Category: Nostalgia

Angelic Creatures

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment
portrait of a dog
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Images of President George H.W. Bush’s service dog lying faithfully near the former leader’s casket encapsulated the gentleness and loyalty of the animal often designated as “man’s best friend.” The whole world was taken by the beautiful sight and reminded of just how wonderful dogs can be. I suspect that almost every person has a story of a wonderful pup that brought joy into his/her life. There is something almost spiritual about the relationship between humans and their dogs, a bond that is pure, guileless and angelic. Most of us have experienced the unconditional love derived from having such gentle creatures in our world.

I’ve often told the story of the little white hound that came mysteriously to our front door right after the death of my father. He had no identification and nobody in the neighborhood had ever before seen him, and yet there he was. He came each night to guard our home and then went on his rounds during the day. He was sweet and friendly, seemingly aware that we were frightened and fragile. Of all the houses on the street he somehow chose ours and we felt as though he had been sent from heaven to ease our pain and our fears. We called him Whitey and waited patiently each afternoon for him to return to us secretly hoping that he would choose us to be his permanent family even as our mother warned us that he might one day return to his rightful owners.

We eventually became confident enough to put him in our backyard behind a chain link fence where he appeared to be quite content to stay. Then one morning he was gone never again to return. He had done his magic, taking us through the toughest days of our grief. Our mother told us that it was time for him to move on to someone else who needed him more. He had been our miracle for just enough time to help us to adjust to our new normal. We would never forget him and the joy that he brought us and we would always believe that he was a special gift to us from heaven. 

A few years later we bought another dog, a collie as lovely as Lassie of television fame. His name was Buddy and he was as good and faithful as any creature might be. He became a kind of mascot for the entire street where we lived, watching after not just our family but many of the other children on our block. We loved him like he was a brother and took it for granted that he would always be with us. He carried us through our childhoods and then one day became sick and died. Our trauma was as deep as if he had been a little brother who passed away. 

My husband and I have had two dogs during our time together, both female Golden Retrievers. The first had been named Red before we brought her home. She was a perfect dog in every possible way. Like Buddy she was beloved by all of our neighbors because she had not a mean bone in her body unless she was protecting one of us. When she died our hearts were so broken that we felt unable to go through such an experience ever again. Our daughters convinced us that our grief would be lessened if we brought a new puppy into our home and so we found Scarlet who was as sassy as the famous character from literature who went by that name. She too burrowed into our hearts.

Dogs sense our moods and seem to know exactly how to react to the way we are feeling. If we are sad they snuggle with us and quietly show us how much they care. When we are happy they play with us. If we are sick they watch over us. They warn us of dangers and let us know whom we might trust. Their instincts are attuned to our hearts. They are innocents who may annoy us with their mischief but never betray us.

I do not have a dog now. After Scarlet died we decided to remain without a pet for a time. Instead we enjoy our grand dogs, five cute little creatures who are as different from one another as any brood might be. Cooper, a pug, is the elder among them. He has spent many sleepovers at my house while his family travels. He’s a sweet fellow who loves to cuddle and only barks when he wants food. I’ve grown rather close to him over the years so when he became seriously ill and in need of surgery this past fall I was greatly concerned.

It took him quite a while to recover from his illness and he lost a great deal of weight and his usual personality. I worried incessantly about him but my fears were unfounded because he slowly began to revert to his old ways. When I visited his home last week he greeted me with an insistent bark that told me he wanted me to provide him with his dinner. I felt overjoyed as I filled his bowl and watched him devour the food and then saunter over so that I might scratch his back. We had a moment together that was quite touching. I wanted to spend the rest of the evening petting him and letting him know how much I loved him but I had math tutoring to do with my grandsons, so Cooper and I had to be content with knowing that we really do love each other.

Horses are enchantingly beautiful and cats are mysteriously lovely, but dogs are gifts for our souls. They are the perfect companions who ask for little more than nourishment, a few pats on the rump, and space to run and play. They love and protect us and bring a kind of magic into our lives. It’s little wonder that we notice that God spelled backwards is dog. They are angelic creatures and we are the fortunate recipients of their loving presence. 

My How Things Have Changed

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment
icing coated cake with couple hugging willow tree cake topper
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A young woman who is soon to be married was asking friends to share memories of their weddings. I sat back and listened with interest, noting how much such things had changed in the fifty years since my own nuptials. An enormous amount of time and money goes into the planning of today’s marriage galas. They are often so complex that it’s little wonder that some women turn into bridezillas. Things were so much simpler back in my day.

I actually went to work at Elliot Elementary School on the day of my wedding. It was a seven in the evening affair so I saw no reason to take time from my job. I would have four hours between the end of my work day and the time when I needed to walk down the aisle which seemed to be more than sufficient for getting ready. I don’t recall being especially nervous as I followed my usual routines with the students. In fact I suspect that working kept me centered and less prone to bouts of anxiety.

I had done all of the planning with my mother and together we created an event rather typical of the times. I found a dress on sale that was quite lovely. If I remember right it cost just a bit less than a hundred dollars which still seemed like a fortune to me. I enlisted the florist who did a majority of the weddings at my church and he promised to do a glorious job using white roses for me and red ones for my bridesmaids. He designed a beautiful white creation for the altar and great flowers for the moms and all of the men. I had every confidence that his work would be lovely and he came through with perfection.

My photographer was a member of our church who also did a great deal of work for special occasions. He had even done the photos for my graduation from high school. He was a nice man who understood the monetary restrictions under which me and my mother worked and he gave us an exceptional deal on his services.

I held my reception in the Parish Hall as was customary with the majority of my friends. A lady from the church made the cakes and included punch and coffee in her offer. My mom wanted just a bit more for our guests so we also purchased some lovely tea sandwiches from another neighborhood woman and to our delight they would end up being the hit of the evening.

Mrs. McKenna, the mother of one of my bridesmaids sang in her beautiful soprano voice and a young man who was a master of the trumpet played in cadence with the organist as I walked down the aisle. The music would not have been better if we had hired folks from Houston Grand Opera and the Houston Symphony. Best of all, back then the charge for singers and musicians was minimal.

After working at school on the appointed day I went straight to the hairdresser who washed and styled my hair and then attached my veil so that it looked right. I traveled home with time to spare and gathered my dress, shoes and such. Then my mom and I drove straight to the church. I wasn’t in the habit of wearing makeup back then so I didn’t even think to goop up my face for the occasion. I was soapy clean with only the complexion that nature provided on my beaming countenance.

A nice lady who worked with the photographer helped me and my bridesmaids to put on our dresses. She fluffed my veil and made sure that the train on my gown was well presented. Then I grabbed my brother Michael’s arm and floated down to aisle with my gaze set firmly on my soon to be husband Mike. I still remember all of the smiling faces demonstrating their love as I made that long trip to Mike’s side.

The rest of what happened is enshrouded in a bit of a fog. I was exceptionally pleased with the music, especially Mrs. McKenna’s singing of Ave Maria. The homily was profound with its message of hope in the face of the turmoil of 1968. It had been a tough year for the country and most of us were reeling from assassinations, protests and the war. The priest rightly noted that the exchange of vows until death was a leap of faith in such conditions. His words resonated with me and kept me going whenever difficulties arose over the next five decades.

After mass we convened in the Parish Hall with our guests and greeted them one by one with a traditional receiving line. We cut the cake and took silly photos feeding the sweet morsels to each other, threw the bridal bouquet to the single girls, and then had the usual ceremony with the blue garter that I wore on my leg. I have no idea who caught the cherished items but I hope that they one day found happiness with a loving partner like I did.

We left in a car decorated with tin cans streaming from the rear bumper and lots of shaving cream announcing our nuptials. Our destination was Hobby Airport which was only minutes away. Our cousins Alan and Susan followed us to the plane and the stewardesses were kind enough to allow Susan to come onboard to take photos of us just before we flew away to New Orleans. It would be the first time I had ever flown and I felt like a kid on a rollercoaster as the wheels left the tarmac.

We stayed in the Crescent City for the weekend enjoying accommodations at the Monteleone Hotel which was being remodeled at the time. We ate breakfast at Brennan’s and beignet at Cafe du Monde. We devoured the traditional muffulettas at the Central Grocery and sampled pralines at Aunt Sally’s. Mike’s uncle gave us the gift of an evening at the Blue Room in the Roosevelt Hotel were we enjoyed dinner and a show with a surprisingly wonderful performance by Fran Jeffries, an entertainer who was unknown to me. Of course we sipped on hurricane’s and feasted on gumbo. We fell in love with the patio at Broussard’s where we laughed at a salute to Napoleon. We rode the streetcar to Loyola University where Mike showed me his old dorm room and the places where he spent time as a student. We purchased gifts for our parents in the quaint shops and walked up and down the French Quarter on some of the loveliest autumn days that I have ever seen in New Orleans. When we left on Monday we had under a dollar left in our pockets but memories that would make us smile for all the years to come.

We both went back to school and work immediately. We would very soon be facing some very adult challenges that we somehow overcame in spite of our immaturity and lack of experience. We became a team and found ways to laugh even when we wanted to cry. We’d never forget how much fun we had with our very simple wedding that to me still seems the best of any I’ve ever experienced. We didn’t break the bank or send ourselves into gales of anxiety back then. Instead it was all about our promises to each other and the support of the people that we loved. That was all that we needed, and it was very good.

The World Is A Choir

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment
black and white keys music note
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I have lovely memories of my home life when I was a very young child and my father was still alive. The house is filled with the sounds of piano concertos from the records playing on our RCA Victrola. My father sits reading, a habit that was integral to his daily routine. My mother is busy with baking or sewing, her own hobbies that she delightedly enjoyed. I bask in the calm of the moment when my life seemed perfect, and I had no idea of the challenges yet to come. I suppose that ever since those idyllic moments I have had a penchant for reading, and I have secretly wished to be a pianist.

I have few regrets about the pathways that I have chosen in life save for one. I have always wanted to play the piano beautifully. I had a cousin named Lily who entertained and awed us with her skill on those ebony and ivory keys. I so longed to have her talent. Somehow I have always imagined that is must be incredibly rewarding and relaxing to be able to bring music into the world. I have romanticized the very act of playing a piano and wondered what it must be like to have such a remarkable ability.

I have learned over time that there is definitely a branch of my ancestry that possesses musical talent. In fact many of them gather each spring in New Mexico to learn more about our family’s history and to sing and play instruments. I suspect that this may be the source of cousin Lily’s abilities, but in my own case it is rather unlikely that I would ever have been capable of taming those keys the way she did. My fingers are quite short and even in my younger days I was unable to stretch them far enough apart to span the distances between keys. Somehow I inherited the hands of my maternal grandmother, short and stubby and strong but not particularly flexible. I appear to have been made for other talents unrelated to making actual music.

Thus it is with each of us. We have the power to orchestrate different kinds of music that is as lovely and necessary as that of a concert pianist. Some like my brother Mike are masters of mathematics with the capacity to chart and direct pathways to the stars. Others like my friend Tricia have an innate ability to understand and guide our human natures to health and happiness. Jose is an artist in the care of my lawn. Dr. Septimus understands how to keep my body working in tip top condition. Teachers like Father Shane led me to finding my own talents and then helped me to perfect them. In other words, we each have destinies that are important for the functioning of our world. Some appear to be more glorious than others, but all of them are necessary for the smooth functioning of society. Each of us contributes in important ways based on our interests and our potential.

I was helping a young girl with an essay and I was reminded of how unique and important we each are. She is in that confusing adolescent stage during which we humans question ourselves and wonder if we will ever find the purpose for our existence. It can be a frustrating time during which we more easily see the wonder of everyone else, but can’t seem to realize our own essence. So it was with this teen.

She spoke of a friend who has the gift of compassion and wisdom. She wondered why she can’t be more like her brother for whom learning appears to come so easily. She complained that she works twice as hard as he does, and still comes up short. She worries that perhaps she will never find her own talents because she suspects that they may not exist. She is not yet able to understand that her willingness to take risks, accept challenges and dedicate herself to overcoming difficulties are qualities that will take her farther than innate aptitude. She is unafraid to experience the world warts and all. This will make her strong and interesting and able to persevere when the going gets tough, which it most certainly will.

We underestimate ourselves and the people around us. Sometimes we are unable to see the remarkable value of that person who smiles and greets us as we enter a Walmart. We joke about such jobs as though they are unworthy, and forget to consider the impact that the simple act of greeting has in humanizing us in a busy world. We take people and their life’s work for granted, focusing only on those whose skills seem superior. We rarely stop to think of the importance of each contribution made by our fellow humans.

I’ve recently become a Eucharistic minister at my church. It has humbled me and made me ever more aware of the people around me. I stare into the faces of the communicants and I am moved. I see longing and goodness and earnestness in their eyes. I realize how precious they are, and how much we need them. 

I don’t have to be able to play the piano. I can simply appreciate the music of those who do. I have found my own muse, my distinct talents and those of each of the people that I encounter. We are all important, unique, and wonderful. The glory of our diversity is what makes our world a choir. 

Saturday Mornings

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment
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I can still recall those glorious Saturday mornings when I was still a child. My mom often slept late after a hard week of working, but my brothers and I anxiously awoke to watch the cartoons and shows made expressly for children. We’d sneak quietly down the hallway in our pajamas hoping not to disturb Mama’s slumbers and then tune in our television to our favorite programs in glorious black and white. We had to be careful to keep the volume low because the house wasn’t that big and too much noise would alert our mother that it was time to do the weekly chores. As long as she was snoozing we were free to spin the dial in search of wondrous shows that kept us glued to our seats for hours.

I’m too old to remember the exact order of the shows that we watched but some of our favorites were My Friend Flicka, Kit Carson, Superman, Sky King and Rocky and Friends. Television was still in its infancy but the programmers had already realized the power of devoting hours for children. We’d watch the advertisements for cereals and toys and then urge our mom to purchase them for us. Our mother was never one to be swayed by popularity, so it mostly never worked in our case, but we were nonetheless as enthralled with the silly rabbit longing for Trix cereal as we were with the latest adventures of our favorite heroes. Saturday mornings brought us unadulterated joy, and if Mama was especially tired we reveled in the freedom to just glue ourselves to the screen.

I enjoyed by own childhood memories of Saturday mornings so much that I taught my daughters the wonders of lounging in front of the center of entertainment for a few hours on weekend mornings. By the time they were enjoying the fare designed for their generation everything was in living color and most of the shows were cartoons featuring characters like Scooby Doo. They too found the magic of those early morning dalliances with fantasy while me and my husband enjoyed the luxury of a few extra winks while the electronic babysitter kept our children safely occupied.

Life isn’t quite as simple these days. For one thing there are hundreds of channels from which to choose and most of the big three of my childhood offer very little aimed toward children even on Saturdays. Kids now have to tune in the the Disney Channel or Nickelodeon which feature twenty four hour programming that doesn’t seem to be nearly as fun as what we got to see. Most of the shows are variations on the same themes with “hip” youngsters making fun of their elders and seemingly raising themselves. I grow weary of them after only a few episodes. The writers don’t appear to  be making any great effort to create stories that inspire. There is an inanity about them and a kind of condescending attitude toward young people that assumes that they are incapable of understanding stories with deeper meanings.

As a parent today I would have to install controls and be present to monitor the dialogue and the themes to be certain that they are in keeping with our family’s values. It’s a far more challenging world than the more innocent one that I experienced as a child. Back then care was taken to be certain that children were not exposed to material that was unsuitable. Of course I laugh when I think of Soupy Sales from my generation or PeeWee Herman from that of my children. We kids secretly knew that there was something not quite right about some of their jokes but we kept our thoughts to ourselves because it was exciting to live dangerously without our parents knowing what we saw and heard on those programs.

I still have a difficult time going into action on Saturday mornings. I don’t watch television anymore. I enjoy the quiet and I lounge in my pajamas for hours. Sometimes it might be noon before I choose to get going with the routines of life. Saturday has always been the one day of the week over which I have been able to rule without demands from school or work or my mom or even my children. These days I sit with a cup of tea and read or just listen to the sounds of the neighborhood in my favorite room. Saturdays make me nostalgic. I remember how easy it was to be a child when my innocence made me fall in love with the whole world. Soon enough I would grow and learn of the ugliness that lurks around us, but back then I didn’t have to worry about such things.

I truly believe that those Saturday mornings taught me more than most people might think. My brothers and I learned to be more self reliant as we made our own breakfast and chose our own programming. I found out how to care for animals and what justice is really about from my shows. I enjoyed laughter as a way to relax and feel good inside. My independence was rooted in those long ago mornings and the characters whose stories I watched are still my heroes. They widened my horizons and taught me about honor. I feel quite lucky to have had such experiences that brought happiness and routine to me at a time when I was still feeling uncertain about life without my father.

I suppose that today’s children have their own way of doing things, but I truly wonder if all of those scheduled activities that they do are as wonderful as the leisurely times that I enjoyed. In truth I suspect that when we are young we adapt to whatever is our reality, but I would sure love for youngsters to enjoy a taste of what we had. It was glorious.

Unforgettable

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment
brown cookies
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I had a tea party earlier this week with my niece. We brewed tea from the Empress Hotel in a sweet china pot decorated with pink roses and then sipped it in china cups that once belonged to my mother. We enjoyed little cookies that were a gift from one of my former students. We placed our delights on pretty china plates and my niece pretended that the goodies were crumpets. Our little ritual was enchanting, and my niece asked if we could find a day to enjoy such a tradition once each week. She has already chosen Tuesday afternoons as a possibility, and she wants to try out each of my various pots and china patterns along with different types of tea.

My niece noted that folks often have beautiful serving pieces but rarely use them, instead storing them away in cabinets for safe keeping. She thought it was nice that she was allowed to use such exquisite things, including some of my mother’s silver. Bear in mind that she is only in the fifth grade, but her wisdom and appreciation for the finer things is already fully formed.

Her comments and her joy got me to thinking about how we so often seem to wait for the perfect time to go places or use things, as though there is some magical moment for experiencing joy. All too often the so called best time for enriching our lives never actually comes. So many people die never having realized the dreams that dwell in their hearts.

Just last week I attended two funerals, one for a very young man and the other for someone only slightly older than I am. Both of them were souls who fully embraced life with trips, marathons, music, sports and friendships. They were not the sort to wait until the time seemed right to experience life to the fullest, so I wonder why so many of us seem to do that.

My paternal grandmother served her meals on china and ate with her best silver every single day. Her meals were special from breakfast in the morning to dinner at night. She used ironed tablecloths and beautiful serving bowls. She was a premier cook, but I wonder if perhaps her presentation was as important in creating an ambiance as were her culinary talents. Everyone felt quite special at her table, even on hot days in the middle of the week.

I’ve known people who kept their nice dishes and linens packed away. Their furniture was covered with sheets or plastic. They seemed to be waiting for some spectacular hour which never seemed to come. When they died nobody had ever seen the beautiful things that they owned. Often much of what they had was bartered in estate sales or sent to Goodwill because nobody associated any memories with the items. On the other hand we all recall my Grandma Little’s table settings with vivid detail. My brother even attempted to duplicate her style with the china that he purchased for his Thanksgiving feasts.

Grandma shared her pride and joy with us. We ate her tasty cooking and enjoyed stories and laughter on her well used and well worn dishes. She provided us with a feast for all of our senses that burned beautiful memories into our very souls. She made us feel special with the extra care that she took to allow us to enjoy her things as much as she did. Not once did she worry that we might break something. Instead she focused on making us feel loved and honored.

I suppose that it is natural to want to care for things that are expensive and might break. We see our everyday items bearing cracks and chips and we don’t want to damage the finer pieces. We assume that it will be wisest to bring out our best only on very special occasions and mostly save them for posterity, but what is the point of that? Why even own such things if we are only going to lock them away?

I was overjoyed that my niece enjoyed our little tea party so much. It gave me an opportunity to tell her about her great grandmother who had once owned the pieces that we used. We spoke of my mom and dad purchasing one place setting at a time as young marrieds. I told her about my father very proudly buying my mother some of her silver only days before he so tragically died. She understood the love story that I was telling her and wanted to know more. The items that we used made the tales more magical for her. We walked upstairs where I showed her pictures of my mom and dad, her great grandparents, when they were young and beautiful. She asked me to provide her with copies so that she might never forget who they were and how they once looked. She also made me promise that we would have those regular tea parties without fail. She even wants to bring one of her friends if I don’t mind.

My mother-in-law taught me how to prepare tea properly, the way her English mother had done. Each Sunday after dinner we sat at the same dining table that I now have and sipped on brew in lovely china cups while munching on tiny cookies. She told me about her family’s journey from England and of those who once braved the wild frontier of Nebraska. Like my little niece I was enchanted and invariably when I think of my mother-in-law I remember those special quiet moments that we shared. The tea and the cookies, the china and the silver, the stories and the love made our ritual unforgettable.

I suppose that if I have learned anything it is that we need to wear our fine garments, use our best dishes, travel to exotic places, live life in all of it’s glory. We only have so much time with the people that we love. Why not make those moments so special that they will never forget them?