Have a Fun Summer

I can’t wait for the kids to come visit again. I can hear them talking now, “Momma has finally lost her mind” when they see the mailbox. The idea just struck me in the $1 Store when I saw all the Luau decorations and no party to give. First I bought a Toucan mask for the mail box finial. I briefly considered a grass skirt but it I figured it would get caught in the weed eater. Today was my lucky day. Of course I had to go down the Luau isle at the $1 Store on the way to the light bulbs and there it was, a dog hula skirt. It was the perfect length. I also picked up 6 leys because no respectable Hula Toucan would be seen without them.

Now all I have to do is wash the winter gunk off the mail box, tape the hula skirt on, hang the leys, and wait for the children or the Looney Bin folks. Who ever comes first, we will have a great time.

Happy summer.

Hot Toddy

Grandma Womble, not a regular participant of recreational spirit consumption, knew the benefits of a good hot toddy. The first hint of a sore throat or chest congestion had her bring out the whisky, honey or peppermint candy, and lemon juice. Just a sip of this home made concoction would burn a hole through any material a human body could manufacture. Even as an adult, with a bevy of store bought pharmaceuticals at hand, just the thought of a hot toddy brought instant relief.

Imagine my surprise when my husband introduced me to the retail version, Rock N Rye. Who knew? Had Grandma Womble gone commercial on the sly? Perhaps that was why she was always anxious to head back to Montgomery to pick up “her check in the mail”. I always assumed it was her Social Security. She treated this check like a fortune, the largest amount of cash she had ever possessed. She and grandpa were farmers who grew most every thing they needed. Perhaps Grandpa Womble aided in supplying the major ingredient in the hot toddy. This brings a whole new meaning to home based business. At any rate, the life must have been good for grandma, she live just shy of one hundred.

The revelation of Rock N Rye had to be good news to momma, with Grandma Womble gone to her great reward and momma in her eighties. I first mentioned the commercialization of Grandma Womble’s hot toddy when momma came down with a chronic cough. Momma was thrilled. She discovered, much to our dismay that it worked almost as well cold. I say much to our dismay because my brother observed momma pull a little medicine bottle out of her purse in church and take a nip. The aroma was familiar and clearly not medicine. My brother felt compelled; after all they were in the Lord’s House, to whisper, “Momma!” Her quick reply, “It’s for my cough.” I guess that is where the phrase medicinal purposes came from.

I found myself asking for a hot toddy after a week filled with bubbling lungs, coughing, and choking. My husband was off like a flash to procure the secret family remedy, now gone commercial. The first sip of hot whisky cut right through the junk in my throat and burned a clear path to my lung. I sipped the magical concoction until I was finally able to sleep. The next morning I awoke with a clearer nose and throat and made the comment I wished our sick little grand daughter, who was ill with a similar condition but too young for any medication, could have the benefits of our home remedy. He said that he did not think she could drink nearly a ½ pint of Rock N Rye. It was for my cough!

Merry Christmas?

Christmas is hurling itself in to our lives with record speed. Didn't we just have Thanksgiving a week ago? Our family is growing exponentially with all Momma's children married, the grandchildren are mostly married, and some of them have children, spouses, and in-laws to wiggle into the holiday calendar. There never has been any wiggle room for Christmas at Momma's. My brothers and I never considered having time for more than a quick unwrap and look back with longing at new toys at our homes. It was pack up one toy and head for Grannieo and Popoo's house. I have spent 61 years honoring the Lord Jesus Christ and my momma by a command attendance on Christmas morning. This year I have been uninvited by proxy.

The whole mess started out by trying to assist momma in recognizing the fact that she was repeating herself four or five time in a single conversation. I thought by saying, "I know, you already told me that" in a sweet voice she would take note of this and go on with another topic. Not the case. I realized the error of my ways when I returned my brother's telephone call. All of our calls start the same way, "What has momma done now?" I was shocked to hear him say, "It's not momma, its daddy." Oh Lord, what had daddy done? My brother continued by saying that daddy bought some Drano. Oh Lord, he has killed momma! Again, not the case. It seems that daddy, who does NOT need cataract surgery, confused Drano with gas additive for the car, which he does not need to drive. Needless to say, the old Lincoln was no match for the Drano. My younger brother, who may have been the only one they were speaking to at the time, got the call for help. Daddy told him the car just quit running. My brother took momma and daddy home only to have daddy discover his mistake. Poor daddy. Momma, who has never made a mistake, let in to daddy like a schoolmarm. I know that you think I have digressed from my tale of woe but this is where the uninvited Christmas deal comes in to play. I told my brother that this was news to me because I hadn't called momma yet. He informed me not to call because she was mad at me for telling her she repeated herself. She was also mad at my older brother for the same crime, although I know he did not say it as sweetly as I did.

We are all now rethinking our Christmas traditions. My precious niece has volunteered her home for our big family. Poor thing, she never woke up at home on Christmas morning. This year will be a novelty for her. Her crazy father drug all their presents from Alabama, including Santa, over to Momma's every Christmas Eve. My two boys, grown men, will be off at sea working and my daughter has a new baby to go with her 12 year old son so I imagine she will appreciate the time at home.

Life can change on a dime, or a telephone call in our case. My "what has momma done lately?" telephone call revealed the fact that she had her house cleaned in preparation for Christmas! Dang, just when I thought that I would actually be able to spend Christmas with my husband. My daughter was pleased when she got the news, she said that she loved Christmas at Grannieo's. Who knew? I guess she got over momma giving her those big panties during her "chunkie" spell.

Christmas Nut

Long ago,my children accepted the fact that I was a Christmas nut. Probably they were thinking just a plain nut but they were kind enough not to mention it. Santa came to our house as long as any of the children lived there, no matter how old they were. I knew the Christmas morning my middle son would spent at home prior to leaving for the Army probably would be the last one Santa would attend for him. Can you imagine my dismay having to run upstairs at 8:00 a.m. to wake both he and his sister with loud shouts of "SANTA HAS BEEN HERE!". I was told, "Oh, go on momma, you are the only one that still believes." That hurt, but it didn't deter me. I knew that I was still on the right track when I overheard my nine year old grandson explaining to his friend that he didn't believe in Santa but his grandmother still did so please don't mention it in front of her. Each year, I continued to drag out all the Christmas decorations that had not been left up all year. Friends who have not visited my home in a while ask, "Do you still have the Christmas house?"

Of course I still have the Christmas house. Every room has something Christmas in it all year round. We drink out of Christmas coffee cups every day and Santas decorate every room. I discontinued leaving a tree in my bedroom after I had the accident. The accident happened one July after spending a week at the beach. Prior to the beach trip, I discovered that if you put Crisco on your feet they would stay soft and lovely. I neglected my Crisco treatment while on vacation because I didn't want to check into a nice hotel with a can of Crisco. You know how judgemental people are of Southerners. So, after a week of walking on the sand without my nightly Crisco foot therapy, I was starting to lose that lovely look. I decided that I would redouble my efforts by applying lots of Crisco and covering my feet with socks while I slept. This plan was working well until I forgot to reset my alarm clock after vacation. I woke up late, jumped out of the bed, my well oiled feet hit the hardwood floor, my head flew to the right while my feet took off to the left knocking out the Christmas tree. Angels and gold balls were flying all around the room. I salvaged the angels but the tree was a goner.

These days, I don't put my lone Christmas tree up until after the annual Thanksgiving blow out. It is crowded enough with my big family, plus I don't want my mother-in-law to take the Christmas tree out with her wheelchair. You would be surprised how long you can still find angels slung from a tree. This year I waited longer than I ever had to put the tree up. The morning seemed perfect as I carried the eight foot prelit tree downstairs while looking out at a soft falling snow. Even though I knew the snow would not lay, as we say in the south, I thought it added to the Christmas feeling. That Christmas joy soon turned to an evil spirit as I fiddled with the unresponsive lights on that darn prelit tree. Only an atheist or a terrorist would string a tree with lights that go out if ONE bulb is blown. Worse than that, I had three strings out. I just figured I would quickly take the lights off and replace them with my own lights. Have you ever tried to get those #$%@ light off? They are strung tighter than a noose and clamped on with these tiny plastic clips that will rip the skin off your thumbs. It was 2:00 p.m. and I was still working on the tree in my monkey pajamas when my friend called to remind me we were going on the Christmas Open House Tour. To put it mildly, I was not in the mood for a Christmas Open House Tour where everyone else had their homes fully decorated while mine lingered in shambles. Short strips of lights that had been snipped off my tree made the room look like a crime scene at the North Pole. My husband wisely didn't say a word, he went directly to the tool box for another pair of wire snips to aide in the project at hand. A sense of calm entered the room when the de-lighting was done and the Christmas decorations were strategically placed on the tree. Soon the frustration vanished when the tree was plugged in. Most of the lights worked. I like the new sporadic lighting look this year and I can't wait for Santa to come.

You're Are Driving Me Crazy

I hope that my children took note of the many times I told them that they were driving me crazy and will assume responsibility for their actions when I finally go over the edge. There were the repeated "I'm bored" exclamations that I countered with, "well I have a list of chores that might fill your time". Then let's not forget the "my sister bit the heads off my G.I. Joe men" which was not satisfied with my reply -"call them war victims". Even a road trip to the grocery store was always cause for a battle over who "calls" the front seat. Take turns? Are you kidding? I would have needed a CPA to keep track of whose turn it was and did a turn involve the entire trip or was it a one-way deal? Then we had the "he touched me" followed closely by "he breathed on me". I know "for God's sake quit breathing" was not an exhibition of my best parenting skills but they were getting on my nerves. We solved some of the "they are sitting too close to me" issues by trading in my sporty Chrysler Le Baron convertible for a large ugly brown and white van that could transport more children than I wanted to deal with at one time. The beauty of it, and I use that phrase figuratively, was each child could have their own row of seats.

My children grew up in the "pre-time out" era. In my purse, I kept a handy paint paddle, normally used for stirring paint, in my purse. I could just start to pull it out and get immediate behavior modification. Once in church I jerked the paint paddle out of my purse and the entire choir sat up straight. Actually, the fly swatter was the predecessor to the paint paddle but I started to notice how people looked at me when I carried one into a restaurant. When the children got old enough to understand "consequences" we got quite a lot of yard work in exchange for bad behavior. There is a nice row of arborvitaes planted on Pine Grove Road that was the consequence of mischief. Running an auger with a headache was a painful reminder of house rules.

So the children are all grown up and I still have episodes of nervousness. Of course my children are not responsible for my current nervous condition; I can lay that squarely on my aging parents. My once reasonable, responsible parents have gone in to their second childhood. Unfortunately they have settled on an age that resembles a teenager, not the darling toddler stage. They do not want to be told what to do; they are making some unwise decisions; they are terrible drivers, they sneak around trying to keep us from knowing what they are doing, and they have been caught in a falsehood or two. Unfortunately they are not candidates for the fly swatter, paint paddle, or time-outs.

An example of their unreasonable behavior came last Thanksgiving. My sister-in-law took off her reading glasses and could not find them when she got ready to go back home to Alabama. As we say in the south, we tore the house up looking for them. It occurred to us to call daddy who had already left with my other brother's family to see if he had picked them up by mistake. No, he did NOT have her glasses. Daddy continued to be our prime suspect. We kept looking and sent my poor sister-in-law home with hopes of locating an old prescription that she could use until we confiscated her glasses from the unrepentant glasses thief. The next day my brother went to our parent's home only to find the glasses - daddy had put in his pocket. My parents' comment, "Those were dollar store glasses, we couldn't even see out of them". I rest my case.

This Thanksgiving we were excited to see the entire family again. I had purchased some wine just in case we needed it. There was plenty of good food, the children played without arguing, the dog didn't bite anyone, momma did not point out what she felt was any one's short comings, and everyone who wore glasses rested them on top of their heads rather than putting them down. My youngest brother was the driver of the revered PT Cruiser and not one word was mentioned about his driving skills or lack there of.

My oldest brother brought copies of the book he just published,"Letters from Viet-Nam - A Love Story". We were all excited to see it in print. My niece did the photography for the cover - a real eye catcher. I asked her if she would do the cover for my book. Sweet thing, she said "Why sure Aunt Linda". I told her it would be a photo of me with a glass of wine and a bottle of Zanex.

I think that I am doing quite well for someone suffering from such a long standing case of "shot nerves".

The Umbrella

Some people have trouble spelling the word umbrella. I have trouble keeping up with one. Over the years I have lost so many umbrellas that I refused to spend more than $5.00 on one. With inflation factored in I had to raise my maximum price to $10.00 to even purchase a cheap drug store variety. The old saying, you get what you pay for, certainly rings true with a cheap umbrella. They either will not open with ease or once you finally get them open the wind turns them inside out. Closing a cheap umbrella offers you the opportunity to wear all the water you originally displaced with the umbrella.

Once, a long time ago when people would actually loan me their umbrella, I borrow by boss's umbrella to use while going to a dentist appointment in Atlanta during a rain soaked lunch hour. I was sitting in the back seat of the cab fooling around with the umbrella when it suddenly popped open. It was a really big umbrella so the driver noticed right away. He looked in his rear view mirror and calmly asked, "Are you ready to get out lady?"

Just because I won't spend much on an umbrella for myself doesn't mean that I won't spring for a pricey one for some other responsible person. One year at Christmas I gave momma a beautiful black umbrella with a handle made from a silver plated dinner knife. She loved that umbrella. it had snooty written all over it. Next thing you know the umbrella was gone. She looked everywhere for the missing umbrella. Wouldn't you know the boutique shop I purchased it from had sold out and did not plan to reorder. Momma looked everywhere for that umbrella until one day she saw a lady at church with the same umbrella. Momma was convinced that Louisa Whiteman, not her real name, had stolen her umbrella. Considering the potential crime happened at church and momma had gone to that same church with the suspected umbrella thief for over forty years we were offering alternative excuses why Mrs. Whiteman, not he real name, had the same umbrella. Finally, we decided that momma had left her umbrella at the church, remember the long drought,and did not pick it up at the lost and found so they sold it at the church yard sale. Momma would have definitely not seen it there. The next Christmas I gave momma another beautiful umbrella from the same boutique, unfortunately it was not a replica of the "stolen" one. This one was big with a Monet print and a beautiful wooden handle. Something not easily misplaced, say at church.

That same Christmas my daughter surprised me with an expensive Coach umbrella. It was the nicest umbrella I had ever owned. The handle extended rapidly with a light push, in the south we say mash, of a button and the umbrella itself went up quickly and effortlessly. I loved it. I could get in my car without getting drenched while trying to close it unlike one of those massive free umbrellas the bank gives to potential customers. It fit in my purse. It was perfect. I lost it. Have you ever noticed when you leave a cheap umbrella somewhere someone will run out into the street crying, "You left your umbrella!" You can't throw those darn things away. The coach umbrella, I bet Louisa Whiteman, not her real name, stole it. She has a history of such behavior.

Driving Secrets

Hot news of the week, Tiger Woods, America's sweetheart of golf, hit something with his car. Big deal, I have been hitting inanimate objects with my car for years. Just ask momma, I almost hit a garbage truck while learning to drive. Actually you don't have to ask momma, she tells anyone who will listen now that she has had her driver's license "snatched right out of her hand" at the Georgia State Patrol Office. She thinks that she is rubbing salt into an old wound when she mentions it.

Little does momma know about the incident at Miss Tommy's corner store the day after I successfully suckered the Griffin, Georgia State Patrol officer into giving me a driver's license. I will always view it as a gift considering he had to tell me to move the 1959 Dodge's push button gear shift from drive to neutral when the car wouldn't start. I would like to point out that momma left it in drive when she parked. Also he didn't make me parallel park, I guess his life insurance policy need to be increased before facing such danger.

Okay, back to the "incident". I was carefully backing that enormous car, have you actually seen how big a 1959 Dodge is, out of Miss Tommy's parking lot while carefully looking over those big blue fins that can easily obstruct your view when BAM the front end struck the car parked right next to me. Oh Lord, momma was going to kill me! I jumped out of the car crying and carrying on like any normal 16 year old girl who had been licensed to drive for one day. I could envision momma inflicting the death penalty, the death of my future driving. The driver came around to check the damage and told me not to worry about it. That is exactly what I did. I jumped in my car and carefully drove home. Have you noticed the careful nature of my driving during this entire incident? I did continue to worry about the incident for many years. I worried that momma would, in the rhetorical sense, run in to him. Now that I think back over those events I wonder why the other driver was so understanding. Perhaps he was not the owner of a driver's license or the car for that matter. Maybe the car was stolen. You know how damaged stolen vehicles can be when recovered by the police. Maybe he knew who I was and just called daddy who paid for the damage without saying a word to momma. So like the daddy I once knew. We could never get away with anything in that small town but sometimes daddy would not rat us out to momma.

You would think the early driving incident would make me a more aware driver, you would be wrong. Once a large concrete pillar in a parking garage jumped out and hit me as I was backing out of a parking space. One day I forgot something from the office at lunch and rapidly backed into my dear friend's pristine Chevy Nova. I have backed into both small and large trees. Once I backed up a hill in to a large bolder, leaving a permanent dent in my license plate and a small dent in the bumper that my husband removed with some sort of hot air.

Backing up is not my only driving disability, I wrecked my husbands 1972 Chevrolet pickup truck on a sharp curve, that incidentally has been straightened by the Bartow County Road Department. That Mission Road curve has taken it's share of vehicles off the road. My incident happened one Saturday morning as I carefully drove to town in the truck. One minute I was driving, the next I was sliding across the road into the guard rail. I hit the rail and started spinning through the entire length of the deep curve, which by the way has now been straightened if you fail to remember that. You know you don't want your last words recorded to be an expletive so I was hoping my heavenly father thought the S word I shouted was in regard to the cow's activity in the adjoining pasture. Miraculously when the truck stopped it was on the correct side of the road heading in the right direction. It scared the tarnation out of the poor young man driving behind me. He said, "I can't believe that you pulled out of that spin". I told him to mention to my husband how well I was driving during the accident. My husband's reaction, "Ah don't worry about it. It is nothing that a little Bondo and a re-chromed bumper can't take care of".

One advantage of being married to a body man is he can fix anything I tear up. My driver's license doesn't expire for five more years. Watch out.