Last weekend evolved into a whirlwind of shows and shopping. A girls’ weekend—friends spending time together in Branson.
Visiting Branson and Silver Dollar City is a metamorphic experience for a native Missourian. Our little moth has changed into a glitzy butterfly, and the razzle-dazzle masks the charm of small town Branson. When I was a student at Hard Work U, Branson had a four way stop and two or three small country music theatres. Dick’s Five and Dime was there, but instead of being a tourist attraction, it was just a place where you could buy inexpensive items.
Silver Dollar City has changed from a small local attraction with a train ride, the Fire in the Hole and a few pickers and grinners to an extravaganza of professional shows, thrill rides, lights in every tree, bush, hollow, building, structure, and a five story Christmas tree—four million lights in all.
Branson is always bittersweet for me because Jim and I spent a lot of time there, especially when his dementia made our trips to Colorado much harder. Being a musician himself, Jim loved the music shows. His favorite performer was Tom Brumley and the highlight of each Branson trip. We had season passes to Silver Dollar City and enjoyed taking our grandson with us when he was little. I’ll never forget the weekend when he and Jim went into the restroom and I waited and worried about what was taking them so long. While I vigilantly guarded the door, they walked up behind me. They had exited on the other side of the building and my four-year-old grandson led his grandpa back to me.
I have more memories of Silver Dollar City and Branson than they have Christmas lights. This weekend, I added to those memories. The production of A Dickens’ Christmas Carol was performed by a talented troupe that would have done Broadway proud. As if that wasn’t enough, my friends and I experienced Cathy Rigby as Peter Pan. The show had so much magic that we all went home with pockets full of fairy dust and determination to never grow up.
Branson and Silver Dollar City have both become unrecognizable—different, but still hold the magic of a lifetime of memories. Where my dad used to fish is now a multi-million dollar shopping area known as The Landing. Streetscaping with gaslights, fountains, Christmas lights, old fashioned trolleys and street performers give it the look and feel of other upscale “old town” shopping centers scattered throughout the United States.
I’m sure a lot of tourists feel like they’ve taken a step back in time when they visit Branson. Sometimes I feel like I’ve leapt into the future and don’t really know this place at all. Branson is like a rock star with countless facelifts to deliberately remove the flaws and accidentally erase the character that made it unique.
The hills don’t look anything like they did forty years ago, but then neither do I. Everything changes. How we react to those changes determine whether we continue to enjoy life or groan about the “good ole days.” I don’t know about you, but I intend to find as much joy as I can while I pass through this world.
Branson is most definitely filled with entertainment choices and great places to eat. Even with my determination to be flexible, I’ll admit that slow moving traffic, elbow to elbow shopping, and trolling for a parking space is annoying. Spending time with friends and enjoying world class entertainment adds to my treasure trove of happy memories.
Showing posts with label Branson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Branson. Show all posts
Monday, November 23, 2009
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Teddy Bear Smiles and Not So Sweet Dreams
Like many other children, my granddaughter has a favorite stuffed animal she wants to hug while she sleeps. Her bedtime companion is Finney, a Build-a-Bear puppy born in Branson. From the time she warmed his “heart” in her hands, Finney has been her nighttime companion.
Last weekend at bedtime, her question was “Where’s Finney?”
Her mom, Stacey, told her, “He’s in the car with Daddy.”
“But Daddy is at the races!” my granddaughter said. “Finney is alone in the car. I feel so bad!” She buried her face in my lap.
We spent several minutes reassuring her that Finney would be OK. My granddaughter insisted, “He’s afraid of the dark!”
Stacey handed her a big Teddy bear. “You can sleep with this bear until Daddy gets home.”
“Why don’t you hug him?” I asked her. “He hardly ever gets hugs.” The snuggly brown bear had a big sewn-on smile and an orange ribbon around his neck.
My granddaughter hugged him tight. When she held him out to look at him, she said, “Oh, Grandma Linda, his smile is bigger now. Look! He’s so happy!”
I finished a few things before going into my bedroom. She was fast asleep on my bed with the bear hugged to her heart.
With such a pleasant evening, I expected a good night’s sleep. Instead, that was the first night of a week-long series of bad dreams. Night after night, I dreamed about packing for a trip. Nothing seemed to go right in the dreams: the van showed up to take me to the airport before I had my suitcases packed, I couldn’t find my passport, my purse was missing. The scenarios changed but the disturbing dreams continued all week.
Last night, I slept restfully without any bad dreams. I awakened to discover my arms wrapped around the Teddy bear—his nose to my nose. Daylight flowed through the windows, and I could easily see his smiling face.
Not quite ready to wake up, I closed my eyes for a few seconds and thought about the weekend ahead. Easter weekend will be a celebration of Easter egg hunts and services at the Mathewson Center. But the best part of the weekend is my sons and their families plan to join me for Easter services. With our hectic lives, it seems we are seldom together.
With my eyes still closed, I thought about other Easters—the time Jim and his brother-in-law, Dennis, caught a stringer of fish; hiding Easter eggs too well and helping the kids find them; huge family meals at my mother-in-law’s house, dressing the kids up in their Easter outfits, and a rush of other memories about Easters past.
I opened my eyes and smiled at the Teddy bear I still held in my arms. He smiled back, of course, with his sewn-on happy face. Maybe my granddaughter was right—his smile seemed a bit bigger than it had been. Well, at the thought of the weekend ahead, I know mine certainly was.
Last weekend at bedtime, her question was “Where’s Finney?”
Her mom, Stacey, told her, “He’s in the car with Daddy.”
“But Daddy is at the races!” my granddaughter said. “Finney is alone in the car. I feel so bad!” She buried her face in my lap.
We spent several minutes reassuring her that Finney would be OK. My granddaughter insisted, “He’s afraid of the dark!”
Stacey handed her a big Teddy bear. “You can sleep with this bear until Daddy gets home.”
“Why don’t you hug him?” I asked her. “He hardly ever gets hugs.” The snuggly brown bear had a big sewn-on smile and an orange ribbon around his neck.
My granddaughter hugged him tight. When she held him out to look at him, she said, “Oh, Grandma Linda, his smile is bigger now. Look! He’s so happy!”
I finished a few things before going into my bedroom. She was fast asleep on my bed with the bear hugged to her heart.
With such a pleasant evening, I expected a good night’s sleep. Instead, that was the first night of a week-long series of bad dreams. Night after night, I dreamed about packing for a trip. Nothing seemed to go right in the dreams: the van showed up to take me to the airport before I had my suitcases packed, I couldn’t find my passport, my purse was missing. The scenarios changed but the disturbing dreams continued all week.
Last night, I slept restfully without any bad dreams. I awakened to discover my arms wrapped around the Teddy bear—his nose to my nose. Daylight flowed through the windows, and I could easily see his smiling face.
Not quite ready to wake up, I closed my eyes for a few seconds and thought about the weekend ahead. Easter weekend will be a celebration of Easter egg hunts and services at the Mathewson Center. But the best part of the weekend is my sons and their families plan to join me for Easter services. With our hectic lives, it seems we are seldom together.
With my eyes still closed, I thought about other Easters—the time Jim and his brother-in-law, Dennis, caught a stringer of fish; hiding Easter eggs too well and helping the kids find them; huge family meals at my mother-in-law’s house, dressing the kids up in their Easter outfits, and a rush of other memories about Easters past.
I opened my eyes and smiled at the Teddy bear I still held in my arms. He smiled back, of course, with his sewn-on happy face. Maybe my granddaughter was right—his smile seemed a bit bigger than it had been. Well, at the thought of the weekend ahead, I know mine certainly was.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Remembering American Veterans: Some Gave All
Branson celebrates “Veterans Week” out of respect for those who served our country. For several years, Jim and I traveled to Branson for this annual event. Patriotic songs are performed by talented people dressed in glittering red, white, and blue costumes.
Our first stop in Branson was always the 76 Music Hall where we registered Jim for his ARMY, 169th Engineers, Vietnam nametag. Until we began to celebrate Veterans Week in Branson, Jim had not experienced the pride associated with fighting for his country. Jim and I both had tears in our eyes when a man saw Jim’s nametag and shook his hand. “I just want to say thank you, and welcome home.” Vietnam veterans returned home one at a time on commercial airlines—no parades, no thank you, no appreciation.
Vietnam irrevocably changed Jim. He felt more stigmatized than honored for most of the years following his tour of duty. Jim suffered from post traumatic syndrome before anyone knew what it was. He became withdrawn, suicidal, paranoid, and sank into a dark depression. Eventually, he received psychiatric treatment and with medication improved. Yet, throughout the remainder of his life, Vietnam was a burden on his soul.
At a Country Tonite show, one of the performers sang, “All Gave Some, and Some Gave All.” Most people probably think of the soldiers who died on the battlefield as the ones who “gave all.” Jim stood beside me in the darkened theatre, his solemn face changing colors because of the flashing stage lights. As I held his hand, my arm brushing against the denim of his Levi jacket, I knew in my heart that Jim was one who gave all.
Today, my sister-in-law and I visited the Veterans Cemetery in Higginsville to place red, white, and blue flowers in front of Jim’s niche in the columbarium. The cemetery, peaceful and quiet, beneath a cloudless blue sky, is in stark contrast to sweaty soldiers carrying M-16s through a Southeast Asian jungle.
How many will pause on November 11 to honor our veterans? Or has Veterans Day simply become another excuse for retail stores to have a sale? I know that in Branson, at least, veterans will be thanked, honored, and welcomed home with a parade that begins at the 11th hour, of the 11th day, of the 11th month.
As long as our country sends troops throughout the world to fight in wars, it is our obligation to provide support to veterans for as long as they need it. Outer wounds are visible, but scars on the heart may be the deepest. All gave some and some gave all to keep the stars and strips flying high and proud over this country.
Our first stop in Branson was always the 76 Music Hall where we registered Jim for his ARMY, 169th Engineers, Vietnam nametag. Until we began to celebrate Veterans Week in Branson, Jim had not experienced the pride associated with fighting for his country. Jim and I both had tears in our eyes when a man saw Jim’s nametag and shook his hand. “I just want to say thank you, and welcome home.” Vietnam veterans returned home one at a time on commercial airlines—no parades, no thank you, no appreciation.
Vietnam irrevocably changed Jim. He felt more stigmatized than honored for most of the years following his tour of duty. Jim suffered from post traumatic syndrome before anyone knew what it was. He became withdrawn, suicidal, paranoid, and sank into a dark depression. Eventually, he received psychiatric treatment and with medication improved. Yet, throughout the remainder of his life, Vietnam was a burden on his soul.
At a Country Tonite show, one of the performers sang, “All Gave Some, and Some Gave All.” Most people probably think of the soldiers who died on the battlefield as the ones who “gave all.” Jim stood beside me in the darkened theatre, his solemn face changing colors because of the flashing stage lights. As I held his hand, my arm brushing against the denim of his Levi jacket, I knew in my heart that Jim was one who gave all.
Today, my sister-in-law and I visited the Veterans Cemetery in Higginsville to place red, white, and blue flowers in front of Jim’s niche in the columbarium. The cemetery, peaceful and quiet, beneath a cloudless blue sky, is in stark contrast to sweaty soldiers carrying M-16s through a Southeast Asian jungle.
How many will pause on November 11 to honor our veterans? Or has Veterans Day simply become another excuse for retail stores to have a sale? I know that in Branson, at least, veterans will be thanked, honored, and welcomed home with a parade that begins at the 11th hour, of the 11th day, of the 11th month.
As long as our country sends troops throughout the world to fight in wars, it is our obligation to provide support to veterans for as long as they need it. Outer wounds are visible, but scars on the heart may be the deepest. All gave some and some gave all to keep the stars and strips flying high and proud over this country.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Expect Delays: No Center Stripe
Jim and I used to go to Branson several times a year. Now, I make the trip with friends, my mom, sister, or my grandchildren. Last weekend, I traveled with my grandchildren.
Along Highway 65 on our trip, we hit road construction. Warning signs were posted: Road Construction, One Lane Ahead, Expect Delays. A flagman held a STOP sign. We waited in a line of vehicles while north bound traffic traversed several miles of a single lane. While we waited our turn, a blue Chevy pickup behind me swerved into the other lane, the driver’s head bobbing like an out-of-control bobble head doll as she contemplated whether the STOP sign applied to her.
The north bound cars dwindled, and we proceeded on our way at a speedy 45 miles per hour. Past the one-lane road, the signs read No Center Stripe. This sign means so much more than it says. It’s obvious that the road has no center stripe. But too many drivers, like the lady in the Chevy truck, have no concept of why the sign is there. Suddenly, you don’t have the Missouri Department of Transportation tell you which areas are unsafe for passing. You actually have to use common sense.
Ms. Bobble Head continued to swerve around, debating on passing me so she could be stuck behind the semi in front of me. Fortunately for her, traffic was heavy enough that on-coming cars prevented her from risking her life, and ours, in a foolish attempt to pass where the road department will surely paint yellow lines.
Of course, the grandchildren and I were not happy about the delay on our trip to Branson and Silver Dollar City, but that’s summer in Missouri. Life is like a highway without a center stripe, and we can expect delays along our journey. Every day we make decisions that can affect the remainder of our lives, and those decisions often affect others. We just need to use common sense, and watch out for the bobble heads.
Along Highway 65 on our trip, we hit road construction. Warning signs were posted: Road Construction, One Lane Ahead, Expect Delays. A flagman held a STOP sign. We waited in a line of vehicles while north bound traffic traversed several miles of a single lane. While we waited our turn, a blue Chevy pickup behind me swerved into the other lane, the driver’s head bobbing like an out-of-control bobble head doll as she contemplated whether the STOP sign applied to her.
The north bound cars dwindled, and we proceeded on our way at a speedy 45 miles per hour. Past the one-lane road, the signs read No Center Stripe. This sign means so much more than it says. It’s obvious that the road has no center stripe. But too many drivers, like the lady in the Chevy truck, have no concept of why the sign is there. Suddenly, you don’t have the Missouri Department of Transportation tell you which areas are unsafe for passing. You actually have to use common sense.
Ms. Bobble Head continued to swerve around, debating on passing me so she could be stuck behind the semi in front of me. Fortunately for her, traffic was heavy enough that on-coming cars prevented her from risking her life, and ours, in a foolish attempt to pass where the road department will surely paint yellow lines.
Of course, the grandchildren and I were not happy about the delay on our trip to Branson and Silver Dollar City, but that’s summer in Missouri. Life is like a highway without a center stripe, and we can expect delays along our journey. Every day we make decisions that can affect the remainder of our lives, and those decisions often affect others. We just need to use common sense, and watch out for the bobble heads.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)