Cards Against Posterity

As the sole survivor of my immediate family, I often find myself reflecting on the profound influence of certain people, places, and events from my youth. Since my younger brother passed away a few years ago, I am the sole keeper of the memories of my family's life and times. When Phred was alive, he and I frequently took pleasure in sharing our most meaningful recollections of our days together as kids, our reverence for our parents, and our perspectives on the zeitgeist of the 1960s and 1970s. Apart from old photographs and a few sketchy diaries that we kept, the only first-hand knowledge of the most meaningful and intimate moments in our family's history resides in my brain. Of course, that's just how it is with life—and its inevitable passing. Whatever tangible marks one might leave behind, the most personal, intimate parts of ourselves simply depart.

Thanks to my fondness for revisiting much of the music my parents enjoyed, I find myself wanting to articulate some of my most vivid impressions from the mid-to-late 1960s and 1970s, when Mom and Dad were in their thirties and forties, if just as a little reminder to myself. So, I'm going to indulge the whim and see where it takes me.

My folks tended to be social animals. They frequently gathered with various other couples, and for me, the most memorable of these was when they hosted their regular Bridge Club at our house. We are talking a classy affair. There were generally four to six couples in attendance, and everyone dressed in their finest apparel. Mom didn't drink, but Dad was known to enjoy a few spirits from time to time. For Bridge Club (and whatever other gatherings they hosted), Mom always brought out the fancy china and drinking glasses, which had silver bands around the tops, and Dad filled the crystal decanters with bourbon and scotch. As they got themselves ready for the big event, Dad liked to put some music on our big console stereo, usually something in the easy-listening department. For a spell, his favorite was Frank Sinatra's "Days of Wine and Roses" album, which featured his version of "Moon River," otherwise made famous by Andy Williams. To this day, whenever I hear that song, whoever performs it, I think of Mom and Dad prepping for a social event, whether it be at our house or somewhere else.

Even though these were strictly adult events, I always found myself captivated at those times by what I perceived as a special magic in the house. Even when I went off to college, Mom and Dad were still active in numerous social—and, more importantly—philanthropic gatherings. My parents, whether in public or in the privacy of our home, were what I can only call classy, exceptionally decent human beings. Of course, they had their faults, shortcomings, and blind spots, as we all do. But Mom and Dad held themselves to such high standards in thought, word, and deed that I despair of ever being able to truly emulate them. Now, this last bit strays from my original reflective intent, but you know, sometimes that happens, and since this is me essentially rambling...there it is.

 

When I inherited our old house after Mom died, I kept all the surviving trappings of those bygone days. Brugger and I now use those old glasses, the china, the decanters to preserve what we can of that "classy" aspect of my family's history.

 

I suspect that I'll be occasionally posting other such ramblings. Join me if you like, but if not, I quite understand.

 

Till next time! 

Mom & Dad, circa 1963

The Last Farewell to My Little Sweetheart

I buried Frazier in the backyard this afternoon, which brought on a whole new rush of tears and memories.  I'd had to wait until the ground thawed a bit before I could dig, so I had laid him in the garage, where it stayed pretty cold. I remember burying my first dog, Patty, back in 1981, very near where Frazier's body now lies. That was the first time I'd ever had to bury a pet, and it was the hardest thing I'd ever done. It was almost as hard with Frazier, though I've had to bury all our other cats who have passed away over quite a few years. Maestro, Abbott, Charcoal, Dusty, and Chester all still lie behind the old house in Greensboro.

The photo above is the last one I took of Frazier while he was still alive. Moose seemed to know that something was amiss, and he stationed himself nearby for most of the night.

I can't say I have any belief in a spirit afterworld, but in my mind's eye, I see all of our beloved pets playing together happily. If there is any such thing, whenever the time comes, I want more than anything to be reunited with them, and all my loved ones.

Moose and Frazier watching TV together. They liked that a lot.

One of my favorite Frazier memories — Halloween 2014

R.I.P. Frazier Rainey — 2007–2025

Frazier passed away last night at the age of 18—almost 19. He'd become pretty frail over the past several months, but he remained active, otherwise healthy, and always hungry. A couple of days ago, he took a rapid downturn, and we knew the end could not be long coming.

Back in 2007, he showed up on our doorstep (as have most of our cats who became our cats) and wouldn't go away. The little girl next door started calling him Frazier, and the name stuck. He fit right in with Dusty and Chester, our other two fuzzies, and it wasn't long before he and Chester became inseparable best friends.

Frazier and I developed a strong bond immediately, and it reached the point where I could scarcely move from one room to another without tripping over him. He helped me write (I constantly had to edit cat words out of my manuscripts), watched TV with me, and slept on top of me. In late 2012, Droolie arrived on the scene, and—unlike with Chester—the two of them didn't do much bonding. However, every morning, they'd mock-wrestle in the kitchen as I prepared their breakfasts, while Chester circled like a referee in a wrestling ring.

Dusty passed away in 2013 and Chester in 2015, leaving me with Frazier and Droolie, who got along, but only just. In 2021, Ms. B. moved into the house with her three boys—Moose, Ralph, and Rufus—and this created a new, very tumultuous dynamic. No one trusted anyone, cat fights became more commonplace, and our respective kitties strengthened their bonds with their original people. Eventually, a somewhat uneasy peace broke out. After poor little Ralph passed away from congestive heart failure in 2023, the cat world settled into a still-uneasy but generally less agitated state.

Through it all, Frazier remained essentially unfazed. The most mellow of the bunch, he continued his sweet, friendly ways, and even as an older cat, he became more and more playful. Oftentimes, usually at night, I'd hear this loud, long wailing noise ringing out of the darkness, which at first alarmed me. Then I found out that Frazier had simply found a cat toy and was announcing to the world, "I GOT IT! I GOT IT! I GOT IT!" Whenever we had visitors—whether friends, a plumber, an HVAC service guy, a painter, an electrician, or what have you—all the other cats ran and hid, but Frazier always trotted out to say, "HI! I'M FRAZIER!"

When it was clear that Frazier's health was declining, I made a special point to spend as much time with him as possible; it felt like every day we had together was a gift. I truly believe he knew how much both Ms. B. and I loved him. On his last day, he made a strenuous effort to get up on the bed beside me, and that is where he spent his final hours.

Since my elementary school days, I have lived with and lost many animals, and I have loved every one of them dearly; Frazier, though, was a particularly special little guy, and I will miss him with all my heart for the rest of my days.

R.I.P. Bridget Colleen Langley-Broadwell, a.k.a. Suntigres

It is with the greatest sadness I bid farewell to my longtime friend and geocaching partner, Bridget Langley-Broadwell, known in caching circles as Suntigres. She and I met at a geocaching event back in 2011, and before long, we were caching together, oftentimes with numerous other geocachers in a regular group. Bridget and my wife, Kimberly, got to be good friends as well, so we frequently got together for dinners and even non-geocaching outings (heavens, I know). Bridget met her husband-to-be, Gerry Broadwell, in late 2016, I believe it was, and he became part of our regular geocaching crowd. In March 2019, when they got married at Gerry's place in Kernersville, NC, they invited me to officiate their "almost" official wedding, which was a true honor for me.

Almost from the day I met her, Bridget suffered issues with her lungs, which grew progressively worse over time, until she reached the point that geocaching or other rigorous physical exercise became impossible. She had been hoping and waiting for a lung transplant for a long spell before an appropriate donor became available. Unfortunately, by that time, it was too late.

Bridget passed away on April 6, 2024, after an unsuccessful attempt at lung transplant surgery.

It's doubly hard to say goodbye since the geocaching community also lost good friend Rob "Robgso" Isenhour only a few months ago to lung cancer. Today, I send Gerry all my condolences during such a difficult time, and I pray all his memories of Bridget are the happiest of his life. R.I.P. Suntigres.

Memories of Bridget from other friends and family may be found at Dignity Memorial, here.

A Random Driver’s Ed Memory

Back in high school, my driver's ed instructor was the late, great Coach Robert C. "Husky" Hall, who passed away back in April. He was, to me, a bona fide folk hero. Champion basketball coach, golf team coach (in my senior year, I graced — or disgraced — the golf team with my presence), and quite possibly the most notorious driver's ed instructor in the history of driver's ed. Coach Hall took no guff, and you usually had exactly one shot at performing to his satisfaction. He had a big old class ring with which he would happily thump you on the head if you displeased him. Thankfully, I never got thumped — or if I did, the blow was sufficient to erase my memory of the event.

I admired Coach Hall and felt fiercely loyal to him. He was my kind of curmudgeon, even when I was on the receiving end of his ire. I have quite a few memories of him, but the most vivid was my first time out on the highway behind the wheel, with him keeping an eagle eye on my every move.

I was heading out US 58 eastbound, just beyond the Martinsville city limits. I'm doing 53 mph, hands at 10 and 2 on the wheel, feeling very comfortable driving, as my dad taught me a year or so before I started driver's ed.

"How fast are you going?" Coach Hall asks.

"About 53."

"Son, what's the speed limit?"

"55 miles per hour."

Coach Hall reaches over, shoves down on my knee, so I end up flooring the accelerator.

"Son, what's the speed limit?"

"55 miles per hour."

"How fast are you going?"

"80 miles per hour."

"Going a bit fast, aren't you?"

I point to his hand, still pushing down on my knee.

"Ah!" he says. "Don't make me do that again."

"Yes, Coach Hall."

 

So that might have been damn near traumatic, but later, he gave me his official "best driver in the class" endorsement by dragging me out of a class I didn't much want to be in to drive him to Bassett, about 20 minutes from Martinsville. He apparently had business at the school there and figured it was a good opportunity to give me some additional experience. That sure made me proud, and this time around, he was as nice and cordial and not-at-all curmudgeonly as a gentleman could be. And that was how he continued to be with me — until I joined the golf team.

How I managed to escape the thump to the head during that spell remains an unsolvable mystery.

A Sad Day in April

Dad coached my City Recreation League basketball team, circa 1970.

My dad passed away on this day in 2001 — somehow, that was 19 years ago. I've written about him here extensively over the years. On today, I'm thinking of him a lot. It was nice that I spent most of last evening in his den at the old homestead, writing, watching movies, and listening to music. A peaceful, warm evening of remembrance.

April is a bad month for mortality. I've lost a lot of friends and loved ones, including a couple of cats, in April. Such a beautiful yet sad month.

A few links to older blogs about Dad, collected in one place:

• "4/11/01, My Dear Dad," April 11, 2009
  
• "Ten Years After," April 11, 2011
• "Twelve Years Ago Today," April 11, 2013
• "Dad's Day," June 16, 2013
• "Father's Day Reflections," June 19, 2016