It's Fall, Ya'll!!!

Well, it is officially fall. Yes, I know technically it became fall last week but today was Parent-Teacher conferences in our school system and this signals fall for me. We conferred today are now ready to begin fall break for a week. And I couldn’t be happier. For as long as I can remember this has been my favorite season. Certainly, there are things about the other seasons that I enjoy but there are also things about them for which I don’t particularly care.

I love snow in the winter, but there are times when it’s just too cold. Plus, my husband gets all grumpy each month when the electric bill arrives. Summers are nice in that we have a lot of vacation time and can swim and travel, but there are times when it’s just too hot. Plus, my husband gets all grumpy, again, when those bills start to arrive. Spring is lovely with all the new plant growth and those first days of warm breezes, but it can also rain a lot in the spring, and when this happens our gravel drive washes out (our house is on a hill) and my husband gets grumpy when we have to buy more.

But fall? There is NOTHING about FALL I don’t love. And I’ll be sharing those with you over the next few days.

A Bird + A Lawyer + A Ham = A Classic

So Ren went to TPAC today on a school field trip to see a production of To Kill a Mockingbird. I know. I was also somewhat jealous. Of course, had it actually starred Gregory Peck I would have been, in the words of another southern gal near and dear to my heart, "pea green with envy." I would also have been somewhat shocked, as he's been dead for a few years now.

Is there anyone out there who has read the book and/or seen the movie and doesn't love it/them? If so, I'm going to put you on my church's prayer list. You are obviously suffering from some fever and are in need.

Having read the book I think the movie did it justice. Yes, it left out a few details. However, it remained true to the spirit penned by Ms. Lee. And the character portrayals were just icing on the cake, even those in the minor roles. Remember Miss Dubose? "Don't you say 'hey' to me you ugly girl!"

I have mentioned it before but had John-Heath been a little girl his name would have been Scout. And you know what that would have meant, don't you? He/she would have had to dress as a ham for Halloween at least once.

Well friends, goodnight from Maycomb.

images via

An Apple Julep a Day

Yesterday the family was over for Ren’s birthday. In years past we’ve had two parties. One for friends and one for family. This year, at her request, we just had the family party. It seems she is already looking ahead to her Sweet 16 and feels we should “skip the friend party this year and save up”. I’m still undecided as to whether this was good news or not.

Anyway, we had a very simple little birthday supper and ended the evening with chocolate cake and ice-cream.

Now, if one were to see my kitchen they would probably think this is the kitchen of someone who loves to cook. Well, looks can be deceiving, my friends. I hate to cook. I don’t guess it’s the actual cooking I hate but rather the preparation and clean-up. If I had someone to stock my pantry with all the needed groceries, etc. and someone to clean-up the mess when it’s over I actual wouldn’t mind it.

So, I’m always on the lookout for an easy recipe. And the easy for this event came in the form of Apple Julep compliments of The Apple Barn's recipe. We had it in addition to sweet tea, of course, and soft drinks.

1 qt. apple juice
1 cup pineapple juice
1 cup orange juice
1/4 cup lemon juice

garnish with orange slices or apple slices
serve with a sprig of mint

(Serves 6)

Okay, so now I’m craving the Apple Barn. Maybe I can talk John into taking a drive up to Pigeon Forge soon.

Have a great week, ya’ll. It’s a short one for us, as we’ll start our fall break on Friday.

image via

The First Best Day of My Life

Dear Ren,

Fifteen years ago today I met someone most dear. You. You came in the form of pink, fleshy softness with a perfectly round head and purple feet and will one day be the person who decides in which nursing home I should live. I hope we’re on good terms then :>).

You have brought me joy and a certain amount of agnst, typical for moms and daughters, over these years. But mostly joy. And happiness. And laughter. Even the story of your birth is partly humorous to those who know me and my low level tolerance for pain. I should have known then you would be quite the cut-up. So today I will share it with you, just in case one day you want to know all the little details. And keep in mind, your momma’s a wuss. No, I’m not proud of that fact, but it’s who I am.

Let me start by saying you were planned. And when I say planned I mean really planned, as in charts and thermometers planned. It’s almost as if we hand picked you from the millions of possible yous you could have been.

The week before your ETA I asked my ob-gyn if it would be possible to be induced on your exact due date and she agreed, so September 25 it was. Honestly, had I waited and let nature take its course you would probably be celebrating your birthday in October.

The night of the 24th your dad and I talked about the fact that we were likely spending our last worry-free night. We've since found out that we were correct in that thought.

A few hours later, though, I was up early getting ready to head to the hospital. I arrived, checked in, and within a short time was in my bed sitting up all nice and pretty with a smile on my face. The first nurse to arrive remarked that I must be one of the moms being induced that day. “Why, yes I am. But how did you know,” I asked. She answered that, “most women who come in already in labor don’t take time to fix their hair and put on makeup.” Oh.

My preliminary impression of being induced was this...you go in, they give you a medicine in drip-form through an IV, and this causes your body to, within a matter of an hour or two tops, birth a baby. No fuss! No muss!

My postliminary impression of being induced was this...you go in, they give you medicine via an IV, and this causes your body, a body that is not ready to have a baby, to go into hyper drive with contractions trying to force something out that is, again, not ready to come out. And along with this you also get to experience such wonderful things as enemas (described to a naive you as “just some nice warm water in a bag.”) and internal monitors put in place by a lady with a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt.

The baby-inducing drug started to flow into my system at approximately eight o’clock that morning. By eight-thirty I was no longer sitting up all nice and pretty with a smile on my face. My body, which before now had not even hinted at contracting, not even via those fake Braxton Hicks' ones, was squeezing and contorting and flexing, making me feel like one big spasm. I was in my drug-induced labor and was experiencing what they called “back labor”. And it hurt! Bad! A little Demerol was given to “take the edge off.” The edge remained. I was beginning to wonder if the tales of epidurals and spinal blocks were all some big hoax. Where were these miracles of science that would allow me to give birth and at the same time play a hand of cards with friends or take walks down the hall in my bathrobe holding hands with your dad?

After much writhing and grinding and weeping and gnashing I begged for relief. “Pleeeease, won’t you just do that thing where I don’t feel anything from my ankles up,” I beseeched. It seems that doctors do not like to give epidurals until one’s cervix has dilated somewhere in the range of 4 or 5 centimeters. “Well, we’ll have to examine you again.” Nurse Mitt returns and up she goes. This is the verbal exchange that followed.

Nurse Mitt: (grunts) “Huh”

Me: (in exasperation) What am I? Seven? Eight? Nine?

Nurse Mitt: (very dryly) Honey, you might be one and a half.

But, you know what? I got that epidural anyway. While it seems that doctors do prefer to wait before giving it, it also seems they prefer not to hear whiney patients even more. Well let me tell you, it was the most beautiful feeling I had ever known. I could then just sit there all nice and pretty with a big smile on my face and watch that little line on the monitor go up and down with nary a care.

Then your heart rate started doing some funny things. This was the most scared I was throughout the entire experience. You seemed to be in distress and there was nothing I could do to help you. Luckily, it was just the internal monitor needing a little adjustment. Around this same time I noticed I was beginning to feel pain again. And it wasn’t long before the writhing and grinding and weeping and gnashing returned.

This time the doctor herself entered for an examination. Her findings? You were too big a baby to enter the natural way. You would need to be delivered through a Caesarean section. And at that point I was given a whopping dose of some other miracle drug and, just like that, no pain again.

After being transferred onto another bed I was wheeled into the operating room, accompanied by your dad, of course. I had the sweetest nurse anesthetist and his soft, kind voice helped me remain calm as they were putting up a blue curtainy thing in front of my face to keep me from seeing anything too frightening or bloody. At some point my doctor asked if I “felt that.” When I answered “no” she said we were ready to begin. The only thing I felt throughout the entire C-section was a bit of tugging just before you made your grand entrance.

You entered this world at 4:29 p.m. that Marvelous Monday weighing in at six pounds fourteen ounces (turns out you weren't such a big baby after all). After a brief initial examination and cleaning you were wrapped in a blanket and handed to your daddy. He brought you to my side and I was able to see you for the first time. You were beautiful. The two things I remember from our first meeting was a reddish-colored birthmark far back on the right side of your face and dark blue eyes (which later turned to brown). Your dad only let me look for a minute and then he walked you to the nursery for a more thorough cleaning. Along the way eager relatives tried to get a peek at you but all they saw were your little purple feet. Your daddy had covered your face with the blanket to keep anyone from seeing you just yet, as you still had a little blood around your nose. You know how your dad likes to keep up appearances and all.

One of your first frowns.

Within a short time you were on display through the nursery window for all the world to see. And we knew you were a performer from the start. You practically rolled over that first day!

On Wednesday, it was time to take you home. Our house would no longer be the home for a couple, but rather a family. For this, your first outing, you wore the same outfit I wore on my trip home - a little, white two-piece sleep-set with green trim monogrammed with the words Take Me Home. This same outfit has since been worn by your brother too. One of these days I hope you will have the chance to dress your own little boy or girl in it for their homegoing.

Happy birthday, my sweet girl. Thank you for giving me the first best day of my life. I love you.

I'm glad we were able to take you home.

P.S. This post is linking up as a participant in Kevin and Layla's Favorite Blog Posts of 2010 Party over at the Lettered Cottage. It's one of my three most favorite posts I wrote in my first year to blog.

And the Beat Goes On

John playing the piano from his childhood for the last time accompanied by John-Heath on (John's) trumpet from his high school band days.

John-Heath is a big fan of muse-kit (that’s what you and I call music) and from what I gather from conversations I have with him about school, it is his second favorite related arts class (behind PE, of course).

Like all babies, he loved it when someone would sing to him. His favorite, and he still asks for this some nights, was a little tune I made up called “Baby Boy”. It sort of starts out (through the word sweet) with the same melody as the Largo movement in Dvorak’s Symphony No. 9, "From the New World".

Baby boy,
Baby boy.
He’s a sweet baby boy.
Momma loves her baby boy.
He’s as sweet as pumpkin pie.

When he was a little younger than two we realized that, not only did he enjoy music, he could appreciate music and be moved, emotionally, by it. He was playing with Ren’s keyboard one day and hit the button for the pre-programmed song selections. We soon heard an instrumental version of “My Heart Will Go On” (you got it...Titanic) wafting through the house followed by ... sobbing. My little baby boy was crying his eyes out. He did this on one other occasion when he heard this same song being played. Now, had he seen Titanic I would perhaps feel that he was simply making a connection between the song and a sad movie. But he hadn’t seen it (or anything else, as it took three years before he showed the slightest interest in watching television. But that’s another story). So I can only assume that children can appreciate music and that it touches their soul the same as ours. Truth be told, with their pure essence, they probably appreciate it more.

Speaking of music, my husband said goodbye to an old friend recently...his piano - the Kohler and Campbell his parents purchased new for him and his sister in 1972 or ‘73. When his mom moved out of the home in which she raised her family into something smaller the piano came to live with us. And we just didn’t need another one. I still have the piano my parents bought me in the late 70’s when I started taking lessons (my Kimball currently resides in my nephew’s home while his little boys, Weston and Dylan, take lessons). Thus, we had to sell it. And, of course, it’s always sad to part with something that has occupied a place in your home and hearts for so many years, so we did so with a little anxiety. But it just so happened that my cousin has a little girl who is now learning to play and she bought it. Therefore, technically, it’s still in the family and, most importantly, it is being played again.

And That's What It's All About

Here’s some news to send you on your weekend - courtesy of my ever-witty Ren. It seems the man who wrote the “Hokey Pokey” has died. According to reports the actual act of getting him into his casket was extremely problematic and took several hours to complete. And just why was that? Well, it seems they put the left leg in, they put the left leg out... Ba-dump-bump. (That's my lame attempt at an onomatopoeia for a rimshot)

We all thought that was pretty cute. And it made me wonder, just who did write the "Hokey Pokey"? So, I did a little googling. Turns out, a fellow by the name of Ronald Lawrence LaPrise from Idaho (and actually deceased since 1996) is said to have written the song in the late 1940s. Later, it appeared on the flip side of a 45 recording of “The Bunny Hop” by Ray Anthony. Of course, like so many other great songs before and after its time, the “Pokey” has had to contend with claims of ownership and copyright infringement, so we may never know all the facts. Sounds like it’s time for E’s True Hollywood Story to investigate.

Happy weekend, ya’ll!

image via

The Thursday Three- Frankly, My Dear

More than 70 years ago movie-goers flocked to see what would become one of the greatest theatrical releases of all time, Gone With the Wind. More than twenty years ago I became a dyed-in-the-wool fan of this most glorious movie.

I know it’s not very PC to admit this, but Scarlett is absolutely one of my favorite movie characters, as played by Vivien Leigh. The producers who created the sequel Scarlett were just fooling themselves thinking Joanne Whalley-Kilmer could ever pull off that role. Ms. Whalley is a beautiful, talented actress but no one could ever again portray Scarlett O’Hara with justice. Even the fact that there had been more than fifty years between the two films did little to ease another actress into that role. By the way, I’m so glad that Margaret Mitchell decided against the name of Pansy for her protagonist. Pansy O’Hara just doesn’t have quite the same ring, does it?

Anyway, one of the things I love most about Scarlett is her wardrobe. Why, it almost makes me wish I could go back in time just to wear her clothes. Well, not really. I love modern conveniences too much. Things like air-conditioning, hair curlers, and microwaves have spoiled me. Speaking of attire, did you know that Walter Plunkett, GWTW’s costume designer, created more than 5,000 separate items of clothing for the movie?

Many of the dresses worn by Ms. Leigh were given to director David O. Selznick, who later gave them to the Harry Ransom Center at the University of Texas at Austin, where they have been kept for many years now. I recently read somewhere that there is currently a donation drive under way to raise funds for the preservation of five dresses worn by Leigh. This prompted this week’s Thursday Three.

The Thursday Three

My Favorite Costumes from Gone With the Wind

Nothing modest or matronly about this one. My absolute favorite from the entire movie.

I love this one for two reasons. 1. Green is my favorite color and 2. It is an example of that Southern can-do spirit and determination.

Makes me want to eat a plate of bbq.


Happy Thursday, ya'll!

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A Day of Christian Dior and Thomas the Tank Engine or, as Ren Thought It Should Be Called, Fashion Week In Nashville

I love living in a small town (most of the time). Of course, I was born and bred in one so it’s just who I am and what I know. I love how there’s very little traffic on the way to or from work and how there are still people who wave as they meet you on the street, even if they don’t know you, and how old men sit and chew the fat over a cup of coffee every morning at the same tables in the local eateries and how I can once again call up my post office and get an address for someone and not be told that it’s against the rules because of the Patriot Act or Homeland Security. I would assume, though, moving to a small town from a highly populated place would be rough. And moving to a big city from a small town could also be a little stressful.

My dream all throughout high school was to one day live in New York, the city of New York. Much of the state of New York, especially upstate, looks similar to Middle Tennessee so that wouldn’t be much of a change. Anyway, I would be some fabulous actress or critically acclaimed playwright living high above some grand avenue in a penthouse with perfect views of Central Park.

Wouldn't this be a swell view?

Alas, my dream, at least that one, did not come true. But it’s okay, because I really do enjoy small town life. Again, for the most part. There are times when my family feels we are running a little low on some cultural fuel. When that happens it becomes time to take a drive into Nashville. Now, don’t laugh. Yes, Nashville is the home of country music (of which I am a fan) and has its share of neon lights and honky tonks, but it also has the Frist Center for the Visual Arts, TPAC, the Schermerhorn Symphony Center, a great public library and many other wonderful places to spend a day or evening.

This past weekend we took the kids and spent a very enjoyable day there. You’ll remember we missed church this past Sunday. Well, that’s why. We were in Nashville.

The first part of the day was spent at the Tennessee Central Railway Museum for its Day Out With Thomas the Tank Engine event. This one was for John-Heath. He loves trains. Barely a weekend can go by without a trip to a Barnes and Noble book store so that he can buy another little wooden train. This is what we bribe him with to be good at school.

We took a train ride, which was pushed along by Thomas, met Sir Topham Hatt, got fake tattoos, and, of course, bought popcorn. My little boy can not be within 100 yards of popcorn without thinking he has to have some.

He was thrilled to ride on a real train but I think he was a little skeptical of Sir Topham Hatt. John was holding him (we had been in line for a while) when he and John-Heath had this exchange:

John: Hey, John-Heath! Look! There’s Sir Topham Hatt.

John-Heath: (smiles for a moment before saying...)I don’t think that’s the real Sir Topham Hatt. I think that’s just someone dressed up in his clothes.

John: What makes you say that?

John-Heath: Because his eyes don’t move and his mouth doesn’t move.

After having so much fun at the train station that we just couldn’t stand it anymore (okay, that was a little sarcasm on my part) we headed over to the Frist to see The Golden Age of Couture exhibit. This one was for Ren.

I had been promising to take her to see it for a while and this was the last day. Note to self...never again wait until the last day of an exhibit at the Frist to go and see it. It was an awesome collection, very heavy on Christian Dior, but would have been a lot awesomer had we gone, say, on a Wednesday about a month ago (if you are an English teacher my apologies for using "awesomer" as a word). The crowd was large, almost uncomfortably so, and I began to feel a little claustrophobic. Nonetheless, it was a really great exhibit (on loan from the Victoria and Albert Museum in London) and the people at the Frist are always just so very nice and helpful. While Ren and I were looking at all the pretty dresses John and John-Heath were next door at Union Station looking at more, you guessed it, trains.

After a late lunch/early supper at Dalts we headed home. The day was a success. As John-Heath noted, “I am just so happy.” And all the people in the car said, “Amen!”

Word of the Day

Today I feel...

exhausted (adj).

Or in other words...

tired, beat, bushed, pooped, dog-tired, fatigued, worn out, shattered, dead beat, done in, drained, wearied, spent, all in

I don't know how parents with more than one child in sports, or parents of one child involved in more than one sport, do it. Well, I guess technically Ren is involved in two, but being water girl for the football team isn't that bad, only one game a week. Soooo glad volleyball is almost over. Just a couple more weeks. Of course, It could always be worse. She could be playing basketball. Those poor players and coaches are on the go forEVER!

"SO IF YOU'RE SO TIRED WHY DON'T YOU GET OFF THE COMPUTER AND GO TO BED," you ask -using your amazingly powerful telekinetic communication skills. I hear you loud and clear, my friends.

Nighty-night! Sweet dreams!

Aren't They Just Grand?

That's me in my Pa Vernon's lap, along with Momma Beatrice and cousins Debbie, Tonya, and Suzanne.

Yesterday was Grandparents Day. I forgot. Until yesterday afternoon. My mother reminded me. A sweet boy at church welcomed her with a “Happy Grandparents Day” greeting and one great big hug. It wasn’t John-Heath. We weren’t there. At church. On Grandparents Day. Because I forgot.

Actually, we rarely miss the worship service at church. I am the piano player and that makes it a little harder to skip. Our absence is somewhat more noticeable, as is our usual late entrance. My father implores me each and every Saturday to attend Sunday School. “Now get up in time to be at Sunday School tomorrow," he will say. My response is, “Well.” (I know well is not an actual response, and I'm not sure where I picked that word up, but I have a terrible, terrible habit of using it as the acknowledgement to a request). My dad’s response to my response is, “Don’t just say ‘well’. Get up and Come.” I know I should get back in the routine of going to Sunday School and I do enjoy it when we go. We send John-Heath. I’m hoping that counts for something.

Anyway, back to Grandparents Day. My kids adore my parents and my parents adore them. We cannot head south to go anywhere that John-Heath is not begging to stop by and see them. And, of course, Ren would always rather stay at their house than go out with us on weekends. For their part, my parents make sure they come by to see the kids every other day or so. And usually they come bearing some type of gift. Truthfully, I believe my parents love my children more than they love me. I guess all grandparents feel this way. So I think it’s understood that no special day is needed for them to realize the bond they share and that everyday to my kids is a grandparents day. Or I’m hoping they understand this. Of course, based on the fact that my mother made a point to tell me the story of the little boy hugging her at church in honor of this holiday, I may be wrong.

As for me, I was blessed with some really great grands. My maternal grandparents both passed away by the time I was 8. Even so, I have fond memories of being with them. My mother’s mother died a few months before I was born but my step-grandmother, Momma Beatrice, doted on me as if I were her own. I remember once going out on a cold day and gathering up snow to make some “snow cream”, which, let me tell you, was a real treat to a four-year-old. And, if memory serves me correctly, she added food coloring to the cream to make it even more special. After making sure my coat and little purple gloves were securely on we were off. In good weather she and Pa Vernon, who was a quiet man, led me around on their mule Kit. I’m not sure if any pictures were ever taken of this but I would certainly love to have one of me on top of that old mule with my grandparents holding the lead line.

My dad’s parents were with me longer. Mammy Sophie (her name was actually spelled Sophia, but we pronounced it Sophie - like the Meryl Streep movie) passed away a couple months before I turned 18 and I had Pa Frazier until my 30th year. Mammy was about four years older than Pa and I always thought that must have been quite the scandal in their time. My cousin even wrote a family poem alluding to it once.

Now, mammy was a good woman and loved me I have no doubt. However, she didn’t dote on me as my other grandmother did. My nephew Shane (my sister’s son) got all the attention there. But I don’t remember this causing much jealousy or hurt feelings. He lived just down the road from them and was with them all the time so they practically helped raise him. Besides, with nine other grandchildren and a handful of great-grandchildren around it’s not like I was the only one in that boat.

I remember my mammy’s voice. It was a sweet, kindly one. She was not in good health and did not get out much so most of her time was spent sitting in her chair in the kitchen wearing little, unembellished cotton dusters. From her spot she could see the television and was within reach of the phone. And quite often she would call in the afternoon to check on us and see how everyone was doing. Once, as a teen, I remember answering the phone on my dad’s desk. It was mammy. I am pretty sure I rolled my eyes and/or silently huffed this particular day because I didn’t have time to talk to my grandmother, or any adult for that matter. I was on the way to my bedroom to do something super-duper important like watch MTV or reconfigure my twist-bead necklaces. Throughout the years I spoke with my grandmother by phone on numerous occasions, but this is the only time I remember. And the times I remember it, which are frequent, are always accompanied by this thought - what I wouldn’t give to hear her on the other end of the line just one more time.

Pa Frazier? Well, I have never known a man as kind as he (my daddy is a very close second). I don’t think he ever possessed a mean bone in his body. And could he cook!!! His specialty was fried chicken and biscuits. Again, as a teen, I wasn’t so very appreciative of these things. I did appreciate his humor and his stories, though. Pa liked to tease and had an easy laugh. I think the only one in the family who did not appreciate this was Ren. She was still very young and didn’t think it so funny when he would poke his cane toward her. During most visits she would stay backed up between some adult’s legs with a scowl on her face. When he passed away and we were at the graveyard preparing to say our final goodbyes, Ren, who was four at the time, saw a tombstone close by shaped like a semi-truck. To her it looked like a train. To my dismay she quickly mounted it and, in a very loud voice, let out a “Choo-Choo.” Now, at such a solemn moment I was quite naturally mortified by this behavior and quickly snatched her off her granite perch. But at the same time I remember thinking I bet Pa would have gotten a kick out of it.

If you are lucky enough to still have dear parents and grandparents in your life cherish each moment with them. For the time will come when their phone calls will be no more.

Everyone Needs a Mammy...

...and I had one of the best. Remembering a dear grandmother on, what would have been, her 104th birthday.

Mammy Sophie

9/12/06 - 2/13/88

A snowball bush just like the one at the end of my grandmother's porch.

Taking a Moment To Look Back

9/11/01


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Rainy Days and Fridays?

I really love it when it does this...

But NOT when I want to do this.

Because this...

is miserable!

Here's to staying dry under those Friday night lights.

Images via

Growing Pains

You see this girl?

This is my Ren. She’s 14, but by this time next month she will be 15 and the proud new owner of a driving permit. She’s beautiful, funny, creative and stylish and, according to her guidance counselor whom we bumped into at Cheddar’s a few evenings back, a “sweet, sweet girl”. If there wasn’t a giant scar across the bottom of my stomach from where they cut her out of me a few years ago I wouldn’t believe she was mine. I’m not beautiful, stylish, nor particularly creative and it’s been so long since I’ve been called sweet that I’m not sure I ever was. But my daughter is all these things. Yes, I know I’m bragging and biased, but it’s my blog. One can brag and be biased on their own blog. Isn’t that why these are called vanity blogs?

My daughter recently had a rough couple weeks at school. I guess I shouldn’t be complaining. Things aren’t that bad. She has a good group of core friends and really likes, and is really liked by, her teachers. In fact, the rough spots have mainly come about because of a few who, though not in her social circle of friends, are ones she must contend with on a daily basis because of a shared love for a certain extracurricular activity.

Ren is, and always has been, a confident girl. With no bashful bone in her body she will gladly get up in front of people to perform, even when it requires much silliness - as in dressing like a bird and dancing to “Rockin’ Robin” as a 4th grader or dressing in pajamas and hair curlers for her school's homecoming. Likewise, she is not one bit shy about defending herself when needed. But, she can get worn down after a point. That’s okay, though. She always bounces back after a short, self-prescribed exile, usually to her room to listen to her radio or watch a few episodes of Reba or Seinfeld.

What upsets me as a mom is when the bullish behavior of a few girls during the school hours spills over to the bleachers during games and gets regurgitated out of the mouths of grown-ups. I shouldn’t really say it upsets me. Upset is too light a word. In truth, it flat out angers me. If an adult wants to spew venom about another adult within earshot of said adult, that’s one thing. But to run down a child, and know you are doing so loud enough to be heard, is quite another. What kind of person does that? Okay, that’s really a rhetorical question. I know exactly what kind of person does that and to call them such on this public forum would be tacky, so I won’t.

I will simply say that sometimes

the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

BREAKING NEWS>>>THIS JUST IN (not really, but kinda)>>>John-Heath had a really good day at school and came home the proud owner of a good note from his teacher. Of course, then he was just terrible at a volleyball game and church. We'll take our victories anywhere we can get them.

Arrivederci, Brace Face!

Only minutes to go...

After a little more than 3 years of metal, wires, quads and cbj's our little brace face is no more. Ren is back to nothing more than the blissful, au naturel look and feel of enamel. Now, all that is needed is a little fine tuning - a good cleaning, a crown for one rather small tooth, and maybe some whitening down the road and she'll be all set.

She was a little disappointed when they finally came off. I think she expected to see a set of Julia Robertsesque set of choppers and when she didn't (she has her dad's small mouth) she felt as if the past three years had been one big ol' waste of time. But when she had time to think it over she began to be more pleased about it and recognize the improvements that were made.

As for that Julia Roberts' smile? Well, that's what veneers are for much later on down the road.

So Long, Summer!

We'll catch you on the flip side.

How lonely some things will seem for a while.

Like my front porch rockers...

or a small white rowboat.


No need for long rows of beach chairs

or rides at a fair.

Happy Labor Day, ya'll!

Too Much Harper's + Too Little Exercise = Too Much Me (Part 3)

Most of the weight I’ve gained in the 22 years since marrying was gained during the first 2 years, with a little bit more over the course of having my two children. Sometimes I think, “Poor John. He didn’t marry this.” But then I remember what he gets to eat and how frequently he gets to eat it and how nothing is gained when he eats it and I don’t feel so sorry for him anymore.

Now, as anyone who has ever struggled with weight issues can attest, it can be crippling. The list of things I have refused to do over the years because of it, that the old me, the high school me, would have done in a heartbeat, might easily astonish you. It really is ridiculous what I have missed out on. Things like riding roller coasters, horseback riding, taking a cruise, parasailing, shopping at the cutest clothing stores, and having tons of family pictures taken (and being in them myself). I know you’re probably thinking that these things are not generally weight-restricted, but being restricted does not always manifest itself in the physical sense.

I know I need to do better, try harder, put forth some semblance of a real effort. I have approached an age where it becomes more about health and longevity than appearance. More importantly, I have a young teenage daughter who needs a good role model. And while I’m pretty sure I will never be the exact role model I’d like to be, I know I can do much better.

But it’s sooo hard, especially for someone like me who expects things to just fall in my lap and has almost a nonexistent willpower to boot. I suppose that’s why I decided to write about it publicly. Maybe by doing this I’ll be more motivated to keep at it. Not that the person from Idaho who checks out my blog from time to time would ever know whether I’m sticking with it or not - but I can pretend she does.

Well, thanks for joining in on my pity-party for the past three days. I hope I haven’t driven you away with all my bemoaning and sniveling.

Oh, and to answer a possible question some of you may have had...what is Harper’s and why is too much of it a bad thing? Harper’s is a little restaurant in a small Kentucky town not too far a drive from where I live that serves some of the best catfish (and slaw) anywhere around. I think its proper name is Harper’s Catfish, but anyone within a 50 mile radius knows it simply as Harper’s. As you can see by the picture you’re not going to leave feeling as if you’ve eaten at the former Tavern on the Green, but it’s not their aestheticism that packs the place on weekends. John and I usually order the adult fish dinner (so that we can split ours with John-Heath) but grown-ups can also order a child’s portion and it’s still a lot of fish. We also usually place an order via the cell phone as we get close and take ours home to eat. Kentucky has not yet jumped on the idea of no smoking in restaurants, like Tennessee, and my eyes and nose don’t handle smoke too well.