Babysitting Rebel

I offered to babysit my father's beloved hunting dog, Rebel, while my parents went to the mountains for their 55th anniversary. I thought it would give them a nice break not having to get up and let the dog out or rush back and check on him. I don't know why I offered to do this. I have a terrible track record. I love animals, especially poodles, all sizes.. Ever since the birth of my twins 19 years ago, I have been raising pairs of just about every species: dogs, cats, gerbils, mice, snakes, turtles, hamsters, birds, lizards, bunnies, even a pair of fawns that took up residence in our front yard. Noah and I would have been great buddies. I have not, however, always been successful in raising them to adulthood. Please note: Dogs do not like cats, bunnies, gerbils, mice, or hamsters. Also note: do not ever, under any circumstance, catch a snake in your neighbor's yard to replace your son's pet snake that has died. It could turn out to be a baby copperhead, which you will discover in the emergency room after he has been biten. Anyway, back to my babysitting record. My father-in-law had a beloved Royal Standard poodle that was the center of his world. He was jet black with paws the size of a bear. Huntley was massive, the Adonis of the poodle world, an elite specimen that would be hard to replicate. In early October, my father-in-law was diagnosed with prostate cancer. He was scheduled for surgery, which included several days of recovery in the hospital. I offered to babysit Huntley. The day of his surgery, things went well and that evening, I loaded the twins into the car to go visit Grandaddy Clark. The phone rang as I was leaving, and in a hurry, I dashed inside to grab it without closing the back door. In a flash, Huntley darted out and headed straight for the road. Screaming, I ran after him in the pitch dark, just jet black running against jet black, unable to see where he was headed, until I heard the dreaded screeching of tires and a loud thud. I instantly knew that Huntley had just been reduced from a Standard to a tea cup. The car that struck him never stopped. I couldn't believe that someone could hit something the size of a small horse and not even slow down to check on it. Other good samaritans pulled over to help, but it was too late. We called our vet, Dr. Hunter ( a strange name for one who devotes his life to SAVING animals), but he pronounced Huntley DOA. In a terrified panic, I called my husband, Chris, to warn him about the tragedy and to formulate a plan. There was no way on earth we were going to tell a man who had just lost his prostate that his beloved poodle had been killed...by his daughter-in-law at that. Fortunately, his surgeon was a close friend, and we called him in for a consultation. Being under the effects of medication, we knew we had a few days before Clark's cognition would be clear enough to comprehend what had happened. The plan was to be as vague as possible without actually lying, and then tell him the truth right before he was dismissed to go home. It went something like this: Clark: How's Huntley? Chris: Just lying around, not making a sound. Clark: Oh goood, I hope he's not being any trouble. Chris: Not at all. We don't even know he's there. Deceptive, yes, but it was in the best interest of the patient. The day he was dismissed, we made sure he had been completely medicated before breaking the news. I was a chicken and hid behind Chris as he quietly explained that Huntley had expired (we'd fill in the details later). I knew I had just lost my status as beloved daughter-in-law. . . fortunately, I was able to retain my life. So with that as my history, I volunteered to do it again. I was going to assume full responsiblity for the dog my father treated as well as his grandchildren. Imagine my panic when on the second day of babysitting I came into the house from the backyard and REBEL WAS GONE! I searched every room, running back to the yard, hyper-ventilating and screaming his name. Where, oh where, had my poor doggie gone? I had left him in the den, lying in the chair that he's not allowed to jump on when Gans and Pop are home, while I ran out the trash. How could he possibly have just disappeared? It was then that I noticed the front door was ajar and the storm door was cracked open. I knew Rebel had bolted. My father was going to kill me. We would probably have to drop out of college and make a run back to Richmond before he returned home. I was never going to be able to tell him. Maybe I could blame it on my sister...she stopped by, left the door open, didn't know Rebel got out... No, that wouldn't work... what to do, what to do? I grabbed my car keys and headed out the door, ready to roam the streets screaming "REBEL, REBEL,REBEL" in my best Marlon Brando voice, when there he was, tail awagging and tongue hanging out, standing by the gate just as pretty as you please. Not a guilty bone on him. I wanted to hug him. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to grab his collar before he changed his mind and drag his furry little self back into the house and bolt all the doors. And then I vowed to retire from babysitting any more pets. The phone rang and it was my sister, oblivious to the fall she had almost taken for me. She wants to know if I'll babysit her daughter on Friday night......

The fun girls from Mt. Pleasant

My BFF in the whole wide world came to spend the weekend with me. For all you old geezers, that would be my best friend forever. We were South Carolina gals who went to college together, lived in Charleston together, got married a week apart, and then, sadly, were separated for the next 20 years. Nancy married a Citadel boy, became a Navy officer's wife, and took off for California, Texas, Italy and the rest of the world. I chose a Hampden-Sydney fellow, settled in Richmond, and tried to swallow the fact that Richmonders actually thought they were still in the South when everyone knows that you drive UP NORTH to Richmond and come DOWN SOUTH to Carolina. This fact was clearly pointed out to me the first Christmas I returned home. I was attending church and ran into Bud Love, a friend I had grown up with. As we were chatting, Bud declared I even talked like a Yankee now that I had moved up north. "Bud, Richmond was the capital of the South, and we're still below the Mason-Dixon Line," I tried to explain. "Yea, but you're north of here," he drawled. I was branded as a deserter, a traitor, a carpetbagger, a blue-belly. The shame was humiliating. Anyway, Nancy and I were separated by the miles but never from the heart and always kept that special "connection". Last year, Commander Lamberson retired after a distinctive career in the Navy and took the job as Director of Campus Planning and Construction for the University of South Carolina! They moved to Columbia and I was thrilled to have Nancy right down the road from my parents in Chester and her family in Aiken. As fate would have it, Sissey soon decided to take the leap and enter the University of South Carolina. We were heading back down to South Carolina and TA-DAH: the fun girls from Mt. Pleasant were back in action!!! Back in our heyday, Nancy and I lived in the village of Mt. Pleasant and crossed the bridge every morning to our jobs in downtown Charleston. Our world consisted of working (yuck) only in order to have enough money to fund our social lives. Weeknights were spent at the East Bay Trading Company (tried to pass it off on our credit card bills as a brokerage firm), Big John's Tavern, 82 Queen, The Brick, and the beautiful old bars of the Mills-Hyatt House or the Lodge Alley Inn. Weekends were always spent at the beach, and usually we had one company or another of Citadel cadets at our apartment looking for a free meal, a ride to Sullivan's Island, use of the pool, and an excuse to get off campus. My future husband, an Andy Griffith addict, promptly crowned us as successor's to the "Fun Girls of Mt. Pilot," a favorite Andy episode, and thereafter we became affectionately known as the "Fun Girls of Mt. Pleasant." We worked hard to retain the honor of such a title, even though it was exhausting. It was, however, great training for our future commitments to volunteerism and charity work. We fed the hungry, sheltered the tired, patrolled the beaches, and donated countless hours to promoting the general welfare and economy of the holy city and it's surrounding villages. After retaining the title for 2 wonderful years, marriage and careers split up the fun girls, and we were off to settle down as respectable old married ladies. Who would have ever known that 25 years later, WE'RE BAAACK!!!! We kicked off our reunion over the summer at Nancy's Lake Murray house. Sitting on her boat outside of "Spinners", listening to the band sing "I'd rather be in Carolina" , we toasted the good fortune of having come full circle. We'd raised our children (well, almost, Nancy has one more to go), gotten them into college (OK, minor point, I'm going with Sissey), reached sustainer status in the Junior League, and now, the fun mamas were ready to reclaim their tiaras and train the next generation of fun girls. Although Nancy bred a bevy of boys, and Sissey is the only girl in the bunch, we are confident that the legend will live on. We are ready to pass the torch, and rather quickly at that, because the fun girls have turned into middle aged mamas who can't stay awake past 9:00, plus I have an 8:00 class in the morning. So quickly, girls, rally forth, claim the title, then go conquer the world, because behind every successful man, there was always a fun girl making sure it happened.

Mr. Big is depressed

Mr. Big is depressed. He had to leave his girlfriend, Sugar Pie, behind in Richmond. Sugar was the love of his life, even though they had both been fixed. She was a beautiful, sugar-white Standard Poodle, and although not eaten up with the smarts, she had a sweet and gentle nature. Mr. Big really believed he was MR. BIGGIE BIG BIG when he was in the paws of Sugar Pie, all 5 pounds of him. They had been in a committed, exclusive relationship for 4 years. Ever since he arrived in Chester, Biggie pined for Miss Sugar Pie. I decided to buy him some gourmet doggie food to cheer him up. He usually got just dry kibble, but now he had a tasty smorgasbord of meaty pouches: lamb and rice with gravy, beef tips and peas, chicken with roasted vegetables. I also purchased slow roasted crunchy bones and pouches of moist doggie hamburgers. Every time he would gaze out the window with those sad little eyes, I'd run get him a treat. Then he threw up all over the bed at five o'clock this morning. Pity party is over. Back to kibble. Tough love. Friday is my favorite day of college. We have no classes, and I had planned to sleep til noon. Turned off the cell phone, unplugged the land line, I'm getting my weekly quota of sleep today. Until doggie therapy backfired and I was doing laundry as the sun came up. If he had only been allowed to have extra-marital sex, none of this would have happened. Let me explain. In Afro-American studies, we had an exercise this week in values. If you agreed with something, you raised your hand. If you strongly agreed, you waved your hand. If you disagreed, you lowered your hand, and if you strongly disagreed, you lowered your hand and waved it. This is how the exercise went: First question: do you believe in pre-marital sex? Sissey's hand immediately went down and was waving like mad. Next: do you support programs that help the homeless. Hand went up. Third: would you take illegal drugs. Hand lowered, waving away. Finally: do you believe in extra-marital sex. That little hand shot up in the air, waving like a banshee. My jaw dropped, I snapped my head around to stare at her, and mouthed, "What are you doing?" She leaned over and whispered, "What does that mean?" Quietly, I explained the concept of adultery as I watched her eyes widen in horror. She whispered back, "I thought it meant "Extra" MARITAL sex, you know, extra sex between MARRIED people. I thought that was a good idea. All married people should be doing that." That little hand shot down so fast and started waving for all she was worth, and I realized we had a lot of educating to do. We're going to learn a lot in college. If Mr. Big had been having some of that extra-marital sex, we wouldn't have needed doggie therapy, I wouldn't have been washing sheets at 5 in the morning, my sleep quota for the week would be met, and we'd all be happy. Moral of the story: All married couples should be having lots of extra-marital sex, or else you will throw up all over your sheets.

Tattoos

I'm thinking about getting a tattoo. Just a temporary one. And maybe a body piercing. Don't know about that one for sure. All the college kids have them. Some are rather tasteful....a sweet little rose or dainty heart strategically placed in some sentimental area- ankle, wrist, back of neck, etc. Then they grow... an armband of barbed wire, a dolphin leaping joyously across the shin, a butterfly floating across that special little place on your lower back that you only show your boyfriend and every other non-visually impaired person. And then, they morph into these gigantic murals that cover entire body areas. Shoulders, arms, neck, legs...you name it, it's covered with super-heroes, lightning bolts, dragons, dead relatives, old girlfriends, the Mona Lisa. Not an inch of skin left showing....I don't even know what ethnic group you belong to anymore. Are you a tattooian? I don't think you can check that box on any application form. Race: Tattoian. I realize kids want to express themselves, but all I can say is "WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? THIS IS PERMANENT! Why are you struggling to earn a Bachelor's degree, when you will never make it through the first phase of a professional interview with Spiderman INKED ACROSS YOUR ENTIRE FACE?" It may be cool now, but give it a few years. When Spidey starts to wrinkle and sag, he's gonna look more like Grandma Moses. I've been paying attention in class, especially Psychology. We've been studying the Social Learning Theory and Bandura's belief that we learn through modeling. So I'm going to do some modeling. I'm going to get a big ole tattoo splashed right across the wrinkliest part of this 40+ (O.K. almost 50) body and let them see just how STUPID they are going to look when they are my age and have all that ink on them. "Hey Granny, nice tat" just doesn't have the same ring to it. I'm going to give these 20 year olds a glimpse into the future, a little free education, some deja vu 30 years down the road, applied psychology, and then, I'm going to march Sissey right into the academic office and find out how to get a degree in laser technology.

University 101

Today in University 101 we learned the importance of having a daily panner. Keeping To-do lists, prioritizing, noting important dates, and writing notes-to-self as reminders, etc. are effective strategies for successfully navigating college life. These skills help students avoid disasters that result from poor planning and inefficient time management. Note to self on planner: Do not drink a Bubba Keg of coffee, take blood pressure medicine containing diuretic, then attend a 2 hour lecture. Reminder: Take cough medicine before attending 2 hour lecture. To-Do List: Stop by Walmart- pick up Depends and Halls cough drops. There are physiological reasons why college life is better suited for the 18-22 year old crowd. They can survive on 2 hours of sleep (which usuallly occurs during lectures), subsist on junk food, retain and recall massive amounts of information, and they don't have sagging bladders. We also learned today how to wash our hands while singing our "ABC's" (Swine flu prevention) and that it is very, very, very bad to lie, cheat or steal. That is called having "academic integrity". Can you say academic integrity? It appears that "No Child Left Behind" goes with you to college. The University of South Carolina has been rated as having the best University course in the nation for preparing college students for college life, and I appreciate the fact that they value the importance of mastering certain life skills. I'm just having a hard time with the fact that college kids have to be taught how to be college kids. Back in my day.....oh, never mind.
Finished classes, met Jennifer and Jessica for lunch at the Wagon Wheel. Country fried steak, rice and gravy, macaroni and cheese, fried squash, turnip greens, corn bread, sweet iced tea $6.25. How's that for a stimulus package?

Bad News and Bad food

My mother's closest friend, Harriett, had a most unfortunate accident yesterday. She fell and broke her hip while line dancing. Now I know that is tragic and all, and I feel terrible for her, but I secretly said a little prayer, "Dear Lord, If I have to fall and break my hip when I'm 80, please let it be from line dancing and not from falling off the toilet." I couldn't help myself, it was the first thing that popped into my head. All I could think about was when Elvis died from a heart attack, not while gyrating on the stage or making love to a nubile 20 year old, but while excusing himself (alright, I can't say it any other way, you know what I mean and it's just gross) on the toilet, and that's all most people remember about him now. Harriett, if you ever read this, I'm sorry and hope I didn't embarrass you, because you are one of the most gracious of Southern ladies I've ever known, and now you're my hero because you have a cool story to tell about how you broke your hip while boot-scooting boogieing (also, when you get to rehab, I know where you can get a good deal on a used crutch). I just had to get that off my chest....
...now I have to get back to cleaning out the refrigerator. My parents left this afternoon to spend several weeks at the mountain house. Yesterday was our one week anniversary of moving back home, and they left today. Even though we had Psychology class today, I absolutely refuse to psychoanalyze that. I am sure they are DELIGHTED to have us living with them. Anyway, as soon as they left, I hit the refrigerator armed with trash bags and disinfectant. For some reason, my parents don't believe food spoils. I do. I also do not believe the refrigerator should function as a greenhouse. Every time I come home, I sneak into the kitchen to de-fur the fridge...anything with something growing on it goes out. I threw away the leftover jar of gravy from Christmas, 2 bags of shrimp that had an expiration date two months ago, a jar of salsa with a nice green fur coat, some kind of cheese with a nice batch of penicyllin forming, and three other bags of other questionable delectables. When they come home to the spotlessly clean but suspiciously empty fridge, I am going to swear that we ate everything in there while they were away. Never had to go to the grocery store once in the two weeks they were gone. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Crippled Worms

We drove out to see Aunt Virginia and Uncle Henry today. Although not related by blood, they are what we call "love kin," which is actually the best kind. You get to choose them, not inherit them. We lived across the field from them when we were children, and spent many hours running from our house to theirs. Now pushing 90, but with the energy of an 18 year old, Uncle Henry runs a thriving worm business, manages a small herd of cattle, tends a massive vegetable garden, and in his spare time is renovating his wife's ancestral home. It's not hard to find their house. Just drive out Hwy 72 towards Rock Hill and look for the crutch stuck in the ground with the "Worms for Sale" sign nailed on it. The crutch, a relic from the years Uncle Henry spent working at the hospital, was in perfectly good shape, and he-of-the-generation-that-never-wasted-a-thing found a perfectly good use for it. We keep telling him nobody is going to buy those crippled worms. His business, however, has survived, even thrived during the worst recession (depression?) since the big one in '29. He undercuts the competition, and swears his worms are healthier. I'm not sure how one measures the health of a worm, but his methods are working, and in spite of the sign, I haven't found a crippled one in the batch. His worms are bred, hatched, fed, and nurtured in old sinks and tubs from the hospital (as well as the occassional discarded freezer). The meticulous and time consuming process requires a special diet of water-soaked newspapers and worm mix (can't disclose the secret recipe). He checks them, feeds them, turns them and waters them on a daily basis --almost as much trouble as those cows. The mature, fat, wriggly suckers are bundled into cups, covered with compost, and neatly stacked under the crawl space of his house, waiting for the local fishermen to bite. A note on the crawl space door reads "Worms $1.75 a cup. Leave money in the envelope." He operates on the honesty policy. I kid you not! He actually leaves change in the envelope in case someone comes with $2.00 and needs a quarter back! The amazing thing is, in the 25+ years he's been doing business this way, he's only gotten stung once or twice. Even then, it was just someone taking two cups of worms but only paying for one, never someone stealing all the money in the envelope. Fishermen are typically liars, not thieves. Besides, who would ever want to admit they had caught "the big one" using not only a crippled worm, but a STOLEN worm at that?

Monday, Monday

It's the first full week of class. I kindof liked the schedule last week where we only had one day of class, then a three day weekend. A girl could get used to that. But today, it's full steam ahead, no looking back, now or never, do or die, yadda yadda yadda. Uneventful drive over this morning, except for one small almost-tragic incident. Mr. John Oblivious ( the names are changed to protect the innocent, plus if his children found out they would take his car keys away) was toodling along in his little pick up truck on the four lane Hwy. 9, oblivious to the fully loaded logging truck beside him and the Ford F150 lawn maintenance truck hauling a trailerful of small yard tractors behind him. He was intent on something, but it sure wasn't the traffic around him. I watched as he casually veered across two lanes of traffic, logging truck and Ford be damned- he was heading to the turning lane in front of John Sherer's house or else. Never even blinked as the two trucks swerved, honked, and roared on by, and he made that turn pretty as you please without breaking a sweat. He owned the road and didn't even know it. I can promise you to this day that he no more saw those trucks coming than he saw them going. Other than that, an uneventful, pleasant drive over. Schedule for the day: English 101, lunch with Jennifer, Psychology 101, then meet Aunt Ann, Gans, and Madison at Chick-fil-A for a quick snack before hitting WalMart. I have figured out that all the 101's after course descriptions stand for the number of pounds the average freshman gains, and at this rate, I'll be there by Christmas. We can't keep this up. Sissey and I have vowed to start an exercise routine tomorrow, or maybe the day after that, but probably after this weekend because Bonnie and Nancy are coming and we won't have time to exercise. I have also figured out that procrastination is par for the course in college. I will also have that mastered by Christmas. At least I have learned two new skills today, and I think that is enough. College life is still great, good night!

Sundays in the South

This is what I love best about coming home..Sunday mornings in the South. There is nothing like them anywhere in the world. Quiet mornings with coffee and family, then off to church. I love my childhood church, with it's exquisite stained glass windows, 1929 Moeller tracker pipe organ, a body of people that capture the essence of Southern grace, and old polished pews overflowing with the scent of years of worshippers embedded in it's fibers, That smell, that old church smell, is a delicious , sweet, memory. We sing the psalms of my youth as we pray to the God of our past, present and future. Amen.

Visiting the mother ship

Since we are attending classes at a satellite campus of the University of South Carolina, I felt it was necessary to visit the mother ship, the COLUMBIA CAMPUS!!!! (loud applause here). Seeing the main campus would not only connect us to the larger world of academia, it would also remind us of why we had chosen a smaller, satellite campus. Mingling with massive amounts of self-centered, ideological college kids in the midst of traffic and mayhem would be an education in itself. Also, as a native South Carolinian, it was a right of passage to take my daughter by the State Capital and to pay homage at the statue of Narcisco Gonzales, former editor and co-founder of the State newspaper, married to my cousin Lucy Barron, and killed in a shoot-out on the capital steps by Lt. Governor James Tillman. We drove through the sprawling urban campus, had a moment of silence at the statue, viewed the horseshoe, took a few requisite photos to post on facebook, and high-fived the good judgement we had made to attend the Lancaster campus ( 4 buildings, great handicapped parking, 0 traffic, and we like the people there!). We've seen enough, time to go home! Still loving college life.

Friday's are Free!

Get this....classes are only on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. We get every Friday off! I may never go back to work. I have already learned something new in college...I never want to graduate. I can't remember the last time I had an entire day off with no meetings, appointments, schedules, deadlines, etc. What does one do with every Friday as a free day? First, sleep until 10:30 (yes, people actually do that). Get on the couch, watch TV, take a nap. Eat dinner, watch TV, go to bed. What more can I say, college life is great!

Classes begin

Reality arrives. This is not just an extended vacation home, which I quickly realize when I have to get up at 6:15 AM for the first day of classes. The drive from my parents home to the campus in Lancaster will take about 40 minutes....if we can manage to avoid the speed trap on Hwy 9, the Lewisville school buses, and the trains that encircle every entrance and exit of our town.+With my Bubba keg full of coffee and a very anxious daughter. we grab her new LL Bean lavendar backpack filled with binders and pens and head to college. First course is University 101, an introduction to college life for new students. My daughter is enrolled in the Opportunity Scholars Program, a federally funded program for first generation college students, low income college students, and students with a documented disability. Guess which cagtegory she falls into? Check. The only student in the class with a screaming blue walker (affectionately called "Big Blue"), she signs in and takes a front row seat. Might as well start off at the top of the class!! You go girl!! Here, we will learn all the tools and strategies needed to make the college experience successful. Where was this class when I was in college? Our introduction to college consisted of being dumped in front of a dorm by your parents, hauling your luggage up three flights of steps, and being told to behave, study, and not do anything that would embarrass the family. Today's kids actually get three hours of credit for learning how to study effectively while managing a checking account while having safe sex without abusing drugs and alchohol. You get the picture. Next stop, Afro American studies. While she may have been the only student with a walker in the first class, she was now the only student with a walker and blonde hair. We began the class by meditating ("closed eyes, hands on the thighs") to gospel music. By this point, I'm loving college. I'm meditating away, about to fall asleep, and loving the fact that for the first time in years, I am getting to just sit. I don't know who is more excited at the end of the day..me or my daughter. So far, college life is great.

Unpacking

We arrived in South Carolina under the cover of darkness...a blessing since I didn't want to overwhelm my parents with the obscene amount of luggage we had packed. I figured we could bring boxes in a few at a time so it wouldn't look like we were actually planning on staying for four years. It would give them some semblance of hope!! I was also counting on the fact that the last time my father had trekked upstairs was in 1985 when my younger sister graduated from college. Hopefully, they would never see the pile of boxes, mounds of clothing, and small army of shoes that were getting ready to overtake the upstairs bedrooms. We could quietly creep upstairs to our lair, while the downstairs of the house would remain virtually unchanged. They'd never even know we were here....right.

Going Home

Whoever said you can't go home again probably meant to say you shouldn't go home again (I'll let you know at the end of the next four years!) Never the less, here we are. I have returned to my childhood home, planning to spend the next four years living with my 75 year old parents, my disabled 19 year old daughter, and Mr. Big, one very spoiled high-maintenance toy poodle. We arrived from Virginia with our politically incorrect Suburban packed to the ceiling in hot pink rubbermaid boxes. My son returned to UVA the day we left with one suitcase and 5 pairs of shoes. We left Richmond with 5 LARGE plastic storage boxes, 7 suitcases, 3 LL Bean bags, 14 purses and a total of 173 pairs of shoes. It seemed logical to me. My husband pretended to be mournful as we left, but we all knew he was secretly counting the days until he had the house to himself. We did leave him the two big dogs in the process and 10 pumpkins that were ripening on the vine. I don't have much hope for the pumpkins survival, but am optimistic about the dogs.