memories – Page 113 – beckycochrane.com

Legacy Writing 365:208

Ticket stub, tour book, and sheet music from Fleetwood Mac’s Tusk tour in Birmingham (Alabama) in 1980.

Stevie Nicks recently announced that Fleetwood Mac will do another reunion tour in 2013. Through the years, I saw Buckingham Nicks before Fleetwood Mac (Tuscaloosa), Fleetwood Mac with members Billy Burnette and Rick Vito and without Lindsey Buckingham (Houston), and Stevie Nicks solo a time or two (Houston), but to my mind, nothing can compare to the lineup that is Mick Fleetwood, John McVie, Christine McVie, Stevie Nicks, and Lindsey Buckingham. That Tusk concert was one of the best I’ve ever seen in spite of all its growing pains involving relationships and drugs. We were all so young and foolish then.

It was a thrill to me when that version of the band reunited to perform for the U.S. presidential inauguration in 1993, and a few years later when they put together The Dance.

The Internet says Christine McVie retired from the music business in 1998, but she did put out a solo album in 2004, and she did some backup vocals on subsequent Fleetwood Mac albums. The times Fleetwood Mac toured without her after her “retirement,” she saw their London performances but didn’t join them onstage.

I’m just selfish enough to want at least one more chance to see my favorite five on stage together–if she’d ever come back, I’d pay the crazy ticket price. Unless I’d have to sell a kidney. I draw the line at giving up body parts for my favorite bands. I guess I’m not so young and foolish anymore.

Legacy Writing 365:207

Since I like mysteries with amateur detectives and sleuths, it’s surprising that I’ve never read Dashiell Hammet’s The Thin Man. I’m putting it on my list. Back in the age when VCRs were the thing and you actually went to a store and rented VHS tapes for them, Tom and I spied the movie one night, rented it, and fell hard for Nick and Nora Charles (as played by William Powell and Myrna Loy) and their funny dog Asta. In the novel, Asta is a female schnauzer. But when the film was made, the best available actor was a male wire fox terrier (also called a wirehaired terrier) named Skippy. Skippy was hired for the role of Asta and was actually renamed Asta. A relative of Asta’s was hired to play the part in the Thin Man television series. You can learn a lot about Asta’s film career and why the Thin Man films were so popular at the I Love Asta website.

One Christmas I gave this DVD set to Tom, so we can laugh at Asta, drink vicariously, and listen to witty banter anytime we wish. I gave a little nod to the Thin Man franchise in The Deal in a conversation between characters Aaron and Heath.

Wirehairs are a high-energy breed who need good training from a strong human companion. They are super smart and love to perform for praise and rewards. Two of them were reasons why I loved to visit my college roommate Debbie’s parents’ house: Their names were Habebe and Sabe.

Petite Habebe and her son Sabe at full attention because they know Debbie has treats.

They had a wide range of actions they performed, including sit, stay, lie down, roll over, and BANG! which of course meant playing dead, all four paws up in the air.

Sabe would get so greedy for a treat that he’d often run through his entire repertoire without waiting for commands. He also would do this if Habebe was a little more relaxed with her follow-through.

Habebe comes from the Arabic *habib*, meaning “beloved.”

ETA: I went back and corrected the spellings of the dogs’ names after I asked Debbie about them. She said my memory is pretty accurate. She also recalled that Sabe allowed her to dress him in silly costumes and played hide-and-seek with her.

Legacy Writing 365:206

Sitting in line at Starbucks, palm trees behind me, dreaming of red trucks…

If you’ve read here for any length of time, you know it’s one of my dreams to someday have a red pickup–not necessarily a shiny Toyota, but maybe one more like those at the end of this linked post from last year about this time. But what you may not know is what began this craving.

I think it was in the Triassic period when my friend Kathy L helped me get a tech writer job with her company. Oh, how I loved that job. It was one of the first places I felt my skills were really valued, and I was treated like a professional. Sadly, as is wont to happen with space and defense contractors, work ebbs and flows, and my position fell to downsizing (but the HR guy helped me get my next also-great job, so it all worked out). Anyway, while I was working there, I burned out the engine of my car, and for a while until I could buy a new one, I was given the use of Big Red, which was sort of the company’s truck.

Big Red was an ancient pickup–I can’t remember if he was a Ford or a Chevy, but he was beat up as hell. He’d been part of a working ranch or farm (Kathy may remember more details), so he’d earned every dent, scratch, and faded bit of paint he wore. Every time I clambered into the cab, slammed the door, and cranked him up, I slipped inside the pages of a Larry McMurtry novel. And I love Larry McMurtry even more than red trucks, so I am talking BLISS.

I know that one day, somehow, another Big Red will come into my life. If he’s not pretty, I don’t care, as long as what’s under the hood will keep us on the run. And if it doesn’t happen before I check out, then I can’t think of a better way to be imagined: tooling through the universe–make me young and thin again, with long brown hair whipping around me, and all the dogs who went before me taking turns riding on the seat next to me. Whenever you’re sitting at home or inside a place of business, and you hear a bit of music as someone drives by–and if you know me, you’ll probably know what music is likeliest–then think to yourself, There goes Becky. Or, you know, Aunt Becky, Beck, Becks, Beckster, or any of the BettyPeggyBetsyDebby names I’ve been miscalled through the years. It’s all good in a red truck.

Legacy Writing 365:205

Because of Aimee and Kate and their homemade laundry detergent, I made a batch a while back, and it worked out so well and has lasted so long that I decided to do it again.

This is one version–Aimee’s. Half a box of 20 Mule Team Borax, four pounds of baking soda, and two bars of pure castile soap (I chose bars scented with essential oils of lavender and tea tree, but there are other scents and unscented, if you prefer). I use the grate/shred plate on my food processor to flake the soap, mix it all together, and presto! A detergent that not only does a great job with clothes, but managed to get some ink and other stains off of surfaces in my kitchen. I liked it so much I’m making a kitchen cleaner without the soap because I think the Borax and baking soda will work well enough.

Next time, I’m making a batch using Kate’s recipe just to walk on the wild side.

Mother rarely used a detergent other than Tide. If she ever attempted to save money or try something else, she was inevitably disappointed. I don’t have brand loyalty to a detergent; I just want something that doesn’t smell too sweet and doesn’t make me itchy.

What I remember liking best about laundry as a kid was playing at her feet or trying to climb into the basket while she was hanging clothes and linens on the line. Or sleeping on line-dried sheets and loving their crispness and fresh-air scent.

I tried in vain to find a photo of my mother at the clothesline. But I did mention on here once before that in our Army quarters in Ft. Benning, the clotheslines were in fenced enclosures at the ends of each building. Here’s a photo of David outside or inside that area–I’m not sure. But I’m certain he’s working hard to keep Daddy from burning whatever’s on that grill.

Legacy Writing 365:204

For the past few weeks, I’ve been importing some old photos into my iPhotos for various reasons. I found this one from 2009: one of Tim’s early foster dogs, Tyson, with the late Rexford G. Lambert and Tim on the couch with a mystery. Remember the Reading Is Hot Campaign? Whatever happened to that? You don’t send me photos anymore…

I would like MORE PHOTOS, please. Do I have to do all the work here just because it’s my blog?

You, your favorite animal, your child, a sexy stranger at a table in a sidewalk cafe–I want to see what they’re reading. Because READING IS HOT. And my email address is right there on my sidebar.

Legacy Writing 365:203

One of my favorite Christmases ever.

It’s kind of crazy, because I was dating a Terrible Someone who actually resented that I was able to spend that Christmas with my family (our relationship ended not long after that). The Famous Musician who had been my crush since I was a wee teen died while I was at my parents’ house that December. And I’d just been…”released” from my job and wasn’t sure how I’d pay rent or tuition.

BUT…when you are with people who know and love you unconditionally, who always give you safe harbor, and who make you tear your tonsils out laughing, who gives a crap about all that other stuff? You set the timer on your camera, run to join your family, know that nothing that can be bought, nothing that can be under the tree on December 25, can ever measure up to the magic of this moment captured. Even if you do wonder when you get your pictures developed how that big gold bow ended up on your brother’s head.

Legacy Writing 365:202

On Friday afternoon, after months of calls for submissions, reading manuscripts, talking to writers, edits, more edits, more emails, and…well, more edits, Tim and I were finally able to have the exciting discussion we’ve been anticipating. I wrote down the names and themes of the sixteen stories that we’ve accepted for Foolish Hearts: New Gay Fiction on squares of paper, and we arranged, discussed, and rearranged them into our table of contents. Then I put them into one big, beautiful draft:

Now we’ll do a last read-through, incorporate a few final edits from one of the contributors, and get the remaining two author bios in there. Tim will finish his introduction, I will finish my afterword, and we’ll ship this baby to Cleis for final approval. Once we have the official “go,” we can share the table of contents with the world. I know the authors involved are looking forward to that.

When we did Fool For Love, we got in the habit of calling the contributors anthology brothers. One gratifying aspect of that is how they’ve sought each other out when they’ve traveled to New Orleans, New York, and beyond. Several of them have developed relationships in which they pass their works in progress to each other for feedback. They read, encourage, and advise–because though the act of writing is a solitary one, the art of writing requires an audience.

All this has made me look backward to some of the lovely moments I’ve experienced with Fool For Love’s writers.

Rob Byrnes with ‘Nathan Burgoine in New Orleans in 2008.

Tim with Trebor Healey in New Orleans in 2009.

I don’t have a photo of our meeting with Rob Williams in New York in 2007, so I just shamelessly stole this shot of him from his blog.

Mark G. Harris with Tim in Houston in 2008.

David Puterbaugh with me in Houston in 2010.

Josh Helmin with Tim in Houston in 2011.

Michael Thomas Ford wasn’t in FFL, but we shot this photo in New Orleans of him with Greg Herren, Rob Byrnes, and Tim for Houston’s OutSmart Magazine. They didn’t publish it, but we aren’t mad at them, because they regularly support and feature gay fiction and gay writers.

Me with Jeffrey Ricker, Tim, and Jeffrey’s partner Michael in 2009 in New Orleans.

Tim with Paul Lisicky in Houston in 2008.

Tim and me with Felice Picano in New Orleans in 2011.

There are four FFL writers and one editor included in this group in New Orleans in 2009: the kind of shenanigans I want to get up to for future photos with the contributors to and readers of Foolish Hearts. I love writers.

Legacy Writing 365:201

My mother had a favorite expression which was all the more annoying because of how often she was right to use it: “Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face.” The event she drew from to illustrate it happened when she was probably about the age you see her in this photo (I don’t know who those other kids are; she’s the one standing by herself to the right).

She hated green beans. At least she insisted she did, though her mother would remind her that she wouldn’t even try them. When her mother or older sisters cooked green beans, Mother would be so vocal with her complaints that she was often sent away from the table so the rest of the family could eat in peace. She won–she didn’t have to eat green beans–but she lost because she didn’t get to eat anything else, either, like biscuits dripping with butter and molasses, fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy–you get the picture. Her mother would tell her, “Dorothy Jean, you’re cutting off your nose to spite your face.”

One day Mother walked into the kitchen just before the midday meal to find the food keeping warm on the stove while everyone was off taking care of other things. She spied the dreaded green beans in a pot, walked over to them, and thought to herself, I’m not eating them and nobody else will, either. She plunged both hands into the beans and began squishing them between her fingers, turning them into mush.

She thought she heard one of the boys coming and knew the fastest way to get rid of the evidence was to lick her hands clean. She braced herself for the horror of the taste and stuck her fingers in her mouth. Then it happened: the worst possible thing. She loved them. She grabbed the pot and a spoon, sat at the table, and ate every one of those green beans.

It was a great comfort to me that Mother, too, knew the annoyance of a mother who was often–okay, pretty much always–right.

Legacy Writing 365:200

This week I had the pleasure of getting some one-to-one time with Jess, my nephew-by-choice. It was so great talking to him. For some reason, after he left, I remembered a night when Jess was about the age he is in this picture:

Matt, Jess, and a child whose name I don’t know.

Lynne was driving us somewhere, and Jess and Matt were in the back seat. I don’t remember if we were trying to decide where to eat, but the two boys suddenly began singing, “Pizza Hut, Pizza Hut, Kentucky Fried Chicken and a Pizza Hut. McDonald’s, McDonald’s.” I didn’t realize at the time that this was a song of many verses (here’s a version that includes a Ferrari, and there’s another variation with Jabba the Hut). I guess it started as a Scouting song, and in 2003, long after Jess and Matt sang it, a band called the Fast Food Rockers recorded a version of it. Who knows why Jess and Matt’s rendition shows up in my brain from time to time, but we ended up ordering pizza at The Compound after its most recent occurrence as my ear worm. Pizza Hut should pay kids for their promotional work.

I used to wonder, as I was growing up, how it was that teens I met from all over the country knew the same ghost stories, the same songs, the same Hollywood gossip–especially stuff that was too racy for TV or print media so had to be spread by word of mouth. It’s easy in the Internet age to understand how information–and misinformation–spreads like wildfire via email, Twitter, Facebook, youtube, etc. Still, even before technology, urban legends and things you wouldn’t repeat to your grandma managed to find their way into our lives. I still know that Comet makes your teeth turn green; that if teens go parking, the guy with The Hook will show up; and rock stars control us with subliminal messages. None of that stuff bothers me; if I need backup, I can summon the alligators from the sewer.

Legacy Writing 365:199

If only Lynne and I weren’t a mere thirty-five years old, we might have spent the Summer of ’69 this way:

We might have stayed up all night secretly talking on the phone by stretching the cords as far as possible toward our bedrooms. I could usually get away with this because of where our second phone was situated, but the princess phone Lynne used had to cross the hall from her parents’ bedroom to hers. The base was stuck in the hall, and the curly cord to the handset snaked under Lynne’s bedroom door. When Elnora (her mother) woke up from her pre-bedtime nap on the couch and walked down the long, dark hallway to go to bed, she’d trip on the phone, cussing as she caught her balance by grabbing the walls, while the handset would be jerked from Lynne’s grip and slam against her closed bedroom door. This was my cue to hang up, sneak our phone back to its stand, and go to bed, while in her house, Lynne would immediately jump into bed and pretend she’d forgotten to hang up the phone before falling asleep hours before. I doubt Elnora was fooled.

Mark Lindsay in the magazine photo I pretended not to be insanely jealous that Lynne owned.

I remember the closet in Lynne’s parents’ bedroom as being huge, and tucked into one corner were several brown grocery bags full of romance novels that Elnora and her friends passed among them. That summer, while Lynne mooned over pictures of Mark Lindsay and his pony tail, I was devouring one or two romance novels a day. If she got bored, Lynne would reread her Archie, Casper, Richie Rich, and Little Lulu comic books. Sometimes she could talk me into walking to town–it wasn’t much of a town, but we still found plenty of mischief to get into.

The one constant was the radio. Whether it was our transistors, my parents’ big console stereo, or the radios in the cars that took us to and from each other’s houses, we always listened to WVOK-AM out of Birmingham. (When it signed off at night, we became contortionists with our transistors to our ears trying to pick up WLS out of Chicago.) Taking a look at the old WVOK Tough Twenty Surveys, the mix of music amazes me. In one afternoon, we might hear the Beatles, Aretha Franklin, Herman’s Hermits, Tom Jones, the Grass Roots, the Archies, Dionne Warwick, Ray Stevens, Simon and Garfunkel, the Bee Gees, Henry Mancini, Marvin Gaye–we were the market for the music of anybody we might find on the pages of Tiger Beat, 16 Magazine, and Teen Beat. WVOK’s morning show was hosted by Joe Rumore who played oldies and sometimes music with a country influence between Sweet Sue and Golden Eagle Table Syrup ads. By the time we were fully awake and on the phone or being chauffeured to the swimming pool, Don Keith was DJing, and later in the afternoon, we’d listen to the melodic voice of DJ Dan Brennan.

It was also Dan Brennan who introduced WVOK’s Shower of Stars shows. Every one of these that Lynne and I were taken to by her mother and/or sister in Birmingham, we managed to find someone who could get us backstage. I have so many autographs from those shows. And when Lynne was old enough to drive us herself, we collected a few not-for-the-blog stories along with our autographs. We had a blast. We saw Tony Orlando when Dawn was just hastily assembled backup vocalists so he could tour after his first hit record. We saw Neil Diamond before he was uncool and then cool again. We saw Bobby Sherman, who we cared nothing about, and Pat Paulsen, the first comedian to run a satirical campaign for president (imagine–if he’d beat Nixon–Smothers Brothers in the cabinet instead of those thugs we ended up with!), and the Carpenters–who wouldn’t want to remember getting to hear Karen Carpenter sing in person? Most especially, we saw our favorite bands, Paul Revere and the Raiders and the Grass Roots, which is what branded us teenyboppers by the boys we knew, who were into much cooler music. Whatever. It was all about the crushes, and our walls were plastered with our idols’ faces like the young teens who loved Sinatra and Frankie Avalon before us, Wham!, New Kids on the Block and Hanson after us, and Bieber today. Long may you pop your bubblegum and sing along, ‘tweens and teenyboppers.