2019, Here We Come!

We’re about to roll into the New Year. A year that will hold surprises, happiness and sadness. A year that will bring new babies, new beginnings, endings, and new husbands and wives. A year that brings graduations, promotions and losses. A year that will bring new love, loss of love, heartache and lessons learned.

When we pass from one year to another, especially a year that has seemed more trying, we all wish for a better one ahead. We always hope to walk away from the year that seemed to test our strength and willpower, towards another year that will be kinder to our hearts and our bodies. That we leave the year of sickness and sorrow behind, for another year filled with good health.

The year 2018 is just about over folks, and while I can’t say it was an especially bad year for me; I have had better, but that was a long, long time ago. Honestly, I think the older I get, the lower the bar is set for what I believe to be acceptable and not. I mean, if I can make it through a year with no major sicknesses, no broken bones or sprained ankles from stumbling into holes in my yard or over the curb I didn’t see, my family stays relatively healthy, my children are progressing and moving forward in life, and we all still have jobs and our homes – I consider that to be a pretty banner year.

I no longer take my health for granted like I did from birth until I was about 30 or so. I know there are all kinds of things around the corner, just waiting to jump on me if I get lax in my resolve to take better care of myself.

As a lot of you may remember, I’ve been on a “diet” for several months now – since about the first part of October. My goal was to reach a weight loss of 25 pounds by December 31^st – and while I don’t know yet that I’ll make it, I am down 20 pounds and that’s more than I’ve succeeded in quite some time. I’m still sticking to the nothing but water and my one cup of coffee each day. I confess I did have two glasses of sweet tea with my Thanksgiving meal, but the next morning when I opened the refrigerator and saw the rest of that tea in the pitcher staring me down, calling my name, I poured it all down the sink and back to the water I went.

So I have no real resolutions for the New Year. Some of you may remember me telling you last year about this time to not vow to lose 50 pounds, just try and lose 15, and keep it off. So I’ve dropped 20 and that’s my vow, to keep it off and to keep going. Keep the resolutions simple and doable, your goals reality-based and your disappointments will be less.

The New Year is headed our way and we only have just so much control over what comes with it. Take charge of what you can, and pray for the rest.

Have a safe and Happy New Year!

Christmas as a Grown-up

Norman Rockwell holidays don’t exist. At least not in my world they don’t. Oh, you can pretty it all up, string some lights on it, and tag with a big red bow – but if real people, real human beings are involved, then stuff is going to happen.

Many of us have been married so long, we finish each other’s sentences and superbly ignore the irritating things about the other. Those things that in quiet times of reflection can send you over the edge.

He clicks his fingernails against one another, but only when you’re trying to watch television. Click, click, click. She glances over at him and stares just long enough that she hopes he “gets it” and stops. He does for a couple of minutes, and then either forgets or doesn’t care how much it bothers her, and he starts again.

She wants to do her pedicure’s right in the middle of the living room, while he’s trying to watch the last NASCAR race of the year. And she’s commentating, all through it, even though he knows that she knows NOTHING about what she’s saying. He would drown her out, but she just gets louder if he doesn’t answer.

They’ve been together for years now, the “duties” have long ago been split and everyone knows their part. So, she wonders why she still has to verbally ask him will he take out the trash, because surely, he can see for himself that things are now toppling over. He acts as if he doesn’t mind, but she thinks – if he doesn’t mind – then WHY WON’T HE JUST DO IT?!

He comes in from work, he’s starving, but he doesn’t smell anything cooking. He tries to remember when all of that stopped. When it just stopped being normal to have a cooked meal every night after a hard day’s work. Ah, now he remembers, he knows exactly when everything changed. When the last kid left home.

When the children are all gone and there is a space between them leaving and grandchildren arriving – you don’t quite know what to do with yourself. Or your empty house. All the things that drive you crazy now – you didn’t have much time to notice it before. Something else was always happening – you always seemed to have some other place to be.

And how much you love Christmas and the other holidays changes as well. Your children are splitting their time between multiple families, all the gatherings are not under your roof, and everybody isn’t going to come home every holiday.

It’s hard. It’s really hard. You talk to yourself and tell yourself, new days are coming, new times, with new traditions – but a part of you is selfish and you want everything to stay the same, be the same, as it always was.

Well that’s not how life really works. So, we look for new ways to find our happy and our joy. New ways to feel the same Christmas spirit as everyone else. It might not always work every single day, but when it does, man is it glorious!

Here’s to wishing you all a Merry Christmas filled with peace, love, hope and many days of absolute gloriousness. 

ROLL TIDE ROLL!!!!

I will preface everything I am about to say with this: every single solitary person in my family who is a generation right above me and beyond – is from the great state of Alabama. Most of them were also born and raised in Alabama, some have since moved on and branched out into other states.

But let me also say this to make sure there is no confusion where their loyalties continue to lie: it does not matter where they go, or how far away – they are ALL still University of Alabama football fans. With the exception of one or two black sheep that wandered off into Auburn territory – but we don’t talk about that; its in bad taste.

I, myself, am from Georgia – technically though, as both my parents will tell you – I was born right across the Georgia/Alabama line at St. Frances Hospital in Columbus Georgia; however we lived in Phenix City, Alabama which is where they would have brought me home to; so minor is that technicality, no one even pays it any mind.

Alas, I did grow up in Georgia, so my loyalty is divided. Actually, to get down to the brass tacks of it all, my loyalties are divided three ways. I was “from” Alabama, grew-up in Georgia, and moved to Florida in 1998.

I’m a huge football fan, so when I moved to Florida, I felt like I needed to pick a Florida team to root for; I settled on the Florida Gators. So when the season for college football rolls around each year, I am all over the place as a fan.

BUT – not the night the University of Alabama played the University of Georgia. The Tide ~vs~ The Dawgs. Folks – I was dead in the middle of the Tide that was rolling that night, even if it seemed to take us until the 4^th quarter to start rolling in the right direction.

My house was SO loud that 4^th quarter, I was expecting the neighborhood to petition to evict us. There is no way I could have watched that game in any public forum. I was too loud, my mouth was WAY to salty in language and I would’ve had to go alone, as my husband didn’t even want to be associated with me in our own living room!

He has probably only seen me get like that a few times in our married life. I mean, let’s face it, there are not a lot of do or die games that come along like that – not for teams I really have an attachment to anyway. You would have thought I had our house bargained-up as part of a bet, and we had to win to keep it, the way I was carrying on.

I literally stood-up the entire 4^th quarter, in the middle of the floor, between my recliner and the television, screaming and hollering, fist pumping and stomping, carrying them across the line for the last two touchdowns they needed to move out ahead.

Sunday, I woke-up with a hoarse throat, but still able to holler ROLL TIDE, for every ESPN replay I would see throughout that day. Tide Nation – we are a loyal bunch. 

The Woes of Decorating

I’ll begin where I left off last week, when I was telling you all that I wasn’t ready to decorate for Christmas yet, as Thanksgiving was early this year, which would put Christmas about 5 weeks out instead of four. Which also means, I would have to have my house and how we have to rearrange it for the tree, etc. to be decorated a week longer.

I said I absolutely didn’t want to do that. It was just too long. But if you remember correctly, I also told you that I had visited Esposito’s that Sunday to see all the new Christmas decorations. Well, what you don’t know, is what an about-face I did after all of that!

I got in that place, saw all those pretties, bought a few of them for myself, and before I had even completed my drive home that day, I knew it was going to happen. Yes sir, that tree was going up!

Before I even got home, I was placing calls; one to my son and one to my husband. I knew my husband wouldn’t be able to get all the decoration’s down from that loft in the shed alone, so I hit both of them up at once, and asked them to team-up and start getting it done.

Now last year was the first actual year that my husband and I did everything in the house alone. I’ll admit, I thought it would have gone smoother. It did not. So I decided right then and there, that it wasn’t just a child thing – all the arguing and carrying on about me and my “ordering folks around”. Oh no – this year when it started all over again, I know right then – it’s a man thing.

Right from the beginning my husband kept trying to tell what we did and didn’t need to do anymore, what I did and didn’t do last year, and that we needed to start tapering down our decorating. Um, no.

I had already given in last year and bought a new tree. A “skinny” tree. So we could put the tree in a different place other than in front of his front door – which kept it blocked and locked for 4-5 weeks. Which also made him have to take the back door, and through the carport to get around to the front porch – which he rarely sits on this time of the year anyway.

So when I came home with a few new ornaments, it started. “Where are you possibly going to put those, that little tree won’t hold all of that?” “I thought I told you not to buy anything else for that tree?” THAT remark got him a dagger to the chest with my left eye.

And all through the rest of the decorating he was trying to tell me, what went where – like he remembers past yesterday most days. My gracious, what I thought would go so much better went exactly the same. So I have surmised, and am convinced, that all the drama and chaos is definitely not me, it’s them. 

Another One For The Books

I don’t have any drastic Thanksgiving stories to re-tell. I know that’s almost unbelievable but it’s true. All went fairly well. All the dishes I prepared turned out like they were supposed to, my youngest son who mans the turkey fryer every Thanksgiving cooked two of the best he’s ever fried before, and his girlfriend made a dish to contribute and was a phenomenal help in the kitchen when it came time for clean-up.

We were a smaller group this year but it was a group full of heart and love. Every year that I am fortunate to have my parents, when so many of my friends are already missing theirs, I know I am blessed and I appreciate every minute I have with them.

The day after Thanksgiving I’ll be honest and say I didn’t do a whole lot of anything. All the clothes were washed-up and the holiday dishes from the day before, washed and put away. And I certainly had no intention of any Black Friday shopping anywhere – not even on-line. And I sure didn’t need anything bad enough to get out in those crowds full of crazy!

But that Friday after Thanksgiving,  I was invited over to my youngest sons’ house for a cookout and bonfire. He had already invited several buddies over as well, life-long friends that now lived out of town but were home for the holidays. I had started to beg-off, but he’s not one to take no for answer and it’s always nice to know that I’m welcome at his home no matter who else is on the guest list.

I had thought about putting the Christmas decorations and tree up later that same weekend but Thanksgiving came a little earlier in the month of November this year and I just didn’t think I was quite up to looking at all of that for five plus weeks. So I quickly decided that all that could wait until next week – besides, I hadn’t made my annual trip to Esposito’s in Tallahassee to look for a few new Christmas ornaments yet.

So that Sunday after Thanksgiving, Megan, my son’s girlfriend and I, took off for Tallahassee for that fun adventure, as she had never even been to Esposito’s before! It’s like a winter wonderland, full of every kind of themed Christmas tree you could imagine. Usually no more than two alike of any one thing, so you’re guaranteed to have one of a kind beauties hanging on your tree and if you give them for a gift – they probably won’t have anything else that resembles it.

So you all know what comes next – the scary shed – where all the stuff from Christmas’s past is housed. But that’s a story for another day. And believe me there are always colorful stories that go with the decorating around here. Onward to December….

Thanksgiving Blessings

By the time you’re reading this, Thanksgiving will be upon us. Everything that always happens to me because of my amazing flare for the dramatic, will be a thing of the past. Stories, that will be told at the Thanksgiving table as we all proceed to eat more than we can comfortably stand. In between bites I will tell of my hysteria when I ran out of one thing or another, forgot to buy this, that or the other, and how I completely forgot that I had planned to make this dish or that.

Because that’s who I am. I’m a planner to a fault. I make lists. I am still that crazed-looking woman roaming up and down the aisles of Winn Dixie, the store I shop at most every week, looking for items that I don’t normally purchase; therefore, I look lost as heck trying to find them.

Then I spend at least ten minutes of what seems like HOURS trying to remember the difference between baking power and baking soda. You can always tell the non-bakers on the aisle with all the baking items. They, like me, are standing in front of one section after another, with furrowed brow, cell phone in hand, trying to decide when has it been an appropriate amount of time to declare defeat, wave the white flag of surrender, and just call Mom – the expert.

I can’t remember too many years since holiday dinners were passed down to me, that a call has not been made from the baking aisle. Every time, before leaving the house, I think I have myself and my notes together and that they are comprehensible. They never are.  

Speaking of which, do any of you remember the first year the holiday dinners became your responsibility? My gracious in Heaven, what a sideshow all of that seemed to be. I had recipes, I had directions; but confidence – nary a bit. I mean, what’s the big deal? It’s only dressing, the same dressing recipe that has been cooked in my mother’s family since the beginning of time. Her mother made it, she made it, and now here I am hoping not to make a mess of it. No pressure. You would think if you just follow the directions it would be snap! Well, I’m here to tell you all right now, nothing is EVER a snap for me. Those older generations cooked some by measurements, but a lot of it was by taste, and by the “jiggle” of it. Not too loose, not too firm, brown but not dark brown on top, etc. My friends, I’m here to attest to the fact that everybody’s jiggle just ain’t the same.

Somehow, it always seems to come together, even if most of the time I am secretly hoping that the beauty from my holiday table-setting, along with the sweat on my brow and the top of my lip, will distract somewhat for any cooking faux pas that passes someone’s lips.

I’ll of course, regale you later with stories of how it all really went down – but until then – blessings to you and yours, and a Happy Thanksgiving  to all.

Where Do We Go From Here

I’m a self-proclaimed homebody. Most of you can probably tell from my columns that I don’t venture out much, and when I do, it’s not very far. I go where I want to go, and do the things I want to do. I shop on our square here in Quincy, I make an appearance on the streets of Havana at least a couple of times a year, and Tallahassee sees me several times a month.

But as a general rule, I am an on-line shopper and I still like to cook my own meals most every weekend. My husband and I stray as far as the Waffle House or locally at Odell’s for breakfast on an occasional Saturday morning. And every now and again, on a Tallahassee visit, there are a couple of places we like to frequent for a change in food venue. Clothes shopping for me is almost 100% on-line unless it’s for a special occasion of some kind.

Most anything you want can be bought on-line these days, and even in some of the more populated towns, so can your groceries. I don’t know that I’ll ever get to that point, about the groceries I mean. 

Mainly because I’m pretty choosy about my fruits and vegetables and bread. Good grand am I ever picky about my bread. It has to have THE most recent date, it has to be soft to the touch, and not too brown on the top crust. If my husband were injecting his opinion here, he would tell you I am picky about everything, including can goods, etc. I’m a date-checker/expiration checker on everything. And if a can, bottle, box, or container of anything that is sitting at the front doesn’t look right, I guarantee you that I will be digging behind it to pull a better looking one forward for purchase.

However, none of what I just recited to you has anything to do with my point today; other than the parts about not getting out much. I don’t know about you all, but these days, I’m almost scared to get myself into any huge group/crowded situation. Nothing feels safe anymore, whether it’s a diner/restaurant, a nightclub, a yoga bar, or a school bus stop.

If I had a child in school today, I would be terrified to leave my smaller children alone, waiting on a bus pick-up. The rash of child deaths at bus stops in the past two weeks almost feels intentional at this point. How does it happen that many times in that short amount of time?

I have young, adult children. I almost don’t even want to know their plans for weekend entertainment. My mind and imagination go into overdrive when I think about them dining at open-aired restaurants and crowded club scenes where they often go to catch the local musical talent available.

My last words to most anyone on road trips etc., is to be careful and take no chances. Now I feel like I have to say that when they are headed to the local grocery store. I don’t know what the solution is; because it certainly isn’t all about gun/weapon control to me, it’s about hate control. And I have no idea how we got here.

The Big Double Nickel

By the time you all are reading this, several life events will already have come and gone. It’s been quite the week around here as it always is this time of the year.

First, Halloween had a very different vibe this year. The amount of trick or treaters we saw were tremendously reduced in numbers from years past. I was invited to sit and watch the activities with my son and his girlfriend at their home on 9^th street which is usually the mecca area for such goings on. But this year, because of the storm and I think just life in general, the climate was much different and because of that, many more churches in the area participated in Trunk or Treat activities for the children, as well as a huge sheng dig at Wards Lot here in Quincy, doing the same.

From where we sat, I could hear the closing announcements at Wards Lot coming out over an intercom; it was then that the traffic began to flow a bit. Given that, we wouldn’t see any monsters or princesses until well after 7pm and then they only came in chunks at the time, not the hundreds and hundreds of children I had personally witnessed in the past.

In the past I have mentioned how much different Halloween is these days compared to when my children were young enough to participate and most certainly compared to the stone ages when I was a child myself. But I do want to say one thing that maybe I haven’t mentioned before and that is this: there is a reason why the local police block off King Street, the main thoroughfare here in Quincy; they are trying to ensure everyone is safe and has a good time. So in that same vain, common sense should prevail on any other street that peels off of King Street. Parents, do not drive your children around from street to street, house to house. Park your cars, get out and walk.

I told my son that night as I watched car after car, pull up, let a gang of kids out, run up for their candy and jump back into the cars – that as a child, when my mom would take us trick or treating – we walked. She walked behind us, but we walked. And if at any point we started whining or complaining that we were tired, the night was declared over. Because if you were too tired to walk, then trick or treating was over for that year. There would be no driving us around in a vehicle to get to a full-bag quota. And besides all the above, it’s just not safe.

This last event was a two-for-one deal. The time changed this past weekend, we gained a whole hour of sleep and I, on that very same 2am morning, turned the Big Double Nickel! I got a whole extra hour of sleep for my 55^th birthday! And who needs more sleep than the woman who just rolled into another year of life beyond living a half of a century? I can’t think of anyone – can you?

The Aftermath

It was finally a nice Fall-feeling morning - and the timing just seemed right for it all; we cleaned up all the flower pots until next year; moved them to the back of the shed in the back yard where the mighty oaks will protect the Gerber roots until next Spring.

Cleaned out the Canna Lily bed; it might have made it a little bit longer had Michael not come thru and ripped it to shreds. I’ll pick up some straw this week and lay that bed to rest until next year as well. 

The Lantana beds seem to be having some sort of revitalization - second wind so to speak - so we’ll leave them for now as they are blooming all over again. 

I don’t see many birds these days but we refreshed all the feeders and took the hummingbird feeders down until next Spring. 

I still have a blank space in my front yard where my beautiful Drake Elm fell to its death. I’m sure Esposito’s will see me soon for a replacement.  My yard needs to be balanced and my porch screams for the shade it had just begun providing. I won’t be replacing my Red Maples and Sycamore - it just wouldn’t be the same.

And while I wax poetic about my lost trees, I am well aware that many, many people lost their homes, their personal affects, and lifetimes of memories. Some right here in Gadsden County, the outer-lying areas, still do not have power. The many, many linemen that are here helping from all over the place, are doing their very best, but in some cases, in the outer lying areas, there are so many trees down that getting through them has to be the first step/priority.

You can still ride around most anywhere in town and still see things that make you wonder if our little town will ever look the same again. The landscapes have definitely been altered and it’s a sad thought, but even with the re-planting of tree, many of us will not be here to see them reach their beautiful potential again.

The outreach that I seeing continue has just been amazing. I’ve always known that was the way our community was – but seeing it in full action, full force, day after day, has done nothing but to remind to me once again, why I choose to live in this small town without all the modern conveniences of a larger city. Family – we are all neighbors and family in times of need.

Since the storm my youngest son has worked sun-up to sun-down, running chain saws, skid steers and bobcats – whatever it takes to bring some normalcy back to his own neighborhood and many others.

Every single person I know is living these sudden life changes right now. Mourning what’s been taken and thankful for what remains. We’ve all been here long enough to know that life always goes on - we just have to make up our minds to follow the new path and make it work. And we can – because we’re Gadsden County folk – and we never back down from a challenge. 

His Name Was Michael

The experience was hopefully a once in a lifetime for me; I never want to re-live anything like that again. We were very fortunate structurally, as we lost nothing – just several beautiful trees down and a yard slam full of Pine limbs strewn everywhere; that would take days to clean-up the debris and get it to the road for trash pick-up.

We managed better than many as we have a gas water heater and a gas stove top. Both of those things provided hot showers, and manageable, albeit minimal meals. And that was okay in the first few days of the aftermath as we had a “cool front” come through. Then the heat began to climb again to crazy temperatures for any October on earth, and we were all sweltering and wondering if we would survive it.

For about 36 hours afterward, I would have to say the scariest thing was no cell service. The towers were all struggling and we couldn’t get a call in or out – and no texts were going through as well. My parents live in Albany, Georgia which is where the storm would travel to next and I had no way of knowing how they were faring through it all. Between not being able to reach them or talk to my oldest child in Vermont to reassure him, I am not exaggerating in the least when I say I thought I would lose my mind.

The way this town came together in the days afterward was just amazing. Everyone helping everyone else, chain saws buzzing and moving from house to house to help their fellow neighbor. As friends/people regained power, we had so many offers to come shower, borrow a generator, wash some laundry, or just come and sit and soak up some a/c and have a refreshment or two and try and feel human again for a few minutes.

And I have to give a special shout-out to Allen Suber of Winton Suber Heating and Air – he never fails to call on us and offer to help in absolutely any way that he is able; I will never forget his kindness and compassion during this time.

For days afterward, I would humor myself and maybe Face Book land, with my hair-drying antics and stories. Nothing about this has been fun, but you have to find the humor somehow or you just can’t get past it. Of course, continuing to look at pictures from all of our neighboring towns and beach cities was enough to sober anyone up and certainly enough to bring anyone whining back to reality. But I gotta tell you all, drying your hair (because eventually you have to go back to work and look presentable) while your home is 85 degrees INSIDE and trying to apply make-up that you’re sweating-off as fast as you can apply it – well it was quite the experience in itself.

I am praying for quick healing and recovery for all and I know how far and wide this horribleness spreads; but I still believe if we all come together, we can do anything. Even get through something as horrendous as a hurricane named Michael.

The Fight Continues - This is What Breast Cancer Looks Like

Breast Cancer – it’s an angry beast. It sneaks in, out of nowhere, in between one annual appointment and another and it plots. Sometimes it’s just a spot. Sometimes it's spread like branches on a tree. And sometimes, it’s exceeded the space allowed for the breast only, and is already invading lymph nodes, and lungs.

I don’t know about the rest of you ladies, but once I’ve had my annual mammogram, and it comes back clear, I don’t think about it again for another 365 days; at least I didn’t used to think about it again.  

Six years ago changed all of that for me; how I thought, how often I thought, and how much I would worry. One by one it seemed, I had female friends receiving that “you’re your worst nightmare” call. Within a four-year span, six of my closest friends would receive that call and their lives would change forever.

Every single one of them had been diligent about their annual breast exams, and all of them had gotten clean/clear results the year prior. So, to say my outlook on what a clear visit would really mean, would drastically change – is putting it mildly. Actually, one of them would test clear and within 6 months of a fluke recheck – she would find out she was positive.

Talk about unnerving for the rest of us gals. I personally felt like the check was only good for the day you had it, as anything could happen and you would never see it coming.

All of my friends rode their journey’s out. Some had to have their breasts removed and some just chemo and radiation. And please know, I don’t say “just” as loosely as it sounds, but it does seem less radical than the total removal of very personal body parts.

But I still have one very special friend who was diagnosed with Inflammatory Breast Cancer or IBC who is still fighting for her life. She is in remission but she has not, and may never reach the “all clear – you’re cured now” status. She was officially diagnosed in 2014 and she is still struggling. Still taking oral chemo treatments – only the radiation has stopped. She has 3-5 PET scans annually to ensure it’s not spreading into other parts of her body.

She knows this is her life – and yet still – she works every single day. And I mean manual labor work too – not sitting behind a desk in the air conditioning. She is a store-re-modeler/re-setter and she works harder than many men that I know. She lives out of a hotel 3 weeks out of 4 each month – and she is married to one of the best men alive.

She’s a fighter through and through, and anytime I’m having what I think is a crappy day – my head hurts or my knee is giving me problems; all I have to do is think of her and life is right back into perspective.

Get your annual exams. Be vigilant about paying attention to your body, you know it better than anyone else ever will. And love yourself the most – you have to still be alive – to be here for everyone else.

Life of a Television Addict

The question of the day in the Mims household is: how many shows can you pre-record on a cable DVR box? I have tried an internet search to find out, I have tried calling to find out. First thing, I don’t know what kind of box I have in my home. Second thing, WHY DON’T THEY KNOW what kind of box I have in my home? They gave it to me, I’m paying them for it monthly. Yes, it’s probably on my statement, but I threw that away once I paid the last monthly bill that was due, and no, I don’t do on-line bill paying.

So now that you know what an old antique of a human I am, you should also understand why I think THEY should know all of those answers! But they don’t, so they gave me scenarios over the phone that didn’t help me one iota.

Now if you’re wondering why all of a sudden, I need to know all of these things, it’s quite simple. The new Fall programming has begun and I watch A LOT of television. Almost of my shows from last year are back, with the exception of a few cancelled shows that I am still writing letters to the studio’s about as we speak, and there are at least a dozen new ones!

All of these shows of course, come on different networks at the same time, on the same night! It’s just not possible to watch them all as they are originally aired. The other night when I began to see what was scheduled so that I could pre-record to my DVR – my screen was lit-up like a Christmas tree with red bulbs all over it! I had no idea what the limit was of course, so I just kept hitting record until it told me to stop – or refused to go any further – neither of which happened!

But my other question was just how long it will hold all of those recorded shows for me? Is there a time limit? And once again, we went back to issue of what dang box I have that no one, including the people who bill me, quite extravagantly every month I might add, seemed to know.

I need to know that because some shows I watch alone and some shows my husband and I watch together. And depending on when he is working, and what time he has to go to bed, (with the chickens) also limits us as to how much time we have available to watch together. And you couples that watch together know what I’m talking about when I say what a hail storm it is when one dares to watch a shared program without the other!

So basically, what I am saying is this: I have an exorbitant amount of television viewing to do. I’m actually rather frazzled even thinking about it and it’s only the first week of the season! So, unless it’s a dire emergency, like you’re on fire, or you can see my house on fire from across the street – I’m going to be very busy. Don’t call me; I’ll call you.

Drink-Up!

Although the first day of Fall was Saturday, September 23^rd, it’s still 1,280 degrees on any given day. The air is so thick with humidity it practically attaches itself to your clothes and they are soaking wet by the time you get where you’re going.

Everyone is dragging – their feet, their words and their thoughts. Folks can’t even seem to string a complete sentence together. They begin to talk and somewhere in the middle of the process, it’s as if a horrible disappearing magical act has taken place and the original reason for speaking in the first place, can no longer be remembered.

I attended an outdoor wedding a few weeks ago and I’ll just say this – when we arrived there were tables sitting all around, and about three of those HUGE gator fans scattered about, all blasting on high. One of tables was in partial shade, a fan situated right behind it. I began to make a bee-line for that table as it was empty and my husband said, that table is all the way up front, you want to sit that close?! And I said, I AM going to sit that close, you can follow me or sit with stranger’s! The wedding began at 6:30pm and before we left about 3 hours later, we were soaking wet.

As I said originally; Fall is already SUPPOSED to be here. And I had planned on beginning a walking regime again once it cooled off. But as it seems that is never going to happen, I decided to at least began changing my drinking habits.

I have one cup of creamer with my coffee each day and I use Splenda as the sweetener. Yes, I said creamer with my coffee because my husband says I should just spoon-feed the creamer and take a sip of coffee and be done with it! And, I allow myself one Sprite a day, and the rest is water. JUST WATER.

Now I always thought the amount of water medical experts advise is necessary, is 8 glasses of 8 ounces of water each day. Well no. It isn’t. It is your body weight divided by two – and that number gives you the ounces you need to drink per day. All I have to say about that is this: you might as well fill a bathtub full of water, give me a stool to sit on and a straw/funnel, because according to my calculations, that’s about much water I need to drink in a day, and it’s going to take a while.

Needless to say, I’m sticking with the 8 and 8 theory. It’s a start. But even that much water begins to make me feel like gagging by the last two of the day. However, the other day, someone introduced me to Propel. It’s a lightly flavored water with zero calories and zero sugar. I will not lie, I drank the first swallow down and angels were singing and flying overhead. I had to rein myself in not to guzzle the rest of it in one fell swoop.

That flavored water might just get me through until some coolness can blow-in and walking without falling-out is possible. I’ll keep you updated.  

Laughter Is The Best Medicine

That was then, this is now.  That one was my experience of losing face. This one is my absolute saving grace; I once was lost, but now I’m found.  

I suppose this is how everyone feels when they've come from a failed relationship into a relationship that has flourished beyond their wildest imagination. However, the grass is only greener because it’s had the proper nourishment and the right mixture of ingredients to make it grow.

I can remember back years ago, at my previous job, I was talking to one of the engineering techs. A youngster. Everybody under thirty years old is was a youngster to me back then. I can remember when everybody over thirty was ancient.  I am sure to him, I sounded ancient that day. Actually, what he said was, he thought I sounded like my husband.

Just prior to our conversation that day, he had taken a three-day road trip with my husband to some job sites as a learning/training experience. I am sure he got a three-day-earful of a South Carolinian, Kornbread euphemisms. He probably heard words spoken in such a way he has never heard, in all of his then, twenty-something years of life.

However, that day, I was trying to extend a little training myself. I was trying to explain how to talk to a customer in such a way, that they always thought the idea was theirs in the first place.  My “student” wasn't quite getting it, so I started over, taking another tact, using “plainer” words.

Almost instantly, I saw his eyes begin to glaze over, he lifted his hand in front of his face as if to ward off something coming his way. Something that was scaring him. I was about to ask him what was wrong when he began to beg me to stop, to just stop talking. And then he asked me, if I knew that I had begun to sound just like my husband?!

I laughed hysterically. Mostly because that was THE most ridiculous thing I had ever heard, and he looked so dang serious about it. He just kept staring at me. Like I had somehow sat there and morphed myself into my country-speaking husband.

They say, after so many years, you will BE your mate. You will think for each other. You will think before they think, and you will already know that they’re thinking/feeling. And all of that is alright. I've been reading his mind for a long time now.  However, I don't care anything about succumbing to his South Carolina dialect. And I'm pretty sure, there will never be a time, anytime soon, that you will see me with a "wad a chaw" in my jaw.

But if in my later years, I began to slide into his slow, sure way of talking, that’ll be alright. For he is the missing piece to this jagged, jumbled up puzzle I call my life. He takes such good care of me; I wish I had found his funny, beautiful face years ago.

They say laughter adds years to your life. Just think how much longer I could have lived, had I found him first.

Until We Meet Again

She was Bronx, NY the minute she opened her mouth. She was straight-forward, blunt, and she was of one the hardest working women I have ever known. I am not ashamed to admit that I was terrified of her for the first six months that I would know her and work with her. She definitely gave a first impression that she wasn’t to be messed with.

I would meet her the summer of 1981, right after my high school graduation. A friend of mine worked at one of the local Piggly Wiggly’s and she called to let know they had an opening for a cashier. I would work there for a little over 5 ½ years and I would learn more on that job than I probably have most others combined. But what I really learned the most about was people. It definitely wasn’t high school anymore, where everyone was within and age or so of each other, their minds were built somewhat alike, and everyone was moving in unison in a forward motion.

People there were of all ages, and seemingly came from all over the place. Many were locals for sure, but some, like Mavis, were definitely not. To this day, I can remember trying to mimic her accent, and never, not once, even coming close. It was thick, it was mucked-up with something akin to both dark alleys and side-street markets with fresh fruit in the front bins. Kind of like her personality I guess. Her switch from wide-open mouth laughter to stern eye-balling stares could be as fast as lightening and sometimes hard to determine where things went off the rails so fast.

My now ex-husband and I would later become friends with her then husband and we would spend time outside of work together. Eating meals together, playing cards and board games, and we all took in a country concert or two. Her favorite country band back then was Alabama and she and her husband had seen them in person several times; I feel sure they didn’t have a bigger fan of their music.

Her favorite drink was Kalua and Crème and I can hear her and that accent ordering it from the waiter right now, with a lit cigarette stationed between her fingers. Her sense of humor was as bawdy as she herself was bare minimum, and I loved it. I would get married the first time in March of 1984 and she stood as one of my bridesmaids.

Her favorite television actor/crush was Tom Selleck. He starred in a television show back then called Magnum PI. I will not say she slobbered or drooled when she saw him/talked about him, but that’s only because she might come back to haunt me if I did.

I would learn a week or so ago, that Mavis Hatcher died in a nursing home August 7^th in Albany Georgia; she was only 67. I am so sad that I didn’t know, didn’t visit her, and didn’t bring her comfort. I don’t know how we all lose our way in life and lose the people who matter. But I have never forgotten you Mavis Hatcher, and pray you are resting in peace.

Good As Gold

On my way home yesterday, the day after voting/election day, standing on the curb, in front of the square, was one man, all alone, holding a sign that simply said THANK YOU, in large bold letters. I couldn't tell by his shirt which candidate he was representing, or even if he, himself was THE candidate. But by standing there, he was doing two very important things at once:

#1 He was thanking everyone for allowing him, his words, and his promises and efforts, to seem relevant.

#2 He was letting everyone know who may have voted for him, that he was thanking them, letting them know that they were appreciated and relevant as well.

That's all anyone really wants in life. To know that they are worthy, appreciated, and relevant. They appreciate being acknowledged for making the effort, going that extra mile, and being available when needed. So, when we, as people, can't seem to show that respect and appreciation; well, that’s what is wrong with the human race in general right now.

It's everyone’s job to make folks feel relevant and appreciated, and when we don't, we appear to be unaware of anyone's worth. It just doesn't get any more disrespectful than that.

I had experienced a really bad day that particular day. The world seems to be taken over by youth who think they know everything, disregard age and its wisdom, and ignore the pots of gold, often standing or sitting right beside them, that hold years of mistakes and solutions/recoveries that could be to their advantage if they would only be still. And listen.

I would later, that same evening, find out that the man I saw standing on that curb was Charlie Frost, the actual candidate himself. Evidently, half of Quincy had also seen him and filled my Face Book post with accolades for Mr. Frost. And crazily enough, the comments weren’t about his politics, but instead, who is he as a person - they all shared with me what a wonderful and kind human being that Charlie Frost is to them and it would seem, to anyone he comes in contact with.

So, I thank that one lone man for standing on that curb that afternoon. I needed to see him that day, especially then; I needed to feel better about human beings, even if it were only for that last few minutes it took me to get home. I saw it, I knew it, and more importantly, for those few minutes, I believed it.

I rarely push folks to check anyone out; whether it’s a television show, a book, or a writer; but I am about to do just that.  Because the next day when I opened my email, (divine intervention) Sean Dietrich, author of Sean of the South, had written a column just for me. I needed it, and I thank him for it. He talked me off the ledge of ugliness, and hopefully his words will help me to be more forgiving and less angry going forward, because the latter emotion is neither healthy or positive.

This is the link to that particular column – check him out: http://seandietrich.com/hey/

Doctors Will Be The Death Of Me

A couple of weeks ago I told you all about my blood-curdling, Transylvania Vampire experience at my doctor’s office – everyone survived although the top of my hand has looked like an experienced prize fighter since then. A bruised and purple hand does not, a pretty fashion statement, make.

So as is the usual, last week was my appointment; to follow-up on my blood-work, see what’s been happening for the last six months, and determine whether or not to call in extra folks for inspirational conversations or explanatory dieting techniques such as:

     

•                Starvation Through Wired-Shut Jaws – the positives and negatives.
•                            Training in the procedure of locking-down the refrigerator with chains and bolts the                    size of a wrestler’s arm.
•                    Directions on how to line the front of your refrigerator with Before and Before and                     Before pictures – from top to bottom – just so you understand – you will never see an                 After picture if you do not succeed.     
•                And lastly, the infamous Talk of Shame – which is guaranteed to leave you in tears and              swearing to never eat another pastry or plate of pasta again.

But first, I would have to actually be able to ATTEND my appointment. When I arrived, it was as they say, a full house. People and their moods were in all states of irritation. Finding a seat was the first hurdle, and then making sure I wasn’t anywhere near anyone who was hacking up a lung, running for the bathroom or looking flushed from fever. That last part wasn’t as easy as you would think, given that half of the room looked flushed from impatience and anger.

I must have arrived on “everybody in Quincy who is pregnant” appointment day. Women in all states of mommy-hood were there, shifting in their seats every two minutes, alternately sighing and fuming under their breath as their name was NOT the name called out when the door would swing open each time.

I myself was a little worried about the gal sitting directly in front of me, and actually even more concerned that I hadn’t taken that CPR/Emergency procedure class that was offered one time, a million years ago.  She truly looked like an any-day-now Mama and while I could hold her hand and let her squeeze it for relief – I wouldn’t be much help for anything else.

Finally, my name was called, much to the chagrin of an older woman with her arm in a sling, who was there before I was that day. I felt bad, and a little scared, because I had to walk right past her, but I would learn a few minutes later that she had arrived 2 HOURS early for her appointment. Seriously?! Who in the heck does that?

My appointment went well, I didn’t get into too much trouble and my numbers stayed stable from my last visit. All of that was well and good except for my weight number – that needs to unstable itself backwards at 120 miles MPH.

And – to my knowledge no emergency babies were delivered even though I was more than prepared to help, whether I knew what I was doing or not!

Hold Your Breath And Hope for The best

I felt pretty good when I woke that morning. No anxiousness or trepidation in regards to what I knew lie ahead of me. I showered and got dressed in normal fashion, took my morning vitamins and then headed out the door.

The drive to my destination was a short one, so there was no real lapse in time to get myself worked-up. But that would all change once I got inside and I knew it; but just how much it would change was yet to be known.

I announced my name and date of birth, answered a few other pertinent questions, and then they buzzed me back thru the locked doors.

I walked the halls and made a turn to the all-too-familiar right and there it was – the dreaded dungeon.

The first thing I saw was my “regular girl” was not there. My heart began to beat a little faster and not in a good way. She’s my girl, she’s the one. She’s figured out all the in’s and out’s and gets it right almost every single time, the first time.

She’s “THE BLOOD TAKER”. Phlebotomist for all you intellectuals out there. But for me she’s the “stick lady”, the “pain lady”, but mostly my girl is the best needle-sticker in that joint, and she wasn’t there.

I sat down knowing this wasn’t about to go down as I had envisioned. My veins are deep, they hide, and they roll. The person doing the sticking not only has to try and find them, but they have to try and project where they are going once that needle breaks the surface of my skin.

As my “substitute-sticker” is attempting to look for a vein, to no surprise it turns out to be all in vain (pun intended) because she can’t find one. I could see the sweat start to form around her upper lip, mostly because I was jabbering 90 miles an hour, giving instructional advice, and regaling her horrid stories of sticks-gone-bad from the past.

For those of you who can literally feel my pain, you know what I mean, 3 sticks in one arm, a couple in the other, then finally they give-up and try the dreaded top-of-the-hand stick. It’s usually a sure-fire stick and I get that, but there’s no fat in the top of your hand – so pleasant - it is not.

And as you ladies know, they take a LOT of blood draws during pregnancies and man alive was that ever horrible. Once, they actually debated about going in on the top of my foot to try and find a usable vein. IT DID NOT HAPPEN.

They sent me across the street to the hospital – who by the way – have zero limitation counts on how many times they can stick, unlike a doctor’s office - and they got it on the first try! In the arm!

The final conclusion on this particular day was she let me know she saw NOTHING, could feel NOTHING, so the top of the hand it was to be. And the first stick was a winner! WHEW!

Staying healthy is tough/sometimes painful work!

Let the Games Begin!

For at least a couple of weeks now, its’s all I’ve heard about. Everybody’s spirits are higher, a little pep has been added to their step, and the world seems to be a little brighter.

Football is back. Well, preseason anyway. But these gamers don’t care, they’d watch Pee Wee football if someone would just televise it.

Have you ever really watched a football fan on the very last day of the regular season, the last game that will be played before going into the playoff’s which will lead to the grand finale of the Super Bowl?

That last day, you can already see the decline. Their bodies begin to lose a life, their joy light is like a dampened candle and their faces are already showing signs of despair.

Then post season begins with weeks of playoff’s ahead. They try and mask their depression through all the screaming and hollering, arm-chair fist beating, and shouting insults at the referees from their recliners – but it’s still there. The end is in sight and they know it.

Then finally the big day comes, people are planning parties, get-togethers, making “football-food” and setting up their living arena for the biggest game of the year. If their particular favorite team happens to be participating, then that event goes to a whole 'nother level.

The gamers will be dressed in their team jersey’s/colors, decorations may even be strewn about it, and they begin to argue about who will be invited and who will not – because fans of the opposing team – well you know what a night full of emotion can bring that to – A BOIL.

A big pot of boiling water just waiting to erupt. Because these true-blue football fans can get a little crazy. I know – I’ve been one of them. It’s the last game of football season, emotions are running high, you both want to scream for your team and cry because it’s almost over and you got some guy across the room in YOUR house wearing HIS enemy jersey cheering because THEIR side/team just made a touchdown with three minutes left in the game.

You consider putting a lamp shade up the side of his head or at the very least, slinging the chipotle dip in his face and your head is screaming inside, why did I ever invite this traitor anyway? But you gather your sanity and try and remind yourself – it’s just a game.

But is it? Just a game? It’s the last game and suddenly everything feels like life and death. Because IF YOU WIN – you still lose. Because this is it. There will be no more football for at least seven LONG months. The sadness is real, so are the DT’s you will soon be trying to survive and for weeks you will watch recorded football from games gone past.

But its back – pre-season football is back. Half the nation will be glued to their televisions even though the scores and wins don’t really count, they don’t care. Their bodies are already fill with the adrenaline that comes with the first sight of a goal post and a leather ball.

Look-out football nation – Season 2018 is coming for you!

Youth is just a Dream

Ladies, do you ever look at yourself in the mirror and actually say out loud, to yourself, what happened to me? I mean, we look at ourselves every single day, whether we’re brushing our hair, applying make-up or simply brushing our teeth. So, it’s not that we don’t know what we look like on an average daily basis. But then there’s the day, that one day, that we actually SEE ourselves in that mirror and you’re just like – wow, when did that happen?

I’ve been binge’ing a show on Netflix for the past week or so called The Fosters. It has a fairly young cast of characters for the most part, and the other night, as I was watching, I caught myself just staring, being almost fascinated with, their skin, and lack of wrinkles, body tone, and quite frankly, their youth.

When you’re young, you never think about those things. Ever. You may think about your weight, how your body is proportioned, the color of your eyes or hair, or how a bathing suit looks on you – but you never think about the youth that you walk around with every single day. The fountain of youth you take granted.

It slips away in stages, so slowly, that you don’t really notice. Kind of like that those extra pounds you accumulate. I mean, you do know it, because 10-15 more pounds means a new pants size. But hey! What the heck is 10-15 pounds in 5 years’ time? What’s one dress/pants size increase? But then it becomes two, etc. etc.

Well it works the same with wrinkles and lines. First there is that little one around the corner of your eye. Which you tell yourself is alright, because your friends tell you that those are smile/laugh lines – which in turn means you’re happy. But pretty soon, one wrinkle equals three and what does that mean? You’re downright flipping hilarious now?

And for some of us, the lines around the top lip will start. I always thought those lines only belonged to smokers. Nope. I have smoked two cigarettes’ in my lifetime, and I was a dumb teenager then. So, we (I) begin to look for lip-filler on the cosmetic shelf – to “fill-in” the lines so my lipstick doesn’t gravitate to them and they start looking like I have a roadmap streaming from my mouth.

Then, there is the dreaded upper-arm sag. My mother will tell you that no woman worth her weight as a female will wear sleeveless tops after a “certain age” because arm flab/sag is just not attractive. She herself doesn’t even wear short-sleeved tops outside of her house, and I swear to sugar, I don’t see any on her arms, even at 77 years old.

Well I do have all of those things and while I don’t go sleeveless anymore, except in the back of a fishing boat, I do wear short sleeves, because menopause and uncontrollable hot flashes dictate my dress code.

Young ladies, please listen when I say, don’t smoke, stay out of the sun/tanning beds, moisturize it, SPF it, exercise it, and wear a good bra. Because that will be your next nightmare – a topic for another day.

Memories Are Best When Shared

Sometimes I think that family histories are a dying art. You don’t hear about family reunions near as much as years ago; and even if people have them, you don’t see near as many young folks gathered at them.

I like to think that my house has a lot of history in it, whether it be hand-me-down furniture, dishes that belonged to my grandmother, or the many, many pictures scattered about my house, placed strategically in almost every room.

I have an etagere` that is covered with pictures of all our family from different stages of their lives, walls that speak to you when you walk by, begging you to turn your head and let a memory cross your mind and bring a smile.

I have paintings that were created by my Daddy hung in almost every room of my home; as well as art work and creations from my children, all from many years ago.

But my home, as I often say, is but a sheer amateur imitation of the home that belongs to my parents. The decorating was all done by my daddy, but it’s as such you would have thought a paid professional had done it.  And, they too, have many pictures of family history that go all the way back to the 1920’s, maybe even prior to.

This past weekend we all went to visit my folks in Albany Georgia, the town that I call home. Myself, my husband, my youngest son, and his girlfriend Megan. When we first arrived, we were bearing bags of hot lunches, so we went straight in and sat down at the table which was already set for our meal.

Lunch time consisted of burgers and fries from the local Five Guys there and accompanied by a lot of story-telling and laughter.

After lunch we were all stuffed as could be as we scattered out in their den, each of us looking for a place to wallow out a spot and get comfortable, as well as, mentally acknowledging we’d to fight to stay awake!

It was about that time, someone suggested that my mom take Megan on a tour of their home. My mom probably has more memories readily available in her head, than all of us in that room that day, collectively had together.

As I sat in my designated spot at the corner of one of the love seats, I could hear the chatter as it began; with descriptions and stories that accompanied each picture they stood in front of, relaying the times and places that all the events took place as well.

The two of them disappeared for at least an hour, and I am sure Megan’s brain was on information overload, but I caught bits and pieces of the tour, and as their steps would lead them somewhere within earshot, I could also hear the laughter that accompanied many of those stories and I realized how much joy that time was bringing to my mama and that I hoped to Megan as well.  

Families and the memories they hold are as big a part of the past as they are the future, if only we’ll take the time to listen when someone is willing to share them.

Fly, Fly Away

I get home in the evenings and part of my chores is making sure all the flowers and plants on the front porch are watered and you all know me well enough by now to know that I HATE THE HEAT.  It’s almost the end of July and I’m not gonna even try and lie, I am over that too.

Every day, I come in the house, and I know better than to sit down in that comfy recliner in my VERY air-conditioned house, because I will not want to get back up.

And then it’s a ten-minute wrestle with my conscience about just how hot was it out there today? I mean like, if I don’t water today will everything be dead tomorrow – hot, or can I skip a day and they may be wilted but they’ll survive - hot.

It doesn’t take but one glance out the glass storm door to know that NOTHING out there is going to survive without me and that water hose doing our daily dance across the front porch, sprinkling drops of the next best thing to heaven.  

However, what my husband still can’t quite seem to fathom is how I raise such a fuss about all that? How I seemingly have to moan and groan like a 12-year-old who was told to clean his room before I can begin – because those things really happen – EVERY SINGLE DAY.

All of those real-life duties, which I agreed to taking personal care of, every single time I bought a new plant, back in the excitement days; you know like BEFORE the baby gets here and you vow to do ALL the midnight feedings and change ALL the diapers – yeah, those days.

Well then why on earth do I carry on so about my watering duties; but then around 7pm, most nights without fail – I’m BACK out there on that same porch, camera in tow, sitting in that same steam bath, forehead dripping water like a faucet and sweating like a sinner in church, watching for birds?!   

I know! Crazy right?! But it’s real, I do it, and I LOVE IT. Because every night at feeding time, birds of all kinds, come from everywhere to feed, fight, and hiss at one another for a space to eat.

In particular, the last week or so, the Hummingbirds! I hadn’t seen them since the beginning of Spring, but now all of sudden they are finally back and with a vengeance. Zooming in and out, running one another off from the feeders, making them stingy little buggers besides!

I saw a black-headed looking cardinal last night, which I now know was a Bald-Headed Cardinal. I had never seen one, so of course, I’m telling my husband all about it, and before I’m done with this mystery bird – I have created a story of him being a re-located burn victim from the recent Eastpoint fires! I know - even as it was coming out of my mouth it sounded a tad/a LOT crazy!

I am positive I will never be called the Crazy Cat Lady, but Crazy Bird Lady – well that just might be a reality!