Category: Personal

  • different war, different century – same yearnings


    Danger, danger, danger – where are our safe places, our safe people, our safe distances from our safe people in our safe places…to mask or not to mask, that is the question. But of course we are not the only generation to wage war against enemies seen and unseen. Seven years ago I published this post about a young soldier who tried to comfort his mother on Mother’s Day from a place that existed only in her imagination.

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    The handwriting on the letters has almost faded away, the yellowed paper and envelopes  so torn and fragile I’m afraid to open them for fear they’ll disintegrate. The dates of the letters are in May of 1918, which I calculate to be 95 years ago this month. They are three letters written by a young Marine serving “somewhere” in France in World War I to his mother who evidently thought they were worthy of saving. Pretty discovered the letters  when she was on one of her fishing expeditions for treasures in old houses.  Occasionally on her adventures at yard sales or estate sales she finds words for me to read – words that someone saved for a reason. No longer wanted by family, they’re sometimes stuck inside the pages of books she buys or in a little box or even in a scrapbook tossed aside as unimportant. I don’t think the names are necessary but I will say the mother lived in Indiana. I’m glad she thought her son’s words were worthy of saving. I believe they’re worthy of being read again.

     Somewhere in France,  May 12, 1918

    Dearest Mother,

    Today is “Mother’s Day” – your day – and I wish I were home to spend the day with you.  Altho I cannot send you a big box of flowers I will endeavor to send a little flower that grows near me on a green hillside.

    I hope you are well and happy today.  Of course I realize how you feel about me being over here, the two battles you have to fight, that is, keeping up a brave front and smile when I know you feel bad about me.  Mother dear, I really am safe and the best news I get from home is that you are well and enjoying life. I would rather hear that you enjoyed a good show, say once a week, than to hear that you had denied yourself one little thing to help the Cause along. I sort of figure that you have done your bit, so please try to have a good time and remember that I don’t fare so bad.  It isn’t nearly so bad here as you all imagine.

    We eat, sleep, read magazines, letters and roam around to see everything going on. We aren’t getting any furloughs at present. I mean my outfit, but maybe it won’t be long until we can go touring again. I’ll have many stories to tell you when I get back, and I’ll trade stories for some good pies & cakes – and any eats at all that you cook. We move so much that I thought I’d have to throw away some pictures, but I’ve found a way. We always find a way. It seems a necessary part of a Marine to get along most any old place and get along well.

    I sent a list home of some things I want – and you may add on to that list a few pounds of homemade candy, preferably fudge. I don’t care how old fudge gets, it is always the best tasting eats we ever get from back there. I can buy French candy & chocolate at the Y.M.C. A. huts, so you see that we really don’t suffer for those things, but nevertheless some good old homemade candy is the stuff.

    I write you once a week, when possible, as an answer to Dad, Sis & your letters so they must not feel slighted, but this is your letter, and nearly every mother who has a son in France will get one too. Spring is coming in very beautiful, but the rain is so frequent here.  After a big rain the sun pops out with a blue sky and green hills – then everybody is happy.

    I tried to subscribe for one of the 3rd Liberty Loan Bonds but they aren’t selling them here.  I would like to have one of each issue. I have no kick coming about getting mail now as it is coming pretty regularly.  I’d appreciate some of those fried chickens you spoke about but I think I’ll wait until I come home.

    Well Mother dear, next Mother’s Day we will celebrate properly and have a good time.

    Love to Dad & Sis, and you…

    Your loving son, Buddie

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    Perhaps next Mother’s Day we will all celebrate properly and have a good time without fear of the invisible enemy that attacks us through the Covid-19 virus. Ironically this letter written in 1918 by a soldier looking forward to the spring in France was a Marine who had no way of knowing a pandemic that would sweep across the world was about to begin. The Spanish flu or the 1918 influenza pandemic began in the spring of 1918 and lasted through the summer of 1919 with an estimated 500 million confirmed cases according to Wikipedia. Did Buddie survive both the war and the virus… I wonder…

    Stay safe, stay sane and please stay tuned.

     

  • tis the season


    Mom’s 80th in her church fellowship hall in Richmond, Texas

    Thank you to our mothers for giving us birth – not a small feat, sometimes done under the most difficult circumstances – thank you for your daily sacrifices made on our behalf, for sharing our joys, sorrows, achievements, failures, dreams, fears…for being with us in sickness and health. We celebrate you if you are with us, and we honor your memory when you are gone.

    Stay safe, stay sane and please stay tuned.

     

  • my heroes have always been cowboys, but…


    The eyes of Texas are upon a real cowboy, his family, his friends and classmates today as we say farewell to one of our own. Doyle Danford passed away yesterday following complications from surgery he had several weeks ago. Doyle was a special friend of mine in the eighth grade when I was the new girl in Brazoria, Texas, the daughter of the new principal everyone was wondering about.  My classmate Doyle, his brother Neal, his younger sister Virginia lived down the short street from our house and the brothers regularly rode by on their horses. Soon the shy quiet Doyle reluctantly answered my plea for a ride with him. We rode many Sunday afternoons after church. The new girl in town had a real friend whose friendship remained for the next fifty years.

    My heroes have always been cowboys like Roy Rogers, The Lone Ranger and Sheriff Matt Dillon. I loved the good guys back in the days when they were easy to identify.   Brave men who stood tall against  villains with black mustaches curling oddly around snarling lips – those were the best. I wanted to be one of those good guys.

    Cowboys, on the other hand, rode beautiful horses, wore boots with their jeans or buckskin pants and had great wide-brimmed hats with no worries about kryptonite.   Their pretty girlfriends knew who they were and were prepared to wait for them while they fought their battles in the dusty streets or the sage covered hills. They always won because they could outdraw or outsmart their enemies. When we moved to Brazoria, I was thrilled a couple of cowboys rode past our house every weekend.

    Doyle was also my first real date which I had at the age of thirteen; that first date represented an age of enlightenment doubtless lost on him but profound for me. I found the girl sitting on the other side of me at the eighth grade Valentine’s banquet more fascinating than the young cowboy with the crewcut sitting on my right. Doyle was my good friend, but he wasn’t my boyfriend – not really.

    Doyle married his beautiful high school sweet heart Sharon and remained in Brazoria with her and their large family until his death yesterday. He did, however, put his beloved horses in a trailer to follow the rodeo circuits around the southwest for many years to win calf roping competitions while he worked to build a successful business for his family. Doyle Danford was the only real cowboy I ever knew in my life; I mourn his loss on several levels today including a part of my youth gone with him. Those days, those places, those people belong to a young girl who was happy to find a lifelong friend.

    We’re really just passing through on a journey from here to there. I haven’t quite made it to “there” yet, but Doyle made it to “there” yesterday. His legacy is a family life well lived plus an empty saddle that will pass to a new generation. Rest in peace, my friend.

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    Stay safe, stay sane and please stay tuned.

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • what’s in your wallet?


    Quick, quick – let’s get the US economy rolling again. The stock market has hit big money where it hurts most – in the pocketbook. The number of people unemployed is 30 times higher than the number of people infected with the coronavirus. Let’s reopen everything right now! Hm. Let me think about that. Meanwhile, nine years ago in August, 2011 I published this post about my love affair with numbers, money and financial mayhem. It seems strangely relevant today.

    CONFESSIONS OF A FINANCIAL ADVISOR

     Forty years is a long time or a short time, depending on your perspective.  For example, if you’re talking about your work, career, job, employment, occupation, profession—it’s a long time.  If, on the other hand, you’re talking about life expectancy, it’s definitely short.  Context is everything.

    In order to spend forty years in some variation of giving advice to people about their financial futures, I had to be in love with numbers.  The love affair began at an early age when in elementary school my mind grasped the concept of “1 + 1= 2.”  Imagine the simplicity and order and, yes, the comfort of that equation.  Consider, then, the possibility of “2 – 1 = 1.”  Astounding.  Okay, maybe not astounding, but certainly intriguing to my young mind.  Addition, subtraction, multiplication, division.  Numbers could be manipulated and re-arranged in combinations that hid secrets or unlocked them.  Context was everything.

    At some point in my educational process, numbers were combined with dollar signs.  Dollar signs represent currency values, the medium of exchange for goods and services, or “must-have’s” and “can’t-resist’s.”  We become accustomed to seeing numbers with this “$” in front of them.  We learn that good news for us is a dollar sign followed by a large number, if it indicates what we have.  Bad news is a dollar sign followed by a big number, if it signifies what we don’t have.  Again, context is everything.

    Eventually, the numbers and dollar signs blur with the addition of a comma and several zeroes, which means the numbers are so big you don’t even want to discuss them.  Millions become billions that grow into trillions, and then someone wins the lottery.  Someone else loses her retirement savings.  A national election is won or lost as a result of the number of zeroes in the unemployment levels.  New words are discovered for numbers with dollar signs.  Net income before taxes, and net operating losses before moving corporate headquarters overseas.  Deficit—a nice, neat word for spending more than we have.  Surplus, a term of endearment.  Generally accepted accounting principles, a floating lifeboat in an ocean of corruption.  Stock markets that run up like bulls when greed has a green flag, or down like bears when fear chases them to their dens.  Ratios, which have something divided by something else. Price/earnings ratios.  The words melt in your mouth, not in your hands.

    Once upon a time, numbers were written by hand and manually checked for accuracy.  Checked and cross-checked to make sure that “1 + 1” still equals 2.  Long ago and far away, hamburgers with all the trimmings cost $0.25, and a gallon of gas was the same price.  Silver quarters and silver dollars were the currency of choice.  A penny saved was truly a penny earned.  And a copper one, at that.

    In the midst of those days, I consummated my love affair with numbers and became an accountant.  Not just a plain old accountant, but the ultimate—a Certified Public Accountant.  It wasn’t easy.  Professions rarely admit new members graciously, and it took three attempts for me to pass the entrance exams.  But, I knew my numbers wouldn’t disappoint me, and they didn’t.  They welcomed me into a world of debits and credits and spreadsheets that generated financial statements and the obligatory returns of the Internal Revenue Service.  It was a world I inhabited and embraced for twenty years.

    During that period, from 1968 to 1988, my faithful adding machine with the little spool of white tape that could be checked, torn off, and stapled to paperwork as a record of accuracy was my constant companion.  Regardless of the task, numbers were printed on white tape and preserved.  How could there be a shred of doubt about anything when numbers supported your position?  Need a bank loan?  Net income must be high.  Paying income taxes?  Taxable income must be low.  Which brings us to another new word—reconciliation, a word commonly used in domestic disputes but also invaluable in financial circles.  Numbers must be “reconciled” to tell different stories to different audiences.  Their historical framework must be plainly visible to the untrained eye.  Context is everything.

    And then one day towards the end of that time of long ago and far away, the numbers were swallowed by a machine called a computer.  They were devoured and simply vanished from their connection to the people and values they represented.  All control of reality was relinquished to a keyboard attached to a screen.  As I watched those screens over the next twenty years, numbers with dollar signs zoomed through cyberspace and into a Twilight Zone of futuristic projections with reckless abandon.  New Age economics clashed with Old World mathematics.  Did “1 + 1” still equal 2?  No one really cared.  Numbers were about possibilities, and the hopes and dreams of financial freedom with a few chronicled trends tossed in for good measure.

    By the year 2008, hamburgers with all the trimmings, in the world of the here-and-now, up close and personal, cost twelve quarters, and they weren’t really silver ones.  A gallon of gas cost more than the hamburger, and the price was determined by a four-letter word group called OPEC, which was run by men who lived across the Big Water and not just down the street.

    Since it’s impractical to carry enough quarters to buy hamburgers today for a family of four, we traded our coins for paper currency that is lighter in weight, which makes it easier to transport, and also encourages a whole new industry of manufacturing wallets and pocketbooks.  To ensure that Americans will purchase several of these to carry their currency, we have created “designer” brands with diverse colors, shapes, and sizes for the discriminating consumer.  Our paper dollars require protection and easy accessibility with a pronounced element of style.

    The paper money supply is monitored by various governmental agencies and the vast wasteland that is the financial media.  In the 21st century, it is now possible for all computers to talk to each other and for bank customers to swipe debit cards that look like credit cards to quickly access money from their bank accounts for purchasing goods and services without actually producing the paper.   Abracadabra.   Whoosh – the money flies out of one account and into another one as long as you remember your personal identification number which is subject to theft unless you protect your identity by paying more money to watchdog security systems.   Additionally, hundreds of thousands of advisors and analysts can experience the joys and frustrations of instant mass information, which bombards us every time we refresh our television or computer or iPad or iPhone or some other newer screens yet to be developed. Experts are available for every topic.

                Question: “What do I need to do to save for retirement?”

    Expert #1: “You are alone. You need to do it yourself.  Stay tuned to my television show, and I will teach you the secrets that have made me the gigantic success I am today.  Subscribe to my newsletter.  Buy my books.”

    Expert #2: “You are not alone, but you can do this yourself.  If you call my toll-free number, someone will personally help you in this time of financial uncertainty.  We are your friends.”

                Expert #3: “You cannot do this by yourself.  You need to work with an advisor who understands your needs and objectives.  Professional advice is the surest way to success.  We care about you.”

    You see the problem.  So many experts, so little time.  And context?  Clearly, it isn’t everything any more.  Context is defined and massaged to frame five-minute segments on twenty-four-hour, seven-days-a-week news programs.  In five minutes, answers are given to economic questions that have plagued theorists for years.  Five minutes later, different responses to the same questions create confusion for the listeners brave enough to stay tuned.  In the immortal words of Andrew Shepherd, the President in The American President, “It’s a world gone mad, Gil.”

     As for me, my forty years with numbers were good ones and passed too quickly. The people behind the numbers were always real and taught me many lessons that I would have never learned without them.  From parents planning for their children’s education, to seniors securing their estates for their families, to the gay and lesbian couples who were forced to find alternatives in planning for their futures because they had no legal status, I saw that the use of financial resources often reflected the caring character of my clients who owned them.  I am grateful to those clients and friends for their trust, which I diligently tried to earn through the values instilled in me by my dad—treat everyone equally and with respect because every person matters. And, most importantly, keep your sense of humor.

    Once in a while, when you lose that comedic edge and worry too much about the numbers and dollar signs, try to remember that it’s only paper, after all.  And, for perspective and context, avoid watching more than one financial guru at a time on whatever channel you select for your financial news.

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    Pretty trying to get our granddaughter to nap yesterday

    Yes, I know the photo is totally irrelevant to the subject matter, but Ella’s Nanas are shamelessly fascinated with her – even when she sleeps. Oh my goodness.

    Stay safe, stay sane and please stay tuned.

  • dropkick me, Jesus


    When I was a high school student in West Columbia, Texas (what are the odds of living in West Columbia, South Carolina sixty years later?) I was a member of the “pep squad” which cheered for our football team every Friday night in the fall under lights that were as important to our town as those in the 2006 – 2011 TV series Friday Night Lights. Our team, the Columbia High Roughnecks, weren’t nearly as successful as the fictional team in Dillon, Texas but that didn’t matter. We loved them anyway. At home during football season my daddy and I loved to watch the UT Longhorns on Saturdays along with the bowl games during the holidays. On Sunday afternoons my daddy, granddaddy and I watched the Dallas Cowboys together.  We were a football family – the following is a post I published in March, 2015.

    My love affair with country music is rivaled only by my love affair with football and until very early this morning when I was in the kitchen making toast for Pretty to have before she went to work, I never knew their paths had crossed. Country music and football, that is.

    I could hardly believe my ears. As a matter of fact, I thought I had misunderstood the words I heard. I was fixing toast that refused to brown for some reason known only to the stove that is possessed by evil demons named Burning and Undercooking when I thought I heard the words dropkick me Jesus blaring from the country classics radio station playing on the TV.  What’s that you say? Stick with me Jesus? Is that a country classic? Maybe gospel country music?

    Two things as background. One, my AT&T U-verse decided over the weekend to change its music programming to a different venue and now uses something called Stingray for all music channels. Two, I hate change.

    But I am between hell and hackeydam in this case and must use the new station if I want to hear the country classics. Many of the “classics” on this new station are different so it’s possible I won’t recognize some of the tunes I hear anymore. (Where’s Willie when you need him?)  So when I thought I heard the lyrics dropkick me Jesus I assumed I didn’t really hear those exact words – just maybe something like those…which is common for my super-senior hearing.

    But then I clearly heard the lyrics I’ve got the will Lord, if you got the toe. I lost the padded glove I was using to pull the toast from the oven and rushed around the corner past the liquor cabinet to the den where the TV showed the current song with its artist. Sure enough, as Granny Selma used to say when she was in her right mind, Bobby Bare was singing:

    Dropkick me Jesus through the goalposts of life

    End over end, neither left nor the right…

    Straight through the heart of them righteous uprights

    Dropkick me Jesus through the goalposts of life.

    The song went on with references to the departed brothers and sisters forming some sort of offensive line, but mostly it repeated the title enough times that I knew the refrain by heart. Actually, I doubt I’ll ever forget it. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.

    Bobby Bare recorded the song written by Paul Craft in 1976. How could I have missed this gem for so many years. Thank goodness I caught it today. I will mull over the sentiments of dropkick me, Jesus for at least the rest of the week, and to think I owe it all to the Stingray music channel I didn’t know I wanted or needed – the same channel which is now playing Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.

    I’ll put that on hold for another day.

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    As the Covid-19 pandemic continues to ramble like a wrecking ball through our lives, I wonder about sports in general, football in particular because decisions will soon have to be made determining the fate of the 2020-21 season. I don’t envy the calls those officials will have to make, but I hope the decisions are made with more than a coin toss.

    Stay safe, stay sane and stay tuned.

    Pretty holds Ella who is fascinated by Charly

    (Charly hasn’t quite figured Ella out yet)

    This is a totally unrelated picture taken yesterday from our screened porch.