Flames, passing can’t snuff out memories

The first bit of sad news came in a text from my husband as I sat, late Easter afternoon, writing in my home office: “Ted’s Garage burnt down.” 

 

The next appeared in a Facebook post a week later: “Ozark Opry catches fire.” 

The third was another text from hubby, as he sat in his recliner watching TV: “Annette Funicello died.” 

My text response to that one? “Aw-w-w.”

The Facebook post I wrote a few minutes later, linking to a YouTube video, read, “RIP, Annette Funicello. A little of me died today. “         

                                                                        

The flames that engulfed Ted’s Garage and Lee Mace’s Ozark Opry took a bit of me, too, it seemed. 

As I mused over these three—two landmarks and one lady—I dug through the rubble of the losses for some memories I could hold tight and cherish forever. 

Here’s what I found.

The common bond

The Clinton, Ill. eatery, the Osage Beach, Mo. music hall, and the Mouseketeer had something in common.

Each of them had a way of beaming us from the 21^st century back to a place and time, when we were younger, more idealistic, perhaps, and less distracted by a 24-hour news cycle and the technology that keeps it and other interruptions in front of us. When we stepped through the doors at the 50s-style diner, sank into our seats at the Opry or watched Annette on the black-and-white TVs in our parent’s wallpapered living rooms, we left distractions behind and lived in the moment. 

Ted’s transported with classics

Classic food and classic cars—that’s what you’d find when you stepped into Ted’s Garage. The retro eatery next to the community’s Chevrolet dealership was known for its décor and oldies menu reminiscent of Arnold’s on “Happy Days,” and for classic cars at the front of the restaurant and in a glassed-in showroom. 

My hubby and I didn’t visit it often—maybe a half-dozen times or less in the 11 years we lived nearby—but each time we went there was a special time. Maybe that’s why we went infrequently—to keep it special, to make each visit a step back in time—to make us feel young at heart, to help us remember those days when kitchen tables were of Formica, chairs were covered in vinyl held on with silver thumbtacks and when a burger, fries and a chocolate shake, cherry Coke or Green River were a really big treat.

When my husband and I moved from our house in Central Illinois a year ago, we knew we were also leaving favorite places. Some we’d see again, some we wouldn’t. 

Ted’s was one of those. 

Now, gutted by fire, it’s less likely we’ll return, but we can still close our eyes, look back and remember the taste of a tenderloin, the sound of Chubby Checkers on the jukebox, the shiny chrome on a ’57 Chevy. A wind-fed fire on Easter Sunday can’t burn those records on the turntables in our minds.

Mace’s mesmerized with music

When my husband and I first started vacationing at the Lake of the Ozarks more than 20 years ago with several members of our extended family, we were looking for kid-friendly activities. He remembered visiting a music show a decade or so before. He said it was comical, entertaining and fun. He thought the rest of us might like it, too.

Though I always hate to type these words, that day hubby was right. 

We didn’t just like Lee Mace’s Ozark Opry. We loved it. Everyone on the stage—from the piano player pounding out “Great Balls of Fire,” to the guitar,- sax-, harmonica-, fiddle-playing, banjo-picking talent in the band, to Goofer, the comedian—looked as if they enjoyed entertaining as much as the full house enjoyed being entertained. 

It wasn’t just that way the first time we visited. It was that way every time. 

As annual visitors for a number of years, we came to notice several things about the Ozark Opry—for instance, the way the parking lot attendants, ticket agents and popcorn servers seemed to enjoy what they were doing as much as the cast. It was as if they were all family. I learned later, some of them were, by blood. The rest were, I think, related by their passion for the magic that was Mace’s. 

I also noticed that Joyce Mace, widow of the founder and man for whom the show was named, could always be found in the same seat when the lights were dimmed and a spotlight shone on a big bass fiddle as a recording played of Lee Mace singing “Ragged Old Flag.”

And, I came to learn that if you told the ticket office attendants who you were, where you were from and that you had little kids or guests new to the Opry and asked politely, they’d do their best to get you a seat up close to the front. 

When we moved to the Lake of the Ozarks full-time last year, we lamented that the show had closed its doors a few years earlier, but were grateful the building still stood, much like a monument in a cemetery, a sentinel standing guard, paying tribute to the times so many cherished. 

I drove past the charred building the other day, leaving the window rolled up to keep out the smell of smoke and keep inside the car the memory of the late Steve Tellman singing “Forever and Ever Amen,” Helen Russell  clogging, Goofer wearing his comical collapsible cardboard hat—and the warmth we felt each time we entered there. 

Mouseketeer kept us kids

Seems like forever ago sometimes, like yesterday others,  the era of black-and-white TV, when the number of channels was only three, when up too early or awake too late, all that looked back at us was the test pattern.

In those days long past, TV time was limited. If we were lucky, we watched Captain Kangaroo in the morning, Lawrence Welk and Mitch Miller on Saturday nights, The Wonderful World of Disney, Lassie and Bonanza on Sunday, and the Mickey Mouse Club of an afternoon. 

The years have wiped away the memory of most of the Mouseketeers, but if there’s one name most Baby Boomers remember above all others, it’s Annette Funicello.

What was it about Annette that made her every young boy’s sweetheart , the girl each young lady longed to be—her big brown eyes, the bounce in her step, or the way she seemed so wise and full of life? 

Even before she became a beach movie babe, she was one of a handful of girls who epitomized her day. 

We watched her grow to a teen, remembered her locked somewhere twixt the two—Mouseketeer and movie star—until the day, when growing older, she shared with us her diagnosis of multiple sclerosis. 

We wished well for her, remembered her in our prayers and shed tears on learning of her passing. 

With us always

One thing’s certain, though—until we join her and Walt Disney at the Mickey Mouse Club in the sky, we’ll remember her ever. 

To those who don’t know better, it looks as if a restaurant and an empty building burned and an aging has-been television star died. These are the kinds of stories that are texted, tweeted, posted on Facebook, buried in newspapers and read by an anchor on the local news nearly every day. 

To this Baby Boomer, they’re more than that. They’re pieces of my past. 

A fire may have claimed the buildings and death the star, but just as I died a little hearing of their losses, remembering them helps me to relive moments I’ll never forget. 

Each of them—Ted’s, the Opry and Annette—leave a legacy that can never be extinguished.   

© Ann Tracy Mueller 2013

It matters. Here’s why

A couple weeks ago, as I was wrapping up my day as a writer and editor, I mentioned to a colleague that I was going to grab a bite to eat, and squirrel away in my room with my laptop and a cup of coffee to begin reading more than 70 newspaper articles for a press association contest I had volunteered to judge. 

She wrote back, “GEEEEZ! Why are you volunteering to judge?? That sounds like a nightmare!”

Immediately, my fingers went into defense mode. 

“You want to know why?” I thought. “HERE’S WHY!” 

Ask any seasoned communicator and they’ll tell you that using all capital letters is shouting, so as much as I wanted to shout, I left those thoughts off the page. 

Instead my answer went something like this: 

“I vowed when I moved to my new community that I’d volunteer where my talents matter most, doing things others can’t. Much of that will be communication-related. I follow an area press association on Facebook. They are judging an award competition for another association, just as someone else will volunteer to judge for their awards. 

“In the past, I’ve also done this sort of thing for industry organization award programs and scholarship competitions. I’m working with a local organization on its leadership program, too. 

“It’s my way of giving back for all the support I’ve received from others through the years. Without the example, guidance, and encouragement of other professional writers and editors, I wouldn’t be doing this for a living today. 

“It matters.”

I guess I shocked my colleague as much as if I had “shouted” at her, for she wrote back right away, “You’re exactly right. It does matter.” 

Then she wrote, “I hope you weren’t offended by my question,” and suggested that perhaps I had a story here, about why volunteering matters. 

Gee, do you think? 

After all, I’d almost written the thing already, hadn’t I? 

“Yeah,” I wrote back. “I probably should.”

I thought back to the touch others’ volunteer efforts have had on my life and my career. 

As a writer—absolutely. And in other ways, too.

When I submitted my first paid book review to a contest sponsored by my local chapter of the Association of Women in Communication, it was a volunteer communicator somewhere who judged it. The award encouraged me to keep writing.

Later, I submitted other entries. Again, volunteers judged my work. 

When the appeal came to our chapter to judge entries for another state, I didn’t see it as an obligation. I saw it as a privilege. How rewarding to see the work of other writers and to play a part in acknowledging them for their works of excellence.

But even before that, there were volunteers at work in my life—the fourth-grade teacher who gave up some of her nights and weekends to lead our church choir, the high school student who spent a week in the summer and one afternoon a week during the school year working with my Girl Scout troop, the parents and teachers who chaperoned our high school dances. 

My life was touched by each of them. From the choir director, I learned to appreciate Latin. From the Girl Scout, still a friend today, I learned that dreams are worth pursuing. From a pair of chaperones who loved to do the polka, I learned you’re never too old to live life with gusto. 

Fifteen hours of reading later, the newspaper articles are judged. 

Those small town journalists painted pictures of their communities that made me feel as if I knew their residents and made me wish I lived where they did. They entertained me, amazed me with their talents as writers and storytellers, and made me feel as fortunate to read their work as they will feel when they receive their honors. 

We all need a little encouragement through life, a nudge to go after the things that matter to us, a pat on the back for a job well done. 

I’ve been blessed again and again to be on the receiving end when people volunteer their time and their talents. When asked, I’ll volunteer mine. 

Why? 

It matters. That’s why.

© Ann Tracy Mueller 2013

(Image via)

Not quite a new coat of paint

Years ago, a guy I knew had a pretty cool car. It wasn’t the first cool car I’d known this guy to have, nor was he the only guy I knew who had a cool car, but I digress here. 

Back to the story…

One summer, the guy with the cool car decided he could make the car even better, and when he did, he’d be even prouder of the vehicle on which he’d spent more than a lot of his hard-earned money and a bunch of elbow grease and love. 

He took that car – a 1962 Impala, if memory serves me right – for a brand-new paint job. When he got it back, it looked as if it had just rolled off the assembly line, and he was as proud of it as a new dad is of a first-born child. 

Back then, I’d never had a vehicle of my own or worked so hard to have something look just so, so as the teenager I was, I didn’t fully understand the pride he had in his vehicle or the care he took to keep it looking good. 

It’s funny what the years will do, the way your perspective changes – on life, on hard work and labors of love. 

I don’t have a classic Chevy, though don’t think I don’t get a bit nostalgic when I see one. 

Another labor of love

I do, though, have a blog. 

It’s my labor of love. 

Just as that teenaged boy put a lot of hard work and caring into his car that summer, I’ve been sprucing up my blog. 

If you’re one of my newspaper readers, reading online through The State Journal-Register or The Register-Mail, you may have missed some of my early blog posts and the landing pages on my blog, where I share the stories behind why I write about the things I do.

This week, I took a little time to “put a new coat of paint” on my blog. I went through all of the articles I’ve written over the past few months. 

Now, when you select a specific category on my blog, http://musingsonroute66.blogspot.com/, you can find all the stories I’ve written related to that category. And, yes, you’ll find some posts in more than one category, because my interests, my passions, my experiences overlap. 

What you’ll find

Wonder what you’ll find there – what my interests are?

I’m a reader and a writer, so if you like books or writing or reading about writing, you may enjoy the stories in “A book is perking,” “Books worth reading” and “Wanna be a writer.” 

I love life – little moments, big dreams, and words from others that capture joy and inspire people to soar. Musings along these lines normally fall into “Been thinkin’,” “Found a quote” and “Simple things.”

Born on the prairies of Illinois, I loved my native state, yet trips to Missouri, which my grandfather left for the Land of Lincoln nearly a century ago, always left me with a pull to its hills and lakes and relaxed lifestyle. As I traveled from one state to the other off and on for more than 20 years, often on the interstate highways or railroads along Route 66, the Mother Road, its history and its slower pace called to me and led me to the musings which birthed this blog. You’ll see my affection for these two neighboring, alike yet different states and the road which ties them together in “Inspired in Illinois,” “Mother Road” and “Missouri Minute.”

There are two other things at play in creating the me I am today – I, like 79 million other Americans, am a Baby Boomer. And, as are all humans, I’m who I am because of the people who have crossed my path – in my case, many incredible, inspirational, courageous souls. Boomers, you’ll probably relate to my “Boomer Banter” stories. And, may you all cross paths with and feel the touch in your lives of “Sensational Beings.” I can’t wait to have you meet some of the ones in my life. 

Come and sit a spell

If you like what you read in my newspaper posts or online, and you wonder about the rest of my words, stop by the blog, dig around a bit, leave me a comment if you’d like.

I think I’m a bit like that guy I once knew. 

I spruced my blog up for me. It makes me feel good to think it’s all nice and shiny. 

But I did it for you, too. 

You can’t tell me that guy didn’t like it when someone walked past and said, “Wo, cool car.” 

I wouldn’t be telling the truth if I didn’t admit I hope you say, “Cool blog posts.”

© Ann Tracy Mueller 2012  

 (Image via)