2013 LAWRENCE COUNTY HIGH SCHOOL UGLY WALK

These brave Moulton, AL teen-aged guys were raising $$$ for the softball team. I had a blast watching them! My great nephew was one and I'm so proud of him

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.

WHERE I'M FROM

Donna's put her "Where I'm From" up after reading the one by Cowtown Pattie, and I can't let her get too far ahead of me. The outline for this writing exercise is here, and the original poem by George Ella Lyons is here.

Now y'all remember that I wrote this at work, so I'm gonna claim that it's not my best, but I do believe that it's a damn good start.



WHERE I'M FROM

I am from home-made dresses sewn on Mom's Singer sewing machine with loving hands, patched jeans, bare feet and cousin's hand-me-downs.

I am from white frame houses beside sway-backed barns on dusty back roads, party lines, baths in a #10 wash tub set in the kitchen floor and window fans stirring humid summer air while little girls turn a TV antenna trying to locate one of the only three local stations

I am from spring-fed creeks, hills and hollers veiled with woods, Tarzan vines and wild flowers; rural mysteries, dreams and adventures just waiting to be found.

I am from Grady and Elsie, Don and Byrd, Wayne and Ruth; hard headed, hard working, hard loving people who raised 5 girls with whippings and hugs dealt out in equal measure.

I am from an Amazon tribe of 5 sisters who fought and scratched and battled each other but presented a united front to any outsider who dared to cross one of us.

I am from dancing for joy under an outdoor shower made from an old bucket full of holes, hung overhead and the water hose stuffed in it; tire swings and tree houses and camping under the stars.

I am from Baptists with creek-side dunkings and Church of Christs who claim to be "the only ones"; purple Kool-Aid and cookies at Vacation Bible School and pictures made of glued-on pasta in Sunday School.

I am from Moulton on the edge of Bankhead Forest in the north of Alabama, with the blood of Cherokee Nations, Black Dutch Germans, Irish Immigrants, and Mayflower Pilgrims running through my veins.

I'm from sweet tea, corn bread with real butter, mac and cheese, peach cobbler and fresh garden vegetables raised in the back yard along with banana kisses, Vienna sausages and Mountain Dews devoured at Bass's service station.

I'm from Teresa who threw a match in gas and lived to tell about it, Tina with the red-headed temper, Donna, my sidekick who always followed me and Karen around and Lana who'll always be "PeeWee" to the rest of us.

I am from Dad who quit school in the 6th grade and got an education in the air force and Mom, who met him on a blind-date and eloped with him 10 days later; a True Romance story for the ages.

I am from goofy school photos featuring missing teeth and messy hair, candid snapshots made with an old Brownie camera showing little girls with skinny legs and big smiles, all stuffed out of sight in drawers and closets and the bench of Mom's old piano.

I am from a wild neighborhood posse of boys and girls who roamed for miles on horseback, getting drunk on vodka bought from the local bootlegger & paid for by picking up drink bottles from the side of the road, teaching each other how to kiss, scaring each other to death with seances and graveyard stories, fighting with and for each other all through childhood.

I am from The South with our slow talking, sweet sounding accents, folks who are so friendly we'll speak and wave at friends or strangers, where everyone's raised to have manners and use them--even on those that don't deserve to be Sir'ed and Mam'ed.


UPDATE: I found this page with links to several more "Where I'm From" writings from around the world. There are tons of them on the internet, this writing exercise has been around for a while. Y'all come and play with us.

PITY POT

When I try to imagine my future after the plant closes in a few months I draw a blank. I've never not had a job, a reason to get up and get on with my day.

It's a scary thing to not know what to expect, what to do with one's self. I've debated on going back to school but at 58 by the time I get a 2 year degree who would want to hire me? Especially as I'm thinking about going into something to do with computers, which is considered as a young person's field. It's depressing to think that I've devoted 34 years to a company who is kicking me and hundreds of others to the side. I've got tons of skills but the job offers (and there have been several) are for plants as  far away as South America; I feel too old to start over in a new place and leave my friends and family behind.

Enough wining, I'll get off my pity pot, put my big girl panties on and make the best of it.

Hilarious!

As I've aged, I've become kinder to myself, and less critical of myself. I've become my own friend.
I have seen too many dear friends leave this world, too soon; before they understood the great freedom that comes with aging.  Whose business is it, if I choose to read, or play, on the computer, until 4 AM, or sleep until noon? I will dance with myself to those wonderful tunes of the 50, 60 &70 's, and if I, at the same time, wish to weep over a lost love, I will.  I will walk the beach, in a swim suit that is stretched over a bulging body, and will dive into the waves, with abandon, if I choose to, despite the pitying glances from the jet set. They, too, will get old.  I know I am sometimes forgetful. But there again, some of life is just as well forgotten. And, I eventually remember the important things.  Sure, over the years, my heart has been broken. How can your heart not break, when you lose a loved one, or when a child suffers, or even when somebody 's beloved pet gets hit by a car? But, broken hearts are what give us strength, and understanding, and compassion. A heart never broken, is pristine, and sterile, and will never know the joy of being imperfect.  I am so blessed to have lived long enough to have my hair turning gray, and to have my youthful laughs be forever etched into deep grooves on my face. So many have never laughed, and so many have died before their hair could turn silver. As you get older, it is easier to be positive. You care less about what other people think. I don 't question myself anymore. I've even earned the right to be wrong. So, to answer your question, I like being old. It has set me free. I like the person I have become. I am not going to live forever, but while I am still here, I will not waste time lamenting what could have been, or worrying about what will be. And I shall eat dessert every single day (if I feel like it).
MAY OUR FRIENDSHIP NEVER COME APART, ESPECIALLY WHEN IT 'S STRAIGHT FROM THE HEART

: Getting there.......

Sounds like my Dad

Vicki

SENIOR DRIVER "Do not regret growing older?  It is a privilege denied to many. " While my neighbor was working in his yard, he was startled by a late model car that came crashing through his hedge.... and ended up in his front lawn. He rushed to help an elderly lady driver out of the car and sat her down on a lawn chair. My Goodness!, he loudly exclaimed, "you appear quite elderly to be driving." "Well, yes I am," she replied proudly.  "I'll be 97 next month, and I'm now old enough that I don't even need a driver's license anymore.  The last time I went to my doctor, after he examined me, he asked if he could see my driver's license. That did seem kind of strange.... but handed it to him. He took scissors out of the drawer; cut the license into pieces; and threw them in the waste basket." "You won't need this anymore," he said. "So I thanked him..... and left!" DON'T YOU JUST LOVE SENIORS!

SWOLLEN...

1 1/2 hours in the dentist's chair, 2 temporary crowns and a nap. But I still look like a chipmunk storing nuts for the winter........

FUTURE

They say that when one door closes another one opens. If so then the door to my future looks like one on an episode of the “Twilight one”.

I’ve had a varied career path: secretary for “Uncle Sam“, fast food worker, painter, carpenter, welder. But since 1979 and the age of 23 I’ve worked in Courtland Alabama; first for Champion International Papers and then for International Papers when they bought out Champion.

Now they’re closing our plant. This will make my home the poorest county in Alabama. And at 58 years of age I don’t have any prospects of a decent paying job, I’m not old enough for full retirement nor to draw Social Security. Plus I’ll lose my medical insurance and life insurance.

The future is unsure but I’ll definitely have to change a few things. Like cut off everything but lights and water. And eat beans and rice instead of beef and pork chops. At least my home is paid for and I don’t have towering credit card bills like some people.

Enough wining. Time to put on my big girl panties, suck it up and keep on keeping on.,

IP TO CLOSE COURTLAND AL PAPER MILL

http://www.therepublic.com/view/story/f1fcf8af64bf4484b508f5a5213d97ed/AL--Alabama-Paper-Mill-Closing

It's going to be a terrible adjustment what with my place of employment closing the first of the year. Been here for 34 years and all at once it's "Been nice to know you but we're locking the doors".

Guess I'll have to find a new reason to get up in the morning

NATIONAL UNMARRIED/SINGLE WEEK

Unmarried and Single Americans Week is celebrated in the United States during the third full week of September to show appreciation for the contributions of those who are single, widowed or divorced. The observance originated as National Singles Week in Ohio in the 1980s to celebrate single life and recognize the contributions of singles to society. Since many unmarried Americans do not describe themselves as single because they are parents, have partners, or are widowed, the name was changed to Unmarried and Single Americans Week. There are 103 million unmarried American adults according to the U.S. Census Bureau, of which 62 percent have never been married, 24 percent are divorced, and 14 percent are widowed. The group comprises over 44 percent of all U.S. adults who are 18 and older and represents a significant source of intellectual capital in the workplace.

HISTORICAL TIDBITS~THINGS THAT'LL MAKE YOU GO "HUH"

Did you know the saying "God willing and the Creek don't rise" was in reference to the Creek Indians and not a body of water? It was written by Benjamin Hawkins in the late 18th century. He was a politician and Indian diplomat. While in the south, Hawkins was requested by the President of the U.S. to return to Washington. In his response, he was said to write, "God willing and the Creek don't rise." Because he capitalized the word "Creek" it is deduced that he was referring to the Creek Indian tribe and not a body of water.

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In George Washington's days, there were no cameras. One's image was either sculpted or painted. Some paintings of George Washington showed him standing behind a desk with one arm behind his back while others showed both legs and both arms. Prices charged by painters were not based on how many people were to be painted, but by how many limbs were to be painted. Arms and legs are 'limbs,' therefore painting them would cost the buyer more. Hence the expression, 'Okay, but it'll cost you an arm and a leg.' (Artists know hands and arms are more difficult to paint.)

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As incredible as it sounds, men    and women took baths only twice a year (May and October) Women kept their hair covered, while men shaved their heads (because of lice and bugs) and wore wigs. Wealthy men could afford good wigs made from wool. They couldn't wash the wigs, so to clean them they would carve out a loaf of bread, put the wig in the shell, and bake it for 30 minutes. The heat would make the wig big and fluffy, hence the term 'big wig... 'Today we often use the term 'here comes the Big Wig' because someone appears to be or is powerful and wealthy.

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In the late 1700's, many houses consisted of a large room with only one chair. Commonly, a long wide board folded down from the wall, and was used for dining. The 'head of the household' always sat in the chair while everyone else ate sitting on the floor. Occasionally a guest, who was usually a man, would be invited to sit in this chair during a meal.. To sit in the chair meant you were important and in charge. They called the one sitting in the chair the 'chair man.' Today in business, we use the expression or title 'Chairman' or 'Chairman of the Board.'

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Ladies wore corsets, which would lace up in the front. A proper and dignified woman, as in 'straight laced' wore a tightly tied lace.  

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Personal hygiene left much room for improvement... As a result, many women and men had developed acne scars by adulthood. The women would spread bee's wax over their facial skin to smooth out their complexions. When they were speaking to each other, if a woman began to stare at another woman's face she was told, 'mind your own bee's wax.' Should the woman smile, the wax would crack, hence the term 'crack a smile'. In addition, when they sat too close to the fire, the wax would melt. Therefore, the expression 'losing face.'

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Early politicians required feedback from the public to determine what the people considered important. Since there were no telephones, TV's or radios, the politicians sent their assistants to local taverns, pubs, and bars. They were told to 'go sip some Ale and listen to people's conversations and political concerns. Many assistants were dispatched at different times. 'You go sip here' and 'You go sip there.' The two words 'go sip' were eventually combined when referring to the local opinion and, thus we have the term    'gossip.'

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At local taverns, pubs, and bars, people drank from pint and quart-sized containers. A bar maid's job was to keep an eye on the customers and keep the drinks coming. She had to pay close attention and remember who was drinking in 'pints' and who was drinking in 'quarts,' hence the phrase 'minding your 'P's and Q's'.

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One more: bet you didn't know this! In the heyday of sailing ships, all war ships and many freighters carried iron cannons. Those cannons fired round iron cannon balls. It was necessary to keep a good supply near the cannon. However, how to prevent them from rolling about the deck? The best storage method devised was a square-based pyramid with one ball on top, resting on four resting on nine, which rested on sixteen. Thus, a supply of 30 cannon balls could be stacked in a small area right next to the cannon. There was only one problem....how to prevent the bottom layer from sliding or rolling from under the others. The solution was a metal plate called a 'Monkey' with 16 round indentations. However, if this plate were made of iron, the iron balls would quickly rust to it. The solution to the rusting problem was to make 'Brass Monkeys.' Few landlubbers realize that brass contracts much more and much faster than iron when chilled.. Consequently, when the temperature dropped too far, the brass indentations would shrink so much that the iron cannonballs would come right off the monkey; Thus, it was quite literally, 'Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.' (All this time, you thought that was an improper expression, didn't you.)

Vicki

THE STARS ARE OUT AND WORTH WATCHING

http://news.yahoo.com/perseid-meteor-shower-peaks-weekend-watch-online-tonight-153217562.html The perseid meteor shower is this weekend and for those of us who are under clowdy skies we can still watch on line

FAMILY PICS (or MANLY THANG)




JOEY EVANS





JOEY EVANS





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

FW: LAUGHED SO HARD I CRIED

Like everything in life, farts have a time and place. However, I never realized that in the wrong time and place, flatulence had enough power to alter my course in history. Well, it can if it's the third date with the man of your dreams. And, if it makes his eyes burn. If God destined us to be together, I was one SBD away from foiling His plans (that's "Silent But Deadly" for you prudes).

It was about five years ago. I was trying to lose a few pounds so I was staying away from carbs. That's when I met my husband, Rob. On our first date, he booked the next two. He liked me. I liked him. Things were looking real good.

He picked me up in a Cobra, Mustang and his pathetic attempt to win me over with a car totally worked. I'm not shallow, but since I spent most of my twenties picking men up because I didn't want my hair to frizz in their non-air conditioned jalopies on 3 wheels and a 15 year old spare, I welcomed his fancy sports car with open arms.

We arrived at the restaurant and Rob was ordering food I hadn't allowed myself to eat in years. I didn't want to be "that girl" so I ate, drank, and oh, was I merry. Later we shopped a bit. Rob surprised me by buying an expensive pair of shoes that he caught me eyeing. Was this love?

That's when it happened. Gas strikes in two different ways – uncontrollable toots or sharp, shooting pains that feel a lot like dying. I thought I was dying. Not to make a scene, I told Rob I suddenly wasn't feeling well and probably needed to head home.

On the way home in his Cobra, he tried to hold my hand and ask me lots of questions, but I wasn't having any of it. The pain was so bad it felt like I was being stabbed with a bunch of tiny forks. Then I realized …

My God, help me. I have a horrendous fart on deck. I'm in trouble. Big trouble.

HOW DO YOU TELL A MAN YOU JUST STARTED DATING, THAT THE REASON YOU ARE WRITHING IN PAIN IS BECAUSE YOU HAVE TO FART.

The more I held it in, the more pain would shoot through my stomach and down my legs. I was even having to raise myself off the seat, gripping on to my door and the dashboard.

"Seriously, you need to hurry – I'm in a lot of pain." I managed to say through gritted teeth.

"Wow, it's that bad? What's wrong? Do I need to take you to a hospital?"

How do you tell a man you just started dating that the reason you're writhing in pain is because you have to fart?

Well, you can either tell him, or like me, let the fart speak for itself.

People, hear me. There was nothing I could do. As impressive as I am with sphincter control, this was out of my hands. Slowly, it eeked out. The more I tried to stop it, the more it forced its way through the door. However, to my pleasant surprise, there was no sound. I sat silently, sweat accumulating above my upper lip. Ok, maybe I got away with it. Maybe I'm home free. Then it hit me. Not an idea, a cloud. A horrific, fart cloud. Not in a, "am I smelling something?" sort of way. More like a "is someone dead and rotting in your trunk and am I in hell?" sort of way.

Suddenly, I panicked. "Roll down the windows!" I screamed (yes, I literally screamed it like I was in a horror movie).

"What? Why?" Rob asked, starting to freak out because I was freaking out.

"I can't roll down the windows, unlock it! UNLOCK IT!"

"What's going on?" Rob yells back to me, "Why are you …" then it hit him. I could see it in his eyes. Was it surprise? Horror? Water started to accumulate at the base of his eyelids, "Oh my God, I CAN TASTE IT!" he screamed.

"Roll down the windows!" As I screamed, the toots started to flood out uncontrollably. I scratched and clawed at the window like I was being kidnapped. Rob, unable to see either by fart cloud or panic, kept turning on the windshield wipers instead of unlocking the window.

It was chaos. We were acting like we were under siege by gun fire. We were under siege alright, just not by gun fire.

Finally he was able to hit the right control and he rolled down our windows. We both gulped in fresh air. I was horrified, yet happy to be alive, then remembered I just farted on the man of dreams, then sorta wished I was dead.

We sat silently for the rest of the way home. Although the shooting pains had subsided, I now desperately needed to use the bathroom, in an urgent, explosive kind of way.

He pulled up to my apartment and before he could come to a stop I had already jumped out, "Ok, thanks for dinner, sorry about the fart, love the shoes!" and ran in to my apartment like I was running from the cops.

I burst through my door and ran straight for the bathroom, where I was finally able to unleash and make noises that no one should ever, EVER, hear coming from another person.

Then I heard it. Rob's voice. Right. Outside. My. Bathroom. Door.

"Anna? You left your shoes in my car and your front door was open. Where do you want me to put them?"

"Get away from the door!" I scream like Reagan from The Exorcist.

"Ok, I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

*toot* *toot* *splatter* *ungodly noise*

"I'm fine, Rob – just leave the shoes there. I'll call you later okay?"

"Okay, are you sure you're …"

"I'm fine! Get away from the door!"

This man! I mean, I love him, but take a freakin' hint!

Finally, I heard the front door shut, and the Cobra engine zoom away. I thought that was the last I'd hear from him. I didn't think it was possible to ever see a man again after he screams he can taste your fart after only knowing you for 48 hours.

But, to my surprise, I did. A couple days later, actually. Now we're married and he's lying on the couch while I type this … "It was your rack that saved you," he just lovingly reminded me.

 

 

25 Ways to Show You're a Man 1.

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And the winner for the
MOST ORIGINAL / CREATIVE PANHANDLER

spotted on recent trip through Hardy, Arkansas.