Closing Ceremonies

I just want to thank you all for your hard work and playful attitudes since I met you or became reacquainted with you during interviews. I have enjoyed working with you. You all feed my muse regularly, and tonight we'll feed the Cautious Stripper and her client, Wes, with seafood. See you tonight. Thanks again for the song and present. You rock!

Pet Peeves

Pet Peeves- The thing about pet peeves is that yours are normal….everyone else’s are psycho. My peeves are a normal part of who I am, and I don’t see why everyone else doesn’t “get it”. I am always looking for the things that make my life seem normal and under control. I am not one of those folks that seem to just take life as it comes, but I don’t freak when it doesn’t turn out the way I plan. I suppose my peeves consist of what I consider “responsible” behavior. I want to be on time. Always. I want to be on time even when it is probably okay to be “fashionably late”. I just think it is rude to show up long (or sometimes short) after you say you will be somewhere. Now, let me say that I know things happen that you don’t and can’t plan for. You know, things like alarm clocks that don’t go off, cars that won’t start, or rude little old ladies that can make a Minister of Music want to shoot a bird in the figurative sense. I don’t usually judge other people against my own sense of what is important. I have always figured that when you say “I will be here at such and such a time, that is a promise, and you’re supposed to keep your promises. Because of this, I am usually the early arrival at anything I have on my schedule. I have become known for this in the family. I put things on a list; I wear a watch, and make contingency plans in case of fire, flood, and nuclear holocaust. It is probably horrible for my family on vacation (they have wrongly called me “Clark Griswold” after the Chevy Chase character in the “Family Vacation” movies) when I pull out the schedule, look at the watch, and say “All right people, we are wasting daylight!” Maybe it is because leisure time is too important to waste being leisurely. There is so little of it in my life that I want to experience as much of it, and cram as many positive occurrences into it as possible. I mean, I’m not an ogre when my plans and schedule go awry. Life is too short to get tourqued about whether or not we got to see the whole museum of early telephones or not. I can get over it. When I really lose it is when I feel that there is something that can be done about it, and I am not allowed to “fix” it. The side trips to the antique stores, looking at glass chickens and knick-knacks from the 1970’s that someone decided had become collector’s items drive me nuts. I do this for my dearly beloved, who could live long and die happy firmly ensconced in the depths of tourist trap heaven. Now, she has turned up some treasures in these old places, and I have seen her wheel and deal like a sultan in an Arab bazaar. I just don’t possess that gene. I feel that time is better spent experiencing the things that aren’t close to the house, the geography and history of the area. She sees the same area as new ground for modern day archaeology. She would make an awesome Egyptologist or someone like that, somebody that needs a lot of patience, is interested in “getting to the bottom” of a situation, and doesn’t mind getting dirty to do it. I all, I suppose that life will not end if I’m late. My world will not fall apart if I don’t get to see everything during one trip. And those glass chickens sure do look good in the kitchen window.

Pet Peeves

People who eat while they are on the telephone.
People who say they want to do something but when asked, act like they really don't want to do it.
People who hang up on you when you tell them they have the wrong number.
People who won't do something different just because it's different.
People who won't try new things.
People who have all the answers but nothing to say.
People who chew with their mouth open.
People who talk with their mouth full.
When kids tap you to get your attention.
Unruly children.
People that ask for your opinion then get mad at you when you tell them.
People who say ATM machine.


I am the church announcer and I hate it when I ask if anyone has additional announcements and no one says anything but right before I get ready to turn the service back over to the pastor, someone whispers to me to tell me to announce something.

Favorite Children's Stories

Yes, it is Cinderella. I love the whole idea of the good girl getting the prince and living happily ever after....

Like Cinderella, I would be a commoner in the Kingdom. I however did not have evil step sisters, but instead vile beaus. Although a broken heart is often hard to mend, it is a very good teacher. I knew two weeks after dating my husband I would marry him. He is my prince. Life is good.

Pet Peeves or Things That Just Make Me Mad

So, I started listing things in my journal and realized I may be an angry person. There seem to be numerous things that get me riled up, which isn't really a surprise except it took me a surprisingly short amount of time to form my list! So here is just a sampling of the things that annoy me or just make me mad when I'm at school. The social issues were too numerous to list.
-Gapers-you know the people who don't seem capable of closing their mouths. It makes me hope a bug will fly in and bite the back of their throat.
-Mouth breathers-that one kid you can hear in the middle of a test. Uhh! If you can't breathe out your nose, well fine, but breathe out your mouth silently.
-Girls that want to use classtime to take their weave out
-Girls who put on their make-up in class
-Students calling my name over and over until I answer them
-Stupid questions-yes, there are stupid questions
-Whiners
-Pregnant students who insist on giving each other baby showers
-Parents who don't think their child is capable of doing anything wrong
-Administrators who change the rules for certain kids

The list could go on, but you might think I'm mean. I'd hate to ruin the beautiful image you have of me now.

Pet Peeves or just annoying things

When people eat crunchy food in my ear.
When my husband laughs in his sleep
Feet (especially my husband’s feet)
People who think they are smarter than everyone else
My mom acting like a teenager (not Donna C.)
People who talk about nothing for hours (sometimes me)
People who are always negative and never take advise or listen to other people

Flat children and Round peas

One of my favorite children's stories is one that I have never heard anyone else even mention. It is one of the stories in The Children's Tall book of Tales. When I was a child, I used to love that book. It was tall and thin and had a green cover with elves and other mythical creatures. The story I loved was "The Very Bad Day."
The idea behind the story was if you are going to have a bad day, have the best bad day possible. The mother in the story is fed up. Everything has gone wrong, so she gives up tring to make it any better. Instead,she tries to make it as bad as it possibly can be. Now that's the spirit!
She allows wild animals in the basement, polar bears in her frig, and fairies in the lemonade. She isn't surprised when her children tear up the piano and fix it with honey or pull the youngest child under the door, so that she becomes flat. The children try to help by fixing supper, but Rosa, the flat child, can't eat anything round. So the peas go rolling across the floor.
Now, I can't help but believe if all of us had the spirit of this Mom, life would be a lot more fun. Why spend all your time trying to control what you can't control? Why spend all your time being upset? Sometimes you just got to pull your pants down and slide on the ice! Roll with the flow. Drink the lemonade with the faires, but know your limitations. You can't serve round peas to flat children. You have to make modifications or you'll lose what peas you have.

Pet Peeves

Okay, I thought I didn't want to write about this topic, but the music has mellowed me out (thanks, Andrea), and I can write about it without getting angry, instead just laughing at the people who populate my world, the people who may be put on Sasha's list.

Pet Peeves:

• people who drive slowly in my lane, refusing to budge despite being passed on the left by several other drivers
• people whose thongs show in church--or anywhere really. I don't want to know about people's underwear choices.
• rude people
• diarrhea talkers--they just spew nonsense everywhere, eager for an audience, not wanting to share the floor

Favorite Children's Stories

• the LaRue books that Kim introduced us to last summer in the Institute; this year Lindsi bought two for BWP's library; _Dear Mrs. LaRue_ is a great example of a multigenre text
• Amelia Bedelia--maybe that's where I developed a love for language play
• Curious George books--that monkey got into everything
• Wes stories--Wes tells the nieces and nephews stories about his escapades as a child; they love the stories. One year, I typed one, and Wes illustrated it, and we gave it to the nieces and nephews for Christmas. My niece took it to show and tell one day, and Wes's nephew memorized it this past year for his speech class. One day, I want us to write them all up. So far, I've written two of them, but we haven't really played with the illustrations.
• _The Napping House_, it has great illustrations

Pet Peeves

Every time I hear the phrase "pet peeve" it makes me laugh.

This stems directly from the Sifl & Olly show. (As Donna C said, "So, you're a puppet person..."

Yes, it's true. I really, really love puppets. The Muppet Show was one of my favorite things growing up, and I've honestly never grown out of it.

But back to my original story... Sifl & Olly have a character named Chester on their show, and Chester gets interviewed during several shows. Hilarity always ensues.

During one interview, Olly asks Chester what his pet peeves are. Chester replies, "What's a peeve?" And later asks, "Why is it a pet?" Then he starts rambling, "I had this hamster once... scratched me..."

Now any time I hear the phrase "pet peeve," I can't help picturing Chester and laughing.

(For those not "in the know," which is probably everyone else in this room, the picture below is from the "Fake Blood" song when Olly decides he is "going to become the next Canadian Dracula." Sifl counters, "You're not even Canadian!" To which Olly replies, "Well... I'm not Dracula either, but I got what it takes..."

Olly then launches into a musical rant about how he's started out slowly, preparing himself to be a vampire by drinking fake blood. He's been putting fake blood on sundaes, his toothbrush, and at one point waters flowers with fake blood from a watering can. He swears that "Fake blood... you scare me like the real thing, but if you were the real thing, you'd scare me more.")

Pet Peeves or Favorite Children's Stories

Here are the freewriting topics for the day.

A Teaching Revision for Lindsey

Enrichment


Danny walked in my classroom, reeking of sweat that smelled like beer. He was the first alcohol syndrome child and one of the first elementary school children I had ever taught.
I looked at this sweet child with gangly arms and slanted eyes and wondered what his life would have been life if his mother hadn’t drank during her pregnancy. Would this child be in my gifted class in the morning instead of my behavior disordered class in the afternoon?
Danny took his seat in the first row and smiled up at me. He was noisy, but he tried.
Danny was not only in my behavior disordered class, but he was also mentally handicapped. No one had a lot of hope for Danny.
I had just moved to South Georgia and switched from drama and high school English to gifted and behavior disordered. Everyone laughed when I told them what I taught. Honestly, I liked the variety.
So far, I had all kinds of plans for my gifted kids, but I was struggling with my small group in the afternoon. How could I teach them? How could I help them reach their potential?
“Do we get to come to gifted, tomorrow?” Danny blurted out.
His question took me off guard.
“What?” I asked just to give me time to think.
Matt, the boy next to him who was very bright, but had trouble getting along in the classroom interpreted, “We got a guess speaker tomorrow. Do we still get to come to gifted?”
Suddenly, I realized that this class thought they were gifted. For a minute, I didn’t know what to do and then I said, “Well, this isn’t exactly gifted. We call it enrichment.”
“Enrichment?” Matt savored the new word. “What does that mean?”
“Well,” I said, “it means that we take what you do in the classroom and make it more fun.”
Danny smiled.
Matt thought about it for a minute and then said, “Neat!”
That was the beginning. My enrichment class met ever afternoon doing hands on activities, reading aloud, and playing games to review the material they studied in the classroom. Anytime anyone called the class anything other than enrichment, they were corrected. So, my little behavior disordered class believed they were special because they were pulled out to come to my class, so they acted as if they were special. By the end of the year, most of them were working above grade level; no one was working below grade level, including Danny.

A Reflection Revision for Donna

The fact that I am sitting here the night before my portfolio is due revising this paper should tell you how much I have changed over the summer. I have never been big on revision. However, Donna Sewell edited my reflection paper for the second time this afternoon. She handed it to me with a few marks on it and one comment on the bottom of the paper. I knew the paper wasn’t very good, but I was hoping it would be good enough to slide by. For some stupid reason, I turned to her and asked, “But is it ok?” She replied, “It’s all right.” With those words, she had placed the stamp of mediocrity on my work.
“Ok,” I thought to myself. “I knew it wasn’t very good. I knew she knew it wasn’t’ very good, but she wasn’t supposed to admit it. I mean it is the end of the class. Am I the only one who is tired?” I packed up my bags, mulling over the paper with the ink marks. “Do I take the easy way out? All I have to do is make a few minor changes and I’m done. Yes, that is what I will do.”
It is a long way to my house from Valdosta. The kids were tired from a trip to Wild Adventures, and I actually had time to think, not really what I wanted to do. “Why did I take this class?” I asked myself. “For the PLUs, stupid,” I replied.
My teacher started fighting with my pirate.
“You did not take the course for PLUs. You just recertified and you have five more years to get credit.”
“Argh,” my pirate barked, “Let’s take the treasure and run!”
“No!” my teacher side said, “Think of that look in Donna’s eyes as she answered you. It all but said, “You sold out and after all my hard work.”’
“You be puttin’ too much into it. What kin she do to ye. Have ye walk the plank?”
“That’s not the point,” the teacher lectured. “You took this course for you, so you could be with other pirate writers and put adventure back in your classroom.”
The pirate looked down, “Well, that be the rub then.”
“Yes,” the teacher responded self righteously, “That be the rub then.”
“ Argh, the Pirate’s oath is a cruel mistress. We be lashed to the mast of the computer again this night,” grumbled the pirate.
“I guess we will," said the teacher as she replaced the ink cartridge.
The clicking of the computer the keys wafted out of Blackshear, floated out into the sticky night air down to Valdosta, whispering, “Yo-ho, yo-ho, it’s a writer’s life for me!”

Cut adrift

I love bumper stickers. I love the fact that they tell you a little bit about the people in the car. I had a Sgt. Major one time that was in his fifties and had a Guns and Roses sticker on his car. I’ve only had one bumper sticker on any vehicle I’ve owned. It read something like “Only in America does a vet live in a cardboard box while a draft dodger lives in the White House.” It was during the Clinton Years. As a side note, it seems that whatever profession I am in is the profession the president wants to screw up. Clinton was against the Military and Bush is against Education. Maybe it’s me screwing it up for everyone else.

“If you hammer your guns into plows, you will plow for those who don’t.”
“The grass is always different.”
“Rehabs for quitters.”
“If you can’t shake it, bake it.”
My favorite recent gun quote is “ If guns kill people, then pencils misspell words.”

(I've hijacked some wifi)

Take what you can; Give nothing back!

Word Play

All right! Word Play or Bumper Stickers! Possibly a mix between the two! Word Play:

Why do we call them Jumbo Shrimp?
Why would you say that it is the Same Difference?
What does someone look like that is Pretty Ugly?
Why do parents and bosses tell you that something is a Definite Maybe?
Why do we employ Paid Volunteers?
Can I truly make an Original Copy?
Is my document really Found Missing? Why is there a highway?
Is there an opportunity to drive on the Lowway?
Why do you park in the driveway and drive on the parkway?
When you have eaten all the Grits you can possibly hold, can you eat one more grit?
Why can I use a hoe in the garden with no ill consequences, but can’ have anything to do with one downtown?
Why do people not understand the difference between “See Ya’ll” (farewell to one) and “See all Ya’ll”?
Why is it that some folks (including myself) call them Pecan trees, Pecan Pies, and Pecan Pralines, but then when we ask for a cone we use Butter P’can?
Can there be any department truly called Military Intelligence?
OK that's all for now!

Bumper Stickers

Mine are not very entertaining, but I'll give you the ones that came to mind.

"My kid beat up your honor student." Go ahead big daddy, show your ignorance!
"Guns don't kill people; people kill people." Thanks for common sense.
"Celebrate diversity" No, I am not going to get excited over your alternative lifestyle.
"Teach tolerance" We should all take the advice of this one.

Word Confusion

Misheard Song Lyrics:

• INXS, "Suicide Blonde," I was hungry one day when I first heard this song and thought the words were "Soup and Salad Bar." I sang those lyrics for several years until Wes heard me.
• The Pretenders, I can't even publish what I thought that song said, but I'll give you the line that confused me so that you can having fun trying to guess (you'll never get it right, though): "gonna use my, my, my imagination 'cause I'm gonna make you see, no one else here, no one like me." The word I couldn't decipher was "imagination."

In my defense, at the time I couldn’t look up song lyrics on the Internet.

Weird pronuniciations I’ve heard (or said):

• "bomb" pronounced as "bum" as in "We had a bum threat at school today"--immediately, I imagined crowds of buns outside the school, threatening to enter, and students not having to take tests because of the threat
• “throat lozenge” pronounced as “throat lounger”—again, I didn’t know what a Sucrets was until Wes laughed at my pronounciation. Now, any time I have a cough, he offers to get me a “throat lounger” and grins. I think it’s clear that I don’t hit him enough.

Bumper Stickers (and Helmet Stickers):

• Save water; shower togther
• God wants spiritual fruit, not religious nuts.
• Hair by Helmet
  
  

Kidslips

I can't think of any one story, so I'm listing some random kid stories.

-Sunday morning at church Kayden (she's not quite two) was running around the auditorium saying "Bitch, bitch," while her daddy tried to shush her. They were leaving for the beach that afternoon.

-When my cousin was little he refused to eat gravy. When his mom tried to get him to taste it one Sunday afternoon, he started to cry. In muffled sobs he said, "Mama, Jesus is in the gravy!" After much thought, we realized one of our hymms that morning was "Low in the Grave He Lay."

-Ben used to get in trouble regularly for laughing at his little brother at the dinner table. Taylor is ten years younger than Ben, and until he was about five, he had a hard time with "o" sounds. Every time Taylor tried to say fork, he ended up dropping an f-bomb, which led Ben to laugh, which led Taylor to say it again. It was funniest when we went out to eat.

Word Play

When I think of word play, I think of those clever, or not-so-clever signs outside country churches that call all sinners to repentance. There was a church in Fitzgerald, right across the street from the high school that never got their signs grammatically correct. Either words were misspelled or the wrong homophone was used. It drove me crazy. I wanted to get out of my car and change the signs myself.

I pictured the white-haired church secretary trying to post these kernels of wisdom by sounding out words, or maybe the pastor himself was responsible. I never saw an actual person out there sliding in the sign letters. After seeing these paragons of bad grammar every day for three years, I wondered if the "mistakes" were intentional - maybe a way to get the faculty of the high school to actually stop by for conversation or conversion (a trap that unsuspecting English teachers, armed with their red pens, would find hard to resist). I even considered bringing the sign up one day at an English Department meeting, but in Fitzgerald, churches are serious business. I did not with to offend anyone, so I remained silently annoyed.

Bumper Stickers

I decided to create a few bumper sticker slogans. Keeping with the pirate theme, I must say that my first bumper sticker is Got Rum?

Other possibilities (not following the pirate theme)

• Honk if you love chocolate
• Possums, squirrels... hell, anything in the road.... BEWARE!
• Police... if you're reading this... you're too close.

Bumper Stickers

I have never really understood bumper stickers. They're generally unattractive and often lack the humor that was intended. They pile up and peel and become an eyesore on too many older sedans. And yet these aging, yellowing sticky notes can tell you so much about complete strangers.

Riding behind a Toyota Camry, for instance, you may find that the driver voted for Bush, has an honor student for a child, is a Christian. Riding behind a similar Camry, you may find that the driver is a vegan, supports animal rights, uses green energy.

But what about people who have bought used cars? Has anyone ever been judged or discriminated against by driving around with other people's bumper stickers?

One of my favorite bumper stickers was always, "My kid beat up your honor student." My second year of college, I bought a bumper sticker that played on this idea. It said, "My cat can beat up your cat." I never put the sticker on my car, but I slid it in the front of my see-through binder. It got a few laughs, but the other sticker on my binder got me weird looks. It said, "I talk to squirrels. Chi-ku-chi-ku-chi-ku." No one found that funny, but if you know me you know why I bought it.

I was also very tempted to buy bumper stickers from the Lebowskifest website not long ago. But then I thought, what will I do with them? I'm trying to grow and rise above my pack-rat-ishness, but I'm not sure how the effort is progressing.

Now I'm just looking up bumper stickers online. Here is one that I liked:
Give me ambiguity or give me something else.

And then I found some rather interesting/wavering between funny and not funny ones:
This bumper sticker exploits illiterates.
This is it. I don't have another car.
Between two evils, pick the one you can't spell.
Calm down, it's just ones and zeros.
Efficiency is a highly developed form of laziness.
Life is a collection of low-probability events.
Life is like... an analogy.
This could be the start of something average.
Humpty Dumpty was pushed.
Hit me. I need money.
All generalizations are false.

Here are the strange ones:
Chew on a sock.
Sadism means never having to say you're sorry.
Never argue with a man carrying a water buffalo.
Would you quit being evil over my shoulder?
Support mental health or I'll kill you.
So many stupid people, so few comets.

And this one just kind of sums it up for me:
I don't care who you are, what you're driving, or where you'd rather be.

Word Play or Bumper Stickers

The topic for today is Word Play or Bumper Stickers for any TCs who want to join us--or for Adam. If the topics don't intrigue you, remember that they include misheard song lyrics, commonly used phrases from your family and friends, idioms, and of course any favorite Bumper Stickers you've seen around campus. I can also imagine people writing about people who use bumper sticker logic--a pet peeve of mine. As always, feel free to ignore these topics and write whatever you want.

Just an offering

Todays topic could be "best advice ever given or taken." I am off for another day of savage pillaging in the land of no technology. I was kinda scared to plug my laptop in yesterday for fear it would have blown a fuse. I was able to find some dusty dot matrix paper I used to print something off on though. We are in a pretty old building it seems. YO HO YO HO It's off to work I go.

Teaching Moment

Byron was a tough kid, even at four years old. He didn’t take crap from anyone, and was quick to get even for the slightest insult, real or imagined. He would hit, kick, or scratch, and he wasn’t afraid of anybody. He came from a rough home situation, with a father in prison and a mother trying to be strong for her kids. He had a couple of older siblings, and said they would “Fight a lot” in his house.
I knew from the start that he was going to be a challenge for me. I was a father of three teen-agers, and was a pretty tough disciplinarian. He and I locked horns several times early in the year, for the most part about his inability to work out problems without his fists. Time out, loss of playground privileges, nothing seemed to curb his temper. Finally, exasperated, I took him over to one side and sat down on the ground with him.

“Hey man, why do you think you have to hit people?” I said quietly, not showing the anger I felt inside. He had just hit a little girl half his size when she picked up a ball from the ground.
“She was messing with my ball,” He mumbled.
“Did that make you mad?” I replied.
“Yeah, and she wouldn’t give it to me,” He continued.
I thought about Byron, and how rough it must be to be in a playground situation when he had no frame of reference at home.
“Hey, I have an idea,” I said. “Let’s name your mad.”
He looked at me, puzzled, “What?”
“Let’s name your mad,” I repeated. “Give that feeling you get when you want to hit somebody a name.”
He thought for a minute, looked up at me and said, “Walter; let’s call him Walter.”
“Okay,” I said. “Now let’s figure out what to do with Walter when he shows up. He has gotten you into a lot of trouble lately, and he needs to see me when he comes back around, before he gets you into trouble.”
“So, Walter will get in trouble, not me?” he asked.
“Right,” I agreed. “Bring him to me when you see him, before he gets you into trouble, and I’ll talk to him. Then, you can go back and play.”
He hugged my neck and ran back out to the playground. Sure enough, about twenty minutes later, Byron walked up to me and said, “Walter needs to see you now.”
“All right,” I said, “let’s meet him over here.”
We walked over to the side and talked with “Walter.” After deciding that Walter should do a time-out for trying to get him into trouble, Byron went back onto the playground, happy and content.
This transferred to his home life when I talked with his mother about his new “friend” and how to deal with him. It wasn’t foolproof, and sometimes Byron would let Walter run his life, but it made a huge difference in his daily relationships. For the rest of the year, I would see Byron coming to talk to me about “Walter,” the name we gave his anger. It was a good feeling. I was a teacher.

Touch Up

I had “borrowed” Granddaddy’s truck, a 1974 Chevrolet, gold and white with chrome, and gone back into the river swamp for a drive. I always wrapped these trips in something necessary, so I had a single bale of hay in the back. I careened down the two path, sliding around the corners and pulling in the accelerator at just the right moment. I was nearly at the spot where the road took a steep downgrade into the swamp, when I looked up and saw a tree lying across the road. I pulled the wheel to the right, and shot out into the woods. One thing to remember is that I was nine years old at the time, and not really used to bad things happening. I freaked, literally, and pushed down on the gas pedal. The truck barreled through the woods, creaking and bouncing as it went. I finally popped out on the other side of the wooded area and narrowly missed taking out a fence. I stepped on the brake, and sat in the seat breathing like I had carried the truck instead of driven it.
I turned off the ignition, stepped out, and looked at the truck. The paint had long, white scratches down each side where I had brushed past trees on my journey through the woods. One mirror was bent inward, looking back at the door. I was in shock. I couldn’t turn this thing back in to Granddaddy in this kind of shape. My mind cast around for help. Then I remembered that Grandmama was a painter. She had every color known to man, and a few she had made up all by herself. I would “touch up” the truck, and no one would ever have to know.
I drove slowly back to the barn where the truck was always parked. I pulled carefully into the assigned spot, and turned it off. I looked over at the house. What luck! They had left to go to town, and weren’t back yet. I eased into the back door and went into Grandmama’s painting room. My young eyes decided on a color, and, taking a paint cloth back out to the truck with a few brushes, proceeded to “fix” the truck.
It was a sight, dabbing paint along the side, covering the shameful white scratches with golden glowing paint. It probably would have looked better if I had remembered that paint does not always dry the same color as it is applied. I rubbed the truck down with a cloth, and was quite satisfied with the result. I had overcome a terrible experience, and no one would find the evidence of my inexperience. I put away the paint, brushes, and clothes, and went home to play in the backyard.
I heard the phone ringing in the kitchen, and mama answering. My presence was requested down the road. I walked slowly down the dirt road between our houses, looking ahead to see Granddaddy’s truck parked in the front yard. It was horrible. The paint had dried to a white, chalky yellow. The truck looked as if someone had tried to do a camouflage number and failed miserably. Granddaddy stood out by the truck, looking over the damage. Shame, regret, scalding embarrassment, all roared over me. I could see down the road to my Aunt Leta’s house. Everyone was on the porch, and I just knew I was going to get it in front of them, including my cousin, Troy, who would never let me forget about it.
I walked up to Granddaddy, looking at the ground.

“Sonny Boy, did you paint my truck?” he asked quietly.

“Yes Sir” I replied, low but clear.

“How did my truck come to need a paint job?” he said.

“I ran off the road into the woods and scratched your paint. I was afraid I would get into trouble, so I fixed it.” I waited to see how bad the punishment would be, all for the benefit of the relatives across the road.

“Do me a favor” he said quietly. “Go get the hose and help me wash my truck.”

I looked up into his twinkling blue eyes. They weren’t angry or disappointed, but laughing. I got the hose, and we washed off the truck, the gold paint lingering in most of the scratches. When we finished, he said “Tell Grandmama we’re going into town.” I ran inside and let her know, then we got into the truck and he took us into Nashville. He drove over to a garage out by the tractor place. A big, greasy man that owed him a favor looked at the truck, laughed fit to bust, and took the keys. We walked over to the tractor place to dream for about an hour. When we came back, I couldn’t believe it. The truck looked as good as new, scratches touched up and buffed out.
As we drove back to the house, he looked over at me and said,
“Thank you for telling me the truth. Always stick to that and you’ll find out things aren’t nearly so bad as you might think.”

“Yes Sir” I replied.

“And how ‘bout lets keep this between us?” he said with a gold, laced smile.

“Yes Sir!” I said in disbelief.

The truck was fixed. The scratches gone. The lesson in Grace and Mercy will never be lost.

Geriatric Gymnastics

My sad story begins with a long walk to a short class. Or one that passes for short in college. I had started up the long hill from the UC parking lot to the Biology department. I had on a backpack, as usual, and was hoofing it along pretty smartly for an old man. I was in my own little world, and not really paying attention to what I was doing. Suddenly, my toe caught the sidewalk. Having had my share of falls, accidental and otherwise, I took it on the roll, using the energy of my descent as fuel for a forward somersault. I ended up flat on the concrete, staring at the shiny, green leaves of a Magnolia. I slowly rose up, looking around for witnesses. A young fellow was eagerly striding in my direction, oddly enough with a smile of anticipation on his face.

“Are you all right?” he asked
“Fine, just fine,” I answered.

“Are you sure?” he insisted.

“Yes, I’m sure. Just caught my toe on the sidewalk.” I grumbled.

He looked at me in disappointment. His gaze began to make me uncomfortable, and as I came to the slow realization that he was waiting for something to happen.

“I’m really all right,” I said.

“Well, if you’re sure,” He said uncertainly. “I could help you if you needed me to. I’m training to be an EMT.”

This explained much. He had seen an old fart collapse spectacularly on the sidewalk in front of him. His newfound skills as an EMT hopeful had kicked in. He would save me. Imagine how cool he would look for the girls, all at my expense. He would be famous, maybe even make the school paper. He probably had even imagined the headline:

STUDENT HERO SAVES GERIATRIC OLD FART ON PATTERSON

Well, no such luck today, Skippy. This geriatric old fart was going to class.

Maverick Love Affair

Working in the South Georgia tobacco fields during the week and babysitting at night and on weekends, I had managed to save a whopping $1500.00. It was 1976, and my Dad had agreed to go car shopping with me that weekend, I knew I couldn’t buy a brand new car, but I thought I could probably walk away with a pretty decent used car for my money.
A new car in 1976 was going for about $3500.00. I remember this because a couple of years later after my love affair with my first car was tragically over, I actually bought a brand new Toyota corolla. Today, however, I knew that whatever I bought would have to be paid for when I walked away from the lot because asking my parents to sign a note was not something that even crossed my mind. For some strange reason, My Dad started shopping in Pearson, Georgia which is a small podunk town near where we live. You have to understand, Valdosta, Georgia was twenty miles in the other direction! While it was not the thriving metropolis then that it is today, they at least had car lots.
I was telling myself this as my Dad drove in the direction of Podunk, USA. In my head, I was thinking that my Dad had just volunteered to go shopping with me thinking that I would not find a car that I could afford. In my heart, I knew that my Dad had spoiled me completely rotten. If he had had a million dollars in the bank, he would have signed over ever dollar to me. I was his chosen one. In my head, I was thinking that he was sabotaging my car shopping. While we were riding the twenty miles to Pearson, I was trying to figure out which one of my friends I could talk into going car shopping with me the next week because there was no way I was going to buy a car from Pearson, Georgia! I was still pouting when we stopped at the only read light in the small town.
We slowly drove through the heart of town, and what do you know, a used car lot appeared! In my cocky little mind, I didn’t believe that the country hick people from this small town even drove cars. In 1976, they were surely still driving horse and buggies. Why else would they be living in this God forsaken place?
In the very back of the lot, I spotted a splash of lime green. Just like the sunshine, this splash of green attracted my immediate attention. In my mind, that was the only car on the lot. A 1970 lime green maverick with a checkerboard vinyl top was sitting back there as if she had been parked just for me. You’ve seen those tacky movies when the girl and boy run across the beach in slow motion until they collide as if they were made for each other. Well, it was like this for me and the mav. Looking back, I can almost see the car and I running slowly toward each other until we met and became one. For the first time in my life, I was in love – with a car?
Seconds later, this short, bald, round man came out of the little out house looking office. Of course, he totally ignored me and shook hands with my Daddy. To this day, car salesmen still do this to me. They assume whoever is with me, usually my husband, is the one with the money. This annoys me. I don’t know anything about cars so I usually take a man with me. That doesn’t mean that I am going to let them choose my car, and it definitely doesn’t mean that they are the one with the money! Well, Mr. Roundy, which is what I have called him for the last thirty-one years when I tell this story, asked my Dad, “What can we help you with today?”
Looking at me, Daddy explained, “Donna, my daughter, has worked hard and saved her money. She has the cash to pay for a car today, and she wants to test drive the little green maverick.”
Getting excited, Mr. Roundy replied, “Sure, just let me get the keys.” He huffed and puffed in the South Georgia heat as he attempted (without success) to trot back to the office.
He was a little over excited and sweating profusely when he returned, and I remember thinking that they must not make many sales here. Surely, they couldn’t be asking much money for the little car. Looking back now, I think the man was psychic or he could see through my wallet to my check book balance. Strangely enough, the $1500.00 in my wallet was the exact amount on the bottom line of the agreement he drew up. I wrote him a check, and drove away broke!
After borrowing enough money from my Dad to buy a tag and the first six month insurance payment, I drove my car to school. All of my friends made fun of her! Of course, these are the friends whose parents bought them new yellow mustangs for their sixteenth birthdays! Their ridicule did not diminish my feelings for my little car. It was my little cars failure to crank upon demand that finally did it in with she and I. Over the next two years, I learned to pop the hood and flip some little device to get her to crank. I also had a couple of blow outs in one week, and strangely enough, the same man stopped both times to help me change my tire. Today, I see the creepiness in this, but then I was just relieved to be on my way. My little lime green maverick and I spent some quality time together, and I would love to know what happened to her after I threw her away for a bright shiny new car.

Wrecked and Crashed?

This is kinda fun. I’ve been trying to guess what the topic is since Kade posted. I need a few more posts though. My strongest urge right now would be “crashes” or “wrecks” either of which would automatically get me writing about this night when I was in college. I got wrecked and had to crash somewhere I shouldn’t have. Anyway, I’ll be waiting to read them all! Miss you guys already.

When I got ready to post, I refreshed and saw car stories. I should have remembered Donna had the freewrite this morning.

Four Wheel Drive Fiasco

Of the cars I've had, my Bronco had more stories than any other. Actually, my Bronco had more stories than any one car should be called to survive. It was a red and tan 1989 Bronco with close to 200,000 miles on it, and I loved it. Because of it's size and age, I didn't think it was possible for me to tear it up. The saying, "The bigger they are...," yea, there's a reason for that saying.

A few months after I got the Bronco, I decided it was time to test the four wheel drive, so I headed to a dirt road with my friend Ashley. Only the dirt road was neither wide, nor long, nor straight, all things that are helpful when you are unaccustomed to off-road driving. And we were going off road, like it or not.

But no worries right? I have four wheel drive. So we tear down the road at about45 mph before I realize how steep the curve ahead of me really is, or how muddy the road has become from recent rain, OR that either side of the road is surrounded by swamp. As I tried to make the curve, I overcorrected sending us flying toward swamp on the opposite side of the road. This continued for about a quarter of a mile before I regained control of the truck. Laughing at our luck, and more than a little relieved to be on asphalt, we headed home. But as we drove down Madison Hwy. people kept pointing and staring at us. We figured they must be laughing at the two young girls in the mud-covered vehicle, but looking back, that wouldn't be so unusual in South Georgia. No, they had other reasons to point.

As we pulled into the driveway at my mom's house, we watched as the reflection of the vehicle seemed to morph into a funhouse mirror. The passenger side slowly sank to the ground and the remaining air in the passenger side tires leaked out of the broken seals. Now flattened, there was no way to drive the Bronco for repairs before my mom got home. So, we played dumb. We claimed to have run off the road, but that we were unaware of hitting anything hard enough to cause that kind of damage. My grandfather suggested that someone may have stolen my car from the school parking lot and gone for a joyride-his story had more holes in it than mine. The naivete of my family only encouraged my stupidity. If they would believe this, I could get away with anything.

The Book Ban

The draft below was prompted by remembering driving to Chattahoochee every week one semester, so it really is related to the prompt Car Stories.

***

Okay, I’ve done enough for one day, I told myself as I shut down my laptop and pushed away the scores of texts surrounding me. During that semester I had exiled myself to Chattahoochee, FL, during the week to work on a book, driving back to Valdosta every weekend to see my husband. I checked the clock: 7:30 p.m. Turning on the television, I realized reception was worse than usual.

What will I do tonight? I wondered, needing a break from the research. I decided to drive into the small town to find a novel to read. I rushed downstairs, worried that stores would close in the small town of Chattahoochee before I got there. Just across the bridge from Chattahoochee was a slightly bigger town, Sneads, with a much bigger grocery story, so I headed there.

Walking quickly through the story, I found a few magazines but no books. I walked up to the cashier. “Do y’all sell novels?” I asked politely.

“Novels?” she asked, her mouth dropped open in disbelief. “This is a grocery store.”

I urged myself to stay calm. “I know, but lots of grocery stores sell books as well.”

“Books?” she repeated, a mixture of disdain and confusion on her face.

“Um, okay. If you don’t sell books, can you tell me where I might find them in Sneads?” I asked.

“You cain’t buy no books in Sneads!” she insisted as if I were asking for Playboy and Hustler.

Now my face displayed confusion—and perhaps a bit of fear. What kind of town doesn’t sell books? I headed back to the truck and drove to Chattahoochee, where I finally found a small selection of novels in a drug store. But now every time I pass a sign for Sneads, I think of it as the place you cain’t buy no books.

Parking Lots

Some people worry about getting in a wreck on the open road; I worry about parking lots. Every wreck I have ever had or witnessed has been in a parking lot.

Let's begin when I was in my teens. I bunch of us went to Stone Mountain. The most macho guy was driving his reinovated GTO, which would go 120 miles an hour--but that's another story. We were talking and there was some problem right in front of us, turning into the parking lot. The problem took awhile to fix, so Phillip put the car in Revers backed up a little so other cars could pass in front of us. All of us continued to talk. Finally, the people infront of us started to move. Phillip stepped on the accelerator and crashed right into the car in back of us. He got out. The people behind us were a little irritated, but they calmed down. Phillip got back in the car. Stepped on the gas and smashed into them again. By that time, we were all laughing so hard, we couldn't breath. The people behind us were not laughing.

The first wreck I ever had was driving in Atlanta--not on 285 like everyone else, but in a gas station parking lot. I misjudged how far I was from the pump and pulled up on the cement marker infront of the pump. It took three men to dislodge me from the marker.

The next parking lot wreck happened at my own home. A friend of mine came all the way down from New York to visit me. He had a rental car and parked it in the shade behind my car. That was my back up space. I plowed into that car with all the power Phillip had plowed into the car at Stone Mountain and like he did, I pulled up apologized profusely and then did it again. To this day, the insurance company thinks David was in a life threatening wreck.

So, what's the morale of this story. If you see me on the freeway, your safe, but beware of the parking lots.

Car Stories

sometimes i see myself
through the eyes of a stray dog
from an alley across the street
and my whole mission just seems so finite
my whole saga just seems so cheap

-Ani DiFranco, "In the Margins"

To begin with, I was planning to write about all the cars I've had. Most of them I wrecked or destroyed. Unintentionally, of course.

But I put in a CD I haven't listened to in a while, Ani DiFranco's "Reprieve," and it changed my plans.

I have three best friends. They are literally scattered all over the world. Jessica Bowman is in California (and previously Germany), Anita is in Armenia (with the Peace Corps last I heard) and Jessica Caldwell is in Florida.

I met Jessica Caldwell when I was a junior in high school. She had just moved to my city from New Orleans. Imagine her surprise, moving from The City That Care Forgot to The City That Everyone Only Wishes To Forget. Being a small, ridiculously close-minded group of high schoolers, no one was too eager to welcome the New Girl who was "exotic," an outsider.

To be honest, I was no exception. But it wasn't because I was rude. I just didn't pay too much attention to anyone -- or anything -- if I could help it. I had learned my lesson by being stabbed in the back by boys and girls alike.

But once we became friends, we made some of the best memories together of any I have and hold dear to this very day.

This CD reminds me of those days. The days we used to ride in my Chevrolet Cavalier over miles and miles of dirt roads, radio blaring. We could talk about anything and everything. We could sing at the top of our lungs. We could live in that car without fear of judgement or interference from the outside world. We were alive; we were driving.

I have never felt that way again. I drive in my car blaring music quite often, but never with such carelessness and lightness of heart. I think age beats some of the music out of our hearts. Or maybe we just become too guarded to let it out.

That's one reason that artists like Ani DiFranco amaze me, and make me want to strive to be a better writer, a better person. The music bleeding from her fingers and her throat is incessant. She has released over twenty albums since 1989. She owns her own record label, controlling almost every aspect of the enterprise.

Everything affects her enough to be written about, and written well. And her music isn't just audible notes spliced together to be floated into the world on wings of materialism or escapism. Her music is important. Her messages are urgent, no matter how controversial. Perhaps most importantly, her music grows appendages and walks itself into your life. Her music, the words, the notes have folded themselves into my heart and taken root in the grainy soil of memory.

you are an unruly translucent
a dirty windshield with a shifting view
so many cunning running landscapes
for my dented door to open into
i just wanna tune out all the billboards
weld myself a mental shield
i just wanna put down all the pressures
and feel how i really feel

just show me a moment that is mine
its beauty blinding and unsurpassed
make me forget every moment that went by
and left me so half-hearted
cuz i felt it so half-assed

-A. D., "Half-Assed"

spankings

To spank or not to spank…..is this a question? “Spare the rod and spoil the child” is in the Bible. So is “The rod of correction will drive Satan far from a child.” Well, all I have to say is Satan didn’t live on Futch Hill. We got ‘whuppin’s , and apparently they worked. No one in the family has done time, killed anybody in anger, or ended up on Jerry Springer. Spankings were not limited to your own children…they were sprinkled on whosoever was in the vicinity of evil. I guess the grown-ups figured that they would stamp out any influence a bad decision might have on the innocent ones surrounding the miscreant.
Back to the question. I think that there is a time and a place for spanking. There is also a way in which to do it, a happy medium between correction and abuse. A lot of people who don’t have kids have made the decision that no one should be spanked. A lot of people that have children who behave horribly agree with them. What it all boils down to is that sometimes, a good spanking is the only communication a child understands.
There is no other method that packs such a wollop when it comes to concentrating the regret and consternation of a bad act in a single space in time. When I was younger, my Daddy tried to take the talking route. He could make you feel terrible about what you had done, to the point I would get the belt, hand it to him, and beg him “Daddy, just spank me and get it over with!” It was better to pay the piper and know it was over than have that lingering guilt living with you for days. A spanking was painful but temporary, a moment you spent learning what consequences were about.
These days, kids simply do not respect their parents. They smart back, they berate until they get their way, and they do things without thinking about the consequences, because there are no consequences. My Granddaddy always said that cows and kids need fences to show we care about them. I never really thought about this until I had kids of my own. I discovered that kids feel safe if they know where play ends and trouble begins. They can expand their minds, push the limits, dream big, all within the confines of a world with limits, one carefully set to allow them to explore without getting too far out of their abilities. In some areas, no limits are set, but these are the life goal areas, not the ones that will send a tractor into a pond (another long story). Spanking is one way that parents can keep their kids in line.
Now, there are rules for the parents when it comes to spanking. I heard once that you should never spank your child when you are angry. I disagree. You should not spank your child when you are enraged, and out of control yourself. That is abuse. That is when you deserve to get your own butt kicked, and kicked good.

Kat's Translation Exercise

Here's place to post our translations from Kat's French poem. You can reply to this post or start your own post--whatever works for you.

she wasn't sleeping

she wasn't sleeping

she was downtown,
eating sushi and
drinking cocktails

her hands sparkled
with borrowed diamonds,
her hair shone with the
sheen of freedom

Maleficent in her tower
stuffed envelopes for
charity, sharpened her horns
with sorrow,

bitter tears lining the
hallways of her dreams,
dreams littered with
godmothers,
fat on their own
regrets

and all the while our girl bloomed
in strange men's beds,
each man a notch in her belt,
a thorn in her soul,
each prick a little different

a prince, somewhere, loomed on the
edge of the horizon,
kept at bay by a
blood-red dream

while there
in the palace,
beneath the bedsheets,
a pile of clothes
in the shape of our girl
slept

Shattering the Mirror

Cinderella gazed at the glass shoe,
her gut tightening unconsciously,
annoyed to be measured yet again.

Her stepsisters wrestled the slipper,
cramming toes into glass,
finally removing bloodied feet,
tears staining their faces,
self-esteem shattered.

Cinderella sighed,
then gazed at the prince,
who pushed her toward a pink future.

"No more," she cried
and held up men's attire.
"I'll try the glass slipper,"
she proclaimed,
"but only if your foot fills this boot
and your hand fills this glove.
Let's see if you measure up.
If not, come back later
when you become a man."

Where's the question?

To spank or not to spank...I'm sorry, is this supposed to be a question?

There is clearly a difference in spanking and beating, and while beating should be reserved for rare occasions, spanking offers no moral dilemna for me whatsoever. Some parents seem so worried about their little one's feelings and self-esteem that they destroy their child's concept of reality, creating for them a world where she IS the little princess and she WILL get what she wants. Sorry Peanut, but it ain't happening.

Maybe it's the teacher in me, but I'm often struck with the desire to discipline other people's children. Outside of the classroom. Especially the child who is told no and then strikes her mother's hand. And Mommy says, "Sweetie, we don't hit."And her demon child is thinking, "No you don't hit. I'm quite comfortable with it." This is the time for a beating.

A little-gray haired lady at church once asked me if I knew the difference in discipline and abuse. When I said the degree of force used, she told me I was wrong. She said abuse was when you hit a child and didn't tell them why. Discipline was when you hit them, but then sat down and explained the reason for the punishment. Works for me.

Dream Girl

Dreams and Nightmares:

• recurring dream: possum crossing the road and getting nailed by a car but surviving and dragging himself across the road--I haven't had this dream in six years, but I made the mistake of telling Wes about it, so now any time I jerk in bed, he says, "Seeing that possum again?"
• dream as a child about being cannibalized on the playground by a troll that lives in the woods--really vivid dream: red and white checked tablecloth, wicker picnic basket, me alive and relatively calm while the troll cuts open my stomach, my long brown hair splayed behind me
• dreams when I first fall asleep that focus on classes and encounters with students and colleagues--I'll wake myself (and Wes) up answering questions
• dream in Tallahassee that the air was polluted and that we would die from breathing it. I scared Wes by yelling at him (in my sleep) to stop breathing. He claims that he woke up to find me holding a pillow over his face, but I'm sure that didn't happen. (And if it did, it's probably because he wouldn't shut up about the damn possum dream.)

To Spank, or Not to Spank?

I don't think Hamlet's parents ever asked this question.
No, I'm pretty sure Hamlet got his fair share of spankings.
Maybe too many spankings...

But is there any such thing?

Yesterday in Atlanta Bread Company, Dr. Sewell, Joel and I spoke at great length about whether spanking was a good thing. Actually, we all agreed that spanking is often necessary.

I remember getting spankings as a child. And though I probably deserved many, many more, I always remembered what had brought on the spankings and generally steered clear of bad behavior.

I've often thought that if I had my own children, I might not spank them. But seeing (read: babysitting) my sister's three children over Christmas every year makes a believer out of me... a believer in corporal punishment, that is.

(That's a horrible phrase, isn't it? Corporal punishment... )

Here's a glimpse into my Christmas vacation this past year:

One fine day, my sister and I decided to take her new Durango (hers for three days and already dinged up by a golf-club-wielding three-year-old) to Target. She was planning a baby shower and we needed to get some invitations.

My sister asked her husband to watch the three kids while we were gone (two girls, age 8 and 5, and a boy, age 3). When we went to get in the Durango, the oldest girl got in her Barbie Jeep and proceeded to drive it into the yard and behind the Durango, which was driving in reverse. I got out and yelled at her, telling her she had scared me to death and she needed to get back under the garage.

She said "OK," and went back under the garage in her Barbie Jeep. She then got the most horribly evil look on her face(like Angelica from Rugrats, but multiplied by three times as much spite and demon possession). As soon as my sister put the car in reverse, the demon spawn drove the Barbie Jeep behind us AGAIN!!! My sister and I were having simultaneous panic attacks and I got out of the Durango a second time.

At that point, words failed me. I was tired of yelling at these kids, who weren't mine to yell at in the first place. I was tired of hearing my sister try to reason with them or punish them only to have her husband immediately cancel out what she'd said by laughing and saying "You don't have to listen to your mom. Go play."

I was flooded with anger. I made her get out of the Barbie Jeep and spanked her right then and there, in the driveway. She ran to the house, crying all the way and yelling "LEAVE ME ALONE!!! I HATE YOU!!!"

Ahh, children. It almost makes me want to get my tubes tied.

But wait... who is the real person deserving of punishment in this whole situation? The eight-year-old girl, or the thirty-something father who's sitting under the garage drinking a beer and ignoring his children while they attempt Evil Knievel tricks in the yard?

My brother-in-law. He's the one who needs corporal punishment.

A Spanking Wosey

To spank or not to spank?
That is the question.
Whether to suffer the switches
and branches of outraged parents
or simply send the kids to their rooms.

My Mom is 85.
When she was little this was not a
question, but a comment on her day.
Adults were in control
If you misbehaved, you cut the
switch off the peach tree
and stood still while Mom
switched your legs or heaven
forbid, Dad took off his belt.

In Waycross, people have told me
stories of children who misbehaved in
school and got whippings all the way
home from concerned individuals in the
community. This was at the same time
a popular punishment at school was to
stick a child in the closet for the day.
Unfortunately, a few kids got left in the
closet at the end of the day.

When I was growing up, spankings were still
a part of life. My principal was introduced to
me as "the man who will spank you if you are bad."
I personally never got a spanking from the man,
but David Gunter and Frank Wingate had a race to
see who could get the most spankings in a year.
David won hands down.

By the time I got in college, spanking was
not an option in North Georgia. I even thought it was
illegal until I moved down here. As a teacher, I have
only spanked one child in 21 years of teaching. It
turned out that his mother had tried to commit suicide
a few days before, but no one at the school knew.

So how do I feel about spankings? I have to admit I am
a spanking Wosey. First of all, I hate the way they sound.
Secondly, I hate hitting kids, so I don't do it very well.
I guess I just don't have that gene, although I do sometimes
envy our principal, who without hesistation, applies the board
of education firmly and without guilt.

I do believe that we have gone overboard on placating our children.
We spend a lot of time bribing them, which gives them the power instead
of us. While I don't object to spanking in many situations, I guess it isn't something I will ever do or do well if I do it at all.

So, for all of you with a strong conviction, paddle on! (As long, of course as you aren't abusive.) As for me, I'll stick with my star charts and time out corners. I have accepted my fate as a spanking wosey, while some of you are the last true cowboys in town!

A possitive spin on a significant other cheating...

Cheating?
On ME?
HE’s cheating on me?
Oh, thank you lord
I thought this day would never come!
I have my evidence,
the lawyer will be thrilled.
The house will be mine,
the dog, the cars,
his practice and his pride.
A margarita is in order
Ladies, let’s celebrate!
The hound has been caught
and his balls will be mine.

Lists

I have a list of names. People I like, people I don’t, and the ones that Sasha Reed should meet one day. Most of the time, I keep these lists in my head, not trusting them to paper. Another reason is that the list is sometimes very amorphous, tending to change with time, experience, or forgiveness. The real challenge is taking the right tack with each line, giving it thought and effort to see if they are properly catalogued in my brain. I am big on forgive and forget, but the forget is hard to come by. I know it is a two-pronged attack on the unconscious, but somehow the second element is the toughest. The like part can change abruptly, as a person shows over time who they really are. As my buddy Myah Angelou says, “If someone wishes to show you who they really are….let them.” She is really the bomb. The don’t like list can change as well, and that goes hand-in-hand with the forgiveness part. There are things I can let go, and some things that will not be cut loose until my dying breath. One day. Maybe.

On the list...

This topic seems born for Sasha Reed!
Dun, Dun, Dunnnn….
It is top secret, the list. In fact if ever mentioned that is all it is called, no modifiers, just “the list”, and yet those two words can strike fear deep within a soul. A bone chilling fear where goose bumps crawl across your skin and the tiny hairs shiver on end in alarm. Those in the know, wish they didn’t know. But don’t try to find ‘the list’, you will wind up petrified at death’s door. In fact, there is no tangible list written down. No. Sasha Reed is just too wise in the ways of espionage for such an amateur move of committing on paper the names that make the list. It is all safely stored within her mind. Too many people would kill (literally) to posses such a list for it to be put on paper. To be put on the list means your time left alive has started counting down. Unfortunate individuals have babbled before their death that they can actually hear the ticking of their time clock winding down. But no one knows if this is actuality or just the ramblings of a madman trembling before his maker.
Okay, I’m done with that. I’m not feeling anymore inspiration and in fact such evil thoughts first thing in the morning is kind of weirding me out.

Sasha's List

Hmm, I think I’ve avoided being on Sasha’s list thus far, but I’m never sure with her, especially since she’s in my writing group, and I offer lots of suggestions. I imagine her reading over the comments, thinking, “Yeah, Donna, you’re on the list.” I shudder and return to my notebook, making a mental note to make a will before the ISI ends. I don’t want to inconvenience my husband if I die; he has enough on his mind right now without having to deal with Probate Court. (Clearly, I’m a good wife.)

On the List

The opera diva, Beverly Sills, was once asked, "Have you made any enemies along your road of success?" She replied, "More than I ever thought possible."
I haven't exactly been on a road to success. Mine has just been a road, but I still have made my share of enemies, for no particular reason.
One unusual thing I have discovered is that some people just don't like you. You may remind them of Aunt Sally who used to feed them prune juice or of some long lost cousin who owns them money. They simply do not like you. It doesn't seem to matter what you do, there is no way you are going to make them like you. For example, my cousin got married to the witch of the west, but I tried to keep an open mind. I walked in the room and she snarled at me. Later, I asked my Aunt what I did. "You remind her of her sister whom she hates."
People in the workplace sometimes hate you for something you didn't say. One woman at my school now hates me. She sends daggers my direction whenever she meets me in the hall. Why? She thought she heard me say one thing when I really said another. I tried to clear it up, but she still didn't believe me. So, what do you do? I know the other thing I can do is die or change schools and I'm not really ready to do either.
Strangers who are just in a bad mood hate you for some silly reason--the cashier who can't get the computer to work, the cashier who wants to go on a break and you dared to get in her line, the shopper who wants the same can of deodorant you do, the guy from Wal-Mart who doesn't want to pick up that heavy pool anymore than you do, the janitor who just cleaned that sink, the grumpy woman upstairs who thinks you were the one howling; the list goes on and on.
So, can you avoid being hated by a list of people from the time you are born to the time you die. I don't think so.

On the List:

1. Finish syllabus for 1101.
2. Learn French.
3. Move everything to new house.
4. Start selling CD's.
5. Book more performance dates.
6. Exercise more.
7.
8.
9.
10.

This is really starting to sound like a depressing Radiohead-esque rant.

(Radiohead's "Fitter Happier")

Fitter, happier, more productive,
comfortable,
not drinking too much,
regular exercise at the gym
(3 days a week),
getting on better with your associate employee contemporaries,
at ease, eating well
(no more microwave dinners and saturated fats),
a patient better driver,
a safer car
(baby smiling in back seat),
sleeping well
(no bad dreams),
no paranoia,
careful to all animals
(never washing spiders down the plughole),
keeping in contact with old friends
(enjoy a drink now and then),
will frequently check credit at
(moral) bank (hole in the wall),
favors for favors,
fond but not in love,
charity standing orders,
on Sundays ring road supermarket
(no killing moths or putting boiling water on the ants),
car wash
(also on Sundays),
no longer afraid of the dark or midday shadows
nothing so ridiculously teenage and desperate,
nothing so childish - at a better pace,
slower and more calculated,
no chance of escape,
now self-employed,
concerned
(but powerless),
an empowered and informed member of society
(pragmatism not idealism),
will not cry in public,
less chance of illness,
tires that grip in the wet
(shot of baby strapped in back seat),
a good memory,
still cries at a good film,
still kisses with saliva,
no longer empty and frantic
like a cat
tied to a stick,
that's driven into frozen winter shit
(the ability to laugh at weakness),
calm,
fitter,
healthier and more productive
a pig
in a cage
on antibiotics.

Guilt

I don't even know what 'on the list' means, so I'm going to write about the debacle that was my morning. I can't believe I was almost late on the morning I had to bring breakfast; I woke up at 6:44 because I crashed at 10:30 last night. I felt very leisurely and ahead of time. I lounged around, read a bit more of Practicing Poetry--just generally enjoying myself. As the time to leave grew nearer, I called Robby and asked him to run by Publix and pick up some donuts for breakfast. He acquiesed, and I put on my makeup in perfect calm. Before he even reached my apartment, I was outdoors waiting for him. I hopped into his car and went through the goodies. He'd bought two boxes of 15 donuts. MINI donuts. "This isn't enough," I said incredulously, "why didn't you get another box?" "You said 30 was fine." "Yes, for REGULAR sized donuts it's fine, you buffoon!" After a heated debate (read: yelling match), we were off to Publix, where I bought another box and cursed the time, bringing them for a crowd of people who have barely touched them.

YOU PEOPLE. YOU ARE THE SOURCE OF MY ANGER. YOU EAT THOSE DAMN DONUTS OR IT WILL GO BADLY FOR YOU.

Okay, now I feel better. You can't feel guilty forever. But I do wish you'd eat the damn donuts.

Family Gatherings

Here's an excerpt:

Another great tradition is the sand castle contest. The adults get into this competition as much as the children do. We start early on Wednesday morning by claiming our area on the beach. We have to build the sculpture before it gets too hot; the sand is so white, it is blinding by midday. We bring our secret ingredients, like Jell-o or Kool-aid, to color the sand. We also raid the Dollar Store for cheap props to go along with our themes. Some of the sculptures have been very clever over the years: huge sea turtles, Sponge Bob’s Bikini Bottom, dolphins, mermaids, even giant sports balls. It has become such a big event that the entire resort has starting joining in, declaring Wednesday the Sand Sculpture Contest Day. The best part for the little guys is that there is judging and everyone wins some sort of prize. My aunt and cousins work with my mother to buy up all the prizes they can find throughout the year. They bring about forty gifts to the picnic shelter where the winners are announced and everyone gets to claim a prize.

Also that day, we usually have the annual potluck cookout. Sunsets at Fort Myers Beach are really amazing. We gather about an hour or two before sunset and have a huge family dinner. Everyone grills their own meat and each family brings other side dishes and desserts to share. We end up with a huge feast while we visit and watch the sunset.

I’ll never forget these times with my family. We aren’t perfect – that’s for sure – but we perfectly try to have time together. Our children will have tremendous memories of the times we spent at Disney or at the beach. They will be able to share many stories of these days and hopefully, they will continue the tradition with their children.

Looking Forward to the Family Reunion at the Beach

We're goin' to St. Simons.
It's not so much about the beach.
We're goin' to St. Simons.
I can hardly wait to eat.

Shrimp and grits, shrimp and grits.
That's all that I can ponder.
Shrimp and grits, shrimp and grits.
How much longer, oh, I wonder.

It's all about the Davis family.
Not what I'm to eat.
It's all about the Davis family.
Go ahead, call the restaurant, and reserve our seat.

Val, we're not going this year.
Oh my, what are you saying?
Val, we're not going this year.
Please, please tell me your playing!

What! No shrimp and grits?
However will I survive?
What! No shrimp and grits?
I'm forever scarred for life!

Thanksgiving: the only family gathering in my family's opinion.

Although I love thinking about the food at my family gatherings, what I remember most is, like Joel, sitting at the kid’s table. But unlike his family, no kid in mine ever wants to have to go to the big table, where they all talk about work, whether business-type work or yard work. I’m nearly twenty-three years old, and you can bet that this year I’ll be sitting at the kid’s table—maybe.

You see, one of the most important members of the kid’s table may have left us forever. My cousin Dean, one of my best friends since I was five, just got hitched last month. I was there, if sullen. I even served punch at the reception, if sullenly. When they asked me to wear a corsage, I said snootily, “This is banana republic and brand new. Absolutely not.” As for his wife, who is family now . . . well, let’s just say I don’t think she’s the type to carouse at the kid’s table with the kids.

Of course, the kid table has calmed down over the years. One of our favorite games to play when we were little was called “Good neighbor/bad neighbor.” Since I was the oldest little (and more than a little bossy), I was in charge. I’d yell, “Bad neighbor!” and we’d shovel food into our mouths, chew with our mouths open, bang the table with the cutlery and generally act like heathens. I’d yell, “Good neighbor!” and within a moment we were sitting properly and eating like marines at 90 degree angles. “Goodness,” we’d say in our most stuffy, proper voices, “have you heard what those terrible bad neighbors have been into lately?” “My word, how rude.”

When we got too loud (which was often), my Dad or Uncle would walk into the room and say, “How about being the good neighbors for a while?” Sheepishly, we’d nod. The only thing worse than being noticed by the big table was being asked to sit at the big table.

As we got older, Dean and Junior became more interested in throwing a football or practicing golf swings after Thanksgiving dinner, and I became more interested in talking on the phone to whatever guy I was dating at the time. Occasionally during the dinner, now, I’ll get lost in reminiscences of our childhood. I’ll look and catch Dean with that lopsided grin on his face, knowing we’re both remembering. “Bad neighbors?” He’d inquire in a whisper. “We’re always bad neighbors inside,” I reply, “even if we have to be good neighbors on the outside.”

The Cautious Stripper

Hmm, I sit at a big table downstairs, typing with one hand because the other holds a doughnut. I have my priorities straight. I’m not dropping this doughnut to type. Glaze threatens to roll down my finger, forcing me to lick the finger. I don't want to do so, of course, but I see no other options.

Typing with one hand changes the keyboard dramatically. I’m exploring a new world, stepping cautiously (oops, I typed “stripping cautiously,” which I am most certainly not doing outside of Einstein’s Bagels—although I like the idea of a cautious stripper, perhaps the star of a whole series of short stories).

Kat’s Blessing just arrived, and now he’s gone.

Split Personality

Jingle bells are chiming
Stores are packed with shoppers
Family number one sits around a table
Cheerful voices and wonderful food
roast, mashed potatoes, corn bread,
all served by an angel.
Thanks is heartily given.

Jingle bells are chiming
Stores are packed with shoppers
Family number two sits around a table
Drunken voices arguing
Exotic foods from other countries
all served by a cheerful giver
Old days are rehashed

Jingle bells are chiming
Stores are packed with shoppers
Family number one discusses all the changes
Little children run around
Everyone leaves happy

Jingle bells are chiming
Stores are packed with shoppers
Family number two drinks socki
Many presents are opened
Trecherous uncle makes passes

Jingle bells are chiming
Stores are packed with shoppers
A little girl sits wondering
What the answers are.

Family Gatherings

In honor of the topic, I have gathered together several of my family's "sayings."

(These were mainly things my maternal grandmother said. I don't remember her very well; she passed away when I was three. However, my mom would sometimes say these things, prefaced by "As your Grandma Lottie would say...")

1. If it's not one thing, it's another.
2. Can't win for losing.
3. Kyarn (as in, that smells like kyarn.)*
4. Fire and save matches.
5. Sheis.**

(Now don't get me wrong, my grandmother wasn't a vulgar woman. There are a lot more of these that aren't coming to mind right now. But as a child I was always fascinated with the words that I didn't understand, i.e. Kyarn and Sheis, so those are the ones I remember.)

Here is one that my mom always says (not influenced by her mother, as far as I can tell):
"People often mistake kindness for stupidity."

Enjoy!
-Andrea


*I looked this word up in google just now and happened upon a very interesting piece called "The Language of Appalachia." Here is an excerpt:

Unlike my maternal grandmother, I say “carrion” rather than “kyarn”. In fact, I had no idea what she was talking about until recently when I mentioned the word to my husband. I told him, “Grandmother used to say, ‘That stinks like kyarn.’ I never figured out what ‘kyarn’ was.” He said, “Road kill.” My jaw dropped. “You mean, carrion? Kyarn is carrion?” “Yeah,” he said. “Put the Appalachian accent to it.” It made sense. (...)
So, I did a little research and learned that the Appalachian region has its own language. Linguists call it “Appalachian English”. The Scots-Irish settled the entire region known as Appalachia (all of West Virginia and portions of Virginia, Pennsylvania, North Carolina, Kentucky, Tennessee and Georgia) in the mid-1700s.

To read the rest of the VERY INTERESTING article, go here:
http://www.ego4u.com/en/read-on/countries/usa/life/appalachia

** An abbreviation of the German word, Sheiser.

Family Gatherings

I find this topic quite ironic given the fact that Breah, Sonya, Kathy, and I had just discussed family reunions yesterday coming back from lunch. Kathy stated she liked Breah's Carolina blue "Hoey Family Reunion" T-shirt. After some wordplay, Kathy said she wished she had a big black family so she could go to the family reunions. She even devised a plan to infiltrate a family reunion, which Breah quickly shot down. The conversation then digressed to why white people do not have family reunions, or better yet, why they did not advertise them on T-shirts. Crickets. None of us could come up with a rational explanation.

I used to work in group sales at a theme park during the summers. Here groups constituted 15 or more paid admissions (children two and under were admitted free and were not to included in the group total). As you might expect, Saturday was always our busiest day. Most of our business came from church groups, followed by family reunions. (Scout groups were usually the smallest percentage of our gate.)

One person was supposed to check in for the entire group, but inevitably, we would have a harried group leader with an entourage of well-opinionated relatives trying to figure out exactly how many people they actually had arrived with (and who still might be coming) and who had paid and who hadn't. Please have all money collected prior to coming to Group Sales. Usually, I would just keep the window open, allowing the cool breeze from the office to ease their frazzled nerves. Other times, if they were rude and beyond repair, I would just shut my window and tell them to knock when they had it all figured out.

Most of the people that I dealt with from family reunions were cordial. I was always amused by the families from far off and exotic places like Alabama who arrived in a good mood despite riding in a bus for four and a half hours with 50 + people that they may or may not really know. Some families weren't so lucky. By the time that they arrived at the park, they were bickering. There were even a couple of times that I thought might have to jump through my window to break up a fight. Thank goodness the park is 270 acres I would think after checking them in and shutting my window.

The worst thing was when someone arrived after the group had already purchased the tickets for the group. Only the group leader can purchase tickets for the group and it must be done in one transaction. We always figured that if they had a T-shirt, they were legit. But if you walked up and just said you were with a certain group, that was sketchy. They could have just seen the T-shirts. You would have to pay full price. I guess that is the true benefit of the family reunion T-shirt.

Funny stories

I know it is almost a week after the fact, but I just had to share a classic Rebecca moment . . .

I have a ritual of taking out my contacts and washing my face as soon as I get home. Yesterday, as usual, I stuck my left index finger in my left eye. Nothing. I fished around again. Nope, just eyeball. I switched to the right eye. What is going on? Then it hit me. Oh my God! I had gone the entire day without my contacts in.

Curses and Blessings

My break-up with Chris marked the beginning of bad times; men sold themselves to me as shiny, new products that cleaned carpet and perfected the home, but a few months later, I’d realize I’d been had. Snake oil salesmen—and then there was Craig.

Craig. There’s only one way to describe the man I chased mercilessly for over a year. I found this while reading a Flashman book—which, if you haven’t heard about the series, is about a gallant-looking scamp who manages to accidentally be involved in every major historical moment of the 1800s:

"I still say that if it hadn't been for that damned gag, I'd have been back on the boat before midnight, rogering her speechless. And she knew it, too, and must have arranged for my abductors to muzzle me first go off, so that I'd never get a word in edgeways to sweet-heart her. You see, however much they loathe you, whatever you've done, the old spark never quite dies--why, for all her hate, she'd blubbered at the mere recollection of our youthful passion . . . No, she knew damned well that once she listened to my blandishments she'd be rolling over with her paws in the air, so like old Queen Bess with the much-maligned Essex chap, she daren't take the risk. Pity, but there it was."

Yes, Craig broke me open like a delicate egg a dozen times, and I made fine excuses for him each time, scooping the gold back into the shell. He lied so long and well that I believed it was my fault that we never made a go of it. I kept wondering what I could do differently to ensnare him, never once noticing that I was on the web rolled up and sucked dry. If you can’t believe he was a curse, know that I beat my fists and pulled my hair every day trying to forget him. I’d go a month without seeing or calling him and then run into him one night on an outing—he’d look at me, knowing. I’d look at him with an inward sigh, knowing also.

But the last time I saw him, I could not look at him in the same way. I’d just begun dating Robby, a sweet, handsome guy that I figured I would chew through in a few weeks. I always felt guilty dating guys like him and usually put them out of their misery early. As I sat with Craig in my studio apartment, remembering the men I’d left eating my dust because he called, suddenly, I realized something had changed. He kissed me. I was cold as a goldfish in its bowl. “What’s the matter with you?” “I don’t know,” I said faintly. Something had changed, and we both knew it. He left early that night, and I have not seen him since. And I have not desired it.

I suppose the only way to counteract a curse is by a blessing, which Robby certainly was. He kept asking questions, and I kept surprising myself by saying yes. I know I do not deserve this. I keep looking over my shoulder for the karma police. But always, Robby is there to keep night at bay. He is no ordinary blessing, but the kind you get one chance at during a lifetime.

Blessings & Curses

Blessings I have many,
Curses a few.
I think I'm pretty typical,
At least, from my point of view.

My family is most precious,
and my salvation is, too.
I want us all to go to heaven,
and ALL includes you.

Blessings I cannot count,
for there really are so many.
I don't understand those people,
Who don't seem to have any.

I'm often very critical,
and get myself in trouble.
I wish I had nicer thoughts.
Oh, to be Barney Rubble....

Another area that needs some work-
A table full of food.
Don't take somethin' off my plate,
I will be very rude!

I really should try to do better,
And maybe go on a diet,
But if the choice is water or Sprite,
I'm gonna choose the Spri-et.

Old Man Walnut

nothing could be done,
we were pounding
the pavement
with our little white shoes,
the dirt billowing

the bullies were bullying,
the team captains captaining,
and Old Man Walnut
was safely nestled
in his shed

he lived in the woods,
they said,
somewhere just beyond
the reach of the eye,

that guy you pass on
the street but don't
notice until
he gets mythified

he's limping by
as you fill your cart
with groceries,
his one lazy eye
roving

his little flag is flying
as he whistles
slowly by

you'll never see him
coming
but he'll come

he'll come by

his face will have
the kind of features
you can't memorize

his fingers will
involve themselves
with hair you
can't describe

his feet will come
to rest just before
the fenceline

craning over
he'll announce something
skeezy and smooth-
sounding

you'll arc your head,
tipping one ear up
toward the sky

his offer will be
scintillating,
seducing your brain
like several small serpents

his hand will reach
through the holes in
the fence,

you won't know how,
you won't know why,
it's just the way
you've always visualized

his fumbling fingers,
snaking through,
encircling your wrist
like it's nothing,

pulling you through
and through like nothing
into nothing,
nowhere

he'll be there
on the other side, he'll be there

he'll be the one
you remember
but can't recognize

Curses!

My mind scatters again, watching faculty enter the building rather than following one line of thought. I want to be funny today, but it’s not happening. Perhaps the sky oppresses me today, flattening my affect, encouraging depression.

Rain whispers down outside, barely discernible against the trees. I scrutinize the sky for it, but focus fades quickly. It’s like the image the projector first throws onto the screen, zooming in and out of focus as my eyes struggle to adjust.

Let me run at the Curses part of the topic from another angle. Whom or what do I want to curse?

• whoever is responsible for taking Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip off the air
• fleas that pester my dog
• people who throw trash out their windows ("litter" is too genteel of a word)
• migraines that attack Wes
• people whose panties tangle regularly
• people who shout in regular conversations and who refuse to cede the floor
• anyone who cuts me off in traffic
• the computer gremlins that deny Internet access to Katie and Sheri
• any train leaving from Philadelphia at the same time as a train leaving from Los Angeles that intends to travel at different speeds and meet somewhere in the middle and expect me to figure out when and where

Now, I start seeing where to go with this topic. I can imagine a poem written that curses people or a recipe for a potion to curse someone or something.

Blessings and Curses. . .

Blessed with blue eyes and cursed with big hips.
Blessed with intelligence and cursed with a big mouth!
Blessed with patience when I need it and
Cursed with impatience at times.

Blessed with beautiful children
Children with integrity and substance
Somewhere they learned to think for themselves
An education
Two college degrees, one tech school diploma
And one still working on hers
Great jobs
The desire to do what they think is right
Even when it isn’t popular
But also, the ability to know that you
Just can’t change some people.

Blessed with one beautiful granddaughter (so far)
Tall and skinny with blue eyes and blond hair, she is all attitude!
Loyal and true, she loves me unconditionally.
She and I can disagree,
but don’t you dare try it.
While she is around,
Miss Hanna, with a little head action,
will quickly tell you
That you can take your lip somewhere else!
Four foot two, about fifty pounds (soaking wet)
She rounds up her shoulders, puts her hands on her hips
And dares anyone to argue!

Blesssed with a great husband
Who I tell my students that
I have wrapped.
Six foot two and eyes of green
Slightly balding blond hair
And a 34” waist
He looks good (to me anyway!)
Both blessed with jobs that we love
We share our lives.
Ducking in and out as we
Work and play.

Writing this poem,
I realize that life is good.
The curses don’t really matter
When you have been so blessed.
Life is definitely good!

Close Calls

Hmm, as always, I'm slow to get started, so I'll start with a list:

• tree stand
• Stevens-Johnson Syndrome
• little pinky incident
• kneeboarding near the gator (Wes)
• snorkeling with sharks (me)
• train in India, people trying to enter our room all night, Betty being groped by attendants
• break ups
• Dad's appendectomy

Nothing really grabs my attention, demanding I write, so I guess I'll just start to see what happens.

Standing Tall

We stroll into the woods, following the path behind Grandmother's house, walking beside fields, smelling freshly plowed dirt. Wes needs a break from my hordes all relatives; they're all fun, but he's not used to spending time with so many relatives at once. Probably between fifty and seventy-five people gather for Thanksgiving and Easter for my family--Grandmother's kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids, but also her brothers and sisters and their descendants.

I show Wes the woods I played in, the fields I mowed (well, really, I just rode the tractor while Dad mowed, but Dad always said I was helping, the stands of pine trees I planted with my dad and my brother. Once my grandmother's land, it now belonged to my dad, but it felt a part of me. My cousins taught me to ride motorcycles along these trails. My sister and friends and I used to sunbathe in the open spots in the fields. My brother and cousins hunted in these woods. My dad and I had hiked to the springs on our neighbor's property.

Stories haunted these woods and all of Grandmother's land, stories of Dad and his sisters as children, stories of Dad playing with his cousin Kelly and being loosely chaperoned by his uncle (more like an older brother). There were bad stories too, stories of my grandfather dying in a hunting accident when Dad was in high school, stories of the high school boy who killed his ex-girlfriend and then himself in a jealous rage. Something about the last story always suggested to me that he may have had help deciding to kill himself, but it was probably just prompted by all the mysteries I read at the time. Darkness attracted me.

Wes and I strolled through the woods, a mixture of sunshine and darkness playing over our shoulders. (On a side note, could the people in Einstein Bagels possibly make more noise?!) At the first fork in the path, we spied a tree stand probably belonging to my cousin, Robbie. Wes wanted to climb it, so we did, enjoying the view of Grandmother's land. We saw the house in the distance; it overflowed with family members, who spilled outside into the gazebo, out into the yard, where they played football, chatted, smoked, and shared more stories.

Wes and I lingered in the tree stand. I pointed out the boundaries with Uncle James's land, with my cousin Joey's land. Then we needed to get back, so Wes scrambled down the tree stand. I turned around and wiggled to try to reach the first step, but it wasn't there. At the tipping point, just about far enough to not be able to return to the tree stand, I froze. Where is that step? I wondered. I stretched even further, but had no luck.

"Just a little further," Wes said, trying to encourage me.

Easy for you to say, I thought, you're taller than I am.

"You reached it on the way up," Wes reminded me.

"Oh that's helpful," I snapped. "I thought I floated up here." I climbed back up into the tree stand and glared at him, wanting to underscore his jerkiness, but it had no effect. He could barely look at me for laughing. "Go get my daddy. He'll take care of this." I plopped down cross-legged on the tree stand and refused to budge.

"Come on. We've got to get back," Wes urged. "Come on. You were almost there. Just a few more minutes."

I've got to get down from here, I realized. I imagined my brother, chief of the volunteer fire department, showing up with a ladder truck and shuddered at the image. "Okay," I capitulated, "but try to be helpful."

I turned around and edged my legs down as far as I could without losing my ability to climb back up. "It's just two more inches," Wes said. Trusting his words, I let go and fell the five inches to the step. I climbed down the tree and glared at Wes, but his laughter infected me, and we both laughed all the way back to Grandmother's house, where Wes shared the story, cementing his place in the family. Storytellers are always welcome here.