A Virginia Thanksgiving

       Happy Thanksgiving, ya'll! I hope you all had a wonderful day with family and friends giving thanks to God for His mercy and grace in establishing our great nation. We have been privileged to live under His protection and blessings since the founding of our country...I thank God every day for that.
     If you're wondering where I've been, it's because of the turkey. I decided this year to try brining my turkey before roasting it, and if I do say so myself, that was an excellent decision.  It was, however, a time consuming process, leaving me little time for anything else.
      I sent a grocery list to my husband, Chris, prior to our arrival back home. It listed all the ingredients and items I would need for the holiday feast.  A twenty pound Butterball was at the top of the list...the one he purchased came in at 19.50 pounds. I let him slide on the extra half pound because he had done such an excellent job on everything else (turned out we didn't need that extra half pound anyway...we have enough turkey left over to last til Christmas.) I had researched brining recipes on the internet, had come up with a combination that suited our tastes, and was ready to turn ole Tom into a pickled perfection of poultry.
      I unwrapped and washed the big fellow, properly preparing him for his 24 hour soak in a five gallon bucket of salt and spices.  The bucket was lined with several layers of trashbags, Tom took a nosedive in, and we didn't hear from him for the twenty four hours. After his long, slow soak in the refrigerated tub, he was ready for a rub-down with oils and spices and a long slow roast in the oven.  I'm telling you, when I pulled that bird out of the oven, it was a Thanksgiving moment at it's best, Tom's golden swan song, his Oscar performance. He would have been proud of the way he went out, if only he had lived to see it.
     While I was busy with the other preparations, making gravies and sauces and casseroles and pies, I was watching the news on the counter-top television.  As I was popping Tom into the oven, a story came on about a woman who had rescued a holiday-doomed turkey.  She was pontificating about how she had saved his life, how much she loved that bird (?), and the health problems he was now facing.  The rescued turkey may have missed the hatchet, but he was suffering from a debilitating case of cataracts. The young rescuer was pleading for donations to cover the approximately $2600 cost of the operation. A link on the news station's website had been set up to make donations.  I sent her an email and told her for $1.29 a pound I could cure her bird's problem forever.
     Our relatives and guests arrived for the feast about one o'clock. We had three single females on our list and had invited one single male to round out the table. Our friend, Jim, arrived with a platter of marinated shrimp, stuffed clam shells, barbecued scallops wrapped in bacon, and grilled tilapia. He had spent all morning preparing the hors d'ouevres-- chopping clams, grilling fish, mixing spices.  He had even made his own special sauces to accompany each morsel.  He took a peek at my turkey, then told me how he had just brined a turkey on Saturday with a recipe that gave me a run for my money.  A single man who cooks? I predict his status will be changing very soon.
     We thanked God for our country, our service men and women, our bountiful blessings, our family and friends, and sat down to a feast that would have saved the entire band of Pilgrims during that dreadful winter of starvation. We've come so very far since those adventurers first landed on the shores of this new world...we are fatter, richer, warmer, healthier, and more blessed than they could have ever imagined. I pray that our hearts are as thankful to God Almighty as were those of the original Pilgrims.    
     Happy Thanksgiving....now I'm off to start getting ready for Christmas!
     
  

The Post Game Show

     Ladies and gentlemen, sports fans of all ages, Tigers and 'Hoos alike, welcome to the Post -Game show, featuring a play-by-play wrap up and all the exciting details of the Clemson Vs. UVA game.  The orange team won.
     Enough about that, now, on to the really important things about the day. The weather was South Carolina Fabulous.....a brilliant blue sky, a slight nip in the air, an abundance of orange, a regular "Thank you,God it's great to be in South Carolina" kind of day. If you had an aversion to orange, this was not the place you wanted to be on Saturday. With both teams sporting the same color, the only distinction was the lack of orange paws or tiger tails adorning the UVA Fans.
     We arrived at a tailgate party in full swing, orange tents erected, orange chairs placed under the trees, orange plates and napkins and cups ready to be filled and refilled. There was jumbalaya cooking on a stove in one corner, BBQ simmering on another, and enough platters and  baskets of food to feed a small third world country.  The tailgate party included a generator powered, satellite-dish receptive television set with full coverage of all the major football games.  I'm still amazed that the guys even ventured into the stadium to see the live-play, when they could have spent all afternoon watching hundreds of channels--carrying every major sports activity--while seated by a cooler full of beverages and several tables loaded with food.
      My brother, whom I will now have to start referring to as the former-golden-haired-boy-now-slightly-gray-at-the-temples-with-just-the-teensiest-of-bald-spots-on-top, graciously refused to exchange seats with me at the game and sauntered off to his loftier perch. It was a somewhat sweet victory, however, when Sissey and I realized we had snagged seats directly under the President's Box. So basically, our view of the game was exactly the same as his, just without the white-gloved waiters, shrimp cocktails, cushioned seats, and plasma screen enhanced viewing.
      It would have been a great day if not for some crazy kid that kept shooting off a cannon down on the field.  If you thought Sissey hated balloons, you ain't seen nothing til you've seen her around a cannon. I had the foresight to buy earplugs for her--orange, of course, to match her perky coat, hat and scarf, but they did little to mute the percussive explosions of a hyperactive cannon manned by a over-eager fan.  Clemson, having formerly been an all-male military academy, seemed to think it was a grand old tradition to fire a cannon whenever they did anything down on the field. Score a touchdown? BOOM! Kick a field goal? BOOM! Punt the ball forty yards? BOOM!  Call a time-out? BOOM!  Fumble the ball? BOOM!  Huddle on the field? BOOM! Break for the water boy? BOOM! Maybe I exaggerate a smidgen, but you get the point. 
     It didn't take much for them to fire that fellow up, and every time that cannon went BOOM!, Sissey jumped so high I was afraid she was going to land smack dab in the middle of the President's Box.   I had to pull her back down into her seat each time before she rocketed clear out of the stadium. I was sure when she jumped, she was going to pop up right past the big glass windows of the skybox directly above us, right into full view of my brother.  I could just see him sitting up there, mesmerized by the tantalizing action on the field, swapping sports stories with the other donors while watching the game, when suddenly, Sissey pops up in front of the window. And again, when the Tigers score a touchdown, up pops Sissey.They kick a field goal, here comes Sissey.  They run a forty-yard touch down, up she pops again. He would never believe she was just jumping out of her seat in fear every time that cannon fired, but would think I had her down there on a trampoline trying to propel her up and over into the President's Box. 
     The fans seated around us kept watching her blast off in unison with the cannon, raising puzzled eyes at us and shaking their heads each time she projected into orbit.   I tried to explain to them that she thought they were the Clemson "Tiggers", and she was just bouncing with joy each time the "Tiggers" scored.  When that didn't work, I whispered that it was part of her disability, she had a propulsion problem, and couldn't help herself.  She just spontaneously combusted. That shut them up for the rest of the game.
       Other than that, it was a great experience to be in Death Valley with the two orange teams playing, either one a winner for us, being  fans of the 'Hoos and  fans of the Tigers, fans of tailgates and fans of ballgames, fans of glorious fall weather and fun times with family and friends. Fans of everything, that is, except cannons.
      At least the orange team won.
  

How many miles are left on that car?

     I promised someone very close to me and that I dearly love that I would never tell the following story. So I will not tell it.  My lips are sealed, I will never mention this conversation to a single living soul as long as I live. I will simply post it instead.  (Please do not let anyone know that I have done this.)  All names have been omitted to protect the naive, the innocent, and all other parties that do not wish to be identified or so named.

      We were driving home from Columbia this afternoon after a full day of Christmas shopping, tired but very excited that satellite radio already had the "Holly" channel up and going even though it was only November and Thanksgiving was still a week away. Christmas music was blaring out the windows as we drove home in eighty degree South Carolina autumnal weather. We were singing Christmas carols, my three year old niece was watching "Frosty the Snowman" on the DVD player, we were discussing which relative would receive which treasure we had just purchased, and a general holiday spirit permeated the warm fall air.
      As I drove down I-77, my sister happened to ask, for no obvious reason other than curiosity, exactly how many miles I had on my car.  I clicked the odometer button and told her it was at 98,000 and that I was sure I would roll past the 100,000 mile mark by the end of the year.  I put a lot of mileage on that old tank, running back and forth between South Carolina and Virginia in addition to making the daily trek to classes in Lancaster.
     After I revealed the mileage, (an unnamed female person in the car) asked the following question:
     "How many miles do you get before you run out?"
     Huh?
     "What do you mean?" I questioned her.
     "Well, you're always talking about how many miles you've got on the car, and that it's almost time to trade it for a new one. So, how do you know when your miles are about to run out?"
        " You mean like minutes on the cell phone?" I asked.
        "Yes," she answered. "It doesn't seem fair to trade a car when the miles are about to run out. How does the person that buys the old car know how many miles are left on it when they buy it? And how do you know when you buy a new car how many miles you'll get with it?"
          "Honey, you don't buy miles with the car," I started, "it's not like a cell phone plan where you only get so many and then you run out. "
       I put on my best used-car-salesman hat  and began to explain the steps involved in purchasing, owning, maintaining, and eventually trading an automobile.
       "First, you purchase a car and make sure you properly maintain it. Get the oil changed every 3,000 miles, service it regularly, rotate the tires, take good care of it,  maintain it properly, and you'll get a lot of mileage out of that car."
        At this point my sister piped in, "(Unnamed female person in the car), you know when you see all those broken-down cars on the side of the interstate? Those are the cars whose miles have run out. They just stop, and you have to leave them on the side of the road until you can go and get some new miles."
      She thought this was terribly funny, but it sure wasn't helping my lesson in auto-mechanics.
      I  continued by trying to explain that when I said it was time to trade because the car had so many miles on it, I simply meant that heavy use of the vehicle excelerated the general wear-and-tear on the engine, transmission, brakes, belts, and other systems of the car. After so many miles, a car started to age and it was best to start thinking about getting a new one before you had to invest too much in maintaining an aging vehicle.
    "You have to go to the dealership and renew your mileage, usually for a two year period," my sister continued, not about to let this opportunity pass. " Once they activate it, you can go back and start your car up, then drive it home,"       
      Finally, finally,  (the unnamed female person in the car) realized she was being taking for a ride by my sister,  and no matter how much mileage that story had, she wasn't buying it any longer.
      "Please, please, please don't tell anybody that I actually thought the car ran out of miles," (the unnamed female person in the car) begged.
      "Of course not, honey, " I reassured her, as I winked at my sister in the rear-view mirror. "I'll never tell a soul!"
      Semantics, shemantics.....some things are just better left unsaid.
      

I'd marry that man if he wasn't already

      My brother-in-law's father, Jimmy ( does that make him my father-in-law once removed? ) dropped off a fifty gallon trashbag full of sweet mustard greens today. He knows just how much I love greens, maybe because he has superior intuition, or maybe because I tell him everytime I see him. This was his second delivery in two weeks, over 100 gallons of some of the prettiest greens in town. He had gotten up early this morning to pick them, determined to make sure he pulled the tender leaves before the rain moved in this afternoon. It's a back-breaking job bending over and  harvesting greens, especially when you know your labors are not for yourself but for someone else's  gain. He had planted his garden this year with his usual intent....work hard and then give most of it away, but that's the kind of man Jimmy is....joyfully doing back-breaking work not for himself but simply because he wants to make somebody else happy.
      But wait, there's more! Not only did Jimmy bring me fresh picked greens, he brought me his grandmother's big ole fifty-quart pot to cook them in. He said my pot wasn't big enough to cook them. And that, my dear, is not an insult.
      But wait, there's more!  He sat on the porch and helped me strip them all down, pulling the tough stems away from the tender leaves so I could cook them right away. To top all that, he then took the bag of leftover stalks and leaves home to add to his compost pile, preparing a year in advance for next year's garden. I guess in today's political culture, that's what we'd calling "going green." Al Gore's got nothing on this man.
     But wait, there's more! He then proceeded to oversee my washing and rinsing of the greens, finally instructing me on the best way to cook them (according to HIS grandmother's recipe!): how much water to add, what temperature was correct, how much country ham would season them just right, whether a streak of lean was the better choice, how much to salt them down, how long to cook them, whether to cover them or not, when to stir them, and all the other intracacies involved in the process of preparing greens for the table. We ended up with enough not only for supper but with four extra quarts to put up for Thanksgiving dinner.
     I couldn't help but think:  Here's a man who grows dinner, harvests dinner, delivers dinner, prepares dinner,cooks dinner,and plans for next year's dinner. I told Sissey that this was the kind of man she needed to save her heart for...a self-sufficient man,a gentleman who was hardworking, generous, helpful, and kind, one that women would pass on the street and say, "I'd marry that man if he wasn't already!"
     And that, my dear, is not an insult!
     

All is Well in Tiger Town

     Orange fever is coming to town, and we're heading up to the UVA/Clemson football game this weekend. It will be the first time Sissey has seen  the Tigers actually play at Death Valley, although she has made a pilgrimage to the Frank Howard Stadium and has witnessed Howard's Rock hovering over the hill. Her twin brother is heading down from The University of Virginia with his fraternity brothers, we're tailgating with family and friends, her dad is flying in from Richmond, and football fever is spreading faster than swine flu. Deciding which team to pull for may be difficult. I grew up in a Clemson family: my brother and sister were Tigers, my sister-in-law was a Tiger, my brother-in-law was a Tiger, my grandfather and great uncles were Tigers, and all my nephews are Tigers. My son, Bro, however,  is a second year scholar at UVA. To solve the problem,  I'm just going to wear orange and yell "Go Team!"
      My brother, the golden-haired boy, told me last night that he had gotten tickets for Sissey and me in the handicapped section. The entrance and exits are ramped, there's plenty of room for her wheelchair, and she'll be able to roll right in the stadium  to watch the game. I was so excited and appreciative he had gotten us such perfect accomodations, until he informed me that he would be sitting in the President's Box and that he had given his daughter, Margaret, a sideline pass.
     Hmmmm...I started thinking that maybe that just wasn't fair. The President's Box was so much more my style than his, he didn't really want to be up there, he wouldn't even appreciate it. He'd much rather be down on the sidelines of the field as the team doctor or up in the stadium with the roaring Tiger crowd. I should be the one sitting in the plush confines of the best seats in the stadium, rubbing elbows with the uppity-ups, munching on delicate morsals served on silver platters by white gloved waiters.  I would appreciate it very much, thank you, and I started thinking that maybe, just maybe,  I could talk him out of that spot.
    "Oh," I smiled, "that's great. The President's Box, huh? Too bad you'll miss all the action down on the field. Margaret will love taking that spot! We'll be loving it down in the stadium with all the excitement, the roar of the crowd, the energy. Sorry you'll be stuck up there in the glass bubble cut off from the fans. Hey, come to think of it, wouldn't you rather sit with Sissey and show her how to have the real Tiger experience? Teach her all about Death Valley, Frank Howard, the Tiger Rag, the history behind the rock? You've been to so many games, you're such a football pro, it would mean so much to her. It would be the perfect uncle/niece bonding time."
     "No, I don't think so. Nice try," he said.
      Shoot, round one goes to the golden haired boy, but I'm not beat yet.
      I decided to try tactic number two. When whining and cajoling fails, try guilt. I would shame him out of those seats yet.
     "OK, you go ahead and take the best seats, I'll just roam around below, lost in the crowd, pushing Sissey in her wheelchair. We'll be rolling around searching for our seats, trying to manage the hills and the swarm of people. I hope we don't get crushed by the mob of fans.  Don't worry about us, though. If we get hurt or lost I'm sure security will show up to help. Of course, I know nothing about the stadium or how to get around, this wasn't my alma mater, but I'm sure we can figure it out on our own. You go ahead and sit in the President's Box, you deserve those seats so much more than anyone."
      "OK," he said.
        Not the response I was hoping for. One final try remained. I would  beat him at his own game, using my best psycho-babble jargon and all the knowledge I had gained this year from Psychology 101.
      " So, how does that make you feel?" I fired at him, hoping he would dig deep into his sub-conscious mind and discover that he didn't really need to sit in the President's Box to enjoy the game, that he actually wanted me to take the tickets instead, that it would complete him and make him feel whole to sacrifice the better tickets for the lesser ones, a truly noble gesture.
      "Makes me feel pretty good, actually," he grinned back at me.
       Dadgummit, that's the problem with psychiatrists. They are too self-actualized to be manipulated by guilt or trickery or amatuer analysis.
     OK, so he won the round and the match. I've been beaten by the professional,  I've been relegated to the regulars, I'll  be content with popcorn and coke and a hard stadium seat, but I can't lose, because either team is a winner for me, President's Box or not, and I'm  going to the game!
     And that makes me feel pretty good, actually!
     Go Orange!
Postscript: My brother redeemed himself  by getting tickets on the 50 yard line for my husband and son.  Not quite the President's Box or a sideline pass, but a pretty darn good second place.  All is forgiven, All is well in Tiger Town.

Water on the Moon

     Fox News just reported that water has been found on the moon....twenty four gallons, to be exact. It took $84,000,000 to discover it. That's EIGHTY FOUR MILLION DOLLARS for TWENTY FOUR GALLONS OF WATER!  Comes to about $3,500,000 per gallon.  A little pricey for my taste. I think I'll stick to the bottled water I can get at Costco for $6.99 a case and pocket the change. On top of that, the water is billions of years old. I hope it ages like a fine wine, otherwise that is going to be some nasty old moonshine and you couldn't pay me to drink it.
      Michio Kaku, Theoretical Physicist, Professor at City College of New York,  Summa Cum Laude Harvard graduate,  radio host and author of Physics of the Impossible,  stated in an interview this was a "significant" discovery. OK, so this guy is highly qualified to make that kind of  statement. He then went on to say that water on the moon is five times more valuable than gold. Again, he certainly has the credentials that qualify him to an opinion.  My only question is this: Exactly who on the moon is going to buy it? Or even better, Who in the World is going to buy it? How can you attribute value to something when there is no one there that wants it? See anything significant about that?
     I looked at the desolate moon shots scrolling across the screen....vast wastelands of gray that were pockmarked with craters and drifts. I didn't see a single tree or green blade of grass, a bird or any other creature. There wasn't sign of life, a blue sky, a brightly shining sun, or anything else that made me want to invest $84,000,000 to get there.  It would be like ditching color TV and going back to black and white sets with rabbit ears and fuzzy reception.  Why would anyone chose to live in a black and white world when the plasma version with high digital reception is already available? Who are these people that scientists think are chomping at the bit to live on the moon? Will they have cellular reception when they get there? How about an email address, because I can guarantee you that the US Postal System will have trouble delivering to that zip code.
     I admit that it is exciting to see man reach the outer limits of space and pioneer new discoveries, but while we are living in the midst of the worst recession in years, with wars being ravaged all over the world and terrorists infiltrating our nation, with children dying each day from hunger and disease, I'm just not overly concerned with twenty-four gallons of water at the price tag of $84,000,000.  I can think of eighty-four million other things I'd rather spend that money on....a cure for cancer, world peace, an end to poverty, eradication of hunger, elimination of disease, and on and on and on. We can't even provide palatable drinking water for everyone on earth, yet we're off to the moon to find water there, at a very hefty expense. Seems like there might be a little problem with common sense and priorities, and when scientists can figure that  out, that will be a significant discovery.   

Cow Field Cemeteries

     We took a detour to get to Rock Hill today, driving the Old York Road through Brattonsville instead of taking the quicker interstate route.  It was a gorgeous fall day, with a much appreciated cerulean blue sky finally appearing after a week of hurricane-fueled rains and soggy gray skies. The cotton fields had been plucked and cut down to stubby rows of stalks, the cows were feeding in pastures speckled with orange, maroon, and golden leaves, and covies of migratory birds swooped and swirled across the sky on their southward journey to warmer climes. We drove slowly, enjoying the leisurely autumn drive through quiet back roads, relishing the relaxing pace and spring-like temperatures after enduring a cold dreary week.
     Shortly after we veered off Highway 321, we spotted a cemetery on the side of the road, just past the house with the purple trim, purple shutters, purple doors, and   purple wishing well. You couldn't miss it unless you were already dead.  A chain-link fence surrounded the graveyard, and it had been freshly mowed, but other than that it was void of any landscaping or signage. A double gate marked what must have been the only access point. It looked to be about five acres of land, more or less, with more empty acerage and less graves than expected.  As we drove past, I viewed the vacant plots and wondered why the ten or so visible graves had been neatly lined up in a perfectly straight row. They were tucked into the fartherest side of the field, in one single line with headstones and artificial flowers marking each plot, the rest of the cemetery standing vacant and bare. The graves weren't spread out in the usual way, with individual family plots gathering it's members into tight little huddles around the field; instead, they were in a solitary, rigid, straight row, like an army platoon, one lined up behind the other, silent soldiers marching to a silent drum.
    "That cemetery sure isn't doing very well," I commented to my mother, who was riding in the front seat beside me.
     She looked over and nodded in agreement. After I opened my mouth, I thought about what I had just said.
     "I suppose it's better that it's not doing well, if you think about it," I corrected myself. "It's not as if I'm wishing a bunch of people were dead, it just  looks sad to see only a few graves and all that empty space. It looks a little lonely out there."
     I couldn't explain exactly what I meant, except that when it came time to lay my body down in the cold, cold, ground, I wanted to be surrounded by a few other people, some family and friends, if possible, and not just lined up in one single, solitary row, stuck over by some pine trees with four empty acres waiting to gobble up fresh, dead souls.  I wanted to be in an established cemetery, one I knew would be around for a long, long time, one with huge, old trees standing guard and lots of other souls peacefully resting there with me. I wanted to be tucked in between moss-covered family headstones that were surrounded by rusting wrought iron fences, a plot that contained evidence of its permanence and stability.  I wasn't planning on changing addresses once I got there, and I wanted to make sure my final resting place still existed when the good Lord came to call me home.
      My mother understood what I was trying to say, as only mothers can understand their children, and felt the same compassion as I did for those poor old souls stuck in that desolate ground.  I told her I'd rather be a pile of ashes in an urn on the  mantle than relegated to that half-empty, forsaken red clay field.
     So when the time comes for me to breathe my last breath, don't you dare stick me in somebody's old cow pasture surrounded by scrub pines and call it a cemetery.  No sir, because if you do, I will come back to haunt you in your dreams at night and in your waking hours during the day, moaning and groaning and rattling my chains until somebody finally moves my tired old bones to an old family plot. There I'll  rest in peace with my dearly departed relatives, waiting to march into glory together, holding hands and singing "Hallelujah" in chorus with the ones I love.
      But enough about that, for today I was alive and well and still had some shopping to do! We drove on to Rock Hill, shopped ourselves to death, and took the interstate home.
 
    
  

"T" Parties and Tiaras!

     Gans, Sissey and I are having a "T- party" today and you are all invited. You don't need your white gloves, pearls and hats for this one, however. We're hitting the road to do a little Christmas shopping at Target, Tuesday Morning, and TJ Maxx, a bargain hunter's paradise and just our cup of  "T"!
     We are also so very pleased to announce that our niece, Madison, received her very first tiara last night, one of many to come, we feel very sure! She was crowned "Little Miss 3K" at her pre-school program and was awarded a crown, a ribbon, a sash, a certificate, and a bag of candy! Guess which one she loved the most? "Mr. 3K" was also crowned, except he got a trophy instead of a tiara. She loved that crown--a real one made of metal, not the cheap plastic kind from the Dollar Store-- especially the way the "diamonds" jingled when she shook her head. I was afraid she would do some kind of brain damage the way she was tossing her head around to hear the crystals clinking! She wore it for the remainder of the program, on the car ride home, through dinner, and as she left for home, I warned her of the dangers of sleeping in a tiara....it can be a little prickly until you get used to it.
     This was the brilliant part of the whole program....the winners were based on the amount of money they had raised for the school.  I have worked on many annual-giving campaigns for my daughter's school, and never once thought of giving tiaras and trophies to the kids that raised the most money. I could have raised MILLIONS of dollars if I had thought of that one! Who in their right mind would refuse to make a donation to a little princess that was gunning for her first crown? I was amazed at the amount of cash some of the students had raised....fourth grade girls bringing in hundreds of dollars, fifth grade boys raising thousands!! It was the best strategic fundraising plan I have ever seen, and you can bet your bottom dollar that I'll be calling Northstar Academy in Richmond to pass on the idea!
    It was a real treat to see our niece receive her very first tiara, and now, a day of shopping will just crown the weekend for us! A girl never gets to old for tiaras and t-parties.

God Bless our Veterans

     My grandfather was a WWI veteran, serving in the same 42 Infantry Rainbow Division as Uncle Henry had served in WWII.  He witnessed the horrors of war and watched many of his buddies fall in battle. Grandaddy could never talk about his war days without getting tearful, and he usually preferred not to mention them at all. The memories were still too fresh and painful even in his eighties. During WWII, a beloved family member, Lapsley Barron, gave his life during the landing on Anzio Beach, and his body still rests beneath a white cross at  the military cemetery, Netumo, on the shores of Italy. Veteran's Day wasn't just another holiday to my grandfather, it was a chance to show the deep gratitude and respect he felt for all his fellow war buddies, a moment that was deserved by every fallen soldier.
     Every Veterans Day, Grandaddy faithfully marched down to the Post Office to purchase red poppies from the American Legion. He and my grandmother  wore them proudly all week-- his pinned to his lapel, Grandmother's pinned to her purse.
     As Sissey and I drove through the Post Office yesterday, the auxillary wives were seated out front,  offering poppies to customers on their way into the building.  I wondered when I saw them how many people still knew the story of the poppy and how the custom of wearing them on Veteran's Day had begun.
     The symbolic poppies represent all veterans who have died serving their country during any war. The tradition of wearing them on Veteran's Day originated in Lt. Col. John McCrea's beloved poem, "In Flanders Field." During WWI, fighting had been particulary fierce on the Western Front, especially in Flanders. Dr. McCrae was an army surgeon who had just finished seventeen grueling days of treating soldiers injured in the 3 fierce battles that had occurred  in  the Ypres salient, one of the biggest battlefields in Belgium during WWI.  He was tired and greatly discouraged by the terrible injuries the young soldiers had sustained. In particular, a young friend of his, a twenty-two year old fellow doctor, had died from injuries sustained in a shell burst, and that weighed heavily on his heart and mind. Dr. McCrae was called on to conduct the funeral ceremony later that day as no chaplain was available. He wrote his famous poem the next day, May 3, 1915, as he sat in the back of an ambulance parked beside the cemetery where his friend was buried. Red poppies had sprung abundantly across the battlefields where so many soldiers had died during the fierce fighting. As Dr. McCrae watched the poppies blowing back and forth under a gentle wind, and as he looked out over the cemetery that held the bodies of so many fallen soldiers, he wrote the following words on a notepad, his simple attempt to deal with the frustrations of war, the loss of lives, the horrors of battle.
     I include his words here, in honor and memory of all our veterans, past and present, who have made the ultimate sacrifice defending freedom around the globe.  Thank you and God Bless Our Vets.
    

In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Christmas in November

      What do you do on a rainy Tuesday in November? Go see "A Christmas Carol" in 3D! Nothing like the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future to jump-start your holiday spirit. I admit we may be a little quick on the draw, especially since Thanksgiving is still two weeks away, but you're talking to the gal who finished her Christmas shopping last January at the post-holiday sales and has nothing left to do but make the fruitcake.
    There were only six of us taking in the 12:15 matinee, and it felt like we were at our own private viewing. We certainly didn't have to worry about getting a good seat or putting up with people yakking on their cell phones. We also didn't have to worry about how goofy we looked in those silly 3-D glasses since the three twosomes sat in opposite sections of the theater. The animation was fantastic-- we jumped and ducked at all the special effects, and by the end of the show, Sissey and I were shivering from the falling snow that seemed to drift through the cinema as Tiny Tim chirped "God Bless us, Everyone!"
     Afterward, we went across the street to Target and just walked up and down the Holiday Aisles, There were wreaths on the shelves and stockings hung by fake fires. Christmas trees, sparkling and glittering with lights and ornaments, twinkled in every corner.  Bags and boxes of candy and cocoa lined the aisles, Christmas music played from the speakers, animated reindeer and snowmen winked and blinked at us. It was a winter wonderland and we were basking in a holiday glow, only it was still November.
      Sissey  loved all the festive packaging and brightly colored displays of gifts and goodies. She "oohed" and "ahhed" up and down each row, pointing out ones she particularly liked. We were in the video section when she spied the creatively-wrapped, complete series of the "I Love Lucy"  TV show, one of her favorites. The DVD's were cleverly packaged in a heart-shaped candy box, with a picture of Lucy in her Vetameatavegamin girl role plastered across the front. It retailed for $149.99. Just three weeks ago, I had finally caved in to Sissey's pleas to order the "Lucy" set online, especially since she now had a TV/DVD combo in her room and we had just finished a lecture on the importance of rewarding oneself after reaching a goal. She had just gotten back two papers and a project, A's on all, and reminded me that it was a good time for a reward!
      For those of you who don't know me, I am the original tight-wad, a second-cousin to Ebenezeer Scrooge. I can make a nickle last longer than a dime and am a consumate and professional bargain hunter. Nothing thrills me more than finding a deal on something, even if I know they just "marked up" the price in order to "mark it down". I'll fall for it everytime: if there's a red line or red tag, I'm going to snatch that "steal" up as fast as I can. I can't help myself, it's my thrifty Scottish heritage. So of course,when it came time to break down and buy the DVD's,  I did a little internet surfing and comparison shopping, and Voila! found the complete set, brand-new, for $89.99. I  immediately ordered them and gave myself a little secret pat on the back for the $60 I had just saved.
     The DVD's arrived last week --from China! They were in a black and white box, with a xeroxed picture of Lucy tucked between the plastic lining of the cover. None of the DVD's were labeled with episode titles or scenes, just hand-numbered 1-43 in black ink.  The return instructions were written in Chinese.  I am not fluent in Chinese. We were screwed.
      I tried to market them to Sissey as best I could, telling her it did not matter how the DVD's were packaged or labeled (or rather not packaged and not labeled), the important thing was that they did actually play on our American DVD player. We had made that mistake before, ordering "Oliver Twist" from England, only to discover English and American DVD players are configured differently, and the DVD's are not interchangeable.
     "But Mom, how I am going to know which episode is on which disc? Nothing is labeled."
     "It doesn't matter," I responded. "The content is all there. You're eventually going to watch them all anyway, so just start with the first one. You can label them as you go through them."
     She was not impressed with my purchase, but there wasn't much we could about it at that point.
     And now, full of the Christmas spirit, merrily strolling along the festively decorated aisles, she spied the exact set of "Lucy" DVD's she'd had her heart set on. In a heart-shaped box to boot!   She pointed them out to me wistfully.
     "Honey, you are a marketing executive's dream customer," I told her. "Just wrap it up pretty and you're sold! That set is no different from the one at home, it's just packaged a little better. Your DVD's are like Tiny Tim....a little defective on the outside, but really, really good on the inside."
      She didn't exactly buy that argument either. It was a little hard to convince her in the midst of a marketing mecca that packaging didn't really matter, but when you got right down to it, it didn't. If she had gotten that pretty heart-shaped box and it had been empty inside, void of all the DVD's, it would  just have been a worthless box. She may have not liked the packaging of her DVD set, it may have been a little difficult to figure out which episode was which, but the content was there, and it was what was inside the package that mattered.
     So we continued down the aisle, leaving the box on the shelf, leaving the store without making any purchases, heading home in the first bands of rain from Hurricane Ida, saying "Bah-humbug" to the nasty weather, praying that God would bless us, everyone.
        
   
  

The WalMart Preacherman

     An outing to WalMart is an occasion unto itself. You never know who you'll see, what you'll see, or why you'll see what you do see.  Some things are bizarre, some are absurd, some are puzzling, some are incredible. On any given day, the experience will be as uniquely different as the people who shop there, but it will definitely be an experience! And that, my friends, is why I love to go.
     A few weeks ago on a Friday afternoon, I had to run by to pick up some benadryl, kleenex, coffee, and notebook paper. How could you not a love a place where you can satisfy your need to sniff, wipe, sip, and write all in one stop?
     There was a man playing a saxophone that day on the sidewalk between WalMart and Food Lion. He had two huge speakers mounted on tripods that blasted the notes into the parking lot as shoppers entered and left the store. My first reaction was, "How nice. This must be like Friday Cheers in Richmond.....a little free jazz to kick off the weekend."
     I smiled at him as I dashed into the store, not really paying much attention to the cloth-covered table behind him loaded with brochures.
       "That's a nice touch for Walmart, " I thought as I sauntered through the aisles, humming a few bars of the melody while I shopped.
     When I came out of the store with my bags, however, the music had stopped and the saxophone had disappeared. In it's place stood a hellfire and brimstone preacherman. He was marching up and down the sidewalk, waving a Bible and shouting out a sermon that would have scared most people away from hell. The shoppers heading into Walmart either veered across the parking lot to the far entrance, or smiled and nodded to the preacherman, some even offering up an "Amen, brother" as they walked inside.  I wasn't quite sure what the appropriate response to a discount preacher should be, so I simply headed to my car, threw my bag into the back seat, and drove away.
     I returned again the next week, and he was back in business. This time he had several of his devoted congregants sitting behind him, nodding and offering support as he shouted to the sinners in the parking lot, myself being one of them. I sat in my car with the windows rolled down and listened to his sermon for awhile, to see if I could glean any pearls of wisdom from this WalMart preacher. I couldn't quite figure out why he had chosen this particular spot between the world's largest discount retailer and the king of the grocery chains to proclaim the gospel of Christ. His message did not target our sins of mass consumerism, as I had expected, but focused instead on God's grace in a fallen world. Although his choice of location and mode of delivery were not in my comfort zone,  I appreciated his efforts and sincerely hoped God's grace would be felt by someone, somewhere in the midst of WalMart.
     Today, Sissey and I made a quick stop to pick up a few things we needed  before rushing home to finish up some school projects. After a long day at school, she was tired and using her wheelchair instead of her walker. We were zipping through the aisles at a brisk clip, throwing items into the basket as we crossed them off our shopping list. She had been feeling a little blue lately, missing her best friend in Richmond, missing her dad, missing her home, missing her brother, missing going to the coffee shop with her girlfriends.  I had been trying to think of activities that could keep her occupied when those low moments hovered around the corner, something that would make her feel more connected with her new community, introduce her to some new faces, give her some "fun-time" to break up her rigorous study routine. An outing to WalMart wasn't exactly a trip to Disneyland, but it was an outing none-the-less, and it ate up some free time before she had to hit the books again.
     As we rounded a corner between the frozen food aisle and the cleaning products, we ran headfirst into a man in a wheelchair. It was one of those awkward moments when you don't know who's supposed to step aside to let the other pass, so you kind of bob and weave to see who goes first.
      "Come on around, young lady," he said as he stopped his chair and smiled at Sissey, "I haven't seen you around here before."
       "No," she answered, "I just came down from Richmond in August to go to school here. My name is Mary Lapsley Daly. It's a pleasure to meet you."
        She extended her hand for a friendly shake.
       "Hey," he replied. "I'm Lee Carter. It's a pleasure to meet you too! I grew up here, but I left in 1977."
        "Really? I graduated in 1979. We must have gone to school together," I interjected, telling him my maiden name, the names of my brother and sisters, my parent's names, the year I graduated from college, the color and model of the car I drove, the names of my dogs -- everything short of my social security number. It's how we do things down here to find out exactly how well we are supposed to know someone. I didn't recognize him, but after being away for thirty years, some of us have changed quite a bit.
        "I left town years ago to join the army and served 23 years before coming back," Lee said.
        I asked him if he had been injured during his military service and if that was how he had ended up in a wheelchair.
       "You'd think that if anything was going to happen to me, it would have happened in the 23 years I was in the service. But no, I waited until I retired, then fell out of a pecan tree."
     He laughed as he said it, in the way only someone who has walked through hell and come back alive can do.  He then told Sissey about a support group he had founded after his injury, a group that met on a monthly basis, had grown and expanded to include Rock Hill , and that had a party coming up next Tuesday.
      "Come on and join us. It's a lot of fun. We're having Christmas in November next week, over forty-five people will be there. You'll really get a lot out of it and it'll be a great party!"
       He pulled out a business card with the name of the group and his number on it, told her the time and location of the event and said she didn't need to bring anything with her when she came.
      "Call if you have any questions... I'll be looking for you next Tuesday."
        He smiled, waved goodbye and rolled away.
       We paid for our purchases and started to head for the car. I was pushing the buggy, which was loaded with merchandise, while Sissey pushed her wheelchair out the door. We were both struggling with the buggies, bags, and doors, when suddenly, a young man came up from behind and asked,
       "May I help you take that to the car?"
       My first instinct was to say "No," thinking he could be a thief or a scam artist, intent on robbing us of our purchases and purses as we crossed the dark parking lot, but for some reason, I decided to say,
" Absolutely! That would be a big help!"
      He grabbed the buggy and I grabbed the wheelchair as we headed to the car. He unloaded all the bags into the back for me while I helped Sissey get into her seat and then folded up the wheelchair.
      Before he left, he said, "I was in one of those chairs for six months."
       "You were? What happened?" we both asked.
       "I was in the service and had a little too much fun on one of my military leaves.  Had an accident and was temporarily paralyzed from the waist down. I know what it's like having to use a wheelchair. I sat in one for half a year. Ya'll have a good day, now."
      And with that, he left.
     I had to pause for a moment to ponder what had just happened. We had only come in to pick up some school supplies and a few groceries, but we left with an invitation for Sissey to join a support group, attend a party, and make 45 new friends. I left with a redeeming moment of faith in the goodness of man.  I hadn't expected it or been looking for it, but I knew the grace of God had been in WalMart today.
     And that, my friends, is why I love to go.
           

Liquid Gold

     Ladson Stringfellow left a gunny sack of jerusalem artichokes and a bushel of peppers on the porch last week, signifying it was time to make artichoke relish. Each fall after the first good frost, the chokes are ready to be dug up from the ground and turned into a delicious concoction of vegetables, mustard, spices and vinegar-- a tangy relish that enhances everything from turnip greens to pork roast. I only give a jar of it to very, very, VERY special friends, and they only get one chance to decide if they like it or not.  The jar comes with a disclaimer...you must be 100% honest, on your knees before God honest, about whether you like the relish or not,  because I will not waste this liquid gold on people that politely say "Oh, I just love your artichoke relish" then sneak inside and pour it down the disposal.  If I do not believe your response is sincere or truthful after you have tasted your first bite of relish,  it will be the last pint of pickles you'll ever get; if, however, I sense that your response truthfully and enthusiastically comes from the heart, or rather stomach, and that you will secretly dream of relish  when you lay your tired little head down at night, then I will put you on the  list for Christmases to come.  Once on, you're on for life, but if you get cut, it'll be harder than getting tickets to the Master's to get back on my relish list.
     Mama and I started scrubbing dirt off the artichokes, chopping the peppers, onions, and cabbage, and assembling all the spices yesterday in preparation for today's relish making. We got up early this morning, but took time to have a few cups of coffee and a morning chat before delving into the rest of the recipe.  We finished preparing the artichokes, snipping off the eye buds, roots, and other unnecessary appendages, before giving them a final scrubbing. After chopping up the chokes, peppers, onions, and cabbage, all the veggies had to rest for the remainder of the day in a bath of salt water. Sort of like a day at the spa--not a bad ending for a veggie tale.
      We had  a few hours while the vegetables rested, and it was just enough time for a quick trip to WOW! for a little Christmas shopping. Two wicker all-weather rocking chairs, a coat rack, a birch-bark carved angel, a birdhouse, and some assorted decorations later, it was time to head back home and finish the task at hand.
      As we crossed the railroad tracks and turned onto the street headed for home, Mama noticed a huge flock of buzzards circling an old warehouse beside the train tracks. 
      "Beth, look at all the buzzards. There are about thirty of them flying over that building," Mama pointed out, "I wonder what they are doing."
       Sure enough, the buzzards were circling and dipping and soaring all around the deserted building. They were ominous looking black shadows as they conducted their death march across the sky.
      Jokingly, I answered, "There must be a dead body in that warehouse."
      "Do you think so?" Mama asked. "Then I think we should call the police."
      "Mama, you've got to be kidding.  What are we going to say? 'Excuse me, officer, but there's a flock of buzzards flying by the traintracks. Come quickly, there's been a murder!' They'll be locking US up if we do that."
     I tried not to laugh, realizing she was perfectly serious, but just picturing the officers actually responding to our call, then trying to chase down the buzzards for questioning, was too much.
     Officer: Excuse me, Mr. Buzzard, but did you notice any peculiar behavior around the tracks this evening?
     Buzzard: I see nothing, I know nothing.
     I just kept driving and changed the subject.
     Arriving home, it was time to drain the relish mix, boil the vinegar, sugar, and mustard paste, and combine the final ingredients into a big stainless steel pot on the stove.  After bringing the mixture to one last good, rolling boil, we ladeled the golden relish into pint jars, wiped off the rims,  and quickly sealed them with lids and rings.  The only thing left was to listen for the "ping" of the jars sealing, Mama's favorite part of the whole process.  We finished up this, our third batch, with a total of 14 pints and enough artichokes waiting for one more batch. It was a good days work.
     Now we'll have to wait and see which good little boys and girls made the list for this year......

I Miss Manners

    The captain announced light rain and temperatures of 71 degrees as the plane touched down in Charlotte. Only an hour and fifteen minutes earlier, I had left a cold and windy Chicago, temperatures hovering around 50 degrees,with a  wind factor making them feel more like 40.  I unlatched my seatbelt, jumped into the hurried crowd in the aisle, and opened the overhead storage hatch to retrieve my overpacked suitcase.  It had been a successful shopping expedition, and my carry-on bag was bulging with bargains. It had shifted to the space above the seat behind mine during the flight, and as I struggled at an awkward angle to pull the bag from the bin, the young man who had been seated behind me watched.
     "Do you need to get that bag down?" he asked.
      "Oh yes, thank you, it's really heavy and stuck in there." I replied, thinking that help was on the way.     
      "Then let me change places with you." he said.
       Whoa.....what did he just say? Let me change places with you? Did I hear that correctly? Yes, it was Let me change places with you, not, Let me help you with that. I narrowed my eyes and stared at him for a moment, not quite sure how I wanted to respond.  I considered making him wait while the rest of the plane deboarded as I deliberately and slowly struggled to remove my bag, but I could hear my mother's voice saying "Two wrongs don't make a right."
       I gave up my spot in the aisle so he could hurry off the plane, then continued my struggle to retrieve the bag.
     People are funny creatures, but we used to be funny creatures with manners.  Our behavior is less amusing when the manner element is missing. 
     Daily, I am surprised at how people will practically knock Sissey over to get through a door that I am holding open for her.  Perhaps I just didn't realize how many extremely important people there are in the world, but I have to wonder what  is so important at the mall that they have to practically knock a disabled person down to get there? A 10% discount on panties at Victoria's Secret? Two-for-the-price-of-one shoes at Macy's?
     I miss manners. I miss living in a gentle world, in a society that taught it's children to say "please" and "thank you", where respect for adults was the norm, where compassion for others was more important than individual rights. I don't know when it became unfashionable to have manners, when  "I'm more important than anyone else, so get out of my way" replaced "Can I help you with that?"   or "Let me hold that door for you."
     Every once in a while, I will find someone whose parents cared enough to go through the painstaking process of teaching them manners and respect for others: the student in class who gets Sissey's special chair and adjustable table for her, the teenager who runs ahead of me to get the door for Sissey,  the gentleman in the security line at the airport who steps aside to let Sissey and her walker get by. Those glimpses give me hope that we don't live in a world gone mad.
       Greed and self-importance may be your individual right, but I'll take a compassionate, polite piece of humble pie over that any day, thank you very much!

Hallelujah! The greens are in!

Hallelujah, the greens are in! It's turnip green season in South Carolina, and the crop this year has been more than fine, it's been abundantly fine. Mama made the mistake of letting people in town know that I love turnip greens, and now, bushels and bags and barrels of freshly picked leaves are showing up daily on the front porch. I'm not sure if it's generosity, or just an opportunity for some good souls to unload a morning's worth of work on a willing body. Oh, I do love them, yes I do, but it's a time consuming process in order to get them to the table. It takes a mountain of greens to make a mess. That means for every one serving of greens, you have to cook about a bushel of leaves, which must be washed, and washed, and washed again, then rinsed, and rinsed, and rinsed again. Unlike baptism, where one dunk will do, these earthen greens need a more thorough dipping to wash away the dirt.   All evidence of nature must be abolished, all sins of the earth wiped away, and even after all that, you still  have to strip them down to their barest soul.  The tender "eatin' part" has to be carefully stripped away from the fibrous, tough stalk that runs up the center of each leaf. Finally, they are thrown into a liquid purgatory and slowly boiled while chasing a piece of ham around the pot, until all the bitterness is cooked out of them.  It's a heavenly moment when they are lifted from the stove and served up at the table, especially if you've got a jar of Mama's artichoke relish and some hot cornbread on the side. If you haven't ever eaten a fresh pot of greens, shame on you. I pray that someday you'll be given the chance to experience a little dish of heaven right here on earth.

Gentlemen of the Marsh

    The following will conclude our unit on poetry. There will be a test at the end of the semester.

    Some traits in life are acquired, such as a love of poetry, others are inherited. There is a genetic factor inherent in anyone with a South Carolina heritage that predisposes one to love swamps and marshes, slow moving waters, Spanish moss,  the smell of plough mud. My son, Christopher,  inherited this gene, as did I, and we found it necessary to succumb to the call of the swamp on an annual basis. We would take yearly jaunts to explore our nation's great swamps and backwaters...the Okefenokee Swamp in Georgia, the Florida Everglades, the lowcountry marshes and backwaters of South Carolina. When travelling, we would compete to see who could be the first to spot South Carolina's official state tree, the palmetto, or  to site Spanish moss dripping from a live oak, to spy yellow jessamine crawling up a loblolly pine,  to get a whiff of pungent marsh. That aroma of plough mud, or as I called it, the sweet smell of heaven and the greatest scent on earth, would prompt me to turn off the air conditioner, roll down the windows, and fill my nostrils with the earthy fragrance of marsh mud, a healing aroma.
      Christopher is a true swamp rat, loving the still black waters, the centurian cypress trees and their knobby knees, the alligators waiting for their prey, the stalking heron, the greyman's beard that  brushes your arm as you canoe silently through the swamp. He understood that having a twin sister with a physical disability meant that I had to spend more time helping her, but he accepted this graciously and with an understanding that must come from the secret bonds of twinship. I made a commitment to him, however, that each year he and I would take a swamp trip, just the two of us, with binoculars and cameras, Tilly hats and Tevos, fishing rods and mosquito repellent, for a week of exploring whatever backwater or marsh we could find. We would spend all day searching for Roseate spoonbills, which fly the highest of all birds, or seeking out the rookeries of wood storks, herons and egrets,  the slides of stalking alligators, the towering nests of eagles and osprey. At night, we spent hours driving deep into the bowels of the Everglades, or circling backcountry Georgia roads through the Okeefenokee,  trying to spot the rarely seen panther. I would try my hardest to convince Christopher that with thousands of acres of swamp, it would be almost impossible to catch a glimpse of one of the fewer than one hundred cats left, but he was determined to beat the odds. We are still searching.
     One morning, we got up early to hike around a pond tucked into a marsh deep in the Everglades. It was quiet, the sun just rising, the birds  beginning their morning chorus.  We watched small brown marsh rabbits enjoy a breakfast of tender grass, nibbling quietly on the sweet stalks growing along the edge of the trail. The great blue herons were beginning their dance of parry and thrust, searching for a morning meal of fish or shrimp hidden among the edges of the pond. As we rounded a bend in the path, we encountered a site that was one of nature's rare treats, reserved for the early riser, the dedicated observer. It was a hidden moment in time, a natural routine not usually seen by human eyes. Three racoons were waddling down a path, side by side, like three old men heading to town.  They followed a well-worn trail to the pond's edge, and began their morning rituals of washing up before breakfast. It was a simple act, but stunning in it's symmetry as the trio moved in perfect unison, nodding and bowing to each other as they bathed. We observed them as they completed their morning toiletries, completely oblivious to our presence before  they turned and ambled back down the trail, communicating with each other in the secret language of animals. Upon returning to Richmond, Christopher captured this memory in a poem, which I will share with you  in the hopes that the love of poetry, and nature, will be passed on.

Gentlemen of the Marsh
by Christopher H. Daly, jr.

I ambled slowly through the marsh
     The rising sun gleamed gold.
The heron's cry was shrill and harsh,
     The gator's stare was cold.

When in the reeds I found a path
     I did not know its cause.
Perhaps strange creatures once had passed;
     Then movement made me pause-

Three bandits, masked in black and gray
     Stumbled side by side
As they approached they looked away
     And journeyed to the tide.

Then not concerning me at all
They washed their small black paws
     As if three noble little lords
      Preparing for a ball.

They let each other have his turn-
    Each tried to look his best,
But at his heart each one did yearn
    To shine more than the rest.

And as they washed themselves with glee
   The truth was soon revealed to me:
The mask upon their face was harsh
But they were gentlemen of the marsh.

Longing

     I hope that poetry never disappears from our culture, although I fear it is slowly slipping into oblivion. We have become so fast and furious with the pace of our lives that few people take the time anymore to enjoy the ebb and flow, the rhythm and cadence of poetic verse. I have always had a love affair with poetry, especially the manner in which poets paint pictures with words; they are the true artisans of language. Learning to appreciate poetry is an acquired taste, much like developing an appreciation of fine wines or  good cigars, and it has to be developed with time and patience.
     As children, my grandmother would often read poetry to us, and we especially loved anything by South Carolina's former poet laureate, Archibald Rutledge.  He had grown up hunting and fishing on Hampton Plantation, which was near my grandfather's family home in McClellanville,SC. Rutledge wrote of life in the lowcountry, the people and customs there, and how it had captured his heart. Rutledge's poems were magical to us, because my grandfather would tell us his personal stories about the people and places of which Rutledge wrote: Old Jim Alston, Prince, and the swamps of the Santee delta weren't just names and places-  they were people and paths my grandfather had known well, and he brought them to life for us through Rutledge's words coupled with his memories. My grandfather's heart had been captured by Rutledge's sister, Mary. They were engaged to be married, but she refused to wait for him to return from the war and married another fellow instead. He met my grandmother years later and their marriage was a love poem all it's own.They shared a love of the words of Rutledge, as most native South Carolinians do, and passed it on first to my mother, then to us.  I have taken my children on pilgrimages to Rutledge's ancestral home, I collect first editions of his works or any printed copy I can find, and I will go to my grave reciting the works of Archibald Rutledge.
     My mother made us memorize poems- Robert Burns, Robert Frost, Edgar Allen Poe, Carl Sandburg. The favorite of my father was, and still is, Percy Bysshe Shelley's "Ozymandias." He can recite it in it's entirety, and portions of it have been etched into my mind as well....
                                                                   "I met a traveller from an antique land
                                                                    Who said--Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
                                                                     Stand in the desert....."

     I have tried to carry on these family traditions with my children in a quest to develop their palettes for poetry.  They both have acquired my love of all things Rutledge, and have dabbled in writing some poetry of their own. The following is a little poem Sissey wrote long before we moved down to South Carolina to attend college. She was missing her Gans and Pop, her Carolina kin, and the simple pleasure of being in the company of the ones you love, even if there is nothing else to do.  It gives me a sense of deja vu reading it now, as the longings she wrote about then have all become our reality, even down to the double entendre of being in Carolina while attending Carolina! I hope she will continue her journey into the realms of poetry, savor the experience as fondly as I do, and carry on the poetic torch to the next generation.

LONGING
By Mary Lapsley Daly

I have in my heart a longing,
a place that I long to be-
A place where I find comfort
with friends and family.

There's not a lot to do
but I really just don't care.
I lie on the sofa
while Pop sits in his chair.

Gans is in the kitchen
getting out the china;
Supper's on the table,
and I'm in Carolina.