A History Lesson

Obvious to all but the most simpleminded, history is nothing more than a series of stories, woven together in such a way to explain, entertain, and inform. Understandably, some are better at storytelling than others. I do not pretend to have been a master history teacher or storyteller, but I do admit to having enjoyed myself immensely. If you are one of those people who hated history in school, you might as well stop reading right now. If you choose to continue, you have no one to blame but yourself.

A good history lesson is one that connects, in concrete terms, the past with the present. For example, someone invented the fork because the hand needed to be replaced as a feeding utensil. Please note the resemblance between the hand and the fork. Or, Alexander the Great’s mother claimed that his father was really a god and she a virgin. I think you can see where I am going with that one.

Anyway, when Tim and I were in Italy, we visited places that I taught about for years. I came home with a new appreciation for the people who, so long ago, began creating the civilization which would one day culminate in America.

At Paestum, we walked among the ruins of the ancient Greek settlement. Three enormous temples stand in tribute to gods, powerful and popular at that time. The temples reminded me of the mega-churches springing up all around our country. It is more difficult to trivialize long ago expressions of religion when faced with massive columns and elaborate stonework.

In Rome, civilization’s journey is a pedestrian road map.  At the Forum, one can almost hear democracy crying for attention while, just down the street, the Coliseum makes one shudder at the brutality of man. Then, there is Vatican City, home of the Roman Catholic Church, sitting between the ancient and the modern.

In the quiet of the Vatican’s Sistine Chapel, I realized it was simply a twist of fate that resulted in my family’s long association with the Methodist church rather than the Roman Catholic. Martin Luther did not mean to start a reformation; he just objected to a few of the RCC’s practices, most notably the selling of indulgences. In this scheme, families of the recently departed paid the clergy to assure that their loved ones received a quick trip to Heaven (think TV evangelists selling blessed prayer cloths). As they say, the rest is history.

Like Paestum, the Vatican is a monument to man’s search for god. No where is this more beautifully depicted than the Sistine Chapel. Michelangelo did not want to paint the chapel’s ceiling, because he knew that the project would take years—years that could be devoted to his real love, sculpting. So he pouted, screamed, and stormed off. Eventually, the gifted artist returned to Rome to paint a story.

In the center of the masterpiece, Michelangelo captured perfectly the irony of this most meaningful of all relationships. God reaches out in strength and determination, and man’s response, weak and tepid, falls short.   

 

            

Next week, Americans gather for Thanksgiving. Among the items on our list of blessings will certainly appear the usual suspects—family, friends, freedom, and food. After we make our historical connection to the Pilgrims through turkey and pumpkin pie, perhaps we can also recognize our spiritual connection to mankind, past and present, as we bow our heads. We really haven’t changed as much as we may think.

The Stink Eye at the Equator

“Let’s go to Ecuador,” she said. “We’ll have fun,” she said.

Well, I did say those things. In my defense, I’ve never been at an altitude of 9500 feet or plodded through the Amazon jungle for three hours in the mud. How was I to know?

When I first dreamed up this trip, Tim and I invited four grandchildren to go with us—Bryan (11), Tyler (10), Anna Lauren (8) and Keegan (14). As soon as Shelley, my sister-in-law, heard about the trip, she threw a few pairs of clean panties into a bag, found her passport, and was ready to go. Actually, this is about how most of my trips evolve.

Unfortunately, this trip required all kinds of shots—yellow fever, typhoid, hepatitis, tetanus, etc. Then Zika reared its ugly head, and we had to spray our clothes and slather our bodies with special insect repellent. Finally, I was confident that I was well prepared to lead this adventure.

We arrived in the Andes Mountains and were thrilled, amazed, stunned, aghast, astonished, and dumbfounded for the next two weeks. Little did I know how unprepared I was.

I’d researched altitude sickness, but the Internet didn’t warn me that my brother, Ted, might have a panic attack at 2 am and try to find a flight back home. And all the other symptoms listed—well, let’s just say Ted experienced them all. This is when he started giving me the stink eye.

After I realized my blurred vision was a symptom of landing high in the Andes and not the wine, I tried to apply make up somewhere in the vicinity of my face. No one screamed when I appeared for breakfast, so either I was experiencing the kindness of strangers or was successful.

On that first morning in Quito, our group met our driver and guide who led us on a stroll through Old Quito, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. I doubt UNESCO understood that vendors would be peddling marijuana to tourists and locals in the plaza outside the Presidential Palace. Finally, Bryan bought a shrunken head, and things settled down.

After lunch at a local restaurant next to a labyrinth of underground tunnels, we visited the Yaku Museum. It is a one of a kind museum dedicated to water. No kidding. We laid on the floor and listened to piped-in water sounds. Everyone headed to the bathroom as soon we could. Then the kids made bubbles. Wow.

The Inti Nan Museum was an improvement over the Yaku. Located at the equator, the kids balanced an egg on a nail and planted a foot in both hemispheres. The guide also carefully explained exactly how to make a shrunken head and the consequences of an encounter with a penis fish. The kids loved it.

In Otavalo, the animal market was quite a new experience. An assortment of cows, pigs, sheep, goats, rabbits, chickens, cats, dogs, and guinea pigs were on sale. As Anna Lauren proceeded to name all the varmints, the locals threw supper in a sack. Toothless old women held tight to tow sacks full of wiggling hens and rabbits hanging upside down and fighting for air. In the middle of the chaos, a sketchy group of men sold roosters for cock fighting.

Anna Lauren was determined to buy a dog for $4. No amount of explaining why this wasn’t a fantastic idea or a once-in-a-lifetime bargain persuaded her. She plodded out, looking rather like Grumpy Cat.

The craft market was tamer, so to speak. The indigenous Quicha wanted us to believe that they made all the items, but the same stuff turned up over and over. Tyler had his picture made with a wrinkled old lady selling dream-catchers. Everyone bought some souvenirs, and Bryan tried desperately not to hyperventilate. The kid loves souvenir shopping, and this place was on steroids.

At the weaving shop, an old woman demonstrated brushing alpaca wool into thread, using natural dyes, and weaving the thread into wall hangings, clothes, and blankets. When asked, Keegan volunteered her hand but had second thoughts as the weaver laid a cactus beetle in her palm and stabbed it with her fingernail. The blood of the now-deceased beetle was mixed with lime juice to make purple dye. When the woman sat on the floor in front of an old loom which required arms, legs, and back to weave, I admired her stamina. And also thought she was nuts.

The trip to the Amazon Rainforest went something like this. The van was a stick shift, so lurching, slowing, speeding, and lurching again. The road up, down, and around the Andes was clogged with boulders, mud, waterfalls, missing pavement, and holes. Where the road ended and certain death began was anybody’s guess. Four hours in and four hours out.

Eventually, the van stopped and the driver got out. Men appeared out of the jungle and grabbed our luggage. I asked the driver if he was going to leave us here. He tried to reassure me that we would not be used as bait.

The jungle lodge was much nicer than I feared. The main social area was spacious and welcoming. The kids had their own room next to the pool. I hoped they wouldn’t be carried off by a marauding band of killer monkeys. Even if they were, I was confident the monkeys would bring them back.

The next morning a jungle walk was on our itinerary. We gathered in the equipment room to swap our shoes for rubber boots and then walked to the main road where we entered the jungle. Dear God! That place is called a rainforest for a reason. The mud was 3-4 inches deep. We were slipping and sliding and falling all over the place. Every time I glanced back to make sure Ted was still alive, he was giving me the stink eye. We climbed over tree roots, vines, and dead limbs. After about thirty minutes, I asked the guide if we were there yet. Then we got the bad news. The hike was three hours.

All was not lost. We did see 3-4 new types of mushrooms, a couple of unusual trees, a few butterflies, and a monkey’s comb. Ted wasn’t impressed.

When we got back to our rooms eager for a hot shower, we learned that there was no hot water. The lodge had switched from a gas-powered hot water heater to solar. SOLAR? In the rainforest??

Back to the stink eye.

About that same time, Shelley discovered that there were no hair dryers. Her naturally curly hair became a hot mess in all that humidity, and you couldn’t pick her out of a lineup of wooly alpacas. Of course, no one mentioned it to her. The kids didn’t care; they headed for the pool.

In the afternoon, we canoed along the Napo River to visit a local Quichua family. When we arrived, a woman was panning for gold in the river, a back-breaking activity yielding about 50₵. We walked to their village where they served chichi, a native drink made from yucca, and, fortunately, none of the kids made a face. One lady made a clay pot. After all that excitement, no one saw the next event coming. Blowguns. The kids shot darts at a target until Anna Lauren won the competition. Next, they just had to have souvenir blowguns.

Tim emphatically informed (something about hell freezing over) the lodge leader that we wouldn’t be walking 45 minutes through the mud to see a waterfall, and Amazoonica magically appeared on our itinerary. This is an animal refuge housing wild animals until they are either ready to return to the wild or determined to be unable to survive and given permanent resident status. We saw monkeys, birds, crocodiles, and tapirs. Esmerelda, the anaconda, slithered over the rocks in her private watery habitat and shed her skin for us. Fortunately, Esmerelda will be a life-long resident of the refuge.

Our guide, Falsto, quickly concluded that he needed to regroup or his tip would be in jeopardy. So, he got out a machete and took the kids to the jungle. Each took a turn whacking a cacao seed pod and, of course, it was Anna Lauren who successfully separated the pod from the tree. Falsto roasted the seeds on the open fire in the great room, peeled off the shells, and the kids took turns grinding the seeds into chocolate. Falsto added milk, sugar, and cinnamon. The chef provided sliced bananas and strawberries for dipping. Heaven!

Just to make sure all was well, Falsto gathered palm leaves. For the girls, he fashioned headbands, Tyler got a hat, and Bryan received a man-parts cover-up. They looked positively tribal. After three nights of sleeping under a mosquito net and dreaming of a hot shower, it was time to say goodbye to the jungle and on to the Galapagos.

Summer 2016

The Man at the Market

He looked both ways. Cars slowly crept along from the left, so he waited on the curb.

The square teemed with tourists and locals hoping to discover a bargain at one of the stalls. Tagua nut jewelry, indigenous clothing and art, and even a shrunken head whose lips held a smoldering cigarette could be found amid the chaos. The overpowering aroma of spices and coffee beans blended with rotting fish and a roasted pig left far too long in the noon day sun.

The man patiently waited for his turn.

Children clustered around a stray dog, scratching his ears and feeding him snacks from their pockets. Oddly, the dog bore none of the usual signs of neglect. His shiny coat and healthy weight indicated that he was well fed. His wagging tail and slobbery kisses reflected the children’s lavish attention.

The man continued to wait on the curb.

Nearby, Kichwa merchants summoned shoppers to their stalls; each boldly claiming the best prices at the Saturday market. Colorful alpaca blankets, panflutes, dolls, and dreamcatchers—all on display.

The man wiped the dust from his brown pants and waited.

A family gathered out of the unforgiving sun to share a meal of guinea pig and corn, both cooked onsite. Ice cold bottles of water for the children and chicha for the adults quenched their thirst. Laughter floated in every direction across the square.

The man sighed and waited.

An elderly couple, he barely five feet tall and she not that, elbowed their way through the crowd to a table filled with shoes. She casually picked up a pair of traditional black shoes, and then she quietly whispered to the vendor. He motioned for her to come around the table, all the way to the back of the stall. Her husband shrugged and turned his attention to the monkey masks. Soon she emerged--wearing orange Crocs. He shrugged again and took her arm to walk beside her.

The man on the curb noticed the traffic had slowed. Now was the time. He lowered his head and placed his bare hands on the street. The cobblestones were hot, but he was as used to the hot as he was the cold. He dragged his torso and his useless legs off the curb and slowly across the street.

No one looked his way.

Everything I Ever Wanted to Know I Learned
at Huntsville Middle School

In Alabama, life’s lessons are usually associated with sports metaphors. Any association with “Bear” Bryant automatically implies a deep, almost spiritual, understanding of the complexities of life. The closest I ever got to the Bear was through my dad and my son; both knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that “Bear” could indeed walk on water. However, the mysteries of life were revealed to me at Huntsville Middle School.

I learned:
• The best storytellers make you laugh until either you cry or wet your pants. Alice Smith was a champion storyteller.
• No faculty meeting should last past 4pm. Otherwise, slap your purse under your arm and walk out. No one is going to stop you.
• The only thing parents really want from school is for their kids to make all A’s. Record keeping is just for show.
• Keys can be flushed, broken in the lock, and misplaced a thousand different ways even while securely attached to one’s wrist by a curly key holder. And key cards…don’t get me started!
• Sixth grade teachers cannot possibly be expected to finish the SAT in the allotted time.
• Principals need friends at school.
• Some teachers cannot tell a school system credit card from a personal one.
• The secretary is an important friend; otherwise, you will never have a sub.
• Shooting a hole in your wardrobe does not make you dangerous.
• It is wonderful for your student to become your colleague.
• Teachers knew it took a village to raise their children before Hillary Clinton.
• If the cops come to get you, do not throw yogurt in the copy room.
• Teachers make wonderful traveling companions.
• Disease can be handled with grace and dignity.
• Working a combination lock takes intensive training and at least a month of trial and error.
• Lunchroom ladies become matchmakers upon the arrival of young, male teachers.
• Spray painting a refrigerator box in the classroom is not a good idea.
• Tragedy comes to everyone.
• Walking in the gym does not promote weight loss.
• Always check your camera for film. High school reunions and cheating husbands are best captured on Kodak.
• Red nail polish can effectively stop runs in white pantyhose.
• Kids are funny. Laugh at them.
• Do not use your school computer to run a business.
• Know when it is time to leave.
• Team members who are great friends are Cancers and, thus, somewhat crabby.
• Organization is a gift. Don’t be fooled by notebooks.
• Beware of office aides who announce your gynecological results over the intercom.
• School people make the best friends.
• Some teachers require lots of attention and will go to great lengths to get it. They may scream like banshees, run through hotels with police, fall in uncovered utility holes, or leave their teeth all over Old Salem.
• Smoking in the bushes fools no one.
• Teachers and cars are a strange combination. Cars keep secret purchases, tote animal crates, look better with Cheese Nips on the seats, and may be used to trench the front yard.
• Teachers love animals. They hatch chickens, keep gerbils, attract mice, name squirrels, nurse cats, feed fish, run from wasps, and light up when they talk about their beloved pets.
• English teachers can figure bargains at Parisian’s faster than can math teachers.
• Librarians are practical and sensible.
• Grandchildren of educators are blessed.
• Students always choose neon over beige.

There is no place on earth that I would rather have spent my teaching career than Huntsville Middle School. I made life-long friends, and I am forever indebted to them for helping me raise my children, bury my mother, survive my husband, and learn the meaning of friendship.

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.”

I am now looking for my copy of Hop on Pop.

Grammy’s Birthday


Grammy's birthday is today, and we have a lot of excitement from the 8 Pollywogs.

Number 1 Bryan said, “Today is Ant Gay's birthday. She deserves a foot massage which of course she will be giving me!”

Number 2 Tyler said, “She needs some television in her kitchen. Well, I'll save up to get myself one first.”

Number 3 Anna Lauren said, “I will get Grammy a doll. There's a lot to choose from. Wow! I'll get this one for me, and this one is for her. Oh no! I can't get Grammy the doll. I'm broke. Oh well, Christmas is coming soon!”

Number 4 Keegan wants to download Grammy the app Snap Chat, but she has a lot to do. “Maybe I won't get her anything. She has enough!”

Number 5 Wynn said, “Oh, I'll get Granmudder a Paw Patrol bracelet, but I think she already has one. I have an idea- I'll get myself one!”

Number 6 Aiden has forgotten about poor old sweet Grammy but what is he doing? Playing with ..........stuffed animals.

Number 7 Leighton wants to do the greatest thing-- she wants to bring Lucy back to life but how is she going to do it? That's her problem.

Number 8 Blakely just wants to take a nap! But that's ok.

Grammy doesn’t need anything. She has the greatest gift ever—her 8 Pollywogs.



Anna Lauren wrote this on July 2, 2016 from the top bunk on the Darwin Yacht while sailing around the Galapagos Islands.

Love, Lucy


Dear Pollywogs,

On Friday afternoon, July 17, our sweet, sweet Lucy left for Doggy Heaven. Rachel was holding her in her arms, sitting in the shade in the back yard, and petting her gently. She told Lucy that her family understood she was not well and needed to go where she could run and play. Lucy thought about this for a few moments and then let go. We will miss her terribly but can laugh when we remember all the great times we shared with her over the past 14 years.

A few weeks ago, Lucy asked me to help her write a letter to you. Leighton was teaching her to read, but she was having trouble with writing. None of the pencils quite fit her doggy paws. She loved all of you and wanted to say goodbye.


To my eight Pollywogs and assorted family members,

Fourteen years ago I was born in Opp, Alabama. I didn’t start out as an only dog but soon became the only dog for a family who needed me. They didn’t know it at the time, but I would bring joy, laughter, and unconditional love to them, their children, and their grandchildren. They were lucky to have me.

Now it is time to say goodbye. I’ve lived longer, traveled farther, eaten more junk food, partied more often, and worn more costumes than most fur friends. Life has been good.

Well, except for the time Rachel drove me through the car wash.

Pollywogs, I’m going to miss so many things. Your birthday parties and especially the cake. Wynn plastering me with band-aids. Wearing costumes for Halloween. Starring in Anna Lauren’s and Leighton’s Christmas cards. Sharing your secrets.

I loved riding on the front of the boat while my curly-haired ears blew in the breeze and going to restaurants on the lake where everyone wanted to love on me.

My favorite fun time was chasing little pollywogs for treats. Oh how I loved the cookies, cereal, and crackers! And Tyler, yes, I do remember the time you opened my jaws to pull out your cookie. I couldn’t believe you actually ate the gooey thing.

I won’t miss any of you sitting on me.

I’ve chased squirrels and ducks, birds and geese, cats and dogs, lizards and frogs. I still don’t understand why I never caught anything but a wasp that left his stinger in my mouth. Once a cat scratched my eye for no reason.

Of course, there have been a few unfortunate incidences. I’ve stepped on all kinds of things as well as stepped in all kinds of things.

A word of warning, if you roll in deer poo, you have to get a bath. If you swim in Lake Lanier, you have to get a bath. If you scratch your back on the gravel, you have to get a bath. If you run away from home because you’re scared of the fireworks and step in a vat of sap, you have to get a bath. If you have the itch, you have to get a bath. A small fortune has been spent on shampoo.

BJ, I am sorry that my small, inconspicuous lump exploded during your Christmas party. Thanks for not making me clean up the mess. It was AWFUL!

And while I am apologizing, I suppose I should tell Rachel I’m sorry my snoring kept her up nights. Jennifer, I didn’t really think you looked like a bird. Jeremy, I’m sorry I jumped on you every time you came over, but I wanted to lick your face.

Evan, Krissy, Keegan, and Aiden, I know I never came for a visit, but I didn’t want to ride in a crate in the cargo section of the plane. Brrrrrr! And scary!!!

Uncle Ted, thank you for not screaming like a little girl when you woke up starring at my nostrils. Aunt Shelley, I didn’t know all those ticks were stuck to my fur when I climbed up on your bed. Oops!

I must apologize to everyone for wiping my drool on you and the unsightly eye boogers. At least my freckles were cute.

When I get to Heaven, I’ll spend the first few days finding my old friends: Darby, Lou, Chunk, and Rigsby. When I see Darby, my very best friend, I’ll give her wet kisses from Bryan and Shelley. Surely, she’s got those legs all going in the same direction by now.

Lou may be difficult to find. He’s probably waiting for BJ somewhere in Colorado, sitting in the back seat of a Jeep. I’ve never been out west, but I guess I can give it a go. Lou will be glad to know I’m older and don’t really want to play much anymore.

Rachel, I’ve heard that the food in Heaven is really healthy, so Chunk may have lost weight. Don’t worry. I’ll just look for a beautiful white cat with a big notch in his ear. I’ll lie when I tell Chunk how good Al has been and how much he misses him.

I’ll get around to Rigsby when I finally have time. Anna Lauren, I’m sure he’s just fine, but you know how much he likes to hide.

I know Gran isn’t in Doggy Heaven, but I bet he comes over every now and then to visit Bounce and Charlie. He probably has some kind of regular visitation schedule worked out with them. Maybe he’ll take us to Piccadilly. Surely, he’s learned his lesson about sausage by now.

I wish I had the time to watch all of you grow up. It will be quite an incredible journey for each of you. Bryan will create costumes for Indiana Jones Movies; Tyler will perform soccer tricks in Placa Reial; Anna Lauren will be a world famous story teller; Keegan’s singing career will take her to Broadway; Wynn will be creating cartoons for Disney; Aiden will own a tractor factory; Leighton will start a company to teach shy girls how to be assertive; and Blakely, I wish we had had more time together.

My life was magical. My family made it so.

Love,
Lucy

2014 Pollywog Vacation Awards

2014 Pollywog Vacation Awards
And the results are in for the 2014 Pollywog Vacation Awards

Best experience with an animal
Lisa the Monkey at Little French Key Honduras was the hands-down favorite. Anna Lauren and Tyler spent an entire afternoon holding her and only occasionally letting another child have a turn. Lisa was rescued after being stolen from her mother by animal traffickers who broke her legs so she couldn’t escape.
Camel riding in West Palm Beach
Lorikeet feeding at Butterfly World
Running from monkeys in Gibraltar didn’t get Bryan’s vote, but it sure was funny to watch him run.

Best room accommodations
Everyone had a different opinion on this and no one provided an explanation.
Cabin on the Disney Magic was Anna Lauren’s choice.
Apartment in Barcelona got Bryan’s vote. I’m not surprised that Tyler passed on this. I sent him down to the courtyard to explain to the people sitting there that he needed to retrieve his grandmother’s panties that she dropped off the clothesline.
Hotel in London
Apartment in Reykjavik appealed to Tyler. The clothes dryer was inside the apartment.

Best Food Experience
Frog legs in New Orleans didn’t get Anna Lauren’s vote although she thought they were tasty.
Calamari on the Magic was Bryan’s favorite and launched the boy on a lifetime search of restaurants serving the delicacy.
Chicken Paella in Barcelona was a hit with all the kids, especially Tyler and Anna Lauren. Paella is usually served with a variety of seafood, but the kids preferred chicken.
Mushy Peas in London was another of Anna Lauren’s famous tries. Perhaps after the iguana soup and mealy worms, mushy peas simply didn’t measure up.

Best Junk Food Experience
Sweets from the oldest sweet shop in Barcelona were Anna Lauren’s favorite. Sarah, our tour guide, let each of the children select their favorite flavor.
Daily ice cream on the Magic is a Lull Family Rule. I guess the thrill has lost its magic.
Churros dipped in chocolate in Barcelona were the boys’ choices. The kids sat at the bar on La Rambla and scarfed them down.

Best Tour Guide
Oscar in Madeira was the favorite of Tyler and Anna Lauren. This was our second tour with Oscar, and he was as wonderful as the first time.
Sarah in Barcelona was new for us and to the tour. She was warm, enthusiastic and great with the kids. Kid-friendly tours are always fun.
Guy in Malaga who made “questionable fashion choices” drove Bryan nuts. He couldn’t quite make peace with the guy’s outfit or his murse.

Best manners
Soccer players at Placa Reial in Barcelona who invited Tyler and Bryan to play with them and later posed for a team picture provided the experience of a lifetime for the boys, so both voted for the soccer players. Tim and I watched while enjoying a pitcher of sangria.
Marriott Manager in London who carried Anna Lauren’s luggage up the steps from the tube station and to the hotel won Anna Lauren’s vote and Tim’s admiration. Anna Lauren’s luggage was too heavy for her to drag up the steps, and Tim had dread written all over his face. Along came the manager of the Marriott and offered to carry it for her. At the top of the stairs, he asked where we were going. When he learned we were staying at his hotel, he led the way with Anna Lauren’s luggage in tow.
Angel who let us leave our luggage at her tiny store in Barcelona and later found friends to help us carry the luggage to the third floor apartment.

Worst Manners
Horse-head boys on the Disney Magic took Bryan’s vote probably because they chased him through the hallway until he screamed like a little girl. I know I flew with Bryan dressed as Wolverine, but, seriously, who lets teenage boys bring horse masks on a Disney cruise.
Drunk guy in the fountain in Barcelona who stuck his finger in a woman’s ear got Tyler’s and Anna Lauren’s votes. They love to retell that story—just ask them.

Biggest Goose Egg
Tyler, who lost two room keys and stuffed half his clothes behind the drawer on the Magic until the drawer wouldn’t close, didn’t even vote for himself. The cabin attendant was quite helpful.
Anna Lauren who cried because the caricature artist at the London Eye wouldn’t draw her with characters from Frozen.
Bryan who bought a soccer shirt in Barcelona featuring a player he’d never heard of.
Keegan, who lost three room keys, her favorite skirt and shirt, left her passport on the plane, and finally found her flip flops in lost-and-found, was the unanimous favorite.

Scariest Place
Tower of London dungeon was pretty gruesome but apparently not scary. Anna Lauren even made a note of the penis crusher in her trip scrapbook.
Ripley’s Mirror Maze was Anna Lauren’s scariest place, because she ran face first into the mirror. Bryan also voted for this, and I have no idea why.
Anywhere gypsies are lurking was a place to be avoided. Just ask Tim about his pickpocket experience on the Barcelona subway. Anyway, Tyler kept close watch and voted for the gypsies.
Oceaneer’s Lab, the kids’ club on the Disney Magic, was the place I thought they would unanimously vote for. After all, they absolutely refused to set foot in the place and kept taking off their club wristbands. At one point they had run up a lost-and-replaced wristband bill of $90. This was brought to my attention after the three of them were arrested by the cruise ship police for wandering barefoot into the dining room looking for Strawberry, our waiter.

Best Place to Sleep
Bunk beds on the Magic were the favorite in this category. The boys seem to love bunk beds—top bunk only. I don’t know why Anna Lauren voted for this; she ended up in bed with me every night.
Beds pushed together in Barcelona created a summer camp experience for the kids. Our two- bedroom apartment, just steps from La Rambla, was comfy and fun. At night, the kids linked their beds along one wall and told stories. After a while, I would join them to tell stories about funny things they had done. However, their favorite stories by far were always Rachel stories.
Sofas in the living room in Reykjavik were where the boys slept while we were in Iceland. Given that the sun barely set around 2 am and rose again at 4 am, it isn’t surprising that this received no votes.
Back seat of the bus in Reykjavik with your mouth hanging open must have been Keegan’s favorite place. The pictures are quite revealing.

Best way to get an arm loose from a Tube door
Only Bryan would get his arm stuck in the door on the Tube.
Anna Lauren’s spit—she offered but Bryan didn’t think this would work. Tyler apparently thought this was the best of the solutions.
Jerk on it until the arm falls off was my idea.
Uncle Tim’s hand sanitizer did the trick. Bryan and Anna Lauren, after giving up on the spit idea, recognized this as the best remedy.

Best excursion in Barcelona
Chocolate workshop at the Museu Xolata where they don’t speak English and pour chocolate down your throat would have gotten my vote. Tim and I left the kids at the kids’-only workshop with a leader whose English was a little sketchy. Oh well, they figured it out, and we had an hour to enjoy the chocolate museum and a coffee.
La Rambla where vendors sell birds, flowers, souvenirs, and penis pepper seeds took the boys’ votes. No surprise there.
Boqueria Market where the eel and octopus stare back at you is quite a cultural experience. The kids tried not to squeal.
Gaudi’s crazy buildings were Anna Lauren’s favorite.

Best Place to Shop
La Rambla in Barcelona
Harrod’s in London. Tim wanted ice cream here. Eight people, some of whom shared the gigantic sundaes, and $200 later, Tim was over ice cream.
Any gift shop—large or small—with any assortment of junk—no question about this one. These kids love to buy stuff.

Best Excursion in London

They loved London and especially Ripley’s. Anna Lauren couldn’t decide on just one, so she picked seven.
Tower of London
London Bridge
Crown Jewels
Royal Mews
Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace
Westminster Abbey
Ripley’s Believe or Not
Madame Tussaud’s
Egypt exhibit at the British Museum
London Eye
Kings Cross Station and Platform 9 ¾
Boat ride to Greenwich
Royal Observatory Planetarium Show

Best Excursion in Iceland
Blue Lagoon and the mud masks was the most fun for Bryan and Anna Lauren whose mother later spent good money at a salon getting the silica out of her hair.
Standing between Europe and North America was suggested by the former geography teacher.
Watching the volcanic hot pot explode.
Walking in an old volcano was Tyler’s pick. The year before I had a difficult time convincing Bryan that he was really better off that the volcano wasn’t active.

Scariest Ride
Anna Lauren didn’t vote for this category and stated that “nothing was scery.” This is the same girl who wouldn’t ride the roller coasters at Disney World in December.
Wooden Toboggan in Madeira starts at the top of a hill and ends downtown after a wild, death-defying ride through the street of Madeira. The two men who push the toboggan appear to be from the senior center. The first time Bryan rode in the toboggan, he kept screaming, “I’m going to die today. Tell Mama I love her!” He did better this time, but Tyler thought it was scary.
Bus in Barcelona was crowded enough to get Bryan’s vote. Little did he know that getting his arm caught in the tube door in London would be worse.
Floating through a cave in Belize on a raft
The London Eye was too slow to be scary for anyone.
Ziplining in Belize was more rush than scary for the boys. Anna Lauren was underage and saved her ziplining experience for the man-made pond at San Destin.
Tube in London quickly became an easy read for the kids. They took turns navigating our trips around town.


Please complete the following sentence
Bryan--I like Pollywog Vacations because “It’s awesome!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Tyler—I like Pollywog Vacations because “they take you to places you have never been.”
Anna Lauren-- I like Pollywog Vacations because “they are fun.”

Thanks to my Pollywogs for sharing their lives with me. I am so blessed.

All I Want for Christmas

Dear Santa,

We have a problem. The Pollywogs, all seven of us, wanted a Pollywog vacation for Christmas, but now we can’t go and it’s all your fault. Well, not your fault exactly, but one of your reindeer. Let me explain.

My name is Anna Lauren (but you already know that), and I’m in Kindergarten. Grammy put me in Mrs. Cha’s class, because she likes to keep her eyeballs on me. Mrs. Cha was Grammy’s student in eighth grade, and Grammy has her email address. I like school and love telling ‘Once Upon a Time’ stories. Even more than that, I love going on Pollywog vacations. The very best thing in the whole world is playing with my cousins.

This year, Bryan and I looked for dinosaurs at the La Brea Tar pits, and Tyler and I spent one day holding a baby monkey named Lisa at Little French Key. I watched princess movies with Aiden and played hide-and-go-seek with Wynn. Keegan took me to the bathroom in the middle of white tablecloth dinners. Leighton is my sister, but I still like to play with her.

Pollywogs love beach vacations, because we don’t really spend much time on the beach. Salt water up your nose and sand inside your swim suit—ugh! We like beach vacations where you ride a camel, sit in a wind tunnel, see a mummy, feed lorikeets, stand very still for butterflies, play laser tag, watch movies, eat junk food, and swim in the pool. The Littles—Wynn, Aiden, and Leighton—mostly babble in baby talk, take each other’s toys, and poop. But they love a good Pollywog vacation, too.

Pollywogs are good at cave tubing, zip lining, and dancing to a Zydeco band. We eat beignets and lick the confectioner’s sugar off the saucer. Last year I ate iguana soup, and this year I ate alligator and frog legs. Keegan eats sushi, but she’s the only kid I know who does that.

There are two things we don’t like—getting covered with sunscreen that gets in our eyes and nostrils and all the picture-taking. We get really tired of being good and smiling. One time Grammy let us wear our favorite outfits, fix our hair all by ourselves, and bring props. Grammy’s prop was Leighton’s pink Crocs hanging on her ears. That was the best picture ever!

I wanted to go on a Pollywog vacation for Christmas, but at first, Bryan was afraid you wouldn’t know where we were. Then we remembered that the Tooth Fairy always found us, so we weren’t worried any more. Last summer when I dropped my tooth on the deck at the beach and it fell through the slats, Aunt Rachel called security to bring a flashlight. She laid on her stomach for about an hour but never did find my tooth. Grammy texted the Tooth Fairy and explained the situation. Bryan lost two teeth on a cruise ship, and the Tooth Fairy found him in Cozumel. We think you’re at least as good at finding children as the Tooth Fairy.

Then we got the bad news. Grammy said we couldn’t go on a Pollywog vacation for Christmas, because “Grandpa got run over by a reindeer” and needs a new hip. Then he nearly cut off his finger while he was building something. Good grief!
Please bring Papa another hip for Christmas. I’ll speak to Jesus about healing the finger. Maybe next year I can get a Pollywog vacation for Christmas.

Love,
Anna Lauren
PS—I’ll leave you some milk and cookies, but I’m not feeding your naughty reindeer.

The Other Minnie

From Stuff with Stories


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

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

“Was she…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Study Abroad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Portia’s Cookie Jar

From Stuff with Stories

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

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

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

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

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

George hesitated for a moment.

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

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

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

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

Love,
Gay, the family storyteller
June 24, 2013

A Postscript to Mothers’ Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I thought a moment. Hmm.

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

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

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

“Oh, Grammy, it’s not a chipmunk.”

“What about a chihauhau?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May 13, 2013

Wishing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love,
Aunt Gay
April 26, 2013

Fish Tales

A fish story from a reliable source

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Daddy, come and watch me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And they lived happily ever after.

March 15, 2013

Lucy’s Valentine


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Milking Stool
From Stuff with Stories


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

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

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

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

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

Perception

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Souvenirs

From Stuff with Stories

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

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

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

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

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

Love,
Gay, the family storyteller
August 4, 2012

A Little Bit Scary; A Little Bit Beautiful


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

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

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

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

So is life, Anna Lauren. So is life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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