Seven years ago today, I woke around 7 a.m., popped open my traditional Diet Coke, and flipped on the television. An old episode of “The Nanny” was playing on Lifetime television, and I sat in a sleepy stupor for a long time staring at the screen. I kept telling myself that the clock was ticking – get up and get going.
It was Tuesday and press day for my weekly newspaper. I dreaded the long hours of layout ahead of me. Most Tuesdays, I did not make it home from the office until well into the wee hours. In fact, the nice lady at the drive through window at Krystal’s knew my assistant editor and me quite well from our 2 a.m. dinner stops.
Finally at around a quarter to eight, I dragged myself to the bathroom for a shower and the miracle of make-up in an effort to become somewhat presentable.
Around 8:30 a.m., the telephone rang. Cindy, my assistant editor, asked me what I was doing.
“I’m almost ready,” I said. “I will be at the office at 9.”
“Are you not watching TV?” she asked.
“’The Golden Girls’ is on, but I haven’t been watching.”
“Turn on the ‘Today Show’,” she said. “Somebody just bombed the Pentagon and a plane just hit the World Trade Center. I don’t know what is going on, but it is crazy.”
With my hair still wrapped in a towel, I sank to the couch as I saw the first images of the attacks on the television. Helicopters were hovering above the Pentagon; an enormous black hole released smoke into the sky above.
“This is bad, Cindy,” I finally said.
“Yeah, I know,” she replied.
“What have they said,” I asked.
“Nothing really, they just interrupted the show with breaking news. They said a plane hit the World Trade Center accidentally like before, but then the Pentagon got bombed.”
We watched together on the phone for a few minutes -- listening for updates on what was going on. Just then, on national television, another plane circled around and exploded into the other tower.
We were silent in complete disbelief.
“I am going to call my parents,” I finally said. “I will be later coming in than I thought.”
“Yeah, me too,” Cindy absently said.
“I’ll see you in a few.”
I never understood why someone would remark about remembering exactly what he was doing when President Kennedy was shot. He was killed 10 years before I was born, so I guess the significance has always been lost on me.
However, just as Kennedy’s assassination follows some around forever, September 11 will haunt me . History happened right before my very eyes, and it changed the very fabric of my being. I was no longer protected in the bubble of rural America – the ugliness of the real world was just something seen on television. I finally realized the effect world events can have on every one of us.
At that time, I was the 26-year-old editor of a small-town weekly newspaper. I was well versed in local events – annexation law, Mississippi code, my city’s beautification ordinances, and high school football. I could discuss millage rates, infrastructure improvements and Community Development Block Grants (CDBG).
However, I was poorly educated in world affairs and national politics. I remember writing a feature story of a local soldier who served in Kosovo, and I was forced to research the conflict on Wikipedia. I knew little of the Rwandan genocide, the Hillary Clinton healthcare plan, or the political evolution of Rudy Giuliani. Worse, I did not know Osama Bin Laden – the mastermind behind the attack.
I realized quickly it was time to pop the bubble and realize there was so much happening outside my state, or for that matter, my zip code. The world obviously wasn’t as pretty as I had come to believe, and I needed to be prepared for what other catastrophic event was in the future (I hate surprises – it’s genetic).
It was my responsibility to become acquainted with the rest of the world. I began reading – political biographies, essays, and magazines – and watching news broadcasts and documentaries. I also began reading dozens newspapers every day.
Ironically, after all of my preparations and mental lists of our nation’s enemies and frenemies, I don’t believe I will ever be prepared for another attack, and that scares me to death. So after seven years, I continue to wake each morning in Winona, Mississippi, pop open an ice cold Diet Coke, and flip on the news. And every morning, I pray for our country and those who are willing to fight and die for our freedom. My peace of mind relies heavily on them and their sacrifice.
On the seventh anniversary of the September 11 attacks, join me as I pray for those nearly 3,000 Americans that were so tragically lost and the families who grieve for them.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Palin: A refreshing change for Washington
Because I spend so much time dealing with local politics, I usually leave national politics to the pundits; however, I will make an exception in the case of Sarah Palin.
Last Friday, Republican presidential nominee John McCain announced Alaska’s first-term governor, Sarah Palin, as his Vice Presidential running mate. The conservative governor and mother of five is currently serving her second year as Alaska’s governor.
Since the announcement, Palin has been criticized in the media as “McCain’s token,” a gun toting, animal killing, religious fanatic, anti-nepotistic, beauty pageant loser and a bad mother. And all of this has been within the last four days. That is correct, four days.
As a member of the media, most would expect the same type of criticism from me, but no, I will not criticize Palin. I actually applaud her success in a male-dominated field, and unlike many other women in such a high-profile, powerful position, Palin has held on to that endearing quality that gives her an 80 percent approval rating as governor. She is crusader for honest government and has gone to battle with the most powerful political figures in her state – and won. Palin will be a refreshing change in Washington.
McCain only picked Palin because she is a woman to help sway the Hilary voters.”
I am getting sick of the opposition repeating this over and over and over. If this is true, why did McCain not select Senator Kay Bailey Hutchinson of Texas. She is well-respected in political circles, has stronger name recognition, and has 32 years of political experience.
There is no comparing Palin to Hilary Clinton – two different animals. Palin is pro-life, politically conservative, and a detour away from the Washington institution. Clinton is pro-choice, liberal, and in her own right, a Washington institution.
Maybe, just a thought, McCain liked her politics and the way she has conducted herself in her political career.
Palin is an NRA member, is a hunter, and eats caribou.
The Second Amendment of the United States guarantees all Americans the right to own and bear arms. If Palin enjoys the sport of hunting, like most Southerners, more power to her. In fact, she is not a trophy hunter and eats what she kills. As an animal rights proponent, that is the way it should be.
Palin is a religious fanatic.
Sadly, those of us church-going Americans in the Bible belt are probably considered religious fanatics to some. It is called the first amendment, people. Be relieved that she believes in a higher power than herself. Some Washington politicians only believe in giving more power to themselves.
Palin had her ex-brother-in-law fired.
Currently, Palin is under investigation for dismissing the Public Safety Commissioner for not following her order to terminate a highway patrol officer who is her former brother-in-law. According to reports, this brother-in-law also threatened the life of Palin’s father and other members of her family.
The Public Safety Commissioner defied a direct order from the governor. He should have been terminated for insubordination.
In addition, the highway patrolman should have been fired. As an officer of the law, he is charged with protecting and serving the citizens of Alaska. He threatened the lives of members of the governor’s family. For the safety of the first family, it would not be wise to issue this man a fire arm and give him the responsibility of enforcing the law.
Palin came in second in the Miss Alaska pageant.
Believe it or not, the media has been all over this fact -- calling Palin the “Miss Alaska loser.” Well, unless they want to start pointing fingers at their colleagues, the media needs to back off. From one Google search, I discovered Gretchen Carlson, Diane Sawyer, Kathie Lee Gifford, Paula Zahn, and Deborah Norville were all pageant girls – some more successful than others.
Who is raising Palin’s five children?
Okay, talk about hitting below the belt! If Palin was a Southern momma, she would not have been so forgiving.
Monday, Palin announced that her 17-year-old, unmarried daughter is expecting a child. Some insane internet bloggers immediately began circulating rumors that Palin’s youngest child, an infant with Down’s syndrome, was not her child but her grandchild. They reported that her 17-year-old daughter, supposedly the baby’s real mother, is currently expecting her second child.
I am sure Palin and her husband were heartbroken over their daughter’s situation. I am sure they wanted their daughter to experience life before becoming a mother and a wife.
The fact of the matter is society should not crucify the parents when a teenager acts like a teenager. I was reared by strict God-fearing parents, and despite their discipline, I still pushed the envelope. It is a part of growing up. Some survive the process without permanent repercussions, and some do not.
Sarah Palin is an average American woman, and as an average American woman, I relate to her personally. I am still discovering if her politics are what I wish for America, but right now, I do not doubt her character.
Last Friday, Republican presidential nominee John McCain announced Alaska’s first-term governor, Sarah Palin, as his Vice Presidential running mate. The conservative governor and mother of five is currently serving her second year as Alaska’s governor.
Since the announcement, Palin has been criticized in the media as “McCain’s token,” a gun toting, animal killing, religious fanatic, anti-nepotistic, beauty pageant loser and a bad mother. And all of this has been within the last four days. That is correct, four days.
As a member of the media, most would expect the same type of criticism from me, but no, I will not criticize Palin. I actually applaud her success in a male-dominated field, and unlike many other women in such a high-profile, powerful position, Palin has held on to that endearing quality that gives her an 80 percent approval rating as governor. She is crusader for honest government and has gone to battle with the most powerful political figures in her state – and won. Palin will be a refreshing change in Washington.
McCain only picked Palin because she is a woman to help sway the Hilary voters.”
I am getting sick of the opposition repeating this over and over and over. If this is true, why did McCain not select Senator Kay Bailey Hutchinson of Texas. She is well-respected in political circles, has stronger name recognition, and has 32 years of political experience.
There is no comparing Palin to Hilary Clinton – two different animals. Palin is pro-life, politically conservative, and a detour away from the Washington institution. Clinton is pro-choice, liberal, and in her own right, a Washington institution.
Maybe, just a thought, McCain liked her politics and the way she has conducted herself in her political career.
Palin is an NRA member, is a hunter, and eats caribou.
The Second Amendment of the United States guarantees all Americans the right to own and bear arms. If Palin enjoys the sport of hunting, like most Southerners, more power to her. In fact, she is not a trophy hunter and eats what she kills. As an animal rights proponent, that is the way it should be.
Palin is a religious fanatic.
Sadly, those of us church-going Americans in the Bible belt are probably considered religious fanatics to some. It is called the first amendment, people. Be relieved that she believes in a higher power than herself. Some Washington politicians only believe in giving more power to themselves.
Palin had her ex-brother-in-law fired.
Currently, Palin is under investigation for dismissing the Public Safety Commissioner for not following her order to terminate a highway patrol officer who is her former brother-in-law. According to reports, this brother-in-law also threatened the life of Palin’s father and other members of her family.
The Public Safety Commissioner defied a direct order from the governor. He should have been terminated for insubordination.
In addition, the highway patrolman should have been fired. As an officer of the law, he is charged with protecting and serving the citizens of Alaska. He threatened the lives of members of the governor’s family. For the safety of the first family, it would not be wise to issue this man a fire arm and give him the responsibility of enforcing the law.
Palin came in second in the Miss Alaska pageant.
Believe it or not, the media has been all over this fact -- calling Palin the “Miss Alaska loser.” Well, unless they want to start pointing fingers at their colleagues, the media needs to back off. From one Google search, I discovered Gretchen Carlson, Diane Sawyer, Kathie Lee Gifford, Paula Zahn, and Deborah Norville were all pageant girls – some more successful than others.
The most shocking pageant girl I found: Oprah Winfrey. Beauty and a brain are sometimes available in a set – who knew?
Who is raising Palin’s five children?
Okay, talk about hitting below the belt! If Palin was a Southern momma, she would not have been so forgiving.
Monday, Palin announced that her 17-year-old, unmarried daughter is expecting a child. Some insane internet bloggers immediately began circulating rumors that Palin’s youngest child, an infant with Down’s syndrome, was not her child but her grandchild. They reported that her 17-year-old daughter, supposedly the baby’s real mother, is currently expecting her second child.
What is wrong with these people? This is a 17-year-old child they are attacking. I am immediately taken back to the cruelty dealt to Chelsea Clinton who had the unfortunate luck of going through puberty at the mercy of the American media.
I am sure Palin and her husband were heartbroken over their daughter’s situation. I am sure they wanted their daughter to experience life before becoming a mother and a wife.
The fact of the matter is society should not crucify the parents when a teenager acts like a teenager. I was reared by strict God-fearing parents, and despite their discipline, I still pushed the envelope. It is a part of growing up. Some survive the process without permanent repercussions, and some do not.
Sarah Palin is an average American woman, and as an average American woman, I relate to her personally. I am still discovering if her politics are what I wish for America, but right now, I do not doubt her character.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
A weekend in paradise for Southerners
***That was a faun swimming across Lake Hamilton. He wasn't more than 40 pounds and still had white spots on his back. My sister, Stephanie, wanted to catch it and bring it on the boat with us, but Sweetie said it would beat us to death with its hooves. We don't know where the momma was.*****Ole Miss beat University of Memphis 41-24. Hotty Toddy, Gosh Almightly. Who the hell are we? Flim flam, bim bam. Ole Miss, by damn! (I'm not going to get too cocky. We will probably lose next week!)
******Lots of pictures to show you next week! Tune in.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Throwing your weapons at the burglar is not the best defense
This weekend, I traveled north to my hometown to join the birthday celebrations of my sister, Deana, and my nephew, Hunter. Now, the Sexton family likes to celebrate each and every occasion big. It’s just our way.
However, this weekend was surprisingly low-key. We decided to drive over to the east side of the county for dinner at a popular fish house.
Because there were seven of us, I drove my sisters, my nephew and his friend, Asa. My parents took a separate car (I think they may have planned it that way because they were afraid of too much together time.)
Now, this restaurant is not just around the corner. It took us nearly 40 minutes to get there – down a winding, rolling, country road. My sister, Stephanie, kept repeating for at least 30 minutes, “It’s right around this curve.” One hundred curves later, we arrive.
This restaurant has wonderful fried fish, but it is more famous for its desserts. A display of dozens of homemade desserts met us when we walked through the door. Forget the fish, I thought. Birthdays are all about the cake, and they had a Heath Bar cake that would make you slap your momma! (Hunter kept calling it the Health Bar Cake. Kind of loses it appeal that way, huh?)
There was also some sort of bluegrass hoedown in one of the three main dining rooms. Men were playing banjos and people were dancing about.
“Smoking or non,” the hostess asked.
“Anywhere but in there,” Deana said, nodding to the hoedown.
“Alrighty then,” the hostess said. “Right this way.”
I wonder if we were the only ones who requested that.
The food was wonderful, and most of us were so stuffed, we took our cakes home. Several of my family members ate so much (I won’t name names) they made themselves sick.
It is funny how insignificant trips to the fish house can bring memories flooding back. I remembered the last time I dined at that particular fish house. It was years ago, and my grandparents were with us.
The menu was all-you-can-eat back then, and Daddy and my grandparents were on a mission to get their money’s worth. I have never seen people eat so much! My grandmother ate just as much as the men.
“It’s the Shelton in me,” she would say. Her father was famous for his frugal ways, and his genes were strong. Not only did he pass that trait on to my grandmother, but I believe Daddy got a double dose.
My grandparents loved to go eat fried fish. Their favorite restaurant in Memphis closed, and the two were lost without their regular haute. My father introduced them to that fish house on the east side of the county, and at last, they were content.
In fact, it was during the introduction trip to this restaurant that Stephanie and I were invaded by burglars.
My family had just moved into our newly-built home in Southaven, and my grandparents drove up to go to dinner with my parents. Sixteen-year-old Stephanie was watching me who had just turned 12, and we were instructed to turn the burglar alarm on and not let anyone in the house. (We had just moved to the big city from Eudora, mind you.)
The two of us were watching television upstairs when the alarm started howling. At first we thought, we had just done something wrong when we set it, but we still called our neighbor to check things out. The neighbor checked the inside of the house, confirmed that it was just a false alarm, and went home.
Just as we set the alarm back and got situated on the sofa in front of the television, the alarm sounded again. The two of us ran down stairs, and low and behold, the front door was wide open. Someone had been inside the house with us the entire time.
We called 911 and armed ourselves. Stephanie, who is now a captain in the Sheriff’s Department, donned a shotgun from Momma’s collection, and I grabbed a steak knife. What we intended to do is beyond me.
The two of us paced through the kitchen waiting for the police. Then we saw him. A man was standing on the deck outside the kitchen door watching us. Armed with a shot gun and a steak knife, we screamed and ran. I am not sure, but I think we might have thrown our weapons down as we fled.
Now, I am unsure of how this event became a complete spectacle, but it did. Before the police could arrive, a friend of the family, Emily Sanford, rushed to the house to save us. She barged in the door wearing her satin pajamas and welding an Estee Lauder lipstick. She repeated over and over again while she applied that someone was trying to kill her babies.
Stephanie’s friend from school arrived, and it was nice to finally have a male around in case something else happened. He did let us know that Stephanie (now, Captain Stephanie) had loaded the bullet in the gun wrong.
When the police finally arrived, the house was in chaos. Ms. Sanford was yelling at them for not getting them earlier. Our neighbor had returned in a panic. My parents and grandparents had come home to find the police at the house. Stephanie and I were both talking incessantly about the events of the night.
It was some time before my parents left us alone again.
All this came from a plate of fried fish and a chunk of Heath bar cake.
However, this weekend was surprisingly low-key. We decided to drive over to the east side of the county for dinner at a popular fish house.
Because there were seven of us, I drove my sisters, my nephew and his friend, Asa. My parents took a separate car (I think they may have planned it that way because they were afraid of too much together time.)
Now, this restaurant is not just around the corner. It took us nearly 40 minutes to get there – down a winding, rolling, country road. My sister, Stephanie, kept repeating for at least 30 minutes, “It’s right around this curve.” One hundred curves later, we arrive.
This restaurant has wonderful fried fish, but it is more famous for its desserts. A display of dozens of homemade desserts met us when we walked through the door. Forget the fish, I thought. Birthdays are all about the cake, and they had a Heath Bar cake that would make you slap your momma! (Hunter kept calling it the Health Bar Cake. Kind of loses it appeal that way, huh?)
There was also some sort of bluegrass hoedown in one of the three main dining rooms. Men were playing banjos and people were dancing about.
“Smoking or non,” the hostess asked.
“Anywhere but in there,” Deana said, nodding to the hoedown.
“Alrighty then,” the hostess said. “Right this way.”
I wonder if we were the only ones who requested that.
The food was wonderful, and most of us were so stuffed, we took our cakes home. Several of my family members ate so much (I won’t name names) they made themselves sick.
It is funny how insignificant trips to the fish house can bring memories flooding back. I remembered the last time I dined at that particular fish house. It was years ago, and my grandparents were with us.
The menu was all-you-can-eat back then, and Daddy and my grandparents were on a mission to get their money’s worth. I have never seen people eat so much! My grandmother ate just as much as the men.
“It’s the Shelton in me,” she would say. Her father was famous for his frugal ways, and his genes were strong. Not only did he pass that trait on to my grandmother, but I believe Daddy got a double dose.
My grandparents loved to go eat fried fish. Their favorite restaurant in Memphis closed, and the two were lost without their regular haute. My father introduced them to that fish house on the east side of the county, and at last, they were content.
In fact, it was during the introduction trip to this restaurant that Stephanie and I were invaded by burglars.
My family had just moved into our newly-built home in Southaven, and my grandparents drove up to go to dinner with my parents. Sixteen-year-old Stephanie was watching me who had just turned 12, and we were instructed to turn the burglar alarm on and not let anyone in the house. (We had just moved to the big city from Eudora, mind you.)
The two of us were watching television upstairs when the alarm started howling. At first we thought, we had just done something wrong when we set it, but we still called our neighbor to check things out. The neighbor checked the inside of the house, confirmed that it was just a false alarm, and went home.
Just as we set the alarm back and got situated on the sofa in front of the television, the alarm sounded again. The two of us ran down stairs, and low and behold, the front door was wide open. Someone had been inside the house with us the entire time.
We called 911 and armed ourselves. Stephanie, who is now a captain in the Sheriff’s Department, donned a shotgun from Momma’s collection, and I grabbed a steak knife. What we intended to do is beyond me.
The two of us paced through the kitchen waiting for the police. Then we saw him. A man was standing on the deck outside the kitchen door watching us. Armed with a shot gun and a steak knife, we screamed and ran. I am not sure, but I think we might have thrown our weapons down as we fled.
Now, I am unsure of how this event became a complete spectacle, but it did. Before the police could arrive, a friend of the family, Emily Sanford, rushed to the house to save us. She barged in the door wearing her satin pajamas and welding an Estee Lauder lipstick. She repeated over and over again while she applied that someone was trying to kill her babies.
Stephanie’s friend from school arrived, and it was nice to finally have a male around in case something else happened. He did let us know that Stephanie (now, Captain Stephanie) had loaded the bullet in the gun wrong.
When the police finally arrived, the house was in chaos. Ms. Sanford was yelling at them for not getting them earlier. Our neighbor had returned in a panic. My parents and grandparents had come home to find the police at the house. Stephanie and I were both talking incessantly about the events of the night.
It was some time before my parents left us alone again.
All this came from a plate of fried fish and a chunk of Heath bar cake.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
A few of my favorite things
Today at lunch, my co-workers and I were discussing our favorite things. It was very telling. I thought I would share some of mine, and see what secrets of my personality I reveal.
My family is my world. There is nothing else to say.
My three sons -- Toulouse, Skipper, and Don Juan. Aren't they the sweetest things?
Diet Coke. I could put it in an IV and not get enough.
I am total Anglophile. British books, movies, television. Love it!
Feather pens. I might be a professional writer, but I can still have fun. Agree?
There is nothing like Southern fried chicken fried in a cast iron skillet -- especially Momma's.
Board games are awesome, and I hate to lose.
My favorite scent is honeysuckle. It just smells Southern.
A relaxing weekend at Lake Hamilton in Hot Springs, Arkansas. Paradise for the Southern girl.
I love Mississippi. If you weren't born here, you just won't understand.
The sound of ocean waves is wonderful. I actually sleep with a noise box on making ocean sounds.
Opera. One word: chills.
I love the color pink. It is so cheerful.
I adore setting a beautiful formal table -- especially for tea parties and garden parties. Get out the silver polish, girls.
Okay, I'm a junkie -- especially true crime documentaries and British comedy.
However, television is not television without TIVO. For a while TIVO and I were in a serious relationship until I cheated on him with Keith. TIVO and I have decided to stay friends, though.
My family is my world. There is nothing else to say.
My sweetheart, Keith. I am a very lucky girl!
My three sons -- Toulouse, Skipper, and Don Juan. Aren't they the sweetest things?Diet Coke. I could put it in an IV and not get enough. I adore antiques. They have such a history. New stuff is just not the same. No character or great story.
Independent bookstores are so much better than a chain, and the people who work there have more than likely read a book or two.
I love bunnies -- live or glass. My mother started me collecting bunnies when I was little. It kind of stuck.
Feather pens. I might be a professional writer, but I can still have fun. Agree?
I love folk music. The songs are so relaxing and the lyrics are beautiful. I am all about the lyrics. Forget the voice and the melody.
There is nothing like Southern fried chicken fried in a cast iron skillet -- especially Momma's.
Board games are awesome, and I hate to lose. My favorite scent is honeysuckle. It just smells Southern. My favorite scent to wear is Michael by Michael Kors. Keith adores this stuff.
I'm a red IPOD girl. I so can't live without my one gadget.
I love my journal even though I don't write in it every day. It is a well for random thoughts.
A relaxing weekend at Lake Hamilton in Hot Springs, Arkansas. Paradise for the Southern girl.
The lost art of letter writing is something I find beautiful in that Jane Austin kind of way-- especially love letters. I never get letters anymore.
I love Mississippi. If you weren't born here, you just won't understand.
The sound of ocean waves is wonderful. I actually sleep with a noise box on making ocean sounds.Opera. One word: chills.
I love the color pink. It is so cheerful. I adore setting a beautiful formal table -- especially for tea parties and garden parties. Get out the silver polish, girls.Okay, I'm a junkie -- especially true crime documentaries and British comedy.
However, television is not television without TIVO. For a while TIVO and I were in a serious relationship until I cheated on him with Keith. TIVO and I have decided to stay friends, though.Monday, August 18, 2008
Completely honored!
Dana from One for the Books nominated me for the E for Excellence Award. I am speechless (yes, it is possible!). Dana is the sweetest thing, ever!
Anyway, with my new award, I must pass on the excellence award to others. Here are my seven favorite blogs that I read every single day and am SO disappointed if a new post isn't to be found. However, I am giddy with anticipation that a new post will be up in the next day or two.
My seven favorites (in no particular order):
1. Maggie Reads: I love Maggie. Her goal is to make Mississippi read. As a librarian, Maggie is up on all the newest books. Maggie also organizes the most wonderfully creative contests, and the prizes are the best of all -- books!
2. Oh, Happy Day: This blog comes from Jordan in San Francisco. It is all about beautiful things she finds -- fashion, decorating, stationary, or anything else that makes life more beautiful.
3. Conversations with my Hairdryer: Okay, I love Jenni. I believe she and I are kindred spirits (not in that crazy stalking kind of way). I love reading about her family and her successes with Weight Watchers. Her blog always makes my day.
4. Journey to Vegan: Dana is on a quest for absolute veganism. I WISH I HAD THE WILL TO DO THIS! However, living in small town Mississippi the probability to find something to eat that is not cooked in bacon fat and smothered with cheese is dang near impossible.
5. Blissfully Domestic: This is such a guilty pleasure for me. Make-up tips, celebrity news, and tips for women living in a busy world. Love this blog!
6. Mrs. Fussypants Guide to Life: I am a Fussypants addict. Completely hysterical commentary from a girl close to my own heart!
7. Derfwad Manor: Mrs. G is bodacious. Got to love a girl who will tell you like it is. She makes me laugh so hard no sound comes out of my mouth, and I start hyperventilating.
To those I have listed, here are the rules:
1. Put the logo on your blog. (Right-click the logo above and choose Save Picture As… Then upload it.)
2. Add a link to the person who awarded you.
3. Nominate at least seven other blogs.
4. Add links to those blogs on your blog.
5. Leave a message for your nominee on their blog.
Thanks again, Dana, for the nod!
Thursday, August 14, 2008
It's a good thing my name isn't Grace!
Last week, I fell flat on my face in front of The Winona Times office. It would not be fair to make excuses – I just got tangled in my own feet and fell. Flop!
I am sure motorists passing on Summit Street and customers at Renasant Bank got an eyeful as I lay on the sidewalk, trying to figure out how to get up. I wasn’t hurt much – just my pride. I did get a good chuckle out of my misfortune. (Got to laugh to keep from crying, I guess).
It’s all in a day’s work for me. Write stories, check. Review e-mail, check. Make a complete and utter fool of myself, check, check.
On average, I fall in a public place at least once a month. I am famous for falling up flights of stairs.
A few years ago (and I will change the names to protect the innocent), I was to meet with a powerful executive at his office to discuss possible sponsorship opportunities for a non-profit. His office was on the second floor, and a long spiral staircase connected the lobby to his office. Mr. Powerful Executive descended the stairs to greet me, and the two of us walked up together.
Nearing the top, the heel of my sandal hung up on a step. I fell backward, twisted in mid-air and landed on my hands and knees on the landing. My shoes flew off my feet, over the banister, and to the first floor. Mr. Powerful Executive was forced to jog down to the bottom floor and fetch them.
After the enormous spectacle I created, I still had to deliver my presentation. He agreed to the sponsorship, but I have a feeling he feared a lawsuit. (For my own stupidity, I will save the court some time!) Thankfully, I have never seen Mr. Powerful Executive again.
I also am quite often the damsel in distress. Once while working at my desk (not in Winona, mind you) my rolling chair rolled right out from under me. I landed under my desk in that hole where your legs go. The chair bounced off the wall and somehow wedged underneath the desk – trapping me. I just kind of sat there for a while hoping to die, but after a few minutes, I realized I needed help to get out of this predicament.
“Excuse me, can someone help me out? I seem to be stuck here,” a small voice called over the patricians of the cubicles. Finally someone came to my aid, but it still took several minutes to get me out after he gathered all of our co-workers to “look what Amanda’s done now.”
I am sure the University of Mississippi is dying for me to come back and head up the school’s ambassador program after my debacle in front of an entire group of in-coming freshmen.
My senior year, I was taking Southern Arts and Antiques during the summer session, and we met in the old Chemistry building on the circle. While walking to class, I managed to fall out on the front steps of the building just as a bus load of orientation kids were passing. The bus stopped. I don’t get up. I just laid there shaking – from laughter. I literally had fallen and couldn’t get up!
So you see, my little accident the other day in front of my office was nothing -- just a little quirk in my every day life.
Graceful is not a word that would describe me. Case in point, in sixth grade, I broke my ankle while walking down a hill. Yep, I lost my balance and ended up rolling down the hill. I was in a cast for six weeks.
In high school, my parents sent me to Charm School to smooth out the edges. They hoped I would eventually out grow my awkwardness, but alas, no. In college, I was as uncoordinated as ever.
During a candlelight ceremony during sorority rush (I was a rusher by this point not a rushee) I accidently set the front of my dress on fire. Polyester crepe. Went up like a torch. I almost stopped, dropped and rolled. Luckily, my roommate put me out before I ended up in the burn unit.
I heard girls talking about “that girl who caught on fire” until I graduated.
So when you see me around town, and I accidently knock over a display at the grocery store or ram you with my basket at Wal-Mart. I mean no harm. I am simply trying to make it through the day without eating pavement.
You see, God has a sense of humor. If he didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.
I am sure motorists passing on Summit Street and customers at Renasant Bank got an eyeful as I lay on the sidewalk, trying to figure out how to get up. I wasn’t hurt much – just my pride. I did get a good chuckle out of my misfortune. (Got to laugh to keep from crying, I guess).
It’s all in a day’s work for me. Write stories, check. Review e-mail, check. Make a complete and utter fool of myself, check, check.
On average, I fall in a public place at least once a month. I am famous for falling up flights of stairs.
A few years ago (and I will change the names to protect the innocent), I was to meet with a powerful executive at his office to discuss possible sponsorship opportunities for a non-profit. His office was on the second floor, and a long spiral staircase connected the lobby to his office. Mr. Powerful Executive descended the stairs to greet me, and the two of us walked up together.
Nearing the top, the heel of my sandal hung up on a step. I fell backward, twisted in mid-air and landed on my hands and knees on the landing. My shoes flew off my feet, over the banister, and to the first floor. Mr. Powerful Executive was forced to jog down to the bottom floor and fetch them.
After the enormous spectacle I created, I still had to deliver my presentation. He agreed to the sponsorship, but I have a feeling he feared a lawsuit. (For my own stupidity, I will save the court some time!) Thankfully, I have never seen Mr. Powerful Executive again.
I also am quite often the damsel in distress. Once while working at my desk (not in Winona, mind you) my rolling chair rolled right out from under me. I landed under my desk in that hole where your legs go. The chair bounced off the wall and somehow wedged underneath the desk – trapping me. I just kind of sat there for a while hoping to die, but after a few minutes, I realized I needed help to get out of this predicament.
“Excuse me, can someone help me out? I seem to be stuck here,” a small voice called over the patricians of the cubicles. Finally someone came to my aid, but it still took several minutes to get me out after he gathered all of our co-workers to “look what Amanda’s done now.”
I am sure the University of Mississippi is dying for me to come back and head up the school’s ambassador program after my debacle in front of an entire group of in-coming freshmen.
My senior year, I was taking Southern Arts and Antiques during the summer session, and we met in the old Chemistry building on the circle. While walking to class, I managed to fall out on the front steps of the building just as a bus load of orientation kids were passing. The bus stopped. I don’t get up. I just laid there shaking – from laughter. I literally had fallen and couldn’t get up!
So you see, my little accident the other day in front of my office was nothing -- just a little quirk in my every day life.
Graceful is not a word that would describe me. Case in point, in sixth grade, I broke my ankle while walking down a hill. Yep, I lost my balance and ended up rolling down the hill. I was in a cast for six weeks.
In high school, my parents sent me to Charm School to smooth out the edges. They hoped I would eventually out grow my awkwardness, but alas, no. In college, I was as uncoordinated as ever.
During a candlelight ceremony during sorority rush (I was a rusher by this point not a rushee) I accidently set the front of my dress on fire. Polyester crepe. Went up like a torch. I almost stopped, dropped and rolled. Luckily, my roommate put me out before I ended up in the burn unit.
I heard girls talking about “that girl who caught on fire” until I graduated.
So when you see me around town, and I accidently knock over a display at the grocery store or ram you with my basket at Wal-Mart. I mean no harm. I am simply trying to make it through the day without eating pavement.
You see, God has a sense of humor. If he didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
"I'd be happy to pound the erasers, Ms. Beverly."
This weekend, as I shopped at the Winona Wal-Mart, I became very nostalgic as I watched children pick out new backpacks, lunch boxes, and zipper bags for pencils. There is nothing in the world better than brand new school supplies to make a kid aim for the stars academically.
A week or so before school started, Momma would take my sisters and me to the store to stock up on school supplies. Of course, I always had to adapt the list to my particular style - which I convinced Momma would help me make better grades.
I always opted for the pink lined notebook paper. It was just prettier and so much more interesting. I also had to get those pens with the three different colors of ink. You know the ones I mean - with the red, green, or black levers on the top to change color.
Although I was only required to get the 24 pack of crayons, I would have to have the jumbo, hundred-count box with colors like flesh and turquoise.
"Mo-mmm-a, how will my pictures look realistic if I don't have a flesh crayon," I whined, which is the best way for any child to get exactly what they want.
Many times I convinced her to take me to Happy Names in Memphis to get "personalized" school supplies. I really needed those pencils with my name on them and my name painted on all my notebooks. It was all about theft prevention. If someone stole my pink Hello Kitty trapper keeper, I would immediately know it was mine because of the large "Amanda" emblazoned across the front in calligraphy.
Oh, I loved school; I had to be on my death bed to actually miss a day. All those books and lectures and recess were so my cup of tea, and as you might guess, I was probably considered a big kiss up with my hand in the air every time my name was called. I would volunteer to read aloud or work that math problem on the board. (Really, it just gave me a chance to write on the board. I hated math.)
Trips to the library, book fairs, career day, science fairs - I loved them. I especially liked show and tell. Once, I had a kitten that was born with her tail bent at a 90 degree angle. It just kind of pointed to the left all the time. After a few months, the bent end just fell off. We found it on the carport floor. I put the tail in a Ziploc bag and tada, show and tell. It was a hit.
Of course, I was the teacher's pet most years, but I can't say I never got into trouble. In Kindergarten, I learned really quickly that hauling off and popping someone for ticking you off got your name on the chalk board with three check marks. Three checks meant I had to sit out at recess and Ms. Beverly, my teacher, called my parents. I got punished all over again when I got home.
In second grade, Aunt Jean, Daddy's sister, was my teacher. I was so lucky. Aunt Jean really appreciated my zeal for learning - so much so that I was her favorite student. (Of course, that is what I thought and told everyone in the class).
But even I could make Aunt Jean angry. One afternoon at recess, my friend, Scooter, and I stole Aunt Jean's mercuricomb and painted our knees and elbows with the dark red liquid. The two of us pretended to fall down and hurt ourselves. Panicked that blood was involved, Aunt Jean rushed to help. She wasn't very happy when she discovered our prank. If I remember correctly, she told Daddy, and I am sure the words "she wasted my good mercuricomb" were used. (Well, she was a Sexton, after all.)
I was never a fan of P.E. Recess was okay, but structured athletics has never been my thing. I was not blessed with hand-eye coordination. Organized sports were a nightmare. I can't even begin to tell you how many times I was hit in the face by a ball.
However, I loved the trampoline. My cousins had one, and I could do flips and other tricks. I was so looking forward to showing off my skills in front of the class, but the teacher put a stop to it. He said unless I could do "swivel hips" (seat drop, flip in mid-air, and seat drop in the opposite direction) a flip was out of the question. Only one student could do "swivel hips," and I despised her.
The teacher loved this girl. Most of the class period, the other students and I would stand around the parameter of the trampoline with our arms in the air to catch the "swivel hips" girl if she launched herself across the room. We would stand there forever as she did tricks and flips while the teacher praised her. (Actually, I am beginning to think this experience is what scarred my psyche against athletics. Regardless, it is now my new excuse.)
So as classes commence in the community, know this. I miss school. If the real world would just take a cue from elementary school, the world would be such a better place. I will take the 30-minute nap for $100, Alex.
A week or so before school started, Momma would take my sisters and me to the store to stock up on school supplies. Of course, I always had to adapt the list to my particular style - which I convinced Momma would help me make better grades.
I always opted for the pink lined notebook paper. It was just prettier and so much more interesting. I also had to get those pens with the three different colors of ink. You know the ones I mean - with the red, green, or black levers on the top to change color.
Although I was only required to get the 24 pack of crayons, I would have to have the jumbo, hundred-count box with colors like flesh and turquoise.
"Mo-mmm-a, how will my pictures look realistic if I don't have a flesh crayon," I whined, which is the best way for any child to get exactly what they want.
Many times I convinced her to take me to Happy Names in Memphis to get "personalized" school supplies. I really needed those pencils with my name on them and my name painted on all my notebooks. It was all about theft prevention. If someone stole my pink Hello Kitty trapper keeper, I would immediately know it was mine because of the large "Amanda" emblazoned across the front in calligraphy.
Oh, I loved school; I had to be on my death bed to actually miss a day. All those books and lectures and recess were so my cup of tea, and as you might guess, I was probably considered a big kiss up with my hand in the air every time my name was called. I would volunteer to read aloud or work that math problem on the board. (Really, it just gave me a chance to write on the board. I hated math.)
Trips to the library, book fairs, career day, science fairs - I loved them. I especially liked show and tell. Once, I had a kitten that was born with her tail bent at a 90 degree angle. It just kind of pointed to the left all the time. After a few months, the bent end just fell off. We found it on the carport floor. I put the tail in a Ziploc bag and tada, show and tell. It was a hit.
Of course, I was the teacher's pet most years, but I can't say I never got into trouble. In Kindergarten, I learned really quickly that hauling off and popping someone for ticking you off got your name on the chalk board with three check marks. Three checks meant I had to sit out at recess and Ms. Beverly, my teacher, called my parents. I got punished all over again when I got home.
In second grade, Aunt Jean, Daddy's sister, was my teacher. I was so lucky. Aunt Jean really appreciated my zeal for learning - so much so that I was her favorite student. (Of course, that is what I thought and told everyone in the class).
But even I could make Aunt Jean angry. One afternoon at recess, my friend, Scooter, and I stole Aunt Jean's mercuricomb and painted our knees and elbows with the dark red liquid. The two of us pretended to fall down and hurt ourselves. Panicked that blood was involved, Aunt Jean rushed to help. She wasn't very happy when she discovered our prank. If I remember correctly, she told Daddy, and I am sure the words "she wasted my good mercuricomb" were used. (Well, she was a Sexton, after all.)
I was never a fan of P.E. Recess was okay, but structured athletics has never been my thing. I was not blessed with hand-eye coordination. Organized sports were a nightmare. I can't even begin to tell you how many times I was hit in the face by a ball.
However, I loved the trampoline. My cousins had one, and I could do flips and other tricks. I was so looking forward to showing off my skills in front of the class, but the teacher put a stop to it. He said unless I could do "swivel hips" (seat drop, flip in mid-air, and seat drop in the opposite direction) a flip was out of the question. Only one student could do "swivel hips," and I despised her.
The teacher loved this girl. Most of the class period, the other students and I would stand around the parameter of the trampoline with our arms in the air to catch the "swivel hips" girl if she launched herself across the room. We would stand there forever as she did tricks and flips while the teacher praised her. (Actually, I am beginning to think this experience is what scarred my psyche against athletics. Regardless, it is now my new excuse.)
So as classes commence in the community, know this. I miss school. If the real world would just take a cue from elementary school, the world would be such a better place. I will take the 30-minute nap for $100, Alex.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Remembering to tie a boat to the porch
Growing up, I spent many summers visiting Momma’s people in the Mississippi Delta. I loved it.
The excitement built as soon as the hills leveled out and the delta began. That was the point where Momma’s eyes begin to twinkle with mirth and memories of a happy childhood.
“I would ride on the cotton sack while Momma picked,” she said. “She would just drag me down the rows.”
Momma’s family has always been an interesting clan. The Yelvertons came to the United States from Scandinavia, and settled in Mississippi not long after stepping onto dry land. My great-grandfather, T.H. Yelverton, farmed the rich delta soil his entire life while raising four sons practically single-handedly through a depression and World War II. Three of the four left home for Europe and Japan to fight for freedom – two returning wounded.
During those days, the Yelvertons experienced what nearly every Mississippi family coped-- draft notices, the fear of telegrams delivering bad news, 12-hour work days just to put food on the table, and the possibility of another devastating levee break.
Living in a modest cypress shotgun house, the family survived every ebb and flow life dealt them. They just tied a boat to the porch in preparation for what the Lord had in store for them.
Through the years, the family persevered. They worked hard, played hard, prayed hard, and leaned on each other for support. And the tales they told about life left me wondering if they were fact or fiction. From experience, I figured out they were mostly fact with just a touch of Southern exaggeration.
I remember sitting in my Uncle B-boy’s (real name, Breland) kitchen listening to him talk about growing up with his three brothers – the oldest being my grandfather, Benoit. He spoke of riding through Belzoni, shooting all the streetlights out with a revolver. He laughed about Uncle Burnell accidently chopping off my granddaddy’s big toe while in pursuit of a rat.
Now, with all of my uncles and my grandfather gone, the delta holds much meaning for me. My ancestors thrived in that black, gumbo mud. The delta is a part of who I am.
Recently, I visited Tallahatchie Flats in Leflore County. For those of you who have never had the privilege of visiting Mr. Bubba and his establishment on Money Road just north of Greenwood, the experience is a step back in time, and it is completely worth the trip.
Tallahatchie Flats is a group of restored shotgun shacks situated on the banks of the Tallahatchie River. Guests can rent a shack for a night, a week, or a month and truly experience Mississippi’s past.
The beds are covered in handmade quilts and mix-matched printed sheets; the kitchen filled with cast iron skillets and Dutch ovens. Eclectic antique furniture is sprinkled sparsely throughout each shack. Handmade rockers line the front porch, and the view consists of acres of cotton and soybeans.
My stay at Tallahatchie Flats allowed me to become a character in one of Uncle B-boy’s stories. I was able to experience a taste of life through his eyes – and the eyes of my mother and grandfather.
I can now imagine how a family that large became so close-knit. Those shotgun houses did not allow for much privacy with its connecting rooms and open floor-plans. Unlike today, there was no place for a brooding teenager to retreat and wile away the time with video games and television. There was no video games and television. Most Mississippians in that time were lucky to have a radio. Families depended on each other for entertainment.
The front porch was a popular perch for most to bask in the fresh air. This is where so many families churned butter, washed laundry, and prepared vegetables from the garden. It was a place for families to spend time together, and with families like the Yelvertons, swap lies and laugh.
I learned a lot from spending time with Momma’s family. I learned coffee could never be too black and thick, there is humor in every situation if you just look for it, and even those who have long-departed this earth are just as close as ever in our memories. I learned who my grandfather really was, even though I never met him in person.
Most of all, I learned that life can be difficult and cruel and deal some a bad hand. But, if I just remember to tie a boat to porch, the waters will recede, and this too shall pass.
The excitement built as soon as the hills leveled out and the delta began. That was the point where Momma’s eyes begin to twinkle with mirth and memories of a happy childhood.
“I would ride on the cotton sack while Momma picked,” she said. “She would just drag me down the rows.”
Momma’s family has always been an interesting clan. The Yelvertons came to the United States from Scandinavia, and settled in Mississippi not long after stepping onto dry land. My great-grandfather, T.H. Yelverton, farmed the rich delta soil his entire life while raising four sons practically single-handedly through a depression and World War II. Three of the four left home for Europe and Japan to fight for freedom – two returning wounded.
During those days, the Yelvertons experienced what nearly every Mississippi family coped-- draft notices, the fear of telegrams delivering bad news, 12-hour work days just to put food on the table, and the possibility of another devastating levee break.
Living in a modest cypress shotgun house, the family survived every ebb and flow life dealt them. They just tied a boat to the porch in preparation for what the Lord had in store for them.
Through the years, the family persevered. They worked hard, played hard, prayed hard, and leaned on each other for support. And the tales they told about life left me wondering if they were fact or fiction. From experience, I figured out they were mostly fact with just a touch of Southern exaggeration.
I remember sitting in my Uncle B-boy’s (real name, Breland) kitchen listening to him talk about growing up with his three brothers – the oldest being my grandfather, Benoit. He spoke of riding through Belzoni, shooting all the streetlights out with a revolver. He laughed about Uncle Burnell accidently chopping off my granddaddy’s big toe while in pursuit of a rat.
Now, with all of my uncles and my grandfather gone, the delta holds much meaning for me. My ancestors thrived in that black, gumbo mud. The delta is a part of who I am.
Recently, I visited Tallahatchie Flats in Leflore County. For those of you who have never had the privilege of visiting Mr. Bubba and his establishment on Money Road just north of Greenwood, the experience is a step back in time, and it is completely worth the trip.
Tallahatchie Flats is a group of restored shotgun shacks situated on the banks of the Tallahatchie River. Guests can rent a shack for a night, a week, or a month and truly experience Mississippi’s past.
The beds are covered in handmade quilts and mix-matched printed sheets; the kitchen filled with cast iron skillets and Dutch ovens. Eclectic antique furniture is sprinkled sparsely throughout each shack. Handmade rockers line the front porch, and the view consists of acres of cotton and soybeans.
My stay at Tallahatchie Flats allowed me to become a character in one of Uncle B-boy’s stories. I was able to experience a taste of life through his eyes – and the eyes of my mother and grandfather.
I can now imagine how a family that large became so close-knit. Those shotgun houses did not allow for much privacy with its connecting rooms and open floor-plans. Unlike today, there was no place for a brooding teenager to retreat and wile away the time with video games and television. There was no video games and television. Most Mississippians in that time were lucky to have a radio. Families depended on each other for entertainment.
The front porch was a popular perch for most to bask in the fresh air. This is where so many families churned butter, washed laundry, and prepared vegetables from the garden. It was a place for families to spend time together, and with families like the Yelvertons, swap lies and laugh.
I learned a lot from spending time with Momma’s family. I learned coffee could never be too black and thick, there is humor in every situation if you just look for it, and even those who have long-departed this earth are just as close as ever in our memories. I learned who my grandfather really was, even though I never met him in person.
Most of all, I learned that life can be difficult and cruel and deal some a bad hand. But, if I just remember to tie a boat to porch, the waters will recede, and this too shall pass.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Don't know why they call it a tasting -- more like guzzling
I attended my first wine tasting last weekend at the Winona Country Club. It was my first for a reason. I hate wine. Pretty much all of it except champagne and Clos Du Bois (a sweet Chardonnay that is really warm and butter). Wine make me act like an idiot. I get really giggly drinking wine -- not a good look for me, by the way.
The second flight:
When we arrived, the host gave us champagne. Good. Liked it, drank two glasses. Then the entertainment began.
The first flight:
The whites. It is the lessor of two evils. I really enjoyed the third selection which was a German Riesling wine. It was sweet and slightly fizzy, but not to the extreme of champagne or sparkling wine.
The last one of this flight was a rose from California that smelled like cake batter and tasted like ass.
Now, at most wine tastings, you are supposed to sip, taste, and then spit into a bucket on the table -- like this one:
We don't spit in Winona. It's tacky. In Winona, after a flight you got this (oh, and it is tacky to waste as well):
The second flight:
I am not a fan of the reds, but I will drink a glass of Shiraz with dinner. My favorite wine of the entire night: Quinta Do Crasto LBV Port from Portugal. I finished mine and everyone else's before I left. I became quite tipsy because unlike normal wine, port, has 20 percent alcohol which is 40 proof.
I tried taking more pictures, but I decided to put my camera away so the Baptists could quit hiding under the tables.
Non-Baptists:
I wonder if a beer tasting will ever come to Winona? Or a gin tasting? With tonic. And lime. Here's wishing!
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
One Word Meme
Here is another meme from Conversations with my Hairdryer.
1. Where is your cell phone? purse
2. Your significant other? fields
3. Your hair? clippy
4. Your mother? talking
5. Your father? driving
6. Your favorite thing? tivo
7. Your dream last night? None
8. Your favorite drink? (Diet) coke
9. Your dream/goal? bestseller
10. The room you’re in? office
11. Your church? beautiful
12. Your fear? everything
13. Where do you want to be in 6 years? happy
14. Where were you last night? working
15. What you’re not? punctual
16. Muffins? Mac
17. One of your wish list items? desk
18. Where you grew up? Eudora
19. The last thing you did? talk
20. What are you wearing? jeans
21. Your TV? friend
22. Your pets? idiots
23. Your computer? necessity
24. Your life? busy
25. Your mood? content
26. Missing someone? friends
27. Your car? filthy
28. Something you’re not wearing? necklace
29. Favorite store? Turnrow
30. Your summer? hot
31. Like(love) someone? Keith
32. Your favorite color? pink
33. Last time you laughed? moments
34. Last time you cried? Sunday
35. Who will repost this? dunno
1. Where is your cell phone? purse
2. Your significant other? fields
3. Your hair? clippy
4. Your mother? talking
5. Your father? driving
6. Your favorite thing? tivo
7. Your dream last night? None
8. Your favorite drink? (Diet) coke
9. Your dream/goal? bestseller
10. The room you’re in? office
11. Your church? beautiful
12. Your fear? everything
13. Where do you want to be in 6 years? happy
14. Where were you last night? working
15. What you’re not? punctual
16. Muffins? Mac
17. One of your wish list items? desk
18. Where you grew up? Eudora
19. The last thing you did? talk
20. What are you wearing? jeans
21. Your TV? friend
22. Your pets? idiots
23. Your computer? necessity
24. Your life? busy
25. Your mood? content
26. Missing someone? friends
27. Your car? filthy
28. Something you’re not wearing? necklace
29. Favorite store? Turnrow
30. Your summer? hot
31. Like(love) someone? Keith
32. Your favorite color? pink
33. Last time you laughed? moments
34. Last time you cried? Sunday
35. Who will repost this? dunno
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Passing the time this summer
Conversations with my Hairdryer introduced this meme called Summer Lovin'. It got me thinking about all the plans I wanted to accomplish this summer. Let's see how interesting the past couple of months have been.
Watching -- My summer television shows -- Big Brother, Nashville Star, Closer, Monk, and Psyche. Oh, and Masterpiece Mysteries on PBS.
Reading -- Liberating Paris by Linda Bloodworth Thomason. I have a HUGE list on my to-be-read list because I am participating in two reading challenges.
Listening to -- Robert Johnson, opera
Over-indulging on -- Diet Coke, fresh tomatoes
Thankful for -- My significant other, Keith. I am a lucky girl if I say so myself!
Praying for -- my family, as always, and my own sanity
Trying out -- Cooking for fun, landscape photographer, gardening
Gearing up for -- Our August trip to Hot Springs. Hopefully, both my sisters will be able to join. Also, Magazine ad sales. Work is the largest part of my life, so I have to mention it.
Looking forward to -- finally cleaning my closets out, organizing my office as soon as I get someone to move my desk, and cleaning out the butler's pantry (aka, my catchall for everything from unused household crap to personal papers screaming to be filed.)
Watching -- My summer television shows -- Big Brother, Nashville Star, Closer, Monk, and Psyche. Oh, and Masterpiece Mysteries on PBS.
Reading -- Liberating Paris by Linda Bloodworth Thomason. I have a HUGE list on my to-be-read list because I am participating in two reading challenges.
Listening to -- Robert Johnson, opera
Over-indulging on -- Diet Coke, fresh tomatoes
Thankful for -- My significant other, Keith. I am a lucky girl if I say so myself!
Praying for -- my family, as always, and my own sanity
Trying out -- Cooking for fun, landscape photographer, gardening
Gearing up for -- Our August trip to Hot Springs. Hopefully, both my sisters will be able to join. Also, Magazine ad sales. Work is the largest part of my life, so I have to mention it.
Looking forward to -- finally cleaning my closets out, organizing my office as soon as I get someone to move my desk, and cleaning out the butler's pantry (aka, my catchall for everything from unused household crap to personal papers screaming to be filed.)
Friday, July 18, 2008
"I've got the split-end blues"
Maggie Reads is holding a contest for the best blues name. I thought the Blues name generator wasn't very authentic because they weren't Southern names. So gave mine a little Mississippi twist. (Thank you, Mark Twain, for teaching me to write phonically.)
Itchin' Plantain Ken'dy: The prissiest, most high maintenance gal in the juke. (and her backup group, The Peels.)
Itchin' Plantain Ken'dy: The prissiest, most high maintenance gal in the juke. (and her backup group, The Peels.)
Monday, July 14, 2008
Searching for Robert Johnson
This weekend, my significant other, Keith, and I searched for the grave site of the king of the Delta blues singers, Robert Johnson, in the Mississippi Delta.
Mr. Johnson:
So, we paid homage to all three.
The back porch overlooked a soy bean field and the Tallahatchie River. Keith was jealous that his beans did not look so good.
More Johnsons live in the area:
We thought it had to be the real thing -- a family cemetery.
View from the Bridge:
The YA-YA-Yazoo!
You can take the boy out of the delta, but....
Chocolate Sin....oh, yeah!
Mr. Johnson:
Now for those of you who know Keith and me, we are polar opposites on most accounts except for our dry sarcasm, unnatural obsession with sports of any kind, our love of Southern history, and, of course, our enthusiastic appreciation for Mississippi blues. Case in point, Keith took me to Morgan Freeman's Ground Zero Blues Club on our very first date.
For those of you who are not familiar with Johnson, he is the famed Mississippi bluesman from Hazelhurst who supposedly sold his soul to the devil in exchange for talent to sing the blues. This exchanged occurred at the "Crossroads" near Clarksdale. Johnson died at age 27 in Greenwood after being poisoned by a woman's husband after his wife's alleged affair with Johnson. Read more about Robert Johnson.
Just as mysterious as Johnson's life, his final resting place is very ellusive. In fact, there are three different cemeteries where his tombstone sits.
Now, we know he died in Leflore County, Mississippi. And lucky for us, all three grave sites are also in Leflore County.
Our search began at Tallahatchie Flats, three miles north of Greenwood. Keith and I reserved our very own shack for the night to get to the heart of Johnson and his life. We stayed in the Tush-Hog House, named for the man with Johnson when he died of strychnine poisoning.
Our House:
The back porch overlooked a soy bean field and the Tallahatchie River. Keith was jealous that his beans did not look so good.As a matter of fact, it was Mr. Bubba, the proprietor, who suggested we try to find all three sites is we were true enthusiasts.
Our first destination: Itta Bena. We were searching for the Quito Plantation. There in the church yard of a chapel was the first marker. Surrounded by other Johnsons, a simple flat tombstone lay with the inscription, "Resting in the Blues." Keith felt it fitting to share a beer with him.
Quito Plantation, Est. 1904
The church in Itta Bena with the first marker:
More Johnsons live in the area: We thought it had to be the real thing -- a family cemetery.That was until we got to Morgan City. South of Itta Bena is a small cotton community known as Morgan City. Keith actually did an internship here while he was in school. He would drive out to Morgan City twice a week to check cotton.
We could not find a church, but a nice lady at the Morgan City Grocery gave us directions.
I read that Johnson was buried at Mount Zion Church, and if we did not pull straight up to Mount Zion Church. A large marker sat near the street, and we knew immediately that it was his. The obelisk was inscribed on all four sides.
The second marker:
This was the REAL one, I told Keith. He agreed.
A photograph of Johnson was inset on the monument. And fans from across the globe have paid tribute. This was proved with a British pound placed at the base of the stone.
On our way back to Greenwood, we came upon this -- the big ass bridge in the middle of nowhere.
Big Ass Bridge in the Middle of Nowhere:
View from the Bridge:The YA-YA-Yazoo!It was just too interesting not to mention. It crosses the Yazoo River.
Near Tallahatchie Flats, we found the last of the markers. It was under a pecan tree at the Little Zion Chapel. An eye witness supposedly saw Johnson buried in this spot. After finding out she never received a dime for her story, I was inclined to believe this was the spot.
The third marker:
Of course, after discussing the matter further over dinner at Lusco's in Greenwood, we don't know what the hell to think. (We had the porterhouse for two, Lusco's famous fries, and the chocolate sin with chocolate bourbon sauce, yum!)
You can take the boy out of the delta, but....Chocolate Sin....oh, yeah! It certainly is fitting that Johnson's final resting place is just as mysterious as the man.
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