November 22, 2018

Thanksgiving Day and the 55th anniversary of the assassination of John F. Kennedy

I don’t spend much time talking about the JFK assassination, but I believe my tone has changed over the years when I do. In the beginning, not many people really wanted to hear my story, and I was very uncomfortable talking about it. Also, when I did talk about it, especially in a formal setting, I always felt like I needed to keep a very somber tone. I was even afraid to smile. It was, after all, a national tragedy – even a world tragedy. It’s so much easier to talk about it now than it used to be. I first noticed a relaxing change in the overall public tone in 2013 during my interviews for the 50th anniversary. Maybe the circus atmosphere of the 50th anniversary event had something to do with it, or maybe it was my age, but I was able to relax a bit during those interviews.

Rarely, through the years, did the assassination topic arise at Thanksgiving dinners – even if it was the anniversary, like it is today. However, the topic came up at home today in a small family group of only four, including myself. I even brought out the 1967 Life magazine when I was asked about it. I also brought out the 1968 ‘Teen magazine with the article I wrote.

I realized today that I have two favorite images of my parents and me standing in the street at Houston and Elm that day. (There probably aren’t many more than two.) One is a photo taken from behind us by a man named Hugh Betzner, who was actually trying to get a photo of the presidential limousine, but we fill up most of the frame. My other favorite is a frame of the Towners from Elsie Dorman’s film. The following is an excerpt about the Dorman frame from my book Tina Towner, My story as the youngest photographer at the Kennedy assassination, which I self-published in November, 2012:

On November 24, 1967, Life published a cover article entitled, “Why Kennedy Went to Texas,” together with some of the unpublished images taken by me, my father, and eight other eyewitness photographers. In the front of this 1967 issue, on page three in the Editor’s Note, George P. Hunt, managing editor, stated that soon after the assassination, my father contacted Patsy Swank, a Dallas correspondent for Life magazine. Apparently, Life chose not to interview us at that time, but the Editor’s Note went on to say that in the summer of 1967, Life discovered that Elsie Dorman had been taking movies of the motorcade from the fourth floor of the Texas School Book Depository building, where she worked. Accompanying the Editor’s Note of that issue of Life was a thumbnail image of a frame from Ms. Dorman’s film, clearly showing my father, my mother, and me, while Daddy and I are in the process of photographing the president’s limousine. Per the Editor’s Note, after the representatives of Life viewed the Elsie Dorman images in the summer of 1967, they contacted Patsy Swank in Dallas to find out if she perhaps knew who we were. She identified us, subsequently contacted us, and she and her crew came to our home on Ovid Avenue in Oak Cliff to interview the three of us.

I am still thrilled that Life included these details in the Editor’s Note in the 1968 issue. I’m not sure if I would ever have known how they found us, had it not been for this.

Today was an interesting day – November 22, 2018

Halloween, 1990s Style

On my way home from work one day in the 1990s as Halloween was upon us, I stopped at the grocery store to pick up a few things. I was still in my work attire and wearing the crimped hairstyle that was popular at the time. I pushed my basket around the end of the grocery aisle and passed a mother pushing a small boy in her basket in the opposite direction. The child looked up at me with wide eyes and exclaimed loudly, “Are you a witch?!” He was very serious. His mother was embarrassed and kept on moving down the aisle away from me as fast as she could. I didn’t even have my broom with me…

Rotary Dial Telephone

If this sounds familiar, it’s because I posted it on another blog a while back. I ran across it today and wanted to re-share it with a few slight revisions:

I have nostalgic memories of our heavy old black rotary phone, which is what I remember using when I was young. A couple of years ago, I purchased a replica of a vintage rotary dial phone much like the one my family had when I was young. I looked on-line at authentic vintage phones, but most of the ones I saw looked too worn and dirty, and the restored phones cost too much for this purpose; so I decided to buy a replica instead. It’s clean and new, and it is supposed to be a working phone. I displayed the replica on top of a small heirloom accent table that Mother also used for this purpose.

Soon after I received the new old phone, my son Chris, his wife Heather, and their two children Blake and Reagan came to visit. Reagan, who was ten years old at the time, immediately asked about that odd looking thing in the hallway. When her mother and I explained to her what it was, she was even more curious. She wanted to know if it worked and how. I told her it was supposed to work but that I had not actually plugged it in to try it yet. I said we could test it while she was here, and the next thing I knew, we were doing just that. This demonstration of how to use a rotary phone was a very interesting exercise and oh-so-simple.

First, I found the cord that came with it and plugged it into the wall jack. One end fit perfectly into the wall jack, but the other end did not fit into the phone jack. After struggling with this for a while, Reagan said, “T-ma, maybe if we unplug the cord from here [HANDSET], it will fit into this one here [LINE].” At first I thought, “Well, that’s not going to work,” but I squinted to see the labels better on the underside of the phone, and it turned out that Reagan was right and that I had actually plugged the HANDSET cord into the LINE plug. I should not have doubted Reagan’s technological knowledge of this low-tech curiosity. I thanked her for fixing the problem, and we moved on to the next step.

Reagan wanted to dial her cousin in California, my granddaughter Ashlee (age 12). They were already FaceTiming each other on their iPads at that very moment, and Reagan’s iPad was sitting right next to the rotary phone. This was only one of the photo ops I missed during this demonstration. Fifteen hundred miles away, Ashlee sat and waited for Reagan’s call, as they remained connected on their iPads. Reagan put the handset to her ear and began dialing the number I had written on a piece of paper for her. This is a general recap of how this simple exercise went:

Me: Listen for the dial tone. Dial 1 first. Then the area code. Then the number…Ok, go…Put your finger in the finger hole for each number and slide your finger around the dial until your finger hits the stop….No, wait. Don’t take your finger out of the hole until it hits the stop…You’ll have to hang up and start over. What? Oh, ‘hang up’ means set the handset back on the cradle, which depresses the buttons and disconnects…Now be sure to dial all the way to where the finger-stop is…Good…Oops. Let the rotary dial go back by itself. Don’t keep your finger in it…Ok, do it again…Well, you waited too long between numbers…You’ll have to start over again…Your finger slipped…Do it again…Oh, the phone moved and your finger slipped again…Keep the phone still while you dial…Oh, me. You’ll have to start over….

We were all three giggling very hard very soon, which increased the difficulty factor for Reagan to complete the task; and Ashlee, who could hear us but not see us on her iPad, was still patiently waiting for her cell phone to ring.

This whole demonstration went on for at least thirty minutes. Reagan kept having to start over for various reasons. I didn’t remember there were so many things that could go wrong dialing a rotary phone. One problem was that the vintage phone replica isn’t as heavy as the real thing, and it kept sliding and throwing her off. Reagan’s mom Heather was sitting quietly nearby listening to our dialing frustrations. I am certain I heard her giggling more than once, usually after one of my repeated “This is my nightmare come true!” exclamations.

“OK,” I said, “Let me see if I can do it” and I started dialing it myself. I couldn’t do it either. This simple phone would not allow us to dial a long distance number.

So, I surrendered and asked Ashlee to call us, which worked like a charm; but after they talked for only a few seconds, they hung up and happily resumed talking with each other on their still-connected iPads.

We had fun. At least, I had fun. Reagan and Ashlee must be mystified by the simplicity of the rotary dial phone. They also probably both think that their T-ma is funny and that I was surely a child genius when it came to rotary phones.

Our Little Phoebe, Not a Rain Dog

Phoebe has a hard time when it storms or even if it rains hard. Yesterday was one of those days. She didn’t do too badly until bedtime. She trembles terribly when the wind blows, when the rain comes down hard, and especially when there is lightning and thunder. I call her bad episodes her panic attacks. I’m sure many people have similar issues with their dogs during storms.

The lightning and thunder were fairly mild yesterday, but we did have a brief period of hard rain. When Phoebe begins to tremble, I usually give her a few drops of Rescue Remedy for pets, an herbal over-the-counter anxiety treatment. It helps. At bedtime, if she has a hard time, I will give her a crumb of Benadryl to help her sleep. Seriously, she can get very bad, and it is only over the past year or so that it has worsened to the point where she needs some help coping.

She was doing pretty well at bedtime last night and didn’t act like she needed medicating, even though it was raining outside. I fell asleep, then around 10:45p, she woke me up shaking. Then I heard it! One of our evil smoke detectors beeped on the other side of the house. I waited to make sure that is what I heard, and it was. Ugh! With every beep, her shaking worsened. Smoke detectors are worse than the worst storm that could blow through.

I knew I was going to have to take care of it. Two fans and a diffuser were not going to be enough to keep Phoebe from hearing it. So I got up, put my shoes on, and went to the garage to flip the circuit breaker for the smoke detectors and to get the tall ladder so I could remove the backup battery from the offending device. Phoebe was right at my heels, shaking like a leaf. It surprised me that she was staying so close to me and the ladder, since she hates ladders as much as beeping smoke detectors. She associates ladders with a beeping smoke detector.

It didn’t take me too long to silence the device. I left the ladder standing in the extra bedroom, closed the door, and headed back to bed – but I couldn’t find Phoebe. I looked all over the house, including in the garage and on the bed with Gene. I finally thought to look in the extra bedroom. There she was, poor baby, locked in the dark room with the evil ladder and smoke detector. I knew immediately this was going to be a Benadryl night.

The Walk

My husband and I watched a friend’s four-pound Yorkie this week. We have a Yorkie, too. Two-year-old Gabby is half the size of our six-year-old Phoebe, and she is at least twice as adventurous. Gene and I think she’s adorable. Phoebe, not so much. Phoebe is extremely patient with Gabby, though, and rarely says a cross word. She spends her time trying to stay invisible to the energetic creature.

Every evening one (or both) of the dogs tell me when it’s time for a walk. Our walks are short on hot days. We had rain cooled air yesterday. I got their signal around 6 p.m. I put on my shoes and attached their individual leashes, and we headed out the door, only to discover that it was still sprinkling and there was heavier rain nearby. The dogs didn’t care. They were already at the ends of their leashes in the yard, so I grabbed my umbrella and kept going. I knew adding an umbrella to our two-leash walk would be a challenge, but I thought I could handle it. I have taken Phoebe and Gabby on two-leash walks many times, so I understand how “twisted” it can get. Gabby runs circles around me and Phoebe, and Phoebe spends her time trying to stay away from Gabby, so I am constantly untangling the leashes.

We began having trouble almost immediately. Gabby had a very urgent need to poop. She began searching for a place in our next door neighbor’s yard. I shortened her leash a bit so she wouldn’t go too far into their yard. At the same time, I decided I should collapse the already troublesome umbrella. Gabby promptly found a spot and assumed her hunched position. Both leashes got tangled tightly around me and the still open and upside down umbrella. Gabby’s taught leash pulled her up on her back legs, and she pooped standing up. It was a sight. Meanwhile, Phoebe wanted to keep walking, but I was tied up. This is when I began laughing uncontrollably.

I wasn’t sure how I would unravel this scene, so I paused to take a deep breath…and a few photos. They don’t do justice to the predicament I found myself in.

Dogwalk1 — Phoebe (L); Gabby (Top): Close inspection of the photo reveals the tangled leashes.

Dogwalk2 — Phoebe, Gabby, and umbrella in a tangle; Gabby’s legs at top.

I finally somehow managed to get out of this jam, and we voted two to one to continue our not-so-leisurely walk. I hooked the closed umbrella over my arm. We got to the corner a few houses away and made our turn to the left down a nice wide sidewalk. We did pretty well for about five paces. That’s when the sprinklers came on right next to the sidewalk. They made the usual loud and strange sprinkler noises as they began their cycle. Phoebe and Gabby nearly fainted when the hissing sprinkler heads they were investigating popped up out of the grass. They simultaneously turned and ran toward home! It’s a good thing they were on leashes, tangled or not.

It was a short, chaotic, but productive walk.

Mother’s Rose Garden

My father and mother were able to stay together in their home in Bonham, Texas until their failing health required constant care. At that point, in 2002, they entered a nursing home. Daddy passed away later that year. They had been married 67 years.

In the spring of 2003, on one of my visits to see Mother at the nursing home, I stopped first in Bonham to check on their house. As I walked toward the front door, I heard the most beautiful birdsong. I didn’t recognize the clear beautiful plaintive notes, and the song called me to investigate. I followed the sound across the front yard. I was looking up when I reached the side of the house. First, I looked up into the towering trees, but I could not see what birds were hiding there. Then, I looked down and was greeted with a breathtaking sight – literally. A few years earlier, Daddy planted Mother a row of rose bushes next to the house. This was their second rose garden. He planted the first one for her in the yard on Mt. Pleasant in Oak Cliff in the early 1950s. He and Mother occasionally joked that he never promised her a rose garden; but this one made two, and at that moment it was a solid blanket of roses.

I knew immediately that Daddy used the beautiful birdsong to call me to that side of the house so I would see their roses in full bloom. I’m sure I would not have noticed them, otherwise. He wanted me to let Mother know he was thinking of her. I cried as I cut her a dozen of Daddy’s long-stemmed roses. I put them in one of her vases and carried them to Mother about 40 miles away. Her blindness prevented her from seeing the beautiful bouquet, so when I walked into her room, I announced what I was carrying. She inhaled deeply, as I held them in front of her . “A gift from Daddy from your rose garden,” I whispered. She didn’t speak any more, but she answered clearly with a smile.

This is the beautiful song Daddy’s messenger sang to me that day – the White-throated Sparrow.

Figs and Fig Wasps

I began eating dried figs regularly early this year. I’ve eaten them before, but only occasionally. They are delicious. It’s not uncommon to bite into a dried fig that doesn’t taste terrible – but it doesn’t taste as good as the others either. About a month ago, I bit into and swallowed a couple of bites that fit that description. Then, I looked at what was left in my hand, and it was black inside. I had no idea what it was and imagined all kinds of health problems that might result. I threw it into the trash, and the rest of the bag quickly followed.

Unfortunately, I was anxious to get rid of it, but I wish I had studied it more closely. I began researching and found online information about what it could have been. A common problem with figs appears to be black mold, also called black smut or fig smut. What I have read so far indicates it won’t hurt humans to eat it, although it’s not recommended.

Just as interesting as black fig smut is this Huffington Post article about growing figs in general. I had no idea it was so complicated. Some types of figs do not require pollination, but the type I was eating does…by fig wasps, which I never worried about eating until now. It might be a while before I eat any more figs, fresh OR dried.

My Hoya

After my family moved to our house on Ovid Ave. in Oak Cliff in 1962, my mother acquired a tropical plant called a hoya. I don’t remember where she got it. Maybe someone gave it to her as a housewarming gift. She loved this plant. I loved it, too; but I didn’t realize just how much until recently. Mother’s hoya flourished on the window seat of the big picture window in the front of the house which faced east. It bloomed often, and every day in the late afternoon the waxy blooms put out a very sweet heavenly fragrance which filled the entire room.

I’m not sure why, but I have been thinking about Mother’s hoya recently, and I finally bought one on Etsy.com. The rooted cutting arrived in a box yesterday with its root ball tenderly wrapped in a paper towel. It was larger and prettier than I expected it to be. I planted it in a small clay pot and put it in an east-southeast window. I don’t suppose it will bloom for a while, but it will be worth the wait.

2018 June 21 Hoya — My hoya, Day 1 in its new home; June 21, 2018

All of this time, I thought a hoya would be a high-maintenance plant, but I have learned it is almost indestructible. We’ll see…

Desert Rose

My beautiful desert rose is back and even more glorious than last year! I saw these beautiful plants for sale at Market Days in Wimberley, Texas, about six or seven years ago (for $200 or more!). I passed them up but never stopped thinking about them. Then, about a year later, I happened to see one lonely desert rose at Lowe’s ($20) hiding among the indoor plants. I grabbed it without hesitation and took it home. It put out a few blooms each year, but it really began to flourish a couple of years ago when I put it outside and gave it more water. [Note: it does like more water than its name might suggest – but not too much.] I bring it in for the winter and prune it slightly. It doesn’t take long for it to show its color again after returning to the warm spring sunshine.

I haven’t had this kind of attachment to a plant since my mother’s beautiful hoya in the late 1960s – a beautiful wax plant with gorgeous and fragrant waxy blossoms. Every afternoon around four o’clock, it filled the room with its very sweet fragrance.

Mother’s Day 2018

Yesterday was a good Mother’s Day. I got to talk with all three of my kids, which is every mother’s wish on Mother’s Day; and my husband Gene and I had a nice lunch and good visit at home with a few friends and family.

The day began on an interesting note. I usually rise around 4 or 5 a.m. I think Mother did this, too, frequently because she had a headache. She would get up very early and make herself a cup of coffee. I do the same thing, often for the same reason.

Yesterday, I slept in. I didn’t rise until 6:30 a.m. – late for me. While my K-cup coffee was “brewing,” I picked up a book that Gene wrote for his family in 1999 about his family history. Within a few seconds, I fanned through the pages and stopped only by chance on page 24, the last page in a chapter he wrote about his mother Annie. The only thing on this page is a poem, which he said he found decades ago stuck between the pages of his mother’s Bible after she passed away. Although this poem might seem to set a sad and lonely mood, it did the opposite for me. I felt my mother talking to me through Gene’s mother, and it made me smile.

WHEN I AM OLD

Lord, keep me sweet as I grow old,
And things in life seem hard to bear,
When I am sad and all alone
And people do not seem to care.

Oh, keep me sweet when time has caused
This body, which is now so strong,
To droop beneath its load of years,
And suffering and pain has come.

Help me to train my heart each day,
That it will only sweetness hold;
And as the days and years roll on,
May I grow sweet as I grow old.

Oh, keep me sweet and let me look
Beyond the frets that life must hold,
To see the glad eternal joys;
Yes, keep me sweet in growing old.
Louise McBride