An Angel Year Round

As I was putting the Christmas ornaments on the tree this year, I was reminded (again) of one of my mother's friends who made paper angels and had given me one each year for a number of years. She did not have a lot of money, but was one of the most generous people I have ever known: generous with her time, her wisdom, and her talents. She had not had what most people would call a successful life through no fault of her own. Not having a lot of material things, she did not complain or gossip or say anything negative about anyone. If she had unkind things to say, I never heard them.  
She was a mentor of sorts for Mom, and Mom loved her. I loved her.  My kids loved her.  
When she walked into a room, she was all smiles and compliments, and they were genuine.  She found something good about everybody and even wrote a small book about the folks in our small town, citing what was worth noting for each person. As I get older, I realize what a gift that was. She was able to find the good stuff in people, even when their bad stuff showed.

She would pop in at my mom's house unannounced, and it was always with a handmade gift.  But what stood out to me was her spirit. She had a wonderful laugh and used it quite often. Her eyes sparkled as she and my mother would discuss Biblical scripture and how they could apply it to their lives. She exuded joy and faith and she lived it.

When I divorced decades later, she wrote me the most beautiful letter. She had a way of suggesting how to negotiate through life without being preachy. I listened to her because she was experienced in living life and taking the negatives on the chin. Her message was forgiveness and eventual joy in finding it.  

I think she wanted everyone to experience the love and joy and kindness you can have in your heart--your soul, if you make the decision to do so.  I think that was her secret--she chose finding the positive and the wonderful in people and it seemed effortless to me.  

I wonder if you have an angel right now or in your past that made a difference in your life. I am grateful for mine, and one of her gifts to me sits atop my tree in a well deserved place. 

On the Road with Scout

Our dog, Scout is not a good traveler.  With some encouragement, he will go with us, but he is not the kind of dog who will excitedly jump in when I open the car door. When he sees us packing, he hops onto our love seat in the corner of the living room and watches us drag suitcases down stairs and across the kitchen floor. His stare is glazed over: the " please tell me this isn't happening"  kind of look. We always pack his stuff last and that's when he knows for sure he can't escape the trip. His gaze turns into hiding his snout under his front paws when Clark approaches him with the leash. For a second, he hopes the leash's purpose is for a walk, but he knows better.  

When Scout was a puppy, he threw up every single time we drove him to the vet for his series of shots. I thought all dogs loved to go for rides, so I was completely surprised when the vet told us that occasionally, dogs get car sick. He added, " Some dogs exhibit stress when they are confined to a moving vehicle and their fear leads to vomiting. Some outgrow it and some do not." 

" Great," I thought. My mental picture of Scout sniffing wildflowers and hiking switchbacks with us in Colorado and cavorting in the waves of the Gulf of Mexico was beginning to change. I hated giving up on the idea that Scout could be our companion everywhere we went with just the occasional boarding experience. We rescued him in order to be with him and to enjoy him. I thought that included taking him with us on road trips. 

 The "doggie camp" people try to make you think that your dog is fine being confined to a cage, a concrete floor, and artificial turf.  You are given many options as to the kind of experience you want your dog to have while he is in jail. Does he prefer classical music or current hits? Would he enjoy a large screen with DogTV?  Does he prefer playtime or alone time?  How often does he want time outside? I have tried to stay within a normal range of extras because I don't think Scout cares if he listens to Beethoven or Taylor Swift, so whatever they are playing on their Apple Music or Spotify is fine with me. And he would only be interested in a TV show that pictured squirrels or cats 24/7 and that would not be soothing for him or anybody else within barking range. But he does care about how much time he gets outside with other dogs and humans, so I pay extra for that. 

When we left Scout at the last boarding kennel, we were given a web address so that we could watch him interact with the other dogs and the attendant --just like parents of kids at summer camp. I got online at the appointed time to observe Scout come into the large playroom with other dogs his size. I didn't like what I saw. 

 Scout was at the human's feet, looking up to make eye contact, patiently waiting to be lifted into her arms for an ear scratch or a tummy rub. He quietly followed her around while she offered her love and attention to other dogs by picking them up one at a time.  He continued to be available to her, skipping the chance to play with the other dogs. She never ever chose him, even though miles away I was wailing at her, thinking she could feel my vibe through the air.

 "Pick him, pick him!" I screamed at the screen to no avail. And then the pack left to go in the back for rest time. As I watched Scout trot through the door with his ears down and his tail limp, I just couldn't understand why he was not worthy of a quick show of affection. He was very well behaved and deserved a pat or two, but the attendant continued to overlook him for the more delicate and deluxe varieties. That was exactly why I wanted Scout to skip the dog facilities. Nobody was going to love on Scout like we do, plus it cost an arm and a leg for him to hang out there for a week. 

We take Scout on the three hour trip to Houston every time we go which is quite often. Annie, the Golden Retriever, who belongs to my daughter and her family, lives there. Scout adores her and he knows when we turn into her neighborhood that she is waiting at the other end. Three hours to get to Annie is worth the ride. 

He also goes to Oxford, Mississippi with us where we have a small cottage out from town that we rent for football games and Ole Miss/Oxford events. But the twelve hours to get to Mississippi is a long day. We have tried a dog seat belt in his bed in the back seat, but he is so miserable that he chokes himself trying to get to the front seat where we are- and throwing up is always on the horizon. Scout doesn't seem as nervous and unhappy if he is in front with us. We have tried other tactics but the tried and true no vomit method is lap riding. There is less panting and more sleeping. 

 And yes, I know, it is not safe for him to be loose in the car. But I am old enough to remember that as kids, we were unrestricted during trips, and when I got car sick, riding shotgun was the feather in my nauseated cap. Scout and I have both graduated from the dramamine tablets, but we are still marginal when it comes to moving in any vehicle for long periods of time. Even if I am covered in collie fur and nose drips when we arrive at our destination, we travel together in the front. So when he hesitates when jumping into the car, I get it. Scout and I like what we experience once we get where we are going, but the getting there is another thing.  

 * Update: We have convinced Scout that he's safer in a harness and seatbelt. 

Yard Fight

It has been my experience that when we have moved into a new house with an old yard, there is always something that makes me question the prior owners' choices of landscaping.  Like why did you cram a crepe myrtle next to the house so that I am constantly trimming it off the roof or why did you plant a bay leaf magnolia over the back patio so that leaves are so thick in the fall they are ankle deep? Or why in the name of all that is good and decent did you let hundreds and I do mean hundreds (I had trapped over 200 by the time we left) of voles move into every available plant root system in the yard?  These are the things that I faced in Memphis that I resented every season when I had to "clean up" a mess that I didn't make. I can't even begin to tell you about the pond that was beautiful for the first two weeks in Spring with the cute little frogs croaking....until it was a pool of green slime that I could have marketed to kids who love to make the stuff.  I know we all have those nagging garden irritants that we have to deal with on a regular basis and it makes gardening nothing like the shows you see on TV where someone is happily planting some beautiful annuals while wearing a cute little apron and sunhat.   

But nothing tops our Texas hill country yard fight. The family who sold us the house decided that the front yard needed a face lift and decided to plant three large agaves, the middle one being five feet tall and counting.  Why oh why did God make agave? Wait. Tequila, of course. And there are places in Mexico where they are farmed for this delicious beverage. But ours is not of that variety. When I kept impaling my hands on the sharp toothed fronds this morning I wondered why this big treacherous thing exists. And to add insult to physical injury, it puts out pups--that's what the baby plants are called. And, boy, is it a promiscuous plant, because they are everywhere and if you don't dig them up, they grow to be the same size as their parent with the same teeth and needles. I'm pretty sure the Native Americans used them for sewing buffalo hides and such. They could pierce metal. And ours are along the front walk into our house. So if you don't know us, you might think we are trying to deter you from "sittin on our porch awhile".

This is not our first rodeo with this menacing plant. When we first moved in, we were trying to whip this Texas yard into shape. (impossible with cactus and rock)

I have lived the majority of my life in the deep South, having fluffy and soft flowers and shrubs. That is not this land. Clark was using a chain saw to rip up some old and perhaps snake infested cactus when we noticed a large agave with her pups in the area the kids had been playing.  I told him to go for it. He revved up the chain saw and was dismembering its arms when the alien plant started spitting all over him. This thing was alive and fighting back.  White juice covered any flesh that was not protected. And then he began to burn. "Corlea, I'm on fire!" he said. He jumped into the shower and emerged with welts everywhere the juice had landed. We considered the ER but ended up at the pharmacy and the staff shaking their heads. 

The agave is still out there, itching for a fight. It will always win but I have cut some of the needles off the top fronds so when people walk by they won't be stuck in the eye or other body part. Other than that, since they are too big to dig up, we have to put up with these ultrahazardous beings for 15 to 20 years when they produce one 30 foot ugly flower and then they DIE.  I hope I'm alive to see it.  

A Very Bad Experience

I am watching the Ford/Kavanaugh proceedings just like everyone else, and I am seeing a lot of posts on Facebook about how Dr. Ford was making up her story for money or for political reasons.  I also saw President Trump make light of her testimony while in Southhaven because she couldn't remember important dates, times, and places. The way he quoted her was really dismissive and mean. All he had to say was that he didn't believe her. However, I found her fragile and believable. That's my opinion--I have no more substantiation than the next person. 
These hearings brought up a personal story that I haven't thought of in years but I want to share with you. Just because you can't remember when or where something traumatic happened to you doesn't mean it didn't happen.
In or around 1970 while I was a student at Ole Miss, I was asked to go on a blind date with a "friend" of a friend and her boyfriend. I made a bad choice to go. (I can't remember the exact year.) The person who set me up is deceased, so I cannot ask her his name. Yep, I can't remember his name! When he picked me up, he asked me if I liked strawberry daiquiries. I said I did even though I was not a big drinker. What's his name took me to his trailer where he lived alone and mixed up a batch of daiquiries. I can't remember the street or even anything that could help me place what area of Oxford this guy lived in.
I had not eaten supper and he did not offer me anything to eat.  I drank a large glass of the concoction and I sat down on his couch. He started to try to kiss me and press up against me.  I was embarrassed and scared and really didn't know what to do next. I didn't know him at all so I didn't know how he would react to my rejections. What had my friend told him about me that he was so presumptuous to dive right in with the aggressive behavior? We watched TV and I fended him off and as I began to feel the effects of the alcohol, I also began to get nauseated.  I excused myself, went to his bathroom, threw up and missed the toilet.  I grabbed a rug and placed it on top of my vomit. I laughed to myself because I thought that he would get a surprise when he went into the bathroom.
When I returned, I told him I didn't feel well, and he probably noticed that I had gotten sick and did not waste time to take me back to the dorm or sorority house.  I can't remember where I was living at the time.  And it's not because I was drunk or that I had blacked out. I had one large sweet drink that made me sick and I am guessing that vomit breath was a turn off, because that date could have gone really bad for me.
When my friend asked me how the date went, I told her the story and she and her boyfriend made me feel awkward--as if I were not telling the truth . I never saw that guy again anywhere at anytime on campus or elsewhere.  I can't remember telling most of my friends about my "daiquiri date" because I felt ashamed-like somehow I had presented myself as a big drinker or a promiscuous girl. I felt like the only reason I was on that date was for that guy to see how far he could get with me sexually. It made me feel as if I was just a thing, not a person. And I was questioning myself. I doubt that most of my friends could recall this event, even the guy who set up the date, who I have not seen since college.  I just know it is possible to have something scary happen to you, you get out of it, and you don't remember the big stuff.
Good thing I don't have to tell this to a judiciary committee--I could be discredited by the people who were elected to serve our country and even mocked by the president --and they could make me feel like it wasn't the truth --just like my friend who got me that stupid blind date. 

Ode to Mrs. Clanton

It was approaching Spring, another boring uneventful day

I was out on the playground during lunch and wanting to stay

I thought I heard the bell ring as we ran to get into line

It was the same routine we had done time after time 

Mrs. Clanton was on duty, in the shade as was her usual place

I had no idea I would be receiving a slap in the face.

Mrs. Clanton was reading her newspaper by the door

She said, “ The bell hasn’t rung, get out there and hang out some more

You kids have more time to talk- you’ll have to come in and be quiet soon”

I said, “Mrs. Clanton, the hands on my watch say it’s noon”

Then Mrs. Clanton took her paper and rolled it up in a great haste

And slapped me really hard against the side of my face

I was shocked and embarrassed, and kept the tears at bay

Mrs. Clanton looked at our group and began to say

That there would be no talking back where she was concerned

And that she hoped that a lesson was truly learned

And I wanted to run really fast to get out of that place

The day Mrs. Clanton used the newspaper to slap me in the face.

When I got back in class, I quickly took my seat

But I could still feel the red in my cheeks with all of that heat

I wondered what my mother would say when I got home

I begged her not to call the principal on the phone

I told her I would tell him myself at my own pace

That my seventh grade reading teacher slapped me in the face

Fifty five years have come and gone since I felt that hit

Mrs. Clanton never said she was sorry-not one little bit

I never really liked her much anyway

And can’t imagine what would happen to her today

And me, I try to laugh about my disgrace

The day Mrs. Clanton hauled off and slapped me in the face.

Not So Sweet Sixteen

With my 50th high school reunion coming up, I have been thinking about some of my experiences which I wish I didn't remember. Those memories will not keep me from the reunion, but a prior commitment probably will.  
On the day I graduated, a boy I had grown up with stole my wallet.  He and a couple of his friends drove around town with it in his car, and somebody who saw him do it told me immediately. I had just cashed some graduation gift checks to the tune of $60.00--money I was going to use for college clothes-- so I was super sad.  ( $60 could buy a lot of clothes in  those days) But I was more than upset that the boy I had known forever had swiped my money and didn't care about my feelings. I thought he was my friend and I was hoping that it was just high school shenanigans, but when a friend of mine talked him into returning the wallet, it was empty.  I was super happy that he had left my driver's license and other cards intact. He has since passed away, so I never got a chance to tell him that I didn't hold it against him--I just wondered what possessed him to do such a mean thing on such a happy day. 
And one more yucky memory surfaced recently- one that comes up from time to time-- one of the stories from my youth that I have actually shared with my grandchildren, so I thought I would share it here too just to see what you think.
I rarely had a party at my house, but on my sixteenth birthday, my mom threw an all girl party for me with a spaghetti dinner and her famous chocolate cake. I can remember having trouble limiting the invitation list to 10 girls, which was mom's limit.  After eating dinner and cutting the cake, I opened presents. Lucy gave me the Motown Greatest Hits album, and we cranked up " Shotgun", a Jr. Walker and the Allstars classic.  We were busy doing the jerk when the back doorbell rang. We turned down the music. and I answered the door.  I remember going to the door with some of the girls at the party and we found an unwrapped shirt box on the doorstep with no card or note.  A car was screaming down the street.  Some of the girls thought they recognized the car but we were unable to see who was driving or if there was anyone else in the car besides the driver.  It was making a quick getaway for sure.  
I brought the box into the house, excited to see what someone had given me. I lifted the top off and folded back the paper to see a dead bird inside--a rather large owl!! And in its rectum was a number two yellow pencil. Yes, that's right, someone thought so much of me that they stuffed a pencil up an owl's butt, stuck it in a box and left it on my doorstep. I can't tell you the many different emotions that my body processed in the minutes that followed. And of course, "Shotgun" was no longer the focus of our attention.  Here's what went through our minds:  
1. Who did it?
2. Why?
3. Did I really piss someone off to the degree that they felt that was an appropriate response?
4. How does somebody get a dead owl? And then make a decision to thrust a pencil up that owl"s bottom? And leave it at my birthday party?

If you know me, you know I am an animal lover.  I think I cried as much for the owl as I did for myself. After mom rushed over and disposed of the package, we were pretty much subdued, so the rest of the party was focused on who would have done it and why.  Later in the school year, I was told who was probably behind the 
owl package, but I never took any recourse.  I just avoided those people. Fifty two years later, I am not angry or hold any contempt. I will just not ever get it.  I didn't dislike anybody in my class so I guess I assumed everybody liked me.  But this does take Mean Girls to the next level, don't you think?  And I can't help but think that these folks won't be missing me too much at our reunion.  

Gettin' My Hair Did

When I was a little girl, I dreaded the one day all the other kids looked forward to, because half of the entire day of Saturday was devoted to my hair.  I have always had thin, straight, fine hair and was of the tender headed variety, so, to me, the time invested was not worth the fleeting result. My mother, however thought differently. She had beautiful dark curly hair that knew how to behave, and she was determined to whip my pitiful hair into shape with a few procedures. After all, the 50s were all about Shirley Temple curls, and Mama loved a cosmetic challenge.  

First, a towel was fastened around my shoulders with a giant safety pin at my neck. Afterwards, I was invited to step onto the stool in front of the kitchen sink where a shampoo hair shield was stuck on my head, with all of my hair being pulled up through the circular hole at the top. If you are not familiar with these contraptions, it is a disc made from stretchy plastic much like a rubber doughnut that is designed to keep shampoo from getting into your eyes.  Because I was standing up leaning over the sink, it was  convenient for Mom to have my hair in one big clump at her disposal. Mom’s hands were in hot water a lot during the day, so sometimes the water was way too hot for my tender headed skull. But if I complained I might get a stream of super cold water, so it was better just to try to take the heat. My scalp was sufficiently scrubbed and rinsed twice, but  I still had a lot left to go. After a comb out, my hair hung limp and wet and ready for the next unpleasant experience: the dreaded wave clamps. Those stainless steel gadgets were not in the least kid-friendly, with their jaws of multiple teeth just waiting to entangle my hair. There would be twenty or so of those shark-toothed chip clips secured to my scalp, grabbing what little hair they could creating indentations all over my head. After my hair dried and they were removed it was not enough to have multiple impressions all over. There must be curls--even if they weren’t natural.  So, what do you do in the 50s if you want tight curls on top of the fake waves? You get your hair rolled up on rags. About 30 pieces of old diapers or dishrags ripped into strips about eight inches long and an inch wide found a place on top of my head. My hair was parted into small sections, dampened on the ends, and rolled tightly around each strip of cloth which were then tied in a half knot on top of my head.  Sitting still is not my strong suit, so this was an excruciating leg of the hair torture.  If it was late in the day, I might be sleeping on this mess. And finding a position where a knot wasn’t driving itself into my scalp was a challenge.  And then, of course, the next day was the untying. Think of all the little hairs that got crossways in the rag as it was being rolled. The unrolling hurt just as much as the rolling up. The brush could barely find its way through the tightly wound curls, and I could barely keep my eyes from tearing up during this phase. Finally, my hair was cajoled into place and my mother seemed as happy with the final product as I was to have it over.  As the week wore on, the curls began to droop, even with hair nets securing them at night,and by Thursday or Friday, a pony tail was in order. It would have suited me just fine to sport that pony tail all week to keep from wasting an afternoon inside having my hair tugged, pulled and knotted because I can still remember how I cringed when Mama called me in from playing outside on a perfectly wonderful Saturday to enter the gates of hair hell.

This is not me--it's a photo from the internet.