Twenty-three years ago on a beautiful, sunny, but cool October 31st, I got married. For the first time. It was a lovely wedding and I was blessed to have my family and friends surrounding me with their love and support. The wedding was at noon so we had brunch type food at the reception. My favorite picture from that day was my Daddy, finally able to sit down after we left the reception, and he was holding a huge ham croissant from the buffet, just about to take his first bite! My other favorite picture was of Mama and her two sisters. The three were all wearing precious hats that had been their mother's. It's a scream! I wanted to share those photos with y'all, but I'm having issues with downloading and/or scanning photos right now.
Many of my mother's friends questioned why we would choose Halloween for our wedding, but listen, that year, 1987, was an off weekend for the University of Georgia because they were to play Florida the following weekend AND Georgia Tech was playing an away game that evening. So the only thing that got messed up was some early tee times...
Alright, so here's where the story gets twisted. Seven years later, I filed for a divorce. I know, it was bad, and honestly, he's a nice guy and all, but he was a crummy husband. I have a distant cousin who lives in Warner Robins and she is an attorney. She said she would handle the divorce. It was a no-frills, no fussing over anything, standard, if divorce is standard, divorce. She said once it is filed, it would take thirty days to be final and she would call me to give me the date.
About a week or so later, she called and calmly said, "Fran, your divorce will be final on October 31st." I was kind of speechless, then I started laughing and told her that would have been my anniversary. She offered to have it changed. I said, "no, it's perfect! My anniversary will be my divorcerary! How's that for a strange, but true story?
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Ghost Story, Part 3
Happy Halloween Eve! Here in Milledgeville, trick or treaters will be roaming the streets Sunday, October 31st. If I rationed correctly, I'll have enough candy left to handle the 4 or 5 neighborhood children that I expect will knock on my door. I try not to buy candy too early in October because I would hate to have to run out tonight to buy another bag of Reese's cups.
When I lived on Stanislaus Circle in Macon, Halloween got a little out of hand due to big kids, not in costume, who would pound on my screen door, not even say 'trick or treat', but hold their backpacks out for me to fill them up. Then they would leave without a 'thank you' or a 'kiss my @#%'. I stopped staying home on Halloween. I would leave the dogs inside, leave all the lights off, inside and outside, and hightail it over to a party somewhere. Oh, those were the days...
This ghost story happened in the little Stanislaus house. I have to remind y'all that I did not live in one of the Big, Beautiful Stanislaus homes, but in a small bungalow, on the back corner, across from where the new Kroger is. That's funny. I guess it will always be the 'new' Kroger to me. My house was across the street from the house on the corner that backs up to the railroad tracks. Now that entrance to Stanislaus Circle is walled off, completely blocked off. When I lived there, I called it the demilitarized zone. The small houses were the buffers between the Big, Beautiful homes and the rest of the world. But I loved living there.
When Sweetie Pie and I married, he moved in with me on Stanislaus. He was working at the Methodist Children's Home, just down the street, so I think he married me because he was less than five minutes from work verses the hour or so drive in from Milledgeville. I was using the third bedroom as a den, so we decided to change it back to a bedroom for the weekends when his children stayed over with us.
He had a bed that had been his mother's and we put it in that room for his son. It looked great in the room with the nice, boyish green, burgundy, and gold plaid comforter and bed skirt. The bed had been in the house several weeks and the kids seemed to like visiting with us for their Daddy weekend as we all adjusted to being a new family.
There was a hallway from the three bedrooms to the kitchen and I usually left our bedroom door open at night so the dogs could come and go. Their beds were on the floor on my side of the room. When I was between husbands, they slept on the bed with me, but Sweetie Pie put a stop to that. That was our first fight. He won. I cried, but I understood.
So one night, I woke up in the dark. It was three forty seven. My heart was pounding. I sat up in bed and noticed that both dogs were up, alert, but not moving. They were looking out of the bedroom door. I had the strangest feeling that someone was in the hallway. Did I say my heart was pounding?
I punched Sweetie a few times and whispered that someone was in the house. He reminded me that our security alarm had not gone off and no one could have come into to the house without setting off the alarm. I asked him to go check anyway. I won't repeat what he said, but you can imagine.
As my feet hit the floor, I snapped my fingers and both dogs followed me to the hallway. I flipped on the hall light as both dogs silently walked to the kitchen. No one was there. No one was in the house. Otis and I patrolled the entire house (that took 3 minutes). Otis was the larger dog and could look menacing, but he was really a cream puff. Reathie dashed back to her bed in our bedroom. The alarm was still armed. I went back to bed.
Later, weeks later, Sweetie mentioned that his mother passed away in that bed. I asked what time did she die. He said it was in the middle of the night. I might be wrong, but I think his mother somehow came back to check on him, on us, and her bed. I hope she was pleased.
When I lived on Stanislaus Circle in Macon, Halloween got a little out of hand due to big kids, not in costume, who would pound on my screen door, not even say 'trick or treat', but hold their backpacks out for me to fill them up. Then they would leave without a 'thank you' or a 'kiss my @#%'. I stopped staying home on Halloween. I would leave the dogs inside, leave all the lights off, inside and outside, and hightail it over to a party somewhere. Oh, those were the days...
This ghost story happened in the little Stanislaus house. I have to remind y'all that I did not live in one of the Big, Beautiful Stanislaus homes, but in a small bungalow, on the back corner, across from where the new Kroger is. That's funny. I guess it will always be the 'new' Kroger to me. My house was across the street from the house on the corner that backs up to the railroad tracks. Now that entrance to Stanislaus Circle is walled off, completely blocked off. When I lived there, I called it the demilitarized zone. The small houses were the buffers between the Big, Beautiful homes and the rest of the world. But I loved living there.
When Sweetie Pie and I married, he moved in with me on Stanislaus. He was working at the Methodist Children's Home, just down the street, so I think he married me because he was less than five minutes from work verses the hour or so drive in from Milledgeville. I was using the third bedroom as a den, so we decided to change it back to a bedroom for the weekends when his children stayed over with us.
He had a bed that had been his mother's and we put it in that room for his son. It looked great in the room with the nice, boyish green, burgundy, and gold plaid comforter and bed skirt. The bed had been in the house several weeks and the kids seemed to like visiting with us for their Daddy weekend as we all adjusted to being a new family.
There was a hallway from the three bedrooms to the kitchen and I usually left our bedroom door open at night so the dogs could come and go. Their beds were on the floor on my side of the room. When I was between husbands, they slept on the bed with me, but Sweetie Pie put a stop to that. That was our first fight. He won. I cried, but I understood.
So one night, I woke up in the dark. It was three forty seven. My heart was pounding. I sat up in bed and noticed that both dogs were up, alert, but not moving. They were looking out of the bedroom door. I had the strangest feeling that someone was in the hallway. Did I say my heart was pounding?
I punched Sweetie a few times and whispered that someone was in the house. He reminded me that our security alarm had not gone off and no one could have come into to the house without setting off the alarm. I asked him to go check anyway. I won't repeat what he said, but you can imagine.
As my feet hit the floor, I snapped my fingers and both dogs followed me to the hallway. I flipped on the hall light as both dogs silently walked to the kitchen. No one was there. No one was in the house. Otis and I patrolled the entire house (that took 3 minutes). Otis was the larger dog and could look menacing, but he was really a cream puff. Reathie dashed back to her bed in our bedroom. The alarm was still armed. I went back to bed.
Later, weeks later, Sweetie mentioned that his mother passed away in that bed. I asked what time did she die. He said it was in the middle of the night. I might be wrong, but I think his mother somehow came back to check on him, on us, and her bed. I hope she was pleased.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Spanish Tomatoes
I wish I had leaned how to speak Spanish at some point along the way. Way back in time, at Alexander IV Elementary School for Boys and Girls, Mrs. Greenway would come to our class and converse with us in Spanish. Her daughter was in my class and was the only one who understood what she said. They had just moved to Macon from somewhere like Puerto Rico and were exotic and temperamental.
Home grown tomatoes are a staple in the South. Everyone agrees that nothing tastes finer than a slice of fresh tomato with a dab of mayo on white bread. I have tried to like fresh tomatoes. Almost every day this past summer, I made a tomato sandwich for Sweetie Pie for lunch. I do not like fresh tomatoes and I think I know why.
In Mrs. Martin's second grade class at Alexander IV Elementary School for Boys and Girls, the exotic and temperamental Greenway girl (I'll try to keep her anonymous, but we all know and love her) decided one afternoon to pitch a little hissy fit. In Spanish. I can't remember why she was so upset, but she stood up in the aisle, she was in the front, I was a few desks behind her (alphabetically, of course) and while screaming something in Spanish, up-chucked her lunch.
It went everywhere! Up and down the aisle. Under desks it spread, creeping down closer to me. She must have eaten a tomato sandwich for lunch. Little red chucks inched their way toward me as I held my feet up, my knees almost hitting the underneath part of my desk. I think I had repressed that memory. And that is why I can not eat a tomato.
Oh, why I wish I knew how to speak Spanish. Today at work, Carlos and his helper were there to move furniture. I was there to show them where to place everything. My boss was there to be in charge. Bobby, who is hearing impaired, was there, well, because he's there all the time. So I'm nicely making suggestions to my boss about what needs to go where. Boss, he's rolling his eyes big time. Carlos is telling his helper, well, I'm not sure. They talked and laughed and talked some more. I sure do wish I knew what they said...
Home grown tomatoes are a staple in the South. Everyone agrees that nothing tastes finer than a slice of fresh tomato with a dab of mayo on white bread. I have tried to like fresh tomatoes. Almost every day this past summer, I made a tomato sandwich for Sweetie Pie for lunch. I do not like fresh tomatoes and I think I know why.
In Mrs. Martin's second grade class at Alexander IV Elementary School for Boys and Girls, the exotic and temperamental Greenway girl (I'll try to keep her anonymous, but we all know and love her) decided one afternoon to pitch a little hissy fit. In Spanish. I can't remember why she was so upset, but she stood up in the aisle, she was in the front, I was a few desks behind her (alphabetically, of course) and while screaming something in Spanish, up-chucked her lunch.
It went everywhere! Up and down the aisle. Under desks it spread, creeping down closer to me. She must have eaten a tomato sandwich for lunch. Little red chucks inched their way toward me as I held my feet up, my knees almost hitting the underneath part of my desk. I think I had repressed that memory. And that is why I can not eat a tomato.
Oh, why I wish I knew how to speak Spanish. Today at work, Carlos and his helper were there to move furniture. I was there to show them where to place everything. My boss was there to be in charge. Bobby, who is hearing impaired, was there, well, because he's there all the time. So I'm nicely making suggestions to my boss about what needs to go where. Boss, he's rolling his eyes big time. Carlos is telling his helper, well, I'm not sure. They talked and laughed and talked some more. I sure do wish I knew what they said...
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Ghost Story, Part 2
Officially, I am now obsessed with Ghost Adventures on the Travel Channel and I have discovered a possible faked scene. I am not a bona-fide historian, but I love history. So when the guys from Ghost Adventures began looking for ghosts in Gettysburg, PA at the battlefield, I was interested, if not a little afraid.
I've always heard stories about ghosts in battlefields around Georgia. The radio personalities from Alabama, Rick and Bubba, sent one of their guys to the Chickamauga battlefield and he was totally freaked out. I used to watch their radio show when it was on Turner South. I loved that channel! Especially the show Junkin'. I am aware that Rick and Bubba are not bona-fide ghost hunters, but you have to admit, they are pretty funny sometimes. But I digress.
It came as no surprise to me that ghosts and spirits exist at Gettysburg. The tv show went to a house that is on the edge of where the battle was fought. A young woman who lived there was killed by a stray musket ball as she worked in the kitchen. Supposedly, her fiance, a Union soldier, had been recently killed in another battle, so she was in mourning for him when she was killed.
Well, these guys go into her house in the middle of the night and using some of their super-duper ghost hunter equipment, cameras and audio recorders, start asking her questions. One question was if she had anything she wanted to tell her fiance before he died. The audio recorder allegedly picked up a voice saying "I'm pregnant".
OK, wait a dad-gum minute. First of all, I would like to suggest that young women in the 1860's would not use the word 'pregnant'. I believe they would say 'I am with child' or 'I am carrying a child'. Second, I don't believe a young woman who may or may not be carrying a child out of wedlock would announce to anyone, much less the spirit world that she was in that condition. She lived in the 1860's, not the present day. Is it possible that these guys are "enhancing" their ghostly experiences? Will I be frightened if I watch it again? Stay tuned...
I've always heard stories about ghosts in battlefields around Georgia. The radio personalities from Alabama, Rick and Bubba, sent one of their guys to the Chickamauga battlefield and he was totally freaked out. I used to watch their radio show when it was on Turner South. I loved that channel! Especially the show Junkin'. I am aware that Rick and Bubba are not bona-fide ghost hunters, but you have to admit, they are pretty funny sometimes. But I digress.
It came as no surprise to me that ghosts and spirits exist at Gettysburg. The tv show went to a house that is on the edge of where the battle was fought. A young woman who lived there was killed by a stray musket ball as she worked in the kitchen. Supposedly, her fiance, a Union soldier, had been recently killed in another battle, so she was in mourning for him when she was killed.
Well, these guys go into her house in the middle of the night and using some of their super-duper ghost hunter equipment, cameras and audio recorders, start asking her questions. One question was if she had anything she wanted to tell her fiance before he died. The audio recorder allegedly picked up a voice saying "I'm pregnant".
OK, wait a dad-gum minute. First of all, I would like to suggest that young women in the 1860's would not use the word 'pregnant'. I believe they would say 'I am with child' or 'I am carrying a child'. Second, I don't believe a young woman who may or may not be carrying a child out of wedlock would announce to anyone, much less the spirit world that she was in that condition. She lived in the 1860's, not the present day. Is it possible that these guys are "enhancing" their ghostly experiences? Will I be frightened if I watch it again? Stay tuned...
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Ghost Story
Last night I watched back to back episodes of Ghost Adventures. I made Sweetie Pie stay in the room with me until the second hour was over. I know that they probably use special effects and ghostly experiences are rigged or staged, but I was creeped out. I hate to tell y'all, but I'm a wuss when it comes to scary things. I don't usually watch that kind of thing, but I found it as I was clicking around the channels and I was kind of curious. Is it real or not? Do ghosts or spirits hang around? Maybe...
Years and years ago, I was a volunteer at The Hay House as part of my Junior League placement. That year, I was a Sunday docent, working twice a month. Now, I need to back up and tell y'all about my Grandmother Holliday. She was a Sunday tour guide at The Hay House for years, before The Georgia Trust became the owner of Macon's landmark home. Grandmother was a friend of Mrs. Hay, and she and other friends were dedicated to helping the Hay family when they opened the house for tours.
Many Sundays we (Daddy, Mama, my brother, and me) would pick up Grandmother for lunch after church. She attended Vineville Baptist, we attended Vineville Methodist, so we would swing down Hines Terrace where she would be waiting on the sidewalk in her Sunday dress, pocketbook on her arm, gloves on her hands. Brother and I would squeeze together in the back of Daddy's Pontiac so she could get in.
We usually went to the Elks Club on Mulberry Street for their Sunday buffet. Marshall would greet us and pull Kennedy half dollars from behind our ears. Amazing! Marshall was another Macon landmark. By the time Brother and I were thinking about the dessert table, Grandmother would be checking her watch. She was due there at two and hated to be late.
We rushed through dessert and dropped her off by the front steps where Chester would open the door and help her inside. Chester had worked for the Hay family and was the official greeter there for years. Several times we tagged along and listened to Grandmother as she gave tours through the beautiful home. I think her dedication to The Hay House was the impetus to my volunteer involvement when I returned to Macon after UGA.
So, one Sunday afternoon I was at The Hay House. I'm not sure of the date, but it was winter and a cold, drizzling rain had kept most visitors away that day. The regular docents were back in the kitchen to stay warm while I manned the desk and waited for the doorbell. The house was quiet. I could hear their murmurs from the kitchen and the rain as it hit the windows.
I knew there were only the three of us in the house. The earlier guests had been long gone, but we had about another forty-five minutes to stay open. As I sat there, I thought I heard someone in the front parlor. I walked through the marble hall toward the front door and glanced in the parlor. There was no one there. I looked through the pocket doors to the next parlor. There was no one there. The house was quiet, but I had a really creepy feeling as I glanced over my shoulder to the marble hall. I was still alone. I had to get the hell out of Dodge. I turned and briskly walked through the rooms to the dining room and burst through the swinging door, startling the docents who stared at me.
"It's really coming down now," I gamely said as I shivered and stepped in front of the heater. I wasn't about to explain that a ghost or something chased me back there. Now, I know y'all are thinking it was just a branch brushing against the window or the rain pelting down on the steps. There must be a rational explanation. I agree with you on that. There must be some explanation. Maybe...
Years and years ago, I was a volunteer at The Hay House as part of my Junior League placement. That year, I was a Sunday docent, working twice a month. Now, I need to back up and tell y'all about my Grandmother Holliday. She was a Sunday tour guide at The Hay House for years, before The Georgia Trust became the owner of Macon's landmark home. Grandmother was a friend of Mrs. Hay, and she and other friends were dedicated to helping the Hay family when they opened the house for tours.
Many Sundays we (Daddy, Mama, my brother, and me) would pick up Grandmother for lunch after church. She attended Vineville Baptist, we attended Vineville Methodist, so we would swing down Hines Terrace where she would be waiting on the sidewalk in her Sunday dress, pocketbook on her arm, gloves on her hands. Brother and I would squeeze together in the back of Daddy's Pontiac so she could get in.
We usually went to the Elks Club on Mulberry Street for their Sunday buffet. Marshall would greet us and pull Kennedy half dollars from behind our ears. Amazing! Marshall was another Macon landmark. By the time Brother and I were thinking about the dessert table, Grandmother would be checking her watch. She was due there at two and hated to be late.
We rushed through dessert and dropped her off by the front steps where Chester would open the door and help her inside. Chester had worked for the Hay family and was the official greeter there for years. Several times we tagged along and listened to Grandmother as she gave tours through the beautiful home. I think her dedication to The Hay House was the impetus to my volunteer involvement when I returned to Macon after UGA.
So, one Sunday afternoon I was at The Hay House. I'm not sure of the date, but it was winter and a cold, drizzling rain had kept most visitors away that day. The regular docents were back in the kitchen to stay warm while I manned the desk and waited for the doorbell. The house was quiet. I could hear their murmurs from the kitchen and the rain as it hit the windows.
I knew there were only the three of us in the house. The earlier guests had been long gone, but we had about another forty-five minutes to stay open. As I sat there, I thought I heard someone in the front parlor. I walked through the marble hall toward the front door and glanced in the parlor. There was no one there. I looked through the pocket doors to the next parlor. There was no one there. The house was quiet, but I had a really creepy feeling as I glanced over my shoulder to the marble hall. I was still alone. I had to get the hell out of Dodge. I turned and briskly walked through the rooms to the dining room and burst through the swinging door, startling the docents who stared at me.
"It's really coming down now," I gamely said as I shivered and stepped in front of the heater. I wasn't about to explain that a ghost or something chased me back there. Now, I know y'all are thinking it was just a branch brushing against the window or the rain pelting down on the steps. There must be a rational explanation. I agree with you on that. There must be some explanation. Maybe...
Friday, October 22, 2010
Friday Nights Alright
I'm working part-time now in an antique shop over at Lake Oconee. More about that later; I'm still the newbie there. I only work Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, so today is my hump day. The middle of my work week, so to speak.
As I drove home (it's 23 miles door to door), I realized most of the people I saw around me were excited because it's Friday night and the end of their work week. There was definitely more traffic as people headed to restaurants and movies. I guess Friday will always be date night.
Sweetie Pie and I don't go out much and we rarely ever have a date night. Back in the good times, we traveled a good deal for our antique business so when we were home, we preferred to eat at home. Plus it's a heck of a lot cheaper! We also don't like to travel on holidays. Our rule: if you want to see us during a major holiday, come to our house. Mama doesn't like that rule very much, but she enjoys visiting us.
One plus for living in a small house is guests don't hang around. We have one full bathroom in our bedroom and one half bath in the extra bedroom. And the extra bedroom doubles as a storage room too. There is a path around the bed and to the door and to the half-bath. Oh, and the half bath is also the laundry room and utility room and home to the cat's litter box. Every room in a small house must do double duty!
Back to date night. I want to see the movie Secretariat at the movie theatre, so I'm lobbying for a date afternoon. Sweetie Pie would rather go hunting. Maybe I'll just have to go see it by myself.
As I drove home (it's 23 miles door to door), I realized most of the people I saw around me were excited because it's Friday night and the end of their work week. There was definitely more traffic as people headed to restaurants and movies. I guess Friday will always be date night.
Sweetie Pie and I don't go out much and we rarely ever have a date night. Back in the good times, we traveled a good deal for our antique business so when we were home, we preferred to eat at home. Plus it's a heck of a lot cheaper! We also don't like to travel on holidays. Our rule: if you want to see us during a major holiday, come to our house. Mama doesn't like that rule very much, but she enjoys visiting us.
One plus for living in a small house is guests don't hang around. We have one full bathroom in our bedroom and one half bath in the extra bedroom. And the extra bedroom doubles as a storage room too. There is a path around the bed and to the door and to the half-bath. Oh, and the half bath is also the laundry room and utility room and home to the cat's litter box. Every room in a small house must do double duty!
Back to date night. I want to see the movie Secretariat at the movie theatre, so I'm lobbying for a date afternoon. Sweetie Pie would rather go hunting. Maybe I'll just have to go see it by myself.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
There's No Cryin' in Writer's Groups (until I showed up)
This morning when I walked Presley, I heard her! In a light drizzling rain as my dog and I walked toward the road, I heard my neighbor's horse whinny. I smiled as I pictured the smallish roan mare leaning over her fence, waiting to be fed.
We have lived here over a year now. When we first moved, I discovered that a neighbors kept a young mare in her yard. I was thrilled. This neighborhood is almost rural although we are close to the lake and close to very expensive lake real estate. Finding a horse living so close to me was an unexpected blessing. Most of y'all know how much I love horses. That love goes way down deep in my soul and although I do not own a horse at this time, I will always dream about them.
When we lived in Blue Ridge, in the North Georgia mountains, I walked at the county park around a one mile track that followed a small creek and circled baseball diamonds and soccer fields. Across the creek was a farm. When we made the difficult decision to leave Blue Ridge and move from the most wonderful place I have ever lived, I wrote the following essay. I hate to be a crybaby, but when I read this at a writer's critique group I attend, I couldn't finish reading it aloud. I forgot that there's no cryin' in writer's groups! I wanted to share it with y'all.
All This I Will Miss...
Early morning walks at the county park where the walking path circles the ball fields, the sounds of recreation stilled for now. The path follows a creek three-fourths of the way around; during dry times it is a picturesque bubbling brook, sliding over creek rocks as it winds through the valley. In wet seasons, it turns into a roaring thunder of mud-colored water, obliterating tranquility as it rushes past my steady gait.
The parks department recently paved the path making the mile a smooth, flat course. Now I share the path with mothers and strollers, youngsters on small bicycles or scooters, and the occasional jogger.
And always walkers with dogs, all sizes and breeds. My dog is afraid of other dogs so I have to warn my fellow walkers that mine is not dog-friendly. To humans, especially children, she invites pats and kisses. My warnings makes me seem unfriendly too as I watch the other dog walkers recognize us and scurry to the far side of the wide walkway as we pass with just a nod or a small wave.
Across the creek is my escape from the quicksand of my life. As I walk, my worries and troubles are put aside for a few precious minutes as I look across the creek to a gently rolling pasture where horses graze in the lush green field.
At first I was amazed that no fence defined their border; magnificent creatures freely roam along the creek side. Now after several years of watching the small herd, I realize in this case, the grass is not greener on my side. My side is loud in the mornings with yard maintenance equipment; their shrill motors running tractors and week eaters. And loud in the afternoons when the hundreds of players and their entourages arrive to play soccer or baseball or softball or football.
Many times I have stood still to gauge the depth of the creek. Could I jump across? Could I wade across? Could I leave my human world and leap into the peaceful pasture with this beautiful herd of horses?
The red chestnut with the wide white blaze down her face raises her head as I whistle to get her attention. She gazes evenly at me while my small dog is afraid of that these are really very large dogs. The mare and I make eye contact and she shakes her head, her flaxen colored mane flopping around her neck. Her mane is matted with small sticks and grass and she ducks down to scratch her head on her leg. Then she returns to her grass, grazing and slowly moving across the pasture, leaving me and my dog on the human side of reality.
I watch the small herd of horses graze their way toward the far reaches of their pasture, their soft nickers are familiar as the bay gelding calls to the palomino whose pale gold coat has been lightened from the warm sunshine. One blows and the other snorts, startling my dog who is unaccustomed to the horse noises of contentment. I smile.
Then I continue on, around the path, but I turn back several times to see that they are still there and not a wonderful dream. In my dreams, I am a carefree and happy child, riding the red chestnut mare, galloping across the grassy field. The wind in my face makes my eyes water. As I cross over to the parking lot, I wipe my face, perspiration or maybe tears cloud my vision. We are moving this weekend. We are moving and leaving this wonderful place of my dreams. All this, I will miss.
We have lived here over a year now. When we first moved, I discovered that a neighbors kept a young mare in her yard. I was thrilled. This neighborhood is almost rural although we are close to the lake and close to very expensive lake real estate. Finding a horse living so close to me was an unexpected blessing. Most of y'all know how much I love horses. That love goes way down deep in my soul and although I do not own a horse at this time, I will always dream about them.
When we lived in Blue Ridge, in the North Georgia mountains, I walked at the county park around a one mile track that followed a small creek and circled baseball diamonds and soccer fields. Across the creek was a farm. When we made the difficult decision to leave Blue Ridge and move from the most wonderful place I have ever lived, I wrote the following essay. I hate to be a crybaby, but when I read this at a writer's critique group I attend, I couldn't finish reading it aloud. I forgot that there's no cryin' in writer's groups! I wanted to share it with y'all.
All This I Will Miss...
Early morning walks at the county park where the walking path circles the ball fields, the sounds of recreation stilled for now. The path follows a creek three-fourths of the way around; during dry times it is a picturesque bubbling brook, sliding over creek rocks as it winds through the valley. In wet seasons, it turns into a roaring thunder of mud-colored water, obliterating tranquility as it rushes past my steady gait.
The parks department recently paved the path making the mile a smooth, flat course. Now I share the path with mothers and strollers, youngsters on small bicycles or scooters, and the occasional jogger.
And always walkers with dogs, all sizes and breeds. My dog is afraid of other dogs so I have to warn my fellow walkers that mine is not dog-friendly. To humans, especially children, she invites pats and kisses. My warnings makes me seem unfriendly too as I watch the other dog walkers recognize us and scurry to the far side of the wide walkway as we pass with just a nod or a small wave.
Across the creek is my escape from the quicksand of my life. As I walk, my worries and troubles are put aside for a few precious minutes as I look across the creek to a gently rolling pasture where horses graze in the lush green field.
At first I was amazed that no fence defined their border; magnificent creatures freely roam along the creek side. Now after several years of watching the small herd, I realize in this case, the grass is not greener on my side. My side is loud in the mornings with yard maintenance equipment; their shrill motors running tractors and week eaters. And loud in the afternoons when the hundreds of players and their entourages arrive to play soccer or baseball or softball or football.
Many times I have stood still to gauge the depth of the creek. Could I jump across? Could I wade across? Could I leave my human world and leap into the peaceful pasture with this beautiful herd of horses?
The red chestnut with the wide white blaze down her face raises her head as I whistle to get her attention. She gazes evenly at me while my small dog is afraid of that these are really very large dogs. The mare and I make eye contact and she shakes her head, her flaxen colored mane flopping around her neck. Her mane is matted with small sticks and grass and she ducks down to scratch her head on her leg. Then she returns to her grass, grazing and slowly moving across the pasture, leaving me and my dog on the human side of reality.
I watch the small herd of horses graze their way toward the far reaches of their pasture, their soft nickers are familiar as the bay gelding calls to the palomino whose pale gold coat has been lightened from the warm sunshine. One blows and the other snorts, startling my dog who is unaccustomed to the horse noises of contentment. I smile.
Then I continue on, around the path, but I turn back several times to see that they are still there and not a wonderful dream. In my dreams, I am a carefree and happy child, riding the red chestnut mare, galloping across the grassy field. The wind in my face makes my eyes water. As I cross over to the parking lot, I wipe my face, perspiration or maybe tears cloud my vision. We are moving this weekend. We are moving and leaving this wonderful place of my dreams. All this, I will miss.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Satilla River Revisited
This is a print of the Satilla River Club by Jo Erbele, now Jo Fabian. I have hung this print in every house and apartment I have lived in, now five houses with Sweetie Pie. It hangs with an actual photo of the house that Daddy took but I can't seem to transfer the scan to the blog.
I also have a great group photo of all of us standing in front of the house from a weekend down there years ago with the Ficklings, Treadwells, Dischers, Kallays, and Adams families and all their children. That was the last time I visited, but I'm glad Sweetie Pie was with me. It must have been about thirteen years ago. All those cute children are in college now. Man, I feel old....
Last night, Sweetie and I went to the hunting club and had a wonderful time with everyone there. What is it about a hamburger cooked on the grill in the great outdoors that makes it so delicious? Yummy!! And again, it brought back so many memories of spending time down at Satilla.
One of my Facebook friends and long-time family friend Kay, read my last Satilla post and reminded me how the kids were all frightened by scary river stories. I had forgotten about it, but I realized that story was probably the reason I imagined all sorts of crazy things whenever I stayed in that house. I never got a good night's sleep because my over-active, crazy, imagination kept me staring at the ceiling, thin sheet and blanket clutched up to my neck, fearing psycho-ax murderers creeping down the sandy, dirt road, coming in through the un-locked front door and pulling me out of the bed. Really.
This is the first time I have ever admitted that I am a scaredy cat, but it's only at night, in a dark, wooded area with an unlocked front door. Ok, so I walk through a wooded area on my daily dog walks and in the very early morning, before the sun climbs over the pine trees, I hear those psycho-ax murderers creeping through the woods. Thankfully, there few times during the month that I have to walk THAT early, but when I do, I talk loudly to Presley in order to keep the creepies away. It works.
Another Facebook and Macon friend, Patty commented on my last post and mentioned hunting armadillos. That was quite the activity when we were in our teenage years. If I remember correctly, several of those armadillos were caught in late night sieges. I had heard that armadillos were moving north, and sure enough this spring Presley and I crossed paths with one on our morning walk. He was quite unperturbed about us, but Presley was beside herself with excitement. I haven't seen him again; I guess he was moving north.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Finds
This is photograph I found stuffed behind the bottom drawer of a maple child's wardrobe Sweetie Pie has painted. It was rolled up and kind of smushed a bit. The photo is on thick paper and has faded almost to a negative-like image.
It looks to be a river with a small dock on the left side and woods lining each bank. Tree limbs hang over the top, shading the water.
Over the years, we have bought and sold hundreds of pieces of furniture, but rarely find anything other than bobby pins, pennies, chewed chewing gum, and decks of playing cards. Once we found a joint in the drawer of a buffet but we figured one of the guys working at the warehouse in Tennessee where we picked it up hid it there and forgot about it.
Occasionally we find old black and white photographs in furniture. I like to keep the photo with the piece so the buyer has a bit of history with it. My favorite photo was one of a German Shepard dog standing in a yard that we found in a mahogany secretary. Another was a photograph of a house with lots of flowers growing around it. We found that in a walnut dresser.
We've heard all sorts of stories about finding money stuffed and hidden in old furniture, but rarely does that happen. Antique dealers might tend to exaggerate the truth a bit! Sometimes we find old clothes, a stray sock or pantyhose (ick!). To me, old photographs are the best treasures.
Why was this old photo was stuck in a child's wardrobe? We'll never know. We got the wardrobe along with five other pieces in South Carolina several weeks ago. I imagine this river or creek was a special place to someone who used this unique wardrobe. We'll save the photo and it will be placed in the top drawer for the next owner.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Puzzled
Today is National Coming Out Day. I just heard about it on TV and it was mentioned on Facebook this morning by one of my FB friends. It comes on the heels of the horrific deaths of several young men who chose to end their life due to their struggles with their sexuality. My heart breaks for the families of those who took such drastic action. The debate about homosexuality is on-going.
My thought: Judge not lest you be judged.
It puzzles me how someone can preach God's love, but exclude those who might not share the same lifestyle or background. Aren't we all alike in the eyes of the Lord?
My thought: Judge not lest you be judged.
It puzzles me how someone can preach God's love, but exclude those who might not share the same lifestyle or background. Aren't we all alike in the eyes of the Lord?
Friday, October 8, 2010
People Watching 101
Every second weekend of the month, we set up three booths at the Scott Antique Market in Atlanta. We sell refinished and painted furniture. I would love to say that we like selling painted furniture, but truth be told, it's a job. Times are changing and if you do not change with it, you are left behind.
Being self-employed in a down economy, it is necessary to do whatever it takes to earn money. Next week, I'm starting a part time job to help out. But this weekend, I'm selling at Scot's. We do have a few pieces of refinished furniture, but compared to a year ago, the painted pieces outnumber the refinished ones.
Sweetie Pie is the furniture refinisher, but most recently, he's the custom paint finisher. I am proud of him everyday, but especially when customers walk past our booth and compliment his work. He works hard to make each piece stand out. His attention to detail is obvious.
My job is to sell it, so I'm in the booth or nearby. Many customers stop, but are not buyers. That's alright. We welcome lookers. Lookers can become buyers in a month or maybe even a year. I enjoy talking to them, even if it is just a smile and a nod. I spend all day watching a parade of people pass the booth.
And what a parade it is! Young and old. Thick and thin. Couples. Singles. Groups of friends. I see many of the same faces every month and although I do not know their name, we smile and nod. An old Lakewood friend is set up a few rows from us and it was wonderful catching up with her and her family. A dealer who set up behind us before we moved to our new location is not there this weekend. His son was tragically killed in an accident this week. Although I do not know him or his son, I grieve for his family.
Strangers become acquaintances. Acquaintances become friends. There is a dealer across from us this time who is from Maine and has the most wonderful accent. I do not know his name yet, but it's just Friday. We have two more days to move from stranger to friend.
Being self-employed in a down economy, it is necessary to do whatever it takes to earn money. Next week, I'm starting a part time job to help out. But this weekend, I'm selling at Scot's. We do have a few pieces of refinished furniture, but compared to a year ago, the painted pieces outnumber the refinished ones.
Sweetie Pie is the furniture refinisher, but most recently, he's the custom paint finisher. I am proud of him everyday, but especially when customers walk past our booth and compliment his work. He works hard to make each piece stand out. His attention to detail is obvious.
My job is to sell it, so I'm in the booth or nearby. Many customers stop, but are not buyers. That's alright. We welcome lookers. Lookers can become buyers in a month or maybe even a year. I enjoy talking to them, even if it is just a smile and a nod. I spend all day watching a parade of people pass the booth.
And what a parade it is! Young and old. Thick and thin. Couples. Singles. Groups of friends. I see many of the same faces every month and although I do not know their name, we smile and nod. An old Lakewood friend is set up a few rows from us and it was wonderful catching up with her and her family. A dealer who set up behind us before we moved to our new location is not there this weekend. His son was tragically killed in an accident this week. Although I do not know him or his son, I grieve for his family.
Strangers become acquaintances. Acquaintances become friends. There is a dealer across from us this time who is from Maine and has the most wonderful accent. I do not know his name yet, but it's just Friday. We have two more days to move from stranger to friend.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Satilla River
Last Saturday night we attended a covered dish supper at Sweetie pie's hunting club in a nearby county. This was my first "official" visit when other members were there. Over the summer, we traipsed around the place to check things out. Sweetie is a new member. During hunting season, families hang out at the camp and share meals and stories. Members have small trailers parked under huge pine trees and most have built porches and even entire rooms attached to their trailers. It is somewhat primitive, but there are bathrooms with flushing toilets. I'm not a 'squat in the woods' kind of girl! We had a great time and met some very nice people, as well as their families. Sitting around a huge bonfire after the supper was delightful!
It was Sunday afternoon as I drove home from a visit to Macon that it occurred to me. I felt comfortable at the hunting camp because I spent so much of my young life at the Satilla River Club with my family and their friends. The Satilla River winds through South Georgia and as a child and teenager, we spent many weekends down there. I think we were some of the first tubers on that river. Oh, the stories...
I have so many wonderful memories of Satilla. As we enjoyed a shared supper Saturday night, my thoughts went back to when we sat around a long table on the side porch at Satilla as platters and bowls of delicious, home cooked food were passed around. In cooler months, meals were served inside with heat from a wood burning stove. I loved to hear all the stories and jokes passed around with the platters.
A screened porch completely circles the two story house at Satilla and heavy, large rocking chairs line the front and back. How many hours have been whiled away in those wonderful rockers? How many tall tales and truths have been told in those rockers? Hmmm...
(I have been unable to upload a picture of Satilla, but I'll try to post one soon.)
We plan to move our small travel trailer to the camp soon and I would love to build a covered screened porch next to it. We have some rockers from our Blue Ridge house that would be perfect there. Maybe Sweetie would be willing to build me a screened porch so I can visit and rock the time away while he is in the woods. Hmmm...
My spinach casserole was a big hit and it was decided that I should always bring that to share. That suits me, it's easy and delicious and can also be used as a dip with crackers or chips. This past weekend I met several children who seemed to be having a good time. I hope for them that their experiences under the pines in a somewhat primitive hunting camp will bring them wonderful memories that will last a lifetime.
It was Sunday afternoon as I drove home from a visit to Macon that it occurred to me. I felt comfortable at the hunting camp because I spent so much of my young life at the Satilla River Club with my family and their friends. The Satilla River winds through South Georgia and as a child and teenager, we spent many weekends down there. I think we were some of the first tubers on that river. Oh, the stories...
I have so many wonderful memories of Satilla. As we enjoyed a shared supper Saturday night, my thoughts went back to when we sat around a long table on the side porch at Satilla as platters and bowls of delicious, home cooked food were passed around. In cooler months, meals were served inside with heat from a wood burning stove. I loved to hear all the stories and jokes passed around with the platters.
A screened porch completely circles the two story house at Satilla and heavy, large rocking chairs line the front and back. How many hours have been whiled away in those wonderful rockers? How many tall tales and truths have been told in those rockers? Hmmm...
(I have been unable to upload a picture of Satilla, but I'll try to post one soon.)
We plan to move our small travel trailer to the camp soon and I would love to build a covered screened porch next to it. We have some rockers from our Blue Ridge house that would be perfect there. Maybe Sweetie would be willing to build me a screened porch so I can visit and rock the time away while he is in the woods. Hmmm...
My spinach casserole was a big hit and it was decided that I should always bring that to share. That suits me, it's easy and delicious and can also be used as a dip with crackers or chips. This past weekend I met several children who seemed to be having a good time. I hope for them that their experiences under the pines in a somewhat primitive hunting camp will bring them wonderful memories that will last a lifetime.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Just another manic Monday
House cleaning is not my strongest trait. I rate higher in organization and cooking (please God, do not strike me down). Ok, honestly, house cleaning is last on my list of things I like to do. Today, the end of the list is screaming at me. The house is a glorified mess.
Four boxes from the yard sale are in the living room waiting to be stored. A large pack of paper towels, laundry soap, Diet Cokes, toilet paper, and what have you from my last trip to the mega mart are still hanging around in the tiny kitchen, waiting to be stored. Pet hair imbedded in my rugs could choke a horse. I have not mopped the kitchen floor since it rained a few days ago. The bathroom? Yikes!! Get the picture?
And Sweetie Pie nicely thrust his very muddy and stinky camo outfits into my arms and suggested I start a few loads of laundry. Gee willikers. This is my Monday.
Four boxes from the yard sale are in the living room waiting to be stored. A large pack of paper towels, laundry soap, Diet Cokes, toilet paper, and what have you from my last trip to the mega mart are still hanging around in the tiny kitchen, waiting to be stored. Pet hair imbedded in my rugs could choke a horse. I have not mopped the kitchen floor since it rained a few days ago. The bathroom? Yikes!! Get the picture?
And Sweetie Pie nicely thrust his very muddy and stinky camo outfits into my arms and suggested I start a few loads of laundry. Gee willikers. This is my Monday.
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