Drinking Chocolate Pudding

This year the Lulls are spending Thanksgiving in Charlotte. Like many families, getting together at holiday time is something of a hit or miss endeavor spread out over four states. Seven adults, two little children, two dogs, and two cats will spend three days cooped up in a house with two beds, one baby bed, and, thank God, three bathrooms. I am blessed.

On the bright side, Thanksgiving is way better than Christmas as far as holidays go. I don’t have to buy gifts, and I don’t have to do much cooking either. Years ago I made the supreme sacrifice and turned turkey roasting over to my brother who rises before dawn to fire up the smoker. Unfortunately, Ted won’t be in Charlotte, so the rest of us are on our own. BJ, my culinary-trained son-in-law, foolishly mentioned “frying.” We have been down that sorry road before and have no intention of returning to the scene of the crime.

The first attempt at turkey frying took place on a particularly cold and windy Thanksgiving afternoon. By the time the oil was hot enough to fry a 25 lb. bird, everyone was full of cheese and crackers and the Jell-o mold was runny. Frustrated, BJ and my son, Jeremy, yanked the turkey out of the fryer, sliced it up, and fried it in a skillet. Yum.

Refusing to accept defeat, Jeremy continued over the years to pursue the perfectly fried turkey. Luckily for us, this foolishness took place in Montgomery with his wife’s family on the receiving end. Jeremy eventually destroyed three turkey fryers before conceding defeat. As Jennifer tells it, “One year, the fryer blew out every fuse in the house, and we were in the dark. I thought my aunt, Mary Jane, was going to have a cow. Another year, it literally blew up and I thought we were going to launch the house on fire, and then I think one year, it just didn't work and it was brand new.”

Along with the restaurant turkey, we will have Ted’s Ruthless Dressing, named for one my dad’s girlfriends who was quite unpleasant. Ted’s recipe is typical Southern cornbread dressing with a secret ingredient—sausage. Of course, there is a story here. A couple of years ago, BJ (remember, graduate of culinary school) read “sausage” and immediately thought “kielbasa.” The boy can really cook but don’t let him near Ruthless Dressing or chicken salad.

Mainly, I get to say the blessing, and this year I can think of tons of things for which I am grateful. I am grateful that Tim no longer has a job and can go with me anywhere and everywhere and at any time. I am grateful that the economy has collapsed, and I no longer have to worry about how to spend my money.

I am grateful that our lake house is now a farm house. For the past two years, I haven’t been seasick, and my dog, Lucy, hasn’t contracted the itch from a waterborne parasite. I am grateful for the sweet reminders of last November’s fall from grace at the doll store. The wrist mended nicely, while the crooked pinkie, frozen shoulder, and arthritic thumb are probably intended to build character.

I am grateful to live in a house that can’t be sold, so I won’t have to clean out closets or junk drawers during the holidays. I am grateful that my Toyota Camry is paid for. I am most grateful that my name isn’t on the government’s “No Fly” list. Traveling beats goat gazing every time.

A couple of weeks ago, Tim and I sat in a small café in Perugia, Italy and ordered hot chocolate to ward off the chill outside. Soon, we were sniffing two mugs of steaming chocolate pudding. One sip and our eyes rolled back. Talk about grateful! Then, we came home to a world that was quickly falling apart, where everyone was on the same slippery slope of disaster. I haven’t been right since.

The day after tomorrow the Lulls will gather around the table in Charlotte and acknowledge the bounty of goodness in our lives. Thanksgiving may be a uniquely American holiday; but make no mistake; gratitude is a universal expression of humankind’s need to reconcile God’s amazing grace. No one ever gets exactly what they deserve.

Blessings always include peace; you just have to know where to look.

The Carpetbagger's Wife

The Carpetbagger’s Wife

He tried to remember
What made him so.
Why was he like this?
What should he know?

Snippets of life
Came into view.
Vignettes from memory,
None of them new.

This New York boy
Didn’t know he was poor
When someone told him,
He stared at the floor.

He won’t succeed,
Wrong side of the tracks.
He won’t make it,
Those are the facts.

Those long-ago voices
Played in his head.
He’d proved them wrong,
Ignored all they said.

His family moved South,
He made a new start.
It was his chance
To play a different part.

Now he’s the sum
Of the experiences he’s had.
He cherishes the good
And accepts the bad.

He believes in God
And wonders about fate.
Why is he here?
Are his efforts too late?

Carpetbagger,
An old Southern slur,
Now applied to him
With venom and vigor.

What of his wife?
She doesn’t understand.
Why do they hate
This kind and noble man?

He will protect her
From the meanness at the door.
He will never again
Stare at the floor.

Aunt Gram's Pollywogs

Aunt Gram’s Pollywogs


Two pollywogs are tons of fun,
Playing outside in the afternoon sun.

Our two little pollywogs make us smile
When they visit and stay a while.

They race down the hill on their riding toys,
Screaming and shrieking like silly little boys.

Bubbles and bugs are on their list
Of favorite things that can’t be missed.

They take a short nap and start again,
Pitching a fit when it’s time to come in.

Sloppy kisses are so much sweeter
When given by a Cheerios’ eater.

What will we do when they become frogs?
How will we explain it to the dogs?

Oh, I’m sorry. What did you say?
Another pollywog is on the way?

Our family can’t wait for this new member
Who is scheduled to arrive in November.

Jeremy and Jennifer did their part,
Now it is time for the dreaming to start.

Three pollywogs will be even more fun,
Playing outside in the afternoon sun.

Fatherhood

Fatherhood

From The Tales of The Great Malvini

Fatherhood has changed considerably during the last few years. Today’s dads are obsessed with issues like quality and quantity time, massaging the self esteem, and protecting their young from real and imaginary threats. I doubt that my dad ever worried too much about my ego. He worked six days a week and when we got older, Ted and I got to work with him—actually it was really for him and Ted never got to leave. When he died, we knew that there would never be another like The Great Malvini.

For sure, my brother and I have lots of wonderful childhood memories. During the summer, Dad closed the store on Wednesday afternoons to take us to Whitaker’s Lake. He never seemed to tire of playing in that muddy water. Ted got his homemade dimple when Dad threw him off the bed during a wrestling match, and he hit the corner of the dresser. We were the envy of the neighborhood kids, because we had refrigerator boxes that he regularly brought from the store.

He demanded A’s on our report cards but never met with a teacher. He expected us to be respectful to our mother and grandparents who lived with us. We made our beds daily, cleaned the house on Saturday, and Ted had a paper route. When we turned 16, we drove the family car. We watched Lawrence Welk, Gunsmoke, and Perry Mason every week on our family’s one television. Once we flew to California to visit relatives and went to Disney World, Knott’s Berry Farm, and Capistrano. Another time we went to the Smokey Mountains. Life was good.

Lee had been his father’s name, and Malvin Lee Miller was thrilled that his great grandson would be named Tyler Lee. Unfortunately, he did not live long enough for his new grandson, Bryan, or Tyler to know the colorful character that the family refers to as The Great Malvini. Therefore, the task of teaching the Malvini life lessons to our young is now the responsibility of the rest of us.

Life Lessons from The Great Malvini

• When in Florida, eat seafood or Cuban sandwiches.


• Going barefoot leads to stubbing one’s big toe which inevitable leads to nail loss.


• The sting of losing one’s farm during the Great Depression never completely goes away.


• There is honor in growing up poor in the rural South.


• Nobility is found in service to one’s country.


• Telephone pollsters hang up when confronted with, “I am neither a Democrat nor a Republican. I am an American.”


• Vote for the person and not the political party.


• Love your neighbor as yourself, especially if that neighbor is Edna.


• Sleeping on the ground for four years in Kodiak, Alaska causes baldness.


• Change your pants once a week. It is way too much trouble to take all the stuff out of your pant’s pockets every day.


• Be careful about investing in the stock market. It has already crashed once.


• One paper towel is needed to dry your hands. Two is wasteful.


• If you own a business, don’t put political signs in your yard, because you risk losing a customer.


• Keep $2 bills in your pocket for special occasions.


• Pay everyone you owe first, and then pay yourself.


• You don’t have to be a graduate of the University of Alabama to be a true fan.


• Find the love of your life and marry her.


• Set high standards; but in the end, forgive weakness.


• Grandchildren will return your love in spades.


• Wrecking your car at age 84 is a recipe for disaster.


• Dance, dance, and then dance some more.


• Sons really want to impress their dads.


• Daughters want to be cherished.


• Grieving is a part of life. Just remember that it is only a “part” of life. Don’t let it take over.


• Live life on your own terms. Everyone else will adapt.

Children need to feel safe and loved; to be fed and educated; to laugh and occasionally cry; to know right from wrong and choose right. Mostly they need to know that their father is there for them---regardless. Ted and I knew that about The Great Malvini.

Buckets and Bunnies

Buckets and Bunnies

The controversies have begun, and this time Easter is in the crosshairs. While baseball used to be the national pastime, it has apparently imploded on its own sword of steroids and been replaced with incessant whining. Americans have far too much time on their hands and too much intolerance in their hearts. Glorious Easter is the latest target. Spring bunnies—do they come in chocolate? And egg rolls—isn’t that Chinese cuisine?
I have wonderful childhood memories of Easter. Mother always bought me a new pastel dress, white shoes which I could wear until Labor Day, and a topper, a short, cream-colored coat that keep me from freezing on cold Easter Sunday mornings. At our house church was an every Sunday event, so we weren’t about to miss the excitement generated by Easter.
My brother, Ted, and I loved getting our baskets ready in preparation for chocolate bunnies, jelly beans, and Peeps. The grass was green, not pink or purple, and made of paper. If you ate some of it with your day-old, slightly sticky candy, you did not have to worry about the consequences to your intestines. We dyed eggs until the entire house smelled like dirty feet. Our dad was the world’s best egg hider, and we looked forward to an afternoon of unlimited hunting. Later Mother would make deviled eggs from those that survived. My son-in-law would certainly frown on such gastric endangerment today; but at least, he now knows where I got my instinct for food conservation.
But, alas, some things change with time. The little boys, Bryan and Tyler, are going to their first Easter egg hunts with monogrammed buckets from Pottery Barn filled with plastic eggs. Both boys have a pair of bunny ears. Their ever-indulgent Aunt Grandmother bought them new outfits, stuffed animals, and books from the White House that tell the story of the national Easter egg hunt. Tim made sure they both had Chicago Cubs shirts. New sunglasses will help them find all those plastic eggs hidden in the yard.
This year Easter will add new meaning for our family. Rachel, born on Good Friday, will celebrate her 30th birthday on Easter. Her son, Tyler, will be christened during the morning service. The family will gather as we always do to share the blessings from God.
Easter is about new beginnings, not old grudges. It celebrates life rather than lingering over death. Easter tells us that the darkness of yesterday is giving way to the dawn of today. People of all faiths need the message contained in Easter, the message of hope.
And how do we express our gratitude for this remarkable gift of renewal? Through pastel dresses, lilies, plastic eggs, chocolate bunnies, jelly beans, and Peeps.

For the Birds

For the Birds

We drove slowly through the cemetery, the first car just behind the hearse. An occasional snowflake found its way across the windshield on this sunny Saturday afternoon. The rain from the night before washed the air clean, and the cold would be bearable for a short time. We were there to say goodbye to our dad, Malvin Lee Miller, American.

The Great Malvini, as he had come to be known in some circles, had quietly slipped away in his sleep. Till the very end he was determined to do things in his own way and in his own time. His soul stayed around long enough for his children to arrive and hold his still warm hand. Although his death was without fanfare, The Great Malvini made sure that the rest of us were aware that this was the passing of an era.

Like everyone else in my universe, I am asleep at 1 a.m. Not so on that fateful Thursday morning. Something woke Lucy, my English springer spaniel, who in turn woke me. As I tiptoed down the stairs and Lucy ran on her quiet, little doggy feet, Shelley, my sister-in-law, heard us and decided to let her dog join Lucy in the great varmint hunt outside. Ted, my brother, was awakened and out of bed before the telephone rang. The lady from the assisted living facility was calling to tell us that Daddy was “unresponsive.” Ted and I quickly dressed and drove the short distance to HarborChase.

As many nights as I have spent at Ted and Shelley’s house, I can truthfully say that the three of us have never been up at the same time at that hour of the morning. But then again, it wasn’t our passing that was taking place. The Great Malvini had decided that the time was right and he was in a hurry.

By afternoon everyone at HarborChase knew that Mr. Miller, the man who always dressed in a coat and tie for meals, had died. Mrs. Thrasher, the little lady who sat on his left at the dining table, took to her bed for the remainder of the day. Another lady gathered up the uneaten toast and fed the birds, something my dad had done every day for years.

Now the church service was over, and we were meandering through the narrow streets at Maple Hill Cemetery. As we drove along, we were surprised to see that hundreds of robins had joined the procession. They were sitting on the tombstones, on tree limbs, on the ground and in the road. There wasn’t another bird in sight….only robins. And they had no intention of remaining quiet.

During the ceremony, Tim leaned over and whispered, “Listen to the birds!” Indeed, they were all chirping at once. From inside the tent, we couldn’t see the robins but we could certainly hear them. As soon as the service was over, the chirping stopped and the robins disappeared.

So how do I interpret these two incidences? In one, an entire household was awake in the middle of the night and seemingly ready for a summons. The other involved hundreds of robins on a mission.

Often I discount the miracle and mystery of God in my life by ignoring the extraordinary. Cynicism creeps in and helps me rationalize perfectly reasonable explanations for nearly every event. Seeing the wonder and magnificence in day to day occurrences requires vigilance—more effort than I am willing to give on most days. This time there could be no cynicism, no rationalization. This time God did not use his still, small voice. This time He roared!

An Axe Murderess

An Axe Murderess

Censorship has never held much appeal for me. I don’t have to go to the movies or listen to Howard Stern. I buy books and magazines that I want to read and ignore the rest. I try to be a good sport when I am visiting various and sundry relatives and watch whatever drivel they choose. That is how I came to know about My Name is Earl and his dealings with karma.
      Earl is convinced that his current lot is life is a direct result of all the bad things he did in the past. He is seeking forgiveness and redemption in order to improve his future prospects. He made a list of all his wrongdoings and each week tries to make things right. I think Earl is on to something.
     I have been wondering how in the name of all that is reasonable I got myself in such a mess. How did I manage to arrive at this late date in life and end up on a street in the middle of nowhere bored senseless? The only plausible explanation is that I must have been an axe murderess in a former life.
     Even the Bible recognizes the principle of karma. “As ye sow, so shall ye reap.” (I grew up believing that Jesus and the Disciples spoke that way.) I have sown some really bad stuff and am reaping the rewards.
     Reviewing my present life would lead one to believe that I haven’t done anything terribly awful. I have never even gotten a speeding ticket although I am sure that have earned a few. I am sitting squarely at the confluence of karma and reincarnation, and it is not a pretty sight.

Life Lists Responses

Life Lists Responses

From what little I understand about “life lists,” they seem to be a to-do list of sorts. Things I hope to do, be, accomplish, learn, see, or experience. They need not be lofty or foolish, but they can be. They need not be serious or impossible, but they can be. They need not be spiritual or hedonistic, but they can be. Probably, an assortment is best, because life more closely resembles a Whitman’s Sampler than a box of Raisinettes.
Recently I asked my friends and accomplices about their life lists. The responses were every bit a varied as the writers. I promised a full accounting, withholding names to protect the innocent. I also decided to chronicle the responses in two parts. First, I didn’t want this musing to be so long that readers took one look and hit delete. Second, I wanted to give those who meant to reply and haven’t gotten around to it a chance to do so before I finished with the subject. I will save my list for last.
Most of the people who responded had reached middle age without the aid of a list of any kind and a few thought writing one at this point would be futile. Jean, my friend here in Monroe, wrote 1. “Be sure to make no list!” and God bless America. I don’t know if there is some connection or if I mistook her closing for item number 2.
Madeline, another friend from here, figures that “if you haven’t accomplished IT by now, you probably won’t. So forget the lists, pour yourself a good stiff drink and enjoy the time you have left. AMEN.”  
Several friends acknowledged the question but put me off until later. Dannye, who obviously reads classier stuff than I, hopes to get back to me before she “shuffles off this mortal coil.” I realized at that point that things were getting out of hand. She did confess, however, that she had “stumbled through life without even a plan much less goals.”
Judy admitted that she was “still contemplating my course for my life choices so I will have to get back to you later on that one!!! (Seems that I make them up daily as I go along!) At any rate, my life choice currently is to get the Alaskan cruise put together and I think that I am getting very close to getting it done!” Judy is a woman with priorities.
Marianna said that she was “starting back to work on Tuesday.” I have no idea.
Like me, Gwen read about “life lists” and wondered if she should come up with something meaningful. Her daughter’s in-laws are going to Ethiopia but that is apparently a little too meaningful for Gwen. She plans to stick to reading and traveling to places that require fewer shots.  She did admit that my inability to create an exciting list had struck home with her.
My favorite son-in-law finds that his list has been shortened. “I look at my wife and my son and realize that at the top of my personal life list is to be the best husband and the greatest father that I can possibly be. It is funny how being blessed with a child will change your goals.  At one time playing in even one Major League baseball game was a goal of mine.  Now the thought of a game of catch with my little boy in the back yard excites me even more.” I think I will keep him.
Life Lists, Part 2, will be along shortly. I would very much like to hear from those of you who have been desperately trying to think of something inspired since I first mentioned the subject. You won’t be disappointed with the second installment.
Until then.

The Laura McEntire S

The Laura McEntire Syndrome

Every group, professional or amateur, religious or pagan, develops a lexicon to describe its unique qualities and confuse outsiders. Educators rank right up there with the military in coining phrases and concocting acronyms.  The latest expression circulating among educators is “helicopter parents”—those who take their job a little too seriously and hover a little too closely.
Helicopter parents simply can’t let go of their offspring. They have this unnerving habit of lurking behind lockers, stalking the lunchroom, volunteering for every imaginable job that will give them access to the school, and then call principals, superintendents, and board members when things don’t go their way. I shudder to think!
Helicopter parents don’t leave their annoying habits at the school house door. They attack coaches at ball games, complete badge requirements for scouts, work endlessly on science projects, and make sure their children have the right friends. They bring their middle schoolers lunch from local fast food chains.
My brother had his own personal version of a helicopter parent at a time when such foolishness was not in vogue. He had Laura McEntire, a spinster who lived with us. Most families took in other family members, but ours didn’t discriminate. We took in the neighbor who helped raise my mother.
Laura loved all of us, but Ted was the apple of her eye. You didn’t even consider that last Coca-Cola chilling in the refrigerator. It was saved for Ted. She would make his bed and hope that Mother didn’t notice. Because if she did, she immediately stripped the bed down to the mattress and poor Ted would have to start from scratch. Laura would smolder almost as much as her cigarette.
Every afternoon Laura helped Ted roll the newspapers for his route until her bony fingers were ink-black. Ted said the other day that he would have put her in the basket on the front of his bicycle and let her throw the papers if he had had room for her. Believe me; she would have willingly climbed aboard.
Laura never married nor had children. Back in her day the two went together. She focused all her maternal instincts first on Mother and then on Ted—neither suffered from the smothering. When Rachel was born, Mother insisted that she name her. After all, Tim and I named the boys and it was her turn. Rachel Laura was born on Good Friday and is the namesake of the spry spinster who spent much of her life loving someone else’s children. Not a bad life.
I suppose every child needs a Laura McEntire. Someone who thinks they are the most wonderful thing since sliced bread. The trick is to fine the delicate balance between hovering a little too closely and showing up at just the right moment.
I have two little boys who have captured my heart.  My grandson is still a cuddly, sweet baby and the other tears through the house trying to examine everything at one time. I daydream about all the wonderful things we will do together and about the kind of young men they will become. I plan to keep my rotors whirring at a safe enough distance that they know how much I love them but not so close that I create a dust storm.  
I learned a lot from Laura McEntire. Now it is my turn to pass it on. I look forward to the ride.

The Meaning of Life

The Meaning of Life

I took a philosophy course in college and was surprised to learn that many people spend an exorbitant amount of time pondering the meaning of life. I must confess that, until then, I had not given the Great Question much thought. I will also confess that during the years since that eye-opening experience, I haven’t spent more than a fleeting minute or two concerned with “Why am I here?” I have been having life rather than contemplating its significance, however, all of that is about to change.

Recently, the Atlanta Journal Constitution featured an article on life lists. Not to be confused with New Year’s resolutions, life lists are goals to be achieved before one dies. Most New Year’s resolutions are history by January 3rd. The article referenced Uma Thurman’s life list which concluded with “kill Bill.” I didn’t see the movie, so I don’t know if all her wishes came true, but the idea of making a life list intrigued me.

Unfortunately, I can’t think of anything to put on it. For someone who never spent much time setting goals or creating a master plan for achievement and success, I am at a loss here. Until I retired, I mostly stumbled onto things and was easily amused. There was never a carefully considered strategy. Hell, most of the lesson plans for my classes came from the ether. My dear principal, Jim Caneer, struggled to find the appropriate way to notate this on my last evaluation.

I have decided to ask my friends and family about their life lists, presuming of course that they are more evolved than I and have something to write down. These people are a colorful bunch, witty and smart, naughty and nice, independent thinkers who don’t hesitate to offer opinions about anything and everything. A sneak peak at what they believe to be important should prove interesting and insightful.

Should you decide to participate, please respond in the comments section. If you have my email address, you may also send your comments there. I promise to protect your privacy. I don’t want to be responsible if the police show up at your home or place of employment.

In the meantime, I will listen intently for inspiration from the ether.

Ohm!

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas from Bold Springs, Georgia

‘Twas two weeks before Christmas
When all through the house
Neither Lucy nor I were stirring
Not even my spouse.

The children and grandchildren were comfy
All snug in their homes,
While visions of gifts
In their heads did roam.

And Tim in his sweats
With a comforter wrap
Had just settled his brain
For an afternoon nap.

When out on the lawn
There arose such a clatter,                                                                      
Lucy sprang from her bed
To see the squirrels scatter.

Away to the window
I flew across the floor,
Lucy ran right past me
And out the doggy door.

The cold, frosty air
Reminded me then
That Christmas was coming
And the year would end.

We have been really busy
With lots of parties and fun
A wedding and a baby
Kept us all on the run.

My dad has moved
From his old home place,
Says that I dumped him off
In the new, smaller space.

He is quite happy
If the truth be told.
Entertaining at every meal
Four ladies--wrinkled and old.

Our family is grateful
For blessings abound.
We love one another
As we gather around.

Political correctness aside
I will say what I might.
“Merry Christmas to all
And to all a good night.”

Prayer in Schools

Prayer in Schools

Thank God that students and teachers may still pray in schools. They pray in the classrooms, lunchrooms, bathrooms, locker rooms, band rooms, gyms, hallways, office, clinic, library, and the shop. They have also been known to pray on the practice field, at the stadium, around the flag pole, and in meetings. They pray before and after games, during graduation, and on field trips. They pray silently, aloud, alone, or in groups. Their prayers often move mountains.

Politicians cannot find prayer in schools because they are looking for the wrong things. They think prayer looks like a political rally where everyone is screaming over everyone else, calling each other terrible names, and ignoring the rights, feelings, and wishes of every listener within earshot. They have forgotten that Jesus preferred the quiet prayer from a penitent soul rather than the self indulgence of the street corner screech.

What would Jesus do? Sadly shake his head and wonder how we have gotten it so wrong for so long. The still, small voice of God is difficult to hear in middle of a whirling dervish.


Shhhhhh.

Till It Ends

Till It Ends

One Saturday afternoon Daddy and I went for a leisurely ride through Jones Valley and over the mountain to Big Cove. He enjoys the beauty surrounding Huntsville’s hills and had never seen the new Target. He decided that he wanted to see where his older brother, Arthur, had once lived. After what seemed like a lifetime, including a detour at Honeydew Lane, I realized that we would never find Uncle Arthur’s old homestead because none of the old landmarks remained. Finally, I asked, “How much longer are we going to be on this road?” My sweet Daddy responded, “Till it ends.”

Our family is struggling with caring for a man who desperately wants to remain independent and in control. Unfortunately, his health and safety demands changes in the natural order of things. For those of you who know him well, you understand that wrestling a grizzly bear would be easier.

However, along the way we have been blessed by the humor that can be found in our situation. We are a family that is determined to laugh, even at the most inappropriate times. So in the spirit of Father’s Day, I would like to share with you things we have learned that could be useful for those children whose parents have not yet rebelled.

• If your father heeds the call of nature at the back of one of Homewood’s toniest restaurants, make certain that one son watches for cops while the other drives the get-away car.


• Do not fly with an old guy on Lasix.


• If you get a request to “Come quick and bring a couple of Band-Aids”, take gauze, Ace bandages, fuzzy wuzzy, mop and bucket.


• Throwing bread on the driveway for the birds attracts a million roaches. Watch your step at night.


• “I am going down to the store for a few minutes” translates to “I am running away and will not go home with you.”


• If the AC is even turned on, the thermostat will be on 85. This from a man who wears short-sleeved shirts all winter.


• A man is never too old for a girlfriend.


• Puzzle books are sent from God.

Without a doubt, watching your father’s slow decline is one of life’s most difficult lessons. But I am grateful for the opportunities that it has given our family to test our mettle. We don’t talk family values: we live them.

My children accept responsibility for some of their grandfather’s care and are learning first hand why life is compared to a journey. Even their husbands, fiancées, and girlfriends have risen to the occasion to show Gran that he is worthy of their time and attention.

For the past three years, my husband has patiently accepted my frantic trips to Huntsville. I have promised him that one day we will live together again.

My sister-in-law has cared for Daddy as lovingly as she would her own parents. She gives generously of herself as she puts his needs first. I am forever in her debt.

And my brother has had to begin the slow, painful process of saying goodbye to someone who has been a part of his daily life for over 30 years. He has gently wrested the reins of store management from Daddy in such a way that Daddy thinks he is still in charge. What other son would have allowed an old man to retain his dignity while preserving and prospering the family business.

Sunday is Father’s Day. Across the country, children will be celebrating with their fathers and thanking them for all sorts of blessings. For us, The Great Malvini has escaped our grasp and knows only that his family loves him. Words aren’t really necessary any more. How much longer are we going to be on this road? “Till it ends.”

To my father with love.

Where I Live

Where I Live…

I live in a small town in GA about 30 miles east of Atlanta.

Where I live…

Wal Mart was voted as the best place to buy women’s clothes.

You can’t take a cell phone inside a county office.

Getting a drivers license takes 6 hours and 15 minutes. One hour to drive to the DMV, four hours to wait, 15 minutes to get the license, and one hour to drive home.  

English is rarely spoken at the DMV.

Kids go to college on the HOPE Scholarship which is funded by the lottery. Their parents are grateful to the people of AL for their contributions.

The local newspaper is published twice a week—once more than in Opp.

The Atlanta Journal Constitution’s Sunday edition can be purchased at Wal-Mart on Saturday.

Around the corner, an above-ground pool has pine trees growing in the deep end.

A subdivision is defined as new houses on a paved street in what was a pasture just last month.  

Gas is cheaper than in AL because of fewer gas taxes.

State legislators make fun of AL then pass laws that would embarrass Alabamians.

Buddhists in Atlanta got upset because their leader had sex and a credit card.

The governor’s daughter divorced her husband to marry a state trooper. The legislature is working on a law to strengthen marriage.

You have to carefully time when you will drive through Atlanta.

The Waffle House on GA 316 is non-smoking.

North Georgia and South Georgia are as different as North Alabama and South Alabama.

Bold Springs, our little community, has two churches (Methodist and Baptist), a gas station, a tree farm, and a recycling center. We go to the Methodist church because the bathrooms are conveniently located near the sanctuary.

Six Flags hired lobbyists to pressure state legislators to force schools to open closer to Labor Day. It didn’t work.

There are a gazillion pine trees.  

To celebrate Black History Month, the Atlanta Journal Constitution investigated the Martin Luther King Center. Seems that the place needs millions in repairs, has few employees, no real programs, and supports MLK’s sons with six figure incomes. I don’t think that was Martin’s dream.

Our neighborhood celebrates the Fourth of July with a tractor parade.

The governor, a veterinarian by trade, recently neutered a dog. He claimed it was in support of spay/neuter week, but I think he was trying to scare his political opponents.

Ashley Smith has written a book about her escape from the guy who killed courthouse personnel in Atlanta. First she claimed to have given him “A Purpose Driven Life.” Now we learn it was really crystal meth.

The runaway bride was really running away from writing 600 thank- you notes.

And the other day an official with Homeland Security arrested two vegans protesting outside Honeybaked Ham. He must have been an anti-hamite.

We like it here but are looking forward to your visit.

She Said...She Said

Perception is everything. My daughter's perception of any and every situation is so different from mine that I often wonder if she was awake or even present. Over the past years she has, on several occasions, contacted her extensive distribution list of friends, showering them with the odd occurences in her life. Fortunately for them, I have sent them a clearer, more definitive account. I think they have appreciated my version of events, realizing that she left out the more interesting and colorful details.

Like most mothers and daughters, we approach life from different ends of the same spectrum. We let the values and experiences of our generation speak through us, and at times, the results expose a little more about ourselves than we first realized. What comes through so clearly is our love for one another and our ability to opine about everything.