The Crab Chronicles

Naming the Next Generation

I am fascinated by sociological history, particularly by genealogy and I was Googling some of the family folks yesterday and thinking about how different the world is today, and yet not, in some ways. 

Names go through cycles, clearly.

On both sides of my family I have ancestors born in the late 19th century named "Nannie."

I have an ancestor on the Henderson side who was named Pleasant Thurmond, and his wife was named Mary Magdalen Thurmond.

My great grandfather was named Alexander Hamilton Thompson, and his wife's name was Annie Lou Lewis, on the marriage license. I found out recently she was of French descent and her name was actually Augustine Lougene Lewis. I wonder if that had any influence on the names she chose to give her children?

My grandfather Algernon was born in 1888 and he died before I was born. I was never around him or any of his siblings. If I had been, their names would have fascinated me: Roy, Chillie, Algernon, Olean, Glenn (female), Nannie Lou, Woodfin (Uncle Wood)

On my Hasty side, my grandfather Bob had siblings named normal names like Charles, Gordon, Arthur, and Frank. He also had sisters named Effie and Eulemma, known as simple "Lemma."

My grandmother Cordelia went by her middle name. Her first name was Eula. She hated it. Her sister was named Cephier Rowena (known as "Ceph"). Grandmother Cordelia had an uncle named Joshaway Beall, who was a doctor and who served in the Georgia state legislature. Cordelia had an aunt named Mary Beall Traylor who had 5 children, two of whom were named Alonza and Alpha. Alonza named one of his children Artemecia.

Celebrities nowadays like to give their kids odd names.

Nick Cannon, whose main claim to fame was once being married to Mariah Carey, has 11 living children by 6 different women. His children's names are Monroe, Moroccan, Golden, Powerful, Zion, Zillion, Zen, Legendary Love, Onyx, Rise and Beautiful Zeppelin. He had a son named "Zen" who died last year.

Alicia Keys is married to a man named Swiss Beatz, and she has two sons named Egypt and Genesis.

The Kardashian gals have named their kids some interesting ones too: North, Saint, Chicago, Psalm, Reign, True, Dream, Stormi, Wolf [which is being changed to something else, probably Lynx, or something equally boring]

One nice thing about being born to mega wealthy parents is they will likely go to school with kids who have equally bizarre names, and their security guards will prevent any bullying.

My own name, Dee, has always been a source of annoyance to me. I wanted something normal, something I could find on a keychain at Stuckeys, like Susan or Linda. I was named (in spirit) for my grandmother Cordelia. If I had a dollar for every time some has asked me "What's Dee short for?" or "What's your real name?" I would be rich.

I am a tail end Baby Boomer. In the period from 1945-1962 -- the Baby Boom years after WWII -- we were mostly given names like William, Thomas, Stephen, Karen, Michelle, Lisa, etc. -- all solid, conventional names. I never encountered a child named Powerful Queen or a boy named Psalm. If such a child had appeared in my class they would have been unmercifully teased.

In my very amateur poking around into family histories, though, I have encountered some really weird names that my ancestors thought were just fabulous. Like my Hasty cousin who was named Queen Victoria Hasty.

Here are some other Hasty gems: Lula Vada, Conna Belle, Lucy Odessa, Anice Ophelia, Arizona [who went by "Zonia"], Roney Claude, Ora Belle, Viola Kell

In Summary: Giving kids weird names has been going on for centuries and likely will continue!

left, Aunt Oline

 

right, Uncle Wood

Wedding Stories

Years ago I was driving on the Blue Ridge Parkway in East Tennessee on a Sunday afternoon, and listening to a local radio station when I heard the DJ say: "Now this one goes out to Tammy and Dwayne, up there on the parkway at mile marker 37, getting married. They're pulled over at the scenic overlook and they've got a justice of the peace and some folks with them and for their special day they wanted to play the special song that brought them together, the song that symbolizes their love." I grinned, wondering what sappy love song they had requested. The next thing I hear are the opening chords of Lynrd Skynrd's "Free Bird."

Now, I love Lynrd Skynrd, because they are classic southern rockers, but "Free Bird" at a wedding? Did Dwayne and Tammy really give any thought to the actual lyrics?

But if I stay here with you, girl
Things just couldn't be the same
'Cause I'm as free as a bird now
And this bird you cannot change
Oh, oh, oh, oh
And the bird you cannot change
And this bird, you cannot change
Lord knows, I can't change

 

Doesn't sound like a recipe for wedded bliss to me, but what do I know? I've never been married. They may be grandparents by now, happily married still.

 

My mother asked me once what song I wanted to be played at my wedding as Dad was walking me down the aisle. I said "Send in the Clowns." She didn't think it was funny.

Left, at my cousin's wedding in 1968. I was the flower girl. I was highly irritated because my great aunts saw that I was methodically eating all of the cheese straws off the food table, and told Mom. She threatened to spank me if I didn't leave the cheese straws alone. I had never had a cheese straw, and suddenly the whole ordeal or getting dressed up and being sweet for hours was more bearable because of the delicious cheese straws.

 

Then I got caught.

 

The next wedding experience came about when I was 16 and another cousin got married. I was asked to cut the wedding cake. Huge mistake. I had no idea what I was doing. In the photo below you see my efforts to cut carefully, so the cake didn't appear to have been attacked by Edward Scissorhands...

Weddings used to be pretty simple affairs. Everyone went to church or synagogue. There were 2-4 bridesmaids and a few groomsmen. Food was simple -- mints, maybe some cheese straws or cheese and crackers, a simple wedding cake from a bakery. That's how it was when my parents got married in 1957. Rich people might have really elaborate weddings but normal people didn't.

 

Nowadays, though, the wedding business is BIG business. Couples spend thousands of dollars on their weddings. I have a friend who makes custom wedding cakes that are works of art and cost thousands of dollars. That's fine. It's just that I keep being confronted with stories like this one about wedding behaviors and wedding trends that are disturbing.

 

So I thought I'd tell a few personal anecdotes about weddings I've attended, or been in.

 

I had a friend years ago who got pretty angry with me because I wasn't going to spend thousands of dollars to fly to some remote island to attend her wedding on the beach. I was in graduate school. I had no money. Turned out the marriage was a huge mistake and hubby was an abusive alcoholic so I'm glad I skipped that one. I went to her next wedding and that was a lot of fun because there was fabulous food, dancing, etc. Also, that husband, although not wealthy, was super sweet and willing to put up with a really bossy wife, so it all worked out.

 

When my brother got married I sang in the wedding. I had been studying voice and singing for years so I looked forward to it. At the last minute, the regular church organist was sick, so this young teenager whose mama thought he was Mozart came in and accompanied me. The mother told him to play really loud and drown me out. He tried. Didn't work. I'm sure they heard me in the next county. There is a hilarious moment on the video where I am singing and I hit a high note and my brother is visibly startled. I could see his jaw muscle twitching and I knew he was trying not to laugh. / They are now divorced.

 

When my best friend from childhood got married I was a bridesmaid. Lovely wedding, elaborate reception at the country club. I got tipsy and got up onstage and sang with the orchestra. I was in fine voice, my friend said -- she has the tolerance of a saint. I have very little memory of it. / My friend is still married, 38 years now!

 

I have a good friend who has been with his wife for about ten years but they lived together about 5 years before they married. Neither one wanted an elaborate wedding. It was a second marriage for both. They were in the courthouse one day while Paul renewed his weapon permit and they decided to just go ahead and get a license and get married. I think they were both wearing flip flops. They didn't spend ANY money on the wedding and they are STILL married!

 

It's supposed to be about formalizing the relationship, not who spends the most money. I've saved thousands by just avoiding marriage my whole adult life. One day I might find a victim -- I mean a husband. Don't hold your breath, though.

Food Rants from a Major Foodie

As I've gotten older I've learned to be really laid back about most things. I just don't get worked up about most things the way I did when I was younger, and that's awesome. Keeps the blood pressure down. However, I must admit that my passion for food, menus, recipes, even cookware, also includes some rant-worthy opinions.

Buckle up, because when I rant, I like to go full tilt. Otherwise, why bother?!

I threw in some hashtags because, why not?! They are fun to write.

 

Chewy Pasta

I got into a ridiculous argument on social media recently with a guy who took issue with the fact that I believe that pasta should be cooked longer than the package directions say, because soft pasta is far more delicious than "al dente" pasta. He said the pasta would be mushy if cooked too long. He was guessing on that. He admitted he didn't know how to cook! He didn't back down even when I said my grandmother always cooked her pasta 3 times longer than the package said and her mac & cheese was out of this world delicious. I have eaten it many times. I actually wrote an entire guest blog about it, Mac and Cheese for Easter. Years ago I had incredibly wonderful homemade pasta at an Italian restaurant and it was very soft. So don't tell me it should be chewy. aldentepastasucks, #pastashouldbesoftasababyscheek, #chefsarewrong, #mymacandcheeserocksandyourssucks

 

Hot Fried Chicken

My memaw made the best fried chicken in the known universe and my mama made the second best. I would smell it cooking in the electric skillet and inevitably burn myself trying to eat each piece before it cooled down. Now the trend is to make it so spicy hot that it sets your mouth on fire. WHY?!? Why would anyone want to eat like that?! If you want to do that to wings, knock yourself out. There was a place in Knoxville years ago where I liked to eat because they did hot and spicy wings, and their other specialty was ice cream, which I thought was brilliant marketing. After setting my lips on fire I was more than ready to slurp on some ice cream. Ruining a lovely chicken breast or leg with nuclear hotness is just wrong, though. #hotchickenisstupid, #memawschickenisbest, #friedchickenshouldnotmaimlips, #memawisflippinginhergrave

 

Shrimp Tails

I just watched a video of a delicious shrimp and crab dish on Facebook and the chef left the tails on the shrimp. OMG that's my pet peeve! I love shrimp. There is no reason to leave the tails on! Just because the "experts" on the Food channel say leave the tails on, guess what?! You don't have to leave the dadgum tails on! Every time I get shrimp at a restaurant and I find tails on I want to just throw a nuclear hissy fit. #shrimptailsareevil #notailsonshrimpever #banthetails #donotbeashrimptailslave #thinkforyourself #tailsonshrimpareacommieplot

 

Spinach Stems

I never liked spinach as a kid but now I love it. A local restaurant in Tucker makes a spinach salad I adore, with fresh spinach, toasted walnuts, dried cranberries, red onions [which I pick off], gorgonzola cheese crumbles and a balsamic vinaigrette. Problem is they leave the stems on the spinach! I have to sit and se-stem every leaf or I can't enjoy the salad. Is it silly? Probably. The salad is world-class delicious, but sometimes I don't order it just because I don't feel like de-stemming. #stemsonspinachsuck, #donotruinagoodsaladwithstems, #popeyeneverdealtwiththis

 

Cheese

As I have gotten older I've developed a condition called lactose intolerance. I can do fine with a teaspoon of butter or 1 slice of cheese. I avoid heavy cream, cream cheese, ice cream, etc. I seriously envy people who don't have tummy issues after ingesting heavy dairy. Why is it so many food videos show heavy cream, cream cheese, etc.? Isn't there a better way? I've researched this a little bit. I refuse to grind up nuts. Coconut milk is a natural laxative so no thanks. Scientists need to get to work on this, asap.  Will skinny cows give lowfat milk? Why not?!? #lactoseintolerancesucks, #creamcheeseisevil, #heavywhippingcreamcankissmyass

It was hard to think of a good photo for this post, so I am going with an old standard. That's my great-grandfather William Dozier Hasty and his prize cow

 

 

Getting Out of a Tight Spot

Years ago, my mother and I went to the corpse viewing party at a funeral home for one of our relatives by marriage. Doesn’t the word “visitation” strike you as too banal for something as dramatic as gathering to look at a dead body? I think it’s ridiculous. Everyone goes to those things to see everyone else, and to check out whether the corpse looks “lifelike.” To me, they always look like wax mannequins, made up and dressed by a person who flunked out of beauty school. Anyway, the viewing was memorable because that evening I met the man who saved my life.

            That night at the viewing, Mom introduced me to Dr. Harry Rose, then in his 90’s. He had delivered me into this world. Dr. Rose was a devout Christian gentleman and he probably had no idea that what he was doing to save me might not have been a good idea, since he unloosed a Hot Mess into the world. I was supposed to be a miscarriage, or at least a stillbirth. When my mother discovered she was pregnant the doctor said “Elva, you will need to stay home, and get complete bed rest, or this baby probably won’t make it.” The first pregnancy had ended in a miscarriage. Then my brother Bruce was born in 1959, healthy. A few years later, Mom finally got pregnant again. Mom was willing to do bedrest. She bled profusely during the entire pregnancy, which must have been scary and disheartening.

            Dr. Rose was an Augusta institution, and he delivered by one estimation more than 15,000 babies during his long career. He was the next-door neighbor to my aunt and uncle for many years, and one of his daughters was the friend of one of my cousins. For reasons which are unknown to me, he insisted his patients not gain more than 20 pounds when they got pregnant. My mother stayed on a strict diet during all of her pregnancies because gaining more than 20 pounds would have meant finding another OBGYN. Why he was so adamant about it, I don’t know, but other doctors in the 1950’s and 60’s told their patients the same thing. Apparently, Dr. Rose was okay with mothers smoking and drinking and wearing girdles, but God forbid they should get fat.

            The bedrest was a disaster. My brother was a lively 2-year-old and needed constant monitoring to not burn down the house. Dad hired a full-time maid to relieve Mom of the chores of cleaning, cooking, and laundry. Bruce needed to be kept out of the maid’s way, so he spent a lot of time playing on Mom and Dad’s bed. Mom, who had been a schoolteacher, finally gave up trying to entertain him and taught him to read. He was little more than a baby but he was a genius. (When he started kindergarten a couple of years later he was reading on a 3^rd grade level and was bored out of his mind. The teacher used to call Mom every other day to report that Bruce had done something awful. Guess she didn’t appreciate that she had a future MENSA member on her hands.) I digressed. Back to the birth story.

            Starting when I was a teenager, Mom and Dad took to recounting the story of my birth every year. I was born on July 4^th, several weeks late. Mom and Dad had gone to a John Wayne movie and Mom went into labor and Dad was reluctant to miss the end of the movie. He let her stand in the back of the theater, in labor. Later, for dinner, they went to a barbeque at Dr. Rose’s house and Mom swore Dad to secrecy about being in labor because she wanted barbeque and peach ice cream. Dad was not anxious to get her to the hospital. When Mom had gone into labor with Bruce in 1959 she went in and out of labor for a week, and Dad set up housekeeping in the father’s waiting room, complete with a poker table, sandwiches, and plenty of cocktails. (Fathers were not allowed in the delivery room back then.) In any event, that explains why at Dr. Rose’s barbeque on July 4th Dad saw no reason to hurry up and take Mom to the hospital.

            I feel compelled to insert some information here. My brother’s birth is entirely in keeping with his personality. He is not impulsive. He is slow and deliberate about everything. He researches and investigates everything thoroughly before he commits – that’s true whether he’s buying a $300,000 house or a $30 blender. I’m sure he couldn’t make up his mind about being born, so Mom went in and out of labor over the course of a week while he decided. Labor pains would start and they would go to the hospital, but then they kept having to go back home after the labor pains stopped. By the time Bruce finally popped out, Mom had a raging kidney infection and nearly died. Dad had grown a full beard grown over days of playing poker in the waiting room – the first photos of him holding my brother a bizarre because he never grew a full beard before then (or later in life) and he looked like a young version of “Mitch” as in the “Sing Along With Mitch” guy.

            In contrast, I waited to be born on July 4^th, in keeping with my personality. I wanted to have a memorable birthday, to make a big splash. I wanted fireworks. It’s also likely I smelled the barbeque that was cooking at Dr. Rose’s house and wanted to come on out and try some. Mom was lucky to be at Dr. Rose’s home. He noticed her looking like a woman in labor and questioned her, and she reluctantly admitted the pains were 5 minutes apart. He then insisted on calling an ambulance. (Dad called his friends to go ahead and set up the poker game and cocktails in the waiting room.) In the ambulance, Dr. Rose realized that not only was I intent on getting out, but that the cord was wrapped around my neck. He somehow managed to fix that before I got born. I weighed 5 lbs. 8 oz. and had a head full of bright red hair. Mom told me years later she was rather glad I popped out so fast, because the nurses didn’t have time to shave her bottom or give her an enema – birthing practices common at the time.

            At the hospital, Dad didn’t even have time to play a round of seven card stud or drink some whiskey before the nurse informed him he had a baby girl. (His friend Stuart got there with the cards, chips, booze, etc. and Dad told him to just go back home.) Once I was cleaned up and presented to Dad, and he learned Mom and I were both fine, he was also free to go home. I asked Dad years later what he thought when he first saw me. He looked thoughtful for a moment. I expected him to say something sweet and sentimental. He was usually very sentimental. “You looked like a skint squirrel,” was his lovely response. The nurse popped me back into the incubator and he went home.

            Years later, my brother and I were grown and Dad decided to write an autobiography. He referred to my brother’s birth as the greatest day of his life. He didn’t even mention my birth. I got to type up the memoir though, all 4 pages of it.

            I digressed. Back to my crazy birth.

            After a week or so, Mother was getting ancy. I was losing weight, which is common with newborns, but since I was already very tiny, Mom was worried about me “failing to thrive.” She hadn’t spent months in bed for nothing. So she packed her suitcase and called a cab, and took me home, against medical advice. I was so tiny that none of the baby clothes fit. So my aunt went to Woolworth’s and bought doll clothes. We have home movies of me coming home from the hospital. They depict my brother running up to the cab and Mom handing him a toy truck. He barely glanced at me before running off to play with the truck.

            I sort of veered off the original start of this chapter. I veer a lot. Mom and I were at that dead body viewing and Mom introduced me to Dr. Rose. He was around 90 years old, thin and bald, unsmiling. I had seen him and thought he must be an employee of the funeral home, but nope. Mom had walked into the funeral home and greeted him. Clearly he knew her, even though it had been decades since she had been his patient.

            I had heard all Mom’s stories about Dr. Rose’s pivotal role in saving my life at birth. When Mom introduced me I looked up at him and said “Thanks for getting me out of a tight spot!” Mom chuckled nervously. I sensed that most people probably treated him with far more deference than I did. He didn’t smile. He didn’t ask me to explain. Mom was uncomfortable and I instantly knew it. Either he turned and walked off or we did. I don’t remember which.

            What if Mom and Dad had decided to skip the barbeque that day at his house? Would I have choked on my own umbilical cord?

            Mom said after I got home that she and Dad took turns just holding me and feeding me night and day for several weeks, until I finally started putting on weight and it was clear I would survive. The day Mom brought me home from the hospital, my grandmother took one look at frail, tiny me, and packed her suitcase and went home, certain I would not live. Mom really could have used her help, but Memaw had already been at the house several weeks dealing with my brother, so she couldn’t be persuaded to stay for what she considered a lost cause. To be fair, my grandmother was born in 1899 and came from a family of 15 children. Only 12 lived to adulthood. Underweight babies often didn’t make it, in her experience.

            I don’t think Mom and Dad realized what they had created until I was a toddler. People were much more grabby with children back then. I was a cherub child, with reddish blonde curls, big blue eyes, and chubby limbs. Even though I rarely wore shoes, loved to play with worms, and dressed like a homeless urchin when not in church, my looks enchanted strangers. Ladies at the Piggly Wiggly or at church always wanted to grab me and smother me with sugar. Whenever anyone started to make noises like they were going to grab me – like when ladies started saying the words “precious” or “angel” or the uniquely southern “Gimme some sugar, precious!” -- my general response was to grab Mama or Daddy’s leg, try to hide, and stick my finger up my nose for a good booger hunt. If they actually tried to pick me up I would stiffen up like I was possessed by the devil, and scream.

            Good thing that Mom and Dad didn’t have the ability to foresee the future. The Tantrum Terror became the Wild Child. As a toddler I liked to walk around naked, climb to the top of the swingset and sit there, wearing only a diaper, etc. A few years later I would do things like forcibly hold the cat in the bathtub with me, play football in the street with my brother, steal all his toys, bite my best friend’s back, and much more. Boredom was the enemy.

            Mom always said she had told God she wanted four children, but in his wisdom he only gave her two because he knew the limits of her sanity. Maybe that’s why Dr. Rose didn’t smile years later when he “met” me at that funeral home. Maybe he had heard the stories. He kept delivering babies until he was over a hundred years old, but I bet none of them were anything like me.

One of a Kind

In my very first job as a paralegal, more than thirty-five years ago, I was given an old desk in a corner of a small office occupied by a very ancient legal secretary who had started her career before my mother was born.

I was 22 years old. I could barely tell the difference between a plaintiff and a defendant. I had no idea what I was doing, and the only other paralegal in the office thought I had been hired to replace her, so she refused to help me. I found that out about a year after I started. I was lucky though, because Miz Mac and the other secretaries took me under their matronly wings and taught me how to be a paralegal that first year. I will always be grateful to them. They knew everything about their jobs, my job and most of the attorney’s jobs.

Miz Mac was a character. She stood about 5’0 and weighed maybe 80 lbs. soaking wet.

She scared me.

The first thing she said to me was “Don’t call me Miz Mac, call me Edith, like we’re girlfriends. Miz Mac makes me sound too OLD.”

I was dumbfounded. Miz Mac was about 75 or thereabouts, as near as I could tell. In my 22 year old mind I thought, Doesn’t she know she is ANCIENT?!?

Miz Mac had a stapler on her desk that belonged in a museum. It looked like a prototype of the first stapler ever made. It could have been a murder weapon. Her letter opener would have suited Crocodile Dundee just fine.

She used a typewriter that weighed more than she did, a huge electric thing. There were no computers in the office. She constantly complained about her typewriter. It caused typos. [Note: they bought her a computer about the second year I was there, and she refused to use it. She made them bring back her typewriter.]

Life as the office mate of Miz Mac was something.

She got to the office at 7 a.m. When I came in at 8:30, I checked her eyebrows. She had shaved them off sometime in the 1940’s and they never grew back. If she was in a foul humor, they would be drawn on crazily, giving her the look of an elderly jack o'lantern. If they looked fairly normal, I was relieved.

If she had nothing to do, she would fall asleep at her desk, then awaken shouting "I WAS NOT ASLEEP!"

She liked to stand up from her desk about mid afternoon and announce, “I gotta go to the bat'room but maybe I waited too long. I drank too much coffee. I don’t know if I’ll make it,” and she then tottered off to the bathroom, which was down a long hallway and half a flight of stairs. I always prayed she would make it.

Miz Mac worked for a young attorney whose dad and grandfather had worked in the firm before him. His family name was on the firm. I think she had been the secretary to his grandfather. Fortunately, in the days before email, many of his letters were one or two sentences. She complained bitterly, nonetheless, and said he was long winded. He ignored her grousing and they worked well together, which amazed me.

She brought her lunch in once a week -- a loaf of white bread, and a jar of peanut butter and a jar of jelly. Sometimes she would notice the younger attorney she worked for skipping lunch. She would lecture him about it, and make him a sandwich. He always dutifully ate his sandwich. One day she went into the kitchen at lunch and heated up homemade red beans and rice, and one of the law clerks wandered in and paid her extravagant compliments. He got a free meal because she didn't want to eat too much and get fat.

My father worked in the bank in the same building and would often pop in and see me. He knew all the attorneys so he would just wander back, ignoring the receptionist. Miz Mac would smile and preen like a debutante when Dad came in. He was a handsome man and women were always drawn to him. He always greeted her with a big smile and asked how she was doing. He teased her. She flirted back. He would leave and she would “whisper” (very loudly) “Your daddy is such a handsome man!”

Miz Mac also worked for a very elderly attorney whose office was right next door. I’ll call him Mr. F. He had pretty much retired but he still liked to come into the office every morning, read the Wall Street Journal, go out to lunch at the diner down the street, come back to the office and take a nap on the ancient leather couch in his office. Mr. F left around 4. His desk was piled high with papers, some of them yellowed with age. He refused to use a Dictaphone, so he would call Miz Mac to come in a take dictation, and type up his letter, which was always to one client, Mrs. Baker. Her son was somewhat famous, a senator. She wanted old Mr. F to handle all her business and he did so until shortly before he died.

He would bellow “Miz Mac would you come in here please and take a letter?!”

Miz Mac would totter into his office muttering about how she had too much work to do to write down his stupid letter. She sat opposite him. He was a huge man, about 6’3. She was tiny. It looked like a Great Dane lecturing a very irascible teacup poodle. He spoke very slowly. I could have written down every word. However, Miz Mac complained bitterly.

“You’re going too fast!” she would bellow. He was hard of hearing.

He would talk even.more.slowly. She would scribble down a few words. He would begin again.

“You’re going too fast!” she would bellow again.

He would slow down again.

And on and on.

One day after he dictated a letter Miz Mac came back into the office and threw her steno pad on the desk and said to me -- with great malevolence -- "I HATE Irene Baker!"

I prayed Mrs. Baker would never come into the office.

 

One day my entire family came in, to take me to lunch and see “my” office. When we got back from lunch everyone stayed a few minutes and chatted cordially with Miz Mac and then left. Miz Mac looked at me.

“Your brother, he’s a very handsome man. He looks just like your father.”

“Yep.”

“Your sister-in-law, she’s a pretty girl.”

“Yep, we think so,” I agreed.

“And your mother. She is beautiful!” she gushed. "Like a movie star!"

“Yep.”

I waited. She didn’t say a word.

I waited some more.

Finally, she looked at me and said “And you have nice skin.” 

Thanks.

Thanks a lot.

She was one of a kind.

 

[right, a photo of me and my parents around the same time I've written about]

What Real Estate Listings Don't Say

Last year I sold my almost 3,000 square foot home and moved to an apartment. I didn't want to live in an apartment but the house prices around here were crazy and I needed a better job to be able to get a mortgage, so the apartment has become my temporary home. I still look at real estate listings online a lot, on Zillow and Realtor.com, mainly just because I find it fascinating to look at houses, and see how everything is laid out, the colors, the kitchen design, etc.

It occurred to me only after I moved in here that whoever upgraded this apartment was a very tall person. This apartment makes me feel like a child. I couldn't reach the ceiling fan cords. I couldn't begin to reach the shower curtain rods. The bar in the kitchen is the height of my chin. The bathtub sides are so high I had to figure out how to climb over them, and it's quite a gymnastic feat. I am too short to see out the peephole on the front door.

I am not THAT short. I'm 5'3.

I had to take the apartment sight unseen, because after making dozens of calls, I could only locate ONE place in my preferred area that would take pets and had an elevator. Some places would take pets but only if they weighed less than 40 lbs. Many places simply had NO units available on my move-in date. It was maddening.

Anyway, I still look at online listings, just out of curiosity.

It occurred to me today that whenever I get ready to move into a house or condo again, I need to look for the following items in the listing description, and if the item isn't mentioned then I need to ask the seller about it.

Is the home set up for a VTP? [Very Tall Person -- see issues above]

Has the home recently been sprayed for roaches? [I had to get a pest control guy in here right after I moved in, and the guy sent by the apartment folks was a moron. I paid my own guy and it solved the problem.]

Is flood insurance required by the lender? [learned that lesson the hard way]

Has anyone ever died in the home? Would a spirit removal be covered under the home warranty, if necessary?!

Did the prior owner smoke? [Yes, some people still smoke inside, and it can be really hard to get the smell out.]

Would the neighbors freak out if I wore a bathrobe to get the mail? [my dad used to get the mail early on summer mornings, sometimes wearing only boxers, much to the delight of the neighbor ladies]

Is there wallpaper? [sometimes they don't take photos of the wallpapered rooms for the listing; fiendishly clever]

Is the water hard or soft? [in my younger years, when I "fixed" my hair every stinking day this was a hugely important question]

Is the toilet right next to the wall? That's probably not FCF [fat chick friendly]

How high is the property insurance every year? Will it kill my chances of retiring early, at around 70?!

Have snakes ever gotten lost inside the house? [yes, I personally know of that happening in several homes...]

When we tour the house can we look in the attic for signs of squirrels, possums, raccoons, dead bodies?! [Don't laugh -- in older homes this can be a real thing.]

How is the internet connection? [I learned the hard way that if there are lots of tall trees around the WiFi may be affected]

How far away is the nearest hospital? [if you're over 50 this is something to consider]

Does the power go out a lot when it storms?

How close is the nearest swimming pool? [at my last house, whenever there was a swim meet the street was choked with parked cars for hours]

Finally, I borrowed some shots of a home that is currently for sale, and these poor folks are going to have a hard time with this one...

I think this bathroom was designed by Vincent Price and Debbie Reynolds...

 

 

 

 

Below, the home of the Dumb & Dumber guys...

Southern Mama Language

Every so often when I am out in public I see a young parent arguing with her toddler and I am astounded. My parents didn't argue with us when my brother and I were growing up! They laid down the law and we followed it. Period. There were no negotiations. "Backtalk" was simply not allowed.

It was a different world.

This is not a post about disciplining children, though. No, I was thinking more about how much language has changed, just in my lifetime.

My dad had his own little peculiar expressions he liked to use - my favorite being "if that ain't good, grits ain't groceries."

I was thinking more about Mom. She had her own expressions and her own superstitions. I wanted to write down those here, so as not to forget.

"I better not hear any backtalk" meant don't even open your mouth. You never argued. You never contradicted. If mama or daddy said do it, you did it.

"Find something to do or I will find you something" meant basically I don't care if you're bored. If you whine about being bored I will have you cleaning the house until you collapse! My mother was not an activities director. I learned to fill long boring summer days with playing or reading.

"Go cut me a little switch" meant go out in the yard and select a small branch of a shrub or tree and cut it off and bring it to me so I can whip your butt with it. Children today will never know the quandary. Choose wrong and SHE would go out there and cut something that would make the sword of Zorro seem like a bread knife.

As I got older, I started noticing other expressions she used.

"Bad things come in threes." Any celebrity death was sure to be followed in short order by two other deaths. I remember being skeptical about this one. Between August and October of 1977 the world lost Elvis Pressley, Bing Crosby, and Groucho Marx -- making me a firm believer in Mom's "bad things" pronouncements, although they were not limited to celebrity deaths.

"My nose itches. Somebody's coming to visit." This, too, was true, generally. Not always. However, there was another saying that went along with it "If I drop the dishtowel it's a certainty." Somehow, she was usually right about that. Of course, a neighbor dropping by counted, as did a stray dog wandering into the yard.

"Don't be a fair weather friend" meant be loyal to your friends, neighbors, teammates, etc. It was the morally correct way to be.

"You have to try a bite." My parents never forced us to eat food we didn't like but we had to try a bite, which is a good rule for life. Don't say you don't like something you've never even tried.

"He/she wasn't raised right." A person not raised right was to be pitied because they didn't use good manners. Anyone exhibiting bad manners was an instant pariah at my house, unless we were talking about a young child -- then it was the parents' fault. You have to raise a child right - teach them manners.

"She looks like a prostitute." In other words, the lady was wearing scandalously revealing clothing. Too much cleavage. Skirt too short. Too much makeup. I learned the word "prostitute" early but I had no real understanding of it for years. I just knew it was a bad woman, who didn't know how to dress properly. Mother inspected every outfit I ever wore and if I heard "You look like a prostitute!" I knew to get back to my room and change clothes quick!

"You better skedaddle" meant basically get your butt moving! You don't hear "skedaddle" much any more.

"Bottom" meant any part of the male or female genitalia and was as biologically accurate as Mom got. The correct words like "vagina" and "penis" were not okay to use. If one had to refer to that part of the body one merely said "bottom." Mom really didn't want to ever hear the correct words. When I adopted my son, he was the only male in the house. We rarely ever had to refer to it but if we did, his private area was known as "Mr. Happy." My daughter thought it was hilarious...

"Grunt grunt" and "tee tee" or "tinkle" were the family words for poop and pee. I never used other words [around my parents] until after I was grown. It was also okay to just say "use the bathroom." Mom told me once that when she and Dad were on their honeymoon and talking about having kids they had a big discussion about what words the future kids would use for poop and pee. [As you can tell I prefer "poop" and "pee" because I like to be simple and accurate...] As far as I know "grunt grunt" was something my dad came up with..

Communication

Below is a blog my mom did but it didn't make it into Singing To The Cows. I just couldn't include every blog. However, this one is cute and I wanted to share it.

Have you ever thought about all the different methods one employs to get along with people? At times I’ve thought, why can’t I just be myself and let others worry about getting along with me?

My kids used to giggle at the, often, sickeningly sweet voice I used on the telephone, especially with folks I didn’t much like. Since she’s not here to defend herself, I think I’ll blame my mother, at least partly, for that. Just as plain as day, I hear Mother’s voice – “Well, you are just so kind to ask but I’m sure we’ll feel well enough to get to Sunday School, next week. Tell me, how your dear mother-in-law is holding up with her AA program? I was so sure I saw her entering the Drunken Duck Tavern about noon recently. Collecting for the March Of Dimes? Well, I suppose those people were happy to share their little change with the less fortunate souls.”

As the young wife of a small town banker, I was called on to do every tedious job the older wives were tired of and could push off on me. I watched and listened and learned. There is a fine line between being efficient --- and being deemed bossy or overbearing. So I learned how to say things like: “Well, ladies, I’ve worked all weekend on this list and you are all just so smart and talented I’d be too embarrassed to make all these flower arrangements and place cards etc. I’m just not artistic so this is the list of what each of you are to do and have in the church social hall no later than 6pm , Friday. Got to run, now.”

I get tickled sometimes at language nuances.

One expression that was popular in our town was “over served”. For example, most everyone knew that a certain well-known judge was nearly always over served at the country club on Saturday nights. This often resulted in his being given a ride home by various friends. I never heard anyone even remotely say he’d had too much to drink. But being over served surely implied that it was the fault of someone else and the judge was too polite to refuse. By the same token, in most small towns, the difference in the size of their bank accounts explained why some guys were alcoholics but others were just plain drunks.

There is one form of communication I really rely on. My parents had a special whistle to call or alert one another. We were taught that whistle almost before we could talk plain and strongly encouraged to use it. We knew that we should pay immediate attention when we heard it. Later, we taught our children to employ it and now, my grandkids. The grands told me recently that their Uncle Bruce has taught them a shorter version that he uses with them when they are camping or shopping. Many, many times in my life when I have suddenly realized that I am separated from a loved one --- then, am so comforted to hear the family whistle. I answer immediately so we can find each other.

Of course, sometimes English is a foreign language right here in America.

The first Monday after we moved into our new home, in Tennessee, I could not turn on the oven in my new stove. I had carefully read the directions to no avail so I called the phone number on the instruction sheet. After finding a male human to listen to my troubles, I explained the problem, very politely, I thought. When I slowed down, a rough male voice said, ”Lady, I ain’t unnerstood a dang thang you jist said. Git somebody else to call who tawks raaaght.” Needless to say, the stress of realizing nobody in East Tennessee was going to be able to understand my Georgia accent, upset me terribly. I was crying so hard when I called my Tony at the bank, they got him out of a meeting. Using great self-control to refrain from laughing, he wrote down the phone number and got it straightened out. You’d have thought any fool would understand plain English even IF spoken with a very slight southern accent…. [Note from Dee: Mom had quite a pronounced southern accent!]

We lived on Venice Road when we first moved to Knoxville. I was startled when I talked to another repair guy and he couldn’t understand Venice, like in Italy. I finally started to spell it and he said “Awww, you mean venus, like the planet!”

We had a maid during the early years in Tennessee, and her accent was so thick sometimes I had trouble understanding her. One morning she came in and said, with a heavy sigh, “Lord, mah har feels lak war!” Dee had to translate that. What she said was, my hair feels like wire.

All that East Tennessee eventually influenced Dee to an alarming degree. I realized that the day she said “Ah’m gonna take a shar,” meaning I’m going to take a shower. I started her on voice lessons right after that, and her accent returned to normal.

During my education classes, in college, we were told to be careful to say to a child about his picture, “Tell me about it.” Never ask what is it? and never say what you think it is. Sure as hell, you’ll just have called a child’s beautiful drawing of his granddaddy, a clown or worse a gorilla etc. But this little hint works in other aspects of our everyday life. If you see someone who needs to talk about something, just say tell me about it, instead of God, what’s wrong with you?! The gentler tell me about it suggests that you have the time …and are prepared to listen. After all, communication is a two-way street!

Giggling and Jiggling

My mother had incredible wit and she was a wonderful storyteller. I am compiling some of her stories into a book I hope to publish perhaps this summer. As I am going through and reading and editing her blogs I keep running across funny little things she says so I thought I'd share some of them here.

 

Children should be read to on a regular basis. My husband used to hold the babies and read the Wall Street Journal aloud while I cooked dinner. That was one of their special times with Daddy and they loved it. Of course, he put a great deal of expression into the stock reports and if they got fidgety, he sang it.

 

My Aunt Miriam didn’t sew. She always gave panties as birthday gifts. She and her family lived in an apartment, on the corner of Peachtree Place and Peachtree St. On the opposite corner was a quite nice ladies’ clothing shop, called Jean’s Shop. Miss Jean was a friend of my aunt. Miriam knew the correct size, style, fabric etc for each of her six sisters and me. Before a birthday, she’d call and order her panties present, have it gift wrapped, charged to her husband, and delivered. Mother thought it was funny but I loved receiving the beautiful undies. (Wonder what she’d think about the tiny, band aide size panties that girls wear now! Hardly worth the bother of wearing them, seems like.)

 

The other night around 3 a.m. I got up to go to the bathroom. As I was leaving, I noticed something on the white tile. I thought that Coco [the dog, a tiny Yorkie-Poo] had had an accident. So I grabbed a wad of toilet tissue and my long handled grabber and kind of dropped the tissue over the poop but it was not exactly centered. Then as I watched, the poop developed tiny legs and started crawling away. I picked up the tissue with the grabber and dropped it again and watched as it began moving slowly across the room. I was laughing so hard it was difficult to grab the darn thing and I didn’t want to wake the family. Finally, I got a grip and dropped it into the toilet and flushed. Well, duh, it was a water bug [palmetto bug] so was probably delighted to be in the toilet. I poured a glop of Clorox into the water and closed the lid. At least I’d chlorinated his swimming pool for him. Hope he doesn’t invite his friends!

Once when I was in high school, I came home from lunch at my cousin’s house and told my mother about a salad we had, called tuna salad. I raved over it so much, she finally bought one of those little cans of it and then had to call my Aunt Miriam to find out what on earth to do with it! She asked questions like, does it have to be washed and does it have lots of bones and skin? Even then, she did not eat it but did fix it for me. I still like tuna salad and have probably eaten enough of it to fill an 18 wheeler. When I first married, we had it a minimum of it at least twice a week; only once as tuna salad, though. I served is also as “chicken salad” - carefully rinsed under cold water and patted dry, and mixed up with mayo just like tuna salad. My husband proudly told people that I made grand chicken salad, unlike any he’d ever eaten before. Darn tooting! [NOTE: when Mom married she couldn't cook, so she improvised a lot..]

 

This time of year, the children come in from the mailbox with a stack of catalogues. Why, I can order everything from English Muffins to sex toys! What fun to peruse all those little pages from all over the world, then, decide there is nothing I want. Actually, shopping in stores is no fun for me, now, so I can order what I want to give for gifts and they are delivered right to my front door.

Some years ago, just before Christmas, I believe, word got out that a mistake had been made in one of the big catalogues. It could have been Sears’ but I am not sure. Anyway, a photo of a young man modeling men’s underwear showed his Mr. Happy. I checked it out but could not tell for sure! Just a case of a fellow being too big for his britches, I guess. (I may still have that photo somewhere…)

 

We went out to dinner one night while visiting Los Angeles in 1969, and we saw the actress Ann Sothern. It was a very nice seafood restaurant. After we placed our orders I kind of looked around. We were seated at a banquette. The one next to us was empty, then I saw Ann Sothern, with three other people, at the second table over.

I hissed at Tony, “Don’t look now. Don’t say anything. I’m going to tell you something but just keep looking at me.” I leaned in.

“Sitting right over there is Ann Sothern.”

Tony was annoyed.

“It is NOT. Ann Sothern’s dead.” He looked over there, right at her. “That’s not her. She’s DEAD.” He was loud.
"No! She's sitting right over there!"
"Elva, she's DEAD!" he said, even louder.

I just put my head in my hands. I was so embarrassed. I have a hangup about celebrities – I don’t believe in bothering them. People bothered my dad all the time when I was a kid because he was a famous baseball player and it used to upset me.

I finally looked over there and Ann and her party were dying laughing. They were looking at ME. I mouthed “I am so sorry.” Then they laughed and said “Don’t worry about it.” They were so nice.

 

For a time after my husband died, I’d been taking various courses that interested me, at Augusta State. Not more graduate courses just mostly fun things. A close friend, a recently retired Clinical Psychologist, and I decided to take the Computer for Idiots Class [not its real name]. About half way through the course that was moving along very slowly, I was trying not to jump out of my skin, when an old man in the back, held up his mouse and said, ”Now tell us again what this thing is for?” I very quietly and quickly gathered my stuff and walked out. I could just see the next day’s headline. ”Enraged woman beats up pot bellied old man with his mouse during a computer class at the college.” I did not return.

At some point growing up, one of my textbooks suggested that families should have a meal that represented another country and perhaps learn something about it.. When I told Mother about it she thought it was a great idea. A few nights later, we were served meatballs and Franco American spaghetti, a very easy meal. It was enjoyed so much that she branched out to meatballs and Chef Boyardee. A family member suggested she might research meals Yankees eat but she was not ready to put sugar in her cornbread and eat crunchy green beans.

 

[This is from a blog she wrote about advantages of being older]

You can tell people exactly what you think of them --- and get away with it usually! I don’t – but I know some who do. I have been tempted to have a card printed explaining the difference between “your” and “you’re”. EXAMPLE: You’re [you are] such a sweet person that I don’t know where you found your [nasty controlling] husband!

You can make up your own statistics. I started this some years ago, trying to be funny. But then I realized folks were actually listening. Example: It has been proven that 87% of all headaches are caused by too tight underwear.

Now that we are old, we can follow our interests and best of all, investigate new ones. We do have time if we want it. If you are reading this, you have a computer so you already know how much fun it is to think of a topic, then pursue it on the internet. I’m thinking of becoming a private investigator. I considered becoming a Senior Sex Therapist but decided business might be too slow.

Speaking of underwear, old people can wear – or not wear-- whatever pleases them. Some women feel more secure in “foundation garments” - all laced up liked trussed chickens – I am not one of them. I jiggle. I don’t care.

 

The Weird Me

Since everyone is cocooning at home at the moment and many of us [not me, I work from home] are getting bored to death, I have been seeing a lot of Facebook prompts about "getting to know you" types of lists. I confess, I find them fascinating, even if I barely know the person. So I thought I'd have some fun with one.

One of my cousins posted this: "What is something you have done that you are fairly confident you are the only person on my friends list to have
ever done?" My answer: I adopted children from Russia and Kazakhstan.

I've done a lot of unusual and/or weird things, though. Here are three related to my career as a writer.

As an 8th grader, one of my poems was published in READ magazine, a national publication. [Wikipedia: "READ Magazine was a children's classroom magazine for grades 6–10, published by Weekly Reader Corporation.^[1] It included a mix of classic and contemporary fiction and nonfiction, including plays, personal narratives, poetry, and more to help build reading comprehension and verbal skills."] I still have the magazine, somewhere. I corresponded with one of the editors, who was very encouraging about my writing, and who sent me a big box of books he thought I should read.

When I was in college, I was a member of the Zeitgeist Literary Society and we invited Allen Ginsberg to come and speak. He did it. In case you don't know, he wrote a famous poem, "Howl" basically railing against conformity. He was friends with William S. Burroughs and Jack Kerouac, pioneers of the Beat Generation. [If none of this is familiar, you need to do some research.] Anyway, Ginsberg was this really tiny little man. He read one of my poems and gave me feedback about it, which was exciting. He also came to our after party and played bongo drums and chatted with us [a bunch of UGA college kids] for hours. Refused weed or liquor, saying he didn't need it.Very cool guy.

When I was in grad school in Knoxville, I went to an autographing of books by author Rita Mae Brown at a local bookstore and got to meet her in person. Loved her work. Really admired her. Being very brash, I asked her to write in my book "To Dee Thompson, the greatest living writer since Shakespeare." She gave me a look of utter disgust after she wrote that. She didn't realize I have a very weird sense of humor. There was no time to explain it. I slunk away, clutching my book, mentally beating myself in the head with a brick because in my one and only encounter with a famous author I left her thinking I am an egotistical moron...

A few other weird things:

I always pay close attention to people's voices. I can tell you the accents of most major stars, and I can identify them by their voices without seeing their faces. I've just always found voices fascinating. Many years ago I had an interview for a paralegal job with a fairly good-sized firm here in Atlanta and one of the lawyers interviewing me had the exact same voice as Kevin Costner. I noticed it immediately. He wasn't as good looking as Costner but he was fairly attractive. I was in my 30's and still on The Great Husband Hunt. I was so distracted by Mr. Costner Voice I screwed up the interview. I could barely remember my name. It was a disaster. He walked me out to the elevator and I couldn't resist asking him "Has anyone ever told you that you have the same voice as Kevin Costner?" He said no, and looked at me like I was a nutcase.

I have always had a problem with insomnia, but over the years I have learned to 1) take Melatonin and 2) hypnotize myself to sleep. Seriously. I could give a TED Talk on strategies for getting a good night's sleep. Even so, I still occasionally sleep very badly.

My father sometimes comes to me in dreams and gives me information I can use in my waking life. He told me to adopt my son when I was pondering what to do -- and in the dream he told me Michael lost his hand due to a bullying incident. I noted it in my journal. At that time I had no idea how my son had lost his hand. Later it blew my away that Dad had relayed to me something I had no knowledge of and nobody had told me. / I've had a number of unusual experiences like that and collectively, all those fuel my belief in otherworldly phenomena, like ghosts, ESP, etc. [I tend to be highly skeptical of other people's experiences, though, unless we're talking about a close friend.]

The smell of eucalyptus makes me nauseated.

For most of my life I slept on my right side, and flipped around all night. After having some back issues about 8 years ago I trained myself to sleep on my back, perfectly still.

I've never had a pedicure, nor do I want one. The idea of someone touching my feet grosses me out.

I have never cared about fashion or trends but for years I was a Crocs-aholic. I only wore Crocs. I had about 2 dozen pairs, from the sandals to the boots. Then I became allergic to them, and had to throw them all away. Literally every pair made my feet itch horribly.

I am also allergic to every brand of contact lens solution out there.

Every time I wear the color mint green, something bad happens. Mint green is a bad luck color for me.

I always hated ketchup, my entire childhood. When I got to college I started ordering chicken fingers from a local takeout place and fell in love with the "red sauce" they always served with them which was -- you guessed it -- ketchup.

I love deep pile, luxurious wall to wall carpet. If I could afford it, every room in my house would have it except the foyer, kitchen and bathrooms.

[below, my student id from my UGA days. No wonder I always got carded when I tried to buy liquor...]