Charing Cross

As I've done in a couple of blog posts, I would like to share a short story I wrote a few years ago.  If you're an Anglophile, or if you like history and/or the paranormal, perhaps you'll enjoy Charing Cross.  Thanks for taking the time to read my work and, as always, copyright applies.  (©Veronica Randolph Batterson)

Charing Cross

By Veronica Randolph Batterson

The bookshop was isolated, its location hidden from the steady stream of traffic along Charing Cross Road.  That gave it an appealing quality, and each time I visited, I felt I’d found something in London no one else had discovered.

Entering the shop was similar to taking a step back in time; a dust coated interior, dim lighting and dated titles along the bookshelves greeted you.  As an American tourist, I found it a welcome alternative to the bookstore chains.  It was a pleasure to spend a few rainy hours discovering the hidden treasures in the little bookshop called Charing Cross.

It was one such overcast afternoon that I found myself perusing the shelves once again.  The storms had started and the steady sound of raindrops pelting the front window of the shop was soothing.  I made my way to the rear of the building and set the few books I was carrying on top of a table.  As I did so, I noticed a gentleman sitting nearby.  His posture was bent; he slumped forward and had white, unkempt hair.  He was dressed in a faded, military-like overcoat that obscured his build, yet he appeared small in stature.

The man was engrossed in a book, and as I turned away, he sighed heavily.  He seemed distraught at what he was reading and kept his face lowered over the pages.  Then small sobs shook his body.  Tentatively, I approached the man and asked if there was something I could do for him.  His cries ended then and he looked directly at me, yet I felt he didn’t see me.  His stare was sorrowful, but his gaze seemed to go through me.  Worried, I sought the bookshop owner.

“There is no one else in here besides you, love,” he said behind the counter at the front of the shop, making no move to assist me.  “I have been sitting here for quite some time, and you have been the only one to enter.”

The proprietor peered at me over the top of his small-framed spectacles, which rested on the bridge of his nose.  Turning back to the newspaper he was reading, he moved a magnifying glass slowly over the print and I wondered just how poor his eyesight was.   Perhaps the strange man had slipped in unnoticed.  Looking at the doorway, I glimpsed the small bell that jingled delicately announcing arrivals and departures.  I then doubted the shopkeeper would miss the man had he entered.

The shop owner probably viewed me as something of an oddity because I visited so regularly.  Most tourists were sightseeing the city’s well-known attractions, but I was continually drawn to the charm of Charing Cross.  Oddly, I had yet to make a purchase.  Attempting several times, it seemed that each book I tried to buy wasn’t for sale.  I began to wonder how the shop stayed in business.  Rarely did I see any customers.  Regardless of what the shopkeeper thought of me, I knew that there was a distraught man in the back of the bookshop and I was determined to help him.

Wondering how I might approach the gentleman, I made my way back to where he had been.  However, when I reached the table, the man was gone.  Searching every aisle, I found no trace of him.  Returning to the empty table, I noticed the book he had been reading.  It was old, as were all of the books in the shop, but the cover on it was worn and ragged from use.  It was difficult to make out the title.  It appeared open to the page the man had been reading and I wondered if it might give clues as to what had upset him.  It showed only a faded image of a child playing.  The caption underneath read:

“Horatia Nelson, daughter of Admiral Lord Nelson and Lady Emma Hamilton.  Lady Hamilton died penniless and Horatia never wished to acknowledge she was Lady Hamilton’s child.  She took great pride, however, in being the daughter of Britain’s greatest hero.”

There were other books on the table.  Each one of them had something to do with Horatio Nelson, his daughter Horatia, and Lady Emma Hamilton.  I sat down and began reading the pages.

“Admiral Lord Nelson was one of Britain’s most famous war heroes.  He died in 1805 at the Battle of Trafalgar against Napolean Bonaparte.  Lady Emma Hamilton, his mistress, gave birth to their daughter Horatia in 1801.  Admiral Lord Nelson, upon his death, provided for the future of Lady Hamilton and asked his constituents to look out for Horatia and Lady Hamilton’s affairs.  Possibly due to the fact that Nelson was married to someone else, as was Emma Hamilton, Nelson’s counterparts never acknowledged Horatia or her mother.  As a result of Lady Hamilton’s extravagant lifestyle, she died penniless and even spent time in debtors’ prison.  Horatia, it was said, never knew for certain if Lady Hamilton was her mother, as Lady Hamilton never acknowledged that fact to her child, preferring to allow her daughter to think she was adopted.  Once presented with the name of her mother, Horatia refused to believe it.  Lady Hamilton died in 1815 while her daughter lived a very long life until 1881.”

I immediately thought of Trafalgar Square and the column that stood proudly commemorating Admiral Lord Nelson.  Searching the bookshop once more, I still found no sign of the gentleman.  I then left the shop and made my way south along Charing Cross Road to Trafalgar Square.  As usual, the great square was filled with people and pigeons, while the massive bronze lions appeared to guard Nelson’s statue.  I had been there dozens of times, but something stirred me into visiting again.  It was unexplained and I couldn’t pinpoint why; perhaps it was for the same reason I was drawn to Charing Cross.  At any rate, I found myself searching the crowd.

A movement caught my eye and I saw it was the sorrowful man from the bookshop.  He was wandering through the crowd, weaving between people feeding the birds and children who were playing tag.  The man kept moving, apparently with no intended destination.  He looked to be very short and was oblivious to those around him.  The crowd appeared unaware of him as well.  It seemed that I was the only one who had taken notice of the stranger.  I followed him and when I was within just a few feet of the man, I attempted to say something.  However, a pigeon flew a bit too close to me, causing me to stumble and take my eyes from their target.  When I regained my balance, I had lost sight of him.  It seemed he’d just vanished before my eyes.

             I decided I’d endured enough adventure for the day, but the image of the man troubled me, and my thoughts wandered as I walked home.  The drizzling rain continued and I was thankful to finally open the door of the flat I was leasing.  The rhythmic ticking of the mantelpiece clock greeted me as I shrugged out of the rain slicker, dripping water in small puddles on the tile floor.

I relayed my experience to a British friend later and he joked that I had encountered the spirit of Lord Nelson.

“It must have troubled him greatly that his poor Emma and little daughter hadn’t been looked after as he’d wanted.  I guess when he read it in the books, it upset him,” Nigel grinned.  “You would’ve known if it were Lord Nelson.  His right arm was amputated due to a war injury.”

It must have been the look on my face that caused Nigel to sound alarmed.  I assured him I was fine, but the memory of the man troubled me even more.  I was convinced I had noticed his right sleeve was pinned to his shirt, although at the time I just assumed his arm was tucked inside his coat.  The thought made me determined to go back to the little bookshop on Charing Cross, although I knew it must be closed for the day.  Nigel decided to come with me.

“What’s the name of the shop?” he asked, as he struggled to keep up with my strides.

“Charing Cross,” I replied.

“Oh, that’s a well known place for rare books.  I’ve been there a few times myself,” he said.

Nigel took the lead, yet as we reached Charing Cross Road, he traveled in the opposite direction from where I knew the bookshop to be. As I tried to convince him of this, we reached the place he had indicated.  This particular establishment was indeed Charing Cross Bookshop, but it wasn’t the same bookstore I had frequented. 

“This isn’t the place.  The bookshop I went to was called Charing Cross.  This is Charing Cross Bookshop.  Obviously, there are two different shops,” I insisted.

I knew the store to be a little farther north, so we began walking.  The weather had cleared and it was no longer drizzling.  The sun was setting and the sky became a palette of color.  I suddenly recalled that each time I had visited the bookshop, it had been raining.  I’d never really noticed that before and absently mentioned it to Nigel.

We crossed the street and approached the storefront.  Although, when we reached where I was certain the bookshop to be, it wasn’t there.  Another store with an entirely different name graced that corner.  Confused, I turned about, checking the cross street, and each landmark, and I was certain that Charing Cross had been there just hours before.

“It’s not here,” I stammered.

“Maybe we’re in the wrong block.  It’s easy to get turned around,” Nigel said.

“It’s not in another block,” I cried.  “It was right here!”

We stood together silently, looking at the space where I knew with all my being Charing Cross had been.  Reluctantly, I allowed myself to be directed up and down both sides of Charing Cross Road and we never located the little bookshop I had so enjoyed.  Its address would’ve been exactly as I had said, so I knew it pointless to look elsewhere; however, I was in no mood to argue.

“You don’t suppose you encountered a time portal, do you?” Nigel asked.

I stared blankly at my friend.  His red sweater was unraveling at the bottom and a small hole was visible near the neck.  I made a mental note of a possible birthday gift for him and focused my attention on what he had just said.  Anything was possible, I reasoned, but a time portal was something that seemed far-fetched.  Yet how much more out of the ordinary was a time portal compared to a non-existent bookshop and the ghost of Britain’s greatest war hero?  Since it appeared my bookshop had disappeared into thin air, the explanation seemed plausible.

“But how do you explain the fact that every time I visited, except for this particular time, the shop had been here?” I asked.

“Think about when you came by.  Didn’t you mention you had never been here when it hadn’t been raining?  Maybe that has something to do with it,” he said.

“You mean the portal is open only when it’s raining?  And somehow I step through that time link and that’s when the bookshop appears?”  I asked skeptically.

Nigel nodded enthusiastically.  It might also explain why I’d never been able to buy any of the books in the store. However, I still wasn’t eager to completely embrace his line of thinking.  At least one question remained. 

“How would you explain the gentleman?  Not only did I see him in the bookshop, but he was also wandering around Trafalgar Square.  If he was part of a time portal, then how did I see him outside of it?” I asked.

“Joking aside, what if the man had been Nelson?  What if, by some strange fate, you came upon his apparition in that old bookshop, and for whatever reason, his spirit led you to Trafalgar Square?” Nigel asked.

“It makes no sense,” I replied.

“It makes perfect sense to me.  Try coming back when it’s raining and see if your old shop is here again,” my friend said.

                                                            ***

The weather was dreary and the sky looked as if it would drop buckets of rain at any moment.  The air was damp and cold and a light drizzle moistened my face as I made my way to Charing Cross Road.  Most people would wish for clearer skies, but I was so happy with the current conditions that it took great resolve not to skip the rest of the way.  Nigel was accompanying me and the look on his face mirrored my feelings.  He, too, would’ve been greatly disappointed if the sun had suddenly decided to peek through the clouds and make an appearance.

We were getting closer and my heart was pounding so loudly I could hear nothing else.  The rain was coming down heavily at that point and much of the pedestrian traffic hurriedly sought shelter.  We crossed the street and I was almost afraid to look.  I was soaked and shivering and I was suddenly aware of taking Nigel’s hand in mine.

As we stepped upon the sidewalk, I noticed a subtle change in my surroundings, something I had not recognized before.  The walk was cobblestone and the lanterns that framed the door of the shop hung unlit in the daylight.  I peered closely at the storefront façade and, just as my friend had said, there before us stood Charing Cross.

As we made our way inside, I wondered if I might encounter the distraught little man once again.  The thought of it being the ghost of Horatio Nelson was appealing.  Would I discover some reason I might have crossed paths with this wandering soul?

Suddenly I questioned what would happen if we remained inside the little bookshop when the rain ceased.  Would we find ourselves trapped in the past?  I looked out the front window as the rain continued to pour.  Perhaps it would let up soon, I thought. I made my way to the back of the shop in search of Admiral Lord Nelson, secretly hoping that on both accounts the results would prove favorable.

(©Veronica Randolph Batterson)

  

Fountaindale Public Library Author Fair

The Fountaindale Public Library will hold its annual Author Fair on Saturday, April 13, 2013 in Bolingbrook, Illinois.  I'll be attending with a host of other authors, representing many genres, from 11 a.m. until 4 p.m.  Stop by if you're in the area and say hello.  I will have copies of my books, Billy's First Dance and Funny Pages, for sale and will be happy to sign them, as well.  My latest novel has yet to be published, but I have information to share about it...it's coming soon.

The Fountaindale Public Library is located at 300 W. Briarcliff Road, Bolingbrook, IL  60440.

Thanks in advance and I'm looking forward to meeting some new folks.  As always, it's great to support your local library.
                                 

Where the Red Fern Grows

If I could recommend one children's book that all adults should read, it would be Wilson Rawls' Where the Red Fern Grows.  Set in the Ozarks, the wonderful story was introduced to me in elementary school by a teacher, Miss Wilder (I never knew her first name), and the personalities of Old Dan and Little Ann still warm my heart.

Originally published in 1961, the tale is one of simpler times but the life lessons are relevant today.  Or they should be.   Some people could learn a great deal from the fictional character, Billy Coleman.  At age ten, Billy teaches us that working hard and saving his money for something he wants, but doesn't need, is worth the wait.  When he finally makes his big purchase, the "package" he's been working nearly two years for makes its arrival in the form of a couple of squirming Redbone Coonhound dogs.

Calling the hounds Old Dan and Little Ann, Billy and his dogs become inseparable.  He cares for them and trains them, watching in wonder as the dogs' instincts prove them superior in doing what they were born to do...hunt.  This causes conflict with the competition.

While the story is heartwarming, the strength of character shown by such a young boy stays with the reader.  Loyalty, compassion, responsibility and love are reflected through Billy's actions with his dogs and family.  You root for Billy and his hounds. 

While I won't give away the ending, you will need that tissue box.  However, the author softens the tragedy by introducing us to the Native American legend of the sacred red fern.  It provides acceptance, closure and allows us and Billy to move on.

Where the Red Fern Grows is over two hundred pages in paperback.  Amazon indicates the book is for ages eight and up, but I might classify it as being for middle grade kids.  If you wish your younger child to read it, I would suggest parents read the story first for content, or better yet, read the story to your children.  I shared it with my daughters when they were younger.  If you don't have children, it's still a good story.  Good children's books aren't just for children.

By the way, a movie was made from the story many years ago.  My advice?  Skip it and pick up the book instead.  You will feel and see Billy and his dogs through Wilson Rawls' words.  Those visuals and emotions are lost in the movie's translation.

Well, It's Getting in My Eyes

Nineteen years ago, we made a move that would change my life, or at least my perspective of it.  A new job uprooted our family tree, transporting us from southeast Tennessee and planting us in the middle of Grosse Pointe, Michigan (just outside of Detroit).

It was January of 1994 and it was cold.  I remember being cold all of the time, in fact.  A foot or more of snow carpeted the ground and it didn't go anywhere.  This southern belle's experience with snow was limited.  If we got the white stuff in the south, there were never more than a few inches at a time, and it melted quickly.  Snowstorms back then, while debilitating (they shut down everything), were brief.

My less than subtle introduction to a true winter was miserable for me.  I always thought if I'd gradually been introduced to the effects of snow, then I would have felt differently at the time, perhaps learning to like it more quickly.  But I was plucked from a no-coat winter, and plopped into the "frozen tundra" within a forty-eight hour time frame.  It immediately became my life and there was no going back.

Most of the side effects were physical.  I shivered all of the time and my feet were constantly cold.  Often, after being outside, I would sit on the edge of the bathtub, soaking my feet in warm water to get relief from the numbness.  Slipping on an icy sidewalk didn't help things.  Hurting my back in the fall caused pain, limited my mobility and intensified the feelings that were festering inside me about northern winters.  I hated them.  Those emotions wrecked havoc on everything else.  Dread and gloom filled my head at the thought of ever having to step outdoors.  I wanted to hole up in my house and nest until spring.

Slowly, things began to change.  One of the best memories I have of living in that community during the winter months involved sound.  The fire department would hose down the local tennis courts, creating an ice rink for the residents to enjoy.  At night, it was easy to hear the clink of skates on ice as kids laughed and played hockey under the tennis court lights.  I thought it the neatest sound and it was completely foreign to me.  Ice skating and hockey weren't southern sports.

That sound and the sight of those kids generated something in me.  My eyes began to open.  Perhaps attending some Detroit Red Wings games helped.  It was during the Steve Yzerman era and I got caught up in the excitement and fun of just watching the games, even if I never understood the significance of the octopus toss.  And to embrace Detroit hockey meant welcoming snow and winter in its full glory.  I eventually did.

I learned what everyone else had to learn...how to dress for the weather and how to drive in it.  Life went on regardless of the temperature outside.  Now, I can say with all honesty, I love snow.  It's difficult to remember winters without it.  Seeing snow fall is one of nature's most beautiful offerings and winter holidays seem enhanced by it.

Looking back, I wasn't the only one in my family exasperated by snow.  My younger daughter, just about to turn three at the time, wasn't happy one day when walking through a parking lot to our car.  It had started to snow heavily and, out of sheer frustration, she cried, "What are these things?"  I replied to her that it was called snow.  Her response?  "Well, it's getting in my eyes!"

I found a little rhyming poem I wrote about that day.  I've never claimed to be a poet, so please don't be too harsh.  It's just a sentimental piece I'm sharing about the time and my child.  As always, copyright applies (©Veronica Randolph Batterson ).

Well, It’s Getting in My Eyes

By Veronica Randolph Batterson

A child of three moved far away

Where heavy coats and mittens were needed to play.

Outside it was blustery, cold and wet.

“Who played in weather like this?” her mommy would fret.

They came from a place that is warm and sunny,

Here all the children looked kind of funny.

They were bundled and covered, not a visible face

Resembling monsters, aliens and things from outer space.

They wobbled and hobbled, barely able to walk

No words were spoken, they were too cold to talk.

Shivering and covered head to toe

They played and made snow angels in the fresh snow.

So this young child while outdoors one day

Looked up at the falling snow to say,

“What are these things dropping from the skies?”

“It’s snow, honey,” her mommy said.

“Well, it’s getting in my eyes!”

©Veronica Randolph Batterson

A New Year and No More Reluctance

Yesterday marked my blog's first anniversary.  This is quite an accomplishment considering I never had any intention of starting one in the first place.  Blogs (one of the most unappealing words, I think) did not interest me and I didn't really feel I had anything of narrative substance to offer readers.  I also didn't think I could keep up with the world's multitude who feel they do have a lot to say.  But I took advice and reluctantly started one, never thinking I'd keep it updated.

I began 2012 as "The Reluctant Blogger" thinking I must be the only person keeping a blog who did so unwillingly.  Clever, even.  Boy, was I wrong.  There are a lot of reluctant bloggers out there lending a voice to everything under the sun...diets, recipes, special interests, writing, acting, music, non-profits and businesses.  And I realize that each one of them do have something to say, however reluctant they may be, to those who are willing to listen.  If readers found them, then certainly I must have a minuscule place in the blogger world, I rationalized.

So the year's posts consisted of an eclectic and varied bit of "accounting" on my life, ideas and thoughts, in general.  I strayed from living in a haunted house to what Peyton Manning meant to me.  I mulled over time spent in Rome, Italy and the need to save our wild Mustangs, to funny things my kids said and living through the death of a pet.  My former antiques' business was the subject of a post, along with some short stories I'd written and an endorsement for visiting Tuckahoe Plantation in Virginia.  Of course, I plugged my books whenever possible.  A diverse subject list filled 2012 for me.  This blog didn't have a theme and I'll probably keep it that way.

So gone is that "Reluctant Blogger".  I've removed the title and probably should've researched a bit before naming it a year ago.  At the very least, I would have found just how many of us "reluctants" are out there.  For lack of a better idea, I just replaced the old title with my name.  Simple and nothing spectacular, but it is mine.

I look forward to continuing this as best as I can in 2013.  My goal is at least one post a month, something I accomplished in 2012 until December rolled around, then the holidays got the better of me.  Plus, completing the first draft of my next novel was a goal attained in December.  I'm certain I see a post or two about that in the coming year.

So if I don't meet that monthly target, the world won't end and the sun will rise tomorrow.  This blog will still be here and I'll continue to post when I feel like it.  Happy new year, everyone.  Thanks for reading.
    

Just in Case Uncle Sam Should Take Me

One of the best things about finding an antique or vintage item is learning the history or story behind it.  As a former owner of an antiques' business, I found many relics of the past but the ones closest to my heart came with names, notes, dates and photographs.  Maybe my love of history compels me to feel this way, but it's pretty special when a unique piece brings historical events and people to life.

Certain items catch my eye over others, including particular types of vintage jewelry.  When I had my business, I would attend auctions and estate sales looking for good quality pieces to resell.  I came across one with a meaningful history that I couldn't part with:  a double-strand necklace of blue and pink translucent beads (moonstone in appearance) in beautiful, mint condition from the early 1940s.  In its original Carson Pirie Scott & Company Chicago box, it also came with something extra.  Inside the box was a note in an envelope with the name "Eleanor" written on the front.  The gift giver lovingly wrote:

 "Darling,  Just in case Uncle Sam should take me. This will be my substitute to hang around your neck.  Love, John." 

I learned the man's full name and that the gift was intended for his wife, prior to him leaving for service during World War II.  No one could tell me his fate, whether he returned to Eleanor or if she lost him during the war, but I guessed it might have been the latter.  I came to that conclusion because of the note, and the necklace appeared to have never been worn, but carefully stored away. A symbol of special memories preserved for later generations to enjoy.

I also love particular vintage jewelry designers and knowing their history makes finding one of their pieces special too.  Miriam Haskell created some of the most exquisite and feminine pieces of costume jewelry during her time.  She was born in 1899 in Indiana and opened her first boutique in New York in 1926, working with the likes of designers Coco Chanel and others.  Even though she has passed away, the company she founded still bears her name and each Haskell creation continues to be made by hand.  I came across a Miriam Haskell bracelet (pre-1950) at auction and was fortunate to walk away with the winning bid.  Deciding to keep it for myself, I wear it for special occasions, its taupe seed beads and flowers delicate and unique.  I'm always on the lookout for vintage Haskell jewelry, particularly necklaces and bracelets.

Furniture and vintage photos also catch my eye.  My home is an eclectic mix of antiques and new, with the older furniture blending well and being used as much as the newer pieces.  From a unique drum table to a vintage piano that contained original sheet music and photos from the 1940s in the piano bench, I recall how and where each one was purchased and the stories behind them.  My dining room furniture came from an antique store in Detroit.  I like to think of the previous owners and the families who enjoyed Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners around this same table, or the children who learned to play piano while sitting at the one I now own.  It's the same with the other antique furniture I own and the ones I come across in stores.  My imagination comes up with all kinds of stories.

A particular vintage photo lot I won at auction contained an interesting photograph.  It was an 8x10 photo of a mock wedding held, circa 1900, at Bellevue Place in Batavia, Illinois.  This was the same Bellevue that hosted Abraham Lincoln's wife, Mary Todd Lincoln, when she was committed there by her son in 1875.  Bellevue Place was a private sanitarium for women from 1867-1965. The photograph I acquired came with a description and names of those featured:  all females, the photo was taken at a shower of one of the attendees, while a mock wedding was held and most of the women in the photograph were employees of Bellevue (groom and groomsman were women dressed as men).  I've no idea if the "bride" and "groom" were employees or patients, but it is a very interesting and unique photo.  Bellevue has now been turned into condominiums and apartments.  I imagine its walls have a lot of stories to tell.

A little whimsy and nostalgia would keep me from parting with certain items too.  At one particular sale, I came across a 1960s blow mold Santa Claus intending to resell immediately.  Standing nearly four feet tall, something about its blue-eyed stare prevented me from sticking a price tag on it.  After my husband rewired it, Santa now graces our front porch every Christmas season.

My personal collection also includes vintage perfume bottles.  Whether deco, ormolu or lovely cut bottles and stoppers made in Czechoslovakia, I find these items beautifully designed and worth displaying.  Sometimes the faint scent of perfume still lingers leading me to wonder what that meant to the woman who wore it. 

Even though I made the decision to close my business, I still love going to antique stores and browsing the rows and shelves of collectibles and artifacts.  Part of the joy of the search is always wondering how these items fit into the lives of the people who once owned them.  John's love for Eleanor spoke from the wonderful necklace I now own.  To think that every item from our past had meaning to someone adds significance to preserving and learning about our history.
  

Wobblers Still Hurt if They Hit You in the Head

In January, this blog will have its first anniversary.  Started as one of my 2012 New Year's resolutions, I had no idea how I'd come up with material to sustain it.  Yes, I'm a writer but I would rather work on my latest book instead of posting here in order to keep things updated and fresh.  It was suggested to me that I should start a blog to get my work "out there" and to sell books.  So I did and the appropriately named "Reluctant Blogger" came to be.  Everything I've written has been varied based on my own interests.

Which brings me to the topic of my latest post....Peyton Manning.  I have been following the Denver Broncos quarterback since he played in college at the University of Tennessee.  I'm not "All Things Manning" or a stalker and I don't hang out waiting to catch a glimpse of him (well, I live in Chicago so the latter wouldn't even be a possibility).  But I appreciate the person Manning seems to be and the fact that he's a UT graduate probably magnifies the admiration.

A little history is in order to explain that even though I'm female, I get football.  I understand it.  Growing up in the heart of Southeastern Conference football, the college sport consumes the south on Saturdays in the fall.  Everyone I knew bled UT orange, but like all other SEC backers, we supported "our" team first, then the rest of the SEC second.

Back in my day (yes, that sounds old), satellite and cable television did not exist.  Three networks, ABC, NBC and CBS provided entertainment.  The only SEC team that occasionally had a game broadcast was the University of Alabama.  That was a sad fact for the rest of us.  But it was the Bear Bryant era and Alabama always won.  Looking back I wonder if anyone else in the country knew about those other Southeastern Conference teams then.

So the lack of television coverage meant all other SEC fans depended on radio broadcasts for game coverage.  The University of Tennessee's John Ward was the voice of the UT Volunteers and the link for people who couldn't view the games to visualize the action on the field.  His "It's Football Time in Tennessee!" announced to all of us that the one thing that drew people together in front of the radio was about to begin.  And it didn't matter where you went on a Saturday afternoon in the fall, the radio would be tuned in to the football game.  If you had to make a quick trip to the grocery store or gas station, the game would be blaring for all to hear.  And if you happened to miss any action, someone would happily give you a play-by-play.

When I attended the University of Tennessee as a freshman, UT played Alabama at home that year.  I remember having to camp out for student tickets to the game.  Of course, it was near the end of Bear Bryant's run, so if you wanted to go to the game, there were things one had to endure.  And camping out for student tickets was one of them.  Game day was miserable.  It poured rain and Tennessee lost.  But I was able to see the legend in person coaching the opposition.  Since being an SEC supporter, even though the Vols lost, that was meaningful.

Fast forward approximately a decade and a half.  I was living in Michigan and Peyton Manning was quarterback at UT.  There was no orange in the "Mitten State".  Loyalty was to the blue and gold with the University of Michigan's only competition for support coming via Michigan State.  Little attention was paid to teams outside of the Big Ten (similar to the way it was for us in the south).

But I remember sitting in a restaurant one Saturday night with ESPN (which was alive and kicking by that time) tuned to one of the television stations on the wall.  Peyton Manning's photo appeared and the announcer was relaying the statistics for the game that day.  Tennessee had won and Manning put up incredible numbers, indicative to what he'd accomplish in the NFL.

Sitting behind our table, another group was watching the television too.  "That guy's a beast," someone exclaimed when hearing Manning's stats.  And it startled me.  Not because I didn't believe it, but because a little bit of orange had reached past the SEC and impressed someone.

Shortly after that, I was walking my daughters to school one morning.  Then I saw an amazing thing.  A little boy, waiting to cross the street, proudly wore a ball cap and sweatshirt in big orange colors with "Tennessee" emblazoned across the chest.  Orange in the land of blue and gold.  Yes, the media got the word out, but I couldn't help but think Peyton Manning had something to do with it.

During Manning's rookie year with the Indianapolis Colts, my husband and I were able to go to the last game of the season.  They played the Carolina Panthers, a team Manning's current coach, John Fox, would eventually lead.  It was the only time I've been able to see the former UT quarterback play in person and even though the Colts lost that game, it was still special for me. 

This season found Manning's return to the NFL after missing a year due to injury.  The season also started with him on a new team.  Many wondered if he'd be the same great player we were used to seeing the last fourteen years, and it appears he hasn't missed a beat.  When too much seemed to be made by the Denver media about his passes being "wobblers" instead of spirals, the quarterback's wit spoke loud and clear.  He quipped at practice one day to the members of the press standing nearby to watch out, "...wobblers still hurt if they hit you in the head".  It's a pretty funny quote taken out of context.

I've never met Peyton Manning but I appreciate the fact that he's a college graduate, and that he went to the University of Tennessee.  Education is important to me.  His intelligence and respectful demeanor underline what he accomplishes on the field in my opinion.  Manning is the reason I became a fan of the Indianapolis Colts.  But now that's changed for me.  I've always liked the Denver Broncos but his addition to the team is why I now watch all of their games (even if we have to pay the outrageous price for DirecTV's NFL Sunday Ticket).

Wherever Manning plays, I'll probably follow.  I'm not sure what I'll do with my Sundays when he retires...probably support the nearest local team, I guess.  But I'll always appreciate the memory I have of the little boy in Michigan wearing Tennessee orange during Manning's UT run.  Whether Manning had anything to do with it or not, I like to think he did.