The Day President Kennedy Saw Me

In September 1961, my father was hospitalized at Baylor Medical Center in Dallas for tests.  An enlarged pancreas was discovered and he was immediately scheduled for surgery.  They removed a tumor that initial tests indicated was benign.  On September 25, 1961 (my 20th birthday)  I got a message to call his surgeon.  I went  to a phone booth outside the hospital, deposited a nickel for the call and dialed the number.  The doctor came on the line and said that he wanted me to call because he wasn't sure how Mother would take the news.  He then told me that more extensive tests of the tumor indicated that it was malignant and Daddy had, at most, six months to live.

There were no intensive care units back then.  Critically ill patents were in private rooms and the patient's family employed private nurses to sit with the patients.  Since we didn't know how long Daddy would be hospitalized there, Mother and I had some decisions to make.  We were living in Gainesville, sixty miles north of Dallas on I35.  We decided that I should drop out of college for the semester.  She and I got a room in a boarding house across the street from the hospital so that we could be with Daddy for two "shifts."  She stayed with him from 7:00 a.m. to mid-afternoon, I stayed with him from mid-afternoon until a private nurse came on duty for the 11:00 p.m. - 7:00 a.m. shift.  That's the background.  Now for the story.

So here I was 20-years-old at or around the hospital 24/7.  Of course, I was concerned about Daddy but it was a pretty boring life for a 20-year-old.  Two days after Daddy's diagnosis and poor prognosis, Sam Rayburn, otherwise known as "Mr. Speaker" and "Mr. Sam." received the same diagnosis and prognosis.  He was in a room two floors above Daddy.  Mr. Sam was a bachelor from Bonham, Texas, and had represented that district in the House of Representatives for  48 years and had served as Speaker of the House  for seventeen years.  He was one of the most powerful political figures of his time.

Because of his prominence, the hospital made accommodations for press presence in an anteroom off the main lobby near the elevators.  Representatives of the print and broadcast media from around the nation were there from early morning until late at night.  It will not surprise those of you who know me well to learn that I immediately made friends with all the reporters who were assigned to stay at the hospital to monitor the Speaker's condition.  Once the word got out about his condition, a parade of Washington and Texas dignitaries and other prominent people began.  They set up an area where the visitors could hold a press conference. Each morning I would get a cup of coffee and go to the press room to hang out and to see who was going to visit that day.

Former President Harry S. Truman  at Baylor Hospital 10/13/61

Lyndon and Lady Byrd Johnson exiting elevators after visiting 

Mr. Rayburn 10/6/61

I got to meet many of the visitors.  Sometimes the reporters told  them that my father was suffering from the same condition eliciting sympathy from the dignitaries and they would stop to talk to me.  Among those I got to meet were Lyndon and Lady Byrd Johnson, President Harry S. Truman, John and Nellie Connoley (He was Secretary of the Navy then), Pierre Salinger, lots of members of the House, Senate, Cabinet, etc. 

On the morning of October 9, I made my usual stop by the press room.  Everyone was abuzz.  It hadn't been announced publicly and possibly wouldn't be, but President Kennedy was coming to visit Mr. Sam that very afternoon.  Air Force One would arrive mid-afternoon and would leave as soon as the president finished his very brief visit with the speaker.   WOW!  I was going to get to see President Kennedy.

I immediately returned to our room in the boarding house to wash my hair and do some wardrobe planning. I had to look my best just in case I got to meet the president.  I had brought my new brown sheath dress with me.  I'd wear that with my three-inch spike heels..  Pantyhose had not been invented yet.  I wore nylon stockings that were held up by a garter belt.  This is the appropriate time to give a physical description of myself on that day.  I was slightly over six feet tall when wearing no shoes and I weighed no more than 125 pounds soaking wet.  As was frequently said,  "I was a tall drink of water." When I think back on that day now, I wonder if I looked freakish in the form-fitting dress and heels that elevated my height to 6'3".  To add to the picture, big, teased hair was the style.  My hairdo probably added a couple of more inches.

Once I was ready I went back to the press room and learned that it was being closed to everyone but credentialed press.  Daddy and Mr. Sam were in the old, original part of the hospital and its entrance was set far back from the street..  A few years earlier a huge multi-story women's and children's wing had been attached on the north  side of the original building.  It could be entered from a side street with only about a 30 or 40 foot walk from the curb to the entrance.  Security had decided that the president should enter and exit there and walk through the hospital rather than make the long, exposed walk into the main building.  Although no public announcement had been made, word of his visit had leaked out and people were gathering across the street from where he would enter.

Off I went to get a good viewing spot on the front row.  They already had restricted traffic inside the women's and children's wings to the side street.  I made a walk that I would repeat a few hours later.  I exited the main entrance and walked across the yard  around the new wing.  There were saw-horse type barricades along the sidewalk that led into the building and along the curb across the street from the entrance.  About 15-20 people had gathered behind the barricades across the street.  No one was allowed along the sidewalk.   I took up my station on the front row up against a barricade.

I had been there several minutes when a taxi pulled up and a man in a light tan trench coat got out.  He walked behind the barricade and stood next to me.  He said that he was a Dallas business man who had just arrived at Love Field (then Dallas's only passenger airport) from a business trip.  He heard that the president was arriving and decided to come to see him.  Right!  Even as young and naive as I was, I knew he was no Dallas businessman.  Number one:  Dallas men did not wear tan raincoats at that time.  Number two: Dallas businessmen did not ride in taxis.  Number three:  He had a strong Yankee accent.  The way he was scanning the small crowd verified to me that he was Secret Service.

He and I visited while we waited for the president.  According to news reports from that day, Air Force One arrived at Love Field at 3:42 p.m.  The president arrived shortly after 4:00.  He was whisked into the hospital along with the two men who were in the limo with him.  I barely got a good look at them.  I commented that I hadn't even been to my daddy's room to visit him that day.  The "Dallas businessman" said that the president was scheduled to stay with Mr. Sam around 40 minutes and suggested that I had time to run up to Daddy's room to say hello.  I decided to do that.

President Kennedy leaving Baylor Hospital

While I was in Daddy's room, we had a brief rain shower.  As soon as it quit, I headed back outside to see the president as he left the hospital.  Little did I know that I was about to experience the most embarrassing moment of my entire life.  As I retraced my steps around the women's wing, I heard the small crowd begin to cheer.  The president was leaving and I was going to miss him.  I began to run  (in the tight dress and three-inch heels).  I rounded the corner and ran toward the barricade along the sidewalk.  The president emerged from the building as I neared the barricade.  Just then,  I hung the spike heel of my shoe in a runner of the wet St. Augustine grass.  Down I went.  I skidded under the barricade on the wet grass and stopped at the feet of the president and the two men who were accompanying him.  My shoe came off and flew over the barricade landing on the grass near the sidewalk.  I looked up at the president from my prone position lying on my stomach.

The man who was walking on the president's left stopped to help me up.  He then picked up my shoe and handed it to me.  I held it by the heel as if it were a cup handle.  As President Kennedy started to get into his limousine, the press began to yell questions at him.  He stopped and before he answered he turned and looked directly at me making eye contact.  There I stood holding my shoe with grass stains on the front of my dress.  One of the garter straps had come undone so the right stocking was sagging.  The stocking on the other leg had a huge hole in the knee.  He asked, "Are you okay?"   I replied, "Oh yes, Mr. President."  He turned to the press, answered one question, the man who helped me up joined him.  They got into the limo and drove off.  Air Force One departed Love Field at 5:04 p.m.

So now you know about the day that President Kennedy saw me.  I went back to Daddy's room and cried as I told him the story.  He laughed and laughed and then said, "Oh my God, Carolyn.  You're going to be on the evening news."  I was afraid to watch, but the television stations were kind and didn't run any pictures of me.


Sam Rayburn died on November 16.  There is a very famous picture of four U. S. presidents attending  his funeral in Bonham.  We got to bring Daddy home for a few weeks.  He passed away on December 7, 1961, the twentieth anniversary of Pearl Harbor. 

President John F. Kennedy, future president Lyndon Baines Johnson, former presidents Dwight D. Eisenhower and Harry S. Truman

525,600 Minutes

I sold Rick's truck on Saturday.  I had only looked inside it once since he died.  It just sat in the backyard.  Sometimes Rick's cat, Bud, would sleep on top of it. I realize that I procrastinated about selling it because it is one more admission that he is gone forever.

How could it possibly be a year!  Surely, it was only a couple of weeks ago.  No, no, that's not right.  It's been more like a century.  I have always been fascinated by time and how it is compressed at times and draws out forever at other times.  Ever since Rick died, I've had this notion that once I made it through the first year, things would get easier.  However, it has been almost two months over a year now and acceptance of his death may be greater, but there are still some rough times.  I know this is cliche, but it literally feels as if part of me is missing.  It's like there's a big void.  I doubt the void will ever go away completely, but maybe it will get smaller as time goes by and I grow and change.

My niece, Donna, and her husband, Jorge, invited me to spend the anniversary of his death with them at their their beautiful country place near La Grange. On the drive there, I did a lot of thinking about the past year.  In so many ways it has been a year of growth for me.  I have done things I've never done before and assumed responsibilities that were always Rick's.  I've decided that husbands are definitely under rated.  He did so many little things that I just took for granted.  There are two examples from just yesterday.  I renewed the registration on my car on Friday (one of his jobs) and learned that I needed new license plates.  Yesterday I took the old ones off and put the new ones on.  That also was one of his jobs.  He always kept my kitchen knives perfectly sharp.  He would usually sharpen them when I was away from the house because the sound of the blade on the whet stone was like the screech of chalk on a chalkboard to me.  A few weeks before he died he bought an electric knife sharpener that he stored on a shelf and never used.  Yesterday I sharpened my kitchen knives with it.  I truly think he anticipated his death and did several things like that to ease my life when he was gone.

I subscribe to GriefShare Daily Emails.  Messages are sent daily for a year.  Sometimes I find the message very helpful and at other times I feel it doesn't relate to me at all.  I still find the advice of friends the most helpful.  My daughter, Amy, her husband, Ray, and six-year-old Katherine and four-year-old William are still living with me.  For reasons totally unrelated to Rick's death, they moved into our house the morning before Rick died.  This situation has been difficult for all of us and is even more difficult because of Rick's death.  Amy and I have both been going through our individual throes of grief .  But...they need their own place and I need my own space.  Don't get me wrong.  I'm happy that I have been able to help, and the children are so dear to me.  But as one of my widowed friends said, "When you are reinventing yourself, you need time by yourself."  I think that is so true, and I've had very little time by myself the past 14 months.  I won't be able to make a decision about whether I want to continue to live in this house until I have lived in it alone for some weeks, if not months.  On the other hand, I haven't been as lonely as I would have been if they weren't here.   However, I've definitely learned that one can be lonely in a room full of people--sometimes that's the loneliest place of all.

Donna and Jorge were the perfect people for me to be with those few days in May.  Donna and I shopped on Friday, and without the benefit of any booze got downright silly on Friday night.  After soaking in the hot tub, we decided to change into our nighties and watch a chick flick.  That afternoon Donna bought me a broad brimmed black and white striped hat.  It was lying on the couch when I came out into the living  room after changing.  I decided the hat would look quite nice with my new black nightie so I put it on.  When Donna came out and saw me with it on, she had to take a picture.  Then she decided she would put on her black nightie get a hat.  The silliness began.  We put on bright lipstick and rouge, hung chandelier crystals from our ears and tried on several different "looks."  I'm including some pictures that Jorge took of us.  I think the only reason he put up with our silliness is that he got to watch his rugby game instead of the chick flick.


On Saturday night, (the actual anniversary of his death was at 11:30 p.m. on May 14) Jorge and I spent the whole evening in the hot tub.  Their house is out in the country so it is really dark at night.  The skies were clear, the stars were plentiful and the light was provided by a gibbous moon.  Donna didn't get in the hot tub but sat beside it and served as the bar tender ferrying wine to Jorge and Tanquery and tonics to me.  We talked a little, cried a little and mainly looked at the beautiful sky while listening to Jorge's "old standards" music.  It was the perfect way to observe the anniversary.  Rick would have approved!!!

Jane, you are so right.  I am reinventing myself.  I don't know who exactly is going to emerge, but so far I mostly like this new me.  I wrote the following poem in 1984.  It is far more pertinent to my life now than it was when I wrote it.

WAS/AM/WILL BE

Do I merge?

When?  Where?  How?

It's all here now.

Not only my present and my past,

But my future.

I am unfolding on the brink.

And always I am

The edge

Of the me that was

And the me that is to be.

Thanks to all of you who have hung in there with me these past months.  That includes old friends and the new ones I am making.  Your love has supported me far more than you will ever know.  Please keep hanging in there while we all discover the me that is to be. 

Tuesday, July 19, Addendum:

Beautiful Zoe, our 14-year-old granddaughter, commented on this post on Facebook.  Her comments were so beautiful and  I want everyone to be able to see them:

I liked how you talked about the little things that Grandpa did that you took for granted. Sometimes, I do that too. Or when I'm singing to myself a song that I know he used to sing, I think about him singing The Sound Of Music when I'd watch it at your house. And every time we go to the store to get ice cream, I think of all the times Grandpa would take Ian and I to Arlan's and let us pick out a pint of ice cream. Looking back now, I never realized that those little things would be the things I remembered when he passed away. I guess you never really think of the little moments until that's all you have left. So I know that no matter where I go, or what I'm doing, something will remind me of Grandpa. As if he's still here. I'm truly thankful for those memories too.

My Friend Emma

 

When I was a little girl, I had a special friend, Emma. She lived across the street.  We did everything together. When I was in second grade we both got Terri Lee dolls complete with trunks of matching doll clothes our mothers had hand sewn for us. One Easter we got "twin" Cocker Spaniel puppies from the same litter. Even though she was two years older than I, our friendship endured and strengthened through junior high and high school. The year she graduated from high school  I moved away from the small West Texas town where we grew up. Then she got married and I got involved in my new high school.

While I was attending TCU, she and her husband moved to Arlington and we were frequently together again. When she had her only son, Kyle, I felt like an aunt. We both got  busy with our lives but we managed to keep in touch by phone and letters (no Internet then). As the years went by the frequency of our communication lessened but we ALWAYS talked at least twice a year. She called me on my birthday and I called her on hers. This went on for over 40 years.

  Then one year I didn't get my birthday call. I didn't worry thinking maybe she just forgot. I said to myself that I'd call her soon. "Soon" didn't come and two or three years went by. When I finally decided to call, her phone was no longer in service. I began an Internet search for her. After about 30 minutes, I located her death certificate.  After I went to bed that night I shed silent tears for the loss of my friend Emma. These were tears of sorrow and regret. It hurts to know that she's no longer there.  I feel so sad that I got "too busy" to keep in touch with her.

Tomorrow (April 25) is Emma's birthday.  If  you have an old friend that you've gotten out of touch with, please take a few minutes out of your busy life to get in touch with him/her today or tomorrow. Say, "I love you," or "I think of you often," and "You are important to me." Do this in honor of Emma's and my friendship.  Happy birthday to you, my dear friend, Emma.

Afterword:  I first published this as a note on my Facebook page over a year ago.  I revised it some to post here in honor of what would be her 72nd birthday.  I think this is an appropriate forum for it.   I hope that it will encourage  you to contact an old friend.  If you do, please post information about it in the comments section below.  I'd love to see dozens of comments, but even only a couple would be rewarding. Thanks for reading.  CMU

Almost Seventy

This afternoon as I walked out of Walgreen's, I saw an old man wearing blue coveralls at the Redbox getting a DVD.  I gave him a second look and thought, "He's cute."  As I got in my car and maneuvered my way into the school's-out traffic on FM2100, a feeling of utter surprise washed over me.  "OMG, Carolyn!  You just looked at an old man wearing blue coveralls and thought he was cute!  What has happened?"  Wasn't it just the other day that a teenaged me was looking at high school boys.  How did those high school boys turn into old men wearing blue coveralls so quickly!

A couple or three years ago, my friend Alex, who is fifteen days younger than I and never lets me forget it, said to me, "For God's sake, Carolyn.  You're almost seventy."  I don't even remember what action or statement of mine provoked that comment. but I do remember my response.  I told her that she could be "almost seventy" if she wanted to, but I was not yet that old.  Well, I guess I have to own up to it.  Now  I AM almost seventy.

As I drove on home from Walgreen's I pondered that fact and I decided that it's not so bad to be almost seventy.  It's surprising to me the number of friends I made independent of high school or college who were also born in 1941.  A couple of them have already turned seventy this year.  Both seem very proud of that accomplishment.

Demographers have had a difficult time categorizing those of us who were born in 1941.  We can't really be called "depression babies" as the nation had begun to climb out of the Great Depression by the time we were born.  We also aren't "war babies" because the vast majority of us were born prior to our entry into WWII in December 1941.  The largest demographic group of all time, the "Baby Boomers," didn't begin to come along until after the war in 1946 or 1947.

So here we are: part of a small demographic group born between say 1938 or 1939 and 1941 or 1942.  We ushered in Elvis, Rock and Roll and American Bandstand in the 1950s  Television sets invaded most of our living rooms before we graduated high school.  We sat in our backyards on cold, dark nights to watch Sputnik traverse the sky.   Our fathers and big brothers fought in WWII and Korea.  Many didn't come home.  Many of us fought in Vietnam and a lot of us didn't come home either. Hardly anybody thanked us for that. We marched in the Civil Rights Movement and demonstrated for the Equal Rights Amendment. We've been to our 50th high school reunions and felt and acted like kids again.  Throughout our lives we have broken ground and paved the way for the Baby Boomers who follow us.

Back in the 1970s I heard us referred to as the "do nothing generation."  I resented that term at the time and I resent it to this day.  Finally, about 2003, I heard us identified as "the Elders."  "Great!" I thought.  They finally got around to giving us a name and it's really not very complimentary.  Then I heard an explanation.  The demographers in their wisdom have decided to lump us in with those fathers and brothers who fought in WWII and say that we are at  the tail-end of "The Greatest Generation."  I don't know about all of my "Elder" friends, but I think that's just fine!  To my mind, there couldn't be a better bunch in all of history to rub our demographic elbows with.

So here's to you Baby Boomers and Generation Xers and Yers and whoever else is coming along!  We're still paving the way for you.  And here's to all you cute old men in blue coveralls!  We ain't dead yet, are we?  So being almost seventy isn't bad at all.

The Hot Wave

No, that isn't a typo.  I didn't mean the heat wave.  I meant the hot wave.  I'll explain, but first I need to give you some background information.  I grew up in Graham, Texas.  It is a small town located sort of on the cusp between North Central Texas and West Texas.  It's economy was and still is based on oil and ranching.  When I was growing up there in the 1940s and 1950s, the population was somewhere between 5,000 and 6,000.  If you ever read Larry McMurtry's The Last Picture Show, you know a bit about Graham.  It's about 35 miles from Anarene, the town McMurtry used as the setting for his book.  The people and the attitudes are a lot the same.

As you can imagine, in a town that size everybody knew just about everybody.  In the fall, the whole town turned out on Friday nights for the high school football games.  On Saturday afternoons just about the entire enrollment of the elementary and junior high schools (even the first graders) went to the picture show for the Saturday matinee with nary a parent in sight.  It was usually a double feature plus a serial and a cartoon.  Admission was 11 cents.  So for less than a quarter you could get into the picture show and have a popcorn or candy bar and a coke.  (All soft drinks/sodas were called cokes.)

We didn't have dial phones yet.  You picked up your phone and an operator said "Number please," and you told her the number you were calling. Our number was 1194-J.  If you couldn't remember the number, you just told her who you were calling and she connected you.  Of course, the fire department was comprised of volunteer firemen.  If a fire was reported, sirens that could be heard all over town were sounded.  The volunteer firemen picked up their phones and gave the operator a code word when she said, "Number please," and she told them where the fire was.  Some would go to the fire station, get on the fire trucks and race to put out the fire.   Others would go directly to the site of the fire and wait for the fire trucks to arrive.  Just about everyone in town knew the code word and would call the operator when the sirens sounded.  Then they would all flock to the reported fire to watch the firemen work.  This was big-time excitement in Graham.

I don't know how many hair salons there were in Graham then.  We called them beauty shops--still do.  The one my mother went to was in a little white frame house on a side street behind a gas station that was located on the corner of the side street and a main street. There was one shampoo bowl and two or three stations.  Instead of wearing the plastic capes of today, the customers wore white cloth capes.  Most women had "standing appointments" and went in once a week to have their hair shampooed and set in pin curls.  They would then sit under a huge, extremely hot hair dryer before having their hair "combed out" (styled).  In addition to hair cuts and sets, the shop offered dye jobs (hair, eye lashes and eye brows) and permanent waves.  The most popular (and possibly the only) permanent wave was the "hot wave."

A Hot Wave Machine

The hot wave as it existed in the late 40s and 50s was developed in the 1920s.  The hair was wound around special metal rollers and saturated with a harsh chemical solution.  Then a clamp that was suspended by a wire from an electric "chandelier" on a metal stand was placed around each roller.  The electricity was turned on and the clamps heated the metal rollers and the hair.  A certain amount of expertise was needed by the "beauty operator" (stylist) to judge when the heat had been applied for just the right amount of time at just the right temperature.  Too little time and the wave didn't take.  Too much and the person literally looked like the "finger in the electric socket" cartoon character.  The hair was literally fried.

Okay, that's enough background info.  Let's get on with the story.  All my life, my mother had a thing about my hair.  In fact, her last words to me before she died in 1984 were, "Go comb your hair."  For some still unknown reason when I was eight or nine, she decided that I needed a permanent wave.  Yes, my hair had just as much natural curl then as it does now so I have no idea for her reasoning.  Anyway, she called the beauty shop and made an appointment for me to get a hot wave.

I remember that I was apprehensive when we left home.  I had seen women attached to that machine with the long wires and it seemed most unpleasant to me.  I was right.  Just the winding of the hair around the metal rollers was painful as they somehow did a double wind and it pulled the hair.  Then came the chemical solution that burned my scalp.  The horrible smell burned my eyes and nose and mouth.  Tears streamed from my eyes so badly that I could barely see when they led me to the electric monstrosity with the clamps suspended by the wires that looked like tentacles. 


The machine was designed for a grown woman.  When I sat in the chair under the machine, the tentacles didn't reach my head.  I obviously had to be boosted up in the chair.  The Graham phone book was less than an inch thick so it wasn't even considered.  Out came all the unused towels and capes.  They were stacked precariously in the chair.  I was  lifted onto the top of the stack with the instructions, "Don't move or the stack will fall over."  That conjured up visions of my hanging in mid-air suspended by the tentacles.  The witch (Oops. I mean beauty operator) then connected all the clamps onto the metal rollers in my hair.  Once that task was completed, she turned on the electricity and the rollers began to heat up.

It  was about that time that the fire siren went off.  Excitement was coming to Graham, Texas, on that lazy weekday afternoon.  Someone picked up the phone and gave the operator the code word to learn where the fire was.  She then excitedly announced to the whole room, that the fire was right down the street.  With that, about half the women in the shop, ignoring their various stages in the unbeautiful process of beautification. rushed outdoors with white capes flapping behind them.  I, of course, couldn't go.  I was being held captive by the medieval torture machine.  I couldn't even move because the stack of towels might fall.

Before long, we could hear the fire truck's siren as it approached.  The excitement began to mount.  We knew the firemen were standing along the sides and back of the truck holding onto special handles to keep from falling off.  I was still attached to the machine when the truck began to round the corner onto the side street.  Then we heard a horrible crash! The fire truck took the corner too fast and rolled over spewing firemen all over the street.

With that, every single woman in the beauty shop, including my own mother, rushed out to see what was happening. I can't tell you what was happening.  I was still tethered to the machine and I was all alone.  I did hear a lot of shouting.  Then I began to focus on my precarious state as I could smell my hair beginning to burn.  I had visions of its catching on fire--blazing with no firemen to put it out because they were all lying unconscious in the street.

I don't know if it was my mother or the beauty operator who remembered me first.  They did finally come bustling in to attend to me.  I began to cry.  I think the tears were tears of relief.  The beauty operator turned off the machine and began to unclamp the clamps.  My hair wasn't going to go up in flames after all.
It was burned, however, and the frizzy ends had to be cut off.  Then she gave me a free hot oil treatment to try to reduce the frizz.  Then I got a shampoo and set and had to sit under the hair dryer.  There wasn't time for me to go outside to see the fire truck.  Mother had made an appointment at the Olan Mills studio for me to have my picture made that afternoon.  By the time I was finished, the fire truck had been righted and all the firemen attended to.  None received any serious injuries.  The reported fire had been a false alarm.


I'm attaching the picture of me taken that afternoon so that you can see all the curls. My hair did develop more frizz and had to be cut again.  Someday I will tell you about the Tony Home Permanent, a "cold" wave, that my mother gave me some years later.  But that story is for another day.

 

Valentine's Day

This year Valentine's Day has double significance for me.  There was a teachers' meeting before classes started on Valentine's Day my first year of teaching.  I still have a clear visual image of the room where the meeting was held.  I was sitting next to one of the third grade teachers and she noticed the brand new, shining engagement ring on my finger and made me hold up my hand to show all the other teachers.  Rick had given me the ring the night before as my Valentine's Day present.  I was by far the youngest teacher in the school as I had celebrated my 21st birthday after classes started in September.  Most of the other teachers were old enough to be my grandmother.  They all made quite a "to-do" over my new status.  That was 48 years ago today.


This takes me back to the night before.  Rick had told me to meet him as soon as we got home from work that night.  He then said that he had a surprise for me.  It was a cold, dark, rainy February night in Dallas.  He drove to a jewelry store, parked and told me to get out.  Of course, we had talked about getting married and I told him that I just wanted a wide gold band and no engagement ring.  He didn't like that idea and when we arrived at the jewelry store, he told me he was buying me an engagement ring as a Valentine's present.  I selected this simple, modest solitaire that is still on my finger.  He said he wanted to give it to me on the 13th because he couldn't afford to get me anything else and he didn't want me to think that he had forgotten about Valentine's Day.



We went to our favorite restaurant, ordered drinks and he slipped the ring on my finger.  He never actually proposed to me--not even that night.  He just put the ring on my finger. The closest he ever came to a proposal was when he said, "A man would be a fool not to marry a woman who can make spaghetti sauce as good as you can."  

As I look at the ring, I am frequently reminded of my favorite Joan Rivers' quote.  She was talking about engagement rings and said that you can always tell if a woman is a man's first wife by the size of the diamond.  The first wife always has a small diamond.  Each subsequent wife's diamond gets bigger than the last wife's.  Well, when you look at the size of my diamond, you will know that I was Rick's first and only wife.


Apparently, I am being politically incorrect by still wearing my engagement and wedding rings.  Several months ago, I was surfing web sites that dealt with losing a spouse and coping with grief.  One had a questionnaire/list of things to consider.  One of the items asked if you were still wearing your rings.  Then it asked if you were, why were you.  It said that a widowed person is no longer married and should take off the rings.  Well, I'm sorry.  Intellectually, I realize that I am not a married person anymore.  Emotionally, I don't feel like a single person.  I simply am not ready to take off the rings.  Maybe someday I will.  I noticed recently that my sister-in-law has taken hers off.  My brother has been dead for four years.  Since I read that, I have been doing a check to see if widows are wearing their rings.  It seems to be about 50/50. 


The other significance of this date is that Rick died nine months ago today.  Of course, he was in the hospital for five weeks before he died so it has been over ten months since he has been here at home.  In a way it doesn't seem possible that it has been that long and in another way it seems like it has been forever.


I seem to be turning a corner in this grieving process.  I really can't describe the feeling.  About the best I can do is to say that the weight of grief is getting lighter.  I realize that it is time for me not only to get on with my life, but to begin to build a new one and enjoy it!  


This feeling was validated at church yesterday.  Pastor Gail's sermon was entitled "Choose Life and Hold Fast."  While she was delivering the message, those words were projected on a screen behind her.  The focus of her message was to choose the Christian life.  To me personally it meant more than just choosing to live a Christian life.  I felt that those words projected on the screen over her head were directed specifically to me.  God was saying, "Okay, Carolyn.  Time to get out of your funk. 'Choose Life,' and you'd better 'Hold Fast' because it's going to be a great ride.  Maybe a little bumpy at times, but a great ride nevertheless." So Gail, I'm sorry that my mind strayed a bit during your sermon, but I'm sure you had no idea what thoughts and emotions your words stirred in me.


Now to all of you, my friends.  Happy Valentine's Day.  It is a wonderful time to express all kinds of love--romantic, parental, platonic and friendship.  I love you and I thank each you for the love you have given me over the last ten months.  May we all "choose life and hold fast" in the coming year.

 

Thoughts On A Cold Winter Day

I know that people who live only 500 miles north of us would welcome this weather and those even farther north would consider this a heat wave, but darn it, I'm cold and have been for days.  This architecturally interesting house with 38-foot ceilings and single paned high windows was build for Houston summers and not for these cold winter days. I'll quit complaining now.

In spite of my sporadic and infrequent postings, I do put quite a bit of thought into this blog.  The problem is with follow-up.  In other words, I just need to have the self-discipline to sit myself down in front of the computer to write. I will continue to share my feelings and experiences as a new widow, but I've decided that I also want to write about other aspects of my life.  I hope that to some, these posts will impart new information and to those of you who have been around as long as I, they will stir old memories. 

I fared very well emotionally throughout the holidays.  Of course, we all missed Rick but, for the most part, the season was joyous.  We deliberately made some changes but held onto the most cherished family traditions.  Then January 12 was Rick's birthday.  I awoke at 3:00 a.m. and never went back to sleep.   I  cried a lot that day.  This was all totally unexpected.  I had been doing so well.  One of the books I read on grieving said that typically there is a rough patch at about eight months.  This happens when everyone is thinking "Why doesn't she get over this, for goodness sakes.  It's been nearly a year."  Well, I was right on time.  Rick died eight months ago on January 14.  I'm doing much better now.

I continue to find old friends via the Internet, and derive great pleasure in catching up on their lives.  In most cases our children are now older than we were when we were last in touch.  I hope to make a trip to the DFW area and have a couple of mini-reunions before too long.

I'm off to visit my niece, Donna, tomorrow.  I'm packing a lot of warm clothes and don't have a set return date.  There are several things she and I want to do plus we are so content just sitting side-by-side looking at magazines, doing needlework, or watching chick flicks. I think this will do me a  lot of good.   I haven't been away like this in a couple of years.  I'm still hoping to make it to Florida in late February or early March and to Hot Springs later in the spring. Having Amy and her family living in my house allows the luxury of lengthy and/or frequent trips.

Donna is very generous in letting me use her computer.  I may work on some more posts while I'm gone.  Stay warm everyone!

A Christmas Letter to Rick

3:30 p.m. December 24, 2010

Hi Honey,

So many people have expressed concern about how I'll survive this first Christmas without you.  I'm sure you're worried, too, so I thought I'd write to let you know that I'm doing just fine.  Right now I'm busy with preparations for Christmas dinner tomorrow.  I have some things in the oven so this is a good time for me to start a note to you.  I may not finish it until tomorrow as it will soon be time to get ready for church.  I think we're going to the 5:00 service this afternoon.

It seems impossible that it has been over seven months since you were here.  On the other hand, there have been quite a few changes.  Amy, Ray and the children moved in the day you left us and they are still living here.  Chris got a job in August only to lose it in September.  It will be two years next month since he had steady employment.  Jorge's father, Charlie, died on September 25.  He and Donna didn't go to Argentina until early November as there was no way they could make it down in time for the funeral. Anita is doing okay.  All the gandchildren are growing fast and doing very well in school.

You wouldn't believe those Horned Frogs!  They were undefeated again this year, finished #3 in the nation and are playing Wisconsin in the Rose Bowl on New Year's Day.  I probably miss you the most during the football games.  I put on a TCU shirt and watch the games by myself.  Bud and Little Bit usually start watching with me, but the first time I disturb them by cheering, they find quieter quarters.  I wish I had an avid fan to watch the Rose Bowl with. I've even thought about inviting myself to someone's house but just can't bring myself to do that. I plan to start the day watching the Rose Bowl parade (I'm sure you remember how much I enjoy that.) with particular interest in the TCU float and band.  The administration even sprung for new uniforms for the band. All I can say is about time.  I think they were ranked the number two college band in the nation last year and nothing happened then as far as new uniforms are concerned.

Speaking of Bud, he has been one lonely cat since you left.  He's finally decided that my lap is a poor substitute for yours but is better than nothing.  He still looks for you.  A couple of times a week, he will walk all through the house crying with a mournful meow as if he's calling you.  For a couple of months I reminded myself of Jane with Harvey's ashes as I had difficulty finding a permanent spot for yours and I kept moving them from place to place.  Finally I moved them onto the chest of drawers in our bedroom.  I got a frame for the flag they gave me at your memorial service and hung it over the beautiful wooden box that contains your ashes.  I added a picture of the TCU flag flying at half staff in your honor and some dried roses from your casket.  It's quite a nice arrangement, and as soon as I got everything situated, Bud began sleeping next to the wooden box.  That is his favorite spot now.  Today is his (Bud's) eighth birthday.

Back to Christmas: Katherine began worrying about Christmas without you in July or August, so that made me start thinking about it, too.  She was so worried about who would put the Christmas tree up and who would put the star on top.  I was so proud of Ray.  As soon as we finished Thanksgiving dinner, he brought the tree down, assembled it, and the following night after we had it decorated, he put the star on top. 

After a lot of pondering, I decided that we should keep most of the old traditions but also should add some new ones.  I've bought quite a few new decorations and am pleased with the way the house looks.  It's not been easy doing all the decorating without your help.  Chris came over and put up the outdoor lights.  I've reconfigured them a couple times and now am pleased with them, too.  I haven't gone up and down ladders so many times in years and years.  I over-did a couple of times, but I survived.

One of my favorite quotes is from the movie Same Time Next Year in which Alan Alda and Ellen Burstyn meet once a year for 24 years for an extra-marital dalliance.  At the end of the movie, Alan's wife has died, and he asks Ellen to leave her husband to marry him.  Although many times over the years she would have done just that, this time she refused him.  In her explanation why, she talked of her husband, saying among other things, "We share the same memories."  I've always thought that such a wonderful description of a long marriage.  We share the same memories.  Some good.  Some bad.  Some funny.  Some sad.  But the same memories.

In June, I began to get the urge to contact old friends that we haven't heard from in years.  Thanks to the Internet and Facebook in particular, I've been quite successful.  From our early marriage days, I've located next door neighbors on Clemson and friends from St. Paul's Methodist Church and my League of Women Voters days.  I even found Amy's first grade teacher. She's just as neat as ever!  I've found friends from my high school and college (or my pre-Rick) days, lots of our students at TCU and the neighbor family in Burleson.  I was puzzled for awhile about why I had this need.  Then I realized that it is because I need these people because they share some of those same memories with me.  It is taking a whole host of people to replace the memories we shared.  The problem is the memories they know are the public memories.  There is no one to share those private memories we had.  I will just have to make-do on my own with those.

You know that I was back in touch with John.  He, Tancey and their daughter, Leigh, are coming for Christmas dinner tomorrow.  I'm looking forward to seeing them.  Leigh is pregnant so John and Tancey are finally about to become grandparents.  I'll close for now and get ready for Christmas Eve communion.  Chris and Julie are going to spend Christmas Eve with Uncle this year.

December 25, 2010  10:00 p.m.

Well, Christmas has been good.  The candlelight service at church was beautiful as usual.  Katherine and William were so excited about Santa.  It was fun having them living here.  William routinely sleeps with me and it was after 11:00 p.m. before I finally got him to sleep.  Santa came and they were thrilled with their toys.

You will like this story.  About 6:00 p.m. on Christmas Eve, William went to his mother and asked her if Santa really had a naughty and nice list.  She replied that he did.  William asked her where Santa kept the list.  Amy told him that he kept it at the North Pole.  William said, "We need to go there right now.  I need to look at it."  I think he was really worried.

Today was busy with cooking and meal preparation in spite of all the work I'd done in advance.  Chris and family arrived about 2:00 and we opened gifts.  John and his bunch arrived around 3:00.  The meal was good and I so enjoyed being with them.  They are moving to Houston.  I hope we can get together frequently.

So now it is over for another year.  There have been so many changes since last Christmas.  I miss you so much.  BUT I've made it through just fine.  I've had wonderful support from our friends. Don't worry 'bout me.  I'm gonna be just fine.  

Later--with love forever,
Carolyn