PTSW: Drive-In Picture Show

It was wonderful to share an evening recently with a group of kindred spirits at the home of our friends Stan and Lynelle Stewart. Good food, good conversation, and lots of laughs.  Just an hour and a half before we gathered the big news of May 30, 2024 had broken: the world's most famous malignant narcissist had just been held accountable -- unanimously by a jury of ordinary citizens -- for 34 felonies involving trying to undermine our democratic system in 2016. The conversation of the group of friends gathered on that comfortable screened porch ran the gamut from celebrating our legal system to sharing stories of wild airplane rides, run-ins with traffic cops, embarrassing moments, to our writing. Lynelle told about writing the following poem and we persuaded her to recite it for us. We all had a good laugh. So here is this week's Poem to Start the Week.

Ode to the Drive-In Picture Show

Candy, cokes and popcorn 

hotdogs with chili to go,

What fun they shared on a Saturday night

at the drive-in picture show.

Listening to cracking speakers

of a worn out movie track 

just sweet sixteen, she sat and felt 

his hand curve round her back.

Gentle kisses, then passions high, 

and soon the windows steam.

The magic of the moment 

fills their bodies like a dream.

But happiness is so short-lived, 

too late they surely know

that one less virgin is going home 

from the drive-in picture show.

by Lynelle Stewart

(Used by permission of the poet) 

My Name

Charles Terrell Shaw 1947

I have always liked my name: Charles Terrell Shaw.  That is what is on my birth certificate.

When I was born they say my great grandmother Minnie Wood Shaw thought my parents should make me the fourth in a line up of Columbuses! 

Columbus Turner Shaw (her husband and my great grandfather)

Grady Columbus Shaw (her eldest child and my grandfather)

Charles Columbus Shaw (her eldest grandchild and my father)

(Anything) Columbus Shaw (her name for me)

My father, they say, was adamant that he would not saddle another generation with that name.

"Terry" was a popular name in 1947 and my mother liked it, but she felt it sounded like a nickname and that my official name should be more dignified. She didn't care for "Terrence" so she picked "Terrell." I wish I could say I got that name because some distinguished relative or friend or other admired man had worn it, but Ruth Shaw just liked the sound of it. But she always called mr "Terry" as a child and usually as an adult, although she sometimes used Terrell in more formal settings.

So I was named Charles for my daddy and his grandpa Charles Reuben Wilkerson and, I suppose, a little for Mother's brother Charlie. And "Terrell" just because. And, of course Shaw because we live in a patrilineal society. 

Few people even knew my name is "Terrell" when I was a kid. Everyone called me "Terry". Somehow as an early teen I had to apply for a Social Sev=curity number so I could have a part-time job at the red Dot Supermarket in Ellijay. I gave my name as "Charles Terry Shaw!" That stupid move caused me problems for many years till I finally petitioned the Social Security Administration to correct that error when I was in my fifties. 

But I knew my name and liked it. As I grew older, and especially when I entered graduate school and

began my teaching career, I decided a "Terrell" would sound more grown-up. Besides I liked it. So from 1969 I have always been "Terrell" except to family and friends from my childhood.

I usually used just "Terrell Shaw" on bank accounts and other ordinary business and career dealings. But some legal documents require the first name. "First Name Chauvinism" is a frequent pet peeve of mine. At doctors' offices and pharmacies some folks are adamant that I should go by my first name. Grrr. I love my Daddy, but he was "Charles;" I am "Terrell." Fernando Molina was my primary physician for more than thirty years, but he never learned to call me "Terrell!"

I did have at least one other name. I was a husky baby, and I am told that was why my grandparents, "Daddy Shaw" and "Mama Shaw," and Daddy's brothers, James, Grady, Bill, and Jack and a few other relatives affectionately called me "Samson". I wrote a little about that here.

Sheila's Coffee Cup

Years ago a friend gave Sheila this coffee cup with her name on it.

Then one day Sheila looked at the high shelf full of random coffee cups and decided it was time to let someone else enjoy some of the cups that we rarely, if ever, used. So she boxed up a bunch of them, including this one, and we hauled them to our favorite second hand shop. Hospitality House in Rome is a wonderful local charity that has done good work in our town for decades now. Their thrift store on Shorter Avenue is well organized, has good prices, is big enough to be interesting but not so large as to overwhelm, and supports a good cause. We go there several times a year. My Mother used to go almost every Thursday (Senior Day then).

It was only a few days or maybe weeks later that we visited my Mother and she proudly produced her latest thrift store find for her beloved daughter-in-law. Yep. Mother had bought the Sheila cup and was thrilled to give it (back) to Sheila. I never told Mother this story though I probably should have. I think she'd have gotten a kick out of it herself. 

One of the great blessings of my life is that my Mother and my wife loved each other and genuinely enjoyed each other's company.

Whatever happens to that cup physically, we can never completely lose it again; it is forever attached to a story.

Sheila and Mother share earbuds to listen while they watch a video of our grandkids.

My wife and my mother.