Saturday

Oh, the sounds and sights of this time of year!

Football is in the air, the wonderful SEC is back in action and my favorite team will have the chance at redemption with a perfect record beginning today.

High school football also begins today. Sure, other teams in the area have flung their champions on the field including my youngest sons' alma mater. Frankly, though they whomped the everloving snot out of a bitter cross county rival, I am less moved than his classmates are.

MY alma mater plays tonight. That, for me, heralds fall's arrival. Without the "Fight Song" and the percussive beat of the band whipping the crowd into a frenzy, it's just football.

There is a zeal that comes when the gladitorial spectacle begins and the bashing of live warm bodies thuds into the carefully manicured turf.

We are scheduled to see the game tonight. The opposing band will get plenty of our applause since I have two nieces and a nephew who are members. And since this is a banner year for my nephew (he has a SOLO at the beginning of the show), we will be whooping it up in the stands like fools for his success.

But in all sincerity, I hope my Eagles beat the everloving snot out of their Indians. I am biased. I can't help it. I bleed Black & Gold.

But then later tonight, I have to shift gears and change out the blood for the Crimson and White. ROLL TIDE, ROLL!

It isn't a tough transition. It is an affliction. God bless my poor longsuffering husband who married a fanatic. Every fall, his wife disappears and is replaced by someone who armchair quarterbacks her way through each game and who lives and dies by the final score when the horn sounds.

He knew I was a fan since we attended the same college and were both in the band. If he was ever embarrassed by my antics in the stands, he never let on.

Here's hoping that everyone has a good season, except for Notre Dame and Auburn. I hope they lose every single game. Even if they play each other.

It's a Southern thang

As much a part of culture below the Mason-Dixon line as a cotillion in the springtime is the annual get-together known as 'the fambly ree-yoon-yun'.

It is the one time that the lifelong secrets of anyone and everyone that probably should be left in the skeleton-filled closet are trotted out as fodder over Aunt Ethelene's hot potato casserole. And no one seems to mind because the casserole is that dang good.

Who got married, who died, who is hanging around with whom and most importantly - who has the dirt on the holier than thou - makes attendance mandatory.

I'll admit that as a child, I was dragged to several of these festivals of family and hugged up to the bosom of aunts, uncles and cousins who I didn't even know I had. I like a good hug as much as the next person, but after a morning of being squeezed like the Charmin, I began to be a bit like Mr. Whipple and rebel against the ministrations of people I would have never known on a street corner then - or now.

The food at reunions is always fun. We had enough people who had education past fourth grade who insured the food would remain at proper temperature to prevent major catastrophe or an emergency 'am-bo-lance ride uptown to the horse-pital'. The variety of covered dishes could have made a fine cookbook in and of itself. MMMMMM!!

Every family seems to have one person, slightly off center, who runs themselves ragged trying to make everyone else participate in an itinerary so cram packed full of 'special moments together' that it would make the Care Bears barf. Most of the family half heartedly goes along with these painstaking details just to be nice. What they'd rather do is just gab and eat. And then, when they are full of both conversation and casserole, take a nice nap under the branches of a well groomed magnolia.

I prefer a gathering maybe once a day where there is no defined sense of flow and people can be free to actually get to know each other during the natural course of time.

There is something so liberating about the choice of just how you will spend your time: listening to old Uncle Petey tell about his enlarged prostate again ('Doc Mathis said it dang near busted all on him when he checked it the last time on account of it bein' bigger than a June melon') or playing Frisbee with the cousins who you actually DO remember and grew up with during summers at your grandparents farm. Sure, you'll be sore after the Frisbee games, but at least you won't have a horrible visual image of Uncle Petey's personal disorder that will haunt you to your dying day.

I know that there are people who have such absolutely defined sense of what 'should' be happening that they become uncomfortable with our usual standard of activity which boils down to this sentence: 'When all y'all kids get done runnin' around your side of the park, holler on the walkie-talkie and we'll tell you where to meet for supper."

This infuriates people who can't leave their day planner at home - even when they go on vacation. I have no trouble leaving mine at home. It NEEDS to be left from time to time so that I can remind myself that I used to have fun and can still manage to do so on occassion. Of course, it also infuriates the relatives who believe they 'know best' and refuse to acknowlege that you aren't six anymore and can't be compelled to make nice and do what they say just because they are older. Age doesn't mean wisdom. It just means wrinkles.

We do need to have a get-together with the family soon. I'd love to have it somewhere centrally located that would be fun for everyone. There will never be a time where everyone will be able to attend. That's called LIFE. But it would be nice to not have every spare minute planned to death and accounted for. No vacation is fun when you can't let your mind and body just wander.

There will always be people at the reunion you'd rather see and people that aren't all that exciting to see. That is part of being a family. I try to keep that in perspective by reminding myself that for every person I am not thrilled to be around, there are probably tens if not hundreds who are not thrilled to see ME.

But we show up despite knowing that it will be a mixed bag of nuts. Then again, that is precisely WHY we show up. So that we can compare ourselves to the other nuts that came from the family tree and see just where we fit into the roots and branches that comprise both our history and our future.

The main hope is to go home thanking God for all of your blessings...that and to come away with the absolute assurance and rejoicing of being able to say "Thank God I am not as (fill in your favorite adjective) as my stupid cousin (fill in the name of your screwiest relative)!"

And be sure and get a serving of that potato casserole. It won't last long because it's just TOO GOOD!

Barnes & Noble

The scent of muffins and some sort of flavored caramel coffee hits you the moment you walk through the front double doors. Then, the printing and bindery aroma of books and magazines adds a heady blend to the sensory feast that is about to begin.

While grazing along in the various sections, it can become very easy to forget that the real reason for the trip to Nirvana was to buy a travel journal for my son.

Titles of exotic import reach their delicate and fascinating fingers toward my gaze and direct my attention to the marvels that lie within their decorative slipcovers.

Less exotic but no less fascinating are the books that offer a dummy like me the chance to understand everything from naming a baby to piloting the space shuttle. Though the opportunity to do either of the aforementioned activities is clearly not on my daybook today, I could, for the price of the instruction book so thoughtfully prepared with me in mind, do either, or both since I am a modern woman capable of both bringing home the bacon and frying it up in a pan.

I glance wistfully through the stacks in the children's section wishing that childhood hadn't roared past so swiftly and I hope that I haven't managed to miss important milestones that will scar my children forever and guarantee lifetime employment to some shrink.

My favorite section is undeniably the travel section. I have been outside the U.S. a few times, but only to places that 'connect'. This, I have been reliably informed, does NOT count as international travel.

Be sure and tell that to the nice little cop in a box the next time you try to cross into Canada minus your passport. I am sure THEY consider it an international border even if you don't.

I love to see the brilliant photographs of places I have heard of but will likely never experience without the covers of a book providing the frame and sash to my window on the world. It isnt' that I don't want to travel.

I do.

I long to be the person with a passport that has so many stamps that extra pages have been required. I want to have travel worn luggage and conversation that speaks as easily of Paris in the sprintime as it does of pork chops in the skillet.

Ideally, I could be one of those literate and gifted people who is in demand as a program speaker who could wax eloquent on my latest trip to Senegal or Denmark. Though I have seen both on a map and in photographs on the internet, it would be cool beans to be the photographer that snapped the shot which graces the cover of this month's Geographic.

What brings this on?

Maybe the fact that my son will soon be a globe-trotting traveler who will indeed have little stamps inside his passport to indicate his worldwide experiences for everyone to appreciate.

They don't give stamps at the grocery store anymore.

Pity. I was pretty good at helping Momma collect them back in the day. And, oddly enough, we used some of those little stamps to buy luggage for a trip. Exotic America with snow in June near Berthoud Pass.

I can't wait to go back to Barnes and Noble. I hope the next time, I can go early, take smuggled in snacks and drinks in an oversized handbag as ugly as it is large and be forced to leave when closing time finally comes.

I love book stores. Their four walls contain the wealth and treasure of human possibility wrapped up in a nice little package.

Anything and nothing

Is there anything that rivals the tender goodness of a Twinkie? The golden snack cake and its creme filling that has graced my childhood lunch sacks and lunch boxes over the years has a warm place in my heart.

While other snack cakes have their place, there is just something about a Twinkie that is a kindly reminder of a friendlier time when people were not so complicated, or at least I didn't notice their complications, being a child at the time.

Then my mind recalls the telephones that had rotary dials where you were compelled to wait until the phone rewound to the start position before selecting the next number lest you find yourself speaking to a stranger instead of a friend.

And I think back to the time that I was a little girl going into the five and dime with my mother and being so short that I couldn't even see the toys on the counter unless she lifted me up or there was a stepstool.

The reality of time passing is part of the journey. I miss the things that remind me of times that were comfortable and gentle in their passages. Like the picnics and outings where the wind rushed along through the open car windows. Or the times when we would go fishing and come home to prepare and eat our fishes fresh from the river.

Sitting out on warm summer nights and making the attempt to count all of the stars in the skies above or playing "Freeze Tag" out on the lawn while the grownups chatted away about things that were in another language than that of childhood.

Sandlot baseball games where everyone got to play even if they weren't good and where no one stepped in to shore up your self esteem, but instead, let everyone take their lumps and learn from them.

Playing board games and card games until it was too dark to see even with the porch light on.

Taking turns being the fox for "Colored Eggs" or sitting on the steps to be a chicken that would run away to the safe base away from the grasping hands of the one picked to be the fox.

Simon Says and Mother May I. Red Rover, Red Rover and double dutch jump rope contests.

Listening to the tent revivals in the old cotton fields north of our house or going to the County Fair in buildings that have long since been gone into memory.

Eating cotton candy prepared by a man with an anchor tattoo on his arm during a time when one tattoo was still considered exotic because you could actually see it instead of it being hidden by his shirtsleeves.

Seeing the old men spit and whittle in front of the County Courthouse when you could still use the stairs to go watch the sessions of District Court before 9-11 made the whole world paranoid and fearful.

Walking along farm lanes with the old cattle dog that lolled about the barn waiting for a pat on the head or a nap in the shade when all of the children left for the day.

Sometimes I wonder just what memories we are leaving our children. They are no longer babies. That particular time has long since passed. But they are becoming adults and as such will be compelled to find their own way in the world.

Will they have memories that will sustain them during the hard times? Will the moments of their childhood bring them peace and a sense of permanence or will they simply be time that passed by on the way to another milestone and another candle on the cake?

Just a few random thoughts.

Dancing

My sister and I were talking about taking dance lessons with our respective husbands. They, of course, laugh hysterically at the idea that they would take dance lessons. In the words of my brother in law, "I'm already married, so what do I need to do that for?"

My reply was along the lines of 'Yeah, but do you want to STAY married?!?"

Why don't men get it?

Dancing is an expression of romance that goes beyond the lit candles and inviting atmosphere to a measured exercise of shared chemistry set to music. It's sexy. It's passionate. And it is most decidedly intimate. It is a couples only event that doesn't lend itself to a group.

There is something incredibly sensual about dancing that doesn't have anything to do with 'dirty dancing'.

Far from it.

The union of music and rhythm combined with the smooth movement of a couple manuvering blissfully through the interwoven melody is a consuming thing. It is a smoldering heat that is only enhanced by the understanding that for a married couple, you know for sure who you are going home with, and, the added elemental heat of all of the reasons why you chose to go home to them and them alone.

Among all of the people who populate the planet, you find yourself wrapped up in the arms of and involved totally emotionally with the one person you cannot live without.

To feel the safe warmth of their hand touching yours and to move with a combined and shared purpose across the floor is to emulate what our journey through life can be.

No one said it had to be flawless to be beautiful. And it need not be perfection to be totally wonderful.

I like listening to the kind of music that we used to put on when we first started dating. That mellow jazz that reminds me of a dimly lit and cozy supper club where a skillful singer wove a tapestry of love from the words and music of a soulful combo that left as much to the imagination as they provided with their careful phrasing and intonation.

We have become too wrapped up in the day to day to recall the moments that made two separate people choose to become one.

Within the counterpoint of the song, I remember a much younger woman smiling at a much younger man. Anticipation was as much a part of the evening as was the dance itself.

Maybe that is what is really the appeal of dance lessons. A change from the routine of what has become normal, accustomed and all too comfortable. There isn't much of the tingle and thrill of what might be if only given the chance. What just might happen if . . .

It's time to light some candles, set the mood and ask the one burning question that desperately needs to be asked.

"May I have this dance. . .and every dance that follows, until the end of time, with you?"

You Bring the Marshmallows

What is it about a fire that brings out the kid in us hoping to make a smore or roast a hot dog until it is just perfect?

An old, empty warehouse caught on fire today near the post office. It has been so dry here that the trees are chasing the dogs. Inevitably, dry weather, high temperatures and the tinderbox conditions of an old, and partially abandoned facility decided that today was the day to combust.
The owners are highly insured so don't panic. Even though the facility was empty, they kept a bright "For Rent or Lease" sign in the window.

Hope springs eternal.

But rental in this part of town where businesses are being eaten up by the ever spreading medical district is a myth fast becoming a distant legend. Neighborhoods, old ball fields, cow houses and the old fair ground are long since gone to make way for something newer and shinier until the next 'boom' comes along in another part of the county.

The afternoon spectacle will fade, traffic and the rubberneckers will be compelled to move along, and the fire will eventually be brought under control or at least kept at bay by the fire department until no nearby structures are in danger of joining the brilliant flames of destruction.

The hospital, whose board has been eyeing this parcel of land for expansion of their parking facilities, will certainly been looking into this particular 'unfortunate' happening with renewed interest. With no viable building on the land, it might be made available at a price they can seal with a handshake and an undisclosed sum of money. The ambulance bay could be expanded, the emergency department could build a new apron for incoming passenger traffic and the nurses who dodge cars to cross the street could park on the hospital side of the road instead. They could even put in a gated parking area and better lighting to keep safe those who ensure the health and welfare of our loved ones.

In the due course of time, an elevator and elevated walkway could be added across the busy thoroughfare and in time, a complete heliport and emergency room overhaul could ensure the continued prosperity of the hospital.

Of course, all of this is speculation since the flames aren't even out yet. But I'll be watching the paper.

Oddly enough, I have a hankering for grilled hot dogs tonight...

Let's Get Physical

Ladies glow, men perspire and horses sweat. Leastwise, that is what Momma always said.

Okay. I get that. It's supposed to remind us of the sweet gentility of a time gone by.

But this is more like the reality I face on a daily basis: I stagger breathlessly into the house after managing to get through the morning mile with the pitiful hound who has 'miraculously' recovered from her Saturday limp long enough to turn our leisurely stroll into a mini marathon with virtually no effort. . . on her part.

Naturally, she is now sound asleep in 'her chair'. DOG!

Then, I proceed on to the gym. And no, for the record, I didn't bother to shower, change or freshen up just to get sweaty again (or continue to be sweaty - you pick) in front of women who don't have the decency to break out in a glow or even to perspire!! Grrrr!

I continued my tiresome and futile efforts to regain the body of my long lost youth. . .or at least an unreasonable facsimile of the same. Pumping iron, stretching and toning and doing yoga moves that are simply not possible but I do them anyway, OTHER people tell me they can see a difference. From their lips to God's ears!

Grabbing a towel, I sop up the dribbly mess of my face and continue to the next round of machinery and wonder 'how can you lose weight without sweating'? Pondering over the activities that surround me, I think to myself how much I'd like to sign up for a dip in the end of the gene pool where the beautiful people swim, if you please. Maybe that genetic stuff will rub off onto my saggy, baggy elephantine physique and I can be shower to shower fresh, too.

I, on the other hand, appear to have signed up for the W.W.S.D. (What Would Secretariat Do?) workout philosophy which not only encourages sweat, but demands racehorse-like coverage that leaves the other women not only at a distance (yep - smelly old me!) but also wondering what horrible malady afflicts me so as to produce such a prodigious amount of what can only be termed flop sweat.

Not to be outclassed, the other women have arrived at the gym in beautiful color coordinated workout clothing, and unbelievably their hair and makeup is done! As they prance about from one activity to another, they dab at what can only be described as TOTALLY INVISIBLE droplets of moisture in an effort to keep from looking...well...like me.

Thank you all very much, but I am doing well to arrive in anything but faded flannel pajamas and leave at the end of my workout with any shred of dignity at all!

Here, it simply must be said that I would LIKE to be able to have a fulfilling workout and come out of the experience fresh as a daisy with only the least hint of dampness on my forehead to indicate the excruciating amount of work I had performed. Sadly, what occurs is more along the lines of bringing the Derby winners and losers into the paddock for a cool down walk and hopefully a bath in the nice little horsey spa.

It makes me wonder if they can all see the tiny jockey whipping this old mare into action that is simply invisible to me.

In the early 80's, Olivia Newton-John encouraged us all to "Get Physical" with her workout themed video that showed on MTV night and day for a while. Any moron knew that the 'workout' she was extolling had nothing to do with going to your local gymnasium, but we all gamely pretended, signed up for the aerobics classes and slapped on the spandex like there was no tomorrow.

Of course, in the early 80's I had no kids and had barely gotten married so losing weight was a simple matter of missing a meal or laying off the buffet until I was reacquainted with those ever so tight blue jeans that made my hubby's heart skip a few beats. Nowadays, if I want his heart to skip a beat, all I need to do is show him our latest credit card bill.

I suppose that the current regimine of effort and sweat is the price that must be paid for a life that has never graced the airbrushed cover of a magazine and more than likely never will. There are seldom any people interested in the lifestyle of the middle aged, flabby, wrinkled and lined.
Which, upon reflection, is pretty sad because the people in this demographic are the ones who pay the bills, keep the kids in line and hope to see their toes again before the dawning of the next millenium. Now that would be fascinating reading.

If you happen to be up at 5:30 and out on the road getting in your torture, uh...I mean EXERCISE, look for me. I'm the drippy, sweat-soaked lady with the iPod and a maniac dog who believes each morning heralds a fresh start for the Iditarod of the South and that she is the lead dog on the sled.

I'll smile and wave and I promise to keep my sweat to myself.

Gurgle

What is the singularly most annoying sound in the entire world?

Fingernails on a chalkboard? No.

The squeaky sound of tennis shoes on a polished floor? Not even close.

The high pitched whine of a microphone feedback squeal? Try again.

The most annoying sound generally doesn't occur during daylight hours. Because when it happens during the day, it's a minor inconvenience. But, when it happens at night, it can frustrate the patience of a Saint and drive the Devil to distraction.

To what do I refer?

I am thinking about the mind jarring, sleep robbing irritant of a leaky toilet tank.

Since the water level never reaches its zenith, and the leaking flap at the bottom dispenses just enough water to make the Chinese water torture finals, there is the continual gurgle that goes on until you are compelled to arise from your bed in the pitch blackness of the sleepless night, dodge the sprawling places of various dogs and pairs of shoes that didn't walk themselves into the closet or the toys that mysteriously remained where they were dropped and into the appropriate bathroom to begin the ministrations on the toilet that will silence the nocturnal gargling that creates insomniacs.

Once the appropriate bathroom is detected, the fun really begins.

If it is the toilet lottery lucky night, you can guess not only the correct bathroom, but with a couple of quick jiggles of the handle, silence the toilet and return to bed before you realize that the pain in the arch of your foot is from the jacks you have just trod upon.

However, since this is generally not the end to our adventure, the game continues.

Seeking from the closest to the farthest of the three bathrooms for the offending toilet (pun not intended), when the guilty porcelain is discovered, it begins a process that involves a lot of whispered pleas for repair that will not include sticking a hand into the watery depths of the tank in the semi-darkness to press the flapper into the drain hole which will allegedly stop the trickly dribbles of water and restore the opportunity for at least a partial nights' rest.

The one thing worse than having to plunge your hand into the cold water to restore quiet is the return to the bedroom after washing, sanitizing and spraying down your arm with disinfectant only to hear another household member making the trek to the very bathroom you have just jousted with in order to catch some "Zzz's".

Trying to prevent the entire household from being jarred awake, loud stage whispers of "DON'T USE THAT BATHROOM!!!" go unheeded and the grousing begins as it is obvious that another trip to the jiggle station will be required.

The sleepwalker returns to their warm bed oblivious to the water antics going on in the night.

Lucky.

Makes you want to fill a pan with warm water and give them a little surprise, except for the fact that you would have to wash the sheets and air out the mattress while the household left for the days' activities.

Once again, the arm sinks into the cold waters filling the tank in the repetitive water ballet that bears no resemblance to Esther Williams and her girls. Jamming the flapper into place, the unthinkable happens and the little chain snaps into two pieces which will never be mated again.

Dang those manufacturers and their cheap plastic parts!!

Locking the door to the bathroom and carefully shutting the door so all other nightly visitors will be compelled to employ one of the other two bathrooms, sleep will finally come. Maybe.

I sink wearily to the mattress. My eyes close. My body begins to relax into the numbered perfection that is alleged to guarantee sleep.

Then the baby wakes up. To PLAY. No diaper change, no snack, no desperate need in the night. Oh no. This is just a midnight call for "Mom and Me time". Wonderful.

Where is that dang butterfly that puts people to sleep when you need it?