My Music Debut Then and Now!

I love to sing!  It is one of my favorite things to do.  When I was little, I just knew that I was going to be a famous singer when I grew up.  I loved Olivia Newton-John and Leslie Gore.  Don't know who Leslie Gore is?  She sang "It's My Party" (and I'll cry if I want to, cry if I want to...) and my mom had her album.  I played it over and over growing up.

I made my singing debut around the age of 8 during my 3rd grade Halloween Carnival talent show.  I sang "Don't Cry Out Loud" for two shows.  I look back at that and wonder that no one laughed Out Loud at an 8 year singing:

Don't cry out loud

Just keep it inside and learn how to hide your feelings

Fly high and proud 

And if you should fall, remember you almost had it all 

I mean, seriously....



My next singing performance was about the same year at the Glendale Springs Missionary Baptist Church, where I sang "Just Build My Mansion (Next Door to Jesus)".  I still remember what I wore -- a blue pleated skirt with a matching blue top, that had a white pilgrim collar with a rose at the throat.  I belted out "It doesn't matter who lives around me, just so my mansion sets near the throne."

But here's the thing:  I can't sing.  Not a lick.  I think I may be tone deaf.  I didn't know it (obviously) during my talent show performance nor during singing in church, but my friend, Melissa Sheets, told me soon after the church performance that I couldn't sing very well.

And other friends continued to give me feedback.  My best friend in high school, Becki, only allowed me to sing on my birthday and prom night, i.e. special occasions.  When I sing now, Matt says that he can hear dogs howling.

Thank goodness for long commutes in my car and my iPhone app Songify.  This app allows me to "produce" myself.  Check it out--I recorded my haiku tribute to Diet Coke.  It rocks.

Diet Coke Haiku Song  

Let's See You Match Me With This

We hardly ever watch network TV in our house, but we have been watching the Olympics since they have been on.  I guess the Olympic-watching crowd is mostly single because I have been overwhelmed by the number of match.com and eharmony.com commercials that come on.  Every time one of these commercials comes on, I think, "I'm so glad that I don't have to date anymore."

Matt tells me that I am the worst dater that he has ever met.  He says that he didn't like me the first, second or third time that he met me.  On our first official date, I remembered that I had a prescription that I had to pick up before the pharmacy closed.  I thought that I was being extremely flexible when I told him that I had to go to the drugstore so we could (1) go together, (2) I could go and he could wait for me at the restaurant or (3) we could call the evening done and talk later.  Matt has said that it wasn't being flexible, it was being the worst date ever.  (By the way, he opted to go with me to the drugstore.  I told him that I could have bought a bunch of yeast infection medicine and foot fungus treatment and then he could call it the worst date ever.)

My bad dating skills aren't the worst around.  Recently, we had a girls' weekend at my mom's house with my mom, aunts and cousins.  During the course of the night, my Aunt Margo told the story about going on a double date with her ex-husband (her boyfriend at the time) and another couple back when they were all in high school.  I can't remember the names of the other couple, and it really doesn't matter, but the story goes that as they were driving through town the other girl yelled, "Stop the car!  I gotta shit!"

Even as I laughed, all I could do was think a couple of things.  First, I was surprised that the teenagers of what I've always thought of as my mom's squeaky clean background would use the word "shit".  Then I kept wondering why the girl (let's call her Jane Doe), why Jane Doe would think that it would be okay to just yell out "I gotta shit".  Did she grow up in one of those houses where talking about that was normal?  Like "I'm thirsty" or "I'm hungry"?  I've never been in a house like that, but surely they exist.  Or maybe she was trying to turn off her date?  I guess we'll never know.

Then my Aunt Bobbie piped up and told us about one time when she was out on a double date.  My Aunt Bobbie worked at the hospital for 30+ years and was working there as a young woman during the time of the story.  She and her companions were out on their date when she realized that she needed to check on a patient that might be released.  She said to them, "We need to run by the hospital so I can check to see if I have a discharge."

I laughed even harder at this story because this would So. Totally. Happen. to me.  I misunderstand people and they misunderstand me all the time.  Just word choice, I guess, and where your head is and their head is.  Like recently, I had to have a colonoscopy.  Which means drinking this nasty stuff called "movi-prep" the night before.  The next day before the procedure, the nurse asked, "Did you get clean from the movi-prep?"  And I said, "Yes, I took a shower this morning, so I don't have any on me."  She said, "No, are you cleaned out?"  Oh, yeah, that too.

And I just realized that my story and my Aunt Margo's story both come back to poo.  Maybe I do know one of those households and it's mine.

Happy Birthday to My Mother

Today is my mom's birthday.  I called her tonight to wish her "Happy Birthday" and she was getting ready to have dinner with some friends.

Growing up, my sister, cousins and I used to have the best birthdays.  They weren't huge parties and they didn't involve huge cakes or mounds of presents, they just included small parties at my Mamaw and Papaw's house.

Wendi, Matt, Birthday Girl JJ, Cristy & Ashleigh

On the Sunday closest to the birthday, after all the lunch dishes were washed and the kitchen table was cleared, the birthday cake was brought out and placed before the guest of honor.  The rest of us gathered around and sang "Happy Birthday", while our aunts and Mamaw looked on, then we got down to eating cake and opening presents.

Ashleigh, Birthday Girl Cristy and Matt

Aunt Baby, gamely wearing her headdress

I don't remember any of us having big parties where lots of people were invited, where school friends came, where venues were rented out to entertain all the attendees.  Instead, I remember these simple Sundays at Mamaw's with just my family.














One birthday that stands out was either my cousin Matt's or my cousin Wendi's.  I know it was one of them because the mother of the birthday girl or boy was responsible for bringing the cake and on this birthday, the cake had had an accident.  My Aunt Mary June (Wendi & Matt's mom) had put the cake on the roof of the car while packing the car, unlocking the door (back in the day of inserting a key into a door lock), etc. and she forgot it was on the roof.  She drove off and the cake fell off.

The damage was minimal.  We only had to pick a little bit of gravel out of the icing before we cut into the cake.  We kids thought that was hilarious.

Front:  Birthday Girl, JJ, and Cristy
Back:  Mamaw, Aunt Margo, Mom and Aunt Baby
(One of my FAVORITE pictures--love my Mamaw in a birthday hat)

Birthday Girl, Ashleigh

If it wasn't our birthday, we didn't expect to get any gifts.  Only the birthday boy or girl had presents to open, and the rest of us were okay with that.  But, the birthday guest of honor usually let the others play with his / her presents.















I hear about the parties that parents throw their kids these days and I'm a little astounded.  They seem like very complicated and expensive.  But I don't have children, so this is a current mystery that I just cannot answer.

But I can say with complete confidence that these birthdays of my youth were wonderful days, full of laughter, happy expectations, and feelings of being special for the day.

I hope that my mom is having as wonderful day today as she provided for me all those many birthdays.

Happy Birthday, Mama!

Kindergarten Memories

I met one of my good friends for dinner the other night (*waves* Hi, Nikki!) and one of the things that we talked about was her oldest child starting kindergarten this fall semester.  She's excited and proud and nervous (about him potentially riding the bus) all at once.

Waking up for the first day of Kindergarten

I started to think about my first day at school, and yes, that included riding the school bus.  Mrs. McConnell was my kindergarten teacher and I remember walking into the school room full of other kids.  Here, I met Marla Miller, Scott Bare, Jimmy Thompson and Lance Shumate.  I remember Marla being the first one to talk and play with me (I was too shy to talk to another kid first myself).  I remember Jimmy Thompson kissing Vicky Barker and being shocked (I was a strict rule follower and kissing definitely didn't follow the rules of the classroom).

And on the bus home that afternoon, our neighbor's son, Jamie, who was in 7th grade, took my hand and walked me up the bus aisle and helped me climb off the bus.

Waving "Good-bye" on my first day

Marla, Jimmy, Scott and Lance were friends until we graduated from high school.  With the creation of Facebook, I actually know a lot about what is going on in the lives of many of these same people.  Where they live, what they do for a living, if they have children, even what their children look like.  Kindergarten is definitely a watershed moment in a life.  A great beginning -- to make friends that can last for the rest of your life, to begin the journey of learning, to begin the process of your world opening up beyond the confines of your family.  I'm a little jealous that I don't have any such "big Milestone" moment left in my life.

As I look at these pictures, however, I think that my days are actually not that much different than they were back in kindergarten.  I look pretty much the same when I wake up (no "bright-eyed", morning person for me).  Then I wave good-bye to Matt and head to work.  Sometimes, though, work feels like spending my day with 5 year olds, fighting for attention and arguing over toys.  "I didn't do it.  He did it."  "No, she did it."  "It wasn't us." echo around the halls.  The only thing missing is nap time.  And we aren't as cute with milk mustaches.

And like in kindergarten, whether I end the day with my name in the column for making good decisions or in the column for being a poopy head is entirely up to me.  I don't wanna be a poopy head so I'll do my best not to be.  Unless someone kisses me, then all bets are off.

$1.50 the First Mile, $0.50 Every Mile After

Matt and I just went into Statesville for some frozen yogurt.  On the way home, a cab turned in front of us onto our road.  We live in the s-t-i-c-k-s (definition of s-t-i-c-k-s here), so a cab is a very unusual sight.  In fact, that was the first cab that I have ever seen in Statesville.

Our conversation as we followed said cab went something like this:

Matt:  I hate to sound mean, but I bet that cab is going to that nasty-ass trailer park.

me:  Why is that mean?  Because you assume that it is picking up someone who lost their license?  Picking up someone that is drunk?  Bringing someone some more beer?

Matt:  I'm pretty sure that cabs won't bring you beer.

me:  Oh, yeah, they will.  We had one cab in West Jefferson that I remember growing up.  Joe's Cabs.  And I remember hearing a story about somebody...shit, I can't remember who...who would call Joe and say "Hey, Joe, would you go by the Backstreet and pick up some beer and bring it to me?"

Matt:  And Joe would?

me:  Well, hell yeah, for money.

*silence*

Matt:  Wow, he would deliver beer.

*silence*

me:  In New York City, that's called "concierge service".

Matt:  What's it called in Jefferson?

me:  Joe's Cabs.

The cab did turn into the nasty-ass trailer park*, but I don't know if there was any beer delivery or not.

*Disclaimer:  The trailer park is nasty-ass because it's nasty-ass, not because there are trailers.

A Rotisserie Chicken Led Me Down a Weird Path Tonight

Tonight, I did what many people do on their way home each day and stopped at the grocery store to buy our dinner. And like most people (I think), I changed my mind about what we were eating while walking the aisles.

The rotisserie chickens had just finished cooking and they smelled great.  One chicken to go.

After I got home and started to get the meat off the chicken, all I could think about was one of my favorite books The Glass Castle: A Memoir by Jeannette Walls.  If you haven't read it--GO READ IT NOW!  Anyway, it's the author's memoir of how she grew up, in a less than privileged (or safe) environment.  As she recounts some incidents that seem horrible in their neglect, abuse and / or poverty, you sometimes find yourself laughing with her at the absurdity of the situations.

One of my favorite quotes from the book comes when she is telling about the time she is invited over to another girl's house.  The girl was the daughter of the "town whore", Ginnie Sue.  Jeannette couldn't pass up the invitation to see inside a whore's house, so she gladly accepts the invitation.

The house wasn't gaudy like she expected, but she was thrilled to see a big, cooked chicken on the table.  Ginnie Sue asks Jeannette if she knows how to pick a chicken clean and Jeannette assures her that she can.  And her chicken-picking skills impress Ginnie Sue because she tells her that is the best chicken-picking she's ever seen.

Jeannette spent a lot of her childhood hungry, so the important lesson she took away from her day at Ginnie Sue's house is one of my favorite quotes:  "One thing about whoring:  It put chicken on the table."

So, naturally, as I'm up to my elbows in rotisserie chicken, all I can think about is "One thing about whoring...."

And unlike Jeannette, I can't pick a chicken clean.  Exhibit A:

Chicken as picked as it will get 

I don't think that is a skill that I ever learned.  And I'm OK with that.

There are lots of things that I saw my grandmothers and mom do, however, (like chicken-picking....you knew that I would get to my point eventually) that I wish that I knew how to do and I wonder if it's too late.  For example:

1. Make biscuits using Crisco
2. Quilt
3. Can vegetables
4. Sew on a sewing machine

None of these things are necessary to daily life, I know this, but I think that I would feel a little more connected to the generations that came before me if I could do these things.

And I would be more prepared for the Zombie Apocalypse.

I Want to Be A...........

My co-worker and I were talking today about what it must be like to have a job that you just love—a job that you couldn’t wait to wake up to each day, a job that made you look forward to Mondays when you could get back to it. Both of us really like our current jobs, feel lucky to be employed at our present company and really enjoy working with our co-workers and team members, but neither of us would say that we are fulfilling our life’s purpose. At least, I wouldn’t say that.

Admittedly, I haven’t met many people that are employed in either (1) the job of their dreams or (2) in the job that they absolutely love, whether it was what they always wanted to do or not. Most people that I know ended up in their job almost by accident or by default.  They graduated from school, went looking for a job, found one (that they probably thought would be temporary until they figured out what they wanted "to do with their live"), developed skills in that industry, and then stuck to jobs in that industry.  My mom never planned on being a social worker, but when she was looking for a job, a friend helped her get one in the county department of social services, probably she thought until she could find something else, but ended up retiring from the State after 25+ years in the social work business.

When I was little, I wanted to be a famous actress and singer. I knew that I would be loved and adored. I even remember riding in the car with my mom and my sister one night, home from school, wondering how my mom felt about "just being a normal person" and not being a celebrity. At the time, I couldn't understand how she bore the weight of disappointment that her anonymity must bring (seriously).


Now, of course, I realize the naivety of that dream. Mainly, I was naive to think that I could be a famous actress and singer when I don't have any talent, especially in the vocal department. But, in all fairness, Barbie never worked for a major home improvement retailer when I dressed her up and made up stories about her, either. There was no Barbie cubicle, complete with overstuffed in-box, whiteboard and coffee ring stains.  There were, however, Barbie stages, Barbie microphones, and lots of Barbie gowns.  The dreams of the young as molded by Mattel....

I think asking young adults to decide what they want to do with their lives at the age of 19 or 20 is ridiculous.  How do they know what they want to do with the next 30 or more years when most young adults haven't even had to do their own laundry?  And we want them to pick a career?  I think that you shouldn't have to pick your career until you are around 40.  By then, you've (more than likely) grown out of the party non-stop phase, so getting to work at 8 am no longer seems like an impossible feat.  You have learned about yourself during your 30s, coming to understand your skills, likes, dislikes, etc.  Around the age of 40 is when you can wisely make a decision about what to do.  Until this point, everything should all be considered "paying research" to help get to that decision.

 If I could choose my career now, I would be one of 4 things:

1. A soap opera actress (emote a lot and hold a puzzled/mad look for 3 seconds until the camera pans away)
2. A counselor (though Matt swears that I would get fired the first time that someone didn't take my advice and I told them how stupid they were being, i.e. "I told you what to do, and if you're not going to listen, then I'm wasting my time."  I think he's being a tad harsh.)
3. A song lyricist, writing Christian rock songs
4. A book reviewer (though, being an "instant gratification" kinda girl, I always read the last couple of pages first, so I never have any surprise)

Apparently, I have a little creative streak that I would like to get out.  Luckily, I do have outlets, albeit non-paying ones.  No one sings louder with Third Day in their car then I do.  I seem to be a pretty good listener because I often have people drop by my cube for advice or just to talk.  I am constantly critiquing emails.  There are some days when I act up a storm, i.e. "I believe that is a really great, original idea" or "It's no one's fault."  Gotta sell it when you tell it.

I guess that somehow I have ended up expressing myself, in the smallest ways, doing things that I love.  God is good that way.  But if a television studio ever opens in Statesville, looking for soap opera actresses, I'm all over it.

Sundays

In 1771, British essayist Joseph Addison wrote "Sunday clears away the rust of the whole week." I have to respectfully disagree with J-Add. At this point in my life, Sunday is not one of my favorite days. I am afraid that I spend too much time fretting about Monday, the week to come, and the weekend past to "clear the rust" from the past week. Logically, I can admit that it is a waste to chew over the last 6 days while also worrying about the next 6, but I can't seem to help myself. It's an illness.

I haven't always felt this way about Sundays. When I was younger, Sundays were great days. They followed a certain pattern, changed only by the weather, holidays or birthdays. My mom, sister and I went to church each Sunday morning, after which we headed to my grandparents house. The memories made at my grandparents' home are some of the strongest ones of my childhood.

Sundays at Mamaw's and Papaw's meant many things: good food, playing with my cousins, listening to my aunt's talk about how much we were all growing, visiting with my grandparents' brothers and sisters, and hearing stories about the "good 'ole days." Mamaw was such a good cook -- beans and biscuits, cabbage and corn, pintos and potatoes and all other kinds of good food. The table would be full of bowls of food, and yet it seemed that she just threw it all together, kinda nonchalantly.

Even though I saw most of my aunts every Sunday, my sister and I and my cousins went through a weekly "interrogation" -- school, boyfriends / girlfriends, extracurricular activities. The older we got, the more intrusive some of the questions could become (i.e. "Are you kissing any boys? With tongue?") And my aunts (and my mom with my cousins) were especially interested in how we girls were growing / developing, i.e. were we getting boobs? I don't know if this interest was born of the fact that most of them were not well-endowed or what, but I've told people before that the first time that anyone ever "felt me up" was in my Mamaw's kitchen when one of my aunts was checking to see how big my boobs were getting. To us, this behavior was normal (and I don't think any of us have been scarred by it).

But the best part of Sundays was playing with my cousins. If it was warm outside, we would play in the yard, playing Red Rover, or climbing trees, or running as fast as we could. When my cousins, Wendi and JJ, and I became cheerleaders, we spent a lot of time cheering in the front yard. Sometimes we would just swing on the porch, telling each other secrets and stories.

If it were cold (which it often was in the mountains), we would sit in the living room, looking at old photo albums. Sometimes we would go into one of the back bedrooms and whisper and talk. Sometimes we would even cheer in the living room. Papaw would sit in his chair, reading his Bible or doing his crossword puzzle, and never say a word about how loud we were.

Sundays when I was a kid were days to create memories. I can remember like it was yesterday the sound of Mamaw and Papaw's front door opening and closing. I can remember the sound of Papaw's voice as he said the blessing before each Sunday lunch. I can remember the smell and the sounds and the events. And in this remembrance of the Sundays past I have finally been able to clear away my rust.

Cooking With Idiots

Matt and I had a great Saturday yesterday. His schedule for the past week had been such that he and I had spent no time together. So, we went out for breakfast, took a nap, watched one of our favorite movies ("The Bourne Identity") and did a little Christmas shopping (for ourselves). Matt also planned dinner by preparing a stew in the crock pot -- it simmered all day, filling the house with great smells.

The stew was really good. We, like most families, especially two-member families, often find it easier to grab a bowl of cereal, a sandwich, etc., then to go to the trouble of cooking a full meal. Thus, when one of us do cook, it is a special treat.

The only small complaint that we both had about the stew was that there was too much garlic in it. Garlic is like a lot of things in life -- a little bit is good, a lot of it is deadly. And there is a thin line between "right amount" and "too much". This is true for M&Ms, vodka, ice cream, and "Beverly Hills 90210" reruns. First-hand experience with garlic is essential when cooking.

I will never forget my first real cooking experience with garlic. Like many people, it was only after graduating from college that I was forced to cook for myself (or others). I discovered recipes -- what a great invention -- a how-to for creating a dish. Cooking wasn't that hard -- why did people complain?? Get your ingredients, add this, stir in that, bake at this temperature, et voila. Supper.

Thus, I decided to try lasagna. Since I had been so successful with earlier recipes, I wanted to try a complicated lasagna dish, or at least more complicated recipe than what I had grown up with -- hamburger, noodles, ricotta cheese, spaghetti sauce. I picked out a recipe that called for Italian sausage, where the sauce wasn't from a jar but made from scratch, where there were three or four different kinds of cheese. I was ready to turn it on for the lasagna.

Everything seemed to be going well until it came time to add the minced garlic. The recipe called for 3 cloves of minced garlic (I remember the exact amount 15 years later). I had purchased the prepackaged jars of minced garlic instead of mincing my own (I may have wanted to try something more complicated, but I didn't want to do more work than absolutely necessary). I added the required amount of garlic. Five minutes later, I thought the wallpaper was going to start peeling off the walls.

Through the tears streaming down my eyes, I tried to discover why the fumes were almost visible in the house. Rereading the recipe and then the jars of garlic, I realized my error. One clove of garlic was equal to 1/2 tablespoon of the minced garlic from the jar. I had misread the jar and thought that 1 clove of garlic was equal to 1 jar. So, three jars of minced garlic had gone into my lasagna. I estimate it to be about 167 cloves of garlic.

We did not eat lasagna that night. We could barely live in the house for the next week. I learned to read, reread and often have someone else read the "this amount equals this amount" directions on any jar of ingredients. And I don't eat anything that makes my eyes water (or repels vampires, zombies, inferi or friends).

Where Did That Red Hair Come From?

I have suffered from headaches for as long as I can remember. In an attempt to control them, I have been going to physical therapy recently to relieve the tension in my neck and shoulders. While I was at the physical therapist office the other day (which is really one big room where several people are doing exercises), an elderly lady was working on her hips and knees. It was her first visit, and she was struggling with her exercises. As she was finishing up, the therapist told her that after she came in the next time, they would give her "homework" that she could get her children or "...her 100 grandchildren" to help her with. The lady laughed and replied, "Don't give me any more than I already have. I only have 45 grandchildren."

I almost fell off the table. Forty-five grandchildren!! Wow! Did she remember all their names? Did all the cousins know each other? Did they get together at Christmas? What about Sundays?

I grew up in a family where my mama's side of the family ate lunch at my grandparent's house every Sunday after church. I saw my maternal cousins almost every Sunday. On my father's side, I didn't see my grandparent's nearly as often, but we spent at least one week each summer with them in their RV while they were camping at in Boone, and they always came to spend some time with us at Christmas and several other times during the year.

What would it be like to have 40+ first cousins? I couldn't imagine. And then I think of my parents. Both of them come from families where they had many more first cousins than my sister and I. I don't think that either one of them had 40+, but there were a lot. They kept their families together by family reunions.

One of my favorite memories growing up is the Baker family reunion. Every year at Thanksgiving, my fraternal grandmother's family would get together at Ocean Isle, NC. All of Grandma's brothers and sisters, their kids and their grand kids. We would leave out early every Thanksgiving morning (hardly any traffic on Thanksgiving Day), arrive in Ocean Isle around 1 pm, and stay until Sunday. This was the one time during the year that I would see my cousins, John, Jr. and Jason, my cousin, Leal, my cousins, Michelle and Mitch. These weren't my first cousins that I knew so well, but my "mysterious" second and third cousins that lived in exotic places like Roanoke, VA, and Columbia, SC. John, Jr., was so cute and played the guitar. I knew that he would fall in love with me one day and we would move to a place where cousins could legally marry (by the way, when applying for mine and Matt's marriage license, I discovered that John, Jr. and I could have married here in NC, but the desire to marry him was, alas, gone).

Those trips to Ocean Isle each year were gifts that my grandmother and her siblings gave to me and my cousins because they allowed us to meet family that we probably never would have ever known. As my grandmother's generation has passed on (only my grandmother and one brother are now still with us), the reunions ended. Now there are great-grandchildren (even some great-great-grandchildren), but I don't think that these Baker descendants will ever know each other except maybe in stories.

That is too bad. Because they may never know that the Bakers were tall, had red hair and liked to laugh. And if one of the descendants suddenly has a tall, red-headed, funny child, they won't know that's "the Baker in him coming out." And Baker is a pretty good thing to be.

Swimming Lessons and Such

My mountain home was calling my name, as well as the fact that Matt and I received an invitation to join some friends at their mountain cabin for a float down the river and some ribs on the grill. As a result, we had a quick trip to the mountains this weekend, including an exciting trip down the New River in the middle of a thunderstorm and some of the best ribs that we've ever had.



The canoe trip wasn't what everyone expected it to be, though I believe that we all still had a lot of fun. It had been many years since I had spent any time on the New River, but I was glad to see that it was as bucolic as ever. Only our hosts were master canoeists, so there were many trips into the river by the rest of us. Luckily, the river was low, so no swimming experience was necessary to save one's self from the "mighty waters".



If someone had needed water rescue, however, then they were lucky that I was there. Thanks to years of swimming lessons when I was growing up, I'm sure that I could have provided some aid. My dad was and is a strong swimmer, acting as a life guard during summer breaks. My mama's family, on the other hand, was not a family of strong swimmers. Swimming was just not a pastime that they pursued while growing up in the mountains. Mama says that she and all her sisters were warned constantly to stay away from water, that they would surely drown if they went any where near it. The threats worked since I don't believe that any of my maternal aunts can swim. When they started having children of their own, they determined that they wanted their children (me and my cousins) to be raised without fear of water and with the ability to swim.



Thank goodness for my Aunt Mary June, also known as Aunt Mur (or Mur). Aunt Mur worked for the school system, so in the summers, she became the taxi driver for us. Years before anyone had ever coined the phrase "soccer mom" and years before the release of the minivan, Aunt Mur was showing soccer moms and their vans how to do it. She drove the original minivan, the station wagon, a wonderful car that had seats in the rear that faced backward, so you could see where you had been! (This was also before I suffered from car sickness.)



When my sister and I, plus my cousins Wendi and Matt (Aunt Mur's kids) and Tina had swimming lessons, we would pile in Aunt Mur's station wagon, and she would burn up the road to get us there (we were usually running a little late). The station wagon also had an 8-track tape player and a Kenny Rogers' Greatest Hits 8-track, and we sang "The Gambler", "Lucille", "Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town" and "Coward of the County". Even now, 25 years later, I think of Aunt Mur whenever I hear Kenny Rogers.



Those two weeks of swimming lessons every summer were always so much fun. Mary June would laugh with us kids as we told each other silly jokes and we girls giggled over boys, she sang with us in the car, and she would often stop by the Dairy House after our lessons and let us get some ice cream (and extra special treat!). Driving us to a hot swimming pool to sit for 2 or 3 hours every day for two weeks never seemed like a chore for her but the best part of her summer, as well.



Because of her I learned how to do the side-stroke, how to sing the lyrics to "She Believes in Me", and how to give with a cheerful heart. Next time I'm home, I think I'll take my Aunt Mur to get some ice cream and see if we can find some Kenny on the radio.

How We Became the Griswolds

Matt and I went out to eat tonight at one of my favorite restaurants. On our way home, we drove over one of the many bridges that span the lake. It was a great day for the boat owners to get out with their "toys". We saw lots of families out on their boats or wave runners, enjoying the last few hours of sun before the new work week begins.

Living in a town dominated by a lake is an experience. Everyone seems perpetually tan. The second question (after "What do you do?") that most people ask upon meeting you is "Do you own a boat?" The attraction of spending hours cruising the lake appears to most as impossible to resist.
Matt and I do not own a boat, but I have spent my fair share on the water. For most of my life, my father, Tom, has owned a boat of some variety. Sometimes it was a fishing boat, sometimes a ski boat. Once it was a little jet boat. He has even owned a cabin cruiser upon which he and his girlfriend lived for several years. He has kept his boats on lakes, on the Intracoastal Waterway, and even on the Sea of Cortez in Mexico, where he currently resides. The type of boat may have changed, but I don't think that he would ever be comfortable without ready access to the water.
With so much experience on boats, in different types of environments, most would assume that a trip with Tom would be fairly routine. This would be an incorrect assumption -- something always seems to go wrong. The engine blows, or the plug is missing (I swear that happened, like the stopper was gone), or there is water in the line. It is always an adventure just to get started on a boating trip with Tom.
My favorite and most memorable trip with Tom, however, began before we even got in the water. Sometime late in my teens, we decided to go and visit my Aunt Linda and Uncle Philip in Charleston, SC. As part of the trip, we would haul the boat to the Intracoastal Waterway near Myrtle Beach, SC, load up and cruise the waterway south to Charleston. The journey would as much fun as the destination.
The trip to Myrtle Beach was routine until we hit the small town of Conway, SC. As we were driving through the town, the engine on our Ford Bronco died. Tom was able to coast into the parking lot of an Amoco gas station and assess the situation. It should come as no surprise that Tom's luck with boat engines carried over to car engines; something was always dying, breaking, blowing up, smoking or doing other things equally as expensive.
Tom had a plan. He knew a local that could help us. His name was "Spanky". Spanky would know who to call to get us out of this jam and back on our way. First thing Spanky was going to do was call the Ford dealership to get help for us with the Bronco. They would come, tow the Bronco, quickly get it fixed and we would be on our way in no time.
As the minutes progressed into hours, we had no choice but to make the best of the situation. Stuck in a parking lot, in the middle of summer in South Carolina, sitting in our broken down car wasn't an option. Sitting on the boat, still on its trailer, was a much better option. Ashleigh had on her headphones, listening to her music, sun-bathing, pretty much ignoring the rest of us. Mom sat in the co-captain's chair, sun-bathing, reading her book. I tried to lie down on one of the bow seats, keeping my head low from the people who continued to drive by and shout directions to the water, while Tom sat on the dive platform, drinking beer, swinging his feet back and forth, waving at all the passersby.
For four hours, we sat in our boat, in the parking lot of the gas station, enjoying our vacation. We even sat there for a while without the Bronco after the dealership tow truck came and towed it away and before Spanky could come with his truck to hook up the boat. At least we had access to the gas station's restrooms, but it definitely felt like a "Griswold" vacation.
The dealership had to order a part in order to fix the Bronco, and by that time it was too late to put into the water. We did not spend the night on the boat in the parking lot of the gas station, but slept in a hotel. We cast off the next day for Charleston, leaving the truck behind for repairs until we returned. I remember my Aunt Linda and Uncle Philip getting a good laugh out of that story.
Over the years, we have also laughed at this memory, at how silly a family of four must of looked sitting in a gas station parking lot, in a boat, on a trailer, doing the things that you do when you're on the water. Of course, with gas prices as high as they are now, I'm surprised that I don't see more families enjoying their boats in their driveways (or a gas station) instead of the water. I did learn that day that the water isn't what makes a boat fun -- the people in the boat are the reason that boating is fun.

My Favorite Couch

Today has been another Saturday completing tasks necessary to sell my house. If I were an overly analytical person, I would question how long it is taking to even get my house on the market; one might think that Matt is not chomping at the bit to have us living in one house. Yet, we are slowly making progress.

After painting the trim work in the bathroom earlier today, I took a break on the couch to watch a movie. I hate this couch. I have told Matt on many occasions that we can leave this couch behind when we move to his house. You can't take a good nap on it, two people can not lie down on it very comfortably, it is not somewhere you can sit for a few hours and watch TV without getting a crick in your neck or, in my case, a headache.

Not so my favorite couch. My favorite couch has been a part of my life since I was born. It is a traditional couch, three cushions, low arms, with a skirt. My parents bought it and a matching chair and ottoman for their living room before I was born. I remember what it originally looked like: white (or cream) with large yellow flowers (it was the seventies). When they built our house in the mountains, the living room had beautiful yellow carpet to highlight the yellow flowers on the upholstery.

About the time that I was eleven or twelve, we got new furniture for the living room. We were all very excited as new furniture was very unusual in our house since money was so tight. Mama was "green" before it was a concept and had our yellow floral furniture reupholstered to use in the den, recycling it for continued use. Now, instead of yellow flowers, it was much more conservative, upholstered in a dark blue fabric, that was so soft to the touch, but still durable.

Now in the den, the couch that once was used so rarely (as living room furniture often is) was used daily. Suddenly, we discovered what a gem of a couch we owned. It was long--Tom could stretch out comfortably on it, without feeling cramped. It was wide--Ashleigh and I could both lie on it, heads at opposite ends, without deteriorating into the inevitable "She's touching me!" arguments. It was comfortable--the back of the couch was supportive, without being too soft or too firm. We loved our couch!

As the years passed, the couch became so much more than a place to sit. Ashleigh spent a lot of time there while healing from surgery to her knee. We both spent time on that couch, sitting next to this or that young man, trying to be cool in front of Mama, watching a movie on the VCR. Saturday nights for years were spent on that couch watching "Saturday Night Live" with our cousins, JJ, Wendi and Matt, as well as friends. After the prom, everyone came back to our house, and we all gathered in the den (20 to 30 of us), watching movies, eating, and laughing all night long. One of my favorite pictures from this era is a picture of me and my prom date sitting on that couch looking at our year book. Some of my most in-depth and important talks with my mama took place on that couch, with my head in her lap.

Not all of my memories of MFC (my favorite couch) are happy ones. When my first real boyfriend broke up with me during my junior year of high school, I spent way too many hours on the couch crying, in what my mama dubbed "the fetal position." I would assume that position many more times in the future as, during my 20s, I dated someone for 10 years (my Starter Relationship). As we broke up time and again over those 10 years, MFC became my refuge. I could lose myself in a movie, in a book, or simply in thought. Or I would curl into the fetal position.

I know that MFC is also my mama's favorite couch, as well. She spent a lot of time on that couch, never in the fetal position, but working through her own dreams, ideas, issues, etc. And sometimes she was just working. She worked from home her last several years of outside employment, and MFC was her favorite place from which to work. She tells a story of working all day on the couch, and at 5 p.m., she put away her work and began to clean house. As she vacuumed, she lifted the cushions on MFC, and as she lifted the cushion on which she had been sitting all day, a squirrel flew out and ran out of the room. She had been sitting on the squirrel all day and did not know it. I am quite sure that they don't make couches like that anymore.

When I got my first apartment, Mama sent MFC with me. When I bought my first house, it came with me. As I struggled with depression as an adult, there were times when MFC continued to support me as I found that there were days that the only place that I found relief was on that couch.

A couple of years ago, I was finally able and ready to pass MFC on to someone else. Even though the couch was at the time nearly 38 years old, structurally, it was still better built than most brand new couches. Mama and my stepfather, Jim, came and picked up the couch to deliver to one of my cousins. As we loaded it, Mama and I commeted on the fact that it was the best couch ever.

In retrospect, I can see that my timing in letting the couch go coincides with the time in my life where I became the most mentally healthy that I had ever been. So, maybe it is good that I don't have MFC; I don't have the option to ball into the fetal position anymore. I have learned to deal with my stresses and problems in much more effective ways. I still miss MFC, though.

And I still hate the couch I have now.

Love Letters

I have had computer problems for the last week. I haven't been able to use my home computer, and I was very surprised by the feeling of helplessness that followed. How am I going to know how much money I have in the bank? How am I going to pay my bills? How am I going to keep up with the latest news? How am I going to talk with my friends and family?

Wha? Have I succumbed to the internet's pull and left human contact behind? A 2002 study by Lutz Ebring, a professor of Mass Communication from the University of Berlin, concludes that "For each minute spent on the Internet during the last 24 hours, there is a reduction of approximately one-third of a minute spent with family members." Professor Ebring estimates that at current usage, this means that the average American is spending one less hour per week with his or her family.

That doesn't mean that we aren't emailing them or instant messaging them, but apparently, we aren't phoning them or visiting them, and we definitely aren't writing letters to them. I know that my contact with my family was drastically reduced the last week. Yet, the postal service was still available to me. Why didn't I write a letter?

Writing a letter is an art form that has seemingly been lost. My roommate from college was a genius letter writer. Betsy could write a letter that would leave you feeling like you were right there with her, sharing a great conversation, witnessing the same events, feeling the same emotions. While I missed her terribly every summer during our four years of school, the letters that she sent me during the breaks almost made the time apart worth it. Getting a letter from her was an event.

During our time in college, Betsy and I spent a semester in France. I was terribly home sick -- my French was weak, I missed my mom, my sister and the rest of my family, I felt very out of place, and my solace during this time was writing letters home. I wrote constantly. If I knew you, you probably received a letter from me during this period. It wasn't unusual for me to mail two or three letters each day. And my loved ones were awesome and wrote me back often, brightening my day during a time when I was really struggling to be strong.

Unfortunately, I went through a "purge phase" several years ago and threw away a lot of the letters that I received during my time in France (as well as the great letters from Betsy). Two of the letters that I kept, however, are two of my most treasured possessions -- letters that my Mamaw wrote to me.

I love to reread these letters. Mamaw had the same letter writing genius as Betsy. She wrote as she spoke. Reading her letters thousands of miles away in France felt like sitting in her kitchen having a conversation with her.

"Well, I had the usual crowd for lunch today. Ashleigh's [my sister] girlfriend the Ham came with her. She is a pretty girl to live up Poe Hollow."

"If you see a cute boy over there, leave him be."

"Wendi [my cousin] came out Sunday. She ate two tables down, bless her heart. It was good to see her eat."

I can hear Mamaw's voice when I read these letters, and it almost hurts to think about how much I miss her, but I'm reminded of just how wonderful she was. I am so thankful that I have these letters -- an email wouldn't be nearly as good. Maybe all our computers should go down on occasion and we should write each other some letters.