parenting – Southern Providential

You see, it wasn’t until I met Mrs. Judy at a local cemetery to begin refinishing her and her husband’s bronze headstone that I realized I had just met one of the strongest, kindest, most loving women in the world.

Her husband lost his battle with brain cancer in 1991. Mrs Judy boasted of his service in Vietnam and told me how she had a veteran plaque ordered. At any rate, the stone had been placed more than enough time for a bronze marker to be tattered and worn. Henceforth, I had been brought in to refinish it.

Mrs. Judy then pointed and asked me to do the same for the single stone situated just to the west side of theirs. The stone read, Stacie Pannell, and the death date was 1985.

Before I thought (naturally), I spoke. “Oh, Mrs. Judy, your daughter, she was murdered.”.

When I began my first-year student semester at Northeast, it had been 13 years since the insanely senseless murder of an incredibly beautiful and highly intelligent Tiger Band member in the Murphy Hall dormitory. However, the story of the tragedy was something every student who has ever been issued an ID at Community College knew well.

No sick pediatric patient or dying geriatric patient has ever tugged at my heart like a grieving mother. The death of a child is something I can’t comprehend. Nor is it an empathy I can shake. Standing beside me was a precious soul who had lived with immense grief for what would be 40 years next year.

As we stood over the stone, Mrs. Judy said, “Yes. Stacie was murdered. Stacie was beautiful. She had just started her freshman-year student year at Northeast. She was happy. She was so smart and loved the band.”

Mrs. Judy stopped there, and with her head still low, she began to walk back to her car. Not one time did she mention Stephanie Alexander.

After Mrs Judy’s taillights were out of site, I quickly pulled out my phone and looked at “Who killed Stacie Pannell?” I was looking for an inmate number.

However, as I stood over the now tarnished overgrown marker, an overwhelming feeling of hurt and anguish came over me for Stacie’s family.

Stephanie was found guilty of Stacie’s murder, and, thanks to a massive system failure for the Pannel family, Stephanie spent a mere nine years behind bars for what I consider the most brutal of crimes.

Not only did Stephanie confess, she gave details of how many times she physically rared back and plowed the first thing she could find as a weapon into Stacie’s skull. Unfortunately, that something was the stock of Stacie’s drill team rifle.

The very thing Stacie loved was the thing that used to end her life.

Stacie had not a single defense wound on her body. As for the number of times she hit Stacie in the head, Stephanie recounted four, but she didn’t stop until she realized Stacie was no longer breathing.

Seriously, could there be a worse criminal roaming free in society? Stephanie has now been out of jail twice as long as Stacie was alive.

Stephanie (now Louden) boasts of being a loving mother to her son and wife to her husband. The happy family lives just down the road in Olive Branch, Mississippi.

At 59, Stephanie is a music lover, and, best I can tell, the number 69 is the number of donors she has accumulated money from on not one but two Go Fund Me pages she has created. Both within the last 5 years.

Who knew such programs were open to convicted felons? Nor did I realize we, the citizens forever pay for the healthcare of convicted felons.

Funny, the Discovery Network mentioned none of that when they did a fantastic job producing the “On the Case with Paula Zahn” episode regarding Stacie Pannells’ murder. Granted, it aired prior to Stephanie’s plea to the online world for financial assistance.

However, Discovery, just like every other media outlet, did nothing but give Stephanie Alexander a voice. A platform. A chance to lie and speak of an appeal. So I will stop there for fear of giving her any incredibly undeserved scaffolding.

I’m writing this because of Mrs. Judy.

You see, I stopped her on the way back to her car that day. “Mrs. Judy,” I said. “Do you mind if I write about and post a picture of Stacie’s headstone on my website?” Her response echoed in my heart and brought tears to my eyes. It was the exact same one I’ve heard time after time from grieving mothers. “Please do. I don’t want anybody to forget my Stacie.”

If you are a reader who had the opportunity to know Stacie Pannell, attended Ripley High School, or attended Northeast Community College in the mid-80s, I’d greatly appreciate your comments highlighting the beauty of Stacie Pannell’s life.

My intentions are to place it in PDF form and give it to Miss Judy. I would like for her to know Stacie has not been forgotten. By all means, share this post.

St Louis was a good six hour drive from Myrtle. Gatlinburg, a good seven.

Both were further than my daddy cared to be from our little 80 acre patch in Myrtle, Mississippi.

I was about three years old when my daddy’s job took him out of town. Mama said he had gone to St Louis. I don’t recollect. But it soon became a trip none of us would forget.

The sun was just starting to show through the orange and brown plaid curtains of the motel room. Which meant nothing to my daddy since the street lights had beamed through them all night (we didn’t do street lights in Hargrove Holler). It was now his first day at this particular job site and had already been a long night.

Daddy got out of bed, got around, smoked a cigarette, had several cups of coffee, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, put on his clothes, grabbed his work coat, and reached for his empty lunch box. Mother wasn’t there to pack his lunch. So naturally the last thing daddy did right before walking out the door, was slip into his old work boots.

Daddy put his boots on. Sat back down on the bed and called mama. “Mary I am coming home”.

My mother has always had a high demand for explanations. She waited for his belated response. And as usual it drug out like molasses in January.

“I got up, got around, smoked a cigarette, had my coffee, brushed my teeth, combed my hair, put my clothes on, grabbed my coat, reached for my lunchbox but you weren’t here to pack it. Then, naturally right before I walked out the door, I went to put on my old work boots. There in the toe of my boot sat Mandi’s little blue dinosaur. I reckon she put it in there while you were packing my clothes. I reckon she thought I’d forget her. I reckon I’m not gonna let that happen anymore”.

Most of those lucky enough to know my daddy, know it wouldn’t have taken much to get him back home. Daddy shed a whole new light on the phrase “light traveler”. But according to him, Mandi Lee and that little blue dinosaur were certainly to blame.

Daddy was home before dark that day. He put the little blue dinosaur on top of his bedroom dresser, and forever, that’s where it stayed.

Nearly twenty years passed, and I had made the decision, bought the dress, and reserved a venue.

A venue for two none the less. Out of shame I wanted no friends or family in attendance. I was 19, terrified, and away from home for the first time (okay so at three months pregnant I had obviously been out of the house).

In a cabin, on some hill (with street lights) in Gatlinburg I woke up to prepare for my wedding.

I got up, got around, had my cup of coffee, smoked a cigarette, put on make up, hot rolled my hair, slipped into my wedding dress, and grabbed my Sunday coat off the hanger. It was March 13th and all of East Tennessee looked like a winter wonder land.

Thirty minutes before our ceremony and Scott was outside deicing the truck. I was inside putting on earrings, and getting his wedding ring out the box. Naturally the last thing I did before walking out the door was step into my shoes.

There in the toe of that ivory heel, sat that little blue dinosaur.

Daddy wasn’t telling me to come home. In his own special way (which was sweeter than any jar of molasses) he was telling me, no matter the circumstances I would always be that same little girl he found worth coming home for.

My Daddy was simply saying he was proud of me.

I sure do miss him

Category: parenting

“I Don’t Want Anyone Forget My Stacie”

Little Blue Dinosaur