The Latest Mombo of the Free Range Dancing Chicken
Category: Life

Wow!  Time just flies when you're upending your life for the umpteenth time!  I have been meaning to sit down and blog for a while now, and really don't have any excuses except for the fact that I just haven't.

I have finally gotten all moved and although all the boxes aren't unpacked I kinda sorta know what's in what box.  Yes, I found my socks and underwear, but a few precious items have escaped me.  I have found all I needed to feel half way human and am able to get on with things.

What has happened is that I made the decision to give up my apartment and have moved into my Aunt Irene's basement.  It was just getting too difficult to live alone, have a barely minimum wage job and not fight off the temptation to throw myself off the Susquehanna Bridge every day that I crossed it.

It wasn't an easy decision and there were several directions that I could have gone in.  One was to move back to Mountain City with my folks, but the anniversary party just got that nonsense out of my head REAL quickly.  Although I love my folks, and adore Tennessee, I just could never live with them or live there again.  Going back to visit reminded me of the reasons why I left in the first place.  It was kind of like sticking my hand in a garbage disposal and setting my penis on fire at the same time— never gonna happen!

Another was to just leave the job at Barnes & Noble and start over again starting over again.  That just didn't make sense.  I not only love my job, and, surprisingly, adore everyone who works there, but there is also the promise of a bright future that won't chew my life up and spit it out.  My needs aren't expensive and few.  I've never had much and don't expect to, so why bash my brains against the wall trying to do something that is just gonna make me miserable, I can always throw another anniversary part for that.

I thought of finding roommates.  When Harry was living in the apartment upstairs it was easier to do.  We split a lot of expenses, but it was time for him to go back to Florida and that was that.  My apartment was perfect for one person, or maybe a couple.  I think my days of coupledom have long since past, so that was a no-brainer. 

The opportunities I had for roommate situations just made even less sense.  I'm an only child and fiercely independent and private.  I don't cook bacon naked or have tendencies to deflower myself in the living room, but never having had to "share" much space for 29+ years, just doesn't bode well for the roommate situation.

Obviously the apartment had to go, if only for a little while, long enough to relieve the financial pressures and get caught up; my savings long gone and basics not being covered by my meager salary.  The problem was do I just live in my car, or what?  I opted for or what and trusted that God would provide, providing this was the right decision.

When I told Irene and Horace about my decision they asked where I was going to live and I joked that I had narrowed it down to my car or their basement.  There were tears and hugs, and I left their house, having paid my rent for the last time and knew that in less than 30 days I was gonna have to find that piece of the puzzle.

I had barely been back in my apartment a half an hour when Irene and Horace showed up and made the generous offer of allowing me to stay for 90 days without paying rent.  I immediately thanked them and turned them down.  I knew that would only be prolonging my agony, as the rent and car payment could be covered by my wages, it was the extras like food, gas and utilities that I couldn't afford.

That night Aunt Irene called me and offered to allow me to move in the basement.  At first I thought she didn't get the joke, but she provided the missing pieces to the puzzle.  She has a large finished basement, a small part of which she uses for her alterations and sewing business, the rest was just used whenever she needed it.  There was a fridge and stove, that she uses to do canning, her washer and dryer and plenty of unused space.  It made sense, and here I am.

With little or no effort I am situated in a nice home, was able to easily hook up to cable and internet and maintain some privacy, while providing Aunt Irene a little comfort and ease in her life.  She is in her late 70's and let's very little stop her.  Uncle Horace just turned 87 and has Parkinson's, and God love him is, despite two expensive hearing aids, about as deaf as a cat under water.  Having a conversation with him is close to impossible most days.  So I am able to provide her with company and conversation, and allow her the freedom to go off and be as active as she likes without having to worry about him, as I am here should he need something.

My schedule at B&N, which was the real problem, is mid-morning to mid-evening four days a week, making a second job almost impossible if I ever want to sleep a full 6 hours, and consistent enough so that we both can make plans without disrupting one another's life. I'm not a breakfast eater, so she doesn't have to cook for me, and they have dinner around four pm so she doesn't have to give that a thought.  On Tuesdays and Sundays, I cook or we order in.  So things seem to be working out fine.

Of course, we both have healthy doses of Simcox blood screaming through our veins, plus I have the Beebe "I'm right and you are so wrong that I don't even have to bother acknowledging it" streak.  One of these days we will bump heads, but we've done that in the past and been fine.  Besides, I'll always be right and she'll always be wrong, so there's not going to be a problem that I will have to acknowledge.  Right?

Most of the stuff that I don't need on a regular basis is packed away and marked and distributed among basements or over the garage here.  I have most of my furniture and a few chatchki (exactly how do you spell that anyway?) things I need without too much clutter (Aunt Irene's is a clutter free zone).  I don't have TiVo hooked up yet, but that's the next step and they only have basic cable which is killing me (I NEED BBCAmerica!!!!) but I'll cope.  I have my picture of the Boltons, my Gary Larson calendar, and my Rufus the mole rat bobble head that my pastor's kids gave me for Christmas so that "whenever I am sad, I can look at it and remember somebody loves me and smile".   So life is good.

I really only miss my porch.  I have found a little space I call my smoking lounge out back.  No squirrels, (*SIGH),  but I get visited at least once a day by a baby chipmunk.  He's adorable and curious and has these strange black markings down his right arm, so I named him Robbie Williams Chipmunk.  If he ever breaks out in "Rock DJ", I'm definitely putting it on You Tube.

I want to thank you and send my love to all those who have emailed or called or just said "I love you".  Times have been tumulus to say the least, but I knew it was all for the better. 

</SPAN> 

Strangely enough, I really don't think I've lost much more than the ability to cook bacon naked and deflower myself in the living room.  Well, yes, I have lost a lot of the details of my life, but I haven't lost my life. 

Things are great and on track and I have this perfectly clean canvas on which God can splash with new colors in any way He pleases.  And of course I have you to fill in as all the new details get splashed around.  Won&apos;t that be fun?

It's true, it's true, the free range chicken dances on…let's mambo!

4:30 PM - 12 Comments - 24 Kudos - Add Comment

If Everyone Sticks Their Finger In My Pie Will Anyone Be Able To Recognize The Cherry?
Category: Life

So the date was decided, the duties divided up and the party was on.  I enlisted Harry's help, via email, to make the invitation; choosing an actual wedding photo of my parents, with the marriage date, coupled with a rather current, yet humorous photo of Mom and Dad dressed as homesteaders for some church function, adding the date of the party.

I was later to be cornered as to why I chose that photo, by someone was said they wouldn't have recognized who the party was for unless they had read the invitation, which was kind of the point. The photo was chosen, along with careful wording, to let people know it was an informal gathering, just cake and punch and a time to share stories and laughter.  It was also to give the air of being able to drop by for just a moment if you wished and also to make sure that everyone got the "joke" that it was a surprise.  I even added the line, anyone giving away the surprise will be shot at sunrise.  Actually, it wasn't a joke.  I meant it.

Well, I decided that it was time to get Aunt Irene in on it.  I called her the day I dropped the invitations in the mail and let her know that everything had been set and was being taken care of, all she had to do was show up and keep it a secret.  She seemed very pleased and relieved that she had no responsibilities. 

Of course, the moment I got off the phone the hot line from her house began.  That day began the first in a series of "well, we need this".  The first one was to me, to which I politely responded, "Well, that's a good idea, but I'm not doing that."  Her response was, "But I think we should have it."  My final reply was, "Okay, you pay for that and have your own party, mine's on the 16th I hope you'll still come."  That immediately shut her down, but didn't stop her, she just called some one else who all referred her back to me with a similar response.

And of course, she wasn't the only one.  Deb, Diane and Aunt Rachel were wonderful about letting people know that nothing got done without my approval.  Everything from changing the date, the time and adding a cook out and swing dancing was insisted upon and shot down.  I quickly became known as the kinder, gentler Dubya Bush of wedding anniversaries.

My only real problem was the cake.  I couldn't figure out how to get a cake big enough to serve the expected 150 from Cecil County, MD eight hours and 500 some old miles to Johnson County, TN.  The obvious choice was to find a bakery there.  Let's just say, it is easier to get mauled by a grizzly wearing a purple fedora in Mountain City, since the closest bakery is actually a 90 minute drive in either direction.  I just decided I had no other choice and would arrive early enough to go retrieve the cake and hope that the motel had a mini fridge big enough.

My aunts Mary Sue and Virginia came to the rescue.  They asked if it was okay if they supplied the cake.  I was more than happy to let them, and blown away by what they supplied.  They contacted Wanda Brown, actually a neighbor of my parents and married to Mom's first cousin.  She apparently bakes wedding cakes as a hobby and for a price I cannot believe someone actually paid, would produce an anniversary cake big enough to feed the county.

Some other things fell into place as well.  Aunt Irene decided that we needed ice cream and she wanted to supply that.  All my cousins decided they wanted to chip in as well and would supply chips, nuts and candies.  Diane and I decided that we could purchase sour cream Saturday morning and have plenty of time for me to make a variety of dips for the chips.  It was also requested that I supply my famous Pretzels with boogers.  (You'll need to check out my blog archives for that story)

So everything was taken care of, the only thing left to do was get everyone there.  I knew that all of Mom's brothers and sisters would be there.  The only one that I didn't manage to talk to personally was Uncle John, but was assured that as long as he wasn't ill, he and Betty would be there. 

For a time, my biggest fear was that none of Dad's family would show.  I actually thought for about a week that this would be so, but Joyce and Lester came to the rescue.  They called Mom and Dad and asked if it would be okay if for Grandma's mother's day gift that they be able to visit Mother's Day weekend along with Dad's sister Anne Marie.  Dad and Mom were thrilled beyond belief, and hopefully none the wiser.  Besides they had just moved into a new house which none of Dad's family had seen yet.

So it looked like everything would be taken care of after all.  We decided to all drive up on Friday, in two separate cars.  Diane and Uncle Delmar would take turns driving her car with Deb and Aunt Rachel in the back seat putting together a scrapbook containing pictures, emails and stories from those who responded that they would not be able to be there.  I would drive with Aunt Irene in her car. 

I never relish the thought of that drive, especially by myself, so having a passenger and driving a really nice expensive car with individual tushy warmers was actually welcome.  I had to work non stop up until the last minute, so when I got off work at 8 PM on Thursday night, I double checked with Aunt Irene to synchronize the departure time. 

It had long been agreed that there was no sense in leaving at the usual time (4 AM God forbid) as that would put us there very early, increasing the chances of our being caught.  At this point Mom and Dad only knew that my Dad's family was coming to visit.  They had no idea that the whole crew was rallying down 81 for a country hootenanny with a fancy cake and clean overhauls. 

I was looking forward to a good eight hours of sleep and plenty of time to get packed and run errands before leaving at 1 PM.  It wasn't until the moment I started to leave Aunt Irene's house that she dropped the bombshell, she wanted to leave by 9 AM.  I told her that was impossible.  She asked what time I could be ready by and I insisted 1 PM.  She said okay, but they bothered me so much that night with phone calls and reasons why I had to be ready when she wanted me too, I just said the heck with sleep, worked through the night and let her sweat until 11 AM which was actually the quickest I could possibly get ready.

I drove the entire stretch myself.  Fortunately, Aunt Irene was having some back problems and she didn't offer to drive so I didn't have to come up with a last minute lie as to why she didn't need to. I was functioning on a total of four hours sleep from two days before, but even in that condition I knew we where much safer than with Aunt Irene behind the wheel.

Although she didn't offer to drive, it did lead to several interesting exchanges like, "Do you always drive the speed limit", "Delmar usually goes around 85 to 90 on the highway" and "I don't like to be behind trucks on the interstate".  This in turn lead to my direct eye contact responses of "Yes", "Uncle Delmar's not driving his car either" and "would you like to be under that truck ahead of us".  Each response made Aunt Irene giggle and toss away, "I'm a little pushy sometimes".  Yes, Aunt Irene as Shrek is a little green sometimes, you can be a tad bit pushy on occasion, but I love you and understand that it is impossible for you to deny all that melungeon Simcox blood coursing through your veins.

Finally, we were there, me in one piece with no one's blood on my hands standing in the motel parking lot while Irene quickly dialed her sisters to come and pick her up.  You see, Aunt Irene had nothing she needed to do; she just wanted to be able to spend the evening with her two youngest sisters, something she doesn't get to do very often. 

I knew this from the get go, and it wasn't that I didn't want her to do so, I just wanted her to admit it and not make it seem that it was something that I had to do and she would just have to suffer through. What is it about you old inbred redneck Southern broads?  Can't you occasionally just admit to wanting to enjoy something, without making someone else feel guilty that they are ruining the butter? Now I can understand you wanting to do that if you wanted to relax by, say, having sex with Clint Eastwood on the Tonight Show or going postal in the local mall with a batch of homemade exploding fried pies, but what's the purpose of convincing yourself that you are being forced to enjoy yourself occasionally?

Let's face it; you work hard, even harder now that you are retired.  But things have changed and Perdue now makes chicken in the right size, individually wrapped, so you don't have to chase 'em, kill 'em, pluck 'em, gut 'em, fry 'em up and serve 'em now.  Heck, Mary Sue took the eyes out of her oven and keeps her sweaters in there for cryin' out loud.  Lighten up with the guilt already!

At least I was there in Mountain City, in my hotel room and I could get some rest before arriving at the fellowship hall the next morning at 9 am.  Wrong!  First let me point out that the big town of Mountain City had two, count 'em, two motels--the Empire and what used to be a Days Inn now an Americourt.  We chose the Americourt, just because, well because if we wanted to stay somewhere that smelled of cigarette smoke and covered in several years of dust and mold we could have all stayed at my place much cheaper.

Little to our knowledge a very Mountain City event had taken place at the Americourt before my arrival, the first of the crew from either Maryland or Delaware.  It seems an employee got mad and walked out the night before, stopping long enough the change every one's reservations for the next day, canceling some, rearranging rooms, checking non-existent people in and just basically being the penis in the grass skirt.  Fortunately for me, the woman who was working the desk that day, was a living doll named Bonnie who had taken our original reservation and with my help was able to piece together something slightly resembling the original requests, but giving us all that we needed.

I retried to my room, the only smoking room and took a long needed drag of a Marlboro after 9 hours of actually needing to disembowel someone just for the fun of it.  My plan was to finish the smoke and get some rest, alarm clock already set.  My eyes had almost shut when the first phone call came.  It was Bonnie could I come to the front desk.

Frank, Deb's husband had arrived.  He had a business trip in Roanoke, so we packed his car with all the decorations and such, knowing he would arrive before us and thus everything safely there.  Bonnie wasn't sure what room to put him in.  I told her the ground floor was for Aunt Rachel, and he could go in either of the others, he had a choice a smoking with a Jacuzzi or a non smoking with squat.  I shuddered when I recognized the "alone with my wife in a Jacuzzi look", and trotted back to my room.

My eyes were just about shut when the second call came.  It was Frank.  He was hungry, where could he get food.  I reminded him where we were and gave him two choices, either Jack's Chicken Shack or step out into the parking lot and kill a critter.  He wisely opted for Jack's.

Fifteen effing minutes later, it was Frank again.  Jack's was closed.  I had forgotten that Jack had passed away and his daughter had sold it.  It was now a swanky place, swanky in Mountain City means no tray and closed by 6.  I informed him Boone was 20 minutes that way or Harris Teeter up the road has a deli if he dared.  He dared.

I had just dozed off when the phone rang again.  I couldn't help but answer it "Grand Central Station".  It was Bonnie; I was certainly popular that night there was someone else in the lobby that needed to see me as soon as possible.  I double checked to make sure I was still wearing pants, and then remembered it was Mountain City and no one would care, and went out.

To make a repetitive end tag shorter.  That time it was the family from Delaware.  The next time it was the rest of the crew from Maryland.  After that it was Aunt Irene making sure that I had everything I needed for tomorrow.  After that it was Lester, double checking the run down and their duties the next day, which was to keep Mom and Dad away from certain places we knew we needed to be and the times.  Then it was Aunt Irene again checking on what she checked on the first time.  The final time it was Aunt Irene telling me what I needed.

Then it was finally time for some sleep.  It was then that I realized that the alarm clock hadn't changed a minute since I got there.  Oh happy day!  Nothing to do but chain smoke and pace the floor until tomorrow.  Maybe there would be something good on the cable.  Uh, this was Mountain City, Tennessee remember?  I had my choice of the Hallelujah network, the Praise the Lord network, the Holy Rollers Club network, the Fishing Channel and WCYB.  Which made me wonder, why on earth is Johnson County still a dry county?

Oh well, tomorrow it would all be over....

And the fun would REALLY begin!

To be continued..... 

1:58 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

It All Started Like This Or How to Lose Your Mind But Maintain Control of Your Bowels
Category: Life

Like a scream of terror coming from guttural places unheard of, it all started like this…

Deb, Aunt Rachel and I stepped in and threw Diane a surprise 50th birthday party, when her hubby Steve, sweet well meaning guy that he is, got a little too slow and started letting time slip right on by.  As it was, it was a few weeks late, but the better to surprise her with.  Even she admitted that the "date" was far enough past that she thought she had escaped the torture.

Although I didn't do too much with it, combined with everything else going on in my life, I was pretty stressed out.  The day finally came and we managed to pull it off.  We kept it simple and relatively small, by relatively I mean mainly relatives of blood and heart, and a good time was had by all. 

Myself, I grow increasingly more and more uncomfortable in crowds of two or more, but I managed to relax and enjoy the day.  It was made even more special, not only from the fact of getting to celebrate a God send in my life, but by the fact that I got to have fun with the children of good friends Christian and Kelly, twentysomethings who have three children about a cigarette between sex acts apart.  Even Diane said the biggest surprise for her was walking in the door and seeing me holding a few weeks old child.  I think she even momentarily entertained the thought that this party has some rather quirky game prizes.

Anyway, that night I got something I haven't had in a long, long time--quick coming, blissful, deep sleep.  I was exhausted, got home rather early, since the "do" began at 3 and ended at 6; I was hit with an urgent state of relaxed, happy satisfaction that doesn't come to this old poultry very often.  I was under my blankie and snoozing away by ten, even more comfortable knowing in my subconscious that I wouldn't even be fighting the snooze button in the morning.  It was perfect...until about 3 AM, when I bolted upright in bed and screamed one of those MacCauley Caulkin face slappers that must have rocked the neighborhood. 

A wonderful night of relaxed satisfaction was ruptured by a string of thoughts that had me home alone in my undies so panicked I am thankful that I did not loose control of body functions during the aforementioned blood curdling burst of vocal Olympics.  The terror running through my head was simple, horrifying and deadly:  I am an only child and my parent's 50th wedding anniversary was less than a month and a half away and I had done nothing. NOTHING!

Granted, my Mom and Dad are not party people, but on their 25th I think Dad bought her some roses and a cake and that was that.  Let's just face it, Cinderella and Prince Charming they are not, more like mutated redneck versions of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon, but the fact that through thick and thin, mostly thin although they have grown quick thick, they stuck it out.  They deserved a celebration for lasting fifty years when many other couples would have long since said the "Hell with it" and gone their separate ways.  But what could I do?  What could I afford to do?  And how on earth was I to pull it together in such a short time?

Over the past few years, I had actually entertained the thought on a number of occasions.  While I had nothing elaborate or even trailer trash spectacular in mind, I did know that I wanted to do something, ANYTHING, just to celebrate the day with them.  Times have been extremely difficult, and continue to be, especially financial, for me so I guess I just let my self centered black hole swallow up all but that which was smacking me in the face.  And now, the date, the desire and sheer panicked desperation were backhanding me in ways that Al Capone had never contemplated.

By the crack of dawn I had gone through every possible scenario I could think of from just showing up with a card and saying congratulations to flying them to Spagos and having Michael Buble serenade them with the winnings from the lottery ticket I was going to have to trade sexual favors with the 7-11 girl to purchase. Fortunately, the Lord came down and said, "Good God, you idiot, just get real and get it on", and I began to focus and, in the immortal words from the Book of Someone Annoying Yet Unavoidable, "git 'er done".

My first realization came knowing that the coming Sunday afternoon, Deb, Diane and I would be spending the day together enjoying our annual combined birthday celebration.  God blessed us with Deb, the family version of Martha Stewart without the fancy ankle bracelet or unlimited funds.  Surprisingly, Diane grew up to be the most organized of us all.  I could relax in knowing that if I could just tell them what I had in mind, that the three of us could find a way to pull it off.

I also knew that doing this fete long distance and alone would be next to impossible.  The problem was that the more people I got involved, the bigger the chances for fiasco, and loss of control, which would be more than this barely sane chicken could handle. 

My initial reaction was to call Aunt Irene.  I think she would have been tickled to know that I thought of her first, but, and it's a Marlon Brando sized but here, I knew that moment I got her involved the more likely I would lose all control and this had to be my party.  Also, by getting her involved I knew the likelihood of surprise could get rather dim.  So I made the conscious decision to not involve her until everything was planned and rolling.

But I would need help, help from someone who lived just a little closer than say 500 miles away.  I knew Mom's other two sisters would want to be involved, but I also knew that although they travel the 90 minute hike from Kernersville, NC to Mountain City, TN on a regular basis, I needed an actual coordinator on the home front. 

I didn't want to involve Dad, as I wanted this to be a surprise for him as well, so I was at a loss.  Did I call my Aunt Dessie (92 yesterday) or Aunt Ida (94 since the early 1800s)?  What about Mom's three other brothers, all a shotgun blast away from her?  No, and definitely no, although I am sure any of them would have been delighted to help.  It dawned on me that I had to have an ally left in Johnson County I hadn't thought of, who could help me in the initial plans and then be available to help pull off what needed to be done on the home front until I got there.

Along came thoughts of Judy, my Mom's best friend.  It actually took me two days to remember her husband's first name before I could 411 and then 911 her.  Being the wonderful woman she is, she was so excited and had lots of great hints and ideas, and actually helped me around a few initial hurdles.

We both decided simple and nothing fancy was the best way to go, and Judy suggested that we use the brand new fellowship hall that the church had just built and since she and Mom and Dad where members there would be no rental fee, perfect for the budget and perfect location.  This led to one major problem—my mother coordinates the use of the hall.  How were we to get around that, without her figuring things out too soon?

The plot was hatched.  Judy is the youth leader for the church and Mom and Dad volunteer to help her out a lot.  It was decided a little white lie, oh heck—a whopper was needed.  All I had to do was come up with the date, and Judy would book the hall as a "Volunteer Appreciation Party" for the youth department and she'd need their help.  I would send invitations to everyone I wanted invited and she would ensnare the youth department to invite the church to their "appreciation party" slyly letting all know, but hopefully my parents, of what was really happening.

My next call was to Mary Sue, Mom's youngest sister, telling her and having her relate the news to the other sister, Virginia, about what was going on.  I had to rely on them for names and addresses of all the friends that Mom would want there and all the family members I had no idea I was related too, but would be insulted if they didn't receive an invitation.  You do remember that I am Southern right?  So I don't even have to go into the details of what one inadvertent slight to a third cousin nine times removed whom I've never met and who hasn't seen Mom since she was four and they bought her an ice cream cone she never thanked them for would do to this party.

Then there was Dad's family, all in Delaware, a much smaller group and while not ingratiatingly bonded like Mom's family, close none the less.  The trick with them wasn't to get them to keep the secret, but to get as many of them to show up as possible.  Trips to Tennessee have rarely happened from Dad's family, so I was just hoping that at least his brother would show, if I could get the right date picked.  I needed to have one member of Dad's family there, if nothing else, just to make sure he knew this was his day, too. 

So I called Lester and Joyce, whom I love dearly, and am ashamed that I rarely see or speak to even though they are a little over an hour away.  They were thrilled beyond belief, and had actually been planning a trip there anyway, and would hold off until I had chosen a date.   Joyce even went on the task of helping to find some pictures of my Dad's pre-marriage years, which to my knowledge were non existent, due to my father's rather "humble" upbringing. 

Next, was choosing the date that could get most of the motley crew there.  I didn't want anyone to feel like they were slighted because a date was chosen that automatically left them out.  May is NOT a good time to plan a wing ding in my family.  It seems everyone has birthdays, annual traditions or sacrificial virgin rituals pretty much every weekend in May.  At the annual March Cousin Birthday blow out, held at a quaint little Italian restaurant in downtown Havre de Grace (avoid the veal parm) it was decided that the Saturday before Mother's Day would be the best all around.  It would have a lot of family members there or close anyway, and could be used as a cover if absolutely forced, and that cover would come into play.

The party would be in the afternoon, like Diane's, from 3 to 6, and simply be a gathering for dessert social that people could easily just drop in for a moment or two as they ventured off for their own Mother's Day plans, and what also turned out to be high school graduation day in Johnson County.  Debbie would put together a scrap book of pictures and memories, Diane would make a list of what we needed, shop and purchase and I would create and send the invitations to the addresses provided by Virginia and Mary Sue. 

So far so good.  It would be simple, inexpensive and painless….

Yeah, right….

To Be Continued….</P>

5:45 PM - 5 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

If It Weren't For Some Pesky Flowers, I'd Have a Great Bunch of Weeds
Category: Life

It's that season in life where you just have to start getting your hands dirty.  Somehow, because of the weather, complaints of cold or rain or whatever odd element, things got out of hand; and now is the time to start getting it back in order. I really didn't mean for time to slip away or for the wildness to grow up around me, but now is the time to take care and begin the pruning for a healthy new season.

It was a mild winter, but a difficult one for things that grow.  My Dad, the one in the family with the truly green thumb, and not drawn on with a Sharpie, says that the mild winters are the worst, because the flowers and trees have so many stops and starts they finally just give up and die.  And as I begin, I find that I have lost so much the mild winter harsher than I had realized.  All the dianthus seem to be gone.  Most of the new rose bushes I planted last year have died, and I'm not sure my butterfly bushes will ever be the same.

And yet, there still seems to be so much still there, things I'd forgotten and am saddened by it in my lack of care.  Bursting through the quack grass and the chick weed are the last bursts of tulips, crocus and chapel bells, drawing your eyes up and away from the choking, ugly mess on the ground.  I've come up with every excuse in the book, for my lack of care, the most common being that there is still is some breathtaking beauty swaying in the wind and rain.

Finally, I could put it off no more.  It was time to get out there and start the cleaning and readying the beds for the season.  I actually even manage to procrastinate a few more days trying to figure out the best way to get started, get it done quickly and get it done efficiently.  Bottom line, it was just time to just put on an old pair of jeans, get on my knees and start the dirty work.

The weeds were bad enough, but the endless amounts of garbage beneath the muck were almost intolerable.  A winter's worth of leaves, trash and unidentifiable turning to mulch objects was trapped between what was visible to the sun and what warmth was trying to escape from the Earth below.  I had no choice, but the reach in a grab handful after handful of weed and yank, hoping that the spiders and crawly things that had made their home there would run and not stay to defend themselves.

It's been sad and it's been rejuvenating and it's been inspiring.  As I ripped away the bad and uncovered what was left of the good, it amazed me just how much was left.  There wasn't much dianthus, but some survived.  I trimmed away the dead, and gave the new chutes a little breathing room.  While they are shaky and a little odd looking, I know that they are hardy and with care, water and the right food they will once again be the glorious ground cover they were meant to be.

The rose bushes look rough.  For some reason, I didn't get them their final fall trimming; no excuses, I just didn't do it.  Some dead blooms had hung on, and as usual some of the branches had turned to stick.  The only thing that survived in all hardness were the thorns, protecting the delicate structure trying in desperation to bloom and cover the oddity that is the structure of the bush itself. 

It's this time of year that you realize that the skeleton of the rose bush is just a bruised and battered mass of roughness and razor. However, when you take the time to cut away the dead and the faulty, soon enough that disgusting misshapen cartilage will cover with a flesh of green and muscle out with blooms of red, gold, yellow and pink. It becomes a sight so beautiful that you forget that beneath all of that beauty is a hard mass of scars that has simply been nurtured into mesmerizing delicateness.

Unfortunately the weeds have grown wild and uncontrolled for too long.  They've managed to choke out a lot that should have been allowed to bloom.  A few stubborn plants have managed to push through and bloom.  The tulips were beautiful purples, blues and reds and splashes of each.  It's almost a shock to see that so much beauty can grow out of so much ugly.  I did my best but some of that beauty had to be sacrificed.  The vines and dandelions just grew too close to the roots and all were ripped away together.

Many of the tulips that didn't get ripped away needed the vines to stand.  They got their strength from that ugliness.  Like many of us, I guess they needed that mass of ugly to make them seem strong and beautiful.  Once the chick weed was gone, they drooped or fell over so I ended up yanking them up anyway, knowing the double tragedy that just just occurred.  The tragedy being that not only was the tulip gone for the year, but it was gone forever.  You see, the secret of the perennial tulip is in the green stem.  That stem must wither and die on it's own in order for the bulb that it grows from to have the nutrients it needs to return for another season.

As always when the feat was completed, the bed looked naked but ready to weather the coming season.  My hands, arms and knees were a mass of nips, cuts and bites.  I even had a few nettles and bugs in my hair.  I am tired and smell bad, but I am satisfied that the first round of my new growing season is behind me, and I have done my best to prepare for what lies ahead.   If I don't forget or find more excuses, water and feed, and take a few hours a week to get back on my knees and do the hardest task of all, there will be something of beauty for all who to take time to look to enjoy.

Along the way, I found surprises and some memories.  Beneath a patch of thistle and tulips I found a nest of baby bunnies, almost ready to burst out on their own, but still in need of the protection of what was left behind.  I thought of Harry and the nest of bunnies he found while mowing in the yard last year and the trauma he went through thinking that he'd ruined their chance at survival.

I found a couple of smaller yard chatchskis that I'd forgotten were there, each one a memory of a trip or the person from whom it was received.  In the center, the biggest part of my garden, I found two forgotten gems.  One an flesh colored oriental poppy that was only supposed to last a year, but each spring for the last seven years has never failed to give my that "ahh" rush when it returns.  And standing straight up in the middle, almost entirely hidden by a clump of thistles was a lone calla lily about to bloom, a single remnant of Miss Grace, the woman for whom I planted my first flowers in the yard to begin with.

Things are never the same from year to year in my garden, but the hope is always constant.  This year will be fruitful as long as I take the time to care for it, but the flowers will likely not be as many or as exotic in years past.  I just can't afford to spend the money that I have in the past, so rather than massive amounts of lantana, liseanthus and edelweiss, will more likely be just a few petunias or whatever precious blooms I am given by friends and family to care for. 

However sparse it may be, it will be loved.  And I hope that it will be as in years past it will be something for the many who walk the sidewalk on their way to work at the bank or the pharmacy or the courthouse to stop and be reminded by a bloom or a scent that life is more than what you can hold in your hand.

Oh, and I worked on my flower beds, too.

….and the chicken dances on……

6:43 PM - 5 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

A Rant of Ideas from the Aged and Unwise
Category: Life

I guess I am dangerously naive.  Sometimes it doesn't seem possible that I am this age and that unaware.  Maybe it's just cyberspace that keeps busting my chops and exploding my safe tidy little world or maybe it's just that I am really that old and that stupid

I recently heard someone say that due to cyberspace, specifically MySpace that everyone and anyone can find their peer group and become popular, not that there is anything wrong with that.  I think what the problem this man had with it was that invariably he fears that we are raising a society of people who will not be able to interact on proper social levels.

Personally, I think the guy was just upset because he was a football star in high school and married the homecoming queen and was ticked because the people he used to look down on and knock over their lunchtrays for laughs are now more confident and happier than he is.

However, I am constantly amazed at what can be found, either by accident or by the ghastly knowledge of knowing just how to find it.  I am both horrified and amused at what I run across, what I get spam mail for and what even gets suggested from time to time.

Now, I own a webcam with a microphone.  It was cheap and I have used it to chat with and see old freinds.  I am astounded at the technology that allows me to have a real time conversation with people who are all over the world.

What has given my naivete a good swift kick in the technology is that there are websites for people with webcams who use them to... to...uh...do other things.  First of all, if one does use such for this, isn't one in danger of...you know...shorting out the keyboard?  Or at minimum making the keys stick together?

I don't understand the delight and erotic pleasure in this.  I'm not really shocked, more dumbfounded at my own ridiculous views.  This doesn't appeal to me erotically, but it does pique my curiosity in weird ways that I'm sure the...uh...person on the other end would find offensive.

For example, what on earth would possess you to think that someone else would want to watch you do something like that?   Does the person watching get to have a say in the matter?  You know, sorry, but I don't find you attractive or that particular move erotic.  Could we have some background music?  Most importantly of all, how do you type and do that at the same time?  Although it might be worth a watch if the person has the ability to type NOT using their hands...if you get my drift.

A dear friend in Texas, miss you JK if you read this, likes to surf the web and find the wild and the weird.  He doesn't really go into the sites, but he collects strange places on the web.  Once and a while he will email me about something bizarre and humorous. 

One of my favorites being a site for people who cannot achieve orgasm unless they hear a car motor running.  The entrance of the website has a picture of your typical redneck truck driver type wearing a pink teddy with his privates stuck into the tailpipe of a '57 Chevy truck.

While I am not surprised that there are enough people in the world to warrant a site like this, let's face it if you can create a webpage you can be a group of one in cyberspace.  What I am surprised at is that someone actually posed for the entrance picture!

My odd mind reels in the wrong direction.  Who decided this was the perfect picture to entice entrance into this site?  And how did this person not only set up the shot, but talk someone so normal looking into posing?  "Hey Ferd, I have this idea.  Would you mind slipping on my wife's Victoria's Secret and putting your thing in my Grandfather's pickup?  Great hold it right there.  No wait...let's get the truck started....that's hot...Perfect!"

Maybe I am missing a golden opportunity here.  Being the poor man I am, maybe I could make my fortune by creating these odd ball sites and charging however people charge for these things.  Hmmm....got your credit card ready? Would you being willing to advertise on...

THECREAMCHEESERS.COM--A website dedicated to people who just can't get through the day without spreading a little Philly somewhere.  The site would contain pix of members garnishing their bagels, and eating cheesecake.  For the premium members, there would be hot shots of cream cheese being spread on lawn furniture, miniature poodles and maybe the Space Shuttle.

GODSEYEVIEW.COM--Shots from the choir loft, located behind the pulpit, taken during the sermon of the congregation doing things they don't think anyone can see.  Members will be treated to pics of deacons asleep, with their heads back, mouths open and drool trickling down their chins; teenagers making out in the balcony, and upstanding blue haired matrons picking their nose.

THEBABYSITTERS.COM--Shots of people just sitting on unruly children in public places.  Members can enjoy pics and videos of six year old and such pitching fits because they didn't get their way being tossed to the ground by strangers who will simply sit on them and read magazines or send text messages until their parents are humiliated enough to do something about the brat's behavior.

ASTHEIDIOTTURNS.COM--Members can send in videos of people being insanely stupid, kind of like America's Funniest Home Videos but without the violence.  We accept only videos of people at their least finest hour and only when it is oblivious to the subject that they are being divinely retarded without their knowledge.  Videos would include the guy who takes the polybags off the Penthouse magazine and sits with their back to the window to read it in the bookstore and then slips it in the Travel Section, the woman who gets caught doing something wrong but only speaks to the clerk in a foreign tongue and then walks around the corner and says to her friend in plain English, "That person needs to learn Spanish", and the woman who eats a box of pop tarts in while shopping in the grocery store and tosses the empty box in the cart of someone who's left it unattended long enough to grab something off the top shelf.

Any of these sound like winners to you?  Maybe it's all already on You Tube, but it seems the more normal I try to become the world just keeps getting stranger.  Oh well, regardless...this chicken dances on!

2:35 PM - 13 Comments - 20 Kudos - Add Comment

Ten Good Reasons For....
Category: Life

Just because I can, in no particular order, here are ten good reasons why I...

...Don't do karaoke…I prefer to sing in church or funerals where booing and throwing things are looked down upon, as is running from the room screaming.

...Buy Jim Corby's Pizza Kits…the boxes make spiffy containers for Christmas gifts, and, of course, I work for Dominos.  Maybe that's two reasons.

...Don't watch anything with Nicholas Cage in it…if you are pulling in 10 million a picture, get your deviated septum fixed so you don't talk like you have a cold in everything you do! Learning to not ruin EVERY thing you are in might help a little, too!

...Never attend a family movie alone…because when I went solo to see "Beauty and the Beast", I got there a little early.  It was just me and a young mother with a little girl sitting three rows in front of me for the longest time.  I was leafing through a book I had just bought and the little girl kept staring at me.  She finally asked her mother, "Mommy, why is that man alone?"  She said, "I don't know, dear."  She stared a little longer and then asked, "Is he a pervert?"  Her mother said, "I don't know dear, but stop looking just in case."  So, I no longer see family films stag, just in case.

...Never eat peas…In the third grade Manley Workman picked a huge booger and flicked it.  It landed on a forkful of peas that Bonnie Cully ate.  I have never been able to down a pea without remembering the unsavory pandemonium that ensued. There is nothing like the memory of 35 third graders barfing simulatinously to ruin your appetite!

...Don't have children…I have neither a womb, child bearing hips or the ability to self procreate.  I am Not an ameba!  I am NOT an ameba!

...Watch "Days of Our Lives"…My Grandmother watched this soap opera from the day it came on.  She thought these people were family members.  A few days after she passed away, I was babysitting my cousin Marsha, then 4, and she wanted to watch TV.  So I turned it on, and "Days of Our Lives" started.  She began to cry and I asked her what was wrong.  She just turned to me, tears flowing freely, and asked, "Danny, how is Granny gonna know who the Salem Stranger is?"  So she and I decided that we would both watch "Days of Our Lives" every day we could, just in case they don't have cable in heaven.

...Don't care for rap music…I don't find lyrics like "slap da bitch" and "take the whole meat" particularly lyrical.  Maybe it's a cultural thing; ironically I know all the words to "Telephone Man" and "Hockey Here Tonight".

...Never go out in public wearing shorts…they are called my legs.  First and foremost, in the fifth grade I fell on a pencil that I had just sharpened and jammed it into my knee, leaving a carbon flavored scar.  Later on the same leg, another scar appeared when an 8 year old kicked me with his steel toed cowboy boots on Christmas at Toys R Us, when I told him that I didn't have the Power Ranger he wanted in stock.  It probably also has something to do with the fact that my family always made fun of my lower extremities growing up, calling me 'Gorilla gams' and 'Monkey Feet', pointing out my hairy legs and thinking the fact that it all stops at my ankles hysterical.  Russ Bralley tried to get me passed this feeling when I appeared "as everyone else" in a production of "Annie Get Your Gun" by designing a costume for me in the "I'm An Indian Too" number consisting of a headdress and a small loincloth.  It did little, especially when the cast members dubbed me "Monkey Feet".

...Should stop stocking the Ann Coulter books in the lesbian fiction section at work…some of my best friends are lesbians and it's not Christina to degrade them like that.

So what are YOUR ten good reason for….?

Play along!

10:33 AM - 11 Comments - 18 Kudos - Add Comment

A Queen Mother In King Arthur's Trailer Court
Category: Writing and Poetry

Donise ripped the last little bit of flesh from the chicken bone before she popped it in the bag, and wadded it up.  She could see from where she was that her momma was home already and she could smell dinner wafting from the window screen. 

It was Thursday, Maryland crab cake night.  She wasn't about to let anything spoil that, like her momma finding out that she has spent her allowance on a bag of chicken necks from Poffenberger's, just down the road from the trailer park.  She wiped the grease off her face, wadded up the foil lined bag and tossed it in the neighbor's yard as she headed her side of the fence.

She paid little attention to the door slamming, nothing but Maryland style crab cakes on her mind.  She barely heard the first shout in her direction, but the second caterwaul made her stop dead in her tracks.

"Young Lady!"  Came the voice from the metal stoop just to the right of her vision.  "I said, YOUNG LADY!"

Donise stopped and turned to gaze upon a tiny woman in a floral print house dress and unmovable curly gray hair.  "You talkin' to me?"

"Yes, I am speaking to you."  She put her hands on her hips and leaned toward her as she spoke.  "I am new here, and I don't anticipate causing anyone harm, but please do not throw your used poultry carcasses in my yard."

"What?"

"You heard me child."  The old lady crossed her arms.  "If you must litter, please have the common decency to toss your refuse in your own yard and let your own gardener deal with it."

"I don't know what'choo talkin' about lady."

"Don't give me that.  I watched you crumple it up and toss it in my bougainvillea from my kitchenette.  I will not tolerate being lied to! I am not above a beheading, you know!"

Donise raised an eyebrow and defiantly put her own hands on her own hips.  "Who do you think you are, woman?"

The old lady stood straight and proudly announced, "I am the Queen of England, young lady."  She smiled slightly.

Donise was impressed, but not deterred.  "You don't look like no queen I ever met."

Up for the challenge, the lady questioned, "Met a lot of queens in Cecil County,  have you?"

"Sure, my momma's best friend is a queen."  She turned up her nose and added, "her name's Shauntequa, and she do shows on weekends at the Hippo down ta Baltimore. When I turn eighteen she gonna sneak me in to watch her show.  She gonna do a Shakira number just for me."

"That's wonderful, child.  Now pick up your supper and run along."  She didn't move from her perch on the steps.  "Come along now, darling. Chop. Chop."

Donise swung open the little gate and walked inside the lady's little yard.  She picked up the evidence and looked for another place to toss it before her mother peeked out the window and spied her.  "Ma'am?"  she tried to whisper but speak loud enough for the old woman to hear her.  "Where should I put this?"

"I would think that the trash receptacle to your left would be the perfect spot."

She giggled at her own short mindedness.  "I'm sorry.  I won't do it again."

"There's a good child," the woman assured her as Donise snapped the lid back on a rather new Rubbermaid trash can.

The lady looked friendly but rather lonely.  In spite of their first encounter, Donise kind of liked her.  "Do you do Shakira?"

The woman chuckled.  "Oh no dear, but I have been known to do a mean Li'l Kim after a brandy or two."

Donise laughed.  "I'd like to see that!"  The woman laughed with her. 

Donise started to leave, but turned to the lady and asked, "Is you really Queen of England."

"I was, but not anymore, dear."  She said sadly.

"What happened?"

The lady slowly sat on the top step of the stoop and explained, "I abdicated to my son Charles, pet.  I thought in turn he would abdicate also to his son Harry."  She let out a forlorn sigh.  "Instead he surprised me and sent me here."  She thought for a moment.  "I still think his wife had something to do with it."

"Oh."

"It's alright dear, I'm fine.  I'd had enough.  While this wasn't where I expected to retire and spend my remaining years, but it'll do."  She smiled and held out her hand to Donise.  "Come child; let us have a look at you."

Donise smiled and walked toward her taking her hand and sitting at her feet.  She imagined she was a princess or a lady in waiting and settled in as much as her imagination would let her.

The lady brushed some hair off of Donise's forehead and cupped her chin.  "You are a pretty little thing, except for your hair."

"You don't like my dreads?" she frowned.

"They are very nice dear, but you need something a little softer...to bring out your eyes."  She thought for a moment.  "What about those braidey things?  Even that Whoopi person has them now.  They makes her look less severe."

"Uh huh."  Donise stuck a finger in one of her gray curls.  "Is them made out of plastic or what?"

"I should have fired my stylist years ago.  I guess we could both use a makeover."

Donise smiled, "That would be nice.  We could go to that place down to the mall I'll even help you pick out some new clothes.  That flowery thing don't do too nothin' for you. Miss Elizabeth."

"Hmmm," she said, "Could I get some blue jeans like you have on, with the sparklies?  I do love shiny things."

"Well," Donise said matter of factly, "I got these down at the Sale Barn on Jacob Tome, but I bedazzled them myself."

"Hmm." she said examining the rhinestones carefully.  "Very good work, child."

"Thank you. Ya know, we could get you a pair and I could come over and bedazzle 'em just like mine."  She said hoping to get another smile to cross the lady's face.

"That sounds like fun," Elizabeth thought.  "Yes, I haven't done anything like that in years."

"Good!"  Donise almost squealed.  "Miss Elizabeth, when I get all prettied up, would you introduce me to one of your grandsons?"

"Oh sweet thing, I would never introduce you to one of my grandsons in that manner.  They wouldn't know how to treat a lady like of character and good breeding like you."

"Good breeding?"  Donise was shocked.  "Miss Elizabeth you don't know nothin' about my family.  I was a crack baby and my daddy was probably a trick so she could get her next fix."  Donise rolled her eyes.  "Shoot, we all lived in a old bus at the junk yard until I was five years old."

Elizabeth planted her hands firmly on Donise's shoulders and looked her in the eye.  "Dear child, if you learn nothing else from me, please learn the one thing I never seemed able to teach my own children.  Good breeding has nothing to do with bloodlines and tradition at all."

"It don't?"

"No, dear."  Elizabeth said, 'but it does have everything to do with courage and respect.  And you young lady have very good breeding."

Donise was confused.  "I do?"

"Why of course, child.  Look at where you came from and where you are now!"

Donise looked around at her surroundings, the little tar and graveled road, the lines of dirty white trailers and old cars, and specifically the torn window screen she could she her momma pass by.  "I don't know, Miss Elizabeth" she mused, "don't look like I traveled very far."

Elizabeth waved her hand in the air, "Oh of course you have, child.  You're mother doesn't turn tricks for drugs anymore does she?"

"Why no!  She done cleaned up and got her GED.  She studyin to be a nurse now.  She done got a job down ta Perrypoint and everything."

"You see?  Your mother has worked very hard to give you and your brother a better life than she had.  That's good breeding, for her and for you."

"You really think so?"