All Things (Are Still) Important

I still have stories to spin and nostalgia to stir! After posting to my blog last month for the first time in a decade, I vowed to myself: I'm getting back to it. My gratitude to those who continued to encourage me to blog over these years. It’s a pleasure to see that my blog is still visited daily by readers around the world who find posts through google searches, social media, and peer sharing.

Here's an interesting fact: All Things Important (this blog) is the only place on the internet where you can read Ray Bradbury’s brilliant poem “Why Didn’t Someone Tell Me About Crying in the Shower?" The post featuring this poem is visited multiple times a week, and over the years, I've received dozens of comments or emails from readers who found it here. 

Some readers love the family stories, others enjoy the seasonal pieces, while the local history posts seem to gain the most traction on social media. For me, they all come from the same well so I will continue to share from that source on a monthly basis.

A Box of Memories

For 19 years this box has held memories of my Dad who died August 6, 2005. It's impossible to think that someone who is so alive in my heart left this planet so many years ago. He died young but he lived large.

I dare not dive in my special box today; if I did my workday would be shot. It contains all the cards, letters, and emails; funeral program, service script, a copy of the guest book; and newspaper articles and a variety of other things surrounding my Dad's death. Thanks to some special people I have some real gems and I thank YOU and YOU and YOU for that fact. The thing that has made this loss bearable through the years is people keep him alive. All these years later, not a week goes by without someone mentioning something about Dad to me.

Two treasures jumped at me: a cassette tape the day following his death from KFRU radio and a packet of letters from his friend and fellow attorney David Knight. Dad died on a Saturday. He co-hosted the Sunday Morning Roundtable on KFRU. On a whim, I threw in a blank tape on my jam box (yes this dates things....) and sure enough my instinct was spot on. I have an entire program of people calling in with memories of my Dad--most from people I'd never heard of and almost all the stories new to me. Today, I wish I still had a cassette player so I could listen to it but I'm sure one can be found. The packet of letters and documents from Mr. Knight arrived over a 5-year period, each with detailed stories of elaborate pranks they would pull on each other-- often roping in a half dozen others. Each one is a gem but also the fact they came at 1-2/ year made them all the more special to my family. Mr. Knight knows well how much I value these. I've told him that I'm going to do the same for someone else some day when appropriate.

On the day of Dad's funeral, Hank Waters, longtime editor of the Columbia Daily Tribune, wrote an editorial on Dad. A couple of excerpts:

"Knowing David Rogers . . . was to experience his personality, his larger-than-life presence. He would make his points, speak his mind . . . sometimes with a barb in his tongue and a twinkle in his eye. David was a unique presence among us. Nobody is waiting on the bench to take his place. We'll have to play a slightly different game next inning."

Keeping him alive in my heart is a gift this community has given me and I'm so grateful. This Friday he will miss another milestone, the most significant since his youngest son Jim died following him. His second granddaughter, who he loved so big it made his heart burst, will marry. I know MJ will miss Pops and so will all the rest of us. But his love still shines bright enough to light up Union Station in Chicago this Saturday August 10.

Surviving the Death of a Sibling

The Rogers Gang
Mary, Ann, Hartley, John and Jim up front

Mom and Dad often remarked that their greatest accomplishment was raising five kids who are best friends with each other. Growing up in this gang was exciting, edgy, sometimes volatile, and always full of hilarity. Fights didn’t last past the bark, the push/shove, or the thrown rock. Because, well, when the rock hit the head and the head bled, we tried to cover it. “He tripped and fell.” Unfortunately, the doctor who stitched it up said “No way. This isn’t from a fall, it’s from a thrown rock.” Dad said that the five of us played “constantly shifting alliances.” See, everyone was best friends with each other, but not *all* the time. The alliances could shift multiple times in one day. It was an idyllic childhood in many ways.

When I got a call at work on the afternoon of November 5, 2010, the words on the other end of the line, “Jim’s dead” changed my family forever. For my Mom to lose her youngest child and for my siblings and me to lose our loyal, adorable brother brought unspeakable pain. Part of me wishes to forget some of those early moments--rushing to the hospital, seeing my Mom, saying goodbye to Jim’s precious body surrounded by a golden white aurora, calling siblings, the uncontrollable sobbing, the utter disbelief. But if I did forget, I’d lose a part of me.

Surviving Jim’s death has been a process, one that will never be complete. Jim is never far from our minds. We talk and laugh about him. We acknowledge (sometimes with tears, sometimes with a big grin) when we miss him, perhaps on vacation or for a big event. But mostly, the missing, the aching missing, is just from every day living. “Jim would have loved this.” “Jim should be here, he’d be doing xxx.” In all reality, Jim isn’t gone. He’s with us all the time. That’s how I’ve survived four rocky years of a grief that still has not settled into a “new normal.” It will, it moves in that direction. But I will never get over it, I’ll just survive.

The late Elizabeth Edwards wrote this about losing a child. Anytime a friend tells anyone of us a “Jim Story,” it is a precious thing. It keeps him alive.

“If you know someone who has lost a child, and you're afraid to mention them because you think you might make them sad by reminding them that they died--you're not reminding them. They didn't forget they died. What you're reminding them of is that you remembered that they lived, and that is a great gift.” 

~ Elizabeth Edwards~

This is most likely the last picture of the five of us together.
Ann, Jim, Hartley, John, Mary

On Being in Spain, September 11, 2001

Looking at the Alhambra in Granada, Spain, Through Innocent Eyes

Pure bliss. That’s exactly what I felt on September 11, 2001. I was admiring this spectacular view of the Alhambra in Granada, Spain, exactly one week into a two week vacation. 

The Alhambra, originally constructed in 889 in southern Spain as a small fortress, was later rebuilt by a Moorish king as a magnificent royal palace for the last Muslim emirs in Spain. It was taken over by Catholic monarchs in 1492 and allowed to fall into disrepair for centuries before European scholars rediscovered the Alhambra in the 19th century and major restorations began at that time. Today, it is one of Spain's national treasures, exhibiting the country's most significant Islamic architecture. Moorish poets described it as "a pearl set in emeralds," a testament to the color of its buildings and the forest surrounding them.

We had tickets to tour the Alhambra the next day and had spent the morning and early afternoon exploring the colorful and quaint town of Granada on foot. I had read in the Lonely Planet guide that President Bill Clinton considered the view (pictured above) from San Nicholas lookout to be the most beautiful place he had witnessed a sunset. After hoofing it up the winding, hilly streets we arrived at the lookout point and I clearly remember thinking “this is my place, this is where I belong.” My love affair with Spain grew by the day.

Although it wasn’t crowded, others milled around and soaked in the beauty of a picture perfect day in the Atlas mountains. My travel partner first noticed a man looking at us and when I turned he had an anxious expression and approached us. In reality, he just wanted to hear our accent.

Our new Canadian friend snapped this picture moments after
we learned of the terrorist attacks in the United States on
September 11, 2001.

I will never forget the exact words of this Canadian. He asked if I was from the U.S. When I said yes, he replied "have you heard what is going on?" I shook my head no. He said: "Both the World Trade Center towers are on the ground and the Pentagon's on fire."  Whoa.

The final week of our vacation was significantly altered from that moment. Southern Spain, and the country in general, spoke less English than I expected. Given my broken Spanish, it was difficult to get information. We ran down the winding streets into town and stopped at the first tavern with a television. I expected English subtitles. A naive assumption, of course, and the only image we saw was the second plane hitting the tower time after time and listening to a news anchor rapidly speak in Spanish. It wasn't until four days later when we arrived back in Madrid and secured a Sunday London Times that we learned details of the attack. Horrors such as box cutters and people jumping from the top of the World Trade Center were revealed to us along with brave stories that epitomize the human spirit like Todd Beamer's command of "Let's Roll" before attempting to overtake the hijackers. But, throughout that final week of vacation, we were treated with a kindness and dignity that I will always cherish. From complimentary dinners to hugs, kisses, and prayers, we met so many people and experienced things because of the international crisis back home. 

Perhaps my passion for Spain (I hope to retire there half time) is rooted in this experience. It’s the place where my innocence of the world was forever marred and I allowed the people of Spain to comfort and hold me for a week. I left the next Tuesday on one of the first regularly scheduled Delta flights since the attacks. The compassion offered so generously by Spaniards made for a softer landing into the reality of my country being in both crisis and mourning.

Here are a few images inside the mystical Alhambra, which is a United Nations World Heritage Site.

 

Marion Barry & Me

This photograph from the January 19, 1990, Washington Post
appeared in the same edition as news coverage of Mayor Marion
Barry's arrest for crack cocaine. 

One might wonder how a young woman from Missouri could possibly hold a connection with the crack smoking, former long-term mayor of Washington, D.C. (1979-1991 and 1995-1999), especially on the day the news and pictures of his arrest splashed in papers and on televisions around the world. Marion Barry and I were the top items in The Washington Post that day--we shared the headlines.

The perfect storm of events began at noontime on January 18, 1990, when a group of my colleagues from HCR Management and Consulting gathered across the street at McPherson Park to eat lunch. The unseasonably warm January weather made it a “Great Day for a Picnic” as the headline above declares.

The Post photographer shot some photos and then asked for my name as I was the focal point of the picture. I provided it and never thought another thing. Unbeknownst to me, three blocks down K Street one of my best friends from my days at the University of Kentucky, Paul O'Neill, also decided to eat lunch at the park across from his office. The same photographer took Paul’s picture with friends and asked for his name. 

January 18 so happened to be the very night the married Mayor Marion Barry was photographed smoking crack

Mayor Marion Barry caught
smoking crack on a surveillance
video on 1-18-1990.

 with a former girlfriend in a snazzy DC hotel. The newspapers the next day featured pages and pages of grainy photos of the Mayor’s misdeeds the night before. The entire paper was news of the crack smoking mayor, a few ads, and well.....you guessed it, the picture I starred in “Great Day for a Picnic.”

A friend called to alert me that morning and I found my office copy of the paper and preened up with pride. How cool! My critical thinking cap, however, wasn’t on as I was basking in my own glory. I thought I’d pick up a few papers after work so I could send my parents a copy of the picture. The joke was on me when every single newspaper in the city was gone by 3 p.m. I managed to scrounge up a few pictures and this is the only one to survive the last 25 years. It is a great misfortune that a complete issue of the paper never made it back to Missouri because it is hard for people to believe that is really was just Marion and me in the January 19, 1990, edition of the Washington Post.

P.S. The story takes a humorous twist when my friend Paul (mentioned above), who I was in a small tiff with, called me at the office on January 19th. We had not spoken in two weeks. Rather than congratulating me on my picture, he gave me a tongue lashing about how HIS picture should have been in the paper. Paul told of getting his picture taken the day before and ripping through the Post to find his picture. And there I was laughing (at him, he says). He said seeing me in that picture was adding insult to injury. I replied that, no, it was poetic justice. We agreed to meet halfway and have never had an argument again!

Despite my trumping Paul O'Neill for the only non-Barry
picture in the Washington Post that day, we have remained friends
for over 25 years. No way Marion Barry can come between us.

A Proper Guest Room

When my good friend Allison planned a visit to Columbia for this past weekend I told her that she would be the first to sleep in my new but very old Murphy bed. Allison and I share, in addition to a dear and meaningful friendship, a love of eating with our sterling silver, sleeping on freshly ironed sheets, and other old-fashioned luxuries. In typical Allison fashion, she quipped: “Emily Post suggests spending a night in your own guest bedroom to find if anything your guests need might be missing.” I told Allison she’d once again have to be my Emily Post.

The Murphy bed is over 200 years old. For many years it was in the attic of my Great Grandmother’s home in Columbia for use when her family members would come for summer visits from Palmyra, Missouri. In the late 1970s my Mom had it refinished and we used it for extra bed space at our lake cabin. At some point, my cousin Garry Banks, moved it in his home but due to downsizing, he asked my Mom if she wanted it back. I volunteered to be the latest keeper of the family Murphy bed.

I enjoyed preparing her room before her Saturday arrival. I even managed to incorporate the awkward elliptical machine (note: always for sale, shoot me your best offer) that is in the room as a part of the guest bedroom decor, thinking “every traveler needs a quick work out.” I selected several albums for her listening pleasure and had fresh cut Irises adding a lovely scent to the air.

I’m now taking reservations for the summer season. Allison left me this message in the nonexistent guestbook.

“When checking in to any popular Boone County B & B one expects to find well lit and well appointed rooms with beautiful decor and comfortable amenities, but nothing compares to the magnificent antique Murphy bed found in Ann’s guest room. It stands majestic with a lovely filigree and other simple adornments and yet folds down into a most comfortable place to spend a night of soothing sleep, nestled on a down pillow encased by a freshly ironed cotton pillow case.  The room also holds a sitting area, stereo and even a state of the art elliptical machine. Already looking forward to the next time!”--Allison Ricks, May 19, 2013

12-12-12

The auspicious day has arrived--The Maya Prophecy! As the magnet above states so perfectly--The End? or The Beginning?

Fall 2009. Wednesday night often found Mom, Jim, and me at the weekly church dinner. It ensured that we would see each other at least weekly and eat a delicious, hot meal prepared by the one and only Laura Estes. The round tables seat eight people to promote friendship and fellowship.

That Wednesday night Mom brought up my impending trip to Guatemala later that winter. I can hear her now, “Do you know that they KILL Americans down there?” Someone at the table piped in “Do you know they kill Americans in Columbia, Mo.?” She moved on. “And who are you going with?” she asked. By myself, I replied. “WHY would you want to go THERE?” Jim was cracking up, watching the common disconnect between the style and ways of Mom and me.

“Ann’s going to get things set for December 12, 2012,” Jim told Mom. “WHAT?” Jim continued, explaining to Mom that the day was the end of the Maya calendar and likely the end of the world. He playfully held out his hand and told Mom she should turn over her cash to him as it would be worthless in just two years. Later Jim told me that the Mayas were a special interest of his--progressive, highly intelligent people, way ahead of their time.

When I was in Guatemala, I saw the magnet pictured and bought one for me and one for Jim. It was on his refrigerator until the day he died. Tears streamed as I took it down when my siblings and I worked to clear his house following his death. I put the magnet in my pocket.

Today, I want to find Jim’s good friend Dan Riepe and give him the magnet. I don’t need two, I don’t want two magnets. 

Missing Jim

Jim Rogers (Nov 18, 1976-Nov 5, 2010)

Two years ago today my baby brother was called home. The loving and missing are still fresh but not raw. My hope is to never get “over it” but rather to move through it at all stages of my life with grace and hope and a dignity that honors Jim.

The Trading Post

Ann Rogers, John Rogers, and Hartley Rogers on their way to
collect goods for the annual Trading Post in Columbia, Mo., on
Halloween evening, mid-1970s.

The only Halloween picture in my cache of photos works well for the story I want to share about a Halloween past. Last year I told the granddaddy of them all--receiving a bowl of guppies as a Halloween treat and the trick it played on my siblings and me. See http://annie-allthingsimportant.blogspot.com/2011_10_01_archive.html for the true tale.

This year’s story remembers the annual “Trading Post” with my brothers. Hartley, John, and me would come home from hours of trick-or-treating and pour our bags of candy into individual mountains and carefully divide the loot into categories (think chocolate, bubble gum, taffy, suckers, caramelized apples, nuts, non-edible toys, and on), creating foothills to each mountain of candy. 

When finished, the Cowgirl (me), the Indian (John), and the Patriot (Hartley) would spend a couple of hours bartering wares so that our arsenal best suited individual taste buds. I can’t imagine the amount of chocolate I sacrificed to obtain as much bubble gum as possible. See, gum was contraband in the home according to Mom and anything banned topped my list. My brothers tended to go for pure sugar and chocolate did the trick. I think all three of us would agree that we have as many memories surrounding the annual Trading Post as the actual trick-or-treat collecting itself. It’s when the game got serious and the stakes became high.

As much as my Mom disliked Halloween, I think my Dad secretly loved it as this memory reveals. One Halloween, perhaps later in the evening in the picture above, the Trading Post conducted its final deals and closed shop. We all took our goods to place in hiding from each other--and as it turns out, most importantly Dad. That night, in the wee hours, when brother John was too pepped on sugar to fall asleep my father tiptoed into his room to swindle a sample from his hidden stash in the closet. Before Dad could make the steal, John shot up in bed and declared “Don’t take my candy!” Dad was so startled by the command that he allowed an eight-year-old Indian to stop him in his tracks. 

Employed Again!

My Dad encouraged me always to be my best in any situation.

My Dad always said......“You need to have a job to get a job!”

Stephens College threw me a curve ball in Summer 2011 when they laid me off from my professional position at the college. I became a part of one of the most feared national statistics--the unemployed. 

Though many experiences over the 14 months felt like vignettes out of a B-movie plot, I learned so much about myself, values, faith, and determination while experiencing joys and opportunities that I might never had otherwise. Unemployment benefits, freelance writing, babysitting, and book selling kept me from borrowing money or losing my home. Still, unemployment is hard, hard stuff. It can get to one’s head and it certainly did mine. Certain X factors made it difficult for me to find employment: my stubborn desire to stay in Columbia; a professional background of many years in director-level jobs in a specialized field; and a resume that made me appear unaffordable and “overqualified” for jobs that I would have given my all to if hired. I was the bargain that no one would hire.

I realized after a year that it was time to take up my brother’s offer to work at the Dairy Queen franchise he owns. Starting my fast food career at the age of 46 was humbling to say the least but I soon learned life lessons that I will treasure forever. 

David Baskett Rogers and Ann Louise Rogers
Our Last Dance

Today, I want to share with you that I have accepted an offer as Manager, Research and Development Services at ChildFund International (http://www.childfund.org/). Some opportunities are worth the wait. Beginning September 4th, I will work in my specialized field (prospect research) from my home, with regular visits to the ChildFund headquarters in Richmond, Virginia, and receive the best pay and benefits package I’ve ever been offered. 

And I very well may be the only ChildFund professional that has the coveted DQ “curl” skill in their arsenal. A word to my friends--never underestimate the difficulty of that curl that tops the ice cream cone or the intelligent and hardworking staff at Dairy Queen--or any fast food restaurant. It is difficult, fast paced, and under appreciated work. I’ll forever remember Dairy Queen as the place I was reminded once again of my Dad’s great wisdom. 

“You need to have a job to get a job.”

Neon IOOF Sign Relit 40 Years Later

The Relit IOOF Sign Again in its Original Glory

The bright neon glow of the Independent Order of Odd Fellows (IOOF) sign once again lights up the southwest corner of Walnut and 10th Streets in downtown Columbia. After 40 years of darkness, the restored sign was remounted and lit in late spring of this year. The sign marks the historic building that currently houses Stuart Insurance and the We Always Swing Jazz Series among several other local businesses.

John Bell, owner of Stuart Insurance and treasurer of the Columbia Odd Fellows, said the lodge had long considered refurbishing the sign but in the past the extra expense always shelved the idea. The organization commissioned Bee Seen Signs for the restoration, which was originally designed and installed by Davis & Hourigan Sign Company, in the early 1950s. Coincidentally, Bee Seen Signs purchased Davis & Hourigan in 1985. Tom Hourigan, son of the original IOOF sign designer, now serves as manager of Bee Seen Signs, and was delighted to learn of the effort to relight the downtown sign that often arouses local curiosity and questions.

When work started Hourigan found the sign in remarkably good condition with no chips to the porcelain enamel. The original transformer boxes--date stamped 1948-49--still worked and as Hourigan said, “they don’t make them like they used to.” After removing dirt and tar build-up he decided to use the originals to power the neon lights.

“The sign was in great shape,” Hourigan added. “There was enough old neon left to trace a pattern of the original lettering and to replicate the original colors of the sign. It mostly needed elbow grease to restore.”

The sign runs on a timer and is now lit from 6-10 daily. Sitting on the edge of the North Village Arts District, it adds a nostalgic flavor to a section of downtown Columbia that missed the neon glow of the IOOF letters since the late 1960s and promises to keep shining bright for decades to come.

The Restored IOOF Sign Ready to be Remounted to the Odd Fellows Building

Summer Eating: The Good Life

Year round, Saturday mornings bring tennis, one of the ultimate joys in my life. In late March these mornings move into joy explosion as the Columbia Farmer’s Market opens the outdoor season at its quarters in central city. The scheduling of tennis and shopping for scrumptious foods becomes a juggling act that has me bouncing from bed to merge two of my life’s great passions.

For many years, I’ve pursued good eating often to more success than others. In college, I waitressed at Alfalfa Restaurant in Lexington, Kentucky, where I learned about wholegrain foods and the simplicity of good eating. I credit many meals there and incorporating what I attempted to replicate in my kitchen to countering weight that would surely have packed on by beer and the inevitable late night pizzas ordered to satisfy the “munchies.”

My post college decade brought a more intellectual approach to good eating, driven in part by my readings of the books by Helen and Scott Nearing, considered the grandparents of the “back to the land” movement. Part fascination of a lifestyle I knew little about (google their names if interested) and a dash of incorporation of their practices, the marriage of lessons learned at Alfalfa and their example of unattainable but noble ideals moved me forward in my good eating goals. Still, my love for beer and the lifestyle of an on-the-go career woman led to lots of eating out--a killer for positive food choices. My eating habits ran the spectrum and I had little middle ground. On a regular basis I either ate with conviction or moved to the other end of eating with convenience and lack of care. 

By my late 30s into my 40s, I found myself acutely aware of what goes in and what comes out is a matter of life and death. Like most indulgent Americans, my choices continued to dance across the spectrum but my inner voice spoke louder than ever. Good eating led to many rewards: beautiful skin; a figure that is long, muscular, and lean; and support of local establishments and farmers that matches my ethos in both eating and consumerism. Coupled with my joy of hitting the little yellow ball across the tennis court and fresh, unprocessed foods, my life and health maintains a balance that honors both body and spirit.

Each year the Farmer’s Market season escalates both opportunity and unbridled enthusiasm for good eating. It is also a social experience that I anticipate each week as other like-minded friends can be found among the crowd. Additionally, friendships gained with my favorite vendors add grist for my mill of obtaining ideas to incorporate and the example of a lifestyle I will never have but admire and support with joy. By peppering the farmers with questions, I learn even more that adds sparkle to my Saturday morning ritual.

Below I relay this year’s food passion that finally finds a delicious use for the wonder food kale and some tips for storing market food that brings out the best taste possible and prolongs the life of the produce. A few weeks ago, visiting with a friend prior to a Summerfest concert, I shared the recipe for this merging of nutrition and awesome taste with my friend Susan. Though interested, Susan admitted with a scrunched nose that she couldn’t hide, that “kale can be very scary.” Rest assured, my readers, the kale can only be seen in the color and the health benefits of my new breakfast are both vitamin loaded and full of taste.

Annie’s Green Goddess Smoothie

In blender, combine coconut milk, flax seed (for protein), a handful of kale (ribs removed), several chunks of fresh pineapple (this is what I taste the most), a banana and blend. Then add ice. The proper amount of each ingredient is trial and error to refine the consistency of the drink that suits individual taste. I prefer plenty of ice so I can drink it while others like a less watered down version to be eaten with a spoon.  The smoothie can also be modified by adding fruits or vegetables (peaches, blueberries, cucumber, and spinach so far) that are nearing the end of their fresh lives to avoid any waste in my kitchen. This treat jumpstarts my day and gives me a power on the tennis courts that I frequent on a summer schedule that is hard to beat. And, like most women, I have a bit of vanity running through my blood. I love all the compliments that come from having the best physique of my life--thin but not too thin and the glow of good living.

Here are a few things I’ve learned about food storage of fresh produce.

Some foods are best not refrigerated until they become very ripe and life extension prevails over optimum taste. These include tomatoes, fresh peaches, and apples, which are best stored on the counter out of direct sunlight. On the flip side, berries should be stored in the refrigerator from the onset. Fresh greens, squash, asparagus, and cucumbers also benefit from the refrigerator though best practice in storing varies. I refer you to a web link that offers some valuable tips that, if followed, will minimize waste and maximize both taste and life of the produce.

http://articles.mercola.com/sites/articles/archive/2010/07/29/where-do-you-store-produce-in-your-fridge-for-maximum-shelf-life.aspx

Summer: Tennis and the Farmer’s Market equates pure joy for this tall blonde in mid-Missouri. Toss in summer concerts, a little air conditioning when needed, and the blooms of my flower garden and I find the heat a small price to pay for my heaven on earth.

Super Sunday

Super Sunday Guys
John Rogers and David Rogers

Super Sunday

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

The term Super Sunday may refer to the following

• Super Sunday (TV series), a 1980s American cartoon multicharacter series from Sunbow and Marvel Productions, all featuring Hasbro characters.
• Super Sunday (phone-a-thon), the annual phone-a-thon fundraising drives held by Jewish federations throughout North America, on various Sundays of the year
• Super Sunday or "Super Bowl Sunday", the Sunday of the National Football League's championship game, the Super Bowl
• Ford Super Sunday, the live Sunday afternoon Premiership football broadcast on Sky Sports in the UK
• Super Sunday, a popular Taiwanese TV show, hosted by Harlem Yu among others

• Super Sunday (computer game), a 1986 video game published by Avalon Hill for the Apple II and Commodore 64^[citation needed^]
• "Super Sunday", in New Orleans, refers to one of the annual celebrations staged by Mardi Gras Indian tribes, and held in Uptown, Downtown, or the west bank of New Orleans

AND

**Wikipedia please take note**

• A day in June when Father’s Day and a man’s birthday occur on the same Sunday. This phenomenon can only occur for males with children whose birthday fall between June 15-June 21.  

Super Sunday a la Father’s Day and Dad’s birthday (June 21) required a full-blown celebration in the Rogers household. Realistically the two days coincided once every six years but memory is a funny thing and with the sixth Father’s Day without Dad to celebrate, this is what I remember each year. 

“There’s only two days a year that my kids are nice to me and they fall on the same damn day,” he would playfully declare each year when Father’s Day and his birthday coincided. Dad loved getting presents and wanted to be doted on by his family. He much preferred multiple small gifts to unwrap rather than a more significant joint gift. In fact, he perceived one of the true injustices of his lifetime to be the Father’s Day that we all went together and presented him with a pair of expensive running shoes called “The Beast.” My sister-in-law knew he needed to exercise and found a shoe designed for the bigger man. The lone box that stared at him went from insult to injury when he unwrapped only to discover running shoes. Jill took the heat that year.

Super Sunday thus presented a unique challenge. He guided the rules--no church and Father’s Day would be celebrated with a full spread breakfast of bacon, eggs, sweet rolls, fresh fruit, and coffee followed by the opening of presents. This man loved to unwrap gifts, if he liked the item, all the better but the ritual of pulling off the colorful paper and ribbon in anticipation pleased him the most. At noon Father’s Day would end. Then around 5:00 in the afternoon on Super Sunday, the family would gather again to celebrate Dad’s birthday with a dinner of his choice followed by birthday cake and candles, singing, and of course, another round of presents.

And we would hear the refrain “There’s only two days a year that my kids are nice to me and they fall on the same damn day,” sprinkled throughout the day. Of course Dad loved every aspect of the holiday he created for himself.

As life would have it, my brother John’s birthday is June 19th, with last year being his Super Sunday. I called him last night to ask if he continues the tradition with his children and he immediately said: “of course I do. I milk it. My kids know the Super Sunday tradition.” Then John added that he even uses the same line and without missing a beat we both chimed in unison “There’s only two days a year that my kids are nice to me and they fall on the same damn day.” 

As Kurt Vonnegut would say, “So it Goes.”

Florence Clementine Ezekiel Jones

The Face of Florence Clementine Ezekiel Jones

I’d like to introduce you to an imaginary childhood friend, Florence Clementine Ezekiel Jones. Perched just over Stadium Boulevard, a bit north of College Park in Columbia, Mo., her hard, stone stare watched the ground below for perhaps hundreds of years, maybe longer. No one, not even my grandmother Dee Dee who created the character, knew how long she sat there but Florence Clementine Ezekiel Jones channeled the stories of my grandmother’s youth on the family farm.

A group of local citizens tried to save the
formation known to others simply as
"The Rock Face."

My paternal grandmother, Edna Baskett Rogers, was born in the small rural community of McFall located in northwest Missouri. Her family farm, now just an open field with a highway passing through, sat on the east edge of an almost extinct town (population now 93). The nature-chiseled face of stone met a similar fate as the farm when the Missouri Department of Transportation blasted the rock to expand Stadium Boulevard in 1989. Mom alerted me in college about the construction that destroyed the rock face from Columbia’s landscape. Even from Kentucky-land, my home at the time and also where Dee Dee’s ancestors migrated from to settle in Missouri, I grieved a piece of my childhood that I would never see again.

Only Dee Dee herself would know how she discovered Florence Clementine Ezekiel Jones or where the whimsical name derived. My guess is one day when she picked up her grandchildren in her little green Maverick she glanced at the rock face and questioned “do you know about Florence Clementine Ezekiel Jones?” My grandmother was the kind of storyteller that invented names and tales as she talked. Dee Dee told stories that begged repeating, many that made my green eyes brim as round as my little blonde head.

Edna Baskett Rogers (1901-1986)

Dee Dee, like her granddaughter, was an outdoors girl--playful, imaginative, sometimes mischievous, and always full of stories. Through the eyes of the imaginary Florence Clementine Ezekiel Jones I learned about my grandmother’s childhood in the frank manner that matched her personality. Without these tales, I would have never known to ask about what it meant to have the first indoor privy in the area or how a young woman handled menstruation prior to paper products. Florence Clementine Ezekiel Jones recalled with sadness when her brother, known as “Little Dick” was scalded to death by a bucket of boiling water along with other hardships of early twentieth century farm life such as fire and an ill-tempered father. Florence also created a lot of fun--picking berries, pulling outrageous pranks on her siblings, wading in the creeks, and recounting the tales of the generations before her. Florence even helped a child move through the underground railroad system during the Civil War. Of course, the line between family history and pure storytelling was blurry but that is part of the magic and legacy of Florence Clementine Ezekiel Jones.

The Next Incarnation of Florence Clementine Ezekiel Jones

For my 40th birthday in May 2006 and the first birthday after my father died, Mom gave me a stone statue for my garden. When I saw it, without hesitation, I blurted out “that’s Florence Clementine Ezekiel Jones!” Since then, she has guarded the flower bed in front of my home as the purple coneflower, my favorite of Missouri’s many native flowers, has multiplied by the year and now surrounds her with a natural beauty that befits her namesake. 

Dee Dee is surrounded by four of her twelve grandchildren on her birthday
in the early 1980s. From left to right, John Rogers, Hartley Rogers, Annie
Rogers, and Jim Rogers. Not pictured are Mary Gordon, Donna
Vokish, Laurie Fausnaugh, Jimmy Rogers, Rusty Patton, Judy Patton,
Trudis Ann Patton, and Mark Patton. We all loved her very much.

“Mercyland: Hymns For the Rest of Us”

(Tone Tree Music, released April 2012)

“I was on my boss Emmylou’s tour bus in 2008 when a really crazy TV preacher came on the satellite TV and caused me to wonder how to counterbalance this bad PR God continues to get from his own flock. 

So, I came up with the simple idea of gathering together a few great musical artists singing songs written around the basic theme of “What If God Is Love?”--Phil Madeira

With that inspiration and vision, singer, songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, and producer Phil Madeira spearheaded a project that resulted in “Mercyland: Hymns For the Rest of Us.” In no way is this production of the “contemporary Christian” genre but rather a reflection of a universal God or spirit that loves and serves mankind. 

Most songs on this concept compilation are new material--written, performed, and arranged for the CD. Though Madeira had a hand or voice in each song he gathered an impressive group of musicians to share his vision. From the spectacular opening song by the Civil Wars (“From This Valley”) to the final song by John Scofield (“Peace in the Valley”), a variety of musicians fill the “valley” framed by this arrangement. 

I didn’t notice the symbolic bookends these songs created until I started writing this nor do I know if it was purposeful by Madeira. Regardless, a valley sows the seeds of a fertile ground and the songs that sprouted in “Mercyland: Hymns For the Rest of Us” are lush and hardy. Musicians such as Shawn Mullins, Emmylou Harris, Buddy Miller, The Carolina Chocolate Drops, and Dan Tyminski share a message of hope that is ecumenical and inspiring regardless of a person’s religious practice--or lack of it. 

The all-star cast of roots and bluegrass musicians make this a CD that belongs in any music lover’s collection. In an age of turmoil, tragedy, and polarization around the world, “Mercyland: Hymns For the Rest of Us” is a universal treat. It neither promotes or negates any religion or spiritual practice. Rather it is a reminder that music and spirituality have always been intertwined and provide solace and hope to a world in desperate need of mercy and grace.

This song by Shawn Mullins addresses God’s love for all--Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Jews, Buddhists, and Atheists are all mentioned by name as Mullins breaks the barriers and reminds the listener that God loves us all even if we all "Give God the Blues.”

~May Day Memories~

2012 May Day Bouquet for Mom and Mary

The small joys and fun of May Day are woven into the story of my childhood but my memories are a bit threadbare. As a youngster, my fistful of lily of the valleys and dandelions placed in a small container brought squeals of delight from my grandmother. I would ring the doorbell and flee while Miss Dolly praised the bouquet, its beauty, and wondered aloud who brought her these lovely flowers. Hit rewind numerous times each year. She repeated this act, with enthusiasm, all day long for each of her grandchildren.

Through the years, the family “May Dayers” dwindled. The older generation slipped away, the boys lacked interest, everyone lived in different places--but my Mom, Dad, and sister all still played May Day with enthusiasm. In college, Mary sent the smallest bouquets she could order through the mail to Kentucky. She did the same for Mom, which reminded us both of Miss Dolly and old traditions celebrated by our family. Three months before Dad died (May Day 2005) he picked a small bouquet of lily of the valleys and gave them to me in one of Mom’s short Waterford vases. He said I could keep the vase too. Mom squealed just like her Mother years before--but this squeal implied “my vase needs to be returned!” Dad winked at me. 

I still have most of the last May Day bouquet from my father
but obviously I didn't get to keep the vase. The little drink
umbrella was added with the dried lily of the valleys the night that
my parents took me out to celebrate my tennis medal in the
Show-Me State Games. It proved to be our last date
as Dad died in his sleep about 10 days later.

To my surprise, a brief search on the history of May Day revealed controversy and conflicting stories of its origin. Some say it is Christian, others pagan. Traditionally, it is celebrated abroad more than in the U.S. and its history goes back before the birth of Christ. Since 1890, it is known as International Workers Day in the UK, originally in the fight for the eight-hour work day. It still serves as a day of protest there, and increasingly, around the globe. Until today, I never considered the current news of the Occupy Movement’s call to not work, shop, or go to school on May 1, 2012, as a May Day activity. 

But, enough! My history of May Day will always be about little fingers picking and arranging flowers to leave on the doorstep, ringing the doorbell, and running into the woods without a worry in the world.