1959. New girl in town. Preacher’s kid fresh off The Glory Road.

By Anita Garner

Anita Faye Jones, new girl.

Our family had just arrived from the Deep South and I would be attending high school in glamorous Southern California. Daddy was one of those preachers who believed Jesus didn’t want to see makeup on a woman’s face.

This redhead has a thick Southern drawl but no discernible eyebrows
and lashes. They’re there. They’re blonde. You just can’t see them.

But I know this girl. If you tell her wearing makeup is a sin there’s every chance she’ll hide a makeup kit with a girlfriend, disappear into the bathroom at school after the official picture (the one her parents will see) is taken, and add some color.

The trick is to get to school early. Pencil in those eyebrows. Lay on mascara and lipstick, then scrub it all off before heading home. You could survive high school that way and then move away from home one minute after graduating.

Get yourself a roommate and rent an apartment. Bleach a rebel-blonde streak, pile on makeup and head to a photo booth.

1960 version of selfies

You have to have the duck-face poses. It’s part of the growing up process.

Within a few months, I went blonde, lied about my age, started singing in nightclubs and Daddy stopped speaking to me. Eventually we made up (sort of) over rice and beans and cornbread at his kitchen table.

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A contractor bakes bread for his community.

By Anita Garner

I love AARP. I joined way back when they sent me that first “Hello you’re getting older” letter and I haven’t looked back. AARP Magazine’s current issue features stories about people getting on with it, doing what needs to be done. It’s inspiring to learn about Jeff and his community and how they’re adjusting to what’s going on right now.

Jeff Owens bakes loaves of bread for his neighbors in a wood-fired oven in his backyard. In ordinary times, Jeff, 53, works as a masonry contractor in Riverview, Michigan.

Craftsman Bakes Bread in Backyard for Neighbors in Need

Mason Jeff Owens turns his outdoor oven into a community bakery

by Sari Harrar, Jennifer E. Mabry and Sarah Mahoney, Photos by Nick Hagen

When all this started, people couldn’t find bread in the stores. My neighbors knew I baked, so they started calling me. I’m a mason, and I had built a wood-fired oven in my backyard for pizza parties. I started baking loaves of bread and giving them away to friends, neighbors, health care workers and people in need. With my wife, two kids and stepmom helping, we’re up to baking more than 100 loaves a day, every weekday. People sign up online and then line up in their cars for pickup.

Many of the people who pick up for themselves also have “bread buddies” — people stuck at home who they deliver to. We also have helpers — I call them my breadheads — who deliver 27 loaves a day to the local fire department, which takes them to senior-housing communities, and another 27 loaves to hospitals.

Everything is sanitary. We all wear gloves, and we wipe down our stainless steel counters constantly. The bread bakes at 350 to 470 degrees and goes right into paper bags. And people say it’s the best bread they’ve ever had. Someone wrote on our Facebook page, “It’s love in a paper bag.”

Nick Hagen

Jeff Owens checks on bread in his backyard oven.

The whole thing has become a project for our community. We use 100 pounds of white flour a day, and a lot of that is funded through donations. I ran out of seasoned wood, so my breadheads bring it to me. A local Masonic Home donated a 1940s-era 20-quart mixer after they heard that I was using a 6-quart home model. I needed help refurbishing it, so one of my breadheads drove two towns away to pick up a used commercial bread hook for mixing, and another welded it for me, all within 24 hours. The mixer is a real World War II–era machine. We call her Messy Betsy. She’s really helped the effort. When I needed a gasket to seal the door to the oven, a neighbor offered one from an oven they were discarding.

Bread recipients have been so eager to help out that we got a Salvation Army collection kettle for cash donations. We don’t need much for the bread, and this way the money can go where it’s needed.

The process never really stops. I fire up the stove at night, and by morning it’s the perfect temperature for the first batch.

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Back to the 90s with Mr. Nice Guy

By Anita Garner

With Dick Van Patten at a Hollywood charity event

In 1998 I mentioned to my friend, Barney Martin that I was working with Dick Van Patten on a project. Barney had worked with him in a movie and a couple of TV shows and said, “You’re gonna love him.”

The event would be a big dinner hosted by a charity to honor a major donor. I was hired by the organization to write a speech for the celebrity presenter. The donor was a man known for his difficult personality, but Dick had made a commitment to the cause so he agreed to deliver the speech.

Of course such a speech should be filled with warmth and I’d have to rely on Dick for that. Other celebrities had already been contacted and declined to participate. It didn’t feel strictly coincidental that many show biz people invited to speak were all of a sudden otherwise engaged. Dick would carry the program.

We met several times at the usual Studio City chat spots, Du-par’s, Nat’s Early Bite, Jerry’s Famous, Art’s and Sportsmen’s Lodge. A steady stream of performers stopped by our table to schmooze and share stories about Dick’s own fascinating family. Everyone in town seemed to know and love the Van Pattens. Dick promised me, “We’ll have you over for dinner soon. Pat feeds everybody.”

So a lot of laughter at our meetings but not much I could use to enhance the reputation of the recipient. Dick told me not to worry about it, just write down anything and he’d take it from there. But I did worry. He was doing a favor for a cause he believed in. I was being paid and I was meant to do the heavy lifting and come up with good things to say. I made some notes on index cards about the donor’s purported good works.

The big night came and Dick and I arrived together, walked the red carpet, took our seats at a table up front, ate dinner, then he was introduced. I handed him our notes.

He bounced up onstage, greeted everyone and acknowledged a wave of applause. He glanced at the note cards only once, winked at me and skillfully moved into telling entertaining stories. He shared charming anecdotes that vaguely included the recipient without resorting to outright falsehoods. You could enjoy the evening’s entertainment without realizing there was very little said about the honoree.

Most people present would leave the ballroom that night without ever knowing which end of a donkey the big donor represented, because of the delightful performance by Mr. Nice Guy. Classy.

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Plaid & Garden

By Anita Garner

Years ago I moved into a cottage in Mill Valley with a lush backyard garden planted by the person who lived there before me. I was grateful every season for the gardener who created the magical retreat. Every time I looked out a window something new was blooming and that first year I had no idea what would appear next.

My one and only Grand lived in Woodland Hills. Mill Valley to Woodland Hills on California’s I-5 was a regular road trip every few months. Between visits, they sent me photos of The Grand and and I sent them photos of whatever grew in the garden. On my phone are hundreds of pictures of The Grand and many, many photos of flowers. Am I the only person who saves pictures of tiny bouquets for years?

In these photos, the coffee tables change, the vases change, the blossoms change, but the one constant is the plaid couch. I loved that couch. It was already vintage when I bought it and even more nicely worn in after I had it a while. Finally, the couch sighed its last. That’s when I realized that in all these pictures, lovely as the flowers are, the couch still draws me in. I miss it.

A plaid fan knows it’s not just for fall and winter, and once in love with plaid, you don’t break up. You might date a few other patterns, but you’ll always go back. Someday another plaid couch will come knocking at my door and I’ll invite it in and take pictures to show you.

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Lucky Pennies

By Anita Garner

Southern superstition in my family says when we find a penny on the ground, if it’s heads up, we put it in our shoe and wear it the rest of the day. I always do and when I remove the pennies I save them in a little vase. Mother put a lucky penny in every new purse or wallet and never took it out. I do the same.

A gift from New England artist, Steve Bradford, is a keep-it-forever thing. Here’s what he sent for my recent birthday.

I love jars. I love wood. As soon as this arrived, The Grand and I unpacked it and fell in love.

What to put inside? Maybe a few bits of sparkle. I’m thinking an old rhinestone clip from the 40s now hiding in my jewelry box would fit up there in that small jar on top and a few tiny pine cones in the jar below. The biggest jar could hold all the pennies I’ve been saving and all the pennies I’ll find in the future. Lucky pennies.

Here’s another look at what an artist can do with empty jars and wood.

Steve specializes in assemblage art, but like many artists, he’s a practitioner of multiple disciplines. Found objects and tiny morsels become feasts for the imagination. Click the picture below to visit his website and see more of his work.

Steve with Willow at Bayview Beach, Saco, Maine

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California sports car, part of our Southern migration on The Glory Road

By Anita Garner

Leslie Ray’s first sports car, 1960s
Glendale, California

This is my brother outside Gramma K’s house on Raymond Avenue in Glendale, with the Verdugo hills rising in the background. Gramma was the first of our Southern clan to move to California. Leslie stopped by to show her his latest car.

During his rebellious period in the late 50s, Leslie left our house in Louisiana to live with our mother’s mother. It wasn’t just teenage rebellion that brought him west. The car she promised to buy him had something to do with it. There was a great deal of bargaining between Gramma and our parents, who were always in motion, traveling the Deep South in their evangelist/pastor/gospel performing circles. Their nearly-grown son objected to every part of our life and threatened to run away from home.

This is not the car she bought. That first one was an old Pontiac that got him through Hoover High School, through plenty of traffic tickets and a months-long ban from Bob’s Drive-In. When the rest of our family joined him in California, Leslie taught me terrifying freeway merging lessons in that Pontiac.

The yellow car was many vehicles later, one of several sports cars he bought on his own and drove too fast. Then there was a plane, then motorcycles he raced. Nothing slowed him down.

This next picture was years later when we all gathered at Gramma’s for one of our Sunday suppers.

Leslie Ray is reacting the way he always did
when Gramma scolded.

She’s re-telling the story about how many times she took his car keys away during high school and hung them on a nail in the kitchen. She confiscated the keys after each infraction and threatened to leave them there, but he always knew he could charm her into giving them back. When the nail wasn’t displaying my brother’s car keys, it was holding her beloved Vidalia onions.

All of us who traveled Route 66 back and forth from the South to California brought her Vidalias when we could get them. Gramma added a thick slice of sweet onion to her morning biscuits, her Southern tradition continuing in Southern California. To hang onions from that nail, she dropped an onion into the toe of an old stocking, tied a knot, dropped in another one and kept knotting until she had a pearly Vidalia necklace.

I’m working on a collection of stories and essays and while the dramatic milestones, the setbacks and the triumphs get much of the attention, every now and then one of these small moments nudges, wanting to be heard. Today I’m thinking of my tall and charming, silly and stubborn brother.

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The Glory Road: A Gospel Gypsy Life – book cover is here!

By Anita Garner

University of Alabama Press moves forward with production of my book scheduled for Spring, 2021. This book still feels like a miracle, considering how many decades the story waited for me to finish writing it.

Book publishing is a long process. It’s complicated and sophisticated stuff and for me every stage is exciting. I plan to keep enjoying it. I can’t think of a different way to say “uncertain times” “unprecedented” or “challenging” so let’s just say everything about book tours, appearances and marketing in general continues to shift. The new approach may be a marathon rather than a sprint.

My heart goes out to writers whose books were released earlier this year, who had extensive appearances confirmed, then, poof, all gone. I have heaps of admiration for authors who bestirred themselves to find ways to connect with people who really want to read what they write.

Who knows how we’ll meet readers in 2021? However we decide to connect to discuss The Glory Road: A Gospel Gypsy Life, I’m looking forward to it. Meanwhile, I’m going to keep enjoying this cover.*

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*Lori Lynch, Senior Designer, University of Alabama Press

Happy Father’s Day From One Of The Preacher’s Kids

By Anita Garner

Daddy was Reverend Raymond D. Jones, aka Brother Ray: preacher, evangelist, high lonesome tenor-singing rhythm guitar player, pioneering pastor for his sect and Mother’s forever boyfriend.

Born in 1914, if he were here today he’d take a look at social media, say “Don’t that beat all!” and figure a way to work it into a sermon.

Photo above: 1955, First worship service inside the new church in Bogalusa, Louisiana

The church under construction

In Americus, Georgia early in his ministry, he was in charge of creating a congregation and building a church. During the war no new lumber was available, so the congregation bought an old hotel and demolished it, re-purposing the lumber for a new building.

That’s Daddy on the left, wearing his preacher clothes,
working with the crew.

And one of my favorites. Brother Ray in a Sunday morning suit.

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy, from one of the preacher’s kids.

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California Culture Shock, 1957 – Cotton To Cashmere

By Anita Garner

Modeling at Webb’s Department Store, Glendale CA 1957

My family arrived in Southern California from the Deep South in 1957, part of a migration of Southern gospel singers and musicians. We didn’t own much more than the contents of the trailer we pulled on Route 66 from Louisiana to my grandmother’s house in Glendale. I was a sophomore at Herbert Hoover High School, working after school and weekends at Webb’s, the major department store on Brand Boulevard.

On certain Saturdays, some of us walked through the store modeling different ensembles which we changed several times a day. We carried cards that described our outfits and answered questions about what we were wearing and where to find it in the store.

This sweater in the picture was my first encounter with cashmere. It was a lovely shade of chocolate brown and the skirt was authentic Pendleton in a cashmere and wool blend. In those days, a sweater like that required hand washing in Woolite and that skirt would go to a dry cleaner who charged by the pleat. Not exactly practical for high school, right? But many girls at Hoover wore outfits like that every day and they arrived in the student parking lot driving their own cars, many of them fancier than the vehicles owned by our teachers.

My other job at Webb’s, which I loved, was running the elevator. During my training I learned an elevator still has a lot of glide in it once you release the handle, especially when it’s carrying the maximum number of shoppers allowed, so bringing that machine to a stop exactly even with the floor every time became a point of pride.

I was paid $1.00 an hour and the guys in luggage (on the mezzanine) gave me coffee for free. In spite of being surrounded by elegantly dressed girls at high school, every time I got a paycheck, instead of saving for cashmere, I bought a record album.

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The Nesting Game

By Anita Garner

Staying inside for long periods of time isn’t unusual for some of us. We’re nesters. If a cozy spot isn’t available, we’ll make one.

Be still my heart.

I’m a magpie, gathering a few things that make me feel at home and a few other things that turn a nest into a work space when needed. Everywhere I visit, everywhere I’ve lived, it’s always one small spot that gets my attention. No matter how large the room is, I’ll end up using just one part.

The British have a nice word for these kinds of places. They call a small, peaceful space a “snug.”

There’ll be a place to set down a cup of coffee or a glass of iced tea, whichever screens I’m using, pad and pen, magazines, books, pillows, snacks, move a lamp closer, turn a comfy chair to face a favorite view. Window or not, there should be something peaceful to look at.

Drawn to rustic

Whether it’s an estate or a cottage or an old house for sale, visiting in person or online, I play the pick-a-room game. Which of these rooms will become a nest? I appreciate, admire, absorb and when I leave, one room always stays longest in memory. Online I check out country manors where we see lots of family libraries and before the tour moves on, I’ve chosen a place over by the window.

Okay this is Highclere Castle. Not your typical “snug.”
It’s Downton Abbey. I’ll take that chair way back there on the left.

I’m interested in people who fix up falling down buildings and reclaim barns and turn piles of wood into habitable homes. Right now I’m on Instagram helping a family choose paint colors for their summer cabin on a lake somewhere. I don’t know their names or where this lake is, (maybe I have been inside too long) but they ‘re talking about screening a small porch and that’s interesting. Lots of nesting opportunities on a screened in porch.

If I could create the perfect Instagram account or one perfect magazine for compulsive nesters like me, it would be called,

“Cottages & Cabins & Barns & Castles With Corners
& Nooks & Some Nice Flowers & Trees Nearby &
Once In A While Some Recipes.”

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