Thursday Thirteen - Grandma Edition

1. Every June 11, I stop and do the math again. She’d be 103 this year, which feels impossible and also exactly right. Some people stay present long after they’re gone. Today is my maternal grandmother's birthday.

2. When I think of childhood, I’m at her kitchen table with Campbell’s chicken noodle soup steaming in front of me and a Little Debbie Oatmeal Crème Pie (known to us grandkids as a Grandaddy Cookie) waiting its turn. That table was my infirmary, my library, my safe harbor.

3. She had already raised five children by the time I arrived, with another one coming a year after me, yet she still had patience left over for every grandchild who wandered through her door.

4. On sick days she wrapped me in one of Aunt Susie’s afghans, pulled me into her lap, and rocked while she sang “Daisy, Daisy.” The chair creaked, her voice hummed, and I drifted off like it was the most natural thing in the world.

5. If I wasn’t too sick, I camped on the couch with tissues while we watched The Price Is Right, Dark Shadows, and The Guiding Light. She could pick up more channels than we could in the country, which felt like magic.

6. At 2 p.m. sharp, the house went still. That was when she talked to “Mama Fore,” and unless you were actively bleeding, you waited.

7. My favorite part of sick days was reading. She let me loose on the World Book Encyclopedias, Nancy Drew, Little House, The Silver Skates, Five Little Peppers - anything I could reach and wanted to read. I read the encyclopedia for fun, and she never once acted like that was strange.

8. She only had a fourth‑grade education, but she valued knowledge like it was oxygen. She read the newspaper front to back, even the grocery ads, and she read it aloud to me until I could read it myself at four. I’ve been reading The Roanoke Times ever since.

9. Her house ran on small rituals: Friday hair appointments at Aunt Neva’s, walking three blocks and crossing a four‑lane road like it was nothing, sometimes with us trailing behind on bikes. Wash clothes on Mondays. Change the bed linens on Saturdays. Have dinner ready for Grandpa's arrival from work by 4 p.m. on the dot. Those rituals brought comfort in an ever-changing world.

10. The rag bag in the hallway closet was its own universe. Old sheets and fabric scraps became doll blankets, superhero capes, and whatever else our imaginations demanded. Whether we put anything back is another story.

11. In the summers, I walked with her into downtown Salem. That mile and a half felt like an expedition. We kids bought balsa airplanes or paddle balls with our saved‑up change, and she always treated us to snow cones at Brooks Byrd Pharmacy. I picked blue every time.

12. She lived through losses she didn’t talk about: her parents, her husband, siblings, and later, my mother. When I was fifteen and showed up in my prom dress, she called my mother afterward and cried because I had thought to come. I was her oldest grandchild.

13. Even now, when I’m lonesome, I talk to her. She doesn’t answer out loud, but I feel like she listens. She always did. I sure wish she was still just a phone call away.

_________________

Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; there is a list here if you want to read other Thursday Thirteens and/or play along. I've been playing for a while, and this is my 963rd time to do a list of 13 on a Thursday. Or so sayth the Blogger counter, anyway.

Happy Birthday, Grandpa Joe

Today would have been my Grandpa Joe's birthday if he were still alive. He was my father's father.

Joe would have been 109 years old. He died in 1989 from lung problems caused by smoking and from working in the West Virginia coal mines when he was young. He had served in World War II as well, part of the push into France and then Germany in 1945.

My grandfather was in the Army for most of my father's young years. My father told me once that when the soldiers finally came home, he knew his daddy because he was the man his mother was hugging and kissing on.

My father's parents moved to California when I was about six months old, taking with them my father's two older brothers and their young families, and his younger sister. I don't know why my father stayed. Perhaps my mother didn't want to move. 

In any event, this meant that my paternal grandparents were not people I knew very well for most of my childhood. They existed for me as a voice on the phone into which I blew kisses at my mother's urging, strange Christmas presents under the tree that I generally did not play with. In hindsight this is terrible, because I suspect those presents were a bit of a hardship for them to send. 

My grandparents in California were people my father talked about. To me, they were like ghosts.

They first visited when I was about ten. I don't recall much about that visit. My grandmother talked very fast and very loudly. She loved to cook — she would have dinner waiting when my mother came home from work. My Grandpa Joe played guitar and told stories. The visit did not last long.

We drove to California in 1976. I don't recall much about seeing my grandparents that trip. My cousin had run away from home and there was much concern about her. I remember some guitar playing, a trip to a vast flea market where my mother bought a lamp with an orange shade and fringe on it, and that's about it.

My grandparents came to visit again in 1981, around March, and said they would stay until my graduation in June. I was quite excited about this. But my grandmother, after about two weeks, said she missed her dog and they left.

I have a Yamaha guitar that my grandfather gave to me before he left that time. I think it was sort of graduation and consolation prize combined.

After I married, my grandfather and I became pen pals. I felt a kinship with him that I did not feel with my father's other relatives. He sent me stories he wanted preserved because he thought I would keep them. He wrote me poems. He tried to give me life advice, but not much. I guess he thought I'd learn whatever I needed to know. I still have all the originals, safely tucked away. 

Eventually I typed out most of his stories and made a little book, which I shared with my father and other relatives. He told me just before he died that he had more things to send me, but I never received them and I don't know what happened to them.

He always teased me and said I was two days older than he was. Same joke every year. I never tired of it.

They visited one last time around 1988, and my grandfather died the following year. They were pleased to see my house, happy with my husband, glad that I seemed settled. I did not see either of them again, although my grandmother lived to be 97 and died in 2017.

Describing my paternal grandparents is difficult for me because I did not know them well. I cannot paint a word picture of them the way I could my maternal grandmother. All I have are scattered memories and my grandfather's words on paper.

This was my loss. Maybe it was their loss, too.

My Father's Story

 

My father, Loren Darnell Bruffey Sr., 84, of Fincastle, Virginia, peacefully passed away on Thursday, January 22, 2026.

He was preceded in death by his parents, Joseph and Gladys Taylor Bruffey; his brothers, Kenneth Bruffy and Jerry Bruffy; his sister, Elizabeth “Libby” Bruffy; and his wife of 37 years, Glenda Harris Bruffey.

He is survived by his loving wife of 18 years, Rita Stiltner Bruffey.

He is also survived by his children and their families: his daughter, Anita Jeanne Firebaugh and her husband James Firebaugh III of Troutville, VA; his son, Loren Darnell Bruffey, Jr. and his significant other Tasha Leigh Campbell of Fincastle, VA; and his stepdaughter Shonna Worrell and her husband Roger Worrell of Wytheville, VA.

His also survived by his grandchildren: Loren “Trey” Darnell Bruffey III and his wife Valerie Bruffey of Delaware, OH; Zoe Alexandra Bruffey of Roanoke, VA; step-grandchildren Elizabeth Victoria Owens and her significant other Erik Johnston of Nashville, TN; and Anthony Thomas “Thomy” Owens of Radford, VA.

He is also survived by his sisters-in-law, Julie Bruffy of Chico, CA, and Joan Bruffey of San Jose, CA; his niece, Rhonda Bruffey of San Jose, CA; and his nephews and their families: Steve Bruffy and his wife Lisa Bruffy, Terry Bruffy and his wife Kari Bruffy, Kenny Bruffy and his significant other Joellen Indiveri, all of Chico, CA; and Joseph “Joey” Bruffy and his significant other Barbara Williams of Big Springs, TX.

In 2014, I wrote an article for the local paper, which was a story of my father's life. I am going to place it here so people can read about my father. It's a little long, especially with the survivors list up above. Apologies for the length.

Botetourt Golf and Swim Club's newest stockholder is a local businessman who truly embodies a rags to riches story, the stuff from which American legends are made.

Loren Bruffey, Sr. of Fincastle apparently was born to be an entrepreneur. At the age of 72, when many men are retiring to play golf, Bruffey has bought into the club in order to work on his fourth concurrent business.

He has a reputation of turning everything he touches into gold, according to one of his employees at one of his companies. "He turns it around and it turns into money," Connie Dowdy, purchasing agent for Cardinal Rubber & Seal, Inc., said.

Bruffey recently described his life as a movement from ridge to ridge. He was born in Canvas, West Virginia in a cabin that sat on a ridge top. His father at that time was a coal miner. Now he lives in a stately home on a hill in Botetourt County.

Bruffey's storied life as entrepreneur began on the streets of Summersville, WV. When he was seven years old, an uncle bought him a shoeshine kit and he shined shoes in the street.

Not long thereafter, his family moved to Roanoke from West Virginia. His father, a World War II veteran, required treatment at the VA Hospital for wounds he received in the war. After his father healed, they lived in New Castle in the Scratch Ankle area for two years before settling in Salem, where Bruffey attended Andrew Lewis High School.

During his teen years, Bruffey started his second enterprise, a wholesale fish bait business. He paid other youngsters to dig up worms and moss, put the night crawlers in containers, and sell them to local stores and gas stations. "I did that for two years," he said. "I had about 25 customers."

Then he started a lawn mower business with a friend. "We cut about $40 a week worth of yards," he said. "You only got $2 a yard back in those days."

At the age of 17, he joined the military, serving for 37 months. He served in Korea for 13 months and eventually ended up in Fort Monroe, Virginia, with the United States Continental Army Command. His last job there was decoding security messages for the government. He received an honorable discharge at the age of 20. "I still wasn't old enough to vote when I got out," he recalled.

After he left the military, he became a police officer in Salem and was one of the youngest men hired to serve on the force at that time. He married Glenda Harris of Salem in 1962, and they had two children in the first four years of their marriage.

However, public service officials then, as now, made little money. "Being a police officer wasn't enough financial security," Bruffey said. "I had $110 a week in expenses and brought home $105." Searching for something better, he decided to turn his considerable charisma and charm to sales.

He became a salesman and branch manager for a company out of Pennsylvania called Louis H. Heinz. He commuted from Salem to Richmond. In 1969, he decided he wanted to live in a more rural community. About that time, the company asked him to relocate. When his manager offered him either $4,000 in moving expense money or six-weeks in severance pay, he took the severance.

Cardinal Rubber

He determined then that he would make his own future, and he would do it in many different ways. First, he set himself up as an independent sales representative. One of his largest clients was Stultz Machine, Tool & Equipment in Southeast Roanoke. In 1973, an opportunity to create a rubber product franchise came his way, and Bruffey purchased the building across the street from Stulz. Bruffey and P.G. Stultz went in together to create the Rubber House of Roanoke. Bruffey bought Stultz out three years later and in 1976, he changed the name to Cardinal Rubber.

"Then we started our expansion program," Bruffey said, a project that has been ongoing. He opened a branch in Harrisonburg, which has since closed, and another in Richmond that is now 30 years old. In the 1990s, he opened a branch in Rock Hill, SC.

Cardinal Rubber has two satellite locations in Garland, TX and Southern Pines, NC. The business has 48 employees and services over 9,000 customers.

"We ship overseas into India, Vietnam, and China," Bruffey said. The company is ITAR certified, which means it is able to supply products to US defense contractors. Bruffey's son, Loren Bruffey, Jr., is president of the company and runs the day-to-day operations.

The company continues to expand, and earlier this year, Cardinal Rubber acquired Stultz Machine, bringing Bruffey full circle. He renamed the older company Stultz Tool & Equipment, and it continues as a sales, repair and service location for hydraulics, air compressors and pneumatic tools.

Pat Lawhorn, Cardinal Rubber's vice president, has been with the company for 12 years. She spoke highly of Bruffey. "He's taught me a lot about the management side of business and business ethics," she said. "I have a huge admiration for him in his business sense. It's just amazing the business that he's built."

She said Cardinal Rubber has a reputation for treating its employees like family. "He's got his moments," she said of Bruffey, "but he's there for his employees personally as well as on the business level." The company does not have a large employee turnover, she noted. "He instills that family feeling here at Cardinal Rubber."

Early on, that wasn't necessarily the case. Connie Dowdy of Salem, who has been with the company for 30 years, said that was a transition Bruffey has made over the years. "He was so hard-core when I came here," she said. "He put business before family, but now it's different. He's mellowed."

Dowdy was working at Nannie's Market on Catawba Road in Botetourt when Bruffey offered her a job. "He gave me a chance and I appreciate that." She said she was amazed that he continued to have a near-daily presence at the business. "He makes a point of coming in and speaking, sitting down and asking me how things are going," she said. "He told me once, 'I will always be your friend but there is a line I will always draw, and he draws it.'"

She said Bruffey's selling acumen is legendary. "Once he starts a project he sees it to the end. He followed through until it was delivered. He is always thinking, and he's got a knack for doing it."

Loren Bruffey, Jr., now President of Cardinal Rubber,  agreed. "I will say that in my 30 years of experience, he is one of the greatest salesmen that I have ever run into. I firmly believe he could sell a cape to Superman," he said.

During those years of building up his business, Bruffey also started Cardinal Pool & Supply Co., Inc., which he later sold.

Farming

In 1970, Bruffey bought a farm that backed up against his father-in-law's old home place. He fixed up an older home that had no plumbing when he bought the house.

He raised a number of different birds from time to time, including chickens, ducks, and quail. Beef cattle became his number one farm product, however. 

"I actually leased almost 1,400 acres around here at one time," he said. He raised hay to support more than 100 head of cattle, which he sold at the stockyard. "I sold the last 30 head of cattle in 1995," Bruffey recalled. These days he has one animal remaining, an old cow he is allowing to live out its life in his pasture fields. His property is now a beacon for various creatures, with some areas overgrown and others seeded for wildlife enhancement.

He has purchased nearby properties as they came up for sale, expanding his real estate holdings. Today he owns hundreds of acres around the original tract.

In 1976, Bruffey built a spacious home up on the highest ridge of his farm. Not long after his house was finished, his family suffered a series of tragedies that still brings shudders to Bruffey when he recalls it: a tractor ran over his young son, who survived the incident. A few days later, while his son was still in the hospital, his father-in-law died. Bruffey said that was one of the low points of his life.

In 1989, lightning struck his house and nearly burned it to the ground. Bruffey rebuilt. He added on to the house at that time and in recent years, he has renovated the garage and added an addition.

Making Music

Bruffey came from a musical family; his grandfather, father, and brothers all played instruments and sang, and so did he. He formed a band called Music, Inc., in 1970. He played guitar and sang at venues all over the state, ranging from Virginia Beach to Marion and locations in between. Music, Inc. played in Staunton, Harrisonburg, Covington, Christiansburg, Radford, Danville, and of course, Roanoke. He has many stories about his time as a lead singer.

"Once we were playing on two hay wagons in New Castle opening up the New Castle Fair and the drummer fell off the wagon backwards," Bruffey recalled. "He drummed barefoot and I looked back and all I saw was two feet up in the air, but he was still beating on the snare drum. He never lost time."

In 1972, Bruffey opened a retail music store called Botetourt Showcase of Music, Inc., in the mall across from Lord Botetourt High School. He ran the store for about four years. The band rented practice space in one of the lower levels of the mall for several years, too.

Music, Inc., ceased in 1982. Bruffey said it was too difficult to focus on the weekend music and keep up with a growing business. However, he has returned to those musical roots. Now he also plays guitar and sings in Stone Coal Gap, a local band that entertains at nursing homes and public fundraisers. He also performs with the Botetourt County Chorus on occasion, and participates in the choir at Pleasant Hill Baptist Church. "I like to think I'm the only Catholic in a Baptist choir," he joked.

Roanoke Auto Auction

In 1999, Bruffey went to Iowa and spent a week at the World Wide College of Auctioneering, which is recognized worldwide as the number one school for auctioneering. Bruffey also purchased Star City Auto Auction and renamed it Roanoke Auto Auction, Inc., at that time.

In 2005, he and a partner bought out Springlake Stockyard and formed a new corporation, Farmers Livestock Market, Inc., to run the stockyard. The company now has 70 stockholders and Bruffey is on its Board of Directors. "I oversee the operation of the stockyard, and the general manager answers to me," Bruffey said.

Botetourt Country Club

The Botetourt Country Club ran into financial troubles during the economic downturn, and in 2010, a group of investors purchased the stock and took over running the company. Bruffey late last year bought out one of those original investors and purchased additional shares to become the second-largest shareholder in what is now called Botetourt Golf and Swim Club. The other owners are Mike Morris, Tim Jennings, Bobby Allen, and Alan Brenner. Bruffey said they are working to improve the facility and the partners hold frequent business meetings to work on new ideas and iron out concerns.

Hobbies

Bruffey was an avid golf player in his younger days and spent hours on the course at the Botetourt Country Club. Cardinal Rubber has for the last decade held an annual customer appreciation tournament at the facility, usually hosting about 130 golfers. He played regularly for 25 years and was on the Senior PGA Tour Pro Am on three different occasions.

He is also an avid sportsman and enjoys hunting and fishing. He has been to Africa twice to hunt big game and annually makes treks to other areas of the United States to hunt, including Alaska. He has also hunted in Canada and in Russia.

Additionally, he has soloed as an airplane pilot. He rides motorcycles, too, and recently turned his Honda Goldwing into a trike bike, one of his few acknowledgements of age creeping up on him.

Bruffey's wife passed away in 2000, not long after he began Roanoke Auto Auction. In 2007, he married Rita Williams, known to many as the candy lady and the former owner of Good Things on the Market.

Looking back on his storied life, Bruffey said he considers himself an entrepreneur. "I also consider myself lucky," he said. "And I'm not a procrastinator, either."

He said he is now back on the ridge, but in a different capacity. He recalls his childhood on that ridge in West Virginia as a happy one. "That is when you're the happiest. You don't have all these tears. You just have happiness at that age."

And now? He looked around the restaurant of his new business venture, the Botetourt Golf & Swim Club, and then at his daughter, who was interviewing him for this article. "Right now I'm very happy," he said.

My Father's Gone

My father passed away unexpectedly on Thursday. He loved music. If there is one song that will always make me think of him, it's this one by Elvis Presley: My Way. 

My Aunt in a Podcast

 This is a podcast featuring my aunt in Texas.

Twenty-Five Years

My mother passed away 25 years ago on this day. Early in the morning, I received the phone call that she had passed somewhat unexpectedly in the night. She had pancreatic cancer, and the doctors had said she likely had another month or two to live. I knew the end was near; just two days earlier, I had brought a local preacher in to see her, giving her the chance to make her peace if she wanted, or to say nothing if she didn’t.

I hadn’t expected her to pass away so soon after that visit. Perhaps that brief moment, that permission from someone like the preacher, was all she needed to move on. I will never know.

My mother worked hard to make a good life for herself and her two children, my brother and me. She held a full-time job for all the time I lived at home. I remember how she kept the house sparkling clean, always ready for the days my father returned from business trips. She retired in the 1990s, when she was about 46, because by then she had her years in after having worked at the same company since she was 16. She died 10 years later. Her retirement years were not easy, unfortunately.

I wish she could have been happier.

Pancreatic cancer is a cruel cancer. I'm sure treatments are better now than they were 25 years ago, but not by much. It's a cancer that is generally not diagnosed until it is in its advanced stages. The most common type, pancreatic adenocarcinoma, has a survival rate of just 8% of people five years after diagnosis.

My mother lived just over a year beyond her diagnosis.

I have now lived a longer life than my mother did. It's sobering to think that I have spent more time alive, breathing in the lovely smells of my beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains, than my mom did. 

Fifty-six is awfully young to die. Each year I live beyond that feels like borrowed time.

The Weight of the Evening

It is thundering without rain.

 The silence between the claps is deafening.

 

The trees are still, and the birds have flown to the ground.

 

The air is heavy with heat and humidity.

 The sky grumbles, mumbles, and still, I see no light.

I feel the pressure of the weather change in the circumference of my head.

 The weight of the evening is like the grip of grief around my heart.

Now I smell it—that scent of rain. 

It’s in the air, but the drops still hang high above, waiting. 

The sky has darkened. 

The thunder continues its ornery grumbling.

I hold my breath. 

I watch the trees for movement, scan the sky for that tell-tale streak of light that would mean it’s time to step away from the window.

Suddenly, I think of my great-grandmother. 

She used to sew by the window, scissors in hand, when lightning struck. 

The bolt went through her and out the scissors. I have them on my desk now—a family memento that has never needed sharpening since that day.

Happy Birthday, Mom

 

My mother in her Girl Scout uniform

My mother would have been 81 years old today, if she had not passed away in 2000. She was 56 years old when she died.

I was 37. My mother was a young mother, giving birth to me when she was 18. That's awfully young to be raising a child, although back then it was more normal than it might be today.

Looking at the picture of my mother in her Girl Scout uniform, I wonder what that young woman hoped and dreamed. Did she want children? Did she want to explore the world? What was her passion?

Unfortunately, I never really got to know my mother as a person, as one might a friend, say. We were never able to meet one another as adults, on equal footing, and learn about each other as people. I think that may be an issue for many families.

My mother always saw me as a young child who was an adult. She used to say that I wasn't raised, I was "jerked up." She was right about that. I have always felt like an old person, trying to do the right thing, trying to be nice, trying to find my way through what I considered my morality and my justice. I think my ideals and personality were not things she was prepared to deal with. Had she lived longer, perhaps things might have been different, but I don't know. 

My mother worked as a file clerk for a company in Salem, Virginia, that was located a block behind the house her parents lived in. It was a convenient drop-off point for us kids when we were sick or during the summer. 

She hated the drive from Botetourt into Salem; it could be 45 minutes or longer, especially before they redid the Botetourt exit. Traffic would back up there for miles after 5 p.m.

She retired from the same job when she hit 40 years, or maybe it was 35, but at any rate, she was in her late 40s. She talked of traveling with my father, though she had a fear of flying. I know they took a few trips by car before things fell apart for them.

My mother was a very good seamstress and sewed most of my clothes when I was young. I did not appreciate this talent at the time and wanted store-bought clothes like the other kids had. Young children generally do not recognize or realize what is going on with parents. They are, after all, children. I'm sure this was a money-saving move, and also something my mother enjoyed doing. She was good at painting craft things, such as plaster Christmas houses, and her work always looked quite professional. I wonder what she could have done if she'd had training in art or something. I also wonder if she wanted to do more with that creative side of herself. She never said.

She also was a very good cook. To her dismay, I did not take to the culinary arts and I'm not sure she realized that particular gift went to my brother. Maybe she knew. I hope she did.

My mother and I had a tumultuous relationship. Neither of my parents knew how to nurture a sensitive and creative child and did not have the tools to try. I remember my mother telling me I would never be a writer, that I had to take secretarial courses. I was a secretary at various times, but I also managed to be a writer despite the lack of support.

I don't think my mother found the happiness she wanted. She tried to be happy, but I never knew her to be very pleased with her circumstances in life. I felt that nothing I did was ever the right thing. I spent most of my childhood trying to figure out how to please someone who admired a dandelion one day and threw it back at me the next.  I did not succeed.

For all of that, she was my mother, and as such I of course loved her as best I could love anyone. Her last year of life was not very good; pancreatic cancer is a rough way to go. 

Anyway, happy birthday, Mom. You died while you were still beautiful even though you were ill. In my mind you will always be forever young.

Happy Birthday, Grandma

Today is my grandmother’s birthday. She would have been 102 years old if she were still living.

When I picture childhood, I am sitting at her kitchen table with a bowl of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup steaming in front of me and a packet of “Granddaddy cookies” off to the side. Those were Little Debbie Oatmeal Crème Pies, called that because my grandfather took one in his lunch every day. They were comfort food for a chronically puny kid who missed thirty or more days of school each year with bronchitis or walking pneumonia. Grandma’s house was my infirmary, my library, my television paradise, and most of all, my refuge.

She had already raised five children by the time I came along, with a sixth one to come a year to the day after me. Even so, she poured fresh patience and love into every grandchild who passed through her door. 

On sick days she tucked me into her lap, swaddled in one of Aunt Susie’s afghans, and rocked while she sang “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do.” Her voice and the chair moved in rhythm until I drifted off to sleep. If I wasn’t too sick, I’d camp out on the couch with tissues. Grandma could pick up more TV channels than we could in the country, so together we watched The Price Is Right, Dark Shadows, and The Guiding Light. I was too young for some of it, but I loved every minute.

At 2 o’clock every afternoon, the house fell quiet. That was when Grandma talked to someone named “Mama Fore,” and we were not to interrupt unless we were bleeding. Even then, it had better be a lot of blood.

Reading was my favorite part of sick days. Grandma was proud of her World Book Encyclopedias, and if I wasn’t too snotty, I could sit and read them. I flipped through pages on the Galapagos Islands and Greenland, just because the names sounded interesting. I read my aunt’s Nancy Drew books, the Little House series, The Silver Skates, Five Little Peppers and How They Grew, and just about anything else I could get my hands on. Most people don’t read the encyclopedia, but I did, and I loved it.

Grandma had only a fourth-grade education, but she valued knowledge. She read the newspaper from front to back, even the grocery ads, and would read it aloud to me. I was reading The Roanoke Times by myself at four years old and have hardly missed a day since. Over fifty years of reading that paper ought to earn me something, don’t you think?

She let me ask questions, and I had plenty of them. If someone told me the sky was blue because God made it that way, I’d follow up with another “why?” Grandma didn’t mind. She encouraged that curiosity.

Her house held rituals I remember even now. Friday was hair day at Aunt Neva’s. Grandma would walk the three blocks there, crossing a four-lane road, sometimes with us tagging along on bikes if we were old enough. 

There was always a rag bag in the hallway closet full of old sheets and fabric. We made doll blankets and superhero capes and were supposed to put everything back when we were done. I’m sure I forgot sometimes.

She made macaroni and cheese that I have never been able to replicate. It was baked until it was crusty on top and firm all the way through. I’m not even sure I liked it, but it was part of dinner more often than not.

When my brother and I stayed with her during the summer, we’d sometimes walk the mile and a half into downtown Salem. We bought balsa airplanes, paddle balls, or plastic model kits with our saved-up change. Before heading back, Grandma treated us to snow cones from Brooks Byrd Pharmacy. I always picked the blue one.

She hung laundry on the line whenever the weather allowed. She liked the way fresh air made it smell. She grew big, showy peonies along the side of the house. They were beautiful.

After my grandfather died when I was twelve, everything changed. He passed away shortly before he was fully vested in his pension at Kroger, where he worked, and the company refused to give my grandmother anything. That left her raising two boys on Social Security. My mother and the rest of the family stopped shopping at Kroger after that. 

Grandma never learned to drive, and after Granddaddy died, that made life harder. My mother or uncles had to take her to the grocery store. I remember Mom tried to talk her into getting a license, but Grandma would not hear of it. None of her sisters drove either. I wonder why.

She had losses. She lost her husband. She lost my mother, her oldest child. She lost a brother and a sister. I was too young to really know how she felt, especially about my mother’s death. She didn’t talk about things like that. But when I was fifteen and headed to prom, I had my date drive all the way to Salem so Grandma could see my dress. She called my mother after I left and cried because I had thought to come. I was the oldest grandchild.

When I was older and it was no longer a long-distance call, I’d phone Grandma often. It didn’t matter what time it was. She always picked up, even if she had cousins running around the house. We talked about simple things—what was growing, what we cooked for dinner—but I miss those conversations more than I ever imagined I would.

Every year, she looked for the first robin and said it meant spring had come. I don’t think she liked winter much. I think she liked warmth, flowers, and children.

Sometimes now, when I’m lonesome, I talk to her. She doesn’t answer, at least not out loud, but I feel like she listens. She was always good at that. I might need a long talk with her very soon.

Happy birthday, Grandma.

For My Grandfather

The hollow whisper of bone against pine

He is rattling in the hush of earth

unsettled now in unquiet times.

I knew him as an old man, hands withered,

worn with work-filled days

But he was young once, and went to war.

For me he played his guitar

sang country songs while his fingers

flew up and down on the strings.

I think of him and his silent hands still speak, 

a rhythm etched in time.

His old heart would burst if he could see me now.

 

I hear him pluck in the weight of his absence, 

strings humming with a ghost’s breath, 

rough fingers worn like weathered roads

His memory is like dusk settling over a quiet song. 

He plays in echoes, not lost but shifting in the wind — 

a tune only I still hear.

Saying Goodbye to an Old Friend

Last night, I learned that the husband of my old best friend Brenda, who passed away in 2021, was killed in a motorcycle accident in Alleghany, an adjacent county.

Willie was a distant cousin of mine. We shared a set of great-great grandparents. I just saw him last week at a talk about the history of Carvins Cove.

His older sister, Monty, died in 2016 when she was hit by a vehicle in Floyd County. She was my friend and cousin too. She was a writer, and we talked shop often, even occasionally challenging one another via email to write or work on projects.

I never was able to properly mourn his wife Brenda's death, because of Covid and the family had a private ceremony. And now her husband has gone in a shocking and horrible way.

He is survived by a son who lives out of state.

I wrote several articles about Willie when I worked for the newspaper. He and Brenda were important members of the Town of Fincastle, the county seat. He served as the town mayor for a while, and Willie and Brenda were instrumental in keeping the Christmas lights going in the town for many years. They were pillars of the community.

You can read one article I wrote in 2011 here.

Here is an article I wrote about Willie in 2009:

Willie Simmons

***

A gift to a sister has given wood turner Willie Simmons of Fincastle a new and useful implement to add to his creations of bowls, pepper mills, and other products.

The master craftsman in February came across a "bunch of this colored wood" through a friend in Pennsylvania. The wood, scraps from a gunsmith, have become fun and colorful handles under Simmons' skillful hands.

He added a decorative handle to a seam ripper and gave it to his sister, Monty Leitch, who took it with her to a sewing class. "A lot of people saw it and wanted one," Simmons said. He went to Walmart and bought all of the seam rippers he could find in order to create more.

Since then, the product has been a big hit with local sewing enthusiasts - so much so that one of them wrote the item up for Threads magazine, "the crown jewel" of sewing magazines, as Simmons called it. 

The seam rippers will be a featured "great gift" in an article scheduled to appear in the November magazine. Simmons is expecting to receive many orders on his website (wpswoodturning.com) when the article comes out.

Seam rippers as sold in stores are small and easily lost; the handles that Simmons places on the product make the seam ripper less likely to become another victim of the junk drawer gremlins. The handle also makes the product easier to manipulate and appears to be particularly helpful to those with arthritis or other hand ailments that may impede use. Additionally, the handle is reusable and metallic "ripper" part can be replaced if it becomes dull with use.

"I'm tickled to death" with the way the handles have worked out, Simmons said. "I've hit on something people can use."

The wooden handles come in pink, blue, purple, orange, camouflage, red and other colors as the wood becomes available. Because the wood is nearly 400 miles away and of a limited supply, these products may be limited not only in color but also in availability, Simmons said. The limited supply also means he cannot create special orders.

The colored wood also makes decorative handles for ice cream scoopers and make up brushes. The interesting colors are eye-catching, and these products are selling well at craft shows and in Simmons' shop.

As a craftsman, Simmons said he likes for his items to do more than sit on a shelf. "I don't make art work," he said, though some of his pieces are as decorative and lovely as they are useful. "I like stuff being used."

He has been a wood turner wood for over 25 years, and woodworker for more than 30. He became interested in working with wood when he was helping his father with his furniture and antique repair shop, which was located at the same site as Simmons' woodworking shop. 

For the last 20 years, Simmons has honed his craft and sold his work at various arts and crafts shows. Many of the festivals he attends are out of state or in northern Virginia.

Simmons last year began creating walking sticks as a special order for a Charlottesville businessman who, after adding his own touches, sells them to Orvis. The walking sticks, which are made of tiger maple wood, can be purchased from the mail order company's online catalogue. "I'm very pleased with the work I have done" on the sticks, Simmons said. "I think they are gorgeous."

The sticks sell online for $279.00. Simmons has some sticks for sale at his shop, though they are not exactly like the ones available through Orvis. They have different finishes or have not been stained. Supplies are limited, he said.

The sticks he sells frequently have "ambrosia streaks" in them, and the sticks online do not have those markings. Ambrosia streaks are created when a beetle that attacks maple trees leaves its byproduct in the wood. The stain leaves unique streaks, Simmons explained. It's a desirable thing in the wood.

He has also been experimenting with the walking stick designs and has created a two-part walking stick that may also be used as a cane. 

Simmons will have his wood working shop open during Botetourt's Open Studios, which takes place October 26 and 27. His work is for sale anytime he is at his shop.

The Morning

About 52 years ago, on a Saturday sometime in May, I woke early.

My parents were still asleep, as was my brother. No one was up but me. 

We lived in an old farmhouse at the time. It had a row of boxwoods across the front next to the road.

For whatever reason, when I rose, I decided I was going to trim the boxwoods. We did chores back in those days - maybe I had been told I was going to be doing that over the weekend. In any event, I was nine years old, and I was going to do a job. I dressed myself, ate a Pop Tart, found the hedge clippers, and went out front.

Snip. Snip. I vaguely remember the pile of greenery growing up around me as I trimmed. I recall it wasn't hot but a mild day, and the work was, if not fun, pleasurable. I was doing what needed to be done. I imagined that inside the boxwoods lived all manner of creatures - fairies, gnomes, talking rabbits. I carried on quite a conversation with my imaginary friends hidden in the greenery as I moved the clippers across the boxwoods, cutting away the excess growth.

I was so engrossed in my work that I never heard my parents calling for me inside the house. Nor did I hear my mother's calls out the back door.

It wasn't until she came around front calling my name that I stopped and looked up from my trimming of the hedge to see her worried face.

Her face changed from worry to shock as she stood there taking in the sight of me. I wasn't missing - I was working. And nearly finished, at that. I had been at it for well over an hour.

My mother has been gone for almost 25 years. Today is no special day; I have no reason for this memory. Sometimes, though, I forget what my mother's voice sounded like. It has been many years, after all, since I last heard her say something.

But when I call up this memory, when I hear her calling out my name as she rounds the corner of the house, concern echoing in the timbre of her shout, I remember every time.

The Button Box

My extra present at Christmas was something old.

It was my mother's button box. Well, actually it's a fruitcake tin from the 1960s, full of buttons.

I had mentioned it on a blog post about my mother back in June, when Thursday landed on her birthday. I wrote about some of my memories of my mother for Thursday 13, and mentioned the button box, wondering what had happened to it. My mother passed away in 2000 from pancreatic cancer. Most of her things remained with my father.

My stepmother saw my blog post (I didn't know she read my blog), and she knew where the button box was. She pulled it out of the basement and cleaned it up and gave it to me for Christmas.

She was quite emotional when she gave it to me. I probably did not offer up the expected reaction - I am not one to cry, especially in front of other people, but I was certainly shocked and surprised to see it.

I imagine many women of my mother's generation had a button box. Waste not, want not and all of that. My brother and I used to make a kind of toy out of the buttons and a string, a zinger type thing that I am not describing well. It was always fun to comb through the box and see what was there.

Long ago, I probably remembered what some of the buttons came off of and thought about those garments as I sorted through the buttons. Now, I have no idea, but there are certainly a lot of buttons in there, as well as needles and a die from a game, among other things.

It was incredibly kind of my stepmother to clean up the box and give this to me as a keepsake. I really appreciate her thoughtfulness.

Christmas Eve

The older I get, the more nostalgic I seem to be for those Christmas Eves long ago. The ones where my parents threw a big party, and loads of people came, and my brother and I opened our presents to one another - an effort by my parents to calm us down.

So many people, and Santa Claus coming? What kid wouldn't be wound up tighter than a corkscrew in a wine bottle?

We were supposed to go to bed, but we generally stayed up as long as we could, peering around the corner, watching the grownups talk, dance, and play music. How were we to sleep with all of that noise, anyway?

On one particularly memorable Christmas Eve, (and I may have told this story before) I remember hearing shrieks from women. I peeked around the corner and the ladies were pointing toward the refrigerator.

A drunken mouse was roaming around the floor. I am not sure where the men were - playing music or standing around outside, maybe - but the mouse was there. He'd obviously been imbibing on something.

My mother very calmly and quickly slipped off her shoe. Thwack! She slammed it down on the mouse, amidst the cries of the other women. Then she got the broom and dustpan and swept it up off of the linoleum and took it outside.

She came back in like nothing had happened. I was not surprised, having seen my mother do amazing things, but the other women were either aghast or admiring.

I thought it was hilarious.

Once we finally went to sleep, and the guests left, my parents would do the Santa thing, placing our gifts under the tree. At some point in the wee hours of the morning, my brother would shake me awake.

"Santa's come! Santa's come!" he would whisper excitedly.

I would climb out of bed and follow him to the living room, where we could see our bounty spread out beneath the tree. Then we'd go back to bed until our parents called us in.

When we arrived in the room and did not look surprised, my father would look at my mother. "They got up again," he would say.

This happened nearly every year, even when we were teenagers, though by then most of our presents were wrapped, not left out. After all, we knew who Santa was.

The excitement held for a long time.

I sure miss those days.

Getting Ready

I was getting ready for company earlier today, and I was struck by a memory of my mother doing the same thing.

My mother, though, had a routine that would make mine look like child's play. She was the ultimate personal hairstylist and makeup artist for herself.

She teased her hair up until she was too ill to do that anymore. And she wore makeup almost constantly; I seldom remember seeing her without it.

My mother always looked beautiful when she went out, even if only to the grocery store. She would be totally decked out, well dressed, and dignified.

I'm not sure she owned a pair of blue jeans.

I, on the other hand, had a routine that included hair and makeup, but I have always had easy to manage haircuts - blow, maybe a bit of a curling iron, brush, and done. My makeup routine was foundation, eye shadow, mascara, a little blush, a powder to top it off - done. I could usually be dressed in 30 minutes and my wardrobe of choice was pants and a top. Occasionally, I wore a skirt.

Dresses and I did not get along. I have always had trouble with shoes, because I have trouble with my feet. I once was told at a law office that I would never get promoted because I did not wear heels.

I opted for dress flats back then.

These days, I do my hair, still, but it remains in an easy-to-handle cut. My makeup is now nonexistent because I can't find any makeup to which I am not allergic. I can be ready in 15 minutes, 10 if I push it, not counting a shower.

My mother would be appalled to see me going out to the grocery stores in blue jeans, a t-shirt, and no makeup. I wear nothing but sneakers. I own a pair of black sneakers for dress shoes, if you can believe that.

If I stop and think about it, I'm a little appalled myself, but I haven't found a way around it. I am always neat and clean, if not decked out. It's hard to find decent clothes in my size, and since I am home more often than not, I don't know that it matters too much.

Mom sure could do herself up, though. She always looked her best.

My mom & dad, mid 1990s, maybe?

Contentment - Day 6

I thumbed through old papers this morning, looking for a manual on a piece of machinery my husband couldn't find.

In doing so, I stumbled over an envelope full of photos. I pulled it out and began looking through them. They were pictures of me from school and a large picture of my grandmother as a young girl that I would have sworn was of my mother if not for the name written on the back. And there were pictures of my mom.

The envelope was one of the last things she gave me before she died.

It wasn't the pictures that got to me though - they were just images. What did get to me was the smell.

The envelope smelled not of old paper, but of my mother. A smell that I'd not thought of in many years, and one that even now I cannot describe.

Something like a cross between makeup, hairspray, and light perfume.

Nothing that comes from a bottle.

Just my mom.

Happiness - Day 24

This should have been yesterday's notation, but here goes.

Last night we went to my father's to visit with my cousin and his wife who were in from California.

They live in Chico, near the Park Fire. They came in last weekend but went to Myrtle Beach with my father and stepmother, so I did not get to see them until last night.

We had a good time sharing memories of differing childhoods, one on the west coast, and my brother and I on the east coast.

Kids are kids though. I also heard stories about my cousins that I hadn't heard before. I have always been a little sad that I don't know my father's side of the family that well. They moved to California when I was 6 months old. My dad and mother stayed here.

At any rate, we all had tacos, made by my cousin who wanted to cook, and enjoyed an evening on the deck telling tales.

Everyone but me: from left, my cousin Steve, my
brother's girlfriend, Steve's wife Lisa, my stepmother,
my father, my husband, and my brother.

______________________

Happy August Happiness Challenge!

 

Each day in August you are to post about something that makes *you* happy. Pretty simple. And, it doesn't even have to be every day if you don't want it to be. It's a great way to remind ourselves that there are positive things going on in our lives, our communities, and the world.

The Day Elvis Died

There are many things that happened nationally that I remember because I remember where I was and what I was doing.

I know exactly where I was when the second plane hit the Twin Towers on 9/11/2001. I know where I was when Challenger exploded. I know where I was when I heard President Reagan had been shot. I know where I was when I learned John Lennon had been shot. I know where I was on November 9, 2016, when I learned that Hillary Clinton lost the election even though she won the popular vote.

And I know where I was when the radio announcer said, in solemn tones, "The King is dead."

We were driving through some flat area of Kansas or someplace like that, my parents, my brother, my grandmother, my two young uncles, and me, all piled into a bus-van type contraption that my father had found for a trip across the country.

My father had been flipping radio stations to find something to listen to, and that was what we heard, "The King is dead." We were all hushed while my father tried to find a station to figure out what was going on. At first, we were confused - what king? King of a country? Not the king of rock and roll, surely. He was only 42 years old.

After much fiddling with the radio dials - we were, after all, in the middle of nowhere in the Midwest - my father found another station.

"Elvis Presley is dead," the announcer said.

My father gasped, my mother shrugged, my grandmother said something to the effect of that being too bad.

My brother and two uncles went back to playing cards in the back of the bus-van, my grandmother returned to her nap, and my father drove, his hands tight on the steering wheel, not yelling at the boys for making noises they made as they messed around in the back.

I sat behind my father, and I watched him. I was only 13, but I knew this was important.

I have never asked Dad what that meant to him, to have someone he had idolized die and have no one to share it with when it happened. He didn't talk about it, didn't make much of it. He just kept driving.

My father was a big Elvis fan. My father had a band of his own and he sang many Elvis songs. He idealized himself as a "B" version of Elvis, or so I thought. My mother, who was riding shotgun in the bus-van, didn't seem to care one way or another, but I remember feeling the change in my father's mood even though he didn't say a word.

I remember his sadness, though he made sure no one saw him sad.

He wasn't alone, of course, we were all there in the bus-van. I knew he was feeling something, but we have never been a very lovey-dovey touchy-feely kind of family. I don't know if I was the only one who knew that this was a blow to my father. I've never talked about it with anyone, though my father asked me some time ago if I remembered where we were when we heard about Elvis's death. He was pleased that I remembered, right down to the cornfields along the side of the long stretch of highway.

Wise men say many things; others say very little. I always equate Elvis Presley with my father, and I always have that memory following me around, the memory of me, the young girl-woman in the seat behind her father, watching without comment while the man she once thought hung the moon absorbed devastating news.