She thinks of it as her debut novel, though she has two preceding books in print. The plot is well aged in the whiskey barrel of life. She has been ruminating the twists for more than three decades. This is the book she left the mountains to write 13 years ago, not that she can’t write in the mountains. There is writing inspiration aplenty in such a cozy cabin, but instead of writing, she kept shouldering the duties of others instead of minding her own business – much like the main character in The Right Woman for the Job. In fact, The Right Woman for the Job mirrors many of the experiences of the author – and fictionalizes a reciprocal amount. Like the movie, Groundhog Day, this book has taken many tries to get it right – both in real life experience and in rewriting of the lines. The author herself has changed. The original model characters have changed. Heroes have risen – and fallen. Scenes have been added and deleted, format and metaphor rearranged like the squares on a sliding tile puzzle. The Right Woman for the Job has had many title changes – changes that reflect the character improvement and growth and migration and focus of the protagonist.
Tuesday, February 2, 2021 is more than just Groundhog Day. The first Tuesday in February is a big book release day in the publishing industry. And this year she will participate – for the first time ever – in the custom of releasing a book on the first Tuesday in February. Chalk one up for the bucket list. Finally, she has done what she said she would do – she never dreamed it would take 13 years and two hundred thousand miles of detours.
Shirley Bryan is dead, and she didn’t get to read the book. The book in which a very important supporting character is modeled after her. The book in which I put words in her mouth – made her say what I understood her to say. The book that was dedicated to her because she believed in me, mentored me from afar. Just knowing she was there, just knowing what she would say gave me the affirmation to move forward. Shirley Bryan died January 1 of this year. I found out when I googled her address to send a copy of The Cemetery Wives – albeit with fear and trembling because she has a much more particular grasp of the English language than I do. Nevertheless, I thought proper to send her a copy because I dedicated it to her. Would she still be at the same address? A mere three months ago when I penned the dedication line, I searched online and found her husband, Chaplin Bill, had died two years ago. I have not seen Shirley, talked to Shirley, or been in contact for over 25 years. It is I who am totally responsible for the distance and lack of communication. For the first 12 years after leaving seminary, I chose not to burden her with my day-to-day frustrations because she had plenty of new young women to mentor. For the past twelve I have been ashamed to reach out. I am divorced. My life did not go as it ought. It would have grieved Shirley, as it grieved me. My presence at the seminary was due to my marriage to a seminary student and we are no longer married.
Back in the day when I was married to a seminary student and Shirley mentored young mothers, we had an understanding. Speaking to young wives was her calling, writing was my growing passion. We would travel the ancient biblical lands together. She would gain knowledge and speak. I would be her amanuensis. In both speaking and writing, we would reach the maximum number of people with truth. In addition, we would both luxuriate in seeing the wonders of the world.
It was never a real plan – only a casual conversation – but her participation in the dream was true encouragement. Something that told me I could move forward. I was free to pursue writing. It might even be my calling.
She hikes with her grandmother’s Sunday handkerchief. Yes, a vintage handkerchief. 100% cotton with a floral print around the borders. She layers it between the disposable rain poncho-which is 20 years old and not yet ready for the landfill – stuffed into the bottom of a bottle sling with the full water bottle on top. These are the essentials for a daily hike: rain poncho for a sudden downpour; handkerchief for bites the nose winter or spring allergies, and water bottle. It is not a new handkerchief by any means. Nor is it carried as a talisman. Grandma has been gone since 1965 and this is the year 2020. In her memory these are Sunday best handkerchiefs, too pretty for daily use. They are Pentecostal handkerchiefs once used to dab off the tears of joy while murmuring, “glory!” And they are babies in a blanket handkerchiefs, quiet, soft-as down distractions to keep toddlers occupied during long sermons. These handkerchiefs – there are four of them- have been carefully stored for 56 years. They came to her in an old-fashioned cedar chest this year upon the passing of her mother. Mother never thought to use the handkerchiefs for herself because disposable tissues have been the norm since the 1950s. For the last 50 years, Scotties and Kleenex and Puffs made the weekly rounds to church and office, carefully folded and tucked into purses. But these handkerchiefs are practical gold for the leave no trace hiker. Before COVID, on longer hikes, she traveled with two bandanas – one for wiping the face and nose and spills and the other for use as a tablecloth for lunch in a beautiful place. That was how she came to have 15 cotton fashion bandanas to choose from for face coverings. Now every hike requires a jaunty bandana tied around the neck at the ready to lift to the nose – but not to wipe the nose. So, she chooses a bandana carefully to match her mood or outfit and she heads out into Nature to meet and greet strangers by hoisting her bandana into place over her nose, slick as a cow puncher keeping out the dust. Between times, when her nose gets so chilly it drips or when the bridge of her nose has been pressed so often by the bandana it runs, she pulls out the Pentecostal handkerchief to gently dab at her nostrils. Nowhere is the likelihood of her becoming charismatic most strong as out on the trail – in Nature’s beauty, where all creation sings and blesses her and restores her spirit; where the sight of a mountain or a waterfall or a glimmering icicle provokes an exclamation of “hallelujah” or “glory,” – most generally translated “wow!” or “awesome!” and a spontaneous waving of a handkerchief.
The memories belonged to her. The memories were hers to keep. For a long time, she didn’t know that. Some of the memories were too wondrous to believe. Other memories were so painful she didn’t ever want to revisit them. She noticed that even with the wonderful memories came that twinge in the side, the catch in the breath, the knowledge that those good times were gone forever and would never return. So, because even the good times hurt; because she chose not to revisit the bad times – to ever think of them again; she boxed up those memories, labeled them, “do not open,” and stored them in the attic of her mind.
Somehow, she thought she could no longer use the silver and gold and the good china simply because it was all packed up with the shattered crystal and the refuse of past relationships. It was a tangled mess. But there is a difference between untangling and unraveling. Once the years had run their course and she was healed of her unraveling, she began the untangling. She separated the paper roses and shards and discarded them. And she resolved not to be any longer robbed of the good memories. The good memories belonged to her. She was an active participant in those memories; not a passive, shriveled up defeated observer. There were memories of diamonds and rubies and stars and constellations and melodies and stages. There was snow and sleigh rides; warm beaches and plane rides. There were memories of small children and grown children and parents and grandchildren. And yes, sigh, there were memories of lovers and proposals – – and betrayals.
“Only a friend can betray a friend, a stranger has nothing to gain (Michael Card 1984).”
When a friend comes close enough to be a real friend – to actually mean something to your heart – there is always the potential for pain. If not the pain of betrayal; then certainly, some day, the pain of loss.
And this was the year she decided to actively, intentionally unpack the memories; to savor the good memories. To experience joy. To be at Peace. With her past and with her future.
The Ghosts of Christmas Past Slide Show by Cherry Odelberg 2020. Smile At This Lovely Time of Year, written and sung by Cherry (Cheryl Shellabarger) Odelberg, Produced and Arranged by Harvey Schmitt. Recorded at WHS recording studios, Dallas Texas first released on Christmas With Jonah and the Wailers CD and cassette at Fellowship Bible Church, Dallas Texas circa 1995
All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth. Well, actually, I got that wish way back in 1963 when I exited third grade. However, time has run its course and I did have all my front teeth filled and sheathed in early 2020. It was one of the gifts I gave myself this year.
All I want for Christmas is you? Frankly, my dear, having you under the Christmas tree would only complicate things. It has been a wonderful year of innovation and self-actualization. Not like the year I hung the mistletoe in a prominent arch and waited – for two years – without result. In that case, the gift I tried to give was not reciprocated. I’ve learned to live without kisses – just as many have learned to live without hugs this year.
Mostly, my grown up Christmas wish list is still intact.
No more lives torn apart That wars would never start And time would heal all hearts And everyone would have a friend And right would always win And love would never end…This is my grownup Christmas list – and I wish it particularly for the families and friendships that have been damaged and distanced in this vicious and heinous election year. It is not worth it, friends. In the end you alone cannot control the outcome of world events by your rhetoric. But you can make it your business to love your mother, your father, your sister, your brother; to love your neighbor as yourself – and to never, never, give up on your children.
What do I want for Christmas? In the course of the year I have provided for myself a washer, a dryer, bass amp, power drill and driver, a down sleeping bag, down vests, smart wool socks, a kayak, and some smart wool underwear. Once I get waterproof winter hiking boots I will be better equipped than ever before to get outside and keep myself healthy; physically, mentally, emotionally and especially spiritually.
Even though I don’t need my two front teeth or someone or something wrapped and under the tree; I’ve been thinking a lot about gifts this December.
A few years back I was traveling with my daughter in the Rocky Mountains. Snow still lay on the ground so it was probably April, my typical vacation time. We parked at the lovely rock chapel of Saint Malo Retreat. We tried the door. It was unlocked. Empty chapel. Available piano. I sat and played a chorus; Ode to Joy. Other tourists passed in and out. A mother and nine-year-old daughter stood behind me and watched. “How does she do that?” whispered the daughter. “Darling, it is a gift,” replied the mother. This simplistic answer irked my daughter who had just completed college with a minor in music. It niggles in the back of my mind this Christmas season as I contemplate gifts and all I want for Christmas.
A Gift takes you nowhere unless you receive it, open it up, and use it. The drill I bought myself in October? If I leave it in the tool bag on the shelf in the laundry room, it does nothing. I have to get it out, insert a drill bit or driver tip, practice, actually apply it to the antique furniture it was bought to bolster. The genetic gift of a good ear and predisposition for music is nothing without application and practice. The unquenchable urge to write – to be heard – is nothing but a constant emotional battle for me if I attempt to squelch it due to fear or embarrassment.
This year I gave myself permission to be about my bucket list with full confidence. My time on earth grows short. The ghosts of Christmas past may try to haunt me, yet I will align myself with Christmas present! I will climb every mountain. I will paddle every lake and stream. I will sing and make music on eighty-eight keys and six strings and four strings. I will write the books that have simmered on the back burner for three decades. I will find my voice and be heard. How about you? What do you want for Christmas?
The Cemetery Wives, by Cherry Odelberg. Full cover art for The Cemetery Wives, created by Courtney V. Harris – available as an ebook on AmazonThe Pancake Cat by Cherry Odelberg, Cover art by Andrea Shellabarger, Available to order wherever books are sold
She never intended to write children’s fiction. No. It had never occurred to her. When she first became enamored with writing (along about the eighth grade) she wrote what was in her heart. She did this via short paragraphs – expanded captions for photos. She revealed herself and her thoughts through her perspective on the photos. What were the individuals in the photos thinking? Her thoughts, of course. In high school, she wrote teenage romances. She wrote the kinds of stories she wanted to read. Mostly, she wrote stories that came from her journal – the things she dreamed would happen to her: high-school sweethearts, first and life-long love.
Once she exited high school, writing consisted of 12-page tomes to her sister-in-law or newsletters for every company she worked for. Experts still admonished beginning writers to write what you know! Experts also recommended taking classes or workshops in writing. Going to workshops was out of the question. She was raising young children. The only course available to her was via Institute of Children’s Literature-by correspondence – snail mail. She took it. She completed assignments. She garnered both praise and criticism. She finished a children’s book. She had it printed and crudely bound and gave it to her family members for Christmas. But she never meant to write a children’s book. A few years later, she attended college. The college accepted her credits from the writing institute but they still wanted tuition – imagine that! She entered a writing contest for children’s books. In addition to publication, the grand and only prize of $10,000 would have funded her final two years of college. The publisher canceled the contest. By 2009 she had invested so much time in research and editing that she published the book independently. She believed in the content. The Pancake Cat was rereleased in 2020 with an all new cover and is receiving more than double the attention previously afforded. But she never intended to write children’s fiction.
What are you doing the rest of your life? She was the up-lake, district interpretive ranger and had been a back-country ranger in Bullfrog for many years previous. We had several interactions during the three years I was with Glen Canyon Conservancy. Valerie and I were not close, but I knew her well enough to attend her retirement party last fall. It was there I heard long term officemates sing her praises. What a varied and adventurous life she lived! Valerie died on September 15 of this year. That knowledge has shaken me and made me reexamine my goals. Why? Valerie would have been 66 in October. She is four months younger than I. Valerie had only ten months of retirement.
Looking at my maternal line, I figure I have roughly 20 more years of life at most. My mother died this spring at the age of 86 outliving her older sister by nearly three years. Their mother died at 65. I’ve already outlived grandma and great grandma before her. So what will I do with that remaining fifteen or twenty years? What would I do if I knew I had only a year? I would retire. I would throw my efforts into the things I love to do and long to do. I would hike every day. I would write. I would make music. I would spend time with those I love and like. I would travel. How about you? What are you doing the rest of your life? Let’s do it!
First of all, using a bandana as a facemask is not a new idea. Cowboys have known this for a couple centuries. Nothing says the west more colorfully than a button up shirt, sweat-stained cowhide jacket and a red bandana. And yes, somewhere back in time I rode horses and I’ve been hot and dusty. I was a child born in the fifties to a mom who wore a bandana to keep every hair properly coiffed in the wind until she arrived at her destination be it church or office.
She called them bandanas. We called them scarves. They were not cowboy paisley. Rather, they were sheer and colorful and available in a rainbow of colors from the local five and dime. I hated them. Not because my mother wore them, but because she tried to get me to wear them. Bandanas were definitely not of my generation and they looked horrid with braids and later with my updated flip- until 1968 anyway. But I am really not averse to using these same rainbow scarves while dancing in worship – or in music and movement classes.
1968 saw the advent of the little three-cornered scarf, a sort of kerchief made of cotton print, designed to match a short cotton shift. These were worn by teenagers who were not really hippies, but not old-fashioned either. I made one of excess fabric when construction was complete on my home economics dress project. The shift and kerchief became my favorite outfit. The girl wearing it felt anything was possible because she finally looked like a modern woman. The shift was well-tailored, finished with detail and boasted a good fit. The kerchief, passing over the ears and tied under the curl of my pageboy haircut revealed just the smallest portion of earlobe. The mint green tiny floral print of the fabric contrasted nicely with formerly mousy brown hair and drew attention to the eyes. Alas, not even fabulous fashion trends last forever. Bandanas disappeared again before high school graduation save for those worn by the likes of Clint Eastwood and John Wayne on black and white TV.
Somewhere in the late eighties, bandanas made a comeback. My mother, of course, was still wearing the sheer variety. But outdoorsy folks were using them for a variety of purposes; towels, handkerchiefs, doo-rags; as they ran cross-country, camped, or rode motorcycles. Women used them for craft projects. I found a matching pair at a local discount store. They were bandanas with wide, fuchsia-pink borders and a black and turquoise floral center. These I purchased for a dollar a piece. I sewed them front to front fashioning a sleeveless pullover blouse. This minimal shirt looked great with my Levis 501s and chukka boots and was one of two outfits I wore on a 21-day motorcycle honeymoon across the continental US. There was also another bandana on the trip. Red. Harley-Davidson. Absolutely necessary. A wedding gift from an older friend. After learning a hard lesson about sunshine and windburn on day one, my red Harley-Davidson bandana protected my tender nose and cheeks for the remainder of the trip. It is the second oldest bandana remaining to this day in my collection.
The oldest bandana in my bandbox is from a place of work. In 1976-77 I sold women’s sportswear at a quality, Main Street, department store in the heart of Grand Junction. With my employee discount, I purchased from the clearance rack a wonderful, seventies-inspired button-up shirt which I wore until frayed and threadbare. A bandana of the same fabric came with the shirt. That bandana is my oldest and has remained my favorite for 47 years. It has passed from me to my daughter and back again and seen duty as a costume accessory, wardrobe scarf pulled through a ring, hiking must-have, and dresser scarf in both college dorm and cabin. Why do I love wearing my 15 bandanas collected over the years? Because I would rather tie on a bandana any day then negotiate my thick tresses to pinion the elastic of a facemask to my ears. Besides that, other daily hikers have referred to me as Jesse James – and it is nice to be a celebrity of sorts. At my age, you rock your vintage doo rags and take what attention you can get.
Rocking two old bandanas while hiking in 2020: the 70s bandana and the 1987 Harley bandana
Marking time in isolation with an entire wardrobe of bandanas. March 2020
Seventies bandana on the 1889 Boulevard in spring of 2020
Let me tell you how time flies – how things change really fast. You see; it seems like only yesterday I was singing with friends in a Sweet Adelines quartette. It’s been eight years. Four years ago I was playing in a band. Four years ago my mother was still driving and walking and she and dad came to an outdoor band concert. That same fall, they drove three and a half hours to share Thanksgiving dinner at my post in the Needles district of Canyonlands. That was after knee surgery for my Mom and she was recuperating nicely. I didn’t even go back for Christmas that year. Instead, I drove from Natural Bridges National Monument to Durango to spend a few days with my daughter. By the time another year rolled around, I was meeting my parents in Monticello Utah to deliver a mobility scooter to my mother. Three years ago Mom was still driving. And she could still drive well. Dad would back the car out of the garage, pull it up by the ramp and Mom would navigate down the ramp with walker or scooter and step into the car. Dad would then load the scooter on the rack to the rear of the car and they were off. 17 months ago Dad had hip replacement surgery and we realized at that time Mom could no longer drive or live alone. We had to nearly lift her into the car. She sometimes got stuck in the bathroom. She died 15 months later after having been dependent for a year and bedfast for two weeks. Just last year I was living and working in Page AZ. Just last year we had no suspicion of Coronavirus. Just one year ago my son purchased my childhood home from my parents and embarked on a remodeling project-completely upgrading the existing 55-year-old house and finishing the basement and garage. Just last Thanksgiving, I drove to Durango to share Thanksgiving with my daughter in a threadbare and minimally furnished apartment. Three months later I became the roommate in that apartment and was almost immediately solitary due to Coronavirus. During these past four months my mom passed. My daughter returned to our apartment after two months of care-taking for my Mom. I am singing in a vocal group again – albeit virtually – and our apartment is more than adequately furnished.
What massive changes time has wrought. Changes, not just in my life, but globally. We will host Mom’s memorial service in early August but we will host it virtually – likely with greater attendance on Facebook Live and Youtube Live than can be achieved in a socially distanced church building. But through it all-whether online or in person-music-lots and lots of music. Times have changed massively. Our enjoyment and dependence on music for entertainment and comfort has not changed – only the method of delivery.
She took a class. Because she is a life-long learner. Originally, she wanted to learn how to record and edit virtual choir. It seemed like a logical next step for one who has sung in choirs, worked in studios, directed voices young and old, recorded original song demos and cut rehearsal tracks. Like the model who becomes the photographer or the ingenué actress turned aging producer, it was the next step. She followed up. Signed up. There was no class available for the engineering of the thing. But participation often lays the groundwork of understanding, so she was game.
What you must know is, she is not a diva. She is not one of those luscious voiced, coloratura soloist girls. No, this is the girl who prides herself on being a most excellent second fiddle. She loves to sing harmony, and she is actually very good at it. She needs others. She can be the backbone, the support, and keep 40 other voices on pitch if necessary – but she rarely stands alone. She loves singing shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow with other vocalists. She loves leaning in and hearing the harmonies and blend. But pandemics require distance. And pandemics are also great incubators for virtual choirs.
She reads notes. She has paid her dues, honed her skills, and gently exercised her voice back to what it used to be before 60 – or so she thinks. Like the good girl she has always been, she does her homework. But this week’s homework was to record an audio cut, raw, straight, with no effects – just her part – one voice out of eight, naked, exposed.
Don’t get me wrong. She’s not a microphone or smart phone virgin. It’s not like she has never sung before. But always with her clothes on, so to speak. In fact, the thing she loves about the recording studio is the way her voice sounds when the engineer works with it. She can land a spot-on tone, and then she lets the engineer dress it.
So there she was, Grandma Godiva (her long, long hair, falling down about her knees), her voice perfectly naked, exposed for the world to hear. The engineer will gild the lily later. Attach and press send was the most humbling thing she has done in a long time. Truth be known, she’s always been a little insecure about the things she loves most.
Naked. That’s pretty much how it feels to be single sometimes, or standing alone – the only one raising a voice about any given issue. So here’s to you, all you naked vocalists. Be strong. Be brave. I don’t care if you are 30 and single or 65 and alone. Dare Greatly. Don’t quit on your music – whatever it is that makes your heart sing.
Sometimes you’ve got to go it alone – naked. And pandemic is one of those times.
Putting One Foot in Front of the Other, Hiking for Life!
