Tag: legacy writing

Legacy Writing 365:13

Friday the thirteenth seems to be a good time to discuss Redshirts. I’ll admit that though I saw a lot of Star Trek when I was a youngster, it wasn’t until I grew up and began to meet REAL Star Trek fans that I learned the significance of Redshirts. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, in general, on the original Star Trek, when a character you didn’t know and weren’t invested in was wearing a red shirt when he was part of a mission, he’d die during that episode.

Is it because we were ignorant way back when that we allowed my nephew Daniel to venture into the world wearing this?


Did he know, I wonder?

I swear we loved him and didn’t think of him as the sacrificial lamb in our family dramas. Fortunately, he survived his dangerous wardrobe and abandoned Star Trek for Star Wars along the way. And NO, George Takei, you are WRONG about the real enemy. Stop that!

I didn’t know until I went digging around on the Internet to read more about Redshirts that there’s a trope called “Anyone Can Die.” But I was gratified to see that they listed the TV shows Lost and The Vampire Diaries as examples of this, as I have been jarred again and again by the body count of CHARACTERS I LOVE on these shows. Fortunately, those characters tend to reappear in flashbacks, dreams, or as ghosts. Sort of like school photos: They never really go away.

Legacy Writing 365:12

One of the challenges I’ll face this year when digging through old photos is that many years ago, my mother gave David and Debby the photo albums with the pictures documenting their lives. So short of traveling across state lines with a computer and a scanner, I’m limited to what she kept and what extras of my siblings I can find in the photo album she made for me.

For example, when Cousin Rachel married Charles, I have a vivid memory of my sister wearing the long white dress my mother made her so she could be a junior bridesmaid. And I don’t remember what my brother did in their wedding, but I’m pretty sure he was all adolescent Cary Grant in a white dinner jacket, black pants, and black tie.

What did I do in the wedding? I’m glad you asked.

NOTHING. I was shut.out. And this after I had learned from Cousin Rachel not to chew my tomato sandwich with my mouth open! I had ETIQUETTE. And after she and Charles had once traumatized my delicate self by taking me to the drive-in on one of their dates, where we saw a scary, suspenseful movie (and don’t think I’ve forgotten that scene where the tortured heroine runs over her rotten husband again and again!). And even worse, I had expressed my intention to grow up and marry Charles. Way to RUIN MY LIFE, COUSIN RACHEL.

Actually, for that weekend, I enjoyed my time with my parents. While the others were busy doing wedding stuff:

I did my Esther Williams pose.

And my Evita pose.

My parents often said that wherever we went, I always disappeared for a while after our arrival. I’d then come back and tell them where they could find the ice machine and the Coke machine, details about the desk clerk’s family and background, the hours the pool was open, what the story was on that station wagon full of people who’d arrived just before us, and how to get extra towels.

Imagine what I could have told them if I hadn’t been such a shy child?


World-class accommodations in Columbus, Mississippi.

Long gone.

An old post card I stole from the Internet.

Legacy Writing 365:11


Dressed for one of many high school functions they attended when my father was an assistant principal: Bill and Dorothy…or…

Is it only me, or do other people ever stop and realize how infrequently we hear our own names? If you’re a parent, for example, you’ll hear whatever version of “mother” or “father” your kids use–a lot. At work, you may hear your name now and then. And if you have a good doctor or dentist, you’ll hear it several times during consultations. But in general, I don’t often hear someone say my name.

One of the enjoyable parts of getting to know Jim, Tim, and Timmy was that they not only used my name a lot, but they also used “Beck,” which is something my siblings call me, so it felt natural. And now I get “Becks” occasionally because it somehow came to be my “designer label” for the Barbie fashions. I never minded nicknames–even “Roach,” an early one–and loved being called Aunt Bebe and Aunt Pepi, first attempts from my nephews. Both my sister and sister-in-law still call me Bebe sometimes.

If you ask me things I liked about my parents’ relationship, on my list would be how they always used each other’s names, sometimes even when talking to me about the other one. “Dorothy said” or “Bill likes”–it always made me aware that they were individuals with their own lives that had nothing to do with being my father and mother. My mother didn’t like to be called “Dottie,” and only some of her siblings could call her “Dot.” She was always Dorothy. There were times I’d call her Dorothy when I was teasing her, but I don’t ever remember calling my father Bill. However, courtesy of my friend Larry H, both my parents ended up with nicknames that I could get away with using.

Larry was one of my father’s students when the television show Mod Squad was airing. Michael Cole played the character “Pete Cochran,” and I suppose since it was an uncommon last name in our community, Larry started calling my father “Pete.” The funny thing was, when my father was a kid, his father often called him Pete, so he didn’t mind it. Although I never called him Pete in front of his students–or even “Daddy,” for that matter–as he got older, I’d sometimes use the name Pete to make him smile. (And a few years after he died, Tom and I named our first dog “Pete” in his honor.)

After “Pete” caught on among Larry and my other friends, a movie starring Walter Matthau and Carol Burnett came out called Pete and Tillie. That’s when Larry began calling my mother Tillie, and she never minded it. Then again, Larry was the kind of guy who could get away with anything because he was so funny. I will never, ever forget what it meant to me to see him at my father’s funeral. I don’t think we’ve ever talked since, but he’ll always have a special place in my heart for being there, for the millions of times he made me laugh, and for the affection he showed my parents.


Larry and me.

Legacy Writing 365:10

Tom and I have done a lot of traveling by car, and he’d tell you that wherever we go–or any time I come home from a solo trip–at some point, I’ll say, “I could live there.” I’m always delighted by something in every city, state, or small town I visit. It may be the people who charm me, the landscape that dazzles me, or the climate that tricks me (because unless you visit a place frequently, the vagaries of its weather are a mystery). Only one time did a particularly unpleasant incident put me off a state (which I won’t name, because you can’t condemn an entire state based on the behavior of one wanker, right?). And I know Manhattan would eat me alive, so it’s better left as a place I love to visit. All in all, though, I’ve found that most places have something good to offer so I try not to judge them, particularly if I’ve never visited there. That would be like hating a book I haven’t read or a movie I haven’t seen or a musical artist I’ve never heard, and who does that?

Hmmm. Let’s shelve that question.

Anyway, as soon as I read that The Advocate magazine had named Salt Lake City the gayest city in America, I knew there’d be hue and cry. I won’t debate the merits of the judging criteria or what “gayest” can really mean. There’ll never be a more diverse and outspoken group than those individuals who get grouped in the LGBTQIA acronym; I’m pretty sure my voice won’t be needed on this one.

All I’m going to say is that these photos, taken at Salt Lake City’s Gay Pride parade in 2001, tell a wonderful story of my mother and the community who welcomed one “straight old lady named Dorothy” with love, and shared with her many, many times of laughter and a few tears. I can’t give a photo credit, because I don’t know who took the photos. My copies are not high quality because no telling how many emails and computers they went through before they made it to me.


Dorothy has been spotted along the parade route.


She gets swept off her feet.


She’s been put on the float.


If only she weren’t so shy…


That year, then-SLC Mayor Ross C. “Rocky” Anderson was the parade’s Grand Marshal. No surprise that she’d find and be photographed with the local politico–or that she’d be wearing her Alabama Crimson Tide shirt.

To that bigoted person with whom I once worked who admonished me for my passionate belief in legal and civil equality for EVERYONE by saying, “I know how you were raised. What would your parents say about this,” I answer:

My parents would say I’m the daughter they taught me to be, and they’re proud of me for speaking out about my beliefs on fairness and justice. And also, they think I should laugh more.

Legacy Writing 365:9

I think anyone who follows college football in the US will indulge me with a celebratory moment. My alma mater won the National Championship game tonight. Roll Tide!

I was just looking for a reason to use this photo I found of Denny Chimes in my mother’s photos. I assume one of my parents took it when they were living in Tuscaloosa while my father attended the University of Alabama after they married. I had several colleges/universities to select from when I left high school, but my choice was probably made the first time I listened to my parents talk about their times there. I drank the red Kool-Aid! My brother (Auburn University) and sister (University of Kentucky) did not.

There’s no city on the planet that’s home to me like Tuscaloosa. No place I feel as comfortable as the Quad on the UA campus, where I spent many hours walking, lounging, partying, reading, biking, people-watching, tossing a Frisbee or football with friends, and maybe even a little studying. Denny Chimes is on the Quad, but its music reaches the farthest corners of campus and beyond. Visitors can walk the sidewalks around its base and see the handprints and footprints of all the football team captains since 1948. My very first time there, I put my hands inside the prints of quarterback great Joe Namath.

Apparently when I took this photo my junior year, I was more dazzled by a rare snowfall than getting the top of poor Denny Chimes in the photo.

And here I am at the limestone base of the Chimes the day I graduated. I’m the short one on the right, who didn’t have a blue magna cum laude stole. At least I always dated smart boys.

Legacy Writing 365:8


“Knock the L out of Hitler”

There are so many reasons I have strong emotional reactions to this photo.

On the back, my mother has written, “WW2. Bill with his half track in Louisiana on his way to the big war.” I wish all the family photos came with such precise descriptions to help me fix them in time and circumstance. This picture was taken long before she met my father, and one thing she probably liked about it was that he actually looks like a man in his early twenties. In fact, when Tom saw this photo, he said, “He looks so young!” because usually he says, “Your father always looked old, no matter what age he was.” When I think of all the things Daddy saw and lost in that “big war” he was headed for, I understand why he aged. And why his sleep remained troubled the rest of his life. He loved the Army, just as he loved all the careers he had, but it wasn’t love without a price.

In the coming year, I’ll probably share several photos showing signs my father painted. He learned that trade even before he went into the CCC, because there he learned the skills that would later be part of his time in the Army’s Signal Corps. But when he left the CCC, he bought an A Model Ford off a friend and refashioned it to become his mobile sign painting shop.

The year was 1938 and I felt completely free and footloose. The depression was beginning to grind down to an end, and although there was rumbling in the Far East and in Germany that hinted of a possible war to come one day, I refused to be concerned.

One of his stories, about which he says “a small part…is true but most…is fiction,” allows me to see his world through eyes that have not yet looked on war.

So here he is, young, and with the brash personality troops would need to do the job that would land them in Normandy and send them throughout Europe. He has put his sign-painting skills to use, adorning the half-track with his promise to Hitler. So many vintage war photos show shapely women painted on the machines of war, much the way pin-up photos of beauties like Betty Grable, Rita Hayworth, and Jean Harlow were pasted inside footlockers and lockers to boost morale and symbolize the life troops were fighting to return to.

I could write reams on the way the framing of one war as heroic and the viewing of another war as horrific created the conflicted baby boom generation that I was born into. I don’t know if all the men and women who go into war have the young eyes and bold heart of this one, but I do believe when they come home, they should have all the opportunities, respect, and assistance they need to find their place in the world again. Some are stronger for the testing; some are broken. They’re all our fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, sons, and daughters.

Legacy Writing 365:7

The best times can be the ones that happen without planning. The last winter before Tom and I were married, I lived in a rural area outside his family’s city. He was visiting them from Tuscaloosa for a weekend, and–a very rare thing–none of his siblings were home. A snow storm had been forecast. Since the South doesn’t have road equipment to deal with heavy snow, it’s best for people to load up on supplies and stay home. It was decided before the snow began that it might be better if I came into town to stay with Tom and his parents.

It turned out to be the most wonderful opportunity for the four of us to get to know each other better. To enjoy a world quieted by that blanket of snow. We talked a lot, didn’t really watch TV, read, probably played a game or two, worked together to cook the meals we shared and cleaned up after. Every woman should have such a low-key few days to relax with her future family without a lot of activity and distractions.

It had been kind of a running joke that I occasionally asked Tom’s father to do stuff for me–things I could have done for myself, but I’d get all Southern belle and ask him, and he’d say, “Yes, Miss Becky, I will come check your apartment for a snake,” Or, “Yes, Miss Becky, I’ll go car shopping with you.” My father had died only a couple of years before, and though no one could ever replace him, it was nice to know that a future father-in-law would spoil me a little.

That weekend, instead of making a snow man, Tom and his parents built a Snow Belle in my honor.


Tom and his mother with their version of Miss Scarlett.

Legacy Writing 365:6

A while back, my scanner stopped getting along with my iMac, so it hooked up with its old friend the PC again. Earlier, I went into the room where the PC resides to find and scan a photo for today’s entry. But as I was looking through a stack of pictures, I glanced toward the computer table and saw this:


Sun on scarlet ribbons.

It made me think about my mother’s old Harry Belafonte album. I loved to hear her and Debby sing along to it, and my favorite from that album was “Scarlet Ribbons.”

Sound technology is a wonderful thing, but some of us of a certain age can be transported to another time just hearing the snap, crackle, and pop of a needle on vinyl.

Today you’re welcome to time travel with me to imagine my sister’s pure soprano and my mother’s deeper tones accompanying the beautiful voice of Mr. Belafonte.

P.S. to my writing partners: You see how this kind of influence in my youth led to those “saccharine” endings? And who was it who said that, anyway?

Legacy Writing 365:5

Winnie and Robert–so young here, but when I knew them, they were old. They were tall and lean, both of them, and he was only a little stooped. They both had beautiful white hair. Although they were quiet, they were favorites of mine because they both always had a smile in their eyes. Truly, though, what endeared them to me was how they were with each other. She never needed a sweater that he wasn’t there to gently drop one on her shoulders. He never wanted for something cool to drink, because she put a glass next to him before he could ask. Whenever our large extended family was together, they would laugh at all the stories with the rest of us, but sooner or later they’d go for a little walk, hand in hand, quietly continuing a conversation that had begun more than fifty years earlier.

Winnie–Winifred–was the oldest of twelve children. Fourteen, really, but one was born dead and another died in infancy. My mother was the youngest of those fourteen. When Mother saw how I watched her oldest sister and Robert, she told me their story. They fell in love, and when Winnie was eighteen, Robert asked my grandparents for her hand in marriage. But my grandmother was pregnant with Uncle John. She said Winnie couldn’t be spared; she had to take her mother’s place supervising the house and the other children until after the baby was born. Robert promised that if they were allowed to marry, he would wait as long as necessary before setting up household with her. My grandparents finally agreed; Winnie and Robert were married in June of 1921. Uncle John was born in August. I don’t know when Winnie was finally able to go home to her husband, but as promised, he waited until then for a wedding night with his bride.

When Winnie died in Tupelo on an August day at age seventy-four, we could all see that Robert had lost half of his soul. The smile was gone from his eyes. No one was surprised when he died, too, before the year was over. My mother said Robert simply had no interest in living in a world without his Winnie.

Legacy Writing 365:4

There’s no reason I should have this photo or the other four that were obviously taken the same day. I didn’t shoot them; I wasn’t there. That I do have them means I badgered someone into giving them to me: either Tim, who’s front and center in the water, or Riley, the boy closest to him, next level up. I’d be willing to bet it was Riley who reluctantly handed them over.

Even though I wasn’t friends with the other three boys in the photos (one of whom isn’t pictured here because he was obviously manning the camera), and though I haven’t seen them in more years than I wish to divulge, I can name them all immediately. Maybe it’s because I haven’t seen them in all those years; they are fixed in time, always young, always long-haired, bell-bottomed, wearing illegal expressions on their achingly young faces.

I also don’t know where in North Alabama these photos were taken. I hope there are still as many remote places of natural beauty as there were then, where even a short hike would take you far from whatever troubled your spirit.

And when you’re a teenager, something is always troubling your spirit. It’s your job. You’re new on the planet, and it’s not perfect, and neither are the people trying to teach you how to be here. Everybody’s got advice and wisdom, and what they’ve forgotten is that no one older and with more experience could keep their lives perfectly on course, either, when they were young. They–we–you–everybody has to stumble over their own rocky terrain, take their own falls into cold, rushing water, get up, keep going.

It’s because of Tim and Riley, and everything we learned together and taught each other, and all the ways we betrayed each other and found our ways back those first decades of our lives, that I so easily slip into the world Stephenie Meyer created. I don’t care about the writing flaws. I can strip away the supernatural elements. What I see is three teenagers who are dealing with emotions and choices, desires and missteps, confusion and clarity, with fresh minds and untried hearts.

And this photo… One boy long out of touch; the other one dead. But here forever, in this blurry photo, are the boys who gave me music, art, poetry, laughter and tears, and my first lessons in the crazy beauty of romantic love.

Here forever in my heart, too.