Bullock: Blinded by Love

Hope Floats. Sandra, you float. The role that won Oscar for Best Actress stands eclipsed by the real life drama we watched since that auspicious night Sandra Bullock stood in shimmering gown holding the Hollywood honor of honors, husband Jesse James by her side. Walking the red carpet, glowing above the gown, smiling for photographers, we were awed.

Suddenly, the unthinkable: beauty, glamour, artistry, not enough. Just as suddenly disappearing from public eye, we wonder, “Is she living out the drama she played when a ludicrous scene in a movie gone by left her shocked before the world and bereft of will to rise?”

Not this Sandra, not this place, not this time. Blinded by love. The cries and giggles of  new life sustain her and move the mother protector inside. Not as though, she didn’t struggle. Together with Louis, her son, she will. She will rise and stand: compassion and dignity. No “Somebody Done Somebody Wrong Song” for Sandra. Let the others play that tired song.

 Welcome, Sandra to new life. Welcome to new love.  Thank you for continued grace and style. Thank you for giving us the joy of sharing yours.

From BJ to Sandra.

Snow on Carroll Hill

    

Photo by Hud

Snow in Fort Worth on March 20th! Imagine! Poor Eskimos, they must be running out of ice for their igloos since they’ve sent so much our way.

     Hud and I settled down to a warm dinner about six in the evening when we looked up to see lovely swirls full of glittering flakes gyrating first one way and then another around our back yard. Surely these flurries would soon be gone, but much to our surprise, by late evening, a white blanket completely covered the grass.

     It brought back memories of being seven years old on Carroll Hill. We had the biggest snow I had ever seen. My brother and I loved every minute. We made snowballs and nearly froze our fingers off since we were not used to snow, had no mittens and used socks instead. Daddy skimmed the freshest snow to make snow cream; we ate every bite even though our jaws hurt from the cold before we finished.

     Only our living room had a heater. Our bedrooms were frigid that night. Mother warmed bricks by the fire, wrapped them with towels and put them under the covers of our blankets and quilts just about the right spot for our feet when it came bedtime. She smoothed our chapped hands with Vicks and covered them with clean socks, tying a piece of yarn around our wrists to keep them secure. What a warm, cozy feeling!

     Our hands were like new the next morning. The snow kept coming. It froze and became quite hazardous. School closed. We loved it even more. That day Mother kept the door to our room open; my brother and I spent a lot of time playing on our beds to stay off the cold floor.

     My quilt was called Dutch Dolls. The dolls were appliquéd into the center of off-white domestic squares with pretty print dresses and bonnets which were often matching fabric or solids. My favorites were the delicate lavenders and pinks, though the brighter yellows and blues were a close second. The squares were set together with triple runners of soft green bordering a center of pink. The entire quilt was finished with the same soft green and pink border. I loved running my fingers across the tiny, little stitches my mother, her sisters and the Mimi, I couldn’t remember, sewed.

Photo by Hud

     Rayford and I made believe the green runners were streets, pushing little cars and trucks around. Sometimes we raced the cars. My arms were longer since I was three years older. Guess who won? Tired of cars and trucks, we colored in coloring books. When cajoled, Rayford played paper dolls, but that never lasted. I finished by myself while he played cars again.

     We looked out the window at the porch covered with snow and felt the ice crunch beneath our fingers as we drew snowman figures in the frosted patches on the panes. We looked to see if the little snowman made the day before was still there and listened eagerly for the sound of Daddy’s car coming up the lane to the house.

     Mother called and we ran to the living room. She had placed our little kitchen table and chairs in the room by the stove where steaming bowls of rice now set. We dug in. If we were lucky, when Daddy came home, she would make hot chocolate, and let us melt marshmallows on top.

     Daddy came in that evening with a very somber look on his face. We often went home with one of my best friends, Carrie Jo, on Sundays after church. She and her mother had the rosiest cheeks and always seemed to have something to laugh about. She had a bunch of brothers and sisters. Because of his large family, her father went to work that morning.

  On the way home, Carrie Jo’s father noticed some of the chains wrapped around his tires were slipping. He pulled into a truck stop, slid under his car and began tightening them. Neither the bus driver, coming in for his regular stop, or Carrie Jo’s father saw the other as my friend’s dad pushed his way back out into the drive from under the car into the path of the bus. The whole community was devastated by his death.

     It is my first memory that everything good does not last forever. We moved away, but I never forgot my friend. It would be nice to know how she and her family fared.