If You're Ever in a Jam, Here I Am

Still thinking on friendship.

As noted in the previous blog, I have friendships that have been (up to now) lifelong. They are full of deeply textured, woven together memories, so that a word or cue is all it takes for us both to have the same idea, the same plan, the same laugh. We remember each other when we were babes or even babies. We remember each other when we had no wrinkles and every friend still had hair.

 We are loyal not only to one another, but to those dear children we remember each other being. I think we are as protective of those children as we are of our present selves, and rightly so.

More and more of us are losing the other folks in our lives who remember us as children - our parents.

Then there are new friends. Newer by relationship and some newer by age. Bright as a penny, full of mystery and the unknown, each conversation reveals more things about each other that delight us and make us eager to learn even more. We feel protective toward the newness, and with a true budding friendship, are very careful to guard it against harm.

Because in that way, several years from  now, they, too will be an old friend.

Really cool, huh?

Friendship, friendship, it's a perfect blendship!
When other friendships have been forgate,
Ours will still be great!
A lottle-dottle, lottle-dottle, chuck, chuck, chuck!

If You're Ever Up a Tree, Call on Me

I am grateful for all the friends I have. Some have been "mine" all my life.

I have 'lifers', whom I don't remember living without, because we were infants together and now are geriatrics. (Shut up.)

I have grade school friends, who came into my life because of school closings and mergers or parents moving them here.

One of these grade school friend still works, (boo), but we see each other as often as possible, which is to say five or six times a year. And we live in the same little town!

That doesn't mean we don't keep in touch all the time.

Thanks to telephones, e-mail and Internet, it's a pretty constant thing. And if we need one another, if someone in our family is in trouble, we are johnny on the spot if we can be.

And if there is a new found great book, honey, move out of the way! It's 9-1-1 time to reach her.

We give each other advise.

She was talking about the prejudices we may or may not have, and she was wondering about one in particular. Was it a prejudice, or was she doing the right thing? We talked it over. I hope I helped.

She talked me through how to kill, gut, skin, and cook a squirrel or rabbit.

And in these days and times, I'm telling you:

I'm not sure which was the most valuable conversation.

Friendship: Helping each other in a vast array of ways.

How Women Do Things

You may have read how women and men are different.

You may have thought, "Boy, women and men are different!"

You may have just been involved in something that made you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that men and women are different.

I am a woman in pain. Plus, I think I'm getting sick, but don't tell nobody.

I am blessed to have a husband who has a servant's heart and who loves me, and tries his best to help me in any way  he can.

But today, we came into the house and I said I was going to lie down for a few minutes. Of course, when I got upstairs, I realized I forgot the ice pack. When I asked Husband if he would get it for me, he did not hesitate to say yes.

So, I am going to lie down, right? But first, I get stuff out of the dryer and put stuff in the dryer. I take my meds that were due an hour ago. I feed the cat. I look over the  mail that is laying on the bed. I put my manuscript in the three hole folder I have for it.

What is wrong with me?

I can't stop.I can't stop even though my throat hurts, my feet hurt, my back hurts, my everydangthing hurts.

Husband says, "I'm gonna lay down in the recliner for a minute."

So, what does he do?

All together now:

He lays down in the recliner for a couple of hours.

I will ask you again:

What is wrong with me?

I suspect it's the difference between a woman and a man.

Gloom, Despair and Agony on Me

Okay, well, maybe it ain't that bad.

But my sit down is tore up.

Something has happened to a muscle or life force on my right side, running around to the front. I am swole up and when I sit down the pain becomes pretty unbearable after just a few minutes.

I'm on ice, which I HATE.

But I admit, it is helping the whatever is wrong with me.

I hate to whine in writing because when I get better I might have to read it.

 I'm telling you this, dear reader, because blogs may be short and even skipped for a few days.

I can only hope you miss them as much as I do.

Waiter, There's a Fly in My Soup

Almost two years ago Husband, Daughter, and myself were dining at a restaurant.

Daughter was having tomato soup, and suddenly a big old horse fly landed right in the middle of her soup.

Husband, who never kills anything except scorpions, and he kills them, because if he doesn't I will kill him, reached over with his spoon and pushed that fly down into the murky depths of that particular bowl of red sea, parting it briefly right down the middle.

Daughter and I were stunned. One, because this was opposite Husband's usual nature. And two, there was this big old horsefly, now neatly and completely dead, somewhere in her bowl of soup.

And I actually got to say, "Waiter, there's a fly in her soup."

Ha!

But since that time an extremely bizarre thing has occurred. At least twice a month some sort of insect winds up in Daughter's soup or drink.

At first it was only flies. But it has branched out to gnats, lady bugs, and those little fruit flies.

Is this some sort of insect revenge, put upon the wrong person because the bowl of soup lay on her placemat? Can there be a collective mind in the insect world, one which has made itself up to torture Daughter till the end of her miserable, bug fearing life?

Just moments ago I heard, "ARRGHHHH! I can't believe this!"

It was a fruit fly in her tea. 

And she had drunk almost the whole thing before she saw it.

Coincidence?

I think not.

Every Which Way But Loose

I've been turned every which way but loose.

You might guess: I've been to the chiropractor.

And I've been wrassled.

I've been attacked by a nail gun, but I will give her credit: I don't think it was loaded.

I've been turned nearly upside down.

I had burning fire on the upper part of my back and ice on my lower back, all at the same time.

My arm has been rotated like she was trying to crank an old engine. (maybe she was!)

I've been given instructions and told to come back Saturday.

Boy, I hope this makes me feel better.

If it don't, it's liable to kill me dead.

Games People Play

I love to play games: cards, Trivial Pursuit, Quirkel, Scrabble, Dizzios, Shoots and Ladders, Candy Land, Chinese Checkers, you name it.

Husband, in his lofty, snooty voice informs  me, "I don't play games."

Well, la de dah.

Daughter will play stuff with me, and she actually enjoys it.

I have started playing Scrabble online.

I don't really care if I get beat or if I win when I'm playing online.

I think it's because I get really stinky combos of letters,  plus it's hard to concentrate and get all strategic when you are playing a bunch of games at once and can't really study the board all that much.

When Daughter was little, I was the parent who showed no mercy when we were playing games. Husband was the parent who let her win every time. We figured that would teach her how to play competitively without crushing her ego.

Sometimes our church has fun nights and we play all sorts of games. When my Sunday School class comes to my house to eat, we always wind up playing a game called "Catch Phrase."

If we had close neighbors, they would probably call the police because we get really, really rowdy.

I also like to be introduced to new games.

I hope it keeps my brain from getting any older than it already is, headed in its downward spiral toward "Who are you, again?" phase.

So, I ask you, where does that leave Husband?

Don't ask  him, he won't remember.

For Southern, Press Three

I have been having a tiny bit of difficulty lately getting hold of doctor's offices. I mean, a real person with whom to speak. And by tiny I mean almost more than I can freaking stand.

The one doctor whose office was set up to actually be answered by someone, now is on a switch board and, once you can actually get off hold, you have to request her office. Then you get the receptionist that only weeks before was a few rings away. Just for the record, they don't like it either. It, like  many other bizarre decisions in the corporate world, was made by someone who knows nothing about the business.

Another complaint I have about voice mail kind of stuff ( and they are legion - my complaints and voice mail), is the garbage "If you speak English, press one." Last time I checked I'm in an English speaking country, so, I ask, what else should I speak?

But once you actually talk to a person, dang if they speak English. At least in a speed recognizable to human ears (and I talk fast).

There should be an option that goes something like: "If you speak Southern, press three."  Now we're talkin'!

"Hey, kin I hep ye?"

"I reckon. How's yore Aint Nel Sue?"

"Wahl, she's doin a right smart better. I 'preciate you a'askin me. How's yore mama?"

"That's what Ahm callin fer. She's ailin agin. I know we's 'posed to be 'spectin it, when they git up in yars, but, dang, it's hard."  (sniff)

"Now, honey, don't you cry on me. I know it's a hard thang. But we'll get old Doc Adams to see her right quick like. She'll be right as rain in no time."

"Thank ye, Bertha. You always was a angel."

Now, isn't that better?

And then there is the software where you talk into your computer instead of type.

Not if you speak southern, you don't.

Husband purchased one of these several years ago. Now, he didn't need it, but it was a new gadget, so of course, he had to have it.

The directions said there shouldn't be a lot of unnecessary background noise that the mic might pick up while dictating.

So, Husband banished Daughter and me from speech. Nay, not just speech, but any  noise at all. No sneezing, no coughing, no blowing of nose, and certainly no laughter.

Husband was on the other side of the wall. Daughter and I were sitting side by side trying to read. Except Husband in his very southern Appalachian voice, would drawl into the computer a sentence: "The large tiger jumped off the rocks with power and attacked the man."

The computer: "The large Tie Jerk jumped off the rocks with pear and untacked the man."

Husband: "Scratch that." (this is what he said when misunderstood or had a change of mind.)

Every sentence he said was misunderstood, and then we would hear "Scratch that."

Did you know you can laugh so hard tears roll down your face, you can be holding your belly because you are laughing so hard, and you don't have to make a sound?  It's true.

Wasn't long before Husband scratched the whole idea and went back to his two finger typing, which serves him well unto this day. He's up to five words a minute.

Wait. Scratch that. Make it six.

Blame it on the Folks

During this harsh winter, when there have been hours at a time that we have been unable to leave our house, we have found relief.

We eat.

I was a bit apprehensive when putting on my jeans yesterday for fear they wouldn't meet in the  middle. I have been watching myself practically balloon out this past week.

They did fasten, and to town we went.

But, truly, we have cooked and eaten like there was no tomorrow. Does snow increase the appetite?

Salmon, chicken, steak, pork chops, spaghetti, vegetable lasagna, taters, corn, beans, peas. I'm exhausted just thinking about it.

I do believe it's obvious whose fault this is, however: our folks.

Did they not have to fatten up during the winter months for the onslaught of hard labor come spring and summer?

Look at what all you will have to do when springtime finally peers over the horizon and smiles.

You'll have to- um - cut some fresh flowers to bring into the house. Pay the yard boys for mowing and stuff. Open a window to let in fresh air. Close the window so you can stop sneezing and call the cleaning lady to dust and vacuum all the pollen off everything. And you probably have a library book or two that needs returning.

See what I mean.

All the fault lies with our folks.

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.

Let's Get Newsy, Shall We?

Did ya'll know it's supposed to snow up to two inches tonight? 

Do NOT shoot the messenger. Not even with one of them stupid little cupid arrows that is oh so popular on this historic day of the year.

Did ya'll know I was almost a Valentine's baby?

That's right. Born a week earlier, Mother said every gift she received from flowers to cards had something to do with Valentine's Day.

Most of  ya'll don't know I spent the biggest bulk of today at a doctor's office. Daughter to the left of me, Mother to the right.

I was done having me some serious back pain, so you can imagine what sitting in those really expensive plastic chairs that doctor's offices spend so much on for two and one half hours did for me.

Cured me right up, you say, laughing.

May a pox be on your head.

Speaking of poxes, (or is it poxi?) Mother had shingles more than a year ago on her head and around her eye.

She was seeing this doctor for a terrible inflammation of her colon she suffered a few weeks back, and he was diligently trying to get to the root of what was wrong.

But  you'll never guess what Mother wanted to talk about.

At first he tried to interrupt, but he finally saw the futility of this when that woman gets on a roll, so he subsided and just hung his head and said, "Okay."  Silence from him, talking from Mother. "Okay." Silence from him, talking from....well, you get the picture.

She ended all her history of ailments with a question and he brightened up. "First," he said, "You must answer my question." 

Poor thing. He walked right into that one.

So he finally (did I mention two and one half hours) sent us on our merry way to have blood drawn from Mother.

He asked her if it was okay if, when he found out the blood results for her and another test already done on Daughter, if he could just call me.

They both said yes. He looked unbelievably relieved.

Then he turned to me and said, "Call me Monday and remind me to call you Monday."

Did I mention the doctor is a man?

Lord!

Of course, I want Daughter and Mother to be medically fine. I want all their ailments to desist. I don't like people I love suffering.

I love me pretty good, too. I don't like my suffering either.

So, I'll call the doc Monday and remind him to call me Monday.

And we'll see where we go from there.

Meanwhile, where's the hot pad and the muscle relaxants?

Snow Blind

If you live in the Southeast and have bothered to look out your window, you have seen a lot of white stuff.

Some folks, unfortunately, got ice and are suffering the results of it - no electricity.

But here in the mountains we got mostly snow.

Lots and lots of beautiful snow.

I've hardly been able to function because it's difficult to do so with a camera stuck in front of your face.

So much fading beauty!

Made me think back to the many snows in my childhood, which pretty much petered out after the blizzard of 93.

It's like mother nature blew a gasket or something.

Of course, in 2010, we had several big snows, including one on Christmas day, which made up for the absence of snow, a little.

I'm a snow lover. I am a little kid when it snows. I can't help it.

I knew I'd seen a picture around somewhere not long ago, so I went scouting for it.

It's one of the girls I grew up with and myself, posing for the camera in January, 1964. I was nine years old. I remember this well. Daddy was taking pictures, which he almost never did. He told us to act like we were having a snowball fight.

So we did:

 

It was magical then, it was magical today.

 

 

When Times Was Hard

I mentioned the other day about being the guest author at a book club. Most of the comments about my book were complimentary, which, of course, I lapped up like a thirsty dog.

One lady, who was very complimentary otherwise, said the one thing she noticed that she thought odd about the book was I did not represent the repressive poverty that one "always associates with Appalachia."

This made me think, which I need to do a lot more.

We discussed this, and I mentioned that I did talk about it briefly, but that it was also seen through the eyes of a child.

Early on, when Missouri is reflecting on her life, she remembers how she and her husband had fed and kept up her sister and her family because the husband had lost his job at the sawmill and they didn't have a big enough garden, etc.

But I think the scene that illustrates poverty through the eyes of a child is reminiscing about old Aunt Dulcy Gardner who was 93 when Missouri (who is 87 in 1997) and Kizzie, Missouri's sister, were children. Dulcy remembered the Civil War. Dulcy was a great story teller, and Missouri and Kizzie loved to hear her tell tales.

Poverty as seen through the eyes of a child from "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree":

A few times when Dulcy would feel 'poorly', Missouri and Kizzie would be taken to her house to spend the night. Dulcy's house was not much bigger than their smoke house, and it was magical to the girls because of this. The front porch had a plank  nailed between the two posts and laid flat, so Dulcy could put her pots of flowers on it in the summer; bright spots among the little unpainted shack. The house had two rooms: the front room was her sitting room and bedroom. There was a large rock fireplace that dominated this room, (in fact, the fireplace still stood to this day) and her bed sat catty-cornered across from it. Dulcy had hung a quilt on each wall to frame the little bed; and she told the children this helped warm the walls in the winter so she wouldn't freeze. There was a night table, two straight chairs for company, and an ancient rocker that had come from 'across the pond'.

The other room was the kitchen, and it held a wood cook stove. The table was five feet long, made of large oak planks, and this was what was 'made up' for a bed for the girls when they spent the night. Much giggling occurred about them sleeping on the kitchen table. And there was always at least one cat to curl up at their feet to sleep. So winter nights were always toasty. Summer nights were torture, and they usually drug the table out on the porch to sleep there, trying to catch a breeze, for Dulcy was old and cold all the time. No one could stand being in her house for more than a few minutes but Dulcy when the weather turned warm.

I think most people today would believe they lived in poverty if they had to live where and  how Dulcy lived. And maybe Dulcy knew she was poor. But the children saw it quite differently.

I've heard people say, "I was poor as a kid, but I didn't know it."

It's true I did not address the hardscrabble poverty that is so popular in Appalachian fiction. It's touched on in the book in other places, but not much.

It just wasn't my story to tell.

Blog was Closed Due to Birthday Trauma

Sorry I  haven't been around since Friday. But I had to take a break.

It was my birthday on Friday, and I turned sixty.

I don't know how that happened. I've checked the calender many times, and I reckon it's right.

I don't know  how much longer I'll be able to blog, gettin' so old and all, but I'll try to carry on for a little longer. If the text gets all wobbly and whatnot, you'll know it's the palsy from advanced age. I didn't want you worrying about your computer, thinking it was on the blink.

One of Mother's friends, who is eighty-seven, called and asked me how it felt to be sixty.

Me: "I don't know. I'm still in shock."

Her: (laughing): " It's been so long since I was sixty, I thought I'd ask somebody who might know."

Everything is always about perspective, isn't it?

Which reminds me of a conversation I read. The discussion was about people in Heaven, and if they knew what was going on right now on Earth.

The person questioning was saying they couldn't possibly, because how could they be happy if they saw what a mess we were in down here?

And the writer answered by saying their perspective would be quite different.

I imagine so.

So, here's the deal. I've got a thoughtful blog coming up tomorrow, if I have electricity. I really would like input on it, if you have electricity.

Storm's a'comin', they say.

So go out there and buy that bread and milk. But on second thought, hold off on the milk unless you have a generator.

In Memory

Of a bunch of chickens.

PETA, PETA, PETA.

What about in memory of all the people out there?

I know there are some memorials. It's far better than the homemade crosses and flowers that begin to look pretty worn quickly due to weather.

But let's think on this here a minute.

I guess PETA people are vegans.

Unless, of course they  just pick a cause, any cause, and go with it.

But don't they know they made most people laugh and shake their heads?

I admit to being hypocritical. I don't hunt, don't like to think about hunting, don't like to read or hear about hunting.

But I love me some fried chicken, a good steak, or tenderloin between my biscuits.

Bambi is my friend.

But I also know clearly that if I became hungry and had to provide out here in the wilderness with no Piggly Wiggly, I'd eat Bambi.

There, I said it.

I am very tender hearted. I have pets. I can't stand to see pets mistreated. If I saw someone beating a horse I'd likely have to be held back to keep from putting the whip to the man's back.

But I would never, in a million  years, think of putting up a ten foot memorial because a bunch of chickens got killed in a wreck.

The only time (so far) I have agreed with our present president is when he killed a fly while he was on air because it was buzzing around his face. PETA attacked him for it.

I've read some other really interesting stuff they've thrown at folks, accusing them of cruelty.

These people need to find something to do.

I hope they do some good stuff, and if they do, I wish they'd just stick to that.

But I will say one thing:

Foghorn Leghorn would be proud.

Book Club!

I've always wanted - longed, actually - to be a part of a book club. It sounds so sophisticated, so urban, so posh.

Yesterday I finally got to attend a book club meeting.

The discussion was about the book, "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree" by Kathi Harper Hill.

Hey! That's me!  Wow, just wow!!!!

Some were in the process of reading the book, one person had not read it at all, and others had completed the book.

I was one of the ones who had finished the book. But just barely. I thought I'd never get that sucker finished.

However; I've read it since I finished writing it, and if I do say so myself, it's a pretty good book. IF: a. you like Appalachia b: you like southern humor and c: you enjoy reading about generations of family and their relationships with one another.

It's not a mystery book, or a whodunit, or a love story. Unless you consider the love of family, then it is a love story.

So, like, I thought I might be on the hot seat, but that really didn't happen. There was lively discussion, lots of laughter, and really intelligent questions.

I could even answer some of them.

Ha!

They were kind enough to let me read from the first chapter of my new book (not out yet), "The Year of Nine: Where the Rain Begins".

They laughed while I read.

One can only hope they were laughing at the contents in the sense that they thought it was amusing and not "she actually thinks this book will sell?"

It was hard to believe an hour and a half  had passed and it was time to pack up and leave.

Who knows?

Maybe they'll let me come back again when my new book comes out.

Meanwhile, I think I''ll enjoy being a part of the audience.

I bet you'll see how much more sophisticated I am the next time we run into each other.

Losing Weight

Do you have any idea how difficult it was to type the name of the post without falling off my chair due to laughing so hard?

This is the month of my birthday. Husband (as mentioned in a previous blog) always gets an Italian Cream cake for me. I get one a year, so I deserve it, right?

I also got a free birthday coupon from Ruby Tuesday. That would be two red velvet cupcakes.

And a free desert from Copeland's, also known as the Cheesecake Factory. 

Need I say more?

Got another free one for a desert from Caraba's, the most bestest wonderfulest place to eat in the world.

My walking routine has been kaput for some months due to my illness, rain, cold, rain, cold, ice, snow, rain.

Lose weight?

I'd have a better chance of winning the lottery.

Without buying a ticket.

I think I read somewhere that people used to swallow some kind of worm to lose weight.

I don't know what kind of worm, and I plan on keeping it that way.

If I thought about it enough, I might lose a few pounds anyway, cause that's, like, gross.

I have this war inside anyway.

I'm gonna be s- six - older in a few days, so what difference does it make if I need to lose a dozen pounds? Am I going to put on a bikini?  Lord, no.  Am I entering a beauty contest? Nope. Do I need to snare me another man? Ain't looking. And even if I was, if he couldn't take a dozen extra pounds, I'd look right over him.

On the other hand, I miss my favorite pair of blue jeans actually zipping up while I'm standing.  And I figure a dozen less pounds would be good for my back and knees, not to mention my vanity.

What to do, what to do.

I'll decide when all the cake is gone.

I'll keep you posted.

Food for Thought

My family's middle name is food. If we had a family crest, it would be a carved piece of fried chicken and a biscuit.

For some reason (maybe it is because my middle name is food, I don't know), I was thinking back to Saturday nights when I was little.

My daddy loved steak. He loved crab meat, fish, shrimp, etc. too. But he really loved steak. I don't know who taught him how to eat all these foods when he was raised on beans and taters, cornbread and biscuit with the occasional piece of fried chicken or pork roast.

I remember, back to Saturday nights, I would get a few pieces of Daddy's steak. It was bloody and more or less warm. I would also get a few bites of Mother's steak, which was crispy critter dead. As you might not be too shocked to know, I can eat steak any way I can get it, but I usually eat medium well because of health safety stuff.

I know you were on the edge of your seat wondering how I ate my steak.

Since Daughter has been sick, we have obsessed about her eating: what she can tolerate, how much she can eat, how much she has eaten, etc.

Now Mother is unwell. She called my sister-in-law to come see about her. She (my mother, not my sister-in-law) ain't eating worth a flip and she's taking medication anyway, medication that she should have food in her belly before taking.

So now she's having terrible stomach pain. Maybe it's an ulcer, Daughter's is and their symptoms are similar.

Today's conversations with Brothers have been lengthy and only about the food my mother does and does not eat.

Well, her stubborn, do as she pleases no matter what you say attitude, was mentioned too.

I called to check on her a little while ago, and although she told me she was beginning to hurt again and if things got much worse she would have to "go somewhere" (ER, I reckon), she was most frustrated because she'd sent Brother to the store and he'd got chicken noodle soup instead of just chicken soup, which she had underlined twice on the list because, "I am never going to get Granddaughter's chicken and dumplins made without the right ingredients."

So you can see, dear readers, my family revolves around food, eaten and uneaten (leave the uneaten around long enough and Husband eats it).

PS: I got my birthday cake a week early. It's Italian Cream.