Sod Sister

Who has the hardest jobs in Pickens County?

2012-08-01T14:49:00.000-04:00

as published in The Pickens County Progress Thurs. Aug. 2, 2012

Do you know someone who comes home from work dirty, or even bloody? Do they have a job that nobody else will do? Does he or she deal with the public and have a wild tale to tell every time you meet? Or maybe you're the one who "works like a dog" every single day.

Hard Job: Cafeteria Monitor!

I want to go to work with you, and see what you do. I want to come home with dirty hands and muddy shoes. I'll share your story with The Progress.

Jobs are harder to keep than they used to be. And many folks work two or three to have any sort of living wage. We’ve lowered our standards, too, about what we’d consider doing, for a paycheck. I did something at a grocery store with oven cleaner and a garden hose that’s best forgotten. (But I’ve grown as a person).

And our problems and solutions aren’t like anyone else’s. Not in Fulton or DeKalb, or even Gwinnett these days, will you see a cow blocking a two-lane. Nor will you see a yellow school bus full of kids laughing at the cow in the road, as their hard-working driver (whose other job is preaching) says “hello” to the cow, in passing.

And you won’t see a city cop herding a cow with his cruiser. But you may see a deputy doing it here, where it’s all in a day’s work. Around here, we must “make do” with what’s available.

If you know someone who always says, “You won’t believe what happened at work today…,” please tell me where I can find this person! They may have the toughest job in Pickens County.

bettinahuseby@gmail.com

http://grasswidowspeaks.blogspot.com.

Three Dog Nights

2012-07-05T06:31:00.003-04:00

Most people will agree with me. It’s not a problem sleeping alone. Once you’re deliciously unconscious, it’s blissful not to be interrupted by somebody else’s snores and sharp elbows. For the single person, it’s getting to sleep that’s tough. There’s nobody there to make you feel secure and tell you what they did all day.

So I’ve built up a mound of decorative pillows where a man would normally lie. And my Chihuahuas command the other 85% of the bed. I fit in there somewhere. It helps that one leg hangs off … Night sweats keep me covering and uncovering myself. (The night sweats aren’t from TB). I’m menopausal.

Dreams are vividly colorful, like a movie. If the script requires me to talk, I do it out loud. The Chihuahuas hear this and think it’s time to wake up and eat. So there I am, cooking us bacon and eggs at 2:30 a.m. The magic half-hour!

This terrible joke has stuck in my mind like dried up bubblegum: “What’s the best time to visit the dentist? Two-thirty!” It’s supposed to sound like tooth-hurty. So I tell the dogs not to eat their eggs and bacon too fast because it’s hot and will make their mouths-hurty.

For the older single person, staying asleep is a challenge. We tend to sleep light. So I keep a stack of books beside the bed, just in case my eyes pop open and refuse to close. Right now I’m reading Chuck Yeager’s autobiography, a collection of Southern Humor, and a book on sewing clothes by making patterns from clothes you already own; ones that fit your figure well. This is a great idea! Nothing makes me madder than sewing a whole dress from a rogue pattern and discovering it looks better wadded up in the trash can than it did on me.

I refuse to take a computer to bed. I had a good mother who reminded me that looking at a screen in the pitch black will make me go insanely blind.

Plus, how can a person get sleepy when the Internet is always awake? It’s addictive. One cute video of kittens in the toilet just leads to another. Before you know it, you’re in real deep. It’s two thirty: time to get up and cook the bacon and eggs.

Happy Birthday, Daddy!

2012-07-03T14:51:00.001-04:00

"From "HARD HEAD WITH LOVE"

As published in The Pickens County Progress, WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 2011

“Live and learn,” my Aunt Mary liked to say. It was one of my favorites. I’m approaching the half-century mark, but lately it’s teenagers who are teaching me stuff. I work shoulder-to-shoulder with ’em at home, at school and at my job. Nobody is particularly happy about it and it shows.

I was sanitizing in the Walmart Deli when a young colleague startled me, barking orders at high volume. I was indignant. She was not being respectful to me, her elder, and she frightened me so much I wet my Khaki uniform pants.

I can be loud too, and gave it right back to her, expounding on why I was right and she was wrong. For emphasis, I threw my cleaning bottle across the floor. My pitch was archived as evidence on the security camera. They didn’t call me into the office, but my scheduled hours were cut way, way down into the immature teens (those digits between 12 and 20) and they removed me from the Deli indefinitely.

This sort of thing has been happening to me since kindergarten. I’m playing nicely by myself when a bully strikes and withdraws. I react and get punished for my reaction while the bully gets off scot-free. Day jobs are for organized types, anyhow - people who keep their socks rolled in pairs and brush after every meal. I’m more of a night-job kind of gal. Maybe it’s time I quit Walmart and become a stage actress. The pay is probably comparable and emoting is in my genes. My mom could cry on command and my dad had a very short fuse.

In the comedy film Smokey and the Bandit, Jackie Gleason has my dad perfectly nailed in the character of Sheriff Buford T. Justice. He abuses his son, Buford, Jr., across several state lines as they chase bootleggers and Jr.’s runaway bride. Gleason spits orders and insults, “Do what I tell ya, you pile of #$%&! Put the evidence in the car!” When his fatherly patience has completed dissolved, Gleason mutters, “There is no way, no way that you came from my loins.”

My dad lost patience with me over tiny little things, like saving water. I liked to keep the tap on while washing dishes, but Dad said to fill the sink up and turn the water off. I refused. He called me Hard-Head and stomped off to do some figuring on paper. This, he shoved under my nose. I said he was wrong. He got even madder and shut the water off at the valve. Mom jumped in and stopped us. She said no argument was worth winning if it gave Dad a stroke. We knew he had clogged arteries, but even his doctors were unaware of the aneurysm growing on his aorta. This condition took his life in a split-second, a few months later. I was 18 years old.

I felt a callous first reaction: Relief. Now he wouldn’t follow me around the house anymore, dictating my every move. Then one day it hit me. We had suffered a terrible loss. Never again could I ask him for advice. For the rest of my life I’ve had to stop and think: What would Daddy do? I can usually come up with an answer. Maybe it’s because he spent most all of his free time with me, Hard-Head. Certainly it would have been easier for him to be anywhere else on the planet. But he had no other agenda.

Lately, the kids I run into (or have run-ins with) seem especially grouchy. But I can’t worry about them all. God assigned me two of my own, whose little minds I could warp any way I see fit. I’ve tried to do a good job. If Dad were here, I hope he’d approve. I think he would. But it really doesn’t matter what I hope or think at this point. They’re teenagers now, out there making their own choices. The evidence will speak for itself.

Big Fish, Small Pond

2012-04-26T18:29:00.001-04:00

as published in The Pickens County Progress on Thursday, April 26, 2012

Apartment life is close-knit. I have a breezy mountain view. I decorated the deck with wind chimes. Tree frogs sing at night. I sleep on a twin bed in the dining room, with three Chihuahuas and a 25 lb. cat. My daughter has the bedroom. I beg her, “Please take your cat! He’s yours!”

“I can’t, Mom! He snores.”

However cramped it is, sleeping in the dining room is convenient. If I get hungry, I can open the refrigerator without getting out of bed.

My neighbors seemed to like me just fine, until I saw what they named their home network: Lady_Your_Wind_Chimes_Suck So I put a rubber band around the pipes.

Can it be six years since we moved to Pickens County? We thought it was jaw-dropping gorgeous. And everyone was incredibly generous. On her first day at the middle school, they gave my daughter a baby pig. It didn’t ride the bus home. The pig stayed at school.

“The barn smells!” She cried.

“That’s fresh country air!” I lied.

Now she’s about to graduate from PHS. Looking back, I hope she’ll appreciate why we moved her here. Where we came from, there was a shortage of coon hounds and swimming holes. And they served Coca-Cola in plastic instead of glass.

We found in the city, there were more kids than clubs. Here there are more clubs than kids. Pickens County teachers must negotiate on who-gets-which-student-for-which-club-on-what-day. So if she wants to, one student can belong to every club.

Once, we saw a cheerleader put down her pom-poms and march in the band at halftime. Now, that’s a full resume!

These last few years have not been easy, but I’m thankful to have spent them here. Every time I go out, I see a familiar face. A single parent cannot feel alone here.

That means everything to someone, who has no one.

"The Wright Stuff" ... things you learn outside the classroom

2012-04-19T09:50:00.001-04:00

As published in The Pickens County Progress on Thursday, April 19, 2012

I was a good girl until a bad girl moved in next door. She was my polar opposite: I was shy and she wasn’t. The only thing we had in common was being teenagers, displaced from the city to the country. It was the worst thing ever. I said I’d never do that to my kids, and ended up doing it anyway when we move to Pickens County. But I came to believe it was the best thing ever, and hope they will too.

Backing up to 1978, right away, the new girl had me skipping class and floating on a tire-tube in Lake Lanier. We did other things too, involving shaving cream, toilet paper, warm beer, Tide, and municipal fountains. So for litigious reasons, it would be wiser to refer to her as simply “K. Wright.”

In my 1978 Yearbook, K. wrote:

“Bettina, we’ve had some great times doing stuff all those places we can’t mention (but you know what I’m talking about). I hope you get Kurt over the summer, or it might be that he gets you! Even though he is a little wild. And I say he is ugly but I really think he is a doll. And if I’m lucky I might be able to get Kevin. He is A-1 FOXY!”

Now, I don’t remember Kevin, but he must’ve been tall, because K. and I were both amazons. It was our mission in life to find cute, flat shoes so we wouldn’t be taller than our dates. (I am still on that mission.) We were so tall, the cheerleaders and drill team didn’t want us. That summer we wasted practicing for tryouts can never be recovered. We were READY!! O.K.!! for them, but they weren’t ready for us.

K. taught me how to wear makeup, and how to pump gas. And she had good sense. Before she got involved with a boy, we spied on him for a week. Just to see if he was single, employed, and nice to his parents. Because Facebook wasn’t around yet, we conducted field research. In fields. Once, a bull chased us up a tree. The boy we were spying on jabbed at our legs with his deer rifle. He asked what we were doing. K. told him, exactly. And they dated for 6 months, in a row!

K. taught me a lot. For instance, the Wright way to wear make-up is to look like you aren’t. And pumping gas is easy. Smile at the stone fox pumping gas next to you. Smile until your teeth hurt. If he’s got a brain in his head, he’ll introduce himself. You can slip him your phone number. It’s o.k., he’s a nice guy. You know this, because you’ve been spying on him for a week.

"I Love You, Clint Eastwood!" as published in The Pickens County Progress on April 12, 2012

2012-04-13T13:16:00.001-04:00

“I looked, and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him.” Revelation 6:8 NIV 1984

I love you, Clint Eastwood!

I was a hyper little kid. Mom parked me in front of the TV, while she lay down with a cool rag on her forehead. It seemed harmless enough, leaving me with heroes like Andy Griffith and Carol Burnett. When the show was over, I went outside to play.

The year I got married, Pale Rider came out. It was my first time seeing Clint Eastwood command a big screen. It’s mesmerizing, waiting for a line to slip out of his mouth, as clues flicker across his other body parts.

(He could straddle a stool and read the Chinese phone book, and I’d watch with undivided attention).

So my new husband and I found something we could afford to do. We were too poor to own furniture, but we darn sure had a TV/VCR. We camped out on the rug watching all of Clint’s movies.

Pale Rider is a classic. I like the Bible-verse reference. His character is rich and diverse; he’s a reformed gunslinger, turned preacher. And he saves the good people from the bad ones. The grateful heroine asks: “Who are you? Who are you … really?” He answers, “Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it?” and rides off into Idaho’s Sawtooth National Park.

Nobody can fence him in. The “offbeat hero” has a lesson: It doesn’t matter who you are. It’s what you do that counts. And Clint always, always does the right thing.

That electronic babysitter is still around. We know where our kids aren’t. They aren’t playing in real life. They’re pale little rug rats, holed up indoors, wired to unsavory heroes.

I say, run them outside … right smack dab into the spores and pollen. Better still, take them to town. Maybe you’ll see Clint, ordering a sarsaparilla at Quick Burger. Rumor has it, he’s filming a movie in Jasper this week. But you probably won’t see him, if he sees you first.

At least the kids will absorb some Vitamin D.

Mellow Yellow

2012-04-05T20:44:00.002-04:00

Spring is here, and so is the pollen. I’ve been driving something bright yellow. Bet you have, too! But why bother to wash them? Tomorrow they’ll just be bright yellow again. And outdoors, the wind would blow your soap bubbles clean away. Swallow one, and you’d talk like Lawrence Welk.

It’s better for your lungs to stay indoors. Why not take advantage of this, and go antiquing? There are thousands of old, forgotten things populating Pickens, waiting to be dusted off, loved and repurposed. But get an early start, or the tourists will get your treasures. It takes time to find something “wunnerful, wunnerful,” but don’t lose track of it. Once, I got so involved digging through boxes, the clerk locked up for the night with me inside. I panicked! Behind the counter, the key holders were listed on an ancient Rolodex. I called around until someone agreed to come let me out.

Recently, that shop was swarmed with tourists. They’d arrived in a fleet of antique cars. A wise-guy was bothering the clerk. He took a few business cards. “I’m here to distract you while my friends shop-lift.” He told her. She laughed, and waved him away. One of the ladies sat slumped on a little shoe-shine bench. Clearly, she did not realize the full import of her proximity. I had to say something. “Ma’am, you know you’re in antique heaven, right? Jasper has better prices than bigger towns.”

“Is that where we are, Jasper?” She asked. “We’re from Dawsonville.”

I thought: This lady does not even know where she is. But then I remembered the definition of a tourist.

And then there was Wise-Guy, trying on ladies’ hats. He continued his shoplifting shtick, moving to the luggage. Working a train case into his waistband, he screamed to no-one: “My pants are full!” I redirected him to the tobacco paraphernalia. There, he found his treasure! Grabbing the shop’s business card and his cell phone, he dialed the clerk, who sat just a few feet away. “Do you have Prince Edward in a can?” He asked.

“Yes, we do.” She replied.

“Well, you’d better let him out!”

She hung up on him.

Pretty Is as Pretty Does

2012-03-06T12:10:00.006-05:00

Why can’t Women get along? Maybe it’s the estrogen causing us to forget what we learned in Kindergarten. We don’t work well with others. We run with scissors. And we run each other off.

One day, I took my daughter to have her hair cut. It seems we’d just missed a dramatic, hair-pulling beauty shop breakup. Her favorite young stylist was freshly unemployed in the parking lot, trying to shove all her equipment into a two-seat sports car.

So I popped open my trunk. My daughter went to hunt down some twine. All she could find was curling ribbon. Thank goodness there weren’t any Men around to see us using it for a tie-off. Certainly, packing and moving are high on their list of “Things Men do better than Women.”

Conversely, what would happen if Men ran Beauty Shops? Would they have troughs and spittoons? Would they have toilet paper? Every few months when the floors got crunchy, would they take a leaf-blower to the fallen hair and peanut shells? These are questions with no clear answers.

I hear that beauty shops are beginning to offer services in private rooms. I hate to see it coming. Put up walls, and isolation sets in. If stylists are separated, they can’t share the latest trends. And it’ll put a muzzle on gossip, too. Nobody needs the bad kind, but good gossip lengthens and strengthens prayer chains.

If you’re wondering what happened to my daughter’s favorite young stylist, we patiently followed her from shop to shop. Finally she asked her Daddy to build her a beauty shop of her very own.
He went to Home Depot and bought enough stuff to raise a barn. In fact, that's what he built. Horrified, she sweetly redirected him on a few points, until she liked it just fine.
We like knowing she will never have to move again. And now, we'll know just where to find her.

Teaser

2012-01-10T11:48:00.013-05:00

As published in The Pickens County Progress

“Strangers are attacking me; ruthless men seek my life – men without regard for God.”

– Psalm 54:3

I have a fella. He has broad shoulders, and a nice smile. I slip out to see him once or twice a week. He has what I need and knows what I want. But he’s not my beau! Oh, no. He works at Mountain Video.

My rental history tells all. He knows I spent Midnight in Paris with Owen Wilson. Nicolas Cage and Bruce Willis come home with me often. And Sylvester Stallone makes educational films. That’s our story and we’re sticking to it.

My favorite action-romance is The Last of the Mohicans. Madeleine Stowe plays a British Colonel’s lovely daughter, in harm’s way during the French and Indian War. Daniel Day-Lewis is a rough cob hired to get Miss Stowe safely to Daddy. But how safe is she with him? Trust me on this, girls. There’s nothing better than seeing Daniel Day-Lewis sprint through the woods in a loincloth, and not much else.

And you get intellectual points as well, because it’s an American literary classic. (God bless James Fenimore Cooper). When the weather gets nicer, I plan to check Mohicans out of the library. Maybe I’ll read it outdoors, in the woods. I’ll be the damsel in distress, on the run from my Huron kidnappers, ruthless men who seek my life, men without regard for God.

My long dark hair has fallen from its clasp and dances wildly over my soft shoulders. I feel faint, and can’t breathe. My chest heaves.

I lean against a big tree. Green and yellow sun drops dance before my eyes. With trembling fingers, I struggle to loosen the ties on my tightly-laced bodice.

Just as my lungs begin to fill with cold fresh air, I see Daniel Day-Lewis sprint toward me wearing a loincloth, and not much else. He clasps his strong arms around my waist, and lowers me gently onto the

bed of moss-green moss. He covers my body with dried-up tree branches. “Stay here, and don't move. I will come back for you. I will find you."
Before I can get a hello-kiss, or a good-bye kiss, or so much as a brotherly peck on the forehead, he sprints off into the cool green mist to go fight the bad guys.
I know he will be back. I just know it, without a doubt. I know he will come back for me, because his loincloth got caught on a tree branch. I have it folded neatly and tucked inside my loosened bodice, right next to my heart.

THE END

Madeleline Stowe and Daniel Day-Lewis
in "Last of the Mohicans"

MY TEN FAVORITE ROMANCE MOVIES

The Last of the Mohicans 1992

Loosely based on the French and Indian War. Madeleine Stowe wears the bodice, and Daniel Day-Lewis rips it off. You may want leave during the battle scenes, to dab your forehead with a cool rag.

The Cowboy Way 1994
Rodeo stars Woody Harrelson and Kiefer Sutherland hit New York City to rescue a kidnapped girl. Hunky mounted policeman Ernie Hudson assists.

Pride & Prejudice 2006

An eighteenth century romance, but not a bit stuffy. This version with Kiera Knightley flows quite naturally. Love blooms amid dogs, hogs, and chickens who wander in and out during visits from two rich suitors.

Sixteen Candles 1984

It’s a pubescent Pride & Prejudice, at pimple-popping perfection. The sound effects are brilliant, so use headphones. Famous quote: “Make someone a bridesmaid, and they ----all over you!”

Your Highness 2011

Two princes rescue a princess in a raunchy tale of courtly love (not to be confused with even raunchier Courtney Love). Don’t let the chilluns watch it, especially the gag reel.

Shanghai Noon 2000

East and West meet for another princess rescue. Gorgeous cinematography; wide shots were spoofed from famous westerns. Who is sexier, Jackie Chan, Owen Wilson, or the hundreds of extras sprinting around in loincloths? You don’t have to decide right now.

Casanova 2005

A girly party movie. Invite your best friends, burn candles, and serve tea sandwiches. Learn why “Casanova” is synonymous with the art of seduction. RIP Heath Ledger

Superman 1978

American royalty. Christopher Reeve saves Margot Kidder by flying around the world backwards. Makes other men seem inadequate. Features one of the nicest love songs ever composed: “Give a Little Bit” by Supertramp

Die Hard 1988

Bruce Willis and his wife aren’t getting along. When terrorists take hostages at her office Christmas party, he takes off his shoes and kicks some bad-guy ass. Then the couple kisses and makes up. Yippee-ki-ay!

Titanic 1997

On a luxurious sinking ship, Kate Blanchet and Leonardo Di Caprio rearrange the deck chairs.

_______

All titles (but Superman with Christopher Reeve) are available
for $1.25 a night rental, or $5. for 5 nights:

Mountain Video
295 N. Main Street, Suite G ~ Jasper, GA 30143
706-253-8266

"Musings on the upcoming year of the Water Dragon" as published in the Pickens County Progress on Thursday, December 29, 2011

2011-12-28T13:18:00.001-05:00

This is the year of the Water Dragon, but there isn’t one nesting in Grand View Lake. Dragons are hard to find, even around these parts. Why, the big lugs are woefully under-employed. Let’s boost school spirit, y’all, and plaster Jasper with dragons! Tag a beautiful dragon on some big wall that’s peeling blue and white paint, if you know where a big wall that’s peeling blue and white paint is located. Or, stay out of jail and help me think of what cute stuff we can make with dragons and then market the fire out of ‘em.

This year, I plan to stop trying to be so pretty. It’s time to liberate my stomach from being sucked in for photos. My inspiration comes from Spencer, my daughter’s boyfriend. Since birth, he has ruined every family picture ever made, by making a face at the camera. He has my daughter doing it too, so we have no nice pictures of either of them. The ugly ones are proudly displayed on their Facebook pages under “Awesome Faces.” Try making faces yourself, and see how liberating it can be.

Do you get cabin fever after Christmas? I sure do. What you need is reflective light. Try hanging a big mirror in the living room or bedroom, so it reflects a window. Don’t have a big mirror? Family Dollar has big, lightweight mirrors for under $25. If the frame is dark and ugly and cheap looking (and you know it will be) Home Depot sells OOPS paint for $1.00. One or two colors are more than enough to sponge the frame of your new mirror. Then you can amuse yourself staring into it, making Awesome Faces.

This is the year I wish we’d get a municipal facelift. Pickens County is gorgeous in places. Being neat and clean all over would help a common aesthetic emerge. If your neighbors have had a rusted eyesore out front for a decade or so, why not choose your moment and just haul it off yourself? What’s the worst they’ll do - run a “missing sofa” ad in the paper? It’ll be worth every pound you pay at the dump, conveniently located at 1350 Jones Mountain Road, Talking Rock. (706) 253-8860.‎

Last of all, this year I vow not to sit at home. I can afford eating out, Chinese. It’s cheap, and two can share a meal at lunchtime for almost nothing. The waiter will still bring two fortune cookies. Try my fun trick: add the words “in bed” to the end of your fortune to make it smutty. If you have young children along, distract them as you do this. Tell them to look at the dragons. And be sure to tip your waiter on the way out. That is how he feeds his family, so be generous. You know that tipping is not a city in China.

Merry Christmas Eve!

2011-12-24T08:32:00.000-05:00

And above all things put on charity, which is the bond of perfectness, and let the peace of God rule in your heart ... and be ye thankful. - COLOSSIANS 3: 14, 15

"Getting a Leg up on Thanksgiving", as published in the Pickens County Progress on Nov. 24, 2011

2011-11-23T07:05:00.000-05:00

What are you doing for Thanksgiving? I’m trying to choose between haunting the movies in Canton and hiding with the cat, between the mattress and box spring. Too many empty chairs surround the table these days. That mattress sandwich is sounding pretty good right now.

My friend’s three-year-old heard her talking about Thanksgiving. He asked, “Momma. What are we going to thank about?” (In the hilly regions of North Georgia, “think” is pronounced “thank”) Leave it to a wise young fellow to use “think” and “thank” interchangeably.

Last century, I was a three-year-old myself. It was a long wait for that Thanksgiving meal. My Aunts were desperate to keep me occupied, so they started the Leg Crossing Game. One Aunt would randomly and violently switch her hefty legs to cross the other way. Her sisters had to do it too, or be “out.” I couldn’t believe my little eyes, or wait until it happened again.

If this sounds like nothing much to you, it was certainly something in 1966. Ladies simply did not show their slips. To my horror, I saw a flash of “snow down south” with each tectonic shift of thighs and taffeta. And not one drop of sherry was ever spilled.

My friend Cathy has a similar story. She’s from Alabama, where the tide rolls red, and they call their parents’ sisters “Aint”. So the anticipation of Thanksgiving dinner was almost too much for big-boned Aint Rita. At first, she tolerated with a light foot-tapping. Then she went faster until her leg bounced up and down hard enough to make the floor shake. When the houseplants jiggled, Cathy’s Daddy would announce, “Aint Rita’s leg is really going now! It must be close to dinnertime.” And guess who was locked and loaded to be first in line?

Sometimes we need to be reminded where we came from, in order to act like we know. Empty chairs can be filled. I’m thankful for all of my new friends, especially that wise young fellow. To quote David Cassidy, “I THANK I love you,” Owen.

Unforgettable Irene

2011-10-15T22:43:00.000-04:00

As published in the Pickens County Progress

Natural disasters aren’t funny, but I had to smile just a little at hurricane Irene. As newlyweds, we lived next door to an Irene. She was the type of older lady who wore a bathrobe as a dress. Well, Irene had a thing for my husband. When I was at school, she’d knock on our door, wearing her bathrobe, to borrow a cup of sugar. (I’m proud to report he never gave her any).

One day, Irene and her husband, Mr. Irene, got into a brawl. She left him, but didn’t go far. The condo above theirs had long been empty so she went there without asking anyone’s permission. Mr. Irene wasn’t happy. Every week he bought a googly-eyed fish from Harry’s. He fired up the grill and smoked the fish Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Then he chopped it up to mulch the bushes. The smoke wafted up into Irene’s place, compelling her to lean out of her window and scream down at him.

This went on for about a year, until the bank who owned the condo succeeded in getting her out. Actually, it was the Sheriff Department who knocked on her door with a battering ram. It took six of them to hog tie and carry her to jail, and guess what she was wearing?

Ah, memories. But that season of my life is long past. It recently became necessary for me to move from the “rich side” of Jasper to the “poor side.” It was a healthy decision, though. The house I left was too empty and creepy. The new apartment is cute and easy to clean. Almost everyone in my building is young.

The other day I was headed out to buy groceries. Out front, there was a car covered in toilet paper and shaving cream. The windshield said, “Git her done.” So somewhere in the building, we must have a pair of newlyweds. Folks think I’m embarrassed to use food stamps at the grocery store. I tell them, it’s not embarrassing when you’re hungry.

Think of those widows of Afghani soldiers on TV, be-shawled and begging for food. Their government is too young to have anything in place to help them. We may not be perfect, but God bless America! On my first grocery trip, I worried that Uncle Sam wouldn’t let me buy Kool-Aid with food stamps. It’s not really food, is it? If you sprinkled unsweetened Kool-Aid on the sidewalk, would it even draw ants? But the electronic EBT card (which is really what “food stamps” is nowadays) approved it.

I’m glad I remembered to buy sugar. The world doesn’t need any more Irene’s.

Be kind to your fair-weathered friends

2011-10-06T11:05:00.001-04:00

When my stories are printed in the Pickens County Progress, my suspicious friend Donna asks, “Did that really happen?” Yes, ma’am. True life is much stranger than fiction and needs no embellishment from me. The job market is so competitive right now, that getting a job, and keeping it, is a whole other job in itself.

Yesterday, I was down to my last $30.00 and decided to finally apply for food stamps. At the DFACS office in Jasper, the doors were locked. The sign said they were “closed for furlough.” Another sign said to apply for food stamps online, at the local library. But before I could use their computers, the library lady said I must pay a year-old fine. (My daughter’s kitten had delicately nibbled around the edges of her library book on Aviation, more specifically “U.S. Fighters.”) It cost me $30.20, with fees.

Libraries are supposed to be quiet, but I kept on hearing a loud tapping sound. The culprit was a red bird. Outside the big picture window, from a high perch in the crepe myrtle tree, he kept flying straight into the clear glass. I walked over to get a closer look. Someone had hung a big fake owl in the tree branches. Worried, I alerted the library lady. She smiled a tired little smile, as if this was the ten-thousandth time someone had mentioned it. “We hung the big fake owl there to make the red bird go away. It worked for about five days, but he came back. ” She explained, “He sees his reflection in the window and thinks it’s another male bird in his territory. Then he lunges at it.” She leaned in and whispered, “You know how men are.”
Then last night, a bird-brained solution came to me: The library lady could open some smelly cans of tuna and set them around the base of the crepe myrtle. After all, if a tiny kitten could keep me away from the library for a solid year, think what a contingent of starving cats could do to clear the airspace of one red bird. I’ll suggest it to her today when she lends me a glorious, towering stack of books. God bless the public library! In good times and bad, it’s free …if you borrow responsibly. Now, that’s food for thought.

Thank you

2011-09-14T11:13:00.000-04:00

Mah "little" girl

Sheriff Explorer at 17 years old

photo taken last Friday

I was proud of her for participating in the memorial flag raising at the Sheriff's Office last week. It's hard to believe she's the little seven year old I checked out of school the morning of September 11th, ten years ago.

They raised the old flag from ten years ago, the one that flew 365 consecutive days after the attack. It made us think, for the first time in awhile, about exactly what happened that day. Then they lowered it and raised a new one. It made us think about the future.

Everybody needs a Berthy

2011-08-11T12:37:00.000-04:00

Bettina at age 5

(not normally this neat and clean)

Two doors down from my childhood home lived a large family with two working parents. Day Care Centers weren’t thought of back then, so the parents found themselves looking for a housekeeper. What they got was a “Berthy,” fetched all the way from Toccoa, Georgia to join their household in the Atlanta suburbs. Maybe her given name was Bertha, and some little child mispronounced it as Berthy. I don’t know, but the unusual name was perfectly matched to the strong-minded little woman. She made it clear from the get-go that she was not hired-help. She was a member of that family and her word was the law, for their chilluns and the neighbor’s too.

After breakfast, our mothers sent us out to play so they could do their housework. Unfortunately for Berthy, we all went to interfere with hers. It was exciting just waiting for her to unhook the screened door, to get a look at her spiky hair and wrinkled skin. She dipped snuff, and every part of Berthy was the exact same shade of nut-brown, including her teeth. She never minced words and shot them quick from lips that barely moved: “G’MORNIN’!” Almost always, she raised a skinny arm to let us come inside.

In colder months, we played in the basement. Our usual choices were Monopoly, school, or house, and this took place just a few feet from Berthy as she did her ironing. In nicer weather, we jumped off the roof of their garage onto the grass below, testing the wind resistance of various umbrellas and makeshift capes. She was certain we’d break an arm bone but nobody did. It may have been the only time Berthy was ever wrong about anything. The little boy who lived there broke his ankle.

In the summertime, the fenced back yard was divided with several clothes lines running parallel with the house. We played between the lines of sheets, towels, clothes, and blankets. (Berthy pinned the ladies’ unmentionables inside pillow slips so we couldn’t see them, but the boys giggled and pointed at the braziers’ shadows). In wintertime, she moved the whole apparatus indoors. Naturally it was damp and dusty, as basements go. This made the clothes dry musty. She spent hours ironing everything fresh again, with starch out of a sprinkle bottle. These days, if I walk into a Dry Cleaner’s, the smell reminds me of Monopoly and the tiny flatiron playing piece I used to be like Berthy.

We were expected to go home for dinner, so whatever wonderful-smelling thing Berthy was making was never sampled by the unfortunates who didn’t live with her. We’d sit reverently at the kitchen table, watching her stir. Sometimes she remembered we were there, and poured some Kool-Aid for us into tiny plastic cups. If it wasn’t too close to suppertime, we got an orange pop-up ice cream. It wasn’t much food, and our tummies grumbled for whatever it was she had bubbling away in that big pot on the stove.

One of her specialties was what she called “homemade helper.” Berthy wrinkled her nut-brown nose at “store-bought,” and cooked strictly from scratch. It was tough to walk home with the delicious garlicky oniony fragrance in my clothes and hair, knowing I would never get a taste. Here is my best guess for what Berthy was making on those bright afternoons:

“Berthy’s Homemade Helper”

Cook 1 lb. of wide egg noodles according to package directions. Drain and toss with a generous pat of real butter. Set aside. Sauté’ 2 lbs. of ground beef (or turkey) with the chopped white and green parts of one bunch of spring onions. Drain off fat and return to pan. Add the noodles, and 32 ounces of Hunt’s Italian canned diced tomatoes, with the can-juice. Add salt and pepper to taste. In a bowl, mix together 16 oz. of Philadelphia cream cheese, softened, with one tub of nonfat cottage cheese.

*To serve from the stove top, stir cheeses into the meat mixture and heat through. Enjoy with crusty bread and a salad, and an orange pop-up ice cream for dessert.

Alternative: For a make-ahead casserole, layer half the noodle-meat mixture, then all of the cheese mixture, followed by the other half of the noodle mixture into a well buttered 13 x 9 x 2 oven-safe pan. Cover with heavy duty foil and refrigerate for 2 hours, or overnight. Bake covered, at 350 degrees for 45 minutes. Uncover and bake ten to fifteen minutes more, until bubbly.

Wizzywig ... or, "What you see is what you get!" as published in the Pickens County Progress on Thursday, July 14, 2011

2011-07-21T10:06:00.000-04:00

The married couple next door hadn’t seen me in quite awhile. They were afraid that living alone had made me nuts, just because I talk to myself and kiss dogs square on the mouth.

So the husband rang my doorbell and said point-blank it was time for me to start dating. He told me to “friend” him on Facebook first, and look at pictures of all his “friends.” If I saw one I liked, he’d introduce us. My neighbor is a Fireman, so I felt pretty sure I’d like his “friends.”

Firemen are usually big, with big hearts and even bigger moustaches. The late, great Lewis Grizzard was having his own moustache trimmed when his barber explained why moustaches don’t bother most women: “They don’t mind going through a little briar patch to get to a picnic.”

I agree. So I did what was asked and looked at all the pretty Firemen on Facebook. One had a particularly nice Sam Elliot vibe, so I messaged him. We met for dinner. At least, I think it was him. The man who greeted me at the door was completely clean-shaven. “Where is it?” I asked. “Where’s what?” He said. “Your moustache,” I answered. “Oh, that thing’s been gone for months!” He said.

I had a nice time, and he was good looking, no doubt. But he may have been disappointed with me. My Facebook photo was a quick self-portrait. I had to crop it tight to get the toilet bowl out of the background. So needless to say, Sam Elliot never called me again.

It’s awkward now, because the matchmaking couple next door is afraid to come outside. I haven’t seen them in quite awhile. We even take turns going to our mailboxes. One day, when it was my turn to go, the mail lady had left me a catalogue. Guess what the cover said? “L.L. Bean men … Summer 2011 … shipped for free … guaranteed to last … no minimum order.”

Well, heck. Facebook didn’t make promises like those. I began looking, but most of the Bean collection was too permanent-press for my taste: mama’s boys, all of ‘em, standing idle on front porches next to hunting dogs that won’t hunt.

Bean did have a ringer on page 9, with tousled black hair and sun kissed olive skin. He wore the summerweight poplin shirt in blue plaid. It hung on him to perfection. So I decided to hang onto page 9 and place an order.

Now my heart skips a few beats every time the doorbell rings. Soon the ringer from page 9 will be standing on my front porch, holding a picnic basket. I’m sure he’s on his way, because his poplin shirt got here yesterday.

Honeydew you love me? Yes, but we cantaloupe!

2011-07-03T13:39:00.002-04:00

Ashley Banks, Amberly Brooks (sister of bride), and Tim Banks

June 25, 2011

photo by Bryan Abshear

Maybe you know this and maybe you don’t, but grocery work is grueling business. All that stuff doesn’t place itself on the shelves. My old job at the Jasper Kroger used to keep me covered in bruises and liniment. I didn’t know how the working students found the energy. But then I met Tim. He made our Produce jobs palatable with his sizeable imagination.

When we took the garbage, he pitched to the dumpster lid with rotten fruit and veggies. We discovered that pre-slitting the avocadoes yielded 75% more goo than if they remained intact. And he rolled the trash can funny, too … hobbling along like Igor, hunched over and dragging one foot. He invited me to “walk thisssssssss way …” So I did.

It was Tim who first noticed sweet potatoes often look like seals and ducks. He drew faces on them and put them back in stock. Then he invented a new toy, the “Mr. Sweet Potato Head” using little pieces of broccoli and cherry tomatoes for eyes, noses and mouths.

When he assisted Crystal, the fruit cutter, Tim gave cantaloupes jack-o-lantern faces. If I was in a bad mood, he’d make me giggle flapping open a blueberry container and talking like Arnold Schwarzenegger: “put me in your muffin! Do it now!”

Management soon tired of Tim and me, suggesting we find employment elsewhere. So we did. I completed the cosmo course at tech school, and Tim is on the cusp of college graduation to become a history teacher. I feel sure he’ll give it a spin that his students will never forget.

Tim reminds me of other mild-mannered introspects like Bob Newhart; and even the loveable “Chandler” from Friends.

He’s so quiet at times it’s easy to forget he’s there, sitting on a pallet of bananas, eavesdropping. This is how he learned all about female hormones and the medicinal properties of chocolate. Such information helped him be a better boyfriend to Ashley, his then-sweetheart: who's a gorgeous blend of Pocahontas and Natalie Portman. She’s just as pretty on the inside, too. There is nobody nicer.

They were recently married by Tim’s eighty-something year old Grandpa, who wandered off-task a time or two, but effectively joined them together in the end. He asked, “Do you Tim take Ashley to be your wife? Now you say yes.” And the smart boy did. Tim didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, you know.

________________________________

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Against such things there is no law.” – Galatians 5: 22, 23

Dating last century ...

2011-06-28T13:11:00.000-04:00

This was my Mom's "dating diary" in 1947 and 1948 when she was 23 years old. I remember being 10 or so years old, and going to visit my Grandparents in Auburn. I would find this thing and read it from cover to cover.

The little diary was free if you bought something at Hills-Bootery in Auburn, Alabama where she attended Auburn Polytechnic Institute. It was published by Friendly Sports.

According to her notes, she dated 13 different fellows! It wasn't all about boys, though. She marked down other things like spend-the-nights with other girls, jobs she took, and classes she attended.

Here's an inside page from January:

One section featured "no love lost" rejects ... where my Mom put the initials of dates who acted like these losers:

Thomas Technicolor - Bright shirt and tie and checked pants make a real picture and tell at a glance the artist, by golly - must've been Dali.

Charlie Conceited - Your hair is wavy your eyes are blue, you're quite some stuff according to you.

Spencer Spineless - Sure as the vine grows 'round a stump you'll sprawl on the sofa in a lump. One thing we never can condone is the man who sits with no backbone.

Larry Be-late - The date's at eight, you come at nine. Oh, who would be your Valentine?

""What are you looking at,?" as published in The Pickens County Progress on 6/16/2011

2011-06-22T07:33:00.000-04:00

“What are looking at?” It’s the prepositional faux pas that makes English teachers cringe. You don’t hear it much, because nobody notices anything anymore. We’re all too busy looking at our cell phones. That is – all us older folks. Little kids still notice things. Summer is here, and they know what to do. They live in the moment, and savor each one.

Grown-ups have to pay the bills, and work hard. Although most women will take the easy way out of one job: it’s too hot to fry your own chicken. That’s probably how, many years ago, my friends Jeff and Neal managed to ruin their summer in very short order. Their Mom had stepped inside the KFC to pick up a bucket of chicken, and left the two boys in her brand new Cadillac.

Jeff was lying down in the back seat, looking at the backs of his eyelids. Neal was up front, looking at the cigarette lighter. Jeff began to notice something smelling just awful. He sat up to look, and saw twenty-seven swirly burn holes peppering the front seat upholstery. I don’t know how they were punished, but it couldn’t have been pretty.

Not long ago, I was invited to a baby’s first birthday. Relatives slipped folding money to the proud parents, while the guest of honor sat looking at the cowbell I’d brought. Then he began to lick it. We sang “Happy Birthday,” as he looked at his cake. His fingers touched the icing and he bellowed. Then he touched his lips and tasted sugar. His tongue knew what to do next.

A different cake was cut for the rest of us. A girl cousin seemed especially determined not to waste one little bit. Once her serving was gone, she spent five minutes luxuriously licking the plate clean. I have never seen anyone work so hard at something in my whole life! And I say; good for her mom, who didn’t try and stop it. (Childhood is fleeting enough).

This precious little girl got a second helping and did exactly the same thing, again. I was told she absolutely loves food. It was plainly true. So, I decided to call her “Plate Licker,” and the nickname has stuck.

She inspired me to change how I look at life. No more multi-tasking for me. Towels are folded neatly. Letters are written thoughtfully. And I eat just like Plate Licker, even in public. When someone stares, I’ll ask, “What are you looking at?” If she says, “Where I come from, we don’t end our sentences with prepositions,” then I’m quick to tack a noun on.

Baby diapers and other loaded subjects

2011-06-10T20:24:00.006-04:00

“Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it.” – Proverbs 22:6

Her Father, my Mom (Phyllis) and her Mother
Notasulga, Alabama 1925

Today is my Mom’s birthday. She would have been eighty six. We became as close as two people can be during her last ten years of life.

At first, she went to assisted living. Then her health declined and she moved in with us, creating a "sandwich family." As Mom became more childlike, she was content to do whatever my daughters were doing. So for awhile, I had three little girls: Missy, Amber, and their Gammaw.

My daughters got older. They wanted to help take care of their "Gammaw" and Missy even volunteered for trips to the bathroom. You haven’t seen everything, until you’ve seen your daughter chasing your mother through the house waving an adult diaper, trying to get her dressed. It’s sad, and funny, and surreal - all at once.

Today on my Mom's birthday, I wished to be little again. She took such good care of me. But if time went backwards, I wouldn’t yet have my two precious daughters. And the challenges we faced as a sandwich family would not yet “be.” Now that it's past us I have some perspective. Living together in a jumble with all the challenges forced us to find new ways to show our love for each other.

It seems like just yesterday her Daddy and I were diapering Missy for the first time. Who could imagine that she would ever diaper my Mom? I try not to imagine this at all, but someday she may even diaper me!

"Black Widow," as published in The Pickens County Progress on 5/19/2011

2011-05-30T11:38:00.003-04:00

“A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God. He sets the lonely in families.”
Psalm 68:5, 6 NIV

"Black Widow"

By Bettina Huseby

Times, they are a-changing. Defining what’s proper must keep social experts like Miss Manners indisposed, with a cool rag on her forehead. I made a Facebook page and then took it back down. I couldn’t define who was “friends” and who was “family.” I’m a grass widow, whose husband is alive and well, but we’re separated, divorced, or somewhere messy in-between. A true widow is a dirt widow, who’s separated from her beloved by six feet of red Georgia clay.

My best girlfriend in book-form, Jill Conner Browne, notes that both widows feel exactly the same, but the dirt widow gets better treatment. She’s fed, pampered and petted. Widows like me are lucky to get a black cupcake and a bouquet of roses with the blooms cut off.

My burden is the midlife task of wading through grief and finding a job. Raising my chilluns and husband into adulthood aren’t transferrable job skills. So it was off to trade school.

Book-learning isn’t easy when it’s interrupted by hot flashes. I was tempted to grab the first man to come along who still drew a paycheck. But married women can relax! Your husbands are perfectly safe. The smart grass widow doesn’t want half of your husbands; she wants a whole one of her very own. And her taste in men will change as she changes. She could even decide to fly solo.

You know, since Miss Manners is feeling so poorly, I’d be happy to speak on behalf of widows everywhere and squelch a few false rumors. My life is not as glamorous as it seems. I spend most of my time at home talking to Wilson, my soccer ball. I sleep alone; lest you count the many doggies who chew the covers, mouth-breathe and snore.

If you have growing concerns for my sanity, a blind date fix-up would be great, but remember I’m a woman, not a pack mule. My neighbors invited me to church for some “Godly man shopping.” But here was the husband’s pitch: He said, “Any guy would be lucky to get a strong, hard-working woman like you.” I said, “Stop, Mickey. You’re making me blush!”

But truthfully, my neighbors are great. They feed me. They visit me. A mystery man takes my trash cans to the street. And someone is sneaking over to mow my lawn, but the skinny little fellow gets away before I can I.D. him. You might say he’s the grass widow’s grass cutter. He knows that charity isn’t a tax deduction. It’s a verb.

Times may be a-changing for the better. I ought to put that Facebook page back up again. There are a bunch of new “friends” and “family” for me to list, once I learn all their names.

Recipe: Beer Bread

2011-05-23T09:50:00.000-04:00

I went to a bridal shower this weekend for a very sweet bride-to-be. I shared this recipe with her:

Beer Bread

3 cups self-rising flour
3 Tablespoons sugar
one 12 ox. can beer, at room temperature
one stick butter or margarine, melted and divided in half

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Grease a loaf pan well with Crisco. Put flour, sugar and beer in a bowl. Mix just to blend. Melt stick of butter or margarine and add HALF to other ingredients. Spoon into the loaf pan. Pour other HALF of butter or margarine onto the top. Bake at 375 degrees for 40 to 60 minutes until knife inserted in middle comes out clean. Cool to slice.

I've had luck substituting part of the flour for whole wheat (and adding some baking powder and salt). I've also added cinnamon and brown sugar, or nuts on occasion. Using different beer makes a difference, too. Dark beer, for example, gives it a complex flavor.

This is my go-to recipe if we run out of bread. I keep a cheap 6 pack of beer at room temperature in the pantry, along with flour and sugar. The best stuff always comes from the most basic ingredients, you know?

Book review - "Shelter for the Spirit" by Victoria Moran, copywrite 1998

2011-05-23T09:35:00.008-04:00

This is great book for summer reading. It costs $13.99 in paperback, but my library had it. I learned new ways to feel "at home" despite the loneliness of widowhood. Suddenly, my security blanket was gone. Anyone who has temporarily lost their child's favorite blankie can understand the level of panic involved.

The author was a true widow for many years. She and her daughter traveled around the world, so their home changed often. She tried to make each place a haven for them both.

Her claim is that home is more of a feeling than an address, saying "people put energy into a place." Making a home with heart and imagination feeds the soul. Wandering and neglecting the home will make the soul complain in emotional and physical disturbances."

(This made me think of Montezuma's revenge!)

Moran continues to say "we may think our insecurities will go away if we understand them and change our personalities. But insecurity may call for a more tangible response.

What makes us feel secure? Parents, friends, a familiar place, good work, and a real home. Whatever can help us feel "at home" while on the job, traveling, or in the house gives reassurance of being grounded and centered."

Tangibles include simplifying but relishing cooking and housekeeping, while elaborating on celebrations, sitting and relaxing, and just being comfortable. It all sounded good to me, and I think it will to you, also. *

* The exception for me was found in the Appendixes. This was where the author lost me. You will never find me trying to home school anyone, human or otherwise. I am woefully underequipped in that area. Teaching is for the brave and smart (I am neither).

And Home Birth is something I'd rather not tackle as well. That is why they have those nice, big hospitals full of drugs.

But to each his own, I always say.