CHAPTER 44 One More Time
Greyhound Inc. took me back to Texas and it was a ride that was almost sentimental for me. For some reason, it seemed like I was in control of the bus. I could take a nap or relax, and people around me would begin to become rowdy and discontented. I could simply wake up and vibrate dissatisfaction, and they would quiet down. I didn't need to look at anyone or speak to anyone. It was a strange and very satisfying feeling. The bus driver shook hands and thanked me when we arrived. Strange - I think.
Fort Worth was nothing like home. Everything had changed enough in almost fifteen years that it seemed as if half the town were dead, the other half filled with strangers.
After a few weeks of becoming re-acquainted with my parents and catching up, there were a few calls from Sandy. They were meaningless graspings at the past, nothing to do with a future, and only slightly concealed attempts to hurt my feelings, by telling me of her new lover. Lies are a difficult thing to deal with for persons on both ends. She finally sifted enough meaning through our conversations to understand what goodbye really meant. Within a week, I met the woman who was to become my next lover and second wife.
Deborah had often engaged my mom in conversation at a local health club and spa. She and mom were both teachers, as was her father. Our families had all attended the same church back in the fifties and sixties. She had stayed single all these years. Her father was a farmer with a place up by the Red River. Debby had three sisters. Her father had been my algebra instructor in high school. The one where the pages of the annual had blown back and forth in the wind in Arizona. That one. From almost the moment we met, Debby and I became inseparable. We married about a year and a half later in November of 1983.
During the year prior to the wedding, several things happened. I helped my dad remodel a house he owned for rental purposes and I went to work for KFJZ, the very radio station where I had more or less begun my career. The job lasted for a few months, while the station was being sold. I was asked to DJ for a St. Patrick's Day dance and with a little help from our engineer, I accepted. It finally dawned on me that doing public dances could make good money and be good fun. I had done a few dances in my career but now it seemed sensible to approach it in a businesslike way. I recalled one of my students at Arizona Tech having recommended it to me.
The name of the company was One More Time. A bit of nostalgia and Deja'Vu with Big Bands being the specialty. It sputtered a bit, then with major news coverage in the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, it took off into the glorious and strange economy and times of the mid-1980's.
I bought an old funeral hearse for two hundred and fifty dollars, and discovered that it would drive very well if the tires were inflated correctly. The muffler needed repair and through several sets of tires, it served as my equipment truck for the next six years and some 55,000 miles. I sold it in 1990 for five hundred dollars.
At the age of forty and with a lovely young wife, a home, a business and a strange sense of security, I began to settle into what I had determined, would be a very pleasant final phase of my life. Debby and I it seems, had been quite literally made for each other. There was enough money for our needs, many, many gifts from the wedding and feelings of blessing that were a little overwhelming, at least for me.
The honeymoon had been a riotous week in New Orleans. We stayed at the Prince Conti hotel and enjoyed the antique canopy bed, which was genuinely hilarious. It was lovely, but the mattress was high - very high - in the center in such a way that two people could not comfortably lay side by side without one or the other finally rolling off the bed. It meant that one or the other had to be on top, or each was to sleep being held firmly in the others arms. We worked it out.
Pat O'Brien's was Debby's initiation to New Orleans night life. Pat O'Brien's is famous for a drink called The Hurricane. It is mostly punch with fruit and is lovely to see and taste. It concealed enough alcohol to start a truck. One is too much. Debby had one, spilled part of another and was gifted with a third from another couple nearby. For purposes of estimating, call it more than two hurricanes.
The Good Ship Debby rolled and pitched on the glassy calm sea of the French Quarter and almost keeled over a few times on the way back to the hotel. We slept on the floor. The next morning Rum Raisin ice cream worked well on topsy-turvy tummies while Debby took a long, hard look at me and tried to figure out who I was.
Home is where the heart is. We started our new life in Fort Worth's east side Meadowbrook area. We had both begun to settle into our new life and were enjoying it thoroughly the first month, when we got the news. Someone else was going to move in with us. Permanently.
Outside our east wall was a beautiful climbing rose bush. The spring of 1984 had been especially wet and the bush was bursting with roses. I recalled my experience with the young girl in Phoenix named Summer. I had told her that I loved the name and that I wished some day to have a daughter named Summer. She had said quite prophetically; "You will".
Summer Rose Wortham was born August 14th, 1984. It became my first experience at being a father. After all the affairs, one night stands, strange and ordinary relationships, the least likely thing in this world to my mind, was becoming a parent. Lord knows it should have happened many times before. It seems that the strange and funny antique bed in the honeymoon suite of the Prince Conti, had become the start of a whole new celebration of life.
It was as if God had spoken and said; "One More Time".
Fort Worth was nothing like home. Everything had changed enough in almost fifteen years that it seemed as if half the town were dead, the other half filled with strangers.
After a few weeks of becoming re-acquainted with my parents and catching up, there were a few calls from Sandy. They were meaningless graspings at the past, nothing to do with a future, and only slightly concealed attempts to hurt my feelings, by telling me of her new lover. Lies are a difficult thing to deal with for persons on both ends. She finally sifted enough meaning through our conversations to understand what goodbye really meant. Within a week, I met the woman who was to become my next lover and second wife.
Deborah had often engaged my mom in conversation at a local health club and spa. She and mom were both teachers, as was her father. Our families had all attended the same church back in the fifties and sixties. She had stayed single all these years. Her father was a farmer with a place up by the Red River. Debby had three sisters. Her father had been my algebra instructor in high school. The one where the pages of the annual had blown back and forth in the wind in Arizona. That one. From almost the moment we met, Debby and I became inseparable. We married about a year and a half later in November of 1983.
During the year prior to the wedding, several things happened. I helped my dad remodel a house he owned for rental purposes and I went to work for KFJZ, the very radio station where I had more or less begun my career. The job lasted for a few months, while the station was being sold. I was asked to DJ for a St. Patrick's Day dance and with a little help from our engineer, I accepted. It finally dawned on me that doing public dances could make good money and be good fun. I had done a few dances in my career but now it seemed sensible to approach it in a businesslike way. I recalled one of my students at Arizona Tech having recommended it to me.
The name of the company was One More Time. A bit of nostalgia and Deja'Vu with Big Bands being the specialty. It sputtered a bit, then with major news coverage in the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, it took off into the glorious and strange economy and times of the mid-1980's.
I bought an old funeral hearse for two hundred and fifty dollars, and discovered that it would drive very well if the tires were inflated correctly. The muffler needed repair and through several sets of tires, it served as my equipment truck for the next six years and some 55,000 miles. I sold it in 1990 for five hundred dollars.
At the age of forty and with a lovely young wife, a home, a business and a strange sense of security, I began to settle into what I had determined, would be a very pleasant final phase of my life. Debby and I it seems, had been quite literally made for each other. There was enough money for our needs, many, many gifts from the wedding and feelings of blessing that were a little overwhelming, at least for me.
The honeymoon had been a riotous week in New Orleans. We stayed at the Prince Conti hotel and enjoyed the antique canopy bed, which was genuinely hilarious. It was lovely, but the mattress was high - very high - in the center in such a way that two people could not comfortably lay side by side without one or the other finally rolling off the bed. It meant that one or the other had to be on top, or each was to sleep being held firmly in the others arms. We worked it out.
Pat O'Brien's was Debby's initiation to New Orleans night life. Pat O'Brien's is famous for a drink called The Hurricane. It is mostly punch with fruit and is lovely to see and taste. It concealed enough alcohol to start a truck. One is too much. Debby had one, spilled part of another and was gifted with a third from another couple nearby. For purposes of estimating, call it more than two hurricanes.
The Good Ship Debby rolled and pitched on the glassy calm sea of the French Quarter and almost keeled over a few times on the way back to the hotel. We slept on the floor. The next morning Rum Raisin ice cream worked well on topsy-turvy tummies while Debby took a long, hard look at me and tried to figure out who I was.
Home is where the heart is. We started our new life in Fort Worth's east side Meadowbrook area. We had both begun to settle into our new life and were enjoying it thoroughly the first month, when we got the news. Someone else was going to move in with us. Permanently.
Outside our east wall was a beautiful climbing rose bush. The spring of 1984 had been especially wet and the bush was bursting with roses. I recalled my experience with the young girl in Phoenix named Summer. I had told her that I loved the name and that I wished some day to have a daughter named Summer. She had said quite prophetically; "You will".
Summer Rose Wortham was born August 14th, 1984. It became my first experience at being a father. After all the affairs, one night stands, strange and ordinary relationships, the least likely thing in this world to my mind, was becoming a parent. Lord knows it should have happened many times before. It seems that the strange and funny antique bed in the honeymoon suite of the Prince Conti, had become the start of a whole new celebration of life.
It was as if God had spoken and said; "One More Time".
posted by freespeak@gmail.com at 11:39 AM
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