The Camille Street Gang

In the mid-1960’s, Camille Street was the social hub of my small hometown of Senatobia, Mississippi.  At least it was for the pre-teen jet-setters that formed my circle of friends.

Camille Street was slap dab in the middle of “Dogwood Hills,” the only neighborhood of new, modern homes.  All the homes looked different on the outside, but inside they were all the same.  Three bedrooms – all on one hallway; 1.5 baths – the master bedroom got the half bath; eat-in kitchen; living room; and double carport.  Most had shag carpet, tiny pink and white tiles in the bathrooms, harvest gold or avocado green appliances and sliding closet doors that were forever “jumping the tract” so that most everyone’s closet doors stayed half open all the time.  All of this glory was situated on a 70X120 square foot patch of grass.  It was new; it was modern; it was hip – homeownership for all the upwardly mobile young couples with 3 kids and a dog.  Most had grown up on farms in rural Mississippi and they wanted something better for their children, so they moved to town.

I heard once that Camille Street was named after the mayor’s wife.  I never met the mayor or his wife and I never saw a single dogwood tree in my neighborhood.

It was difficult to drive down Camille Street on most summer days.  The street was always filled with kids and their bikes, roller skates or skate boards, kids chasing dogs, mamas shooing toddles away from the street, or dogs chasing kids.  We had our own form of traffic control – it was called “Mama.”  Come racing down our street and you were liable to get a stern look from a dozen different mamas.  “Where do they think they are, Memphis?”  I often heard my mama say.

I guess Ricky was the first of us to move to Camille Street.  He must have been 4 or 5 when my family first came to see the new house my daddy bought for us.  Ricky laid in his front yard across the street and shot at me with his toy gun.  It was love at first sight – and we have been best friends ever since.  In 1963, my sister, Gail, my brother, Andy, and I were the second group of kids to move to our end of Camille Street.  My younger brother, Jeff, was born a few years later.  Charlotte, John, Jr. and Mike were the next to move there – our dads drove Wonder Bread trucks together.  Next came Kathy & Jackie and then Lisa Mac and Little Linda.  Mikie, Pam and Debbie lived just up the street as did Bob Brownlee.  I don’t know why we always called everyone by just their first name, except for Bob.  He was always Bob Brownlee.    At the other end of the street were Wade & Kelvin, Beverly and Betty Kay. 

Oh, and Ricky, Lila and Jeffrey Rikard.    Bless their hearts!  They were Yankees – the only people from the North we ever knew and we made such fun of the way they talked.  Their dad did not have a real job – he was a writer.  Their mom wore “dressing gowns” – which to us just meant she walked around in her housecoat.  Worst of all, they had cats!  CATS!  On our all-dog street.  We treated those poor kids like they were Martians or Nazis – the two things we feared the most.  They finally went back north and to this day, that house seems to be jinxed.  Nobody ever lives there very long.

The best part of growing up on Camille Street – and I’m sure what made us the envy of the rest of the kids in the town – was the fact that there was a community swimming pool and baseball field right in the center of our neighborhood.  As early as March, the bright lights of the baseball field would pop on at 5 pm for spring practice, a sure sign that summer was just around the corner.  About a week after the last day of school, the air around the neighborhood would be fragrant with the smell of chlorine – the pool was finally open!  We swam every day and played baseball every night.  After the baseball game, we sat in someone’s yard, sucking on concession stand grape or cherry sour pops, and told ghost stories.  The tales got taller and taller until someone got scared and went home.  Other nights, we played “Bears are out tonight” – a game where we would scatter throughout the neighborhood and hide from the designated “bears” whose job it was to find out and scare the devil out of us.  Screams and laughter filled the night as we ran through the backyards and streets, barefooted as Cooter Brown, seeking refuge from the bears.  This went on for hours until we were exhausted and hot – then we would sit on the curb and laugh about who got so tickled they wet their pants.  Around 10 pm, porch lights started flickering up and down the street – our signal that it was time to come in for the night.

Bright and early the next morning, sleepy-eyed and full of chocolate milk and Sugar Frosted Flakes, we started all over again.

We were all around the same age – went to the same school, had the same classes with the same teachers.  But, we had only one set of encyclopedias among us.  If one of us had to do a report on the solar system, we had to call around the neighborhood to see who had the “S” Book of Knowledge.  “Ricky, you got the S encyclopedia?”  “No, I got the W and the B.  I think Charlotte has the S.”  This went on every time one of us had to write a report.

All of our mamas were at home during the day time and most of us were called in around 11:30 to eat our bologna sandwich and drink our Kool-Aid so that we would be out of our moms' hair before their afternoon stories came on.  My mama saved her ironing for the time that “Days of Our Lives” and “As the World Turns” came on.  She would throw my daddy’s white cotton shirts in the freezer for a couple of hours and then steam iron them with a few sprinkles from a used  Coke bottle filled with water, the top of which she had punched holes in with an ice pick and put back on the bottle.  I can close my eyes and see my mother in her hot pink stretchy pants, her hair in a highly teased bouffant, swaying back and forth over the ironing board, eyes on the console TV, shaking her head and clucking her tongue at the goings on of the Horton family in Salem or the Hughes family in Oakdale.  At precisely 3 pm, my mama – and all the other mamas on Camille Street, started their supper so that it would be ready when our daddies came home around 5:30.

We all started first grade together and eventually graduated high school together.  Our moms took us to stand in line one hot July morning in 1965 to get our polio sugar cube.  Afterwards, we walked down to the Rexall and got a Coke on ice.  A rare treat. 

Ricky and I were in my mother’s new convertible going to my grandmother’s house when the radio announced that President John F. Kennedy had been shot.  Both of us cried – not because of the president – but because we were driving through a bad storm and a tree branch came crashing through the cloth convertible top and onto the back seat on us just as the somber radio announcer told of the national tragedy.  My mother cried because her new car was ruined.   That was a really bad day.

All of us on Camille Street had our first dates together, got our driver’s license together (Kathy was first!), and had our hearts broken together.  In high school, we could not wait to get out of school and leave Camille Street.  Some went to Ole Miss, others to MSU or Northwest.  All of us eventually left.  On the many trips I made back to see my parents, Camille Street started to look smaller, somehow.  Those cutting-edge, modern homes of the ‘60 have seemed tiny, the big yards empty.  The community swimming pool was filled in and made into a parking lot.  There were no bikes in the streets, no basketball goals, no hop-scotch grids drawn on the street with chalk.   There were no children – just grandparents.  For years all was quiet and still.

I have not lived on Camille Street since I left for college in 1975. But, my dreams are filled with adventures played out on the streets of our small neighborhood.  My best memories are of Ricky, Charlotte, Kathy, Mikie.  Of smelling chicken frying and knowing it was Monday because that was fried chicken day at our house.  Of making a mud pie topped with shaving cream frosting for Ricky when he had measles.  Of lying under the stars on a homemade quilt giggling about boys with Charlotte.  Of the “talent shows” we had on our front porch.  Of my mama pulling her car into the grass so we could roller skate on the driveway.  Of so many Christmas mornings when Ricky would be the first one up – around 4 am – and scamper across the street to see what was under our tree.

I still dream of the fun we had, the lessons we learned, the plans we made and the safety and love we all felt.

Last week I was going to my mother’s house – a house she has called home for more than 45 years – and I noticed as I turned onto Camille Street, a group of little boys throwing a baseball to each other in the street.  A little further down the street, there was a squad of cheerleader-want-to-be’s practicing their chats in someone’s front yard.  I dodged a couple of bikes left on the curb and a basketball goal dragged to the street for practice.  Camille Street was alive with the beginning of summer.

It’s a new day in our neighborhood. Old houses are being repainted and refurbished. New mamas are pushing new strollers down old streets.  New games are being played under the old trees.  A new generation is growing, learning, and living on Camille Street.  If I could, I would tell this new generation to stay on Camille – and in childhood – as long as possible.  Don’t be so eager to get out into the world.  There is nothing safer, more comforting, and more special than growing up in a small Southern town with friends you will keep for life.

When this new generation leaves Camille Street – and they will leave without a backward glance, just like we did – they, too, will dream of lazy summer days and humid, fun-filled nights.  They will dream of home.   Just like we do.

Sometimes it takes a little nudge along the way.....

Every spring I get the amazing pleasure of seeing the baby foals that are born on the horse farm that I pass each day on my way to work.  Each morning from March until about May, my eyes naturally gravitate to the green grassy pasture that is normally dotted with graceful chestnut mares, heads bent toward the ground, tails swishing lazily back and forth.  Sometimes, clad in brightly-colored, Native American-inspired blanket coats, they wander close enough to the fence that I can see the flicker of their ears as cars zoom by.  Soon enough, though, their curiosity is satisfied and they move away from the road and safely back into their world of hay, sweet feed and the occasional apple.

In the spring time, this comforting, tranquil scene becomes magical.  I saw the first baby this week.

The majestic horse was lying fairly close to the fence, so I slowed down to get a good look.  Suddenly, from behind the big red mare,  a tiny hoof popped straight up into the air…then another and another and another….until four pencil thin legs were sticking straight up followed by a bobbling, bleary eyes (precious!) baby face.  Mom raised her head and looked at baby as if we say, “Not again!  Go back to sleep!” 

Baby looked around a bit, then planted one little back foot on the ground, then the other.  Then a little behind went up right before the foal pushed itself up on all fours.  Wobbly, bobbly, he swayed for an instant before falling slap down on the ground.  Oh, that must’ve hurt.  But, he immediately began the process again – two back feet, little backend, then two front feet.  This time he stayed up for about five seconds before falling face first beside his mom. 

The whole time, mom is watching as baby tries to stand alone.  Just as the little foal began his third attempt, the mare inched a bit closer to her foal and gently, ever so gently nudged her baby.  Not a push, but just a little nudge that gave the young one the balance and support it needed to stand up straight and tall.  All legs and fuzzy nose, the little one stayed up this time – ready to face the world.

As I sat in my car on the side of the road, I thought of all the people who have “nudged” me along the way.  Steve Ballard, who took me out of the newspaper business when I was in my early 20’s and was so disillusioned when I learned that the pen is, in fact, mightier than the sword, but not as mighty as the top advertiser.  Steve put me to work in the marketing department of Hernando Bank and set me on a career path that I have followed for over 20 years.  Judy Beard, who, besides being my mentor and fashion police, told me when I was 22 –“ Never dress for the position you have in business, dress for the position you want.”  Best advice for climbing the corporate ladder I ever got – and something I have passed on to so many other young women.  Judy continues to “nudge” me fairly regularly and I love her so much for loving me enough to do that for me.

Jon Reeves – I worked for Jon Reeves and Bob Williams at Reeves and Williams Builders for more than 18 years – and I never saw Jon NOT do the right thing.  Jon nudged me toward the understanding that family is the most important thing on this earth; doing the RIGHT thing is always the BEST thing; and marketing is nothing more than CARING about other people more than the mighty dollar. 

Certainly the biggest “nudger” of my life was my dad.  For as long as I can remember, I have stood on my own two feet – wobbly bobbly sometimes; swaying with the wind occasionally; often frozen with the fear of falling – but always with the gentle nudge of my dad’s strong hands and stronger heart.  He provided the balance to get me up and the foundation to keep my feet firmly planted on solid ground.  Sometimes those nudges were soft reminds and sometimes they were more like a kick in the backend – but they were always delivered with love and the insistence that I stand up straight and tall and be ready to face the world.

With a sigh, I realized that I needed to get to work.  Pulling away from the pasture, I stole one more look in my rearview mirror at the mare and her foal.   Baby was still standing, wide-eyed, with his nose in the air sniffing all the possibilities in his new world.  Mom looked at her new baby to make sure he was okay and then laid her head back down in soft grass, knowing that her work was done.

For My Dad from Shaun

I lost my dad this week and it may be some time before the words I want to say about him gel in my mind.  He was so important to so many people and he touched so many lives.  I cannot begin to put into words my feelings about him at this point, but I wanted to share this from my nephew, Shaun.  Thank you, Shaun. 


A few years ago I met a man that had faced more adversity in his life than any man I had met before or since then. This man suffered the better part of his life with circulatory/heart problems, had diabetes, lost one of his legs, and had to suffer through the loss of two children. Most people wouldn’t be able to handle even one quarter of the things that this man endured.

By all rights this man had every reason in the world to not get out of bed in the morning, but he chose to do the opposite. He got up and went to work at his antique store every chance he got and continued to spend as much time with his family as possible. Every time you saw him he always had a smile on his face and would always have something funny to say.

It’s not often in life that someone gets to meet someone truly inspirational. Not only did he understand that even though life is tough it’s also very special. He was above moral reproach; he was always honest and true to his heart and was never afraid to tell you his true feelings. He was truly inspirational to me as well as many others.

I not only had the honor to call this man my friend, but also my family (a fact I will always be proud of). I had a great deal of respect and admiration for him, mainly because of his sheer desire to live his life no matter the obstacle in front of him. I will never forget how he lived his life as I try to live my life a little more like him.

R.I.P. Ernest Ray Hudspeth

For Heather on Her Birthday

Today is my niece’s birthday.  She is the second born of my eight nieces and nephews.  She is a 28-year-old with an old soul.

Heather is the eldest child of my brother, Andy.  What she wants most for her birthday this year, she told me last night, is for me to write about her dad.  Write your favorite story about him, she said.

I laid awake last night thinking about what I could write.  I remembered several little incidents that might be interesting to my brother’s daughter, but the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that I should write, not about my favorite thing about him, but about his favorite thing.  I believe that most folks would agree that there is a very special relationship between a dad and his oldest daughter.

There were four of us Hudspeth kids growing up in Senatobia, MS during the 1960’s and 1970’s.  Now there are two.  I am the oldest, then my sister, Gail, then Andy and finally, the youngest, Jeff.   Gail passed away suddenly in 1998 and Andy followed her five years later.

As the oldest sister, I was always the caregiver, the responsible one, the adult among the quartet of Hudspeth kids.   Andy was the middle child – the clown, the one who was always in the center of things, the fun one who got away with things that my parents would have killed me for doing.   He was the Yin to my Yang.  I studied hard, worked hard, fought hard to succeed in my career.  Andy played hard.  What took concentrated effort and strategic planning for me to achieve, he got with his charm and good looks.  A born salesman, everyone liked him and he did not meet a stranger.    He was funny, friendly, a good guy.  What he lacked in formal education, he made up in street smarts.  Though I was forever mad at him for something I thought he did wrong and I was always fussing at him for something, in my heart of hearts, I knew that there was a very thin line between me and him.  He could be very compassionate and caring, but he was also very practical when it came to taking care of family. 

When Heather was small, she and Andy were inseparable.  They would ride around in his truck wearing matching cowboy hats and listening to country music.  He talked to his children, spent time with them, worried about them.  I told him that he worried too much about Heather.  That’s what good dads do, he said.

Once when my husband and I had a little spat, I ended up at Andy’s house.  Heather and her mom were out of town that weekend and I went to Andy, crying and upset.  He sat and listened to me complain and bellyache, tucked me into Heather’s bed that night, woke me up with a cup of coffee and then told me to go home.  I did.  Family was what mattered most to my brother.

This day twenty eight years ago was the happiest day of my brother’s life.  All the jobs, the cars, the fun times --- all the other things he cared about pale in comparison to what he felt on January 7, 1983.  Really, all Andy really ever wanted was to be a good dad.  Even with all the financial and personal problems he had, I believe he succeeded.

Heather is the most HUDSPETH of all my nieces and nephews.  She is headstrong and passionate about whatever she believes in.  She is not a chatter.  Give her the bottom line and let her make her own decision.  Once she makes a decision, changing her mind is pretty much impossible.  She is very goal oriented and results driven.  She knows what she wants and goes and gets it.  She is so much like me – and her dad - that I feel like I know her inside and out.  I see Andy in her smile, the sparkle in her eyes, her sense of humor, her short temper, her impatience and her determination.  Andy was always so proud of Heather and he would delight in the young lady she has become.

I remember when Heather was three or four years old, she and her mom and dad went on vacation with Dennis and me.  We went on a road trip to Eureka Springs, Arkansas for a long weekend.  There was a lake we visited that had a large flock of geese – the biggest and prettiest geese I have ever seen.  You could buy bird food and feed the geese, so we bought a large container of grain for Heather to feed to the geese.  When the birds saw the little girl with the bucket of food, they came rushing to her squawking and flapping their huge wings.  Even though she wanted more than anything to feed the birds, they terrified her.  Andy immediately lifted her up onto his shoulders so she could see the gorgeous creatures but they could not scare her.  He carried the excited little chubby-cheeked girl on his shoulders for the rest of the day.

As the mother of a 5 year old, Heather’s life today is hectic and demanding.   She and her husband, Shaun, are trying to build their careers while building a good home for their young family.  Life is sometimes difficult and scary.  At times like this, Heather thinks of her dad.  And, he still lifts her up so she can see and is not afraid.  That’s just what good dads do.

One who is putting on his armor should not boast like one who is taking it off. 1 Kings 20:11

Here it is, six days into the New Year and I am claiming victory in the pursuit of my New Year’s Resolution 2011.  It’s the first time I have ever been in compliance with my resolution for a full five days – that’s almost a whole week!  Well, actually I was in 100 percent compliance with half of my resolution...

I like to keep my resolution fairly simple and traditional.  For the past 20 years or so, it has been to eat less and exercise more.  This year, however, I did things a little differently.  This may be the reason I have enjoyed such great success.  This year, I vowed to eat healthier and exercise.  After day two, I pretty much knew the exercise part of the equation was a waste of time. However, January 1 through January 5, I had no ice cream, not a single cookie, no Sonic burgers, no Little Debbie cakes, and not even a bite of a Snickers.  It was tough, but I survived. 

Until yesterday.  Somebody gave me a Starbucks gift card for Christmas…best gift ever for me.  I drove through the Starbucks drive-through (where, much like CHEERS, everybody knows my name) and was going to order my regular tall with a little cream.  Something wonderful and yummy sounding caught my eye on the menu board, but I stuck to my resolve…until I got to the speaker. 

“I’ll have a tall….Venti Double Chocolate Chip Blended Crème Frappuccino with the Whipped Crème Topping,” I spit out in one long syllable.  “But, hold the chocolate shavings, please.”

WHAT?  What was I thinking?  Where did that come from?  My hands were sweating and a little shaky when I handed my Starbucks card to the forever-perky young lady at the window.  “Ah, do you happen to know how many calories are in this frap?”  I asked her.  “They typically do not give us that information,” she bounced out at me with the biggest whitest teeth I have ever seen, making it quite obvious that she never had coffee pass over those pearly whites in her entire life.  “You can go to our website and get that information.”

Twenty minutes later and about $5.50 poorer, I looked up the vital statistics of my 2011 New Year’s Resolution nemesis.  Weighing in at a whopping 550 calories and 11 grams of fat, this little delight totally threw my healthy eating declaration for a loop.  Worst of all, it was 8 am and I had eaten nothing yet.

Having blown my goal yesterday, it was much easier to order an Egg McMuffin with my small coffee, one cream added, at McDonalds this morning.  So much for resolutions…

Psychologists say that 78 percent of us who make New Year’s Resolutions fail within the first few weeks. Because of that, we feel like a failure which adds to the pressure we place on ourselves to do or stop doing whatever it is that we feel needs to be changed about ourselves.  In reality, resolutions are often just empty promises we make to ourselves - much like political campaign promises or unrealistic sales pitches that we always get trapped in.  I mean, really, how many times have you voted for someone based on something they said they would do that never got done.  How many times have you ordered some new gadget that sold for $19.95 (paid in three easy payments) that never worked??  Promises, promises.

“Gonna-do” and “Planning-to” are first cousins to “Shoulda-done” and “Oughta-have” and I have decided I just don’t need that family in my life anymore.

Therefore, I am proposing a policy of “Don’t Ask; Don’t Tell” as far as New Year’s Resolutions are concerned.  Next year, I’m not telling anyone what my BIG goal is for the year.  I’m going to wait until I ACHIEVE the goal before I start boosting about it.  As a matter of fact, the Bible speaks to me about making resolutions and declarations in 1 Kings 20:11.  Ahab, king of Israel, is being attacked by by Ben-Hadad, king of Aram. Ben-Hadad sent threatening messages, trying to intimidate Ahab. Ahab told Ben-Hadad’s messenger, "Tell him this: ‘One who puts on his armor should not boast like one who takes it off.'"   In other words, don’t be bragging about doing something until you have done it.  Great advice.
Ya’ll won’t be hearing from me about what I’m gonna do until I have taken my armor off.

High Achievements Always Take Place in the Framework of High Expectations...Charles F. Kettering

High school seniors are just not like they were when I was in high school.  In 1975, SENIORS ruled Senatobia High School, all 100 or so of us!  We were, by far, the coolest class that ever graduated from SHS. 

My son, Drew, is a high school senior this year and I think I am more excited about his monumental year than he is. I’ve had so much fun reliving my youth at his high school band competitions, all the excitement of homecoming week, his senior photo shoot.   I ask him a million questions every evening at dinner.

“Drew, I’m so excited about your senior Bible verse,” I said just last night.  “Don’t let anyone look down on you because you are young, but set an example for believers in speech, in life, in love, in faith, and in purity. 1 Timothy 4:12.  I cannot imagine a better verse for you!  Now, what is your class theme?”

“Seniors 2011 are UNSTOPPABLE!” he told me (again!), with a very slight roll of his eyes. 

I just love that!  His class is using the theme “Unstoppable” based on a verse in Romans 8 – “If God is for us, who can be against us.”  Thus, they are UNSTOPPABLE!  How cool is that?

“Mom,” Drew said, as I sat dreaming of his freshmen year at Mississippi State and how much fun he would have and how much fun WE would have going to the State ballgames.  “What was your high school theme when you were a senior?”

“Well, not anything as great as yours,” I answered quickly.  “What did you have for lunch today?”

“So, what exactly was it?” he persisted. 

“Oh, I don’t even think I remember.  Do you want any more of this spaghetti?” 

“Ah, Mom, there is no way YOU don’t remember something like your SENIOR theme,” he laughed.  “Spill it.”

“Well, I think it was something like ‘Raising Hell and Feeling Alive, We’re the Class of ’75.’”

“MOM!  That is not very inspirational or encouraging,” my all-grown-up son said.  “The class theme is supposed to set expectations for the rest of your life.”

Expectations? Really?  I thought it was just supposed to rhyme.  Heck, I’m not even sure it had to rhyme as long as it fit on the back windshield of a ’74 Firebird and it was catchy and you could dance to it.   As far as a class quote, I can remember some quotes from Saturday Night Live, but that’s about it.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the differences between my son at 18 years old and myself at that age. I can’t decide which is harder to believe – that MY child is getting ready to turn 18 or that I was ever that young!

I went into Drew’s room one night to tell him goodnight and I saw his Mississippi State Bulldog statue sporting the 70’s wig and peace sign necklace that he wore for 70’s Day during homecoming at school this year.  After the dress up day at school, his wig and his peace sign landed on the little MSU mascot.   That really made me laugh because it was so typical of his varied, far-reaching interests.   My son is a perfect example of a child of a “Child of the ‘70’s.”  As a product of 12 years in a very solid and wonderful Christian school, one side of him is articulate, serious, conservative, and thoughtful.  He loves Mississippi State, his baritone horn, his new Droid phone, and all kinds of gadgets.  But, having a mother who was a teenager slap dab in the middle of the 1970’s, he loves the music of the 70’s, the fashion, the cars, the sayings.  He has my quirky sense of humor and we laugh at the same silly things – like Bully the Bulldog wearing a fro.  When I tell him about what was going on during that time, he gets it. He has read all about it and understands the 70’s culture, thinks it’s a really interesting place and time to read about but doesn’t want to go there. 

So much is expected of the youth today.  And, many times we do not give them the tools to meet our expectations.  The only things that we were expected to do in 1975 was to graduate and to stay out of trouble until we did.  I have to say, most of us rose to the occasion.  Still, if you grew up in this turbulent decade, it is not always easy to relay your hopes and dreams to these confident, independent children of ours. 

Maybe if more had been expected of us, if our whole senior year had centered around an encouraging Bible verse or a strong word to remind us that if we put God on our team, we could attain most anything  - maybe things might have turned out a little differently for some of us. 

I am so thankful that my son understands that what is expected of him is that he seeks God’s will in everything he does. I am thankful that he is surrounded by Godly teachers who pray for him and friends who pray with him.   I am grateful that he was able to participate in setting those goals and standards and has the desire to reach high and grab hold of his own personal dreams.

I am perfectly happy to be a funky “Child of the ‘70’s” and I am equally happy that times have changed and are different for my child. I expect remarkable things from this UNSTOPPABLE Class of 2011 and I hope I’m riding around in a restored ’74 Firebird listening to some Rod Stewart when I hear about it. 

“The more you read, the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places you'll go.” Dr. Seuss

C. S. Lewis once said, “You cannot get a cup of tea big enough or a book long enough to satisfy me.”  I feel exactly the same way – except that I would trade that tea for coffee, preferably Starbucks..

The summer of 1964 was a time of great wishing and hoping in the small town of Senatobia, Ms, where I grew up.    Back then, kids didn’t find out who their teacher for the coming year would be until the first day of school when everyone gathered in the auditorium.  The teacher would stand by the door and the principle, Mr. Monroe, would assign the class by calling the names of the children in that class.  The teacher would then lead her class to their classroom.  There were only two sections of each grade in our small city school.  Both of our first grade teachers were wonderful, loving teachers.  We also loved our second grade teachers.  But, when it came to third grade, there was one teacher that was feared above all others – Miss Gillespie.

About as round as she was tall, Miss Gillespie was famous for being stern.  She wore her gray hair pulled back sternly from her face; her gray and black horn rimmed glasses magnified stern gray eyes; she wore gray, blue or black dresses that were always belted with a small black belt below which a straight skirt fell almost to her ankles.  She always wore red lipstick that was always painted straight across the bottom of her face – or it appeared that way since she never smiled.  The thing I remember most about her – she always wore laced up, black, wingtipped-looking “old lady” shoes and you could hear her coming down the hall way before you ever saw her. 

The day finally came and we were nervously waiting for the third graders to be called.  Ricky, Charlotte, Susan, Rhonda, John … my friends raced to the front to stand behind Miss Connie.  Surely, my name would be called next.  Mr. Monroe would not put ME in Miss Gillespie’s room!!   The list of Miss Connie’s lucky kids was finished and she marched them out of the auditorium to a third grader’s idea of heaven – a whole school year with one of the best teachers at Senatobia Elementary..  I looked around the large room to find that not only were the remaining third graders looking pretty afraid, our mommas were just about as upset.

For the first few weeks in Miss Gillespie’s class, I did not say a word. I’m was thinking that if I just laid low and glided through the year, I’d be okay.

Miss Gillespie’s classroom was her domain.  It was unlike any other classroom in the school.  One whole side of the room was made up of floor- to- ceiling, wooden windows with the blinds pulled up to the ceiling.  Crowded in front of the windows were about a million potted plants of all types.  Large, colorful plants with blooming flowers and small creepy looking ferns.  This jungle only added to our feeling of isolation and fear.  Miss Gillespie might have been the devil in disguise, but the woman had a green thumb.

The very first rule she barked to us was this:  Do NOT EVER touch any of those plants.

Second rule:  You will sit where I tell you to sit and nowhere else.  Of course, my seat was right in the middle of all those plants.

One day I was looking at those plants, daydreaming, I'm sure,  when I noticed a small red pepper growing on one of the plants.  I watched that pepper for days until finally I could stand it no longer.  I picked the pepper and put it in my pencil box.  Occasionally I would take it out and look at it.  After playing with the pepper one day, I put it under my desk and started my assignments.  I remember that the assignment was to draw a bird.  I noticed a small itchy feeling in my right eye.  I absentmindedly scratched my eye.  Next thing I knew, my eyes were burning like crazy, tears flooding down my face, crying like a baby.  Keeping my head down, I was desperate to hide my discomfort from Miss Gillespie.  Barely able to open my eyes beyond a slit, I was focused on the floor when I saw the familiar wingtipped toe of a tightly laced, black shoe standing right in front of my desk.   “Did you touch one of the peppers on that pepper plant?” Miss Gillespie demanded.

I then made a decision that would affect me for the rest of my life.  I lied.  “No ma'am,” I whispered.  “What?”  she asked, not believing that I would dare lie to her.   

I couldn’t say anything else.  I could barely breath and I could not keep my eyes open.  Miss Gillespie sent me to Mr. Monroe’s office who called my mother to come pick me up.

The next morning I had a new seat – front row, square in front of Miss Gillespie’s desk.  We also started a new routine that day – a daily reading of Laura Wilder’s Little House On the Prairie.  Miss Gillespie would pull a stool up to the front of the class and read to us each day right after lunch from Little House.  We went through the entire series that year and with each reading, I fell more and more in love with books.  Since I had such a great seat for the reading, I also slowly started to understand my teacher a little better.  I could see plainly how much she loved reading and how she wanted all of us to enjoy reading also.  I was totally enthralled with that series of books and could not wait until the 30 minutes after lunch each day that we spent with Laura Ingalls and her family.  I went on to read two other series of books that year, The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew. 

Miss Gillespie instilled in me the love and respect for the written word.  Because of her, I have been all over the world and in countless dramas – in the thousands of books that I have read.   I learned that year that I could grab a book, go sit in my mother's car and get away from my younger sister and two younger brothers.  I could go anywhere, do anything, be anybody and get lost in a book.  That year with Miss Gillespie, I learned to love books.  More importantly, I learned that you really cannot judge a book by its cover.  Looking back, I now know that Miss Gillespie was one of the best teachers I ever had.