It's a Blog Eat Blog World.......Why Fight It?

The Sound and The Fury

2011-05-03T12:13:00.001-04:00

We knew the storm was coming; there were warnings all day long on television and across the Internet. I mentioned to Ron that maybe we should batten down the hatches. He looked up from his newspaper, nodded, grunted, then went back to reading. At that point I wasn't worried, but in an effort to err on the side of caution, I went outside and moved the two lightweight patio chairs that had in the past proved to be vulnerable in a mild breeze, to a more secure location up against the house. I figured everything else could weather the storm.
Ron left for work ahead of the usual time...something about going on the air early because of the storm. As the afternoon passed and the weather and warnings got more precarious, I started to get a little worried and I urged PhillyTwo to cancel her evening class. She maintained, "I can't. I have students coming early to make up their exams." Luckily, she was safely back home before the apocalypse.
I was standing at the front door watching the wind and rain when the first hail started pounding the house. PhillyTwo was in the kitchen. She came running and we decided to get in the hall closet. But of course, we didn't shut the closet door. We stood with our heads poked out so we could continue to watch the storm through the front windows. The sound was so loud and deafening that we didn't even hear the dining room windows break, just a few feet away. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, but was probably five minutes, there was a reprieve. We emerged from our shelter and started looking at the piles of hail stones on the porch. Before long, the storm resumed at full throttle. Once again we retreated to the closet, but for only a brief stay. The hail stopped and the wind subsided, so we grabbed our flashlights and our cameras and headed outside. The porch and the yard were white with hail. The outdoor furniture that I had earlier decided could weather the storm was strewn across the yard, most of it ruined. Those two chairs I moved? They were right where I put them and they were fine. We found dozens of roof tiles (ours), a bunch of vinyl siding (our neighbor's), broken flower pots, ceramic garden animals with gaping holes in their heads and a busted spotlight. PhillyTwo's car was as dimpled as a golf ball and our front door looked like it was the victim of a drive-by shooting. We lost three windows and all of our front screens. The storm that hadn't worried us earlier had certainly left it's mark.

Epilogue.
There are forces out there that are just as dangerous as severe weather.
We had one small ceramic squirrel that was sitting unobtrusively on a back step. He had been newly-dubbed "The Survivor" because he had made it unscathed through the torrential rains, gale force winds and unrelenting hail. But after he lived through all of that, "The Survivor" fell prey to one of the most unforeseen dangers known to mankind...Ron. Yesterday, Ron decided to hose off the deck and in his usual clumsy, take-note-of-nothing way, he managed to knock the poor critter off the step and he broke our sole survivor. No wonder storm warnings don't scare me. I live with Ron.

It Takes One To Know One

2011-04-27T19:57:00.002-04:00

Blogging about politics entitiles you to pass yourself off as a political insider about as much as making mac and cheese from a box qualifies you to pass yourself off as a chef. In other words, it doesn't. Just because you take the time to voice your opinion on a blog doesn't mean that you know more than a fifth- grader about the political arena. I'm not saying you shouldn't put your two cents worth on the screen. You should. It's healthy. But if you want to convince me that you're an expert on the subject, a po-li-ti-co, you have to tell me something I don't already know. You have to open my eyes, point me in a new direction, lead me to a place I haven't been before. Whether it will be something I can agree with or something I can't stomach, it doesn't matter, as long as it's the truth and it's something new. Because, my friend, if you write a political blog and all you do is beat the poor ol' dead horse, don't try to pass yourself off as an insider, 'cause you're not. You're just like the rest of us: opinionated with the slightest hint of knowledge.

And on another note: If you're campaigning for Mayor of the City of Knoxville, is it misleading, unethical or simply smarmy to have a logo that reads: Padgett
Knoxville City Mayor

Because, you're not the Knoxville City Mayor. You're running for mayor. Shouldn't you at least be required to include "vote" or "for" somewhere in there?
Where's the Bureau of Ethics or the Fair Political Practice Commission when you need it? Oh yeah, we don't have either of those in this state. Small wonder.

Forty Years Worth of Hit Records

2011-04-19T14:09:00.001-04:00

I watched two-hours worth of the Bee Gees' last night on the Biography channel, which wouldn't be such a disco-era confession, except that I had seen the whole thing before, not long ago, and I managed to sit through it again. Two hours is a long time to stay focused on any show, let alone one that doesn't have a panel of judges or a boardroom, and doesn't end with someone getting voted off or fired, but since the Bee Gees are one of my all-time fav's, I hung in there.

Only Michael Jackson could capture my attention for that length of time, and has. According to PhillyTwo, I've watched "This Is It" no less than fifty times. I think she exaggerates, but I do love that documentary. With the Bee Gees, it was their singing. With Michael, it was his dancing.

Like most angst-ridden teen-agers, I loved the sappy ballads of the Bee Gees back in the sixties: "To Love Somebody", "Holiday", "Massachusetts", and the most gut-wrenching of all, "I Started a Joke". Who couldn't cry to that and what the hell was it even about? It didn't matter. Their voices were filled with sorrow and that's all a girl needed to well up. But it wasn't until "Nights on Broadway" in 1975, that I became a true Bee Gees fan and it's still my absolute favorite.

Michael Jackson wasn't really in my radar (I was apparently asleep on the job) until the night he performed "Billie Jean" live on a Motown special. That was in 1983. I pretty much stayed a fan of his music and his dancing, but not his lifestyle or his actions, until his death. Longer, actually. I can feel more comfortable watching him now, since he's no longer a threat to children - his own or anybody else's. His judgement day has passed...he faced the music and I'd say the outcome was "Bad".

Pawn Shop, Skaggster and Crash

2011-04-11T19:28:00.005-04:00

I've had a lengthy and little-needed leave of absence from this blog as my band (more like a quartet) of loyal followers have pointed out, so I might as well get cracking. I'm actually writing this on my "new" laptop, and by new, I mean the one I picked up at a pawn shop last week. And by laptop, I actually mean "fattop", a term PhillyTwo coined as soon as she laid eyes on the dinosaur I brought home. And if she thinks her nickname for my computer bothers me, she's mistaken. I like my honker of a screen. Let the young-ins buy those itty bitty scratch pads. Size matters to real women. Real, old sight-challenged women, that is. We like our laptops like we like our men: in good working order, handy, dependable, turned on when they're with us, in hibernation when they're not. Now, I want to mention something about my Dad, his old mandolin, and Ricky Skaggs one last time before I put that topic out to pasture. I first wrote about it here back in September, 2010, after Ricky Skaggs performed at Rhythm and Roots in Bristol, my hometown. I did a short follow-up here when Ricky Skaggs, or as we affectionately call him, the Skaggster, called my Dad (known affectionately by his grandchildren as Roy) and chatted him up about the three common bonds they share: their love of bluegrass music, interest in the history surrounding it and the Skaggster's mandolin that once belonged to Roy. They had a nice conversation and that was the end of that...or so we thought. At the end of January, 2011, the Appalachian Cultural Music Association honored our 89 year old guitar-playin', mandolin-pickin, music-lovin' father, Roy Webb, and who should appear to share the moment with him...you guessed it...the Skaggster. When he got wind of the event, he called Roy and said, "I wanna be there." So Roy said, "Come on." And he did. But he didn't just come to the event - unannounced to the public and unpaid by anyone, I might add - he showed up at the house early in the day, visited for a few hours, had lunch with the whole family (what a brave man), then he came downtown to the Paramount Theatre and performed with Roy that night. It was such a remarkable thing for him to do and it's a memory we will have to carry with us forever. Meanwhile, back at the ranch...Like clockwork, I brought the fattop home and the trusty desktop crashed like it was a dot-com company and this was April 10, 2000. I went from flush to hangin by a thread in a matter of minutes. I mean, I love my "new" fattop but I need my ol' reliable. This morning I schlepped that tower to the doctor like it was my sick child and hopefully after some hi-tech penicillin it'll be as good as new. Not that I'm all that into "new".

A Plug For Jeopardy

2011-02-10T12:16:00.005-05:00

I'm an avid Jeopardy viewer, so it's no surprise that I caught Paul Wampler's first appearance on the show, three days ago. Paul is from Knoxville and I said from the start, "I know him from somewhere." His face was so, so familiar. He has continued to win every day and I've continued to rack my brain, not only to try to come up with Jeopardy answers, but to try to figure out how I knew the champion. It wasn't until the chat segment in yesterday's show that I finally remembered. A big wad of tobacco strategically tucked into his lower front jaw would have given me the edge I needed, but when Alex mentioned that Paul's dream is to play in the World Series of Poker main event, the jig was up. I've played poker with him...or should I say, against him. Either way, I'd rather be pitted against him there than on the Jeopardy show. He's one smart cookie.

And for the record, this is the second time in recent history that I've seen a familiar-faced contestant on Jeopardy. About six months ago, PhillyTwo and I had just settled into our usual spots on our couches to watch the show, when who should appear as a contestant, but Jelisa Castrodale. Now that name may not ring a bell for most of you, and rest assured it didn't for me either, but her face sure did. I had seen it many, many times. Not only was it was part of the masthead at the top of her blog, "The Typing Makes Me Sound Busy," but over time, she had posted lots of pictures of herself in the blog. So even though I had never met the girl, I felt like I knew her. Both PhillyTwo and I had been regular readers, so we were excited when we saw her and thrilled that she won that first day. Unfortunately, she got eliminated the next day, so her reign was short-lived, as was her blog. She stopped posting there about a year ago, but I'm sure she moved on to other projects. She makes her living as a writer.

Paul makes his living as a computer programmer. His gig on Jeopardy has already netted him $50,000, but he's still alive (as a contestant) so it could get bigger. Maybe he'll take some of it to Vegas this summer to make his dream come true. Go Paul!!!

The Bet

2011-01-16T17:16:00.003-05:00

It was over a year ago when I was in Bristol to visit my Dad that we were discussing the governor's race, and the Haslams. Like me, he wasn't sure if Bill Haslam could govern our state without letting the family business, Pilot Oil, leak into his decisions. As usual, in the course of the conversation, he had to mention the college football career of Bill Haslam's father, who's known affectionately around Knoxville as Big Jim. Not only did Big Jim play for the University of Tennessee, he was a standout on a national championship team and a team captain during his senior year. I had heard those facts many times. But on that day, my Dad brought up something he had never mentioned before.
Him: "I can't remember how far into the season it was, but every Sunday I bought a Knoxville newspaper and on that Sunday I read in the sports section that Jim Haslam wasn't going to be allowed to finish out the season. Even though he was the captain of the team, he was ineligible to play because someone had produced a picture that clearly showed him on the field, playing in a game during his freshman year. I don't remember how many games were left to play when this happened, and I don't remember precisely what year it was, I think 1952, but I do know that he never played in another game. Ever."
Me: "Really?, Wow, I've never heard anything about that."
Him: "Well, I can tell you that it happened. I remember it like it was yesterday."
Me: "I'm not doubting you. But I've never heard that story before.Was it a big scandal?"
Him: "No. It wasn't a scandal. It was treated more like an oversight."

So while it was an interesting story, it was a long time ago, and probably nobody cared anyway. But when I got back to Knoxville and mentioned the story to Ron, he totally discounted it. "I've never heard anything about that, and I think I would have heard about it if that had actually happened."

Really? You're doubting the University of Tennessee football brain trust that disguises himself as your father-in-law? Oh, you silly, silly boy.

We were at DEFCON 3.

I checked through all the UT football history books that we have. Nothing. I got on the Internet. I Googled everything related to Big Jim and UT football. Nothing. I went to the library and tried to look through newspaper archives on microfiche. That lasted about fifteen minutes before it made me feel dizzy and obsessive, and I gave up.

A month or two later, we were having dinner with our good friends, Barney and Betty. Ron, not even a doubter, but a wholehearted nonbeliever, thought I should tell them the story of the unfortunate ending to Big Jim Haslam's football career. Betty was quiet and noncommittal, but Barney became an instant nonbeliever, to the point of putting his money where his mouth was. "I'm saying not only did it not happen, but I'll bet you ten dollars you can't come up with anything that shows it did." We shook hands across the table.

Poor guy. He had no idea who he was dealing with.

We were at DEFCON 2.

Time has a way of passing and making people forget. The election came and went. Bill Haslam won. Big Jim beamed.

The inauguration took place yesterday.

This morning my Dad called at 8 a.m. On the front page of the Bristol paper there was the beginning of a week-long article about our new governor and his family. In the first installment was the story of Big Jim's UT football career that was cut short because he was deemed ineligible after someone outside of the university proved that he had played in a game his freshman year. That same article was in our newspaper this morning here in Knoxville.

I immediately texted Barney. "You owe me ten dollars." Like my father, I never forget anything.

We're meeting for dinner at six. I told him to be sure and bring cash.

Everyone can relax. We're back to DEFCON 5.

Drop Dead Fred*

2011-01-02T12:03:00.004-05:00

PhillyTwo and I left for Tunica on the 26th, which given our track record, was as civilized as we could pretend to be. We've been known to head to the casinos on Christmas Day. The weather was iffy when we got up that morning, but a little snow and ice didn't change our minds, and it was the damn salt truck that actually made the drive more difficult. If you've ever driven behind one, you know what I'm talking about. I pressed the windshield-sprayer button so many times between Knoxville and Cookeville, I ran out of the blue stuff and had to stop and buy some. My black car was salty white by the time we got to Mississippi.

As soon as we arrived we went straight to our room and broke out the food and drink: summer sausage, wheat thins, cashews, Chex mix, and vodka mixed with Sprite's and garnished with limes. The perfect hotel picnic. Then we went downstairs to the casino to let the gambling begin. We decided to acclimate ourselves to losing money by starting in the Keno lounge because it's cheap, time-consuming and the waitresses come by often. We were betting a dollar a game, so there was no real fear of winning big. UNTIL...PhillyTwo marked her numbers, went to the counter, paid her two dollars (for two games) and when she came back and sat down, she noticed they had marked the wrong numbers. She went back to complain, but the first game on her ticket had already started, so they said they couldn't correct that one, but they could correct the next one. She said, "Okay. And you might as well check the one you marked wrong and see if I won anything with it." And of course they did, and of course she won $120 on that ticket! Their mistake. Her good fortune.

The next morning I got up early and so that I wouldn't disturb the one who has to sleep late on vacations, I went downstairs to call Ron. I was excited to tell him about PhillyTwo's big win. He answered the phone, but once he said, "Hello," he went silent. I thought the phone had disconnected. But then I realized he was still there, but wasn't talking. Then it came. "Fred's gone." "What?" "I had him put to sleep this morning." He was sobbing. "He couldn't walk anymore. I knew it was time." By this time we were both were crying. Him, in the privacy of our home. Me, in the middle of the hotel lobby with people staring at me, wondering how much money I had lost. Must have been a lot, the way I was carrying on.

So the dog I loved to complain about, the dog I hated to love, but did, isn't with us anymore. He was sixteen years old. He had been deaf for quite a while. He could barely see. He was incontinent. We were fairly certain he was senile. And finally, he could no longer walk. Ron was right. Sadly, it was time to let his buddy go. Fred was a member of our family. There will never be another one like him.

PhillyTwo snapped this picture of Fred wrapped in a coat right before we left for Tunica. RIP little Fred.

*Sorry about the title. I couldn't resist. I always look for humor through tears.

Christmas Time Is Here

2010-12-22T18:59:00.001-05:00

Christmas time is here,

Time to drink more beer,

Time to stop for alcohol

So we can be of cheer.

Snowflakes in the air,

Drunks are everywhere,

Getting loose at Crown and Goose

Then calling cabs to share.

Dinner time is near,

We're late but we don't fear,

We've got to stop by Toddy's

For some popcorn and a beer.

Christmas time is here,

Time to drink more beer,

Oh that we could always be

So buzzed throughout the year.

Oh that we could always be

So buzzed throughout the year.

Follow Up Story

2010-12-04T07:42:00.000-05:00

If you read my blog about the Mandolin here then you might enjoy knowing that Ricky Skaggs called my Dad yesterday. They talked for about an hour. What a thrill that must have been for him! And my Dad didn't mind it, either! Heehee!

Eating at the Grown-Up Table

2010-11-30T17:11:00.001-05:00

I was thinking about when it was that I actually felt like an adult for the first time in my life and the answer came to me surprisingly quickly. It was on Thanksgiving, I was twenty-four years old, and I was "alone" on a holiday for the first time. I wasn't really alone, but I was in an unfamiliar place, and instead of being surrounded by family, I was with people I had just met.
I worked in retail back in the mid-seventies, when malls were sprouting like kudzu across the south. I actually worked in a bank by day, but I had to take a part time job in a shoe store in the mall to make ends meet. I was already a single mom and the pittance I got for child support barely covered child care. I quickly found out that most of the chain stores in the mall paid much better than banks did, so I made a strategic career move. I left the bank and went to work as a manager-trainee for a men's store out of California that had already opened in a few locations in the southeast. I was hired to help open a new store in a brand new mall about thirty miles away. It meant that I would have a longer drive to work every day, but it also meant that I could survive on one job. What I didn't take into consideration were the dreaded retail hours, which didn't exactly coincide with being a single parent. Those were tough times. Luckily I had my mother close by to help, but ultimately, although I wasn't ready to admit it, it wasn't a good fit. A few months later, when the company dangled a manager's job in front of my face, I couldn't turn it down. Never mind that it was in another state where I didn't know a soul and would have no family to help me, the money was too sweet for me to pass up. So one week before Thanksgiving I set out on my new "adventure". Sadly, I had to leave my daughter in my mother's care for a few weeks because it was retail and we were going into the Christmas season., and I had to find a place to live and I had to get her enrolled in daycare. And since my hours were not going to be the normal nine to five, I also had to figure out what I would do after the daycare closed for the day. Obviously, it wasn't going to be an easy transition and if I had really thought it through, I probably never would have accepted the job. But I didn't and I did, and that's why I found myself sitting in the apartment of someone I barely knew on Thanksgiving Day, surrounded by strangers. It was a group of single, twenty-somethings who, like me, were fairly recent transplants, and they all seemed to be enjoying life. While the Eagles sang, "New Kid in Town", they were sipping wine, laughing, talking and cooking. And although the traditional Macy's parade was on, the sound was muted for the "cooler" music that we all loved. Everyone did their absolute best to try to make me feel less homesick and sad over missing my daughter and more festive and comfortable about being where I was. And though I didn't feel like smiling very much that day, I was thankful for those kind people and the friendship they so graciously offered. I remember thinking how remarkably adult we all seemed, and that the familiar smell of Thanksgiving floating through the air was a testament to that. And I remember thinking that if I can just survive 'til Christmas, then life will be good again.

It's Never Easy

2010-11-25T08:31:00.000-05:00

I swear to God, if I bought the Butterball Turkey in July and put it in the refrigerator to thaw, come November the damn thing would still be frozen. I don't care how "prepared" I think I am, I'm not. The only reason I'm calm enough to blog about this right now is because that bastard is roasting. An hour ago I was fit to be tied. It's not like I don't plan ahead. I do. I take a remedial course in turkey every single year. I buy the magazines. I read them. I scour the WorldWideWeb. I print the shit. I mean, I do my homework.

So, five full days in the fridge to thaw a fifteen pound bird seemed to be the general consensus. At my request Ron stopped by his home-away-from-home (Kroger) and picked up the bird last Friday after golf. He brought it home, and we lovingly deposited it on the middle shelf in the refrigerator in the garage. At that point, I was happy because I was hopeful. Hope is a beautiful thing when you have it. I clung to it like a soft blankie for the rest of the day on Friday. And on Saturday. On Sunday I was still a carefree hopeful child. It was on Monday that I began to change. A tiny bit of fear began to creep into my psyche. What if they were wrong? By Tuesday, my childhood innocence had given way to teenage angst. I could even feel a pimple on my chin. Ghosts of Thanksgivings past were haunting me. And by Wednesday, I was a full-on adult paranoid schizophrenic. The turkey would never thaw! They were all against me! But still, I did hold out one tiny speck of hope. Maybe this time!

I got up at six a.m. this morning and like a fearless warrior, I marched into that garage, I grabbed that turkey and I schlepped into the kitchen and threw it up on the counter. Damn near busted the counter it was so fucking frozen.

They can beat me down, but they cannot kill me. I unwrapped that sucker and I plunged it into a sink full of cold water.
"All right, motherfucker, let's see what you got now."

Thirty minutes later, I was tearfully waking Ron up. "The turkey is still frozen. I need to get it in the oven."
"Okay, I'll do it," he said, like it was nothing.

The first thing he did was to slosh the turkey-thawing water all over the kitchen floor.
The next thing he did was to run hot water over the turkey (the thing they tell you absolutely not to do if you don't want to die) until he could get the little bag of stuff out.
"There. I did it. I'm going back to bed."
At that point I grabbed a couple of pieces of celery, stuck 'em into the cavity, rubbed some oil over the skin, and I threw that ptomaine-infested bird into the oven and shut the door.

If we don't die after we eat it, then I'm gonna call our Thanksgiving a success.

Mark My Word

2010-11-19T17:48:00.000-05:00

Just so it won't seem like I'm picking on only one mayoral candidate, I'd like to officially go on record as being more than a little uncomfortable with Mark Padgett. One of his goals is to make Knoxville more user-friendly. And how do you suppose he's going to do that? Could it be with eGovernment Solutions whose"cutting edge software...allows government to work for the people, by making key services more accessible to the public, including being available online"? That all sounds fine and well, except it just so happens that Mark is the CEO of eGovernment Solutions. It smells as rotten as an old broken down mattress in a seedy motel. Does he want to get elected so he can drag the City of Knoxville into a sordid affair with him and his company? Say it with me, Knoxville: CONFLICT OF INTEREST.

Who's The Boss?

2010-11-17T12:54:00.001-05:00

I caught a little bit of Knoxville's City Council meeting on channel 12 last night...right after I watched a few restaurant/store owners squirm uncomfortably while grasping at (drinking) straws to straight-forward questions from the Beer Board. The most popular answer among the under-age alcohol servers was that their employee had missed, not the year, but the month on the ~~child's~~ purchaser's ~~fake i.d.~~ driver's license. People, people. That ~~lie~~ explanation may have actually worked once years ago, but now that every petitioner for the past several years has used it, it just doesn't fly. Why not try the vanity defense?
"My employee is so vain..."
And this is where the Beer Board says in unison (channeling Ed McMahon) "How vain is she?"
"My employee is so vain, she won't wear her glasses, so she can't read the date."

As I said, I watched a few minutes of the City Council meeting before I turned it to Jeopardy, and I thought it was worth mentioning that not only did Marilyn Roddy withdraw her name from consideration for interim mayor, she ~~mandated~~ strongly suggested that any other City Councilperson who might decide to run for mayor should do the same thing. So help me get this straight, Ms. Roddy. You have decided you don't want to be the interim mayor, so therefore, you are the boss of everyone else who might be considering the position? Is that how it works? Or should I say, is that how you work, because if it is, the voters had better beware.

Not My Favorite Holiday

2010-10-26T12:57:00.001-04:00

Ron just got back from the grocery store and announced that he got the candy for this week-end. My first thought was, "Candy? Who needs candy? Did ya get the beer?" Then I remembered: shit, it's gonna be Halloween. And really Ron, have you forgotten my cardinal rule? Never buy good candy to give out. Buy the stuff we don't like. After all, WE'RE GIVING IT AWAY!
'Course I'm not really sure when we'll be ~~at the mercy of~~ observing this ~~aggravating~~ annual ritual. We may be ~~tortured~~ giving out candy on our otherwise peaceful Saturday evening, or else Sunday (the true Halloween) will be ~~ruined~~ the night. Either way, take note, Knoxville: I will only answer the door to the little ~~demons~~ rugrats on one of those nights, not both. So pick one and get the word out, because if one pirate, one ghost or one witch comes to my door on Saturday night, that constitutes Halloween. And it means that I can turn out the lights and pretend not to be home to Sunday night's ~~stragglers~~ trick-or-treaters. And it also means that I can eat the heck out of those delicious candy bars that Ron bought.

Identity Crisis

2010-10-23T11:12:00.001-04:00

Our new pet loves to play fetch morning, noon and night, chews on everything in sight (including us) and has serious separation anxiety when she's left alone for more than a few minutes (judging from the dumps she's taken in places that have no resemblance to her litter box). Sounds like we got a new puppy, right? Wrong! What we have is a cat who is suffering from a bad case of species-confusion. It's the damnedest thing. The goal was to get a female (which is why we didn't adopt my personal favorite, her brother Coop) because we wanted a calmer, more tranquil feline in the house. What we ended up with is a holy terror who thinks she's a friggin dog! Considering the fact that she loves to lick people and she never, ever meows, I fully expect that she'll be barking any day now.

The Mandolin

2010-09-21T12:56:00.000-04:00

On Saturday evening during his performance on center stage at the annual Rhythm and Roots celebration in Bristol, Tennessee, bluegrass legend Ricky Skaggs talked a little bit about the mandolin he was playing. He spoke about the fact that he had owned that mandolin for many years and that he played it every day. And then he told the audience that his mandolin had Bristol roots. He had bought the Gibson mandolin from Pee Wee Lambert, a bluegrass pioneer who had played with the Stanley Brothers, who were themselves bluegrass legends. He went on to say that Pee Wee Lambert had originally bought the mandolin from a man named Roy Webb, right here in Bristol, Tennessee, sometime in the 1940's. Roy Webb happens to be my father. I'm sad to say that there wasn't one member of our family in the audience to hear Ricky Skaggs talk about the mandolin and its history, but luckily we did have a friend there (thanks, Les) who called my sister Priscilla the next day and told her all about it. I think if Ricky Skaggs had any inkling that eighty-eight year old Roy Webb was still alive and kicking and sitting in his living room about five miles down the street (watching his beloved Vols on t.v.), he might have put in a call to him. He might have invited him to join him on stage for a number, maybe even to do a little pickin' on his old mandolin. What a shame and a missed opportunity for both of them.

This is a picture of the Tennessee Hilltoppers at WCYB radio in Bristol, Virginia, in 1947. That's Roy, second from the left, holding that very mandolin that Ricky Skaggs was playing on Saturday night. He is the only surviving member of this group, he still owns a Gibson mandolin and he still plays it every day.

Retainers

2010-09-14T12:32:00.001-04:00

Say the word "retainer" to a room full of attorneys and their eyes will light up like a bunch of cats in a dark alley. But say the word "retainer" to the attorney who lives in our house (PhillyTwo) and her eyes will tear up like a sad little puppy dog, because hers are missing. Her retainers, that is....not the the kind you get from clients, but the kind you wear at night while you sleep to keep your teeth in the exact configuration that the orthodontist put them in. Convinced that her teeth will rebel at the first opportunity, PhillyTwo still wears her retainers at night, if not religiously, at least frequently. Until Sunday. That's when she sat on the couch in the bonus room and removed them to eat a little something. She carelessly deposited them on the nearby table and then abruptly forgot about them. And later, that's where Dolly, her sweet and loving kitty, discovered them and carried them off to parts unknown. They have to be somewhere in the house. That's Dolly's only territory. But so far we haven't been able to find her clever hiding spot. I've crawled around on the floor in every room, searching under beds, couches, tables and looked in every closet, in every corner. Nothing. I'm not ready to give up, but PhillyTwo is in panic mode and is ready to call the orthodontist for replacements. See, attorneys need the security of having their retainers in place. It helps them sleep better. It gives order to their world.

Dissecting "Gone With the Wind"

2010-09-08T11:26:00.000-04:00

I just finished reading "Gone With the Wind", so since it's fresh on my mind, I thought this would be a good time to have a one-way discussion about it...one-way, because I'm here and you're there, and that pretty much gives me free rein on the subject.

I think Margaret Mitchell's intention was to have Scarlett O'Hara and the South as interchangeable characters in the book.

Scarlett O'Hara before the war:
soft, beautiful, carefree, ignorant, exclusive, self-serving, headstrong, dismissive, cruel, but not completely heartless
The South before the war:
soft, beautiful, carefree, ignorant, exclusive, self-serving, headstrong, dismissive, cruel, but not completely heartless

Scarlett O'Hara after the war:
harder, not quite as beautiful, more determined, smarter, more inclusive, still self-serving, more accepting, forced to be more humane
The South after the war:
harder, not quite as beautiful, more determined, smarter, more inclusive, still self-serving, more accepting, forced to be more humane

You get the picture?

Mitchell wanted us to love parts of Scarlett, just like she wanted us to love parts of the southern way of life, but not the whole package. She wanted us to see the beauty, but not be blind to the ugliness.

My God, she was smart.

We Have Nothing To Fear But Sarah Herself

2010-09-01T13:48:00.001-04:00

My name is Sarah Palin. Don't be fooled by the stupid look on my face. When I was asked to be Senator John McCain's running mate in the 2008 presidential election, I may not have known who Margaret Thatcher was, but by God I was briefed. Now I have her name written on my left palm and I refer to her as my "political heroine".

I call myself the North Star, 'cause I'm from the north and I'm a star, a bona fide rock star goddess. Put that in your rifle and shoot it...right here out my kitchen window. If you're lucky, you can blow a Ruskie off the map.

I wear my Christianity like a badge of honor. Never mind that my children call me a phony when I pray in front of people. "Why are you pretending to be something you're not, Mom?" "Shut up and smile for the cameras, you ungrateful little bastards. Momma loves you."

People in my home state of Alaska are disappointed in me. Hell, I'm disappointed in myself. I thought I'd have a prime time network show by now, instead of that pesky little TLC gig. All in due time, my little pretties. All in due time.

Euclid Avenue, Part III

2010-08-20T12:22:00.002-04:00

As far as I can remember, we only celebrated Christmas once in the house on Euclid Avenue, but as Christmases go, it was a doozy. I was six years old and I got the greatest tricycle anybody could ever ask for. It was tall, it was bright green, and it was loaded. The handlebars sported a basket to carry my stuff in, a horn to keep stragglers out of my way, and cool streamers to, well, look cool. Also, all of the red reflectors had covers shaped like rockets. It was my Rocketmobile and I loved it.
Mother gifted each of us with our first pair of slipper socks that year, which she thought were the greatest things since footed pajamas, and which, to the horror of her four daughters, became a tradition in our household. I still flinch when I see a pair, but that first year, the slipper socks were a treat. I just wish I could look back at the pictures of the excitement and happiness on all of our faces on that really special Christmas morning and smile, but I can't. Um...they didn't bother to take any.
And speaking of pictures, I really wish they had taken a shot or two of that cute little white house while it still stood there at the end of Euclid Avenue, because right after that fantastic Christmas, everything changed. The plans for the state of Virginia to extend and connect Euclid Avenue to the Gate City Highway meant that they were going to take our brand new little house and they were going to tear it down. I was a broken-hearted kid. I didn't care so much about the damn house, but what I did care about was my teacher. I loved her and I didn't want to leave her. Oh, and my boyfriend. I didn't want to leave him, either. My protests fell upon deaf ears, and we were summarily shuffled off to a house on the Tennessee side of town, with just the memories (and hardly any fucking pictures) of our life on Euclid Avenue to sustain us.

Euclid Avenue, Part II

2010-08-19T12:59:00.005-04:00

I have a lot of happy memories from our family's Euclid Avenue era, but the most significant, by far, was finally getting to join my sisters on the short walk to Stonewall Jackson Elementary School. Being the youngest, I was the last to go, so that left me stuck in the house all day with Mother, which I found to be extremely dull and boring, and very lonely. Also, I was convinced that they were having the times of their lives, since my only two experiences with school had been so much fun. The first was the Maypole dance (an old, discontinued tradition) that my sister's first grade had performed the year before. Mother and I had gotten all dressed up to witness the ~~spectacle~~ spectacular, and it was all so festive and pretty that I couldn't wait until I was in first grade so that I, too, could hold the end of a ribbon and dance around a pole. My second school experience took place after school had closed for the summer. I can only describe it as a kind of "activity day" that was held in the cafeteria there at Stonewall Jackson. My sisters took me with them (because Mother made them, I'm sure) and we spent the entire day doing various arts and crafts projects and playing games. I had the time of my life, but I think they (whoever "they" were and I'm guessing it was the city's Parks and Rec department) only did it that one time, which was a shame because it was such a wonderful event.
But finally, it was my time to start school, and since I had colored enough pictures in my Dale Evans coloring book to last me a lifetime, and memorized every word to every song on my sister's 45's that she had expressly forbidden me to touch, it was long overdue. There was just nothing left for me at home. I needed school. And school was everything I'd hoped it would be. I loved the work, the play, the teacher, and all the kids, especially the little boy who held my hand every morning during show and tell. I truly loved it all, which is why it sucked that I happened to start school at the exact time that the school system decided to implement a "newer, more progressive" half-day schedule for all first graders. I still wonder who came up with that brilliant idea. Half of the class would come in the mornings and go home at lunchtime, the other half would come after lunch and stay until three. We never got to eat in the cafeteria (translate: no revenue for the school) which is why on the one day that my mother sent me to school early, armed with money and instructions to eat lunch with my teacher, I simply stood in the middle of the hall, paralyzed with fear. Even though she had phoned ahead to let Mrs. Bray know I was coming, and had given me explicit instructions, when I walked into that school, I FROZE. UP. SOLID. I was saved from certain death by a sixth-grader who deposited my sorry, humiliating ass into my sister's classroom, so she could deal with my catatonic state. She took me down to my first grade classroom, where my teacher was waiting for me. Mrs. Bray couldn't understand why in the world I hadn't just opened the classroom door and walked in on my own. She tried to talk to me about it while I was attempting to eat my first-ever school lunch, but both efforts were futile. I was too nervous to eat and since anxiety attacks wouldn't even be invented for another thirty years, there was no explanation for my behavior. Anyway, the new half-day schedule called for our class to switch out the morning and afternoon groups every six weeks, which ended up being as disruptive for the students as it was inconvenient for the parents, so they discontinued that progressive misstep after only one year.

Euclid Avenue, Part I

2010-08-18T14:16:00.004-04:00

When I was five years old (several decades ago) our family of six moved into a brand new, fully-furnished model home at the end of a dead-end street, a block away from Stonewall Jackson Elementary School in Bristol, Virgina. It might have been an idyllic setting, except for a few key issues, number one being that it was actually too small for us. It was supposed to be a two bedroom house with a "walk-through". If you're familiar with those houses from the 1950's, a "walk-through" was a room (usually by the kitchen) that could be used as a den, a dining room, or in our case, a bedroom. There were doorways (two), but no doors. Thus, the name. My sister (she was six) and I shared a twin-sized bed in one corner of that room, but for the life of me, I can't remember what else was in there. All I know is that when I was lying in bed at night, I could see straight into the kitchen, which allowed me to keep tabs on everyone, and I loved that.

The furniture that came with the house was all very typical 1950's-style: blond wood, sectional sofa, Formica kitchen table. Of course, the house also had the nondescript basement with the concrete floor, (later on they would refer to those as "unfinished") which was the perfect spot to house our old furniture, as well as provide space for my teen-age sister's "loud" parties. That brings us to a second issue, which was the close proximity to our next-door neighbors, the GodAwful's, who apparently had the police department on speed-dial (rotary-wise) for any time teeny-boppers started showing up en masse. Granted, the powerful sound coming from the 45's playing on my sister's little record player in the basement could very well have violated the city's noise ordinance, but I think the GodAwful's were just looking for an excuse to ruffle our feathers. It was always right about the time the party would get going good that Bristol's finest would show up to shut it down. In which case, the GodAwful's hadn't just ruined it for the teenagers, they had ruined it for the rest of us, too. The ones who were perched on the top steps to watch and learn, were shooed off to bed when the party broke up. I'm still pissed.

Across the street from our house, there was a vast expanse of red clay dirt. I have to think that the builder's initial plan was to build another row of houses along that side of the street like the ones he built on our side, but they never materialized. So the empty lots with their giant (I was five) mounds of dirt became the neighborhood playground. It was on that hallowed ground that I learned to shoot marbles and that I first contemplated jumping off of something high enough to get hurt just to see if Jesus really would save me, like they said he would in church. Actually, Jesus may have stepped in to save somebody there one day, but it wasn't me. It was a nine year old boy who was ordered by his friend, the older GodAwful boy, to hold one end of an electrical wire while he (the god-awful idiot) did something stupid and dangerous with the other end. We had just sat down to have our usual summer fare of bologna sandwiches for lunch when we heard the loudest boom I could ever imagine. To this day, I have never heard a sound quite like it. We all jumped up and ran out the screen door to the vacant lot where the GodAwful boy was still holding onto his end of the wire, and the other boy, who was lying face down in the dirt, wasn't moving. We all thought he was dead. Luckily for him, he was wearing rubber-soled shoes, which may have saved his life; that is, unless Jesus really did intervene. All I know is, the GodAwful boy arrogantly denied any wrong-doing, which gave not only my family, but the entire neighborhood (especially the injured boy's parents) a whole new reason to hate the GodAwful's. As if we needed one.

Old Dog, New Cat

2010-08-16T17:24:00.000-04:00

Our dog, Fred, is gettin' really old, and in terms of deafness, senility, bladder control, and disposition, he's on par with an 85 year old man. The worst part is that lately he shits when the urge hits him, no matter where he happens to be standing. But apparently doggy elder care wasn't enough of a challenge for this household. We needed just a tad more to deal with, so we did what any self-respecting gluttons for punishment do....we adopted a kitten. Now, what was once home sweet home, has gotten dangerously close to becoming an insane asylum. First of all, Fred isn't at all thrilled with the pint-sized "intruder" that we call Dolly. And Dolly is more than a little intrigued by the shaggy mess that lies in the floor in the den all day snoring loudly, but never moving. She usually gives him a wide berth, except when she wants to play "the game". You know that game that kittens play - where they pretend they're in a brawl with other objects (animate or inanimate) and they skulk and crouch and pounce. Yeah, Dolly was all into playing that game with Fred, until Fred stood up just as Dolly pounced, and he barked at her. Loudly. That was, "Game over, I win, now leave me the hell alone." Since then, Dolly has given Fred even more respect. She sticks to pouncing on the end that has a tail instead of the end that has a head. Poor Fred, he just wants things to go back to the way they were before the terrorizer came on the scene. And Dolly, being the normal crazy kitty that she is, loves to tear through the house like a chicken with its head cut off. But when necessary, she knows where to go to take care of business (litter box), while Fred doesn't know where he shit last.

A Letter To Our Doctor

2010-08-05T15:37:00.003-04:00

Dear Doctor M_________,

You've been our family physician since that time in 1979 when I schlepped my ex-husband to the emergency room at Park West Hospital with what appeared to be a bad case of stomach flu and you were the doctor assigned to his case. You sent him home with some anti-nausea medicine and instructed him to drink plenty of fluids. Brilliant! Three days later, I called your office to report that his condition had worsened and that nothing, not the meds, not the fluids, and certainly no food, was staying down. Your nurse told me to bring him in. When we got to your office, I had to go in and tell you that he was too sick to get out of the car. One look out the door and you knew that he needed to be in the hospital, which is exactly where we took him. Turned out he had a little more than stomach flu. It was PANCREATITIS! But he was fine after a few days in the hospital, and even though you hadn't diagnosed him correctly when you first saw him in the emergency room, we forgave you and our relationship continued from there.

Several years later, while I was in your office getting treated for bronchitis, I asked you about a particular mole on my leg that I thought looked a little strange. I think my exact question was, "Do you think I should be concerned about this ugly mole, Dr. M?" And you said, "No, it looks fine to me." Not long after that I happened to be in the office of a leading Knoxville Dermaologist because PhillyTwo had suddenly developed a severe case of hives, the likes of which the Derm said he hadn't seen before. Never one to pass up an opportunity, I said, "Hey, while we're here, what do you think about this mole on my leg?" It was at that point that PhillyTwo's hives took a backseat to my MELANOMA! Now, Dr. M, I know you're not a Dermatologist, but I think an average person could have seen that there was something abnormal about that mole. I was just lucky that PhillyTwo came down with that god-awful case of hives when she did, because my Melanoma was still in a very early stage. And those hives? Well, they vanished as quickly as they appeared, which is why to this day I call PhillyTwo my guardian angel, and I call you a lot of other names.

But as they say, what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger, and you're making us all very strong, Dr. M.

As you know, Ron comes to see you several times a year for his upper respiratory illnesses. A few years ago, he had a bad reaction to one of the medications you gave him and it turned out he was allergic to CODEINE. Here's what I'm wondering, Dr. M: did you make a note of that, and if so, where? 'Cause every damn time he comes to see you, you write him a new prescription for a medication that's laced with (what else?) CODEINE! Every damn time! Luckily, Walgreen's has that info and they inevitably have to call your office back and have you change his prescription to one without the ingredient that might kill him.

PhillyTwo came to you a couple of years ago because she was suffering with a lot of anxiety. You immediately prescribed an anti-depressant, which only left her feeling tired and lethargic. Nice trade-off, Dr. M. Maybe if you had spent a little more time gathering pertinent information from the patient and not been so quick to throw her into that generic you-need-to-be-on-medication category where you put most of the anxiety-ridden people who come to see you, you might have realized she was probably just having a life-altering allergic reaction to goddamn caffeine.

In conclusion, Dr. M, through it all we have remained your loyal patients. But I may be losing my patience. May I suggest a refresher course? Some continuing education classes? Hell, read a fucking medical book. We really hate to have to go looking for another doctor, and please don't take this the wrong way, but one more bonehead mistake on your part and this relationship is over.

Love,
Philly

Inquiring Minds Want To Know

2010-06-09T12:48:00.001-04:00

It has been pointed out by three (all family members) of my handful of readers that I have been back home for at least three weeks and still there are no new blog posts. What gives?

The answer is: I'm not sure.

I've certainly had plenty of material. There's a lot going on around here. For instance, I just painted the kitchen with what Lowe's called semi-gloss, but I like to call PATENT LEATHER paint. Why did I buy such a strange animal? Because some crazy bitch in the paint department told me that semi-gloss was the way to go in kitchens, what with the dampness factor and all, and fuck me, I believed her. Now the shine from the walls is pert-near blinding us. So I get to repaint the whole damned kitchen, and you know I'm happy as shit about that. Way too many lessons learned to even list.

Also, we're getting some work done on our deck, as in replacing it with composite and making it quite a bit bigger than the postage stamp it's always been. We're pretty excited about that, but we're not sure if we'll actually get to enjoy it this summer. The young guys who are building it have very "flexible" work schedules. When they're here, they work like hell, key word being, when. Their presence has been sporadic, but we're keeping the faith.

I've also been playing a little more golf lately, but don't take that to mean that I've gotten any better. I only wish that were the case. But I play with a really fun group of women and what I have learned from them could fill a dang beer cooler. For example, I need to keep a flask of Goldschlager in my golf bag at all times...kind of like a first-aid kit, only not. Basically, it's there for non-emergency emergencies, like (other peoples') birdies (shots all around) and (my) quadruple bogeys (binge drinking). Also, while golf shoes are good for traction and make you look all sporty, it's possible just to show up in flip-flops, play the round and be none the worse for wear. That's how we roll 'em (in the fairway).