A Celebrity Encounter With Tommy Lee Jones

     Have I ever told you all about the time I met Tommy Lee Jones? No? Well, have I got a tale for you. First, you should know that we are all big TLJ fans in my house; he is one of my most favorite personalities. The man can act and I would not even think twice about paying money to watch him play a deaf-mute who stuffs envelopes for a living. Ren even has a friend who reminds us of a young Tommy Lee and we have often said if a movie is ever made about him, this friend should play him.


     One Sunday, my friend Kim and I attended church at a Church of Christ in a town through which we were passing on vacation. At the close of services we all rose to be dismissed with a benedictory prayer. Immediately, I recognized the voice of the person offering the blessing and rather disrespectfully for the time and place, I elbowed my friend and softly asked if she, too, recognized it. She shook her head to indicate she did not while shooting me a look that said be quiet.

     “Look at your program!” I said in an exaggerated whisper, as she was the one who had picked it up and tucked it into her Bible upon arriving in the sanctuary. Another negative headshake.

     “Just look at it, Kim!” Finally, she did and, lo and behold, whose name do you think was listed? Why, just my favorite actor’s.

     When church ended we made a beeline to follow him to his car. Well, I made a beeline and my friend was being dragged along for the fun of it. My brain was working overtime as we followed him and another male (who turned out to be his attorney) toward the car, which happened to be parked at the very end of the lot next to a beautiful creek. I can’t tell you how much I wanted to meet him, but I had to be careful and not seem too much like some psycho in doing so. The last thing I would want would be to wind up on an episode of E! as the latest celebrity stalker.

     My initial and quite ill-conceived plan was for my friend to “accidentally” push me in the water. Surely, TLJ would lend a hand to help fish me out and Voila! I would get to meet him.

     Luckily, he stuck up a conversation with us first and I was able to stay dry. He was most pleasant and polite and it was beginning to feel very much like a dream come true. There we were - my friend and I - having a regular conversation with Mr. Tommy Lee Jones. Who would have thought it?

     It was at this point things took a turn for the strange.

     A woman (turns out it was a soon-to-be ex) walked up and began her own conversation, which was very heated on her part. My friend and I found ourselves on opposite sides of the arguing couple looking very much like two people watching a tennis match. With nowhere to go and not wanting to walk between them or stand there so close to the action, I gently backed up a bit into the opened door of Mr. Jones’ car and sat down on the edge of the back seat.

     After only a minute or so, and sitting a little farther into the interior of the car than I meant, Mrs. Jones made a comment that absolutely froze me with fear. Just to paint you a mental picture…do you remember the scene in the movie Jurassic Park when the owner’s grandchildren have finally made it back to the main building and are wolfing down food at a table when the granddaughter realizes a dinosaur has come inside the building, too - her hand tightly clasping a spoon of green Jello? Well, when the words ...and I bet you’re still riding around with those snakes in your car left Mrs. Jones’ mouth, I became that petrified little girl holding that spoon of Jello. Have I ever told you how much I hate snakes?

     All I could do was quietly whimper for my friend. “Ohhh, Kim.” “Help me.” “No, don’t leave.” “Kim?” “Come back.”

     My last recollection of my one and only encounter with Tommy Lee Jones was sitting there in the back seat of his car while he removed snake after snake after snake from all around me.

     Dreams are a funny thing, you know. I don’t know if TLJ attends church and, if so, if it’s a Church of Christ, nor do I know whether he keeps snakes as pets (if he does I might have to rethink the high regard I have for him), and I still don’t know where my friend went.

     What I do know is…
     One, outside a state of REM, I would never be so forward with a stranger, even a celebrity, and I have proof…I have eaten across the aisle from Reba McEntire on two different occasions at the local O’Charley’s and I merely gave her a polite nod and smile as I sat down in my booth.

     Two, the late Ms. Marguerite Law, a beloved English teacher in my hometown, was spot on about dreams being possible sources of ideas for writing. Just look at the cash cow that was born from Stephenie Meyer’s dream about a vampire and a girl named Bella!

     Three (and most importantly), what likely lasted mere seconds deprived me of hours of sleep. Did I mention I don’t like snakes?



P.S.  Just in case there be confusion among some...the above story about TLJ is, alas, only a dream.

Mayan Humor

The Beatings Will Continue...

...until morale improves.

I'm One Lucky Mother

Goodness knows my children are not perfect; there's rarely a week that goes by that one of them isn't being punished for something.  However, twenty years in my chosen profession has shown me it could be a Whole. Lot. Worse.  And if they (my children) only knew just how bad it can sometimes be, they would cut out some old yearbook pictures and be set for life...'cause I would be hard-pressed to ever punish them again for some low level infraction whilst looking upon the countenance of certain scholars.  More likely, I would fall to my knees, kiss each and every toe on their grubby little feet and then take the whole family out for ice-cream.

"Mom, I just carved my name in the banister!"  "That's great, son!  Would you like whipped cream on your sundae?"

Ahhh...Polecats.

My paternal grandfather, born in 1910, was a farmer most of his life and was one of the finest men to ever walk this earth.  To this day, I can not hear Randy Travis’ song “He Walked on Water” without thinking of him.   He left us in 2000 just one month shy to the day of his ninetieth birthday and his passing left a hole never to be filled in our family.

Pa Frazier, as most Southerners from that generation, had a way with words and a few that I distinctly remember consist of his description of a skunk and what it could do for certain upper respiratory ailments. 

Anytime we would pass near an area where one of the odorous creatures had recently been Pa would usually declare, “Ahhh…polecat…clears up the sinuses", to which we would giggle while wrinkling up our noses.

Well, as he was about most things in life, Pa was correct in his philosophy of skunks, too.  I have had some sort of a terrible head cold for the past couple weeks which has temporarily disabled my sense of smell.  Yesterday, however, it was momentarily relieved when we all  arrived at church to find that a skunk had somehow made its way under the foundation.  

Ahhh….polecats.

 

P.S.  I also learned yesterday via our preacher that in days long past people would sometimes use the grease from a cooked skunk as a chest salve for croup and such.  Okay, now that really does make me wrinkle my nose.

Wee, Wee, Wee; All the Way Home!

In a couple months my family will celebrate five years of living in our current house.  We basically moved from one side of the family land (where our first home was located) to the other (with a house or two outside the confines of the farm thrown in for good measure).  I really do enjoy living here.  I love our home and, even though I gripe about it each and every time I mow, I’m quite fond of our yard. Truthfully, there are times it feels as if we’re living in a state park.  We are surrounded by beautiful farmland which I can admire from the comfort, safety and convenience of my porches with nary a worry about foul smelling cow patties or those other offensive items of a like nature mentioned in a previous post.  

One thing I have become fond of over the years is the semi-privacy that is afforded when you live on a larger tract of land.  We have few neighbors.  People are close enough they can be of help if needed, but not so close I can’t walk out onto my front porch to water some ferns wearing a bathrobe and some Crocs (Note: wearing Crocs on wet concrete can be hazardous to your health and could lead to very humiliating poses).

Don’t get me wrong, I love the neighbors we have.  They are truly wonderful. It’s just that I am way too lazy to always be on guard, worried about the state of my appearance or that of my children should we be seen up close on a daily basis - especially in the summer.

Now speaking of neighbors, I probably don’t have to tell you that they are not all created equal.  Some are known for the awesome chicken salad they bring to get-togethers, some are known for inviting your children over to play, while others are known for being ever ready to lend a helping hand, which could include helping out with a mechanical issue or even driving your very shaky teenage daughter home after she runs off the road and nearly flips your SUV into the creek.  

However, every once in awhile you may encounter a different species of neighbor - one that you hope someday moves and takes with him/her all the reasons you’re wanting them to move in the first place.  We once shared a stretch of road with just such a person.

This man wasn’t from here originally.  I think he may have even come from up North.  Gasp!  A Yankee!  Anyway, he wasn’t much on yard work or picking up his trash each week after he would set it out and his dogs (which were kept unleashed and would visit us quite often) would tear the bags to shreds and scatter the contents of said bags to the four winds, even when one wind crossed onto our land.  And though I believe he fancied himself a farmer on some level, there was much left to be desired when it came to his farming know-how, particularly in the department of building/maintaining fences.  We probably would never have known about this deficiency if it weren’t for the horses we would routinely find grazing in our front yard and the dozens of hoofprints left behind.  Ahhhhh.  Good times.  Good times.

Well, one day “Crawl” felt the need to expand his non-farming skills and he bought him some pigs.  He even built a pen for his new pets.  It didn’t take long, though, for him to realize he may have made a mistake and that a call for help needed to be made.  Scott, another of our neighbors, was the lucky recipient of that very call.  

When he arrived, Scott found the pigs wandering about the man’s yard.  Turns out, our former neighbor’s flaw had been this...when unloading his piggies he failed to back his truck up to the pen and, instead, just pulled his truck into the drive and let them out right then and there.  I guess he thought they would react like dogs and obediently follow him into their new home.  However, pigs are not dogs.  Indeed, they are not.  Maybe it’s that they realized on some level their new pad was just a temporary stop on the way to ending up as the B in someone’s BLT, but they were not budging.  So, he sought help.

Upon assessing the situation Scott knew immediately what could be done to lure the little piggies all the way home. Corn.  

“Do you have any corn”, he asked the man.  “Corn?  You bet.  I have lots of corn.”  “Well, go get some and we’ll lead them in with that.”

Dutifully following his deliverer’s suggestion, the man returned a minute later carrying the corn...CANNED CORN!  I kid you not.  Like Green Giant or something.

Now, friends, even yours truly here would have known better than that.  I think.

 

Image via

And Now for the Rest of the Story...

I know you will surely be amazed to find that there could be more to the riveting story I shared last night about John-Heath getting wax stuck up his nose - but there is, my friends, there is.  It’s actually quite funny and on some level demonstrates what a small world (town) mine actually is. Be prepared.  It’s just a little longer than my normal posts.

So, two days ago when John-Heath informs me of the wax up his nose my first response (after initially verifying that, indeed, there was a chunk of wax in there) was to pull out the tweezers and attempt to pull out the wax.  After a couple tries I became a little worried that we might end up back at the ER and told John-Heath to breathe through his mouth.  He did...very heavily, sounding much like an asthmatic monster.  “Just breathe normally, John-Heath.”   I tried again and realized I wasn’t going to be able to get it out on my own and became fearful that it might get pushed/sucked back even deeper.  So, I decided to call my husband, who was somewhere in town on his lunch break.

I tried the local BBQ place.  No luck.  I was left with two non-fast food eateries at which he might be. Deciding against the Mexican restaurant, I called the local “meat n three”...

Me:  Hi.  This is Tyla C...  By any chance is my husband, John C., there?
Waitress:  I don’t know. Hang on...
Waitress:  (speaking to the people in the restaurant)  Is there a John C. here?  Okay, you have a phone call.
John:  Hello.
Me:  (rather excitedly) John, you need to come home.  He’s stuck wax up his nose and I don’t think I can get it out.
John:  (even more excitedly) Okay! I’ll be right...CLICK! (and he hangs up).

Well, for some reason right after this I thought I would try one last time to dislodge the wax myself and, what do you know, it came out!  So, I immediately called the restaurant again.

Me:  Hi.  This is Tyla C. again.  Is John C. still there?
Waitress:  No, he went running out the door.
Me:  Okay, thanks.

How sweet!  It made me feel lucky to have a husband who cared so much for his family and one who works so close to home.

Not wanting to delay him from his lunch any longer than he already was, John-Heath and I hopped in the car and drove to the end of the drive to meet him and tell him the emergency was over.

We waited.  And waited.  And waited some more. Hmmm. If he was running out the door, what was taking him so long? More waiting.

Finally, I thought we might drive to the high school.  Maybe Rick (his boss) had driven to lunch and was taking John back to the school to get his own vehicle.  When we didn’t see him there we headed back home.  Then as we topped one of the last hills on our road before you get to our drive I noticed Rick’s truck approaching us.  He flashed his lights and we both stopped in the road.  I rolled the window down, held up the tweezers (still clutching the chunk of wax), and said something about a crisis being averted.  They laughed, I told John I would see him when he got home, and we went in our different directions.

That night, as John and I sat on the porch upon returning home from our church’s VBS, he struck up a conversation about the day’s events and mentioned the wax.  

John:  So, he got wax stuck up his nose?
Tyla:  Yes, I’m sorry I bothered you during lunch but I was scared it was going to be a repeat of what happened with the coffee bean.  And by the way, why did you hang up on me so fast.  I wasn’t even finished telling you something.
John:  What are you talking about?  When did you talk to me?
Tyla:  When I called you during lunch?  What do you mean "when did you talk to me"?
John:  Did you call Cathy’s today?    note:  Cathy’s is the name of the local eatery
Tyla:  Yes, and I talked to you.
John:  Ohhhh.  That explains it.

You see, what happened is that John’s cousin, Shawne C., was sitting at the next table with his father and when the waitress called out for a “John C.” it must have sounded like “Shawne C.”.  I guess because I was talking so fast he didn’t realize that it wasn’t his wife’s voice he was hearing.  

Come to find out, he lit out of there lickety-split (leaving black tire tracks on the road, or so I’ve been told) and headed home in record time.  When he arrived - with a policeman right behind him who was prepared to give him a ticket for speeding, until he realized our cousin was heading home to what he thought was a family emergency - he found a wife surprised to see him.  Eventually, they just dismissed it as a bad practical joke someone must have played.  It wasn’t until we pieced the story together on our end and gave them a call that they knew it wasn’t a prank, just an amusing coincidence.  

Oh, and how was it that I met up with John and Rick on our road since I had never actually spoke to John and he had no idea of what John-Heath had done?  Again, pure coincidence. They had a few minutes to kill before they were due back to school and were just riding around. 

How’s that for a verse of "It’s a Small, Small World"?


 

The Game.

I enjoyed my years in high school. I had good friends and we enjoyed good fun. Even so, ninety-nine percent of the time I would not want to go back, especially in the atmosphere that is society today. It's tough being a teen. I know. I have a teenager. A teenage girl, to boot. Ohhhh, the drama. I'll just leave that one sitting right there. Like I said, I did love high school - just not enough to make me want to return - until yesterday.

Ren came home in a very chipper mood and at one point while sharing the events of her school day, let it slip that several of her buddies have been part of a group playing a new game (not all her friends, mind you. Some people are just too cool for such pursuits). It's called Blow Dart, and was developed by one of her friends who is recently returned from a mission trip to Africa. The gist of the game is as follows...

1.) Someone calls your name.

2.) You turn to see who it is.

3.) The caller then pretends to shoot you with a poisonous dart.

If you are part of the group playing the game you must drop where you are and lay still. You have, afterall, been felled by a poison which has affected your central nervous system.

4.) You are allowed to get up only when someone comes along and pulls the pretend dart from your body - or when a teacher begins to question why it is you are laying in the middle of the hall.

Luckily, players are given a means to avoid the darts. To do this, one must, upon hearing their name called, place two fingers on their neck before facing the caller. This seems to create some sort of invisible force field and the callee remains protected.

Now, you're probably thinking that this seems like such juvenile behavior. And you'd be right. It is nothing short of juvenile behavior. After all, they are juveniles. But even as forty-somethings John and I had to laugh. The image of a boy reciting words in Spanish class, suddenly dropping over on his desk and then immediately picking up where he had left off when the girl behind him took pity and removed his dart, was priceless! So, too, was the teacher who was curious as to why so many kids were checking their pulse.

Yep. It's when I hear stories like this I wish I could go back and revisit school for a day or two - or just long enough to be shot with a dart.

P.S. Of course, all good things must come to an end, including The Game...especially now that the AP knows about it.

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

Out of the Mouth of a Babe

My 4-year-old has always had a perceptive sense of humor. Aside from an obvious DNA match it is something he shares with his sister. She, too, has a great sense of humor and a most infectious laugh (when she wants to - I mean she IS a teenager now, after all).


It was clear to us very early on that John-Heath had inherited this trait to laugh easily as he found gastrointestinal noises, both the self-made and second-hand variety, of particular hilarity.


Today, he still laughs most readily all throughout the day and takes great delight in making others laugh as well. However, the times when he is the funniest is when he has no clue he is being just that. Case in point - tonight as I was writing a letter to someone he was sitting on the bed beside me. I noticed that he kept tugging at his underwear. Something, it seemed, was causing quite the discomfort.

"What's wrong, John-Heath?" I asked.

"It's these underwear. My wink-wink keeps coming out of them".

"It's getting bigger every day."