I can’t state for sure whether the farmer and I have the empty nest syndrome. Our fourth and final son is a high school senior. However, the frequent appearance of giant Hardees cups is evidence that he may still live here.
For certain we are on the cusp of the empty nest syndrome. It has been a long time coming; specifically, 30 years. Life is full of trade-offs, even in middle age. The farmer and I decided we can choose to chirp here in the nest alone, or we can fly away. Literally.
What makes flying away easier is VISA, frequent flyer miles, and E-saver rates.
“How do you get him to go with you?” friends ask. You would think that middle age wives would understand, if not master, the concept of hot buttons.
“It’s easy,” I explain. “I tell the farmer that there will be horses galore and a host of exciting agricultural sites in Maine, Puerto Rico, Saluda, Paris, wherever. That’s all it takes for him to pack his saddlebags and hop on a plane.”
Promising him horses and carriages is why he agreed to a long weekend in Texas. My heart’s desire has been to visit the Alamo again, a site to which Daddy had taken us in 1961. When it comes to the Alamo, once is just not enough.
The farmer’s first response was that if I wanted to see the Alamo, he’d rent a John Wayne movie. My comeback was to start him on a guilt trip. “Looks like you’d want to see John Wayne’s old stomping grounds.”
Would this be enough to lure him to San Antonio? Thank goodness for the Internet. Within minutes of surfing, I’d located several horse and carriage businesses in downtown San Antonio. I started packing my bags when I discovered a nearby collection of restored carriages and buggies. “The carriages are in Gruene, just 30 minutes from the airport.”
No sooner did the jet land than the farmer asked where the buggies were. The Alamo would have to wait. We headed out of Dodge to visit Gruene, an historic farming community home to Texas’ oldest dance hall – and the promised collection of restored carriages. We spent the entire afternoon there. I don’t think the farmer would have gotten any more emotional had we found the Holy Grail.
Later, back in San Antonio, the farmer took me straight to the Alamo. The Alamo is smack dab in the heart of town. The skyscrapers and hotels that surround it dwarf it, which makes the significance of the sacrifice that took place there all the more compelling. The deaths of so many birthed our freedom, and freedom’s ensuing progress.
The next morning, it was the farmer’s turn again. “Sure, I’d love to eat breakfast out at the stockyards,” I hollered. The concierge, on the other hand, was taken aback. He seemed perplexed that we would want to cross the railroad tracks, much less eat out there.
The rest of the weekend, we did the usual tourist things. Wanting to find a special souvenir, I persuaded the farmer to go shopping for 5 or 10 minutes. At a local leather shop, we selected a black leather cowgirl belt – with just enough silver trimming to fit in at the Fair or the Criterium.
I was proud of my authentic Texas souvenir. And smug at having avoided the tourist trap shops.
Till we got home and I noticed the words, “Made in China.” The farmer says not to worry; we’ll go back to Texas – soon and some day.
“Be careful what you wish for -- you just might get it.” That proverb is not in the Bible but it could have been. When folks say they wish the company and/or the government would take charge of a certain matter, someone should quote this proverb.
On a personal level, I ought to have repented of making careless wishes the time I told the farmer I wished for a ton of country ham. The next day the farmer brought home three little pigs, and said it was a start.
Therefore, I should have known better than to repeatedly wish for houseplants strong enough to survive the winter. Count yourself blessed if this wish seems frivolous to you. But if your life, and the lives of your children and your African violets, have ever depended on a Warm Morning wood stove, you understand a hankering for houseplants from Antarctica.
Back in our farming days, I kept Peeler’s African violets in business. Like the farmer, I was always optimistic that the next crop of violets would be the Big Crop. Unfortunately, the weather in our kitchen was brutal.
After 16 years of toughening, we moved our children and our plants uptown. Only the boys survived the climactic change. The shock was too much for the snake plant and the philodendron. There was nothing to do but begin again with a menagerie of plants, three times more than I needed because of the expected casualties.
For every wish that comes true, there is a corresponding adjustment. Now that a longstanding wish for heat had come true, we were toast. Literally. On the positive side, I no longer had to go outside every winter morning and scratch around for kindling. The children could have quit sleeping in the same bed to stay warm. And we could have taken up growing orchids in the kitchen.
“Be careful what you wish for…” We now have 2 heat pumps, 8 leftover electric blankets, and umpteen potted plants that refuse to die.
Unfortunately, most of our houseplants have had one or more near-death experiences – and it shows. Yes, I know that the garden columnists say it’s perfectly normal to toss out plants, bushes and even trees once you grow weary of them. However, putting your plants out to pasture is not an option for a person once removed from The Great Depression.
Plant hang-ups are most troublesome, of course, in the spring. This is a time when the garden stores are filled with both traditional and exotic new plants.
I’ll bet I am not alone when I mention my current dilemma. What are we to do with the poinsettia(s) leftover from Christmas? The nurseryman was not stretching it when he bragged that his were cultivated for hardiness.
Our poinsettia has a name and a permanent home in the den. “Pinkie” has survived the Millennium, Valentine’s Day, and the NCAA Final Four. With a granddaughter, I don’t have time to talk to the poinsettia, but Pinkie refuses to shed her blooms and the other half of her leaves.
Mama reminds me that she has never thrown out a poinsettia -- dead, alive, or artificial. Sometimes, by Labor Day, all that’s left at her house is a stalk to bring you Christmas Cheer.
It’s Easter and I came mighty close to wishing for, even ordering, an Easter lily. Easter lilies have a smell that takes me back to my childhood. I love the memories, the fragrance, and the symbolism of this seasonal houseplant.
But with my luck, “Easter Blossom” would stick around forever. Or till Election Day – 2004.
A fringe benefit of traveling here and yonder is stopping by my mother’s house for an unexpected visit. Mama is always tickled to see me, even if these visits do wreak havoc with her social calendar.
Last week was no exception. I called Mama from Winston-Salem to say I was heading to Spencer and would like to drop by for a visit.
“That’s great,” my 77-year-old mother said. “However, I’ll be on the clock.” For the last decade or two, Mama has been a volunteer for Dial Help. At the appointed time, she switches her phone to that line and waits for the problems to pour in.
The number one concern, according to Mama, is the time and location of the next AA meeting. Probably second in number are the phone calls from lonely folks who just want to talk. Mama says these folks are regular as clockwork. They dial up at approximately the same time, and ask for Ms. Dial Help.
Other calls have to do with problems with relationships and addictions. Mama is trained to listen and to refer callers to the appropriate agencies.
I shouldn’t complain about my mother’s service as Ms. Dial Help. At least that keeps her off the streets. For Mama has another identity in town, as Ms Highway 29. That’s because, regular as clockwork, rain or shine, snow or sleet, Mama walks up Highway 29 to Salisbury and back. And she has the logbook and dog bites to prove it.
Friends have suggested that we ought to get our Mama enrolled in the Lifeline program. That way we would be notified if something happened. We have something better than that – the eyes of a community who would call Dial Help or the FBI if Mrs. Hocutt didn’t make her daily walk.
That’s not all. Our mother volunteers in her precinct, her church, the school system, the hospital, the library, and the clothing closet. Being retired is a hard job, but somebody’s got to do it.
In between, Mama travels. The only continent that Christian Tours hasn’t taken her to is Antarctica. This summer her trip is to the Calgary Stampede. Go figure.
They say that if a woman wants to know what she will be like in her old age, she need look no further than her own mother. It’s exhausting to think what lies ahead for me.
With my mother’s active lifestyle, mother-daughter visits can be a challenge. Yet, Mama does what she can to create “quality time.”
At our age, “quality time” includes a meal and especially a dessert. Last week, Mama said she couldn’t cook on account of her being on the clock, and so I went out for Chinese. To satisfy Mama’s sweet tooth, we micro waved blueberry muffins for dessert.
As our visit and the clock wound down, it was time to head home. Mama signed off Dial Help and walked me out to the car. Then she said, “Kathryn Mae, there’s something I’ve been wanting to say. You are turning out to be a fine young lady.”
Before I could think, I said, “Young lady? I’m a grandma.” I could have added that I get senior discounts, have senior moments, and take Silver Centrum. In the end, however, you are only as old as your mother thinks you are.
Mama’s zest for living keeps her young. And if she’s 77 going on 42, I reckon that does classify me a young lady.
After 27 years of composing columns, there are only handful topics that I have not tackled. One of them is lingerie. I reckon this goes back to the way I was raised.
When I was growing up, no decent woman ever discussed such a topic. And I can assure you that none of my peers attended, much less hosted, a lingerie shower. Had I suggested throwing such a shower, my mother would have squashed this idea – and me -- on the spot.
Growing up sheltered has some disadvantages. My mother, for example, never could bring herself to warn us we ought to go around wearing clean underwear lest we turn up at the hospital. I had to learn this fact of life from a 5th grade girlfriend.
With such a background, what would cause a fiftysomething to reminisce about lingerie? Especially in a small-town newspaper on a Sunday morning? Don’t worry; I am not fixing to pop out of the closet.
However, my lingerie dysfunctionality bubbled to the top this week when a coworker suggested slipping out to a huge lingerie sale. “You could pick up a lot of pieces,” she said.
To which I replied, “Why? I already have one of everything?” My mother would have been so proud.
“Well,” my associate continued, “you could at least pick up some new gowns to sleep in.”
Now it was my turn to wonder what planet my associate was living on. “Gowns?” I asked. “Who needs gowns? What modern woman has time to change clothes that many times?”
Although she was scared out of her wits to ask, finally my friend got up sufficient nerve to ask if I were a pajama person, or what.
“Look,” I began. “Life is hard and time is short. After work, I jump into something comfortable, usually jogging pants or shorts and a cotton T-shirt. This getup is nice enough to make an appearance at the grocery store in Boiling Springs, and comfortable enough to sleep in. Best of all, I don’t have to change into a third set of clothes before going to bed.
“Half the time I go to sleep sitting on the couch,” I continued, “which means the last thing I need at 3 am is to have to change clothes one more time. You’ll be proud to know that I own 2 (two) clean gowns, however. One for out of town trips and one in case I have to go to the hospital.”
This lingerie confession left my friend speechless. You would have thought I had said I didn’t believe in the King James and/or Dukes mayonnaise.
When my friend could stand it no longer, she asked, “What does the farmer think about this?”
“To his credit,“ I answered, “the farmer doesn’t criticize the outfits I wear to bed; he just hides them. Even in the old days, when it was 21 degrees in our bedroom, my jogging/sleeping clothes were prone to disappear.
“Fortunately, hide and go seek is not the farmer’s forte. He hides my warm stuff in the pantry, under the bed, or on the shelf behind the stack of beach towels.
“Don’t worry,” I added, “I know all his hiding places.” That seemed to put her mind at ease and my coworker walked off, shaking her head. I think she went straight in her office and called her husband. Or Dr. Ruth.
And, I’ve got a feeling that for Christmas she will see that I get something in beige silk -- with lace, ribbons, and ruffles.
Good health is a glorious blessing, but it has one small side effect: You don’t get to take your sick days. Legally, that is.
Though my job is wonderful, sometimes I worry that if I don’t get sick, I will come unglued. What gets to putting pressure on my nerves is the size of the “Projects For My Next Sick Day” list.
Of course, this is a gender phenomenon. There aren’t more than 3 men in Western Piedmont, maybe in all of Christendom, who keep a “Projects For My Next Sick Day” list. Nor do men wake up in the middle of the night, saying to themselves, “Boy, if I don’t get the flu soon, who will update our Christmas card list?”
Last week, after way too many hours in meetings and airplanes, a bad cold set in. The bad news was that the cold was impervious to Theraflu, chicken soup, and the other remedies for which I had coupons. The good news was that come Monday, I had no choice but to call in sick until the fever broke.
The farmer left for work, giving me strict instructions to rest, feed the dog, and since I was going to be at home anyway, fix him a home-cooked supper, including biscuits and molasses. He said he thought it would make him feel better. For a brief moment, I was tempted to cook either his goose or an alternate menu that he would really like: Brussels sprouts casserole, Kielbasa quiche, and jalapeno cornbread. Instead, of course, I selected his favorite menu: stew beef, mashed potatoes, 3-hour green beans, and biscuits and molasses.
Though I have had 4 babies, 2 female operations, and 24 colds, it has yet to cross the farmer’s mind that I could be too sick to cook. The good news is that if the world expects you to be invincible, you just might do it. Such toughening and high expectations may explain why women outlive even the life expectancy tables.
Since last Monday was the first official sick day I had had in quite a spell, the undone projects were daunting. After thawing out the stew beef, I faced a choice: Which Sick Day project most needed remedy?
Since our new granddaughter is so incredibly photogenic, our photo collection is multiplying, with Kodak moments scattered from the den to the refrigerator to the farmer’s coat pockets. Therefore, I would organize the photos we had taken since my last sick day, May 8, 1997.
Then came a moral dilemma: Would I take the easy way out, or would I use the scrapbook-making material which was my haul from a memory-making workshop? The teacher had implied that women who just slapped photos in store-bought albums ought to be shot, or at least stripped of their cameras.
Instead, the teacher had said, women should be creating family histories, not photo albums. Therefore, we would need to buy scissors for cutting our pictures into artsy shapes, templates for cutting out the decorative artwork we would sprinkle around the pictures, and a calligraphy pen to write the dialogue for each photo. We would need to attend advanced workshops. We would need to begin selling these materials to other women in order to finance our family memories.
My temperature shot up as I wrestled with my conscience. In the end, I went to the drugstore for more Theraflu and ready-made photo albums.
Surely Baby Morgan deserves better, but there is a limit to what a grandmother can accomplish in just one sick day. To do our family photos right would take an ole-timey gall bladder operation.
The television commercials for the US Census 2000 did their job. They really pumped me up. So when our census forms arrived, I couldn’t wait to do my civic duty. Gladly would I cough up the personal information that the ads say will affect everything from education to roads to global warming.
After perking a pot of coffee, I settled down to fill out the forms, feeling smugly patriotic. I braced myself to bare my soul. Whatever Uncle Sam needed to know, I would tell.
What a letdown. After so much whoop-te-do, all my favorite Uncle wanted to know was the number of occupants at this address, and their age, race and gender. Period. Before the coffee cooled down to sipping temperature, I was through. Basically, I could have simply scrawled “Two Redneck Men and a Mama” across the envelope and mailed the thing back to Washington DC.
There was nary a question about the most important information I was prepared to divulge.
Such as weight. After losing 5 pounds, I have something statistical to shout about. Does the US government care how much its citizens weigh? Apparently not. Wouldn’t accurate weight data be helpful to medical research? To building airplanes the right size? Couldn’t this sort of information be sold to corporate America to determine, among other things, the best locales for Taco Bells and/or Weight Watchers to expand?
The census form left other health areas untouched, such as our family’s eating and exercise habits. This is probably fortunate. Had they asked, I would have taken the Fifth Amendment -- or else President Clinton would have asked me to turn either last year’s President’s Physical Fitness Award in, or myself.
Curiously enough, there were no questions about education, including whether the people in the household have any. No space to tout our academic degrees in dairy science and Spanish, from the best schools in the land: ACC schools and Gardner-Webb University.
Well, maybe it’s just as well Uncle Sam didn’t quiz us on our education because not only have we forgotten the bulk of it, we don’t even remember where we put our diplomas.
By the way, in case you are worried whether the marriage of a dairy major and a Spanish major will take, let me put it this way: Such differences make marriage exciting.
The only time this disparity came in handy was the day the farmer and I dropped in on a dairy farm outside of San Juan, Puerto Rico, and the farmer wanted me to ask how many cows they milked and did they do it with a vacuum system.
Back to the Census. Because every other survey asks, certainly I expected boxes to check off concerning the kinds of appliances we own. Thanks to Santa Claus, I could now have checked off the bread machine box. Because we were not asked, I did not have to disclose NOT owning American essentials, such as a CD player, Jacuzzi, and game boy. (Of course, the appliance we most need to take us into the 21st century is a foot soaker.)
Other information I was prepared to give was whether our dog has had a rabies shot (he has), how many vehicles per occupant (1.5 trucks a piece), and whether we are war veterans (no, but we are married.)
The purpose of the census? It really comes along every decade in order to count people, nothing more, nothing less. And I reckon the reason the government doesn’t ask anything else is because they already know.
After serving everyone their share of our youngest son’s 18th birthday cake, I had a temporary delusion. Now that the last child had come of age and could vote and serve in the Army, was I basically through with motherhood?
This delusion lasted 2 minutes and 4 seconds. The birthday boy brought me back to reality with this question: “By the way, Mom, did you register me yet with the Selective Service?”
Who does he think I am, General Patton? Apparently, no matter how many birthdays pile up, mothers don’t get to go on R & R. Until heaven – and I’m not sure we will be off duty up there, either.
Back on earth, Uncle Sam did not forget Miles on his 18th birthday. In fact, Uncle Sam sent him a card, reminding him of the requirement to register with the Selective Service.
I don’t know about you, but Uncle Sam is aware that technology is galloping. What a huge difference between this registration card and the ones that his brothers had received! Miles was instructed to save a stamp and register on-line for military service.
This quick and easy method did not escape Miles. “The next time you get on the Internet, Mama, please sign me up for the army. I don’t want to get court-martialed.”
Those of you who are conscientious objectors to the Internet, take notice. Not only is the world fixing to leave you behind, but also your children might end up in the brig.
Going downtown and signing up for the service has gone the way of the dinosaur -- and the electric typewriter and home-baked birthday cakes. You can sign up for the military in your pajamas. All that you need are a computer, an Internet connection, and someone to enter the appropriate keystrokes.
I reckon the torch was passed to me because of a gender advantage: I can type. But this task just did not feel right. How can the person who gives a son life just hand him over? And over the Internet, no less. This is not like ordering a travel book from Amazon.com, or bidding on a piece of flow blue porcelain on eBay.
Miles’ father, the farmer, said he would be more than glad to register our baby. However, when it came to computers, he says, he doesn’t know the crankshaft from the camshaft.
Days passed but I could not bring myself to log on to the www.sss.gov site. Finally Miles called from school with good news. He was fixing to register to vote (paper version) and register for the service (on-line) at Crest High School. He was calling to let me off the hook.
“Signing up for the military is a piece of cake,” he said. “But what should I do about registering to vote?” he asked. “Just what political party am I?”
When I regained my composure, I suggested to the birthday boy that he should think real hard and that he had better get this right.
A male teacher who had overheard the conversation put it to Miles bluntly, “Son, do you want to sleep in your own bed tonight? If so, I think you are a Democrat.”
Miles reported that voter registration was easy as pie. What it boiled down to was that although he was now registered for the service, he wasn’t itching to be shipped out to Fort Jackson -- today.
Nothing brings a mother greater joy than to see her children come of age, making their own good decisions. On line or off line.
Looking at the photographs, it’s obvious that families change their birthday traditions over the years. There’s a reason. Basically what happens is that Moms get Birthday Burnout.
Take your very first birthday. Brand new moms get a kick out of seeing if they can outdo the Super Bowl halftime show for this birthday. Everybody in the family comes. Whether you live in Manteo is irrelevant. If you get an invitation, you must suit up and show up. You know the routine.
As children develop, modern moms compete for the Best Birthday Party of the Neighborhood Award. The locale of the party moves from the home to the Carousel, to the cotton patch, to the cockpit of an airplane, and ultimately to Carowinds. No expense is spared if Mom is to win the Best Birthday Party of the Neighborhood Award. These parties take 2 months off your life and 3 months of grocery money. Been there, done that.
Thank goodness children become teenagers. Going forward, what Mom wants and what Junior thinks clash. Mom learns better than to load up a van with party cake, favors and hats and head for Tweetsie. To tell the truth, one of the happiest days of my life was the day I threw the last official birthday party for each child.
Last week, I could see I was not going to be crowned Birthday Queen when Miles, our youngest, announced that he had his Feb. 26 birthday under control. He said that he and his Daddy were shopping for just the right gun. All he needed from me was the checkbook. I reckon it’s time to retire the Baby Miles jersey.
Miles did, however, request the only birthday tradition left at our house: a home-cooked meal. The birthday boy picks the menu, with a few unwritten rules: No bear, deer, or catfish.
This year Miles requested roast, frozen vegetables from the garden, and a birthday cake. “Just a plain yellow cake with chocolate icing.”
Unfortunately, there wasn’t a Betty Crocker cake mix to be found in the house. Not to worry. I still knew Marie Hocutt’s recipe for 1-2-3-4 Cake by heart. Even Mama’s icing recipe came back to me.
After the second helpings of speckled butter beans, I brought out the cake -- and the camera. The cake was warm and moist, with a 3/8-inch layer of fudge frosting. I was proud of this plain but home baked accomplishment.
The farmer ate his piece of cake without comment. By now I should know better, but I asked, “Well, Cline, how do you like the birthday cake?”
His response: “It’s not too bad, considering it’s a homemade cake.”
The pundits are right. Family values have gone to the dogs. Since when did country boys start preferring bakery and/or cake mix cakes to homemade ones?
“Aw, Mom,” the birthday boy said, “Quit pulling our legs. You couldn’t have made this cake. What did you use for the flour stuff if you didn’t have a mix?” I proudly recited the 1-2-3-4 formula: 1 cup shortening; 2 cups sugar; 3 cups flour; and 4 eggs.
“Miles,” I bragged, “I could bake a homemade cake from scratch in my sleep.”
No one was impressed. And they wonder why Moms get martyr complexes.
Next year I have an idea about a new birthday tradition: I reckon if you can get jurors out of Wal-Mart, you can get birthday cakes there too.
Bashing a TV show you did not watch is probably not politically correct. But count me among those who did not watch “Who Wants To Marry a Millionaire?” but are seeing red anyway.
In case your eyeglasses are in the shop and you haven’t read about this fiasco, the Fox Broadcasting Company recently sponsored a souped-up version of “The Dating Game.” This show, however, took romance to a higher, or lower level. Before the last commercial, the rich guy married the contestant that looked the best to him.
The show was an immediate success; but the marriage lasted just long enough for the new bride to claim her Isuzu. Almost immediately questions surfaced about the wealth and character of the groom. And the bride reportedly regrets losing her credibility.
With this show, Fox failed miserably in their efforts to one-up ABC, with its runaway success, “Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?” Basically, America and its corporate sponsors have taken Fox to the woodshed, and we won’t be seeing rich guys getting married in our dens anytime soon.
Critics were outraged that this show trivialized marriage. Maybe so. But at least marriage was mentioned, endorsed, involved. We should be grateful that the show did not ask the question, “Who Wants To Live With a Millionaire and Be His Significant Other?” Instead, this show offered a backhanded compliment to marriage. It recognized that saying “I do” is still the ultimate final answer.
I don’t know about you, but it seems to me that the show omitted one of the most exciting aspects of marriage: courtship. Although I hope not to hoe that row again, several weeks, months or years of courtship are half the fun of getting married.
Can you imagine just waking up one day and finding yourself married? Americans put more anticipation into having their teeth crowned than this couple put into getting married.
Even in arranged marriages around the world, people don’t just up and get married. However, a country such as ours that demands instant mail, instant supper, and instant credit will probably one day be afflicted with instant marriage.
I reckon it is just a matter of days before you can get married on the Internet, if we are not already there. My net surfing simply hasn’t resulted in my crashing an online wedding.
In defense of this show, I am told that the American West was won with mail-order brides. It may even have been a family value. However, the failure of “Who Wants To Marry a Millionaire?” indicates that Americans are not itching to watch folks buy brides over the TV. If I were QVC or eBay, I’d wake up and smell the coffee.
To be expected, I’ve heard that this show was sexist. What about giving rich women equal opportunity to buy cute husbands? Since the series was nipped in the bud, we’ll never know whether a woman would have had the right to enter TV land and emerge with a stranger turned soul mate.
Which brings me to the ultimate criticism of the show: That the show had the audacity to attempt to turn strangers into soul mates. But, it the truth was told, despite weeks, days, months of courtship, isn’t this what happens weekend after weekend in church houses across the land?
And, miracle of miracles, if your final answer is a good one, prizes pour in for a lifetime.
When I was young and cocky, I devised a litmus test on aging. Way too often, I told folks there were 2 dead giveaways that a woman was past middle age. The first and conclusive sign was having a weekly hair appointment; and the second was carrying a black 9x12 pocketbook -- everywhere.
Well, now I require a standing Friday appointment at the beauty salon/shop/parlor. And black is my preferred color in purses. Like everybody else with litmus tests, now that mine applies to me, I need a new one.
When I was younger, I couldn’t foresee the day I would balk at sleeping on pink rollers. Or trimming my own hair. Or pulling out gray hairs.
Then I turned 50. Amidst the glorious changes of middle age, I resigned as doer of my own hair and set out on a search for the right stylist/beautician/confidante.
That was nearly 4 years ago. Now, even if the creek does rise and the good Lord is not willing, I will still race to my Friday hair appointment. Like the mailman, nothing keeps me from this appointed round, neither rain nor snow, sleet nor hail. Not only will I keep the appointment, but also I will drive like Dale Earnhardt to get there.
Perhaps this is the reason you seldom see patrolmen out on Friday mornings. My theory is they know that America’s 50+ women are driving en masse to our appointments, and they prefer not to get creamed by Grandma on her way to a frosting.
Were straight gray hair to come in style, the farmer says I could do my own hair. He just doesn’t get it.
Even if straight gray hair were hot, I would still beat a path to the beauty salon. And it has more to do with what’s inside my head than what is on top of it.
Simply put, the beauty salon is a prized resource. In the Information Age, only Cleveland County’s library contains more information than its beauty shops.
Think about it. How could it be otherwise? My friend/stylist has worked with and talked with women for over 25 years. Do you realize how many answers she has? How much practical information she knows? What deep wisdom she possesses?
For example, at my first appointment, I mentioned rubbing my eyes a lot. Ann McCraw knew the remedy, and I’ve not rubbed my eyes since. (Wash your tightly closed eyes and eyebrows with a tiny drop of Head’N Shoulders.)
On the next visit, I learned all you would ever want to know about kitchen flooring, with a safety lesson about asbestos thrown in as a bonus.
When the farmer said he wondered how to get rid of voles, I got the info for free while I was tilted over the sink. When the boys started getting married, Ann knew where I’d find a knockout mother-in-law dress in South Carolina –- and at a bargain. And she critiques books, movies, and politics.
As for “relationships,” instead of reading the women’s magazines in the salon, ask your stylist. She can also help you with child rearing, church fund-raising, and sinus infections.
Week by week, I save up my most perplexing household, business and spiritual questions and take these straight to Ann. When I pick her brain, she provides answers from her own and the pooled wisdom of hundreds of women.
I pay to get my hair done, not because I’m worth it but because my stylist is. A weekly shampoo? What a deal!
The more I wracked my brain over the best possible Valentine’s Day topic, the more I thought about Recycling. On Valentine’s Day, what do romance and recycling have in common? Lots.
The essence of true love and modern recycling is that we ought to hang onto stuff with value. In other words, when it comes to good husbands and good cardboard boxes, think before you trash.
Another commonality: A woman who truly values both her Valentine and the environment will accumulate a lot of stuff. The end result is that when company drops by unexpectedly, the den will reek of the environment’s recycling and his paraphernalia. At our house, his stuff can range from horse gear to 50- pound bags of dog food to automotive and/or agricultural works in progress.
Therefore, the biggest challenge presented by the family’s recycling and your Valentine’s stuff is, where do you store it all? The den? Under the bed? Under the kitchen sink?
Eventually, like a scene out of a horror movie, as our possessions have threatened to engulf the house, I have had nowhere to store the recycling but the insides of my car.
My Toyota Avalon resembles a Cleveland County pickup, minus the kitchen sink. Today, for example, the backseat is stuffed to the gills with newspapers, cardboard boxes, and dinged up soup cans. If I am going to continue recycling in earnest, what I will need are tinted windows.
Recycling, like my Valentine, has more than once thrown me into a tizzy. My most embarrassing recycling moment occurred recently as I was leaving a Baptist Hospital trustee meeting in Winston-Salem. A fellow trustee and orthopedic surgeon from Atlanta asked about hailing a cab back to Graylyn, Winston-Salem’s “Biltmore House.”
My Southern maternal instincts kicked in, and I heard myself offer to give him a ride in my car. As we approached my car, and I saw the Luck’s pinto bean cans in the back window, I briefly considered whether hot-wiring someone else’s car would be a better option.
When I opened the car door for this urban surgeon, he hesitated. I reckon he was wondering whether he had had his rabies shots. The more I tried to rationalize the environment and my milk jug, tin can and cardboard collection, the more I think he wished he was riding on Atlanta’s MARTA instead.
But this isn’t Atlanta, I am no Scarlett O’Hara, and the farmer isn’t Rhett. I live in a municipality where curbside recycling is way down on the agenda, so I have no alternative but to turn into a hauler of recycling.
You already are wondering where my Valentine fits into this dilemma. With his pickup truck, shouldn’t he be the one hauling and disposing of our recycling? Isn’t his vehicle better suited for toting flattened cardboard boxes?
Frankly speaking, I flat out fired him. I had to when one of our sons said, “Mama, don’t you know that when you send Daddy to the waste center with your recycling, he just backs up to the dempsty dumpster and throws it all in the trash?”
My funny Valentine cares for the environment, too. But as with virtually every other matter of importance, he just has a different way of showing it.
If you are not yet caught up in the phenomenon sweeping across America’s television screens, you will be. The phenomenon is a program that asks, “Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?’ And it’s winning converts by the bucketsful, even among the hard-core anti-TV element.
I am a card-carrying member of the anti-TV group. In the mid 1980s, when the last of the decent sitcoms lost the ratings war, I swore off television. Next I entered the work force, and the drama of the work place has been entertainment enough.
So when friends began talking about “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?” it was all I could to do refrain from hopping onto a soapbox and preaching against television, materialism, and squandered time. Smugly, I congratulated myself for having a life and pitied the poor folks who were living their dreams vicariously through this show. The ones who are still high-hatting this show will be, like me, the ones who fall the hardest.
The farmer shared my sentiment. Sort of. What he simply couldn’t understand was why folks would watch ABC for any reason when they could be watching the weather channel instead.
Then one night, the farmer fell asleep in his recliner and the remote got stuck on ABC. Across the way, I was hooked by the computer. Suddenly, eerie music began intensifying on the TV, and I heard a man who sounded like he could have been God, ask: “Which of the following did Noah take on the ark?” The music crescendoed. Two men talked even more seriously about Noah; one asked if the time had come to turn to lifelines. What was going on? Were we fixing to get raptured?
Cautiously, I went to the den to see what manner of show this might be. When I started shouting answers at the contestants, the farmer woke up. By happenstance we were watching “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire;” and the farmer reiterated that he wouldn’t be caught awake watching such a silly show.
With the next question, however, the farmer and I were irrevocably hooked. We watched, unbelievingly, as a bright contestant from the Bronx struggled with this “hard” question: “What word describes a tree that loses its leaves in the winter? Is it ‘coniferous,’ ‘indigenous,’ ‘deciduous,’ or ‘perennial?’”?
The farmer nearly flipped out of his recliner. “Do you mean that guy doesn’t know?” he asked. “Even a Yankee ought to know the difference between an oak tree and a pine tree.”
Do not tell the farmer this, but the next day I mentioned this shocker to several native-born Cleveland Countians, and they asked me, “Well, which is it?”
Last week, another male contestant did not know what the 2 in a two-by-four piece of lumber stands for: 2 inches, 2 meters, 2 feet, or 2 centimeters? Ignorance, says the farmer, is so hard to comprehend.
Yet, moments and contestants like these are the main appeal of the show. What this show teaches is not more trivia – it’s about how knowledge is shaped by our cultural experiences.
Last week’s Shelby Star was right. This program is reviving family TV viewing. This revival “may be the most profound change wrought by the success of Millionaire.”
At our house, we have totally revamped our schedules in order to be home, together, to pop corn and watch the show. This may not be progress, but it will be once Millionaire comes on every night.
If I didn’t know better, I’d start wondering whether the folks in eastern NC are paying their preachers enough. Or, is it the weathermen who are ticked, thinking they are not paid enough? Either way, while no one was looking, Mother Nature has punched eastern NC twice. First Hurricane Floyd, which fanned out over inland NC while the weathermen were camped out, waiting for big wind in Myrtle Beach.
And second, the Big Snowstorm of the past week, which arrived without the knowledge of Channels 2-33, the meteorologists, and their souped-up weather radar. Our son Miles, a faithful reader of the Farmer’s Almanac, reports that even this ole-timey weather bible failed to predict the snow of the century.
The snow has been hot news, especially in Raleigh. Last Monday morning, another son, Spencer, called at 6 AM to tell us Raleigh had had 15 inches of unannounced snow during the night. At 6 AM, he wondered if the farmer and I were going sledding. I assured Spencer that the mother in me was indeed concerned about his predicament, but that the rest of me was going back to bed. Even if we had had a blizzard, and even if I could call back 25 years, I would not be getting up before the chickens in order to go sledding.
I reckon Spencer assumed that we were also knee deep in snow and chomping at the bit to wallow in it. He added that the snow was so deep that he sank up to his knees. And he is 6 feet 8 inches tall.
As last week wore on, Spencer remained home alone, snowbound in Wake County. Back in Cleveland County, he would have had ample transportation plus lots of excitement. He could have been out doing wheelies in the farm truck, testing the Broad River Bridge, and riding back roads to see if there were wrecks he could pull out. When the big snow comes, a country man does not want to be trapped in a big city.
My best memory is that city men don’t instinctively jump in their Volvos and do wheelies on the beltline around Raleigh. They just turn up the gas logs, drink cappuccino, and listen to public radio. There is nothing wrong with this, but it is, well, different.
Even later last week, Spencer reported that his food supply was getting low, especially in the 4 food groups: Cheerios, Spaghettios, Doritos, and Oreos. Even if he could have driven to the grocery store, he would have had to take a number and wait, since Raleigh’s grocers were only admitting a few people at a time and were rationing milk, bread, and tofu.
The mother in me panicked, but Spencer assured us he had lots of stuff in his freezer compartment. He wasn’t sure what it was; but he believed he had enough fish sticks and deer meat to make it. Thank goodness he had electricity and could fry whatever he found.
Nor had he worked all week. The snow had shut down his employer, Caterpillar, maker of the world’s biggest snowplows.
As his mother, it was my role to remind Spencer that everything was going to be OK. He had survived worse, I reminded him…country snows when the pipes all froze, the Holsteins had to be milked before 6 AM, and the John Deere 3020 was our only transportation.
A country boy can survive – even in Raleigh.
Something about cold weather makes families want to circle the wagons, build a fire, and turn on the television. At least at our house.
Come cold weather, our family gathers around the television; and we try to arrive at a consensus on programs to watch. It’s a real life” Mission Impossible.” The farmer only likes Wayne (i.e., John) and the weather. Miles likes the sitcoms that his father says are the ruination of the American Way. I enjoy preaching and CNN. About the only programs we agree on are reruns of The Jeffersons.
Last weekend was cold enough that the farmer and I got the wild idea of watching a movie -- together. We’d have to rent one since we have agreed not to pay for HBO. Our youngest son was scared to attempt selecting a movie for us, so we decided to rent one ourselves – together.
Driving through Small Town USA, a movie rental place appears on every corner. However, when we put our aging brains together, neither the farmer nor I could remember the location of a single local video place. Miles caved in enough to give us directions and loan us his rental card, and we were off to the video house - together. Once in the video store, we were on our own. The lone clerk acted like we had just driven in from the Land of the Neanderthals. It didn’t help when the farmer waltzed in, looked at the shelves, and asked where they kept their movies.
Eventually, we found the primary movie that we were looking for: “Somewhere in Time,” filmed on Mackinac Island, Michigan. Mackinac has had an appeal to the farmer since he learned of the dozens of carriages that are the primary mode of transportation on this island. “This movie will help us plan a summer vacation to Michigan,” he said. Yippee!
To offset this love story, the farmer checked out a war movie: “Saving Private Ryan.”
I said that I’d need a comedy to ease the effects of such a rough but true movie. Remembering the advice of several Gardner-Webb professors, I picked out ‘The Gods Must Be Crazy.” The farmer did not take kindly to the naked Bushman on the front of the movie nor the synopsis on the box: “The movie takes off when a Coke bottle falls out of the sky and into the land of the Bushmen, who wonder why the gods have sent such a thing…..”
Although I know how to check out books via interlibrary loans, and though I know how to purchase books from Amazon.com, you could write what I know about checking out videos on the back of a movie ticket stub.
After a few glitches in the video store, we walked out with our videos in hand …. And went right home and messed up the VCR in no time. At least we managed to see “Somewhere in Time” before the VCR died. The farmer was NOT impressed with the romantic, back in time, element of the movie. Thanks goodness a telemarketer called and put him out of his misery.
And thank goodness Miles came to the rescue. “What you folks need is a new VCR, a TV you can both see and hear, and a movie that has stuff you both like: ‘Air Force One.’ “
What started out as a $3 movie rental mushroomed, leaving us with a bigger screen on which to watch movies – separately.
Politically speaking, the older I get, the more it takes to shock me. When it comes to well-meaning government regulations, most of us bite the bullet and “just do it.” But just when you thought it was safe to go back in the kitchen, OSHA dropped a year-end bombshell.
If Americans work from home, their employers must make sure that their homes are safe places to work. WHEW! No sooner did OSHA post the proposed new safety rules on the Internet than OSHA ran for cover.
Columnists, working out of their homes, turned down their stereos, which cause hearing impairment; plopped themselves in front of their computers, which cause eyestrain, carpal tunnels, and viruses; and began writing and thinking, which can cause delusions and/or acid reflux. As I understand it, OSHA has shelved the rules -- for now.
Maybe we should kekeep our mouths shut on this one. Since I don’t own the company, the new rules would probably work out to my advantage! Frankly speaking, several incidents have occurred around the house that I have always felt were someone else’s fault.
Like the time I was running late for an industry exam, and jumped out of the shower and slid across the bathroom floor, knocking myself out when I hit the closet door. The bathmat that caused my slide had lots of sentimental value – it was Carolina blue, in the shape of a tar heel, and a Christmas gift from the baby son – but if OSHA had seen it, they would have hit my company with 43 safety violations. I reckon with what I could have collected off this one episode, we could have remodeled the bathroom to include a whirlpool.
Then there was the time that I was working on the laptop computer and fell asleep with a cup of coffee in my hand. I’ll confess that by the time the coffee drained through the laptop, it didn’t burn my legs, but the episode did cause heart palpitations. How would I explain this to New York? If these new rules pass, New York would have had to explain it to me.
Just thinking about the corporate risks of the typical American refrigerator is enough to make you throw up. Take last night. While I was on company time, reviewing folders, I heated up some leftover green beans and pinto beans for suppers. The pinto beans were relative newcomers, but the green beans were even greener than usual. This morning, I don’t feel well. Not only does my company owe OSHA an explanation, they need to come down here and protect me from my refrigerator.
Not to mention the washing machine, which is a time bomb. Also the chair I sit in to work around the kitchen table. Indeed, all our kitchen chairs are on their last legs, but is my company concerned? And what about the floor lamp in the den, which we got with Green Stamps in 1970? Not only does it lean dangerously over the couch but it also has questionable wiring. My company, which has spent untold millions on compliance at work, is oblivious to the fact that I could be electrocuted in my own home.
There is a delicious irony in all this. Home is where I go to recover from compliance reviews, compliance meetings, and compliance tests. Now the company better make sure my home environment is safe enough for me – and clean.
Home is no longer just a sanctuary -- it’s fixing to become a gold mine.
In my early years, I wondered what my chances were of being alive at the turn of the Millennium. After all, if I survived, I would be almost as old as Methuselah; i.e., over 50!
As a high school girl, my vision was that the year 2000 would find me living in a house full of aging cats, maybe even registered cats, with a youthful Paul McCartney look-alike for a husband. The 16 of us would be living happily ever after in a ranch in the suburbs or in an apartment in a big city. Certainly, as I had repeatedly told my parents, I would not consider settling anywhere except a city as cosmopolitan as Asheville or Madrid. As for children, the doctor had said there wouldn’t be any, and who was I to question medical science?
So much for visions.
For starters, I did wake up alive on December 31, 1999. But where was our mixed-up, adopted dog?
The last day of 1999 began with our putting out an all-points bulletin for Toby. Would he return home in time for the Millennium – and a fresh bowl of Gravy Train? The farmer, who looks about as much like Paul McCartney as I look like Miss Cleveland County Fair, said he would ride through Hot Water Town and bring the dog home.
Here, at the turn of the century, the closest thing we have to a cat is a dog turned tomcat. As for cats…I still love ‘em, but they were sent packing 21 years ago when the third son was diagnosed with cat allergies.
As for the notion of living in one of the world’s cosmopolitan cities? I have missed that dream by a LONG shot. However, it is a privilege to live in a small town where people not only know us by name but also our dog(s)….A small town where the hottest topic at the beginning of a new Millennium was the opening of Taco Bell.
But, hands down, the biggest surprise of this century has been motherhood. Besides shocking medical science, having 4 sons has brought surprises and blessings I didn’t even know existed.
Nor does motherhood end when children grow up and calendars turn over. On New Year’s Eve, the eldest son, who had spent entirely too much time duck hunting over the holidays, was down with the flu. I didn’t have time to make chicken soup, but I did round up some medicines leftover from someone’s bout with an abscessed tooth. If Jason wouldn’t take time to go to the doctor, I would take medical science to him.
Looking back on it, these activities are not the ones I had ever envisioned as worthy of such an historic day as December 31, 1999.
By evening, our sons and their dad hit the streets of Shelby with horses and buggies to participate in Uptown Shelby’s Midnight Millennium. I had other responsibilities: Since our office had invited Snoopy down from New York City, I would spend New Year’s Eve escorting the world’s most beloved pooch around Shelby’s courtsquare.
As I reflect on the dawning of the year 2000, clearly life has not turned out anything like I had ever imagined. And that is something to celebrate! For we can never envision the richness of the blessings that God sends our way.
