Open mouth, insert the whole leg (8/3/2016)

Granny used to embarrass the stew out of us.
She didn’t care if what she said offended someone either.

If it was on her mind, it usually came out of her mouth.

When she met someone I worked with years ago, she pointed out he was old and bald.

A few years after that, she met a friend of mine and promptly told her she was overweight.

“Now, I know I am fat,” Granny began. “But I’m old. A young girl like yourself needs to watch your weight.”

Another friend emailed me to tell me she wasn’t coming by to meet Granny. “I know I am overweight; I don’t need to hear Granny declare it as a fact.”

I was mortified.

That was nothing.

She proceeded to tell everyone what she thought, male or female, young and old.

Mama was convinced we just couldn’t take her anywhere in public.

“She was hollering at some young college boys the other day,” Mama told me. “She wanted to stay in the car while I ran in Barnes & Noble and I came out to her hooting and hollering, asking them in they liked older women.”

I told Mama I was sure those UGA student thought she was joking.

“One was running. He almost ran into a car in the parking lot,” Mama said.

There had been a time where we just knew Granny said things that she knew were controversial.

Or as she put it, “I am just a-sayin’ what everybody else is a-thinkin’ and too dang scared to say.”

We were not entirely convinced about this. Some of the things she said, we found it hard to believe anyone would think.

“It’s like she gets started and doesn’t know how to stop,” I observed. “And she kind of feels like once she gets on a roll, she wants to see where it goes.”

Mama agreed.

We were just thankful Granny wasn’t online. Never getting that woman a computer was the biggest public service we ever did, as she would have shared her opinions and running commentary with everyone.

Mama, bless her heart, has never been one to say an unkind or rude thing to anyone. And, thankfully, she always tried to make me cautious about what I said.

My earliest memory of this was during an event at school, a clogging group took to the stage to dance.

I think this was maybe the first time I had actually seen clogging, and it was different, to say the least.

Usually, when something is different, we dismiss it as being odd and say something snarky or critical, especially if you are around 9 years old like I was.

Mama quickly tried to shush me.

It didn’t work, and I had moved on to how the dresses the girls were wearing were dorky.

Mama all but put her hand over my mouth.
“Would you please shush?” she asked.

“Why?”

“Someone may hear you,” she said.

“They way up there on the stage, they can’t hear me.”

The look on the face of the woman in front of us told Mama that she was the parent of one of the cloggers I was ridiculing from my Pretty Plus seat.

“It’s a free country,” my Granny interjected, shooting the lady a look in return. “She can say what she wants to.”
“And what if what she says hurts someone’s feelings or makes them mad?” Mama asked.

“Well, it’s still a free country. She’ll have to learn there’s consequences to what she says, but don’t be a shushing her because she don’t like this clogging. It ain’t like its fancy like square-dancing!”

That moment stayed with me and I have taught my own son to be aware of what he says in public. “Someone may take it the wrong way,” I would tell him.

But of course, while I have been trying to teach my child how to not do something, what do I go and do?

Yup, I go and open my mouth and say something I shouldn’t.

He was able to witness it, too.

“They’re right behind me, aren’t they?” I whispered.

He nodded, a slow, steady nod full of wisdom and empathy for his Mama’s mistake.

“Drats,” I muttered before bolting with my child in tow.

“How in the world did they manage to be right there behind me? That’s why we really shouldn’t say anything like that unless we know we are in the privacy of our home.”

Upset, I decided to call my Mama for comfort and tell her of my mishap.

She answered the phone, her sweet, genteel greeting giving me a safe place to land.
I launched into what happened, complete with the words that had been used.

“Kitten,” Mama interjected. “I’m gonna stop you right there…I am at the doctor’s office….
“And you are on speakerphone. So let me call you back.”
I slid to the floor.

We used to worry about my Granny saying stuff and sticking her foot in her mouth. I go straight for the thigh.

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The Birthday Party Blues (7/27/2016)

My child is already making his birthday list, putting a corgi at the top followed by Pokemon cards and DS games.

His birthday is months away, mind you.

But, he starts early. Real early. And that’s OK. It’s my way of making up for never having him a real, official birthday party.

Just hearing about friend’s planning parties for their own children is usually enough to give me hives.

All the elaborate stuff that goes into it – jump-jumps, petting zoos, themes.

What happened to just cake and ice cream?

I’m not knocking those who do the big deal birthday parties at all; they are just not something I would do and didn’t even want when I was a kid.

Nope, even when I was a kid, birthday parties kind of freaked me out.

Who in the world ever thought running around a bunch of chairs, with balloons on them nonetheless, to fight with other kids in a game of “Musical Chairs” was fun?
It was terrifying.

For one thing, the sound of a balloon popping is terrifying. Particularly if under your tater. Running around a bunch of chairs is not fun either.

It made me feel like a real life Jack in the Box toy, which also scared the stew out of me, except instead of popping up, we were popping down.

Then there was usually a pin the tail on the donkey thing. Yeah, give kids something with basically a needle and blindfold them. It made me question all the rules of safety I had been cautioned about. I mean, what was next – running with scissors?

The worst though was my own birthday party one year.

I was so excited about having my friends come over, but Mama probably chained smoked two packs of Virginia Slims while she got everything ready.

And nothing made Mama more scared than seeing a car pull up for someone to drop their child off at the party and peel away.
Mama watched the car drive away in a panic.

“Does your Mama know when the party’s over?” she asked as the child made her way inside. “She knows to come back and get you, right? Right? Where did she go? Some place close?”

I didn’t know why Mama was so upset but I think she wanted to cry. She asked me who the kid was and I told her I didn’t know. She came in toting a gift though; she couldn’t be too bad.

She wanted to sit on the couch with the other moms, but she couldn’t.

She had to make sure everything went smoothly, meaning someone wasn’t sticking their fingers in the cake.

We played the games – no musical chairs with the balloons or pin the tail on the donkey. I can’t remember what we played but it definitely wasn’t that.

As we settled in for cake and ice cream, Mama was ready to breathe a sigh of relief. Everyone knew cake and ice cream meant the party was wrapping up.

Just as Mama was thinking she had survived, she found two kids jumping on her bed.

I’m not sure how she got them down but she did and she didn’t even scream.

Maybe it was because she knew the party was about to be over.

Soon, mamas were grabbing up coats and gathering their children, thanking Mama for the party. Knowing my Mama, she was ready for them all to leave so she could chain smoke for the next two hours.

We still didn’t know if that kid’s mama was coming back or not.

Eventually, she did. It was about an hour or two after the party ended but she finally came back.

We still don’t know who that kid was.

That was the last birthday party I had at home.

“Mama, can I have a birthday party – a real one? Not at school?” Cole asked me years ago.

He had had all his parties at school which meant I brought something to the school to celebrate. One year, I even took a piñata to day care then realized that was about as bad as the pin the tail on the donkey thing.

Multiple kids running around and needing to be watched and entertained, the dogs panicking and probably getting stuck under the bed while they hid, trying to make small talk with parents while I wanted to introvert…

“No. I think I am going to take a hard pass on that,” I said. “But, I will make it up to you. I promise.”

So he starts his birthday wish list in July.

He gets one really cool gift and some small other ones; I get to keep my sanity.

 

 

The Good Old Days (7/20/2016)

Growing up, Granny loved to tell me stories about what she called, “the good old days.”

Tales involving picking cotton, drawing water from a well, and all of her siblings having to share one bed during the winter to stay warm.

“This was the good old days?” I asked her once.

“Yes,” she was replied. “They was.”

That’s how Granny, talked too. She dropped out of school, maybe in third grade or so, to help work the fields. She didn’t speak proper grammar and didn’t care. It never stopped her from getting her point across.

Her stories included growing up in the Depression and how they survived. Huddling around the wood burning stove to stay warm, wearing clothes until threadbare, and never throwing anything away. She was a packrat of the highest caliber, because she grew up in poverty.

“What are you going to make with this?” I asked her once, moving a huge garbage bag containing fabric off the couch.

“I don’t know yet, but I’ll make something. Don’t you worry about it. Clothes, curtains, quilts. It’ll get used.”

And it would, too.

The woman would wash and re-use aluminum foil and Ziploc bags and thought if someone was using thick Dixie plates at a dinner and threw them away, they were “just showing how high fa-lootin’ they was.” Dishes were not supposed to be disposable.

She told me about riding the bus to Plattsburg, New York, alone, to get to Pop. They had eloped, Granny lying to her mother that she was spending the night at a cousin’s house, and the next morning, my grandfather headed back to where ever he was stationed in the Army. Granny went back home to her mama and daddy, never breathing a word she was married until she announced she was heading north. Their wedding night was only their third date.

“How in the world could you let Pop go back up there and not go with him?” I asked.

“Back then, you did what you had to. He was in the Army and he had to save up money to get me a bus ticket,” was her no nonsense reply.

Those times, were not easy, nor were the years that followed and they made steel run through veins. She was resilient and tough.

“Why do you always talk about those times, Granny?” I asked her one day as she started up on one of her yarns for the umpteenth time.

“Because they was the good old days, Lit’l Un.”

Good? How in the world could she describe them as good?

All she told me about was how poor they were, how they struggled, how getting through the day was sometimes a miracle of itself.

“How was that good?” I wanted to know.

“It just was. If you was breathin’ and on the other side of the ground, it was good.”

Her stories were woven around my grandfather serving in World War II, my uncle in Viet Nam. Mama, she said, made her proud because she had a job that was in an office and didn’t have to do the labor she had.
“You never tell her you are proud of her,” I said to her once. “That may make her feel better, you know.”

Granny stuck her chin out, not one to be chastised for anything. “She don’t need to know if I am proud of her or not; I am and that’s all that cussed matters.”

After over 20 years of hearing her stories, I started to tune them out or make her change the conversation. “You’ve told me this already, old woman,” I’d tell her.

“Yeah, well you ain’t listened, old gal,” she said in return.

How I’d love to hear her old stories again. The only thing close to it I have is, thankfully, a DVD my beloved cousin, Dotty, made of her talking and telling some of her stories to them.

I miss her stories and more importantly, I miss her common sense about the things that happened in the world around us. Especially lately, I’ve yearned for her comfort, for her wisdom, and for her just declaring that things would be OK and we would survive – meaning all of us – because that was the only choice we had.

It seemed like her focus was always about surviving, just surviving one thing from the next. How in the world could she consider those ‘good old days?’

I asked her that one day.

The question actually struck her speechless for a moment. “One day, you’ll understand. It ain’t about the little petty problems or any of this other junk. It’s about the moment, and being with family and friends. Don’t matter how much money you got, that stuff’s fleeting. It mattered about how much love.”

She had the ones she loved around her.

Maybe it was the good old days after all.

Trying to Break The Chicken Rut (7/13/2016)

I wanted a new small appliance and announced this fact to my husband the other day.

He just raised his brows at me, not saying a word.

“I want to make protein shakes. I get tired of chewing sometimes.”

He nodded. He probably gets tired of eating the same stuff every day, too, and I had been in a chicken rut.

“You can’t put chicken in a blender, can you?” Cole asked, grazing on a bag of baby carrots.

“Somebody else may, but I don’t.”

“Didn’t you have a blender?” Lamar asked.

I have had three since we have lived here, maybe a total of 4 since we’ve been married.

What happened to the first one, I don’t know.

I bought one when Cole was a baby because I had visions of making him homemade baby food.

I realized it was kind of easier to buy Gerber’s.

I lost the lid to it one day and quickly found out holding the lid off of a Cool Whip container on top of a blender was not a good idea.

The second one came when I was on a Herbalife kick. The blender worked for a while until one day, the seal somehow was broken.

Smoothie shot out of the bottom and all down the counters, across the kitchen and landed on one of the dogs.

“Fix it!” I begged Lamar.

“This is a part I can’t fix,” he said. “You’ll need to order a replacement one online.”

Said replacement part was more than the blender had cost to begin with, so Lamar discreetly and without discussion, put the broken blender in the trash.

I decided my life was not complete without a blender and decided to get another about a year later.

“Are we really back on this aisle?” Lamar asked as I dragged him to look at blenders. “It’s just gonna tear up, you know.”

He was probably right, but I bought it anyway.

I think we used it maybe five times.
I nearly choked on a piece of frozen fruit that wasn’t even close to being blended.

This thing was not really good for blending anything with ice.

It was stored for a few months until Granny had mentioned before she died, she wanted a blender.

“Are you making margaritas or pina coladas?”

“Neither, I want a milkshake every now and then,” she said.

I took her the blender but with the caution of slightly thawing her ice cream first.

But now, as I said, I am in a chicken rut, meaning if I eat anymore dang grilled chicken, I may sprout feathers.

“If I had buttermilk and flour, I could fry it,” Lamar said.

He has to be the one to fry chicken; I have caused near fires in my attempts that somehow yielded chicken burnt on the outside and raw on the inside.

I get tired of salads. They feel like a tremendous amount of work for stuff that a rabbit eats.

“Didn’t you get a new juicer a while back? What happened to that?” Lamar asked.

“It was a juicer,” I said. “I don’t want to juice; I want smoothies.”

“I like juices better than smoothie,” he responded.

We stared at each other for a moment.

“So what kind of smoothie making blender are you thinking about getting?” he asked.

I wasn’t sure yet.

Then, I saw an infomercial about the Nutri Ninja Nutri Pro Auto IQ Super Sensory tabletop duo thing that would not only make me smoothies, it looked like it could juice, too. Or maybe it just pulverized the vegetables into liquid. It had all the bells and whistles. I mean, it had ninja and ‘nutri’ in the name – it was like stealthy nutrition just sneaking up on you.

“Your own body has been breaking down food to get the nutrients since you’ve been eating, you know,” Lamar said when I told him it would break everything down into easily digested liquids.

“Yeah, but a frozen chunk of strawberry can nearly choke you to death,” I said. “I kind of want this.”

It had all these attachments. It had a big pitcher to make a huge things of blueberry-almond milk-banana smoothie for us. There was even the option to get a food processer bowl or something like that.

“It does look like it can do everything,” Lamar said.

Was he hooked too?

I needed this. I was already thinking of how I was going to be getting all my fruits and vegetables in. I was going to be healthy – healthier than I had ever been in my life because this thing was going to extract all of the nutrients I had been missing.

I wondered, briefly, if you could juice cheesecake. A cheesecake infused smoothie maybe?

I pulled up the website and was set to order, until I saw the price. Considering my history with blenders and other small mixing-type appliances, that sounded awfully high.

Did I really want to be that healthy? I was doing OK on my steady diet of Dove bars and coffee.

I was sick of chicken now, but in a few months, I may be ready for grilled chicken on everything again.

And I would probably get tired of smoothies or juices or whatever concoction the thing made.

It sure would be a spendy item to be stuck in the bottom cabinet behind the cake plate I never use.

“You gonna order it?” Lamar asked.

I sighed.

I think I’ll wait.

And once again, healthy decisions were sacrificed because cheesecake – and chicken — is cheaper and doesn’t take up precious real estate in my kitchen cabinets.

 

The Original Stay-cationers (7/6/16)

While everyone else is uploading pictures of their toes in the sand, or a view of the ocean set against the backdrop of their tanned legs, the Crouches are staying home.
Again.
For the 13th year in a row.
No loading up the van and heading south to Florida and its heat. There’s no sandy beaches in my future nor in my recent past.
And in a way, I am kind of OK with that.
I am not a huge vacationer to begin with. Even when I was a child, we didn’t go anywhere.
Mama asked me once if I wanted to go to Disneyland; whether or not she would have taken me, I don’t know. But I remember asking her how much walking was involved and after considering having to use public restrooms along with countless others, I told her I’d rather go to the library instead.
Maybe it’s because the one time we tried to venture anywhere for any length of time, it seemed like something always happened.
I was maybe 5-years old the first time my family decided to go anywhere.
This was a big deal – huge, actually, because my grandfather agreed to go and it was on a Sunday.
So there must not have been any kind of sporting event on TV that day that he had to watch.
It was spontaneous; I had got up to get ready for church and Granny had announced we were not going.
“Did church go out of business?” I asked over my Fruity Pebbles.
“No, but we are going to do something today we ain’t never done; we going on a day trip.”
Granny called to inform the preacher he was on his own this Sunday, she was not there to keep the congregation in line and God help him, keep them awake, either.
Mama worked all the time, Pop & Bobby worked all the time and were self-employed, and Granny worked and thought she kept a tri-county portion of the state in line. There was no time for vacations or up until now, a day trip.
But here we were, loading into Granny’s Oldsmobile, all of us, and heading – of all things – out of state to North Carolina.
We went to Cherokee, in all its gaudy glory.
I was amazed at how everything looked, and all the Native American regalia that was displayed in shops. I wanted one of everything; I think Mama decided on a pair of moccasins and a headdress with a toy bow and arrow. Why she refused to get me a real one, I have no idea. I was protesting this fact when a man dressed in Native American buckskin told me I needed to respect my mother.
All I knew was based on the size of his headdress, he must have been the head guy, so I shut up. Until he decided to flirt with my Mama. The crazy redhead seemed to like it too.
“He was handsome,” she giggled when I grabbed her hand to pull her away.
I was tired. I was hungry. My feet hurt. I was ready to go.
We had been there about one hour and 15 minutes.
I stated my complaints. “We drove all the way here – out of the dadblamed state. You gonna have fun it if I have to make you!” was Granny’s response.
I didn’t, but I knew better than to say anything else.
Maybe it was the boiled peanuts, or maybe I was carsick because I ventured out of state, but by the time I got home, I was feeling quite queasy.
Granny called the preacher to make sure the church had not imploded or Jesus hadn’t come back in her absence. He assured her the church was still standing and that Jesus wouldn’t make any decisions without consulting her first.
The next week, Granny found chewing gum – chewing gum, which she never allowed in her nursery – stuck in the carpet.
You would have thought all 10 commandments had been broken as the old gal was in the floor muttering under her breathe as she scrubbed.
“See! See there! That’s why we don’t go nowhere!” she screamed at me.
It wasn’t my idea to go anywhere but she wanted me to understand her logic train.
I just felt sorry for whoever was going to receive her wrath.
You’d think Granny would learn, but the next year on another Sunday, she decided we were going to Stone Mountain.
She called and told the preacher, reminding him about the gum from the year before. He assured her no gum would be chewed while she was gone.
We walked around, found a funnel cake for me, followed by ice cream, then watermelon. We walked some more. My uncle asked me if I wanted to walk up to the top.
“Why would anyone want to do that?” I cried.
He asked if I wanted to ride the cable car to the top instead. “Good lord, no!”
He went alone instead.
Mama complained about the heat. “You know I get sun poisoning real easy. It’s too hot!”
Someone got the grand idea for us to take a riverboat ride. The thing wasn’t going that fast, really, but watching the water rolling and swaying was enough to make me really, really sick.
“Maybe it was the funnel cake,” my uncle suggested.
“Or maybe it was the watermelon,” my grandfather said.
“Yeah, or the ice cream,” my uncle added.
I was sick. So sick. And ready to go home.
I think we were maybe there 2 hours.
As we headed back home, we realized we didn’t need to go anywhere. Not for a few days, and sure not for a week or longer. Heck, we were doing good to get to the grocery store once a week without some major catastrophe.
Granny set it in stone when she declared, “That’s it. We’ve tried day trips and this mess ain’t working! We ain’t going nowhere ever again!”
And I pretty much haven’t gone anywhere since then. Why tempt fate when it seems to be something my family just isn’t good at doing?
At least I don’t have to worry about the vacation laundry.

Boo-Anne’s Betrayal (6/29/2016)

Doodle, a.k.a Boo-Anne, had been betrayed.

By the very man she loved more than a Milk Bone itself: Lamar.

The chunky little red dog was curled up on the couch, taking her post-dinner, pre-bedtime nap one evening when Lamar decided it was time for a bath.

She had artfully dodged bath time previously, ducking behind the couch or my chair anytime she saw Lamar.

He had warned her she was going to get a bath this time.

The little pibble mix stuck her chin up defiantly as if to say, “No, sir!”

She had outsmarted him and ducked to safety enough times to feel confident she was in the clear.

But alas, she was not.

Just when she thought because of the time that she was safe, she hopped up on the couch for her nap.

Lamar saw her reposed position – head on the arm of the couch, eyes closed in blissful slumber, and her belly slightly exposed in case anyone just had to pet it – and went in for the grab. He scooped her up in his arms like a baby.

“Get the bathroom door, Cole,” he instructed.

Cole ran to get the door, shocked his daddy would betray his baby girl this way.

The look on her face was priceless. At first, she may have briefly thought Lamar was going to cradle her like he did when she was a mere little puppy, holding her against his chest as he sang to her.

That look gave away to shock and horror as she realized he was walking towards the bathroom and she knew what that meant.

“Close the door, and do not, under any circumstances, open it until I tell you to,” Lamar told Cole.

Unlike the German Shepherd who nearly takes the wall down, Doodle just took her bath with great shame.

When done, she shot out of the bathroom like a pinball, running through the house, hitting one hiding place after another before settling on her spot behind my chair.

“Boo-Anne, did he not dry you off?” I asked her. “I have a towel….”

Big brown eyes peeked from behind the chair cautiously. She glanced right, then left before scurrying towards me.

I swaddled her in the towel and rubbed her somewhat dry.

When Lamar walked in, she ran back to behind my chair, going to the side between the arm and the shelves to look at him.

“I can’t believe you betrayed Boo-Boo that way,” I said.

Boo-Boo, Boo-Anne, Doodle—that dog was a true Southern belle because none of those were her given name of Angel.

“She needed a bath; she got out of them last time and she just thought she was going to get out of this one.”

She may have, but she didn’t expect to be so abruptly snatched from her nap to be chunky dumped in the tub.

“She will get over it in a few days. She loves me.”

I wasn’t so sure. Doodle could hold a grudge.

It didn’t take a day. Hours later, the pudgy pup was curled up beside him on the couch.

She may have forgiven but she didn’t forget.

When she saw him with the bottle of all-natural flea spray, she ducked behind the couch.

“I forgot to put conditioner on her but I want to make sure it’s not a flea,” was Lamar’s explanation while I watched him try to coax her out from behind the couch.

Boo-Anne peeked out before burrowing further behind her barricade.

It took a few days but he was finally able to spray her, sending her behind my chair for safety.

This time she put her little head up on my arm rest as if to ask, “Why do you let him do this to me?”

“Doodle needs her nails trimmed,” Lamar said. “I’ve got the clippers by the door. I need to grab her and take her out on the porch to trim them.”

“All you do is betray her, you know. She’s gonna get to where she doesn’t trust you anymore.”

“She trusts me fine,” Lamar said. “She knows I am taking care of her.”

Maybe she did.

And maybe the little weeble-wobbling dog also felt like her puppy rights were being violated and her trust was being equivocally betrayed.

Lamar even tossed the spray to Cole one evening for him to chase her into her hiding spot to spray her.

“She’s going to get you back,” I warned. “Payback is going to be bad, I’m afraid.”

Lamar didn’t think so. He was confident of the little dog’s love and loyalty.

As we returned home from church one evening, Lamar went into the bedroom to change and found Boo-Anne’s payback waiting for him.

“I told you she was going to get you back,” was all I said.

A woman scorned is one thing; a Boo-Boo betrayed is another.

Why All Roads Lead to Dairy Queen (6/22/2016)

Before I knew of the solace of cheesecake, there was the single flavored mecca of Dairy Queen.

My Sunday memories included going to church where I spent an hour worried more about what Granny saw me doing than Jesus (her wrath was immediate and in this life, not the hereafter) and followed by a pilgrimage to Dairy Queen.

How he got stuck in his Sunday cone ritual, I will never know but it was something to look forward to every week.

“Why you gotta go Dairy Queen every cussed week, Bob?” Granny demanded once as she pointed the Oldsmobile in the direction of a dipped cone.

“’ Cause,” was my grandfather’s reply.

One Sunday, Granny did the unthinkable – she informed my grandfather she was not going to town for his cone.

I sat in the back seat and waited for the thunder to boom.

“What you mean, woman?”

“I mean, Bob, I got a roast on and I didn’t roll out my biscuits before we left this morning. I gotta get home and make my bread.”

To Granny, not having biscuits at Sunday dinner was as sacrilegious as someone wearing white shoes after Labor Day.

“So that means I can’t get my ice cream?” He was not following her line of logic here.

“That’s right, Bob.”

My grandfather grunted. “I’m getting an ice cream if it means stopping at The Store to get one.”

My grandmother, fresh from church and full of the Holy Spirit – and needing to make her biscuits – didn’t want to argue anymore, so she decided she would stop at The Store (that was the actual name of the store) and get Pop a sundae cone.

“It’s not the same,” he said between bites.

My pre-Sunday dinner ice cream was one of those banana and chocolate popsicles that looked and sounded in theory a lot better than it tasted.

Granny made her biscuits and after we ate, Pop got up from the table and announced he’d be waiting in the car.

“For what?” Granny asked.

“For you to take me to the Brazier, woman. I had that pitiful little gas station cone and you made your biscuits; now, we going to Dairy Queen!”

Not wanting to violate Sunday, Granny took us to get ice cream. Pop got his large dipped cone and I got a peanut buster parfait.

Getting ice cream wasn’t just our Sunday tradition, but was where we, along with 100’s of other people, headed after the fireworks on the Fourth of July every year.

After we had sat in the Bi-Lo parking lot for hours, waiting to see the revelry, we found ourselves grossly disappointed when they fizzled out in the sky in about 5 minutes.

“You mean we sat here for that, to now have to fight all these people through the drive thru?” was my grandfather’s complaint.

The line was long, too. It just about reached down to the parking lot we had left.

“Bob, you ain’t expecting me to sit in this line are you?”

“I sat through those pitiful excuses for fireworks. I am getting a cone.”

The following year, we just went to Dairy Queen; we were able to see the fireworks just as well and Pop was happy. Sitting in the parking lot meant he could go in and get another ice cream if he wanted it and he usually did.

Any of Pop’s directions out of town often involved us ending up at the ice cream restaurant.

“Robert,” Granny began. She was mad, really mad; she used his whole name.

“I thought you said you asked your friend for directions.”

“I did,” he answered, as she handed him his ice cream.

Apparently, Pop’s inquiry was how to get to his favorite place in this new town not get us to our destination. We were lost somewhere around Atlanta and it took us hours to get home.

However, we did know where every Dairy Queen was in about 12 counties.

To this day, nothing can give me the same comfort. It reminds me of my grandfather and my childhood, all at once, and a time when ice cream made everything better.

‘Cause all roads lead to ice cream, and if they don’t, they should.

The 5 0’Clock Train May Be Temporarily Delayed (6/15/2015)

We had somewhere to be at 5:30 p.m.

Our destination was approximately 20 minutes away, but for some reason, my husband decided he needed to hurry me along.

“We need to leave in 15 minutes,” he announced.

I was putting on my makeup in my office/dungeon of girliness/former hiding place of candy.

He poked his head in.

“Did you hear me?”

I paused, eyeliner in my hand. Did he not know that a kohl eyeliner could double as a mini-spear?

“Daddy….” Cole cautioned from the couch in the living room. “Don’t make her angry.”

“I heard you,” I said, giving him a warning glance.

“I don’t want to be late. We may have to park and walk a block or two, so we need to make sure we leave with plenty of time.”

“Daddy…..” Cole said, a sharp whistle sounding as he took in air.

I gave him a heady stare until he backed out and then returned to my makeup.

“I don’t like being late,” he said again from the other room.

“We won’t be late,” I said.

“We will be if you don’t hurry up, you are still in your robe.”

“I can get ready if you would stop fussing,” was my reply.

“I am not fussing, I am simply telling you we need to leave in 10 minutes and you are not even dressed.”

It’s impossible to apply eye liner or eye shadow when you are fussing with someone. I was going to be late and you know what? It was his fault.

This, from the man that when I tell him I want to go somewhere by a certain time, will make me late. Normally, Cole and I are sitting in the van, wondering if he decided not to go and just laid down. Or, he will say he’s ready to go, then can’t find his wallet, his glasses, the keys, or he needs one more drink of water.

He also is good about walking all the way out to the van, where Cole and I are sitting, normally sweltering from the heat, to announce he forgot something and go back in. “He’s not coming back, is he?” Cole will ask from the back seat. Sometimes, I wonder myself. We spend an eternity sitting in the van ready to go before his daddy finally gets out there.

“Five minutes.”

I couldn’t find the pants I wanted to wear. Where were they? I went in the bedroom and they were not where I had last put them.

I didn’t want to wear jeans – it had to be cooler in the shade of Hades than it was on this evening.

Should I wear a dress, or would that be too dressy?

No, no dress. Never a dress.

What in the world was I going to wear?

“Go get in the van,” I heard Lamar tell Cole.

“I hope you aren’t going to Ray Barrone Mama,” Cole said, heading out the door. “That will not end well, you know…”

He was referencing the episode where Ray left Debra when she got the curling iron stuck in her hair and went to the awards ceremony without her. Here was my child, wondering if his own mother was about to get left behind.

I heard the van crank. “He better not leave me,” I muttered under my breath.

I found a pair of dress pants and a shirt I didn’t really like anymore but it was short sleeved and didn’t require me finding some tank top to wear underneath it – that’s another thing. Since when did every woman’s blouse require another shirt underneath it to wear? Geesh.

I started to slip on my heels then thought if we were late and I had to walk I’d be better off in flats, so I slipped on sandals.

I paused to make sure I could still hear the van outside; I did.

I grabbed my phone and my purse, made sure Doodle was behind the couch, Pumpkin was on it, and Ava was secure on her spot on the bed.

I ran out the door, and saw Lamar sitting in the driver’s seat, window down. Even with his sunglasses on, I could see his annoyed stare.

I realized I didn’t even have on my earrings or my necklace but locked the door anyway.

“Five minutes after 5,” Lamar said as I climbed in my seat.

“You’re going to make me not want to go anywhere with you, you know,” I said. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

He set his mouth in a tense line and backed out.

“We are going to be late,” he stated.

I rolled my eyes and adjusted my AC vent.

A few miles down the road, just as we approached a stop sign, a truck took the turn too fast and hard, and came into our lane, barely having enough time to get control. Lamar was thankfully able to avoid us being hit.

“Wow! If we had left a few minutes earlier, he would have hit us,” Lamar said.
“So Mama being late was a good thing!” Cole said, patting my shoulder.

“Even when Mama’s late, she is always on time,” I said.

We rode in silence the rest of the way.

And we got there, with three minutes to spare.

The Chocolate Concealment (6/8/2016)

Some of you may judge me for this. I know that ahead of time.

But, a few of you will understand.

And maybe you do this yourself from time to time.

It started a few years ago, when Cole was around 4.

I locked myself in the bathroom, hoping for privacy.

Cole, being part cat, tried to paw me out from under the door.

“What are you doing?” he wanted to know.

“Nothing!” I cried.

“I can see your feet! What are you doing?!”

He frantically started hitting the door. ‘Let me in!”

His howls were now becoming far too loud and would soon draw attention.

I had to do the unthinkable.

I had to let him in.

“What are you doing?” he asked again.

I swallowed. “Nothing.”

He sniffed the air then shot an accusatory glance at me. “I smell chocolate,” he declared.

I couldn’t hide it any longer.

I had hid in the one room with a lock to eat a candy bar.

A precious, precious candy bar.

Without sharing it with anyone else.

Cole readied himself to wail – what kind of horrible person hid to eat a candy bar and didn’t share with her child?

It wasn’t that I was necessarily hiding to keep it from Cole.

But maybe I was trying to hide it from someone else.

Like his father.

I quickly promised the child his own candy bar, or maybe a trip to Dairy Queen if he would keep it on the down low. He lowered his eyes and agreed, already plotting to get both.

Over the years, I found other hiding places but they have not been nearly as effective.

I thought my office would be ideal, in all of its cluttered confusion.

I successfully hid bags of Dove for a while, until my hiding spot was one day discovered.

When I reached under the carefully placed envelopes and magazines in the basket, the bag was empty.

Except for a few wrappers, evidence of the transgression that had occurred.

I gasped.

He had found my candy. And ate it.

How did he find my hiding space? How did he even know I had candy?

I asked all these questions aloud to the empty bag of Dove milk chocolate.

“I think he noticed you kept coming in here,” a voice answered.

It was Cole; not the bag.

“You kept getting up and walking in here for a few minutes. I think he wondered what you were doing.”

And, I foolishly didn’t hide the wrappers I put in the trash.

Had I really gotten so lackadaisical I didn’t cover up my tracks?

“I will have to find another hiding spot,” I said, sinking into my chair.

“He will keep looking until he finds it,” Cole whispered.

Much like Liam Neeson hunting down his daughter’s kidnappers in Taken, Lamar would sniff out every square of chocolate I had until it was no more. And he would eat it, shamelessly.

I have known for over 13 years now that I have to strategically hide chocolate from him. Lamar doesn’t know it but we almost broke up once over a Girl Scout cookie. Well, two actually. He came over one night – to eat leftover pizza—even though I told him I was near death and shivering on the couch. “I am just coming by to eat the pizza and watch some TV,” he promised. How romantic, I thought dryly as I hung up the phone. I snoozed on the couch while he ate the leftovers and watched some bicycling documentary on cable. Before he left, he had kissed my head and told me had already taken the evil beagle out and for me to lock my deadbolt.

The next morning, all I could think of was Thin Mints and Samosas – the fresh boxes I had bought on my way home and had been too sick to eat.

Surely, cookies and coffee would make me better.

There was one each left in the box.

Lamar was dangerously close to be permanently single that day.

After we married, he ate my birthday chocolate bar that our neighbor brought me.

I had hid it, too, mind you, tucked behind some condensed soup and other stuff that I knew he wouldn’t even give a second glance to. But he knew there was a chocolate bar in the house and he had to eat it.

Now, he was not only finding the stuff in the cabinets or pantry, he was brazenly coming into my office, rifling through the papers and stuff to find the chocolate.

I didn’t know what to do. Should I hide it in plain sight? Or maybe get one of those hollow books that people hide their valuables in?

“Mama!” Cole cried one day as he looked over the shelves in the pantry. His box of Little Debbies was gone, or rather, the empty box was sitting on the shelf.

“I put my name on them,” he said forlornly.

“Your daddy doesn’t pay attention to that,” I said, empathizing. “I don’t think he cares, either.” If he would eat a king size chocolate bar in a bright pink wrapper that read, “For you, Birthday Girl!” I don’t think a sticky note with the name “Cole” in permanent marker was going to stop him.

“You’ve got to start hiding food,” I said simply. “You need a hiding spot – one better than mine – and you need to hide your treats. Your daddy is worse than a bear.”

Little Debbies, root beer – anything Cole put back to enjoy later, like during one of his favorite shows, his father would find and eat.

A few weeks later, Cole found a small Coleman cooler at the store. It was just big enough for a six pack of Barq’s and some Strawberry Shortcake rolls.

It worked, too, for about two weeks. “Hey, this is a neat little cooler! What’s in it?” we heard his father say.

The other day I found a wrapper in the bathroom trash. I didn’t say a word, I just helped hide the evidence.

 

 

Rest in Peace Cassius Clay

Love how my dear friend Mary Marvella is remembering Cassius Clay…My memories of him involve me watching him on TV, hearing his famous, “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee” line. I may have been just a youngster, but I knew cool when I saw it.

RIP, The Greatest

Pink Fuzzy Slippers Authors

Keeping this short today. Do you remember when a young black boxer made records that had everyone rooting for him? I wasn’t a boxing fan and this man was younger that I was. His charisma lasted until his death this past weekend. Does anyone remember what he did when the draft called on him to fight? 

Just for fun, share two facts about him.

From Of Mountains and Mysteries,  just barely birthed!

Jamie has just turned 18. She lives in the North Georgia Mountains and drives beat up old truck she starts with a screw driver.

Over the noise of the wind blowing in her windows and her radio she caught a deep horn blast behind her. A glance in her rear-view mirror made her heart stop. Crap! A big rig loomed so close to her tailgate she could almost feel it pushing her. She jerked the…

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