Home

Some of my best memories are from home. And what I call home is not the house my parents purchased: not a home I lived in while I was in my teens; nor was it my great-aunt’s home where many of my life's problems and goals were discussed. Home was Granny's house and all the little pleasurable things that surrounded it.

The history of Granny’s home in Florida is admirable.
My grandmother and grandfather married young and did not have very much money. But they worked hard and soon built a home by themselves (with the exception of a few relatives). I am not sure which came first, the house or children, but they had one girl and two boys.
They added on to the home when they adopted the four children belonging to my grandmother’s sister—she had passed away. I believe the youngest of those children was about five.
So, with all of the responsibility she already had and the new ones acquired, my grandmother was still able to create the fondest memories for them and their children. The nature of her personality took care of almost everything. Mother Nature took care of the rest.

Let us go back in time to the smells. A smell bordering on bad comes from the back room. It is the yeast coming from rising dough. She is making homemade cinnamon buns, yes buns since they’re too big to call rolls. They are as big as two of my seven-year-old fists. Then she bakes them and prepares the icing. The aroma of cinnamon and vanilla pervade the furthermost corner of the house and my mind. I can’t think of anything else but those sweet, gooey pastries.

“Are they done yet, Granny?” I ask for the fifth time.

Then there are the mental pictures stored away. Crepe myrtle trees cradle the driveway like the precious path that it is. The nurturing arms are blooming the sweetest pink petal that float to the drive like a dream. The trees blossom often but they seem prettier every year. This is so lovely my eight-ear-old mind can’t understand why this picture isn’t on everyone’s walls.

Sounds. Can I describe the sounds well enough to convey how special they were? Every Sunday the whole bunch got together and had lunch. It was such fantastic chaos. Her seven children along with their children came together for a day of food, play-time and catching up on each other’s lives.

BANG!

“Melanie, I’m going get after you if you slam that door again,” Aunt Sara says.

“That wasn’t me; it was Sally.”

“Are you watching her out there?” Aunt Terry asks.

“Yes ma’am."

“Debra, did you boil the potatoes?” Granny asks. “You know what happened last time.”

Everyone laughs. One day our potato salad was made with raw cubed potatoes. It was a case of too many cooks. No one turned the burner on, but each one thought the other turned it off.

“Yes,” Aunt Debra says. “But I have a new recipe I want to try.”

“Remember to keep some out for me before you add relish,” my mother says.

“Amy, go out the back door – you’re letting the cold air out.”

“Yes ma’am,” Amy replies.

I start follow Amy out. Melanie, Amy and I are going to make sand castles.

“Lisa, you haven't given me a hug yet,” Granny says.

This episode leads me to the feelings part. My grandmother has mentioned a hug three or four times since I've been here. I am ten now and feel too old for hugs, but I know she will eventually get one. I have to walk out the back door, which is beside the bench she is sitting on.
“Ah-ha-ha. I got me one,” Granny sings in the childish voice she uses when she teases us, and then she grabs me and squeezes.

Hugs. She thought about that bit of affection continuously, and I knew it.

You see, she loved all of her children. That feeling of unconditional love came through in her hugs, her cooking and even her discipline. My grandmother’s love has never been replicated in my life, and it is unlikely it ever will.

I love you too, Granny. You are my Grand Mother. I miss you.

Oh Holiday!

by Lisa Terry

Editor

I have come to the conclusion that there are two types of holiday people in this world, and each of the groups think they are better than the other.

I shall explain. I was in a department store the other day and noticed prettily decorated Christmas trees on display. I was shocked they were already out as I haven’t even thought of Halloween costumes yet. But there were two ladies looking them over who weren’t surprised at all; as a matter of fact, they were talking about how their Christmas preparations were coming along already.

"I’ve got all the grandkids' presents now - even Benny. You know, he’s at that age it’s hard to buy for, but I found him one of those electronic games," said the lady with a rather tall hair-do.

"Mm-hm. Linda is gonna get you if you keep calling him that," said the shorter lady.

"Pff. At least I got them young’uns something. I always wonder how she pulls off Christmas when she puts it off so long," Tall Hair said.

“Well bless her heart," Short lady said.

Their conversation went on but I quit listening. I, like Linda, haven’t started my Christmas planning and rarely do until the month of December begins. But here’s the interesting thing. I’m not ashamed of it. I am actually kind of proud of that fact.  I can get done in a few weeks what people like the above women get done in a few months. I have many family members that tut-tut over what they view as my lack of organization and preparation but they just don’t understand.

The craziness that I bring upon myself in December is fun. I wallow in the chaos of the season. I often think of my aunt’s and cousin’s preparations and say to myself "Bless their hearts. How can this be fun for them? They make it seem like work."  But I am wrong.

As much as I revel in the chaos of the season, they revel in the planning and creative thinking they put into the holiday. So I am calling a truce. I will no longer pity you if you no longer pity me.

Everybody Knows a Person Like This

I did this exercise recently where you had to tell a story with no narration.

“What are we gonna do?”
“Mmm. This coffee is good, Tooki. What to do about the bushes… Should we do anything?”
“Yes, we should do something. You didn’t hear the commotion when she came in last night - this morning actually. Ruined my hibernation. Coffee is kona blend.”
“I thought your fur looked ruffled. Kona blend? Are you sure? I usually don’t-”
“Kodan, shut-up about the coffee. I say we intervene. We’ll have a conversation with Jada about how her behavior is unacceptable. She’s old enough to know better… and her pollinator only dead two weeks. Breaks my heart.”
“I don’t know. I think some of the males are to blame. They should keep their pistons in their pants…”
“I could say the same for her. She should keep her petals togeth-”
“Shshsh.”
“What is that?”
“It’s a human. Get under the table.”
“Kodan, look at the cute little girl- Oh no! The sun’s beaming and Jada will open to its rays.”
“I know, but there’s nothing we can do.”
“Stop her.”
“Be reasonable. How can I warn her without frightening the little-”
“It’s happening. See her petals trembling? She’ll open up and Jada’s too pretty not to be picked, Kodan.”
“Maybe she won’t. Oh...”
“I can’t look. It’s too sad.”
“Open your eyes, Tooki. The girl just left.”
“Maybe Jada will be a pressed flower. She would be beautiful resting in the pages of a journal.”
“Come on. Coffee is getting cold.”
“I’m going to miss her. Jada was a good friend to me. She was a beautiful soul. Like my best friend.”
“Really?”
“Like sisters.”
“What? Earlier you all but called her a floozy.”
“Kodan, quit being so quarrelsome. Wait til I tell the others. Everyone will feel so badly for me. My best friend…”

Press release?

Have you ever had something in your hand one minute and the next it is gone? Poof! into thin air. How can that be?.

It can't always be my fault. There is someone somewhere pulling my strings and putting distractions in my way. But losing things may not be my only problem.

I have a press release in my hands. I am about to pull some quotes from it along with tech­nical information for the award-winning article that I am about to write. (If it doesn't win any awards, it is sure to make some new drug-dealer enemies).

I open the appropriate window on my computer, then click into the box. I pick up my press release... I pick up my press release... I pick up…. Where is that sneaky piece of paper?

I look through my document holder, where it is supposed to be. There's that press conference notice, my personal mail, little notebook, caption notes (that can go in the garbage). There's that phone number I was looking for earlier. Why did I throw that away? Good. I can call the Lions Club about that barbecue. No answer.

I know - the president of the club came by yesterday. I bet he can help me.

Now what was I doing?

Oh, press release.  

Where’s that press release? Why am I always losing things?

I must have laid it back on the scanner. That’s where I had it before. There’s the Kid’s Day announcement. I wonder if I’ll be able to take the girls. Let’s see. Maybe I can pull double duty - cover it and attend with my children. Wednesday night is good. I’ll call for tickets. Wait, there is a Website. Took care of that. Now what was I doing? Press release!

Look on your desk. There’s the information on the store. I still need to have a review written about that. Focus!

Here’s a press release. Nope - It’s about fire department training. Another release, fire prevention week. Here is the Alzheimer’s training announcement. Did I put that on my schedule?

Now that is done. I won’t forget to attend it. Where is that press release? I just cannot find it. Was it emailed? I bet it was emailed.

Let’s see. There’s the Kiwanis Club meeting, an engagement. There’s the mug shots from Headland P.D. It must have been faxed to me.

Mystery solved. Who put my press release back in the fax machine?

Until next time!

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Lisa Terry did a wonderful job editing my manuscript both in terms of catching those pesky typos (that we swear we checked for) as well as grammar comments and plot help. My MS in particular was weak in a few areas and she (very kindly) let me know where it was slow/disappointing and why. She also was willing to discuss possible fixes with me, which I found incredibly helpful. She is easy to work with and I'm so glad I won her first contest!!

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Words can't express how grateful I am to Lisa for helping me with my writing. In the few short months I've been connected to Lisa, she has helped me tremendously. She has a knack for being able to quickly and acurately pinpoint issues while still keeping the integrity of the work intact. Lisa's feedback is thoughtful, articulate and professional. Lisa - thank you so much! I'm forever in your debt.

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Drugs

When I was in middle school, I had a friend whose life was a little on the rough side. She wasn't sexually abused, nor physical or mental abused. Her stepfather was addicted to prescription drugs. I think her mother took some pain killers occasionally, too. But it wasn't really bad.

Their house was always clean; her mother was real sweet. Mary's stepfather was also re­latively nice.

She was my best friend in a school I was foreign to. I met Mary in fifth grade at a school in Holmes County, Fla. In the middle of the school year, my mother remarried, and we moved to Bethlehem, where her new husband was from. Mary befriended me right away, and the great thing about it was she lived down the road from me.

We would walk to the Taber­nacle, a swimming hole, and swim for hours, or just sit around and goof off at my house or hers.

My child­hood wasn't perfect ei­ther, so she and I under­stood each other well. We were very close friends.

In the sixth grade, drug and tobacco awareness semi­nars began. The pictures and the movies I saw would scare me. I knew I never wanted to do drugs. For Mary, though, the response was different. Even at that age, I could tell that she wasn't particularly moved.

Why?

I transferred to a different school in high school, but Mary and I kept in touch. She even briefly attended my current school, but didn't stay. I could see she was straying from what I thought was good, and head­ing right into a darker lifestyle.

I tried many times to reach out to her. But she began doing drugs anyway. I alternated between trying to help her, and trying to stay away from her.

Two different times, as adults, I tried to help her. While both of us were pregnant, I moved her in with me. And during a tumultuous time I was having myself, I reached out to her again. She would straighten up for a little while, but ultimately go back to the other lifestyle.

Why?

After I had my children, I went back to college to get my degree. My major was obvious, English, but my minor was not so - Psychology. Those that knew me, knew of my lack of belief in the practices of therapists.

But I had to understand Mary. I thought that maybe if I under­stood her, I could better instruct my children. The only thing that I understand now is that it isn't black and white.

There is no one reason why people choose to be self-destructive.

I did figure out she was self-destructive. Some people don't like themselves very much. Maybe it is guilt over something they did, a low self-esteem because of where they come from or a mental disorder. Some are dissatisfied with their current situation in life.

My friend, Mary, comes out of her drug-induced oblivion every once in a while and tries to straighten out her life. But she ne­ver contacts me. I find out through a long-reaching and considerate grapevine. She talks to them, but she asks them not to tell me about her.

Why?

My psychological mind under­stands she is ashamed. My breaking heart wishes she still felt that bond we shared so long ago.

Chairs That Don't Fit

In 1976, a young journalist by the name of Gail Sheehy said “We must be willing to change chairs if we want to grow. There is no permanent compatibility between a chair and a person. And there is no one right chair. What is right at one stage may be restricting at another or too soft. During the passage from one stage to another, we will be between two chairs. Wobbling no doubt, but developing.”

I am a 34-year-old mother who, until recently, held onto a chair that didn’t really fit.

I have decided to share this story because I believe everyone comes across similar circumstances and, out of a sense of loyalty, keep the old chair.

As a child, my playmates of choice were of the masculine sort. One boy in particular was my favorite as he didn’t treat me with kid gloves.

Now, although I can’t tell you that our platonic boundaries were never crossed, at the end of the day we were just the best of friends.

Time had us in different geographic locations eventually but our friendship prevailed. However,  a few years ago our delicate balance was shifted.

He (I'll call him George) began dating someone and it was serious - a status he had usually evaded. This someone came to one particular event that I didn’t think she belonged.

Wherever we were in the world George and I always had at least one visit scheduled. Every May, George had a weekend-long family reunion close by, and I joined him there. After that, we always went somewhere fun of our own choosing.

On the last little vacation, he brought his girlfriend. I wasn’t pleased. He could see her any time, so I felt like she was treading on our ritual. To make things worse, we had planned to go fishing in Florida, but her schedule couldn’t accommodate the trip. That would leave George and I alone on the boat and this idea didn’t please her too much. So we went to Six Flags so that she could come. I tried to be understanding because I guess I would have the same reservations had I been in her place.

In the weeks and months following the trip, mine and George’s phone calls became less frequent and when they did occur, tense. I sounded resentful and he sounded tired. He wanted me to be friends with his girlfriend, but it just couldn't happen - believe me I tried. We were just too suspicious of each other.

So May came around again. George called, but I kept the conversation short and away from trip/reunion talk.

I had that quote from Sheehy on my mind. I needed to let go of this chair.

As another step in growing up, I realized that I no longer had a real place in his life. And if that episode had been postponed to the next May, I would have been in his exact predicament. So to be fair, I had to acknowledge there was no real place for him in my life either.

No matter how much someone can mean to you, you can still out-grow them. The key is to let them go. If you hang on to something that doesn’t make sense anymore, you can prevent your life from moving forward.

I will miss my playmate, but I’m grateful. You see, I’m sure I could have made it all these years without George. I’m just glad I didn’t have to.