Welcome to Nashville... now go away!

It has been brought to my attention that Nashville is ranked number 5 on the Angriest City in America list. What an achievement! Nashville usually makes those lists that talk about poor student scores and teen pregnancy. We may be moving up by being on the Angriest City List.

I attribute this success for a few different reasons, and in no real order:

1. Country Music. Considerably some of the most depressing lyrics penned in a single musical genre. Some chick wants Earl to die. Some other guy wants his sweater back, but you get to keep the cat you’ll have to clean up after for the rest of its life. A man’s dog, truck and wife have left him wallowing in his beer at a local bar with a Waffle House waitress named Sue, who is only attractive in the beer-induced fog of a smoky bar and becomes considerably less attractive in the light of day the next morning as she is coughing up a lung from her five-pack-a-day habit and is asking for a ride back to the bar to pick up her truck, which consequently, needs an oil change, and shouldn’t the man do that for her, considering what she did to him the night before? Plenty of reason for anger here.

2. Interstate traffic and/or construction. For about the last fifteen years we have been constructing our interstate system here in middle Tennessee. We’ll do a section on one side of town and stop midway through because the really important people on the Hill forgot to budget the right amount of money to hire those laborers we see taking a break on the side of the road. So, it will be back to the drawing board and we’ll wait around for another year where we’ll gladly elect the same people for the same positions that do the same things… and our interstates will still be under construction. What is that definition of insanity again? OR, perhaps it will be decided that we should work construction on ALL the major roadways AT THE SAME TIME… and we should always begin during rush hour, so as to thoroughly irritate those people whose taxes are funding the construction process anyway. Hmm… nothing to make people angry here.

3. The Tennessee Titans. I won’t stop and brag too much about the fact that I hate this football team and the fact that after their first couple of seasons here, it appears that they have tanked. I won’t mention the horrendous traffic tie-ups on game days. But, that losing streak has got to put a damper on all those tailgating fiends who get halfway through Amazing Grace before they sneak out of the back of church to dash off to the stadium and pull out their buffalo wings, their beer kegs and their binoculars to stare and lust after the cheerleaders doing their high kicks on the sidelines. They’ll skip out of church early so as not to miss the kickoff… but it is doubtful they’ll leave the game early to pass the collection plate or the communion tray for an evening worship service. Yeah, I’ll just let this one go.

4. Fan Fair. Is there anything more enjoyable than pouring tens of thousands of country music fans into a small auditorium with their favorite country music artist? Well… maybe a root canal. Or natural birth. Or a tent peg through the eye. Or being tied to a scud missile and fired into Iraq. Or climbing Mt. Everest without the benefit of an oxygen tank. Or having to endure your period without chocolate. (I think you get the picture). These enthusiasts travel from all over the world to gather in our quaint city for one week out of the year. One. Horrible. Hot. Sticky. Week. More people wear polyester and rhinestones during this June week than at any other time in history. For those of us who are jaded by this occurrence, we tend to pop some popcorn and head over to the Opryland Hotel to play “fashion police” for the people parading by. Note to self: never determine that a sequined leopard print tube top and hip-hugging daisy dukes are a good idea on a size 22 woman. OR a size 46 man.

5. The lottery. You’d think we wouldn’t have a problem funding our school systems now that Tennessee has its very own state lottery. Hundreds of thousands of people cash in their welfare check to stand in line a few hours at a time to purchase a piece of paper that has a one in about a gazillion chances of earning them $5 in return. I can say that anger would erupt for those of us who’d really just want to purchase overpriced gas for our cars, but who have to wait in that same line to pay for the gas. It is no wonder so many people drive away from the pumps without paying. Thank goodness for the pumps with the payment options that keep you from having to enter the store. It may be less social, but it is infinitely more peaceful.

6. Al Gore, Jr. Enough said.

More General Rantings... the downfall of the Media in general

Let the madness begin.

Didn't we learn enough with the OVER coverage of the OJ trial? Because, the general public had a RIGHT to watch a white Ford Bronco tool across the streets of Los Angeles for a couple of hours driven by two aging and self-inflated retired football players. Then, we had a RIGHT to sit through weeks and weeks and weeks and dear Lord how long did that trial take? Americans (and anyone else stupid enough to watch via satellite across the big ponds) popped popcorn, pulled the TV tray up to the sofa and watched all day OJ 24/7. Sheesh.

I admit that I can be a newshound sometimes. I admit that when I cannot sleep at night, the droning voice of Tucker Carlson can lull me to sleep quicker than anything else. I try to make those "watch-until-my-eyelids-fall-off" moments occur for things that are actually newsworthy. I suppose this is the rub... what I consider newsworthy often is not what other people consider newsworthy, and vice versa.

For instance, when the war began, you could not tear me away from a television set. I stayed up until the early hours of the morning watching over our troops. I felt connected in a way. I was not watching with an eagerness to see an attack, or bombs bursting in air. I prayed over those guys on the screen. I stayed with them, hoping that they could feel my presence and know my support was there in the trenches with them. Did they feel that? Most likely they had other things on their minds, but I didn't care.

I watched a LOT of coverage on 9/11. I have a cousin who lives in NYC and I wanted to know she was okay. Thank God, she was. 9/11 was a turning point of some sorts. Even though I was an adult, it stripped away some of that innocence I try to hang on to.

I don't mind keeping track of natural disasters, but I don't stay glued to the TV for that. I acknowledge and am grateful for coverage of earthquakes, tsunamis, hurricanes, etc. I like to know how I can help and am thankful for the coverage that breaks with those stories.

I remember Jon Benet's death and the surrounding grief and sadness and mystery. Much like I know about Natalie Holloway. I felt so bad for those families. My heart went out to them. If I were in that situation, it would kill me. I cannot imagine that sort of pain, and I cannot imagine it hanging with you for such a long time.

BUT...

Do we really, Really, REALLY need and/or want to know what John Mark Karr had for breakfast five years ago when he stopped at a Waffle House on the outskirts of Poughkeepsie? For the LOVE, people... can we consider giving just a little LESS attention to the crazies of the world? Have we not learned yet that many, many, many wackos of the world LOVE the attention like this guy is getting? Do you not see in the looks on this man's face that HE loves the attention he is getting? Come on.

I understand that it can be a slow news day from time to time... but for HOURS last night we saw coverage of Mr. Karr being arrested, Mr. Karr walking through a building, Mr. Karr on a plane, Mr. Karr in a car... etc.

Maybe we as Americans can demand the news agencies give drivel like this a rest... and move on with those things that actually affect us. Those things we actually benefit from knowing. Those things that make us better people.

4? Candles

Remember the movie, Sixteen Candles? The John Hughes teen drama that was filmed back in the 80s with Molly Ringwald and Anthony Michael Hall? Remember that it was the Best. Movie. Ever? I love that movie. I felt sorry for Molly's character. I could not believe that any parent would be so insensitive as to forget their daughter's birthday. I don't care if your older, more beautiful sister was marrying the Bull Hunk or not! It was just sad.

My parents always remember my birthday. Always. When I was younger, my mother would make pancakes for my birthday in the shape of a bear, or spell out my name. She would have a tiny candle burning and walk into my bedroom singing "Happy Birthday". The smell of hot butter and maple syrup filling my room and the warmth of her love shining down on me.

As I got older, my parents enjoyed calling me at the butt crack of dawn to wish me Happy Birthday. More singing, but no pancakes. That was okay with me. I'd still get birthday presents.

Now I'm officially in my 40s. My younger brother called while I was in the shower to remind me of how old I am and how I must still be needing to sleep. His wife, who is apparently perfect for him, called me that afternoon and left a similar message. My older brother and his wife and daughter left me a gift at my house for when I got off from work. They win in the "best family member" category this year.

But my parents? Nothing. Not. One. Thing. No Happy Birthday singing, no "Have a great day today" moment. No phone calls. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. I was suddenly Molly Ringwald.

I had a bad feeling that meant some old lady was going to cop a feel and I was going to have to sell my panties to the King of the Geeks. I warily walked past all the old people who came into view and kept a lookout for the Geek King. He did not appear. I was hoping that once I went home and my parents gushed over me, and wailed their horrible oversight, that I'd get a date with the captain of the football team.

Unfortunately for me, that did not happen. Well... maybe it was more fortunate than I think. I figure he's in his 40s now too... with a beer gut and a pair of girl's panties hanging off the deer antlers that are mounted over the big screen TV.

Hmmm.... life's not so bad after all!

500 word final submission

The last thing I am to do with my online class is to submit a 500 word creative piece. It can be on anything. I struggled with what style to write. I actually thought about submitting a piece that I had already written, but then changed my mind. I can do that. I'm a writer. I decided to just come up with anything. Start from scratch and see where it takes me. You'll remember that my main character's name was Ralph when I posted the first paragraph. I've changed his name to Jake. I don't know why, but I did. So... without further ado... here is my 500 word creative piece (that has yet to have a title worth mentioning).

*********

The piercing sound of the alarm clock brought Jake’s arm up from under the quilt he had buried himself in the night before. As he randomly attacked the clock to restore his peaceful surroundings, he realized the day had dawned. His mind warred with his body to gain consciousness, and his body was winning. It wanted to continue the blissful slumber that would repair all his aches and pains. At the cookout the night before, Jake had found himself playing two-on-two basketball with his brother-in-law and nephews. He had never felt out of shape or felt the completion of his 40 plus years. But now, as he stumbled out of the hot shower and frantically searched for the Icy-Hot that was tucked in the recesses of his bathroom cabinets, his years began to speak to him.

After applying the ointment to both knees, Jake wrapped a towel around his waist and walked to the sink. He almost slipped on the wet tiled floor. Is this how he wanted to begin his forty-second year? He sighed heavily as he wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror and took a long look at his stubbled face. He didn’t think he looked any older. He checked the profile of his body and felt pretty good about himself. He still tried to work out a couple of days a week and he did his best to eat right.

As Jake crossed to the dresser in his bedroom, he stubbed his toe on the corner. Surely to God this day was not going to be a foretelling of the year to come. If the last 12 minutes were any indication of the next 12 months, he would turn in his resignation on Monday, cash out his 401K and head to Tahiti. He grabbed a t-shirt and boxers from his dresser drawer and was making his way to the hall when he caught the fragrance of fresh coffee brewing. Who could be in the penthouse? It certainly wasn’t the cleaning service, they had instructions to arrive at 11:00 o’clock. He quietly opened the bedroom door and looked into the kitchen from the loft area where a dark shadow moved. Whoever it was had not turned on the lights.

Jake quietly moved back to the bedside table and withdrew his 9mm handgun. He crept into the hallway and was momentarily stunned by the bright lights that flashed on. As he was pulling his weapon around, he heard his brother’s voice.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! You don’t want to shoot your favorite brother.”

“You’re my only brother, Chance.” Jake said through clenched teeth. He had to work to unlock his jaw. “What in the world are you doing here anyway? And how did you get in?”

“Mom gave me the spare key.” Chance said.

“I thought Mom and Dad were out of the country. I thought you were going to stay at their place,” Jake said.

“I was, but Mom and Dad are remodeling the kitchen and I can’t stay in a place with no kitchen. Besides,” Chance grinned, “You’re kitchen has state-of-the-art, high-tech gadgets and what not.”

Jake failed to suppress his grin. This was Chance after all, his free-spirited brother. If anything was going to help Jake face his forty-second year, it would be Chance.

Continued Rantings of the Lunatic Mind

I always thought that my vehicle was a means of transportation. Little did I know that it is a statement of my abilities, intelligence, political ideals, religious affiliations and sexual preferences.

I learned to drive on my father’s 1968 VW Bug. It had belonged to his father, and we inherited it when Grandaddy Bell passed away. It was an automatic and I have fond memories of driving around the house and running over my mother’s favorite flowering shrub. I’ll never forget the look on her face as my father yanked me out of the car and berated me for not remembering the difference between the clutch and the brake. Mom was infinitely more concerned with the fact that the Bug was now planted firmly on the flowering shrub that had begun to bloom for the first time in years. It was a while before I drove again.

It was my father’s idea to give me the Bug when I turned 16. I was very excited and on the first day I drove it the approximately four blocks to my high school. I was so proud. At the end of the day, I drove it four blocks back home and had just turned into my driveway when the car stopped suddenly. The floorboard had apparently rusted out and the battery fell to the ground. My dream car was no more.

The first vehicle that was actually mine was a 72 Ford Mustang. It was red. It was actually a faded red with a few spots of rust and an eight-track tape player. I am certain that I was the hold out for the conversion from the eight track to the cassette tapes. It was because of me that record companies continued to manufacture eight tracks. Who didn’t enjoy being in the middle of Donna Summer’s “Hot Stuff” when the track changed? If I search through the attic, I am certain to find my soundtrack to the Rocky Horror Picture Show. But, I digress.

My father surprised me with the car on my 18th birthday. It was a bargaining chip. He told me I could either live on campus at MTSU or I could commute and get a car. I probably should have moved on campus… then again, knowing the life I led in college, I was better off at home. My car was not great to look at, but it kept itself together until that fateful night that I started home from my job at a retail mall department store. As I was pulling out of the parking lot, my car shimmied and shook with great intensity. It was as if I had run over some large metal object. As I looked into my rearview mirror, I realized I had run over a larger metal object… namely my transmission.

The first car that I owned was a Chevy Chevette. I purchased it from a rental car sales lot. It was a white hatchback and it had a four cylinder engine in it. I paid $108.00 a month for it, and I was so proud until I brought it home. It was not what my mother wanted for me. Much like the guys I dated were not the guys she wanted for me either. She didn’t want me to settle for cheap, unattractive and fuel efficient. She wanted me to purchase my dream car. But this was the 80s in middle Tennessee and my dream car was a brand new Red Corvette with t-tops. To this day that is my dream car… and I have yet to own one. The Chevette did well for me for a few years until I had to replace the alternator. Then the starter. Then the fuel pump. If I was heading up a hill and I had the air conditioning running, I was barely able to muster enough speed to pass a hitch-hiker making his way across country. By the time I had paid the car off, it was time to trade up.

I was finally working a 40 hour job and could afford the step below my dream car. I had always wanted a Camaro, and was very, very excited that the President of the Credit Union where my father sat on the Board of Directors just happened to have a Camaro that was two years old and he was looking to sell. There was no problem with my loan being approved and in 1986 I drove away in a 1982 Chevy Camaro that was a limited edition Olympic model. How does one tell a special edition Olympic model from a regular car? Why by the small Olympic decals on the side. This car had a cassette player and air condition and black leather upholstery. I learned a lot about black leather upholstery in the dead of a middle Tennessee summer. Gets stinkin’ hot. I’ve never had a car with leather upholstery since, and I doubt that I ever will again.

This baby sat low to the ground and I wore mirrored sunglasses and let my freak flag fly! I drag raced people down the interstate with Motley Crue booming through the tape deck. I drove that car into the ground! It was the very first car I bought AND paid for! It was the first car I had a title to and I wasn’t giving that car up for anything! I replaced the transmission and then the air conditioner went out. I couldn’t afford to have that fixed too… so I drove it for three Tennessee summers before I finally had to move on to my next dream car. A convertible.

I wanted a convertible so bad I could taste it. I had not lusted after a vehicle for years… and I Was. Going. To. Have. It. I found a used Ford Mustang convertible and was in heaven. It was great! I kept a perpetual red nose and sunburned scalp for years. The problem came in trying to keep the fabric top clean and the fact that I had no trunk space. This was the perfect road trip car, as long as you didn’t plan to go so far that you had to pack heavy. I learned early on that ice cream cones were not something you wanted to consume with the top down. I replaced the normal things, battery, alternator, starter, etc. But then, the roof began to leak around the windows and I found that I had to keep towels in the car in the event that a rain storm hit. I was caught on more than one occasion driving through a rain shower with the top down… thinking I could outlast the rain. I rarely did. But the final straw came when the top would go down… but would not go back up. It was, time for a new car.

I was getting older and so were my friends. They were tired of having to climb in and out of a two car vehicle and so my next car desires were simple. Four doors and a trunk. Everytime I walked onto a car lot and was asked what I was looking for, my reply was Four Doors and a Trunk.

“What type of car?”

“Four Doors”

“No, I mean, what model.”

“Anything with four doors in my price range”.

“What color?”

“I don’t care. As long as it has four doors and a trunk”.

“You’re pretty easy to please.”

“You have no idea.”

So I purchased a used Oldsmobile Alero. It was green. It had four doors and a trunk. And it was the worst car I have ever owned. It was in the shop more than any of the others cars I owned combined. I hated it. I bought a CD player and had my friend Leon install it. It was the first vehicle I owned to have a CD player. The player came with a remote control, which at first I thought was very funny, because truly, the dials are an arm’s length away… until I began to really use the remote, and then I would just laugh at myself. The only redeeming memory of that car was the fact that the Lord worked through its repairs in a profound way. But as soon as I got the note paid down close enough, I paid it off and gave it to my little brother to give to let my oldest niece to drive. It has not given them a bit of trouble. I could have named that car Christine.

I am now the proud owner of my first brand new vehicle. A Hyundai Santa Fe that my friend Lou Ann helped me pick out. I test drove EVERY small and mid-sized SUV on the market and this one won hand’s down. It was the smoothest of all cars and I would endorse it in every way. It has a six CD changer and I love the fact that I have come a long way from the days of my eight track.

Having said all that, I am proud to state that I have never placed a bumper sticker on any of my cars. Nor has there been a fish symbol or a Darwin symbol. When I owned a Ford, I did not belittle the Chevys and when I owned the Chevy, my car did not speak ill of the Ford. I have not seen fit to install mud-flaps with silhouettes of naked women on my SUV. I have been through many a Presidential election without using my car to voice my opinion. I have campaigned against legalized gambling without my opinion affixed on my vehicle.

I don’t have cute, pity sayings that are written so small that you must tailgate me to read a punchline. I don’t threaten you with bodily harm from a 38 special if you follow too closely. I don’t have cartoon characters peeing on another vehicle’s logo or giving you the finger. I’m not bragging about the ability of my pre-school toddler or my high school student. I don’t have praying hands or the name of my significant other scripted on the passenger side window. I do not have rainbows or triangles or a moniker announcing that I am a flaming heterosexual. I just don’t see the need for it.

I love my car. It gets me from Point A to Point B without my having to make any statements about life in general or the state of the world specifically. Alas, but that all cars would speak as quietly.

Creative Writing piece - first stab at it

So... I've been struggling with what is supposed to be my creative writing piece. By the end of my online class, I will submit 500 words of a creative piece to be evaluated by the instructor. I had toyed with the idea of submitting something I had already written; however, that almost felt like cheating. Plus, I wanted to find out if I could really make something out of nothing. So... this is the first part of my creation. I have no idea where it is going, but it should be fun to watch.


First Draft:

The piercing sound of the alarm clock brought Ralph’s arm up from under the quilt he had buried himself in the night before. As he randomly attacked the clock to restore his peaceful surroundings, he realized the day had dawned. His mind warred with his body to gain consciousness, and his body was winning. It wanted to continue the blissful slumber that would repair all his aches and pains. At the cookout the night before, Ralph found himself playing two-on-two basketball with his brother-in-law and nephews. He never felt out of shape or felt the completion of his 40 plus years. But as he stumbled out of the hot shower and frantically searched for the Icy-Hot that was tucked in the recesses of his bathroom cabinets, his years began to speak to him.

Sly Little Bunnies Galumphing Away...

It's okay for me to galumph. I'm a writer. This is actually an assignment that was given to me and the purpose was to take three objects and just write something. Anything. My three objects were rabbits, radio and a golf course. Here's what came to me. Do not ask me to explain... because I can't. I'm a novice galumpher. Thankyouverymuch.


Sly Little Bunnies

There was a quiet knock on the door of Sophie Sutter’s den. She was startled by the sound that brought her out of the best dream she was having of Mr. Merriweather’s carrot garden. Who in the world could be at her door at this time of night? She hopped from her bed and padded softly to the door.

“Who is it?” Sophie whispered. The last thing she wanted was to wake her family up at this time of night.

“It’s me, Marcel. Come outside and play.”

Marcel? What in the world was that hooligan up to now? Peeking back over her shoulder to ensure she had not been heard, Sophie quietly whispered back through the door. “I can’t come out. I’m in my PJs.”

She could hear the frustration in Marcel’s voice. “Get dressed quickly and come outside. I want to show you something. Hurry, we don’t have many hours before the sun rises.”

Sophie paused for a moment, willing herself to use good sense and tell Marcel to beat it. Her father had warned her about spending time with that jackrabbit, a term he did not use in a flattering manner. But Sophie always felt a warm glow when Marcel was around. She knew he was not the scoundrel everyone accused him of being. No one who saved the baby field mice who had been misplaced after the last storm could be all that bad. Sophie could not deny that Marcel had stolen her heart as she turned to pad back across the room and put on her clothes.

Marcel listened intently for Sophie. He heard her inch away from the door and with every passing moment, he worried that she had gone back to bed and had no plans to return. Marcel couldn’t figure out why he enjoyed Sophie’s friendship so much. She was a good little bunny, full of life and energy and so kind to everyone. Even him. He knew he was not the kind of bunny her parents dreamed for her, but she still never failed to send a smile his way or speak a kind word to him.

Sophie was coming of age now, and he wanted to be free to woo her. He knew her father would not approve, but he hoped that he could convince her that his intentions were honorable. He wanted to share his good news with her. But was she coming outside? He continued to wait, and wait, and wait. Then finally, his heart leaped to this throat as the door slowly opened and Sophie appeared.

“Where are we going?” Sophie quietly asked. “I can’t stay out late. I’m taking a huge risk as it is.”

“Don’t worry Sophie”, Marcel replied. “I promise to have you back here in an hour. Just follow me.”
Sophie fell in line behind Marcel as he hopped down the path. She was so nervous about being out this late in the evening. She dressed comfortably in her favorite pink running shorts and matching top. Pink was definitely her signature color and even though she was nervous, she wanted to make a good impression on Marcel. Where were they going? She glanced around Marcel to see they had come upon the 16th green of the Stable Bay Golf Course. But there was something at the flagpole. What was that? Oh my.

Marcel turned to see Sophie’s expression as she approached the dinner table he’d set up at the flag of the 16th hole. He knew his hard work had paid off by the astonished look on Sophie’s face. As she slowly approached him, he pulled out her chair and helped her sit. He moved aside to turn on the battery-powered radio. Soothing jazz music filled the air as he took his seat across from Sophie. He reached over and removed the silver top of the serving dish that covered the honey-glazed carrots his mother had worked so hard to prepare.

“What is the meaning of all this?” Sophie asked.

“I wanted to celebrate my new job, and I wanted to celebrate with someone special. Sophie, you have always been so kind and sweet to me. You didn’t seem to judge my actions when I was on the wrong end of the watering hose in Mr. Merriweather’s cabbage patch. I’ve done some silly things in the past, but I’m turning over a new leaf. Starting tomorrow, I’ll be the undergroundskeeper here at the golf course.”

“Marcel! That is great news! I am so proud of you!” Sophie’s excitement was not surface, but truly heart felt. She was excited for Marcel and she wanted to tell all her friends and family members who said this jack rabbit was good for nothing. She knew in her heart that Marcel had what it took to be a responsible bunny. Now, he had taken the first steps to respectability. Maybe now her father would see past the past and realize the warm heart that beat within Marcel.

As Marcel dished up Sophie’s first serving of carrots by candlelight, he continued to explain himself to her.

“Sophie, I want you to know that I intend to ask your father for permission to take you to the dance on Saturday night. I know that he might turn me down. I know that he doesn’t think very much of me, but I am going to win him over if it is the last thing I do.” Marcel glanced up at Sophie to see her reaction to this news and was stunned at the shimmer of tears in her eyes. He panicked. Had he said something wrong? Were the carrots too spicy? He sat in a stunned silence and waited.

Sophie’s heart had never been so full of joy. She knew her father would most likely decline Marcel’s request. Then again, she also knew the best way to her father’s heart was through his golf game. Sophie may not be able to go out Saturday night, but if Marcel kept his new job, her father would see the hard worker and kind hearted rabbit she knew existed under Marcel’s leather jacket and tough exterior.

“Marcel, my father will probably say no.”

“I figured that was true. But, I will ask him again next week, and then the week after that and the week after that. I want him to know how serious I am about this Sophie. I want you to know it too.”

Sophie smiled. She was as serious as Marcel. Her eyes lit up as she took her first bite of the sweetened carrots. “You know Marcel, my father just loves to play golf.”

“You don’t say.” Actually Marcel did know Sophie’s father loved golf. That is why he worked so hard to get this job. By the glimmer in Sophie’s eye, he could tell her mind was swimming with the possibilities of working her charm on her father. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that soon Mr. Sutter would acquiesce and allow him to pursue his daughter.


My instructor's response:
Your Instructor writes: Not only are you a great galumpher, but it's clear that you enjoy yourself writing. That's a great predictor of a future full of writing. Thanks for the story.

Am I a Calvin… or am I just lost?

July 4, 2005 - This entry is a year in the making. I've told the story countless times, but now it is time to actually post it. Enjoy.

I hope that my greatest fear in life will come true. I hope to one day be the overachiever that is my mother. I cannot possibly tell her that in person, because she would simply get the big head and there would be no living with her.

We’ve had a difficult summer here in the Bell house. Life had been going right on along as normal, or as normal as the Bell family can be. We were watching softball and baseball games. We shopped for clothes with the next generation of Bell females. Everything was going well until Mom couldn’t walk one day.

It is amazing how something can hit you so quickly. One day you’re standing on top of the world, the next day you are being poked and prodded by a physician who is ordering tests done and before you know it, there is an appointment with an Orthopedic Oncologist. We are grateful beyond meaning for words like “benign”, “negative”. Those words became music to us in a short couple of weeks.

Mom was diagnosed with some sort of mass under her knee. She had knee problems for years, and we truly do not know how long this has been around. Mom’s not one of those who makes a yearly appointment to a doctor. This fruit has not fallen far from the tree. But that is another matter. She was a brave trooper to have endured four different doctor visits and two sets of MRIs before the surgeon wanted to cut on her. She was solid when they wheeled her into the surgical ward and she didn’t have to stare at our somewhat solemn faces while we waited in the Vanderbilt University Medical Center’s surgery waiting area with a few hundred of our closest friends.

John and I kept things light-hearted. That is our job. We are the comedians of the family. Earl can be pretty funny too… but he is usually the brunt of the jokes that John and I are wielding like light sabers. People in a surgical waiting room are typically not there for fun and games. This only eggs John and me on even more. If it’s going to be a long time… might as well get a few laughs in. My church friends understand that about us too. We generally amuse them if they care to join us for any length of time.

During Mom’s surgery John and I stared with increasing interest at a poor down-trodden soul who, we are fairly certain, suffers from narcolepsy. Not being trained physicians ourselves, we are not entirely certain of the fate of this gentleman… but we had a pretty good time trying to determine whether we needed to call the ER team in with a crash cart to revive the man who had slumped over by a telephone and either passed out or fallen asleep. Our mercy was obviously lacking that day. I suggested that we grab some popcorn and begin to make notes of the times that he would awaken and eagerly return to his blissful unconscious state. John would rather place bets on the time he was going to come fully awake. John’s a gambler… and I think a bit of a bookie. If he wasn’t such a good cheat, I might have put money on that with him. But I’ve known him my whole life, and he would have found a way to get around paying me off if I actually won anything from him.

We were excited and thrilled with Mom’s quick recovery and trip back home. She was excited too. She had physical therapy coming three times a week and she was back to her overachieving self as soon as she could make do. She was doing very well, right up until Friday. We had a bit of a set back on Friday.

Seems there was an infection creeping around in her system that no one could really see. Her pain medication contained acetaminophen, which was masking the effects of the infection. There was no mask though come Friday afternoon, July 1, 2005. Mom began running a fever that was dangerously high and she began shaking to the point that I could barely hold her down. The doctors later called her symptoms “Reigers”. So, a week after coming home, we were in an ambulance with a weepy and frightened 73 year old heading back to Vanderbilt. Mom’s fever spiked to 104.5 by the time we were at the hospital and she was quickly tended to by a highly qualified emergency room staff.

My friend Requelle came to join my brother, my father and I in the waiting room. She was great to have around… she became the audience that John and I so desperately needed. There was only one guest allowed in the ER with Mom at any given time, so we took turns coming and going through electronic doors. By 8:00 p.m., I told Requelle to head on home, because it was obvious that we were going to spend the night and there was no reason for her to stay. She needed to go let her dogs out anyway, so she bid us good night as she left the hospital.

At about 9:30, I was in the room with Mom when it became quite clear that the atmospheric pressure of the ER had changed. Suddenly there were doctors and nursing staffers running to and fro – there were police officers and EMT personnel all looking very grim and speaking in short, staccato-esque phrases. After a few minutes passed, we were told that the ER was locked down because there had been a gunshot wound brought in and the rumor was that the shooting was gang related.

As I watched the seconds turn into minutes, and the minutes into 30 minutes, I came to the realization that we were not going anywhere soon. The men of our family could not get in, and we could not get out. We got a message through to them to just head on home and they did so, while we waited for our time to be sent to a room. And then we waited. And then we waited some more. At about 11:30 pm I told her to get comfortable because we weren’t going anywhere anytime soon. Logic told me that if the ER was shut down and they didn’t need the bay we were in, we’d just be sitting there. And sitting there some more.

A break in the monotony came when two med students popped in to take on the old lady and her symptoms. She’d had blood drawn (many vials) while in the ambulance and more drawn from the hospital personnel and these doctors needed to figure out the problem. One student was a man and the other was a woman. Mom took right kindly to the guy, but not the girl. Apparently the young lady was too “aggressive” and was spouting phrases like “elevated liver enzymes” and that just was not something my mother wanted to hear, in relation to herself. If it wasn’t a condition that was associated with the knee surgery, she was having no part of it.

Finally, as I suspected, a nurse stepped in to tell us we were being moved out because they needed the ER bay and had found a room for us. We were whisked out of the bay and there was a line-up of people waiting to be whisked into the ER. This is where we met Calvin.

Calvin was the orderly assigned to take us to our new home. Calvin was a very nice man and Calvin was doing his best. Of course, it is close to 2 a.m. and Mom and I are pretty slap-happy at this point. But Calvin was fun and had lots of energy, and that is just what you want when its 2 am and you’ve been in the ER since about 5:30 pm. Calvin has been given his orders on where to take us and OFF WE GO!

Vanderbilt Hospital is a teaching hospital, and is therefore rather large. There are many buildings on the property and there are a series of catacombs underneath the buildings connecting one to the other. Calvin is taking us back to the building that we had stayed in last week, and it is about a half-mile trek, up a hill to get from Point A to Point B. About mid-way up the longest slope, Calvin informs us that it is his first night on the job.

My blood turned to ice. As nice a fella as Calvin is… I knew in my heart of hearts that we were going the wrong way. I think Mom knew it too… as she kept glancing over at me, as I am huffing and puffing my way up the ramp. Finally we reach the elevator, and after some banging around (literally) Calvin, Mom and I are on the elevator and Calvin speaks these immortal words:

“Hit the button for the eighth floor.”

I looked at the control panel and calmly replied, “Calvin, there isn’t a number eight on this elevator.”

“Are you sure?”

I forced myself not to make my squinty cartoon eyes, but I began to count aloud as I pointed out the numbers, “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven… Yep, that’s it. It stops at seven. Are you sure we need to go to eight?”

“Yes, ma’am. (Calvin was always polite) It says 8th floor north something-something tower.”

Silence. I look at Mom and she is looking at me and we’re still standing still on an elevator with the doors closed as Calvin ponders the situation. Then he speaks:

“I tell you what… just go ahead and hit the seventh floor. We’ll see what’s going on up there.”

“Ohhh-Kayy”

The elevator empties out onto the seventh floor and Calvin wheels Mom out. He tells us not to go anywhere and he’ll be right back. Then he walks away. Walks. Away. I look at Mom and she is trying not to laugh too loudly because, well, it is close to 2:30 IN. THE. MORNING. And then, Calvin returns having visited the nurses' desk with his paper work and receiving his new set of directions. We get back on the elevator, we go back to the ground floor, and we head back on the half-mile trek through the catacombs. (If only it were dank and dark and Edgar Allen Poe’s Raven had made an appearance).

We found another set of elevators that we jumped on (after more banging and maneuvering of the gurney) and this one indeed did go to the eighth floor. We arrive on said floor and I remembered hearing that we were going to be in Room 230 of the North Tower. As we get off the elevator, a sign points to the Right for the North Tower and to the Left for the South Tower. We are in the North Tower. It only made sense that Calvin instead took Mom to the left. It was too much to bear this time. I had to stop him.

“Calvin… we need to go over here to the right. To the north tower.”

“Oh, no ma’am. We need to go this way.”

“I don’t think so Calvin. I really think we need to go this way”

“No, just follow me.”

“How about I just wait for you here?” And that is exactly what I did. I waved to my mother who was frantically turning around to see if I had truly abandoned her to Calvin’s misdirections again. I waited about two minutes when what to my wandering eyes would appear, but Calvin pushing my mother’s gurney back to the North Tower.

“You were right. I sure am sorry about this. You know it’s my first night here at Vanderbilt”.

“I know Calvin. You’re doing a great job. This is a big place to learn your way around in one night. Hang in there, and follow me.”

I led Calvin to our new room and he banged the gurney in through the door. By this time the Mom and I are so giddy from exhaustion that we can barely contain ourselves. The nurses would be in to help Calvin relocate the Mom from the gurney to the bed as soon as possible but Mom was ready to be off the very uncomfortable gurney. Calvin was attempting to lower the rails of the gurney to ease her over, but apparently Rail Maintenance 101 was not a course he had taken as yet. He couldn’t figure out how to lower the rail.

I’m not a doctor or a nurse, but I apparently play one on TV. I walked over and gave Calvin a quick lesson in how to lower the rail. Calvin mentioned that he should sign his first paycheck over to me because I apparently knew his job better than he did. I reassured him that it would become second nature to him in no time. Mom was through with talking and waiting on nurses. It was now 3 am. She was tired and hungry and had to go to the bathroom really, really bad. It didn’t matter that she’d just had knee surgery a week ago and could not walk yet. It didn’t matter that she’d had a raging temp of 104.5 just a few hours ago… this overachiever wanted in that bed and she DID NOT want Calvin’s assistance.

That Wonder Woman slung her leg off the gurney… bunny-hopped her way to the bed and lay down. Calvin left the room with an amazed look on his face and as soon as the door closed, we burst into laughter that we had held for about an hour.

The room that we were in was located just a few floors down from the hospital’s helicopter pad. There were many landings and lift-offs the next few days. One rather bumpy landing made me rather nervous, until Mom decided that Calvin must be on his first day behind the controls of the copter.

Oh, goodness, we laughed and laughed and laughed. Who knew that something as silly and trite as our hiking through the bowels of the hospital was just what the Great Physician ordered to lift our spirits? We will never forget Calvin… or the role he played in Mom’s recovery.

But I Don't Like Sushi

So why am I at a Sushi bar?

I’ve mentioned my addiction to peer pressure in the past. I have decided it is an addiction for me. Some people drink, some do drugs, some sniff White-Out… I succumb to peer pressure.

I started out surrendering to peer pressure, even against my mother’s sage advice. She always encouraged me to be different and to go my own way. Those words have turned around and bitten her more than once, but I think she still likes me just like I am.

I submitted to peer pressure the most when I was in college. I should just consider my college days to be my “I’ll-do-whatever-I-need-to-do-to-fit-in” days. I threw the parties. I bought the booze. I went into debt that took 20 years to get out of. I was, in a word, stupid.

I thought peer pressure would ease up as I got older. Then I met Brent Gambrell and the pressure only intensified. On the day that I met him, he handed me a serrated bread knife and instructed me to climb a magnolia tree to cut branches to use as decorations for a reception. At the time, I didn’t know what a magnolia tree was, and he had to point it out to me. So, what did I do? I climbed up that tree and cut magnolia branches, what else? Was he a fun guy I wanted to hang out with? Yes. So.I.Did.It.

Brent is also one of those people who want you to experience whatever it is that he is experiencing… and he expects you to enjoy it just as much as he does. I cannot begin to tell you how many times we have been in the kitchen talking (while he is concocting something as off the wall as lemon-pepper-crusted Salmon/Spam patties with a touch of rosemary, sage and thyme) when I’ll turn to him to say something and find myself with some food particle shoved down my throat. Did I ask to nibble on that piece of braised alligator liver? No. I did not. How in the world is it that I have eaten a piece of fried blue whale gizzard? Why, I stopped by Brent’s house, that’s how.

So… after having known Brent for 13 years now (dear Lord, how is THAT possible?) there is no fighting him when it comes to enjoying new adventures together. Whether I want to enjoy them or not is a moot point.

Take for instance a couple of weeks ago. Brent and I attended two separate birthday bashes for people turning 30. Yes. 30. They are still babies. 30. Geesh. The first was an All-American type cookout with burgers, dogs, Indian chicken, chips, cake, etc. It was fun. It was a lunchtime party and it was blazing hot in the middle of Tennessee summer. We were sweating before we got out of the car, but we got to see a lot of people that we had not seen in some time. We both RSVPed to the birthday couple and let them know we were bringing each other. No. We. Are. Not. A. Couple.

After eating and helping clean up, we headed to the Artisan Festival being held here in a local park. It was fun and I was able to find THE PERFECT GIFT for my friend Amy. She will love it, and I am so proud of it. Now it was dinner time and on to 30th birthday party, number two. At a Sushi Bar.

“I don’t like Sushi.”

“You’ll love this place.”

“I don’t like Sushi”

“They have other things there.”

“It’s a Sushi bar”

“Yes, they have great food.”

“I don’t like Sushi”

“You can get other Japanese cuisine there”

“Have you watched the Iron Chef? I don’t eat Japanese cuisine.”

“Japanese food is good.”
“There will be an eyeball floating around somewhere… and the spine of a squid”

“Squids are spineless. You’ll come, you’ll eat, you’ll enjoy.”

“I don’t like Sushi”

“We’ll have Sake”

“I don’t like Sake”

“It will be great”

So I went right on in to the Sushi bar and did not order sushi because I Do Not Like Sushi. I ordered a teriyaki chicken rice bowl, because it wasn’t sushi. We both ordered Cokes to drink and Brent ordered, you guessed it, sushi.

The salads came… because everyone gets salad and Miso soup with their Japanese food. The salad looked really good. I would have probably enjoyed it a lot more, except that the salad came equipped with chopsticks and no forks. No. Forks. Hello… I’m sorry… I’m an American… I need a fork. I stared at the chopsticks and I looked across the table at Brent.

“Here… let me show you how to use these. You’ll love it. You have to eat Japanese food with chopsticks”

“This isn’t Japanese food… this is a salad. I need a fork”

“You’ll do great. Here let me show you.”

“I hate sushi”

For the next few minutes Brent tried to contort my fingers in what was the equivalent of a Second World War torture technique as he attempted to instruct me in the proper use and handling of the chop sticks. After the cramping of my fingers subsided and I determined I would not have to sue Brent for the onslaught of carpal tunnel syndrome, I found myself in a moment of heightened frustration where I attempted to stab a cucumber with a single stick. I realized I was wasting my efforts. Finally, a waiter passed close by and I grabbed him.

“I. Need. A. Fork”

He was kind enough to bring me the PROPER EATING UTENSILS and by then the salad was soggy, having been immersed in a soy-based vinaigrette dressing for about 45 minutes of my finger calisthenics. I pushed the salad aside and went for the soup. Amazing, don’t you think that the Japanese embrace the spoon, but not the fork? I think there is a conspiracy here. I think Fork Lovers should UNITE!! And does it help that your friend is wielding his own chop sticks as if they were extensions of his fingers and he had spent countless years as a Japanese ambassador… or better yet… spy? No. It does not. His only purpose at this point of the meal is to eat the things that are floating in my soup. Things that he assured me were supposed to be there.

Finally, the main course arrives. I have a bowl of rice with chicken and some vegetables that didn’t really look like food I would eat, but I picked around at it enough to make a dent, because I love Japanese food so much. Brent’s food… did I mention he ordered sushi?... arrived on a wooden board. What is that about? Can we get a plate, here? Geesh. Apparently, this is a cool way to eat your food in Japan. Yep. Little clumps of rice and raw fish that he maneuvered rather well using his chop sticks. It made him look as comfortable as Jackie Chan drop kicking the nearest bad guy off a 500 foot building.

I, however, am proud to be an American. I stuck with the fork and was able to actually pass the food from the plate to my mouth. But at the end of the evening, the truth remains the same…

I don’t like Sushi.

Flip-Flopping Away - An assignment on dialogues

My writing course assignment this week is about dialogues. We were supposed to find a subject and write a conversation with it. I thought about many different items to converse with, but a pair of Flip Flops that my friend Amy Dean gave me a few years ago kept haunting me... or taunting me, as the case may be. Other students have written dialogues with their brains, pets, bed sheets, candles, etc. But I'm digging the shoes... and I'm really going to wear them tomorrow.

Dialogue with my Flip Flops

Me: Hey! There you are! I almost forgot about you.

FF: Yes, here I am. Waiting in the closet. Waiting, waiting, waiting. I can’t believe you haven’t seen me before now. I never thought I would be overlooked. I was a gift… and a right sparkly one as well.

Me: Yes. I remember when Amy gave you to me. I was so excited!

FF: I know… it was your birthday.

Me: I put you on right then and there and showed you off to everyone around.

FF: My, how the mighty have fallen. I’m just a cast off now, I suppose. Hanging out down here with the Tevas and the Doc Martens. But don’t worry about me. I’m just a pair of beaded flip flops. It’s not like you’ve hurt my feelings or anything.

Me: I’m sorry. I had no idea that shoes had feelings.

FF: Of course we do… don’t be silly. It’s a dog-eat-dog world here in the bottom of your closet. There is always pushing and shoving around. Haven’t you noticed that one day everything is tidy and the next is a mess?

Me: Well yes. I guess I determined that was my fault.

FF: Nope. It’s all about power here in the underworld. Kickin’ your way up the ladder so that you aren’t forgotten.

Me: Huh. I guess you learn something new everyday.

FF: If only that were true. I’ve been sitting around the bottom of your closet for over a year now. I’m feeling a little neglected. Like… what is the phrase? A red-headed step-child.

Me: That’s impossible. You could never be neglected. You shine far too bright.

FF: I thought so too, but then I’ve been forgotten for almost an entire season. How you could have picked those cheap discount store flips to take to Florida instead of me is incomprehensible.

Me: Um, maybe I didn’t want to get all that grit on you. You are a special pair of flips.

FF: Obviously not special enough to make it to Florida. To borrow a phrase from The Princess Bride, inconceivable.

Me: Wow. That’s a pretty big word for a pair of shoes. How did you come to be so well versed?

FF: I’m a movie buff. Plus, I read what I can. I enjoyed our treks to the library, but I don’t get out that often anymore, as you well know…

Me: Do I need to continue to apologize? I already have once.

FF: It didn’t feel heart felt though. You lack sincerity.

Me: Okay. I promise that I am really, really sorry. I’m here now, picking you out again. I’m even truly excited about finding you. Does that make you feel better?

FF: Emotionally yes. Physically no.

Me: Why not? Are you going to start whining now because I’m going to wear you outside?

FF: Its not that I’m ungrateful, but…

Me: But what?

FF: Well, you have put on some weight since last summer.

Me: (Gasp!) How did you know?

FF: The Nikes warned me.

Me: Ah. Well. They would know.

FF: Can I let you in on a little secret?

Me: Sure.

FF: They are grateful that you are wearing them again… but they’d like it if you would utilize them for their purpose. You know, its one thing to put on a pair of Nikes to go to the mall, it’s another thing all together to actually get up and hit the Y every once in a while. They have been yearning for a treadmill excursion.

Me: Really?

FF: Oh yes. AND the step aerobics class. If you asked them, they would really want you to go back there.

Me: You’re kidding right? I thought I was going to die after just 15 minutes in that class. You should have been there. I was doing my best not to throw up or pass out.

FF: I don’t really fit in at the Y. No arch support. But you may be hitting the proverbial nail on the head with the Nikes. I mean, that’s the word on the street.

Me: Word on the street? It sounds like you’re in a bad B movie. The next thing you’ll tell me is that the Nikes are the Godfather of my shoe closet.

FF: Well… if the shoe fits…

Me: (groan)

FF: Hehehehe. Seriously, you know what they say… “Leave the gun, take the canoli”.

Me: What the heck is that supposed to mean?

FF: It means that if anyone crosses the Nikes, they sleep with the fishes.

Pet Peeves and General Rantings of a Lunatic Mind

Who doesn’t have a pet peeve? I have one friend who cringes whenever someone crunches and chews on ice. I have another friend who always crunches and chews his ice. I try not to seat them together at a dinner party.

As a woman, I hate to walk into a bathroom where the toilet seat is up. My best guy friend hates it when I leave his bathroom without putting the toilet seat back up. He tells me that if I am to expect him to lower the seat at my place, I should be kind enough to raise it at his. I suppose he has a point.

I plan to expound on two of my peeves in this post: church signs and forwarded emails.

Catchy church signs annoy the mess out of me. Why? Because they are so stinkin’ cheesy!! Come on! Why would anyone want to join a church that advertises the following:

Trade God your pieces for His peace
Make your eternal reservations now… smoking or non-smoking
We’re too blessed to be depressed
God grades on the cross, not the curve
This church is prayer-conditioned
Warning: exposure to the Son may prevent burning
For all you do, His blood’s for you
Read the Bible, it will scare the hell out of you.

Forget about the fact that this is drivel for the most part, let’s see how many people groups can be alienated with just these very FEW sayings. There are thousands more… but it would take too long to continue the rant. Those suffering from mental illness are hit with the “depressed” statement. The smokers are certainly damned. Skin cancer patients will line up at the door of the church with the health warning and beer drinkers will certainly feel comfortable.

The ONLY things that should be advertised on a church sign are meeting times, event announcements and scripture passages. Really. That’s all. Any clever play on words will offend some and irritate most. Leave. It. Alone.

Forwarded emails give me almost the same amount of indigestion. If an email is going to be forwarded to 50 of your closest cybernet friends, the least you can do is delete all those address/forwards that appear at the top of the page. If I have to scroll fifteen feet down to get to the meat of the email, chances are the delete button will be hit before I go a quarter of an inch.

Some forwarded emails get deleted without even opening them. They typically come from those nearest and dearest to your heart bearing the subject line

FW:: FW::FW::FW::FW::FW::Send this to 15 people and you will win a million dollars from The House of Fred.

No. I will not forward it to even one person. As a matter of fact, I don’t know who the House of Fred is, and I do not intend to find out who the House of Fred is, whether I stand a chance at a million dollars or not. If Fred were that impressive, he would call me directly and give me the good news.

Then there are those forwarded emails that bear the worst art that has been created on the planet. Maybe it is the angel guarding the two small children crossing the bridge. I can get this picture at any Mapco or Cracker Barrel in the country… so I suppose I need to be grateful for those people who feel the need to send me my very own copy. Or, the art will bear close resemblance to the aforementioned cheesy advertising. It is typically going to be a Photoshopped version of some masterpiece with a warrior angel rising from the ashes of New York’s twin towers. Art is in the mind of the beholder, and all I can say is that there are some warped people in the world. Please stop sending me emails of bad art. Please. I will give to your children’s college funds if you can stop the insanity.

Of course, I will get the money by sending out emails.

My Summer Vacation... with two 18 year old girls

Lesser women would shudder at the thought of vacationing with two beautiful 18 year old girls who had just graduated high school. Weak-willed females would fret that there would not be enough to entertain said beauties, but I cannot be classified as either lesser or weak-willed. This was my graduation gift to my eldest niece Kristin and her best friend Kaylie.

We were not without our obstacles. The trip had to be postponed for a day, and if I had been intelligent, we would have postponed it two days. This would have allowed us at least the first afternoon on the beach instead of arriving in town at 9:30 p.m. But alas, you live and learn.

Try to explain to these two cherubs the need to pack light. Go ahead. You give it a shot. It would be easier to convince them there is no Santa Claus. “Listen, you won’t need a lot of stuff. We’re staying on the beach. Really… you’ll only need some shorts and a bathing suit.”

“We’re going to take our graduation dresses. You have to take a dress too.”

“We’re not going anywhere that we need to dress up for. We’re going to be on the beach.”

“Right. Just make sure you pack that dress.”

I remembered back to the days when I traveled as a teenager. I didn’t pack light either. It is something you learn as you age. And I knew better than to pack a dress. I knew I wasn’t going to wear a dress. Did I pack the dress? Yes. Did I wear the dress? No. Why? Because I knew I wasn’t going to wear the dress but I succumbed to peer pressure and packed it anyway. That should have been my first clue. We crammed our luggage into the back of the Santa Fe and were ready to go. (Thankfully, the Santa Fe was roomy enough to pack heavy and allow me to still see out the window)

We left town at 2:00 pm on Sunday and headed south. Kristin perched in the front seat and Kaylie stretched out in the back. One quick stop at a gas station (for the snack foods that are required with any road trip over three hours) and onto the interstate we flew with the wind whipping through our hair and the sounds of “Play that Funky Music White Boy” coming from the CD player. Kaylie kept the beat with the music as she was text-messaging her not-quite-yet boyfriend every few seconds. She was amazing. She can text faster than I can type on a computer. Certainly why Kaylie is the Amayzing One!

The girls did a great job traveling. They had been warned about my habit of NOT stopping for restroom breaks, but I had determined that I would not mind stopping if it became a necessity. We stopped once around Montgomery for some fast food and then we stopped again at the Florida state line so that their pictures could be taken there and cute graduation gifts could be opened. (Yes… I am the Best. Aunt. Ever.) We finally pulled into the condo and unloaded the car. It was 9:30ish and apparently a rule of thumb for any young girl traveling to Florida is to unpack everything into the drawers and closets.

“Where are the hangers? We don’t have any hangers in our closet. Do you?”

“No. Why would I need a hanger? I brought shorts and swimsuits. What did you bring that you need a hanger for?”

“Hellooooo… our dresses! You did bring a dress, didn’t you?”

(sigh) “Put that on the list of things to get at Wal-Mart.”

We also had the duty of naming the statuesque pelican that stood just in the front hallway. I know we gave him a massive name... but for whatever reason, I have forgotten it now (that *#$&@! age thing creeping up on me) His nickname was Spike... that much I do remember.

We hit the Wal-Mart around 10:30pm and this old chick (who had been driving for seven hours) was starting to rapidly fade. Must. Get. Food. Must. Nourish. Children. Must. Buy. Hangers. With our purchases made (enough food for the week as well as a couple of DVDs, and plenty of peach colored hangers) we return to the condo for unpacking the car, the sequel, and head out to see the ocean. In the dark. Kristin doesn’t really like the beach in the dark. I think it is an unhealthy fear of crabs. At least I did not have to worry about her sneaking off to Spinnakers in the deepest part of the night.

We had no agenda on our vacation. I wonder if I should have planned one. I wanted them to be able to do whatever they wanted to do, and not to worry about having to be at this place by a certain time or that place. They were great. We had a couple of adult rules as well… since they are both legally adults now. They could not do anything illegal (which kept them from purchasing tobacco, liquor or getting into bars) and they could not go into a guy’s condo, and a guy could not come into ours. Pretty simple and they didn’t even blink at the requirements. Not. Once. I love these girls.

We could sleep as late as we wanted and we could wake up whenever we wanted. Breakfasts were on your own (cereal and Pop Tarts ruled!) and most mornings I woke up and sat on the balcony to read a book. I usually would head to the pool/beach before they were up and around. They would join me and tan their perfect 18 year old bodies while I was trying to camouflage the imperfections of my much older one. We’d head inside for lunch and then hit the afternoon sun. Kristin didn't care for sunbathing on the beach itself. One would think it was an aversion to the sand... but no, she swore she could hear the crabs moving about just under the surface. Okay. Sure.

We ate at Pineapple Willy’s and the Treasure Ship. PW is my favorite beach locale, and Kristin had great memories of the ship from her childhood. We spent one day doing some shopping and realized that Kaylie has a penchant (or is it a disease?) for thrift stores. We could not pass one without stopping… that would have been inhumane. She made the trek to the last of the stores on her own as Kristin and I had determined we didn’t need to own a Lafayette County Cheerleader t-shirt.

On Thursday, Kristin took a big permanent step towards her adulthood by getting her first tattoo. I say first, because she may choose to mark more places on her body. She decided on three stars that are located on her left shoulder blade. She was nervous as we pulled up and refused to let us remain in the building while she was being etched on. Kaylie and I walked around and waited for Kristin to come screaming out of the building with red ooze pouring from her shoulder. We were delighted when she calmly walked to the car and let us know that it was not painful at all and she was no worse for wear. There were pictures taken of the tattoo and emailed to family and friends from her laptop that evening.

When Friday rolled around, we decided that it was time to work the Maze. PCBeach has a great human-sized maze that my family has been following for some years now. Kaylie and I went off together and Kristin was on her own. (We didn’t want Kaylie to be overwhelmed with her first experience, and Kristin was okay to fly solo) Kaylie and I made it in 19 minutes and Kristin was about 5 minutes behind us.

We had the best time. Whether we were teaching Kaylie to play dominos (I won), were smearing oil on each other, or were laughing at Kaylie and her never-ending text messages...



"What's that?"

"Oh wow. Kaylie has a text message."

"Are you sure?"

"Mm-hmm. I can't believe she has a text. Why... just just had one 30 seconds ago."

"And 30 seconds before that one, and on and on and on..."

Kaylie was a sport with all our ribbing. I swear… these girls are crazy! They made me laugh out loud on more than a few occasions and they were just so great to hang with for a few days! My fears were abolished when I realized what truly beautiful young women were spending time with me. I have known Kaylie for a number of years now, and she just continues to shine.

Of course, I have fed, bathed, diapered and kissed Kristin’s boo-boos. I am awed at her beauty and spirit. And I am so grateful that they wanted to spend the week in Florida with an old gal like me!

Free Writing and Candles Galore!

So I'm pumped about the whole online writing class I am taking when one of my first assignments is to free-write for five minutes. I thought this would be pretty easy, and it is not too bad. My biggest problem is that during a free-writing session, there is no room for editing.

How can I possibly work through that obstacle? I write, and then re-write and then re-write a few more times before I can possibly consider letting anyone else ever take a look at it. What kind of sadist is this professor... telling me only to capture my thoughts and NOT to edit for either grammar or content.

I've gotten a little better at the entire free-writing process though. In this last lesson we were challenged to take four items in whatever room we were writing in and free-write a description or two about them. This is what I came up with (remember, I was not allowed to go back and edit, these are off the top of my head thoughts):

Mom & Janelle w/Tinkerbell photo

My mother and her sister went to Disney World in 2004 on their very first “sisters only” vacation. They are so excited to have been able to begin this tradition, and I wonder if their increasing age was the spur of it. I think that since there have been so many years spent apart from each other, both having lived with military men, they are seeking to re-establish their relationships. This picture is priceless to me because it is silliness personified. They are standing on Main Street before Cinderella’s castle and they have their hands cupped before them, as if they are holding something priceless. Their faces are that of excited children who never want to grow up and the fact that these women (70 and late 50) are hamming it up for the camera is pretty priceless. The Walt Disney people superimposed a “Tinkerbell” in their cupped hands and it just makes me realize that perhaps there is that part of us that never wishes to grow old.


50th Anniversary letter to my parents from the President

I don’t care how my father goes on about whining about our current government administration, I know one of his most prized possessions is framed and right over the light switch to this room. The President and Mrs. Bush were kind enough to send their congratulations to my parents on their 50th wedding anniversary. I did some online research and found that this was a normal occurrence for the President and was glad that it arrived in plenty of time for it to be matted and framed before their big party at the church. My father claims that he is a life-long democrat, but I am sure that Bill Clinton’s moral failures led him to secretly push the button for George W at the next election. He won’t admit that though, because he is nothing, if not loyal, and his father raised him to be a democrat, so that is what he is going to be, dadgumit. It doesn’t really matter that my grandfather passed away in the early 70s, but there was a time that his job was dependent upon a certain democrat keeping office, and my father has been a democrat ever since he was a young boy. This probably explains some of the reasons we don’t talk politics around here much!


Hope for Haiti box
The beautiful green box with the bird painted on it sits just to the right of my father’s desk. My friend Brent Gambrell gave me that box after his first mission trip to Haiti. It came with a specific purpose, and that was to place leftover change in it so that we would be able to contribute to his quarterly trip to Haiti. The box was originally given to me, but after his third Haitian trip, I was given a bigger box and “encouraged” to give a greater amount. I asked what I was supposed to do with the smaller box, and Brent decided that my parents needed to give to Haiti as well. Therefore, they now have their own box, and they are happy to be able to contribute to such a worthy cause. Brent continues to want me to make a trip with him, but once I saw that picture of the tarantula, I decided that Haiti was really the last place on earth that I needed to be!



Smokeless ashtray

My father loves to smoke cigars. I have no idea when he started this habit, but I am certain that it began sometime during his military career. There are plenty of old pictures of him with a cigar dangling from his lips as he tries to make an impressive picture for the camera. I don’t really care for the cigar, but it is one of his few vices and who am I to stop him from enjoying it? One of my family members gave him a smokeless ashtray as a gift. He has used it on occasion, but not all the time. I can always tell when he is not using it, as I can smell the cigar smoke from the back door of the house, regardless of where he has been puffing away. I wish he would use it more, but this is his place, and if he chooses to stink it up, who am I to call him on it?


Then... we were given our assignment for the week, which was to light a candle and describe it. I knew instantly just what candle I was going to light and describe... and here is the result:

Citrus Candle


As I stare at the flame burning in my citrus candle, I am whisked away in time and place to Panama City Beach, Florida. It is August 2003 and I have retreated from my life for just a few days. I purchased the candle at the local Wal-Mart there because I needed a fragrant light to help overcome the hysteria that my life had become. My closest friends had left the same day to relocate to another part of the country, taking three of the most precious children with them. There was a hole left in my heart. That logical part of me knew this was the best for their family but it continued to war with my emotions that screamed for their swift return to my everyday life. I needed a light to fill that solemn darkness. The candle worked wonders. Its sweet fragrance lifted my spirits. It glowed for me every evening during that retreat; whether it was on the dining room table or out on the balcony next to my journal. It gave off just enough light for my heart to pour itself out onto those pages, and it continues to illuminate my thoughts to this day. It is no longer a symbol of my desperation, but a sweet reminder of friendships never lost or forgotten.

I'm getting the hang of this here writing gig! Who knew it could be this much fun?

I'm a Writer... Who Knew?

I have toyed with the possibility of returning to college to finish my degree for some time now. The biggest thought is what my major would be. At 40+ I suppose I need to decide what I want to be when I grow up. What is it that really stirs a passion in me? There are some things I enjoy doing, but then there's writing. I love to write. I really, really do. So, if I ever do decide to return to school, I would major in creative writing.

As I was thinking about that a little harder, I did a little bit of research and found an online Beginning Writer's class out of MTSU, a university just about 15 minutes from me. I took a look at the course requirements, etc., and I signed up to take the class.

I had my first assignment yesterday. Nothing to turn in for the approval or disapproval of the instructor as yet, but it was a good assignment at any rate.

There were a couple of brainstorming exercises that made me focus on the "nothingness" of my surroundings and how when focused on the nothingness the brain can explode! Then I was to set a timer and "free write" for five minutes. Free writing is simply typing (or writing) for five minutes with no agenda in mind and no ability to edit. I began my free writing with thoughts on the grandfather clock in my den, which had tick-tocked its way into my brainstorming sessions a few minutes earlier, and somehow morphed and ended with a discussion of my college speech class. How strange that the brain works in such mysterious ways.

We also had to make a list of all the writing we have done over our lives. That is not as easy as one would think. But how cool is it to remember my first creative writing assignment? I never forgot the day that my sixth grade English teacher told us to take a piece of paper and write a story about anything. ANYTHING! This was a monumental moment for me as I can remember where that classroom was located and where my seat was situated. I can tell you that the assignment was given to me on a sunny day and that I had a mimeographed piece of paper to write upon. I can tell you that my story involved space ships and aliens and that I received an "A" on that paper. And I can tell you that moment probably sealed my fate as a writer. I have written other things since that time... magazine articles, promotional materials, playbills and scripts, but I've never felt like I was a writer. Until last night.

I took the class quiz and scored 100% on my first try (okay, so it really was easy, and it was multiple choice... but that's not the point) and finished reading the lesson. The instructor was adamant in stating that I was a writer. (She wasn't speaking specifically to me, but to the class in general) She made it clear that I am not playing at writing... but that I write. Whether I am ever published, I am a writer. In the back of my noggin, I jumped up and down with exhilarated excitement. Why? Because I've always wanted to be a writer. And now, I am finding out that I have always been one.

Lucy & Ethel Have Four Eyes... Really They Do!

As children, taunting comes second nature. People with braces are called "metal mouth". People with lower grade point averages are "retards" and people who wear glasses are called "four eyes".

My family has its fair share of four eyes. I remember the day my mother took me to the optometrist in the third grade because I had begun squinting in class more often. The chalkboard became fuzzier and fuzzier. My mother cried as I walked into the exam room... which did not help ease my fears at all. I suppose she knew I was inheriting her eyes, and my older brother's as well. Thank the good Lord that my vision is not as bad as his! Whew! Couldn't see the broad side of a barn with his glasses. My younger brother has glasses as well, as does one of his children.

Lucy and Ethel both wear glasses too. Although Lucy has been told she has cataracts (and her father had them as well) she is not planning to do anything about it. She sees well enough, and just tries to limit her driving to daylight hours.

Being the younger of the two... Ethel has always had more fashion sense when it comes to make-up application. She was the one who taught me how to pluck my eyebrows... Lucy has only ever plucked a chicken, as far as I know. So, Ethel was VERY excited when they came upon a store that carried her make-up line there in Orlando. She typically has to order it over the phone or some other avenue. One of their excursions in Orlando was to said establishment where Ethel could purchase make-up to her heart's content.

That must have been what brought about Lucy's concern about her own make-up issues. One particular problem was that her eyeliner was abrasive on her sensitive eyes. It made her eyes water and they came to the conclusion that perhaps it had somehow been contaminated by perfume of some sort. Ethel, self-sacrificing sister that she is... applied the eyeliner to her own eye and did not have a problem.

Lucy took the same liner and applied it, only to begin another watering episode. It appears that while Ethel lines the bottom of the lid of her eye... Lucy likes to pull the bottom lid down and actually line ABOVE the eyelashes... into the eye itself. Much discussion arose on the correct technique of this application but was heightened as Ethel began to line her upper eyelid. Ethel realized that Lucy did not apply liner to the upper lid and inquired as to the reason.

Lucy's reply, "I don't put liner on my top eye."

Ethel's dumbstruck facial can only be imagined as she attempted to determine which eye was her top eye and which eye was her bottom eye.

Apparently those biology classes continue to allude Lucy & Ethel.

... TO BE CONTINUED...

Lucy & Ethel Argue Over Scientific Data

Lucy & Ethel are continuing their onslaught on the state of Florida. They have met with old friends and toured old stomping grounds. Lucy’s husband was at one time stationed at Patrick Air Force Base close to Cocoa Beach and the sisters planned a day to tour that area of the state and see the Atlantic Ocean.

Lucy called home to get directions to her old house and her hubby… reminded her to simply turn left at the NCO club. Apparently in “Ricky’s” mind… nothing would have changed on an Air Force Base in… oh, say… 40 years or so. The homestead was never located… but a good time was had and Lucy & Ethel were impressed by the temporary housing at Patrick, and will no doubt, plan another trip there.

Ethel called one morning for an update and let me know that they had been on the lookout for alligators. Apparently their accommodations were close to a body of water, and they kept their eagle eyes peeled for such an opportunity. Whilst on the phone with me, Ethel just knew that she had indeed finally spotted a gator. However… it turned out to be a duck. How one can mistake a duck for an alligator is a little beyond me. But, she was going to make the best of it… trying to get her camera ready and hoping that the duck bobbed back under the water so that she could get a clean shot of her “gator”.

I wonder how Lucy & Ethel ever made it out of high school or college… what with apparently not doing well in biology (I mean, come on… a duck looks like a gator?) and probably not scoring high marks in physical science either.

Ethel talked Lucy into purchasing bottled water and freezing them each night in the small fridge/freezer combo of their condo. This would travel well in their (I am sure) matching rainbow backpacks and they would not be forced to spend $15 for a bottle of water in one of the theme parks. Ethel had quite the road to climb though in order to get Lucy to agree to the purchase of the water. Remember now that Lucy has an aversion to paying good money for something she thinks should be free, and now add to it her own warped view of science.

Apparently one cannot freeze water in a bottle for the fear of it bursting.

Yes. That’s right. Freezing water will burst/explode/erupt.

Must be why there has been that onslaught of exploding freezers across the country lately. All that frozen water going haywire!

Probably why new freezers make their own ice... because attempting to freeze water in old-fashioned ice trays are hazardous to your health.

Makes you wonder how all those horse-drawn ice trucks at the turn of the century ever managed.

Maybe Lucy was getting her ice bursting thoughts from remembering that metal expands when heated. Or… from the fact that water pipes can burst in the winter. Who knows how to interpret the minds of Lucy and Ethel? The most discerning scientists would never even dare.

… TO BE CONTINUED…

Lucy & Ethel Can't Start the Car...

You'd never know it to look at them, but keys are essential to everyday life. Where would we be without our house key... an office key... a car key? Locked in or out of said places.

Back in the pioneer days, huge bolts were fashioned across the home's door, or the barn door, to keep loved ones in and ravaging raiders or ferocious animals out. As a young child we watched "Paw" lock "Mary Ingels" up tightly every night.

Skeleton keys made their way into culture not far thereafter, but I am not certain how well they worked. Couldn't a skeleton key open anything another skeleton key could open? If so, my skeleton key would fit the door of my neighbor's house? Where is the logic in that?

My grandparents had a few furniture pieces that are operated with skeleton keys. A china cabinet and breakfront. Perhaps that is where the confusion has set in for Lucy and Ethel. The sisters are continuing their Orlando adventure, even as I type, and I called yesterday to check on them.

My aunt proudly proclaimed there was nothing unusual to report. Things had gone smoothly. They had not gotten lost as they ventured from the condo to Sea World, where they have watched all the shows... and were going to a luau that evening. I fretted because there would be nothing new to post today and there are so many people who are now depending on their antics to lessen the monotony of their days.

My aunt attempted, unsuccessfully, to explain her dyslexia to me (north is south, left is right... etc) I told her that I didn't think I could make an entry out of that and was therefore determined not to write anything this morning.

I left my cell phone in my car last night, and so I missed their evening call. Apparently the times they are a-changing... or apparently Lucy and Ethel were operating on the assumption that like some nightshirts I've seen "one size fits all". It is not true in this day and age. No matter how hard you try... and Lucy & Ethel can now attest to this fact first hand... you cannot operate a Dodge Caravan by utilizing a Ford truck key.

Nope. It. Just. Won't. Happen. No matter how hard you try... no matter if the key will actually fit in the ignition. It will not work.

Let's forget the fact that the Ford truck key is a completely DIFFERENT shape. Let's forget that the Dodge Caravan key itself has the alarm buttons built in it. Apparently the fact that they are both black held some confusion. They figured it out... and were back on the way.

Apparently the seat belt confusion is over.

... TO BE CONTINUED...

Lucy & Ethel at Gay Pride Week

Lucy & Ethel are learning quite a few things whilst adventuring in Orlando, Florida this week... mainly they are learning that their timing may have been a little off. Apparently it is Gay Pride Week in Orlando, and many same-sex couples have headed that way to share the Disney experience with each other.

Lucy & Ethel are sisters... but you might not know that to look at them. Which means they are receiving their share of curious looks from the hetero community while no doubt being embraced by the homosexual patrons.

I learned this from a phone call during Day Two of the adventure. My aunt highlighted her driving skills ("I'm driving this minivan just like my VW Bug... U-turns, cutting over three lanes of traffic! You know... if you just pull out in front of someone, they'll stop") My mother apparently has YET to figure out how to work the seat belt, as she has once again attempted to exit the vehicle with it securely locking her in place. Then again, my aunt had already locked the van, so not only could my mother not get out of the seat itself, but was rather confused at her inability to exit the vehicle at all! More laughter and panty-wetting ensued!

Lucy & Ethel have a bad habit of dressing alike on occasion. They both had red shirts in their bags, and so they chose to wear them on Sunday. They finally made it to their destination to purchase tickets to various Orlando hotspots and sat down to plan their strategy... what day they were going to which location, etc.

A nice gentleman sat down close to them and noticed all the maps, tickets, and brochures that lay about as they were planning their Orlando takeover, and began a conversation. At some point, I suppose it became obvious that Lucy & Ethel were indeed sisters, and not lovers, and he let them in on a little secret he felt they needed to know: It was "Wear a Red Shirt If You're Gay Day" in Orlando.

My mother was appalled and declared they would be returning to their hotel so she could change shirts. My aunt, the budding entrepreneur, figures they can wear their red shirts and get additional discounts at the condo and restaurants that evening.

... TO BE CONTINUED...

Are my mother and aunt Thelma and Louise? Or...

I'm a little jealous at the moment... so sue me. Two years ago I took my mother (71) and my aunt (late 50s?) on an adventure to Orlando, Florida. I was the designated driver. I say adventure because once we were in the car... there really was no road map, other than the one in my head, that got us to our destination.

The sisters (that's what we'll call them for now) had determined to make an annual pilgramage to some destination each year. They took a year off last summer because of my mother's knee surgery and recuperation... but they are back up and running this year. The harriest part of this adventure is that there is no one there to keep them in line and get them from point A to point B. I suppose I should be confident that they have both lived full and industrious lives all on their own up to this point, but the fact remains that having them let loose on the world (let alone unsuspecting FLA... who surely thought they'd seen the last of them two years ago) is a bit disconcerting.

Our adventure two years ago was filled with laughter and merriment... amidst the groanings of my aunt who would bemoan my stubbornness for driving straight past all those lovely outlet malls without slowing down once for her to even get a good look at all the bargains I was making her pass up! We left a day early (because if you begin an adventure, you must never hold to a time frame) and drove through the night until we were south of Atlanta and far enough from a racetrack that was hosting a NASCAR event the next day. (We tried to get rooms at three different hotels... all completely filled. It is hateful to live in the south when there is a NASCAR race looming on the horizon)

We made it to our resort in good time the next day and then wandered aimlessly as we tried to follow my aunt (who had stayed at this particular location more than once - but swears she's dyslexic when it suits her) around the complex. We learned early on that this was not the smartest move we could make... and I specifically gathered the troops (who were bent over with enough laughter that forced water from two different parts of their bodies... their eyes and well... YOU KNOW) and made our way to our room... which was the farthest end of the longest wing of the resort! I left them unattended for a few days while I visited some friends in nearby Lakeland, so as not to cramp their style and be a third wheel! When I returned, all was well and I was regaled with more baudy laughter and jokes and general silliness that only occurs between sisters.

I don't have a sister and when I watch these two, I am sometimes envious of that as well. They share a life that only sisters can share and they are marvelous women to watch and emulate. I am supposed to relate the adventures of their trip on this blog site, but I am to withhold their names, to protect the not-so-innocent, I'm sure. I thought about calling them Thelma and Louise... but I've seen that movie and I get that really ickky feeling that children get when they think about the older generation getting their groove on. I don't doubt my parents' or my aunt and uncle's sexual abilities... and I am not naive enough to think that they have only "done the deed" the necessary times to impregnant themselves... but I have a feeling that the movie would have ended much differently if my own "Thelma & Louise" had picked up Brad Pitt on the side of the road.

My aunt would have instructed Mr. Pitt to put his clothes back on, while my mother admonished him for leaving one woman for another... and (gasp!) impregnating her without the bonds of holy matrimony. Brad would never knew what hit him with these two.

To add to the intrigue of this adventure, my mother has just purchased a new vehicle. A Dodge Caravan that she got a great deal on because of some hail damage. She hasn't quite gotten the hang of these newfangled vehicles. I had to set all her radio stations for her, and show her how to lower and adjust the back seats. Last week while sitting in line at the carwash, she came to the horrible conclusion that if she exits the vehicle while it is still running and closes the door, it will lock automatically. Frantic calls to every family member finally tracked down my father who was driving around town (without his cell phone) and had the extra key. She was rescued in no time.

My mother is from the old school of thought that "only the laws that I want to apply to me, will apply to me" and absolutely REFUSES to wear a seat belt. I have never, EVER figured this out about her. However, the only way my father was going to allow her (now 73) to travel without him to Florida, was if she SWORE to him that she would wear the seat belt on this trip. Being the dutiful wife of 53 years that she is... she acquiesed.

Which explains the call I received from them a couple of hours ago. At least I think it was my aunt who called... the ID on my cell told me it was her, but it was difficult to understand her attempts to talk and laugh and hurry to the bathroom at the Cracker Barrell before she wet herself. Apparently, my mother has truly forgotten what a seat belt does. Most adults know that it keeps you secured and safe within your vehicle. If it works properly, you won't slide around while you are taking sharp curves (going over Monteagle Mountain, perhaps) and hopefully you won't be thrown out of the vehicle in the event of an accident.

Its security continues until you take it off. As of now, technology mandates that you manually operate the seat belt mechanism yourself. Simply put... you snap it on after you get in and you unsnap it when you get out. Pretty simple concept... and one that most children understand. But these are exceptional women we are talking about here. So, imagine the look on my mother's face as she attempts to exit the new vehicle WITH HER SEAT BELT STILL FASTENED!!! Apparently confusion reigned for her as she tried to figure out what sort of secret force had superglued her body to the contours of the Caravan's seat. Perhaps Darth Vader was lurking in the shadows and holding her steady within a hidden gamma ray force field. Or... perhaps she'd simply forgotten to unbuckle the seat belt.

My aunt's laughter rang over the miles as she made the call to me, increasing my enviousness of missing out on such an adventure, but helping me to the conclusion that they are not Thelma and Louise at all... merely Lucy & Ethel.

It was just yesterday… I swear

There is nothing like watching the life span of a child from its infancy to a high school graduation ceremony to make you reflect on life in general.

My oldest, Kristin, is graduating from high school on May 18, 2006. Is she my biological child? No, she is my niece. But since I saw her from her second day on this planet, and have been watching her progress through the years, sometimes it feels like she is mine. When she does something very wonderful, I like to jump in there and take credit… assuming that by some sort of metamorphosis, she inherited a few of my genes. When she does something really stupid, I get the joy of berating my brother and sister-in-law. It’s a win-win scenario for me!

I look back and am so proud of her in all ways known to man! She endured what had to be the most idiotic costume changing/photography session when she was just three days old. Having come home from the hospital, my mother and I determined we needed to get right onto capturing the moments on film. We were only going to be there a few days, so we started snapping pictures of her, jostling her around and changing her clothes… snapping more pictures… repeat exercise until the three day old is screaming to be placed back into the safe confinement of her mother’s womb! (And it was a confinement… Lord, the child weighed nine pounds 13 ounces!)

She was the first grandchild and therefore had the honor (and responsibility) of naming the grandparents. My mother was hoping for Gran… but whenever we’d try to get Kristin to repeat that name, she’d boldly pronounce “Nana”. There was no changing her mind. We went for Granddaddy, and she strongly repeated “Lalolly”. While he would have been ecstatic to hear anything this child said, Lalolly developed into Granddaddy, and all was well with the world. I’m not certain what her other grandparents were hoping for in the way of endearments… but I have a feeling it wasn’t necessarily Pepaw and Gingo… and for years and years to come, that is what all grandchildren and great-grandchildren will be calling them.

Kristin is the first of the next generation in our family and that’s a lot of pressure on a person. She rapidly learned her ABCs and how to count. She loved to play with whatever family pet happened to be around. I laughed while watching her hunt Easter eggs with Nana in the backyard. As soon as her back was turned… Nana would toss another egg on the ground. We’d try to tell her to be careful with them so they wouldn’t break, but she never clued in on what that meant as she slammed the eggs into the basket. The video camera I was holding would begin to jiggle while I laughed. We had plenty of cracked eggs that year.

She isn't afraid to be an individual. She could carry on a conversation with anyone or anything… including her hands. I have great video footage of Kristin as a toddler jabbering away at her hands as if they were her friends. I have no idea what she was saying, but she spoke eloquently and with great inflection in her voice.

She was the first to take dance class and play ball. She stuck with playing ball… but gave up the dance. She was the first to accept the Lord as Savior, and was irritated when those "wise" older people questioned her decision because of her young age. She dressed up like a Spice Girl and had her body parts pierced. When her hair was starting to turn from bright blonde to ash blonde, she started coloring it darker… no matter what other people liked or wanted. She is not afraid to stand alone, but welcomes standing amongst those who support, trust, and love her. She will never be without friends.

I have prayed over this child from her conception to today… and will continue to do so all the years of my life. Is this a perfect child? No. But she is so special. She has grown into a beautiful young woman. She is standing on the precipice of her life and she only has to move upward.