Category: Nostalgia

Life In Color

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

5172363-joseph-and-his-coat-of-many-colors_331590I’ve read somewhere that dreaming in color is indicative of a creative mind. Not only have I never seen night time images in Kodachrome, but of late I don’t even dream much anymore which is probably related to the fact that as I age I don’t sleep for long stretches of time anymore. I am growing older and I come from a time far different than today. I was a small child when television was in its infancy. The programs that we watched on those tiny screens inside wooden boxes were in lovely shades of black, white and gray. We couldn’t even imagine that there would one day be an NBC peacock. We were as content to tune in to those colorless shows as we were to see images of ourselves in mostly black and white photographs. We were still a very long way from so many of the advances that now seem to be par for the course. The progress that we have made is good, as it should be. Those of us in our senior years are nostalgic but our reverie should not include a desire to return to outmoded ways of doing things.

I remember the great anticipation that ensued when the television series Bonanza became one of the first programs to feature living color. It was an exciting time even for those of us who did not yet own color televisions. Just knowing that someone, somewhere was seeing the green trees and blue skies of the Ponderosa was thrilling. We had entered a whole new world that would only become more and more brilliantly hued over the ensuing years.

It is all too appropriate that our modern day images be filled with a spectrum of reds and yellows and blues mixed together to create greens and purples and oranges. Life is a magnificent rainbow that includes the glorious variety of nature and mankind. There is a beauty in diversity that is never found in the dull sameness of black and white. We are all part of a colorful world that we should embrace but sometimes neglect or even refuse to do.

Just as we didn’t have color photographs or television back when I was very young we humans had a tendency to isolate ourselves from those whose skin appeared different from ours. We convinced ourselves that our ways were normal but in reality we must have known that it was not right to judge anyone without ever getting to know them. Eventually we allowed ourselves to be neighbors and friends with individuals of many different colors. We learned that we had been missing so much and that life was more vibrant and lovely than we had ever before imagined.

When I was just a girl I thought that I would never know anyone who was gay or a lesbian, but I was wrong. As those with differing sexual preferences began to bravely reveal themselves I learned that some of my friends and relatives alike belonged to a world that had once seemed so confusing to me but now seems so perfectly normal. The rainbow flag of the LGBT community is a beautiful thing that represents love. I wonder how we ever could have believed that caring relationships between any two people was anything other than beautiful.

With inventiveness and acceptance we have entered a brighter world filled with possibilities that seemed not to exist when I was young. We have shown that blending hues together is interesting and inclusive. The days of our ignorance should be gone but sadly they are not. Just as it would seem ludicrous to find someone still watching television from a small box with only shades of gray, it should be just as ridiculous to continue to harbor outdated thinking that is cruel, unforgiving and without reason.

As a Christian I was always taught that God makes each of us in His own image and likeness. If we reflect on that idea we realize that God is telling us that every one of His creations is wondrous and perfect. He loves us without conditions and wants us to feel the same. He sent His son to teach us how to behave. Unfortunately some of us never really understood the messages that Jesus made so clear. Not once did He preach that we should spurn those who are not like us. He often went out of His way to embrace those who were outcasts of society. I interpret His actions as meaning that the rules are very simple. We must love everyone, even those who appear to be or think differently. It’s not really that difficult to do. It doesn’t even take much practice. It just requires suspending all restrictions and coloring outside of the lines. We have to break the old rules to follow the new rules which are far more right and just.

Once we experience the colors of the world there is no turning back. We burst out of the boxes that have constricted us and see the watercolors that make life so much more enjoyable. We begin to realize that we only see different hues because of the way our eyes are processing the light. Being able to see the true appeal of all of the world is a gift that makes us feel more joyful. Without the great big box of crayons life would indeed be dull.

Winter has always been symbolic of death. With its withering and limited palette of variations in light it has a certain beauty but none as breathtaking as the riotous colors of spring, a time of life and renewal. We can choose the end of the seasons or the hopeful beginning. It us up to each of us to see the full spectrum of life and rejoice in it.

I am often saddened in knowing that we still have many people who are unwilling to change but I’d like to believe that they are more and more often becoming the minority among us. Slowly but surely we are shining the light on a more beautiful way of living. Because our young have always been more willing to take risks and embrace adventure, they are leading the way to more colorful tomorrows and that is good. Perhaps one day the pallid world of old will be housed in an ancient junkyard and all of us will view life in color. 

Linger Longer

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

glacier-sm10-735-rainbowI have a memory that I keep in my heart and often bring to life. It is from long ago. My father and I are sitting in the kitchen of our home on Northdale Street, just the two of us in the quiet of night. I am six years old and he is thirty one. We are at the table drinking grape juice with only the night light on the stove providing illumination. We are smiling and laughing. It feels good to be there with him. I can tell that both of us are happy and content. I can’t remember our topic of conversation but that doesn’t seem to matter. I only recall feeling at peace and wanting to linger there just a bit longer.

I have had many such moments over the years when I wanted to stop the ticking of the clock so that I might have more time to enjoy a special moment. It seems as though the childhood of my two daughters sped by far too quickly. I loved the simple times that we shared especially in the lazy days of summer when we were able to sleep in and had entire days before us to roam and find adventure. I remember stopping with my friend Linda for shaved ice snow cones on Old Galveston Road after swim lessons and traveling with Mike and the girls to the mountains in our Chevy truck. There was the year when my children and I read A Tree Grows In Brooklyn and pronounced it our all time favorite novel with tears rolling down our cheeks. I laugh at the thought of the day when we so enjoyed the movie E.T. that we returned for a second screening after dinner so that we might share our new favorite film with Mike. I loved the evenings when I sat in the front yard watching all of the neighborhood children run and play until the moon and the stars came out while laughing at the stories and wisdom of my good friends, Carol and Betty. Those were some of the best times of my life and I often wish that I had lingered just a bit longer when I was in those moments.

I have been on vacation trips so incredible that I never again wanted to return home. Seeing a rainbow in Glacier National Park as we rounded a curve in the road brought me to tears. Walking with grandson Andrew along the beach in Chatham still makes me smile. Remembering the spiritual conversations that I shared with Jack under the ancient trees of Yosemite National Park is a priceless treasure. Watching Ben and Abigail play so joyfully in Central Park or Eli and Ian romping on a rocky beach near Seattle are pictures to comfort me even when times grow difficult. Ringing in the New Year in Austria with Monica and Franz comforted me at a time of change and loss. If I had the power I would have stretched out those hours so that they would not have gone by so quickly. I would have stopped the clock and lingered longer.

Have you ever noticed that when we are experiencing pain, suffering or death even the seconds seem to stall as if time has decided to stand still to mock our suffering? We feel as though we will surely collapse before our trials are over. It is then that we find solace in harking back to thoughts of the good things that we have experienced, They remind us that life always has a tendency to work its way back to joy. Sadly we can’t seem to stop the advance of the hours when we are the happiest but we can bring pleasant images to mind anytime we want or need to do so.

We have no guarantees of what tomorrow or even the next minute will bring but we always have our memories. Even those who become afflicted with Alzheimers are often able to recall the distant past even when they no longer remember what happened only days before. Perhaps it is the mind’s way of helping us to cope. By thinking of the beauty and blessings we have known in the past it becomes easier to deal with even a difficult present.

When I was a very young and inexperienced teacher I often judged the success or failure of my day on the basis of how many bad events had occurred. I did that as a young mother as well. Over time I became happier and more productive by instead harking back to the positive things that had occurred. As I reflected on them I realized how much more often they occurred than the horrors. All and all if we linger just a bit longer when we are enjoying life that moment will imprint on our brains and serve us well in the future. 

We all have many struggles that overwhelm us. We grow fearful and sad. We wish for success, money and good health. We run in a rat race and accumulate possessions that ultimately grow old and worn. We soon realize that our happiest times are often so simple: seeing our babies for the first time, getting an unexpected hug or kiss, laughing until the wee hours with friends, feeling rain on our faces, reaching the top of a mountain. Our stresses usually come from forgetting to linger longer in a joyful moment.

A good friend recently wrote a blog dedicated to showing young mothers how to give themselves the gift of enjoyment in the moment. Perhaps each of us should begin a daily ritual in which we set aside a few minutes to be totally free of any but beautiful thoughts. It may be exercise that brings us to our happy place or music or even reading from a special book. We can meditate or write in a journal. Sometimes just sitting in silence is all that we need. We owe it to ourselves to take the time to linger longer. The more we do this, the easier it will become to relax and be present in an untroubled state of mind.

I must admit that I am someone who too often measures the merit of a day by the number of my accomplishments. I have difficulty slowing my pace and relaxing to the point of inactivity. I often feel that I am being selfish to lavish the gift of time on myself but I know full well that it is one of the best things that I might do. In being wholly in a relaxed state of mind I find clarity of purpose and energy to face any problems before me. I in fact become far more productive and tend to stew less over my own predicaments. I give myself oxygen first so that I will be useful to others who may need my help.

Find those triumphant memories that bring a smile to your face. Let them envelop you until you are certain that you will always remember how good they felt. Carry them with you as reminders that you have lived a good life and that you have been, are and will always be loved. Accept the offers of friendship and caring that are extended to you. Don’t be afraid. Just be sure to immerse yourself in happiness and linger just a bit longer.

A Season of Bounty

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

Swinging-Bridge-at-Caddo-Gap-1I was six years old in the summer of 1956. It was a very good time in my life. Our family lived in a beautiful home within walking distance of my school. My best friend, Lynda, lived right across the street and from the time that we awoke each morning we rode our bicycles and played in the woods at the edges of our neighborhood. That summer my family traveled to Arkansas to visit my grandparents’ farm. It was a season of plenty in which all of my childhood dreams were beautiful. I had little idea that storms were brewing for me and that life was already difficult for others that I did not know. I reveled in the gloriousness of that time while ignoring the signs that something was not quite right.

Life with my grandparents was deliciously fun. We helped my grandfather milk his cow each morning and I vividly remember how velvety the warm milk looked as it filled the tin bucket with a foamy white mixture. I recall the feel of the cow’s utter and my amazement that my brother’s favorite drink didn’t actually come from the glass bottles that the milkman delivered to our doorstep each week. I can still smell the sweetness of the hay in the barn and hear the chickens raising a ruckus in their pen as the rooster strutted from hen to hen crowing for attention. How I loved being part of that scene and watching my grandpa’s strong hands do his work while he puffed on a pipe that hung from his lips and sent a lovely aroma into the air.

My grandmother took us on tours of her gardens and into the hills on their property wearing overalls, rubber boots, a long sleeved shirt and a huge wide brimmed hat. I thought it strange that she covered her skin in ninety degree weather but back then I did not yet know about skin cancer or the fact that her folk knowledge was so wise. She taught me and my brothers about the birds that we saw along our trek and instructed us on the kind of rocks that were strewn along our path. She demonstrated how to pick berries while checking for the presence snakes and showed us the proper way to drink the cooling waters from the creek. We learned about the land and how to protect it for future generations.

My brothers and I picked peaches alongside my grandparents, ignoring their warnings that we should protect ourselves with clothing that covered our arms and legs. We soon enough learned why our shorts and sandals were insufficient protection from the furry texture of the fruit that made our limbs itch as though we had been attacked by a thousand mosquitoes. At night we caught fireflies in jars with holes in the lids that Grandma had prepared. Our glass containers became nature’s flashlights until we freed the insects at the end of our play. Our grandmother created butterfly nets out of coat hangers and cloth. She taught us how to surprise the lovely winged creatures and catch them so that we might better observe them. Always she insisted that we let them fly free once we had watched them for a few minutes.

Grandpa took us into town to check his mail each day. We rode on the leather seats of his Plymouth which smelled of his tobacco and soap. He always wore a clean white shirt, polished black boots, suspenders and a big straw hat. He visited with his neighbors at the post office and bragged about us as grandfathers have been doing for generations. If we were especially good he took us to the grocery store and bought us each a cold soda that we selected from a big metal box filled with chunks of ice. I always noticed how much the townspeople respected him and I felt so proud and happy with him.

I had little idea back then how much the world was already changing. I overheard the discussions between my father and grandfather as they wondered what the governor of Arkansas was going to do about the order to integrate the schools in the coming fall. I didn’t totally understand what they were saying but their serious demeanors told me that it was something important. I didn’t know then that my family would soon embark on a nomadic adventure that would take us to California and back or that my father would be dead in less than a year. I had little warning that I would begin to see things happening in our country that somehow felt wrong even to my innocent and childish mind. On those hot summer days in Arkansas I saw only the bounty of the season. I felt as though I had landed in a kind of paradise.

All hell would break lose in the coming months when Governor Faubus would vow to never allow black children to integrate the Arkansas schools. My father would announce that we were moving to San Jose, California and I would grudgingly leave my extended family and my friends. I would watch as civil unrest took hold across the country and I would observe racism with naive confusion. I began to formulate a belief system that was far more generous than that of most of the adults that I observed. For the first time in my life I began to question their behavior as I realized that the bounty that I enjoyed was not shared equally by everyone. I was pushed by events into an early onset of maturity that felt uncomfortable and challenged the status quo.

Sixty years later I look back on that summer with mixed emotions. It was a joyful time that somehow masked the realities that were looming all around me. In a year I would feel like a different person but my lovely memories of that time with my grandparents would keep the light of optimism alive inside my soul. I would forever love the simplicity and honesty of nature while understanding the complex nature of human beings. I would see that I had been blessed by the random act of my birth. But for luck I might have been one of those nine students who had to endure violence just to go to school in Little Rock, Arkansas. I would watch as death, wars, assassinations and violence served as a backdrop for the years of my coming of age. I would witness the contradictions and hardships of the human experience always understanding how many blessings invariably came my way.

I still remember that wonderful summer of 1956 and cherish my recollections with all of my heart. I would ultimately find my way after the death of my father and learn how to find the bounty of even the most difficult seasons of my life. I had realized in that time just how soothing Mother nature may be. I had realized the depth of my grandparents’ love for me. I understood that I have always been part of something much bigger than myself and that I have never really been alone in my struggles. I found strength before I even knew that I possessed it. That summer would serve me well to this very day. I would find the bounty in life again and again and work to extend it to those who had not always shared it with me. Life has been good.

It’s About Time

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

Glenda Jones13516264_10209578242793605_5124992074342233422_nBack in the eighties my eldest daughter, Maryellen, was a member of the Janette Dance team at South Houston High School. She had taken ballet and tap lessons from the time that she was five years old, first at a church in Pasadena and later from Patty Owens near our home in southeast Houston. Our family budget often tended to be stressed beyond our means but we somehow managed to find the funds for the classes that she loved so very much. Over time it became apparent that she had a natural talent for dance, most likely inherited from my mother who had her own reputation for being light on her feet and as graceful as a swan. When Maryellen earned a coveted spot on her school’s dance team it seemed to be a reward for all of her hard work and determination. Our family time began to revolve around practices, performances at football games, cotillions, competitions, camps and shows.

I was a fairly young mom, only in my late thirties, when I joined forces with other mothers in providing costumes, decorations, food and other kinds of support for our beautiful young girls. We were all caught up in the joys of our children’s teenage years. We ladies often met to build sets or design programs. We became expert seamstresses who made intricate pieces of clothing. I still recall almost tearing my hair out while sewing the game day suit that Maryellen had to wear on Fridays during football season. It was a complex project but well worth the effort in the end. I recall volunteering to work long hours in those days and at those times I got to know the other moms who were as lovingly devoted to their children as I was to mine. There were dance competitions that demanded whole days of our time and summer camps that required long drives and funds that we might have used otherwise. We sometimes joined in the fun by performing in hilarious dance routines that made us the laughing stock of the audience but also demonstrated just what good sports we were. Those were some of the best times of my entire life and the memories of those days remain precious even today.

Maryellen advanced through the ranks of the team to become one of the military officers, a Lieutenant. She worked hard to meet all of the requirements of the honor, including choreographing original dances and designing costumes and props. Because she so loved the experience, so did I. Those were the wonder years in which her confidence and abilities grew under the watchful eye of her always committed instructor, Glenda Jones Bludworth, a loving woman who taught her dancers how to present themselves with grace in any situation. She was more than just a teacher. She became a friend, mentor and counselor to each of her students. Because we parents witnessed her devotion to our children, we loved her as much as our girls did.

As is usually the case with good times, they flew by all too quickly. Soon Maryellen was attending the University of Texas and focusing on more serious academic goals. She had little time for dancing as she studied constantly to earn the grades that would allow her to be accepted into the McCombs School of Business. The days of visiting Southern Imports in search of fabrics, feathers and sequins were gone. The worn section of carpet in our den where Maryellen had practiced all of her dance routines was the only reminder of those lovely days. I lost track of the women with whom I had spent so many hours. Time raced by and I too turned my attention to new challenges and adventures, forgetting for a moment the joys of being a dance mom.

It has been almost thirty years since Maryellen donned her leotards and dancing shoes. In the interim she earned degrees in Finance and Accounting, worked, married and became mom to four boys who find the stories of her days on the stage to be strangely confusing. Now she is the one who spends almost every free moment supporting her sons’ hobbies and talents. She is the one who now juggles the family budget to find all of the funding for equipment, camps, classes, trips and college so that her boys will be able to enjoy their youth as much as she did hers. Like I once did, she has a circle of friends whose commonality is based on swimming, scouts, theater and school activities. She keeps books for the teams and creates end of season slideshows. Her world is hectic but wonderful. She rarely thinks back to those days when she was an extraordinary dancer who riveted the attention of her many admirers. The memories seem to be both long ago and just like yesterday.

A group of Janette Dancers recently decided to host a kind of reunion of the classes who had been members of the team under the direction of their beloved Glenda Jones Bludworth. The “girls” are now in their forties and some are even knocking on the door of the fifties. Like Maryellen they have children in college, high school and middle school. They have enjoyed marriages and careers and evolved to a time in their lives when they more closely resemble their mothers and me were back in the day. They are beautiful women who learned their teacher’s lessons well and carry themselves with the poise and self respect that she instilled in them.

Happily they did not fail to remember their mothers in planning this event. We were invited to celebrate the life of Glenda Jones Bludworth along with them. I enjoyed sitting at a table with ladies who had been my constant companions so many years before. We bragged on the successes of our daughters and exchanged photos of our grandchildren. We recalled our own sacrifices of money and time and how we would not have changed a thing. We laughed at some of the silly things that we did and grew saddened as we remembered ladies who had been part of our mother brigade who are no longer alive. Mostly we each had remarkable stories of the wonderful influence that Glenda had on our children. We all agreed that she was one of those once in a lifetime educators who goes well beyond the requirements of her job. She reached into the very hearts and souls of her girls and helped them to find the strengths and talents that defined them as unique and outstanding individuals.

It was grand to once again be reminded of a time in life that was so happy for all of us. I found myself amazed that our time together had been so long ago and yet seemed so near and dear. I was particularly happy that all of the delightful young women whom I had watched grow in wisdom and age and grace had remembered and appreciated their amazing teacher. She had so truly earned the attention and praise that they heaped on her. All too often we become so busy with the demands of daily existence that we forget to show our gratitude to the people who did so much to make us who we are. We let the clock tick and tick until it is too late and our hearts are filled with regret that we never took the opportunity to voice the thanks that we always meant to convey. Somehow Glenda’s Girls understood that they needed to stop the passage of time for a few hours so that they might demonstrate how truly important their moment with her had been. It’s about time!

One Picture, A Thousand Words

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

minnie bell85759993_133385194360A former colleague and friend has agreed to help me include photographs in the body of the book that I have written. I’ve spent a great deal of time  to that end sorting through boxes and albums containing images of family members that tell as powerful a story as the one that I have related with phrases, sentences and paragraphs. The old saying is that a picture is worth a thousand words and I have been reminded of the truth of that statement as I study each of the snapshots from my family’s history that have been forever captured in black and white, Kodachrome and pixels.

After my mother died my brothers and I spent many hours inside her home dividing up her few belongings. I was amazed at how many cards, drawings, letters, invitations, programs and photos she had saved. I found pictures that I had never before seen that had long languished inside boxes. It appeared that at some point my mom attempted to identify the people and the places so that we might one day have a clearer understanding of her personal history. The best of the lot were the black and white images from the nineteen forties when she was young and her whole adult life lay before her. Many of those images held commentaries such as “Those Happy Days” or “Such a nice person.” It was as though she wanted us to understand who she had been when the road before her was still based mostly on dreams.

I so enjoyed seeing my mother with her brothers and sisters, mugging for the camera, walking arm in arm down 1940’s Houston streets, and looking so incredibly young and beautiful. There were at least two quite handsome young men whose photos she kept, noting that they had purchased engagement rings for her before she had even met my father. One of them was killed during World War II and the other she turned down even as she noted that he was always a gentleman. I mostly loved seeing the pictures of my grandparents when they were younger than I remembered them, younger than I am now. I lingered over the postcards and panoramas from trips that Mama had taken. I laughed to learn that she traveled alone to San Diego when she was only seventeen to visit with a friend, demonstrating the daring spirit that would always define her.

My favorite photos were the ones that showed my mother and father flirting with one another during their courtship and early days of wedded bliss. It was almost shocking to see how young and in love they were. They mugged and teased in the style of the day. Mama vamped on top of automobiles and Daddy leaned on lamp posts gazing at my mother as though he had just won the lottery. Mama carefully recorded her feelings on so many of those pictures that show them in the first blush of their courtship.

Eventually the chronology of their life together led to photographs of me and my brothers. They took noticeably fewer snapshots of each other once we were born. Their lives appeared to shift focus. Their own visages became more serious. Instead of looking at each other they looked adoringly on us. Nonetheless, one image taken only months before my father’s shocking death shows them holding hands while walking down the streets of Hot Springs, Arkansas. It provides a testimonial of the depth of their feelings for one another. It shows one of those rare moments away from their children when they were relaxed and still so much in love.

The remainder of the memories are the story of our family life without our father. Somehow we managed to hit all of the milestones and find our own special kind of happiness. Of course that was mainly due to our mother’s determination to provide us with the safety and security that we needed at a time when our futures appeared to be so bleak. She did a yeoman’s job and somehow found the inner strength to provide us with a show of optimism in spite of our circumstances. I would find notations and writings that indicated the truth of the struggle that she silently and bravely endured.

My mother remained a pretty lady for all of her days. She possessed a radiance and unselfish spirit that drew people to her. Her albums are filled with memories of celebrations and parties and the people who meant so much to her. Eventually she grew tired and her friends became less energetic themselves. Many of them even died. She spent a great deal of her time alone. She collected readings from the Bible and verses that appealed to her. She wrote about the positive aspects of suffering and how enduring pain and loss had only made her feel closer to Jesus.

I discovered aspects of my mother’s personality and life story that I had never before known. I was able to gaze objectively into her world, not as her child but as a fellow human being. She had kept pieces of her heart hidden away and it felt amazing to get to know her in a whole new way. She became more real to me than she had ever been. I began to understand her on an almost spiritual level and I was awash with gratitude for all of the sacrifices that she had made for me and my brothers. It was a truly humbling experience to take a marathon tour of her memories.

We each travel through the modern world recording our own histories with selfies and images of the people that we know and the places to which we travel. Our faces and expressions tell stories of our passages through time. I wonder how many of our most special memories might one day be tossed away or deleted by distant descendants who don’t even know who we are. Will there be no one left to understand the meaning of our poses and our smiles? 

Whenever I eat at a Cracker Barrel restaurant I find myself looking at the old portraits lining the walls. I wonder who the people are and how their pictures ended up so impersonally decorating a place where nobody knows their names. There is a kind of sadness in knowing that their fate has become being a caricature of an era long past. It seems wrong that their lovely photographs have met such a lonely fate.

I now have a new goal. I plan to organize the thousands of photos that are in my possession. They will be far more meaningful for the next generation and those that come in the years long after I am gone if I take care in identifying their importance. My first step is going to be to include some of them inside the covers of my book so that my readers will have faces to put with the grand story of a little family that did its best to muddle its way through life. I hope that my words will equal the grandeur of how special they really were. Perhaps then the people that mean so much to me will find a way to live on forever.