“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.”
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Friday, May 23, 2008
Becoming a cat's human
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?
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?
Thursday, May 15, 2008
100 Totally Facinating Things About Me
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.
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.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Keetha's Rebuttal
Check out Keetha's rebuttal for her avid love of "festivaling."
http://writekudzu.blogspot.com/2008/05/festival-rebuttal.html
http://writekudzu.blogspot.com/2008/05/festival-rebuttal.html
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Cucumber sandwiches and mint juleps: The joys of entertaining Southern
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.
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?
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.
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.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Hunter scored and the crowd went wild
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.”
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'
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.
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.
Monday, February 25, 2008
A little discomfort won't ruin my good time
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.
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.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Losing myself in the pages of a good book
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!
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!
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.
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.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Life as the baby of the family
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Snow Days
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 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
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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
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!
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!
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Bad manners?
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.
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.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Roughing it is when the hotel doesn't have room service
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.
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.
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