Memories are made of this

My ex-father-in-law, Charles, passed away several weeks ago, and last Saturday my youngest son and I attended a celebration of his life. I hadn’t seen my ex-mom-in-law Jean for many years, although we’ve kept in touch in recent years by e-mail. Jean is a wonderful, kind, loving woman whose life centered around her husband, children and grandchildren. She is, in today’s terms, Awesome! How many 87 year olds can send e-mail and surf the web? Almost all of her extended family was there, and it was a house full of love – and food – and noise – several of the grandchildren have children of their own now.

Even though I hadn’t seen many of them for years, or since the last family gathering at the funeral of my ex-husband Don, I was welcomed warmly. The kids I knew as – well, kids – are all grown up and have interesting lives and fond memories of the time when I was their aunt-in-law. Thanks, Cassie, for telling me how much that trip to Virginia meant to you.

There was a slide show dating to the late 60’s and 70’s – the hair, the clothes, oh, the humanity! There I was as a college coed, all 114 pounds of me, and there was our wedding day, our children, Lynn & Ed’s children … as the family grew, there was one constant – proud, happy Jean, doing the only thing she ever wanted to do, taking care of her family. Charles didn’t appear too often – Jean said he was probably on the golf course. He loved the family, but was not as expressive as she was.

Charles E. Wetzel was a good man, a man born into a family of modest means who managed, although married with 3 children, to graduate from Rice University, a school known for its difficulty and high standards. He served his country in the Army Air Corps before that. He became a very successful CPA in Houston, then retired and played golf some more. I hear he learned to cook and invited their friends for sumptuous meals. He was a talented musician, started the choir at his church and played organ for many years, and sang beautifully. His son Don got some of the musical talent – although he was better at playing the guitar than singing. Our son Jeff got the voice.

I always respected Charles, but never got to know him well. It was difficult for him to express emotion. The last years of his life were difficult, but I will always remember him as he was in my favorite photo of him. Jeff was 6 weeks old, and he was cradled in his grandfather’s arms, his eyes gazing deeply into his grandfather’s eyes, and there was so much love. Rest in peace, dear Charles

Texans Don’t Like Ike

While we were watching Gustav a couple of weeks ago, Tropical Storm Ike was reving up to cross the Atlantic and strike a killing blow on Haiti, Cuba and other spots in between Africa and the Gulf of Mexico.  This time, having learned some hard lessons from Katrina and Rita, the people of the Texas Gulf Coast starting preparing for him.  All the officials (or at least most of them) worked together to coordinate evacuations for those in the most vulnerable areas and to educate those who would “shelter in place” – get water, batteries, non-perishable food, batteries, fill up the gas tank, etc.  Most people heeded the word, but not all.  Some on Galveston Island and some coastal communities remembered the nightmare of trying to go north during Rita, stuck in traffic for days, and said they’d rather take their chances. Some said they’d never cut and run before, and they didn’t plan to now either – they stocked up on beer and bullets and waited for the fun to start.   The officials gave more dire warnings every day, as Ike grew stronger and more deadly than any storm in recent memory. They had buses to take people to shelters, they said pets could come too, but 20,000 people just wouldn’t leave.  Even when the streets of Galveston started flooding many hours before the storm hit …

I was not in an evacuation area. My son and I rode out the storm just fine.  The power was out for a couple of days, there was no gas to be found, storms and restaurants were closed, but we were okay.  We had our bottled water, our food, flashlights.  Neighbors came out after the storm and started helping each other out.  Gangs of chainsaw-toting husbands marched around the streets cutting up downed trees while the women cleaned out freezers and prepared picnics.  It was not so bad, not for us, the prudent, the prepared.

Down on the island, and on Crystal Beach and Bolivar Peninsula those who stayed and survived were lining up for ice and water and food. There was no electricity, no water, little health care, and it would be weeks before things could return to even near normal.  Some people were rescued during the storm by brave men and women who shouldn’t have had to put themselves in such danger. Some asked to be evacuated after all.  Even though the death toll is low so far, some of the communities appear to have been wiped off the map. I hope the people who lived in the houses now buried under a layer of sand were among the ones who heeded the warnings and left, but I know there were some who didn’t. The days ahead will be hard, so hard the mayor of Galveston has asked everyone who is not a part of the recovery process to leave.

Hurricane Ike – it was the best of times – neighbors working together, strangers helping those less fortunate, government agencies performing their jobs well — it was the worst of times – looting, price gouging, people who have electricity and food going to the PODs to get free stuff meant for those who don’t. We are living in interesting times.

Watching Gustav

As I was getting ready for work this morning, the weatherperson on Channel 11 said “we’re watching Gustav.” The hurricane season is heating up, and every week or two we’re watching some tropical storm or other, hoping it will just fizzle out before it gets to us. We’ve been lucky since the memorable season of 2005, when Katrina and its aftereffects messed up New Orleans and sent Houston 250,000 new citizens, and her sister Rita a few weeks later sent our area into a tizzy. Will we be lucky this season? We’re watching Gustav, just as we watched Eduard a couple of weeks ago. I still have my hurricane supplies of batteries and bottled water, canned tuna and beans, from that non-event.

There was a time when I loved hurricane season. My dad was in the Navy, and hurricanes were just part of our lives, from Key West to Charleston to Norfolk.  My siblings and I always thought it was a fine adventure, a time when Mother cooked up most of the food in the refrigerator, packed the freezer with ice, and got out the kerosene lamps.  Our  most exciting  storm  knocked a tree into our roof.  My grandparents were visiting, and I was sure they  were  having a great adventure too.  Our grownups must have been  excellent at hiding their fears, because the kids were never scared.

My dad retired and we moved to hurricane-less Dallas.  I grew up, went to college in high and dry Lubbock, and married. My husband was in the Army, and my first son was born at Ft. Eustis, near the Chesapeake Bay, during Hurricane Christine.  I watched it from my hospital window, not afraid, but not as excited as I was in my youthful innocence.  Damage was done, and people’s lives were disrupted.

I’ve been in Houston since 1974, and weathered many hurricanes and tropical storms. The worst damage we’ve had came from a mere tropical storm, Allison.  She hung around and dumped vast quantities of rain over the city.  The medical center was hit hard, and valuable lessons were learned.  One big one – don’t put your emergency generators in the basement!

The freeways were under water, 18-wheelers floating like toys in a bathtub.  Wasn’t that a storm!  Then came Katrina. Houstonians watched our neighbors suffer, and rallied to their aid, filling the Astrodome – which was nice and dry, cool, and clean, but still not home – and other shelters, filling warehouses with clothes and supplies.  Lessons were learned then too – if you’re in a danger zone, get out if you can.  Also, you can’t depend on your government to help you … We were barely done with Katrina when Rita reared her ugly and dangerous head.  She was a monster, quickly becoming a category 5, and heading straight for the Texas coast, vulnerable Galveston Island, and Houston, 50 miles inland.  What we didn’t learn from the other storms is – don’t panic, use some common sense.  If you’re in the city, 50 miles inland, as I said, let the folks on the island and immediate coast get out of harm’s way before you take to the very few highways and byways north or west.

I was watching Rita’s progress, starting Monday.  On Tuesday, non-essential staff  members were  released from work to prepare for the Big One.  I started  packing essentials, planning to go to my parents’ home in Dallas on Thursday.  By Wednesday, the roads were already jammed, and I was re-thinking that plan.  My parents were worried, but I said I’d rather wait until the roads cleared some.  They never did. You say it on tv, people sitting for hours in 100 degree heat, no water or food, no restrooms, no gas.  People got sick, and some died.  I let my friends & family know I would be sitting this one out.  My friend Judy in Connecticut said “can’t you take the train?” I had to laugh – we don’t do trains down south.

I was busy, busy busy the next couple of days, trying to figure out what was most precious so I could protect it.  Photos, mementos, my first edition signed copies of Kinky Friedman’s books … I figured the roof might come off, so I carried things downstairs. Then I considered the likely flooding, and carried it back upstairs. Then I thought, what the hell, I’ll put what I can on the stairs, put Kinky in a plastic water-tight container, and hope for the best.

As Rita drew nearer, she was downgraded to a 4. I talked to my dad, said we’d been through lots of storms like that safely, hadn’t we, and he said yes we had.  I sat up most of the night, watching the tree outside my window swaying in the wind, and by morning it was all over.

Now we’re watching Gustav. I think Kinky is still in that tote, but I better check.

Woody Fest

Just got back from the 11th annual Woody Fest in Okemah, Oklahoma, and boy, am I tired! For several days I hung out with my Blunderite friends and listened to some fine folk singers and got to meet some of them. Who knew John Gorka was so funny?

Judy Beisler, John Gorka, Shirley Wetzel

Or that John Flynn is so darn cute, in addition to being super-talented.

Sean & John Flynn at WoodyFest

Or that Annie Guthrie, who I first met when she was 12, would turn out to be a fantastic singer/song writer – well, I guess I should have expected that. All of Arlo & Jackie’s kids are in the music business now. Here’s Cathy & Annie Guthrie and Tony Lee Thomas, Annie’s great good friend

WoodyFest 2008

Other performers – Terry “Buffalo” Ware, Don Conoscenti, Monica Taylor, Audrey Auld-Mezera (all the way from Tasmania!), Ellis Paul

Terry "Buffalo" Ware, Don Conoscenti, Monica Taylor, Audrey Auld-Mezera, Ellis Paul

One highlight – getting to visit with Woody’s little sister, Mary Jo. She is truly the Queen of Okemah!

Mary Jo (Guthrie) & Shirley

Judy Collins was the headliner. She is a legend for sure, but her act didn’t quite fit into the Woody Fest model. She came, she sang, she left. The other singers mingle with each other and with the audience, they back each other up on stage, they don’t put on airs – just the kind of behavior Woody would expect. It’s a great festival, and I hope I’ll be going there for many years to come.

My friends & I had some fun on the way back to Houston:

Self-explanatory

Kitty & Scary Elvis

Another place where we couldn't eat

Lee Child Rocks!

I spent Sunday afternoon in the company of the charming, handsome, and devilishly talented mystery author Lee Child. Alas for me, there was also a roomful of other fans of his Jack Reacher series, at Houston’s finest bookstore, Murder by the Book. Reacher is an American ex-M.P. – Military Police, not Member of Parliament. Lee is British, but he writes American very well. The audience was a mix of middle-aged ladies such as I, older and younger ladies, macho and would-be macho guys, not macho at all guys, some older folks of both sexes, and a sprinkling of teenagers who seemed to be there because they wanted to be there, not just because their parents dragged them along.

I don’t usually go for violence in my mysteries, but the mayhem in Reacher’s world seems right and necessary. One audience member. with a British accent, asked Lee if he’d ever thought of making Reacher British, and Lee explained that Reacher is really an international character with ancient roots in all cultures – the brave knight, the Shogun, the Western pale rider, the loner with no attachments, who rides – or hitchhikes – into town, sees some wrongs that need righting, makes them right, then rides off into the sunset.

Lee is a gentle soul with a wild imagination. He is generous to new writers, patient and kind to his fans, willing to spend hours signing every last ragged paperback that’s brought to the signing, very funny – he told us he’d had 3 new experiences on this book tour – he was asked to sign a Kindle, he had to get a tooth pulled, and he talked to a couple who’d given their son the middle name of Reacher and met a dog named Jack Reacher. Little Jack (the dog) was at the signing, wearing a camo t-shirt.

Anyway, I could go on and on, but I’ll just say, if you haven’t discovered Lee Child, try him, you’ll like him. And Lee, I will never put my Jack Reacher, Deputy of Despair, Colorado badge on eBay!

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My Mother’s Garden

Ours was a Navy family, and we moved fairly often while I was growing up. The first thing Mother did after we got settled in to our new place was plant her garden. She brought cuttings of antique roses from back home in Texas, and they flourished in Florida, Charleston, Norfolk, San Diego, anywhere we went. She and Dad have been settled in Dallas for 45 years, and she got to have her dream garden. Here’s a picture of one of her rose bushes:

More Copper Canyon

Moose love

Why mooses, you might ask?  It’s a long story, here goes:  It’s all because of Arlo Guthrie.  As I said before, he has a lot to answer for, and I am very happy about that.  Getting to know him and the good folks I’ve met because of him has enriched my life and put some much-needed silliness into it.  Mooses – Arlo wrote a kid’s book called Mooses Come Walking several years ago. He wrote the text, and Alice – you remember Alice? did the illustrations.  Mooses became part of the Blunderite iconology. Not such a long story after all …

A Death in Texas

No, I’m not talking about a particular Texas death, but the upcoming anthology from FInal Twist, my local chapter of Sisters in Crime. It will be out in the fall, and it will contain my first published short story – yay, me! titled Feels Like Home. There’s lots of other great stories from my sister writers as well. Here’s the cover – love those Texas bluebonnets! My story is set in my hometown, Comanche, Texas, and to my kinfolks and the citizens of Comanche past and present, I want to say “hey y’all, the crime and the characters are all products of my imagination, or based just a tiny little bit on real events twisted around into complete fiction, so don’t be thinking I’m writing about real people. The wonderful town is real, of course, and all the good things I say about it are true.

Trip to Bountiful

I’m back at workafter a refreshing and fruitful weekend spent with my mother and sister. Mother, now 87, wanted to return to our home town – Comanche, Texas, as you will remember — to take care of unfinished business and say a few goodbyes to people and places she loves. First we visited Aunt Loez in the nursing home in Dublin (Texas, home of the true Dr Pepper). Aunt L. is Mother’s sister-in-law twice over, married to Mother’s one and only brother Bill, and sister to Hulbert Robertson, Mother’s first husband, who died in WWII. She has Alzheimers, but still knows who we are. She seems happy, and we found out why. “Bill is around here somewhere — he’s still in the service, you know, and I just follow him everywhere.”

Uncle Bill left the Army in 1956, and died several years ago, but he was a strong personality, and if anyone could manage to commune with his loved ones from the Great Beyond he could. I feel sure he is there with her, and that’s the way it should be.

Next we went to see my cousin Mary in the nursing home in Comanche. Mary is a no nonsense, plain spoken woman who’s always known just who she was and where she was going. She hates anyone making a fuss over her, so she didn’t let us know that she is very ill with lung cancer (no, she wasn’t a smoker) and only has a few months to live. We found out, of course, and made a fuss over her anyway. She was amazing, serene, matter-of-fact. “I’ve lived long enough (early 70’s) and done what I wanted to do and I don’t mind moving on.” I hope I will have such dignity and strength when it’s my time. Mother was disappointed that there will be no funeral, just a cremation with no ceremony. People of her age need to have that last bit of pomp and ceremony to send their dear ones to their heavenly reward. I admit I find comfort in a memorial ceremony of some kind, but people have the right to decide how they want to be ushered into eternity.

We next visited the Comanche museum, and it is a wonderful place, full of local history. I got to meet Fredda Jones, the wonderful lady who’s spent the last year assembling and editing a history of the county, trying to make sense of 700 or so family stories submitted to her. Mother had great fun talking to some of the older volunteers about the olden days, and about how Great-Grandma Davis whipped her feather mattress into shape every morning, and about doing laundry in an iron pot using lye soap. Umm, umm, those gold ol’ days!

We then visited the funeral home so Mother could pick out a memorial stone for her first husband. He died in Wales, and is buried in the American Cemetery near Cambridge, England, and she’s always wanted a marker for him in the Taylor’s Chapel cemetery where his parents and other relatives are resting, and by golly she doesn’t care if my father likes it or not, she’s going to honor Hulbert. My long-suffering father understands, even though she doesn’t think he does, and it’s okay with him. We’re hoping to have a ceremony on Memorial Day, with the many Robertson neices and nephews and cousins in attendance. Mother has a bag of soil and some flowers and ferns from the site of the plane crash, and some small pieces of the plane, and they will be buried beneath the stone. I think it is terribly touching and I am glad I can help her get her wish.

Time marches on … on the way back from Comanche to Dallas, I put on Alan Jackson’s album of old gospel songs, the kind Mother grew up on, and we all sang along. It was a great girls’ day out.

On the way from Dallas to Houston I came across a bad wreck. An ambulance was idling, no lights, no hurry to take anyone to a hospital. A large piece of metal was leaning against the railing – as I got closer I saw that it had been a car, now pressed as flat as though a car crusher had smashed it. All the cars in front of and behind me crept through the scene and stayed at the speed limit for several miles, before they put the pedal to the metal and dismissed their brush with mortality, going on with their own busy lives.

Despite the sadness of saying goodbye to some we can’t afford to lose, it was a wonderful trip. In 2 weeks, I will be doing a similar trip for my dad. See yo somewhere down the road …

Hey, Bill Crider, I picked up a couple of 6 packs of Dublin Dr Pepper, should I save you some?