I loved watching my daughter dance when she was a child. She would wear her little leotard and tutu, and spend hours on her hands and knees on the floor spinning and twirling and so full of joy that I couldn't help but stop whatever busy task I was involved in and just watch. It mattered not to her that her movements were different from the other children; it mattered not to me. It was poetry in motion, it was joy and goodness and innocence. It was beautiful, and it was when I started to understand why children with disabilities are labeled "special". You bet they are. They are God's most precious and most special creations, and I am blessed to share this dance with her.
The Dance
With twisted limbs that will not bend
she struggles on,
then stops to grin
at ants that crawl across her hand-
small wonders in a child's play land.
Her body slowly moves along
on calloused knees
until a song
delights her ear.
She stops to dance-
a grotesque waltz
She takes her chance
and moves to music
though she knows
her steps are awkward as she goes,
but in her mind she twirls and spins
The music starts.
The dance begins.
The little body starts to sway.
She giggles in her childlike way
and moves with free abandon now,
imagination shows her how.
To those who watch with just their eyes
the awkward child's pathetic tries
to waltz and glide across the floor--
they pity her, and see no more.
But those who watch her from the heart
see the skillful dancer's art
unfold with each contorted twirl,
and smile upon the gifted girl.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Don't even think of parking there ...
Please tell me why perfectly able-bodied people park in the handicapped parking spaces, especially at every WalMart in town? I have never in my life seen as many cars parked in the disabled slots as those at WalMart. They have four handicapped slots on every row, and every single one of them is filled. Problem is, I can't seem to find the disabled bodies that go with them. Oh, they've all got handicapped tags plastered to their windshields. Many are expired, some are stolen, most are abused. The tags actually belong to grandma, a cousin, a neighbor, a dead relative. Once, a lady actually told me that she was so excited when her mama died two years ago because she got her handicapped parking pass. She didn't realize at the time that I was the parent of a child in need of that space, but I didn't think for a minute that would have kept her from parking there.
I see teenage girls in 4" stillettos whip into the handicapped spot, jump out of the car, and boogy on in to the store. Carloads of young boys, rocking the radio, squeal in peeling rubber, hop right on out, and amble up to the front door. Pickup trucks with push mowers, weed whackers, chain saws and weed blowers pull in. Excuse me, but if you can operate heavy equipment, cut down small trees, blow debris off your sidewalk and plow through uncut grass, shouldn't you be able to walk into WalMart from a regular parking space?
And please explain why you can walk back to your car pushing a buggy loaded with enough bags to feed a third-world country, lift all those bags into the trunk of your car, heft a forty pound bag of Purina in, push the buggy back to the store, but you can't walk into the store empty handed from a car parked in a regular space? I just don't get it.
It has become my mission in life to educate the able-bodied idiots who abuse those spaces as to why they are needed for the truly physically impaired. It embarrasses my daughter to no end. "Please, mom, just let it go. I don't need to go in. Don't say anything, you're going to embarrass me."
"You are not the one that's about to get embarrassed," I answer, as I knock on the window of the souped up Chevy that just pulled into the last handicapped space, loaded with teenagers anxious to hit the mall. This is one mad momma they're going to wish they hadn't met. I have found with teenagers the thing that works best is to simply write down their license plate and tell them I have no choice but to report them. I am bound by law to do so, and they will get a call from the traffic court in a week or two, which will result in the forfeiture of their license for a 6 month period. Let them sweat that one out for awhile. They beg, they whine, they cry, but I continue to make a huge ordeal out of writing down their tag number and make and model of car.
I have left countless notes on windows, driven around parking lots until I found security guards, called in placards that were expired, and argued with countless numbers of insolent drivers who pulled into handicapped spaces in violation of the law. The most common excuse, of course, is "I was only going to run in for a minute." Do you think I care? It takes 15 minutes to get someone in a wheelchair loaded in a van and strapped into position, and you have just taken the only spot that allows them access to the mall because you were in a hurry? Get over yourself.
I have become the PETA personality of handicapped parking advocates....obessessed with tracking down those who abuse the system, righting wrongs on the macadam, fighting for those who actually need the extra space to let down a ramp and unload a wheelchair.
It's a losing battle. The system depends on values that have long been lost in our culture: honesty, courtesy, compassion, and selflessness. We live in a world with a "me first, too bad that doesn't work out for you" attitude. So if you park in that handicapped space and don't really need it, please count your blessings with every step you take, thank the good Lord for your perfectly functioning body, and don't back over the crazy lady writing down your license plate number.
I see teenage girls in 4" stillettos whip into the handicapped spot, jump out of the car, and boogy on in to the store. Carloads of young boys, rocking the radio, squeal in peeling rubber, hop right on out, and amble up to the front door. Pickup trucks with push mowers, weed whackers, chain saws and weed blowers pull in. Excuse me, but if you can operate heavy equipment, cut down small trees, blow debris off your sidewalk and plow through uncut grass, shouldn't you be able to walk into WalMart from a regular parking space?
And please explain why you can walk back to your car pushing a buggy loaded with enough bags to feed a third-world country, lift all those bags into the trunk of your car, heft a forty pound bag of Purina in, push the buggy back to the store, but you can't walk into the store empty handed from a car parked in a regular space? I just don't get it.
It has become my mission in life to educate the able-bodied idiots who abuse those spaces as to why they are needed for the truly physically impaired. It embarrasses my daughter to no end. "Please, mom, just let it go. I don't need to go in. Don't say anything, you're going to embarrass me."
"You are not the one that's about to get embarrassed," I answer, as I knock on the window of the souped up Chevy that just pulled into the last handicapped space, loaded with teenagers anxious to hit the mall. This is one mad momma they're going to wish they hadn't met. I have found with teenagers the thing that works best is to simply write down their license plate and tell them I have no choice but to report them. I am bound by law to do so, and they will get a call from the traffic court in a week or two, which will result in the forfeiture of their license for a 6 month period. Let them sweat that one out for awhile. They beg, they whine, they cry, but I continue to make a huge ordeal out of writing down their tag number and make and model of car.
I have left countless notes on windows, driven around parking lots until I found security guards, called in placards that were expired, and argued with countless numbers of insolent drivers who pulled into handicapped spaces in violation of the law. The most common excuse, of course, is "I was only going to run in for a minute." Do you think I care? It takes 15 minutes to get someone in a wheelchair loaded in a van and strapped into position, and you have just taken the only spot that allows them access to the mall because you were in a hurry? Get over yourself.
I have become the PETA personality of handicapped parking advocates....obessessed with tracking down those who abuse the system, righting wrongs on the macadam, fighting for those who actually need the extra space to let down a ramp and unload a wheelchair.
It's a losing battle. The system depends on values that have long been lost in our culture: honesty, courtesy, compassion, and selflessness. We live in a world with a "me first, too bad that doesn't work out for you" attitude. So if you park in that handicapped space and don't really need it, please count your blessings with every step you take, thank the good Lord for your perfectly functioning body, and don't back over the crazy lady writing down your license plate number.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Grandfather's arm
We weren't allowed inside as children unless it was to eat or sleep. It was outside, entertain yourself, don't get into trouble, and only come in if there's blood. So we were constantly looking for something to keep us occupied. When we visited our grandparents, the rules, of course, were relaxed. We were allowed all over that house. Our favorite spot was the attic, a treasure trove of delight for any child. There were boxes of old pocket watches to dismantle, trunks of clothing and hats and shoes, secret hidden spaces to explore, tables and chairs to build forts, narrow stairs and windows that opened out onto the roof, oh the list goes on and on. We could have lived in that attic forever.
The greatest treasure of all was the day we found our great grandfather's arm. Not his actual arm, of course, since that had been blown off during the war between the states, but the pale pink, slightly disentegrated artificial limb that had replaced the original member. It still had the moveable fingers attached, although they were nibbled down by years of mice, and the straps and buckles that fastened onto the remaining stub were intact. You could stick your arm down the hole, strap it on, and with some practice move the limb around in a somewhat realistic manner. Awkward, yes, but it convinced the 5 to 10 year old crowd.
We found the arm in an old trunk in the attic at our grandmother's house one summer, and were beyond delighted when she let us strap it on and play with it. That same summer, my brother and I had unearthed an old civil war sword near the cemetery behind their back yard. We found it buried underneath a fig tree where we were building a fort. It was a real sword, with the brass handle, tarnished and worn, still intact. We hauled it up to the attic and added it to our pile of treasures. We had taffeta, tulle, and lace gowns that my mother had worn to high school formals, some old silk shawls, a few hats, the sword, and now, grandfather's arm. That was enough entertainment to last an entire summer.
We made up all sorts of games with those costumes. The best gown was deep purple and strapless, with yards and yards of tulle creating a great pouf of skirt. We would scramble to try to snatch that one first, because whoever donned the amythest gown got to be the heroine. The greatest honor of all, however, was to strap on the arm and pretend to be the heroic amputee limping home from war, waving his mighty sword with his artificial arm as he arrived in town.
We sometimes pretended that Grandfather was riding home on a train, waving to crowds from the window, when SPLAT!, the arm was ripped off as it was caught by a roadside pole. We played that one so many times that in later years we had it so infused in our memories it had become factual. As we were leaving the game the other evening, waiting on a train to pass, my daughter asked, "Didn't your great grandfather have his arm ripped off while riding on a train?" I started to say, "Why,yes, he did," since I had told her that story many times, but my mother quickly interupted and gave the accurate history of the honorable passing of the arm.
Fact or fiction, we didn't really care how he had managed to lose his arm, we just cared that we had managed to find it! When you are 10 years old and have a real fake arm to play with, it just didn't get any better than that.
You can have your Playstation, your X-box, your IPod, your Wii. I'll take a discarded body part and an attic full of memories any old day.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Sunday Naps
There is just nothing better than a Sunday afternoon nap. I'm talking about the come home from church, put your pajamas back on, close the curtains, unplug the phone, turn off the light, get back in bed kind of nap. That once a week nap that gets you from Monday to Saturday because you know Sunday will roll around again in just seven days. Naps where you sleep so hard and for so long you wake up disoriented, thinking it's Monday morning and you're late for work. Naps from which you wake with your face looking like a roadmap, the lines marking every inch of skin the pillows and blankets claimed during your hibernation. These are God-ordained naps, the rest of the Sabbath, the fourth commandment. That's where I'll be for the rest of the day. Obeying God. Living my belief that on the Sabbath, thou shalt nap, without interruption, without fail, and without guilt. Good night.
Friday, September 25, 2009
A drunken story ( a fictional account loosely based on actual events...the names have been changed to protect the guilty)
Every town has one, the resident drunk. You see him stumbling up and down the streets in the morning, not quite sure if it's day or night. He's sleeping in the doorways of the churches, and hanging around the dumpsters in back of the stores, but he's there, somewhere, in every town.
The town of York, South Carolina had their fair share of drunks, which made certain holiday rituals quite entertaining. Each year at Christmas, we would drive up to see Grandmother and Grandaddy and help them with their holiday errands. There were presents to wrap, fruitcakes to deliver, mantles to decorate, and the annual back lot bum run. Grandmother's idea of spreading Christmas cheer was to drive through all the back lots in town, passing out dollar bills to the resident drunks that lingered by the alleys as she wished them all a "Merry Christmas!" She had been doing this for so many years that the resident drunks had come to expect her arrival, sort of like Santa Claus, and on the bum run day there always seemed to be a larger number of thirsty hobos hanging around the lots than usual.
"Grandmother, he's just going to go buy liquor with that money," we told her each time. But she always had the same answer.
"That is not for us to decide. I'm giving it to him, he can do whatever he wants to with it. He just might buy a hot meal. Now drive me out behind the drug store."
So off we'd go, searching for another drunk who was going to be delighted to get a free Christmas toddy out of Mrs. Louise. She had no idea how much cheer she was actually spreading around those back lots each holiday.
We had one in our own town, of course. His name was Willie Taylor, junyah, but his friends all called him Hambone. He was a terrible drunk, stumbling around town in a wine-soaked haze, but he was a gentle, simple soul who loved to make friends with anyone willing to give him a minute. A smile always lit up his face as he petted you on the shoulder while declaring "You's my buddy, you's my best buddy."
He worked when he was sober enough, delivering fresh, hot donughts for a local restaurant. Problem was, he couldn't stay sober long enough to get through the day. Hambone would have to start nipping early on his delivery route, just a little sip here and there, to get him through the morning, steady out the shakes.
He'd make it to the first few stops, slightly intoxicated but still somewhat coherent. He'd nip a little more along the way, and by the time he passed the high school, Hambone was feeling so fine and carefree nothing bothered him. The students knew his routine well, and being hungry and devious, they also knew how to work it to their advantage. To his delight, the kids would call out, "Hey Hambone, howya doing? You gonna be my buddy?" It was widely known that Hambone wanted to be everybody's buddy. He would amble over to the students, pat them on the shoulder and say, "You's my buddy, you's my best buddy." To prove his devotion, he would start handing out the fresh donughts from his delivery box to all his best buddies, and before long, Hambone had no more goods to deliver. He also had no more job for the day, so once again, he headed to the back lots, dumpsters, and wine bottles.
He had family in town, but had long ago abandoned living with them. The siren call of the streets and the bottle seemed to be all his feeble mind could hear. They regularly tried to dry him out, sober him up, but never got anywhere. The liquor had too strong a grip on him, and Hambone didn't have the strength to fight it anymore. The years of drinking had drained him of all energy. Tired, weak, and bloated, he could only manage to shuffle around town looking for his next bottle and his next best buddy.
"You's gonna die of roaches in the liver," his mother would cry. "The doctuh done tole me and tole me that if you's ain't stop drinking, you's gonna get roaches in your liver. I don't know why you wanna die that way. Why, Willie, why you wanna die like dat?"
But Willie, too far gone to listen to his mama anymore, only answered, "You's my buddy, mama, you's my best buddy."
"I ain't yo buddy, Willie. I's yo mama. Now git on out of here and don't come back till you ain't likkered up no mo."
They both knew that day would never come.
He died one chilly spring morning behind a dumpster in the back lot, curled up like a sleeping baby, with a smile on his face. The doctor had been right about those "roaches in the liver." Cirrhosis of the liver was the only thing Willie had left in the end, and it took the last drop of life from that gentle soul who only wanted to be someone's best buddy.
The town of York, South Carolina had their fair share of drunks, which made certain holiday rituals quite entertaining. Each year at Christmas, we would drive up to see Grandmother and Grandaddy and help them with their holiday errands. There were presents to wrap, fruitcakes to deliver, mantles to decorate, and the annual back lot bum run. Grandmother's idea of spreading Christmas cheer was to drive through all the back lots in town, passing out dollar bills to the resident drunks that lingered by the alleys as she wished them all a "Merry Christmas!" She had been doing this for so many years that the resident drunks had come to expect her arrival, sort of like Santa Claus, and on the bum run day there always seemed to be a larger number of thirsty hobos hanging around the lots than usual.
"Grandmother, he's just going to go buy liquor with that money," we told her each time. But she always had the same answer.
"That is not for us to decide. I'm giving it to him, he can do whatever he wants to with it. He just might buy a hot meal. Now drive me out behind the drug store."
So off we'd go, searching for another drunk who was going to be delighted to get a free Christmas toddy out of Mrs. Louise. She had no idea how much cheer she was actually spreading around those back lots each holiday.
We had one in our own town, of course. His name was Willie Taylor, junyah, but his friends all called him Hambone. He was a terrible drunk, stumbling around town in a wine-soaked haze, but he was a gentle, simple soul who loved to make friends with anyone willing to give him a minute. A smile always lit up his face as he petted you on the shoulder while declaring "You's my buddy, you's my best buddy."
He worked when he was sober enough, delivering fresh, hot donughts for a local restaurant. Problem was, he couldn't stay sober long enough to get through the day. Hambone would have to start nipping early on his delivery route, just a little sip here and there, to get him through the morning, steady out the shakes.
He'd make it to the first few stops, slightly intoxicated but still somewhat coherent. He'd nip a little more along the way, and by the time he passed the high school, Hambone was feeling so fine and carefree nothing bothered him. The students knew his routine well, and being hungry and devious, they also knew how to work it to their advantage. To his delight, the kids would call out, "Hey Hambone, howya doing? You gonna be my buddy?" It was widely known that Hambone wanted to be everybody's buddy. He would amble over to the students, pat them on the shoulder and say, "You's my buddy, you's my best buddy." To prove his devotion, he would start handing out the fresh donughts from his delivery box to all his best buddies, and before long, Hambone had no more goods to deliver. He also had no more job for the day, so once again, he headed to the back lots, dumpsters, and wine bottles.
He had family in town, but had long ago abandoned living with them. The siren call of the streets and the bottle seemed to be all his feeble mind could hear. They regularly tried to dry him out, sober him up, but never got anywhere. The liquor had too strong a grip on him, and Hambone didn't have the strength to fight it anymore. The years of drinking had drained him of all energy. Tired, weak, and bloated, he could only manage to shuffle around town looking for his next bottle and his next best buddy.
"You's gonna die of roaches in the liver," his mother would cry. "The doctuh done tole me and tole me that if you's ain't stop drinking, you's gonna get roaches in your liver. I don't know why you wanna die that way. Why, Willie, why you wanna die like dat?"
But Willie, too far gone to listen to his mama anymore, only answered, "You's my buddy, mama, you's my best buddy."
"I ain't yo buddy, Willie. I's yo mama. Now git on out of here and don't come back till you ain't likkered up no mo."
They both knew that day would never come.
He died one chilly spring morning behind a dumpster in the back lot, curled up like a sleeping baby, with a smile on his face. The doctor had been right about those "roaches in the liver." Cirrhosis of the liver was the only thing Willie had left in the end, and it took the last drop of life from that gentle soul who only wanted to be someone's best buddy.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Trains
Chester, the epi-center of the universe, sits on a hill surrounded by train tracks. The little town quietly goes about it's daily business as trains circle around at all hours of the day, hauling cargo up and down the state in graffiti sprayed tanks and boxcars. If you want to arrive anywhere on time, you either learn the train schedules, or you learn how to get to the by-pass in a hurry. Otherwise, you are trapped, sitting behind the crossbars just counting cars as they rumble on by.
Whistles are the morse-code of train engineers. Long before texting, tweeting, and twittering became the rage, engineers communicated with each other through long and short combinations of the whistle. Pedestrians and drivers are warned of approaching trains at each crossing by this unique combination of sounds. Track changes are announced, and warnings are heralded with each toot and blast.
The long-long-short-long whistle signals a train is approaching a crossing. The personalities of different engineers are clearly revealed through their individual styles of pulling the chain. Usually, the enginer blows the warning in a distinct, crisp pattern, quickly and efficiently warning motorists to clear the tracks. One engineer, however, is particularly annoying when he passes through town on the 12:16 am train. He blows his whistle in a carefree, haphazard way: long (pause pour a cup of coffee pause)long (pause pause pause pause) short (pause yawn stretch pause) long. I can't figure out whether he's taking a cigarette break or texting his girlfriend in between, but there are interminable pauses between each pull of the chain. The pauses are without reason or rhythm; you can't anticipate the next blast. It may come quickly one night, and the next drag on and on and on.
I want to throw open the window and scream, " Blow that thang and get on out of town." I've just been ripped from a deep dream by the bellowing whistle and I'm waiting on edge for the next blast, gripping my blanket with nervous fingers. His erratic timing pulls at my sleep deprived nerves; I'm unable to anticipate his next attack, so I lie there, waiting for the blast, waiting for a time that can't be measured... I visualize his maniacal laugh as he tortures each town he blows through in the dark of night, erratically blasting the whistle, leaving behind a village of zombies, red-eyed and dazed the next morning.
I realize that after I have been back home for awhile, I will once again be able to sleep through the night without even hearing the train blow through. My brain will adjust to the sounds, both the steady, regular trains and the wild, crazed engineer, and I will sleep a deep and peaceful sleep.
But for now, I wait, hands tightly clenching the covers, waiting for the whistle that will jerk me from a deep sleep, waiting, waiting, waiting,,,,,......
Whistles are the morse-code of train engineers. Long before texting, tweeting, and twittering became the rage, engineers communicated with each other through long and short combinations of the whistle. Pedestrians and drivers are warned of approaching trains at each crossing by this unique combination of sounds. Track changes are announced, and warnings are heralded with each toot and blast.
The long-long-short-long whistle signals a train is approaching a crossing. The personalities of different engineers are clearly revealed through their individual styles of pulling the chain. Usually, the enginer blows the warning in a distinct, crisp pattern, quickly and efficiently warning motorists to clear the tracks. One engineer, however, is particularly annoying when he passes through town on the 12:16 am train. He blows his whistle in a carefree, haphazard way: long (pause pour a cup of coffee pause)long (pause pause pause pause) short (pause yawn stretch pause) long. I can't figure out whether he's taking a cigarette break or texting his girlfriend in between, but there are interminable pauses between each pull of the chain. The pauses are without reason or rhythm; you can't anticipate the next blast. It may come quickly one night, and the next drag on and on and on.
I want to throw open the window and scream, " Blow that thang and get on out of town." I've just been ripped from a deep dream by the bellowing whistle and I'm waiting on edge for the next blast, gripping my blanket with nervous fingers. His erratic timing pulls at my sleep deprived nerves; I'm unable to anticipate his next attack, so I lie there, waiting for the blast, waiting for a time that can't be measured... I visualize his maniacal laugh as he tortures each town he blows through in the dark of night, erratically blasting the whistle, leaving behind a village of zombies, red-eyed and dazed the next morning.
I realize that after I have been back home for awhile, I will once again be able to sleep through the night without even hearing the train blow through. My brain will adjust to the sounds, both the steady, regular trains and the wild, crazed engineer, and I will sleep a deep and peaceful sleep.
But for now, I wait, hands tightly clenching the covers, waiting for the whistle that will jerk me from a deep sleep, waiting, waiting, waiting,,,,,......
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
The Squawk Box Ain't Squawking
When I was back in Richmond, we'd wind down a long day by sitting on the front porch with a nice glass of shiraz, relaxing as we watched the poodles romp on the front lawn. As we read the paper, friends driving by would honk and wave; some would stop to chat for awhile. On spring evenings, deer from the adjoining field would wander through the yard to nibble on the grass, oblivious to the posse of poodles frollicking nearby. The calming sound of the fountain was the perfect music to end the day.
Things are a little different since arriving back home. Now, at the end of a long day, Sissey and I come home from class, and she finishes up her studies while I help Mom in the kitchen. After supper, we all sit in the den, and watch my father watch TV. On mute. Silent. No Sound. He sits in his easy-lift recliner, king of the remote, flipping through channels full of movies, talk shows, news feeds, comedies, dramas. All on mute.
There are a thousand channels on their cable guide, but Dad only watches two things: all sports ( football, hunting, wrestling, baseball, fishing, basketball, etc.) and westerns. On mute.
We keep telling him they have "talkies" now, but he watches his 54" plasma big screen-- on mute. Don't know why he invested in that Bose surround sound system. He turned it on one time, but it came on with such a loud POP! that he never used it again. There are eight speakers filling every corner of the room. Speakers hidden in the bookshelves. Speakers mounted on the ceiling. Speakers tucked into the corners. He prefers mute.
He usually has some hunting show on while simultaneously playing a game of Klondike solitaire on the split screen. On mute. We get to watch someone field dress a deer while Dad stacks cards. On a lucky night, we get to watch something exotic like an African antelope being eaten by a lion or the mating habits of wild turkeys. All silent, of course.
Then comes football, basketball, and baseball seasons. You can imagine where that's heading. Split screen with solitaire going on, while switching channels back and forth between 16 different ball games. On mute.
Don't even consider touching the remote. It is so complicated that one needs a PhD in physics to operate it. I tried once to change channels when Dad left the room, and it took a fleet of technicians to reprogram the darn thing.
So now I blog, Sissey's on facebook, Gans has her book, and we just sit, watching Pop watch TV. On mute.
Things are a little different since arriving back home. Now, at the end of a long day, Sissey and I come home from class, and she finishes up her studies while I help Mom in the kitchen. After supper, we all sit in the den, and watch my father watch TV. On mute. Silent. No Sound. He sits in his easy-lift recliner, king of the remote, flipping through channels full of movies, talk shows, news feeds, comedies, dramas. All on mute.
There are a thousand channels on their cable guide, but Dad only watches two things: all sports ( football, hunting, wrestling, baseball, fishing, basketball, etc.) and westerns. On mute.
We keep telling him they have "talkies" now, but he watches his 54" plasma big screen-- on mute. Don't know why he invested in that Bose surround sound system. He turned it on one time, but it came on with such a loud POP! that he never used it again. There are eight speakers filling every corner of the room. Speakers hidden in the bookshelves. Speakers mounted on the ceiling. Speakers tucked into the corners. He prefers mute.
He usually has some hunting show on while simultaneously playing a game of Klondike solitaire on the split screen. On mute. We get to watch someone field dress a deer while Dad stacks cards. On a lucky night, we get to watch something exotic like an African antelope being eaten by a lion or the mating habits of wild turkeys. All silent, of course.
Then comes football, basketball, and baseball seasons. You can imagine where that's heading. Split screen with solitaire going on, while switching channels back and forth between 16 different ball games. On mute.
Don't even consider touching the remote. It is so complicated that one needs a PhD in physics to operate it. I tried once to change channels when Dad left the room, and it took a fleet of technicians to reprogram the darn thing.
So now I blog, Sissey's on facebook, Gans has her book, and we just sit, watching Pop watch TV. On mute.
Monday, September 21, 2009
BREAKING NEWS....
We interrupt this blog to bring you the following announcement: Sissey has just received her first college grades. I repeat, Sissey has just received her first college grades. News reports have confirmed that she has received an A on both her English paper and her psychology exam. The reports state that both the recipient and her family are ecstatic. Pride and joy have been spotted in the area. More news to follow as it comes in.........Breaking News...Breaking News......
Sunday, September 20, 2009
The Lone Pink Ranger
You have to wonder about a man that drives a second-hand pink car. Not a Mary Kay Cadillac, but one of the little starter cars you get when you sell your first load of lipstick. Heading to Lancaster, driving down Hwy 9, a pink Pontiac Vibe came roaring by us like Dale Jr. on a good day. I expected to see see a little old lady behind the wheel, wearing tons of masacara as she hauled around the newest fall shades in eye shadow. Instead, it was some dude with a Redman hat, a big ole tattoo wrapped around his bicep, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, woofers blasting away. I had to look twice, to make sure I wasn't having a bad hallucination. Blink, blink. No, there he was, Willie Nelson jr. riding a Pink Pony, playing drums on the steering wheel as he rolled down the road.
I was fascinated. It was obvious this was not some light-weight who thought pink was the new red. Didn't this guy hear about the Cash for Clunkers program? Was this his girlfriend's car he had borrowed during a crisis, or had he just car-jacked grandma at the rest stop off I-77 and was making a quick get-away? He didn't have the look of a fleeing criminal, or maybe he was just too stoned to care, but it was7:30 in the morning, and I didn't think that was the case. He appeared to be in complete control of his senses and seemed to be driving a pink car simply because he could.
I wanted to follow him, see where this pink cowboy was headed, but decided it was better to not know the real story. He was probably just headed to work at the Waffle House in his mama's car. I preferred to believe he was a lone wolf, marching to the beat of his own pink drum, a man who wasn't afraid to stop and ask for directions. So for now, the legend would live on, as the Lone Pink Ranger galloped away down the lonely road, just a man and his trusty pink ride.
I was fascinated. It was obvious this was not some light-weight who thought pink was the new red. Didn't this guy hear about the Cash for Clunkers program? Was this his girlfriend's car he had borrowed during a crisis, or had he just car-jacked grandma at the rest stop off I-77 and was making a quick get-away? He didn't have the look of a fleeing criminal, or maybe he was just too stoned to care, but it was7:30 in the morning, and I didn't think that was the case. He appeared to be in complete control of his senses and seemed to be driving a pink car simply because he could.
I wanted to follow him, see where this pink cowboy was headed, but decided it was better to not know the real story. He was probably just headed to work at the Waffle House in his mama's car. I preferred to believe he was a lone wolf, marching to the beat of his own pink drum, a man who wasn't afraid to stop and ask for directions. So for now, the legend would live on, as the Lone Pink Ranger galloped away down the lonely road, just a man and his trusty pink ride.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
He played that song to death
I have been retired from the bench for a while, but I'm dusting off the old organ shoes this weekend. The Methodist Church called me to substitute on Sunday, so Bach and I are getting reacquainted.
When I first moved to Richmond, I decided to keep my organ skills current by playing for a Methodist church on the South side of town. Being a newcomer, I did not realize that I had just committed a terrible faux pas. No one ever crossed the river to the south side. It was just not done. Oh well, here I was, not only on the south side, but on Hull Street at that. As close to committing social suicide as I could possible come.
When I first moved to Richmond, I decided to keep my organ skills current by playing for a Methodist church on the South side of town. Being a newcomer, I did not realize that I had just committed a terrible faux pas. No one ever crossed the river to the south side. It was just not done. Oh well, here I was, not only on the south side, but on Hull Street at that. As close to committing social suicide as I could possible come.
I loved this church, however, because it reminded me of the one my grandparent's belonged to in York, SC. It was old red brick, with a long flight of stairs leading up to double front doors. Due to it's location in the wrong part of town, it had a small, elderly congregation. The youngest member of the choir was 65, the oldest probably in her late eighties, but I wasn't asking. The rest of the original congregation had either died or made the great white flight to the suburbs. I was the only congregant who still retained my natural hair color, my original teeth, and could drive after dark. We held choir rehearsals at 5 in the afternoon so everyone could skedaddle home and bolt the door before sunset. It was not, as I've said, the best part of town.
I loved this church and I loved it's people. They were the last remnant of a culture that was disappearing. Gentle folk who talked in that old drawl of long, soft, vowels and dropped consonants, who smelled of lavendar and rosewater, and still rinsed their hair blue. They loved their Lord and their church, and were fiercely loyal to a denomination that was hemorraghing members as fast as the other main stream Protestant churches. Average attendance on Sunday morning was 50. The hymns were still listed on a chalkboard at the front of the sanctuary, and the fifty faithful would make a joyful noise that would rattle the windows..
They didn't like for me to take vacations, because it was too hard to find an organist willing to drive through the projects on a Sunday morning to reach the church. But it was Christmas, and I was going home. Fortunately, they were able to secure the services of a gentleman who also pounded the mighty Wurlitzer at the Byrd Theater on Saturday nights. He agreed to fill in, and I was off the hook.
I knew when I got back to town after New Year's that something dreadful had happened. I had 15 messages from the choir, all urgent and full of panic. Call immediately, call ASAP, where are you, are you home?? I dialed the first number and got Miss Adelia Smith on the line.
"Oh Beth, it was awful, just awful. You must promise you will never go on vacation again. We just couldn't go through this again."
Slow down, I urged. Take a breath. Tell me what's going on.
"Oh Beth, it was awful, just awful. You must promise you will never go on vacation again. We just couldn't go through this again."
Slow down, I urged. Take a breath. Tell me what's going on.
It seemed that the substitute organist was a rather portly fellow, perhaps topping the scales in the 300 pound area. He arrived on Sunday morning, rehearsed the choir, and proceeded to the choir loft. The prelude began as the choir waited in the hall for their cue to file in. Suddenly, this horrible cacophony of sounds filled the sanctuary. The choir members looked at each other with puzzled frowns. Was this some new contemporary piece? Was he playing Paul Hindemith in the Methodist church? The discordant chord lingered on, and on, and on, until they could stand it no longer. They opened the choir door to peep in, and saw the organist slumped over the keyboard, deathly white and unconscious. The minister and choir members rushed to the organ, and realized a crises was in place. Call 911, someone yelled, and not being of the cell phone generation, one of the ushers rushed to the church office to dial up the ambulance.
Meanwhile, the chord played on and on, because no one knew how to turn off the organ, and no one could move the organist. He was too hefty for the aging ushers to lift him off the bench. No one in that crowd had bench pressed 300 pounds in over 50 years. The only solution was for the choir members to get on either side of him, lift his head off the keyboard, and balance him in a sitting position on the organ bench until the EMT's arrived.
There they stood, three on each side, three behind, holding that dead weight still for all their might. Even after help arrived, there were obstacles to overcome. The body had to be loaded onto a gurney, manuevered out of the choir loft, then hauled down a flight of 25 very steep stairs. The attendants struggled to steady the body as it shifted from side to side, threatening to crash down the steps and land on the sidewalk. Finally, he was secured into the ambulance, transported to the hospital, and pronounced dead on arrival. Cause of death: organ failure.
Meanwhile, the chord played on and on, because no one knew how to turn off the organ, and no one could move the organist. He was too hefty for the aging ushers to lift him off the bench. No one in that crowd had bench pressed 300 pounds in over 50 years. The only solution was for the choir members to get on either side of him, lift his head off the keyboard, and balance him in a sitting position on the organ bench until the EMT's arrived.
There they stood, three on each side, three behind, holding that dead weight still for all their might. Even after help arrived, there were obstacles to overcome. The body had to be loaded onto a gurney, manuevered out of the choir loft, then hauled down a flight of 25 very steep stairs. The attendants struggled to steady the body as it shifted from side to side, threatening to crash down the steps and land on the sidewalk. Finally, he was secured into the ambulance, transported to the hospital, and pronounced dead on arrival. Cause of death: organ failure.
I do not mourn his death. He died doing what he loved best. He died in a church, for heaven's sake. That has to count for something on judgement day. I mourn the death of the Broad Rock Blvd. Methodist Church. It closed several years later, after the remaining parishoners had either passed away, gone to live with relatives or been shuttled off to nursing homes. Today, that beautiful old sacred building is closed down, stained glass windows covered with plywood, chains around the double front doors, weeds overtaking the parking lot. The neighborhood has become even more dangerous to enter, even though the stigma of crossing over the river has subsided. The church, locked and vacant, is still watching over the street, waiting, just waiting, until the spirit moves another generation to break through the chains, throw open the doors, and lift a joyful noise unto the Lord.
I haven't played for a Methodist church since then. I don't believe in bad luck or superstitions or curses or omens or any of that stuff. I am absolutely not afraid of being the substitute organist for a Methodist church, but if you don't hear from me on Monday, please check the choir loft at Bethel.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Southern Style Ribs
My son tells his friends I make the best ribs in town. He's right. I'm particular about my sauce...mustard and vinegar based of course, and have a secret process of slow cooking and grilling that my good friend Melissa taught me. When he's bringing his buddies home from UVA, he calls a week in advance to put in a rib order. This summer, I had to talk one of his fraternity brothers from Macon through a rib crises. He phoned in the middle of grilling, needing a little intervention to get him through a sticky situation. He had the sauce all wrong and had skipped an important step in the wrapping, slow baking, basting, grillling process. Calmly, I talked him through it and got him back on the right track....another disaster averted, then told him Georgia boys better just stick to Brunswick stew.
There are two things, well three, that Southerners love. BBQ ribs, sweet iced tea, and porch swings. I have learned recently to not hold swings in such high regard. Especially if one has been eating a little too much BBQ.
It was a cool evening in September, especially for South Carolina. I was engaged in a long phone conversation with Nancy while swinging away on my sister's front porch, sipping on a little iced tea and enjoying the breeze. Back and forth, back and forth, the chains making a familiar squeak with each pass. I pushed higher and higher with my toe, as I filled Nancy in on the latest college news. Back and forth, back and forth, back and ...BAM! The chain pulled out of the ceiling and the swing crashed as it began it's descent The last thing Nancy heard was a scream and a thud, then silence. My sister rushed out of the house to find me lying in a heap underneath a pile of boards and chains. My phone had flown across the porch, my new Kate Spade glasses were somewhere in the bushes, and tea was spilled everywhere. At first, I thought just my pride had been crushed. I was more than a little embarrassed that I had pulled the swing out of the ceiling, especially since Rooster had installed it. I brushed myself off, insisted that I was fine, no, nothing was hurt, and limped back home.
The next morning, there was a deep pain in my ribcage, but we were headed to the mountains for the holidays and I ignored the symptons. The heating pad was my best friend all weekend, and I managed to bear the pain while I hit the Labor Day sales. School resumed on Tuesday, and I was not going to admit that this old geezer just couldn't keep up with the college kids. I dragged myself to class, popping a regime of Ibuprofen and Tylenol that would get me arrested in most states. By Friday, I had to swallow my pride and admit that this was a little more than I could handle. 10 sleepless nights and miserable days had made me a tad bit grumpy, so my mother INSISTED that I go to the doctor or they were going to put me down. It was dove season, my father's guns were cleaned and loaded, so I took them seriously and headed to the 24 hour emergency center-- on a Friday night. That was almost as painful as the symptons. After two hours of waiting, x-rays, and more waiting, the doctor prolaimed I had a cracked rib and pleuresy, loaded me up with meds, and sent me packing. I did not tell him the truth about what had happened. I was determined to leave with my pride intact. The official medical transcript reads "Fell down the stairs while carrying a laundry basket of clothes and a 50 pound bag of dog food." Oh come on, you'd have done the same thing.
So please don't ask me to make my famous ribs anytime soon. I don't think my nerves could take the sound of cracking bones as you pulled those meaty ribs apart and sucked them down. I will have a glass of iced tea, however, and sit in the rocking chair.
.
There are two things, well three, that Southerners love. BBQ ribs, sweet iced tea, and porch swings. I have learned recently to not hold swings in such high regard. Especially if one has been eating a little too much BBQ.
It was a cool evening in September, especially for South Carolina. I was engaged in a long phone conversation with Nancy while swinging away on my sister's front porch, sipping on a little iced tea and enjoying the breeze. Back and forth, back and forth, the chains making a familiar squeak with each pass. I pushed higher and higher with my toe, as I filled Nancy in on the latest college news. Back and forth, back and forth, back and ...BAM! The chain pulled out of the ceiling and the swing crashed as it began it's descent The last thing Nancy heard was a scream and a thud, then silence. My sister rushed out of the house to find me lying in a heap underneath a pile of boards and chains. My phone had flown across the porch, my new Kate Spade glasses were somewhere in the bushes, and tea was spilled everywhere. At first, I thought just my pride had been crushed. I was more than a little embarrassed that I had pulled the swing out of the ceiling, especially since Rooster had installed it. I brushed myself off, insisted that I was fine, no, nothing was hurt, and limped back home.
The next morning, there was a deep pain in my ribcage, but we were headed to the mountains for the holidays and I ignored the symptons. The heating pad was my best friend all weekend, and I managed to bear the pain while I hit the Labor Day sales. School resumed on Tuesday, and I was not going to admit that this old geezer just couldn't keep up with the college kids. I dragged myself to class, popping a regime of Ibuprofen and Tylenol that would get me arrested in most states. By Friday, I had to swallow my pride and admit that this was a little more than I could handle. 10 sleepless nights and miserable days had made me a tad bit grumpy, so my mother INSISTED that I go to the doctor or they were going to put me down. It was dove season, my father's guns were cleaned and loaded, so I took them seriously and headed to the 24 hour emergency center-- on a Friday night. That was almost as painful as the symptons. After two hours of waiting, x-rays, and more waiting, the doctor prolaimed I had a cracked rib and pleuresy, loaded me up with meds, and sent me packing. I did not tell him the truth about what had happened. I was determined to leave with my pride intact. The official medical transcript reads "Fell down the stairs while carrying a laundry basket of clothes and a 50 pound bag of dog food." Oh come on, you'd have done the same thing.
So please don't ask me to make my famous ribs anytime soon. I don't think my nerves could take the sound of cracking bones as you pulled those meaty ribs apart and sucked them down. I will have a glass of iced tea, however, and sit in the rocking chair.
.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Here Comes da Judge...
As I promised, I will explain about Sissey's summons to court. She'd only been in town four weeks, and here she was, standing before the judge in the Lancaster County Family Court. All four feet and ten inches of her, wide-eyed and innocent.
Sissey in court? There's just no way. This is the kid who gives her parents a curfew, who personally monitors speed limits, and who never lets me order off the kiddy menu. She once acidentally left a Kay-Bee Toy Store with a yo-yo in her lap and was horrified when she discovered it on the elevator. In a panic, she wheeled herself back into the store and confessed her crime, convinced she was going to be sent "down the road" until she turned 21. The dreadlocked teenager manning the register just grunted, pointed to the shelf, and turned another page of People magazine, but Sissey was convinced she was gonna do the time for doing the crime.
This was the first time either one of us had ever been in a courtroom, except for that one time in Richmond when I got two traffic tickets back-to-back. I got busted driving to Maybuery Elementary School. When the blue lights flashed behind me, I pulled over, thinking the cruiser would pass by on his way to capture some criminal. Turned out, I was the criminal. He nailed me going 35MPH in a 25MPH zone and gave me the first ticket at 3:05.
I got the next ticket at 3:10 as I was easing back onto the road. From the same officer. When I saw the blue lights flashing again, I thought I must have forgotten to get back my driver's license or something. I rollled down my window and dropped my jaw when he whipped out that pad and asked for my license and registration again. Seems he thought I pulled away going even faster that when he pulled me the first time. He gave me a SECOND ticket for going 45MPH in a 25MPH zone! Then he had the nerve to tell the judge that I tried to run over his foot as I peeled away. I'm a PTA mom, for heaven's sake, and a Presbyterian. This cop was making me look like O.J. Simpson in a Land Cruiser. "Book her Dan-O. Add assaulting an officer to the charges." I think the shocked look on my face convinced the judge I was not a terrorist. Maybe Sissey, in her hot pink wheelchair with tears streaming down her face as Mommy faced the slammer, also softened his heart a little. I was fined, but set free.
And that was the last time Sissey and I were ever in court. Until today.
All purses, cell phones, backpacks and weapons had been left in the car. We had been security checked, cleared, and ushered into Family Court. The attorneys had arrived, taken their positions at the appropriate tables, and defendents and plaintiffs were seated. The bailiff stood and announced "All Rise for the Judge...."
A familiar shaky feeling rose from my stomach to my throat when those black robes flowed out of the chambers and up to the bench. I glanced at Sissey, reached out to squeeze her hand, and took a deep breath. We faced the judge as court began.
"Get a grip, you nimwit," I had to tell myself as I shook my head to clear it. I was having flashbacks to my only brush with the law, trying desperately to save my poor skin from the pokey. We were only here today as part of a Community Service Project, but if you've ever been in a courtroom before, you can understand how intimidating it can be.
Her University 101 professor had sentenced all the students in his class to a 10 hour volunteer project, and Sissey was completing her hours in court. The judge, a family friend, had offered to let her sit in his courtroom as he conducted Department of Social Services and Department of Juvenile Justice cases. I can guarantee you that we got more of an education in those 10 hours in court than in the last 12 years of school. Sissey and I sat in shock as we witnessed the effects of the breakdown of the family unit, illegal substances, and poor parenting. In between cases, he brought Sissey thick slices of chocolate cake , let her sit at his bench, read her passages from Pat Conroy's new novel, introduced her to all the cops, and showed her how to swear in witnesses. That certainly made the experience much more pleasant than our last time before a judge!
At the end of the week, the judge freed her on good behaviour, then paroled her back to college life for the remaining four years. She left a college-educated court expert on the importance of effective parenting skills and obeying the law. She gave me a great big hug on the way out, and whispered, "Thanks, Mom." I knew she "got it" now, all those times when "No" from Mom and Dad seemed so silly, so stupid, so old-fashioned.
"Thank you, Judge," I whispered right back, "for giving her the best education she'll ever get."
Sissey in court? There's just no way. This is the kid who gives her parents a curfew, who personally monitors speed limits, and who never lets me order off the kiddy menu. She once acidentally left a Kay-Bee Toy Store with a yo-yo in her lap and was horrified when she discovered it on the elevator. In a panic, she wheeled herself back into the store and confessed her crime, convinced she was going to be sent "down the road" until she turned 21. The dreadlocked teenager manning the register just grunted, pointed to the shelf, and turned another page of People magazine, but Sissey was convinced she was gonna do the time for doing the crime.
This was the first time either one of us had ever been in a courtroom, except for that one time in Richmond when I got two traffic tickets back-to-back. I got busted driving to Maybuery Elementary School. When the blue lights flashed behind me, I pulled over, thinking the cruiser would pass by on his way to capture some criminal. Turned out, I was the criminal. He nailed me going 35MPH in a 25MPH zone and gave me the first ticket at 3:05.
I got the next ticket at 3:10 as I was easing back onto the road. From the same officer. When I saw the blue lights flashing again, I thought I must have forgotten to get back my driver's license or something. I rollled down my window and dropped my jaw when he whipped out that pad and asked for my license and registration again. Seems he thought I pulled away going even faster that when he pulled me the first time. He gave me a SECOND ticket for going 45MPH in a 25MPH zone! Then he had the nerve to tell the judge that I tried to run over his foot as I peeled away. I'm a PTA mom, for heaven's sake, and a Presbyterian. This cop was making me look like O.J. Simpson in a Land Cruiser. "Book her Dan-O. Add assaulting an officer to the charges." I think the shocked look on my face convinced the judge I was not a terrorist. Maybe Sissey, in her hot pink wheelchair with tears streaming down her face as Mommy faced the slammer, also softened his heart a little. I was fined, but set free.
And that was the last time Sissey and I were ever in court. Until today.
All purses, cell phones, backpacks and weapons had been left in the car. We had been security checked, cleared, and ushered into Family Court. The attorneys had arrived, taken their positions at the appropriate tables, and defendents and plaintiffs were seated. The bailiff stood and announced "All Rise for the Judge...."
A familiar shaky feeling rose from my stomach to my throat when those black robes flowed out of the chambers and up to the bench. I glanced at Sissey, reached out to squeeze her hand, and took a deep breath. We faced the judge as court began.
"Get a grip, you nimwit," I had to tell myself as I shook my head to clear it. I was having flashbacks to my only brush with the law, trying desperately to save my poor skin from the pokey. We were only here today as part of a Community Service Project, but if you've ever been in a courtroom before, you can understand how intimidating it can be.
Her University 101 professor had sentenced all the students in his class to a 10 hour volunteer project, and Sissey was completing her hours in court. The judge, a family friend, had offered to let her sit in his courtroom as he conducted Department of Social Services and Department of Juvenile Justice cases. I can guarantee you that we got more of an education in those 10 hours in court than in the last 12 years of school. Sissey and I sat in shock as we witnessed the effects of the breakdown of the family unit, illegal substances, and poor parenting. In between cases, he brought Sissey thick slices of chocolate cake , let her sit at his bench, read her passages from Pat Conroy's new novel, introduced her to all the cops, and showed her how to swear in witnesses. That certainly made the experience much more pleasant than our last time before a judge!
At the end of the week, the judge freed her on good behaviour, then paroled her back to college life for the remaining four years. She left a college-educated court expert on the importance of effective parenting skills and obeying the law. She gave me a great big hug on the way out, and whispered, "Thanks, Mom." I knew she "got it" now, all those times when "No" from Mom and Dad seemed so silly, so stupid, so old-fashioned.
"Thank you, Judge," I whispered right back, "for giving her the best education she'll ever get."
Monday, September 14, 2009
Mully's
College is greatly expanding me. Unfortunately, it's more than just my mind. Today we went to Mully's before we had to be in court.....I'll explain that one later. There is something about being in the South that makes you crave fried food and fat. Anything cooked in deep grease or swimming in butter. Mully's can take care of that for you. We had never been to Mully's but heard some students talking about it in class. Yes, we were eavesdropping because they were talking about macaroni and cheese, and our ears couldn't help but listen. So we went Mully-hunting today, and after a few missed turns, found it out by the AutoZone in a little strip mall. (Do three stores count as a mall?)
It was buffet day. Lucky us. $6.50 will get you fried chicken, baked chicken, BBQ chicken, country fried steak with rice and gravy, spaghetti and meatballs (can't quite figure that one out? Southern Italian?) boiled okra, fried okra, okra and tomatoes, corn, butterbeans, greenbeans, slaw, sweet potatoes, and then you get to the salad bar. Seemed a little ironic to throw in a salad bar at that point, but there it was, right beside the dessert bar.
We weren't quite sure how Mully's worked, so Sissey and I ambled in, tried to look like locals, and took a seat. The waitresses immediately figured us out for newbies, but they were so friendly and helpful we didn't mind confessing that we were Mully-virgins. "Gotta have the buffet," they advised. So buffet it was. After loading up, I mean sampling a dainty morsel of a few of the dishes, we began to evaluate Mully's. We gave it an A+.
We must have looked perplexed when discovering our plates were empty, but Delores came to the rescue. She was eating alone at the table next to ours, and leaned over and said, "Go on back, as much as you like!" We like.
Delores goes to Mully's once a week. On Thursday seniors eat for $3.00, so sometimes she goes more than once. She's a grandmama of twins, born three months early, just like mine were. Her grandbaby girls weighed less than 2 pounds combined, but the toddlers are both doing great now, praise the Lord. Delores drives to Rock Hill to keep them once a week, but she is having a little trouble now that they are running around...gives her rhematism a little rattle. Nothing a little fried chicken can't cure.
We decided to pass on seconds from the hot bar, but had to have just a little nibble of something sweet. Who's going to pass on double fudge chocolate cake with double chocolate icing and a white chocolate macadamia nut cookie? We knew it would be a long afternoon in court, so we loaded up on a sugar high to get us through the day. Besides, Delores said we couldn't skip the dessert bar, and we didn't want to be rude.
We waddled out of Mully's, moaning and groaning about our culinary sins. Feeling full and guilty, we headed to court, hoping the judge wouldn't convict us of gluttony and sentence us to hard labor on the fat farm.
"Goodbye, Delores," we hollered as we pulled out of the parking lot. She gave us a wink and a smile, and seemed to know that it wasn't the last time our paths would cross.
It was buffet day. Lucky us. $6.50 will get you fried chicken, baked chicken, BBQ chicken, country fried steak with rice and gravy, spaghetti and meatballs (can't quite figure that one out? Southern Italian?) boiled okra, fried okra, okra and tomatoes, corn, butterbeans, greenbeans, slaw, sweet potatoes, and then you get to the salad bar. Seemed a little ironic to throw in a salad bar at that point, but there it was, right beside the dessert bar.
We weren't quite sure how Mully's worked, so Sissey and I ambled in, tried to look like locals, and took a seat. The waitresses immediately figured us out for newbies, but they were so friendly and helpful we didn't mind confessing that we were Mully-virgins. "Gotta have the buffet," they advised. So buffet it was. After loading up, I mean sampling a dainty morsel of a few of the dishes, we began to evaluate Mully's. We gave it an A+.
We must have looked perplexed when discovering our plates were empty, but Delores came to the rescue. She was eating alone at the table next to ours, and leaned over and said, "Go on back, as much as you like!" We like.
Delores goes to Mully's once a week. On Thursday seniors eat for $3.00, so sometimes she goes more than once. She's a grandmama of twins, born three months early, just like mine were. Her grandbaby girls weighed less than 2 pounds combined, but the toddlers are both doing great now, praise the Lord. Delores drives to Rock Hill to keep them once a week, but she is having a little trouble now that they are running around...gives her rhematism a little rattle. Nothing a little fried chicken can't cure.
We decided to pass on seconds from the hot bar, but had to have just a little nibble of something sweet. Who's going to pass on double fudge chocolate cake with double chocolate icing and a white chocolate macadamia nut cookie? We knew it would be a long afternoon in court, so we loaded up on a sugar high to get us through the day. Besides, Delores said we couldn't skip the dessert bar, and we didn't want to be rude.
We waddled out of Mully's, moaning and groaning about our culinary sins. Feeling full and guilty, we headed to court, hoping the judge wouldn't convict us of gluttony and sentence us to hard labor on the fat farm.
"Goodbye, Delores," we hollered as we pulled out of the parking lot. She gave us a wink and a smile, and seemed to know that it wasn't the last time our paths would cross.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Funeral Season
"Hunter's Florist, Fish Market, Small Engine Repair and Taxidermy. How can I help ya?" answered the voice on the other end of the phone. My brother-in-law, Jeff, was trying to place an order for flowers to be delivered to my daughter. She was making her debut back in my hometown in South Carolina, and her uncle was unable to make the trip down from Richmond for the grand coming-out. He wanted to send her something special, and being somewhat of an amatuer expert in flowers, didn't want to take the FTD route in ordering a generic bouquet. He had a specific mix of delphinium, iris, star gazer lillies, roses, and hypericum beries in mind. He dialed 411, requested Chester, South Carolina, and asked for the number of a local florist. He got more than he bargained for.
Hunter's Florist, Fish Market, Small Engine Repair and Taxidermy is a family run entrepenuership that covers most activities taking place in a rural environment. Who needs Walmart with this kind of one-stop shopping? You can order dinner, complete with flowers, pick up your newly repaired chain saw and drop off the deer you bagged that morning all at the same time. Just make sure they stuff the deer and wrap up the fish, not vice-versa. One must be specific in such situations.
"Well, you've got just about everything covered, don't you?" Jeff chuckled, when given his options. "I really just wanted to send some flowers to my niece."
"Sure, what would you like to order? A corsage? Some roses?"
He placed his order, articulating exactly what he wanted in the arrangement.
"Wow, you sure know your flowers. We don't usually get specific requests like that," the young clerk answered. (Jeff had opted not to tell her his wife ran a floral business in Richmond, thus the source of his vast botanical knowledge.) "I'll have to see what we can do. When do you want these delivered?"
"I was hoping they could be delivered today. " Jeff replied. "The ball is tomorrow, and I'd like for her to get them before the festivities start."
"Uh-oh," came the reply. "You do realize this is funeral season?"
"Excuse me?" Jeff asked. "Funeral season? I didn't exactly know there was one."
"Oh yes, we are just swamped. We are just plain booked up with funerals. Have five this weekend. Had four last week. I don't know if we can get your order done, especially since you are so particular about your flowers. Where's it going, anyway?"
Somewhat perplexed, he gave my parent's name and address to the clerk, still pondering how he had missed funeral season all his life. He'd heard of hunting season, debutante season, football season, and Old Bay Seasoning, but never ever funeral season. How do you schedule that? More importantly, how do you miss it?
He was pleasantly surprised when the florist announced that she passed right by my parent's house on her way home from work, and she would be more than happy to just run those flowers on by then. This was customer service at it's best. Special delivery in the middle of funeral season. He hoped Sissey would get the lovingly ordered arrangement and not a wreath with a satin ribbon declaring "We Miss You Moma" splayed across it. Things get hectic when it's high funeral season. He took his chances and placed the order.
When we returned to Richmond the following week, Sissey called her aunt and uncle to thank them for the beautiful arrangement.
" Daly Floral Arranging, Pet Grooming, Sushi Bar and Tobacco Shop, How can I help ya?" a voice chuckled on the other end of the line....and I knew funeral season had arrived in Richmond.
Hunter's Florist, Fish Market, Small Engine Repair and Taxidermy is a family run entrepenuership that covers most activities taking place in a rural environment. Who needs Walmart with this kind of one-stop shopping? You can order dinner, complete with flowers, pick up your newly repaired chain saw and drop off the deer you bagged that morning all at the same time. Just make sure they stuff the deer and wrap up the fish, not vice-versa. One must be specific in such situations.
"Well, you've got just about everything covered, don't you?" Jeff chuckled, when given his options. "I really just wanted to send some flowers to my niece."
"Sure, what would you like to order? A corsage? Some roses?"
He placed his order, articulating exactly what he wanted in the arrangement.
"Wow, you sure know your flowers. We don't usually get specific requests like that," the young clerk answered. (Jeff had opted not to tell her his wife ran a floral business in Richmond, thus the source of his vast botanical knowledge.) "I'll have to see what we can do. When do you want these delivered?"
"I was hoping they could be delivered today. " Jeff replied. "The ball is tomorrow, and I'd like for her to get them before the festivities start."
"Uh-oh," came the reply. "You do realize this is funeral season?"
"Excuse me?" Jeff asked. "Funeral season? I didn't exactly know there was one."
"Oh yes, we are just swamped. We are just plain booked up with funerals. Have five this weekend. Had four last week. I don't know if we can get your order done, especially since you are so particular about your flowers. Where's it going, anyway?"
Somewhat perplexed, he gave my parent's name and address to the clerk, still pondering how he had missed funeral season all his life. He'd heard of hunting season, debutante season, football season, and Old Bay Seasoning, but never ever funeral season. How do you schedule that? More importantly, how do you miss it?
He was pleasantly surprised when the florist announced that she passed right by my parent's house on her way home from work, and she would be more than happy to just run those flowers on by then. This was customer service at it's best. Special delivery in the middle of funeral season. He hoped Sissey would get the lovingly ordered arrangement and not a wreath with a satin ribbon declaring "We Miss You Moma" splayed across it. Things get hectic when it's high funeral season. He took his chances and placed the order.
When we returned to Richmond the following week, Sissey called her aunt and uncle to thank them for the beautiful arrangement.
" Daly Floral Arranging, Pet Grooming, Sushi Bar and Tobacco Shop, How can I help ya?" a voice chuckled on the other end of the line....and I knew funeral season had arrived in Richmond.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Orville Hicks
The mountains have always been mysterious...the Appalachian people have a culture and a language all their own, the hills are protected by the ghosts of Native American Indians, and now, newcomers (self included) have claimed this territory as their own and are changing the face of the land. Golf courses are nestled beside Christmas tree farms, and outlet and boutique shops have crowded out apple barns and general stores. Range Rovers travel down winding roads, blasting past rusty trucks loaded with fresh mountain produce. Tucked into a small patch of land off 321 between Boone and Blowing Rock, however, true Appalachia is preserved. Welcome to the dump.
The trash dump operates on mountain time, is run by mountain people, and is the best entertainment in town. Normally a trip should take only long enough to toss a bag over the edge of the dumpster, but it could last the entire morning, depending on who is in charge for the day.
You were in luck if it was Orville Hicks. Orville grew up in 'these here parts", and knew every nook and cranny of every hill, every wrinkle and toothless smile of every mountaineer. He was true Appalachia, from his talk to his walk. Shuffling along in his over-hauls, a scruffy snuff-stained beard, engineer's cap perched at a jaunty angle, Orville was one of the last surviving artists of the "Jack Tale" genre. These were Appalchian folk tales, hill-country fables. Think Aesop with a twang.
Orville ruled the dump. His throne was an old board that rested on two concrete blocks, with a hand lettered sign posted above that read "Liar's Bench." Beside it sat a cardboard box labeled "Toss old shoes in here". Orville collected gently used items for the local Appalachian familes and was always trolling the trash for treasures that could be recycled. On a slow day, Orville would sit on that bench and spin yarns for anyone willing to listen; and if you were smart, you would be willing to listen. My children used to beg to go to the dump, in the hopes that Orville would be on duty. If a carload of children pulled in, Orville would amble up to the window and grinning ask, "Wanna hear a tale?" The answer was always Yes! and they would hop out of the car and settle at his feet. He would spin tales in his mountain drawl about growing up in the hills near Sugar Mountain, where he and his siblings would bunch galax for extra money. Florists would pay a quarter a bunch for the heart-shaped glossy green leaves that grew on the moist mountain trails. Orville's mother would reward the children with Jack Tales if they had finished their chores. Who needed television when you could hear about donkey eggs and good ole mountain dew while resting at the foot of dear old mother? He talked of a simple folk with complex values, hard-working and honest people, until they had a little too much of that mountain dew, dew, dew. His flat, long vowels reached far back into the woods; you could smell the musty mountain dirt and see the fog settling in the valley as Orville leaned back on his bench and pulled us into his world.
Orville has retired from the dump now. He is the author of several books, has recorded DVD's, and is on the lecture circuit with his Jack Tales. He is in high demand at schools around the country and has even been invited to the hallowed halls of the Smithsonian Institute to share his folk lore. Even there, in the high-brow society of Washington, DC, you can spot Orville in his trademark overalls, plaid flannel shirt, and a big ole toothless grin lighting up that grizzly old face. Washington has it's rules of society, but Orville has values, and values trump rules any old day.
It's not the same going to the dump anymore. Now we just toss trash and leave. The young kids working there have no tales to tell; they barely even speak. But each time, we sneak a peek at the Liar's Bench, just hoping to glimpse Orville on his throne, with a grin on his face and a little ole jack tale to tell.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Daddy 101
Although not officially parent's weekend, Dad came to visit us over Labor Day. It was his first trip down from Richmond since we left in August, and we were all eager to see each other. We planned to meet in the mountains for the long holiday with a schedule that included shopping, hiking, and lots of time on the deck.
It had been four weeks since classes started, but Sissey had already learned some new skills in college. Her favorite class, Psychology, had focused on Formal Experiments, which are used to test an hypothesis. Sissey had one ready to test. Her hypothesis was that she could manage to scam one of her parents out of a few bucks over the holiday weekend. The parent that could be easily manipulated would be the independent variable. That, of course would be Dad. The one that would never change would be the dependent variable. Mom was the dependent variable. You would never be able to maniulate a nickle out of that tight tick, much less change her mind on anything. You could depend on that.
Dad, on the other had, she could easily manipulate; he appeared to be tough and firm, but Sissey was the master of operant conditioning when it came to dear old dad. She set up him up like a Skinner rat and sat back to record the results.
She hit him up for cash as soon as he got there, not to mention a few new sweaters and a great pair of boots. He responded appropriately, and was rewarded with lots of hugs and kisses. Not only was she able to squeeze some cash and clothes out of him, but he arrived with a credit card as well....just for her. Her very own credit card, and she is presently unemployed. Not to mention a student. I just sat back, watching her work her magic on him, and thought, "Wait a minute, where's my new credit card? and my clothes? and Moma needs new shoes." I whined, "I need a little extra cash", and he didn't even hear me talking. I was 23 years into this relationship and being smoked by a 19 year old.
I could tell right away that I had failed Psychology. My rat was not responding. Maybe he was too conditioned over the years to getting shocked when he deserved to be rewarded. But for Sissey, that little rat just ran any which way she clicked her fingers. Ran correctly to Calvin Klein. Big hug. Ran straight to Coach. Hug and kiss. Skipped J. Crew. Little pout, no hug. Ran to Ralph Lauren. Hug, kiss, kiss.
She worked him like butter on a hot corn cob and he was just melting away. Not only did absence make the heart grow fonder, it made Daddy's wallet pop open. She passed her exam in Daddy 101 with flying colors. Aced everything. Her hypothesis had been proven correct: She was easily able to get her rat to produce cash and credit when correctly conditioned through rewards and punishment. Even though just a freshman in college, she'd already earned her PhD. in Parent Psychology.
I watched as they pulled away in his car, off for a little daddy/daughter bonding spree, headed back to the Shoppes on the Parkway. A little smile crept across my lips and I whispered, "Oh, my darling daughter.... I am so proud of you. You have learned well in college. Just remember the lesson you learned at your mother's feet...be sure to tell him how much you have saved on that little shopping expedition, and make sure he gives it to you in CASH..."
It had been four weeks since classes started, but Sissey had already learned some new skills in college. Her favorite class, Psychology, had focused on Formal Experiments, which are used to test an hypothesis. Sissey had one ready to test. Her hypothesis was that she could manage to scam one of her parents out of a few bucks over the holiday weekend. The parent that could be easily manipulated would be the independent variable. That, of course would be Dad. The one that would never change would be the dependent variable. Mom was the dependent variable. You would never be able to maniulate a nickle out of that tight tick, much less change her mind on anything. You could depend on that.
Dad, on the other had, she could easily manipulate; he appeared to be tough and firm, but Sissey was the master of operant conditioning when it came to dear old dad. She set up him up like a Skinner rat and sat back to record the results.
She hit him up for cash as soon as he got there, not to mention a few new sweaters and a great pair of boots. He responded appropriately, and was rewarded with lots of hugs and kisses. Not only was she able to squeeze some cash and clothes out of him, but he arrived with a credit card as well....just for her. Her very own credit card, and she is presently unemployed. Not to mention a student. I just sat back, watching her work her magic on him, and thought, "Wait a minute, where's my new credit card? and my clothes? and Moma needs new shoes." I whined, "I need a little extra cash", and he didn't even hear me talking. I was 23 years into this relationship and being smoked by a 19 year old.
I could tell right away that I had failed Psychology. My rat was not responding. Maybe he was too conditioned over the years to getting shocked when he deserved to be rewarded. But for Sissey, that little rat just ran any which way she clicked her fingers. Ran correctly to Calvin Klein. Big hug. Ran straight to Coach. Hug and kiss. Skipped J. Crew. Little pout, no hug. Ran to Ralph Lauren. Hug, kiss, kiss.
She worked him like butter on a hot corn cob and he was just melting away. Not only did absence make the heart grow fonder, it made Daddy's wallet pop open. She passed her exam in Daddy 101 with flying colors. Aced everything. Her hypothesis had been proven correct: She was easily able to get her rat to produce cash and credit when correctly conditioned through rewards and punishment. Even though just a freshman in college, she'd already earned her PhD. in Parent Psychology.
I watched as they pulled away in his car, off for a little daddy/daughter bonding spree, headed back to the Shoppes on the Parkway. A little smile crept across my lips and I whispered, "Oh, my darling daughter.... I am so proud of you. You have learned well in college. Just remember the lesson you learned at your mother's feet...be sure to tell him how much you have saved on that little shopping expedition, and make sure he gives it to you in CASH..."
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Mrs. Rob Hardin's Lemon Chess Pie
I told you so. Don't you just love being able to say those words? Well, I did, I told you so. I told you that pies are full of memories and histories, they are baked and served with love, they evoke visceral responses in people, and yes, oh yes, I love pie!! Well, seems I'm not the only one. Everyone who read I LOVE PIE was either really hungry, or else had such deep memories stirred up by pies that it evoked a hearfelt response. Thank you for sharing your memories. I felt compelled to share at least one of the responses with all of you, and. besides, you'll get a really good recipe out of it!
At this point I must insert the following disclaimer (especially since the sender of the email is an attorney!)
At this point I must insert the following disclaimer (especially since the sender of the email is an attorney!)
DISCLAIMER:
All stories contained in this blog are actual events. The names and dates have NOT been changed to protect the innocent. If the author has used your real name, it's because she likes you and wants to record your story for posterity. In the event the author does not like you, your name has been changed to obliterate the memory of you and to protect the innocent who have to put up with you.
Now that all the legal hurdles have been cleared, I offer for your reading and eating pleasure, the following discourse on Mrs. Rob Hardin's Lemon Chess Pie.
Dear Beth,
If you do the pie dinner anytime soon, this is one of the easiest and best desserts. The receipe was given to me by Mrs. Rob Hardin of Foote Street. She made 2 of the pies when my mother had a horrible wreck in December 1973, and it hit the spot then and for me continues to do so now. Mrs. Hardin was a remarkable lady. She managed the cafeteria of Foote Street school, and of course was given a set menu to follow. I've been told that she would make the meal more palatable by bringing or purchasing other ingredients, and the Foote Street cafeteria, while still school food, was known to be better than any around. Being very naieve, I really didn't know that during that era, you just didn't ask a lady for the secret of one of her special dishes and so I asked her directly for the receipe. Mrs. Hardin ,without blinking, said it was very simple and she would gladly share how to make the pie and that it doubled easily (doubled? it will triple, quadruple, etc) and since then, I think of her every single time I put it together then pull that wonderful aroma from the oven.
I can remember my grandmother and great aunts saying, "Do you remember that wonderful __________(you fill in the blank) that Mrs. X used to make? It was wonderful, but she would NOT share the recipe. Now she is gone and so is her (casserole, pie, cake, etc.)."
But thank goodness Mrs. Hardin was not of that ilk, and though she died many years ago, sweet memories of her linger, literally, whenever you take that first bite of this wonderful pie. I have had to plan dinners for local events and so it has served over 100 at one seating. It works just as well at "fancy" dinner parties, and as it is economical to make, I serve it at the Wednesday night dinners at Chester ARP. The best piece is that horded last sliver that is left in the pan, the one you get to savor all by yourself ,and find that yes, yes yes it is ....still delicious.
You are welcome to use or share the following receipe, there is one requirement however. If you share the recipe with others you must always call it MRS. ROB HARDIN'S Lemon Chess Pie, and if given a chance, tell that she was a true southern lady who possessed a great love for others. I've certainly built this one up, but as it has served so many, and always gets such wonderful reviews, I do so with no fear or trepidation. Your meal sounded, as one of my great aunts used to say, "truly goo-may. " Now finally, after all that build up, the receipe for one (but I always at least double it as the pie crust comes in twos) And yes I used Pet Ritz and am proud to say I do"!
I can remember my grandmother and great aunts saying, "Do you remember that wonderful __________(you fill in the blank) that Mrs. X used to make? It was wonderful, but she would NOT share the recipe. Now she is gone and so is her (casserole, pie, cake, etc.)."
But thank goodness Mrs. Hardin was not of that ilk, and though she died many years ago, sweet memories of her linger, literally, whenever you take that first bite of this wonderful pie. I have had to plan dinners for local events and so it has served over 100 at one seating. It works just as well at "fancy" dinner parties, and as it is economical to make, I serve it at the Wednesday night dinners at Chester ARP. The best piece is that horded last sliver that is left in the pan, the one you get to savor all by yourself ,and find that yes, yes yes it is ....still delicious.
You are welcome to use or share the following receipe, there is one requirement however. If you share the recipe with others you must always call it MRS. ROB HARDIN'S Lemon Chess Pie, and if given a chance, tell that she was a true southern lady who possessed a great love for others. I've certainly built this one up, but as it has served so many, and always gets such wonderful reviews, I do so with no fear or trepidation. Your meal sounded, as one of my great aunts used to say, "truly goo-may. " Now finally, after all that build up, the receipe for one (but I always at least double it as the pie crust comes in twos) And yes I used Pet Ritz and am proud to say I do"!
MRS ROB HARDIN's LEMON CHESS PIE
3/4 of a stick of REAL UNSALTED Butter. SOFTENED but not truly melted if possible (the fake stuff won't work) and don't be generous and use a full stick the pie won't set if you do, trust me, trust me on that one.
1 cup sugar2 eggs
juice of two small lemons
dash of salt
unbaked prepared pie crust (not deep dish) -PetRitz ,my choice, at room temp, which you have pricked the bottom a few times with a fork
Combine the sugar and the butter, do not over cream, leave a few large lumps of butter (it makes the pie prettier)
Add the 2 eggs one at a time and stir together
Add the juice of the lemons and the salt
Give it a quick stir and pour onto the crust.
Bake at 350 degrees for about a half an hour or until the pie is a beautiful golden brown with yellow hightlights.
Allow the pie to cool so it will set, overnight is just fine.
Serve and slice (I always seem to not be able to serve the first piece as it breaks up as I serve it, but no matter, that poor first piece can go on a separate plate. Stick it in the refrigerator (waste not want not) and save it for a later time.
I really did not mean to go on forever about this very simple pie.......but then your blog made me want to share my most bestest pie story and receipe with you.--------------------
WLD Bill Marion
Thank you, wild Bill, for a delicious recipe and a wonderful pie memory. Let us all have a moment of silence in memory of Mrs. Rob Hardin, who was gracious enough to share her recipes. Her memory will linger in every delicious bite. I LOVE PIE! And evidently, I am not alone.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Labor Day
You gotta love college. We started classes two weeks ago, and we get a holiday this week!! Labor Day. We are getting a break from our labors. After 2 weeks. Love it, love it, love it. Can I get a job in the real world where I get a vacation after two weeks and every Friday off? I think not, so I am taking advantage of the holiday while I can get it. No blog on Labor day. I will leave you with a poem instead.
Labor Day
I will not blog on labor day,
no mail,
no text,
no tweet.
I'm going to use my holiday
to rest,
to shop,
to sleep.
I've headed to the mountains
the hills,
the sky,
the breeze
My cell phone's off
I'm on the deck
doing as I please.
No labor on this Labor Day
I think that is the rule-
So I'll obey
No work,
just play
Til I return to school.
Happy Labor Day...I'm heading to the hills........see you next week!
Thursday, September 3, 2009
I love pie
I love pie. Pecan, peach, strawberry, blackberry. Pizza pies of all kinds, especially white pizza with artichokes, chicken pot pie, Shepard's pie, and any variation of quiche.
We all know quiche is just a stuck-up name for pie. They look like a pie, smell like a pie, cut like a pie and eat like a pie, therefore, they are pie. My grandmother just never could move into the twentieth century, and always called them "quickies." It wasn't that we didn't have the heart to tell her that the correct pronunciation was "kee'sh", we just thought it was funny and liked to hear her say it. She also called lasagna "lah-zag-nuh" but she was in her eighties, and at the age, you can call it anything you like.
I love "The Waitress," the ultimate cult movie for pie-a-holics. We're kind of like the "Rocky Horror Picture Show" crowd, except we wear aprons and carry around rolling pins. I love to sing the pie song, "Baby don't you cry, gonna bake a pie, gonna bake a pie with a heart in the middle." It just kind of sticks in your head once you start and then you sing it all day. With a smile on your face. Pie-a-holics have all verses of "The Pie Song" memorized and have replicated every pie recipe the very pregnant Jenna created. When writer/director Adrienne Shelly was brutally murdered in her New York flat, we had a national day of mourning. Fortunately, there were support groups to help us get through it. Many are still in therapy.
Friday evening Sissey and I hosted an "ALL GIRLS NO BOYS ALLOWED" party to celebrate the end of a grueling week of school. The attire was pajama casual, movies were the entertainment, pie was the menu. My three year old niece was attending her first all-girl event. We taught her the universal secret signal used to open every "ALL GIRLS NO BOYS ALLOWED" gathering (arms crossed over-head in the shape of an "X"), chanted our universal mantra (Veni, Vedi, Visa- I Came, I Saw, I Shopped), gave the battle cry "Charge It", and headed for the dining room table. Tomato pie, ham and sweet red pepper pie, cheese and egg pie - laid out in symmetrical circles, evenly sliced into eighths. It was a picture of perfection, completeness, wholeness. It was pie heaven. We didn't care that real men don't eat quiche. They weren't invited, and it left more for us.
I love pie. I love the way the word spills out of your mouth like a kiss. Say it slowly. Pie.... I love the long vowel that lingers in the air like a sweet aroma, a soothing, comforting sound. I love the family stories that are baked into each recipe, the memories that are captured in something so simple as a pie. A pie, a simple little pie, holding such rich, delicious, complex histories, filled with sweet memories, carefully made with loving hands, oh yes, yes, I love pie.
We all know quiche is just a stuck-up name for pie. They look like a pie, smell like a pie, cut like a pie and eat like a pie, therefore, they are pie. My grandmother just never could move into the twentieth century, and always called them "quickies." It wasn't that we didn't have the heart to tell her that the correct pronunciation was "kee'sh", we just thought it was funny and liked to hear her say it. She also called lasagna "lah-zag-nuh" but she was in her eighties, and at the age, you can call it anything you like.
I love "The Waitress," the ultimate cult movie for pie-a-holics. We're kind of like the "Rocky Horror Picture Show" crowd, except we wear aprons and carry around rolling pins. I love to sing the pie song, "Baby don't you cry, gonna bake a pie, gonna bake a pie with a heart in the middle." It just kind of sticks in your head once you start and then you sing it all day. With a smile on your face. Pie-a-holics have all verses of "The Pie Song" memorized and have replicated every pie recipe the very pregnant Jenna created. When writer/director Adrienne Shelly was brutally murdered in her New York flat, we had a national day of mourning. Fortunately, there were support groups to help us get through it. Many are still in therapy.
Friday evening Sissey and I hosted an "ALL GIRLS NO BOYS ALLOWED" party to celebrate the end of a grueling week of school. The attire was pajama casual, movies were the entertainment, pie was the menu. My three year old niece was attending her first all-girl event. We taught her the universal secret signal used to open every "ALL GIRLS NO BOYS ALLOWED" gathering (arms crossed over-head in the shape of an "X"), chanted our universal mantra (Veni, Vedi, Visa- I Came, I Saw, I Shopped), gave the battle cry "Charge It", and headed for the dining room table. Tomato pie, ham and sweet red pepper pie, cheese and egg pie - laid out in symmetrical circles, evenly sliced into eighths. It was a picture of perfection, completeness, wholeness. It was pie heaven. We didn't care that real men don't eat quiche. They weren't invited, and it left more for us.
I love pie. I love the way the word spills out of your mouth like a kiss. Say it slowly. Pie.... I love the long vowel that lingers in the air like a sweet aroma, a soothing, comforting sound. I love the family stories that are baked into each recipe, the memories that are captured in something so simple as a pie. A pie, a simple little pie, holding such rich, delicious, complex histories, filled with sweet memories, carefully made with loving hands, oh yes, yes, I love pie.
Guardian Angels
We have a guardian angel. His name is Rooster. I know, you were expecting Michael or Gabriel or something a little more angelic sounding, but God does have a sense of humor, and he sent us Rooster. Blessed with enormous God-given talents, Rooster could have single-handedly built the ark or repaired the temple, but he was sent instead to live in a small Southern town and humbly help people.
Rooster's calling is to fix things. Anything. For anyone. God sent him to help my parents, but his heart was too big to stop there, and he has taken on the entire family. He has also taken on his own children, grandchildren, in-laws, ex-laws, neighbors, and a host of children he loves as his own. He will do anything. For anyone. Not cursed with the sin of pride, Rooster will quietly fix small problems in a big way, and make big problems seem so small you forget they existed. Blessed with compassion, he searches for solutions to make life bearable for others, always puts himself last, and never complains.
God really loves Chester, because he has sent a lot of angels there. Mary Ellen Fennell was my first grade Sunday School teacher. She smelled of rose petals and was all soft hugs and sweet smiles. She would let us sit on the piano bench beside her as we sang "Jesus wants me for a Sunbeam, a Sunbeam, a Sunbeam, Jesus wants me for a Sunbeam. Yes! I'll be a Sunbeam for him.' As we sang, I could actually see those sunbeams break through the ceiling and bathe Mrs. Fennell in an ethereal light. She left us to go back to heaven one day, but I still see her in every sunbeam.
There is Neil Love, full of patience and encouragement. Anyone who can drive from South Carolina to Mexico with 15 teenagers in a van is not only an angel, but perhaps a saint. He got me through the first Sunday I ever played the organ for church. Terrified, I cried the whole way through the service, hands shaking so badly I could barely hit the notes. Mr. Love just sat beside me, up there in the choir loft, a steadying force, until the last note of the postlude had sounded. That Sunday morning he poured strength and courage into my young, scared soul which I still draw on to this day.
Sims Lynn is the only angel on earth who prays for my hemorrhoids. Amazing grace, she always knows when prayer is needed, and her prayers work fast!! I don't know what kind of hot line she has to God, but I want to stay on her speed dial.
Maybe you don't believe in angels, maybe you haven't ever seen one, but I believe they dwell among us. Angels are mentioned over 30 times in the Bible, and I've known too many of them to doubt their existence. God clearly told the Israelites "I am going to send an angel to protect you on the way and bring you to the place I have prepared." (Ex. 23:20) I believe what Gods says. God sent us Rooster.
Rooster's calling is to fix things. Anything. For anyone. God sent him to help my parents, but his heart was too big to stop there, and he has taken on the entire family. He has also taken on his own children, grandchildren, in-laws, ex-laws, neighbors, and a host of children he loves as his own. He will do anything. For anyone. Not cursed with the sin of pride, Rooster will quietly fix small problems in a big way, and make big problems seem so small you forget they existed. Blessed with compassion, he searches for solutions to make life bearable for others, always puts himself last, and never complains.
God really loves Chester, because he has sent a lot of angels there. Mary Ellen Fennell was my first grade Sunday School teacher. She smelled of rose petals and was all soft hugs and sweet smiles. She would let us sit on the piano bench beside her as we sang "Jesus wants me for a Sunbeam, a Sunbeam, a Sunbeam, Jesus wants me for a Sunbeam. Yes! I'll be a Sunbeam for him.' As we sang, I could actually see those sunbeams break through the ceiling and bathe Mrs. Fennell in an ethereal light. She left us to go back to heaven one day, but I still see her in every sunbeam.
There is Neil Love, full of patience and encouragement. Anyone who can drive from South Carolina to Mexico with 15 teenagers in a van is not only an angel, but perhaps a saint. He got me through the first Sunday I ever played the organ for church. Terrified, I cried the whole way through the service, hands shaking so badly I could barely hit the notes. Mr. Love just sat beside me, up there in the choir loft, a steadying force, until the last note of the postlude had sounded. That Sunday morning he poured strength and courage into my young, scared soul which I still draw on to this day.
Sims Lynn is the only angel on earth who prays for my hemorrhoids. Amazing grace, she always knows when prayer is needed, and her prayers work fast!! I don't know what kind of hot line she has to God, but I want to stay on her speed dial.
Maybe you don't believe in angels, maybe you haven't ever seen one, but I believe they dwell among us. Angels are mentioned over 30 times in the Bible, and I've known too many of them to doubt their existence. God clearly told the Israelites "I am going to send an angel to protect you on the way and bring you to the place I have prepared." (Ex. 23:20) I believe what Gods says. God sent us Rooster.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
WOW!
The textile industry used to be the heartbeat of rural towns in the South. When cotton was king, the mills were the royal treasure chest that kept the citizens employed, drove the local economy, and ensured the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness for all. Mill towns thrived, thanks to the sweat equity of the mill workers, locally known as "lint-heads" for the cotton fibers that would cling to their scalps after a grueling day of labor. Then, as the south struggled to resist the labor unions that were crippling the manufacturing industry, the textile industry quietly shifted to overseas production, where cheap non-unionized labor and lax standards insured profitability for the investors. One morning, the locals woke up and discovered their jobs were gone, the mills were closed, and life as they knew it was over.
Many small southern towns simply dried up and disappeared. Others struggled to survive as lucrative drug money made on the streets replaced honest pay earned in the mills. Crack was the new cotton. Suddenly, 18 year old kids were driving Mercedes instead of tractors, pit bulls replaced blue tick hounds, and marijuana fields replaced cotton. It was easier to sell a rock of crack than to work for minimum wage slinging burgers.
As the south struggled to survive, outsiders saw opportunity and jumped in. Empty textile mills were sold to salvage companies looking to profit from the old brick and heart pine they contained, were demolished to provide space for strip malls and parking lots, or were converted into new business ventures: old warehouses rebirthed as reception halls, apartment lofts carved from mills, and completely new capitalistic ventures rising from the cotton dust.
Drive out Hwy 9, right past Cooter's Carpet and Vinyl: Celebrating 30 Years in the Business, and one such venture rests by the tracks of the old L&C rail line. WOW! Yes, I say, WOW! Situated on the Fort Lawn site of a once-thriving cotton mill, two warehouses have been converted into mass-marketing, consumer-driven, discount-retailer. One enters WOW! and immediately, in an awe-inspired whisper, breaths, "Wow." My former college buddy and I first visited WOW! dragging along her 10 year old son. We walked the aisles mesmerized by the abundance of merchandise at obscene prices and just mouthed "Wow", "Wow", and "Wow". A frustrated Andrew stomped his foot and yelled, "Is that all y'all can say? What's the matter with you?" We had been brainwashed by the sheer impact of a warehouse full of deeply discounted rugs, furnishings, and home decor. It was like a virus. We had been infected and couldn't help ourselves. Visa was the only known vaccine. With buggies laden with merchandise, we plowed through the aisles yelling back and forth to each other, "Nancy, quick, come look at this, " "Over here, look what I found," and if we couldn't be reached by screaming, we'd pull out cell phones and text each other when treasures were unearthed. We called husbands, friends, and relatives to alert them about deals, ask for measurements, and confirm credit card numbers and security codes. We pulled out PDA's to schedule future visits and coordinate shopping sprees with our out-of-town friends. Never once did we stop and think that we were actually perpetuating the decline of the local economy by supporting the "local " economy. The warehouse owner was Indian, the merchandise was Romanian, the manufacturer Asian, the laborers Mexican. Hmmm....it had been a long, long time since I had taken Econ 101, but the something was not adding up. Although ashamed that I was taking part in the transfer of the American dream, I was proud of the $87.16 I had saved on my wrought iron sconces, copper poodle, and sisal rug.
As proud as the day I went to the Talbot's outlet in Springfield, Va. where my purchases totaled $232. 62, but my receipt stated that I had SAVED $2367.47! The cashier was enthusiastic in announcing that I had SAVED $2367.47. When I told him that I would like it back in cash, he stammered and stuttered and called the manager, completely unsure as to how to handle the situation. "Ma'am, you don't get the cash back" he said. "Why not? You just told me I had saved it. I'd like to have it in cash," I argued. I hated to do that to him, but I couldn't stop myself, it was just so wicked watching him squirm. I had learned early in my marriage to never, ever tell my husband how much I had spent. You only tell them how much you have SAVED! WOW! I had also trained him that I expected to receive my savings in cash. DOUBLE WOW! After all, as I reminded him, I was out there saving him more money on a daily basis than other wives brought home in their paychecks. I figured he had a really good deal.
But as I ran up and down the aisles of WOW! I was haunted by the fact that this site had once provided the only source of income for many local workers. Generations of families had been loyal to the mills in exchange for steady shift work. Now their jobs were gone in exchange for cheap foreign labor and cheap foreign goods purchased with greedy American dollars. I'm not proud of it, but I bought the sconces, the sisal rug, the $24.00 copper poodle (splurge, yes), and a pair of zebra-striped +1.50 readers, tucked them into the back of the Suburban, and crawled back home.
The South is changing. America is changing. Some parts of it are even disappearing.
Finally I understood what WOW really meant...
Where
Oh
Where
did the American dream go?
Many small southern towns simply dried up and disappeared. Others struggled to survive as lucrative drug money made on the streets replaced honest pay earned in the mills. Crack was the new cotton. Suddenly, 18 year old kids were driving Mercedes instead of tractors, pit bulls replaced blue tick hounds, and marijuana fields replaced cotton. It was easier to sell a rock of crack than to work for minimum wage slinging burgers.
As the south struggled to survive, outsiders saw opportunity and jumped in. Empty textile mills were sold to salvage companies looking to profit from the old brick and heart pine they contained, were demolished to provide space for strip malls and parking lots, or were converted into new business ventures: old warehouses rebirthed as reception halls, apartment lofts carved from mills, and completely new capitalistic ventures rising from the cotton dust.
Drive out Hwy 9, right past Cooter's Carpet and Vinyl: Celebrating 30 Years in the Business, and one such venture rests by the tracks of the old L&C rail line. WOW! Yes, I say, WOW! Situated on the Fort Lawn site of a once-thriving cotton mill, two warehouses have been converted into mass-marketing, consumer-driven, discount-retailer. One enters WOW! and immediately, in an awe-inspired whisper, breaths, "Wow." My former college buddy and I first visited WOW! dragging along her 10 year old son. We walked the aisles mesmerized by the abundance of merchandise at obscene prices and just mouthed "Wow", "Wow", and "Wow". A frustrated Andrew stomped his foot and yelled, "Is that all y'all can say? What's the matter with you?" We had been brainwashed by the sheer impact of a warehouse full of deeply discounted rugs, furnishings, and home decor. It was like a virus. We had been infected and couldn't help ourselves. Visa was the only known vaccine. With buggies laden with merchandise, we plowed through the aisles yelling back and forth to each other, "Nancy, quick, come look at this, " "Over here, look what I found," and if we couldn't be reached by screaming, we'd pull out cell phones and text each other when treasures were unearthed. We called husbands, friends, and relatives to alert them about deals, ask for measurements, and confirm credit card numbers and security codes. We pulled out PDA's to schedule future visits and coordinate shopping sprees with our out-of-town friends. Never once did we stop and think that we were actually perpetuating the decline of the local economy by supporting the "local " economy. The warehouse owner was Indian, the merchandise was Romanian, the manufacturer Asian, the laborers Mexican. Hmmm....it had been a long, long time since I had taken Econ 101, but the something was not adding up. Although ashamed that I was taking part in the transfer of the American dream, I was proud of the $87.16 I had saved on my wrought iron sconces, copper poodle, and sisal rug.
As proud as the day I went to the Talbot's outlet in Springfield, Va. where my purchases totaled $232. 62, but my receipt stated that I had SAVED $2367.47! The cashier was enthusiastic in announcing that I had SAVED $2367.47. When I told him that I would like it back in cash, he stammered and stuttered and called the manager, completely unsure as to how to handle the situation. "Ma'am, you don't get the cash back" he said. "Why not? You just told me I had saved it. I'd like to have it in cash," I argued. I hated to do that to him, but I couldn't stop myself, it was just so wicked watching him squirm. I had learned early in my marriage to never, ever tell my husband how much I had spent. You only tell them how much you have SAVED! WOW! I had also trained him that I expected to receive my savings in cash. DOUBLE WOW! After all, as I reminded him, I was out there saving him more money on a daily basis than other wives brought home in their paychecks. I figured he had a really good deal.
But as I ran up and down the aisles of WOW! I was haunted by the fact that this site had once provided the only source of income for many local workers. Generations of families had been loyal to the mills in exchange for steady shift work. Now their jobs were gone in exchange for cheap foreign labor and cheap foreign goods purchased with greedy American dollars. I'm not proud of it, but I bought the sconces, the sisal rug, the $24.00 copper poodle (splurge, yes), and a pair of zebra-striped +1.50 readers, tucked them into the back of the Suburban, and crawled back home.
The South is changing. America is changing. Some parts of it are even disappearing.
Finally I understood what WOW really meant...
Where
Oh
Where
did the American dream go?
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