The Other Minnie

From Stuff with Stories


“Was your grandmother named after the mouse?” asked Anna Lauren.

“Not really. She was named after her mother,” I replied.

“Was she…”

“No, she wasn’t named after the mouse either.”

And so it began. Anna Lauren, 5, forever curious about various family members, was spending the weekend at the lake. She was catching frogs, examining snails, and pretending to read. Kindergarten was starting soon, and life was about to change for the little girl with the big imagination.

I glanced at the over-large diploma from Huntsville Public Schools hanging on the wall. It wasn’t mine; it had been awarded to The Other Minnie. On Thursday afternoon, May 31, 1900, Minnie Strother Jones took her place among the graduates of Huntsville Public Schools. She listened attentively as Superintendent S. R. Butler gave a short speech before handing out the certificates. At seventeen, Minnie didn’t understand the significance of her achievement or what it would ultimately convey to her daughter and granddaughters. At that time, less than half of all school-age children in the US were enrolled in school and only 6.4% of those graduated from high school; Minnie Jones was one of those.

Undoubtedly, Minnie’s family needed her at home to help with the four younger siblings. And after all, there was no competitive job market where a very basic education was the key to a great salary with lots of benefits. Schools concentrated on reading, writing, and arithmetic. Alabama didn’t even enact a compulsory attendance law until 1915. Minnie didn’t have to go to school.

In those days, an academic education was for wealthy children and regarded as unnecessary for everyone else. While that idea is no longer pertinent, the relevancy and competency of public schools is often in question. That is an argument for another day. What is not up for debate is the undeniable, transformative power of education.

Minnie, my grandmother and not the mouse, never worked outside her home. But she used her education to read her Bible, balance her household accounts, and write beautiful letters to her sons as they served their country during the war. She didn’t see herself as an extraordinary woman, but her 1900 certificate from Huntsville Public Schools is testament to something very different. Her life was transformed through education, and her daughters and generations of granddaughters took that meager beginning and used it to transform an entire family.

The other day Bryan, 8 years old and in third grade, told me that he had taken an IQ test.

“Do you know what IQ stands for?” I asked.

“Sure,” he replied. “It stands for Idiot Quiz.”

Perhaps “transform an entire family” was a little premature.

Study Abroad

“Study abroad? You must be kidding. He’s only in second grade.”

Bryan’s teacher surely thought Shelley was nuts. What eight-year-old leaves school early to go to Europe? When my sister-in-law explained the opportunities afforded by the trip, Bryan’s teacher decided that she would like to be adopted and go, too.

Tim and I were taking Bryan, pollywog #1, on a transatlantic cruise to Barcelona with visits to Paris and Iceland thrown in. Pollywogs 2, 3 and 4 were invited to come along, but a variety of excuses to stay home were offered up. Anna Lauren couldn’t miss her dance recital, because the costumes were already paid for. She no longer turns her back to the audience and stares at the scenery, so I could understand her parents’ interest in seeing their investment finally pay off. Tyler’s principal threatened to take Rachel to family court if he missed all those jam-packed learning days at the end of school. And Keegan…well, Keegan…hadn’t yet come to terms with being away from her family for more than 24 hours. I have no idea what she thought they might do without her.

So Bryan had us all to himself. We carefully explained that this wasn’t the gift shop experience of a lifetime, but an adventure of epic proportions. He had to behave every day and not cry like a little girl if the ice cream machine didn’t have strawberry. He agreed to all the rules, threw four pairs of underwear into his suitcase, and grabbed his passport. The boy was ready to roll.

Life onboard the Disney Magic was indeed magical for Bryan. After he realized we weren’t going to sink into the depths of the Atlantic where he would be eaten by sharks, he settled right down and quickly made friends from around the US and England. He took drawing lessons from a Disney cartoonist and won her sketch of Dopey. He and Tim concocted a boat out of a couple of plastic cups and entered the boat race in the pool. He went on a scavenger hunt, camped overnight in the Oceaneer Lab, attended lectures on sea monsters, watched movies and plays, marveled at the magician and the hypnotist, and swam until he was waterlogged. He plotted the home countries of many crew members on a world map and left gifts for his Secret Mickey. Unfortunately, he also learned that he didn’t have a future in towel folding.

When we arrived in Madeira, we took the cable car up the mountain and rode a wooden toboggan down. As we careened through the streets, trying to avoid cars and trucks, Bryan screamed, “I’m gonna die today. Tell Momma I love her.” There is nothing like facing death to focus one’s priorities.

At Gibraltar, he got up close and personal with a few of the Barbary apes. He always wanted a monkey; so when we left, I checked his backpack for a stowaway.

Finally, the cruise was over, and we disembarked in Barcelona. We dropped off our luggage and met Ann-Marie, our Runner Bean Tours tour guide. We were her only clients, so we got a fantastic private tour. Bryan learned songs, ate candy from one of the oldest shops in town, saw the giants used at carnival, played games, and fell in love with Barcelona. As Ann-Marie left us, he assured her that he would be back—next June to be exact.

Our hotel, located in the heart of the Barri Gotic, was quintessential Europe. I warned Bryan about the elevator, but he didn’t believe me. He and I squeezed in with our luggage—and I do mean squeezed. Tim waited patiently for his turn. El Jardi offers a more realistic experience for an eight-year-old than Marriott.

The next morning we were off to Paris and to meet Shelley. She was determined that she wasn’t missing all the fun. We rode the train from the airport and then the metro. We found our apartment, and after some confusion, managed to drag our luggage up three flights of circular stairs. The apartment was spacious in places and tiny in others. The kitchen was usable; the dishwasher-not so much. It was the size of a drawer and leaked. Four or five items, say three pairs of granny panties, one bra, and a tee shirt, fit in the washer; the dryer was a wooden rack. When I washed my face in the bathroom sink, I had to open the door. Otherwise, my rear end had nowhere to go. We made do.

We spent the next few days strolling the streets like real Parisiennes. Breakfast was a fresh pastry from the bakery down the street; lunch was wherever we happened to be at the moment; and dinner was either at a neighborhood restaurant or something whipped up by Shelley in our tiny kitchen.

Bryan’s Paris favorite was the Egyptian exhibit at the Louvre, but the Eiffel Tower was a close second. He stood at the bottom of the obelisk where Marie-Antoinette lost her head and visited her palace at Versailles. Bryan had never seen “real dead bodies,” so we went to the catacombs. I had sworn after going with Rachel a few years ago that I’d never do it again. The exit stairs, circular and extremely tight, were every bit as awful as I remembered. The defibrillator was still hanging on the wall. I think Bryan has a picture of himself at most of the underground cemeteries, so he should be satisfied for a while at least.

Next we were off to Iceland. The place is a perfect setting for alien movies—all black lava, few shrubs and fewer trees. We loved it. The lava beach didn’t quite measure up to Destin, but we weren’t there for a beach experience. We stood inside a glacier, walked among thermal springs, rode among volcanoes, and boated out to see the puffins. Shelley and Bryan walked behind a waterfall; Bryan was looking for treasure left by trolls or so the story goes.

On our last day we decided to swim at an indoor thermal pool. No tourists here; only the locals. Dear God, we should have known better.

We walked the few blocks from our apartment to the pool. At the desk, we were given a locker key and a towel. Tim and Bryan headed to the men’s locker room while Shelley and I searched confidently for the ladies.
As we reached the corridor, we noticed a lady removing her shoes and then saw the sign, “Remove your shoes.” That should have been all the warning we needed. But no…..

Inside the locker room, a young mother, naked as the day she was born, was nursing a baby while another child made a few attempts at dressing herself. An older woman was at her locker presumably changing into her street clothes. Shelley and I found our lockers and proceeded to take off our clothes, hang them in the locker, and put on our socially-acceptable swim suits and cover-ups. Satisfied that we had accomplished job one, we headed for the pool.

As we walked through the shower area, an old lady yelled at us in Icelandic. We froze in our tracks. We turned to see this butt naked old lady pantomime showering. Specifically, she made sure we knew exactly which parts needed special attention.
We looked around—mortified—when Shelley saw the sign. Indeed, showering was required before entering the pool. Resigned to our fate, we removed our cover-ups, stripped off our swim suits, and turned on the water. Unfortunately, the soap dispenser was across the room and old eagle eye was making sure we used soap.

After a good lathering of all the required places, we redressed and again tried to find the pool. We found Tim and Bryan outside in the hot tub. We took off our cover-ups yet again and shivered to the hot tub. At some point, we thought none of the other people there could speak English (later learning that nearly everyone in Iceland speaks English), so we brought up the subject of the showers. Tim and Bryan had known ahead of time to shower. Apparently, Bryan had had some trouble getting his water to turn on, and an elderly gentleman had kindly helped. I can only hope the boy isn’t scarred for life.

For the next two hours we enjoyed the pool. Shelley and I tried to stay in the water and not walk around like a couple of bank strutters. We were the only women in bathing suits with skirts. Not to mention those damn cover-ups. Then it was time to leave. Oh, dear, the showers again.

We knew the drill but we didn’t like it. We stripped; we soaped; we rinsed; we redressed.

Outside in the cool air, I said to Shelley, “I don’t know about you, but I’m still hot.”

“It’s just the embarrassment,” she muttered.


Love,
Gay, an old dog who is learning new tricks
July 1, 2013

Portia’s Cookie Jar

From Stuff with Stories

The cookie jar knew lots of secrets. Important things, like which cookies the children liked best and which ones were fed to the dog. He knew how many cookies were burned over the years by a distracted cook. He had eavesdropped on all the coming and goings, all the laughter and tears, all the hard, sad times, and all the squeals of delight. The cookie jar kept all the secrets.

The cookie jar was a short, round baker with a brown face. He spent his early years sitting on the kitchen counter at Portia’s house. All five of Portia’s children loved the baker and his tummy of cookies; but for one child in particular, so many memories of his mother were associated with the cookie jar. When Portia died, George took the little round baker home to sit on his kitchen counter.

George and his wife, Pat, filled the jar with homemade cookies--peanut butter cookies, filled cookies, sugar cookies—and even store-bought cookies. Their children, Tim, Mike, and Debbie, ate them all. And the cookie jar, once again, kept the secrets learned from his years on the kitchen counter.

When Pat died, George asked the children to choose something to take to their home that best reminded them of their mother. Tim asked for the cookie jar.

That was when it happened. That was when George told one of the secrets the cookie jar had kept for so long—since George was a little boy.

George hesitated for a moment.

“Tim, my mother didn’t have an easy life, but all five of us kids knew she loved us. I was the baby of the family; and by the time I was born, Mother was deaf. She had been sick, and when she recovered, she couldn’t hear.

“That didn’t stop her from knowing when I was up to something. I thought she had eyes in the back of her head.

“I loved my mother. I always wished that she had heard the sound of my voice.”

What is there about an old cookie jar that can stir up such memory, such raw emotion as contained in the heartfelt yearning of a little boy for his mother to hear his voice. I suppose we never know for certain where secrets are hidden.

Love,
Gay, the family storyteller
June 24, 2013

A Postscript to Mothers’ Day

Mothers’ Day isn't the warm and fuzzy, gushy and gooey, sentimental day depicted by Hallmark. Oh, I suppose there is some of that, but another view of Mothers’ Day is equally as real. For many, it is a day fraught with sadness, grief, and dashed hopes. For me, celebrating Mothers’ Day has been more about giving up expectations and enjoying surprises.

We always wore corsages to church on Mothers’ Day. I wore a red carnation, because my mother was alive and watching me from the choir loft. My mother, however, wore a white corsage, because her mother was watching her from Heaven. Neither of us wanted to get in any trouble with our moms. It never occurred to me to ask Mother how she felt about being motherless.

My three children brought home cards made at school and, with Tim’s help, showered me with presents. I rarely gave the significance of the day much thought until Mother died. Then, I was so terribly sad I could barely get through that day or any other for that matter. I haven’t yet returned to church on Mothers’ Day; some things are just too painful.

Somehow, as the years went by and my own personal grief subsided, I developed a different view of Mothers’ Day. First of all, I explained my expectations to Jeremy, Evan, and Rachel; don’t show up on Mothers’ Day with a gift purchased on sale at Walgreen's if you treat me like crap the rest of the year. Too little too late! They got the message. Yesterday, Evan and Rachel texted me—no gifts, no phone call but we’re good.

Next, I realized that some of the best mothers never had children of their own. Laura McEntire, spinster, and her mother, Mac, lived across the street from my mother’s family. Mother and a few of her younger brothers—there were seven boys—spent lots of time in the McEntires’ big house on Meridian Street. During WWII, the brothers wrote letters to Laura and Mac from foreign fields of battle, a testament to their love for the spinster and her mother. My brother, Ted, and I never thought it peculiar that Laura lived with us; she was sort of our quirky aunt/grandmother who loved us dearly.

When I became a grandmother, my views about all kinds of things changed—including Mothers’ Day. I didn't think I’d ever have grandchildren; the boys weren't married, and Rachel preferred furry critters. But life is more about surprises than expectations and in the blink of an eye, Bryan, Tyler, Anna Lauren, Keegan, Wynn, Aiden, and Leighton Belle—my pollywogs—wanted to go on a Disney Cruise, and I was indebted to Shelley, Rachel, Jennifer, and Krissy.

Yesterday, Tim and I spent Mothers’ Day with Jeremy’s family. Anna Lauren (5) knew a secret and wanted me to guess it.

“Grammy, Daddy got you a present for Mothers’ Day, and it starts with a “ch” sound.”

I thought a moment. Hmm.

“A chimpanzee! I've always wanted a chimpanzee.”

“No, it’s not a chimpanzee. Guess again.”

“A chipmunk. I don’t really want one though.”

“Oh, Grammy, it’s not a chipmunk.”

“What about a chihauhau?”

“It’s not a chihauhau. Okay, I’ll tell you what it is. He bought you a puma.”

“A puma!! What will I do with a puma?”

“The puma’s name is Freddie, and he won’t last long.”

“What do you mean he won’t last long?”

“He smokes cigarettes and cigars, so he won’t last long.”

When Jeremy gave me a box of Harry and David’s truffles, I felt tremendous relief. How in the world would I have explained to a gas station attendant why I was buying cigarettes for a puma named Freddie?

Mothers’ Day—surprises are always better than any of my expectations.

May 13, 2013

Wishing

The other day, Bryan, my 8-year-old nephew and pollywog #1, was feeling a little blue. For someone who has worn a wide grin since the day he was born, the sad face piqued my curiosity. So I asked him about it.

“I wish I had grandparents like everybody else,” he said.

My heart broke for him. Three of his grandparents died before he was born; only my dad was alive to share the excitement. Daddy doted on the little boy who reminded him of himself for about 15 months before he, too, was gone. All Bryan wanted was for his family to include some grandparents. That wasn't too much to ask, now was it?

I had the old-fashioned kind of grandparents. Both sets, the Berrys and the Millers, were pretty much worn out by the time my brother, Ted, and I arrived. I vividly remember spending the night at each home one time. At the Berry house, I heard mockingbirds for the first time and ate cinnamon rolls that popped out of a cardboard can. My grandfather Miller lived with us, so my once-in-a-lifetime spend-the-night was with my grandmother and my aunt, Mary Belle. They bathed me in a metal pan filled with water from the well and heated on the wood stove, cooked some kind of varmint brains scrambled with eggs, and listened to the radio while my grandmother dipped snuff. Treks to the woods took the place of indoor plumbing. The idea of hands-on grandparenting hadn't yet evolved; or if it had, they didn't feel the need to embrace the concept.

Jeremy, Evan, and Rachel, my children and Bryan’s cousins, were fortunate to spend their childhood with Mother and grow to adulthood with Daddy. I want Bryan to know something of his grandparents.

Bryan, I want to tell you about your Miller grandparents—Mildred and Chat. Both were colorful characters, had lots of friends, and loved life and each other. You would have spent many nights at their house and eaten made-from-scratch biscuits every morning for breakfast. You would have listened to Manna read a hundred books and probably lost to her at ping pong. Gran told stories of going barefoot to school, skipping third grade, and picking cotton on the farm. He might have taught you to say your ABC’s backward like he did. You would have worked at the store every summer and mowed his yard. They would have been in the stands for karate, basketball, and baseball. On report card day, Gran would ask why you didn't make all 100’s and wait while you tried to explain yourself.

If you were sick, Manna would stay at home with you; Gran would check you out of school for trips to the orthodontist which would include lunch. If you needed a haircut, Gran would take you to Mr. Hinkle. Every Sunday you would see Manna in the choir and Gran ushering. After church, you might have gone to Piccadilly and gotten a dollar if you added up all the tickets correctly. Of course, Manna cooked most Sundays and invited the family for fried chicken, Spanish rice and pork chops, or roast. If she had shrimp, you were thankful that they were peeled, deveined, and the shells were in the garbage at the Elks Club. If you left any food on your plate, Gran would remind you of the starving children in India.

Gran would give you a $2 bill on special occasions, and Manna’s laugh would reassure you that the world was a wonderful place. You would know every day how much they loved you.

Bryan, I told you the day you were so sad that I also wished you had grandparents; because if you did, my mother and dad would still be alive. Life doesn't always work out like we wish it would, but somehow it always works out for the best.

Although Uncle Tim and I aren't your grandparents, we love you for them.

Love,
Aunt Gay
April 26, 2013

Fish Tales

A fish story from a reliable source

Once upon a time in a kingdom not far from here, a beautiful little girl and her handsome father were invited to a Valentine’s Day dance. This wasn't their first father/daughter dance, for they had been attending the Valentine dance at a local establishment since the girl was quite young. This time, however, things would be different.

In years’ past, the dance had proven to be a disappointment for the little girl. For sure, she was never disappointed in her dress, because each February the girl’s mother bought her a new red dress for the special occasion. And she was never disappointed in her dancing, because her legs could dance all night. Of course, her father never disappointed her; she loved him with all her heart. No, she was disappointed, because she never won any of the contests. She and her father participated in all of them, but she never won—not once—not ever. This year, the little girl was determined that she and her father were going to win all the contests—or at least one of them.

Every afternoon for quite some days, the little girl hid away in the basement. She ran; she danced; she practiced quickly putting on a tutu and a tiara. She would be ready when the time came.

One night, her father came home from work a little early and asked his wife, “Where is my beautiful little girl?”

“Oh, she is in the basement,” replied his lovely wife. “She has her heart set on winning a contest at the dance.”

The handsome father tiptoed down the basement stairs and found his little girl working very hard.

“Daddy, come and watch me.”

The father considered the situation. Yes, it was time; time for the little girl to learn about competition.

“You see,” he explained carefully, “there are only two kinds of people—winners and losers. The winner gets the prize, and the losers get a ‘thanks for coming’.”

The little girl’s big blue eyes widened. This year the prize was a gold fish, and she wanted it. A ‘thanks for coming’ wouldn’t do at all.

For days, the little girl and her father practiced in the basement, and for days the little girl listened to her father explain competition and the difference between winners and losers. After all, he “wasn’t brought up in a family that believed everyone should get a trophy!”

The night of the Valentine’s Day Dance finally arrived. The little girl was ready. Her red dress fit perfectly and the big red bow held her hair back from her sweet face. Her father kissed her softly as they left home.

The beautiful little girl and her handsome father danced and danced. When it was time for the contests to begin, the little girl was ready. This year she wasn’t going home empty-handed; this year she was going home with the gold fish.

The announcer called for the girls to line up for the “Tutus and Tiaras” contest. He blew the whistle, and all the girls ran across the room. Well, not all. One stood very still, unable to move. The beautiful little girl, so intent on winning just moments before, burst into tears.

Later that evening, the little girl introduced her mother to her two new goldfish, Marina and Keeki, while her father set up her new pink aquarium. He was so glad the pet store had been open.

And they lived happily ever after.

March 15, 2013

Lucy’s Valentine


No presents for Lucy
This Valentine’s Day,
Her mother said softly,
“Go out and play.

“Chase a gray squirrel
Or roll in deer poo,
Bark at the birds,
Just do what dogs do.

“Dogs don’t get cards
Or suckers and stuff,
Or heart-shaped Peeps
With marshmallow fluff.

“No Cupid corn candy
Or cherry love pops,
No pink glitter wands
Or red rose flip flops.

“You are too furry
For ‘Love Me’ tattoos,
Dog lips can’t blow
'Kiss Me’ kazoos.

“You cannot wear
Ruby wax lips.
Pink sugar cookies
Would land on your hips!

“Cinnamon red hots
Make your nostrils flare
Bouncy heart headbands
Won’t stay in your hair.

“Dogs are allergic
To chocolate sweets.
They eat dog biscuits
And rawhide treats.

“Look in the mailbox
With your very own eyes.
Valentine’s Day
Will bring no surprise.

“Oh, my. What’s this?
Three packages for you.
What could they be?
I haven’t a clue.

“From Rigsby, the cat,
A pretty pink box.
A stinky pig’s ear
And four doggy socks.

“A candy necklace
And a pink PEZ
From Lou, Chunk and Al,
So the card says.

“Darby sent love mints,
‘Be Mine’ candy hearts,
Frozen pupsicles,
And a bag of sweet tarts.”

Lucy was smiling
And wagging her tail
Valentine’s Day
Came with the mail.

The Milking Stool
From Stuff with Stories


Wynn, pollywog #5 as he is known in some circles, is a funny little boy with ostrich hair. He is not yet two years old, and a little on the short side, much like his grandmother. Wynn is a master at problem solving—door knobs and drawers that are just out of his reach, as well as sofas and chairs that are not easy to climb—nothing is too difficult for a little boy whose most prized possession is a milking stool.

I don’t know where the milking stool came from, but I do know that it never sat under a cow. It appeared at Mother’s house around 40 years ago, where it sat quietly in the corner by the stereo. It didn’t fit into any décor that she might have thought she had going on. Precious little thought was given over to interior decorating, because the home of these mom-and-pop furniture and appliance dealers was filled with stuff that didn’t move quickly off the floor.

Most everything else we had came from either the GE wishbook or was acquired with S & H Green Stamps. One year my brother, Ted, and I were surprised with brand new bicycles in the middle of the summer. Apparently, the GE points had to be used quickly, or we would have gotten another refrigerator box instead. No doubt the milking stool was obtained in much the same way, because I seriously doubt that Mother went to a real store to buy it.

The milking stool eventually found its way to Rachel’s house. My daughter can’t abide clutter; so why she kept Mother’s milking stool is a mystery. Although, I guess she wanted it for the same reason I wanted an old parking meter from downtown Huntsville. Some desires remain clouded between old memories and grief for what might have been.

I often imagine Mother watching Wynn drag around that milking stool. He babbles loudly, shakes his blonde head that really does resemble an ostrich, and laughs and laughs at the world as he watches from high atop his milking stool.

Perception

What do a mummy, a volcano, a haunted house, a jail, an ancient city, an artist’s studio, and a swimmin’ hole have in common? All have the power to shape perception. If, as is rumored, perception is reality, each of us lives in a unique reality that either renders us hopelessly swimming in an abyss or offers the opportunity for continuous celebrations of life. Neither is entirely true—only our skewed view; however, a good old celebration beats swimming in an abyss any day of the week.

Being the overachiever grandmother that I fancy myself to be, I am interested in assuring myself of seven celebrating pollywogs rather than an equal number of dour mugwumps. I don’t want my seven swans-a-swimming in the abyss so to speak. Hence, a mummy, a volcano, a haunted house, a jail, an ancient city, an artist’s studio, and a swimmin’ hole.

I asked the older pollywogs what they would like to see/do and got more than I bargained for. Bryan (8) wanted to see a real mummy. (I always loved teaching mummification and suggested to students that they save the gory details for the dinner table. Parents wouldn’t ask about school again for days.) Anyway, Bryan, Tyler (7), and Anna Lauren (5) saw a child mummy last summer, giving me a chance to relive my glory days. They giggled when I told them the brain was pulled through the nostrils, but the boys felt a little squeamish upon learning that certain body parts often fell off during mummification. Anna Lauren missed that part of the lesson. Bryan watched Steve Martin’s famous King Tut performance on Saturday Night Live preserved on YouTube, and I promised to mummify a chicken the next time he comes to the lake. As soon as the fighting stops in the Middle East, we’re off to Egypt to sail the Nile. Hopefully, I will still be alive.

The volcano was Bryan’s idea, too; all kids love exploding mountains. On St. Kitts we could hike to the top of a dormant volcano, and on St. Lucia we could drive right up to the “bubbling sulfur springs and hissing pools of steam.” Decisions, decisions.

When I couldn’t find a haunted house for Tyler, I substituted a ghost tour at Williamsburg. He also wanted to see a jail, so I put him in the stocks. He is rethinking his choices. A little time in the big house will do that.

Last year Keegan (11), Bryan, and Tyler visited an ancient city in Belize at Tyler’s request. They climbed to the top of Mayan pyramid-like structure and tried not to fall off. Keegan was stung by a swarm of bees, and unfortunately, that seemed to be more interesting to them than the ancient city.

Keegan wanted to see a professional artist’s studio, so one is on the agenda for next summer. I think it is important to encourage their creative tendencies and show them different ways to express themselves. In the meantime, Keegan learns to play the fiddle and sings like Taylor Swift, and Bryan takes art classes. Anna Lauren colors anything that doesn’t run off first. Tyler isn’t necessarily artistic, but he is good with lizards. According to Rachel, Wynn (19 months) doesn’t color yet; he just laughs and bangs things. Aiden (7 months) and Leighton (5 months) can’t have crayons; they would eat them.

The swimmin’ hole was also Keegan’s idea. No doubt she envisioned something a little more rustic than Lake Lanier, but this is the best we can do without conjuring up a whole hoard of snakes. She learns to water ski while the other kids ride the giant raft across the wake of speed boats, holding on for dear life and knowing that they’ll get their turn on the skis.

Anna Lauren and her grandfather build bird houses, feed the birds and squirrels, go fishing, stare at insects crawling on the porch, watch tadpoles swim in the water fountain, hunt for hidden Mickeys, and toss stale bread to the ducks. Her only request? “When are we going on our Disney cruise?”

See where I am going with this? The little boogers are actively seeking experiences in a larger world; something that will certainly stimulate their creativity, spark their imaginations, expand their horizons, and keep them out of the abyss.

Upon further reflection and putting all the philosophy hooey aside, perhaps I just like a good time.

Souvenirs

From Stuff with Stories

Granddaughter Anna Lauren discovered my grandmother’s salt and pepper shakers in a curio cabinet the other day. She knew they had a story to tell, because my home is filled with the odds and ends of other people’s lives. I told her as much as I could remember.

My grandmother died when I was 11. Until then, every Miller grandchild’s birthday was celebrated at her house in Ryland, the one with no indoor plumbing. A coal-fired stove sat in the middle of the front room; a wood-fired stove filled the kitchen; and beds packed the third room. She scrambled brains with eggs, baked cathead biscuits, and made chicken stew from scratch. A shallow pan held drinking water from the backyard well while a dipper made glasses unnecessary. When she died, I inherited one third of her collection of salt and pepper shakers; my cousins Patti and Connie got the others. Mostly, though, I remember peeing in the woods.

My grandmother spent all of her days on a farm in Ryland, Alabama. During the Great Depression, the farm was lost to the bank, and she and my grandfather became share-croppers on the same land they once owned. She chopped cotton, raised five children, dipped snuff, wore a bonnet, plucked chickens, tended the garden, and peed in the woods. Her life was incredibly hard, and I found it difficult to relate to her. Except for the salt and pepper shakers.

Because I was the oldest granddaughter, I chose first. A pair of blue birds with pink feathers glued to their little heads spoke to me loud and clear. Next came skunks, cats, dogs, musically-inclined horses, penguins, elephants, rabbits, fish, chickens, owls, corn, oranges, scarecrows, totems, cacti, outhouses, and clowns. I left my grandmother’s house that day with 37 pairs salt and pepper shakers.

I don’t know of a single soul who collects salt and pepper shakers today, but for my grandmother they were treasures. When her children and grandchildren returned with their souvenirs, they shared with her their experiences. I suspect that for her the real souvenir was the time they spent in her front room, eating chicken stew and cathead biscuits, drinking water from the dipper, and telling her about their adventures.

Love,
Gay, the family storyteller
August 4, 2012

A Little Bit Scary; A Little Bit Beautiful


She sits on the vanity admiring her reflection in the mirror while I wonder how in the world she manages to transform herself so completely. By all accounts, Anna Lauren is a beautiful little girl; big blue eyes, light brown hair, and a warm smile. But right now—whew! A four-year-old playing with her grandmother’s makeup can quickly become unsightly.

“Anna Lauren, what have you done to yourself?” I ask.

Her blue eyes are hidden behind black circles topped with dollops of chocolate brown shadow. Farther up her forehead are two thick black arcs that I assume must be eyebrows. Bright pink cheeks are no match for the red puffer-fish lips. She smiles.

“Grammy, I’m a little bit scary and a little bit beautiful.”

So is life, Anna Lauren. So is life.

Joe Battle once told me that we know goodness only because we know evil. Scary and beautiful hold that same relationship. Although I don’t like scary—movies, rides, masks, weather, dogs, to name only a few—philosophically at least, those challenging moments that scare the willies out of me make me appreciate the beautiful, the transcendent. Still…

Mostly, I’ve meandered into scary. Like when we lost our 18-month-old son, Evan, at Galveston Beach on the Fourth of July; or when I did a 180° during morning rush hour on ice-covered I-65; or the night our dog, Charlie, was attacked by coyotes; or our wild ride around a volcano in Maui. With every on-coming car or truck on that narrow road with no guardrails, we realized plunging to our death would be bad enough; but taking our three young children with us would appear somewhat negligent on our part. My scariest moment was a couple of years ago when Tim fell off a 14’ ladder and broke nearly all of his parts.

The catacombs in Paris about did me in though. My daughter, Rachel, told me before we went to London and Paris that she didn’t want to go to museums or do anything with history, so I should have seen this one coming.

We descended the narrow, spiral staircase and were immediately hit with a damp, musty odor wafting on what little air was available. The walkway was wide and relatively well-lit considering that we were in an elaborate underground city whose only inhabitants were the six million dearly departed. Road signs indicated from which normal cemetery they had originally been interred. For a mile we walked along the artfully displayed bones—rows of long bones, their knobby ends facing out, topped with a row of skulls—in repeating patterns. Small bones and fragments were tossed to the boneyard in the back. I looked around for an exit about halfway through. No such luck.

When we finally—and I do mean finally—reached the exit, I was hyperventilating between shudders. Unfortunately, the spiral staircase at this end was much narrower than the one at the entrance. At last I gasped clean air and slumped in a chair, eyeing the defibrillator hanging on the wall. In a few moments, the attendant asked us to open our bags to prove that we hadn’t snagged a few souvenirs of our sojourn to the underworld. That scene was seared onto my eyeballs—I didn’t need a souvenir. Alas, I had not learned my lesson.

Recently, Tim and I were in Matera in the Puglia region of southeastern Italy and slept in a 9000 year old sassi (cave dwelling). Families had been sharing the shallow caverns with horses, donkeys, chickens, cats, dogs, pigs, and a variety of other critters for centuries. However, in the 1950’s city officials decided the sassi were unclean and began relocating the 15,000 residents. Eventually, an entrepreneur recognized the tourism possibilities of the caves and lobbied for UNESCO World Heritage Site designation. Today the caves are being repurposed as hotels, restaurants, and shops.

I don’t know what possessed me, but I thought it would be fun to sleep in a sassi. Our sassi, large and furnished in early IKEA, had all the expected amenities like a bed and a bathroom, but an elevator was conspicuously absent. We dragged our luggage and ourselves up 160 steps in the broiling sun.

As the sun set on the limestone hillside, the hundreds of empty sassi conjured up images of thieves, murderers, and wild dogs hiding in the comfort and safety of the caves. I was afraid to close my eyes, convinced that we would both be dead by morning.

I certainly prefer beautiful to scary; however, beautiful isn’t a matter of survival. True, beautiful sometimes takes my breath away, but scary takes my breath, pummels my heart, dilates my pupils, flares my nostrils, churns my stomach, and sets my brain on fire. A good dose of scary reminds me that I am still very much alive. Then, when things calm down, instead of dwelling on the past, I put on my big girl panties and get on with life.
July 7, 2012

Moon Over the Caribbean

It all started where stories of this ilk always start—with the Mouse. Several years ago, when pollywogs Bryan and Tyler were two years old, Tim built Mickey Mouse measuring sticks for them with the promise that, when they were tall enough for the rides, we would take them to Disney World. By the age of four, the little boys had reached the age of maturity; unfortunately, Tim and I had passed the age of enough energy required to endure long lines and concrete at the home of the Mouse and his minions. So a cruise it was.

The next year pollywog Anna Lauren was potty trained with the promise of tagging along with her cousins. Three weeks before we were to set sail Tim fell off a ladder, breaking several body parts. With help from our daughter Rachel and sister-in-law Shelley, we propped him up in a wheelchair and didn’t miss a beat. How in the world did the pollywogs’ annual four-night Disney birthday cruise morph into an eight-night extravaganza for nineteen?

This year the word was out. Kids and adults were having far too much fun, and the entire family wanted to get in on the action. Our kids—Jeremy, Jennifer, and Anna Lauren, Evan, Krissy, and Keegan, Rachel, BJ, Tyler and Wynn— along with my brother Ted, sister-in-law Shelley, nephew Bryan, and Tim’s sister Debbie, her husband Rick, and their granddaughters Jamie and Alyssa ponied up. So what happens when nineteen members of the same family go on a cruise together?

We swooped in from Atlanta, Huntsville, and Charlotte the day before the cruise and checked in at The Residence Inn across from the port to recoup from travel trauma. ATL always provides some type of anxiety. The kids swam while the rest of us visited with Uncle Bud and Aunt Carol who live nearby.

The next morning the Richmond group arrived, and everyone scurried to catch the shuttle to the port. The kids had their mouse ears, prince, princess, and pirate costumes, and autograph books; the adults had their credit cards; and Tim had Mickey painted on his toes.

Rachel, usually unconcerned about being on time, quickly rounded up her family at daybreak and marched them out of the hotel door. They arrived at the terminal with the cleaners and check-in crew and were dutifully named “First Family”, a special recognition that included access to a handler, the characters, and the lunch buffet. They reveled in the glory of their “First Family” status for the remainder of the day and reminded us at every opportunity.

After lunch we descended upon our staterooms like a swarm of bees. We were on a mission—get those doors decorated with hundreds of specially designed magnets otherwise how would we be able to tell who was in which room?

Thanks to six-month old Wynn, we were excused from the mandatory boat drill ahead of the crowd and ran for the pool. It was almost time for the sail away party, and I didn’t want to miss showing Shelley the improvement in my “YMCA” hand gestures. By 4 p.m., the Disney Magic was at sea, and our little party of nineteen was eagerly highlighting activities in the Navigator. Port of call adventures, new cruising experiences, shopping, and celebrating would be the real highlights of our trip.

Key West was our first port of call. Rachel, BJ, Evan, and Krissy needed a little “me” time and went snorkeling. The rest of us walked from the ship, past the statues of well-endowed naked ladies to the hop-on, hop-off Conch Train. All of the boys (young and old) took notice of the ladies, and a couple of them, who shall remain nameless, returned for pictures.

Finding excursions for seven young children, ranging in ages from six months to 10 years, can be quite challenging. For some reason, I thought the train would be a good idea. Probably because kids rode free. I lasted for half the Conch Train ride. At the first stop, I announced that I was headed to the ice cream machine on the ship. Tim (no surprise there since ice cream was involved) and all seven of the kids—none of whom gave a flip about bougainvillea—decided that ice cream was more appealing than riding around sweltering Key West. Jeremy and Jennifer stayed ashore for Cuban sandwiches, and Ted, Shelley, Rick and Deb found a table with beer and nachos at Sloppy Joe’s.

At Grand Cayman, Jeremy and Jennifer swam with the dolphins; Rachel did laundry; and the rest of us tried to keep from walking the plank on a pirate ship. The pirates were friendly enough, especially after a couple of glasses of rum punch. The kids had to scrub the deck with toothbrushes which, of course, satisfied the adults almost as much as the rum punch.

We walked past Margaritaville on our way to the pirate ship and thought for sure it would be 5 o’clock somewhere by the time we returned. Jeremy and Jennifer were already there, and Jennifer was perched in one of those window-style balconies. She looked a little like she was up to something; after all, she has visited Amsterdam and New Orleans.

After lunch, the kids found the pool in the restaurant’s courtyard. Only a couple of other kids were there, so we moved into a cabana. The warden of the slide determined that Anna Lauren (3) and Alyssa (4) could slide if one of us waited in the pool to catch them. Shelley and I took turns until she heard the slide calling her name. Before the afternoon was over, that slide called her name about fifty times. For some inexplicable reason, Ted also heard the siren song. The water displacement wasn’t too bad.

Cozumel was…let’s just say it was interesting. Rachel, BJ, Jeremy, and Jennifer paid good money to drive dune buggies through the mud and crawl through bat caves. Like most children, they loved getting dirty. Personally, I’m not fond of an excursion that leaves me picking dirt balls out of my nostrils; but thankfully, they managed to rinse off most of the bat guano before dinner.

I found Chankanaab Park thanks to Google and bought tickets for five adults and five children for a dolphin encounter. Krissy and Wynn went along for the fun but couldn’t get in with the dolphins. She was pregnant, and he was too short. Our dolphin, Foxy, knew her stuff. We took turns kissing her on the lips (well, everyone but Tyler who wasn’t about to pucker up to a dolphin), dancing, rubbing her belly, and watching her jump. Although Tim, Evan, and I had been swimming with dolphins before, it was still an amazing adventure.

Ted, Shelley, and Bryan went to the more-expensive-but-also-more-thrilling-dolphin-time Dolphinaris. Remember, you get what you pay for. Shelley and Bryan did their dolphin swim without a hitch, and then it was Ted’s turn to ride. He held onto the fins as the dolphin took off. Unfortunately for Ted, his swimsuit did likewise. My brother, ever the quick thinker, turned his toes out just in the nick of time, managing to hang on to his suit while losing his dignity. I really wish Shelley had given her email address to one of the throng of onlookers who were snapping pictures.

One final word about Cozumel. Our group traveled in two vans to the park. Arriving went fine; both vans pulled up at the same place at the same time. Returning was a different story. Unbeknownst to any of us, the drivers let us out at two different locations. About 1 ½ hours later, we figured it out.

Seven night cruises offer a few more activities than shorter cruises. For example, the character breakfast at 8 a.m. is designed to give the children yet another opportunity to see Goofy and gang. John and Supatcha, our waiters/origami experts, made napkin hats for everyone. We looked ridiculous, the intention I feel certain. Ted’s napkin hat dangled beer tankards around his earlobes. It didn’t make up for missing his moon over the Caribbean, but it was still a sight to behold!

Tea with Alice is available on seven nighters but tickets are limited. Not to worry! Rachel wrangled tickets for the women and children while serving as the matriarch of the “First Family.” Keegan volunteered to be the White Rabbit and sat at the head table with the Mad Hatter and Alice. After the show, we were in the last “get your pictures with the Hatter and Alice” group until we learned that the White Rabbit’s family could go first. I don’t think they expected Keegan’s family to consist of six crazy women and seven children.

Another feature of a longer cruise is more formal nights. Everyone loves to trade in their swimsuits and flip flops for uncomfortable clothes and shoes. Speaking of shoes, Debbie poured her Coke in her shoes on formal night. Guess they hurt her feet.

Then there was shopping. Disney toys, t-shirts, pins, purses, watches, Goofy hats…the kids wanted it all. And the adults weren’t far behind. Debbie discovered those island-style dresses that hang from the shoulders or the bosom and hardly ever touch any other body parts. She shopped her way through every port looking for comfort. She also made a dent in the onboard shop. Among other things, she found a white baseball cap emblazoned with a pink “D” and tried to convince everyone that the “D” really stood for Debbie which was the reason she simply had to have it. In Cozumel, she couldn’t resist posing for a photo holding an iguana in her arms while a parrot perched on her new hat. While Rick paid the guy $5 for the privilege and the photo, the parrot peed on Debbie’s new hat.

For all nineteen of us, every day was a celebration of something. Tim gave the kids flags to add to their flag stands when they went to a new country. One night, birthday cakes and a chorus of Happy Birthday to You from the international wait staff reminded the kids that the cruise was a birthday gift. We also celebrated next year’s arrival of a new pollywog. A couple of days before they left home, Evan and Krissy learned that they would be having a boy in March. Krissy was a good sport and obsessed about her weight gain only when her fingers and toes began to resemble sausages.

Far too soon the week was over, and it was time to leave the magical floating kingdom. What happens when nineteen members of the same family go on a cruise together? Now you know.

The St. Thomas Clampetts
May 26-June 3 2011

St. Thomas was Rachel’s idea. She was six months pregnant and no longer glowing; in fact, she was a little mean. Out of the blue, she announced that St. Thomas was her choice for summer vacation; we were all going the last week in May; and the new baby—whatever it was—would have to adjust. So, St. Thomas it was then.

By the time I learned that plane tickets were in the $500 range, the ship of reason had sailed. She was bigger than a bread box and not sleeping well. When her husband, BJ, reluctantly revealed that he couldn’t leave work until two days after the rest of us were flying down, things really got ugly. I thought about checking out his story with his boss but decided that some things were better left alone.

Tim and I drove to Huntsville to pick up Bryan (6) and leave Lucy to entertain Bubbles, Bryan new lab puppy. We got back to the lake just in time. Rachel, Tyler (5), and Wynn (8 weeks) arrived with so much stuff that I was sure she was here to stay. Three bulging-at-the-zippers suitcases, a backpack, diaper bag, hobo purse, bouncy seat, stroller, infant car seat, and a booster seat—oh my!

The next morning, Tim courageously crammed three more suitcases, another booster seat, his computer bag, various and sundry carry-on bags, purses, and backpacks into Rachel’s overlarge SUV, and we set off in pursuit of Wally World, an off-site parking lot, and the Atlanta airport.

The driver of the van at Wally World nearly fainted when Tim opened the back of the SUV. But Tim tipped well, and the guy began breathing normally. The scene was repeated when we checked in curbside at the airport. TSA wasn’t particularly amused when Tyler replied that he was 5 and 4 quarters years old or when the stroller wouldn’t fold up for the conveyor belt. Some people just have no sense of humor whatsoever!

Thankfully, the flight was uneventful—Wynn slept and proved wrong all the passengers who had given us dirty looks. Tim, Bryan and Tyler forgot about their earphones and kept talking at the top of their lungs, but Rachel and I pretended that we didn’t know them until potty-on-demand time. Rachel and I had learned more than a few hard lessons traveling with my dad, who flew with a diuretic racing through his system, and Tyler, who once announced minutes before landing that he needed to potty. On that occasion, Rachel had to stick his “monster” down an empty Gatorade bottle. The other passengers were not fooled.

While Tim found the car rental desk and Rachel went in search of a customs form, the boys and I loaded some of the eight or so extra bags onto the stroller and headed to the open-air baggage claim/rum bar. Any guesses on how long it takes to retrieve six suitcases, one infant seat base, and two booster seats while holding a baby and keeping an eye on two rascally boys?

Finally, we were ready to start our family vacation. Unfortunately, the rental car lot was across the street and up a flight of stairs.

Our growling stomachs reminded us that we had to find a grocery store before we checked in at the hotel. At a red light, Rachel asked a guy in the car next to us for directions to the nearest grocery store. Up ahead and across from Wendy’s was Pueblo, the nastiest and most expensive grocery store on the planet. Still, we had to eat. Somehow Tim found room in the van for $200 worth of groceries that had cost me $400, and we set out to find the condo. We only got lost once.

At the condo, the pool was beckoning, so we quickly unpacked and slathered on the sunscreen. Rachel packed the stroller with all necessary and unnecessary baby paraphernalia, three battery-powered fans, pool toys, cooler, first-aid kit and snacks and away we went down three elevators in three different buildings to the pool. Oh, yeah. She also packed Wynn but forgot the towels. I cheerfully volunteered to go back for them.

According to Rachel, this trip was part family vacation and part anniversary celebration. (I remind you that BJ missed the first two days of the celebration.) Therefore, she and BJ needed massages to relieve the stress of the family vacation part and needed to go on an all-day, just the two of them, water adventure to celebrate their anniversary. Oh, brother. Call me when you have three kids, teach middle school, and have no idea where to get a massage.

We promised the little boys a trip to Iggie’s for Carnivale Night. Who wouldn’t want to watch a lady on stilts wildly swinging her legs or a guy walking across broken glass? They were most anxious to see if the guy doing the limbo under a flaming bar would burn anything important. We never suspected that BJ would be the star of Carnivale.

At Iggie’s, the can of OFF at the hostess stand warned us that the No-see-ums were going to be a problem, but nothing prepared us for the authentic Caribbean cuisine. We had already passed on eating barbeque out of the back end of a station wagon, and we should have skipped the $38 per person buffet. BJ survived the food but finding Bryan barefoot outside the men’s restroom almost did him in. According to Tyler, Bryan was not only walking around inside the restroom barefoot but also crawled on the floor. BJ snatched up Bryan, made him wash his hands twice, and shared gruesome details of hygiene in the men’s room. Bryan may be scarred for life.

Then things really got good. Carnivale Lady danced across the sand on stilts while trying desperately to keep on her full-face mask. After putting on quite a show atop those skinny-bottomed stilts, she spotted BJ in the crowd. He looked like an able and willing, if somewhat goofy, dance partner. All of a sudden, Carnivale Lady was riding high on BJ’s shoulders. I expect that the goofy look was wiped off his face, but we couldn’t tell. His head was somewhere in her voluminous balloon pants. BJ was in the moment. I was so glad that he had had a massage earlier in the day. It got his muscles all limbered up.

For a week, Bryan and Tyler built sand castles at Magen’s Bay Beach, petted sharks and stingrays and fed the lorikeets at Coral World, rode the sky ride to the top of Charlotte Amalie (while BJ, who is deathly afraid of heights, tried not to scream like a little girl), picked up sea glass and shells at Brewer’s Bay, licked ice cream from Udder Delight, sailed on a catamaran around St. Thomas, colored pirate pictures, played Zingo at the kids’ club, rode the car ferry to St. John, watched Gnomeo and Juliet at the dive-in, endured swimming lessons, watched movies, ate tons of junk food, and chased iguanas around the pool. As Tyler says, they were “living the life!”

Rachel and BJ went on their private water adventure and loved snorkeling in the Caribbean. Tim picked them up late in the afternoon, and they all went to Duffy’s Love Shack and got leid.

Far too soon it was time to leave St. Thomas. Somehow Tim managed to get everything back inside the van for the trip to the airport. He dropped us off and returned the van to the lot across the street. At the Delta counter, they refused to take our luggage, making us drag everything through customs ourselves. When we finally got to customs, we learn that we should have filled out two forms rather than one. I started praying that TSA wouldn’t make Tim take off his belt to go through security. That was usually his tipping point at an airport, and he was seriously close.

Family vacations are not for the faint of heart.

Brought Back Broke

I must admit that I have always taken a great deal of pride in planning wonderful experiences with my grandchildren. According to The Book of Grandmother Standards written by my dear friend, Jane Battle, I am an A-list Grandmother. At least I used to be.

A few weeks ago, Tim and I cruised the Caribbean with Pollywogs Bryan, Tyler, and Keegan. We also allowed moms Shelley and Krissy to come along. Unfortunately, the moms saw it all.

Things started out normal enough—flights from Charlotte, Huntsville, and Richmond converged in Atlanta, and we flew to Miami together. Baggage claim was enough to make a grown man cuss (and I think he probably did), and the shuttle driver was so slow that I was sure that he was more worried about a pending dental appointment than getting us to the port before the ship left. However, it was when we set foot on the Carnival Glory that things really began falling apart.

The tall blonde handing out brochures used her iciest voice to inform me that I didn’t need one; that she had given a brochure to someone in my party. Not exactly the cruise hospitality that I had come to expect, but it was early yet.

We made our way to the lunch buffet where Tyler (5) immediately disappeared into the desperately hungry horde, all of whom were delighted to have finally escaped the snow back home. My mantra, Ransom of Red Chief, settled my nerves until I found him.

After what my brother calls “typical cruise food,” it was pool time. Both the big pools were 4’6”, salt water, and a little challenging for non-swimmers Tyler and Bryan, so we opted for the ankle-deep baby pool. Wahoo!

Krissy and I left the kids in the capable care of Tim and Shelley while we wandered the halls looking for the kids’ club registration desk. There another tall blonde informed me that because Tyler was five he had to spend the week with a group of two-year-olds.

“We have rules about these things!” she said.

Are you kidding me? We were on a Carnival cruise ship for spring break. There were no rules!!

Irritable tall blonde #2 eventually consulted with “someone” and agreed that Tyler could go to cruise ship day care with Bryan (6 and smaller than Tyler). That settled, Krissy and I were ready for a refreshing dip in the baby pool. Thirty minutes later we were on our way to the infirmary with three blue children who were suffering from either a) incompetent supervision b) frigid water or c) loose pool paint. The nurse carefully examined each of them and rendered a diagnosis of complete and utter bewilderment. The Smurfs were sent on their way.

Before the first nightfall, Bryan had convinced Shelley that he absolutely could not live without another stuffed animal to add to his collection of 200; Keegan discovered that room service would miraculously appear with turkey sandwiches, chips, and cola at bedtime; and Tyler was excited to get the top bunk first.

The next day was a sea day, and the adults were ready for some R and R. Tyler found the pool slide; Keegan learned there was a sushi restaurant; and Bryan threw a fit because the self-serve ice cream machine had run out of strawberry.

On Tuesday we pulled into port at Costa Maya and headed for the free pool in town. Tyler had a complete melt down in the pool and cried for his mommy; Bryan tried to shop his way through the junk stores; Keegan discovered that the swim up bar sold cola; and the adults had to share the one and only available lounge chair. As soon as the Mayan folk dancers finished, we surrendered and returned to the ship.

Over the next several days, we turned into mountain goats to climb Mayan ruins, cruised the Rio Wallace in search of howler monkeys and crocodiles, cheered the Charros at a Mexican horseshow and whacked a piñata. At a Mexican buffet, Keegan mistook the black beans for chocolate pudding and filled her bowl; Tyler ate a few bites of chicken and gagged at the thought of rice pudding; and Bryan came apart when he learned that he couldn’t spend the afternoon swimming in the ranch’s pool. He’s just lucky that Shelley didn’t try to drown him in the pool; I saw that look in her eyes. We bought souvenirs at Ron Jon’s and drank margaritas at a seaside bar. The kids sat on a cross-eyed donkey and stuck their feet in giant shoes for photo ops. Every bug in the area found Keegan an easy target, and I’m certain that her squeals could be heard back home. All of us filled our nostrils with the pollen of unfamiliar plants and dust from Old Mexico and began coughing like refugees from a TB ward. When Tyler’s temp hit 101.6°, I knew that something menacing was in that air.

On board the ship the kids swam, ate their weight in ice cream, and watched movies. Keegan liked her Kids’ Club activities, but the boys were done after the first day. Irritable tall blonde #3 complained that Tyler told some of the children that he was really 5 ½ and not six, causing undue pain and confusion for the room of highly gifted and entirely age appropriate children. The Carnival Kids’ Club was crossed off our list of wonderful activities offered by the cruise ship.

The kids learned a lot of things on the trip. Keegan learned that she preferred the adult menu and that she looked great in orange. Bryan learned that Teddy bears were not native to Mexico and therefore unacceptable souvenirs, and Tyler learned to dress himself. His first attempt consisted of a plaid shirt and plaid pants—different plaids of course. Rachel had spent hours ironing all his clothes and packing matching outfits together, so we took lots of pictures that day.

One night on the way to dinner, Tyler had his pants on backward, so Tim took him to the bathroom for a quick adjustment. From outside the stall, Tim saw the pants drop and then come right back up.

“Tyler, the zipper goes in the front.”

“Oh, man.”

Tim should have also checked his underwear. When Tyler assumed the fetal position and slept through dinner, we noticed the leg hole of his superhero underwear around his waist. After that, we helped Tyler dress and agreed that all of us owed Rachel an apology.

Before we left home, Rachel warned Tyler and us that he was not to lose his first tooth on the ship. He finally had a loose tooth after months of envying Bryan his toothless smile. (You see what’s coming, don’t you?) Tyler lost his first tooth while eating an apple. Not only did he lose it but he also lost it. We looked everywhere, tore the bunk bed apart, but no tooth. Maybe he swallowed it between the pollen and dust coughs.

Krissy, younger and more energetic than the other adults, decided that she needed a night out while Keegan and Shelley slept. Thinking that no one would ever suspect a thing, she stayed out until she won a little money at the casino. Unfortunately when she swiped her key card at the stateroom door, Keegan alerted and screamed, “Burglar!” Shelley swooped up out of the bed like an avenging angel or at least Krissy thought she was an avenging angel. Perhaps that speaks more to Krissy’s conscience than anything else.

By the last day, we were worn out and needed a quiet sea day. It was quite windy, so we found chairs in a small alcove near the baby pool and staked our claim. Then it started. Tim and Tyler were playing miniature golf when a gust of wind blew Tyler over onto some bricks. His elbow hurt but they kept playing. Later I took Tyler to the infirmary because he kept complaining about his elbow, and I didn’t want to have to explain to Rachel why I didn’t take her injured child to the doctor. After an hour, the doctor still wasn’t sure what was wrong with the elbow but suggested that we go to the ER in Miami (yeah, like that was going to happen) as soon as we disembarked. In the meantime, she advised us to check his pulse and have him wiggle his fingers. She gave him a sling which made him very happy, and we returned to the baby pool to show off the sling.

We hadn’t been at the baby pool three minutes when Keegan jumped up out of the water screaming like a band of banshees. She was covered in a red rash—back to the infirmary. The rash and the wailing continued until Benadryl took effect, and we got another diagnosis of complete and utter bewilderment. Not too surprisingly, no one found infirmary charges on their bills. The staff knew about us, and no one wanted to discuss the loose pool paint again with Krissy, the “Goochland Aquatics Director.”

We managed to disembark without causing much of a scene, found our shuttle to the airport, and left Miami and the Carnival Glory to those of sterner stuff. The following Monday, Tyler got a bright red cast on his elbow until the break could heal. He also got an antibiotic for his sinus infection. And he explained to his mom that we looked everywhere (well, not exactly everywhere) for his tooth.

Well, there you have it. My daddy used to tell everyone who would listen that I sold his car and took his money and his checkbook and moved to Georgia. Now my daughter tells everyone who will listen that her mother took her kid on a cruise and brought him back broke.

I Know Whom I Have Believèd

Easter 2011

The other day my daughter-in-law, Krissy, posted a challenge on Facebook for everyone to “lift up God’s name and make a statement.” Never one to miss an opportunity to express my opinion, I decided to take up her challenge.

I come from a family of “church door” Christians. Every time the church door opened, we were there. I didn’t think much about it at the time; after all, there wasn’t much else to do, and, for the most part, church was fun. My cousins, friends, and I played, sang, giggled, and during the sermons wrote notes on the bulletins. When I got older, I played the piano and organ for services and, still to this day, love the old hymns. Both of my parents sang in the choir until my dad discovered that ushering from the back of the church offered a little more “flexibility” than sitting in the choir loft at the front. My brother was in the church scout troop.

Mine is a familiar story for people who grew up in the Methodist church. Questions were encouraged, and differences of opinion didn’t upset anyone. Looking back, I have to admit the questions weren’t particularly controversial, and most of us held the same opinions. What my church lacked in spiritual challenge, it made up for by providing a safe and loving environment.

Then my mother died. She wasn’t supposed to die at age 60; she was too young, too full of life, too many things still on her “one day I’ll get around to it” list. Her death sent me on a spiritual journey, the end of which I still cannot see 26 years later. The standard issue answers to the standard issue questions from all those partially heard sermons, Sunday school lessons, weeks at the Methodist Church’s Camp Sumatanga, and youth fellowship did not satisfy my broken heart. I needed new answers.

So, Krissy, this is my statement of belief.

God loves every person unconditionally—even the people I don’t particularly like. These people are not all nice, nor do they ascribe to a particular religious or political affiliation, nor do they necessarily live in the United States.

God created. He expects us to figure out how He did it and take care of his creation.

God has only a few rules; man dreamed up the rest.

Christians do not have exclusive rights to God.

My life reflects those things I value, and my actions have consequences.

I am accountable for what I believe.

My spiritual journey persuaded me that God is bigger, more powerful, and more mysterious than I could comprehend. I am committed to following the path that God lays before me and doing so with a keen eye to examining my life. Where there are failures, I will strive to do better. Where there are successes, I will celebrate. And I learned that I am not the first, nor would I be the last, to ask God to explain himself.

After the Civil War, Daniel Webster Whittle wrote I know Whom I have Believed. While the refrain is from the Bible, each verse is a testament to Whittle’s lack of understanding the why of God. Like Whittle, I continue to wonder, question, and at times, rail, but, in the end, I have come to understand that mostly I believe that God is able.

But I know Whom I have believèd,
And am persuaded that He is able
To keep that which I’ve committed
Unto Him against that day.

2 Timothy 1:12


I realize that these statements of belief are skimpy on the details and explanations. I have no interest in complicating matters for myself or others—the simpler the better.

I do disagree, however, with Krissy that Easter is not about bunnies and chocolate eggs. I have it on good authority that, while candy is not central to the message of Easter, God does have a sweet tooth.

An End to the Confusion

The time has arrived to clear up the confusion over the grandchildren. It crops up from time to time, but when the last little pollywog was born two weeks ago, people started asking questions. Now, to be perfectly honest, I think that few people care about my grandchild conundrum. But for those of you who do, I would like to set the record straight. Additionally, three of them are old enough to be confused themselves. All the little kids are my grandchildren regardless of the truth of the matter. Calling them pollywogs evens the playing field.

The #1 pollywog is Bryan, the six-year-old son of my brother, Ted, and sister-in-law, Shelley. He has never met a costume or stuffed animal that he didn’t love and takes creative license to a whole new level. Last week he sent me a letter requesting that I go to Build-a-Bear and buy him a treat. He included ten pictures cut out of a circular with pinking shears of possible purchases and a $5 coupon.

Tyler Lee, the #2 pollywog, is the son of my daughter, Rachel, and son-in-law, BJ, and big brother to Wynn, pollywog #5. At first Tyler seemed to like his new bike much better than his new brother, but he is beginning to come around. Tyler can remember anything if a number is attached to it, and he finally has two loose teeth. Bryan has lost seven teeth, a feat which has caused Tyler to discuss his situation with his dentist.

Our son, Jeremy, and his wife, Jennifer, are Anna Lauren’s parents. As pollywog #3, she is a precocious three-year-old who tolerates ballet for her mother’s sake, counts in Spanish, and gives her dad a run for his money. Last week, she squealed “weeeeeee” for several miles on the two lane road to the lake. Finally, Tim, ears throbbing, asked her what in the world she was doing. “I’m trying to cry wee all the way home.”

Keegan is nine going on 16 and was most recently concerned about a date for the school dance. Last June, Keegan’s mom, Krissy, married our son, Evan, and Keegan, who sang at the wedding, became pollywog #4. Because she is older than the others, she couldn’t quite figure out how she got the #4 spot. Chronological order, my dear, chronological order.

Our sweet baby, Wynn Talcott, is #5. His first word will probably be “grandmother.”

I’m glad that I cleared up everything.

Oh, by the way, I also call them “Boo Pie” when the spirit moves me. However, even I can’t explain that one.

Margaret Ann and Ken and the Panama Canal

I’ve never been good with machinery, so it came as no surprise that I didn’t get the hang of locks and dams until Daddy took me to Guntersville Dam. I was fascinated by the boats floating up and down as the water ebbed and flowed. Although I didn’t care much about how things worked back then and still don’t today, I stood captivated along the bank of the Tennessee River and decided then and there that I wanted to see the Panama Canal. I think I was ten.

In January, Tim and I packed our bags for a partial transit cruise of the canal. Escaping the harsh winter—it had snowed twice—was almost as important as witnessing a boat the size of a small town navigate the canal. Additionally, I wanted to see the howler monkeys and sloths that I was certain filled the trees in the rain forest of Costa Rica.

We boarded Holland America’s Zuiderdam in Miami with hundreds of other really old, white Americans. We were disappointed that only 20 or so people under the age of 50 and a sprinkling of various nationalities were cruising with us. On the plus side (and believe me, they were on the plus side), the people that we actually met and talked to were well educated and interesting. When one guy told me that he was retired from the Library of Congress, I wanted to become his new best friend. There was a chemist, a Revlon executive, a retired New York City cop, a department store manager, army guys, and well, you get the picture. Before the trip was over, we knew that indeed looks were deceiving.

We had been warned that Holland America catered to an older crowd; but we liked the itinerary and, after all, we aren’t spring chickens. We sailed past Cuba and Haiti on our way to Aruba. Being from Alabama and still remembering the terribly sad Natalie Holloway incident in Aruba, we weren’t especially interested in the island. However, after disembarking and strolling through a town where 75% of the shops were closed, Tim got some great shots of iguanas and the beautiful Caribbean.

At Willemstad, Curacao, we ate lunch at a sidewalk café on St. Anna Bay near the Queen Emma pontoon bridge and watched as the bridge opened to let the boats pass. Willemstad, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is charming with its colorful buildings and Venezuelan Floating Market.

Next came a trip to the rain forest. The dirt road from the ship to the rain forest had ruts deep enough to bury a grown man. We felt like we’d had the hell beaten out of us before we got there. At least our bus made it up the hill. One group had to get out of their bus and walk up the hill. We saw a few howler monkeys and some three-toed sloths but nothing like what was promised in those colorful brochures. When Jeremy and Jennifer went to the rain forest, the boat driver chunked raw chicken into the water to encourage the wildlife. I would have given anything for a raw chicken.

The next morning we watched as gravity took charge of the Panama Canal. Although the idea of using gravity to move the water seems simple, the story of the canal is anything but simple. Engineering a canal across the isthmus was an amazing feat that cost years, money, and lives. Sometimes reading about a thing doesn’t really bring home the wonder of it; this was one of those times.

Life on board the Zuiderdam was often entertaining. Tim took several computer classes and got up early every morning for Tai Chi. I went to a few cooking classes just to look busy and tried not to nap through happy hour.

Tim and I didn’t have set dinner reservations with predetermined dining partners. The ship’s “dine as you wish” option sounded like a great idea when we booked; but once on board, we were a little anxious.

One night we wandered into the restaurant and hoped the maître‘d would seat us somewhere reasonable.

“Will you share?” asked the maître d’ in a somewhat haughty voice indicating that he knew we were at his mercy. His name was Hunky Dory, and I thought he had a lot of nerve—considering.

“Of course,” we replied in unison.

Hunky led us through a maze of tables to the very back and darkest corner of the restaurant. There we found Margaret Ann and Ken and felt our anxiety level jump a notch or two.

They were sitting alone at a table for six. I knew beyond a doubt that two more would not be joining us. Both looked a little worse for wear, and Ken was having trouble getting all the bread crumbs out of his bushy beard.

Margaret Ann and Ken were from a small town near Ontario and were more relieved than we were to escape from the cold weather. Ken had been a world class swimmer and had only recently stopped swimming--and winning--every 5K that came along. Margaret Ann preferred cross-country skiing to swimming. Both enjoyed golf and a myriad of other activities.

They also did something I had never heard of before. Every month they bottled their own wine. They “knew a guy” who provided the wine, and they provided the 30 empty bottles.

Margaret Ann and Ken had been married three years; theirs was a second marriage. They met through an online dating site and dated a year before marrying. They told us about their family who lived in far-flung places and enjoyed unusual careers like professional ski instructor. By the time dessert and coffee arrived, the four of us were laughing and talking like old friends.

Mark Twain said, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness” and this trip proved him right. Our preconceived notions about people and places scattered in the wind as we shared conversations and experienced new destinations. I guess if I always want to be right, I may as well stay at home.

My bags are packed.


By the way, Margaret Ann and Ken are both 83. We’re glad to know that there is a cruise ship that will take us off our kids’ hands.

The Facts of Life
According to Lucy Charlene Lull

We need a new Boo Pie!
The pollywogs are frogs—
Two of each, boys and girls,
And one sweet, freckled dog.

How can we get new ones?
I asked my mother, “How?”
She said the stork brings them.
I rolled my eyes, “Oh, wow!”

She was making this up—
I am not a setter—
Then she tried cabbage leaves.
That wasn’t much better.

I gave her the stink eye,
And she tried one more time.
A seed in the tummy,
No bigger than a dime.

Is this the best she has?
A story about seeds?
Her garden has flowers
And lots of ugly weeds.

You can’t fool a Springer;
I’m as smart as a whip.
Now— facts about babies
Coming straight from my lips.

God walks around Heaven,
Looking for volunteers.
Four legs are not allowed,
Neither are floppy ears.

God picks out the colors
Of the eyes, fur, and parts,
Tucks the baby inside
Under the mommy’s heart.

The baby grows and squirms,
Snuggles, hiccups and swims,
Rolls around, sings and dreams,
Becomes a her or him.

Am I an aunt or uncle?
I’ll find out in two weeks.
Unlike everyone else,
Rachel didn’t want to peek.

It’s Not a Flower

Our second snow of the season had not melted by 10 am, so I jumped at the chance to make myself feel better. Generally speaking, Southerners don’t give a hoot about the weather up North other than for reasons of idle conversation or pity; but when Roy called from New York, I just knew that this was my chance to reclaim the weather high ground. Snow makes me desperate.

“We got about two inches,” said Roy. Oh good grief! Six to eight inches of winter menace lay in our yard and was threatening to reincarnate as ice by morning. I handed the phone to Tim.

There was nothing to do but make the best of it. To tell the truth, we had been making the best of it for about five weeks. Renovating bathrooms is NOT a winter project as we painfully learned. Our house is completely upside down and inside out, because the contractors do not have a firm grasp of the concept “time is money.” While we are snowed in, they are conveniently snowed out. Perhaps they should have thought about possible weather delays last Wednesday when they worked 45 minutes. Arrrgh!

Anna Lauren, our three year old granddaughter, is staying with us while her parents have gone to Phoenix for the Auburn game and a week of more fun than allowed by law. I hope it is warm and sunny.

I don’t do snow, so Tim, whose Yankee upbringing prepared him for such inevitabilities, took charge of playing with Anna Lauren outside. She put on her pink coat, pink gloves, pink hat, and Bryan’s old green dinosaur boots and was out the door. Tim found his old (and I do mean old) sled in the basement and pulled her to the top of the driveway over and over while she sang at the top of her lungs. She made snow angels and chased Lucy. I took a few pics from the porch. When she got cold enough, she was ready for inside activities.

She has played for hours in the loft with toys from the collective childhoods of several generations. She has colored, drawn a self-portrait, counted Lucy’s legs, dressed and undressed her dolls, and made a playhouse out of the new grill box. Lucy has been a pirate, a bed buddy, a hair model, a pillow, and an overall good sport.

Tim and Anna Lauren assembled a gingerbread house kit that I bought at Walmart before Christmas. Yummy! Fortunately, Anna Lauren doesn’t know that gingerbread isn’t supposed to taste like cardboard. She didn’t like the gum drops but loved licking the frosting off the roof. She foraged for pink gum balls while Tim repaired one of his gum ball machines and shared her cereal with Lucy. When she isn’t playing, she is watching Nanny McPhee or the bad Alice (Alice in Wonderland with Johnny Depp). She can discuss both movies---in detail, scene by scene. If you have to be snowed in with someone, Anna Lauren provides great entertainment.

Yesterday, as I patiently waited for Anna Lauren to potty, she told me, “Don’t sniff, Grammy. It’s not a flower.”

Surely, the sun will come out tomorrow.

Anna Lauren’s Grammy

Merry Christmas!

Last year I got around to wishing my family and friends ‘Merry Christmas’ seven days after New Years. I am obviously doing remarkably better this year. ‘Giving up the shoulds’ was my 2010 New Year’s resolution (actually mine and yours since I recommended that you do the same). I asked that you let me know how you did; but, every last one of you took my request for a report as a “should” and ignored me. I will take that as a victory.

This year has been a mixed bag for our family. The good times have been really good, and the bad times have been rather challenging. There haven’t been many just okay days. As my sister-in-law, Shelley, reminds me, “We are just having life.”

Tim and I finally sold our house in Bold Springs, GA, the one around the corner from the goats. This was quite an accomplishment considering that we negotiated from Tunisia using my BlackBerry. Thanks to the recession, I’d rather not discuss the financial details for fear of, once again, triggering a terribly debilitating tick. In the middle of the hottest summer I can remember, we picked up all our stuff and moved to the lake. The lake house still looks like Beulah’s from Grand Rapids who starred on the last episode of Hoarders. Back in July, I hoped that we’d get settled in and renovate the house. But then…

Tim fell off a ladder, breaking several important body parts. When he got out of the hospital, we moved in with Jeremy, Jennifer, and Anna Lauren. I still don’t understand why perfectly healthy people ride bicycles weighing a few pounds, and handicapped people have wheelchairs that weigh a ton. I tried to be a good sport, but, dang, that thing gave me Stretch Armstrong arms.

Three family pets, Darby, Lou, and Chunk, relocated to heaven. Darby, Bryan’s and Shelley’s dog, decided that ALS wasn’t for her and traded for four doggy legs that all run in the same direction. Lou, BJ’s dog, wanted one last ride in the jeep and gave it up in the back seat in Rachel’s arms. Chunk, Rachel’s and Tyler’s cat and winner of several cat shows, did not want to move to another house. Knowing that when he was upset he could always throw up in BJ’s shoes wasn’t enough to entice him to stay. Our new family mantra is “all dogs and cats go to heaven,” and my grieving dog, Lucy, continues her treatments for depression.

Good times came in Goochland, VA when our son, Evan, married Krissy (who came with a daughter, Keegan) at an outdoor wedding by a lake in the sweltering heat. Actually, they got married twice—once in the steam room under the blazing sun and once in the hospital where Krissy’s dad was recuperating.

The little boys, Bryan and Tyler, started Kindergarten, while Anna Lauren became a reluctant ballerina. My son-in-law got a promotion, so he and Rachel sold their house next to the drug dealer. Ted got a new boss, and Shelley got a van to carry all of Bryan’s stuffed animal “friends” which now number in the hundreds. Jeremy still travels every week and maintains a comedy routine on Facebook while his wife, Jennifer, is learning to breathe.

Traveling brought new experiences and great friends. On Guernsey, John and Margaret Helyer invited Tim and me to their home and, along with John’s sister, Pat, treated us to an evening of amazing storytelling. We keep in touch with David and Joan Belton from Leeds, England by email. At the end of the summer, Julie Wear and I had a great adventure in England. We started the trip barely able to recognize each other; but after Julie received word that her mother had died, we became family.

A Disney cruise in October was one of our very best times. Tim rolled around in his wheelchair with a fake parrot perched on the handle while the rest of us chased down characters and princesses for photo ops. Anna Lauren squealed with delight and loved on every one of them. Bryan and Tyler tried to act cool, but they didn’t fool anyone. Rachel, Shelley, and I tried to keep up and took turns pushing Tim around.

I think this is the abundant life that God envisioned for all of us.