On The Cusp

In  just a few hours it will be next year.

How the heck does that happen?

I mean, I'm doing everything like I usually do, minding my own business and POOF it's next year. Nobody asked my opinion, "Hey, lady, do you think it's okay for it to be next year yet?"

By the way, I'd say NO.

It's still 1973.

I remember being in the seventh grade and our teacher, Mrs. Dover, had us add up how old we'd be when the year 2000 rolled around. I looked at that and figured I would be so old it wouldn't matter what year it was.

I  mean, seriously, somebody is doing the math wrong. 1973 can't possibly be 'back in the day'. I can't possibly be staring sixty in the face in the next few years.

Does every generation feel this way? That it may have happened to all the people before them, but won't happen to their generation?

Probably not. No generation before could have possibly been as cool as we were. I mean are. ARE.

 And I'm certain it ain't happened since. Have you seen the youth of today? I'm surprised their parents let them out at all. Sheesh.

And their music - you call that music? Have you seen their  hair? Their clothes? (what there is of them).

What? Yeah, I know I wore mini skirts. But I was careful. Ladylike. Sophisticated. That was different.

And our music rocked, baby.

Let's take a vote. Raise your hand if you think it should still be 1973.

Ha! I thought so.

Let's party like it's 1973....

Cornbread, Green Beans and Snow Flakes

When you have someone in your home visiting who is a Southerner at heart, they beg - like a dog for a biscuit - for cornbread and green beans.

I know this, because I have witnessed it a lot these past few days. She's short, but I can still tell when she's on her knees.

But she does NOT like snow. Raised in the North where it is a curse instead of a blessing (what do they know?), she hasn't been impressed much with our here a flake, there a flake kind of snow today. But now, as I write, there are lotsa flakes and the ground is suddenly white.

Maybe she'll get snowed in! Maybe we can't get her back to her flight tomorrow!  Maybe she'll have to stay an extra day!

For the first time in her life, snow has put a smile on her face.

I think I'll go and bake another pone of bread. You know - just in case.

There's a Yankee in da House

Okay, the truth is, she is only part Yankee. Her mama was Southern. Actually, her daddy was Romanian. Hmmmm. Okay, but she was RAISED Yankee. I apologize for this fact, because I love her anyway.

We spent every summer together, because as soon as school was out, her mama ran from Yankeedom and came home and stayed with her parents until school had to start again.

We've only seen each other twice before this visit in twenty-two years. We look the very same as we did when we were young adults, only different.

I cooked Southern for her today: Chicken, creamed corn, fried okra, green beans from our garden this past summer, mashed taters, cornbread, sweet onions, and of course sweet tea.

She barely escaped the blizzard - last flight out of the North - and it had to be de-iced and the take off run way shortened because of a snow drift. But she risked it because she was coming south.  I  mean, who wouldn't?

The visit will be way too short, our voices will give out way too soon, we will have to sleep way too much.

There's never enough time with someone you love, is there?

Merry Christmas!!

May this Christmas you feel

As much trembling awe as the shepherds,

As much joy as the heavenly host,

As much reverence as the wise men,

As much tenderness of heart as Mary,

And as much love as Our Father above.

May this Christmas be as wonderful as the first.

k.h.h.  2010

It's Christmas Eve!

ANGELS, created by His Hand:

They have been with Him always,

Long before mankind existed,

They attended His birth,

They comforted the Man,

They raged at His death,

They rejoiced at His homecoming.

He has always been,

And will always be.

NOT just a babe, nor just a man.

But God Almighty.

May You worship Him

This Christmas!

k.h.h. 2011

Of Christmas Plays, Poems and Sheep Tossing

I was going to share a Christmas poem I wrote a few years ago, and I will at the end. But first, I have to say a few words about our Christmas Play at church.

What a hoot!

Little kids always make for a good show (some famous person said never follow an animal or kid act, they were right).

We had angels in total chaos, the smallest angel wanting Nanna to the side (who was a moderator), hollering if her mother (the biggest angel) picked her up. I thought that was appropriate, since the other angels were singing 'Away in a Manager'. I figure Baby Jesus hollered, too.

Others were twirling, laying on their bellies with their white frilly bottoms stuck in the air, and one picked up a cardboard sheep and started tossing it around.

Music had to be started over, one angel kept falling down, Mary had on a foot cast, the drummer boy dropped the drum once, and you should have seen the look on his face. Before that, when he came on the stage, as an adult was singing "Little Drummer Boy" (off stage), he very appropriately pretended to play his bright red drum and kneel at the manger. The bossy little red headed angel behind him kept pointing, and telling him he needed to stand over by the "real" drummer. He got really confused, looking between Red and someone off stage, finally mouthing "I don't know where to go."

A shepherd got bored and leaned up against the wall and yawned. At some point, during one of the songs, all the shepherds started keeping time with their staffs, grinning.

Best Christmas Play.

Ever.

O Star whose light was brighter than
Any ever seen by man,
to lead them all to see the sight,
Of manger meek and miracle's night.

O Shepherd! He chose you to come and see,
Because He Himself was One destined to be,
And take up His Staff and lead us - free!

O Tiny Babe with lamb at side,
Who became the Lamb died, crucified,
For any and all to come to Him,
And in His Holy Truth abide.

O Blessed one who believes the Truth,
That God Almighty grew from this Youth.
To save His world and all who say yes,
So He might save, so He might bless!

2012

Things That Change Your Life

I've written short stories, poems and essays since I was ten. I always said I'd never write a book, I'm too impatient, I bore easily, blah blah. Of course, I wrote a book (or five).

But the first one, "Falling", helped me when I was still in such pain I was up much of the time during the night, unable to sleep or even lie still. So, I'd get up and type a chapter or a page or a paragraph.

Thank God a good doctor found a medication combo that helped me some, and I can (usually) sleep through the night.

The book still helps me in another way too, and that is people of all ages and both sexes tell me how much the book means to them. I am amazed, because I wrote it for young girls, high school and college age. And it is a simple book. But maybe not as simple as it seems.

I've been honking my horn so loudly about my three recent books, that I haven't mentioned "The Crow and The Wind" in a long time, either. A children's book that came from a dream. God stuff, that.

And my talented husband who can draw anything I can envision.

Pretty cool, huh?

Hello.....

Hello?

Hello, is anyone out there?

Puh...puh - Is this thing on?

Oh. There you are!

Whew!

I guess they were wrong after all.

I didn't think God would go telling them Mayans when He wouldn't even tell me.

How Come.....

How come when you have a cup of water in a cup, it's a cup of water. If you spill it in the floor it's somewhere between a gallon and an Olympic size pool portion?

How come you can change your baby's diaper and it's no big deal, but if  you change your best friend's baby's diaper it makes you wish you were spending a week at the city dump instead, so you could get some fresh air?

How come when you say something about someone, and you've not seen them, say in a decade, they pop up from behind the sofa so the embarrassing moment of being overheard can be shared?

How come when you have only ONE ornament that is fragile, valuable, and loved by all it is the only one that is dropped?

How come cats are only drawn to company if they really, really hate cats?

How come a man can't hear himself snore, but the next door neighbor's are kept awake by it?

How come little kids never have a bad dream and come screaming into your bedroom unless you are in the middle of having really, really good.....discussions?

How come no one gives people things unless they are movie stars, famous athletes, or the king and queen of some country? Am I missing something here?

How come a man can be looking straight at something and can NEVER find it?

How come, when your house is almost always immaculate, the one day you decide to let your hair down and say the heck with housework, the preacher, his wife, and all the deacons show up at your front door unannounced? And of course, you don't have on a bra.

How come a girl's complexion is flawless until the morning of the prom. And the zit is right there -  tip of the nose, middle of the forehead, end of chin....

How come no one talks to you all day until you are in the middle of 'and the murderer is' part of the book you are reading?

How come when you hit the perfect note, hit the perfect shot, do the perfect split, balance on your head, or beat solitaire on the first round, no one is ever, ever there to see/hear it?

Please don't try to answer any of these, it would only give us both a headache.

Back Handed Compliments from the Mother

First of all, before you read this blog, you must raise your right hand and promise: I will never, under any circumstances, even under threat of being forced to eat broccoli every day for the rest of my life, breathe a word of any of this to Kathi's mother. NOT ONE WORD. Pinky swear.  If I squeal, I can never have chocolate (or whatever your favorite sweet is) again. Amen.

I'm waiting.

If you can't do it, just log off, okay?

There.

Now, for those of you who are left, this is the truth. My mother can be rather, well, shall we say, um, critical.

Of me.

In the last few months I have been told:
 1. I must be getting shorter, because when you start to get old, like I am doing, you lose height. (I am still five ft. eight in., thankyouverymuch)
2. I am going bald. (she was in the back seat of my car and my hair was wet and my cowlick [yes I have two] was parting in the back.)The next day I asked my Bible Study group to pray for me because I was going bald. They looked at me like I was crazy. That's because I am.
3. Yesterday, I was told I should go to her closet, because she was sure "there were a lot of clothes in there I could wear since I've gained all 'that' weight. (she's 5 ft 4 in. Maybe. I'm sure her polyester elastic pants will fit just fine. I'll call them Capri's). I weigh the same thing I've weighed since 2003 when I lost twelve pounds after retiring, other than right after surgery when I liketa died and lost 44 pounds. But don't worry, I found 'em again.

So, I am short, fat and balding.

And there is, I swear, glee in her eyes when she says all this.

Good thing I am full of self confidence and I don't need to be defensive about any of it. At all. No. Really.

Anybody got one of those skinny mirrors I could borrow?

Of Stinky Brothers, Hunky Boyfriends and Falling Christmas Trees

Long ago, in a house about five miles away, lived a family of which I happened to be a member.

I was fifteen, my stinky twin brothers were five, and my daddy had gone to pick up my mother from work.

My handsome, hunky fifteen year old boyfriend showed up early, and I figured it wouldn't hurt for us to be alone (if you excluded the stinky twins) for a few minutes. He wasn't allowed to be at my house unless some parent or other was present, but for a few minutes, what could go wrong?

May I take a moment to say: HAHHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Five year old boys get stinkier by the minute when a boyfriend is around.

I hope, nay, I pray, they have been repaid for their vile behavior of long ago.

Trying to get just two minutes of kissy and cuddle from my absolutely gorgeous boyfriend, I turned my back on aforementioned stinkos, and what, you may ask, did they do?

I'll tell you what they did. They climbed behind our rickety, starting to dry out Christmas tree and TURNED IT OVER.

No one can be as embarrassed as a fifteen year old girl in front of her movie star looking boyfriend.

If one could kill with tinkling ornaments, I would have returned to the land of being an only child.

And beautiful boyfriend? He was laughing so hard he couldn't get off the couch.

But, finally, when I told him my parents were going to walk through that door ANY MINUTE, he got it together, and being about six feet five inches tall, he picked up the tree, and screwed it back into the stand with no problem. (He had three stinky baby brothers, so it was probably no big deal to him.)

I mopped up the water, gave the tree fresh water, and we hurriedly put the ornaments back on, albeit in a haphazard way.

I doubt my parents even noticed, as I was the one who did all the decorating anyway. But I figured they woulda caught on if the tree had been lying prone in the middle of the living room floor. They weren't THAT disinterested.

My stinky brothers, of course, had turned into angelic cherubs, due to fear of beheading.

So, by the time my parents got home, we were all watching TV as though nothing had ever happened.

And my stunning boyfriend did not dump me because of the incident.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is true love.

Regular Writers versus Southern Writers

It dawned on me the difference between we who are Southern writers and those who are not.

I am reading a novel, and the main character is a chef of fame. She has cooked a romantic dinner for her possible boyfriend. There are double chocolate brownies in the oven.

The oven dings. She says, "That's the brownies."

Then the doorbell rings, and her landlord gives her a message.

We never hear more about the brownies. Not if they burned to a crisp during the upset, nothing about them being taken out and wrapped for later, or how wonderful they tasted on the way to the airport.

Nada.

You see, some authors use food as a filler. Background music, if you will.

Southern writers, on the other hand, use food as a main character.

I hope you never find a southern character sitting before a well described meal "moving her food around with her fork, her appetite suddenly gone." Or "The meal was forgotten as passion overtook the couple."

Now, I've known passion, folks. But it ain't never got in the way of my T-bone steak and baked potato.

I want to hear how the food tasted. What they talked about while they ate it. How their granny came up with that particular recipe during the Great Depression, making it taste better'n ever.

Beat me with a stick if I ever don't give good food its due in my books, will ya?

Thanks in advance.

What's That in the Chimney on Christmas Eve?

We had just returned to our new home from a Christmas Eve dinner with my husband's family. It was very late, but we wanted to exchange at least one gift with each other before we went to bed.

As I gathered up our gifts and snuggled on the couch, waiting on my dear husband to come from the kitchen bearing hot chocolate, I heard a noise.

This noise came from the fireplace.

"David," I said, "There is something in the fireplace."

Now, it was almost midnight Christmas Eve.

He came in the living room and responded, "Very funny. I guess it's Santa Claus."

"I'm serious," I said, insulted that he would think I was making this up. " There is something in there, behind the glass doors, I can hear it."

And then he heard it too. He got the big flashlight and flicked it on, right at the glass door.

Up popped this funny little creature with the biggest eyes I've ever seen.

"It's a flying squirrel!" My husband exclaimed. "I guess he fell down the chimney."

He took off his jacket, opened the glass door, threw said jacket over the squirrel and toted him outside.

I don't know if he was a lookout paid by Santa, checking to see if we were being naughty or nice, or a squirrel burglar waiting to jump the old guy, or if he just wanted to see what it would feel like to play Santa.

But he really was cute!

What a Day!

What a day! Trying to decorate for Christmas at my house is akin to running a marathon through hip deep mud.

Here is why:
1. I have pretty severe leg/back injuries, so it's hard to bend. I can, but it ain't a pretty site, and I pay a price. But that's the  least of it.
2. My daughter, who is always very helpful, is, instead, very sick. I'd describe her tonsils, but I don't wanna make you hurl. But she couldn't get in to see the doctor today because (get ready) their computers were down! So, like, if the ER's computers go down and you're bleeding out from a car wreck, I guess you are just outta luck. Keep that in mind.
3. My husband is helpful with decorating usually, but my gun is out of bullets.
4. The dog had the worst seizure she's had right in the middle of all this, on the rug in the living room. She weighs 110 pounds ifyouknowwhatImean,andIthinkyoudo.

So, the whole house is a wreck, decorations and boxes everywhere, a half done tree, a dirty kitchen, sheets off the bed, the bathrooms need cleaning, and I imagine no trash was taken out since it's poured rain all day.

Oh, and did I mention the fraud department of our credit card called and said there was suspicious transactions on our card and wanted to make sure we had made the charge? Of course, we had NOT. Now we are stuck without a card for five to ten days because ours is now inactive.

 In December, no less.

Merry Christmas

Rainbows, Lollipops and Okay, Just Rainbows

When you think about the first rainbow, it's pretty amazing. It had never rained until the flood (no wonder they thought Noah was nuts), so naturally, there'd never been a rainbow until after the flood.

Now, God said this very first rainbow was a sign of His Covenant that He would never destroy the entire Earth again with water. God never breaks His Word, like we do, so now all we have to worry about is fire. Ha!

Anyway, I bet Noah was pretty darn impressed with that rainbow. I mean, I am still awed by the rainbow every single time I see one.

I've seen a double rainbow three times. Once in the field close to where I live, once coming into the state of Louisiana, where the double rainbow double arched like a multi-colored McDonald's sign, right over the "Welcome to the Great State of Louisiana". The other time I was on my way to the funeral of one of the best men I've known.

I was standing in the parking lot of our church last year. My husband was talking with a buddy (you know how men are), and I was standing, looking around, bored. I happened to look up at the clear blue sky and this teeny little white cloud was sporting a swath of rainbow on it's edge. I interrupted the fellows who were so eagerly conversing about some fascinating topic (like car engines - s.n.o.r.e.) to look at what was in the sky! They finally saw it, just before it faded away. Sheesh. I almost didn't have witnesses.

For my grand finale paragraph: I actually, not kidding, saw the END OF THE RAINBOW.  No monkey! It was in the same field where I saw the double. There were  no other cars on the road, so I slowed to a stop to really stare. No pot of gold. Not that I expected one. I knew one of those little whipper snapper leprechauns had probably already snuck in and run like the wind with the gold stuff. But what I did see was pretty neat. Yessir. The rainbow looked like it was shooting straight up  out of the ground!

Huh. Maybe I didn't really see the end after all. Maybe I saw the beginning!

Birds of a Feather

Yesterday my daughter and I visited a friend's house, specifically to see the new baby chicks that had just arrived.

They were a tiny, fluffy, peeping mass. Several different breeds of chickens were in the mix: Barred Rock, Easter Chicken, Eagle, Leghorn to name a few. We were allowed to hold them in our hand, and they were light as a feather!

We then proceeded to the chicken house, carefully watching our step for obvious reason! When we got in, we had to watch our heads, too, because several ladies were perched above, and birds of all kinds do, do.

One of the roosters strutted toward us, pecking hens out of his way, then began to crow so loudly we couldn't hear ourselves talk over him. I guess he considered himself the cock of the walk.

My daughter got to gather eggs from the nests, and discovered five in all. A blue one, three beige ones and a regulation white.

Boy, did that bring back memories. When I was seven, my grandparents sold their grocery store and  moved to the country. They had chickens, and I remember going to the barn to gather eggs. When my granddaddy got baby chicks in, I always picked out my favorite.

I had a pet hen for a while, and somewhere there is a photo of me in their living room, holding this big, fat chicken. She was white. I named her Henrietta.

It's a shame my daughter had to reach the ripe old age of twenty-two to gather eggs.

What's the world coming to?

Our Molly

  

We own a bulldog who likes to chew.

If you’re not real careful, she’ll chew on you, too.

She’s a big young bitch with smiling face,

And she can use you to mop up the place.

Her face is half shadow and half pink and white.

Her pigeon toed stance makes grown men faint with fright.

She’ll eat anything that doesn’t eat her first.

If you’ve not seen her eat, then you’ve not seen the worst.

Just when you think you can’t stand her no more,

She’ll look up at you with eyes that implore.

She’ll blink them real slow and stick out her lip,

It’ll make your heart do an odd little flip.

She sits on her rump and lays flat on her back,

With her ears hanging loose and her jowls hanging slack.

It pulls her eyes up and she stares like a ‘gator.

Like she’s been run over sooner than later.

She’s afraid of nothing, except maybe a bear.

She’d give her life for us without turning a hair.

But she snores really loud and can smell real bad too.

If they ain’t put up, you’ll be minus a shoe.

But all in all, when it’s time to measure her love,

You won’t find it lacking, it’s gentle as a dove.

One promising wag from her stump of a tail,

And you know her loyalty will never fail.

She’s won over our family and without a doubt,

Her devotion is as strong as her body is stout.

Her heart is a giant in that great barrel chest,

And we’ll love her forever, then put her to rest.

So if you love faithfulness and genuine trust,

And you don’t mind slobber, shed hair, and dog dust,

A bulldog is something you really must own.

She just needs you – and of course, a big bone! 

She has Personality!

There is a lot written on how children form their personalities. Only children, oldest child, middle child, the BABY.

My personality is that of an only child. Even though I am not. An only child, that is.

However; for the first decade of my life, an only child is what I was, and in many ways still am.

In the span of ten minutes, forty-eight years ago today, I became a big sister. Twice. Both boys.

There was an incredible amount of excitement at our house! First off, my mother did not think she could get pregnant again (hahahahahahaha). Secondly, twins were in no way expected from this expecting. (hahahahahaha).

But these fellows were more like my live baby dolls, then my own babies, as my mother worked full time after they turned a year old. And guess who helped raised them? Yes, that would be yours truly.

So, in many ways, I am their second mother as much as I am their sister.

And that's okay by me.

Happy birthday, brothers of mine.