Good Deeds
I try to live my life by two creeds—of sorts. One is the Golden Rule, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” The second is a life list that I created a few years ago; enjoy the day, travel the globe, write the stories. I never dreamed that both would ultimately lead me to a path of humiliation and shame. To spare others and to tell the stories before Shelley, my sister-in-law, does, here goes.
One morning not too long ago, Shelley texted “Burton’s mother died, and we are going to the visitation tonight.”
Poor guy! I knew exactly how it felt to lose your mother. I couldn’t make it to Huntsville in time for the funeral, so I did the next best thing—I sent a sympathy card. I wrote a sweet and tender note to Beirne about the relationship between mothers and sons.
A few days later, I happened to be in Huntsville at Shelley’s and answered the phone when Beirne called.
“Tim and I are so very sorry about your mother,” I told him with all the heartfelt sympathy one could muster.
“It was Burton,” he replied.
“What was Burton?” I asked.
“It was Burton’s mother who died,” Beirne explained as though talking to a complete dimwit.
I nearly fainted. The sympathy card had arrived in the day’s mail, and Beirne was more than a little surprised. He promptly requested a casserole; and, if I really wanted to make it up to him, I could take his very much alive mother to the doctor the following afternoon. My brother, Ted, suggested to Beirne that, with the aid of some White Out, he send the card on to Burton.
Oh, good grief. This will be one story that will get better with each retelling.
I had barely recovered from the humiliation of sending a sympathy card to the wrong person before I was at it again. This time I had “traveled the globe” to the Great Wolf Lodge in Concord, NC, and was “enjoying the day” with my two-year-old granddaughter, Anna Lauren, who clearly wanted to play in the wave pool instead being supervised by her grandmother in the baby pool. Suddenly and without warning, a bucket dumped water on me. I immediately felt colder than the cool water. My swim suit top had not survived in place. The row of fathers standing along the fence seemed startled at first, and then broke out in ear-to-ear smiles, and finally chuckles.
Oh, good grief. Another good story that will get better with each retelling.
For those of you who are Shrek fans, perhaps you recall the Christmas movie in which Puss-in-Boots shames himself. In the voice of Antonio Banderas, Puss begins telling a Christmas tale but soon becomes fixated on a pair of Christmas baubles. Before he comes to his senses, he begins playfully swatting the balls back and forth and back and forth. Realizing what he has done, Puss declares, “I have shamed myself.”
Well, I spent a week shaming myself, and now I have dutifully reported it. Shelley, who, according to her, is often the subject of my stories that are rarely flattering, threatened me. Either I wrote the story or she would.
Now I have one more principle to live by. “No good deed ever goes unpunished.”
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Thursday, February 04, 2010
The World of Dick and Jane
Miss Taylor taught me to read in first grade at East Clinton Elementary School. The World of Dick and Jane was the reader of choice, and I fell in love with reading. I even named my parakeet “Puff” after the cat in the book. The World of Dick and Jane opened my world.
Back then, children weren’t expected to know how to read—or know how to do much of anything—before first grade. Well, things had changed since the days of Miss Taylor, and my two little boys had to get with the program. Kindergarten was looming on the August horizon, and they had to be ready.
I decided to start with Bryan; after all, he’s the oldest and should set a good example for Tyler. I’ll admit that I had no earthly idea about how to teach reading but surely it couldn’t be that difficult. I’m great at phonics and charades.
I caught Superman flying through the house and told him in no uncertain terms that it was time for him to get serious about reading. I explained that he could go back to fighting the bad guys after he read one chapter in The World of Dick and Jane.
Bryan, aka Clark Kent, curled up beside me on the sofa and began reading “Dick” with a little phonetic prompting from his crazy aunt. Shelley wandered in as he finished and asked about his progress, to which he replied, “I can’t read Dick.”
Where did I put my copy of Hop on Pop?
Miss Taylor taught me to read in first grade at East Clinton Elementary School. The World of Dick and Jane was the reader of choice, and I fell in love with reading. I even named my parakeet “Puff” after the cat in the book. The World of Dick and Jane opened my world.
Back then, children weren’t expected to know how to read—or know how to do much of anything—before first grade. Well, things had changed since the days of Miss Taylor, and my two little boys had to get with the program. Kindergarten was looming on the August horizon, and they had to be ready.
I decided to start with Bryan; after all, he’s the oldest and should set a good example for Tyler. I’ll admit that I had no earthly idea about how to teach reading but surely it couldn’t be that difficult. I’m great at phonics and charades.
I caught Superman flying through the house and told him in no uncertain terms that it was time for him to get serious about reading. I explained that he could go back to fighting the bad guys after he read one chapter in The World of Dick and Jane.
Bryan, aka Clark Kent, curled up beside me on the sofa and began reading “Dick” with a little phonetic prompting from his crazy aunt. Shelley wandered in as he finished and asked about his progress, to which he replied, “I can’t read Dick.”
Where did I put my copy of Hop on Pop?
Sunday, January 24, 2010
And God Likes Fruitcake
“How do you know there is a God?” was the mother of all questions and I had just summoned the courage to ask it of my dad. He looked at me as though I had just sprouted antlers and announced that I was moving to Finland for reindeer season.
He stood there, staring at me for a long few seconds. Then he took my hand and led me outside. With something of a flourish, he pointed to the full moon and stated in a tone filled with confidence and a little pity that his daughter was such a dolt, “See the moon up there? Man couldn’t have done that.” And with that profound explanation, he turned on the heels of his Allen Edmund shoes and went inside. I never asked for further details.
Malvin Lee Miller returned home after WWII, married the love of his life, and, together, they opened a mom-and-pop appliance and furniture store. Over the next 54 years, he greeted his customers with a smile and a kind heart. He was an ordinary man who had no idea that he lived an extraordinary life.
He financed his own accounts, building his business with customers who were routinely denied credit because of age, income, or race. He met every payroll and paid every debt on time. By the third of the month, the cash drawer was full, so customers without bank accounts could cash their Social Security checks. He often called taxis for the elderly ladies who walked from the housing project to pay their bills.
Customers could call, rather than come in, with a request for delivery of a washer or refrigerator. He handed out $2 bills to children and Claxton fruitcakes to customers during the Christmas season.
Before televisions were everywhere, he delivered them to schools so students could watch the latest rocket launch and to the hospitals when family or friends were ill. The delivery truck was routinely seen carrying empty boxes to Christmas Charities, schools, and churches for Vacation Bible School.
His children, their spouses, and grandchildren understood that they weren’t too good to take out the trash, clean the bathroom, count the change from the Coke machine, assemble furniture, or get up from the dining room table on Christmas day to deliver a bake element.
So what did I learn about God from my dad? That God trusts us to take care of one another. That God is neither too busy nor too important to lend a helping hand. And that God likes fruitcake.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
The New Year
I am sitting at my desk on this the seventh day of the new year, rummaging once again through the many Christmas cards, pictures, and letters that Tim and I received last month. If you sent one of them, thank you, thank you, thank you. It you didn’t, well then…don’t feel too bad. I didn’t send any either. Please consider this—albeit late—my Christmas card and New Year’s good wishes all rolled into one and sent especially to you and yours.
I hope you have a 2010 that exceeds all expectations and is better than anything you could possibly imagine in your wildest dreams. I say this realizing full well that most of us have pretty low expectations, a blah imagination, and gave up dreaming years ago. Still I wish for you…
Money for a rainy day,
Peace for a troubled heart,
Patience for every irritation,
Health for a long life,
Love for yourself and others.
I hope you visit some place you have never been before; stretch your mind by learning something new; and stretch your heart by forgiving an old grudge. If you have something that has bedeviled you for far too long, I hope you find a way to let it go. Oh, and if you haven’t given up the “shoulds,” this would be the time.
Mother, bless her heart, used to spend the majority of her time, energy, and efforts on the “shoulds.” You know exactly what I am talking about if you are female and over thirty. By that ripe age, any woman with even a modicum of intellect could make a list of the things she “should” do that would rival a five-year-old’s Christmas list. I suppose men have their own issues with the “shoulds,” but I am not exactly sure what they are.
On Mother’s 50th birthday, she declared that she was no longer paying any attention to the “shoulds.” Of course, she was celebrating in San Francisco which might account for some of her inspiration. At any rate, she came home a changed woman. No longer was she vexed by the myriad of things that others thought she “should” do.
Please don’t let this be one of those “beige” years. Instead, try a little neon. And seriously consider giving up the “shoulds.”
ps—Let me know how 2010 works out for you.
I am sitting at my desk on this the seventh day of the new year, rummaging once again through the many Christmas cards, pictures, and letters that Tim and I received last month. If you sent one of them, thank you, thank you, thank you. It you didn’t, well then…don’t feel too bad. I didn’t send any either. Please consider this—albeit late—my Christmas card and New Year’s good wishes all rolled into one and sent especially to you and yours.
I hope you have a 2010 that exceeds all expectations and is better than anything you could possibly imagine in your wildest dreams. I say this realizing full well that most of us have pretty low expectations, a blah imagination, and gave up dreaming years ago. Still I wish for you…
Money for a rainy day,
Peace for a troubled heart,
Patience for every irritation,
Health for a long life,
Love for yourself and others.
I hope you visit some place you have never been before; stretch your mind by learning something new; and stretch your heart by forgiving an old grudge. If you have something that has bedeviled you for far too long, I hope you find a way to let it go. Oh, and if you haven’t given up the “shoulds,” this would be the time.
Mother, bless her heart, used to spend the majority of her time, energy, and efforts on the “shoulds.” You know exactly what I am talking about if you are female and over thirty. By that ripe age, any woman with even a modicum of intellect could make a list of the things she “should” do that would rival a five-year-old’s Christmas list. I suppose men have their own issues with the “shoulds,” but I am not exactly sure what they are.
On Mother’s 50th birthday, she declared that she was no longer paying any attention to the “shoulds.” Of course, she was celebrating in San Francisco which might account for some of her inspiration. At any rate, she came home a changed woman. No longer was she vexed by the myriad of things that others thought she “should” do.
Please don’t let this be one of those “beige” years. Instead, try a little neon. And seriously consider giving up the “shoulds.”
ps—Let me know how 2010 works out for you.
Monday, December 14, 2009
The View from the Back of the Boat
Well, there we were, the four of us, drinking margaritas at the world’s busiest airport. Ted and Shelley, my brother and sister-in-law, husband Tim and I were on our way to Barcelona and a Mediterranean cruise. Life was good!
The idea for the trip was part celebration of Shelley’s 50th birthday and part consolation prize for not letting her go on the Disney cruise when Tim and I took our little boys. She adjusted amazingly well.
I bought a pink “Birthday Girl” button at Target that found its way out of her purse at every stop. She partied with some guys at a bar in Barcelona and policemen in Rome. The waitress at Egipte in Barcelona took her picture, but the street mimes ignored her. The staff at Le Bistro on the cruise ship wanted to get in the act with cake and a strange rendition of “Happy Birthday.” It was really more like Ralphie’s family at the Chinese restaurant in The Christmas Story—Fra-Ra-Ra-Ra-Ra. We toasted her in Capri, Sorrento, and over a pizza in Lucca, at the ruins of Pompeii, and the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Between birthday parties, we experienced life around the Mediterranean.
In Barcelona bachelor and bachelorette parties gave the birthday girl a run for her money in the celebration department. The women paraded through La Rambla in white and, when it was their turn, the men wore black—of course. Some stereotypes transcend oceans. They blew whistles, sang, and generally carried on—loudly. We loved it.
The market was a maze of meat, fish, and vegetable vendors. Fishy eyeballs starred into the void, and sides of pork hung from the rafters by their hooves. Creepy!
In Malta Tim was excited to see boats actually floating in water. Ours had been stuck in the mud for two years in Lake (using the term loosely) Lanier. We strolled around the marina and eventually found ourselves at the entrance of an old church. The door was open, so Tim elbowed a few gawkers out of the way of his camera. Unfortunately, we didn’t notice the hearse until the girl started singing “Amazing Grace.”
The guide at Pompeii left the brothels off the itinerary, much to Tim’s chagrin, but he felt redeemed when Ted—ever alert—spied some working girls outside the US Army Base near Pisa. One girl was advertising from the front seat of her camper. Friday afternoon outside an army base—go figure.
Rome’s traffic got Ted’s attention almost as quickly as the ladies of the afternoon. There are no traffic rules—just suggestions. All the cars are big enough for one or two really skinny people. Motor scooters drive betwixt, between, and on the sidewalk. And parallel parking—well, we have no idea how they got in or if they ever got out. Ted was amazed that he had not seen a wreck until the unfortunate and thunderous crash in a tunnel.
Shelley was our interpreter. She had lived in Spain over 20 years ago and was convinced that this enabled her to understand other languages. She had used this same rationale back in our “store days” to explain her ability to understand exactly what some of our articulation-challenged customers were muttering about.
Ted’s last trip to Europe had been with GE to Monte Carlo some time in the ‘80’s. He didn’t have enough money to gamble back then, and, after a long night at the ship’s casino, he didn’t have enough to gamble now either. Like Yogi Berra says, “That’s déjà vu all over again.”
In the late afternoon, after trudging back to the ship from a day of whirlwind sightseeing, we would find Melvin, the wine guy, at the back of the boat. We would sit around a table laughing and talking and sharing the day, watching the ship pull out of the harbor with the same amazement that we felt as it entered. Tim and Shelley jumped around like jack rabbits taking pictures while Ted and I ate appetizers and smiled on request.
And why the back of the boat? Most people prefer the front, because then they can at least see where they are going. But for us, we wanted to remember where we had been.
This was our first “adults-only” trip together. We had become friends, and we were celebrating this every bit at much as we were celebrating Shelley’s birthday.
We learned a few things about ourselves on that trip. It was obvious to all that I will never be competent at YMCA hand gestures; Tim is terrible at Bingo; and Shelley, bless her heart, can’t get to breakfast on time to save her life. But it was Ted who learned the most valuable lesson of all—when the maid is ready to mop the men’s restroom, she doesn’t care who is standing at the urinal.
Well, there we were, the four of us, drinking margaritas at the world’s busiest airport. Ted and Shelley, my brother and sister-in-law, husband Tim and I were on our way to Barcelona and a Mediterranean cruise. Life was good!
The idea for the trip was part celebration of Shelley’s 50th birthday and part consolation prize for not letting her go on the Disney cruise when Tim and I took our little boys. She adjusted amazingly well.
I bought a pink “Birthday Girl” button at Target that found its way out of her purse at every stop. She partied with some guys at a bar in Barcelona and policemen in Rome. The waitress at Egipte in Barcelona took her picture, but the street mimes ignored her. The staff at Le Bistro on the cruise ship wanted to get in the act with cake and a strange rendition of “Happy Birthday.” It was really more like Ralphie’s family at the Chinese restaurant in The Christmas Story—Fra-Ra-Ra-Ra-Ra. We toasted her in Capri, Sorrento, and over a pizza in Lucca, at the ruins of Pompeii, and the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Between birthday parties, we experienced life around the Mediterranean.
In Barcelona bachelor and bachelorette parties gave the birthday girl a run for her money in the celebration department. The women paraded through La Rambla in white and, when it was their turn, the men wore black—of course. Some stereotypes transcend oceans. They blew whistles, sang, and generally carried on—loudly. We loved it.
The market was a maze of meat, fish, and vegetable vendors. Fishy eyeballs starred into the void, and sides of pork hung from the rafters by their hooves. Creepy!
In Malta Tim was excited to see boats actually floating in water. Ours had been stuck in the mud for two years in Lake (using the term loosely) Lanier. We strolled around the marina and eventually found ourselves at the entrance of an old church. The door was open, so Tim elbowed a few gawkers out of the way of his camera. Unfortunately, we didn’t notice the hearse until the girl started singing “Amazing Grace.”
The guide at Pompeii left the brothels off the itinerary, much to Tim’s chagrin, but he felt redeemed when Ted—ever alert—spied some working girls outside the US Army Base near Pisa. One girl was advertising from the front seat of her camper. Friday afternoon outside an army base—go figure.
Rome’s traffic got Ted’s attention almost as quickly as the ladies of the afternoon. There are no traffic rules—just suggestions. All the cars are big enough for one or two really skinny people. Motor scooters drive betwixt, between, and on the sidewalk. And parallel parking—well, we have no idea how they got in or if they ever got out. Ted was amazed that he had not seen a wreck until the unfortunate and thunderous crash in a tunnel.
Shelley was our interpreter. She had lived in Spain over 20 years ago and was convinced that this enabled her to understand other languages. She had used this same rationale back in our “store days” to explain her ability to understand exactly what some of our articulation-challenged customers were muttering about.
Ted’s last trip to Europe had been with GE to Monte Carlo some time in the ‘80’s. He didn’t have enough money to gamble back then, and, after a long night at the ship’s casino, he didn’t have enough to gamble now either. Like Yogi Berra says, “That’s déjà vu all over again.”
In the late afternoon, after trudging back to the ship from a day of whirlwind sightseeing, we would find Melvin, the wine guy, at the back of the boat. We would sit around a table laughing and talking and sharing the day, watching the ship pull out of the harbor with the same amazement that we felt as it entered. Tim and Shelley jumped around like jack rabbits taking pictures while Ted and I ate appetizers and smiled on request.
And why the back of the boat? Most people prefer the front, because then they can at least see where they are going. But for us, we wanted to remember where we had been.
This was our first “adults-only” trip together. We had become friends, and we were celebrating this every bit at much as we were celebrating Shelley’s birthday.
We learned a few things about ourselves on that trip. It was obvious to all that I will never be competent at YMCA hand gestures; Tim is terrible at Bingo; and Shelley, bless her heart, can’t get to breakfast on time to save her life. But it was Ted who learned the most valuable lesson of all—when the maid is ready to mop the men’s restroom, she doesn’t care who is standing at the urinal.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Disney Cruise
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Disney Cruise 2
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Thursday, September 17, 2009
Two little boys, cousins and friends,
View life thru a magical lens.
Mickey, Minnie, Woody, and Hook,
Goofy, Daisy, and Donald Duck.
Oceaneer Club, big water slide,
Play at the beach, run side by side.
Ice cream, cookies, burgers, and fries,
Junk food junkies never close their eyes.
Looking for fun, over and under,
On board a ship—Disney Wonder.
Friday, September 04, 2009
Darby Jean
What’s wrong with Darby Jean?
She does not have much fun.
She sits and sleeps and dreams,
No running in the sun.
Darby Jean used to eat
Bowl after bowl of food.
She doesn’t eat much now.
Doesn’t she know it’s good?
Darby Jean walks just fine
On her legs in the front,
But her legs in the back
Wiggle, wobble, and won’t.
Darby Jean stumps her toes
When she forgets and runs.
Some gunky goo heals them
When Darby Jean is done.
Darby Jean’s little nubs
Were toenails and black fur.
Would she be all better
After a pedicure?
Darby Jean can’t jump high,
So she sleeps on the floor.
I want her on the bed,
It’s big enough for four.
I love my Darby Jean,
Wish she wasn’t wimpy.
What’s wrong with Darby Jean?
Her back legs are gimpy.
She smiles, says she’s sorry,
Darby Jean, my best friend,
But I don’t really care,
We’re sisters to the end.
To Darby Jean from Lucy Charlene
September 4, 2009
What’s wrong with Darby Jean?
She does not have much fun.
She sits and sleeps and dreams,
No running in the sun.
Darby Jean used to eat
Bowl after bowl of food.
She doesn’t eat much now.
Doesn’t she know it’s good?
Darby Jean walks just fine
On her legs in the front,
But her legs in the back
Wiggle, wobble, and won’t.
Darby Jean stumps her toes
When she forgets and runs.
Some gunky goo heals them
When Darby Jean is done.
Darby Jean’s little nubs
Were toenails and black fur.
Would she be all better
After a pedicure?
Darby Jean can’t jump high,
So she sleeps on the floor.
I want her on the bed,
It’s big enough for four.
I love my Darby Jean,
Wish she wasn’t wimpy.
What’s wrong with Darby Jean?
Her back legs are gimpy.
She smiles, says she’s sorry,
Darby Jean, my best friend,
But I don’t really care,
We’re sisters to the end.
To Darby Jean from Lucy Charlene
September 4, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Happy Birthday at Home Depot
My grandson Tyler Lee, the namesake of his great-grandfather, The Great Malvini, wanted a typical birthday party—construction-themed invitations, a robot cake, and lots of presents. Fortunately, for the up-and-coming four-year-old, his mother is not in the least interested in typical.
The invitations were purchased, and the first of many drafts of proper instructions were written as the party “evolved.” Next “Cake-Baker” Tim received a scanned copy of Tyler’s robot pillowcase with the favorite robot identified. Then Rachel was off to the various dollar stores to find goodie buckets for the attendees.
Because Tyler invited everyone he could possibly think of (remember, he wanted lots of presents), Rachel bought two dozen black buckets and printed each child’s name and Bucket of Tools in yellow. Next, she filled the buckets with all the items necessary to complete a construction project: ruler, pencil, safety goggles (actually they were swim goggles that she found on sale), a 2” paint brush, retractable tape measure, four screwdrivers, and a mask. The greeter at the local BJ’s gave her stickers. All was ready except for one important thing. What does one actually do at a construction birthday party?
I learned that Home Depot sometimes gives away the orange aprons like the ones they use for the Saturday morning kids’ crafts. So, Rachel stopped in to inquire about aprons and left with 24 aprons and the promise of a party.
As each child arrived at Home Depot, their names on their aprons and their Bucket of Tools showed them to their work space. Kids, with a little help from the adults, built wooden tool boxes before a short tour of the more fun parts of the store.
Later, the party moved to the house where everyone ate pizza and oohed over the robot cake. Tyler Lee finally got to open all his wonderful presents, and his cousin, Anna Lauren, tried not to give everyone pink eye.
The Great Malvini would have been proud. He always loved a good party.
My grandson Tyler Lee, the namesake of his great-grandfather, The Great Malvini, wanted a typical birthday party—construction-themed invitations, a robot cake, and lots of presents. Fortunately, for the up-and-coming four-year-old, his mother is not in the least interested in typical.
The invitations were purchased, and the first of many drafts of proper instructions were written as the party “evolved.” Next “Cake-Baker” Tim received a scanned copy of Tyler’s robot pillowcase with the favorite robot identified. Then Rachel was off to the various dollar stores to find goodie buckets for the attendees.
Because Tyler invited everyone he could possibly think of (remember, he wanted lots of presents), Rachel bought two dozen black buckets and printed each child’s name and Bucket of Tools in yellow. Next, she filled the buckets with all the items necessary to complete a construction project: ruler, pencil, safety goggles (actually they were swim goggles that she found on sale), a 2” paint brush, retractable tape measure, four screwdrivers, and a mask. The greeter at the local BJ’s gave her stickers. All was ready except for one important thing. What does one actually do at a construction birthday party?
I learned that Home Depot sometimes gives away the orange aprons like the ones they use for the Saturday morning kids’ crafts. So, Rachel stopped in to inquire about aprons and left with 24 aprons and the promise of a party.
As each child arrived at Home Depot, their names on their aprons and their Bucket of Tools showed them to their work space. Kids, with a little help from the adults, built wooden tool boxes before a short tour of the more fun parts of the store.
Later, the party moved to the house where everyone ate pizza and oohed over the robot cake. Tyler Lee finally got to open all his wonderful presents, and his cousin, Anna Lauren, tried not to give everyone pink eye.
The Great Malvini would have been proud. He always loved a good party.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Pink Shoes
My granddaddy lets me do things
The boys never get to do,
Like running through the garden
Wearing nothing but pink shoes.
My granddaddy pats my back
When I wake up in the night.
He holds me close and hugs me
When something gives me a fright.
My granddaddy holds me high
So I can touch the clock moon,
And when he feeds me supper,
I get to hold the blue spoon.
My granddaddy lets me jump
On the bed after it’s made.
He opens the car window,
Letting the wind blow my face.
My granddaddy loves me lots!
He loves the little boys, too!
Why he lets me do these things?
It has to be the pink shoes.
For Granddaddy
From Anna Lauren
July 12, 2009
My granddaddy lets me do things
The boys never get to do,
Like running through the garden
Wearing nothing but pink shoes.
My granddaddy pats my back
When I wake up in the night.
He holds me close and hugs me
When something gives me a fright.
My granddaddy holds me high
So I can touch the clock moon,
And when he feeds me supper,
I get to hold the blue spoon.
My granddaddy lets me jump
On the bed after it’s made.
He opens the car window,
Letting the wind blow my face.
My granddaddy loves me lots!
He loves the little boys, too!
Why he lets me do these things?
It has to be the pink shoes.
For Granddaddy
From Anna Lauren
July 12, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
In All Its Glory
We never suspected a thing. The streets were eerily quiet, but it was, after all, Saturday evening at an old house converted to a restaurant in downtown Huntsville. I thought the restaurant had fallen on hard times and wasn’t attracting many customers. We never suspected a thing.
Tim and I led the way inside only because my sister-in-law yelled at my brother to “Get back. Get back.” Shelley was playing purse while looking for her camera, and Ted obeyed. We walked right in, mouths fell open, and, for once in my life, I was speechless. Where were we and why were all these people looking at us?
Somewhere in the fog, it dawned on me that I knew these folks. Friends, family, our children, grandchildren—all standing there, each and every one looking like the cat that swallowed the canary and grinning foolishly while Tim and I stuttered and stammered incomprehensibly. We never suspected a thing.
On Saturday night, June 13, our 60th birthday party kicked off with a loud “Surprise!” followed by confused gibberish. Actually, it began ten months earlier when our daughter, Rachel, dreamed up this grand scheme and convinced the rest of the family to throw caution to the wind and join her in plotting, conniving, and downright bald-faced lying. They all did it so well! We never suspected a thing.
In my defense, my birthday is July 2 while Tim’s is June 13, so I had absolutely no reason to be suspicious or iron my pants. One would think Tim should have been more alert to such machinations, but I suppose age interferes with one’s internal antennae.
The weekend before we had driven to Rachel’s in Charlotte to return her brother, Evan, and pick up our dog, Lucy. Rachel was none to happy to have us, she told us later. Our presence meant that she was duty bound to throw a birthday party for her dad, complete with cake, gift, and celebratory supper which then involved her husband, BJ, who cooked spaghetti, Tim’s favorite. Rachel’s cooking skills are still limited to frozen things that don’t have to be touched by human hands.
Still clueless, we showed up at Tim’s parents’ house in Huntsville the night before the big bash. We weren’t particularly surprised to find that his brother and nephew had flown in earlier from Houston or that his sister, brother-in law, and their granddaughters were also at the house. At that point, what could they do but buy a cake, ice cream, and celebrate?
But the fun didn’t stop there. Bryan, our 4-year-old nephew who is always eager for a road trip, went with us. He enjoyed playing with the two little girls but nearly died from heat exhaustion. Before dinner I stripped him down—cowboy hat, camouflage boots, astronaut suit, jeans, shorts, underwear, Peter Pan shirt, and two t-shirts. Later I was thankful that I had unraveled him to shorts, underwear, t-shirt, and flip flops when he fell in dog poop. “This is not good”, he announced to the group, and, boy, was he right about that. Tim hosed him off in the yard, but he still had to take a bath before we could get in the car with him. They were relieved to see us go.
All five adult children—Jeremy and Jennifer, Evan, Rachel and BJ—
and grandchildren—Tyler and Anna Lauren—stealthily slipped into town on Friday and needed a place to stay. Judy, BJ’s mom, graciously offered to keep the tribe at her house. I really believe that Judy did so reluctantly. At Easter, Tyler stepped in dog poop and then tracked it all over her house. (What is it with little boys and dog poop?) Later, he grabbed an electric fence and nearly electrocuted both of them.
On Saturday the kids kept up with our wanderings through Shelley’s numerous text messages. No one wanted to accidentally run into us while we were shopping for Bryan a new pair of dinosaur boots and an action figure at Target. We should have left that action figure on the shelf.
The ruse to get us to the restaurant was an invitation from Shelley and Ted for an adults-only dinner to celebrate our birthdays. Bryan was going to the neighbors, Brenda and Gary, for an evening of Zaxby’s chicken tenders and fun. Unbeknownst to us, Bryan, now dressed in a suit, tie and neon green St. Patrick’s bowler hat, left early for the neighbors’ house. Finding the garage door unlocked, he wandered in and made his way to their bathroom to show Brenda his new action figure. Brenda, naked, nearly fainted. Gary, startled but retaining his now compromised composure, stayed in the shower.
As is clear to anyone who knows our family, these are all every day occurrences and would never arouse the least suspicion. Anyway, back to the party. Once we collected our wits, we had the time of our lives. BJ had approved the menu, and Jennifer had selected a beautiful cake with 60 lighted sparkler candles and giant helium-filled silver balloons announcing exactly how old we were. (The 6 was actually a 9 turned upside down. The 6 popped at the store, and a 9 was the only thing left.) We hugged old friends, laughed as we reminisced, and toasted our good fortune. The bartender told Rachel that he had been working parties in Huntsville for 15 years and this was in his top three best parties.
Unfortunately, the band’s microphone enabled and emboldened those with kind words and all- too-true stories. We have the video in case we want to relive any of the embarrassing moments. Jeremy invited everyone back in ten years but explained that the party would be held at Piccadilly, between 2-4 pm, soft food would be served, and medical facilities would be available.
Two sisters showed up for dinner only to find the restaurant closed for our birthday party. Not to worry, the Thompsons and the Caneers, chatting on the front porch, invited the girls to proceed to the bar for glasses of wine and put them on John Thompson’s tab. Everyone should have such good friends.
Through it all, I marveled that our family had done something so utterly wonderful for us. We are humbled by all of it. And we are grateful for the friends and family who helped us celebrate.
If you think you should have been invited but weren’t, I am so sorry. I would have loved to have seen you. Alas, Rachel was in charge of the guest list. I did happen to ask her why several people were not invited. She thought they were dead. If you know my daughter…well, then…I have absolutely nothing more to add.
My three pollywogs, Bryan, Tyler, and Anna Lauren, learned several valuable lessons that night. First of all, your friends remember every weird and wacky thing you have ever done; choose them wisely and then treat them nicely. Second, don’t be too nosy or suspicious; you will ruin all the surprises. Third, your family doesn’t have to love you or take you in; things go so much more smoothly if they do though. Fourth, little children remind us of our connections to one another and to God; keep them safe. And finally, everyone enjoys watching mischievous little boys chase lightning bugs and beautiful little girls dance.
So I hope to see all of you—those who came to the party, those who had to be elsewhere, and those who would have been invited had Rachel known you were still alive—at Piccadilly ten years from now. In the meantime, I will take Shelley’s birthday party advice.
“Go forth and travel, but please write the stories,
while experiencing life—in all its glory.”
We never suspected a thing. The streets were eerily quiet, but it was, after all, Saturday evening at an old house converted to a restaurant in downtown Huntsville. I thought the restaurant had fallen on hard times and wasn’t attracting many customers. We never suspected a thing.
Tim and I led the way inside only because my sister-in-law yelled at my brother to “Get back. Get back.” Shelley was playing purse while looking for her camera, and Ted obeyed. We walked right in, mouths fell open, and, for once in my life, I was speechless. Where were we and why were all these people looking at us?
Somewhere in the fog, it dawned on me that I knew these folks. Friends, family, our children, grandchildren—all standing there, each and every one looking like the cat that swallowed the canary and grinning foolishly while Tim and I stuttered and stammered incomprehensibly. We never suspected a thing.
On Saturday night, June 13, our 60th birthday party kicked off with a loud “Surprise!” followed by confused gibberish. Actually, it began ten months earlier when our daughter, Rachel, dreamed up this grand scheme and convinced the rest of the family to throw caution to the wind and join her in plotting, conniving, and downright bald-faced lying. They all did it so well! We never suspected a thing.
In my defense, my birthday is July 2 while Tim’s is June 13, so I had absolutely no reason to be suspicious or iron my pants. One would think Tim should have been more alert to such machinations, but I suppose age interferes with one’s internal antennae.
The weekend before we had driven to Rachel’s in Charlotte to return her brother, Evan, and pick up our dog, Lucy. Rachel was none to happy to have us, she told us later. Our presence meant that she was duty bound to throw a birthday party for her dad, complete with cake, gift, and celebratory supper which then involved her husband, BJ, who cooked spaghetti, Tim’s favorite. Rachel’s cooking skills are still limited to frozen things that don’t have to be touched by human hands.
Still clueless, we showed up at Tim’s parents’ house in Huntsville the night before the big bash. We weren’t particularly surprised to find that his brother and nephew had flown in earlier from Houston or that his sister, brother-in law, and their granddaughters were also at the house. At that point, what could they do but buy a cake, ice cream, and celebrate?
But the fun didn’t stop there. Bryan, our 4-year-old nephew who is always eager for a road trip, went with us. He enjoyed playing with the two little girls but nearly died from heat exhaustion. Before dinner I stripped him down—cowboy hat, camouflage boots, astronaut suit, jeans, shorts, underwear, Peter Pan shirt, and two t-shirts. Later I was thankful that I had unraveled him to shorts, underwear, t-shirt, and flip flops when he fell in dog poop. “This is not good”, he announced to the group, and, boy, was he right about that. Tim hosed him off in the yard, but he still had to take a bath before we could get in the car with him. They were relieved to see us go.
All five adult children—Jeremy and Jennifer, Evan, Rachel and BJ—
and grandchildren—Tyler and Anna Lauren—stealthily slipped into town on Friday and needed a place to stay. Judy, BJ’s mom, graciously offered to keep the tribe at her house. I really believe that Judy did so reluctantly. At Easter, Tyler stepped in dog poop and then tracked it all over her house. (What is it with little boys and dog poop?) Later, he grabbed an electric fence and nearly electrocuted both of them.
On Saturday the kids kept up with our wanderings through Shelley’s numerous text messages. No one wanted to accidentally run into us while we were shopping for Bryan a new pair of dinosaur boots and an action figure at Target. We should have left that action figure on the shelf.
The ruse to get us to the restaurant was an invitation from Shelley and Ted for an adults-only dinner to celebrate our birthdays. Bryan was going to the neighbors, Brenda and Gary, for an evening of Zaxby’s chicken tenders and fun. Unbeknownst to us, Bryan, now dressed in a suit, tie and neon green St. Patrick’s bowler hat, left early for the neighbors’ house. Finding the garage door unlocked, he wandered in and made his way to their bathroom to show Brenda his new action figure. Brenda, naked, nearly fainted. Gary, startled but retaining his now compromised composure, stayed in the shower.
As is clear to anyone who knows our family, these are all every day occurrences and would never arouse the least suspicion. Anyway, back to the party. Once we collected our wits, we had the time of our lives. BJ had approved the menu, and Jennifer had selected a beautiful cake with 60 lighted sparkler candles and giant helium-filled silver balloons announcing exactly how old we were. (The 6 was actually a 9 turned upside down. The 6 popped at the store, and a 9 was the only thing left.) We hugged old friends, laughed as we reminisced, and toasted our good fortune. The bartender told Rachel that he had been working parties in Huntsville for 15 years and this was in his top three best parties.
Unfortunately, the band’s microphone enabled and emboldened those with kind words and all- too-true stories. We have the video in case we want to relive any of the embarrassing moments. Jeremy invited everyone back in ten years but explained that the party would be held at Piccadilly, between 2-4 pm, soft food would be served, and medical facilities would be available.
Two sisters showed up for dinner only to find the restaurant closed for our birthday party. Not to worry, the Thompsons and the Caneers, chatting on the front porch, invited the girls to proceed to the bar for glasses of wine and put them on John Thompson’s tab. Everyone should have such good friends.
Through it all, I marveled that our family had done something so utterly wonderful for us. We are humbled by all of it. And we are grateful for the friends and family who helped us celebrate.
If you think you should have been invited but weren’t, I am so sorry. I would have loved to have seen you. Alas, Rachel was in charge of the guest list. I did happen to ask her why several people were not invited. She thought they were dead. If you know my daughter…well, then…I have absolutely nothing more to add.
My three pollywogs, Bryan, Tyler, and Anna Lauren, learned several valuable lessons that night. First of all, your friends remember every weird and wacky thing you have ever done; choose them wisely and then treat them nicely. Second, don’t be too nosy or suspicious; you will ruin all the surprises. Third, your family doesn’t have to love you or take you in; things go so much more smoothly if they do though. Fourth, little children remind us of our connections to one another and to God; keep them safe. And finally, everyone enjoys watching mischievous little boys chase lightning bugs and beautiful little girls dance.
So I hope to see all of you—those who came to the party, those who had to be elsewhere, and those who would have been invited had Rachel known you were still alive—at Piccadilly ten years from now. In the meantime, I will take Shelley’s birthday party advice.
“Go forth and travel, but please write the stories,
while experiencing life—in all its glory.”
Monday, May 11, 2009
Durty Nelly's
Est. 1620
Limerick, Ireland
I snaked my way through the noisy throng to the bar at Durty Nelly’s. Mostly I dodged elbows and ducked under pints of ale. At last it was my turn to order, and I boldly asked for two glasses of wine. Silence! Well, at least it wasn’t a gasp. I had done the unthinkable, the unforgivable. I had ordered wine in Guinness country.
Durty Nelly’s is a pub on the side of a road that eventually leads to Limerick, Ireland. Every night, locals gather for a pint (or two, or three), food, and lively conversation which is broken by the inevitable song. Judy Penney, travel buddy and co-grandmother of Tyler Lee, and I stumbled upon authentic Ireland and ordered wine. Oh, dear, will we ever learn?
And it didn’t stop there. That very first evening in Ireland, I touched a rather odd-looking leaf in the garden, and my eyes swelled shut and began spewing water like a geyser. Judy, now a dutiful seeing-eye dog, led me through the lobby, down the stairs, and along the corridor to the climate-controlled safety of our room. I recovered but learned to keep my hands off the flora.
I did much better at the Blarney Stone. The combination of drizzling rain, a gazillion narrow, steep stone steps, and the recent memory of my broken wrist were enough to convince me to shop in the factory store rather than risk my life hanging upside down off the side of a castle to kiss a rock. Judy, however, really wanted the gift of gab, so up she went. This is the same person who packed pantyhose, a fact which speaks volumes to her lack of sense in the face of practicality.
Ireland is a land of contrasts. Dublin looks and feels like any other big city; but just beyond the city limits, the country seems to return to its roots. Perhaps that is what they want the tourist to see anyway.
Old stone castles, famine houses, medieval banquets, and mead. Thatch roofs, Irish coffee, Monkey Puzzle trees, and Tidy Town awards. Carvery lunches, cream mash, scones, and mushy peas. Pureed vegetable soup, fish ‘n chips, and soda bread. The Blarney stone and the gift of gab. The Book of Kells, Waterford crystal, and itchy woolens. The Danny Mann pub, Jameson’s whisky, and Guinness beer. Jaunty car rides, wedding fireworks, and Celtic cemeteries. Dairy farms, sheep, and peat bogs. The Atlantic Ocean, Cliffs of Moher, and the Ring of Kerry.
Ireland is a mosaic of greens. Each, when viewed alone, is a separate and distinct hue. But, when viewed together, the separate and distinct becomes a magnificent blend. For me, travel isn’t really about the sights, sounds, and soda bread. It is about finding my place in the mosaic.
People travel for all sorts of reasons, the least of which is to soak up the culture of another country. Some need to leave home to grieve, some to bond, some to overcome. Whatever the reason at the beginning of the trip, the end of the trip always offers something more than ever expected. And it is this “something more” that is so addictive.
The party panties are packed, and I am ready for the next adventure.
Est. 1620
Limerick, Ireland
I snaked my way through the noisy throng to the bar at Durty Nelly’s. Mostly I dodged elbows and ducked under pints of ale. At last it was my turn to order, and I boldly asked for two glasses of wine. Silence! Well, at least it wasn’t a gasp. I had done the unthinkable, the unforgivable. I had ordered wine in Guinness country.
Durty Nelly’s is a pub on the side of a road that eventually leads to Limerick, Ireland. Every night, locals gather for a pint (or two, or three), food, and lively conversation which is broken by the inevitable song. Judy Penney, travel buddy and co-grandmother of Tyler Lee, and I stumbled upon authentic Ireland and ordered wine. Oh, dear, will we ever learn?
And it didn’t stop there. That very first evening in Ireland, I touched a rather odd-looking leaf in the garden, and my eyes swelled shut and began spewing water like a geyser. Judy, now a dutiful seeing-eye dog, led me through the lobby, down the stairs, and along the corridor to the climate-controlled safety of our room. I recovered but learned to keep my hands off the flora.
I did much better at the Blarney Stone. The combination of drizzling rain, a gazillion narrow, steep stone steps, and the recent memory of my broken wrist were enough to convince me to shop in the factory store rather than risk my life hanging upside down off the side of a castle to kiss a rock. Judy, however, really wanted the gift of gab, so up she went. This is the same person who packed pantyhose, a fact which speaks volumes to her lack of sense in the face of practicality.
Ireland is a land of contrasts. Dublin looks and feels like any other big city; but just beyond the city limits, the country seems to return to its roots. Perhaps that is what they want the tourist to see anyway.
Old stone castles, famine houses, medieval banquets, and mead. Thatch roofs, Irish coffee, Monkey Puzzle trees, and Tidy Town awards. Carvery lunches, cream mash, scones, and mushy peas. Pureed vegetable soup, fish ‘n chips, and soda bread. The Blarney stone and the gift of gab. The Book of Kells, Waterford crystal, and itchy woolens. The Danny Mann pub, Jameson’s whisky, and Guinness beer. Jaunty car rides, wedding fireworks, and Celtic cemeteries. Dairy farms, sheep, and peat bogs. The Atlantic Ocean, Cliffs of Moher, and the Ring of Kerry.
Ireland is a mosaic of greens. Each, when viewed alone, is a separate and distinct hue. But, when viewed together, the separate and distinct becomes a magnificent blend. For me, travel isn’t really about the sights, sounds, and soda bread. It is about finding my place in the mosaic.
People travel for all sorts of reasons, the least of which is to soak up the culture of another country. Some need to leave home to grieve, some to bond, some to overcome. Whatever the reason at the beginning of the trip, the end of the trip always offers something more than ever expected. And it is this “something more” that is so addictive.
The party panties are packed, and I am ready for the next adventure.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Meant To…Never Did
“I thought about taking you with me, but I knew you wouldn’t want to leave Tim with the kids.” And with that, she picked up her Samsonite traincase and was out the door, leaving me standing speechless in the middle of her kitchen.
For years Mother and I talked about taking a trip together. Both of us loved to travel, but we hadn’t gotten around to a “just us” trip. Now I had a husband and three children that I would have gladly thrown under the bus for a few days away with her.
Then she died—too young and with too much of life left to live. We meant to have a big adventure…but we never did.
On a cold December day, I learned that the future was terribly unreliable, and all I had for sure was the present. Things that found their way relegated to my “someday” list had better move up quickly or be forever doomed to the “Oh well” pile. Some pesky life lessons hurt a little more than others.
Eventually I decided to write a Life List, a collection of those things that I wanted to accomplish, a roadmap, a focus for fuzzy days. The list was short; only three items—enjoy the day, travel the globe, and write the stories. Left standing in my mother’s kitchen with my mouth hanging open was a seminal experience. That three course menu called a Life List was proof positive that I got it.
On Wednesday my daughter, Rachel, and I are leaving for London and Paris. We chose this particular trip, because she wanted lots of free time to wander and avoid as much history as humanly possible. Ignoring the obvious disdain for my most beloved subject, I bit my tongue, bought the plane tickets, and Googled “shopping—London.” This trip wasn’t about museums.
What exactly does one pack for such a trip? A few clothes, comfortable shoes, a corkscrew, a camera, and credit cards. A small photo album full of pictures of Bryan, Tyler, and Anna Lauren, my three pollywogs, and Tim’s Blackberry in case I want to call home. And the blue bauble necklace and bracelet made from an especially long string of beads found in Mother’s old jewelry box. She wouldn’t want to miss our big adventure.
Meant to…
Gay Wanderlust
June 17, 2008
Travels from a Broad
January 7, 2005
I confess that I would rather travel than dust. Or cook, or do laundry, mop floors, or any other housewifery. I came by it honestly. My mother was the same way. She was ready to go at a moment’s notice and sometimes forgot to ask the crucial question “Where?”
I was always there to see her off and sat patiently while she related all the exciting details upon her return. However, there was this one time. As she was walking out the door for some great adventure, she said to me, “I would have taken you with me, but I knew you wouldn’t want to leave Tim and the kids.” I was dumbstruck. Who was she kidding? I would have left them in a heartbeat. We never did get to take that trip.
Several years ago, looking around for something painless to give up for Lent, I decided to forgo all my exciting travels researching a coffee table edition of Gyms of the Southeast. Instead I decided to concentrate on more exotic venues. So in December, my travel buddy, Judy Penney, and I went with a group to the Christmas Markets in Austria and Germany. I entertained visions of completing all of my Christmas shopping and avoiding the crowds at the Mall of Georgia. Best laid plans.
I took Daddy to Huntsville to stay with my brother and sister-in-law and flew back to Atlanta with the group. After a four hour layover, we were finally on our way and I was ready for bed. Sleeping on the plane would have been a breeze if a certain group of women, who obviously didn’t get out much, understood airplane etiquette. Giggling and squealing is not appropriate behavior between the nano-second that the sun sets and rises again while the plane crosses the Atlantic.
Judy was full of travel tips, having been a world traveler for quite some time now. I hadn’t been out of the US since my grand excursion to Europe after high school graduation. Countries had changed hands several times since then. Anyway, she advised me to take bottled water and long underwear. Both came in handy. Our attic room was in hot-flash hell, so we used the bottled water to prop open the window. Reaching the window required a chair, tiptoes, and outstretched arms and fingers. Unfortunately, the pizza parlor in the alley under the window catered to college students, served beer, and closed at 2 am.
We wandered the markets and tried the gluhvien, a concoction of warm wine that tastes like it sounds. We ate in wonderful restaurants. One dated back to 800 and had served Charlemagne. Another was an old beer hall that featured an oompah band. One of the band members tried to show Judy his oompah, but she pretended that she didn’t understand him.
In Oberammergau, lunch was at a restaurant owned by a magician who used to work in Las Vegas. Judy finished her corn sandwich, the house specialty, and announced to the table of 12, “Oh, look. He’s getting out his goodies.” Every head turned but it was a false alarm. The magician was just starting his act.
I tried to go easy on the German food, because I could still picture Charles Meinert’s gouty thumb after a two week trip to Germany. I didn’t want to get on the plane with my thumb swollen and throbbing and have to sit next to the Giggle Sisters.
On the free day, we took the train to Italy to satisfy Judy’s craving for all things Roman. Judy confided that she would move to Italy if it weren’t so far from her family. I suspect that she has a secret “Under the Tuscan Sun” fund and will quietly slip out of the family’s Toyota dealership one afternoon and head straight for the airport.
We strolled around Bolzan with fellow travelers, Pat and Ray, and ate lunch at a local restaurant. The English menu was a huge help, but it was obvious that their word processor did not have spell check. Soop? An entrée with wild boar and french fried? I ordered spaghetti.
Everywhere we looked the scene was picture postcard beautiful. The mountains, the snow, the frost-covered trees, the churches, the architecture…we could have been extras in The Sound of Music.
Judy and I became great friends and look forward to a repeat performance. The other travelers were surprised to learn that we were mothers-in-law. Apparently, most had unpleasant memories of their own families and in-laws. I wasn’t worried for a minute. After all, my son-in-law tells me all the time that I am his favorite mother-in-law.
Auf wiedersein,
Gay von Trapp
January 7, 2005
I confess that I would rather travel than dust. Or cook, or do laundry, mop floors, or any other housewifery. I came by it honestly. My mother was the same way. She was ready to go at a moment’s notice and sometimes forgot to ask the crucial question “Where?”
I was always there to see her off and sat patiently while she related all the exciting details upon her return. However, there was this one time. As she was walking out the door for some great adventure, she said to me, “I would have taken you with me, but I knew you wouldn’t want to leave Tim and the kids.” I was dumbstruck. Who was she kidding? I would have left them in a heartbeat. We never did get to take that trip.
Several years ago, looking around for something painless to give up for Lent, I decided to forgo all my exciting travels researching a coffee table edition of Gyms of the Southeast. Instead I decided to concentrate on more exotic venues. So in December, my travel buddy, Judy Penney, and I went with a group to the Christmas Markets in Austria and Germany. I entertained visions of completing all of my Christmas shopping and avoiding the crowds at the Mall of Georgia. Best laid plans.
I took Daddy to Huntsville to stay with my brother and sister-in-law and flew back to Atlanta with the group. After a four hour layover, we were finally on our way and I was ready for bed. Sleeping on the plane would have been a breeze if a certain group of women, who obviously didn’t get out much, understood airplane etiquette. Giggling and squealing is not appropriate behavior between the nano-second that the sun sets and rises again while the plane crosses the Atlantic.
Judy was full of travel tips, having been a world traveler for quite some time now. I hadn’t been out of the US since my grand excursion to Europe after high school graduation. Countries had changed hands several times since then. Anyway, she advised me to take bottled water and long underwear. Both came in handy. Our attic room was in hot-flash hell, so we used the bottled water to prop open the window. Reaching the window required a chair, tiptoes, and outstretched arms and fingers. Unfortunately, the pizza parlor in the alley under the window catered to college students, served beer, and closed at 2 am.
We wandered the markets and tried the gluhvien, a concoction of warm wine that tastes like it sounds. We ate in wonderful restaurants. One dated back to 800 and had served Charlemagne. Another was an old beer hall that featured an oompah band. One of the band members tried to show Judy his oompah, but she pretended that she didn’t understand him.
In Oberammergau, lunch was at a restaurant owned by a magician who used to work in Las Vegas. Judy finished her corn sandwich, the house specialty, and announced to the table of 12, “Oh, look. He’s getting out his goodies.” Every head turned but it was a false alarm. The magician was just starting his act.
I tried to go easy on the German food, because I could still picture Charles Meinert’s gouty thumb after a two week trip to Germany. I didn’t want to get on the plane with my thumb swollen and throbbing and have to sit next to the Giggle Sisters.
On the free day, we took the train to Italy to satisfy Judy’s craving for all things Roman. Judy confided that she would move to Italy if it weren’t so far from her family. I suspect that she has a secret “Under the Tuscan Sun” fund and will quietly slip out of the family’s Toyota dealership one afternoon and head straight for the airport.
We strolled around Bolzan with fellow travelers, Pat and Ray, and ate lunch at a local restaurant. The English menu was a huge help, but it was obvious that their word processor did not have spell check. Soop? An entrée with wild boar and french fried? I ordered spaghetti.
Everywhere we looked the scene was picture postcard beautiful. The mountains, the snow, the frost-covered trees, the churches, the architecture…we could have been extras in The Sound of Music.
Judy and I became great friends and look forward to a repeat performance. The other travelers were surprised to learn that we were mothers-in-law. Apparently, most had unpleasant memories of their own families and in-laws. I wasn’t worried for a minute. After all, my son-in-law tells me all the time that I am his favorite mother-in-law.
Auf wiedersein,
Gay von Trapp
Saturday, February 07, 2009
Travel Tips from the Broads
Our grand adventure to London and Paris was quite the experience. We are confident that our friends and family are waiting on pins and needles for a complete accounting of our trip. In the meantime, we decided to share some of our newly acquired, learned the hard way, knowledge of world travel. As you probably surmised, we asked a lot of questions and should have asked more.
FAQ
1. Do you have enough gas to take us all the way to the airport without stopping at two gas stations? I was more concerned about catching a few zzz’s in the front seat than filling the tank. Get in. You look like a couple of dames who will enjoy Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride and pay handsomely for the thrill.
2. Does this $29 “international” phone really and truly work in Europe? There is a sucker born every minute.
3. Why do I have to pay the hotel a connection fee when my husband never answered the phone? The line connected. It’s not our fault that you left you husband with an upchucking child.
4. Is airport security really confiscating the knife and fork that I bought in London for my two-year-old? Can’t you read? Have you been on an airplane since 9-11? If you will just stop complaining, you can dump everything out of your mother’s purse, put the weapons inside, and return to check-in. This is carry-on for Pete’s sake. Americans!!
5. Why didn’t you tell me that the Concorde Hotel was twenty miles and a 20 Euro cab ride from the Concorde metro? Why didn’t you ask?
6. Do you have a menu in English? Yes. Somewhere.
7. Pigs Knuckles! You’re kidding, right? A delicacy, Madame.
8. How much is it in dollars for the mandatory 20 Euros glass of wine at the Panorama Bar? We think the view is well worth the $40 glass of table wine. And no, the bar doesn’t revolve. Please stay in your seat.
9. If the 17 ½ % service charge on the bill wasn’t the tip, what in the heck was it for then? Setting the table. Do you want mustard?
10. Is Duncan Duff, the London guide, an actor or an underwear model? Actor.
11. Why is a defibrillator at the entrance to the catacombs? You’ll see.
12. Has anyone ever tried to steal bones from here? See those four skulls and 10-12 leg bones on the table? Yesterday’s haul.
13. We can’t find the ice machine. Please have room service bring up a bucket of ice. That will be 5 Euros (about $8).
14. Is evensong at St. Paul’s Cathedral over already? You two nodded off during the prayers.
15. What do you mean I have to pay to pee? What part of this confuses you?
16. How many Euros for the metro? No idea. This is the parking garage.
17. Where is the nearest rooftop bar? We just love rooftop bars!! Harvey Nichols, Princess Diana’s favorite department store, is just the place.
18. We found Harvey Nichols, but the view is lousy? You are drinking wine and looking at a roof. Didn’t you request a rooftop bar?
19. Where are all the wonderful sidewalk restaurants? We wanted a pastry. Dunkin’ Donuts is down the street. You can sit in the window.
20. We walked in the rain from the hotel and can’t find London Bridge. Where is it? In Arizona.
The next time we plan a fun trip for broads abroad, please join us. We guarantee that you will laugh until you pee in your pants. Then you won’t have to pay the attendant!
Au revoir!
Gay and Rachel
July 9, 2008
Our grand adventure to London and Paris was quite the experience. We are confident that our friends and family are waiting on pins and needles for a complete accounting of our trip. In the meantime, we decided to share some of our newly acquired, learned the hard way, knowledge of world travel. As you probably surmised, we asked a lot of questions and should have asked more.
FAQ
1. Do you have enough gas to take us all the way to the airport without stopping at two gas stations? I was more concerned about catching a few zzz’s in the front seat than filling the tank. Get in. You look like a couple of dames who will enjoy Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride and pay handsomely for the thrill.
2. Does this $29 “international” phone really and truly work in Europe? There is a sucker born every minute.
3. Why do I have to pay the hotel a connection fee when my husband never answered the phone? The line connected. It’s not our fault that you left you husband with an upchucking child.
4. Is airport security really confiscating the knife and fork that I bought in London for my two-year-old? Can’t you read? Have you been on an airplane since 9-11? If you will just stop complaining, you can dump everything out of your mother’s purse, put the weapons inside, and return to check-in. This is carry-on for Pete’s sake. Americans!!
5. Why didn’t you tell me that the Concorde Hotel was twenty miles and a 20 Euro cab ride from the Concorde metro? Why didn’t you ask?
6. Do you have a menu in English? Yes. Somewhere.
7. Pigs Knuckles! You’re kidding, right? A delicacy, Madame.
8. How much is it in dollars for the mandatory 20 Euros glass of wine at the Panorama Bar? We think the view is well worth the $40 glass of table wine. And no, the bar doesn’t revolve. Please stay in your seat.
9. If the 17 ½ % service charge on the bill wasn’t the tip, what in the heck was it for then? Setting the table. Do you want mustard?
10. Is Duncan Duff, the London guide, an actor or an underwear model? Actor.
11. Why is a defibrillator at the entrance to the catacombs? You’ll see.
12. Has anyone ever tried to steal bones from here? See those four skulls and 10-12 leg bones on the table? Yesterday’s haul.
13. We can’t find the ice machine. Please have room service bring up a bucket of ice. That will be 5 Euros (about $8).
14. Is evensong at St. Paul’s Cathedral over already? You two nodded off during the prayers.
15. What do you mean I have to pay to pee? What part of this confuses you?
16. How many Euros for the metro? No idea. This is the parking garage.
17. Where is the nearest rooftop bar? We just love rooftop bars!! Harvey Nichols, Princess Diana’s favorite department store, is just the place.
18. We found Harvey Nichols, but the view is lousy? You are drinking wine and looking at a roof. Didn’t you request a rooftop bar?
19. Where are all the wonderful sidewalk restaurants? We wanted a pastry. Dunkin’ Donuts is down the street. You can sit in the window.
20. We walked in the rain from the hotel and can’t find London Bridge. Where is it? In Arizona.
The next time we plan a fun trip for broads abroad, please join us. We guarantee that you will laugh until you pee in your pants. Then you won’t have to pay the attendant!
Au revoir!
Gay and Rachel
July 9, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
Christmas Eyeballs
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Christmas Eyeballs
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Friday, December 05, 2008
Freddie and Sue, How are you?
My aunt Freddie and her friend Sue were great travel buddies. Once a year, Freddie flew from Tampa to Sue’s home in Tennessee to join a local group for a far-flung adventure. They had a grand time traveling here and abroad.
To my knowledge, their annual trip was about the extent of their contact, and yet it was enough. Many friendships are like that—bonds that seem to transcend time and space. Perhaps those are the best kind; the ones where you can always pick up right where you left off.
On Wednesday, both Aunt Freddie and Sue died—one in Florida, the other in Tennessee. Hmmm…what are the odds? Make of it what you will, I choose to believe that those ladies were ready for their next exciting road trip and decided to go together.
That “coincidence” got me to thinking about Judy, my travel buddy and grandmother-in-law (we share Tyler, our grandson). The other day, Judy suggested that we plan our next trip. I sure do hope she meant something a little closer to home.
Bon voyage, Freddie and Sue!
My aunt Freddie and her friend Sue were great travel buddies. Once a year, Freddie flew from Tampa to Sue’s home in Tennessee to join a local group for a far-flung adventure. They had a grand time traveling here and abroad.
To my knowledge, their annual trip was about the extent of their contact, and yet it was enough. Many friendships are like that—bonds that seem to transcend time and space. Perhaps those are the best kind; the ones where you can always pick up right where you left off.
On Wednesday, both Aunt Freddie and Sue died—one in Florida, the other in Tennessee. Hmmm…what are the odds? Make of it what you will, I choose to believe that those ladies were ready for their next exciting road trip and decided to go together.
That “coincidence” got me to thinking about Judy, my travel buddy and grandmother-in-law (we share Tyler, our grandson). The other day, Judy suggested that we plan our next trip. I sure do hope she meant something a little closer to home.
Bon voyage, Freddie and Sue!
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
The Eulogy
My dad’s story is familiar to the men of his generation. By all accounts, he has lived the American dream for which his generation sacrificed so much. He was born the second son of Lee and Ruth Miller. He was raised on a farm in Madison County and hated picking cotton. He had a dog named Bounce and mules Maude and Blue. He had three brothers and a sister and remained close to them throughout their lives. He felt a deep affection for his aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews. He believed that family was the most important thing in life.
He graduated from high school at a time when so many young men dropped out of school to work on the family farm. He struggled through the Great Depression, embarrassed and hurt when his family lost their farm. He joined the AL National Guard and found himself in Kodiak, Alaska when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. When the news reached him on the Aleutian Islands, he was eating breakfast out of his mess kit. He ran to his tent and his breakfast froze. He lived in a tent for three years on Kodiak before going to France where, as an army medic, he tended to German prisoners of war.
After the war, he returned to Ryland, and according to him, his mother worked the stew out of him, so when someone offered him a job and a car, he took it and moved to Huntsville. There he met the love of his life, Mildred Berry. They carried on a flirtation through the mail with letters addressed to the Lonely Hearts Club. He took her dancing at Smith Lake.
After they married and started a family, their entrepreneurial spirit took over and they opened their own business. They were active in their church and community. Through years of good times spent with good friends, they celebrated a life filled with love for each other. He was devastated when she died. Twenty years after the death of his beloved grandmother, Jeremy honored them both when he spoke of how his grandfather’s love for her was an inspiration for his own marriage.
To his friends, he was a lot of fun.
To his brothers, sister, nieces, nephews, and cousins, he was someone they could always count on for support.
To his customers, he was fair and honest.
To his four grandchildren and great grandson, he offered unconditional love.
To his daughter-in-law and son-in-law, he tried to be more father than father-in-law.
To his son and daughter, he was a blessing.
God doesn’t ask us to be perfect. He does, however, ask us to celebrate life. Chat Miller did as God asked.
After he kisses his wife and hugs his family and friends, I am certain that my dad is searching for Bear Bryant and yelling “Roll Tide.”
February 9, 2006
Words will always fail when they are needed to give the summation of a life.My dad’s story is familiar to the men of his generation. By all accounts, he has lived the American dream for which his generation sacrificed so much. He was born the second son of Lee and Ruth Miller. He was raised on a farm in Madison County and hated picking cotton. He had a dog named Bounce and mules Maude and Blue. He had three brothers and a sister and remained close to them throughout their lives. He felt a deep affection for his aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews. He believed that family was the most important thing in life.
He graduated from high school at a time when so many young men dropped out of school to work on the family farm. He struggled through the Great Depression, embarrassed and hurt when his family lost their farm. He joined the AL National Guard and found himself in Kodiak, Alaska when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. When the news reached him on the Aleutian Islands, he was eating breakfast out of his mess kit. He ran to his tent and his breakfast froze. He lived in a tent for three years on Kodiak before going to France where, as an army medic, he tended to German prisoners of war.
After the war, he returned to Ryland, and according to him, his mother worked the stew out of him, so when someone offered him a job and a car, he took it and moved to Huntsville. There he met the love of his life, Mildred Berry. They carried on a flirtation through the mail with letters addressed to the Lonely Hearts Club. He took her dancing at Smith Lake.
After they married and started a family, their entrepreneurial spirit took over and they opened their own business. They were active in their church and community. Through years of good times spent with good friends, they celebrated a life filled with love for each other. He was devastated when she died. Twenty years after the death of his beloved grandmother, Jeremy honored them both when he spoke of how his grandfather’s love for her was an inspiration for his own marriage.
To his friends, he was a lot of fun.
To his brothers, sister, nieces, nephews, and cousins, he was someone they could always count on for support.
To his customers, he was fair and honest.
To his four grandchildren and great grandson, he offered unconditional love.
To his daughter-in-law and son-in-law, he tried to be more father than father-in-law.
To his son and daughter, he was a blessing.
God doesn’t ask us to be perfect. He does, however, ask us to celebrate life. Chat Miller did as God asked.
After he kisses his wife and hugs his family and friends, I am certain that my dad is searching for Bear Bryant and yelling “Roll Tide.”
Carrot Soufflé
September 14, 2005
They all came home for Mother’s Day this year. They knew how difficult that particular day was for me, so they rallied around and, as usual, helped me celebrate instead of dwelling on how much I missed my mother. They understand that I still cannot bear to go to church on Mother’s Day. Some wounds never heal.
My three brought their three. It is interesting, and often amusing, to watch the brothers and sister relate as adults. When the wife, fiancé, and husband are added to the mix, things get a little nuts, but they are beginning to figure things out for themselves. Sometimes, in order to keep the peace, one will simply go to bed early. They are learning how to be a family.
I never had a sister although I always wanted one. I envied my friends who had sisters. I suppose that was why my mother and I were so close…neither of us had a sister. However, we both were blessed with sisters-in law who took us in and loved us. To mine, I will be eternally grateful.
Over the years my friends became my “sisters of sorts”. They know who they are. Their names are on my distribution lists. They are colorful characters---every last one of them. I like strong women who are not afraid to speak up, state their opinions, and chart their on course. They are also skilled at celebrating the good times and commiserating during the bad.
This morning I am mostly thinking about my brother and what he means to me. We grew up in an old-fashioned extended family where grandparents and a family friend lived with us. An assortment of relatives often visited and helped us understand the bigger family picture and where we fit into the scheme of things. We absorbed a sense of responsibility to and for one another.
A couple of weeks ago, my brother and I had to face the difficult truth that we could longer take care of our dad. His physical, social, and mental needs were more than we could handle. After a year of trying desperately to tend to him ourselves, we moved him to an assisted living facility. Three great meals a day, a wine and cheese party, loads of women—what more could a man want?
According to Daddy, I drove him out there and dumped him. I am not arguing the semantics of the situation. Let’s just say he did not go willingly. He called the store five times that first afternoon demanding that I come and get him or he was going to call a taxi. I didn’t respond, and he didn’t get that cab ride home. It was a horrible afternoon, but Ted and I survived—thanks in part to Caller ID. One does not need to be surprised at a time like this.
As hard as it was, I did it—alone. You see, for me that was not my “unbearable” – it was my brother’s. Every living soul has something that is so painful that they simply cannot bear it. Whatever it is may be universally recognized as tragic and garner sympathy. More likely, it is personal and seemingly trivial. My friend Dannye’s unbearable is carrot soufflé at Piccadilly. It was her mother’s favorite. Better to just leave it alone.
Facing his fear, Ted took Daddy to church the following Sunday and returned him to his new home. Perhaps one day I will go to church on Mother’s Day and Dannye will buy a bag of carrots. Until then…
Precious memories, How they linger!
September 14, 2005
They all came home for Mother’s Day this year. They knew how difficult that particular day was for me, so they rallied around and, as usual, helped me celebrate instead of dwelling on how much I missed my mother. They understand that I still cannot bear to go to church on Mother’s Day. Some wounds never heal.
My three brought their three. It is interesting, and often amusing, to watch the brothers and sister relate as adults. When the wife, fiancé, and husband are added to the mix, things get a little nuts, but they are beginning to figure things out for themselves. Sometimes, in order to keep the peace, one will simply go to bed early. They are learning how to be a family.
I never had a sister although I always wanted one. I envied my friends who had sisters. I suppose that was why my mother and I were so close…neither of us had a sister. However, we both were blessed with sisters-in law who took us in and loved us. To mine, I will be eternally grateful.
Over the years my friends became my “sisters of sorts”. They know who they are. Their names are on my distribution lists. They are colorful characters---every last one of them. I like strong women who are not afraid to speak up, state their opinions, and chart their on course. They are also skilled at celebrating the good times and commiserating during the bad.
This morning I am mostly thinking about my brother and what he means to me. We grew up in an old-fashioned extended family where grandparents and a family friend lived with us. An assortment of relatives often visited and helped us understand the bigger family picture and where we fit into the scheme of things. We absorbed a sense of responsibility to and for one another.
A couple of weeks ago, my brother and I had to face the difficult truth that we could longer take care of our dad. His physical, social, and mental needs were more than we could handle. After a year of trying desperately to tend to him ourselves, we moved him to an assisted living facility. Three great meals a day, a wine and cheese party, loads of women—what more could a man want?
According to Daddy, I drove him out there and dumped him. I am not arguing the semantics of the situation. Let’s just say he did not go willingly. He called the store five times that first afternoon demanding that I come and get him or he was going to call a taxi. I didn’t respond, and he didn’t get that cab ride home. It was a horrible afternoon, but Ted and I survived—thanks in part to Caller ID. One does not need to be surprised at a time like this.
As hard as it was, I did it—alone. You see, for me that was not my “unbearable” – it was my brother’s. Every living soul has something that is so painful that they simply cannot bear it. Whatever it is may be universally recognized as tragic and garner sympathy. More likely, it is personal and seemingly trivial. My friend Dannye’s unbearable is carrot soufflé at Piccadilly. It was her mother’s favorite. Better to just leave it alone.
Facing his fear, Ted took Daddy to church the following Sunday and returned him to his new home. Perhaps one day I will go to church on Mother’s Day and Dannye will buy a bag of carrots. Until then…
Precious memories, How they linger!
Preying
March 7, 2005
I am convinced that there is a special place in hell for people who take advantage of the elderly. All kinds of mean people in this world abuse children, animals, and the mentally and physically disabled. However, predators who target old people are often overlooked, because we are reluctant to admit that our once vibrant parent can no longer distinguish between a kiwi and a kumquat.
Telemarketers have created an industry selling magazines and vacuum cleaners to old people who cannot possibly read 100 subscriptions a month. And whose mother really needs three brand new vacuums?
Several companies sell organic cures to the elderly. Every possible ailment from constipation to memory loss, from baldness to impotence can be cured by products from these companies. Although I am not exactly worldly, I did not just get off the turnip truck. I do find it unseemly for my 84 year old father to be inundated with brochures advertising, in language generally found in an X-rated movie, all the various things he will be able to do after taking “the cure.” So far, he has taken garlic (and garlique), gingko biloba, shark cartilage, bee pollen, and horny goat weed in his quest for eternal youth.
Regardless of your opinion of Paul Harvey, you must admit that the man hawks everything under the sun. Convincing people over 80 that a memory improvement pill can really do the job is stretching the ethical basis of truth in advertising. And it comes with a video tape! This miracle was purchased by my dad who has never owned a VCR and didn’t remember writing the check.
My dad believes every nut case that comes his way. At one time he was rubbing apple cider vinegar on his head to cure dandruff. The entire house smelled like he had been dying Easter eggs. For gastric dysfunction, he ate eight golden raisins soaked in gin. He was probably more interested in the gin than in alleviating gas.
Someone gave him foolproof techniques for keeping the squirrels out of his pecan tree. When an assortment of rubber snakes and owls did not convince the critters of the folly of their ways, he tried filling the legs of pantyhose with moth balls. This wasn’t too bad until he tied the pantyhose to the tree, crotch side toward the street. Now he has sheets of tin wrapped around the tree in hopes that the squirrels will slip and cut their throats.
Out of the goodness of his heart, he responded to a couple of mail requests for contributions to causes that he considered worthy. The scoundrels then sold his name to every fundraiser in America. Before it was over, he was sending money to eradicate diseases that we had never heard of. And good Methodist that he is, he was unwittingly supporting charities sponsored by every religion except Wicca.
Daddy’s desire to help those in need has morphed into the equivalent of feeding stray cats. One woman was selling him sacks of home-cooked meals for $25-$50. I tossed the fine dining before he succumbed to food poisoning. While her pimp waited in the alley, a crack head demanded money for “medicine.” After she got pregnant, her sob story was that she needed money for the baby. I explained that if the baby wasn’t his, it wasn’t his problem. He nearly fainted at the thought.
I firmly believe that everyone should have a job that they love-one that provides a feeling of accomplishment and a reasonable financial reward. However, I abhor the slime balls that find satisfaction in conning the elderly and get rich in the process.
Deciding exactly who is doing the preying is subjective. My brother overheard Daddy tell a friend that I sold his car, took the money and his checkbook, and moved to Georgia.
March 7, 2005
I am convinced that there is a special place in hell for people who take advantage of the elderly. All kinds of mean people in this world abuse children, animals, and the mentally and physically disabled. However, predators who target old people are often overlooked, because we are reluctant to admit that our once vibrant parent can no longer distinguish between a kiwi and a kumquat.
Telemarketers have created an industry selling magazines and vacuum cleaners to old people who cannot possibly read 100 subscriptions a month. And whose mother really needs three brand new vacuums?
Several companies sell organic cures to the elderly. Every possible ailment from constipation to memory loss, from baldness to impotence can be cured by products from these companies. Although I am not exactly worldly, I did not just get off the turnip truck. I do find it unseemly for my 84 year old father to be inundated with brochures advertising, in language generally found in an X-rated movie, all the various things he will be able to do after taking “the cure.” So far, he has taken garlic (and garlique), gingko biloba, shark cartilage, bee pollen, and horny goat weed in his quest for eternal youth.
Regardless of your opinion of Paul Harvey, you must admit that the man hawks everything under the sun. Convincing people over 80 that a memory improvement pill can really do the job is stretching the ethical basis of truth in advertising. And it comes with a video tape! This miracle was purchased by my dad who has never owned a VCR and didn’t remember writing the check.
My dad believes every nut case that comes his way. At one time he was rubbing apple cider vinegar on his head to cure dandruff. The entire house smelled like he had been dying Easter eggs. For gastric dysfunction, he ate eight golden raisins soaked in gin. He was probably more interested in the gin than in alleviating gas.
Someone gave him foolproof techniques for keeping the squirrels out of his pecan tree. When an assortment of rubber snakes and owls did not convince the critters of the folly of their ways, he tried filling the legs of pantyhose with moth balls. This wasn’t too bad until he tied the pantyhose to the tree, crotch side toward the street. Now he has sheets of tin wrapped around the tree in hopes that the squirrels will slip and cut their throats.
Out of the goodness of his heart, he responded to a couple of mail requests for contributions to causes that he considered worthy. The scoundrels then sold his name to every fundraiser in America. Before it was over, he was sending money to eradicate diseases that we had never heard of. And good Methodist that he is, he was unwittingly supporting charities sponsored by every religion except Wicca.
Daddy’s desire to help those in need has morphed into the equivalent of feeding stray cats. One woman was selling him sacks of home-cooked meals for $25-$50. I tossed the fine dining before he succumbed to food poisoning. While her pimp waited in the alley, a crack head demanded money for “medicine.” After she got pregnant, her sob story was that she needed money for the baby. I explained that if the baby wasn’t his, it wasn’t his problem. He nearly fainted at the thought.
I firmly believe that everyone should have a job that they love-one that provides a feeling of accomplishment and a reasonable financial reward. However, I abhor the slime balls that find satisfaction in conning the elderly and get rich in the process.
Deciding exactly who is doing the preying is subjective. My brother overheard Daddy tell a friend that I sold his car, took the money and his checkbook, and moved to Georgia.
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