I received the following email this morning, and as a public service, I am sharing it with all of you. I think the creator of this letter has hit the nail on the head with the problem in Washington and it could not have been said in a better way. Please feel free to forward this to all of your friends.
Subject: Congressional Reform Act of 2010
THIS IS HOW YOU FIX CONGRESS!!!!!
A friend sent this along to me. I can't think of a reason to disagree.
I am sending this to virtually everybody on my e-mail list and that includes conservatives, liberals, and everybody in between. Even though we disagree on a number of issues, I count all of you as friends. My friend and neighbor wants to promote a "Congressional Reform Act of 2009". It would contain eight provisions, all of which would probably be strongly endorsed by those who drafted the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. Friends, please send me your recommendations on how this bill can be improved.
I know many of you will say, "this is impossible". Let me remind you, Congress has the lowest approval of any entity in Government, now is the time when Americans will join together to reform Congress - the entity that represents us.
We need to get a Senator to introduce this bill in the US Senate and a Representative to introduce a similar bill in the US House. These people will become American hero's.. Please send any ideas on how to get this done.
Thanks,
A Fellow American
***********************************
Congressional Reform Act of 2010
1. Term Limits: 12 years only, one of the possible options below.
A. Two Six year Senate terms
B. Six Two year House terms
C. One Six year Senate term and three Two Year House terms
Serving in Congress is an honor, not a career. The Founding Fathers envisioned citizen legislators, serve your term(s), then go home and back to work.
2. No Tenure / No Pension:
A congressman collects a salary while in office and receives no pay when they are out of office.
Serving in Congress is an honor, not a career. The Founding Fathers envisioned citizen legislators, serve your term(s), then go home and back to work.
3. Congress (past, present & future) participates in Social Security:
All funds in the Congressional retirement fund moves to the Social Security system immediately. All future funds flow into the Social Security system, Congress participates with the American people.
Serving in Congress is an honor, not a career. The Founding Fathers envisioned citizen legislators, server your term(s), then go home and back to work.
4. Congress can purchase their own retirement plan just as all Americans.
Serving in Congress is an honor, not a career. The Founding Fathers envisioned citizen legislators, serve your term(s), then go home and back to work.
5. Congress will no longer vote themselves a pay raise. Congressional pay will rise by the lower of CPI or 3%.
Serving in Congress is an honor, not a career. The Founding Fathers envisioned citizen legislators, serve your term(s), then go home and back to work.
6. Congress loses their current health care system and participates in the same health care system as the American people.
Serving in Congress is an honor, not a career. The Founding Fathers envisioned citizen legislators, serve your term(s), then go home and back to work.
7. Congress must equally abide in all laws they impose on the American people.
Serving in Congress is an honor, not a career. The Founding Fathers envisioned citizen legislators, serve your term(s), then go home and back to work.
8. All contracts with past and present congressmen are void effective 1/1/11.
The American people did not make this contract with congressmen, congressmen made all these contracts for themselves.
Serving in Congress is an honor, not a career. The Founding Fathers envisioned citizen legislators, serve your term(s), then go home and back to work.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
A Rather Delicate Subject
Warning: The following contains graphic, adult material that may not be suitable for young children. Parents should use caution when viewing this site.
Alright, you've been warned, and all of you curious little deviants that are still with me, I wonder about you, but here we go. I am about to tackle a rather delicate subject, but one which I have been pondering for quite some time, one regarding a certain behavior that has me confounded and scratching my head in utter confusion, muttering to myself "Why, oh, why?"
Let me begin by confessing that I am, by nature, a voyeur, a people-watcher. I love to observe people engaged in everyday life and try to figure out what motivates them to behave the way they do. I think this tendancy was embedded in me by my mother. She has this uncanny ability to be able to see a total stranger and give you their entire life history. It's truly an amazing gift.
For example, we are sitting in a parking lot in the car, getting ready to go into a store, when a man wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase strolls by.
"Look at that man," she'll say. "He works for the FBI. He's looking for drug dealers that hang out in the parking lot. He looks depressed. I bet he just arrested some young boy who had a tragic home life and got into drugs. It's just a shame what happens to young people these days. It was probably because his parents didn't care about him. He must have come home to an empty house every day, and those gangster boys that roam around the neighborhood just pulled him into the drug life. And now that FBI agent had to arrest him and he's all depressed about it and...." You get the picture.
As I said, I come by it naturally, or perhaps genetically, but I do love to watch people:
...the woman that comes to the grocery store in curlers and a house dress (yes, people in the rural south still do that).....does she believe opposites attract? Does she hope that some high-level executive in a Brooks Brothers suit will find her irresistible, that he'll be drawn to her hot-pink foam curlers and fuzzy slippers? Why bother curling your hair if you are willing to go out in public looking like a mess?
...the man with green hair and a mohawk and body piercings in places I didn't know could be pierced....who grows green hair? Who grows green hair that sticks straight up from the middle of your head? Is he going for a moldy-native look or just working the shock factor? Did it hurt to have his eyebrow and chin pierced? What about the one in his cheek?
...the kids that drive around town with music playing so loud it vibrates the frame of your car and you can hear it in China....is it a control thing, a power play, an attitude of "this is my car and you can't tell me what to do?" or is the poor thing actually hearing impaired?
But the one that has me stumped, the one I just can't figure out, the one that I have been pondering and pondering, is the one that has to do with young men, pick-up trucks, and trailer hitch ornaments. I'm referring to the young men that drive around town with a pair of bull testicles dangling from the trailer hitch of their truck, a phenomenom I have observed not only in South Carolina, but North Carolina, Georgia and Virginia as well. I am afraid it probably happens all around the country.
First of all, where exactly does one go to buy animal genitalia ornamentation for one's car? I'm quite sure one does not stroll into Target and ask the red-smocked customer service rep," Could you point me to the animal genitalia department? I need a new set of bull testicles for my truck."
Secondly, why,oh,why does one even want animal genitalia dangling from one's car? What message are they trying to send? A bull is a rather curious specimen. Uncle Henry raises cows, and I've observed plenty of his bulls. They don't produce milk, butter, or cheese, their meat is usually tough and not sold to market, they are loners except when interested in mating, they stand around eating all day, they stink and they have flies buzzing all around them. So are the young men trying to send the message that they are unproductive, smelly, dirty, hungry, and only interested in sex? That's a real chick magnet.
What parent in their right mind would allow their young daughter to get into the truck of a boy that has a pair of animal testicles dangling from his hitch? I can assure you that if he arrived in my driveway, he'd be met at the front door by a parent wielding a set of garden clippers prepared to remove more than one set of balls.
I do understand the motivation to personalize one's car and to proclaim one's identity. I am the queen of car ornamentation. I have stickers that promote my children's schools, the colleges my husband and I graduated from, my political orientation, my beloved poodles, my hobbies, even a little fish that proclaims my faith. I have a Chick-fil-a cow dangling from my antennae, a trailer hitch in the shape of the state of South Carolina, a magnetic pink bow to support breast cancer survivors, a magnetic yellow bow in support of our troops. At Christmas, I add a wreath to the front grill and a candy cane to the antennae, and have been known to hook up lights that blink as I'm driving down the road (this may not be exactly legal...). So as you can see, I am not a car ornamentation snob. I simply do not understand the animal genitalia thing.
I will continue to observe this behavior, I will analyze the young men I see driving around town with this bizarre ornamentation, I will ponder and wonder and ponder some more, but I can assure you, I will never, ever, ever be able to figure this one out.
Therefore, I am forced to start a "Save the Bulls" campaign. To order your bumper sticker, please call PETA.
Alright, you've been warned, and all of you curious little deviants that are still with me, I wonder about you, but here we go. I am about to tackle a rather delicate subject, but one which I have been pondering for quite some time, one regarding a certain behavior that has me confounded and scratching my head in utter confusion, muttering to myself "Why, oh, why?"
Let me begin by confessing that I am, by nature, a voyeur, a people-watcher. I love to observe people engaged in everyday life and try to figure out what motivates them to behave the way they do. I think this tendancy was embedded in me by my mother. She has this uncanny ability to be able to see a total stranger and give you their entire life history. It's truly an amazing gift.
For example, we are sitting in a parking lot in the car, getting ready to go into a store, when a man wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase strolls by.
"Look at that man," she'll say. "He works for the FBI. He's looking for drug dealers that hang out in the parking lot. He looks depressed. I bet he just arrested some young boy who had a tragic home life and got into drugs. It's just a shame what happens to young people these days. It was probably because his parents didn't care about him. He must have come home to an empty house every day, and those gangster boys that roam around the neighborhood just pulled him into the drug life. And now that FBI agent had to arrest him and he's all depressed about it and...." You get the picture.
As I said, I come by it naturally, or perhaps genetically, but I do love to watch people:
...the woman that comes to the grocery store in curlers and a house dress (yes, people in the rural south still do that).....does she believe opposites attract? Does she hope that some high-level executive in a Brooks Brothers suit will find her irresistible, that he'll be drawn to her hot-pink foam curlers and fuzzy slippers? Why bother curling your hair if you are willing to go out in public looking like a mess?
...the man with green hair and a mohawk and body piercings in places I didn't know could be pierced....who grows green hair? Who grows green hair that sticks straight up from the middle of your head? Is he going for a moldy-native look or just working the shock factor? Did it hurt to have his eyebrow and chin pierced? What about the one in his cheek?
...the kids that drive around town with music playing so loud it vibrates the frame of your car and you can hear it in China....is it a control thing, a power play, an attitude of "this is my car and you can't tell me what to do?" or is the poor thing actually hearing impaired?
But the one that has me stumped, the one I just can't figure out, the one that I have been pondering and pondering, is the one that has to do with young men, pick-up trucks, and trailer hitch ornaments. I'm referring to the young men that drive around town with a pair of bull testicles dangling from the trailer hitch of their truck, a phenomenom I have observed not only in South Carolina, but North Carolina, Georgia and Virginia as well. I am afraid it probably happens all around the country.
First of all, where exactly does one go to buy animal genitalia ornamentation for one's car? I'm quite sure one does not stroll into Target and ask the red-smocked customer service rep," Could you point me to the animal genitalia department? I need a new set of bull testicles for my truck."
Secondly, why,oh,why does one even want animal genitalia dangling from one's car? What message are they trying to send? A bull is a rather curious specimen. Uncle Henry raises cows, and I've observed plenty of his bulls. They don't produce milk, butter, or cheese, their meat is usually tough and not sold to market, they are loners except when interested in mating, they stand around eating all day, they stink and they have flies buzzing all around them. So are the young men trying to send the message that they are unproductive, smelly, dirty, hungry, and only interested in sex? That's a real chick magnet.
What parent in their right mind would allow their young daughter to get into the truck of a boy that has a pair of animal testicles dangling from his hitch? I can assure you that if he arrived in my driveway, he'd be met at the front door by a parent wielding a set of garden clippers prepared to remove more than one set of balls.
I do understand the motivation to personalize one's car and to proclaim one's identity. I am the queen of car ornamentation. I have stickers that promote my children's schools, the colleges my husband and I graduated from, my political orientation, my beloved poodles, my hobbies, even a little fish that proclaims my faith. I have a Chick-fil-a cow dangling from my antennae, a trailer hitch in the shape of the state of South Carolina, a magnetic pink bow to support breast cancer survivors, a magnetic yellow bow in support of our troops. At Christmas, I add a wreath to the front grill and a candy cane to the antennae, and have been known to hook up lights that blink as I'm driving down the road (this may not be exactly legal...). So as you can see, I am not a car ornamentation snob. I simply do not understand the animal genitalia thing.
I will continue to observe this behavior, I will analyze the young men I see driving around town with this bizarre ornamentation, I will ponder and wonder and ponder some more, but I can assure you, I will never, ever, ever be able to figure this one out.
Therefore, I am forced to start a "Save the Bulls" campaign. To order your bumper sticker, please call PETA.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Christmas Future
Only 364 shopping days left until Christmas....hurry, hurry, hurry or you'll never be ready. The malls are beckoning, the ads are overwhelming, the media is frantic in its efforts to lure us back into mass consumerism. Sales! deals! unbeliveable prices! are beckoning, seducing, luring us to leave our homes and families and battle the post-Christmas crowd to participate in a shopping mecca, a journey all in preparation for a holiday that is politically incorrect in our culture. Don't dare mention the birth of Christ, a Savior, a gift of salvation or redemption. Just hand over your credit card or cash and claim a stake in Santa and have a merry holiday or whatever.
The Christmas Day so highly anticipated, so furiously prepared for, so eagerly awaited, has only just come and gone, is only an infantile "Christmas Past." Can we possibly be turning our attention already to Christmas Future? Have we even paused to remember what the anticipation, the excitement, the joy are for, or do we simply switch gears and begin planning for the commercial side of Christmas future?
Today is a day for reflection--to smile on the memories of children wild with visions of Saint Nicholas, of families gathered together in laughter and joy, of carols and candlelight and "Silent Night" and most importantly, of the gift of salvation bestowed on an undeserving world by an amazing Savior.
Tummies are still full from yesterday's feasting, presents have been sorted and stacked into various piles, leftovers are disappearing at a rapid clip, ribbons and boxes and bows have been hauled to the trash, and those family members remaining in town are either napping, fiddling with new gadgets and gizmos, or watching bowl games on TV. The post-Christmas lull has settled in; a quietness had replaced the joyous noise of the previous morn. I have succumbed to "post-holiday rest syndrome" and retired to a spot on the couch, from which I will only budge to sneak a sinful bite of Gypsy Cake or perhaps one last sausage ball.
I revel in the change of pace, the slowness of the day. Today is the day to enjoy all that has occurred in preparation for the celebration of Christ's birth. We bring Him gifts of family, gifts of sharing, gifts of joy, gifts of love...all because of His birth, which we have celebrated in the past, celebrated in the present, and will continue to celebrate in the future. Even in a world that denies His diety and tries to camoflage His birth with secular joviality, we will celebrate the reason for the season, the CHRIST of CHRISTmas. Merry CHRISTmas yesterday, today and in the CHRISTmases of your future!
The Christmas Day so highly anticipated, so furiously prepared for, so eagerly awaited, has only just come and gone, is only an infantile "Christmas Past." Can we possibly be turning our attention already to Christmas Future? Have we even paused to remember what the anticipation, the excitement, the joy are for, or do we simply switch gears and begin planning for the commercial side of Christmas future?
Today is a day for reflection--to smile on the memories of children wild with visions of Saint Nicholas, of families gathered together in laughter and joy, of carols and candlelight and "Silent Night" and most importantly, of the gift of salvation bestowed on an undeserving world by an amazing Savior.
Tummies are still full from yesterday's feasting, presents have been sorted and stacked into various piles, leftovers are disappearing at a rapid clip, ribbons and boxes and bows have been hauled to the trash, and those family members remaining in town are either napping, fiddling with new gadgets and gizmos, or watching bowl games on TV. The post-Christmas lull has settled in; a quietness had replaced the joyous noise of the previous morn. I have succumbed to "post-holiday rest syndrome" and retired to a spot on the couch, from which I will only budge to sneak a sinful bite of Gypsy Cake or perhaps one last sausage ball.
I revel in the change of pace, the slowness of the day. Today is the day to enjoy all that has occurred in preparation for the celebration of Christ's birth. We bring Him gifts of family, gifts of sharing, gifts of joy, gifts of love...all because of His birth, which we have celebrated in the past, celebrated in the present, and will continue to celebrate in the future. Even in a world that denies His diety and tries to camoflage His birth with secular joviality, we will celebrate the reason for the season, the CHRIST of CHRISTmas. Merry CHRISTmas yesterday, today and in the CHRISTmases of your future!
Monday, December 21, 2009
Christmas Present
On this snowy weekend, as one of the greatest blizzards to hit the East coast roared through town and blanketed the city in a foot of snow, there were still dozens of things left to do to prepare for the Christmas Holiday.
Yet Twelve inches of snow brought Richmond to a standstill
While Eleven loaves of bread were cooling on my window sill.
Ten pans of cookies waiting for me to bake them
Nine gift baskets--but I hadn't time to make them.
Eight bags of presents unwrapped on the den floor,
Seven to deliver waiting by the front door.
Six piles of laundry growing by a foot more...
FIVE GOLDEN FRUITCAKES!
Four shopping days left,
Three snow-caked poodles,
Two college kids,
and a pair of parents in a tizzy.
So much to do, so little time, fa-la-la-la-la and fiddle-dee-dee.
But it was snowing outside, and it was cold inside, and there was a marathon of holiday movies on the television. You would think with all that was left to do I would be in a panic to jump up off the couch, turn off the TV and start tackling another holiday project; Bah-humbug....
It was a little Christmas present to myself, a day of rest, of peace, of quiet, of joy. It was a gift that happened because of a blizzard, when God sent a blanket of snow to calm the world down-- God's gifts, always in our best interest, waiting for us to receive them.
Yet Twelve inches of snow brought Richmond to a standstill
While Eleven loaves of bread were cooling on my window sill.
Ten pans of cookies waiting for me to bake them
Nine gift baskets--but I hadn't time to make them.
Eight bags of presents unwrapped on the den floor,
Seven to deliver waiting by the front door.
Six piles of laundry growing by a foot more...
FIVE GOLDEN FRUITCAKES!
Four shopping days left,
Three snow-caked poodles,
Two college kids,
and a pair of parents in a tizzy.
So much to do, so little time, fa-la-la-la-la and fiddle-dee-dee.
But it was snowing outside, and it was cold inside, and there was a marathon of holiday movies on the television. You would think with all that was left to do I would be in a panic to jump up off the couch, turn off the TV and start tackling another holiday project; Bah-humbug....
But ahhh...the tree was twinkling so merrily, the snow was glistening so brightly, the fire was roaring so warmly, and the couch was calling me home. I turned up the volume on "Doctor Zhivago" and tuned out everything else. I took the day off, tucked in beside the tree, curled up in a blanket, and enjoyed the snow and movies and the holiday glow. I gazed at the tree and the lights and the ornaments as I watched Ebenezeer Scrooge battle the ghosts of Christmases past, present and future. I listened to Charleton Heston in "Ben-Hur" capture the story of the life of Christ; I saw stories of Santa in the North Pole working with elves that didn't want to be elves, stories of neighbors battling over Christmas lights and decorations, and stories of families reunited for the holidays. I confess that I napped during some of them, clicked back and forth between a few, but I didn't move all day. Everything came to a standstill in our hectic, holiday house. I didn't even feel guilty.
It was a little Christmas present to myself, a day of rest, of peace, of quiet, of joy. It was a gift that happened because of a blizzard, when God sent a blanket of snow to calm the world down-- God's gifts, always in our best interest, waiting for us to receive them. I received this Christmas present, this day of rest, with a thankful heart. Merry Christmas to all as we celebrate God's greatest gift , the birth of His Son.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Twas the week before Christmas....
'Twas the week before Christmas and all through the house...
not a creature was stirring but Mom and her mouse.
She shopped on the internet faster than lightening
Ordered waders for hunting and
teeth strips for whitening.
The fruitcakes were baking
The cookies were done
The mistletoe beckoned
The stockings were hung...
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter
She sprang from her chair to see what was the matter--
A blizzard was coming
The wind was a-howling
Mom wasn't prepared
and she started a-scowling
"I've shopping to do
I've errands to run!
Christmas is coming
and I am not done!
With the hustle and bustle and all's left to do
Now a blizzard is coming
and I am not through!"
Then laying a finger aside of her brow
She said," I'll make Christmas still happen somehow!"
She opened her pantry,
whipped up some batter
bundled up cookies and cakes on a platter
Tied them with ribbons and holly and bows
And said, "Merry Christmas!" in spite of the snows
that were whirling and swirling and blocking the street
as a hush and a brightness settled so sweet
over all of the city, all of the town
as the cold winter storm settled around.
In the midst of the snow, in the midst of the quiet
She noticed a star in the heavens so bright
It was casting a light all over the snow
that told of an evening so long, long ago
when a baby was born in a manger so bare--
a child in a world that did not seem to care
that this infant so tiny, so helpless and small
was a King come from heaven to save one and all.
And Mom said to herself as she walked through the night
through the snow and the cold in the star's magic light,
"I don't need the mall or the holiday traffic
Christmas will come in a blizzard like magic.
It comes without Santa, it comes without shopping
It comes in the storm that there's no way of stopping."
For Christmas is here in our heart all year long
It's in every carol and each Christmas song,
in every kind word, in each loving deed
in helping the lonely, those lost and in need.
If the deep love of Christ in our hearts we will share
then the great Christmas story will be everywhere.
And I heard her exclaim as she walked through the snow
with the world all awash in the heavenly glow
"Merry Christmas to all, remember the birth
of the Saviour who brought peace and joy to the earth!"
not a creature was stirring but Mom and her mouse.
She shopped on the internet faster than lightening
Ordered waders for hunting and
teeth strips for whitening.
The fruitcakes were baking
The cookies were done
The mistletoe beckoned
The stockings were hung...
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter
She sprang from her chair to see what was the matter--
A blizzard was coming
The wind was a-howling
Mom wasn't prepared
and she started a-scowling
"I've shopping to do
I've errands to run!
Christmas is coming
and I am not done!
With the hustle and bustle and all's left to do
Now a blizzard is coming
and I am not through!"
Then laying a finger aside of her brow
She said," I'll make Christmas still happen somehow!"
She opened her pantry,
whipped up some batter
bundled up cookies and cakes on a platter
Tied them with ribbons and holly and bows
And said, "Merry Christmas!" in spite of the snows
that were whirling and swirling and blocking the street
as a hush and a brightness settled so sweet
over all of the city, all of the town
as the cold winter storm settled around.
In the midst of the snow, in the midst of the quiet
She noticed a star in the heavens so bright
It was casting a light all over the snow
that told of an evening so long, long ago
when a baby was born in a manger so bare--
a child in a world that did not seem to care
that this infant so tiny, so helpless and small
was a King come from heaven to save one and all.
And Mom said to herself as she walked through the night
through the snow and the cold in the star's magic light,
"I don't need the mall or the holiday traffic
Christmas will come in a blizzard like magic.
It comes without Santa, it comes without shopping
It comes in the storm that there's no way of stopping."
For Christmas is here in our heart all year long
It's in every carol and each Christmas song,
in every kind word, in each loving deed
in helping the lonely, those lost and in need.
If the deep love of Christ in our hearts we will share
then the great Christmas story will be everywhere.
And I heard her exclaim as she walked through the snow
with the world all awash in the heavenly glow
"Merry Christmas to all, remember the birth
of the Saviour who brought peace and joy to the earth!"
Friday, December 18, 2009
BREAKING NEWS! BREAKING NEWS! BREAKING NEWS!
Friday, December 11, 2009
Christmas Past
We arrived back in Richmond last night in time to hop into the frantic pace of holiday festivities...there was shopping to be done, parties to attend, presents to wrap, lights and garlands to hang, the tree to be selected and decorated, fruitcake and cookies to be baked....an endless list of preparations and tasks that must be completed in the fifteen short days that were left. It seemed a bit overwhelming as I ticked through my list, trying to figure what to do when, how to get it all done, and if there would be time to just enjoy the season without being completely exhausted.
I thought of the piles of boxes that needed to be hauled down from the attic and remembered last January when I had hauled them all back into storage. As I shoved over 27 containers full of nutcrackers, tinsel trees, nativity scenes, glass balls and garlands, I told my husband, "I don't think this was what Christ had in mind for the celebration of His birth. Next year, I'm going to hang one wreath, display one nativity scene, put out one candle, and that is going to be it for the decorations. This has gotten to be ridiculous." I had spent enough money on decorations to buy a heiffer for every starving family in Africa, and I knew all the garlands and bows in the world wouldn't really tell the true story of Christmas. I had been sucked into the mass consumerism that had overtaken the holiday. I thought of the stories my grandmother had told of her childhood holidays, and the stark contradiction between the obscene commercialism of our Christmas today and the profound simplicity of her Christmas past caused me to experience a moment of shame. The simplistic celebrations of yore may pale in comparison to the consumer-driven, commercialized, mega-hpyed secular version our children experience today, but I would trade all the glitter and glitz of present for one chance to experience those simple but holy Christmases of her youth.
The holiday was as it should be....a holy-day, with church and worship of the Saviour's birth the main focus. This was long before Santa had replaced the babe in the manger, before shopping malls replaced sanctuaries, before "Holiday Trees" and "Holiday Greetings" crowded out "Christmas trees" and proclamations of "Merry Christmas", and when the birth of Christ was still the focus of the season.There were no mounds of presents under the tree, no dancing reindeer lighting up the lawn or a million lights twinkling from the eaves of the house. Santa came, but he came quietly and without the abundance of gifts expected today. There were no arguments about nativity scenes on courthouse lawns or bans on singing carols in the schools. We were still "One Nation Under God" and not ashamed to admit it, and the reason for the season had not been obscured by marketing executives determined to cash in on every belief system on the planet in order to turn December 25 into nothing more than a shopping extravaganza. The greatest gift was the time spent with family celebrating the birth of the Saviour.
Christmas Eve was spent in church, with carols and candles heralding the birthday of the Christ-child. Lights in the windows signified the coming of the light of the world, and Santa was still a Saint who gave gifts from the heart, gifts of love that were reminiscent of the gifts of frankencense, gold and myrhh laid at the manger by three wise men. There were no IPODS, four wheel drive vehicles, designer clothes, computers, bicycles, or other extravagent gifts waiting under the tree. Santa was practical, bringing sweet treats that were a holdiay delicacy and perhaps a few necessities such as socks and underwear, perhaps a woolen scarf or pair of kid gloves.
Christmas Eve was spent in church, with carols and candles heralding the birthday of the Christ-child. Lights in the windows signified the coming of the light of the world, and Santa was still a Saint who gave gifts from the heart, gifts of love that were reminiscent of the gifts of frankencense, gold and myrhh laid at the manger by three wise men. There were no IPODS, four wheel drive vehicles, designer clothes, computers, bicycles, or other extravagent gifts waiting under the tree. Santa was practical, bringing sweet treats that were a holdiay delicacy and perhaps a few necessities such as socks and underwear, perhaps a woolen scarf or pair of kid gloves.
As a child, my grandmother and her brothers would eagerly await Christmas with dreams of carols, family gatherings, and a grand Christmas dinner. On those long-ago Christmas mornings, Grandfather would awaken everyone with an explosive greeting as he marched up and down the hallway igniting firecrackers to proclaim Santa's arrival. Everyday stockings had been nailed to the mantle, and the excited children would soon pull them down and search for treats that Santa had tucked inside. Before pulling down the stockings, Uncle Benny would run to the fireplace, stick his nose up the chimney, sniff and exclaim "I smell bananas!" In the early 1900's, it was an exotic treat to get a banana from Santa in your stocking; an even greater treat was to receive a bunch of dried grapes which were still attached to the vine, the forerunner of today's raisins. Nuts and candies filled out the rest of the space, with an orange in the toe of the stocking capping off a perfect Christmas morning.
As soon as the morning fires were lit, individuals who worked for the family would begin the southern tradition of knocking on the back door in anticipation of a holiday treat. Jeff Wright, a carpenter, would always be the first to bang at the back door, hands extended, a grin lighting up his dark face as he shouted "Christmas gift! Christmas gift!" Other workers would follow, each eagerly awaiting gifts of money, a new sweater, and a hot Christmas breakfast of hominy, sausage, biscuits, and eggs. After church services, the entire extended family would gather around the dining room table for the Christmas meal of turkey and ham, dressing, candied sweet potatoes, asparagus, scalloped oysters, rice and gravy, cranberries and pickled peaches, relishes and aspics, biscuits and fresh butter. Fruitcake and cookies lined the sideboard, but the grand finale was always Gypsy Cake. This once-a-year holiday treat, still a family favorite, was dreamed of 364 days of the year in anticipation of that Christmas day delight. Layers of sponge cake, made only according to the recipe in the Old Red Cookbook, were sprinkled with pecans and raisins, with each of those layers topped with a layer of creamy boiled custard, layer after layer, until the bowl overflowed. The trifle dish, piled high and deep, awaited its presentation on the back porch if the day were cold enough or else in the icebox. For the more adventuresome holiday guest, a dash of spirits was added to each layer, turning the dessert into the self-explanatory "Tipsey Cake". A dollop of freshly whipped cream completed the presentation. Groans and sighs of contentment inevitably topped off the day. A walk through town to wish neighbors and friends a "Merry Christmas" would be just enough to waken the senses and work up an appetite to gather round the table for a final holiday evening meal before bidding relatives goodnight and goodbye.
And that was it. A simple but profound day spent with family and loved ones in celebration of the birth of Christ, yet a day memorable enough that my grandmother lovingly recalled each memory and morsel of it more than eighty years later. She is long gone now, as are the Christmases she once knew, but the memories are enough to make me smile as I prepare for this holy season , knowing she is with the One whose birth we still celebrate.
This year, I wish for a simple Christmas, a holy Christmas, a Merry Christmas, one that will be full of memories that will bind families together and make future generations smile in recollection. And to each of you, I wish the same. Have a very, very Merry Christmas!
Friday, December 4, 2009
Going Home Again
Whoever said you can't go home again probably didn't realize you actually can....as long as it's not forever and there's an open door policy on both ends of the deal. The transition back home to live with my parents while Sissey attends college has been much smoothier and much easier than I ever imagined, plus it's been a whole lot of fun! I don't know if it's the fact that we all realize how quickly this experience will go by, or if it's because everyone is cheering and rooting for Sissey to get her college degree, or if it's just because I have been blessed with an incredibly understanding and supportive family (on both ends of the deal), but this unusual journey is turning out to be a pretty good trip!
If the next couple of years go by as quickly as this first semester, I have a feeling Sissey will be working on her PhD before we know it. But for now, we are both ready to head home again for the holidays and are just hoping Christmas break does not go by as quickly as the last sixteen weeks!
All I really want for Christmas this year is to spend some quality time with my family....Bro will be arriving home from UVA in a couple of weeks and I plan to feed that hard-working college boy some home-cooked meals and take really good care of him while he's home...some quality TLC Mom-style! He's been so proud of his sister and so understanding of the different path her college career must take. From the moment he started submitting his college applications in his junior year of high school, he started pushing his sister to do the same. Even when she chose to take a year off and work, he didn't let up, constantly talking to her about going on to college, working towards a degree, completing her education. Even though he is not a Carolina fan and will certainly never pull for the Gamecocks, he is still proud of her decision and will always support the "home team."
My husband and parents have been unbelievably flexible and patient as Sissey and I have disrupted all their lives with our comings and goings. I am keenly aware of the necessary adaptations in lifestyles that everyone has had to make in order for this journey to become a reality, and I do not take if for granted or assume that we were entitled to this opportunity. It has been an abundant gift...the chance to spend precious time with my parents, the chance for Sissey to bloom into the confident young woman she is destined to become, the chance for everyone to sacrifice something for a greater cause...those are truly gifts from the heart.
So we'll pack up in a few days and head for home, going to the northern end of the southern states, going home again to Virginia, and in a few weeks, returning home again to South Carolina. And so it will go for the next four years, until the journey is complete, diploma in hand, tassels turned, and we can all say, "She did it!"
If the next couple of years go by as quickly as this first semester, I have a feeling Sissey will be working on her PhD before we know it. But for now, we are both ready to head home again for the holidays and are just hoping Christmas break does not go by as quickly as the last sixteen weeks!
All I really want for Christmas this year is to spend some quality time with my family....Bro will be arriving home from UVA in a couple of weeks and I plan to feed that hard-working college boy some home-cooked meals and take really good care of him while he's home...some quality TLC Mom-style! He's been so proud of his sister and so understanding of the different path her college career must take. From the moment he started submitting his college applications in his junior year of high school, he started pushing his sister to do the same. Even when she chose to take a year off and work, he didn't let up, constantly talking to her about going on to college, working towards a degree, completing her education. Even though he is not a Carolina fan and will certainly never pull for the Gamecocks, he is still proud of her decision and will always support the "home team."
My husband and parents have been unbelievably flexible and patient as Sissey and I have disrupted all their lives with our comings and goings. I am keenly aware of the necessary adaptations in lifestyles that everyone has had to make in order for this journey to become a reality, and I do not take if for granted or assume that we were entitled to this opportunity. It has been an abundant gift...the chance to spend precious time with my parents, the chance for Sissey to bloom into the confident young woman she is destined to become, the chance for everyone to sacrifice something for a greater cause...those are truly gifts from the heart.
So we'll pack up in a few days and head for home, going to the northern end of the southern states, going home again to Virginia, and in a few weeks, returning home again to South Carolina. And so it will go for the next four years, until the journey is complete, diploma in hand, tassels turned, and we can all say, "She did it!"
THE END
(OF THE FIRST SEMESTER!)
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Last Day of Classes
Classes are complete, coursework is done, campus is quiet, Christmas is coming....we did it! The first semester is over and we haven't missed a single class--not even the eight o'clock one (although it was a struggle on some mornings to get up, get dressed, and hit Highway Nine to Lancaster in time to beat the school buses)! All coursework has been turned in, the books for next semester have been purchased, and we still haven't gotten the swine flu. So far, so good.
Sissey is going into finals with an A average in every class. Unless she decides not to show up for exams, the forecast is looking pretty good for a spot on the Dean's List! Today, she submitted her application to serve as an advisor in the P.A.L. program (Peer Advisors at Lancaster) and has an interview with the selection panel scheduled for next week. If selected, she will attend the Southern Region Orientation Workshop (a leadership training conference), assist in new student orientation and registration, help with various campus events, take a three credit leadership class during the spring semester, and will also receive a stipend. She has also agreed to serve on the Accessibility Review Committee at USC in Columbia. There, she will join a panel of professors, students, and engineers that meet monthly to discuss accessibility issues arising during renovation or new construction projects on either the main campus or any regional campus.
Last week, she was one of two students chosen to speak at the annual Scholarship Luncheon- a beautiful event to thank the donors, recognize the recipients, and feed the faculty. Prior to starting classes in the fall, Sissey had received the Dr. Edward William and Mary Sue Catalano Scholarship, named in honor of the parents of the current Dean of USC-L, Dr. John Catalano. In his opening remarks, Dean Catalano spoke of his trip to Columbia the day before to visit his 93 year old father who was unable to attend the luncheon. Dr. Catalano remarked that he was one of 12 children, there were 35 grandchildren in his family, and 11 great-grandchildren, but that when he arrived at his father's house, there was only ONE picture on his refrigerator--and it was none other than Mary Lapsley Daly! His father had lost a leg during the war and understood the struggles of living life with a disability. It was a bittersweet irony for my physically challenged daughter to have received an academic scholarship from a physically-challenged veteran philanthropist. There were many layers of meaning in that message--a reward for hard work and dedication, a challenge to try your hardest and to never give up, a call to give back to the world no matter what circumstances you faced in life.
As I watched her give her speech that morning, standing behind the lecturn in a poised and confident manner, addressing a crowd of over 500 attendees, I couldn't help but think "Is this the same nervous Nelly I drove down to South Carolina back in the fall?"
I think not!
I vividly remember the night we arrived--moving in under the cover of darkness, loaded with boxes and bags, struggling with suitcases, carrying an even heavier load of apprehension and nervousness. We had no idea what to expect when we arrived on campus the following morning. Coming from a small school of no more than one hundred students, would she be overwhelmed by a campus of several thousand? She had no more than five students per class at Northstar; would large classes and even larger lectures be more than she could handle? She knew not a single soul in the entire county, would she feel isolated and lonely?
I think not!
I'll be heading home for the holidays with a more confident, more mature, and more educated young lady than the frightened little girl that made the 350 mile drive down in August. We still have a long way to go and the journey will get harder each semester, but no matter what happens from this point on, no one will ever be able to take away the fact that Sissey did it-- she took that huge leap of faith after high school, jumped out into the big, unknown world, took her chance when she got it, and went off to college. Not only did she go, she went with bells a-ringing and angels a-singing!
And as we drive back to Richmond, I will be singing "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, and this year he's bringing a whole sack of happiness and confidence, love and joy!"
Plus, I think Mom and Dad are going to be pretty happy when the grades come in!
Sissey is going into finals with an A average in every class. Unless she decides not to show up for exams, the forecast is looking pretty good for a spot on the Dean's List! Today, she submitted her application to serve as an advisor in the P.A.L. program (Peer Advisors at Lancaster) and has an interview with the selection panel scheduled for next week. If selected, she will attend the Southern Region Orientation Workshop (a leadership training conference), assist in new student orientation and registration, help with various campus events, take a three credit leadership class during the spring semester, and will also receive a stipend. She has also agreed to serve on the Accessibility Review Committee at USC in Columbia. There, she will join a panel of professors, students, and engineers that meet monthly to discuss accessibility issues arising during renovation or new construction projects on either the main campus or any regional campus.
Last week, she was one of two students chosen to speak at the annual Scholarship Luncheon- a beautiful event to thank the donors, recognize the recipients, and feed the faculty. Prior to starting classes in the fall, Sissey had received the Dr. Edward William and Mary Sue Catalano Scholarship, named in honor of the parents of the current Dean of USC-L, Dr. John Catalano. In his opening remarks, Dean Catalano spoke of his trip to Columbia the day before to visit his 93 year old father who was unable to attend the luncheon. Dr. Catalano remarked that he was one of 12 children, there were 35 grandchildren in his family, and 11 great-grandchildren, but that when he arrived at his father's house, there was only ONE picture on his refrigerator--and it was none other than Mary Lapsley Daly! His father had lost a leg during the war and understood the struggles of living life with a disability. It was a bittersweet irony for my physically challenged daughter to have received an academic scholarship from a physically-challenged veteran philanthropist. There were many layers of meaning in that message--a reward for hard work and dedication, a challenge to try your hardest and to never give up, a call to give back to the world no matter what circumstances you faced in life.
As I watched her give her speech that morning, standing behind the lecturn in a poised and confident manner, addressing a crowd of over 500 attendees, I couldn't help but think "Is this the same nervous Nelly I drove down to South Carolina back in the fall?"
I think not!
I vividly remember the night we arrived--moving in under the cover of darkness, loaded with boxes and bags, struggling with suitcases, carrying an even heavier load of apprehension and nervousness. We had no idea what to expect when we arrived on campus the following morning. Coming from a small school of no more than one hundred students, would she be overwhelmed by a campus of several thousand? She had no more than five students per class at Northstar; would large classes and even larger lectures be more than she could handle? She knew not a single soul in the entire county, would she feel isolated and lonely?
I think not!
I'll be heading home for the holidays with a more confident, more mature, and more educated young lady than the frightened little girl that made the 350 mile drive down in August. We still have a long way to go and the journey will get harder each semester, but no matter what happens from this point on, no one will ever be able to take away the fact that Sissey did it-- she took that huge leap of faith after high school, jumped out into the big, unknown world, took her chance when she got it, and went off to college. Not only did she go, she went with bells a-ringing and angels a-singing!
And as we drive back to Richmond, I will be singing "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, and this year he's bringing a whole sack of happiness and confidence, love and joy!"
Plus, I think Mom and Dad are going to be pretty happy when the grades come in!
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
The Final Stretch
This begins the last week of the first semester of the next four years of college life...it all seemed to go by in about 30 seconds, much like watching my children grow up over the last nineteen years. Exams begin next week, all papers and projects and power-point presentations are due this week, and there are only twenty five shopping days left until Christmas. Things may be a little slow right now in the communication department, but we are entering the final stretch in full force.
It has been an amazing four months and I'm not sure who has gained the most out of this experience. I have watched Sissey gain confidence and wisdom in leaps and bounds. I have had the luxury of returning to my childhood home to relive old memories and create new ones. My son and husband have graciously and patiently adapted to this new and unusual living arrangement. My parents have gone to extraordinary lengths to welcome us home. They have allowed us to completely disrupt life as they knew it and have accomodated any and all of our special needs-- installing automatic stair-lifts, ramps, railings and walkways where needed. Even the dogs have played their part and adjusted to the ever-changing schedule of "family here/family gone."
My heart is full and grateful this Christmas season.
I look forward to finishing up this semester, resting over a nice long break, then starting back in January with fresh energy, a new schedule of classes, and the anticipation of enjoying a mild South Carolina winter.
One week to go and counting.....the final stretch begins.
It has been an amazing four months and I'm not sure who has gained the most out of this experience. I have watched Sissey gain confidence and wisdom in leaps and bounds. I have had the luxury of returning to my childhood home to relive old memories and create new ones. My son and husband have graciously and patiently adapted to this new and unusual living arrangement. My parents have gone to extraordinary lengths to welcome us home. They have allowed us to completely disrupt life as they knew it and have accomodated any and all of our special needs-- installing automatic stair-lifts, ramps, railings and walkways where needed. Even the dogs have played their part and adjusted to the ever-changing schedule of "family here/family gone."
My heart is full and grateful this Christmas season.
I look forward to finishing up this semester, resting over a nice long break, then starting back in January with fresh energy, a new schedule of classes, and the anticipation of enjoying a mild South Carolina winter.
One week to go and counting.....the final stretch begins.
Friday, November 27, 2009
A Virginia Thanksgiving
Happy Thanksgiving, ya'll! I hope you all had a wonderful day with family and friends giving thanks to God for His mercy and grace in establishing our great nation. We have been privileged to live under His protection and blessings since the founding of our country...I thank God every day for that.
If you're wondering where I've been, it's because of the turkey. I decided this year to try brining my turkey before roasting it, and if I do say so myself, that was an excellent decision. It was, however, a time consuming process, leaving me little time for anything else.
I sent a grocery list to my husband, Chris, prior to our arrival back home. It listed all the ingredients and items I would need for the holiday feast. A twenty pound Butterball was at the top of the list...the one he purchased came in at 19.50 pounds. I let him slide on the extra half pound because he had done such an excellent job on everything else (turned out we didn't need that extra half pound anyway...we have enough turkey left over to last til Christmas.) I had researched brining recipes on the internet, had come up with a combination that suited our tastes, and was ready to turn ole Tom into a pickled perfection of poultry.
I unwrapped and washed the big fellow, properly preparing him for his 24 hour soak in a five gallon bucket of salt and spices. The bucket was lined with several layers of trashbags, Tom took a nosedive in, and we didn't hear from him for the twenty four hours. After his long, slow soak in the refrigerated tub, he was ready for a rub-down with oils and spices and a long slow roast in the oven. I'm telling you, when I pulled that bird out of the oven, it was a Thanksgiving moment at it's best, Tom's golden swan song, his Oscar performance. He would have been proud of the way he went out, if only he had lived to see it.
While I was busy with the other preparations, making gravies and sauces and casseroles and pies, I was watching the news on the counter-top television. As I was popping Tom into the oven, a story came on about a woman who had rescued a holiday-doomed turkey. She was pontificating about how she had saved his life, how much she loved that bird (?), and the health problems he was now facing. The rescued turkey may have missed the hatchet, but he was suffering from a debilitating case of cataracts. The young rescuer was pleading for donations to cover the approximately $2600 cost of the operation. A link on the news station's website had been set up to make donations. I sent her an email and told her for $1.29 a pound I could cure her bird's problem forever.
Our relatives and guests arrived for the feast about one o'clock. We had three single females on our list and had invited one single male to round out the table. Our friend, Jim, arrived with a platter of marinated shrimp, stuffed clam shells, barbecued scallops wrapped in bacon, and grilled tilapia. He had spent all morning preparing the hors d'ouevres-- chopping clams, grilling fish, mixing spices. He had even made his own special sauces to accompany each morsel. He took a peek at my turkey, then told me how he had just brined a turkey on Saturday with a recipe that gave me a run for my money. A single man who cooks? I predict his status will be changing very soon.
We thanked God for our country, our service men and women, our bountiful blessings, our family and friends, and sat down to a feast that would have saved the entire band of Pilgrims during that dreadful winter of starvation. We've come so very far since those adventurers first landed on the shores of this new world...we are fatter, richer, warmer, healthier, and more blessed than they could have ever imagined. I pray that our hearts are as thankful to God Almighty as were those of the original Pilgrims.
Happy Thanksgiving....now I'm off to start getting ready for Christmas!
Monday, November 23, 2009
The Post Game Show
Enough about that, now, on to the really important things about the day. The weather was South Carolina Fabulous.....a brilliant blue sky, a slight nip in the air, an abundance of orange, a regular "Thank you,God it's great to be in South Carolina" kind of day. If you had an aversion to orange, this was not the place you wanted to be on Saturday. With both teams sporting the same color, the only distinction was the lack of orange paws or tiger tails adorning the UVA Fans.
We arrived at a tailgate party in full swing, orange tents erected, orange chairs placed under the trees, orange plates and napkins and cups ready to be filled and refilled. There was jumbalaya cooking on a stove in one corner, BBQ simmering on another, and enough platters and baskets of food to feed a small third world country. The tailgate party included a generator powered, satellite-dish receptive television set with full coverage of all the major football games. I'm still amazed that the guys even ventured into the stadium to see the live-play, when they could have spent all afternoon watching hundreds of channels--carrying every major sports activity--while seated by a cooler full of beverages and several tables loaded with food.
My brother, whom I will now have to start referring to as the former-golden-haired-boy-now-slightly-gray-at-the-temples-with-just-the-teensiest-of-bald-spots-on-top, graciously refused to exchange seats with me at the game and sauntered off to his loftier perch. It was a somewhat sweet victory, however, when Sissey and I realized we had snagged seats directly under the President's Box. So basically, our view of the game was exactly the same as his, just without the white-gloved waiters, shrimp cocktails, cushioned seats, and plasma screen enhanced viewing.
It would have been a great day if not for some crazy kid that kept shooting off a cannon down on the field. If you thought Sissey hated balloons, you ain't seen nothing til you've seen her around a cannon. I had the foresight to buy earplugs for her--orange, of course, to match her perky coat, hat and scarf, but they did little to mute the percussive explosions of a hyperactive cannon manned by a over-eager fan. Clemson, having formerly been an all-male military academy, seemed to think it was a grand old tradition to fire a cannon whenever they did anything down on the field. Score a touchdown? BOOM! Kick a field goal? BOOM! Punt the ball forty yards? BOOM! Call a time-out? BOOM! Fumble the ball? BOOM! Huddle on the field? BOOM! Break for the water boy? BOOM! Maybe I exaggerate a smidgen, but you get the point.
It didn't take much for them to fire that fellow up, and every time that cannon went BOOM!, Sissey jumped so high I was afraid she was going to land smack dab in the middle of the President's Box. I had to pull her back down into her seat each time before she rocketed clear out of the stadium. I was sure when she jumped, she was going to pop up right past the big glass windows of the skybox directly above us, right into full view of my brother. I could just see him sitting up there, mesmerized by the tantalizing action on the field, swapping sports stories with the other donors while watching the game, when suddenly, Sissey pops up in front of the window. And again, when the Tigers score a touchdown, up pops Sissey.They kick a field goal, here comes Sissey. They run a forty-yard touch down, up she pops again. He would never believe she was just jumping out of her seat in fear every time that cannon fired, but would think I had her down there on a trampoline trying to propel her up and over into the President's Box.
The fans seated around us kept watching her blast off in unison with the cannon, raising puzzled eyes at us and shaking their heads each time she projected into orbit. I tried to explain to them that she thought they were the Clemson "Tiggers", and she was just bouncing with joy each time the "Tiggers" scored. When that didn't work, I whispered that it was part of her disability, she had a propulsion problem, and couldn't help herself. She just spontaneously combusted. That shut them up for the rest of the game.
Other than that, it was a great experience to be in Death Valley with the two orange teams playing, either one a winner for us, being fans of the 'Hoos and fans of the Tigers, fans of tailgates and fans of ballgames, fans of glorious fall weather and fun times with family and friends. Fans of everything, that is, except cannons.
At least the orange team won.
Friday, November 20, 2009
How many miles are left on that car?
I promised someone very close to me and that I dearly love that I would never tell the following story. So I will not tell it. My lips are sealed, I will never mention this conversation to a single living soul as long as I live. I will simply post it instead. (Please do not let anyone know that I have done this.) All names have been omitted to protect the naive, the innocent, and all other parties that do not wish to be identified or so named.
We were driving home from Columbia this afternoon after a full day of Christmas shopping, tired but very excited that satellite radio already had the "Holly" channel up and going even though it was only November and Thanksgiving was still a week away. Christmas music was blaring out the windows as we drove home in eighty degree South Carolina autumnal weather. We were singing Christmas carols, my three year old niece was watching "Frosty the Snowman" on the DVD player, we were discussing which relative would receive which treasure we had just purchased, and a general holiday spirit permeated the warm fall air.
As I drove down I-77, my sister happened to ask, for no obvious reason other than curiosity, exactly how many miles I had on my car. I clicked the odometer button and told her it was at 98,000 and that I was sure I would roll past the 100,000 mile mark by the end of the year. I put a lot of mileage on that old tank, running back and forth between South Carolina and Virginia in addition to making the daily trek to classes in Lancaster.
After I revealed the mileage, (an unnamed female person in the car) asked the following question:
"How many miles do you get before you run out?"
Huh?
"What do you mean?" I questioned her.
"Well, you're always talking about how many miles you've got on the car, and that it's almost time to trade it for a new one. So, how do you know when your miles are about to run out?"
" You mean like minutes on the cell phone?" I asked.
"Yes," she answered. "It doesn't seem fair to trade a car when the miles are about to run out. How does the person that buys the old car know how many miles are left on it when they buy it? And how do you know when you buy a new car how many miles you'll get with it?"
"Honey, you don't buy miles with the car," I started, "it's not like a cell phone plan where you only get so many and then you run out. "
I put on my best used-car-salesman hat and began to explain the steps involved in purchasing, owning, maintaining, and eventually trading an automobile.
"First, you purchase a car and make sure you properly maintain it. Get the oil changed every 3,000 miles, service it regularly, rotate the tires, take good care of it, maintain it properly, and you'll get a lot of mileage out of that car."
At this point my sister piped in, "(Unnamed female person in the car), you know when you see all those broken-down cars on the side of the interstate? Those are the cars whose miles have run out. They just stop, and you have to leave them on the side of the road until you can go and get some new miles."
She thought this was terribly funny, but it sure wasn't helping my lesson in auto-mechanics.
I continued by trying to explain that when I said it was time to trade because the car had so many miles on it, I simply meant that heavy use of the vehicle excelerated the general wear-and-tear on the engine, transmission, brakes, belts, and other systems of the car. After so many miles, a car started to age and it was best to start thinking about getting a new one before you had to invest too much in maintaining an aging vehicle.
"You have to go to the dealership and renew your mileage, usually for a two year period," my sister continued, not about to let this opportunity pass. " Once they activate it, you can go back and start your car up, then drive it home,"
Finally, finally, (the unnamed female person in the car) realized she was being taking for a ride by my sister, and no matter how much mileage that story had, she wasn't buying it any longer.
"Please, please, please don't tell anybody that I actually thought the car ran out of miles," (the unnamed female person in the car) begged.
"Of course not, honey, " I reassured her, as I winked at my sister in the rear-view mirror. "I'll never tell a soul!"
Semantics, shemantics.....some things are just better left unsaid.
We were driving home from Columbia this afternoon after a full day of Christmas shopping, tired but very excited that satellite radio already had the "Holly" channel up and going even though it was only November and Thanksgiving was still a week away. Christmas music was blaring out the windows as we drove home in eighty degree South Carolina autumnal weather. We were singing Christmas carols, my three year old niece was watching "Frosty the Snowman" on the DVD player, we were discussing which relative would receive which treasure we had just purchased, and a general holiday spirit permeated the warm fall air.
As I drove down I-77, my sister happened to ask, for no obvious reason other than curiosity, exactly how many miles I had on my car. I clicked the odometer button and told her it was at 98,000 and that I was sure I would roll past the 100,000 mile mark by the end of the year. I put a lot of mileage on that old tank, running back and forth between South Carolina and Virginia in addition to making the daily trek to classes in Lancaster.
After I revealed the mileage, (an unnamed female person in the car) asked the following question:
"How many miles do you get before you run out?"
Huh?
"What do you mean?" I questioned her.
"Well, you're always talking about how many miles you've got on the car, and that it's almost time to trade it for a new one. So, how do you know when your miles are about to run out?"
" You mean like minutes on the cell phone?" I asked.
"Yes," she answered. "It doesn't seem fair to trade a car when the miles are about to run out. How does the person that buys the old car know how many miles are left on it when they buy it? And how do you know when you buy a new car how many miles you'll get with it?"
"Honey, you don't buy miles with the car," I started, "it's not like a cell phone plan where you only get so many and then you run out. "
I put on my best used-car-salesman hat and began to explain the steps involved in purchasing, owning, maintaining, and eventually trading an automobile.
"First, you purchase a car and make sure you properly maintain it. Get the oil changed every 3,000 miles, service it regularly, rotate the tires, take good care of it, maintain it properly, and you'll get a lot of mileage out of that car."
At this point my sister piped in, "(Unnamed female person in the car), you know when you see all those broken-down cars on the side of the interstate? Those are the cars whose miles have run out. They just stop, and you have to leave them on the side of the road until you can go and get some new miles."
She thought this was terribly funny, but it sure wasn't helping my lesson in auto-mechanics.
I continued by trying to explain that when I said it was time to trade because the car had so many miles on it, I simply meant that heavy use of the vehicle excelerated the general wear-and-tear on the engine, transmission, brakes, belts, and other systems of the car. After so many miles, a car started to age and it was best to start thinking about getting a new one before you had to invest too much in maintaining an aging vehicle.
"You have to go to the dealership and renew your mileage, usually for a two year period," my sister continued, not about to let this opportunity pass. " Once they activate it, you can go back and start your car up, then drive it home,"
Finally, finally, (the unnamed female person in the car) realized she was being taking for a ride by my sister, and no matter how much mileage that story had, she wasn't buying it any longer.
"Please, please, please don't tell anybody that I actually thought the car ran out of miles," (the unnamed female person in the car) begged.
"Of course not, honey, " I reassured her, as I winked at my sister in the rear-view mirror. "I'll never tell a soul!"
Semantics, shemantics.....some things are just better left unsaid.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
I'd marry that man if he wasn't already
My brother-in-law's father, Jimmy ( does that make him my father-in-law once removed? ) dropped off a fifty gallon trashbag full of sweet mustard greens today. He knows just how much I love greens, maybe because he has superior intuition, or maybe because I tell him everytime I see him. This was his second delivery in two weeks, over 100 gallons of some of the prettiest greens in town. He had gotten up early this morning to pick them, determined to make sure he pulled the tender leaves before the rain moved in this afternoon. It's a back-breaking job bending over and harvesting greens, especially when you know your labors are not for yourself but for someone else's gain. He had planted his garden this year with his usual intent....work hard and then give most of it away, but that's the kind of man Jimmy is....joyfully doing back-breaking work not for himself but simply because he wants to make somebody else happy.
But wait, there's more! Not only did Jimmy bring me fresh picked greens, he brought me his grandmother's big ole fifty-quart pot to cook them in. He said my pot wasn't big enough to cook them. And that, my dear, is not an insult.
But wait, there's more! He sat on the porch and helped me strip them all down, pulling the tough stems away from the tender leaves so I could cook them right away. To top all that, he then took the bag of leftover stalks and leaves home to add to his compost pile, preparing a year in advance for next year's garden. I guess in today's political culture, that's what we'd calling "going green." Al Gore's got nothing on this man.
But wait, there's more! He then proceeded to oversee my washing and rinsing of the greens, finally instructing me on the best way to cook them (according to HIS grandmother's recipe!): how much water to add, what temperature was correct, how much country ham would season them just right, whether a streak of lean was the better choice, how much to salt them down, how long to cook them, whether to cover them or not, when to stir them, and all the other intracacies involved in the process of preparing greens for the table. We ended up with enough not only for supper but with four extra quarts to put up for Thanksgiving dinner.
I couldn't help but think: Here's a man who grows dinner, harvests dinner, delivers dinner, prepares dinner,cooks dinner,and plans for next year's dinner. I told Sissey that this was the kind of man she needed to save her heart for...a self-sufficient man,a gentleman who was hardworking, generous, helpful, and kind, one that women would pass on the street and say, "I'd marry that man if he wasn't already!"
And that, my dear, is not an insult!
But wait, there's more! Not only did Jimmy bring me fresh picked greens, he brought me his grandmother's big ole fifty-quart pot to cook them in. He said my pot wasn't big enough to cook them. And that, my dear, is not an insult.
But wait, there's more! He sat on the porch and helped me strip them all down, pulling the tough stems away from the tender leaves so I could cook them right away. To top all that, he then took the bag of leftover stalks and leaves home to add to his compost pile, preparing a year in advance for next year's garden. I guess in today's political culture, that's what we'd calling "going green." Al Gore's got nothing on this man.
But wait, there's more! He then proceeded to oversee my washing and rinsing of the greens, finally instructing me on the best way to cook them (according to HIS grandmother's recipe!): how much water to add, what temperature was correct, how much country ham would season them just right, whether a streak of lean was the better choice, how much to salt them down, how long to cook them, whether to cover them or not, when to stir them, and all the other intracacies involved in the process of preparing greens for the table. We ended up with enough not only for supper but with four extra quarts to put up for Thanksgiving dinner.
I couldn't help but think: Here's a man who grows dinner, harvests dinner, delivers dinner, prepares dinner,cooks dinner,and plans for next year's dinner. I told Sissey that this was the kind of man she needed to save her heart for...a self-sufficient man,a gentleman who was hardworking, generous, helpful, and kind, one that women would pass on the street and say, "I'd marry that man if he wasn't already!"
And that, my dear, is not an insult!
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
All is Well in Tiger Town
My brother, the golden-haired boy, told me last night that he had gotten tickets for Sissey and me in the handicapped section. The entrance and exits are ramped, there's plenty of room for her wheelchair, and she'll be able to roll right in the stadium to watch the game. I was so excited and appreciative he had gotten us such perfect accomodations, until he informed me that he would be sitting in the President's Box and that he had given his daughter, Margaret, a sideline pass.
Hmmmm...I started thinking that maybe that just wasn't fair. The President's Box was so much more my style than his, he didn't really want to be up there, he wouldn't even appreciate it. He'd much rather be down on the sidelines of the field as the team doctor or up in the stadium with the roaring Tiger crowd. I should be the one sitting in the plush confines of the best seats in the stadium, rubbing elbows with the uppity-ups, munching on delicate morsals served on silver platters by white gloved waiters. I would appreciate it very much, thank you, and I started thinking that maybe, just maybe, I could talk him out of that spot.
"Oh," I smiled, "that's great. The President's Box, huh? Too bad you'll miss all the action down on the field. Margaret will love taking that spot! We'll be loving it down in the stadium with all the excitement, the roar of the crowd, the energy. Sorry you'll be stuck up there in the glass bubble cut off from the fans. Hey, come to think of it, wouldn't you rather sit with Sissey and show her how to have the real Tiger experience? Teach her all about Death Valley, Frank Howard, the Tiger Rag, the history behind the rock? You've been to so many games, you're such a football pro, it would mean so much to her. It would be the perfect uncle/niece bonding time."
"No, I don't think so. Nice try," he said.
Shoot, round one goes to the golden haired boy, but I'm not beat yet.
I decided to try tactic number two. When whining and cajoling fails, try guilt. I would shame him out of those seats yet.
"OK, you go ahead and take the best seats, I'll just roam around below, lost in the crowd, pushing Sissey in her wheelchair. We'll be rolling around searching for our seats, trying to manage the hills and the swarm of people. I hope we don't get crushed by the mob of fans. Don't worry about us, though. If we get hurt or lost I'm sure security will show up to help. Of course, I know nothing about the stadium or how to get around, this wasn't my alma mater, but I'm sure we can figure it out on our own. You go ahead and sit in the President's Box, you deserve those seats so much more than anyone."
"OK," he said.
Not the response I was hoping for. One final try remained. I would beat him at his own game, using my best psycho-babble jargon and all the knowledge I had gained this year from Psychology 101.
" So, how does that make you feel?" I fired at him, hoping he would dig deep into his sub-conscious mind and discover that he didn't really need to sit in the President's Box to enjoy the game, that he actually wanted me to take the tickets instead, that it would complete him and make him feel whole to sacrifice the better tickets for the lesser ones, a truly noble gesture.
"Makes me feel pretty good, actually," he grinned back at me.
Dadgummit, that's the problem with psychiatrists. They are too self-actualized to be manipulated by guilt or trickery or amatuer analysis.
OK, so he won the round and the match. I've been beaten by the professional, I've been relegated to the regulars, I'll be content with popcorn and coke and a hard stadium seat, but I can't lose, because either team is a winner for me, President's Box or not, and I'm going to the game!
And that makes me feel pretty good, actually!
Go Orange!
Postscript: My brother redeemed himself by getting tickets on the 50 yard line for my husband and son. Not quite the President's Box or a sideline pass, but a pretty darn good second place. All is forgiven, All is well in Tiger Town.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Water on the Moon
Fox News just reported that water has been found on the moon....twenty four gallons, to be exact. It took $84,000,000 to discover it. That's EIGHTY FOUR MILLION DOLLARS for TWENTY FOUR GALLONS OF WATER! Comes to about $3,500,000 per gallon. A little pricey for my taste. I think I'll stick to the bottled water I can get at Costco for $6.99 a case and pocket the change. On top of that, the water is billions of years old. I hope it ages like a fine wine, otherwise that is going to be some nasty old moonshine and you couldn't pay me to drink it.
Michio Kaku, Theoretical Physicist, Professor at City College of New York, Summa Cum Laude Harvard graduate, radio host and author of Physics of the Impossible, stated in an interview this was a "significant" discovery. OK, so this guy is highly qualified to make that kind of statement. He then went on to say that water on the moon is five times more valuable than gold. Again, he certainly has the credentials that qualify him to an opinion. My only question is this: Exactly who on the moon is going to buy it? Or even better, Who in the World is going to buy it? How can you attribute value to something when there is no one there that wants it? See anything significant about that?
I looked at the desolate moon shots scrolling across the screen....vast wastelands of gray that were pockmarked with craters and drifts. I didn't see a single tree or green blade of grass, a bird or any other creature. There wasn't sign of life, a blue sky, a brightly shining sun, or anything else that made me want to invest $84,000,000 to get there. It would be like ditching color TV and going back to black and white sets with rabbit ears and fuzzy reception. Why would anyone chose to live in a black and white world when the plasma version with high digital reception is already available? Who are these people that scientists think are chomping at the bit to live on the moon? Will they have cellular reception when they get there? How about an email address, because I can guarantee you that the US Postal System will have trouble delivering to that zip code.
I admit that it is exciting to see man reach the outer limits of space and pioneer new discoveries, but while we are living in the midst of the worst recession in years, with wars being ravaged all over the world and terrorists infiltrating our nation, with children dying each day from hunger and disease, I'm just not overly concerned with twenty-four gallons of water at the price tag of $84,000,000. I can think of eighty-four million other things I'd rather spend that money on....a cure for cancer, world peace, an end to poverty, eradication of hunger, elimination of disease, and on and on and on. We can't even provide palatable drinking water for everyone on earth, yet we're off to the moon to find water there, at a very hefty expense. Seems like there might be a little problem with common sense and priorities, and when scientists can figure that out, that will be a significant discovery.
Michio Kaku, Theoretical Physicist, Professor at City College of New York, Summa Cum Laude Harvard graduate, radio host and author of Physics of the Impossible, stated in an interview this was a "significant" discovery. OK, so this guy is highly qualified to make that kind of statement. He then went on to say that water on the moon is five times more valuable than gold. Again, he certainly has the credentials that qualify him to an opinion. My only question is this: Exactly who on the moon is going to buy it? Or even better, Who in the World is going to buy it? How can you attribute value to something when there is no one there that wants it? See anything significant about that?
I looked at the desolate moon shots scrolling across the screen....vast wastelands of gray that were pockmarked with craters and drifts. I didn't see a single tree or green blade of grass, a bird or any other creature. There wasn't sign of life, a blue sky, a brightly shining sun, or anything else that made me want to invest $84,000,000 to get there. It would be like ditching color TV and going back to black and white sets with rabbit ears and fuzzy reception. Why would anyone chose to live in a black and white world when the plasma version with high digital reception is already available? Who are these people that scientists think are chomping at the bit to live on the moon? Will they have cellular reception when they get there? How about an email address, because I can guarantee you that the US Postal System will have trouble delivering to that zip code.
I admit that it is exciting to see man reach the outer limits of space and pioneer new discoveries, but while we are living in the midst of the worst recession in years, with wars being ravaged all over the world and terrorists infiltrating our nation, with children dying each day from hunger and disease, I'm just not overly concerned with twenty-four gallons of water at the price tag of $84,000,000. I can think of eighty-four million other things I'd rather spend that money on....a cure for cancer, world peace, an end to poverty, eradication of hunger, elimination of disease, and on and on and on. We can't even provide palatable drinking water for everyone on earth, yet we're off to the moon to find water there, at a very hefty expense. Seems like there might be a little problem with common sense and priorities, and when scientists can figure that out, that will be a significant discovery.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Cow Field Cemeteries
We took a detour to get to Rock Hill today, driving the Old York Road through Brattonsville instead of taking the quicker interstate route. It was a gorgeous fall day, with a much appreciated cerulean blue sky finally appearing after a week of hurricane-fueled rains and soggy gray skies. The cotton fields had been plucked and cut down to stubby rows of stalks, the cows were feeding in pastures speckled with orange, maroon, and golden leaves, and covies of migratory birds swooped and swirled across the sky on their southward journey to warmer climes. We drove slowly, enjoying the leisurely autumn drive through quiet back roads, relishing the relaxing pace and spring-like temperatures after enduring a cold dreary week.
Shortly after we veered off Highway 321, we spotted a cemetery on the side of the road, just past the house with the purple trim, purple shutters, purple doors, and purple wishing well. You couldn't miss it unless you were already dead. A chain-link fence surrounded the graveyard, and it had been freshly mowed, but other than that it was void of any landscaping or signage. A double gate marked what must have been the only access point. It looked to be about five acres of land, more or less, with more empty acerage and less graves than expected. As we drove past, I viewed the vacant plots and wondered why the ten or so visible graves had been neatly lined up in a perfectly straight row. They were tucked into the fartherest side of the field, in one single line with headstones and artificial flowers marking each plot, the rest of the cemetery standing vacant and bare. The graves weren't spread out in the usual way, with individual family plots gathering it's members into tight little huddles around the field; instead, they were in a solitary, rigid, straight row, like an army platoon, one lined up behind the other, silent soldiers marching to a silent drum.
"That cemetery sure isn't doing very well," I commented to my mother, who was riding in the front seat beside me.
She looked over and nodded in agreement. After I opened my mouth, I thought about what I had just said.
"I suppose it's better that it's not doing well, if you think about it," I corrected myself. "It's not as if I'm wishing a bunch of people were dead, it just looks sad to see only a few graves and all that empty space. It looks a little lonely out there."
I couldn't explain exactly what I meant, except that when it came time to lay my body down in the cold, cold, ground, I wanted to be surrounded by a few other people, some family and friends, if possible, and not just lined up in one single, solitary row, stuck over by some pine trees with four empty acres waiting to gobble up fresh, dead souls. I wanted to be in an established cemetery, one I knew would be around for a long, long time, one with huge, old trees standing guard and lots of other souls peacefully resting there with me. I wanted to be tucked in between moss-covered family headstones that were surrounded by rusting wrought iron fences, a plot that contained evidence of its permanence and stability. I wasn't planning on changing addresses once I got there, and I wanted to make sure my final resting place still existed when the good Lord came to call me home.
My mother understood what I was trying to say, as only mothers can understand their children, and felt the same compassion as I did for those poor old souls stuck in that desolate ground. I told her I'd rather be a pile of ashes in an urn on the mantle than relegated to that half-empty, forsaken red clay field.
So when the time comes for me to breathe my last breath, don't you dare stick me in somebody's old cow pasture surrounded by scrub pines and call it a cemetery. No sir, because if you do, I will come back to haunt you in your dreams at night and in your waking hours during the day, moaning and groaning and rattling my chains until somebody finally moves my tired old bones to an old family plot. There I'll rest in peace with my dearly departed relatives, waiting to march into glory together, holding hands and singing "Hallelujah" in chorus with the ones I love.
But enough about that, for today I was alive and well and still had some shopping to do! We drove on to Rock Hill, shopped ourselves to death, and took the interstate home.
Shortly after we veered off Highway 321, we spotted a cemetery on the side of the road, just past the house with the purple trim, purple shutters, purple doors, and purple wishing well. You couldn't miss it unless you were already dead. A chain-link fence surrounded the graveyard, and it had been freshly mowed, but other than that it was void of any landscaping or signage. A double gate marked what must have been the only access point. It looked to be about five acres of land, more or less, with more empty acerage and less graves than expected. As we drove past, I viewed the vacant plots and wondered why the ten or so visible graves had been neatly lined up in a perfectly straight row. They were tucked into the fartherest side of the field, in one single line with headstones and artificial flowers marking each plot, the rest of the cemetery standing vacant and bare. The graves weren't spread out in the usual way, with individual family plots gathering it's members into tight little huddles around the field; instead, they were in a solitary, rigid, straight row, like an army platoon, one lined up behind the other, silent soldiers marching to a silent drum.
"That cemetery sure isn't doing very well," I commented to my mother, who was riding in the front seat beside me.
She looked over and nodded in agreement. After I opened my mouth, I thought about what I had just said.
"I suppose it's better that it's not doing well, if you think about it," I corrected myself. "It's not as if I'm wishing a bunch of people were dead, it just looks sad to see only a few graves and all that empty space. It looks a little lonely out there."
I couldn't explain exactly what I meant, except that when it came time to lay my body down in the cold, cold, ground, I wanted to be surrounded by a few other people, some family and friends, if possible, and not just lined up in one single, solitary row, stuck over by some pine trees with four empty acres waiting to gobble up fresh, dead souls. I wanted to be in an established cemetery, one I knew would be around for a long, long time, one with huge, old trees standing guard and lots of other souls peacefully resting there with me. I wanted to be tucked in between moss-covered family headstones that were surrounded by rusting wrought iron fences, a plot that contained evidence of its permanence and stability. I wasn't planning on changing addresses once I got there, and I wanted to make sure my final resting place still existed when the good Lord came to call me home.
My mother understood what I was trying to say, as only mothers can understand their children, and felt the same compassion as I did for those poor old souls stuck in that desolate ground. I told her I'd rather be a pile of ashes in an urn on the mantle than relegated to that half-empty, forsaken red clay field.
So when the time comes for me to breathe my last breath, don't you dare stick me in somebody's old cow pasture surrounded by scrub pines and call it a cemetery. No sir, because if you do, I will come back to haunt you in your dreams at night and in your waking hours during the day, moaning and groaning and rattling my chains until somebody finally moves my tired old bones to an old family plot. There I'll rest in peace with my dearly departed relatives, waiting to march into glory together, holding hands and singing "Hallelujah" in chorus with the ones I love.
But enough about that, for today I was alive and well and still had some shopping to do! We drove on to Rock Hill, shopped ourselves to death, and took the interstate home.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
"T" Parties and Tiaras!
Gans, Sissey and I are having a "T- party" today and you are all invited. You don't need your white gloves, pearls and hats for this one, however. We're hitting the road to do a little Christmas shopping at Target, Tuesday Morning, and TJ Maxx, a bargain hunter's paradise and just our cup of "T"!
We are also so very pleased to announce that our niece, Madison, received her very first tiara last night, one of many to come, we feel very sure! She was crowned "Little Miss 3K" at her pre-school program and was awarded a crown, a ribbon, a sash, a certificate, and a bag of candy! Guess which one she loved the most? "Mr. 3K" was also crowned, except he got a trophy instead of a tiara. She loved that crown--a real one made of metal, not the cheap plastic kind from the Dollar Store-- especially the way the "diamonds" jingled when she shook her head. I was afraid she would do some kind of brain damage the way she was tossing her head around to hear the crystals clinking! She wore it for the remainder of the program, on the car ride home, through dinner, and as she left for home, I warned her of the dangers of sleeping in a tiara....it can be a little prickly until you get used to it.
This was the brilliant part of the whole program....the winners were based on the amount of money they had raised for the school. I have worked on many annual-giving campaigns for my daughter's school, and never once thought of giving tiaras and trophies to the kids that raised the most money. I could have raised MILLIONS of dollars if I had thought of that one! Who in their right mind would refuse to make a donation to a little princess that was gunning for her first crown? I was amazed at the amount of cash some of the students had raised....fourth grade girls bringing in hundreds of dollars, fifth grade boys raising thousands!! It was the best strategic fundraising plan I have ever seen, and you can bet your bottom dollar that I'll be calling Northstar Academy in Richmond to pass on the idea!
It was a real treat to see our niece receive her very first tiara, and now, a day of shopping will just crown the weekend for us! A girl never gets to old for tiaras and t-parties.
We are also so very pleased to announce that our niece, Madison, received her very first tiara last night, one of many to come, we feel very sure! She was crowned "Little Miss 3K" at her pre-school program and was awarded a crown, a ribbon, a sash, a certificate, and a bag of candy! Guess which one she loved the most? "Mr. 3K" was also crowned, except he got a trophy instead of a tiara. She loved that crown--a real one made of metal, not the cheap plastic kind from the Dollar Store-- especially the way the "diamonds" jingled when she shook her head. I was afraid she would do some kind of brain damage the way she was tossing her head around to hear the crystals clinking! She wore it for the remainder of the program, on the car ride home, through dinner, and as she left for home, I warned her of the dangers of sleeping in a tiara....it can be a little prickly until you get used to it.
This was the brilliant part of the whole program....the winners were based on the amount of money they had raised for the school. I have worked on many annual-giving campaigns for my daughter's school, and never once thought of giving tiaras and trophies to the kids that raised the most money. I could have raised MILLIONS of dollars if I had thought of that one! Who in their right mind would refuse to make a donation to a little princess that was gunning for her first crown? I was amazed at the amount of cash some of the students had raised....fourth grade girls bringing in hundreds of dollars, fifth grade boys raising thousands!! It was the best strategic fundraising plan I have ever seen, and you can bet your bottom dollar that I'll be calling Northstar Academy in Richmond to pass on the idea!
It was a real treat to see our niece receive her very first tiara, and now, a day of shopping will just crown the weekend for us! A girl never gets to old for tiaras and t-parties.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
God Bless our Veterans
My grandfather was a WWI veteran, serving in the same 42 Infantry Rainbow Division as Uncle Henry had served in WWII. He witnessed the horrors of war and watched many of his buddies fall in battle. Grandaddy could never talk about his war days without getting tearful, and he usually preferred not to mention them at all. The memories were still too fresh and painful even in his eighties. During WWII, a beloved family member, Lapsley Barron, gave his life during the landing on Anzio Beach, and his body still rests beneath a white cross at the military cemetery, Netumo, on the shores of Italy. Veteran's Day wasn't just another holiday to my grandfather, it was a chance to show the deep gratitude and respect he felt for all his fellow war buddies, a moment that was deserved by every fallen soldier.
Every Veterans Day, Grandaddy faithfully marched down to the Post Office to purchase red poppies from the American Legion. He and my grandmother wore them proudly all week-- his pinned to his lapel, Grandmother's pinned to her purse.
As Sissey and I drove through the Post Office yesterday, the auxillary wives were seated out front, offering poppies to customers on their way into the building. I wondered when I saw them how many people still knew the story of the poppy and how the custom of wearing them on Veteran's Day had begun.
The symbolic poppies represent all veterans who have died serving their country during any war. The tradition of wearing them on Veteran's Day originated in Lt. Col. John McCrea's beloved poem, "In Flanders Field." During WWI, fighting had been particulary fierce on the Western Front, especially in Flanders. Dr. McCrae was an army surgeon who had just finished seventeen grueling days of treating soldiers injured in the 3 fierce battles that had occurred in the Ypres salient, one of the biggest battlefields in Belgium during WWI. He was tired and greatly discouraged by the terrible injuries the young soldiers had sustained. In particular, a young friend of his, a twenty-two year old fellow doctor, had died from injuries sustained in a shell burst, and that weighed heavily on his heart and mind. Dr. McCrae was called on to conduct the funeral ceremony later that day as no chaplain was available. He wrote his famous poem the next day, May 3, 1915, as he sat in the back of an ambulance parked beside the cemetery where his friend was buried. Red poppies had sprung abundantly across the battlefields where so many soldiers had died during the fierce fighting. As Dr. McCrae watched the poppies blowing back and forth under a gentle wind, and as he looked out over the cemetery that held the bodies of so many fallen soldiers, he wrote the following words on a notepad, his simple attempt to deal with the frustrations of war, the loss of lives, the horrors of battle.
I include his words here, in honor and memory of all our veterans, past and present, who have made the ultimate sacrifice defending freedom around the globe. Thank you and God Bless Our Vets.
In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army
In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Every Veterans Day, Grandaddy faithfully marched down to the Post Office to purchase red poppies from the American Legion. He and my grandmother wore them proudly all week-- his pinned to his lapel, Grandmother's pinned to her purse.
As Sissey and I drove through the Post Office yesterday, the auxillary wives were seated out front, offering poppies to customers on their way into the building. I wondered when I saw them how many people still knew the story of the poppy and how the custom of wearing them on Veteran's Day had begun.
The symbolic poppies represent all veterans who have died serving their country during any war. The tradition of wearing them on Veteran's Day originated in Lt. Col. John McCrea's beloved poem, "In Flanders Field." During WWI, fighting had been particulary fierce on the Western Front, especially in Flanders. Dr. McCrae was an army surgeon who had just finished seventeen grueling days of treating soldiers injured in the 3 fierce battles that had occurred in the Ypres salient, one of the biggest battlefields in Belgium during WWI. He was tired and greatly discouraged by the terrible injuries the young soldiers had sustained. In particular, a young friend of his, a twenty-two year old fellow doctor, had died from injuries sustained in a shell burst, and that weighed heavily on his heart and mind. Dr. McCrae was called on to conduct the funeral ceremony later that day as no chaplain was available. He wrote his famous poem the next day, May 3, 1915, as he sat in the back of an ambulance parked beside the cemetery where his friend was buried. Red poppies had sprung abundantly across the battlefields where so many soldiers had died during the fierce fighting. As Dr. McCrae watched the poppies blowing back and forth under a gentle wind, and as he looked out over the cemetery that held the bodies of so many fallen soldiers, he wrote the following words on a notepad, his simple attempt to deal with the frustrations of war, the loss of lives, the horrors of battle.
I include his words here, in honor and memory of all our veterans, past and present, who have made the ultimate sacrifice defending freedom around the globe. Thank you and God Bless Our Vets.
In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army
In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Christmas in November
What do you do on a rainy Tuesday in November? Go see "A Christmas Carol" in 3D! Nothing like the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future to jump-start your holiday spirit. I admit we may be a little quick on the draw, especially since Thanksgiving is still two weeks away, but you're talking to the gal who finished her Christmas shopping last January at the post-holiday sales and has nothing left to do but make the fruitcake.
There were only six of us taking in the 12:15 matinee, and it felt like we were at our own private viewing. We certainly didn't have to worry about getting a good seat or putting up with people yakking on their cell phones. We also didn't have to worry about how goofy we looked in those silly 3-D glasses since the three twosomes sat in opposite sections of the theater. The animation was fantastic-- we jumped and ducked at all the special effects, and by the end of the show, Sissey and I were shivering from the falling snow that seemed to drift through the cinema as Tiny Tim chirped "God Bless us, Everyone!"
Afterward, we went across the street to Target and just walked up and down the Holiday Aisles, There were wreaths on the shelves and stockings hung by fake fires. Christmas trees, sparkling and glittering with lights and ornaments, twinkled in every corner. Bags and boxes of candy and cocoa lined the aisles, Christmas music played from the speakers, animated reindeer and snowmen winked and blinked at us. It was a winter wonderland and we were basking in a holiday glow, only it was still November.
Sissey loved all the festive packaging and brightly colored displays of gifts and goodies. She "oohed" and "ahhed" up and down each row, pointing out ones she particularly liked. We were in the video section when she spied the creatively-wrapped, complete series of the "I Love Lucy" TV show, one of her favorites. The DVD's were cleverly packaged in a heart-shaped candy box, with a picture of Lucy in her Vetameatavegamin girl role plastered across the front. It retailed for $149.99. Just three weeks ago, I had finally caved in to Sissey's pleas to order the "Lucy" set online, especially since she now had a TV/DVD combo in her room and we had just finished a lecture on the importance of rewarding oneself after reaching a goal. She had just gotten back two papers and a project, A's on all, and reminded me that it was a good time for a reward!
For those of you who don't know me, I am the original tight-wad, a second-cousin to Ebenezeer Scrooge. I can make a nickle last longer than a dime and am a consumate and professional bargain hunter. Nothing thrills me more than finding a deal on something, even if I know they just "marked up" the price in order to "mark it down". I'll fall for it everytime: if there's a red line or red tag, I'm going to snatch that "steal" up as fast as I can. I can't help myself, it's my thrifty Scottish heritage. So of course,when it came time to break down and buy the DVD's, I did a little internet surfing and comparison shopping, and Voila! found the complete set, brand-new, for $89.99. I immediately ordered them and gave myself a little secret pat on the back for the $60 I had just saved.
The DVD's arrived last week --from China! They were in a black and white box, with a xeroxed picture of Lucy tucked between the plastic lining of the cover. None of the DVD's were labeled with episode titles or scenes, just hand-numbered 1-43 in black ink. The return instructions were written in Chinese. I am not fluent in Chinese. We were screwed.
I tried to market them to Sissey as best I could, telling her it did not matter how the DVD's were packaged or labeled (or rather not packaged and not labeled), the important thing was that they did actually play on our American DVD player. We had made that mistake before, ordering "Oliver Twist" from England, only to discover English and American DVD players are configured differently, and the DVD's are not interchangeable.
"But Mom, how I am going to know which episode is on which disc? Nothing is labeled."
"It doesn't matter," I responded. "The content is all there. You're eventually going to watch them all anyway, so just start with the first one. You can label them as you go through them."
She was not impressed with my purchase, but there wasn't much we could about it at that point.
And now, full of the Christmas spirit, merrily strolling along the festively decorated aisles, she spied the exact set of "Lucy" DVD's she'd had her heart set on. In a heart-shaped box to boot! She pointed them out to me wistfully.
"Honey, you are a marketing executive's dream customer," I told her. "Just wrap it up pretty and you're sold! That set is no different from the one at home, it's just packaged a little better. Your DVD's are like Tiny Tim....a little defective on the outside, but really, really good on the inside."
She didn't exactly buy that argument either. It was a little hard to convince her in the midst of a marketing mecca that packaging didn't really matter, but when you got right down to it, it didn't. If she had gotten that pretty heart-shaped box and it had been empty inside, void of all the DVD's, it would just have been a worthless box. She may have not liked the packaging of her DVD set, it may have been a little difficult to figure out which episode was which, but the content was there, and it was what was inside the package that mattered.
So we continued down the aisle, leaving the box on the shelf, leaving the store without making any purchases, heading home in the first bands of rain from Hurricane Ida, saying "Bah-humbug" to the nasty weather, praying that God would bless us, everyone.
There were only six of us taking in the 12:15 matinee, and it felt like we were at our own private viewing. We certainly didn't have to worry about getting a good seat or putting up with people yakking on their cell phones. We also didn't have to worry about how goofy we looked in those silly 3-D glasses since the three twosomes sat in opposite sections of the theater. The animation was fantastic-- we jumped and ducked at all the special effects, and by the end of the show, Sissey and I were shivering from the falling snow that seemed to drift through the cinema as Tiny Tim chirped "God Bless us, Everyone!"
Afterward, we went across the street to Target and just walked up and down the Holiday Aisles, There were wreaths on the shelves and stockings hung by fake fires. Christmas trees, sparkling and glittering with lights and ornaments, twinkled in every corner. Bags and boxes of candy and cocoa lined the aisles, Christmas music played from the speakers, animated reindeer and snowmen winked and blinked at us. It was a winter wonderland and we were basking in a holiday glow, only it was still November.
Sissey loved all the festive packaging and brightly colored displays of gifts and goodies. She "oohed" and "ahhed" up and down each row, pointing out ones she particularly liked. We were in the video section when she spied the creatively-wrapped, complete series of the "I Love Lucy" TV show, one of her favorites. The DVD's were cleverly packaged in a heart-shaped candy box, with a picture of Lucy in her Vetameatavegamin girl role plastered across the front. It retailed for $149.99. Just three weeks ago, I had finally caved in to Sissey's pleas to order the "Lucy" set online, especially since she now had a TV/DVD combo in her room and we had just finished a lecture on the importance of rewarding oneself after reaching a goal. She had just gotten back two papers and a project, A's on all, and reminded me that it was a good time for a reward!
For those of you who don't know me, I am the original tight-wad, a second-cousin to Ebenezeer Scrooge. I can make a nickle last longer than a dime and am a consumate and professional bargain hunter. Nothing thrills me more than finding a deal on something, even if I know they just "marked up" the price in order to "mark it down". I'll fall for it everytime: if there's a red line or red tag, I'm going to snatch that "steal" up as fast as I can. I can't help myself, it's my thrifty Scottish heritage. So of course,when it came time to break down and buy the DVD's, I did a little internet surfing and comparison shopping, and Voila! found the complete set, brand-new, for $89.99. I immediately ordered them and gave myself a little secret pat on the back for the $60 I had just saved.
The DVD's arrived last week --from China! They were in a black and white box, with a xeroxed picture of Lucy tucked between the plastic lining of the cover. None of the DVD's were labeled with episode titles or scenes, just hand-numbered 1-43 in black ink. The return instructions were written in Chinese. I am not fluent in Chinese. We were screwed.
I tried to market them to Sissey as best I could, telling her it did not matter how the DVD's were packaged or labeled (or rather not packaged and not labeled), the important thing was that they did actually play on our American DVD player. We had made that mistake before, ordering "Oliver Twist" from England, only to discover English and American DVD players are configured differently, and the DVD's are not interchangeable.
"But Mom, how I am going to know which episode is on which disc? Nothing is labeled."
"It doesn't matter," I responded. "The content is all there. You're eventually going to watch them all anyway, so just start with the first one. You can label them as you go through them."
She was not impressed with my purchase, but there wasn't much we could about it at that point.
And now, full of the Christmas spirit, merrily strolling along the festively decorated aisles, she spied the exact set of "Lucy" DVD's she'd had her heart set on. In a heart-shaped box to boot! She pointed them out to me wistfully.
"Honey, you are a marketing executive's dream customer," I told her. "Just wrap it up pretty and you're sold! That set is no different from the one at home, it's just packaged a little better. Your DVD's are like Tiny Tim....a little defective on the outside, but really, really good on the inside."
She didn't exactly buy that argument either. It was a little hard to convince her in the midst of a marketing mecca that packaging didn't really matter, but when you got right down to it, it didn't. If she had gotten that pretty heart-shaped box and it had been empty inside, void of all the DVD's, it would just have been a worthless box. She may have not liked the packaging of her DVD set, it may have been a little difficult to figure out which episode was which, but the content was there, and it was what was inside the package that mattered.
So we continued down the aisle, leaving the box on the shelf, leaving the store without making any purchases, heading home in the first bands of rain from Hurricane Ida, saying "Bah-humbug" to the nasty weather, praying that God would bless us, everyone.
Monday, November 9, 2009
The WalMart Preacherman
An outing to WalMart is an occasion unto itself. You never know who you'll see, what you'll see, or why you'll see what you do see. Some things are bizarre, some are absurd, some are puzzling, some are incredible. On any given day, the experience will be as uniquely different as the people who shop there, but it will definitely be an experience! And that, my friends, is why I love to go.
A few weeks ago on a Friday afternoon, I had to run by to pick up some benadryl, kleenex, coffee, and notebook paper. How could you not a love a place where you can satisfy your need to sniff, wipe, sip, and write all in one stop?
There was a man playing a saxophone that day on the sidewalk between WalMart and Food Lion. He had two huge speakers mounted on tripods that blasted the notes into the parking lot as shoppers entered and left the store. My first reaction was, "How nice. This must be like Friday Cheers in Richmond.....a little free jazz to kick off the weekend."
I smiled at him as I dashed into the store, not really paying much attention to the cloth-covered table behind him loaded with brochures.
"That's a nice touch for Walmart, " I thought as I sauntered through the aisles, humming a few bars of the melody while I shopped.
When I came out of the store with my bags, however, the music had stopped and the saxophone had disappeared. In it's place stood a hellfire and brimstone preacherman. He was marching up and down the sidewalk, waving a Bible and shouting out a sermon that would have scared most people away from hell. The shoppers heading into Walmart either veered across the parking lot to the far entrance, or smiled and nodded to the preacherman, some even offering up an "Amen, brother" as they walked inside. I wasn't quite sure what the appropriate response to a discount preacher should be, so I simply headed to my car, threw my bag into the back seat, and drove away.
I returned again the next week, and he was back in business. This time he had several of his devoted congregants sitting behind him, nodding and offering support as he shouted to the sinners in the parking lot, myself being one of them. I sat in my car with the windows rolled down and listened to his sermon for awhile, to see if I could glean any pearls of wisdom from this WalMart preacher. I couldn't quite figure out why he had chosen this particular spot between the world's largest discount retailer and the king of the grocery chains to proclaim the gospel of Christ. His message did not target our sins of mass consumerism, as I had expected, but focused instead on God's grace in a fallen world. Although his choice of location and mode of delivery were not in my comfort zone, I appreciated his efforts and sincerely hoped God's grace would be felt by someone, somewhere in the midst of WalMart.
Today, Sissey and I made a quick stop to pick up a few things we needed before rushing home to finish up some school projects. After a long day at school, she was tired and using her wheelchair instead of her walker. We were zipping through the aisles at a brisk clip, throwing items into the basket as we crossed them off our shopping list. She had been feeling a little blue lately, missing her best friend in Richmond, missing her dad, missing her home, missing her brother, missing going to the coffee shop with her girlfriends. I had been trying to think of activities that could keep her occupied when those low moments hovered around the corner, something that would make her feel more connected with her new community, introduce her to some new faces, give her some "fun-time" to break up her rigorous study routine. An outing to WalMart wasn't exactly a trip to Disneyland, but it was an outing none-the-less, and it ate up some free time before she had to hit the books again.
As we rounded a corner between the frozen food aisle and the cleaning products, we ran headfirst into a man in a wheelchair. It was one of those awkward moments when you don't know who's supposed to step aside to let the other pass, so you kind of bob and weave to see who goes first.
"Come on around, young lady," he said as he stopped his chair and smiled at Sissey, "I haven't seen you around here before."
"No," she answered, "I just came down from Richmond in August to go to school here. My name is Mary Lapsley Daly. It's a pleasure to meet you."
She extended her hand for a friendly shake.
"Hey," he replied. "I'm Lee Carter. It's a pleasure to meet you too! I grew up here, but I left in 1977."
"Really? I graduated in 1979. We must have gone to school together," I interjected, telling him my maiden name, the names of my brother and sisters, my parent's names, the year I graduated from college, the color and model of the car I drove, the names of my dogs -- everything short of my social security number. It's how we do things down here to find out exactly how well we are supposed to know someone. I didn't recognize him, but after being away for thirty years, some of us have changed quite a bit.
"I left town years ago to join the army and served 23 years before coming back," Lee said.
I asked him if he had been injured during his military service and if that was how he had ended up in a wheelchair.
"You'd think that if anything was going to happen to me, it would have happened in the 23 years I was in the service. But no, I waited until I retired, then fell out of a pecan tree."
He laughed as he said it, in the way only someone who has walked through hell and come back alive can do. He then told Sissey about a support group he had founded after his injury, a group that met on a monthly basis, had grown and expanded to include Rock Hill , and that had a party coming up next Tuesday.
"Come on and join us. It's a lot of fun. We're having Christmas in November next week, over forty-five people will be there. You'll really get a lot out of it and it'll be a great party!"
He pulled out a business card with the name of the group and his number on it, told her the time and location of the event and said she didn't need to bring anything with her when she came.
"Call if you have any questions... I'll be looking for you next Tuesday."
He smiled, waved goodbye and rolled away.
We paid for our purchases and started to head for the car. I was pushing the buggy, which was loaded with merchandise, while Sissey pushed her wheelchair out the door. We were both struggling with the buggies, bags, and doors, when suddenly, a young man came up from behind and asked,
"May I help you take that to the car?"
My first instinct was to say "No," thinking he could be a thief or a scam artist, intent on robbing us of our purchases and purses as we crossed the dark parking lot, but for some reason, I decided to say,
" Absolutely! That would be a big help!"
He grabbed the buggy and I grabbed the wheelchair as we headed to the car. He unloaded all the bags into the back for me while I helped Sissey get into her seat and then folded up the wheelchair.
Before he left, he said, "I was in one of those chairs for six months."
"You were? What happened?" we both asked.
"I was in the service and had a little too much fun on one of my military leaves. Had an accident and was temporarily paralyzed from the waist down. I know what it's like having to use a wheelchair. I sat in one for half a year. Ya'll have a good day, now."
And with that, he left.
I had to pause for a moment to ponder what had just happened. We had only come in to pick up some school supplies and a few groceries, but we left with an invitation for Sissey to join a support group, attend a party, and make 45 new friends. I left with a redeeming moment of faith in the goodness of man. I hadn't expected it or been looking for it, but I knew the grace of God had been in WalMart today.
And that, my friends, is why I love to go.
A few weeks ago on a Friday afternoon, I had to run by to pick up some benadryl, kleenex, coffee, and notebook paper. How could you not a love a place where you can satisfy your need to sniff, wipe, sip, and write all in one stop?
There was a man playing a saxophone that day on the sidewalk between WalMart and Food Lion. He had two huge speakers mounted on tripods that blasted the notes into the parking lot as shoppers entered and left the store. My first reaction was, "How nice. This must be like Friday Cheers in Richmond.....a little free jazz to kick off the weekend."
I smiled at him as I dashed into the store, not really paying much attention to the cloth-covered table behind him loaded with brochures.
"That's a nice touch for Walmart, " I thought as I sauntered through the aisles, humming a few bars of the melody while I shopped.
When I came out of the store with my bags, however, the music had stopped and the saxophone had disappeared. In it's place stood a hellfire and brimstone preacherman. He was marching up and down the sidewalk, waving a Bible and shouting out a sermon that would have scared most people away from hell. The shoppers heading into Walmart either veered across the parking lot to the far entrance, or smiled and nodded to the preacherman, some even offering up an "Amen, brother" as they walked inside. I wasn't quite sure what the appropriate response to a discount preacher should be, so I simply headed to my car, threw my bag into the back seat, and drove away.
I returned again the next week, and he was back in business. This time he had several of his devoted congregants sitting behind him, nodding and offering support as he shouted to the sinners in the parking lot, myself being one of them. I sat in my car with the windows rolled down and listened to his sermon for awhile, to see if I could glean any pearls of wisdom from this WalMart preacher. I couldn't quite figure out why he had chosen this particular spot between the world's largest discount retailer and the king of the grocery chains to proclaim the gospel of Christ. His message did not target our sins of mass consumerism, as I had expected, but focused instead on God's grace in a fallen world. Although his choice of location and mode of delivery were not in my comfort zone, I appreciated his efforts and sincerely hoped God's grace would be felt by someone, somewhere in the midst of WalMart.
Today, Sissey and I made a quick stop to pick up a few things we needed before rushing home to finish up some school projects. After a long day at school, she was tired and using her wheelchair instead of her walker. We were zipping through the aisles at a brisk clip, throwing items into the basket as we crossed them off our shopping list. She had been feeling a little blue lately, missing her best friend in Richmond, missing her dad, missing her home, missing her brother, missing going to the coffee shop with her girlfriends. I had been trying to think of activities that could keep her occupied when those low moments hovered around the corner, something that would make her feel more connected with her new community, introduce her to some new faces, give her some "fun-time" to break up her rigorous study routine. An outing to WalMart wasn't exactly a trip to Disneyland, but it was an outing none-the-less, and it ate up some free time before she had to hit the books again.
As we rounded a corner between the frozen food aisle and the cleaning products, we ran headfirst into a man in a wheelchair. It was one of those awkward moments when you don't know who's supposed to step aside to let the other pass, so you kind of bob and weave to see who goes first.
"Come on around, young lady," he said as he stopped his chair and smiled at Sissey, "I haven't seen you around here before."
"No," she answered, "I just came down from Richmond in August to go to school here. My name is Mary Lapsley Daly. It's a pleasure to meet you."
She extended her hand for a friendly shake.
"Hey," he replied. "I'm Lee Carter. It's a pleasure to meet you too! I grew up here, but I left in 1977."
"Really? I graduated in 1979. We must have gone to school together," I interjected, telling him my maiden name, the names of my brother and sisters, my parent's names, the year I graduated from college, the color and model of the car I drove, the names of my dogs -- everything short of my social security number. It's how we do things down here to find out exactly how well we are supposed to know someone. I didn't recognize him, but after being away for thirty years, some of us have changed quite a bit.
"I left town years ago to join the army and served 23 years before coming back," Lee said.
I asked him if he had been injured during his military service and if that was how he had ended up in a wheelchair.
"You'd think that if anything was going to happen to me, it would have happened in the 23 years I was in the service. But no, I waited until I retired, then fell out of a pecan tree."
He laughed as he said it, in the way only someone who has walked through hell and come back alive can do. He then told Sissey about a support group he had founded after his injury, a group that met on a monthly basis, had grown and expanded to include Rock Hill , and that had a party coming up next Tuesday.
"Come on and join us. It's a lot of fun. We're having Christmas in November next week, over forty-five people will be there. You'll really get a lot out of it and it'll be a great party!"
He pulled out a business card with the name of the group and his number on it, told her the time and location of the event and said she didn't need to bring anything with her when she came.
"Call if you have any questions... I'll be looking for you next Tuesday."
He smiled, waved goodbye and rolled away.
We paid for our purchases and started to head for the car. I was pushing the buggy, which was loaded with merchandise, while Sissey pushed her wheelchair out the door. We were both struggling with the buggies, bags, and doors, when suddenly, a young man came up from behind and asked,
"May I help you take that to the car?"
My first instinct was to say "No," thinking he could be a thief or a scam artist, intent on robbing us of our purchases and purses as we crossed the dark parking lot, but for some reason, I decided to say,
" Absolutely! That would be a big help!"
He grabbed the buggy and I grabbed the wheelchair as we headed to the car. He unloaded all the bags into the back for me while I helped Sissey get into her seat and then folded up the wheelchair.
Before he left, he said, "I was in one of those chairs for six months."
"You were? What happened?" we both asked.
"I was in the service and had a little too much fun on one of my military leaves. Had an accident and was temporarily paralyzed from the waist down. I know what it's like having to use a wheelchair. I sat in one for half a year. Ya'll have a good day, now."
And with that, he left.
I had to pause for a moment to ponder what had just happened. We had only come in to pick up some school supplies and a few groceries, but we left with an invitation for Sissey to join a support group, attend a party, and make 45 new friends. I left with a redeeming moment of faith in the goodness of man. I hadn't expected it or been looking for it, but I knew the grace of God had been in WalMart today.
And that, my friends, is why I love to go.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Liquid Gold
Ladson Stringfellow left a gunny sack of jerusalem artichokes and a bushel of peppers on the porch last week, signifying it was time to make artichoke relish. Each fall after the first good frost, the chokes are ready to be dug up from the ground and turned into a delicious concoction of vegetables, mustard, spices and vinegar-- a tangy relish that enhances everything from turnip greens to pork roast. I only give a jar of it to very, very, VERY special friends, and they only get one chance to decide if they like it or not. The jar comes with a disclaimer...you must be 100% honest, on your knees before God honest, about whether you like the relish or not, because I will not waste this liquid gold on people that politely say "Oh, I just love your artichoke relish" then sneak inside and pour it down the disposal. If I do not believe your response is sincere or truthful after you have tasted your first bite of relish, it will be the last pint of pickles you'll ever get; if, however, I sense that your response truthfully and enthusiastically comes from the heart, or rather stomach, and that you will secretly dream of relish when you lay your tired little head down at night, then I will put you on the list for Christmases to come. Once on, you're on for life, but if you get cut, it'll be harder than getting tickets to the Master's to get back on my relish list.
Mama and I started scrubbing dirt off the artichokes, chopping the peppers, onions, and cabbage, and assembling all the spices yesterday in preparation for today's relish making. We got up early this morning, but took time to have a few cups of coffee and a morning chat before delving into the rest of the recipe. We finished preparing the artichokes, snipping off the eye buds, roots, and other unnecessary appendages, before giving them a final scrubbing. After chopping up the chokes, peppers, onions, and cabbage, all the veggies had to rest for the remainder of the day in a bath of salt water. Sort of like a day at the spa--not a bad ending for a veggie tale.
We had a few hours while the vegetables rested, and it was just enough time for a quick trip to WOW! for a little Christmas shopping. Two wicker all-weather rocking chairs, a coat rack, a birch-bark carved angel, a birdhouse, and some assorted decorations later, it was time to head back home and finish the task at hand.
As we crossed the railroad tracks and turned onto the street headed for home, Mama noticed a huge flock of buzzards circling an old warehouse beside the train tracks.
"Beth, look at all the buzzards. There are about thirty of them flying over that building," Mama pointed out, "I wonder what they are doing."
Sure enough, the buzzards were circling and dipping and soaring all around the deserted building. They were ominous looking black shadows as they conducted their death march across the sky.
Jokingly, I answered, "There must be a dead body in that warehouse."
"Do you think so?" Mama asked. "Then I think we should call the police."
"Mama, you've got to be kidding. What are we going to say? 'Excuse me, officer, but there's a flock of buzzards flying by the traintracks. Come quickly, there's been a murder!' They'll be locking US up if we do that."
I tried not to laugh, realizing she was perfectly serious, but just picturing the officers actually responding to our call, then trying to chase down the buzzards for questioning, was too much.
Officer: Excuse me, Mr. Buzzard, but did you notice any peculiar behavior around the tracks this evening?
Buzzard: I see nothing, I know nothing.
I just kept driving and changed the subject.
Arriving home, it was time to drain the relish mix, boil the vinegar, sugar, and mustard paste, and combine the final ingredients into a big stainless steel pot on the stove. After bringing the mixture to one last good, rolling boil, we ladeled the golden relish into pint jars, wiped off the rims, and quickly sealed them with lids and rings. The only thing left was to listen for the "ping" of the jars sealing, Mama's favorite part of the whole process. We finished up this, our third batch, with a total of 14 pints and enough artichokes waiting for one more batch. It was a good days work.
Now we'll have to wait and see which good little boys and girls made the list for this year......
Mama and I started scrubbing dirt off the artichokes, chopping the peppers, onions, and cabbage, and assembling all the spices yesterday in preparation for today's relish making. We got up early this morning, but took time to have a few cups of coffee and a morning chat before delving into the rest of the recipe. We finished preparing the artichokes, snipping off the eye buds, roots, and other unnecessary appendages, before giving them a final scrubbing. After chopping up the chokes, peppers, onions, and cabbage, all the veggies had to rest for the remainder of the day in a bath of salt water. Sort of like a day at the spa--not a bad ending for a veggie tale.
We had a few hours while the vegetables rested, and it was just enough time for a quick trip to WOW! for a little Christmas shopping. Two wicker all-weather rocking chairs, a coat rack, a birch-bark carved angel, a birdhouse, and some assorted decorations later, it was time to head back home and finish the task at hand.
As we crossed the railroad tracks and turned onto the street headed for home, Mama noticed a huge flock of buzzards circling an old warehouse beside the train tracks.
"Beth, look at all the buzzards. There are about thirty of them flying over that building," Mama pointed out, "I wonder what they are doing."
Sure enough, the buzzards were circling and dipping and soaring all around the deserted building. They were ominous looking black shadows as they conducted their death march across the sky.
Jokingly, I answered, "There must be a dead body in that warehouse."
"Do you think so?" Mama asked. "Then I think we should call the police."
"Mama, you've got to be kidding. What are we going to say? 'Excuse me, officer, but there's a flock of buzzards flying by the traintracks. Come quickly, there's been a murder!' They'll be locking US up if we do that."
I tried not to laugh, realizing she was perfectly serious, but just picturing the officers actually responding to our call, then trying to chase down the buzzards for questioning, was too much.
Officer: Excuse me, Mr. Buzzard, but did you notice any peculiar behavior around the tracks this evening?
Buzzard: I see nothing, I know nothing.
I just kept driving and changed the subject.
Arriving home, it was time to drain the relish mix, boil the vinegar, sugar, and mustard paste, and combine the final ingredients into a big stainless steel pot on the stove. After bringing the mixture to one last good, rolling boil, we ladeled the golden relish into pint jars, wiped off the rims, and quickly sealed them with lids and rings. The only thing left was to listen for the "ping" of the jars sealing, Mama's favorite part of the whole process. We finished up this, our third batch, with a total of 14 pints and enough artichokes waiting for one more batch. It was a good days work.
Now we'll have to wait and see which good little boys and girls made the list for this year......
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
