Category: Friends & Family

Boozy bandit

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When I read about the liquor store break-in in Hanover County, Virginia, a visual image of my brother entered my mind. I pictured him running through the broken door of the store and along the aisles of glass bottles.

I said to myself, “Self, snap out of it!”

My brother may live in Hanover County, Virginia, but he was not the sneaky liquor store lawbreaker.  He’s got better things to do.

For one, he keeps his grands a couple of days a week. I’m sure he’s too tired on those nights to consider leaving the comfort of his bed to do anything, much less break into a liquor store.

For two, my brother plays pickleball. There may be pickle-ballers who are thieves on the side, but I doubt it. They wouldn’t want to face jail time unless they were guaranteed the facility provided state-of-the-art pickleball courts.

For three, my brother has been busy, busy rehearsing for an annual variety show his church sponsors each year. After putting in all those hours, he wouldn’t have wanted to take a chance on getting arrested and missing the performance. 

For four, my brother doesn’t match the suspect’s description. He is not one to wear a mask. He doesn’t have a black fur coat, and last I checked, he does not sport a bushy tail.

Mask? Fur coat? Bushy tail?

Exactly.

The liquor store in Hanover, Virginia, was ravaged by a raccoon—as in the nocturnal animal known for knocking over garbage cans, raiding gardens, and digging up lawns. Raccoons destroy roofs, gnaw on wires, and rip insulation.

I should know. Once upon a very, very long time ago, a family of five trash bandits took up residence inside our chimney. We turned into the driveway one night, and our car’s headlights caught a chubby raccoon scurrying up the lattice. 

We turned a flashlight toward the roof, and there they were—Mom, Dad, and their three kits hanging over the side of the chimney. They were probably scouting out which houses they’d terrorize that night.

After the trespassers were caught and “re-homed,” that chimney came down.

Oh, raccoons look so cute and cuddly with their tiny, pointed ears, ringed tails, and bandit faces. But they make trouble wherever they land.

This one landed—literally—in a store that peddles alcohol. Animal Control Officer Samantha Martin said the raccoon “fell through one of the ceiling tiles and went on a full-blown rampage, drinking everything.”

Imagine the faces of the employees when they returned to work the day after Thanksgiving to discover an early morning Black Friday break-in had taken place. Imagine following a path of smashed-up bottles and finding a raccoon passed out, drunk on the bathroom floor.

This scenario brings a couple of questions to mind:

Was the crime premeditated?

Did the raccoon acquire his taste for scotch and whiskey before he burglarized the liquor store?

Could it be that the culprit didn’t “fall” through the tiles, but had been a long time working his way through the roof with a night on the town in his sights?

Who knows? But it’s interesting that he, like most inebriated individuals, knew to make his way to the toilet.

Of course, these questions will go unanswered unless the raccoon—who was released back into the wild after he sobered up—loots another liquor store.

Until then, the only thing I can say for certain is that the guilty, drunk intruder in Hanover County was not my brother.

The berries

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After taking a dip in the lake on a warm July evening, I took Louisa’s hand, and we hiked up to our castle on the hill. Our castle is our home away from home, though some mistake it for a cabin.

When my three-year-old grand and I reached the smooth fieldstone steps, we bumped into Bartholomew. Bartholomew is our resident toad. He lives in his own castle, deep in the cracks between the rocks that form a wall along the back of ours.

“Look, Louisa, there’s Bartholomew,” I said. “He’s come out to say ‘Hello’ to you.”

Louisa crouched low and tilted her head forward to have a better look. 

“Can I pat him?” she asked.

“Sure.”

The toddler reached out and lightly stroked the toad’s bumpy back with her index finger.

Bartholomew didn’t hop away until Louisa caressed his leathery skin a second time. 

My baby grand giggled when I said, “Wow, Louisa, Bartholomew thinks you’re the berries!”

I shared this story with some friends in South Carolina and discovered they had never heard the expression: “You’re the berries.”

“You’re the berries is the same as telling someone she is the bee’s knees or the bomb.com or, more simply put, the best,” I said. 

If you look up the phrase, experts claim it’s slang from the 1920s, not tied to any particular region in the U.S.  It says the same thing about “the bee’s knees.” 

I beg to differ. 

For one, when I related the story of Louisa and Bartholomew to my WV friends, they all knew exactly what “you’re the berries” meant.

For two, the 1920s took place a long, long time before I came into the world, and I am more than familiar with “you’re the berries” and “the bee’s knees.”

Old sayings? Probably. Slang they may be, but both phrases appear to be common in the Mid-Atlantic region. In the South, not so much.

While living in Alabama, Gary and I raised our eyebrows when a neighbor offered to “carry” us in her car to the store. 

It was also in Alabama that we heard news reporters say, “A cutting occurred last night around midnight.” “Cutting” as in someone had stabbed (or knifed) someone else.

In Charleston, SC, when I said, “Will you all be joining us at the courts?” a woman replied, “You all? You all? You must be from the north.”

True Southerners say, “Y’all.” 

OK. Fake Southerners also say, “Y’all” (bless their hearts), but it’s easy to tell genuine from imitation when it comes to dialect.

West Virginians face the problem of being stuck in between. Northerners consider us Southerners, and Southerners deem us Northerners. 

But I know I am a “you all” and not a “y’all.”

Midwesterners also have unique sayings. My hair ties are their hair binders. I would rather when they have their druthers. When I see a baby, I say, “Oh, how cute.” Midwesterners say, “Oh, for cute!”

The Western part of the U.S. claims its own slang to fame. For “all talk and no action,” they say, “All hat and no cattle.” People who talk too much are “jawing,” and a “tenderfoot” is someone in training.

Westerners say, “Don’t squat with your spurs on” and “Never ask a barber if you need a haircut.”

Food for thought.

Born in South Carolina, my grand toddler is a true Southerner with West Virginia in her blood. At three, she worked out her own understanding of “You’re the berries.” 

While eating breakfast the morning after she met our resident toad, Louisa said, “Vieve, will we see Bartholomew today?”

“I hope so,” I said, “but he doesn’t usually come out this early.”

At that, Louisa smiled at her mom and dad, and said, “Bartholomew thinks I’m the fruit!”

Think pink

On By VievesVineIn Friends & Family, Sports Shorts1 Comment

After two years of tennis lessons, my daughter Jordan said, “Mom, I don’t want to play tennis.”

Those words sting the ears of any tennis-playing parent. But it was my sport, not hers. 

Jordan returned to tennis in 8th grade—her idea. She played on the varsity team through high school. Years later, I asked my daughter why she decided to play again.

“I loved the clothes—the tennis skirts and dresses. They were the coolest uniforms,” she said.

I rolled my eyes; I’m sure of it.

Over the past two months, I’ve worn tennis skirts and dresses to state competition in SC with three of my USTA teams. The first tournament took place on a rainy, dreary weekend on Hilton Head Island.

Ours was a good team, but we responded poorly to the weather-shortened, 8-game pro-set matches. 

The only bright spots on those gray days were vivid pink tennis towels stacked on the tournament desk—prizes for the winners of each division. Prizes my team didn’t win.

Bummer.

Back in 2023, when two of my teams won state championships, the towels were orange, my least favorite color. Of all the colors in the rainbow, who chooses orange for a trophy towel? 

After the wet and miserable Hilton Head debacle, I traveled with a different team to Aiken, SC. At the tennis center, a bit of dazzle caught my eye. 

And there they were, those bright pink towels. They winked at me from a folded stack on the tournament desk.

Blue skies smiled down on us that weekend, but again, the word “short” got in the way. Not shortened sets, but our team was shorthanded due to injury, travel, and illness. 

We won our final match, but envy sent me hurrying to my car. I couldn’t bear to watch the winning players wave their—instead of OUR—brilliant pink towels. 

By the time I headed to States in Florence, SC with my 40s Combo Team, I had erased those cool, fun pink towels from my mind—or so I thought. 

On day one, at Frances Marion University, we played with the fiery intensity of the sun above us. After seizing our first two matches, we were tied with Hilton Head (HH) for first place. 

Water coolers and bananas rested on the metal bleachers—not a pretty, pink towel anywhere in sight. Nor did the coveted towels find me on day two at Florence Tennis Center.

That morning, our team stood alone at the top after prevailing against HH on two of our three courts in highly contested matches.

Our reign was short-lived (“short,” again). 

That afternoon, following a “let’s finish-the-job” pep talk, we lost 2-1 to Columbia. My court suffered a crushing blow, losing 13-11 in a third-set tiebreak. 

If you don’t think I replayed that match in my head all night long, think again.

When we arrived at the courts the next morning, we were one of three teams that sat at 3-1. The final match was a must-win to claim the title.

I headed to the court with my partner, still berating myself for the loss the night before. 

I said to myself, “Self, look forward, not backward. Forward progress is progress.”

No one was happier than my partner (and maybe me) when my will to win finally kicked in.

We joined the team outside the deciding court and held onto our hearts as we watched our teammates claim a tight second set. They finished the breaker with a resounding overhead smash. 

As we gathered in a circle to celebrate, my eyes found the tournament desk. 

And there they were, the towels. Those vivid, dazzling, brilliant, bright, beautiful, cool, fun, pretty, pink towels.

“The pink towels belong to us!” I shouted as my teammates cheered.

Tennis is not about the clothes; it’s all about the towels.

Mentioning Unmentionables

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(Below is a throwback worth reposting.)

I picked up my dry cleaning a week after I’d requested to have it ready.  For some reason, the clothes I leave at the cleaner’s disappear from my closet and my mind the minute I tell the clerk to “Have a good day.”

Thursday was a banner day.  Not only did I finally remember to stop by the dry cleaner’s, I also knew I had three items to retrieve.  But when I reached into the car to hang the clothes, I saw four hangers under the plastic.

Now, on a rare occasion I’ve arrived home from the cleaner’s with an item of clothing belonging to someone else.  So, I patted myself on the back and thought, “Ah ha, caught it this time–right in the parking lot.”  

I held up the bag.  The extra hanger was easy to spot because it didn’t appear to be sporting any clothing. Further inspection revealed a small, clear plastic bag looped through the wire neck. Folded neatly inside the bag was a pair of underwear–women’s underwear.  

My underwear.  

A yellow tag, safety pinned to the waistband, assured me that, “Yes, your underwear has been most sincerely and thoroughly dry cleaned.”

Mentally, I retraced my steps.  I’d thrown the clothes bound for the cleaners onto the bed, beside the things I’d just removed from the dryer.  When I scooped up the pile to head out the door, I must have grabbed more than I realized.  

I could have inadvertently picked up a t-shirt, a dishtowel or Gary’s boxer shorts.  But, no, I snatched up a pair of my—as the nurse at a Girl Scout camp in Bluefield called hers years ago—unmentionables.

I laughed.  I laughed out loud.  I laughed all the way home.

Then my mind went wandering.  I wondered what went through the clerk’s head as she separated my clothes?  Did she think to herself, “One shirt, two pairs of pants, and one pair of underwear,” as though she sees them everyday?  Or was it more like: “One shirt, two pairs of pants and…and…and—UNDERWEAR?”  

I could picture her holding them up, the smallest bit of waistband pinched between her finger and thumb.  Her glasses propped up by the tip of her nose, eyes squinting as if to say, “What’s this?”

Women’s lingerie comes in all styles, shapes and sizes.  So, the good news was this particular pair was of the everyday, boring variety. And, they were already clean.

I wondered:  Are there people who dry clean their underwear?  Maybe there are those who do.  I am not one of them.  Wait a minute.  I guess I am now one of them—just not on purpose.  

My washer’s delicate and hand wash cycles have done a fine job over the years.  I honestly don’t own anything in the category of underwear on which the tag reads, “Dry Clean Only.”

It occurred to me that clothes undergo a number of steps, and therefore pass through a number of hands during the mystical process of dry cleaning.  So, I looked up “How Dry Cleaning Works” on HowStuffWorks.com.  I love that site.  

Sure enough, up to seven people had the opportunity to take one look at my underwear, double check the name, and say, “McCutcheon.  Nutcase.”  My unmentionables were officially tagged, inspected (great), pretreated, dry-cleaned, pressed, folded, and packaged.  Someone actually steamed and pressed my underwear?   

Did the Underwear Bomber think to have his shorts cleaned and starched before he filled them with explosives?

As for my very special pair of dry cleaned underwear–I don’t know whether to wear them or frame them.  For now, they are in a drawer.  The yellow tag, secured in place by its safety pin, speaks to me on a daily basis.  It says, “You are human..you are human…..you are human….”

Mrs. Murphy

On By VievesVineIn Commentary, Everyday Life, Friends & Family, Places1 Comment

Some people come into our lives and stay for a while. Others dance and flicker among us for a brief moment, like a candle’s flame.

How long people have known us has little to do with the impression they leave on us. Sometimes, we don’t realize the extent of that imprint until much later.

That’s how it is for me with Mrs. Murphy.

Every now and then, Mrs. Murphy rises from my heart and into my consciousness. I can’t say what triggers the appearance of those memories, but I welcome them all the same.

She was the Music Director at the First Baptist Church of my childhood in southern West Virginia. I picture her tall with a solid frame, but then I was small and skinny.

Her close-cropped dark hair held a bit of wave or curl. Maybe a perm? She wore black framed eyeglasses with upswept corners (in cat-eye fashion)—or so, I thought.

Mrs. Murphy’s responsibilities included directing all choirs, Cherub, Youth, and Adult.

“Responsibilities.” I wrote that word with hesitancy. Mrs. Murphy exhibited so much joy in what she did that it never occurred to me it was part of a job.

She even made certain the kids’ choirs had holiday parties, Halloween, Easter, and Christmas.

When my friends and I were promoted to Youth Choir, we walked to the church every Wednesday after school for practice in the big sanctuary with an inclined floor.

Mrs. Murphy got a workout at those practices. She spent the first 15 minutes running up and down the middle aisle in her chunky heels, trying to get the boys to stop rolling under the pews and take their places in the choir loft.

“Now, boys, come out from under there,” she said with firm gentleness.

Then, she clapped her hands to coax a little stronger, “Come along, now, boys. It’s time to get started.”

My brother Donald, two years my junior, was born with a baritone, man-sized voice. He took his place in front of the church with the Cherub Choir, in his white robe and ginormous red bow, and belted “Jesus Loves Me” like a miniature Johnny Cash with a little added thunder. The rest of the cherubs were reduced to a tweet here and a tweet there.

I was a cherub alumnus by then. Donald’s “Jesus Loves Me” roar sent our brother John and me into titters, followed by giggles until we tumbled from the pew and tried to smother our howls into the deep red carpet. We hiccupped rising chortles, but that didn’t keep tears from laughing all the way down our cheeks.

Mrs. Murphy remained unfazed.

On Sunday mornings when the little ones took front and center, her hands and arms sang with the notes as she led her Cherub charges. The louder Donald’s voice, the bigger her smile.

When thoughts of Mrs. Murphy came to me last week, it occurred to me that I knew very little about this woman I admired. We lost touch after I moved away in 6th grade.

I emailed my very first best friend, Stilts, whose parents called her Nancy, but I never would.

“…I’ve been thinking about Mrs. Murphy, our choir director. I loved her! Do you know what happened to her? I can’t recall her first name. Ugh.”

Stilts wrote back, “…Her name was Florence Murphy and her husband, Eugene…they were the most fabulous couple at church and as neighbors.”

Lucky Stilts, to have had Mrs. Murphy for a neighbor.

I don’t know if Mrs. Murphy enjoyed gardening, if she had a dog, or liked to cook. I don’t know if she had children or how many. I don’t recall the color of her eyes.

I do know she brought music to the hearts of many. And she loved children.

Maybe, for me, that was enough.

May 24th

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May 24th is a special day, not just for Gary and me, but for our family. Had it not been for what took place on May 24th, our three children wouldn’t be here.

In the absence of our children, the spouses of our two married kids would be committed to someone else. Or perhaps they would be single.

Without our children’s unions, our baby grands would not be crawling and toddling around and making us laugh over and over and over again.

On this May 24th, Gary and I are at the point in our lives when scrolling through documents to find our birth year could cause a thumb sprain. We have lived under the same roof waaayyyy longer than we lived with our parents. Together, we’ve written an insignificant history that means something to us.

May 24th may have meaning to various people for different reasons. On May 24, 1883, the architectural wonder called the Brooklyn Bridge opened, traversing the East River to connect Brooklyn to Manhattan.

Today, more than 100,000 vehicles, 4,000 pedestrians, and 2600 bicycles cross the bridge daily. I wonder how many singles would not have become couples had the Brooklyn Bridge not been constructed.

Bob Dylan was born May 24,1941 in Duluth, Minnesota. Had both sets of his grandparents decided not to emigrate to the United States (in 1902 and 1905), his parents probably would not have found each other.

Had that hypothetical situation played out in real life, Robert Allen Zimmerman, who became Bob Dylan, would not have been born. The music that wasn’t written by the Dylan who did not exist would not have inspired numerous musical artists then or now.

From a fan’s standpoint, think of a world without “Blowin’ in the Wind,” “Mr. Tambourine Man,” “Like a Rolling Stone,” and “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.”

On the flip side, R&B icon Tina Turner died at age 83 on May 24, 2023. The electric voice behind “What’s Love Got to Do with It,” “Private Dancer,” and “We Don’t Need Another Hero” entertained crowds for 65 years.

In 1938, on—you guessed it—May 24th, a patent was granted to Oklahoma lawyer/publisher Carl Magee for the first coin-operated parking meter. He came up with the idea after local merchants complained about the same cars monopolizing parking spaces day in and day out, causing low sales.

Magee was born on January 5, 1872, and I don’t wish it otherwise. But, gee, Magee, I wish he had invented something else.

On May 24th (1994), the four men responsible for bombing the World Trade Center were each sentenced to 240 years in prison. In 1830, the first line of the B&O Railroad opened.

Irish author William Trevor was born on May 24, 1928. Major League Baseball held its first night game in Cincinnati when the Reds beat the Phillies, 2-1 (1935).

Still, May 24th might just be another random day to you. But not to me.

May 24th is the day my dad walked me down the aisle and put my hand (and his trust) in Gary’s.

Gary could have let doubts, probably many, turn his car around. I could have swapped my heels for tennis shoes and sprinted out of the church.

But we showed up.

Had Gary and I not found our way to the Baptist Temple in Fairmont on that May 24th, 100 or so years ago, there would be no “us.”  Yes, there would still be a “he,” and I would be me. But trust me when I say, we’re much stronger, smarter, and way more fun as “we.”

Challenge accepted

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As I walked to register #4 at a Home Goods store, the clerk offered to sign me up for a credit card.

“You’ll save an extra 30% on your purchases today if you apply for our credit card,” she said. “It will only take a minute to get approved.”

Tempting…but no.

“I appreciate the offer, but if I want to stay married. I must decline,” I said.

I went on to explain that my husband is not a fan of credit cards. Gary says companies make credit cards the same shape and size as gift cards to tempt us to believe we don’t have to pay them back.

I didn’t go into that with the clerk.

Instead, I said, “We’ve been married for at least 100 years. If I’m forced to choose between a credit card and my life history, I’ll hang on to my history.”

It’s one of the many reasons that divorce is not an option for us.

History.

Gary has been an integral part of my life and my family since we were 17 years old. If I cancel him or he cancels me, we’re wiping out a ton of years full of a lifetime of memories.

My youngest brother has zero recollection of life without Gary. He was six when Gary and I started dating.

Another reason divorce is not an option for me is, well, because I’m lazy.

No way am I up to the task of editing Gary out of 100 years of pictures. As for the myriad family photo albums we have scattered about, it took a lot of time to put those together.

Several years ago, I noticed the spine had separated on an album that belonged to my parents, and the photos inside were beginning to fade. My sister-in-law and I transferred the pictures onto quality, nonstick pages in a new album.

The job was time-consuming, but a labor of love. I’m happy we did it, but I don’t want to do it again, and I doubt my sister-in-law would help me this go around.

Selfishness is another reason I can’t get a credit card and give Gary a reason to divorce me.

Who else would remind me that where I stand or sit has no bearing on the outcomes of WVU basketball and football games?

Who else would say, “Sure,” when I tell him, “My seesta-girlfriends are coming to stay for the weekend?”

Who else would clean my car windows before I go on a road trip, make dinner when I work late, or watch an infant baby grand—change diapers, etc.—while I go to tennis practice?

Distribution of property after 100 years of marriage would be a big, as in HUGE problem—another reason we’ll just have to put up with each other.

Besides our cars and clothes (No way will Gary fight for my dresses), the rest would be a muddled mess. I’d probably claim everything belongs to me, and he would let me have it all.

Afterward, a load of guilt would take me prisoner. I don’t care to spend the rest of my life with a raincloud over my head.

The biggest reason my husband and I can’t spit up is a conversation that happened years ago—two weeks before our wedding day.

I was with an unnamed someone who knew us well.

“You shouldn’t marry Gary,” she said. “He has never dated anyone else. He will not be true to you.”

I laughed when I shared the exchange with my husband-to-be. We had turned twenty in April, ignored that tidbit of advice, and married in May.

On our most recent anniversary, Gary said, “I think we should send (she who will not be named) a thank you card.”

The note would read, “Challenge accepted.” 

No new credit cards for me.

Nickels

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My father often used the old expression, “I wish I had a nickel…” Probably for every time my brothers and I said, “How many more minutes till we get there.”  Or, maybe, for each time he successfully made April Fools out of us or beat us in basketball.

The saying may have evolved from the 1920s phrase: “A person would shoot you for a nickel.” That had something to do with an individual who did not value the life of another—meant as a joke, I hope.

“Squeezing a nickel” is an expression reserved for a Scrooge-like person who goes to extreme lengths to save money. “You can’t get blood from a turnip” is also an old way of saying someone is tight with money.

But we were discussing nickels, though I don’t know why. When was the last time you saw a nickel, held it in your hand, or used one to buy something? Anything?

It has been a while since I’ve taken a good look at the Thomas Jefferson coin. It would take a truckload of nickels to make any headway when shopping.

With inflation over the years, the expression got an upgrade. It became, “I wish I had a dollar for ….” But a dollar doesn’t add up to much either. One dollar doesn’t translate to more than a few miles in gas or even cover a bag of M&Ms.

Gone are, “I wish I had a nickel…” and “I wish I had a dollar…” from my everyday conversations. I’ve raised the ante to five dollars.

I wish I had five dollars for:

Every time I’ve misplaced my car keys.

Every time Gary says, “It’s the littlest of nothings.”

Every time I said, “Don’t be a WSB (Wimpy, Sissy, Baby),” to my children and kids I coached.

Every piece of junk email I delete. Better yet, I wish the senders had to pay me $5 to drop anything in my inbox.

I wish I had five dollars for:

Every circular in my mailbox.

Every time I said, “I’m counting to three.”

Every time my mother said, “I’m counting to three.”

Every time one of my brothers said, “I wish I had taken your advice.”

Every time WVU football and basketball teams have broken my heart.

Every time I told my children, “I am not your friend; I am your mom. And one day, you’ll be happy about that.”

By the way, they do seem to be happy about that.

I wish I had five dollars for:

Every time I said, “Use your inside voice.”

Every time someone says “bring” when the correct word is “take.”

Every time I fight the urge to go gray.

Every time I give my adult children unsolicited advice. Ugh.

Sometimes I just can’t help myself.

I could fill pages and pages with these five-dollar wishes, but filling them is like going to the mailbox hoping for the surprise BIG check that never comes.

From 1900 to the 1930s, a nickel bought a loaf of bread, a ride on a trolley, or a movie ticket. Back then, if you had a nickel, you could buy an ice cream cone, a hotdog, or a bottle of pop. A nickel covered a ride on the subway or the bus.

No wonder everyone wished they had a nickel. But not me. I wish I had five dollars—for every time I’ve wished I had five dollars.

Words from my father

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On Memorial Day, I visited my father’s grave at the National Cemetery. I hadn’t been there in a long while, and I wasn’t certain I could find it on my own.

Cemeteries aren’t my first choice to visit when I want to pay tribute or find solace. I feel my dad every time I step onto a tennis court. He’s everywhere I look when I find my way to Camp Mountaineer in Morgantown. He’s ever-present when I visit the Baptist Temple or wander up to Morris Park, both on the east side of Fairmont.

But no matter where I am, I hear him.

The tone of his voice when he said, “Genny Ann” or, on occasion, “Genevieve Ann” and his advice and stories and songs remain with me.

Dad often sang to my brothers and me. The songs he gave us, he also sang to his grandchildren. Now, we sing them to our baby grands. Like “McNamara’s Band”:

“Oh, my name is McNamara I’m the leader of the band

although we’re few in numbers we’re the finest in the land…

and Hennessy Yennessy toodles the flute and music is somethin’ grand

a credit to old Ireland is McNamara’s Band….”

And “Tora lora lora”:

“Over in Killarney

Many years ago…

“Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Toora-loor-ra-li,

“Too-ra-loor-ra-loo-ral, it’s an Irish Lullaby….”

And, of course, “Hail West Virginia”:

“It’s West Virginia, it’s West Virginia

The Pride of every Mountaineer….”

Dad would chuckle and lower his voice to a murmur when he recited:

“One dark night in the pale moonlight,

two dead soldiers got up to fight.

Back-to-back, they faced each other,

drew their swords, and shot each other.”

He reserved one song just for me, a tune from the early 1900s that I doubt anyone else recognizes.

“Oh, Genevieve, sweet Genevieve

the days may come, the days may go

but still the hands of memory weave

The days of long ago….”

The many Carolines whose fathers sing “Sweet Caroline” understand what “Sweet Genevieve” means to me.

Whenever my brothers and I went out with friends, Dad said, “Don’t take any wooden nickels.” It took a while, but I finally realized that was his way of issuing a witty warning: “Pay attention. Don’t let people fool you.”

We lost every battle for a later curfew. Dad always said, “Nothing good happens after midnight.” When we slept past 8 AM, he cautioned, “You’re sleeping your life away.” He was right–on both counts

A few times I came through the door in a rage—angry and complaining about having been treated unfairly by a friend or a teacher or a supervisor.

“What we really need to do is pray for her (or him),” said Dad.

“Pray for her? Pray for her? You pray for her,” I recall telling him once.

I didn’t get it then, but I do now. I still hear Dad repeating those words. His calm voice is a lifetime reminder of how to turn negative thoughts into positive activity.

When I arrived at the National Cemetery, a plan took shape in my mind. I drove up the American flag-lined hill as the reds, whites, and blues waved to me in welcome. I made the loop at the top and headed down to park and start my search.

I said to myself, “Self, just start out along this row, and check names three rows back.”

Halfway down the perfectly manicured green lawn, my father’s name in block lettering brought me to a halt. Below his name, his Navy credentials, and the necessary dates, I read the familiar inscription:

“When it’s too tough for everyone else, it’s just right for me.”

Dad said those words often as he helped my brothers and me learn how to persevere through challenging times in our lives. I heard him then; I hear him now.