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NEWSLETTERS
June
'03 GoatNotes
Hello there and Happy June! Happy Father's Day too! I'm keeping up with
my journal entries, and I'll be returning to my monthly newsletters shortly.
For now, here's last years June newsletter. I hope you enjoy it. My office
moved, I moved, the dogs moved, and some of you moved. With July's schedule,
everything here will be caught up in regards to any email changes you've
sent in.
***
The idea of creating a day to honor fathers began in Spokane, Washington,
with a woman named Sonara Dodd, who got the idea while listening to a
Mother's Day sermon in 1909. Sonara wanted a special day to honor
her father, William Smart, a Civil War veteran whose wife had died while
giving birth to their sixth child. William was left to raise the
newborn and his other five children by himself on a rural farm in eastern
Washington state. As Sonara grew, she realized how her dad had made
all sorts of parental sacrifices and was, in her eyes, a courageous, selfless
and loving man. Her father was born in June, so in 1910, on June
19, Sonara chose to hold a Father's Day celebration in Spokane.
Though Calvin Coolidge, as President, pledged his support for a day honoring
fathers in 1924, it wasn't until 1966 that Lyndon Johnson signed a presidential
proclamation declaring the third Sunday in June as Father's Day.
* * *
Thoughts about my Dad ...
James Hendrix (Yes, folks call him Jim. And yes, I guess that makes me
related to Jimi)
I can see my Dad ... watching the Dallas Cowboys. I can see me ... watching
the game with him and sitting on his lap until I was too big and
fell off. I can see us together, sitting on the swing, in the backyard,
watching the frogs and butterflies.
My Dad's quiet but with a sneaky, dry sense of humor. The king
of the limerick. The neighborhood mechanic. He smells like Old Spice.
He's the disciplinarian. Us kids would have to suffer until he got home
from work for our punishment when we fought like wild monkeys.
My Dad likes peanut butter and banana sandwiches with mayonnaise. Orange
"Circus Peanuts" candy. Eating ice cream (HAS to be Bluebell
Homemade Vanilla) out of the carton with a spoon and doing so in a circular
motion until he creates an ice cream ball...in the carton. MY Dad will
share the ice cream spoon.
One summer, dad drove mom and us kids from San Antonio to Birmingham,
Alabama. We stayed with Grandma and Grandpa Hendrix for a few weeks. Us
kids ate all their Little Debbie Cakes, questioned the actions of
a flea-ridden, sex-crazed little poodle (Don't Pet the Dog), fought like
wild monkeys as we swung from their porch, discovered the band "Heart,"
added to the poodle puddles on the carpet with our ice cream stains, watched
my Grandma (with little formal education) do mind-boggling crossword puzzles
and glow with pride every time she looked up at our Dad (usually when
he wasn't looking), and got to know all Dad's kin as well as a gun-toatin',
tall-n-skinny Grandpa named Noah who, unbeknownst to my Dad, introduced
me to what would later become an addiction: my first flea market (the
kind not having to do with the parasite or the poodle). Dad still claimed
us as his own throughout the Alabama adventure.
Dad showed "Skip To My Lou" to me, and those were the first
chords I ever learned on guitar.
Being raised in a military family, I learned your clothes can never have
too much starch. (I didn't know my knees bent until fourth grade). He's
the first man I've ever seen get a sunburn in the shade. He's SENSITIVE
and you'll usually never know you've hurt his feelings. As a deterrent,
he had us kids "try" smoking. I gagged and almost passed
out. I've never been a smoker because of this.
In-grown toenail surgeon. I won't elaborate. It's gross. Why us kids'
toenails were the subject of such parental supervision is still beyond
me (maybe because for a while in fourth grade I bit mine?).
Butterfly surgeon (a little less gross), meaning to use whatever one has
in one's emergency medical kit to duct tape, pin, wrap, or glue body parts
and skin back together. Anytime we got hurt we were butterflied by Dad.
Once as tots, my sister had enough of my attitude so she gave me a shove
in the bathroom and my butt went slicing through the shower glass stall.
I'll never forget my mom: "Jim, she needs stitches" as
I was being "butt-er-flied" back together. Now that I'm older,
I sure wish the butterfly worked on broken hearts.
When we fell down water skiing and Dad was behind the wheel of the boat, for
safety's sake he'd circle the lake to fetch us. Of course...I started
skiing around the time of "Jaws." Oh, and after one
adventure on the lake, we came home and Dad metamorphosed into the King
of the Siphon. He began to teach us his mastered technique. Us kids were
"taught" how to siphon the excess "liquids" out of
the bottom of the boat. "Taught" means growing wise to the method;
I'd hide at the mere mention of it. "Liquids" means anything
from lake water to gasoline, purified Spam, water-logged cheese, chips,
sandwich bits, and dollops of suntan lotion. Talk about a mouthful!
Sundays were for football and church. Dad would often have "indigestion"
during church. We'd get the giggles. Dad would get the giggles. Mom would
get embarrassed. He'd also gather us up and we'd leave church if service
lingered too long. Because nothing interfered with ... the Dallas Cowboys.
My Dad would be asleep in his recliner by halftime. I can see me, on Sunday
afternoons, asleep with him until I outgrew his lap and fell off.
The men in my life are all similar in one aspect or another. They're sensitive
in ways I'm not and in ways I'd never think they would be. They're genuine,
honest, loyal and 100% world-class men.
I've always performed music, breathed music, lived music and worried least
of all about what gender I am. My Dad didn't raise a color or a gender.
He raised a person. And for this I'm thankful. Don't get me wrong: he's
old school. At Luby's recently, he raised his empty tea glass and shook
his ice cubes at the waitress while pleading "HONEY, more tea." Still,
I feel my Dad "sees" people and estimates their worth by
their actions. The men in my life have mastered the technique of
the butterfly. Put them in a recliner and it's cocoon time. But you never
know when they'll show their real colors and prove that all your preconceived
notions of who they are just might be different. It took my Dad years
to make that ring for my mom. Instead of saying things he'd later
regret, he chose to walk away and keep love lit during the dimmest of
times.
When my Dad retired from the military, he did so a top-ranking Command
Sergeant Major, decorated soldier, a war hero, and a walking talking piece
of shrapnel. Because of his times in combat, the left side of his face
has zero feeling. All my life we've had to at one time or another wipe
his face (especially when he ate peanut butter and banana sandwiches with
mayonnaise). Although we can see this damage, instead of telling us his
war stories, he's seldom shared his experiences of Korea and Vietnam.
Now that I'm older, I wish I could butterfly his memories, as I
know there are openings where the past crawls in. He's a brave soul.
So's my Mom.
I don't know what it takes to keep a family together in today's times.
I do know my parents had "it," lost "it," and found
"it" again. They seem to repeat the process over the years
as they re-learn one another. It goes beyond race, gender, and money.
It started with the making of the ring and continues in their hearts. They
"need" to stay together. Each completes the other. And should
I visit them and ever hear 'ding' 'ding' 'ding' coming from the garage
again ... I'll smile.
Thanks for reading, listening ... and Happy Trails to you!
Kind Regards,
Terri Hendrix
(C) (P) THM Music 2003
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