Throwback Thursday

I stumbled upon this gem as I was cleaning out a storage closet at work and it got me in a “Throwback Thursday” kind of mental state.

I wondered about what items we used to find so indispensable that are now, well, obsolete. And I wonder what we have and use today that will one day seem as absurd as some of these.

Here is my list of items fondly remembered from yesteryear that my child would not recognize. And here’s a link to a quick article/list of“50 Things We Don’t Do Anymore Thanks to Technology.”

Banana Clip

Some things are best left in the past. I’ll add scrunchies and stirrup pants to this list.

Atari Controller

When I play something on our Wii, I long for the days of one button and one “other thingy."

Code-a-phone

It was fun rushing home and seeing if someone had called while we were gone.

Phone book

And right beside the Code-a-phone…yep. Usually the white pages AND the yellow pages.

Hand mixer

My Me-ma had one of these and I loved using it.

Walkman

Did this little guy not rock your world? Literally and figuratively? 

And it was followed quickly by his sporty/waterproof cousin:

And his 2.0:

Cassette Tape Storage

Ahh, cassettes. You had to have a place to store them, right?

Trapper Keeper

Before iPads and Kindles and eBooks, kids had Trapper Keepers. The cool kids had Menudo or Michael Jackson. I had one with rainbows. And an entire section just for a portion of my sticker collection. In fifth grade. A regular Renaissance Man, I was.

Public/Pay Phone

It’s where you went if you needed to call someone while you were out.

Atlas

There was always a tattered one in the backseat and no well-heeled traveler would take off without one. I loved reading the fun facts about other states and imagining how long it would take to drive across the country. I’m thankful for GPS, though.

Have a Little Faith

One of the definitions of “faith” is “belief that is not based on proof.”

I was excited to hear recaps and snippets from last night’s debate between scientist Bill Nye and creationist Ken Ham. You can read a blow-by-blow, if not slightly skewed account from Time.com here or you can see video snippets here.

I’m intrigued at debates such as these but my faith is either so strong or so insignificant, that I’ve not yet heard anything to drastically change the way I think. When an evolution proponent asks questions of a Creationist, I compare it to a playground bully saying “I bet you can’t fly. Prove it.”

How did Noah build that boat and why didn’t the lions eat the bunnies? Lazarus. Manna. Feeding 5,000 with two fish and five loaves of bread. Jonah surviving the inside of a whale. Jesus walking on water. The empty tomb.

The list could go on. Could. But to question these stories and anything else in the Bible is not having faith. I’m over-simplifying the entire basis of religion, I’ll give you that. But anytime someone challenges my beliefs and says “that doesn’t make sense,” I say “it doesn’t have to.”

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him and He will make your paths straight.”

Proverbs 3:5-6

Last Supper

On the first day of the Festival of Unleavened Bread, the disciples came to Jesus and asked, “Where do you want us to make preparations for you to eat the Passover?”

He replied, “Go into the city to a certain man and tell him, ‘The Teacher says: My appointed time is near. I am going to celebrate the Passover with my disciples at your house.’” So the disciples did as Jesus had directed them and prepared the Passover.

When evening came, Jesus was reclining at the table with the Twelve.  And while they were eating, he said, “Truly I tell you, one of you will betray me.”

They were very sad and began to say to him one after the other, “Surely you don’t mean me, Lord?”

Jesus replied, “The one who has dipped his hand into the bowl with me will betray me. The Son of Man will go just as it is written about him. But woe to that man who betrays the Son of Man! It would be better for him if he had not been born.”

Then Judas, the one who would betray him, said, “Surely you don’t mean me, Rabbi?”

Jesus answered, “You have said so.”

While they were eating, Jesus took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to his disciples, saying, “Take and eat; this is my body.”

Then he took a cup, and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you. This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins. I tell you, I will not drink from this fruit of the vine from now on until that day when I drink it new with you in my Father’s kingdom.”

When they had sung a hymn, they went out to the Mount of Olives.

Matthew 26:17-30

This is a bit of a macabre topic, but I occasionally wonder, should I be asked what I would like for my last meal, what would I say? Then I ran across this article, which outlines the last words uttered by criminals prior to their execution.

Number 17 on the list, a Thomas Grasso, is remembered for saying, “I did not get my Spaghetti-O’s. I got spaghetti. I want the press to know this.” Now, he could have said “I’m sorry” or “God, forgive me” or, as others have done, he could have told those around him to take a long walk off a short pier (I’m paraphrasing). But instead, he chose to point out this error, this indignity he suffered at the unnatural end of his life. The man requested a specific food – Spaghetti O’s – and was, instead, given what was probably a correctional institute’s commissary-issue version of spaghetti.

I’ve thought about this from time to time, wondering if a convicted criminal requests a steak from a certain restaurant if they actually get that or if they get the chicken fried steak that was served in the prison that day. And, naturally, my thoughts then turn to what my own meal request would be. So, I thought I would share that with you today:

Fruit Tea from Bread & Co.

Fruity Pebbles with a sliced banana 
and whole milk. 

I like just about any kind of cereal there is and those who know me know that I can and have had cereal for all three meals. My favorites include Cap’n Crunch with Crunch Berries, Grape-Nuts, Lucky Charms, Frosted Flakes, Raisin Bran, Cocoa Pebbles, and Cinnamon Toast Crunch. But in the end, I would probably choose Fruity Pebbles. With a banana. And with Vitamin D, whole milk. None of that skim business for my last meal.

      

            Cream of Wheat.

        Not just Cream of Wheat, but a bowl made by my Mom. This was the dish she made for me when I was sick or just cold or in need of comfort. And it was delicious. Living up to its name, it was creamy and probably mixed with copious amounts of butter and sugar. I was in college before I went to buy my first “living on my own” box and was shocked to find that its name is not actually “Creamy Wheat,” as I had always known it. The second shock was that it’s not actually easy to make. It requires precision with the measuring, just the right amount of heat, a perfectly-sized pot, and insanely-focused attention and constant stirring, to prevent lumps. As I tried to eat a less-than-desirable version of my beloved comfort food, I realized the secret ingredient that was missing – love. And I missed my Mom for the first, but certainly not last, time.

        

          Purple Hull Green Beans.

        There are purple hull peas, but what I want are purple hull green beans. They’re a bit elusive. You won’t find them on the canned vegetable aisle at the grocery. Believe me. But my mother-in-law makes them and they’re kind of to-die-for. Purple when picked, they turn green when cooked and little brown seeds jump out and add to the texture and flavor of the dish. I know her dishes, including this one, have an extra tablespoon of that secret ingredient, as well.

        

          Roasted corn on the cob.

     

   I like all types of corn, but if I had to pick one type to ride out on, it would be plain and simple. Roasted corn on the cob.

    

          Chick Fil-A’s Peppermint Chocolate Chip Shake.

        It says “Christmas is around the corner” and “you can start your diet in January.” Go ahead and give me an order of waffle fries, too.

       

          Becker’s Bakery Petit Four with Chocolate Ice Cream.

        This is a tough one. About as impossible as my dream bowl of Creamy Wheat. Becker’s was a Nashville institution. Located on 12^th Avenue/Granny White Pike in south Nashville, it was the end-all-be-all of bakeries. It’s where Nashville’s elite and Nashville’s Everyman bought dinner rolls, cookies, birthday cakes, and wedding cakes. They closed in 2004 after serving Nashville for 79 years, leaving an inferior second location on the other side of town. The name is the same but that is about all. Walking into Becker’s meant a few things:  there was always a line. It was staffed entirely by grumpy, old women, one of whom always wore a sailor hat. Everything in there had a thin coat of flour on it and a mist of flour seemed to hang in the air. It smelled like I imagine Heaven does. And you were going to leave with something truly special. My favorite treat from them was a piece of basic, white-on-white cake, mushed up with a scoop of plain ol’ chocolate ice cream. Pure bliss.

So, what’s on your menu?

The "Just OK" Bowl

"Super" seems like a stretch. It was maybe super for Pete Carroll. And Russell Wilson. And I'll throw Gov. Chris Christie in there as it was the first time cameras have been on him lately and no one's been asking about BridgeGate. But, for the rest of us, it was pretty much just OK. The runaway game. The pre- and much-hyped commercials. There was a lot of talk about Budweiser's "Puppy Love," but I rather liked these two other canine spots:

I Am Not There

I read an article this morning about a man in Massachusetts who passed away this week at the age of 97. His wife died 20 years ago and every day between the time of her burial and last summer, when his health failed him, he sat at her grave "to feel better." All day. Every day. For 20 years. This struck me as so sad and so misdirected and I thought of this poem:

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep

     Do not stand at my grave and weep
     I am not there. I do not sleep.
     I am a thousand winds that blow.
     I am the diamond glints on snow.
     I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
     I am the gentle autumn rain.
     When you awaken in the morning's hush
     I am the swift uplifting rush
     Of quiet birds in circled flight.
     I am the soft stars that shine at night.
     Do not stand at my grave and cry;
     I am not there. I did not die.

Mary Elizabeth Frye

O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?
I Corinthians 15:55

He will swallow up death forever. The Sovereign Lord will wipe away the tears from all faces;  he will remove his people's disgrace from all the earth. The Lord has spoken.
Isaiah 25:8

He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death, or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.
Revelation 21:4

Mostly, I feel sorry for this man. To have spent almost one-fifth of his life like this. I almost said "wasted" instead of "spent" but who am I to judge how he or anyone should spend their time? A small part of me, however, hopes his wife bopped him upside of his head when he passed through the gates of Heaven, just like a V8 commercial, and said, "Rocky! I swear you'd do anything to keep from cleaning those gutters!"

Valerie 4.0

This is a big year for me. In a few, short weeks, I will turn the milestone, dreaded forty, leaving three full decades behind me and ushering in a new era. Valerie 4.0. I’ve done a lot in a relatively short amount of time. I’ve done some things I shouldn’t have. I’ve done so many things I wanted to do. But in premature celebration of this banner year, my wonderful husband arranged for me to mark something seemingly unattainable off my bucket list:

Not exactly the way I imagined, but I’m seeing Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel, albeit separately, perform live this year.  Paul Simon is kicking off a tour with Sting this year and we’re seeing them in a couple of weeks. I spent the evening with Mr. Garfunkel last night and it was sublime. It was poignant and beautiful and exceeded my expectations.

For two hours, he stood on the stage at the FranklinTheatre, accompanied by a guitarist. He split his time standing and half-sitting on a stool, all the while holding a microphone and delivering sweet melodies from familiar tunes and humorous, sometimes deep, prose from his scribblings on the backs of envelopes. One particularly intimate envelope contained a message entitled “Note to Self:”

Although just two men occupied the stage last night (save for the endearing moment when Art’s older son, James, joined him for a duet and homage to the recently-departed Phil Everly), it seemed crowded at times with various characters and personas. Although 71-year-old Art stood up there…

it wasn’t hard to hear and picture this Art:

And, although he wasn't there in body, Paul Simon's presence was tangible. In familiar lyrics and guitar runs, in Art's musings, and in Art himself as he waxed nostalgic on various songs' creation and the person who has been a lifelong friend, nemesis, collaborator, antagonist, protagonist, and muse.

When he spoke tenderly of his own father, “Pop,” and shared the void that lingers some twenty-eight years later, I felt twinges from my own voids.

Woody Allen streaked across the stage a few times in Art’s unequivocal heritage as a native New Yorker.

And I saw my own Daddy up there from time to time. Only months apart in age, an image of him flashed in my mind of him not retired, still working. Art, like many performers, gets mentally frozen in time, caught in a cryogenic time capsule. Although the body (and in Art’s case, voice) betray them, what stands before you and what your mind sees can be slightly different.

Art addressed his “recovery” a few times. One would presume he meant recovery from recent vocal cord paresis, though I suspect he has an ongoing recovery from being a lifelong smoker (tobacco and otherwise), at least one broken heart, writer’s block and any number of other demons.  

No, he didn’t hit all the notes. At times, he even seemed weak. Fragile. But the melody remained. And, as a true artist, he crafted something up there on that stage that was pure magic. A line from All I Know says it best:  “the ending always comes at last/Endings always come too fast/They come too fast but they pass too slow…When the singer’s gone let the song go on.”

Thank you, Artie, for 58 years and counting for singing my thoughts.

Thirty Years Ago

30 years seems like a long time. It is. In fact, it's roughly three-quarters of my life. But I remember this day every year and, especially, this year, as it marks a milestone. My maternal grandfather, Felix Johnson Bennett, died on this day in 1984. I was 9 years old and in the fourth grade and he was one of, if not my most, favorite people in my entire world. I called him "Papa" (pronounced "paw-paw").

But this wasn't the only thing that happened that day. A lot transpired and it took years and even decades for me to realize all that transpired.

A lot of it is foggy asI was protected from many of the details, I suspect, by my loving and cautious parents. But this was the first time death knocked close to home. On my own door. And it came looking for someone I loved dearly.

Daddy came and got me out of school. At first, it was exciting having the school secretary interrupt the class and watching her hand a note to my teacher and then watching as the teacher read it. Following a glance around the classroom, her eyes landed on me and she called me to the front of the room. I don't remember her words but I'm sure I was told to gather my belongings and go out front to meet my Dad. There he stood in his splendid work suit, looking spiffy as he did every day of my childhood. And it was probably in the hallway or the car that he explained that something was wrong (insert a marker here where I first experienced the delayed sting of an understatement).

Even at almost 40 years old, I still am not 100% sure what happened. Papa was chopping wood out in his yard when he collapsed. My grandmother would have been inside. How did she know? How long was he out there before help came? Did she call an ambulance? Was he D.O.A. or did they work on him for a while? I never had the courage to ask these questions and always subscribed to the "don't ask questions if you don't want to know the answer" school of thought. Instead, I carry them around with me like one does freckles or a weird-sounding sneeze. It feels like something I inherited that I've just learned to live with.

I spent the night with our next door neighbor. This was the first time I'd spent the night somewhere other than with family and it should have been fun. A sleepover in the middle of the week? Heck yeah. But it wasn't because I knew something was wrong and I missed my parents.

The next few days are foggy. I have a couple of vivid memories from the funeral home. Arriving for the first night of visitation, I remember Daddy leaving Mom and me in the car and running inside. We sat there silently when she asked quietly, "do you have any questions? Do you understand what's happening?" Yes, I had countless questions and, no, there was no way I understood what was happening, but I shook my head side to side, ending the conversation before it really started.  We walked inside the funeral home. I imagine my maternal grandmother was with us. But the next memory I have is of this incredibly long, straight hallway leading to our designated visitation room (the "Dogwood Room," I recall). I heard an unfamiliar sound, half despair and half whimper and I realized it came from my Mom. Daddy was on one side of her and her Uncle Horace (Papa's brother) on the other, and they were half carrying her down this hall. (Insert marker here where I first realized the pain of losing someone is not just emotional. It can manifest in a very physical way.)

Entering the room, I noticed myriad green plants and flowers and weird stands with carnations on them. Too young to know that carnations are the skid marks on the underpants of the floral world, I was able to detect there just isn't something right about them. They smell weird, their edges look strange. I made a note to try and stay away from the flower whenever possible.

Approaching the casket, I saw Papa for the first time since his soul departed this world. It looked like him for the most part, yet things were decidedly "off." First, he wasn't leaning on something with a cigarette in between his fingers, a curl of smoke dancing above his head. He wasn't smiling. His hair was oddly in place and slicked back instead of casually tousled. He was wearing a suit instead of his trademark overalls. And his skin was not a normal color.

Mema patted his neatly folded hands and touched his face and I remember Daddy explaining to me that "dead people's skin" doesn't feel like ours. "If you touched it," he described, "it would feel like cold concrete."

Visitors began to file in and move in a weird, impromptu receiving line by my Mom and Mema. Each said how sorry they were, what a great man he was, and many remarked on how wonderful he looked. "Really?" I silently thought to myself. Even at nine years old, I thought what an odd comment that was and I still do to this day.

People brought food...lots of food. The funeral home kitchen was packed to the gills. It seemed like a good place to hide out. There were cookies there. It gave me a break from seeing my family's sad faces, hearing the inane banter, and looking over at that box that held my Papa. In the kitchen, people sat and stood around smiling and telling stories and laughing. It was here that I learned the next lesson and it would be 10+ years later, in college, when I would learn a quote to go along with it:

"In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life:  it goes on."

                                                                                        -- Robert Frost

Then the day of the funeral came. January 12, 1984. My Papa had been gone for four days now. Four days since we'd heard his laughter. Hugged him. Today was the day they were going to put him in the ground. At the service, in addition to the usual suspects of Mom and Mema crying, I saw Daddy cry for the first time. Here, I realized two things:  even the strong, stoic types have feelings. And in-laws can be friends.

The cemetery was just a short walk from the funeral home. It was cold, but the sun was shining that morning. As we stood around the grave and listened to the preacher say his final words, I looked at his casket hovering over the seemingly bottomless hole and imagined flinging myself on top in a last-ditch effort to hold onto him. I knew once they lowered that box in the ground, that it was game over. Someone whispered to my Mom that "the sun always shines on a country boy when he's going home." And then, for the first time, I heard a sound which, to this day, makes my stomach contract, causes a pain in my side and in my heart, and makes my blood stop running for just a second -- the clankety-clank of the machinery as they lowered the coffin. As if Death's hand was reaching up through the ground to claim this man, it was and remains the saddest sound I've ever heard.

In the days that followed, I, along with my family, adjusted to life minus one. Years later, while cleaning out my grandmother's house, I found a calendar which she had kept and used as a diary of sorts. On each month, in each little day's block, she had written doctor's appointments and dinner plans, praises to God, prayers for sick friends, or something interesting that had happened that day. The calendar took a noticeably dark turn following my Papa's passing. "Why did You take him from me, Lord?" she asked on one day. "I don't know how to live without him." "I cannot stop crying." "I thought I heard him downstairs this morning." And, "God, I miss him. I miss him so much." I was young and in love when I found this, yet I stood there realizing I didn't really know love. And I certainly didn't know grief. And I was astonished and saddened to find out just how devastated she was because, as far as I knew, she kept on being my same Mema. She picked me up from school. She played games with me. I didn't see her cry. I didn't know the grasp that loneliness and sadness had on her. And my heart hurt for her, suffering oftentimes alone. I realized that my family made sure she was alive but did we make sure she was living? We included her in outings, family birthday celebrations, holidays. But what about those dark hours when she was home alone. learning to live without him? How sad she must have been once those calls and flowers and cards stopped coming. So it was here that I made a note to remember this angst. I didn't, nor do I still, have the answer to overcoming it. But at least I know it's out there.

Through the years, I've imagined what it would be like to talk to Papa again. What if he had known me as an adult? Come to my wedding? Seen Calleigh be born? What would I ask him that a nine-year-old kid didn't know to? Did he know how much I loved him? Possibly the final lesson learned? Don't put off 'til tomorrow. There's no guarantee. So, I'll sign off now because I have a call I need to make.