Scarlett in the Bell Jar

Deadline and The Don sittin' in a tree....

2010-06-11T14:51:00.001-07:00

My cat Deadline has a serious crush on Don Juan, the chihuahua. She grooms him regularly, and Don Juan basks in the attention.

Seriously.

He's big pimpin'.

I belong in a petri dish

2010-05-27T14:09:00.000-07:00

I think I have created the super-germ.

The hacking, sniffling, fever, shivering, wheezing, snotting cold is just about to overcome me. I now can't imagine life without a kleenex and an antibiotic schedule.

I think it has gone away, and dang-it if it has hung around for another day. Maybe I need an exorcism.

Do they put Benadryl in the food?

2010-05-14T12:12:00.000-07:00

Every Friday after my civic club meeting, I'm like the walking dead. I leave there in a semi-conscious state and am a complete zombie all afternoon.

My question is why do they call it soul food when it should be called doze food?

Dear salad,
Please join Rotary soon.

Love,
Scarlett

What do you mean you haven't read James and the Giant Peach?

2010-05-13T12:44:00.000-07:00

As a child, I loved books. My mother taught me to read before I started school just from reading the same books to me over and over and over. It stuck, and now I can't imagine what my life would be without books!

I have taken my 11-year-old nephew to the book store several times, and I have purchased appropriate reading material for him. However, he has yet to read any of the great classics I purchased, and he insists on reading some book about whimpy kids. Oh, why?

Recently, I visited one of the public school libraries, and I asked the librarian what the kids were reading today. She explained that the kids like "movie books." I really have no idea what those are, but she did tell me that Beverly Cleary wasn't popular anymore. WHAT????

The first book I can remember being read is Chicken Little by my Aunt Pete.

My very first best friend, Aunt Pete was in her 80s when I was born, and she babysat me while mother was running errands or picking up my sisters from school. Chicken Little was the only children's book she owned, and so we read it every single day. I remember telling Aunt Pete that she looked like Henny Penny.

My love for Beverly Cleary's Ramona series came next. I read them all! Actually, I was a little like Ramona.

Then there was Charlotte's Web. I read this book so much, the cover eventually fell apart, and even though I knew what would happen, I cried every time.

The book drew me in. I grew up on a farm, and my grandfather had several pigs for a while. Eventually, after slaughtering Old Ulysses, the last pig, my sister and I made a playhouse out of the old pig pen. We used a can of Lysol a day to stand the smell.

Eventually, we moved our club to the hayloft.

I also loved all the Judy Bloom books except for the dirty ones. Momma made me wait to read several of her books until I was old enough. However, Superfudge is still my favorite.

In the second grade, I attempted to read Little Women, and I actually finished it. I did a book report on it, and my teacher (also my dad's sister) was so impressed that I read at such a high level. It's surprising I could get my big ol' head on the school bus after all the accolades.

Of course, I spent so much time in the dictionary looking up all of those wonderful Victorian words, I couldn't appreciate it like I should. I love the Victorian innocence of it all.

My fourth grade teacher read my class James and the Giant Peach. It is still one of my favorite books. I have a copy of it in my study next to the collected plays of Tennessee Williams.

Sometimes, I will flip through that book and think to myself, "Ronald Dahl was brilliant. What an imagination! If only I could be that creative." Then I will feel sorry for myself and pout for a while.

Eventually, I found Anne of Green Gables. Sigh. What a beautiful story.

I will admit that Anne was a bit sensitive, and her absolute rudeness to Gilbert Blythe would have gotten me punished. However, even today when I read it, I wring my hands with anticipation for Anne to finally discover her feelings for Gilbert.

I'm best on a deadline

2010-05-12T13:08:00.000-07:00

If you're bored with life -- you don't get up every morning with a burning desire to do things -- you don't have enough goals. ~Lou Holtz

I've been a little preoccupied lately. Sometimes my work takes control of me -- mind, body, and soul. However, every few months or so, I reassess my priorities.

So in the spirit of setting goals for myself -- personal not professional -- here is what I've come up with.... (okay they are small and insignificant and even silly to some, but every little bit helps...wishing to save the world or end hunger just isn't feasible for one person to do.)

1. Make my bed every day. I just got new bedding made and my bed is luxurious and beautiful. Of course, it's not so beautiful with all of the handmade pillows thrown on my rocking chair.

2. Establish a monthly game night. Saturday night, my significant other and I played games with my sister and nephew. There was just the four of us, and we have the best time. I'm am competitive as hell, and game night turns me into a maniac. I love it!

3. Go to bed by 10 p.m. This is the hardest goal I will have to meet. I'm not a good sleeper, and I am a notorious night owl. However, when I go to bed early, the mornings don't seem as bad. It will also help me keep goal #1.

4. Write and read a little bit more. I read and write all day, every day. When I get home, my brain is like cottage cheese. I end up staring comatose-like at the television all night. I'm not thinking that is the best way to spend my time. Just a thought.

5. Do one thing for myself every week. I can go to the book store, get a manicure, buy a new outfit, whatever. But I have to do it once a week, every week.

Any other suggestions for my re-prioritizing?

Not all moonlight and magnolia

2010-05-11T10:52:00.001-07:00

This year marks the 50th anniversary of To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. It is one of my favorite books of all time, illustrating the period prior to the Civil Rights era, a sad time in Southern history. Lee's work is a progressive piece of literature for its time -- promoting equality, humility, and human kindness.

If you have never read the book, go get it now. No education is complete without reading To Kill a Mockingbird.

Currently, I am reading another book set in the time of the Civil Rights era, and it is remarkable. Rarely do I suggest a book that I have yet to complete, but The Help by Kathryn Stockett is fantastic. Hopefully, I will finish it tonight.

Staying up until nearly midnight again last night reading, it is literally one that you can't put down.

Happy Mother's Day

2010-05-09T06:09:00.000-07:00

My favorite mothers....

My momma in all her glory -- out in the yard, yelling at the dog. Ahhhh, memories. Trust me, her bark is worse than her bite. There has never been a sweeter woman in the world.

The ultimate mother....my grandmother. Thelma Sexton was known as "Mother" to the entire community, and for good reason. The ultimate matriarch, Mother was stern, all-knowing, and not afraid to speak her mind. Mother was more than just a grandmother, she was our friend.

The ultimate hugger -- my memommy, Evelyn Yelverton. (No photo because blogger is acting stupid, and it won't let me upload.) Memommy smelled like White Shoulders and pastries. She was that grandmother who would yell at Momma if she punished us in any way. And, of course, my sisters and I adored her.

My sister gave birth to my only nephew, Hunter, otherwise known as Beelzebub. (Don't worry, Hunter thinks it's funny when I call him that.) Stephanie is a great mother. She is not overly strict or overbearing, but when she means business, get back.

Kudos! (Like Oprah and Gayle, only better!)

2010-05-07T12:12:00.000-07:00

It seems like just yesterday, my friend Cortney and I were lost in the Arkansas hills looking for the next Holiday Inn Express on our week-long tour across the Natural State while working for a non-profit organization. Both with little or no sense of direction, it is surprising we didn't end up at the bottom of a ravine somewhere.

Cortney is one of my all-time favorite travel buddies. One fantastic trip -- and I use that term loosely -- two hours after we left, Cortney discovered she had forgotten her purse, and we had to call and express mail it to the hotel. The trip back was just as fun. If I am not mistaken, I believe we listened to the book on tape of Five People You Meet In Heaven by Mitch Albom -- sobbing uncontrollably. Good times.

Cortney and I decorating for a special event. I'm sure it is evident that we couldn't find a ladder.

Cortney is a great sidekick. Always dressed to the nines, she is always game for an "emergency" trip to the salon after I firmly decide to chop six inches off the length of my hair or lunch luxuriously at a tea room in Midtown Memphis. (Ah, high tea. Sigh.) And....she is the only other gal my age who can rival my love of antiques, entertaining, and essentially making the word a more beautiful place.

Well, good news, Cortney has recently started her own blog, Chipper Chickie. Take a gander.....

More kudos goes to my delightful neurotic parents. After years of blood, sweat, and tears working on more than an acre of flowerbeds, sweeping lawns and thousands of stairs, momma and daddy's yard is featured in this month's DeSoto Magazine. Check out the article online.

Of course, they were much more excited that their dog, McKenzie, was pictured twice in the spread. She is SO photogenic!

Growing up, I was expected to weed, mow, water, and plant tiny little bedding plants in their MONSTROUS garden. Luckily, I now have my own home that has minimal flowerbeds and don't have to slave away in the boiling Mississippi sun every weekend.

However, they still do -- like 20 hours a week. Talk about dedication!

Way to go, momma and daddy! I'm so proud.

2010-05-06T06:20:00.000-07:00

My annual Kentucky Derby Party was held recently, and it was, as usual, a blazing hit. (I am a bit biased.)

Stormy weather blew through Mississippi Saturday, but the festivities were not dampened.

Thank you to my friend and fellow book club member Keetha Mosley for the photos!

Me and my favorite co-host, Daddy

Everyone knows how much Keith loves getting dressed up to eat finger sandwiches...

Mint juleps on the porch

And for those who don't want to take the enamel off their teeth with the mint juleps, Momma's famous bourbon punch, "The recipe."

The best cheese straws this side of the Mississippi!

A little Southern cuisine....

Valentine's Weekend in the Delta

2010-02-15T12:39:00.001-08:00

Sunflower River at Holly Bluff

Murphy Landing near Hollandale

Barn where The Crossroads was filmed

Mission style church near Holly Bluff

House at Murphy (Sweetie's childhood home)

My sweetie and the woods

2010-01-13T12:44:00.000-08:00

Sweetie's cousin posted this picture on Facebook, and I love it.

As most of you know, I am way more Southern belle than I am country girl, and so the outdoors are really not my thing. There are the bugs and dirt and splinters and, well, nature.

Sweetie, on the other hand, is all about nature. He even goes into the woods to "window shop" -- that is to look but not shoot.

First of all, my butt would be in the warm bed at 5 a.m. if I wasn't going to shoot anything, not that I ever would. Second, I can go stand on my porch and see all the wildlife I want.

I live in town, but it is a rural community. Deer are nearly tame and don't even run off when I drive up or walk onto the porch. They seriously stand and look at me like I should run. When I get home from the office in the afternoon, I have to stop my car and let the deer stroll out of my driveway.

Oh, and I forgot about the raccoon that sexually assaulted my poor cat, Deadline. In her fright, she climbed the poplar behind my house. On her way down, she missed a branch and fell with a whoosh! She kind of limped up the back steps, but she is fine now.

That racoon just stood over in the side of the yard and glared at me with his glowing yellow eyes.

Sweetie instructed me to grab the shotgun and kill the raccoon.

Seriously, I'm sure my neighbors would be thrilled to see me trotting through the yard, armed with a shotgun, and wearing my satin pajamas and bed jacket.

So, no. I don't think I will be donning camo anytime soon and climbing into a tree stand.

But doesn't sweetie look cute in his camo? So manly.

Some leftovers from the holidays.....

2010-01-07T08:40:00.000-08:00

I went all out on holiday decorations this year (well, Dot and Richard Sexton went all out this year), and since I sat alone in the dark staring at my Christmas trees every night, I thought I would share.

****Remember I didn't even put up a wreath last year, so when I say all out, I mean what normal people usually put up at Christmas.
******Reminder #2 -- I am completely domestically challenged, and stood around most of the time like a blob as Momma did her thing.

We tried to keep to the period of the house outside. Real candles. Not the most efficient way to light the walk, but it looked really pretty. They must have had better eyesight back then....

Momma decorated this tree. Daddy and I helped as well. He sat in the chair pointing out holes and I put hooks on ornaments. (Don Juan always manages to get in the picture):

I found these great bird ornaments:

Keith and I decorated this tree ourselves. It was the fun tree with memento ornaments and of course an ornament tribute to SEC football.

It still amazes me what Momma can whip up out of a bag of crap and some ribbon.

The terror of Itty Bitty Kitty

2009-07-27T14:05:00.000-07:00

So sorry for the long delay between posts....I have been so busy. Anyway...got something funny to share!

Recently, I agreed to foster a four week old kitten rescued from Highway 82.

As the president of the humane society, I was obligated to take him. With my three dogs, it is impossible for me to take another dog, but a cat -- now, that is the lazy man's pet. Figuring I would find a home for him soon, I christened him Itty Bitty Kitty -- far from the string of literary names I have saddled my poor pets with in the past.

At first, he was shy -- hiding behind the refrigerator or on the shelf of the baker's rack. That lasted about a week.

I saw gradual changes. Attacking me at the door waiting to be fed. Sleeping in the dog bed perched up against Don Juan the Chihuahua. Learning to climb onto the kitchen counter to tear into a ziploc bag and help himself to a blueberry muffin. That last episode got him a trip out in the yard.

He quickly learned to terrorize my dogs. I caught him standing on the coffee table, watching for Skipper to walk past. When Skipper reached a reasonable distance, Itty Bitty Kitty launched himself onto Skipper's back like a cowboy at a rodeo.

Skipper was demented after the event.

Okay, I know I go on and on about my menagerie of pets, but I just had to share his newest scheme to get my attention.

Hanging from my back door screen -- just like one of those suction cup car animals.

Yes, I know. I have no life but to observe my herd, but they do make me smile.

All sorts of randomness

2009-04-07T09:50:00.000-07:00

Recently went home to see the family and I came across this:

They served food out of a trailer that read "Chihuahua" on the side. From an advertising standpoint, probably not the best marketing campaign -- unless you're from one of those third world countries and dogs are a delicacy.

Don Juan is currently in a support group, but he tries to put on a brave face.

The Don:

In other news, I worked on my completely neurotic fear of heights recently as I rode to the top of this "Ewok" tower in Hot Springs, Ark.

I am completely petrified of heights. Seriously, I can't even stand on a chair. I even get scared when other people aren't on the ground.

So, my sweetie and I go to this mountain tower, and of course, sweetie wants to go up to the top. Even the girl behind the register is trying to "sell" me on going up there. By the way, her pitch -- "There is an entire history of Bill Clinton on the top level."

Seriously. Bill Clinton is going to get me up that dang tower? One moment while I chuckle. Ha. He. He. He. Ha.

Anyway, sweetie convinces me, and we walk to the elevator. It opens, and the entire back is glass. I mean, it was obviously my day for a nervous breakdown.

After some more coaxing, I get into that glass death chamber and squash my face into the corner next to the buttons. I felt I would be okay getting on and off if I could just stare into that corner and not think about being in a freaking mountain tower.

But, NO! That damn elevator "talked" the entire trip -- "The Hot Springs Mountain tower is 3,452 feet above the city of Hot Springs. See the sweeping views of the valley down below...."

I was obviously being punished for something I had done in the past.

Finally at the top, it was as if I were in a high rise building. I didn't freak out and embarrass sweetie in front of the other tourists. It really wasn't so bad -- except all the Bill Clinton crap.

Until, we had to come down again in Willie Wonka's talking elevator.

Metaphor of my day

2009-03-10T16:17:00.000-07:00

A couple tidbits.....

2009-02-23T12:42:00.001-08:00

Recently, I was diagnosed with sleep apnea -- you know where you literally stop breathing on an off throughout the night.

Well, it turns out I stop breathing about 24 times and hour, and when I do stop, I must wake up in order to start breathing again. Since I am not dead, that means I wake up a lot. A whole lot.

To sum it all up, I haven't had a good night sleep in 10 years. Seriously.

Well, that will soon change. I have been fitted this this contraption:

My significant other calls it my "snorkel." I kind of like that better than C-pap -- which is just way to close to "pap smear."

The problem is: I can't get it to stay on my head during the night. Last night, I ended up with it tangled up around my neck.

I will try again tonight, but I might have to maneuver some sort of chin strap or something of that nature.

Tips are much appreciated.

On a happier note, I have joined the Winona Adult Tennis League. Yep, I sure did.

Actually, I really said yes because I was so excited that someone wanted me on their team! I mean all of my insecurities that stemmed from all those years of gym class was instantly squashed as soon as I was asked.

I guess I was so thrilled, I completely forgot that I had no idea how to play tennis, and I hate exercise.

After my first couple of practices, I discovered a couple things.

1. I should probably invest in one of those portable defibrillator machines -- just in case.

2. There are some seriously cute tennis accessories out there.

3. I have little to no hand-eye coordination.

4. You really can throw your back out by missing the ball.

5. I probably won't be asked to join the team after they see how utterly sad I am on the court.

6. Those can't-you-get-a-better-job-for-yourselves-? net boys are completely underrated. After chasing tennis balls around for hours, I was pooped. Okay, honestly, I wanted to fall out in the middle of the parking lot. I mean, it hurt to break on the way home.

I will keep you informed of my progress, but don't expect miracles. I am not expecting to win much of anything on the court.

I'm still here just....

2009-01-27T09:52:00.000-08:00

I know I haven't posted in a while, but I have been a very busy girl! I will have a new post by the end of the week.

If Mother isn't happy, nobody's happy!

2009-01-02T12:57:00.000-08:00

Every year on Christmas Eve, my family gathers at my Aunt Jean’s house for a Christmas feast, scripture reading, and gift exchange. The more than 50 members of my extended family cram into the house for the Sexton family’s most cherished tradition.

Before my grandparents passed away, the dinner was held at their house. Daddy lined tables up in the den and kitchen for the adults, and we kids were banished to the laundry room. The formal living room held the Christmas tree and a mountain of presents that took nearly 20 minutes to pass out.

My grandmother hated Christmas. It made her nervous to have that many people for dinner, but she fixed a smile on her face and acted gracious to her guests. Most didn’t even realize she was counting the minutes for them to leave.

My sisters and I knew. Every year, we were in charge of decorating her Christmas tree, and without fail, it was a struggle. Her arguments were the same.

“You are getting those needles all over my floor.”

“Look at the dust on that thing. It’s going to mess up my clean house.”

“I can’t believe, y’all want to drag all of that old junk out of the attic.”

However, when we finished and the mess was cleaned up, she and Granddaddy sat for hours on the sofa in the dark watching the lights.

“I think this is the prettiest one we have ever had,” she said. Of course, every year’s tree was the prettiest tree.

Mother, as everyone called my grandmother, was very stuck in her ways. Loveable and endearing, she was also bossy and the ultimate Type-A. She was where the phrase “If momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy” originated.

During the afternoon on Christmas Eve, Momma sent Rotel dip over to my grandparents for those setting up something to snack on. This began the real Christmas drama.
“You people are going to ruin your appetites and not want to eat any dinner. I have been cooking for a week, and you won’t eat a thing.”

She even called Momma to bless her out for sending over unapproved food.

The real breakdown happened after dinner when Granddaddy and all the grandchildren set off fireworks in the front yard. Bottle rockets, Roman candles, firecrackers, flowers, and other stuff that went boom – my grandfather always stocked up for Christmas Eve.

Of course, my kamikaze cousins used the explosives as weapons – throwing bottle rockets at each other and setting off entire packs of firecrackers at one time.
One year, Momma stepped out on the porch just as my cousin, Lesa, threw a pack of fireworks at her. She tried to swat them away, but they detonated just as they reached her hand. Her thumbnail was blown right off the bed.

Another year, someone put a firecracker in Granddaddy’s back pocket. The old man did a jig across the front yard and walked around all night with a burned place on the back of his pants.

Mother hated the fireworks, and so did I. I hid in the corner of the porch away from the line of fire, but Mother got right out there in the middle of them – hollering and pointing for them to clean the mess up.

After the scripture reading, gifts were handed out, and Mother and Granddaddy retired to their bedroom. Hundreds of gifts were brought to them and laid on their bed. They just sat in chairs by the window and waited for the ceremony to end.
Daddy and my aunts made sure Mother’s house was returned to its original state before they left for the evening, but I will guarantee you Mother spent a week scrubbing and fussing and tidying up. As for the mess in her front yard, my sisters and I were instructed to clean up the firework remains Christmas Day.

For me, Christmas is about tradition. Meals of turkey and dressing. Pecan pies and lime Jello molds. Breakfast with my family on Christmas Day.

However, Christmas Eve will never be the same without Mother’s temper tantrums and Granddaddy’s instigation. The older I get, the more I realize that Mother stressed over the meal and the house and even the Christmas tree because she wanted everything to be perfect for her family.

It’s kind of like that “prettiest tree.” It’s a pain getting it up, and it usually makes a huge mess. But there is nothing like sitting in the dark watching the lights to know it was worth every minute of it.

'Go get your shawl' and other Christmas tales

2008-12-17T11:17:00.000-08:00

During the Depression, my great aunt, Tura, taught at a country school in Eudora. Poverty was a way of life in rural Mississippi, and with the Depression lingering for many years, her students never experienced Christmas morning with a mountain of presents under a festive tree. In a time of bread lines to feed those who were hungry, even a traditional holiday meal was rare.

Needless to say, Santa Claus was an image never conjured in the mind of Aunt Tura’s students, and she hoped to change that during the annual Christmas pageant at the school.

With Mary, Joseph, the shepherds, and three wise men, the pageant illustrated the first Christmas, complete with singing spiritual carols. Aunt Tura planned to surprise the children after the play with a special appearance from Santa Claus, and boy, did she.

As the audience applauded the young actors for their performance, Santa Claus burst into the school house and shouted, “Ho, ho, ho.”

With his red felt suit and curly white beard, Santa lumbered through the door with his bag full of goodies. The kids went berserk, and not in the I-just-won-a-date-with-Elvis kind of way.

Screaming from fear, they launched themselves out the windows – the manger overturning and a plastic baby

Jesus falling to the floor. Like pirates bailing out of a sinking ship, all of Bethlehem flew out the building and hit the ground at a sprint – running through neighboring cotton fields to safety.

Still inside the school, parents sat open-mouthed in shock at the chaos around them, and poor Santa was left in the middle of the room with no children to deliver his goods.

I can’t imagine never knowing Santa Claus. On Christmas Eve, we would have dinner at my grandparents, complete with a gift exchange and scripture readings (and not in that order much to the disgust of the Sexton children). With our bellies full and a new toy, my sisters and I would return home, wash our faces, and climb into bed for the longest night of the year.

At approximately 4 a.m. we would wake and perch ourselves on the top step of the stairs – forbidden from going down until a “reasonable” hour. That was usually 6 a.m. when my parents wobbled down the hallway with bed hair and red eyes from “waiting up to greet Santa” the night before.

Again, we were forced to wait on the stairs for Momma to make coffee and Daddy to get the camera. With a simple “okay” called up the stairs, my sisters and I thundered down the stairs, swinging around the banister, and trying to gain traction on wood floors in footy pajamas.

Bulging stockings hanging from the mantel were the first to catch our eye. Inside were plastic candy canes filled with chocolate, decks of cards, silly putty, and Lifesaver Storybooks.

Then as if the heavens opened up, the gift display left from Santa shone in the early morning light. I always wondered why Santa never left toys inside the boxes, and there was never any assembly required. Every gift had the necessary batteries, and bicycles were always ready to ride. Santa was so thoughtful!

Santa was always tested at the Sexton house because most times he was required to buy three of everything – matching dresses, different colored pastel bikes, and three Barbies in different outfits.

Santa once delivered three matching macramé shawls for my sisters and me to wear to church on Sunday. I will confess Santa must have gotten our house confused with another because the last thing any of us wanted was a macramé shawl.

White yarn, these shawls had a single button at the neck and two slits at the pocket to stick your hands through. Fringe dangled from the hem. They were the most unattractive garments we had ever seen.

Every Sunday after, Daddy would insist for us to “go get your shawls,” and we would stomp back upstairs in protest. Apparently even in the warm weather, a shawl was needed. There was something about the “night air” that was harmful. (Now thirty-something, I still haven’t figured out what.)

Oh, but I was the lucky one. As the youngest, I got hand-me-downed Stephanie’s shawl and Deana’s shawl. I was still getting my shawl in junior high.

But not all of my gifts were unwanted. In fact, many of the same things Santa left for me, he will be leaving for children this year. Hello Kitty, Care Bears, Cabbage Patch Kids, Barbie, Smurfs, and others are still being longed for today by children across the United States.

We even had video games, but we did not ask for a Nintendo or Xbox. We asked for Atari. A family gift from Santa, my sisters and I ripped open the package and found our new Atari – shiny black plastic adorned with wood-grained stickers. It came with three games, Frogger, Miss PacMan, and Donkey Kong.

There were three games, but only two joysticks. Many fights ensured over which one would be left out, and again as the youngest, it was usually me.

Momma also enjoyed the Atari – maybe a little much. She would stay up all night playing Frogger, her game of choice. She was truly addicted to it at one time and had nearly beaten the machine before the intervention.

Christmas is definitely the holiday for children. Now that I am grown and asking for bath towels from Santa, the thrill is gone. I even secretly wish I could sleep in on Christmas morning, and I am sure Momma and Daddy wished for that as well.

Bu t I miss the excitement. I miss the anticipation. I miss the frenzy. I miss a time when a Lifesaver Storybook could make everything in the world seem good again.

Lessons from the gridiron

2008-12-05T13:31:00.000-08:00

Last Friday, I watched the 2008 Egg Bowl at my significant other’s deer camp. Not only was I the only female in attendance, I was the only Rebel in the house.

My heart broke for all those men who were so devastated by the loss of their team. I hope they will recover and not need intense psychotherapy. (Note: Prior two sentences are dripping in sarcasm.)

I watched the game calmly in my chair – conducting myself with dignity. I did not chant one “Hotty Toddy.” I did not mock them for having more than 50 negative total yards rushing. I did not snicker at one interception for a touchdown.

I am certain my face clearly illustrated my smugness, and my air of superiority was definitely thick. But I did not gloat. I didn’t have too. Those Bulldog fans decompressed before my very eyes.

It was kind of sad, but I’m not complaining. I didn’t have to hear one, “How ‘bout them Dawgs?” Everyone already knew how the Dawgs were.

Being a lifelong Ole Miss fan, I understand disappointment. All four years I attended Ole Miss, our team was on athletic probation. No bowl games. No televised games. Tough recruiting.
However, I survived, and I learned a little bit in the process. I learned a little about winning, and I learned a lot about losing.

At a young age, we are forced to choose between the Rebels and the Bulldogs. I chose the Rebels, but I could just as easily have been ringing a cowbell right now. Personally, I’m happy if either team is victorious – with the exception of the Egg Bowl. I’ve been waiting to talk smack for an entire year!

Competitive by nature, I enjoy sparing with the Bulldog fan about this and that – neither of us have reason for puffed up egos. However, it’s all in good fun. Football is football, and all football is good.

In fact, my appreciation of football has spilled over into my everyday life. If life is the ultimate game, why not use a few lessons from the gridiron to help muddle through.

1. Who is calling the plays in your life? Just like in football, I have someone upstairs calling the plays. It is up to me to listen and have faith in the play that is called.

2. Everyone deserves a team, and I’m not referring to people in numbered jerseys. Disappointments are easier to swallow when others are there to pick you up when life tackles you to the ground. In turn, success is so much sweeter when someone is there to dance with you in the end zone.

3. Luckily, I have had many coaches and trainers directing me throughout my life. In high school, my English teacher, Denise Purvis, steered me to a career in writing. As a green reporter in my early 20s, I was taught advanced civics and all the bells and whistles of municipal government from a city administrator who took the time to make sure I knew enough to get the story right. Even now, as an editor and publisher, I depend on the wisdom of two veteran newspaper men to help me weigh the tough decisions.

4. Everyone needs cheers and applause for a job well done. What motivation! I learned long ago to surround myself with people who bring out the best in me. Mark Twain said, “Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you, too, can become great.”

5. During a particularly stressful time, a simple timeout allows me to gather my thoughts and refocus. Most days, I make an effort to leave my office for 30 minutes to an hour for a little nourishment – the dietary kind as well as the psychological kind. I might read a couple of chapters of a book, stop by for some time with my dogs, or relax for a few minutes with my thoughts. Returning to the office, I am ready to begin again.

In Mississippi, our lives are saturated with football – dinnertime discussions, water cooler replays, life-long affiliations. American’s sport is great to watch, but I have found it a better way to live.

So much to be thankful

2008-12-01T15:09:00.001-08:00

With chaos brewing in the world around us, one might not think there is much to be thankful. Well, I disagree. I have much to be thankful.

I am thankful for the Ole Miss Rebels being ranked (if only by the AP) just in time for Thanksgiving.

I am thankful for TIVO, Diet Coke, my Blackberry, and my digital camera. I am thankful for book club, Momma’s homemade dressing, and hour-long telephone conversations with my best friend, Heather.

I am thankful for a comfortable home to gather with friends, relax with a good book, or leave the busy world behind if just for a moment.

I am thankful for living in a community of helpful neighbors and God-fearing individuals.

I am thankful for going to work every day, and I am thankful my profession is one I love. A good friend once told me that if you love your job, you will never work a day in your life. He was right.

I am thankful of having plenty of food to eat, clothes to wear, and the little luxuries that make life sweet.

I am thankful for happy childhood memories. I am not in therapy, and I do not blame my parents for all of my failures and short comings. My childhood might not have been perfect, but I wouldn’t change one moment.

I am thankful to all those who are gone but not forgotten. It is they who have shaped my life in every way.

I am thankful for my healthy, highly involved parents. Regardless of my age, I will always be their baby girl, and despite my independent streak, it is reassuring to have their guidance.

I am thankful for my sisters. Growing up, we bickered and sparred and fought, but no matter what, we have always been there for each other. They were my first friends, and as an adult, they are my best friends.

I am thankful for my significant other, Keith. He has always been supportive of my ambitions and my dreams. He allows me to be everything I dreamed.

I am thankful for friends. They have shared my tears, my joys, and my triumphs. They have also shared the blame.

I am thankful for the joy my four critters display when I return home each night.
In other words, I am thankful to be loved.

I am thankful for being an American and enjoying the liberties this country guarantees. And to those men and women in uniform who protect that freedom every day, my appreciation cannot be measured.

I am thankful for those who gave the ultimate sacrifice on the battlefield, and to the vision of our forefathers that built this great country.

I am thankful for prayer and faith and hope for the future.

Cicero said, “Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all the others.”

This Thanksgiving, reflect and give thanks for what is important to you– no matter how small. Count them, and you will realize just how blessed you really are.

Daddy, may I take the wheel?

2008-11-19T11:46:00.000-08:00

Sunday afternoon, my parents and sister visited me in Winona. Like the Beverly Hillbillies, they pulled into town with a pickup truck full of furniture and other odds and ends to finish furnishing my home. I miss seeing my family every day, so a visit for any reason is perfectly fine with me.

According to my sister, Deana, the trip was long. Traveling in Daddy’s truck is only comfortable if you ride in the front seat, but Deana did convince Momma to ride in the backseat. She also managed to convince Daddy to take us to dinner.

We decided to take a little tour of the area – especially the antebellum homes in Winona and Carrollton, and then head over to Greenwood to eat. I drove. Daddy sat in the passenger seat – gripping the legs of his pants with white-knuckled fists.

“Watch the road,” he shouted. “Watch the road.”

He complained about me getting to close to the ditch (I was simply driving the left lane). He complained about me handing Deana my cell phone (most people can do more than one thing at a time). He complained about my speed.

“Watch those people on the bikes.” I thought I needed to watch the road.

Funny thing, Daddy taught me to drive. At 15, I got my driver’s permit but still had never been behind the wheel of a car. I had 30 days to learn to drive before I got my license.

One Saturday, Daddy informed me that he would give me a driving lesson. I climbed into the driver’s seat of his 1985 Lincoln Town Car – all 25 feet of it. The car was so big, eight adults could ride comfortably on two seats and four others could sit in the truck.

My lesson lasted about three minutes. While backing out of the driveway, I ran off the pavement and into the drainage culvert at the street. Defeated, I trudged back into the house – leaving Daddy screaming and hollering in the front yard.

Two weeks later, we started out again – from the street this time. Daddy directed me down winding, country roads. I managed to keep it on the pavement, but I did have issues with a one lane railroad trestle. We switched seats while Daddy passed under it.

I practiced for about an hour before we headed home. Daddy didn’t holler at me during the lesson, but he did make a smart comment about me scaring him to death as he went into the house.

A week later, I managed to pass my driving test. Personally, I think the nice lady with the DMV felt sorry for me.

At 15 and one month, I was a licensed driver who still did not know how to drive. I could keep the car in the right lane, but I had issues with turning, parking, and reversing. Despite all of this, I convinced my parents to let me “cruise” Stateline Road in Southaven that Friday night. My sister, Stephanie, even let me use her new car.

Mind you, I have never driven anywhere but country roads, but I was certain I could make it on Stateline Road on the busiest night of the week. I was wrong.

I had not been out for more than an hour before I ran Stephanie’s new car under the rear end of a Dooley truck. When my parents arrived on the scene, they were eerily calm.

“She’s the youngest of my three girls,” Daddy told the police officer.

The officer nodded with a smile that said, “Oh, okay. You must be a pro at this.”

In fact, Daddy was a pro at this. By that time, I had already been in three fender-benders with my two older sisters, and each had been in separate accidents without me in the car. Daddy had even suggested he replace the passenger door to the car with something Velcro so it would be less expensive to replace. Stephanie and Deana always managed to take out that same door.

I wish I could say that was my one and only accident. Well, involving another car, it was. I managed to hit the big green dumpster behind my school, run through the garage wall, take out more mail boxes than I can count, hit a light pole, and run through a neighbors retaining wall.

Once in college, while on a 2 a.m. frozen yogurt run to Chevron in Oxford, a monster truck ran over my car in the parking lot. When I say ran over, I mean ran over my car while I watched in horror from inside the store. (I was in a marked parking space). As he bounced over the hood of my car, his trailer hitch wedged into my car’s engine. Two tow trucks were dispatched to rip our cars apart.

In my own defense, not all of these mishaps were my fault. In fact, I blame Daddy for the garage wall because his car was not entirely on its side of the garage. And the light pole – my car went completely out of control by itself like it was possessed.

Because of my spotty driving record, my first car was our 1984 Ford F150 farm truck. It was brown, and it always had grass clippings, mulch, or dead leaves in the back. I named the truck Loretta.

Loretta had seen better days when I got her. Both sisters broke her in, and she was just a fraction of her original self when I got her. She had no tape deck, and the radio would switch from FM to AM on its own. It required a forceful bang on the dashboard with my fist to flip it back to FM.

Remarkably, I was the only one of the three girls that did not get Loretta into an accident – every other car we owned, but not Loretta.

Over the past decade, my driving record has remarkably improved. I haven’t hit one inanimate object since college, and I can’t even recall my last fender bender – knock wood.

Looking for a lesson in my tale, I have thought long and hard. First, I don’t think it is I that needs to learn the lesson. Daddy taught me to drive, so therefore, his instruction is somehow flawed. If the driving instructor is screaming with fright every time you round a curve, it tends to do something to your psyche.

Second, in examining the driving histories of my grandfather, Daddy, and two sisters, I am beginning to believe our difficulties behind the wheel run in the family.

Third, when as an adult, you are required to fork out money for car insurance, to repair the car, and to settle up any tickets collected from your fender-bender, one tends to be much more careful. Ten and two, people. Times are tough.

For Lulu

2008-11-17T08:34:00.000-08:00

High up in the courts of heaven today a little dog angel waits;

With the other angels she will not play, but she sits alone at the gates.

"For I know my master will come" says she, "and when she comes she will call for me."

The other angels pass her by as they hurry toward the throne,

And she watches them with a wistful eye as she sits at the gates alone.

"But I know if I just wait patiently that someday my master will call for me."

And her master, down on earth below, as she sits in her easy chair,

Forgets sometimes, and whispers low to the dog who is not there.

And the little dog angel cocks her ears and dreams that her master's voice she hears.

And when at last her master waits outside in the dark and cold,

For the hand of death to open the door that leads to those courts of gold,

She will hear a sound through the gathering dark,

A little dog angel's bark.

~ Author unknown

Oriental Catfish? Say it ain't so!

2008-11-15T10:05:00.000-08:00

Yesterday at my weekly Winona Rotary Club meeting, a gentleman from the Catfish Institute spoke to us about the Chinese and the Vietnamese trying to take over the South's catfish industry. What is this all about?

First, they are successfully making cotton obsolete in the Mississippi Delta, and now they are going to take our catfish ponds. This has to stop.

U.S. raised catfish are grain fed and raised in clean fresh water ponds like these.

The oriental alternative:

An Australian news program did an investigative piece on Chinese catfish being imported into Australia. They showed how the fish could be poisoning those who eat it.

Which one would you want to eat from?

Yeah, I thought so. Make sure you buy catfish raised with care in the American South.

I went as the dead mainstream liberal media

2008-11-10T13:32:00.000-08:00

I spent Halloween with my family in Southaven, and as usual, we made huge spectacles of ourselves.

My nephew, Hunter, wanted me to come up for the weekend and go trick-or-treating with him and his friend, Matthew. He was going as that scary guy from "Scream." Matthew went as Michael Myers from "Halloween." (Note: Michael Myers still scares the crap out of me.)

Hunter refused to wear his mask. He looked somewhat like Obi-Wan Kenobi instead of crazy monster guy:

Matthew made Michael Myers look like he needed Botox:

On Halloween night, I made seafood etouffe for the family as Hunter and Matthew dressed in their fabulous costumes. I intended on going as a journalist (I know I am so utterly creative. I already sport the high blood pressure and fondness for alcohol like any good newspaper person.)

I was in charge of filling Hunter's "heart" with "blood" so it could be pumped out through his mask. The little vial exploded, and I was covered in red food coloring. I figured I could now go as a murdered journalist. (Notice the beer. I wasn't drinking it. It was merely a prop. I know, I don't even believe that.)

My sisters, Stephanie and Deana, and I took Hunter and Matthew and dropped them off on the sidewalk of a large, busy neighborhood. Hundreds of parents with children walked up and down the streets. We felt it best if we drove along side Hunter and Matthew in the car. Why get that unnecessary exercise? (Next year, we are thinking of investing in one of those Little Rascals.)

Stephanie, Deana, and Me:

Hunter and Matthew politely rang doorbells, got candy, and moved on. I drank beer.

Finally bored with "trick-or-treat," the boys thought it would be fun to play dead. They rang the doorbell, and then fell out on people's porches. This one man stood at the screen door (shirtless and in boxer shorts with massive chest hair and breasts, by the way....who does that?), staring down at them in amazement. It would have been perfect if Deana had not screamed out the window for the boys to "Get up right now!"

The funniest thing was actually watching Hunter and Matthew fall. They should head for the silver screen because they have "swooning" from old Hollywood down pat. I thought I was staring at Lana Turner and Rita Hayworth. They were very graceful.

They even pulled the trick on Momma. She totally fell for it regardless of what she might say. She did.

She didn't even see me hiding the Japanese maple with a camera.

I guaran-damn-ty Brangelina will marry irregardless of Y2K and Generation X

2008-11-07T08:00:00.000-08:00

This week Oxford (not the Ole Miss one) made a list of the 10 most irritating words and phrases.

The top ten most irritating phrases according to Oxford:

1 - At the end of the day
2 - Fairly unique
3 - I personally
4 - At this moment in time
5 - With all due respect
6 - Absolutely
7 - It's a nightmare
8 - Shouldn't of
9 - 24/7
10 - It's not rocket science

Well, I think Oxford missed some. I have my own list:

The 10 most irritating words and phrases according to Amanda:

1. Irregardless: So NOT a word! It means regardless, regardless.
2. Swiftboating: Used to describe unfair political bloviating. This refers to advertising sponsored by Swiftboaters for Truth that set out to discredit John Kerry as an war hero in the 2004 election against George W. Bush. It annoys me because this kind of thing has gone on for years, but until recently the media decided to give it a name to refer to anything said negative in a campaign.
3. Utilize: A very pretentious word. "Use" will do in most instances.
4. Generation X: Who is part of Generation W? I'm just asking.
5. Y2K: Seriously, who is responsible for coming up with a name for these things?
6. Phat or other "hip hop" words: If you would not use the expression in a job interview or business meeting, don't say it. If you are over the age of 18, just stop. You will never be hip again.
7. Six digits: People use this term to describe salary. If you are tacky enough to broadcast your salary, don't try to camouflage it by talking in code.
8. Instant message speak: People who speak in initials drive me insane. It is one thing if one is texting someone, but in a conversation, I don't want to try to decipher your freakish tech lingo.
9. Swear words mixed into other words: For example, "I guaran-damn-ty it."
10. Celebrity couple names: TomKat, Brangelina, Bennifer. Just plain stupid.

What are yours?

Conversations with Heaven: 'Hey, God, it's me'

2008-11-05T13:16:00.000-08:00

Last weekend, I attended the annual Memorial Service at my home church in Eudora. Every year, our church remembers members of the church family who passed away during the year. A candle is lit and a prayer said for each of the dearly departed.

I wasn't there when the church started.

The service is followed with an old fashioned covered dish dinner consisting of scrumptious casseroles, fried chicken, and Southern-style vegetables. The meal is concluded by a trip to the desert table overflowing with homemade pies and cakes. It is such a delicious occasion.

The church in the valley:

This year, my Aunt Jean served as the keynote speaker and reminisced about growing up in the Eudora Presbyterian Church. She admitted believing as a girl her weekly church offering was taken to Heaven by way of a big ladder outside the church.

Aunt Jean received roaring laughter as she described her mission to catch the church’s treasurer in the act of delivering her money to God.

God's ladder?

Isn’t it amazing what is conjured in the imaginations of children?

Growing up, I believed that God only heard my prayers and no one else’s. I considered God my friend and confidant – telling him all of my secrets and hopes and shame. I didn’t need to have a silly imaginary friend; I had God.

As a child, I was saturated in Christianity. I attended Catholic school. I attended my Presbyterian Sunday school class weekly and Bible school every summer. Momma taught Sunday school for high school students, and I tagged along on retreats, field trips, and youth fellowship. Daddy was a member of the session and was extremely active in the administration of the church. When the doors were open, we were there.

These doors:
I was introduced to God at a young age, and from that, I felt a kinship with him. I can’t even count the many nights I spent soaring on my swing set while chatting with God. I literally filled him in on my day (like he didn’t already know) and discussed pressing decisions like Christmas wishes and birthday party guest lists.

Author Haven Kimmel wrote in her memoir, Girl Named Zippy, that she developed a crush on Jesus as a child – well, Jesus and Telly Savolis. So, obviously, I am not alone in this.
One can only imagine the one-sided conversations between me and the Almighty.

“Hey, God. It’s me. I didn’t do very well on that spelling test. I know we went over it all last night, but I just couldn’t remember. I know you are disappointed.”

I confessed.

“God, I was the one who left the gate open. I know I should have told Daddy it was me, but he was so mad. I never knew horses would eat azaleas.”

Granddaddy on Merry Golden Boy aka Goldie
I also would privately plot with God to punish everyone who wronged me.

“God, my sister was mean to me again,” I said. “I think you should do something about her because she is completely out of control. Not that I am telling you what to do, but she should really punished. Whatever you think she deserves. I have some suggestions….”

When nothing happened, I figured God was just waiting for the right time to enact revenge. Eventually, I forgot and move on to another unforgivable offense.

“God, I need your help again. She just won’t stop being mean to me. You need to do something that will teach her a lesson.”

Wasn’t I a silly child?

Despite a hardening of spirit over the years (we all become jaded with age), I have held onto my kinship with God – in a less naive manner. My prayers are still in the form of a conversation, and I still rely on him to direct me in the right path.

I had one of “our” conversations just last night. “Okay, God. Whatever you think I should do, I will do. Just let me know when the time comes.”

Funny thing is he still lets me know – just a little more subtly.

What is the age limit to trick-or-treating?

2008-10-29T14:48:00.000-07:00

I am accompanying my nephew, Hunter, trick-or-treating this Halloween, and I am just giddy with anticipation.

Hunter is dressing like Jason from those Friday the 13th movies, and since those movies gave me nightmares for 15 years, I hope the sight of him doesn’t stir up my old fears of hay lofts, summer camp, and psychotic killers that just won’t die. Me on the other hand, after thinking long and hard, I have decided to go as a journalist. (Am I creative or what?)

Over the years, I have dressed up like a clown (my sisters and I were a set), Strawberry Shortcake, Smurfette, a ballerina, a character from Lil’ Abner, Elvira, a hillbilly beauty queen, and Dolly Parton. Yep, I was a regular Lou Chaney.

Momma would haul my cousins and me all over the community collecting treats – real homemade treats. We got candied apples, homemade fudge, popcorn balls, and caramel apples.
There were also treats that weren’t made to be put in a bucket.

My aunt Gaye Gaye would always make cakes. We would scream “Trick or treat,” and she would invite us in and sit us down for our treat. I wonder if non-relatives were given cake too? Knowing Gaye Gaye, I would say yes.

Trick-or-treating would take four hours to visit 15 houses because we were expected to stay and visit with all the neighbors. We would have to listen to elderly aunts talk about new medications and the neighborhood busy-body repeating information she gathered while listening in on her party line telephone.

Trick-or-treating was an event for the entire community.

That isn’t the case anymore. In the larger cities, it is much too dangerous to allow children to go door to door by themselves. Parents are forced to drive them to house of people they know, and even then, they must sort through the candy to verify that no one put a razor in the candy while it sat on a grocery shelf.

Parents must also worry about unruly children left to their own devises on Halloween. For five years in a row before moving to Winona, my pumpkin was smashed in the street in front of my house. In fact, my entire street was covered in pumpkin road kill.

Every year, teenagers would come to my door holding a fast food sack and not wearing a costume. Personally, I think there should be an age limit on trick-or-treating. Puberty should be the cut-off.

One year, a teenager rang my parent’s doorbell and was extremely rude, and my mother refused to give him candy.

“I am sorry, but if someone wears that much cologne, they should not be trick-or-treating,” she told us after he stormed away.

Halloween here in Winona is a completely different ballgame. No one smashed my pumpkin, everyone was very friendly, and at 8 p.m. the streets were empty. (My yard did get toilet papered, but that is another story.) Organized trick-or-treating – I loved it!
However, I totally underestimated my candy inventory.

I purchased 15 pounds of candy for potential trick-or-treaters. I was out of candy in 20 minutes (toilet paper pay back, maybe?), and I was terribly embarrassed about having to turn my front porch light out when I had nothing left to offer. (I don’t think Winona children would have appreciated a can of peas or a Lean Cuisine frozen dinner.)

Happily, this year, I accepted the position of being the trick-or-treat-toter instead of the candy-bowl-holder. I’m only doing it for the candy. Don’t worry – I won’t be ringing any doorbells. I completely expect to collect my take from Hunter.

Personal to-do list -- check, check

2008-10-23T09:38:00.000-07:00

Recently, I made a list of things I wished to do – things I overlooked due to a busy life. My list was simple: visit my family, go on a date with my significant other, finish the half-read books on my nightstand, get a new hairstyle, and unpack the last two boxes from my move a year ago.

Simple and easy, and I should have finished that list in one weekend. However, it has been three weeks, and I am still working on it. (I get distracted easily.)

I started with the new hairstyle. My wish was that I no longer would be able to wear my hair in a barrette, twisted up on the top of my head – onion-style. I needed to do this first because this was the one task that had visible results. I figured I had to get rid of the barrettes because someone might walk up and comment about them in public.

I made an appointment with the stylist, and she wacked five inches off my hair. Now, even if I wanted to wear it up in a barrette, it is dang near impossible. Also, I have read that the shorter one’s hair is cut, the younger one looks. I just give it a couple years before I try out the buzz cut.

Anyway, new hair style – check.

Now that deer season has begun, a date with the significant other was more difficult than I imagined. For three weeks, we planned to go out, but life kept getting in the way. Friday night, we found a few minutes of time and went to eat dinner in Greenwood.

I fell asleep in the car on the way home (before 10 p.m.). I hope he didn’t take offense.
For some reason, dating was much easier when I was younger – especially when dinner reservations did not interfere with my 9 p.m. bedtime.

Date with significant other – check.

I have a very short attention span, and nothing proves this more than half-read books littering my bedside table and bedroom. I get bored very easily, and if a book doesn’t hold my attention, I will put it down and never pick it back up again.

For weeks, I read a couple chapters here and there from my assigned book club book. I picked this particular book to be read, and the meeting was to be held at my house. The book was a novel that depicted the life of a girl accused and imprisoned during the Salem witch trials – perfect for October, right?

What I didn’t count on was the author’s ability to bring the events to life, and I read the book nightly before bed. Unfortunately, even after I put the book down, the haunting story stayed with me, and I dreamt about the witch trials for several days – and not in a pleasant manner.

I happily moved on to another book about a book club. Hopefully, I will just dream of finger-foods and good conversation while reading this one.

Finish reading half-read books – check.

I will confess: I am never going to unpack those last two boxes from my move to Winona last summer. I like those last two boxes. They are in the closet and not inconvenient, so I have decided to just leave them. If I don’t use anything in the boxes by spring, I plan on tossing both of them unopened. If I haven’t used anything in those boxes in nearly two years, how necessary are they?

Unpack last two boxes for move – incomplete.

I visited Bethany Church of God Sunday for Pastor Appreciation Day. My friend, Dr. Duran Palmertree (known by the congregation as Brother Buster) was being honored for his work at the church. While visiting with many of the parishioners and other guests, a lady who reads this column asked if I were close to my family.

“Oh, yes, very close,” I replied.

“I can tell,” she said. “Me, too.”

So if any of you were unsure, I am very close to my family. In particular, I am very close to my sisters.

I haven’t been to visit my family since August, and I was starting to feel a little homesick. I am sure this is a common emotion for the spoiled baby of the family who has moved away to live her own life.

Anyway, I got my family fix this weekend when my sisters and nephew visited Winona Sunday afternoon.

After lunch, we all sat on my porch swing and talked for several hours. My significant other even joined us (bless his heart, he is a good sport when dealing with the Sexton women).

Conversations between my sisters and me are similar to a Seinfeld episode – usually about nothing and always using funny voices. And we are loud. My significant other mentioned twice during lunch that he had a headache. Wonder why?

So with my sisters’ visit, I am revived – personally and professionally. Those two goofballs give me so much to write about.

Visit family – in progress.

The art of hunting (aka, Run, Bambi, run!)

2008-10-16T15:25:00.000-07:00

Fall is here, and that means one thing – my significant other neglecting me to go out and shoot furry woodland creatures.

Yes, hunting season has begun. For a foo foo chick, I know quite a lot about food plots, deer stands, and bow calibrations. I have listened to it for the past two months.

Keith has plowed, fertilized, and sown seeds in the middle of a forest. He has repaired stands, renovated camp cabins, and browsed new camouflage on-line. He has prepared for battle against a four-legged prey that is, in his estimation, attempting to take over the world. In the forest, it is man against beast, and most Mississippi boys dream of open season on the enemy.

I have never understood hunting. Daddy has never been a hunter. He did take my sister and me frog gigging years ago, but all I can remember about it was that squishy sound frogs make. Needless to say, I did not dine on Kermit that night.

Daddy is more of a lawn and garden kind of guy. He would much rather work to make something live than run out and kill it.

Momma grew up in the Delta and has hunted her entire life. Being raised with three uncles, Momma learned everything a boy should know about the woods. She can hunt, fish, harvest cotton, and cut the head off a snake with a hoe. And she isn’t scared at all.

I was obviously blessed with Daddy’s genes when it comes to the great outdoors. We are bumbling idiots in anything other than our own backyards.

Mosquitoes follow me around like that dust trail on Pig Pen from the Peanuts gang. Despite my utter disgust for all things dirty, I can’t walk three steps with some sort of nature attaching itself to my clothes. I can come within a mile of poison ivy, and voila, I am covered in it. (I think it can smell fear like dogs.)

Daddy gets stung. Doesn’t matter what it is, he gets stung by it. And he is allergic. So anytime he has spent time outdoors, he comes in with his eyes swollen shut.

Every family vacation that involved nature has always been a disaster. Once, my family rented a Winabego and hit the road. I cannot recall the experience myself because I was under five, but from eyewitness accounts, I ripped my diaper off and mooned all the cars behind us. Then when we finally stopped for the night, I locked myself in that big tin can and destroyed the place. My parents had to call the highway patrol to get me out.

Sextons don’t camp; we don’t cook meat over an open fire, and we don’t use leaves as toilet paper. We are room service kind of people. Air conditioning kind of people. Hot shower kind of people.

But I digress.

I amazed at all the preparation hunters make. Despite the “seasons,” (By the way, Keith does not discriminate against game. He hunts every season all year long.) hunters prepare all year for those three months of camo bliss. And I am talking manual labor preparations.

Let me put this into another context. I want to read a book, but I have to make the book first. I spend an entire year writing the book and typesetting the words. Then, I go out into the forest and chop down a few trees to make the paper. After I haul the trees back to the lumber yard and cut them up….Do you see where I am going with this?

Months and months are spent preparing for a handful of weekends spent in complete silence waiting for some creature to wander into your path. I can’t even fathom the patient of these men. It drives me crazy to wait at the drive through window.

Anyway, Keith purchased some new camo gear to outfit him for the season. Friday night, he laid his new outfit out on the chair in the living room – removing tags and packing his camo duffle (ayhum, man purse). It was almost as if he were preparing for the first day of school.

He packed gadgets and knives and wild animal urine and talcum powder (I didn’t ask), all while blowing some sort of honker that mimics a doe’s mating call. I don’t know if that honker worked on deer, but my Chihuahua was quite interested.

Sunday, I visited him at his new hunting cabin in Ackerman. He was painting the walls khaki. More preparation.

What is it about hunting?

I decided I should probably find out. I have made the decision to go hunting, and no, this is not just to have an opportunity to shop for camo. I need to understand the kind of cult addiction it has on people – not that it will become an addiction for me unless deer start walking around the mall. I need to know what my competition is.

I let you know how it goes.

Missing home

2008-10-10T07:36:00.000-07:00

Saturday morning, I spoke with Momma on a marathon two hour telephone call. We discussed everything from her trip to Oregon to Christmas decorating plans, and I must admit it was comforting to talk with Momma over my Saturday morning coffee.

There have been only three times in my life when I did not live within a mile of my parents – college, a couple of months in London and when I moved to Winona a year ago.

Always the independent one in my family, I could not wait to get to college and begin a new chapter in my life. When I decided to study in England, I had no second thoughts. I packed up and flew nine hours to a foreign country – all alone and loved every minute of it. When Winona beckoned, once again, I took the leap and have not regretted one minute of my decision.

Despite my independence and my self-reliance, sometimes I get a little homesick. I want to have my parents dote on me, cook for me, nurture me, and best of all, sleep in my childhood bed and forget about being an adult for just a short time.

Now, remember, if I lived just a mile down the road from my parents like I did before moving to Winona, they would not be nearly as excited to see me. But since I live more than an hour away, it seems like my visits are one big welcome home party.

My sisters come to greet me, and we do not fight (I know, but it is possible). My parents usually plan a special meal – either steaks on the grill or dinner out. Everyone wants to hear about things in Winona, and I am expected to entertain them with stories of my new friends, home, and community. (As the youngest, I love the attention. If you would like, I could perform the number from my fourth grade dance recital – for applause, of course).

After some seriously good sleep in the most familiar bed, Momma wakes me early with fresh coffee. The two of us sit at the kitchen counter until Daddy graces us with his presence and a serious case of bed-head.

Ah, the crazy things you miss when you leave home!

Now that I am not in the everyday drama of my crazy family, I think I might have taken for granted some things that I find so special now.

For example, Daddy can annoy the heck out of someone with the Six Degrees of a Sexton game.

The game goes like this: “Do you remember Joe Johnson? Now, he went to school with your cousin, Cindy Lou. Cindy Lou is Uncle Homer’s daughter from over in Sarah. You remember her from the family reunion – sweet girl, but not attractive. You might be if she would do something with that hair. You know, Uncle Homer is your Granddaddy’s second cousin. Aunt Lorrine’s boy. Well, anyway, he went to school with Cindy Lou over at Lake Cormorant. He died last week. Can you believe that? He was only 87-years-old.”

When I was younger, I would want to stab myself in the eye during one of these conversations, but now, I call Daddy to hear about family happenings and local tidbits. Daddy should have been the reporter in the family. He can relay information like National Public Radio and never miss a detail. Through Daddy’s reports, I never miss a thing.

I also miss the insane conversations my parents have with each other – about absolutely nothing!

A conversation occurred on the way to Hot Springs, Ark. A logging truck pulled alongside our car on I-40. It went something like this.

Momma: “I wonder what kind of wood that is?”

Daddy: “I believe it’s pine.”

Momma: “Yeah. It’s pine.”

The miracle is that my parents found each other. The Lord knows no one else would have either of them.

Growing up with two older sisters was not something I would like to relive. In fact, it is shocking I lived the first go-around. However, I wouldn’t have changed anything – a scar, loss of hearing in my right ear, arthritis in my knee.

Despite the fighting, whining, and lack of sharing, having sisters was such a blessing for me. I can’t ever remember a time growing up that I actually felt lonely. My sisters were always there, and still when I get down or need to vent, I can call my sisters and act a fool and they never hold it against me. (Well, they can’t. I have too much dirt on them.)

Every child should experience the joy of having a sibling. My best friend, Heather, was an only child, and although her family had enough drama to get her through, she relied on my family for that “Father Knows Best” meets the “Emergency 911” experience. Of course, Heather could always go home to her own family to escape the drama of mine.

I sit here and write nostalgically about my family and their quirky ways held so dearly to me, but I often forget that distance makes the heart grow fonder. If I still lived within shouting distance of my family, I probably wouldn’t be so nostalgic about their crazy ways.

The last time I was home, Momma and I came to a realization. Moving away made me appreciate my family. It definitely made my relationships with my family members stronger, and I treasure my time with them so much more.

It is kind of like babysitting. You play with the baby, love on the baby, cuddle the baby, and sooth the baby. Then the baby cries and the babysitter can give the baby back and head on home.

Love the family. Miss the family. Relish the family. A fight breaks out or someone ends up in the emergency room, and I can always run for the hills – literally.

Learning to 'peel the onion'

2008-10-06T14:03:00.000-07:00

Recently, I have been busy. Really busy, but good busy.

We are working on all sorts of cool stuff at the newspaper, and I am completely absorbed in it all. Newspaper people talk about having “ink in the blood,” and well, I am no exception.
However, what I noticed this week is that sometimes I can get too absorbed and forget that the world doesn’t stop because I am busy. Recently, I decided I should probably slow down and consider the “little details” that I have neglected in my enthusiasm.

First, I noticed this morning that the result of wearing my hair clipped up in a barrette every day is not in any way in the same ball park as what Sarah Palin has made so popular over the last few weeks. Actually, this morning, I resembled an onion.

In addition, lip balm is not really doing it for me. With my Irish heritage, I am in desperate need of some lipstick. Without it, my lips disappear like those of my eight grade English teacher. It wasn’t a good look for her, and I am assuming it isn’t for me as well.

On the home front, I am displaying two fern corpses on my front porch. They look like two tumbleweeds in hanging baskets. I am sure the neighbors appreciate my green thumb. Note to self: plants like water.

Over the past month, I tried to see how long I could go without doing laundry. I am convinced that laundry – not unlike the gremlin – multiplies in water and turns ugly after midnight. Right now this is just a hypothesis, but I am still investigating.

My kitchen counter just inside the back door is covered with unopened mail, newspapers, and magazines. I could have won the sweepstakes, but alas, I would have to open the envelope.

Sadly, I haven’t seen my family in nearly two months, and I didn’t even realize it had been that long. (Where did the summer go?) And my significant other, I’m afraid he is has begun some sort of relationship with my cell phone.

Every so often, I am forced to have an epiphany and take notice of what I have neglected. As a type-A overachiever, I will always be a workaholic. It is in my genes.

Growing up, I remember Daddy coming home at night and passing out on the sofa from pure exhaustion. Momma would wake him up to eat, and he would return to the sofa until she woke him again to go to bed.

However, Daddy could always get everything done – personally and professionally. He was a machine – still is for that matter. He tended the most amazing landscaping in the county, kept our home in repair, was involved heavily in church and the community, and still managed to recognize his children.

I can’t even keep my ferns alive or remember to buy milk.

So in the spirit of rejuvenation (and I know so many of you relate), I have made a few goals for the near future. I’ll update you on my progress.

1. Visit my parents and sisters. I have more fun with my loud and crazy family. I am certain other patrons at restaurants are jealous at how much fun we have together (I can sense the resentment). When no one ends up in the emergency room, our time spent together is so memorable. For those times we spend in the emergency room (oh, God bless the accident prone), we are more memorable to the hospital staff.

2. Go on a date with my significant other. Bless his heart – he certainly puts up with a lot. I’m a neurotic, high-maintenance, workaholic, foo foo chic. If any of you ever meet him, he deserves a hug.

3. Finish reading the five half-read books on my nightstand. Should I be concerned that I get bored with one and start another without finishing? I think I understand why I can’t find a hobby.

4. Finish unpacking the last two boxes from my move to Winona. Yes, that was more than a year ago. I like to draw out the process to delay the gratification of finishing.

5. Throw away my hair clips. This, my friends, is going to be the toughest part of the revitalization process. When I work, I immediately look for a way to get my hair out of my face with whatever tool is nearby – pencils, paper clips, letter openers. I am like a walking office supply store. Disposing my hair clips and other gadgets, accompanied by a trip to the salon for the works, should make me feel and hopefully look, human again. It is time to peel the onion.

The inappropriate relationship between the cat and dog

2008-09-26T11:04:00.000-07:00

Once again, I will prove to you that I spend entirely too much time with my pets.

I am sure most of you believe I am that crazy animal person who sews little outfits for her dogs and parades them all over town in a baby carriage. You may think I am the one who organizes elaborate parties for my dogs and purchases party clothes for them to wear for the occasion (actually, I do know someone who does this). I have never planned a dog wedding, and I have never once believed my dogs actually speak to me (although, I do sometimes think I understand what they are thinking).

I realize I am a little partial to my animals, and I do think of them as my own very hairy children. For years, my dogs have been a sense of comfort, and as a single gal, they offer me not only protection but companionship. In addition, my dogs offer unconditional love, and that is something rare in the world today.

That being said, I just wanted to be clear about my sanity before I shared the following story.
Several months ago, I adopted a stray cat that wandered up to my office one Tuesday night. The cat was very persistent about receiving attention from me and my staff, and the next morning, when we arrived for work, she was waiting for us.

Fearing she would be hit by a car, I took her home and created a home for her in my storage room. It is very comfortable, and she would be quite cozy and protected from the environment. However, Deadline (the name my staff christened her with) would rather live inside the house with my dogs. Being slightly allergic, I have resisted her ceaseless attempts to move in.

I do, however, allow her to occasionally visit, and she immediately stretches out on the sofa and grooms herself in her pretentious, cat-like manner. She does not attempt to roam the house -- trying to sharpen her claws on my upholstery or leaving wads of cat hair on the carpet. She is quite the low-maintenance, occasionally-indoor feline.

Recently, however, I have noticed a change in Deadline. The endless grooming, the staring, the snuggles. I have come to believe Deadline is madly in love with my Chihuahua, Don Juan. Okay, before you scold me for my ridiculous notions and run-away imagination allow me to present my evidence (and please do not think I am a raging lunatic for studying this).

First, Don Juan is an exceptional Chihuahua, and I believe he agrees with this notion. He tends to prance about displaying his fine features, and he is usually very aware of females of any species. In other words, he loves the ladies.

Deadline will follow Don Juan around the back yard, and if he stops and sits, she will sit next to him. If he lays in the grass, basking in the sunshine, she will curl around him and groom him until he growls and lets her know he is no longer interested.

Second, when Deadline comes inside the house for a visit, she will curl around Don Juan as he sleeps – very litter-like. She will groom him for hours, and he will allow it – with his eyes closed as she licks his ears, chin, and head. I have even noticed that he will adjust himself for Deadline to get a better angle behind his ears (he likes to be rubbed behind his ears).

When he is tired of her attention, Don Juan will growl, and Deadline will move just inches away and stare at him while he sleeps.

The entire situation is very peculiar, and I am slightly disturbed by the unnatural and inappropriate relationship between the two animals. Don Juan adores attention and is more than likely welcoming of a nice massage by the cat. However, when he has enough, he lets her know, and she moves along.

Deadline is a different story. She is drawn to Don Juan. She will seek him out and situate herself next to him when the opportunity arises. When he shuns her, she will move away and stare at him longingly.

Why is Don Juan like cat nip to Deadline? Do other cats act like this, and being a perpetual dog person, I am unaware? Have I completely revealed myself as someone who should probably stop studying the social habits of my animals and get a hobby? You’re right, I should.

Mississippians are neurotic according to study

2008-09-23T10:09:00.000-07:00

This article was reprinted from the Wall Street Journal. I felt it was extremely interesting -- especially about Mississppians being so neurotic. My old college professor (Ownby taught me Old South and New South) seems to think it is our search for emotional depth. He attributes it to Faulkner and his self-medicating drinking and depression.

Is that true?

I personally believe that Mississippians are constantly in a battle between the past and the present. It is difficult to move forward when you are fighting ghosts from the past, but we are unable and unwilling to let them go.

Mississippi's past is its gift and its curse.

Thoughts?

The United States of Mind (Greatest headline ever!)
By Stephanie Simon, Wall Street Journal. Email stephanie.simon@wsj.com

Certain regional stereotypes have long since become cliches: The stressed-out New Yorker. The laid-back Californian.

But the conscientious Floridian? The neurotic Kentuckian?

You bet -- at least, according to new research on the geography of personality. Based on more than 600,000 questionnaires and published in the journal Perspectives on Psychological Science, the study maps regional clusters of personality traits, then overlays state-by-state data on crime, health and economic development in search of correlations.

Even after controlling for variables such as race, income and education levels, a state's dominant personality turns out to be strongly linked to certain outcomes. Amiable states, like Minnesota, tend to be lower in crime. Dutiful states -- an eclectic bunch that includes New Mexico, North Carolina and Utah -- produce a disproportionate share of mathematicians. States that rank high in openness to new ideas are quite creative, as measured by per-capita patent production. But they're also high-crime and a bit aloof. Apparently, Californians don't much like socializing, the research suggests.

As for high-anxiety states, that group includes not just Type A New York and New Jersey, but also states stressed by poverty, such as West Virginia and Mississippi. As a group, these neurotic states tend to have higher rates of heart disease and lower life expectancy.

Lead researcher Peter Jason Rentfrow, lecturer at the University of Cambridge in England, said he was startled to find such correlations. "That just blew me away," he said.

Psychologists unaffiliated with the study say it's intriguing but limited. There's no way to unravel the chicken-and-egg question: Do states tend to nurture specific personalities because of their histories, cultures, even climates? Or do Americans, seeking kindred spirits, migrate to the states where they feel at home? Maybe both forces are at work -- but in what balance?

Another issue: The personality maps may reinforce stereotypes and tempt us to draw overly simplistic conclusions, said Toni Schmader, a psychologist at the University of Arizona. Knowing Arizona ranks low in neuroticism, Ms. Schmader said, she might conclude that sunny weather makes for sunny dispositions. But if the data had turned out the other way, the sun could just as easily be blamed for high neuroticism -- for driving Arizonans stir crazy by keeping them cooped up in air conditioning.

"We tend to reject information that doesn't agree with our stereotypes," Ms. Schmader said.
Cross-cultural psychology was all the rage in the 1930s and 1940s, driven by a craze among anthropologists for comparing child-rearing practices in modern and pre-industrial societies. But the discipline fell out of favor, partly because of concerns that the comparisons were driven more by value judgments than standardized assessments.

In the past decade, the field has been reinvigorated by the development of a 44-question personality test that evaluates five traits: extraversion, agreeableness, conscientiousness, neuroticism and openness. Some psychologists disagree with this matrix; others would add traits such as honesty. But the assessment, called the Big Five Inventory, has been widely used in scientific research.

Mr. Rentfrow came to the field full of questions gleaned from a life spent hop-scotching across America. Why were his neighbors in Texas so relaxed, so courteous, so obsessed with sports?

Why did New Yorkers seem so tense and inward-focused, often brusque to the point of rudeness?

Eager to dig deeper, Mr. Rentfrow turned to a huge collection of psychological tests administered online from 1999 to 2005.

The assessments were linked to each respondent's current residence, so there was no way to tell if a New Yorker was a New Yorker born and bred, or had just moved from Kansas. But that suited Mr. Rentfrow's purposes. He wasn't trying to gauge how life in New York had shaped any one individual. His goal was a psychological snapshot of the state, and for that he needed to include even recent migrants -- who may, after all, have been drawn to New York because the big-city bustle suited their personality.

Mr. Rentfrow said his sample was proportionate to the U.S. population by state and race. Though it underrepresented the extremes of poor and rich, that shouldn't skew the results, he said.

While the findings broadly uphold regional stereotypes, there are more than a few surprises. The flinty pragmatists of New England? They're not as dutiful as they may seem, ranking at the bottom of the "conscientious" scale. High scores for openness to new ideas strongly correlates to liberal social values and Democratic voting habits. But three of the top ten "open" states -- Nevada, Colorado and Virginia -- traditionally vote Republican in presidential politics. (All three are prime battlegrounds this election.)

And what of the unexpected finding that North Dakota is the most outgoing state in the union? Yes, North Dakota, the same state memorialized years ago in the movie "Fargo" as a frozen wasteland of taciturn souls. Turns out you can be a laconic extrovert, at least in the world of psychology. The trait is defined in part by strong social networks and tight community bonds, which are characteristic of small towns across the Great Plains. (Though not, apparently, small towns in New England, which ranks quite low on the extraversion scale.)

The findings pleased Nebraska Gov. Dave Heineman, who said it was nice to have scientific proof that his state is super-friendly. "That's the Nebraska I know," he said.

But Las Vegas Mayor Oscar B. Goodman can't understand how Nevada got ranked so low in agreeableness. "We're probably the most agreeable folks in the world, because we have to treat visitors with a great deal of kindness ... to get a big tip," he said.

In Florida, meanwhile, tourism official Dia Kuykendall groped to explain her state's high "conscientious" ranking. She was having trouble reconciling that with, say, the party scene on Miami Beach. "Conscientious of how they look?" she wondered.

The research did give Ms. Kuykendall an idea for a new Florida tourism pitch: "Come visit us, we're not neurotic!"

Social scientists suggest other applications for the research as well. In the Northeast "stress belt," health officials might consider programs to help folks relax. In the Midwest, a dutiful state like Kansas might look to woo more innovative personalities, perhaps by nurturing an artists' enclave or encouraging young chefs to start restaurants, said Richard Florida, an economic development analyst who has written extensively on geography and psychology.

"Most cities are still trapped in the idea that they can recruit a call center or build a big stadium" to spur revitalization, Mr. Florida said. "This is a big wake-up call for policy makers."
It's also a wake-up call for proud residents of the great state of wherever -- some of whom aren't fond of the findings. Mr. Rentfrow said he's had to help some of them feel better. Yes, North Dakota and Wyoming rank quite low in openness to new ideas. But why label them narrow-minded and insular? Say, instead, he suggests, that they value tradition. New York may be neurotic, but he offers another way to put it: "It's a state in touch with its feelings."

Or take a cue from Ted Ownby, who studies Southern culture at the University of Mississippi. His state came up highly neurotic -- and he suspects his neighbors would be proud.

"Here in the home of William Faulkner," Mr. Ownby said, "we take intense, almost perverse neuroticism as a sign of emotional depth."

Weekend in redneck paradise

2008-09-19T08:34:00.000-07:00

Here are the pictures I promised from our trip to Hot Springs. Still have many more to share -- including Sweetie trying to tube, being thrown off and skipping over the water like a stone.

My nephew, Hunter, and his friend, Asa, enjoyed tubing on the lake. They were trying to be so cool.

The result of too much tubing. Hunter almost looks sweet in this picture, but don't let the little devil fool you!

Such a kiss up (with his mother and my sister, Stephanie)

Stephanie and I

Sweetie before the tubing incident.

Well, Sweetie did not sink the boat. That hand holding a beer in the corner is me -- relaxing with a good book.

More pictures to come when I get a chance....

Blue skies the backdrop to tragedy

2008-09-11T11:59:00.000-07:00

Seven years ago today, I woke around 7 a.m., popped open my traditional Diet Coke, and flipped on the television. An old episode of “The Nanny” was playing on Lifetime television, and I sat in a sleepy stupor for a long time staring at the screen. I kept telling myself that the clock was ticking – get up and get going.

It was Tuesday and press day for my weekly newspaper. I dreaded the long hours of layout ahead of me. Most Tuesdays, I did not make it home from the office until well into the wee hours. In fact, the nice lady at the drive through window at Krystal’s knew my assistant editor and me quite well from our 2 a.m. dinner stops.

Finally at around a quarter to eight, I dragged myself to the bathroom for a shower and the miracle of make-up in an effort to become somewhat presentable.

Around 8:30 a.m., the telephone rang. Cindy, my assistant editor, asked me what I was doing.

“I’m almost ready,” I said. “I will be at the office at 9.”

“Are you not watching TV?” she asked.

“’The Golden Girls’ is on, but I haven’t been watching.”

“Turn on the ‘Today Show’,” she said. “Somebody just bombed the Pentagon and a plane just hit the World Trade Center. I don’t know what is going on, but it is crazy.”

With my hair still wrapped in a towel, I sank to the couch as I saw the first images of the attacks on the television. Helicopters were hovering above the Pentagon; an enormous black hole released smoke into the sky above.

“This is bad, Cindy,” I finally said.

“Yeah, I know,” she replied.

“What have they said,” I asked.

“Nothing really, they just interrupted the show with breaking news. They said a plane hit the World Trade Center accidentally like before, but then the Pentagon got bombed.”

We watched together on the phone for a few minutes -- listening for updates on what was going on. Just then, on national television, another plane circled around and exploded into the other tower.

We were silent in complete disbelief.

“I am going to call my parents,” I finally said. “I will be later coming in than I thought.”

“Yeah, me too,” Cindy absently said.

“I’ll see you in a few.”

I never understood why someone would remark about remembering exactly what he was doing when President Kennedy was shot. He was killed 10 years before I was born, so I guess the significance has always been lost on me.

However, just as Kennedy’s assassination follows some around forever, September 11 will haunt me . History happened right before my very eyes, and it changed the very fabric of my being. I was no longer protected in the bubble of rural America – the ugliness of the real world was just something seen on television. I finally realized the effect world events can have on every one of us.

At that time, I was the 26-year-old editor of a small-town weekly newspaper. I was well versed in local events – annexation law, Mississippi code, my city’s beautification ordinances, and high school football. I could discuss millage rates, infrastructure improvements and Community Development Block Grants (CDBG).

However, I was poorly educated in world affairs and national politics. I remember writing a feature story of a local soldier who served in Kosovo, and I was forced to research the conflict on Wikipedia. I knew little of the Rwandan genocide, the Hillary Clinton healthcare plan, or the political evolution of Rudy Giuliani. Worse, I did not know Osama Bin Laden – the mastermind behind the attack.

I realized quickly it was time to pop the bubble and realize there was so much happening outside my state, or for that matter, my zip code. The world obviously wasn’t as pretty as I had come to believe, and I needed to be prepared for what other catastrophic event was in the future (I hate surprises – it’s genetic).

It was my responsibility to become acquainted with the rest of the world. I began reading – political biographies, essays, and magazines – and watching news broadcasts and documentaries. I also began reading dozens newspapers every day.

Ironically, after all of my preparations and mental lists of our nation’s enemies and frenemies, I don’t believe I will ever be prepared for another attack, and that scares me to death. So after seven years, I continue to wake each morning in Winona, Mississippi, pop open an ice cold Diet Coke, and flip on the news. And every morning, I pray for our country and those who are willing to fight and die for our freedom. My peace of mind relies heavily on them and their sacrifice.

On the seventh anniversary of the September 11 attacks, join me as I pray for those nearly 3,000 Americans that were so tragically lost and the families who grieve for them.

Palin: A refreshing change for Washington

2008-09-03T13:48:00.000-07:00

Because I spend so much time dealing with local politics, I usually leave national politics to the pundits; however, I will make an exception in the case of Sarah Palin.

Last Friday, Republican presidential nominee John McCain announced Alaska’s first-term governor, Sarah Palin, as his Vice Presidential running mate. The conservative governor and mother of five is currently serving her second year as Alaska’s governor.

Since the announcement, Palin has been criticized in the media as “McCain’s token,” a gun toting, animal killing, religious fanatic, anti-nepotistic, beauty pageant loser and a bad mother. And all of this has been within the last four days. That is correct, four days.

As a member of the media, most would expect the same type of criticism from me, but no, I will not criticize Palin. I actually applaud her success in a male-dominated field, and unlike many other women in such a high-profile, powerful position, Palin has held on to that endearing quality that gives her an 80 percent approval rating as governor. She is crusader for honest government and has gone to battle with the most powerful political figures in her state – and won. Palin will be a refreshing change in Washington.

McCain only picked Palin because she is a woman to help sway the Hilary voters.”
I am getting sick of the opposition repeating this over and over and over. If this is true, why did McCain not select Senator Kay Bailey Hutchinson of Texas. She is well-respected in political circles, has stronger name recognition, and has 32 years of political experience.

There is no comparing Palin to Hilary Clinton – two different animals. Palin is pro-life, politically conservative, and a detour away from the Washington institution. Clinton is pro-choice, liberal, and in her own right, a Washington institution.

Maybe, just a thought, McCain liked her politics and the way she has conducted herself in her political career.

Palin is an NRA member, is a hunter, and eats caribou.
The Second Amendment of the United States guarantees all Americans the right to own and bear arms. If Palin enjoys the sport of hunting, like most Southerners, more power to her. In fact, she is not a trophy hunter and eats what she kills. As an animal rights proponent, that is the way it should be.

Palin is a religious fanatic.
Sadly, those of us church-going Americans in the Bible belt are probably considered religious fanatics to some. It is called the first amendment, people. Be relieved that she believes in a higher power than herself. Some Washington politicians only believe in giving more power to themselves.

Palin had her ex-brother-in-law fired.
Currently, Palin is under investigation for dismissing the Public Safety Commissioner for not following her order to terminate a highway patrol officer who is her former brother-in-law. According to reports, this brother-in-law also threatened the life of Palin’s father and other members of her family.

The Public Safety Commissioner defied a direct order from the governor. He should have been terminated for insubordination.

In addition, the highway patrolman should have been fired. As an officer of the law, he is charged with protecting and serving the citizens of Alaska. He threatened the lives of members of the governor’s family. For the safety of the first family, it would not be wise to issue this man a fire arm and give him the responsibility of enforcing the law.

Palin came in second in the Miss Alaska pageant.
Believe it or not, the media has been all over this fact -- calling Palin the “Miss Alaska loser.” Well, unless they want to start pointing fingers at their colleagues, the media needs to back off. From one Google search, I discovered Gretchen Carlson, Diane Sawyer, Kathie Lee Gifford, Paula Zahn, and Deborah Norville were all pageant girls – some more successful than others.

The most shocking pageant girl I found: Oprah Winfrey. Beauty and a brain are sometimes available in a set – who knew?

Who is raising Palin’s five children?
Okay, talk about hitting below the belt! If Palin was a Southern momma, she would not have been so forgiving.

Monday, Palin announced that her 17-year-old, unmarried daughter is expecting a child. Some insane internet bloggers immediately began circulating rumors that Palin’s youngest child, an infant with Down’s syndrome, was not her child but her grandchild. They reported that her 17-year-old daughter, supposedly the baby’s real mother, is currently expecting her second child.

What is wrong with these people? This is a 17-year-old child they are attacking. I am immediately taken back to the cruelty dealt to Chelsea Clinton who had the unfortunate luck of going through puberty at the mercy of the American media.

I am sure Palin and her husband were heartbroken over their daughter’s situation. I am sure they wanted their daughter to experience life before becoming a mother and a wife.

The fact of the matter is society should not crucify the parents when a teenager acts like a teenager. I was reared by strict God-fearing parents, and despite their discipline, I still pushed the envelope. It is a part of growing up. Some survive the process without permanent repercussions, and some do not.

Sarah Palin is an average American woman, and as an average American woman, I relate to her personally. I am still discovering if her politics are what I wish for America, but right now, I do not doubt her character.

A weekend in paradise for Southerners

2008-08-31T07:51:00.000-07:00

***That was a faun swimming across Lake Hamilton. He wasn't more than 40 pounds and still had white spots on his back. My sister, Stephanie, wanted to catch it and bring it on the boat with us, but Sweetie said it would beat us to death with its hooves. We don't know where the momma was.

*****Ole Miss beat University of Memphis 41-24. Hotty Toddy, Gosh Almightly. Who the hell are we? Flim flam, bim bam. Ole Miss, by damn! (I'm not going to get too cocky. We will probably lose next week!)

******Lots of pictures to show you next week! Tune in.

Throwing your weapons at the burglar is not the best defense

2008-08-27T12:25:00.000-07:00

This weekend, I traveled north to my hometown to join the birthday celebrations of my sister, Deana, and my nephew, Hunter. Now, the Sexton family likes to celebrate each and every occasion big. It’s just our way.

However, this weekend was surprisingly low-key. We decided to drive over to the east side of the county for dinner at a popular fish house.

Because there were seven of us, I drove my sisters, my nephew and his friend, Asa. My parents took a separate car (I think they may have planned it that way because they were afraid of too much together time.)

Now, this restaurant is not just around the corner. It took us nearly 40 minutes to get there – down a winding, rolling, country road. My sister, Stephanie, kept repeating for at least 30 minutes, “It’s right around this curve.” One hundred curves later, we arrive.

This restaurant has wonderful fried fish, but it is more famous for its desserts. A display of dozens of homemade desserts met us when we walked through the door. Forget the fish, I thought. Birthdays are all about the cake, and they had a Heath Bar cake that would make you slap your momma! (Hunter kept calling it the Health Bar Cake. Kind of loses it appeal that way, huh?)

There was also some sort of bluegrass hoedown in one of the three main dining rooms. Men were playing banjos and people were dancing about.

“Smoking or non,” the hostess asked.

“Anywhere but in there,” Deana said, nodding to the hoedown.

“Alrighty then,” the hostess said. “Right this way.”

I wonder if we were the only ones who requested that.

The food was wonderful, and most of us were so stuffed, we took our cakes home. Several of my family members ate so much (I won’t name names) they made themselves sick.

It is funny how insignificant trips to the fish house can bring memories flooding back. I remembered the last time I dined at that particular fish house. It was years ago, and my grandparents were with us.

The menu was all-you-can-eat back then, and Daddy and my grandparents were on a mission to get their money’s worth. I have never seen people eat so much! My grandmother ate just as much as the men.

“It’s the Shelton in me,” she would say. Her father was famous for his frugal ways, and his genes were strong. Not only did he pass that trait on to my grandmother, but I believe Daddy got a double dose.

My grandparents loved to go eat fried fish. Their favorite restaurant in Memphis closed, and the two were lost without their regular haute. My father introduced them to that fish house on the east side of the county, and at last, they were content.

In fact, it was during the introduction trip to this restaurant that Stephanie and I were invaded by burglars.

My family had just moved into our newly-built home in Southaven, and my grandparents drove up to go to dinner with my parents. Sixteen-year-old Stephanie was watching me who had just turned 12, and we were instructed to turn the burglar alarm on and not let anyone in the house. (We had just moved to the big city from Eudora, mind you.)

The two of us were watching television upstairs when the alarm started howling. At first we thought, we had just done something wrong when we set it, but we still called our neighbor to check things out. The neighbor checked the inside of the house, confirmed that it was just a false alarm, and went home.

Just as we set the alarm back and got situated on the sofa in front of the television, the alarm sounded again. The two of us ran down stairs, and low and behold, the front door was wide open. Someone had been inside the house with us the entire time.

We called 911 and armed ourselves. Stephanie, who is now a captain in the Sheriff’s Department, donned a shotgun from Momma’s collection, and I grabbed a steak knife. What we intended to do is beyond me.

The two of us paced through the kitchen waiting for the police. Then we saw him. A man was standing on the deck outside the kitchen door watching us. Armed with a shot gun and a steak knife, we screamed and ran. I am not sure, but I think we might have thrown our weapons down as we fled.

Now, I am unsure of how this event became a complete spectacle, but it did. Before the police could arrive, a friend of the family, Emily Sanford, rushed to the house to save us. She barged in the door wearing her satin pajamas and welding an Estee Lauder lipstick. She repeated over and over again while she applied that someone was trying to kill her babies.

Stephanie’s friend from school arrived, and it was nice to finally have a male around in case something else happened. He did let us know that Stephanie (now, Captain Stephanie) had loaded the bullet in the gun wrong.

When the police finally arrived, the house was in chaos. Ms. Sanford was yelling at them for not getting them earlier. Our neighbor had returned in a panic. My parents and grandparents had come home to find the police at the house. Stephanie and I were both talking incessantly about the events of the night.

It was some time before my parents left us alone again.

All this came from a plate of fried fish and a chunk of Heath bar cake.

A few of my favorite things

2008-08-20T12:26:00.000-07:00

Today at lunch, my co-workers and I were discussing our favorite things. It was very telling. I thought I would share some of mine, and see what secrets of my personality I reveal.

My family is my world. There is nothing else to say.

My sweetheart, Keith. I am a very lucky girl!

My three sons -- Toulouse, Skipper, and Don Juan. Aren't they the sweetest things?

Diet Coke. I could put it in an IV and not get enough.

I am total Anglophile. British books, movies, television. Love it!

I adore antiques. They have such a history. New stuff is just not the same. No character or great story.

Independent bookstores are so much better than a chain, and the people who work there have more than likely read a book or two.

I love bunnies -- live or glass. My mother started me collecting bunnies when I was little. It kind of stuck.

Feather pens. I might be a professional writer, but I can still have fun. Agree?

I love folk music. The songs are so relaxing and the lyrics are beautiful. I am all about the lyrics. Forget the voice and the melody.

There is nothing like Southern fried chicken fried in a cast iron skillet -- especially Momma's.

Board games are awesome, and I hate to lose.

My favorite scent is honeysuckle. It just smells Southern.

My favorite scent to wear is Michael by Michael Kors. Keith adores this stuff.

I'm a red IPOD girl. I so can't live without my one gadget.

I love my journal even though I don't write in it every day. It is a well for random thoughts.

A relaxing weekend at Lake Hamilton in Hot Springs, Arkansas. Paradise for the Southern girl.

The lost art of letter writing is something I find beautiful in that Jane Austin kind of way-- especially love letters. I never get letters anymore.

I love Mississippi. If you weren't born here, you just won't understand.

The sound of ocean waves is wonderful. I actually sleep with a noise box on making ocean sounds.

Opera. One word: chills.

I love the color pink. It is so cheerful.

I adore setting a beautiful formal table -- especially for tea parties and garden parties. Get out the silver polish, girls.

Okay, I'm a junkie -- especially true crime documentaries and British comedy.

However, television is not television without TIVO. For a while TIVO and I were in a serious relationship until I cheated on him with Keith. TIVO and I have decided to stay friends, though.

Completely honored!

2008-08-18T08:25:00.000-07:00

Dana from One for the Books nominated me for the E for Excellence Award. I am speechless (yes, it is possible!). Dana is the sweetest thing, ever!

Anyway, with my new award, I must pass on the excellence award to others. Here are my seven favorite blogs that I read every single day and am SO disappointed if a new post isn't to be found. However, I am giddy with anticipation that a new post will be up in the next day or two.

My seven favorites (in no particular order):

1. Maggie Reads: I love Maggie. Her goal is to make Mississippi read. As a librarian, Maggie is up on all the newest books. Maggie also organizes the most wonderfully creative contests, and the prizes are the best of all -- books!

2. Oh, Happy Day: This blog comes from Jordan in San Francisco. It is all about beautiful things she finds -- fashion, decorating, stationary, or anything else that makes life more beautiful.

3. Conversations with my Hairdryer: Okay, I love Jenni. I believe she and I are kindred spirits (not in that crazy stalking kind of way). I love reading about her family and her successes with Weight Watchers. Her blog always makes my day.

4. Journey to Vegan: Dana is on a quest for absolute veganism. I WISH I HAD THE WILL TO DO THIS! However, living in small town Mississippi the probability to find something to eat that is not cooked in bacon fat and smothered with cheese is dang near impossible.

5. Blissfully Domestic: This is such a guilty pleasure for me. Make-up tips, celebrity news, and tips for women living in a busy world. Love this blog!

6. Mrs. Fussypants Guide to Life: I am a Fussypants addict. Completely hysterical commentary from a girl close to my own heart!

7. Derfwad Manor: Mrs. G is bodacious. Got to love a girl who will tell you like it is. She makes me laugh so hard no sound comes out of my mouth, and I start hyperventilating.

To those I have listed, here are the rules:
1. Put the logo on your blog. (Right-click the logo above and choose Save Picture As… Then upload it.)
2. Add a link to the person who awarded you.
3. Nominate at least seven other blogs.
4. Add links to those blogs on your blog.
5. Leave a message for your nominee on their blog.

Thanks again, Dana, for the nod!

It's a good thing my name isn't Grace!

2008-08-14T15:08:00.000-07:00

Last week, I fell flat on my face in front of The Winona Times office. It would not be fair to make excuses – I just got tangled in my own feet and fell. Flop!

I am sure motorists passing on Summit Street and customers at Renasant Bank got an eyeful as I lay on the sidewalk, trying to figure out how to get up. I wasn’t hurt much – just my pride. I did get a good chuckle out of my misfortune. (Got to laugh to keep from crying, I guess).

It’s all in a day’s work for me. Write stories, check. Review e-mail, check. Make a complete and utter fool of myself, check, check.

On average, I fall in a public place at least once a month. I am famous for falling up flights of stairs.

A few years ago (and I will change the names to protect the innocent), I was to meet with a powerful executive at his office to discuss possible sponsorship opportunities for a non-profit. His office was on the second floor, and a long spiral staircase connected the lobby to his office. Mr. Powerful Executive descended the stairs to greet me, and the two of us walked up together.
Nearing the top, the heel of my sandal hung up on a step. I fell backward, twisted in mid-air and landed on my hands and knees on the landing. My shoes flew off my feet, over the banister, and to the first floor. Mr. Powerful Executive was forced to jog down to the bottom floor and fetch them.

After the enormous spectacle I created, I still had to deliver my presentation. He agreed to the sponsorship, but I have a feeling he feared a lawsuit. (For my own stupidity, I will save the court some time!) Thankfully, I have never seen Mr. Powerful Executive again.

I also am quite often the damsel in distress. Once while working at my desk (not in Winona, mind you) my rolling chair rolled right out from under me. I landed under my desk in that hole where your legs go. The chair bounced off the wall and somehow wedged underneath the desk – trapping me. I just kind of sat there for a while hoping to die, but after a few minutes, I realized I needed help to get out of this predicament.

“Excuse me, can someone help me out? I seem to be stuck here,” a small voice called over the patricians of the cubicles. Finally someone came to my aid, but it still took several minutes to get me out after he gathered all of our co-workers to “look what Amanda’s done now.”

I am sure the University of Mississippi is dying for me to come back and head up the school’s ambassador program after my debacle in front of an entire group of in-coming freshmen.

My senior year, I was taking Southern Arts and Antiques during the summer session, and we met in the old Chemistry building on the circle. While walking to class, I managed to fall out on the front steps of the building just as a bus load of orientation kids were passing. The bus stopped. I don’t get up. I just laid there shaking – from laughter. I literally had fallen and couldn’t get up!

So you see, my little accident the other day in front of my office was nothing -- just a little quirk in my every day life.

Graceful is not a word that would describe me. Case in point, in sixth grade, I broke my ankle while walking down a hill. Yep, I lost my balance and ended up rolling down the hill. I was in a cast for six weeks.

In high school, my parents sent me to Charm School to smooth out the edges. They hoped I would eventually out grow my awkwardness, but alas, no. In college, I was as uncoordinated as ever.

During a candlelight ceremony during sorority rush (I was a rusher by this point not a rushee) I accidently set the front of my dress on fire. Polyester crepe. Went up like a torch. I almost stopped, dropped and rolled. Luckily, my roommate put me out before I ended up in the burn unit.

I heard girls talking about “that girl who caught on fire” until I graduated.

So when you see me around town, and I accidently knock over a display at the grocery store or ram you with my basket at Wal-Mart. I mean no harm. I am simply trying to make it through the day without eating pavement.

You see, God has a sense of humor. If he didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.

"I'd be happy to pound the erasers, Ms. Beverly."

2008-08-06T15:49:00.000-07:00

This weekend, as I shopped at the Winona Wal-Mart, I became very nostalgic as I watched children pick out new backpacks, lunch boxes, and zipper bags for pencils. There is nothing in the world better than brand new school supplies to make a kid aim for the stars academically.

A week or so before school started, Momma would take my sisters and me to the store to stock up on school supplies. Of course, I always had to adapt the list to my particular style - which I convinced Momma would help me make better grades.

I always opted for the pink lined notebook paper. It was just prettier and so much more interesting. I also had to get those pens with the three different colors of ink. You know the ones I mean - with the red, green, or black levers on the top to change color.

Although I was only required to get the 24 pack of crayons, I would have to have the jumbo, hundred-count box with colors like flesh and turquoise.

"Mo-mmm-a, how will my pictures look realistic if I don't have a flesh crayon," I whined, which is the best way for any child to get exactly what they want.

Many times I convinced her to take me to Happy Names in Memphis to get "personalized" school supplies. I really needed those pencils with my name on them and my name painted on all my notebooks. It was all about theft prevention. If someone stole my pink Hello Kitty trapper keeper, I would immediately know it was mine because of the large "Amanda" emblazoned across the front in calligraphy.

Oh, I loved school; I had to be on my death bed to actually miss a day. All those books and lectures and recess were so my cup of tea, and as you might guess, I was probably considered a big kiss up with my hand in the air every time my name was called. I would volunteer to read aloud or work that math problem on the board. (Really, it just gave me a chance to write on the board. I hated math.)

Trips to the library, book fairs, career day, science fairs - I loved them. I especially liked show and tell. Once, I had a kitten that was born with her tail bent at a 90 degree angle. It just kind of pointed to the left all the time. After a few months, the bent end just fell off. We found it on the carport floor. I put the tail in a Ziploc bag and tada, show and tell. It was a hit.

Of course, I was the teacher's pet most years, but I can't say I never got into trouble. In Kindergarten, I learned really quickly that hauling off and popping someone for ticking you off got your name on the chalk board with three check marks. Three checks meant I had to sit out at recess and Ms. Beverly, my teacher, called my parents. I got punished all over again when I got home.

In second grade, Aunt Jean, Daddy's sister, was my teacher. I was so lucky. Aunt Jean really appreciated my zeal for learning - so much so that I was her favorite student. (Of course, that is what I thought and told everyone in the class).

But even I could make Aunt Jean angry. One afternoon at recess, my friend, Scooter, and I stole Aunt Jean's mercuricomb and painted our knees and elbows with the dark red liquid. The two of us pretended to fall down and hurt ourselves. Panicked that blood was involved, Aunt Jean rushed to help. She wasn't very happy when she discovered our prank. If I remember correctly, she told Daddy, and I am sure the words "she wasted my good mercuricomb" were used. (Well, she was a Sexton, after all.)

I was never a fan of P.E. Recess was okay, but structured athletics has never been my thing. I was not blessed with hand-eye coordination. Organized sports were a nightmare. I can't even begin to tell you how many times I was hit in the face by a ball.

However, I loved the trampoline. My cousins had one, and I could do flips and other tricks. I was so looking forward to showing off my skills in front of the class, but the teacher put a stop to it. He said unless I could do "swivel hips" (seat drop, flip in mid-air, and seat drop in the opposite direction) a flip was out of the question. Only one student could do "swivel hips," and I despised her.

The teacher loved this girl. Most of the class period, the other students and I would stand around the parameter of the trampoline with our arms in the air to catch the "swivel hips" girl if she launched herself across the room. We would stand there forever as she did tricks and flips while the teacher praised her. (Actually, I am beginning to think this experience is what scarred my psyche against athletics. Regardless, it is now my new excuse.)

So as classes commence in the community, know this. I miss school. If the real world would just take a cue from elementary school, the world would be such a better place. I will take the 30-minute nap for $100, Alex.

Don Juan says hi!

2008-07-31T15:04:00.000-07:00

Remembering to tie a boat to the porch

2008-07-30T11:56:00.000-07:00

Growing up, I spent many summers visiting Momma’s people in the Mississippi Delta. I loved it.

The excitement built as soon as the hills leveled out and the delta began. That was the point where Momma’s eyes begin to twinkle with mirth and memories of a happy childhood.

“I would ride on the cotton sack while Momma picked,” she said. “She would just drag me down the rows.”

Momma’s family has always been an interesting clan. The Yelvertons came to the United States from Scandinavia, and settled in Mississippi not long after stepping onto dry land. My great-grandfather, T.H. Yelverton, farmed the rich delta soil his entire life while raising four sons practically single-handedly through a depression and World War II. Three of the four left home for Europe and Japan to fight for freedom – two returning wounded.

During those days, the Yelvertons experienced what nearly every Mississippi family coped-- draft notices, the fear of telegrams delivering bad news, 12-hour work days just to put food on the table, and the possibility of another devastating levee break.

Living in a modest cypress shotgun house, the family survived every ebb and flow life dealt them. They just tied a boat to the porch in preparation for what the Lord had in store for them.

Through the years, the family persevered. They worked hard, played hard, prayed hard, and leaned on each other for support. And the tales they told about life left me wondering if they were fact or fiction. From experience, I figured out they were mostly fact with just a touch of Southern exaggeration.

I remember sitting in my Uncle B-boy’s (real name, Breland) kitchen listening to him talk about growing up with his three brothers – the oldest being my grandfather, Benoit. He spoke of riding through Belzoni, shooting all the streetlights out with a revolver. He laughed about Uncle Burnell accidently chopping off my granddaddy’s big toe while in pursuit of a rat.

Now, with all of my uncles and my grandfather gone, the delta holds much meaning for me. My ancestors thrived in that black, gumbo mud. The delta is a part of who I am.

Recently, I visited Tallahatchie Flats in Leflore County. For those of you who have never had the privilege of visiting Mr. Bubba and his establishment on Money Road just north of Greenwood, the experience is a step back in time, and it is completely worth the trip.

Tallahatchie Flats is a group of restored shotgun shacks situated on the banks of the Tallahatchie River. Guests can rent a shack for a night, a week, or a month and truly experience Mississippi’s past.

The beds are covered in handmade quilts and mix-matched printed sheets; the kitchen filled with cast iron skillets and Dutch ovens. Eclectic antique furniture is sprinkled sparsely throughout each shack. Handmade rockers line the front porch, and the view consists of acres of cotton and soybeans.

My stay at Tallahatchie Flats allowed me to become a character in one of Uncle B-boy’s stories. I was able to experience a taste of life through his eyes – and the eyes of my mother and grandfather.

I can now imagine how a family that large became so close-knit. Those shotgun houses did not allow for much privacy with its connecting rooms and open floor-plans. Unlike today, there was no place for a brooding teenager to retreat and wile away the time with video games and television. There was no video games and television. Most Mississippians in that time were lucky to have a radio. Families depended on each other for entertainment.

The front porch was a popular perch for most to bask in the fresh air. This is where so many families churned butter, washed laundry, and prepared vegetables from the garden. It was a place for families to spend time together, and with families like the Yelvertons, swap lies and laugh.

I learned a lot from spending time with Momma’s family. I learned coffee could never be too black and thick, there is humor in every situation if you just look for it, and even those who have long-departed this earth are just as close as ever in our memories. I learned who my grandfather really was, even though I never met him in person.

Most of all, I learned that life can be difficult and cruel and deal some a bad hand. But, if I just remember to tie a boat to porch, the waters will recede, and this too shall pass.

Don't know why they call it a tasting -- more like guzzling

2008-07-25T13:55:00.001-07:00

I attended my first wine tasting last weekend at the Winona Country Club. It was my first for a reason. I hate wine. Pretty much all of it except champagne and Clos Du Bois (a sweet Chardonnay that is really warm and butter). Wine make me act like an idiot. I get really giggly drinking wine -- not a good look for me, by the way.

When we arrived, the host gave us champagne. Good. Liked it, drank two glasses. Then the entertainment began.

The first flight:

The whites. It is the lessor of two evils. I really enjoyed the third selection which was a German Riesling wine. It was sweet and slightly fizzy, but not to the extreme of champagne or sparkling wine.

The last one of this flight was a rose from California that smelled like cake batter and tasted like ass.

Now, at most wine tastings, you are supposed to sip, taste, and then spit into a bucket on the table -- like this one:

We don't spit in Winona. It's tacky. In Winona, after a flight you got this (oh, and it is tacky to waste as well):

The second flight:

I am not a fan of the reds, but I will drink a glass of Shiraz with dinner. My favorite wine of the entire night: Quinta Do Crasto LBV Port from Portugal. I finished mine and everyone else's before I left. I became quite tipsy because unlike normal wine, port, has 20 percent alcohol which is 40 proof.

I tried taking more pictures, but I decided to put my camera away so the Baptists could quit hiding under the tables.

Non-Baptists:

I wonder if a beer tasting will ever come to Winona? Or a gin tasting? With tonic. And lime. Here's wishing!

One Word Meme

2008-07-23T14:28:00.000-07:00

Here is another meme from Conversations with my Hairdryer.

1. Where is your cell phone? purse
2. Your significant other? fields
3. Your hair? clippy
4. Your mother? talking
5. Your father? driving
6. Your favorite thing? tivo
7. Your dream last night? None
8. Your favorite drink? (Diet) coke
9. Your dream/goal? bestseller
10. The room you’re in? office
11. Your church? beautiful
12. Your fear? everything
13. Where do you want to be in 6 years? happy
14. Where were you last night? working
15. What you’re not? punctual
16. Muffins? Mac
17. One of your wish list items? desk
18. Where you grew up? Eudora
19. The last thing you did? talk
20. What are you wearing? jeans
21. Your TV? friend
22. Your pets? idiots
23. Your computer? necessity
24. Your life? busy
25. Your mood? content
26. Missing someone? friends
27. Your car? filthy
28. Something you’re not wearing? necklace
29. Favorite store? Turnrow
30. Your summer? hot
31. Like(love) someone? Keith
32. Your favorite color? pink
33. Last time you laughed? moments
34. Last time you cried? Sunday
35. Who will repost this? dunno

Passing the time this summer

2008-07-22T07:35:00.000-07:00

Conversations with my Hairdryer introduced this meme called Summer Lovin'. It got me thinking about all the plans I wanted to accomplish this summer. Let's see how interesting the past couple of months have been.

Watching -- My summer television shows -- Big Brother, Nashville Star, Closer, Monk, and Psyche. Oh, and Masterpiece Mysteries on PBS.

Reading -- Liberating Paris by Linda Bloodworth Thomason. I have a HUGE list on my to-be-read list because I am participating in two reading challenges.

Listening to -- Robert Johnson, opera

Over-indulging on -- Diet Coke, fresh tomatoes

Thankful for -- My significant other, Keith. I am a lucky girl if I say so myself!

Praying for -- my family, as always, and my own sanity

Trying out -- Cooking for fun, landscape photographer, gardening

Gearing up for -- Our August trip to Hot Springs. Hopefully, both my sisters will be able to join. Also, Magazine ad sales. Work is the largest part of my life, so I have to mention it.

Looking forward to -- finally cleaning my closets out, organizing my office as soon as I get someone to move my desk, and cleaning out the butler's pantry (aka, my catchall for everything from unused household crap to personal papers screaming to be filed.)

"I've got the split-end blues"

2008-07-18T11:41:00.000-07:00

Maggie Reads is holding a contest for the best blues name. I thought the Blues name generator wasn't very authentic because they weren't Southern names. So gave mine a little Mississippi twist. (Thank you, Mark Twain, for teaching me to write phonically.)

Itchin' Plantain Ken'dy: The prissiest, most high maintenance gal in the juke. (and her backup group, The Peels.)

Searching for Robert Johnson

2008-07-14T07:54:00.000-07:00

This weekend, my significant other, Keith, and I searched for the grave site of the king of the Delta blues singers, Robert Johnson, in the Mississippi Delta.

Mr. Johnson:

Now for those of you who know Keith and me, we are polar opposites on most accounts except for our dry sarcasm, unnatural obsession with sports of any kind, our love of Southern history, and, of course, our enthusiastic appreciation for Mississippi blues. Case in point, Keith took me to Morgan Freeman's Ground Zero Blues Club on our very first date.

For those of you who are not familiar with Johnson, he is the famed Mississippi bluesman from Hazelhurst who supposedly sold his soul to the devil in exchange for talent to sing the blues. This exchanged occurred at the "Crossroads" near Clarksdale. Johnson died at age 27 in Greenwood after being poisoned by a woman's husband after his wife's alleged affair with Johnson. Read more about Robert Johnson.

Just as mysterious as Johnson's life, his final resting place is very ellusive. In fact, there are three different cemeteries where his tombstone sits.

So, we paid homage to all three.

Now, we know he died in Leflore County, Mississippi. And lucky for us, all three grave sites are also in Leflore County.

Our search began at Tallahatchie Flats, three miles north of Greenwood. Keith and I reserved our very own shack for the night to get to the heart of Johnson and his life. We stayed in the Tush-Hog House, named for the man with Johnson when he died of strychnine poisoning.

Our House:

The back porch overlooked a soy bean field and the Tallahatchie River. Keith was jealous that his beans did not look so good.

As a matter of fact, it was Mr. Bubba, the proprietor, who suggested we try to find all three sites is we were true enthusiasts.

Our first destination: Itta Bena. We were searching for the Quito Plantation. There in the church yard of a chapel was the first marker. Surrounded by other Johnsons, a simple flat tombstone lay with the inscription, "Resting in the Blues." Keith felt it fitting to share a beer with him.

Quito Plantation, Est. 1904

The church in Itta Bena with the first marker:

More Johnsons live in the area: We thought it had to be the real thing -- a family cemetery.

That was until we got to Morgan City. South of Itta Bena is a small cotton community known as Morgan City. Keith actually did an internship here while he was in school. He would drive out to Morgan City twice a week to check cotton.

We could not find a church, but a nice lady at the Morgan City Grocery gave us directions.

I read that Johnson was buried at Mount Zion Church, and if we did not pull straight up to Mount Zion Church. A large marker sat near the street, and we knew immediately that it was his. The obelisk was inscribed on all four sides.

The second marker:

This was the REAL one, I told Keith. He agreed.

A photograph of Johnson was inset on the monument. And fans from across the globe have paid tribute. This was proved with a British pound placed at the base of the stone.

On our way back to Greenwood, we came upon this -- the big ass bridge in the middle of nowhere.

Big Ass Bridge in the Middle of Nowhere:

View from the Bridge:

The YA-YA-Yazoo!

It was just too interesting not to mention. It crosses the Yazoo River.

Near Tallahatchie Flats, we found the last of the markers. It was under a pecan tree at the Little Zion Chapel. An eye witness supposedly saw Johnson buried in this spot. After finding out she never received a dime for her story, I was inclined to believe this was the spot.

The third marker:

Of course, after discussing the matter further over dinner at Lusco's in Greenwood, we don't know what the hell to think. (We had the porterhouse for two, Lusco's famous fries, and the chocolate sin with chocolate bourbon sauce, yum!)

You can take the boy out of the delta, but....

Chocolate Sin....oh, yeah!

It certainly is fitting that Johnson's final resting place is just as mysterious as the man.

The village idiot goes for a run

2008-07-10T08:12:00.000-07:00

Saturday afternoon, I took a stroll through my neighborhood. Sounds pleasant, huh? Well, not so much.

With gas prices at $4 a gallon, I decided to celebrate our nation’s independence with a quiet weekend at home in Winona with friends. There had only been a few occasions where I was not with my family on the holiday weekend, and it was a little peculiar without the roar of my large family.

To lighten the blow, I asked my sister, Deana, to drive down Saturday for a cook-out. She could definitely turn my quiet weekend at home into something a bit more comforting – or at least a light roar.

Deana arrived after lunch and was greeted enthusiastically by the dogs out in the yard. She didn’t even have to ring the bell before I was alerted to her presence.

Now, I will say, my dogs love my sister, mainly because she brings them presents whenever she visits, and this visit was no different. She immediately pulled out a bag of bacon snacks for the dogs and a container of kitty treats for my cat, Deadline, who lives in the storage room.

“Let’s not bring them in yet,” I told Deana.

So we settled into the den, and Deana told me about the family Fourth of July I missed the day before. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who had missed. My middle sister, Stephanie, was required to complete some sort of combat training with the DeSoto County Sheriff’s Department where she is a captain, and spent our nation’s birthday getting beat up by would-be perpetrators.

After a few minutes, I walked into the kitchen and saw it. The gate was open, and the yard was empty. My dogs had escaped and were now loose in the city. Pure panic washed over my body. My dogs had never been off a leash, and I was afraid they would not know to get out of the way of cars.

Without thinking, I ran down the steps, across the yard, and down the street – barefoot. As I rounded the corner, I noticed something running full speed down the street. Don Juan, my Chihuahua, ran right to me and jumped into my arms.

I passed him off to Deana and continued my hunt for the fastest, severely ADD creature the Lord ever created – Skipper, aka the village idiot.

It rained that morning, and water still flowed in the gutters. The grass was wet, and the dirt was mud. The rain had also washed gravel onto the street, and my bare feet were now muddy and bleeding as I called out for Skipper.

“Skipper,” I called. “Here Doodle Bug.”

I was trying to sound playful and sweet. I did not want him to realize when I caught him, I planned to kill him.

Some children on bicycles pointed me in the right direction – gravel road, mud – and a group of children who sat on church steps directed me further. Skipper was obviously touring the town, and he was headed back towards my street.

“Did you lose one?” my neighbor asked.

“Yes, the little black and white one. Have you seen him?”

“Let me see if he is around the back?”

A few minutes later, I heard my neighbor direct me behind his house and through the back yards of the houses behind him.

Then I saw him, a black and white terrier was running towards me as I called. Then I realized, this might be Skipper’s cousin, but it is definitely not Skipper. Impossible, but there is another one!

I caught a flash of white. It was Skipper. I called – all sweet remember – and he actually ran to me. I flung that raging idiot into my arms – I seriously thought I lost him forever.
I didn’t kill him. I didn’t even punish him. I just walked home – sweaty, bleeding, and muddy – with Skipper in my arms.

As I handed Deana the dog and hosed off, we discovered the village idiot could actually open the gate with his nose. We doggie-proofed the latches. Now, remarkably, I can’t open the gate.

The holiday curse strikes again

2008-06-30T11:36:00.000-07:00

I had a near-death experience a week ago.

After church on Father’s Day Sunday, I slipped in the bathroom and smashed right through the plantation shutters – with my head. I kind of just lay there for a few minutes, I think, because I might have blacked out.

Okay, I have gotten ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning.

That weekend, I visited my family in Southaven to celebrate with Daddy. His birthday fell on Father’s Day this year, so we had double the reason for a get-together. My family celebrates EVERY holiday – Halloween, Labor Day, Memorial Day, Flag Day. We just need a reason no matter how insignificant.

Daddy’s birthday: very significant.

The problem is there is always some sort of holiday mishap. Case in point: My sister’s Thanksgiving night dog mauling. We ended up spending the entire evening at the emergency room – a private emergency room for “special” families (in other words, unruly-no-one-wants-to-deal-with-families.)

This Father’s Day, the curse struck again.

Now, my weekend was going really well up until I defied death. After getting a manicure and pedicure on Saturday morning, I met my sister, Deana, for a marathon shopping trip that took us from one side of Memphis to the other. I got back to Momma and Daddy’s with just enough time to get changed and drive back to Memphis for dinner with friends.

Dinner was wonderful as was the company, but I must say the success of the evening can be conjured in just two words – pecan tort. I made my first trip to the Cheese Cake Corner in the South Main district in downtown Memphis. It has been featured in Southern Living many times, and may I say, totally worth the trip!

Sunday morning began normally – Momma and me drinking coffee in the kitchen, Daddy wandering in with bed hair and complaining about being old. He proceeded to eat leftover pecan tort (too much for one or even two!), complained about eating the tort, and then rushed upstairs and got ready for church.

Deana and I met Momma and Daddy there, and I made a point to announce to everyone in the congregation that Daddy was celebrating his 29th birthday. For some reason over the years, I have outgrown him by four years. (Kind of hinky, but I never was any good at math.)

With a fantastic lunch to prepare, we headed back to Southaven. I dropped Deana at her house to change and drove back to Momma’s to do the same. Then I walked into the bathroom. Unaware of water on the marble, I slipped, flew into the air, and crashed.

My head broke my fall. My head and the wooden plantation shutters. Maybe the window.
The next thing I remember is hearing Momma and Daddy coming in the front door. They found me sprawled out on the floor.

A throbbing, grapefruit-sized knot rose at the nape of my neck. I thought I had died, and I almost had. A few more inches and I would have crashed through a triple-pane window.

My imagination ran away with me at that point, and I had a full-fledged panic attack. I could have died, and my parents would have found me. Daddy’s birthday would be ruined forever.
Then I started thinking about how I destroyed the plantation shutters. I figured Daddy would be furious. But no. I think Momma and Daddy were as freaked out as I was (Sextons have a way of overreacting).

Your mind does strange things when something traumatic happens. My first thought was to get back to Winona as quickly as possible just in case Daddy insisted I go to the emergency room (I know they still remember us!). Then I dwelled on ruining the party. I finally fixated on the fact that I would probably die a couple days later like that character I saw on CSI.

I managed to pull it together, eat lunch, and convince my parents to allow me to drive home.
Now that I know I don’t have a slow bleed on the brain, I realized something. As much as I make fun of my family members for their freakishly bad luck, I am now a character in one of my own stories. And I confess, it isn’t any fun being on the other side.

100 New Classics

2008-06-24T07:34:00.000-07:00

Several other bloggers listed the EW's 100 New Classics list and made a note of which books they have read, want to read, and don't have any intention of reading. I wanted to do the same -- mainly because it surprises me that some of these books made it on the list. I also noticed that I have read other books by the same author.

Bold -- those I have read
Italics -- those that are on my reading list

1. The Road , Cormac McCarthy (2006)
2. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, J.K. Rowling (2000)
3. Beloved, Toni Morrison (1987)
4. The Liars’ Club, Mary Karr (1995)
5. American Pastoral, Philip Roth (1997)
6. Mystic River, Dennis Lehane (2001)
7. Maus, Art Spiegelman (1986/1991)
8. Selected Stories, Alice Munro (1996)
9. Cold Mountain, Charles Frazier (1997)
10. The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, Haruki Murakami (1997)
11. Into Thin Air, Jon Krakauer (1997)
12. Blindness, José Saramago (199
13. Watchmen, Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons (1986-87)
14. Black Water, Joyce Carol Oates (1992)
15. A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, Dave Eggers (2000)
16. The Handmaid’s Tale, Margaret Atwood (1986)
17. Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel García Márquez (198
18. Rabbit at Rest, John Updike (1990)
19. On Beauty, Zadie Smith (2005)
20. Bridget Jones’s Diary, Helen Fielding (199
21. On Writing, Stephen King (2000)
22. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Junot Díaz (2007)
23. The Ghost Road, Pat Barker (1996)
24. Lonesome Dove, Larry McMurtry (1985)
25. The Joy Luck Club, Amy Tan (1989)
26. Neuromancer, William Gibson (1984)
27. Possession, A.S. Byatt (1990)
28. Naked, David Sedaris (1997)
29. Bel Canto, Anne Patchett (2001)
30. Case Histories, Kate Atkinson (2004)
31. The Things They Carried, Tim O’Brien (1990)
32. Parting the Waters, Taylor Branch (198
33. The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion (2005)
34. The Lovely Bones, Alice Sebold (2002)
35. The Line of Beauty, Alan Hollinghurst (2004)
36. Angela’s Ashes, Frank McCourt (1996)
37. Persepolis, Marjane Satrapi (2003)
38. Birds of America, Lorrie Moore (199
39. Interpreter of Maladies, Jhumpa Lahiri (2000)
40. His Dark Materials, Philip Pullman (1995-2000)
41. The House on Mango Street, Sandra Cisneros (1984)
42. LaBrava, Elmore Leonard (1983)
43. Borrowed Time, Paul Monette (198
44. Praying for Sheetrock, Melissa Fay Greene (1991)
45. Eva Luna, Isabel Allende (198
46. Sandman, Neil Gaiman (1988-1996)
47. World’s Fair, E.L. Doctorow (1985)
48. The Poisonwood Bible, Barbara Kingsolver (199
49. Clockers, Richard Price (1992)
50. The Corrections, Jonathan Franzen (2001)
51. The Journalist and the Murderer, Janet Malcom (1990)
52. Waiting to Exhale, Terry McMillan (1992)
53. The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, Michael Chabon (2000)
54. Jimmy Corrigan, Chris Ware (2000)
55. The Glass Castle, Jeannette Walls (2006)
56. The Night Manager, John le Carré (1993)
57. The Bonfire of the Vanities, Tom Wolfe (1987)
58. Drop City, TC Boyle (2003)
59. Krik? Krak! Edwidge Danticat (1995)
60. Nickel & Dimed, Barbara Ehrenreich (2001)
61. Money, Martin Amis (1985)
62. Last Train To Memphis, Peter Guralnick (1994)
63. Pastoralia, George Saunders (2000)
64. Underworld, Don DeLillo (1997)
65. The Giver, Lois Lowry (1993)
66. A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, David Foster Wallace (1997)
67. The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini (2003)
68. Fun Home, Alison Bechdel (2006)
69. Secret History, Donna Tartt (1992)
70. Cloud Atlas, David Mitchell (2004)
71. The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down, Ann Fadiman (1997)
72. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, Mark Haddon (2003)
73. A Prayer for Owen Meany, John Irving (1989)
74. Friday Night Lights, H.G. Bissinger (1990)
75. Cathedral, Raymond Carver (1983)
76. A Sight for Sore Eyes, Ruth Rendell (199
77. The Remains of the Day, Kazuo Ishiguro (1989)
78. Eat, Pray, Love, Elizabeth Gilbert (2006)
79. The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell (2000)
80. Bright Lights, Big City, Jay McInerney (1984)
81. Backlash, Susan Faludi (1991)
82. Atonement, Ian McEwan (2002)
83. The Stone Diaries, Carol Shields (1994)
84. Holes, Louis Sachar (199
85. Gilead, Marilynne Robinson (2004)
86. And the Band Played On, Randy Shilts (1987)
87. The Ruins, Scott Smith (2006)
88. High Fidelity, Nick Hornby (1995)
89. Close Range, Annie Proulx (1999)
90. Comfort Me With Apples, Ruth Reichl (2001)
91. Random Family, Adrian Nicole LeBlanc (2003)
92. Presumed Innocent, Scott Turow (1987)
93. A Thousand Acres, Jane Smiley (1991)
94. Fast Food Nation, Eric Schlosser (2001)
95. Kaaterskill Falls, Allegra Goodman (199
96. The Da Vinci Code, Dan Brown (2003)
97. Jesus’ Son, Denis Johnson (1992)
98. The Predators’ Ball, Connie Bruck (198
99. Practical Magic, Alice Hoffman (1995)
100. America (the Book), Jon Stewart/Daily Show (2004)

Ok, obviously, I am not reading "quality books" according to this list. Maybe if the list included more SOUTHERN writers....

I do, however, have questions. How in the hell did Jon Stewart end up on this list. Was the author of the list gargling with bong water?

Anyway, other "what were they thinking" books are: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (there are seven of these books -- what is so special about this one?), Bridget Jones' Diary and Waiting to Exhail (both chick lit), Fast Food Nation (why?).

Well, I'm not the expert. Maybe these books do deserve to be on the list. I guess I will have to read them to figure that out.

Another Reading Challenge

2008-06-23T10:58:00.000-07:00

Okay, since there is nothing on television this summer, I have been occupying my time by reading two to three books a week. With this in mind, I have joined another reading challenge -- the 1% Challenge.

I was asked to select 10 books from the 1001 Must Read Books Before You Die list, and I have 10 months to complete the books.

The list was daunting, but I managed to select 10 books from several centuries. Please forgive my eccentric tastes. Nothing really fits with me. The books I chose are simply ones I have been meaning to read for years now.

The books I have selected are below:

Life of Pi

The Reader

Like Water for Chocolate

Love in the Time of Cholera

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day

The Count of Monte-Cristo

Camilla

Villette

Middlesex

Check in periodically for reviews on the books.

Happy Reading!

Update: I won the 'Sense of Place' contest!

2008-06-20T07:48:00.000-07:00

I entered the Sense of Place contest at Maggie Reads. And guess what? I won!

The winning entry:

"Of course, Southerners tend to think that pretty much everything is an act of God. It's easier than trying to figure out why we lost the war, why we remain generally impoverished and infested with mosquitoes and snakes and flying termites, why there is in fact "brokenness" in our world as well as plenty of tornadoes and floods and hurricanes and ice storms and hundred-percent humidity levels. Hell, it's easier than trying to figure out what made the battery go dead or who locked the keys in the car."

Julia Reed
Queen of the Turtle Derby

Southern Reading Challenge

2008-06-19T13:41:00.000-07:00

Stumbled onto a fantastic blog today -- Maggie Reads. Maggie is from Como -- not far from my native DeSoto County.

I have signed on to participate in the Southern Reading Challenge which shouldn't be too hard since I adore Southern authors of any kind. The challenge calls for participants to read three books.

My three are:

Between, Georgia by Joshilyn Jackson

One Mississippi by Mark Childress

Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier

I will review each one as I finish.

Happy reading!

Mississippi: So much to be proud of

2008-06-19T09:33:00.000-07:00

Last week, my book club met for our monthly get together. Over the very Southern dish of shrimp and grits and chocolate fudge cake, we visited for hours about books, life, children, family, and of course, elaborate tall tales.

For years, book club has been my therapy, stress reducer, and comfort. When I moved to Winona last summer, I just knew I must find a new club, or I would not and could not be truly content. Now, with a wonderful group of fellow book-lovers, I once again find comfort with my book club.

The ladies in my group are quite diverse. There is one homemaker, an English teacher, two in the medical profession, and a fellow writer. We all bring our different viewpoints and life experiences to the table with the same goal in mind – to lose ourselves in some intelligent (sometimes) conversation that runs a gambit of subjects.

This month, the book we were discussing was a memoire of a New Yorker’s relocation to the Mississippi coast. Finally, a book – not written by a native Mississippian -- that actually celebrates Mississippi, its people, and culture!

The author had survived Hurricane Katrina, but her home and her belongings did not. In her experience, the most amazing aspect of disaster was the perseverance, good will, and philanthropy of Mississippi’s people.

One book clubber (the English teacher) said it infuriates her that Mississippi is always described as last – last in education, last in per capita income, last in graduation rates. She said everyone needs to know that Mississippi is first in something – giving.

For the past several years, although Mississippi is last in per capita income, we are the most charitable state in the nation. Of course, this wasn’t news to me; I have always known Mississippi was the kindest and friendliest state in the nation – and I didn’t need statistics to prove it. Mississippians prove it to me every day.

So in keeping with my book clubber’s wishes, instead of focusing on the lasts, let’s spotlight some of the firsts.

· In 1963, the University of Mississippi Medical Center accomplished the world's first human lung transplant.

· In 1964, Dr. James D. Hardy performed the world's first heart transplant surgery.

· Mississippi College was the first co-educational college in the nation to grant degrees to women.

· Mississippi was the first state in the nation to have a planned system of junior colleges, and just look how successful they are.

· The 4-H Club, first known as the "Corn Club," started in Holmes County in 1907.

· Shoes were first sold in boxes in pairs (right foot and left foot) in Vicksburg, at Phil Gilbert's Shoe Parlor on Washington Street in 1884. (In my mind this is like the invention of the wheel! Tell me if you aren’t impressed by this.)

· Dr. Emmette F. Izard, of Hazelhurst, developed the first fibers of rayon, the first real synthetic.

· All Space Shuttle engines are tested at John Stennis Center in Hancock County. Talk about shooting for the moon!

· Alcorn State University is the nation's oldest historically black land-grant college.

· Mississippi has more churches per capita than any other state.

· Mississippians invented Pine Sol (oh, yes, we also like things to smell good), root beer, the helicopter (well, developed it anyway), Stetson hats, stick ball, condensed milk and the dollar sign.

· We also “birthed” some other cultural phenomenon: blues music, four Miss Americas, and Elvis.

· Mississippi lost more soldiers of any Confederate State in the Civil War. Seventy-eight thousand Mississippians entered the Confederate military. By the end of the war, 59,000 of the 78,000 were either dead or wounded.

· On April 25, 1866, a group of ladies from Columbus decorated both Confederate and Union soldiers’ graves with flowers and garlands. This gesture eventually became Memorial Day every year.

You see, Mississippians have so many accomplishments to be proud. Of course, let’s work to improve our weaknesses, but don’t dwell on the negative. We have too much to brag about!

The Weekend of Amanda

2008-06-02T13:59:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, I did nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I slept about 24 hours, and watched tons of television. I ate fast food, and left the wrappers on the coffee table until Sunday night. I drank an entire case of Diet Cokes (yes, I am addicted.)

For the past seven weeks, I have had something to do every weekend -- had to do mostly, not wanted to do. For the first time in I can't remember, the weekend was all about me and what I wanted to do at the time.

I started off at the movie store where I picked up six movies. I thought I could watch two Friday night, two Saturday, and two on Sunday. It would be a nice addition to my weekend. Of course, I finished all six by Saturday night.

I started with National Treasure 2. Good movie. Not as good as the first one (I liked the subject matter of the first one better), but I could definitely watch it again.

http://www.netflix.com/Movie/National_Treasure_Book_of_Secrets/70065124?trkid=222336

Then it was Elizabeth: The Golden Age. Two words: Clive Owen. That is the main reason to watch this film. He is hot. It is better than the first Elizabeth, but I will attribute a lot of that to Clive Owen.

http://www.netflix.com/Movie/Elizabeth_The_Golden_Age/70045272?trkid=229001

Charlie Wilson's War was next, and I loved it. It is written by Aaron Sorkin who wrote the West Wing and Studio 60 and Sports Night. It is smart and funny, and it is a must see for any fan of politics.

http://www.netflix.com/Movie/Charlie_Wilson_s_War/70060021?trkid=222336

More than two hours of my life were wasted as I watched The Golden Compass, a ridiculous movie about animal souls, talking bears, and an ending that just stopped. It was definitely hoping for sequel, but this one sucked so bad, I am sure that isn't going to happen.

http://www.netflix.com/Movie/The_Golden_Compass/70060016?trkid=222336

The chick flick 27 Dresses turned out to be quite charming. It won't win and Oscar, but it was a nice breakfast companion for Saturday morning.

http://www.netflix.com/Movie/27_Dresses/70082269?trkid=222336

I finished off my movie marathon with Atonement. Heavy and a bit of a downer, but well worth the watch. I doubt I will watch it repeatedly like Steel Magnolias or Color Purple and memorize all the lines, but I highly recommend it.

http://www.netflix.com/Movie/Atonement/70059993?trkid=222336

Best movie of the weekend: Elizabeth: The Golden Age. Thank you, Clive Owen.

They lost Joyce

2008-05-27T12:48:00.000-07:00

“Oh, Lord, we’ve lost Joyce.”

That was all Momma could say after the airline lost the ashes of her aunt at O’Hare Airport in Chicago.

I’m getting ahead of myself, so I’ll back up.

Monday morning, I logged a marathon three-way call with Momma and my sister, Deana. It was Memorial Day, and this was one of the few holidays I was unable to spend with my family. We made up for it on the phone discussing Sexton family happenings.

During the course of the call, the three of us got tickled over Momma’s trip to Oregon to retrieve the ashes of her aunt.

You see, to get to Grants Pass, Ore., from Memphis International Airport, one has to fly to Chicago, then to Seattle, then to Eugene. Last, a little crop duster plane travels from Eugene to Grants Pass. Needless to say, Momma and my Aunt Pat were near delireus when they finally arrived in Chicago on the return trip.

After shuttling across the terminal to meet their connection, they discovered the plane had been long gone – with the Aunt Joyce’s ashes on board.

A hysterical Momma called home with the news expecting some support, advice and even sympathy. Instead, Daddy asked the same question most people would ask.
“You checked Joyce?”

Momma let loose on a tirade about the airline charging them for an additional seat to carry the ashes and about this happening all the time – one family lost their father whose body was shipped in the casket. (Casket, hanging bag. Hanging bag, casket. I can see how that could happen.)

Still, Daddy was completely perplexed at the reasoning – “You checked Joyce?”

It took several weeks before urn was finally found. Happily, it was and a proper burial was given.

It is a trait in our family to get tickled at the most inappropriate times. More than once, Momma and I have gotten tickled in the middle of the Sunday sermon or special music, and we made enough of a spectacle that we received Daddy’s signature raised eyebrow glare.

Momma said as soon as she and Aunt Pat discovered they had lost Aunt Joyce’s ashes, they broke into hysterical laughing. I am sure it was at that point they thought, “What part of this did we think was a good idea.”

Becoming a cat's human

2008-05-23T08:56:00.000-07:00

A cat has joined my menagerie of pets, and she has quickly developed her own personality and, may I say, attitude.

Deadline wandered up to the Winona Times offices one Tuesday night as the staff and I worked late to make deadline for that week’s paper. The name fit perfectly for this very persistent feline.

The entire evening, Deadline waited at the front door – meowing and howling to get our attention. If we went outside to appease her, she would aggressively try to get into the building, and then howl and meow when we did not let her inside.

The next morning, she was still waiting at the front door. Then I fed her, and she was officially mine.

Afraid of what would happen to her if she wandered into Summit Street, I took her home. I created a comfortable living environment for her in my storage room with old bed pillows and blankets, and occasionally, I allow her to come into the kitchen for a few minutes. I am somewhat allergic to cats, and prolonged exposure to their dander tends to make my eyes swell shut (not a good look for me).

Recently, she has decided she would like to live inside the house, and she is once again being very persistent and annoying with her decision. We fight on a daily basis. She comes in, stretches out on the sofa, and glares at me in defiance.

When I tell her “out,” I get a firm, growling meow. When I pick her up to put her out myself, she all but grabs hold of the door frame with her paws.

Cats are odd little things, and I admit I have never caught the cat person’s devotion. Personally, I think cats are too smart to be pets. They are moody, set in their ways, and refuse to follow instruction. Let’s face it – cats are nearly impossible to train.

Several years ago, I visited the Southaven Animal Shelter to adopt the largest cat in the facility. The night before, I was sitting on my sofa watching television, and a rat ran across the floor, stopped, gave me a smug look, and continued on his way. I truly believe that vile, plague-carrying creature smiled at me.

Of course, my family thought I was exaggerating, but unless that rat was wearing white gloves and lived in a castle in Florida, I did not want him for a roommate.

At the shelter, I found a not-so-lean-mean-fighting-machine in a grey, tiger-stripped male cat with an enormous, fat belly and a tiny little head. I named him Ignatius J. Sexton after a character from my favorite book, Confederacy of Dunces.

Ignatius was a strange creature. He would escape from the yard (he was too fat to climb) and prowl the neighborhood in search of food. He would go door to door, and all of my retired neighbors would feed him chicken skins, cans of tuna, and leftovers from the fridge. I was even scolded by my neighbor that Ignatius was starving to death.

His once-enormous belly became colossal, and it would actually sway from side to side as he walked. He looked like a bowling pen when he sat – with his tiny head and enormous belly, and he towered over my dogs in height and weight (around 30 pounds).

He refused to use a litter box and chose to go outside with the dogs. He even licked people like he was a dog.

Ignatius hated my mother, and I am sure it was mutual. He would glare at her and flick his tail in disgust until she left the house.

Once she was babysitting the critters, and Ignatius propped his fat fanny on Momma’s head during the night. It took me a long time to ask her to baby-sit again.

My point is cats are unpredictable. They are stubborn, arrogant, and elitist. Sometimes I get the feeling that they think they are smarter than their human. I know Ignatius did, and I suspect from the cussing I get from Deadline about sleeping in her own room, she does as well.

My question is now that the cat has chosen me as her human, how do I show her I’m the boss? Can you hear me, Cat Whisperer?

100 Totally Facinating Things About Me

2008-05-15T13:04:00.001-07:00

1. My middle name is Gaye.
2. I was named for my daddy’s oldest sister, Sybil Gaye, and Miss Kitty off Gunsmoke, Amanda Blake.
3. Daddy said he always had a thing for Miss Kitty.
4. I am the youngest of three girls.
5. Until I was nearly a teenager, I thought I was not my parent’s child.
6. I thought my uncle was actually my father, and because he was an idiot, my parents took me in.
7. It makes me cringe when my mother tells me I remind her of him.
8. I had a pony named Tiny Boot when I was a child.
9. When I was little I had reoccurring nightmares about the ground opening up, falling in the crack while riding Tiny Boot, the hole filling up with water and drowning.
10. No I am not in therapy.
11. My first friend my same age was named Scooter Cooper.
12. We once had a joint birthday party at McDonald’s.
13. My favorite color to wear is green. My favorite color is pink.
14. I have one eye that is half blue and half green.
15. Until I was around 7, my eyes were blue. Now they are green.
16. My favorite show growing up was Tom and Jerry.
17. I used to cry when it would end.
18. I hate Roadrunner. It was the worst cartoon ever.
19. I never understood why Popeye would want to date Olive Oil in the first place.
20. After seeing Friday the 13th part III, I was scared to go into the hay loft of the barn.
21. I still am.
22. My best friend since we were seven is Heather.
23. We went to elementary, high school, and college together.
24. We have never lived together, not even in the dorm.
25. That is the reason we are still friends.
26. My favorite book growing up was James and the Giant Peach.
27. My fourth grade teacher read it to us.
28. She also made me love butterflies.
29. I can now tell the difference between a Hawkeye and a Monarch butterfly.
30. I have never been a lover of science, but I did graduate high school with a 100 average in Anatomy and Physiology.
31. Chemistry – not so much.
32. My favorite teacher ever was Bill Ferris.
33. He is now the director of the Humanities in Washington, D.C.
34. I majored in English and Southern Studies.
35. I actually wanted to be an interior decorator, but my father would not have it.
36. I took one class in journalism in college.
37. My professor told me I would never be a journalist, and I needed to transfer into creative writing.
38. I am now a journalist with an English degree.
39. My favorite book of all time is Confederacy of Dunces.
40. I named my cat after the main character – Ignatius J. Riley.
41. The one character I fell in love with immediately – Gilbert Blyth from Anne of Green Gables.
42. I started to hate Anne for being mean to him.
43. The other – Edward Rochester from Jane Eyre.
44. I hate Charles Dickens. Anything by Charles Dickens.
45. A writer I would love to emulate: Dorothy Parker.
46. Writer I would love to have lunch with: Dan Brown
47. My first published piece of writing was in my high school newspaper – The Immaculata.
48. I wrote Madame Amanda’s horoscopes.
49. Seriously.
50. I went to an all-girl Catholic school.
51. I had to wear saddle oxfords until I was 18 years old.
52. My favorite foods are Momma’s fried chicken and sushi.
53. My least favorite foods – beets, hummus (that is so not food), and rice pudding.
54. My favorite television show: Monk.
55. I don’t feel so bad about my OCD if I watch Monk.
56. Second favorite television show: Psych.
57. If you grew up in the 80’s you will love Psych. Tons of 80’s references.
58. Favorite movie: Color Purple. I can quote the entire movie.
59. Worst movie ever: The Interpreter
60. I am actually kind of shy. Crowds of people scare me to death.
61. I am petrified of heights. Sometimes I think I might freak out and jump. Other times, I think I will trip and fall to my death.
62. And germs.
63. And bad smells.
64. And bugs.
65. All kinds of bugs, but especially chiggers because the get into your skin.
66. Skin diseases freak me out. I would rather have the flu than a rash.
67. I’m itching now.
68. I have always had a tremendous urge to confess – everything.
69. I feel so guilty; I believe I have to get forgiveness.
70. My favorite toy growing up: Career Woman Barbie with her pink suit and pink and white pumps.
71. When I played with Barbie, I would make Barbie go off to the office, and make Ken stay at home and cook.
72. Ken sucked. Hated Ken.
73. My significant other’s name is Keith.
74. Our first kiss was in the middle of a corn field.
75. We will be dating for three years in June.
76. Keith makes the best stuffed pork chop in the world.
77. He also made me like to eat venison.
78. Keith is so much better then Ken.
79. Favorite flower: I have two – the iris and the sterling rose
80. Favorite scent: honeysuckle
81. Favorite dessert: hot chocolate chip cookies
82. Favorite ice cream: Homemade vanilla by Bluebell
83. I am addicted to nose spray and have been for like 10 years.
84. I only use it before bed.
85. When my nose is stopped up, I feel like I’m drowning and wig out.
86. I have a serious phobia about my bed. The idea of strangers sleeping in my bed will send me over the edge.
87. I hate professional massages.
88. Every time I get a professional massage, I come out bruised and looking like some sort of victim.
89. I like facials.
90. My favorite song of all time is “Oh, Sweet Carolina” by Ryan Adams.
91. It has really great harmony.
92. My favorite musicians are Patti Griffin and Lori McKenna.
93. I love folk music (especially acoustic guitar) and classical piano solos (that is what I write to).
94. I bought my dogs a sofa.
95. Seriously.
96. I have two dogs and a cat.
97. The cat lives outside.
98. Her name is Deadline.
99. She is the ugliest cat I have ever seen.
100. She is definitely not as pretty as my dogs.

Keetha's Rebuttal

2008-05-12T14:38:00.000-07:00

Check out Keetha's rebuttal for her avid love of "festivaling."

http://writekudzu.blogspot.com/2008/05/festival-rebuttal.html

Cucumber sandwiches and mint juleps: The joys of entertaining Southern

2008-05-08T12:23:00.000-07:00

Being Southern isn’t just a geographic location. It is a culture with its own language, habits, rules, and interaction with other humans. In regards to that interaction, we love to gather in large groups, eat ourselves silly, exchange old stories, and bask in our Southern-ness.

Like most Southern women, I love to entertain. I guess I spent too much time throwing tea parties as a child, but nothing is more wonderful than setting a beautiful table, organizing a gourmet menu, and mingling through rooms of guests.

My parents have always entertained – Daddy’s business acquaintances, family, the pastor. I attended my first dinner party before I was five-years-old. My parents wanted to teach us how to behave in social situations, and of course, we had a learning curve.

Momma and Daddy:

As a toddler, my sister, Stephanie, pulled her potty chair into the dining room for her “way to go’s.” This was just as the main course was being served.

At around three-years-old, my oldest sister, Deana, who learned to talk in the womb, smacked the pastor for not acknowledging her when she greeted him. “Hi,” she said. He continued with his adult conversation. “I said ‘hi,’” she insisted. He ignored her. “I said ‘hi,’” she shouted as she hauled off and popped him.

As for me, my parents could not make me understand that I had to keep my dress on – I would strip down and streak through the house. They also had the problem of me pulling my skirt up over my head and showing off all my business during children’s church, but that is another story.
Regardless, I love to entertain. Case in point, the 134th running of the Kentucky Derby was held Saturday at Churchill Downs in Louisville, Kentucky, but the traditions and Southern charm of the Derby could be felt all the way to Winona.

The first annual Ferguson-Mosley-Reed-Sexton Kentucky Derby party (my co-hosts – Keith, Keetha, and Jeffrey) was held at my home on Saturday evening, and trust me (after hours of cleaning silver), we did not haphazardly throw some chips in a bowl and watch the race on television. We hoped to bring Churchill Downs to the heart of Winona, and I personally think we were pretty successful in our goal.

My Co-Hosts, Keetha and Jeffery:
And my sweetie, Keith, and me:
The menu: Cucumber sandwiches, Miss Annie Mae Wilson’s famous cheese straws, Derby tarts, pork loin on rolls with horse-get it?-radish sauce, strawberry trifle, white glove soufflé, baked brie with honey and apples, and strawberries and cream.

Yes, the food was fantastic, but the guests were even more wonderful in their hats and spring wardrobes. We even had a gentleman don seersucker pants and a linen shirt (Daddy said he reminded him of Jody Varner in Long Hot Summer with Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward.)

And the hats! I wish people wore hats these days! The winner of our hat contest went to Winona’s Jane Downard who sported a Victorian veiled number with plumed feathers and a Minnie Pearl price tag. Lydia Chassaniol came in second for the most creative hat featuring a foam bird and other handmade adornments. Nell Middleton was definitely wearing the prettiest hat with its hydrangeas.

The hats:

All I can say is I am giddy with anticipation for next year’s get-together.

Would you go to the Mullet Festival?

2008-05-08T12:00:00.000-07:00

My friends, Keetha and Jeffrey, are festival junkies. So far this year, they have attended the Oxford Film Festival, the Italian Fest, the World Catfish Festival, and the Crosstie Festival. That, folks, is four weekends at some sort of festival – definite dedication to “festivaling.”

Recently, I have pondered Mississippi’s plethora of festivals and picked out a few favorites.

Gautier Mullet Festival: Named for ray-finned fish that live in the gulf.

For those who have no knowledge of fish (like myself), I thought this was a celebration of the most infamous hairstyle ever. I, of course, checked to see if famous mullet-sporters would be in attendance – Billy Ray Cyrus, every member of the band Alabama, Andre Agassi in his younger days.

I was wrong and seriously disappointed.

Wizard of Oz Festival: This festival is in Lucedale. My question: why?

Slugburger Festival: A slugburger is a deep-fried patty made of a beef mixture and soybean grits. I had a friend who went to this festival. When asked what a slugburger was like, he only had one word to describe it: “chewy.”

This makes me think of a giant food fight for some reason.

Wing Dang Doodle Festival: Forest’s celebration of “chicken and the blues.” What a great name! I don’t know how much one can celebrate poultry, but I am willing to try just to get a t-shirt.

Migration Discovery Festival: This is another festival in Gautier. The name sounds like a documentary on the Learning Channel. I would definitely not care for a t-shirt.
Johnny Cash Flower Pickin' Festival: There is a great story behind this Starkville festival. While in Starkville for a concert, a very intoxicated Johnny Cash woke and decided to go pick flowers in the middle of the night – naked. He was arrested and spent the night in the Starkville City Jail.

Today, festivals honoring celebrity stupidity might be called Third Stint in Rehab Festival or the Quickie Vegas Wedding Festival. It just doesn’t have the same ring, huh?

Recently, I have come up with a few of my own festivals to truly celebrate the culture and quirks of Mississippi.

* Gravel Road Festival: A celebration of shocks.

* Disgusting Food Festival: A celebration of chitterlin’, frog legs, cracklin’, and boiled okra (slimy!).

* Gumbo Mud Festival: The slogan can be: “Better than Super Glue. It ain’t ever coming off.”

* House Fly Infestation Festival: Self-explanatory. Also, that plastic bag of water with a penny inside hanging over the doorway so does not work.

* Squashed Bug Coated Windshield Festival: Take a trip from Cleveland to Vicksburg, and then try to connect the dots.

* Festival of Festivals: A festival celebrating festivals in Mississippi. Exactly how many times can a face be painted?

Seriously, I love being a Mississippian. Where else will entire communities celebrate a watermelon, the juke joint, or the sweet gum tree? Relish in your individualism, Mississippi, and keep appreciating the little things that make a life in our fair state rich.

Hunter scored and the crowd went wild

2008-03-13T13:19:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, with an hour’s notice, I jumped into my car and headed north to visit my family in DeSoto County. I haven’t seen them since Christmas, and I was starting to have withdrawals, and I was suffering from a lack of family stories to write.

Accompanied by my three dogs (I knew better than to ask, so I decided to ask for forgiveness instead), I arrived in Southaven around 7:30 p.m., and ended up catching up with my parents until nearly midnight. Momma and Daddy had so much news to report about the neighborhood, the church, and current events in town, I went to bed trying to process all of the information.

However, the big news was my nephew, Hunter, and his church league basketball team being invited to play a jamboree at FedEx Forum in Memphis where the University of Memphis Tigers and the Memphis Grizzlies play. For a nine-year-old, the chance to step on the same court as NBA stars like Shaquille O'Neal, Mike Miller, and Kobe Bryant was a dream come true. So on Saturday afternoon, the entire family packed up and invaded the FedEx Forum to watch our kid play.

Now, I will admit my family dotes on Hunter. He is the only grandchild and the only male child in our family. Daddy, who was smothered by estrogen his entire life (he was the only boy with three sisters as well as giving birth to three daughters), finally found someone to share a little male bonding. I can safely say he is spoiled rotten – I fondly refer to him as Beelzebub.

Nine-years-old-going-on-thirty, Hunter has been surrounded by adults his entire life. His playmates have always been more than 20-years his senior, and he would rather have lunch with my sisters and me than go on a play date with a friend.

He is all Sexton with a dry sense of humor, and a flare for the dramatic. When I told him I was moving to Winona, he asked Momma if he would ever see me again. Then on moving day, he realized it wasn’t that far of a drive and relaxed.

“I like your moat,” he said. He was speaking of Winona’s drainage ditch that runs throughout the town. I corrected him and told him it was a brook (sounds better, right?)

Dressed in his navy blue uniform with “Upwards” emblazoned across his chest, Hunter and his team, The Rockets, took the floor of the forum. The family – as well as Hunter’s favorite cousin, Mason -- occupied an entire row just above the hardwood, and we were poised to show our support. The Grizzlies announcer began naming the members of each team, and Hunter’s name echoed through the enormous 15,000 plus seat arena.

The teams tipped off and began to move across the floor with the squeaking of sneakers on hardwood. Almost an entire quarter passed before a player on either team scored because the goal was a foot taller than what they were accustomed. The players just needed to gather their bearings and get into a groove.

His team struck first. Then again. The other team came back with another goal. Then low and behold – I had been praying he would – Hunter took a shot. He scored. We went wild!

I will just say that everyone in the FedEx Forum knew whom we supported. Hunter was so excited, he didn’t even feign embarrassment. A smile was plastered on his face for the rest of the game.

Sunday, I packed up to head home to Winona. All three dogs were wound around my legs and bouncing from chair to couch to chair. My parents both hugged me goodbye. Momma told me she would be in Winona next Sunday, and Daddy warned me to be careful.

“Love you,” he said. “And don’t forget the dogs.”

Snowballs, brownies, and friends: The best night 'evah'

2008-03-13T13:15:00.000-07:00

Montgomery and Carroll counties were visited by an infrequent guest this weekend - snow, and just like the children in the community, my thirty-something friends and I jumped into the fluff with all the gusto of a nine-year-old.

At dusk on Friday, large, puffy flakes began to fall, but to my despair, they did not stick to the grass or sidewalks or rooftops. I thought Mother Nature was playing a cruel joke, and went about my Friday night as planned. My significant other, Keith, and I joined our friends, Jeffrey and Keetha, for a night of cards, and we completely ignored (totally disgusted) the light falling of snow outside.

For the next several hours, we focused our attention on our game of spades. Keith and I lost, by the way, and now I am torn whether or not to give up the game completely. (I am such a bad sport!). The only saving grace of the evening was a pan of homemade brownies prepared by Keetha (she is Winona's cookbook author) that were so fantastic, I decided they were my new best friends. As Keetha would say, “They are the best things ‘evah’.”

Around 11 p.m., we decided to call it a night, and walked outside to leave. Winona had been covered with a thick frosting of white powder, and it was steadily falling in quarter-sized flakes. All four of us were enamored by the substance - immediately wanted to hold it in our hands and catch it on our tongues. However, our moment of tranquil splendor was cut short as a snowball struck me in the back of my neck and ran down my back. I am sure my scream woke the neighbors as snow was caught between my sweatshirt and bare skin. Keetha and Jeffrey just kind of stood there in shock - trying to comprehend what had just occurred.

Behind me, Keith was forming a second snowball and sent it spiraling into the side of my head. War, I tell you! It was war!

With Jeffrey and Keetha on my side, it was three against Keith. As we gathered snow to form our own snowballs, he continued to pelt the three of us with snowball after snowball. He climbed on top of my truck where the snow was thick and fresh and where he had an advantage over enemy (think Union soldiers firing on Confederate troops as they climbed the hill at Vicksburg). At one point I started looking for rocks to pack inside the snow which I know was not very Christian of me.

Finally, after a 10 minute battle and a complete numbing of my hands, I called a truce. Keith may have won the battle, but trust me, I will win the war. I am currently working on my strategy (non-snow), and will meet up with Keetha and Jeffrey to discuss the infantry.

Regardless of coming up short on my snowball skills, I have never had more fun. As I drove home, only adults were seen playing in the snow (I guess it was contagious). Isn't that always the case?

A couple of years ago, snow and ice came to Mississippi, and my family jumped right in to play with my nephew, Hunter. It was his first snow. After about an hour, Hunter was cold and tired and wanted to go inside. Of course, at that time, my sister, Stephanie, and I had taken Hunter's go-cart through the neighborhood - making donuts and taking curves on two tires. When we finally returned to the house, a smile was literally frozen on my face, and we thought it was going to take warm water to dislodge Stephanie's hand from the roll-bar. But it was totally worth it!

Isn't it funny that as we get older the more enjoyment we get out of acting like children?

For example, Hunter got a trampoline for his birthday a few years back. As Daddy and my brother-in-law put it together, memories of jumping on my cousins' trampoline came flooding back. We would jump for hours - making up routines, new combinations (flip, back flip, knee drop, seat drop), and of course, my cousins' karate competitions.

My cousins would beat the snot out of each other for hours in these so-called karate competitions. They always took things way too far, and ended up getting into a real fist fight before it was over. Once, one of them went for an axe in the shed to finish the fight. Only a small amount of blood was shed in the end. All I know is my sisters and I were paralyzed with fear on the picnic table during the entire event.

When Hunter got his trampoline, I forgot all the violence and only remembered how much fun we had. This, of course, was not reality for someone nearing 30-years-old. Jumping on the trampoline is serious exercise - running-a-marathon-type of exercise.After about a minute, I thought I was about to have a heart attack! I am certain at one time I felt a true-blue palpitation!

Oh, the joy of getting older. Now with the early signs of crow's feet and a bad back, I needed the snow. I needed to remember what it was like before bills and deadlines and tax returns. I needed to remember a time when the most important thing in life was waiting my turn to play.

A little discomfort won't ruin my good time

2008-02-25T13:59:00.000-08:00

Last Friday, I dropped a dry erase board on my foot and nearly broke my this-little-piggy-went-to-the-market toe. The thing swelled up like something off Snuffy Smith’s foot, and any pressure to the entire foot would take my breath. However, I was not about to let one black deformed toe ruin my weekend. Besides it’s not sandal season yet.

First stop – Carroll County Market in Carrollton.

The quirky, nostalgic environment reminded me of my Ole Miss days on the square in Oxford, and they served best barbeque pizza I have had in ages. Although the atmosphere and company were quite wonderful, the music turned an ordinary night out into a doubled-over-stitch-in-the-side good time.

It was open mic night, and when we called to make reservations, the hostess told my significant other and me to bring our instruments for a jam session. This started a laughing fit at the mere thought of me ringing a triangle and Keith playing the spoons. The trip over consisted of all of the different instruments we could conjure up to play – tambourine, jug, wash board. I figured we could become regulars on Hee Haw with our “talents.”

Entertainment for the evening was provided by a gentleman named Rex from McCool and Cecil Abels, co-owner of Carroll County Market. The two started out with a couple of numbers from Alabama and Conway Twitty. Then things got interesting.

With requests coming from the crowd, our entertainment was forced to improvise. Rex and Cecil had the talent to “fake it” and pick out a melody on the guitar or mandolin if someone sang a few bars, but the right lyrics were a different story. Whole verses were created, rhymed, and localized, and the audience followed along in laughter anticipating altered words.

After nearly four hours of hilarious entertainment, it was time to get the check.

Keith: “We need to wait to get our check.”

Me: “Why? Just flag down our waitress.”

Keith: “She is onstage playing the drums. We have to wait until she finishes this song.”

Me: “Oh, okay.”

Totally normal, right? Well, in Carrollton it is, and that is what made the night so wonderful.
When we left a little before midnight, I felt like I was officially part of the Carroll County Market family. We plan to visit our kin folk again next weekend.

Second stop – the home of Bob Doolittle of Leland, Mississippi.

NASCAR has a Super Bowl, too – the Daytona 500. With hot wings, chips, dips, and other “manly” cuisine (like poor helpless bunnies that were filleted and wrapped with bacon), racing fans from across the county gather to watch this famous race that kicks off the racing season.

I attended my first Daytona 500 party last Sunday, and unlike the Super Bowl where everyone is really only interested in the commercials, racing fans QUIETLY watched the race with the hopes that their favorite driver will take home the prize. I was unnerved by the concentration of the fans in the sport – watching for a monstrous pile up that didn’t happen this year, rough driving, and if driver Jeff Gordan (obviously considered the spawn of Satan to those I was with) would accidentally be struck by lightning in pit lane.

Although I am not a true-blue fan of the sport, I can follow along (SportsCenter junkie) and carry on a reasonable conversation about the sport. Besides, I have been properly tutored by Keith on which driver to cast my support.

Now, I bring up this little stock car soiree because of something one of the announcers said during the race. He recalled something racing legend Junior Johnson said about a breakfast of bacon and eggs. “When you sit down to a breakfast of bacon and eggs, you can be sure of one thing – the chicken was dedicated, but the pig was committed.” The poet lariat of pit road.

I love this. I want this cross-stitched on a pillow.

With my nearly-broken toe, I felt the pig’s commitment. Despite the fact that it will be months before I can wear high-healed shoes again, I bit my lip, sucked it up, and hobbled through Central Mississippi. It was well worth the trip.

Losing myself in the pages of a good book

2008-02-14T10:01:00.000-08:00

I am obsessed with books. Not always what is on the inside of books, I love the book and what it symbolizes. Learning, knowledge, answers.

I literally have hundreds, maybe thousands – stacked on shelves and in corners around my house. They are each special to me even if I was not impressed with the text. I am particularly protective of them – very rarely loaning them out.

They represent something new I have learned – as small as a new word or interesting historical fact that can be retrieved at just the right moment. More importantly, each reminds me of a quiet afternoon when I became acquainted with its pages.

Everything one could possibly need to know can be found in a book – if you just look in the right one. (Honestly, my head is so filled with useless knowledge that it will burble out occasionally and frighten whomever I am speaking.)

Last weekend, I made my first trip to Turnrow Books in Greenwood. It is a magical little place that specializes in Southern and Mississippi literature. My favorite part? Tiny handwritten notes from the staff sticking out of various books recommending the work. You don’t get that kind of service from a chain bookstore.

Like Sophie’s Choice, I had to choose one book. I picked Southern Fried Farce, a collection of Southern humor (Other writers making fun of their families as well, I am sure). Yet, there were so many that were begging to find a home.

I will just have to get Mrs. Bootsie Weed at the Winona Public Library to hunt them down for me. The only problem with library books is returning them; I always have a late fee.

Of course like any avid reader, I have my favorite books that I read again and again and never bore. John Kennedy Toole’s Confederacy of Dunces is probably my favorite book ever written. I actually named my cat (dearly-departed) after the main character, Ignatius J. Riley. Ignatius the Cat was much like Ignatius the character – both belching, lazy mounds of blubber and hot air.

Even after a dozen re-reads, I still laugh out loud over Ignatius and his “pyloric valve” issues and Patrolman Mancuso (Ignatius’ nemesis) and his “disguises” (Groucho Marx fake glasses, nose, and mustache certainly do not create effective aliases.) If you haven’t read this one, I highly recommend it.

Jane Eyre is another of my favorite works of literature. I was quite distressed when I was told this book was currently not a staple in high school literature classes. The classic Victorian romantic novel – I am still madly in love with Mr. Rochester, and although he is fiction, I still pine for him. Alas, the only way to find a man like that is to make him up.

I do have more contemporary favorites: Dust Tracks on the Road by Zora Neale Hurston (the writer’s autobiography), Child of God by Cormac McCarthy (disturbing but beautiful), Angry Housewives Eating Bon-Bons by Lorna Landvik (it is a lot more than chick lit), Jubilee by Margaret Walker (get the tissue), A Girl Named Zippy by Haven Kimmel (absolutely hysterical), Queen of the Turtle Derby by Julia Reed (coined my favorite phrase “There were only two perfect men. One died on the cross and the other surrendered at Appomattox Courthouse.”). There are just too many to list.

One Spanish proverb said, “Books are hindrances to persisting stupidity.” I don’t know about all of that – I ooze with stupidity most days. However, I do relate to something I saw on a t-shirt once: “Lead me not into temptation or into bookstores.”

Happy reading!

He's Archie's boy!

2008-02-14T10:00:00.000-08:00

The New York Giants whipped the once-undefeated New England Patriots on Sunday, and I (yes, the rabid Dallas Cowboys fan) am ecstatic. It was the ultimate underdog story – David and Goliath, the 1980 U.S. Hockey Team, Barbaro, Rocky Balboa, the Tortuous and the Hare (I think I have drifted into fiction). Regardless, what a game!

There gathered around my kitchen television, we all enjoyed an evening of food and football – in that order. Homemade gumbo, dips, cheese, brownies, cookies, and grilled venison wraps prepared by my significant other, Keith. (In fact, there was so much food, I will be eating hors d'oeuvres for a week.)

There were no true-blue Giant fans in the house, but it was filled with Eli fans. We were pretty evenly split – four Ole Miss fans, five Mississippi State fans, but only one of us was not cheering for Eli and his team. (Don’t worry, Keith, I won’t name names.)

And just as Ole Miss gives me a heart attack most games, Eli delivered the come-from-behind win that brought true palpitations. With poise and concentration, he delivered 19 of 34 passes for two touchdowns (and one interception) – a MVP performance worthy of the name Manning.

Eli also showed his versatility on the field Sunday as he wiggled out of a herd of Patriots to connect (on the head of) with David Tyree. And as he launched the final touchdown pass to Plaxico Burress, we jumped for joy and hugging in football euphoria. I even think a few Hotty Toddys were exchanged.

The next morning, the news was all about Eli and the Manning family – as good a time as ever to jump on the Manning legacy band wagon. I got to live the excitement again and again.

So humbly Eli spoke about his team and his supportive family. It made me proud that Eli conducted himself in a true Southern manner unlike that very rude head coach for the Patriots who made a complete spectacle out of himself because of the loss. That Belichick fellow should learn to make a better example for his team. (Now he is hiding out – probably in some bunker like Saddam Hussein, what is that all about?)

After the game, I was asked a question by the only Patriots supporter at the party: “If Eli did not go to Ole Miss, would you still be cheering for him.”

My answer: “Of course, he is Archie’s boy.”

It is all about Mississippi loyalty and royalty for that matter. I doubt there is more than a handful of Mississippians who don’t know the name Manning. They are our version of the Kennedys. Archie didn’t bring us Camelot; he brought us glory, and the best kind of glory in Mississippi – football glory.

And so we continue to honor the number 18 by supporting his sons.

No, I was not happy when Peyton decided to go to Tennessee, and I would never support Tennessee (it is not natural for an Ole Miss girl). However, I did support him in his win against the Bears last Super Bowl.

I had to. He’s Archie’s boy.

Life as the baby of the family

2008-02-07T13:13:00.000-08:00

I am the youngest of three, and regardless of the spoiled “baby” stereotype, I was abused, dressed up, stripped down, used as a guinea pig, and always took the blame. Other “babies” will understand what I am talking about. The rest of you, especially the oldests, need a lesson in life as the “baby.”

My oldest sister, Deana, was a mean child. Even my grandmother, who was supposed to be so biased about her grandbabies, figured that out when Deana took a bite out of a strange little girl in the grocery store.

Deana just liked to be mean. Once, she and Cousin Dennis poured an entire can of gasoline over my sister Stephanie’s head. Momma caught them just as they were looking for the matches.
At one point, she had convinced me that I was left on the doorstep by circus people. I am petrified of heights, so I had a serious identify crisis until my teens.

Deana could talk at nine months old, and is still just a talking. It was so bad, that Stephanie didn’t say a word until kindergarten because Deana wouldn’t let her. Someone would ask Stephanie a question, and Deana would answer.

Most of the time, she would beat us to a pulp if we did not do what she wanted. In the car, Stephanie and I would curl up on about a foot of seat while Deana stretched out. We were instructed not to cross a certain line or we’d pay.

Oh, were we abused! I can’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t have a bruise from a stolen pinch or a red mark from her chubby hand has she smacked us, and we were scared to tell on her. She could convince our parents that Stephanie and I ganged up on her and she was just defending herself.

I can still see her with her Dorothy Hamil haircut, hands on her hips and lips pursed into a pout, “I’m telling Daddy on you.”

You see, Daddy made Deana mean – just as if you would grab a dog by the nose and shake it. She would do something bad, and Momma would spank her. Deana would end up waiting at the backdoor for Daddy to come home from work to tattle on her. Then Momma would beat her again.

Stephanie, on the other hand, was the quiet one, and you always have to watch the quiet ones. She was the prankster, and got so tickled when she scared me or convinced me to do something utterly stupid.

Once, Stephanie told me (I was only around six) Cousin Candice could stick her finger up her nose and touch her brain. I, of course, try it, pop a blood vessel and almost bleed to death.
Another time, I was shampooing my hair with my head under the faucet of the tub when Stephanie ran in and screamed, “Boo.” Alarmed I shot up, catching the faucet with my forehead and cutting a clean gash. Again, I almost bled to death (scalp wounds take forever to stop bleeding).

Stephanie was seriously manipulative, too. (The quiet ones always are!) Once Momma called us for dinner, and I came running to the backdoor. Stephanie was holding the iron door shut.

“What are the magic words?” she said. Instead of just saying, “Stephanie is wonderful. She can ride horses better than me. She can swim faster than me. Momma and Daddy like her best,” I pulled on the door knob. Just as I had all my weight against the door, she let go, and I slid across the carport floor and smashed my head into a brick wall.

Because I was the “baby,” Momma and Daddy would have let me juggle knives and not have broken a sweat. So, some extra bruises or a scratch or gash here or there did not call for alarm.
“Babies” had to make their own justice, be smart and quick witted. They also have to know what assets they have to bargain with. I became a master of diverting attention to something else, and I am quite the diplomat. Trust me -- growing up with sisters, I could talk myself away from a terrorist.

I am surprised I made it to adulthood.

I think about someday having a family of my own, but I have decided I want more than one child if I am lucky enough to have them. I want my own children to learn to live with siblings. If they learn that, then even an occupying foreign army couldn’t frazzle them.

Snow Days

2008-02-05T07:38:00.001-08:00

Last Friday, the Crossroads braced for a potential winter storm. While some sleet and freezing rain did fall and stick to trees, cars, and gutters, children were disappointed that a fluffy blanket of snow did not cover lawns and streets.

I was kind of disappointed as well not just because my dogs love playing in the snow but because a snow day always brings back such fond memories for me.

My family was the best at snow days. As soon as the faintest light appeared in the east, my sisters and I would have our noses pressed against the window glass – fogging up the panes with excited breath. Then we would run downstairs to watch school closings on television.

When our school was named, we would cheer with excitement and run to change into our coats and mittens. We knew Granddaddy would be there soon to pick us up.

Granddaddy was the most fun on snow days. He would watch for school closings, too, and as soon as he knew we were free, he would drive around Eudora picking up grandchildren to play with him.

Of course, Granddaddy wasn’t a very good driver on a warm, sunny day, so the snow turned him into a maniac. Once he sideswiped what he thought was a “snow bank” and kept on driving like nothing had ever happened. We found out later that the “snow bank” was actually a yellow VW Bug that was wearing a snow coat.

Throughout the year, Granddaddy planned for snow days. He built a sled that could be pulled by a horse. It was just a wood platform, and it took several horses to make it move (it weighed a ton!). Besides, he didn’t put on those metal runners that make sleds, well, sled. The horses just kind of dragged the thing behind them up and down the hills – grandkids flying off with each bump.

We used to have so much fun sledding. There were these plastic disk sleds that would spin as they traveled down the hill. We felt like superheroes until we got to the bottom and threw up. But once our stomachs were settled, we were trudging back up the hill for another turn.

After about an hour, we discovered we were cold and hungry, and made our way to Aunt Gaye Gaye’s house for snacks. She would make us homemade cocoa (the kind you make with brown box Hershey’s Cocoa) and let us warm up. Eventually, we would talk her into making us snow cream – of course, that was always a secret from Momma and Daddy.

For those of you who are unaware of the culinary delight of snow cream, it is just a bowl of undisturbed snow (always from the top of a car or picnic table to avoid critter infestation) covered in Eagle Brand Milk. So in short, we ate slushy Eagle Brand Milk. We were always so wired when we got home; I am surprised my parents never figured out what Gaye Gaye was feeding us.

Daddy wasn’t a big fan of snow days (workaholic), but he did love to go sledding. After many failed attempts to drive to work – well, after he sunk all of our cars in the neighbor’s yard – he would give in to the magic that is snow day. He always found ingenious ideas to make sledding more effective.

His best idea to date was to coat the bottom of the sled with non-stick cooking spray. Very Clark-Griswald-like, the sled would fly at mach speed. We had to abandon the enhanced sled after a neighbor kid went airborne and landed in the lake. Daddy ended up bribing him not to tell his very overprotective mother.

There were always the little accidents on snow days (we were Sextons and it was our destiny.)
My sister Deana got stuck in the middle of a frozen pond once after the sled got off track.
Thankfully she just sat there very nonchalant-like as the ice around her was cracking. Daddy had to throw a rope out to her and drag her in (then he had the breakdown he deserved).

I had my own frozen pond experience. My cousins and I were riding horses in the pasture when we noticed the enchanted pond (that is what I referred to it as, but no one else thought it had any magical powers) had frozen over. My pony, Tiny Boot, got spooked and threw me into that pond. (I told you it was enchanted.)

Scared Momma and Daddy would be angry, my cousins took me to Gaye Gaye’s house to dry my clothes. I spent the rest of that snow day eating homemade fudge wrapped in an afghan. (Gaye Gaye always did like me best.)

As adults, snow days are always a hassle. We have to figure out how to get to work and who will watch the kids when the school closes. It is just one more thing to reaffirm that I am now an adult – like asking Santa Claus for a washing machine.

I ain't got no business in show business

2008-02-05T07:36:00.000-08:00

Saturday night, I attended the 72nd birthday party of the Dr. Reverend Duran Palmertree, pastor of Bethany Church of God, hosted by Mildred Fondren. The sit-down dinner for nearly 30 guests seemed an easy accomplishment for Miss Mildred – of course, anything in the kitchen seems easy to Miss Mildred.

The menu consisted of pork tenderloin with an apricot chutney, au gratin potatoes, green beans, layered salad, and homemade rolls. No birthday party would be complete without a cake, but Miss Mildred had to go the extra mile and make three different kinds – her famous chocolate, sour cream coconut, and orange slice.

With the help of her niece, Bonnie, and childhood friend, Elsie, who both drove down from Germantown, Tenn., to help, the party was a tremendous success. The entertainment, however, might be questionable.

Miss Mildred asked Nell Middleton, Patti Corley and me to provide entertainment for the evening. Of course, we asked Miss Nell to sing a hymn which is her specialty. Her rendition of “I Bowed on my Knees and Cried Holy” would bring tears to your eyes, and it even turned out to be one of the guest of honor’s favorite hymns.

After dinner, the three of us (donning feather boas) broke into the 1930’s hit “Baby Face.” We were Winona’s version of the Supremes, and Miss Nell was Diana Ross. I, trying to remember the chorography (I look like I am having a seizure when I dance, remember), forgot the words, and Patti got off track watching and laughing at me. Miss Nell took the lead for a rousing performance (thankfully, to cover for us). I would not say we received applause – I think there were more laughs than applause (I am choosing to think they were laughing with us not at us).

Now, what I would like everyone to know is that there are very few people on earth I would agree to make a big fool of myself for, and I would have to say Miss Mildred and a man of God would be two of them. Trust me, I tend to make a fool of myself most of the time without practicing and choreographing it.

My sophomore year in high school, I got a part in the spring production of “Lil’ Abner.” I was so excited until I discovered I was cast as a man, Jack S. Fogbound. Tell me if that isn’t a slap in the face.

Here I was padded from head to toe and wearing a white polyester suit with a cowboy hat. (I mimicked Granddaddy for the voice – poorly.) I looked and sounded like Boss Hog going through adolescence with a squeak here and a cough there.

During the last of three shows, I was delivering a particularly long monologue when both my feet flew out from under me, and I landed flat on my back. The problem was I was wearing so much padding, I couldn’t get up. I kind of rocked back and forth like a beetle belly up.

The other cast members in my scene were laughing so hard, no one would help me up. They had to close the curtain on us so my co-stars would not have to grab my arms and drag me back stage.

You see, show business has never been good to me. In sixth grade, while acting in “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever” I tripped over a part of the set, flew across the stage, and knocked down two other members of the cast. I literally tackled them.

This curse even followed me to college. When my sorority performed its annual dance number at the Sigma Chi Derby Day my freshman year, I forgot all the steps, broke into a jig so no one would notice, and threw off the three back rows of the formation. Of course, any idiot who would take my lead deserved to make a fool of herself. I think we came in last – big surprise, huh?

You see, I do not have a false sense of reality to think I have any possible talent – well, maybe as the fourth stooge.

My life as a dog person

2008-02-05T07:33:00.000-08:00

For Christmas, my significant other built me a doggy fence for my three critters. Honestly, he could have given me a new Mercedes Benz, and I wouldn’t be any happier than I am with my fence. (His response to this was, “Yeah, right.)

But I am being completely serious. For the past six months, I have had to walk my critters on a leash three or four times a day. It could be raining, 20 below zero, or even midnight, and I had to walk my dogs. Hopefully, my neighbors have gotten used to me being pulled around the backyard in my pajamas.

With my new super-duper-multi-tasking-no-longer-worried-one-of-the-idiots-will-escape fence, I just have to open the back door and let them run. It has truly been a Zen experience for me.

My new pastime is watching them from the kitchen window as they play in the yard. Amused, I watch Don Juan (Chihuahua) hide behind the corner of the garage waiting to pounce on the others, and it works every time. (They really are mentally challenged.)

Since the unveiling (the critters saw it being built and they were waiting patiently), Skipper (Fox Terrier) and Don Juan walk the parameter of the yard looking for intruders or unwelcome wild vermin like squirrels and chipmunks. They will freak out and act threatened like my neighbor walking his miniature weenie dog is secretly casing the house for an invasion.

The hair on both their backs will be standing on end, and they let loose a tirade of yip yaps. Of course, they each weigh less than 10 pounds, so what are they going to do? Gnaw on someone’s ankle?

My Maltese, Toulouse, will only leave the sidewalk for a few seconds at a time – grass phobia, I suspect. He will travel down the sidewalk to the fence, walk along the edge and then walk backward until he is back on the sidewalk. He then prances back up the walk and waits by the door until I let him in.

Skipper has discovered a new way to annoy Toulouse, who hates him with all of his being. He will back up close to Toulouse and kick grass and dirt all over him, and in Toulouse’s toe-nail-painted-barrette-wearing world, this is a travesty. Then the fight begins (well, they just growl and push on each other because both are scared of each other).

The fence has also brought a new critter into my fold part-time. I baby sit my significant other’s three-legged black lab, Jackson, on deer hunting weekends. He is such a sweet dog – a little clumsy with the three legs, but sweet.

Like Don Juan and Toulouse, Jackson hates Skipper who will run through his legs and knock him off his one back leg. Skipper being such an idiot does not realize that when Jackson falls, he has to land somewhere – usually that somewhere is on Skipper who is too stupid to move out from under him as he knocks him off balance. There is Jackson in the splits (or thrits or whatever you call a three-legged dog in the splits) with four little white legs sticking out from under him – poetic justice.

I know what you are thinking – crazy dog person. Personally, I just think I am a normal dog person.

Recently, I purchased a sofa for my dogs because I felt guilty about quarantining them in the kitchen. As insane as it sounds, dog people do stuff like that. I actually bought the sofa from another dog lover who used it for her dog. (I had to stick that in so you won’t think I am completely pathetic).

The truth is, I love my critters like children, but Daddy said this will change when I actually have a real human baby one day. I don’t really know about that. Momma has three children, and she would give her Westie a kidney if she needed it.

I don’t go around wearing my dogs’ pictures on a t-shirt or fry up liver for their dinner like my Aunt Pete did. And I don’t force them to wear matching outfits – with me or with each other. I consider them members of the family, and they should be treated as though.

If you see me taking them out trick or treating next year, then, by all means, plan an intervention.

Winning is always best

2008-02-05T07:32:00.000-08:00

My friends saw the real me around 1:15 a.m. on New Year’s Day. No, I do not mean the vulnerable side. Or the self-deprecating side. Or even the obsessive-compulsive side (Goodness, I am starting to sound like Sybil). I am talking about the competitive side.

After attending the John Anderson concert in Greenville on New Year’s Eve (oh, yes, we were just a Swingin’), my friends and I stayed up until the wee hours of the morning playing spades.
It was boys verses girls, and although I had never played before, I must say I am GOOD!

Now, I have to confess that if I am not good at something, I simply refuse to do it. For example, I tried bowling before, and along with wearing rented shoes (barbaric) I was utterly miserable – and terrible at it. I have never bowled again.

Not the case in spades. It was all about trumping the other players, so I put on my poker face (enough that my friends kept asking if I was sure I was having a good time) and Keetha and I whipped some tail – winning 500 points to 320 points.

I just like to win. Period. And I am not afraid to admit the source of my condition – genetics. As usual, I blame my family.

I am the baby sister, the baby grandchild, and the baby cousin. Just as survival of the fittest, I learned to compete in every situation and usually with some kind of handicap. Swimming races in the pool with my cousins. Roller skating races down the driveway (my sister, Deana, ended up in traction after one of those). Racing on horseback through the pasture (I had a Shetland pony with 12-inch legs; I would never win that one).

Everything growing up was a competition, and because I was the youngest, I never won. Now that age or a pony with short legs no longer applies, I now have a shot a winning, and that is my ultimate goal. Trial Pursuit, Celebrity Taboo, Connect Four, Hungry Hungry Hippos – there must always be a victor – why shouldn’t it be me?

To this day, my sisters and I still compete at everything. Once, Stephanie and I took my nephew to Chuck E. Cheese for an afternoon, and the two of us ended up in an air hockey tournament. First, the table was designed for children, so we were playing on our knees.
Second, we made such a spectacle that we attracted an audience. The game eventually ended in a draw because we ran out of tokens.

Then there was the infamous game night experience. Someone had gotten the new Survivor board game based on that stranded-on-a-desert-island game show, and I was all set to make alliances, win challenges, and be the sole survivor. My loving family voted me off the island first! It is still the source of anxiety for me, and I am still holding a grudge.

We have even corrupted my nine-year-old nephew, Hunter. In the summer, we spend a lot of time at the pool, and I always become Hunter’s playmate. Last year, I created a new game, pool jousting, where each competitor straddles a float and tries to unseat the other with one of those foam noodles. Of course, I always won, and Hunter got mad and wouldn’t play with me anymore.

I am trying to toughen him up. If I had to go through it, so does he.

I realize I take it a bit too far sometimes, but I still try to be respectful – win or lose. I have never done a victory dance, and I do not taunt the opposing team (does “How ‘bout them Dawgs” ring a bell?) Winning to me is all about personal satisfaction and redemption for all those years of losing to my sisters and cousins.

Now that I know I have a knack for spades, I am all about a re-match. Of course, if we lose this time, I will have to consider giving it up for life. I am not too proud to take my ball and go home.

Granddaddy's Diary

2008-02-05T07:30:00.001-08:00

I didn’t ask for anything for Christmas this year, but I received a family treasure I thought was lost.

On Christmas morning after the gifts were opened, my father off-handedly remarked about a diary he found in my grandfather’s books. You see, I had been looking for this diary since
Granddaddy’s death in 2000.

It was something he was working on at my request. I wanted to keep a part of him always, and the one thing he taught me was that as long as there is family to keep memories alive, no one is ever forgotten.

On his 85th birthday, I had given Granddaddy the diary to record his history, and he was thrilled with the gift because he had so much history to tell. I inscribed it: “This is to keep you memories in. You never know, I might write a book about you one day.”

Granddaddy always nurtured my desire to become a writer although everyone joked that he just wanted to be immortalized. I don’t know about that, but he did give me something any writer would sell his soul for – a treasure trove of characters that even William Faulkner could not conjure.

Growing up, I spent a lot of time at my grandparents – they lived just next door. I would polish my grandmother’s furniture while Granddaddy would sit in his chair and read. He would read everything he could get his hands on – religious books, novels, biographies, even celebrity tabloids especially The Star.

He could tell you about any Hollywood scandal since 1945. Once he told me that when he got to Heaven the first thing he would ask was who killed President Kennedy and did O.J. Simpson really kill those people.

Granddaddy also told the best stories. He would talk about growing up with his nine siblings and the trouble they would get into. He used to say that he hoped God forgave him for his wild youth. However, I don’t think tying my Uncle Aubrey to a bull and letting him loose will get you tossed into the pits of hell.

He talked about his cousins and aunts and uncles – all of them so outlandish they sounded like cartoon characters. He had an uncle who would color his hair with shoe polish and by the end of the day, it was smeared all over his forehead.

There were the drinkers and the fighters and the gamblers. There were also the preachers and the healers and the businessmen. His life was a saga, and it screamed to be written down.

“I regret so much for not keeping a diary of my life but my loving baby granddaughter asked me to now,” he wrote.

Granddaddy began writing, starting from his earliest memory. There in a worn, bound volume of line paper with a cowboy featured on the cover were my grandfather’s thoughts and dreams and precious memories, and I can’t read a word of it.

He never had the best penmanship, but it will take a handwriting expert to decipher that chicken scratch.

For years, I have been hoping to find it – wishing, imagining the treasure inside. I am left like Gerald Rivera looking in Al Capone’s vault.

Granddaddy still deserves to go down in history as one of the greatest characters Eudora, Mississippi, ever produced, and I plan on immortalizing him just as he would have wanted. But they won’t be from his memories, they will be from mine.

I will remember Granddaddy driving me to Aunt Laura’s store to buy ice cream sandwiches. Or taking all the grandchildren to Miss Lucy’s (the neighborhood meanie) house on Green River Road to leave ugly notes in her mailbox (always the instigator).

I will remember him for chasing us around the yard with his lasso and pulling out his cane and rocking chair every birthday. I will remember him as a wonderful grandfather, but more importantly as the best playmate a kid could ever have.

I wish I could pull out the wisdom and family secrets from that old diary, but alas, it was not meant to be. In a way, I am glad – he always was bigger than life. The legend will live on.

New Year's Resolutions

2008-02-05T07:28:00.000-08:00

New Year’s resolutions – oh, the joy of them. I make a list every year, and I haven’t checked off one of them yet. Most of the time, I go in the opposite direction, and so I have done a little self-reflection to understand the reasoning behind my un-kept resolutions.

The problem with New Year’s resolutions is you don’t get enough time to do everything you want. There are probably 20 items on my list each year, and there is no way I can achieve all of them in just 365 days, 52 weeks, or 12 months. Usually, my resolutions call for major change, and major change takes time – lots of it in my case.

When I try to accomplish them all in a year, I get discouraged and quit them all together (just think of a resolution as a really big life diet.) So, this year, I have only made five resolutions with the hope I will accomplish one of them before next Christmas.

The most common New Year’s resolutions according to the USA.gov website are lose weight , pay off debt , save money , get a better job , get fit , eat right , get a better education, drink less alcohol , quit smoking , reduce stress overall , reduce stress at work, take a trip and volunteer to help others.

These are all good, but in my mind, you should be more general so you can more likely succeed at something. This year mine are simple: try to live a healthy lifestyle, improve time management, focus more on my personal life, sharpen the saw (taking a little tip from Franklin Covey), and enjoy life more.

Pretty general, huh? Let me explain my method.

When I say try to live a healthy lifestyle, I did not mean “run a marathon by Christmas.” I was simply referring to assessing my Diet Coke addiction and sleep deprivation. I know it doesn’t sound like much change, but let me tell you, for me, it is huge.

Right now, I probably drink eight to10 Diet Cokes a day, and I can’t remember the last time I actually drank a glass of water. I am completely and totally addicted (and certainly dehydrated). I am sure my insides are pickled with all the NutraSweet.

And sleep? I am the worst insomniac ever. I am over 30, and I still fight my sleep. Seems that I am a giant worry-wart, and when I turn off the lights -- my mind haunts me. If I could get at least six hours of sleep each night, I wouldn’t be so ADD.

The next two resolutions kind of work hand and hand. By improving time management, I would focus more on my personal life. I have been one-sighted when it came to the biggest thing in my life – work and school. It’s simple: I am a workaholic. Everything else just suffers.

Trust me, I need to make a dent in that enormous pile of laundry that never seems to get smaller or actually fold the clothes when I wash them instead of just getting what I need out of the dryer. Cooking every once in a while might be good, too. Frozen dinners and take out can take a toll after a while.

Several years ago, I took the Franklin Covey Time Management seminar, and since then, I have had the most unnatural connection with my weekly planner. The seminar is based on the book Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, and let me say, I completely recommend this program to any busy professional. (Of course, I’m not real effective if I need to make a list of resolutions, but I like the idea of effectiveness.)

One major focus of this program is to “Sharpen the Saw.” The premise behind the idea is simple. Two men go into the woods to cut down a tree with a saw. One man has sharpened his saw and the tree falls quickly. The other man has a dull saw and he just saws and saws without ever accomplishing his task.

When I go home at night, I usually collapse with my Diet Coke (see, I told you!) and vegetate until I no longer can fight my sleep. I don’t do anything productive with my spare time. My problem is figuring out what is considered productive. I need to hone my skills (whatever they might be), but most of all, I need to exercise my brain in other ways outside of newspaper. I love to read, but have this awful habit of deducing from the first chapter if the author is an idiot or just trying to get accepted into Oprah’s Book Club. It is rare that I am actually blown away by an author these days – especially with Chic Lit so popular.

A while back, I read this book that was touted as being “the true story of Vlad the Impaler.” What I got was another Dracula book that killed Vlad in the end, but low and behold, it left an opening for a sequel. It was a little too Days of Our Lives “Marlana is possessed by the devil” for me.

This now brings me to my final resolution – enjoy life more. I have no game plan to accomplish this one. I need to find a hobby, and of course, I have no idea of what that might be.
Sports are out of the question because I have no hand-eye coordination and I don’t like to sweat. I don’t do the outdoors because I don’t do nature, and I don’t like to sweat. I tried gardening, and I like gardening except for the manual labor part. Also, I don’t like to sweat

So now, I am officially on a quest for a hobby. I need something relaxing like yoga without all the twisting and spandex (and chanting, not a fan of chanting). I need something creative like music and dance (by the way, I look like I am having a seizure when I dance). And I need something that requires skill like golf (I am very good at driving the cart).

Well, I have a year to figure out if golf cart interpretive dance actually works.
To all of you, Happy New Year!

Bad manners?

2008-01-19T14:01:00.000-08:00

I know this is a break from my normal entries, but I wanted to share something I have been thinking about for the past week.

Last week, I reread a book by my favorite living author, Cormac McCarthy. In the book, the character named Ed Tom Bell said he thought our country started falling apart when people forgot their manners. He said when people stopped saying "Yes, sir" or "Yes, ma'am" that was it for the dignified world.

A couple of days later, a friend asked me if I had ever used the world "chivalry" in a sentence. This friend is probably 30 years older than me, and it shocked me that he would think that someone my age would not know what chivalry meant.

Come to think of it, in my 33 years, chivalry has never been of my time. I have read about it in books, but even though I am a native Southerner, the idea of moonlight and magnolias is just that -- fiction.

I actually agree with McCarthy on this, and I think I can narrow down when America lost its manners. I think it was when Kennedy was assassinated. It brought an end to idealism in America. It was the beginning of the 60s and the picket-fence-apple-pie era of the 50s was long gone.

Now, I have never been a fan of Kennedy, and I do believe that if he would have never been assassinated, he would be considered a mediocre president with bad foreign policy. It says a lot that I attribute the loss of decorum and values to his death.

But his death was brought into the home of every American, and every American realized the world was actually a dangerous and unpredictable place (I am sure the Cuban conflict added to this realization as well).

The fairytale was over. The ugliness was out in the open.

Just a thought.

Roughing it is when the hotel doesn't have room service

2007-09-28T09:31:00.000-07:00

I went to my first adult slumber party last week. Although I couldn’t spend the night because I had to work the next morning, I was able to spend some time with some very entertaining and fascinating women from Montgomery County.

With enough food to feed an army, we descended on a little cabin in Carroll County to enjoy nature with the girls. (Well, I don’t really like nature especially when nature gets all over you – particularly nature that crawls). There we were – Gerry Whitfield, Diane Welch, Kay Burke, Liz VanHorn, Earnestine Smith, and me – in the middle of the woods.
Donning fuzzy slippers, the six of us kicked back and laughed (and ate) until we hurt.

I have to admit I had a great time – taking into account I was in the middle of nature. Thinking back to my childhood, I loved the outdoors. I didn’t worry about dirty feet, mosquito bites, poison ivy, sunburn, or poisonous retiles. These days I go through about a quart of anti-bacterial a month.

I was traumatized several times during my youth in the great outdoors. The first being a canoe trip with my family – a Southern-version of the Griswolds. I was four-years-old, and I was forced to canoe on the White River in Arkansas.

Let me explain something: NO ONE IN MY FAMILY IS OUTDOORSY. Seriously, we have never slept in a tent, and we have no intention of doing so. We do not hunt down and kill our own food, and we have never made a s’more (well, outside that is, and it is not smart to try this with gas logs.)

As we were canoeing down the White River (actually, it was more like using your paddles to walk over enormous rocks covered in two feet of water), we went over a huge waterfall and flipped.

Momma was with Stephanie and me in one canoe, and Daddy and Deana were in the other. While my parents scooped up canned drinks and snacks from the river, I floated away. An hour and four-miles later, they found me sitting with a strange family at a picnic area eating bologna sandwiches.

Then there was my experience at Camp Hopewell in Oxford. My parents thought it would be fun for my sister, Stephanie, and I to go to camp for a week. The problem was, she was older than me, and we were not allowed to stay in the same cabin.

I had just watched Friday the 13th with my cousins earlier that year, and I am telling you, that crazed guy in the hockey mask stared at me through the “screen” of the cabin the whole week. (Yes, I said screen – no air conditioner, no locks, no privacy. It was just a make-shift carport.)

Stephanie, of course, had the best idea. She dislocated her knee cap and was sent home – she so did that on purpose, I don’t care what she says. My parents would not take me with them because Daddy had already paid, and Heaven forbid he not get his money’s worth.

The worst thing about Camp Hopewell was that they sent me back the very next year with my best friend, Heather. They thought if Heather was there I would forget about the psychic killer and the bugs and “cabins”. Wrong, we ended up almost being sent home after falsely accused of all sorts of heinous crimes (for a fourth grader, the penalty for these crimes would be a month without Dukes of Hazzard).

I am still looking for a support group for my experiences with nature. I still think of them often, mainly curled up in the fetal position. Seriously now, nature is beautiful to look at – from the balcony of a resort.

Roughing it is all relative. You can give some people a Q-tip and a twig, and they can build a condo. Me – I can’t walk through the yard without getting a rash. To each his own, I guess.

One more cuckoo in the nest doesn't crowd us

2007-09-28T09:29:00.000-07:00

Growing up, I always wanted a big brother. My reasoning was simple – he could help Daddy with the horrendous task of yard work and protect Stephanie and me from my oldest sister, Deana, who beat us to a pulp when we were little.

I never got an older brother. I got a Larry.

Larry Scott has worked for my family for the past 20 years – part gardener, part Daddy’s personal assistant. He is really a jack of all trades – washing windows, polishing floors, helping Momma hang Christmas decorations, landscaping, and day to day “Daddy stuff”.
Over the years, Larry has become part of the family, and I have said many times, if I needed a kidney and Larry needed a kidney, Larry would get the kidney. “He works harder than you,” Daddy jokes.

Larry is Daddy’s sidekick like Batman and Robin, Bo and Luke Duke, Butch and Sundance (which is which, I sometimes get confused). I don’t think Daddy can make it without Larry, and on days when Larry is unable to come, it just ruins Daddy’s whole day. Of course, we know that Daddy just wants a friend to hang out with.

One weekend when I was home from college, Momma got a call from the police informing her that Daddy had been in an accident, and we were needed at the scene immediately. Of course, we thought he was dead. When we get there, Daddy, all purple-faced with that bulging vein in his forehead, is leaning up against the back of the ambulance. He was alright, but the police had to call an ambulance because they though he looked like he was having a stroke (he was just ticked off). He made the police call us because someone had to go and pick up Larry.

Daddy and Larry go to breakfast most mornings at some diner while they plan what they will be meddling with later that day. It could be a church project, spreading a load of mulch, or mowing the front lawn in a diagonal pattern just like Daddy likes it. Side by side, they work, and because they have been together for so many years, it is a routine.

There is always a project the two are working on. For the last couple of years, their favorite thing has been bush hogging down at the farm. Of course, Daddy won’t let Larry drive the tractor, and Larry has been itching ride. Larry kind of leads the way to make sure Daddy doesn’t hit something or fall off and run himself over. Most days, they both look like a wild cat attacked them because they got caught up in a blackberry bush (it just jumped out and got ‘em!).

Of course, he and Daddy manage the landscaping duties at my sisters and my homes. And, Lord forbid it not be kept to Larry’s standards, he will shake his finger at us and tell us just how lazy we are. Of course, he is all talk -- he would do anything for us.

He is always in charge of everything my family is scared of doing. For example, once as I stood at the kitchen window, Larry was shimmying up a tree in the yard with a cranked chainsaw because Daddy wanted all the trees “canopied”. Daddy was down on the ground directing.

One Christmas, Momma wanted wreaths on every window on the front of the house, including the dormer windows at the top. After some serious thought, Larry decided to climb up the back of the house, cross over the roof, and hang the wreaths while sitting on top of the dormer windows. The family all stood in the front yard anxiously as we watched Larry made it over the roof to hang the wreaths. Neighbors had come out of their houses to watch the spectacle as Daddy hollered up at him, “Larry, we should have put you in a Santa outfit because if you get stuck, you are staying up there through Christmas.”

We hoped he was joking – you never can tell.

Larry was in charge of the champagne fountain at my sister’s wedding. Daddy had bought him a new suit, and he looked quite dapper in his mauve sharkskin suit. After the wedding, Daddy sent Larry home with a case of champagne. Last we saw of him, he was walking down Union Ave. in Memphis with a case of champagne under one arm and a cute wedding caterer on the other.

He is family, and we include him as we would any other member of the family. Mind you he likes being part of the family which should make you question his sanity. Of course, one more crazy in my family doesn’t shuffle the deck too much. Besides, someone has to guide Daddy so he doesn’t run himself over with the bush hog.

Marriage: An institution that leads to another

2007-09-28T09:28:00.000-07:00

After Sunday services, my Granddaddy was standing outside talking with all the men of the church when he pulled my grandmother’s bra out of his back pocket and blew his nose. When hunting down a handkerchief, he had been mistaken. Knowing my grandmother, she was more upset that he had dirtied up her clean bra than advertising her cup size to the entire congregation.

I love watching couples who have been married for decades. They tickle me.
My parents have been married for 40 years, and according to them, they have been 40 long years. They pick at each other like children for pure meanness, but they always manage to laugh – usually at the other. I figure they just want to keep things stirred up to prevent boredom.

My mother had knee replacement surgery Monday, and will be in a rehabilitation center for the next two weeks. This is a good thing since Daddy insists that “she is a horrible patient.” I figured if she recovered at home, one of them would be dead, and I would be visiting the other every Sunday at Parchman.

After Momma’s surgery, Daddy called all of us to let us know that she was doing okay. In fact, he said the doctor called him and said she was doing wonderful. She even pointed out that Momma had not woken once and opined on how the surgical team should proceed. “They sure know her,” he said.

Momma is known around town as Miss Dot, and nobody crosses Miss Dot. She is very outspoken with a sharp tongue and will tell you exactly what she thinks – right, wrong, or just plain crazy. She has a heart as good as gold and will do anything in the world for you. If you want to know the truth, her bark is a lot worse than her bite. I know this because none of my friends have ever been scared of her even with her threats of beating them. Now Daddy is a different story – maybe for us kids.

Daddy is the quiet one – for a Sexton that is. He is stoically Southern with a dry sense of humor. It is usually best not to laugh until you are sure he is joking. When he gets excited or angry or stroke-level with veins surging in his forehead, his voice can break glass. I would recommend not being anywhere in a mile radius when this happens. God forbid you be the cause of the excitement or the anger. He is so hyper he makes coffee nervous, but there isn’t anyone who doesn’t warm to Daddy immediately.

A few months ago, my parents were awakened by their security alarm in the middle of the night. With Momma being a crack-shot, Daddy sent Momma downstairs to investigate with a .410 shotgun. I can just hear him, “Dot, go down there and see if there is a burglar. Holler up and let me know what you find.”

This is the same man who had Momma shooting woodpeckers off the house and a rouge rooster at 6 a.m. in her nightgown (thank the Lord we didn’t live in town!) That rooster escaped from somebody’s coop and made a mess all over the porch. Momma snapped his head off at 100 yards – now that is impressive.

Daddy admitted to me the other day that he had accidentally tried to wear Momma’s jeans. He managed to get them buttoned, but pitched a huge fit because Momma had shrunk them into “high-waters.” It took him a few minutes to realize what he had done.

I’m not just picking on Daddy. Momma has given him some gray hair, too. She considers herself “management,” and will argue her point until the rapture.

Once on a trip to Arkansas, Momma was pointing out landmarks and commenting on them. “That there used to be an old church,” she said. Of course, we all knew it was just a Howard Johnson motel.

She is constantly telling us that over the years, we have driven her insane. Maybe so. We all went to dinner in Memphis for someone’s birthday, and seven of us had piled into one car – Momma was driving. After dinner, with the six of us laughing and hollering and Momma’s nerves to a breaking point, she turned left. The next thing we knew our car was straddling a concrete median and kind of seesawing back and forth. Even she thought it was funny once she got tired of trying to backhand us – bobbing and weaving - in the backseat.

I guess after a while a spouse does become as comfortable as old shoes. My parents have never quit laughing, and I believe that is what holds two people together for 40 years. When the crazy stuff just isn’t funny anymore, then someone ends up in a padded room. Momma and Daddy have some more years before they decide who.

Only the goat was hurt

2007-09-28T09:26:00.000-07:00

With the upcoming Hill Fire production in rehearsals, I am proud to say that I am a member of the cast. Of course, I have to credit Mrs. Nell Middleton for my premiering role. When I attended the first reading of the play, I had hoped to cover the event for the newspaper, but
Mrs. Nell would not let me leave without a part in the play.

The premise behind Hill Fire is so interesting to me – performing original plays about local characters from the past. I am probably intrigued because I come from a family of storytellers.
I grew up in a house where we would sit for hours laughing over “you ‘member whens.” And rightly so, compared to us, the Griswolds weren’t as colorful or full of bad luck.

As a sophomore at Ole Miss, I learned all the “you ‘member whens” was actually a Southern art form, and those at the Center for Southern Studies were actively trying to keep this art from fading into the history books. Under the tutelage of Dr. William Farris, I was taught Oral History, and he not only made me appreciate the craft, he made me want to write all of my “you ‘member whens” down.

I went to work, and wrote my first story for Oral History. I was the only underclassman in the class – most being seniors and graduate students. Doubting my first silly little story, I turned it in, and received good reviews from Dr. Farris. Of course, I had only grazed the surface. I had enough material for four classes.

I delved into the world of the Mississippi Delta and my Momma’s family. These people were a treasure trove of good stuff. Not even Faulkner could make up characters like these. I think Momma’s people drank too much of that brown delta water because they were real looloos – endearing and God-fearing, but looloos.

When I was a kid, Momma would take us kids down there for a couple of weeks to spend time with the family. I loved it. They had critters – tons of them – from wild boar to baby deer to Chinese chickens. I always wondered how or why someone would want a wild boar for a pet, but my Uncle B-Boy (his real name was Breland) was kind of like Noah – two of each.

Once I tried to smuggle a pigmy goat home in the back seat of the car. I wasn’t discovered for at least 40 miles, and I am sure I don’t have to describe Daddy’s reaction. We had to turn around and “get that stinky thing out of my new car.”

As I got older, the appeal was lost because there was nothing to do that did not include getting dirty – and Delta dirt doesn’t wash off. I did love their stories, and they could tell them better than anyone.

My favorite story was about my Uncle Burnell winning a pink Cadillac and a goat in a poker game at some juke joint over on the river. For some reason, he thought it was a good idea to put the goat in the back seat of the car – of course, that could have been because he had drinking pretty much all night.

Well, Uncle Burnell was driving his prizes home early Sunday morning when he fell asleep. He ended up crashing his car into the First Missionary Baptist Church during revival services. Can you even imagine being touched by the spirit, and then being attacked by an enormous pink Cadillac? Those poor people thought Jesus had returned.

Thankfully, no one was hurt – except the goat. It didn’t make it through the accident.
I never met Uncle Burnell, but I feel like I have known him all along through the endless stories I’ve been told about him.

Hill Fire is really on to something. In a hundred years, when we are all dead and buried, we will be remembered by those we left behind – for what is up to you.

Porch swing: A staple in Southern life

2007-09-28T09:24:00.000-07:00

Since moving here, I have noticed that there is one similarity to almost every house – a front porch swing. I have yet to hang my own swing, but it is first on my list when “settling in.”

A porch swing is a Southern staple in most every household, and has been the center of life in most families – a Sunday afternoon gather place, a retreat after a long day, a familiar locale for entertaining a sweetheart. Like the kitchen table, the porch swing is central in most Southerner’s memories.

I can’t remember my grandparents without their swing. My Daddy had given them the swing as a gift, and nothing made my grandfather happier that sitting in the swing humming an old hymn, twiddling his thumbs (he literally did). As a child, I would run barefoot across the pasture to my grandparents’ house for an afternoon on the porch.

My grandmother and my Aunt Pete would be shelling peas and colorfully describing how Miss Martha down the road had treated my grandmother in the Piggly Wiggly. My grandfather would be swaying so slightly on the swing humming his hymn not paying them a bit of attention.

I can still feel the pinch of the cracked paint on the back of my bare legs as I sat between my grandparents, my bare feet dangling. With honeysuckle in the air and lightning bugs flickering in the golden light of dusk, nothing would be said between us, and everything was quite except for my Granddaddy’s humming.

One Easter, my sister, Deana, along with two cousins was swinging – too high, according to my grandmother who insisted they slow down. Of course, they ignored her, and the swing broke throwing them into the flower beds.

After learning that no one was injured, my grandmother gave them a good chewing for squashing her azaleas and breaking her prized peony. She let them know real quick that she had told them to slow down and they refused – proving once again that she was always right, and her word should be taken as gospel.

One Christmas, my Aunt Bapie with her hunting vest orange hair (the dye was so toxic, her scalp was also dyed) was swinging easy on the porch, and one side broke bringing the swing down hard – almost squashing a stray dog that had wondered up. You could hear her screeching for her smelling salts for miles.

I remember standing on the porch swing to get away from bottle rockets and firecrackers on Christmas Eve. My cousins Lisa and Dennis would always have fights with them. I wasn’t really scared of them until they put a whole pack of firecrackers down Granddaddy’s pants. I had never seen him run so fast! For a seventy-five year man, he was amazing at hurdles.

When my grandparents passed away, I immediately thought of that swing. Selfishly and childishly, I wanted to make sure no other family make memories in our swing. “You need to go down there and get our swing,” I insisted to my Daddy, but as much as I wanted to keep my memories close to me, he was unwilling to separate his from the house he grew up in.

With my own front porch and my own front porch swing, I plan to make more memories, but I will always cherish a childhood spent soaring to the tune of “I Love to Tell the Story” between my grandparents.

Meet my herd: A king, an idiot, a priss, and Don Juan

2007-09-28T09:22:00.000-07:00

My neighbors have all seen me in my pajamas walking my dogs at 6:30 a.m. I have made a great first impression. I’m sure momma is proud.

I figure I am now known as the crazy dog lady -- outside in her nightgown at all hours yelling a terrier that thought it would be best to hike his leg on her. The dogs have usually tied me up in their leashes or are dragging me across the yard after a squirrel or a bird or a frog – all of which they have no idea what to do with if they catch them.

I have four dogs, and they are the loves of my life. Duncan – a Scottish Terrier -- is my first born and (I know it isn’t right, but….) my favorite. My sister Deana bought Duncan for me when I moved into my first apartment as some sort of burglar deterrent. I really don’t know what he will do except bug the stew out of the intruder to “throw the ball.” He suffers from some sort of Obsessive Compulsion Disorder with the ball. He just won’t stop, and the pity if you actually say the word “ball” in his presence. I now know what a “conniption” is.

I drove all the way to Jackson to rescue Skipper, my Fox Terrier. Someone had thrown him in a dumpster, and the librarian at the Eudora Welty Library was fostering him. When I saw his picture on Petfinder.org, I knew we were destined to be together. He was sitting propped up against a bust of the great Eudora Welty – as an English major I took that as a sign. On the drive home, he was the sweetest thing asleep on my lap, but then he woke up. So far, he has but two speeds: sleep and run.

Skipper is quite affectionately referred to as the Village Idiot (bless his heart!). I think he might have gotten some sort of brain damage in the dumpster or perhaps ate some paint chips. One thing I do know is just being around him makes me tired. I have had him nearly ten years, and he still has as much energy as the day I brought him home (bless my heart!).

My next adoption was Toulouse, a full-blooded Maltese someone abandoned at the Southaven Animal Shelter with two of his siblings. He was so mangled and matted, the shelter workers did not know what kind of dog he was – almost putting him to sleep with the fear that he was covered in mange. But they found a dog groomer to shave the three dogs; they discovered they were full bred. Two of the three dogs were adopted before they could get back to the shelter.
Toulouse was the only one left, and I (as president of the humane society) just couldn’t let him go back to the shelter by himself. He would be scared without his brother and sister.

Toulouse is my prissy dog, and even though he is a boy, I put ribbons and barrettes in his hair and paint his toenails. He is totally okay with his feminine side.

My youngest, and by far most manipulative, is Don Juan – the Chihuahua. He got his name for two reasons – he has a heart-shaped birth mark on his forehead and he loves the ladies. Anytime I have had people over for a get-together, he will work the room – going from guest to guest to be held, and if he doesn’t get the attention he believes he deserves, he will be upset. He literally gets his feelings hurt and cries – big alligator tears. No one told me that Chihuahuas do that. For the longest time, I thought I was the most evil person in the world for making my dog cry!

Together, the four make life very colorful for me. Skipper and Toulouse hate each other (well they all hate Skipper) and Duncan treats the others like they are beneath him. In fact, I don’t believe he has ever acknowledged any of them.

I just kind of dwell in their house with my six inches of mattress and a blanket corner for warmth as they are stretched out under the covers on their backs or wrapped around my head or two inches from my nose with their head on the other pillow. I can’t sit down without all four trying to give me kisses or getting jealous that another one might get more than the other.

Dog people are funny – their dogs are children to them. I know non-dog-people think we all have lost our minds, and we treat our canine friends a little too much like family. Well, maybe I am crazy. I don’t sew clothes for them, but I do give them Christmas presents. I have never pushed one of them around in a baby buggy, but I have taken them to the “toy store” (Petco) to pick out their own toys.

I also believe dogs go to heaven – if lions and lambs than why not dogs? I don’t believe God would put something on earth that can give unconditional love and not give it a soul.

So I might be a crazy dog lady who has been dragged through her yard by four idiots chasing a bunny and some squirrels, but I am also the lady who is means to world to a herd of critters who prefer sleeping on an electric blanket.

The cobbler has charisma

2007-09-28T08:32:00.000-07:00

Over the years, I have become famous – for my chocolate cobbler (it is one of the few dishes I can make since I am domestically challenged). So much so that I am always instructed to bring it to church potluck dinners and holiday gatherings as if it’s my plus one. “Thank you for the invitation. I will be attending the party, and yes, chocolate cobbler will be accompanying me.”

I have actually been greeted at the door by the hostess ripping the cobbler out of my hands. “Oh, hi, Amanda. How long do I need to heat the cobbler?”

Of course, I can’t blame them. With two sticks of real butter and about four cups of sugar, the cobbler has charisma. Two inches of chocolate goo under a golden brown crust – it would be sinful if it weren’t the closest thing to Heaven. It sucks people in and makes them do things they would not normally do – like grown women scraping the bowl and fighting over who gets to lick the spoon.

It is the best thing in the world to bring if there is a death, and I always manage to keep the ingredients in the pantry in case of a cobbler emergency.
My friend Jill says there are some foods that actually say, “So sorry for your loss.” But other foods just say, “Thinking of you” or “Hope you feel better soon.” Chocolate cobbler is reach-out-and-hug-your-neck food.

I laugh at the effect the cobber has on people, and I can’t wait to see the reaction of a first-timer. But I never really understood until this week – and I learned my lesson over a plate of black-eyed peas, fried eggplant, squash dressing, fried corn, and fried chicken.

On Monday, I had the pleasure of enjoying the most amazing lunch with Winona’s Mildred Fondren – cuisine and company both exquisite. Now, for someone who has been living on frozen dinners for the past month, the invitation to lunch with Miss Mildred was a God-send.

And the experienced began the moment I walked into the door. The aroma of frying chicken and black-eyed peas brought me back to my grandmother’s kitchen in Eudora with me at 10-years-old sitting on the counter next to the stove watching her cook. “Watch out for the grease, Mandy,” she would say.

After I left Miss Mildred’s, I actually called my Daddy to tell him that I just had the most Thelma Sexton meal ever, and he had to hear every detail as if he too were brought back to dinner with “Mother.”

Isn’t it crazy that a meal can take you places like that? I don’t know why people go cuckoo over my chocolate cobbler, but I know why I like it. It tastes like my Aunt Gaye Gaye’s house – not literally of course.

Gaye Gaye was my Daddy’s oldest sister who lived up the hill from our house, and she loved to spoil all of us kids. She would take us to Arkabutla Lake and let us slide down the hill in cardboard boxes. On the rare occasion of a Mississippi snow, she would make us snow cream.

She would even let us hide behind her skirts when a switching from Momma was imminent.
Gaye Gaye’s house was a sanctuary for us growing up – warm and inviting and always smelling like homemade fudge – just like chocolate cobbler.

I learned two things from my lunch with Miss Mildred (other than the fact that her chocolate cake is certainly rivaling chocolate cobbler for the food that God eats). I learned that you can find the comfort of home in a great meal, a beautiful view, or the embrace of a friend, but most of all, home can be anywhere you make it.

Feeling at home in the azaleas

2007-09-28T07:58:00.000-07:00

A bunny has moved into my azaleas. I discovered that Chaucer, as I have named him (I name all my pets after literary figures), is a Desert Cottontail rabbit (according to Wikipedia) and lives in an above ground nest in my flower bed.

I have caught myself completely engrossed with Chaucer, and the two of us have had several staring contests. If course, I don’t think he has any eyelids, so he is always going to win. He is also fearless – smirking at my leashed dogs as they lunge at him.

A friend told me to go to the co-op and buy rabbit food to domesticate Chaucer some. Of course, this same friend informed me that rabbits are “good eatin’” so I am a little scared of domesticating him too much. He might end up in someone’s oven (Got to love these Mississippi boys!).

I want to keep Chaucer as he is. I like watching him hop around the yard, snacking on clover and checking things out. If I domesticate him, he won’t be able to survive outside anymore – and the last thing I need is another critter living in my house! I will probably get some rabbit food, and sprinkle it near the azaleas. But as for him eating out of my hand, that would not be the best thing for him. I don’t want Chaucer to become accustomed to my way of life when it will make him vulnerable in his.

As a newspaper publisher, I am a lot like Chaucer. I have moved into a new space, built a nest, and am trying to learn my surroundings. I am learning friend and foe, and I am determining my comfort zone.

In the three weeks since I moved to Montgomery County, I have done my best to learn the community, its routine, and its people while becoming accustomed with a new home and missing the one I left. I am still learning, and I am certain it will take some time to become completely integrated into life here.

I am not infallible. I am certain I will have a misstep every now and then, but one thing is for sure, I am dedicated to this community and service to it.
I am asking that the community help with my transition by sending me news-worthy stories, story ideas and must-go events, but remember, I am only one person. I may need your help in gathering information or taking a few photographs, and I will do my best in publishing what is submitted based on available space in the newspaper.

If perhaps something is omitted, let me say up front, it is not because the newspaper is not supportive of a particular event or not interested in covering a particular story. It is merely an oversight or the result of a small staff.

I want to thank those who have been so supportive of me during my first few weeks. Thank you so much for the learning curve – I am touched by your kindness and understanding. I especially want to thank the staff of The Winona Times and The Conservative. I have been blessed with an amazing team.

Like Chaucer, I am fearless and willing to embrace any challenge. I am easygoing, and I don’t get frazzled by the proverbial barking dog. I might not eat out of anyone’s hand, but I am very comfortable co-existing in the same azaleas.