We Were Discussing Hemorrhoids, Officer... Honest!

It was a typical Georgia summer afternoon and I was enjoying a drive to Dublin and back with my son Zach. Since we rarely get to have time that's "just the two of us," we were listening to the radio and chatting away, with him asking questions about various topics and my answering to the best of my ability. And we were singing songs and being silly (as you can imagine we are wont to do in my family - immediate and extended).

Well, we had driven to Dublin via I-16 (for those of you who don't live in rural Georgia, we do tend to drive quickly on back roads, but they sometimes are full of (a) varmints that can cause damage to your car, (b) small towns that can slow one down because they are speed traps or because they have the obligatory one stop light or four-way stop, and (c) octogenarians who are out making sure the family automobile is driven at least once a week so it won't go "bad." So, if we can make a trip via the interstate and really have fun, well.... we take advantage of it. It's the little things in life, you see... I believe in having fun however I can get it ~ hence the reason going to a Sam's Club is right up there with walking the Streets of Gold... sigh...), done our errands, and were coming back home. Our ride on I-16 had just ended and we were back on the country road that led us back to Swainsboro, but I was still deep in conversation with Zach and had not really noticed that I was not driving under 65 miles an hour ~ in fact, I had just hit the cruise and had resumed my "interstate" speed. (And I am going to play the part of the Tar Baby and say nothing here about what that "interstate speed" actually is... but close to 65 mph, it ain't...).

Okay, about this time, a commercial came on the radio about hemorrhoids and Zach asked what they were. I was doing my best to explain them to him and why people acquire them and how they are treated and what in the sam hill Preparation H does for them (and, of course, I wanted to go on a diatribe about how "PH" also helps dry up pimples in a pinch and I had often used it growing up, but I resisted because that would just have blown his mind... and again... I digress.... Granny Weatherall, you see... Go back to my first posting...). I desperately wished my Daddy were still alive at that point because I would have called him and just given Zach the phone, but would that have taken place, the next part of this story would have been tragic.... kinda. Sorta. Maybe.

In the middle of our hemorrhoid discussion, Zach and I both look up to see a State Patrol cruiser topping the hill ahead of us. We both look down at my speedometer and see my speed. Zach looks at me. Even if I slam on brakes, I am busted. I sigh. I turn off my cruise control and allow the car to slow down gradually as the cruiser pulls over and turns around to follow me. I begin to tell Zach that in situations like this, it is ALWAYS best to tell the truth. Lying is a surefire way to get into trouble (and I don't add here that I am a horrible liar and it doesn't work for me). And I pull the car over and get out my license and registration and insurance cards.

The officer comes up to my window and asks for my paperwork and then asks the proverbial question, "Ms....., is there any good reason for you to be driving so fast today? I clocked you at [the speed of light]. That's mighty fast on this road and you've got precious cargo there."

Me: Officer, there is never a good reason to break the law or to speed. But to be honest with you, we have been to Dublin and were talking away and my son asked me about hemorrhoids and I was doing my best to explain them to him and answer his questions and I just wasn't paying attention to how fast I was going. I am so sorry. I don't have any excuse. I really don't.

Now, while I'm saying all of this, he is slowly turning his body away from my window and back towards his vehicle. And he is no longer looking at me at all. I find this odd, but am thankful he is not staring me down. He tells me he will be back in a minute and steps back and gets into his vehicle.

Now, I have to tell you, Zach is close to tears at this point. Not because I have gotten caught for speeding or that the State Patrol officer is being so stern with me. Oh, no! He is mortified that I have just told the man that we were discussing hemorrhoids. Yes! Zach is not believing I vocalized the word to someone outside the family and that I told the man about our hugely private conversation. Whatever! A scant 3 minutes earlier we had been trying to find words that rhymed with it... and then I was trying to give him mental images of what they looked like and he was comparing them to chicken fat... ewwww! Anyway.... I was doing that "Mama bulging-eyed, talk-through-your-teeth, don't you get smart with me" thing with Zach and praying to the Good Lord that I was not going to get a huge ticket. That and trying to remember who all I knew who might be able to help me get it reduced... maybe, possibly, perhaps....

I look in my rear view mirror and I see the officer on his radio and writing frantically on a clipboard and he is gone for several minutes.

Zach asks me if I am going to jail. Given how fast I was going, I am beginning to think he is calling for backup. Either that, or because of the tale I just told, he has just radioed to Milledgeville to have them send a special "car" for me.

Well, he finally walks back up to my window, grinning, giggling, and wiping tears from his eyes. He has been back in that car, laughing at me, radioing all his buddies, telling this story, writing it down verbatim so he won't forget it.... and he says to me, "Ma'am, I am not one to normally let people out of tickets. Ask around and see. But I also have a policy that if I hear a story that I've never heard before, I have to let people go. And in 17 years out here on the highway, I can honestly tell you, I have never, and the men and women I work with have never, ever heard of hemorrhoids as an excuse for speeding. So y'all go on now, slow it down, and have a good day."

Hemorrhoids have never done me better!

Honest!

Queen B

Make me proud.....

Nostalgic today, so I thought I would share the text of what my brothers and sister and I shared with the congregation at my Daddy's memorial. Now, you can imagine that what we said varied from this, as we added to it and embellished (we are, indeed, John Blumer's children, after all), and if I can figure out how to extract it from the video I have of the memorial service, I will post it as well. But, for the time being, enjoy this small vignette and perhaps it can give those of you who never knew him a hint of the amazing man my Daddy was ~ and still is in untold ways.

Daddy was so many things to so many people – a friend, a teacher, a healer, a guide, a confidant, a mentor and more. For the four of us, he was these things and he was most definitely the spiritual head of our household. He provided the example of what it was to be a Christian and to be someone who depended on Christ for all things. He encouraged us to develop a relationship with Christ and he taught us lessons that proved invaluable as time progressed. Daddy was faithful, committed and devoted to family – and he told us on more than one occasion that he loved Mama and would not abide our not giving her respect.

But the lessons and gifts he gave us extended even further than those already mentioned. Daddy’s wisdom included some great life lessons and memorable quotes.


Life lesson #1 – If it is worth doing, it is worth doing big.


We were amazed at how big Daddy’s hands were. They were perfect for much needed spankings and swats, and even better for large hugs, pats on the back, or that one of a kind squeeze of pride or congratulations or approval on our shoulders.


But it was equally amazing to us that with such large hands (the gloves at his office were #9s) he was able to practice dentistry with grace, finesse, and precision.


His focus on doing things big also carried over to big meals. He would invite the proverbial “cast of thousands” over to share fish, or game, or to celebrate a birthday or event and often cook the main course not in a traditional pot, but in a vessel so large it required a boat paddle to stir it!


Big also worked with stories and jokes – as one of John’s friends wrote to us after Daddy’s death – “Your Daddy’s stories were always of epic proportions – and they were always entertaining.” He loved to tell these jokes or stories to as large a crowd as he could gather, as well.


This “bigness” could also describe Daddy’s laugh. In his mind, why laugh quietly when one could involve every fiber of his being and entice others to join in by the sheer joy and vivaciousness of his mirth (a word he loved, by the way).


And, for anyone who was around him for any amount of time, you would know that Daddy’s love for the great outdoors was bigger than anything else. And he not only loved to hunt big (and hunt and fish for “big” things!), he wanted to share this love of hunting with as many people as he could. His thinking was that being outdoors to enjoy the majesty of God’s creation and to appreciate the bounty of the earth beat any good day indoors.


And Daddy’s lessons to us included many quotes and sayings that we will continue to employ and remember with fondness. Many of you will smile and chuckle to remember occasions when you heard Daddy say...


• You wound me!
• Let’s adjourn to more comfortable quarters.
• I am extending the right hand of fellowship.
• Fire and fall back.
• The host has raised his fork.
• Who’s milking this duck.
• It’s daylight in the swamp.
• Enjoyed that like I had good sense.
• Another beautiful sunrise.
• This'll make your hair white and your teeth curly.
• Thank you, kindly.
• Stephanie is my better three-fourths.
• Boy, blind women are getting scarce.
• That’s some account.
• That’ll cure what ails you.
• Make me proud.


We know that by your presence here, Daddy was a friend, mentor, teacher, Scouting guide, hunting buddy, dentist, colleague, brother in Christ, or more to you and we grieve with you. But we celebrate the great legacy he leaves with us all and we rejoice in knowing he is with the great cloud of witnesses encouraging us, helping us land that bass or call that turkey or track that deer, supporting us in decisions and celebrating Christ with us.

****At this point, my brother John explained that we had practiced and wanted to sing Blue Highway's "Someday," but seeing as how we knew we would never make it through it, we were opting for the song to be played. The reason for its choice was that it was one of Daddy's favorite songs, even before he became sick with hepatoma, and he longed for its message to be shared at his memorial once he learned of his illness. In his eyes, his funeral was not to be a fully sad event (in fact, his desire was to be folded in half, placed in a Hefty bag, have a hole augured next to his favorite hunting dog's grave, and then have us go tap a keg... as he knew the body he had in Heaven was going to be so much more perfect than the cancer-ridden one he had at the end of his life.... I can assure you we agreed with his sentiment about Heaven, but disagreed with the Hefty bag, hole auguring, and burial near Hoss's grave... but again, I digress...), but it was to reassure those present and to express his deepest desire for those who did not share his calm faith that they could grieve with hope. Because they would see him again.

Amen.

I'm Workin' for Tips Tonight... 'Cept for You, Pretty Lady...

It's official.... I have birthed a womanizer. And a schmoozer. And I love every bit of him! He has been a charmer since the word go, and I have known that one day he would run for public office since he was two when he would walk up to everyone in the Huddle House on Saturday mornings, shaking hands and saying, "Mornin'. I'm Tywer Thomsamanm Jones." (He added the "Jones" because that's my sister's married name and he loves her so and truly believed he belonged to her ~ or wanted to for a long time.... go figure. She always said he wasn't in trouble when he was, or he shouldn't get a spanking when he should, or he needed a toy when he didn't... you get the picture. But that's what aunts do for nephews who are like Tylers and Sams and Jacks and Zachs and so forth....) But back to the story ~

At my mother's recent nuptials, Tyler was a bit distraught because he was not quite old enough as the "big boys" to drive a golf cart and escort the guests to the reception from their vehicles to my mother's house. As a result, my mother wanted to be sure he had a "special job" that was of his choosing. If you look at the pictures I posted on FaceBook (yes, April, the 37 pictures of RAISING THE TENT ~ Ha!), you will see the intense conversation they had in the driveway about just this responsibility. According to my mother, the conversation went something like this.


Nana: Tyler, I want you to have a very, very special job. I know you are hurt because you are not able to drive a golf cart. So tell me, if you could pick a job, any job, to have at Mr. Don's and my reception, what would it be.

Tyler: What kinds of jobs are there? Nothing fun... just things for girls and babies. (Kicks gravel here).

Nana: Well, I will need someone to help guide people back to the golf carts when they are ready to leave. And I will need someone to stand at the front door to open it for people who want to go in the house and direct them to where the bathrooms and other things are. And I would like to have someone under the tent where the food and band are going to be to tell people where the food is and where they can sit....

Tyler: Hey, I think I would like to be under that big tent. You mean that one they're putting up over there. Would I be like a waiter or something? I've always wanted to be a waiter. Yeah, yeah. I'll do that. (Big grin... happy face...)

So, the night of the wedding comes, and we don our best for the ceremony, Tyler looking quite dapper in his khakis, white button down, navy blazer, red and blue tie, and weejuns. And if you could have seen Zach in his seersucker suit, pink striped tie and weejuns (and you had known my Daddy), you would have just been taken back in time to an era of Teen Town, early curfews, and asking permission for a date. I was so proud of my boys.... sigh... but I digress again... please excuse me. Back to the story at hand. Because it is classic!

And once we arrive at Mama's house, Tyler immediately beelines for Al, the "RINGMASTER" extraordinaire of the reception. He is the one who has orchestrated the entire event ~ flowers, tents, chairs, tables, band, dancefloor, dj/band/singers, caterer, bartender, cleanup crew, behind the scenes people, etc. ~ and he is underneath the tent. According to Al, the conversation goes something like this:

Tyler: Hey, I'm Tyler [and he sticks out his hand and shakes Al's hand] and I'm supposed to be helping under the tent. Nana's my grandmother and Mr. Don, he's my new grandaddy... not my D-Doc, but his grandkids call him D-Dah, kinda like D-Doc. I've always wanted to be a waiter and my Nana said I can't drive a golf cart 'cause I'm too young. So here I am. I like the ladies. In fact, I think I might want to sing with the band some, too. That girl singer, she's kinda hot. I've written a few songs. I keep them in a folder with a title on it called "Tyler's Songs." I've got one and it's a ballad. Maybe I'll sing it tonight. But, what do you want me to do.

Al: Well, Tyler, it's nice to meet you. Your songs sound neat, and I'd love to hear them sometime. You are pretty interesting. I tell you what. I need you to tell people, when they come into the tent, that they can have a seat at these tables, that the food is at the back back there and they can go through the buffet, and if they need anything to drink, you will be glad to get it for them. How does that sound?

Tyler: Oh, that sounds just like something I can do... yes, sir! I think I'll like that.


I have to stop here and and say that the reception started at 5:30 and Tyler is what my former high school science teacher used to refer to as a "gadfly." For those of you unfamiliar with the term, that is a fly that continually stings and bothers you until you go insane. Hera, in Greek mythology, sent one to harass Europa, one of Zeus' lovers. At any event that is not centered around him, Tyler, normally, will be continually asking what time it is, what is happening next, when we are leaving, is anything fun about to happen, is there anything for him, .... you get the picture. Well, I have to tell you, I did not see Tyler Thompson once we arrived at the reception and I changed him out of his coat, button-down, and tie into a golf shirt to keep him cool in the humid July heat.

About an hour and a half into the reception, Kerry (my boyfriend) and I happened to see Tyler carrying four drinks against his chest with one arm, two bottles of water in his pockets, and a drink in his hand leaving the bar and bee-lining for a table under the tent, a determined look on his face. I tried to stop him to see how he was doing, and he said, "Not now, Mom. I've got to take care of this table and I have another one over there that all need drinks. I'm working here. And I'm making tips. Excuse me, please."

OH MY GOODNESS!!!!

Wait. Perhaps I should tell you.... he's 8. Yes, ladies and gentlemen. EIGHT YEARS OLD. Sigh.

Okay. My brother in law Walter comes to me about an hour later almost hyperventilating. He had just come from the bar where the following had taken place:

Tyler had sidled up to the side (there was a huge line at the front of the bar) and placed his hand on the bar. Quietly, the female bartender walked over to him, and without missing a beat, he said, "I need a scotch and soda, straight up." She fixed it for him and off he walked, pretty as you please, to deliver it to one of the guests and collect his tip. Walter said it was priceless.


Well, the next scene I overheard, and it took the cake. I happened to be sitting down finally (at about 9:00 ~ and Tyler had been working all this time, mind you....) and Tyler was "tending" to the table behind me. He walked up to the family sitting there ~ a young couple with a wife who was pregnant and just beginning to show, and obviously her parents and her husband's parents as well. He greeted them with the following:

"Evening folks. Hope y'all are having a great time tonight. The food's in the back of the tent ~ and I hear the crab cakes are delicious. But I'm a chicken finger man, myself. And I can tell ya, those are quite tasty. Now, I'll be glad to get you whatever you need to drink, and I am working for tips tonight [and at this point he has sidled up to the young pregnant girl], but for you, Pretty Lady..."

At this, the entire table erupts with laughter, including Tyler, and the husband, the girl's father, and father-in-law all get out their wallets as they place their drink orders.

Suffice it to say, Tyler has fans galore and is now certain he wants to wait tables for a living. I say his career in politics just took off....

Pray for me!

Queen B

Warrior Poets of Our Time.... Maybe....

I love country music and contend that it is truly the voice of the people, the folk music of our day... albeit sometimes gritty, and poorly stated and grammatically incorrect and painful to hear. But it is truthful and bare-bones and real sometimes to the point of being so poignant that it makes us turn away... or become emotional. And like Annelle in Steel Magnolias, "I know some people might think that sounds real simple and stupid, and maybe I am. But that's how I get through things like this."



And by "things like this" I mean everyday life. I admit that I cry almost daily at music - and not just country music, as my musical tastes range from country, to Broadway show tunes, to R&B, to Rap, to 80s Hair Bands, to 70s ballads, to current pop hits, to old school funk... you name it. But country songs tend to pluck at my heart strings most of all. And I'll explain here further. But before I do, let me set the stage... I am from a middle class, "Beaver Cleaver" upbringing. My house had a fenced-in backyard with dogs and a swing set and a sand box and fruit trees. My Daddy worked as a dentist and my Mama worked as the office manager in his office and was basically a stay-at-home Mama to us four children. She cooked breakfast for us every weekday morning of my life and we had devotional every morning, brushed our teeth together before heading out to the carpool to school. We ate supper together every night and our whereabouts were never a question. Phone calls were not made or taken after 9 p.m. unless it was an emergency. We were not allowed to go to parties where there were not chaperons nor were we allowed to leave the house on school nights except to go to school sanctioned practices. We were at church every time the doors opened, as my mother was the organist and my daddy was a deacon and then an elder. I and my siblings sang in the choir once we were old enough. It was never "will you go to college" but "where will you go to college." So, don't assume that I am close-minded. I am not. I grew up with opportunity galore and love and security the likes of which most people probably never know. In fact, I assumed everyone lived as I did until I was a junior in high school. Hard to believe, I know. But I was that insulated in my life.


I would love to say that my life since high school graduation - heck, since college graduation - has been that rosy. Alas, it has not. And perhaps that is why country music resonates so with me. I mean, I am college educated. In fact, I have a master's degree and a doctoral degree. And, not to slight anyone in any way... I earned those degrees by attending Georgia Southern University, driving back and forth for 15 months for the masters and 6 years for the doctoral. I painstakingly researched my dissertation and stood in front of the committee to defend. I say all of this, I guess, to stake my claim as someone who sees the deeper message in music some call stupid or unskilled. I may not be as erudite as some, but I am not an idiot, and I am educated. I have a right to be in the corner of the educated to make these claims. There, I have made this soapbox.... hah.... so, here I go....

My love and soft spot for country music runs the gamut. And I have to admit, those in this genre have such respect for those who deserve such. Parents, the elderly, those who serve our country, those who have been abused... One of the first country songs to affect me deeply, and I know you will giggle to yourselves when you read this... it's okay. I still can't believe it... is Alabama's "Roll On." When they get to the part "and when the call came in, it was Daddy on the other end, asking them if they had been singing this song..." I cannot even say the words. Honest to goodness... The only explanation I have is that I have been a Daddy's girl all of my life, and I can just see my Daddy doing just that... And don't get me started on songs like "Daddy's Hands" and "Love Without End" and "You Can Let Go Now" and others. If you've ever passed me in the road and caught me crying in the car, I can promise you that's why. :)



But "Daddy" songs by country artists, and their poignant way of saying just what fathers (and mothers) mean to us in very real and sometimes raw poetry are not the only ones that touch me deeply. The songs that speak of family and the importance of God bring me to tears as well. "Things That Matter" by Rascal Flatts brings to light exactly what Solomon speaks of in Ecclesiastes - we cannot predict the future, but we can find joy in each day, so why worry about the things that don't matter. Amen. Amen.


And tough ol' Trace Atkins singing "All I Ask for Anymore"... wow... that will bring me to tears anywhere. As will "Where Were You" by Alan Jackson.... say what you will about the steel guitar or have whatever opinion about rednecks, or country people, or whining voices. The truth in this music (and these are just a few from the top of my head today)speaks volumes. Or at least it does to me. Very rarely in other genres do we hear ballads or lyrics that bolster and respect America's Armed Forces and those who choose to fight for freedom. In songs such as "Only in America," "Iraq and I Roll," "Riding with Private Malone," "Back Where I Come From," "Courtesy of the Red, White, and Blue," "Arlington," "American Soldier," "Letters from Home," "Have You Forgotten," and more, the sentiments of millions are heard. And for those of us who have a hard time hearing the Star Spangled Banner in a sports arena and not become teary-eyed, listening to these songs and not crying is akin to waking up and not breathing or looking at our children and not feeling love or pride. And, as Annelle said, "I know some people may think that sounds real simple and stupid, and maybe I am...."


But I can tell you... since 2001, our country has been through some tough times, and we are resilient (I would daresay, those aligned with the "country" element being the most resilient...) and this music speaks to the common element of us all. And personally, since 2005, I, myself have been through some tough times. Those times ~ those trials, heartaches, pains ~ are turning the tide, and my life, which has always seen joy, is truly making the turn to true joy on a daily basis. But this music of the common man... this voice of truth.... will continue to speak to my soul and be the source of joy and the place I seek the warrior poets of our time.

It Takes a Village.... or Just Me....

If you're a mother who has ever nursed her children, then you will be able to identify with me here. If you are not, then you may not find this humorous at all... or then again you may. I have debated on whether or not to write this one, but I have laughed to myself too many times about this whole issue when I have thought about it over the years, so I am throwing caution to the wind and going for it.... Enjoy.


When I gave birth to my first son, I wanted to be the BEST MOTHER EVER. EVER... do you hear me? Well, I can tell you this.... I have failed on that in about 47 billion areas, but on trying to be a mother who breast-fed her child, I should have gotten some sort of medal. In fact, even though I am not Buddhist, I firmly believe I could have been a wet nurse in a former life. No joke. I should have just lent myself to some neo-natal unit and sat in a chair and let them bring those babies to me to feed .... sigh. I was a freak of nature. No joke. Here's proof....

For example (I always here Hermione's voice from the first Harry Potter movie in my mind when I write these words... hee hee!), I had to cut up baby diapers to wear in my nursing bras... none of those little pad things for me. My boobs laughed in the face of those little "nursing pads." As if those could hold back the flood gates. Ha! I would have to wear overalls half the time - and even then, I could soke the front of my overalls within a couple of hours of putting them on. No joke. I remember going to the dentist about two months after Zach was born, feeding him thoroughly just before heading to the appointment, and leaving the appointment wearing the drape because there was no way to explain the drenched status and designs on the front of my overalls. Sigh!

Now, another interesting aspect of breast feeding for me was the ability I had to write on the opposite wall in the living room of our somewhat small apartment. Whenever I was sitting on the living room sofa and preparing to feed Zach, or preparing to hook myself up to the industrial sized pump that extracted milk to be used in feedings from a bottle (few that there were), if Zach or the pump were not immediately ready, I could write graffiti on the opposite wall, a good 15 feet away.... I kid you not. And I am sure I could have hit farther targets, I just was not privvy to do so! Now, you lactating specialists can say what you want... I did go through all those steps and waited the allotted time periods, and blah, blah, blah.... it did not matter. Poor Zach had a full milk bath at least 6 times a day (now I'm hearing Cornelius Brothers and Sister Rose... "I found myself changing him at least 6 times a day... it's so unusual to soak 'em with milk this way... cause I'm tellin' ya... gotta enough milk to feed the third world, I believe, I believe, I believe I was born a wet nurse....") and choked ~ bless his heart.... and I thought I could get it under control for Tyler, but it didn't change a thing!

For those of you who have never breast-fed a child or who do not have a baby in your household, what I am about to discuss may knock you off your rocker. I do apologize ahead of time. But here goes, in the name of poetic license ~ or something like that! :) Okay, I did pump breast milk so there would be a good supply of it for when I returned to teaching after Zach's birth. And one of the funniest scenes each day happened after my former husband would return home from work and we would sit down watch television after supper (or sometimes even during supper). Our apartment was not truly big enough for a true dining room, so we ate at the coffee table in the living room. So there we would be ~ me and my then husband on the sofa, Zach in his bouncy seat or walker, supper dishes on the coffee table, television on Jeopardy or Wheel of Fortune ~ with me hooked up to an industrial sized breast pump, working overtime to fill up two bottles for Zach. No joke. (When I say industrial sized, I mean this thing was as big as a small wheeled suitcase... and had enough tubing and wires to be considered a scientific or nuclear device. I am certain I should have had some sort of license to be using it....). And nobody in this scenaro seemed to find any of this out of the ordinary. We carried on conversations. We ate dinner, if that were still going on. We called out answers to the television game shows. We discussed our days. I kid you not!!!! If you had told me a scant 15 months before, when we were getting married, that I would be acting thusly, I would have laughed and laughed before calling the people with that special jacket that helped you hug yourself, because what you were proposing was ridiculous. And yet, there we used to be... and it was just as normal for us as breathing. And what makes it even more funny is if you happen to know my former husband. Pick yourself up off the floor ~ now.... really.... I mean it! I have to give it to him. He was a trooper through lots of stuff back then. To be honest, we both were!

Now, here's the biggest kicker for me. I have the hardest time reconciling how I can have bosoms so big I can put my whole head in the cup of my bra when I am pregnant and nursing and then have them turn into the nothingness I have today. You know what I think.... I think it has something to do with that darned Neverending Story and Atreyu who, I just know it, has finally let the "Nothing" go and the Nothing came and took my boobs, just like that dingo ate that lady's baby, supposedly (I just keep hearing Elaine's horrible Aussie accent from Sienfeld doing that line). I am amazed that I ever had a chest like that ~ and Mother Nature is a very cruel woman to give me a hint at what having bosoms is like. Darn her! At least I have the memories....

So, ladies.... (and the few men who have dared to stroll into this demented world of mine), I do hope you have enjoyed my dalliance down memory lane this morning into afternoon. I have to admit that I took a nap in the middle of writing to commemorate summer, as it is drawing to a close. I have to do little silly things like that just to keep myself me. And I ate peppermint pie for brunch.... just because. No, I don't have my children today ~ I would never set such an example for them.... :)

Until next time.....

B

They Will Always Know -Trust Me....

My Daddy died on May 30, 2007. He was a most amazing man in oh-so-many ways, not the least of which was the interesting set of rules he instituted for us at our house. Now, I am one of four children, and technically, I am the middle child. My sister is two years and nine months older than I am, and my twin brothers are exactly two years and one week younger than I. So, that makes me the middle child of four children.... and we lived in the most interesting household. One that was fun, without a doubt ~ and secure, to be sure ~ and full of rules that sometimes were hard to swallow, but I liked the clothes I wore, the food I ate, the 1982 Ford Country Squire Station Wagon with faux wood paneling (that all four of us received upon our 16th birthdays, I might add), and all the other benefits that came with living with my parents. So the rules weren't all that bad... and now here are some stories to illustrate just how some of those rules played out for me. Enjoy! :)


My Daddy was not one to allow my sister or me to wear bikinis outside of our backyard for fear that someone might just think we were "loose" girls. (Only loose girls wore bikinis and pierced their ears in Tampa when he grew up.... sigh...). So, while we owned bikinis, we did not wear them out in public ~ at least when we thought Daddy might find out. That is until the early summer of 1987 ~ Becky was in college at UGA and I was 16 and about to be a high school senior. The River Walk had just been completed in Augusta and there was a HUGE beach blast held to celebrate the event on a Sunday afternoon. I had begged and begged to go, and because Becky was going along with a large group of all of our friends (boys and girls alike), I was granted permission to go. So, after church, I rushed to get dressed, putting on my favorite tankini (that would be a bikini that is attached on one side ~ and I must digress here and tell you that it was black with turquoise flowers and ruffles on the top and bottoms and was by Hawaiian Tropic ~ I LOVED that suit!) underneath my shorts and t-shirt. I got my bag ready and went into the living room to wait for our ride.


Daddy asked me what bathing suit I had on underneath the shirt and shorts.... BUSTED!!!! I couldn't do anything but show him, and he immediately "ix-nayed" the tankini. I was crushed, and went back to my room to don a one-piece, secretly stuffing the tankini down in the bottom of my bag (you can see where this is going, can't you?). I went back out, showing the conservative suit I now had on, and miraculously my friends arrived and I dashed out of the house. Of course, I changed into the tankini in the car and was ready to have a blast in Augusta.


And I must admit, the afternoon was too much fun. We danced and sang and danced and sang and danced some more. And, at one point, the photographer from the Augusta Chronicle came by our group as we took a break along the railroad tracks and asked if he could take our picture. "Sure!" I said, and smiled just a big as I possibly could ~ larger than life in my tankini. And I didn't give it another thought. When the concert was over, I changed back into my conservative suit, put my tankini in the bottom of my bag, went home, and figured all was fine as frog fur.


The following morning, I went into the kitchen for breakfast, passing my mother who was at the stove cooking (she cooked breakfast every weekday morning of my life growing up) and she didn't speak to me as I said, "Good morning." In fact, she only cut her eyes at me. As most of you probably are wont to do, I immediately began to go through my mind trying to think what in the world I could have gotten in trouble for, as there was no way they could have known about the tankini. Oh, but how wrong I was. For there, at my place at the table, was the front page of the Augusta Chronicle. And in full color, covering the top half of the paper, was a picture of me and my friends ~ yes, you guessed it, of me in my tankini. And the picture was circled in RED and there was a RED arrow pointing to ME. BUSTED!!!


My Daddy looked up from his breakfast and said one word to me... "Indefinitely." That meant (for those of you who need a translation) that I was grounded indefinitely. And I did not say a word. What defense was there? Sigh.... And to add insult to injury, my parents' friends who saw the picture in Augusta and Louisville and surrounding areas kept mailing copies of it to them, thinking we "just might like an extra copy of such a fun picture!" So my moment of shame just wouldn't die. Ah, the story of my life! :)


And this same thing played out for me over and over in my life (suffice it to say, I am a HORRIBLE liar and always get caught.... the running joke with my friends in high school was that if they were planning to do anything that was remotely ~ or extremely ~ questionable, I was not invited to participate because, if I went, we were sure to be caught. And I fully agreed and understood. So I just waited patiently for the next day when they would call me to discuss what had happened and I could pull that 30 foot phone cord from the kitchen into the dining room or pantry that had a door that closed to talk "in private." Don't get me started on not having a phone in my room.... hahahaha! Hell, we had rotary phones until the 1990s because "they still work..."). I will never forget the first - and last - time I left a party without permission after my mother dropped me off. She and her friends were known for taking turns "just showing up" to check on things at parties. Okay, so I finally decided I would throw caution to the wind and leave this party that was held at the Lions Club to ride through town for a while with my then boyfriend and a few other folks. I know, I know.... wooooo! But back then, what went on in the Hardee's parking lot and downtown Louisville just might change the world. If I only knew then what I know now... But, back to the story....

We left the party and went riding around, making certain to be back by 10:00, since my Mama was coming to pick me up at 11:00 and that would be plenty of time to not be rushed and be present if she happened to "check in." So I thought. And she did pick me up at 11:00. On the way home, she asked me how things were at the party, and if anything interesting had happened at all around 9:30 or so. I had scouts and lookouts planted, and no one had informed me of any interesting happenings, so I just told of certain boyfriend/girlfriend drama and so forth, but mentioned nothing else. "That's funny," my Mama said. "I was at the party from 9:15 until 9:45, and you were no where to be found!" BUSTED!!!! Sigh...


I can regale you with a few other stories along these lines, and may do just that in coming days... I am not certain why this one came to the forefront tonight, but I thought I would share it. Maybe this will be an indicator of how my life has always been full of humor and "you just won't believe" occurrences.

Until the Muse descends again....


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About That Cobbler of Yours.....

As I sat in my room this morning, texting with my mother (who is on her first honeymoon ~ yes, ladies and gentlemen, you read that correctly.... her FIRST honeymoon... I will discuss that in another posting... but I am getting off the original subject of this posting) about the end of summer, my younger son, Tyler, stuck his head in my room and said, "About that cobbler of yours, Mom..."


Now, I am sure that in a scant few years, I will be hearing the dreaded words, "About that car of yours, Mom....," but I was not prepared for the cobbler comment this morning. Let me provide some background here by letting you all know that we are a family of culinary artists, albeit wanna-bes at times. And this holds true for breakfast during the summer, when I am wont to tell my sons that there are frozen biscuits in the freezer, pound cakes on the cake plates, and assorted cereals in the pantry. I am not the best Mama when it comes to cooking breakfast. But I have tons of other wonderful talents (I keep saying that over and over to myself and praying I don't end up on Maury one day... if I get a free trip to NYC and then am asked to remove my shoes as soon as I arrive at the spa, I will know I have failed.). But, back to this morning. It seems that my sons and their spend the night company decided to make pancakes this morning, which, in and of itself was not a problem. The problem occurred when they attempted to turn on the stove. There seemed to be an engineering dispute on which knob operated which eye. And the one they agreed upon just happened to be the one upon which a delicious berry cobbler rested ~ may it now rest in peace. But, once the charred mess was removed from the house (and I was made painfully aware that it is time to change the batteries in my smoke detectors... or feed the dogs even better, as they barked and whined louder than any detector I've ever known!) the boys made some delicious pancakes. They may have quite a future at Waffle King or Huddle House!


Now, I also have to admit that my sons also love home cooked meals (but they will beg for take out if they can get it). In all honesty, I did not purchase and cook Hamburger Helper for them until about 3 weeks ago. That is not because I have anything against HH, oh no... I survived college on it, my dears. It was just that I had never thought to buy it. I made meals with venison (yes, you read that correctly ~ most of which I took down myself... there is no better way to relieve stress, let me tell you!) and cooked meals my Mama or Geneva or Bernice or my Mamaw taught me. But I bought Hamburger Helper with Tyler... and he thinks I am the best Mama ever ~ almost as incredible as my friend Mary Alice who is Mama to Tyler's friends T, E, and J. But, I have to tell you the most hilarious thing of all to come from my buying HH.... Day before yesterday I was making some for lunch and asked Tyler to choose which kind. He studied the boxes, and finally said, "Make this one. We need to keep the Cheeseburger Macaroni for a special occasion. You never know when we might have important guests." I kid you not! I bit my tongue and did my best to be just as serious as he when I replied, "Absolutely! We must always save our best for guests."


This is just one story from today.... I must go prepare lunch and change the dressing on Jessie-dog's hurt paw. There will be more.... and not just ramblings from the events of the day. Oh, no.... There are stories from the past must needs be told. And told they shall be.

Until then....


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"Queen of All Knowledge" in my own mind!

And So It Begins....

I have been saying I am going to start this blog for over a year now, and today was the day... After texting several friends for ideas on what in the sam hill to call it, I went with the title of my doctoral dissertation, since that seems to sum up my life most of the time. Sigh.... I do hope that it is as entertaining as I think it might be. I have so many stories that need to be told so that I do not forget them, and my life, such that it is, is a reality television show just waiting to be taped. In fact, I often feel as if I need to be screaming, "Stay with me, Camera Guy!"



As I type this, my younger son has just stuck his head in the back door and called, "Mom, are you okay? Just checking on ya, and making sure you are still in the house." He has issues with knowing where I am at all times... so he makes sure I am always where I am supposed to be ~ now, where that is specifically, I do not know. But as long as I am able to answer him within a nanosecond, all is well. Should I take an entire second once he has called out, a SWAT team just might be deployed to find me. But he is not alone in his need to know of my whereabouts at all times. Oh no! My neurotic chihuahua, Chewy, is curled up against my side. Now, it is important to note that I acquired Chewy from a friend last week. This friend owns a kennel and Chewy was a stud chihuahua until it was determined he was shooting blanks. Guess there is not much use for a blank-shooting stud in the dog breeding business, and being the soft-hearted person that I am, I took Choo-Choo in. Immediately, I changed his name to Chewy and gave him a bath ~ both activities I assumed would make him align himself with my sons. No joy. He is stuck to me like glue. I had just recently broken my sons of the habit of following my every footstep and sitting outside the bathroom door when I went for a little "quiet time," but guess who now is right on my heels with every step and who whines outside the door when I take a bath or go to "do my business"? Or even worse, guess who has been known to come in the room of rest and actually jump up in my lap during my moments of being indisposed? Sigh... I think he may need a visit from the dog whisperer.... I have tried that "shhspt" noise Cesar does, but it doesn't work on Chewy....



Okay, I promise all of my posts won't be stream-of-consciousness (like the "Jilting of Granny Weatherall" or some strange Rainman rambling) and they will, from this point on, have a central plot or idea. In fact, I have written several of them down and will begin getting teaching stories, my "life in general" stories, raising my sons stories, or "you just won't believe this" stories published for general enjoyment as the days progress. Hopefully this will be as much fun for those who log on to read as it will be for me as I make progress as a wanna-be writer.



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