Legacy Writing 365:53

One reason I wanted to look through Lynne’s photo albums is because, since she had a great camera, I knew she’d have more photographs of our high school years than I do. And she does, but the reality is not many of them include me or more pointedly, photos of the two of us. This is because, as I’ve mentioned before, my parents made me transfer schools my sophomore year, very much against my wishes. I understand why they did it, and in some ways their reasoning was good, but even many years later, those memories can still be painful. I’ve long outgrown my resentment and anger about it, but I hope to eventually put those vivid memories to use in fiction. In fact, it’s because of something I’m s-l-o-w-l-y developing now that I want to revisit adolescence through Lynne’s photos and my own. They help me remember what it was to be a teenage girl.

For a time, it was as if we were living parallel lives. She had all our old friends and places, and I had to move on to new friends and places. All the things we’d once have experienced together in school–working on the newspaper, homecoming parades and games, class elections, tests, proms–were done separately–and of course, those days were long before the Internet and cell phones existed to help us feel connected. I’m sure she sometimes felt abandoned. I sometimes felt replaced. But adapting is part of growing up.

We were both in our school’s plays during our senior year. This is a black-and-white from Lynne’s school’s production of M.A.S.H.


Our friend Susie as Captain Bridget McCarthy and Lynne as Major Margaret “Hop Lips” Houlihan.

I still have the program from their play (some identifying information has been removed, since no one ever asked to have their past splashed across my blog).

Which is funny, because I don’t have a program from my school’s play (though if any of my HS friends do and want to scan and email me a copy, that would be great!).


I do still have my worn copy of the play’s script. All my lines are marked, and I even made some changes. As a writer and editor, it cracks me up that I did this–both that I altered someone else’s work, and that I just knew I could make it better. Our play’s sponsor, Mrs. Bryan, must have okayed it. And by the way, Mrs. Bryan played a vital role herself, not on stage, but in my life. She was a key influence on my decision to stop rebelling against the school transfer because she challenged my intellect in our English classes, gave me endless encouragement in what I read and how I wrote, and is the reason I ultimately majored in English in college. She was a brilliant teacher who made me feel smart, valued, and talented. I thanked her every time I took a test or wrote a paper in college, and I thank her still when I write–and place apostrophes correctly.

Mrs. Bryan is on the far left of our cast photo, and they cut half of her off, which is too bad. Amazingly, I can remember all but six names of my fellow cast mates, and I might have been able to remember their names, too, if they hadn’t been juniors and therefore less familiar to me.


You might spot me somewhere in this photo dressed as librarian Charlotte Wolf. I’ll even make it a little easier on you. You can view a larger version of the cast photo here.

Legacy Writing 365:52

Since it’s Mardi Gras, I figured I’d look back a mere year, when my family had what we call “Accidental Mardi Gras.” It wasn’t actually Fat Tuesday, but we’d forgotten it was Carnival season, so it was a surprise when Tom, David, Geri, Debby, Aaron and I took a day trip to Galveston and stumbled into it. It’s a good thing that something was going on, since it was too foggy in the coastal city to do much except enjoy the crowds, the beads, the mini parades, and the funnel cakes.

My family is always a good time, whatever the season. Here are a few images that I don’t think I’ve shared before, but if they’re repeats, so be it. Laissez les bons temps rouler!

Legacy Writing 365:51


This is a shot from 1997 of our friend James and his car “Pixie.” (Tim’s dog Pixie is not named for James’s former car.) On this day, James called and said he and our friend Steve V were going to the Menil Collection if I wanted to meet them. When I arrived and we saw each other, we started laughing because we were both wearing jeans and white polo shirts.

Since James moved to Maine, I can’t tell you how often when he’s visited me in Houston that he and I have ended up, once again, in the same colors–red, blue, brown, black, come to mind–and he always wears them better than I do, dammit.

When James was here recently, he and I went to Agora–he for tea, me for coffee. This is the place where Tim occasionally takes Hanley for “coffee dates”–she has juice, of course. While James and I were there, Tim and Hanley dropped in to visit with us. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Hanley so animated and talkative. No shyness with James at all. I don’t know if this is just Hanley turning three or the usual effect James has on people.


Tim, Hanley, and James

I wasn’t wearing red that day, but gray.

Also, if Puterbaugh should happen by this post, I’m including a photo of a mural inside the women’s restroom at Agora. I don’t know if he’s a fan of young Marlon Brando, but there’s a tradition of fabulous restroom photos among some of my friends. This one’s for you, David.

Legacy Writing 365:50

I love this poem from a vintage children’s book:

“Open Range”

Prairie goes to the mountain,
Mountain goes to the sky.
The sky sweeps across to the distant hills
And here, in the middle,
Am I.

Hills crowd down to the river,
River runs by the tree.
Tree throws its shadows on sunburnt grass
And here, in the shadow,
Is me.

Shadows creep up the mountain,
Mountain goes black on the sky.
The sky bursts out with a million stars,
And here, by the campfire,
Am I.


My father with his parents, probably sometime in the early 1920s.

Again, such stern faces, yet they were parents who outfitted their son to play cowboy and even posed for a photo with him looking badass in that attire. There must have been some childhood fun and spoiling. Whatever life dealt him as he grew into a man and faced grief, deprivation, and war, he never lost his sense of play, and his grandchildren delighted him. One of his favorite stories that made him laugh every time he told it:


Daddy: Well, hello there. Are you a great Indian Chief?
Daniel: No. I’m Daniel Cochrane with a feather on his head.

The back of the 1920s photo is stamped “Lollar’s, B’HAM, ALA.” From the Internet: Lollar’s Cameras was a photography retailer, repair service, equipment rental and photo finisher founded in Birmingham in 1910. The company’s main office and warehouse were located at 2331 7th Avenue South in Birmingham.

Legacy Writing 365:49


Friday, when I was sewing and needed some navy thread, I reached for this old wooden spool. It’s been with my sewing supplies for a long, long time. Note the creative chewing that’s been done on the spool. That was the work of this fellow:

I don’t talk about my dog Hamlet much. He was with me during some of the most tumultuous years of my life. When I got him, he was pitched as a “dachshund.” I even saw his mother, who was indeed a dachshund. But Mama clearly fooled around with some sort of terrier or terrier mix, because Hamlet ended up looking a lot like a wirehaired dachshund but was basically a mutt.

It’s not Hamlet’s fault that he was along during the years I made most of my worst decisions and bad mistakes in judgment. In the long run, he was a better friend to me than I was to him, but I did love him very much. I managed to grow up in spite of myself, and the things he taught me have benefitted every dog who’s come into my life since.

It wasn’t all sad and bad times. Hamlet was sweet and a lot of fun. He earned nicknames from everyone who knew him: Hambone, Hamhock, Omelet, Giblet, Gimlet, among others. Here’s one of my favorite photos of him. Lynne is holding her friend Doug’s dog Chris, who looked like a giant version of Hamlet. I always loved seeing them together.

I can never go back and fix my stupid choices from the worst years of my life. I’m glad Hamlet was with me, and naming Keelie’s hamster Hamlet in A Coventry Christmas was my thank-you to a loyal companion.

Legacy Writing 365:48


Nephew Josh, circa 1977

Josh (sings): Take it to the lippet, take it to the lippet, take it to the lippet one more time.

Becky: Limit.

Josh: What?

Becky: Take it to the limit one more time.

Josh: Lippet.

Becky: Okay. What’s a lippet?

Josh (counters): What’s a limit?

Becky: It’s the farthest point of something.

Josh: . . .

Becky: Like when you drive. You can’t go over the speed limit. You can’t drive faster than sixty miles an hour.

Josh: I don’t drive.

Becky: You’ve got a point.

Josh: Take it to the lippet, take it to the lippet, take it to the lippet one more time.

Legacy Writing 365:47


I’m thirteen.
I’m running through the sprinkler.
I’m holding something in my hand; I have no idea what.
Because of the spray of the water, I’m making the sneery face that’s an expression I share with my brother.
My sister doesn’t make the sneery face.

I’m wearing the 52 jersey that I took from Lynne.
It belongs to her sister.
But I wear it because it’s David R’s football number.
I have a crazy mad crush on David R, even though he’s three years older than me, which is like a million in angsty teen years.

My sister has a gold bracelet with a single gold charm: the letter “D.” For Debby, of course. Sometimes if I ask, she lets me wear it, because to me the “D” is for David R, my secret crush who ONLY Lynne knows about. And maybe her sister. And her other sister, who’s actually related to David R by marriage (he’s her husband’s brother). I’m only a few degrees from David R, and he doesn’t even know I’m alive.

I’m standing in line in the lunch room when one of the Mean Girls comes up. She reaches for my arm, lifts it, points to the “D” on my wrist.

“Why are you wearing this?”

“It’s my sister’s.” I shrug. “I wear it because I like it.”

She laughs at me and says, “You wear it because of David R_____. Everybody knows you like him. He has a GIRLFRIEND. Stop making a fool of yourself, or we’ll tell her.”

What makes girls be mean to other girls? I don’t think I’d ever exchanged a dozen words with Mean Girl before that point.

Anyway, she was wrong. The time came when he did notice me and was nice to me. He was a good guy. I’ll never be sorry for the brief period of time that I wore his football number–or his initial–and adored him from afar.

I choose to hold onto the girl who runs through sprinklers, not the girl who quakes at unkind words from a Mean Girl.

Legacy Writing 365:46


My niece Gina flanked by her grandmother Dorothy, mother Debby, sister Sarah, and grandmother Maebelle.

My mother was a scene stealer. I don’t say that in a mean way. It was just a fact we all understood: She loved to be the center of attention. Still, there are times when it’s socially imperative to give up the spotlight to someone else, and it was always interesting to watch her inner Spotlight Hog struggle with her Doting Parent/Grandparent.

Let’s just say the Spotlight Hog is an awesome beast who can rarely be subdued.

No doubt my awareness of the Spotlight Hog made me develop an almost-phobic desire not to be the center of attention. There’s nothing that makes me squirmier than events like Christmas and birthdays when people watch me open presents. While my mother loved to have people sitting around the kitchen table when she cooked, I drive people and their staring eyes out of my kitchen with snarls and threats of bodily harm. Sometimes when I’m in the middle of telling a story, I suddenly realize people are listening and I have an interior meltdown.

All this is the buildup for shamelessly stealing Gina’s moment ONE MORE TIME, because…it’s my blog.

Gina’s wedding day was beautiful. There were so many friends and family members there for her. I love gatherings when I can see my nieces and nephews with their parents and grandparents, because that doesn’t happen often with families fractured by divorce and geographic distance. And it’s so great when it’s because of a wedding, birthday, anniversary, or holiday instead of illness or a funeral (although we generally tell the same stories and laugh our way through those, too).

I was wandering around shooting photos and watching everyone interact as they got ready (material!), then I went outside the church, where I promptly took a tumble down some cement stairs. I’m not exactly sure how that happened, but I remember Gina’s dad catching my head so it wouldn’t hit the ground, and I remember being all frantic about my camera. Other than the standard embarrassment of falling, some abrasions on my hands, and a few aches and pains, I mostly just wanted everyone to pretend it didn’t happen.

So I was horrified when Gina rushed up to me just before the wedding and said, “Aunt Becky, are you okay? I heard you fell down the stairs!”

AAAIIIIIEEEE. I felt like the Spotlight Hog!

“I’m fine,” I assured her.

“I’m fine,” I kept saying to everyone else.

“I’m fine,” I muttered at the reception later, while I sat at a table and tried to be invisible.

Fortunately there was lots of noisy dancing and talking and laughing–and that was just my mother.

I kid!

I was sitting at a table ignoring something edible in front of me, unaware that my sister’s friend Dottie, who’s an RN, was watching me, until she said to Tom, “You need to take her to the emergency room. Now.” And it was true, because by the time we got there, I was in intense pain. An x-ray later, it was determined that my arm was broken.

Fortunately, we’d left the reception so quietly, and so few people there actually knew Gina even had an Aunt Becky, none of the attention that was rightfully hers shifted to me. And I think the Spotlight Hog did all right, too.

Legacy Writing 365:45


Everyone seems very happy to see there’s a sale “NOW THRU CHRISTMAS.”

Here, Daniel and his grandfather are in my parents’ kitchen. If I’m not mistaken (in these old photos, I can’t go by how colors appear), they’d repainted the yellow cabinets green. Certainly I’m spying a green electric can opener and green Tupperware canisters. I love that Mother has a stack of hand-loomed potholders, though my nieces/nephews will have to tell me if they made them. I have potholders like that, but mine are from Jess, and from time to time, he still makes them for Lynne and me. And of course, the coppertone stove is there. If they hadn’t moved into an apartment after selling their house, and then my mother hadn’t moved more than twenty times after Daddy died, that damn stove would probably be in my garage right now–and still working.

The ad is from Fred’s, and until I looked online, I had no idea those discount stores are still operating in the Southeast. Way to go, Fred’s, serving the small-town bargain hunter since 1947!

I thought I’d see if I could find any sales flyers from Fred’s from the past Christmas season to compare to this one, circa 1978.

  • Nordic Fast Fry in 1978 was $9.97. In 2011, the stainless steel Elite Fryer was $19.95.
  • In 1978, the Santa Claus Gumball Bank was 97 cents. In 2011, the Dubble Bubble Gumball Bank was $6.95.
  • In 1978, a Wilson football was $9.44. In 2011, a Baden basketball was $5.95.
  • In 1978, the “Decorative Cookie Jar” was $5.00. In 2011, the one-gallon glass “Decorative Jar” was $8.00.
  • In 1978, the BB Pellet Rifle was $35.84. Forget it, kids. Now you get the Soft Dart Safety Shooting 3-gun set for $6.95 or the Military Mission set (2 guns) for $5.95 (there is no ammo).
  • In 1978, a Hot Cycle was $19.76. In 2011, a Super Cycle or Big Wheel was $19.95.
  • Too bad the clothes prices aren’t listed in the 1978 sales ad, because in 2011, items of apparel are mostly less than $10.00.

Dear Fred’s: BRING BACK THE $9.99 METAL TOOL BOX so we can all smile again.

Legacy Writing 365:44

I never pay attention to what’s in our medicine cabinet until I need something. So today when I opened it to get a piece of gauze, I began to wonder how many of the things in there were really used or even could be used. I found around ten medications–liquids and pills–that were expired. In fact, one nearly-full bottle of cough medicine expired in 2002. As I disposed of it all, I speculated on how many people may have taken a peek inside that cabinet over the years. Are you one of those people who can’t resist a little snooping when you’re inside someone’s bathroom?

I’ve never been that interested in the contents of anyone’s medicine cabinet. There are things I don’t particularly want to know. However, I do have my own ways of trying to assess people.


Do they have art?


Living things–animals? Plants?


And mostly, I check out their books.

If they don’t have books, I feel like I can probably never really know them at all, though I do have one friend who’s an exception to this.

These photos are of rooms in two different apartments my friend Steve R lived in. I wonder if they were ever so full again as they were when they were his, even when he wasn’t in them. When I look at these photos, I remember being in his apartment with different people, the music that played, the discussions we had, the food we ate. I don’t see empty rooms. I see life, love, friendship.

I mentally compare them to photos taken in the house of another friend who I met through Steve. Those pictures show people and parties and so many beautiful objects, yet in my memory they are the emptiest and saddest rooms.

I think of a favorite title: author Edmund White borrowed it from a letter written by Kafka about the inability of people to connect: The Beautiful Room Is Empty.

The memories that cause my heart to ache have no expiration date. They can’t be disposed of.

The rooms are always there–but all the rooms. They make the home that is my life.