You Never Know What You'll See With Night Vision Goggles

Wow.  What's up with the chick who wrote that last post? She sounds like a real downer.

So, uh, it turns out that when you turn 40, at least in my experience, no matter what kind of grand plans you have about 40 being the new 30 and kicking 40's ass, sometimes your body has other plans.  Can you say hormones gone haywire.  Good times.  Good times.

Let's cleanse the palate with funny story, shall we?  Tonight as we were watching America's Funniest Home Videos, I was reminded of the time we almost submitted a tape to the show. 

When Bubba was small, he was obsessed with trains, as many little boys are.  We fed that obsession with a steady diet of Thomas the Tank engine DVDs, The Polar Express, and his Polar Express train that he got for Christmas many years ago.

When we heard about the Polar Express train ride that you could take in the North Carolina mountains, we knew we had to do it.  You might be familiar with such things -- you go and get on the train, it goes about an hour in one direction while you have hot cocoa and listen to The Polar Express read over the intercom.  You stop in a quaint little town for about 30 minutes and then you head back down the track while Santa makes his way down the train visiting with all the kids and handing out jingle bells.  What's not to love about that?

Being relatively new parents, of course wehad  the obligatory video camera and because we had only one child we actually got it out and used it.  Poor Punkin, no video of her exists.

Anyhoo, we had a great time as we chugged down the tracks.  I taped Bubba looking out the window and drinking his hot chocolate.  There was a family across the aisle from us and while we didn't actually talk to them, we all smiled at each other in the friendly way that you do when you're sharing a pleasant experience with strangers.  Their kids were cute and we smiled at their happiness.  They returned the favor, obviously enjoying Bubba's joy at his first train ride.

As it turns out, our track went through a tunnel.  It was pitch black as we made we our way through and it was kind of cool to experience that total blackness.  On the way back down the track, Mr. Daddy had the bright idea to use the night vision lens on the video camera to video tape ourselves.

As we entered the tunnel, I flipped on the night vision switch.  Mr. Daddy and Bubba glowed back at me, both obviously blind in the complete darkeness.  I decided to pan around and see what else there was to see. 

I panned over to the family across the aisle and they WERE TOTALLY MAKING OUT!!  The dad had the daughter stiff armed away from them and the mom had her hand firmly on the little boy.  I don't know WHERE their other hands were, but they were GOING AT IT.

 I was so shocked that I quickly turned the camera off and a few seconds later we came back into daylight.  Mr. Daddy took one look at my face and my wide eyes and was like "What?"

"I'll have to tell you later," I managed to squeak out.  Needless to say, I couldn't make eye contact with the nice family across the aisle for the rest of the trip.   When we got to the car I rewound the tape and played it back for Mr. Daddy.  We both howled.

I would LOVE to have submitted that to AFV, but you have to have permission from the people in the video and there was NO way I was going to ask them that.

While it was very unexpected and gave me and Mr. Daddy a good laugh -- and still does lo these many years later -- you have to give that couple credit for finding some excitement in the most unlikely of places.

Olfactory Memories

I have lived a good life. I don't mean I've always been good. Heaven knows that's not the truth. But I have have lived a good life. And no, I'm not about to die or anything. At least not that I know of. I had a boyfriend in college who used to say "I could step out in front of a North/South (our campus buses) tomorrow."

But that's not my point.

Last night I took Toby out for a walk before bedtime. I stood there in the dark silence, feeling the heat that was still all around me, listening to the crickets and the tree frogs. I took a deep breath and that's when I smelled it. Cows. I know I've said this before but I love the smell of cows and hay and barns and yes, even manure. My grandfather was a dairy farmer and all of those smells take me back to my childhood and spending time on their farm.

I'm not sure why it is, but olfactory memories are stronger for me than anything else. A smell can take me back to a particular place and time faster even than music. Perhaps it's because my olfactory memories are usually tied to pleasant events while songs often aren't, but who knows?

As I stood there last night and inhaled, my eyes pricked with tears as I thought about my grandparents. I have such happy memories of staying with them. Though my grandmother never really kept snacks that I liked -- she only had fig newtons and cracker jacks -- she could usually be counted on to have a homemade pound cake or a chocolate pie on hand, though I never fully appreciated her meringues.

I can remember so clearly standing outside their house, listening the window units as they cooled the house. Once you went inside, the noise of the air conditioners didn't quite drown out the crickets or the whippoorwills. As I climbed into bed, I'd bury my nose in the sheets, smelling of Gain and sunshine, one of the cleanest smells there is.

My PaPa's truck had a singular smell too -- hay, mixed with hot vinyl, dust, and tobacco. He always kept a spittoon on the floor hump between the driver's and passenger's side. If you were riding three abreast, you had to be careful not to put your foot in the spittoon if you were riding in the middle. His barn was a completely different set of smells -- dirt, gasoline, old oil, and tractors. He had a huge bin of nuts, bolts, and random parts that I used to love to sift through. We'd all take turns climbing up on the big old tractors, pretending to drive.

My grandparents were interesting people. They raised seven children, starting their family during the height of the depression. My grandfather was a funny, funny man and he got most of the attention. My grandmother, quieter, was a faithful woman -- faithful to her church and to her family. It was only after I became a mother myself that I truly appreciated what a strong woman she must have been.

My grandfather died the year after Mr. Daddy and I got married. My grandmother died when Bubba had just turned two. I grieve sometimes that my grandparents never met my children, but I grieve more that my children never really got to know my grandparents.

Last night as I stood there, I missed them. And I missed the simplicity of my childhood. But for a moment, standing there, smelling that glorious blend of summer smells, I went back.

***************************************

Don't forget to leave the name of your favorite charity on yesterday's post. The deadline for entry is tonight at 11:59 p.m.

Perhaps I Exaggerated

To be perfectly honest, the trip wasn't all bad.The

first two days were spent with Mr. Daddy's cousin and his wife, who is 8 months pregnant, and her parents at the parent's lake house. We fished, we rode the Sea Doo, we rode in the boat, we ate good food. I tried to ski. For the first time since I was in sixth grade. That went about as well as you would expect. For the record, I did manage to get up once, but immediately fell down. All in all, I tried six times to get up but was never successful. And man, I was sore for the next three days. Why hello, pectoral muscles! But it was truly a lot of fun.

The above picture is Bubba and Mr. Daddy's cousin, Jason. The picture below is one Mr. Daddy took of Punkin as she was chillin' in the swing on the dock. It's one of my favorite pictures of her, ever.

We saw some wildlife at the campground, so that was fun. Animals encountered included:

a black snake
a deer
a toad

The black snake was lying directly in front of the door to the ladies bathroom. My brain went through this convoluted thought process in a matter of about five seconds "Is that real? No, soembody's just playing a joke by putting a fake snake in front of the ladies room. But we are in the middle of the woods, so it could be real. But it's so still, it must be fake."

And then it moved and we were sure it was real. Punkin screamed like, well, like a little girl and ran away. I'm not personally afraid of snakes and it was already retreating, so I waited until it went around the corner and then we went on our merry way into the bathroom. The bathroom doors had this mechanism on them that kept them open for a few seconds after you let go of them, I'm assuming to keep them from slamming. I couldn't help but think, though, that if that snake had timed it just right, she (he?) could have ended up in the bathroom. I didn't mind encountering it on the pathway, but I'm not sure how I would have felt about finding it in one of the stalls, or having it join me in the shower. That's a lie. I know exactly how I would have felt -- terrified!

I also got to visit with a good friend of mine while we were in the area. My friend, I'll call her Sara, had been my maid of honor 13 years ago. Time and distance had caused us to drift apart, but Facebook, that wonderful re-uniter, brought us back together. We picked up right where we left off -- only with the addition of two kids apiece. Our kids got along famously, picking right up and playing together with no hesitation as only children can.

And we did finally get to go to that fair I mentioned in yesterday's post. Though we dropped a boatload of cash in just the two hours we were there, the kids had a blast. And I got spit on by a llama in the petting zoo. Fortunately he was aiming low and he mostly got the bottom of my dress, but he was cut off from any more kibble. Dude, everybody knows you don't spit on the hand that feeds you.

There was also a miniature donkey in the petting zoo and now Mr. Daddy wants one. I've asked him where he's planning on putting it, but he hasn't really come up with a satisfactory answer just yet. We've been having fun coming up with names for it though. 'Rastus is winning right now.

So, you see, it wasn't all bad. I just think it's one of those vacations that will get better with the benefit of some time and distance.

A Comedy of Errors

Well, we had a pretty good vacation. I realize I'm damning it with faint praise, but it is what it is. Last year's vacation was so awesome that I think we just had a lot to live up to. When we're on vacation we like to see historic sites and tour quaint little towns with interesting museums. We did not find anything like that. Unfortunately, most of the little towns surrounding the state park were dying on the vine.

The campground was nice, but all the campers were bambambam right up next to each other without the benefit of even some brush or branches to provide any semblance of privacy. Fortunately, our neighbors were really nice and quiet, with the exception of the middle aged couple blasting Somewhere Over the Rainbow at midnight. Seriously? You're gonna blast show tunes? I didn't hear them but Mr. Daddy got up and politely asked them to turn it down. I know we weren't the only ones bothered because the next morning another set of neighbors snarkily asked if we'd enjoyed our Judy Garland serenade the night before.

And I don't know what happened to us, but we did not pack worth a damn. Oh, I had all the clothes and some dry goods. We'd planned to pick up the cold items we needed once we got up there. But, we completely neglected to pack our griddle, upon which we planned to cook our breakfast every morning.

So, when we headed to the local Wally world to pick up our groceries, we picked up a little cast iron griddle thingie that we figured would be perfect over an open campfire. It was only the next morning as we went to pour our eggs on it that we realized we had neglected to pack utensils. Of any kind. So. It's pretty hard to scramble eggs without a spoon or a spatula.

But guess what? A stick will do in a pinch! Mr. Daddy found a clean looking stick, dubbed it "stickula" and scrambed the heck out of our eggs with it. The eggs looked a little odd, I'm not going to lie, but they tasted delicious. Even after we bought some utensils later that day, Mr. Daddy decided to hang on to "stickula" because you just never know when a good stick might come in handy.

We went to a Pulaski Mariners baseball game one night, which was fun for me and Mr. Daddy. Bubba and Punkin only enjoyed visiting the snack bar a million times and asking "when are we going back to the camper?" We did have our picture made with Slider, the Mariner's mascot.


On Tuesday we went to the lake to swim, but all we heard was "it's too hot, I'm bored, I don't want to swim." We stayed about an hour before the whining took it's toll and we headed back to the camper.
We, like Mir, had a day of which we will not speak. Well, except for here. Actually, it was one of those days that was so bad that by the end we were all just laughing hysterically at the ludicrousness of it all. We had planned to go to a local fair on Wednesday, thinking that it opened early. It didn't.

So, we went to lunch thinking that it would be open when we finished. It wasn't.

Not really knowing anything about the area, we turned to our trusty (well, mostly trusty) borrowed GPS and queried her about tourist attractions. Rusty's Putt Around? Sure, putt putt could be fun. So, we drove 14 miles only to find Rusty's Driving Range and (non-working) batting cages.

Trusty GPS, what are our other options? Fun Challenge? Hmm, sounds like it has possibilities. But it's another 12 miles. Perhaps we should call first this time. Fun Challenge? A daycare. A DAYCARE.

Blacksburg,VA was only a few miles down the road at this point so we decided to check it out. Smithfield Plantation on the Virginia Tech campus? Hey that sounds historic -- let's check it out. Wait, what does that sign say? Open on Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. What day is today? Wednesday!?!? Arghhhhh!!!!

Trusty GPS, we're giving you one more chance. What is there to DO around here? Bowling? Why the hell not. Beats driving up and down the road all day. Well, that kind of looks like a bowling alley. Or like it wants to be a bowling alley. But it is NOT currently a bowling alley, only an empty shell.

Maniacal laughter from the front seat combined with incessant whining from the backseat does not for a pleasant day make.

The only good thing I can say is that next year's vacation is going to be awesome. It will have to be compared to this one.

Oh, the places she'll go....

Do you know what that is? That is a very blurry picture of my little ballerina at her recital on Saturday. I really hate it that the picture is so crappy because that was a big moment. I almost regret even trying to capture it on film because I would have rather been in the moment than trying -- and failing badly -- to capture it. (I have a very basic camera and they asked us not to use a flash = bad pictures).



This is a big moment because I never really thought it would happen. That little girl in that picture is the same little girl who, a year ago, crawled under a table and cried because she didn't want to sing a group song at preschool. This is the same little girl who when asked to perform in any way -- whether it was saying her ABC's or showing her grandparents the silly dance she made up -- would hide her face in my leg and refuse.


The little girl who came out on the stage on Saturday didn't resemble that old little girl at all, except for the dimples and the sweet smile. This little girl watched her teacher and performed all the moves (though she was a little shy when it came time to "shake her tushie"). This little girl confidently jete'd across the stage in front of a crowd of thirty or so strangers.

This little girl has come so far since last year. And I couldn't be more proud of her.

Sun, Sun, Sun, Here it Comes....

It's springtime and for a small-town Southern girl, at least one who hit her teen years in the 80s, that means it's time to tan. As spring break and the prom drew near, that meant it was time to don last year's swimsuit, spray oneself liberally with the awesomeness that was Hawaiian tropic and head out the back yard. Where, if it was still a little early in the season, one could just as eaily be covered by chill bumps as the rays of the sun. Or if later in the season, you could hook up an oscillating fan to an extension cord and keep yourself somewhat cool while the rays baked your body to tanned perfection.

Or if you were really serious about your tanning, you'd jump in your car and head to one of the many, many tanning salons and there you'd don those little glasses (or not, depending on whether or you valued tan eyelids over protecting your vision), maybe your swimsuit or maybe, if you didn't want any of those pesky tanlines, just the lower half of your swimsuit.

And though I haven't been in a tanning bed in nearly 15 years and I don't set out to get a tan (much!) anymore, I have been hearing the siren song of the tan for a couple of weeks now. I look at my pasty winter flesh and remember how much better it looks with a tan. I can still remember how absolutely wonderful a tanning bed nap is. I posit that there is no better nap. It's the perfect length and you're toasty, toasty warm the entire time.

I long for the smell of Hawaiian tropic. When you open that bottle childhood memories of the beach pour out like a genie, granting me my wish of taking me back in time to simpler days. Days spent playing in the waves, building sandcastles, heading back to the hotel room for a sandy lunch in the ice cold room followed by the most delicious post-beach nap, only to head back out again after the sun is no longer directly overhead. We'd stay out until it was time to get ready for dinner or until one of those passing summer thunderstorms ran us indoors.

I'm on a furlough day today and the weather has finally warmed up. This morning I sat on my back deck with a book and a cup of coffee. The sun actually felt good for my soul and I felt my spirits coming out of hibernation.

I fully understand the dangers of sun exposure , so no need to lecture me. I don't go crazy with the tanning anymore and I certainly don't get in tanning beds. But this morning as I sat there, I pulled the legs of my pajamas up and let the sun warm my shins. And it was good.

Deconstructing Allison

I haven't addressed the passing of John Hughes on this here blog because it seemed like there were so many other more interesting and well written posts out there in the blogosphere. I mean, how can I compete with Alison who corresponded with Hughes for years.

But, I am a huge fan of John Hughes movies and I've been thinking a lot about them over the last several days. Several websites, including my new favorite, MamaPop, have questioned which was your favorite movie and what character did you most identify with.

Now I would be very hard pressed to say which was my favorite movie, but it would probably come down to a draw between Sixteen Candles and The Breakfast Club. But wait. Hmmm...Can't leave out Ferris Bueller. And what about Planes, Trains, and Automobiles (which is one of the most hilarious yet simultaneously heartbreaking movies ever made)? And Some Kind of Wonderful? Don't even get me started singing that So Lonely song because it will be stuck in my head ALL DAY. See what I'm dealing with here? I can't choose.

As for which character I most identify with, well, that's easier. On Twitter, FADKOG said that she was the love child of Brian and Allison (the characters played by Anthony Michael Hall and Ally Sheedy). But me, I was more like a cross between Claire (Molly Ringwald) and Brian. I had a measure of popularity in high school (though not the money) but nerd blood definitely ran in my veins.

What I saw most in my readings across the internet was how disappointed everyone was with Allison's transformation at the end. Everybody cried "SELLOUT" because she had to get a makeover to get the guy. But see, first of all, I think her makeover is metaphor. Maybe it's my English major roots showing here, but I see her transformation as her way of opening up, as a willingness to change. I think Andrew was already interested in her, it just took a change to really open his eyes. I don't think a little brown eyeliner was going to change Allison all that much. Also, she already had that white top on under all her black. Maybe she wanted someone to see the beauty in her. And what? Pretty girls can't be deep? Sure they can.

I think that Allison was the bravest of them all.

Is it Live or is it Memorex?

So guess where we're going this weekend? You Northerners and Mid-Westerners are going to have a field day with this. We're going to Snow Mountain at Stone Mountain -- a winter wonderland with sledding, snow tubing, and snow-man building right in the heart of...Atlanta. Where there is no snow. It's an artificial winter wonderland. I know, right? Some of y'all are probably like, "Seriously, you're going pay money to go play in this stuff that I'd pay good money to get rid of??!"

But see, at least you guys get some snow. And admit it, when it first falls, it's exciting, right? I can't even tell you the last time we had snow. And no, that half-inch? we got last January (that was gone the next morning) does not count.


Actually, I can tell you the last time we had snow...January of 2005. Bubba was too small to remember it and Punkin was...I started to say just a twinkle in my eye, but I had so much morning sickness with her that there was no twinkle to be seen anywhere near my eyes.

So, we're going to get our snow anyway we can. This trip is actually a gift from my mom. We have some great snow memories in our family. Is it just my imagination -- or global warming? -- or did it used to snow more than it does now? She wants my kids to have some fun snow memories too. And since it doesn't look like we're going to get any the "natural" way, we'll take our snow however we can get it. And the kids are beyond excited. Bubba has already told us how he's going to roll himself into a snowball and roll down the hill. I can't WAIT to see that!

I wonder if they'll let me bring my pizza pan?

They're Playing My Song

This morning Mr. Daddy and I were listening to the radio in the car -- we commute together most days -- when The Cult's "She Sells Sanctuary" came on the radio.

"That song right there is the soundtrack of my teenage years," Mr. Daddy mused. "I wore out two copies of that tape. Even though I couldn't understand a word he said."

That got me thinking about my soundtrack. Hmmmm.... What would it be? I started to say "Strip" by Adam Ant, but that sounds all kinds of wrong. But then I started thinking about Adam Ant and how I was pretty much the only person at my high school who liked him. Or had even heard of him.

And then that reminded me of this awesome mix tape a guy made for me in high school. It was full of new wave songs by bands like Yaz, Squeeze, Flock of Seagulls, Depeche Mode. We just didn't get those kinds of bands on our local radio station, but this guy had been to a boarding school in a larger town and had been exposed to more progressive music.

That tape opened up a new world of music for me and the song that I loved most on it was "Goodbye Girl" by Squeeze. So that's going to be the song I choose as my soundtrack.

Man, I wish I still had that tape.

What's the soundtrack of your youth?

For the Record, I Never Saw Their Tour Bus.

Did you know I used to be a groupie? Well, not a groupie groupie. I never did anything that I would be ashamed to post here. But there was this band that I liked and I followed them sort of regionally. And let's just say it was only partially about the music. Mostly it was about the boys. Specifically, Todd. There are lead singer girls, drummer girls, bass guitar girls -- you get the picture. I am a lead singer girl. The group was called Spider Monkey and unfortunately, they no longer exist. You can still download their music from their site, though and of course they have a MySpace page.

I saw them for the first time at a festival in Charleston, SC. I went with my group of friends and we had a blast. As an aside, also watching the festival was the lead singer of another of my favorite bands, Jump Little Children. I was like a start struck little girl.

Spider Monkey played Hilton Head several times and I went to Charleston a couple times more. My friends and I got to be such regulars at the show that we started hanging out with the guys after the shows. We even met them once at the Tiki Hut on the beach in Hilton Head, which was kind of cool.

Eventually, of course, I left the party scene and settled down with Mr. Daddy. We moved away from Hilton Head. Occasionally I'd Google Spider Monkey and see what they were up to. One by one they started getting married and then stopped touring. And finally the day came when I got rid of their CDs. There were only a couple of songs on each that I really loved, but it was kind of a bittersweet day.

Years later, when Mr. Daddy and I moved back to Savannah, I heard that Todd (he of Spider Monkey Fame) was now lead singer of another band and they were going to be playing in Hilton Head, about 30 minutes away. I was dying to go see them, but Mr. Daddy didn't want to go. Instead, I dragged my friend Liz along on my trip down memory lane.

We arrived at the club, overdressed and definitely not fitting into the "scene." We were a good 3 or 4 years older than the rest of the clientele. Finally the band took the stage and there he was -- Todd! Singing very heavy metal punk music that made my ears bleed!! I couldn't hear a thing. At the risk of sounding like my grandmother, there was no tune, just yelling. It didn't have a good beat and you couldn' t dance to it.

Finally the band took a break and Todd headed to the bar. As he pushed through the crowd I caught his eye and saw a flash of recognition. "I know you from somewhere, right?" he asked.

"Yeah, I used to be a big Spider Monkey fan. My friends and I followed you guys everywhere."

We chatted for a second. He'd gotten married. I told him I had too. We stood there awkwardly, the music way too loud for conversation. He was still cute, but no longer really my type.

"So, see ya around" he shouted.

"Yeah, see ya!" I shouted back.

"Do you want to stay?" Liz asked.

"Nah. Let's go." As we left I realized that I was trying to recapture too many things that were too long gone. My carefree youth. That summer. Those friends.

Sometimes it's better to just let those memories stay what they are -- memories.

A Man of Good Heart

Today I learned of the passing of a good man. Dr. John Stone, one of our 2007 Georgia Writers Hall of Fame Inductees, passed away yesterday. I haven't heard all the details yet, but I was told that he was very recently diagnosed with cancer.

Dr. Stone was an unusual poet. By that I mean that he was a cardiologist by profession, but a poet at heart. He taught at Emory University Medical School in Atlanta for years, became an associate dean there, and was later their director of admissions. During that time he published In the Country of Hearts: Journeys in the Art of Medicine. These twenty-three essays discuss our literal and our metaphorical hearts and he argues that the physician and the poet make use of the same materials.

I met Dr. Stone for the first time in April of 2007. To be honest, I'd never heard of him, not really being a fan of poetry. That changed, however, when Dr. Stone stood up to accept his award. He read us two poems that day. The one that follows was the first. Called Visitation, it describes a visit with his mother, who is in her nineties, at her retirement home.

Visitation

At Serenity Gardens, winter
has surrounded us. My mother's room
is way too warm for me,

just right for her -- with an extra sweater.
Outside, this uneasy year, her 93rd,
lurches through December.

She is surely serene in this place,
thanks to whatever goodness;
queen of the electronic piano.

Among my chief duties now
I have become her human calendar,
a stay against time, her reach for the past.

Each visit, we review the years.
We sit and we talk, fragile mother,
absent-minded son.

This afternoon, I assemble for her
some semblance of my long-dead
father, the only husband she had.

I tell her his story.
We study his photograph.
Do you remember him, I ask?

She looks again.
No, she answers softly. No.
But isn't he good looking!

She smiles. I chuckle.
In the gathering dark,
we cry a bit together:

I for what she has forgotten,
she for what I remember.

Hearing his soft voice, hearing the rhythms of his speech, made me understand the power of poetry. So much can be summed up in so few words, so few powerful words. In 2008 I purchased one of his books, Music from Apartment 8, and had him sign it for me. It reads "To Leandra, with gratitude for her friendship and in joy."

Thumbing through it tonight, I found this poem. It seems fitting and I'll leave you with it.

How I'd Have It

I'd have no flowers
other than Mozart

A suit -- blue --
not new, but worn

the knees
still in the trousers

for as long
as polyester is

And a fire
and someone there

to thrown on
the oak especially

for the last movement
of the Mozart

As for the mourners
let's have them enter

STAGE LEFT
and pause and peer

over the side
and say mournful

things such as What
A Pity A Pity

And So Old, Too
And then exit all

STAGE RIGHT

Don't Go Too Fast

Some of you might remember that when I turned 15, I got The Bobcat. And while I was initially dismayed at its Pinto-like appearance, I actually got a little excited when I realized that I was going to get to drive it that very day.

There was only one tiny hitch. It had a manual transmission and not only did I not know how to drive a stick, I didn't really know how to drive ANYTHING.

So we headed out to the country, which is where every self-respecting southerner learns to drive. The back roads. On the way, my dad and I stopped to pick up my grandfather, who gamely climbed into the backseat while I climbed behind the wheel.

My dad is, to put it kindly, a control freak. He is a little bit of a yeller. When he gets excited or stressed it's like he can't really help himself. He just automatically switches to yell mode. And maybe I'm that way a little bit too. But honestly, I don't really remember him yelling that day, though I'm sure one of us probably did some yelling.

What I remember most is my grandfather keeping up a running admonishment from the backseat, "Now, don't go too fast. Slow down. Slow down. When you start going too fast, that's when you start to get in trouble." I was going maybe 35 mph. And not smoothly. There was a lot of jerking and stalling as I tried to find the gears. I'm not sure I ever went over 40 mph, but sitting in the back seat with no access to the brakes, real or imaginary, probably made Pa Pa feel very vulnerable and I guess he couldn't help himself.

But I often find his words coming back to me. Slow down. Slow down. When you start going too fast, that's when you get into trouble. Sometimes life goes too fast and we need to slow down. I do, anyway. So that's my goal for the coming holiday season. To slow down. And enjoy it.

Let's Go to the Fair!

It's county fair time in these parts. Our county's fair began tonight and the fair in the county I grew up in is the first week of October. I love the fair. I always have. When I was very small, we lived across the street from the fairground, and while I'm sure my mother wasn't thrilled with the lights and the noise night after night, to a child it was heaven.

We would watch the fair come into town. The big trucks would roll in and the rides would start going up. Sometimes we'd wander over and watch through the fence. Our ran a concession booth and my mom usually worked in it at least one night. I'd sit at the counter while she worked and when her shift was over we'd hit all the rides. When I was older I was allowed to roam the fairgrounds with a friend, checking in with my mom every once in a while.

Now I love taking my kids to the fair. I love to see their eyes shine when they see all the lights blinking and see all the games (the games!). I love to watch them on the rides, spinning around, smiling so big that their teeth are about to fall out, calling out "Mommy, look at me!"

Because my grandparents were in the dairy business, we always check out the livestock barns. There's something peaceful about cows. Their quiet chewing. The smell of hay. Our second favorite stop are the chicken pens. You know, there are some crazy looking chickens out there in the world.

Oh, and don't forget the food. Where else can you get polish sausages, cotton candy, candy and caramel apples, and funnel cake all in one place. For one night, our dietary restrictions are laid aside and we eat fair food. I mean seriously, for me it's not a trip to the fair until I get my caramel apple!

I still like to ride some of the bigger rides myself. I'm a little bit of a daredevil and I will ride just about anything out there. Now Mr. Daddy on the other hand, does not like the rides at all. He will ride the rides at official theme parks like Six Flags or Dollywood, but he just can't bring himself to trust that the rides at the fair have been put together properly.

Me? I guess I just suspend my disbelief for a while. And really? Isn't that what the fair is all about?

We Are Still Here

Most of you probably remember from your school days that the" Star Spangled Banner" was written by Francis Scott Key on the morning after a major battle during the War of 1812. He awoke to see the American flag still flying and was inspired to pen the poem which was later set to music. It wasn't until 1931 that it actually became our National Anthem.

I love the Star Spangled Banner. Though it is difficult to sing, I love to sing it. I always think about the meaning of the words as I'm singing it. I can never get through it without tears welling in my eyes.

O say can you see,
By the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hailed
At the twilight's last gleaming,
Whose broad stripes and bright stars,
Through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched
Were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets red glare,
The bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night,
That our flag was still there.
O say does that star spangled banner yet wave,
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Imagine waking after a terrible battle, not knowing if you'd won or lost, only to look out to the horizon to see Old Glory, waving gloriously. Victory!

That's how I felt after September 11, 2001. One image that stays in my mind is the sight of the American flag, its pole stuck deep in the smoldering rubble of the World Trade Center. My mind couldn't comprehend the tragedy that had just occurred and I was desperately seeking something to hold on to. And there, waving gloriously, was our flag.

We are still here. Though we lost so many on that terrible day and our souls and our hearts are bruised and beaten, though we will never forget, we are still here.

And we're not going anywhere.

Burgh Baby's Mom has a moving tribute to the heroes killed in United Flight 93. For the month of September she is donating all ad revenues from her site to the Flight 93 Memorial Fund. The more visits she gets, the more money she'll raise, so go check out her wonderful tribute to those brave souls. If you wish, you can also donate directly to the fund by going here.

Too Much Information

I mentioned yesterday about the hesitancy I was feeling regarding my assignment from Hollis Gillespie's Shocking Real Life Writing Seminar. A few days before the seminar I was wondering if this is really the class for me because it is in fact a memoir class. And see, I don't really want people to know all my shit. Which some of you may find ironic considering the fact that I have a blog where I share every detail of my life. But that's just the thing. I don't share every detail of my life, something I pondered about here not that long ago. Ultimately I realized that I don't want to share some of the most private aspects of my life on this blog. Heck, I share those details with very few people in real life. I'm just a private person.

But I went because I like Hollis' writing and her class has proven to be very successful in getting people published. She works with everybody in the class to come up with an awesome idea, a kickass, attention-grabbing title and then she matches you with agents who are specifically looking for your type of material.

Before the class we had to provide her with a little background on ourselves and a couple of book ideas that we had. One of mine was about the suicide of my friend, Fred. I put that down because it is one of the most impactful things that has happened in my life, but I wasn't sure it was the story I really want to write.

But everybody in the class seemed to think that it is the story I need to write. I, however, have a lot of reservations about it. For one thing, if I tell the story completely honestly, there is a chance that some people will be hurt by it -- Fred's family, in particular his wife and young sons. And I'm just not sure that my need to tell this story is worth that.

We talked a lot in class about letting go of fear and how we have to tell our story as WE saw it and not worry necessarily about what the other players in our story think. And I think that's okay for most stories that are told. But there's something about the death of someone by suicide that requires me to concern myself with how my story will affect the other people involved, especially since a couple of those people are children.

So, I'm probably not going to write that story. Everybody kept saying "write it like no one's going to see it" but frankly I'm not sure I see the value in that. I've written it in my head a thousand times.

I am, however, working on a couple of other ideas. I've got some stories percolating in there. We'll just see what bubbles up to the top.

How To Ruin Your Daughter's Social Life in One Easy Lesson

When I was in elementary school, my brother turned sixteen and my dad bought him this:

A pristinely restored 1964 Chevrolet Impala. It was gorgeous. New paint. New interior. Pale yellow with black cloth interior. It was sweet.

I guess I was maybe 9 or 10 when my brother got this car, so I had a few years to think about what I might get. My dream car was a convertible Mustang, preferably vintage, but really any year would do. My dad borrowed a newer one for me to ride on in our local Christmas parade when I was in 8th grade and I think he inquired as to the price, but found it too high and my dreams were temporarily put on hold.

I would be lying if I said I didn't expect to get a car for my 16th birthday too. I mean, it's only fair, right? What's good for the goose and all that.

So imagine my surprise when I got my car for my 15th birthday! I'm not quite sure why my dad chose to give me mine early, but but boy was I excited. Until I saw this:

Yes, my friends, that is a 1980 (I believe) Mercury Bobcat. But that photo? Is not representative of my car at all. AT ALL. No. My car was special. How special was it? My car was tri-colored!! My first car was black on the roof and hood. It had a long, swooping red stripe similar to the one above and the area below was silver. And it it had the words "bobcat" down the side in red letters about a foot high. I searched the internet high and low for an image of my car, but I'm beginning to believe it was one of a kind. And trust me, there are NO pictures of my car. I made sure of that.

Oh, and another awesome thing about my car? It had no seat belts. The man who refused to allow me to take karate, have a motorcycle or a go-cart all because they were too dangerous, bought me a car whose gas tank was known to explode in collisions and whose seat belts had been cut out. Yeeeaaah.

I tried to act excited, but inside I was crushed. I know I sound like a spoiled brat, whining over a free car, but y'all? A bobcat? Seriously? That's the best he could do?

I've mentioned before that I wasn't really a part of the in-crowd. I mean, I was popular enough, but nobody's popularity is strong enough to withstand the 'cat. Did I catch hell about that car from my classmates? You bet I did. My arch-nemesis, Jennifer, took to calling me bobcat. She would say it as I walked past her in the hall. Kind of low and under her breath. But I heard her. Every time. Or I would come to class and find "bobcat" written on my desk. Some friends of a friend of mine had a field day making fun of the wood "accents" in the interior.

But I drove it. Every day. For almost two years. Until the day that my brother moved to Thailand and we got to keep his car. His new car. That my dad bought him. This one:

A Nissan 200sx. Black. With a sun roof.

So that's what I drove my senior year. Occasionally I felt bad about driving my brother's car. But hey, he wasn't using it. And they owed me. Big time. Right?

Buffy! Buffy! Wherefore Art Thou, Buffy?

Do you know who I really miss? These guys:

I miss them almost like family. This was probably the only show that I have ever been certifiably hooked on. Obsessive about. Like freak-out-because-I'm-not-home-and-forgot-to-set-the-VCR obsessive. On the rare occasion that this happened, I always had someone I could call -- usually my mom -- who would take pity on me and record it for me.

The first minute or so of my 15 minutes of fame came from this show. Sarah Michelle Gellar was taking online questions on E! Online and she answered my question first.

But I guess I'm not truly a hardcore fan. I don't own all the seasons on DVD, though I would love to. I can't call the episodes by their names. though I do know a few. But I can tell you what happened in just about every episode.

And lord did I get invested in those characters. Has there ever been a more heartbreaking moment on television than when Buffy had to kill Angel? Or when Angel killed Jenny Calendar? Or when Oz betrayed and then left Willow? Or when Spike told Buffy how long she had been dead, down to the second.

Or when Buffy told Spike that he was beneath her? Or when Joyce died? Or when Buffy finally told her friends that they had ripped her out of heaven?

See what I mean? I still get all torn up over these story lines.

Mr. Daddy used to say that I had the hots for Buffy. He wished. Don't get me wrong. She was a kick-ass girl and I liked that about her. But really it was the peripheral characters I loved most. The Scoobies. Xander. Willow. Giles. Oh my God when I thought Willow had killed Giles I nearly lost it. Spike. (rowr! I definitely have a thing for British accents) Cordelia. Even poor Anya, who bought the farm in the end.

Yeah, I miss those guys.

Summertime

As I drove home from my stepfather's birthday party Saturday evening, I drove with the windows down. Saturday was a very warm day and as I drove, I drove through patches of smells. Honeysuckle. Wisteria. And out here in the country, chicken houses. And I realized how much I love the smells of summer.

It's not a new concept that warmth releases smells. Heck, Glade has been making a living on that concept for years. But I just realized the other day how much my sense of smell is tied into summer and how much I love those smells. Sure, I love the smell of a bonfire crackling in the winter, but that's just about the only smell I can think of off the top of my head that I love from colder months.

But summer. Oh. Summer is a different animal entirely.

Hot creosote coating the scorching parking lots of my barefoot youth, along with the coated telephone poles we passed as we made our way to town.

The warm, dark, sandy smell of earth turned for a garden. The sharp, green smell of squash vines, prickly in your hand.

Honeysuckle in the evening, the sweet nectar drops on your tongue -- if the bee didn't get there first.

The dry, musty smell of the canvas of our tent.

The hot, burned oil and grease that lubed the old tractors under my Papa's barn.

The smell of cracked upholstery and the tobacco spittoon of Papa's truck.

The smell of Gain detergent on Grandma's sheets dried in the sun. Tucked in after a long day playing in the creek.

The combined smells of warm cow fur, burlap bags, feed, and manure of the milk barn.

Hawaiian Tropic, no SPF, not in those days, slathered on to catch as many rays as possible. Combined with the deeper smell of the "axle grease" sunscreen applied to our squirming faces and bodies while our feet danced toward the waves.

The salty smell of the ocean at night.

These are the smells of summer. If I concentrate hard enough, I can smell them now. Heaven.

Memory Lane Monday - Prom

Spring is here, though you couldn't tell it from the temperatures. Spring arrives and young woman's fancy turns to thoughts of....prom.

Back when I was in high school, it was the epitome of social success if one was invited to prom before one was a junior or senior. And even though I had friends who were part of the "in" crowd and I had a measure of popularity, I wasn't an "it girl" by any means. Yet somehow, I managed to score an invitation to the prom all four years in high school.

First off: Freshman Year.

This year was probably the strangest of all. I went to prom with a boy, a senior named Brian that I barely knew. In fact, I don't think I had ever spoken to him before he called to ask me. I only knew him because earlier in the year he had been in an accident and had broken one of his vertebrae and had walked around school in one of those head mobilizing cages that was screwed into his skull. So yeah, he stood out.

He had a mutual friend call me to pre-ask me. I told him I would say yes and then when the real call came I did. It didn't matter to me to that I barely knew him. He had a crush on me and wanted to take me to prom. I was a freshman with a big head and starry prom eyes, so I said yes.

Next mission? To Find THE DRESS! I had the perfect dress in mind. I wanted BIG. I wanted POOFY. But most of all? I wanted a hoop skirt. Yes, my Scarlett O'Hara fetish was in full force. I had been watching Gone With the Wind every year on television since I was child and had not yet been able to fulfill my hoop skirt fantasies. I mean, it's not every day that one gets to wear a hoop skirt, even in the south. Unless you're in the pageant circuit, which I most definitely was not. (Not that I didn't want to be, but my mom wouldn't let me. But that's another story). Or unless you were a re-enactor. Or a museum docent. But I digress.

My mom and I went on a search. And in a tiny little store in a neighboring town, I found it. It was one of a kind. To be sure, there were no other dresses like at the prom.


And being my first prom, I had to have my first real "up do," right? I went to my hairdresser, whom I trusted, though she was known for her heavy hand with the hairspray. I always used to want to ask her "Did I come IN here with my hair this stiff and poofy? No? Then what makes you think I want to leave here that way?" She worked and slaved and teased and sprayed for ages. When she was done I was left with a hair sculpture that swooped all my hair to the right side of my head, completely exposing my left ear and not doing much to hide the right one.

I hated it. First of all, it was the ears. She didn't hide my ears of shame. She practically shone a spotlight on them, what with all the baby's breath she had wedged in there. Plus, her "vision" and my "vision" had not meshed in the slightest. I had wanted a simple twist. Perhaps even a bun, with a few loose tendrils hiding my ears framing my face. What I had was a hard, twisted mass of hair, a few gajillion bobby pins, and a boatload of baby's breath.

And no time to wash it out.

So, I went to prom with a guy a barely knew. With stiff art hair. All night I stared longingly over Brian's shoulder at my new boyfriend who was there with another girl. Could you get more teen angst-ty? I think Brian was a little peeved that I didn't stare into his eyes during a slow song and fall madly in love. At least I didn't ditch him before the prom so that I could go with my new boyfriend, though perhaps in some ways it would have been kinder. And Brian was a nice guy. I could have done worse (and often did!).

Just like Scarlett...I never knew what I had until it was too late. I bet Scarlett never would have stood for that hairdo, though.

Love From Afar

Guess what Mr. Daddy got for Valentine's Day? The Flu!! I know, right? Worst.Valentine's. Present.Ever. Well, I didn't give it to him, that's for sure. But definitely no smooches for him tonight.

Actually, this isn't the worst valentine's day I've ever had. That distinction belongs to the one from my 9th grade year. That was the year that I met Gerry at the mall. Gerry was gorgeous! He was a model. If I were talking I would use air quotes when I say this because my 36 year old self is not really be sure if he was telling the truth about that. He had some head shots -- I know because he gave me one. But I'm not really sure he was a working model. I mean, he lived in the mountains in North Georgia for pete's sake.

Anyway, he was older than I was and my parents weren't too keen on him, but he lived a couple of hours away so I don't think they worried too much. I wasn't allowed to date at that point, but my mom did allow him to come and visit me at our house. We hung out and watched t.v. I had a huge crush on him and I won't lie that a big part of it was the fact that he was a "model" (everybody do the air quotes!). It didn't take much to impress a small town girl like me.

After his visit we talked on the phone almost daily for a couple of weeks and we made plans for Valentine's Day. The local teen center was having a dance and I invited him. But I had another surprise up my sleeve.

I was going to make him a cake! And not just any cake. A Valentine's Cake! I mean, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, right? So anyway, on Valentine's Day I slaved in the kitchen all day making a beautiful heart shaped cake. It was white trimmed in red icing and in the middle it read "Be Mine." It was the most beautiful cake I've ever made (not that I've made many, but still!) and somewhere there exists a photo of me, dressed in a red sweater and white pants, admiring my handiwork.

I couldn't wait to show Gerry the cake. He was supposed to arrive at my house at 6:00. But six came and went. No Gerry.

Seven came and went. Still no Gerry. I was in agony.

Finally, around 7:30, the phone rang. Gerry. "I'm so sorry. I've been at a modeling gig all day and they wouldn't let me use a phone. I'm so sorry. I should be finishing up here pretty soon and then I'll come to your house."

8:00. Nothing. 9:00. Nothing. At 9:30 the phone rings again. "Oh, I'm still here. I don't think I'm going to be able to get away after all. I'll call you tomorrow."

And that was the last I heard from Gerry.

My ninth grade heart was broken. How could he do this to me? But most importantly, what was I going to do with this CAKE? What did happen to the cake, you ask? I don't remember. I probably ate it, but I wish I had thrown it against something. It probably would have felt pretty good. And definitely better for my thighs.

As you can see, that was a pretty sucky Valentine's Day. SO, even though tonight was no romantic dream and Mr. Daddy is as sick as I've ever seen him, at least I know he loves me. And he would never stand me up.

Here's my other sweetheart.


Oh! And before I forget, thanks for all your advice. I'm probably going to switch to Wordpress, but probably not until after we move, which will be in mid-March. Moving my family and moving my blog all at the same time is just too much for me to think about right now!

Happy Valentine's Day, y'all!