Our First Christmas Together

Waaayyy back in 1988 I married my high school crush. I had been enamored with John since the moment I met him that very first day of band camp the summer before my freshman year. In my opinion, he had all the right stuff. He was handsome, mannerly, a nice dresser, and he was a college boy.

John, having been in the band himself while in school, volunteered to come back and assist the director during marching season. Therefore, he was at our camps and most of our after-school practices. In fact, at that first camp I predicted to a good friend that I would one day marry him, not realizing at the time I would spend the next 4 years wooing him. But that's a story best saved for another time.

Anyway, for our first - and only - Christmas spent while dating he gave me a very pretty heart-shaped necklace, which had little diamond chips running along one half the heart, and two or three really beautiful sweaters. As we had only been dating a couple months I was more than delighted with my gifts. This man had good taste.

The next year, during our first Christmas as husband and wife, I could hardly wait for the morning of the twenty-fifth to arrive. When it did, we started a tradition that continues today in which we pass out all the presents that belong to each of us and then take turns unwrapping one at a time.

The next several minutes were pretty much a blur of disappointment. What had happened to the guy I dated? I was beginning to think maybe his mom had done his shopping for him the year before. Each gift was a little more disappointing than the last. The final box revealed a truly hideous blouse/sweater combo. The blouse was white and the sweater - which was attached to the blouse - was black with large white stitching and the whole ensemble was tagged with a card that said "2 In 1. Made in America". At this point, I was on the verge of tears.

Then my husband of six months said he had just one more present for me and asked that I remain in the room while he went to retrieve it. When he returned he explained that, due to its size, he was unable to wrap it. It was waiting for me in the hall, just beyond a closed door.

As he helped me up off the floor I began to envision what it might be. Furniture? A new television? Or was the comment about the size just a ruse? Maybe it was airline tickets to a winter vacation destination.

As we approached the door I was told to close my eyes. Ohhhh, this was going to be good. I now understood that all those crummy gifts from just moments before were just part of a plan.

Blindly, I stepped through the door. My heart was racing. My teeth gripped my lower lip. And there, in front of me, was my big gift...

An Ironing Board!

P.S. I'm happy to report that John has become somewhat better at bestowing gifts. Not great, mind you, but better.

Dunroamin

The first several late Mays and/or early Junes of our marriage saw John helping his father cut hay on their land, Dunroamin Farms. This process usually took a couple weeks, depending on the weather. They would each be on a tractor and cut at the same time usually, I believe, in different fields. After the hay was cut it was left to dry out on the ground for a day or two. Then when it was ready one man would rake and one would round-bale. I know that at one time they did some square-baling too but I think this had stopped by the late 80's or very early 90's, as I don't remember it.

This schedule would go on from morning 'til dark until the farm was completely cut, raked, baled, and transported to holding areas where it would be covered in large rolls of black plastic to protect it from the elements. Square bales, of course, were stacked in one of the three barns.

For the past several years - up to this one - the farm was leased out. Prior to his death, John's father's health kept him from tending to it like he had done for years and my John was not in a position due to other commitments to do it. Therefore, some other men paid to run cattle on it.

This is the first year in a hundred years that cattle have not been on the farm. But John is trying to rebuild the hay fields from some overgrazing. His goal is to start out small and, hopefully, rebuild the farm into what it once was.

John and John-Heath in front of a newly rolled bale of hay. John didn't actually do any of the cutting or baling this year. Two other men took care of it this year.

Isn't he sweet? He loves the farm and never tires of walking over it with John. He is a true-blooded little farm boy.

Overall, Ren is more of an indoor kinda girl but she does like getting out and going for walks on the farm. As long as no manual labor is involved she's good to go.

This was such a nice, breezy night as you can tell by the hair in Ren's face.

Ever ready to pose for a picture.

I See London, I See France...

This post is being linked up to Kevin and Layla's Favorite Posts of 2010 over @ the Lettered Cottage. Oh, by the way, it's a true story - unfortunately.

Sashay. It's what we Southern girls are bred to do since birth. It is part of our chromosomal makeup. As small girls we do it in our Martha's Miniature dresses, all ruffles and bells down the center aisle each Sunday at church. We do this as students when we enter the hallways of learning each day. Yes, I am here. I have arrived. Why, thank you. As a matter of fact it is new. We train to do it in pageants. Any Miss Tennessee Moon Pie Festival queen worth her weight in salt mastered it years ago. And we, of course, do it on our wedding day, walking toward our groom satisfied to our core in knowing that we are, at this moment, the absolute center of the universe. My sister was born with this trait. My niece works it quite nicely, and has several pretty little tiaras to back it up. I, on the other hand, never felt a need for it in my youth. I didn't dress fashionably ("comfort first" was my motto) or over worry about hair and makeup, so why would I go to the trouble to act prissy in any other way? Then it happened. I was in my late 20s. And for some unknown reason one night I was bitten by the sashay-bug. A distant cousin had died and I had gone to the funeral home one evening to pay my respects. It just so happened that the place was packed that night, as each viewing room was occupied. My cousin's viewing was in the very back. But before heading in to where my family was seated, I needed to stop off at the restroom.

After taking care of business in the bathroom, I gave myself a once-over in the mirror. I did look good. I had actually taken pains in my presentation that night...hair styled just so, flawless makeup, and a dark floral jacket and white blouse with a fairly plunging neckline over the most elegant, feminine skirt in my wardrobe - long, black, and sheer it was a skirt made for sashaying. And with every fiber in my being I realized that I had not been skipped when the flirt fairy sprinkled her magic dust on girls at birth. I had had it all along. And that night, albeit in a most unlikely place, I could exhibit it like every other female. Stepping out of the restroom into the hallway, I felt more confidence than I had known in a long time, if ever. At one point I think I even felt one shoulder pop up a little, just as Scarlett's had when she entered Melanie Wilke's home for Ashley's birthday party. Chin tilted ever so slightly (not too much, though - one wants to look confident but not conceited) I headed toward the parlor, smiling and nodding at people along the way. Finally, I was sashaying. Me. Tyla. The non-sashayer of the family was sashaying. A few steps from the door a kindly, elderly lady - a belle in her day, for sure - gingerly took my arm to speak to me. Her words live with me to this day... "My dear, I don't mean to embarrass you, but you have the back of your dress stuck in your panties."

Fajitas and Fried Chicken

Ren seems very excited about her Spanish class, even though she and a friend are the only two freshmen in this particular block. To celebrate, I insisted we eat a celebratory meal at the local Mexican restaurant. The kids had soft tacos, John had steak fajitas, and I had chicken nachos. Okay, okay. Actually, I had been thinking about eating out during the day and this was an easy excuse.

I would love to fill my little blog with all the wonderful cuisine I serve my family but the truth is I rather detest cooking. I can cook. I'm not horrible at it - usually. But day-to-day cooking is not something I've ever really looked upon as an enjoyable pleasure. And I must admit that John does more than I when it comes to meal preparation. I did have high hopes when we first married, though.

One Sunday, one of the first after we were finally able to move into the old family home place which had been remodeled for us, I decided to make my darling husband a traditional Sunday-after-church lunch - fried chicken. Yum! Yum! I called my mother Betty, an EXCELLENT cook, and asked how to make it.

She gave me the very simple instructions....

1. rinse off the chicken legs in some running water

2. heat some grease in the iron skillet

3. break an egg and dip the legs into this

4. coat the legs in some flour

5. fry until done in the skillet

5 easy steps. But what momma did not know was that she had a daughter who could always find an easier way to do something. And I did. I would mix my egg and my flour and viola...I would satisfy my husband and do it in less time.

Mental picture of the end result...think pancakes in the shape of a chicken leg. Mmm. Mmm.

We still have Sunday chicken after church. We just have it at the Corner Cafe for $5 per plate.