and this bouncing baby girl, as light as a feather and tiny as a minute would captivate this family in a way that it hadn't seen since the late forties and mid fifties when Trisha and my Mom were born. All smiles now.

Unfortunately, there were bad times too as there always are. My Grandfather drowned in mid June accessing his lake property on the No Outlet side of Lake Beshear in 1978. The front page of the Dawson Springs Progress published the story about the longtime local business man who had drowned in an accident at the lake. In this obituary and among all the successes of his life, his collegiate background, his service to his country, the many businesses that he had owned and operated, and his beloved daughters, was the name Brunette. A woman who had stood beside him for thirty two years, a widow of fifty two. She would learn to mourn a loss that she had not even begin to fathom. Decola Franklin would become to me a man that I never knew but always did. A face that I had seen a million times but never really saw. An important name in my grandmother's stories while we occupied her walnut twin bed set when spending nights at her house. The loss of my grandfather would be a huge loss to the family. My mother was twenty three, a young wife and young mother - Trisha, my aunt, also young and married and now living in Atlanta, was only thirty years old. As the family gathered and friends drew near to mourn the loss of a local fixture and good man, it is hard to know what thoughts were going through Nannie's mind. I am sure her thoughts led her back to forty six when it was just the two of them, back to the apartment on Ramsey Street and the home on South Main, and certainly back to Hospital Road. In her mind I doubt she ever stopped traveling those roads that they had traveled together - after all thirty two years is a long time.

On Father's Day, 1978, Decola Wayne Franklin was buried at Rosedale Cemetery. Just down the row from his Grandparent's T.R. and Salley Rachael Franklin, his Aunt and Uncle Johnnie and Tilathy and other members of the Franklin family; he was fifty seven.