Steve and I met early in the fall semester, 1968. We were in Dr. Crawford’s botany lecture with about 300 other people. I spotted him (hard to miss him at 6’-8”) and my friend, Jean, told me she would introduce us. She was dating another football player, so we planned to be casually walking by the coaches offices when the afternoon team meeting ended. Well, we walked around the block several times before the meeting finally ended! Jean introduced me to Steve, and then she and her boyfriend promptly got into an argument and broke up right in front of us!
But Steve asked me if I planned to go to the freshman game that night, and would I like to go for a coke afterwards. So, our first date was me watching him play football as I happened to sit behind his parents! Right after the game, he came out from the dressing room with blood (someone else’s) all over his jersey. I think that was supposed to impress me. In those days, freshman girls had to be back in the dorm by 10:50pm. So after talking with his parents we only had a few minutes to get me back to the dorm; no coke date! And it was a long time before I admitted our chance meeting wasn’t so accidental!
Steve called the next day and soon we were dating only each other. It was pretty close to love at first sight for both of us. We married on June 14, 1969, at the age of 19. We should have been a “statistic” years ago, by the odds! But we both graduated on time in 1972, and Steve was drafted by the New York Jets. His pro career was extremely short and we both went into teaching for a few years, and then the business world.
A few years ago we started thinking of where we’d like to retire. It had to be a college town, close to a big airport and good medical care. Denton was it! Three years ago we moved back to Denton and Steve bought an Allstate insurance agency. It’s wonderful to be back where we began and to become involved in alumni activities.
We now have 2 children and 6 grandchildren and are still in love with each other. And we are each other’s best friend. Our oldest grandson wore green and white face paint to his first UNT football game when he was 18 months old! (see photo) We hope to keep the Mean Green tradition growing in our family!
Monday, August 23, 2010
A Mentor Mom Story
When I was asked to give a “Mentor Mom Moment” (at a Mother's of Preschoolers meeting) I wasn’t sure what I should talk about. I think the only instruction I got was to be brief! I wondered if I should tell you about a good way I discovered to remove M&M’s from a 3-year old’s nose or maybe tell you something more profound and soul searching from my years of mothering.
Well, I decided to tell you about something sort of “in between.” I have two grown children, a boy and a girl. Both were and are wonderful, but I think it would be safe to say our little girl was a bit of a handful. She was bright and funny, but very determined. She could open child-proof caps and climb the drawers in the kitchen to get on top of the countertop. And she learned to tie her shoes when she was only 3 ½. When our kids were little my husband and I sort of morphed into a “good cop/bad cop” routine in so far as discipline goes. He was the fun guy who rolled around on the floor with them and I was the one who tried to make them behave. I don’t necessarily think this is the best way to do it, but I do think I know when we made this shift.
One evening I was (where else?) cleaning up the kitchen after supper and Steve was playing with the kids in the living room. All of a sudden, I heard a yelp from my husband and a big commotion going on. I went in to investigate and saw a very interesting sight: My precocious 2 year-old daughter, red faced and furious, staring up at her daddy. And my huge husband…he’s 6’-7” and a former football player staring right back at her, but he had more of a “dear in the headlights” gaze. I asked, “What happened?” and Steve said, “She bit me!” So, I asked him if he had given her a swat or what? He said, “Yes, but you won’t believe what she said.”…Well, I spent all day with her everyday…I knew her pretty well, but I asked “What?” anyway. He told me she seemed insulted and said: “Get that spank off my bo-bo!!”
Of course, I said, “You can’t let her get away with that! Give her another spank!” And he just sort of shrunk back and said, “No, no, I don’t think so.”
Part of the reason I tell you this story is to give you some hope. If you have a little one like mine was, you might be thinking “Oh, Lord, just let me get this kid raised!” or you may even wonder if you’ll battle for years and then have nothing in common when she’s grown. Well, I’m here to tell you there is hope! My little girl grew up to be one of my dearest friends. By now I’ve probably learned more from her than she ever did from me, and you all know her…Julia Ross Sullivan Lockhart!
Well, I decided to tell you about something sort of “in between.” I have two grown children, a boy and a girl. Both were and are wonderful, but I think it would be safe to say our little girl was a bit of a handful. She was bright and funny, but very determined. She could open child-proof caps and climb the drawers in the kitchen to get on top of the countertop. And she learned to tie her shoes when she was only 3 ½. When our kids were little my husband and I sort of morphed into a “good cop/bad cop” routine in so far as discipline goes. He was the fun guy who rolled around on the floor with them and I was the one who tried to make them behave. I don’t necessarily think this is the best way to do it, but I do think I know when we made this shift.
One evening I was (where else?) cleaning up the kitchen after supper and Steve was playing with the kids in the living room. All of a sudden, I heard a yelp from my husband and a big commotion going on. I went in to investigate and saw a very interesting sight: My precocious 2 year-old daughter, red faced and furious, staring up at her daddy. And my huge husband…he’s 6’-7” and a former football player staring right back at her, but he had more of a “dear in the headlights” gaze. I asked, “What happened?” and Steve said, “She bit me!” So, I asked him if he had given her a swat or what? He said, “Yes, but you won’t believe what she said.”…Well, I spent all day with her everyday…I knew her pretty well, but I asked “What?” anyway. He told me she seemed insulted and said: “Get that spank off my bo-bo!!”
Of course, I said, “You can’t let her get away with that! Give her another spank!” And he just sort of shrunk back and said, “No, no, I don’t think so.”
Part of the reason I tell you this story is to give you some hope. If you have a little one like mine was, you might be thinking “Oh, Lord, just let me get this kid raised!” or you may even wonder if you’ll battle for years and then have nothing in common when she’s grown. Well, I’m here to tell you there is hope! My little girl grew up to be one of my dearest friends. By now I’ve probably learned more from her than she ever did from me, and you all know her…Julia Ross Sullivan Lockhart!
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Connections
It was Memorial Day weekend, 2010. On Saturday, we drove with Julia and her family to Granbury. The purpose was to change the silk flowers on my parents' grave. They share a headstone, and it only has one vase. I suspect that was a decision made by my frugal German mother! The cemetary rules are, suprisingly, no fresh flowers. I guess they would rather have artificial ones fade, droop and eventually diminsh with pounding from the north Texas wind than ask the maintanence crew to blow away faded natural flowers. Oh, well... I try to replace the arrangement at least once or twice a year. Usually I can find red or yellow roses (Mother's favorites) on sale at Hobby Lobby; again, that German influence. But Daddy was Irish, and he loved to get the roses with the acrylic dew drops because they looked like tears for Mother. So, I always look for those to satisfy my sentimental Irish side!
The drive from Denton was pleasant; Our son-in-law, David, drove and the kids were occupied with a video and some games. When we arrived at the cemetary we all needed to stretch our legs after an hour or so in the car. Julia did her best to show the kids to be respectful of the graves. But I think the concept of people being buried under the grass escaped them.
While I was busy with the flowers my mind wandered to the two funerals of my parents. In my mind I saw Daddy and I sitting, both a little bewildered, watching cousins place roses on top of Mother's casket. It was a hot day, four days after Mother's birthday and only a week before Julia's wedding. And less than 3 years later I was there again for Daddy's service. The Air Force Honor Guard was over to the left performing a 21 gun salute. I remembered standing to receive a flag from a colonel who had just told the story of my dad's actions in WWII; how he had received the Silver Star, Distinguished Service Cross, and Purple Heart. Today, three of my grandchildren were chasing butterflies across the area.
It's funny, coming back to a place which is loaded with so much emotion. At the time of the funerals I never imagined coming back there with busy grandchildren. Tanner, age 7, was fascinated with the name "Quinn" on the headstone because he knows that's his own middle name. I'd love to bring my other grandson, Quinn, here for obvious reasons! It's important for these boys to grasp the connection to their great-grandparents.
My knees were aching from tending to the flowers and my son-in-law, always sensitive to others, appeared with the floormats from his car for me to kneel on! He didn't realize he brought a tear to my eye doing that.
When I make that trip to Granbury, it is often solitary and hasty. I usually meet a friend for lunch, so I'm in a hurry. But today I'm struck by butterflies instead of the sound of rifles, the kindness of a young man I barely knew at the first funeral, and the sweet connection from one generation to another.
The drive from Denton was pleasant; Our son-in-law, David, drove and the kids were occupied with a video and some games. When we arrived at the cemetary we all needed to stretch our legs after an hour or so in the car. Julia did her best to show the kids to be respectful of the graves. But I think the concept of people being buried under the grass escaped them.
While I was busy with the flowers my mind wandered to the two funerals of my parents. In my mind I saw Daddy and I sitting, both a little bewildered, watching cousins place roses on top of Mother's casket. It was a hot day, four days after Mother's birthday and only a week before Julia's wedding. And less than 3 years later I was there again for Daddy's service. The Air Force Honor Guard was over to the left performing a 21 gun salute. I remembered standing to receive a flag from a colonel who had just told the story of my dad's actions in WWII; how he had received the Silver Star, Distinguished Service Cross, and Purple Heart. Today, three of my grandchildren were chasing butterflies across the area.
It's funny, coming back to a place which is loaded with so much emotion. At the time of the funerals I never imagined coming back there with busy grandchildren. Tanner, age 7, was fascinated with the name "Quinn" on the headstone because he knows that's his own middle name. I'd love to bring my other grandson, Quinn, here for obvious reasons! It's important for these boys to grasp the connection to their great-grandparents.
My knees were aching from tending to the flowers and my son-in-law, always sensitive to others, appeared with the floormats from his car for me to kneel on! He didn't realize he brought a tear to my eye doing that.
When I make that trip to Granbury, it is often solitary and hasty. I usually meet a friend for lunch, so I'm in a hurry. But today I'm struck by butterflies instead of the sound of rifles, the kindness of a young man I barely knew at the first funeral, and the sweet connection from one generation to another.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Starting Somewhere
I love my daughter's blog, Living Lockhart. Such a great way to keep track of events and memories. As I am now 59 11/12's it seems I'm full of memories! Something happened this week which has motivated me to record it:
I can just see him, age 5, clutching two quarters and going “by himself” into the big room to shop. It was Thursday School at the Church of Christ in Lubbock where Michael went one day a week. It was the week before Mother’s Day and he had money to shop for a present for me. We had been told there were crocheted towels, hair accessories, refrigerator magnets and more, in case we wanted to drop a hint to our little one. I’m so glad I resisted the urge because I wanted to see what he picked out. A few minutes later he emerged holding a brown paper bag with a ribbon around it, and with a funny smile on his sweet face. Even then he wanted to give me a Papa Quinn-style hint, but instead he made me open it as soon as we got home because he was “worried” about it. (Good heavens! Was it something alive? It didn’t squirm or make a noise, but I gingerly opened the bag anyway) Inside was a miniature terrarium! A glass jar about 5 inches tall, including the lid. There was a little potting soil and 2 or 3 tiny plants. It was gorgeous! Michael was so very proud of himself! I was amazed at his good taste! I kept the plants alive for a few months, but they succumbed to my only occasionally green thumb. But that darling jar! I’ve had it for 35 years through many moves and for several uses. For most of these years, though, it has held cotton balls on my bathroom vanity. I can’t begin to count all the times I’ve looked at it and been reminded of my son’s sweet, giving spirit.
Today Olga, my cleaning lady sheepishly came to show me something. It was the pretty lid for the jar, broken into shards. She felt bad about it, but not nearly as bad as I do. I didn’t get mad at her; I know it was an accident. But right now there are tears at the back of my eyes. I know the dear Lord doesn’t want us to hold things too dearly. I know Michael probably doesn’t even remember giving it to me. My darling boy has a five-year-old boy of his own now. Time just keeps going by.
But I’m not going to throw the rest of it away. Maybe I’ll put a small plant in it and give it a new use, similar to the original. And no matter what, I’ll always have that image in my mind of a cute little guy, blue eyes wide with hope that I would like his gift. What a blessing!
I can just see him, age 5, clutching two quarters and going “by himself” into the big room to shop. It was Thursday School at the Church of Christ in Lubbock where Michael went one day a week. It was the week before Mother’s Day and he had money to shop for a present for me. We had been told there were crocheted towels, hair accessories, refrigerator magnets and more, in case we wanted to drop a hint to our little one. I’m so glad I resisted the urge because I wanted to see what he picked out. A few minutes later he emerged holding a brown paper bag with a ribbon around it, and with a funny smile on his sweet face. Even then he wanted to give me a Papa Quinn-style hint, but instead he made me open it as soon as we got home because he was “worried” about it. (Good heavens! Was it something alive? It didn’t squirm or make a noise, but I gingerly opened the bag anyway) Inside was a miniature terrarium! A glass jar about 5 inches tall, including the lid. There was a little potting soil and 2 or 3 tiny plants. It was gorgeous! Michael was so very proud of himself! I was amazed at his good taste! I kept the plants alive for a few months, but they succumbed to my only occasionally green thumb. But that darling jar! I’ve had it for 35 years through many moves and for several uses. For most of these years, though, it has held cotton balls on my bathroom vanity. I can’t begin to count all the times I’ve looked at it and been reminded of my son’s sweet, giving spirit.
Today Olga, my cleaning lady sheepishly came to show me something. It was the pretty lid for the jar, broken into shards. She felt bad about it, but not nearly as bad as I do. I didn’t get mad at her; I know it was an accident. But right now there are tears at the back of my eyes. I know the dear Lord doesn’t want us to hold things too dearly. I know Michael probably doesn’t even remember giving it to me. My darling boy has a five-year-old boy of his own now. Time just keeps going by.
But I’m not going to throw the rest of it away. Maybe I’ll put a small plant in it and give it a new use, similar to the original. And no matter what, I’ll always have that image in my mind of a cute little guy, blue eyes wide with hope that I would like his gift. What a blessing!
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