Those who carried my soul
As I head into old age I think back on those who influenced me in a positive way, not just my mom and dad. My parents set the stage for my life. They taught me the love of reading and learning. They encouraged me to be me and to always believe in myself.
My Grandpa Colligan taught me to love dancing. I’ve danced all my life. No, I never had any formal training. As a military child, we moved a lot. It wasn’t feasible to start dance classes and have to move.
My Great Uncle Butler taught me how to “buck” dance, which is an adaptation of the old Scot Highlander fling and the Irish dances that Michael Flatly brought to the world in his “Riverdance” and “Lord of the Dance” shows. I got pretty nimble footed back in the day and would have loved to dance in “Riverdance.”
Uncle Butler also told the grandest stories as we sat on the front porch of the old home place. He told of strange lights in the mountains and how he and his brothers tried to find them, but they were illusive. He taught me about Whipoorwill Winters, the first of the “winters” that came in the spring with a cool spell. I see his craggy face now, white burr haircut, and clear blue eyes sparkling as he told his stories.
My Great Grandma Maples taught me how to laugh out loud and to love fresh hot biscuits with butter and brown sugar melted inside. They came out of a woodstove oven just perfect. She told me jokes and sat me on her knee. I remember laughing at the jokes, but I never “got” any of them. I just loved to laugh with her.
Among many things, my Grandma Colligan taught me was how to cool a room in their high-rise apartment on Staten Island in New York City. The iceman used to come with his big truck every other day to deliver mainly for the ice boxes everyone used. My grandfather had bought Grandma a spanking new electric refrigerator, but she always got a block of ice. On hot summer days, she’d put a chunk in a bowl and turn on her little brown electric fan to blow across the ice. The air was cool and it fascinated me as I sat right in front of it.
If I hadn’t loved to go with my Uncle Hack when he gathered up his nine milk cows from a pasture near the old home place, I never would have milked a cow or skimmed cream off the top of the buckets of milk so my Grandma Emert could make butter, cottage cheese, whipped cream, and have fresh cream for coffee. I still remember the taste of warm milk right from the cow. Nothing like it. Kids don’t generally have this experience anymore, but this memory has stuck with me throughout my life.
Mrs. Russell, my second-grade teacher at Waller Elementary School in Bossier City, Louisiana, taught me that it was OK if I didn’t make 100% on a spelling test. I remember the first word I ever misspelled ... pretty. I left out a critical “t.” I remember being so upset I cried. She gave me a new box of crayons and a coloring book as a prize for trying. I’ve never forgotten her kindness.
In college, I took short story writing under Dr. Pettigrew. He told me I would be a writer. But the one professor who fed my soul while I was in college was John Lee Welton, who taught me about acting. Really, he taught me about myself, about who I was, and about what I stood for in life. He fed my talent and gave me challenging roles of which I won awards. He told me I had the talent to make a career in performing, but he warned me of obstacles and knew I was naïve and not ready to “go out into the world.” He was right.
During my first ever teaching job, eighth grade English at Calhoun Jr. High School, Principal Mrs. Mattie Lou Strain and I butted heads. As time went on, I learned to respect and accept her and she accepted me and my quirks. She taught me that teaching was an honorable profession where I could make my mark in the world ... well, in my little corner of the world. She told me I would always be a teacher. I miss seeing her walking with her friend Mrs. Powers around College Street.
Now here I am 50 years later. I’m retired from teaching, but still writing. Two special friends, Amber Nagle and gone, but not forgotten Wayne Minshew, always encouraged me to keep writing. And so I do.