Remembering Leroy Echols

Just two weeks ago we buried a cousin way too soon.

All-around great guy

“Leroy” was a good man. He was older than me and many of my siblings, so he didn’t hang out with most of us. Still, he was a wonderful family man and all-around great human being.

We could go YEARS without seeing him around (even though most of us live in the same city), but when we did, he’d give that bright, earnest smile and you knew there was love.

Last year my twin sister June and I were out at dinner when we ran into Leroy and his lovely wife Jeannette. She decided to come over to greet us and he quickly stood, grabbed her chair and pulled it out for her – like only the debonair men in the movies do. My sister and I swooned.

We mentioned to Jeanette how ‘cute’ that was and she said, “Oh, he’s done that for as long as we’ve been together.” Their marriage lasted some 30+ years.

When she finished her conversation and returned to her table, again he stood up, grabbed her chair and pulled it out for her. And again, we swooned. Anyway, they soon finished their meal and was on their way out the door, waving goodbye.

Later, we were waiting for our check to arrive and finally asked the waitress to please make sure we got it in time…we were on our way to the movie theater and didn’t want to be late. Her response was, “Oh, I’m sorry. That man who was over there paid your bill when he paid his.”

June and I were shocked, but we shouldn’t have been; that was Leroy’s way. He just did good stuff “just ’cause it’s Tuesday.” Leroy was the personification of those “…acts of random kindness” bumper stickers you see in traffic. In fact, that day added a new bar for which I will forever measure all other men (which might explain why I’m still single).

And so this post goes out to our wonderful cousin Leroy Echols. Husband, father, son, brother, uncle, cousin, friend and so much more.

He will be missed.

***Life lesson: Life is short. Make a positive impact while you can. Leroy certainly did.***

Why I’ll never bake another cake

It was the very first cake I ever baked.

And it would be my last…

I was so excited when my Mom told me that I could bake my very first cake. It was actually my idea. I got some nerve one afternoon after, I think, watching a Duncan Hines commercial. (I could totally be making that part up. I tend to embellish.)

Anyway, Mom agreed that I could. We went to the grocery store and picked out all the necessary ingredients: the Duncan Hines mix (it actually WAS DH!); eggs, yada, yada…you know…everything listed on the box.

That Sunday night I was hyped. I planned it “just so.” I knew my parents loved to have dessert on Sunday evening around 8pm. It was almost time for Sunday Night at the Movies, and “one-shot” Erskine had just brought a criminal to justice on “The FBI.” (Ahhh, good times.)

Anyway, I booted everyone out of the kitchen – even Mom (“No, Mom – I don’t want any help! I’m going to do it all by myself!” I was such a fool.)

At about 6:45pm I turned the oven on to 350 degrees. Then I placed everything on the table. Reading the directions, I emptied the batter into the large ceramic mixing bowl.

Tap-tap-tap. Just like they did it on TV, to make sure every speck was out of the box. (I was such a perfectionist.)

Then I put in the eggs and whipped them into the batter.

Whisk, whisk.

And I added a little of this, a dab of that. However the box read was what I did.

To.The.Letter.

…Then came the water. (And here’s where my plan went awry.)

The box read something like: Add 1 cup water. (Keep in mind that I had a large family, so we always baked TWO boxes of cake mix, which would mean that I’d have to double everything.)

I added TWO cups of water and started up the blender.

Hmmmm, that doesn’t look right. It’s too thick. Think I’ll add a little more water.

SIDE NOTE: If you’re a first-time baker, “a little more water” might sound like a good idea. Unfortunately, since it IS your first time baking, you really don’t have a concept of what “a little” means.

At least I didn’t.

…That’s right. One more cup should do it.

Still too thick. Just a l-i-t-t-l-e bit more water.

I have to admit that I did wonder how Duncan Hines could have gotten the measurements all wrong. But sometimes people make mistakes, so I chalked it up to an error by the printing department. (I was really a troubled child. How I slipped through the cracks of the system, I’ll never know.)

Anyway, with the oven all heated up, I was ready for the most important part: the baking process.

DISCLAIMER: In my defense, I was NEVER INFORMED that the position of the baking rack was of any importance. In my mind, as long as there was a rack in the over, it’s ‘a go.’

I sat the weighty cake pan in the middle of the rack and went my merry way.

I thought, “I”ll check back in 30 minutes. I can’t wait for everyone to taste my cake. It’s gonna be the best cake ever!” I truly had visions of a ticker tape parade (in-house) as everyone rallied around me, telling me how wonderful I was. (I was so naive.)

Fast forward 30 minutes. Ahh, the aroma of DH’s yellow cake was in the air. My mouth was watering and everyone was asking when it would be done.

“It should be done soon!” I informed them all. They’re gonna LOVE it!

my cake...in my dreams

My Mom told me to lightly press my finger on the top of the cake to test it. If it bounced right back into place it was done; if not, it needed just a little while longer to bake.

I washed my hands (a requisite for anyone even walking pass the kitchen) and pressed lightly on the cake…

Why does it feel like gelatin? And it’s quite moist EXTREMELY MOIST! Guess it needs to bake a little longer.

As the night went on, reality began to set in. The visions of adulation faded, and, after about the fourth time of checking the cake, I was doomed to realize I was, after all, merely mortal.

THREE HOURS LATER and the cake still wasn’t done.

I forged ahead regardless. I put on a brave front and cut that Jello-pudding-wannabe cake into small 2-inch cubes and served my family. I went from room to room (everyone was getting ready for bed by this time), serving my drenched cake to anyone brave enough to try it.

They were all so gracious. Most everyone was gracious, leaving me a shred of dignity.

…And then I served my brother Babe (who, by the way, repeated the question, “That cake ain’t done yet???” like a mantra!). He picked up one of the squares and said, “Why is it so heavy?” (He was such a brute.)

I ignored him. I swear it was like something straight out of The Emperor’s New Clothes. As long as no one made mention of my snafu, I still felt a sense of pride. I accomplished something. So I was just fine until…

“…And it’s so wet! What did you do – give it a bath?”

That silly boy broke my spirit like a twig!

o' the humanity!

At that precise moment I said to myself, “Self, this ain’t your thing. Never, ever do this again. Whatever “it” is that’s needed for this function – you ain’t got it.”

The good news is that the cake finally did “spring” back into shape: three days later. The bad news was that there still much cake left after three days…a sure sign of utter failure in my house.

That was about 38 years ago – and let me tell you: I have never baked another cake since. And what’s even worse: no one’s asked me to.

Way to go, Babe. Way to go.

Lesson learned: Stick with what you know
and pay someone else to do the rest.
(…And sometimes boys are idiots.)

Run like a racehorse

I have to admit: I cheated at this post. You see, I’d recently written on another blog of the importance of maintaining focus, and it was much like this post. Actually, it was exactly this post.

But since those words of wisdom came from my mother in the first place, I thought it only appropriate to post it here – on a blog that honors the woman.

So here goes…

I don’t play the ponies; it’s against my principles. That’s just me.

But this post really isn’t about gambling, or even horses. It’s about the race.

Years ago, I was having a discussion with my Mom about “getting there,” wherever “there” was at that time. I was having a problem staying focused. My Mom (in all her wisdom) said simply, “You have to run like a racehorse.” As usual I had no idea WHAT ON EARTH this woman was talking about (I was only about 13 years old).

She went on to explain that, during the race, the horse has the blinders on both sides of the head.

“Did you ever wonder what they were for?” she asked. I SWORE to her that I hadn’t. (When would I, a girl from the ‘hood, EVER think about a racehorse?)

“They’re there to keep the horses focused; keep them moving straight ahead. They allow nothing to distract the horse.”

Run undeterred

And there it was. A simple “run like a racehorse” phrase that, years later, would mean the world to me.

Mom was a very wise woman. She didn’t go into explaining that the horse was also possibly distracted by the crowd, or that other horses might bump into them along the way, or that the horse might simply not have enough stamina to reach the finish line. The point was to RUN LIKE A RACEHORSE – nevermind what MIGHT happen ahead. Just run. Undeterred.

It’s been many, many years since I thought about her words of wisdom, but today I have to admit that I recently allowed something to distract me from my goal, my finish line. But now I’m back on track (no pun intended, but certainly suitable) and I’m once again like the racehorse: vigorously running, staring straight ahead (with blinders on), not distracted, but rather, determined to finish my race.

Indeed, I’m running like the racehorse.

Thanks, Mom.

my sister the thief

True story: By the time she was nine years old, my baby sister was a master at deception, a spoiled little brat – thanks in large measure to “Bill,” our grandfather, who made over her as if she was the long-lost golden-haired heir to the Rockefeller fortune.

Here’s a typical conversation you might have heard anytime Bill was in the vicinity:

“Bill, I want a dollar to get candy from the store!”

“Now Bomn-Bomn (his pet name for her), Bill don’t have any money.”

“Bill, I want some candy!”

“Okay, Bomn-Bomn. Let me get my wallet.”

We could barely stand the sight of her.

Still, Mom’s number one rule was that we couldn’t physically fight, so the idea of ‘doin’ her in’ and getting rid of the evidence was simply out of the question.

We had to endure.

In time we learned to tolerate her shenanigans. But poor Bill! He could never get pass displeasing his BomnBomn. Like all spoiled, rotten children who prey on weak adults, she wielded power over that poor old man like a jungle cat pouncing on its prey.

He never stood a chance. I swear, sometimes watching that kid manipulate him like a puppet was like living The Animal Planet in real-time…and just as brutal.

He never stood a chance.

Case in point: It was a sunny Saturday afternoon and Bill and Gramma took BomnBomn with them to run errands.(God love ‘em!) One of the errands included stopping over at a cute little store named Joe the Motorist Friend. We loved that store. It was straight out of Ozzie and Harriet – except it was located right in the ‘hood. (They had spunk!)

At Joe the Motorist Friend you could shop for general household supplies, beauty products, tools – and even (…wait for it…) bicycles!

After Gramma and Bill finished their shopping, Bill found Bomn-Bomn seated on a much-too-small-for-her-big-butt green 10-speed bike and told her they were ready to go. The conversation went something like this…

Bill: Come on, BomnBomn, it’s time to go home.

BomnBomn: Bill, I want this bike!

Bill: Bill ain’t got the money for that today, BomnBomn. I’ll get it next time.

BomnBomn: No! I want it now!

Bill: Now, BomnBomn, I’ll get it for you next time.

BomnBomn: No! I want it now! I’m gonna hold my breath ‘til I get it!

Like all spoiled-little-wannabe-rich kids, she held her breath. Bill watched patiently – probably in hopes that she’d fall unconscious so he could just carry her to the car. She continued holding her breath until she apparently felt herself going under.

Realizing her usual bratty act didn’t make a dent, she gasps for air, straddles the bike – and rides it out of the store!

Brrr-rrring! Brrr-rrring!

Now in the real world, where my Mother and Father resided, the next scene would have sounded like this:

“And that, your honor, is why I gave that brat the butt-whippin’ of a lifetime!” followed by the sound of a gavel and the judge saying, “You’re great parents! Good job. Case dismissed!”

BomnBomn would NEVER have even entertained the idea of “stealing” that bike from the store if my parents were there.

But in Bill’s World…

…Let’s just say that when they returned home from their outing, we saw him wrestling to get that poor little bike out of the trunk of his station wagon. That poor, too-small-for-her-big-butt, little, tiny bike. I swear, it was like the bike was fighting to stay put – Bill struggled so hard.

To add insult to injury, my parents refused to reimburse him for the bike. As my mother would say about spoiled kids, “You made that rotten kid, now you deal with it.” On top of that, she only rode it that one summer – she REALLY couldn’t fit it that second year!

she should have looked like this...

...but she looked like this...

Today, I’m happy to report that my sister is no longer a thief. She’s still a manipulator – but she’s no thief, by George! Now she manipulates her dear, loving husband, who my sisters and I have dubbed “Bill.” Turns out she married a man just like the man that spoiled her rotten in the first place.

Life lesson: None whatsoever! It’s just nice to be able to finally repay BomnBomn for some of the damage she’s caused over the years, by letting everyone know what a spoiled little brat she really was.
Ahh, life is good.

When coupons just don’t make sense…

My mother never drove.

Ever.

She didn’t even consider taking a driver’s test. She didn’t need to. She had Daddy.

Generally, “Popi” was only too happy to ‘drive Miss Daisy.’

But I remember one day in particular when she really irked his nerves. We lived about 15 blocks from the shopping center. No biggie. Popi would drive her to the store, run his own errands and pick us up in an hour or so. (Mom was a serious shopper!)

I’m walking through the store with Mom while she’s checking every label, every price tag (there were actual tags then…no UPC stuff back then). She’d check her coupons, check the different store circulars and make a decision on what to buy based on her findings.

She had it down to a science.

I swear we went down every aisle. Twice. Of course I didn’t complain…I never enjoyed being embarrassed in public…or private for that matter. And Mother’s philosophy was simply this: Where you cut up is where you get tore up. And she meant it.

Anyway, after what seemed like an eternity, we finally roll out of the store with a completely filled shopping cart. The big one.

...the woman could shop

While we’re putting the groceries in the car, Mom says, “Brown (her pet name for Popi), we have to go out to [the other big grocery store]. They have sugar and bread on sale.”

Popi, by now near exhaustion, says: “What?! Sale? Do you know how much gas I’m going to spend to take you all the way out there? It’s gonna cost about $4!”

Without missing a beat, Mom answered, “Yeah, but that’s YOUR gas. This is MY money.”

The look on Popi’s face was priceless…as he drove us all the way across town for Mom to save about $1 on sugar and bread – IN HIS CADILLAC!

gas guzzler

As I look back, I realize just how much my Mom got over: On RARE occasions did she work outside of the home. Every penny she got came from Popi. So in essence, he paid twice!

Lesson learned: My Mom – mother, daughter, sister, aunt…and hustler!

The Woman Who Couldn’t Lie

My mother was a woman of high integrity. To a fault. I mean, she couldn’t even lie without breaking out in a sweat. I gotta tell you: if it came down to my mother being questioned by the authorities about her children, husband, friends, whomever – the truth was going to prevail.

It was a well-known fact in our household: if you’re going to break the law, don’t expect Mom to cover for you…she’d crack like an egg.

Mom would crack for sure

Case in point: My father’s mother and her husband (Bill) lived with our family from before the time I was even born. After “Gramma” died, Bill continued to stay with us – which only made sense. We never cared that he wasn’t ‘blood,’ he was the only grandfather we all knew and it was a natural fit. Besides that, he spoiled us rotten.

We loved Bill.

Anyway, once Gramma died, an old lady in our block took a liking to Bill. He’d run her to the grocery store, the pharmacy – wherever. He didn’t mind – most days. She could hardly see and he needed something to do.

But there were days when he could not stand the sight of this woman. For example, one afternoon Bill was resting in his bedroom when the house phone rang. My mother answered it.

“Bill,” she yelled, covering the phone with her palm, “It’s Mrs. Jones. She wants you to take her to the store.”

Bill yelled back, “I’m not going anywhere!” (He was in one of his cantankerous moods.)

“What?” Mom asked.

“I’m not going anywhere today!”

Visibly uncomfortable and not wanting to hurt Mrs. Jones feelings, Mom asked, “Well, what do you want me to tell her?”

Bill snapped, “I don’t care what you tell her! Tell her I’m not home!”

Simply obeying, Mom speaks into the phone, “Mrs. Jones, he said he’s not home. Ohhhh!”

The look on Mom’s face was classic. Realizing what she just said, she’s standing there with the phone to ear, staring into space.

me bustin' a gut

By this time I’m screaming in laughter!Mom quickly hangs up the phone and grabs her head.

My poor mom…she just couldn’t do it. It was against her very nature. I imagine that’s why my Dad loved her (and everyone else who knew her, for that matter).

My Mom could do anything: make a $2 Goodwill skirt look like a JCPenney purchase; stretch a $10 dinner for four into a satisfying meal for 13 people; patch a ripped blazer to look like the latest style.

Yep, my Mom could work wonders. She could do anything…but lie.

Lesson learned from Mother: You can’t be something you’re not;
the real you will be revealed.

Old man’s darling / young man’s fool

My Mother always had a knack for putting things ‘just so.’ I remember the day we were at a department store and “he” was approaching us. (Not on purpose…he was leaving and we were entering.)

Anyway, I said to my mom, “Oh, I can’t stand this guy! He likes me and I just don’t like him at all.”

As he walked pass my mom asked, “What’s the matter with him?”

“Huh?” I replied – in shock. “Did you see him? He’s…not cute…and he’s old!” I said, referring to his 40-something age. I was just 23 and thought he was ancient.

“Well, he might be a nice guy,” mom said.

“Mom, he’s OLD!”

“Judy, you can’t look at his age. He might be a nice man. One day you’ll learn it’s better to be an old man’s darling than a young man’s fool,” she said.

It stopped me in my tracks. “What?”

She repeated it, “Better to be an old man’s darling than a young man’s fool.”

Feeling a hidden agenda somewhere in her interpretation (the woman had many undercover sermons), I sped pass her into the department store. We never discussed it again.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve looked back and wished I’d listened.

Lesson learned: Always listen to Mother; she knows what’s best.

Ode to my mother…

Mama, you're the queen o' my heart

Dorothy Rosalie (Echols) Brown. As you would probably guess, that’s her there on the left of the picture.

As sentimental as the words below the photo might be, my mother was a true TRIPP! Loving wife (which is why Dad always smiled that dazzling smile!), great mom, good friend, joyful Christian – she was all good things in one splendid package.

But – SHE WAS A TRIPP! Let me give you a ‘for instance.’

As a small child, I remember feeling sorry for Dad. I never saw any of his friends. E-v-e-r.

It bothered me. In fact, I recall a brief dialogue about it with one of my sisters one fine day. It went something like this:

Me: Dad doesn’t have any friends.

Her: Yes he does.

Me: Where are they? I never see them.

Her: He has friends, girl. (Sound of sucking-of-teeth. A sure sign in the ‘hood that you’re treading on dangerous ground.)

I never mentioned Dad’s lack of friends again.

But one day I found the answer to why Dad’s friends never showed up. Ever.

Mom, Jae (my other sister) and I were at the corner appliance store. (For clarity, this was a REAL appliance store – not some seedy “Hey-isn’t-that-MY-8-track-cassette-player-in-the-corner?” type of appliance store.)

Go on wit' yo' bad self

Anyway, as we entered the store, the surprised owner came from behind the counter.

“Dot! Is that you, Dot?” he said with a broad grin.

“Yes, it’s me.”

He answers with, “It’s good to see you. I haven’t seen you in ages!”

My sister and I were taken aback. We’d seen this man in the neighborhood for years and he’d always been kind to us, but how on earth did he know our mother so well, we were both wondering. It was quite obvious they were more than passing acquaintances. NOTE: Dorothy Brown was NOT keen on her children investigating her personal business. When SHE was ready to reveal anything about herself SHE’D let you know!

Hence, we kept our thoughts to ourselves.

…And then he began to speak…and we realized why she never told us how she knew the man…

Following are the Cliff Notes of the saga, “Why My Dad’s Friends Never Came to Our Home. EVER!“

Apparently, in his earlier years my father was kind of a party animal…which likely brought on other drama that married women could do without. (Of course I’m surmising here. Please refer to the BOLD “NOTE“ above.) Anyway, when she married Dad (or as I call him, Papa Smurf) she told him what her standards were.

My mother’s ONE adamant rule: Once they began to have children, she did NOT want him to bring his drinking buddies to the house.

Ever.

Dad made a near-fatal mistake (like many husbands): He (apparently) thought she was joking.

…She wasn’t joking.

After giving birth to the first child (nicknamed “Doodle”) my Dad “tried” her (that’s ‘hood talk for “tried her patience”).

One night he went out drinking with his buddies. By this time Doodle was being potty trained. She heard the guys causing a ruckus in the hallway of their apartment. She sprung into action.

Running out to meet them before they came up the stairs of their second-floor apartment, Mom said, “Don’t even think you’re coming into my apartment! I have a baby here and I don’t want you here!”

They didn’t listen.

That’s when Mom ran inside for her “special blend.”

“If you come up these steps I will throw this boy’s pee on you!”

As is a common trait among drunkards, everything’s a joke. They laughed. And took another step.

Just one.

Cut to courtroom scene:

“…And that, your honor, is why I threw pee on those bums!”

Okay I’m totally kidding with that last line…but I can just see my mom justifying her disgusting actions before a judge – and winning him over! In fact, my mom had a way with winning people over – and without throwing pee on them.

That woman had a gift…

…which is why Dad’s friends never came to the house.

Ever.

On a much brighter note: My father completely gave up drinking. I’ve never known him to be anything less than a hard-working, family-oriented, “head-over-heels-dumbstruck-in-love-with-my-mother” kind of guy.

Who knew tossing pee could have such a positive effect?

Lesson learned from Mom: Always have a cup of pee at your disposal.
You never know when you’re gonna need it.