BEING IN THE RIGHT PLACE AT THE RIGHT TIME

As some of you know teaching memoir writing is one of my passions in life.  Everywhere I go I see a potential for incorporating a new idea into my class. Sometimes it is just a new twist on an old idea. Just a few weeks ago I was in Southport, North Carolina n a wonderful gift  shop.  I started browsing among some books written by local authors.  Soon a lady walked over and introduced herself as a writer. One of her books piqued my interest after she told me it was a memoir.  She said that she had fourteen friends from childhood who kept in touch and had reunions over about fifty years. Eleven out of the fourteen contributed something to her memoir.  Here was another way to construct one's memoir.

 I was in the right place at the right time.

This past week-end we went to Bedford, Virginia for a family celebration.  I'm a long distance member of the Bedford Museum and have wanted to tour it for a long time. The Director was not there that morning but several nice staff members guided us to the special displays. After we finished the self guided tour we went to the gift shop.  The two women who had seemed to be going at the same pace as we were had arrived a few seconds ahead of us. The attendant began showing me books she thought I might be of interest to me.  One was a beautiful book of paintings done along with a memoir. Another aid for my teaching!

 The right place at the right time!

Then she said, "this lady did the book." It was one of the ladies we seemed to be following. We began to talk about writing in general and her book in particular.  I bought a copy and she bought one of Trunk Tales.  Both books are set in Bedford County.

 It was the right place at the right time.

On Saturday morning we headed to the family cemetery after stopping for some flowers. As we arrived and parked behind the church, a man came out the back door. He was cordial and walked over to ask if he could help.  We told him we were visiting and I was reminiscing about spending my summers in that area and attending the Church beginning as an infant. Soon it became known that he is the pastor of the Church. One thing led to another and he realized that he knew my sister and brother-in-law who run a bed and breakfast in town. He has two young grandchildren.  He was delighted to get a signed "Where's the Kitty" book?

 Another right place at the right time!

It seems to happen more often now.  Could it have anything to do with being a senior citizen?  It's possible.

MY HOMEPLACE-THE RIGHT PLACE AT THE RIGHT TIME.

My Uncle Bill

He was the tallest person I had ever seen.  In my child's eye he was as tall as the house.  He did have to duck when he entered a room. I suppose because he was so tall he had long arms.  He could scoop me up in one quick swoop, throw me up to the ceiling and before I had gotten my breath, he gently placed me on the floor.

My Uncle Bill was a man of few words.  He smiled a lot and from that we knew he wasn't mad.  If anyone asked him why he was so quiet, he would say that he spoke when he had something of importance to say. Wouldn't that be a good practice for some people we know?

 I don't remember him ever telling a story but I can tell lots of stories about staying with him and his family in the hot Piedmont summers.  I was expected to go along with my cousins and "work" in the tobacco fields.  If I had been paid for the work accomplished, my check would have been very small. But my compensation was enjoying the company of my Uncle Bill and his family.

Some of the crops on their farm were probably on land that was later sold for part of Smith Mountain Lake. Even today some of the land is near the Lake and would bring a hefty price.


There was a time when my Uncle and his family left the farm for him to work in a textile mill in Roanoke, Virginia. The big city was fun to visit,, too.  There were no more hot tobacco fields, snakes to watch for, and animals to feed.  There were many things to do-- riding bikes on the sidewalk and playing hide and go seek with the kids on the street.  And the big thing I'll never forget is going to the Dairy Queen for an ice cream treat after supper.  With a twinkle in his eye my Uncle Bill would say, "I bet there's no one here who would like to go for ice cream." We were waiting at the car when he got thee.

My Uncle Bill was a gentle giant.  I never saw him spank one of his children.  He didn't need to, when he spoke, they listened. He was a fair man- -his word was as good as a contract.

His memory is special. A visit to his home was a wonderful experience , one that gave me a treasure trove of memoirs.

 Thank you, Uncle Bill.

THE GINGERBREAD HOUSE

     It could have come out of the story "Hansel and Gretel" with its many colors on the gingerbread trim.  Sometimes the colors changed as if by magic.
     When I was a child we made the ninety mile trip from Belspring, to Bedford, Virginia, my Dad's boyhood home, in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.  There were no interstate highways back then and most of  the roads were two lanes.  When we went to our grandparents we traveled Route 11 a good portion of the way.  Those ninety miles seemed almost endless to a small child.  To anticipate certain sights along the way helped to pass the time.  One of my favorites was the Gingerbread House.  I wanted to ask my Dad to stop on the side of the road so I could look at it closer.  I never did.  I turned my head and looked as long as the house was in sight.  Every time we passed it, which was about every two months, I made up a different story about the little house.  The stories always seemed to end up with me as a character. I wondered about the family who resided there.  Once in awhile I would catch a glimpse of a person on the tiny porch or in the yard.  What fun it must have been living in the little fairy tale cottage.
     In a few years the interstate came along and we didn't go by the Gingerbread House on the mountain on our trip to see our grandparents.
     Asa the years passed it's memory faded.  Just recently I thought of the colorful house and wondered it it was still standing.  I did what most of us do today;  I googled it and lo and behold sources came up giving information on the house and its former owners.  As far as I could determine the house is still standing, but not as in its colorful past.  I learned, also, that the reason it changed colors so often was that a local paint company used it to advertise their product.
     I carry only a picture in my mind but the little Gingerbread House along the side of the road remains one of my favorite childhood memories.