I woke from my nap, opened my front door and found the day to be gorgeous, checked the thermometer and it said 72 degrees.  I ran into my bedroom, discarded my sweats, threw on a pair of bermuda shorts, flip-flops and a tank top.  Sure my hair was mushed up on one side, but who wants to spend time in front of a mirror when there's a warm day to enjoy.

     I walked down to get the mail.  Oops, I noticed I hadn't shaved my legs since August, my toenail polish had grown out a full 2/3s and my tank top was a huge problem.  They say, during the holidays, a person will easily gain seven pounds.  That's true and at a "certain age" you gain the full seven pounds in your arm wings.

     There I was, in all my glory, reaching into my mailbox when Boss Hogg's funeral procession slowly made it's way down my, out of the way, rural road toward the little, out of the way, cemetery.  Boss Hogg must have been popular, 40 cars acknowledged my presence with a nod. Here in Texas, out of respect for the dearly departed, one must stand "stiffly" on the side of the road during a funeral procession.  Trust me, there was no place to hide.

     I looked like I had been mailed from Jamaica and it took thirty years for me to arrive.  I managed to crawl back inside my house, slamming the front door and put my sweats back on my body.

     I have to diet, shave and get a pedicure before another 70+ degree day arrives and I better start today.  Now, where did I put that orange toenail polish?

     My aunt Imogene, just this minute, left to go home after four of the most god awful days of my life.  I know each and every one of you would love to have an adventure and a warm feeling of helping a fellow out (me).  Next Christmas you can, if you bid right, have an adventure of this magnitude of your very own.

     Open for your bidding pleasure is a four day visit, from my aunt Imogene, for Christmas 2009.  To the winner, these few rules will give you a good start so you can plan on the adventure of a lifetime.

     #1.  During the upcoming year, you must find little treasures that will titillate Aunt Imogene.  Belleek, Spode, Limoges, Sves and Waterford will please her to no end.  Pure gold over sterling silver, diamonds over rhinestone, Chanel #5 over musk are some good guidelines.

     #2.  She is unable to cook, but be prepared to have Aunt Imogene tell you how she would have prepared the turkey, dressing, ham, canned cranberry sauce, sausage balls, etc..  Also, be prepared for her to eat you out of house and home.  She'll scarf down anything on a serving platter.  Do not, I repeat, do not expect her to take your sorry butt out to a restaurant, her treat.  This will never happen, so forget it.

     #3.  It would be a good idea if you don't offer her a choice of booze to add to her many cups of eggnog.  Chevis Regal is her all time favorite liquor and she will not BHOB (bring her own bottle).  We have learned to add the $9.99 bottle of whiskey to the Chevis Regal bottle, and she doesn't seem to know the difference.

    #4.  Her Christmas gift to you will be a magazine subscription to a magazine of HER choice.  This year she gave us a one year subscription to Catholic Digest and my husband and I are Methodists.

     #5.  She is also the queen of "re-gifting", so don't be surprised to receive a box of stationary embossed with the inital "I".  Also, don't be upset when opening up that popular "As seen on TV" item with a card hidden inside from her "Secret Pal".

     #6.  Games are taboo.  She will outright lie about not knowing how to play Scrabble.  So, this frail (yeah, right) 83 year old woman's first ever game of Scrabble (yeah, right) she managed to log 463 points with words like oxo. suq, buzzard and zaxes all on the triple word space.

     #7.  On the day after Christmas when she asks to be taken to the highest priced department store in all of America, be prepared to tote her coat, gloves, hat, muffler and drizzle boots.  She will not actually buy anything, but will let you know her "want' list.

     #8  When she departs for home, you will have to follow her to a truck stop and pump her gas.  Why a truck stop?  It's close to the freeway and gas is always a couple of pennies cheaper, which she might or might not pay for.

     So, when you and your spouse are in the truck stop parking lot and see her taillights go up the on ramp to the freeway, the feeling of pure joy will be the highlight of your life as you know it.  Feelings like these are priceless, so be sure to bid and bid HIGH!

This journal is about my trip to Seattle to see my daughters and my granddaughter. I just got home on Wednesday and was gone for a little over a week.  It rained the whole time I was in Seattle (duh!) and I didn't see one umbrella.  I'm not talking about a puny sprinkle, I'm talking monsoon.  If it even looks like rain in Texas we pull out the umbrellas, raincoats, galoshes and waders.  Heaven forbid, a little rain might ruin our big hair.  So, an umbrella (less) Seattle is either a conundrum or an oxymoron, take your pick.

When one purchases a cheap airline ticket, one should expect cheap amenities.  I was seated in the tiny middle seat and both seats beside me were occupied by huge people.  Not just big around, but long, extra long!  Since I bought a cheap airline ticket, means I took the "red eye" from Dallas to Seattle.  Who could sleep with all that snoring is beyond me.  For four long hours I suffered big time.

Seattle was great, way too much traffic to suit me.  If I get five cars on my country road, I start getting that "over populated" feeling.  The visit was wonderful, my daughters are doing fine (in other words, they didn't ask to borrow money..a plus in my book)  My granddaughter is beautiful, but sits in front of her computer far too many hours.  What ever happened to going outside and playing?  Am I old-fashion?

The trip home was pretty much like the trip going.  Way too crowded, seats too small, all ten peanuts were just not enough.  The two inches of coke didn't even wash down the puny peanuts.  The gal that occupied the window seat had a bladder that couldn't hold a thimble full of liquid and gouged my feet with her size 12 shoes getting out to go to the tiny little bathroom.

From Dallas I took a commuter plane to Tyler.  I arrived, but of course, my suitcase didn't. I was a bit perturbed especially since the suitcase cost me a total of $30.00 roundtrip to even put it on the plane.  The airline was very obliging and put a tracer on my suitcase and sent me home.  The suitcase ended up in Lafayette, Louisiana (go figure).  When luggage ends up on a carousel unclaimed, the security has to go through it.  So, it was opened and inspected in Louisiana, sent back to Dallas, where it was opened and inspected, sent to Tyler, where it was opened and inspected.  This isn't so bad you say?  Well I agree with you, but for one very big problem.  I stayed with my daughter who has a twenty year old male cat.  No, he didn't turn up in my suitcase, but he left me a puddle on my jeans.  After sitting on various tarmacs with temperatures in the 80's the odor in my suitcase was horrific.  The airline sent my suitcase to me by currier and I know his van must have reeked.  I am so embarrassed.  I can hear people at the airport say "Yeah, the fluffy, red-haired old lady that was here on Wednesday, it's her suitcase." 

"You mean the gal that was wearing a goose down jacket in 85 degree weather, in Dallas?"

" Yeah, that's the one!"

"Boy, her suitcase smelled awful."

I did enjoy my trip and was very glad to see my daughters and granddaughter, but having my suitcase used for a litter box was way over the top.

When I first arrived in Washington State I discovered a different denomination.  For someone raised in the South I thought there were only Methodists, Baptists, Catholics and one or two Mormons.  I had no idea there were Lutherans and Washington State has lots of Lutherans.  All of my neighbors were proud descendants of Scandinavians and interlaced in their conversations was always the "Lutefisk Supper" this and the "Lutefisk Supper" that.  Finally, one day the whole neighborhood was in an uproar.  The very next Saturday night was to be the "Lutefisk Supper".

     Monday morning brought Grete and Ingeborg to my front door selling tickets for the "Lutefisk Supper" to be held at their church.  I hemmed and hawed, but the gals presented me with four tickets that a family down the street bought, but because they were on vacation they were unable to attend.  Not knowing anything about lutefisk, I asked the gals but they seemed to be very vague and mentioned things like wooden boxes, dried fish, white, fishy, potatoes, stinky, cod and lye.  Lye?  What in the heck does lye have to do with anything?  I assumed this was a mispronunciation, maybe, lime.  Yeah, it must have been lime as in lemon and lime. 

     Saturday evening finally rolled around and people started lining up early at the kitchen door of the Lutheran Church.  By the time my familiy and I arrived the line made three wraps around the church.  I knew in my heart that this was going to be a wonderful experience in my family's life, one we will remember for years to come.  The odors coming from the church kitchen were not exactly aromatic, but with all these people waiting in line, it must be a good sign.  As we made our way through the kitchen door, I was amazed at the number of people hastily devouring their food.  I was hoping there would be plenty for us to have.  I looked over at the people eating and was glad to see no one was having seconds.  In fact, I noticed a lot of gulping and one old fellow was holding his nose as he swallowed.

     No sooner had we sat down, Ingebord and Grete were at our table ladling a mass of viscous looking substance onto our plates.  I poked my fork in this white mass and discovered a jelly like substance that Grete said was the lutefisk.  I found a couple of pieces of potato, four or five green peas and came to the conclusion that the white mass must be white sauce.  I took a big fork full and looked over at my famly as they too put a fork full into their mouths.  So there we sat in the Lutheran Church kitchen with mouths full of "Lutefisk Supper".  What to do?  Oh Lord, what to do?  It never entered our minds to spit it out, so we all swallowed as one.  Have you ever eaten fish jello?  We played around with the white mass for a good ten minutes, got up from the table and said our good-byes.

     That's when my family started taking our vacations the week of "Lutefisk Supper".  No hard feelings and we always bought tickets from Grete and Ingeborg and had them give our tickets away to some poor shmuck new to the neighborhood.

  This might not be the group for this topic, but I had to get it out there somewhere.  This is a true story and if my significant other knew what I was doing he would croak!

     The title of my story is not what you might think.  My husband, at 73, bought himself a Yamaha Virago, 250cc motorbike.  He uses it to run errands to and from the hardware store, Harbor Freight and Wal-Mart.  As you may know, diesel is out of sight.

     We nicknamed the Virago "Viagra", in other words he tools around on Viagra and it makes him fell "wild and free".

     About seven years ago, my husband had his front tooth knocked out during surgery.  Nothing of consequence, but considering the circumstance he was somewhat upset.

     He had a tooth made that fit like a bridge and it looks fairly natural and he was happy.  He only wears the tooth when he goes out in public or if we have company.  I am always reminding him to wear his tooth, in fact almost all our friends and neighbors have taken up asking him if he has his tooth.  It's now a local joke.

     To make a long story short, my husband jumped on Viagra this morning to get his hair cut.  Before he left I reminded him to take his tooth.  Well, instead of putting the tooth where it belonged he put it in his shirt pocket  That way he would be doing what I asked of him and have his tooth at the same time.  Well, guess who lost his tooth while on Viagra?

     While I am writing this story, he is out walking the highways looking for his tooth, which by the way and with a considerable wager, he won't find.  As for myself, I am sitting here at my computer under air-conditioned splendor.  Isn't life grand?

     Bonus, Bonus, Bonus.....Husband just walked in the door with enough aluminum cans to give him a dollar from the scrap metal place.  He reckons he'll need another $899.00 worth of cans to cover the tooth.

       My neighbor is 94 years old.  Lives alone, cooks all her own meals and if the neighbors have enough warning, she’ll drive her car to the cemetery and church.  Her great-granddaughter asked her for her Chicken and Dressing recipe, but being of a certain generation, Imogene doesn’t cook from a recipe.  She asked me if I would take notes while she prepared the chicken and dressing.  While she was preparing the chicken and dressing she was talking to me as if I were her great-granddaughter.  I have put a few remarks in parenthesis (me).

       "Early in the morning, boil up some chicken.  I used 2 leg quarters covered with water (Imogene is very frugal).  Simmer ’til done.  Skin and bone the chicken and save the broth.  Put the broth in the ice box ’til well chilled to let the yellow fat stuff come up to the top and skim it off.  You don’t need the yellow stuff."

       "After you get the chicken cooking, mix up your cornbread.  Here’s what I do.  I go to Piggly-Wiggly (to Imogene all grocery stores are called Piggly-Wiggly) and buy those packages of cornbread mix.  They’re about the size of a 5 X 7 photo.  Sometimes I get the Mexican kind to give it some kick.  But you do what you want.  Fix 2 packages of the cornbread mix and put it in your big cast iron skillet. (I doubt if Imogene’s great-granddaughter owns a cast iron skillet, much less a big one, because she’s only 18 years old.)  Cool down the cornbread."

       "Get you a big plastic bowl, about the size that you eat popcorn out of and dump the cooled cornbread in it.  Mush it up real good, it should look like pea gravel.  (I don’t know either.)  Put in about a cup of broth; if you run slight, use canned.  Grab your potato smasher and mush it up real good.  Add about a half cup of really tiny chopped celery (tiny as in finely chopped, not tiny celery), one cup of really tiny chopped green onions (ditto).  If you want you can use regular onions, two eggs, half a cup of plain bread crumbs.  Salt sparingly."

       "Stir this all up and be sure to remember to add the chicken.  One time I forgot to add the chicken, but your daddy ate every bite.  He never noticed." (Probably because Imogene uses very little chicken.)

       "Anyways, what was I saying? Oh yeah, after you stir this all up it should be a little soupy.  Give or take a little bread crumbs or broth, to get it right."

       "Now add the secret ingredients:  One can of cream of mushroom soup and one stick of melted butter.  Not oleo, real butter.  Now it should be like cake batter on the runny side, but not too runny.  Check here to see if it needs more salt. (remember we’re dealing with raw eggs,)  Add pepper to suit your taste." (After you finish sneezing from the pepper, test again.)

       "Put the stuff in a well buttered 2 quart casserole dish, like the one I take for the church suppers. Put the stuff in the oven at around 350 degrees. I’m not sure how long, in all, this should cook.  Maybe an hour, who knows?  Just cook it ’til you think it’s done.  Make the chicken and dressing the day before, keep it in the ice box, to get the most out of the flavors."

        "Presentation is what it’s all about.  Stick a sprig of parsley right in the middle.  If you can’t find parsley any herb will do.  If you can’t find any herbs, stick in a piece of tree."

 In my Creative Writing Class one of our assignments was to write a story about someone who was an influence in our life.

BETTY DAVIS

(SHE WAS A TRUMPET MAN)

     You are probably thinking of the Bette Davis, but this is a story about my Betty Davis, Band Director...Blunt Junior High School.  My story takes place long before the Beatles, Sputnik, or Kennedy as President.

     Miss Davis was almost six feet tall and weighed about 300 pounds.  She always wore men’s sandals with nylon socks.  When she marched beside you in a parade she sounded like Hannibal crossing the Alps, with elephants.  (clink-stomp--clink-stomp)  My instrument was the clarinet and I suppose in her mind she saw it as the lowest of the low, she was a trumpet man, herself.  She went through WWII as lead trumpet in half a dozen swing bands.

     Every year, Miss Davis would put on a concert and the year of my 8th grade was her "Begin the Beguine" night.  Not only were we to practice night and day for the concert, but we had to go door to door selling tickets.  I didn’t know it then, but who in their right mind would want to go to a Junior High band concert, especially without having at least one relative in the band?  We would dress in our uniforms and trudge up and down the streets trying to sell tickets no one wanted.  One fellow told me he would buy a ticket just as soon as his "ship came in". Well, being fourteen and naive, I returned to his house four times.  He was always polite saying "my ship hasn’t come in yet, try back in a day or two."  As you can tell, I wasn’t a very successful salesman, and only sold two tickets, of course, to my parents.

     I hate to admit it, but not only was I a lowly clarinet player, I was a lousy clarinet player.  Who wants to practice playing "Begin the Beguine" when there was "Rock Around The Clock" and Blueberry Hill".  Therefore, I never really obtained the fundamentals of reading music.  As long as I was marching and playing march tunes, faking was the name of the game.  Not so when playing in a concert and "Begin the Beguine" was the major drawing card.  In other words, I was FOUND OUT, big time.  By the look in Miss Davis’ face I knew I had let her down.  Not only did I not sell any tickets, buy my "Begin the Beguine" stunk.

     On the night of the concert, Miss Davis pulled me aside and suggested that it might be a good idea if I faked playing "Begin the Beguine".  She said, "just make yourself red in the face, move your fingers up and down the holes and keep time with your feet."  Well, shucks, I’d been doing that for two years, I was a pro at doing that.  It must have been a good job, as my folks thought I had clarinet potential.  Forming my own dance band when I got to High School was mentioned, and majoring in music in college was thrown in.  Sitting in the back seat of the car on the way home. I figured I’d better come clean and confess, but instead of telling my parents just how rotten a clarinet player I was, I gave them a solo concert when we got home.  That must have done the trick, as I never heard another word about my music career.

     Why do I include Miss Davis as someone that influenced my life?  When someone in authority wants things done a certain way, that’s the way you do it.  Messing up Miss Davis’ "Begin the Beguine" night wasn’t goint to happen.

Just another story.....     

    Like most kids growing up in the 40s and 50s vacations were meant only to visit relatives.  Usually ones you wish you didn’t have to see too often.  Of course, there wasn’t any Disneyworld, Dollywood, or Six Flags, just those old dusty dirt roads in Oklahoma.

     Several times a year we had to drive up to see Mother’s sister, Aunt Rade.  Aunt Rade and Uncle Ben had a small farm right across the dirt road from the Bountiful Cemetery.  Aunt Rade had nine children which means I had nine first cousins. They all looked alike even the girls, all were tow-headed with runny roses.  I never saw any of them with shoes or shirt, just short pants of some kind, with a dirty diaper or two thrown in.  This horde of tow-heads reminded me of a litter of puppies, some bigger, some smaller with the inevitable runt.  The horde would move about Uncle Ben’s farm and would exact pleasure and fun from just about anything, especially if it was moving.  I once saw nine tow-heads try to corral a chicken with it’s head cut off and they had fun doing it.  If one had to use the outhouse, they all had to use it.  I never noticed a ringleader it was almost a collective thought.  Excitement and fun entered their brains at the same time.  Remarkable!

     Aunt Rade had a cow, chickens and a goat.  I always felt sorry for the goat because it had to put up with those nine wild children jumping on it’s back for a quick ride around the yard.  Speaking of the yard, Aunt Rade would actually sweep the yard.  No grass, no weeds, just chickens, nine children and one old goat.  Uncle Ben’s spot in all this was his straight back chair propped up in the middle of the dog trot, catching any cool breeze that came along.  Any work around the place was done by Aunt Rade. She milked the cow, swept the yard, washed, cooked and tended the garden.

     My mother, father, brother, sister and I lived in a fairly large Texas town.  We lived on a paved street, with street lights and garbage was picked up once a week.  Being very young, Aunt Rade’s place was always beyond my comprehension.  I could never figure out why they had to drink water out of an enamel washtub with a dipper?  Why was Aunt Rade’s sweet milk, warm?  Why didn’t they have a bathroom?  Why didn’t Uncle Ben have a job like Daddy’s?  Why didn’t Aunt Rade buy her chickens from a store, why did she have to wring their necks and pluck the feathers?  But most of all, I wondered why Aunt Rade had so many children?  For the life of me I couldn’t figure out who in their right mind would want nine snotty nosed kids.

     Some of the kids were older, some younger than myself.  I know they adored me.  I could tell by the way they touched my pretty clothes, fussed over my Toni perm and tried on my lovely little white gloves.  I reveled in their adoration.

     I left my town in Texas and moved pretty much all over the U.S..  After 36 years I returned to Aunt Rade’s old place.  She and Uncle Ben were long gone and were interred across the road.  The old house was leaning toward the east and no kids were in sight.  The outhouse was still there, but the roof was gone.  The most profound thing was Uncle Ben’s straight chair, still propped up in the dog trot.

     Annie, one of my cousins, pulled up in her brand new Cadillac.  We hugged and danced around and made over each other ’til I thought I would burst.  She brought me up to date on all the cousins.  Out of the bunch there were three teachers, an Army Officer, two business owners and three successful ranchers.  They all made good and made Aunt Rade and Uncle Ben proud.

     Driving away that day I finally realized they didn’t adore me like I once thought.  They were as amazed by me as I was of them.  Annie said she and her siblings never could figure out why I always wore shoes, and why I looked like Shirlty Temple with all my Toni curls.  But most of all, why would a snooty little girl wear gloves?  What were they for?

Here is another "true" story!

 My mother had lots of phobias and her biggest one was fear of bridges.  As a young girl I thought all mothers cowered in the floorboards while fathers drove over bridges.  This problem never bothered me, but the year I was twelve this particular problem enabled  me to help my mother find a perfect solution.

     "Why don’t you go with me to see your Aunt Rade?" mother asked.

     "Sure, can I wear my blue suede shoes?" I begged.

     "I don’t see why not," Mother sighed.  "Just keep out of that awful Oklahoma red dirt, I would hate to see you ruin your new shoes."

     Our neighbor drove our car up to Hugo where we dropped her off to visit her folks.  She is to drive us back to East Texas Sunday evening.  This way Mother avoids driving over that long narrow, Red River bridge.

     Mother drove away from Hugo right smack into the bowels of South Oklahoma.  All the roads were dirt and wide enough for only one car.

     I couldn’t wait to get to Aunt Rade’s and show off my blue suede shoes to all my cousins.  I knew thay were all envious of me, me being a Texas city girl and all.

     After rounding a sharp curve, Mother put on the brakes and came to an abrupt stop.  

     "Oh no," she gasped, "now what will we do?"

     Before us was one of the worst bridges I had ever seen.  It was nothing but two boards, no bigger than our tires, stretched across a big ditch. Mother got out and we both walked over to the "ditch".  She looked down it’s bright red, dirt banks and shuddered.

     "I can’t do it," she moaned.

     She slowly turned around and walked, with her head bowed, almost on her chest.  Then she stopped, straightened up, looked me right in the eye.

     "Have you ever wanted to drive a car?"  Mother asked, putting her hands on her hips.

     I thought about it and decided it couldn’t be too hard to drive and I sure wasn’t afraid of some little old bridge.  Mother turned the car around and drove about two miles back down the road.  She stopped, turned the car back around, and had me get in the driver’s seat.  She scrunched down beside me and shifted through the gears while I pushed in on the clutch.  We stopped and started four or five times, or at least until the car quit bucking during gear shifts.

     With the radio blaring out rock and roll, I crept along about five miles an hours (in second gear), and thought this was a cinch.  This couldn’t be better, me listening to the radio, wearing my blue suede shoes and having my elbow resting on the open widow, just the way my dad drives.  Suddenly, we rounded the curve and there was that "old Oklahoma bad-boy bridge" looming down the road and that’s when my mother hit the floorboards.  I looked at her, looked at the bridge, looked at the steering wheel, looked at the speedometer and thought I was going to die.

     "How do you stop this thing?" I screamed.

     "Put your foot on the brake," screeched Mother.

     I rammed my right foot on the clutch thinking it was the brake and all the car did was buck and sway, buck and sway.  Not thinking clearly, I opened the door and stuck my left foot out to get the bucking bronco stopped so we wouldn’t hit the bridge, or worse, miss the bridge.  My foot hit the dirt and off flew my blue suede shoe.  "No! No!" I hollered at the top of my lungs.  All at once the door swung open with me attached.  I put my arms through the opened window and held on for dear life losing my other blue suede shoe.

     In the meantime my mother, never having to get up from the floorboards, grabbed the steering wheel with her left hand giving it a jerk to the right.  Using her right hand to apply the brakes, we miraculously glided to a top.  When we got out of the car we discovered the tires were kissing the bridge boards, perfectly.

     We searched for my beloved blue suede shoes but the woods were impervious to us and we had to forge ahead and get to Aunt Rades’ house.  Once again, Mother put me back in the driver seat.  I steered while she literally pushed us across the bridge.  She could walk over a bridge, she just can’t ride or drive over a bridge.  Lucky us.

     I hated not being able to show off my blue suede shoes like I wanted.  My cousins didn’t think anything about me being barefoot, but I was crushed to lose my shoes.

     After our retrun home, Mother took me out in the country and slowly taught me to drive our old ’49 Hudson.  From then on going to see her relatives in South Oklahoma was a treat for her and for me because I could do all the driving on those bright red dirt roads.

     As strange as it might seem, my mother altered my life that day because I later became the only fifteen-year-old that could drive a stick shift in my high school, and I was a "girl". If it had not been for Mother’s phobia I would not have been the Queen of Drivers Ed. and every kid needs to be good at something.