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A free short story–what do you think happens next?

by Pam Harris, "blind" writer

I was going through some old documents and deleting what I no longer want to keep and found this short story I wrote seven years ago. If you choose to read it, I’d love to know what you think happens to Hope after…well, if you read it, you’ll know. I have my own idea of the kind of person she is. I’d love to know what you think. And maybe, just maybe, you have been a Hope or a Callie.

Love and Hallmark

“That kind of love doesn’t exist, Hope. You’re delusional because of those cheesy Hallmark movies you watch all the time.”

I stare at my best friend over the rim of my coffee cup. Callie doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but I understand why. Her mom’s been married and divorced twice and is currently dating a “prospect.” Her dad’s only been married once – to her mom—but he’s had a series of live-in relationships. These days he’s with a tall, too thin woman only five years older than Callie.

“You’re just jaded, Callie. It’s not like that for me.”

“Jaded?” She arches a perfectly crafted eyebrow. Everything about Callie is perfectly crafted, from her blunt cut red hair that just brushes her shoulders to her airbrush quality make-up to her sleek black and white dress that probably cost more than most people earn in a week. I guess there are some perks to having rich parents who try to buy their way out of their guilt.

I can’t imagine. My parents stopped paying my expenses when I landed my first full-time job out of college. I get it. My two brothers are still in high school, and my folks are teachers. Rich, we’re not.

“Yes, jaded, cynical.” I take another sip of my Starbucks caramelized honey latte, my weekly Friday morning caloric and financial splurge.

“I know what jaded means. And I’m not jaded. I’m a realist.” She shakes her head. “There is no such thing as forever love or love at first sight. Lust, maybe, but not love. And no love lasts forever.” She snaps her fingers. “Something goes wrong, and it’s over, just like that.”

My parents have been married almost thirty years, and sometimes they’re so lovey-dovey it’s disgusting, but I’ll take it over what Callie has. All four of my grandparents, married to the same person for over fifty years. I don’t just think it; I know true love is real.

“You’re wrong, Callie.”

Callie gives me that smile that says, “I love you, girlfriend, but you are so naïve.”

Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am naïve. Maybe I should have been born in the fifties instead of the nineties. Maybe the modern world is just a too modern for me.

“I need to get to work.” I stand and pick up my drink to finish on the short walk to the financial firm where I will spend my day juggling numbers.

“Me too.” Callie follows my lead. The men in the coffee shop stare as we walk by, but they’re staring at Callie, not me. I’m a mere shadow. She’s tall and curvy in all the right places. I’m average height and maybe five or ten pounds over average. She has amazingly green eyes to go with that dyed-red hair. My brown hair and brown eyes fade in comparison. She’s extraordinary. I’m . . . ordinary.

We part ways at the law office where she works as a paralegal, and I continue another couple of blocks to the skyscraper I have worked in for the past two years. The security guard smiles at my usual greeting but doesn’t say anything as I show my ID and head to the elevators.

My heart skips a beat. He is waiting for the elevator too.

The doors open, and we step inside, just the two of us. This has happened before, and we usually make small talk, the kinds of things co-workers say when they think they have a connection just because they work for the same company.

“Morning.” He nods his head at me as the doors close.

“Good morning.” I search for something to say. Talking about the weather is too mundane. What can you say? It’s July, so it’s hot. And humid. And maybe there’s a chance of an afternoon thunderstorm.

“Casual Friday for your department?”

I look down at my dressy jeans, black high-heeled sandals, and turquoise, black, and white top that Callie insists shows off my best feature, my olive skin. “Yes, it is for us every Friday.”

“Wish it was for us. I’m in meetings all day.”

He’s wearing a navy suit, white shirt, and light blue tie that make his gorgeous blue eyes sparkle.

“Too bad.” I smile, then take a sip of my lukewarm latte. Callie has told me I have a beautiful smile. I don’t think so, but ever since she said that, I find myself smiling a lot more than I used to.

“Yeah, too bad.” He grins, and my heart lurches. He’s looking at me, really looking at me, like maybe he likes what he sees. “The place I worked before had casual dress every day. The past month here has been an adjustment.”

No wonder I hadn’t noticed him before June. He’s new. “What department do you work in?”

“Investments. Pretty interesting.”

High pressure too. I wouldn’t want the responsibility. “I work in accounting.”

The elevator stops on my floor, and I step out, wishing I could stay longer. “Have fun in your meetings,” I say, then want to shake myself. How lame.

He laughs. “Thanks. Have fun crunching those numbers.”

I feel better at his equally lame reply. The door closes, and I head to my cubicle. A few co-workers wave as I go by, but everyone is already focusing on their duties. Casual Friday it may be, but the work is constant, with no let-up. It’s because the company is growing so fast, our manager says, which is good for all of us. Bonuses, pay raises, all sorts of good things will happen if we keep it up.

I sit down and log in to my computer.

“Hi, Hope.”

Derrick is smiling at me. He works in the cubicle across from mine, but we can’t see each other untless one of us stands up.

“Hi, Derrick.”

“TGIF, especially with having Monday off for the fourth.”

I repress a sigh. He always tries to make conversation, but he’s not very good at it. I know Derrick is interested in me. He has never said anything, but a girl can just tell. He’s a nice guy. Good-looking enough, too, with sandy blonde hair and hazel eyes, although he’s a little stockier than I like. Not tall and muscular like the hunk in the elevator. I wish I knew Mr. So-Handsome-He-Could-Be-A-Movie-Star’s name, but he never wears a name tag, at least not when I’d seen him.

“Yeah, a three-day weekend will be nice.” I click on the program I’ll be using for the next hour or so. Derrick is still standing there, like he wants to say something else. “Did you need something, Derrick?”

He blinks. “Do you have any plans for the fourth?”

No, I don’t, but I don’t want to tell him that. I’m a little more than unhappy that my parents and brothers chose this week to go on their annual vacation with my grandparents to Gulf Shores. Too far to be worth my while to take the time to drive and too expensive to fly. Besides, my own vacation is in two weeks. Callie and I are flying to New York. I have scrimped and saved for a year to be able to go.

“Nothing special,” I hedge. “Just the usual. What about you?”

“The usual.” He hesitates. “A day at the lake water skiing. Want to go along? About seven or eight of us in three boats. We eat at a restaurant on the lake, watch the fireworks at dusk, then head home. Interested?”

It’s my turn to hesitate. Usually I spend the fourth at home with my family, so I had lied to Derrick, which makes me feel bad. This year, though, the fourth will be nothing more than sleeping in and spending the day alone. Callie is going to her dad’s. She invited me to go, but I turned her down. Her dad creeps me out. Fifty and shacking up with a thirty-year-old. No doubt she’s in it for the money, but the visual images that their relationship brings to my mind. . . yuck.

I am tempted to say “yes.”  I love to water ski, and a holiday alone is not appealing. I hear myself saying, “Sounds like fun.”

I regret the words as soon as they slip out, but it’s too late. Derrick’s eyes light up. “Great. Want me to pick you up or meet you somewhere?”

I don’t want him to know where I live. “Can we meet up at the riverfront park?”

“Sure, how about nine? I’ll be in a white Dodge Ram.”

I should have known he drives a truck. He has “country boy” written all over him. I bet he really knows his way around a Bass Pro Shop.

“Looking forward to it,” I lie. I know lying is wrong, but I think lies that keep from hurting other people are okay, so I don’t feel guilty. Unless my agreeing to go to the lake is leading him on. A guilt attack hits.

I shove the guilt aside and go through my workday. When I leave at four-thirty, I don’t see Mr. Good Looks anywhere. It’s just as well. Seeing him would make me regret Monday even more.

Saturday and Sunday pass too fast, although I don’t do anything special. I can’t wait for Monday to be over, and I spend half my time trying to come up with an excuse to back out. Why, oh, why did I accept?

Sunday night I get over my anger with my parents enough to call Mom. She had texted me when they got to Gulf Shores and told me it was raining. I hope it rains there all week.

“Hi, hon, how has your weekend been?” Mom always sounds so cheerful. Despite myself, my spirits lift at the sound of her voice.

“Okay. Did my morning run yesterday, some window-shopping at the boutiques in midtown, and treated myself to pizza last night. Today I’ve been lazy, watching a movie right now.” It’s one of my favorites, when a big-city girl goes to a small town to take care of her grandmother who is recovering from hip replacement, and the girl falls in love with a guy who owns a bed and breakfast. Of course, she decides to leave the big city and run the B&B with him. Callie says they divorce two years later when she is bored out of her mind and ready to go back to the city. I prefer to think they have a kid on the way. 

“What about Callie?”

“Remember, Mom, she’s at her dad’s.” Mom never retains what I tell her.

“Oh, that’s right. Are you lonely?” She’s worried, I can tell. Good, she should feel bad for leaving me in the lurch on a holiday weekend.

“A little. But I’m handling it.” I put just the right amount of bravado in my voice.

A pause. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, it has rained every day since we’ve been here.”

I grin. Yep, I do feel better.

“I’m going to the lake with a co-worker and some of his friends tomorrow.”  Oh, no, I said the word “his.” Now she knows it’s sort of a date.

“Oh, that’s good!” She’s almost gushing, and I frown. Her guilt hasn’t lasted nearly long enough. “Who’s the guy?”

“Derrick . . .” I don’t even know his last name. “He works in the cubicle across from mine.”

“So, what’s he like?”

“He’s okay. Mom, don’t get your hopes up. I’m not interested in him. It’s just something to do.”

“Well, have you met anyone you are interested in?”

Before I know it, I’m telling her about the elevator guy. “There’s just something about him. I’ve never been attracted to anyone like I am to him. I guess it’s how you must have felt about Dad.”

Mom is quiet for a moment. Then she laughs. “Hope, what makes you think it was love at first sight for your dad and me?”

I frown. “Well, Dad always says he knew right away.”

“Maybe he did, but I didn’t.” Mom is still chuckling. “He pursued me, Hope. I was interested in Ben Chambers, a boy I dated for about six months. When we broke up, I was heartbroken and wasn’t interested in dating anyone else for a very long time. Your dad had a crush on me for at least a year before he got up the nerve to ask me out.”

This is the first time I’ve heard this. My mom dated someone else besides my dad? Not only that, she had really cared for someone else? Makes sense, but I still don’t like it. Dad probably had a girlfriend before Mom, too, now that I think of it. After all, they were in their early twenties when they married.

“You never told me this. So how long did it take before you knew that Dad was the one?”

“Several months. I liked your dad, liked him a lot, but it wasn’t right away.” She pauses. “Be careful, Hope. Don’t shut out the possibilities. I fell in love with your father for many reasons, but maybe the most important reason of all was because he loved me and treated me well. He’s solid. That’s what I want for you. Someone who will love you and treat you like a queen, someone who will stand by you. That’s true love, Hope. Not what you see in those Hallmark movies.”

My head is spinning. “But I want that kind of love.”

“You will have it. Believe me, I wouldn’t have married your father if I hadn’t felt that way. But it takes time. It doesn’t have to be love at first sight.”

It doesn’t have to be love at first sight, I remind myself the next evening when Derrick drives me home. I’m exhausted, but in a good way. Derrick’s friends were a lot of fun, and I spent hours on skis. I probably won’t be able to walk tomorrow, I’ll be sore, but it was worth it.

But now the day is over, and I know Derrick thinks we’ve been on a real date. That means he might be expecting something, at least a good-night kiss. Me, I’m not feeling it.

He pulls into a parking space and turns to face me. “Well, here we are. I had a great time today.”

“Me too.” That’s true. I’d had a great time, but I would have had just as good a time with Callie or my brothers. “Thanks for inviting me.”

He has a strange look on his face. I can tell he doesn’t know what to do, so I decide to help him out. I reach for the door handle. “See you at work tomorrow.”

Before he has time to get out and open the door for me like he’d done earlier, I hop out.

“Yeah, see you tomorrow.” I can see the disappointment on his face, and I feel like a heel. But wouldn’t it be worse to make him think I’m interested?

I get in my car and make the short drive to my apartment. I want to slap myself. Why can’t I be attracted to him? He’s a nice guy, seemingly solid, like Mom said. Not like Mr. Wonderful, but maybe Mr. Wonderful is not so wonderful. Not so solid. He might even be engaged or married.

When I get home, my head talk continues. By the time I go to bed, I have convinced myself that I was stupid to shut Derrick out. I need to give it time, get to know him.

I dress carefully for work, my olive skin just a shade darker after my day in the sun. The coral blouse and tan pants look good on me, I must admit. Maybe Derrick will think so. Then again, maybe I don’t care what he thinks.

When I enter the building, no one is in the lobby. I press the “up” button and tap my foot while I wait. What am I going to say to Derrick?

“Good morning.” My tapping stops, and I look to my left. Mr. Gorgeous has arrived.

“Good morning.” I give him my best smile.

He smiles back. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

I laugh as my heart skips a beat. “Or at least introduce ourselves.”

“Good idea.” He extends his hand, and we shake. His warm skin sends shivers up my arm. How is that even possible? “I’m Kyle Patterson.”

“I’m Hope Stone.”

“Nice to meet you.” I like how his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. “How long have you worked here?”

“Almost two years.” The elevator doors open, but we remain standing there as two other employees brush past us. I don’t miss the questioning looks they give us, but I ignore them. The elevator doors close.

He nods. “I thought you looked like a seasoned veteran. Me, I’m just a small-town guy working his first big-city job. Exciting, but I’m still learning the ropes.”

“It’s a good place to work.” I’m at a loss for words, but at the same time, I don’t want the conversation to end.

“What time do you go to lunch?”

I don’t usually eat lunch in the cafeteria on the main floor. My usual lunch is a peanut butter sandwich in my cubicle while I check Facebook and Pintrest. “At twelve-thirty.”

“Want to meet up in the cafeteria? I can go to lunch whenever I want.”

“Sure, sounds good.” It sounds better than good. It sounds great.

He pushes the “up” button, and the doors open immediately. We step inside and make inane small talk. The ride to the fourteenth floor ends too soon. When I step out, he says, “See you in a few hours.”

“See you then.” The morning is going to drag.

Derrick is not in his cubicle, so I’m spared the awkwardness of greeting him, at least for now. The morning goes by faster than I thought it would, and before I know it, it’s time to head downstairs to the cafeteria.

“Where’s Derrick?” I ask Miranda, the receptionist on our floor.

“He got a promotion. Friday was his last day in our department.”

I’m stunned. He hadn’t said a word about it. Heat creeps up my neck. He’s been here less than a year. Our degrees are the same. A promotion already?

Miranda goes on. “You did know he’s Mr. Jensen’s grandson, didn’t you?”

The founder of the company? I shake my head. “I had no idea.”

Miranda sighs. “I’ve been trying to get him to notice me ever since he got here, but no luck.”

I frown. “He told me he was from a small town.”

“He is. His parents divorced, he was raised by his mother.”

Miranda sure knows a lot about Derrick.

My thoughts are spinning as I make my way to the cafeteria. I’m a fool. I had a nice guy and heir-apparent to a multi-million-dollar business interested in me, and I had shut him out because of a schoolgirl crush on a guy I know nothing about.

  Kyle is waiting for me, his coat unbuttoned, standing with one hand in his pocket, looking like a manly version of a catalog model. Much more manly. My knees turn to rubber as warmth spreads all over my body. He gives me a lopsided grin, and all thoughts of Derrick flee.

Callie’s warnings to be careful with my emotions are screaming in my head, but I don’t care. No doubt in my mind, this is love at first sight.

Then I see another guy standing next to Kyle. I keep my smile plastered on my face.

“This is my cousin Lucas. He works in the building next door.”

I’m confused, but I nod and say something appropriate.

“Kyle has been telling me about you,” Lucas says. “I’m an accountant too.”

I stare at him and then at Kyle, who has headed toward the food line. So, that’s what this is. A set-up. Kyle’s not interested in me. He thinks I’m a good match for his not-nearly-as-good-looking-and-much-shorter cousin.

“Oh.” I can’t help it. My smile fades. I’m crushed. Lucas clears his throat and looks away. I pull myself out of my heartache enough to feel a little bad for him.  “So where did you go to school?”

He looks encouraged, but I know there’s no future here. Lunch is going to be awkward.

I think I’ll text Derrick later. I really should congratulate him on his promotion. Tell him I miss him being in the cubicle across from me. Thank him again for a great time yesterday.

I can see it all now. Small-town girl dates heir to a fortune. She’s hard to get at first, but he wins her heart. They marry and live a good life.

Sounds like a Hallmark movie.

What Drivers Need to Know about the White Cane Law

by Pam Harris, "blind" writer

Did you know if you violate this law you could end up with a fine, in jail, or even worse?

October is Blindness Awareness Month, and October 15 is White Cane Safety Awareness Day. All 50 states have some form of White Cane Law, but the information I share is specific to Tennessee. What follows is an article I wrote for the local newspaper in my ongoing commitment to educate the public and the visually impaired about issues related to vision loss.

What Drivers Need to Know about The White Cane Law

Maybe you’ve seen me walking downtown and wondered why I’m using a white cane with a red section at the bottom. After all, I don’t appear to be blind. I walk quickly and seem to move along without too much assistance from the cane. But there’s a reason I use it.

And maybe you’ve been one of the few drivers to stop for me when I’m waiting to cross the street. If so, you were obeying the law. If not, you were breaking it.

October is Blindness Awareness Month, with October 15 being National White Cane Safety  Day, and while you may think blindness has nothing to do with you, it does if you drive. As a matter of fact, deafness is another factor to consider. The White Cane Law (55-8-180) was passed in Tennessee to protect blind or visually impaired pedestrians. The Driver’s Manual explains it as follows: When a blind or visually impaired pedestrian using a guide dog or carrying a cane, which is white in color or white with red tip, or a hearing impaired person with a dog on a blaze orange leash is crossing any portion of the roadway, even if not at an intersection or a crosswalk, take special precautions as may be necessary to avoid accident or injury to the pedestrian. Stop at least 10 feet away until the person is off the roadway. Do not use your horn, as it could startle the blind pedestrian.

Notice the terminology used is “blind or visually impaired.” Only ten to 15 percent of people considered to be blind have no light perception at all. The other 85 to 90 percent have some light perception and often some functional vision. I fall in that category.

When I became legally blind over five years ago due to a rare condition similar to age-related macular degeneration, I began searching for ways to live a life as independent and normal as possible. The inability to drive meant I was confined to my home or neighborhood while my husband was at work, and for an otherwise healthy, active, and sociable person like me, that was not acceptable. While friends often offered rides to events and offered to take me to stores, I hated asking them to do so and limited myself to accepting rides if they were going anyway. I did not want anyone making a special trip for me, and there was no way I was going to text someone and ask them to take me somewhere. The Northwest Tennessee Transportation service was an option I used occasionally, but you had to schedule your trips at least a week in advance, and because of the driver shortage, I was limited on what days of the week I could use the service for personal reasons.

I received technology training and cane training from The STAR Center in Jackson, and that meant when the weather was all right to do so, I could walk downtown and go to the library, restaurants, the bank, and shops.

But the white cane with the red tip that I use as an identification cane is not always the magic wand that stops traffic. More often than not, cars do not stop for me at crosswalks, and I am limited in where I can walk as I fear crossing University Street because I have no idea if the sign across the way says it’s safe to cross. It’s possible there is a way to have it announced to me, but even so, I’m not comfortable crossing heavily traveled roadways.

I can see cars when they’re about ten yards away from me, but because they are traveling faster than someone walking, they reach where I am standing in seconds. I listen for cars and can tell if they’re leaving or approaching. I can tell when they’ve stopped. At that point, I’m brave enough to step into the crosswalk and cross the street.

An acquaintance of mine in the VIP (visually impaired persons) community lives in near Nashville, Tennessee. She attended a week-long residential program to learn how to walk using a cane with confidence in a city setting. When she returned, she was excited about her new skill and was anxious to show her husband what she had learned. But when they began to cross a busy four-lane, a vehicle turning left almost hit her.

The ironic part of this? It was a police officer.

Her confidence shattered, she called the police chief and told him what happened. He addressed the issue immediately by implementing training with his staff regarding the law.

Failing to stop for a pedestrian as described above is a Class C Misdemeanor, and drivers may be fined or even put in jail, depending on the seriousness of the violation.

It’s possible I’m the only person in our town using the white cane, and it may be no one in our town uses a guide dog. It may be that others who are hearing impaired or visually impaired have no desire to venture out on their own. But I have a feeling there are other independent, active types like me who want to live as normal a life as possible without fear of being hit by a vehicle.

So, the next time you see someone with a white cane, a guide dog, or a dog with a blaze orange leash waiting to cross the street, stop. Not only is it the law, it’s the respectful thing to do.

Why I like people as well as mankind

by Pam Harris, "blind" writer

In the movie Brown vs. The Board of Education, there is a great line. One of the fighters for integration tells Sidney Poitier’s character about one of the others involved, “He’s a great lover of mankind. It’s people he can’t stand.” Now that’s an oxymoron or paradox whichever way you’d describe it.

Me, I love people. This friend in the photo who did the St. Jude Walk with me in September also loves people. I know because I see what she does. She doesn’t have to tell me. I see it in her generous giving of her time, in the way she takes care of those going through struggles (health and emotional), the way she is always ready to give a helping hand. She has always done this but even more so since losing her husband a little over four years ago. Her grief continues, but she doesn’t allow it to make her withdraw from the world. She’s too outgoing to do that, and she’s too concerned about others.

I’m one of those people she has helped and continues to help. But that’s the subject of another blog.

I had one sibling, a brother nine years older than I was, and in a way, it’s as though our parents raised two only children. By the time I was seven, he was sixteen and working part-time jobs and doing things with is friends when he wasn’t in school. I was the pesky little sister who invaded his room at times or did annoying things. When I was about 17, we developed a close friendship, but it wasn’t the same as if I’d had a sibling closer in age.

When we moved to a town in Middle Tennessee (people from Tennessee understand why I capitalized those two words, don’t think it’s grammatically incorrect), I was almost 12, and we moved to a neighborhood with no kids. Everyone on our street and nearby streets were older with no children living at home. That was a first for me. I’d always had neighborhood friends. Those were lonely years for me. Every now and then a friend came over or I went to a friend’s house, but most days were lonely ones. We lived a couple of blocks from the library, and during the summer months, I walked to the library, checked out five or six books, took them home and read them, and then three days later walked back to the library. You get the picture.

When we moved to a newer neighborhood when I was 15, I had a few friends within walking distance, but the game-changer then was…I got a telephone in my bedroom! How exciting! And when I got my license as soon as I turned 16, the world opened up.

I loved school for the most part. Why? Because I was with other people my age. I was in clubs like the Drama Club, Interact, and more. I was on the yearbook staff. I went to every home football and basketball game even though I didn’t care about sports. Sure, I cheered for our team and found it exciting, but I was there for the social interaction.

College meant dorm life, and I loved living in the dorm. I really did. I loved having friends around me most of the time, and if I mention this dorm and someone who was there reads this, they’ll understand–Ellington Hall. The best!

When I graduated from college and went to work at a local bank, my co-workers were near my age but married. I was single. My roommate had a steady boyfriend who took up all her free time, so, just like those early years in Middle Tennessee, I was bored and lonely when not at work. I looked forward to Mondays and hated the weekends.

Don’t get me wrong. There were and are times I needed alone time. When I was in high school and busy with classes and clubs, there were Saturdays I just wanted to stay at home and do my own thing. When I was teaching and surrounded by hundreds of people every day, there were times I longed to be in a log cabin in the woods, with just my family, to get away from the busyness of life. I used to call those times suffering from “people pollution.”

But, for the most part, I need to be around people almost every day. If I go many days staying at home, even if I talk on the phone to friends and even though my husband is around, I go into a semi-depressed state. Well, maybe depressed is the wrong word. But the days seem so long.

Before you think I should just get out and go on those days, remember: I can’t drive. That is the worst part of losing sight. Once again, that’s a topic for another blog.

I have several friends enduring the hardship and grief of widowhood. I have friends who have lost children. I have friends who are dealing with incurable health conditions. Some deal with their struggles by being with other people. Some withdraw.
Some are open about their loss and reach out to others going through a similar struggle while others remain private.

We’re all different.

I have wished many times I wasn’t as sociable as I am. I have wished and even prayed about being better at being at home most of the time. My mom loved being at home and never wanted her life scheduled in any way except for going to church. I couldn’t get her to go to the senior citizens’ center. She had no interest. Oh, she did love working part-time at Walmart in the fabrics and crafts section. And she was sociable when it came to call ing people on the phone and chatting. She never understood why I wanted to be on the go so much, and I guess I don’t understand it myself.

Yet I do. I honestly like most people. I can count on one hand the number of people I dislike. And I am a great lover of mankind. I want the world to be a better place. I want people to be the best they can be, to live in the best they can for their situation, and I wish all the political division would go away. Fight for what we believe in, but do it in the right away and always with love in our hearts for others. Christians and members of some other religions know what I’m talking about. That, too, is a topic for another blog.

But that same passion makes me struggle with the life I am now living. I am involved in several civic groups and church groups, all of which meet the first two weeks of the month beginning in the fall and continuing through spring. And I know myself. I know during those two weeks my mental state will be good, and I’ll even appreciate my time at home after being involved with those things. But I also know myself well enough to know the last half of each month and the summer months will bring back the restlessness.

I recognize it’s just who I am. I’ve tried to change me, and maybe I will succeed as time goes on. I’m a work in progress. I am blessed with good health, and I know if I were not in good health, I would be fine with being at home most hours of each week. So I don’t want to lose my health just to change my attitude. I had Covid a few weeks ago, and I texted my best friend from my growing up years: “The bad news is I have Covid. The good news is I’m not bored just being around the house.”

The bottom line is each one of us is unique. I often say I’m weird. After all, I am the one who can live without chocolate just fine and am not a huge fan of pizza or hamburgers.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I am blessed beyond measure. I have my wonderful husband and my children, daughters-in-law, and grandchildren, even though my children and their families do not live in the same town so I can see them regularly, and I have all the physical blessings (health, home, etc.) we all want. I know this sounds like I’m complaining. I’m not. I’m just explaining why I feel as I do at times.

My favorite movie is The Sound of Music. I loved it when it came out, and I still love it today. Maybe it’s because of the music. Maybe because of the beautiful scenery. Maybe it’s because of the story.

But I have a feeling it has a lot to do with that nine-year-old girl watching a family with so many children and wishing she had siblings close to her age and the adult she became wishing for the same thing.

Silver Sneakers–wow, I’m in that age group??!!

by Pam Harris, "blind" writer

The black and white photo–proof I’m definitely in that age group. Current photos are additional proof!

I accept it while still in wonder about it at times. Because I feel great and am in excellent health (as far as I know, so far), I don’t feel like I’m in that age group. My husband’s aunt, who looks probably 20 years younger than she is, often says age is just a number. That’s true in a way. Your mental attitude, your physical health, and even your hobbies and interests reflect your age more than the calendar.

You know what I mean. Some people’s lifestyles and/or genetic health issues make them age more quickly than the 96-year-old woman in one of my civic groups who still drives and is involved in civic activities. Some people seem to thrive on getting older. My mom seemed to delight in getting older. She lived to be almost 94, but never complained about getting older. She laughed about it at times, and honestly, I think she thrived on being treated like she was elderly. You know what I mean if you’ve reached a certain age. It’s when those younger folks talk to you as though you’re not quite with it. When the nurse calls you “hon.” Or, as our preacher said once, if you fall as a young person, people laugh. If you fall as an older person, people rush to help you.

In Mom’s later years, I went to all her doctor appointments with her, and doctors tended to talk to me about her condition even though she was sitting right there. That would have bothered me, but Mom didn’t mind at all. She wasn’t the independent type and was only too happy for me to handle…everything.

One day a friend and I were at a local sandwich shop (we have several good ones in town), and the young man told me, “Your total after the senior citizen discount is–.” I laughed and told my friend, “I don’t know whether to thank him for the discount or be offended he could tell I qualify just by looking at me.” The young man had been friendly and talkative, and I think he could tell I was just kidding around with him and wasn’t truly offended. He just grinned and said, “I like to give discounts.” I reassured him it was fine, and I appreciated the discount.

Still, it did sting a bit!

I joined the wellness center last month, and I participate in a couple of the Silver Sneakers classes. The classes have anywhere from 35 to 40 people participating. The thing is, we’re all considered senior citizens, but the calendar ages range from the early sixties to up in the eighties. The ability levels are all over the place. Yesterday’s class was focused on balance, something we all need, I think. Today it will be aerobics centered, and it’s one of those classes you can get the heart rate up or not, depending on how much you put into it. LT does a great job of leading us. She recognizes the ability levels are as varied as the women and men (yes, we have some men) in the class, but thank goodness she doesn’t push us the way our P.E. teachers did in school.

My worst grades were in P.E., which is no surprise to my family. And, oh, those horrible one-piece blue jumper shorts with the snaps we had to wear in high school…when I was a junior, I became a member of the yearbook staff just so I could get out of taking P.E. In college, I was thrilled to discover I could take those classes pass/fail. But hey, I did make an “A” in bowling and and “A” in tennis skills. But I was stupid enough to take a class called “Figure Control and Conditioning.” My professor at the time is now in our retired teachers group, and I love to tell her she was trying to kill us in that class!

Don’ get me wrong. I have always liked being active. Just not in the structure P.E. class setting where I felt too tall and awkward.

I guess the whole point of this blog is that aging is real, and how we adapt to it depends on our personalities and our circumstances. In our youth-adoring culture, we don’t want to think about it and resist the thought of it. Older people are not honored in the same way they are honored in some other cultures. We are encouraged to have cosmetic procedures and use serums and lotions to remain as youthful looking as possible for as long as we can. The more tech-savvy generations view us as inept if our skills with technology are not what they think they should be. Sometimes our adult children think we’re not as capable as we actually are.

However, conversations in our age group are funny these days. Discussions about medicine, colonoscopies, arthritis…if you sit back and just listen, it’s hilarious in a way. Yes, we are in that season of life in which Medicare Part D is something to evaluate every year, yet my husband and several of his pickle ball player companions can hold their own playing against much younger men who join their group from time to time. We’re older, but we’re not finished with living.

I have a feeling my husband could hold out longer on the pickle ball court than many younger people, and there’s no doubt I can out-walk most of them due to a lifelong walking habit and the blessing of not having arthritis or back trouble. But I also recognize it might not be a good idea for me to roller skate, something I used to love, or take up jogging since that would hurt my knees.

Yes, I’m in that age group. But as my husband’s aunt says, my calendar age doesn’t define me. I can know my limits without imposing restrictions that aren’t needed. I can treat others with kindness, no matter how they treat me. I can find enjoyment in new activities, and I can listen and learn from younger generations while hoping they can learn from me.

And, yes, I can get that senior citizen discount. Why not?

When life robs you of what you love to do and an unusual but delicious chicken enchilada recipe

by Pam Harris, "blind" writer

Oh, my, here I go with another Elvis theme, but I didn’t want to share my sketches or bad paintings, so here it is. I started this project in 2006 when my sister-in-law and I visited the quilt museum in Paducah, Kentucky. The quilts there were true works of art, and one of the winners was a Beatles quilt. She gave me the idea of making an Elvis quilt, so that’s how it began. As time went on, I got lazy and just bought some fabric withElvis to fill in the squares. I did not do the actual quilting–I just drew the patterns and pieced the quilt together and paid someone else to do the quilting.

It is not a work of art, but it was fun, and if you know anything about Elvis, you will recognize the symbolism in the squares. The gold records, the teddy bear, the Bible (the black book), and so on.

People who enjoy arts and crafts have a need to create. They see the world differently, and probably they are people who feel deeply and who contemplate life a little differently. They (we) get craft ideas from the most random places. Anything–even a blade of grass–can generate an idea.

Just as sports fans are the competitive types who thrive on watching game after game after game and never seem to tire of it, we artsy folks either stick with a particular creative outlet or jump on the trend bandwagons to try. new things.

Me, it all started with coloring and sketching at a very young age. I used to draw, color, and cut out my own paper dolls. I created my own comic books and magazines. Then, at the age of ten, I began to learn to sew, using Mom’s old treadle sewing machine. One of my favorite classes in high school was home ec, and the sewing continued as well as learning how to cook, another skill Mom taught me at a young age.

The college years brought cross-stitch and macramé into my life. I made things for myself and others, and Mom loved the purses and towel rods I gave her. A cake decorating class (thank you, Nancy, for telling me about that and doing that with me) taught me skills I still know today. The sketching continued and expanded to oil painting, acrylics, and even watercolors.

Vision loss has robbed me of the ability to sew, do cross-stitch, even sketch like I’d like to do. But I’ve discovered the round looms on which to make toboggans (caps), so I do that. I do abstract water colors, fit only for me to see because they’re not good, although my precious granddaughters seem to think my Nemo water colors are pretty cool. The innocence of childhood, right?

When I was teaching Spanish, I taught the students to made god’s eyes, using dowel rods and yarn, and it hit me yesterday that I could do that despite my vision issues, so I went on the Walmart website and ordered the 8-inch dowel rod pack. I don’t know what I’ll do with them when I finish them, but the process will be fun.

My point in all this? Sometimes life robs you of things you enjoy, and you have to search for ways to continue. We’ve all heard about Beethoven’s hearing loss and how he composed masterful pieces, but most of us are not a genius in what we do. But that doesn’t mean we can’t explore other ways to enjoy what we love.

Sure, I’d love to be able to sew again. I’d love to be able to sketch as I used to do. That was and is my first love. Sure, it makes me wistful and even teary at times. But I keep doing what I can while I can. If there’s anything vision loss has taught me, it is that you can never count on the future. All you can do is count on today.

But, hey, even totally blind people can read this blog? How? There are accessibility features on phones and computers that read things aloud to them. Even totally blind people can cook. Really! Just watch some videos sometime. And the recipe I’m about to share–well, even if you think you can’t cook, you can do this!

Chicken Enchiladas (from my husband’s aunt Martha)

5 to 6 chicken breasts

One 8 oz. block cream cheese, softened

One small onion, chopped

One can green chiles

6 or 7 soft flour tortillas, taco or fajita size

1/4 stick butter

16 oz. whipping cream

8 to 10 oz. shredded sharp cheddar cheese

Instructions:

Boil chicken until tender, probably 15 minutes. Drain and allow to cool.

Sauté onion in butter (I’m sure this could be optional, you could leave out the onion if you wanted) and add onion and green chiles to softened cream cheese. Mix well. I use a hand mixer for this step, but if the cream cheese is soft enough, you could use just a spoon. Shred chicken and add to mixture. Fill each tortilla with the mixture, fold, and place fold size down in a sprayed 9 x 13 glass dish. Pour whipping cream to cover well. Top with shredded cheese and bake in pre-heated oven at 350 for 30 minutes.

The Pickle Ball craze and a buttermilk pie recipe

by Pam Harris, "blind" writer

Mention “kitchen” to people these days, and their thoughts may not go to that room in your house where food is prepared. Instead, they might envision the area in front of the net of a pickle ball court.

That’s right. The kitchen is part of a pickle ball court. I have no idea why.

Nor do I have any idea why it has taken so many years for this game to catch on. After all, three men in Washington (state) invented it way back in 1965. I never heard of it until recent years, and chances are, you hadn’t either.

But to say it is all the rage now is an understatement. My husband loves it. He wasn’t that interested when, a few months into his retirement, a friend invited him to play with a local group. The first outing was enjoyable, but he had to learn the aspects of the game. As time went on, he became passionate about it.

Apparently, he’s not alone. According to the Internet (and who doubts the Internet?), approximately 20 million people in the U.S. currently play pickle ball. My husband and his ever-expanding group of Monday-Wednesday-Friday morning players number around 20 total players although game-day participants are usually less. Most play one or two days a week. He plays three. Go by those courts at night, and they’re crowded with younger players.

You can buy a cheap paddle at Walmart (not recommended if you want to get really good) or go online or to Dick’s to purchase the paddle that will give you the ability to hit the ball most effectively. And while you’re at it, you might want to consider some safety eyewear. Those balls come in pretty hard and fast.

It’s great exercise, no doubt. It’s also a great way to get injured if you’re not careful. Wear the right shoes. Be smart. If you’re 65, you probably don’t need to make a flying dive to hit a ball just to score a point.

You competitive types know what I’m talking about. You tend to lose common sense in the heat of battle. Me, I’m not competitive at all with others. I’m just competitive with myself.

We were in the Philadelphia airport on July 5, and a family sitting near us struck up a conversation. When the wife found out my husband played pickle ball, she told her husband, and he immediately went to my husband’s side and started talking about the game, including showing him videos of equipment and more. They were from California and at least 15 years younger, but that pickle ball connection was like a fraternity or sorority kinship.

I played tennis in high school and college, and I loved racquetball when it was experiencing its own craze. Both seem much less popular, and I have no doubt pickle ball will eventually lose some of its momentum. But for now, it’s all the rage. Go on YouTube and look at all the instructional videos, the competitions (I think even former tennis players like Andre Agassi?), the tournaments, explanations of scoring, and more. It’s all there. But, of course, everything is on YouTube. What did we ever do without it?

To all you pickle ball players, I’m glad you are doing something active instead of playing video games or being couch potatoes watching one streaming show after another. I’m glad you retirees have discovered a cheaper, less frustrating alternative to golf, and likely better cardio exercise unless you walk the course, which I doubt anyone does.

As I said, I believe something will replace it someday. Until then, enjoy. And burn lots of calories to offset the calories in this easy-to-make buttermilk pie!

Buttermilk Pie (this came from my husband’s grandmother’s recipe collection, but I think it is now on All Recipes)

1 1/2 cups sugar

1 cup buttermilk

3 eggs

1/2 cup Bisquick

1/3 cup melted butter

1 teaspoon vanilla flavoring

Grease or spray pie pan. Mix all ingredients and pour into prepared pan. Bake in preheated oven at 350 for 30 to 35 minutes or until knife inserted comes out clean.

Newspapers and magazines…are they going away?

by Pam Harris, "blind" writer

Mom kept any sort of newspaper clipping that mentioned anyone in the family by name or in a photo. Honor roll lists, a fuzzy image in a crowd, you name it. This clipping is from my school newspaper when a fellow student interviewed me following our return from a trip that involved a bomb threat on our plane. Yes, we had to make an emergency landing. No, no one was hurt. Yes, it was a little scary when the pilot announced what was going on, but at 15, I was more interested in the cute soldiers on board.

Don’t judge me.

I have boxes of clippings, and I can’t bear to part with them. They represent events that were important in our lives. Yes, they’re faded, and I can no longer read them. But they’re a tangible moment of the lives we’ve lived.

What will the younger generation have? Will they be able to open a box and find articles and photos of over 50 years ago, or will they have to find it on the Internet ? Maybe they can bookmark it? Will Facebook and Instagram exist 50 years from now? No one knows, and I won’t be alive to find out.

But I wonder.

With the digital and social media age, newspaper and magazine circulation have dropped. I often say my dad, a newspaperman to the core, would be turning over in his grave if he could see what is happening to his beloved industry. And magazines…oh, how I loved magazines. Tiger Beat, 16, and Seventeen eventually gave way to Glamour, Good housekeeping, Prevention, and Southern Living, in that order. You could see the progression of my maturing and age simply by looking at the magazines I was reading.

I loved the articles. I loved the photos. I even found the ads interesting.

Yesterday I had a dental appointment, and the small waiting room had something missing, something that was always in a doctor’s waiting room. Magazines. Not one magazine on the tables. No magazine rack.

And why should there be? People don’t read magazines. They scroll their phones. A lot. (Allow me to vent for a moment. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be unable to scroll your phone because of vision issues and surrounded by people who are scrolling theirs, sharing with each other photos they see, talking about what’s on their screens while I sit and twiddle my thumbs? Or when I’m talking to someone in the room and they pause before answering, and I realize they were reading their phone and didn’t hear me clearly? Okay, I feel better. Vent done.)

The world is changing quickly. Technology is improving our lives in some ways and making it worse in others. Newspapers still exist, and many places have digital archives of older newspapers, which is great. But what will it be like if and when newspapers disappear completely?

Something, I’m sure, will take their place, and the people living in that world will accept it without question. I’m sure I’m just being one of those older people who lament what used to be and talk about the “good old days,” which sometimes weren’t that good. Life with dishwashers and microwaves is definitely easier.

I have never forgotten the details of our “bomb threat” flight because of two newspapers–my school newspaper and the local newspaper. The facts are there, so I don’t have to rely on my memory. What was once news is now my story. My history. It’s a segment of my life.

I know digital is better for the environment. I know it is less costly to produce. I know the quality of print and photos is better.

But just for today, I want to recognize the value of newspapers. They have captured and continue to capture events in their local communities. They give room for opinions to be expressed (I know Facebook has plenty of that), they run ads that let us know what sales are going on or what services are offered, and they keep us informed in a variety of ways. They continue to serve a purpose.

So to those of you still working in the newspaper industry and trying to keep your publication alive, thank you. Thank you for your reporting on things that may be boring to you but interesting to someone else. Thank you for going to that high school or middle school game, taking the photos, and writing about it. Thank you for printing announcements, obituaries, and property transfers (ha, ha–not sure about thanking your for the sheriff’s report or police report. I always feel sorry for the family members.) Thank you for producing a quality publication on a limited budget. And…thanks for the memories.

Cursive writing–important or not? Plus a fresh apple cake recipe perfect for fall

by Pam Harris, "blind" writer

I once heard a man about my age say that the United States was dumbing down education because cursive writing is no longer taught.

You may agree. I don’t.

(Photo explanation to those of you new to my blog. I am visually impaired and cannot see to do things like people with sight, so I use devices. The device I use to write things like I the above picture is a CCTV.)

Cursive writing evolved over many years and became popular to use because the letters were connected, meaning the writer didn’t have to lift the pen from the page except between words. It became common in the 17th century, but in modern times, it is no longer taught in many schools.

Why? Well, other than being able to read someone else’s cursive writing, there’s no need anymore. Sure, we think we need it for our signatures, but not really. Our printed signature can work just as well. And yes, someone will have to learn it to ensure a future of scholars who can read and interpret documents written in cursive. Kind of like us relying on people who know Hebrew and Greek to translate the Bible or people who know Latin to translate ancient documents written in the language. They study it and interpret it for us. I took Latin for two years in high school and remember very little, but at the time our school’s Latin Club was more fun than the Modern Foreign Language Club, so naturally I took Latin. And at the time I was considering entering the medical field, specifically nursing.

My point? People in medicine and the legal fields benefit from knowing Latin as it is the foundation for many terms in those areas. But the average person manages life just fine without it.

That’s the same with cursive writing. It had its use at one time, but it’s no longer needed. When living in a world where you can speak the words and a computer types them for you and in a world in which forms are often e-mailed for e-signatures, it’s just not necessary.

Maybe you’re reading this and disagreeing with me. That’s your right, and I respect that. But you know…I never learned to use an abacus. I never learned to spin yarn on a spinning wheel or make homemade soap or use a loom to weave fabric. There are people who know how to do those things, but machinery has replaced the human worker, whether we like it or not. Machinery is faster and more efficient. The human touch is more special and valued because of its rarity.

If there is anything in modern education that concerns me, it’s the fact students are not required to memorize math facts. Ask any eighth grader to subtract 25 from 105 mentally, and it’s likely they can’t do it. They’ve depended on calculators too long. That bothers me, but then I ask myself, why? If machines do it for them or charts are available to look things up, why does it bother me? I try to think logically about this, but I’ll admit I’m still bothered by it. I guess I’m showing my age and preconceived notions in this case.

And just as there are fewer people learning or knowing cursive writing, there are fewer people cooking and baking. But for those of you who still enjoy cooking your own food, here’s one of Mom’s recipes that is a family favorite. The best part is the cake doesn’t dry out.

Fresh Apple Cake

1 1/2 cups oil (I didn’t say this was a light dish)

2 cups sugar (I didn’t say it was low calorie)

2 eggs

1 tablespoon vanilla flavoring

2 1/2 cups self-rising flour

3 cups peeled and chopped apples (I use Granny Smith)

1 cup chopped pecans (optional)

Preheat oven to 350. Mix all ingredients with a large spoon. Press into 9 x 13 casserole dish, top with pecans (optional), and bake one hour.

Icing:

Mix 1 cup milk (whole or 2%) and 2 cups powdered sugar. Pour over cake while cake is still warm. I usually heat the milk and sugar to dissolve lumps and pour over cake so it is more of a glaze than an icing.

Why do we enjoy the things we do? Plus a homemade bread recipe

by Pam Harris, "blind" writer

This is an old picture of our oldest granddaughter, but I just thought it was too cute not to share. It always makes me smile.

It has been fun watching her grow and change, and it’s even more interesting to see the ways she and her younger sister are alike…and different.

I get it, we’re all different. That’s not what I mean by my question. The question is: what makes us become interested in things? Is it the influence of someone in our lives? Is it because of a book we read, a movie we saw, or some other outside influence?

You’re probably confused by my questions, so maybe some examples would work better.

My husband is a sports FAN. Notice the capital letters. He has always loved to play and/or watch football, basketball, and baseball, and he even watches some soccer games when the World Cup is going on. A little hockey occasionally. His interest in sports is not unusual since many share his passion. But no one else in his family was that way. His parents didn’t watch sports. His older brother didn’t enjoy sports. Yet he, as a very young boy, became enamored with baseball first and then other interests followed.

Why is/was he so different from his family?

I had an artistic interest from a very young age. I spent hours drawing and coloring. As I got older, I loved play-acting. I spearheaded neighborhood plays which I wrote and my friends and I performed for our parents in our living room. From the moment I learned to read, I loved it. My brother was an avid reader, so maybe his influence affected me, but no one else in the family had my artistic bent.

And no one else loved horses like I did. I used to think I loved horses because of the books I read, but I realized I loved horses before I could read. We didn’t own horses. But I was drawn to horses (and still am) the way my husband was drawn to sports.

I love the Kentucky Derby, but I’m learning some things about horse racing that don’t sit well with me. Some aspects are not humane. I won’t go into that now. More research is required.

I could go on and on. The musician born into a family of non-musicians. The doctor whose family members had no interest in science or medicine. You get the idea.

Maybe you don’t think about these things, but I’m a thinker. I’m a questioner. I often want to know “why,” although often there is no firm answer to that.

Our oldest granddaughter has that imaginative, artistic bent, more pronounced than many her age. She loves make-believe and dress-up. I know what you’re thinking. That’s not unusual for a little girl. No, it’s not, but her fascination with songs from a very young age, from being soothed by “Somewhere over the Rainbow” while a very young infant…yes, I believe she has an artsy bent. Her younger sister? Well, if she doesn’t grow up to be a skydiver and a mountain climber and anything else requiring physical skill and a daredevil attitude, I will be amazed.

I sometimes think our interests, like our personalities, are somewhat genetic. Maybe my husband’s great-grandfather had a competitive spirit and was involved with whatever activity was competitive back then. Maybe my great-great-grandmother drew pictures or wrote stories or had a flair for the dramatic. And maybe my love of horses stems from being a descendent in a long line of farmers who loved their service animals as well as relied upon them.

I guess this blog is pointless. I’m writing about something that has no answer, something most people wouldn’t even think about. But for a curious mind like mine, it’s a natural path to follow. It’s okay if I don’t have the answer. It’s just something that intrigues me.

Well, if you’ve made it this far and are bored out of your mind by. now, maybe your interest is piqued by a homemade bread recipe that does not require having to feed a starter! I’ve been making this for so many years, I have it memorized and have long forgotten where I got it. The bread is soft and perfect as an accompaniment to meals or just to eat by itself.

Homemade yeast bread

Ingredients:

2 packages active dry yeast (I use Rapid Rise)

1 cup shortening

1 stick unsalted butter, melted

1/2 cup sugar

1 1/2 teaspoons of salt

2 cups water

2 eggs, beaten with a fork

5 to 6 cups all-purpose or bread flour (I use bread flour usually)

Instructions:

In a large, deep mixing bowl, pour in two packages of yeast. Add sugar and one cup of warm water. Mix with wooden or silicon spoon.

On medium high heat, in a small saucepan bring one cup of water and the salt to a boil. Set off heat and add one cup of shortening, stirring constantly to melt the shortening. Add this mixture to the water, yeast, and sugar mixture in the bowl. Stir and allow to cool for a couple of minutes. Slowly stir in beaten eggs with spoon or whisk until well mixed.

Slowly stir in flour, one cup at a time, being sure to mix well. Once the mixture has reached the consistency that creates a dough ball, stop adding flour. I don’t measure the flour–I usually just “eyeball” it. I like it when the dough ball is moist and no extra flour is visible.

Cover mixture and allow to rise for at least 1 1/2 hours.

Punch down dough and divide into two equal parts. You cn refrigerate one part for several days if desired or make two loaves.

Melt butter in a bowl. Break off pieces of the dough (about the size of a ping-pong ball) and dip in the melted butter. Drop into a bundt pan and repeat until all dough is used, being sure to distribute evenly in the pan. You will have more than one layer.

Cover and allow to rise for at least 1 1/2 hours. Pre-heat oven to 350 and bake for approximately 30 minutes or until toothpick inserted comes out clean.

A variation:

After dipping into melted butter, roll each piece in a cinnamon sugar mixture before dropping into bundt pan.

It’s Elvis Week 2025. Try this Elvis Gooey Butter Cake to celebrate~

by Pam Harris, "blind" writer

It’s hard to believe that 48 years after his death, there are still enough Elvis fans in the world to converge upon Memphis and participate in activities celebrating the life and legacy of Elvis Presley. Elvis Presley Enterprises is, no doubt, a marketing machine that has kept the legend alive for multiple generations.

I’ve never been to Elvis Week, although my youngest son and I did go to Memphis one year to go to the expo where we met June Juanico, Elvis’s Mississippi girlfriend in 1955 or so (not sure of the year), Bill Black’s children (Bill Black was the bass player who played with Elvis on Sun Records), and others connected to the Elvis world.

Elvis fans can do the week in -person or virtually. I’ve never done those either.

To be honest, I’m not the Elvis fan (attic) people think I am. It’s just that because I once was a super Elvis fan, I know a lot about him, so it’s natural for me to talk about him and his life. I have no illusions about the man, and I never wanted to have him as a boyfriend. My family doubts that, but when I was a little girl, I just wanted to be in his circle, maybe have him for a brother.

Not so with celebrity crushes Kurt Russell and Lee Majors. I wanted to grow up and marry them. Well, not Lee Majors. Heath Barkley. If you’re a baby boomer, you know what I mean.

Back to Elvis Week. The reason it’s held annually at this time is because Elvis died on August 16. When the week began, they had multiple events including “talks on Elvis” in which people in Elvis’s circle shared their memories and experiences, an Elvis Tribute Artist contest, and special tours of Graceland. Those things still take place today. In addition, they have constant music by performers singing Elvis songs, special tours (for a mere $500 this year, you could pay to go on a private tour of Graceland headed by former girlfriend Linda Thompson or Elvis’s longtime friend Jerry Schilling), or you could pay to go by bus to Tupelo, Mississippi, to visit Elvis’s childhood home until the age of 13. Since its inception, the week has concluded with a candlelight vigil on August 15 during which hundreds if not thousands of fan hold a candle and walked to the gravesites beside the mansion. In the early days, that vigil took all night. I’m not sure of the attendance these days.

If you’ve never been to Memphis in August, let me warn you: it’s HOT and HUMID. All caps to stress. Keep hydrated if you go there!

You get the idea. Go on YouTube after the week is over and see what fan-made videos you can find. They’re pretty interesting.

Speaking of Lee Majors…he and Elvis were friends (they met while Elvis was making a movie he hated Clambake and Lee was on The Big Valley) and last year he was a guest speaker for the conversations on Elvis. It was pretty interesting, and you can find it on YouTube. Lee, bless his heart, is now 86 years old and not the “Big Valley” hunk he once was, but it’s still interesting, even if you’re not an Elvis fan.

But whether you loved, hated, or felt neutral about Elvis the entertainer/person, you might like this recipe. I found it when going through Mom’s stash of recipes. I’d never made it before yesterday, so it was a true experiment. My husband loves it. If I loved sweets, I’d love it, but I’m not a fan of sweets. A couple of bites is all I can manage. I get nauseated if I eat more than that. I know, I’m weird. I admit it.

Here’s the recipe:

Elvis Gooey Butter Cake

Preheat oven to 350. Spray 9 x 13 glass dish with cooking spray.

Ingredients and instructions for crust:

1 box yellow cake mix

1 stick of butter, softened

1 egg

Mix well with mixer and press into bottom of 9 x 13 glass casserole dish.

Filling (topping) ingredients and instructions.

1 8 oz. block of cream cheese, softened

1 stick of butter, softened

1 teaspoon vanilla flavoring

3 eggs

1/2 cup peanut butter

1 banana

1 box powdered sugar (16 oz.–I used 3 1/2 cups)

Mix cream cheese, butter, vanilla flavoring, and eggs until mixed well to a creamy texture. Add banana (I broke it into pieces before adding) and peanut butter. Mix well. Add powdered sugar, one cup at a time, and mix well between additions.

Using a rubber spatula, spoon over crust and spread evenly. You may need to run water over the spatula or dip it in water to keep mixture from sticking.

Bake at 350 for 45 to 50 minutes or until toothpick inserted in the middle comes out clean.