Author: Lynda Jones

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The Talent Contest

I’m not sure whose idea it was for my brother and me to enter the talent contest. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t mine.

I was in eighth grade and Bob was in seventh. My mother pointed out a notice in the Ramsey County Review:

TALENT CONTEST FOR CHILDREN AGES SIX TO THIRTEEN. PRIZE IS $10.00!

$10.00 back in 1956 was a lot of money. It is equivalent to $100 today. 

“You kids should enter the contest,” my mother said. “I think you would win.”

Bob and I had been playing duets for years. My father had recently brought home a book of Latin duets with very complicated rhythms. Bob and I had a lot of fun plowing through the duets. Bob played the accompaniment because he had a better sense of rhythm than I did. I played the melody because my fingers were faster. (And often more accurate. Just sayin’.)

We entered the contest and squabbled about what song to play. It was between Perfidia and Tico-Tico. Tico-Tico was faster, but we usually played it so fast we were completely out of control. We probably played Perfidia too fast, too, but at least we knew we could get through it in front of an audience.

Bob and I practiced our duet every day. We argued about who was making the most mistakes. We speculated on how many people might be in the audience and if people we knew would be our competition. Mostly we dreamed of what we could do with the award money if we actually won.

The day of the talent show, Dad drove us to North High School, The show was going to be on the stage located at one end of the gymnasium. Folding chairs were set up in rows for the audience. Someone from the newspaper was in back, handing out programs. 

Bob wore a suit jacket and I wore my best dress. My parents, my sister, and Grandma Hunt were in the audience. I glanced at the program and saw that we were the last act of the day. No one else was playing the piano.

Other acts included a young magician, a girl who sang You Are My Sunshine, and a variety of other acts that included tap dancing, cartwheels, and twirling batons. As I watched the performers, my heart sank. I was certain Bob and I hadn’t practiced enough. What if my fingers slipped on the keys? What if one of us lost our place in the music? What if I couldn’t turn the page fast enough? 

When it was our turn, Bob went to the side of the stage to help the announcer pull the piano onstage. It was an old, dusty upright piano. As soon as Bob gave it a shove, one of the legs fell off. The leg was mainly decorative and didn’t really support the weight of the heavy piano but the audience didn’t know that. 

The audience gasped. Bob kicked the fallen leg across the stage. The announcer retrieved the leg and propped it back the piano. We sat down on the piano bench, looked at each other, opened the book and started to play. Somehow we made it through Perfidia without a mistake.

We stood up, bowed and took our place on the chairs with the other acts as we waited for the judge’s decision.

“The winner of the 1958 North St. Paul First Annual Talent Contest is …. Mary Lynda and Robert Jones!” 

We won!

Bob and I walked across the stage and accepted a small trophy and a check for $10.00. It was my first and last talent contest. It is still a thrilling moment to remember. I wonder if we would have won if the piano leg hadn’t fallen off.

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Peonies

The official flower of the Jones family is the peony. Just kidding. But if we had an official flower, it would definitely be a peony.

After retiring from the Northern Pacific railroad, my grandfather, Robert Jones, bought a small log cabin in West St. Paul where he began growing peonies. Acres and acres of beautiful peonies.

Grandpa Jones cultivated new species. He entered them in local and national peony shows. He and my grandmother sold bunches of flowers and whole peony bushes to people who stopped by his cabin. He became renown throughout the country and was a prominent member of the Minnesota Peony Society. I’m sure that many of his peonies are still growing throughout Minnesota and are in full bloom as I write this story.

Sometimes my brother and I were sent to the cabin for a week in the summer to help Grandpa work in the peony gardens. There were flowers of every color ~ pink, red, white, and magenta. It’s what Heaven must look like, with just a few angels floating around on clouds for special effects. Our job was to sit in the wheelbarrow, on top of weeds and debris that Grandpa dumped onto the trash pile away from the house. We laughed when the ride was over and we were dumped in the trash pile along with the weeds.

The cabin was tiny, with just a living room and one bedroom on the main floor. In the basement there was a small kitchen and the only bathroom. The steps from the bedroom to the bathroom were steep ~ too steep to navigate at night. If we needed to use the bathroom, we peed in a coffee can, which my grandmother carefully emptied the next morning.

My grandparents had only one narrow bunk bed in the bedroom. Grandpa slept in the top bunk with my brother, Bob. There was no railing on the bed, but Grandpa’s body kept him safely next to the wall. I slept with Grandma on the bottom bunk.

One night Bob and I went to sleep early. When it was time for her to come to bed, Grandma changed into her nightgown and was kneeling beside the bed, saying her nightly prayers, just as Bob rolled over and fell on top of her.  In my Catholic family, it was considered a miracle. Grandma’s prayers saved his life.

Grandpa’s most famous peony was a soft pink, double show peony, the Shirley Jones Peony (Seedling # P127) named for his daughter, Shirley. For her wedding, Aunt Shirley carried a lovely small bouquet of white flowers. The pink peonies named in her honor were on the altar and throughout the church.

Bob and I were in Aunt Shirley’s wedding. I think we were four and five years old. People commented on the beautiful bride and all the gorgeous flowers.

Most of the guests also murmured as my brother walked down the aisle sporting a big black eye. It was my fault. The day before the wedding, we were chasing each other around the yard. I came through the front door first and slammed the screen door shut, right in Bob’s face. It was too late to get another flower girl and ring-bearer. The wedding went on, as planned, 

Grandpa sold the cabin sometime in the early 1950’s. After my grandparents died in 1954 and 1956, my Aunt Margaret and Uncle Pat moved into their home at 731 Delaware Avenue. Grandpa’s office was still  in the basement of the home.

I loved going to the basement and seeing Grandpa’s big ledgers, where he kept careful records of all the flowers he owned and sold. One whole wall was covered with ribbons ~ white, red, and blue ribbons with the year they were awarded in the Minnesota Peony Show. And right in the middle were the biggest ribbons of all: the purple Best of Show ribbons

Robert and Irene Jones, two quiet people who raised children and flowers, left their mark throughout Minnesota with their gentle spirits and their beautiful peonies.

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An Accident

When I was five years old, I fell out of a moving car speeding down the road one summer afternoon. I still have a scar in my right eyebrow and on my elbow. This is what I remember. I might have some of the details wrong. I never let the truth get in the way of a good story.

It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon. My mother and her friend, Jo Scanlon, decided to take my brother and I for a picnic at Tanners Lake, in nearby Oakdale Township. Bobby was three years old and would turn four in November. My mother was probably pregnant with my sister, but we didn’t know that at the time. No one used the “p” word back then. And there were no prohibitions against cigarettes or alcohol when someone was “expecting.”

Jo Scanlon and my mother were good friends from high school. That summer they were both twenty-six years old. Jo, an unmarried secretary working at 3-M, was short and trim. Her hair was reddish-brown and her face was covered with freckles. Jo and my mother gave each other “perms,” so their hair would be fashionably curly. 

My mother packed a picnic lunch, including plenty of beer, and Jo picked us up in her car. Tanners Lake was on private property and we paid a fee to go to the beach. The day started off badly when crows noticed that my mother had painted Bobby’s toenails a bright red. He screamed as the crows pecked at his feet.

“Here, cover your feet with sand and they will leave you alone,” my mother said. She and Jo went back to sitting on the picnic blanket, smoking and drinking as they sunned themselves at the water’s edge.

Bobby and I played in the water all afternoon until suddenly my mother announced, “Quick. We need to go home. Your father is getting off work soon. We need to get home before he does.”

As my mother hurried to pack up our picnic lunch, Jo went to a nearby stand to buy us a bag of popcorn to share on the way home. We piled into the back seat and Jo took off. The adults were laughing as Jo turned a corner at a high rate of speed. I bumped against the door handle, which wasn’t locked, and fell out on the ground. Popcorn scattered all over the back seat.

“Stop the car!” my mother yelled. “Lynda fell out.”

A woman, who lived nearby, saw what happened and ran toward us with a towel in her hand. My forehead was bleeding badly.

“Here take this towel. You need to take your little girl to St. John’s Hospital. Go right away.”

My mother held me on her lap as Jo raced to the hospital. Meanwhile, my mother was yelling at Bobby. She accused him of pushing me against the door, but that’s not what happened. The door was not locked and I fell out. It was as simple as that. Both Bobby and I were crying, not knowing what was going to happen next.

As we passed Seventh Avenue, Jo saw my father’s car leaving the drug store where he worked. She frantically honked on the horn, but my father never saw us as we sped past him, on our way to the hospital.  

My mother used a pay phone to call my grandparents, who lived upstairs from us. She told Grandma to watch for Dad and tell him to come right down to the hospital. The gash in my eyebrow needed stitching. My elbow was bleeding, but not broken.

 

Dad arrived about thirty minutes later. He told my mother and Jo to take Bobby home. “I’ll stay with Lynda and call you later.”

I was in the hospital for a couple of days. Dad visited me every day. He brought me comic books and candy bars from the drug store. My best friend, Betty Lennon, heard about the accident and her family sent me a telegram. Meanwhile, Bobby was grounded and not allowed to play with his friends until I came home.

My brother later told me, “It was one of the worst days of my life. I spent two days just walking around the dirt in our backyard. I didn’t know if you were ok. I wanted to be in an accident, too. I wanted someone to send me a telegram.”

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Silver Lake Store

I grew up in a small town in Minnesota during the 1940’s and 50’s. Children of that era were raised in a parental style that is best described as “benign neglect.” 

My family lived in the lower half of a duplex. My grandparents, my mother’s parents, lived upstairs. We didn’t have a car or a television. We had indoor plumbing but no bathtub. We took our baths in a big wash tub, filled with hot water from a tea kettle heated on a wood stove. My mother and grandmother washed clothes in that same washtub and hung them on a clothesline in our backyard. We had a telephone, with multiple families sharing the same line. My mother listened to news on the radio all day long. I remember it as a time of great joy and tremendous freedom. 

Looking back on it, no wonder mothers didn’t have time to entertain their children. No wonder we were told, “You kids go outside to play. I’ll call outside for you when it’s time to come home.”

There were not many girls in my neighborhood, so I mostly hung out with my brother and his friends ~ Leo Fortier, Davey Cournoyer, and Carl Olson. At least once a day my mother sent me to the Silver Lake Store, about a block away, with a note and some money to buy whatever she needed ~ a can of coffee, a package of Kool-Aid, maybe milk or a box of Jello. A pack of cigarettes was also often on the list. Occasionally, Mom would let me spend a penny or two on penny candy.

My favorite candies were root beer barrels. At two for a penny, they were a bargain. My brother and I were always hunting for pennies dropped in the dirt or behind couch cushions, so we could buy candy that cost more than one penny ~ wax lips for me and baseball cards for him.

One day, Bob, Davey Cournoyer, Leo Fortier and I were especially bored and looking for something to do. One of us suggested forming a club. We wanted to call it the Be Bad Club. We were tired of being good and we wanted to see how it felt to do something bad. I was about seven years old and the boys were all six. As the oldest, I should have known better but it sounded like fun.

We hatched a plan to walk into Silver Lake Store and throw all the bread on the floor. When the owner saw what we were doing, he yelled at us and we ran out the door. We raced down the alley to Leo’s backyard, laughing all the way.

Later, we couldn’t think of any other bad things to do so we formed the Be Good Club. The Korean War had just started. We considered ourselves practically angelic as we knocked on people’s doors and asked them if they wanted us to tell them about the war. Most people just shook their heads and said, “No! Go find something else to do.”

When I was eight years old, we moved to a new home, about two blocks away from my grandparents. Our new home had a bathroom with a bathtub. My mother had a wringer washing machine in the basement. She spent all day Mondays washing clothes and hanging them on the clothesline by the side of our house. On Tuesdays, she ironed. It’s what most mothers did. When I was nine years old my father bought a car and later we got a television.

During the summer, my brother and I continued to roam the neighborhood, often the two blocks between our new house and my grandmother’s house, where we used to live. My brother rounded up his friends to play baseball in the open field next door. I helped my mother do the laundry and I learned to iron. My mother sent me on errands to Silver Lake Store at least once a day. I loved it.

One day Dad came home from work with a canister and asked me to take it to the store. The canister was meant for people to donate money to help people with cerebral palsy. I needed to ask the owner if it was ok to put the canister next to the cash register in his store. I was horrified. I was so painfully shy, I was later diagnosed as an “elective mute.” I could talk to people my age, but never to an adult.

I was terrified at the thought of actually having to speak to the owner. I had been coming to the store daily for years, but for all those years I just handed the owner my list and he filled my order. The day I took the canister to the store, I wanted to talk but I couldn’t find the words to say out loud. I came home with the empty canister and told my Dad that the owner said “No.” I felt terrible. I went to confession and told the priest that I lied to my father. 

A couple of weeks later, we were out for a drive when we saw a young man struggling to cross the street. He was on crutches and he shuffled his way across the street. 

“What’s the matter with that guy?” my brother asked.

“He has cerebral palsy,” Dad answered. 

To this day, I wish I had been able to talk to the owner of the Silver Lake Store. I wish I could have done something to help the man on crutches, trying to cross the road in front of our car.

Silver Lake Store was never the same for me again.

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Lobo

The years I spent in Mazatlan, running a home for snowbirds, are some of my fondest memories. The people I met were fun and funny,  thoughtful and kind. Some of them became my friends for life. With one exception. Because I can’t use his real name, I’ll call him Lobo.

The last summer I lived in Mazatlan, I was ready to sell my place and return to the U.S. I needed someone to house-sit while I was away. Someone who would sweep the courtyard every day and make sure the kitchen was clean. Two of my guests recommended Lobo. They met him at church and were impressed by his demeanor and intelligence. According to them, Lobo was an attorney with two daughters living in the U.S. He was a tennis player and a Spanish-speaker. He was about my same age. I thought Lobo was the person I was looking for.

I met with Lobo and explained his responsibilities. I had him sign a rental agreement that stated that he could use the guest quarters, but that the owner’s side of the home would be locked. I would not charge him rent as long as he lived up to our agreement.

Lobo had free rein in the kitchen, but my telephone was off-limits. Lobo pushed me to let him use my office but I held firm. I told him that a friend would be checking my home on a regular basis, to see if everything was ok.

I was back in Colorado for only a few weeks when i started receiving emails. Everything was not ok! Lobo was not sweeping the courtyard, which was now full of mango leaves. Lobo was seen urinating on the front door when he came home drunk at night. The neighbor complained that Lobo often walked around the courtyard totally naked, in full view of the neighbor’s young grandchildren. Lobo needed to go.

I called Neto and asked him to meet me at the airport to help me evict Lobo. When we arrived , Lobo was not yet home. We found a set of lock picks on the kitchen counter. The door to my office was wide open. We swept the courtyard, which was ankle deep in dead mango leaves, and cleaned the kitchen while we waited for Lobo to come home. He was surprised and not happy to see us.

When I told Lobo we were there to evict him, he went crazy. He bellowed like a bull. He pounded his fist on the kitchen counter and started spewing lawyer talk. He said he wasn’t leaving and we couldn’t make him. He grabbed the telephone off my desk and started running down the courtyard toward his room. Neto ran right behind him. When I told Lobo to stop, he threw the telephone at me, hitting my upper arm with full force.

Neto was a super-hero. He’s the most athletic man I know. His nickname is “Chanfles” because of the powerful left kick that was his trademark when he played soccer as a kid. Neto’s famous left kick landed square on Lobo’s testicles. Lobo fell to his knees and whimpered like a baby. We told Lobo to start packing. We were going to find a lawyer.

We returned with a lawyer and Lobo was still screaming. He hadn’t packed anything. We called the police, who arrived and said we needed to go before a judge. The police put Lobo in their car. Neto and I went in the lawyer’s car and we were off to see the judge.

Lobo sat quietly in the corner of the courtroom. The judge immediately pointed at Neto and said, “What has this guy done?” The lawyer said nothing. Neto explained that he was not the criminal. He was the owner. The criminal was the old man sitting quietly in the corner. We needed the judge to sign an order to evict him. Lobo responded that Neto had kicked him in the balls and he wanted to press charges. He offered to show his bruised balls to the judge, who declined to take a look.

The judge ruled in our favor and everybody trooped back to our house: Me and Neto, the lawyer, the policemen and Lobo. The police told Lobo to start packing. For forty-five minutes nothing happened.. The lawyer said he couldn’t do anything. Finally one of the younger policemen told Lobo he had five more minutes to get in the car. They would drop him off at a hotel up the street.

The young policeman then turned to us and asked if the room was now available to rent. He would like to live there. He would love to be our house-sitter. 

Lobo climbed into the back of the police car, looked at me and said, “Nos vemos.” (See you later.)

I replied, “Vete al Diablo.” (Go to Hell)

The lawyer approached us and said we owed him $1000.00. U.S.

I replied, “Besame el culo.” (Kiss my ass.) I was barely a Spanish-speaker but it’s always a good idea to learn the bad words first.

I still google Lobo’s name from time to time. He’s now living in a fancy retirement community in Florida, where he regularly terrorizes the residents with his obnoxious behavior. He recently spent six weeks in jail for impersonating a lawyer. I was lucky to get rid of him with only a bruise on my arm. 

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Osprey, Neto and Me

I love the osprey who spend summers on a tower at the edge of a pond at the Boulder Country Fairgrounds. The resident osprey pair fly in from separate far-away places about the middle of March. And the drama begins. 

Some of us follow the osprey every year, hoping for eggs to hatch and healthy baby birds who learn to fly.

 We don’t know where the osprey spend their winters and we wait anxiously for their arrival. We worry that they may not both arrive safely. Usually the pair arrives on different days. The fun begins as we watch them get to know each other once again. 

The osprey are bonded as a pair until one of them dies. Only then do they find a new partner.

It’s a policy not to name the osprey who return to Boulder every spring. But if they had names, they would be Lynda and Ernesto.

Neto and I are very much like the osprey. For one thing, I’m older than he is. We live far apart, in two separate countries, and once a year we meet up in a familiar place. We try to arrive on the same day, but never at the same time. When we get together, we trade stories about places we’ve been and people we knew together. I imagine that’s what the osprey do, too.

The birds spend time remodeling their nest and making sure they have food. The female shrieks, “Food… Food! I’m hungry. Bring me a big fat fish!” And Ernesto leaves the tower and swoops down to find a fish for them to share.

Nights are especially tender as they share space on their perch, high in the sky, and watch sunset together. 

This year both osprey arrived at the nest on the same day. That’s where mine and Neto’s story differ from the osprey pair. I arrived in Puerto Vallarta on Sunday, April 9, after an especially easy travel day. Friends met me at the airport and took me to lunch before I checked into Las Palomas, the sweet little hotel where Neto and I stay before going by bus to Mazatlán.

While my trip was easy and predictable, Neto’s journey was simply horrible. He boarded the bus in Mazatlán at 10:45 p.m., Saturday night, expecting to arrive in Puerto Vallarta five hours ahead of me. He slept all the way to the state of Nayarit. He awoke when two inspectors boarded his bus in front of a clinic, near the bus terminal in Tepic. It was 3:30 a.m.

“We believe some people on this bus have Covid,” the inspectors announced. “Everyone needs to be tested.” 

At 5:30 a.m., the inspectors allowed the young people to exit the bus, believing that only people over the age of fifty-five might be sick. A few elderly people in the front of the bus were coughing. Neto began to think he had a fever.

Passengers had to surrender their ID’s. They were not allowed to talk to each other or make calls on their telephones. Neto texted me to say he was going to be late. The passengers sat quietly on the bus for four more hours, until 9:30 a.m, when employees of the clinic boarded the bus and began testing people.

 At noon the passengers were informed that they all tested positive for Covid and would be quarantined for 24 hours. My plane was scheduled to arrive in ten minutes.

All the passengers were escorted off the bus and into the clinic. They were given a cot  and a sandwich. I received only sporadic texts from Neto, and most of them were too cryptic to understand. Was he really sick? Was he contagious? Should I catch a plane back to Denver?

I didn’t hear Neto’s voice again until noon on Monday, when he was allowed to make a phone call and leave the clinic. He was not allowed to get on a bus to Puerto Vallarta because, after all, he tested positive for Covid. 

Neto caught a taxi to a different bus company and decided to take a bus to Guadalajara. At 5:00 p.m, Monday afteroon,I received a text from Neto. He was in Guadalajara and expected to meet me at the hotel  in six hours, by 11:00 p.m. 

By midnight, Neto still wasn’t at our hotel. I called him. His bus was not the newer, faster, express bus that travels on the toll road. Instead, it was an older, slower bus that stopped in every small town to pick up more passengers.

At 3:00 a.m, Tuesday morning,  a lovely hotel security guard walked Neto to our room, where I was waiting for him. The trip, which normally takes less than eight  hours, took more than fifty-two. I was as happy as an osprey to see him again! It had been a long, hard flight!!

 

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Doc Evans

My father, Bob Jones, worked an average of 72 hours/week as a pharmacist at Swanson Drug on the east side of St. Paul. He worked three nights a week until 10:00 p.m. and every other weekend. On the Sundays he wasn’t working, we went to my grandparents’ house for dinner. My mother wasn’t happy about the arrangement, but I loved seeing my grandparents and my Aunt Margaret every two weeks.

When my grandparents died in the mid-50’s, we needed a new place to go. My dad found the perfect replacement: The Rampart Club in Mendota, Minnesota. Doc Evans, a local Dixieland celebrity, played there during the week. On Sunday afternoons, he opened the restaurant to families with children. There was free popcorn and pizza for sale. The restaurant smelled of beer and cigarette smoke. My most vivid memory, however, was the sound of toe-tapping, happy music.

My father was a pharmacist, but he was also a trumpet player. Someone stole his trumpet while he was in the Navy, and we never had enough money for him to get another one.  For years, Dad rode the streetcar to work. We were one of the last families to get a television. Any extra money went to pay for piano lessons.

When my grandparents died, they left my parents enough money to pay off our mortgage ($9000.00) and to buy my Dad a trumpet. Because we no longer went to my grandparents’ home on Sundays, there was time and money for family trips to the Rampart Club

These are some of my happiest memories. Doc’s band was one of the best in the Twin Cities, an area known as a mecca for good musicians. Doc was an excellent cornet player and band leader. You can still hear his music at: www.docevans.com. 

Two musicians, in addition to Doc, stand out for me. One was a blind piano player named Dick Rambert. It was the first time I realized that someone could “play by ear.” It was a skill that our teacher, Sister Aimee, strictly forbid. She insisted that we read music, instead, “like real musicians.”

The other musician who made us smile (and sometimes laugh out loud!) was Red Maddock. Red was a drummer and singer. He was also a clown. Doc, a serious musician, wanted us learn about the songs he played each Sunday. While Doc was teaching us music history, Red would sit behind him, twirling his drumsticks and making faces. Some of his songs had bawdy lyrics that only the adults understood.

Occasionally, other musicians would join Doc on Sunday afternoons. Harry Blons, a wonderful clarinetist, and Hod Russell, an incredible piano player, would sometimes add to the fun. Harry had his own band and Hod was his regular piano player. When they joined forces with Doc Evans’ band, the music was fantastic.

At some point on Sunday afternoons, Doc would announce it was time for “Name That Tune.” My father cringed. There never was a Dixieland song that he couldn’t identify just by hearing the first four notes, but he was too shy to shout out the answer. He pretended he didn’t know the answer or that he needed to go to the bar and order us a pizza.

Dad should have whispered the name of the song to my brother who would have gladly shouted out the answer. I was in Dad’s camp, being every bit as shy as he was. I would have rather cut off my right arm than raise it in the air.

After an unfortunate incident with Sister Aimee, in which she finally lost patience with me and slapped me ~ HARD ~ across my face, my father finally broke his silence and actually spoke. He called Sister Aimee on the phone and told her I would not be returning to classical piano lessons. Then he called Hod Russell and asked if he had room in his schedule for one more student. ME!! I was ecstatic. No more Beethoven!  My days of auditions and recitals were over. I was going to play Basin Street Blues and St. James Infirmary.

Thanks Doc! And Dad! And Hod Russell! You changed my life. Your music always made me smile.

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Eagle’s Birthday

 

I went to a very special birthday party a week ago. My friend, Eagle, turned forty-six. Eagle’s mom, Georgann, hosted a party at Old Chicago Pizza for twenty-five of Eagle’s friends. It was a great gathering of friends and loyal supporters. The only person missing was Eagle’s sister, Jennifer, who called in via FaceTime from her home in North Carolina.

I loved meeting Eagle’s friends. Steve, Andy and Colleen are Eagle’s dear friends from pre-school. Others, like Chaurice and Debbie, are good friends from elementary school. Eagle’s massage therapist, Lizzie, came with her two children. A lot of family friends, including the family doctor, were there because they love Eagle and wanted to wish him a happy birthday.

Eagle got his name when he was born. Georgann and Jim Hall talked about having another child when Jim achieved his Air Force Colonel’s rank. “When Jim puts on his Colonel’s Eagle insignia, we will add a little eaglet to our family,” Georgann told all their friends. Eagle was born three years later. 

Eagle’s birth was difficult. He didn’t cry immediately and needed to have fluid suctioned from his lungs.  He was whisked away to the Neonatal ICU, where all the nurses referred to him as “Baby Eagle” and described his as “strong, determined, tough, and wants to live.” Eagle has been his his name ever since. He is still determined to meet every challenge that life puts in front of him.

Life hasn’t always been easy for Eagle. He had numerous surgeries at a toddler, including one to rebuild his windpipe. His father, B. Gen. Jim Hall, died in 2014, after a long illness. Both Eagle and Georgann have ongoing medical concerns that require frequent monitoring. They have shown amazing resilience, throughout, and always smile and live their lives with tenacity and grace.

Eagle graduated from special education at Overland High School in 1996. Now he lives in his own apartment and works the three busiest hours of the day in the kitchen at Anschutz hospital. He likes to write and loves watching sports and current events on TV.

He is on a Special Olympics bowling team and belongs to a weekly men’s group with his friends. Eagle and his friends like going to community activities before getting something to eat. He is a wiz at using the computer, and navigates his cell phone better than a lot of people I know. Eagle loves learning new things and helping others learn, as well. He is a kind, patient, enthusiastic teacher.

Georgann made a beautiful speech at Eagle’s party, thanking everyone for being there. “You’ve been with us through the worst of times and the best of times,” Georgann noted. She gave credit to the school programs that were available to the whole family. Although I didn’t know Eagle when he was in school, I worked in the same district. I agreed with Georgann that Eagle was fortunate to work with some of the best teachers and mental health professionals I’ve ever known.

The most important thing to know about Eagle now, is that he is incredibly cheerful. He believes it is his job to learn to take of himself. He loves people and makes lifelong friends wherever he goes.

Happy Birthday, Dear Sweet Eagle! Happy Birthday to you! 

Birthday photos by Debbie Harrington.

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I Love My Uber Drivers

I love my Uber drivers! If I could, I would live in a community of nothing but Uber drivers. They are friendly and smart. They hard-working and interesting to talk to. And, for the most part, they are unrelentingly cheerful.

In September, 2022, I sold my car. It was a cute 2015 red Juke. It was a nice car but I was tired of driving. I was tired of traffic. I was tired of people honking at me, for no reason at all.

I did the math. I drove less than 6000 miles/year and I paid a lot of money for insurance, gas, and maintenance. And then I hit a “no left turn” sign. You’re right! I hit the sign, just as I tried to turn left.

The paramedics who came were kind and helpful. One directed traffic as the other one dislodged my car from the sign post. I wasn’t hurt but I was embarrassed as I took my car to the body shop for repair. That’s when I decided I was ready to turn in my keys.

I sold my my car for $16,000.00. That’s a lot of Uber rides! So far I’ve had only one not-so-great experience. The driver yelled at me when I pointed out an easier way to take me home. I hate being yelled at. I spoke up and told him that if he wanted a tip, he’d better not yell at me. He was quiet for the rest of the way, but then he gave me a “one star” review as a rider, making sure he’d never have to drive me anywhere again.

I love that my drivers are from all over the world. They remind me of my Airbnb guests. My favorites are the drivers from Africa and Mexico. They have great stories about how they came to the United States and how their families have adjusted to being here.

I usually choose Uber Green because I like to support electric cars. And, mostly, because a lot of those cars are Teslas. Tesla has an agreement with Uber to rent cars to drivers for a nominal fee. I’ve ridden in Teslas of every color.  Often I have a different driver, with a different color Tesla, on both legs of my trip. I tell people “I traded my Nisson for a Tesla.”

I’m glad I decided to sell my car and stop driving. After sixty years behind the wheel, I love being in the passenger seat. When I reach my destination, I say goodbye to the driver with the same speech every time.

“Thank you for getting me safely to my destination. I’ve enjoyed riding with you. I will probably never see you again, but I’d be happy if I did. In the meantime, I will hold you in my heart for the rest of today.” And then I add, “Please give me five stars.”

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The Luck of the Irish

I have always thought that the Mexican people and the Irish had a lot in common. In addition to being from devoutly Catholic countries with a distinct tendency toward alcoholism, they both have some of the worst luck in the world. They just don’t know it.

I am lucky to be one-fourth Irish. That comes from my dear Grandmother, Irene Fay Jones. My grandmother and her family were Irish to the core.

I was also lucky to marry into an Irish family. My mother-in-law, Dorothy Gorman Hein, was my mother, too. Her sister, Margaret Gorman Gessing, was my beloved aunt. 

Irene and Dorothy had a lot in common: Both lost their fathers at a very young age. Dorothy’s father died in the flu epidemic of 1918, when she was eight years old. Irene’s father was crushed between two boxcars, working for the railroad, when she was eleven. 

Both Irene and Dorothy grew-up poor, raised by single mothers at a time when jobs for women were scarce. They both became hard-working, brave women who loved their spouses, their children and their grandchildren. Both Irene and Dorothy had sisters who were their best friends, and both married men who were stable, hard-working, and NOT Irish. Irene and Dorothy also loved to drink, now and then. Dorothy and Margaret drank wine out of a pretty glasses. Irene drank whiskey, with her sister Ruth, out of lovely porcelain cups.

St. Patrick’s Day was the most important day of the year for Dorothy and Margaret. They had their own booth at Duffy’s Shamrock Tavern in downtown Denver. They arrived early and stayed all day, wearing green from head to toe.

 

I don’t know if Irene Fay was proud of her Irish heritage. My Welsh grandfather didn’t approve of her wild Irish family. Too often the Fays were in trouble with the law and Grandpa was embarrassed when their names appeared, yet again, in the local newspaper.

Irene Fay was a serious woman. She married my grandfather, Robert Jones, when she was seventeen and he was twenty-four. Grandpa was a studious, sober Welshman, who never drank a drop of alcohol. Irene’s younger sister, Ruth Fay, was Grandma’s opposite. Ruth was fun-loving, friendly, exceptionally pretty and always ready for the next drink, even if it wasn’t legal.

Ruth married Johnny Quinn in the St. Paul Cathedral in 1923, three years after the start of prohibition. I can only assume it was a Roaring 20’s courtship, filled with music, dancing, and bootleg liquor. Ruthie’s hair was short, she dressed as a flapper and she loved to drive a car. Johnny was a small-built, dapper, charming Irishman.

As a child, I loved to hear Johnny and Ruth tell stories of gangsters running out the back door of their house. I grew up hearing stories of machine guns hidden in guitar cases, of people being gunned down in the streets, of crooked policemen and gangsters “with a heart of gold.”  Uncle Johnny taught my sister how to shoot Craps when she was seven years old.

Johnny Quinn killed a man at the Green Lantern Saloon in St. Paul in 1931. He said it was self-defense, but it probably wasn’t. Grandma’s brother, Frank Fay, and her brother-in-law, George Hurley, were also implicated in the Green Lantern “situation.”  Johnny was eventually convicted of the murder and spent time in the Stillwater, Minnesota prison before being pardoned by the governor. Meanwhile, Frank escaped to Canada, and George ran away to California. 

I wish I could tell you that Johnny and Ruth lived a straight life after he returned home from prison, but that wouldn’t be true. Prohibition was repealed, so they needed to find another business. They bought a small dry-cleaning business in St. Paul, and set up an illegal gambling operation in the back room. They ran that business until Uncle Johnny died of natural causes in 1963.

Aunt Ruth lived fifteen more years after Johnny died. She outlived my grandmother by twenty-two years. Ruth was always the life of the party. She was always beautiful. Always everyone’s favorite aunt. Always a baseball fan. Always generous.  And like the Gorman sisters ~ Dorothy and Margaret ~ Aunt Ruth was always ready with a laugh and another story.

I was lucky to have Irish men and women in my life. They taught me to work hard. To believe in leprechauns and four-leaf clovers. To ask for forgiveness, instead of permission. To look for fun and laughter. To make music and tell stories. And to take a drink, every now and then. Everyone should be so lucky.