“Sweet Adeline”

It’s been standard fare for generations of barbershop quartets, and most fans of turn-of-the-20th-century popular music will smile as they remember it—at least the ending echo as the song half-steps down the scale: “Sweet–Ad–e–line.” 

That bit of trivia is just the right size hook on which to hang my thoughts about people who have influenced me—in a positive way—as I’ve pursued my editing craft. And we’ll get to how the song is connected, I promise.

First, there was Mom. She was the first to help me distinguish between the adjective good and the adverb well. She had a penchant for proper grammar, although I vaguely remember those occasions when her cultured, low-country Carolina charm would retreat a little as we children frazzled her delicate nerves: “I suwanee, if y’all churrin don’t stop, I’m gonna snatcha bal’-headed and wale the tar out of you!”

Kudos also go to my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Herbert, who bent the rules and taught the class how to diagram sentences, a privilege reserved for fifth graders. And credit goes to Mrs. Ogle, my seventh grade English teacher, whose sing-song cadence to remember helping verbs is forever stuck in my brain: “is am are was were, be being been, have has had, do does did, shall will should would, may might must can could.”

And I dare not forget Mrs. Humphries. Now here was a lady who challenged her eighth graders to work on a collegiate level—and like it! I’m not kidding—the next year she took a job as an English professor at the University of Georgia.

Of course, other teachers and professors built on that foundation, but the die was cast. I was in love with words—their simplicity, their structure, their power.

And then (I told you I would get to the connection eventually), there was Adeline Griffith. The same Adeline as in, “Has that been run by Adeline yet?” or more simply, “Make sure that copy’s been Adelined before it goes out!” Talk about an influence! With the title of Creative Services Manager, I was her supervisor for several years . . . on paper. But, I knew—and I think she did too—Adeline was my mentor.

So, I remember . . . and smile . . . and am grateful. 

It was inevitable . . .

My desk – where all the good stuff happens!

. . . Or was it? If, like me, you say you believe in the providence of God, then, well . . . um, yes, well . . . of course, it was inevitable . . . um . . . I think.

Belief is like that—ethereal, comfortable, often untried—until something happens that thrusts you into a “yea or nay” opportunity: either it is or it isn’t, up or down, white or black. Do you believe or don’t you?

“Do you trust God, or do you just say that you trust God?” 
 – Larry Burkett

Well, I had worked for the man—Larry Burkett—from 1989 until his death in 2003, and then for his successors until March of this year. Surely that was enough time to glean a bit of perspective—24 years all told. Twenty-four years of stretching, learning, honing, growing; yet they were also years of secure, comfortable . . . sitting.

So yes, I believe it was inevitable—inevitable to be turned out of my squeaky, cushy black office chair onto the not-so-cushy streets of Unemploymentville. And, fortunately—I guess I should say “providentially”—it wasn’t a long bus ride over to the next town, Self-employmentville.

So here I am—UpWrite Publishing—and I’m wondering . . . what’s next?