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...
“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...
Because that’s what beards are meant for: hiding fat.
I’ve decided that I’m allergic to my facial hair. And that, in and of itself, is an odd thing to know about myself, because for years I couldn’t stand facial hair. Not a goatee, not a moustache, not the hint of a 5 o’clock shadow. It seems that, without even realizing it, though, that I’ve changed my mind on the issue. Out of nowhere it seems I sprouted a full beard, and kept it. Until it started itching, and I had no choice but to shave it. When I did, I realized why I’d allegedly grown one in the first place: I was fat. Somehow,...
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...
“I’m the freaking boss of TV, just so you know.”
Filed under: Deep South, education, Everyday, family, humor
I’ve made no little secret about the fact that growing up, as I did, the television was not the center of the universe. Not in our house. It was carefully guarded: it and all its wonders of delicious and suggestive programming. The only television station that I was allowed to watch, almost entirely on my own and un-chaperoned, was good, old PBS. And, oh, how I watched it: Letter People, Clyde the Frog, Voyage of the Mimi, and one of my all-time faves, Read All About It. Even learning, early on, how to convince U.L. that some shows were appropriate—How could they...
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...
Nothing but the blood: Tigi
Filed under: Deep South, faith, family, humor, life
Kirby thinks I ought to pen a few character sketches for you. He and I were talking the other day and he said it’d be nice to explain who some of these people are that I keep writing about. He said it’d increase reader-interest if I described in some detail the repeated members of my sweet, dogged family I refer to so often in my memoir-esque blog. I think that’s a great idea. For several reasons: first, it’ll certainly help those precious few of you who read this thing with any regularity to have some reference points, and secondly, it’ll be a...
It’s no Gashlycrumb Tinies, but the point is I wasn’t going for that, anyway.
I’ve been having the most interesting, intriguing, and ridiculous dreams lately. Last night, and I was medicine-free, mind you, I dreamed that I was a poet, of sorts, and that I was neighbors to a house. Well, I should say, House. Because this House was alive, a real, bona-fide living House. In addition to that, this House lived in an envelope. That’s right. An envelope. (It is a buyer's market, right?) At any rate, I’d been out of work for some time, and as a favor, the House had hired me to paint a new coat for its exterior. Except, instead of paint, the House had...
Phenergan’s Wake
Filed under: Deep South, faith, family, food, health, humor
I’ve had an ill-behaving stomach, as of late. Which has kept me up at nights, uneasy and nauseous. I couldn’t eat much of anything yesterday; I had to practically force myself to eat the leftover cheese sticks, a bowl of soup, and half a chocolate bar (with hazelnuts). So, I did. But, I couldn’t bear to go another night with fitful sleep; so last night, to combat this, I took a Phenergan. It’s a pill prescribed for upset stomachs, etc. We fear I might have IBS. (That’s quite a conversation-starter, there, is it not?) It took a couple of hours, but it did the...
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