When A Southern Woman Rambles...

Chugging Diet Coke & Wolfing Down German Chocolate Cake with the Frau

noreply@blogger.com (L. Avery Brown) — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 22:38:00 +0000

Greetings Kind Reader!

So nice to see that you’ve popped over to my silly little spot in the blogoverse…after all, everyone needs a little silly in their lives, don’t they? By the way, if you dropped by a few days ago and saw that I didn’t have a new post up—not to worry—this time the reason was a good one! My daughter, Jessica, was appearing in her first high school musical, “Kiss Me, Kate”, and I’m a big fan of the theatre (Yes, I’m a booster member…I even designed and run their website, which you’re more than welcomed to visit at www.vhstheatre.org) and I’m an even bigger fan of my daughter! And when it comes to her…things like blogging can wait.

But enough of my proud parent rambling—Geez, don’t you just hate it when people go on and on about their kid when you know yours is the greatest thing since sliced bread? J — back to my real post…

If you happened to have stopped by a week or so ago, you got to read about a group of people I worked with as a teacher many years back. And I imagine that by the time you were done reading it, you were thinking that there was no way they could be real people. But let me assure you, Frau Haifisch, the Big BM, the Militantly Malodorous Mathematician and the Twobie-Newbie-Jewbie are real people which is why I gave them such interesting names…but names that are so close to ‘dead on ringers’ regarding their personalities, if I was playing horseshoes—I’d win! (Now if you’ve not read that post, I greatly urge you to do so before you read the following because it won’t be nearly as outrageous if you don’t have the wordy visuals I offered up. Click here to read that post!)

If you’ll recall, when I joined my new ‘team’, I was so excited because I was finally getting to teach US History full time! There was a new spring in my step and I assumed it was going to be a great year. And as far as my teaching went…it was terrific. But then there was the time when I had to deal with my crazy teammates…

So just how weird was it for me? Perhaps the following will shed a little light on it for you—

One day, a couple of weeks into the school year, we all sat down in the Frau’s classroom for a meeting about a parent conference we were going to have later in the hour. The newbie and I sat on one side of the table while Frau Haifisch, in her chair and flanked by the Big BM and M&M&M, sat on the other. The Frau took her blood sugar (yes, she was a Type I diabetic) and then reached into a refrigerator and pulled out a snack of roast beef saying it was a protein and would help level out her sugars. Then she grabbed a Diet Coke.

And I thought, Good for her, she’s watching her sugar in take. And then…I kid you not…the Frau reached back into her fridge and pulled out a HUGE slice of German chocolate cake and started to eat it. I guess my jaw must have rattled the table or something when it fell open because she looked at me and said in all seriousness, “Oh, it’s alright, they cancel each other out.” After which the two lackeys by her side nodded in agreement.

I turned to the newbie with a perplexed look on my face and all he could do was smile slyly. He knew something...something more shocking...but for some reason he didn’t want to tell me. In retrospect, I figure he didn’t share the intel he’d gathered from the previous year because he thought I needed to get the full Frau experience without any influencing factors. And about 20 minutes later I got to witness, firsthand the little nugget of nuttiness he was keeping to himself.

Remember the parent conference we were preparing to have?

There we were the five of us along with the PE coach (who quickly said his peace and left--football season waits for no one), a school counselor who was also a Spanish translator and two small, older Mexicans who I could tell had toiled away too many hours in their lives so they could give their children a shot at the American dream and now they were having to hear about how their youngest son’s grades were suffering.

I had my file on Student X, as too did the other teachers, and so I gave my little spiel making sure to offer a glimmer of hope to the parents that their son was not a lost cause. Then Mr. T-N-J spoke and he agreed with me. Things were going well and I felt for sure that we’d be able to come up with a strategy to help Student X. But then the Big BM gave his 2 ‘special education’ cents worth and basically said he didn’t see much hope for Student X because X didn’t have any ambition to be successful. And when he was done with his ‘pick ‘em up (then throw them down as hard as possible)’ babble, Sargent Stinkmeister said X would do well in fast food or some other service industry or maybe even the military if he could pass the basic knowledge test.

I couldn’t believe it. There I was trying to share a ray of optimism with Señor and Señora X and there was the rest of my team (save Mr. T-N-J) systematically nailing the coffin shut on this young man. But we'd not yet heard from Frau Haifisch.

Her grim multi-level chin shook and she gave a heavy sigh as she opened her folder on Student X and she started to talk. ‘Blah, blah, blah, blah.’ And then, out of the blue, she stopped, her head fell forward and she sort of slumped in her chair and I thought, Holy Jesus, she died! Oh God, get help! Call someone! I could hear the counselor frantically speaking in Spanish to the parents, who were horrified and were madly making the sign of the cross. And I, who am Protestant (though I did marry a Catholic), suddenly felt an urge to join in with them.

I then glanced over at her lackeys expecting them to whip out a portable defibrillator from some secret recess in her room but they just sat there and smiled politely. I thought, Sweet Jesus, they want her chair. How cold, how callus! I looked anxiously at the Jewbie-Newbie…no, wait…that’s not right, I mean I looked at the novice…good grief, just recalling it has my head reeling! He wasn’t in training to be a nun; he was the Language Arts teacher! What I mean is, I looked at the twobie-newbie teacher, who happened to be Jewish, and saw that he had thrown his hands up to his mouth, obviously in shocked disbelief, and I watched his head nod desperately as his shoulders jerked. Oh my! He was grief stricken and overcome with so much emotion he could barely contain himself.

My heart raced and I thought, Dear God, no one is doing anything! I know CPR! Someone call for help! Yes, I was willing to pour the big Frau out of her rolling chair and actually perform CPR and even…mouth-to-mouth…if needed to help save her life.

But then the weirdest thing…and I mean THE WEIRDEST THING happened. Frau Heifisch cleared her throat, shook her head and blinked a few times. After which she said, “Oh, excuse me. I must have forgotten to take my meds this morning.”

That was it…nothing more was said and the conference went on after the translator chattered something to the parents which calmed them greatly. But it did nothing for me because I didn’t know Spanish! So I sat there, shaken to my core, wondering what in the Hell had just happened!

And it wasn’t until about 30 minutes later when I found out. And who was it that told me? Was the Frau? No. Was it the special educator who likes to dress like 14 year old boys? Nope. Or was it man who walked around in a bubble of his own unique human aroma? No. It was the…Twobie-Newbie-Jewbie! And as I mentioned earlier there was a reason why he didn't mention 'her condition'. And it was because he had been waiting for just the right moment to tell me the one interesting fact about our fearless leader that no one at the school felt it necessary to tell me.

ME: “What in the name of all that is good in this universe was that?”

HE: (Grinning and suddenly I realized he wasn’t holding back sorrow and grief half an hour earlier…no, he was trying not to burst out laughing) “Oh, Mrs. Brown, I was hoping I was there when it happened. Because the first time it happened to me last year I swear to God I nearly shit myself. And when I saw her scarf down that cake earlier I knew…I just knew today was the day.”

ME: (Dear Lord, I thought. My mind raced as I tried to imagine what it could have been?) “What in the world are you talking about?”

HE: “Well, you know Frau Heifisch is a diabetic right? Only she eats like food is going out of style?”

ME: (Groaning as I sarcastically said) “She’s the walking poster child for the National Diabetic Association. But what does this have to do with her passing out?”

HE: “Oh, but Mrs. Brown, she didn’t pass out. She (---dramatic pause---) fell asleep.”

ME: “She what?”

HE: “She fell asleep because not only is Frau Heifische a diabetic but she also suffers from narcolepsy.”

ME: “Huh? Are you saying Frau is a narcoleptic-diabetic?”

HE: “Yes, I am. And get this…she used to be a registered nurse until her narcolepsy started interfering with her job.”

ME: I stared at him and said, “Are you freaking serious? So now she teaches? Oh, my Lord does this sort of happen in her class?”

HE: “Yes, occasionally but the school can’t fire her because she’s tenured and her disability doesn’t technically affect her ability to teach. Which means firing her would be one giant law suit.”

ME: Well, what do the kids do if it happens?

HE: From what I understand, they're just very quiet because she's not always in the greatest mood when she wakes up.

ME: “OH MY GOD! THAT’S CRAZY!!” (That’s when it dawned on me that this woman drove to school every day and all I could do was think of how lucky I was that I lived in the opposite direction!)

Ah, yes, that was just a few weeks into the school year and boy was I in for one heck of a weird year. Very weird, indeed.

But the story doesn’t stop there. Heaven’s no! There’s more to tell…in my next post!

And that’s all I’ve got…til next time!

The Tale of Frau Haifisch, the Big BM, the Militantly Malodorous Mathematician, the Twobie-Newbie-Jewbie, and Me

noreply@blogger.com (L. Avery Brown) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 18:42:00 +0000

Greetings Kind Reader and welcome.

I do hope you enjoyed the post I put up last week because it was certainly a hoot-n-a-half for me to recall that weird little snippit of my life for you.

And seeing as it gave me such a great chuckle, I thought I’d share another one of my ‘this is too crazy to be real’ stories with you. But ho, ho I say. It is true. Every ding-dang bit of it because trust me NOBODY could make up something as off the wall as this. However, unlike my usual stories where I focus on one brief moment in time…this tale is much more epic in nature. (In fact, this is just Part 1!) This happened nearly 12 years ago and was actually was an entire year in the making though it has only been recently that I’ve been able to put together the story in a way that does it justice. Now I'll warn you, it's a fairly long yarn…so grab yourself a soda pop, some tea, or maybe a cup of coffee because once you start reading, I’ll just bet you’re going to want to stay put to see how it works itself out!

So without further ado I give you…

“The Tale of Frau Haifisch, the Big BM, the Militantly Malodorous Mathematician, the Twobie-Newbie-Jewbie,
and Me.”

(Or My Year in Hell, Part 1)

My story takes place well over a decade ago, back when the fire for teaching still burned deep within me, and I had finally gotten the job I’d always wanted…teaching US History. Oh, yes, it was the job I’d coveted for so long because my Master’s Degree was in American history. And until then, I’d only been able to the class at a very posh-posh, pooh-pooh private school in South Carolina but it was just one of 5 classes I taught.

But this teaching position was nearly 2,000 miles away from the world I knew and it was totally different because now I was working in the inner-city, in a high minority, low income, gang infested area. Was I crazy back then? No. Because you see, I saw something in those kids that others didn’t and in my class I made it clear on day one who was in charge when I said to, ‘You’re in my house now. And when you come into my house that ‘other stuff’ isn’t allowed’. And they respected that.

Oh, it was a dream come true for me. I got to share my love for my country in a unique way because some of the kids I taught were in the country illegally, while others were 1^st generation Americans whose parents had toiled like mad so their children could have a better chance and still there were some who were caught in an endless cycle of economic hardship. So if you want to call me crazy, then have at it. But when I was teaching those kids I can honestly say it was one of the most fulfilling times of my life.

But then there was the time when I wasn’t teaching. UGH! I was doing that other stuff teachers have to do; most of which required me to interact with a group of people who were my ‘team’ and they were without a doubt the most screwed up, wigged out, freaky educators I have ever met in my entire life.

Though to be honest I will say there was one teacher, a 2^nd year Language Arts teacher, who was on ‘the team’ too but thankfully hadn’t drunk any of the other team members’ absurd teacher potion. But he was a bit goofy…kind of like me…so who knows maybe I rubbed off on him. I don’t know. But I would like to think so.

So just how crazy were the others on my ‘team’? Let’s see…

I’ll start with our ‘leader’ who was also the science teacher. I’ll call her Frau Haifisch. And she was a very sour Frau! Now I warn you that the following description is not my typical sort of thing as I try to look beyond the physique. But to get the full scope of what I had to deal with for 180 days, I feel it’s important, nay, vital that you have as accurate image of Frau Haifisch and the others so you can truly ‘see’ them as I saw them…

Now the Frau was a big woman; a very big woman. I guess she had to have been about 6’4” which would have been cool if she was tall in a svelte, athletically toned Amazonian sort of way. But no. Frau Haifisch was about as svelte and as athletic as I am Martian green with little dee-lee bobbers sticking out of my head.

I can recall staring at her and wondering just how it was that her head stayed on top of her body as she had no neck at all which is odd considering she had three chins that spilled down across her front and sort of melted into her chest. Then coming out of her chin/chest zone were two fleshy upper arms that connected with the equally fleshy masses that were her forearms. And at the end of her arms were giant frying pan sized hands that I’m sure could have easily crushed souls if her itty bitty sausage fingers were long enough to actually wrap themselves around anything broader than a soda pop bottle.

And trust me when I say that her abstract Picasso/Rubinesque form didn’t get any better going down but thank the Lord, I very rarely ever had to glance any lower because whenever I was summoned to stand in her presence she was almost always seated in a giant rolling black chair with her little sausage fingers intertwined and her 3^rd chin resting atop them.

When she spoke, she’d clear her throat, lean back a bit stare at me for a moment without saying a word, almost as if she was channeling Marlon Brando as Don Corleone in the Mafia classic, The Godfather. And she’d often say something to the effect of, “Mrs. Brown, you know we…(the other members of the team…minus the Newbie)…we don’t get the feeling that you’re a part of ‘the team’. Do you feel like you’re part of the team, Mrs. Brown?”

Now how does one respond to that sort of question? I ask as I have no idea. Because I think it was a rhetorical question considering I was never given time to respond before the Don…er…Frau Haifisch went on to discuss the ‘academic business’ of the meeting. And as she would blather on, I would smile politely and glance over at the only other member of the ‘team’ who like myself, spoke only when spoken to because you see not only was he a twobie-newbie (meaning he had only 1 year of real experience under his belt and therefore was not allowed to have an opinion) he was…gads…it’s dreadful…he was…Jewish! Oh, my Lord! There I was in a public school in Texas teaching alongside a twobie-newbie-Jewbie!

Only to be honest, I didn’t really care about his religious preference. (Silly me and that whole 1^st Amendment idea our Founding Fathers came up with) But Holy Moses with a menorah, did it ever get under the skin of the Frau and her posse because they feared the twobie-newbie-Jewbie might mention some dreadful Jewish thing while teaching about nouns and verbs or something equally as religiously vital and then they might have to conference with students’ parents because the majority of our kids were Catholic. Though to the best of my knowledge that never happened even though we did have parent conferences and they were…well, let’s just say they were very interesting. (But you'll have to wait for Part 2 for that one)

Moving right along to the next member of the team, the Big B(earded) M(an), he was an older gentleman and was also a special education teacher and therefore had no real ‘power’ other than his amazing ability to make students who needed to be lifted up feel about as tall as an earthworm in the desert. And before I go any farther, seeing as I gave a rather detailed description of Frau Haifisch, I’d be remiss not to mention that the Big BM always said he wanted to show the students that he understood them; that he empathized with them; and, therefore, that he felt the need to dress just like them. Really. Every single day he wore the uniform of the students: a white shirt, blue jeans, a black belt and a pair of leather boots (which weren’t part of the uniform).

Now I never quite understood his reasoning behind dressing like the students because as adults and professionals we were supposed to emulate what the kids should aspire to be one day. And quite frankly, it was just kind of creepy seeing this white haired man in his late 50s with a short beard and dressed like a 14 year old boy. Yes, it was creepy, very, very creepy.

As I mentioned, the Big BM was a SPED teacher but that didn’t impress me because, you see, I, too, was certified in special education. And when the Big BM found out that I actually didn’t need him in my classroom because I could do what he did…and do it better…he decided that since he had to be in the room, his time would be better spent doling out discipline the way the Frau did in her room. (Incidentally, I didn’t have discipline issues—except when the Big BM was in my room. Coincidence?)

Yes, the Big BM took it upon himself to issue demerits and silent lunches to my students without my consent. And that made me a bit hot. Once, he even had the gall to take away the notebook of one of my students who was paying attention and whom I discovered honestly learned best and retained more information when he was doodling. What’s more, he gave the kid 10 demerits for not paying attention! OOOH, now that made my blood boil.

But the piece de resistance was the day I was discussing Marco Polo and how his travels to China helped fuel the fire of exploration like never before. The kids were really into the lesson, taking notes, asking questions, and giggling at my goofy side notes. (Yes, history can be boring without a bit of spice thrown in) When all of the sudden the Big BM threw his hand in the air and said, “Ooo, ooo, Mrs. Brown and I think it would be good for the kids to also know that Marco Polo invented spaghetti!”

I stopped dead in my tracks like a deer caught in the headlights of a camouflaged Jeep driven by good old boys doing a little illegal night hunting in the pitch black darkness of a moonless night. I was utterly dumbfounded because the belief that Marco Polo ‘invented spaghetti’ is a stupid notion that’s perpetuated by morons like the Big BM. Especially when there is ample evidence showing that the ancient Etruscans as far back as 3500 BC had spaghetti like noodles!

And yes…I’ll admit it…that was the moment when I snapped.

The Big BM had gone too far and I can remember as clearly as if it happened yesterday how I clasped my hands together so as to maintain a sense of civility and I said as calmly as I could, “No, Mr. BM. You are incorrect. And as I am the one with the Master’s Degree in history and you are not, perhaps it would be best if you stuck to whatever it is that you do know.” He just stood there as if I’d smacked him straight out of his cowboy boots. Then he started to mumble something and I said, “Thank you, Mr. BM. That’ll be all.” I motioned to the door and he left. Wow! I never felt so empowered.

And to tell you how much my students preferred me over the Big BM, one of my kids, an absolutely brilliant young man who sadly was very high up in a local gang, came up to me and earnestly said in a hushed tone with his deep Mexican accent, “You know, Miss, I got people can take care of him for you if you want.”

I was stunned but I quickly said, “No Christian, I think I can handle Mr. BM myself.”

To wit, Christian smiled and said “Yeah, you prolly can, Miss. But I’m just saying. All you gotta do is give the word.”

Let’s see, I’ve mentioned the quiet twobie-newbie-Jewbie, the Frau, and the Big BM which leaves the last member of ‘the team’. I saved him for last because he was a different sort of fella. A former die hard military man who was actually a great math teacher, I will give him that.

But he had a peculiar way about him…you see he only bathed twice a week (I think…I hope…but I wouldn’t lay odds on it) and he did not wear antiperspirant or deodorant. And if he brushed his teeth, I’ll never be sure because I never got close enough to find out if the garlickly scent that often radiated from him came as a result of the stuff oozing out of his pores or if it came from his mouth.

Yes, the Militantly Malodorous Mathematician liked going au natural. And if it was the 70s that sort of thing might have been alright somewhere. But it wasn’t. It was 2001 and his sort of organic nature could probably have grown fungus.

Now as for his students, being a former Marine, he had an interesting way of getting students to arrive to class on time and keeping them in line because you see, his classroom was an interior room with no windows, two doors (one of which was always closed but never locked because it led into the library) and had just one very slow rotating ceiling fan. Needless to say, the air was a bit…stale in his room. And students would run like mad to get to his class because those who arrived early were handed a notecard with a math equation to be solved.

If they solved it correctly, they got to sit in one of the 10 seats closest to the open door. But if they missed it they had to sit a little farther inside the room. And if they were tardy, sweet Lord in Heaven, the Militantly Malodorous Mathematician would make them sit in the farthest recess of the room where the air hovered like a thick fog of stink. And as for questions, they were only asked by students who really had no clue because no one wanted him to get in their face to learn the answer.

So there you have it…my ‘team’. The folks with whom I, the chit-chatty rambling story-teller, had to share a professional relationship for 180 very long days.

And now that you have a wordy-visual image of them seared into your mind, I do hope you’ll drop by in a few days so you can find out even more about them because I just wanted to whet your whistle today.

So did I do it? Do you think you’ll pop on over in a few days to find out what lies beneath the tip of the iceberg I just hauled out here in the middle of the virtual world?

And that’s all I’ve got...til next time!

Uh, OK— But the zipper is where I draw the line!

noreply@blogger.com (L. Avery Brown) — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 19:41:00 +0000

Greetings and Happy New Year, Kind Reader! Welcome to my first real post of 2012!

Now I’m not one who is big into resolutions per se however I do believe that the steps we take those first days of a New Year helps to set us on the path we follow throughout the year. That having been said, with the arrival of 2012, I decided it was time to take my little spot here in the blogoverse to a different level first and foremost by securing the rights to the domain name www.whenasouthernwomanrambles.com. And this I did because there’s something quite satisfying about outright owning the franchise that is ‘me’.

Second, I did a good deal of decorative revamping here at WASWR so it would better reflect an chic yet relaxed Southern vibe which led me to use the magnolia blossom images and warm garnet background. I think they do a lot for the page!

But looks aside, WASWR is first and foremost my place to share witty, intelligent stories about the silly things that people do, say, and/or overlook. And with that in mind I want WASWR to once again be a place where readers like yourself can drop by and hopefully leave with a smile on their face. Because good gracious gravy, when I look back on my 2011 year most of my posts were closer to ‘boo-hoo, woe is me’ than they were to ‘chortle, snort, chuckle, laugh’!

And that’s a shame too especially when I think of all the wacky things I have swimming about in my noggin like the story I’ve got for you today. I hope you enjoy it because it certainly left an impression on me because it’s so outrageous and reaffirms the old saying ‘truth is stranger than fiction!’

UH, OK. But the zipper is where I draw the line!

For the past couple of months my life has been a bit topsy turvy because of the stroke my mother had back on September 19. (Now if you, Kind Reader, happen to have been visiting my site over the past few months you know all about how that day sent me into a tailspin and if this is your first time at WASWR, please feel to click here so you can read all about it.) And before I go any farther I’d like to say that she is doing loads better.

She’s home, chatting more, and walking quite well. To be honest, my mother is actually more active now than before she had the stroke. In fact, in a weird way…she’s healthier now than she was. Of course, it’s a tragedy that it took what could have been a fatal medical event to get her to the healthy place where she is now.

But she’s not 100% better. It’ll take a good deal of time and hard work for that to happen. And to help her get as close to 100% better as possible, my mother goes for physical, occupational and cognitive therapy sessions at least 2 times a week. Now it’s a right good little drive to get her to the facility but I don’t mind for 3 reasons:

First, it makes me feel better knowing that my mother is well on the road to recovery. That’s a given.

Second, I get to drive 85mph on the flyover toll road to get to get to the facility. Yes, I suppose having been born and raised in the South I am probably genetically predisposed to occasionally driving like one is related to a NASCAR racer. Yes sir-ee! I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get a thrill out of zipping down the expressway especially when I glance down to see the cars on the regular road below chugging along only to be stopped at light after light after light. So woo hoo for Texas and their new speed limit laws on toll roads and expressways!

And last, after I drop my mother at rehab, I get to scoot back down my favorite toll road so I can spend 2 to 3 hours at my new favorite chillaxing zone, Panera Bread Company. Oh, Lord have mercy, I tell you there is something so inviting about the smell of fresh bread baking not to mention the hint of cinnamon and apples and so many other goodies that fill the air of the free Wi-Fi eatery with soft cushiony chairs where I can literally put my feet up, nibble on sweet treats, and not feel one iota guilty about it! Best of all, the crew at this particular Panera knows me well enough that they don’t even have to ask if I’ll be getting a pastry rather they ask, ‘Will it be a cinnamon bun today, Ms. Brown or are you going to try something different?’ Now that’s service!

But getting back to the story…

A few days ago, after I’d dropped my mother off at the rehab center, I needed to made a little…ahem…pit stop to use the facilities before I headed off to Panera. Sure I suppose I could have waited until I got to Panera but I didn’t and if I had you'd not get to read the story of one of the weirdest experiences I have ever and I truly mean ever had.

You see after I’d stepped into the ladies restroom at the rehab center which has only 2 stalls, one standard and one for handicapped people, I saw that the handicapped stall was already occupied so I, naturally, went to the unoccupied stall and like usual hung my purse on the handy dandy hanger. Then as I was hanging up my jacket I heard the woman next to me grunt slightly and say, ‘Oh, Lordy, Lordy.’

And all I could think was Jeez, two Lordys…that cannot be good so I immediately set about getting ready to do what I needed to do because I wasn’t sure what was in store for my olfactory sense and I’d gulped down two cups of hot tea not more than 30 minutes prior.

Then I heard the woman in the stall next to me say, ‘Excuse me? Hello? Excuse me?’

Great. She’s probably out of toilet paper. I replied, “Yes?” and put my hand to the paper roll so I would be able to quickly hand the distressed double Lordy lady some tissue.

But nay, nay. She didn’t mention the toilet paper at all. No. Rather she said…and I kid you not—“I know this is going to sound crazy but…but (big exasperated huff) I can’t get my pants unbuttoned. Do you think you could help me?”

WHOA! I was not expecting to hear that…ever!

However, instead of thinking things like Is she joking? Is she some sort of bathroom sicko? I immediately thought of my mother and the fact that since she had the stroke there have been more than a few occasions where she’s need my assistance to use the toilet and since I was still in the rehab facility I figured that had to be the case so I looked heavenward, gave a quick sigh and said, “Uh, okay. Be right out.”

The double Lordy lady said, “Oh, thank you! Thank you!”

Now bear in mind, I’m thinking this woman must really be in a dire strait to ask a perfect stranger to help her unbutton her pants. And even though I really (stress on the really) had to tinkle myself, I wasn’t about to let someone in such great need suffer. So I put on my Florence Nightengale face and quickly stepped out of the stall (luckily I’d not gotten so far as to unbutton my own jeans) expecting to see someone with a physical malady and either in a wheelchair or using a walker. In fact, I even had a quick thought as to whether or not I ought to get someone from the rehab center to come help.

But nay, nay again. There was no need as there was no wheelchair, no walker…not even a cane anywhere near the woman with the unusual request. Rather this is what I saw immediately after opening the stall door: a buxom Amazon woman who I think might have been in her mid-thirties sporting super skinny jeans, pointy toed designer high heeled boots (which made her even taller), a gorgeous deep blue top and had a hairstyle that made me wonder if she had an itty bitty hair stylist shoved deep down in her giant Coach pocketbook. Oh, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t point that this woman was an employee at the rehab facility because she was wearing an ID badge with the words ‘Tina M’ and ‘Records’ on it.

Imagine my surprise. After all there I was expecting to open up the stall door and see a woman with some sort of physical need but I wound up standing with my eyes level as the horizon with a pair of too round and ‘up there’ (even with a really good sport bra) to be real boobs.

She said in a rushed, exasperated voice, “Oh, thank you so much. I was worried about what to do cause I really have to go but I just got my nails done at the salon on my lunch break and when I got in here I realized I can’t get my button undone without messing up the paint cause it’s not all the way dry yet cause I had to get back here and clock in. And it costs too much money to ruin it.”

Tina M. showed me her nails. They, like her breasticles, were too perfect to be real and they were long…but not quite talon length…and painted a rich, shimmery blue color which I figure was a spur of the moment choice because it looked good with her blue shirt.

Well, sweet baby Jesus in a cradle! That is a dilemma! How could I not feel sorry for Tina M. from the Records department?! What kind of good Christian woman would I be if I let this poor, woe begotten woman with the hip blue colored false nails suffer in such a dreadful way? And as my mind tried to grapple the enormity of her plight all I could think to say was, “Uh, it's no problem.”

Then Tina M. did the same move my daughter used to do when she was 4 and needed help getting her big girl pants unbuttoned; she tugged up her shirt a bit to expose the button in question and sort of shifted her hips so I could get to the darn thing. And all the while I’m thinking This is weird…very, very weird. However, instead of saying anything I smiled politely and quickly unbuttoned her pants.

Figuring that Tina M. would be able to take it from there, I turned to reenter the stall from which I’d just emerged.

But nay, nay for a third time! Because before I could put my hand on the swinging door dear, dear Tina M. said, “Sorry, do you mind?”

I glance over my shoulder and thought Oh my God, what does this ding-dong need now? But I said, “Yes?”

She pointed to her zipper and asked, “Do you mind getting the zipper, too?”

The zipper? Really? All I wanted to do was come in here, use the toilet, and then go to Panera. But nooooo. I’m having to help Barbie’s stupid third cousin, Tina, go potty. But again instead of saying what I wanted to say I replied, “Oh, sure.” I quickly unzipped her pants and thought Okay, the zipper is where I draw the line. Yes, that’s my line in the sand and I won’t cross it!

Tina M. smiled and said, “Thanks!” Then she quickly dashed back into the stall where I assume she was able to peel down her skin tight pants so she could tend to the business she needed.

I quickly stepped back into the stall where my purse and jacket were still hanging on the door and reached for my own button. But then I stopped because it dawned on me that if Tina M. needed help getting unbuttoned and unzipped she was going to need help rebuttoning and rezipping. Was I really up for round 2?

Now it was around that time I heard Tina M. give that ‘Whew that feels better’ sigh and a dark thought crossed my mind Oh, Lord! What if she needs *gulp* other help? No, no, no. Line in the sand! Line in the sand! I stood there a second longer and pondered the situation. Do I really need to use the toilet that badly? No, no. I can wait until I get to Panera, right? Yeah, yeah. I can wait, I’m good.

I knew I had to get out of there before Tina M. finished emptying her tank so I grabbed my things off the hanger and yanked the stall door open. Then I scurried to the exit door and dashed out of the restroom. I didn’t look back and I didn’t stop until I was at my car.

I made it to Panera in no time flat and as I stood in line to get my ‘Bacon Turkey Bravo/hold the Bravo sauce’ I realized that I no longer needed to use the facilities. Nope. Not so much as even a slight littler urge. I guess the whole Tina M. ordeal had caused my bladder to shut down temporarily.

That was Tuesday and now it’s Saturday. And as I sit here wrapping up my first post for 2012 I cannot help but wonder about what became of Tina M from the Records department. Maybe she was able to tug up her own zipper and button her jeans like a big girl. Maybe not. Maybe she’s still in the restroom waiting for someone to come help her get dressed. No, I’ll never know. And that’s fine with me!

And that’s all I’ve got…til next time!

It's starting to look a bit different here!

noreply@blogger.com (L. Avery Brown) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 20:51:00 +0000

Yes, I'm really starting to see the new look for my site. So tell me...what do you think? Are there any changes/additions you'd suggest?

Please let me know and I'll see if I can squeeze them in!

2012 is here! And soon a new look for WASWR, too!!

noreply@blogger.com (L. Avery Brown) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 21:51:00 +0000

That's right--there are some BIG changes coming to my little spot in the blogoverse. My first change is already in place as I've now secured the right to the domain name www.whenasouthernwomanrambles.com. And in a couple of days I'm going to have my nifty new look for the world to see. I'm so excited for 2012 because 2011 was a roller coaster for me. So please stop by in the next few days to see what's happening here at WASWR!

The Laptop is Dead, Long Live the Laptop

noreply@blogger.com (L. Avery Brown) — Sat, 17 Dec 2011 05:58:00 +0000

Greetings Kind Reader! Thank you so much for dropping by. UGH!! If you happened to have popped over here a week or so ago and read my post 'Banana Seat Biker' you were probably expecting (as was I) to get to read another recollection of mine telling a goofy Christmas tale the way only I, a rambling southern woman, could.

But you didn't get to read that post. Nope. Because my beloved laptop bit the proverbial dust a week or so ago. Yes, that's right. My sweet little laptop where I spent countless hours tippity tapping away so that I could get all the thoughts that have been swimming around in my head for years out died right in front of my eyes!

Oh, it was tragic. But I knew it was coming. (I just didn't want to believe it.)

It all started with...FarmVille. Yes, FarmVille. The addictive game created by Zynga that has no strategic merit and requires very little brain power to play. It's nothing but a virtual farming game. I 'plow' little plots then I 'plant' any of the myriad of 'seeds' available at FarmVille's virtual market. Then I wait for the crops to grow. Some are done in four hours; some in four days. Then I 'harvest' the colorful little things. And when I've harvest enough of them, I get a little sign that says I've mastered the crop.

But it's not just 'crops' that grow in my virtual Lala Land. No. I have cows, chickens, pigs & horses, too. All of which need to be tended.

Yeah, it's kind of a 'no brainer' sort of game. But I like it. No, if I'm being honest...I love it. There...I said it. And that's OK.

Oh, good grief...this post is supposed to be about the said demise of my laptop...

I was playing FarmVille one night (I only play at night and only for about 1 hour...my husband might say otherwise but I'm sticking with my 1 hour story!) when I clicked on the icon to visit my English Countryside* farm but instead of a new page being loaded where I could go harvest hops, barley, and lady slippers my computer froze.

*Yes, that's right...not only do I have my 'home farm' I have a farm in the virtual English Countryside. I also have one on the coast. And a few days ago the folks at Zynga released the 'Winter Wonderland' farm where I can grow things like gingerbread men and gummi bears.

So I did what I assume everybody else does when their computers won't 'do' anything. I did a hard shutdown and restarted my machine. The first time I thought nothing of it because it seemed that the problem resolved itself. But the next night the same thing happened again. Only it happened twice.

Then a day or so later I was working on, believe it or not, the post I'd planned on putting up last week when the photo/picture editing program I like to use loaded then locked the machine. Followed by a FarmVille freeze later that night. That's when I told Todd, "I think something goofy is going on with my machine." And he reminded me to back up everything on a USB stick just in case. So I did.

Things sort of started to go down hill...fast.

The next day I was working at my desk and wanted to hook my laptop to the big monitor (like I tend to do during the day because I like having the big screen and standard keyboard) only when I plugged it in both screens went screwy. It was like watching that scene in the Stanley Kubrick film 2001 where the astronaut starts seeing all sorts of psychedelic colors whizzing past him because the screen(s) went black for a second and then filled with jagged lines in varying colors. GADS!

I sent Todd a frantic text and he texted back, "Uh oh, that does not sound good. Sounds like your video card might be going." UGH! "Shut it down, unplug the monitor, restart it and see if it works for you."

I did what Todd said and...it did work for the rest of the day and I was even able to farm later that evening before I went to bed. YAY!

But...(geez, I hate it when a 'but' comes after a declaration of joy!)

The next day I was at Panera enjoying my 3 hours of non-Mom, non-caregiver time enjoying my warm cinnamon bun and sipping on a Mt. Dew. When I opened up my faithful laptop and turned it on only to get the same screwy black screen only this time the only color that showed up was red and I swear it looked like my screen was bleeding! OH NO! NO! NO! NO! This can NOT be good!

I said to myself, 'Be calm. Just do what you did last time. Shut it down then restart it.' I pressed the power button waited for the little blue light to go off and counted to 30. I pushed the power button.

The little blue light came on...good. The start up screen came on...very good. The Windows start up screen came on....ooh, ooh. Then it shut down and tried to restart on its own...bad. And when it got to the Windows start up screen it shut down again...very bad. It tried again to restart.

Only this time. I got...oh, how it hurts to even say it...I got...(cue the ominous music)...the Blue Screen of Death! VERY VERY BAD!!! The message was ominous. All I remember was something about a 'fatal error' and if this was the first time I'd gotten the BSoD message to do a hard shutdown and try to reboot.

(Now imagine if you will me frantically texting Todd while reading the message on my screen and trying to not look like I was about to go off the deep end right there in the Panera)

I tried to reboot. After all, it was the first time I'd seen the BSoD. Maybe it might work.

But it didn't.

I asked Todd what I should do. He called me back. He did not text me mind you, Todd actually used his iPhone like a telephone (weird) and called me. He said calmly, "That really, really doesn't sound good. I thought it might have been your video card going out but if it's asking if you want to use System Restore, your motherboard might be completely gone." There was a pause followed by, "Were you able to back everything up the other day?" (At that moment I was SO happy he'd said to do that or...gulp...it gives me the willies to even consider that 3+ years of work might have been lost in an instant!)

I asked, "Well, should I tell it to restore?"

"You might as well. If it doesn't work I think your laptop is dead." I pressed the restart button and was filled with such dread.

The next screen I saw came up 5 minutes later.

Todd said, "I'm sorry, dear, I think it's really dead now. Well, it is Christmas. Maybe we can get a good deal on a new laptop. You can use Jessica's until we figure out what to do."

Jessica's laptop? Ugh. No, there's nothing wrong with it. It works and works well. It's just slow and heavy and doesn't have all the nifty programs my laptop has...er...had. My audio program, my photo program, my video editing program! Gone!

My laptop was dead. Poof. Just like that!

And all that was left was a ghostly white screen...

But Todd said not to get upset. He'd start looking for a replacement right away.

And as for all my cool programs he said he might be able to (do some computer engineer magic and) physically remove the Motherboard on my dearly departed laptop to see if he can retrieve the program stuff.

I used Jessica's machine somewhat begrudgingly. Yes, I could still play FarmVille and I could even write. But it just didn't feel 'right'. I know it's weird. But I couldn't. Oh, I tried. I really did. But for some reason I couldn't do it. And thus my goofy little Christmas tale that I promised to post a few days ago never got posted.

What's that you say? If I wasn't 'feeling' it with J's machine how did this post come to be? Let's just call it a Christmas miracle because yesterday my new super cool, back lit keyboard, ultra lightweight, sleek new Dell XPS 14Z was delivered by one of Santa's elves over at FedEx! Joy! Joy!

Yes, Todd found a good deal! It's not got all the bells and whistles on it...yet! Because Todd's going to dissect my old laptop this weekend to see if he can retrieve the program files and if he can--WOO HOO! If he can't...I guess I'll get to fiddle around the Internet to find all the goodies I want to have on my machine.

I can't tell you how happy I was to get to play FarmVille. Oh, yes! I was able to farm...and farm fast, too! Faster than I've farmed in quite a while. And today as I sit here in my little spot at the Panera bread nibbling on a cinnamon bun and sipping down my Mt. Dew, I'm finally able to get to really 'know' my new laptop. I suppose you could say we're bonding. (Now I know what my daddy meant when he said there was no typewriter he felt more comfortable on than his old Royal).

Did I grieve the demise of the old gal? Yes. But this is the 21st century where a 7 day week is like 7 months in terms of computers. I had to move forward. I'm sure it's what she would've wanted.

Banana Seat Biker

noreply@blogger.com (L. Avery Brown) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 20:47:00 +0000

Greetings kind reader…it’s been nearly 6 weeks since I’ve been here at WASWR and before you start wondering if my silence was related to something dire—there’s no need to worry because everyone is doing well at the Brown house! (*Cheers and hoorays fill the air*) So why the long silence? The reason is really quite simple—I decided that I ~~wanted to~~ needed to take a break and get all my proverbial ducks in a row so that I could sit down at my computer and actually enjoy writing so that I can do it because I want to do it as opposed to feeling like I had to do it.

And you know what…it worked! Once again I feel totally stoked about my passion for word wrangling. In fact, I’m so filled with lexical zeal and the spirit of giving, seeing as it’s the Christmas season that I’m going to make a pledge to (try to) offer up one post every day for the next ~~22 days~~ ~~3weeks~~…ugh…okay…before I bite off more than I can chew, perhaps I should simply say that:

In the spirit of the Christmas season where it is more blessed to give than to receive, I will try like the dickens to harness my inner Charles Dickens and post something of a Yuletide nature every other day. (Maybe...cross my fingers!)

Fair enough?

Now comes the hard part…choosing which of the many precious memories that come to mind to write about. Let’s see…there’s the Christmas when I know (and I honest to gosh know) I heard jingle bells outside my window in the wee hours of Christmas morn back when I was 10 and there’s the Christmas at my Grandmother’s house when I was 6 and I was given a brand new shiny 1976 50₵ piece and then there was the year when I got my very first real bicycle…

Oh, yes, now that’s a powerful memory. It was 1978 and I’d been begging my parents for a real bike like my brother and sister had ever since I hit the big ‘infinity symbol’ back on the Ides of May. But I didn’t get one then. No. I just got a Ronald McDonald birthday party which I now realize was a big deal back in ’78 because it must have cost my parents a small fortune that even then I knew we didn’t have to pay for nearly 20 kids to get the all new ‘Happy Meals’, a themed cake, and a visit from Ronald McDonald himself. Don’t get me wrong…it was a great party and I even got a nifty and very girly ‘Big Wheel’ that was pink and white. But it wasn’t as cool as having a ‘big girl’ bicycle.

But I decided not to dwell on that too much and I sort of put it out of my mind until school let out a month later because my best friend, Jeanna, had a real bicycle and whenever I’d go visit her at her house, we’d have to walk everywhere (granted ‘everywhere’ was literally across the street from Jeanna's house so we could play on our elementary school’s playground but then again when you’re 8 years old, walking anywhere over 100 yards is like walking to the moon.) And all that trudging about just to get to the playground gave me ample time to ponder how great it would be if we could just ride to the playground.

So I tried reasoning with Mama and Daddy by saying, “Puh-leeeeezzzz! I really need a real bike! Everybody has one except for me!” (Alright, so maybe I wasn’t 100% positive that everyone had one but I couldn’t let them know that!)

But apparently my parents weren’t swayed by my fervent insistence that out of the bazillions of kids on planet Earth, I was the only child who was bicycle-less. That was okay though because I figured if I just kept at it, I’d eventually wear them down. Thus started my thrice daily spiel where I’d very dramatically remind them that if I only had a bike I’d be ever so happy and could do so much more with my life. Unfortunately that argument didn’t work either because my daddy would just smile and say things like, “Pumpkin, you’ve got a perfectly good practically brand new Big Wheel you can take and ride over at Jeanna’s house.”

Then I would look at him like I'd been walloped upside my head with a 2x4 and my jaw would drop. 'Daaaadddddeeee! NO! I can't do that! No, no, no!' Because while I loved my Big Wheel...it wasn’t a bicycle. Nope. It was just a glorified tricycle and being that I was 8 years old I was way too old for a trike!

And my mother, well, she took logical arguments to a whole ‘nother level by reminding me quite frankly that, “Baby, you don’t know how to ride a two wheeler. If you got one you’d have to have training wheels.” (LORD NO!!! Not…training wheels!)

I pooh-poohed the notion and insisted that I didn’t need them. Not one bit. Not at all. And I decided I had to do something to prove my point so that summer I took matters into my own hands and decided to show everyone that I could ride with out training wheels by using my sister’s bicycle and going down the hill near our house. And I rode it too…yep…I rode it right down the hill, screaming all the way down and wobbling like a drunken fool with my feet desperately trying to land on the pedals and failing miserably. Then I rode my sister’s bike right off the road, down a ditch and into a great green clump of…poison ivy.

I had bumps and bruises and scrapes galore. And later on that night I broke out with a poison ivy rash from head to toe. It was not one of my greater moments and as Mama and Daddy dabbed Calamine lotion on all my various itchy boo-boos I conceded the fact that maybe I did need training wheels and maybe I should wait until I was a bit older. But then summer faded away and all my wounds became nothing but memories as I made my way to 3^rd grade.

But I learned something very important in the first few days of 3^rd grade because I now had definitive proof that everybody (in my class) had a bike except me. So the begging started once again. And Mama & Daddy just kept saying ‘no’.

Then when it came time to write our letters to Santa mine was short sweet and to the point. There were lots of things on that list but there were only 3 things that I really, REALLY wanted:

1. A Baby Alive (to wit my mother said, “No. Absolutely positively no! That thing will get all smelly and stinky and I will personally tell Santa to forget even considering it.”);

2. A Mork & Mindy lunchbox (Mama & Daddy said, “Now that sounds like something Santa would be happy to get you”); and,

3. A bicycle (and I was reminded, yet again, that I was too small for a big girl bike but instead of totally shooting down my dream they said that maybe, just maybe, Santa might see something in me that could warrant giving me one…only I’d have to be on my very best behavior to prove to the Jolly Jelly-Belly Elf that I deserved one)

HOPE!! Yes!!! Finally, my parents were beginning to understand that there are some things in life that Santa understood better than parents ever could!

Oh, joy! Oh, happiness! Oh, flubber-nuggets! If I wanted to show Santa I was worthy of a big girl bike, I had to be on my very best behavior because my mother told me she saw an elf zipping along the floor earlier that day. And then my daddy said that he was positive he heard small elfish voices talking in a very serious tone the night before when I was shouting about not needing to take a bath.

Elves! Blast it all! They were always causing me strife with their super-stealthy ways in the weeks prior to Christmas! But I wasn't about to let some thumb-sized little people with pointy ears get the better of me. No way. I went to my room and developed my super secret ‘Operation Be Good’ plan that would hopefully get me through the next 20 some odd days in the hopes that Santa…the wise, understanding man that he was…would see how very deserving I was and how I ought to get the bike I’d been dreaming of for so long.

I made my bed every day. I fed the dogs. I took baths before I was told to. I even didn’t tattle-tell on my sister for being on the telephone past 9PM. I did everything an 8 year old could possibly do at home. And when I was at school, I was even sweeter than I typically was…and yes, I really was one of those annoyingly sweet little kids, too.

But would it really make a difference? Would those elves report back to Santa that I was deserving? I couldn’t be sure. So I asked my daddy if I should ask Jesus if he could talk to Santa and he told me, “Pumpkin, I’m sure Jesus would love to hear from you but maybe you ought to ask him for something a little less selfish. Remember, there are kids all over the world who might want nothing but a pair of shoes to wear or some rice to eat. Maybe you ought to ask him if he could help out those children instead.”

Wow. Talk about putting a lid on my idea. But he was right. Then again my daddy was usually always right when it came to things like that. And so from that night on, instead of asking just for a little help in the bicycle department, I made sure to ask Jesus to help out all the kids who weren’t as lucky as I was.

And so it came to pass that Christmas Day finally arrived...

It was a drippy, dreary day that Christmas Day back in ’78 and I can remember walking down the hallway wearing my nightgown and slippers and carrying my doll, Piggles. I approached the living room and closed my eyes…hoping… But I was afraid to look for fear that I’d be disappointed because as I thought about it there were lots of times when I wasn’t exactly the model of ‘goodness’ over the past few weeks so I kept my eyes closed and guided myself along by putting my hand on the wall and when I felt the door frame I quickly opened my eyes and peaked inside.

At first all I saw were a couple of piles of gifts for my siblings and myself and I felt a bit weepy because there was no bicycle. Oh well. At least I got the Mork & Mindy lunchbox.

Then I stepped inside the living room all the way and that’s when I saw it…the edge of a white wheel peeking out from behind the tree.

Could it be? Could it really be possible that there was a big girl bicycle on the other side of the tree? I ran to the tree and there she was…my Sweet Pea!

Joy of joys! Finally! Oh, how I loved Sweet Pea. I can still see her today in my mind’s eye just like she was that first time my once youthful eyes saw her. She was perfect…she was yellow and green and had a banana seat with the words ‘Sweet Pea’ on it. Oh and her handlebars had these sparkly, gummy pinkish handholds with equally sparkly opalescent pink, purple, and white tassels that hung down at least a foot from either side. And best of all she had a little white plastic basket that had 3 flowers on the front. Yes, she had training wheels…but who cared? I ~~knew~~ was pretty sure I could master the whole two wheel thing in no time flat.

Oh, it was a grand day for me that December 25 back in 1978 because Sweet Pea was more than I’d ever dreamed for. And as luck (and lots of wobbly attempts) had it, it only took a couple of days for me to say ‘so-long, training wheels!’ And within hours of my release from those training wheels, Sweet Pea and I were busy having adventures like none I could have ever dreamed of before she came into my life. Yes, we had such a grand time together as we cruised up, down and all around Belvedere Drive pretending anything and everything my imaginative 8 year old noggin could come up with.

What a Christmas it was. What a joyous, wonderful Christmas, indeed!

But good gravy, Daisy! I ought to stop right here otherwise I might just start rambling on and on about the adventures we had! Perhaps that’ll be my next post and if not, I know it’ll be one really soon!

Words, Plain and Simple

noreply@blogger.com (L. Avery Brown) — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 21:45:00 +0000

**Sorry, no silly pictures to go with this one, Kind Reader...this is a post purely from my heart...**

Greetings Kind Reader…it’s been a long time. And I’ll be honest and say that for a while there, I wasn’t even sure if I’d make it back to blogging. But not because I don’t like blogging; quite the contrary, I love blogging. But not just blogging, I love writing. And I especially love the art of writing.

I’m not talking about putting down words to simply relay information. No, no. The kind of writing I’m talking about draws to mind visions of Faulkner sitting at a desk as The Sound and the Fury comes to life. I think of people like Mary Shelley recreating her once told tale of Frankenstein’s Monster and making it even more terrifying. And believe it or not, I think of Dr. Seuss cleverly pointing out the absurdity of the Cold War notion of ‘You’ve got a gun? Well, I’ve got a bigger one’ in his Butter Battle Book. Sure his drawings are powerful, too, but oh, to think of all the thinking he musta thunka to come up with the wordily worded tell-tale that spoke somewhat sneakily to children around the world about something which was only discussed by adults.

So yes to me, that sort of writing is art. And whatever I write no matter if it is something silly or if it’s something rather deep, I always try to think of myself as an artist and to always be cognizant of the message I want my words to convey. Please don’t get me wrong, I’m not so pompous as to compare myself to true masters of the written word but I do strive to be a part of the artistic world in which they and other artists live.

You see, I try to paint with my words even though I’ve not got a palate of colors from which to choose or a bounty of brushes which can transform a dull piece of canvas into a painting that can take one’s breath away like the works of a Master painter can. And I try to sculpt with my thoughts but of course I’ve no chisels or mallets with which I can take a slab of marble and free the beauty hidden within the way that Michelangelo or Rodin could. For them, their tools were like extensions of their bodies. And for me the only tools I have are my mind, my fingers, and my words.

Plain, ordinary words. Granted some are longer than others and can be difficult to spell but once they are mastered, they are still just words. And the truly amazing thing is that all those words, the long and the short, are nifty things because in reality they’re nothing more than some cleverly placed letters which are essentially a bunch of lines and curves that people thousands of years ago decided meant A, B, C, etc…

But Lord have mercy when all those letters are lined up just right and then the words they make are put down in a particular order, they suddenly have the power to say something that can touch a person deep down inside. Yes, words can move us to tears that well up so full in our eyes our vision becomes warped almost as if we are lying at the bottom of a puddle looking up until we find the strength to wipe them away. They can also pull laughter from so deep within our bellies, we find ourselves reeling from a weird sort of pleasure/pain phenomenon where we’ll clutch at our sides because it hurts so badly and yet we feel strangely satiated by the intensity of it. And then there are the moments when words can fill our hearts with a warmth so inviting we feel as if we become like hot air balloons and can practically float. Likewise, in an instant, words can cause such a crushing blow to our hearts that we are left feeling hollow and empty as if some thief came along and snatched away everything that ever made us happy.

Most people take the power of words for granted. But there are other people, writers, who have come to realize that if a spoken word can be so powerful then the written word can be utterly awesome and can last forever. And just like the calm that descends upon a painter when he can finally look at his canvas after the image in his head is freed or how a sculptor sighs with relief and satisfaction when that last bit of stone falls away and his vision is realized, I find that when I write, something happens inside me, too. It makes me feel…good.

Honestly, there is something so satisfying about the physical sensation of hearing the thoughts in my head and then feeling them slip from my mind and down through my fingertips as they rest on my keyboard, knowing exactly which key to press. How do they know where my mind is going? How are they able to keep up with all the twists and turns in my head? How is it that my fingers know exactly what it is that I want to say when I’m not always certain? Perhaps I’ll figure it out one day when I’ve nothing better to do than to ponder such deep things. Or maybe I ought to not delve into such mysteries. After all there’s something rather inspiring about believing my fingers can find the words that help me make calm the world around me.

So now I suppose you’re wondering if writing fills me with such obvious joy, why then haven’t I been writing like a mad woman these past few weeks? Why has it been so quiet at the place where the Southern Woman Rambles?

Why? I wasn’t really sure until just the other day. And on that note, I have to admit that the reason was…I was afraid. I was afraid that amid all the chaos of the past few months and especially in the days since September 19, when my mother had her stroke, that I had lost the ability to write because every single time I thought about sitting down at the computer nothing came to my mind. Nothing. There was just this sense of anxious dread. So I stepped away from my little desk and focused on what had to be done.

I kept saying to myself, I’ll write something tomorrow, I will. But I didn’t. Why? Because I felt like it was selfish of me to take time away from my mother because she needed me and still needs me; morning and night. What’s more, I felt like it was selfish of me to take time away from my daughter because when she wasn’t at school and even a few times while she was at school she needed me and she still needs me. Likewise, I felt as if I indulged in writing during the hour or so before my husband and I would nod off to sleep, I would be taking away the only real quiet time we had together.

And before I realized what was happening, I was making sure I was ‘there’ for everyone…except for myself and whenever the notion of doing something for me popped into my head I would think to myself, Geez, talk about selfish.

I even went so far as to tell my husband in an emotional text, “I think I’m just going to forget about writing. It was a stupid pipe dream anyway. I hate the thought of writing now. The idea of my books being rejected scares me and leave me terrified that I’m nothing but a loser trying to be something I’ll never be because I’ve never succeeded at anything before, so why should writing be any different? I feel hopeless.” (Taken directly off my iPhone from last Friday) And he texted back to me very simply, “It WILL get BETTER.”

Those four words…so simple and so plain made me realize there is always hope. They reminded me of the beauty and power of words and suddenly it dawned on me that the thief who’d snatched away everything that made me happy was, in fact, myself. And with that realization I felt the weight that had been crushing down on me start to lift and the hollow, empty sensation where my heart is started to fill with hope. So maybe my books won’t get published but then again maybe they will…one day.

So there you have it…I did it. And even though I was afraid I’d not make it past my ‘Greetings Kind Reader’ like I’d done a few times before today, I did it. I wrote this post from beginning to end (with a few tears thrown in for good measure) and lo and behold the people who I thought needed me so badly survived for a couple of hours without me. Amazing.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, Kind Reader I’ve got a Halloween costume to pull out of the closet. It’s going to be a busy night at the Brown house and I intend on having some fun…I think I deserve it.

Happy Halloween to you all.

Thanks again for stopping by and that’s all I’ve got, until next time!

The Saga of the Extremely Stressed Out Rambling Southern Woman, continued...

noreply@blogger.com (L. Avery Brown) — Fri, 30 Sep 2011 04:08:00 +0000

Greetings kind reader…it’s been a while, I know. However I can honestly say that I have yet another solid reason for having been away. And this one is, in a word, a doozy. (So I'll go ahead and say that if you don't have about 10 minutes to make your way through this, the latest chapter in the saga of the extremely stressed out rambling Southern Woman, it's fine. I totally understand!)

When last I left my wordy mark here at WASWR, I’d promised that my next post would tickle your funny bone because quite frankly I thought that I’d dealt with just about everything I thought a person could deal with in a relatively short period of time but apparently I was 100%, without a doubt…wrong.

How so? Well, I suppose I could go ahead and tell you…but where’s the fun in that? That would be sort of like going to see the movie Titanic and having someone beside you say, ‘You know it sinks, right?’ (Sorry if you’ve not seen it but if so, you’ve obviously been living in a cave for the past 15 years. At least I didn’t give away the fact that Rose lives and Jack dies.)

So let me start at the beginning…
just after I put up my September 13 post…

We were settling back into normal ‘just moved in’ life. For instance, we’d put pictures on the wall in my mother’s room so it would feel more like it was ‘her space’ & we came to the realization that there was no way we were going to fit all the stuff that used to fit in our old, way oversized double car garage into our new barely holds 2 cars garage only at the time even after the moving company came by on the 14^th to collect the 170 some odd boxes and packing paper we’d unpacked and stacked ever so neatly in the previously mentioned eensy-weensy garage. And once all the boxes were gone, I was able to use a bit of 'organizing magic' to get both cars in the garage.

We even found the time during that same week to attend the Vandegrift High School Theatre Booster Club meeting where I ever so kindly agreed to become the ‘webmaster’ for the group and spruce up their website…which I’ve yet to actually do because after I finally figured out what the domain name is that was registered (not by me) via Godaddy.com, I realized that it was only the domain name that was registered. And after searching Godaddy for about 2 hours (wasting perfectly good Farmville playing time) I learned that simply having a domain name alone does not allow one to build a website…seems that requires purchasing a ‘hosting’ package either through Godaddy or another hosting site. (Now if any of you happen to know some way to get over this virtual Mt. Everest, I’d be ever so grateful for your input. Seriously, send me an email via the “Got Something On Your Mind?” portal on my right sidebar.)

By Friday, September 16, I was all Godaddy’ed out of my mind and decided to put it away for I could enjoy some time with Todd, Jessica, and my mother, Lavinia, before Jessica and I had to drive Todd to the airport on Saturday at 4AM so he could board a flight bound for Shanghai, China and a 2 week business trip. So enjoy ourselves we did. And when Jessica and I dropped Todd off at the airport on Saturday with big hugs and reminders to be wary of what he ate and to make sure to find us each a nifty little gift. Later that night I even went to the first annual Steiner Ranch Ladies Night Out.

I wore a fabulous little pant suit with terrific cranberry colored heels. Too bad we couldn't get them in the picture. But they were great shoes...even if my feet did hurt like nobody's business by 11PM. I met some fabulous women, had terrific hors d'oeuvres, and best of all, I won a few door prizes! I fell into bed feeling quite happy (sore toes and all...but then again, sometimes one must suffer for the shoes!) And by the time the three generations of women at the Brown house had made it through Sunday, I thought to myself that we were headed toward a terrific week.

But then Monday, September 19 came along and everything changed.

Oh, it started well enough. I got Jessica off to school & on my way home decided that we needed to have some autumnal color in our yard because even though the Texas soil was as dry as a sponge in a desert and the daytime temperature was supposed to get up to 100 for something like the bazillionth time in Lord only knows how long…Autumn was just a couple of days away and even though it may sound crazy, I’m one of those people who truly believes that if I can make it look like the season then it is the season! So I needed to get some autumnal flowers.

Yes, my flower bed needed some spicy orange, tangy yellow, and even a some toasty, cinnamon sprinkled reds. And my front door needed something that screamed IT’S AUTUMN…NOW LET’S THINK COOL THOUGHTS!! So when I got home, I got my autumnal ‘Welcome Friends’ door art & put it on the front door. Then I decided it was time to get some flowers. And since working with flowers is something my mother loves to do, we headed off to a little town called ‘Bee Cave’

This is where things started to unravel…

I suppose I should have known something wasn’t quite right when Mother had more difficulty than usual getting from the car, using her walker, to the nifty power buggy. But I didn’t. And when I had to keep redirecting her to ‘Work with me Mama, I need your scooter to put the flowers in. If you keep scooting away, we’ll never get out of here’ maybe I should have started to make a connection that she wasn’t making a connection. But I didn’t. Honestly, I figured it was just because her blood sugar was low and she needed a bit of lunch.

So after we paid for the lovely flowers and headed back towards home, I said, “I know, let’s stop at that new place called P.Terry’s!” And with the prospect of getting a tasty lunch at a new place (we like checking out different eateries) Mother seemed to perk back up to her usual self and the odd behavior 10 minutes earlier left my mind.

We pulled in to P.Terry’s and could hear ‘oldies’ playing through the loudspeakers. It was like an old fashioned burger joint…only this place had an amazing view of the Texas Hill Country where we live. The air was still fairly cool. The sun was shining bright. And there wasn’t a single cloud in the clear, blue sky. Yes, this was going to be a great lunch and when we were done eating we were going to drop off the flowers at the house then go get my mother’s Texas driver’s license so she’d be all official (it’s a bit of a headache to get a license in TX).

Well, at least that’s what we had planned on doing.

When I went to help my mother get out of the car, her walker at the ready, she had a bit of difficulty getting out. But we were on an incline…no need to worry. Out came her right leg. Then out after a bit of maneuvering, out came her left leg. I could smell the burgers cooking and smiled knowing we’d be enjoying one soon enough.

Only as I stood there holding her walker for her, my mother looked down at her right leg for a minute and then she looked up at me when I asked, “Are you alright?”

Then after what seemed like an eternity, she said in a voice that didn’t quite sound right, “It’s the strangest thing. I can’t get my right leg to move.”

And that’s when time just sort of stopped for me. My mind started racing and all the pieces of the puzzle that had been staring me in the face for the past 20 minutes suddenly came together. Difficulty moving, confusion, difficulty speaking, loss of motor function.

My mother was having a stroke. Right there in front of me.

She’d had a very small one called a TIA nearly a year earlier and I’d been trained to spot the signs. I’d also been told that as soon as the signs present themselves we had to go to the hospital right away. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. Just GO! My mind raced and I remembered that just up the road in Bee Cave there was St. David’s Emergency center. Not some quick care place for little cuts and bruises…no this was a fully functioning ER and it was only 2 miles away.

I’m not exactly sure how I did it, seeing as we were on a hill and all, but somehow, I found the strength within me to push my mother (who’s about 2x my size) back into the car and get her buckled up. I remember speaking calmly to her as she came to the realization that something wasn’t quite right…but she wasn’t willing to admit she’d had a stroke.

I whipped into the parking lot and ran…literally ran inside the ER saying, “Please, I need someone to help me. My mother is having a stroke and I can’t get her out of the car.” I don’t think they actually heard anything after the word ‘stroke’ because three men came rushing past me with a wheelchair.

They helped her into the chair and I just stood there reciting all this information about who she was, how old she was, what medicines she was on like a robot. By the time I’d signed some sort of paper she was already in a room.

Of course, when I stepped into the room, she was all smiles saying, “Oh, my daughter is just a worry-wart. I’m fine really. It was just a spell.” Ever the southern lady, my mother hates a fuss to be made over her and chalks everything up to ‘just a spell’.

I said, “No, it was not just a spell.” Then I recounted what had happened. And by the time I’d finished and all her vitals had been taken, it was clear that she wasn’t ‘just fine’. But she insisted.

So the doctor said, “Alright, Mrs. Williams, do you think you can walk for me?”

“Walk? Of course I can walk.” Such a defiant woman. She turned to me and said, “Go get my walker so I can show them I can walk.”

I did. And when I returned she was ready and raring to prove everybody wrong. She took a step…a timid step…but a step. “See, I’m fine.” But then she added, “I’m just feeling a bit weak on my right side. I’m having to lean on my left more. But I’m fine.”

The doctor said, “No, Mrs. Williams, you’re not fine. I think your daughter is right. I think you might have had a stroke.” And with those words everything in my life for the past 2 weeks was turned on its head.

Damn! Sometimes it sucks to be right.

She was transported to St. David’s South Austin…which is like a gazillion miles from where we live…but it was the best place for her. I have no idea how many miles I put on my car going back and forth from my house to the South Austin hospital where they were able to her over the immediate physical danger a stroke can cause to the body. Nor do I know how many miles I’ve added to the odometer since Monday when I found myself now traveling back and forth from the St. David’s Rehabilitation Hospital that’s smack dab in the center of Austin proper. I’m just happy she’s there and is on the road to recovery.

But it was not an easy road to get her on…not an easy road at all. Because before we ever got her to rehab there was the issue of her Medicare and the supplemental insurance she had in NC under Blue Cross/Blue Shield and …dear God, let me just state up front that I hate insurance companies. You see, Mother’s supplemental insurance to go along with her Medicare was supposed to make life so much easier only it turned out to be a nightmare because we’d not yet been able to cancel her NC supplemental insurance (because she had to have ‘proof of residency’ to change over to TX supplemental insurance if she wanted it!). Which, in a nutshell means that Dena, the rehab coordinator at St. Davids, was told by the NC insurance company that my mother could have rehabilitation services but only if we transported her 2,000 miles to NC.

Seriously. I am not making this up…and there’s more…there’s always more.

Dena was flabbergasted. She’d never in all of her 14 years of working as a coordinator been told something like that. So then I called the NC insurance company. And I explained how we were trying to get to get my mother’s TX license so she could make all the changes she needed to make to her Social Security and Medicare status but before she could get her license, my mother had to jump through some hoops…one of which was to change her address with the post office (she did that prior to leaving NC) and to get auto insurance and pay the tax on her vehicle and then have the title transferred to TX. (Yes, it’s quite a challenge to become a TX resident!) And lo & behold, we were told that she had done enough without getting a license to prove she was a Texas resident.

Great, right? Great…no. Sure the insurance people in NC agreed to the fact that my mother was now a TX resident and that she’d been so since August 16…but they couldn’t make it ‘official’ on their end for another 14 business days.

What?

So I called back to the insurance place in NC. And after going through all of what I’d just gone through, I was told again, “Ma’am you have to understand we just put the information into the system. You’re just gonna have to wait at least 14 days before Medicare gets it cause it has to go through our processing department.”

“Excuse me?” I asked, “You’re willing to let her sit here in the hospital for 2 more weeks not getting the rehab she needs because you can’t or won’t simply drop her?”

And the response I was given was from a now rather annoyed woman who said, (again, I am not joking here), “Yes, ma’am. She can stay in the hospital…no problems. But she’s on a regional HMO and we can’t just change her status like that. If she needs rehab right now she’s gotta come to NC. So she can just stay in the hospital there because it takes time to process her information and we have to make sure we bill Medicare properly so we get paid for our expenses.” (Yes, you did read that right).

“Excuse me? So you get paid?”

“Yes, like I said, it’ll take at least 14 business days. And it’s almost 5PM on Friday, so you’ll have to call back on Monday to talk to someone else about this cause we’re about to close our customer service office.”

Oh no…she did NOT just tell me I was interrupting the start to her friggin’ weekend?!?!

I took a deep breath and said, “Fine. Goodbye.”

But do you really think I was going to sit by and idly accept what some dimwitted telephone chick who only wanted to make sure she was able to get out of the office so she could get her weekend club hoppin’ buzz going a few minutes early? If you guess no…you guessed right.

So I called Medicare directly. (Now for those of you who may not be from the good old US of A or may not have had to deal with Medicare yet you might not realize what a battle I was preparing myself for…but trust me… It was 4:50PM on the east coast and a Friday and I was getting ready to pull out the big time bazooka and go running headlong into battle.)

Only I didn’t have to. Nope. I called the little 1-800 number on my mother’s Medicare card and was connected with someone I can only call an angel by the name of Antwon P. I told him the situation. He understood. He said, “Give me a minute to talk to my supervisor.” A minute passed. It turned to two, then three, and I started to get worried.

But then he said, “Alright, Mrs. Brown, I’ve been told I can go ahead and drop her from the NC supplemental effective August 31, so anything that happened after August 31 will be covered solely by Medicare. All we need is…” (Okay, I thought, here it comes…the big catch that’s going to take my soaring hope and squash it like a bug. All we need is…all we need is… I waited…)

“… is for you to pick a paid prescription drug plan. Medicare requires it. There are 36 plans to choose from. Does your mother take a lot of medicine, like over 20 prescriptions in a month?”

“Uh, no.”

“Well, there’s a Humana Wal-Mart plan for $14.80 a month that can come right out of her Social Security. My grandmaw uses it and it’s been good for her.”

“Hold on, you mean the NC company didn’t want to let her go because of an Rx plan?”

“Probably. They don’t really make money off of hospital stays because that goes under a different part of Medicare. They make money off of the medicine used during the stay. And it costs more while in the hospital.”

Now it all made sense. 14 business days of medicine prescribed through a hospital is an awful lot of money… and no company in its right mind wants to give up that sort of loot. (And I say loot because to me it’s a crime the way my mom was getting shafted.) But with a few strokes on his keypad, Antwon was able to say, “Alright, Mrs. Brown, your mother is all clear now to go for rehab in Texas. We just need her doctor to fill out a prescription form saying it’s medically necessary for her to receive rehabilitation. You can send it in today. But it probably won’t get processed until Monday because it’s 5:30 here.”

5:30…did you hear that? It was 5:30PM on a Friday and I was still being served. Now some people might have their beefs with Medicare and other ‘government’ things like that but for me, at least for this one instance, I can honestly say I have nothing bad to say. The cold, uncaring words of Miss Party-pants suddenly became nothing but a blip compared to the compassion shown to me and my family by one unselfish guy who could’ve said, ‘Well, it’s almost 5, you should call back on Monday.’ Maybe he stopped to consider what he would think if it was his mother or grandmother in that situation.

So thankfully, my mother is in rehab now. She’s doing really well and if it was up to her she’d be home…yesterday. But no. It’s going to take some time…at least two weeks. And that stubborn, steel magnolia attitude of hers will go a long way in her battle to bounce back from what we were told was actually a mild stroke; a stroke that didn’t get a chance to become a ‘serious neurological event’ because even though it took me a few minutes to read the signs…I did read them and reacted as fast as humanly possible.

These past two weeks have been hard. No-not hard. Damn hard.

I’ve not slept well in days. And my daughter had a mini breakdown after her grandmother was finally in rehab. She actually had to take 2 days off from school and her school counselor said stress is sometimes harder for kids than it is for adults because they don’t know how to express what it is that is upsetting them. And as for stress factors, Jessica was hit with a grand slam of things in a short period of time…moving, a natural disaster, sudden family illness, close family member away from the home.

I guess she just held it in until she felt like it was safe to let it out. But a couple of days of R&R from school, some visits with her grandma, and a few cheerful calls from her dad all the way in China coupled with lots of talking with me and her counselor made a world of difference for her…and for me, too. And I must admit I will sure be happy tomorrow when Todd finally gets home. That’s when I think I’ll have my breakdown.

And my little brother, Kenny…who is actually almost 30, has been a constant fixture at my mother’s side when I’ve not been able to be there. He’ll be the first to tell you that our mother’s sudden illness was a wakeup call for him and that it’s never too late to enjoy and cherish every minute you can with the people who really love you no matter what stupid stuff you may have done. That unconditional love is kind of love our mother has and he’s not willing to waste what time he has left with her whether it’s a year or 20 years because every single day is important.

Yes, things will get better—they always do. There’s an old saying that goes when life gives you lemons, make lemonade. But my father would have said, ‘Pumpkin, if life gives you lemons, just throw ‘em away and grab yourself a Pepsi. (Yes, my father had quite an odd way of looking at life…but it certainly beat looking at it like a sour puss!)

I like to think that I inherited a bit of his slant on things because as I told a friend today, “They say God never gives you more than you can handle. Apparently God thinks I’m an octopus.”

And with that, I’ll say, thank you so much, kind reader for trudging through yet another ridiculously long rambling post. Please know that with each letter that popped up onto my screen as I wrote this, my stress level dropped a little bit more.

I promise (okay, so maybe I shouldn’t promise…I’ll just say that I strongly affirm with all the best of intentions) that my next post will be at least 95% on the humorous side.

And that’s all I’ve got…until next time.

If...if...if...

noreply@blogger.com (L. Avery Brown) — Wed, 14 Sep 2011 03:44:00 +0000

Just a quick note: Yes, this is a rather long post. Longer than I’d ever intended. But it was one I simply had to write as a way to help me with a rather stressful, anxiety tinged couple of weeks. I do hope you’ll bear with my rambling. Thanks!

Greetings kind reader! If you’ve been a regular reader (before I go any farther I’d like to say thanks…especially since ‘regular’ has been so IRregular these past few months) you were probably wondering why I posted nothing last week since I said how glad I was to be back at my computer where I belong which implied that I planned to be writing like a fast-fingered fool with so many thoughts in my head it just might have exploded and then my nifty new writing nook would have been covered in goofy ideas oozing down the walls. And I promise, that’s what I had planned on doing…no, not having my brain explode—that’s just weird…rather I’d planned on finally settling back into my routine of writing everyday for at least 3 hours a day.

So 2 weeks ago when I wrote my post for When a Southern Woman Rambles that paid homage to my favorite Southern beverage Sweet Iced Tea, I thought to myself ‘WOO HOO!!!’ And then when I got my podcast done for that very same post…the first one I’d been able to do since Lord only knows how many posts ago…I knew…I mean I 100% knew that I was finally ‘Back on track, baby!’ Oh yeah!

I floated around the house feeling quite pleased with myself and started planning all the ‘house’ things we’d need to work on over the 3 day Labor Day weekend because it was time to make this house our ‘home’.

Saturday, September 3—

Todd, Jessica and I spent the morning shopping for the house. A storage case here, a desk there, and a new chandelier to replace the 15 year old, 2-toned cheesy plastic bauble adorned ‘grand chandelier’ that might have looked rather posh-posh, pooh-pooh 15 years ago but simply looked pooh-pooh today. And my mother stayed at home to watch the ‘babies’, our overly spoiled rat terrier, Melanie and our sneaky giant orange tabby cat, Junior, also known as ‘el gato’ because yes, he really does look like Puss-in-Books from the Shrek series.

Sunday, September 4—

It started like any other sort of ‘busy’ Sunday. I took mother out for our weekly Sunday morning breakfast while the rest of the family snoozed. By the time I got back I found Todd playing with the auto sprinkler system (we’re under extreme drought conditions and can only water once a week…Sunday is our day) and learned that he had to run it a few times just to get the thing set properly. He complained because he kept getting soaked trying to get the nozzles all turned ‘just right’ but said at least it felt nice and cool when the wind blew.

He figures we are going to get a HUGE water bill for all the water he had to use to get the job done but I didn’t mind one iota that he’d positively soaked the yard because it was so dry that the ‘dead spots’ crunched when you walked on them and the area of green grass had started to rapidly fade. Yes, for once in what I imagine had been a really long time, our grass felt ‘soft, moist…positively yard like’.

And while Todd kept on playing Aquaman, Jessica and I finished painting her new bathroom. She was so proud of that room because she’d picked out the color herself. ‘Champagne Glee’…a soft creamy rose color that shouts ‘this is a GIRL’S bathroom’ (it had been the shared bathroom of twin boys…and looked like it too). I tell you, when I saw the look of accomplishment on her face, I knew she was finally starting to think of this new house as her home. She then decided to tackle the storage unit we’d gotten for ~~her wing of the house~~ the bonus room. And tackle it she did.

When Todd was done with the sprinklers which was well before noon as it gets so hot out it’s hard to breathe, he came in to start taking down the highly disliked chandelier…which proved a lot easier said than done because when it was installed apparently the original owners figured who in their right mind would ever want to get rid of this magnificent thing? Ah, the colorful adjectives that were being tossed on the air conditioned wind by my determined DIY husband. I’ve never seen an ‘at home’ task he can’t conquer. Yeah, there’s often some yelling and cursing at inanimate objects but in the end…he always wins…so take that inanimate objects!

As for myself, I was busy cleaning up/arranging the mountains of ‘stuff’ we had lying around the house while I simultaneously wondered why in the world we had so much stuff. How much stuff? Well, to start, I came across something like 15 nightlights. Maybe more. Seriously. Why? I have no clue. As for some of the other stuff I came across, I don’t even remember getting it. Then there’s the stuff I do remember getting but can’t remember why I got it! Of course, I suppose that’s the way it is with ‘stuff’. Half of it we need. Half of it we never use. And the other half we store away to be wondered about later. (Yes, I realize I spoke of 3 halves…thank the Lord in Heaven I did not teach math!)

By 2 PM, we were well into a typical, normal Sunday. But then…things changed.

I’d gotten fed up with the ‘stuff’, sometime around 2 PM and decided it was time to do my daily ‘hot-tub maintenance’ routine. Oooh, I do love that hot tub! Granted the daytime temperature was supposed to top off somewhere around 106 °F and the strong winds which were blowing so hard the windows shook made it feel like I was playing inside a convection oven but I persevered with my chemical check and replenishment because I reminded myself of how nice it would be later that night around 9 pm to climb into our warm…not hot tub and relax while sipping some Sangria and staring up at the cloudless, inky black sky and the sparkly stars that dance across the canvas of night. Well, that was the plan. But you know what they say ‘the best laid plans of mice and men (and women) oft go awry’.

Awry, is putting it mildly. And since I don’t want to get ahead of myself, I’ll just leave it at that. Though I will say that even around 2 o’clock, I knew something wasn’t quite right only I couldn’t put my finger on what it was at the moment. But I honest to gosh knew something was off. You see, there was a faint hint of smoke on the wind and I remember telling myself some idiot must be getting an early start on his barbeque brisket because I could smell the distinctive aroma of mesquite wood burning like it does in a smoker when someone is slow cooking meat. I even remember looking to the sky…just to make sure that was all that it was. But since the sky was just as blue as ever, I let the uneasy thought pass.

I suppose that should have been that but I guess that inner voice wanted to be heard so I mentioned it to Todd as he was finishing up wiring the lovely new and totally uncheesy chandelier in our dining room. His response was, ‘Ugh, brisket.’ (We’re east coasters so brisket is a bit unusual for us as we grew up on pork BBQ) Then, for some reason, I said with a laugh, “At least I hope it’s someone barbequing.” But that was as far as the conversation went.

And then I got it into my head that I was going to bake a peach pie…from scratch (well, the filling was canned but the dough was 100% handmade). Now I’d never made a crust before, I just bought premade ones but I now had a gorgeous smooth granite island, the kind of surface my father would have fallen over himself to be able to use because it’s perfect for rolling out dough. So I was going to make one like Daddy would have made: rich, buttery, flaky crust with a thick, buttery/cinnamony/peachy filling. (I figured he wouldn’t be too upset with the canned peaches)

But here’s the crazy thing is…I don’t even like pie. No joke. I never have. And why I simply had to make one is beyond me. But I had this gnawing urge to make a peach pie like my father used to make (and that Todd loves with a capital ‘L’).

Then Todd said he and Jessica wanted to go to the comic book store before it closed but I said, “Hey, wait, I want to go too. I just need to finish my pie. It won’t be but a little bit longer.” So they obliged (Why? Again, I don’t know. They could’ve put up the argument that by the time I finished they’d not have enough time to get there…but they didn’t) So while I was in full Suzy Homemaker mode, Grandma read her book, Todd hung some more pictures and Jessica arranged her stuffed animals ‘just so’. And Junior and Melanie acted a bit weirder than normal. But I ignored the weirdness, after all, come Hell or high water, I was going to make that pie!

4 PM(ish) time gets a bit fuzzy here…

By 4:15 the pie was done. I posted a picture of the end product on Facebook and was just taking off my apron when there was a knock on the door. Todd started to make his way downstairs. But the person at the door was insistent that we open up right away so there was another knock at…heavier and filled with conviction. By this time I’d made my way to the front door from the kitchen and saw Todd had just stepped outside. And I thought, ‘Great, another nature nut wanting us to sign a petition.’ So I stepped outside too.

But our caller was not a nature nut. She was just a neighbor from down the street; a very worried looking neighbor. She said, “There’s a fire on our side of the dam.”

Todd and I looked confused and Todd said, “What does that mean?”

She said, “There’s a wildfire on our side of the dam and it’s coming this way.”

I said, “Well, what should we do?”

She said, “It’s bad. Get whatever you’ll need for the next few days. Important papers, checkbooks, birth certificates…whatever. Get it and be prepared to evacuate.”

And just like that she was gone to our neighbor’s house and banging on their door. I looked at Todd and we just sort of stood there for a second trying to let what we’d just been told sink in. We looked around our neighborhood and saw everyone standing in the street…dumbfounded and looking up at the sky.

We could hear sirens. They were coming closer. Surely they’d pass by. But no. The sound just got louder and louder. And then I saw a set of hazy headlights rushing down our road. A fire truck. But it turned. For a split second I felt like There’s no fire here. They’re just cutting down our street because it’s quicker.

But then I saw something floating down. It landed gently on my arm. My brain tried to find a reason for it. Snow in summer? I touched it and it smeared on my fingertip. No. Not snow. It was falling ash that coated everything around us. I looked up to the sky and saw that it was no longer bright blue. It was a mucky brownish-gray and filled with ash and smoke. It started to snow ash harder now. And that’s when it seemed as if the reality of what was happening hit everyone in the neighborhood all at once and I could feel an almost palpable sense of panic fill the ominous howling wind around me.

There was a wildfire coming straight for us. Todd and I dashed inside and ran upstairs to get what we could. I went into ‘teacher in an emergency situation mode’. It’s what we’re trained to do whenever something ‘extreme’ happens in public school. I yelled to my mother, “Get your medicine and your important papers, Mother and 3 days worth of clothes.” Then I told Jessica to, “Get 3 days worth of clothes! Get Softbaby! (Her most cherished doll she’s had since she was 18 months old) Get whatever you can carry and get it in the car now!”

Jessica started to panic. But panicking now was not an option. So I yelled, “Jessica, damn it! Do what I told you to do NOW!” She dashed to her room and grabbed all that she could and took it downstairs. Once I saw that my mother and Jessica were busy ‘doing’ I went to Todd and saw him standing in his office. He was just standing there.

I said, “What are you doing?” And he said, “I don’t know.” But he did know. He was just trying to process the idea of ‘This is our new house. How do I pick what’s important in five minutes? It’s all important to us.’ So I reiterated, ‘clothes, papers, medicines, anything light and important’.

That’s all he needed to hear and he got straight to work getting what we needed. And I frantically looked for Jessica’s photo albums and the little journals I’d written for her about what it felt like to be a new mom. I couldn’t leave without them and nearly broke down when I couldn’t find them. So I stood there in the bedroom frozen and trying to remember where they were. But Todd found them for me and carried them down for me because he knew how badly I wanted them.

We continued to dash around but not so much like chickens with our heads cut off. Rather we were moving with purpose. And for some really weird reason, I started up a load of clothes that I’d intended to start when my pie was done. Odd. But I suppose we all do odd things under stress. Jessica grabbed Junior and threw the poor wigged out cat into his carrier. Lord how he hates that carrier. Melanie was harnessed, frantic and shaking with fear. And then I noticed my mother opening the door. I yelled, “What are you doing?”

She said, “I just want to see.” That’s how Mom is. She doesn’t handle stress situations well and tends to simply stare at things like she’s watching a television show. Only this wasn’t a show. And the thick smoke outside was not some super advanced smell-o-vision. This was a wildfire; a fast moving wildfire being fed by an extreme drought, super low humidity, and powerful winds. Yes, people die in wildfires. But more people die from smoke inhalation. Especially elderly people with breathing problems…like my mother.

I screamed, “NO! Get inside! There’s too much smoke out there! It’s too dangerous! Sit down and do not get out of that chair until I say so!” Yes, I yelled. My word, I must have sounded like an absolute bitch to her but I didn’t care. She’s my mother and by God, I’ll do or say what I have to do or say to keep her out of harm’s way. Just like I’d do or say anything to keep anyone in my family safe.

Eventually we had everything (well, except my suitcase which somehow got left on the bed…but hey, I got some new clothes out of it so it worked out alright) and everyone in the cars and not one moment too soon either because the Sheriff’s office had sent its constables in to tell everyone via loudspeaker, ‘The fire is on Medina River Way. This is a mandatory evacuation. Leave your homes immediately.’

By this time the ash was so thick in the air, I could barely breathe. And the sound of fire trucks and rescue vehicles was deafening. I could hear helicopters overhead. So much adrenaline was pumping through me. Todd and I made one last quick dash inside and ran around checking for anything else ‘important’ (or items we figured were more important than other important things). It was at that time I remembered my dad’s picture. I don’t have many pictures of him…and I couldn’t lose this one. No.

So I ran upstairs dashed into the closet and grabbed it. He’d be safe now. And as I made my way back down the stairs I remembered that peach pie. The peach pie I wanted to make the way my daddy used to make and so I put it in the fridge. Just like we’d be back in a couple of hours. Some might have called it foolish but to me it was wishful thinking. We were ready to go now.

The fire was so close. I reached up to turn off the lights, but I didn’t need to because at that exact moment the power went out. Todd and I gave a final look inside our new house and then looked at each other. I know what he was thinking because I was thinking it too Will it still be here?

We locked the front door and got in our respective cars and drove away with the flood of other cars. There are nearly 4,000 homes in our development and they were all told to leave. The exodus was grueling because all I wanted to do was get my family as far away from the danger as I could while praying very selfishly that our house would be spared.

We made our way to a La Quinta Inn…they allow pets. Funny, we’d just been there 3 weeks earlier in the days before we moved into our house. The lady at the front desk vaguely remembered us. We got there before the massive influx of evacuees and wound up staying there until Tuesday when it was determined to be safe for us to return.

But in the meantime we’d checked in at the Red Cross disaster shelter at my daughter’s high school to let them know we were safe. I gave them my cell number and they told me, ‘if you don’t hear from us, your house was not damaged or destroyed.’ I kept waiting for a call from them because I’d steeled myself to the idea that my house and everything in it was gone. Everything; my wedding dress; my daughter’s toys; my mother’s family pictures from the 1800s; my father’s poems…all of them; and all of Todd’s books and collectables. I assumed they were gone forever.

Yes, I waited. But there was never a call. Our home had been spared. And when we finally got to go back home, I looked at it with such appreciative eyes. I wandered through the yard and found pieces of cinder and evidence of just how close our house was to having gone up in flames. I thought to myself if Todd hadn’t super soaked the yard…it’d be gone. And if I hadn’t insisted on making that pie, Mother would have been stuck here alone with the pets.

If…if…if… If has got to be the longest word in the world because imagine where we’d be if all the ‘ifs’ actually happened or didn’t happen.

All in all, 25 homes were completely destroyed in my neighborhood and 30 were damaged, some so badly they’ve been condemned. We were so lucky. It could have been so much worse.

I truly wish to thank the firefighters, policemen, and rescue workers who did a fabulous job even though they were stretched super thin because the very same day our fire broke out, a horrendously devastating fire broke out in an area called Bastrop, Texas…not too far from where I now live. Over 700 homes were lost and 1,000s upon 1,000s of acres of land were destroyed. The people in my neighborhood will rebuild; life will go on for them because they had insurance. But lots of those people in Bastrop were barely hanging on economically and now they find themselves floating in a sea of ‘what do we do now?’

I also want to give a special shout out to the American Red Cross for their round the clock care of those who were displaced. I’m sure I speak for anyone who’s been fortunate enough to count on this group of volunteers in what are no doubt the most unfortunate of times. If you get a chance perhaps you can drop by the American Red Cross website (or if you’re not in the United States, I’m sure your home country has a similar organization) to see how you can help them out because trust me, I never thought in a million years that I’d need disaster assistance but I did and I thank God they were there.

Last, I’d like to send out a very special thank you and sincere condolences to the family of Cpl. Kevin Aigner, a constable for Travis County, Texas who passed away on September 10 while on assisting people in my neighborhood whose homes were destroyed in the fire. A memorial fund has been set up in his honor thru the 100 Club of Central Texas, a nonprofit group that aids families of first responders killed in the line of duty at www.100clubcentex.com. No matter where you may be on this big beautiful world of ours, I encourage you to donate...if not in honor of his memory perhaps to honor someone else felled in the line of duty.

So there you have it kind reader…the reason why I didn’t post anything last week. It took a lot for me to write this because I’m still quite emotional about it. I walk down the street with Melanie and see the remnants of homes that once were. I hear a siren and wonder if it’s coming down my road and will I have to flee again. I smell smoke…even when there really isn’t any smoke to smell…and I cringe in fear thinking maybe it’s real this time.

But this was good. It helped me a lot. And not to worry…my cheerful, goofy ramblings are still with me and now I’m starting to feel like it’s okay to let them loose!

And that’s all I’ve got…until next time! (Which I promise will be much more cheerful!)

Avery

Off on a Tangent with a Glass of Sweet Iced Tea

noreply@blogger.com (L. Avery Brown) — Thu, 01 Sep 2011 22:45:00 +0000

Greetings kind reader. I’m so glad you’ve dropped by because I’ve been itching for weeks to get back to my little spot in the blogoverse but I haven’t been able to because of ‘the move’. But that has all changed and now I’m pleased as punch to announce that finally, and I do mean finally, we are now in the process of settling down into our new home in Austin, Texas.

And I’ll tell you one thing---there is nothing that compares to a long-haul move across the southern portion of the United States at the peak of summer to make a belle like myself grateful for one of the finer things in life…a big ol’ glass of sweet iced tea! Honestly, just thinking about it sets my heart to fluttering and my tongue to wagging because, sweet baby Jesus in a cradle, does it ever get hot in my beloved South and the dog days of summer*** don’t just nip at your heels; they jump up on their hind legs and knock you backwards!

***Tangent Alert***

In the event of a Tangent Alert readers should prepare themselves for a ‘slightly off the subject’ moment wherein the writer offers off the wall information and/or sage wisdom handed down through the generations. Further, tangents by this particular author tend to make references to oddball historical tidbits and obscure pop culture and as such they may require reading two or three times if you are not a font of useless trivia. Finally, tangents by this wordsmith have been known to make readers laugh out loud, consider things they had never thought to consider, and/or snicker in amusement.

I’m sure there are many of you who have heard the phrase ‘the dog days of summer’ and know exactly what it means; however, if there’s one thing I learned during my dozen years of teaching, it’s that for every one person who ‘knows’ something there is at least one person who doesn’t and even more who say they do even though they know they don’t. So this next little bit is for those kind readers who fall into the latter two of the three.

Historically, the phrase ‘the dog days of summer’ can be traced back to the ancient Greeks, Aristotle in particular, who observed that towards the end of the hot, humid summer season the brightest star in the constellation Canis Major (Big dog) called Sirius, the Scorcher rose slightly before the morning sun. Thus Aristotle deduced that because Sirius was a ferocious creature of the gods and visible with the rising sun (where the powerful sun god Helios liked to hang out) then that had to mean at least one of gods was angry with somebody and had chosen to punish the whole of the world as it was known to the Greeks back then by scorching good old terra firma with temperatures that were hotter than Hades.

What’s more those meddling gods and their dog (no, not Scooby Doo—Sirius—remember you’ve got to be quick to keep up with me and my quirky tangents!) made sane men go bonkers by boiling their brains and turned otherwise healthy dogs into foamy faced rabid beasts.

Sounds logical…doesn’t it? Sure it does! And so endeth the tangent! ***

Now let’s see…where was I? Oh, yes, living through the dog days of summer in Texas…

Some summers are worse than others but I think I can honestly say that this year, especially in Austin, Texas it has been one of the harshest summers I can recall. As of the writing of this particular post the region has gone for nearly 70 days without any measurable rainfall. And it’s all because of a high pressure system that parked itself over the state of Texas a couple of months ago and has refused to budge causing daytime temperatures to hover between 103°F-108°F every single day for weeks! Mind you that is the actual temperature…what it actually feels like is even higher.

I’ve lived in the South my whole life…hot summers are not unusual to me. In fact, I suppose I should be grateful for the fact that it’s not humid in Austin because trust me when I say that even if the mercury reads a fairly comfortable 85°F, if the humidity is anywhere over 50% (as it usually always is in the deep South) it’s like walking around in a sauna. I can recall days where it was so muggy outside it felt like I was breathing water! And there’s an old saying that goes ‘it’s not the heat that gets you…it’s the humidity’.

So as I said, perhaps I ought to be glad it’s not so humid. But I’m not. Why? Because when it’s 100+°F day in and day out for weeks on end and there’s been NO rain for all those weeks making it so dusty you sneeze every time you step outside, your throat is scratchy and burns like you’ve been drinking sand mixed with cayenne pepper and little bugs hover around your eyes and nostrils trying to get a bit of moisture—it’s more than just hot…it’s so hot you begin to wonder if maybe all those ancient know-it-alls weren’t on to something because Lord have mercy these particular dog days have been a bitch!

Honest to goodness, it really makes me stop and wonder how in the world people ever survived in this area before Willis Carrier designed the first modern air conditioners back in the early 1900s! No wonder the people who settled this area are viewed by others as tougher than nails…you would have to be to make it out here in the dead of summer…otherwise you’d simply be dead!

And it boggles my mind to think of all the clothes those pioneers wore back then. Especially the women. No wonder people don’t look ecstatic and overcome with joy in all those old tin photos taken in the mid to late 1800s. Great doo-gah-moo-gah! I know I wouldn’t have made it! Mind you, I grew up in a culture that clings to its historical roots. After all, the South is the land of Scarlett O’Hara and ball gowns, crinolines, and petticoats in the dead of summer but honestly! But where those pioneer women were on the frontier at least those genteel Southern ladies from where I grew up had thick tree canopies under which they could sit, broad hand fans to move the air around them, and fresh brewed sweet tea they could pour over chunks of ice broken off of giant slabs of the stuff stored away during winter in massive ice houses.

Ah, yes, sweet iced tea is an amazing elixir with healing powers like no other. There’s something quite mesmerizing about watching it splash across a clump of ice as it’s poured into a tall glass and hearing the ‘glup-glup-glup’ of the liquid as it rises to the rim. On a really hot day, the glass will start to sweat almost immediately and the ice will pop up to the top of the glass so that when you take a sip your lips get to brush up against the frigid things. There’s nothing quite like a sweaty glass on a scorching day because you can put it up to your forehead and wipe the cold condensation across your brow. This is the sort of tea that was meant for sipping and enjoying for a good long time…but no one in their right minds sips their first glass.

Gracious Heaven’s no. That first glass has to be gulped down quick so as to really whet the whistle. But once that first glass is gone…because who drinks only one glass of sweet iced tea?...you can enjoy that next glass the way it deserves to be.

Then when it’s all gone and all that’s left is a few pieces of ice stuck to the bottom of the glass, you open your mouth wide-lean your head way back-and wait for gravity to do its thing so the ice will fall on your tongue. But there’s absolutely nothing wrong with helping gravity a bit by giving a good tap to the bottom of the glass (which is now ‘up’) so that the ice comes rushing down. And if you’re really lucky…some of the cold water will drip down your chin!

Ah, yes, it sure has been a long, hot…very, very hot summer. And for me it’s also been a hectic roller coaster of a season filled with boxes, for sale signs, and long hours of packing and unpacking. But like I said at the beginning of this post, all that’s behind me now. I’ve found my ‘spot’ for writing and I’ve got a nice window through which I can peer so that my mind can wander whenever it wants. I’ve also got a big ol’ glass of sweet iced tea and oodles of posts yet to be written just waiting for me to get to it! I’m so glad to be back at my computer where I belong!

I hope you’ll drop by again soon.

And that’s all I’ve got…til next time!

Another look at: Frying up a mess of fatback!

noreply@blogger.com (L. Avery Brown) — Mon, 08 Aug 2011 02:16:00 +0000

Greetings kind reader! As you might be able to tell from the title of this post, it's reposting of one of my favorite crazy tales. Sorry to not have something 'fresh' for you but my family and I are finally (and I do mean F-I-N-A-L-L-Y) about to head out to Texas and I've simply not had the time to sit down and really focus my attention in such a way that I could write anything! I hope you enjoy it and thanks again for being so understanding about the wacky roller coaster I've been on these past three months. And I'll be the first to tell you that I cannot wait until I'm back at my desk writing like I love to do!

Cordially,

Avery

Frying Up a Mess of Fatback!

Originally published on August 20, 2010

To hear this post as a podcast click here!

The post you’re about to read makes mention of a few items that, if you’re not from the South, you might not be familiar with so I thought I’d give you a quick course in Southern breakfast cuisine.

Buttermilk biscuits—perhaps this is a no brainer for many of you but a few of my readers are not American and typically think of biscuits as sweet cookies. But Southern buttermilk biscuits are far from cookies and are most commonly served at breakfast when they’re warm and fluffy.

Fatback—the thick, extremely salty wholly fat outer layer of bacon. It’s used as a seasoning agent in all sorts of Southern dishes. It’s also the stuff from which pure, unadulterated lard is made. Some people love to fry up the stuff until its super crispy and then eat it as if it were a fine delicacy; however, I am not one of those people.

Grits—they’re made from hominy which is dried corn that’s been soaked in a limewater solution, dried out again and then coarsely ground. It’s a staple in a great number of Southern households and is most often served as a porridge-like side dish at breakfast. Grits are probably the best indicator of whether or not someone is truly Southern because Southerners don’t put milk, sugar, syrup or anything like it into their grits. No, just some butter and salt.

Livermush—it’s sort of like sausage, only it’s minced finer and the final product is shaped like a brick before packaging. It’s made up of pig’s liver, corn meal, and the pièce de résistance, select portions of the pig’s head. It’s adored by 1,000s in the region where I live; but just as with fatback, I am not a fan of the stuff.

And with the vocabulary lesson out of the way it’s time to get to the heart of this post!

My daughter is preparing to return to school after a long and fun filled summer vacation. She’s got all her supplies and has started going to bed earlier and actually waking up earlier…all without my having to nag her about ‘getting into the school routine’. My only real hurdle right now is getting her back into the habit of eating breakfast because she’d rather just wait until she gets around to it.

But I am a diehard believer in the positive effects of eating breakfast as a way to get you ready for the day ahead. It’s something that was engrained in me as a child because my parents did not let me go to school without having something on my stomach otherwise I was like a moth in a room full of candles and couldn’t pay attention to save my life.

My mother didn’t really mind what I ate for breakfast whether it was made up of ‘traditional breakfast’ items like bacon & eggs, or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or sometimes even a bowl of tomato soup which I really enjoyed on cold mornings. But as for my father the issue of a proper breakfast was an entirely different thing because breakfast was not breakfast if it did not include eggs & meat, biscuits, and a side of grits.

And if my father happened to be the one making breakfast he would always ask me if I wanted a fried or a scrambled egg. However, I’m not sure why he asked what kind I of egg I wanted because I always chose scrambled since my father’s fried eggs were a bit too runny for my taste. Although I suppose runny is not the right word because my father liked his eggs over easy. Really over easy. So over easy they practically floated on his plate!

I can still envision him breaking open the yolk and then mixing the gooey stuff with his grits so it thickened a bit and turned into a pale yellow sludge that would drip between the tines of his fork. And my daddy wasn’t one to waste food so once he’d shoveled up and eaten the thickest part of the egg stuff, he’d put his biscuit on his plate and use it like a boom spread across the water to collect oil as he’d proceed to sop up as much of the residual stuff as he could. Needless to say, when he was done his plate was clean. And just thinking of it makes me a bit green about the gills.

Don’t get me wrong. I love what I call ‘stickety’ eggs where the egg is fried so that the white is completely cooked and the edge of the yolk is firm but the center is filled with a thick liquid I can dip my bread into. But honest to goodness, I cannot eat runny eggs. I can’t even look at them. They make me queasy.

But back to breakfast…aside from preparing the eggs my father would also fry some bacon because meat was a vital part of the breakfast meal. Granted eggs are protein powerhouses but I think it was my father’s belief that if it wasn’t actually slaughtered then it wasn’t really meat. Sometimes my father would decide to put aside the bacon and fry a few slices of livermush perhaps thinking that I would have come to my senses and would be head over heels for the stuff but I didn’t. I didn’t like it then and I don’t like it now.

There were also times my father would ‘fry up a mess of fatback’ at breakfast and use the rendered fat left behind in the pan to cook other things later in the day. He’d always offer my siblings and me a piece of the stuff but I didn’t like it because to me fatback is what I think it would be like to eat a fried salt lick but my brother would gobble down his piece and mine as quickly as he got it. And the funny thing is…people thought I was the weird one because I didn’t like the stuff.

Seriously. When I was a kid in elementary school, before the age of ‘let’s try to make the school lunch look healthy’, fatback was given as a treat on Fridays to students that the ladies on the lunch line liked. And apparently I was an angel in their eyes because I always got a piece which I’d say thank you for because I was polite. Then I would then offer it to whoever promised to give me their ice cream cup that came with the little wooden spoon. That’s right, on Fridays I was a fatback black market king pin.

But this wasn’t something that just happened at my elementary school. My husband, who moved to the South from New York when he was around 10 tells the funniest story about how on one of the first days at the school, a lunch lady yelled ‘FATBACK!’ out to the students and they all jumped up from their seats and dashed to get a piece. To hear my husband describe the scene it was almost as if Jesus Himself had stopped by and was handing out the stuff like holy lollipops.

And so my husband, not knowing what he was in for, also jumped up, ran with the crowd and was given one of the coveted pieces of fatback. He took a bite and instantly thought ‘Oh gross!’ Apparently it was not a spiritual moment for him. However, like me, he too learned how to use the valuable brittle tidbit to his bargaining advantage.

Of course, when I consider how much fat, cholesterol, and sodium is in one little piece, I swear I’m surprised I couldn’t hear my friends’ 10 year old arteries hardening right there as we sat at Mrs. Eudy’s 4th grade lunch table. And now that I’m in my fabulous 40s I cannot help but wonder how many of my old classmates are dealing with high blood pressure, heart disease, and diabetes considering the amount of deep fried, salt covered, carbohydrate packed food we ate back then. But in an odd sort of way I kind of feel sorry for my daughter because she never got to enjoy the power a thick piece of fatback gave a kid.

And as for my daughter’s lunches, I’m not worried about her eating habits because she’d much rather take her lunch to school in her lunch tote, which is essentially an insulated designer pocketbook. And knowing that I can control what she takes for her lunch helps to set my mind at ease. But before I pack her lunch box…er…tote for her first step into 8th grade, I’ve got to make sure that she’s had a good breakfast.

When Bad Things Happen To Good Hair (a redo for you!)

noreply@blogger.com (L. Avery Brown) — Thu, 28 Jul 2011 04:44:00 +0000

Greetings kind reader! It's so nice to see that you've dropped by for a visit. If you've been reading my blog recently I'd like to thank you for your patience as I've not been nearly as faithful as I would like to be with my blog because I've been wrapped up the past few months with all the ups & downs of preparing to move back to Texas. But there is great news on the horizon because in 3 weeks we'll be moving into our new house. Of course, our house in NC hasn't sold yet but hopefully someone will come along and buy our wonderful house in NC with in the next couple of weeks. If not, we're hoping the relocation agency my husband's company uses will offer us a fair price for the house or at least something where we won't have to auction off our kidneys to be able to get everything all squared away.

That having been said, I hope you'll understand why I've chosen to grab one of my posts from a couple of years ago to repost. It's one of my earliest pieces and I've tweaked it a tad to give it a bit more visual oomph! I hope you enjoy it and that you'll stop back again very soon because I plan on putting up a few more of my favorite older posts during this rather hectic time! Gosh, I certainly cannot wait to have my desk back so that I can get back into my blogging groove!

***

When Bad Things Happen To Good Hair (and other tragic tales of beauty)

This post is dedicated to all the good women out there who have lived through the agony of a horrific haircut and to the men who have survived those dark days.

Bad hair. It happens to us all. And I’m not talking about the kind of bad hair that can be fixed with a dab of hair gel or a quick little trim to spruce it up either. No, I mean the kind of bad hair day that stretches into a week or two and sometimes can last as long as several months.

Try to remember your worst hair memory...

Maybe it happened long, long ago when you were much younger and thought you’d absolutely die if didn’t get the coveted Dorothy Hamill ‘wedge’.

Only when you decided you wanted to embrace the Olympic zeal and perkiness of the gold medal winning ice skater and her famous hairdo back in ’76, you ended up with something that looked like the hairstylist had used a set of nesting Tupperware bowls in an attempt to get crisp, even, all around layers in your hair and then took a pair of hedge clippers to produce that coveted ‘V’ shape which ended up looking more like a stylized Cyrillic letter one might see on the back of a warm-up jacket worn by a very masculine looking Soviet gymnast.

It was an all around tragic moment in your life and it was one that you had to endure for several months unless you were lucky enough to have ‘quick hair growth’ genes. Yes, there were a few snickers about the resulting hair-do but you made it through the ordeal with the loving support of your siblings (who were warned within an inch of their lives to not mention the dreadful mess lest they be willing to take on the wrath of your mother).

Or perhaps it was your significant other who learned one of the most valuable lessons of his life when you asked him, “So how does it look? It looks terrible, doesn't it?" He replied, ‘Don’t be silly, Honey. It looks…(a moment’s hesitation)...great’. But what he didn't know is in the infinitesimally small moment where he stopped to ponder if he should lie or be honest it was like shouting, ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, what did you do to your hair?’ Because one should never ever hesitate when commenting on a new hairstyle even if it's a horrid cut. Remember honesty, served delicately, is fine; after all it’s not like she didn’t know the style looked like she'd had a run in with a gang of rowdy stylists in a dark alley. And for a person to feign enthusiasm is like pouring salt in a wound.

And speaking of the virgin mother and bad hair, maybe your hair nightmare came back in 1984 when you decided that Madonna, the hip, new and somewhat punkish looking singer of ‘Like a Virgin’, had a look that screamed at you to let loose your inner Material Girl. So you went to a stylist who assured you they would be able to give you that same hot ‘stand out in a crowd’ coif that this modern (and no where close to a virgin) lady Madonna had. Yes, you figured a little bleach here, some snipping there, and a little dab of the newest, coolest styling product on the market...mousse...and you’d end up with a hairstyle that would electrify your personality. Only when you saw your reflection in the mirror, you thought you looked like you’d been struck by lightning because your hair had been fried thanks to all the peroxide that was used to get that nifty platinum look, it also stuck out in every direction and was as stiff as a board as a result of all the mousse it took to get your hair maintain its ‘shape’.

Now for the men. It's best you hold back your snickers in regards to the styles your love ones may have had to live through back then. Because the 80s was also the birth of the single most outstanding, and not in a good way, hairstyle for men…ever. And don’t try to act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s the mullet. Yes, the quasi-hair cut that melded together the ‘long hair-band’ look with the neat ‘my Mama made me get my hair cut’ look creating a strange hybrid of the two. And it gets worse.

How so? Do you remember the synth pop rock group ‘A Flock of Seagulls’? Need I say more? No? I didn't thinks so.

And now it's time we move out of the era of shoulder pads and spandex...

Ladies, did your hair ever fall victim to the over inflated supermodel styles of the 1990s? After all, we all wanted those thick, luxurious perfectly highlighted locks of hair even though we knew that there was no way on God’s green Earth that we’d ever get it. Maybe you saw Rachel on Friends sporting the same sort of fuller than naturally possible hair and you decided you simply had to have the ‘Rachel’ cut which you quickly learned only worked for Jennifer Aniston because she had a crew of knockout hair dressers who poofed her hair between takes and put just enough of a curl at the ends of the stuff to frame her face as if she was a living, breathing Da Vinci masterpiece.

But when it came to you and your cut which looked A-W-E-S-O-M-E when you walked out of the salon. Unfortunately you realized the next day when you tried to reproduce the wonderful style you’d so proudly shown off to your friends and loved ones the night before that you needed 4 arms to brush it, 3 bottles of mousse to hold it, 2 hours to try to make it look mediocre, and a partridge in a pear tree.

And men...those first few years of the 90s were hard for many of you because you simply couldn’t let go of the mullets. But like all things, whether they are good or bad, the mullet eventually came to a quiet end thanks to the grunge look of groups like Pearl Jam and Nirvana. Those guys always looked like they’d just rolled out of bed and it was so cool. And you figured it would be a fairly easy look to sport because you’d gotten the sleeping thing down pat years earlier. But something about your grungy morning hair just didn’t look the same as theirs. Maybe it was the fact that they, like Ms. Aniston, had hair people who helped them perfect that ‘just woken up’ look before they took any publicity photos or appeared on the Grammys.

Now here we are...it's a whole new century. We're older, wiser, and have better insurance than when we were young and stupid. But that doesn't mean we've gotten better at making 'hair' choices. Sure you might have survived all those years without once giving into the temptation of a ‘hip’ cut and made it to the the 21st century with tried and true hairstyles that will always be in style after all that’s why they are tried and true. However, when you looked around and saw that your children or maybe your nieces and nephews were sporting cuts that you remember back when you were younger you started to think that maybe you were due for a little bit of a change.

Essentially, you came to the disheartening realization that the long, flowy ‘pretty enough to be on a shampoo commercial’ hair which had been a dream of yours for years was more of a delusional than dreamlike. And maybe you considered getting a ‘light’ perm so that your hair could look bouncy and vibrant like that girl from Desperate House Wives (Which girl? Does it really matter? They all have stunning tresses)...but then you remembered so many of your friends that had tried that look and had failed miserably.

No, you weren’t an idiot. You knew that you were entirely too busy with work, family, etc... and would never be able to maintain a look like that anyway. So you decided to go in the extreme opposite direction...the cute little pixie cut. You figured that not only was a pixie cut adorable, after all Jamie Lee Curtis has one and she's a knockout, but that it would be so easy to do each morning...wash it, towel dry it, add a dab of mousse and *POOF!!*...a perky little do.

Yes, a pixie-do would be the perfect cut for you. Or so you thought. And it wasn't until you heard the swish of the scissors as the stylist, who seemed so gung ho to get hold of your head to start the radical cut, that it dawned on you that maybe your face wasn't right for a pixie-cut. Or that you'd have to come to the salon every 10 days and lay down loads of money to maintain it. Or worse yet, you remembered the myriad of cowlicks you had and the reason why you let your hair grow out in the first place! But it was too late to stop the madness.

Sure you walked out of the salon looking terrific and feeling fine. And you thought how easy your life was going to be now. Then you woke up the next morning with hair that would make Phyllis Diller, the queen of the 'perpetually messy hair-do' proud.

Thank goodness things haven't been so dire for men the early years of the 21st century save the comb over 'Donald' coif. (Which I refuse to find a picture of because it's so unattractive it might make my Phyllis pic look absolutely goddess like!

Yes, thank goodness there haven’t been many far out sort of styles for men to emulate other than a short lived reemergence of the ‘sk8er dude’. Or, god forbid, the Justin Bieber look, only you’re entirely too old to be wearing your bangs in your eyes like a sheepdog and constantly whipping your head around like someone with a tick but never fear there’s still plenty of time left in this century for you to wander back into the land of outrageously bad haircuts.

Wrapping this up, I think it's safe to say that hair and the various ways which women try to style it, has been the bane of their existence since the first pretty little braid was woven back in the day of mammoth pelts and bone jewelry. Likewise, I’ve no doubt that even the earliest women found themselves looking at their reflections in the still water of a pond saying ‘ACK! Augck oowa oooh maah!’ (which roughly translates to ‘ACK! What have I done!’) to their mates who looked at them with toothless ‘don’t be silly it looks....great’ smiles. Yes, even back then men couldn’t escape the hair trap.

The Tale of the Caramel Colored Body Suit

noreply@blogger.com (L. Avery Brown) — Wed, 20 Jul 2011 15:35:00 +0000

A couple of years ago around this same time, I wrote a blog post called ‘The Tale of the Creepy Mole Lady’ and last year I followed it up with, ‘The Frighteningly Freckled She-Pirate’. They were both cautionary tales about how dangerous the giant flaming ball of hydrogen in the sky can be to our birthday suits. And seeing as it’s that time of year again, I see no reason why I shouldn’t continue with the trend…

The sun. Without it our planet would be nothing more than a frozen spheroid in the infinite darkness of space. But thankfully this little rock we call home does have that massive hydrogen powered star that anchors us in the perfect spot so that we humans can exist alongside hundreds of thousands of other species.

Needless to say the sun is pretty powerful and can pack an equally powerful and sometimes terribly painful wallop to our fragile, fleshy bodies when we spend too much time in its awesome light; a lesson I learned back when I was 8 years old and got a burn so bad I had multiple water-filled blisters on my back. And with that recollection quite literally burned into my memory bank I’ve always wondered how it is that people can willingly bake themselves just so they can have that ‘sun-kissed’ look.

I can recall the days back when I was a kid and I would spend as much of my summer as I could playing in the little swimming pool father would painstakingly assemble for me. It really was the greatest thing. Sure it completely destroyed the grass whereupon it rested and the water had a unique sort of funky odor even though my dad would push down the side each morning to dump out some of the old water, refill it with fresh, cold water as well as pour a cup of Clorox it to keep it as clean as possible.

And sometimes on really hot days he’d turn on the sprinkler and place it right by the pool to help keep it from getting warmer than a bath tub. Oh, how I did love that pool especially on Sunday afternoons because my sister, Christie, and her friends liked to ‘lay out’ in our backyard and listen to America’s Top 40 with Casey Kasem.

Now before I go any farther, I ought to point out that my sister is pale. Very pale, with light bluey-green eyes and has freckles. Suffice it to say, she does not easily tan but that did not stop her from trying her damnedest to make herself look like the love child of perpetually tanned B-movie icon, George Hamilton and the 70s queen of ‘cuchi, cuchi’, María del Rosario Pilar Martínez Molina Gutiérrez de los Perales Santa Ana Romanguera y de la Hinojosa Rastenthe or as you may know her…Charo. (Seriously, that’s her real name.)

In all my years I’ve never understood the concept of ‘laying out’ and back when I was a kid the notion of it seemed even stranger. But for some reason my sister and her friends thought it was ‘the’ thing to do in the summer. And back then I used to think that I’d figure it out one day; maybe when I turned sixteen like my sister…only I never did.

Her friends would come to my house around 2 PM on Sundays (after having gone to church and had a proper Sunday lunch) toting their beach bags filled with all sorts of various lotions and potions meant to bronze their skin. Then they’d gather in the bedroom that she and I shared where they would change into their bikinis so that they’d be sure to get a maximum amount of solar exposure.

Once they were properly attired, Christie would slide her stereo (the stereo that I was not allowed to touch…though truth be told, I touched it all the time because nothing was going to get in the way of me listening to my one and only full length LP by my favorite Hardy Boy, Shaun Cassidy, with his version of ‘Da do ron ron, Da do ron ron’ on it) to my side of the room and she’d put the speakers in my open window (as we didn’t have A/C in our room) so they could listen to 95.1 FM while they ~~slow roasted like skinny white chickens~~ tanned.

95.1 FM was the station of choice because not only did they play the most current music by groups like the Eagles, Foreigner, and Journey but they also had DJs who provided a much needed public service for people like my sister and her friends wherein about every fifteen minutes they’d say, ‘Alright now, it’s time to turn so you don’t burn’ so that sunbathers didn’t need to worry about getting too crisp in one spot and so they could avoid getting annoying tan lines from their wrist watches.

After the station was set, I would splash around in my pool and watch as Christie and her friends either spread out an old sheet or would get some of the multi-colored, low to the ground, tri-fold vinyl ‘cane’ beach chairs from the storage room so they could recline in style. Personally, I was never a fan of those types of chairs because your butt sinks down between the strips of plastic and if you need to get up in a hurry you have to flop around like a flounder just to get enough momentum to wriggle your low-riding glutes out of the giant plastic sling. (Although I will say, after Star Wars came out in ’77, I did like to fold up the sides to make a triangle ‘space ship’ and pretend I was chasing down Darth Vader.)

Once the actual ‘laying out’ spot was finally prepared, the girls would get out their bottles of oils and slather the stuff all over their bodies so that they glistened in the sun like bright white beacons in our backyard. Apparently suntan ‘lotion’ was for wimps…

Some of Christie’s friends liked to use coconutty scented Hawaiian Tropic oil as it came in different ‘strengths’ (and prices) like ‘Golden Tan’, ‘Deep Tan’ and ‘Brazilian Bronze’. Of course, if you wanted a top notch tan like Christy Brinkley or Cheryl Tiegs, you had to pay at least a dollar more for the good stuff which seemed like an awful lot of money to look like a human sized crispy piece of bacon. But hey, I was just a kid. How could I have possibly known about things like suntan oil formulas? Maybe the Brazilian Bronze stuff had chopped up Brazilians in it or something?

Now as for Christie’s preference, she was a diehard believer in the tanning power of good old fashioned Johnson’s Baby Oil. Which to me seemed odd because as a kid I thought babies were rather pale so why would anyone want to use an oil squeezed out of little babies to get tanned? (Go ahead and giggle if you must but I was somewhere between 8 & 9 and I believed my brother when he joked about how corn oil comes from corn and olive oil comes from olives so it only follows that baby oil comes from babies.)

All in all they had quite a merry time baking themselves while they sang along with the songs on the radio and listened for the magic words ‘turn so you don’t burn’ to be uttered. And when they happened to wind up on their backs, they’d nibble on Lay’s sour cream and onion potato chips and sip on icy cold Pepsis. (Which I usually had to go get for them.) Oddly enough they’d always wipe the oil that got on their fingertips from the potato chips onto their towels because God forbid the ‘food’ oil should intermingle with the ‘tanning’ oil . Of course, maybe they wiped the excess oil away because gripping the sweaty glass Pepsi bottles was too difficult if they didn’t. I suppose I’ll never really know although I've pondered it (perhaps a bit too often).

After about 3 hours of roasting at an uncomfortable 95°F and 60ish% humidity they’d call it a day and head inside so they could survey ~~the damage~~ their tan lines. Unfortunately for Christie though, no matter how long she basted or how many gallons of oil she slathered on her body, she never seemed to get a real tan. Instead she would mostly just burn and have a cheery sort of rosy look on her cheeks and arms for a few days then her skin would peel. But she wasn’t going to let a little thing like having to slough away layer upon layer of dead skin each week keep her from having that sun-kissed glow when school started up in August. So in the end, I suppose it’s fair to say that Christie was, if anything, very persistent in her pursuit of obtaining a caramel colored body suit.

And during it all, I would be playing in my pool, singing along with the songs on the radio and getting a tan so dark that by the end of summer, my blonde hair was almost white and my skin looked like dark honey and all without the use of any oils or lotions. Yes, I was one of those kids who seemed to get tanned simply by thinking about the sun…but that was then…and this is now and I’m very happy in my boringly pale skin.

Thankfully we’ve both reached adulthood without any serious long lasting side effects of our youthful, blissful solar ignorance. But that doesn't mean we’ve not both had some personal scares. Christie had to have a cancerous growth removed and was lucky that the doctors got it all in one fell swoop. And I have had my own little moment of Helios driven anxiety, too. Remember that nasty burn I mentioned back when I was 8?

The one where I had giant blisters on my back? I really never thought much of it until 2004 when I decided that I needed to get a weird, oblong shaped flat mole checked out by a dermatologist. And it’s a good thing I did, too because I wound up having to get it removed because it came back with abnormal cells. (And oh man did it ever hurt, too, but in my book, a few days of discomfort is well worth a few extra years of my life!)

And the moral of it all is…we have only one body and it must be taken care of both inside and out. Treat it like a temple. Let nothing inside that can cause it harm and likewise, keep it safe on the outside by religiously using a good sunscreen because trust me, there’s no tan in the world worth losing your life over!

Near-Mares

noreply@blogger.com (L. Avery Brown) — Fri, 01 Jul 2011 23:27:00 +0000

Greetings kind reader! Yes, ‘tis I, the recently absent (and thoroughly sorry to have been so) rambling southern woman whose long winded tales that cover everything from off the wall observations to sweetly sentimental recollections to deep insightful commentaries returned from the wholly unbloggy place called ‘real life’. Well, sort of…

For as you may know, I’ve been immersed the past couple of months in getting ready to move with my family back to Texas which means I’ve been focused on getting my house on the market, dealing with my husband having to be in Texas while my daughter and I remain in North Carolina keeping the house in a perpetual ‘show at a moment’s notice’ state, searching online through hundreds of homes in the Austin area as I look for a home in which to move in to, and photographing precious items we’d hate to see get damaged or to mysteriously disappear once in the hands of the moving company. And trying to do all these things without going completely out of my mind, which hasn’t exactly been easy. (Heavens, I made myself tired just writing that!)

Yes, there’s a lot going on in my head. So much stuff that on a few occasions I’ve had some very weird near-mares when I go to sleep…or should I say when I finally fall asleep because my mind races with all the things I have to do when I turn out my bedside light. Of course you’re probably wondering what in the world a near-mare is, aren’t you? Essentially, a near-mare is one of those dreams that’s not quite a nightmare because you’re not being chased down and are you don’t fall from a death defying height which causes you wake up drenched in sweat and terrified with your heart racing.

Need a bit more of an explanation? Perhaps it would be clearer if I recount a dream I’ve had (more than once) over the past few weeks—

The Anatomy of a Near-Mare

A near-mare is a dream you have that starts out all lemon-drops and lollipops…

For example let’s say I’m frolicking through my front yard on a bright, sunny day; the grass is lush and green and the flowers are in full bloom. And there are cheerily chirping birds and some chipmunks playfully scurrying through the trees.

Then something really weird happens and things start going awry so I try to fix it…

I see a dandelion spring up out of the ground. So I pluck the annoying weed from the ground. But then I see another one pop up on the other side of my yard. So I go to yank the yellow nuisance from my perfect swath of green only when I reach out to grab it, the irritating little plant disappears beneath the soil and pops up a few feet away. This happens again and again and I run around my yard, zigging and zagging trying to snatch up them up before they go to seed only I can’t get to them fast enough. I grow more frustrated and frantic because everywhere I look I see more and more dandelions and fuzzy little seeds floating on the breeze.

Then I look up to see those cheery little birds flying overhead. I wonder what they’re doing. After which I hear what sounds like bombs dropping from a B-52. I glance towards the sky and get pelted across my forehead with a load of chalky mulberry colored poop. NO! I look out at my yard and see plop after plop after plop of purply colored poop all over my green grass and my power-washed sidewalk. So many purple poop plops! And then they aim for my door. No way…they’re dive bombing my freshly painted door with perfect purple poop plops!

That’s when I realize those cute little chipmunks that were scurrying through the bushes and across the yard aren’t chipmunks at all…no! They’re moles and they’re wearing swimming caps with little flowers on them like those ladies who did the synchronized swimming routines in the old Esther Williams aquamusicals back in the 1940s & 50s. They wave at me and then dive down into my lawn after which they pop back up only to dive back beneath the soil and I, in turn, start playing a life sized version of whack-a-mole

Dandelions, mulberry poop, and moles…oh, my!

About this time it dawns on me that something about this whole ordeal is wrong…

Very wrong and I realize I’m dreaming. Ah, yes, it’s just a dream. So I tell myself to wake up. But I can’t. No matter how hard I try to open my eyes, they just won’t budge. All I can do is watch my yard turn into a sea of mulberry poop coated dandelions with a veritable chorus line of dirt covered moles diving into the ground and doing a backstroke kick line around me while the birds chirp an annoyingly sweet Snow White-esque tune in between dropping dung dollops.

But wait…if this is a dream (which I’m pretty darn sure it is because if it isn’t I’m fairly certain I’m headed for an extended stay at Happy Acres where I can spend my days finger painting and making macaroni necklaces) I can fix this…

Yes, I can fix this quick as a wink with—the 30-aut-6 rifle I pull out of a bottomless pocketbook that would make Mary Poppins jealous. I aim at the mulberry pooping pests and blow their tail feathers to Kingdom Come! Then I grab my garden hose and stick it into one of the mole holes. I turn the water on full blast and the annoying vermin start flying up in the air like they’ve all come face to face with the mother of all geysers. I let out a primal Rambo-esque yell and I do a slow-mo shake of my hair. Oh yeah, I have become the lawn-inator and I dare any critter to cross the sidewalk into my yard!

Then, with the sounds of an invisible throng of people cheering me and my awesomeness, I wake up.

So you see, it wasn’t exactly a nightmare rather it was a near-mare that I took control of and made into something much less terrifying, wouldn’t you agree?

Normally, I have slightly less weird dreams. Really. But ever since I’ve been in ‘sell my house’ mode, I’ve been a bit on edge. And sweet Lord of mercy I hope my house sells sooner rather than later otherwise I might go from a bit on edge to completely over the edge! And honest to goodness, my heart is pounding right now as I think of it! So I think I ought to stop this post right now before I fall into an all out anxiety attack!

Nekked Man Boobs

noreply@blogger.com (L. Avery Brown) — Thu, 02 Jun 2011 18:20:00 +0000

A couple of weeks ago, I saw the 1^st true sign that summer had returned to my beloved South. And no, it had nothing to do with the fact that the mercury soared above 85°F before the noon hour. Nor did it have anything to do with the sound of children squealing in delight as they dashed around their yards jumping through sprinklers. And by no stretch of the imagination did it have anything to do with the summer solstice that comes each year around June 21.

Heavens no, it had nothing to do with anything so…typical. Rather I knew summer had ‘arrived’ the moment I spotted the season’s 1^st pasty-white, slightly overweight 50+ year old pair of ‘nekked man-boobs’ (yes, nek-ked...Southern speak for naked) that jiggled and wibbled while the owner of said fleshy man-mammarys sat astride his riding lawn mower and made his way back and forth across the expanse of his front lawn, cutting down any blade of grass that dared grow beyond what he deemed to be an acceptable height. Oh, yes, it was quite a site. Quite a site indeed. In fact, for a moment there it actually reminded me ~~of a nightmare I used to have a s a small child~~ of days of yore when valiant men defended castles from invading enemies.

Unfortunately that noble flash was squashed like a fly stupid enough to have landed on my dearly departed grandmother’s countertop (as my grandmother was probably the fastest and most accurate fly swatter east of the Appalachians) because as soon as what I was seeing truly registered in my head I felt an intensely painful sensation deep within my eye sockets. I threw my hands to my eyes and lamented ‘It burns! Lord Jesus, it burns! Make it go away!’

But it’s my own fault because I should have known better than to have looked upon the bright white torso. Sort of like how I know better than to stare at the sun with improperly shielded eyes during a solar eclipse because the intensity of the UV rays a corona emits will burn the retinas causing eclipse blindness. At least that’s what my 4^th grade teacher Mrs. Eudy told me when I was 9. And I also read about it in a NASA report.

However, neither Mrs. Eudy nor NASA mentioned the damage that can befall a person who stares too long at the intense light that is reflected off a half naked, pale white guy’s torso. Sure it doesn’t fry the retinas like UV light but still it’s one of those images that sticks around for a few minutes sort of like how the flash from a camera causes annoying little dots. Perhaps someone ought to do a study about it.

But I digress, like I said…I should have known better because this happens to me every summer at least 30 times. And every year, I think that maybe this will be the year that I’ll be spared. Only I never am. Now let me be clear in saying that it’s not just the eye blinding white skin that gets to me. Because there are plenty of men of all colors who will ride their mighty lawn mowers shirtless like ‘manly-men’ exposing their bare-chested flouncy bouncy testosterone ta-tas and melon shaped beer bellies as if they were in their 20s even though they’re not…not by a long shot.

Surely you’ve seen one or two ‘nekked man-boob’ mowers…

Maybe they’re in your neighborhood.
Maybe your father or grandfather was or still is one of them.
Maybe your husband is one. If so, I’m sure you’ve told him ‘Oh, for Pete’s sake…at least let me put some sunscreen on your back—to wit he probably went with his go-to response of, ‘Nah, I’ll be fine’. And you say, ‘Well don’t complain when your back gets red as a lobster’.
Or maybe *GASP* you have sat astride a 20 horse power grass taming machine sporting nothing more than your shorts, shoes and maybe a ball cap!

But if you’re one of the ~~lucky~~ rare few who have not had the opportunity of seeing this sometimes weekly display of manliness I’ll describe it for you…

It’s a typical Saturday. Billy Bob, 54, and his wife Patty Sue, 52, are going to do a little yard work--

He steps outside wearing his faded, holey, black, older than his children Bon Jovi World Tour 1986 concert t-shirt that he refers to as vintage. When he bought it he knew it would be a total babe magnet because it fit tightly across his athletic chest and the sleeves accentuated his impressive guns. However that was a l—o—n—g time ago and while his shirt is still tight, it’s not exactly tight in the same places because Mother Nature rearranged things so that all those firm muscles on the top half of Billy Bob’s torso which seemed to defy gravity years ago, have sunk to his waist line like a deflated soufflé.

(You know, personally I think Mother Nature gets a real kick out of doing things like that. After all, wouldn’t you think it a hoot if you had the ability to sic gravity on Princess Perky Breasts so that her knockers wound up looking like Daisy Droopy-boobs? I’m just saying…)

Next are Billy Bob’s shorts…loose fitting khakis that he likes to wear because as he says they ‘let a little air in down there so things stay cool’ which apparently is a plus in Man-Land. Unfortunately, he doesn’t realize that the roominess is probably thanks in part to the fact that the firm caboose he once had has all but pulled out of the station. Maybe it migrated northward and stopped when it got to his belly because that’s where all the beer eventually winds up.

Though to be honest, that’s a total guess since I don’t really know where it goes, which is weird because rear-end vanishing seems to happen to all men…eventually. Of course, if you were to ask some of the older fellows who live south of the Mason-Dixon line about their beer bellies and flat hind ends, they’d probably laugh and tug up their pants a tad as they’d say, ‘Haw! That ain’t fat! That there’s a right good shed to keep the important parts out of the weather.’

And last are the shoes guys like Billy Bob wear which actually vary by age. You see in Billy’s younger days he was more likely to wear flip-flops or let his tootsies go au natural but as he grew older he decided to opt for more secure and decidedly darker footwear.

(Let’s take pause for a moment to ponder this observable fact. Think long and hard about the last 50+ year old man you’ve seen working in his yard. Was he wearing sturdy shoes with thick soles sort of like what waitresses wear? Or was he wearing dark strappy sandals with socks but not just socks…dark, above the ankle socks? It is something to consider. Maybe someone will fund a research grant to find out just what it is that makes men have an urge to wear black footwear as they get older.)

Back to Billy Bob and Patricia Sue…

They do a little yard work, pulling out weeds and whatnot. And ol’ Billy Bob decides he’s hotter than a pig on a spit so he decides to take off his t-shirt and tosses it aside. Patty Sue scolds him and says ‘You’re gonna burn, sure as shoot, you’re gonna burn.’ But Billy Bob doesn’t want to hear her nag at him again about the whole sun burn issue even though every single time he mows shirtless he gets burnt.

So he figures he’ll just go mow the lawn because there’s no need to argue with her as she always wins those logical arguments.

But first he needs to grab a beer to sip on while he works then he backs his riding lawn mower out of the garage and gives the girl a quick once over. Then he puts on his ultra chic oversized sunglasses like Tom Cruise wore in Top Gun and shifts the mower into drive to have at it. He goes up and down the yard, beer clutched in one hand while the other stays on the steering wheel. And as he cruises his lawn, Billy Bob’s man-boobs and beer belly bounce up and down with each dip in his yard.

That’s when it happens…I am making my way home from the grocery store, minding my own business, when I pull into our development doing the posted 30 MPH and I see him. * Look away!* But I can’t! It’s like I’m a moth and he’s a giant skin covered beacon. *No! Don’t stare! Shield your eyes!* The light reflecting off his bare white skin (and there is quite a lot of it, too) is so bright I begin to blink furiously. Noooo! I don’t have my sunglasses! *Must—get—home.* Then I see his man-boobs bouncing and coming closer to the road...to me! *My eyes. My eyes! It burns! Lord Jesus, it burns! Make it go away!!*

It seems like hours before I am able to look away though really it’s only about 3 seconds but it matters not because it’s too late…the image of Billy Bob, his man-boobs, and his beer belly jiggling like Jello on that lawn mower is now indelibly impressed on my poor brain. I make my way home. And my head is still reeling from what I’ve seen. After drinking tall glass of sweet iced tea and reading my Southern Living magazine I’m feeling better. But in the back of my mind I know this won’t be the last time I’ll see this sort of thing. Nope. Because summer has arrived and the grass is growing ever so quickly!

Hi Ho Hi Ho I've Got a Lawn To Mow!

noreply@blogger.com (L. Avery Brown) — Thu, 26 May 2011 04:12:00 +0000

Greetings Kind Reader! Words cannot begin to describe how wonderful it is for me to say hello to you. After all, I’ve been so busy recently that I’ve barely had time to catch my breath, let alone sit down and actually think about doing something like writing for my blog. BUT…I am pleased to say that as of a couple of days ago…my house is finally on the market! Thank goodness.

No more worrying about carpet or paint. No more fretting over deciding where furniture should be positioned. Nope…I don’t need to bother about any of that sort of stuff. All I have to do is keep it all neat and tidy so it’s ready to show at a moment’s notice.

That’s right. Now I only have to worry about dusting (to keep dust bunnies from taking up residence beneath the furniture), sweeping all the hardwood downstairs and upstairs (sometimes twice daily) because we have a ‘nervous’ (more like neurotic) 8 year old rat terrier who sheds like mad when she gets the slightest bit nervous (and everything makes her nervous), and keeping the kitchen neat (a task made ever so difficult because I am admittedly a messy cook).

That’s right...I said it…
I am a messy cook but it’s not like I don’t try to be neat. I do. Honest! It’s just that something always spills or drips or splatters or winds up where it shouldn’t be but thankfully, I’ve always got a bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towels at my fingertips so my range and counters can look ‘ready to sell’ in a flash.

Sure, keeping the inside looking, as my father would say ‘preacher comes a’calling’ clean’ does take a good deal of effort but it’s not so bad. And one of the things that helps make it doable is that my almost 14 year old daughter, Jessica, has been a great help by chipping in to keep things uncluttered both upstairs and down. And I’m not talking the typical teen concept of ‘shove it under the bed’ tidy or ‘throw it in the closet’ cleaning either. No. She actually empties the trashcans, folds her clothes, lines her shoes up and…miracle of miracles…puts dishes into the dishwasher without having to be told 2 5 10 100 times!

What’s more, she fills it with cleaner—presses ‘start’—and then, when the little ‘clean’ light is on she’ll…wait for it…empty the dishwasher, too! Now, I don’t know if you’ve got a teenager, but even so, surely you must see the inherent awesomeness of her actions! To fill, run, and empty the dishwasher…without prompting…that’s something most adults will avoid doing!

She has truly been a blessing to me! I don’t think I could have done all that I have done inside without her help. However when one has one’s home on the market, aside from looking in tip top condition on the inside it’s also got to look great outside, too. No. Not just great. Any realtor will tell you it’s got to look absolutely fabulous outside! At least that’s what our realtor said.

And if you’ve read any of my posts from the past few months you know that I’ve been fighting an ongoing battle with a fungus commonly referred to as ‘Brown Patch’ because of the swaths of dead grass it leaves in its wake. You also probably know that I’d claimed an early victory over the vile fungus. But that was a few weeks ago…how is the lawn doing now?

Terrific! It’s green and gosh honest lush, too! Alright so some of its lushness comes from patches of weeds but at least they’re green!! And green, so far as a lawn is concerned, is so much better than dead. Besides after all the hours I put in to weeding, liming, fertilizing, overseeding (and overseeding and more overseeding) and watering (hours and hours of moving the hose around our yard from sunrise to about 2 PM everyday for two solid weeks and then every other day for another 3 weeks) I’m pleased as punch to know when people drive by our house they’re going to see a yard maintained by someone who gives a damn!

Of course, giving a damn does mean more than just getting the yard green…it also means mowing. So I mow. Yes, I mow…with a push mower and not even a self-propelled push-mower either. But it’s not so bad. You see I start really early and use a lot of mental motivation as I plod along. I say things like:

Oooh, 1/8^th –1/4^th –1/2 of the yard done,

(Oh, God, I’m gonna die)

Just think of how toned your thighs will be,

(Yeah, in my coffin!)

Don’t give up!

(Because if you stop now it’ll look like a mullet yard!)

Sweating is good.

(It’s also icky. And burns the eyes. And smells.)

You are a strong woman!

(You are also talking to yourself like a woman on the edge…)

Sure it takes me something like 3 hours to mow a yard that takes Todd about an hour and a half…at least it gets done! Sure I’m icky and sweaty and my legs feel like jelly! Sure I know I could have called a lawn service to do the yard. But I didn’t. Nope. I do it. I do it because I can. I do it because I’m not going to let something as simple as grass get the better of me. And I do it because I hate the thoughts of paying someone else to do it for me. (Granted, I say this now because it’s mid-May and the daytime temperatures aren’t too bad…today the high is supposed to be in the low 90s. Maybe I’ll come to my senses in a few weeks and justify it by saying something like ‘I’m helping the local economy’…yes, that sounds like something I’d say).

But regardless of why I opt to mow our wonking huge yard, when I’m all done, I put the mower back in the garage, kick off my shoes, put my giant sunhat on the garden table, grab a big ol’ glass of sweet iced tea from the fridge and walk my icky, sweaty self on my jelly legs out to the bench swing beneath the oak trees and plop myself down to sit a spell.

I’ll sit there and sip my tea as I use my toes to push myself back and forth beneath the dappled sunlight. I like to listen to the birds chirping around me. I can also hear my crazy, nervous little dog panting like mad as she sits next to me. And far off in the distance I can hear the sound of classic rock playing and think to myself that the guy down the road must be washing his car.

Then I hear another sound mixed in with the sounds of nature and rock and roll. Only it’s not natural. It’s a hum of sorts. But it’s not an airplane. Nor is it a big truck on the main road. No. It’s much closer. Only the sound is moving. It’s far away…then close by…then far away again and so on and so forth. A few minutes later and I hear another back and forth hum. It’s got a different pitch but it’s basically the same. What could it be?

I open my eyes and look out across my lawn to see the source of the obtrusive noise…but truth be told, I already know what it is. It’s some of my neighbors, the men of Oak Creek, on their riding lawn mowers cruising up and down their respective yards with ease and nary a drop of sweat. I smile and take a huge gulp of my refreshing tea because when I look out at the yard I tamed all by myself with the help of our 22” Troy-Bilt Briggs & Stratton lawn mower, a wave of personal satisfaction washes over me. (At least I think it’s satisfaction although it could be disorientation due to dehydration and overheating…)

***

Coming up soon! (So make sure to drop by in the next few days!)

Man Boobs and Halter Top Honeys...a sure sign that summer is here!

No, seriously, I did not lose my fingers in an accident!

noreply@blogger.com (L. Avery Brown) — Thu, 12 May 2011 02:13:00 +0000

...however, considering that the last time I posted anything to my little spot here in the blogoverse was 3 weeks ago, I can totally see how someone like yourself might consider the possibility that something dire must have happened to me because I'm usually pretty good about putting something online...even if it's nothing but a quick note. (*1.) Then again, the notion of 'quick' coupled with the fact that I am a self proclaimed 'rambling Southern woman' is a bit of an oxymoron especially since when it comes to my writing, 'quick' is a vague sort of phrase.

Surely you know what I mean. But just in case you don't let me just say that so far as I am concerned, 'quick' is sort of vague term like when you were a kid and asked your teacher how long an essay needed to be and your teacher replied, 'It needs to be as along as a piece of string.' (Yes, I had teachers say that to me... Silly teachers.

Now where was I? Oh, yes, my utter lack of checking in--

As you may know, recently I've been busy getting the finishing touches done to our house so we can put it on the market by the end of next week. Yes, by the end of next week! (That is, unless something goes completely awry with the house between now and then which could throw me off kilter once again. But I don't want to waste my last few unfrazzled brain cells considering that sort of possibility!) Besides, as I said somewhere in the beginning of this long spiel, I've been busy recently.

However, 'busy' is another one of those vague sorts of words. So let me just say--I've clipped more hedges than I care to consider; swept, mopped, and polished more hardwood than ought to be legal; moved more boxes from point A to point Z (and alls points in between); and, I have driven from here to there so many times in the past 21 days that I sometimes find myself wondering 'did I stop at that light back there?'

But tonight I simply refused to go to bed without at least saying, 'hello.' So, hello, kind reader.

And now with that having been said, I suppose I ought to say goodbye and 'until next time' because I'm ridiculously tired. In fact, it's nearly 11:30 PM and I'm actually lying in bed at this exact moment trying to get my brain to stop racing because of all the little things I keep reminding myself I need to do tomorrow. In fact, I'm surprised I've formed enough coherent sentences in the past few lines to qualify as real (typewritten) speech. (*2)

Hopefully you understand. After all, I expect you've no doubt had 'crunch time' demands in your own life that you've had to deal with and which caused you to put aside doing something you enjoy doing for the sheer fact that it simply makes you feel good to do it!

But I promise that along with all the 'must dos' floating around in my noggin there are also oodles of goofy tidbits I'm mulling over, too. For example, I've got a terrifically funny little piece I'm thinking of writing (tentatively) called, 'Please, NO naked man-boobs!' Yes, that's right, man-boobs!

Now I do hope that little wiggly worm of an idea has you hooked like a large mouthed bass so you'll want to stop by again to see if I've been able to grab the thread of an idea from my head so I can weave a funny yarn for you!

And with that I'll say, 'That's all I've got...until next time!'

(*1) Of course, if I had lost my fingers in an accident, I'll bet you'd be pretty impressed with how well I managed to type this little update, wouldn't you?

(*2) Coherent? I don't know. What do YOU think?

What Day Is It?

noreply@blogger.com (L. Avery Brown) — Wed, 20 Apr 2011 18:18:00 +0000

Greetings, kind reader, I’m so glad you dropped by today. And I know I promised you an explanation that was supposed to appear on my site a couple of days ago about the photos I posted last Friday and I tried to find a few minutes during the past few days to write that post…honest! I even went so far as to try and actually hand write my post because I didn't have optimal access to my laptop. (Check out the picture of my longhand attempts to the right of this paragraph at putting down my thoughts.) I tried to do them while I sat in my car in the car rider line at my daughter’s school from 3:00 to 3:45 on two consecutive days. Unfortunately, both attempts weren’t up to snuff for me so I nixed them figuring I’d be able to grab a few minutes to jot down my thoughts. It didn’t work.

And in the back of my mind I kept telling myself ‘My readers will understand, they know I’m super busy.’ Still I wanted to have it online by Friday the 22^nd which would give me a good buffer being that I thought yesterday was the 17^th…only it wasn’t…it was the 19^th. Of course, I’ll bet you’re wondering, “How in the world could someone lose 2 days without a lot of alcohol or recreational drugs involved? Is this rambling southern belle an alcoholic strung out junkie?

Short answer…NO! The hardest thing I do is caffeine!

The long answer (Oh, come now! Did you really think I’d stop at a short answer…did you forget the title of this blog?) is…up until yesterday I honestly wasn’t exactly sure what the date was because not only have I been up to my eyeballs in ‘get the house ready to put on the market’ preparation but I’ve also been relying on my sporty, water resistant (up to 100 meters) Columbia wristwatch as it has:

a nifty face dial that spins clockwise (though I’m not really sure why);

the numbers 13-24 printed in itty bitty numbers alongside the already small 1-12 (I’m assuming the people at Columbia put them there because so many military people wear their watches and haven’t figured out how that military-time thing works—or they figured a lot of Europeans who don’t know how to convert 24 hour time to 12 hour time were going to buy their watches—or maybe they just thought it looked cool);

glow in the dark numbers (that only glow for about an hour and only if you’ve exposed the thing to sunlight directly before you turn out the lights) but then again, how many people really ~~read their watches in the dark~~ use wristwatches today?; and,

a calendar where the number '3' should be and apparently only works accurately if the wearer actually pays attention to the thing every month and remembers that stupid rhyme '30 days has September, April, June, & November. All the rest have 31, save February with 28 and sometimes 29'. (Okay, so I’ve not worn this particular watch since January…I don’t wear them often and I’ve got several of them!)

Anyway the gist of this spiel is…I’ve been a day or maybe 2 behind for the past few days because my iPhone which I normally have glued to my side has been inside while I’ve been outside playing with power washers, lawn mowers, paint brushes, and so on and so forth. It wasn’t until yesterday that I found out that today is the 20^th. And that’s only because one of my blogging friends sent me a note asking why his post that was supposed to be online on the 19^th wasn’t on our group site! Needless to say, I was a bit confused because I thought it was the 17^th until I realized that I’d been relying on centuries old technology instead of my 21^st century smart phone! (Though I’d like to point out that I did know the weekday…I just sort of got the actual date wrong.) Which reminds me…thank you Glen Staples!

Now on to those pictures I promised to explain!

First is the picture of ‘my perspective’ behind the lawn mower. As you may know, Todd went back to Austin a few weeks ago but he’s actually back in town now for about 2 weeks to help work on the house. However, our lawn didn’t care that he was gone and decided to just keep on growing which meant it had to be mowed. Now I absolutely hated the fact that we would have to pay someone about $100 to tend to our yard when I knew I could do it. After all, when I was a teen I used to mow the yard at my house and it was a big, BIG ¾ -1 acre yard…Lord have mercy was it big but thankfully it was pretty flat.

And while the house today is on over an acre of land, the ‘mowable’ yard at my house now is about a 1/3 of the size I used to mow so I thought…yeah, I can do this. Of course, the big difference today is that as a Brown, our yard is a beautifully sloped piece of land and when I was a Williams, it was fairly flat. Let me just say...pushing that mower down that beautiful slope is much easier than up…but I did it and it looked great.

By the way, as I (little itty bitty female me) was push mowing my wonking huge yard, the men who own the homes around me were driving around their yards on their ‘big man’ mowers. Yeah, I felt pretty smug thinking ‘score one for the girls!’

Next the giraffe behind the bars…

First of all no, he was not being treated inhumanely. Quite the opposite. Last week I went on another field trip with Jessica (I know, some may call me a glutton for punishment…but being the ‘mom’ on the excursion as opposed to being the ‘teacher’ is SO much more enjoyable and I truly enjoy getting to spend time with Jessica outside the everyday things) and one of the parts of the trip was a trip to the ‘Lazy S Ranch’ a zoo type spot about 2 hours from our home. It’s nifty and we got to ride on an open wagon pulled by 3 Clydesdales across the grounds to feed bison, deer, and some zebras and giraffes.

The giraffe in the photo was actually brought up to the holding area for its daily veterinary checkup and we got to get an up close, personal look at the beautiful creature. Unfortunately, as I was taking a few snaps with my iPhone I wanted to get a wee bit closer up and well, the giraffe thought I was offering him a tasty treat. Luckily I got the phone away before he could actually get hold of it. However, my phone (in which was in a protective case with a silicon skin) and my hand (which was only wrapped in my human skin) was swathed by the slimy tongue of the thing. Yeah, it was gross. But how many people do you know can honestly say they were that close to a giraffe?

In the end, my phone was fine and so was I…after a big squirt of hand sanitizer! And imagine my surprise when I went through my pics and saw that I’d snapped a shot right before he got me. Oh, the laugh Jessica, her friends and I had after that was priceless!

And now for an explanation of the rubber gloved hand…

The countertop in my kitchen, which is really big, is tiled and I love it so much. Unfortunately, the grout wasn’t looking too good especially in the heavy prep areas even though I actually prep food on a big textured glass thing. But a good deal of crumbs and liquid does make its way to the countertop and after a few years wherein I’ve super cleaned the counter on a daily basis, (I’m a bit anal about that) I apparently wore away the grout sealant.

And with the house going on the market, I want the kitchen to look as awesome as it did when we bought the house. So, I got a grout stain/sealant mixture and painstakingly made my way around the entire countertop. It took 3 days of work to get it done…but I did it. Then I added 3…yes, three coats of a different sealant to the counter just to make sure it was super sealed. Some people might call it overkill but I don’t care…it looks great and I’m proud of it!

So how about the Battle for the Lawn?

All I can say is I feel that victory is on the horizon. You read that correctly! My months long fight against the evil Rhizoctonia solani , a.k.a. ‘Brown Patch’ is almost behind me because as you can see from the pictures, the baby grass has been growing quite well thanks to my daily attention and the ginormous patch of horrible brown directly in front of the house is almost all filled in. And the big patch in the side yard is almost returned to its lush green state.

Oh, there are a few hold out patches of brown here and there but I’m thinking by May 1^st I’ll be able to stand in my front yard, put my hands triumphantly on my hips, puff out my chest and say in my best “HA HA, Brown Patch! I told you there’s only room for one Brown on this property and that Brown is…ME!” After which the wind will blow as if on cue and my hair will wave like a diva’s as a choir of angelic voices fills the air and a great shaft of light from the Heavens shines down on me. That or I’ll just stick my tongue out and go, “Hey, Rhizoctonia solani who’s your daddy now?!”

***

And now that Todd is home I’m even busier than I was. The deck has been stained and the hardwood floors have been polished (but they’ll need it again in a week or so!) And Jessica and I are busy using the new power washer to clean the driveway and front walkway. We’re having a great blast…pun absolutely intended.

Coming up, the final word on the Battle for the Lawn and hopefully bidding farewell to Rhizoctonia solani. And all the other stuff I’ve been busy with as we get the house ready to put the house on the market in the next few weeks.

And that's all I've got...until next time!

Oh, and then there’s looking for a new house, too. Yeah, that’s an adventure in and of itself!

Yes, I know...

noreply@blogger.com (L. Avery Brown) — Sat, 16 Apr 2011 16:34:00 +0000

Greetings kind reader! You're probably wondering what craziness has been going on at the Brown house as we continue to prepare for our move in June.

And I'm itching to tell you...only, I don't have the time today and probably not tomorrow but Monday is looking good...I think!

But being that I'm a bit anal about keeping people up to date and I know how it feels to pop over to a site expecting to see a post (because the blogthur is typically on top of things and has fresh new posts ready to read on time) and not see one posted, I thought I'd take a quick 5 minute break from all the ~~chaos~~ activity swirling around me to give you a quick 'look-see' into what you can expect when I actually have an hour or two to devote to you, kind reader!

I sure hope these tidbits whet your whistle!

(The lawn...and who could it be behind the lens actually pushing that mower? You guessed it; 'tis I, the mighty mower!)

Is there a story to go along with this? But of course!

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Is that a giraffe? Yes, it is. (No it's not a giraffe in prison! Nor is it a giraffe being treated badly, either!)

And yes, I'm the taker of that picture, too. As you can see, I got very close...

How close? Well, you'll have to pop back over here in a few days to find out!

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Hmmm, muddy looking stuff and a gloved hand. Obviously a home improvement story follows!

And then of course, there is my ongoing Battle for the Lawn...but I don't want to give any spoilers!

So yes, I know it's not the post you were expecting but I just had to give you a few nibbles of the post that is brewing in my noggin! I hope you'll pop by soon to see how it all turns out!

Until next time.

Here’s to Quality Craftsmanship and Determination

noreply@blogger.com (L. Avery Brown) — Thu, 07 Apr 2011 15:51:00 +0000

I’m here.

I know it’s been nearly two weeks since I’ve put up a post but what can I say other than I’ve been busier than a hungry fox in a secluded hen house. Why? Well, if you’ve been so kind as to have read my previous post you know that I have been ever so busy preparing my house to put on the market as we plan to move back to Texas in late June and this post is a continuation (because at the time my life seems to revolve around 'the house'!) of the things we’ve been doing to get the house ready as well as an update on the battle between me and my nemesis, Rhizoctonia solani a.k.a. ‘Brown Patch’, the dastardly fungus responsible for wreaking havoc on my once lush, green lawn…

But first a little bit about the lost art of making quality furniture (and how it nearly sent us over the edge)…

A couple of weeks ago Todd came home to visit so he could help me with some of the bigger projects around the house…and when I say around the house I literally mean…around the house as in he’s the one who did the vast majority of the heavy duty lawn work mentioned in my previous post and I suppose his role was as the lead push in our first strike in the Battle for the Lawn but I'll blather on about that a little later. When he wasn't out in the yard, Todd was helping me* to do other things inside like repairing the broken leg on an antique couch (circa 1885) that we have in our 'living room' but no real living goes on in there so we call it the parlor...suits it better. And as for the damaged couch we hated the thoughts of throwing it away even though it has no real value other than it’s a lovely piece of furniture.

*Alright so Todd may have done a bit more of the actual ‘repairing’ than I did but then again he’s the one with the ‘technical’ mind and has an ability to foresee the ‘but what ifs’ and ‘uh-ohs’ before they happen so as to avoid them. Not that I can’t figure out the how to’s of repairing things…I just go about it in a roundabout sort of way, kind of like how I’ll ramble on when I talk…but hey, I eventually figure it out although I have been known to run into a few—umm—technical difficulties using my ‘discovery’ method of home repair but 9 out of 10 times whatever it is gets fixed and unlike my father who had a knack for always have one extra screw even though there was an exact number before he undertook a task, I very rarely ever do that. Personally, I think my dad did it because as a poet who used a minimum of words to convey thoughts only follows that he’d use a minimum of hardware to get a job done, right?

Gracious, it seems I went for a bit of a wordy walk about. My apologies! I suppose I ought to wander back to the path I started out on…the one with the antique couch.

Now on the one hand we were fortunate that the couch was well crafted from thick, sturdy hardwood by serious carpenters of the late 1800s who were masters of their craft and didn’t take shortcuts unlike today where many ‘sturdy wood’ furniture pieces are actually made from namby pamby pseudo-wood fiberboard that looks real but doesn’t last anywhere near as long as the real stuff which meant Todd had a good base with which to work his DIY magic. But on the other hand, we were unfortunate in that the couch was well crafted by serious carpenters of the late 1800s who were masters of their craft and didn’t take shortcuts because that couch was a bear to move.

Our main focus was on the serious break on the front left foot though thankfully when we checked it over it appeared to be a fairly clean break that we thought we could fix with relative ease. But in order to get to it we had to put the couch on its back with its stubby wooden legs stuck up in the air like a possum on the side of the road that’s in the first stages of rigor mortis which proved much easier said than done because I was terrified my hardwood floor was going to get gouged as we manhandled the cumbersome thing it which meant it had to be lifted ever so carefully and placed gently on its back.

So Todd and I went to lift the massive piece of furniture and quickly realized that thanks to its wonderful craftsmanship, the thing must weigh close to 250 pounds (in not more). But regardless of the fact that I strained muscles in my back that I’d not used since I was a kid and could bend like human rubber band back in the late 70s, I lifted with all my might and that’s when we heard a loud, unexpected creaky cracking sound coming from the opposite side of the couch and realized that the back leg was also damaged.

Oh, well, just another thing to repair. But this new obstacle meant the couch had to be turned over a bit more so that there was no weight on the back legs. So we prepared ourselves to turn it another 90º (so that, in terms of the dead possum, its butt needed to be in the air) and as we got the couch about half way in position something very unexpected happened…the bench of the couch fell out! THUNK! We quickly returned the frame of the couch it to its previous state of rigor.

Todd said wide eyed, “Was that supposed to happen?”

And when I looked down at the bench I sighed, “Well what do you know…the bench comes out.” (Alright so the 19^th century master carpenters really did know what they were doing. It makes perfect sense. After all, who would make a couch that heavy and not make it so the bench could be removed for transport? If only we’d known that before we spent fifteen minutes trying to flip the damn thing over!)

With a good ½ of the weight gone, it was easy to get the piece of furniture into position and thankfully it survived all the motion. But what was even better was that the major break was actually very clean; it fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. And the other breaks sort of shifted somewhat easily into place once it was back in place. The repair itself only required some strong-tie wood joiners (yes, that’s the technical name for them…in my world however they are ‘flat metal thingys with holes in them’), ½” wood screws, wood glue and a long cinching rope.

Then once Todd got to the actual repair it didn’t take much time at all save the overnight glue drying time. And 48 hours later it was ready to get back into action…almost. With it repaired I was finally able to use my artsy fartsy ingenuity because I decided the couch needed to be recovered as the material it was dressed in had been put there in the 1940s. So we headed to the ‘Hell that is Wal-mart’ and I found a lovely cloth that was fresher looking but still had an antique air.

Once I’d gotten it all covered, and quite well covered if I do say so myself, the search for the perfect edge piping started which sent us searching all over the greater Greensboro area. It actually took longer to find that finishing accent than it did to fix the couch! But I found it in the last store we visited…funny how it’s always like that, finding what you’re looking for in the last place you look.

The finished couch...

Our dog, Melanie, is at the top of the stairs
It's only fitting she's there because she is
always underfoot...which made taking
the couch upstairs even more interesting!

When the couch was all done (repaired, recovered…revitalized) Todd and I decided we really ought to take it out of the parlor and put it into the sitting area of our bedroom—upstairs—because it would look awesome up there. So he and I (yes, little me, who is shorter than the couch is long and weighs about 3x less than it does) really did take that wonking heavy couch which was still pretty damn heavy even with the bench removed UP the stairs, down the hall and across our room so it could be in our sitting area. But boy was it worth it. It looks wonderful beneath the span of windows. And what I like best about it is that I can lie down on it and stare up at the giant trees just like I did when I was a little girl which made all that work so very worthwhile. Oh, and we figure it’ll make potential homeowners go ‘Wow, I’d love to have something like that! Sort of a quiet space.’

And now an update on the Battle for the Lawn…

The 10 days that Todd was home were wonderful. The weather was AMAZING and we were able to get a lot done most of which included getting the yard seeded, fertilized, and started on a regimen of daily watering.

But then…there was the unexpected frost. Yes, I’d been watering daily just like I was supposed to so as to keep the seeds nice and moist. And we figured with the temperature hovering in the mid60s we’d soon see results from all those hours out in the yard. Only that’s not what happened.

Because when the frost came the vast majority of the seeds that had itty bitty sprouts froze to death and the growth of the seeds that hadn’t quite reached maturity was drastically slowed down. And what that boils down to is we did all that work for maybe a 5% return. I swear I could almost hear the colonies of Rhizoctonia solani having a big pompous ‘who’s your daddy?’ laugh at my expense.

But hear this you evil Brown Patch, this Southern girl is not so easily intimidated. NO! This meant war and come Hell or high water (or maybe another frost) I refused to admit defeat. So I headed to Lowe’s Home Improvement, had a good long chat with John D. about the yard and he told me to let go the pain of losing my little seedlings so that I could mount a new attack…a more focused plan. “Seed it again, but only where you need to. Don’t worry, you can’t really over seed when you overseed. And mix fertilizer with some topsoil then put it only where the new seed is. And here, try this.” He showed me a bag of rabbit pooh looking stuff that is used by golf courses because it puffs up when wet, retains water longer and holds seed in place better than hay. So with his advice I set out the other day and mounted my offensive. It’s only been a few days but I’m feeling confident. Especially since I noticed this morning that some of the seeds that didn’t freeze to death last week has started to appear in sparse little areas…but it’s there.

So far I've been nice and have only used fertilizer but listen here Brown Patch I’m warning you now…leave my yard before I pull out the big guns…the fungicide! You’ve been given fair warning.

And that’s all I’ve got…until next time!

Rhizoctonia solani, oh what foul fungi thou be-est!

noreply@blogger.com (L. Avery Brown) — Mon, 28 Mar 2011 17:05:00 +0000

News flash!!!

I did not fall off the face of the planet! (Just in case you were wondering as I’ve not been around for the past fortnight.)

Nope. I’m still tethered to Earth via that sturdy thread called gravity…rather my husband and I have been super busy getting our house ready to put on the market as we will be leaving the beautiful state of North Carolina where we’ve been since 2005 and heading back to the giant state of Texas this summer because Todd’s new position within his company is based close to their corporate headquarters in a town called Round Rock.

See the roundish looking rock? It’s at a fording point…a place where when the water is low a natural bridge is formed…in the middle of the Brushy Creek where pioneers in the 1800s would cross as they traveled off the Chisholm Trail. Ah, the history geek in me is smiling because it feels good to toss in a wee bit of history to a post!

In fact, Todd is already living in Texas in a tiny apartment because we wanted our daughter to be able to finish out her 8^th grade year. It’s a big year in a 13 year old’s life and we wanted her to be able to enjoy it besides I've already moved in the cold, twice...and it's no fun. Thankfully, with modern technology, we’ve been able to keep in touch on a daily basis. Heck, we even get to have dinner together each night via Skype which is pretty cool. And lucky for us, his job is flexible enough that he was able to fly home on the 18^th and stay until the 27^th to get some much needed ‘around the house’ work done.

Which brings me back to the meat of the matter…getting the house ready…it’s quite a chore. In fact, I’ve been so immersed in the whole thing I’ve actually started dreaming about it. Bizarre dreams, too. Dreams where I’m doing things like scrubbing an endless countertop with a funky scented acid based cleaner that eats through the tile if I don’t immediately wipe it off and no matter how far forward I go, I never seem to get anywhere. (Granted it could be my over stressed brain taking the image of the freshly squished skunk I passed on the road the other day, the 15 minutes of Alien vs. Predator I watched where the alien was shot and its acid blood ate through the floor, and the time I spent actually scrubbing the countertop all together and trying to make sense of it all.)

And then there’s the freaky dream where Todd and I rake the thatch from our wonkin’ huge lawn in a single day until our backs ache, our hands are blistered, and our arms feel like jelly. Then we broadcast bags of crazy expensive grass seed followed by bags of equally expensive and weirdly scented fertilizer all in the same day. After which I methodically water the lawn for hours—making sure every single seed gets plenty of H₂0—and get frantic when the forecast, which calls for gentle rain the next day doesn’t deliver as expected. Rather it pours and pours. But then the rain stops and the sun comes out and I think I actually see little green sprouts so I get all happy until I look at the weather forecast and it’s calling for snow. But I think Snow? Nah, this is the South. It’s spring. Snow this close to April? I doubt it. And I go blissfully about my way until I wake up the next morning and, to my horror, see giant fluffy flakes falling to the ground coving my precious seedlings in a blanket of white. Then I feel my heart start to race and I have trouble catching my breath. Talk about a NIGHTMARE!!!

Oh, wait! Silly me. That wasn’t a dream—it was me this morning! That’s right Todd and I worked like mad on our lawn when he was home because it (and several lawns in our neighborhood) were hit with something called ‘brown patch disease’ which only happens when the conditions are just right. And just what are those conditions? Southern climate with a warm weather grass, cooler than normal spring/autumn days and colder/moister than normal spring/autumn nights, and a common though typically innocuous fungi called Rhizoctonia solani.

Dear Lord! For the past 5 years we’ve had a fairly nice, thick, green lawn. And this year…this year we get hit with a bitch of blight. But according to a lawn guy, Erik, who came out and looked at our yard he said, “Yeah, I’ve seen this a lot this year. It’s not something I can’t handle. It is reversible.” And as he says that Todd and I feel an instant of relief only to have it immediately squashed like a fly that was stupid enough to land on my grandmother’s windowsill because he quickly added, “But it’s going to take some time. Yeah, it’ll take at least through the summer to get it back.”

TIME?! Time is the one thing we don’t have. We’ve got to have this yard looking ‘curb ready’ in a month!

And thus began our full on assault against the itty bitty fungus that wreaked havoc on our innocent lawn. So it’s no wonder that it has been pervasive in my thoughts…both the waking and the sleeping…for the past week or so. And when I woke up this morning to falling snow, I swear I thought I my jaw was going to fall to the floor with a thud and that my eyes would pop out of my head to the sound of OW-OO-GA! But thank the Lord, the snow stopped falling about an hour ago the grass (that wasn’t effected by the evil Rhizoctonia solani) looked lush and green once again.

So that’s one thing I can put on the back burner, at least for the rest of today. But there are so many other things to do and at the top of my list, for the next day or two, is to make my spacious kitchen (which I actually like to use because I like cooking and has appliances galore) look as though it’s never been used. UGH!

Though I suppose I should look on the bright side…at least I’ve got lots of stuff to blather on about for my blog! So far there’s ‘repairing the antique couch’, ‘moving the freakin’ big TV up the stairs’ and ‘polishing all the cabinets in the spacious kitchen’ just to name a few. And then I’ll have to tackle the garage; sweet baby Jesus, that’s a big garage, too! So if you'll excuse me, I've got a kitchen waiting to be elbow greased into shape!

Until next time...

Lost Treasure, Found Treasure

noreply@blogger.com (L. Avery Brown) — Sat, 12 Mar 2011 04:05:00 +0000

I’m not a big jewelry person. What I wear has great meaning to me—I wear my wedding bands on my left hand, and on my right hand I have a Ring of Claddagh which is often simply called an Irish wedding band. Todd bought it in Ireland gave it to me as a surprise for our 3^rd anniversary. I also have a beautiful pair of diamond earrings he got me for our 10^th anniversary that I wear practically every day as well as a simple necklace that I only change a few times each year. And this post has to do with that necklace.

***

A few days ago, while I was busily cleaning and putting little odds and ends I came across into boxes in preparation to put our house on the market, I found something very dear to me that I thought I’d lost forever nearly a year earlier. ‘It’ is a small diamond pendant my husband gave me a couple of years before we got married back in ’93 and as I said it had been missing for quite a long time and I had honestly all but given up hope on finding it. Then last Tuesday I found it and I was on cloud 9 because it came as such a shock to me since I wasn’t even looking for it.

You see nearly a year ago Todd and I had gone to this lovely little restaurant called the Village Tavern for our weekly Friday lunch date and prior to leaving the house I’d gotten myself ‘all gussied up’ like I normally would do. But on this particular day I’d decided to take off the little rose gold cross on my necklace and put my diamond back on the chain. Unfortunately, I was running behind and I had to pick Todd up at his work which was about a half hour from our house so we could get to the restaurant before the huge lunch crowd got there.

So I grabbed the little treasure from my jewelry box and shoved it in the front pocket of my blue jeans thinking that I’d put it on later. But as I said, I was late leaving my house and then I not only got every single red light between our house and his work but I got stuck on a 35 MPH road behind an old couple in their ginormous land yacht going almost 30 MPH and every single time I I thought I could pass them, someone was in the lane so I was stuck and all I was thinking was ‘Dang it! I am going to be so late!’ (And I forgot all about the little diamond in my pocket.)

When I got to Todd’s work he was waiting for me and we dashed off to the Village Tavern in hopes of getting there before the lunch rush. Only, we didn’t and I had to maneuver like mad through the parking lot to find a space. And then we saw a HUGE group of people gathering together, apparently waiting for other members of their dining party to arrive, Todd and I sort of ran into the place so as to be ahead of them otherwise we never would have gotten a table. (And no thoughts of the sparkly accessory in my pocket came to mind.)

We had a lovely meal while we chatted and enjoyed the popular eatery. Then when we were done, nearly an hour and a half later, made our way back to my car. But Todd was kind of running behind so I dropped him back off at his work and made my way home…and never once did I ever remember that the special piece of jewelry that I cherished so much was still stuck in my pants pocket.

Then, later that evening, after I’d taken a shower I happened to look in the bathroom mirror and noticed the rose gold cross around my neck. That’s when it dawned on me that I’d left my diamond in my pants pocket. So I dashed into the bedroom and grabbed my jeans from my laundry pile. But my heart sank when I didn’t find the diamond. So I searched again. Every pocket. I even turned them inside out thinking that maybe it was stuck in the very bottom. But it didn’t.

I pulled out everything from my laundry basket. No diamond. Then I got down on my hands and knees and searched all around on the floor for it. Again, no diamond. I searched in the bathroom, the car, the couch…but still no diamond. Then I went over the events of lunch in my head and tried to recall just where I could have lost it because by this time I figured that I had to have lost it at the Village Tavern which is why I can remember the events of the day even better than I usually remember things because it was so upsetting to me. And that’s when I remembered how I’d pulled my keys out of my pocket as I was walking to the car. Oh no. My diamond right now is somewhere in the parking lot at the Village Tavern!

I was absolutely crushed. When I told Todd that I’d lost the special little keepsake he’d given me so long ago, I felt just horrible because it was so important to me. But he wasn’t mad. In fact, I think he felt pretty bad that I felt so badly and he told me not to worry about it. So I didn’t…much but I still looked for it for days hoping that it would magically appear. Only it never did.

I eventually got used to wearing other necklaces but they didn’t hold the same meaning for me. And then a few months ago, Jessica bought a beautiful mother/daughter charm for each of us to wear with her own money. I wore that charm every single day because it was such a special gift that she gave me. And that trinket helped me put my lost treasure out of my mind.

That is until this past Tuesday when, as I mentioned at the beginning of this post, I was busy cleaning, packing, and doing all those things one has to do to put one’s house on the market…

The really weird thing is that the events which led up to my finding my pendant are so out of the blue it really makes one stop and wonder if there wasn’t some unseen force behind them. You see, I had picked up a Santa bow that had wound up under my desk after Christmas and I put it on my dresser. (Santa always delivers Jessica’s ‘Santa gifts’ wrapped in gold foil with bright red bows…and he’ll probably keep doing it for many more years simply because it’s a tradition) But as I said this was a bow that had gone astray. Then, I accidentally pushed it over the back of the back of the piece of furniture as I was working.

And I thought great! Because it wasn’t the first time I’d knocked something off that particular piece of furniture. So I looked behind the thing and sighed because not only was the bow there, there were also a few other things including a sock I’d been hunting down. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted my…belt. A lovely leather belt I’d been looking for like a crazy woman for the last week or so.

I reached down and I retrieved my belt from the abyss behind my dresser. Then I looked at my dog and said in a cheerful way, “See Melanie, you never know what you’ll find when you’re not looking for it!”

And then, with that hopeful thought in my head, I decided I’d take a final stab at looking for my diamond…nearly 1 year after losing it. Yes, I decided I’d give it one last try though I didn’t expect to find anything, except maybe another Santa bow or perhaps the mate to one of the other socks I’d misplaced.

That’s when I picked up a small computer bag that I’d put between the dresser and our mini-fridge a few months ago and then put that in the closet. And when I got back to the spot where I had gotten down on my hands and knees and truly searched like I was looking for a needle in a hay stack just a year earlier, I glanced down and saw a sparkle.

No way! I did a double take, thinking my mind was playing tricks on me. But there it was again. Only this was a little sparkle and a hint of gold, too. Oh my good Lord in Heaven!

My heart raced and I reached down to retrieve it half thinking I was having some sort of weird delusion. But no! When I touched it…it was real. It was not some dust bunny or carpet fuzzy messing with my mind…it was real!

Talk about being utterly gobsmacked. I could not believe it. I dashed to the bathroom and quickly replaced my special charm from Jessica (which I promptly put into my jewelry box) with the diamond that was so very dear to me.

Then I sent Todd a text that probably sounded like I’d gone off the deep end. But I didn’t care because I was so happy! And I know it probably sounds sort of corny but finding that little diamond on Tuesday touched me more profoundly than any words I can think of because it was almost as if God, or the universe, or something much bigger than I am, was smiling down on me reminding me that hope truly does spring eternal.

And that is all I’ve got, until next time.

~By the way, the Village Tavern has 10 locations across the USA, maybe one is close to you. You might want to drop by for a visit! And if you do, please tell them where you heard about it! This link will take you to their webpage. Bon apetit.~

Helios and Selene

noreply@blogger.com (L. Avery Brown) — Fri, 04 Mar 2011 22:21:00 +0000

I was feeling sort of 'springy' and restless today perhaps it's because everywhere I look it seems that the world around me is waking up from its long winter's nap. And with that in mind I thought I'd share a little poem I wrote about the sun and the moon...

Helios and Selene

Quickly comes the morning

And with it the light that shines so broad

To warm the soil, the sand, the sea

To give life to everything that breathes.

See how Helios, commander of the sun,

Has set out once again to make his daily run

Across the bright blue sky

Leaving long shadows as he passes by.

Watch how he strides high over head

Then dives over a sun soaked edge

And the world upon which he placed his scorching feet

Is given a respite from his ever growing heat.

Then with Hyperion’s son gone from the scene

Watch how his daughter, the soft spoken Selene,

Wearing a gown of gauzy white,

Quietly rises in the newly formed night

She hangs her silvery white lantern

High in the dark blue sky

And illuminates the world she sees

With its ethereal light.

She leaves a trail of stardust

With each celestial step

And lights the way for lovers’ hearts

That through the day have slept.

With a wave of her hand

She summons the wind to blow

And sends the scent of flowers through the once still night

To fill the senses with wonder and delight.

Stay hushed now, she says.

Let not the rush of the world outside seep in.

Lay down your weary head,

Give your soul a moment's rest

Then as Helios begins his return

And Selene's time among mortals grows shorter

She puts out her lanterns one by one

And takes her place in the pale blue sky near her brother, the sun