An Echo in the Elms

I recently posted a picture of my grandmother's tulip tree on Face book, entitled "this is what spring is all about".  The cousins all recognized it immediately using phrases like "I'd know that tree anywhere".  And well they should.  My grandmother loved trees.   She taught us all a love for the growing things in our world.  While the tulip tree brings back strong memories, its what I don't have a picture of that brings back more.  The only picture of the grove of elms that once stood behind the big old farmhouse are in my mind.  Their leaves formed a canopy over the simple dirt floor of our playground.  In the heat of summer it was like being in a cool glade, which is actually was.  The cousins, Becky, Patsy ,Cathy, Kay, Crystal and  and I often played a rousing game of "coming to see" beneath those  old branches.  We would take a limb and mark off  rooms and use rocks and old pieces of wood from the woodpile and make our furniture.  Broken dishes destined for the trash would be lovingly rescued and taken to the elms for our play things.  Any old pot that we came across was used as kitchen ware.  We would draw designs in the dirt to form our rugs and the stage was set.  Gathering our children (our doll babies) we would play at neighbors, visiting each other and discussing world events as seen through the eyes of children.
The 1/2 acre elm grove and the cedar tree were delights of my childhood.  The grove itself was a delight of my grandmother's.  We were admonished not to tear the leaves from the tender branches while making "vegetable soup" for our company visits when the game was on.  She told us they needed their leaves like we  need our skin.  I seem to remember the day that Daddy Dwight told her that the elms were all sick, they had something called Dutch Elm Disease.  I don't think I  had ever seen  her like that.  She had the look of someone about to take a dose of nasty tasting medicine.   Later that fall I wasn't there when they took the axes to our elms.  When the following summer came, it was to a bare place where not even  ragged stumps punctuated the ground where we had once played.  The cedar tree stood silent sentinel over our childhood, looking lonely yet strong.  But if I were to go back there and stand where once the gentle elms gathered us into play...my cousins sisters friends...I  believe I  would hear our laughter and feel the cool of the glade echoing down through the years.

This could be a Notecard...

We're invited by mydear blog friend Vee, at "A Haven For Vee",  to enter photos we think might make good note cards...I am not as good at photography as you all are, but am going to give it a whirl!  The first one I think would make  a nice note card is of my lovely Old English Sheepdog, Digby.  Born in Gerrards Cross (Bucks) England, she was my constant companion and beloved Furbaby.

Myrtle Beach, SC...white sands beaches inviting, yes?

                                          
                  Our back garden area with Mindy and her cat Peanut...I had entitled this on "walking to heaven"

And the last one is of the archway at the patio with the first blooms of spring from my Clematis vine which is now 14 years old...this was fun Vee...yes we will have to do it again! I can't wait to see how many join us.

Games Games Games Come Get Your Games..and Watch This Spot for a Giveaway coming soon

My mother did crossword puzzles for as long as I can remember.  She had special dictionaries to help her find the right word for the right spot...12down an eight legged web spinner 8 letters fourth letter is c.  I know you  were  thinking spiders but it doesn't call for a plural s, and there's that wicked c in there to muddy the water.  So what could it be?  Think about it, it will come to you by the end of this I'm sure.  We learned to like the solving of the word mysteries and so became addicted to them.  By the time I was in my forties, they had become a chore to be done with the morning coffee .  I was often on the phone with Mama trying to see if she had the answer to one that had escaped my brain.  I couldn't leave the paper's offering until every word had been placed.  It haunted me.

Scrabble is another of my favorite games.  When Mac and I were first married and with his Navy career we were often on the move, I carried my scrabble board in a large hand bag.  I have been known to play me, myself and I.  When we were moving into a new neighborhood, the first thing I wanted to know about the neighbors was who played Scrabble.  I  had my kids addicted to it by the time they were in third and fourth grade.  My granddaughter has played since the second grade.  We're wordaholics.  And then someone introduced me to Facebook.  It was a disaster waiting to happen.  That same someone challenged me to a game of Word With Friends.  I didn't know what it was exactly, but I went to check it out and accepted the challenge.  The first game went quickly and so we played another and then my Sister(in law) challenged me and we played and I was still playing with the first of my friend's  then my nephew and then my niece and then my cousin and then another cousin and then two more friends.  Well, by the end of the first month I had 27 games going simultaneously.  I wasn't sleeping because I had to keep up with the games between housework and gardening and  some of my friends got testy if I left making a play to long.   I began to long for the days of crossword puzzles and scrabble.  I did the only thing I could do in the circumstances.  I stopped.  Cold turkey.  I resigned every game and quit.

So now I play Gardens of Time, Hidden Chronicles and Blackwood and Bell.  But it isn't a problem.  I have lots of neighbors to help me get my little kingdoms completed.  I can quit whenever I want.  But just this morning I noticed that Cat Clark has challenged me to a game of Word With Friends and I feel that one game would clear my head and make me a better person.  I'll just keep it to one or two friends...maybe three.  But definitely no more than five games at once.  I'll have to be careful though, these games have a way of luring you in and  like the arachnid will wrap you in webs of games with promises of wealth and fame...and next thing you know you're in Farmville slopping the hogs that your neighbor gifted you with.  And they never gift you with fences, you know.  Did you notice I slipped the answer to the crossword question in there?  Maybe I'll just go dig my crossword book out of the closet.  I wonder where I put my crossword dictionary.

The Great Egg Fight of 1960

   I was on the phone with my sister Toni the other day and we were talking about the times we spent at our Grandparents home every summer. I looked around as though someone might overhear me as I asked her if she remembered the egg fight. She laughed and said she remembered it well. This particular summer in 1960 we had taken the train from Washington, DC to the station in Hamlet, NC all on our own. It was an uneventful trip, but we grew more excited the closer we got to our destination. We couldn't wait to see Mammy and Daddy Dwight. We were also excited to see the cousins who were waiting on our arrival at the house. The first two or three weeks went well, tobacco season was well underway and we enjoyed being involved in the work. Every Saturday Daddy Dwight went to town to get things he needed for the farm. He always stopped at Hurst's Feed and Seed to pick up three to six dozen eggs. Just that week Mammy had read in the Readers Digest that the common practice of the time of buying what was called "cracked eggs" as an economy device was no longer considered safe. They recommended that people in the habit of this practice should stop immediately to avoid salmonella poisoning. Mammy had taught school for years and this made sense to her. She had worried about using the eggs that were already in the house and tried not to let Daddy Dwight know that she was disposing of as many as she could in the compost bucket.

One Saturday about midway through our visit she told Daddy Dwight that she needed him to pick up eggs. She explained to him about what the scientists were saying about the cracked eggs and asked him to get only good whole eggs. Something about the dependability of Scientists in general and the FDA in particular was muttered under his breath as he left the house. Mammy must have had a suspicion that her orders were going to be ignored, because on his return when he and the hired man brought in the eggs and placed the crates on the kitchen table, she immediately opened the box to take a look inside; Daddy Dwight had sat down in his chair at the table to read the newspaper. He never glanced one time at her to see what she was doing. What she was doing was examining each layer of eggs as she removed the trays from the box.
"Dwight, I thought I told you not to get cracked eggs. There's cracks in every one of these."
"Waste of money. There's nothing wrong with these eggs. Use them."

Now Mammy could get this look on her face that started in her eyes and moved down her face like a glow. A smile crossed her face and she picked up an egg in each hand. She looked down at the egg in her right hand. "Oh, I'll use them all right." I was never quite sure why I laughed. Was it the look of shock on Daddy Dwight's face as egg white and yolk mixed with shell dripped down his face or the sudden widening of his eyes as he realized that the second egg was headed in his direction? And as they say, that's when the fight started.
They threw eggs at each other saying not a word. No yelling no swearing (I don't believe I ever heard either one of them use a swear word as long as they lived.) They grabbed up cartons and moved through the screen porch still flinging eggs. The fight moved into the front yard the eggs still flying. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me to my Aunt Margaret's house to get help. It had ceased being funny when Daddy Dwight broke the egg on Mammy's head and ground it in with the heel of his hand. That just was not done! You know, I believe it may have been the quietest fight I've ever heard. The only sound was the whoosh of eggs as they flew through the air and landed splaatt on the intended target. Pretty soon Aunts Margaret and Pat were on the scene and got things under control. The fight was over, but the glaring continued for days. You know how when something perfectly awful happens that you say "we'll laugh about this one day"? They never did . Not ever. It was simply not talked about, the egg fight. It was as though it never happened. And Lord help any of us that brought it up.

So we just didn't discuss it. Until now and I've waited a safe 20 to 25 years since they left us to bring it up. . I just hope I've waited long enough. But you know what? I've never laughed as hard as I've laughed this week as I've discussed it with Toni and cousin Crystal...and wondered why Daddy Dwight and Mammy couldn't see the humor in it. At least no one died of Salmonella poisoning...

Mammy and Daddy Dwight with my toddler mother at Winthrop University which my Grandmother attended

Trouble in Paradise Revisited

My sister Toni and her husband Tim celebrated their 35th wedding anniversary this weekend and took a trip to St. Augustine, Florida in celebration. It brought to mind a few years ago when they still had a young son at home (who I now in college) and needed a babysitter for the weekend. I have Toni to thank for saving this piece I wrote about that delightful experience. So, here goes.

It has been a long time I have cohabited with an 8 year old boy. Even when I did my boys did not talk to me all that much. Figuring that this was why they had friends, there was only parental communication between us. You know the drill, I gave orders they patently ignored. I would find myself giving the same order over a short period of time until it was ultimately obeyed. It was a war of wills between us, a war I usually won.

My sister Toni and brother in law Tim had a business meeting to attend in Boone. NC this particular weekend (or at least that was what I was told) and they figured my father would benefit from the company of his grandson for several days. He arrived on Saturday. It is now Monday and he is not with his grandfather, he is with us. My father, who likes the pleasant buzz of familial activity, likes it from behind his closed bedroom door. He was worried that Alex would fall in the pool and drown, that one of the dogs would bite him in his over exuberance or that he could not escape the endless chatter of said child. It turns out he didn't need to be the one worrying about any of those things. He simply took to his bed and called for back up.

So here I am with a very precocious 8 year old boy whose favorite activity is talking. He talks very well. If I could find one thing in common with a small boy this would be an outstanding situation. I like to talk, too. But as I have mentioned, my boys did not do much talking to me. I had no interest in Batman then and I find I have even less interest in him now. I am perfectly content on my day off to play in my garden until it gets to hot and then move my playtime to the computer. I have enough competition for computer time with Mac, and now I find this little person staying with us also likes the computer.

I also learned this little person is a picky eater. He doesn't much like vegetables of any color. He explained to me that his parental units were teaching him to eat vegetables, a lesson he should have learned in infancy, but he is a slow starter in that area. (I have to remember to tell the parental units they may have procrastinated to long on this one.) I found that the one vegetable he will eat is corn and then only on the cob or creamed. He likes chicken. I of course fixed Roast beef. He likes yellow rice, not white. Two guesses what color the rice was and the first one doesn't count. He will eat tomatoes if they're in spaghetti.

I had them sliced. Raw. When he saw the okra he very politely turned up his nose. This was after he had very cleverly asked what that green slimy stuff I was slicing was and if it was a vegetable. I should have told him it was a fruit and maybe he would have at least tried it.

Supper being a dismal failure, he continued his pursuit of the cat children. They, being of sound mind and good sense, hid from him. Duffy had long since pleaded guilty to a charge of child endangerment and was sentenced to the back yard.

The phone rang while I was cooking. Joyce wanted to know if I wanted to come in and work third shift for an officer who had called in sick. The answer was a resounding yes...I did want to but I simply could not. Mac, who had had even less experience with 8 year old boys than I have, would never have understood. I feared he would run off to Daddy's and lock himself in with him.

Toni called a little bit ago. She asked how it was going. I lied. I told her all was going well...great in fact. I told her if I was a bit sharp it was because I was in pain. My shoulder and neck had been been giving me a fit for about three days. I told her it wasn't that I didn't want to talk to Alex, I didn't want to talk to Mac either. In fact I wished that everyone would leave me to my own devices and let me suffer in peace. Alex came to speak with his mother and wanted to know when they were coming to pick him up. He said he thought he was making Aunt Sandi nervous. I suspect Toni now knows all is not well in paradise.

And  now our Alex has reached his majority...he his now 21...a college student with a bright future in front of him because he loves to talk... now I wonder which side of the family he gets that from...Happy Birthday darling boy...we love you...

Aunt Sandi and Uncle Mac

Sorry...Wrong Number

It was late one evening in Beaconsfield, England (the county of Bucks) and we had just retired for the evening.  I had my book in hand and Mac had brought up the Daily Mail.  He always read the paper in bed at night since he had to leave so early to "go up to town" to work.  "Up to town" was London, and it was an hour long train ride every day.  Both ways.  We had only been living in England for three months and I was still suffering from Jet Lag.  (I capitalize it because I am certain it must be the actual name for an actual disease.)  I don't think I overcame the symptoms of said disease for at least a year.  I found myself yawning at odd times during the day and wanting to curl up on the divan like a cat...why you may ask?  Because I simply was not resting well.  On this particular night, the phone was ringing.  Now, imagine watching a lovely British show on PBS and hearing the phone ring that peculiar "bringgggg brinnggg...bringgggg bringgg."  It still caused me to catch my breath every time I heard it in my own home.  There was something so foreign in the burr of the ring that you don't hear in our phones .  Of course now you hear everything from bagpipes to Ding Dong the Witch is Dead"  but that is now and I'm talking about then...1980.  Anyway, the phone was doing that thing that it does when it actually DEMANDS that you answer it.  Now, we only had one phone in the house, it was on the foyer table at the front door.  It had a lovely long cord so that if I wanted to carry on a conversation of any length it would easily travel into the lounge by the fire.  So the phone is ringing and Mac says, "now who  is that at this hour?"  I gave him the sideways look and told him the crystal ball was downstairs with the phone, but I'd certainly consult one or both of them to see who it might be.  I answered the phone in the accepted way by saying the phone number...Beaconsfield 4650.  A voice from the other end asked to speak to John.  I told him that I felt he may have the wrong number and he asks "are you American?"  I assured him that his wrong number was actually ringing in the UK and not the USA and he began to tell me about his dearest Aunt who was now living in Buffalo New York and asking me if I knew what it was like there.  We had a very nice conversation that lasted about forty five minutes.  I went back upstairs and climbed into bed and Mac roused himself enough to ask who had been calling.  He didn't bat an eye when I told him it had been a wrong number. 

Now, why this old story has come up is because something happened the other day that brought it to mind immediately.  Monday we were going into Hartsville and I called my friend Cathie from my cell phone to hers to see if she wanted to ride along.  The phone rang once then went to voice mail.  I left a quick message about why I was calling and thought no more about it.  I tried to call her again on Wednesday to firm up plans to go to the Smokehouse on Wednesday and the same thing, straight to voice mail.  Wednesday afternoon Cathie called me and asked if we were still on for dinner.  I assured her we were and would pick her up at 5:30.  So we're on the road and I told her about the calls going to voicemail and she said she had checked and that it didn't show my calls.  I  took out my phone and flipped it open and dialed her number and the same thing...but the phone in her hand didn't ring.  I hung up then opened it and called out the number that I had entered.  It was off by one number.  We laughed over the mistake and then suddenly my phone rang.  I answered and a lady said "you know you've called me several times this week and I just couldn't figure out who you are."  I explained to her that I had entered the wrong number in my phone and apologized for the bother.  She laughed and said, "well I was just going to say if you still want to go to WalMart's, I wouldn't mind."   Too bad she lives 193 miles away.  But I'll keep her number, her name is Gillian and she sounds a treat.  I make more friends this way...

A Giveaway!!

Gill, That British Woman, is having a giveaway at her place and it's easy to join the fun~!  Head on over and enjoy the read, while you're there!
Here's how
http://thatbritishwoman.blogspot.com/2012/02/giveaway.html

Babysitting the Big Kids

Babysitting for the big kids.

I know that most people go onto Face book for the interaction with friends, the games and the (let's face it) gossip, but I have a whole different reason for falling into the Face book trap.  If not for Face book I'd not have one danged clue as to what my kids are up to.  Okay, so they're not exactly kids, they are well north of 20 and I've not paid a babysitter in years.  But I still like to know what is going on in their lives.  I don't want to be the last one to know that in the interest of health older son Wallace was entered in the Marine Mud Run last year.  I wish I could show you the picture of his new lean self covered in mud and it wasn't a beauty treatment. Oh, wait...I can!   Or that baby son Michael had changed jobs and was now working not to far away from our home, but a fair trip from his own home.  I haven't worked for the Sheriff in over 10 years so no longer have my brothers in khaki  or grey to keep me posted on their comings and goings.  (One of my favorite troopers once  labeled Michael the Road Warrior and then proceeded to give me details.  I don't care for details.  They keep me up nights.)

So anyway, the babies are no longer in need of babysitting, the teens are no longer in need of a shadow but I find that I no longer have a clue what is going on with them without Face book.  For instance...last week I went onto older son's page and saw a picture  of him that looked suspiciously like being seated in an airplane seat.  So, I asked him in the comment section "are you on an airplane?"  Hmmmm....seems  Sara (my Daughter((in-law)) was chosen to be a contestant on Jeopardy (May 28th is when the show airs) but did I get even a clue that they were leaving for LA?  Yeah, right.  Face book knew...mom was in the dark...
Son Michael bought a new car not to far back.  The old truck was beating him to death on the trip from Florence to Cheraw, and I found out when?  Yep, there he was on Face book standing next to his new ride.   So,  what do I have to do to get my kids to talk to me?  I don't nag them to call, but a call every so often would be nice.  Till then, I guess Face book will be my information highway and my babysitter of choice.

Life here on Planet Jefferson

We love living out in the country.  It's not just the quiet, it's the neighbors and the woods, the songbirds and the wildlife.  Granted I am not to keen about going walkabout at night anymore.   The woods are close and dark and deep.  At night I hear what I swear are coyotes.  If they aren't then our neighbors have some good dog impressionists.  I'm not so wild about getting up to highway 151 and having to dodge the hunters standing along side the road, shotguns laid across arms waiting for the dogs to chase the game out onto the road to them.  No, I'm not fond of that at all.  But all in all, we are far enough away from the road to enjoy our own gathering of the wild and free.  We put out corn to feed the deer and the doves, the squirrels and the rooster.   Yes, I said rooster.  Dudley and a small herd of guineas (I know, guineas come in flocks, but these came in a herd, I promise you,) showed up one warm spring day two years ago.  Now, Dudley once belonged to the neighbors on the other side of the woods, he and his guinea friends.  They came to us when a drove of dogs killed off the rest of their flock.  They traveled through our woods and begged for sanctuary.  Sanctuary they received.  The beautiful red rooster had no tail feathers left, he was lucky to escape with his head on his shoulders.  He was greeted by the cats and they protect him as she sleeps on the porch rail or on the glider.  When he sleeps on the glider, they gather around him to keep him warm, sleeping with him.  The guineas live in the plum thicket.  We had 13 when they first arrived, and sadly we are now down to 4.
I used to wonder what was happening to them.  I worried that dogs were making off with dinner right under our noses, but I don't think that is the case.  We have spoiled them so that every morning when we take the dogs out for their morning constitutional they run to the shed waiting on us to throw out their seed.  They will even gather at the porch steps if they think we have dalllied to long inside.  I started throwing them cold cornbread to the point that now I bake it even when we don't want any.  But getting back to the shrinking herd...they come to the koi pond, claiming it as their watering hole and just make themselves at home in general.  Now if they're at the pond and I'm trying to drive around to park, they come rushing out to greet the truck.   They rush the truck and refuse to move til I get out and shoo them away.  I used to hear my grandmother say that chickens would drown from looking up at the sky to see what that wet stuff we call rain might be.  Was she worried about their sensitivity or what?  When I see that these creatures won't even get out of the way of a truck, I have to say it...guineas are stupid.  I can't figure why they are smart enough to know where the feed comes from, yet not smart enough to get out of traffic...so we're down to Dudley (who most certainly is smart enough to stay out of the truck's way) and four guineas.  I love those stupid birds.  Think I'll go make them a hoecake of cornbread.

Attn: SMARTHOMEPLANET.COM

Attn: smartplanethome.com

Ref: The Original Personal Pie Maker

Okay, so the mini pie baker that I ordered from Cook.com arrived yesterday. I spent this morning sipping coffee made by my Keurig coffee maker and munching on a doughnut from my mini doughnut baker. All in all a pretty fair morning between me and my gadgets. I was reading the hand book on the pie baker and discovered something fairly important...you don't even have to be fairly bright to figure out THAT the recipes in this handy dandy little hand book simply won't fly. Okay so I understand not to touch the hot plates because they are (duh) hot. I learned that at an early age, you know, more than fifty years ago. I understand that not all people who order this product are the sharpest knife in the drawer, so I understand the safety issues, okay? I also agree that you really shouldn't immerse the unit into water in order to clean it. Again, "duh". I am pretty sure I know not to use it while otherwise occupied (like say going to the grocers in the next town to buy the pie filling that might work in this thing...explanation following:)

I have read each and every recipe in my handbook provided by your company. I read them two or three times, in fact. I kept looking for the part where you actually cook the filling. I mean really people...just as it is important to tell some folks not to touch the hot plates or immerse in water or go off and leave the thing plugged in while you are in the next town over, it is equally important to tell the self same folk that pie fillings are to be cooked. I kept waiting to see the instructions to mix and put in pan and cook til thickened, then cool ... you know, every canned pie filling (fruit anyway) has one thing in common.  It has been cooked...but I could read this handbook from now till doomsday and I would never see those instructions...and since when would I freeze a pumpkin pie before eating?   It actually says this:  1. In a bowl mix combine all pie filling ingredients and mix until well blended.  2.  place baked pies in the freezer and allow to harden prior to eating.  Who writes these manuals? And more importantly, what country are they written in? I should pay more attention to where the things I buy come from, so I have only myself to blame. I only bring this to your attention because I am bringing it to my readers' attention at the same time. My readers are blogging friends and subscribers to The Cheraw Chronicle Newspaper, (a weekly paper in our county for many years for whom I am a columnist)...and all of them are smart enough to know that you would need to cook pie filling before putting it into the raw pie rounds as this calls for. And since pumpkin pie shouldn't be consumed frozen they disregard that bit of info immediately. I, in fact, believe that any or all of them could improve on your lousy little handbook in about five minutes...so, what I found from the handbook provided me with a good laugh and the instinct to throw it directly into the garbage...the handbook, not the pie maker...I'll reserve that option for after I've actually used it. Come to think of it, the only thing I'd keep the handbook for would be a coaster for my coffee cup...the coffee made by my Keurig...and my blog address is http://sandimcbride.blogspot.com/

I only resort to this because I've tried clicking on the Contact Us bar as shown on your site and it simply brings me back to the Google screen...just hoping this email address of info@smartplanethome.com works...I won't hold my breath. I'll just have another cup of coffee and a doughnut.

Dear Santa, May I have a Word?

So if you recall, last week I was talking about the big book of computer info called "The Complete Book of Computer for the Complete Idiot."  And as you recall it's main use is as a door stop.  A $69.99 door stop.  Well, after I had learned what I needed from it, I sort of wore out my EMachine.  Everyone was after me to get a laptop.  I am not sure what I had against it, but I was not a happy camper with a laptop.  I wanted what I was accustomed to, that tall tower and big a** monitor that took a special computer desk to sustain its' weight.  So in 2008 Santa did the unthinkable.  He brought me a laptop and I sort of pouted about it.  Okay, so I just out and out refused to even try it for the first week it took up residence.  Then, when the EMachine refused to cooperate at all, I opened the laptop and began to try it out.  I hated the little pad that replaced the mouse and Mac heard me all the way down in the garden..."I HATE THIS THING!!"
It's a lucky girl I am, because Mac knows a good bit about computers, he's built his fair share, including all the ones we have used.  He built my EMachine.  He came in and went into his office and came back with a mouse.  He plugged it into the USB port (now I have to be honest and tell you that I had written down UBS till Mac corrected me...it stands for Universal Serial Bus).  The computer picked it up as new hardware and installed it.  I hesitantly approached the computer, and placing fingers on keyboard, began to type.  I used the mouse for the things the mouse has to do and was in love.  Oh yes, I love my laptop.  I was on that laptop hours at a time.  By the end of it, I had written a book, and had it published. Also, I was not the only one who loved that laptop...Sonny our Russian Blue loved it too.  When I wasn't on it, I'm afraid he was.    And then something awful happened.  Sonny and I loved my laptop so much that we actually loved it to death.  Yes, we killed my laptop.  I don't know how we killed it, but suffice it to say that it became overheated and decided to blow itself up.  Sigh.  I handed it over to son Michael who had it for several weeks.  "Exactly what did you do to it," he finally asked.  That was when he returned it to me as being a hopeless case.  I think it should be purrfectly clear that Sonny has denied all culpability in this.  He claims he was in his cola box, and has the proof.   So right now I am using Mac's laptop and he has ordered me to keep it closed and turned off and Sonny's presence is not needed upon the case.  Poor Sonny. 

So, this is going to be my letter to Santa.  I'm sure he reads the Chronicle...after all, he has letters to him published in it every year.  So here goes...Dear Santa, all I want for Christmas is a new laptop with cat repellent implied...I've been pretty good all year if you don't count the mornings and evenings...thanking you in advance...Sandi  So, what do you think?  I'll let you know if he agrees that a new laptop is in my future.  Cross your fingers for me, will you?

Mother-in-Law (mother-in-lawwwww...)

Once I wanted to be the best mother, ever.  I'm not sure if I ever quite attained the lofty level of BME, but it sure wasn't for want of trying.  I learned the differences between what they wanted, what they needed and what they just absolutely had to have no matter the sacrifice.  Okay, so the last thing didn't rear it's ugly head quite as often as they insisted on it, but I did eventually level the playing field and work through the problems.  When they were little, it was much easier.  I could simply tell them no or get the object of their affection on the qt and surprise them.  As they got older, that became harder to do.  Just this weekend we were looking at some pictures of them at the age of 8 and 9 just after Santa had made his stop.  It showed the boys with their creatures of selection (transformer creatures of the day) and Wallace says, "oh yeah, I remember those...I was poking around in your closet to see what I could find and there they were...I hated I had done it, there were no surprises."  I never knew that.  It cured him of snooping, I think, but it sort of messed that Christmas up for him.  As they attained teen hood, it was so much harder to do what was best for them and harder to say no.  Since I was a LEO with the Sheriff's Department, I knew every cop in every department in every town including the Highway Patrol.  They couldn't get away with anything that I didn't hear about...eventually.  One of the SCHP patrolmen  had a nickname for Michael...Road Warrior.   He slipped up and called him that when he didn't know I was anywhere around.  I got the story of how he came to get the nickname...two stops in as many nights by the same trooper...and no consequences.  I can't say I agreed with it and told him so.  Of course I had to confront Michael with it as soon as we were both home at the same time...and it slowed his little Chevy down for a time.  Wallace had already taken care of his own speed problem by nearly losing control of his , just trying to see how fast the Trans Am would go.  I learned of this after he was married the first time.  I wished he'd kept it to himself.  Being a semi-believer in the string theory, I sometimes wondered what had happened to them in those alternate lives the true string theory believers often speak of.

So, I wanted to be best mother ever...not quite there...and now trying attain BMilE or Best Mother in law Ever status.  It's an uphill climb.  My son Michael is married to the lovely Anna and they have our only grandchild, Arianna...I do not poke my nose in their business even when they invite it.  I never liked either my parents or Mac's trying to mind our business and I promised myself that I would not do it to them.  When it comes to holidays,  I remember how often I wished I could be with my family during Thanksgiving and Christmas, but usually we were to far away to be with either.  We spent two Thanksgiving's with his family because he was a Navy Recruiter in their home town and we were there.  We spent two with my family because we were in Charleston which isn't far from my family.  It all worked out.  But I remember how I felt as a daughter and I realize that my daughters-in-law must feel the same way.  Therefore, we have Thanksgiving on Saturday so we can all be together.  It's a compromise, but one which I am willing to make.  My older son Wallace presented us with our future daughter -in-law over this holiday season.   We were quite pleased with his choice.  She seemed pleased with our situation of Thanksgiving on Saturday and we all had a great time, especially Arianna (who was looking forward to having a new Aunt in the family...though she is not so sure she wants any cousins any time soon...she's sort of used to being the ONLY grandchild.)

So, I'm going to be a Mother-In-Law again and I couldn't be any happier...I just hope that this song doesn't end up as ring tone for either of my girls!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F2mujNA7CRk

Over the River and Through the Woods

Over the River and Through the Woods
If you ask, most people would probably say that Christmas is their favorite holiday of all.  Not me, though.  Thanksgiving has always been my favorite and I know it is because of my Grandmother.  We all adored Mammy. She could do no wrong in our eyes.  Her approval was all we craved and her understanding was all we wanted.  No matter where we were living when we were children, Mama always made sure that we were in Chesterfield at Mammy and Daddy Dwight's house for Thanksgiving.  We would drive all day and half the night, roll out of that car and race to the screen porch where we would be gathered up in the loving arms of our Grandmother.  She would quickly hustle us off to bed upstairs with blankets warmed by the little pot bellied stove in the kitchen.  It was the most marvelous feeling in the world to snuggle down in one of the big old double beds upstairs, toasty warm under the covers, but our noses would be chilled by the artic like cold of the unheated bedroom we loved. 
The next morning all the cousins would arrive to hugs from their Aunt Deferris and Uncle Mike and we'd race around outside and play like there was no tomorrow. Inside the Aunts and Mammy would be catching up on all the news, the Uncles would be talking about world events and President Eisenhower...I think Daddy Dwight was always secretly proud that he and the great man shared a first name.  After a full day of catching up, the adults planned the next day's big meal.  The turkey was sitting stuffed and ready on the freezer on the screened porch.  His day in the oven would come early.  The shelves were lined with Pecan pies, caramel cakes, fruit cakes and a 12 layer cake that defied gravity by remaining upright.  Once again, the baths would be had, the blankets warmed and we were bundled off to bed to dream of the coming feast. 
We heard the business of the day long before we beheld it with our very own eyes.  I could hear the rustling of aprons on dress skirts, hear the pans clanking against the oven racks as the tom turkey was slid into its depths. The water was running into the sink to begin the seemingly never ending washing up of pans and utensils.  We would lie in bed listening to Mammy and Mama while they talked and compared recipes.  Their laughter was pure music, the melodic notes climbing up the stairs and around the corner then race to the bed where we lay, warming us with the sound.  Soon we would all be up, the rest of the family would arrive and the Aunts would lay the tables...one for the adults and then the children's table.  I always thought how exciting it would be to eat with the adults in the dining room, the conversation washing over me like honey.. .  But today I would give anything to go back to the childrens table with the cousins who were like sisers and brothers, to the laughter that filled those two rooms to the rafters.   I would love to see again the cranberry colored plates and the stemmed glassware sitting on pristene white starched tablecloths, the silver very properly placed by each plate.  But most of all, I'd love to feel my grandmother's arms around me again.  Now that would truly be a Thanksgiving to remember.

The recipe for Pumpkin Dump Cake...easy peasy...

1 (18.25 ounce) Betty Crocker Supermoist yellow cake mix
1 (20 ounce) can pure pumpkin
1 (12 ounce) can evaporated milk
3 whole eggs
1 cup white sugar
3 teaspoons cinnamon
3/4 cup butter, melted
Directions
1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees and grease a 9x13 baking dish.
2. In a large bowl, mix pumpkin, milk, eggs, sugar, and cinnamon until well blended. Spread pumpkin mixture in prepared baking dish.
3. Sprinkle cake mix evenly on top of the batter. Pour melted butter over the top of the cake mix. Bake 50 minutes.
4. Cool. Top with whipped cream or ice cream.
I use sugar substitutes like Splenda and sugar free kool whip as a topping...great for the dieters and the diabetic members of our family....
Happy Thanksgiving to all!!

Family Reunions

Family Reunions

Here in the South (you'll notice that the South is capitalized due to her importance) while we may not have a monopoly on Family Reunions, we certainly make a big deal of them.  I've often thought it was because of all the Scots/Irish bloodlines in our history that makes it so important.  Our family clans feel the need to get together and touch base on what everyone is doing, who they've married (thus bringing in new blood into the clan) and to ramble through the Family Cemetary to speak to all our forefathers and foremothers, let them know we're still here and they still matter.  I've had a fascination with our family cemetary since I've had recallable memory. WHen I was a child I liked nothing better than to ramble through the graves and listen as my Grandmother told me the history of those who rested here. 
 This past October 15th, not only did Mac and I celebrate our 43rd wedding annivesary, we attended the Douglas Family Reunion along with younger son Michael and wife Anna.  Most importantly, our Grand Daughter, Arianna, was attending her first ever reunion of our family.  Dinner, which is always wonderful and no one goes away hungry from these things, was followed by the adult family members recalling reunions past at Big Granny Douglas's wonderful home on Douglas Ranch Road.  We've held them at the Church for a number of years now, but they always included the trek to the Douglas Family Cemetary even back then.  I saw that Arianna and some of the younger cousins had made their way to the cemetary, so I joined them.  Arianna was standing at her Grandmother Grace's (Douglas Valverde) gravesite and asked who else she was related to (and who now resided )in this wooded glen.  I pointed out her Great and Great Great Grandparents, her great great Aunts and Uncles, cousins and all the other relatives she would never know except by the stories we could tell her.  I've never found our family cemetary to be spooky in the least.  It's simply a place where the sleeping lie in another dimension, listening for voices in another room.  I look forward to seeing all the family members as they take their younger generations through and point out who lies where and share memories of their own past with these family members of yesterday.  Yes, we certainly make a big deal of our Family Reunions...and it's not always about the food.

Veterans Salute

They say that the newspapers of the world will soon be a thing of the past, that with the internet news so available to breaking news there will be no need for the printed page.  You have Kindle to read books, no smell of ink and tree to feed your senses.  But The Cheraw Chronicle and Chesterfield Advertiser will continue to do what they do best...bring you news of today and yesterday and yesteryear...one thing they do well is honor our Veterans.  For all of you who aren't really sure when we began this holiday, here is a short blurb on the why and wherefore.
 
Veterans Day is an annual United States holiday honoring military veterans. It is a federal holiday that is observed on November 11. It is also celebrated as Armistice Day or Remembrance Day in other parts of the world and falls on November 11, the anniversary of the signing of the Armistice that ended World War I. (Major hostilities of World War I were formally ended at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918 with the German signing of the Armistice.) Courtesy of my History Teacher Mr. Phil Chewning.
Look at some of the pictures that we have here honoring the Veterans of Chesterfield County.  Most of them served during a time of war...WWI, WW II, Korea, Vietnam, and both of the Middle East conflicts one over one still going on.  Most of them were mere children when they entered the service of our country.  They were as young as fifteen some of them.  Or they were seventeen like my husband Mac.  I remember my grandmother making the statement that it is always the young who rise up to protect the country of old men and women.  Never is that more evident than today.  The pictures of those so young that we have lost recently make me want to weep.  At a time in their lives when they should be playing football, going to college, dancing the night away or just living their lives without worry of gunfire or explosion, instead we are bombarded with the news of the dead and injured.  So, this is not a day for sales or merriment but a time of celebration, celebration of the unselfish men and women who gladly serve our nation and in turn, us.  Thank you, all you brave young men and women, those who are now no longer young those who are no longer with us and those who will show up at the recruiters offices and offer their services and their lives to protect the this land we love.  Thank you!!!