Christmas Ponderings


On this day before Christmas, the Christmas cactus is blooming and I am finally relaxing with most of my holiday chores completed. I can't help but ponder about the season, what does it mean, am I stressing the most important aspects of the season to my children and do I actually even enjoy this particular holiday? As these questions swirl in my head, if I am honest with myself, Christmas is probably my least favorite holiday. I much prefer Thanksgiving. It has all of the food and family and none of the other stresses. Gift buying is not required, decorating is minimal if none. There are no pre-Thanksgiving parties to prepare for and attend. No greeting cards or special remembrances are needed. Thanksgiving simply...is. I love it.

On the other hand, the day after Thanksgiving, I generally feel like I start my 3rd or 4th part-time job. As if my day-job, my all-the-time job ...mothering and civic obligations were not enough. I don't mean to sound whiney or like a scrooge, but yesterday I asked by teenage children what they liked most about Christmas. You know what they said...I'll give you a hint. It wasn't the presents. Being with family, enjoying time off and of course ...the food.

Note to self. Simplify. Simplify. Simplify.

As always at this time of year, my mind turns to thoughts of my cousins and extended family. Every Thanksgiving, I spend a delightful lunch with approximately forty of my cousins, aunts and uncles on my father's side of the family. It is a special time of renewed friendships, shared recipes and catching up on the growing and maturing family. I share this next essay as a fond memory of "cousin time."


The Wedding-Ball


My eleven year old daughter found the Lexus keychain in my purse and immediately inquired as to where I had gotten it. Bear in mind, we are a Ford and Jeep middle class family. When I didn’t answer her immediately, the imaginations of the three children in the back seat went the way of Saturday night lotto players…dreams that Mom, our little ole Mom, had hit the big one or at the very least had ventured out on her own and bought a Lexus without the knowledge of my husband. I continued my silent but grinning treatment, wondering how long I could keep them going. As I was soon to find out.. not long. The children locked me out of the house until I told them this story…through the locked screened door.

My parents and I attended the wedding of my cousin, Beth’s, son. We had of course met the bride at a previous Thanksgiving dinner, but with all the hub-bub that forty-two people in a single dwelling can make, we truly did not know much about her beyond her name. Seeing as how my own children are of the age that weddings of distant cousin’s do not mean much, I attended the wedding alone with my parents, driving to the well-to-do suburb of Nashville, called Brentwood. The wedding was lovely. I would categorize it as Protestant-formal, but not lavish or extravagant by today’s standards. We chatted with our immediate family of uncles and aunts on the steps of the church while waiting for the happy couple to pose for the required photographs inside the sanctuary before we were allowed to shower them with flower petals in the beautiful autumn sunset. After the bride dug the petals out of the front of her dress, the throng departed to their cars to drive to the reception location. Thank goodness we out-of-towners had very meticulous directions from the church to the Franklin Country Club.

However, at the first stop sign, my mother interjected, “Don’t you think if we turned right instead of left, we would get to Franklin Road quicker?” My father, in an uncharacteristic male way, declared, “No! I am going to follow the directions as written.” So with my mother reading the directions aloud and me peering over the back seat, making small talk, we made our way from the suburb of Brentwood to the borough of Franklin in the darkening night. Mother was at the end of the second page of directions and we were about to turn left into the Country Club entrance, when we all looked up and saw the white limousine heading straight towards us, also about to enter the Country Club entrance from the opposite direction.

“See, I told you that if we had turned right at that first stop sign that it would have been shorter,” my mother exclaimed.
As we turned, my father asked, “Now where do we go?”
Mother and I in unison said, “Follow that limousine!” as she folded the directions and placed them in the glove compartment. The limousine and the entourage of cars behind it, wound through the golfing neighborhood for about a mile and then veered off onto a gravel road heading towards the brightly lit antebellum home that was obviously our destination. Next to the white columned home, white tents jutted out at various angles.

Now, this was not your typical funeral tent or county fair tent that I was accustomed to. No… indeed. This was the type of tent, with walls, windows and chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. The Cadillac of all tents.
As we drove further along the lane, I whispered, “What does her father do?”
The three of us then noticed all kinds of people running around the great open field in white uniforms. “Wow, they are even providing valet parking, so we don’t have to sink our heels in the cow pasture!” I exclaimed. This was going to be a great reception. My daughter, Emily was going to be sorry she missed this. Everyone in the car was duly impressed with cousin John’s selection of a mate.

As we hopped out of the car, the valet attendant received the pertinent information…
the license tag number,
the key,
the make and model, and
how many in the car? Now why did they need to know that? I heard the incredulous tone in the valet’s voice…three?? We paid little attention. We were going to The Wallace Reception.

My mother, father and I walked grandly towards the old home. The pathway was lit with iron candelabras, the flickering candle light made that much more romantic by the sight we beheld on the wide front porch. Young women in period costumes, hooped skirts swaying in the night breeze, greeted us with genuine Southern hospitality. While one young lady welcomed us to the Carlton House, another young lady explained, “Drinks are available in the Forsythe room,” and “After your tour of the house you will be escorted to the dining tent, now if you would just be so kind to step over here and give us your name.”

We sidestepped to the right of the verandah and stood before a bevy of older women, again in period costumes. Now these women were genteel; they were after all Southerners. Never the less they were all business and sweetly inquired as to our last name. Mother had sent in her and Dad’s reservation for two. I, however, two months ago, optimistically had reserved for the five people in my family. I was paranoid. Here, I had reserved for five people and there was only one of me. How put-out would the host and hostess be, when they realized that the table count would now be all wrong. Would I be sitting alone at a table for five in the big white tent with the chandelier, with the the place cards of my sweet uninterested children and husband around me? My mind was racing. What if they charged me for the four uneaten dinners? Did they take credit cards?

“Ummm, did you say Holder or Holden?” the gray haired matron repeated.
The lady next to her was saying, “Price? Price? I don’t see a Price,” as she painstakingly flipped through a ream of papers.
My father trying to remedy the situation with comedy, “This is the Wallace Reception?” and then a timid laugh.
“Oh yes,” floated a voice from somewhere.
Again the papers shuffled and leafed. Trying to be helpful, one lady inquired, “Could it possibly be under another name? And how many did you say was in your party?”
My father tried again. “We are relatives of the Wallaces. We are here for the wedding reception.”
“OOOOOOOH!” A look of relief passed over the row of antebellum matriarchs.
Mother, Father and I all held our breath for what was next.
“The wedding reception is across the way at the club house for the golf course. This is the Heritage Ball.”

All was made clear, as our trio retraced our steps back down the flickering candlelit pathway and across the red carpet, and back to the valet station. As my eyes now told me, everyone emerging from their limo, Lexus and BMW’s were indeed wearing full evening attire. Black tie, sequins, backless dresses and lots of silicone. As the valet left to retrieve our newly parked vehicle for us interlopers, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud to see Uncle Cleve and cousins Currun and Ann pop out of their Buick and hand their keys over to the valet. I didn't have the heart to let them make the same mistake we had made. I told them they were at the wrong party. Too bad, Uncle Cleve would have liked seeing all those women in hooped skirts.

Later as we drove across the pasture on our way to the correct reception, Mother noticed she was sitting on three little gift wrapped boxes. Thus the mystery was solved as to why the valets needed to know how many people were in the car. I am now the proud owner of ….not a Lexus… but a Lexus key chain.

The Weigh-In

The sky was gray with an ominous look of rain. Rain and soon. But today was the day we had planned to weigh her and weigh her we would. It was no small task. It involved two vehicles, two drivers, a loader, a grainery truck scales and a negotiator, but we were all of one mind. The goal…to get Aunt Trish back on public transportation.

It happened quite out of the blue one day last spring. Aunt Trish was kicked off public transportation. The guardians of the County transportation system in all their wisdom said they would no longer take my aunt on their van because “she is too heavy.” Apparently on two occasions there was a problem with the van’s lift, either while Trish was on the van or after she had used the lift. The lift, I was told later, had a capacity for 850 lbs, but the mechanics had recently stated they didn’t think it should lift more that 650 lbs. Now, Trish’s electric customized wheel chair weighs a lot. The wheelchair manufacturer had estimated the weight to be approximately 300 lbs. And quite honestly, Trish didn’t know what she weighed. We all knew she had gained weight in the 5 years she had lived at the assisted living facility, but no one knew how much. (As one can imagine there are not many places equipped to weigh large wheelchairs with large people in them.) Actually several of us had ventured guesses. “We should take up a pool” suggested one concerned family member. “Five dollars per guess.” I suppose the proceeds could have gone to a charity of Trish’s choice. But I digress...

Due to Aunt Trish’s limited ability to transfer herself except in certain places and situations, she relied heavily on being able to get in her electric chair and roll straight onto the transportation van without transferring to another seat. At that point, the city would open up to her. She could roll into the mall, Wal-mart, the Chinese Buffet and more importantly her doctor’s appointments. It was now September and Trish had not been anywhere for about 5 months. She had lived day in and day out in that microcosm that is … an assisted living facility. If you think for one minute that there isn’t drama at an old folks home ... think again. Think adolescent mentality, throw in a little senility, a lot of prescription medications and good healthy dose of self-centeredness and you have a fairly accurate description of life at an assisted living home. For someone in complete control of their mental faculties, like Trish, it could grow quite tiresome.

My father (Trish’s brother) and I began the morning with transferring Trish to the minivan’s back seat. This task involved a sliding board, a black garbage bag, Trish’s uncanny ability to bend her knee and ankle in an odd way and lots of pushing. We then used portable ramps to load the wheelchair into the back of his pick-up truck. This may not sound daunting, but if you have never ridden in wheelchair going up a 35 degree slope… well I will just say that it does take a wee bit of courage. We covered the chair with plastic and tied it down with ropes. The gray clouds were still threatening. My father drove the truck with the chair. I drove the van with Trish.

We traveled for about 20 minutes before we spied the tall silver grain bins that were our destination. The scales were actually concrete slabs in the middle of a dusty gravel road adjacent to the grain bins. The grain trucks would drive onto the scales. The light would turn red, the weight would be documented and then the light would turn green and the huge grain trucks would drive off. Trish’s weigh-in was a little more involved. We parked both vehicles in the grass adjacent to the scales. We unloaded the wheelchair with the ramps. We unloaded Trish onto the wheelchair…again with sliding board, garbage bag and much pushing. Dodging the grain trucks with the fall harvest, Trish rolled onto the concrete scales in the middle of the dusty road. We got the green light and she rolled off. We transferred her back into the van. I drove the chair back up onto the scales got off and the empty chair was weighed. We then loaded the chair back up onto the truck and covered it with the plastic sheet as the first raindrops began to fall.

My father went into the office of the grainery and got the written evidence we needed. As we caravanned through the rain to the County Transportation Office, Trish commented nonchalantly, “Well, I guess they (the men at the grainery) don’t see that every day. I think it went well, don’t you? And look, we made it just time for the rain. SOMEBODY is looking out for us.” Nodding my assent, I smiled at her courage to get the pesky job of weighing-in over and done with. What female in her right mind ever enjoys weighing, much less doing it in front of a bunch of men?

Under the portico of the Transportation Office, with the rain still falling, the Keepers-of-the-Vans, better known as Doris and Charlotte, received the full frontal attack from the tag team of Trish and me. Armed with the little slips of paper from the grainery, we confirmed that Trish and her magic mobility chair, were waaaaay under the lift’s limit and we would be scheduling her next van pick-up for next Thursday, thank you very much. Mission accomplished!

Survival of the Mothers

I’ve begun to question the processes of evolution lately. The law of natural selection according to Darwin is the survival of the fittest. Right? Then how in the world have mothers survived over the course of the last 5000 years, when two of the most debilitating events in a woman’s life occur simultaneously, thus knocking her defenseless for the course of about 5-10 years? How has the female gender protected herself during this vulnerable period of her life?

You are wondering. What are these debilitating events? How do I protect myself? When will they occur? Can I skip these events all together?

Event number one is menopause or pre-menopause, take your pick...(the difference lies just with the severity of the symptoms) and event number two, a woman’s children leaving the home. And there is no real protection against these naturally occurring events. Jessica Tandy, in Fried Green Tomatoes was wrong…a hormone pill does not solve the problem. I suppose timing is the real issue here. A woman’s children are hitting the 18 year mark about the same time she is heading for “the change”. What crummy timing. I guess I should have had my children when I was 12 in order to avoid the whole simultaneous thing. And no. You can’t skip over these events. They are real. They happen and they are coming to you just as surely as death and taxes.

Pre-menopause symptoms, I have found, may actually be confused with a severe case of PMS. Just throw in a few hundred hot flashes…There are mood swings, anger, lots and lots of anger, cramps…lots and lots of cramps, depression and a general malaise that a bouquet of flowers from a well meaning husband does not deter.

Symptoms of a mother with an emptying nest…much the same. Mood swings, anger, depression and a general malaise. And don’t forget the pain. There is pain, and it is real. Questions about her role in her emerging adult child’s life trouble her. Wondering…ok …now what do I do? I’ve birthed him, trained her, taught him, loved her and now I just let go? One moment you know everything about your child and what they have been doing, who they have been doing it with and where they are at all times. That was your JOB. You were the PARENT. Now… you know nothing. They are independent and learning how to cope by themselves.

Well meaning supporters of the weakened mother say, “You should be proud that your son is so independent.” “It is a mark of your good parenting that your daughter is able to cope out there alone…” And these remarks are probably true, but just like the hot flashes that plague her at night, worrying about her children goes on and on.

Back to the question… How have mothers survived these many years of natural selection? First, natural law dictates that she must of course have already reproduced before she can experience the true empty nest, meaning that she has already done her part to propagate the species before she encounters the challenge. And second, and most important, the other female members of the herd circle around the vulnerable mother and protect her from the beasts without and within.

Thank you, my female herd members!

THE APPRENTICE

In the South there is usually one week in July that is called…Corn Week.
It is that one week of the year when the sweet corn is at its best. Sweet, tender, not hard… the perfect week for harvesting and "putting up" the fruits of one’s labor. Of course it is also the week that all the sweet corn growers of the area have a stupid little grin on their face, because all of us city folk or non-corn growers will pay ridiculous prices for dozens of ears of the kernels of gold.

As a new bride, 22 years ago, I began the painstaking process of learning THE PROPER WAY to “put up” corn. “Putting up” corn is a colloquialism that simply means “to store the corn in a manner that will be edible until the next harvest season when one can enjoy fresh corn again.” As I learned, this is an extremely meticulous procedure, which requires an inordinate attention to detail and to veer from this regimented operation is to invite corn catastrophe of epic proportions. For the first 16 years of marriage, I was under the ever-watchful eye of my mother-in-law during the yearly corn proceedings. I was… THE CORN APPRENTICE. That was six years ago. I have completed my internship and I now leave you with a written format reflective of my sixteen years of formal training. Study hard and you too can be the Queen of Corn.

THE PROPER WAY TO “PUT UP” CORN

Step one. Pick the corn. You must only shuck and “put up” corn that has been picked at dawn's first light. The corn has more moisture. Corn picked at 12:02 p.m. will not freeze properly.
Step two. Shuck the corn. During the shucking process, which is always performed outside under the shade tree, near a pig lot, be sure to keep damp towels over the shucked corn. This will keep the flies off the corn, which are only there because you are sitting within 20 feet of the pigs!
Step three. Wash the corn. My mother-in-law informed me that once Aunt Trophy forgot to bathe and wash her shucked corn first …and "Lawd, her corn turned sour."
Step four. Cut the corn off the cob. Do not under any circumstances use a corn cutter (a miraculous device that someone invented to ease the burden of cutting corn off the cob). You must however, use a very small, very sharp paring knife and gently cut off the top surface of the kernels. Go back and cut a second layer of tender corn kernels from the cob. Go back a third time and scrape the cob to get every last drop of corn juice from the cob. Do this until you can no longer uncurl your fingers from the knife handle or until you have enough creamed corn to fill a pot, which ever comes first.
Step five. Cook the corn. Of course only the most rustic and antiquated cook still cooks her corn on top of the stove, where the risk of scorching is ever prevalent. And who wants to freeze scorched creamed corn? Yes, the modern farm brides of today have resorted to the ever-faithful microwave oven to cook their corn, prior to freezing. But only use approved, oven-tempered glassware. No plastic. Cook the corn until it is that perfect shade of golden yellow. What is that shade, you ask? You will just know. And if you don’t, well, then your corn will be ruined. It took me 16 years to figure out the perfect shade of gold.
Step six. Cool the corn. Only cool the corn in metal or glass containers. Aunt Trophy once cooled her corn in a plastic bowl and you know what that meant?… Plastic-tasting corn.
Step seven. Cool some more. Continue cooling the corn until it is STONE COLD. But you may not use the freezer or refrigerator to facilitate this cooling. Therefore, depending on how many cookings of corn you have done, you may well be up until midnight stirring and cooling corn.
Step eight. Bag the corn. Using a measuring cup, (metal not plastic) ladle two cups of the STONE COLD creamed corn into PLASTIC zip lock bags.
(Plastic… go figure.)
Step nine. Freeze the corn. Place the bags of gold into a freezer and fall into bed with dreams of sweet kernels of corn dancing in your head.

I generally reserve the strictest of all punishments for any family member leaving even a kernel of corn on their plates after dinner. After all it is LIQUID (ok – slightly viscous ) GOLD and I am no longer an apprentice. I am the Queen of Corn.

The First Day of Summer

The first day of summer. This little phrase is enough to strike terror and dread in any mother's heart, for it is the beginning of the end of her peaceful existence, as she now knows it. The tranquil morning hours sipping coffee after the children have left for school is over….OK, OK…I know you’re asking, what planet is she living on? Certainly not mine. Well….

For the 9 to 5'er mother…it means that she had better have her ducks in a row. The teenage babysitter should have been lined up since Christmas for the upcoming competitive Summer Season. And even then, this mother may be at the mercy of the whimsical teenager who on June 1st decides she would rather work on her tan and has been offered employment at the local pool. “I’m really sorry but I have to get some real work experience,” she says with a smile. "But call me some other time," she texts. Yeah right. That's a 'bad burn' for any working mother to endure.

As every well-prepared Mother knows the key to having a good summer with the kids is what? FOOD!.. And lots of it. How did these children ever manage at school with just one snack and lunch. Now, they graze all day long. I recommend stocking up on your kid's favorite frozen foods. They beauty of frozen foods… it's already prepared and the kids can fix it themselves.

Some of the more highly recommended staples.
1. Corndogs
2. Popcicles
3. Pocket sandwiches
4. Ice cream sandwiches
5. String Cheese
6. Frozen pizzas
7. Various Toaster treats

Note: All of the items above can be eaten with the hands or off paper plates. The smart mom will also hide all of the dishes and have a large abundance of paper plates. Otherwise…And I have learned this the hard way…There is a perpetual sink full of dirty dishes. Another tip…Sport-bottles with the kids' names on them. Forbid the use of glassware. Again, the alternative is the perpetual full sink issue.

Now for the working matriarch who has slightly older offspring…well, the worries multiply. I have actually overheard grown women in suits hissing into the phone, "Who else is over there?" or “Where are you going? Who is going to be there? When will you be getting back? How far is it? How much money?” You know the general Who, What, When, Where, How questions posed to teenagers world-wide.

Or "Your sister did what? Let me talk to her right this instant." Discipline over the phone is a tragically humorous thing to watch. Somehow threats over the phone do not have the same effect as your child personally seeing the whites of your eyes and knowing that you mean business. At times this mother has to play Condoleezza Rice and settle disputes that make the Middle East seem like a sandbox quibble. "Let her have her turn on the computer RIGHT NOW!"

Then there are the food crises. "There is too, a frozen pizza in the deep freeze. Well who ate it?" Or, "We are not out of bread…JUST LOOK!"

And then there are the true emergencies over the phone, like "Hold direct pressure over the bleeding! And DON'T LET THAT CAT OUT OF YOUR SIGHT!" Or, "Don't let your brother play with your father's power tools in the kitchen." Or, “The last time I saw the remote control it was under the middle couch cushion."

Now the stay-at-home mother has the best of intentions on June 1, to provide fun yet educational experiences for her children. However by August 1st this woman bears no resemblance whatsoever to June Cleaver, Carol Brady or even her own mother. She has been abused, victimized and tortured by her offspring to the point which she has been reduced to a screaming Ninja who could care less if the children have learned 2 + 2 much less read Great Expectations. After the fourteenth chorus of "Mom, I'm bored…" She has finally resorted to yelling, "Go play in the street." Or “Why don't you paint the house. That blue spray paint is a nice shade." The most blessed words she hears is "School starts tomorrow."

In all seriousness, I suppose summers are great. Even through juggling hours at work and the children's summer schedule…you know…swimming, guitar lessons, weeks at camp, ball schedules, one does tend to spend more "quality time" with the kids. And as the old sage once said, “It is the quality of our work which will please God and not the quantity”….Mahatma Gandhi

Next year, I think Mommy will go to camp…..I nice long camp for adults only, located on the sunny shores of Jamaica.

The Boy in the Yellow Shirt


There is a phenomenon known as “kid envy”. You know…it is that feeling…”Boy, I wish my kid had entered that essay contest and won a trip to Washington, DC” or “Karen’s daughter has the best manners…I wonder how she did that” or “little Elliot over there goes and visits strangers in the nursing home and actually converses with them.” Kid-envy. If you’re an honest mother, you have felt it too. By contrast there is also an occurrence know as “Whew-I-am-glad-that-is-not-my-kid”. This is a story about the latter.

Upon arriving at the local state park for the end-of-year 2nd and 3rd grade field trip, I was greeted with enthusiastic cries of “I’m glad you are here, Mom. I’ve already eaten my lunch. Bye, Mom.” My eight year old child, Will, then runs off to play among the other 120 children on the playground. I go to converse with some of the women who are my friends as well as Will’s teachers. An hour goes by and then I notice that a park ranger is striding purposefully toward the covey of teachers and me. She informs us that someone has been dialing 911 on the pay phone by the drink machines. She would like for the teachers to address this problem since it is a matter of serious repercussions, especially if the EMS and paramedics show up for a hoax call.

All six teachers rise at once and advance to the drink machines to investigate. Their investigation turns up three third grade girls who report that “some boy in a yellow shirt” is the culprit and they just watched him dial 911. Upon hearing “yellow shirt” I immediately tune out the rest of the report because my one and only charge of the day, Will, is wearing a bright orange shirt. “Whew-I-am-glad-that-is-not-my-kid.”

A mere five minutes pass and Will’s teacher, Mrs. F., motions me to come over. She has Will with her and she is postured for interrogation. From across the playground I mime, “Is Will involved?” She shakes her head affirmatively. I slink towards them.

“Will, did you call 911 on the phone?”
“I didn’t know.”
“Will, did you call 911?”
“I didn’t know.”
“Will?”
“I didn’t put any money in the phone.”
“But you did dial 911.”
“Yes.” Head hung low.

After the confession and the subsequent elaborate explanations by Mrs. F. and myself about how pay phones can and do work even without money especially for cases of true emergencies, Will was released into the custody of his friends on the swings whose only remarks were “Hey, Will, are you in trouble?”

All I can say is, “Bless his heart.” There isn’t a malicious bone in his body. Mischievous. Yes. Malicious. No. His mother was obviously remiss in his “street education.” We had not gone over the operations of pay phones. We had talked about the need and use for 911. And I know that he would never dial 911 from a regular phone or even a cell phone unless it was a true emergency. At home, I have to beg him just to pick up the cordless phone and run it to me, because he doesn’t like to answer a ringing telephone. In fact, Mrs. F. informed me that the fire department had just had a program two days ago at school concerning the use of 911. The children were instructed on when and when not to call 911. I wonder what my child was doing during that assembly…After further investigation into the 911 incident, it was revealed that Will had only dialed 911 one time and when the operator answered, he panicked, hung up and ran away leaving the three girls…the three older girls …at the phone to answer the 911 operator who was calling back. They subsequently hung up on the operator several more times which I am sure just ticked the operator off even more. Thus the reason the State Park Ranger had been notified.

Moral to the story?
1. Don’t show out for older girls. It will get you into trouble every time.
2. Do not neglect the street education of your children. It will get you into trouble.
3. Do not dial 911 haphazardly. It will get you into trouble.
4. Third grade girls do not know their colors yet.

GREENBRIER
written in 2000

In honor of my mother on the 1st day of June. She continues the tradition, because she made a promise.


Our purpose on that blustery day in May---to refresh the flowers on my grandmother and grandfather’s graves at the Greenbrier Cemetery, before the all-crucial-date….the first Sunday in June, better known as “Decoration Day”. For those of us in the south, “Decoration Day” is the day for acknowledging our ancestors and those who have gone on, by paying special homage to their grave sites, with the addition of fresh, or in this case, silk flowers. My prim and proper grandmother, would have been mortified if her gravesite wasn’t at least as pretty as Aunt Gladys’.

My mother, my 8 year old daughter and I set forth on our adventure, a 2 hour drive that would take us on the back-roads of Williamson County, Tennessee, under canopied, tree-lined lanes and down the road of childhood memories. Names of roads like, Bending Chestnut, Lick Creek and Pinewood Road blazed like green beacons along our way. Greenbrier is one of those tiny little communities in the heart of Tennessee, that has almost died out. All that's left -- a church and a cemetery.

Of course, this was not my first trip to Greenbrier. I had been for the
occasions of the burials of my grandparents. But as I walked around the tombstones, softened by generations of wind and rain, I recalled the day 20 years ago, when I came here with my mother, my grandmother and two great aunts with the task of locating crucial dates for my high school history project – “My Ancestry.” Of course, those were the days before computerization of records and easy accessible genealogies on the internet. I could hear voices from the past … Aunt Ila, and Aunt Gladys, instructed me on the fine art of charcoal rubbings. The engravings even then had nearly been obliterated by lichens and the cool Tennessee winds. Odd names like Oggie, Missouri Enora, Wiley and Berry peered out from the rubbings. Family…although hundreds of years old…they were mine.

Today, we women of the next three generations, put the final touches on the new flower arrangements and decided to continue our exploration of Greenbrier. We traveled down a hill and around the curve, to "the old home-place." Surprisingly enough, the house was much the same as my mother remembered it from her childhood--- several rock chimneys, graying wood siding and porches galore on the two-story farmhouse. My mother never lived here, but this was the place her fond memories of childhood began…Weekends with her Grandma, romping with her cousins, riding the old sway-backed horse, and of course swinging on the sideporch swing. Nearby…Lick Creek-- the creek my mother played in and her father before her. It was a pretty little creek with a limestone base, which made the creek run crisp and clear.

As the three of us continued our wanderings, the smell of a light rain and
fresh cut hay wafted through our car. The gravel lane meandered beside the creek. My daughter squealed with glee when she discovered that in order to cross Lick Creek, we must drive our car down into the creek and back up again. (We city-folk rarely have the opportunity for such marvelous adventures.) We made four crossings in this manner before our trip was completed.

As we finally made our way homeward I thought to myself… This is our family history along these roads and buried in this earth. The people who once inhabited these hollows and ridges, I am sure, had their own traditions which are now long forgotten. For every year that passes, a family's history changes as well as their traditions. However, it occurred to me that we women of this family now have a new tradition which we will long cherish; the annual trek to Greenbrier before the first Sunday in June.

Old Timers…Sissies, Need Not Apply

I had the opportunity today to treat a sweet and dear, but demented older lady at a new residence center today. This particular facility caters to individuals with that much-mispronounced diagnosis of Alzheimers. It’s Alzheimers…not Old Timers, not Altimers….Alzzzzzheimers. Much to my surprise I noticed several familiar faces. There was Mrs. Sunshine over there who just last week was cavorting with her friends at the Non-Demented Facility in our fair city.

I have of course changed the names to protect the innocent and to keep myself out of jail for violating HIPAA regulations. For you non-medical people HIPAA is the federal law that requires that everyone fills out massive amounts of paper- work to say that everyone from your dentist to your chiropractor will not violate your civil rights and inadvertently leave a message on the telephone that tells you that your grandmother’s pregnancy test was positive. AHHHEMM.

And then I saw the man, Mr. Corn, that just last month was a volunteer at our hospital pushing other people up and down the halls to various departments for their appointments with Radiology and Cardiology. What was he doing in here???? Oh…I remember now… he tried to walk the 24 miles to his wife’s grave one night. It apparently scared his son and daughter-in-law to death. The County Deputies were called out in-mass and were able to practice their search and rescue skills. Lucky for Mr. Corn we live in the South and that particular April night was not that cold. But 45-50 degree temperatures can certainly take a toil on a 71 year-old body and apparently his mind as well.

The next blast from the past was a former Sunday school teacher, Mrs. Crownover …Wow…I think she taught me the books of the Bible. Now she goes around and sweeps the spotless floors, dusts imaginary cobwebs and remakes her bed a dozen times a day.

It’s a pleasant life, I suppose. Not knowing or caring about consequences or where the next meal is coming from, or paying taxes or bills, or who is going to clean up everything, or who is going to maintain your home. All of the millions of decisions we make every day simply gone… poof. I suppose…it might be pleasant … as long as you have loving family members to provide a safe place for you…as long as you have kind and patient caregivers who don’t mind changing your Depends diaper for the 6th time that day….as long as you don’t turn violent and disruptive and become a behavior problem that has to be restrained…as long as you have enough balance and stability that when you go wandering (for you surely will) that you don’t fall a break and hip…as long as you like the company of others for whom these other hideous things are a problem…

Alzheimer’s…Not a disease for sissies.

So, it made me really nervous today when I actually couldn’t remember if I had left the iron on or not. So…I came home in the middle of my extremely busy day to check it out. It was turned off and unplugged. Maybe Mrs Crownover turned it off for me.

Safe, for one more night. I think I need to work more crossword puzzles.

One padded cell, please. Hold the straight jacket…


I have just realized what hell must be like…It is over-stimulation of all the senses at once. I have just returned from a frightfully fast 6-day whirlwind trip to The Big Apple with 176 other people (the majority of which were 18-15 years old). And I must say I had a ball. There is nothing like chaperoning a bunch of teenagers to make you feel alive. We saw all the sights. The Empire State Building, Ellis Island, Liberty Island, Ground Zero, St Patrick’s Cathedral, St Paul’s Church, Grand Central Station, Little Italy. Chinatown, Central Park, the financial district, shopping on 5th Avenue. We went to Lincoln Center to hear the New York Philharmonic. We saw the Lion King on Broadway. It was GREAT. I loved it!

However…

The 18 hour bus ride back home just about sent me over the edge. The vibration of the bus, the bright sun and chrome, the deafening sound of the 14th action-packed thriller DVD plugged into the bus’ sound system, and the feel of my derriere widening as I sat and sat and sat, sent me into sensory overload. We were an hour away from home and I was begging for a solid white padded room with an extensive sound barrier system. I tried to sleep. I tried ear plugs. I tried ear phones with sounds of my own choosing. No good. Will Smith’s Independence Day and Tobey Maguire’s Spider Man won the contest for custody of my hearing, while the Gray Line Bus won ownership of my vestibular system.

Don’t get me wrong. The kids were OK. There were no particularly rowdy individuals. No obnoxious behavior…but the bus trip was a little like being on a ride at Universal Studios in a bad B rated horror flick, where the ride just went on and on and on. And you can’t get off…You have to scream to be heard and you just know that someone is going to die in the end.

I know I’m being a wimp, but I think I will fly to the next destination and meet the bus of unchaperoned kids….Hey they are all “plugged into” something anyway. Teenagers these days are either texting, listening to their I-pods, playing their gaming-utensil-of- choice or watching TV. They are completely entertained and if they are entertained, they are usually staying out of trouble. So maybe I’ll just save myself some trouble….

Save me a seat on Southwest!!!!

Can You Spell Multitasking? …mul•ti•task•ing

This new hip word has made the big times. Not only is multitasking an entry in
the dictionary, it is being studied by the brightest psychologists of our times. By definition multitasking is “the concurrent operation by one central processing unit of two or more processes.” In this context it can either mean the computer sitting on most of our desks or the most complicated hard drive of all – our big beautiful brain.

In our evolving society, most folks recognize multitasking simply as the art of performing myriad tasks all at once. As the writer of the article, “Executive Control of Cognitive Processes in Task Switching” clearly indicates, multitasking is not all it’s cracked up to. Rubenstein, Meyer and Evans purport that our little ole frontal and parietal lobes can not shift quickly enough from one set of rules to another when dividing tasks thus instead of saving time, we actually lose time.
Journal of Experimental Psychology - Human Perception and Performance, Vol 27. No.4 http://www.apa.org/journals/xhp/press_releases/august_2001/xhp274763.html

I say, “Did you have mothers in your test group?” I think not. Name me one mother who hasn’t boiled the water for macaroni and cheese, grilled the hamburgers, all the while folding the clothes fresh out of the dryer, helping her ten-year old with her fourth grade leaf collection, while keeping an eye on Katie Couric and the evening news? Or the working mother who can check out her stock portfolio, type a business proposal, freshen up her lip gloss all the while exacting a certain amount of discipline over the phone to her thirteen-year old twins fighting over the use of the single computer at home? Or how about the chauffeuring mother who is not only driving her children to school but is able to write a check for lunch money, drill the eight-year old in the back seat on his multiplication tables, and manage to take an occasional sip of her lukewarm coffee, while waving to the school crossing guard?

And I haven’t even begun to address the young mothers with a handful of children under the age of five. Let me clue you in to the highly specialized multitasking capabilities of that woman! She can breast feed the baby, while feeding the two-year old animal crackers and maintaining a running commentary on Mr. Rogers, all the while coaching the five-year old on tying his shoes. Not to mention, she just started the fourth load of clothes for the day and is making the grocery list with her one unoccupied hand. Juggling doesn’t begin to describe her day.

Why, I would even wager that Eve (mother of us all) in her day was a multi-tasker. I can just imagine her stirring the pot of stew, while plucking the chicken, stuffing a pillow with the feathers and swatting Cain on the backside all the while holding a baby in her primitive Snuggli. Can’t you?

And lest you think mothers are alone in this multitasking society, well let’s just say, “Multitasker beget multitasker.” We are certainly rearing a generation of multitasking kids. Name me the child today who cannot, eat popcorn, drink a Coke, play Spyro on PlayStation, talk on the cell phone to his buddy and occasionally throw a nugget of information to his mother down the hall, who is asking how his day was at school. All simultaneously!

However, we mutitaskers may have raised the bar too high. I mean let’s face it. We can work circles around our parental partner (notice I’m being nice and didn’t use the word “man”). And after working at such a fevered pace all day, the productivity of a multitasker may be called into question, when we simply slow down to focus on one task. But like our computer counterpart, sometimes even the best-multitasking mother simply needs to reboot!

The Thong

Unfortunately or fortunately depending on your perspective, I am in the business where I get to see a lot of bottoms. A few weeks ago I arranged for my 15 year old daughter, Emily, to shadow a fellow co-worker of mine, Teena. Now granted, Teena works in a different setting than I do, but the take-home message for Emily was…and I quote, “I just saw way too many hind-ends today.” Teena works at our local hospital. And Emily may never work in the health care field ever… after her lovely experience. I think she suffered from too much gluteal exposure.

So…it got me to thinking…how many back-ends do I see in any given day? Five? Seven? I started to count…and then the bigger question was…how many thongs had I seen today. Anything over one is way too many. I am a woman… and I occasionally like to appear sexy, but Pleeeeeaze! Do you have to wear a thong to therapy? I do not want to move your little piece of dental floss around while I try to fix your painful condition. And I sure hope you’re not wearing it to impress me…Yuck! Save your thongs for Saturday nights and the second honeymoons. Give your healthcare provider some good old fashioned white undies. We appreciate it! Really!

What’s In a Name?

I overheard a conversation not long ago in which a woman was complaining to her companion about her name. She said, “My mother had no imagination. My sisters and I…We are Peggy, Betty, and Mary. Now, how plain is that?” Perhaps her mother came from a long line of conformists, but I will have to say that the typical Southern mother has quite an array of monikers to choose from when naming her baby.

For instance, it is the Southern Mother’s duty (I mean choice) to create a clever combination from a multi-generational pedigree - the all important family name that has been handed down for the last 50 years. Sometimes she elects to use a family surname to provide a first name for some poor unsuspecting baby. Usually it’s the girl babies who are crowned with such glorious names as Tucker, Bennett, Claiborne or Carson. Some kids can really carry off a name like that…Others…well…Bless their hearts. They just get beat up on the play ground.

Depending on the mother’s goal for the child, she might name him or her to stand out in the kindergarten roll call (Vestavia Raquel or Thaddeus Sheridan). Or perhaps she wants her child’s name to blend in with all the other Little Leaguers (Bubba, Junior, Buddy, Sissy). Honestly…there are many Bubba’s on birth certificates all over this state!

Now, some mothers-to-be might take a page from Southern Literature and recall names such as Tennessee William’s “Blanche”, or Will Faulkner’s “Dewey Dell”, or the ever-popular Rhett, Ashley and Scarlett from Margarett Mitchell. Or how about Pat Conroy’s “Ledare” or Harper Lee’s “Scout”. (You see, Demi and Bruce were not the first to use that name.)

Of course we Southerners are always a sucker for the double named child. Martha Ann, John Ross, Betty Jo, John Mark, Carl Lee, Mary Sue, Joe Dan, Anna Claire , etc. Or perhaps the family name is so outdated but is required by generational pressure that the mother opts to use initials only. A.J., J.C., A.C., J.D., C.J., B.J. The world may never know that little B.J.’s real name is Bascomb Jedidiah.

Now a trip to your local nursing home will show you just how imaginative our foremothers actually were. Why, there is quite an assortment of one-of-kind names just waiting for the forward thinking mother to choose from. Orma Rue, Alden, Alabama Lee, Eulalia (rhymes with Australia), Ulysses, Jerusala, Percival, Flora Mae, Hazel Gwinnette, Horace, and Thelberta Louise. Just how original do you want to be in 2007?

You know I’m just a little bit sorry I wasn’t named after my two grandmothers as my mother had always threatened. I’m sure I would have been the only Reba Willette in the entire state of Tennessee.

Bathroom Prisoner vs. Hermit's Cabin

As far from idyllic as our lives may seem at times, we are who we are by a product of what we have experienced. And we as Mothers have experienced a lot. Our children demand an extraordinary amount of time…Most of which we are glad to give, but at times, I admit, I do crave just 10 minutes alone in the bathroom. I have finally started locking the door to keep the wandering pre-schooler out during my daily ablutions.

I sometimes daydream of a small cabin tucked away in the Colorado Rockies… My hermit's retreat. If I actually lived there alone all the time, would I revel in my precious serenity as a cat twists and turns in ecstasy before finally lying down? Or would I be overcome in a seemingly endless boredom. Why read that book or piece that quilt or write that short story now, when I have a thousand more days just like today in which to accomplish something? Or nothing at all!
PROCRASTINATION: Constant companion of the bored or the catalyst for the productive.

As it is…my life is 180 degrees from a hermit's life in a secluded cabin. I suspect yours is too. Sometime between all of the "Mommmeee!" 's and the "Honey, where is the…" I try to find time just to shower and get my make-up on. Forget about trying to write anything, sew anything or be creative in any way. Sometimes after the homework is completed, swim practice over, supper cooked and eaten, kitchen cleaned, and laundry folded, paperwork completed and checks written… I do manage to get a few thoughts on paper. Even now as I write, I have locked myself into the bathroom and am sitting on the cold tile floor with pencil and pad.

Living within the confines of the family dynamic, I must say, there is such rich fodder for the written word. The family is such an interesting place to reside… to observe every emotion you could ever hope to conjure on paper…love, anger, jealousy, selflessness and selfishness, fights and more fights and that's just the kids…

So… cold-tiled floor withstanding, I wouldn't trade my life for the hermit's…after all, I am who I am by virtue of the stresses in my life. What does that writer-hermit write about anyway????

It Ain't Over til the Fat Lady...Whats???

Do you ever stop to ponder what is going on in their heads? I am talking about children and their sweet precious little minds. What must they be thinking when we adults are speaking rapidfire in our local colloquialisms and bouncing our idioms all over the place?

For example...
These 8 year-olds were recently overheard: My son Will and his best friend, Jace, while racing cars on the Play Station2…

Will: “I’m going to beat you!”
Jace: "No you're not."
Will: "Yes, I am."
Jace: “Well, it ain’t over til the fat lady sings.”
Will: “No. It’s ‘it ain’t over til the fat lady swings.' ”
Jace: “Uhh-Uhhh. It ain’t over til the fat lady sings.”
Will: “Swings!”
Jace: “Sings!”
Will: “Swings.”
Jace: “Sings.”

A little time passes.

Will: “The fat lady does too, swing.”

This from children who will probably never even know why a fat lady should sing, much less actually see an opera. Now, fat ladies swinging...this is the south...they see that every day.

Or how about the time Will at age 4 declares that he will be the "Ring Bear" at my brother's wedding.
Here is my recollection of that Happy Event from 2003

The Ring Bear

My thirty-three year old brother became engaged this winter. The entire family was teetering with excitement. We hadn’t had a wedding in the family for a very long time. My three offspring were thrilled to be asked to be in the wedding as various participants. My older son(14) a groomsman, my younger daughter(11) a Junior bridesmaid and the youngest son(4), the “ring bear” as he proudly announced to friends and family. You see, he had recently watched an episode of Little Bill and was of course well versed in the “ring bear’s” duties…namely to growl at the audience??? Thank-you, public television.

Just so we are clear…remember, a four year-old is an unpredictable force of nature. As the big day approached much had been said to the four year-old in preparation for the part he would play in the wedding. “Now, son, you will have an important job. You will get to wear a tuxedo. You will walk down the aisle with the flower girls. You will be carrying the pillow with the rings on it. You will stand, not sit during the ceremony. And you will behave like a fine young gentleman.” Etc, etc. And man, had we practiced. The hallway in our house was an aisle. The fireplace hearth was the altar. And his most prized possession, his Batman car, was the pillow. You get the picture.

Of course at the actual rehearsal, on the grounds of the upscale golf club, the little “bear” refused to walk down the sidewalk, refused to be nice to the flower girls, refused to stand up front, and had the audacity to throw the ring pillow that I, his mother had painstakingly hand sewn, on to the ground. I about lost it.

At that point my husband and I are racking our brains. What works better… bribes or threats. Time-outs? Or a new gameboy? A politically-incorrect, old-fashioned spanking? Or how about your very own camera, hon? I must confess I was doing a little of both, bribing and threatening. The morning of the wedding dawned gray and dismal. It not only rained… it thundered and lightening for the first half of the day. Not a good omen for an outdoor wedding. The ceremony was to begin at 5:00 p.m. We all gathered at the club at 2:00, in full attire for the pre-wedding photo op. And miraculously the sun did come out and the poor father of the bride began the task of hand-drying 300 chairs. At some point, after only a fraction of the pictures had been shot, the ring bearer fell asleep in the warm May sun on the front row of chairs. Now as every experienced Mother knows, naps do not necessarily make a happy child. As the child reaches a more mature toddler status of say three and a half, the NAP might work for you, but most often works against you. For some reason, known only to the cosmic forces above, many children after the NAP wake up in a worse mood than before the NAP, for which the only cure is either another NAP or the dawning of a new day, whichever comes first.

So with some trepidation, I allowed the ring bearer to sleep for about an hour. He awoke in the arms of my husband for one last photo op. I must say, that shot will not end up on the front of anyone’s photo album. Sour Puss. And then the guests began arriving. Up until the first strains of the wedding march, it was still a toss up as to whether the ring bearer was a “Go” or not.

Thank goodness for his older sister who gently prodded him down the aisle in front of her. And my, oh my, never in my wildest dreams from the fretful night before, did I suspect that he would not only walk down the aisle, properly, but hold the pillow in a horizontal fashion, and stand quietly (regally, if I might add) at the altar next to his big brother for the entire ceremony. The little whipper-snapper even had the audacity to not even once glance backwards at the crowd or me sitting on the front row. Never a prouder mother…A true Kodak moment.

Now where is that camera I bought him?