Anne Ousley Hoadley

Before beginning this story, I'll take a moment to help the reader sort through family ties. The Ousley extended family understands the connections today, but fifty years from now, lineage may not be as clear.

Arthur and Elsie Ousley had seven girls (Seven Sisters) and no boys born between 1926 (Evelyn) and 1943 (Sharon). These special girls in birth order are: Evelyn, Lucille, Merle, Norma Jean, Anne, Frances and Sharon. In writing about them, I'll use this scheme: Lucille Ousley Sofge (her married name); her son would be David (L. Ousley-Sofge) Sofge. Lucille's daughter, Helen, would appear as Helen (L. Ousley-Sofge) Atter. Helen's daughter, Brittany, would be written as Brittany (L. Ousley-Sofge-Atter) Atter (at least until she marries). It's easier for boys. They keep the father's name. Hopefully, this convention may help someone trace his or her ancestry to the Seven Sisters.

On Saturday, October 2, 2004, Frances and I heard the sad news that Anne had died at 2:30 a.m. that morning. Allison (A. Ousley-Hoadley) Anderson said that as soon as the family had completed arrangements, she would call again. Two days later (Monday (10.04.04)), Allison called with details of Anne's memorial service scheduled for Thursday 10.07.04 in Los Angeles. Frances said we would be there.

Quoting the family's statement, the facts of Anne's brief illness and death are:
"Anne was diagnosed in June of this year (2004) shortly after the John Ousley reunion in Gulfport with lung cancer and a brain tumor. She had been undergoing extensive treatments when she developed a respiratory infection and was hospitalized. A team of doctors was unable to forestall her slowly slipping away. Her last moments were peaceful and pain-free with daughters Allison and Caroline and husband Tom by her side."

We arrived at Los Angeles International Airport (LAX) Wednesday morning (10.06.04). Flying in the jet age, 1958 until the present, used to be a pleasant experience. Today, with tedious security checks of your person and luggage, departure and arrival delays, full aircraft and tight seating in tourist class, flying is displeasing. Beginning with decontrol of the airlines (1978) under President Jimmy Carter, fares fell and the public rushed to fill every available seat. Then, the attack on the World Trade Center's twin towers on 9.11.01 changed everything. Security became a prime concern with rigorous inspection of boarding passengers. Now, built-in bottlenecks create endless queues and frustrating delays.

At LAX, John Anderson, Allison's husband, was waiting with transport as we cleared baggage pickup, thanks to the coordination made possible by cell phones. Since it was too early to check in our hotel, John took us to the Farmer's Market. There we met Beverly and Dawn Anderson, John's mother and sister, and Allison (A. Ousley-Hoadley) Anderson and their three children: Hannah, Noah and Sarah. Soon, Caroline (A. Ousley-Hoadley) Mankey and her friend, Steve, arrived. We ate lunch and visited in the Market, a most unusual and fascinating place.

The Farmer's Market takes up an entire city block and is covered by a patchwork of awnings and more permanent roofs. It is a new world's version of the Arab Kasbah; and it hadn't changed much since my last visit in the late 1970's. The Market is an eclectic place: aspiring starlets mingle with people from every nation on earth. Here, an expansive meat market featuring costly Kobe beef stands next to a take-away grill offering spicy Indian foods of rice and curry. Near by is a tiny, closet shop crammed with electronic devices of every sort; and just across the aisle is a 20 foot long counter overflowing with fruits and vegetables and figs, raisins and dates (from the middle east). Dozens of aromas mingle into a bouquet with now one, then another, prevailing. One's nose tingles with ever changing sensations long after the eyes have glazed over.

Whichever way one wanders in this confusing labyrinth of shops, stalls, kiosks and fast-food eating establishments, there is something for sale and willing buyers. One could shop and explore for a week without seeing everything.

That afternoon we checked into the Farmer's Daughter Motel, positioned across the street from the Farmer's Market. There, we met Tom and Lucille Sofge who had just arrived from Jacksonville. John drove us to Anne's business, Pacific Research, Inc., in Santa Monica about 15 miles west of the center of Los Angeles.

Let's stop for a moment and say that in Los Angeles as in Houston, the automobile reigns supreme. During waking hours, traffic is dense and distances are measured in time not miles. Even short journeys take upwards of 40 minutes. Just as utomobiles crowd the streets, so does the image-making industries of radio, television, film and their supporting businesses dominate the economy.

I hadn't been in LA for more than an hour before all my conflicted and negative feelings about California returned. (Frances and I had lived in San Diego from 1976 until 1980.) To my mind, there is something off-putting about California. True, the state is unbelievably beautiful and enjoys a marvelous climate most of the time. However to me, the California experience is an emptiness of the spirit.

Los Angeles seems a harsh city bursting with demonic energy. It depresses me, weighting heavy like a wet, scratchy, wool blanket. It's as if all that makes life bearable—beauty, trust, serenity, truth, peace—has been squeezed out, leaving the city to sneer in ugly tones of alienation, oppression, violence, greed and fear. The undeniable message is, "You are worthless; you're ugly; you are a nobody; you've failed—unless you have beauty, wealth or achieve celebrity status; then and only then, do you have any value."

Anne's company was located in a five-story building with a delightful open-air courtyard in the center. Each floor had a balcony around and facing the courtyard with offices leading off. Tom Hoadley, Anne's husband, and her staff had arranged a private reception for family and close friends. I was impressed as Tom gave us a tour and talked about how Anne started the business—market research—from her kitchen table and grew it over eight years.

Anne and her staff would contract with a firm to test their product or advertising campaign. They would pick a target group (to the contracting firm's specifications), assemble the people, and show them the companies' product—usually, but not always, a television commercial—and record their reactions. The participants, mostly eight to twelve carefully selected individuals, would sit in a comfortable living room environment and discuss the product. Company representatives concealed behind a one-way mirror would film and record their conversations. Many Japanese auto commercials were tested this way before being released for general television audiences in the USA.

When Anne leased this office, daughter Allison, an architect, laid out the interior spaces and Anne and daughters, Allison and Caroline, selected the furniture. The overall effect was unusual: professional yet resembling a comfortable, upscale family home.

Entering, one faced an elegant, antique, Chinese medicine chest with many, small, box-like drawers. On top was a vase with a single white orchid. Tom explained that Anne had chosen an orchid as her signature and always had a fresh one displayed.

After the tour and a meal of assorted Italian dishes graciously served by her staff, we gathered in one of the interview rooms and swapped funny stories about Anne. Through one of the open French doors to a small outside balcony, I noticed a heavy, chilling fog rolling in from the Pacific, a short three blocks to the west. The loneliness of a mysterious, foggy night outside contrasted with the comfortable and communal gathering inside and drew us together.

I missed Anne; but then my spirits lifted, when I saw her personality—smiling, sparkling eyes and joking laughter—reflected in daughters, Allison and Caroline, and granddaughters, Hannah (13) and Sarah (10). I thought, this is just what Anne would have wished her family to do: enjoy a glass of wine while recalling all the good times we shared.

The next day we assembled at the All Saints Episcopal Church in Beverly Hills for Anne's memorial service. There we met Sharon Ousley Kling and her husband, Dan. They came in from Atlanta late the night before, along with their daughter, Rebecca, and son, Peter, and his fiancée, Connie. Arriving that morning were: David Sofge, Lucille and Tom's son, from Miami and Jolene (M. Ousley-Shepard) James, one of Anne's nieces, from Birmingham.

Three of the four surviving Ousley girls, their husbands and families, had made it. Norma Jean Ousley Beddingfield and husband, Monk, were in Knoxville where their son, Dale, was in hospital undergoing risky and complicated heart surgery.

About 200 people filled the Chapel. Tom Hoadley read a heartwarming tribute to his wife, Anne. Granddaughter, Hannah, read Isaiah 61:1-3. Those attending recited the 23rd Psalm. Brother-in-law, Tom Sofge, read John 6: 37-40 followed by all singing Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. The Reverend Doyt Conn was the Officiant and Homilist. On the altar were two sprays of exotic, tropical flowers recalling the years Anne and Tom had lived in Hawaii. The priest noted how each flower represented a part of Anne's life.

Following the service, there was a reception for family, friends, and business associates at the Park Hyatt Hotel. There, friends and employees of Pacific Research told me many stories about Anne. I'll share two.

An attractive young lady with tears in her eyes recalled how kind Anne had been to give her a job when she was divorced, broke, and had no skills. Another remembered a boring afternoon when business was slow. Anne insisted that all the girls go shopping: she wanted to buy them leather pants. How typical this was of her spontaneous generosity.

The next morning, Friday, 8 October, Tom invited the family to their condominium for breakfast. Sorrow was etched on his face and reflected in his eyes, yet he carried on, seeming to be concerned only with the well-being of his guests. Tom couldn't do enough for us. I admired his bravery and grace in what must have been a heartbreaking time.

While there, I enjoyed talking with Jack and Beverly Anderson, John's mother and father from Las Vegas, Nevada. Jack and Beverly are warm, gracious, and loving people who have raised a thoughtful, nurturing son in John, Allison's husband.

Some claim, "Death stops everything." I don't believe that. It is true, however, that "Death changes everything." The death of a loved one, family member, or friend brings confusion, chaos, disarray, pain, and change—often, dreadful change.

Facing a loss, my emotions become a confused mess of anger, remorse, and sadness that leave me with debilitating regret. I regret the many opportunities I had and didn't take: to praise an accomplishment, to say thank you for a kindness, or that I like you just the way you are.

I try to regain emotional balance by recalling Bible verses like 1 Peter 1: 24, 25:

"All flesh is like grass
and all its glory like the flower
of grass.
The grass withers,
and the flower falls,
but the word of the Lord endures forever."

Suddenly, a relationship of many years is swept aside to become a shuffled collection of frozen moments that haunt. We ask troubling questions like: who was this person; what did they mean to me; and what help can I be to those left behind.

I embrace memories as a way of refusing to let death end the relationship. I first met Anne (Ousley) Hoadley in 1961. Those were relatively ranquil days after the Bay of Pigs disaster but before the Cuban missile crisis and the coming civil rights marches that traumatized my beloved South.

As I recall, Anne came home on a visit (from Dallas) to see her parents and sisters. Frances, Anne's sister and my girlfriend, was anxious that I meet her older sister. Since I had met and liked Frances' baby sister Sharon and her married older sisters. Evelyn, Merle, Norma Jean, and their families, I looked forward to Anne's visit. (It would be sometime later before I met Frances remaining sister, Lucille, and her family.)

On a glorious, fall Saturday, we set out from Meridian for the rural community of Enterprise (about 25 miles south). With each passing mile, Frances grew more excited; she told story after story about her older sister and what they did growing up. I felt I knew Anne, who had been an airline stewardess and was now married to a hotel executive.

My first impression of Anne was her warm smile and engaging manner. She was very attractive, poised and appealing. I liked her a lot. As our visit unfolded, I learned that she, like me, loved to read both of us were enjoying lan Fleming's James Bond novels at the time. She told me that she was happiest curled up with a good book or surrounded by family. I could relate to that.

Then, Anne began questioning me in a way that hinted she thought my relationship with her younger sister might be more serious than friendship. I told her that the Navy was my career and that I could expect some sea duty and being relocated to a new duty station every 18 to 24 months. And yes, I was very fond of her sister, Frances. I was still at the I-don't-want-to-be-pinned-down stage; and I wasn't bold enough to admit even to myself how much I loved Frances.

Our conversation shifted to what I was doing in Meridian. I said that I was there as part of an advance detachment to build a Naval Auxiliary Air Station for primary jet training.

From our first conversation in the fall of 1961 to my last encounter with Anne at a reunion in Biloxi on June 18th, 2004, 43 years had passed. Her wistful smile held a glimpse of the Anne I once knew, but her frailness when I hugged her revealed she was ill. Despite this, she maintained a brave front during the reunion, mentioning only upcoming medical tests. Sadly, just 104 days later, her daughter informed us of Anne's passing.

In the years between those first and last meetings, I estimate that I spent less than 30 hours talking with Anne. (Our families seemed to be always on opposite coasts.) Our conversations were divided into small increments of fifteen to twenty minutes separated by many months, even years in some cases. Most of what I know about Anne, I learned second hand from Frances.

From those brief and infrequent conversations, I would say that Anne's politics leaned towards compassion and mercy and government responsibility for its citizens; or, in other words, she was a liberal. (In fairness, however, her views began to moderate when she became a small business owner and had to deal with the greedy, all knowing, nanny state.)

Sometimes our views clashed for I tended to emphasize justice, truth and individual responsibility; i.e., a conservative flavor. I suppose had both of us been more humble and better listeners, we might have found greater common ground.

One of the few times we talked about religion, I came away with the impression that although Anne was spiritual, she grew uncomfortable talking about church-going religion. Why, I'm not sure.

The last book we discussed was Dan Brown's Da Vinci Code. Like me, Anne was intrigued by the notion that the Holy Grail was really Jesus' bloodline from his union with Mary Magdalene. Most Christian scholars, however, reject this notion that has hung around for centuries.

Anne, like most of us, searched all her life to discover who she was. I'm not certain she ever came to terms with her myths but I do know she never stopped dreaming.

I saw Anne as a loving mother and a devoted wife who doted on her family and was generous, kind and thoughtful. She liked to have fun and she was fun to be with. Those whose life Anne touched will never forget the girl who grew up in quiet, laid-back Mississippi and flourished far away in a go-go world. I think of those old words that go like this:

No farewell words were spoken. No time to say goodbye. You were gone before we knew it and only God knows why.

(Author unknown)