March 9, 2021

Patrick and Linda canoeing at Williamsburg West


Williamsburg West was the subdivision just off the Piney Grove frontage road in Columbia where we built our blue saltbox home in late 1980.  Heather described it as a “make-believe” neighborhood.  In many ways, it was that.

J.C. Roy was the builder of the Colonial style houses in the subdivision.  There were six or so different designs and floor plans from which to choose.  Ours was one of the last built, and was on a steep lot backing up to a community pond (which we lovingly called our lake).  The pond was ringed with some of our neighborhood homes and just across the water, the Lakewood Condominiums.

Our back yard sloped down to the water.  We had a full-sized above-ground basement floor, with one side eventually converted to a bedroom for Patrick. An outside door from the bedroom opened directly onto a small concrete patio with a basketball court.

A co-worker at Providence Hospital, Linda Zember went through a divorce and she got “custody” of an expensive aluminum canoe, which she asked to store in our back yard until she had a place for it.  Whenever a missed shot at the goal went too far into the pond to reach, Patrick would take the canoe out to retrieve the ball.  This photo shows him with Linda canoeing around the sparkling pond together.

The pond was stocked with fish—and there were quite a few successful fishing expeditions there—with guests like young Matthew Seithel from London and Hunter Connelly from Nashville fishing with Patrick. And there were ducks—mysteriously fed and cared for by some caretaker. We had a beautiful view of the water from our dining room bay window.  

There were just over thirty homes in Williamsburg West, tucked into quiet cul -de -sacs. There were tight restrictions on what color the houses could be painted. When one owner violated the rules and used a more vibrant color of exterior paint, there was an outcry and eventually the owner capitulated and repainted with an approved color.  

Life in Williamsburg West was very real. Its families experienced broken marriages, anorexia, agoraphobia, tragedy, births and deaths. And a pond was a lake! For twenty-one years, 159 King George Way was home.

March 8, 2021


One Sunday in 1975, Heather, Patrick and I piled into the Buckley’s Volkswagen bus and headed to a parking lot in downtown Columbia.  For months, a local artist named Blue Sky had been painting (after dark, then covering his work with a tarp) a mural on the side of the AgFirst Farm Credit Bank building on Taylor Street.  He had announced a dramatic public unveiling of the completed mural—precisely at sunset on this particular Sunday.

The entire side of the building was covered with stitched together dark plastic garbage bags suspended by ropes from the rooftop.  Blue Sky and several assistants waited on the roof until the time was right.  Just before sunset, the booming sounds of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture spread through the streets. Dramatically, they lowered the covering to reveal a very realistic mural called “Tunnelvision.”  No longer looking like the side of an office building, it now appeared as if you could drive through this tunnel into the beautiful sunset just ahead.  It was a magical experience.

Twenty-five years later Blue Sky was commissioned to create a large public sculpture at the street edge of that same parking lot downtown. The mural would remain visible behind it. For over a year, Blue Sky again labored in secrecy as he worked on the massive piece. By that time I was working for Pete Cannon in his downtown office building a few blocks away on Washington Street.  We watched the work going on and couldn’t imagine what it would be.  Of course, that was exactly as Blue Sky intended.  Finally on February 18, 2001, he again scheduled a dramatic unveiling of the structure.  I took a couple of friends along to watch the show.  Imagine our surprise when firetrucks came down the street, with sirens and flashing lights and pulled up at the curb nearby.  An announcer reassured the startled onlookers that this was part of the show. Blue Sky’s father it turns out had been a Columbia fireman at one time and his artist son was paying tribute to him. (Blue Sky was born as Warren Edward Johnson but legally changed his name to Blue Sky in 1972.)  

When Blue Sky removed the tarp covering the gigantic structure of concrete and steel, it was a burst fire plug—with pumps pushing streams of recycled water up into a spray fountain.  Confirmed as the world’s largest fire hydrant, the tilted structure was almost 40 feet high and weighed 675,000 pounds. Officially named “Busted Plug Plaza,” the site attracted local dogs—just like all fire hydrants do.  The pumps quit working in 2012 so there’s no longer water at the site.  

Blue Sky is in his 80’s and still has a gallery in Five Points.  I took this photo on a visit back to Columbia—both Tunnelvision and Busted Plug Plaza are visible. Public art at its best!

March 7, 2021

Former Minnesota Viking Bobby Bryant Meets a Fan


Christmas, 2001, was our 22nd at 159 King George West—and proved to be our last one there.  Unique in many ways, it was a lovely holiday finale.  Already working in Nashville, I came home for a week or so to prepare and host a festive Open House for friends from near and far.  Julia and Patrick were planning a May wedding and she spent that Christmas with us in Columbia, as did Steve, Heather’s friend from Minnesota. 

The night I got to Columbia from Nashville, I stopped by our favorite Harbison Barnes & Noble for a latte and met up with Mike Pierce, a friend from church.  When I told him I needed to get a Christmas tree, he offered to go with me right then to pick one out, carry it home for me in his SUV and put it in the tree stand at my house.  You couldn’t pass up an offer like that!  He heroically struggled with bracing the tree—wedging small pieces of wood in the stand to hold it straight.  When he left, he made me promise to call him if it didn’t stay straight.  Sure enough, the next morning, it had toppled over! Mike returned and rigged a secure brace with a wire stretched from the tree trunk to the mantle!  It stayed and was one of our best trees ever. Surprising Southern hospitality indeed.

I cooked party food for days—and Heather helped me finish up when she arrived from Virginia. The day of the party, Steve mentioned that he was a huge lifelong fan of the Minnesota Vikings.  Patrick asked him if he knew of Bobby Bryant, who’d played for the Vikings for about 15 years after being a great football and baseball star at the University of South Carolina. It turned out that Bobby was one of Steve’s childhood sports heroes—and when Patrick mentioned that Bobby was now a member of our church in Columbia and lived in a nearby neighborhood, Steve could hardly believe it.

Although we knew Bobby and his wife Stephanie fairly well, they weren’t on our party guest list.  So I called someone who was a closer friend of theirs and asked if they could arrange for a surprise meeting that evening.  Bobby was delighted to be in on the fun, and after the party was well underway, he rang the front doorbell at 159 King George Way.  Steve was speechless with delight—and there may have even been an autograph! Southern hospitality once more!

March 6, 2021

Our mountain home—briefly


It seems like a dream that we actually had a beautifully reconstructed log house on the Cumberland Plateau at Beersheba Springs, Tennessee, for a few years. Tucked in the trees across from the Methodist Assembly grounds and amid a row of summer homes—most of which had belonged to families of wealthy Nashville or Chattanooga families for generations—was the house we bought from Edna Davenport of McMinnville.  The chimney and the slave kitchen below were all that remained of the original structure, and she had reconstructed it from logs taken from other old homes.  

We spent long stretches of time there during the summers—and made briefer visits during spring breaks and celebrated several wonderful family Thanksgivings there.  Friends and families were eager to visit.

One perfect Easter break weekend we invited Val and Shannon Husley to join us at Beersheba.  Val was a graduate student of Tom’s and his wife Shannon was a strawberry blonde charmer from Louisiana.  I still have her handwritten recipe for Shrimp Gumbo.  “First you make a roux…” They brought along their large black French poodle, and we spent hours hiking around the mountainside with two-year-old Heather, sitting by the fire talking and feasting on some Tennessee and Louisiana favorites. Good friends, good wine, good conversation—always a formula for happiness!

Sally and Shannon at Beersheba

We had a Pack-n-Play set up in the living room for Heather—so she wouldn’t wander off while we were busy in the kitchen.  Once we were startled to hear her cry out—and all dashed in to check on her.  The big black French poodle had wandered in and was standing beside her—just at her eye level! She was terrified, and he was fastened up in the bedroom for the rest of the time.  He must have looked huge from her perspective!

There’s really nothing quite like springtime in the mountains—with friends.

Shannon, Heather, and Sally at Beersheba

March 5, 2021

Musical Entertainment, Athens Lions Club


Bill Yates came to preach at the Athens church of Christ just as I was going away to Lipscomb as a sophomore.  He and Jean had met at Lipscomb and Bill preached several years at the West Nashville church of Christ after graduation. They came to Athens with their two young daughters, Lynn and Mickey, and moved into the “parsonage,” which was formerly our home. Harriett had built a smaller house down the hill, near the one Glenn, Katie and Emily lived in behind the old log house. 

Emily and Lynn soon became good friends and visited back and forth up and down the hill.  Whenever I was home for visits, Bill was always eager to hear the latest news from Lipscomb.  He was very personable and enjoyed going downtown to the local restaurants for morning coffee and a cigarette with local businessmen.  He took on a part time job at Miller’s Department Store on the square and became a familiar presence in the community.  Soon he was a leader in the local Lions Club.  During my summer break, Emily, Lynn and I provided the musical entertainment for a meeting!

Most of the church members enjoyed having a minister who was outgoing and well-liked in the community.  It had not been the norm previously.

In late August after my graduation from Lipscomb, Glenn suffered a cerebral hemorrhage while working at the funeral home in Chattanooga.  He had emergency brain surgery at Erlanger Hospital but died on the morning of September 1.  Bill had come down to be with us, while Emily (who had just turned 8) was playing with her Cate cousins and Lynn in Athens.  I went to the hospital to sign papers and then to tell Katie and Mother that Glenn had died.  Bill offered to drive with me to pick Emily up and give her this heartbreaking news, before taking her home to be with her mother and grandmother. As we drove in the driveway and saw the girls playing happily, he broke down and said, “I can’t do it.”  So Emily got into the car—and we sat there as I tried to explain to her that the father she loved so much had died despite all our hopes and prayers. In a flash, her childhood ended. Bill conducted the funeral service a few days later.  

The preacher kissed the bride

When Tom and I were planning to get married, Bill didn’t offer any specific advice or counsel.  He and Jean had experienced considerable tension in their own marriage and he probably didn’t think he had much to offer. We asked him to officiate at the ceremony (which we had at Keith Memorial Methodist Church) and I requested he include this passage from Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet:  “…let there be spaces in your togetherness, And let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another, but make not a bond of love; Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls…”

Bill and Jean later moved to Kingston and one summer invited Tom and me to visit them and the girls for a weekend on the lake.  There was boating and fishing, then fried catfish, hush puppies and slaw. Bill remained unconventional—a preacher who knew he was a broken and flawed person and also needed grace.

March 4, 2021

Caroling at the organ, 1970


The Cate family got an oak “pump organ” sometime around 1910.  Young Harriett had learned to read “shaped notes” in their little Christian Church and wanted to play hymns.  Over the years, the organ became something of an albatross.  Of course, it had its moments.

When Glenn and Katie had their June wedding outdoors in front of the log house, a friend played “Indian Love Call” (from the Broadway musical Rose-Marie) on the organ.  And when I began taking piano lessons from Irene Grubb, I practiced on the organ until we got a piano. It followed us wherever we moved.  Occasionally Harriett would play a hymn or I would play something for people curious about its sound.

Whenever Harriett mentioned selling it, Arley and I would protest. So it continued to share our living room with my spinet piano. Then when I was a college freshman, a Lipscomb student from Alabama, Bill Hall, began making weekend trips to Athens to preach at our small church.  Harriett liked him (“he’s nice and tall,” she said) and he usually had lunch with us and spent the afternoon.  He loved playing that organ—and finally Harriett told him he could take it back to Alabama. A few years later, he went to Africa as a missionary and before he left, he put that organ in a U-Haul and brought it back to Athens!

Tom and I took it to Mississippi after we bought a house there and I spent an entire summer refinishing and refurbishing it.  Harold Snellgrove was the Mississippi State History Department Chairman and he collected old pump organs!  He was my consultant for the makeover, even showing me how to remove the reeds carefully and use fine steel wool to correct any “out of tune” sounds. I discarded the removable top portion which included a small mirror and box to hold music.  The dark layers of finish came off to reveal the grain of the oak panels.

The organ moved with us to MacGregor Drive in South Carolina, then to our upstairs apartment at Quail Run, then to Williamsburg West—and finally, to the garage den of my Nashville home.

My children had enjoyed picking out notes and pumping the pedals, and then my grandchildren did the same.

When it seemed to be an albatross again a few years ago, I looked for some way to preserve and get rid of it at the same time.  A friend introduced me to a young man who specialized in “legacy furniture.”  He came to see the organ and suggested several options.  My favorite was to convert it into a bookcase!  He hauled the organ away, and weeks later brought the finished bookcase.  The top panel is made from the carved medallions of the organ, the side panels are from the side panels of the organ.  The metamorphosis is complete!

March 3, 2021

Little Rascal Farrell


When Harriett and Arley were married, a couple of Eaves grandsons already were in place.  Living just at the foot of the hill, Monte and Isobel had two little boys, Farrell and George.  As the older, Farrell had already claimed his spot as “Paw Paw’s favorite” and had free run of the place. He’d come up to Paw Paw’s and spend the night—and didn’t see any problem in continuing that after “Miss Harriett” moved in.  Why should his sleeping in the middle in their bed be any different? They worked that out and Farrell continued to spend as much time as possible following Paw Paw everywhere.  

When I crashed the party by being born, there was considerable tension between “Paw Paw’s favorite” and his new “little girl.”  Arley handled it by declaring there were some things girls did and others best left to boys.  I was always provoked when he took Farrell fishing and on other outdoor activities he thought unsuitable for girls.  

After Arley died in 1953, Farrell continued to remember him. There was a Pendleton wool red and black plaid shirt of Arley’s that he wore often, saying it made him feel close to Paw Paw.  Many years later, he had it carefully dry cleaned and sent it to me with a letter talking about his love for Paw Paw—and making one more claim that he was his “favorite.”

Handsome Young Man

Farrell and Fern have parented three wonderful children, Marilee, Monte and Meg, and delight in their grandchildren.  Even with a successful lifetime in the business world, Farrell always found great joy in his woodcraft and photography.  A family treasure is the 2003 book, Mr. Eaves and His Magic Camera.  A book jacket quote by Farrell: “ORDINARY cameras see what we see—the OUTER SHELL or skin of the world around us. MY camera and I PEEL AWAY this COVERING and innocently CREATE POWERFUL images, arranging highlights and placing AURORAS where there appears to be none.”

He shared Arley’s love of woodworking and carried it to the next level over the years.  A master craftsman, he created lovely pieces of furniture for his own home, built clocks and in later years, has become a master carver of birds, sea creatures, and animals.  Using driftwood he found in Texas, he patiently has created many magnificent realistic carvings.   

Farrell and Fern with Sam, Eli, Ezra, and Charlotte

In the summer of 2019, Heather and I took Camp Grandmama on the road and stopped by Signal Mountain for an afternoon visit with Farrell and Fern.  We toured his wonderful workshop out back and marveled at the variety of his handiwork over the years.  He shared his new ambition—to be the “oldest Eaves who ever lived.”  His father Monte –the previous record holder–died shortly before his 88th birthday.  Today Farrell is celebrating his 88th birthday, and now holds the title.  Congratulations, Farrell!

March 2, 2021


Mother and son in front of MacGregor Drive bay window

Tuesday, March 2, 1971, was a rainy springlike morning in Columbia, South Carolina.  Our second child was expected any day now and Harriett had already arrived to look after Heather when we went to the hospital.  I noticed pink buds on the Japanese magnolia tree outside our MacGregor Drive den window.  Feeling hungry, I ate a big breakfast.  Within an hour or two, I realized this was the day our baby was coming.

I called the OB-GYN office, then alerted Tom to cancel classes and get ready to go to the hospital. Since it was raining, I wore my seventies boots on the short drive down Beltline to the hospital on Forest Drive! 

As we were leaving for the hospital, Tom knelt down to reassure Heather (almost three) he would be back later that day and I would spend the night at the hospital with the new baby and then come home the next day.  He asked her what he could bring her when he came home later, and without hesitation, she said, “A red firetruck!”

There were four obstetricians in the practice, and for prenatal visits, expectant mothers would see them in sequence. Whoever was on call would deliver the baby.  My doctor, James Blair, was my favorite.  He had suggested we go to the smaller Catholic hospital—Providence—for the birth because Tom was terrified of hospitals.  All the doctors were excellent but one had a very abrasive manner and I felt least comfortable with him.  Of course, he was the doctor on call that March 2.

After a quick check by nurses, I was taken directly to a room while Tom paced in the hospital lobby.  Dr. Williamson popped in to check on my progress and told me he was going across the street to Drake’s Restaurant for a quick cheeseburger.  “You’ll have quite a wait,” he said briskly. “Don’t count on it,” I told him.

Before his order got to the table, he was paged to meet me in the delivery room STAT!  A healthy little baby boy was born just minutes later.  We hadn’t known whether we were having a boy or girl—and it was wonderful to have “one of each” in the family.

Tom joined me back in the room and gingerly held his newborn son for the first time.  We’d decided on the name Patrick Lawrence—Patrick for ta Confederate Major General Patrick Ronayne Cleburne (born on St. Patrick’s Day in Ireland) and Lawrence, Tom’s middle name.  After visiting a few minutes, Tom needed to get some fresh air!  He kissed baby Patrick and me goodbye and said, “I’ll go get the firetruck now.”  A nurse’s aide in the room had a puzzled look, and after he left, she remarked, “Your husband doesn’t look like a fireman!”  Indeed.  Heather got her red firetruck as promised and the next day, she met her new baby brother Patrick.

Welcome home, baby brother!

Tuesday’s child is full of grace.  Happy 50th birthday on this Tuesday in 2021, dear Patrick!

March 1, 2021


The Sizer family from Monett, Missouri, were in and out of our lives until Arley died in 1953. After the Depression, they invested in manufacturing and lumber companies in Missouri and Athens, Tennessee.  When Fielding Parker Sizer, Jr. became new owner of the Athens Table Company, he turned to Arley with his years of experience at the factory, even during the dark years of bankruptcy. Mr. Sizer turned the day to day operations over to Arley, and the recovery and rebuilding began.  

Mr. Sizer and other family members would drive down to Athens every few months to check on the plant’s progress.  Harriett always had them over for a delicious home-cooked meal when they were in town, and Mr. Sizer seemed to enjoy his time chatting around our table. He and his wife Corinne had a son Parker who was about 9 years older than I, and Mr. Sizer had infinite patience with my talkative young self!

Only once did Arley make a reciprocal trip to Missouri.  He went by train and sent several postcards from there.  In one he said he was “staying in Mr. Sizer’s home and they sure are fine folks and have a very fine home.”  This photo was their Christmas card one year—even the name of the house seemed elegant.

This likely was the farthest Arley ever traveled from home, and his return trip was very eventful!  Going through Arkansas, the train followed the White River.  Record flooding slowed the train so much that it took 8 hours to travel just 40 miles! Often it stood still for hours waiting for the water to recede from the tracks. 

As I remember Mr. Sizer, it wasn’t his wealth or fine home that made him “fine folks.” Instead, it was how he saw the true capabilities and character of my father—even though he had very limited formal education and no wealth.  He seemed to think we were “fine folks,” too.

After Arley’s stroke in March, 1952, he wrote him a warm letter on company letterhead. “I do hope you will forget the Athens Table Company entirely until you have your health back. Your health and well-being is my first concern, and we will get along the best we can during your absence. This is the best chance to take your accumulated vacation which has been coming to you for a long time,” he wrote. And that consideration continued to the end.

February 28, 2021

Harriett with Glenn


This photo of Harriett and Glenn was in albums found at the Underwood home—and was one I’d never seen.  It must have been taken shortly after Robert Hurst died—leaving Harriett a young widow in her early 20s and Glenn only 3. This was a favorite spot for family snapshots—on or near the front steps of “the log house.”  Glenn grew up here—with his maternal grandparents and sometimes Aunt Della and Uncle Jack.  Life wasn’t easy—Harriett went to work at Miller’s Department Store and Glenn said he would wake up nights worrying that they wouldn’t have enough money for food.  

The log house was strangely charming with its black and white logs and the rustic rock pillars beside the steps. When I was 3, we lived there about four years.  Over two decades after the photo of Harriett with Glenn, there’s a new snapshot taken in the very same spot –of Harriett with her 4-year-old child—this time a daughter! 

Harriett with Sally

Can this be the same woman?  She looks so much more relaxed—I love how she is sitting, with one hand on the pillar, her right hand on her knee, and has one leg and foot extended to show off her stylish pump. Gone is the strained solemn expression as she smiles happily. And I seem well aware that I’m her long hoped for daughter, with no worries about having enough food in the house.  Things weren’t perfect—but after waiting for a very long time, love has returned to Harriett and the log house.