A drum set, and other gifts not to give to children.
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I found myself in a conversation the other evening in which the topic of Santa arose, and with it came the typical, post-adolescent baggage: How old were you when you found out Santa wasn’t real? It seems that Santa has a very thin line of discussability (today's word du jour). Either you are six, or thereabout, and Santa conjures up images so explosively potent that you have to lock yourself in a bathroom until the feeling passes, and though the whole messy Santa business only lasts for about twelve total hours on the night of his imminent arrival, you still swear...
Or, in layman’s terms, a fist.
I’m guessing you’ve never thought about this before, and until recently, it had been ages since it’d crossed my mind, but I’m going to ask you anyway: What kind of finger-pointer are you? I’m not sure how, but I think it’s probably very important that we ask ourselves this and learn how knowing what type of finger-pointer we are unconsciously dictates our lives. I was first brought to the attention of the power of the finger not, as you might imagine, by a rude driver showing me his emotional state caused by my “granddaddy” style of driving along our nation’s roadways. No,...
It’s beginning to look a lot like Ma Onie.
Ma Onie was another of my sidekick grandmothers. (Not blood kin, but I can’t recall a moment of my childhood where she wasn’t looming in some corner of the kitchen fermenting sugar syrup for her sweet tea or threatening a misbehaving child with the worn brass tip of her cane). She was, in most lights, the iron fist in the velvet glove personified with a smidge of Ma Kettle sewn in the seams; trust me, sugar syrup wasn’t the only thing she kept out in the smokehouse. And when Christmas rolls around I tend to give her her due because of her Christmas “inventions.” Now,...
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