Bird Brain Argument

On March 7, 2015April 19, 2015 By Barry GilleyIn Uncategorized2 Comments

I would like to take this opportunity to clear up some misunderstandings about Libby’s and my relationship because, frankly, it’s a little embarrassing when people are fooled into believing that we shared some sort of fairytale marriage . I apologize if my selective memory led some to believe that we enjoyed a type of nirvana relationship, because I can promise you, we did not.

Although I may have concentrated my writings on some of the surreal, blissful moments together (a diagnosis of stage 4 cancer has a way of filtering out some of the nonessential periphery in a relationship) we struggled with communication which lead to arguments, as we both said things that we later regretted. I will admit that I minimize their severity in my writings because I now see the humor in some of those arguments, like the one that happened in February of last year during some of the worst days of Libby’s illness:

Libby was always marveling at God’s creation and from the time we moved into our current home in April of 1992 we seemed to have more than our fair share of wild animals traipsing through our yard. At certain times of the year, for two or three weeks in row we would see the same 12 deer in our front yard every time we pulled in our driveway and even that caused an argument.

After seeing the deer every evening for three weeks in a row, Libby noticed that the deer were gone on this particular night. When she came into the house she told me that I needed to take a flashlight, go into the woods, find the deer and count them to make sure all 12 were there because she was worried something may have happened to them. I laughed because I thought she was joking but then I got “the look” which meant she was serious, so I responded in a most loving and gentle manner saying, “Libby, that’s the dumbest thing I have ever heard! There is no way I’m going out in the woods at 11:00 at night looking for a bunch of stupid deer.” Undeterred, she would gently say that they were part of God’s creation and they weren’t stupid. I laughed again and said that if they are not stupid then they should be able to survive in the woods without my help”………. That’s how that argument started.

Sometimes those same deer would eat Libby’s ornamental plants and then she wasn’t nearly as concerned about their wellbeing, but the real nuisance animals were the skunks, snakes, geese, coyotes and of course the dreaded red bird. We had this bird that we assumed must have been a male defending his territory because every morning at sunrise he would peck on the window in our pantry. Evidently, when he saw his own reflection in the glass he thought another male was moving in on his woman (or women? Not sure if they are monogamous). I tried scaring him away, changing the reflection by turning on the pantry light, hanging fabric in the window and shining a bright light through the glass but the pecking continued off and on every morning for months.

In February of 2014 a few weeks after I brought Libby home from the hospital we had a particularly bad night, I had spent most of the night in the chair beside her as she suffered from a crushing headache and continued to throw up until she was physically exhausted. Then just before dawn the headache eased off and she finally fell asleep, it was at that exact moment that we heard the familiar pecking on the pantry window.

Libby slowly looked up at me with a pitiful plea and said, through clinched teeth, “Barry, Honey, can you do something about that stupid bird”. I had felt helpless all night, only able to rub her temples and hold her head while she threw up in her pink bowl, but now finally, I had a task to fulfill and so without the least bit of hesitation I said to her, “Sure babe, I will take care of it. You just go back to sleep.” Libby always chose her words carefully, even when she was sick, so my directive was clear, especially since she modified the noun “bird” with the adjective “stupid”.

There are some priorities in life that can change with circumstances and with everything else going on in my life, a red bird hopped up on testosterone was pretty low on my priority list. It had snowed several inches during the night which seemed to create an eerie silence as I slipped outside that morning cradling my 12 gauge pump-action shotgun. Now, standing under my car port, at the edge of the snow in my bare feet, with no guilt whatsoever, I promptly shot the “stupid” bird, chambering a second round, just in case it was needed.

To this day, there are three very distinct images that are burned into my mind from that moringing. First of all, there was the amazing amount of noise that a 12 gauge shotgun makes when discharged into eerie silence at 6 AM. Second, is the degree to which a red bird stands out in an otherwise, solid white snow-covered yard. But the third, and the most vibrant image that sticks out in my mind was the look on Libby’s face as I walked back into the living room carrying the proverbial smoking gun. When I left the room a few minutes ago, Libby could barely hold her head up when she gave instructions to “…do something about that stupid bird”. Now, looking at her sitting bolt upright in bed with her mouth agape and her eyes wide with amazement, I was suddenly much less confident in my ability to interpret my wife’s sentences.

Libby had a look of complete horror on her face, as she asked, “Did you shoot my red bird?” (Just a note here in my defense, a minute ago, it was a “stupid bird”, now suddenly, it was “my red bird”?). It didn’t help calm the tension in our home when, throughout the day, as visitors came to our house they would say, “Hey did you’ll know there is dead red bird in your back yard?” Later on that day, I decided to get rid of the evidence and put a little fresh snow over the crime scene..

Libby was very upset with me for days, but later on we did talk it out: I apologized for shooting the stupid bird and Libby apologized for the things she said about me. Libby then went on to explain that the reason she was so upset with me was that she never told me to kill the bird, she just wanted me to “scare him” so he would quit banging on the window, besides she said that red birds are heaven’s messengers. My reply started the next argument when I said, ” Well I think that the last message may be a little late getting there….”.

Birthday Wishes

On March 4, 2015March 4, 2015 By Barry GilleyIn Birthday10 Comments

I have made a concerted effort to avoid the easy path of posting overly emotional articles about some of the more gut wrenching discussions that Libby and I had, especially during the last year of her life; attempting instead, to give the reader an overall view of our friendship, courtship, marriage and family. This post is a break from that trend as I remember our date on Libby’s birthday a year ago today:

On Monday March 3rd 2014 one year ago today I was preparing to leave for work as one of the many sweet ladies who had volunteered to sit with Libby arrived at our house just before 8 AM. Libby was spending all of her time in the hospital bed which was set up in our living room and at this stage of her illness she was sleeping nearly 23 hours a day. I went over to her bed, kissed her goodbye and whispered into her ear, “happy birthday” but not loud enough to wake her.

My meeting that morning in Middle Tennessee was short and very soon I was on my way back home. Since our decision to sign up with Hospice care after the last failed Chemo treatment, my time at work was normally not very productive because of my inability to focus. Time away from the house did, however, give me perspective and time to think, which is exactly what I was doing during the hour and a half drive back home on this Monday afternoon. I wanted to make Libby’s birthday special for her and although I would not have admitted it to anyone at the time, I knew in mind that this would be Libby’s last birthday.

I had been thinking of what I could do for several days and I finally had everything worked out in my head so I stopped on the way home to pick up the remaining items that I needed for the formal birthday meal I had planned. My tux was laid out along with Libby’s nicest dress, dinner was planned and the candles were ready. Now, I wasn’t delusional, I knew she probably wouldn’t eat much, if anything, and I would not be able get her into the dress, but I had a plan.

When I got home, I pulled my chair next to Libby’s bed and told her for the second time, “happy birthday”, she looked up at me and raised her thin arm out from under and the cover and spread her fingers out, which meant that she wanted to hold hands, I took her hand as she whispered to me, “Is it my birthday?” I said yes and then I told her that I had a surprise for her. Libby said, “What is it?” I told her that she would have to just wait and see. Now, for those who knew Libby well, you will understand what I mean when I say that Libby didn’t like surprises, and yet she did. You see, Libby had no patience once she found out she was about get a surprise, and she certainly didn’t want to wait to find out what it was. In fact, from the time we started dating Libby would use bribery, stealth and trickery to find out what she was getting from me. Sometimes, I think she had more fun trying to uncover the secret than she did actually receiving the gift.

I told Libby that I had an evening planned for the two of us starting with some flowers. I stood up to get the flowers, but she held my hand tightly and said wearily with her eyes closed, “Just stay her and tell me about them, don’t leave”. So I described each flower as Libby smiled. Then I told her I had planned to fix her favorite dishes so I would need to get the meal started and then I would be getting dressed up and I planned to lay her dress out on top of her blanket so she would be “dressed” for our date. As I attempted to get up Libby tightened her grip on my hand and said again, “Just tell me about it…I probably want eat any of it anyway.”

I know now, that I was slowing loosing Libby a little more each day and the only way that she could experience some things now was in her mind. So I told her my plans to cook for her, then change into my tux, put her dress on top of her blanket, light every candle in the house and turn out all of the lights. Libby smiled and I could see from her expressions that she had “our date movie” playing in her mind. I described the menu that I had planned to cook for her birthday meal, starting with Caesar salad followed by blackened talapia, Sister Schubert’s dinner yeast rolls and roasted new potatoes with garlic. Libby would nod her head and lick her lips as if tasting every course as I described each dish, staring with her favorite, Caesar salad, then I asked if she wanted fresh ground pepper on her salad and she would nod yes. I would ask if she wanted fresh butter on the rolls and she answered, “Sure, why not?”

As Libby “enjoyed” her birthday meal, I wanted her to experience everything that I had planned for her so I described the black tux that “I now had on” and taking some artistic license, I told her how I really looked good in my tux and how I was really rockin’ the pink polka dot bow tie. Although she still didn’t’ open her eyes, Libby did not like the fact that I was bragging even in our imaginary experience, so she tugged sharply at my hand to get me back on track.

Continuing the fantasy I told her, “I have helped you put your favorite dress on for our night out”, she asked, “Which one?” I told her it was the dress that she wore to Nathan’s wedding and she nodded her head, satisfied that I had made the right choice. I told her that I had put on her shoes that matched her dress, but her smile quickly turned to a frown; knowing exactly what she was thinking, I said that I also brought her tennis shoes to walk around in just in case her feet started hurting, and she started smiling again.

And so for nearly an hour our amazing date continued as I kept spinning my tales adding more and more details, but soon Libby was sleeping as she relaxed her grip on my hand she pulled her arm back under the cover with a slight shiver. I tucked her in under her soft pink blanket as she started softly snoring.

Our “night on the town” to celebrate Libby’s 56 birthday was over.

The Big Ice Cream Fight——– The Honeymoon Was Over

On February 28, 2015February 28, 2015 By Barry GilleyIn Chapter 133 Comments

I should preface this tale of woe by explaining that Libby’s dad the Rev. Jimmie Love Willis, spoiled his girls, especially when it came to their sweet tooth cravings. If any of Brother Willis’s girls (Libby, her four sisters or their mom) wanted something from the store such as ice cream, or if they needed some sugar or cocoa to make a desert, their dad was quick to respond to the need, grabbing his car keys and jacket as he headed out the door; complaining only after the second or third trip back to store. Full truth disclosure here, Rev. Jimmie Willis’ behavior may not have been completely altruistic since he was known to indulge in an occasional sweet from time to time.

At the complete other end of the spectrum from the Willis family was my family. Our family lived further out in the country, and although we had Pace’s Grocery (the original convenience store) a trip to “town” was a big deal that my mom planned out and scheduled once every other week, on Saturday morning, while the bed sheets were drying on the clothesline. My mom was the queen of making do with what she had when she was cooking, and because of that we had some unusual tasting dishes at times, but we rarely made sudden trips to the store, especially to stores who didn’t give Green Stamps. In the evenings after my dad arrived home from work, just after supper, he took off his boots which signaled the end of his day, after which he rarely left the house unless one of us boys was hurt badly enough to require stitches and then only if they couldn’t get find enough butterfly bandages to pull it together.

With that brief background into Libby’s and my families it should be easy to understand how foreign the actions of Rev. Willis appeared to me and yet how normal they appeared to Libby. These differences helped cause one of the biggest fights that we had about, of all things, ice cream; and as usual when two stubborn people disagree on something, the source of the problem was soon forgotten as the conflict got bigger and bigger.

Just a few weeks following the return from our scuba diving, beach combing, month long honeymoon, Libby and I were sitting in our living room one evening when she said to me, “I just checked the freezer and we are out of ice cream”, I said, “Yea, I noticed that as well…” Libby looked at me and said, “Will you run to the store and pick some up?” I told Libby, “Sure, no problem, we’ll pick some up the next time we go to the store.” Libby seemed to be getting more and more upset with me and said, “I don’t want to wait until the next time we go to the store, I want some ice cream now.” Then she made some comments about it being my job, and about how her daddy would get it for her. Words like spoiled and pig headed were batted back and forth between us as the argument grew. Libby thought that getting ice cream would be a way to show how much I loved her and I decided that Libby was being selfish and completely irrational. We were both stubborn and both wrong.

The intensity of the argument grew relative to its volume and we both said things for which we were ashamed, but the thing that neither of us realized at the time was that the first 21 years of our lives had far more influence over our current actions than the last two months of marriage and the marriage ceremony did not magically change that.

We eventually settled our argument or at least called a truce and because of that argument and few more after that, we learned a valuable lesson about the need to set some boundaries that had to be maintained regardless of the intensity of the argument, in addition we eventually decided on some “rules of engagement” for all future arguments:

No telling other friends or family about our disagreements in an attempt to get them on our side
No leaving the house (we would, however, go to separate rooms to cool off)
No threats of “going home to mom”
And finally the big one, no threats of divorce

Although it may sound foolish to some, we could now argue with a measure of security because we had boundaries and with that framework in place, along with time and some much needed maturity for both of us, our arguments became less and less frequent and much less intense than the legendary Ice Cream Fight.

A Fresh Perspective

On February 22, 2015June 5, 2015 By Barry GilleyIn Uncategorized2 Comments

The stories that I have been posting about Libby’s and my relationship are enjoyable to relive, but one of the consequence of such reflections is the tendency to become self absorbed in our history and in our own lives, but failing to see that others are hurting. Most of the time it was Libby is who reminded me to keep my head up and my eyes opened to the needs of others. I thought of that admonition the other day when I saw an article about a friend of ours:

I first met this girl over thirty years ago at East Ridge High School while shooting senior portraits for Olan Mills. Because of camera problems earlier that morning I was running behind schedule as she sat on the metal posing stool ready to begin our session, her back was turned to me as her friends in the line behind her were laughing and joking with her about the awkward black drapes that all the girls were required to wear for senior portraits. From behind my camera I asked her turn toward me so we could get started, but she ignored me; typical, I thought she was pretty, popular and stuck up, I had seen her type many times and looking at her name on the card I said sharply, “Marty, you need to turn toward me so we can get started”. I was loosing my patience as the snobby senior ignored me again as she continued cutting up with her friends.

Although just barely out of my teens myself, I knew I had get control of these “kids” so I grabbed her shoulders and turned her so she was facing me, explaining slowly in by deepest manly voice “I’m sorry but, if you don’t want to have your picture made today then you are free to leave”. That move really startled her and now she looked shocked, and it seemed as if I had made my point. But then she mocked me, trying to imitate my deep voice, she said haltingly, “IIII’mmmmm Soooorrrry, IIII diiid nooot knooow yooou weeaaar reeeaaady!” Then, this smart aleck girl just sat there smiling at me like nothing had happened.

That was the last straw, I glanced at her card just before handing it back to her, “Here Marty, the girl at the desk will refund your money, you can come back on re-take day”. I turned around to the table behind me and picked up the next card while continuing my rant, ” I’ve got a lot of people behind you who came here today to have their senior picture made, and…”.

When I looked up, I was face to face with Marty, too close in fact. She had now gotten off of the posing stool and had come to my side of the camera, staring at my mouth awkwardly. I don’t mind telling you that I was slightly intimidated and so I called for the teacher. Just then, one of her friends in line behind her looked at me and yelled, “Hey man, she’s deaf, you have to look at her when you talk so she can read your lips!”

Oops, now I felt like an idiot! I mouthed an apology to her and she shook her head waving it off, then she responded in that deep halting voice, “Dooon’t woorry aboouut iiiit, I’mm fiiine, iiit haaappens aaaall thhee tiiime”.

Marty’s friends continued to tell me things about her while she sat for her senior portraits and my opinion of her continued to be changed 180 degrees in 15 minutes as her friends (quite literally talking behind her back) explained that Marty was the prettiest, most talented and sweetest girl in the school, full of optimism and everyone there loved her.

That afternoon I told Libby about the girl who had unwittingly taught me a lesson about making uneducated judgments of others. Libby and I would see Marty and her husband at different events around Chattanooga over the next 30 plus years. Over time, I have shot literally thousands of senior photographs but I remembered that particular incident so well because of the lesson I was taught by the girl named Marty Browning who went on to become Miss Chattanooga, Miss Tennessee and eventually that “smart aleck” girl was named Miss Congeniality in the Miss America pageant.

Which brings me back to the reason for this post; Marty Browning Dunagan is now battling breast cancer and I contacted her recently via social media to tell her that I would be praying for her, her family and her students at Marty’s Center. We briefly discussed Libby’s illness and I gave her directions to Libby’s Caring Bridge website, but it reminded me that it is easy to become so focused on your own problems that you miss the ongoing hurt in this world and how that, sometimes, we can impact others for good without even knowing it.

You can read more about Marty Browning Dunagan in this article: David Carroll: Marty Browning Dunagan Is Much More Than A Beauty Queen

Here is a video of Marty being given a local award: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nsumj0sD1is

Our Relationship

On February 17, 2015February 17, 2015 By Barry GilleyIn Chapter 121 Comment

During one of our discussions soon after Libby and I started dating she asked me, “Do you think that there is one person that God created to be your perfect mate and, if you don’t find that particular person, then your relationship will never be the best it can be, and it may not last?” To be honest, at 20 years old, my attraction to Libby had little to do with such philosophical thoughts and so my immediate cynical response was, “What if my perfect mate is in France or worse yet behind the iron curtain in communist Russia?” Libby, trying to make a case her perfect mate theory said, “Don’t be silly, I think God would put your perfect match somewhere close, like, within the same county,” The conversation quickly turned into an argument when I said something about how the appropriate Christian response would be for me to date every single girl in the county, just to be sure. It is obvious to me now that my smart mouth kept getting me in trouble and that we needed to work on our relationship already because after my remark Libby mentioned something about me being a heretic and the conversation went downhill from there.

“A match made in heaven” and “You two were perfect for each other”, were two of the comments that people made about Libby’s and my relationship; but, if our relationship looked impressive to others, then the work that we constantly had to do to maintain that relationship must have paid off. There is an all too common misconception that a relationship works because the couple found their “soul mates” and therefore they were destined to have a great marriage. With apologies to Nicholas Sparks and other pop culture authors, Libby and I both came to the conclusion that great relationships are developed, not discovered.

We all want short cuts to everything, including relationships, which makes it easy to believe that when the “right” person is found then there is nothing left to do except enjoy the fruits of a perfect marriage. That romantic belief also makes it easy if, later on in the relationship, you decide that the person you married is not your perfect mate then you can move on without any of those pesky guilty feelings

Although the romantic version of “finding your soul mate” sells a lot of books, the truth is that when a couple says, “I do” the work has just begun, because “until death do you part”, means that no matter how much a couple have in common there will be adjustments that each person will have to make to the other person’s personality and quirky behavior from that moment on, most of which are overlooked during dating and the honeymoon. A lesson that Libby and I were about to learn as we headed to our new home following our month-long honeymoon in Florida.

Our Honeymoon, A Month of Sundays

On February 6, 2015August 2, 2019 By Barry GilleyIn Chapter 113 Comments

During the summer of 1978, a full 12 months before Libby and I were to be married, I started planning for our honeymoon. Libby and her family had spent a lot of time to make our wedding extraordinary and I wanted make our honeymoon a unique experience, something neither of us would ever forget, so as a part of that preparation I convinced Libby to take a scuba diving certification class with me at the local YMCA. It was during that same time that I began researching the best scuba diving sites and eventually settled on John Pennenkamp Coral Reef State Park in Key Largo, Florida. Writing to the Key Largo Chamber of Commerce, I received dozens of brochures about lodging in the area and I finally settled on a quaint little Mom and Pop motel advertised as being within walking distance of the docks (of course I found out later that the island was so small everything was within walking distance).

After consulting my trusty Rand McNally Road Map I realized that 12 hours of driving was not the best way to start a leisurely honeymoon, so I needed to break up the drive and find a place to stay. I called the Burns family (close family friends in central Florida) and asked about renting their cabin in New Smyrna Beach for a couple of nights, Dot Burns told me that she had been meaning to call when she heard about our engagement and she offered to let us stay in their cabin for a week as her wedding gift to us and, if we had the time, we could rent the cabin for a $100 and stay an additional week when we finished diving in the Keys. I quickly accepted her generous offer and I changed our reservations in Key Largo to accommodate our new schedule.

Because it was summer, the one commodity that we had in abundance was time. Libby’s classes and my job were both on summer break, so we had plenty of time, money however, was a another matter. In the fall Libby would be starting her junior year at The University of Tennessee at Chattanooga in pursuit of her teaching degree, leaving Mercer University and it’s generous academic scholarship behind, so besides car loans, a mortgage, utilities, taxes and insurance we added tuition to the debit side of my modest $11,000 salary at Olan Mills. Looking back now, I should have been nervous about our finances but I was in love with this little girl:

Our friend’s New Smyrna Beach cabin came compete with beach chairs, skim boards, floats and surfboards, in addition they had generously stocked the refrigerator with food and homemade deserts, so we spent a lot of time on the beach lying in the sun, surfing, walking, floating, eating and just relaxing. It was a great time for us both to slow down after the stress of the wedding and with no schedule agenda, the timing could not have been better.

I had prepaid the motel and cabin bill several months before we left and we had budgeted $500 for the rest of our honeymoon expenses such as gas, food, diving, sightseeing and any other expenses. Libby was always the more detail oriented person in our relationship, so it just made sense that she would be in charge of the budget and she enjoyed carefully recording every expense in a daily planner. The first chink in the armor of our budget happened in the Everglades when our car battery went dead and we had to buy a set of jumper cables for $24 at a convenience store, putting a strain on our already tight budget. Determined not to have credit card debt, we decided to eat out less and buy some bread and cold cuts instead. As I type these words, I realize how ridiculous a $24 overrun sounds now, but at the time it was a strain on our budget and in turn on our young relationship because it meant that we may have to go home early.

At the end of our first week in New Smyrna Beach we drove south to Key Largo and began our week of scuba diving. Libby and I made two to four dives a day and depending on the amount of energy exerted and depth of each dive, our compressed air tanks would last just under one hour (longer if you held your breath, which Libby did often when she got nervous or excited) We experienced coral reefs, amazing fish species and so many shipwrecks that a monument called Christ of the Abyss was erected in memory of the sailors who lost their lives.

Being in the open ocean 50 feet below the surface, Libby was uncomfortable during the first few dives, but she soon became more accustomed to her surroundings and eventually even wrote a note to me on her slate writing tablet telling me to take a picture of her and she would point to the scenery. She may look calm in the picture below but as soon as I snapped the image with my underwater camera she immediately began turning her head back and forth holding her breath and looking for Jaws.

It didn’t help to ease Libby’s fears when, on our very next dive, Libby saw a school of barracuda, some of them 6 feet long. Remembering the warnings that our dive master had given during our training classes, she knew that barracuda were attracted to shiny objects and have been known to mistakenly bite off the fingers of divers in an attempt to get their bright shiny rings, Libby tried warning me about the intruders by pointing toward them with her head using an awkward jerking motion pushing her head in the direction of the barracuda. She was afraid to point with her finger, in fact she tried covering her rings with her other hand, afraid that the barracuda would take her engagement ring, wedding band and the finger within. Eventually the barracuda lost interest in us and went on their way, but now Libby had several more reasons to keep her head on a swivel while in the open ocean.

Following our week of diving in the Florida Keys we returned for another week to New Smyrna Beach to begin our final week in the cabin. Libby found out during our first week on the beach that she absolutely loved playing skee ball in the arcade across from our cabin and on the way back to the beach Libby confessed, “I think I’m addicted to skee ball, I spent way too much money the last time we were here”. I laughed and said, “That’s silly, how could anybody be addicted to skee ball, besides, at 10 cents per game, how much money could you possibly have spent?” Libby dropped her head sheepishly looking out of the corner of eyes she quietly said. “Over thirty dollars the first time we were here”.

Some intense discussion followed (OK, it was a fight) in which we discussed our budget, jumper cables, mortgage and tuition. Again, the amount of money was petty by today’s standards but at the time we were, once again, back to bologna sandwiches. As we crossed over the inter coastal waterway on our way back to New Smyrna Beach we had less than $150 to spend, so we mutually decided that one dollar per day should be enough to satisfy Libby’s skee ball compulsions and still leave enough gas money for us to get home even if we could sell the giant panda that she “won” with her skee ball tickets.

Libby and I enjoyed the third week of our honeymoon back on the beach and during that time we were invited to spend another week back at the our friends home in central part of Florida, we told them our money predicament and they said it wouldn’t cost us anything since they had a spare bedroom and we could eat with them.

Our fourth week in Florida was spent relaxing with great friends who took us around to local sites, fed us, put us up in their home and let us use their three wheelers to explore the local fields and swamps.

Soon after celebrating July 4th with our friends in Florida we decided to take I-75 North back to our little house in Flintstone, GA. After more than a month in Florida and only minor disagreements about money and skee ball, we were about to learn what people meant by the term, “The honeymoon is over”.

The Wedding

On January 30, 2015January 30, 2015 By Barry GilleyIn Chapter 105 Comments

It was the summer of 1979 and my new mustard yellow Sony Walkman wasn’t much larger than the Doobie Brothers cassette tape it played. Three Mile Island was a hot topic in the newspapers, an upstart cable network company called The Entertainment and Sports Network was about to start broadcasting sports 24 hours a day, Ford Pintos seemed to be blowing up everywhere, and every red-blooded American boy had a Farrah Fawcett poster in his room (until they got married and their wife made them get rid of it). But, if not for Google Search, I would not have been able to recall any of those memorable events that summer because they were all background clutter compared to our wedding in June of 1979. OK, if am being honest here, I will admit that I was able to remember that poster.

Libby was the first of the Willis girls to get married and this wedding was going to be a big deal, but at that time, I had no idea what it meant to Libby or the others who would help with the planning and to the many who would witness the ceremony that day. I was clueless about the amount of preparation involved leading up to the wedding day and only later did I realize what it meant to Libby to have her mom and sisters work so closely with her on those preparations. I don’t think I am the least bit out of line when I say to you that no matter how stressful the time was before the ceremony and no matter how tired she must have been when the wedding day finally arrived, Libby was stunningly gorgeous on her wedding day and by far the most beautiful bride ever (hey, it is my blog, after all ).

Libby’s family of five sisters viewed weddings completely different than did my family with it’s four boys, and like my brothers (and most other guys I knew) I did everything I could to avoid weddings, mainly because they could ruin a good day of hiking or fishing since they normally happened right in the middle of an otherwise, perfectly good Saturday, not to mention that you would have to stop what you were doing, take a shower and get dressed up right in the middle of the day. It was hard for my male brain to understand why people planned weddings during the day, it seemed to me that if you planned a wedding for either 8:00 in the morning or 9:00 in the evening then it would allow all of your potential guest the time to enjoy their Saturday and yet, still attend the wedding.

My job during the weekend of the wedding was to make sure I was at the rehearsal on Friday night before the wedding and then, on Saturday, get my tux, my car and me, to the wedding on time. Now, I certainly wouldn’t want to leave the reader with the impression that all I did was show up, because there was a whole lot more to my part in this wedding than that; I had to say “yes ma’am” often during the rehearsal when I was told what to do by Libby, her mom, her sisters or any other female with the authority to do so, which, in effect, was every female over the age of twelve. In addition to saying “yes mam” at the rehearsal, ,I had to say “I do” and “I will” at several different times the next day during the ceremony itself, no easy task since the two phrases were not interchangeable (something I learned the hard way during rehearsal). So the groom (me in this case) had to listen intently to the preacher’s questions and be prepared to give the appropriate response at the appropriate time during the ceremony.

Libby and I had built our friendship on planning events together throughout high school but I learned that I was a lost ball in high weeds when it came to wedding planning, so very quickly I took my place in the matrimonial pecking order. After all, this was Libby’s day and I came to realize that everyone came to see her, not me.

Now, if Libby were looking over my shoulder as I typed this, which she often did, she would say something like, “Now Barry you shouldn’t write that, the wedding was not about me, it was about the vows we made before God in front of our friends and family”, but lets face facts here, this was Libby’s day.

On Saturday June 9th 1979, right in the middle of an otherwise perfectly good Saturday, Libby and I were married in front of several hundred people packed into the pews of Flintstone Baptist Church . Among those witnesses in attendance were friends and family from both the Willis and Gilley families, our respective churches, Flintstone Baptist Church and Chattanooga Valley Church of the Nazarene, Olan Mills Studios, Red Food Store, Chattanooga Valley High School and Mercer University. Libby had so many friends and family in the wedding party that I told her if the number of bridesmaids grew any more I would be forced to go out and make new friends in order to have an equal number of guys on my side of the church just to balance out the number of girls in the bride’s entourage. There was, however, one obvious omission from Libby’s bridesmaids lineup, Helen Buckner (soon to be Helen Hawkins) was not among the ladies in blue (see A First Date for that explanation).

There was a tremendous amount of preparation that went on during the months, weeks and days before the wedding and I was, of course, oblivious to most of it. With a very limited budget to decorate, plan for and accommodate the 400 or so guests, the Willis family and their friends either made or borrowed nearly everything for the wedding to decorate the church in what had to be the social event of 1979 in Flintstone, GA.

Libby was calm, confident and radiant in her long flowing white lace dress as her dad prepared to walk his girl down the center isle of the church. For the moment, I too was calm and confident as I stood in a small room behind the organ waiting to enter the church, but then, my pastor mentioned to me that he saw a funny thing happen to a groom once during a wedding when someone painted the words “Help Me” on the bottom of his shoes to be seen by everyone as he knelt for the prayer during the ceremony. I nervously laughed about the poor guy’s misfortune, but then, out of curiosity, I looked at the bottom of my black shoes and saw the words, “Help Me”. Suddenly, the musicians began playing the song which was my queue to make my entrance but I was sitting on the steps to the choir loft nervously pulling the white athletic tape off of the bottom of my rented shoes. I was late walking in (so I already messed up on one of the things I was supposed to do) and my once calm mind was reeling with thoughts of, “I wonder what else they did…” I eyed my groomsmen as I walked by to see which one was responsible, only to conclude that they all looked guilty. Libby told me later that my hands were shaking as I held hers during the vows, but I said everything I was supposed to say when I was supposed to say it.

Although my role was limited during the wedding preparation I distinctly remember a conversation Libby and I had about a current trend in weddings to change a lot of the traditional vows, modifying or even eliminating parts that many viewed as “too restrictive” or “rigid”. Libby and I both wanted the traditional language in the vows and ironically, during our discussion of those vows she laughed and said, “Barry, you had better be sure about this ” til death do us part” thing because I plan on living a very a long time”.

I only had a couple of things to do during the wedding, one of which I messed up, but for more than a year I had been planning a month long honeymoon, promising Libby that it would be unlike any other, and I planned to keep that promise.

The Proposal (well sort of…)

On January 24, 2015January 25, 2015 By Barry GilleyIn Uncategorized2 Comments

Young people today seem to keep coming up with evermore creative ways of “popping the question,” some have even video taped and posted their elaborately choreographed proposals on the internet. In the previous post I recalled an elaborate cliff-side picnic atop Pigeon Mountain. Readers of this blog may have thought that I missed the perfect opportunity to propose to Libby during that picnic, but the truth is, I did propose (sort of).

Libby and I talked about getting married as we sat next to that cliff on that gorgeous Sunday afternoon; but then, we talked about getting married on the date before that picnic and we talked about getting married during the date after that picnic, and nearly every date after that. Libby and I became so comfortable together after our first few dates that we were able to discuss marriage as easily as we discussed which desert we were going to split after a meal. The good thing about so many frank discussions is that we learned one another’s opinions on so many different things that it helped us better understand the other’s point of view; the bad thing about so many discussions about marriage is that afterwards, when you look back, there was never a definitive time that can be pinpointed as “the proposal”.

Libby and I discussed a variety things during the two years that we dated including marriage, children, finances and, ironically, what each of us would do if the other one died first. We thought it was important to share our opinions on these and other things because we both believed that if you decide ahead of time what your standards will be in any given situation then you are more likely to stick with your convictions instead of allowing circumstances to sway your decision.

An example of one such discussion happened while Libby and I were on a date in a restaurant when a family sitting next to us began to deal (unsuccessfully) with an unruly child by explaining logically why she should not lie in the floor and scream at the top of her lungs as she threw a temper tantrum. That lead to a discussion between Libby and I (when we could finally hear one another) about how we would handle the same situation when we became parents. For the record Libby said, and I agreed, that the little darling needed a firm hand to her backside, instead of her parents attempting a logical discussion with a 4 year old about manners.

During the discussions that Libby and I had about marriage there never really was a specific time when I asked Libby if she would marry me, nor was there a specific time when she said yes. In fact, we talked about getting married so often that during one conversation in the summer of 1978 we decided that we should get married the following summer on June 9th. At some point during the conversation, a realization came to Libby’s face slowly as she looked up at me with a grin and gleam in her eye saying, “Well, I guess that means we’re engaged…”. Ever the romantic wordsmith, I said, “Yea, sure looks like it”.

We never really thought about it at the time, but afterward, I always felt bad for Libby when girls eager for a romantic story would ask her, “How did he propose?” she would say, “He never really did.” followed graciously by, “We both just decided that we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together; and after that it was really only a matter of setting the date”. In hindsight, Libby deserved better, she deserved one of those elaborate proposals that are going viral on YouTube, but the truth is we were both so concentrated on our relationship and our life together as a married couple that we viewed the proposal as more of a mutual decision than a single question, asked and answered.

After we decided that we wanted to get married in such anti-climatic fashion, I went to ask Libby’s dad for permission; that conversation, much like the proposal, was more like the culmination of a process than a single event. For a year or so, Pastor Willis and I had been having discussions about religion, marriage and responsibly, so when I finally asked for his permission to marry Libby his response was something like, “I thought you would never ask!”, followed by, “Of course you have my permission to marry Libby, now lets go tell her mother before she has a coronary.”

The ring, however, was another story altogether. We had so little money that we had both decided we would not get an engagement ring. but instead we would put all of our money toward getting a house. I bought an older house from my uncle that had been vacant for 5 years and it needed a lot of work. It was my idea not get an engagement ring so we could put more money into the house before we moved in, and even though Libby agreed, I later had second thoughts about it (the ring, not the marriage).

In the next few months I spent all of my savings, nearly everything I made, and almost all of my time working on the house to make it livable. In addition to working on the house, many nights I was sneaking away to take on extra jobs so I could save up enough money to buy Libby an engagement ring. Missing out on several dates and/or opportunities to work on the house paid off in the end as I was eventually able to save up $500 toward a ring that I picked out from a Bennett Blue Book mail order catalog.

On Christmas Day 1978 I surprised Libby Willis with at diamond engagement ring, now we were really engaged!

The Date That Nearly Cost Me…

On January 18, 2015January 18, 2015 By Barry GilleyIn Chapter 82 Comments

During the spring of 1978 I purchased a well-used 1973 Toyota Landcruiser so I could join my friends when they went off-roading. Although it was not much to look at, the old green and white cruiser was a lot of fun drive, especially in the summer when you could take the top off. Later that summer that old cruiser would be the key component in one of our most memorable dates ever.

Libby and I went to a lot of movies early in our relationship, mainly because it was the expected thing to do on a date, but even though I didn’t have a whole lot of experience in this dating game it seemed like it would be much more fun to do active things when we went out rather than sit next to one another for a couple of hours and eat popcorn. I couldn’t help but believe that an afternoon of four wheeling would surely make for a memorable date, which brings me to our mud-slinging, rock crawling, red neck afternoon.

It was a Sunday and I had driven my old Landcruiser to church in preparation for our adventure. Several days before, I had talked to Libby’s dad about taking her on this date because I had planned several things that would require his permission. The first potential issue that required permission was that I would be taking Libby away on a Sunday afternoon, breaking a long standing tradition, if not a rule; second, I was taking her away from Sunday dinner (both a rule and a long standing tradition). After some discussion and a stern warning to have Libby home by 6:00 PM for Training Union, the Rev. Jimmie Willis gave me his permission to take his daughter on this unusual date.

On the way to church the morning of our outing, I remember thinking that I had come up with the ultimate date, one that Libby would never forget (and, as it turned out, I was right). I wanted to surprise Libby so I didn’t tell her about my plans until church was over when I asked her to change into her jeans, telling her only that we were going on a different kind of date. Libby was a lot of things, but adventurous was not among them, in addition she had trouble understanding why someone in their right mind would buy a vehicle specifically to take it in the mud, so this would be a first for her.

We left Libby’s house on that Sunday just past noon and and headed south toward Lafayette to begin our date. Leaving the paved road, we turned onto a dirt road and entered the Pigeon Mountain Wildlife Preserve, then we took a treacherous switchback jeep trail to the top of Pigeon mountain where I surprised Libby with a “gourmet” lunch on the edge of a cliff overlooking the valley. I arranged a blanket on top of the rock and unpacked the picnic basket which had ham, Velveeta cheese, bread, Golden Flake potato chips and Welch’s Sparkling Grape Juice (obviously, I had pulled out all of the stops). As we finished our grape juice I told Libby that we should leave, explaining to her the conditions that her dad had put on our Sunday afternoon date.

The road over the top of Pigeon Mountain during the 70’s was very rough, often times requiring a jack to lift the vehicle over some of the larger boulders covering the road, along the way we would straddle large ravines and plow through lots of mud, all adding to the fun and the challenge. As we continued our journey across the top of the mountain I was busy explaining to Libby Willis how, when driving on some of these rough trails, the driver needs to stay alert to keep from hitting the oil pan on boulders, pick the best line through mud, and all while keeping your momentum so you don’t get stuck.

With the worst of the hazards behind us, Libby decided she was ready to try her hand at driving, so I decided to swap sides with her and let her in on some of the fun. I said to her, “There may be some mud and a few small boulders the rest of the way, so go slow over the rocks, avoid the mud when you can, but whatever you do, don’t stop, just keep going and you should be fine” Libby drove like a champ even though it was straight shift transmission, had no power steering and she had never been off-road.

We topped a rocky hill and headed down onto the flatter portion of the trail where Libby would see the first muddy section. Since we were getting close to civilization, I began trying to find some music on the AM radio to accompany our adventure. Suddenly the Landcruiser veered off of the trail and came to a halt, when I looked up from the radio we were buried in a swamp. I asked Libby what happened and with a sheepish grim, she pointed to a mud hole in the road and she told me that she didn’t want to hit that mud hole, so she dodged it.

I couldn’t afford one of those large $2000 bumper mounted electrical winches that would have gotten us out in 15 minutes, instead I had a ratcheting come-along (mail ordered from J.C. Whitney for $19) which, with a lot of cranking,could move the 3600 lb Landcruiser about 3 feet every hour. Using a long cable that I kept wrapped around my front bumper, I strapped to the closest tree, hooked the other end of the cable to the bumper and began pulling. And pulling. And pulling.

In hindsight, it is unclear if we left from our picnic spot in time to complete the trail ride and make it back before church, but now, at the exact same time that church was starting at Flintstone Baptist, we were sitting axle deep in a swamp needing to cross 15 feet of mud, 4 miles of mountain trail and 25 miles of paved road just to get home.

Libby was very upset about her decision to avoid a 6 inch deep mud hole in favor of a 3 feet deep swamp but I told her that there was no damage done and eventually we would get out. We did get out after several more exhausting hours of pulling on that come-along and resetting the cable. We stopped at the first house we came to after getting out of the woods and asked to borrow their phone to let everyone know what had happened and then we finally made it home just after midnight.

I don’t remember all of the details of the encounter with Libby’s dad that night, only that he was gracious in his response and my fear of what might happen was far worse than the reality of what actually did happen. It was the first and last time we ever broke curfew, but of course it was a whooper.

On my way home that night after an exhausting day I decided it would be prudent to wait a few months before asking Libby’s dad the next big question for which I would need his permission.

Three Weeks of Dates

On January 8, 2015January 9, 2015 By Barry GilleyIn Chapter 75 Comments

When I was young there was an ice cream shop on McFarland Avenue in Rossville, GA called the Dream Cream which was an occasional treat for our family if we went out for Sunday dinner after church. One particular Sunday the decision was made that we were going to make an ice cream stop and I determined before pulling into the parking lot that I was old enough for a large chocolate milk shake of my own and I shouldn’t be required to share it with any of my brothers. A discussion followed and my mother soon became frustrated with my stubbornness and decided to teach me a lesson, telling me that if she bought me a large milk shake, I would be required to drink every bit of it or I would get a spanking for wasting food. Confident that I would easily be able to handle the Dream Cream Super Shake challenge without so much as a belch, I called her bluff. I’ll spare the reader from describing the dairy induced details, but for the record, lets just say I learned a lesson on that day that I (nor anyone else in that car) will ever forget.

I had taken Libby back to Macon after a weekend at home and then surprised her (and myself) when I found out that I would be going back to Macon to work at a high school less than 2 miles from Mercer University. My 20-year-old male brain had already begun to plan the agenda for the three weeks. I would leave my hotel early enough each morning to go to breakfast with Libby, then I would go by for a sandwich most days during my lunch break and most assuredly, spend every evening together, beginning as soon as I got off of work and lasting late into the night, every night. In the immortal words of Jacopo from the movie, The Count of Monte Cristo, “…How is this a bad plan?”

The first week of dates had been everything I had imagined, we were together every possible minute, capped off with a romantic evening described in my previous blog entitled The Dance. But as the second week of the trilogy began, reality set in as we reluctantly decided that we needed to plan around my work schedule, Libby’s homework, tests, papers, and all of the things we had put off during out first week of non-stop dates.

Call it naivety or more likely, immaturity on my part, but on my way back down to Macon at 5 AM on that first Monday morning, I envisioned twenty-one days of steak dinners and double feature movies every night followed by ice cream on the way home (no shakes). Instead, what I found in Libby was a dedicated student with a very aggressive class load involving some serious library time, especially after falling behind her first year when she missed so much school during her bout with mononucleosis. In addition, I had to work several evening shifts so it wasn’t the dating marathon I had planned, but the biggest obstacle to my fantasy of non stop dating was that I simply couldn’t afford it.

Much like that large chocolate shake that I wanted when I was young, the reality of the experience in real life did did not live up to expectations that I had in by brain. Don’t get me wrong here, I enjoyed the entire three-week stretch, it’s just that our relationship was changing (maturing?) and we were forced to make decisions and prioritize our time among our responsibilities. In the process we learned that we couldn’t dance under the stars all of the time, we had to complete our obligations and then make the most of the time that we had to ourselves – a trait practiced but never fully mastered – over the next 37 years as we constantly struggled to balance time spent with one another against work, obligations and later on, children.