Tag Archives: Memoir

Animal Parade

18 Nov

My Take

DiVoran Lites

By Dora Bowers as told to DiVoran Lites

Crowley, Colorado 1942-43

Description: Goats, Mom And Child, Kid, Small, Cute, Young, Fur

Around the time that David learned to walk well, we had a Mama goat named Petaluma and a baby goat named Billy. We also had a dog named ginger and a black cat. Sometimes in the afternoon between washing and drying dinner dishes and starting supper, we all walked along beside the irrigation ditch to the factory to see Ivan. For some reason, we always fell into a line, maybe according to whose legs were longest. First came Dode (which was me) then Doo Doo (which was the only way David could say DiVoran’s name) then David who we called Dab because of the letters of his name: David Allen Bowers. 

Description: Dog, Toller, Pet, Retriever
Description: Kitten, Cat, Black Cat, Domestic Cat, Pets, Animal

Then came Billy the little goat. Billy liked to detour, his divided hooves clicking over the glass which covered the new tomato plants. He stepped so daintily, he never cracked a single pane. After Billy-goat came Ginger the Heinz 57 dog with short forays to check out rabbit smells, and then the cat, always alert for field mice. Momma goat, Petaluma never went along and she wouldn’t tell me why. I suspected it was because she wanted some time to herself, or maybe I thought that because I was in tune with mamas needing just that. 

Description: Bantam, Rooster, Chickens, Farm, Domestic

Chanticleer the banty rooster was another member of the family that didn’t go along on the walk. He was a cocky and colorful little character, but he had a bad sense of timing. Day and night trains carrying troops and equipment for the war came down the railroad tracks behind our house. At night, when it was dark, Chanticleer couldn’t tell the difference between light from the streamliner and light from the rising sun. Whenever Chanticleer saw the light, he crowed, even if it was only 3:00 a. m. The noise would wake us and all the hard-working neighbors out of a well-earned night’s sleep. Chanticleer had to go.

He ended up in the pot, but no matter how long we stewed him (and we even served noodles with him) he turned out to be awfully hard to chew and for a while, we lost our taste for chicken. DiVoran’s tears when she guessed what we were trying to eat.

There in Crowley, we had young friends with children the age of ours, so Dave and DiVoran had playmates. We wives cleaned our houses on Friday then raced to see who could get to the other’s house first so their own would not be messed up with the children’s play. 

In 1943, when Dave was two and DiVoran 5, more and more countries became involved with the war. In the United States, some men were being drafted and others volunteered for service. Although deferments were usually given to men with small children; as well as to men who produced and preserved food, Ivan felt he must at least go down to the draft office and see if they needed him. They needed him—even though he worked in a canning factory, had small children and even flat feet. “By that time in the war all they required was a man with warm blood.”

Author, Poet and Artist

DiVoran has been writing for most of her life. Her first attempt at a story was when she was seven years old and her mother got a new typewriter. DiVoran got to use it and when her dad saw her writing he asked what she was writing about. DiVoran answered that she was writing the story of her life. Her dad’s only comment was, “Well, it’s going to be a very short story.” After most of a lifetime of writing and helping other writers, DiVoran finally launched her own dream which was to write a novel of her own. She now has her Florida Springs trilogy and her novel, a Christian Western Romance, Go West available on Amazon. When speaking about her road to publication, she gives thanks to the Lord for all the people who helped her grow and learn.  She says, “I could never have done it by myself, but when I got going everything fell beautifully into place, and I was glad I had started on my dream.”

Ouch! ~Part 2

9 Jul


Judy Wills




Continuing from last week:

From Fort Worth, we drove down to Austin, TX, by way of Waco. We stopped in at Baylor University, where my father had graduated in 1924. He was one of the three students in the very first graduating class in the School of Music from Baylor University.


Baylor University Music Program Class of 1924


In Austin, we met up with a cousin of mine I hadn’t seen since 2001, along with his wife and his brother. We had a great couple of days with them, as well.



From Austin we drove down to San Antonio, TX – one of our favorite cities! We had lived there for three years in the 1980’s, while Fred was an instructor at the U.S. Air Force Officer Training School.


Graduating class of new Air Force Officers


That first night, we had dinner with a German friend and her husband. We had met them in Germany in the late 1960’s. She was actually a friend of my Mother’s, before she became my friend. She had married an American military person, and they moved to the U.S. and San Antonio, in particular. We hadn’t seen them since we left Germany in 1970. Still dear friends.

After now having seen all the friends we had planned on seeing, we were free to “do” San Antonio at our leisure. We started off by going downtown. We had been members of the First Baptist Church while living in S.A., so stopped to see if anyone was there. Fred met someone, who said the church was, essentially, closed (it being Saturday). But we were welcome to park our car in their lot and do the famous “San Antonio River Walk” from there. So we did just that.


Credit Google search


At least, we started out on the River Walk. That had always been one of our favorite things to do in San Antonio. We walked along, enjoying the sights and sounds – and wonderful smells of Mexican food! It’s just a sidewalk on either side of the river. We were also enjoying watching a momma duck and 11 babies swimming furiously in the river.



And here’s a picture with a turtle near the ducks!



With some people coming toward us, Fred and I narrowed down to single-file. That’s when I stubbed my toe on an uneven piece of sidewalk concrete – and down I went! Hard! I remember hitting my right cheek with such force that I thought I had shattered my cheekbone!


When Fred – and the passing tourists – managed to get me on my feet, I realized that I had done something really bad to my right shoulder – something really painful! I thought perhaps I had dislocated my shoulder.

Unable to continue on with the River Walk, we headed back to the car. I knew that I had to go to the hospital, but was a little hungry. So as we headed to get something to eat, I texted our daughters, my brother, and my best friend, with the words “Altercation with sidewalk. Sidewalk won. Lunch first, then ER.”

That ER visit lasted four hours – and we were so glad we had taken the time to eat first! After some tests – including xrays, CT scan, and MRI – the conclusion was that I had a hairline fracture of my clavicle (collar bone), as well as a hairline fracture of my right eye socket. I saw four doctors, including an opthamologist, with instructions to follow-up with doctors here in Orlando.

Here is a photo of my eye as we were leaving the hospital. As you can see, my eye was already turning purple after just four hours.



And here is a picture of my eye as it was by the next morning. That lasted for about six weeks. Not a pretty sight, right?



So, my ouchies are better – healing well – and I am seeing the required doctors. But it is certainly not something I would like to repeat!

~~~~~~~~~~The End~~~~~~~~~~

Nothin’ to Do~Part 2

1 Aug

My Take 

DiVoran Lites

Making Plays

Making Plays in Patricia’s cousins’ back yard.

One day wandering around town, Patricia and I made a pact to remain friends even when we were grandmothers and we have done so. We email each other regularly and Patricia helps with my writing when I need a second opinion or another brain with similar memories in it. Not long ago a winter seemed extra cold in Florida, and all I wanted to do was to hole –up in a small room with my computer and an extra heater. Joan had a much deeper cold in Colorado and holed up too. One day I wrote to ask her what she remembered about our eighth-grade classroom and we got started writing our memoirs about growing up in a small town at the foot of the Sangre de Cristo mountain range in the Wet Mountain Valley in Colorado.

Since then we’ve written about family, politics, nature, travel, whatever comes to mind and once in a while we throw in another remembrance.

Patricia is speaking of those memoir days when she refers to the good old days.

 “While looking at some of your old emails, I was remembering the good old days, when we didn’t have so much going on, and just took things as they came, enjoying the little things and just being together. 

When we were in Gunnison recently the internet shut down.  Somehow a main cable got cut and several towns on the Western Slope were without internet service.  We were unaware until we went to dinner at a restaurant and the waitress said, “We can’t take credit cards, so you will have to pay cash or wash dishes.” Banks and the ATMs were down too. No one’s cell phones were working either.  So anyway, we ordered our food and started watching other people to see what they were doing.  Couples were actually talking to each other, since they couldn’t use their phones.  When we got through with dinner, we walked out to the parking lot and people were gathered in bunches, having great conversations.  It was so unusual and old fashioned.

Many people I know have a love/hate relationship with technology. I love the convenience of being able to save my drafts, being able to keep in touch with friends by email, and shopping for things I can’t get in our small community. Most of all I love having my music station with me wherever I go and being able to choose every kind of music I can think of. Also love the camera on my phone and knowing if I get into trouble when I’m out I can call someone else who will most likely have their cell-phone with them. I wouldn’t be able to use any of it if it weren’t for our grown kids and their patience with teaching us and fixing our devices. I’m grateful for all that, but I’m enjoying doing other things such as painting and using a pen to write in my journal and things like cooking and cleaning and reading second-hand books you can buy in abundance these days. I guess it’s like the old saying: “Moderation in all things.” Attributed to Publius Tenentius Afer (c. 150 B. C.)


Family Treasures~Part 6

10 Jul


Judy Wills


There are some family treasures that are treasures to me, but I don’t have them with me. But I would like to tell you about them.

I’ve mentioned before that my Dad worked in church work (Southern Baptist) all his working career. Looking at some of those in the “religious” field these days, you might get the idea that all pastors (my Dad was not a pastor) and church workers are rolling in the bucks. Let me tell you – it is NOT so!!

Consequently, being the farm boy he was in the beginning of his life, he would go deer hunting every season to bring his family meat to eat. We really ate well. Occasionally, Mom would go with him and they would bag two deer – we REALLY ate well those years.


And then, when my brother, Bill, was old enough to hunt with Daddy, he would go along, and they usually bagged two deer, again. I’ve used these pictures in other musings, but they bear repeating for this posting.



One thing I’ve failed to mention is that Daddy eventually began butchering his kill. Albuquerque is cold in the winter, so Daddy would hang the deer in the garage, skin it, then butcher it. He didn’t always do that. At first, he would take the deer to a local butcher and have it done there. But somewhere along the way, Daddy discovered that he was not getting “his” meat back. Don’t know who was getting it, but it wasn’t us. So one year he set a test – he put a straw under the tongue of the deer. And guess what? The straw wasn’t there when he went to pick up his meat. That was the last time he let anyone else butcher his meat.


One little footnote here – if you have ever wanted to cook venison, the recipe usually calls for soaking it in milk or something else overnight before cooking. Well, let me tell you…New Mexico deer eat only the “good stuff” in the mountains – pine nuts, etc.   So there is no “gamey” taste to the venison. Mother would make roasts, steaks, and the best chili I’ve ever had, out of that venison!! After butchering, the meat was wrapped and stored in our freezer until she was ready to cook it. Yum..

I know that in previous musings I mentioned that one year Daddy bagged an elk. Those things are HUGE!! Lots of good meat for our freezer that year.

What I’ve not mentioned is that Daddy had a stuffed deer head on our dining room wall. I don’t know why – except it was always just “there” – part of the woodwork of growing up in that house. It may have been the first deer Daddy ever bagged – I’m not sure. What irritates me is that, after looking through ALL the pictures and slides from my growing up, I cannot find one single picture of that deer head!


What’s kind of funny is that there is a deer head in every Cracker Barrel we’ve ever been in. And the one in the restaurant near our house had one that could have been hanging on our wall! Here’s a picture of it………see the “ripple” on it’s neck? That is exactly like our deer head had! (I took this picture are our Cracker Barrel!) None of the deer heads in the other Cracker Barrel’s we’ve been to has the “ripple.” This one reminds me of the one I grew up with.

So, even though I don’t have the picture of our actual deer head, this one will do. This one is an 8-point buck, just like the one at our house.   Who knows – perhaps Cracker Barrel acquired theirs from my family. Stranger things have happened.











Dad: Worst Enemy, Best Friend~Part 3

20 Jun

My Take

DiVoran Lites

Over the years, Dad bought roller-skates, bicycles, a horse, a dog, and he even acquired a cat for us. There were always plenty of cats available, so he didn’t have to buy Tiger. He had us pay for the puppy, though, because Brownie came from a ranch and dad thought it only fair that the rancher got something for one of his animals. It was also a good lesson for us. We gave everything we had for that dog — thirty-five cents between us.

DiVoran and Yankee

DiVoran and Yankee (a part Shetland pony)

DiVoran and Brownie

DiVoran and Brownie (part collie) the love of my life for a long time.

He bought each of us a baby calf. David’s was a Hereford and he called him, Red. Mine was black and white, and I called him, Clover. Alas, I found him dead one morning in the woodshed where he lived. He had died of some common ailment to young calves.

Dad cleaned out the shed and that year bought a big white goose from a rancher. That goose was to be Thanksgiving dinner. Dad would cook it himself. David and I had the job of feeding the goose every day. When we learned his destiny, I decided he needed to be free so we left the shed door open and the goose escaped.



When Dad discovered  the goose was gone, he sent us out on the prairie behind our house to look for it. We went down to Grape Creek and thinking the goose might like water, we walked along making our way through the thick willow bushes. We never found the goose, but we did come upon a willow-hut that we presumed belonged to one of the two town drunks. The citizens called this man, Prairie Jack. When we peeked inside the hut, we saw that it was empty except for a pallet on the ground and a photograph of a lovely young woman. Her clothes and hair- style came from another time. I recognized that from Grandmother’s teaching the women in the family to stay in step with style. Then too, being the children of a bar owner, we knew why Prairie Jack had turned to drink. He had plainly lost the woman he loved and couldn’t stand to live sober without her.

We left everything in the hut alone, even though we had already meddled in Prairie Jack’s business. Once, when we found a full bottle of whisky hidden under a sage bush, we poured the whole quart-full on the ground and left the empty bottle laying there. I hated whiskey and do to this day, probably because it was my medicine for when I got car-sick on the winding roads to Grandmother’s house.

Dad taught us to work in the restaurant. My brother took out the empty coke bottles in their wooden cases. The two of us cleared tables and washed dishes. Our pay was twenty-five cents an hour. For killing flies in the summer, with a fly swatter, we got a penny a fly. For ironing a large basket of clothes at home for Mother, I got a whole dollar each week. My brother had his chores as well. We saved some of our money and spent the rest. I wish I could tell you what we spent it on, but I just don’t know.

Dad took flying lessons from the town jeweler, a fellow member of the Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW) organization. He then bought a Piper Cub and called it, “Dinty Moore.” We flew over the mountains to visit Grandmother and Granddad in Canon City.

One afternoon, when dad and his friend, Sweak Jeske, flew to Denver to look at cars, the phone on the restaurant wall rang. When Mother answered it an insurance salesman sold her some airplane insurance. The next call that evening was from Dad saying he had got caught in a downdraft and crashed the plane in the snow on the side of Pike’s Peak. We kids didn’t know anything about it until dad came home the next day with a broken ankle. He and Sweak had made their way down the mountain to a ranch house and were saved from freezing to death. Sweak had no injuries at all. I reckon someone bigger than you and I had His hand under that plane and set it down gentle as could be. Once they towed the wreckage back to the small airport in Silver Cliff, I saw that Dinty Moore was now a pile of junk. Mom and Dad both worked hard and he was able to get an Air Coup some years later. He wanted us to have flying lessons, so I got up very early one morning and he took me to the airport where I got into a Steerman with an instructor and had a lesson on flying and was told to study cloud formations. The next Saturday, I decided I didn’t want to to get up so early so I never did learn to fly and sorry folks, but I didn’t care and still don’t. My brother, on the other hand, became a mechanic on jets and later a commercial pilot. To each his own.




Family Treasures~Part 3

19 Jun


Judy Wills



I’m really having a good time, going back through the “things” that made up my childhood and growing-up years. They bring back such fun memories.

The previous musings have been about items in my family home. Today I would like to introduce some things that, while near and dear to me, were in my Aunt Jessie’s house. She and my Granny lived about 10 minutes away from us, and they were a huge part of my life – almost daily – for about 10 years. I loved their house as much as I loved ours.

Aunt Jessie never married, and so “things” became the focus of her life. Grandpa started her on the road to loving antiques, and she never quit. She would go to estate sales around Albuquerque and pick up what she wanted. She furnished her house with some REALLY good antique furniture. She was, at one time, the President of the Antique Club in Albuquerque.

As I’ve mentioned before, Aunt Jessie, Granny, and my Mother, all worked in the Rochester Handkerchief Factory in San Antonio, Texas, at one time or another. Mother told me that, eventually, Mrs. Rochester discovered that it was actually cheaper to go to Ireland for the fabric, take it to China for the cutwork, and then bring it to the United States to sell. They actually made a bigger profit by doing that. Unbelievable to me.

In any case, while in China, Mrs. Rochester would pick up items that she wanted – and that Aunt Jessie would like to have, and have them shipped back to the U.S. I’ve mentioned before about the hand-carved camphor chests.

One other thing that she brought to Jessie, that I have always loved, were Chinese scenes, formed/carved from cork. They have always fascinated me. And so, when Jessie died, I took two of those pictures, and they now hang on our guest bedroom walls. And they still fascinate me.

They might not have been in my parent’s house, but they are still family treasures to me.






Dad: My Worst Enemy, My Best Friend~Part 1

6 Jun

My Take

DiVoran Lites


Author, Poet and ArtistI’m writing this post on Memorial Day, May 30, 2016 the day when I finally knew how much I loved my Dad. In church the day before, our Pastor invited the congregation to call out the names of loved ones who had died for their country. There was a silence then one person spoke, another short silence and then someone else spoke. No one said the name loudly, but soon we heard a chorus of voices expressing grief. It was sad, but suddenly I had an epiphany. My dad was an infantryman in WW2. That means he did most of the war on foot. The difference was: my dad came home. That meant that I didn’t go through life without a father as so many children have done over the centuries. Sounds like I should have known how blessed I was, doesn’t it? But you see, Dad and I were at odds for most of my life and I developed some fairly hefty grievances because of it.

Ivan went to war when I was five years old and my brother almost three. He was in the Battle of the Bulge, and although he came back whole, I think there was an unseen part of him left behind. On top of that, Dad was a male and I happened to be born a female, something that dad took hard. Old story, eh, Dad wants a boy for his first born. This Dad knew little about girls because he just had one brother growing up, no sisters to teach him what girls were like. I guess you might say he did his best to make a real man of me. Now don’t get me wrong, I really like men. I’ve had one of every male relative a person can have and I liked them all pretty well, most of the time.

Ivan Bowers

Ivan Bowers, circa 1919

At the time we happened to be living in Crowley, Colorado where dad was a mechanic in a tomato factory. Mother’s job was to give the workers a big dinner at noon. We lived in a shotgun house, which meant that if you shot a gun through the front door, the bullet would go out the back door. The kitchen was at the back. We had a rooster, some chickens, and a Nanny goat for milk. When I got older, Mother told me that when we walked over go over to factory to visit Dad, we’d all go together in a line: Mom, Sister, Brother, our dog, and Chanticleer (the rooster), Nanny Goat and her kid, Billy. Billy would walk on tiny hooves trip-trap over the panes of glass that protected the tender, new plants from the elements. Mother said she held her breath hoping Billy Goat wouldn’t break any of them and he never did.

—–To Be Continued—–

The Cruise of a Lifetime~Coming Home

29 May


Judy Wills



 Because our flight from Budapest was at 6:30 a.m., we had to get up about 2:15 a.m. to get ready, pack, and get on the shuttle bus by 3:30 a.m. We had showered the night before, so all we had to do was shave (Fred), put on makeup (Judy), finish packing, and off we went. There were 14 of us from the ship that were going to make that flight.

It was a 30-minute drive from the ship to the airport. And when we got there, it was a “hurry up and wait” situation. We waited 30 minutes for the counter personnel to arrive and begin taking customers. We were first in line, thank goodness. Even though we had our bags with us, she convinced us to check the larger bags, as the plane from Budapest to Amsterdam was “small.” The flight took off pretty much on time, and it was a two hour flight to Amsterdam. They did feed us breakfast, but it was nothing like we had before – a sandwich with either deli-thin slices of chicken, or cheese, with mayonnaise on it. Well, Fred doesn’t eat mayo in ANY form! But we were able to get him some slices of cheese and chicken that wasn’t too “polluted” from the mayo.

We had a fairly long layover in Amsterdam, which was good. Schiphol Airport is really big, and we had to go quite a ways to find our gate. Fred said it looked like the lady in Budapest had checked our bags all the way to Orlando, but he wasn’t sure. So when we had the attendant in Amsterdam check, sure enough, they were checked through. However, she said we had to pick them up in Atlanta and go through Customs there.

The flight from Amsterdam to Atlanta was nearly nine hours long. The fortunate thing about it was that we were on an Airbus, and were in the two-seat side, rather than the four-seat middle. I always enjoy flying with just Fred, rather than three of us across. They fed us lunch – we both had tortellini, salad, cheese and crackers. A few hours later they had wrap sandwiches for us – Fred had a “meatball” and I had a veggie wrap. Surprisingly tasty. And of course, there was always the pretzels and peanuts.

We finally arrived in Atlanta – really nice to realize we were back on US soil! We picked up our bags and headed through Customs and Immigration. Not a bad thing, and we got through fairly easily. We were glad to have that done in Atlanta, rather than having to do it in Orlando, when we were super tired.

The flight to Orlando was just barely over one hour. As we like to say, they hardly got up when they had to start down again! They did have time to hand out pretzels and soft drinks, but they were hurrying through it.

Richard Lynch picked us up and headed toward home. When we discovered they had not had dinner yet – and our tummys were growling – we agreed to meet at Panera for a light supper. Pam and Piper were waiting for us. We were able to tell them a little bit about our trip, but were so very ready to get home.

We unloaded our suitcases quickly, as I HAD to do a load of undies, since all we had needed to be washed before the next day. So with all that done, we were able to get to bed by about 10:00 p.m. We figured that we had been in the air about 13 hours, and had been awake about 25 hours – with only cat-naps on the airplane! We were truly and fully exhausted!   We didn’t even set the clock to wake us up on Saturday – just decided to sleep our fill.

It was wonderful to be home and sleeping in our own bed.

But we are grateful and thankful that we had the wonderful experience of the Viking River Cruise Grand Tour. A cruise of a lifetime!


~~~~~~~~~~The End~~~~~~~~~~



The Shadow Knows

23 May

My Take

DiVoran Lites


When we’re young we think adults know everything. While we’re in that stage, we’ll follow almost anyone who is nice to us. It takes many years to begin to realize that people don’t know as much as we think they do.

Take for instance our relationship with God. You see and hear all kinds of things about how we should think and behave, and what we should believe. The more mature we grow, however, the less apt we are to believe just anything. We come to a place where we want to know God for ourselves. We want Him to teach us and answer our questions. Oh, I’m not talking about Christ being God’s Son and dying for our sins. That’s basic. No, it’s more like traditions and rites, and conjecture about what He actually wants from us and what he is like.

Who really does know everything? The Shadow Knows of course, but who is the shadow?

DiVoran and David Bowers

David and DiVoran Bowers

First of all, he was the alter-ego of a man named Lamont Cranston, and the hero in the radio program, “The Shadow.” In the 40s my little brother and I loved to listen to that program. To keep us out of their hair at the restaurant on Sunday afternoons our parents bought a radio and installed it in the living room of our duplex at the end of the street. We didn’t have a working kitchen because the kitchen held our bunk beds. So dad bought us a new- fangled pop-up toaster. Every week our parents gave us a loaf of Rainbow bread and sent us home to listen to the Sunday afternoon programs.

When we had polished off the toast, we found our toys and laid them out in preparation for moving them around. David took each tiny horse, each cow, and each section of rail fencing and placed it exactly where he wanted it.

I pulled out Mother’s little dolls and the clothes she and her Grandmother had made for them in the late twenties.

We listened happily and when, “The Shadow,” came on we paused to listen to his voice. One phrase I never forgot from “The Shadow” was: “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows.”

The Shadow

“A figure never seen, only heard, the Shadow was an invincible crime fighter. He possessed many gifts which enabled him to overcome any enemy. Besides his tremendous strength, he could defy gravity, speak any language, unravel any code, and become invisible with his famous ability to “cloud men’s minds.” (Thanks to the website, Old Time Radio World.)

So now we knew someone who really did know everything, and somehow, we had a profile of God. We could trust the Shadow because he always did the right thing and he protected people and their children. In the end, though, we were open to being friends with someone who possessed all the Shadow’s abilities and much more. We chose to worship Jesus.

Now that we’re grown-ups, we think we might know a thing or two, but we still come against questions we can’t answer. That’s when we have to say, “The Shadow knows.” We mean God, or course. He is sufficient for any need we have.

A Dream of Orchids

16 May

My Take

DiVoran Lites

Photo by Melody Hendrix

Photo by Melody Hendrix

The first real orchid I ever saw came in the mail from Hawaii. Bill the sailor sent it to my parents’ home where I was living in Albuquerque waiting for him to get out of the service. I unpacked it slowly, carefully, and admired it in the box packed for its trip to the mainland. It looked like ones in this photo and the accompanying note called it a Vanda Orchid.

Before I lifted it out, I brought the package up to my sniffer to see if it had a fragrance and it did. What a joy! I learned later that not all orchids do. If it was close to Sunday, Mother may have pinned it to the dress I wore to church. The flower didn’t last long, but the memory did. Bill and I have been married for fifty-nine years. I must remember to thank him again. Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Bill, for the orchid and for the bouquets from the florist and the flowers you’ve grown for me. I think you like them as much as I do and that’s an extra bonus.

One Friday, my friend, Melody and I went to Kiwanis Island off Merritt Island to visit an orchid show called, I Dream of Orchids.

I Dream of Orchids


We couldn’t stop snapping pictures, Melody from one of her two cameras and I from my iPhone. She wanted to purchase an orchid for her husband’s mother who raises them in Georgia, so she talked to the growers about the details of shipping. I had no idea it was such a big deal, and in my mind thanked Bill again for the special one he had sent in 1958.

The first person Melody talked with told us he was a lecturer on the subject. He is an engineer, he was born in Viet-Nam, but has lived in Melbourne all his life. His name is Thanh Nguyen and he will send orchids by mail. His phone number is 321-223-6173 if you want to talk to him about it. He doesn’t have a website because he spends every spare moment on his beloved orchids. He says it takes a lot of effort to pack a plant for shipping, but if you want the materials you can buy them from him. Among other materials, he listed cotton-packing and heat-wraps. Mr. Nguyen says orchids survive the trip, but if they were shipped with blooms, the blooms will die. Never fear, says he, they will come back exactly the same in the next blooming.

As I dreamed of orchids I recalled another one a different gentleman arranged for me to have. It was this way: Bill and I more or less eloped. We invited our families to the wedding in California, though. Both of our dads were traveling men. Bill’s mother flew to California where Bill was stationed. I had gone with a family she’d known a long time in their VW fan and stayed at their house. My Aunt Jenny drove my mother and cousin. I had ordered a gardenia bridal bouquet, but when we picked it up, it had a wonderful white orchid at its center. My dad had called and changed my order. He wanted me to have the best. My wedding orchid looked like this one.

Wedding Orchid

After we moved to Florida, orchids began to collect themselves on our porch. Every time we saw a good buy we bought. They took a minimum of care, here in Florida, and lasted for many years. But then they came to a place where they were going to need transplanting and I, being a casual plant owner, decided to find good homes for them instead. I gave them to three friends at church, each of whom cared well for hers and gave me thanks and reports for many years after. One friend put hers on a tree in her yard where it thrived. I think orchids make people happy, no matter what.

Green leaf orchid


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