Joni & Santa: A Pictorial Retrospective

I actually wrote and posted a similar entry on my blog about two years ago, but I felt it needed some updating to honor my real Santa Claus - my Daddy - who I lost earlier this year.

For nine years, my Mom dutifully dressed me in my finest Christmas wear and took me to see Santa Claus at the Rich's at Greenbriar Mall (and once at the Downtown Rich's when my kindergarten choir performed on the Bridge at the lighting of the Great Tree). Here is the chronicle of those visits.

1963 - So, this is where it all began. My first visit as a 3 month old in 1963. I'm clearly making a lot of noise and irritating Santa, while my brother Steve is a picture perfect boy scout. This picture pretty much sums up my family dynamic from that point on.

1964 - Still making noise and being irritating....

1965 - although, admit it - you'd cry too if Santa was letting everyone see your underpants?

1966 - I can haz a Christmas Tree Candy??? (See? Before Candy = No Happys. After Candy - Happys!)

1967 - Dude! He gave me candy again, and I wasn't even good this year!

1968 - Hey, if my brother can dress up like a boy scout, I can be an angelic little choir girl. (This one is the only departure from the Greenbriar tradition - this one was taken at the Downtown Rich's. Man, Santa really got around.)

1969 - I think that I'm slowly starting to notice that the beard is a fake. But I'm totally digging that crocheted vest over my blouse and the plaid pleated skirt.

1970 - Now this Santa sort of creeps me out. I think he's sort of sketchy looking, don't you? But, on a happier note, my aunt Charlsie made that top/dress for me. It was one of my favorites.

1971 - And this Santa just isn't even trying - I mean, his mustache is below his top lip and his belly is pushed up above his belt like man boobs. Come on dude, this isn't a tough gig - just sit in the chair and make sure your fake hair and stomach stays in place. I'm thinking this guy had thrown back a few too many before shift down at the Happy Hermans mid-mall.

Just after this one, my stupid, mean classmate Ronnie Powell ruined Christmas forever when he told us all the truth about Santa. I hated that kid. Of course, in relaying this story to my childhood best friend Karen, I found out that I promptly came home from school that day and told her what Ronnie Powell had done, thereby ruining Santa Claus for her. Damn me and my gossiping. Sorry Karen :-(

2009 - So here I am last Christmas with the real (and very best) Santa that there ever was. I love you Daddy, and I appreciate all you did to make each Christmas special for our family. It won't be the same without you this year.

I hope you enjoyed my trip down memory lane with Santa, and I wish you all a very Merry Christmas.

D-Day

My father passed away this past week. I've pretty much been on auto-pilot ever since. I want to write more about the last few days, but it is all still very raw and painful. So instead of focusing on his death, I'd like to focus some more about his life and the things he left me with. I know my entries of late have already been a bit on the emotional side, but I hope you will bear with me as writing helps me both heal and honor him as best I can.

Today is the 66th Anniversary of the D-Day invasion. Now, my father was a very patriotic man, but he never served in the military. Dad was in the ROTC in high school, and he and his classmates proudly stood honor guard in East Point, GA as the train carrying the body of President Franklin Roosevelt returned to Washington, DC from Warm Springs, GA following his death in 1945.

He planned on enlisting after high school and follow in the footsteps of several of his uncles and older cousins, but was turned down because of a broken arm (football injury) that never healed correctly and impacted his ability to hold and fire a rifle properly. So instead, he went on to college at Georgia State. Shortly after that, his own father passed away suddenly and Dad left school to go to work in order to help his mother take care of his younger brother and baby sister. But he was so very proud when his younger brother Paul grew up and joined the Navy during the Korean War.

As I was growing up, Dad always wanted to make sure that I was aware of the sacrifices that others made so that we could live free. Every year a few days before the school year started, Dad would call me out into the backyard where we would sit on the steps, and he would give me "The Speech." The Speech was the talk he gave me to explain how lucky we were in our country be provided with the opportunity to go to school and receive a good education. He would explain how children in some parts of the world didn't have that chance, and how in some countries, little girls were not afforded an opportunity to go to school at all. Then, he would explain to me that while I would pay nothing for my education, many who came before me had paid the ultimate price. Therefore, my only job as a child was to study hard, do my school work and ensure that I got all I could out of my education so that those men did not die in vain.

Me & my brother Steve at Pearl Harbor on the anchor of the USS Arizona

Through the years, our many vacations would take us to locations where he would reinforce the story of military sacrifice. I was 7 years old when our family went to Honolulu on vacation and visited Pearl Harbor.

Dad, Me & Steve on the boat to the USS Arizona Memorial

As the boat took us across the water to the memorial over the USS Arizona, Dad pointed to the oil still seeping up from the ship almost 30 years after it was sunk. He said they were the Tears of the Arizona, and he told me what he remembered as a 12 year old boy on that December day in 1942 when we were attacked. (Years later, as the events of 9-11 occurred, I understood some of what he must have felt that day.)

Wall of casualties at the USS Arizona Memorial in Pearl Harbor

When we reached the big white memorial, with the names of almost 1,200 who were lost that day etched in the the marble wall, he reminded me that these were some of the men who paid for my education. It made quiet an impression on this 7 year old.

Some years later, as a 19 year old college student, I went with Mom and Dad on a European vacation. During the trip, we rode a hovercraft over the English Channel from the White Cliffs of Dover to the Beaches near Normandy.

Omaha Beach as seen from the Normandy American Cemetery

As we reached the coast of France, the hovercraft took a slight detour from the direct route and took us out towards Omaha Beach where you could see where part of the D-Day landing occurred. It was overcast that day and there was a foggy mist in the air, and I felt a cold shiver as we made the approach. I wondered how those young infantry men who were probably about my age at the time must have felt that early morning almost 40 years earlier as they waited on the order for the assault to begin. Everything seemed to go quite around me, the sound of the hovercraft, the voices of the other passenger. It was surreal silence that was probably only occurring in my head. And as I looked over to my Dad sitting next to me, I could see the tears in his eyes.

Normandy American Cemetery at Colleville-sur-Mer

I saw those same tears, and matched them with my own, a few hours later when we visited the American cemetery in Colleville-sur-Mer where the bodies of over 9,000 American servicemen who paid for my education were laid to rest.

Now I wasn't always a straight A student, and I'm not going to pretend I came home from this trip and suddenly made Dean's List every quarter. But I've always tried my best, and I've always remembered my Daddy's lessons and the sacrifice of those young men.

I'll end this with a quote from the movie Saving Private Ryan. "I've tried to live my life the best I could. I hope that was enough. I hope that at least in your eyes, I've earned what all of you have done for me."

The Lord's Prayer

We have a tradition in my family. Of course, I guess every family has a family tradition or two, otherwise why would Hank Williams, Jr. have bothered to write a song about them? But the tradition I hold most dear to my heart is one that my Dad started long before I was born: The saying of the Lord's Prayer as we head out on any long journey.

Steve, me and Dad on one of my first trips - Daytona Beach, FL - 1964

Dad worked for Delta Air Lines for over 40 years, and one of the wonderful perks (and one of the reasons that I to went to work for them too) is the generous travel benefits. In his years at Delta and in retirement, Dad has managed to hit 48 of the 50 states (he's missing the Dakotas) and every continent except for Australia (he's even been to Antarctica.) That's pretty good for a poor kid from East Point, GA who was born during the Depression.

Me & Dad at the Petrified Forrest, Navajo, AZ - 1971

When traveling on an airline employee pass, you typically are traveling standby/space available. So, to give ourselves the best chance to get on a flight, we always tried for the first flight of the day. That usually meant getting up at 3:30 a.m. and leaving for the airport at 4:00 a.m. to try and catch a 6:00 a.m. flight. So many an early morn, well before dawn, we would load up in the car, back out of the driveway onto 1st Avenue, and then, as Dad put the car in drive, he would say, "Let's say our prayer." And as one, we would all begin:

Our Father who art in heaven,

hallowed be thy name.

Thy kingdom come.

Thy will be done

on earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread,

and forgive us our trespasses,

as we forgive those who trespass against us,

and lead us not into temptation,

but deliver us from evil.

For thine is the kingdom,

and the power, and the glory,

for ever and ever.

Amen.

Me, Dad & Steve - Disneyland, Anaheim, CA - 1976

We lived so close to the airport, that by the time we were finished with our prayer, we were pretty much pulling into the parking lot. Around the time I was 7 or 8, I remember wondering how Dad managed to drive all that way with his eyes closed. I was probably about 11 before I worked up the nerve to sneak a peek during the prayer and see if his eyes were indeed closed. For the record, they were open. Good thing I learned that before I became the one who did most of the driving to the airport.

Dad & me in Squaw Valley, CA - July 1980

It wasn't just airplane trips that brought out the prayer - we did it on road trips, heading to hospitals for surgeries, basically any time we were going to need some strength and protection from above. My brother told me that just before Dad took Mom to the hospital for my birth, the three of them said the prayer together.

Me & Dad at the Rhine River in Lorch, Germany - September 1983

Today I sat with Daddy at the hospital for a few hours and watched him as he slept. He goes through bouts of confusion, the doctors say because of all the mediation they've had him on, but there is some thought that he may have also had a minor stroke in the last few days as well. So, when I can, I try to let him sleep. But he woke up for a few moments and said, "How you doing, Tune?" (Tune is one of his silly nicknames for me, short for Petunia. Not sure if Petunia came from the flower or the Looney Tunes pig, but I've always hoped it was from the flower.) Then he asked me if I was ready to say our prayer.

Me and Dad in front of the Houses of Parliament, London - September 1984

I held his hand, we closed our eyes and we began to recite as we have so many times before. I held back a little, wanting to see if he could remember the words on his own, and he did. Although his voice was weak, he spoke every single word correctly. Then when we finished, with his eyes still closed, he said "I'm ready for the trip."

Mom & Dad on the Athabasca Glacier in Jasper, Alberta, Canada - October 1999

I pretty much lost it at that moment, thinking he was speaking of that last, metaphorical trip, if you understand what I mean. As the tears began welling up in my eyes, and I was trying so hard not to make a noise or let the dam break in front of him, without even opening his eyes he quietly said, "We'll make it to Australia like we planned, Tune. I promise you."

I really pray we do.

Dad kicking back in BusinessElite on the way to Buenos Aries, Argentina - February 2008

99

My grandmother Cleo would have been 99 years old today.

She had this fabulous way of pronouncing the word 'nine' where she drew the word out very long and exact way with a slight hint of Jersey in the accent (it works for 'five' also) and so I've spent half the day saying "Nohnty Nohn" to myself and then cracking myself up. Then I got home from work and called my Mom and now she's doing it too. Sometimes it takes so little to entertain us.

She was born in the North Georgia mountains, the second oldest of nine children. The story goes that when her mother was pregnant with her and trying to come up with a name, the neighbors had a 5 year old twins, a girl named Cleo and a boy named Clifford. My great-grandmother Ezzie told the kids if it was a girl, she's name her after Cleo and if a boy, he'd be named Clifford. When it was a girl, Clifford cried for days and Ezzie felt so bad for him that she named my grandmother after both children. My grandmother would end this story by saying that when she grew up and heard this story of her naming, she promptly "went next door and beat Clifford's ass!"

Baby Cleo Clifford Thomas - 1911

Cleo and her older sister Bonnie were only about a year apart in age, and they were incredibly close. Bonnie was stricken with polio as a child, so Cleo and their younger brothers Julian and J.W. would carry Bonnie around so that she could play outside with them. One time when they were playing in the field, a bull got loose and came after them. The 3 younger siblings could have ran and made it to the fence, but they couldn't leave their big sister, so their only choice was to push Bonnie up into a tree then climb up behind her. Their Papa found them about an hour later, still in the tree with the bull laying at the foot of the tree asleep.

Bonnie and Cleo - 1920s

Another great story involved the same four siblings finding the location of their Papa's still up in the hills and deciding to all take a taste of the moonshine (they were between the ages of 4 and 9 at the time). Again, Papa found them a few hours later, staggering across the field, giggling like fools and drunk as heck. (I seem to recall a similar story involving myself and my cousin Bonnie (named for the original Bonnie) that involved drinking and giggling like fools, but that was in Athens in 1991, and we were both of legal age at the time. :-))

Cleo and a drinkin' buddy - 1920s

Cleo eloped with my grandfather Ed on Halloween in 1932. He had been married previously, and so it was sort of scandalous that she had taken up with a divorced man. So, to get around her disapproving parents, she and her younger sister Lucille told them that they were off to a Halloween Costume Party dressed as a bride and bridesmaid. Of course, there was no Halloween Costume Party. Their first child, my aunt Charlsie, was born the following year, with my mother Maxine arriving close behind.

Ed, Charlsie, Maxine & Cleo - 1935

While my grandfather worked in the copper mines across the border in Copperhill, TN, Cleo got a job at the Bell Bomber Plant in Marietta, GA building B-29 Bombers. Since the plant was so far from home, she would sometimes leave my aunt and my mom with her mother for several days while she worked and stayed in Marietta. While she missed her children, her parents lived on a farm and her mother Ezzie was going deaf, so there was plenty for her girls to learn and many opportunities for them to help out. I really believe that this period of helping and learning from a grandmother they both so loved and admired led my aunt and mom to be the kind, compassionate and giving women they grew to become.

Siblings Bonnie, J.W, Lucille, Elizabeth, Julian & Cleo
Mama Ezzie, Papa Laurence & Toby

With her brothers off fighting in WWII, Cleo and Ed moved the family up to Rockaway, NJ where Cleo got a job working at the Picatinny Arsenal where they made bombs and artillery shells for the War. She was proud to be contributing to the war effort and helping to supporting her family.

Charlsie, Cleo & Maxine - 1940s

While they stayed in New Jersey for a few years, her home was in the South, so the family returned to Georgia after the War.

Cleo with her father Laurence and his mother Mattie
Dahlonega, GA - 1946

Shortly after returning to Georgia, the family settled in Hapeville, a small town in the Atlanta area. Ed went to work for Atlantic Steel Co. and Cleo began working at National Biscuit (Nabisco) where she would stay until she retired. After moving to Atlanta, they opened their home over and over to relatives and friends who wanted to move from their small home town in North Georgia to Atlanta, but needed a place to stay until they could find a job and place to live and be able to afford to bring with own family down to join them. They weren't rich by any means, but they would never turn down a family member in need.

My brother Steve with his grandparents Ed & Cleo

My grandfather died suddenly of a brain tumor in 1968, and Cleo was left on her own. But, she had always been a strong woman who could take care of herself, she had gone into the work force before it was common for women to do so, and she knew how to get things done on her own. She encouraged me to be strong and to always put myself in a position of being able to take care of myself without the help of anyone. (She also taught me my first curse word, but I think I'll save that story for another time.) I remember her being so impressed when her niece Sandy, at the time an unmarried woman in her 20s, purchased her first home on her own. For months she bragged about how "Sandy had gone out and bought herself a house without a man or anything!"

Bonnie, Cleo and Cleo's youngest grandchild Bonnie
Copperhill, TN - 1971

Cleo's father (we all called him Papa) came to live with her after Ed passed away, and she would care for him until he passed away in 1976. (Mama Ezzie had died in 1960.) I feel those years were such a blessing because I had the privilege of really knowing my great-grandfather and hearing his stories first hand.

Joni, Crazy Cat, Papa and Cleo - 1972

Cleo was a night owl - she would stay awake until 3:00 a.m. watching her beloved Atlanta Braves, reading books, doing word search puzzles, talking long distance one night a week to her sister Bonnie still in North Georgia. My brother would sometimes stop in and visit her at 1:00 a.m. on the way home from a college party or night out with his friends and would bring a Chick-fil-a from the Dwarf house to share with her. They were similar in nature and they could spend hours talking or hours in silence just enjoying being together. She always told me that Steve brought no drama, no hidden agendas when he visited. He just wanted to be with her and she loved that about him.

My sister-in-law Carrina, Cleo and Steve - 1990

Cleo also loved my Dad, her son-in-law, as much as if he were her own kid. He worked close to her house and would come visit her at lunch some days and bring her a Chick-fil-a. (I'm realizing as I write this that the way to her heart may have had something to do with who brought her the most Chick-fil-a sandwiches.) When Mom would get irritated with Dad over something, instead of taking her own daughter's side, she would simply say, "Now Maxine - Bullet is a good man!" and give her a look that said, "Nip It!"

Maxine, Cleo, Bullet & Joni
Christmas - 1991

Cleo got really sick in 1992 and spent most of that summer in the hospital. My mom and aunt would trade off staying with her each night, even though it was a hardship for them both. In early September, the evening before my birthday, the doctor came in and said that they didn't expect her to make it through the night. She had been unconscious for a few days and probably would never wake up, so the family all gathered to wait. As midnight came and it was finally my actual birthday, all I could selfishly think to myself was "Please don't die, Please don't die, Please don't die but if you have to, then please don't die on my birthday." She lingered on through my birthday, and the following day, she actually woke up. She was weak and couldn't talk much that first day awake. I stopped by on my way home from work to relieve my Mom and Charlsie so they could get a bite to eat, but she was back asleep by the time I got there. I sat quietly with her and got lost in my thoughts. And then I heard her voice through the quiet say, "Don't worry honey - I wasn't gonna die on your birthday." I actually thought I was imagining it, but no, she was awake again and opened one eye to look at me and smiled. Then she asked me how the Braves were doing.

She rallied for about a week after that, and then finally passed away in her sleep in the early morning hours of the 16th with my mother dozing by her side.

I was fortunate to recognize what a special woman she was while I had her, and so I have no regrets in how I treated her or how I expressed my love to her each time I was with her. I really only have one regret, and that is that she missed a special milestone in my life - when I bought my first house "without a man or anything!"

Love you Cleo - Happy "Nohnty Nohn"

Happy Birthday Nanny Bug

Today would have been my grandmother's 100th birthday.

Annie Ruth was born December 30, 1908 in Atlanta , GA. She was the 15th of her father's 17 children, and the 10th of 12 that her mother had had with him. While it would seem easy to get lost in a crowd that size, my grandmother nevertheless managed to stand out.

Like when she modeled in the catalogues for the local ladies clothing store J.P. Allen's while still in her teens.
She married my grandfather Reid in 1929, and my Dad followed a year later. According to the back of this photo, this is my dad, but I think it looks more like my aunt Nancy. Although, I can still see a lot of Dad in that face as well. So who really knows.

While her first name was Annie, she went by her middle name Ruth. She was not fond of her first name, and when a state employee mistyped it as Anna on her driver's license one year, she did not correct them. I think Anna gave her the air of sophistication she desired. Of course, a few years after this photo, she became a grandmother and thanks to my brother, the first grandchild, she was dubbed Nanny Bug and it stuck. By the time I came along - the youngest of all of the grandchildren - I didn't even realize that she had a real name other than Nanny Bug. After we lost her in 1990, the grand kids all chipped in and had Nanny Bug added to her tombstone. (Forgive us - We are all kind of crazy that way.)

Nanny Bug and my other grandmother Cleo were as different as night and day - Nanny Bug was a city girl, while Cleo was from the country. Nanny Bug never left her room without full make-up, high heels and hair spray, and Cleo could not have cared less about that stuff. But in spite of their differences, they were each other's biggest fans. Here they are together at a family event.

I'm so thankful to have had both of my grandmothers as long as I did, but part of me wishes that they were still here today to celebrate this milestone. Nanny Bug would been perfectly coiffed, as usual, and would obviously have had on a pair of expensive high heels, even if she needed a walker to get around in them.

Love you Nanny Bug. Have a Happy Birthday.

Joni & Santa: A Retrospective

For nine years, my Mom dutifully dressed me in my finest Christmas wear and took me to see Santa at the Rich's at Greenbriar Mall.

1963 - So, this is where it all began. My first visit as a 3 month old in 1963. I'm clearly making noise and irritating Santa, while my brother Steve is a picture perfect boy scout. This picture pretty much sums up my family dynamic.

1964 - Still making noise and being irritating....

1965 - although, admit it - you'd cry too if Santa was letting everyone see your underpants.

1966 - I can haz a Christmas Tree Candy???

1967 - Dude! He gave me candy again, and I wasn't even good this year!

1968 - Hey, if my brother can dress up like a boy scout, I can be an angelic little choir girl. (The only departure from the Greenbriar tradition - this one was taken at the Downtown Rich's.)

1969 - I think that I'm slowly starting to notice that the beard is a fake.

1970 - Now this Santa sort of creeps me out. I think he's sort of sketchy looking, don't you? But, on a happier note, my aunt Charlsie made that top/dress for me. It was one of my favorites.

1971 - And this Santa just isn't even trying - I mean, his mustache is below his top lip and his belly is pushed up above his belt like man boobs. Come on dude, this isn't a tough gig - just sit in the chair and make sure your fake hair and stomach stays in place.

Just after this one, my stupid, mean classmate Ronnie Powell ruined Christmas forever when he told us all the truth about Santa. I hated that kid.

I hope you enjoyed my trip down memory lane with Santa, and I wish you all a very Merry Christmas.

Farewell to a Favorite Uncle

My great uncle, J W "Chubby" Thomas, passed away today. He was 93 years old. He had battled and beat cancer a number of times over the years, but blessedly, he appears to have died peacefully at home, sitting in his favorite chair.

Chubby was my grandmother Cleo's younger brother and the fourth of nine children. Apparently, he was pretty fat as a baby, hence the nickname "Chubby". And in spite of the fact that he ended up a pretty skinny guy, the nickname stuck. His actual name was J.W. - that's it - just the initials. I have no idea why. Maybe if he had been the ninth kid, I could see where you might run out of names. When he joined the military during WWII, they wouldn't accept just the initials, so he became John Wesley - the name of his grandfather.

During WWII, he served in the infantry and spent almost 4 years fighting in foxholes across Europe. His unit was in Milan in April 1945 where he saw the body of Mussolini hanging following his assassination. It was something he rarely talked about, but he did talk to me about it once when I was working on a school paper about the war. It seemed hard for him to talk about, but he knew my love of history - both world history and our family history - and he wanted me to do well. It was a special feeling to know that he cared about me enough to share such an obviously troubling memory.

Chubby and his wife Lil really doted on my mom and her sister, and I know that they were among Mom's favorites. They were the only relatives other than my grandparents that accompanied my parents when they went to New York for their TV Wedding. Their daughter Susan, 3 at the time, was the flower girl. When my brother was born prematurely and was hospitalized for several months, and again after I was born with several birth defects and had to spend a lot of time in and out of the hospital during the first 3 years of my life, Chubby and Lil would come down from North Georgia and would sit with us at the hospital so that Mom could get out and have a short break once in a while. They also came down and helped my mom and aunt when my grandmother was dying.

(Uncle Chubby, my grandmother Cleo, my great-grandfather Papa, Uncle Tom Jack and me - 1966)

It was always a treat to drive up to North Georgia with Mom and stop for a visit. He loved putting together puzzles, and he always had one in process when we would stop by. I enjoyed helping him out and listening to his silly jokes as we worked.

(Great uncle Chubby and my aunt (and his niece) Charlsie during one of our visits in 1999.)

In spite of his advancing years and bouts with cancer, he was still one of the most vital and alive people I've ever known. He could still drive, and when his younger family members fell ill, he would drive them to the doctor, pick up their groceries, and cut their grass to help out. He was just an all around good guy. I will miss him, but I am thankful to have had him be part of my life.