Dance Till the Music Stops

By Joyce Galewick (the huggin' grandma)

To all my readers and everyone who buys this book, thank you! I know it's hard to write a story of your life when every life is a story-but maybe, because I had the courage and the drive to write my story, maybe you can now write yours. I know how hard it is to face challenges and wonder sometimes if you can ever make it. So, I didn't write this book because I'm rich or famous. I wrote this book to give you courage and hope and to let you know you are never alone in this big old world. If I can help just one person, then my life and this book will be worth it. I wrote this for the child facing months in bed for a disease they don't understand, for the single mother trying to keep it all together, for the wife who has to kiss a dying husband one last time, for the mother who hears her child is dying, for those with cancer facing chemo, for everyone who has ever been discouraged. I want to be your ray of sunshine and show you that you can go on and that life can truly be beautiful-one day and one step at a time. For as long as we wake up, we can listen to the music of life, and we can dance! So, dance till the music stops! Never Give Up and Never Give In You CAN reach the mountain top! No matter how tough LIFE seems, Just follow your dreams and Dance Till The Music Stops! Love, Joyce

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781640797093

Book preview

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Dance

Till the Music Stops

Joyce Galewick

(the huggin’ grandma)

ISBN 978-1-64079-708-6 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64079-710-9 (Hard Cover)

ISBN 978-1-64079-709-3 (Digital)

Copyright © 2017 by Joyce Galewick

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

296 Chestnut Street

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

A special thank you to all those who believed in me; my daughter, Doreen, with her phone calls every day; my three wonderful granddaughters; my ever-patient husband, George, who puts up with my endless chatter every day; my friend Maria, who offered to type my book for free just because she knew how important it was; and Lillie, Vincent, and Shannon, who helped me so much to get published.

Love and hugs to all of you!

Chapter 1

The Beginning

Has anyone in life ever told you, you should write a book? I hear it all the time, and the older I get, I think maybe I should. As I write this, I am now seventy-seven, and writing this book is the only thing on my bucket list.

Every life is story. We all have challenges, and I’m sure all of us wonder what our real purpose in life is. What can we do to make this earth a better place?

So maybe, with this book, I can help someone who is discouraged to go on to find the true meaning of Dance Till the Music Stops—which means as long as you are alive, there is hope ahead.

I have been discouraged many times, but somehow, I kept going on, and so can you.

My life in a nutshell: I’ve been married four times (divorced once, widowed twice), had three daughters (lost two to cancer), almost died three times (pneumonia, chicken pox, and cancer) but never gave up.

But to really understand my life, we will start at the beginning.

We will start with the love story of my mother and father. My mother, Gladys Butterfield, was the only daughter of Blanche and Edwin Butterfield. She was raised in the small town of Dallas Center, Iowa. She went to college in Madison, Wisconsin, and then worked in Chicago.

Her first marriage was to Al Wayo, a good looking Jewish-Italian, but the marriage was short lived.

My mother was brokenhearted, so to get away, she went to Long Beach, California, and went to work for the Gates family, Gates Rubber.

There was an earthquake in 1933, and it was then my mother met my father, Devere J. Kirby. As the buildings were falling, my mother ran to the street and right into the arms of my father. He was so good-looking—dark hair and deep blue eyes and that wonderful smile that could light up a room.

There was an instant connection. A deep love formed at the very second they met. He was French-Irish, with the charms of both. He had been quite a party boy and had never been married, but when he met my mother, he knew he had found his only love.

In those days (1933), you get married before you live together, so just a few weeks after they met, it was a trip to the Justice of the Peace.

Their happiness was very short as my father had a bad cough that he just couldn’t shake. When they finally went to the doctor, they found he had tuberculosis (TB), and that was a very bad disease.

They hadn’t been able to afford a home, so they were living in a tent in a campground. My mother gave up working for the Gates and started selling soap door-to-door.

My mother couldn’t bear the thought of losing my father—to lose happiness she had just found. So, after many tears, she told my father she wanted to have his baby. For she felt that if she could just have his child, she would always have a part of him. Their love could live on through all the generations to come.

So, after a wonderful and romantic evening, I was conceived.

My mother knew she would have to leave, as new babies can’t be around TB, and my father needed care. So my mother went home to Iowa, and my father went to a rest home in Tucson.

My grandparents were thrilled to have my mother home, and while my mother missed my father so she was busy planning for my arrival.

When the big day finally arrived, my grandparents drove her to the Iowa Lutheran Hospital in Des Moines, Iowa.

My grandpa was a country doctor, and he was the only doctor in Dallas Center for forty-six years.

I could write another book about my grandpa. He always wanted to be a doctor and, like Abe Lincoln, studied by flashlight and candlelight. He was a horse and buggy doctor and delivered all the new babies in the four surrounding towns. The first baby he delivered died, and he sobbed all night and wondered if he should be a doctor or not.

There was a big flu epidemic in the early 1900s, and that’s how my grandparents met. Many people were dying from this evil flu, but my grandpa saved my grandma and then fell in love with her—another love story!

So, my grandpa was very concerned about my mother and his first grandchild, so he drove the twenty-four miles and got her the best doctor in the hospital.

They finally had to take me with forceps, as after thirty-six hours of hard labor, my mother was exhausted, and I wasn’t doing very well either. As my grandpa told it, when I was born, there was dead silence in the room as I was blue and not breathing. They immediately started doing everything they could, and when I let out my first cry, the whole room cheered—especially my grandpa!

I turned out to be the only child my mother would ever have, so I became her whole life.

My first two years were spent living with my grandparents and mom. She gave up working for the Des Moines paper, where she was a reporter, and started working at the local hardware store so she could be closer to me.

When I turned two, my mother decided she wanted to take me to Tucson so I could see my father at least once. He wasn’t doing very well, and my mother felt in her heart that this was a trip we must take.

We had to see him from a distance as he couldn’t hold me, but he did get to see me, and he got to see my mother one last time.

After we left, he wrote me a letter stating his great love for me and teaching me life’s lesson that I never got over: Take care of your health, he wrote, and Love with all your heart as he loved me and my mother.

Years later, I wrote him this poem that is in my poetry book.

My Father’s Love

My mother loved my father so,

Then they found he had TB.

My mother begged him for a child,

So they created me.

My mother knew if I were born,

Then they must be apart.

So when she went to give me birth,

She left with a breaking heart.

He knew he could not see me,

Or ever hold me tight.

My father faced his death alone,

In the darkness of the night.

He wrote me just one letter,

To tell me of his love.

While he could not be with me,

He would guide me from above.

I never will forget the love,

That has created me.

And I will touch my Father’s Face,

When I reach eternity.

My father died in 1936, right after our trip to Tucson.

For the next two years, we stayed with my grandparents. My first memories are selling pretend lemonade to my grandpa’s patients. They lived in a big house, and he had his office right next door. So when he did tonsils or surgery, the patients would stay overnight; and, of course, it was my job to entertain them.

My mother met my stepfather, Porter Burger, when he came into the hardware store. He was so shy, never been married, but his family was known all over town. There were four Burger boys—Evan, the oldest, who became the Sheriff of Adel; Si, who lived in Dallas Center all his life; my dad, whom they nicknamed Ham for hamburger; and the youngest brother, Johnny.

My dad was in construction, and they were framing a house when a big beam fell on his arm, and it was just hanging by the skin. They rushed him, bleeding, to my grandpa’s office, and he stitched him up and saved his arm. He had lost so much blood that my grandpa made him stay at the house, and my mother took care of him. They fell in love, not the fireworks kind of love she had with my father, but the quiet mountain stream love born of loneliness and a need to have someone love her.

They were married March 24, 1939, and I was four and a half years old, and now I had a real daddy who could hold me on his lap and tell me stories.

All his brothers came to the wedding held at my grandma’s house. Porter’s dad, Oscar, had been a big part of the building of all the homes in Dallas Center, but when the stock market crashed, Oscar couldn’t stand losing everything he had worked his whole life for, so he committed suicide.

It was the talk of the town, and until the wedding, Grandma Burger, Porter’s mom hadn’t gone anywhere.

My grandma was in her glory as the first wedding she could give her only daughter.

It would turn out to be a whole new life for me.

I was very excited about the wedding but also worried about leaving the only home I knew. I had been my mother’s whole life, and I really wasn’t too sure I wanted to share her.

Joyce and her mother

Joyce’s father, Devere J. Kirby, who died of TB alone in Tucson when Joyce was two

Chapter 2

My Grandpa’s Lullaby

My grandpa,

Edwin

Can you close your eyes and think of the very first memories of your grandparents? Now that I am a great-grandma myself, I think how precious our grandchildren are and how we pass traits on to the next generation.

I never got to really know my father, but he lives on in my daughter, Doreen, as she has his eyes, the shape of his face, and her baby picture looks just like his.

My grandpa was my special childhood memory. I guess because for the first four years of my life, he was the only man in my daily life.

Even as a busy doctor, he always found time for me. He loved to go to the circus, so when Barnum & Bailey would come, we always went. He gave free medical care to all the performers, so we got to go to the mess tent and eat with them. It was such fun, and we had so many memories.

But my favorite part of the day was when we’d sit on the porch swing, and I’d beg Grandpa to sing the song about the little boy. I don’t know if he wrote the song as Grandpa loved to write, but in the thirties, the song was very true.

My Grandpa’s Lullaby

Lilacs am a bloomin’, in the corner by the gate,

Mammy’s in her little cabin door.

Curly headed little boy, comin’ home so late,

Cryin ’cause his little heart was sore.

All the children playing round have faces white and fair,

None of them with him will ever play.

So Mammy, in her lap, takes the weeping little chap,

And croons in her kind old way.

(Chorus)

Now, honey, you stay in your own backyard,

Don’t mind what dem while chiles do.

What sho you suppose dey’s goin to give,

A black little boy like you.

Stay on this side of dat white board fence,

And, honey, don’t you cry so hard.

Go out and play just as much as you please,

But stay in your own backyard!

Every day the children as they passed by Mammy’s gate,

Romping home from school jumping with joy,

Peering through the fence could see the eager little face,

Such a wistful, lonesome little boy.

Till one day that face was gone from there forevermore,

God had called the dusky little elf,

So Mammy, in her door, sits and rocks as oft before,

And croons to her old black self.

(Chorus)

This is a poem I wrote about my grandpa!

County Doctor

My grandpa was a country doctor—

The only one for four small Iowa towns—

He had such a smiling face,

And he went every place.

In a horse and buggy when he made his rounds

He delivered oh so many babies

They were always calling, "Get the doctor—quick"

For he knew just what to do

Whether broken bones or flu

He had such a gentle touch when you were sick

He loved to sing, and he loved to tell you stories

And how he loved writing poetry

So if I write anything of merit

I’ll say I did inherit

The gift of writing was his gift to me!

He loved to take summer trips to Minnesota

For he had a cabin there, and he loved to fish

He would take his son and daughter.

In a boat out on the water

To catch the Big One was his fondest wish.

He also love to take me to the circus

For he always wanted to be a circus clown

I knew just what he meant

When we ate in the circus tent

It was such fun with all the clowns around

He was such a special part of my childhood

I can still see him as he sang my lullaby

With the love he always gave

He taught me to be brave.

But I still cried when I told him good-bye

I never will forget my gentle grandpa

His smile or that twinkle in his eye

For once you ever met him

You never could forget him

To my grandchild—I will sing his lullaby!

My grandpa loved all people, and the song was sad because you could feel the pain of that little boy. I always told my grandpa I would play with that little boy, but I never found him. I just know if my grandpa were alive today, he would be so proud of Obama as he opened the gate for all the little black boys everywhere. Not only can you go out and play, you could grow up to be president!

My grandpa and grandma were so special to me, and I’ll never forget their love.

Chapter 3

The Teddy Bear Wedding

After my mother’s wedding, we all moved to a new house. My stepfather, Porter, wanted me to have his name so I could really be his daughter. So we went to Des Moines to the courthouse, and I went from Joyce Kirby to Joyce Burger. I was almost five years old and just learning to write my name, so it was a challenge for me, but, as my mother explained it, now we were a family, and we all had the same name. And now I had a real dad! I was his little girl, and for the rest of his life, he was a wonderful father to me!

I had just started kindergarten and loved it. Mom and Dad got me a puppy named Penny and put up a swing in the backyard, and I was having so much fun, and then I caught pneumonia, and it changed my life.

I got so sick, and my mother was so scared. My grandpa came and then called my uncle Elwyn, who had just finished medical school. When they couldn’t get my fever to break and when it went to 105 degrees, Elwyn told my mother that there was one new medicine he could try, but it had never been used on a child, and he didn’t know if it would cure me or kill me. But what choice did they have? All of them stayed with me all night.

Just as the sun came up, my fever broke. My mother cried tears of relief and wanted to know what I wanted—anything—just name it.

I always loved dolls, so I said I would love a new doll. So Dad drove to Des Moines, twenty-four miles in a ’34 Ford just to buy me a doll. She was a beautiful doll, and I named her Jo-Beth.

Lying in bed with Jo-Beth and my teddy bear, Willie, I decided they should have a wedding just like Mommy and Daddy had. So my mother made Jo-Beth a beautiful wedding dress and a little jacket for Willie. Uncle Elwyn came and read the vows, and then we all had cake! A beautiful wedding!

Chapter 4

The Christmas Doll

After my pneumonia, I was home quite a while, but did get to pass to first grade. I loved school, and my best friend was a little girl named Mary Vincent. Mary was the complete opposite of me. There were eight kids in her family, and I was an only child.

Mary had to sleep in a bed with two sisters. They wore hand-me-down clothes and no toys to speak of.

I loved to go to Mary’s to have all the noise and all the kids to play hide-and-seek, jump rope, and jacks by the hour.

Mary loved to come to my place to play with the dolls and my dollhouse. She loved to try on my dresses, so my mom said I could give her one. So she picked out her favorite and wore it to our first-grade field trip. The entire first grade was going to Des Moines to see Santa Claus.

Mary and I were so excited. My mother went along as we had a school bus, but three mothers had to go.

When we got to Yonkers, the big department store, we went to Toyland, and it looked like Fairyland. In the middle of all the lights was a beautiful fairy princess doll with a sparkling pink dress—all aglow with glitters and sparkles.

Mary just stood there completely enthralled.

When it was our turn to sit on Santa’s lap, Mary told Santa all she wanted was the fairy princess doll. Santa told her he would see what he could do.

When it was my turn, I couldn’t think of anything I really wanted, so I just asked for a doll too.

All the way home, all Mary would talk about was the doll. She was just so sure that Santa wouldn’t forget her. Little poor girls have dreams too!

That night when my mother put me to bed, I was telling her how excited Mary was and I just knew she would be so excited to get her doll.

My mother sat on my bed and told me that Santa could only do so much and that not every little child could get their wish. For my mother knew there was no way Mary’s parents would get her a doll. They couldn’t afford food!

I can still remember how I cried so hard, and then I told my mother, I have my doll, Jo-Beth, and I don’t really need anything for Christmas, so can’t I write Santa and tell him I’ve been so good and I want that fairy princess doll to go to Mary?

My mother had tears in her eyes as she helped me write the letter to Santa.

Then when I was asleep, she called the other mothers and told them the story. They all chipped in money, and they went to Des Moines and got the doll.

They fixed a big basket of food and took it over on Christmas morning with a big bow at the top. A note to Mary on the doll—signed Santa.

They were all so excited and thrilled, and the smile on Mary’s face as she held her first doll—priceless!

That Christmas, I didn’t get a doll as my mother thought it would spoil the idea that giving is really more fun than getting. And my mother, with her wisdom, was so right. Of all Christmases, that is the one I remember the most!

Years later, my mother was in touch with one of her Dallas Center friends and the Vincent family came up.

The friend said that Mary graduated high school and went on to nursing school and became a nurse. She said the Christmas she received the fairy princess doll changed her life, and she wanted to care for others with the same love Santa showed her.

So this was truly a pay it forward story!

I managed to get through first grade and into second grade when I caught pneumonia again. I had just gotten a part in the Christmas play at school, and my mother was making me a red velvet dress to wear in the play.

I was lying in bed watching my mother sew when our lives and the world changed. It was December 7, 1941.

All of the sudden in the middle of our radio show came the broadcast heard around the world: Pearl Harbor had been bombed! We were at war!

My dad came home and the whole evening was spent around the radio.

I was too sick to be in the play, so I never got to wear the beautiful red velvet dress.

Years later, my mother sent it overseas in a Care package so some little girl, we would never meet, could be a princess in a beautiful dress, stitched with love and tears.

My dad went down to enlist in the army. All the men in the country were doing that, but he couldn’t pass the physical. However, they said he could join the war effort. There were factories opening everywhere, and there was a big steel plant opening in Pueblo, Colorado.

The doctor had said I needed to get to a different climate, so my folks decided it was time to leave