Zut! It's Hot!

What do six Southern women of varying ages and a heat wave have in common?  They all land in Paris, France at the same time!  And I don't know that France will ever be the same.

2017 was a tough year for our family.  In the midst of the turmoil, a plan was hatched to give us all something to look forward to - a European river cruise.  Somehow we manage to sync our schedules and put this trip together with our motley crew consisting of my mother, my two aunts, my sister and an unwitting friend.   We arrive in Paris, jet lagged and loopy during an historical heatwave - the second hottest on record.  But the heat does not deter us; it merely makes us hydrate more with wine.

I have a plan.  I always have a plan.  Everything I have read on the internet and every person with whom I have spoken about Paris has advised - no commanded - that I must see Sainte Chapelle.  After we are dropped off at the statue of Winston Churchill, next to the Petite Palais, we set off on foot with the Seine as our guide.  "Oh, it's just down this way" we are told again and again.  "Take a left, then a right, and it will be right there."  And we believe them because they speak French and we are in search of something wonderful to behold and did I mention they speak French?

The problem is, it's 95 degrees and 2:00 p.m. in the afternoon.  The heat from the concrete slaps us in the face, as if to say, "You stupid Americans!  Please leave us alone and return to your home country!"  Parched, we press on until we find respite in a shady French cafe where we order Pschitt  (pronounced exactly the way you think it is) and chocolate cake.  Who doesn't love chocolate cake and Pschitt, especially in Paris.  It sounds so wonderful in French!

I drag my family on more lefts and more rights.  We are walking, no slogging through the streets of Paris.  I not only feel the burn of the scorching sun on my neck, I feel my family's eyes boring a hole in my back until, voila! The entrance to the Sainte Chapelle appears before us.  It does not look promising and I'm beginning to wonder if this was all a giant, cosmic hoax.  Could I have been misled by friends and the internet alike?  

Upon entering the chapel on the first floor, I am not impressed.  I'm sweating - not from the heat of the day but from the heat I feel emanating from my traveling companions.  "Ah, there are stairs! Let's go up!"  I try to keep the mood light and hopeful.  

When we reach the second floor, it's as if heaven opens up and throws me a bone.  It is, in short, spectacular.

"Victory belongs to the most persevering."  Napoleon Bonaparte

A Year Changes You A Lot

Let me but live my life from year to year, 
With forward face and unreluctant soul; 
Not hurrying to, nor turning from the goal; 
Not mourning for the things that disappear 
In the dim past, nor holding back in fear 
From what the future veils; but with a whole 
And happy heart, that pays its toll 
To Youth and Age, and travels on with cheer.

So let the way wind up the hill or down, 
O'er rough or smooth, the journey will be joy: 
Still seeking what I sought when but a boy, 
New friendship, high adventure, and a crown, 
My heart will keep the courage of the quest, 
And hope the road's last turn will be the best.

By:  Henry Van Dyke

2017 was a tumultuous year that shot me to the highest heights then sent me reeling to the bottom, violently lurching me like an old wooden roller coaster at an amusement park.  Many times I felt like I wouldn't survive and prayed for the ride to end.  And just like when you step off a roller coaster, my equilibrium was was thrown off.  My world felt topsy-turvy and nothing made sense anymore.  The smallest incidents would cause a rage from deep inside of me to emerge and lash out at the people I loved.  The majority of times, I couldn't even remember why I was mad.  I just was.  Wrapped around that anger was inconsolable Grief.  Regret.  Guilt.  Failure.

Finally, with the encouragement, no, urging of my husband, I got counseling.  Through a program at my church called GriefShare, I came to realize I wasn't crazy.  The feelings I was experiencing were valid.  Better yet, it was ok to express those feelings.  I learned that crying is ok and actually releases tension.  (Ok, maybe not at the grocery store on the condiment aisle over Grey Poupon mustard.) I learned I had to let those feelings flow out of me so they would gradually decrease in intensity to the point where I could remember my loved one without pain.   The memories eventually became more bittersweet than painful.  

2017 changed me a lot.  It required much soul searching.  It made me question many things in my life.  I quit writing and journaling.  I debated whether to continue this blog.  Then one day I looked out my back door at some pansies I had planted in several pots around my back yard. Pansies get a bad rap.  Small, delicate flowers - you think they can't take much abuse. After a few uncharacteristically frigid days in Texas that included sleet and some snow, I thought the pansies were doomed.  They withered and shriveled under the weight of the ice.  Once the ice melted, they looked like blobs of purple mush.  Much to my surprise, when the sun came out and the temps rose a few degrees, those little flowers perked right up!  Their riotous blooms now brighten an otherwise dull, brown yard.

2017 changed me a lot.  But ultimately for the better.  And like those pansies on my back deck, I found an inner strength.  I re-emerged, a little different but brighter.  I've forgiven - mainly myself.  I did the best  I could under extremely difficult circumstances.  I've come through the fog of grief and look forward to a year of new adventures.  There's still sadness that overtakes me every now and then but that's ok.  I'm embracing life, the rough and the smooth, with a whole and happy heart.  

Just to make sure I don't take this next year for granted, I've decided to have some sort of adventure every month - be it big or small.  I came up with a list of categories of adventures and I will strive to experience every. single. one. with forward face and unreluctant soul.

I hope you will come along.  The journey will be joy.

1.  Charitable adventure

2.  Local adventure

3.  International adventure

4.  Culinary adventure

5.  Sports adventure

6.  Athletic adventure

7.  Aquatic adventure

8.  Spur-of-the-Moment adventure

9.  Musical adventure

10.  Cocktail adventure

11.  Musical/Dancing adventure

12.  Motorcycle adventure (This is for my husband!)

13.  Family adventure

14.  Literary adventure

The Smart Ass

This article originally appeared in the Winter 2017 edition, Issue No. 108 of Asset magazine and is being re-printed with permission.

Donkeys are generally not held in high esteem.  They’re considered inferior to their majestic equine family member, the horse.  Donkeys, or asses as they’re sometimes called, are often associated with poverty in third world countries where they are used as pack animals.  In modern times they have come to represent a certain political party.  Whether or not that’s a positive or negative association is purely subjective.

Mary Bess Woodruff only sees the positive since she breeds miniature donkeys on a small farm on the outskirts of Inverness, Mississippi.  She began raising donkeys around ten years ago and fell in love with them.  “I just thought they were so cute!  That’s the only reason I started raising them,” she beams.  

There is one donkey on her farm that stands out from the herd.  “We have a love/hate relationship,” Woodruff laughs.  This six year old donkey, fondly named “Dumplin’” follows Mary Bess around wherever she goes.  When Dumplin’ was born, her mother refused to nurse her so Woodruff bottle-fed her, even sleeping a few nights in the barn with Dumplin’ so she could feed her every two hours.  “I couldn’t leave her alone,” she explains, “so I just stayed in the barn with her.”  Perhaps that explains why the donkey is so attached to Woodruff and continuously shadows her.  “She’s naturally curious and nosy,” Woodruff chuckles while Dumplin’ peers around a stall in the barn as if she realizes she is the topic of discussion.  

The outdoors aren'tthe only place Dumplin’ roams.  “When Dumplin’ was little I had to keep her with me all the time so I just let her in the house like a dog.”  Nowadays when Dumplin’ is ready to come into the house, she simply walks to the back door like a good, Southern neighbor and rings a set of cowbells dangling from a rope, signaling Woodruff to let her in.  If she gets no response, she walks around to the window-paned front door and stares inside until she’s noticed.  “She likes to come in and hang out,” explains Mary Bess matter-of-factly. 

“When she was little, she would pull magazines off the tables and do all sorts of stuff.  Now that she’s older, she’s very well behaved but she still knows how to punch my buttons to make me mad.”  This diva-like behavior includes Dumplin’ donning a hat and sunglasses and demanding cookies.  “She’ll just hang out with me and sometimes lay down or help herself to a drink of water from the toilet.”   

When she’s had enough indoor time, Dumplin’ paws at the door to be let out.  But that’s where the similarity to dogs ends.  “She doesn’t think she’s as low as a dog,” Mary Bess laughs!    

While Dumplin’ is a permanent fixture on the farm, the other miniature donkeys are used to raise money for charity.  A gentleman named Mark Harrell manages a large horse show in St. Louis called the March to the Arch.  Woodruff was at the show one year to purchase a horse.  During a conversation with Mr. Harrell, she mentioned she raised miniature donkeys.  He asked if she’d be willing to donate a foal for auction to benefit the children’s hospital in St. Louis and Mary Bess jumped at the chance.  Afterwards she offered to donate a foal for auction at the Dixie National Quarter Horse show, the proceeds of which are donated to the Mississippi Children’s Cancer Clinic and the rest, as they say, is history.  The average price one of her foals brings at auction is around $3,000.  When asked if it’s ever hard to part with her donkeys, Woodruff doesn’t hesitate.  “I know they’re going for a great cause.  And I know if people pay that much money for them, they’re going to take care of them.”

Mary Bess happily donates to these worthy causes since she lost her only child to cancer at the age of seventeen.  Swayze Woodruff was twelve years old in May 1994 when she was diagnosed with Ewing Sarcoma, a bone cancer that affects mainly children and adolescents.  Swayze was a precocious girl who liked to laugh and make jokes.  During one of her many visits to the cancer clinic, a nurse asked her how her parents came up with the name Swayze.  Without batting an eyelash Swayze replied, “That was my daddy’s first wife’s name.”  Woodruff cackles and admits, “She just made that up!  She was quick witted.”

In the fall of 1996, Swayze’s cancer went into remission.  In celebration, Mary Bess and her husband bought Swayze a horse whose registered name is Two Steppin’ Oreo but whom they fondly called J.R.  During this golden time, Swayze and her mom traveled at least three times a month all over the southeast showing J.R.  “It was a very special time,” Mary Bess recalls.  

But the remission was short-lived and in December 1998 they received the devastating news that Swayze had leukemia.  Despite the diagnosis, Swayze continued to show J.R. until February 1999.  “We came home from a horse show on a Sunday in February, went to the hospital on Monday and Swayze passed away two months later.”  After her death, the entire family, including J.R., was in mourning.  “J.R. stood at the corner of the pen looking toward the house making a distressed nickering sound.  It was weird,” she recounts sadly.  In June of that same year, Woodruff decided to honor her daughter’s memory by showing J.R.  “All I did was sit in the saddle and cry while J.R. got me through the patterns.”

After her death, one of Swayze’s best friends contacted Woodruff and revealed something to her.  After her leukemia diagnosis in December, Swayze confided in her friend that she knew she was going to die.  Swayze never shared that feeling with her parents.  At the time of the diagnosis, Woodruff and her husband were determined to get through it.  “We were just like, ‘we’re going to take this medicine, we’re going to get better and move forward.’  We tried to protect her but we realized after she passed away that she was protecting us.”

The Woodruffs subsequently established a scholarship in memory of their daughter that is administered by the American Quarter Horse Foundation.  Mary Bess and her late husband initially funded the scholarship but to sustain it, the Foundation accepts contributions.  In addition, Woodruff gives away the miniature donkey foals that aren’t auctioned and asks in return that the recipient donate to the Swayze Woodruff Scholarship Fund.   The amount of the donation is never disclosed.  “All I ask of the person is to give whatever their heart is telling them to give,” explains Woodruff.  Each year the Foundation picks a recipient to receive a $9,000 college scholarship.  

There is a legend surrounding this curious creature, the donkey, which has special significance to Mary Bess.  While the details vary, the basis of the legend remains the same.  In Biblical times, a farmer was approached by two men who requested the use of his donkey.  As it turns out, Jesus of Nazareth needed the donkey to ride into Jerusalem on what Christians now call Palm Sunday.  The donkey loved his new master so much that he later followed Jesus as he carried the cross to Calvary.  The donkey wished he were strong enough to carry the cross for Jesus but alas, he was not.  In a show of love and loyalty, the donkey stayed by Jesus until the end.  As a reward for the donkey’s loyalty, God caused a shadow of the cross to fall across the donkey’s back where it is borne to this day by the humble beast.

“Not all donkeys have the cross on their backs, but all of my donkeys do,” Woodruff states proudly.  

There is symmetry between her story and the donkey’s legend.  “Swayze was the strongest person I ever knew.  She was something else and I’m not just saying that because she was mine.”  She pauses and reflects, “God gives you strength to do things you have no idea you can do.  Every day I pray, ‘Can I touch a life?’  At various times since I lost Swayze, I realize I might have.”  And just like her donkeys, this is Mary Bess Woodruff’s cross to bear.

Contributions can be made to the Swayze Woodruff Memorial Scholarship Fund via check and mailed to the attention of the American Quarter Horse Foundation, 2601 East I-40, Amarillo, Texas 79104. 

Do As I Say, Not As I Do

It's my job as a mother to raise our children to know right from wrong.  That includes teaching them not to make bonehead decisions without considering the long term consequences.  As I used to so eloquently put it, get your head out of your butt and think over what you're about to do.  Look beyond the nose on your face.  Of course, these sage words of advice often fell upon deaf ears.  

Boys being boys, we had many moments where it was clear our children gave absolutely no thought to the ramifications of their actions.  It was all fun and games until the cops were called.  There was the time the cops fished one son and his friends from their hiding place in a dumpster.  And the time the police called at 2:00 a.m. to inform us our other son and his friends were handcuffed in the neighborhood park until we could come pick them up.  Before you get the wrong idea, these run-ins with the law were the result of boyhood pranks and no serious crimes were committed but it always begged the question, "What the hell were they thinking?"

Even though both boys are now contributing members of society with no criminal records, I still find myself trying to imbue them with sound decision-making skills.  For example, our oldest son recently informed us of plans for the 4th of July holiday weekend and instinctively I responded, "Don't do anything stupid to embarrass the family name."  Words to live by. 

I readily admit that I've done a lot of stupid things in my life and made a lot of really bad decisions.  But it's innate in parents to strive for our children to be better than us and to not make the same mistakes we did.  Does it often borderline on hypocritical?  Yes.  But are our motives pure?  Most of the time.

So back to the "don't do anything stupid" advice I gave our son.  Less than a week later I depart for Mexico to attend my girlfriends' wedding.  I travel along with 40 other friends to an all-inclusive resort for a long weekend of fun in the sun.

The first four days are great!  Everyone is having a fabulous time.

But on the fifth day, as my high school chemistry teacher Coach Bellipani used to say, "God was handing out brains, you thought he said rain, so you ran inside."

On the fifth day, we are hanging out at the "quiet pool" at the resort.  Everything is pretty low key.  Friends are laying under umbrellas reading books.  Some are napping.  Others are floating in the pool conversing with each other.  I am on a lounge chair observing all this quiet time when an idea to shake things up pops into my brain.  So with my head in my butt and not looking beyond the nose on my face, I make a split-second decision to cannonball my girlfriends floating in the pool.  Hilarious, right?  Wrong.  It is a terrible idea to cannonball anyone in the shallow end of the pool.  I can say that now with complete authority.  And I know what you're thinking and the answer is no.  Alcohol was not a factor.

I don't hit the bottom of the pool, but when I thrust my legs down to propel myself out of the water, I roll my right ankle in the most horrible way.  It is the worst pain I've ever felt, short of childbirth.  When I emerge somewhat victorious from the water, all I can say is, "I think I broke my freaking ankle!" (or something like that).

My friends, being the loving, sympathetic, kind friends that they are, die out laughing and immediately begin taking pictures.  And you know what, I deserve it.  But they also call a medic who turns out to be the silver lining to this vacation-ending cloud.  He is the super cute!

So here I lie, week 3, pink cast, no weight bearing, no driving and my cat using my body as a pillow.  Not the ending to my summer that I had envisioned.

As word gets around, my family members begin calling to check on me and get the story straight from the horse's mouth.  As I explain the circumstances to my brother, I tell him about my ironic "don't do anything stupid and embarrass the family" admonition to my son.  My brother dies out laughing and says, "Oh, Deborah.  That ship sailed for you a long time ago!"
  

Letters From My Father

It's funny how you can know someone your entire life, but not really know them. Your impression of them is often formed by what they allow you to see. I always thought my father was very reserved with his emotions, especially when it came to displays of affection. However, he had very strong opinions about other matters. And as my sister puts it, he liked to make pronouncements instead of participate in idle conversation.  Daddy let you know under no uncertain terms that it was “his way or the highway.” Strong convictions is putting it mildly.

After he passed away, a whole new man materialized and I realized my real father had been hiding in plain sight my entire life. I discovered this new man in the drawers of his desk at his law office which were crammed full of letters he had written over his lifetime.

My father was a modern day scrivener – a man who preferred to wax poetically in ink as opposed to face-to-face. From these missives I gained insight into the man behind the stoic facade and discovered what was of value to him.

Family was of utmost importance. I recall around Christmas time he loved to call his Air Force buddies and brag on us, his children. Regardless of what we were doing, Daddy made it sound like we were accomplishing great feats. This pride also extended to his nieces and nephews, as I discovered in a letter to my cousin Carol after she won the Miss Sunflower County title.

“Congratulations!!! I am ever so sorry that I was not present to see you win your title, but I am certainly very proud of you and am certain that you will represent Sunflower County well at the Pageant in Vicksburg. If at all possible, I intend to be present at the Pageant so that I might cheer you on and give you moral support.”

He was always particularly proud of friends and family members who were furthering their education. To him education was essential to becoming a productive citizen. One letter I discovered congratulated a friend upon his graduation and impressed upon him the importance of becoming a life-long learner as well as challenging him to invest himself in the future of our country.

“I hope that you will look upon your graduation as the first step in an ever continuing education, and I am confident that the future of our state and country will be in good hands when it passes to responsible young men such as yourself.”

Another letter to his nephew getting ready to head to college shockingly acknowledged our family trait of being overly opinionated.

“When I think of our family, I often compare us to the statement that a person made about Harvard University at one time in which he stated that in any given controversy of any importance, you will always find a Harvard man on either side. This is just about true in our family, as you know and have been able to observe that we are quite well spoken, biased and prejudiced on any given subject.”

In addition to education, good customer service was paramount to him. Being in the legal field, Daddy was cognizant of the value of people's time. Nothing aggravated him more than when his time was wasted. My mother once dropped him off for a doctor's appointment while she ran errands. After an hour and a half, she picked Daddy up and headed back home. When Mama inquired as to what the doctor said, Daddy replied, “Nothing.” Shocked my mother retorted, “What do you mean nothing?” to which Daddy informed her, “I didn't see the doctor. I got up and left because I got tired of waiting on him.”

So when Daddy received punctual service at a doctor's office, he was quick to praise.

“I want to congratulate you and your staff for the prompt, courteous, friendly and efficient service that I received. It is indeed a refreshing experience to find people who appear to be genuinely caring about your situation and want to be helpful and friendly. I just wanted you to know how much I appreciate this type of service.”

He often bemoaned the fact that clerks working in department stores had little or no interest in helping the customer. However I discovered that he liked to recognize these employees when he received particularly good service.

“I called your department to enquire about this order. I was afforded the utmost courtesy, respect and a genuine care and concern on the part of your staff. I just wanted to write and congratulate you and your staff for being unusual in a day when it seems that retail personnel couldn't care less whether a person bought their product or not. . . . It was a genuine pleasure for me to find out that there are still retail personnel who are cheerful, helpful and courteous to their customers.”

For all my father's earnestness, a lighter side emerged in his letters as well. My father was quick witted and like to dispense one-liners. He also loved music.  He played clarinet and guitar and at one point in his life took organ lessons.

“I am pleased to announce that the Hammond organ that you sold me last fall has certainly been a pleasant addition to my life. I have been taking music lessons on the organ and I can now play 'Silent Night' almost as well as you can. My instructor informs me that I am one of the few people that she has instructed possessed of so great a talent, including a particular type of ear (tin, I believe she said). Being completely exhilarated with the knowledge that my genius has at last been discovered by someone other than myself, I am now stepping boldly ahead and would very much appreciate your sending to me the Hammond instruction series for intermediate students.”

It's been hard culling through my father's things. His former existence is reduced to a few boxes of papers, pictures and memorabilia.  As I reflect, I realize that he was larger than life; a complex man who was mysterious to me in so many ways. I didn't always agree with him or understand why he was the way he was, but I loved him. Unconditionally. And in the end, I found evidence of my love in, of all things, a letter.

Kiss Me I'm Irish!

We've come full circle and end up in Dublin on St. Patrick's Day.  We make our way to O'Connell Street to the parade route along with throngs of other revelers.   It is bitter cold and rainy but it doesn't dampen our spirits or the others there to celebrate the Patron Saint of Ireland.

The moment we reach O'Connell Street the bagpipes begin piping, people start cheering and the parade commences.  It's quite a surreal moment.



I'm dismayed as initially all I can see are the backs of heads.

We notice everyone there has ladders and realize we are woefully unprepared.  I see a family with a ladder and ask in my best Southern drawl, "Do you think I could step up on your ladder for a quick look-see?  We've come all the way from Texas and I just want to get a glimpse of the parade."  Well, that's all it took.  This woman let me climb up her ladder and get a great view of the parade.  She explained that they are locals and that her family has come to the parade every year for the past 20 years so if I came all the way from Texas, I deserved to see the parade.  

Like Moses, I descend from my mountain where my new friend makes me an honorary Irish citizen and bestows upon me the a most awesome hat and banner that declares, "I'm Irish!"  Being Southern, I feel a strong kinship with this woman as she goes out of her way to make us feel welcome.  KISS ME I'M IRISH!

It literally begins to rain on our parade so we seek shelter in a pub along with hundreds of other leprechauns.

No one cares that the pubs are packed and you have to wait a couple of extra minutes for your Guinness.  We're kindred spirits.  We wander from pub to pub to pub to pub, enjoying Guinness and listening to live music.

This guy obviously has a sense of humor!

We pub hop the rest of the day before heading back to our hotel.  As we leave the last pub, I catch sight of the poem On Raglan Road painted on the side of the pub.  This is a famous poem written by Patrick Kavanagh about a love affair he had with a young woman.

"I saw the danger yet I walked along the enchanted way.  And I said let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day."  This is our love affair with Ireland.