Day 18

Our high school softball team had made it all the way to the state semi-finals.  We were scheduled to host the following Friday.  I played third base.

On Tuesday during practice, I took a bad-hop grounder to the end of the middle finger on my right hand.  I shook off my glove and grabbed my hand, hopping around in the dirt.  When I stopped a moment to look, it was bloody and swollen.  A trip to the doctor and X-rays revealed it had shattered the bone at the end of my finger.  They drilled a hole in the nail to relieve the pressure, but I couldn’t bend my finger for days due to the swelling.

I was devastated.  Pain, I could tolerate.  Being out of the game, I couldn’t.

I tried throwing lefty.  I tried gripping the bat with just my thumb and finger.  I tried anything I could think of to make myself a worthy contributor to the team.  Nothing worked.  I finally had to face the reality that I was not going to compete in the state semi-final - my last opportunity to compete as a high school student.

Gameday came all-to-quickly.  I cheered.  I coached third base runners.  I encouraged my teammates.  Toward the end of the game, the coach let me pinch run.  I’d like to think I made the best of the situation.

Sometimes things just happen that are out of our control.  All we can do is roll with it.

Day 17

There was a day my junior year in high school that I thought for a while, that my life was over.

Seriously.

School lunches were actually pretty good back then, at least at my school.  Even so, a pizza from Pizza Hut always sounded better.  A few of us had developed a habit of hanging out in the coaches’ office during lunch and on this particular day, had talked, begged and pleaded our way into ordering pizza for lunch.

The only issue was going to pick it up.

My friend Sharon and I were selected, but since it was a closed campus (and you had to drive right in front of the school doors and office windows to leave), we had a problem.  Solution?  Coach Kelly says, “Take my car.”

The room fell silent.  Anyone within the city limits knew that no one brushed against, breathed on, or dared touch his car.  It was his baby.  And here he was telling us to DRIVE it???

So with my heart racing 200 bpm, we slowly cruised past the school doors off the campus.  Just after we passed through the gates, I reached up to adjust the rear view mirror… and the whole thing came off in my hand!  Nothing was left on the windshield! My heart stopped along with the car.  We were dead.  Check that: I was dead.

I tucked the mirror into the console and we started scheming.  We went to my house and tried super glue.  No luck.  We went to Sharon’s house and tried epoxy glue.  No luck.  Finally we picked up the pizza and returned to school.

It wasn’t a matter of if I was going to tell Coach Kelly what happened.  It was when.  I knew he was going to kill me.  And I didn’t want my humiliation to be too public.  I couldn’t eat.  He knew something was wrong.  “What took so long?" “Did you wreck my car?” “Why aren’t you eating?”  “Are you sure you didn’t wreck my car?”

Finally we asked him to come outside.  Through my fearful and apologetic tears, I told him about the mirror.  He started laughing.  I wasn’t sure whether to look up at him, or run.  “That old thing?  It’s been coming off for a while now.  I need to get it fixed for good.”

It’s not very often that do I not reach up to adjust my mirror without remembering this story, and how two teenage girls thought that super or epoxy glue might do the trick.  

Some bonds simply require stronger adhesive and attention.

Day 16

My sophomore choir tour trip was to Washington DC.  We sang our way through the Southern states and up into Virginia, traveling on a chartered bus and staying with host families along the way. 

Staying with families was one of my favorite things to do. It was also one of my most challenging. An introvert by nature, I was always extremely anxious about which family my roommate(s) and I would end up with. At the bare minimum, you always hoped the church screened its families well enough that you didn't end up with some psycho or filthy hoarder.  But those chances being extremely low, I just hoped for people who I could feel relaxed around and get to know fairly easily. Ok, honestly?  I hoped for a family that would say "Here's your room... See you in the morning!" 

But in spite of my initial worry, most of the time we ended up with gracious hosts who we chatted with into the night.  Those experiences of staying with host families overnight were great times of growth and getting to know people outside of our small town and our comfort zone. I wouldn't trade it at all. 

Once in Washington, we toured the monuments, sang and played handbells in the rotunda of the Senate building, and even watched a classmate take the plunge into the Reflection Pool on a date (yes, that might get you arrested in today's world... but it got him 20 bucks!). 

We spent a couple of days or so enjoying the city. It was a different Capital back then. We were allowed to tour at our leisure in small groups with occasional check-ins, with the only stipulation being that we didn't ride anywhere on the Metro subway. 

It was a great time with friends... both old and new. 

Fact:  It is possible to make it from the Metro stop near the Lincoln Memorial to the Pentagon, get off, walk around, and get back between check-ins. 

Day 15

I made a “C” in Driver’s Ed.

We were lucky enough to have it taught at my high school for a term during our freshman year, so we didn’t have to take it from an outside agency on our own hours or our own dime.

However, this meant two things:  one, it was taught by a coach and two, you were with all of your friends.  That was a dangerous combination, especially in a small town small school.  Classroom lectures were filled with laughter and sarcasm, and driving hours included practical jokes and stops for ICEE’s.  Believe it or not, we all learned to drive quite well and responsibly in spite of it all.

That “C” was always the black mark on my high school record. Though thankfully it didn’t count on my transcript and has always been kind something to joke about.  But the truth is that my Driver’s Ed term occurred during the same school year as the death of my mom.  All of my grades suffered then, because... well, you know.

Sometimes people do things we don’t understand or act a certain way that may be out of character simply because we don’t know the backstory.

Day 14

My mom had died two hours earlier, after a fierce seventeen-month fight against oral melanoma.  I was 14.  

It was about 5pm. People were starting to come and go. Food was beginning to flow into the house. 

I had already been out in the driveway shooting baskets. That was my typical method of dealing with things: stress, anger, excitement, indecision, sadness, you name it. Now I had moved my party of awkward grief inside to the piano, my next favorite outlet.

I had been sitting there ten, maybe fifteen minutes.  Playing a little, then just staring blankly through the lines of music.  Playing some more, then staring.  I heard someone walk up behind me.

It was Richard, my youth minister.  He didn’t say anything.  He just sat down beside me on the piano bench, put his arm around me, and stayed there.  I honestly don’t remember how long we sat there.  It was quite a while.  I do remember that neither of us spoke a single word.  There were tears and sniffles.  At some point, he hugged me, told me he loved me, and left.

The gift of presence.  It made all the difference in my world that day.

Day 13

We lost almost all of our games during our ’78-’79 Jr. High basketball regular season.  Let’s just say our team was a little light on 8th graders… one to be exact.  

However, when it came time for the state tournament, there were two tournaments.  A 7th grade championship and an 8th grade championship.  We entered the 7th grade one.  (I’ve never quite gotten past how unfair that was to 8th-grader Judy, but…)

Since we had been playing tougher upperclass competition all year long, we were ready.  We advanced into the quarterfinals fairly quickly before the competition stiffened.  After winning a close game at THCA in Shreveport, we travelled to central Louisiana for the championship game.

The score went back and forth.  It was a tie game just as time was running out.  The ball was passed to me.  I was at the top of the key.  I shot the ball and watched.  The buzzer sounded.

It went in!!

Sometimes the defeats in our lives prepare us for the victories ahead.

Day 12

My childhood wasn’t perfect.

But it was close.

I grew up with family who loved me.  I never went hungry or without clothes or a place to sleep.  I can’t remember feeling unsafe (except for those times when my friends and I were doing something stupid).  I had friends across the street and next door who were almost always around to play; and my church and school friends spent time at my house and I at theirs.  There were the normal ups and downs… but life was good.  And summers were the best!

I spent a lot of time at the pool.  Our girls age group was pretty darn good and won a lot of events and meets. There were five of us that rotated in and out of relays and enjoyed lots of wins.  I found my individual success in the breaststroke.  Coach Taylor was a tough, but fun coach.  Meets were exciting and happy times. Summer mornings consisted of practice, then I’d bike home for lunch and anxiously await the 2pm opening of the pool again for the afternoon.

My neighborhood friends played little league.  So late afternoon, I’d go with their family to the park and watch them and a bunch of my other friends play baseball.  Well, I'd watch the game a bit and play cup-ball in the sandlot a bit, too.  Mr. Jud more often than not took us to Dairy Queen for ice cream afterward.  We would jump in the back of the El Camino and head up Middle Landing.  If anyone happened to have hit a homer during the game, they would be there, too.  For a burger - compliments of Mr. Jud.

I also went to camp that summer.  There were 8 of us from Minden that went.  It was nice to successfully make the whole week 

and actually enjoy myself!  (I had tried the camp thing once before during the summer after my first grade year… I lasted until the middle of the second day before I called my mom to come and pick me up.)

When you’re a kid - good, bad, rich, poor, abusive, safe - it’s your world.  The only world you know.  Looking back from here. Mine was certainly a good one.  I was blessed.

Day 11

I almost wasn’t.

When my brother (born in 1958) was only a few weeks old, there was a fire in the old bank building in downtown.  My dad had gone up the ladder to fight; but when they brought him down and laid him in the street, he was blue and unresponsive.  Had Happy Turner not ripped off his mask (giving him the chance to be revived), neither my daddy - nor I - would be walking this earth today.

My dad served as Asst Chief for the Minden fire department for years.  His best friend and farm business partner, T.C. was the Chief.  While the department was a volunteer force, it had one of the highest ratings in the state and was made up of a great group of people.  Still is today.

In his closet was mounted a bell.  The big 8” alarm kind that you used to see in the halls of schools.  Whenever a fire call came in, it would ring the box number in our house, too.  Four rings, pause.  Three rings, pause.  Four, rings, pause.  Box 434.  The the chart in our utility room would tell my dad where in town to go.  

On my mom’s nightstand was a list.  Seven names and numbers.  Whenever the alarm went off, no matter time of day or night, the list was called.  No hello, when the call was answered.  Simply “Box 4-3-4.”  I loved when she let me make the calls... I felt so important!

But most times when the alarm sounded, you could find me running to the utility room.  I would grab my dad’s bunker gear (boots, pants, and suspenders - all in one piece) place them by the garage door, and wait. As Dad stepped into the boots, I would help him strap the suspenders over his shoulders.  As he walked out the door I would pat him on the back and then (as I had heard my mom say many times) I would call after him … “Be careful, Daddy. I love you!”

The actions we mimic almost always have a back story.  Learning it can be both helpful and important.

Day 10

So in the summer of 1976, my parents signed me up to play softball.  Small town, mid-70’s, youth sports was nothing like it is today.  The league was for girls 9-12 years old, of which I was the youngest. 

Our games were in the daytime, and my mom and dad both worked.  My collegiate sister was able to get some time off of her summer job to come watch me every now and then.  But I really didn’t mind not having anyone there to watch me play.  Really, I didn’t.

Why? I spent most of my time playing Right Field (where the ball never came).  And I struck out.  Every single at bat.

Except once.  I walked.  Once.

At the end of the season, they handed out three individual awards on our team.  Much to my surprise, I won my first trophy.  Best Sport Award.

No matter your performance, how you respond does matter.

Day 9

Most days, you could find my friends and I outside playing.  Whatever season it was - football, basketball, baseball - we were playing it.  And then throw in kickball, tag, building forts, chasing bad guys, fishing, swimming, you name it.  We also had bikes to get us where we wanted to go.  Or to jump ramps and play games.

One of our more dangerous games about this time was ramming the back tire of another person’s bike with your own bike.  It took some balance and moxie to stay upright, but the last one standing was the champion.  Our parents found out about our little game, and had instructed us to stop playing it - for obvious reasons.

A few days later, we were playing again.  Judson hit my back tire with his front tire and I went down.  A bloody knee and hand that needed a little hydrogen peroxide, Neosporin, and a Band-aid or two.  I went inside the house, quietly tiptoed into my mom and dad’s bathroom where the first aid stuff was kept.  Startled when my mom walked in, I waxed eloquently about how I tripped and fell when I was running.

About that time, the doorbell rang.  It was Judson, who sheepishly apologized for ramming my bike.

Let’s just say Judson wasn’t the one who got in trouble.

The truth always comes out.  Eventually, 

Day 8

My sister graduated high school in 1974, and attended Northeast Louisiana University (now known as University of Louisiana - Monroe).  Two good things came out of this for me.

First, I moved into her bedroom.  It was much larger than mine, was painted sky blue, had a built-in desk, and its own bathroom.  And don’t forget the shag carpet!  You betcha I was stylin’.

Second, she let me come spend the weekend with her at college every now and then.  In her dorm room!  Now, I’m not sure how much she had to pay her roommate and suite mates to let her little 8-year-old sister invade for the weekend.  But it was definitely worth it to me!  Dorm life, cafeteria food, walks around campus… and a t-shirt from the book store.

Anytime we take the time to make memories with family, it’s worth it.

Day 7

I only had a paid babysitter once in my life.   

Across the street and down two houses (literally 50 yards away), lived my maternal grandmother, Mama Willis.  She was at our house most days, and for most of the day on those days.  My mom and dad both worked full time.  She would cook lunch for my dad (and mom when she was able to come home for lunch).  She obviously watched after me and made sure that I was safe, fed, and somewhat entertained.

On certain days of the week, she took me with her to her “meetings.”  These were gatherings at church with other senior adults.  I loved these times!  I got showered with lots of hugs and attention.  From when I was in pre-school through the summers of my elementary years, I would go and listen to their stories, their struggles, and of course, their adulation.

Mama Willis taught me how to love friends of all ages.  She also taught me how to shell purple hull peas. There’s no telling how many bushels we put away.  But my favorite times were when she was watching her "show."  As the World Turns was the backdrop for many an extended back-scratch as I snuggled up with her on the couch.

I didn't grow up hooked on soap operas, but I did grow up hooked on love.

Day 6

Believe it or not, I took 5 years of dance classes.  Tap and ballet.  And threw in 2 years of jazz just for good measure.

It all started in the first grade.  One day a week after school, my friend and I would gather our book satchels (as we then called backpacks) and our dance bags.  One of our moms would take us to dance class taught by Mrs. Cox.  

As Spring arrived, we ordered and received our costumes for the recital.  A different costume for each dance number!  It was so exciting… until two days before the big day.

There were these little red spots.  All over me.  And they started itching.  Really bad.

Yep.  Chicken Pox.

I ended up missing my first dance recital.  I missed the awards ceremony at school (although my dad proudly stepped in and accepted mine).  I missed the end-of-year class party.

My parents were my heroes.  But I learned during those couple of weeks that there were some things they just couldn’t change.  And now I know that as bummed as I was, it probably was just as painful for them.

Day 5

Some of my most favorite and earliest actual memories (and I know they're my own because there are no pictures) are of riding in the pickup truck with my daddy.  On the way to kindergarten on school day mornings, we would play the guessing game for when (or about where in our route) the cold engine temperature light would go off.  He would let me win most times, although now I know he always had a pretty good idea of when it would happen.

But the very best times were when I would go with him to feed the cows at the pasture on Bayou Avenue.  Because on the way home, he would let me DRIVE!

I would sit in his lap.  The gear shift was on the steering column, so he would do that, the accelerator, and the brake.  But I would get to steer!  From just across the railroad tracks by what I affectionately called the “stinky bridge,” by the old Minden cemetery, and all the way up to Pine Street, I would proudly place my little hands at 10-and-2 o’clock.  Focusing with all my might, I would carefully guide that light yellow 1967 Chevrolet between the middle and the right side of the pavement.  Then I would crawl back onto the bench seat and stand beside him with my arm around his neck, for the rest of the ride home to dinner.

It was only later that I realized his hand was holding onto the bottom of the steering wheel.  Even when I thought I was in control - or even out of control -  I was in good hands.

Day 4

I was one of the earliest beneficiaries of Sesame Street.  Susan, Bob, Mr. Hooper, Big Bird, Ernie and Bert, Oscar the Grouch (who was originally orange), and Kermit the Frog were some of my first TV friends.

Each episode was sponsored by two or three letters and one or two numbers.  Each time I watched the show, I would wait, watching and hoping to see if “C” or “Y” or “4” would be one of them.  Because.  Didn’t Mr. Hooper know my initials?  Didn’t Big Bird know how old I was?

You can only imagine my delight then, when on the same day, both “C” and “4” were the featured characters!  It was the best day.  Ever.

It’s great when dreams come true.  No matter how big.  No matter how small.  No matter how early.  No matter how late.

Day 3

The early years aren’t really memories, so much as what I remember being told.  There was a family trip to Arlington, Texas.  I think it included Six Flags as well.

Somewhere there exists a picture or a family movie of us at the motel out around the swimming pool.  At some point, I apparently took an unapproved leap into the pool.  Which was immediately followed by my mom.  Clothes.  Watch.  Everything.

Rescued, obviously I survived.  And my mom survived.  I’m not sure about the watch.

I was just glad to know that I was worth saving.

Day 2

I was taken to church as early as they let you out of the house back then.  What was that… 6 weeks?  One of my best friends to this day, born just a week earlier than me, was one of my nursery-mates from those early days through preschool.

Mrs. Powdrill and Mrs. Bright were two of the most consistently loving ladies.  And the memories that I actually can recall, are fond ones. They were nurturing and cuddly.  They were firm and disciplining.  They were the perfect introduction to the community of Christ for little ones.

Love isn’t always just warm fuzzies… it also provides what we need. 

Day 1

December 1965, my sister asked for a life-like baby doll for Christmas.  My parents granted her request by announcing that I would arrive the following summer.

I’m told that just after I was born, my grandmother who was watching my sister and brother at home in Minden (I was born at Schumpert Hospital in Shreveport), got a call receiving the news.  She told my sister, who was thrilled.  She then summons my brother in from playing. Upon finding out my gender, he muttered something about wanting a brother, expressed his utter disappointment, and returned to playing.

My first life lesson (although I was too young to know it!): You can’t please everyone!