A Busy Weekend

Today is Monday. I had a busy weekend. That is good.

On Saturday, Nadine, a former student and dear friend of mine, drove down and picked me up to go for lunch. As most of my women friends understand, it was a long lunch. We had not seen each other in several years, so Crabapple Tavern let us sit for three hours while we talked, laughed and had a delightful time. She was good medicine for me. And she said we were good for each other. 

I admire my friend who is courageous, unafraid of traveling anywhere she wants to go, alone. I remember when I could do that. The year after Barry died, I drove down to Florida and spent a couple of weeks alone in a condo belonging to the husband of my sister-in-law. That is a long way to drive and especially for a senior woman who had never gone anywhere without her husband in the driver's seat.

Barry and I traveled together when we left town whether to go back to south Georgia or to explore the mountains where we lived. I didn't go off on trips with my friends and leave him at home. He didn't go without me except when he traveled for work. It never entered my mind at the time that one day I would not have him beside me. We enjoyed each other's company and we enjoyed vacationing with Gay and Stu, my sister and brother-in-law. Barry and Stu were like brothers, kidding each other, finding the same outlandish things funny. When Barry's brother died, he said to Stu, "You are the only brother I have now."

On Sunday, we attended a concert by a big band here in Roswell. They did a tribute concert celebrating Johnny Mercer's music. Mercer was a Georgia native. He wrote so many of the songs I love, songs that were the sound track of my life with Barry. Moon River was our song. Also, Days of Wine and Roses, which was co-written by Mercer and Henry Mancini. Often Barry sang songs like Autumn Leaves and Summer Wind both by Mercer. When we first married, he never went to a gathering of friends without his guitar. And he was always asked to sing. That was in the sixties and folk music was popular.

As I sat and listened to all that music from those fabulous musicians, the lyrics sung by a fine singer, I thought of Barry who led his own band when he was in high school. He played drums, but he also played trumpet and later in life he played guitar. For two hours Sunday, I felt Barry was with me, listening to our music. Gay and Stu also thought of him and how much he would have enjoyed the concert. 

Barry plays his guitar and sings

Memories. What life is made of. I have some fabulous ones, but also some very sad ones. Ups and downs, laughter and tears, hold on to today, we know not what tomorrow brings. 

Music in Our Blood

HUGH BARRY BEALL and his mother, HELEN ALEXANDER BEALL

Helen Beall was the best mother-in-law anyone could have. She was smart, sweet and generous. She adored her son, Barry, and when I was with them, I felt that love that eventually spilled over to me. Helen and her friend Ann owned Helen Ann Dress shop. She enjoyed going to Market in Atlanta and bringing back dresses that were perfect for her customers. She would call and tell them what she had for them and they rushed down to the store in Rockmart, GA to purchase their special clothes. 

I never went to visit the Bealls that Helen didn't have some new clothes for me. She bought me underwear, pajamas, and finer clothes than I could afford on my teacher's salary. Of course, she had paid wholesale so they didn't cost her as much as they would have cost me in a retail store.

Helen was a graduate of La Grange College, the oldest private college in Georgia. She was the daughter of Roy and Myrtice Alexander, the couple I wrote about recently who brought movies to the rural community where there was no movie theater. Helen also played a musical instrument. Barry came by his love of music from her. She encouraged him to play in the band.
I was in awe of Helen because she could do everything, much like my friend, Mary Mike. She took care of her three boys, Barry, Richard and Hugh, and her business, as well as her house and yard. She cooked delicious meals, baked desserts that melted in my mouth. She loved to grow things and was an outdoor person. Like Mary Mike, Helen enjoyed mowing her grass. She appreciated the clean neat look after each swipe of her riding mower.

Helen and her husband, Hugh, had a place at the lake in their county. Barry and his father drove the boat and Helen water skied behind it. She was in her fifties when I met her and she blew me away with her energy and activities. 

My dear mother was much older than Helen and lived a completely different life style. Helen was closer in age to my sister, June. Barry loved to make his mother laugh. He made me laugh, too, and I miss that so much. I loved that he loved his mother so very much. Helen taught me that accepting is as important as giving. I learned that she enjoyed giving to us, and we should accept her gifts graciously. 

When I was young, I felt inadequate when around Helen. I was twenty-four when I married Barry. I just knew I could never be the wife Helen Beall was and wondered if Barry expected that of me. I worried that his mother might think I was not the kind of woman he should marry, but it was all in my mind. 

As years passed, Helen and I became closer and when she had surgery in her seventies, I stayed with her for a week. I thought I would be helping her, but she got up each morning and made breakfast for the two of us. About all I could do for her was keep her company, and I think she really appreciated that. She had no daughters and her son, Richard was divorced soon after Barry and I married. 

After we built our dream house in Albany, Georgia in 1975, Helen drove down and spent Christmas with us several years until she felt she couldn't make that long drive anymore. When I think of my blessings, Helen Marie Alexander Beall is one of the greatest.

1992 -- Barry Beall, dressed for church standing in our yard in Albany, Georgia. Barry was raised in the Baptist Church in Rockmart, GA. He sang there and his mother was a pillar of the church. But I had joined the Presbyterian Church and he did, too. He never went back to the Baptist church.

1995 - Barry, Glenda and Kodi, the Samoyed on the cover of Paws, Claws, Hooves, Feathers and Fins.

This was our first Christmas at our mountain house. We were so happy. Our dream had come true. We had moved to the beautiful mountains and we loved it.

The Singing Disciples of the United Methodist Church in Hayesville, NC

Barry is second from left on second row. Many of these wonderful voices are  silenced now. Some of Barry's happiest times were singing with this group of men. They were very good and their songs were not always serious hymns. They sang some rousing tunes that made the listeners want to clap their hands or pat their feet. Barry's dear friend, second from end on right side of back row, invited Barry to sing with the group although Barry was directing our choir at the Presbyterian Church. Later, the preacher of the Presbyterian church, second from right on the middle row, joined the Singing Disciples, too.

Barry formed his own band in high school. He played drums and trumpet and was the soloist. He was a voice major in college. Music was a major part of our lives. He played guitar, and I often heard him singing and strumming a guitar on our deck. He owned several guitars, a banjo and a mandolin. He could play enough piano that he impressed lots of mothers who bought Baldwins from him for their children when he was with Zoellner Music in Albany, Georgia.

Tonight I am watching and listening to Michael Buble' sing the wonderful classics I heard so often in my youth. He sings the songs Barry liked to sing. 
My husband was a terrific singer and the biggest fan of Frank Sinatra and music of that age, so I often listened to that music with lyrics written by experienced and talented song writers. The words made sense and the melodies crept into your mind, hung there until you found yourself singing along with the radio. So different from most of the music I hear today.

Listening to Michael Buble' I could feel myself slow dancing to the easy sounds, my head on Barry's shoulder and his arms around me. I have missed this music, but I learned I can ask Alexa to play Buble' on Apple music.

Ah, music. It brings back the best memories. Do you have special music that brings back good memories? I'd love to hear them.

A Retreat and A Rest

May you stay forever young, Mike is singing here at Wildacres Retreat, where we have been entertained tonight by a host of local and not so local entertainers led by Mike House who is the manager or director of this special place high on a mountain isolated from the world.
I came her last year for the Fall Gathering and found a solace that I needed to decide what to do with the rest of my life. I was welcomed into a safe and comfortable environment where I could have as much solitude as I needed and as much social interaction as I wanted.
This spring I have come back and have found that same feeling. It was like coming home after an absence. Familiar smiling faces greeted me and once again I could relax and rest.
Artists gather here to work in clay, paint in oils, water color and mixed media, create nature prints, write and make quilts. No instruction goes on during the Gathering. We come and bring our own projects that we work on when we want and how we want.
Carol and Karen are painters. Dorothy is a potter. Juliann  is also a potter, but there are musicians here. Jules is a familiar face. He spent many years on the road with James Brown's group. Now he lives in South Carolina and writes poetry. A young couple play violins as if they were born to play together. A bagpipe player is among the guests this spring.
 Some of the songs provoked audience participation, and on one song a woman singer and guiterist, jumped up and began buck dancing or clogging.

Each night a reading was held. I read poetry and a short memoir.
I was extremely happy for the kind reception of my work. More than that, I was moved by the comments made by other artists who said they liked the honesty in my work. A good writer must not be afraid to bleed on the page.
I don't know where I read that but I believe it is true.