Happy Anniversary Baby, Got You on my Mind

Ha! Now you will hum this song the rest of the evening, not knowing the rest of the words.

Me too.  All Day Long!

Today marks the 32nd anniversary of our wedding day. I don't know if I've blogged this story before, and am far too lazy to look back over 600 blogs, so I'm tellin' it again.

Live with it.

Husband was very romantic in the way he proposed. He was living in another town, and try as we might, could not stay off the phone with each other.

This was before cell phones.

Our phone bills that month were a little high. His was just over $300 and mine was just under.

It was alarming. So he said, "Well, I guess we might as well get married."

Be still my heart.

Anyway, he came to my house as usual the night before we were to wed. I cooked supper, we cleaned up and watched TV for a little while. About ten p.m. he decided to call it a night and go on home to his mama and daddy's.

We opened the door and gasped.

There was ice hanging from trees and power lines. The yard was covered in it. And it was snowing with a vengeance.

I called the gate and asked if he could make it out. (I lived at Lake Arrowhead for those of you who know, and for those of you who don't, the answer was, "Lord, no!")

The tiny, narrow, winding mountain roads were not to be traveled upon.

After a few hours of hysterical behavior (Husband, not me), I decided to go to bed. He'd made the dreaded phone call to his mama telling her he was spending the night. I shared this information with my mother about a year ago. Only because she overheard me telling the story to someone else.

I went to bed with Husband pacing the living room, muttering, "I've waited 35 years to get married, and now this."

We called the gate the next morning, and the answer was still a resounding no. However; when I told them we were supposed to get  married (!), they changed their minds. Husband had a front wheel drive. The guards at the gate made a plan. If we weren't there in fifteen minutes (for a usual five minute ride) they would start looking for us and pull us out of whatever ditch/ravine we were in and get us to the church on time. (another annoying tune to get stuck in your head!)

By creeping we made it, and many minutes later made it into town.

We went to the florist. We were the only customers there, and she'd just made it in. She told us she couldn't take any orders because she was the only one there and had to make deliveries, there was a big funeral that afternoon.

Once again, when told we were getting married that afternoon, her plans changed and she threw caution to the wind and made me a small bouquet and Husband a boutonniere.

By the time we arrived at the church, we were pretty much done in.

But the worst was yet to come, as they'd forgotten to turn on the heat in the church and it was freezing in there!

We did get married, despite all the barriers (one I didn't mention because who knows who's reading this? But it was by far the most, um, amusing.)

Here we are, 32 years later, still married.

And they said it wouldn't last.

In Everyone's Life a Little Rain Must Fall...and Flowers will Usually Follow

The moon was high and pale, almost full. The sky was still black with wispy clouds hurrying by on their way to somewhere else.

The wind cut through  my coat as I stood waiting by the car for Husband to lock the door so we could leave.

It was our anniversary and we were headed south. I was beginning to get hungry.

We had decided not to spend a lot of money; no gifts, only eating at a  nice restaurant to celebrate. We'd had some extra expenses lately, and being as we were dumb enough to get married a month after Christmas, our pockets were a little empty.

I had anticipated the day, being with Husband of thirty-one years, just us, just 'doing', not rushing or anything.

Then at 4:45 a.m. the phone rang and it was Other Brother saying to "Put your britches on and get down here."

Mother was sick again.

Of course, we were all afraid it was another blockage and the ambulance hurriedly took her away, with all of us in tow.

Turns out she has a U.T.I. and maybe some other stuff, the tests will determine what that might be. She's losing blood somewhere as her count as gone from 12 at the doc's a few weeks ago to 10 when she was in the ER yesterday to 8 a little while ago.

But she is feeling better this morning, after fierce antibiotics given I.V. 

So, our anniversary didn't turn out exactly like we'd planned. Most of the day Husband was in the E.R. waiting room and I was in the E.R. with Mother.

We did get to eat out - if Wendy's gobbled down in the hospital counts.

When we got home though, we had flowers. Daughter had written in a card words sweet enough to make a grown man cry and had spent part of her meager money on a bouquet for us.

Older, younger, all the generations surround us.

Troubled or celebratory, they are the tapestry that makes our lives rich.

Thank God for what you have.

Homecoming

I don't know where you spent your Saturday, but some of mine was spent at the graveyard.

I knew I wasn't ready for it yet, because my back is out again, and every step I took let me know I was very much alive.

Tomorrow is homecoming where my mother's husband (yes, my daddy), her parents, her daddy's parents and her mother's parents are buried. Also various siblings, cousins and whatnot. Translated, I have a set of grandparents, great-grandparents and great-great grandparents buried there.

Mother purchased flowers for Daddy's grave, her parents' and grandparents' graves.

Here's the thing: my daddy is buried with all my mother's people. His folks are buried at another church in the county, where all his father's people are. His mother's people are buried at two different churches, all in this county.

Anyway, I asked why Daddy was buried there, and Mother said that's where he wanted to be.

I was looking at tombstones while we were waiting on Husband to come back from the "cage" where you throw all the old flowers. My great-grandmother has all her children, save one, buried there. She outlived all of them but two. There is a three year old, a sixteen year old, a twenty-seven year old, and my grandfather who was sixty-six when he died. She had another son, who is buried in Etowah, Tenn. He was sixty-two when he died. I know what killed all of them but one; the three year old. Mother can't remember and if I ever knew, well, I can't remember either.

Taking flowers to graves doesn't interest me much. But looking at old tombstones does. I've heard stories about these people all my life, and I guess this makes them more "real" to me.

All I know is I was glad to leave, glad it wasn't a hot or rainy day, and glad I could return to my bed, tiresome as it gets.

Hope your Saturday was filled with fun, too.

The Nose Knows, No?

I cooked dinner today. (please, hold the applause.)

I had decided on bar-b-cue chicken. Now, I mix my sauce up with whatever strikes my fancy, and, although it is never the same, I'll have to say it's never turned down by my family.

So I was rummaging in the fridge for whatever, and saw one of those little plastic cups you get when you eat take-out food at home.

Looked like bar-b-cue sauce, and I thought that would add some interest to whatever else I chose.

Fortunately for me, and for the rest of my family, when I took off the lid I smelled of it.

It was a very dark chocolate sauce.

Now, I love chocolate as much as the next person, but I'm not sure the world (or at least my house) is ready for chocolate chicken.

But now that I've said that, it don't sound too bad! Hey! Won't the fair be here in a few weeks? Don't they sell fried Twinkies and crap like that? What better for the main meal than chicken (fried, of course) with a warm chocolate sauce poured over it? You could use chocolate gravy to go on the mashed taters.

I have actually seen a recipe for chocolate gravy. You eat it over biscuits, I reckon.

The importance of smell is pretty big in the kitchen. My eye couldn't tell the difference between a rich, dark tomato based sauce and a rich, dark, chocolate sauce. But, boy, my nose could.

I've looked at meat, and it's looked okay, but when I smelled of it....urk.

I've looked at exotic food and  thought it looked okay, but when I smelled of it...double urk.

Our  noses are pretty good. To breathe fresh mountain air, a baby's skin, the pages of a new book, the first rose of summer....

They save our lives sometimes, too. Smoke, poisonous fumes. I think danger has a smell all of it's own, sometimes.

Anyway, between Daughter and myself, we  had fine chicken along with a yummy squash casserole, mashed taters, crowder peas, salad and rolls.

I'd invite you for leftovers, but there weren't any.

Sprang Brangs Flares, Don't It?

One of my grandmothers was a real flower nut. She planted all sorts of blooming things, my favorite being the Hyacinth. Man, those flowers smell good! Husband has planted a few for me, to bring their fragrance into my kitchen. Pink ones smell the best.

Every year, my grandfather would put us all in the car, and we'd take a trip to a mountain where he knew he could easily access rich, black dirt. He'd pop open the truck, get out his shovel and feed sacks, and fill them up. Meanwhile, my grandmother would set out the picnic lunch she'd packed for us, and we'd have a feast before we set off for home.

They dug in the dirt a lot. My grandfather had a big garden behind the house in town. When they sold the grocery store and moved to the country, he had a huge garden.

I guess it was in their blood to grow their own food.

I wish I'd paid more attention.

Husband's parents were the same way, and he paid about as much attention as I did.

However; we attempted our first garden last year, and all in all, it was a success. We are eager to do this again.

Well, I'm eager to watch him do it again.

Back to flowers: My other grandmother liked to have a garden, too. She'd rather be in the yard and garden than the house any day.

Much of my book, "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree" comes from true stories. One of which is about my grandmother. As I said, she'd rather be working outdoors. And when my grandfather told her father he wanted to marry her, he said, "Well, she ain't much fer house keepin'. But she's the best little hoer in Gilmer County."

When Husband and I first built our house and started planting stuff in the yard, we knew that yeller bell is really Forsythia. Hydrangies are hydrangeas. And so on.

But we looked two seasons for Cannies until we stumbled across them at a hardware store. They are really Cannas. But with our deeply rooted Appalachian language, who knew?

And to make things really clear, it is not pee-AH-neez it is pee-ON-es.

Please, people. Get it right!