a pre-thanksgiving meltdown

Pretty and I have so much to be thankful for this year I plan to do a Very Thankful Thanksgiving post in the next few days – complete with pictures of our six weeks old baby granddaughter. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday between Halloween and New Year’s Day because the traditions of family times and places on that holiday  linger in my memories alongside my hopes for the promises of a new year.

However, I also have much for which I am not thankful as the year comes to a close. I live in a polarized country that now has the weight of an impeachment process in the Congress, the  “almost third” such process (I saw Nixon resign and walk away with his now famous V sign in 1974) in my lifetime. Nixon. Clinton. And now Trump. The public hearings that began this week gave the American people a better understanding of a president who apparently serves at and for his own pleasure. This is not a pretty picture, and as Wanda Sykes likes to say when she makes fun of white people and our free-floating guilt, it makes me sad.

As if the impeachment process weren’t enough to make me less thankful, I find the more compelling news articles in 2019 weren’t articles of impeachment but those regarding the creation of detention centers along the southern borders of my home state ofTexas and other states to accommodate the thousands of Latino refugees seeking asylum from persecution in their own countries.

An image forever etched in my brain is of Salvadoran Oscar Alberto Martinez Ramirez and his 23-month-old daughter Valeria who drowned trying to cross the Rio Grande River from Mexico to safety in the United States in June of 2019. Their story is only one of many who made the treacherous journey to the US only to find – not freedom – but incarceration in a detention system run by for-profit companies that are often more interested in what they are paid than the people in their care.

According to The Guardian.com the number of persons living in detention centers throughout the United States totals 52,722 as of September 10, 2019. Unbelievable.

On our way home from babysitting our grandbaby tonight, Pretty asked me to please stop being so negative about the football coach, the football team, the rainy weather, the cold weather, politics, the president and whatever else we were talking about. Evidently I had a pre-Thanksgiving meltdown right there in the car. She told me my passionate outpourings made her more worried and raised her anxiety level. When I asked her whether she didn’t share my thoughts, she said she did indeed about almost everything I’d brought up but she preferred keeping her opinions to herself and offered a suggestion to me that I do the same. I told her I felt less anxious if I spoke up and shared my worries with her.

Hm. Maybe I should limit my negative opinions to my blogs. Now there’s an idea Pretty will support.

Stay tuned for my Very Thankful Thanksgiving post.








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PT – I see light at the end of the tunnel, but the train headed toward me today

Good morning … or afternoon, he said glancing at the clock on the wall, why don’t you come over here and we can talk while we wait?

I glanced around the usually filled waiting room at the rehab facility to see an elderly man  sitting by himself. He was wearing a Vietnam Veteran cap so I knew he was retired military and probably about my age.The white hair definitely looked like my hair color. His blue jeans did their best to hang in there under the weight of a man whose belly fell over the belt struggling with the blue jeans. I recognized that look and the battle with the jeans because I fought that same battle every day. Yep, we were two old people sitting in a rehab waiting room. Evidently one of us was looking for conversation.

Sure, I said with what I hoped was an air of conviviality, and sat down in a chair across from him. Not too close but closer than I would normally sit with someone as I waited for my PT trainer to appear  with a wave that signaled I was up next.

What would you like to talk about? I asked him, expecting a dialogue in which we compared our progress in rehab and complained about how hard it was to get better once you’d had knee replacement surgery or some other body part that was now a foreign object in opposition to our own natural parts that had worn away with age.

Politics, he said rather abruptly, but seemingly something that popped out of his mouth with no forethought.

I was stunned. I was on the short side of time with my second knee’s rehab, and I had sat in that same waiting room 44 times during the past six months, and not one time had anyone mentioned the word politics to me. Just my luck – I was ready for the light at the end of the tunnel, and here comes a train.

Uh, actually I don’t think politics is a good topic for us today, I said with what I hoped was a degree of innocence.

Why not? he asked.

Well, I said, as I quickly ran through 40 years of political activism in my mind, I don’t think you and I would be quite on the same page in a political discussion. You see, I’m what’s now referred to as an ancestral Democrat and I’m very aware that this county has only a few of us – I’m guessing only one in this waiting area.

He thought about that for a second, then frowned. I gave 21 years of my life to the military and another 25 in civil service, he said. I’ve got two types of health insurance – Medicare and another one, and you (pointing a finger at me) have got candidates running around talking about Medicare for all and taking away my health insurance plans. I don’t like that. I don’t want to hear about it.

First of all,  I said, thank you for your service to our country and I believe you should have any benefits available so I am very happy for your retiree benefits. Some of the Democratic candidates have other ideas for health care so we won’t know until the primaries whose ideas will win the day. He continued to frown.

Luckily, I was saved at that moment by my PT trainer who brought this man’s wife out from the training area. No wonder we hadn’t talked about rehab – he wasn’t there for his own sake. He had brought his wife who was celebrating her last day in PT.  She hugged my trainer who had already motioned in my direction.

I saw the train whiz by without incidence as light reappeared at the end of the tunnel. Only four PT sessions left. Get me out of here, Percy.

Stay tuned.





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quid pro quo? mother goose says hell, no! it’s a shakedown!

Pretty began today by announcing she wished we turned back the clocks every night. If we did, she continued, she would be out of bed every morning at a respectable hour. That’s hilarious, I said, and laughed.

Our conversation went downhill from there because I was watching the news, of course, and Pretty tuned in long enough to give her opinion on the latest WSJ/NBC poll which showed 46% of those questioned would vote against Agent Orange in 2020,  34% said they planned to support AO for sure, and 17% said their vote depended on the candidate – to which Pretty added the comment that the 17% were ashamed to say they would vote for AO again. You go, Pretty.  Snap! Pretty really shines when she has that extra hour of sleep.

Frankly, my dears, our topic shifted from the quid pro quo of Agent Orange that precipitated the formal impeachment proceedings against him this week – the topic of the Sunday morning news programs – to an old Mother Goose Rhymes book published in MCMLIII (1953 for those of you who are struggling with your Roman Numerals) by Platt & Munk Publishers. Now what is the reason for our newfound interest in nursery rhymes?

Because we have a grandbaby in the nursery, and she apparently is wild about Pretty’s version of Pat A Cake which includes animation and bears slight resemblance to the version in the Mother Goose Rhymes book. But whatever works, right?

I decided to reacquaint myself with the Mother Goose tales in the book and was pleased to recognize several favorites I could still recite to our new grandbaby.

Mary had a little lamb,

Its fleece was white as snow;

And everywhere that Mary went

The lamb was sure to go.

Now that was as easy as the ones about Jack and Jill, Little Boy Blue and Little Jack Horner who sat in a corner and stuck his thumb where he really shouldn’t have. But then I ran across one of the rhymes I’d forgotten.

There was a crooked man, and

he went a crooked mile,

And he found a crooked sixpence

against a crooked stile;

He bought a crooked cat, which

caught a crooked mouse,

And they all lived together in a 

little crooked house.

That Mother Goose had it going on. Who knew she could be so prescient about politics in the 21st. century. Substitute Agent Orange as the “crooked man,” and all the other “crookeds” fall into place. He bought a few crooked cats named Giuliani, Barr, Pence, and  Pompeo who conspired to withhold aid appropriated by Congress for an ally that was in a precarious position until this ally dug up dirt on a political opponent in the 2020 election. Mother Goose might think this quid pro quo was what she would call an old-fashioned shakedown.

And now they all live together in the West Wing of the White House.

I’m not teaching Ella this rhyme until the crooked man has slipped off the wall with Humpty Dumpty.

Stay tuned.



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Chick Rebels in Words and Music: Molly Ivins and Linda Ronstadt

I dearly love the state of Texas, but I consider that a harmless perversion on my part, and discuss it only with consenting adults. – Molly Ivins (1944 – 2007)
Molly Ivins was a writer best known for her columns in more than 400 newspapers across the country which poked fun at her favorite targets: the corrupt Texas legislature, George Dubya Bush and Bill Clinton, her adopted state of Texas, bubbas in that state, herself, and the breast cancer that eventually killed her. A best selling author, humorist and speaker, she became one of the most famous female storytellers  ever to claim the state of Texas as her own – to run with that image as the tall Texan in her cowboy boots,  her pickup truck and  her dog named Shit as she mixed it up with the most powerful people in the state capital of Austin.  At her height of 6 feet she was easily spotted at the bars and cocktail parties where she drank with enthusiasm and was frequently overserved. Alcoholism was an addiction she considered necessary for her humor, but the laughs came with a steep price.
I grew up in Arizona. I love it. I’m a part of the desert. I feel like, really I’m from the Sonoran Desert, which extends to both sides of the border. I’m really from that part of Mexico, also. And I hate that there’s a fence, you know running through it. Linda Ronstadt (1946 – )
Linda Ronstadt was two years younger than Molly Ivins and came from a state farther west;  she told her stories with musical notes rather than simply relying on written words. A voice with a truly pure sound that defied labels, her eclectic genres included rock and roll, hard rock, soft rock, folk, art rock,  country, gospel, rhythm and blues, opera, standard American classics, Mexican mariachi, pop, five golden rings and a partridge in a pear tree. She became a female musical powerhouse in America during the 1960s and 70s when the profession was male and drug dominated – not necessarily in that order. Linda avoided heavy drugs but succumbed to an addiction for diet pills that plagued her at various times during her ten years on the road. In 2011 she retired due to the onset of Parkinson’s disease, a disease that also affected her maternal grandmother, a disease that has taken away her voice.
This past weekend Pretty and I went to see two documentaries…Linda Ronstadt: The Sound of My Voice and Raise Hell: The Life and Times of Molly Ivins. I’m glad we saw them close together almost like an old double feature because I had an opportunity to reflect on the lives of two women who used their individual voices of celebrity and talent to challenge the politics and culture of the newspaper and entertainment industries at a time when women across the globe sought to make their own voices heard wherever they worked and lived. Post World War II women never again would fit nicely into their ticky tacky boxes that all looked just the same. The times they were, indeed, a changing for women – Molly Ivins and Linda Ronstadt were two of them.
Stay tuned.


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I TAWT I TAW A PUTTY TAT, but Mick says I didn’t

Give credit where credit is due. Mick Mulvaney was actually born in Alexandria, Virginia – not South Carolina, according to his Wikipedia profile, and grew up in Charlotte, North Carolina. He didn’t attend any schools or colleges in South Carolina but at some point in his life he moved to a Charlotte suburb called Indian Land which is, indeed, just across the state line in South Carolina.

His political career began with four years in the SC state legislature so my state gets total recognition for the man who would be Acting Chief of Liars in the West Wing of the current chaotic administration that belongs to Agent Orange turning to Red.

Here’s the thing, Mick. I watched your entire infamous press conference last Thursday, the 17th., in living color on a regular tv from my favorite ancient recliner in the den. I wasn’t streaming on any devices. I didn’t take a break to go to the kitchen to get a Butterfinger.  I didn’t walk around outside with my dogs. No one interrupted your comments by calling or texting me. Nope. I saw the whole thing.


Several hours after I watched you spell out Agent Orange’s foreign policy as a pay for play high stakes game with our national security twisting in the wind, you called Mulligan which is a word used by golfers to get another shot when they knock the ball so far out of the fairway they’ll never find it in the woods. Mulligan, mulligan, you cried. I never said any of that about Quid Pro Quo or any of those other things like Get Over It or We do it (foreign policy) All the Time This Way. Never. Never. Never. It’s just those mean old liberal media peeps getting the words turned around to suit their evil intentions to undermine Agent Orange who is, as we all know, out to make not only America great again but restore Civilization as well.

Hm. I wonder if you still have that minority interest in Salsarita’s restaurant chain? Maybe that experience will qualify you for an executive position in the successful hospitality business you claim is the ultimate goal of Agent Orange “in the end.”

Because the end is headed your way as surely as a freight train coming at you. There’s no light at the end of your tunnel.

Stay tuned.



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who won the debate last night? don’t ask Pretty and me

Pretty and I actually watched the Dems debate last night together all the way to the end of the three hours plus a few minutes over (which was significant because Pretty typically gets her debate news from Twitter so I struggled along by myself on the first three and since I struggled by myself, I set a personal limit of two hours… then I stuck a fork in either them or me).

As we listened and watched last night, we talked about the candidates to begin to make our own short list out of  the dozen on the stage to a manageable group of four or five.  That number was arbitrary on our part, although some of the political pundits ostensibly favored the smaller number for the November (gasp! another one so soon?) debate.

Throughout the evening I gave in to my selfish leanings toward the candidates who promised me the largest increase in my monthly income.  For those of us who live on fixed incomes, that’s a major concern. Andrew Yang was the clear winner on that score with his continued MATH (Make America Think Harder) promise of $1,000 per month to every citizen, but I have to admit even I have begun to question the concept of the VAT – value added tax – since it’s passed along to the poorest consumers who may need the extra $1,000 just to keep up with the large increases in the costs of food, gas,  shelter, automobiles, computers, etc. which is short for Everything The Consumer needs.

Pretty, who has never been a member of the Yang Gang, vetoed him again last night.

Senator Kamala Harris who was my first choice for the nominee before any of the debates, cuts Yang’s promise of $1,000 per month to $500 per month – her solution advocates a $6,000 earned income credit for everyone who needs it. Oh well, maybe not everyone who needs it, but I feel sure I would qualify under any plan she proposes. Pretty and I both like Senator Harris, but last night we decided to make her Attorney General to rule over and redo a US Justice Department that has confused the interests of the American people and the Constitution of the United States with the interests of Individual Number One whose position becomes more precarious as the days go by.

As the evening wore on, I agreed to let Julian Castro go back to Texas with Beto O’Rourke. I had hoped for a better showing from my Texas guys, but sadly, I finally agreed with Pretty that neither one of them was really presidential material right now. Goodbye, Texas. Perhaps a new Cabinet position for Southern BorderDisasters with Beto and Julian serving as co-chairs with a mandate to please, God, close those detention camps and help the people in them to breathe free air again. Give them a home where they safely belong.

Tom Steyer, I have supported your campaign to remove Individual One since 2016, but Pretty says no so off you go. Regretfully I say thanks for your service but no thanks for being the president. Possibly Secretary of the Interior or Treasury Secretary since you are a bona fide billionaire.

Speaking of thanks for your service, let me add my gratitude to the two veterans who are still in the running – two veterans with a very different attitude toward foreign affairs: Representative Tulsi Gabbard and Mayor Pete Buttigieg. This is how Pretty and I know we are out of step with the mainstream. Many in the media and at home in their living rooms evidently thought Mayor Pete had a very strong debate performance. My cousin Melissa, for example, who I can count on for honesty told me today that she is now in the Buttigieg camp after his winning ways over the field last night. She remains moveable, however.

Pretty and I both love Mayor Pete but we see him as a President in the Future, not in 2020. We’re keeping him on our short list, however. I reluctantly say goodbye to Rep Gabbard because whenever she asked if she would make a great Commander in Chief of the armed forces, I answered yes. Pretty vetoed her in general and wouldn’t even go along with me when I wanted to make her Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs. Adios, Tulsi.

Hm. That leaves us with Senators Cory Booker, Bernie Sanders, Amy Klobuchar, Elizabeth Warren and ex VP Joe Biden. This is a tough group to say good bye to on so many levels. I have appreciated Amy Klobuchar since her questioning of the Supreme Court nominees – I think she’s wicked smart plus when I saw her making her announcement outdoors during a snowstorm, I have to say I was impressed. Pretty doesn’t share my enthusiasm, but I think Amy might be a dark horse. She’s won every race she’s run before, she said. Leave her on the stage, Pretty.

The frontrunners according to the polls (that are  questionable on their reliability) – Sanders, Biden, Warren – are all in their seventies which makes them as old as I am and I, like former President Jimmy Carter, know for sure I don’t need to be President at my age so I doubt any of this group should be either but what the heck, Pretty and I decided to join the Warren bandwagon for now; however, we are, like my cousin Melissa, moveable. We added Senator Booker to our ticket for VP for various reason that include we’ve liked him for a long time. He’s younger, more energetic and understands the wounds that divide our nation. Bring it on,  VP Cory.

Finally, did anyone other than me hear Elizabeth Warren say she supports a $200 per month raise for Social Security recipients? What’s not to like about that?

Stay tuned.

Totally unrelated picture – but what a look from 

Grandbaby Ella who is two weeks old  this week 

I’d love to know what she saw?




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Tomorrow is the International Day of the Girl Child with its 2019 theme Girl Power: Unscripted and Unstoppable.

The UN Secretary-General Antonio Guterres says “We need to uphold the equal rights, voices, and influence of girls in our families, communities, and nations. Girls can be powerful agents of change, and nothing should keep them from participating fully in all areas of life.” Amen, brother.

Given the current state of political affairs in our nation with families divided, swept up into detention centers at our southern borders – living in horrendous conditions under a regime of daily terror – while across the big waters our nation abandons the friends who have been our major supporters in the war against ISIS, an abandonment that allows vicious attacks on these friends with a presumptive goal of ethnic cleansing…I say the openly corrupt men involved in these atrocities  need to go. Our country needs new leadership and directions, and I believe it’s time for girl power.

Luckily for Pretty and me, we have a granddaughter who gives us hope for the future. And thankfully, we see women and men today who are working tirelessly to make sure our granddaughter’s voice will be heard as they engage in speaking truth to power.

Ella in her elephant hoodie

(baby girl born 10-01-2019)

All baby girls have to start somewhere. Today Ella had a bath given to her by a group of four women who once were girls: two grandmothers, her mother, one of her cousins – and a female hound who wanted to get in the fun.

Happiness is having her hair combed by her mother after the bad old bath!

Tomorrow make time to celebrate the girls and women who have the potential to be powerful agents of change. To quote Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi, the times have come to us.


Stay tuned.




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will the circle be unbroken?

Will the circle be unbroken by and by, by and by.

There’s a better home a waiting in the sky,  in the sky.

I stood between my grandmother and granddaddy during the hymn singing and, although they each held a hymnal with the words and music, we all knew the songs by heart. I had to know them from memory since I was so young I couldn’t read yet, but my grandparents could have definitely read the words. They had sung the songs so many times during their lives, though, they didn’t need them. My granddaddy sang the melody, and my grandmother sang harmony or what I later learned was the alto part I tried to imitate for the rest of my life.

…we sang the songs of childhood, hymns of faith that made us strong…

My daddy was the song leader in the Richards Baptist Church in the 1950s. The Richards Baptist Church was a small congregation of 50 – 60 members that met on Sunday mornings for Sunday School and worship services, Sunday nights for Training Union and another worship service, and on Wednesday nights for prayer meetings plus a business meeting one Wednesday night a month.  My mother played either the black upright piano to the left of the small raised platform where the preacher and my daddy sat and stood up when they had something to say or she played the little pretend church organ to the right of the raised platform. I could barely see Mama even when I stood to sing from my seat with my grandmother and grandfather on one of the hard wooden pews toward the middle of the tiny sanctuary; I could always see and hear my daddy.

My maternal grandmother had a particular place she sat every Sunday morning during the worship service – a place down closer to the front of the church, but she always sat alone. My mother’s two brothers sat in different places every Sunday, but my Uncle Marion sat on the back row since he was late coming in from standing outside smoking that final cigarette. My Uncle Toby also sat by himself closer to the front but on the opposite side of the church from his mother.

One by one their seats were emptied, one by one they went away.

Now the family is parted, will it be complete one day?

My family members in  that little Baptist Church are, indeed, gone. But the circle of life and family is definitely not broken for me.  Hallelujah! There’s good news for the whole family when the circle is complete.

Drew with his daughter Ella as his mother NanaPretty smiles at them both

NanaSlow holds Ella as NanaPretty keeps smiling

When Ada R. Habershon penned the lyrics in 1907 to the song Will the Circle be Unbroken, she had no way of knowing what an iconic gospel and country music song this would become. From remote churches like mine in the piney woods of East Texas to the center stage of the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville, Tennessee this song spoke to individuals and the masses. Her original lyrics changed through the years as different performers rewrote them, but the question remained the same.

Will the circle be unbroken by and by? Regardless of time or place, the answer is yes.

Stay tuned.




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ain’t it funny how time slips away?

If you didn’t take advantage of the Ken Burns 16-hour special on Country Music through your local PBS station during the past three weeks, the title I stole today for my post (which is the title of one of my favorite Willie Nelson songs) may not grab you right off the bat. Thanks for hanging with me anyway, and as soon as you can, go somewhere to watch the Ken Burns special.

Awesome. The very soul of America is on display through the music of its people who rise up from Appalachian hollers, the Mississippi Delta, the Texas-Mexico borders, Bakersfield, California; the hills and mountains of East Tennessee and western Kentucky, New Orleans, Nashville, New York,  Los Angeles, the Oklahoma dust bowl; from the east coast to the west with every little town or urban area in between. Somewhere someone was writing our history in country music. Thank goodness.

Today is a special anniversary date for me. Five months ago on April 27th., I wrote a post I called Cowgirl Up. At the time I wrote, I was afraid of a knee replacement surgery set for the following week on May 1st.  When I say afraid, I mean totally fearful. Both my knees were an arthritic nightmare of pain when I walked or wasn’t walking. The decision to do the surgery was made after several years of orthopedic pain pills, steroid shots, and a few other treatments I can’t spell. Nothing prevented the aging process of my joints. Losing weight could have helped, as any rational person should know. My life dieting habits of more than seven decades, however, has been characterized by poor food choices.  No one to blame but me, and those eating choices caught up with me as my body parts began to wear out.

The final push to Cowgirl Up and go through with the surgery really boiled down to more than my fears: I had a vision of the quality of life Pretty would have to endure taking care of me as I became less mobile, and that was a sorrowful, sobering sight. Number Two reason, as Joe Biden likes to count everything, was the news of our son and his wife’s expecting their first child in October. I didn’t want my grandchild to know only the old woman who couldn’t get around very well.

Ain’t it funny how time slips away? In the past five months, I’ve had both knee replacements, put away the walker and almost ready to put away my cane. Pretty no longer has to worry with getting the walker in and out of the car every time we drive. That’s huge in my mind and easier on her back.  Within a week, we will have our new granddaughter, Ella, to love and adore. Nothing good comes without complications and concessions in my rehab process for my second knee surgery on August 28th., but now the different battles associated with withdrawal from my pain medications of the past five months will shift the focus finally away from my knees.

During the past five months, I’ve chosen to live a solitary life – much like the life I lead as a writer. What is unusual for me, though, is that I haven’t been able to write. I’ve watched way too much TV, taken way too many naps, iced my knees religiously, and been faithful to my rehab exercises at home and with my therapists at the Lexington Medical Center two days a week. They have been gems.

“I don’t wait for moods.  You accomplish nothing if you do that. Your mind must know it has got to get down to work.”     —– Pearl S. Buck

I read this quote today from my collection of memorable quotes and it prompted me to try to write something. This is how it turned out.

Stay tuned.







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more saltgrass tales (by GP Morris)

GP Morris is the son of my father’s brother Ray. He is a graduate of the University of Texas in Austin. He has lived in or around Houston, Texas all his life but has a son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter living in Seattle, Washington;  a daughter, son-in-law and another granddaughter live in Tyler, Texas.  He recently began a journal of stories for his grandchildren and sent several to me. 

Houston Music Hall

The family was opening gifts Christmas Eve 1967. #1 gave me a 33 1/3 vinyl record album. Everyone wanted to hear it. I dropped the needle. Everyone in the room looked at each other and fled. The room cleared in less than 30 seconds.

After the New Year I found out the artist on that record was going to play at The Houston Music Hall. I had some mowing money saved up. I told Mom that I wanted to take someone from school. Mom thought it was a good idea.

I met the young lady when she caught a ball that had gone out of bounds while I was on court playing basketball. She passed it back with two hands and a smile on her face. After the game I asked for her number and I called her the next day.

Mom spoke to the young lady’s mom. They coordinated what would be appropriate attire for the concert. Sport coat and tie de rigueur. The young lady’s mother said her daughter would be wearing a dress.

We would need transportation. It was going to be a concert when a parent drop-off was unacceptable. I had an idea. J lived four houses down. She was head cheerleader at high school. She was also my ex-babysitter. She was cool.

J was taking us to the concert in my parent’s car. J told Mom that I was over dressed. Mom said wearing school clothes to The Music Hall was like going to church barefoot. Yes ma’am was J’s response.

J tried to suppress laughter when we went to pick up the young lady. Then she saw the young lady. She was resplendent in skirt and petticoat. I forgot to mention she also wore a corsage Mom insisted was appropriate for the occasion. Tears rolled down J’s cheeks.

Our adventure began when J dropped us off in front of The Music Hall…

This was 1968. Love Street Light Circus Feel Good Machine was Houston’s bastion of psychedelia. A club where Bubble Puppy, The 13th Floor Elevators, Fever Tree and The Moving Sidewalks headlined. Not exactly the sport coat and tie crowd.

Mom was not wrong. The Houston Music Hall was home to The Houston Symphony. But tonight Love Street’s patrons vacated the haunts of Buffalo Bayou. They were doing their best Haight-Asbury impression downtown. The scent of weed and Hai Karate had replaced cigarettes and Old Spice.

The mothers had inadvertently made my date the star of the show. We were youngest in attendance. My young friend was a muñeca among a mass of the hip hugging jeans sweeping the floor. She illuminated every row we passed as we made our way to the last row. It was a sold-out concert.

We were nonconformists in Music Hall attire attending a concert of aspirational nonconformists. The concert began with “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”. The Beatles were not on stage.



Stay tuned.


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