Once upon a time, I wet the bed.
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I wasn’t much of a bedwetter. Not really. Which is hard to believe considering the bladder problems I’ve always had. It wouldn’t have mattered, either way; my family doesn’t talk about such personal things, choosing instead to overlook them with polite parentheticals. Should an uncomfortable topic arise in conversation, we are likely to smile and pass it off with an “Is that so?”, but not in an encouraging way. Inflection is key in asking a question without looking for an answer. It’s an art form, actually. Likely, had it been an issue, they simply would have spent a fortune on new sheets and bed spreads,...
A drum set, and other gifts not to give to children.
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...
First things first…
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, family, humor
One thing that seems universal to all children is the idea of what it means to be first. It doesn’t matter at what they’re being the first, either. Being first carries within it all the intended glory necessary. First to sit still, first to get a haircut, first to touch base during hide-and-seek, first to finish dinner. Endless possibilities. My nephews, this past Sunday, case in point, were running neck-and-neck, outside, racing each other from one side of the yard to the other, simply for the bragging rights of saying, “I beat you. I got here first.” Wynn Chandler, the baby who...
“He’ll never make it in kindergarten.”
I feel a little like an abusive husband, right now. As if I’ve been bad, mistreated you in some way, and am now, tail tucked between my legs, throwing myself at your mercy, hoping a small bouquet of sad daisies, likely bought at Kroger, will be enough to woo forgiveness from you. I haven’t written a blog in about two months. Because…well… …in other words, I’ve been busy. I mean, excuse me, I meant to say I’m sorry. Also, I have no flowers to give. Just an odd complaint or two. I hadn’t intended my time to be taken away from me quite the way...
Gary makes me hungry.
I had a long, fun conversation with my friend Gary the other day, Sunday actually, over the telephone, and we quickly started talking about food, as our conversations tend to do. Gary, now a famous playwright/critic, who spends most of his days on a plane, as opposed to by a plate, always wants to hear about what Nana has cooked, created, invented, resurrected from her kitchen shelves. Nana’s kind of magical that way. And she has become something of folklore in my social circles, and many of my friends eagerly await for my Sunday dinner details. (I can think of one person who...
After that, I ate my chocolate cobbler in silence.
This past Sunday, my youngest nephew, Wynn, who by the way is a few months shy of three and has already rightfully earned the nickname of “Chunk,” turned to me and asked for coffee. “What…did you…say?” I implored of him. “Coffee,” he responded, and then with a nod of the head as if recognizing that he’d forgotten the magic word, added, “pease?” It’s always precious when the little ones remember that fading concept known as “manners.” But, precious aside, I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. I went in search of his mother. She wasn’t a bit thrown off by what I felt had...
There’s no “I” in Verizon. Oh, wait, Yes there is.
I’m going to tell you why I believe in karma: chewing gum. I have never, believe me, ever been one to litter. I don’t like it. I find it tacky, low-class, and uneducated of people to throw trash along streets, highways, and front yards. I’m sure some of this has to do with the near religious obsession U.L. and I had with his own front yard, when I was growing up. The first beer can I ever saw was face-down in his bed of calla lilies, the ones that sat out near the end of the driveway. People threw trash in the...
Excuse me, did you just call me a fad?
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, faith, family, life
I learned what the meaning of fad was the hard way. And I don’t just mean having to look it up in a dictionary. Since, I come before the mandatory use of home computers. I had a personal encounter with the word. It’s surprising, though, what one’s personal history of fads says about oneself. For me, in retrospect, my string of passing fancies was equivalent to that annoying solid beep of an emergency broadcast—“ in the event of an actual emergency, contact information will be provided.” That second part there, that never happened. Some of my “interests” were rather unique to me and me alone....
That, right there, is what you call a “teachable moment.”
Filed under: Deep South, education, Everyday, family, humor, life
In one of my flippant, wine-accompanied, philosophical moments, the other night, I found myself saying, “Well, if it’s possible, it’s necessary.” It just fell out. You know, I was standing around, my mouth was open, and then, Boom. There it was, a whole sentence, a sentiment of ontological bent, floating around the room. Now, I usually say things for two reasons: Either I like the way it sounds (which is a sort of philosophy in and of itself), or I’m not aware of what I’m saying (which is more often the case). Of course, far be it from me to retract a statement....
Nothing but the blood: GamVa.
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, family, humor, life
So, keeping with my character sketches, how about I talk a little about the “partly-fictionalized” portion of my family tree? There are quite a few branches there to be sure, of mismatched friends and who-not I’ve come to claim as family, but it starts further down, at the root, and trust me, it is one hell of a strong one. Her name is GamVa. Short for Grandma Virginia. Who isn’t actually my grandmother. She’s not even really related to me. Not even a little bit. But that doesn’t make her any less “blood” in my eyes. She’s been as indelible a mark in my...
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