Introducing Miss Lou Tennant

     I had previously stated that I would not be attending the tour of the animal shelter with Sissey, but this morning, I realized I must my face my failures head on, look shame in the face, "man up"to the situation, and go forth to the shelter to meet Miss Lou Tennant Alexander. Armed with note cards and pens, we headed out to Dawson Drive, where the animal shelter was located beside the local county jail. As we pulled into the shelter about 12:30, a female officer in full uniform was out in front of the entrance to the building,  accepting a truck loaded with supplies: dog food, cat food, office supplies, etc.  I knew at once that it had to be the Lieutenant. I tried to sneak around the back of the eighteen-wheeler  and enter the building unnoticed, hoping I could somehow pull off the visit without exposing myself to further humiliation.
     A friendly young man named Mike greeted us as we came in the door and asked if he could help us with anything.  I explained that I was the one who had called earlier in the week to set up an interview, introduced him to Mary Lapsley, and then tried to fade into the background. I inched over to the front desk, casually perusing the bulletin board and posters lining the walls, keeping my head down and my face averted from view. As Sissey was chatting with Mike, "Lou" walked in the door.  I was trapped between the front desk and the door, with Lou blocking my exit. There was no escaping, I couldn't sneak out unnoticed, couldn't pretend I was not there with Sissey, so I slapped on a huge smile, walked over, stuck out my hand and said, "You must be Lou."
       She broke into a big grin and started chuckling. It was obvious that she had not forgotten our phone conversation earlier in the week.  I tried again to explain my confusion over her title, tried to establish my credibility as a sane adult, and finally just gave up and admitted to being completely embarassed over the situation.  I would not have begrudged her a single smirk or snicker, but as she had been on the phone earlier, she could not have been more gracious and polite, a real "trooper" in the face of an awkward situation. She not only agreed to have her picture taken and posted on my blog, she handed out her business card and invited us to come back....anytime... as often as we liked!
     So now, it is my great pleasure to introduce you to a most gracious lady, an officer of the law, lover of animals and college students and crazy middle aged women:
Miss Lou Tennant Alexander.
      By the way, I finally did learn her real name. It is Sherry.  But you can just call her Lieutenant Alexander.
      And as for those guns in her holster, they're real.

Lou Tennant Alexander

     Sissey has been busy working on a rhetorical analysis for her first English essay of the semester. For her project, she selected a weekly ad from the "Pet of the Week" column to use as the basis of a visual analysis. To complete the assignment, she needed to gather some background information from the animal shelter in order to establish it's legitimacy as a valid organization.  I offered to call the shelter to find out to whom she needed to speak and to get the hours that person would be available.      
     When I made the call, an assistant answered the phone and informed me that the person in charge was Lou Tennant Alexander. She was currently in a meeting, but he would be glad to have her call me back as soon as she was finished. I told him that would be fine and hung up the phone.
    I couldn't place who Lou Tennant Alexander was, couldn't remember that name from my high school days, didn't know her from church,  couldn't picture her face. The name didn't trigger any recognition, and I wondered if she were perhaps a newcomer to town.
    "Do you know Lou Tennant Alexander? L-o-u T-e-n-n-a-n-t?" I asked both my parents, spelling the name out for them.  "She is running the animal shelter now, but I just can't place her. The name doesn't ring a bell."
     They both thought for a few minutes, but said no, they didn't know who that could be.  There were some Alexander's in town, but they didn't know anyone named Lou. 
     Later that afternoon, the phone rang.
    "Hello?" I answered after a few rings.
     "This is Lou Tennant Alexander," a voice pleasantly responded. "I'm calling from the animal shelter."
      "Oh, hi Lou! Thank you for calling me back. I'm trying to find out when my daughter could talk to you about your shelter....."
      The conversation lasted several more minutes, as she gave me their office hours, her availability, the location, directions, and other pertinent information Sissey would need to complete her research.  She informed me that the shelter operated under the authority of the Sherriff's Department, and that she was in charge of running the organization.   After each bit of information, I politely said, "Thank you, Lou," or "That is just great, Lou," or "One more question, Lou."  She finally gave me her cell phone number so that Sissey could reach her directly. She said to tell her to ask for the lieutanant when she called.
    I don't know when the neurons started firing, or exactly what it was that triggered the sudden realization, but seconds after I hung up the phone, I had an epiphany.
   "Oh, no," I groaned. "I just realized something."
     It was only after I hung up the phone that it clicked. I realized that the person I had just been speaking with, that  the person I had been calling "Lou" for the past ten minutes, that that person was, in fact, not named Lou at all. She was Lieutenant Alexander.  Officer of the Sherrif's Department.  Enforcer of the law. Hired gun.  Legal defender.
    I had mistaken the assistant's drawled out version of her title, "Looo-tennn-ant"  as her first name -- "Lou Tennant".  There was nothing unusual about having a double first name. My own daughter had one, we were in the south, double names were common here. It never dawned on me for a second that the assistant was referring to her by her title, her rank, her order in the chain of command--not her name.  She had let me call her "Lou" the entire time, not once correcting my mistake, not embarassing me as I rambled on. She had endured my ignorance quietly and politely. I had presumed that the female superior to which the assistant referred was simply a gal named Lou. The rank and authority which she had earned had been completely ignored by me. I was humiliated by my presumption.
      The only thing I could do was pick up the phone and dial her cell number. When she answered, I began babbling and fumbling through an incoherent explanation, nervously laughing  to disguise my embarassement. I managed to explain my mistake, of which she was obviously well aware, and  apologized profusely.
    "I am so sorry," I tried to explain. "I didn't realize until after I hung up that your name is not Lou! I am so embarassed. I hope I didn't offend you, I apologize. I should have known he meant Lieutenant....."
      On and on and on I went, offering every form of apology I could concoct, trying to cover up my stupidity and embarassment. She graciously laughed at my mistake, but I hung up feeling as foolish as ever.
     Sissey is scheduled to visit  the shelter sometime this week.  I graciously declined to attend with her. You will be able to reach me in the dog house, just me and a dog named Lou.

It's all educational, you know.

   When I was in college, a semester was a lifetime. It was a period that seemed to have no end, an infinite span, a continuous line on the spectrum of eternity. From the very first day of classes, when the fresh syllabi were firmly ensconced in my eager little hands, when textbooks were crisp and new and begging to have their spines cracked open and their pages highlighted,  on that day I could still gaze into eternity and not even envision the final week of classes.  Tests and due dates for projects, quizzes and reports and final exams--these were no more than a thought, a wisp, an idea not yet formed.  There was no pressure to perform at a rapid pace, for the world was spinning slowly and there were days, weeks, months left to complete the necessary requirements. The semester was such an interminable span of time that it could not be, need not be, should not be measured. It was that vast.
     Not any more.  Today's college semester lasts exactly sixteen weeks.  Sissey just started the spring term, and already has two weeks under her belt. I'm not sure if the world is spinning faster or if contemporary students are learning more quickly than their predecessors, but it seems to me that the college semester is getting shorter. I am almost absolutely certain that when I was in college, a semester lasted at least twice that long. Plus we didn't get holidays. Or weekends off. Or spring break. Or trips abroad. At least that is how I recall it.
      Now, as I cross each day off the semester calendar, I am constantly reminding Sissey that she has just finished week one, week two, etc...  The ink has barely dried on yesterday's "X" before it is time to cross off another day. At this rate, she'll be graduating tomorrow.  The semester is zipping by at an uncanny clip. I barely have time to catch my breath before another week has flashed by.
     The semesters are getting shorter, the books are getting more expensive, and it takes longer to get a degree. Few universities offer four year programs anymore.  Ever wonder why?  They've shortened the semester to sixteen weeks and added an extra year. Do a little mental math on the income made during that extra year of tuition, room and board, textbooks.....see a pattern here?  I think the smarter, more contemporary college students are in cahoots with the university administrators on this new college time-line.  The schools are gaining an extra year of guaranteed enrollment and tuition, while the students gain an extra year of living in carefree abandon while still on their parent's bankroll.  As an extra payoff, they have shorter semesters, longer breaks, and more holidays. It's all educational, you know.
     Then there are the various "apprenticeships"  and "internships" that many colleges require. For example, the daughter of a friend of mine is currently completing a semester internship which is required for her degree.  She is living in Charleston, working a forty-hour week as an intern (salary gratis, of course) earning exactly ONE college credit hour for those forty hour weeks, PLUS her parents are still paying full tuition to the university just for the privilege of allowing her to complete the internship.  Time for a little more  mental math:  Sixteen (forty hour weeks) x $0.00 salary + $6,000 spring semester tuition + living expenses for off campus room and board = Some Very Confused Parents. They are still trying to figure out how the university and their daughter managed to pull that one off. It's all educational, you know.
      And don't forget the mandatory study abroad programs.  Mandatory, you ask? So did I. According to my son, it's practically required for students to spend at least one semester studying in a foreign land, preferably one that has an exotic locale with plenty of extra-curricular activities available. It's all educational, you know.
      Last, but not least, what college education would be complete without spending at least one spring break in some third world country building clinics or digging wells, courtesy of the credit card of dear old mom and dad. Who in their right mind could possibly refuse their child the chance to help make the world a better place, the chance to save the life of a child, the chance to bring hope to a hurting soul ? It's all educational, you know.
      If someone had told me I had the following options:
 A. Stay in college an extra year with room and board provided, foreign travel included   
OR
B. Hit the streets after four years to look for a job while also assuming all financial responsibility
I think you can figure out which option I would have chosen, but we simply weren't given those options back then. The college plan was: Get in, Get out, Get to work. Period.
     I must admit that today's college students are certainly smarter than back when I was in school.  They have beaten the system: shortened the semester, added a cushy fifth year, included foreign travel, thrown in  apprenticeships and internships and  participation in global community service. They have limitless options and opportunities.  These kids aren't just smart, they are super-smart. 
   It's great to be back in college.  I like the new educational structure, the quicker pace, the longer game plan, the wider options, the global interaction.  I'm going to learn a lot from this new breed of students.  Life is good, and it's all educational, you know.
   
   

I don't eat birds

   Rooster Ferrell is a hard-working, honest man.  He lost a job once, two weeks before Christmas, because he couldn't sell cheap lumber to a man who had paid for prime. Seems the owner of the store didn't have a problem charging customers for premium materials then substituting a less-expensive version at delivery time.  Rooster did.
      "When that man come to pick up the lumber he'd ordered, I just couldn't let him walk out of there with that cheap wood.  I told him when he come to the register to pay for it that he wasn't getting what he had ordered.  I got fired for that, lost my Christmas bonus too, but I just couldn't do it."
     He walked out of that job with his head held high and his moral compass pointing in the right direction, but sorely missing that paycheck and bonus two weeks before Christmas.  It wouldn't be long, however, before Rooster was working again. He was blessed with the ability to build or fix anything and had an honest character, and that meant work was never far away.
       It was his usual time to arrive this morning and the secret "signal" telling him it was O.K. to enter the house was on (a little ritual he and my mother had developed: Rooster arrives at the back door,  peeks in the window, checks to see if the red light of the coffee pot is on, indicating that everyone is up and he can come on in). The light was on full force, with the second pot of coffee brewing, and we were sitting in the den chatting when Rooster came in the door with samples of trim to select for the family room bookshelves. As we discussed the trim and the quality of the lumber, Rooster had chuckled and told us the story of losing his job as a lumber salesman.
     Earlier, Sissey had asked him if he had a real name. Unlike Rumplestiltskin, she did not have to spin straw into gold to get the answer.  It was Harvey, he said. She then asked why he was called Rooster, and in his patient drawl and with a slow smile, he told her.
    "Well, Sissey, you see, we come up on a farm, and when you come up on a farm back then, seemed like everyone got an animal name. Don't really know why, just did.  I had three brothers and a sister. We all had animals names. I was Rooster. I had one brother called Turkey, 'nother one went by Hawk, and then there was Mule. My sister was Cooter. She had two girls, and they got animal names, too. We called my nieces  Doodlebug and Cricket. We all still get called by our animal names. I don't even know how they picked'um, that's just the way it was."
     Sometimes in life, the answers are so simple you wonder why you asked.  That's all there was to the story.  It was just the way life was: you lived on a farm, you worked with animals, you got an animal name, you kept it for the rest of your life.
     I had just happened to bring two things back from Richmond when we returned the day before: terrapin stew and goose hash.  I thought it rather ironic that I had soup made from the same animal his sister was named for and insisted that Rooster try both the stew and the hash. The terrapin stew had come from the Commonwealth Club in Richmond and was a rare treat served only once a year at the annual meeting.  Rooster said he loved "cooter stew" and used to make it all the time.  He and his brothers spent many days going to the river to engage in some "cooter grabbing" (sticking your hands in the murky water and trying to catch the turtle by the tail before he caught your hand in his mouth). When they managed to land one that was "eating size" they'd throw it in a bag, haul it home, and toss it in a pot of boiling water,
       "That ole cooter would just clean hisself when you threw him in the pot of boiling water. Before he died, he'd scrape all the shell and bones off''im and leave nothing but the meat.  All you had to do was lift that meat out the pot, cut it up, and through it in the stew pot with some vegetables. That was some good eating."
     When I brought the terrapin stew out for him to try, I was convinced he would love it.  However, the rich, brown Virginia soup turned out to be a whole lot different from the tomato-based Carolina cooter stew he used to make.  Rooster looked at the strange concoction in the bowl.  He wrinkled his nose at it, nibbled a small bite, and said it might be "aw-right" on top of some rice or mashed potatoes.
      He declined anymore. I wasn't about the tell the chef at the Commonwealth Club that his terrapin stew hadn't cut the mustard down south.
     "Well, I know you're going to love my hash," I tried next. 
       He had a spoonful almost to his mouth when he stopped and asked, "What kind of hash did you say this was?"
     "Goose hash."
     "Uh-huh, " he shook his head and put the spoon back down. "Nope. No thanks."
      What's the matter?" I asked. "You're not going to try it?"
      "Nope," he replied, handing me back the bowl and untouched spoon. "I don't eat birds."
       "You don't eat birds?"
       Rooster said he didn't eat anything that flew. Didn't touch any kind of poultry. Not a thing. No ma'am.  Not even chicken.
      Well, I had that coming, I guess.  Should have known that a man named Rooster was not going to consume one of his own.
     I wasn't about to tell his sister, however, that he had tried the cooter stew.

Tennis, Anyone?

     Today is the eve of my children's twentieth birthday.  Twenty... Two-O...  Two decades......no more teens.  OK, you get my point. They are leaving the teen years and officially entering young adulthood.  The sad thing is, when you have to tell people that your children are twenty, you can no longer pretend to be a young adult yourself. You are now, officially, middle aged, over-the-hill, on the decline, frumpy, a has-been. That is painful.
     The reality of entering middle-agedom may be painful, but the physical process is even more excruciating.  Today, my son and I engaged in a strenuos one-on-one tennis match.  I, of course, have spent numerous hours at the club playing in suburban tennis leagues, spent numerous denaros engaged in tennis lessons and clinics, spent numerous afternoons competing in grueling club matches, spent obscene amounts of money on really cute and coordinated tennis outfits,  and unfortunately, have not lifted a tennis racquet in the last six months.  My son, on the other hand, has not picked up a tennis racquet in over a year, has not one single cute outfit to play in, has declined lessons since the third grade, and yet he beat be soundly in two out of three sets.
      I couldn't believe he did that.  I am his mother. I carried him in my womb for over six months (OK, he was a preemie, I shorted him three months,  but is he still carrying a grudge over that?). It was the eve of his BIRTH day, the day his MOTHER delivered him into the world, gave him the opportunity to breathe his first breath of life, and what does he do to observe this most sacred of days? He beats me unmercifully.
     Let me state, however, that I made him work for it.  There were more duece games in those sets than you'll see in the front row seats of Wimbledon.  He may have had me on speed and aggression, but old mom here definitely took advantage of all those lessons and had him sweating when it came to finesse and stragegy.  The problem was, however, that those two sets took a much larger toll on my middle aged body than it did on that suppile, young, nineteen-soon-to-be-twenty-year-old body.
    After the first set, I told Bro that I needed to run up to the house for a moment, take a quick break, get a drink of water. Actually, I was sneaking to the hot tub to crank up the heat, anticipating a need for a little therapuetic soak after the match.
      I   would not dare admit to him that after the beginning of the second set, I heard a distinctive "snap" in my neck, and that after that point I could no longer turn my head to the left.  My knees were popping every time I tried to make a net shot, my back had long ago decided to quit functioning and I could no longer twist and bend.   The plantar fasciitis I had spent a year trying to overcome was screaming it's  return in my heels, and the bursitis in my elbow was bulging and throbbing. Bro kept the ball moving cross court, telling me to run for it, make an effort,  keep moving, quit being lazy.  He asked me during the second set if I needed to stop.  It was 5-5 at that point, and I would have suffered a massive heart attack on the court before I gave him the satisfaction of quitting.
     "I'm good," I panted. "Don't think you've got this in the bag.  Old mom here is on the rebound. I'm making a comeback."
      Now, don't think that I don't believe in building the self-esteem of my children and that I wouldn't move heaven and earth to help them become the  mature, responsible, self-actualized individuals they were born to become.  It's just that in this highly-competitive family, the lessons are learned through trial and tribulation....no free rides here.....you earn it or you lose it.  If I had quit, let him beat me simply because he could, what glory would there have been in that?
     Actually, I was counting on the fact that he would feel extremely guilty for pummeling his forty-plus-almost-fifty-mother on the eve of his birthday. I was counting on the fact that I had spent all morning cleaning the geese from his hunt, marinating and chopping and preparing the hash he had requested for his birthday dinner. I was counting on the fact that I had assembled, washed, and ironed all the clothes he had deposited  in the basement upon his arrival home from school in December. I was also hoping for a few sympathy shots, but since that didn't happen, at least I made him sweat.
      He beat me, but I made him work for it. 
      I wondered later if it was worth the struggle.  Upon entering the house, I immediately downed three extra-strength ibuprofen.  I spent almost two hours soaking in the hottub, strategically placing the jets on throbbing joints and muscles. I consumed a large glass of wine and enjoyed a steaming shower afterwards. 
     As I sank into the bed, I contemplated whether childbirth and the subsequent child-rearing was as painful and strenuos as challenging your nineteen-year-old-soon-to-be-twenty-year-old-former-football-player-son to a two hour tennis match.  I concluded that childbirth-and-rearing was the easier of the two, but the challenge of that game, the opportunity to spend an entire afternoon with my college-aged son, the laughs and memories we made that afternoon on that court...that was worth all the aches and pains, the swellings and muscle strains, the bursitis and faciitis that  I endured. I knew that each time I rubbed an aching joint, wrapped a swollen tendon, soaked a bruised muscle or tended a throbbing ligament,  I would smile back upon the day that my son left his teenage years, entered adulthood, but chose to spend the day playing with his mom.
    
   

The Second Semester: And so it begins...

     It's here. It's time. It's now. It's today. 
     The second semester has officially started. We arrived on campus on a very cold, very frosty, not-what-you'd-expect-in-South-Carolina-kind-of-January morning. I thought we had left frosty windshields and black ice behind in Richmond, but old man winter seemed to blow right on down I-85 straight into the Carolina's, and it was just flat out freeze-your-you-know-what off cold when we cranked up the car for our morning commute to the Lancaster campus.  Thanks to Sissey's new thirty-second Keurig coffee pot, we could load up on hot caffeinated drinks before heading out the door, giving us a little fiery ammunition before meeting that first blast of frigid air.
      We started the day with Sociology. The study of human societies, social groups and social interactions is just my cup of tea.  Being a professional voyeur will definitely come in handy in this class, especially now that I know "people watching" is actually a recognized method of experimentation and a highly-valued research strategy in the field of sociology.  It just has a fancier name..."participant observation," which means that the researcher (me) observes people (everybody else in the world) in normal settings and then tries to figure out what it all means. Turns out that most voyeurs are actually sociologists with fancy titles and good-paying, tenured positions in the world of academia. They are doing what I've been doing  all my life: observing people and writing about it, but  somewhere along the line, I missed the memo that said my obnoxious habit of voyeurism could actually be turned into a lucrative career. I'm just waiting for some  sociologist to do a little structural-functional analysis mingled with some underlying conflict theory and a hearty dose of symbolic interaction in order to come up with a current perspective on why this middle-aged white woman is living back at home, attending college with her daughter, and writing about the experience on the world wide web while earning no salary, no benefits, no tenure.  That'll keep'em busy for a while.
     After an hour and fifteen minutes of going over the syllabus, rules, attendance policy, class requirements, and assignments, we packed up our books and headed to History of Western Art. As we left the class at 12:15, a bewildered young man was wandering down the hallway, a slip of paper clutched in his hand and a confused expression on his face.
      "Could you tell me where Room 101 is located?" he asked as I passed by him (for some odd reason, the students seem to think I should know where they need to go and how they should get there; I am not offended in the slightest by the fact that they do not mistake me for one of their own.)
      "There isn't a Room 101 on this floor," I replied. " What class are you looking for?"
       "Sociology."
       "Is that your schedule?" I asked.
        He handed me the crumpled paper that listed all of his classes, the times and locations of each one clearly listed beside each course. As I glanced down the list, I realized the source of his confusion.  His schedule read "Sociology. 101. M/W. 11:00-12:15. Medf.221."
       "I think you just missed class," I began. "101 is the level of the course you are taking, not the room number. The class just met in Medford Room 221 and it's over now."
       "Oh," he mumbled, shaking his head as he retrieved his schedule.  I watched him as he ambled on down the hall and entered the classroom, either oblivious to what I had just told him or refusing to believe that he had managed to miss the entire class.  I would have loved to have stayed and done a little "participant observation" of the conversation that ensued when he entered the professor's empty classroom, but we had to hustle across campus to our next class and had no time for research.
      The rest of the day was rather uneventful, save for one minor melt-down when a certain young scholar became a little overwhelmed by the reality of her fully-loaded spring semester schedule and wailed, "What have I gotten myself into?"  After a good cry, some Psychology 101 therapeutic analysis, a little TLC,  and a great steak dinner, harmony and balance were restored to the household. I reminded her of her 4.0 President's List status from Semester One, assured her that the weight of the world and the future of mankind did not rest on her shoulders alone, and told her that even if she flunked out of college she would still be dearly loved and would continue to be a respected member of the family. She called her brother and father for some confirmation and inspiration, and with a relieved sigh headed off to bed.
     I, too, sighed a huge sigh of relief, rejoicing in the fact that I could simply be a "participant observer" in this journey back through the maze of academia, and that I never, ever, ever  had to be a nineteen year old college student again.

Trevon, the Elf and the Little Girl: A Christmas Fable

     Once upon a time, there lived a sweet little girl named Mary Lapsley. She had blonde hair and green eyes, and lived with her mother, father, and twin brother in a faraway land called Virginia.  Every Christmas, she would travel to a beautiful place called Carolina to celebrate the holidays with family and friends. It was a magical, wonderful time and the little girl dreamed all year long of the Christmas season.
     Once again, the time had come for her to travel to Carolina. It was the day before Christmas, and the little girl made a special announcement.
     "This year," she said, "I do not want an 'all-clothes' Christmas."
     "What do you mean?" her parents exclaimed, "You have not told Santa of anything special that you would like."
      " I don't know what I would like," the little girl replied. "I just know that I do not want all clothes."
      Her parents pondered this for a moment and knew the little girl actually did not need anything special.  She was quite spoiled with all the current electrical gadgets, and had all the accesssories, perfumes, jewelery, books and anything else they could think of that she could ever possibly need. The problem, they realized, was not that she didn't want an "all clothes" Christmas, the problem was that she was an over-indulged child who actually couldn't think of anything she needed.
      They looked at their watches and realized Christmas Eve was upon them and it would soon be time to leave for the candlelight service at church.  There was nothing left for them to do but to contact Santa and leave the problem in his hands.
     A note was quickly dispatched to the North Pole, and heaving a great sigh of relief, they all went to church, then dinner at Aunt Ann's, and finally home and off to bed in time for Santa to arrive.
     Early the next morning, the little girl and her brother scampered down the stairs, eager to see if Santa had actually arrived and if he had left them any special surprises.
     Lo and behold, Santa had come!  The tree was twinkling in the corner and a pile of presents were waiting on the floor by the hearth. And Santa had left a very special note just for the little girl.  It was attached to a thick rope that led to something hidden behind the chair. With eyes full of excitement and a trembling hand, she ripped open the card from Santa and read what the jolly old saint had written.

    "Dear Sissey," the note began.
"I heard that you were quite livid about only getting clothes this Christmas. Although Santa thinks that plenty of children in places such as  Bangladesh, Latvia, Sierra Leone, and Oakland would be very happy with receiving clothes for Christmas, he would not be happy seeing such a sweet little girl be upset on Christmas. However, as your request came a little late after most toys had already been made, and as there were no back-up toys since the Obamanible snowman took them all in these rough economic times, Santa had to give you the best he could. Santa put his best elf, Trevon, on the job to get you "proper" gifts. I'm sure he knew just what you would have wanted. I just hope he did not start hitting Mrs. Clause's Eggnog before he went (Trevon has a bit of a problem). Enjoy and have a MERRY CHRISTMAS. Love, SANTA"

She tossed the letter aside, and with all her might, she pulled and pulled on the rope until a great big box began to appear from behind the chair.  The box was covered with bits and pieces of wrapping paper and was all tied up with the rope.  With a puzzled look, the little girl began to unwrap the box.

      Her family sat all around as she opened the package from Trevon, and everyone wondered what the little elf could have delivered on such late notice.
      The box contained many packages all wrapped in brightly colored Christmas paper-- although it was somewhat of a mess. It would seem that Trevon is not a very good wrapper, (actually, it would seem that Trevon was not a very good elf, despite what Santa had said) but  with a squeal of excitement, the little girl began to rip open the packages. 
     The first package contained a brand new set of bungee cords. She gave it a puzzled glance, tossed it aside, and grabbed the next package. A set of broken reindeer antlers? A can of green beans?
      "Wait a minute," she said, "What is going on here?"
       Package after package was opened..... hot sauce, windshield wiper fluid, a handful of branches.  She couldn't understand what was happening, yet her brother was laughing delightedly as she went through the pile of presents, and her parents had a funny little smirk on their faces. A can of anti-fungal foot spray seemed a very useful present, as did the farmer's almanac that she opened next, and certainly, there were no clothes, but the little girl was still puzzled by the odd assortment of packages.

      A half eaten can of nuts and a half-empty bottle of vodka lay at the bottom of the box. Trevon had written a note on the bottle in a shaky little elf hand: "Sorry Santa, Trevon he got a little thurstie," he wrote, but there was no explanation for the nuts. Seems that Trevon actually did have a bit of a drinking problem, and perhaps an eating disorder as well.
      When the box was empty and the pile of presents lay beside it on the floor, the little girl's father exclaimed, "Why, there's not a single item of clothing in the whole lot! It wasn't an 'all-clothes' Christmas after all! Trevon saved the day!"
     The little girl didn't say much after that as she sat there and played with her bungee cords and wiper fluid.
    Fortunately, Santa had been in on the surprise from Trevon, and being the jolly old soul that he is, he had left a few other presents for the little girl that were much more exciting than green beans and hot sauce. She spent the rest of the morning opening the presents from Santa and was thrilled with the clothes that he brought her, even though her mother whispered in her ear, "Be careful what you wish for, little girl, it may just come true."
    "What a minute," the little girl thought again, "Didn't I learn that in Aesop's fables? I thought this was supposed to be a Christmas story, not a moral lesson." And with that being said, she went back to playing with her bungee cords.
     Next year, Trevon is sure to be back, but hopefully, the little girl will have no last minute announcements,  Santa will not have to place such a burden on Trevon,  the brother won't have to laugh, the parents won't have to smirk, there will be no fables to tell, and Christmas will be merry for all!

And the moral of the story is: Be careful what you wish for. Elves with substance abuse problems may give you a box full of surprises. Better leave to Santa what Santa knows best.   
     

And a very Happy New Year!

     2010 has safely arrived and we have officially entered the teen years of this century.  Get ready for  pimples, mood swings, rebellion, and all the other delightful perks of going through puberty.  Hold on, America, we've got a bumpy ride ahead...
     If the entire country is going through puberty, then who is left to be the parent in control of everything? The one who lays down the law, sets the boundaries, lets us make our own mistakes but still hangs around to clean up the mess, the one who loves us unconditionally even when we are pouting and stomping our feet in defiance of all that is good for us, the one who sets the perfect example we should strive to become? Guess you'll have to figure that one out on your own, but I've got a pretty good idea who I'm going to be turning towards for advice.
     First off, let's get the resolutions out of the way so we can promptly proceed to break them.  I, of course, have resolved to lose all the weight I gained during the freshman first semester.  That "freshman forty" weighs alot more when you're breathing down the neck of fifty. I'll have to take a physics class or something to figure that one out. I may even add a physical education class to the schedule to throw in a little exercise, although lugging a fifty pound backpack around all day has to burn off a few calories.
      Before one can start a daunting diet, one has to purge the house of all temptations.  I worked diligently on this all day yesterday. It takes a lot of effort to eat up all the Christmas goodies, but I was dedicated to the task.  As I was polishing off the last of the toffee a friend had sent for Christmas, Sissey walked into the kitchen and caught me redhanded with a mouthful of candy. She frowned at me as I chewed and asked the ambiguous question, "Aren't you supposed to be on a diet today?"
     I was stunned that I even had to point out the obvious to her.
     "Of course I am, " I garbled through teeth stuck together with toffee.  "It was my New Year's Resolution. But EVERYBODY knows you have to eat up all the Christmas goodies before you can officially start.  It's one of the cardinal rules of dieting. I am in the purging phase, cleaning out the house so I won't be tempted to eat anything fattening. "
     I just don't understand this younger generation. How can anyone begin a diet when there are sausage balls, fruitcake, and chocolates that must be consumed first? And while we are on the subject of fruitcake--it's fruit, and everyone knows you can have fruit on a diet, so technically you are not breaking your diet there either. You have to prepare for the diet, you can't just jump in without a plan. That's the problem with youngsters,  they act on impulse without thinking through the process. I had meticulously planned for this diet and that started with ridding the house of all temptations. I also counted on  the fact that the last few pounds gained were usually the most delicious to acquire and the quickest to lose, so they really didn't count anyway. I had a lot to teach Sissey about the rules of dieting, but since she had not yet broken the 100 pound mark, that conversation could wait a few years!
     I  have another cardinal rule of dieting. Anything consumed before breakfast does not count in the calorie intake since those calories are going to be quickly burned off during the day.  Those are counted as "freebie calories", so go ahead and sneak a sausage ball while you're waiting for the coffee to perk, it's not going to break your diet.
     And everyone knows the  "Universal Rule of Standing"
           --anything eaten while standing,
           -- anything eaten while not placed on a plate,
           --anything eaten while hiding in the pantry
Hereby let it be known, those calories do not count, they are designated as free calories.
   I will keep you posted on the results as they roll in, or rather off, since I am confident my plan will be successful.  I have years of experience in the dieting department, you could actually call me a professional dieter, I have lost enough weight over my lifetime to make three whole people, so I do not anticipate anything but success this time around.
      My final resolution is to try to be forgiving, tolerant and understanding of all that happens as our nation plods through the pubescent teen years of this century.  I may have more problem keeping to that one than to the diet, but we all have to make some resolutions we just know we are going to break. Besides, I already have a plan for that, too. As I said before, I've got a pretty good idea who I'm going to be turning towards for advice.
     So I wish you all a Very Happy New Year, much success with your resolutions, much health and happiness in the year ahead,  and I sincerely hope you all have a plan for surviving the bumpy ride.

Congressional Reform Act of 2010

I received the following email this morning, and as a public service, I am sharing it with all of you. I think the creator of this letter has hit the nail on the head with the problem in Washington and it could not have been said in a better way. Please feel free to forward this to all of your friends.

Subject: Congressional Reform Act of 2010
THIS IS HOW YOU FIX CONGRESS!!!!!

A friend sent this along to me. I can't think of a reason to disagree.

I am sending this to virtually everybody on my e-mail list and that includes conservatives, liberals, and everybody in between. Even though we disagree on a number of issues, I count all of you as friends. My friend and neighbor wants to promote a "Congressional Reform Act of 2009". It would contain eight provisions, all of which would probably be strongly endorsed by those who drafted the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. Friends, please send me your recommendations on how this bill can be improved.

I know many of you will say, "this is impossible". Let me remind you, Congress has the lowest approval of any entity in Government, now is the time when Americans will join together to reform Congress - the entity that represents us.

We need to get a Senator to introduce this bill in the US Senate and a Representative to introduce a similar bill in the US House. These people will become American hero's.. Please send any ideas on how to get this done.
Thanks,
A Fellow American
***********************************

Congressional Reform Act of 2010

1. Term Limits: 12 years only, one of the possible options below.

A. Two Six year Senate terms
B. Six Two year House terms
C. One Six year Senate term and three Two Year House terms

Serving in Congress is an honor, not a career. The Founding Fathers envisioned citizen legislators, serve your term(s), then go home and back to work.

2. No Tenure / No Pension:

A congressman collects a salary while in office and receives no pay when they are out of office.

Serving in Congress is an honor, not a career. The Founding Fathers envisioned citizen legislators, serve your term(s), then go home and back to work.

3. Congress (past, present & future) participates in Social Security:

All funds in the Congressional retirement fund moves to the Social Security system immediately. All future funds flow into the Social Security system, Congress participates with the American people.

Serving in Congress is an honor, not a career. The Founding Fathers envisioned citizen legislators, server your term(s), then go home and back to work.

4. Congress can purchase their own retirement plan just as all Americans.

Serving in Congress is an honor, not a career. The Founding Fathers envisioned citizen legislators, serve your term(s), then go home and back to work.

5. Congress will no longer vote themselves a pay raise. Congressional pay will rise by the lower of CPI or 3%.

Serving in Congress is an honor, not a career. The Founding Fathers envisioned citizen legislators, serve your term(s), then go home and back to work.

6. Congress loses their current health care system and participates in the same health care system as the American people.

Serving in Congress is an honor, not a career. The Founding Fathers envisioned citizen legislators, serve your term(s), then go home and back to work.
7. Congress must equally abide in all laws they impose on the American people.

Serving in Congress is an honor, not a career. The Founding Fathers envisioned citizen legislators, serve your term(s), then go home and back to work.

8. All contracts with past and present congressmen are void effective 1/1/11.

The American people did not make this contract with congressmen, congressmen made all these contracts for themselves.

Serving in Congress is an honor, not a career. The Founding Fathers envisioned citizen legislators, serve your term(s), then go home and back to work.

A Rather Delicate Subject

Warning: The following contains graphic, adult material that may not be suitable for young children. Parents should use caution when viewing this site.

   Alright, you've been warned, and all of you curious little deviants that are still with me, I wonder about you, but here we go.  I am about to tackle a rather delicate subject, but one which I have been pondering for quite some time, one regarding a certain behavior that has me confounded and scratching my head in utter confusion, muttering to myself "Why, oh, why?"
   Let me begin by confessing that I am, by nature, a voyeur, a people-watcher.  I love to observe people engaged in everyday life and try to figure out what motivates them to behave the way they do. I think this tendancy was embedded in me by my mother.  She has this uncanny ability to be able to see a total stranger and give you their entire life history. It's truly an amazing gift.
     For example, we are sitting in a parking lot in the car, getting ready to go into a store, when a man wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase strolls by.
     "Look at that man," she'll say.  "He works for the FBI. He's looking for drug dealers that hang out in the parking lot.  He looks depressed. I bet he just arrested some young boy who had a tragic home life and got into drugs. It's just a shame what happens to young people these days. It was probably because his parents didn't care about him. He must have come home to an empty house every day, and those gangster boys that roam around the neighborhood just pulled him into the drug life. And now that FBI agent had to arrest him and he's all depressed about it and...."  You get the picture.
     As I said, I come by it naturally, or perhaps genetically, but I do love to watch people: 
     ...the woman that comes to the grocery store in curlers and a house dress (yes, people in the rural south still do that).....does she believe opposites attract? Does she hope that some high-level executive in a Brooks Brothers suit will find her irresistible, that he'll be drawn to her hot-pink foam curlers and fuzzy slippers? Why bother curling your hair if you are willing to go out in public looking like a mess?
     ...the man with green hair and a mohawk and body piercings in places I didn't know could be pierced....who grows green hair?  Who grows green hair that sticks straight up from the middle of your head? Is he going for a moldy-native look or just working the shock factor?  Did it hurt to have his eyebrow and chin pierced? What about the one in his cheek?
      ...the kids that drive around town with music playing so loud it vibrates the frame of your car and you can hear it in China....is it a control thing, a power play, an attitude of "this is my car and you can't tell me what to do?" or is the poor thing actually hearing impaired?
      But the one that has me stumped, the one I just can't figure out, the one that I have been pondering and pondering, is the one that  has to do with young men, pick-up trucks, and trailer hitch ornaments.  I'm referring to the young men that drive around town with a pair of bull testicles dangling from the trailer hitch of their truck, a phenomenom I have observed not only in South Carolina, but North Carolina, Georgia and Virginia as well. I am afraid it probably happens all around the country.
     First of all, where exactly does one go to buy animal genitalia ornamentation for one's car? I'm quite sure one does not stroll into Target and ask the red-smocked customer service rep," Could you point me to the animal genitalia department? I need a new set of bull testicles for my truck."
     Secondly, why,oh,why does one even want animal genitalia dangling from one's car? What message are they trying to send? A bull is a rather curious specimen. Uncle Henry raises cows, and I've observed plenty of his bulls. They don't produce milk, butter, or cheese, their meat is usually tough and not sold to market, they are loners except when interested in mating, they stand around eating all day, they stink and they have flies buzzing all around them. So are the young men trying to send the message that they are unproductive, smelly, dirty, hungry, and only interested in sex? That's a real chick magnet.
      What parent in their right mind would allow their young daughter to get into the truck of a boy that has a pair of animal testicles dangling from his hitch? I can assure you that if he arrived in my driveway, he'd be met at the front door by a parent wielding a set of garden clippers prepared to remove more than one set of balls.
        I do understand the motivation to personalize one's car and to proclaim one's identity. I am the queen of car ornamentation. I have stickers that promote my children's schools, the colleges my husband and I graduated from, my political orientation, my beloved poodles,  my hobbies, even a little fish that proclaims my faith.  I have a Chick-fil-a cow dangling from my antennae, a trailer hitch in the shape of the state of South Carolina, a magnetic pink bow to support breast cancer survivors, a magnetic yellow bow in support of our troops. At Christmas, I add a wreath to the front grill and a candy cane to the antennae, and have been known to hook up lights that blink as I'm driving down the road (this may not be exactly legal...). So as you can see, I am not a car ornamentation snob. I simply do not understand the animal genitalia thing.
    I will continue to observe this behavior, I will analyze the young men I see driving around town with this bizarre ornamentation, I will ponder and wonder and ponder some more, but I can assure you, I will never, ever, ever be able to figure this one out.
     Therefore, I am forced to start a "Save the Bulls" campaign. To order your bumper sticker, please call PETA.

Christmas Future

      Only 364 shopping days left until Christmas....hurry, hurry, hurry or you'll never be ready. The malls are beckoning, the ads are overwhelming, the media is frantic in its efforts to lure us back into mass consumerism. Sales! deals! unbeliveable prices! are beckoning, seducing, luring us to leave our homes and families and battle the post-Christmas crowd to participate in a shopping mecca, a journey all in preparation for a holiday that is politically incorrect in our culture. Don't dare mention the birth of Christ, a Savior, a gift of salvation or redemption. Just hand over your credit card or cash and claim a stake in Santa and have a merry holiday or whatever.
      The Christmas Day so highly anticipated, so furiously prepared for, so eagerly awaited, has only just come and gone, is only an infantile "Christmas Past." Can we possibly be turning our attention already to Christmas Future? Have we even paused to remember what the anticipation, the excitement, the joy are for, or do we simply switch gears and begin planning for the commercial side of Christmas future?
Today is a day for reflection--to smile on the memories of children wild with visions of Saint Nicholas, of families gathered together in laughter and joy, of carols and candlelight and "Silent Night" and most importantly, of the gift of salvation bestowed on an undeserving world by an amazing Savior.
     Tummies are still full from yesterday's feasting, presents have been sorted and stacked into various piles, leftovers are disappearing at a rapid clip, ribbons and boxes and bows have been hauled to the trash, and those family members remaining in town are either napping, fiddling with new gadgets and gizmos, or watching bowl games on TV.  The post-Christmas lull has settled in; a quietness had replaced the joyous noise of the previous morn. I have succumbed to "post-holiday rest syndrome" and retired to a spot on the couch, from which I will only budge to sneak a sinful bite of Gypsy Cake or perhaps one last sausage ball.
    I revel in the change of pace, the slowness of the day. Today is the day to enjoy all that has occurred in  preparation for the celebration of Christ's birth. We bring Him gifts of family, gifts of sharing, gifts of joy, gifts of love...all because of His birth, which we have celebrated in the past, celebrated in the  present, and will continue to celebrate in the future. Even in a world that denies His diety and tries to camoflage His birth with secular joviality, we will celebrate the reason for the season, the CHRIST of CHRISTmas. Merry CHRISTmas yesterday, today and in the CHRISTmases of your future!

Christmas Present

On this snowy weekend, as one of the greatest blizzards to hit the East coast roared through town and blanketed the city in a foot of snow, there were still dozens of things left to do to prepare for the Christmas Holiday.
Yet Twelve inches of snow  brought Richmond  to a standstill
While Eleven loaves of bread were cooling on my window sill.
Ten pans of cookies  waiting for me to bake them
Nine gift baskets--but I hadn't time to make them.
Eight bags of presents  unwrapped on the den floor,
Seven  to deliver waiting by the front door.
Six piles of  laundry growing by a foot more...
 FIVE GOLDEN FRUITCAKES!
 Four shopping days left,
Three snow-caked poodles,
Two college kids,
and a pair of parents in a tizzy.
So much to do, so little time, fa-la-la-la-la and fiddle-dee-dee.
But it was snowing outside, and it was cold inside, and there was a marathon of holiday movies on the television.  You would think with all that was left to do I would be in a panic to jump up off the couch, turn off the TV and start tackling another holiday project; Bah-humbug....

But ahhh...the tree was twinkling so merrily, the snow was glistening so brightly, the fire was roaring so warmly, and the couch was calling me home.  I turned up the volume on "Doctor Zhivago" and tuned out everything else.  I took the day off,  tucked in beside the tree, curled up in a blanket, and enjoyed the snow and movies and the holiday glow. I gazed at the tree and the lights and the ornaments as I watched Ebenezeer Scrooge battle the ghosts of Christmases past, present and future. I listened to Charleton Heston in "Ben-Hur" capture the story of the life of Christ;  I saw stories of Santa in the North Pole working with elves that didn't want to be elves, stories of neighbors battling over Christmas lights and decorations, and stories of families reunited for the holidays. I confess that I napped during some of them, clicked back and forth between a few, but  I didn't move all day. Everything came to a standstill in our hectic, holiday house. I didn't even feel guilty.

It was a little Christmas present to myself, a day of rest, of peace, of quiet, of joy. It was a gift that happened because of a blizzard, when God sent a blanket of snow to calm the world down-- God's gifts, always in our best interest, waiting for us to receive them.

 I received this Christmas present, this day of rest, with a thankful heart. Merry Christmas to all as we celebrate God's greatest gift , the birth of His Son.

Twas the week before Christmas....

'Twas the week before Christmas and all through the house...
not a creature was stirring but Mom and her mouse.
She shopped on the internet faster than lightening
Ordered waders for hunting and
teeth strips for whitening.
The fruitcakes were baking
The cookies were done
The mistletoe  beckoned
The stockings were hung...
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter
She sprang from her chair to see what was the matter--
A blizzard was coming
The wind was a-howling
Mom wasn't prepared
and she started a-scowling
"I've shopping to do
I've errands to run!
Christmas is coming
and I am not done!
With the hustle and bustle and all's left to do
Now a blizzard is coming
and I am not through!"
Then laying a finger aside of her brow
She said," I'll make Christmas still happen somehow!"
She opened her pantry,
whipped up some batter
bundled up cookies and cakes on a platter
Tied them with ribbons and holly and bows
And said, "Merry Christmas!" in spite of the snows
that were whirling and swirling and blocking the street
as a hush and a brightness settled so sweet
over all of the city, all of the town
as the cold winter storm settled around.
In the midst of the snow, in the midst of the quiet
She noticed a star in the heavens so bright
It was casting a light all over the snow
that told of an evening so long, long ago
when a baby was born in a manger so bare--
a child in a world that did not seem to care
that this infant so tiny, so helpless and small
was a King come from heaven to save one and all.
And Mom said to herself as she walked through the night
through the snow and the cold in the star's magic light,
"I don't need the mall or the holiday traffic
Christmas will come in a blizzard like magic.
It comes without Santa, it comes without shopping
It comes in the storm that there's no way of stopping."
For Christmas is here in our heart all year long
It's in every carol and each Christmas song,
in every kind word, in each loving deed
in helping the lonely, those lost and in need.
If the deep love of Christ in our hearts we will share
then the great Christmas story will be everywhere.
And I heard her exclaim as she walked through the snow
with the world all awash in the heavenly glow
"Merry Christmas to all, remember the birth
of the Saviour who brought peace and joy to the earth!"

BREAKING NEWS! BREAKING NEWS! BREAKING NEWS!

Breaking news...breaking news...breaking news......this just in! Miss Mary Lapsley Daly, aka Sissey, has been one of nine students selected for the University of South Carolina/Lancaster Peer Advisor leadership program....Student advisors receive extensive leadership training and  participate in Orientation, Registration, campus events, leadership courses and the Southern Region leadership training conference ....more news to follow as it comes in...Congratulations to the 2010-2011 P.A.L.s!!!!!!!

Christmas Past

      We arrived back in Richmond last night in time to hop into the frantic pace of holiday festivities...there was shopping to be done, parties to attend, presents to wrap, lights and garlands to hang, the tree  to be selected and decorated,  fruitcake and cookies  to be baked....an endless list of preparations and tasks that must be completed in the fifteen short days that were left.  It seemed a bit overwhelming as I ticked through my list, trying to figure what to do when, how to get it all done, and if there would be time to just enjoy the season without being completely exhausted.

     I thought of the piles of boxes  that needed to be hauled down from the attic and remembered last January when I had hauled them all back into storage.  As I shoved over 27 containers full of nutcrackers, tinsel trees, nativity scenes, glass balls and garlands, I told my husband,  "I don't think this was what Christ had in mind for the celebration of His birth. Next year, I'm going to hang one wreath, display one nativity scene,  put out one candle, and that is going to be it for the decorations. This has gotten to be ridiculous." I had spent enough money on decorations to buy a heiffer for every starving family in Africa, and I knew all the garlands and bows in the world wouldn't really tell the true story of Christmas. I had been sucked into the mass consumerism that had overtaken the holiday.

     I thought of the stories my grandmother had told of her childhood holidays, and the stark contradiction between the obscene commercialism of our Christmas today and the profound simplicity of  her Christmas past caused me to experience a moment of shame. The simplistic celebrations of yore may pale in comparison to the consumer-driven, commercialized, mega-hpyed secular version our children experience today, but I would trade all the glitter and glitz of present for one chance to experience those simple but holy Christmases of her youth.

     The holiday was as it should be....a holy-day, with church and worship of the Saviour's birth the main focus.  This was long before Santa had replaced the babe in the manger, before shopping malls replaced sanctuaries, before "Holiday Trees" and "Holiday Greetings" crowded out "Christmas trees" and proclamations of "Merry Christmas",  and when the birth of Christ was still the focus of the season.There were no mounds of presents under the tree, no dancing reindeer lighting up the lawn or a million lights twinkling from the eaves of the house. Santa came, but he came quietly and without the abundance of gifts expected today.  There were no arguments about nativity scenes on courthouse lawns or bans on singing carols in the schools. We were still "One Nation Under God" and not ashamed to admit it, and the reason for the season had not been obscured by marketing executives determined to cash in on every belief system on the planet in order to turn December 25 into nothing more than a shopping extravaganza. The greatest gift was the time spent with family celebrating the birth of the Saviour.
     Christmas Eve was spent in church, with carols and candles heralding the birthday of the Christ-child.  Lights in the windows signified the coming of the light of the world, and Santa was still a Saint who gave gifts from the heart, gifts of love that were reminiscent of the gifts of frankencense, gold and myrhh laid at the manger by three wise men. There were no IPODS, four wheel drive vehicles, designer clothes, computers, bicycles, or other extravagent gifts waiting under the tree. Santa was practical, bringing sweet treats that were a holdiay delicacy and perhaps a few necessities such as socks and underwear, perhaps a woolen scarf or pair of kid gloves.

    As a child, my grandmother and her brothers would eagerly await Christmas with dreams of carols, family gatherings, and a grand Christmas dinner.  On those long-ago Christmas mornings, Grandfather would awaken everyone with an explosive greeting as he marched up and down the hallway igniting firecrackers to proclaim Santa's arrival. Everyday stockings had been nailed to the mantle, and the excited children would soon pull them down and search for treats that Santa had tucked inside. Before pulling down the stockings,  Uncle Benny would run to the fireplace, stick his nose up the chimney, sniff and exclaim "I smell bananas!" In the early 1900's, it was an exotic treat to get a banana from Santa in your stocking; an even greater treat was to receive a bunch of dried grapes which were still attached to the vine, the forerunner of today's raisins. Nuts and candies filled out the rest of the space, with an orange in the toe of the stocking capping off a perfect Christmas morning.

      As soon as the morning fires were lit, individuals who worked for the family would begin the southern tradition of knocking on the back door in anticipation of a holiday treat.  Jeff Wright, a carpenter, would always  be the first to bang at the back door, hands extended, a grin lighting up his dark face as he shouted "Christmas gift! Christmas gift!"  Other workers would follow, each eagerly awaiting gifts of money, a new sweater, and a hot Christmas breakfast of hominy, sausage, biscuits, and eggs.
    After church services, the entire extended family would gather around the dining room table for the Christmas meal of turkey and ham, dressing, candied sweet potatoes, asparagus, scalloped oysters, rice and gravy, cranberries and pickled peaches, relishes and aspics, biscuits and fresh butter. Fruitcake and cookies lined the sideboard, but the grand finale was always Gypsy Cake. This once-a-year holiday treat, still a family favorite, was dreamed of 364 days of the year in anticipation of that Christmas day delight.  Layers of sponge cake, made only according to the recipe in the Old Red Cookbook, were sprinkled with pecans and raisins, with each of those layers topped with a layer of creamy boiled custard, layer after layer, until the bowl overflowed.  The trifle dish, piled high and deep, awaited its presentation on the back porch if the day were cold enough or else in the icebox.  For the more adventuresome holiday guest, a dash of spirits was added to each layer, turning the dessert into  the self-explanatory "Tipsey Cake".  A dollop of freshly whipped cream completed the presentation.  Groans and sighs of contentment inevitably topped off the day. A walk through town to wish neighbors and friends a "Merry Christmas"  would be just enough to waken the senses and work up an appetite to gather round the table for a final holiday evening meal before bidding relatives goodnight and goodbye.
     And that was it. A simple but profound day spent with family and loved ones in  celebration of the birth of Christ, yet a day memorable enough that my grandmother lovingly recalled each memory and morsel of it more than eighty years later.  She is long gone now, as are the Christmases she once knew, but the memories  are enough to make me smile as I prepare for this holy season , knowing she is with the One whose birth we still celebrate.
      This year, I wish for a simple Christmas, a holy Christmas, a Merry Christmas, one that will be full of memories that will bind families together and  make future generations smile in recollection.   And to each of you, I wish the same. Have a very, very Merry Christmas!  

  

Going Home Again

     Whoever said you can't go home again probably didn't realize you actually can....as long as it's not forever and there's an open door policy on both ends of the deal.  The transition back home to live with my parents while Sissey attends college has been much smoothier and much easier than I ever imagined, plus it's been a whole lot of fun! I don't know if it's the fact that we all realize how quickly this experience will go by, or if it's because everyone is cheering and rooting for Sissey to get her college degree, or if it's just because I have been blessed with an incredibly understanding and supportive family (on both ends of the deal), but this unusual journey is turning out to be a pretty good trip!
     If the next couple of years go by as quickly as this first semester, I have a feeling Sissey will be working on her PhD before we know it.  But for now, we are both ready to head home again for the holidays and are just hoping Christmas break does not go by as quickly as the last sixteen weeks!
      All I really want for Christmas this year is to spend some quality time with my family....Bro will be arriving home from UVA in a couple of weeks and I plan to feed that hard-working college boy some home-cooked meals and take really good care of him while he's home...some quality TLC Mom-style!  He's been so proud of his sister and so understanding of the different path her college career must take.  From the moment he started submitting his college applications in his junior year of high school, he started pushing his sister to do the same.  Even when she chose to take a year off and work, he didn't let up, constantly talking to her about going on to college, working towards a degree, completing her education.  Even though he is not a Carolina fan and will certainly never pull for the Gamecocks, he is still proud of her decision and will always support the "home team."
     My husband and parents have been unbelievably flexible and patient as Sissey and I have disrupted all their lives with our comings and goings. I am keenly aware of the necessary adaptations in lifestyles that everyone has had to make in order for this journey to become a reality, and I do not take if for granted or assume that we were entitled to this opportunity. It has been an abundant gift...the chance to spend precious time with my parents, the chance for Sissey to bloom into the confident young woman she is destined to become, the chance for everyone to sacrifice something for a greater cause...those are truly gifts from the heart.
     So we'll pack up in a few days and head for home, going to the northern end of the southern states, going home again to Virginia, and in a few weeks, returning home again to South Carolina. And so it will go for the next four years, until the journey is complete, diploma in hand, tassels turned, and we can all say, "She did it!"

THE END

(OF THE FIRST SEMESTER!)

Last Day of Classes

     Classes are complete, coursework is done, campus is quiet, Christmas is coming....we did it! The first semester is over and we haven't missed a single class--not even the eight o'clock one (although it was a struggle on some mornings to get up, get dressed, and hit Highway Nine to Lancaster in time to beat the school buses)! All coursework has been turned in, the books for next semester have been purchased, and we still haven't gotten the swine flu. So far, so good.
     Sissey is going into finals with an A average in every class. Unless she decides not to show up for exams, the forecast is looking pretty good for a spot on the Dean's List! Today, she submitted her application to serve as an advisor in the P.A.L. program (Peer Advisors at Lancaster) and has an interview with the selection panel scheduled for next week. If selected, she will attend the Southern Region Orientation Workshop (a leadership training conference), assist in new student orientation and registration, help with various campus events, take a three credit leadership class during the spring semester, and will also receive a stipend.  She has also agreed to serve on the Accessibility Review Committee at USC in Columbia. There, she will join a panel of professors, students, and engineers that meet monthly to discuss accessibility issues arising during renovation or new construction projects on either the main campus or any regional campus.
     Last week, she was one of two students chosen to speak at the annual Scholarship Luncheon- a beautiful event to thank the donors, recognize the recipients, and feed the faculty. Prior to starting classes in the fall, Sissey had received the Dr. Edward William and Mary Sue Catalano Scholarship, named in honor of the parents of the current Dean of USC-L, Dr. John Catalano. In his opening remarks, Dean Catalano spoke of  his trip to Columbia the day before to visit his 93 year old father who was unable to attend the luncheon.  Dr. Catalano remarked that he was one of 12 children, there were 35 grandchildren in his family, and 11 great-grandchildren, but that when he arrived at his father's house, there was only ONE picture on his refrigerator--and it was none other than Mary Lapsley Daly!  His father had lost a leg during the war and understood the struggles of living life with a disability. It was a bittersweet irony for my physically challenged daughter to have received an academic scholarship from a physically-challenged veteran philanthropist. There were many layers of meaning in that message--a reward for hard work and dedication, a challenge to try your hardest and to never give up, a call to give back to the world no matter what circumstances you faced in life.
     As I watched her give her speech that morning, standing behind the lecturn in a poised and confident manner, addressing a crowd of over 500 attendees,  I couldn't help but think "Is this the same nervous Nelly I drove down to South Carolina back in the fall?"
     I think not!
     I vividly remember the night we arrived--moving in under the cover of darkness, loaded with boxes and bags, struggling with suitcases, carrying an even heavier load of apprehension and nervousness. We had no idea what to expect when we arrived on campus the following morning. Coming from a small school of no more than one hundred students, would she be overwhelmed by a campus of several thousand?  She had no more than five students per class at Northstar;  would large classes and even larger lectures be more than she could handle? She knew not a single soul in the entire county, would she feel isolated and lonely?
     I think not!
     I'll be heading home for the holidays with a more confident, more mature, and more educated young lady than the frightened little girl that made the 350 mile drive down  in August. We still have a long way to go and the journey will get harder each semester, but no matter what happens from this point on, no one will ever be able to take away the fact that Sissey did it-- she took that huge leap of faith after high school, jumped out into the big, unknown world, took her chance when she got it, and went off to college.  Not only did she go, she went with bells a-ringing and angels a-singing!
     And as we drive back to Richmond, I will be singing "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, and this year he's bringing a whole sack of happiness and confidence,  love and joy!"
     Plus, I think Mom and Dad are going to be pretty happy when the grades come in!

The Final Stretch

    This begins the last week of the first semester of the next four years of college life...it all seemed to go by in about 30 seconds, much like watching my children grow up over the last nineteen years.  Exams begin next week, all papers and projects and power-point presentations are due this week, and there are only twenty five shopping days left until Christmas. Things may be a little slow right now in the communication department, but we are entering the final stretch in full force.
     It has been an amazing four months and I'm not sure who has gained the most out of this experience. I have watched Sissey gain confidence and wisdom in leaps and bounds. I have had the luxury of returning to my childhood home to relive old memories and create new ones. My son and husband have graciously  and patiently adapted to this new and unusual living arrangement. My parents have gone to extraordinary lengths to welcome us home. They have allowed us to completely disrupt life as they knew it and have accomodated any and all of our special needs-- installing automatic stair-lifts, ramps, railings and walkways where needed.  Even the dogs have played their part and adjusted to the ever-changing schedule of "family here/family gone."
     My heart is full and grateful this Christmas season.
     I look forward to finishing up this semester, resting over a nice long break, then starting back in January with fresh energy, a new schedule of classes, and the anticipation of enjoying a mild South Carolina winter.  
     One week to go and counting.....the final stretch begins.
    
   

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.