The Leisure to Become

For my friend, John Weaver

John Weaver recently published an essay entitled “My Reading Life” (International Review of Qualitative Research, 2025). What follows is neither a review nor a critique of his essay. Instead, it is a conversation with it–much like conversations we had at Bergamo while sitting around that old portable television with rabbit ears, usually about football. John’s essay has stayed with me because it gave me language for something I had been sensing for a long time without quite knowing how to name it.

John’s essay has a prophetic urgency I couldn’t help but detect as I read it. He laments a university that too often substitutes busyness for thought, productivity for intellectual life, and protocol for genuine reading. He writes as one who has devoted himself to what he calls a “monastic” life of reading. His essay is a call to wake from our sleepwalking.

My own reflections are quieter. They’re less about rescuing the university than about discovering that aging has invited me into a different relationship with work itself.

One passage stopped me in my tracks. John quotes Edmund White, who writes that if a writer can “shore up an eroding coastline for a decade or two,” that may be the closest thing to immortality any of us can hope for. When I first read those words, they unsettled me, and I told him so in an email I quickly composed to him.

Like many academics, I had spent years asking myself what I was contributing. Was I writing enough? Reading enough? Staying current enough? Was I still part of the conversation? My last (only, if you don’t count the collected edition, which I don’t really) book appeared in 2007. It has had a good life, especially among those interested in Southern place and curriculum studies, but books age, just as we do. I would be disingenuous if I said I hadn’t wondered when the invitations would stop coming—when I would be left out of the panel on place, when my book would be cited for the last time.

I don’t think those questions were really about scholarship. They were about belonging.

For much of my career, I mistook achievement for identity. Promotion. Conferences. Networking. The next project. The next publication. I don’t say that critically. It’s simply a big part of the culture of the academy. Looking back, I realize that I didn’t have the leisure to ask different questions.

That’s the surprising thing about leisure. I don’t mean retirement. I don’t mean afternoons spent napping or scrolling endlessly through social media. I mean having enough interior space to write because I want to write. To read because I’m curious. To pick up a French horn after years away. To join the church choir and somehow end up in the handbell choir. To ride an e-trike through my neighborhood. To linger over a meal in sobremesa—the beautiful Puerto Rican tradition I learned from Sarah’s family, where the best part of dinner isn’t the food but the unhurried conversation after the plates have been cleared (although the food is most often spectacular). To notice the cicadas beginning their evening chorus from the front porch, celebrating their return after seventeen years underground. Maybe that’s why their song sounded different to me this year.

In other words, the leisure to become.

I had sworn off almost all scholarly writing. Last year I told myself that blogging would be enough. After Bergamo, I was ready to take my ball and go home. I was disappointed in my own paper and convinced that perhaps my time had simply passed. I even considered withdrawing from two invited book chapters because I couldn’t imagine fitting them into my life. Then something unexpected happened.

During a AAACS panel on Laura Jewett’s Tasting Education, people wanted to continue talking—not about curriculum in the abstract, but about aging, taste, memory, and becoming. A friend encouraged me to develop those ideas into something larger. Around the same time, colleagues invited me to be on a panel and to work up a book proposal. Looking back, they weren’t invitations to do more. They were the road home.

That’s the difference.

Years ago, writing often felt like the proverbial monkey on my back. It lived there through tenure, promotion, administration, annual reviews, and deadlines. Every November, for reasons I still can’t quite explain, I would feel what I can only describe as the academic equivalent of Sunday afternoon dread. One November, sitting in my parents’ home, I finally said aloud, “I hate this job because of the pressure.” Looking back, I realize the pressure wasn’t coming from the university or from pending deadlines.It was coming from me.

Life had happened too. Administration occupied nearly a decade. Relationships demanded my attention. People I loved needed me. My own life was asking questions that no conference paper could answer. None of those were interruptions to my scholarly life. They were my scholarly life. Today the work itself hasn’t become lighter. I’ve become lighter in the way I carry it.

I still have two book chapters due. I’m sketching conference proposals and even thinking about another book. The remarkable thing isn’t that I’m doing those things. It’s that I want to. The monkey is gone. In its place is something that feels like an old quilt—familiar, comforting, waiting patiently until I pick it up again.

As I’ve watched mentors and friends retire—giants in curriculum studies whose work shaped generations of scholars—I have also watched some of them wrestle with questions of legacy. That has made me unexpectedly sad. I don’t think they were chasing fame. I think, like many of us, they were asking whether they had been enough. In case they need to hear it, they have been.

John’s image of shoring up an eroding coastline has stayed with me because I have begun to read it differently. Perhaps the coastline isn’t our reputation. Perhaps it is our humanity. Perhaps the work was never meant to keep the sea from coming in forever. Perhaps it was simply meant to help us tend faithfully to the small stretch of shoreline entrusted to us in our little corner of Canaan. If that is true, then the question is no longer whether I will be remembered, whether I will or won’t–should or shouldn’t–write.

I’m content to let those questions rest for awhile. What I know is that for the first time in a very long time, I think I finally have the leisure to find out.

Weaver, J. A. (2025). My reading life. International Review of Qualitative Research. https://doi.org/10.1177/19408447251319426

Formed by Certainty, Learning to Wait: An Advent I Didn’t Grow Up With

The Church Without a Christmas Tree

I grew up in the Church of Christ, a tradition shaped as much by its doctrine as by its careful adherence to what we understood as the inspired Word of Truth—New Testament scripture. Christmas—Christ Mass, after all—carried with it echoes of liturgy, ritual, and ecclesial authority that did more than make us uneasy; they were not supported by scripture. It felt too “Catholic.” Nativity scenes, Christmas trees in the sanctuary, pageants, and concerts all felt suspect, as if they edged too close to something we had worked hard to distinguish ourselves from.

Our doctrine emphasized Jesus’s death, resurrection, and promised second coming—the salvation story in its fullest and, to us, most biblically faithful form. That was where the weight belonged. Christmas, when it appeared at all in worship service, seemed secondary. There might be a sermon in December, but it was usually framed as a reminder not to let sentiment distract us from the real celebration: the cross, the empty tomb, and the anticipation of Christ’s return.

Beginning sometime in the 1980s, our monthly church fellowship included a “greedy Santa” party in the fellowship hall—an accommodation that felt almost humorous in its contradiction. At home, though, the birth of Christ was acknowledged and celebrated in quieter, more personal ways. Christmas existed, but it lived more in our houses than in our sanctuaries.

Wonder, Anyway

Even so, Christmas always carried a sense of wonder.

In my family, it was joyful and wonder-full. We celebrated the birth of Christ. We sang the songs, set out nativity scenes, and watched cartoons that made room for the baby Jesus alongside Rudolph and Frosty. I developed a passion for Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes that continues to this day. But Christmas was never treated as a central moment of worship. It was present and honored, but it did not occupy the same place in our worship as the cross and the resurrection.

Instead, Christmas lived easily among us. It shared space with Santa Claus and stockings, with family meals and laughter, with the ordinary magic of being together. Faith was there, woven into the fabric of the season rather than standing apart from it or asking to be the center of attention.

We sang Away in a Manger and Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas with equal sincerity.

Some of my strongest Christmas memories are of going to town with my mother—just the two of us—walking down Main Street in Russellville, Alabama. We stopped at Elmore’s and White’s, always went to the bank, and did a bit of Christmas shopping. We also made our rounds to TG&Y and Bargain Town U.S.A. Going to town with Mother is one of the memories that has never faded. She loves Christmas. I suspect that is where I get it.

Perhaps the magic was not Christmas itself, but Mother making it all come together. Daddy—God bless him—was assembling bicycles late into the night, helping Santa Claus eat the cookies and drink the milk when no one was awake, and getting up early to turn on the heater before us kids stirred.

So Christmas has always carried for me the emotions and images of Advent: love, peace, and joy. Yet as I’ve grown older—and as I’ve celebrated Advent more intentionally in churches I joined later—I’ve come to realize something important was missing from my early experience, at least as I have come to understand it now.

Hope.

That missing note, I’ve learned, is at the very heart of Advent: not the anticipation of Christ’s return, but the radical, trembling hope of waiting for Him to come the first time.

Before I go any further, I want to be careful about how this contrast is read. I don’t mean to disparage the Church of Christ or its seriousness about salvation and the life to come. The emphasis on the afterlife was never meant to diminish this one; it was meant to anchor it. There is something steady, even bracing, about a faith formed around the cross and the resurrection, around the somber knowledge of what comes on Friday during Holy Week and the refusal to look away. That certainty shapes the tone. It is sober, resolved, and grounded in knowing how the story ends.

Advent, I am learning, asks for something different. It invites a looking forward that is almost visceral, a waiting marked by anticipation rather than knowledge. During Advent, we do not yet know what is coming, even though we think we do. Christmas and Easter are both joyous occasions, yes, but they are not the same kind of joy. Easter joy comes after suffering we already understand. Advent joy comes before anything has happened at all. It is hope without proof, expectation without resolution.

Perhaps that is why Advent feels so unfamiliar to me. I was formed in a tradition that lingered near the end of the story. Advent asks me to return to the beginning, to wait not with certainty, but with hope.

That difference between certainty and waiting is something I didn’t fully understand until I found myself, almost by accident, living Advent rather than merely knowing about it.

Learning Advent by Living It

Just recently, we joined a church that could not be more different from the one I grew up in.

Trinity United Methodist Church sits at the end of our driveway—practically in our neighborhood—and has been there for over a hundred years. We watched carefully last year as the United Methodist Church faced its painful and very public division. We waited to see whether Trinity would stay or go. They stayed. So we went.

Well—I went first.

Returning to church was part of my larger journey back to music. I wanted to sing again. I wanted a choir. So I showed up, and they welcomed me. Then Sarah came. I can say, without exaggeration, that I have never felt so genuinely welcomed in any congregation.

Of course, in a liturgical church, if you arrive in the fall, you don’t ease into Christmas—you begin preparing for Advent.

Trinity has all of it: the church calendar, the seasons, the art, the rhythm of the year itself. And it has a gifted music director, Ben Chumley. Music is not ornamental there; it is formative. Part of Trinity’s long tradition includes a concert series—bell ringers, piano recitals—and on the Sunday before Christmas, a full choir cantata, offered as a concert for the community.

I had never sung in an hour-long Christmas cantata before. It is exhausting—poignant and fulfilling, but exhausting.

At the same time, the sermon series centered on the coming of the Christ Child, and Sunday school was immersed in a deep study of Advent, framed by John Wesley’s theology. I knew what Advent was, of course, at least in name. I associated it with calendars and chocolate, with Advent functioning more as a reference point for Christmas than as a practice, something observed from the outside rather than lived. What I had not understood was Advent as a way of inhabiting time itself, a season that asks something of you slowly, deliberately, and in community.

Then one Sunday after service, Ben approached us and said, “I’m planning the lighting of the Advent candles this year, and I want to represent all kinds of families. I wondered if you and Sarah would like to light the first candle.”

So there we were—new members, still learning our way around the sanctuary—and suddenly we were the first family of Advent.

Our candle was peace.

You had better believe Trinity has a children’s Christmas pageant. There were painted backdrops of Bethlehem, shepherds with headgear slightly askew, stars projected onto the ceiling. Children of all ages belted out The First Noel at the top of their lungs. Candles glowed in the windows. The chancel was full.

From the choir loft, I expected—modern church attendance being what it is—that maybe two-thirds of the usual congregation would show up.

Instead, the church was full. This wasn’t novelty. This was a neighborhood showing up for something it clearly understood as theirs.

What struck me most, though, was how hope was being practiced, not merely preached. Alongside the music and liturgy, the church’s auditorium filled with donations for local children—gifts, necessities, abundance. Hope, in this space, was not about someday escaping the world. It was about showing up for it.

That was new for me.

Hope, in my religious formation, was almost always about heaven—and, implicitly, about avoiding hell. I didn’t have language yet for hope as active, communal, and embodied. Wesleyan theology was quietly teaching me something different: hope as something you do.

I should add that this wasn’t ignorance on my part. I had studied the church calendar before and even took a full course on it in seminary at McAfee. Sarah, who grew up in England, seems to have absorbed it almost by osmosis sometime in childhood. But knowing about liturgy and living inside it are not the same thing. What was happening at Trinity was not instruction; it was formation.

I haven’t left fundamentalism. I don’t think that’s possible, any more than it could ever leave me. It formed me. What I am learning now is not replacement, but expansion. This way of waiting, this attention to beginnings rather than endings, is becoming part of my formation too.

On the night of our final choir rehearsal before the cantata, I walked home through the neighborhood in silence. The street was lit only by Christmas lights and the moon, their glow softened by fog hanging in the air. We don’t get much snow here, but the light did the same work. Everything was hushed. All was calm. All was quiet.

I felt joy. Not only for the coming of the Christ Child, but for the possibility that the world could feel like this more often. That peace might be practiced, not just promised. And that, somehow, I could be part of it.

Embracing Life Before Retirement: A Personal Journey

When I told Sarah I was thinking of titling this post Embracing Life Before Retirement, I could practically hear the pearl-clutching. Let me say right here at the start: I’m not counting down the days to stop working. I’m not slacking off. I don’t have too much time on my hands. In fact, I’m working hard — joyfully so. This isn’t about stepping back; it’s about growing into myself. At my age, the question of who am I becoming? carries a certain urgency.

Sarah, who can always “find me something to do,” sent me a link to the Spartanburg Community Band. I dusted off my French horn, loaded it into the Mini, and showed up. I played as softly as I could, listening to my neighbor for the pitch while I re-learned fingerings and remembered how to breathe as I buzzed the mouthpiece. Not long after, I joined the choir at the neighborhood Trinity United Methodist Church. Which, of course, meant I was also drafted into the handbell choir. (It’s funny how the choir members who double as bell-ringers, plus the music director, all grinned and said, “Well, handbells on Monday, choir on Wednesday!”) So, I guess I’m in handbells now too.

And then came the start of the new semester. I walked into the cafeteria for the back-to-school breakfast the university provides. I sat with colleagues, caught up on life, and we laughed together as we talked about classes we’re teaching. There was such positive energy around our table! Later, I listened to our chancellor give the State of the University address — which, by the way, is good. Then the deans introduced new faculty.

I took a moment to reflect on the dean who had taken my place. She is kind and thoughtful, already working to build community in our college. I felt warmth and satisfaction, a kind of peace. Like sitting on the porch listening to cicadas at dusk, when the heat of the day has finally lifted. She has a quiet confidence, the kind that signals she knows what she’s doing. That she’s got this. The kind of confidence I now have too — as faculty.

As if the universe were reaffirming that I am in the right role — that I am where I’m supposed to be — two invitations arrived that same day. One colleague invited me to do a book talk with their curriculum theory class, reconnecting me with scholarship and teaching I had missed during my years in administration. Another asked me to consider contributing a chapter to an upcoming Handbook of Ignorance Studies in Education. Now, I know that ignorance studies is a highly serious matter, but me being me, I can’t help chuckling at the title. It feels like the perfect opportunity to bring a little folksy charm and sense of irony to the subject. Both invitations humbled and inspired me. Coming just one day before the semester began, they reinforced my professional identity as teacher, scholar, and service colleague (and yes, committee assignments also arrived that day).

So what do I mean when I say embracing life before retirement? When I imagine retirement, I hear the people who, whenever asked “How’s retirement?” say, “I don’t know how I ever got everything done when I worked. There just aren’t enough hours in the day!” Almost everybody says that when asked. Retirement, for many, is a season of busy leisure, where the biggest problem is deciding what leisure looks like. If you want to take a nap, you can take a nap. If you want to read, you can read. Because nothing is pressing you to be somewhere else.

And yet, I’m tasting a version of that right now — a freedom to choose what matters most, even while working. Music. Teaching. Writing. E-triking. Monthly Breakfast Club with Sarah and a couple of colleague friends. Nourishment for mind, body, and spirit. Life still has its hiccups and valleys — I’m not pretending otherwise. I know they are sometimes filled with loss and grief, unfulfilled dreams, guilt, and yes, fear. And when those valleys come, I still get low and afraid, just as I always have. Sarah is right: I need ways to pull myself out of them. And honestly? An e-trike ride with my French horn slung over my shoulder feels just about right.

Even when I was younger, I used to (half) joke: I’ll never be able to retire — they’ll have to roll me out of school in my coffin. Now that I’m within six to eight years of retirement, that gnawing fear still tugs at me. I’m close. A decade ago, when I entered administration, I even set a countdown timer app on my phone. That should have been the clue right there that I wasn’t where I needed to be. I don’t look at that timer anymore.

The difference now is that I think about the last days, and the blessings God has knocked me over the head with. Yes, there will still be valleys — loss and grief, unfulfilled dreams, guilt, and fear. But alongside them, there is also laughter, music, students, writing, dogs, cats, and Sarah. And I realize that if this is my life for another decade while I work — teaching, music, writing, laughter, valleys and all — not only will I “make it” to retirement, I can embrace the mindset now.

Almost like retirement. But better.

Image of Ugena Whitlock and bulldog. — Who is that old person being lovingly gazed at by Bruno the bulldog?

My New Journal Article IS Published!

I’m honored to share that my new article, A Field in Flux: Notes from an Administrative Escapee, has been published in the Journal of the American Association for the Advancement of Curriculum Studies (JAAACS). While its title suggests a personal confessional, the piece ultimately offers a broader reflection on the evolving and embattled state of Curriculum Studies/Theory—shaped as much by political and ideological pressures as by institutional shifts in teacher education. Drawing on recent scholarship and personal experience, I explore what it means to “come back to theory” in a moment when the field itself feels fragmented yet urgently needed.

You can read the full article here: A Field in Flux: Notes from an Administrative Escapee – JAAACS, 2025.

FieldInFlux_JAAACS_2025 Download

So This Is 61: Notes on Aging From the Inside Out

Image of snowy tree, Littleville, Alabama.

So This Is 61: Notes on Aging From the Inside Out

I didn’t expect to notice it all at once. Nobody tells you that one day, getting out of a chair will require a full mental and physical commitment. Or that you’ll avoid driving at night because headlights are now earthly starbursts. Or that the first time you wake up with a stiff neck, you’ll briefly wonder if you also have a brain tumor, because the sharp pain shoots all the way up into your temple. Of course, it’s just how you slept, but the thought still crosses your mind. My neck now cracks so hard I sometimes wonder if others can hear it. This is all new.

These are notes from those realizations—honest reflections of what 61 feels like, from the outside in and the inside out.

Oh. And who IS that old woman staring back at me in the mirror?

Aging is full of these little surprises—some unsettling, some mildly amusing, and some that require a good stretch, a heating pad, and a moment of reflection. I am learning, slowly, to embrace it all. I’m slowing down, but not shutting down. Sixty is NOT the new 90, as Sarah likes to suggest to me. If anything, I’m rediscovering the joys of having time to potz around the house, sort through old pictures, take the dogs for walks, and drive my Miata around Spartanburg like it’s my own personal victory lap.

I have less—less urgency, less need to accumulate things—but I also have more. More awareness, more gratitude, more quiet moments of contentment. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still upgrade to the latest iPhone every couple of years and buy accessories for the Miata and Mini Clubman, but there’s nothing I can think of that I truly need. That’s an unsettling realization, not because it signals loss, but because it signals a kind of peace. I’ve been asked whether this feeling means I’m depressed. I don’t think so. If anything, it feels like clarity, like a settling in—like I’m moving toward a place where I don’t have to chase after the next thing. I haven’t arrived there yet, but I can tell a difference.

Image of people singing in church, Littleville, Alabama. — Blurry picture I snuck while Daddy is leading a song at church on Singing Night.

Aging isn’t just about collecting years; it’s about collecting perspective. There is wisdom in learning what to hold onto and what to let go of and in understanding that urgency is often self-imposed. It is true that contentment is “not about having what you want but wanting what you have”–that is, it’s in perspective. I remember when I was about 9 years old, I stood by eavesdropping, as children do, when Mother and Daddy were visiting with the preacher after Sunday night church. I don’t know how the conversation turned toward me–probably because I tried to join in the adult’s conversation. But I still recall Daddy telling the preacher, “Ugena can’t be content.” Even then, I wanted the next thing, to go to the next place–I just plain wanted. I realize now it’s a quality that must be cultivated. I am working on it.

I’ve learned that not every battle is worth fighting–not every hill is one to die on. Very few are. And against a life of doing otherwise, I’ve come to understand that silence can be more powerful than a quick, clever retort (which, I admit, is a talent of mine). Although Sarah probably say it’s taking too long, I’m also learning to take myself less seriously–to laugh at myself when I can.

And yet, aging isn’t just about accumulating (waiting patiently for?) wisdom—it’s also about watching my body become a stranger to me. The aches, the slower reflexes, the shifting body shape that seems to have a mind of its own. And let’s not even talk about hair loss and the horrifying reality of what gravity does to internal organs. I wonder if everybody, like me, sees someone and thinks “old person,” only to discover that she or he is younger than I am. I die a little on the inside when that happens, and it does regularly.

I’ve inherited certain characteristics from my father—beyond just looking more and more like a little old man every day. If I’m not careful, I can be short-tempered and convinced my way is obviously best. I don’t always filter my thoughts the way I should—not snapping, exactly, but sometimes speaking too bluntly, unaware in the moment of how my words might land. And yet, also like him, I’ve also mellowed. I am more nostalgic, more sentimental, more conscious of time slipping through my fingers like sand. I find joy in familiar places, in the sound of a bird’s song. I think I am figuring out the face in the mirror. It’s starting to look like me. The trick is learning to love the aging face.

When I married at 18, I could imagine “50 years from now.” Now, I understand, in a way I didn’t before, that the time ahead is finite. There’s an end of the road. My parents, whose mortality would have been unimaginable to me 20 years ago, are fading—fragile, frail. My father still has a prolific memory of a shirt he was wearing when he was talking to a particular person at a specific place in 1957 while a specific song played on the radio, but he struggles to remember which channel is which on the TV. My mother, who was heavy-set all my life, is growing thin. It’s probably healthier, but it’s startling to me. Even the house, now 50 years old, is a little less kempt, as houses tend to become when the priority is simply to live in them rather than maintain them. These things are bittersweet to see.

There’s a void where the future used to be. I can’t plan for 50 years down the road anymore. Twenty years, maybe. Ten, certainly (no, not certainly, more…hope-fully). But the open-ended future that once stretched ahead indefinitely has become something else entirely. Maybe the saddest thought—and why do I allow my ruminations to go here—is that one day, not too far into the future, the last people on earth who call me by the nickname that Daddy pronounced upon me when I was born, will be gone. He and Mother call me Miss Bean. I’ll never hear it spoken naturally to me again. This is, by the way, a very Daddy way of thinking, and I have to stop it. It’s dangerous, depressing, and yet, sometimes, it sneaks in anyway.

Image of old folks in winter, Littleville, Alabama. — The Whitlocks outside the house to show the snow. Not used with permission, but I’ll take my chances.

And yet, there is joy to be found in all of this. There is humor. There is, finally and blessedly, contentment. There is the deep love I have for my family–and a conviction to see every minute they are in the world as a gift. Time doesn’t march on–that heifer tears out like her tail is on fire. Aging isn’t a slow march toward irrelevance—it’s a shift in focus, a new way of seeing. I am still learning, still growing, still moving—albeit with a few more creaks and groans along the way. And in the meantime, I’ll keep driving my Miata and cracking my neck like like a walnut. I’ll keep striving toward the Big Three attributes of sanity: gratitude, contentment, and humor as I remind myself that I’m still here. And I’m still going.

Remembering the Teachers Who Inspired Me, Part 2

What I Learned From My Teachers

From Part 1: There’s a lot we carry from our school days—the lessons that stick, the ones that shape us in ways we only realize years later. I’ve been thinking about the teachers who left a deep impression on me, and how those early experiences continue to resonate as a quiet, steady presence in my life and work today. This piece (Parts 1 & 2) is dedicated to the teachers who shaped me, and I want to honor them by name.

Classrooms in Littleville Elementary & Junior High School — Classrooms in front of Littleville School shortly after its closure

Part 2: Miss Thorne, 7th Grade Math: A Lesson in Apology
Miss Janice Thorne, who became Mrs. Berry during our 7th-grade year, is the only teacher I ever apologized to as an adult. My behavior in her class was atrocious. I vividly remember entertaining my classmates by hiding in the classroom while she searched the campus for me—the day the principal, Mr. Morgan, called my dad. Not my mom. Dad. I don’t remember acting out much after that. Like Mrs. Wells, Miss Thorne had the unfortunate task of competing with Miss Renwick for my attention, but unlike Mrs. Wells, she wasn’t a natural commander. I’m really sorry, Miss Thorne.

Miss Thorne also had the misfortune of being assigned to teach us P.E., which required her to wear gym shorts, crew socks, and SeaVees gym shoes. For some reason, this embarrassed me, though I couldn’t have explained why. She was also a member of a neighboring congregation, so I saw her off and on through the years. That made my apology all the more meaningful when I finally had the courage to offer it.

Probably unsurprisingly, Janice left teaching the year after I had her as a teacher. I have reflected on whether my behavior might have contributed to her decision, and my small consolation is that she likely made a good deal of money by going to work for TVA. Miss Thorne—Mrs. Berry—died in 2023, and I am so glad I had the chance to show her respect as an adult.

Mr. Morgan, Principal and 7th Grade Social Studies: The Importance of Being Remembered
Mr. Morgan was the principal of Littleville School and also taught us 7th grade social studies. He was tall, having played basketball in his younger years, and he coached our teams with the same towering presence. His other claim to fame was that he had fought in the Korean War alongside Dan Blocker, who played Hoss in the very popular Bonanza TV show. I was glad to learn that Mr. Blocker was a nice person. Mr. Morgan regaled us with stories like these during social studies—and come to think of it, the Korean War was part of the curriculum. Mr. Morgan had the longest face I’d ever seen–one can’t help but recall Lurch from The Addams Family–and he spoke with a distinct impediment. We students discussed it and surmised that his tongue was attached to the bottom of his mouth—at least, that’s what it sounded like when he talked. But we quickly learned to understand him, and his speech became just another part of who he was.

Littleville School Gymnasium — Run-down gym of Littleville School, a shell of its former self.

Every year I attended Littleville, I earned a paddling from Mr. Morgan. Unlike Mrs. Fowler’s little red-painted ping pong paddle that intimidated second graders, Mr. Morgan’s paddle was a serious piece of wood—it must have been two feet long and was covered in signatures from its many recipients over the years.

In the early 1990s, Littleville School was closed due to low enrollment. The town had suffered during the recessions of the 1970s, and eventually, the numbers just weren’t there to keep the school open. Before the doors closed for the last time, a “homecoming” was held for everyone who had ever attended. That included my parents, my brother, neighbors—even my grandparents. I was a grown young woman by then. My parents were reminiscing with Mr. Morgan, who chose to retire rather than move to another school. He looked at me and said, “I remember when I gave you a paddling one time, Ugena. I had to hold back a laugh when you looked up at me and said, ‘Mr. Morgan, this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.'”

Littleville School "Hornets" Basketball Team, 1974. Center: Mr. Theron Morgan. — Littleville School “Hornets” Basketball Team, 1974. Center: Mr. Theron Morgan.

A 20-year career, and he remembered a joke from a 10-year-old girl. Because I was funny and smart. I had been memorable. That, I think, is my main lesson—that these people thought enough of me to remember me.

Mrs. Mansell, 9th Grade Algebra: Making Math Make Sense
In 8th grade, I transferred from Littleville to Russellville to join the RHS Marching 100 Band. My parents really sacrificed to make this happen, commuting me to school a half-hour away instead of the five-minute trip to Littleville. Almost every teacher I’ve mentioned so far had told my parents that I needed enrichment to keep me busy—that my acting out was because I was smart. That made an impact, so I went to Russellville instead of following my Littleville classmates to the county school. I have often wondered how different my life would have been if I had taken the natural path instead of forging the one I did. Two roads diverged…

The RHS Torch and Tradition, a legacy of E.L. "Prof" Williams — The RHS Torch and Tradition, a legacy of E.L. “Prof” Williams

At Russellville, Mrs. Mansell stood out. She had real presence. She taught 9th grade Algebra and made math understandable in a way it hadn’t been since Mrs. Wells. Her father, E.L. “Prof” Williams, had been principal at Russellville High from 1937 to 1957, and my dad even remembered “Mickey” Mansell helping him register as a new student his ninth grade year. She connected with us, made herself available, and showed patience beyond measure. I remember being at a slumber party before exams, and a group of us girls called her for help. She patiently tutored us over the phone, and we all did well on exam day.

Faculty from 1982 Russellville High School Tiger Tracks Yearbook — Faculty from the RHS Tiger Tracks Yearbook; Mrs. Gretchen “Mickey” Mansell is in far right column, third from top

Despite her dedication and deep roots in the school’s history, Mrs. Mansell wasn’t allowed to teach upper-level math in the late 1970s. Those classes were reserved for a male teacher who prided himself on making his classes competitive. He openly stated that he taught to the valedictorian and salutatorian—to weed the rest of us out. I was weeded out of trigonometry in the first week. Discouraged and disheartened, I switched to Home Ec. I decided I’d rather study European and American furniture styles than endure that feeling on a regular basis.

I suppose I learned a lesson from him too—but of all my teachers, his was the biggest lesson on what not to do.

This piece is dedicated to the teachers who shaped me, and I want to honor them by name. They were the steady presence that guided a little girl from the country, who against all odds, would leave Littleville and go on to earn a doctorate and become a professor. I grew up knowing I was the “smart girl,” in part because they told me so—through their expectations, patience, and nurturing. They taught me lessons about kindness, resilience, community, and the quiet power of believing in someone. And as I reflect on my own teaching, I realize I’m still learning from them, still carrying their influence with me in every classroom I enter. I thank them so much.

Russellville High School Senior Class Picture, 1981

Remembering the Teachers Who Inspired Me, Part 1

What I Learned From My Teachers

There’s a lot we carry from our school days—the lessons that stick, the ones that shape us in ways we only realize years later. I’ve been thinking about the teachers who left a deep impression on me, and how those early experiences continue to resonate as a quiet, steady presence in my life and work today. This piece (Parts 1 & 2) is dedicated to the teachers who shaped me, and I want to honor them by name.

Image of book Under the Apple Tree. — I loved this book.

Mrs. Hood, 1st Grade: Recognizing Potential
Mrs. Hood saw something in me from the very start. I still have the report card she wrote on: “Ugena is a good student, but she talks too much.” That one line captured a lot. It was the first sign that someone recognized my potential—and my tendency to let my mouth run ahead of me. I’ve held onto that report card all these years, a reminder of what it means to be recognized for one’s potential and ability. In first grade, we received our first “real” readers, Under the Apple Tree. I remember sleeping with mine under my pillow. Years later, I found a copy and treasure it as a symbol of my lifelong love of learning.

Top: Mrs. Mavis Fowler and Jeannie Clement; Bottom left: Mrs. Fowler; Bottom right: a cute picture of my brother Tracy Whitlock

Mrs. Fowler, 2nd Grade: Be Kind and Carry a Red Paddle
Mrs. Fowler wasn’t just the first teacher to believe in me—she made me believe I was special. She had a way of balancing kindness with authority, and yes, she carried a red paddle as a reminder that rules mattered. But it wasn’t fear that motivated us in her classroom—it was the feeling that she cared. That balance of kindness and discipline taught me more than any lesson from a textbook. I also remember me, Jeannie Clement, and Susan Pace singing church hymns at the front of the class during school hours—something that feels almost unimaginable today, but back then, it was just part of the rhythm of life and learning in Mrs. Fowler’s class.

Mrs. Haley, 3rd Grade: You Can Do Hard Things in Challenging Places
Mrs. Haley was an African American teacher in an all-white school in Littleville, Alabama, in 1971. That alone was remarkable. But what sticks with me is how she tried to teach us about Dr. Martin Luther King—in a place and time where that wasn’t easy. She showed me that you can do hard things, even when the environment isn’t welcoming, and that courage can look like simply sharing the truth. I don’t know what happened to Mrs. Haley–what turns her life took. I hope she knows that in that little school room with green walls, she made a different.

Mrs. Haley and members of our 3rd Grade Play.
I was the narrator, second from left on right.

Mrs. Wimberly, 4th Grade: Finding Joy in Learning (and Neck Massages)
I absolutely adored Mrs. Wimberly. She had a way of making the classroom feel fun and alive. This was the year I first heard about the Osmond Brothers from Jeannie Clement, and while that might seem trivial, it’s part of what made school feel like a place where life happened. Mrs. Wimberly wasn’t naive either—she let us give her neck massages during PE, while having deep discussions about who was better, the Osmonds or Elvis. Looking back, I see that she knew how to keep us engaged, even if it meant a little creative classroom management.

Mrs. Wimberly was also the first person I had met who had seen Elvis live in concert. She gave me a photo book from the concert, and for Christmas, my mom got her the most wonderful present, which I had selected: a black plastic cat with diamond eyes and a fuzzy boa—filled with bubble bath. If nothing else, I have always been classy!

Mrs. Wimberly, probably on the last day of school.

Mrs. Marie Wimberly, behind the school at the baseball field. Notice the kid trying to give her rabbit ears.

Mrs. Wells, 5th Grade: The Best Education, No Matter Where You Are
Following Mrs. Wimberly was no small task, but Mrs. Wells handled it with grace and grit. She was the only teacher I had at Littleville who actually lived in our community, and she took that responsibility seriously. When I complained that math was hard and had a fifth grade hissy fit, she didn’t let me off the hook—she made sure I learned fractions. Mrs. Wells held an Education Specialist degree, and my mother once asked her why she stayed at Littleville School when she could’ve worked anywhere. Her answer: “Our kids deserve a good education, just like anybody else.” That belief has stayed with me, a quiet reminder that showing up fully isn’t just about personal pride—it’s because others deserve the best we have to offer, no matter where we are. Mrs. Wells eventually became the principal of Littleville School and remained in that position until it was closed in 1994. (I have written about Littleville School in “A Memoir of Littleville School: Identity, Community, and Rural Education in a Curriculum Study of Rural Place” in William Reynolds’s collection, Vol. 494, Forgotten Places: Critical Studies in Rural Education (2017), pp. 169-188.). Mrs. Ann Wells lived to be 88 years old, and till the end of her life, when she saw my parents, she asked about me.

Miss Renwick, 6th & 7th Grade English: The First Crush
Of all my teachers, Miss Renwick is the one I’ve wondered about the most over all these years. I wish I knew what happened to her. Looking back, I know now that she was my first crush, as young girls often have. I adored her, admired her, and hung on every word she said. My poor mother spent countless hours waiting for me in the parking lot of Littleville School while I lingered in Miss Renwick’s classroom after school. I really appreciate that—both my mother’s patience and Miss Renwick’s willingness to let a student hang around after a long day. She introduced us to literature–not just stories found in “readers,” but the classics. She described the faraway places where they took place. “You can go to these places, see these things,” she told me. I’d like for her, wherever she is, to know that although I took a circuitous route, I did.

Miss Renwick. Note her look at me coming into her classroom after school to take yet another picture.

Miss Renwick, last day of school, 6th grade

And yes, I did take a picture of her car. For years, I wanted a Toyota Tercel Wagon

Mr. Sizemore, 7th Grade Science: The Surprise of Humanity
Mr. Sizemore was a science teacher with a presence that made us all a little nervous. He was the only teacher I ever had who effectively taught while sitting behind his chair, which he did almost every day unless he got up for the occasional lab activity. He wore the same clothes every day: a blue shirt, blue jacket, dark pants, and shined brogans. His black hair was neatly combed with Brylcreem—long after Brylcreem had gone out of style. He wore black horned-rimmed glasses like Clark Kent. He drove an old blue Ford truck, and his stern demeanor was enough to keep us on edge. We were especially scared when he’d slam his book on the desk if we weren’t paying attention. But I remember my daddy talking about running into him out in public, chatting about chickens like old friends. It surprised me to realize Mr. Sizemore had a first name—David—and a life beyond the classroom. Thinking about him today, I realize just how young he must have been in 1976. That small realization stuck with me: teachers are people, too.

Littleville School 6th Grade Class Picture, 1974. Second Row: Far left, Mr. David Sizemore; far right, Miss Joyce Renwick; second from right, Ugena Whitlock

To be continued in Part 2…

Handwritten Table of Contents from my Littleville photo album in my best cursive.

Sojourners Together: Supporting Students Through the Struggle

Title: Sojourners Together: Supporting Students Through the Struggle

In my last post, I shared how online teaching has rekindled my passion for the classroom. I’m enjoying the challenge of engaging students in new ways, and I’ve found it fulfilling to build connections through messages, stories, and shared experiences. But as much as I’m finding this fresh approach to teaching rewarding, I’m also deeply aware that many of my students are struggling.

Recently, I sent out a weekly check-in message—something simple, just to touch base. While many students voiced their overall enjoyment of the class, several also let me know they’re having a hard time. These aren’t typical undergraduate students juggling part-time jobs and coursework. These are working professionals, members of a cohort in our Master’s in Applied Learning and Instruction program. They teach in local partner school districts. They’re educators, spouses, parents, coaches, community members. They’re churchgoers, pet owners, and caregivers. And yet, despite all these roles, they’ve committed to taking two graduate classes each semester for two years.

Applied Learning and Instruction (M.Ed)

They do this not just for a much-needed pay raise, but for their professional growth—to become better teachers for their students. Our children. And that humbles me. It’s not easy.

These students took a heavy blow during COVID-19. They were asked to be miracle workers, juggling the impossible demands of remote learning while supporting students, families, and their communities. If there was one silver lining to the pandemic, it’s that thousands of parents who had their children learning from home gained a newfound appreciation for teachers. They saw firsthand just how challenging this work is.

And yet, despite all of this, my students show up. They’re willing to do the hard work every day. But I know—and they know—that time is scarce. They probably don’t have six extra hours a week to devote to their studies, yet that’s the general guideline for graduate coursework. They’re balancing it all, and their struggle deepens my sense of responsibility as their instructor.

If I expect them to make time for this class, I have to make it worth their while. I owe them my best. If I want them to give of themselves, I need to give of myself.

Is the reading dry this week? Then I’ll record a discussion to bring it to life. Is the assignment complicated? I’ll walk them through it, step by step. Are assignments feeling routine and uninspired? I’ll revise them to appeal to different learning styles and spark engagement. Do they need more time to complete an assignment? I’ll do my best to accommodate that. Are they feeling overwhelmed? Then I’ll be present—showing up in the class, personalizing my feedback, and ensuring they don’t feel adrift in the online world.

I’ve practiced social-emotional learning long before it had a name. I know the value of a supportive learning environment, and yes, sometimes that means sharing pictures of our five pets to give them a chuckle. It’s about reminding them that I’m here, on the other side of the screen, rooting for them.

As hokey as it might sound, caring is part of the classroom culture I want to cultivate—a culture of care and connection. Teaching can be a lonely profession. Being a professor can be just as isolating. But this online space offers a chance to bridge that gap, to connect people who might otherwise feel alone in their struggles.

It is important that I keep asking them to check in—asking how they’re doing, beyond just the coursework. These check-ins aren’t just about staying informed; they’re about fostering trust and reminding them they’re not alone in this. We are sojourners together this semester. Yes, they will struggle. That’s part of the journey. But the most important assurance I can give them is that I am here. And sometimes, that’s enough to make all the difference.

Image of English Bulldog sleeping with tongue out. — Bruno knows the struggle is real.

Old Dog, New Tricks: How Online Teaching Rekindled My Passion for Teaching

Image of senior dogs, one English Bulldog and one lab mix.

Old Dog, New Tricks: How Online Teaching Rekindled My Passion for Teaching

When I decided to step back into online teaching after nearly a decade, I thought the biggest draw would be the freedom to work from anywhere—maybe even while spending time with family in Alabama. The idea of crafting lessons with location flexibility sounded like the kind of balance I needed in this season of my life. But as it turns out, the freedom to work from anywhere is just the icing on the cake. What I didn’t expect was how much I’d reconnect with the heart of teaching itself.

It turns out, all of my classes are online this semester. My institution uses Blackboard Ultra—a platform that’s more advanced than the clunky tools I remember from my last online teaching experience. Back then, fostering real connection in an asynchronous class felt nearly impossible. I remember the difficulty setting up video calls and lectures, for example. This time around, though, something clicked. I’m not just uploading assignments and grading papers. I’m building relationships, one announcement, one message, one shared story at a time.

Finding Connection in an Self-Paced World

Online classes can roll along on autopilot if you let them. I could easily pop in, grade assignments, and call it a day. But that’s not how I’m wired. I need to feel connected—to know there are real people on the other side of the screen. I’m also a texter—I have been since the advent of smartphones. Messaging appeals to my introverted nature, the one that has an aversion to phone calls. This same preference drives how I approach my students. So, I make it a point to check in regularly with my students. I send out announcements throughout the week, not just about deadlines and assignments, but to share something about myself and encourage them to do the same—something that reminds us we’re people, that we’re travelers together, not just consumers of virtual learning, detached and mechanical.

One week, I sent out a simple message: “Time to check in. How’s the course going? How are you doing?” I wasn’t sure what to expect, but the responses both caught me off guard and moved me. Students didn’t just give me feedback on the course—they shared snippets of their lives, their challenges, their small victories. A few thanked me for asking about their well-being, calling it “refreshing” to have that kind of interaction in an online class. That’s when it hit me: this wasn’t just about teaching content. It was about building community. (They also mentioned how they struggled with balancing all of their responsibilities with their coursework. That’s coming up in my next post.)

Bruno, Bulldogs, and Building Community

Stories have always been the glue that holds people together. I started sharing little anecdotes about my life—like tales of my dog, Bruno, and our recent adventure adopting an older bulldog, a lady named Marley. I didn’t think much of it at first, but the response was immediate and heartfelt. Students shared stories about their own pets, adding humor and warmth to our digital space. Today, I even shared a picture of “the pack,” and the flood of responses made me realize that even in a virtual space, we could connect as people.

Image of two English Bulldogs and a lab mix. — Our Pack: Bruno, Caroline, and “new” Old Dog, Marley

Adapting While in Progress: Revising the Syllabus Mid-Course

Not everything has been smooth sailing. One of my classes didn’t feel as rigorous as it should’ve been. The material wasn’t pushing students to engage deeply, and I could tell it wasn’t encouraging them to read as much as they needed to. So, two weeks into the course, I did something I’ve never done before: I updated the syllabus mid-stream, knowing it could disrupt the flow of the class.

I rebalanced the points on existing assignments and added lightweight quizzes as reading guides. It took me about three days to get everything in order, and then I let the students know what I’d done and, more importantly, why I’d done it. Transparency matters. For a while, no one complained, and I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking the transition had been smooth. But today, I received my first piece of critical feedback.

One student reached out, expressing how overwhelmed he felt juggling work and two classes. Most of my master’s students work in local districts, and I could sense the stress in his message. I assured him that the quizzes were designed as reading guides—more of a nudge than a test—and if he read the chapters, he should be able to complete them as he went along. To ease the pressure, I removed the time limit on the quizzes. It may not have solved all his concerns, but it was important to me that he knew I was attentive to his feedback.

Why insist on these low-stakes checks of reading? Because they signal that the reading matters—not just to pass the class but to engage with the material meaningfully. It’s a gentle reminder that what’s in those chapters is essential, and I want them to take it seriously.

Grading as a Conversation, Not a Chore

I’ll be honest here. I say “reconnect,” but what I really mean is connect for the first time. I went into the teaching profession in 1985 because it was convenient. I had a challenging marriage, a young daughter, and was homesick and lonely. I just didn’t have the time to do the homework to pursue a career in law or chemistry—which I discovered I really liked in college. I went into the field whose subjects of English and history were easiest for me: education. It has sometimes felt as though I have been in a profession not of my freewill choosing for almost 40 years. This made me hold a resentment toward it. I resisted and rebelled against national standards, for example, through curriculum theory writing, taking a cue from other scholars in the field. I had missed—because it never appealed to me in the first place—the only valid reason to become a teacher: students.

Image of Ugena Whitlock working on Apple computer with two English Bulldogs and a lab mix. — Me, working on my online classes with the Pack in place

As I think about it, I love nothing more than being a student, and I have felt respect and fondness for teachers who truly cared about me. Yet I was not this kind of teacher to my students. This is not to say that I mistreated them—quite the contrary. I was the fun teacher for most of my career—the easy grader and the one who drew a little outside of the box. When I arrived at my current institution, a recurring theme that people actually spoke out loud was putting students first. I envied this and knew that I seemed a few steps removed from students. Now, as a non-administrative faculty member, I have a unique opportunity for a second chance—not to reconnect with a passion, but to form one. I find great hope in this—not just for second chances to find something I feel something for, but for redemption itself. This online platform of words—and blessed words are my seeds of connection—allow me to connect to my students and develop a relationship with them and teaching that, for me, is new.

Embracing AI and Lifelong Learning

Another unexpected twist in this journey has been my dive into AI. I’m realistic about it. I use AI tools, and I know my students will too—as will their own students one day. Instead of policing its use, I’m teaching them how to use AI as a tool, not a crutch. It’s part of preparing them for the future, and honestly, it’s been fascinating to explore.

Image representing AI as a learning tool. — AI As Learning Tool

I’ve been attending workshops, like the one put on by USC Upstate’s CAIFS last week, and I’m signing up for mini-courses through ACUE. There’s something deeply satisfying about being an “old dog” excited to learn new tricks. It’s reminded me that teaching isn’t just about imparting knowledge—it’s about staying curious, staying engaged, and always being willing to grow.

The Puzzle of Online Teaching: Finding My Niche

Part of what’s made this experience so fulfilling is how it taps into different parts of who I am. I’m an introverted Virgo and a bit of a gadget enthusiast. Online teaching feels like solving a puzzle, finding new ways to innovate, communicate, and engage. I don’t often get so absorbed in something that I lose track of time and forget to eat, but when I’m working on my classes, that’s exactly what happens. It’s a sign that I’m not just doing this because I have to—I’m doing it because I really, really enjoy it.

I’m drawing from my background in curriculum design and integrating best practices for online learning. One of the challenges I’ve set for myself is to create personalized video lectures for all my classes. Right now, I’m using pre-loaded videos from previous iterations of the courses, but I’m excited to make them my own—to bring more of my voice and personality into the mix.

Conclusion: More Than I Expected

When I first agreed to teach online again, I thought it would be a practical move—a way to work from anywhere and stay connected to my family in Alabama. But it’s become so much more than that. It’s sparked a passion for teaching, blending the challenge of engaging pedagogy with the joy of connecting with students. Serendipitously, it has opened up new avenues for growth and exploration.

Online teaching isn’t just a job for me now. It’s a space where I’m learning, innovating, and building community in ways I never expected. And as it turns out, this “old dog” has plenty of new tricks left to learn—and plenty of stories left to share from the front porch, whether real or virtual.

Finding My Voice Again: A Musical Journey (Power of Music, Part 2)

Image of 1979 Russellville Marching 100 Band Yearbook Picture

Finding My Voice Again

Music has always been more than just entertainment for me; it’s a pathway to the deepest parts of myself, a way to explore the complicated emotions that shape my inner being. Growing up, singing hymns a cappella in our small church was an unforgettable experience. I still recall sitting on a pew in the third row, right behind the song leader’s wife, with my friends Lynne and Susan. Our young voices would blend together in harmony, and Mrs. Greenhill would turn around, a twinkle in her eyes, to compliment our singing. “I heard you girls singing that alto,” she’d say. Those words of encouragement still resonate with me today.

Image of small stone church, Littleville Church of Christ, Littleville, Alabama — My home church, Littleville Church of Christ, Littleville, Alabama

High school choir–the RHS Singers–was an incredible experience. We developed our singing abilities and musical knowledge as we discovered the pure joy of making music together, especially when we got to perform. I remember how proud I was when I wore the stage choir outfit made from gaberdine with matching rayon scarf that my Mom had sewn on her Singer sewing machine. I still remember the songs. And, as I’ve previously explored in my reflection on the RHS Marching 100, music has always held a significant place in my life. These experiences deeply shaped my love for music and continue to influence me today.

This strong connection to music was reaffirmed by my recent rediscovery of my old iPod. As I wrote in “The Playlist of Me: Forgotten iPod, Rediscovered Self,” my iPod held a collection of songs carefully chosen over time, each a reflection of a specific mood or memory. Listening to that forgotten playlist for the first time in a decade felt like uncovering a long-lost piece of myself. It was a powerful reminder of the abiding impact music has on my spirit.

Image of seven teenagers in the Russellville High School RHS Singers choir, 1980 — Joyful times! A group of RHS Singers being silly. We were “setting up” the microphone stand. I am third from right.

Darker Days

During my junior year, my boyfriend, who later became my husband, began to increasingly feel threatened by the time I spent with my classmates and the joyous importance of music in my life. Through subtle and not-so-subtle manipulations, he pressured me to miss choir and band gigs, culminating in his attempts to prevent me from going on an upcoming band trip to Washington D.C., a dream of mine. Heartbroken but worn down from struggling, I quit both. Losing these creative and social outlets devastated me, leaving a dark hole in my life where music and my connection with my classmates had once been.

After I graduated and we married, I began to have recurring dreams, vivid and unsettling. In these dreams, I would find myself transported back to my high school days, immersed in the music, the joy of playing my instrument washing over me. But the comfort of the dream would always be shattered by the harsh reality of waking, leaving me with a profound sense of loss and longing.

My marriage, unfortunately and unsurprisingly, amplified the unhealthy power dynamic between us. When we divorced, I finally felt free, but the loss of my 45s—taken from my belongings while I was packing—left me angry and heartbroken. Those records, collected during cherished weekly trips to town with my mom from as far back as I can remember until I got married, traced and preserved the years of my life growing up. Their disappearance wasn’t just a loss of possessions; it was a loss of something irreplaceable. I’ve been trying to rebuild that collection ever since, but those original records will always be gone. My only solace was that I no longer had the homesick dreams.

Image of blue plastic 45rpm record holder. — A similar blue plastic record holder to mine.

Looking back now, I see how, over time, I had become disconnected from vital parts of myself—choir, band, and even my cherished collection of 45s, all tangible links to my teenage years. The impact of the loss extended beyond the immediate. At this point, you may be thinking, “Well, lady, why didn’t you just play the radio or go to a concert? Why so dramatic?”

I continued to listen to music, of course, but it wasn’t the same. It was as if I was merely going through the motions, like a writer who stares at a blank page, unable to truly engage with the creative process. I didn’t realize how much I had distanced myself from the deep connection I once felt with music until I reconnected with it recently.

Rediscovering the Magic

The silencing of my musical expression that had been made complete during my marriage left a void in my life. However, the yearning for music never truly subsided. Years later, I found myself drawn back to the familiar comfort of church choir. The initial hesitation soon gave way to a renewed sense of joy as I rediscovered the power of music to uplift and connect. My voice, once silenced, found itself again. People would remark, “I’ve never seen anyone as happy as you look when you’re singing.” These simple observations resonated deeply, confirming that I had found my way back to a source of profound happiness and fulfillment.

Rediscovering the magic of music has brought unexpected joys. Sharing my father’s love for the music of his youth has been a deeply rewarding experience. As he hummed a long-forgotten tune for me, I would embark on a digital treasure hunt, searching for that elusive melody.

Image of 1949 Littleville School Kiddie Band — Littleville School Kiddie Band, 1949. Daddy, Gene Howard Whitlock, is in the second row.

Image of Littleville School Kiddie Band, 1950 — 1950 Kiddie Band. My Mother, Wonell Fisher, is in the back row, third from left.

Downloading and burning CDs for him became a treasured ritual, a way to bridge the gap between generations and share a piece of his past. Both my parents fondly remember their days at Littleville School, where they had both been members of the Kiddie Band – a cherished program that sadly did not exist by the time I arrived. My father, a natural performer, particularly enjoyed his time in the band, relishing the opportunity to entertain the crowd. While looking through old yearbooks, my son and I discovered that Daddy had been voted Littleville School’s Most Talented in 1953–based mostly on his performance of Mr. Sandman–when he was in seventh grade. Mother had been a cheerleader, but that is another story.

Littleville School Most Talented 1953, Gene H. Whitlock — Littleville School 1953 Most Talented, Gene Howard Whitlock

The resurgence of vinyl, with its emphasis on the warmth and character of analog sound, has also brought a new dimension to my musical journey. Listening to records again evokes vivid memories of my childhood and hours spent browsing records at TG&Y with Mom, while also connecting me to the music that shaped me. Growing up a lonely kid in a small town, I spent many Saturday nights sitting in the dark listening to Wolfman Jack on my folks’ RCA console stereo. For years, I didn’t have a record player, but Sarah found one on Facebook Marketplace and encouraged me to buy it, convinced it would bring me peace and happiness. The reality, however, has been more complex, stirring emotions and reflections I hadn’t expected.

Listening to old hymns like those I sang in the little brick church house evoked a flood of powerful feelings. The harmonies, the raw emotion, the memories of singing alongside Lynne and Susan on the church pew, all come rushing back. After witnessing me tearfully singing along with the Chuck Wagon Gang, Sarah gently noticed that while she had anticipated a sense of peace and happiness, she had not expected the tears.

Image of marching band, includes trumpet players, tuba players, and drums in background. Ugena Whitlock with mellophone in foreground. — Ready to march in a parade with the Atlanta Freedom Bands with my mellophone

In addition to church choir, joining the Atlanta Freedom Bands provided a powerful outlet for my musical expression. The first time I marched in a parade after more than 40 years, the music surged through me, a wave of joy and liberation washing over me. It was as if a dormant part of my soul had finally awakened. Community band serves as a poignant reminder that it’s never too late to rediscover and nurture our passions. Even if it harder to march a mile uphill forty years when I’m older.

Looking back, the unhappiness of that earlier period cast a long shadow over my understanding of music’s role in my life. It seemed to be a casualty of that tumultuous time. Yet, amid the pain and regret, an innocent, peaceful memory emerges. In stage choir performances way back in 1979, I can still see Robert, his guy’s choir costume accented with a 1920s white straw boater hat, dancing the routine with his partner (I, a product of my fundamentalist upbringing, was decidedly not a dancer!). They were performing to the choral version of “Close to You” by The Carpenters. Robert, a good boy from a troubled background, died a few years ago. I wrote about it in a previous blog post: For Bob.

I can’t hear “Close to You” today without that sweet memory, and sometimes its poignancy is so powerful, I cry. For him, for us, for episodes of happiness amid the turmoil of two people who married far too young – the passage of time allows me to see without the lingering pain. This, in the end, is what music truly means to me: its magic, mysterious, and soul-stirring power to bring me to gentleness and peace. It helps me to heal by reminding me of the beauty and fragility of life. Through music, I cherish the precious moments of joy from even the darkest times. And, I must admit, even though I have been to the nation’s capital many times, I still regret not going to D.C. with the band.

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Finding My Voice Again

Darker Days

Rediscovering the Magic

Share this: