Kathleen Varn's Blog, page 6

Introducing my own Queen…. Ameera

Although this is a work of fiction, I admit it was driven by my own desire to dance—but was told I couldn’t, shouldn’t, or was forbidden. As I pull my main character into facing a long neglected dance zone, I’d ask the reader to be patient with her. Her story focuses on the impact of chasing a glittery dance dream and lack of experience in a spotlight. In spite of many off the page life experiences, she’s suffered and victoriously overcome many obstacles—especially as a woman. But, Ameera’s pioneer spirit blazes a trail through the unknown land of Dance.

Palmetto Oasis Middle Eastern Dance Troupe is real. I was given permission to use many of the actual troupe members’ names. They’ve been patient and supportive as I labored to unveil Ameera. I’ve embraced their generosity to take creative license with the unbelievable glittery story. I hope to show the bonding power of resilience, humor, and passion among friends and strangers. The therapy of dance is real—not fiction.

I would not have accomplished this tale if I hadn’t been introduced to Shari Stauch. Her publishing experience and . . . let’s say it like is . . . puts your balls to the walls honesty required me to get mad and tell how unfair life can be. BQB Publishing enthusiastically polished the project with many talented artists. Terri Leidich, Heidi Grauel, and Julie Breedlove offered prompt answers and resources. My editor, Sharon Hecht, untangled my grammar and cut story interruptions without ripping off the band-aid. Even the book cover embodies many of the messages in the story. Kendra Haskins did an amazing job with my website—capturing the ‘pretty’ that makes women and little girls say “wow!” And, thanks to Leroy Mazyck (Pixel Studios) for always easing the stage fright in front of his camera. He did a fabulous job with my author’s headshot. When I doubted my ability to finish the project, it was my family, friends, and community that urged me on.

If you are reading this, I want to thank the readers! I hope you enjoy Ameera’s glittery release from her forbidden zone. From my own experience, once you’ve been bitten by the dance bug, it infects all the senses and perceptions. It reveals old tapes and fears and rewards you with unique memories and bonds.

But, most of all, I thank my soul mate, Steve. He made me his queen and supported my search for the little ballerina that got left behind in my childhood. It takes a special man to stand with his belly dancing wife. They can’t be afraid of a little glitter!

 

Ameera’s Due Date…

I’d never imagined that enrolling in my first dance class in 2007 would provide the concept for a story line. A tale of a woman’s coming of age… her journey to face forbidden zones. And I’d never dreamed it would be under the platform of belly dancing. 

Something radical occurred when I was bitten by the Shimmy Bug. The glittery injection infected all my senses. My eyes were drawn to things that had jewels, tassels, fringe, glitter, chain mail and tattoos. My ears perked at anything that resonated of shaking coins, little cymbals, doums and teks on stretched hide drums. My nose followed the aroma of patchouli, incense and henna. My hands wanted to undulate and create new costumes. Would this affect my sense of taste? I found myself asking, Do I really want to spend money on eating out… or new costumes?

If there was a billboard that read “This is Your Brain on Bellydancing,” it might have warned me. Listening to the radio caused my brain to think, I bet that I can choreograph a dance to that Led Zepplin tune! If there was a book on “Belly Dancer Intervention 101″ in the Self Help section in Barnes and Noble, I’m not sure I’d have wanted the intervention, but I couldn’t speak for my hubby and friends… Help! I see Sparkly People!

On July 25, 2013, please feel free to peek into my character Ameera’s world. The characters forge and sift through tough choices in relationships—past and present. But even through her angst and success the story is laced with a dose of humor.

 

Falling in Love With Your Inner Child

Like clockwork, after 2-3 years, my dad’s duty station was to be reassigned, I had gotten a peek, a taste and a temporary spot in my classroom, neighborhood kick ball team or Dark Shadows Soap Opera buddy.  The next best thing was to resign myself to accept the oldest daughter’s calling– Chief of the Ya Ya Sisterhood of the Hall girls.  At the next duty station, my sisters were always still on the journey, sharing a bedroom and fighting over the bathroom.  Inadvertently, my tribe taught me many life lessons that revealed themselves decades later.  Emotional management, selflessness and resilience were among the list.

I talked to God, a lot.  I talked out loud, with my heart, my tears and my eyes.  I danced in the pine clearings in the neighborhood woods. I thanked God for the beauty encircled by Creation and the way it was fearfully and wonderfully made, like me.  I loved the simplicity, the complexity, the color, smells and honesty.   As Einstein said, “God doesn’t toss dice.”   Mother Nature’s Order demonstrated it wonderfully.  From childhood to adult responsibilities, I believed my prayers had been best wafted to the heart of God on the wings of a sea breeze.  If the only prayer I cast over the Atlantic Ocean’s endless horizon was Thank You, I believe God heard the volume of my heart’s petition.

A little more than halfway through my first marriage, again fighting multiple circumstances attempting to isolate me, I had been on an introspective journey to deal with erosions of female worth and lack of self esteem.  I was missing the power of self image.  Sitting in my dining room, working on a sewing project, I was talking to God about needing to love myself so that I could love my neighbor best.  The Christian Gospel had said to “love your neighbor as yourself.”  I didn’t love myself as well as I should and one of the demons from my baggage of the past, Isolation, kept putting out a stick to trip my Hopeful spirit when she tried to move forward.  I had been tripped by the Guilt stick, again, and deferred Hope cried from my heart “Why do I feel so unloved?  I know that I am supposed to love me first, so I can be whole to love the way I know You love—unconditionally and wisely.  Being a good steward is not a life sentence to being chained to unrelinquishing responsibility.”

There was a lump in my throat but as a sole tear made a trail down my bowing head, a peace washed over me.   Sacred oil being poured on my head, sweetly flowing to the soles of my feet.  I stopped what I was doing and closed my eyes, inhaled, exhaled and saw a vision in my mind.

There she was, a little blonde girl in a yellow polyester bathing suit, stooping at the edge of the beach surf, sea breeze blowing her long blonde hair in a way I could not see her face, intensely watching little precious clams dig themselves back to safety.  She was peaceful and quiet but I felt her joy inside with the simplicity of each time a new wave deposited a new cast of Diggers.  She was protecting the little vulnerable sand jewels.  Isn’t she cute, pure, loveable?   Adorable, I love her!  So, do I.  And as I saw her hand gently brush the windblown hair from her eyes… I heard a Still Small Voice say, “She’s you”.  My cheeks were flooded with salty tears.  Liquid prayers of thank You, thank You.

I wanted to protect her, hold her, laugh with her, and show her understanding when she needed correction.  There was a scar on my heart from years of isolation and this simple vision healed it–forever.  I knew what I had been seeking.  It was to have and be loved by The Perfect Parent, The Perfect Lover and The Perfect Friend.  The Perfect Lover who would not use shame, guilt, neglect or cruelty to get their way.  It applied to roles as father, mother, husband, wife, daughter, friend, boss or employee.

There was an understanding – crystal clear understanding of acceptance we owed each other even with the stutters, wobbly baby steps, sloppy first kisses or any other awkward graduation.  I wanted patience and tolerance to allow myself to learn through mistakes without guilt or shame.  I had wanted to be an Achiever of Excellence without the pressure of judgment, timelines or measuring sticks.   It was the day I knew concretely that if no one else would love me, I did and with it, came the responsibility to protect that adorable, simple and vulnerable little stooping girl from being harmed in unhealthy environments.  Even bigger, it was the day that I discovered how to use the word “I.”

Memories of the Edge of America……

As a young child growing up on the edge of the East Coast, I had access to long summer days playing on the sea shore, learning the art of sand castle construction, beach combing and body surfing.  At least once a week, Mom packed a cooler with plastic cups filled with cottage cheese from the Coburg Dairy Farm.  When the contents were consumed, my three sisters and I kept an exciting addition to our cupboard. Each of us took a turn to claim our very own jewel tone glass.  If it was my turn, I crossed my fingers for a fabulous new color like red, aqua blue or amber yellow.  Yea! It was purple…!

The multi-striped beach bag bulged with PB&J sandwiches, a bag of chips, sometimes fruit and cookies. We carried it to our beige Comet station wagon along with a plastic jug of Kool-aid, awkward to carry but as you drank it from your new cup, it left the flavor of the day mustache.

If it was a particularly exciting beach day (mom had family in town), we stopped at a gas station and purchased soft drinks to savor in the afternoon sand when Mom gave us the nod.  I was all about the Yoo-Hoo!

Driving to Folly Beach, we would see the Coppertone billboard, brazenly displaying a Shirley Temple type beach babe with her bathing suit being pulled away by her cute little Scottie dog, blushing as her little white toosh demonstrated how well the suntan lotion worked.  Naturally, my mom carried a bottle in our beach bag, slathering us often, enabling everyone to experience a long and painless day on the beach.  Each trip to Folly, I fantasized that I had been chosen to model for the Coppertone billboard but resigned the spotlight fantasy in lieu of my pretty Irish twin, Kerry.  I knew it was really Kerry who’d win the audition.  Besides, she owned the only two piece bathing suit.  It didn’t come in my size.

In a yellow striped polyester one piece bathing suit, I marched behind Mom with my three younger sisters in our terry cloth cover-ups across the hot asphalt, matching flip flops sounding like a cadence.  From a distance, I am sure it would mimic little ducks trying to catch up with mom for a day of splashing and preening in the sun.  Situated between the Folly Beach boardwalk and weathered Atlantic House, our beach base consisted of an old bedspread, cooler, towels and occasionally one vinyl float that we shared.

If my sisters and I were getting along, we waded to knee-deep surf, lined up side by side, gripping the front of a float and waiting for a wave to bump us to the porpoise grey sandy shore.  If there was angst in the sisterhood, bound by the duty code, I as the oldest took the blame, which allowed the younger ones to have more raft time.

Rather than watch, I would scour the edge of the dunes or granite boulders for an abandoned cup.  Banished, I stooped quietly with my tattered cup at the finish line of the lapping tide.  As each wave crashed through the sandy ribbon, small jewel like coquinas were washed ashore, naked and vulnerable, earnestly digging back to the safety of the granular catacombs to escape a sandpiper or two legged beach bucket predator.  I felt like a Sentinel keeping prey and thieves from interrupting my beautiful buddies seeking safety.  Occasionally, I would borrow a purple one to give me a private show in my recycled cup.

One low tide, one high tide and it was usually time to head home, which meant I had to release my borrowed coquinas, watching them dig to safety and back where they belonged.  What was the magnetic charm of the tiny gem-like clams, the rhythm of the waves, salty sea breeze tussling long blonde manes of little girls, children’s sacred sand castles, skim boarding teens and battery operated pocket radios playing 60s tunes?   Whether I was with a group or wandering the tidal pools reflecting on its hidden secrets, the beach always wrapped her arms around me.  There was always a rebirth.  Hope.

Each childhood summer included a beach memory for us.  And every summer, the beach still did what it had always magically done.  The elements numbed my lonely heart and the sea breeze blew away the cobwebs in my soul.  Mysteriously, the beach refreshed and quieted the inability to find myself in the midst of my family’s uprooting due to the military occupation of my father(s).  It wasn’t dad’s fault, it wasn’t mom’s fault.  I was born with a personality that desired to be part of a flock, a litter, a herd, a congregation, a club, a team—a tribe. Our beach summers offered me that tribe of sisterhood; I’m forever grateful…

On June 26, 2013, I’m walking the grey sands of Folly Beach during my husband’s coveted summer month at the family beach house listening to The Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel and Jann Arden. I smile when I pass a little blonde girl stooping as she investigates the mysteries of the surf. Still magical…

 

 

You’re in the Army Now

One week after rifling through The Lords of Discipline (author Pat Conroy), I was driving to Ft. Jackson in Columbia, SC. My nephew was graduating Army boot camp. His brother had joined five years earlier. I was no stranger to the military way of life in that both of my fathers were career Navy men. Charleston was the ultimate destination for my stepfather’s final assignments. Many of my high school classmates chose to attend Charleston’s military college, The Citadel. So, I’m a sucker for a uniform. And, I was a little more enlightened regarding the military drill process when I finished Pat Conroy’s book.

Between the Army band’s performance and the final presentation march, Lt. Col. J. C. Glick addressed the platoons. His speech is still playing in my head in that it applies to anyone—not just the new soldiers. We’ve all had a boot camp moment in life. He offered three pieces of advice. I compared the advice to my own personal triumphs in spite of the hardship that accompanied the victory.

Be Proud. He reminded the troops that on their first day that he would not thank them for promising to serve in the US military—he’d thank them as they’d stand before him on graduation. They’d paid their dues and were entitled to feel deep pride.

Never become Complacent. Just because they had completed their first training phase, they shouldn’t become complacent. They were to stay in a state of awareness and education. They were not allowed to make an excuse to skip running the last mile or skip push-ups. Be warzone ready.

Be Humble. It balances pride. It took each other’s support and unity to reach the point of graduation. Friendships were forged and bonds created that would last a lifetime. They were advised to not allow a sense of superiority to shadow being a soldier. A soldier that is part of a larger Army unit, a contributor to a community—a nation.

In the wake of the graduation, I looked back into my own boot camp towards adulthood… childhood. And then, I sifted through the battle grounds in my life involving relationships, marriage, parenting, career and personal growth. As I emerged from each excursion, I felt proud, intuitively knew to never become complacent but also strive to remain humble because I never got through it solo.

Good words, Lt. Col. Glick.

 

 

 

Ameera’s Cover Unveiled

Ameera Unveiled (for real!) at Book Expo America last week…

One of the supposed traits of a Virgo is an eye for detail… (Okay… being a perfectionist). I love having that Virgo’s eye for detail but look at a challenge with a safety net that allows me to fail. I’ve substituted “Achiever of Excellence” for perfectionist. When I hit detours or situations that require flexibility, it gives me a little damage control: Plan A was a bust, let’s start over. Or, in the case of my book project, there was a better cover than I originally envisioned.

I’ve been blessed to be surrounded by an incredible writing team. From conception to printing, there’s been guidance of short term and long term goals to tell Ameera’s story. One of my favorite phases was designing the cover. Being the achiever of excellence that I am, I dug in on the concept that when a reader finishes Ameera Unveiled, the cover will be even more significant.

Yes, I want to make someone look twice and ask, “What’s going on in that book?” But I also want the cover to embody the story from start to finish. As we searched the globe for the perfect image, my beautiful non-accommodating belly dancer hit my email box. (Teaser for the reader… and all the way from the UK).

Through my own journey towards embracing dance (specifically, belly dancing), it confirmed and reaffirmed my own little girl’s desire to feel pretty and wear costumes. As a product of the 60s and 70s in a traditional gender role, forbidden zones abounded in my life. Thanks to a wonderful cast of characters as I’ve journeyed through so many phases of my life (both supportive and adversarial) I found the stock and symbolic visual to represent the words to my story.

In summary, I’m thrilled with Ameera’s cover because it demonstrates the inner dancer my main character wants to become… perhaps that we all want to become…

How many of you have never been to a pig race….?

Well, my hand went up to the emcee’s question… at Boone Hall Plantation’s Strawberry Festival. Little did I know when my feet hit the floor this morning that I would not only witness a pig race but could possibly be awarded the title, Pig Queen for a Day! Unknowingly, I’d claimed my video spot near the starting line of the circular race track and had an excellent view. There was a gator board roster with piggish NASCAR names— Rooter Martin, Hoggy Stewart, Piggy Gordon and Squilling Earnhardt, Jr.

Naturally, being new to pig racing, I had questions for the little swine. How were they trained for the event? I’d hate if one of the cute piglets would pull a hamstring. What if it came down to crossing the finish line by a snout? God forbid serious injury because I wasn’t sure if Charleston had a pig racing hambulance.

Suddenly, my attention returned to the hoof track as Hogway Speedway’s announcer entered the inside field, wearing a hands-free mic opening the competition with the racetrack bugle call from the loudspeakers.

The announcer educated us on the possibility of pig pile-ups that could delay them from pigging out on the coveted cheese doodle at the checkered finish line. He assigned a sponsor from the audience to root for the anxious pigs that had willingly loaded in the starting gate.

After the bell and gate opened, he gave a broadcaster’s view of the pig pack’s arrival for cheese doodle trophies. For the next fifteen minutes, he presented laps by goats, rookie piglets and ducks. The final race was to be run by pot belly pigs and he announced he was picking five women to be given the proud title of Pig Queen. I don’t think I’d put that on my slop-bucket list.

As he looked our way, my niece encouraged him to pick her Aunt Kat. Note to self: I need to dig deeper into her belief that I’d make a good candidate—or I needed to be sure I didn’t have hog breath from the cheap corndog. Yep, I was given #5, Rooter Martin. To top the hammy privileged title, we were advised the winner would kiss her pig. (For some reason I heard the words to a Katy Perry song: I kissed a pig and I liked it…)

After three more contestants were chosen, Squilling Earnhardt, Jr. hogged the spotlight. I’d lost my chance of the title and kiss by a snout.

Sadly, I realized I wanted to be a media hog! I turned to my husband and we settled for a local pulled pork sandwich.

Let’s name it, Hollywood!

On April Fool’s day, 1991, a teenage tuxedo cat invited himself into my home at 10:00 p.m. I was still mourning the loss of my bottle fed tuxedo cat, Daniel. For exactly three years, I’d resisted the pleas of my young daughter’s request to rescue another animal. How could I turn it away?

For several days I kept my house guest safe. I posted on local bulletin boards to make sure a frantic owner wasn’t looking for the lost big personality cat. Meanwhile, it bonded with my children. There was no way to say ‘no’ to the new family member. His formal name? Melchize-cat…. Melkey. He was the feline version of Melchizedek, the mysterious Hebrew high priest. No one knew where he came from or when he would leave…

For eighteen years, he weathered relocations, my children’s growth, a divorce, my re-entry into dating and the remarriage and blending of households. He greeted my house guests and could’ve cared less when we integrated my son’s dog, Chaz, into the family.

But in 2009, as his kidneys began to fail, I had to let him go in spite of his tenacity to hang on—for me. After his euthanasia, my husband and I agreed there would be no new furbbies due to the age of our surviving pets.

Six months after Melkey’s passing, my rescue school horse went three legged lame. No one knew why but she was showing symptoms of white line disease in one foot. I was chasing the fast erosion of her hoof. On Sunday morning, my husband and I drove to Hollywood, SC where she was boarded. I asked him to stop at the convenience store to grab a diet Coke.

We pulled up in my S-350 Mercedes convertible. As we parked, a tiny, yellow mixed-tabby kitten headed straight towards us, and then ran under my hot motor. Spied by a loiterer, we were advised this little scruffy kitten had been quite the annoyance of customers and employees. And, in harm’s way.

“Don’t you want to take it home?” he asked.

I’d at least three adoptees in mind so I scooped it up, added milk at the checkout, and continued on our way to the farm. Cradled on my shoulder that kitten mewed the entire ride to the barn. I dumped it safely in the farm’s bathroom, trying to lure it to drink the milk and maybe (please!) stop the incessant meowing.

As we pulled off the farm, I re-cradled the little one against me and my husband broke the unspoken stray kitty code… “I know– we’ll name it Hollywood!”

My head shot up like a fired gun to cry, “WTFudge are you saying… you don’t name it!” I had adoptive families and was prepared to pitch after I cleared it with my vet the next day.

All I could think of was our furbbie pact after Melkey’s demise. Hubbie must’ve read my mind. “But he matches Chaz!” he added.

Twenty-four hours later, my vet instructed me to hold the worm and parasite laden female kitten in quarantine for ten days. Before the end of the week, my hubbie bought new toys, food and kitten size litter box.

Five months later I scheduled and dropped off my crazy-ass “female” kitten to be spayed and declawed. Thirty minutes later, I was called. “Mrs. Varn, we just want to let you know that we’re not going to spay Hollywood… she’s a he.”

Well, Hollywood has developed a huge personality, like his predecessor. He’s a cat but thinks he’s a dog. He follows me around like a toddler. When the doorbell rings, he fluffs his tail and growls as he and Chaz assess the stranger on the other side of the door. And they match, chase, play and share the dog bed. Luckily, his name was gender-free.

But my favorite belly dance troupe member’s comment when little “Hollywood” ran under the Mercedes at that Johns Island convenience store?

“Sucker!”

 

 

 

 

Story of a Husband-of-a-Bellydancer

Retired from career and parenting duties, I decided to conquer a neglected area in my life—dance. As a child, I flunked my first ballet classes and missed the muscle memory years. So, when I saw a six-week belly dance class being offered on the campus of my Alma Mata, I went online to register.

My husband was more than supportive as I fought my way out of the old tapes that said, “You can’t dance.” Within the year, I reluctantly auditioned and was accepted into Palmetto Middle Eastern Dance Troupe. Little did we know, it was instant adoption into a tribe. Again, my husband was supportive and tolerant of my love of shiny jewelry, bindis and of course, wayward glitter.

However, within the next year, I came home from a practice centered on dances for an upcoming performance at the North Charleston Performing Arts Center. As we were eating dinner, out of the blue, he states, “Dear, you know I love and support everything you’re doing with the troupe?” (I continue chewing waiting for the… but?)

“And I’ll be in the audience as your biggest fan… but (ah here it is) please don’t expect me go on stage and drum or anything.”

I assured him that it had never crossed my mind. He exhaled and finished his dinner.

One year later, practicing for a repeat appearance at the same festival, the girls in the troupe decided to do an “I Dream of Genie” dance. The choreographer looked at me and said, “Kat, ask Steve if he’ll be Major Nelson, please?” I immediately recalled last year’s plea to leave him off stage and informed them there was no way. With many more pleas, I conceded that I would ask but predicted the decline.

As I walked in from practice, hubbie started the usual query of how practice was and who was there. I jumped into the Major Nelson question and to my surprise—without hesitation, he said, “Sure, ok! What do I need to do?”

Three months later, in a borrowed Air Force uniform, holding a green genie bottle, local businessman Steve Varn participated in our dance show. We even featured him in our press release and program.

A few months after that show, my husband was pitching a real estate project to a banker. After slightly formal meeting between strangers, the banker sat back and folded his arms. Without a blink, the banker hit Steve with a question out of the blue: “So, you’re a dancer?”

Taken off guard and baffled by the question, he immediately denied it. They returned to the business at hand.

That night at dinner, my husband told me of the odd moment during his meeting with the banker. Immediately, I recalled the press release with his name and it was obvious the banker had Googled my husband’s name.  We both laughed and went to the computer to see whether the internet would confirm my theory. It did.

Husbands of belly dancers are amazing partners. Tolerance and the endless presence of glitter on their faces and clothes becomes second nature. They do the heavy lifting and set up electronics. Since Steve’s debut, he has been recreated in two more shows as Achmed, the janitor. His red coveralls hang proudly beside his business coats in the closet. Since my induction to this marvelous tribe, I noticed that each girls’ partners embrace the passion of our love of dance. Recently, I even discovered a website called Husband of a Belly Dancer.

When I look back at my online registration to take a six week dance class, little did we realize how much it would infect our marriage. Husbands and boyfriends of belly dancers are so much fun (and look cute wearing a little glitter, too)!

Feel free to leave stories of any other victims of glitter…

 

 

Ode to a Coach

“A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops” – Henry Adams

Last week ended with the exciting privilege to blog for WestAshleyPatch.com. After I met with editor, Jonathan Allen, I floated home with my head in the blog clouds. I felt giddy and couldn’t wait to sit and play with a new amusing blog. I decided to let the subject swill in my mind overnight so I wouldn’t rush the project.

Friday morning: I fired up my computer, checked my e-mails and cruised Facebook. I was in a hurry to start my first blog draft but my eyes fell on a Facebook post announcing the loss of one of my favorite teachers—Coach Jim Werden. As students, we always referred to him as Coach Werden. As I read the obituary, it dawned on me that we were only ten years apart in age. His career started at the age of twenty-four. From my adolescent view, I was a teen and he was old!

The Navy transferred my family to Charleston in 1971. One year later, I was promoted to ninth grade attending Middleton High School. I was a freshman Razorback! For the next four years, Coach Werden wore many teachers’ hats: World Geography, Driver’s Education, Gym, and he coached the football program. He was friendly and invested in his students and athletes. I was shy but academically above average. I’ll always remember how he’d encourage me to raise my hand and answer questions. Looking back, he was helping me exercise using my voice in the classroom to lessen my timidity.

When I was old enough to take driver’s ed, I found driving the car extremely difficult. He never embarrassed me but helped me laugh with him as I tried to learn to start and stop. I still see him jerking forward in the passenger seat as I overused the brakes! I can honestly say that Coach Werden is the only teacher that I’ve gone parking with—teaching me parallel parking, people! It was the only thing I learned proficiently in that class. He taught me how to line up the back window to the bumper of the first parked vehicle. To this day, I can zip a car into a downtown parking spot flawlessly.

In a time when most youth aspired to be rockstars or celebrities, Coach Werden had dedicated his life to be a public high school teacher. For twenty-nine years, students walked the halls to his class or stayed after school for football practice. As we graduated and had children of our own, he taught the next generation with the same dedication and nurturing spirit. In 2001, when I enrolled my youngest child in West Ashley High School, I passed his office where he was working on papers. I tapped on the window, he looked up and smiled. I pointed at my son and he shook his head—still grinning.

Three days since his passing, I already feel a hole in my heart for the warmth he showed me even after I walked across the stage to receive my diploma. I will always smile as I parallel park my car on the streets of Charleston, effortlessly, thanks to a patient coach.

I find it a privilege to dedicate my first blog to you, Coach Werden! God bless your family. You will be missed by so many whose lives you touched.

“Jim was a retired Teacher/Coach with the Charleston County School District and served Middleton High School from 1972 until 2000. Jim was recognized with numerous football honors to include Coach of the Year eight times and amassed a football record at Middleton High School with 210 wins, 133 losses and only seven losing seasons in 28 years. Additional honors include: 1985 AAA Lower State Champions, 1985 AAA State Runner-up, 1984 Assistant Coach for the North-South All-Star Football Game, 1986 Assistant Coach for South Carolina in the 50th Anniversary of the Shrine Bowl of the Carolinas, 1989 Inducted into the Wesley College Athletic Hall of Fame, 1992 Head Coach for the South All-Stars in the North-South All-Star Football Game, 1997 Head Coach for South Carolina in the Shrine Bowl of the Carolinas. South Carolina won 21-20 in what Shriner’s have described as the “best comeback victory in Shrine Bowl history.” He is survived by his wife of 39 years, Linda Werden of Charleston; his mother, Anna Werden of Dover, SC; son, Christopher James Werden of Charleston; brother, John R. Werden of Clearwater, FL; sister-in-law and brother-in-law, Marie and Marion Wright of Walling, TN; nephew, Bryan (Regina) Wright of Brush Creek, TN; grand-nephews, John & Jack Wright; sister and brother-in-law, Edna and Cleston Daniels of Livingston, TN; and niece and nephew, Aurora Daniels and Michael Daniels. Memorials may be made to the Charleston County Retired Teachers’ Association, C/O Cherokee Place United Methodist Church, P.O. Box 70396, North Charleston, SC 29415-0396. A memorial message may be sent to the family by visiting our website at www.jhenrystuhr.com. Visit our guestbook at www.legacy.com/obituaries/ charleston”