Old Rock Rolls Nicely on iPod
My son bought an iPod several months ago. Since that time, we have revisited some of the greatest songs to rock, crank, schmooze and snooze the music scene of the last four decades. On his current playlist are artists as diverse as Louis Armstrong and Lenny Kravitz, Steve Perry and Brad Arnold. If you don’t know who Brad Arnold is, just ask the folks in Escatawpa, MS about 3 Doors Down.
Lots of things happen when middle-aged mamas and daddies listen to the music of their youth. One of the more remarkable results is that their children are forced to endure lots of air guitar solos and sad attempts at dancing. The look on their faces resembles a mixture of pain and unmitigated mortification, which is not far removed from the expression on our faces when we try to bust a move.
Sam’s iPod has brought about another phenomenon. His dad introduced him to Led Zeppelin. The kid took to it like Jimmy Page on a Gibson guitar. Now the two of them bob their heads in unison to tracks like “Whole Lotta Love” and “Living Loving Maid,” oblivious to the fact that they’re cruising in Mom’s seriously uncool minivan. Recently at their parents’ place in Virginia, my husband and his brother faced off in a round of “Name that Tune” of nothing but Zep. Most of the time, all they needed was a single note to rattle off the song and album title. It’s a skill that my son is developing with amazing alacrity.
The more we download, the more I realize what a huge influence music has on what we remember and why. I hear “Desperado” by Don Henley and recall dancing with my dad on my wedding day. “Groovy Kind of Love” by Phil Collins reminds me of college weekends on the Coast, hanging out at Gorenflo’s. Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” brings back memories of high school and days spent wondering what the future would hold.
And now each time “When the Levee Breaks” pulses from the iPod, I always think of how Katrina rocked our world here in the Gulf South and how Led Zeppelin brought a new level of understanding between a dad and his son. Leather Lungs can still work his magic.
Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis bridged the gap of two generations, one steeped in the conventional and the latter charged with the rebellious roar of rock and roll. My parents loved the music, and so did we. And now with online downloads of music made before they were born, today’s kids are finding out that those about to rock have been doing so for a very long time.
Sam has observed that some artists produce “one hit wonders” then simply fade away. One of our favorite songs is “Spirit in the Sky” by Norman Greenbaum. Curiosity had me look him up. At www.spiritinthesky.com, Norm is still creating and reports that he continues to write songs, another lesson in how the joy of music is in the making, not necessarily the fame and fortune.
Several years ago, my daughter and husband created a CD mix of songs by artists like Roger Miller and Patsy Cline. They sang loudly and passionately about trailers for sale or rent and walking after midnight. There is no doubt that when that girl of ours marries, somebody will request a Roger Miller tune at the reception, no matter what the in-laws think.
Thanks to computer technology and music lovers online, we can compile the soundtrack of our lives. When my son sings along with an old Kansas hit or jams to a little ZZ Topp, it’s like time travel. I remember how that music set the tone for my youth, how the lyrics sometimes felt written just for me. I am glad to see that the rockers of my generation hold their own with today’s hottest musicians.
So, as Mr. Bob Seger suggests, just take those old records off the shelf. But don’t sit and listen to them by yourself. Today’s music may not have the same soul. Give your kids that old time rock and roll along with some memorable riffs on the air guitar.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Monday, July 10, 2006
People Get Ready
People Get Ready
One of the sad things about going on vacation is that it ends. My husband and two children visited family in Virginia last week while I tackled an extensive painting project in the kitchen. In the resulting quiet, I had a lot of time to think while I scraped and scrubbed and painted. I recalled the times when I was glad to see the end of things, when it felt good to know closure had come.
We tend to dread endings, especially things like birthday celebrations, Christmas, summer vacation. I’m the sort that will see a great expanse of time before me and arrive at a million ways to use it. Before I know it, it’s all done, and I can see that my expectations were far greater than circumstances would allow.
Such was the case in the kitchen. You’ve seen the home makeover shows. Here’s a word to the wise: things do not happen in real life like they do on TV. In between that shot of a tired, dirty kitchen and the panoramic view of the glistening, remodeled one is a long stretch of hard work, failed attempts and probably a lot of cussing. Not that I would know about that.
What got me glad about endings was the wallpaper border that encircled the five million miles of wall space above our cabinets. Apparently the man who hung it had a death wish for whoever had to remove it. Lucky me. It was applied with Gorilla Glue, I am certain, with a splash of Elmer’s, just for good measure. After two hours of hard labor, I had removed exactly one foot of wallpaper and half my hair.
So, it’s 2 a.m. and I’m bruised and sticky and three days into my project that has been severely handicapped by the super glued nature of that cursed wallpaper border. As I sat on the countertop in my crippled stupor, some abstract song faded on Music Choice and then one of my favorites broke out like a brave reminder. “People get ready, there’s a train a-comin’. You don’t need no baggage, you just get on board.”
"People Get Ready,” a 60’s gospel tune recorded by the Impressions, is the ultimate regenerator. If you haven’t heard the song, then you don’t know what you’re missing. It is a soulful and energetic piece that always makes me fall front and center when I feel like there is no end in sight. I recommend Eva Cassidy’s version on her CD “Songbird.” If you listen to that without something stirring deep, I don’t care to know about it.
“All you need is faith to hear the diesels hummin’. You don’t need no ticket, you just thank the Lord.” The lyrics talk about the end of life, when we leave this Earth and meet our maker. Far from a dirge, the rhythm, rhyme and searing melody had me considering how endings can be pure bliss. When you’re tired and weary, this song about death is a real picker upper. I know because after I listened to it, I made some serious headway on wallpaper removal.
Let’s just say that when the last of that begrudging border was scraped from the surface of my kitchen, I was beat up, exhausted, and still mad as the dickens that so much time had been spent doing nothing but taking care of the bad stuff. I had such grand plans! But now I can look at those chiseled walls and see that the end is in sight. My freshly painted cabinets look new again. My “Rain Lily” paint will cast the bright hue of sunshine in a big room where a somber, lifeless color has bothered me for years.
Things didn’t go as I had planned, but they went. And now I am off to the airport to join my family that I am aching to see. Don’t ever doubt it’s good to see some things come to an end. It’s just life’s way of delivering new beginnings, a chance to see that what’s a-comin’ could be simply glorious.
One of the sad things about going on vacation is that it ends. My husband and two children visited family in Virginia last week while I tackled an extensive painting project in the kitchen. In the resulting quiet, I had a lot of time to think while I scraped and scrubbed and painted. I recalled the times when I was glad to see the end of things, when it felt good to know closure had come.
We tend to dread endings, especially things like birthday celebrations, Christmas, summer vacation. I’m the sort that will see a great expanse of time before me and arrive at a million ways to use it. Before I know it, it’s all done, and I can see that my expectations were far greater than circumstances would allow.
Such was the case in the kitchen. You’ve seen the home makeover shows. Here’s a word to the wise: things do not happen in real life like they do on TV. In between that shot of a tired, dirty kitchen and the panoramic view of the glistening, remodeled one is a long stretch of hard work, failed attempts and probably a lot of cussing. Not that I would know about that.
What got me glad about endings was the wallpaper border that encircled the five million miles of wall space above our cabinets. Apparently the man who hung it had a death wish for whoever had to remove it. Lucky me. It was applied with Gorilla Glue, I am certain, with a splash of Elmer’s, just for good measure. After two hours of hard labor, I had removed exactly one foot of wallpaper and half my hair.
So, it’s 2 a.m. and I’m bruised and sticky and three days into my project that has been severely handicapped by the super glued nature of that cursed wallpaper border. As I sat on the countertop in my crippled stupor, some abstract song faded on Music Choice and then one of my favorites broke out like a brave reminder. “People get ready, there’s a train a-comin’. You don’t need no baggage, you just get on board.”
"People Get Ready,” a 60’s gospel tune recorded by the Impressions, is the ultimate regenerator. If you haven’t heard the song, then you don’t know what you’re missing. It is a soulful and energetic piece that always makes me fall front and center when I feel like there is no end in sight. I recommend Eva Cassidy’s version on her CD “Songbird.” If you listen to that without something stirring deep, I don’t care to know about it.
“All you need is faith to hear the diesels hummin’. You don’t need no ticket, you just thank the Lord.” The lyrics talk about the end of life, when we leave this Earth and meet our maker. Far from a dirge, the rhythm, rhyme and searing melody had me considering how endings can be pure bliss. When you’re tired and weary, this song about death is a real picker upper. I know because after I listened to it, I made some serious headway on wallpaper removal.
Let’s just say that when the last of that begrudging border was scraped from the surface of my kitchen, I was beat up, exhausted, and still mad as the dickens that so much time had been spent doing nothing but taking care of the bad stuff. I had such grand plans! But now I can look at those chiseled walls and see that the end is in sight. My freshly painted cabinets look new again. My “Rain Lily” paint will cast the bright hue of sunshine in a big room where a somber, lifeless color has bothered me for years.
Things didn’t go as I had planned, but they went. And now I am off to the airport to join my family that I am aching to see. Don’t ever doubt it’s good to see some things come to an end. It’s just life’s way of delivering new beginnings, a chance to see that what’s a-comin’ could be simply glorious.
Friday, July 07, 2006
Politically Correct Leaves You Lonely, Hon
Politically Correct Leaves You Lonely, Hon
Something troubles me about the way we communicate with each other these days. I have been trying to put my finger on it. When I was growing up, the people I encountered on a daily basis used terms of endearment without flinching.
“Here you go, sugar,” said the librarian.
“Honey, you’ll find the syrup on aisle nine,” said the cashier.
“Sure, sweetie,” said just about anybody’s mom. “Have another cookie. I’ll make more.”
Today’s American way is to eliminate the friendly proclivity to share terms like these. They have been called offensive, trite and deemed as a form of sexual harassment. I once sat through a miserably dry presentation on how not to address coworkers.
The PowerPoint narrator said something to the effect of “Using terms like ‘babe,’ ‘honey’ and ‘doll’ when addressing a fellow employee is not acceptable and grounds for written reprimand and even dismissal.” Kind of makes you wonder what it would cost you to call your boss “dogbreath” or “backstabber,” doesn’t it?
Don’t get me wrong. I fully understand the potential for abuse of these terms. Sexual harassment in the form of a “babe” or a “sugar” to elicit intimate responses is surely as vile as tossing out expletives or physical groping. Delivered with salacious or vindictive intent, most words can be deemed inappropriate in any setting. It is the effective and solely harmless use of a “hon” now and then that seems to be in order for a country where we consider ourselves more than civilized and kind. I confess to grieving the fading custom of sharing a momentary but sincere concern for the comfort and disposition of others.
Maybe you are the sort who chafes at a waitress who calls you “sugar.” Maybe you are the kind of gal who insists you are nobody’s “sistah.” You might be a grown man who squirms when the VIP refers to you as “son.” But personally, I like it when the waiter asks, “What can I get for you, babe?”
I realize how politically incorrect that is. But I also realize how very distant and self-absorbed and sensitive we all have become thanks to the fear of appearing, well, insensitive. We greet each other with stone faces and respond with handshakes, never hugs.
Surely everyone should bear the right to say, “Please don’t call me ‘honey’” and have the request honored. I am the first to defend the protection of personal space and freedom of speech. Yet, I like to think that there remain people in this country who find pleasure in a pat on the back and a heartfelt, “Way to go, darlin’!”
Once while working as a second grade teacher’s assistant, I overheard two of our students in covert conversation.
“Yeah, I like Ms. Twedt pretty good,” one reported. “But for some reason, she thinks my name is ‘Hon.’”
After that, I dropped the “hon” and used their names consistently, until one of the more timid children nudged rocks on the playground with her toes and asked, “Why don’t you call me ‘Hon’ anymore?”
Recent studies by the National Science Foundation as well as Duke University and the University of Arizona indicate that loneliness is a rampant problem in our nation, an unhealthy condition that contributes to heart disease and depression. We are cultivating a culture of people who are intensely aware of what not to say and deeply alone because of what needs to be said.
So maybe there is a balance that we need to achieve, somewhere between the all or nothing. Perhaps there is room in our daily interaction to extend a greeting for the “babes” and “sweethearts” in our lives. Chances are, you know the people who will not take kindly to such and will avoid rocking their world.
For the rest of us, a “Thanks, hon,” is music and medicine for lonely hearts and ears.
Send an email to kristentwedt-subscribe@yahoogroups.com and receive a weekly reminder to visit this blog. Columns appear every Friday in The Hattiesburg American. Write to Kristen at krinzgal@yahoo.com.
Something troubles me about the way we communicate with each other these days. I have been trying to put my finger on it. When I was growing up, the people I encountered on a daily basis used terms of endearment without flinching.
“Here you go, sugar,” said the librarian.
“Honey, you’ll find the syrup on aisle nine,” said the cashier.
“Sure, sweetie,” said just about anybody’s mom. “Have another cookie. I’ll make more.”
Today’s American way is to eliminate the friendly proclivity to share terms like these. They have been called offensive, trite and deemed as a form of sexual harassment. I once sat through a miserably dry presentation on how not to address coworkers.
The PowerPoint narrator said something to the effect of “Using terms like ‘babe,’ ‘honey’ and ‘doll’ when addressing a fellow employee is not acceptable and grounds for written reprimand and even dismissal.” Kind of makes you wonder what it would cost you to call your boss “dogbreath” or “backstabber,” doesn’t it?
Don’t get me wrong. I fully understand the potential for abuse of these terms. Sexual harassment in the form of a “babe” or a “sugar” to elicit intimate responses is surely as vile as tossing out expletives or physical groping. Delivered with salacious or vindictive intent, most words can be deemed inappropriate in any setting. It is the effective and solely harmless use of a “hon” now and then that seems to be in order for a country where we consider ourselves more than civilized and kind. I confess to grieving the fading custom of sharing a momentary but sincere concern for the comfort and disposition of others.
Maybe you are the sort who chafes at a waitress who calls you “sugar.” Maybe you are the kind of gal who insists you are nobody’s “sistah.” You might be a grown man who squirms when the VIP refers to you as “son.” But personally, I like it when the waiter asks, “What can I get for you, babe?”
I realize how politically incorrect that is. But I also realize how very distant and self-absorbed and sensitive we all have become thanks to the fear of appearing, well, insensitive. We greet each other with stone faces and respond with handshakes, never hugs.
Surely everyone should bear the right to say, “Please don’t call me ‘honey’” and have the request honored. I am the first to defend the protection of personal space and freedom of speech. Yet, I like to think that there remain people in this country who find pleasure in a pat on the back and a heartfelt, “Way to go, darlin’!”
Once while working as a second grade teacher’s assistant, I overheard two of our students in covert conversation.
“Yeah, I like Ms. Twedt pretty good,” one reported. “But for some reason, she thinks my name is ‘Hon.’”
After that, I dropped the “hon” and used their names consistently, until one of the more timid children nudged rocks on the playground with her toes and asked, “Why don’t you call me ‘Hon’ anymore?”
Recent studies by the National Science Foundation as well as Duke University and the University of Arizona indicate that loneliness is a rampant problem in our nation, an unhealthy condition that contributes to heart disease and depression. We are cultivating a culture of people who are intensely aware of what not to say and deeply alone because of what needs to be said.
So maybe there is a balance that we need to achieve, somewhere between the all or nothing. Perhaps there is room in our daily interaction to extend a greeting for the “babes” and “sweethearts” in our lives. Chances are, you know the people who will not take kindly to such and will avoid rocking their world.
For the rest of us, a “Thanks, hon,” is music and medicine for lonely hearts and ears.
Send an email to kristentwedt-subscribe@yahoogroups.com and receive a weekly reminder to visit this blog. Columns appear every Friday in The Hattiesburg American. Write to Kristen at krinzgal@yahoo.com.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Recalling the Downside of Pop-Up Camping
Recalling the Downside of Pop-Up Camping
A friendly family chat turned dark when my sister-in-law hit on a sore subject.
“What happened to your pop-up camper?” she asked. We fell silent.
“You dare to speak of that which is forbidden,” my daughter murmured. We collectively flinched and darted our eyes to see if my husband had heard her utter the unmentionable.
“We unloaded that thing on a couple of fishermen years ago,” I explained, careful not to call it by name.
“But you didn’t like it?” asked my sister-in-law. “I mean, we love to go camping! We’re thinking about buying a fifth wheel.”
“And a diesel dually to tow it,” added my brother.
“Yes, fine, that’s a great idea,” my daughter and I agreed, a little too eagerly. “Just as long as it’s something that you park and plug in.”
“But what was so bad about the pop-, uh, it?” inquired my sister-in-law. I looked at my daughter, her eyes wide with the horror of recollection.
“The last time we went camping in it, my mom took my brother and me on a long, long walk so Dad could set it up,” she said. “We heard his screams from a mile away.”
Reluctantly, I recalled preparations for camping in the p-word. It went something like this:
A friendly family chat turned dark when my sister-in-law hit on a sore subject.
“What happened to your pop-up camper?” she asked. We fell silent.
“You dare to speak of that which is forbidden,” my daughter murmured. We collectively flinched and darted our eyes to see if my husband had heard her utter the unmentionable.
“We unloaded that thing on a couple of fishermen years ago,” I explained, careful not to call it by name.
“But you didn’t like it?” asked my sister-in-law. “I mean, we love to go camping! We’re thinking about buying a fifth wheel.”
“And a diesel dually to tow it,” added my brother.
“Yes, fine, that’s a great idea,” my daughter and I agreed, a little too eagerly. “Just as long as it’s something that you park and plug in.”
“But what was so bad about the pop-, uh, it?” inquired my sister-in-law. I looked at my daughter, her eyes wide with the horror of recollection.
“The last time we went camping in it, my mom took my brother and me on a long, long walk so Dad could set it up,” she said. “We heard his screams from a mile away.”
Reluctantly, I recalled preparations for camping in the p-word. It went something like this:
- Remember what supplies are already stowed in the pop-up.
- Pop the pop-up because you cannot remember what is stowed in the pop-up.
- Make list of needed supplies.
- Buy supplies and groceries for three-day trip to the wilderness.
- Answer the kids for the 100th time that yes, you will bring the TV and VCR.
- Remind children that the idea of camping is to get away from modern conveniences.
- Tell children to mind their own business as you pack the laptop and a dozen of their favorite videos.
- Close pop-up, hitch to overloaded van and head out in Friday rush hour traffic.
- Arrive at campsite and immediately embark on mission to find bathrooms with kids while Dad pops the camper.
- Explain that “dump site” is for RV’s, not for people.
- Pray out loud for the menacing black cloud to hold off until popping is complete.
- Seek shelter in laundromat while deluge passes.
- Return to campsite and find drenched husband cussing a dead battery and a manual crank.
- Explain to children what “hernia” means.
- Take children on scenic stroll with flashlights.
- Remember that you forgot the bug spray. And the cortisone cream.
- Return to campsite and joyfully enter popped camper at approximately 10 p.m.
- Explain to children that campfire food is woefully overrated and that even the pioneers ate peanut butter.
- Sink into bed to the sound of crickets and the aroma of fermented canvas.
- Sleep fitfully between nightmares of rabid bears and endless grit between the sheets.
- Rise with the sun or the pre-dawn departure of the jet engine RV next door.
- Spend two hours trying to remember how to flush the toilet and convert the kids’ bed to the kitchen table.
- Head to nature trail for outdoor adventure.
- Head back to pop-up to zip canvas walls due to impending downpour.
- Enjoy intense family togetherness and record rainfall within canvas cube while watching kids’ videos.
- Laugh hysterically because even 300 miles from home, perched on a damp mattress beneath thrashing pine trees, your family of four still ends up watching TV and asking “What’s for dinner?”
- Pack up a day early, head for home and sell “that of which we never speak its name” to a couple of diehard outdoorsmen who would sooner wipe with a pine cone than take a TV camping.
Dad Did Right, Even When He Did Wrong
Dad Did Right Even When He Did Wrong
(Father's Day column published June 18, 2006)
Fortunately for us, my dad did most everything right by us kids. My brothers and I might disagree about what are his greatest contributions to our development, but we all three agree that he is a wonderful father. A short list of what he might have done differently illustrates that even when he made some mistakes, how he handled them taught us a lot.
Things Dad Did Wrong:
A TV, a Magnet and a Boy: Dad allowed one of my brothers to have a big magnet, which under normal circumstances should have been harmless enough. But what Dad didn’t consider is that the boy would apply his super magnetic field to everything. Including the new console television. My brother rendered our picture completely scrambled by depolarizing the picture tube or something like that. I never fully understood what happened. But Dad saved the day. He flipped the magnet over, swiped the screen, and voila! We could watch “The Brady Bunch” to our hearts’ content.
Home Brew in the Trunk: My dad made great homemade root beer. I can still smell the rich aroma of fermentation and recall its sweet refreshment when the frothy beverage reached the peak of flavor. My dad had the idea that the trunk of the car would make a great place to carry out the fermentation process. It was hot, dark and convenient. The only problem with making homemade root beer is that it has a tendency to explode as gases build inside the containers. Thanks to one sticky eruption, our car smelled like Barq’s for a year.
Five Bazillion French Fries: One of the many crops our dad grew on the back lot of our Long Beach property was potatoes. In an effort to fully utilize a particularly bountiful potato harvest, Dad decided we would cut them into French fries, bake them and freeze them for later consumption. Most of what I can remember of that experience is that we had a truckload of French fries in the deep freezer, but everybody was so sick of them, nobody wanted to eat them. It was a long lesson in the value and convenience of mass produced food.
Rhodie’s Babies: Another attempt at growing our own involved a brood of Rhode Island Red chickens. Rhodie the hen and Lester the rooster gave rise to a flock of baby chicks. We named every last one in the brood and played with them daily. We fed them, and they grew.
One day our family of five sat down to a very unsettling Sunday dinner. The look on my mom’s face could only be described as pure disgust and trepidation. Soon enough, we kids put two legs and two legs together and came to the horrific realization that Rhodie’s babies were perched on our plate in Southern fried perfection. I think that was the day Dad came to the conclusion, once and for all, that his kids would have starved in the Depression. We could no more eat anything that had sat on our lap than we could swallow the story that all those pullets simply ran away from home.
My dad knows he’s a special man, if for no other reason than he survived raising us. But he is the wisest, funniest and most endearing, forgiving man I know. Of all the things he might have done wrong, there are multitudes of those he did just right, like bone crushing hugs and heartfelt letters on your pillow and dancing like no one is looking to a rousing rendition of “It must be jelly ‘cause jam don’t shake like that.” He continues to do right by us, reminding us that it is those moments of joy found in music and laughter, friends and family, that strung together over time make for lasting pleasure when infirmity and discomfort seem intent on ruling the day.
Of all the things my dad does right, that he loves us unconditionally, openly and completely, is my favorite thing of all. Well, that and the fact that he didn’t make us eat Rhodie’s babies. We love him in more ways than there were French fries in our freezer. Happy Father’s Day to a man we are so glad to call Dad.
(Father's Day column published June 18, 2006)
Fortunately for us, my dad did most everything right by us kids. My brothers and I might disagree about what are his greatest contributions to our development, but we all three agree that he is a wonderful father. A short list of what he might have done differently illustrates that even when he made some mistakes, how he handled them taught us a lot.
Things Dad Did Wrong:
A TV, a Magnet and a Boy: Dad allowed one of my brothers to have a big magnet, which under normal circumstances should have been harmless enough. But what Dad didn’t consider is that the boy would apply his super magnetic field to everything. Including the new console television. My brother rendered our picture completely scrambled by depolarizing the picture tube or something like that. I never fully understood what happened. But Dad saved the day. He flipped the magnet over, swiped the screen, and voila! We could watch “The Brady Bunch” to our hearts’ content.
Home Brew in the Trunk: My dad made great homemade root beer. I can still smell the rich aroma of fermentation and recall its sweet refreshment when the frothy beverage reached the peak of flavor. My dad had the idea that the trunk of the car would make a great place to carry out the fermentation process. It was hot, dark and convenient. The only problem with making homemade root beer is that it has a tendency to explode as gases build inside the containers. Thanks to one sticky eruption, our car smelled like Barq’s for a year.
Five Bazillion French Fries: One of the many crops our dad grew on the back lot of our Long Beach property was potatoes. In an effort to fully utilize a particularly bountiful potato harvest, Dad decided we would cut them into French fries, bake them and freeze them for later consumption. Most of what I can remember of that experience is that we had a truckload of French fries in the deep freezer, but everybody was so sick of them, nobody wanted to eat them. It was a long lesson in the value and convenience of mass produced food.
Rhodie’s Babies: Another attempt at growing our own involved a brood of Rhode Island Red chickens. Rhodie the hen and Lester the rooster gave rise to a flock of baby chicks. We named every last one in the brood and played with them daily. We fed them, and they grew.
One day our family of five sat down to a very unsettling Sunday dinner. The look on my mom’s face could only be described as pure disgust and trepidation. Soon enough, we kids put two legs and two legs together and came to the horrific realization that Rhodie’s babies were perched on our plate in Southern fried perfection. I think that was the day Dad came to the conclusion, once and for all, that his kids would have starved in the Depression. We could no more eat anything that had sat on our lap than we could swallow the story that all those pullets simply ran away from home.
My dad knows he’s a special man, if for no other reason than he survived raising us. But he is the wisest, funniest and most endearing, forgiving man I know. Of all the things he might have done wrong, there are multitudes of those he did just right, like bone crushing hugs and heartfelt letters on your pillow and dancing like no one is looking to a rousing rendition of “It must be jelly ‘cause jam don’t shake like that.” He continues to do right by us, reminding us that it is those moments of joy found in music and laughter, friends and family, that strung together over time make for lasting pleasure when infirmity and discomfort seem intent on ruling the day.
Of all the things my dad does right, that he loves us unconditionally, openly and completely, is my favorite thing of all. Well, that and the fact that he didn’t make us eat Rhodie’s babies. We love him in more ways than there were French fries in our freezer. Happy Father’s Day to a man we are so glad to call Dad.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Life is Just Better With Dogs
(Photo by Mary Ann Chance)
(Portrait by Richard Larson, Tifton, GA)
When Darren sent the news, our family of four sat in stunned silence.
"Darren got a dog," my son reported. We let the words seep in, incredulous that finally, the Chances had claimed a puppy. We have known them for 10 years, and nearly all that time, they considered the possibility.
While we accumulated five dogs and two cats, they resisted the temptation. We assumed they opted out.
Last Sunday, Darren sent a text message announcing the arrival of a six-week-old Labrador Retriever-mix. Sam got to the Chance's house first. He called, breathless, confirming in their garage was a fat, black and beautiful baby dog. The remainder of us set out on foot and arrived like Magi, eager to see the spectacle of wonder. She lay sleeping on the cool concrete, an irresistible package of canine contentment.
Mary Ann explained how the neighbors had dispensed seven of nine puppies with new families. Somehow, she bought the pitch, too. I think it might have had to do with the furry one's completely captivating charm. Darrell, her husband, met the scenario with what you might call subdued enthusiasm.
"I picked her out," Amy said. "We named her Haley."
"Haley, as in the comet?" asked her dad. "Like you could see this coming from a long way off?" His expression read something like, "Lord, why me?"
Obviously, Darrell is wild about the dog - in his own way. I shared the story of how I called my husband at work one afternoon to confess a surprise adoption of a poodle puppy.
"You won't believe what I just did," I cooed, nervously.
"Did you get a dog?" he asked, clearly clairvoyant.
"Oh, but just wait until you see her," I gushed. "She's a little black poodle, all fluffy and cute as a ..."
It was the first and last time my husband ever hung up on me.
The best part of the story is that the dog, Dootsie, won his heart. Their favorite place in the world was watching NASCAR from a recliner together. I'll spare the details of when she died, except to say that dogs teach us large lessons in love and loss.
In case the Chances need reassurance, our dog Winnie was a lab mix, too. She was our hero. She was also my first "baby," the puppy we bought for $5 in Ocean Springs when Steven and I were newlyweds. When our children were born, when they went off to school, when we celebrated births and mourned deaths and endured the hardships and treasured the pleasures of living, Winnie was there. She loved us like no one has.
Because of Winnie, evening walks proved to be grand adventures and sharing a meal meant cooking spaghetti more often, because that was her favorite. Because of Winnie, my children learned early and well about unconditional love and the invaluable gift of devoted companionship. They felt secure in her presence, a fringe benefit of deep trust and the bond of family. When she was nearly 11 and cancer claimed her, Winnie taught us how to say goodbye with grace and gratitude.
Though the first weeks with puppy can be challenging, the rewards outweigh the inconveniences. In Haley, the Chances will find what we and other dog lovers discover.
Life is just better with dogs, especially the kind like Haley. To see her embraced by children who waited so long to love her brings tears to my eyes. From her chubby face and floppy ears to her sighs of satisfaction, Haley is already at work, casting her spell, winning favor, winking at Darrell.
I can tell already, he's her favorite.
Send an email to kristentwedt-subscribe@yahoogroups.com and receive a weekly reminder to visit this blog. Columns appear every Friday in The Hattiesburg American. Write to her at krinzgal@yahoo.com.
Monday, June 05, 2006
How Not to Catch a Thief
To protect their flawless reputations as astute and sensible residents of the close-knit town of Ellisville, names of the couple featured in this column have been changed. We will call them Lucy and Ricky in this story, a fateful tale that demonstrates the finer points of how not to catch a thief.
Lucy and Ricky were sleeping when there arose a clamor of unrecognizable origin.
"Lucy, did you hear that?" croaked Ricky as he sat stiff and vigilant among his pillows.
"Hear what?" answered Lucy.
"That noise," Ricky said. "I heard something. Or somebody. I'm getting the gun."
Ricky eased soft-footed to the stashed pistol and motioned for Lucy to remain quiet. He tiptoed downstairs, in search of the culprit. He crept about the interior of the first floor, finding nothing.
"Do you see anything?" called Lucy.
"Not yet," whispered Ricky. They both listened for the telltale sound of a predator.
"What did it sound like?" asked Lucy.
"Shhhhh!" commanded Ricky. "I think I hear something outside. Hold on while I check it out!"
Deep in the night, when the world is sleeping and sinister trespassers lurk beneath the cloak of darkness, it proves difficult to remain cool, calm and collected. In the haste to protect our loved ones and possessions from possible vandalism or attack, we may become oblivious to our surroundings and our own personal safety.
Ricky found himself in just such a predicament.
Peering through the French doors to the moonlit lawn, Ricky searched the perimeter. He gripped the gun with one hand and the doorknob with the other. At that moment, he realized that the only thing between flesh and foe were his skivvies, but Ricky pressed on.
Outside in the shadowy open, Ricky crept across the carport, gauging his steps and stopping to shield himself with protective cover at critical points of surveillance. He stalked to the front yard, inwardly impressed with his ability to move silently in the night.
Then, a rustle.
"Lucy!" he half-shouted in a hoarse command. "I need the light!"
Responding with unprecedented agility and speed, Lucy flipped the switch for the floodlights, the ones that mimic the blinding brightness of a Broadway stage. And there stood Ricky, in full, Fruit-of-the-Loom glory, clutching his weapon and the dismal shreds of his dignity, an illuminated icon in the style of Barney Fife, frozen in place by the unmistakable grunt of stifled laughter and the brilliant beacons that blazed from the roofline. He responded in due time, with grace under fire.
"I meant the flashlight, Lucy."
Ricky never solved the mystery of that thump in the night. Whoever or whatever caused the disturbance must have masterminded a subterfuge of perfect design.
Sometimes the greatest lessons we learn are what not to do. Perhaps when responding to the call of protecting life, limb and property, the first and most important rule is don't lose your head. The second might be don't forget your pants. Finally, call 911 but don't shoot your wife. Hysterical laughter is never adequate grounds for using a weapon in self-defense.
Just for the record, a visit to a local pharmacy might allow you firsthand recounts of this and other adventures survived by Lucy and Ricky. A group of like-minded individuals gather there daily for coffee and fellowship, as grandchildren, golf games and citizen arrests allow.
Send an email to kristentwedt-subscribe@yahoogroups.com and receive a weekly reminder to visit this blog. Columns appear every Friday in The Hattiesburg American.
To protect their flawless reputations as astute and sensible residents of the close-knit town of Ellisville, names of the couple featured in this column have been changed. We will call them Lucy and Ricky in this story, a fateful tale that demonstrates the finer points of how not to catch a thief.
Lucy and Ricky were sleeping when there arose a clamor of unrecognizable origin.
"Lucy, did you hear that?" croaked Ricky as he sat stiff and vigilant among his pillows.
"Hear what?" answered Lucy.
"That noise," Ricky said. "I heard something. Or somebody. I'm getting the gun."
Ricky eased soft-footed to the stashed pistol and motioned for Lucy to remain quiet. He tiptoed downstairs, in search of the culprit. He crept about the interior of the first floor, finding nothing.
"Do you see anything?" called Lucy.
"Not yet," whispered Ricky. They both listened for the telltale sound of a predator.
"What did it sound like?" asked Lucy.
"Shhhhh!" commanded Ricky. "I think I hear something outside. Hold on while I check it out!"
Deep in the night, when the world is sleeping and sinister trespassers lurk beneath the cloak of darkness, it proves difficult to remain cool, calm and collected. In the haste to protect our loved ones and possessions from possible vandalism or attack, we may become oblivious to our surroundings and our own personal safety.
Ricky found himself in just such a predicament.
Peering through the French doors to the moonlit lawn, Ricky searched the perimeter. He gripped the gun with one hand and the doorknob with the other. At that moment, he realized that the only thing between flesh and foe were his skivvies, but Ricky pressed on.
Outside in the shadowy open, Ricky crept across the carport, gauging his steps and stopping to shield himself with protective cover at critical points of surveillance. He stalked to the front yard, inwardly impressed with his ability to move silently in the night.
Then, a rustle.
"Lucy!" he half-shouted in a hoarse command. "I need the light!"
Responding with unprecedented agility and speed, Lucy flipped the switch for the floodlights, the ones that mimic the blinding brightness of a Broadway stage. And there stood Ricky, in full, Fruit-of-the-Loom glory, clutching his weapon and the dismal shreds of his dignity, an illuminated icon in the style of Barney Fife, frozen in place by the unmistakable grunt of stifled laughter and the brilliant beacons that blazed from the roofline. He responded in due time, with grace under fire.
"I meant the flashlight, Lucy."
Ricky never solved the mystery of that thump in the night. Whoever or whatever caused the disturbance must have masterminded a subterfuge of perfect design.
Sometimes the greatest lessons we learn are what not to do. Perhaps when responding to the call of protecting life, limb and property, the first and most important rule is don't lose your head. The second might be don't forget your pants. Finally, call 911 but don't shoot your wife. Hysterical laughter is never adequate grounds for using a weapon in self-defense.
Just for the record, a visit to a local pharmacy might allow you firsthand recounts of this and other adventures survived by Lucy and Ricky. A group of like-minded individuals gather there daily for coffee and fellowship, as grandchildren, golf games and citizen arrests allow.
Send an email to kristentwedt-subscribe@yahoogroups.com and receive a weekly reminder to visit this blog. Columns appear every Friday in The Hattiesburg American.
~Write to Kristen at krinzgal@yahoo.com~
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