When I was coming up, Southern preachers used several euphemisms for death. The older I get, the more I appreciate them. People who plan on a future in heaven may be the lucky ones because they're comforted by specific words other believers say or sing to them as they cherish the memory of dear ones departed. 

 

Reverend Raymond Jones, my Daddy, was one of those preachers who talked about death in several different ways without saying any part of it was final. It was his fervent belief that the soul never dies. He said, "See you on the other side" or "Your loved one is crossing over" or "passing on" and he promised, "We'll meet you at the river," referring to the River Jordan. 

 

He'd get some music going behind him as we all cogitated on why people have to leave us. His reasons always included, "Because the Lord calls us home." We stood to sing and sway and cry or shout or raise an arm in the air to, "I Won't Have to Cross Jordan Alone" and "Shall We Gather at the River." 

 

We shared many traditions with neighboring Black churches and one I wish we'd borrowed is calling the event a "Homegoing." Our church music expressed a whole range of emotions, some sad songs that brought out the embroidered handkerchiefs and others that inspired foot stomping and hand clapping. Our congregants saying "funeral" or "the service" as in "Sister Ogden's service will be on Saturday" didn't hint at the fact that sometimes, depending on the song, the proceedings could seem unusual to the uninitiated.

 

Everyone in our family sang at funerals. From the time I was about ten, Daddy insisted I sing "Beautiful Isle of Somewhere." Mother often chose "Precious Lord" or "Just A Closer Walk." When Daddy and Mother sang together, he was fond of "This World Is Not My Home." The link below from a recording in the 1950s is one of the few where Daddy takes the lead and Mother sings harmony.  Their duets were an unusual combination of his country tenor and her bluesy alto. 

 

Their music has been re-mastered, re-released, and today their voices pop up in places that didn't exist when they were here. Every now and then when I hear them in a movie or on television or streaming somewhere, I'm ten years old again, seated next to my brother on a wooden pew in a church in the Deep South. 

 

 

 

 

 

This World Is Not My Home

 

 

The link below the picture of my gospel singing Mother, "Sister Fern Jones," (with a fan in Nashville, 1959) is her version of "Precious Lord Take My Hand." 

 

 

 

 

https://youtu.be/xUXZJHwVEv8?si=dtjKiuYNw53-yUPQ

 

 

The chapel in the pictures above is Little Brown Church in Studio City, California.  

 

Spellcheck and my book manuscript don't speak the same language. Spellcheck can handle "y'all" and "ain't" but I write a conversation from the Deep South in the 1950's and Spellcheck lays down squiggly red lines, lots of them on every page during this final pass through before the printer gets it.

 

In one chapter, evangelists outside a tent revival meetin' look up at the crop duster they hired to drop leaflets and one of them says,

 

"Well now he's just showin' out." Spellcheck wants him to say "showing off" but of course he wouldn't.

 

Another place Spellcheck and I tussle is when I type lyrics to songs Mother (aka Sister Fern Jones) recorded. I spell them out the way she sang them. I never saw anybody in any audience in our travels through the Deep South who didn't understand what she meant, but Spellcheck would like them changed. 

 

Through this process, the publisher and I take miles of steps together through this process with Spellcheck asking are you sure and me saying, yes, that really is what I meant to say. I type the name of this song I'm about to link for you. Spelllcheck asks would you like to correct it?  I say no thank you. I ain't messin' with Sister Fern.  I didn't mess with her when she walked amongst us, and I ain't fixin' to start in now. 

 

In this song, I listen again as she gets all wound up and by now even Spellcheck is about ready to give up.

 

"Furthermore" is "fuh'-tha-more" and she's got her own version of "boogeyman."  You'll catch it when you listen.

 

Listen to "You Ain't Got Nuthin."  

 

 

 

(Re-mastered from original recordings in Nashville, 1950s and re-released)

 

Here's the book, all shiny and spellchecked.

 

 

 

Music stories touch on the close relationships between Patsy Cline and Loretta Lynn, Kris Kristofferson and Johnny Cash.  In each case, one got out in front a bit and reached back to bring another one along, to make a living writing, performing, touring, getting steady work in the music business, maybe getting on The Opry.  Patsy had hits, met Loretta, loved her and looked out for her.  Kris wrote great songs but when he met Johnny, he was a janitor at a recording studio just trying to get someone to hear them.  Johnny listened.

 

In the 1950's, Mother (Sister Fern Jones) was writing songs and looking for a recording artist to record one of them.  Her options were limited.  She wrote and performed only gospel. She needed to find  a popular artist who also sang "inspirational" songs now and then.

 

She handed her packages to my brother and me to take to the post office, packages containing tapes of her singing her songs.  One went to the home of The Singing Governor, Jimmie Davis, in Louisiana, the man with the hit song, "You Are My Sunshine." We didn't know how she got his attention in the first place.  We didn't ask.  We were young kids, not that curious about our parents' activities that didn't concern us.

 

It could have been Kousin Karl, a country radio deejay, who let everyone know how much he liked the music sung by Sister Fern.  Karl was well connected and he emceed shows all over the place.  It could have been  gospel recording artists appearing on the same bill with her or musicians from all over the South who showed up to accompany the singers.

 

Did Sister Fern fit into that group of people who reached back to help?  Did she ever promote someone else's work?  Daddy did.  Helping other people was his job as a preacher, and it was also how he believed, but if Mother helped other people, she never spoke of any such relationships.

 

We didn't find out until after she passed.   Going through her files (multiple tall filing cabinets chronicling her life in music) there were audition tapes and rough music manuscripts and head shots and demo records sent to her from strangers from all over the world, hoping she'd connect them with someone else.  I don't know how those people found her address and phone number, but they reached her in surprising numbers.

 

She kept all the material she received and copies of her responses, handwritten on those self-carboned note papers.  To some, she offered names and addresses of contacts.  By then there were multiple television shows featuring gospel music and she seemed to know all of them.

 

Once in a while today we hear a right-place-at-the-right-time story, but not as often as we used to.  Back then, without any apparent expectation of reciprocity, country and gospel performers helped each other.  It's how things worked.

 

I hear Daddy saying from the pulpit, "You've gotta help somebody," and then I have to go listen to this song.

 

Don Gibson, "If I Can Help Somebody"

 

 

 

 

There was almost no time lapse between graduating Herbert Hoover High in Glendale and singing all night in clubs. I was underage, wore tons of make-up and turned my natural red hair blonde, spending hours in a salon every month to keep it that way.

 

A nightclub singer's wardrobe was flashy. Feathers. (There are feathers on the bottom of that white dress and the bottom isn't far from the top.)  Sequins.  Fancy fabrics.  Much of my paycheck went to a little shop in Beverly Hills where I made layaway payments.

 

The pay for a singer back then?  Not enough to afford the clothes.  Many of us worked two jobs.  I was a skinny teenage girl burning the candle at both ends. My day job was to try to look good at a front desk in the  plush lobby of a high rise in downtown Los Angeles.  I was a lickety-split typist but I didn't tell them that because I doubt I could have stayed alert enough to complete a task, so I just sat there.

 

The company was LAI, Lockheed Aircraft International, where military officers from other nations came to negotiate the purchase of aircraft with a team of LAI attorneys.  My job was to smile and greet them and push buttons to summon their hosts and translators.  Through translators, we chatted. They loved music and wherever I sang, there they were.

 

 

 

 

 

So – all day in an office, then change clothes and sing until 1 or 2 AM, then drive home, try to sleep, wake up to lots of coffee and do it all over again. it took a while before I made enough from singing to stop the day jobs, but eventually every bar and restaurant featured musicians and a singer and times were good for live music all over Southern California.

 

 

 

I don't remember back then ever having a single conscious thought about my work in clubs having anything to do with rebelling against my upbringing.  It was just something I knew how to do.  I grew up performing with my family.

 

I'm still surrounded by boxes of photos for my book project.  Pictures do bring up stories. I'm telling this one to say, well I'll be. There's much here in common with my mother.  Fern Jones took her guitar into a radio station when she was 12 and they were glad to give her a show.  By the age of 14, she lied about her age to sing in honky-tonks, then went to work with a big band. Then she met Daddy.

 

Because of Daddy's religious beliefs, I was raised with no makeup, no going where liquor was served and pretty much everything else a young woman wanted to do was a sin. These days I look at pictures of teenage Fern and it's apple, meet tree.

 

 

                                                                                                                           *********

 

 

 

 

 

 

Several friends died in one week and another just received word that she has probably spent her last Christmas here. Those of us who are of an age are reminded every day with every loss that we've used up more of life than is left to us.

Oituaries list accomplishments, relationships, family ties, travels, hobbies and service to the community. I read them and am proud of the lives they lived but my memories are mostly about everyday conversations, back when we didn't know what day they'd be leaving.

 

Every time I say goodbye to a friend the "why" ritual begins. Why him? Why her? Why am I still here? Am I doing what I'm meant to be doing with whatever time is left?  I don't think we consider purpose often enough in our younger years but now it's a constant. I move on to prayers of gratitude for every blessing so far. 

 

I commune with those who left.

 

I remember some of our last encounters. Most of our conversations were about small things, with the exception of Ed, who was never anything but intense, therefore there were no small things.

 

Paulette explained to me repeatedly how she grew the extraordinary hydrangeas in her garden. She offered pruning tips and feeding tips but remained puzzled that though I tried to follow her advice I was never able to replicate her success. I could manage a couple of plants with a modest number of blossoms.  For Paulette, hydrangeas grew halfway up the side of her house and showed off every time I passed by. I wish I'd taken a picture of her hydrangeas. I didn't, but here's a picture of one of my hydrangea plants in Mill Valley which may owe its exsistence to Paulette's advice.

 

 

 

 

I remember the combination of turmoil and soul and business acumen that was Eddie. Talented and driven and always swirling around inside some creative vortex, near the end of his life he was awed by memories of the steadfast nature of his wife. Kathy had passed years before but in every conversation before he left, he still wanted to talk about her, about how he hadn't been nearly a good enough husband for her. This picture is from one of our Sunday morning family breakfasts in Toluca Lake. Wish I had more pictures of Kathy. She's the one taking this photo of Ed and me.

 

 

 

 

Memory replays conversations with a friend scheduled for surgery some years back. Pete was apprehensive about the operation, but because he was so well prepared for the active future he envisioned, we all pushed back those fears. Over glasses of good wine (one of his passions) he held forth about his plans for the near future. He was excited that he'd done well enough to afford to buy a sweet spot in California's Gold Country because Sandra loved it and they were also planning to move into the new home they would occupy at De Silva Island in Mill Valley. He didn't move into either place. He was gone as soon as surgery began.

 

 

 

Losses remind us to get our own things in order but it's the nature of the living to believe we have at least this one more day to do it.  We say goodbye to dear ones and also remind ourselves there's no guilt in celebrating every time we welcome a sunrise. I hope it's what they'd be doing if they were here.

 

******

 

 

My brother and I were not happy little harmonizers on The Glory Road, though we were part of the family singing group called, "The Joneses."  Daddy was following his calling to preach, Mother followed her calling to sing. Leslie Ray and I believed our true calling (at present only a dream, a wish) was to amble down a country road somewhere that would lead to a house of our own, a school we'd go to every day, and friends who'd know us from one year to the next. Just because you can sing harmony, that doesn't mean you always want to.

 

We worked the tent revival circuit, booked for months in advance and from time to time the family needed to refresh our presentation. Daddy said,  "We'd best practice before we get to Amarillo."

 

He enticed us into learning our parts by singing songs we liked on the radio. We started off with The Sons Of The Pioneers' "Tumbling Tumbleweeds" and when we had our parts down on that one, he switched us over to "What A Friend We Have In Jesus" in the same key.

 

Long stretches of Route 66 through the Deep South offered nothing to look at except tumbleweeds, giant puffs of them rolling free on the highway or stuck to a fence.  Daddy played a game with them.

 

 

 

A huge tumbleweed clump was minding its own business somewhere in Texas and as we got closer it loomed about half-a-car size. The motion of our big old sedan invited it to dance.  It floated up and plopped on the windshield, covering the view.  Leslie Ray said, "Daddy you better stop," but Daddy laughed and said, "Watch this."

 

Instead of stopping and freeing the thing, his game was to keep driving and speed up, then brake quickly trying to get it to release itself.  Man against nature.  It wasn't safe, but not much about car travel was back then.

 

Here are The Sons Of The Pioneers helping two young Gospel Gypsies learn harmony in the early 1950s.

 

"Tumbling Tumbleweeds"

 

 

 

Have you ever moved into a home previously inhabited by an avid gardener and watched as the seasons reveal what's already been planted and lovingly tended?  I've lived many places and a couple of times I've had the pleasure of watching unexpected gifts reveal themselves in gardens planned by someone else.

 

August in certain Northern California counties  is prime time for spotting Naked Ladies.  Driving through Napa and Sonoma and Marin Counties, rows of them line the road. Clumps pop up in cracks in concrete where it would seem nothing could grow. Now my family's in Sacramento County where I hadn't seen any so far this season.

 

I just returned from traveling, let the pups out, looked way back toward the fence and thought my eyes were playing tricks.  Naked Ladies. Right here in our own back yard.

 

This home and these gardens were brought to life by a dear friend over several decades.  We oohed and aahed over her beloved rose garden, the trees of all sizes that shade this place, the strawberry and tomato plants that march along the side fence. When Pam moved here decades ago, she was greeted by enormous asparagus ferns that still stand tall and carry their age well.

 

I don't remember seeing these Naked Ladies here during her lifetime, but here they are, two big clumps of them, obscured earlier by her prolific rose garden. I glanced around behind a rose and spotted another Naked Lady tucked up against the back fence, nearly hidden by ferns.

 

I'm not so much a gardener as a garden appreciator. I've loved these Ladies for years and the only thing I knew about them is that they take their name from their stems with no leaves. Here's more. (I looked it up)

 

They're in the lily family, starting life as a bulb. During the winter a plant with leaves appears, looking like any other plant.  Then the leaves die away and you can easily forget about them. A few months later during hot weather, up pops a bare stalk then another and another. They drop seeds which insure surprise sightings in years to come.  Once a bulb's planted, you never know how many will show up next season.

 

This has now exhausted most of the garden words I know.  The Lady above may be naked, but she still retains some mystery. More updates from the garden as nature provides.

 

 

******

 

          I haven't sent Christmas cards in a while, though I love receiving yours, and your newsletters and pictures. I hold memories close and this is a time for being in touch.   

 

          Until recently I lived in Mill Valley, California in a cottage surrounded by redwoods and fog. I loved every minute of it. Daughter, Cathleen and the grand, Caedan Ray lived in Woodland Hills. We commuted to visit, Northern to Southern California, reverse and repeat. Things change. I'm older. My immediate family is tiny. We decided to merge. Less time on I-5 and more time together. Sacramento is home base now. We lived here decades ago when Cath was little. In our neighborhood, it seems every time a home sells, the new occupants are San Franisco commuters.

 

          An actor friend, mentioning a TV show or movie he's in, prefaces it with "SSP" (Shameless Self Promotion) which is the only way we'll know the what and the where, and I still don't know a better way to update what I'm doing except with a bit of SSP. It's been a while, so in case I haven't mentioned it, I finally finished the book I was writing. It's "The Glory Road: A Gospel Gypsy Life" published by University of Alabama Press. Sold everywhere. More details and other stuff at www.anitagarner.com.

 

          Libraries have always been the goal. I hope these stories about Southern musical pioneers, my parents among them, will always be available. Once in a while I need to drop in at a library to make sure it's really happened. Friends sent this picture from Boston Public Library, one of the most beautiful libraries I've ever seen. Daddy and Mother are walking in some high cotton in this music section with Marvin Gaye and Judy Garland. 

 

         

 

 

          Many scenes in the book were previewed in theatre performances in Los Angeles years ago, when we put The Joneses, their family and other music makers onstage. Talented directors, actors, singers, musicians and audiences added the magic, bringing the stories to life. 

 

          The Joneses' 1950s recording sessions have since been restored as "Fern Jones The Glory Road" released by music label, Numero Group. They re-mastered the album Mother recorded in Nashville for Dot Records and also preserved vintage tracks with both Daddy and Mother, for downloading, from an earlier album. Songs mother wrote are featured today in movies and TV shows all over the world and their music is sold everywhere.   

 

          Director, Greg North Zerkle (www.gregorynorthactor.com) and I are headed back to theatres. We're putting together a new play-with-music, this time, based on the book. Full circle. Stories-stage-book-stage. Rewrites are underway. Greg commutes between NYC and L.A and we work on the phone while he travels around, doing what he does, acting, singing, dancing, directing and what-all. When I hand over this version, he'll search for a stage, maybe New York, maybe Los Angeles, and we'll follow "The Glory Road" where it takes us.

 

        On to the holidays. At Thanksgiving, the girls and I cooked every traditional Southern dish, the way we do every year, exactly the way Gramma K did it. For Christmas we decided on fireplace, lasagna, movie and dessert. I hope you enjoy the season exactly the way you choose.

                                                                                                    XO

                                                                                                  Anita

                                                                                      aka Nita Faye Jones

 

 

Four o'clock is golden.  I can hear four o'clock coming. It might as well be wearing a bell around its neck.

 

I feel four o'clock in my bones. It's the turning point in the day. Time to exhale. Get up. Think about what's next. Could be coffee. Could be something intoxicating. Only a rude person would suggest four o'clock is too early for that. It might be a walk around the block or aimless wandering into another room.

 

Four o'clock's intent changes with the seasons. In winter, the light is leaving and there's the pleasant prospect of an early evening by firelight. In summer, if I choose to follow the light, there's plenty of time left to see where it leads.

 

Professional schedules these days are often malleable. We may still be accountable to somebody, but how we do it varies.  It's our own business how we set our internal clocks.   Four o'clock insists I pay attention.  Time to tap into fresh resources and keep going or wrap it up for the day.

 

I'm guessing most of us have a magic hour, declared or not, a time when everything shifts.  Four o'clock is mine.

 

******

 

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Temperatures in Northern California are finally slipping into flannel territory in the evening while I continue to ignore relentless sunshine during the day. I concentrate instead on arranging my surroundings to prepare for this favorite time of year.

 

Though I'm on the opposite side of the country, in the fall my soul communes with New England, with its four seasons and the independent spirit of the people I meet there. Friends who live in New England year-round like to remind me of the fifth season, the one that comes right after the snow melts and lasts for weeks – mud season. I ignore this, pick up my current copy of Yankee Magazine or watch episodes of "Weekends With Yankee" on PBS where autumn is embraced and everything feels comforting, well-loved, well-used and appreciated.

 

The only decorating style in evidence around here is that I seem to gravitate mostly to objects that look like they have a story to tell.  Some of my favorite things share certain qualities. Many are old and weathered.  If it has faded colors, if the paint is peeling, if some part of it is rusty, if it looks like it could give you splinters, chances are it's coming home with me.

 

 

 

 

Steve Bradford, a dear friend and Maine artist, is responsible for some of my favorite art. He answers a question about the wood in this recent birthday gift received from him.

 

 

"I meant to tell you about the wood the candle sconce was made of. We're close enough to the coast so there are fishermen and lobstermen living nearby (there's a house on the next block with the yard stacked high with lobster traps). When a dory (smaller rowboat kept on a larger fishing boat) wears out, some of them get brought back inland and abandoned in the woods or a field. There was one in Durham where I've always taken the dogs to run. It was mostly red, with some blue and white trim. As it disintegrated I used to bring pieces of it home on a regular basis. The boat is gone now but I still see random pieces of red, white or blue wood near where it was. So the sconce was made out of wood from an authentic Maine saltwater fishing dory."

 

There's more of this beautifully aging wood in this piece from Steve. "The Writer" is  in a private collection but you can see it at his website under "Chairs."  Website is linked to Steve's name above.

 

 

Now I'm on the lookout for a big vintage chair with a matching ottoman, black or dark brown or maybe faded red leather, comfortably worn but with more years left in it for reading and looking through windows, watching leaves drift.

 

******

 

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By Anita Garner

 

 

Have you ever moved into a home previously inhabited by an avid gardener and watched as the seasons reveal what's already been planted and lovingly tended?  I've lived many places and a couple of times before I've had the pleasure of watching unexpected gifts reveal themselves in gardens planned by someone else.

 

August in certain Northern California counties  is prime time for spotting Naked Ladies.  Driving through Napa and Sonoma and Marin Counties, rows of them line the road. Clumps pop up in cracks in concrete where it would seem nothing could grow. Now my family's in Sacramento County where I hadn't seen any so far this season.

 

I just returned from traveling, let the pups out, looked way back toward the fence and thought my eyes were playing tricks.  Naked Ladies. Right here in our own back yard.

 

This home and these gardens were brought to life by a dear friend over several decades.  We oohed and aahed over her beloved rose garden, the trees of all sizes that shade this place, the strawberry and tomato plants that march along the side fence. When Pam moved here decades ago, she was greeted by enormous asparagus ferns that still stand tall and carry their age well.

 

I don't remember seeing these Naked Ladies here during her lifetime, but here they are, two big clumps of them, obscured earlier by that prolific rose garden.  One is tucked up against the back fence, nearly hidden by ferns, the other just revealed behind a row of roses now finished with their blooming cycle.

 

I'm not so much a gardener as a garden appreciator. I've loved these Ladies for years and the only thing I knew about them is that they take their name from their stems with no leaves. Here's more.

 

They're in the lily family, starting life as a bulb. During the winter a plant with leaves appears, looking like any other plant.  Then the leaves die away and you can easily forget about them. A few months later during hot weather, up pops a bare stalk then another and another. They drop seeds which insure surprise sightings in years to come.  Once a bulb's planted, you'll never know how many will show up next season.

 

This has now exhausted most of the gardening words I know. More updates from the garden as nature provides.

 

******

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In this picture we're on our way to El Compadre, a frequent stop just up  Sunset Strip from the station where margaritas and mariachis welcomed a bunch of entertainment industry types.

 

I like social media's "remember when" aspects and I like writing about unforgettable friends.  When I find pictures like this one I know I'm fortunate to have shared a chunk of life with these people.  Sandra Williams, on the left, worked the front desk at KBIG sometimes. She was also an extra in movies and last I heard, a makeup artist.  Morgan hosted a public affairs show for KBIG and I hosted afternoon drive.

 

Here's what Variety said about Morgan when she died.

 

"August 3, 1999 12:00am PT

 

Morgan Williams, a longtime Los Angeles news and public affairs reporter, died July 24 at her home in Los Angeles after a short battle with lung cancer. She was 68.  After graduation from William and Mary U, she worked in the media in various locales around the country. During the 1960s, she worked as a news reporter for KABC, Channel 7, and KHJ, Channel 9, (now KCAL) in Los Angeles.

 

During the 1970s, she segued into radio, where she had a long stint with radio station KFI-AM, covering news and public affairs. During the 1980s and '90s, she served as the public affairs director for KBIG radio, where she became known for her interviews on "The Big Picture." During the late 1950s, she was married to Tony Williams, the late lead singer of the Platters.  She is survived by a son."

 

I'm guessing Variety got part of that information from Don Barrett, whose laradio.com "Where Are They Now" archives are still the go-to for information about anyone who was ever on the air in Los Angeles.

 

Variety doesn't mention how Morgan named her big old sedan "Diana" in honor of Miss Ross, and how she loved that car so much only one mechanic was allowed to work on it.  Variety doesn't tell you about her devotion to her sports teams and her crush on Kareem Abdul Jabbar, whom she interviewed several times because she loved him and because she could.

 

Another thing that doesn't fit into an obit, but it played a big role if you hung out with Morgan – she hated freeways and refused to drive them. Getting around in Southern California without using freeways requires a whole different set of navigation skills and guarantees the driver will arrive late for many functions. If you loved the driver a lot, you sat outside on a Sunday morning at Farmers Market until Diana rolled into the parking lot at 3rd and Fairfax.

 

That smile, that big beautiful smile of hers, she loved to tell how she got it.   After her Mama died, Morgan inherited a sum that she planned to spend on something she'd always wanted, a smile to resemble Diana Ross.  Most of us thought Morgan's smile was already dazzling but she wanted veneers that were bigger, the biggest that would fit, so she got herself some.

 

Today Karin Moss and I have been friends for several years because of Morgan. Karin contacted Don Barrett at laradio.com looking to find Morgan and he sent her to me because he knew Morgan and I were friends.  Karin had worked in the record business in Hollywood with Morgan way back before I knew her. Karin and I both live in Northern California so we met for breakfast to share Morgan stories and we've been getting together ever since.

 

As we traded details about our experiences with Morgan, we learned this was a lady who'd reinvented herself several times.  I see reinvention stories woven through many careers in entertainment and each time I write about someone I hear from someone else who knew them in a different way.

 

Back then, just before that Variety obit, my last lunch with Morgan was on the calendar. I arrived in Santa Monica expecting a nice catch-up but she was a no-show.  I called her work phone number and they told me she was very ill.  She'd chosen not to disclose it to any of us.

 

******

 

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By Anita Garner

 

Finally some of us are seeing each other in person again.  It's been so long.  It wasn't just two years of not gathering, it was also a lot of booking then un-booking during our mutual commitment to staying safe.

 

I was invited to attend an in-person luncheon last week to discuss my book. If you're new to this protracted book release story all you need to know is that "The Glory Road: A Gospel Gypsy Life" was released last year into the pandemic.  All book tour plans changed, not just for me but for all authors.  Some were cancelled, others switched to zoom appearances.

 

High praise for this gadget I'm in love with. It's been zoom-ing with me for a while and now it goes traveling too. I spotted it during a CBS-TV interview with Hilary Clinton and Louise Penny a while back when they recounted their (remote) co-authoring of a new book.  I load songs onto tablet or phone to demonstrate music. Last week's hostess has Alexa so all she needed was a list of the songs I would play. Alexa had all but one and my trusty iPad carried that one.

 

 

This tablet/phone holder swivels,
raises and lowers and has a weighted bottom
(you should pardon the expression.)

 

We planned to gather in Marin County on a beautiful Spring day.  After not going out much for a while I was a bit behind in the wardrobe department. This trip was a good reason to make the annual transfer. My closet was still stocked with flannel shirts while Spring had crept in again. I put flannel into storage and brought out floral prints.

 

We were invited to Marilyn's home to share potluck lunch on her beautiful deck in the trees.  Potluck lunch. Friends.  Trees.  Those things can make me smile for days.

 

Elaine shuttled some of us up the hill in her snappy electric Tesla.  Tricia surprised us with an old fashioned raisin pie baked in honor of Sister Fern's pies featured in The Glory Road.  I'd like to stress here that in-person pie is much more fun than virtual pie.  It was delicious.

 

 

 

Another happy combination: Platters of good food and thoughtful conversations. The group was ready with questions and those who hadn't  yet read the book knew its themes and shared personal observations.  We talked about the South and music and food and religion and family.

 

As we introduced ourselves around the tables we were invited to state one thing for which we're grateful. Jan offered a toast for the confirmation of Judge Ketanji Brown Jackson  which was happening as we gathered.

 

Any writer would be honored to be among this group of good souls and open hearts and while I remain happy to zoom everywhere, connecting in person is a gift I'm moving up near the top of my gratitude list.

 

******

 

If your group would like to book a Glory Road discussion, there's a contact form in the menu at the top of this page.  "The Glory Road: A Gospel Gypsy Life" is available wherever books are sold.  My publisher, University of Alabama Press, offers a discount for groups or ask your local library to order copies in advance for your book club in  hardcover, eBook and audiobook.

 

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By Anita Garner

 

I've read several columns lately reminding seniors to pare down, don't leave it all for our heirs to do.  Lots of reminders about this from AARP. I did pare down some after each parent passed but you wouldn't think so to look at the number of boxes I still have.

Mother kept everything, not as a hoarder but as a person who knew what she had and why.  She labeled and neatly cataloged containers.  Did I mention there was SO MUCH stuff? I've already been through several rounds of decision making about what to keep, what to sell and what to donate.

 

Thank goodness her songs are preserved so our family can continue sharing the music she wrote and recorded.  Her scrapbooks have also been a valuable resource for me as a writer.  The fact that Fern Jones was an organized keeper of things turned out to be important for future generations. We have professional help with her music ("Fern Jones: The Glory Road") and song publishing and now there's a book ("The Glory Road: A Gospel Gypsy Life" from University of Alabama Press, available wherever you buy books) which shares stories and photos from her archives, all because she was a faithful and detailed keeper of things.

 

The photo up top is of two small things I choose to keep nearby, representing both the happy and sad.  The pink bowl is from her 1950s collection.  I kept only this one piece. The little brass apple is a bell - a very loud one.  In her home in Palm Springs, when ALS confined her to a bedroom down a long hall, for a while she was still able to ring for us.  She often rang to get one of us to put pictures of Daddy on a chest within her view.  She liked to rotate her favorite pictures of him.

 

My daughter, Cathleen Fern, has the piano her grandmother played. Fern was crazy for pink and Cath had the piano painted.  This is an old spinet, the kind that isn't appreciating in value but provides plenty of memories at home.  We also keep her guitar in view. It's not the best guitar Mother and Daddy owned but it's the one she played late at night while writing her songs or to comfort herself when she couldn't sleep. When my brother and I were very young and her playing woke us in the night, she'd let us stay up if we'd sing her favorite ballads.

 

 

 

My latest decision is to take no position about what's left, letting my daughter choose the next disposition of Jones memorabilia after I'm gone.  There's still a box filled with Daddy's Bibles.  His briefcase, which was his preacher's traveling chapel, is here with sermon notes still inside.  We have old photos and souvenirs from years of touring the Deep South and some of Mother's correspondence in her fancy handwriting that I've read but then couldn't throw away. Her songs-in-progress are noted in old composition books. Who could get rid of those?

 

I rationalize this pause in downsizing based on the fact that I have only one child and she's an organizer and thus potentially better equipped, a generation removed from the Reverend Ray and Sister Fern Jones show.

 

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My gospel-singing family appears in the March, 2022 issue of Reminisce Extra magazine.  I'm thrilled.  My parents, Sister Fern and Brother Ray Jones, would be thrilled too.  This excerpt from my book, "The Glory Road: a Gospel Gypsy Life" continues a years-long relationship with the company that publishes this magazine.

 

 

 

Our family read every issue of Readers Digest until the pages were soft as tissue then we passed them along to others.  Readers Digest is owned today by Trusted Media Brands, a company that also owns several other magazines.  Years ago I received a gift subscription to one of their publications, "Taste Of Home" magazine, fell in love with it, saw an ad for "Reminisce" and subscribed. Every other month, it's "Reminisce Extra."  Which brings us to today, when my advance copy arrived with a story from my new book inside.

 

 

Thanks to Trusted Media Brands' Mary-Liz Shaw, my publisher, University of Alabama Press and UAP Marketing Director, Clint Kimberling for putting this together.

 

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By Anita Garner

 

Unpacking a box of office things, I discovered this and now I can't stop flipping through, stopping, remembering.  You don't toss out a time capsule. When I'm gone my family can decide what to do with it.  Better yet, it might be fun if they look at some of these cards and wonder what the heck I was doing with that person.

 

This sturdy keeper of contacts was decades in the making and it never disappointed no matter how it was treated.  Information is stored on here every which way.  It started with blank cards typed on an IBM Selectric.

 

 

 

I see cards typed on both sides and wonder why.  Was a fresh pack of empty cards too much trouble?   I see the point when I gave up typing and stapled on business cards. Many entries here are handwritten and my penmanship has always been awful so some of them remain a mystery, a security system without a password. Write horribly and no one can decipher.

 

On this distinctly analog device I spy baby steps toward a digital world, cards that say dot com. Online passwords written in ink.  I must have thought a password was forever and that using a Rolodex card to keep track of the internet was an efficient decision.  Ah, innocence.

 

Here are my agents in two cities, Look Talent and Tisherman.   I remember when Look Talent agent, Joan, was on Geary in San Francisco.  Up I went in the historic, clanking elevator to audition, then across the street for lunch at Neiman Marcus.  Look Talent still thrives but don't try to find them on Geary.  They've moved.

 

 

 

 

Lots of show biz managers and agents and publicists are here, representing entertainers we featured on radio shows in L.A. back when radio shows were full service. RIP Bill Waite who worked with the Osmonds.  RIP Merle Kilgore, legendary country songwriter/performer turned manager.

 

 

 

I spy a business card for a psychic in Chatsworth recommended by Studio City Esthetician, Claire (she's in here too) who regularly turned my blonde eyebrows brown so they could be visible in the outside world.  RIP psychic Tom Sexton who, before hello, told me what I was writing and why the original title was wrong and exactly what the new title should be.  I don't remove cards just because someone has died. They're my memories and I'll cling if I want to.

Now my password file is on the computer. I keep meaning to update the hard copy in the Important Papers file, but they change so fast, maybe I'll just update it on a flash drive.

 

Is this a eulogy, then, for my Rolodex?  No. I'm not getting rid of it. We started out together long ago and I respect our history.  Flipping through is a fine thing to do on a remember when kind of day.

 

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By Anita Garner

 

 

Nostalgia is a favorite part of Facebook for me. I'm a lifelong broadcaster and we're fraternal. When we leave microphones and cameras behind, we don't necessarily leave each other. I belong to several Facebook broadcast groups, at least one for every station where I've worked.  Then there are school groups and groups with  special musical interests and groups that celebrate places we once lived.  Bonds form, sometimes with people we've never met.  We stay in touch enough to feel like a neighborhood. Most of the time I scan updates but always stop long enough to remark on milestones.

 

There's more to each of us than our closest relatives and friends know about.   My nearest and dearest couldn't know of conversations on Facebook with people they've never heard me mention, chats with Facebook friends I'm by now genuinely fond of.  Nothing wrong with a bit of mystery but it can also be a downside to all this fraternizing.  If our families don't know the people in our chats, they can't let them know when we're gone.  More than once I've started to wish a Facebook acquaintance a Happy Birthday and find a comment from someone else a while back, indicating the friend has died.

 

A suggestion:  When Facebook knows a person has died, they should say so.  An icon on the page of the person who's passed away would suffice.  Adding it near the profile picture or the friend's name would give us a chance to decide whether we  want to say something personal about the departed.

 

I appreciate knowing when a Facebook friend has passed away. Some families announce it on a Facebook page, but many others don't know how to gain access.  Perhaps for a year the page could remain open with the icon indicating the person has died, giving everyone a chance to comment there.

 

How about a small wreath? It doesn't have to be black, though that seems to be acceptable in most cultures.  Or maybe green would be nice? Just a little something saying this Facebook member is now eternally emeritus.  Here are a couple of ideas –  not my designs.  I found them online.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And dear Facebook, please don't worry about your aging demographics. We're living longer, we're spending longer, and many of us consider a little Facebook time a bright spot in the day. I hope you'll accept this icon suggestion as a nod to certain courtesies and rituals many of us embrace. We celebrate our lives on Facebook and we appreciate the opportunity to pay our respects to the departed.

 

And dear Facebook, please don't worry about your aging demographics. We're living longer, we're spending longer, and many of us consider a little Facebook time a bright spot in the day.  I hope you'll accept this icon suggestion as a nod to certain courtesies and rituals many of us embrace.  We celebrate our lives on Facebook and we appreciate the opportunity to pay our respects to the departed.

 

By Anita Garner

 

As of June, 2021, I've lived longer than anyone else in three  generations of my family, longer than both sets of grandparents, longer than Mother and Daddy, longer than my sisters and brothers. None of them got to be 80, the number I'm now celebrating.  Getting to be 80  years old doesn't feel like a random event. It feels momentous.

 

I'm not the only one among my kinfolk with hopes and dreams and plans and I'm mindful of many opportunities the people who came before didn't have. I was present at the end of the lives of some of them and heard first-hand what they wished they could have stayed around to accomplish.

 

 

 

 

One of the last things Mother said to me was, "You're lucky you were born when you were.  You have choices I never had."  Both those things are true. I remain in awe of all she accomplished during her time, in places and ways no one could have predicted. I hope somehow she knows how it all turned out.

 

At the end of Daddy's life, he exhibited no restlessness about his closing chapters. He spoke only of gratitude.  "I have had me some beautiful morning walks." I wish he could have had many more.

 

During my 80th year I have the privilege of holding in my hand a book just published.  My family lived it but I was the one who lived long enough to write about it.

 

I'm a person of faith so none of this feels accidental or coincidental.  Wherever the stories come from, in whatever form they want to take, written or spoken, I'll keep putting them together, though perhaps not as driven as Mother, and a bit more grateful like Daddy.

 

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By Anita Garner

 

 

Facebook memories pop up, reminding us of previous posts and for me that's often just the start. One of Facebook's reminders triggers another and another and I'm off down different paths for the rest of the day.

 

I've written before about first love, Al.  He's on the left with his best friend, Gerry on the right.  Gerry dated my roommate, Linda and introduced Al and me.  Our first date was a double date to Lake Arrowhead for the day, listening to AM radio playing Frank Sinatra and Ray Charles.

 

Not long after came another Facebook reminder – this one showing it was posted by Al in 2015.

 

Gerry and Linda married in Glendale, California in a beautiful wedding.  I'm the bridesmaid with the sunburn, fourth from left.  Al is Gerry's best man, standing right there beside the groom.  The dresses were pale green taffeta.  Shoes dyed to match. Bouffant hair, the better to anchor those headdresses.

 

Oh yes, we danced!  Coming from a non-dancing pastor's family, I had no dance floor experience. Linda's dad, who treated me like one of his own, taught me a few moves in their living room before the festivities.

 

The best part of this story: Gerry and Linda are still going strong, traveling much of the time then returning to their nest in the redwoods in Northern California.

 

The next memory takes another direction.  Al left us soon after posting the wedding picture from his home in Concord, Massachusetts. When I look at these pictures, my first thought is there was a good man. UCLA engineering major who went on to follow his career passions, married a nice lady, had children and grandchildren.

 

For me, it was first love among other firsts.  First man I ever dated who quoted Shakespeare often, who took me to my first performance of The Messiah, who brought me home to meet his parents, whose table was set with more cutlery than I'd previously seen around one plate.

Thank you, Facebook, for the memories of lifelong buddies. the best  roommate ever, a romantic wedding and a good man gone too soon to his rest.

 

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By Anita Garner

 

 

When we're ready to gather again,  a potluck is worth gathering for.  Potluck meals are the best reason for church basements, community centers and multi-purpose rooms everywhere to exist. Any space that'll hold rows and rows of folding tables covered with makeshift tablecloths is instantly inviting.  And over there, along that wall,  more rows of tables laden with the best food in the world brought by home cooks.

 

New York Times photo

 

Growing up in the Deep South in the 1940s and 50s, bouncing back and forth on tour with our gospel singing family then settling down briefly while Daddy pastored a church, potlucks were the highlights of every stop for my brother and me. 

 

Daddy was a great natural cook. Mother, who didn't bother with preparing day to day food, was a superb baker during her middle of the night creative sessions but both our parents were as excited as Leslie Ray and I were to meet local cooks.

 

Churchpeople brought their specialties.  Washtubs were filled with sweet tea or lemonade.  Tables like the one in the photo above featured all kinds of desserts.  Kids swarmed while cooks soaked up  praise for their best recipes.

 

In New England, where every picturesque town seems to have one or more equally picturesque churches, I heard about bean nights.  Though they started in the basements and social halls connected to churches, they weren't intended only for church-goers.  They were also important fund raisers.  Anyone could buy a ticket and eat their fill (two sittings per night) of beans and franks, salads and breads and, of course, desserts.

 

The New York Times ran a story featuring
community potluck nights.  This is their photo.

 

 

 

That picture looks like many church basements I've visited since leaving my parents' traveling ministry. The churches Daddy was in charge of were either small or in the process of being built.  Growing a congregation was his specialty so we didn't always have social spaces inside.  Our potlucks became "Dinner On The Grounds," providing opportunities for kids to run around from table to table asking for samples. Ambrosia for me.  Fried chicken and deviled eggs for Leslie Ray.

 

Potlucks were already perfect the way they were decades ago and they don't need much changing, though many churches I've attended now have big sparkly kitchens.  I'm still a fan of crepe paper streamers if you've got them and if you can get able bodied volunteers to drape them.  An old piano in the corner where anybody can play, and there's always someone who can.

 

The best part then and now is joining the people around the buffet lines carrying our plates to our tables and stopping to ask, "Who made this?"  then seeking out the cook to get the recipe. There's a good chance you'll see multiples of that casserole at the next gathering and every casserole dish will be carried home empty by a satisfied cook.

 

I can't wait for the next time we'll be standing around talking about how good these beans are.

 

 

 

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