Category Archive

In honor of Independence Day and my dad’s 60th birthday, I’ve chosen two videos today.

The first was an easy choice. The singer has always been my dad’s favorite and he played his records for as long as I can remember (until I got cute one day and broke his record player…well, I was very young). My dad and his band, The Liberty Boys, played his songs for years and years and the band was always pelted with requests to sing his songs at local Hee Haws, barn dances and the like.

So, my first, and maybe surprising choice is none other than Merle Haggard.

For my choice for Fourth of July video, I’m going off the beaten path and using a scene out of one of my favorite movies, “The Sandlot” and when you see it you won’t question why I chose it one bit.

Have a happy and safe holiday, everyone, and happy birthday, Dad!

The more I stare at this picture the scarier it gets. Look at it closely. The cake looks big enough to be a small pond and it’s red no less. So, I’ve recreated the Bloody Pond from the Shiloh Battlefield and my grandmother’s walker at stage right appears to be sinking into it. Ooooh. And, well, there’s the T.V., of course, shining brightly and eerily in all of its “Poltergeist” glory and while there’s clearly (well, sort of clearly) a person displayed on the screen with her hands on her hips, she’s wearing a dark shirt with light pants so she’s giving the effect of being an eyeball watching over the Bloody Pond.

And what’s scariest of all is that this cake (or lake, take your pick) you see before you, this cake yet to be frosted and done up all pretty like, is the only effort I’ve made so far in getting ready for my dad’s big birthday tomorrow. The thing is, I know he’ll be pleased with whatever effort I make, but I really want to go for the gusto. After all, he is turning 60.

But, well, let’s see, starting off with a cake resembling a key body of water in the Civil War when Dad’s birthday falls on a key date during the Revolutionary War…hmmmm….But, then again, after I add the white and blue to it, well, there you go. I’ve solved that problem.

Now, if I could only figure out a way to shoot myself out of a cannon or something equally as earth-shattering….   

The garden has really grown since I posted the last baby pictures.

Let’s see. Corn on the left, then purple hull peas and green beans, then tomato plants and just beyond that, okra plants. Front and center are the squash plants.

Looks like it’ll be a good harvest.

As a few of you have read before, church is very important to me and my church is near and dear to me. With that said, I’m not going to talk religion, but I am going to share something that happened today that really bothers me and I guess I’d like an opinion or two.

After services today at my church we had a vote. Yep, a vote. Secret ballot. All political-like. We voted on whether or not to build a new church.

Now before I go any further, I’ll fill you in with a little background information. The church is small, but not tiny. We average about 90 to 95 people for Sunday school and on a good day or a much-anticipated revival night, we might break 100. The church is not particularly old. It was built in the 1930s (not old by some church standards) and has had a couple of additions over the years. One of my favorite things to show visitors is a noticeable area on the building where the older bricks stop and the newer-looking bricks start up again.

My memories of the building run deep. From the time I was baptized and I, not knowing how to swim and being afraid of the water, grabbed onto the preacher’s arm and screamed upon being dunked, producing full-out laughs from the crowd rather than supportive “Amens,” to the time we had a preacher who delighted in handing me purple pieces of candy after the sermons to my catching frogs on the church’s steep hillside to the lock-ins we had and getting myself locked in the nursery in the dark and thinking I was going to die because my friends told me the Holy Spirit was in there and was going to sneak up on me. As you can tell, I grew up in the church. Some of my best friends went there. Some of my best memories live there. I’m a firm believer in not getting rid of someone or something that is doing his/her/its job well. And (I don’t care that I’m using a very common cliche right now) if it ain’t broke, well…you know the rest.

Now, you’ll have to forgive me if I say something irrational or out of anger because I’m very afraid my anger is about to do the talking.

A few years ago, a few younger families (a little bit older than me, early 30s) moved into the church, well, I should say a few young couples moved in and commenced to having babies so quickly that I frankly lost count. It seemed they were determined to populate the church with their offspring and they were determined to do so as quickly as possible. Well, they did. And in that time, our church got a complete renovation of the sanctuary, the bathrooms and a couple of Sunday school rooms. We got a new nursery and a new garage for the church van. In a nutshell, a lot of work was done. At the same time, a few members of the young guard (what I’ll call them from now on…as opposed to the old guard) pushed and got the church members to purchase a piece of land on which to build a new church. After all the additions and renovations, history didn’t much matter. They were new and the history didn’t call out to them. They didn’t grow up in the church. They only saw visions of a bright, shiny new church in which they could show off to their friends and they acted on the vision.

Today was a historic day in the life of the church.

Seventy-three to 17. We’re getting a new church. Who can say if we’ll stay together? I’m normally an optimist, but I say No. I’d like to be mad, but all I can really be is sad. 

Naturally, I was very sorry to see Jeffrey return from the Sunshine State, but he made up for his return by thoughtfully bringing me the famous tongue twister t-shirt.

I’m surprised I didn’t get this one years ago, but I’m now a member of the tongue twister club. Yeehaw! And it’s a purty green too. My day was made.

That Jeffrey kid might not be so bad after all.

Indulge me for a minute. I cannot stop staring at this picture of my guinea pig. Normally, he and my mom don’t get along at all, but yesterday, she was holding him and he rolled up into a little ball on her lap before falling off to sleep.

He’s never done that with me. I’m severly jealous.

Oh, but he’s so precious, it doesn’t matter one way or the other.

Yes, that’s his back foot up near his mouth. Quite flexible for a little pig.

Okay. Kudos go to the Squirrel Queen and her “Passionate Kisses” video for helping me come up with this Friday’s particularly healthy offering of feel-goodness.

I present to you one of my all-time favorites, ”I love my lips,” in the way that only Larry the Cucumber can sing it. 

Go see Killa’s offering too. I’m not sure of any others at the moment, but if I’ve left anyone out, I didn’t do it intentionally.

Happy Friday, everyone! 

Update: Alright, all you’uns. Got me a list now. To continue the good feelings go see Ginger, Sharon, Slarti and Kat Coble.

P.S. And Newscoma’s gotten all British wif us.  

Yesterday was such a red letter day. Such a red letter day. I guess that’s why today’s been such a downer. I’m going through severe withdrawals from yesterday’s fun.

My bff, Ms. Henrietta, came up to our university city to do a presentation for a summer class she’d been a part of last year. As always, we talked, reminisced, cut up and otherwise got caught up on everything from tragedies to goodies to the fact that it’s so hot outside we’d like to invest in a slippin’ slide, position it on a very steep hill and place a wading pool of water at the bottom of it.

But, as my bff is not only the sweetest and most thoughtful person in the world but also the most random and silly, one of the first things that popped out of her mouth was, “The teacher in the class today was eating sour cream and onion crickets.”

I did a double take and asked, “Um, healthy? High in protein?”

Apparently so, but also apparently, one of the class members just decided to bring a big bag to class.

So, I decided to scout about and see what information I could find and yes, there really are sour cream and onion crickets as well as other various flavors.

Well, crickets are high in calcium but personally, I’d rather just listen to them sing at night and occasionally use them to catch bream.

I think I’ll let my conscience be my guide on this one.

I can actually feel myself slipping into one of those don’t really care, don’t want to post, don’t have anything interesting or important to say comas, so before I get too far deep into it, I’ll try to find something to talk about.

Actually, I should be trying to get something together for my dad’s 60th birthday bash on July 4 (He’s a Yankee Doodle boy.), but I’m running on empty in the creative and cute ideas department and gas for that tank also costs too much. Go figure. Everything’s affected. Anyone have any ideas? I was trying to put together the firecracker cake last year, but that idea, well, exploded in my face. This year is especially special (redundant?) though because Dad’s turning the big 6-0. Still hard to believe.

I am, however, very excited that Pixar will be releasing a new film tomorrow. I’ve been looking forward to the release of this film since I saw the previews last year. Can’t wait to check it out. Someone want to go with me?

It’s the catch of the day and thanks is due to my brother and his gang of pimply, adolescent skateboarders, World of Warcraft players and overall brats. They’re vacationing in Florida right now and went deep-sea fishing yesterday.

Jeffrey hauled in this 12-pound King Mackerel.

Nice fish, but doesn’t compare to the Giganto-cat.

I don’t remember sprinkling out any tractor seed, but this seems to have sprouted up just overnight at the edge of the garden.

Update: Just as mysteriously as it appeared, the tractor has disappeared. I guess someone came along and picked it.

In a 24-hour period filled with disagreement after disagreement, it was an overall very agreeable day filled with legendary marshmallow-filled confections and equally legendary carbonated drinks, smiles and fun had by all.

How’s that for an opening line?

The entire family piled in the car (my sister’s cursed Honda of all things) to go to Bell Buckle and though disagreements plagued the day (mostly between E and me), I’d recommend anyone going to the R.C. Cola and Moon Pie Fest. In fact, I highly recommend it. Just don’t bring your family. Oh, that sounded wrong. DO bring your family but travel in separate vehicles.

After E and I had just argued about my having to go to the bathroom, we pulled up to the entrance of the festival just in time for the showing of the much-anticipated synchronized wading show ”A Midsummer’s Nightmare” and I ran to grab an empty hay bale on which to sit and enjoy the event. Sadly, I got no good pictures of it (I only had the cell phone camera) but the terrifically hilarious plot was, of course, parodying the Shakespearean comedy “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” In a nutshell, it featured R.C. who was in love with Moon Pie even though Moon Pie was beginning to have eyes for Coke. Well, Ma Goo wanted her daughter Goo Goo to fall in love with R.C. so she formed a plan to sprinkle Love Potion #9 (Hershey’s Syrup) on R.C. while he was sleeping. The potion worked in the way that it would make a person (or a beverage) fall in love with the first person seen by the sleepyhead upon waking up. The plan, of course, went terribly awry and the potion was also put on Coke who woke up, saw Mr. Jack Daniels and united with him as Jack and Coke.

After the play, I walked around the little town and took pics of the many crowded antique stores and, of course, all things R.C. and Moon Pie related.

Inside the very crowded and almost museum-like general store, I searched for this special kind of moon pie-shaped hat and even though they were sold out, I did manage to snap a couple of pics of the place including a pic of an AUTOGRAPHED VIVIEN LEIGH PICTURE FROM GONE WITH THE WIND that had no price tag on it. Oh, yeah. As if I could’ve come up with the money for it anyway. The signature is on the top left.

During the official R.C. Cola and Moon Pie Olympic games, Mr. R.C. — from the play — walked around campaigning for hugs. I was more than happy to oblige.

After the games came the World’s Largest Moon Pie and we consumed it just before the rain came. A perfect ending to a perfect festival. I shall definitely be there next year. Without my sister.

And now, to truly wrap this up as a 100 percent authentic Southern food post dedicated to the celebration of just two of the wonderful vittles of the South, I leave you with the breakfast I had that day.

Yes, ’tis a bowl of grits.

I’m very sleepy right now. Went to my bff’s grandmother’s funeral today in Hoptown, Ky and had some sadness intermingled with my sugar-coated, marshmallowy happiness of the weekend.

I’ll put together a longer post tomorrow with better explanations and mucho details and pics, but for now, I’ll tease you with these.

Feast your eyes on the 68-lb, four inch thick banana moon pie. World’s largest. Despite the fuzziness of the cell phone quality pic, isn’t it gorgeous? And believe me, you’ve never consumed a moon pie until you eat a piece of a fresh-baked one.

Notice that it’s being propped up by cases of R.C.

And if you still don’t believe me, here’s the proof that I consumed a piece of this legendary Southern confection.

Much more to come.

Hello, friends, I’m your Vitameatavegamin girl….Oh, sorry, it’s early. Try that again. Hello, friends, in just a few minutes I’ll be bound for the land of milk and honey, um, I mean R.C. Colas and Moonpies. Whew. Gotta work out the bugs. I was going to take an alternate route to the lovely Bell Buckle to avoid the big cities of N’ville and M’boro, but was advised that it would be a mistake, so no cross-countrying for me.

Pic credit

As mentioned before, I’ll return with pictures and a few pies and etc. 

Have a great Saturday, everyone! 

Staring at my hand and my scribbling as if she were studying some sort of new strain of Salmonella under a microscope, she got the interview off with a bang before I’d even had the time to ask one question.

“You obviously were never taught the Palmer method,” she deducted before going back to studying me and, this time, evaluating my posture.

“Um, no. Is that a type of writing? The Palmer method..” I answered and before I could get out another word, she came out of studying with another deduction. 

“Look at how you’re holding your pen. Like a dagger,” she remarked with great disdain.

Who’s interviewing who here?

So, for the rest of the interview with the great “Amazing Grace,” I paid close attention to how I was holding my hand while writing and how I was forming my questions and sentences. It soon became apparent I was dealing with no ordinary sarcastic 104-year-old woman. While I appreciate and love sarcasm to death, the brand of humor that toes the line and jumps over into bold-faced rudeness can be a bit intimidating to me and my very precocious interviewee was definitely trying to test me by stepping over the line in answering nearly every question.

“I’m curious. What was it like in 1903? I mean, what was life like?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she shot back.

“Oh, yeah,” I answered back, trying to keep up, “You were just born, so how would you know, right?”

“I was in an incubator most of the time. In an oven.”

She was feeling me up. As an experienced professional of looking into the soul, she was analyzing what I was made of. Seeing whether or not I was the real deal. I tried not to crack under the pressure, although and as the interviewer, I should have been in complete control, but knew better than to try and take the reins away from her. After all, she’d lived long enough to be in complete control of the reins. 

“Okay, I’m finished with you. I’m done,” she admitted after a few more questions, again as if I were the one being interviewed.

“Okay, now, you’re going to hurt her feelings,” one of the workers who sat in on the interview interjected.

“THAT would hurt your feelings?” she asked.

“Oh, any number of things hurt my feelings,” I admitted.

“Well, if THAT hurt your feelings, then, well….” she answered and silently inferred the rest of the sentence, “Then you must not be very tough.” 

She bade us farewell by telling us to buzz off in Danish and as I walked out the door, I looked back.

“Happy birthday, Grace. I hope you have a good one.”

“Well, thank you.” And then a smile, a genuine smile.

Check mate. 

About three years ago, while visiting my friend Doug in Smyrna, he just so casually happened to mention this little festival that took place in June and just the name of it caught my attention. Since that time, I’ve been trying to go to the festival, but have never managed to get over to that neck of the woods, but this year, I’ve decided, is THE year. Regardless of gas prices and the nearly 400-mile round trip, darn it, I’m going to go. This Saturday, I’m headed to the R.C. Cola and Moon Pie Festival.

No, I’m not a particularly big fan of Moon Pies or R.C. Colas, but I am a huge fan of unique festivals and small towns and that combination alone is all I need to give this little event a try. Besides, I’ve heard it’s not really all that little. It’s quite a deal.

Now, all I need is a map and some gas and I’m good to go.

And yes, there will be pictures. Later.

                                                 Credit

I’m celebrating right along with LeBlanc. It will be great to see the Celtics raise another banner to the rafters.

 I don’t smoke, but if I did, I’d light up an extra big stogie for Coach Auerbach and this storied franchise.

I’ve always had a horrible problem with waking up in the middle of the night, starting the wheels in the old braino turning about something or other and then not being able to turn them off again to get back to sleep. I had half a mind to get up and go to the computer and record the thoughts but then I figured I’d get up today, read this and make no sense of it whatsoever, so I waited until I could get some good coffee down me and some more coherence in me.

It’s the tiniest little things that wake me up and keep me up and I analyze them over and over again. Usually, they’re things people have said or done that have made an especially big impression on me during that particular day and, hence, I can’t seem to get them out of my head. Unfortunately, most of the time, they’re not necessarily good things and that’s probably why I analyze them so much…”What did he really mean by that statement?”….”Why did she choose to say that at such a moment?”…..and so on. But rather than keeping me awake with the “what if’s,” “how come’s,” and “should have’s,” last night kept me awake with thoughts of wisdom repeating themselves again and again from people who probably had no idea they were making such an impression on me. What a fitting prelude to Father’s Day.

Holly came into town yesterday to take a portion of her Praxis test and we met up at the local coffeehouse for a pre-test chat. Only, with us, it’s never chatting. It ends up turning into something more along the lines of pointing out and solving the problems of the world and the soul over a heaping cup of espresso with a hint of vanilla. Truthfully, if I had a long-lost twin in this world, it’d probably be Holly. All you Nashville people, please be good to her. You’re gaining a wonderful person, writer and friend.

Later in the day, I met up with BF at his house and his dad received some visitors from church who’d come by to check up on him. Well, BF’s dad (who’s also Finn’s dad…like it’s really any secret anymore) is a truly magical speaker. He has a way with words that make you feel as if you were really there living out whatever adventure, tragedy or happy encounter happened to him and yesterday, he was relating to his visitors the story of his trip to the hospital last week. In true Atticus Finch fashion (which, incidentally, I think he rather resembles the lawyer to a degree), the ready raconteur crafted his story and, as always, laced it with proverbs for the careful ear and mind to follow and BF and I, as we usually do, watched him talk and very often stopped to look at each other to comment through facial expressions. After the story was finished, I gave BF one last facial comment before leaning over to say, “I don’t think I’m ever going to forget what he said.” And later it ended up keeping me awake most of the night.

And, of course, I’m winding up this talk about wisdom with a reference to my own dad. My dad, the one who taught me about baiting a hook differently for bass than for catfish, shooting a basketball one-handed with attention to the follow through because, essentially, he is one-handed and ignoring my sister rather than fighting with her when she said something irritating; the one who bought me a giant stuffed raccoon that was my size upon my first ear surgery, took me to my first Cardinals game, was King of the Courthouse to me for years and years, well, on this day, this morning, Father’s Day, HIS day, placed a large cup of coffee and a complete breakfast beside my pillow for me to wake up out of a fitful sleep to see and know that losing sleep over wisdom is far far better than being wide awake and missing it.   

Okay all you horror movie buffs. You have to have realized the significance of this day. Yes, you know you have. Not only is it Friday the 13th, but in the original “Friday the 13th” film, the infamous Camp Crystal Lake massacre took place on Friday, June 13.

Like I said, not trying to spoil the feel goodness of the day, but just giving the irony its due too. I think this calls for a movie marathon.  

So I’m joining in with a tried and true classic. Always puts me in a good mood. Plus, the legendary singer celebrated a birthday earlier in the week so it’s only fitting that I chose this. 

Happy Friday, everyone!

A short dialogue between me and my mom last night upon talking about what to do for my dad’s birthday on July 4 goes way south.

Me: You know, I was born in 27 and this year, I’ll be turning 27. Isn’t that neat?

Mom: I’d say you look remarkably good for going on 81.

Speaking of remarkable, isn’t it remarkable how the meaning of a sentence can change completely when the speaker intended to say “on,” but gets ahead of him or herself and says “in”? I was born ON the 27th and this year I’ll be 27. Glad I got that straight now. 

While I’m waiting in nervous and happy anticipation of my pal Finn’s little bundle of joy, otherwise known as my “niece,” to enter the world, I’ve decided I’d like to shove a few pics at you of my blessed events that are taking place every day now.

My tomato plants, squash plants and pepper plants have given birth and I’d like to share with you the fruits, uh, I mean the veggies (excepting the tomato) of their labor. Yikes. I’ve never been married and now I’m a proud gramma.

Ta da!

It’s my new ‘do….and it appears to be surrounding a very sleepy looking face. Oh well. The background is nice.

Can I get a hip hip hooray for short, manageable summer hairdos? 

This little guy (or gal) was on my front step this morning.

An indicator of a slow day?

A sign that I’m going to come “out of my shell,” so to speak, today?

Nah. I think it means I’m gonna win the race.

Think about it….think about it…..

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday dear Pshaw

Happy birthday to you

And many more!

Have a wonderful day and a chuckle over this.

What a face! It can only belong to my baby boy Wally.

Well, it’s not very late, but I’m anticipating that I’m not going to catch many Z’s tonight. The main reason is because I just plain cannot stop staring at myself in the mirror. Nope, I’m not narcissistic. Not in the least. In fact, I usually get sick at the sight of myself. But today, I got my hair cut whacked off and I still cannot believe it’s my reflection I’m actually gazing at in the glass. My hair is very short. Very short. I’ve only had it this short on two other occasions. The first time my ears were this low was on my fifth birthday and the second time was a few years ago when I was privy to a makeover for a special section of the newspaper. But, I’m looking on the bright side of things. I look very Scout-like. Very Scout-like indeed. It makes me happy. A picture may be on the way soon.

My mommy who officially threw in the towel from teaching and retired this past December after 30 years of service is now officially unretired. I guess she just loves the game too much to quit it. She’s not coming back as a full-time teacher, but she will be a reading interventionist at a local school and will be in charge of grades 1-3 as it’s a small school. She was offered the position at a retirement luncheon held in her honor a couple of weeks ago. How’s that for ironic? They sang her praises and then offered her another job. She couldn’t refuse. Guess you can take the teacher out of the school, but you can never take the school out of the teacher.

The weekend is nearly here. Looking forward to free fishing and Finn’s baby shower.

Sweet dreams!

Over the past week, the plants have really begun sprouting up in the garden. With the resplendence of infant plants have also come, unfortunately, the accompanying weeds, but they’ll be gone just as soon as the ground dries up and I can actually walk in the garden without falling knee deep in mud. Rain, please hold off for a little while longer. Other people need a chance to plant their gardens too.

In other news, after nearly three more months of waiting, E has her Honda back. She wants to go somewhere in it now (maybe Opry Mills?), but I’ve told her to just stay off the road. It’s very liable to start raining fat, hairy hippos and that wouldn’t be good for the garden or the car, now would it? It’s a cursed vehicle, I tell you.

 Hooray for free fishing day! I’ve yet to purchase a fishing license and this coming Saturday provides me with a good reason to put it off even longer.

That’s about it for now. Not much to speak of for the moment, but just got tired of not having put anything up for the month of June. I promise to do better next time.

Maybe some fish pics.    

I love the National Spelling Bee. Love it.

As I’ve mentioned a few times before, my sister Elizabeth is a nurse in the critical care unit of a local hospital. Since she’s a rookie nurse, she doesn’t always get to choose her hours and mostly they’re handed to her by her supervisor. She’ll work a few nights and then turn around and work a few days. Needless to say, she’s one confused little puppy most of the time when she’s away from the unit and doesn’t know whether to go to bed or not. This happens mostly around the area of three to four in the morning and gets her in terrible trouble with me for making too much racket while the rest of us non-nurses are trying to sleep.

On her days off, she’s either depressed because she’s not busy, busy, busy or she’s longing to get on the road and go somewhere. E and I are opposites in many ways and one of the ways we differ is in the amount of driving we’ve done. I’ve gone off to Atlanta, Chicago, New Orleans and a few other cities. She’s never driven to Nashville. That brings me to Friday morning. At 12 a.m., she bounds into the living room where I’m on the computer and declares that she’s going to Opry Mills.

The following conversation you are about to read is entirely true. Not made up at all. My sister does not read this blog and barely even knows about it, so I’m in the clear to be entirely truthful. She actually does have a brain, too. She was second in her graduating class. Well, she WAS.

Elizabeth (pacing up and down the floor rather excitedly): I’m going to Opry Mills later today. I’ve never driven to Nashville before, though. How do I get there?

Me: To Nashville or to Opry Mills?

E: Opry Mills.

Me gives E directions which causes E to frown, proclaim, “That’s hard,” and go in the other room to wake up my dad to get “better” directions from him. Trouble ensues.

Dad: Get out of here!

E: I want to go to the mall in Nashville. How do I get there? Scout (subbing for real name) told me I do this…….(trails off).

Dad: Which mall?

E: I want to go to the Opry Mills one.

D: Gee outta here.

E: No, really. I want to go there. How do I get there?

D: You go on the road.

E: And?

D: Ugh. Ok. To make it easier on you, you should go through Clarksville, get on 24 and then Briley Parkway, your turn, will be much easier to find.

Me: No, wait. I don’t think you want to go through Clarksville if you can avoid it. That’s a whole different animal to deal with. I’ve never gotten through that long place in less than 10 minutes and that was even when I was in a hurry and weaving through lanes.

D: You did what? Weaving? Well, you drive like a heathen and she doesn’t.

E: How do I get through Clarksville?

Me: Why do you want to go that way? It’ll take you forever with those speed limits.

E: At least I follow them and don’t have two speeding tickets like someone else does.

D: Why are we having this conversation at such an hour? Just shut up, the both of you.

E: Tell me how to get through Clarksville.

D: Actually, I think you should just go to Wolfchase.

E: Tell me how to get through Clarksville.

D: You go right, then left, then left…

Me, interrupting: Really, it’s all left turns pretty much except for the first one and the turn off onto the interstate.

D: Really, though, if you want to avoid traffic, you could make that first left turn into a right turn. Some people do that. It’s long, but it puts you on the interstate five to ten miles farther down the road and you avoid Wilma Rudolph altogether.

E: Okay, first left into a right. Where is that?

Me: Geeeeezzz. Just stay left. Left all the time. Left.

E: Okay. And that mall will be on the right side?

D: Right and the exit onto 24 will be just beyond that..

E: On the right.

Me: Yessssss….

D: Okay, when you get on the interstate, you’ve got about 40 miles to go and there will be two Briley exits, but you’ll take the one that says Opryland.

E: How long will it take me to get there? Thirty minutes?

D: Yeah, about thirty minutes or so.

E: Okay, now, when I get off on an exit, will I actually be on the road the exit says I’m on?  (Narrator interrupts: I wish I’d made this one up, but it’s an actual statement.)

Me: No, actually, that’s the pre-road you get on. Then, after a little while, you exit onto the road.

E: Dad, is that right?

D: She’s being smart. Don’t listen to her. Just follow those directions and you’ll get there. It’s not hard.

E: Now, after I go through Clarksville and get to the mall, how do I get back?

Me: You follow that little trail of breadcrumbs you were scattering behind you on the way up.

As the hours waned, E overslept, woke up at 11:30 and was forced to abandon her idea of going to Nashville in favor of much-closer-by Jackson.

I’ve been wanting new shoes for a while. New shoes. And not just any shoes. Green shoes. Will they match everything? No. Do I care? No again. I just love green.

So, I set out on the arduous task of finding green shoes. Should be easy, right? Wrong. My hand-me-down New Balance greys needed retiring and I figured I’d just go trade them in on a shiny new pair of NB greens (well, not exactly, but I’m loving this ongoing car metaphor so indulge me anyway), but, sadly, solid-colored NB’s are a little difficult to find and the ones I did come across were not green.

And that’s when I saw this post from Newscoma and gave my heart over to Converse. Why? Cheaper. Cuter. And extremely classy. I quickly found a pair of green shoes and now, I can’t stop staring at my feet.

WOOHOO for classic sneaks!!!

Have a great day, everyone!

P.S. Yeah, my feet are large and skinny. Rabbit feet really. I bought 9’s in these after I was told by the sales clerk to get one size smaller than I get in other shoes.

Thanks again to everyone for the thoughts and prayers sent on behalf of my uncle. Everything’s slowly getting back to normal and a memorial service has been scheduled for this coming up Wednesday. Fittingly, it will be held in the college library. My cousins have been looking up pictures to make into a slide show of tribute and it will be hard to watch, but, as Kathy said, we’ll always have the memories to make us happy.

I must say, it was amazing how quickly the news passed around to every single person in my immensely large family. I texted my cousin who told her parents who called my grandmother and before long, everyone knew. We’re a big bunch, but we’re a close bunch.

But life has gone on and many good things have happened along the way, many of which I’ve been meaning to mention before now but have just gotten around to addressing. So here goes. 

Lately, these have been a few of my favorite things:

1. Let’s get this garden started!

Yesterday, Dad and I worked up the ground and planted the seeds that will bloom into this year’s garden. Unfortunately, today one of the squash plants wilted, but appears to be headed towards a speedy recovery. Of course, I’ll keep you posted on the progress.

2.

Ah, what a face… It’s the look of a disappointed fisherman who knows he may have to kill the fish to get the hook out. Just one of my many favorites.

3.             

Yesterday, Maw Finn and I went to a local community fair and, in trying to brush up on my picture-taking skills (or lack thereof), I became infatuated with snapping shots of glass bottles.

4. One of my favorite new blog sites — Nashvillest. It’s the chillest.

5. And my other favorite new blog site — Heartbreaktown. Go check out the number one authority on all things GOO (Grand Old Opry) and words beginning with the letter “P”, oh, and comics.

6. The one and only Holly. Always a joy and pleasure to read and now finished up with school and ready for a new beginning. Watch out world!

7. Finn. Wow. I can’t possibly say enough good things about Finn, but that’s probably because I’m very biased. It’s been nothing short of amazing to watch my friend go through a pregnancy. I must admit, when little Samantha comes out, I’m going to feel like something of a proud aunt. Oh well, I’m claiming relation whether anyone likes it or not. 

Yes, I miss my uncle and yes, my heart still aches for my cousins and will most definitely break over and over again next Wednesday during the speeches and tributes, but I look at this list and I just keep adding on more and more items. I look at the thank you card my uncle sent me almost a year ago for doing a story on his raquetball playing and feel honored for just having known him.

I’m really happy. 

I am totally in shock. So is the rest of my family. We were slammed with some news today we never expected to hear.

My aunt called my gma this morning at 7 a.m. to convey the news that my uncle had been found yesterday in his yard dead. Though my uncle and aunt have long been divorced, he has always held a special place in all of our hearts. His personality was one of the most infectious I’ve ever been around. He was the director of the college library and he went nearly every day without fail to the raquetball courts across the campus to show off his mad skillz.

I cannot even imagine how my cousins Lauren and Jon are feeling right now. I don’t even want to imagine.

This can’t be real.

Yesterday at the driving range, I spied with my little eye a tiny yet noticeable fail in one of the signs on the golf ball machines, so I quickly snapped the pic, sent it in to one of my favorite blogs, English Fail, and presto! I made the cut. 

Ah, being a grammar error whistle blower never felt so good. Only bad thing, though, is it’s addicting. Spot one error and you begin to look for errors in every public sign you see. As if I need a reason to become a bigger geek.

Last night when I was taking care of my gma, we were watching T.V. and a show came on KET, something akin to “Tennessee Crossroads”, in which the host visited different small towns in Kentucky and did segments of interviews on a wide variety of subjects relating to the area.

One of the segments last night happened to be about a former player in the All American Girls Professional Baseball League. She was a pitcher for the Fort Wayne Daisies  starting in 1951. If you’ve seen “A League of Their Own,” you know that the girls were called upon to leave the softball fields and head to the baseball diamond during a time when the boys were shipped off to war as a way to keep America’s pastime alive. When the war ended, the league remained for a few years before folding in 1954, about 11 years after its formation.

The pitcher, Pat Scott, admitted to making about $400 a month in 1951 which, for the time, wasn’t too shabby at all. And she can still throw. There were several segments of her pitching to the interviewer and family members.

And I realized, I want an interview like that. I want to interview someone who played in the AAGPBL and I want to be able to reflect on the memorabilia and the memories. Yeah, I’m a sentimental softie, but I’m a sentimental softie who loves sports and how they were able to make the history books not by records but by paving ways and creating opportunities for people to succeed who otherwise wouldn’t have been given a chance.   

Alas, I had to skip out on the lovely Episcopalians and their preposterous merrymaking today, but for a very serious reason, mind you.

I haven’t posted an update on my grandmother in a while, so I figure now is as good a time as any to put one up because things have most definitely taken a sharp turn for the worse lately. The meds she is having to take are making her progressively weaker and coupled with the weekly chemo treatment, well, let’s just say she’s spending more and more of her daylight hours in her bedroom and less and less of them in her happiest place amongst her beds of azaleas.

Last Wednesday, I got an urgent phone call to run over to her house so I made tracks lickety split and found her on the floor flat on her back. She had stumbled, fallen on her back and remained there for about 10 minutes before she was able to gather the strength to reach for the phone and call for help. An MRI revealed a shattered vertebra in her back. This fact along with the fact that nearly every week now without fail she has been experiencing a different side effect from the chemo is prompting us to prepare for the inevitable.

She requires constant supervision and needs help doing everything. Last night, my parents went away to a  concert, so I watched her, made sure she ate and got to the bathroom and then, she sat down on the bed and I had to pull her feet up, cover them up and tuck her in for the night. Right now, the only glimmer of her former self is her still sharp wit, but even that’s beginning to fade.

If you knew my grandmother as an always spry and lively secretary to the county mayor in the courthouse, you most definitely would not recognize her at all now. She’s a different person and we’re all having to get to know her again. 

So, yeah, I was a tomboy growing up and yeah, I pretty much still am. On Christmas of 1988, I got the original Nintendo game system (you know, the grey one you had to flip open and insert the eight trackesque game like a card….oh and you had to blow on it to remove even the slightest piece of lint so that it would actually play) and turned into a Super Mario Bros. freak. Every day I’d play that thing and the infectious music still resonates inside my head particularly when I watch my 16 year old brother now with his “Guitar Hero” and *cringe* “Grand Theft Auto IV.” I was as happy as a clam with my little rectangular grey controller containing buttons to start, pause, run and jump, a little plastic grey and orange gun to hunt ducks with and graphics that would now be considered on the same level as dot matrix printers. The Jeffster has an XBox 360 attached to a headset so that at anytime during the disturbingly real graphic sequences, he might get a phone call from a friend or start up a chat session with someone in Tokyo while playing against the person in the game. The boy is somewhat spoiled, you think?

But, I’ve interrupted myself.

What I really wanted to say was that last night, I happened upon a Youtube video of someone playing the original Super Mario Bros. game and finishing the entire thing in five minutes. Parts of it made me gasp out loud because it looks like the person gets dangerously close to falling off cliffs or being consumed by the death-eating plants or walking mushrooms (yeah, I know these things have names, but I’m being generic for now) yet continues to make it, through warping a few times of course, to the end of the game.

Happy Saturday, everyone! I’m off to take in a little golf and a little fishing.

I’m nervous, excited, scared, hopeful and nauseated at the same time and it’s not just because I consumed a ton of peanut butter-filled Oreo cookies last night before bed. But on that same note, I did just hear on the telly that a girl sold a record 17,328 boxes of Girl Scout cookies. Normally, that would make me smile but right now it just makes me cringe.

Anyway, I’m feeling all of the above mentioned emotions because my favorite boy band of all time, the one I bought all the dolls of, attended a concert to see once and wrote literally dozens of letters to has reunited and will be performing on The Today Show. They keep showing clips of their former glory days and people out in the crowd who look to be about my age are singing pieces of their old songs as soon as the camera pans in front of them for even a second.

Yessirree. It’s THE boy band of the ’80s and ’90s. The one I still believe (for reasons of pride) newer groups cannot hold a candle to. In only a few minutes, the New Kids on the Block will take the stage and, if you just so happen to be in my neck of the woods and hear a rousing, screaming rendition of “Step by Step,” “Hangin’ Tough,” or “The Right Stuff,” rest assured it’s probably me.

Something has really been depressing me lately and I decided that, rather than hide it yet again, I’d bring it out into the open. Mostly because I know (and hope) I can’t possibly be the only person feeling this way right now.

I need some advice. Or maybe I just need some motivation. Okay. I really just need a big hug. Lots of them.

Over the past few months, good news has been coming in at a whirlwind pace for many of my friends. A few of my good friends are now engaged. Two of them, in fact, are getting married today (Congrats Killa and Freezertroll!) and another couple are getting married in late July. Some more good friends are getting ready to welcome new additions into the family and a few more are getting ready to relocate with new jobs and new paths to travel. This is all wonderful news. It’s incredible news. But, at the same time, I can’t help but feel like the little sister tearfully waving goodbye from the house doorstep while her family speeds down the road to bigger things.

Drawing and coloring in the maps was the fun part of geography class. Identifying the features came later. Learning how to follow the map, with time, was a way to blaze new trails and show off what you learned. But, building your own map? Well, that’s something much more difficult to pick up on because it involves making your own features, your own roads and your own decisions.

I’m 26 now. I love the guy I’m dating and I love my friends, but at the same time, I’m sad that so many people have learned the craft of map building and might just forget someone who needs a bit of extra help in that subject. I never struggled in school. I’ve never made anything less than an A, but I feel like I’m failing in this all-important subject of life.

 Do I want to get married? No. But maybe one day. Do I want to have kids? No. But possibly in the future. Do I want to move away and maybe try going back to school for another degree? Yes, soon. But right now, I enjoy sledding in the snow down huge hills. I enjoy going fishing and having the fish pull me around the pond. I enjoy going to local shows, festivals, hangouts, ballgames and driving ranges. I enjoy sitting on porches, reading books, talking to friends about most anything. I still cry at “Old Yeller” and get a big pink moustache after drinking too much Strawberry Crush.

That’s me. That’s who I am. And, in a way, I never want to leave the child inside me behind. 

I still enjoy coloring the map and learning the features of it. In a few years, I’ll get out some blank paper and draw a new one when I’m good and ready.

Until then, please don’t forget me. Don’t leave me behind.

Now, can I have a hug? 

Guess where I’m headed this Sunday. Go ahead. Guess.

This will be my third year in a row to go. That’s clue number one.

It happens every third Sunday in May. There’s another clue.

Despite the fact that it’s delightful and the people are wonderful, I can’t help but feel as if I’ve stepped into another world. That should give it away right there.

I’m headed back into the backwoods to Old Trinity to partake of the annual Episcopalian homecoming! (big nod to Lynnster)

Picture it. Lawn chairs surrounding oak trees and tables and tables full of main dishes, desserts and coolers filled with drinks of all varieties and I do mean ALL varieties. In the background, I’m munching on fried chicken, making comparisons of this particular species of church homecoming to my church’s brand of homecoming and sipping on a Coke while I gaze over at the priest and all the members of the church smiling at each other, discussing Revelations and getting (in my opinion) preposterously sloshed. “It’s the only way we can really discuss the book of Revelations,” they tell me. Maybe so.

Later on, we visit the cemetery and a friend’s cake’s grave. Long ago at a particular homecoming, my friend made her famous chocolate cake and brought it to the event and apparently, as soon as the guests began digging in, they made the most horrendous faces and became ill. Well, as soon as the priest made a face, my friend’s mother rushed to her daughter’s defense, chided the priest, took a bite of the cake and puckered up more than anyone else. It was later discovered that the baking soda in the freezer had gone horribly bad and had sucked up the taste of old frozen fish and transferred it over to the chocolate cake. But, when all was said and done, the cake was given a proper burial.

Gotta love those Episcopalians and their homecomings.    

One of my favorite pictures and luckily, he had no reason to come after me after I took it because I didn’t pack the giant attachable flashbulb that is now all the rage for cell phone cameras.

To one of my favorite actresses ever!

She passed away a few years ago without my getting to meet her as I always wanted, but I’m honoring the memory of the Great Kate today and every May 12.

Picture credit.

No doubt, you’re very familiar with Bigfoot. You’ve probably heard many tales of the abominable snowman and the Loch Ness monster. Chances are, you might even have heard of the giant mega cabbage grown by a local’s frequent urination and the Super Storm Shelter.

But, have you ever feasted your eyes on the elusive, the mysterious, the half-pesca, half-monster image of the Ghost Cat???

Lurking in a local pond, the Ghost Cat — half feline fish, half direct descendant of Nessie — preys on fishermen brave enough to cast their lines into his territory. Just one glance into his devilish eyes of death can make mince meat of any ordinary novice of a fisherman, but this past Saturday, BF bravely threw his line into the haunted waters, landed the legendary whiskered spook and now lives to tell the tale.

Remember. You’ve been warned.

Wow. Has it really been a week since I’ve posted anything on here? Have I really been rolling around and wallowing in my New Orleans memories for so long I’ve neglected everything else? Yes and yes. I must confess, I’m still washing the heavenly scent of crawfish off my fingers and pulling bits of beads out of my hair. But in the nearly two weeks since I visited the Crescent City, many great things have been happening around me right here at home.

1. There’s no denying my sister Elizabeth has had more than her fair share of terrible luck lately. The girl should definitely think about purchasing a bicycle and staying away from motorized vehicles. But, something wonderful and unexpected happened the other day to give her a rare smile.

A few months ago, E had to deal with a very unruly patient who made her feel terrible. She came home crying and vowed never to treat him again if she could avoid it. But he kept coming back to the CCU and she kept having to put up with him and his terrible attitude. Well, this past week, the patient, who works for a local newspaper, wrote up a glowing editorial praising the entire CCU staff and even mentioning E by name, calling her a sweetheart. 

2. My aunt had her mastectomy and the doctors found zero spread of the cancer to the lymph nodes!!! She came home and I made her a casserole and it turned out very very well. Yeehaw!

3. We are currently working up the ground to start this year’s garden. I can’t wait! This year, I’m going to make it a little bit bigger and try to hopefully track its progress a little better than last year. I’m going out on a limb and trying lima beans again and this time, I think I’ll pass on the bell peppers and just plant jalapenos to avoid the bells zapping all the fire out of the jalas. Seriously, they’ll do that. I promise to document the planting with pictures and, of course, there will be pictures throughout the growing season.

4. Dixie continues to improve every day. She’s back to singing again, but she’s still afraid to jump and she will never lose the limp she runs with sometimes. But man, am I glad to have my little doggy back alive and well!

5. Since I’ve gotten back from N.O., I’ve taken up something I never thought I’d ever attempt. Golf. Not mini golf, mind you, but full-fledged 18-hole wind up and let er rip madness. BF is helping me and he’s a very wonderful and patient teacher and should join the PGA tour, but right now, I throw a party if I can manage to loft the ball up in the air and not on the ground which I’m currently referring to as “golf bowling.” I’ve gotten some practice balls and have hit quite a few good ones today, but I still have to look around the course/range to make sure no one’s looking at me before I take a swing.

6. Ever seen any of these before?

It’s a corn holder!! It’s the perfect size to hold your corn on the cob! A very cute and clever invention if I do say so myself.

Feel free to add happiness to the list. The more the merrier!

Because a good friend of mine just got some hard-earned great news!

It’s Feist! And I can’t think of a better way to celebrate this great news than by beating fireworks out of barrels!

Congrats, friend!!!

Though I split the drive in half on the way down here, I have no choice but to get up today, leave this wonderful city and drive the entire way back to reach Hooterville in time for Monday morning’s happenings. Leaving early, of course, is a must, but before I get back onto I-10, I make one last round of Jackson Square to pick up some souvenirs and while I’m walking, I give my sister a call to notify her that I’m planning on getting on the road sometime in the next hour.

Well, my sister has even more important news for me. The night before, they had to take my brother to the emergency room because he drank this extremely caffeinated drink and, as he has never handled caffeine well, it was causing his heart rate to speed up and his blood pressure to skyrocket to the point that he couldn’t breathe and was going numb. They fixed him right up, though, but I’m beginning to wonder……My sister had a fender bender about two weeks ago and my brother went to the emergency room yesterday. Is it my turn now? Suddenly the road home appears even more daunting. 

All the old familiar sights begin to flash before me: armadillos, exits, magnolia and palm trees and the exit to Canton which I must pass up this time. Ugh. No breakdowns.

As I’ve still yet to see a Starbucks anywhere, I call information and find one just off the interstate in Jackson, MS, so I pull off and grab my coffee there so my trip can truly be called complete.

Look!!! It’s a vintage!!!

Now, for anyone from my neck of the woods who is making the trip back home from New Orleans on I-55 and has reached Jackson, MS somehow thinking he or she has made some real progress and can now breathe a sigh of relief….um, don’t celebrate prematurely. Once you pass the capitol of the Magnolia State, you are soon met with a sign that mockingly says, “Nope, skippy, you’re still a good 200 miles from Memphis. Party’s over.” The magnolia trees lining the road that have been there since you got on the interstate are suddenly laughing at you, the armadillos rise from the dead to snicker and you wonder where in the world southern hospitality has gone.

But, seriously, you get through it and when you see the Welcome to Tennessee sign, you’ve never been happier to see a welcome sign in all your life.

About 130 miles later, Hooterville appears in the windshield and soon the familiar driveway and the familiar house and here comes the most difficult part of the whole process. The recovery. The coming down from the clouds, the touching back down to earth and the returning to normal form again.

Shockingly, it feels like getting over the flu. You ache and long to see the palm trees and the Quarter again. Your sinuses and allergies throw themselves a pity party because you’ve gone from 80 degrees to what seriously feels like about 60. You talk about the trip and relate certain especially bad and especially good instances to family members and friends, share pictures and show off collected treasures, but it really only serves to give you symptoms of withdrawal.

And then you realize. You just came from a city that, not too long ago, was placed on a heart monitor and oxygen and not given much of a chance to live again. For four days, you were a witness to a genuine miracle in the making. It’s still in the making because, as you noticed just to the right of your hotel, there’s still much work to be done, but it’s still a miracle.

New life abounds. A city. A Quarter. A wedding. A perspective. And giving it all the breath to keep going….new hope. Renewed dreams. Renewed beliefs. Enough to power the sinking city to rise again.

And I got to see it. I got to see a traditional New Orleans funeral take place right before my eyes. A city and its people who once had to bury much of the future under tears, fears and hopelessness were now hopping, skipping and jumping back from the cemetery singing ”The Saints” and preparing to live again.        

Remember the post I put up a few weeks ago about taking my grandmother to have her cancer treatment? Remember my mentioning that my aunt was having a biopsy the same day and that she’d already had a partial mastectomy?

Well, the tumor turned out to be malignant and my aunt, rather than have a lumpectomy, has chosen to have another partial mastectomy to remove the other one. With our family history, she just doesn’t want to leave any opportunity for the cancer to return. 

She just went into surgery an hour ago and when she comes out, she’ll be the second breastless woman in my family. Sounds sort of humorous, I know, but it’s anything but. It’s just that widespread in our genetics.

Please remember her.  

Waking up early again, I sit up in bed and am suddenly stunned awake by something I noticed yesterday or rather, something I did not notice. In all of my jaunting and exploring around the French Quarter yesterday, I did not notice one, not one, Starbucks in the entire area. There’s that sinking feeling again. Could there possibly not be a single Starbucks in the entire quarter? I mean, if Cafe Du Monde wants to have the monopoly on coffee, that’s fine with me. No arguments here. But, still. I’m kinda missing the familiar circle-bound green mermaid and am really longing to see a familiar face.

No use crying over spilled milk or disappearing Starbucks, however. I’ll just grab a free (a rare word for me on this trip……FREE) cup of coffee from the hotel breakfast and be on my way. I’m pretty sure I’ll live.

Hop on the trolley, $1.25 fare, and I’m off to start the day in the garden district. Overflowing with eye-catching wrought iron, well-tended plant life and, of courses, houses that are, oh, a little out of my price range, the garden district provides another slant on living in New Orleans. People walk out of their doors, pick up their mail and send me a greeting and wave as I travel over every inch of the area, googling at the expansive (and expensive:)) houses.

Inside the district is a traditional New Orleans cemetery.

After this quick trip amongst death, I head over to have a little piece of heaven….the local Subway. And here’s the sandwich I always order. It’s perfect and needs nothing added or taken away. Six-inch turkey on wheat with ONLY jalapenos, spicy mustard and sweet onion teriyaki sauce. Yum and yes, usually a torn-up stomach later on, but so good. And of course, to truly add my signature to the sammich, I must put chips on it. Usually sour cream and onion. Hey, it’s quirky but great.

Ugh. Very large cumulonimbus monsters rolling in and making some noise. Looks like a storm’s a comin’ and the wedding is drawing nearer and nearer.

Quickly, I head back to the room, gussy myself up and get ready to go catch the trolley to Broussards.

Ah well, take a good look. It’s a rarity. And because it’s such a rarity, it lasted for all of five minutes because the second I got out the door, torrential rain hit me from all angles and guess who didn’t have an umbrella? So begins the worst part of the trip. I ran ( in heels), slipped and slid my way to the nearest trolley stop, but the building did nothing to shelter me from the rain because the wind was blowing the water sideways and right into my face. Finally, I hopped on the trolley and (to make a long story short) was given the wrong directions to the restaurant THREE times before I finally arrived looking much like a drowned rat, but happy to have found the place. Because the ceremony was intended to be held outdoors in the courtyard, though, luckily they hadn’t st