NOTE: My daughter Jen is preparing to run a mini-marathon in September and is keeping a blog about her training and progress. I thought it's be fun to include one of her entries. Go to http://impossible-jen.blogspot.com/ to read the rest of her entries!
Posted on Tuesday, February 21, 2012
"earning it" or "deserving it"
By Jen Brett
there are 2 important things i learned this week: 1. no matter how tiny, always wear a sports bra. 2. taking a week off makes a huge difference. next time i feel under the weather, i'm running anyways.
this post is inspired by my valentines day, it's a little sad but don't worry, everyone is happy in the end.
all thru my youth i played soccer. i wasn't great, but i really enjoyed it. in high school i was on jv until senior year when i made varsity. my mom will argue, but the only reason i (along with 3 other girls) made varsity is b/c seniors weren't allowed to play jv. we hardly played.
the thing about playing soccer with old raleigh money in the 90's soccer craze was there were a lot of girls with a lot of their parents money and they all had name brand gear. adidas was stamped across everything. my gear was mostly from kmart or jc penny, my duffle was the bag my mom got for running (and completing!) the 5k cary road race. i was 12, what did i know about name brands, it all seemed to serve it's purpose. after 2 years of not making the junior high team and dealing with the new money cary mean girls, i knew.
by the time i was in high school, my mom had remarried and i was able to spend a little extra money on my gear. i had adidas cleats, snap pants and duffel, all purchased on sale of course. the one thing i did not have but desperately wanted was the adidas warm up. i had no real need for it, but i wanted it. that's where making varsity comes in. see, all the varsity girls wore the same green and black adidas warm up every game day. we tried to do the same on jv but were told that was a "varsity thing."
senior year rolled around, i had to make varsity. even if i wasn't good enough, school rules prohibit seniors from playing jv. so i had finally "made" the cut, the coach was less than pleased. we all worked just as hard, did the same drills and then happily took our place in the sub order. finally, a week before the first game, the warm ups arrived for us to try on for size. rather than the typical adidas warm up i had been looking forward to, there was a not so great looking all black reebok. turns out the coach decided this year she wanted to "go in another direction" with the warms ups. i couldn't help but feel like the 4 scrubs were part of her decision making, like we hadn't earned the right to wear them. paranoid maybe, but that's how we were made to feel in that situation. the following year, she wasn't the coach anymore and the team was back to the old adidas warm ups, i just missed the cut.
now i know it's not good to put importance on name brands (unless it's technology and then it's gotta be a mac) but not having that warm up stuck with me. it's weird but i kinda felt like i didn't deserve it. like i'd worked just hard enough to not have the coach fight the school board to get me off the team but not hard enough to earn the gold medal of warm ups. for years i never purchased adidas gym clothes. it wasn't like i was a gym rat or anything, i just felt i was probably better suited to the champion rack at target (great stuff by the way).
while at dinner after attending the grammy's (fab life name drop) i told my beau the story, it really upset him. he's never been in that position. he ran cross country in high school, i mean no one gets cut from the track team if you finish, much better system i think. he also grew up with more money and less mean girls than i did. this year for valentines day i dug into the bag from my new fav chocolatier and next to the box of dark chocolates were an adidas jacket and pants. he felt like i deserved to have them, that everyone deserves to have what they want. now, i just have to work on earning the 13.1 mile rep :)
A Whole Life in Literature
This piece appeared in the Jan. 28 News & Observer (Raleigh, NC).
By Suzy Barile
HARMONY -- As a young reporter for The Henderson Daily Dispatch, one of my "beats" was Warren County - its school board and county commissioners, the town councils of Warrenton and Norlina, the ill-fated Soul City, then in its heyday, and occasional activities in Macon and Littleton.
Though I spent just two years at the Dispatch, it was long enough to be introduced to Reynolds Price. The author was a favorite son of Warren County - born in Macon and raised in Norlina, both of which figure prominently in several of his novels. Residents were proud of the young man who had graduated from Duke and Oxford universities, then been hired by Duke to teach composition.
By the time I happened upon him, he'd been teaching nearly 20 years and already had published a highly acclaimed first novel "A Long and Happy Life," and added "The Names and Faces of Heroes," "A Generous Man" and "Permanent Errors," among others. The Henderson library never had a better customer as I devoured his works, taken in by the narrative voice that his colleague James A. Schiff once described as ranging from "austere, solemn, detached and at times, even biblical or oracular in nature."
Tt was Price's way with words that captivated me: "They observed Papa's birthday with a freezer of cream even if it was the dead of winter, and they had given him a Morris chair that was not brand-new but was what he had always wanted. The next morning he was sick, and nobody could figure the connection between such nice hand-turned cream that Rato almost froze to death making and a tired heart which was what he had according to Dr. Sledge."
Readers could "see" the stories he told and "hear" the characters speak, relating to their plights, their joys and their sorrows. I relished his work - bragging to those to whom I'd recommend him that he'd written not only novels but plays and poetry and memoirs and essays and songs - the lyrics to James Taylor's "Copperline" and "New Hymn" - even published his personal writing journals.
But it was Price's voice itself - that "deep, lovely voice," noted former student and novelist Josephine Humphreys - that soothed me. I never passed up a chance to attend a public reading or lecture. His pauses, often at the end of a descriptive phrase, even if it wasn't the end of a sentence, delighted me. When I read his words, I could hear him reading them to me: "Papa said 'Tired of what?' and refused to go to any hospital. He said he would die at home if it was his time, but the family saw it different so they took him to Raleigh..."
During a reading at Quail Ridge Books in late 2007, Price spoke of his own mortality. It wasn't an unusual topic: In "A Whole New Life," the memoir of his bout with cancer, he shared an encounter with Jesus and the healing he'd been promised. Now, 20 years later and nearly 75, he acknowledged that death was a certainty.
Never hear his voice again? Never hear that wryness with which he broached ideas about which he was passionate, that careful placement of words and phrases? I purchased his memoir in audio - "author and reader," the cover claimed - and placed it intentionally, yet unopened, on the bookshelf containing my Reynolds Price collection.
At the conclusion of "A Whole New Life," Price described his writing after cancer: "The books are different from what came before in more ways than age. ...Even my handwriting looks very little like the script of the man I was in June of '84. Cranky as it is, it's taller, more legible, with more air and stride. It comes from the arms of a grateful man."
This grateful man, who enjoyed 50-plus years of a prolific and varied writing and teaching career, died Jan. 20 following a heart attack. As are other fans, I am grateful for that career. And one day soon I will unwrap and listen to the audiotape, certain that for me his words will live on.
By Suzy Barile
HARMONY -- As a young reporter for The Henderson Daily Dispatch, one of my "beats" was Warren County - its school board and county commissioners, the town councils of Warrenton and Norlina, the ill-fated Soul City, then in its heyday, and occasional activities in Macon and Littleton.
Though I spent just two years at the Dispatch, it was long enough to be introduced to Reynolds Price. The author was a favorite son of Warren County - born in Macon and raised in Norlina, both of which figure prominently in several of his novels. Residents were proud of the young man who had graduated from Duke and Oxford universities, then been hired by Duke to teach composition.
By the time I happened upon him, he'd been teaching nearly 20 years and already had published a highly acclaimed first novel "A Long and Happy Life," and added "The Names and Faces of Heroes," "A Generous Man" and "Permanent Errors," among others. The Henderson library never had a better customer as I devoured his works, taken in by the narrative voice that his colleague James A. Schiff once described as ranging from "austere, solemn, detached and at times, even biblical or oracular in nature."
Tt was Price's way with words that captivated me: "They observed Papa's birthday with a freezer of cream even if it was the dead of winter, and they had given him a Morris chair that was not brand-new but was what he had always wanted. The next morning he was sick, and nobody could figure the connection between such nice hand-turned cream that Rato almost froze to death making and a tired heart which was what he had according to Dr. Sledge."
Readers could "see" the stories he told and "hear" the characters speak, relating to their plights, their joys and their sorrows. I relished his work - bragging to those to whom I'd recommend him that he'd written not only novels but plays and poetry and memoirs and essays and songs - the lyrics to James Taylor's "Copperline" and "New Hymn" - even published his personal writing journals.
But it was Price's voice itself - that "deep, lovely voice," noted former student and novelist Josephine Humphreys - that soothed me. I never passed up a chance to attend a public reading or lecture. His pauses, often at the end of a descriptive phrase, even if it wasn't the end of a sentence, delighted me. When I read his words, I could hear him reading them to me: "Papa said 'Tired of what?' and refused to go to any hospital. He said he would die at home if it was his time, but the family saw it different so they took him to Raleigh..."
During a reading at Quail Ridge Books in late 2007, Price spoke of his own mortality. It wasn't an unusual topic: In "A Whole New Life," the memoir of his bout with cancer, he shared an encounter with Jesus and the healing he'd been promised. Now, 20 years later and nearly 75, he acknowledged that death was a certainty.
Never hear his voice again? Never hear that wryness with which he broached ideas about which he was passionate, that careful placement of words and phrases? I purchased his memoir in audio - "author and reader," the cover claimed - and placed it intentionally, yet unopened, on the bookshelf containing my Reynolds Price collection.
At the conclusion of "A Whole New Life," Price described his writing after cancer: "The books are different from what came before in more ways than age. ...Even my handwriting looks very little like the script of the man I was in June of '84. Cranky as it is, it's taller, more legible, with more air and stride. It comes from the arms of a grateful man."
This grateful man, who enjoyed 50-plus years of a prolific and varied writing and teaching career, died Jan. 20 following a heart attack. As are other fans, I am grateful for that career. And one day soon I will unwrap and listen to the audiotape, certain that for me his words will live on.
Shannon, Illinois, History One That Generates Pride
By Suzy Barile
In this world of social networking, with self-promotion at our fingertips, it’s easy to get information about oneself out into “the world.” But is that what’s best when tackling a serious matter such as a review of artwork or a film or a book? Can we legitimately review ourselves and not seem self-serving?
I’d say “NO!” if asked by my Intro to Journalism students. Yet as I paged through Shannon, Illinois: 100 Years – 1860-2010 published late last year by the town’s 2010 Sesquicentennial Committee, I couldn’t help but want to issue a glowing review, despite the fact that it includes a piece I wrote on one of the town’s first physicians, my great-great uncle Richard Caswell Swain.
At 272 pages, Shannon, Illinois is a comfortably-sized hard-cover, coffee-table-worthy book jam-packed with history, anecdotes, celebrations, and photographs about a town that was “founded in 1860” and chartered in 1869, but had its stirrings some 40 years earlier as settlers headed west in search of new lives found lead in the mines of the prairies of Illinois – lead for making ammunition, vessels, pipes, roofs, tanks, coffins; the list goes on and on. So many settlers arrived that by the time the Village of Shannon became an official town, it already had farms and homes, a railroad stop, churches, a hotel, and a school, everything any growing and thriving town needs.
I knew little of Shannon until I began the research into my ancestor. He moved there to practice medicine at the behest of his brother-in-law, Freeport, Illinois, postmaster, lawyer, and newspaper editor Smith D. Atkins, a former Union soldier who saw promise in this man who also had served during the Civil War -- as an assistant surgeon for the Confederacy -- and apparently suffered from what today is called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. In the 1860s, however, he was a drinker, among the thousands of soldiers who came home from the war damaged, labeled as suffering from hysteria, melancholia, and insanity. Swain seemed unfit to treat anyone, until his sister’s husband intervened.
His move to Shannon in late 1865 was apparently a welcome one for residents of the village, as he immediately began seeing patients, soon building a thriving practice. His wife and daughter followed him in early 1866, just as talk of incorporation was taking place, and he continued treating his neighbors until a train accident in January 1872: While attempting to board, he somehow slipped and was pulled onto the tracks. He was killed instantly.
Swain was not the only doctor to serve Shannon and its surroundings, and he and others who made the town what it is are remembered fondly in chapters entitled “People of Our Town,” “Businesses of the Past,” “Businesses of Today,” and “Memories.” Readers will learn about the area’s first residents, its first businesses, the groups and organizations that were a part of a growing farming community, and most importantly, about Shannon today.
It took a little more than a year for the Souvenir Committee of the Sesquicentennial Committee to raise the funds and gather information – stories and photographs -- for Shannon, Illinois, the second such publication to examine the town’s beginnings (a paperback titled A Memento of Shannon, Illinois Centennial Celebration 1860-1960 was produced for that milestone). This newest committee’s success is reflected in the new volume’s “Introduction”: “It has been a very exciting journey. We have learned a lot … To the best of our knowledge, we have done our best to issue a Shannon Book to be proud of…”
If my words have been self-serving, my apologies. If they make you want to order Shannon, Illinois, then such self-servance has been well worth it!
(Shannon, Illinois: 150 Years – 1860-2010 was designed and produced by its editor and Foreston, ILL, resident Kathy Pasch and printed by Walsworth Printing Group of Marceline, MO. It is available by contacting Carolyn Deininger, Box 626, Shannon, IL 61078.)
In this world of social networking, with self-promotion at our fingertips, it’s easy to get information about oneself out into “the world.” But is that what’s best when tackling a serious matter such as a review of artwork or a film or a book? Can we legitimately review ourselves and not seem self-serving?
I’d say “NO!” if asked by my Intro to Journalism students. Yet as I paged through Shannon, Illinois: 100 Years – 1860-2010 published late last year by the town’s 2010 Sesquicentennial Committee, I couldn’t help but want to issue a glowing review, despite the fact that it includes a piece I wrote on one of the town’s first physicians, my great-great uncle Richard Caswell Swain.
At 272 pages, Shannon, Illinois is a comfortably-sized hard-cover, coffee-table-worthy book jam-packed with history, anecdotes, celebrations, and photographs about a town that was “founded in 1860” and chartered in 1869, but had its stirrings some 40 years earlier as settlers headed west in search of new lives found lead in the mines of the prairies of Illinois – lead for making ammunition, vessels, pipes, roofs, tanks, coffins; the list goes on and on. So many settlers arrived that by the time the Village of Shannon became an official town, it already had farms and homes, a railroad stop, churches, a hotel, and a school, everything any growing and thriving town needs.
 |
| Richard C. (Bunky) Swain and sister Ella |
His move to Shannon in late 1865 was apparently a welcome one for residents of the village, as he immediately began seeing patients, soon building a thriving practice. His wife and daughter followed him in early 1866, just as talk of incorporation was taking place, and he continued treating his neighbors until a train accident in January 1872: While attempting to board, he somehow slipped and was pulled onto the tracks. He was killed instantly.
Swain was not the only doctor to serve Shannon and its surroundings, and he and others who made the town what it is are remembered fondly in chapters entitled “People of Our Town,” “Businesses of the Past,” “Businesses of Today,” and “Memories.” Readers will learn about the area’s first residents, its first businesses, the groups and organizations that were a part of a growing farming community, and most importantly, about Shannon today.
It took a little more than a year for the Souvenir Committee of the Sesquicentennial Committee to raise the funds and gather information – stories and photographs -- for Shannon, Illinois, the second such publication to examine the town’s beginnings (a paperback titled A Memento of Shannon, Illinois Centennial Celebration 1860-1960 was produced for that milestone). This newest committee’s success is reflected in the new volume’s “Introduction”: “It has been a very exciting journey. We have learned a lot … To the best of our knowledge, we have done our best to issue a Shannon Book to be proud of…”
If my words have been self-serving, my apologies. If they make you want to order Shannon, Illinois, then such self-servance has been well worth it!
(Shannon, Illinois: 150 Years – 1860-2010 was designed and produced by its editor and Foreston, ILL, resident Kathy Pasch and printed by Walsworth Printing Group of Marceline, MO. It is available by contacting Carolyn Deininger, Box 626, Shannon, IL 61078.)
Supporting Others a Good home-Remedy
By Suzy Barile
“Sorry, we’re getting ready to move,” I said, pointing out the “For Sale By Owner” sign by the sidewalk to the young Cary High football player who rang our doorbell on a hot Saturday afternoon and asked if I’d like to buy a coupon book to support the team.
But then he asked if I’d like to make a donation. “Let me see if I have any money,” I replied.
Patiently he waited. Waited as my dog continued to bark because she thinks anyone coming to the door – well, actually, anyone within her eye-and-ear shot -- wants to be her friend. Waited while I went upstairs to find my purse, all the while wondering what an appropriate donation was to replace the “no thanks” I’d already given to the $20 coupon book. Waited while years of fundraising events flashed through my memory.
So what if I was moving? Couldn’t I support the local high school football team? My own daughter had played soccer all four years at Enloe High.
What about the dozens of fundraisers Jen had participated in? There were red velvet holiday bows for the Cary Sister City’s youth trip to Le Touquet, France, and cookies sales for Girl Scouts, and T-shirts for church youth group, and tickets for “The Little Match Girl,” “The Music Man” and “Spring Dance Recital,” and the two quarters I sent weekly for pencils from the Lacy Elementary School store. She never did use them – they were too pretty to sharpen.
What about the fundraising I’d participated in over the years? Most especially were the Beanie Baby auction and yard sales and brick sales and Lazy Daze food booths to fund the Kids Together Playground. Ten years of raising money. I always hoped no one I asked to help would say “no.”
What about my mom, who was a substitute teacher during the late 1980s and early 1990s? She’d loved teaching, supported every student fundraiser, even annual yearbook sales. When she battled cancer, dozens of Cary High students sent her well-wishes, then came to her memorial service after she lost the fight.
What about all those years I’d worked at The Cary News, writing editorials and covering stories about making Cary a better place to live?
I couldn’t have been gone two minutes.
“I’ll take the coupons and give them to my sister,” I said, holding out a check.
The young man appeared puzzled, then saw the check was for $20. He handed me a coupon book, offered his thanks, and turned and walked away, clearly with no idea that his polite request for me to support the Cary High Imps football team had led to such a soul-searching journey.
“Have a good season,” I replied.
copyright 2010
“Sorry, we’re getting ready to move,” I said, pointing out the “For Sale By Owner” sign by the sidewalk to the young Cary High football player who rang our doorbell on a hot Saturday afternoon and asked if I’d like to buy a coupon book to support the team.
But then he asked if I’d like to make a donation. “Let me see if I have any money,” I replied.
Patiently he waited. Waited as my dog continued to bark because she thinks anyone coming to the door – well, actually, anyone within her eye-and-ear shot -- wants to be her friend. Waited while I went upstairs to find my purse, all the while wondering what an appropriate donation was to replace the “no thanks” I’d already given to the $20 coupon book. Waited while years of fundraising events flashed through my memory.
So what if I was moving? Couldn’t I support the local high school football team? My own daughter had played soccer all four years at Enloe High.
What about the dozens of fundraisers Jen had participated in? There were red velvet holiday bows for the Cary Sister City’s youth trip to Le Touquet, France, and cookies sales for Girl Scouts, and T-shirts for church youth group, and tickets for “The Little Match Girl,” “The Music Man” and “Spring Dance Recital,” and the two quarters I sent weekly for pencils from the Lacy Elementary School store. She never did use them – they were too pretty to sharpen.
What about the fundraising I’d participated in over the years? Most especially were the Beanie Baby auction and yard sales and brick sales and Lazy Daze food booths to fund the Kids Together Playground. Ten years of raising money. I always hoped no one I asked to help would say “no.”
What about my mom, who was a substitute teacher during the late 1980s and early 1990s? She’d loved teaching, supported every student fundraiser, even annual yearbook sales. When she battled cancer, dozens of Cary High students sent her well-wishes, then came to her memorial service after she lost the fight.
What about all those years I’d worked at The Cary News, writing editorials and covering stories about making Cary a better place to live?
I couldn’t have been gone two minutes.
“I’ll take the coupons and give them to my sister,” I said, holding out a check.
The young man appeared puzzled, then saw the check was for $20. He handed me a coupon book, offered his thanks, and turned and walked away, clearly with no idea that his polite request for me to support the Cary High Imps football team had led to such a soul-searching journey.
“Have a good season,” I replied.
copyright 2010
Remembering Ronny Jones
NOTE: Though this was not read at Ronny's funeral at Harmony United Methodist Church, it was shared with the family.
By Suzy Barile
Many of you today are thinking, I suspect, exactly what I am: We wish our reason for being together would go away, that we would awaken from this bad dream. But try as we have, we have awakened to the same reality. Our wish has not come true. And so we are forced to face what seems the unthinkable – life without Ronny Jones.
I am a relative newcomer to the Jones family. My daughter and I – my entire family, in fact -- “married in,” as they say. Yet there was no trial period, no testing of the waters to make certain we fit. Shirley and Ronny Jones made certain of that – and not just with us, but with everyone they met. No one was a stranger after stepping inside the Jones home.
Ronny was my mother-in-law’s first cousin’s husband. My husband John called him “Uncle” Ronny. I did the same, and I did it often, especially when we began coming to Harmony on a regular basis while working on a plan to renovate John’s grandparents’ house, just down the road from Ronny and Shirley. I spent two summers here, often alone when John was working, and sometimes with family and friends visiting.
Being alone meant that when I found yellow jackets in the yard, I called on Uncle Ronny to take care of them. The afternoon I watered the yard after planting grass seed and depleted the well’s reservoir so it made an awful grinding noise, I called Uncle Ronny. When my sister and nephews came for a visit, and we were accidentally locked out of the house, we called Uncle Ronny. At this point, I must underscore the “we,” because those nephews – Jack and Joseph and Jesse – thought Ronny was their uncle, as well, and he never told them differently. They never hesitated to ride their bikes down the road to see if Uncle Ronny was there to visit for awhile or to have him fix a sticking bike fender or to ask for whatever it was they needed. “We’ll go get Uncle Ronny,” they would say when problems arose.
But we are not the only ones who would call on Ronny, and as when we called, he never hesitated to stop what he was doing to lend a hand. Many a veteran’s family gravitated to his warm smile as he traveled around Iredell County, representing the American Legion at veterans’ memorial services. He was on one committee or another at this church and served his hometown of Harmony in a variety of ways. He never lost touch with those he worked with, even after his retirement. Uncle Ronny loved his family and his friends and his neighbors as fervently as Jesus had commanded him to do – and he did it the right way: loving them as he did himself.
The selfishness of why we have gathered cannot be overlooked, either. We are here because we loved Ronny, because we appreciated that he did always drop whatever he was doing to help us or comfort us or offer us sage advice. And we are asking: Who will do that now?
For me and John, who will convince the company that is to dig our new well that it must be dug where Ronny doused for water? Who will show us how to plant our very first Harmony garden this summer? Who will talk basketball and football with me? Who will drop what he is doing when any of us calls?
And who will greet us as Ronny always did: “Hey, Jowhn. Hey, Suuuzy”? I’m certain he drawled your name as he did ours!
Yes, we all must now face the unthinkable – life without Ronny Jones. It is something not one of us, I am certain, wants to do.
By Suzy Barile
Many of you today are thinking, I suspect, exactly what I am: We wish our reason for being together would go away, that we would awaken from this bad dream. But try as we have, we have awakened to the same reality. Our wish has not come true. And so we are forced to face what seems the unthinkable – life without Ronny Jones.
I am a relative newcomer to the Jones family. My daughter and I – my entire family, in fact -- “married in,” as they say. Yet there was no trial period, no testing of the waters to make certain we fit. Shirley and Ronny Jones made certain of that – and not just with us, but with everyone they met. No one was a stranger after stepping inside the Jones home.
Ronny was my mother-in-law’s first cousin’s husband. My husband John called him “Uncle” Ronny. I did the same, and I did it often, especially when we began coming to Harmony on a regular basis while working on a plan to renovate John’s grandparents’ house, just down the road from Ronny and Shirley. I spent two summers here, often alone when John was working, and sometimes with family and friends visiting.
Being alone meant that when I found yellow jackets in the yard, I called on Uncle Ronny to take care of them. The afternoon I watered the yard after planting grass seed and depleted the well’s reservoir so it made an awful grinding noise, I called Uncle Ronny. When my sister and nephews came for a visit, and we were accidentally locked out of the house, we called Uncle Ronny. At this point, I must underscore the “we,” because those nephews – Jack and Joseph and Jesse – thought Ronny was their uncle, as well, and he never told them differently. They never hesitated to ride their bikes down the road to see if Uncle Ronny was there to visit for awhile or to have him fix a sticking bike fender or to ask for whatever it was they needed. “We’ll go get Uncle Ronny,” they would say when problems arose.
But we are not the only ones who would call on Ronny, and as when we called, he never hesitated to stop what he was doing to lend a hand. Many a veteran’s family gravitated to his warm smile as he traveled around Iredell County, representing the American Legion at veterans’ memorial services. He was on one committee or another at this church and served his hometown of Harmony in a variety of ways. He never lost touch with those he worked with, even after his retirement. Uncle Ronny loved his family and his friends and his neighbors as fervently as Jesus had commanded him to do – and he did it the right way: loving them as he did himself.
The selfishness of why we have gathered cannot be overlooked, either. We are here because we loved Ronny, because we appreciated that he did always drop whatever he was doing to help us or comfort us or offer us sage advice. And we are asking: Who will do that now?
For me and John, who will convince the company that is to dig our new well that it must be dug where Ronny doused for water? Who will show us how to plant our very first Harmony garden this summer? Who will talk basketball and football with me? Who will drop what he is doing when any of us calls?
And who will greet us as Ronny always did: “Hey, Jowhn. Hey, Suuuzy”? I’m certain he drawled your name as he did ours!
Yes, we all must now face the unthinkable – life without Ronny Jones. It is something not one of us, I am certain, wants to do.
Remembering Roy Turner
By Suzy Barile
Dr. Roy C. Turner came into my life the summer of 1975, immediately after my graduation from UNC-Chapel Hill. He was married to Elaine Eiselstein, my mother’s best friend since kindergarten, and while I had met him when I was younger, not until I accepted a reporter’s job at The Messenger in Madison, and became a regular in the Turner home, did I truly get to know this good man.
Though I’d been away from my family in Northern Virginia since heading to college, there’s something about setting out on one’s own that brings a bit of homesickness. No sooner were boxes unpacked in my small rental house on Sunset Avenue than I was invited to dinner in Eden once a week: "Make certain to bring your laundry," Dr. Turner added.
At 15 miles, the distance between Madison and Eden was not great, but I made the weekly trip via a route that took me along the country roads between Madison, Wentworth and Reidsville, as I restocked The Messenger’s newspaper racks in a dozen or so country stores. By the time I reached Eden, I was famished and ready for one of the hearty meals Roy and Elaine enjoyed cooking together. My laundry promptly went into the washer, and for the next couple of hours, I was one of the family.
Eden became familiar territory over the next 12 months. Being “adopted” as I was by the Turners, I took part in a variety of activities. I never played golf, as was Roy’s custom on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons after a busy optometrist's schedule, but I learned my way around downtown, occasionally did stories on residents of the former Leaksville, Draper, and Spray, and eagerly looked forward to the weekly get-together for food and friendship and, often, wise counsel.
It was Dr. Turner who discovered I needed glasses when every photo I took for The Messenger was out of focus. It was he who helped replace my 1967 VW with a 1973 Carolina blue one when the old one developed a carbon monoxide leak. And it was he who advised me in no uncertain terms that I needed to look for another job when it was clear to him, though not immediately to me, that my reporting position was coming to an end.
In June of 1976, I left Madison and headed to the Daily Dispatch in Henderson, NC. Other newspapers and towns and states followed before I settled in Raleigh, and for the next 30 years, my visits to Eden were limited to about once a year, or when I’d make the drive to get my eyes examined. But year in and year out, the connection remained. When I had a little girl, when I remarried, when my mother died, Roy and Elaine were there. And when December arrives, my family patiently awaits delivery of a large bin of popcorn – “love from the Turners,” says the tag. Christmas is here, says my family.
No holiday or special event or family gathering will ever be the same, for Roy Turner will not be there. But those who encountered him during his 50-plus years serving the residents of Eden will remember a man who said what he meant, believed what he said, and gave his all to whatever he committed to do. He laughed heartily and hugged mightily and loved completely. He was a good man.
(Copyright 2010)
Dr. Roy C. Turner came into my life the summer of 1975, immediately after my graduation from UNC-Chapel Hill. He was married to Elaine Eiselstein, my mother’s best friend since kindergarten, and while I had met him when I was younger, not until I accepted a reporter’s job at The Messenger in Madison, and became a regular in the Turner home, did I truly get to know this good man.
Though I’d been away from my family in Northern Virginia since heading to college, there’s something about setting out on one’s own that brings a bit of homesickness. No sooner were boxes unpacked in my small rental house on Sunset Avenue than I was invited to dinner in Eden once a week: "Make certain to bring your laundry," Dr. Turner added.
At 15 miles, the distance between Madison and Eden was not great, but I made the weekly trip via a route that took me along the country roads between Madison, Wentworth and Reidsville, as I restocked The Messenger’s newspaper racks in a dozen or so country stores. By the time I reached Eden, I was famished and ready for one of the hearty meals Roy and Elaine enjoyed cooking together. My laundry promptly went into the washer, and for the next couple of hours, I was one of the family.
Eden became familiar territory over the next 12 months. Being “adopted” as I was by the Turners, I took part in a variety of activities. I never played golf, as was Roy’s custom on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons after a busy optometrist's schedule, but I learned my way around downtown, occasionally did stories on residents of the former Leaksville, Draper, and Spray, and eagerly looked forward to the weekly get-together for food and friendship and, often, wise counsel.
It was Dr. Turner who discovered I needed glasses when every photo I took for The Messenger was out of focus. It was he who helped replace my 1967 VW with a 1973 Carolina blue one when the old one developed a carbon monoxide leak. And it was he who advised me in no uncertain terms that I needed to look for another job when it was clear to him, though not immediately to me, that my reporting position was coming to an end.
In June of 1976, I left Madison and headed to the Daily Dispatch in Henderson, NC. Other newspapers and towns and states followed before I settled in Raleigh, and for the next 30 years, my visits to Eden were limited to about once a year, or when I’d make the drive to get my eyes examined. But year in and year out, the connection remained. When I had a little girl, when I remarried, when my mother died, Roy and Elaine were there. And when December arrives, my family patiently awaits delivery of a large bin of popcorn – “love from the Turners,” says the tag. Christmas is here, says my family.
No holiday or special event or family gathering will ever be the same, for Roy Turner will not be there. But those who encountered him during his 50-plus years serving the residents of Eden will remember a man who said what he meant, believed what he said, and gave his all to whatever he committed to do. He laughed heartily and hugged mightily and loved completely. He was a good man.
(Copyright 2010)
Emma
By Suzy Barile
“Does Emma know she absolutely cannot die on a Monday?” I asked my brother-in-law, Michael. We were in the lobby of the emergency room, waiting for Dr. Anderson to emerge and tell us what he’d found during my mother-in-law Emma’s latest trip to the hospital.
“Does she realize that Cynthia would never cancel her Circle meeting for her own mother’s funeral?”
My voice dripped with sarcasm. This weekly Thursday afternoon meeting of Cynthia’s, where she supposedly coordinated all the behind-the-scenes volunteer activities for her church, had been the bane of our caretaking efforts for Emma over the last few months, ever since she’d been diagnosed with inoperable colon cancer.
Never mind that this was Emma’s third bout with the disease that had also taken the lives of her older sister, her father, and her youngest brother. Never mind that even while undergoing aggressive chemotherapy, she continued to care for her grandchildren – Cynthia's children, and there were five in all, from age 16 down to 3 -- as her middle daughter worked dead-end job after dead-end job.
No, Cynthia had never in the dozen or so years I’d been married to her oldest brother been able to let go of any sliver of her own self-importance long enough to think of anyone else. I often wondered if her children saw it. Did they feel put upon, especially as the oldest children cared for the younger ones -- changing diapers, putting them to bed, entertaining them during Cynthia's favorite weekly television show?
Their father, Thomas, had died two years before – a heart attack, the doctor said. He failed to note the fact that Thomas had been in another woman’s arms when fatally struck.
With a modest life insurance payout and the children’s Social Security benefits, Cynthia had tried to continue living in the manner she imagined a middle-class widow would. There were dance lessons for the girls and music for the boys, but no sports, Cynthia insisted. She feared the children would be injured, even in a non-contact sport such as swimming or tennis. It was probably just as well. Their after-school activities changed as often as Cynthia did jobs. No team or teammate would ever be able to depend on a long-term commitment.
Emma always said her daughter's problem with keeping a job was because none of her employers ever realized or understood the stress placed on Cynthia as a single parent. But truthfully, her high school education afforded few career choices, and if Cynthia wasn’t late for work, then she was having to make up time. She was always running late, even when it came to picking up the children at her mother’s house where the youngest three stayed. When Cynthia tired of the chaos, she’d quit her job and vow to find something more amenable to her lifestyle needs.
Everyone knew her ways, even my family members. They had attended enough joint events over the years with my husband’s family. My sisters simply said, “That’s Cynthia,” each time she was late to a family get-together or complained of unreasonable work hours and difficult bosses.
Yet more and more, her no-one-else-in-the-world-matters attitude was playing out in her children. When the younger ones were at their grandmother's house, they loved to make mess, but never cleaned up. The older children's grades showed a lack of study and interest in homework, and regularly they were called into the principal’s office for mischievous deeds. Cynthia called the misdeeds "cute pranks" and never punished one child.
It was no wonder, then, that when she was asked to head the women’s Circle at her church, all who knew her well wondered how she’d manage it. This volunteer effort involved making certain there were flowers on the altar each Sunday morning, that the communion plates and cups were cleaned and polished after each use, that cards were sent weekly to parishioners in need of prayers, and that staffing was found each week for the nursery during the two-hour Sunday school and church service.
With five children, and a mother on the verge of dying, there was no way Cynthia's ways would or could change. But because she didn't see these problems in her life, and apparent those who asked her to serve didn't either, she agreed to head the group during the upcoming church year.
Silly women, I thought, when I heard Cynthia had been tapped to lead the Circle. They'll soon learn they can’t trust her to follow through on anything, not even with delegating tasks.
No sooner had fall activities at the church gotten under way when all her family knew about her became clear to the women in the Circle -- as well as to other church members. Because Cynthia never got around to delegating any tasks, and certainly (she said) couldn't be expected to do them all herself, Saturday evenings found one or another Circle member making phone calls to see who had flowers in bloom in their garden, or running by the grocery store to find and purchase the least-sad-looking bouquet.
On Wednesday before the first Sunday of each month, when the church held its communion service, two sopranos (also members of the Circle) met after choir practice to rinse off any sticky cups and wipe away any tarnish spots on the plates.
And thank goodness for the church secretary who began keeping a supply of prayer cards and envelopes, stamps, and a membership roster at hand so when the self-appointed card sender stopped by Monday morning, all was ready.
The task of getting help for the nursery, however, was a whole other problem. Young parents weary of their own charges looked forward to a couple hours of calm on Sundays and seldom signed up to help. Each week, frantic calls went out late on Saturday afternoon, trying to catch those planning to attend Sunday school and the church service and coercing them into watching over the roomful of rambunctious babies and toddlers.
As usual, Cynthia was oblivious to what went on behind her back while she enjoyed the status of being leader of the Circle. At its monthly meetings, the good church women who made up its membership never said a word to Cynthia. Instead, they chose to count down the Sundays until spring when her leadership role ended. They also agreed to rotate the task from that point on.
Despite the fact that Cynthia did none of the work assigned to her circle, much less serve as a responsible leader, she surely would never miss a monthly meeting. Waiting for Dr. Anderson to speak to us, I reiterated to Michael what I knew to be true: "If Emma dies on a Monday, the funeral will most likely be on Thursday, three days later.
“Cynthia won’t cancel her meeting for anyone.”
Michael was a bachelor who lived far enough away that he was called on to help only every once in awhile. He shrugged and replied, “Well, you know Cynthia.”
Just then Dr. Anderson emerged through the double doors separating the lobby from the emergency room examining area. Grave concern showed on his face.
“It doesn’t look good,” he said. “The CAT scan shows the tumors have spread more aggressively than we’d have liked. I think the best we can do is keep her comfortable.”
And so it was that when Emma breathed her final breath, at 12:05 a.m. on a Tuesday, Cynthia also breathed a sigh of relief. The funeral, planned for three days later, would be on Friday.
“Does Emma know she absolutely cannot die on a Monday?” I asked my brother-in-law, Michael. We were in the lobby of the emergency room, waiting for Dr. Anderson to emerge and tell us what he’d found during my mother-in-law Emma’s latest trip to the hospital.
“Does she realize that Cynthia would never cancel her Circle meeting for her own mother’s funeral?”
My voice dripped with sarcasm. This weekly Thursday afternoon meeting of Cynthia’s, where she supposedly coordinated all the behind-the-scenes volunteer activities for her church, had been the bane of our caretaking efforts for Emma over the last few months, ever since she’d been diagnosed with inoperable colon cancer.
Never mind that this was Emma’s third bout with the disease that had also taken the lives of her older sister, her father, and her youngest brother. Never mind that even while undergoing aggressive chemotherapy, she continued to care for her grandchildren – Cynthia's children, and there were five in all, from age 16 down to 3 -- as her middle daughter worked dead-end job after dead-end job.
No, Cynthia had never in the dozen or so years I’d been married to her oldest brother been able to let go of any sliver of her own self-importance long enough to think of anyone else. I often wondered if her children saw it. Did they feel put upon, especially as the oldest children cared for the younger ones -- changing diapers, putting them to bed, entertaining them during Cynthia's favorite weekly television show?
Their father, Thomas, had died two years before – a heart attack, the doctor said. He failed to note the fact that Thomas had been in another woman’s arms when fatally struck.
With a modest life insurance payout and the children’s Social Security benefits, Cynthia had tried to continue living in the manner she imagined a middle-class widow would. There were dance lessons for the girls and music for the boys, but no sports, Cynthia insisted. She feared the children would be injured, even in a non-contact sport such as swimming or tennis. It was probably just as well. Their after-school activities changed as often as Cynthia did jobs. No team or teammate would ever be able to depend on a long-term commitment.
Emma always said her daughter's problem with keeping a job was because none of her employers ever realized or understood the stress placed on Cynthia as a single parent. But truthfully, her high school education afforded few career choices, and if Cynthia wasn’t late for work, then she was having to make up time. She was always running late, even when it came to picking up the children at her mother’s house where the youngest three stayed. When Cynthia tired of the chaos, she’d quit her job and vow to find something more amenable to her lifestyle needs.
Everyone knew her ways, even my family members. They had attended enough joint events over the years with my husband’s family. My sisters simply said, “That’s Cynthia,” each time she was late to a family get-together or complained of unreasonable work hours and difficult bosses.
Yet more and more, her no-one-else-in-the-world-matters attitude was playing out in her children. When the younger ones were at their grandmother's house, they loved to make mess, but never cleaned up. The older children's grades showed a lack of study and interest in homework, and regularly they were called into the principal’s office for mischievous deeds. Cynthia called the misdeeds "cute pranks" and never punished one child.
It was no wonder, then, that when she was asked to head the women’s Circle at her church, all who knew her well wondered how she’d manage it. This volunteer effort involved making certain there were flowers on the altar each Sunday morning, that the communion plates and cups were cleaned and polished after each use, that cards were sent weekly to parishioners in need of prayers, and that staffing was found each week for the nursery during the two-hour Sunday school and church service.
With five children, and a mother on the verge of dying, there was no way Cynthia's ways would or could change. But because she didn't see these problems in her life, and apparent those who asked her to serve didn't either, she agreed to head the group during the upcoming church year.
Silly women, I thought, when I heard Cynthia had been tapped to lead the Circle. They'll soon learn they can’t trust her to follow through on anything, not even with delegating tasks.
No sooner had fall activities at the church gotten under way when all her family knew about her became clear to the women in the Circle -- as well as to other church members. Because Cynthia never got around to delegating any tasks, and certainly (she said) couldn't be expected to do them all herself, Saturday evenings found one or another Circle member making phone calls to see who had flowers in bloom in their garden, or running by the grocery store to find and purchase the least-sad-looking bouquet.
On Wednesday before the first Sunday of each month, when the church held its communion service, two sopranos (also members of the Circle) met after choir practice to rinse off any sticky cups and wipe away any tarnish spots on the plates.
And thank goodness for the church secretary who began keeping a supply of prayer cards and envelopes, stamps, and a membership roster at hand so when the self-appointed card sender stopped by Monday morning, all was ready.
The task of getting help for the nursery, however, was a whole other problem. Young parents weary of their own charges looked forward to a couple hours of calm on Sundays and seldom signed up to help. Each week, frantic calls went out late on Saturday afternoon, trying to catch those planning to attend Sunday school and the church service and coercing them into watching over the roomful of rambunctious babies and toddlers.
As usual, Cynthia was oblivious to what went on behind her back while she enjoyed the status of being leader of the Circle. At its monthly meetings, the good church women who made up its membership never said a word to Cynthia. Instead, they chose to count down the Sundays until spring when her leadership role ended. They also agreed to rotate the task from that point on.
Despite the fact that Cynthia did none of the work assigned to her circle, much less serve as a responsible leader, she surely would never miss a monthly meeting. Waiting for Dr. Anderson to speak to us, I reiterated to Michael what I knew to be true: "If Emma dies on a Monday, the funeral will most likely be on Thursday, three days later.
“Cynthia won’t cancel her meeting for anyone.”
Michael was a bachelor who lived far enough away that he was called on to help only every once in awhile. He shrugged and replied, “Well, you know Cynthia.”
Just then Dr. Anderson emerged through the double doors separating the lobby from the emergency room examining area. Grave concern showed on his face.
“It doesn’t look good,” he said. “The CAT scan shows the tumors have spread more aggressively than we’d have liked. I think the best we can do is keep her comfortable.”
And so it was that when Emma breathed her final breath, at 12:05 a.m. on a Tuesday, Cynthia also breathed a sigh of relief. The funeral, planned for three days later, would be on Friday.
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