Tag: legacy writing

Legacy Writing 365:123

While I was downloading John Irving’s new novel In One Person to my Nook, I was thinking of all the copies of The World According to Garp that I’ve owned. For years, every time I bought the novel, someone borrowed it and never gave it back.

Then there was the mistreated copy. When Lynne and I lived together in what I always call “that house on Francis,” I was sound asleep one night, no doubt dreaming of where I could get a fourth job (I had three–times were hard!). Suddenly Lynne stomped through the hall from her bedroom, flung open my door, and hurled The World According to Garp at me while shrieking, “YOU DIDN’T TELL ME [name of character redacted] DIED! I HATE THIS BOOK!” While I struggled to remember who she was and what she was talking about, she retrieved the book, marched back to her room, and continued to read.

I was looking for photos of “that house on Francis,” but all of them have people in them who we either don’t know anymore and who might not like ancient photos of themselves splashed over the Internet, or include an ex-boyfriend of mine who never gets real estate on this blog. However, I did find this photo taken in the dining room. It’s crappy-blurry and has blue scratches on it, but it’s Riley and me.

I’m sitting behind my typewriter because he always brought his poems and stories to me for editing and typing. And he’s probably reading my poems and telling me how to make them better. Actually, he’s flicking my very expensive tabletop crystal cigarette lighter and probably threatening to burn my bad poetry.

What I wouldn’t give to sit at a table and argue about writing with him again.

However, Lynne, we can skip reenacting that whole book-hurling thing. E-readers are pricier than paperbacks.

Legacy Writing 365:122

I’ve said before how fortunate I was that when I married Tom, he came with a grandmother. Her name was Louise–the middle name of my own paternal grandmother–but I always called her Grandma, like all the other grandkids and their partners and spouses. She lived to be ninety-two, and every time I saw her, she seemed as sharp as ever and was always ready to tell me stories, which I loved to hear. I also loved her twinkling eyes and her mischievous attitude.

I was just looking through an album that Tom’s parents put together in honor of Grandma’s ninetieth birthday (for her party, it was suggested that we all bring her ninety of something, so along with other gifts, Tom and I gave her ninety crayons and some coloring books, because I believe we are never too old to color) while thinking of some of her stories that made me laugh, especially her ongoing war with the gophers in her garden. I found this photo that I’d forgotten about (not sure who took it).


Grandma at age eighty-nine shooting hoops with her son-in-law Boyd and his son-in-law Todd. I’d love to have even a fraction of her stamina as I get older!

Legacy Writing 365:121

Grief is a guitar, which is how I can feel simultaneously hollowed out and also like my nerves are taut strings that in the wrong hands will create discordant notes.

I’ve probably shared these photos before. There are many from that Timothy James Beck gathering during a better April. I pick these three today because when I look at these faces, I see everything I need to know and feel about letting my friends cradle that guitar and keep the music playing softly, sweetly–and honestly.

Legacy Writing 365:120

More than a decade after my first husband and I divorced, after Tom and I had already lived in Houston for several years, I unpacked my old Barbies for the first time. It wasn’t until then that I realized I still had First Husband’s childhood GI Joe doll. I wasn’t even sure of his address at that point, so I told Jess, who had GI Joe action figures, that he could take the doll if he’d put it away and take care of it. Recently when Lynne and I were going through her photo albums, she opened a box and found GI Joe again.


Joe in his fatigue cap. He’s got nothing on this guy:

Joe in his helmet.

This guy would not approve of Joe’s weapon, which is not regulation.

In fact, the gun isn’t even GI Joe’s. I guess it’s another toy I inadvertently stole with Joe, part of Hake’s Wanted Dead or Alive game.

This is my favorite part of Joe’s getup: backpack accessory!

Also packed away with him was what may be a flight suit, but I can’t find one like it online for any male doll of that era. The lining is all cracked and powdery, as if it might be the Flight Suit O’ Anthrax. Biological warfare!

Here’s my dad training his men at the DMZ in Korea in helicopter rope suspension. There’s not a white flight suit in sight.

Though I suppose I could use a Bedazzler on Joe’s outfit, and we could pretend my father was training Elvis impersonators for the Helicopter Rope Suspension Elvi, something like these guys:

Image taken from the Internet without permission and I expect a cease and desist email from the You Know Who estate any minute. Also, should the original owner of the GI Joe pictured stumble over this blog post sometime in the future and contact me, I will return the doll and his fashion. Though it’ll be hard to give up the backpack.

Legacy Writing 365:119

It may take a while, but I think I can manage the legacy writing entries in such a way to finish the year on time after my week-plus away. This matters to no one but me, I know, but as an Aries who’s worked hard to refute the image of us as “great starters; poor finishers,” I do try to follow through on these tasks I set for myself. Plus I enjoy writing about the people and places I remember, so it’s not exactly a burden to me to catch up.

Some of my favorite memories are from nights around the table playing progressive rummy, first with Lynne’s aunts and cousins, when we’d be using so many decks that I’d have to run to a separate table to splay out my cards and figure out what I could play. After Tom and I moved to Houston, we’d play game after game with Lynne and Craig on the weekends, inviting in anyone else who dropped by their house. We would fortify ourselves with oldies on the radio, pots of coffee, and lots of cussing.

To this day, I keep a notebook with the running scores of games we play at our house with Lynne and her family, and a separate legal pad for the games my sister plays when she’s visiting Houston.

Debby knows it’s inevitable that the cards will come out sooner or later, and she always greets their appearance with dramatic moans and teeth gnashing. We were able to squeeze in three games Thursday night–Tim won the first two. Then, in spite of all my best efforts to mis-add her score, the outcome of the third game led to her suggestion that I shoot a photo for posterity. (Lowest number of points wins.)

Just wait’ll next time…

Button Sunday and Legacy Writing 365:118


Another button from Lynne’s collection. Happy birthday to all the Taureans in my life.

Speaking of, as you may recall, each year on April 28, I make a cake in honor of my late friend Steve R’s birthday. This year, Lila was here to blow out his candles. She did a great job.

Steve and his youngest sister getting windblown on the beach in Galveston, year unknown.

On Steve’s last birthday before he died, he was in the hospital. I learned then from friends who loved him that people can make a festive occasion anywhere and under any circumstances. Also, if you provide cake, you will make new friends.

Legacy Writing 365:117

It may be a while before I share some of the things that I want…and need…to share. So many words for me to absorb and rearrange and shape into something coherent. I think one of the smartest things I’ve stumbled on was the difference between grieving and mourning. That’s all to talk about later.

I’ve always tried to be mindful in the saddest and hardest times that reasons to celebrate remain bountiful. This idea was given to me as a gift in 1986, but I’m the one who has to choose to use that gift each day.

So today, I commend Jess–my nephew not by birth, but by love–for getting his Masters of Divinity from theological seminary. It seems like only minutes ago when factions of his family were pulling for an entirely different educational future for him:


Jess at seven months: Roll Tide.


Jess just over a year old: War Eagle.

We’re all proud of the fine young man you are, Jess. Congratulations.

Thanks, Lynne, for sharing your photos–and your son.

Legacy Writing 365:116

Look, it’s the Osmond Bunny Ears Family! A musical sensation so fiercely 1980s that it hurts.

I had an entire apartment, so I don’t know why Josh, Gina, Sarah, their father, and I are hanging out in my bedroom while I pretend I can play that keyboard. But whatever; my mother captured the moment for posterity. I thought my sweatshirt was dirty until I viewed the picture HUGE and realized there’s some drawing of a woman on it. That is not my sweatshirt, and if anyone had shown it to me before I saw this photo, I would have sworn I never wore one like it. I have no idea whose it could have been. Kathy’s? My mother’s? Beats me.

All Eighties fashion was tragic, anyway.

And hair. Josh: mullet!

Legacy Writing 365:115

April 24 would be my parents’ Star Sapphire anniversary. I think I should go buy myself some jewelry!

Kidding.

Instead, I cut a little bouquet of flowers growing around The Compound: plumbago, star jasmine, an azalea blossom, bougainvillea, and impatiens. They’re in the bud vase I gave my parents on their silver anniversary.

I reckon I’ll dust off that old story about the time they exchanged meaningful smirks when I brought them a gift on another of their anniversaries. When I asked what was up, they laughed and wondered why I always celebrated their anniversary on the twenty-fourth instead of the twenty-third. “Because your anniversary is on the twenty-fourth,” I said. When I wouldn’t back down, Mother told Daddy to get their marriage certificate.


Mmmhmmm.


Dear Bill and Dorothy–We’re glad you met and married and made us.
Love, David, Debby, and Becky

Legacy Writing 365:114

One year Tom and I met his entire family in New Orleans for a few days. I had some kind of injury–it was years before I had the spinal fractures/slipped disk thing, so maybe it was my bum ankle. Regardless, I couldn’t do a lot of walking, so sometimes when they went full-force sightseeing, I found a quiet hangout to work on the second TJB book (He’s the One). New Orleans is a great city to be a writer in, even if your books aren’t set there. Literary inspiration oozes from every air molecule (also called “humidity,” especially in August).

One afternoon I had an idea of something I wanted to do, and Tom was game. But even better, his mom asked if she could come, too. I love it when she wants to join us because she has so much enthusiasm for even a modest adventure.

For this outing, I wanted to visit Anne Rice’s home in the Garden District (it was when she still lived in New Orleans) featured in her Mayfair witch novels. Many of her readers used to go and stand outside her house, hoping for a glimpse of her, and I have no shame about being a fan girl. When an author has given me that many hours of enjoyment, I like seeing where she works and where she soaks up some of her inspiration.

Anne was in residence at the time, but we didn’t see her (it was Elvis all over again!). Here’s a long-shot I took of Tom and his mother so I could get some of the house and the tree.

If anyone wants to put me up in an atmosphere-soaked mansion for the summer, I’m sure I could finish a novel.