FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS

One of the wonderful things about living in the rural South, any time a tree falls across the road some Good Ole Boy will show up to help.

I live in an older home and my lawn is covered with grand old massive oak trees, which I love but a high wind always covers the yard with blown down limbs. Last night’s storms and tornados caused the entire top of one to break off and fall across the road in front of my house. All that’s left of the original tree is a 15 foot trunk with no limbs, picture a massive fence post and you got it.

When I posted about it on Facebook last night my niece replied that if it hadn’t been moved out of the road by the time her fiancé’s brother got home this afternoon (who lives down the road from me) he would bring his chain saw and help. This morning another neighbor brought his tractor equipped with a front-end loader and moved the tree out of the road, and this afternoon my nephew Duane (Donna’s eldest) came over and started cutting it up until the rain made him stop.

I’m blessed with wonderful neighbors, friends and family and I wouldn’t take anything for my country life.

OVERHEARD AT WORK

When I was young we were so poor that the only heat in the  house was the fireplace, so in the winter we would all sleep on pallets on the floor in the living room. The house was so old that the wind would blow through cracks in the floor & ruffle the quilts we were lying on. One morning when I woke up I found lots of little "glass" balls lying around on the floor. I gathered them all up and lined them up on the fireplace hearth trying to figure out what they were while warming up.

Suddenly they started to melt,  POP POP POP, and an awful stink filled the room.

THEY WERE FROZEN FARTS!

THE MILL

This is the place I've spent most of my waking moments for the last 34 years, the paper mill in Courtland, Alabama.

 I've been in  the boiler house all that time and it's where I learned to operate heavy machinery, produce electricity with steam driven turbine generators, trouble shoot pumps & motors, boss men around (like I needed lessons doing that!), control things from a DCS I/A system and multiple other skills that will be useless to me soon.

You see the mill is closing down. Not due to anything wrong with it or because the crew are incompetent; but because someone in a corporate office in another state who has never been in an actual paper mill decided that there was too much paper in the market and we were the biggest (and highest producing) mill around and it was easier to shut down 1 mill instead of several others.

Not only will this devastate the lives of  myself and my crew members but it's having a terrible impact on all the surrounding counties.

This is the only major industry in my home county. The schools have always had paper donated from IP for use across the system. That donation saved the schools $40,000 each year. Plus, there is no way to know how many students might be lost if parents move to seek other jobs. International Paper’s financial input to my county now is approximately $400,000 to the county’s general fund, $147,174 to road repair, $588,696 in school taxes and $235,478 in hospital tax.There's no way to recover from the loss that the mill will have county wide.

I'm 58 so I'll can suck it up and try to get by on my pension  until 62 rolls around and I can get Social Security but the younger folks are having to leave to find jobs elsewhere. Homes and cars are going up for sale all over the place but who has the money to buy them now that a large majority of people are facing unemployment?

Sometimes it's hard to look for the silver lining when all you see are storm clouds. They say "this too shall pass" but that doesn't make it any easier nor the future look any brighter. Thank goodness I have my health and a loving family.

MY ADDICTION

I blame my sister Donna for my addiction.

True, in the past I had dabbled and experimented on my own. Nothing hardcore you understand. Just a taste, only once in a great while, to see if it still felt as good as the last time. Never enough to dig deeply into my pocketbook nor draw attention to my habit. Only quite a little personal fancy to mix color and designs in a way that made me happy.

After a while Donna slowly started to lead me astray. First she had me printing quilt patterns off for her. Then I started helping her to mix tones and patterns; offering my opinions like I knew what I was talking about when Donna had always been the artistic one of us. And she listened!  

And then it happened. I've started hoarding fabric in every hue known to man and a few patterns that had to be inspired by either drugs or insanity. I dream of quilt designs and new ways to combine different blocks to make something that is strictly mine. I now lust after color and texture and the mixing of different textiles into something that hopefully will become a simi-work of art where before I was content to ooh and ahhh over someone else's efforts.

The lawn is overgrown, the flowerbed has a fine crop of weeds, the housework is weeks behind and still I spend all my spare time enveloped in my

FABRIC OBSESSION.

And it's all Donna's fault.

Vicki  Waters

HEARTS ABLOOM QUILT

hearts abloom quilt

Well folks, I might be getting the hang of this quilt making thing. Here is the finished HEARTS ABLOOM quilt top. Many thanks to my sister Donna Waters Evans for all her help & support.

Now if I can only get this & the other 3 I've made quilted I'll be in high cotton LOL

COONDOG QUILTS

Coon hunting is an old and time honored Southern tradition where men go out in the fall to let their prize hounds run through the woods in search of a raccoon. My sister Donna & I have been making Coondog Quilts in honor of our Dad, Arbon Wayne "RED" Waters, who was a coon hunting fanatic. All his dogs were named "Blue" no matter their color or breed. He very seldom killed anything, just went out with his buddies & listened to the dogs run. I can still remember him coming in late at night, smelling of the cold & woods, talking about how some wily old coon gave Blue a run for his money before going to tree. He could tell all his dogs apart by sound of their bark alone & know if they were running or barking "treed". The quilt on the left is mine & the one on the right is Donna's.

 

Love you Dad, and still miss you every day

 

 

WHITE TRASH CHRISTMAS

You gotta watch this video. It's one of my all time favorite Christmas parodies. Warning: not for kids

HALLOWEEN RANT (I DON'T NEED NO STINKING COSTUME!)

Who needs a store-bought Halloween costume? I look in the mirror at all the ravages that Father Time has done to this tired old body and I’m about as scary as I can get without putting on a mask or wig.

What were once freckles are now fast spreading age spots, and beauty marks have turned into moles that seem to pop up in weird places and make me worry about skin cancer, something that I never thought about a few years ago.

I have lumps and bumps and rolls where once there was an hourglass figure. My skin now drinks in lotion like a camel at an oasis, no longer the texture of a baby’s bottom; rough where it should be smooth and sagging like the shoulders of the exhausted elderly woman I’m fast becoming.

The boobs are heading South of the border and my feet are getting bigger; but not near as fast as my ass is spreading out. The gray is fast taking over my once reddish brown curls and my hairdresser is losing the battle to camouflage the iron colored strands with streaks and highlights.

So I’m not going to dress up tonight. Instead I’m gonna so without makeup, let my hair go wild and stop trying to suck in my gut. I’m wearing sweats, a t-shirt and no bra. I’m letting it all hang out (picture the grandma on the Klumps running in the dream sequence with boobs bouncing all over the place!) and scare all the tick or treaters who show up at the door with my natural hideous self.

So come and get some candy kids. Don’t be afraid, this too will happen to you in a hundred years or so. Happy Halloween y’all.

SWEET TEA

Do you take your tea sweet or not? Cold or hot? Sweet tea is a Southern staple, our Mamas put it in our bottles when we're wee babes and the addiction starts there. Go up north and the yankees swear that you're ruining a good thing. Seems that everyone everywhere has an opinion; but we Southerners will fight to the death over how to properly prepare and serve tea.

I just had to share this article, AMERICANS AT THE TABLE: REFLECTIONS ON FOOD AND CULTURE (it's kinda long but it tickled both my funny bone and my interest). I ran across this culinary tale in E Journal, USA:U.S. Society & Values, put out by the U.S. Dept. of State/Bureau of International Information Programs.

Damn, that's quite a mouthful!

You should go and read the whole paper, it's got tons of recipes and history about how different foods became staples in the USA.

INCLUDE ME OUT:

A REFLECTION ON “ICE TEA"

by FRED CHAPPELL

The author, though a native of the American South,disdains the region’s signature liquid refreshment, iced tea. He sees perversity behind the popularity of the highly sweetened drink, which he calls an “insipid banality,” but that doesn’t stop him from offering the reader guidance on how to prepare it.

"There are people who eat cold pasta salad. They enjoy despoiling their greenery with gummy, tasteless squiggles of tough, damp bread dough that are usually made palatable only when heavily disguised with hot tomato sauce and a stiff mask of Parmesan cheese. This salad does have the virtue of economy. Wednesday leftovers can be marketed to Thursday customers of perverse taste.

It is probably perversity also that accounts for the prevalence of ice tea in our American south. It was Edgar Allan Poe who first diagnosed this immitigable contrariness of human nature in his short story, The Imp of the Perverse, and he undoubtedly saw it as a normal trait of Dixie character. But please include me out. I am one southerner who detests that dirty water the color of oak-leaf tannin and its insipid banality. When I am offered ice tea by one of our charming southern hostesses, I know I’m in for a long afternoon of hearing about Cousin Mary Alice’s new babe and its genius antics in the playpen.

Hot tea makes sense. It can relax as well as stimulate and in fact may be sipped as a soporific. It can offer a bouquet pungent or delicate and causes us to understand why the Chinese designated certain strains of flowers as “tea roses.” It can be a topic of conversation, too, as southerners revive the traditional English debate as to whether the boiling water should be brought to the pot or the pot fetched to the water. Such palaver reassures us that all traces of civilization have not disappeared under the onslaughts of video games and e-mail.

But if you ice the stuff down it cannot matter in the least whether the water or the pot has journeyed. Any trace of the tea’s bouquet is slaughtered and only additives can give this tarnished liquid any aroma at all. There is, of course, plenty of discussion about these added condiments. Even the mildest of southern ladies may bristle and lapse into demotic speech when they consider that a glass of ice tea
has been improperly prepared.

Notice that we say, “ice tea.” Anyone who pronounces the successive dentals of “iced tea” is regarded as pretentious. And if you say “Coca-Cola” you will be seen as putting on airs, just as obviously as if you employed “you” as a collective pronoun. Down here we say “you-all,” “CoCola,” and “ice tea” and collect monetary fines from strangers who misspeak. Ignorance before the law is no excuse.

.
In recent years some enterprising women have seen the futility of the pot/water controversy and have begun making “sun tea,” a beverage that is never acquainted with either stove or teapot. They simply fill a gallon jug with water, drop in a flock of tea bags, and set the collocation out on the back porch to brew in the broiling August sunshine. If this method does not make the kitchen more cheerful, it does at least lessen the hypocritical chatter about proper procedure. Ice cannot harm sun tea; it is created beyond the reach of harm or help.

Now as to the recipe for ice tea: Lemons are essential and should be of the big thick-skinned variety, cut into sixths. They are never – repeat: never – squeezed but only plumped into the pitcher, four or five slices. Extra slices are offered on a cut-glass plate six inches in diameter. Mint may be added, but it is always submerged in the pitcher and never put into a glass where it would glue to the interior side like a Harley-Davidson decal.

And sweetening is the soul of this potation. The sugar bowl passes from hand to hand at a pace so dizzying it is like watching the rotating label on an old 78-rpm record. Southerners demand sweetness. The truly thoughtful hostess shall have already sweetened the tea for her guests with a simple sugar syrup that excludes the possibility of unpleasant graininess from bowl sugar. Sugar syrup for ice tea is concocted by adding one pound of Dixie Crystal sugar to a tablespoon of water. In the south sweetened ice tea is taken for granted, like the idea that stock car racing is our national pastime and that the Southern Baptist church is a legitimate arm of the Republican Party.

If you order ice tea in a restaurant it will arrive pre-sweetened. If you want it unsweetened you must ask for it. Actually, you must demand it with pistol drawn and cocked. And you will have to repeat your demand several times, because tea unsweetened is as abstruse a proposition to most servers as a theorem of Boolean algebra. Even then you can’t be sure. My wife Susan once ordered unsweetened, but it arrived as sweet as honey. The waitress pleaded for understanding. “We couldn’t figure out how to get the sugar out,” she said.

Why southerners are so sugar-fixated may be a mystery, but it is an indisputable fact. We are a breed who makes marmalades of zucchini, tomatoes, onions, and even watermelon rinds. Our famous pecan pie (“puhKAWN pah”) is a stiff but sticky paste of boiled Karo corn syrup studded with nuts. Since this is not sweet enough, it will likely be served with a gob of bourbon whipped cream dusted with cocoa powder and decorated with vegetable-peeler curls of milk chocolate.

“Do you want ice tea with that?”

“Oh yes. Sweetened, please.”

Well, I’ll confess that, though born in North Carolina, I make a poor example of a southerner. I don’t even capitalize the name of the region. I’m a Democrat, a non-Baptist, and don’t care what kind of car I drive. To me, adding broiled marshmallows to yams is like putting raspberry jam on porterhouse. I once spotted a recipe in the magazine Southern Living for CoCola cake and had to fight down a surge of nausea. I flee as if pursued from fatback, spoon bread, barbecue, grits, and – ice tea.

Susan tells me I need sweetening.

Fred Chappell is a professor of English at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro, and is North Carolina’s Poet Laureate. He has written numerous books of poetry and fiction, including First and Last Words, Midquest, More Shapes than One, Brighten the Corner Where You Are, and I Am One of You Forever.

HONEY, I'M HOME

It’s been one of those weeks, and not in a good way. My allergies have been kicking my ass from all the pollen in the air (yellow dust all over the place, I had to run the wipers to clear my windshield before leaving the house). I’ve got bloodshot eyes and I’ve blew my poor nose so many times that I’ve suffered nose bleeds a couple of times, plus the constant tissue contact has made me look like Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer! Scarlet laced eyes, crimson nose, not a good look for an old woman; plus they don’t go well with the double chin and chipmunk cheeks.

Now that the rain has hit maybe my ruby colored snout will get better. I went grocery shopping in the sunshine and just as I walked out the exit the heavens opened and a solid sheet of rain poured down. I looked like a drowned rat by the time I got to the car and was dripping wet after getting everything in the trunk. The pollen was making golden ripples on top of the water running across the parking lot; I’m hoping that the air has been washed clean as well. I’m home now; the thunder is rolling, the rain is pounding on the roof and the TV is ranting about hail and possible tornadoes. Ah, life in the glorious South.

Tuesday I went to the funeral home for 2 different neighbors. They lived right across the road from each other and died on the same day (who would have thunk it). One had been sick for a long time and the other guy broke his ankle and died from a blood clot. I grew up with their kids and renewed several friendships at the funeral home, not the best place to run up on old friends but what can you do?

I need to go do some housework now, gotta go back to work tomorrow night and when I’m working all I do is work and sleep. I usually cook a lot on my off days and load the fridge so I can grab and go and not eat a lot of takeout. Hope y’all are all well and I’ll try to do better at the blog posting thingy.

ON THE ROAD AGAIN

Lord, it’s been so long since I’ve flexed my writing muscles that I think they’ve atrophied (lets hope that brain-rot hasn’t set in also!). For those of y’all who’ve had the patience to hang around waiting for me to post, thank you from the bottom of my little old southern heart. I love y’all for your tolerance and promise to try to do better, but as you’ve heard before: "The best-laid plans of mice and men” - not to mention us females. Now for my long delayed Westfest post.

I left North Alabama on Wednesday morning (8/27) driving to the town of West, Texas, for a much anticipated visit with Jackie Sue (aka Yellowdog Granny) whom I’ve been online friends with for years but hadn’t actually met face-to-face. Friends, family and coworkers were all freaking out about me driving so far alone but really, what’s the big deal? Most accidents happen just miles from home because familiar territory causes us to let our guard down; you’re just as likely to get mugged at Wal-Mart or the grocery store as on the interstate, and if I drive solo I can stop when I want and drive all day if I feel like it. I’ve never had a problem with the fear of being alone and I’m a firm believer in “just doing it”. I truly think that if more people would just do what they want instead of being hampered by fear of the unknown, worrying about what someone else thinks is right, waiting for the perfect time or weight or age or income, yada, yada, yada; if you just do whatever the hell it is that’ll make you smile, then the world would be a richer and happier place.

Everyone was also tripping about me going to visit someone who was practically a stranger; going on and on about how Jackie Sue could be an ax murder, psychopath or bull dyke lesbian (did I point out what a vivid imagination they all have, plus I think some of the guys were using my trip as an excuse to concoct some major girl-on-girl fantasy action. When I mentioned that another female blogger lived in the area one of my coworkers got all excited and exclaimed “You mean that y’all are gonna have a “Ménage a twat”. Yeah, I work with a bunch of redneck hard ankles). The fact that Jackie Sue and I had had multiple phone conversations, exchanged gifts and cards and so on and so forth for a long period of time didn’t seem to mean a thing to anyone but what the hell, let ‘em have their daydreams.

I took the southern route, driving down to Birmingham and then swinging west through Jackson, MS and Shreveport, LA. Traffic was light and the weather was beautiful with the sun shining behind me and the car’s A/C keeping the 90+ heat outside. I had the cruise control set on 80 MPH and the stereo jacked up loud, singing my heart out with no one to tell me how off key I was. People everywhere I went were friendly and I didn’t have the first minute’s trouble with anything or anybody.

I crossed the Texas border that evening and spent the night in Marshall, with plans to drive cross-country on minor roads and do a little sight seeing the next day. I didn’t have a problem getting a room; as a matter of fact since I was a single female the hotel put me on the ground floor close to the desk where someone would always be close in case I had a problem. The desk clerk said that starting Monday that everything was booked because of the oncoming hurricane. I didn’t realize then that I was going to wind up driving home in Hurricane Gustav.

This is going to be a multi-part post, so stay tuned and I’ll let you know about all the doings at Westfest.

BIRTHDAY SNOW

Yesterday was my sister Donna’s 50th birthday (she's next to me, I'm the oldest of we 5 sisters) the big FIVE OH that women dread so much, but she couldn’t go out and celebrate because of family obligations; so today Karen, Donna and I became “ladies who lunch” and went to Ryans/Fire Mountain (the local all you can eat buffet) where you can pig out on wonderful food and a dessert bar to die for. Hey, it’s a party; I can eat cake and ice cream and not feel guilty, right?

When I turned 50 I came home from work to find that Donna and her kids had decorated the entire yard with black balloons and crepe paper and a huge sign (painted in glitter paint no less) proclaiming that I was over the hill and my age for all the word to see; but since I was working on her birthday I couldn't return the favor. Of course posting her age on the web is the next best thing. So there ya go Donna, I got you back on the age advertising thing.

We wound up sitting next to an older couple and a young woman who were either Amish or Mennonites, I can’t tell the difference. They were dressed the part with the women in baggy dresses and the man in his black suit, long gray hair and beard. The young woman looked pregnant, but it could have been the sack of a dress that she had on. Karen said a cuss word and then instantly felt bad, blushing blood red and slapping her hand over her mouth while Donna kept lusting after those little white bonnets the women wore. Not sun bonnets like my grandmother wore to work in her garden but close fitting gauzy cap deals that tied underneath the chin.

Then Karen noticed some big guy who she claimed kept watching her eat, she said that he wanted her food but after he made three trips back to the buffet I tried to convince her that he thought the way she was eating was erotic and wanted to stuff something of his own in her mouth. Of course Donna jumped right on that, telling her how what he offered would be all hot and creamy, but Karen refused to play along.

Yeah, we’re goofy but hey, we had a good time. Of course people keep looking at us as we giggled and laughed and had a blast but the hell with them. What’s wrong with 3 women over the age of 50 sounding in high spirits? Besides, I’ve always heard that when you get older you can do anything that you want; it’s one of the few perks of aging.

Afterward, we hit the Dollar Tree where everything is $1 and you can load up a shopping cart for $20. While we were inside everyone started running to the windows and yelling “It’s Snowing!” The white fluffy stuff is rare here in Alabama, my 8 year old grandson can only remember 1 other time that it snowed, so it’s a big deal.

When we checked out and walked to the car it was snowing heavily, big fat flakes falling straight down. By the time I got to the car the shoulders of my coat were frosted white and I was wishing glasses came with windshield wipers. The drive home was almost a white out, you couldn’t see but a few car lengths in front of you, but the ground was warm and it melted as soon as it hit. It’s stopped now and they’re predicting sleet and rain tonight so I guess that today was our one snow for the winter. I guess you could say that Donna got snow for her birthday.

While I’m on the subject of birthdays, today’s Bitchitude’s, go tell her and Donna both ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY” if you want.

SATURDAY SUNSHINE

After lots of thunder and lighting plus some wind damage severe thunderstorms Thursday left us wonderful weather in its wake. Clean air, sunny skies and moderate temps in the 50s made me want to play hooky today so bad that I could taste it, but duty calls so off to the slave shop I went.

The drive to work this afternoon was picturesque; too bad I had to make a straight line to the mill instead of meandering up and down the back roads. I wish I had thought to bring my camera and had the time to snap some of the sights on the way. You know which ones; those special moments that capture your eye and intrigue your mind. All too often they pass in a blink and get forgotten in the press of everyday life.

I spent several minutes trailing a vintage horse and buggy driven by an older couple, their white hair gleaming in the sunshine as they leaned their heads together. I swear their tilted bodies and touching foreheads formed a perfect heart-shape just like something on the front of a Hallmark card. You could see the happy pair’s smiles flashing from a mile away as their scarves waved gaily in the breeze. Young love be damned, it looked like these oldsters were doing just fine in their golden years. We should all be so lucky.

A bit farther down the road a youngster on a shiny new ATV (obviously gotten for Christmas) was zigzagging up and down the ditch banks; cutting donuts and slinging dirt all over a much used and abused older trail bike sitting on the side of the road with a “FOR SALE’ sigh on the handle bars. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the poor trail bike. Old, worn out, unloved and unwanted, discarded and replaced as soon as a newer younger shinier model becomes available. I think there are a lot of us who know the feeling, even if we won’t admit it to anyone but ourselves.

I don’t own a full length mirror. I live and work in jeans and casual shirts in blue-collar industry, so dressing up is a rare occasion. So the other night when I went to get slicked up for a co-worker’s retirement party it came as something of a shock when all my dressier clothes were tighter than I remembered. OK ........ I’m 52 and some of this stuff has been in the closet for years, I can deal with the thicker waist, broader hips and sagging girls. My face is aging well (I guess) and makeup does wonders when I take the time to apply it. After all, age hits us all differently, I have a friend whose body is the same size 4 as when she was young but her face shows her years of chronic sun worship. We all have our flaws; so I take a deep breath, throw on a respectable outfit whose buttons don’t pop over my bulging bosom, paint my face, twirl around and model for my son and the 2 cats who give their approval, and off I go.

It wasn’t so long ago that I had to be careful of appearance and body language at dinners and meetings; my co-workers’ wives considered me a threat just because I was decent looking and had a boobilicious rack. But the other night as I was introduced to the other ladies their eyes glanced at me, slid from my artfully streaked gray hair and down my ample curves. And then dismissed me. I mean they totally looked away and never acknowledged my existence again. Not in words, looks, acts, nothing. They saw an older overly-plump over-the-hill female who wasn’t worth the time of day because she could never interest their men. It seems that if I’m not a threat I’m not worth the time of day. WTF!

These younger (I’m talking 30-something) women spent the night huddled next to their guys shooting glares at each other while I and the few other “matrons” laughed and giggled and wondered what was wrong with the pseudo fem-fatales at the other tables. And it was unanimous; all we “middle-aged ladies” agreed that they didn’t consider us worth anything because we weren’t a threat.

When did women become each other’s worse enemies? And what the hell makes them think that anyone else would want the testosterone-sodden pot-bellied male who shares their bed? What happened to female comradely? Hell, I always have more fun with my girlfriends than with a date; I don’t have to impress the girls; I can eat with my fingers, get slightly tipsy on too much wine, do the funky chichken if I want, and I don’t have to hold my breath so my gut doesn’t pooch out as much when I’m with my buddies.

I just don’t get it. We dismiss each other based on age, weight, shape and if we think someone looks better than us. I thought it was bad enough when men did it to us, but now we’re doing it to ourselves. Girls, this shit has GOT TO STOP!

NEW YEAR'S EVE POST

Wahoo! I actually got 24 hours off Sunday (worked off midnights at 6 AM and came back this morning at 6AM. Working is a bitch but it pays the bills). I went home, fell into bed with a puss cuddled on each side, took a nap until noon and then went to town with my buddy Carol.

Carol was on a mission, in search of the perfect curtains. We hit Target, Wal-Mart, TJ Maxx and K Mart. The perfect curtain had to be navy blue, room darkening, and kid proof; not too much to ask but it seems that solid color curtains aren’t in fashion. She finally bought some at Wal-Mart but they weren’t exactly what she wanted.

Along the way I wound up buying a new plaid trench coat for 50% off and several pieces of amber jewelry (I’ve got a thing for amber). I also got lucky and found some digital Christmas ornaments (you download pictures onto the permanent memory and they act like a digital picture frame hanging on your tree) for 75% off at Target. That’s a great deal, marked down to $7 from $29.99; I got one and Carol got the only other two left. The ornaments were hidden behind some other stuff; otherwise they would have been gone because all the after-Christmas stuff was really picked over.

While standing in the checkout line I always pass the wait by reading the magazine headlines. I pointed out one on Cosmo to Carol that said in big bold letters “DIRTY SEXY SEX” and remarked to her that although it’s been a while, the last I remembered, if sex isn’t sexy then you’re doing it wrong! After all our ramblings I got home around 8 PM, passed out on the couch until 10:30 and then went to bed and slept until the alarm went off this morning.

The weather man is predicting our first snow flurries in the morning, Alabama isn’t known for the white stuff so they're making a big deal out of it (any time the forecast is for snow or ice everyone here makes a run on the grocery store and buys out all the bread and milk, I have no idea why). Tomorrow night it’s supposed to get down to 18 degrees so I guess I’ll have to break out the long johns and heavy socks. I just hope the road doesn’t ice over because I drive up and down mountains on narrow 2 lane roads and we don’t get weather days at the paper mill. Gotta remember to get some more cedar shaving for the dogs house on the way home this afternoon, too. Nothing worse than frost-bitten pooches.

I hope all of you have a Happy New Year; I’ll be snug in bed long before midnight so if you celebrate, drink one for me.

SPECIAL REQUEST-WHITE TRASH CHRISTMAS

I found this video several years ago and when I posted the link it was a big hit. Everyone has asked me to to post the link again this year, so here it is. The video fairly long but sooo worth the wait! If you've got dial-up you might not be able to hear it, sorry.

You'll be singing the "White Trash Christmas" song yourself after watching this. And everytime you watch it you'll see some little detail that you missed the first time {watch for the hound that humps everything}. Please give it time to load and I promise you'll laugh yourself silly.

So without farther ado, I give you:

WHITE TRASH CHRISTMAS

THANKSGIVING MORNING

A blustery breeze swirled moist mustard yellow leaves around my ankles as I stepped out of the car. Dawn’s anemic sun peeked through the remnants of storm clouds, casting a sickly sepia tone over everything. Last night’s thunder-boomer had passed; a goose-bump inducing drop in temperature and icy mud puddles the only evidence that summer’s long drought was over.

Puppies peeked out of the insulated doghouse, little black noses and floppy ears signaling that while they noticed Mommy was home, not one sorry flea-bitten hound bothered to leave their shared body warmth long enough to say “Good Morning”. Can’t say as I blame ‘em. Usually they play this fun game of twining around my legs or darting beneath my foot just as I try to take a step, trying to see if they can trip me between the car and the house. Selfish beasties, letting a little cold and wet interfere with their display of doggy affection, I should short them on their kibble rations!

After a long 12 hours sitting on my ample ass in front of a bunch of computers I was ready to hit the bed and snuggle with the poo-kitties for a long nap. I shed my coat and bags in the kitchen and was walking through the house leaving a trail of clothes behind me when I noticed the blinking amber light on the answering machine. Thinking “It’s Thanksgiving, someone is inviting me to fix a plate on the way to work or just giving me a cheery 'Happy Turkey Day” I hit the play button.

A sad/little boy lost/I just lost my best friend/nobody loves me voice said “Junebugg, its ex-sweet thang. I just wanted to talk, give me a call”. NOW HE WANTS TO TALK. Sounds like a personal problem to me, and it ain't no problem of mine.

Hitting the delete button, I slid between the sheets with the cats draped on each side of me and drifted off to dreamland. After all, I don’t get a day off until nest Friday week and I don’t have time for all the drama.

My new motto courtesy of Popeye: “I stands all I can stands and I can’t stands no more”

REUNION

Family reunions; that quintessential mixture of love, laughter and loss. Relatives hold forth with the same verbal sparring that they’ve mastered over the years, but now there’s more gray heads than sparkling eyes in the mix. Hugs encompass the shoulders of loved ones present and accounted for, making the black hole of deceased family members all the more obvious and heartbreaking. Oldsters catch-up with each other while youngsters ask “Who are you?” “Whose your Mom/Dad?” before adjourning outside to toss a football as if they’ve known each other forever. Old memories are shared and new ones made as long lost kin reminisce and new babies are introduced to strangers whose genes they share.

Saturday was the first reunion in years of The Curnutt Clan, my Mom’s family. It was hosted by my Cousin Danny at CR Mechanical (his company) in Tanner, with Danny furnishing hotdogs and hamburgers and the rest of the relatives bringing covered dishes. Of course there was an overabundance of food; 2 tables groaned beneath the weight of casseroles and desserts of every kind (ain’t it always that way at reunions!) All the cooks urged everyone to “Try some of this, I brought it!” as paper plates were filled to overflowing and frost-bitten hands dug into coolers searching for the beverage of choice. Several cameras snapped at odd times, capturing candid photos of bulging cheeks and wide open mouths with food being shoveled in for all prosperity. I can see my grandson years from now asking “Who’s the old man with half a hotdog hanging out of his mouth?”

One of my cousins walked by, patted me on the tummy and asked “Getting kinda fat, aren’t ya?” Later I told my sister Donna that our sisters and kids were the biggest bunch at the reunion (meaning there were more of us) and she replied “Yeah, in more ways than one” and it’s true. Most of Mom’s relatives are on the slender side while we Waters Women take after our Dad’s family (a much sturdier stock). Kinda funny when you consider the fact that my Grandmother Curnutt was known to all as “Big Mother”.

The reunion was held just down the road from the old Curnutt home which had been condemned and is being torn down. Of course everyone had to go look and recall stories about our growing up in and around the ancient two story house. When we were kids it seemed gigantic, but as adults it’s hard figure out how the heck they got so much furniture in the tiny rooms. Donna got several hand-made cinder bricks from the old fireplace as mementoes, but I prefer my memories to solid objects which will only catch dust. You can take memories out and play with them whenever you want and they don’t take up space in my already cluttered life.

After all, aren’t good memories kept bright and shiny from constant use the best tribute that you can give a loved one, whither they’re alive or deceased? To all my family, I love y’all and I’m proud to be a part of the clan. I hope you feel the same way about me.

A special thanks to Cousin Danny for the use of his time and business place. Love Ya.

PS: The computer censer at work has blocked this website and any other with the term "blogspot" in the address, so I don't have as much time to visit my blogbuddies. Sorry for not getting around to everyone as much as usual

REDNECK WEDDING

After all these weeks I've finally gotten around to developing the pictures I took at my nephew's Redneck Wedding. It's a bitch when real life interferes with the pleasures of life but I gotta work to eat, so what's a girl to do.

I have to admit that this was the best wedding that I've ever been to. It was outdoors, they served pintos and cornbread at the reception, the bride's relatives provided live entertainment and everything came off without a hitch (bad pun; hitch, getting hitched. Oh well, you get it).

My sister Teresa (mother of the groom), 3rd of us 5 girls, and her husband Randy.
Both the groom and groom's man wore high top Converse sneakers.
Whispering sweet nothings
Told you it was redneck! Brock, the groom's man.
Paul and Erica, the happy couple


The bride and bride's maid buck dancing at the reception.

I wish Paul and Erica all the happiness in the world. If their mariage goes half as well as the wedding did they'll be an old couple holding hands while they watch their grandchildren play. We should all be so lucky.......

THUMB'S UP

A big thumbs up to the guy I saw in Decatur, AL yesterday. Two women's car had broken down in the middle lane of a busy highway and they were attempting to push it out of the way. Traffic was buzzing past them in the 103 degree heat with everyone looking and pointing but no one even considered stopping to help. While I was hunting a place to stop my car and help, this fine sample of Southern gentlemanhood stopped in the middle of the road, put his emergency flashers on, removed his suit jacket and helped the ladies to push their car into a nearby service station.

Who said that chivalry is dead? So to the white haired feller with the cute white goatee, well done and thumbs up!

HAPPY DANCE

The current drought has caused a lot of bizarre things here in Alabama this summer: fruit and vegetables at selling at sinful prices, foliage in the colors of autumn instead of banners in the usual Red, White & Blue herald the 4th of July, grass crunches underfoot making it impossible for kids to sneak up on one another during games of tag or hide & go seek, deadly smog levels in our usually fair Southern metropolises have caused cities to put up signs begging folks to stay home and not drive, a lack of summer color because all the flowers are wilted and sere are making this a drab and dreary season instead of the usual floral showstopper that the South is known for.

But it has also brought one sight that I would have never dreamed of; something so fantastic that it brought an instant smile to my face and caused me to wish that I owned a video camera. People, this was an occasion! An event that I have never heard spoken of before, one that I would have never believed if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.......


I saw a squirrel doing a happy dance underneath a lawn sprinkler.

Not just a quick and accidental dash through the shining drops. Nay, that frisky little squirrel spent several hours prancing and dancing, twirling and spinning amid the shower of wetness. I don’t know of any way to describe it other than pure animalistic joy in the hedonistic feel of wet fun on a hot day.

Dang, I love country living!