Chasing Away the Boogey Bears

It is the deepest corner of the night. The only sound is the gentle click of the air conditioner as it struggles to compete with the late July coastal heat.  My eyes pop open as remnants of a pleasant dream evaporate before I can recall the subject.  I know what time it is as I try to focus my contact-free eyes on the bedside clock, thankful that the dial is illuminated and huge. 

It is 3:15 am and I am, once again, hunting Boogey Bears.

Like Goldilocks, I have Big Bears, Medium Bears and Baby Bears.  Hers are fairy-tale cute; mine are big, black and scary. 

I click off a quick inventory of those I hold dear – husband, Dennis, snoring lightly beside me; son, Drew, in the next room sleeping the teenager sleep that will last at least another nine hours; mother at home with my brother and his family visiting from south Mississippi; and my other two children – niece, April, at home with her family and nephew, Brandon, working a summer job and house-sitting at our house.

Two or three nights a week for the past several years at precisely 3:15 am when the world is at its most peaceful, I am suddenly jerked from a deep slumber as my mind comes alive with worries, fears and personal Boogey Bears.  Even a wonderful beach vacation – such as the one we are enjoying this week – does not keep the Boogey Bears at bay.  Worry, doubt, fear – those things do not take a vacation.

I slip quietly out of bed so as not to disturb my astonishingly worry-free husband.  Without turning on a light, I find my way through the unfamiliar vacation condo to my favorite place.  Sliding the cool glass balcony door open, I immediately hear the gentle waves of the ocean splashing against the shoreline like a love song.   Finally tamed after three days of stormy weather, the sea seems to share my emotions.  Calm, but reflective.  Peaceful, but waiting for the next storm to come.

I am a worry wart by nature.  My daddy used to say that if I couldn’t find something to worry about, I would worry about not having something to worry about. 

I think about the Big Bears – Will my child make the right decisions in his life?  Will he find something he loves to do?  Will he find a Christian girl and have a happy family life?  Is my mother okay after losing the love of her life, my dad, six months ago?  Is my husband’s health good?   Are we financially prepared for Drew’s education?  Is he emotionally prepared for college?   How can I help April as she struggles through nursing school?  Should Brandon go ahead and get his masters now or work a while and go back? 

The Medium Bears:  Am I doing the best I can do at a job I love?  Should we continue with the antique store that my dad loved?  How am I going to reach my sales goal next month with the congress acting so crazy? 

The Baby Bears:  Weight Watchers or Diet Center?  Is that new skin care regiment working for me?  Where did that wrinkle come from?  Can I find my treadmill under all those clothes?  We all need to eat better….did I remember to get ice cream at the grocery yesterday?

My mind whirls with thoughts and plans and decisions.  I pride myself on being a “take control” kind of gal.  My dad told me many years ago that I could do anything I put my mine to – and I believed him.  But, in the wee hours of the morning when even the sun is sleeping peacefully, I’m chasing Boogey Bears disguised as fear, doubt, dread, regret.  I am faced again with the fact that my greatest strength – my strong, self sufficient personality – is also my greatest weakness.  So often I am so determined to need no one that I forget that THE ONE is the only way to chase the Boogey Bears away.  I can handle this one, Lord, I often think.  I’ll just wait to call on You when I make a real mess of things and get really desperate, I tell Him.

I remind myself of my favorite Bible verse:  “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light” (Matthew 11:28-30).

As someone in the home building business, I can also relate to this one:  “…He is like a man building a house, who dug deep and laid a foundation on the rock; and when a flood occurred, the torrent burst against that house and could not shake it, because it had been well built.”  (Luke 6:48)

Jesus did not say, hey, build a good house on a firm foundation and it will never flood or burn or have plumbing problems.  We all have worries and problems and tragedy in our lives.   He did not say that we should take care of ourselves and just bother him when the big bears come out.  But, he did say that if we have our foundation built on Him, we don’t have to fear the Boogey Bears.  It is truly not the bad stuff that happens in our lives that matters – because bad stuff does happen.  It is how we deal with the big bad bears that matters.  Do we attempt to handle the bears all on our own or do we trust God’s plan for our lives and have faith in him?

I think of the equation that my GA teacher at the First Baptist Church in Senatobia used to tell us:  Fear + Trust = Faith.  

 I remind myself (Again!!) of His promises.  Alas, I am simply and utterly human. 

Gulping a big lungful of the cool, salty morning air, I take one final look into the ocean’s depths and slip back into my warm and peaceful bed assured that, for tonight, the Boogey Bears have been pushed back into their cages and I am safe.

Early Mornings with the Ocean

The ocean seems a little angry today.  This part of the gulf coast at Gulf Shores, Alabama, known as the “Emerald Coast,” is anything but jeweled this morning.  Heavy, gray clouds crouch just beyond reach at water’s edge, like vast, misty doors opening into another world.  I can understand why early explorers were afraid to venture toward the clouds for fear of dropping off the face of the earth.  The water goes on forever.

Foamy, white waves are slapping the sand, reaching deep onto the beach, then rolling slowly back into itself, taking tiny bits of the earth with it, only to return with treasures both God-made and man-made. 

On Day Four of our beach vacation, the ocean is yelling its secrets to me rather than the soft whisper of the waves that I dream of during the cold, winter months at home.  As I perch on the balcony of our sixth floor vacation home, coffee cup in hand, I am still a bit sleepy after a restless, stormy night seaside, but anxious to savor the quiet morning time with one of God’s most beautiful creations.  The ocean has many faces – tranquil, powerful, fearsome, healing, calm, beautiful, and mighty.    I want to see them all.

We city folks spend thousands of dollars to leave our asphalt and concrete lives for a brief love affair with the ocean.  Some of us timidly stick a toe into the very edge of it while others boldly dive into the cool depths of it.  We hear the sirens of the sea; taste the saltiness of it as it splashes our faces like the fat tears of the broken-hearted.

From my concrete perch above the palm trees, I can see a family - mother, father, sister and baby brother – all dressed in white, posing for the camera, a permanent reminder of a family beach vacation.  Their whiteness - bleached t-shirts and white shorts for the boys; flowing linen dresses for the girls – turns the naturally white sandy beach into a smooth, beige backdrop, much like a perfect white pearl hidden in an ancient oyster shell.

From the un-naturally green patch of sod below my balcony, I hear the mantra of the spirituality seekers performing seemingly impossible Yoga stances, quietly, frantically searching for peace and tranquility while I sit gazing out into God’s masterpiece and finding it there.

Early morning, while my family is still sleeping the sleep of vacation, is my favorite time of the day; the reason I love time away from my busy life.  This is not just a time of relaxation, but also a time of reconnection and renewal, reminding me once again what is honest, true and real.

I could sit here forever – seeing, tasting, smelling, hearing…….believing.  I hear one bedroom door opening, then another.  Water running, refrigerator opening, the eternal sound of the television comes on – another busy day begins.  But, I have three more mornings to share secrets with the sea, and I’ll be here bright and early because I don’t want to miss a thing.

My Brief Stint As a Ginger Instead of a Mary Ann

It was the Summer of 1969 and I was 12 years old going on 25.   Space exploration enthusiasts were excited with the notion that Neil Armstrong just might be the first human to set foot on the moon while naysayers and doubters declared that if the USA went through with the trip to the moon planned for later that summer, it  would surely be the end of the world as we knew it.   A little over 400,000 music lovers gathered on a little farm in New York to hear the likes of Jimi Hendrix, the Who, and Janis Joplin in a music fest that would later be known as “Woodstock.”  All of my girlfriends were singing “Sugar, Sugar” by the Archies; watching “The Monkey’s” on TV and going to the Tobie Theatre to see “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”  That was the summer I fell in love with Robert Redford and I love him still.

The end of the fifth grade meant to me that I was entering a new phase of my life – SIXTH GRADE, a no-man’s land located somewhere between elementary school and junior high.  Too old to be treated like a child and too young to be treated like anything else.  A “pre-teen almost teenager.”   This was way before the media dubbed the period between 10 and 13 as “tweens”.   Don’t get me wrong, I still had my Barbie collection with Ken and Midge (Barbie’s best friend, a brunette with freckles who was not nearly as cute as Barbie, but I could better relate to her) and my Barbie Dream House made from two Coke bottle crates stacked on top of each other with furniture made from match boxes and bottle tops.  I never got the real Dream Home because we were allowed only three choices from the Sears Christmas catalog and the Dream House counted as three.

In the summer of my 12^th year, the center of my world was Camille Street in my small town of Senatobia, Mississippi.  And, the center of Camille Street in the summer time was the community swimming pool.   Starting in early May, all of us Camille Street kids pushed our noses through the chain link fence that surrounded the pool and watched as the cover came off and the scrubbing began to make the old swimming pool glisten under the blazing southern sun.  Mothers’ pool chairs were dragged out of storage and given a good cleaning.  The slide was put back on the side of the pool and the diving boards – both high and low - were installed at the deep end.  After a couple of weeks of renewal, the pool was ready to be filled with the chlorine purified water that would cool every sweaty kid on Camille Street for the next 12 weeks.

Opening day was always the Saturday of Memorial Day Weekend.  At 1:45 everyone lined up on the sidewalk outside the swimming pool gates, donning new swim suits from Baddour’s Bargain Center, a towel from the bathroom cabinet, and 50 cents.  At exactly 2:00, the concession stand window swung open, heralding the official beginning of summer.  A rainbow of colorful flip flops, floats, goggles, and water toys circled the pool as kids dropped everything, racing to be the first one to shatter the glassy stillness of the blue water.

The only thing that threatened the sheer joy of opening day at the pool was THE SHARK –an older girl who sometimes came to the pool and tried to drown me.  An older member of the Camille Street gang, this big old gal would swim under water and grab my legs and pull me under, sitting on me to hold me under water until I almost passed out.  Then she would swim away as if nothing happened and I would pop up from the deep, choking and spitting and crying.  I called her THE SHARK (not out loud, but in my head) and I always kept an eye out for her.  I guess she was my own personal bully and even today, 40-something years later, I occasionally have nightmares about her.

That summer I desperately wanted a new grown-up swim suit instead of the yellow and pink flowered one piece that I had worn the last summer – before I became an “almost teenager.” Growing up in the Hudspeth family of four kids, we wore all of our clothes as long as they fit and then passed them to the next child in line.  Though faded to a sickly looking beige, the suit still fit and my mother was determined that I get one more summer’s wear out of it.  Resigned to the fact that I would just have to wear my Davy Jones t-shirt over my swimsuit all summer, I complained miserably to my Aunt Brenda about the unfairness in my life.

 Aunt Brenda was the first person in my life that I wanted to emulate.  In 1969, she was in her 20’s, a tall, willowy brunette with a teased beehive hairdo that flipped just so on the ends and bounced when she walked.  She drove a light brown Pontiac Grand Prix, had tons of friends and a boyfriend who was a sailor.  She had a job and her own money.  She was everything I wanted to be.

“Maybe you can wear one of my suits,” she told me when I complained about my childish looking swim suit.  I was excited at that prospect, but seriously doubted that my chunky little 12-year-old body would ever fit into anything she owned.  “You can borrow one of my one-piece swim suits,” she generously offered as she dropped me off at my grandmother’s house.

I ran straight to Brenda’s room and began nosing around her stuff as I always did, looking at all the shoes, the dresses and cool jewelry she had.  Then I spotted it - the most glorious swim suit I had ever seen.  It was a shiny, black and red number with peep-a-boo holes cut out of the sides from right under the arm pit to right below the hip bone.  The center piece was just a thin strip of material held in the middle by a big gold buckle.  It was the most stunning thing I had ever seen and I scampered out of my shorts to stretch those small pieces of Lycra over my squatty square body.  As I looked at myself in full length mirror that was attached to the back of her closet, I saw a movie star.  I was no longer Mary Ann, I was Ginger. I was glamorous beyond measure.   There was only one small problem – the top part of the suit had pads about 4 inches thick turning my flat pubescent chest into a scandalous double D.  Nevermind that there was nothing under the thick foam rubber padding.  I figured nobody would notice that.   I quickly put back on my shorts and t-shirt, stuffing the swim suit into my pants so that my grandmother would not see what I was taking back home.

When the big day finally came, I was little nervous as I stood in line with my $2 to pay for my sister, two brothers and myself to swim.  This year, I thought, everyone is going to see a new, grown up Martha.

I spread my towel out on the side of the pool, a t-shirt covering my new swim suit, not quite ready for the big reveal.  Finally, the heat trumped any modesty I felt, so moved over to the side of the pool and eased myself into the water.  Just as I was pulling the t-shirt over my head, I spotted THE SHARK coming in my direction.  It was too late to pull the t-shirt back over my body because half of my head was already out of the shirt, so I pulled the shirt off and tossed it onto my towel.  I was standing in about three feet of water, the foam padding in the top of my suit literally lifting me up out of the pool, watching the devil girl swim underwater toward me.  I started scampering, trying to lift myself out of the water and onto the side of the pool, not quite able to raise my top half out of the water as the padding absorbed the water and became heavier and heavier.  Just as she reached for my foot, I felt myself being lifted out of the water and straight onto the tile beside the pool.  I looked up and straight into the face of Coach Waldrop, the Senatobia High School basketball coach who got the summer gig of managing the pool.  He pulled me straight up, grabbed my towel and wrapped it around me and marched me to the office saying, “Believe me, she could not have pulled you under, not with those buoys.”

“Does your mama know you got that on?” he asked me as I was pulling on my shirt.  “What are you thinking?  That’s not even……believable.”

“No sir, she doesn’t know,” I mumbled, so embarrassed that I knew that I would never again be able to face Coach Waldrop again.  If my mother had seen me, she would have brought the fly swatter to the pool and swatted the back of my legs all the way home.  I don’t like to even think about what my daddy would have done.

“You have plenty of time to grow up,” the coach told me.  “Don’t rush it.”

Coach Waldrop tossed me a package of Now or Laters and sent me home to change into my own swim suit.

I did go back to the pool, not that day, but the next day, perfectly happy in my own little swim suit. Thanks to Coach Waldrop, no one got a good look at my mistake; nobody made fun of me or laughed at me and he saved me from being held underwater by THE SHARK.  He lifted me right out of that bad situation and placed me on dry land.   All of us who grew up in small southern towns on streets named Camille or Magnolia or Maple, or any variation of a southern street name, were always cared for by whichever adult happened to be around.  It was typical for Ricky’s mom to fuss at me for walking barefoot to the ball field or Charlotte’s mom to tell me it was time to go inside for the night.  Many times, my daddy yelled for Lisa to get her bike out of the street.  Jackie and Kathy’s mom fed my sister lunch more often than she ate at home.  Angela showed up at our backdoor every morning for breakfast one summer, had bacon and toast, and slipped back to her house before her mom ever noticed she was missing from the front of the TV.     My brother, Andy, was so often at the home of the twins, Bob and Dave; some people thought they were triplets.   I’m sure Beverly’s mom hauled around Betty Kay as much as she did Beverly.   If one of us yelled, “MOMMA!”  - mothers all up and down the street opened the back door to see what the matter was.  When I was hurt or hungry or hot, I could have knocked on any of the doors on my street and received help or a snack or a hug.  Any of us could have – and did.

Does it really take a village to raise a child?  No, but it sure does help – especially when the village is filled with caring, loving and unforgettable adults like we grew up with on Camille Street.

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.