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