It Starts Tomorrow

ATTENTION HIGH SCHOOL CLASS OF 1972:

Starting tomorrow, every single one of you (okay, us) will turn sixty. years.  old.

I need to take a moment.

Thank you.

The only birthday I've ever had that bothered me was when I turned twenty-one. I don't know why it bothered me, exactly.  I'd been  married two and a half years, had been in the workforce full time almost three years. But bother me it did.

I somehow have a feeling sixty is gonna bother me.

I mean, fifty-something is bad enough. But sixty?

Oh, I look in the mirror and see it. I ain't blind or stupid.

And God knows if I live ten more years I can laugh at sixty and shiver at seventy. (If I remember this blog, which I won't, probably not even by next week).

Out of our class, two women are deceased. And probably a dozen men.

We were one hundred and one strong in our graduating class.

I still keep in touch with a lot of them, one is my prayer partner.

My twenties were yesterday.

My forties are still here.

Oh, wait. No, they ain't. I just think I'm forty.

And even that's depressing.

Happy New Year.

The Home Stretch

I can see the end. I am on the home stretch. Within about fifty pages, more or less, I will probably be finished with my first draft of my next novel.

I think, for the moment, it is going to be about a two hundred page book, which is a good sized read.

Although for me, when one of my favorite authors writes a really big novel, I get all a'quiver inside because I loooove big books.

That's reading them, not writing them.

In my experience, a book writes itself and will be as long as the story it has to tell.

I know you have read books where there is obviously filler, or the ending of the story just stops, or is lame.

I've read very good books until the last chapter or so, or even the last few pages, and the author makes ruination out of something that was pretty good.

I hope I never do that.

Anyway, once the first draft is complete (or I think it's complete - I thought "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree" was finished three or four times), the hard work begins.

Proof reading. Editing. Yuck.

And after I've done it myself, ad nauseum, I humbly ask others to do the same for me.

I would never send something unpolished to the publisher. I want it neat and complete.

I will hope not to get grumpy, not to become obsessed, and just be focused on the job.

Yeah. Right.

Bad News Day

My family is having a bad news day.

Daughter's test results (read biopsy) came back with pre-cancerous cells present, and now a consultation with a doctor is in order to determine what course to take.

Brother of Many Surgeries awoke at 4:30 this morning with chills and muscle aches. Even though he got a flu shot, he has the flu.

As you know from previous blog, I have had a pitiful week too, but in light of the aforementioned news, it doesn't matter.

We are not to worry. Jesus said, "Be anxious for nothing." He wasn't foolin' around, He was serious.

I read just this morning, before I knew bad news was a'comin', this quote: "Stop worrying. It's like praying for something you don't want."

So, I am trying not to worry.

But as my favorite philosopher in the whole wide world said, "There is no try. Only do." *

Or, in this case, do not.

I have decided I'm going upstairs, get the heating pad, lie down for a few, and read.

Reading always makes things better, no?

At least till you put the book back down.

*Yoda

A Hissy Fit Kind of Day

I came this close to having me a hissy fit this morning.

I had an eleven o'clock appointment with an established business in a neighboring town to sign a contract. I had the number of  my books they had requested in the backseat. Husband had braved the cold this morning to count them out and place them in the car.

Not to whine (shut up), but I've had a bad spell with what my doctor calls "break through pain". I won't go into details, but I've been, on a scale from one to ten, an eleven on the pitiful scale.

So, it took an effort to get up and get pretty (I said shut up) and get to the appointment -

To find the lights were out and the doors were locked. The sign said the store was open.

I beg to differ.

Husband went next door to inquire if they knew where the owner was, and they indicated there was a rather lax method of being open to that store, and no one ever really knew when they would be open.

Boy, that's a way to make your first million, ain't it?
Now, this isn't the first inconvenience, although it is the most annoying, that I've experienced with the owner. Scattered, spaced out in conversation, not seeming to know quite what's going on, you know the type of person. It seems to take the light bulb a little longer to switch on. But I am patient with most folks, and felt I could continue to be patient.

I am usually slow to anger, which is a good thing.

But my temper, once started, is not a good thing.

I am better than I was in my youth, but still, once the trigger is pulled, the bullet is deadly.

I do think I used restraint in my telephone message explaining I was there for an eleven o'clock scheduled appointment and they weren't.

My tone wasn't pleasant, but my words were professional.

It wouldn't have been so bad if I had been pain free.

Ah, well. Live and learn.

Dollars to doughhuts, he'll never even listen to to the voice mail.

Apologies to Clement C. Moore

'Twas the day after Christmas,
When the mess through the house,
Kept creatures from stirring,
Even a mouse.

The stockings were flung
From the beds to the chair,
In hopes that a housekeeper
Soon would be there.

The people disheveled from their foot to their head,
The house so messy one couldn't find a bed.
And Ma in her back brace,
And Pa with pie on his face,

Had settled down for a look at the keyboard -
When suddenly! What a loud sound, lord!
Pa sprang from his chair to see what was the matter
It was Grandpa, with moonshine, mad as a hatter!

Ma hid in the bathroom as Pa opened the door,
Grandpa just hollered that he wanted more!
The  moonshine twinkling from the bottle shone
Like new falling rain that was up and thrown,

From the porch floor (roof leaked)
To the oak floors, where puddles peaked.
As Pa tried to make Grandpa come in the door,
And wiped up all the water that was in the floor,

What appeared to their wondering eyes next of all
Was a miniature car which chose their yard to stall.
With a little old driver so ticked off and quick,
They knew in an instant it was Cousin Nick.

More rapid than eagles his cuss words they flew.
He stomped and he whistled and shouted and blew
The horn as he cried:"Now, dang it, now durn it,
Now this car is new! I'll bash it, I'll burn it,

I'll trade it! For one that'll fly,
Whenever it meets with a problem, not die!
So into the house his cusses they flew,
And Ma come out of the bathroom cussin' too!

And then in a twinkling all became still
As the TV said something about the closing of the mill.
What's this? It's an outrage, we'll all sober up
And picket the owner, we'll show that old pup!

The prancing and hem-hawing of each voice was heard,
As each heart was joined as one and was stirred.
With new energy Grandpa and Pa cleaned up the mess,
and Ma cooked some cornbread and actually got dressed.

A bundle of trash Cousin Nick slung on his back,
And took it to burn in the barrel, every sack.
(He really looked like a peddler opening his pack,
Especially his clothing, that came straight off the rack)

All their eyes twinkled, they all felt real merry, 
Ma's cheeks were like roses and Grandpa's nose like a cherry,
From cooking and drinking, they both had a belly
That shook when they laughed like a jar full of jelly.

They were chubby and plump, and Ma nearly deaf,
When Pa laughed he suddenly had to defend himself.
 You don't laugh at women who are in a back brace.
Unless able to defend yourself  at a very quick pace.

Nightfall was coming and family was tired,
Full, slightly drunk, and sad, they were fired,
From the mill they had picketed, then, thrown in jail
Till someone from next door posted their bail.

So, settling into bed with a twist of their head,
They figured tomorrow would only bring dread.
They spoke not a word, but went straight to sleep,
Snoring, and grunting, and turning, slept deep.

But if you listened closely you could hear them exclaim,
The New Year will be better, let's hope so! Dad blame! 

Christmas Eve Past

Looking back on all the Christmas Eves of my life (and there are many), I tried to remember what, well, what I remember most about Christmas Eve.

As a child, of course, it was anticipation of Santa coming. Giddy, magical anticipation.

When I got a little older, I 'helped' parents get ready for this event for my two baby brothers.

Then I sort of go blank about Christmas Eve for the most part, unless something memorable happened, like the flying squirrel coming down the chimney at midnight.

Of course, after Daughter was born, I was back to anticipation: putting everything just right under the tree, making sure Santa ate a bite or two of cookie and drank some milk, made sure the reindeer ate some of their feed, and finally sleeping with grown up pleasure that all was right with my Daughter's world.

There have been some very memorable Christmas Eve services, too. Candle light, sharing in the Lord's Supper, beautiful music, the Christmas story that saved my hide from Hell.

So, to wrap it up (no pun intended), I can say this about Christmas Eve: it is filled with anticipation.

May your evening be full of love, magic, appreciation, and yes, anticipation.

Merry Christmas.

Stickin' to My Guns

You appear like an apparition,
Coming out of the darkness,
Looming over my sleeping form.
"Love you, good-night."
Gone before your hug
Has finished it's squeeze.

The only real bone of contention Daughter and I have is curfew.

She believes she is too old for a curfew.

I believe I am too old for her to not have a curfew.

I don't sleep as well until I know she is safely home.

The bigger picture is her safety, and she knows that. There is too much mischief in the wee hours, too much danger for a young female to be driving alone on roads where no one else is up and out but people who prefer darkness to light and an occasional policeman.

The car is still in my name, too. Bad things can happen not only to her, but to the car. Insurance is already at roof level.

I've said, in my most parental voice, until she has a job that pays enough for upkeep on the car, which includes tags, insurance, tires, servicing, gasoline and whatever repair that crops up, it is  her car in spirit  only. I will "gift" her with the title as soon as this happens.

I don't sweat over whether I am wrong in my stance. I actually don't care very much.

My house, my rules, you know.

But I love her beyond distraction, so I struggle with it anyway.

Don't you enjoy being a parent?

However; as I've said since she was a baby: I'd rather her be angry with me that injured or dead.

Not  much of a choice, after all, is there?

So, Daughter, back your ears, as my grandfather used to say.

The curfew is here to stay.

Going Down for the Third Time

Have you ever almost drowned?

As I mentioned in my last blog, we played a game where the rules were: name five facts about yourself, but one of them must be a lie.

One of my truths was I have almost drowned twice.

Of course, writing that down made the memories float to the surface (no pun intended - well, maybe) of my mind.

The first time I was sitting on a very steep bank of a lake (I think). I was about three or four years old. I was sitting next to my mother, and was yakking about the two boys who were allowed in the water (I wasn't because I had yet to learn to swim, despite lessons).

I remember that because both their  names were Ted, and we were calling them "Little Ted" and "Big Ted", for obvious reasons.

I don't remember losing my balance and tumbling into the water.

I do remember being in the water, going under, and not knowing what to do. And going under again.

I vaguely remember panic around me. Not myself, but others.

Mother jumped in after me, screaming. Mother cannot swim, so that really helped matters a lot.

I think it was Daddy that came to the rescue and yanked me out of the water. I'm not sure who saved Mother from drowning.

Afterwards, Daddy was furious with Mother for jumping in the water.

I think the anger was really fear, but you know how men are. (No offense to any male who may be reading this, of course).

The second time I almost drowned I was at the city pool. There were so many people there nobody noticed I had jumped in the deep end.

I was much closer to drowning this time. I remember feeling fuzzy headed and everything starting to turn dark when I was pulled from the deep end to the shallow end.

A girl who was a few years older than I happened to notice I had disappeared from where she'd last seen me and she couldn't spot me anywhere else, so she went underwater, and there I was, already on the bottom.

Have I mentioned I've never had any fear of the water?

Which is probably why I almost drowned twice. Having no fear makes you foolish.

I finally learned how to swim, but I've never been a great swimmer, and certainly not now.

Maybe the next time that deep water beckons me, I ought to think twice before entering in.

I reckon that stands as pretty good advice for a lot of things, don't you?

Let's Party Like It's 1999

Or the end of 2013, either way, my parties are about the same.

We had seventeen people in our house last night. I think my living room is big until I try to cram seventeen people in it.

And loud. Boy, was my house loud last night. We filled four tables with pizza, drink, desserts and mucho conversation.

Laugh? Wow. My ribs are sore, and I'm not kidding. I laughed at what people said, what they didn't say, response to what others were saying, others laughter....and kids response.

We did the "tell us five facts about you, one of the "facts" being a lie, and we have to figure out which is the lie". You find out a bunch of stuff about people this way. Attacked by a raccoon? Really? Truth. Weighed over four hundred pounds at one time? True? You? Nah....but true. Questioned by the Secret Service - truth (that was me.)

We all know each other, but obviously not as well as we thought!

It was sweet to see a baby again in Daughter's high chair. Made my heart swell a little.

Good conversation, lots of laughter, and good food mixed with love makes for good medicine.

And a Merry Christmas.

Birds of a Feather

Saturday, in spite of rain and fog, I journeyed to an event that focused on writers. I was a member of a round table discussion, with an audience listening, and many of them were 'wanna be published writers'.

It was fun, listening to what drives folks to write, what their passion is in their subject manner, and realizing what a strange lot we are.

One lady writes inspirational essays accompanied by scripture. She is working on the fourth one. Her affect, however; was a grimace and an air of unapproachability. I think she was sincere and perhaps had no idea how she appeared to others. I know I certainly don't sometimes. Maybe she was just  having a bad day. She read one of her essays and it was quite good.

Another woman wrote a memoir about her deceased son, who became addicted to drugs in seventh grade and finally died from AIDS at age twenty-six from sharing needles. He died many years ago, and she is now able to talk about it removed from overwhelming emotions.

Yet another woman wrote a book about an era circa World War II and how ethnic groups had separate neighborhoods up North who never spoke, much less had relationships. The drama is about an Italian boy marrying an Irish girl.

A gentleman who looked like a homeless man began to speak eloquently about the Korean War and the group of  men he fought with. Sounded like a great book.

One man wrote a book on two potters in Cherokee County in the early 1900's who furnished pots, jugs, etc. to homes for many years. Their pottery is now collectible, of course, and he said if he didn't write about them, he was afraid they would be lost to history.

There was the woman who wrote about haunted things...but the story she read from her book was about an elderly woman on her deathbed surrounded by family, when the smell of cigar smoke suddenly hung heavily in the air. Her deceased husband smoked cigars, no one else did. They couldn't find the source and felt he had come for her.

A man from Haiti talked about his book and how he wanted it to be a movie. He felt God was directing his steps toward that very thing.

A young woman spoke of her book and how a certain percentage would go to summer camps, as that was the subject of her book, stories from summer camps of her own childhood.

A  young mother, along with her husband, has written a children's Christmas book. With the book comes a big Santa stocking. This is for children to give toys they no longer play with, to Santa. He can take them to other boys and girls.

My favorite was the cowboy poet. He is a teacher, raised in Texas and Oklahoma, and he writes poetry through a cowpoke's eyes and voice. He read a Christmas poem that was delightful.

I was privileged to read an excerpt from "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree", which brought laughter and applause. Did that make me feel good, or what!

Each author felt deeply, passionately, almost urgent about what they had written. We know it is in the writing that keeps us fed, not the public relations, not the selling (although we want them to sell, but preferably by magic), or even the publishing, past the first stroke of the new book's cover.

I guess that means we need a benevolent agent, and as far as I know that's magical thinking, too.

What I'm trying to say to you, especially if  you want to be a writer is this: if you are writing now, you are a writer. Whether you are ever published, or whether anyone else even reads your work.

You are a writer.

Another Christmas, Another Pageant

Yesterday was the most chaotic, pew filled, mistake ridden, guffawing inducing Sunday of the year: the annual Christmas Pageant.

I salute those brave enough to "direct" (and boy do I use that term loosely) a Christmas Pageant. Holy cow!

There are costumes. And because the same ones are used over and over, usually a costume is way too big, way too short, dragging the floor, etc.

This year the angel wings are looking a little peaked.

One of the narrators came down with a cough, so naturally some idiot  brave soul took up the job and stumbled right through it admirably.

The hand bell choir played. The little ones took their time. I had to look at the program to discover they were dinging out "Go Tell It On The Mountain". The older kids played another song and the boys kept freezing and not dinging at all. Then, when enough time went by for intermission before one boy realized it was his turn to ding, they got tickled, and the whole audience laughed.

The shepherds were older and well behaved. They came in stately with their staffs and stood quietly the whole time.

But of course, the real show starts when the little ones show up as angels to surround Baby Jesus. One little red headed angel kept getting her pony tail yanked by a baby angel who was in the arms of a teenage angel standing behind  her. She was stoic about it.

The littlest angel had apparently decided that everyone else might have bare feet or white tights covering their soles, but she was sticking with her black shiny rain boots, thank you very much.  She also wandered around a lot, once scooting in between Mary and Joseph and patting Joseph on the leg, perhaps in sympathy because Baby Jesus would not be still.

In fact, Baby Jesus loved the feed trough He (really she) was in. When the wise men delivered the gold, frankincense and myrrh, and placed them in the front of the trough, Baby Jesus spotted the gifts right off, and He wanted His stuff, man....and rightly so.

It was pretty much downhill from there as far as keeping Baby Jesus still. So Mary took Him out and placed Him by her, but He quickly decided crawling off was a wonderful idea...so she grabbed Him by his gown tail. I will say He was excellently behaved vocally...no crying He made.

The Wise Men got distracted a few times while the Angels were singing, and must have cracked a joke, because they were yukking it up stage left.

And the little angels had no desire to join hands and dance in a circle like the bigger angels were instructing them to do. 

I think there was a problem with the sound system too, because sometimes there was almost unbearable silence between songs. The soloists would start getting antsy, starring out into the audience like the old deer caught in the headlights. But the music would finally come on. One of the soloing angels sighed heavily into the mic before she was finally able to perform.

Our brand new pastor got up and said a few words, mainly that this was his first day and all he had to do was pray and eat.  Sounds like the kind of job I'd be perfect for!

All in all, the most I can say about the whole thing is this:

It was perfect.

Christmases Before This One Heading Our Way

There are very few Christmases in my life when it snowed on that very day.

I remember a few, one being just a couple of  years back, and if you lived here, you certainly haven't forgotten it!

We had a dusting once when Daughter was four or so, and it snowed all Christmas Day, which made for a pleasant atmosphere while gazing out the window.

Maybe half a dozen times (maybe not) besides these, there has been a bit of snow - a flurry, a dusting, a this or that.

So, why is it when I think of Christmas shopping, Christmas Trees, Christmas decorations, Christmas Day for Heaven's sake, I always think of snow?

Many secular Christmas songs have snow dotted hither and yon throughout the verses, and  you know many people (maybe even you) flock their Christmas tree so that it looks as though it has been snowed upon. (If it did, wouldn't that mean you needed to turn up  your thermostat a little?)

I doubt, like almost one hundred percent, that the first Christmas had snow. I mean, I know God can do anything, and I ain't saying it for sure didn't snow that day, just that I kinda doubt it.

So here's to sleigh bells, jingle bells, horse sleighs dashing through the snow, snowflakes on your eyelashes, snowmen in the yard, snow cream in a bowl and blizzards only at the Dairy Queen.

But, really, wouldn't a little snow this  year be nice?

The Times They Are A'Changin'

Scenario # 1: Friend has used the same gas company for forty-two years. The fill up guy came a few weeks ago, but told her he couldn't put gas in the tank because it was too close to her house.

This poses the questions: Did Friend  move  her house? Has the tank somehow grown legs and scampered closer to the house?

No, and no.

The law says it must be ten feet away from her house. Now, I have heard that law quoted before. We were told that when we built our house.

In 1987.

Needless to say, she changed gas companies right then, even if she had been with the company for forty-two years.

It ain't safe to do business with idiots.

And speaking of:

Scenario # 2:  Daughter has been having stomach pain after taking antibiotics akin to the same pain that happened when she was a child. So we thought the logical thing to do was to find out the name of the specialist and the medication prescribed then, so that perhaps her present physician could prescribe the same.

Sounds simple, doesn't it?

May I take a moment to say "Ha."

Of course those records were in the archives, as she was under the care of a pediatrician who stopped seeing her at age twenty-one. She received instruction on how to sign a release and get records from the archives.

She went there, did that, they even marked the release 'urgent' because she was in pain.

That was last Wednesday. The lady said we'd probably get them the next morning.

Uh, no.

Monday morning Daughter called to inquire as to the progress. First they said they couldn't find a release. Then Daughter was put on hold, referred to "Jamie" who never answered, but a beep finally occurred and with fingers crossed, she left a message.

Which was not returned.

Yesterday, while we were all gone, they finally called back. (This is exactly one week later).

I want to quote to you exactly what this message said. And by the way, the girl sounded like she was all of eight years old, but what do I know.

"Hey. This is Dana from ______________. We have your records. They've been copied and you can pick them up at the front desk. We've just had a hectic week. We had a Christmas party and an Open house. But anyway, they're ready now. Bye!"

Husband ran up to the town they are in and picked up those 'urgent' records today. (which, by the way were not even in chronological order).

As he left, the older woman sitting behind the desk said, "Happy Thanksgiving!"

It's December 12.

I am stopping now because I'm  not sure, dear reader, how much more either of us can take.

Over and out.

Barking Fox

What Does the Fox Say?

I have heard this song more than once.

Why, you ask, would I listen to this...this...song more than once?

Because I can't help it. It's the world's best/worst ear worm. And the video is almost as good/bad.

I have such pity for these young men. They really, truly, honestly don't know what the fox says.

I can tell by the sad look in their eyes.

As you may remember, we had a fox whose chosen path for several months was the perimeter of our land. Daughter named him George Clooney because George did the voice for the fox in "Fantastic Mr. Fox", the movie. (If  you haven't seen the movie, it's very, very strange. At least watch a trailer for it on YouTube)

This is our fox.

Anyway, after hearing the song whilst watching the video, I decided to look up what the fox says.

You can hear that thanks to me, but it will be on a separate blog because I am too darn DUMB to figure out how to get it on a blog I have already started writing.

But first, I asked George what the fox says. He looked at me thusly:

I asked him not again.

What I have learned from our fox, George, is he loves popcorn, he loves apple peels, he likes to watch us from a safe distance and he's always in a hurry.  He is teeny tiny, so I can't say I blame him. I've wondered if he is a very young fox or if he is a - dare I say it? A she.

Anyway, I wish those fellas from the band had called me up and asked me what the fox says. I would have directed them straight to YouTube.

Except they are from a foreign land, and I doubt very seriously I would have known what they were asking (probably would  have hung up thinking it was just another person begging for money for their cause).

I reckon them poor old boys ain't never gonna know what the fox says. But to be honest, from listening, they don't really know what anything else sounds like either.

The elephant goes toot? 

Wrong end boys, wrong end.

Top Secret

I apologize in advance for the world's stopping it's turning because I haven't blogged in two days.

Many of the reasons are super top secret that I can't share with mere commoners.

However; I have a logical explanation for most of it. In fact, I have several of them.

Some people would call them excuses.

You decide.

For instance, I just got through eating my half of a piece of red velvet cake topped with white chocolate cheesecake.

I had a Christmas party to go to last night.

Saturday I didn't feel well and was exhausted from all the never gonna get finished Christmas decorating.

I swaney, with as long as it's taken us, you'd think we'd decorated the Taj Mahal, and done a darn good job of it.

I've also been reading a really good book. I go from one book to another like eating popcorn, sorta.  Some bites are better than others, though.

I've been wheelin' and dealin' about book sales and such, so much so that I haven't had time to write on the novel I'm working on.

I've had to eat out several times during all this, because who can cook being as busy as I've been?

Of course, there have been the usual  naps and directing Husband about what to do here and there.

I don't know what he'd do without me.

And I don't know if I mentioned this, but I need a haircut, too.

Guess I better close for now and call Friend Who Cuts My Hair.

See ya!

Christmas Lights

When I was growing up, one of the things we did just before Christmas was this:

Daddy and I would pick Mother up from work on Saturday night to go riding around the county to look at Christmas lights.

Some were beautiful, some were awe inspiring, and some (which I loved the most as a kid) were downright gaudy.

Comments such as "Wow! Look at them!" From me.

"Lord, I'd hate to be the one to pay their power bill." From Mother.

"I wonder how she got him to put all them lights up there on the roof." From Daddy.

And so on.

When Daughter was little, we'd pack her, Niece of Same Age of Daughter, Nephew, Mother and whoever else was willing to go (always female) and head out to the great beyond and go light looking.

If someone had heard about an especially spectacular scene that wasn't so far away two preschoolers couldn't hack it, off we'd go, oohing and ahhing ourselves silly.

Of course, we always had to stop somewhere for food. And potty breaks.

By the time we got home, Niece and Daughter were usually sound asleep and Nephew almost.

We were tired, sticky and satiated.

We can't do such extravaganza at our house, we're lucky to get some of the inside done. This year it's taken us five days to get the tree done.

If we attempted to do outside lights and such, it'd be February before we'd finish.

 At least Valentine's is done up in red too.

But there are still some neighborhoods who go all out (Brother of Many Surgeries lives in one), and we usually get at least one drive by to some.

You may not believe in the Christ Child, Messiah, the Light of the World, Son of the Utmost God.

But you cannot deny the magic.

Because He makes Christmas Magic. You can see it in every child's face.

You can see it in every Christmas Light.

Road Miracles

I believe it takes a lot for us to be continually  safe hurtling down the road in a tin can.

I have a few examples in my own life where obviously God was hard at work to save me from an untimely death.

Miracle # 1: I was about nineteen or twenty and was taking Mother and Brothers (who were about eight or nine) to Gainesville. I was driving a Blazer, the kind that got about twelve miles to the gallon. It was pouring rain and I was going about sixty miles an hour. One of the tires blew out. And I mean exploded. The car was instantly out of control, but I finally managed to get it stopped on the side of the road. (My arms were so sore for days I could barely lift them.) I don't believe I could have done this with my own strength.

Miracle # 2: Mother turned to me and said, "I will never tell you how to drive again."

Miracle # 3: She never has.

Miracle # 4: I was getting ready to get out of the car and look helpless, when a truck passed us, made a U-turn and pulled in behind me. He was coming from Gainesville, headed toward home. I knew him, he knew me. And he had gone to Gainesville to pick up a load of tires. He changed my tire, waved as he drove off, hollering, "Pay me when you can."

Miracle # 5: I was twenty-one when Yankee Cousin and I were in Smyrna, going to look at the cute little hell hole Husband Who is Now Ex for all Eternity had purchased without my seeing it or approving the buy. I was upset over this, plus the thousands of roaches that came with the house. Anyway, that's not the miracle. (or maybe it is, I let him live). It was once again pouring the rain. I came to a dead end and turned left, and when I did the car started hydroplaning, and we went straight into a ditch.  I didn't even have time to blink when a car pulled in behind us, all four doors opened where upon four big hunky guys got out, lifted the car out of the ditch, saluted, got back in their car and drove off.

Miracle # 6: I was twenty-nine or thirty and was coming home from work in Ball Ground. This was when one had to go up Hwy. 5 and make a left turn to get onto the brand spanking new 515. There was a good bit of traffic. I came to the turn lane, put on my blinker, entered the turn lane and moved forward. A transfer truck suddenly decided to do the same thing, right in front of me. I had a choice: Either go up under the truck or slam on my brakes. Praying I would hit nobody when I braked (I was going about 45 mph), I tried to keep control of the car, which was impossible. When I finally stopped I was sideways in the middle of the road. Everyone had seen it coming and backed off.

Miracle # 7: When I looked up, I was staring at the big blue eyes of an ambulance driver. He arched his eyebrows as if to say, "Do you need us?" I shook my head no. I wasn't hurt.

Miracle # 8: The transfer truck, who was going to go merrily on his way was stopped by a state patrolmen who saw the whole thing. He pulled us both other, and when he got through talking to that big old macho driver, said driver was blubbering like a baby. I had the power to press charges and he knew his brand new license would be pulled. (I didn't do this since I wasn't hurt). The patrolman petted me like I was his own child and gave me his name and said if I changed my mind, to call the office and he'd gladly proceed with charges.

I wonder how many countless times I don't know about that my life has been spared, simply because it ain't my time to go.

My House is not a Fashion Shoot

Some days  my house looks better than others, as I am sure is true for most people's homes.

I haven't had a good past few days physically, so it is more of a wreck than usual.

But even more than that, we are attempting to decorate for Christmas:

 

Even the cats are stressed out, as you can plainly see.

 

What got me thinking about this was looking at a Traditional Home magazine this morning. The houses are spotless, of course. But what really got me was the cashmere scarf laying by the bathroom sink, because it matched, I guess.

 

But, really?

 

Raise your hand if you know people who drape their cashmere scarves next to the bathroom sink because it looks pretty.

 

I thought so.

 

I have seen equally silly stuff in magazines before because it makes pretty on the printed page. If people look at these homes and then look at their own, I imagine the results are similar to those when curvy women look at the stick thin women modeling clothes and instantly know a: it won't come in their size and b: even if it did, it wouldn't look good on them.

 

Why is there so much pretend out there? Shouldn't our house look like somebody lives there? Shouldn't women actually look like women and not girls who are still growing into their womanhood?

 

Perfect houses, perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect cars.

 

I bet nobody is home in any of it.

 

Hadn't you rather have warm and cozy? Soft and curvy? A little human, a little flawed?

 

If  not, well, go live in a magazine. I'm sure you'd be welcome, as long as you don't spill anything.

 

I'll close for  now and clean up the kitchen, then start on the tree.

 

Who knows? Maybe in a day or two we'll be able to walk through the living room without endangering our lives.

 

Until then,

The Uncluttered, Uncurvy, Untruthful Blogger

Alarmed and Frustrated

Daughter and I have spent the majority of the day on the telephone with doctor's offices. Not just one office, mind you, but six of 'em.

If that doesn't make you sick, they don't deserve to be called doctors.

Daughter got a disturbing call that a test came back abnormal. We cried, prayed, and consulted nurse friends who said not to worry (the doctor's office said the same thing), that it was probably a false positive.

Probably.

She's also having some other issues, as am I.

I said sarcastically that apparently it was up to our family to support the entire North Georgia Medical Field.

This was the day we were supposed to be decorating the Christmas Tree.

Well, the day ain't over, so I am about to go forth and be merry, dang it.

Prayers from you, dear reader are greatly appreciated.

Until tomorrow,

The Calm and Stoic Blogger

Time Warps

I don't know if it is because I am growing older (by the second), but I keep forgetting about time moving forward.

For instance, I still think of my house as "new".

It was built in 1987, except for the sun room, which was added on a few years later, which one I can't remember.

Some people, because it is a pseudo Victorian, think it is the real deal and built more like in 1895. That's a true compliment.

I realized how my thinking goes, because coming down the stairs early (for me) this morning I noticed how the tread is worn right down the middle of the oak stairs.

The stain is lighter there from almost twenty-seven years of use.

In other ways that time is getting away from me:  Daughter. She should be about twelve by my reckoning. But she somehow has arrived at age twenty-three.

And seeing peers whom I haven't seen in some years. Man, are they old, are what? How come I still look about thirty-five(ish)?

Oh, it's because I always look in the mirror fully clothed except for my glasses.

Works every time.

And why is my mother turning into a frail, elderly woman? Not just a geriatric, but really old.

I am now the geriatric, almost.

And my baby brothers?  How dare they have another birthday tomorrow that gets them extremely close to fifty years of age.

And my nephew,  my sweet little boy nephew, has a child of his own now who looks just like him. And by that I  mean the way he should still look.

I'm telling you, Methuselah ain't got nothing on me.

Those Things We Are Thankful For Most

I only added the word most in order not to end the title with a preposition.

Anyway, On Facebook, where many of you are members thereof, some kind soul started a countdown to Thanksgiving Day. By starting on November first, find something to be thankful for each day. One was to post what that was each day on their wall.

I decided that was an excellent exercise in really thinking about the good in my life, so I did it this year.

Daughter has done it before this year, as have many others.

So, much to my surprise, the thing I was most thankful for come the Big Day, was when Great-Nephew (age 2) peed on Husband (age 64).

Why, you may ask, was I most thankful for that?

It made us all laugh. Well, maybe not Great-Nephew, he was just rushed off to the bathroom for dry clothes.

Great-Nephew was snuggling on the couch with Husband, busily spelling words (like intelligence) and then using it in a sentence. This exercise is an app. on his mama's telephone. This is done by a two year old with a paci in his mouth, who as I said earlier, isn't quite one hundred percent on his potty training.

But he was so comfy cuddling and sharing with Husband, he waited too long to start yelling, "Tee tee! Tee tee! Uh-oh! Oh no!"

He can perform word exercises on the phone app. better than he can spew it back out. After all, he's only two. I get about every third word he says.

But laughter, innocence, family gathering - isn't that what thankfulness is all about?

Brother of Many Surgeries could have easily not been with us. Last week it was determined he wouldn't be well enough, but then, lo and behold, he was. Breathing heavy, showing his scar because he had twenty-five of his zillion staples removed Tuesday (and a drain tube).

Who wouldn't be proud?

And Mother. She is eighty-four years old with a lot of physical problems. (Duh). Not sick, just aches and pains that are hard on her.

Thankful? You bet.

For babies that make us laugh (even though Husband left early very suddenly), for brothers that make it through yet another surgery, for mothers who may be elderly but are still hanging around for another season.

And you.

I'm thankful for you.

Once Upon a Time, Long, Long Ago...

When I was a very small child, before my great-grandmother got 'the breast cancer', the family had Thanksgiving at her house.

She and my great-grandfather lived pretty much like they had always lived - except they had electric lights in each room.

Memories are vague, because I was so young, but this is what I do remember:

We ate later because the men were killing a hog. By Thanksgiving, it was always cold enough to do this.

The dining room had lots of  natural light, and the double french doors were always open to allow the heat from the wood heater that sat in the middle of the living room floor, to heat this room too.

The table was long and full of my mother's aunts and uncles and their children.

I was the only great-grandchild, the Princess.

My seat was an old, green high chair, whose tray had been removed so it could be scooted right up to the table.

There was about a million vegetables that had been canned or stored in the cellar for a bountiful meal.

We had baked hens instead of turkey.

All of it was cooked on a giant wood cook stove, with lard, real butter (that she churned herself), cream from the cow, and eggs from their chickens.

Mama Hill, my great-grandmother, always made me pop taties. They were called this because she sliced potatoes very thin and fried them until they were so crisp they popped when you chewed them.

And she made them just for me, the Princess.

After dinner, Papa Hill would get out his fiddle and stand in front of the stove in the front room. I would sit in the floor, looking straight up at his pale blue eyes and snow white hair. His overalls were pressed, as was the white shirt he wore underneath them.

He always had a little stick or a pipe protruding from his mouth.

All the adults sat around in whatever they had drug into the room, and enjoyed the music.

I was carried to the car for the long ride home back to town, sleepy, then asleep.

Happy Thanksgiving to each of  you, and here's hoping you have a precious memory to see you through when holidays may not be so great.

If you don't, you are welcome to mine.

Because they couldn't be any better than these.

Coming to a Table Near You

You can feel it in the air.

The frenzied pace of millions of women trying to get their act together at the last minute because everyone expects the Thanksgiving meal extravaganza right on time.

The trick for my family is the dressing. See, my mother doesn't have a recipe for dressing. She has just "made it" in the past.

I think her Aunt maybe taught her how.

Last year, Daughter and I stood by like drones and did exactly like she said to do, as she can no longer do it all by herself.

You'd think after doing it with supervision, one could do it alone, but it's far more complicated than that.

Dressing is one of those things that tastes different with every person. It's a lot like biscuits or cole slaw. There is just something in the individual's make up that makes the food.

My goal is to come close to Mother's. I don't anticipate surpassing it, because I love her dressing better than anyone's on the planet, and I've  had lots.

So, tomorrow Daughter and I will journey down to Mother's and begin.

Pray for us all.

Happy Thanksgiving, in advance, just in case I don't make it through.

I'm on a Roll

I've been writing a book since January. It has been worked on slowly, not at all, and sometimes in a frantic pace to get it all down just like I am seeing it.

For the past few days, the pace has been frantic. I don't like being pulled away from the book, and as of right now I'm out in the studio and darkness has fallen.

But I figure if I can just get in a few more paragraphs...I can sleep tonight.

Or remember more stuff and jot it down furiously.

I know when I 'm in the midst of everything because the characters are intense. I may cry or laugh while I am typing a particular scene.

So, pardon me if the blog is short.

At least it's sweet.

Gone Fishin'

As those of you who read my blogs regularly already know, Tobias died recently. (See what happens if you miss a blog?  You don't get this important information in a timely fashion!)

Blogger Takes A Moment.

Don't  make fun of me, that fish lived with us for over two years.

Anywho, Husband brought home a new fish yesterday (or was it the day before?)

He asked me what did I want in a fish, and I said I wanted one that looked young and was very colorful.

So, off he goes fishing.

So to speak.

Husband says he picked out the youngest one he could find (read that little, and I do mean little). He marches to the check out and the cashier says, "Oh, I see you picked out a male."

Now, Husband happens to know that the females are much less colorful, but he likes to play innocent, so he asks, "How do you know it's male?"

She points to the lid of the carton in which the fish is swimming. It says, "MALE".

Why Husband tells this stuff on himself, I'll never know.

Anyway, he is a funny looking fish (no, I don't mean Husband. That's for another blog entirely). He is very small, and he has an extremely undershot jaw,(the fish, people, the fish!) more than any of the others we've had.

I named him Tyke,  much to the dismay of Daughter. Hey, if she doesn't like it, she can get her own fish.

Say hello to Tyke:

Brotherly Love

I just got back from visiting Brother of Many Surgeries. (This is his Indian  name now.)

He looks like a one track railroad from stern to down below where he wouldn't let me see. Let's just say they cut him as fer as they could cut.

The staples are starting to pull at his skin, the drain holes are pulling at his skin. He is very uncomfortable.

Plus he is having wild body temperature changes, one minute burning up, the next freezing.

Do you suppose they took so much out this time he is in  menopause? 

Nah.

I am being silly because I am tired of being afraid.

Afraid that this time, he might not make it.

But he did, and I hope fervently it is the last surgery he ever has to have. I hope he can live many years and be healthy, finally.

I am so confident I made a batch of spaghetti and took it to them for supper.

If my cookin' don't kill him, nothin' will.

Armageddon! Or: Taking Two Cats to the Vet

When you have Maine Coon cats one thing is bound to occur: matting. (notice the two t's, please)

Eli doesn't tolerate combing very well, and Lilly will let you, just not under her where her belly is. This is the first year Eli has had a full winter coat, so this is the second time in less than two months that I've had to have some mats shaved from his underside.

Lilly was given a crew cut several months ago, so she just now has had a few mats that needed shaving.

The adventure of putting her into a carrier is best left untold.

Eli goes willingly, every time. He even lays around in our carrier sometimes when he is ambushing another cat or hiding from Daughter.

But the carrying on in the car on the way to the vets is earsplitting! And you should hear the cats, too!  HA!

And it is creepy to see cats pant. Only dogs should pant. They look wild. Ears laid back, teeth bared...skeery.

Eli weighs seventeen pounds now, and Lilly is a solid eleven. Toting them in and out ain't no easy chore, either.

Signing in and waiting is interesting.

One lady brought in a very reluctant dog. The woman opened the door and stood there, holding a leash with something obviously on the other end, but I thought the dog was never gonna make it. When she did finally scurry in, what we saw a  was a very fat Pug who looked like it was going to burst into tears. Her curly tail was tucked between her legs.She hid under the bench at the door, then hurried to get to the next bench so she could hide under it and sit behind her owner's legs. Occasionally, she would peek out, look exceedingly worried and hide again.

Her name was (get ready) Sassy.

Then a woman came out of one of the examining rooms, crying. I mean really crying, funeral home crying. And she had no pet in her arms. But they sat down to wait....

I said a prayer for her.

They took Lilly back, trimmed her and brought her to us. I went back with Eli. He's my baby,you know, and he does better.

It's true. He stares at me when they are buzzing him. If he loses sight of me, he struggles.

The vet tech said she'd seen cats be so afraid they were running laps around the room, trying to find a way out. And these cats were on the ceiling. And I quote: "I don't know  how they can climb straight up a wall, but they do it."

When I came back out an older gentleman was there with a young, boisterous setter of some sort who was barking loudly every fifteen seconds.

Each time old Sassy cringed and trembled.

We paid, we left, we got home.

Until next time.

Belief in Oneself

I've been singing in public since I was fourteen years old. I love to sing. In fact, I sing all the time.

I've been told I have a good voice. I was urged to go to college and major in voice.

That was not my calling, and I believe you must be driven if you are to make something like that your life.

Obviously, by now, I have  heard myself sing.

But when I listen, all I hear are the mistakes. That note was a little flat. My voice wobbled too much at the end. I breathed at the wrong place. I sang the wrong word!

You get the picture.

I don't have a lot of faith in the beauty of my voice.

I still sing. I feel sometimes the nudge of the Holy Spirit to sing a particular song, and I hope I don't ignore those nudges, no matter what they are about.

But writing is different. Don't get me wrong. I am well aware there are better writers out there. Many, many they number.

The thing is, I don't mind reading what I've written. I go back after something is "cold" and re-read it and often times am pleased. I think, "Did I really write that?"

I'm not sure why I am so confident about one talent and not so much about the other one, when I'm given compliments about both.

Maybe it doesn't really matter how I feel about either one of them.

I just need to keep on doing what God instructs me to do.

He'll make beauty out of the beast when He chooses.

What's That On Top Of Your Head?

I got  my hair done today. (And you thought this couldn't possibly be such an interesting blog!)

I left home at 1:30 and got back home at 4:00. Of course there was a side trip to the garage because of a little engine light concern, but never mind that.

And, of course, I had to eat chicken fettachini in the middle of getting my hair rolled.

And the trip is an hour, if you count both ways.

So, let's say it took an hour and  a half for my hair to cook and be curly all the way to the roots again.

That got me to thinking. How long do you think women spend on their hair a year? Curling, straightening, cutting, adding extensions, coloring it darker, bleaching it lighter, shampooing, conditioning, drying, styling, moussing, spritzing, spraying, fluffing and who knows what else I've left off, like teasing, pleading and begging.

And this doesn't even count talking to each other about our hair and what goes on or does not go on with it. And looking through style magazines and websites.

And we have to contend with our husbands going on and on about our hair, so that takes an additional, what, five minutes a year?

(When I mentioned my hair was dyed brown when we got married to get rid of the frosting I hated, Husband said, and I quote, "Your hair was brown when we got married? Huh.")

How long do you think men take a year doing and thinking all things regarding their own hair?

Now, I know some boys spend an enormous amount of time, but it's usually a phase, and the next time you see them their hair is back to its normal color and it's short. Because, they tell you, that other stuff was too much trouble. (I believe the whole stage was more about independence and rebellion than it was about hair, anyway.)

And men, as they get older and get balder, do seem to obsess about that, and may spend extra money on stuff that guarantees hair thickening magic. But they go bald anyway, then they shrug their shoulders and shave their head.

So, what's the deal with us females? It's not learned, we are born that way. I mean, little biddy girls go around wanting stuff in their hair, want it braided or brushed.

Maybe it's because, as the Bible says, it is our crowning glory, I don't know.

But I do know it's not to please our man. Not really. (see above)

I think it's about looking good for other women and also maybe trying to obtain some look that in our head would make us prettier. Or younger.

I wish I was brave enough to say the heck with it, cut it really short and forget about it.

But you know what?

I just can't.

Speaking of Time Travel...

I have always been fascinated with time travel. I read a book in fourth grade (which is still my favorite book) and it involved time travel.

I read every book of fiction I can get my hands on about time travel. Some of them are really, really good books.

According to quantum physics (maybe, I don't claim I'm right), Time is a straight line, and if you could stand outside of it, you could see everything going on at the same time - past, present and future.

Warning: Rabbit trail - That sort of explains how we can have free will and God still know everything that we will do. He stands outside of time, and if He is looking down on time, so to speak, He could see it all occurring.

Anyway, in theory, if one could learn how to manipulate time, we could travel within it. That could come in really handy if we go off the grid.

'Off The Grid' is the new catch phrase (to me, anyway). It means everything technical will collapse and your cell phone will become a paper weight and your computer will be even more useless than it is now, if you can believe that.

But if we go off the grid and some nerd is bored so badly because of this he figures out time travel, we could go back and reminisce about what it feels like to have air conditioning when it's 90 degrees outside and all your bedrooms are upstairs.

I've always thought it would be neat if I could go back and watch my grandfather as a child, living close to where I live right now. He might have even walked this land. I know the Cherokee did, we found an arrowhead.

Wouldn't it be fun to see how the forests here looked before everyone began chopping them down?

Or watch your daddy ask your mother to marry him?

Or see yourself as a newborn?

Of course, if we could travel back, we could also travel forward. But I ain't too keen on that. I think the future needs to stay cloaked in mystery unless the good Lord shows us something.

And when He does that, it always means some hard work for me.

But maybe the most useful thing to do with time travel would be to have the opportunity to say I love you, or I'm sorry when you didn't at the time you should  have.

So, just in case time travel never shakes down, may I take a moment to say to those near and dear to me: I love you.

And if I've ever hurt you, I am sorry.

Time Travel

Let's go back in time so a tale can be told.

Let's go back to yesterday.

We were headed for the big city! I was finally going to see Brother, he of terrible surgery and oft times life threatening daring do. I had not seen him since before the surgery and I was excited. I got his wife some peanut M&M's and the the paper with  my column in it.

Ready, set, wait a minute.

See, our dog had a terrible seizure and she had a hard time coming out of it. We had to wait around a little, take her outside several times, make sure she was okay.

And of course, there was the cleaning up of the mess from seizure, putting dog cover in the wash, etc.

We have a brand new, super dooper DEE LUX GPS that Husband used to get us to Emory. He carefully typed in Emory University Hospital at Decatur's address.

Checked it twice, because a. He is prone to errors and b. He is O. C. D.

I am dressed in my layers, leggings, onesie, wool socks, heavy jeans, sweat shirt, etc. because when I am sitting still my legs get worse due to poor circulation. And while I am prone to hot flashes, the lower half will still freeze.

Down the road we go. A little later than anticipated, but still plenty of time.

About Canton I begin to hurt so badly I confess we have to stop and get something for my stomach. I am on a strong antibiotic for the bladder infection that resulted from the kidney stone last week, and the medicine is killing my gut.

Husband bat turns into Publics, Daughter agrees to run in. "Xanax, right?"

"Ye - NO! Zantac, not Xanax!"

Off she flies, and hurries back with Zantac and Sprite in hand.

We continue down the road. By now it is well past lunch time and we decide Steak N Shake is a great idea. After a terrifying U-turn that Husband makes for no apparent reason other than because he can, we get to Steak N Shake, shook up.

Husband suddenly remembers he forgot to give Dog her mid-day seizure medication.

What a wonderful time to forget that! I cross my fingers Dog doesn't have a seizure and do you-know-what all over the rug.

The waiter seats us, hands us our menus, tells us his name (Josh) and then looks at me and says, "I want to know about your book."

I'm stunned. Flattered. I'm famous! Wow! How does this kid know about my books? Daughter's face looks like I am feeling.

Then Josh continues, "It says to ask, so I figured I better." He says this as he stares at my bosom.

I, too, look down. I have on my sweat shirt that says: Ask About My Book. Oh.

Moving right along:

After eating, we sit in the parking lot so Husband can turn on the brand new super dooper DEE LUX  GPS and check the address. Twice. (See above)

He says he's making absolutely sure the address is right, because we don't want to go to Emory University Hospital Midtown.

The brand new super dooper DEE LUX GPS takes us to Midtown.

We are now at the tip of the beginning of Midtown rush hour. I'm hurting like a son of a gun, and we know if we can even figure out how to get to 85, we are going to be in bumper to bumper traffic all the way to the hospital.

We have a decision to make: Try it or admit our defeat. The other mitigating factor is this: Daughter has an engagement with a friend that she feels she needs to honor.

She's meeting him at the funeral home.

Sigh.

So I pull up the old big girl drawers and call Brother's Wife. I tell her where we are and she says, "Oh. That's not good."

I tell her of Daughter's previously promised engagement and for her to get there on time, we need to turn around and go home.

She understands.

I am very disappointed. (Not that she understands, but that I don't get to see them)

So we turn around, head home and see the lovely flashing signs that a wreck has all four lanes blocked up ahead and to take an alternate route.

Seriously?
Isn't that what we've done all day?

Fortunately, as we creep forward, the wreck is cleared and we go home.

So close, and yet so far away... sniff.

Dog is fine. Carpets are dry.

I am in pain and exhausted.

And, in trying to stack my pillows on my bed, I knock Jesus to the floor.

Don't ask.

All You Need Is Love

I suppose some couples are more compatible than others.

I also know opposites attract, and sometimes with disastrous results.

There are couples who look like each other.

And there are couples who are totally opposite in looks from one another, but are a lot alike in personality.

Husband said he always thought he'd marry a dark haired petite woman.  (His mother) I am tall and fair, so he failed miserably. But: my mother-in-law and I  were a lot alike in personality, so I think he got what he was looking for after all.

Me? I've always gone for the blond guy. And Husband, who is now more salt than pepper, had hair that bordered on black. (So I'll have a "blond" after all!)

What drew me to Husband in the first place? Laughter. We often laughed at the same time, and we laugh together every day.

I think that goes a long way in any relationship, unless you are the odd duck who has no sense of humor, and if you are, I can't imagine why you would still be reading my blogs, because they are fraught with silly.

Last night said it all for us when it comes to compatibility.

I knew, of course, we like the same room temperature, the same amount of covers on the bed, etc.

But last night, we were lying side by side, both of us with a book. My cat, Eli was sprawled across my chest and belly, where he often snuggles before I sleep. And may I say last night, his higher body temperature felt really, really good.

I happen to glance sideways, and there was Frost, another of our cats, sprawled across David's chest and belly, looking smug about his copy cat behavior.

Two giant white cats, lots of covers, a good book each.

Do we get along, or what?

Suffering Amongst Us

My poor old brother has suffered a lot, and continues to do so. I have everybody I even remotely know praying up a storm (I hope) that he will get well, for goodness sake.

Of course, this has my elderly mother worried sick. She can't be there, she isn't able to ride that far, walk that far, or even stay, which of course, since he is still in ICU they wouldn't let her anyway.

As you know, I had me a kidney stone a few days ago, which resulted in lots of infection, which has resulted in them powerful antibiotics.

Which has resulted in all sorts of problems.

I woke up in the  middle of last night curled into the fetal position with pain right smack dab where an old ulcer used to live.

I knew I had to have food. But Daughter saw me, and went downstairs for me, and brought me a sugar cookie and a glass of milk.

Awwww.

This worked for about three hours, and I awoke again, in more pain than before. I went into the bathroom and slung junk asunder under the sink until I found a bottle of Zantac and took myself a pill.

In about twenty minutes the pain eased enough for me to go to sleep.

Today has been uncomfortable, but I hope I can tolerate the medication, because I need to get rid of the infection.

However; I am swolle up.

If you ever wondered what a fifty-nine year old woman looks at five months pregnant, I'm your poster child.

And it ain't pretty.

You know it's bad when your sweat pants are too tight.

But in spite of all the misery, there is good news: The doctors have found what the problem is with my brother and hopefully can correct it now.

My first column is coming out in the local paper "The Best of Ellijay Blue Ridge Jasper".

A very popular store in Blue Ridge is taking one of my books, "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree" to sell because they think it will do great.

Daughter  has responded to antibiotics and her throat doesn't look like Armageddon anymore.

See? There is always a silver lining.

Or two.

A Woman's Crowning Glory

This week Daughter's hair is red.

Really red.

Last week it was sorta reddish brown.

Before that...hmmmm....Well, it's been dark brown (big mistake), reds, platinum blonde, (bigger mistake) and her natural color with highlights, the best in my humble (and totally ignored) opinion.

I think her natural color is a soft, dark blonde with lighter blonde highlights, which she embellished for a few years before she went plumb wild.

Luckily, she has thick healthy hair and nothing seems to faze it.

Me? My hair? Well, I've never strayed too far from my natural color. Twice darkened it because I'd had it frosted, and hated that it looked like (to me) grey  hair instead of blonde. Yes, I did it twice. So sue me. So my wedding pictures and Daughter's baby pictures have me sporting brown hair.

Otherwise, I've kept it about a shade lighter, because my dark blonde hair has a tendency to dull, especially in winter.

But I've kept my so-straight-you-could-plumb-a-house-with-it hair curly for thirty years. I think about stopping, but to tell you the truth, I really like it curly (hence thirty years) and don't want to go back to straight.

So I ask you: Is there a woman on the planet that loves her hair? The color? The thickness? The length? The curliness or straightness thereof? The greyness?

Or is it true what I've heard: Every woman wants some kind of hair they just don't have from nature.

And if that's true, why don't we like what we got when we were given out hair genes?

It's truly a  mystery to me.

Think on this, dear reader, and if you know the answer, let me know.

What a Doll

People are often fascinated by the question, "What are your earliest memories?"

Husband says he can remember almost nothing until first grade. I've had a lot of people tell me that.

I have some memories at age two - three, and maybe that's unusual.

One of them, probably all of them, come from an unusual or somewhat traumatic event.

Our neighbor two doors down was one of Daddy's best friends. They'd been raised together (in fact they were both living in the houses they were raised in).

He wasn't married, nor did he have children, so he became my slave.

Since he had no one to take care of or to shower with gifts, I was the little girl that he knew he would never have.

Mother says I was probably two, pushing three when he bought a doll for me.

I remember this doll vividly. I think I probably had it until our house burned when I was seventeen.

She was a cloth doll, with ridiculously long legs. Her arms and legs ended in soft round "mitten" shapes, and she had a bonnet sewed onto her head. She was dark blue, and her mittens and bonnet flap were plaid. She came with a little removable apron that was the same plaid.

Her face was the soft, pliable plastic that some dolls used to have and she had a little fringe of blonde bangs. Her face was sweet, with large round eyes, painted on eye lashes, and a rosebud mouth.

But there was something very different about this doll.

Oh, I had a small Betsy Wetsy doll that if Mother let me, (which she did not do very often because of the mess), I could stick a bottle of water in its mouth and she peed it right out. My cousin had a baby doll that if you turned her upside down she made a sound that sort of sounded like "Mama". Kinda.

But this doll? She was touted as the first talking doll.

If you felt of her back, you could feel a hard, round object, and on the outside of her body was a crank. And when you turned the crank, she sang, "Rock a Bye Baby."

Which terrified me. I hated that doll. Neighbor's face was crestfallen, Parent's were embarrassed, but there ya go.

I remedied the situation.

Adults kept trying to convince me to "just hold her".

Nope.

But when they gave up and began to converse amongst themselves, I got the doll and went behind the couch and tore that sucker up.

I loved her dearly after she was  mute.

The adults were rather upset, but oh, well.

You can't please all the people all the time.

After all, it was my doll, right?  

It's Raining Men er I mean

It's Raining Men Leaves!

For at least two days, non-stop, it has poured leaves. And still there are more on the trees.

I've never seen it quite so fierce or constant.

I suppose (maybe) it's because we had solid green until the cold spell, late, and then BAM! everything changed at once.

So I guess they are all dropping at once.

My cats are delirious. They stalk from window to window, tails swishing sixty miles an hour, watching them fall from the sky. I don't know if they think they are birds, or what. But it is certainly keeping them entertained.

Eli sat in the bathroom for five minutes, looking up at the skylight. He would cry, look at me expectantly, cry, look up, cry. I have no idea what he was expecting me to do, but he clearly did not like what was going on.

It's been an entertainment for me, too.

Other than pacing and racing to the bathroom yesterday, until I passed the kidney stone, I haven't done much.

Now that I'm left with an infection - fever, headache, backache, tummy ache, lying in bed and watching the leaves fall is entertaining for me too.

Okay, okay. It was for about five minutes, then absolute boredom set in and so I whined loudly to anyone who could hear me.

My baby brother gave us a scare last night after doing so well from surgery, but he is stable now, and we are all breathing easier - including him!

I wonder if he can see the leaves fall from his hospital bed. Probably not, being in ICU. He'll come home to bald trees.

Well, I think I'll go back to my well wallowed bed for a little while.

I wonder if it's still raining. Leaves, that is.

And How Are You This Morning?

Brother had a super serious surgery yesterday, and this morning things are well, but he is in a lot of pain.

Daughter stayed over with Mother because Other Brother (who lives with Mother) would be getting in late from hospital stay while Brother had surgery.

Daughter suddenly had a very  high fever in the middle of the night and now throat is "red with white junk on it." to quote Daughter.

She is at doctor's as we speak. Alone, because:

Me, myself got up in the middle of the night knowing something wasn't "quite right". And boy, oh boy, was I right.

Mr. Kidney Stone is having his way with me.

Me (in bathroom): "Hiss. Groan. Moan. Oh, lord! Hiss. Whimper..."

Husband: "Pretend you're at the beach."

Me: "Kiss my butt. Hissssss...groan, whimper."

And how is your morning?

Famous People I Have Known

Jesse James, Michael Fox, William James, Michael Nichols (but not Diane Sawyer), Henry James, Tim Rice (but not Andrew Lloyd Webber), John Hancock, James Taylor, Betty Crocker, Johnny Cash, James Bond.

I was discussing the budget with my boss one day at work, so when my phone buzzed saying I had a call, I ignored it. The secretary, thinking I was wandering around the building somewhere, came on the building intercom speaker and announced, "Kathi, James Bond is on line two for you."

My boss raised an eyebrow and said, "By all means!"

I answered the call in a cool voice, "Yes, Mr. Bond?"

I listened for a moment then replied, "That's correct. It is the men's toilet that is stopped up."

Maybe my title should have been people I have known who have a famous name.

The James Taylor I know doesn't think it's funny when people ask him if he can sing.

Betty Crocker always smiled and said yes, she could cook, but probably not as good as the other one.

Jesse James was my great-great uncle. I always thought when I was a kid how cool it was that I had an honest to goodness outlaw in my family.

Well, obviously he wasn't the Jesse James, anymore than his brother, Henry James was the famous writer of realism, nor the other brother, William, the great philosopher and psychologist (the famous Henry and William were brothers too!)

I don't think it would be much fun to have a famous name, especially a very famous name. Hey, I get annoyed when I google my name, Kathi Harper Hill and get Hill Harper, the actor/writer. I can only hope  that I show up when he googles himself sometimes.

I'm sure it can't be helped occasionally. After all, some famous people have common names: Will Smith, for instance. I bet there are a boatload of them around, and all but one get kidded about their name.

However; if you are expecting a little one in the near future, do them a favor: name them something that doesn't have a famous ring to it.

Sincerely,

Jane Doe

Books

As you know, I love books.

And for the past two days, all I've talked about are books. My books, specifically.

Having written five and working on my sixth, it is exciting to have someone who actually wants to talk about them.

Yesterday, I talked to my publisher, kicking around ideas about upcoming book signings with other authors who have books about Christmas. What a neat idea! Christmas books, cookies, punch, little kids running around, Santa...I don't know, it sort of gets me in the spirit of the season.

Today I talked to another author who was having a book signing in a neighboring county. He introduced me to the owner of the store, who welcomed me, agreed to look over my books for possible purchase and sales, and even invited me to have a book signing there.

The fellow author also told me of another place that sells local author books, which I will check out in the near future.

I'm not much of a salesperson, I don't have a lot of physical stamina, and I can't afford a publicist. So most of my books sell by word of mouth.

And if you have read and like my books, that would be your mouth.

If you are a member of a book club that has speakers from time to time, I'd love to be a guest. If there's one thing I can do besides write, it's talk.

Even if I never sell another book, I will keep on writing.

Because, you know, I have to.

I'm Not Okay, You're Not Okay

I am so tired, I am so fed up of all this political correctness garbage.

I don't mind debating with anyone, I don't mind if you come to me truly interested in what I believe.

I mind it a lot when you just want to pick a fight with me. About what I believe, no less.

Why do you care that what I believe isn't what you believe? I never shove any of my beliefs down anyone's throat.

I don't even talk about my beliefs enough, probably.

But I do try to live my beliefs.

Why in the world would this offend anyone?

On the other hand, I'm supposed to smile and think no matter what you are saying, doing, marching about, etc. is not only okay, but absolutely wonderful.

As someone has said so well: You have become so open minded your brains have fallen out.

I should respect you, while you should sneer, spew and disrespect me like it's your job.

This whole world is groaning, the animals are suffering and people are suffering and dying. Every second of every day. Because people want what they want, how they want it, when they want it.

My job on this earth is to live my beliefs. That involves loving a lot of people. And get this: loving them even if I disagree with them.

What a concept!

I wish people would be as "tolerant" of me as they demand me be of them.

Like I said, I'm tired of it.

Don't come looking for a fight anymore.

Because this time: You may just get what you asked for.

Committees

Somehow I don't think that title will get me many new readers.

I worked for thirty-one years. I was on so many committees, it's a wonder I ever got anything else done.

If it was a committee over which my boss presided, well then I just sat back and tried to be an productive member.

But if it was an assigned committee, I found myself, more often than not, the leader.

Because everyone else just sat around like mute cows and did nothing, and I had better things to do. I wanted it done and I wanted out.

You can imagine my relief (and many of you share this) of retiring and knowing that my committee days were behind me.

May I take a moment to say ha. And ha.

Guess what? I'm on a committee.

This one was assigned by God, so I know I shouldn't complain. The minute our pastor resigned and a deacon got up and said the church would be forming a pulpit committee asap, I heard God's small voice say,"Guess what? You are chosen."

He may have not  used those exact words, but close enough.

I didn't have to wait long before a deacon approached me with a speech, which I stopped and said I already knew, God had beat him to the punch. The deacon was greatly relieved that he didn't have to stoop to whining.

Well, I won't either. No, sir. No whining from me.

Even though I'm on a committee.

Again.

Mirror, Mirror, On The Wall...

All righty, children, gather near.

Make sure those hearing aids are turned up  high, but please, not high enough to squeal! Geez! Turn that thing down!

I've  made the charts in LARGE PRINT, so there shouldn't be a problem reading them.

We have plenty of cushions and even a pillow or two, but this does not, I repeat: does not, give you permission to snooze. Snoring annoys everyone! Well, at least those who can hear it.

Make sure those dentures are in nice and tight, because some of this will be hard to chew and very tough to swallow.

We've got the air in the room well ventilated because we saw what you people ate for lunch. And I ask you, WHY of all days?

But, of course, we have the heat on, because everyone is freezing, except for the few younger ones who are fanning themselves already into a frenzy.

We suggest you sit near the windows we have cracked for the afore mentioned ventilation.

Mirrors have been removed from the building, except for one, it is on soft focus, but you can still see if you have any green stuff in your teeth if you put on those big old magnifying glasses that make you look like Mr. Peepers.

So, now.

Do you want the good news or the bad news first?

Ah, never mind.

They ain't no good news.

But the news we are all hear for is this:

Every single last one of you folks are baby boomers.

That's right. The young generation. The never grow old generation. The hip generation. The hippy dippy folks who brought tie dye and strange shoes into vogue.

We have met the enemy.

And it is old age.

Makin' Up The Bed...With Help

First of all, let me say there is nothing worse than making up a bed while there is still body heat trapped under the covers. I mean, it seems to me the quilt is calling me to come back to bed.

But that's not what I'm blogging about today.

When Daughter was very small, she always wanted to help me do whatever it was I was doing, like making up the bed.

Now, if you've ever had a toddler "help" you, you understand that everything takes at least twice as long to do.

Of course, Daughter is grown (sorta) and I have to ask for her help. Twice, or thrice.

Her toddler kind of help has been replaced by cat help.

Usually, Lily suddenly appears when I start making up the bed. She sees this as an invitation to be petted. She's afraid if you reach down while she's on the floor, but if she is up level with you on the bed, she can't wait.

Then Frost jumps up, after hissing and growling at Lily, who looks at him as if to say, "You are one stupid cat, man. I am fully loaded and you are full of hot air."

Which is true.

Anyway, he sees this as an opportunity to stalk the snake that has suddenly appeared under the covers (his tail). He watches it closely, then slowly rises up on his back legs and pounces! Never catches the thing, because when he pounces, his tail whips out behind him and is gone. Alas.

He never tires of this and wants to do it over and over.

Then Eli joins the fray. His job is to watch the lint brush I use every morning on the foot of the bed where the small "cat" throw is, where one, two or three (even four if I'm very unfortunate) cats bed down for the night.

I have to watch Eli as closely as he is watching the lint brush, because the back and forth motion is irresistible to him, and if I ain't pretty quick, I'm liable to get slashed.

This equals about forty-five pounds of feline on top of the covers.

Try smoothing them out with that on top.

So, it's no wonder my bed looks like a wreck most the time. This is a better excuse than the real one, which is I have to lie down two or three times a day to rest my back and legs, so there's no reason to make it up "fancy". That only happens when company is coming and likely to go upstairs for something.

I know this has been an exciting blog for you.

I feel the excitement and the expectation of your venture out today to the nearest pet store to purchase at least three, if not four, cats.

At least, when I am a thirty years older and am officially the crazy cat lady, I won't be alone.

Hurry! The pet store closes at six on Saturdays.

Gotta Have a New Pad, Baby

That sounds so cool, doesn't it?

Sigh.

It actually means I have to have a new digital pad for my oven.

I think I mentioned in a previous blog that some of the number pads had stopped working. 

Well, I got down to the 1, the 4, and the 7. I could do 477 for cornbread and it would beep rudely at me and change it to 475.

But rolls and such that have to be baked at three something is a thing of the past.

I knew the guy was coming this afternoon to take a look, so I was afraid to start dinner. Husband went out and brought it back.

The guy didn't come until almost five o'clock, so I could have made that potato, broccoli and cheese soup I was hankering for.

Maybe tomorrow.

Of course, he didn't actually fix my stove. Oh, no.

He had to go to his secret place and will let me know how much it's gonna cost me.

Then, if I say okay, (what else can I say?) he'll order the part.

Then he'll work me in to repair the oven.

Who knows?

I may be able to bake rolls by springtime.

I'll let you know.

Flu Shots and Graveyards

So, that was my day, how was  yours?

Mother, Daughter and I went together to get our flu shots.

Mother got a super duper honkin' special flu shot because of her age (over sixty-five). Her frail little nothing arms show nary a scratch from the injection.

Daughter got a regular flu shot in her skinny, iddy biddy arms. Nary a scratch on her, either.

I got a regular flu shot in my big old ham hocker arm and I have a bloody, bruised spot with a large pump knot under the skin.

Go figure.

After that, we visited Mount Vernon Church's cemetery.

What a fun day!

No, really.

We were looking for any grave with the name Sawyer attached to it, and by golly we found two. Mother knew they would be buried among the Shepard's, because her granddaddy's sister had married a Shepard.

The two we found, as best Mother could figure, were her great-grandparents.

She really enjoyed walking around looking at different tombstones, reminiscing about people she knew.

It was a pretty brisk day, but other than that, the ground was flat and the trip pleasant.

Made us hungry.

Graveyards will do that to you, I supposed. I guess that's why everybody gets fed so much after a funeral.

We all ate together, which was fun. We are going out together less and less, because Mother doesn't feel like going out.

So today was a red letter day.

Flu shots, graveyards and all.