B&T 2022 Sunshine Tour - Day 1 

We had decided to break down our travel days into 4-5 hour drives. B, the driver, and I, the navigator, could have gone farther this day but when we stopped, we were happy not to continue. The number of trucks traveling 23 South from the south end of Columbus made us feel like we were joining a convoy! The truckers in Canada were protesting COVID-19 mandates and talk of a peaceful U.S. People’s Convoy from California to Washington DC was circulating. For now, we were all going in the wrong direction to participate in either. 

B and I were going south in February to find the heat of the sun and beauty of the land. It had been a long, long, long, long time since we had been on the road let alone on vacation by ourselves. Maybe 30 years. We are both now semi-retired and spend a lot of time together…apart. The excitement of spending quality time together has been highly anticipated. Day 1 of 17 and the excitement was holding its own. As the traffic leveled out, I was struck by the gentle rolling hay fields of Ohio and the continuous view of something other than my house, or my parent’s house, or the routes in between. I blinked back tears a few times from the joy of it all! The farther we got, the less traffic we saw on 23. In fact by the time we crossed over from OH approaching Greenup, KY, we were a bit surprised to be practically the only vehicle on the road. 

 

I was reminding B that my mom and I had driven down to Greenup with quilt tops we had worked on together to drop them off for quilting. My Mother-In-Law, Ethel, had sent her tops there and, with her being my mentor, I followed in her footsteps. It was indeed much cheaper than what you might pay in Columbus at the time and that included the shipping costs both ways. Mom, who is now in the Alzheimer Care Facility, Kemper House, uses that quilt to this day…say…20 years later. 

 

Gift cards were our topic of conversation while passing through Ashland, KY where Big Sandy Superstore originated. B had recently rediscovered an old Big Sandy gift card. I am a stickler about using these cards. I’m all for companies making money, but I refuse to be the one to leave gift cards on the table as a donation. For sure we will take a walk through a Big Sandy when we get back.

 

Traffic was still light as we approached signs for Louisa, KY. (I love the way that Louisa flows off the tongue!) When we entered Kentucky, there were signs declaring we were traveling the Country Music 23 Highway. I found this map showing where Tom T Hall, Randy Skaggs and many other country stars hailed from in Kentucky. We were on our way to Pikeville, home to Patty Loveless. Anyway, the map was across from the women’s bathroom inside the pictured tabernacle. A young, sweet southern drawl was ahead of me quietly waiting for maintenance to let her in. When I arrived, it was determined that he wasn’t about to leave until he painted over the walls, so she and I made a pact to keep an eye out as we took turns in the men’s room. Pretty disgusting…yep...pretty disgusting. It was a fun place overall though and so very out of place in the middle of nowhere. That’s just how I like it!

Our first night away and we actually were in a room with a view. It was spent at a Holiday Inn Express alongside the Levisa Fork River and a railroad track. When looking up which river this might be, I was amazed to find out that driving down 23 south around Pikeville was driving the second biggest engineering feat in the world! The river and the railroad used to run through Pikeville until a cut through Peach Orchard mountain rerouted them. Strategically constructed from 1973 well into 1989, it is second only to the engineering development of the Panama Canal and has been touted the 8th wonder of the world. WOW! And we haven’t even been to the Hatfield - McCoy museum yet.

Power Policy Gone Astray

Some shopping trips are smooth sailing. Others just don’t flow as expected from the start. I hit a local Kroger late yesterday afternoon to buy sub fixin’s for movie night. It started with no French bread. Or was there? I saw the empty shelves but asked anyway in case there was someplace else to look. The reply was no and confirmation was that there was no more coming out of the oven.  Finally I picked up a loaf of Italian and headed over to the deli.

My next quest was to find salami with the peppercorns imbedded throughout. The guy behind the counter said Genoa. He sliced me some but when I looked, there were no peppercorns. I inquired why that might be. He didn’t know that there weren’t any peppercorns because he wasn’t paying any attention. Startled at this response, I decided he had pulled his answer out of thin air, though I did look on-line later to find he was actually correct. Since his Genoa salami was without, I walked away wondering if this was what I really wanted for dinner tonight when, lo and behold, I came upon a random table with several loaves of French bread. Okay…back on the menu.

I wanted to be done and out of there but it turned out I picked up an item that was buy 5, get an even bigger savings off of each of the 5 items. Most of the time I rationalize that I’ll spend a lot more on the other 4 items than I will save, but I had already passed a few products that I could use with that same offer. That being the case there was no need to leave money on the table. Retracing my steps through the store I now found too many buy 5 items which meant I either needed to find more items or prioritize my top 5 needs. It turned out more loss time was not one of my needs so I chucked the overage.

Mission finally accomplished and I was ready to check out. I went through the self-check-out minding my own business when a bit of an argument ensued behind me. I looked and saw a woman, probably around 30-35 and a clerk 50 plus years telling her she couldn’t buy the wine in her hand because she did not have her driver’s license with her. After a short exchange, he conceded to check with his supervisor who was within hearing and viewing range. The supervisor glanced up and shook her head ‘no’. I had to do a double take thinking I was mistaken on my original assessment of the woman’s age. Seriously? This woman was well over 21. The man shrugged his shoulders and had the audacity to tell her he believed he had seen her in the store before. Without saying it, the implication in my mind was that he had sold her or seen her buy alcohol before.

That was it. I told her to give me the bottle. I have my license and would be happy to make the purchase. I rang it up and the clerk came over. He refused…refused to sell the wine to a 64 year old woman because he was suspicious that she might give it to a 35 year old. Honestly….am I wrong to still be shaking my head?

I considered sending a complaint to the store but the last thing I want is to be bored with how it is protective policy and their associate was right in assuming the woman wasn’t old enough to buy liquor because he is not allowed the use of his own mind. Plus, I would not want to be the one responsible for this clerk and his supervisor attaining associate of the year awards for saving the store from the criminal activities of two plotting, mischievous women who have been able to drink alcohol well within their rights for years.

Sigh….

Losing at the Slots

Last night was too much fun! With only a couple days at Treasure Island in Vegas, I was excited to find a gambling buddy!

He was winning nicely on one of their quarter slot machines when I started hitting on mine just a couple away. He glanced over with dancing eyes. Obviously this nameless gentleman enjoyed watching others win as much as scoring for himself. His attitude was downright infectious!

A real estate broker, at least 60 years old, he visits Las Vegas monthly. It is quite apparent that he is aware of a gambling problem. This knowledge keeps him staying and playing the small ticket slots.

Our chatter was all about the thrill of the spin as much as the excitement of the win; the anticipation of the ‘almost’ and the groan of nothing at all.

I was up $100 when I realized I was expected with my group for dinner. It was a fabulous meal but the fever kept me restless!

Two hours later I'm back anxiously looking about for some sign of my compadre. The sulk ended as I heard, then saw him pop around the corner looking for me and coming back for more.

Alas though, Lady Luck had deserted me. With despair, I spun away my winnings and then some. A momentary burst of excitement ignited as my friend hit the biggest jackpot of the night - 809 quarters! We whooped and hollered! But, even his hit too quickly started dwindling and the evening was now late and it was time to part.

A pat on his back and a simple thanks sent me smiling on my way having enjoyed such delightful camaraderie during this crazy, fun night!

**This great picture (taken outside the Treasure Island Hotel where they presented "Sirens of TI") is from RoadsideAmerica.com. (A Siren in Greek mythology is a creature half bird and half woman who lures sailors by the sweetness of her song.)

Duathlon

I couldn’t conceive of doing the triathlon; can’t swim. But, I was intrigued to discover that there was a duathlon. No swimming; only running and biking. I had biked off and on for several years, but had only been running for about 6 weeks. Frankly, this in itself was quite a feat for me. The last 30 years were spent telling anyone who suggested jogging or running as a viable form of exercise or stress relief, just how much I despised it. There I was, though, stretching and pacing about with a group of a hundred of my peers preparing to run 2 miles, bike 18.5 miles and then run another 3.1. There were 500 plus other participants who would start off swimming one-half mile rather than run the first 2 miles. They were the triathletes.

I was prepared for a big “On your mark. Get set. GO!” or ”Runners, take your positions!” Instead, there was a low key announcement made over a bullhorn about 20 minutes after the event was scheduled to begin. So low key that only the movement of the crowd ahead registered for me a sure start of the run.

I was towards the back, but not for long. I quickly became the tail end. My initial strategy was to stay with those around me, but they had obviously been in training a couple more weeks than I had been. My anxiety increased as I struggled to find my rhythm. I gulped at the air, panting uncontrollably. When I finally shook my head and composed myself, I dedicated my focus to self encouragement. “Relax, focus, get the rhythm. There it is. Okay now, there’s a good chance, I say, a real good chance of coming in last here. That’s going to be okay. I’m here only to see how well I can do. I’m not competing with anyone. So, just relax and have fun.” It was apparent that I was way out of my league; but, I was feeling calmer and determined to stay the course.

The first run was one mile out and one mile back using the same path. With only the first ½ mile behind my back, several of my newfound mentors (I had to drop the notion of peers) were already returning. They were sprinting easily and chatting about who could even imagine what. I turned the corner exiting the park and felt the turmoil in the air as a dozen of them wind channeled past me. They were within minutes of transitioning to their bikes; but, I refused to dwell on that and continued to forge ahead.

A trick I had learned, though potentially dangerous, was to keep my eyes to the ground while I run. It is the only way I can concentrate without getting overwhelmed at the distance still left to be covered.

I raised my head searching for the one mile turnaround and to my surprise, see another lone runner still moving toward it. Hmmm. I look away, then back again. I do believe that his frame size increased with that glance. One more test confirmed that I was not only keeping up, but I was gaining on him. Now, this was exciting! My legs didn’t move any faster but my mind was fired up. ”Oh, yes. He is mine!”

He rounded the corner a quarter mile ahead of me. He started his journey back and saw me. As we passed face to face, the silence was broken by the competing gasps of our panting. I made my turn and felt an internal rush as I closed in for the take! He must have tried to keep up with the pros longer than I had because I passed him with ease. My personal victory soured a bit though as he mumbled “I suppose this means I’m it.” It was more of a statement than a question. Since I had just learned myself what it was like to give in to accepting last place, I offered “You’ll catch up with me on the bike!” Then I slowly yet proudly left him in my dust!

My triumph was short lived. I gazed ahead to see bikes whipping out of the park. These riders were runners and swimmers. The swimming heats were every ten minutes. (My group of runners started off with the first heat.) I turned back into the park with a half-mile stretch still ahead of me. The riders were intense. Some hollered words of encouragement. Embarrassed, my speed picked up, but not by much. By the time I got back to the transition area, few people were watching for runners coming back in. Most had forwarded their support to the swimmers and riders.

My friend, Denise, though, bless her soul, was there for me. She cheered me in, offered me water, led me to my bike, and excitedly sent me off again! Passing the first riding checkpoint on my way out, I heard someone yell, “Make sure you stay all the way to the right with that bike.” I didn’t have to look around. I knew who he was talking to. I nodded and dug into cycling. The hundreds of bikes that overtook me were stupendous to look at. The speed and ease of their ride was fun to watch. (Yes, I was envious; and clearly, even in my fogged state, knew this was my old cloppy bike’s last ride.)

I decided not to use the odometer or stop watch on my bike. I didn’t need any discouragement; I wanted to finish this ride without regard to time and place. I’d ridden 30 miles on my bike before. Now that I had plenty of time ahead of me to think, I calculated that that had been 15 years prior. I wondered why I hadn’t added any training into my regimen for the cycling piece of this event. It would have been a good idea.

We rode the perimeter of the lake. It took me over an hour. I was alone most of the time except for the occasional group of riders who had swum in the later heats and sped past.

Three quarters of the way through the ride, I broke the intensity by wondering when the last time was that I had been out riding like this. “I should take advantage and enjoy the beauty of the land.” That did nothing for my speed and instead, led my mind to pine for the presence of my husband.

I buckled back down just as an athlete whizzed by me. “I think the last turn is at the bottom of the hill!” she shouted back. Yes! I peddled faster downhill, cruised around the corner and there it was! I choked back my extreme weariness at the enormous grand finale climb. “Concentrate, concentrate, you can do this! One spin of the wheel at a time!” It was an unbelievable feat reaching the top of that hill! There was one more mile, but an easy last mile.

Denise called out to me in glee and helped me park my bike. I couldn’t really talk. Mostly I just grunted and sucked down water. This was the last stage and before I could give it any thought, I started my final run. My legs were wobbly, but they were moving. I was torn between the excitement and settling back down. There was still much work to be done. I must have looked like hell because someone mistook my inability to function socially with negativity and chided me for not smiling and thanking him for his support.

I trotted through some trees on a dirt path leading out to the road. The final piece of this event was across the dam overlooking the lake. It was a narrow path for runners going both directions, but a befitting finale. As I started across the bridge there were a good many people returning. I was amazed at the number of people who had quit running altogether and were just walking fast. It had never occurred to me that I would see this. I had had no intention whatsoever of letting up. Granted, my run wasn’t that much over a fast walk... I went farther across the bridge. More and more people were walking. Gosh darn it. It just seemed like a good idea. I’d been moving for almost two hours now. No. No. And then I just did it. I slowed to a fast walk at the 2 mile marker. The sign itself seemed to scream at me to "Stop!" Horrified, I walked for only a few minutes and then took off again. Gratefully, I was in a running state when I heard someone say “Hey, I thought you said I would catch up with you on the bikes.” I shrugged as he passed going the other way and elated in my head “Oh, my God! I stayed ahead of him!” That took me a ways more, but I had lost my gait and had slowed down, making it harder to pull it all back together. I was feeling pain and weariness like I’d never felt before.

Back down the path through the trees and out into the gauntlet of the finish. Cheers led me to the line of completion, timing me at 2 hours and 14 minutes. Denise congratulated me! I walked around in a daze; dirty, breathless and exhausted.

I ranked 98 out of 100 in the duathlon. (There was another gentleman who dropped out during the ride.) Denise drove me home where I slept for the rest of the day (noon on). I didn’t run the rest of the year. It took everything I had that day. There’s a good chance, I say, a real good chance I needed more than 6 weeks of training.

Going Dutch

"Grandma, I'm so hungry!" The savory warmth coming from the chicken stewing atop the old coal stove was more than this little one could take. Great-Grandma Sadie turned with hands stuffed in the front pockets of her cotton house dress contemplating my mother. She smiled and surprised her beloved granddaughter with a thick slice of home baked bread spread with sweet butter; topped with strawberry jam.

Picture this peanut of a girl seated too high for her feet to touch the ground and her torso barely tall enough for her chin to clear the heavy wood table. Her eyes widened and arms raised high towards her Grandma to accept her treat. She tipped her head up to allow the delicious fruit topping to drip down to her tongue then smear across her wide mouth as she stretched the bread and took a big bite. Uncle Dick meandered in, ruffled her hair lecturing "Eat the crust Patty. It'll put curl in your hair." "Uncle Dick! I already have curly hair!"

Grandpa Jim and Sadie's daughter, Grandma Helen lived on a farm. Every summer we would set up tables outside and invite family over for a huge picnic. The cousins would barrel towards the spacious front yard and team up for a rowdy game of softball. Even though my sisters and I were barely, if at all, in our teens, no one was excluded from the pick. I never saw balls hit so far or fly so high as I remember in those days.

Grandpa Jim had a bell he would clang to call us back to the house. At its beaconing, victorious or not, we would all run sweaty, hot and laughing up the hill ravenous for some grub! Grandma Helen served some of the absolute best shredded barbecue beef sandwiches stirred hot straight out of the oven. A delicious mainstay complimenting plates piled high with succulent pot luck choices of potato salads, devilled eggs, baked beans, Jello salads and lots of pies and cakes.

The pot that stewed the chicken and made memorable sandwiches landed third generation to my mother 40 years ago. To this day Patty remains a fearless and marvelous cook! When we were growing up, more often than not, Great-Grandma Sadie's old dutch oven held center stage at our family's Sunday dinner table. The lid with crusted sauce or jus along its edge, held in the heat of our main course while bread was warmed and drinks were poured and set at the table. The six of us would anxiously await the ceremonial lifting of the lid to inhale the evening's meal of pork and scalloped potatoes, roast with carrots, onion and potatoes, venison, squirrel or rabbit. We would then dig in and do what was cherished the most; share in each other’s lives.

Where Are The Lightbulbs?

I hear her muttering under her breath through the phone "I bought them. I remember them being scanned at the store. They definitely went into the bag. From here I can even see the bag I brought home. Yep, there’s the napkins. Where are the light bulbs?"

“Okay,” she hollers at her husband. “You can take your shoes off now. I can’t find the lightbulbs!”

I’m chuckling! Thank goodness it isn’t just me! I had once questioned if that might be the case, but not anymore. Nope! I’m talking to my friend, Denise, and I hear an echo of my own all too familiar mumble of confusion. She is desperately searching for something she just had in her hands a few minutes ago! I’m screaming inside!

Am I delighting in her despair? Absolutely not! But, I do let out a big sigh of relief! For example, I’m preparing last night for a big day at work. I’m in charge of our Operation Feed Campaign and our cookout finale was today.

I had a list of ‘day before’ items I very conscientiously picked up last night; cheese, lettuce, and twelve 12-count packages of buns. Got ‘em. Left the buns in the back of the car spread out in a single layer because every one knows if you stack fresh buns, they become smashed and misshapen.

I didn’t make my 10pm bed check last night making me very, very tired this morning. The dog was out of luck. No morning walk this day. Checking the garage, I smiled inside. Dear, sweet, Brian had loaded the car…but, wait. Where are my 144 buns? Oh, there they are; all squished together in two huge white bags! Frustrated, I grabbed the bags and relieved them one dozen at a time; inspecting each one almost moronically. They were laid gingerly back into single file; all ten of them. Ten? No way! I bought 12 of them last night! I counted 12 into my basket. I told the check out lady with confidence to charge me for 12. I put them in the cargo area, in a single layer and there were 12. What the heck happened to packages number eleven and twelve? I ran upstairs to interrogate Brian who was still in an early morning daze. He assured me that he had not sat down and eaten two dozen buns.

This isn’t the only time something like this has happened here lately. Earlier this month there was a bake sale and I was baking to my hearts content. Yum! One week into the South Beach diet and I had five dozen cookies, two German chocolate cakes, 18 yellow and 18 devil’s food cupcakes cooling on the table. My son descended from the room no mere mortal could tolerate to enter, absolutely starved. (The wafting odor of cupcakes fresh from the oven is a great way to drag a guy out of his teenage solitude.) Discovering these treats were totally off limits though took the lift out of his grin and his room door quickly again said Do Not Disturb!

I iced the german chocolate cakes and yellow cupcakes with Hershey's chocolate frosting. Butter cream icing was the perfect topper for the 18 devil’s food still fresh from the oven. I whipped up a bowl and went to the table to complete my evenings work but instead screamed “Logan!! Get down here!!!”

He was convincing enough that it wasn’t he who stole and devoured 6 of my devil’s food cupcakes. I tried to believe it was the dog. But, Randy surely would have left tell-tale signs of sloppy saliva trails, or at least a few crumbs smashed into the carpet. These cupcakes had paper holders. All had completely vanished without a trace. To further throw me off their scents', Logan staunchly defended our beloved pet while accusing me of never having made more than 12 in the first place. Hmm.

All I can do is chock up the cupcakes alongside the missing buns. Darn that Denise though! She called back to say she had found her light bulbs!

Written By Teri Lee

Grand Juror #193

Over the years cops and robbers have dominated television viewing. With only one week served on the Grand Jury, I realized that the stories will never end. They are being scripted as you read this and if you read it again, a fresh scenario will be hanging in the sidelines to be drafted. One week. They had said it would be the most interesting service we could do for our country. These expectations were met with swift intensity.

The Grand Jury is different than a single trial or waiting in a room to be called for a myriad of cases during a set time. Members of the Grand Jury are privy to all of the county’s felony cases that have been reviewed and filtered for probable cause. This creates a daily docket of 30-50 cases in my county alone. The Grand Jury hears the bare minimum of evidence to confirm probable cause, then votes. Seven out of nine ayes’ will indict the suspect and move him/her on through the judicial system. During a brief orientation, the question was posed whether or not we would just be rubber stamping decisions already made. The answer was yes, 99% of the time.

With shameful honesty, I thought these two weeks would be R&R (rest and relaxation); an opportunity to take it easy while listening to some interesting cases. That first day I headed across the walkway nine stories above early morning High Street. Dawn masked the city as dirty, deserted; almost barren. I used to work downtown though and knew a hubbub of activity would ignite a melting pot of cultures and personalities soon enough. There was such a festive air…in my mind.

It didn’t take long to change my mind and gain a new respect for lawyers, in particular prosecuting attorneys. The ones we met came into the court room chatting it up about their weekends, their animals, cooking and the weather. In general they were giving the impression of normalcy. Five hours later you wondered how could they do it day in and day out. It’s one thing to watch Ironside or the Judge or Law and Order. It’s completely different to go through 50 drug related cases in 1-1/2 hours. I’ve lived a sheltered life.

Profiling this assembly of intriguing jurors would have been impossible. One worked for the government and quite obviously had unattained aspirations of becoming a lawyer. When the opportunity arose, his intense interrogation of an 81 year old woman who had suffered a troubling and embarrassing scam was unconscionable. He and Marta exchanged hurt and suspicious glances when they were told their line of questioning was inappropriate.

Lucille spoke but once that first week and it was to say she was highly offended that people were being referred to as suspects or bodies or victims. She wanted to personalize each case with individual names used throughout the testimonies.

The default leader of the pack was a driver by occupation. All summoned jurors are assigned a number from 1 to somewhere around 300. The rule of serving during a Grand Jury 4 month session is that once your number is called, you must serve a minimum of 2 weeks. The option is then available to stay through the end of that session. Clifford was called within the second month. His employer’s policy allowed his people to remain a juror once instated until the session end. By the time I got there, Cliff was 10 weeks seasoned. He helped us to understand the process. When asked what case had affected him the most, it was during our stint when we were shown a picture of a man who had most of his head blown off.

Yes! There is murder in the city. One of our first cases was a suspected serial killer justifying his actions to an ex-girlfriend whom he blamed. How could he possibly kill someone he loved? Internet chatrooms became a gold mine for his release.

Another murderer sitting in the county jail decided he needed his dad to make threats on his brother’s life. Said murderer didn’t think his brother was doing a good enough job intimidating the witnesses of the crime he had committed.

Horrendous sexual abuse, tragic domestic violence, passing bad checks, stealing, robbery at gun point, drugs, fires; it was all happening inside this community of 1 million. There were times I thought my head might explode!

The 1% of the time that this was not a rubber stamp position, was a domestic violence case. It was an opportunity to hear both sides of the story. The involved parties contradicted each other and a Grand Jury majority chose 7-2 to indict, which in essence would allow the courts to determine who was telling the truth. I awoke wide-eyed deep in the night when the pieces fell into place. I should have voted nay.

Conversely, there was a guy who stole his neighbor’s big screen TV. He stashed it in his girlfriend’s car then spent the next 30 minutes arguing with her because they couldn’t find the keys. He left on foot in a huff to add to his loot only to get caught cutting out the window screen at the apartment of an acquaintance. She yelled and threw a plate at him. Heading back, he ran into a man with a dog. Tough and in his face he demanded the man’s money.

“I don’t have any money. I’m walking my dog.”

“I’m going to go get my piece and then you will give me your money!”

The would be robber left. He came back with an obvious screwdriver ‘gun’. The dog walker popped him in the nose and took off. Our gangsta headed home with blood dripping down his face only to find the police at his door.

Tell me that isn’t a great sideline story for TV!

Written by Teri Lee
February, 2008

Music City

Music City! Nashville, Tennessee! I love traveling and discovering the world first hand. I’m not a country and western kind of gal and Brian just isn’t that kind of guy; but, they tricked us and we had ourselves a ball!

We drove down to the Gaylord Opryland on the finest of March days. Clear and sunshiny with a crispness in the air that hollered spring is hovering near! Just around dusk we arrived at Gaylord Opryland. This facility is the largest hotel and conference accommodation in the world. Relative to registration, our temporary residence was half way around it, up a few floors and down a couple more hallways. (Next time we plan to use a bell hop for our luggage.)

What a fabulous room! We grabbed some quiet time, freshened up and headed outside to explore the Grand Ole Opry only to discover it was closed.

Instead, we explored the hotel until we came across and settled in the Jack Daniel’s bar. Lively music was the draw. Country and Western? That’s Neil Diamond. And that’s Stevie Ray Vaughn. I didn’t know they were considered country and western. Brian said he had known all along. (This coming from the man who told me every Waffle House restaurant we passed on the way to Nashville was closed.) Nonetheless, this was toe tappin’, knee slappin’, hootin’ and hollerin’, down home music and we were having a great time!

Adding to the excitement was when the lead singer introduced the pianist, Jim. Jim had worked with Roy Orbison for eight years. I adored Roy Orbinson. Not just because of his music, but because he bridged a simple gap between me and my dad. Rarely had we agreed on ‘today’s’ music. 'Mystery Girl' though (Roy’s last solo album) was shared and enjoyed by us both.

I was so enthralled, I actually gathered enough courage to walk up and shake Jim’s hand. He came over and had a beer while relating personal tidbits from touring with Roy and identifying tracks he contributed to on albums. He remembered the excitement when Roy announced the formation of The Traveling Wilburys. Time was up; but, before Jim returned to his bench, he informed us that he would be playing the following night with a different group; an even better band. How could that be?

Dinner that next night was downtown Nashville at the Wild Horse Saloon. Posed horses took on human personalities intertwined with the tables and railings while a wild horse stampede finale was orchestrated upside down across the ceiling. Line dancing was being taught so most of our group joined in to learn and dance the night away.

Upon our return to the hotel, we were still curious about the promise of better music than the night before. We hit the Jack Daniels bar during the band’s first break. We waved at Jim and settled in for a nightcap. The music commenced and it swept us away; clapping, stomping and singing loud. This was one fine combo of musicians (notches above the last) and the night played on!

Heading back home, Brian and I broached the quality of music we were so thrilled to be a part of. His thought was “This is Nashville, Teri; Music City. The worst band here is probably better than the best one back home.” I didn’t argue.

Written By Teri Lee
March, 2004

No Fear

I have these pictures in my office. Beautiful pictures actually of a friend BASE jumping from the New River Gorge Bridge in WV. I’ve also a picture of his son skydiving in Utah and another of one of his daughters, with her long blond hair rising high. What a family! I tell everyone who asks about these pictures, “The ‘No Fear’ t-shirts exist because of this man and his family!”

There are two pictures of Paul. The first I point out is the typical sky diving freefall. You see a beautiful earthy blur around the photographer's sharply focused subject; very close to a 3-D affect. Goggles on his eyes, harness on his back, and a purple leader in his right hand to be released when it's time for the canopy to take hold of the wind. It’s a fantastic shot.

Then, I motion to the next frame. Still in perfect form, the purple leader is high above him with empty fall tree limbs off to the side while below is a gorgeous view of the New River with slate and stone shimmering around and reflected from the bed of the river. It is a spectacular bird’s eye view.

But, my story to onlookers doesn’t stop there. I direct them (every time with awe) to look closely at the second setting. Now imagine seeing the river heavy with stone right below and the purple leader above you and realize right at that split second that your chute isn’t going to open. This is what happened to Paul.

In those amazing split seconds, Paul guided himself using rehearsed body technique over into the trees to help brace the impact. He gashed open his head and broke his back. They had to life flight him out of the valley. I asked his son, “With a gash like that, did you look? Did you see inside? Was there really anything in there?” His reply: “It was completely empty!”

Over the next year, Paul had back surgery and discovered he also had a tumor resident that needed removed. In this light it was a blessing that he fell from the sky into those trees to catch this disease in time!

Paul became a hurtin' man. They put him on drugs that reduced him to a fearful soul. He wouldn't stay down though so it wasn’t long before he rejected the treatment and refused any more medication. Once his body cleared of the meds, so did his mind. Paul came back at age 67 refusing to allow that bridge to beat him. Two years after his horrific fall, with his son by his side, he BASE jumped that bridge again…successfully.

I bow to Paul; to his life; to his courage and to his will to be who he is. I simply adore him.

Note: These two marvelous pictures were purchased with full usage rights by Paul from Bridge Day, 2003. His consent was given for use here.

Written by Teri Lee
May, 2004

Aspiring To Be Mary

Brian and I were young in our relationship and thrilled to be able to go on a company cruise to the Bahamas! It was a true adventure as neither of us had ever been on such a luxurious and exciting vacation!

One afternoon we were basking in the warmth of the near equatorial sun at an open market area. Our ship was docked for supplies and we had a couple hours to devour more of this laid back culture. We enjoyed sitting lazily with one eye on each other and the other skimming the crowd.

You see a lot of different kinds of people milling about and blending in; but, one woman caught my attention. She was tall and big waisted and wearing a belt to accentuate it. She looked fine, but it bothered me. It was certainly something I would never feel comfortable doing with my similar thick, pillar-like waist area. I figured her for at least 60 as I continued my scan. Ouch! Another fashion blunder; knee highs rolling down her calves. I was shaking my head when her tall, handsome husband lumbered over to bring her to meet us. I had missed his presence. It was newly acquainted Bob from work. As the couple approached though, I realized something else that wasn’t quite right; his wife’s glasses. Sunglasses? No wait, not just sunglasses; she had her regular prescription glasses on underneath! My initial fear was that I would gawk and giggle. But, I quickly sobered up as I realized what a delightful woman Mary was. In addition, it was apparent during our brief conversation that Bob was still crazy in love with her after 40 years of marriage!

I may have been 30 years old then. I have just turned 50. It’s crossed my mind more than once that I’ve failed to jot down the first note about this aging milestone in my life. It hasn’t been sad or traumatic. But, I’ve had this feeling inside….okay, I’ve had many and often violently conflicting feelings inside. The most predominant one has been a strong need to finally be undisturbed by the constant nagging of satisfying everyone around me! Exhaustion overtakes me just thinking about it!

It wasn’t until my mind traveled back to this brief encounter that I realized its true life value. The vision of hefty Mary and her double glasses and those hose rolling down her legs suddenly made my most grandiose wish the ability to walk through the rest of my days as uninhibited and comfortable with myself as this enjoyable woman surely was!

People encourage how important it is to do the right things for your self without concern for how others might perceive them. I think I’m ready. I want to be just like Mary!

Written By Teri Lee
March, 2005

A Challenge Unanswered

At the age of 19, I rode across the United States with a couple of girlfriends. One memorable stretch of road traveling through Colorado held me captive; a lone mountain reaching high into the bluest sky I could ever have imagined. I was transfixed. I gazed in awe toward that mountain. The splendor of its mere presence overwhelmed me! Inside I had a sense that this was my mountain and that it was calling to me. I wanted to run to the base and climb it to the top! I wanted to twirl around and sing the Sound of Music. “The hills are alive!”

It was a clean, wholesome aspiration; one that I’ve revisited in my mind many times since.

Twenty years later…A group of us arrived at the Tucson El Conquistador Hotel mid-afternoon. We checked in and after a quick freshening up period, I began absorbing my new environment. Columbus, OH is settled on flat land. I still held lingering memories of plush green lawns accented by the beautiful foliage of autumn. Here in Arizona, the brush sets delicately against a sandy terrain. Pine trees and palms towered alongside dry river beds, though the majesty of the mountains swore to fill them to the brim with the melting of the winter’s snows. I liked it.

The El Conquistador was built at the bottom of one such set of mountains; a spectacular view regardless of your perspective. I pulled up a chair next to one of my co-workers. Neither of us visually acknowledged anything but that mountain. He finally spoke.

“Do you suppose it’s me or does everyone who looks upon it feel a strong urge to climb it?”

I certainly felt it; that old familiar hankering to make that mountain mine. I was dressed for the welcome reception but decided to explore the possibilities of realizing this seemingly ancient dream. I moved toward it. New construction along the back of the hotel provided access a short distance above the hotel, but the trail ended at a water tower. The Saguaros were tall and mighty - unburdened by the wood pecked holes and desert animals hidden well within them. A yellow flowered bush reminded me of a picture captioned “snake weed”. It looked to me that it might be called that because of the low bushy lay of it. It further looked to me like a good place for a snake to hide out from the sun and a good place for me to avoid!

I stood in the middle of the path and looked up. It didn’t look that tough! It’s not that far to what I assumed would be called the brush line and if I could just get there, I would be a satisfied woman.

At the welcome reception, conversation indeed turned to climbing that mountain.

“You wouldn’t catch me in those hills! A lot of rattlers around here.”

“You better have a good pair of boots to wear.”

“The scorpions might sting you but you’re only sick for a while”.

The following day was filled with meetings, a hoe down, and a headache that allowed “mountain climbing” to settle far to the bottom of my list of “to do’s”.

Our third day was the free day. Breakfast broke up at 8am. I went back to my room to retrieve my camera. Slowly, without allowing much thought, I headed upwards to my destiny. Within minutes, I stood at the now familiar water tower surveying the land I was about to approach.

There seemed to be a way; just climb those rocks. What had they said about snakes under the rocks? The path was narrow and there was that snake weed again. I became acutely alert looking for any kind of movement indicating desert animal; friend or foe.

I stepped up onto the rocks and jumped down to the sandy terrain. I immediately huddled close to myself frantically jerking my head around in search of danger.

Overpowering anxiety; afraid and frozen!

“This is crazy! What do I fear but the talk of those who stayed behind? I can go on.” And I did. I forked to the right still careful not to touch anything around me, eyes darting in every direction. More rocks, more rocks with lots of nooks and crannies luring large families of snakes to rest in wait. In wait for what? A reprieve from the sun? Safety from the daylight? Unsuspecting tourists like me?

Suddenly I eyed the speeding stillness of an insect’s ability to flutter its wings beyond sight and yet remain motionless. It was the size of the common bumble bee known from my own backyard. Bee? No stripes. Killer bee? What did they look like? If they looked like a bumble bee with no stripes and could fly suspended, than this guy was probably just that! Twenty feet from the water tower and I flew back down to safety. I’m outta here! Back down the road; skipping so not to trip. I am done!

Safely from the rocks, I shook myself to relieve the rest of the tension. I began walking around the tower on my retreat down. I viewed the beautiful scenery but felt almost sick. I stopped. I slowly turned back. To my horror I gazed up to that brush line and felt peace. I looked away; bad. I looked again; good. Something, certainly not the conscious self I know, took one foot back toward the path and set me on my way. Tears were streaming down my face from at once realizing how deep rooted my fear of this journey was and discovering a sense within me that maybe I could overcome it.

I hurried through the familiar, on to the rocks guarded by the killer bee. The insect was unseen, though my anxiety was growing again.

I made my way quickly and more confidently to an opening perhaps 50 feet up. From there I could see the brush getting thicker but that didn’t bring the brush line much closer. I lingered for some time. Then, I descended.

Ten years has since passed since this trip to Tucson. I’ve never forgotten the fear nor my tears shed in conjunction with this vexing adventure. I’ve reflected on its meaning and understand it as the beginning of a journey to uncover new dimensions of my self. There were frustrating limitations I didn’t expect at all. The huge amount of fear interweaving in my life was brutally obvious.

I’ll be 50 in a couple of months. I’m still fearful (yet of fewer things) and still take cautious steps while wishing I was leaping lively and with vigor. Even so, I keep my hopes alive and my hunger for adventure awaits another chance for fresh discovery.

Written By Teri Lee
October, 1995
Final December 2005

The Man On The Plane

I can always rely on a good trip away from the norm to entice me to write. There is so much new information to take in and enjoy and relate to and analyze!

I just returned from a software convention in Orlando, Florida. I saw so many old friends and began the process of getting to know even more, but that isn’t really where today’s thoughts come from. In fact it’s not from business at all.

I finished reading a book, “The Bottoms” by Joe R. Lansdale, while I was in Orlando. The words rolled so smoothly and eloquently through the pages. The story captivated me from the beginning and I enjoyed every syllable thereafter. The story was told in the 1st person; the adult man in a nursing home perhaps 82 years old. What a tale he had to tell! The events surrounding a serial murderer where he lived from birth were relayed with amazing clarity. He took this reader back to Texas when he was 12. My mind followed it vividly. The closing of the book was so powerful with the old gentleman pining for that time in his life when such evil reigned with the good. At least he was living life back then and not drudging through each day at a home for the aged.

I thought of a woman I met several years ago while volunteering at a nursing home. She was 101 years old with still a sharp mind and reasonable health. I only met with her a few times, but she would tell me stories about how her daddy was in charge of laying out plans for the new railroad tracks across America. He forged his company and his family ever westward and often they found themselves to be the first white people seen by the natives. They would travel through the small villages establishing ties with its residents. What an adventurous life!

On the first leg of my flight home from the conference, I sat with a man 88 years old. He was clear, concise and interesting! He had been temporarily banished from his daughter’s home in Florida because of an impending hurricane (Ivan). His son lives in Columbia and he was traveling there so as not to be a worry to his daughter. He talked about how he occasionally now would lose a word during a conversation. (Trying to find words is such a constant effort for me at 49 I’d forgotten to think of it as something wrong.) He may have been more astutely aware of it because his wife had passed away 7 years ago with Alzheimer’s. He looked so sad telling me about the events leading to her death that tears came to my eyes. They had three children and had been together 57 years. “Fifty-seven years and it wasn’t nearly enough time,” he said, and I could sense the well of loneliness; so painfully sweet.

There is such a fast and deep relationship between the young and society's elders. The bond seems immediate and mutual. I felt that bond with the man on the plane and the lady in the nursing home and the man in “The Bottoms”. I feel there is something important to be communicated. Maybe that’s why Mr. Lansdale wrote that book. Maybe he feels it too.

Written By Teri Lee
September, 2004

The Fountain

The fountain with its majestic jut of water grabs me each time I pass now. It’s been active for 10 years or more, but it has held my sovereign interest for only a portion of that time; that time that has passed since the drowning.

Was it a friend? That’s a tough one for me. I have people I care a great deal about and who care for me. But, I hear people talk about friends they’ve had for years and years. How they have groups of friends they often see and travel with and play cards with. We were none of these things to each other.

I surely knew of him for 5 or 6 years. He was a clerk at the local grocery. With the tight job market, it became common for the store management to hire some of the community’s disabled residents. It was the first integration of the kind I had personally experienced. I watched as the initial group arrived on board. The personalities were so varied; some loud and large while others stayed small and quiet and, of course, there were a couple right smack in the middle. Certainly not unlike the rest of the world except that they may have fallen a little farther to the left or right. Patrons were occasionally annoyed. (Yes, including me.) But all and all we adjusted to each other just fine.

There were 3 or 4 other pleasurable characters who have since faded in my ever fading memoirs. One will never fade. Tall, lanky, extremely quiet; I may have seen him smile once or twice in all of our brief encounters. He never seemed to recognize me and words rarely escaped him, but he worked diligently and efficiently and was a stable presence in this world of chaos.

One cold February day, I ran to the store for some “fill in the gap” dinner items. Copies of flyers were pasted all over the walls and windows of the store. My frequent encounters with this gentleman had come to an end. It was his picture and he was missing. I asked after him and was informed that he lived close and failed to come home one night. He was a loner and the concern was that he was mugged by someone taking advantage of his station in life. I feared for him, fretted over him. Each return visit to the store renewed my concern as the flyers continued to inquire if anyone had seen this man. After a few weeks though I succumbed to the fact he was gone; not necessarily dead, just gone.

Spring came around and one day in late May I realized the flyers had come down. Another clerk was approached and asked if they had just given up. They had not. They had found him as the warming sun melted the ice that had formed over the fountain. He had loved the water and it was thought in his enjoyment, he had fallen in or through ice that couldn’t hold him.

The fountain has held my attention ever since; not necessarily with grief. Even though I was horrified that he drowned while playing, it would have been much worse to hear he had been maimed or attacked and left to die. He wasn’t really a friend…he was barely an acquaintance, but his death impacted me, held me and formed a relationship with my soul. I continue to honor my brief and shallow knowledge of this simple man with each renewed siting of this fountain.

Written by Teri Lee
April, 2004

As A Child

As a child she sits with the women.
As a woman she sits with the children.
Undefined as a person in general,
She stifles emotions unsurfaced.

Her tears are for those whom she loves,
Her tears are the fears of her loves.
When the light finally shines for her glory,
The child will merge with the woman
And peace in her being be filled.

Written in 1975 by
Teri Lee; Age 20