Stories to Tell: Part VI

HANSON

Mmmbop

When you are thirteen or fourteen years old, there are experiences that stay with you.  There are memories or moments in time that become a part of your identity.  You are beginning to discover who you are and consider who you want to be.  You are beginning to be more reflective--even in the midst or raging hormones, rash reactions, and rampant distractions at every turn! But, with some guidance (which I thankfully had via family and church) you can begin to contemplate issues about your life and the world on a deeper level.  You find things you enjoy and see people you admire.

One sunny afternoon when I was fourteen my friend Anitha came over to hang out.  Y'all, I love Anitha with my whole heart. She has been one of my closest friends since those middle school days.  She was my friend with whom I could be my goofiest self.  She was my shopping buddy, and my boy crazy buddy, and my friend who loved junk food and Surge soda!  She was always creative and crafty.  And she grew from this gangly girl in glasses to one of the most beautiful women you've ever seen.  To know her is to love her, because for all of her outer beauty, it is magnified ten times within.  When I officiated her wedding a few years ago it was one of the most special things I've done since being ordained.  I cried when I left her wedding because it had been years since I'd seen her in person and it will likely be several more years before I see her again. 

Anyway, I have lots of good stories on Anitha-- but I was telling you about that Sunny Bedford afternoon.  She came over to the house and said, "let's watch this new video I have, it's about the band Hanson."  "Oh, I don't know....I don't even know anything about them..."  "Loren, come on, they are so awesome...." I am sure she also said something about Taylor Hanson being dreamy because, well, she was a Taylor girl. She was also a Justin Timberlake girl... hey, for a 90s kid, she had good taste!   After that day, I too was a Hanson fan and to know me now is to know that it stuck. 

This may seem like a really odd thing to talk about...I mean, following a band is like telling people about your hobbies, right?  It doesn't give your life definition. It doesn't alter who you are.  Until it does. 

What Hanson first did for me as a teenager was give me something in common with some of my newest friends.  Anitha and I bonded over our fandom, as did some of our other friends.  Hanson's first single Mmmbop went to number 1 in 27 countries at the same time.  They were a huge deal in 1997-1998, nominated for 3 Grammy's when they were just 17, 14, and 11 years old.  But, as with many artists-they were either loved or hated.  And if you were a person who loved them, you got picked on by the kids who hated them.  So, all the more reason to bond together with the people who shared your enthusiasm.  The music became a place to hide. I would spend hours in my room listening to that first CD and plastering my bedroom walls with Hanson posters.   I gobbled up every teeny-bopper magazine I could get my hands on and I knew everything about my favorite band.  I video-taped them each time they were on television.  I *think* I had a cake with the Hanson symbol on it for one of my birthdays.  I. Just. Loved. Them.  Think about the hysteria over Elvis, The Beatles, The Monkeys... or modern day  One Direction, Taylor Swift, or Justin Bieber.  Y'all-this was my life.  To see these three brothers writing and performing all of their own music also fueled my creativity.  I loved to write and they inspired me to never give up on doing what I enjoyed. 

As time went on my love for Hanson faded into the background while I moved into and through High School.  However, I will never forget Anitha's mom winning tickets from the radio to see Hanson in concert.  Anitha gave me the tickets.  I was SO excited. Whitney and I went together, her parents took us to Greensboro to see them.  I didn't see them again live until 2007. We were living in Richmond and a friend of Michael's said off handedly, "Hanson is doing a show here."  WHAT!?  I bought tickets in 10 minutes flat, and called Whitney to tell her we were going.  We've gone to at least one show on every tour since.

The Music Lives

Hanson is celebrating 25 years as a band this year.  It has been 20 years since Mmmbop hit number one on the pop radio charts.  That's insane.  That's a lot of life lived!  They are all married and they all have children.  The truth is, we grew up together--as a band they acknowledge how special that is.   Michael tells me it is strange to talk about them like I know them--but to a fan who has followed their career since the beginning- we do know them.  We know them as authentic people with individual personalities and interests.  We know them as passionate businessmen and dedicated family men. They became independent and created their own record label when they were in their early twenties.   We are inspired by their interest in their own community of Tulsa, OK and their compassionate service to others through raising funds for needs in Africa as well as bringing in food trucks in local urban food deserts, with Food On The Move.    Hanson's dedication to their fans means that I've met them now several times, before or after concerts.  It doesn't get old!  I finally got a front row spot on the last tour in Atlanta.  Another life goal achieved! They do live-stream events online for fans, they have destination concerts and host a huge festival in Tulsa every year. 

It may sound strange, but the music has always been there for me.  Through every milestone and difficult trial-- the music has been there.  It has grown and evolved with me and continued to be a place to find refuge, and strength, and joy. 

In recent years, what being a Hanson fan has done for me, is it has brought me into yet another community.  In 2013 I met some amazing women while waiting for a show in Richmond.  We bonded as we waited in line, sitting on the sidewalk outside of The National on a hot September day.  These girls became close friends, who I talk to regularly.  We've gone to other shows together and had reunions to celebrate our friendship.  What started out as a friendship built on music, built around our common love of Hanson, became another place of safety all together--where we can share our joys and concerns day in and day out.  In fact, I just attended a baby shower for one of these friends.  A few of them were able to come to mine when Kemper was born. 

So I always tell young people to be themselves and not conform to what other people think. I could have stopped listening to Hanson at 14 because my peers gave me a hard time.  I could have taken down my posters and given away my CDs when my other friends stopped listening.  But then I wouldn't have this amazing collection of music to crank up and dance to with Kemper.  I wouldn't have these awesome memories of meeting Isaac, Taylor, and Zac for the first time or asking them for parenting advice.  And I wouldn't have these supportive friendships that have been formed all because we shared one common interest.  

Music doesn't matter--until it does. 

Stories to Tell: Part V

The Town Criers 

I started seventh grade at a new middle school.  The great thing about Bedford Middle was that there were multiple elementary schools feeding into this one school so there were strangers to everyone.  The hard part was being the kid who no one knew.  I remember tiny snapshots of my first day.  I remember the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach. I remember feeling like everyone was starring at me and judging me.  Let's be fair this is not an uncommon feeling for any kid in their early teens but I felt like it was so magnified for me.  I remember sitting close to the front of the classroom while everyone filed in chatting excitedly, all curious of what to expect.  I recall watching the second hand slowly tick by on the large clock over the chalk board of home room.  Bedford Middle is this amazing old building set up like a square where hallways circled around the central auditorium.  I am so sad that they are planning to build a new middle school--what will they do with such a special landmark right smack in the middle of town?  Anyway, the building was set up so that in each corner of the building there were different "teams" of classrooms.  We would all rotate to different classes in our team.  I don't remember my eighth grade team name, but I do remember seventh grade--The Town Criers (they were all revolutionary themed things).  My homeroom teacher was Mrs. Johnson.  She was a beautifully petite black woman.  She was graceful, eloquent, and kind.    She was always gracious but she also had that little bit of bite to her wit and humor that you so often need with a bunch of young teens.  I loved her instantly. 

Beyond appreciating my teachers, the rest of seventh grade was pretty difficult for me.  There were "mean girls" in my class--just like the movie.  At least it felt that way.  I remember their names but no need to repeat them.  I tried to stay out of their way as much as possible.  My first friend was Mandy Stanley!  We did not remain close friends but we are friendly I would say. Goodness, I must thank the Lord for her though as I look back on those days.  You know, we both needed a good friend in those days and I am glad that we could be that for each other.  The first time I heard Alanis Morisette was in her bedroom.  And I met my first high school boyfriend because she dated his older brother.  The first day I invited her over to our house to work on a school project on the Battle of Saratoga, I begged and pleaded with my mother not to embarrass me.   My old friends knew that Mom could randomly burst into song about anything from ice cream to toilet paper--but my new friends did not and I did not trust that these cool "city" (haha) kids would appreciate her lively personality.  "Please, Mama, no singing." 

She sang.  I'm pretty sure it was the song, "In The Heat of the Night."  It's a classic for her. She stopped in the middle of it, remembering my censure.  I was mortified.  It was fine.  I still have friends.  Mama lived to see another day. In fact, she became everyone's Mama in time. 

Bedford Pres

By the beginning of eighth grade I had found my circle of friends.  Many of these women are still my sisters.  We've been in each other's weddings (I've officiated 3 of them), we've celebrated milestones like graduate school, ordination (for two of us), and children.  If they are reading this right now they are probably thinking, "Oh no, what will she tell on me" or "I wonder if she will call me by name." Sorry girls, in the course of this blog series, I probably will, at least once.  :) 

One Friday night, my friend Erin, (Erin Jean) had a sleepover at her house.  Her daddy was the Presbyterian minister in town.  Literally the nicest folks you'd ever meet.  I think Mama was nervous to take me to my first sleepover in Bedford until she met the Gaston's.  What do I remember about that sleepover?  Eating snacks and watching movies in the basement. Sliding down the stairs in our sleeping bags.  Gossiping about boys.  Discussing the merits of Hootie & The Blowfish--who Erin adored.  What Mama remembered?  Joseph Gaston invited us to church. 

I have lots of memories about that church manse, where Erin lived.  As we got older, I remember Erin painting her room Purple & Orange (yes?) because in addition to Hootie, she was (IS) also passionate about the Clemson Tigers.  I remember hiding under her little brother Caleb's bed one night to scare him... my giggles gave it away.  I remember Erin's mom selling Mary Kay and doing a make up party for us to get ready for Junior Prom.  Now Erin and I are both ordained ministers, both married, and Erin is expecting her first child.  What neither of us realized is that from that slumber party our friendship was solidified and my life was forever changed because of her invitation.

Grandma Pearlie was living with us at this time.  She told Mama that if I didn't get to church I'd become a heathen.  She is probably right (the tendencies are still there, just below the surface). I told my parents if they wanted to visit churches we should start at Bedford Presbyterian with the Gaston's because my friends went to church there.  We never went anywhere else.    

There will be more to tell about BPC in the segments to come, it has been such a central part of my faith and also my social anchor growing up.  I'll tell you a little bit about some of the first adults I remember in the church.  Bob & Jo Carson were instrumental in my life.  Bob taught us Senior High Sunday School-- he taught me that it is okay to ask questions about our faith, that is how we learn.  He taught us about the Scriptures and World Religions too.  We always started Sunday School with High's & Low's from our week--a tradition I've carried into my own ministry.  Bob & Jo are awesome people as individuals--but Elli Buchanan (who I've known since she was 3-now favorite young adult ever) as a toddler made me see Bob & Jo as a unit--they became "BobandJo." Jo was on session and stood with me at my baptism.  They've been staple adults in my life ever since.  There is also Joyce.  I've talked about Joyce before--the most humble, God-fearing, kind woman you will ever meet in your life.  She always showed interest in the life of my family.  And if you ever wanted someone to pray for you-Joyce is the woman....she has a direct line to God, I am certain of it.   There's Dick Thomas, a lawyer and just killer guitarist, who when I was older and my mom was in the hospital--came to visit her every day.  There's also the Stetson's....my friend Katie's parents.  They were youth advisors who loved us all completely.  Their quirkiness and willingness to be silly with us helped us all to embrace our individuality.  Another youth advisor was Eunice.  When I grow up I want to be just like Eunice.  She's just the coolest woman, and she has a great sense of humor.  When I had Kemper I also discovered that she is a baby-whisperer.  No lie. 

These were our friends, the people we built our lives with. The people who have continued to be with us through the best and most difficult times in our lives.   But, I have no doubt now that God brought us into this particular community- knowing that we needed them and, well,  they needed us. 

Stories To Tell: Part IV

Moving Day

It was snowing the day my parents forced me to leave everything I knew and loved.  It was a process that had actually begun many months before.  In the midst of Pearlie's illness and recovery it became more pressing than ever before that my grandmother needed to move in with us.  Our house on the Ponderosa just wouldn't accommodate her needs.  It had lots of stairs and she would need a more accessible bathroom.  That makes sense to me now--it didn't necessarily feel right then.  It started with Daddy picking up those free magazines in restaurants with house listings in them.  Then we began taking Sunday drives around the countryside.  I remember Mama and Daddy sitting on the front porch one warm evening and telling me that we were moving. I would have to change schools. We were to begin looking at homes in Bedford--a middle ground for my parents who were by that time both commuting to work--Mama to Lynchburg and Daddy to Roanoke.  We would look for a house for Pearlie to live in with us. I ran crying to my room.  I don't think I spoke to them for days.  

The summer before starting 6th grade, I wrote a letter to Whitney outlining what was to come.  I wrote her a letter and gave it to her one afternoon at Pearlie's house because I couldn't bear to tell her face to face.  She read it and we cried together in the late afternoon sunlight streaming in through Pearlie's bathroom window.  I'm pretty sure she didn't speak to my parents for days either.

Looking at houses was kind of fun. After all, I'd never done that before and the prospect of a new room was fascinating.  I remember one ranch home with a full basement and we talked about me having a room downstairs.  That sounded fun.  One old house has a basement room filled with every National Geographic ever printed--no exaggeration.  Finally my parents chose the house on Woodcreek.  It would need some work to fit our family but it seemed to have good potential.  And let's not forget my Daddy can build anything.  And so, on a blustery winter day, Whitney and her parents came and helped us take loads of boxes and furniture to our new house. 

The silver lining was that since the house needed renovations before we could all move in, Mama and I would live with Pearlie and Daddy would live in the Bedford house until I finished sixth grade at Hurt Elementary.  I know how fortunate I was to not be moved in the middle of the school year.  We would all be moving on to middle school the next year.  The year marched on.  I had my first boyfriend who I feel like I've known literally my whole life.  In those days a boyfriend in sixth grade meant buying each other Christmas presents and holding hands at the skating rink.  I got braces which I endured for several years.  Instead of spending every weekend at Whitney's though, I had to go spend the weekends at the Bedford house instead.  We lost Mama's beloved cat, Pete.  He went out in a snowstorm and got lost, we saw him a few times after that but we could never catch him.  

The house transformed in those months, and even more so in the years since.  Daddy took the downstairs master bathroom and created two bathrooms--a handicap one for Pearlie.  He extended the tiny (I mean really tiny) bedroom upstairs out into the attic and created a master bedroom for them.  My bedroom had pink and blue striped wallpaper with baby jungle animals on the border.  We talked about painting it but then I started putting posters all over the wall so that wallpaper stayed up until I got married and moved to Richmond.  I put glow in the dark stars all over the ceiling and used my two attic spaces to create extra playrooms when the weather wasn't too hot or too cold.  

After my sixth grade graduation we moved out of Pearlie's little gray house on Pocket Road and it sold to some friends of ours-- the family of the first friend I ever made in Kindergarten. It was really a blessing to them and so I think that eased my sadness. For a time I kept in touch with those beloved childhood friends.  We used to write letters and have sleepovers.  But as time progressed and we entered into middle school, new friendships flourished.  My friendship with Whitney never faltered.  Although our time was more limited we still spent weekends and vacations together.  She also helped to keep me tied to those old friends. I even went their Senior Prom as a date for that first boyfriend.  

Woodcreek Road became another community all together.  It was different in the sense that we lived in a neighborhood with houses lined up on either side of the road.  And I could ride my bike all around and we could go for walks in the evenings--there was traffic but typically quiet.  Just as it had been in Hurt, we grew to know and love our neighbors.  Kind and generous people who were there for all of my milestones--from high school graduation, to Mama and Daddy's accident, to my wedding, and my baby shower.  As I grew older I came to understand how special it was that my circle of community had grown.  Now I had special people in two towns.  

Nevertheless, I was convinced that when I grew up I would return to hurt and buy back our white house up on the Ponderosa--some of my fondest memories indeed. 

Stories To Tell Part III

Miracle # 1

I believe in miracles.  I don't talk about it much. It seems personal in a way, to have the Spirit move in your life in such a way that you feel like you've witnessed the hand of God at work.  But, that's what telling the good news is about, isn't it?  This isn't really the story of the first miracle of my life--the first was my birth, but I don't remember that so we'll jump ahead.  

Grandma Pearlie got sick; like really sick.  I was in sixth grade (or was it fifth?).   Pearlie was diabetic and for as long as I could remember she'd been sticking her finger with a needle several times a day, squeezing that dark red dot onto a thin strip and sliding it into a little computer that blinked back a number at her. Then she'd give herself some insulin and go about her way. Most days it was pretty good.  One day, it showed low numbers--maybe it was for a few days, I can't remember.  Anyway, Pearlie drank some orange juice to bring her sugar up.  The problem was, instead of her sugar levels being low, they were actually really high.  Her strips had gone bad and gave her inaccurate readings. She had a stroke.  She went into a coma.

I don't remember what hour of the day or night it was when it happened. But I do remember my mama going into her room and finding her on the bed and saying, "Mama, Mama!" trying to get her to wake up. As a young child, even though I was as shielded from it as I could have been- it was scary.   The ambulance was called.  We spent hours, days, weeks at her bedside in the hospital. Mama tried to talk to me about it.  To prepare me for the fact that she wouldn't wake up. That she would pass away from this world into the next where she would be with her three other sons and her husband who "went before her."  Then as the days turned to weeks the family began to joke that Pearlie was "too ornery to die." That sounds terrible, but it was said with love and a smile to reflect on her tough skin and tenacity.   I began to think that maybe we could put my dark colored dress and shoes back in the closet.  She should have died. But she hadn't yet....and so I believed in something greater than us at work.  The God she'd taken me to church to learn about. 

While Pearlie was hospitalized, I spent the afternoons after school with those beloved neighbors I told you about: Margaret & Kyle and Kent and Barbara.  I got on and off the school bus from their house.  I was even closer to Whitney's grandpa's house so we could still hang out in the afternoons.  Margaret and Kyle always had treats for me. I'd go into their kitchen, all the windows would be open and Kyle would have the Altavista Journal spread across his red marble looking table top.  Margaret, in her flowered house dress would be clipping coupons.  I'd wander across the yard back to Kent and Barbara's.  Kent was a taxidermist. He had a constant twinkle in his eye and two moods if I remember--he'd be laughing and joking or all fired up about something.  Not in an angry tone but in a way that you knew he was serious about what he was saying.  If it was cold, Kent would have the wood stove burning in his shed where he worked.  There were mounts sitting all around and all manner of animal hides waiting to be dressed.  He had a black cat named Malcolm X who followed him everywhere.  Malcolm's tail was slightly bent because he'd gotten too close to the wood stove several times.  Malcolm's mama cat, lovingly named "Mama" blessed Pocket Rd with a litter of kittens twice a year.  All my cats growing up were from Mama.  Aggador Spartacus is probably her last living offspring still lives a cushy life with my parents in Bedford.  He's about 16 years old.  Anyway, her kittens were often running around out back and I'd go spend the afternoon playing with them.  Barbara was always kind, welcoming me into her home and calling me, "baby girl".  

I'll tell you another side story about Kent and Barbara that I'll never forget.  They had a copper head snake in an aquarium in their living room.  His name was Slick Willy.  This was in the Clinton days.  Well one night, late in the evening we got a call at home. They said, "Slick Willy had babies and they got out of the breathing holes of the aquarium and they are all over the house!"  HA! I am pretty sure I stayed at home in the bed and Daddy and Mama went over there to help them.  Slick had a name change "Slick Hilary" and got sent back out into the wild.   

Pearlie was a miracle you see, because in time, she woke up.  She was awake and she could talk and eat.  She had to learn to walk again if I remember.  And she was never quite strong enough after that to really get back into good shape.  She walked with a walker but spent most of her time in a wheelchair.  We put our dark clothes back in the closest.  Pearlie went into assisted living for a time.  And then it was decided for certain that she could not be on her own and she would come and live with us.  Pearlie lived another 9 or 10 years.  Those were not always rosy times.  As I got older I didn't want to listen to Pearlie anymore.  I certainly couldn't be bothered to help around the house even though Mama was doing everything.  But what a gift God gave us--more time to hear her stories.  More time to watch the Atlanta Braves play baseball. More time for me to tell her about high school and graduation.  More time to show her pictures of Hollins and introduce her to Michael.  

Now that I am older I see again that there were lots of miracles.  The miracle of Pearlie, the miracle of family and of friends.  How lucky.  

Stories To Tell Part II

Small Town, Big Ideas

BFF

I met my best friend in first grade, Mrs. Mason's class,  at John L. Hurt Jr. Elementary School. Her name is Whitney, or "Whittle" as my Mama has called her for as long as I can remember. Mrs. Mason thought we'd be fast friends because we were both small in stature and only children.  She was right. Whitney was as petite as I was.  When I met her she had blond hair that flowed all the way down her back and when in a ponytail it was as thick as my fist.  Seriously, it was the hair that most grown women dream of.   We basically had the same size clothes and the same size shoes (still do).  We rode the same school bus and shared a love of country music.  In fact, her grandparents didn't live too far from my house. I could get their easily by cutting through the hay-field and a couple of the neighbor's yards.

It wasn't long before we were spending weekends at each other's houses.  One week at mine and one week at hers. We'd play Barbies or house in the early days.We would sleep on blankets on the floor of her room and talk and giggle until we heard her dad come home from his shift at 11.  Then we'd play opossum--which really meant that we finally got quiet enough to drift off to sleep. Her favorite movie was Top Gun.  Did I have a favorite movie back then? I don't remember.  I do remember loving the country band, Highway 101, and I would listen to the tape repetitively. I am sure my parents loved that.  Anyway, both got off the school bus at our grandma's houses and we would then get on the telephone and talk for ages.  What did we talk about? I have no clue.

As we got older we both developed a love of history and our parents would take us on trips to historical places.  I remember Jamestown, Williamsburg, Mount Vernon.  We enjoyed the school field trips to places like Point of Honor and the Lynchburg City Museum. It's funny to think about because now Whitney works for those places. She is in charge of the education programs.   I dreamed about going to college at William & Mary and working in Colonial Williamsburg.

Sometimes our parents would take us to Lynchburg to tag along while they did their grocery shopping or walking around at the mall.  Later on in elementary school we would go on beach vacations together.  We were the closest thing to siblings the two of us would ever have.  After Whitney's grandmother passed away (this was the first funeral I remember and they had been so close) she would spend summer days and after school with me at Pearlie's house.  We were still young enough to have a vivid imagination--probably around third or fourth grade--so we invented an imaginary life where we owned a fashion company, LKT Fashions.  We used Fashions Plates toys and Bride Magazines to create our brand.  We made millions.

Somewhere around that time, maybe even a year or so earlier, it was discovered that Whitney had scoliosis.  Mama sat me down one night on the couch and told me about this. I understood because Mama also had scoliosis, pretty severe in fact.  She had surgery when she was a child but it was not successful.  It was scary as a little kid to think about my best friend going to all of those doctors appointments at UVA and wearing a back brace. It was about more than just wearing a brace to help her spine, she also had changes in her hormones, so her body was changing and developing differently than mine.  These were surely conversations that were tough for Mama to have with me.  But even then I think I understood on some level, how miraculous it was that Mama had experience with something that someone we loved was going through.   I remember going with her on some of those trips to UVA and it became my responsibility to help her out at school. After the disaster that was 4th grade, we were always in the same class at school.  I felt (feel) a protectiveness of my friend, my sister.  In all things, she persevered.  Now, she's better known as Aunt Whitney.

John L. Hurt Jr. Elementary--Go Wildcats!

I remember visiting Hurt Elementary for Kindergarten.  I remember Dad ( I am 95% sure it was just Dad) who left me there to "try it out" for a day.  I cried and cried.  They said I wasn't ready.  I stayed at Preschool for another year.  It was pretty great growing up as one of the oldest kids in the class.  I got to do everything first--get braces (okay that sucked), drive a car, purchase alcohol (for my own party)..... yeah so it wasn't always the best but being the smallest and the oldest was an oddity I took pride in. 

I attended the school my Mama attended. One of her brothers was in the first class to go to the school.   In fact, in first grade she found a desk in my classroom that she remembered from her time there--it had an Indian carved in the top of it.  

I loved elementary school!  I loved learning new things (except math).  I loved reading, my favorite times were going into the library.  When I found The Little House on the Prarie books by Laura Ingalls Wilder I thinnk I probably squealed in delight.  I'd been watching reruns on television.  My parents figured out that I was reading under my blankets by flashlight at night--Little House, Nancy Drew, Babysitter's Club--whatever, and they bought a lamp to hook to my bed so I could read at night.  

Being from the small town with big ideas that was Hurt, Virginia meant that our school was tiny and you grew up knowing all of the kids in your grade.  I think I was the kid that got along with everyone for the most part.  I had lots of friends who played together on the playground, talked on the bus, and ate lunch together.  When you're a child you don't pay attention to the color of a persons skin, what street they live on, or if their parents belong to the country club.  You just run. And imagine. And learn.  

I was inducted into the Talented and Gifted program in second grade because of my reading and language skills.  I remember going into a tiny room at the top of a little staircase by the library and taking tests with Mrs. Fitzgerald.  There ended up being a few other kids from my class in there too.  Every week or so we got out of class for a little while and we would do special stuff together--creative things or practice for the Geography Bee.  I won the Geography Bee once--I have no idea how, pure luck.  This was when I started creative writing.  My first story was based on our dog, Bo.  In this story he had six legs.  I won an award.  A year or two later I wrote a book of poems.  This also won an award. In fact, I had to go sit with Mrs. Fitzgerald and write some poetry in front of her, on the spot, to prove that I had in fact written the poems, and not my Mama doing it for me.  

Some of my favorite memories are of the Spring Festival.  This would happen one Saturday at the school.  It seemed like eeeeeverybody was there.  Our parents would run booths or stand in the shade of the trees and talk while we ran around like banshees.  We'd do all the carnival stuff, load up on sugar, and chase each other with water guns.  Those were the days.  I remember feeling a deep sadness when I completed sixth grade and knew that my days with the Spring Festival had come to an end.  

Friday nights were for going to the skating rink.  I loved Roller Skating. I still do- I will go any time. All the kids from Hurt, Altavista, and Gretna would meet there and skate from opening until closing.  Music blared and the whole place smelled of Pizza and Nachos. I wonder in this day and age if I would feel comfortable dropping Kemper off like that.  I never questioned that I was safe and I knew so many people there I was never alone.  But it just seems like the world has changed from those days.  

Summers were filled with days at the Marina Pool by Leesville Lake.  Whitney and I would play for hours while Mama read a book in the sun.  We'd go inside and get cheeseburgers and french fries. Styrofoam cups were filled to the brim with tiny crushed ice and soda.  We'd play songs on the jukebox--always an Alan Jackson song for Mama.  If I think back I can still smell sunscreen and chlorine. 

The biggest day of summer--of the year in fact-- was Uncle Billy's Day. Always the first weekend of June,  Uncle Billy's is a festival in Altavista, Virginia celebrating the founding of a Trade Lot in the town where people went to market to buy goods.  There was a craft show, a car show, food trucks with funnel cakes, concerts, and my personal favorite--fireworks.  I have t-shirts commemorating UBD from my childhood. At one time I kept them all, each a different color with a variation of the trade lot and fireworks image on the back...now I think I have just a few of my favorites.  It didn't just seem like eeeeverybody was there--eeeeverybody was, in fact, there.  Maybe this is why I so loved to participate in the Railroad Festival in Appomattox with the church there. It brought back those memories of small town pride, and the hustle and bustle of everybody being together, celebrating their community.  

Growing up there was good.  I had good friends my age. I had good neighbors and friends of my family who looked out for me.  Everyone from the bus driver (Mrs. Dalton) to the teacher's aid (Mrs. Midkiff) were beloved members of my school family.  Our neighbors, Margaret and Kyle and Kent and Barbara were always there for me to run over and visit with or stay with if my parents or Pearlie couldn't be with me.  It was a special community.  And isn't that what we all long for? A community to be a part of?  I think that is why Jesus surrounded himself with the twelve.  He did not want to go it alone.  In fact, he knew that he could not.  This is why we are called to worship together communally, to learn and live our faith as a unit.  Because we need each other.  We were created for each other.  It might do our world some good to remember that.