hellofuzzy

Counting My Lucky Crickets...

2012-02-11T00:25:00.002-05:00

The first time I ever met him; he was wearing a size 3T "official" Simpson driving suit. It was black with white stripes and purple lettering. He was itching to get down and play in the dirt on a beautiful Saturday spring morning, but he stayed clean long enough for me, a complete stranger, to snap his photo while he sat on the corner of the wall at the pit entrance. And to think I thought I was just taking pictures...

On Saturday nights as the dew began to fall and the bugs were drawn toward the lights along the grandstand, his mother would carry him upstairs to the tower, lay him on a mat, and he'd curl up in a ball and go to sleep after a day fit for a young prince in East Tennessee. What more could he have asked for? He proudly wore a t shirt with his dad's race car on it, a worn out pair of shorts, and shoes so strong you would have sworn they were made by Goodyear. He threw rocks, drove go carts, made dirt piles, and, as a former guest of Oprah once said, "had that puppy dog smell that little boys were supposed to have at the end of a day filled with play." Through all that dirt, sweat, and sometimes tears, those blue eyes were bright and they began to light my path. And to think I thought I was leading him...

In elementary school, he figured out that he could ride the bus to where I worked and avoid a dreaded pick up line at his school. That idea was even more enticing because the bus driver also drove a race car. That little boy would sit right behind the driver, and they'd talk racing across town from one bus port to the next. He flew off the bus, in the lobby doors and straight to my room like a rocket. He burst through my classroom door knowing that his afternoon of play would begin as soon as his mother pulled up to get him. But one day of each week...he was mine...no...ours.

After agonizing until the final dismissal at school, he would crawl in my puddle jumper, and we'd go find our fishing companion. After a lightning quick sweep of the storage barn, all three of us packed rods, reels, and ourselves in a Chevy pickup like an old country song and headed to the lake. We'd stop to buy bait on the hill, and he never believed we were actually given 50 crickets that we paid for. After we got to the dock, time stood still long enough for us to count them one by one. Thankfully, we always had one or two extra, and that satisfied him. Today, I know I was counting blessings then and not bait.

Rain, snow, sleet or hail, we fished.

He squealed with delight with every blue gill was held captive by his hook. The occasional crappie would come along and his chest would fill with pride as he looked it dead in the eye. He developed a scoring system for the fish we all caught...based on their size and type. He always won. Imagine that.

After an hour or so, he'd tire of fishing, and we did what he really wanted to do. We just let him burn something...anything....cedar, cardboard, the previous week's trash....sorry TVA....we did it right in your lake bed. Tisk tisk tisk. The flames were never high, but gosh he loved a fire more than he loved root beer.

And on the day before we fished, we'd go to the dock without him. On the way there, we'd stop at the store and buy cheap dog food. Sometimes work schedules only allowed one of us to go, but regardless, someone always went. Rain, snow, sleet, or shine. We'd cut slices in the bag of dog food and pitch it off the end of the dock so the blue gill and crappie would be drawn in for dinner until we could come back with him the next day. I know there has been at least one, if not two, 18 wheelers of dog food dumped in that holler. If I would have had to stay under that dock and hide with a fish to put on the hook myself, he would have gotten one....and my companion would have done the same in spite of the fact he couldn't swim.

His DNA guaranteed us all that the future would be filled with bleachers, whistles, scoreboards, and basketballs. I haven't seen him play as much as I should have. Part of me wants to keep him little and covered in dirt asleep on that mat, but he'd have to wake up some time.

Everyone knows children who participate in sports will hopefully participate in "senior night." The last home game in a high school gym filled with parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and fishing partners. The announcer reads a brief bio while each athlete escorts his/her parents out on the court. This is the moment in high school when they start to realize that the end is near, but so is a new beginning.

So tonight, I sat with my feet firmly planted on the gym floor because that made me feel even more connected to him, and I watched through my lens as he played his heart out just like he has done in every situation, literally, since the day I have met him. That dirt covered little boy has grown up to become the young man I always knew he would be.

The last sound of the regular season buzzer and a "W" in the score book sent him to the locker room, and after he came out, time stopped long enough for this photo to be taken.

When I am 100 years old, you can come back here to hellofuzzy and there will be more pictures of him. He and I will go fishing again...and he might just let me win then.

Love,
Boo

"From Buttons to Mabel and All in Between"

2012-02-06T21:35:00.008-05:00

To the right, you'll notice a very spoiled dog and two very proud owners. They are my Papaw and my WoWo. The dog is Buttons. Buttons was a local celebrity in their neighborhood...well known for her love of eating Rolaids. My WoWo never met a critter she couldn't love, and that love trickled down to her daughter, Sandy, and her grandkids, Jill, Steven, and me. Mom says she is just too tender hearted to get attached to a dog at this point in her life. She prefers 4th graders.

Through the years the names have ranged through Snoopy, Spiffy, Tiger, Benji, Rusty, Shelby, and on and on. Pixie and Little Man are on guard here now in Tazewell. In Lexington there was Cinnamon, Ginger, Sheba, and now Buffy and Daisy reign supreme. Homer holds his fort down and Rudy has Eastern Kentucky in line as well.

Despite the geographic distances among my family dog members, my heart has been stolen by a total stranger, and it was love at first sight. Her name is Mabel, and in December, she was a 67 pound beagle.

I borrowed this photo of Mabel from WBIR.com.
According to her Facebook fan page, she is five years old and should weigh about 25 pounds. Mabel has been adopted by Dr. Angela Witzel, a veterinarian at the University of Tennessee College of Veterinary Medicine in Knoxville. The part of the story that melts my heart the most is that Mabel....bless her soul...is in fat camp. This is no joking matter.

Apparently, Mabel has eaten a lot of human food, and in her story, I thought about my WoWo and Papaw and got so sentimental. It's difficult for me to talk about my WoWo and Papaw because I did love them the absolute most, and I would have loved to shared Mabel's story with them. As you could see with the photo of Buttons above, my WoWo loved to feed her table scraps. And you can see my Papaw didn't object to Buttons having a snack at the family table.

I don't know a thing about Mabel's life before adoption, but I just wonder if she was loved by an elderly couple whose nest was empty like my WoWo and Papaw's. I wonder if she kept them company while they watched the Reds play baseball on television and if she got a Cracker Jack nibble once in a while. I wonder if she watched from the porch while someone mowed the yard and she ate the leftovers of his sandwich because it was just to do'wed hot to eat the whole thing. I wonder if she had ice cream cones on the screened in porch. I wonder if someone dug the seeds out of watermelon and let her take it all in. I wonder if someone put bacon grease over her Alpo. Mabel has brought back so many wonderful memories to me. I've had a constant reel to reel movie of my grandparents loving their pets playing in my mind since Mabel wobbled across the screen on WBIR.

At my core, I'm a teacher. I'm not a fancy educator. I'm a teacher. I'm old school thoughts with high tech gadgets to use in my communication.

Sure, I address the state curriculum standards for my students, but I also address the Mabel standards, as I now call them.

If Mabel were a child in middle school, the odds are that she'd be criticized. She would possibly be bullied. She might even be sad. There is a minority of children out there who are cruel to kids who look different like Mabel looks.

What are the Mabel standards? Be attentive when an animal is teaching you a life lesson. Support a creature who is struggling. Understand it takes teamwork to create a better life for yourself.

Mabel exemplifies all three of those standards.

Students need to understand how those standards apply to themselves.

My students and I are having so much fun with Mabel's story. We made her a greeting card and sent her a care package. She sent us the most precious thank you note with an actual paw mark autograph on it. Many of my students have joined her Facebook fan page and send her messages of encouragement. We're working on a secret valentine mission because no girl that cute should go without a valentine. Mabel has opened a conversation within the walls of my classroom that I could not have come up with on my own.

My seventh graders are genuinely concerned about Mabel. They ask about her daily, and I update them on her progress. We have a Mabel Wall and we're posting her progress. She will be the topic of our technical writing assignment in the spring. Her photo proudly hangs in our room. Students come up with great ideas about how we can help her and our local animal shelter at the same time. They're learning that kindness to animals is actually about compassion from people, and I think that's pretty darn fabulous.

It is my most humble wish that you have a Mabel to inspire you in the work you do each day.

If you'd like to know more about Mabel, please follow this link

http://www.wbir.com/news/local/story.aspx?storyid=201211

"600 Seconds"

2012-01-17T19:22:00.007-05:00

On March 25, 2003, I was a giddy newlywed with a pink Hello Kitty Nokia cell phone. At that time, no cell phone signal was available en route to Tazewell from Knoxville until you made it to Johnson's Mill. At some point during the day, my phone rang when Loren's mom got service after Brogan's Holler, and I answered to learn that Thomas was going to have a baby sister in a few months. I am shocked that my squeal didn't crack my teeth, but I was so filled with joy that I just had to holler into the phone until I had no holler left.

Now, we all know that I'm not really good with warm and fuzzy baby stuff, but I was thrilled beyond description that this little girl was coming to the world. I wanted her to be girlie, prissy, and pink from head to toe simply because doing so would make her mother nuts. Little did I know then what an impact Loren Grace would have on not only my life but the lives of others in the years to come.

I had no clue that my life's greatest spiritual teacher would be a precious baby girl. When I am old(er) and gray(er), I will tell anyone who will listen that I learned about God from my mother, Preacher Herb, and Loren Grace.

Loren was born on August 5, 2003. Not since I had made a trek on Valentine's Day many years prior had I been interested in visiting a child on his or her actual birth day, but I loaded up my little Honda and puttered down the road to meet this little ball of happiness. Upon my arrival, I found her mother continuing to be responsible as usual....so annoying. I imagine if I had chosen to embark on childbirth, I would have eaten a wagon load of Quarter Pounders after the kid hatched. Loren's mother...ate fruit...and cottage cheese. Give me a break. Ever the athlete. Ever the responsible one. Ever the amazing mother. There she sat...eating fruit and cottage cheese. I was so distracted by her food choice that I nearly forgot there was a baby in the nursery nearby. I remember the nurse bringing her in. I remember her daddy holding her tight. I remember the nurse checking his number on his bracelett to make sure it matched, and I remember getting a chuckle afterward. I remember that beautiful baby girl and that room filled with grace. I remember what I thought "grace" meant then.

The following March brought a diagnosis that none of us found familiar. At first, I was intimidated by its name. Today, I can say Lissencephaly - Miller/Dieker Syndrome without missing a vowel. I say it, and I expect anyone who is listening to know what it means and why I care. If you are unfamiliar, I suggest you open another window and go to Google. When you come back, you will read the rest of this entry with a more humble heart than you woke up with this morning...

And speaking of this morning...

When you woke up today, did you complain about having to go to work? Did you fuss about the pending wet weather? Did you get frustrated because you overslept, locked your keys in your car, or lost your lunch money? Did you run out of hot water in the shower? Did you get detained by a flat tire? Did you forget your bus duty? Was the vending machine at work torn up thus denying you a beloved Honey Bun? Did you spill coffee on the front of your new sweater? Think about those issues as you read the rest of this.

This morning, Loren woke up just like the rest of us (if she slept any last night), but she had to get ready to make an appearance before strangers and convince them to grant her the assistance of a device that will simply let her breathe. An eight year old asking for air....

I'll give you a minute to process that.

This miraculous, precious, beloved angel on earth - who doesn't communicate with me other than with those endless brown eyes and twinkling smile - had to appear before an insurance appeal board and figure out a way to convince two doctors, three lawyers, two insurance administrators, two state citizens, and one secretary that she needed their panel of strangers to grant her permission to have the ONE DEVICE ON THE PLANET EARTH that will help her simply breathe with less congestion.

I cannot imagine.

When I was eight, I depended on my parents to help me reach a book that was too high on a shelf. I needed adults to help me put air in my bike tires. I had the audacity to take tantrums if I had to get allergy shots. I "needed" adults to buy me Barbies. I needed the wheels on my roller skates to be rotated. I needed help with long division. I needed just five more minutes in the pool.

I never ever needed my parents to find a way to ask another human for help so that I would breathe as a result of their consent.

But today while the rain was falling in Tazewell, Loren, her mom and dad, and her oh-so-awesome Gramma were waiting in some big, cold, room with a drop ceiling and flickering cheap lights. To get to that room, they had to drive almost three hours. And once their turn came up, they were given a maximum of ten minutes to find the right words to say on Loren's behalf to that panel of experts. Ten minutes. 600 seconds. Can you imagine being given 600 seconds to appropriately ask for your child to have air?

Six hundred ticks of the clock, and their time was up.

Homework was done prior to the appearance. Adequate research and statistics were compiled in a document that, I'm sure, held a close resemblence to any advanced medical student's review of relevant literature. But despite all the research, despite all the statistics, and despite the information provided by the company that makes the actual device, her mother's love is what will make the difference as the panel reviews Loren's case. In all the world, that is one of the few things I know for sure.

I'm not writing this to open discussion about the ways and means of medical insurance companies. Let the editors who are real journalists do that. After much prayer, I know that approaching this type of situation from a place of bitterness and resentment about questionable corporate practices will not help Loren or the hundreds of other children whose lives may be changed by having access to this miraculous device should BCBST grant it. I approached today just like my own momma told me to do. Feel free to report that this teacher prayed in school today. You better believe I did. I didn't pray for patience, forgiveness, or snow. I sat at my desk and bowed my head and prayed for God to give that panel of reviewers true grace in their hearts. I prayed for God to give them courage to make a decision that might set the precedent for generations of children yet to be born. I prayed for Loren to be the little girl that changes this aspect of medical practice in Tennessee so that it might be shared by other states in the years to come.

No mother should have to ask for breath for her child, but today, my friend had to do just that.

As I've said before, when I grow up, I want to be like Loren's mom.

"The Sky Is Falling; the Sky Is Falling!"

2012-01-11T19:24:00.003-05:00

What the flip was that?

I don't know where you folks were today around 3:30, but if you were in Tazewell or the surrounding area, did you witness the bizarre weather that I saw while trying to shuffle young 'uns at SMMS?

I've seen rain. I've seen ice. I've heard thunder. I must say in forty years, today is the first time I ever saw the rain and ice turn to slush within a period of minutes while it was thundering. Heaven help me, Margie Ison, what in the world was that mess called?

The fact that it was so bizarre is obvious because very few folks in my Facebook world even mentioned the fact that the sky was falling. Usually, we see the weather, predict more of it, and then get on Facebook and announce what is happening...especially if it is bizarre. Today...not much of a peep about the slush in this town. I think we were mostly awe-struck.

My friend, Melinda, and I were in the cafeteria conducting bus duty as normal, and all of a sudden, the rain wasn't dropping or dripping....it was gushing. The wind was blowing anything that wasn't nailed down around. The skies got dark. The thunder rolled, and I thought, "January? Or have I slept until spring?" True enough...January.

When I was a curtain climber, my papaw Steve always made note of interesting weather events on his barn walls in Middlesboro. He'd use chalk, scribble down a date and a brief explanation of what weather had occurred. I'd have to step back quite a bit from the walls to be able to read what he had written because he was so tall and he wrote at eye level. The notes usually required me to get on my tip-toes. I was fascinated by his writings, and even though he never told me to leave them alone, I knew better than to try to touch those chalk interpretations of the great outdoors. He did, however, have a Kerns Bread chalkboard, and he'd encourage us to scribble on it at our own level. My entire life, he always knew how to meet me at my own level.

Today, I stood at the front doors of my school and watched that frosty monsoon come and go. Once I knew the storm had passed, I wondered what my papaw Steve would have written on his barn walls today after that mess fell from the sky.

I think I would have introduced him to a new word, and he would have written, "January 11, 2012 - HELLOFUZZY!"

You Reckon It's Gonna Snow, Mrs. Smith?

2012-01-09T18:22:00.004-05:00

My colleagues are professionals in our field until winter comes around and we become weather analysts. ‘Tis quite comical to sit in the restroom and listen to the forecasters in the mail room and hallway as they/we describe the rate of probability for all things winter from one day to the next. This behavior typically begins the week of the middle school basketball tournament; however, global warming has moved us further into the New Year, and thus we wait until the second week of January to begin truly ritualistic behaviors. Not everyone participates in some sort of madness to encourage Mother Nature to send us some snow, but for those of us who do take part in the plan, we take our snow voodoo very seriously. I feel obligated to explain my participation to you in hopes that you might understand bizarre behavior from your children when frosty days are on the cusp.
In anticipation of a snow day, snow wishers can whip up a magical warm concoction to help encourage snow fall. The basis for this concoction came from http://www.allrecipes.com/ quite a while ago and should probably be consumed when the snow wisher is awakened early in the morning before leaving for school. Don’t ever give a snow wisher this much sugar before bed time. How do you make MHC?
1/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
3/4 cup white sugar
1 pinch salt
1/3 cup boiling water
3 1/2 cups milk
3/4 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 cup half-and-half cream
Combine the cocoa, sugar and pinch of salt in a saucepan. Blend in the boiling water. Bring this mixture to an easy boil while you stir. Simmer and stir for about 2 minutes. Watch that it doesn't scorch. Stir in 3 1/2 cups of milk and heat until very hot, but do not boil! Remove from heat and add vanilla. Divide between 4 mugs. Add the cream to the mugs of cocoa to cool it to drinking temperature.
The top surface must be covered with miniature marshmallows (only white) to signify a wish for a solid covered landscape outside within 24 hours. As the snow wisher drinks the magical hot chocolate, he/she must take great care not to get the marshmallows on his/her nose. If that happens, all bets are off.

The most graphic experiment in weather provocation is flushing ice cubes down the toilet. I was unaware of this ritual as a child; however, I have learned many of my students and fellow snow wishers practice it with a particular fervor. The rules for this activity are simple. The snow wisher must get three SMALL ice cubes (made in advance from rain) and stand with them around the toilet. Upon dropping them into the toilet water, the snow wisher must say the following rhyme:

“Little blocks of ice, made out of rain from the sky
I happily now release you back to the chilly world outside.
One at a time I will drop you and make a wish for snow
One, two, three; here we go, here we go, here we go! "

Upon recitation of that little ditty (feel free to print it and put it near the toilet for reference), the snow wisher must close his or her eyes and flush the ice cubes. After conducting the flush, the lid must be closed, and the snow wisher and his/her family anxiously wait for the first flake to fall. ( Note to parents: success rates for all snow voodoo seem to be greater if local airport weather forecasts are evaluated prior to flushing.)

And finally, the most difficult snow task at all. My data collection indicates that actual snow fall amounts were minimal if only the two previously mentioned tasks were completed. If a snow wisher is truly committed to his/her weather desire, then he/she must follow the following rules so that Mother Nature knows he/she is serious about a need for snow. Parents, I suggest you make a clipboard with these qualifications to use as a reference tool.

1. 24 hours before desired snow day, the magical hot chocolate (MHC) must be consumed before sunrise.
2. Within that 24 hour time span, the Ice Flush must occur, undisturbed.
3. After 8:00 p.m. on the eve of anticipated snow, the snow wishers must sit down and write three wishes each that they’d like to give other people. Said wishes cannot be items purchased anywhere.
4. Those wishes must be carefully folded and cut out in the shape of snowflakes.
5. The snowflakes and their debris should be taken outside and buried within 24 hours of anticipated snow fall. The snowflakes must never be dug up after being planted.

If a true snow wisher completes all five of those tasks with appropriate supervision, the odds of any snow wisher’s dreams coming true is highly increased in comparison to those who only stand outside and dance naked as a ritual.

A Single Rose in Pasadena on Day 972.

2012-01-02T12:18:00.012-05:00

Most of you know that my friend since childhood, Bridgette, made a donation to the Donate Life Tournament of Roses float in memory of my husband, "H." I should have come here to "hellofuzzy" then for proper explanation, but I was so overwhelmed and shocked that compiling complete sentences would have been a challenge.

I'm writing this today in hopes that at least one of you will be convinced to sign the back of your driver's license and become an organ donor after you read this blog. I'm not asking you to do it for me; I'm asking you to do it for the ones you leave behind.

Technically, he has been gone for 972 days. I can't stop the counting. Tomorrow I will wake up and know it is 973. I wish I could stop the counting, but I can't. Waking up is the worst, and that's when I will say 973. I say it to remind myself of how far I've come and as a tiny prayer that God will do something positive with my life during 973 like He has done today with 972 by sending us a warm smile while watching the parade.

Mainly, I hope to maybe write about our family's experience with organ donation to help you get a better understanding of what to expect for yourself and your loved ones. There was a lot I didn't know at the time, but now it all makes sense to me.

Time is of the essence, and gosh, it was difficult for me to keep composure. I was at a point where I wanted the world to stop, but H being a donor meant that the work ahead was crutial and there was no time to stop. Period. City law enforcement arrived first as with any similar situation, and the first question they asked was if he was an organ donor and where was his license. Once they read he was an organ donor, everything sped up to a rate that was so fast everything sounded like Charlie Brown's school teacher and I couldn't translate. Remember spinning on the merry go round at Ford's Woods and looking up at the sky while you did? That's how my head felt, and my heart was in a million tiny pieces. In fact, "fast" is about the only thing I can tell you I really do remember until my phone rang.

Someone from Tennessee Donor Services called and called and called. Holly very patiently handled that for me. Finally, she and others said, "You have to do this now."

After my husband left home, I hid here in my computer room with friends holding my speaker phone while I answered hundreds of questions about his social and medical history. I could not imagine being the person who has that job to call. Regardless of her salary, she earned it ten times over that day. The interview took an hour and forty-five minutes. Now, you need to put yourself in this analogy: a typical movie lasts a little over 90 minutes these days. Who in your family do you want to answer questions about you for that long after you are with God ? Please pick someone to do it. Pick several. Prepare them for the difficulty but encourage them to give the information because they will be helping to save lives within hours of hanging up the phone. The questions are blunt, personal, and scary. The truth must be told, and in the end, the gift of life can be given to a total stranger who may be the very person to cure heart disease, cancer, or birth defects...especially if the recipient is a child.

The donation procedures before the visitation services limit what you can do at the memorial services. Depending on the types of donations your loved one is capable of giving, you and your family might need to make practical decisions about your loved one's viewing. Just take a deep breath and know that doing so is providing life. Knowing I'd see him again some day was my greatest comfort, but knowing someone was gaining life from him at that moment was a healing I never knew before.

After the services were behind me, and the quiet came, those were the days I found most difficult. The people at Donate Life know that. Soon, your loved ones will start getting the most amazing correspondence in the mail. Donate Life will make contact on birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays. In the fall though, your loved ones will get a very touching invitation.

Your family will be invited to a celebration of giving in Knoxville. They will be asked to bring a quilt square to represent your lost love one. The quilt squares are all assembled together and go on tour around the state to encourage organ donation. I made H's square from his blue jeans. One strip for every family member made the base and then a pocket on top. Leigh Anne took it and had his name and a dove embroidered on the pocket. Upon our arrival at the ceremony, I gave it to a volunteer to place on a quilt board for all to see.

You will hear testimonies from organ recipients. You will meet parents who lost their children but found peace in giving life. You will be surrounded by a kind of calm and silence I never knew until that day. Josh accepted a medal to honor his dad as a donor on that day during the ceremony.

The Donate Life organization does everything as right as is possible to bring comfort to those who gave and celebrate those who receive. At the end of the day's event, each person in attendance is given a note card to attach to a balloon. The balloons are released as guests depart from the ceremony. The sky is speckled with faith, hope, and love all directed toward Heaven.

My note read as follows:

I'm not writing this for sympathy. I'm writing it to hopefully enlighten you about the unknown and encourage you to have a very important conversation with your family about being organ donors.

Day 972 has been a wonderful day. The girl I met standing in the hallway while we waited to get on Bus 3 in third grade took the time to acknowledge my husband's gift of organ donation in the Tournament of Roses Parade about 32 years after I met her. My husband's name was attached to a rose on a beautiful float filled with families of children whose lives were lost in horrific tragedies but found a way to fulfill a purpose through the pain. The float and its story were beautiful and very humbling.

Fulfilling a purpose through the pain is what I think we have to do. Scratch that. It's what we're supposed to do.

If you need a pen to sign your organ donor consent on your license, let me know...I'll get one to you.

I wish you all a happy new year filled with peace of mind and spirit.

My Holiday Masterpiece.

2011-12-22T19:37:00.005-05:00

Christmas cards always enlightened my days as a kid...especially if my name was on the envelope and impressively if my name was spelled correctly on the envelope. Mom had a ceramic Santa whose large green toy bag was opened to hold all of our cards, and I carefully stacked them according to size day after day as they would arrive. My favorite card always came from Mrs. Cohenour, my childhood art teacher. While other cards displayed humble images of a quiet manger, joyful children romping in the snow, Jolly St. Nick wiggling his nose, and Christmas trees being dragged across a snow laden field to a country home, Mrs. Cohenour's card always displayed a worldly piece of Christmas art from the Met in New York City. Long after my days of washing her brushes and filling the classroom kiln, I still receive my holiday greeting from Mrs. Cohenour, and I cherish each one a little bit more every year.

While the art displayed on Mrs. Cohenour's cards is from the hands of masters, the art displayed on my card this year is of the hands that raised me. Very rarely do I slow down long enough to take pictures of my life, but back in the fall, I simply asked Mom to sit down and play. I told her she didn't even have to smile, and I snapped this picture. In the time that it took for the flash to fire, I managed to take a picture that really needs no caption.

When I was in middle school, Mom's piano students started filing in and out of our home as she carefully guided their little fingers to play. Carefully, I listened as she encouraged each of them to make a joyful noise unto the Lord with every stroke of a key. As the holidays rolled around, she'd review her record books and order small statues of the great composers for each child. She kept a running list of which students had acquired what masters. To this day, I am convinced Cindy Collins Code must have the largest collection. The statues would arrive from the distributor, and Mom would wrap Bach, Beethoven, Mozart and friends with love in each detail of the pretty paper and bows. I'm now a middle school teacher instead of a student, and the great composers still arrive at Mom's house each holiday season as she assigns each a new home during the holidays.

This picture isn't just about piano lessons though. Those are the hands that raised me. You should put your hands together and aplaud her massive undertaking and success. Those hands hugged me, brushed my hair, tied my shoes, fluffed my dresses, tucked me in, and busted my butt. Those hands taught me how to count, read, write, and pray. Those hands checked my temperature, drove me to Clancy's, made me chicken and dumplin's and led me carefully through all the wonder that a child's life offers. Those are my momma's hands, and they've patted the head of at least a thousand students who passed in and out of her classroom doors through the years, too.

To be her daughter is my life's greatest blessing, and I should have thought to capture this moment long before now. Playing the piano fills her soul with joy like nothing else. After all the papers are graded, Sunday's music is practiced, the piano students are gone, and life falls quiet on the hill....listen very carefully on your porches. Not only should you listen for Santa and his sleigh....you should listen for my momma to play, "When They Ring Those Golden Bells."

Merry Christmas!

Mom...I Mean Santa....Always Knew This Would Happen

2011-12-18T10:36:00.005-05:00

Upon first glance at this photo, you might be tempted to notice the doll I'm holding. That's Cher. I remember the eyelashes being too long on that doll. The doll's hair got tangled in the lashes, and that frustrated me. As a result, I cut the lashes off. Perhaps that was a precursor to the cosmetic enhancements Cher would have in the years to come. Regardless, I liked that doll a lot. But this photo is NOT about Cher.

I was five years old when this was taken. Thirty-five years ago, my mother knew this love of writing was coming. Look behind me on the table. See that typewriter? That's the device that launched me on my way to madness behind a keyboard.

If you look to the right of me under the tree, you'll see Ragedy Ann and Andy heads peeking up. One was a pencil sharpener, one was a clock, and one was a pencil holder. These are also known as office supplies...yet more tools necessary to help me learn how to put my insanity down on paper.

From the time I first heard the sound of a fingers flying across a typewriter, I wanted to learn how to do that. The picture shows my first typewriter, but I can count of at least five more that Mom gave to me after this one. I remember running the ribbon from this one under water so I could get just one more alphabet out of it. I remember feeling grown up when I had plain white paper instead of notebook paper to put in the roller. Every typewriter that followed was a little more advanced, but I had no idea then that a computer would ever be part of my daily happiness now.

Just sending this out as a little warning to all you Santas out there. When you buy gifts that encourage expression, imagination, and thought for your small children, those gifts have the potential to create a love of creativity for a lifetime.

An Odd Combination? Absolutely Perfect!

2011-12-09T10:41:00.013-05:00

I grew up listening to four types of music with my parents: gospel, 50's, Motown, and Dolly Parton. That statement alone sums up my personality from birth until now. When I was in high school, I remember pals going to see Rod Stewart at one point and Bon Jovi at another. I was insanely jealous of my peers, but my parental unit (yes, even Big Doug) absolutely refused to let me go. Regardless of their tone of "no," I just couldn't understand why I was forbidden. As I sit here twenty-something years later, I'm giggling to myself. There are 18-year-old babies waking up across East Tennessee this morning, bless their precious hearts, who are struggling after seeing Snoop at the Valarium last night. Mom and Dad were right. I'm quite certain I say that in my sleep because I've said it so often as the years have crept by.

My parents always spoke fondly of seeing Chuck Berry in concert while they were young and he visited Knoxville. I heard that story throughout my childhood while they were hauling me around in long cars that had velvet seats. You remember those seats; I know you do. The music was on 8 track tapes, and I could sing "Maybelline" before I could sing "London Bridges." My dad sneaked and taught me how to sing, "My Ding A Ling," just to make Mom mad. He'd sit in his chair in the living room and I'd stand on the fireplace ledge. He'd say, "Sing for your mother," and I'd blare out, "My ding a ling," while he laughed and shook the walls in the process. As soon as I'd finish, Mom would say, " Sing 'Jesus Loves Me'." Dad got the hint...a rare event. So were the days of my life as their only child.

When I was in middle school, Michael Jackson came to Neyland Stadium. Dad "got" tickets for Mom and me, and that experience stands in my memory as one of the greatest adventures ever with the Beebster. I'm sure she would have rather had a root canal compared to sitting in that stadium, but she danced right along beside me and basked in my pure joy of the moment.

Not too long after the cancer diagnosis, I invited my dad on a little trip to go shopping. I loaded him up in my Honda Civic and took him to Pigeon Forge under the pretense we'd be browsing through the outlet malls. I passed up the outlets, drove him to Dollywood, dropped him off at the gates, parked the car, and we walked up to the Celebrity Theater. He had a seat, and when Dolly came on stage, he glowed from pure joy instead of glowing because of chemo and radiation.

I tried to love country music, and before Clint Black got married, I did like it/him very much. I thought Jolene was a relative instead of a song character. I dug up bones with the rest of Middlesboro High School. Nancy and I rode down the Valley listening to "The King Is Gone" once upon a time in Barry's light blue Chevy truck. I sang "Fancy" and knew a few of them, too. I've tried to diagnose my inability to truly love country music, and I swear; I think my lack of love can be tracked back to Red Gate.

There are two types of people who react to the term Red Gate. Half are folks who dress up in cowboy hats and boots and go there looking for Jake Butcher's supposed buried fortune. The other half are the thousands of us who sat in traffic in hot cars in 1982 with cussing fathers and praying mothers as we were stuck on Highway 33 waiting on the band Alabama to get the h-e-double hockey sticks out of Union County. From that day forward, my dad hated any and everything associated with Alabama: the group and the state.

It would be easy for me to say that my love of concerts comes from being denied permission to attend them as a teenager, but that would be an extremely pathetic cop out. That would make my love of entertainment about some sort of rebellion instead of about being in a unique happy place for a couple of hours....or as is the case with Snoop...a couple of hours AND the duration of an NFL game before he graced us with his presence.

My anticipation of standing in the presence of Snoop (born Calvin Cordozar Broadus, Jr. a mere 15 days before me) was second only to that of sitting under the same roof as Oprah.

I'll give you a minute to take in the depth of that declaration. Oprah has made no excuses for her dislike of rap music. She is correct when she points out that many lyrics make derogatory statements about women, and that's one of many reasons I'm thankful to live in a country that allows us to choose what we listen to. Whoopi Goldberg is famous for saying, "If you don't like it, change the channel." She's absolutely correct; however, I've spent entirely too much time wondering why I cling to rap music more than any other genre. After warped consideration, I've come to the conclusion that I love rap music because I watched it grow from a suspected fad into a multi-billion dollar industry that has created names and faces that kids will learn about like I learned about Chuck Berry. I will be the first to concede that no parent should ask his child to sing "Drop It Like It's Hot" on the fire place ledge twenty years from now though.

MTV came to Middlesboro when I was in middle school. They filmed mostly in New York, and I studied the beginnings and development of rap music right along with Kurt Loder and John Norris. Yes, I know Kurt was relieved when Nirvana burst out of Seattle and saved him from a life of stereotypes like Adidas classics and heavy gold(ish) chains. Martha Quinn managed to stay relatively unbiased in her reporting, but I lived to watch the Moon Man plant the flag followed by a report about how Sugarhill Gang, Grand Master Flash, Run DMC, or even the Beastie Boys. They were releasing "music" that was unlike anything I had ever heard. Let me remind you: I knew Ice-T as a movie actor from the Breakin' movies (one and two) long before he learned the hard way that suggesting police brutality or worse would have an interesting effect on his music career, or lack thereof. Many of you might know Lyor Cohen because he is fashion designer,Tory Burch's boyfriend; I know him because he founded an "island" named Def Jam. My useless trivial fact list could linger on and on; it's a sickness and I admit I have it.

But throughout my discovery of more and more cassette tapes filled with beats and booms that made quarters hop on Alpine and Pioneer speakers nestled in the rear of American made muscle cars cursed to a Fox body style, my mom let me listen; and by doing so in a brilliant manner, she let me love rap as much as my ears could stand. She managed to raise a kid who loved it without having a need to pretend to live it, which is a difficult parenting task to master. There was no shock value I searched to find. My dad introduced me to the vocabulary long before Easy E ever broke up with Dre. Since I brought some degree of common sense to my yellow Sony headset, I was never tempted to take it too far. Going to see Snoop at age 40 is as close to that as I've gotten; I guess.

But last night, as I stood FOREVER within five feet of my all time favorite rapper's blinged out mike, perfect braids, Lakers warm up jacket, and wicked little grin; I found myself with two of my very best friends on one side of me, my favorite Halloweenian student from my rookie season on the other side, and (within inches) behind me a totally unexpected slew of former students bobbin' their heads and rockin' it out with me like they wanted to do as I walked them back and forth to the cafeteria at school many years ago. My colleagues and I were surrounded by generations of "kids" who previously suffered through lessons in poetry, and last night we all swayed our heads to an iconic pentameter.

These moments in time are what I choose to make them. It has taken me a long time to truly understand the importance of those words. My "bucket list" of concert headliners still awaits many check marks, but one festival of sequins and rhinestones at a time, I'm still fulfilling my concert dreams.

Now, I'm going to go prop my feet up because my ankles have a striking resemblance to those of Fred Flintstone.

For more information about Chuck Berry, visit...

http://www.history-of-rock.com/berrytwo.htm

"We didn't say those kinds of words."

2011-12-05T13:57:00.005-05:00

I have embraced the fact that I'm four decades old, and I find it to be quite an astonishing accomplishment on my part. Must say I'm proud of my mom for not killing me when she would have been perfectly justified to do so. I don't spend a lot of time reflecting on woulda, coulda, and/or shoulda. I teach English and just used those last three expressions as actual words; forgive me. If a human had survived as long as my career, she or he'd be 19 years old and counting. Within those nineteen years, I've noticed a change in the adolescent vernacular surrounding my desk top Disney characters and me. Necessity fosters invention, and perhaps invention fosters our vocabulary. Nevertheless, many of these words have been snuggled up in the pages with Mr. Webster, and they have become popular ramblings of the generation whose thumbs will be more agile than all the digits of Mozart combined. Whether their embrace has formed from texting, social networking, or just using something new....take note of how often these words are thrown about by your tweens at home. Back in our day, we just didn't say these words.

"random" - I remember using it in Mrs. Rutherford's biology class...maybe...something to do with selection and a Petri dish. Tweens use it today to describe little mini-surprises throughout their days, and they use "random" often. I can't decide if the connotation of its new use is negative or positive. What are your experiences with the word?

"beast" - Once upon a road trip, Bridgette and I rode a roller coaster with that name. Today, the cool kids use it to describe encounters or individuals that are above average, or, dare I say, distinguished.

"like" - Our generation used this to refer to how we felt about Clancy's cheeseburgers, roller skate pom poms with jingle bells in their center, Friday Night Videos, and Wiggles blue jeans from the Little Loft. Today, the Bieber generation can seldom speak a sentence without inserting this new form of an unnecessary comma. Omitting its use from their daily discussions would be the equivalent of tying my hands behind my back while I speak. They nor I would manage to communicate very effectively under either circumstance.

"epic" - For us, this described the torture we knew as Homer and the Iliad, and even the Odyssey. Based on today's standards of usage, we should have been using it for the number of Tuesday nights we spent standing in line to buy Top Gun tickets on cheap night at the movies.

"hoodie" - We wore them, but we didn't call them that. I remember, as do many of you, those faded out MHS hooded sweatshirts that rarely maintained a chord through the actual hood. Washers and dryers across our small town devoured the strings along with socks and underwear, so the hoods were left to lie flat on our backs. Sometimes we wore them on test day. Those hoods were excellent hiding places for cheat sheets. Did I just write that? Nah.

"180, 360, 540, 720" - Visualize if you will a math teacher, any math teacher, trying to teach us about how to find the circumference of a circle. Today, kids know all about how many revolutions of a skateboard or MX bike each number represents. We talked in terms of fast, faster, and fastest; they talk in terms of complete revolutions.

"goth" - Upon first impression, that's a term that looks like it might be the name of a bottom dwelling fish, but it's a term used today to describe kids who wear black at every possible opportunity. Black hair, pale skin, black makeup, black clothes, and black shoes. Back when we were kids, we had another word for "goth." We called him Ozzy.

"bank" - I remember the steps inside the lobby of Home Federal that allowed me to climb up and look the teller in the face when I was a curtain climber making my deposit into Homer's Club. My money was kept in a building called a bank. Today, "bank" is used by tweens to describe the monetary possessions of a celebrity.

"stalker" - Maybe when we were teens this word was surfacing with news "reports" published by the National Enquirer but I don't recall us using it as a term to describe people just for being annoying and refusing to accept the rejection they had been dealt. Kids today accuse each other of stalking everything from their lockers, their papers, their phones, and their social network pages. Again, I can't tell if the connotation is negative or positive.

My list could go on and on, and one day, it will. But for today, give my selections a thought and share your observations with me, please. I will never be as bright as the children I teach, but it's important that I always know how to interpret their English compared to mine.

Now, for those of you who thought I'd write about adolescent use of profanity based on the title of this rambling, I gotcha! In the words of Dr. Sheldon Cooper, "Bazinga!"

That "One" Photograph

2011-11-29T21:14:00.004-05:00

I had access to a pawn shop growing up...too much access. Dad had enough sense to keep the pocket knives and other sharp objects away from me, but he decided I'd be safe with a camera. He started out by letting me goof around with a Kodak Disc. Remember those? One little odd shaped disc just dropped in the camera and only allowed 15 shots per disc. As soon as I thought I was getting good, my disc would run out. His first store was next door to Jackson's Studio. I am certain that I drove Joyce Skidmore and Mr. Jackson absolutely nuts, and I apologize for that now; however, I just couldn't resist REAL Cabbage Patch Dolls in the front of the store AND a real photography studio in the back. It was too much temptation. Dad had pocket knives and Mr. Jackson had baby dolls with Xavier Roberts's signature on their tush. No plastic faces on those dolls. No way. They were the real deal, and I loved them, and I took pictures of them with a camera that had no film. My love of photography started with a doll hatched in a cabbage patch in Georgia and a camera from a pawn shop on Cumberland Avenue. If Annie Lebowitz only had a story that amusing... But that love was noticed early by my mother, and to this day, she encourages me with every picture I take.

But each album, each stack, each file folder, and each year has that "one" picture. For all of my life, I've had that "one." I can't call them off in chronological order, but I can describe them and strike smiles on many of your faces. A groomsman who won me over just by hearing his voice on a race radio long before I should have been listening and smiling. A big yellow truck filled with college girls and country music. A rotten little sister who ate a brown cow and licked her fingers just the right way. A beauty queen rocking a Skynard shirt. A spelling bee champ who'd pass the BAR. A coal miner wearing snakeskin boots. A baby girl kicking giggling while her daddy made the most hideous noises in the background. A little bald boy holding a lobster at the horse show. A blue eyed girl peeking over her shoulder on prom night. The world's greatest big brother holding his baby sister beneath a Christmas tree one year after the next. A mother's hands held delicately between those of her two daughters. A little boy (holding a bottle rocket) who'd grow up and surpass NASA. My very best friend snuggled up with her precious twin daughters. A triad of fabulous on Halloween at the beach. A mother holding a basketball, talking on a phone, and styling her daughter for prom all at once. A momma named Joni (pronounced Johnny) and her daughter whose middle name happens to be Campbell. My mother's hands on a piano keyboard. The Coigns' beautiful flowers. The list goes on and on, but every year there is one, and this is the one.

I had never actually met Ciara until Saturday...as in a few days ago. She was a student of someone I know quite well, and during her time as student, I heard lovely stories about her kind heart, vibrant spirit, and endearing parents. At least once a week, I heard about Ciara, and once Ciara left that class, the teacher missed her very much.

I have, however, known Ciara's mother much longer than we should admit since we're still both very very young. Camilla came to Middlesboro High School as a freshman with a force like a hurricane and never looked back. She was beautiful. She was that kind of beautiful that girls couldn't buy at any salon, make up counter, or fashionable department store. She had eyes that were alive with just enough rotten to let you know she was having fun and she was serious about it. She could whip both her brothers with one hand tied behind her back. She had the most beautiful hair, and she'd cut it off without a care in the world. The rest of us couldn't imagine whacking off the long locks of poorly permed hair we had, but for Camilla, she knew it would grow back the same beautiful blond she had to start with. And, she was right.

She had this unbreakable spirit about her then. If she wanted to be an athlete, she ran faster than anyone else. If she wanted to be a cheerleader, she jumped higher than anyone else. If she wanted to put a lift kit on a truck, she jacked it up higher than anyone else. If she wanted to be a princess, she put on the most beautiful dress and floated in the room like she owned it, and despite the assumptions of many jealous older girls, she did own it. She set her sights on exactly what she wanted, and she never flinched at a challenge.

And by the time all that gibberish of high school was behind us all...life sent us in various different directions. I always knew Camilla would be a mother to a girl who'd have that same fiery spirit. I knew she'd marry a man whose love surrounded her with a calm she had never realized she wanted. I always knew she'd devote every single minute of her day and every breath she sighed to raise a daughter with her smile, glimmer, and shine and his gentleness, calm, and ease.

My "One" picture for this year is of that daughter, her mother, and her daddy.

When we were teenagers, Camilla and I had a few things in common. We loved fast cars and the bad boys who drove them. We giggled way too much. We thrived on powder puff football. We were just a little bit sneaky but smart enough to never, well seldom, get caught. We each found an office in which we could "work" in high school so we'd escape the torture that was study hall.

And now, we're adults, and we have one experience in common that I certainly wish we didn't.

I'm grateful I got to take this picture of Ciara, her momma, and her daddy. I take pictures all of the time, but I seldom ever take pictures that make time stop and make me remember that there are angels above us....but only a few who can make their baby girl smile like that while she shows me and the world that she and her mother are an unbreakable pair as they hold each other up. With Camilla watching behind her, her daddy watching over her, and Ciara looking forward, the blessings yet to come are endless.

Visions of a Holiday Thief.

2011-11-21T13:14:00.006-05:00

It's important that you know my mom seldom ever asks for anything for any holiday. However, in 1988, that was not the case. Long before our WalMart in Middlesboro became "super," Mom wanted a purple dumplin pot made for a brand of cookware called Visions. Aptly named because the substance allowed her to see through the glass and watch my dumplins simmer. At least that's what she hoped would happen.

I'm always supportive of any device that will increase Mom's dumplin production, so I was determined to buy the Visions cookware piece for her or die trying.

During the first day of Christmas vacation from school, I sped to WalMart to purchase the dumplin pot. As I moved my cart through the aisles, I could see the lovely lavender cookware resting on a shelf in the housewares department, but the store was so crowded, I had a difficult time getting to the piece I needed. Within an instance, a lady reached up above her head and took down the dumplin pot I was hoping to take home. After I fought even harder to get through the madness, I navigated my way to the Visions location only to find myself terribly disappointed. There were no more lavender dumplin pots for me to buy. The mysterious lady had packed off the last one.

It was with that realization that I committed my only act of thievery.

I continued to plow ahead with my buggy, and I was no longer looking for the dumplin pot. I was on a search for that lady who had it. I went through the fabric department, the sporting goods department, and then to health and beauty. She was no where to be found. Finally, I spied her back in the hardware department. I kept a safe distance but followed her throughout her WalMart journey. With every stop she made, I made an equal stop. I was careful not to be spotted; this was long before "stalker" became a commonly used term. After nearly a half hour, she finally wandered off away from her buggy back into the cleaning supplies. I don't know if she was buying a broom or not, but I was about to conduct a clean sweep. Quicker than you could say, "Dash away, dash away, dash away all!" I had swiped the Visions dumplin pot from her buggy and headed toward the cash register.

I am 99% sure I lost control of my bladder while en route to any open lane. I felt as though I had just completed a jewelry heist at the Smithsonian. I was incredibly paranoid, and I kept my eye on the service desk to see if the lady had come up to report the incident. It took an eternity, but I finally got the dumplin pot paid for and double stuffed in WalMart bags so I could run with it to my Buick and escape a certain doom.

Sure enough, on Christmas Eve, Mom opened up her dumplin pot and was most pleased with my gift for her which basically caused me to risk life and limb. I never told her the story of my struggle to land it until today.

The joke ended up being on me though. Mom tried to use the Visions dumplin pot to conjure up a bucket full of dumplins for me on Christmas Day, and it was then that we realized the Visions cookware was NOT non-stick. Many poor defenseless dumplins left this earth without fulfilling their true purpose because I was greedy and swiped a pot in which they met their doom. The image of their burned little bodies still haunts me today.

Here's hoping that all of your holiday cookware be non-stick and that your bellies are filled with every delicious delight you love.

My Little Neighbor...

2011-11-14T22:54:00.005-05:00

Any time I receive a letter and the heading says, "Investigative Request for Information," my heart falls to my stomach, my mouth becomes parched, and I have to remind myself that it's not about my dear daddy.

As a teacher, one of the highest honors I can earn is to be listed as any reference on any job application a former student fills out. I've always taken great pride in filling out each question with as many complimentary terms possible to fit in the allocated space on the page, but when it comes to my little neighbor, there's not enough room on a single page for me to tell any "official" how fabulous he is and always has been. To say that I love him is such an understatement, and with every leap and bound he makes with his career, the information arrives in my inbox; and today, in my actual mail box, and no one ever asks me, "How much do you love him? Please tell us."

He, in fact, is the greatest teacher I've ever had. When he was little, I paid attention, and I saw potential in his interests that made me understand my "real" students as they came along. He is that child who took electronics apart so he could learn how they worked. He is that child who chose the company of adults because kids just didn't "get it." He loved anything that involved precision, accuracy, and repetition. He loved fireworks. He loved mythical cartoons and was his own little Harry Potter in a sense. He loved competitions that required brains instead of brawn, and yes, he always won. Now, he could make a bully feel stupid and kick his ass, which makes me more proud than I ever dreamed possible. He knew a Commodore 64 was outdated before he ever plugged it up but it was the best available at the time. He fought dragons in his back yard and he won every battle. I am the luckiest teacher in the world because I got to witness his brilliance unfold one day at a time. I am the luckiest girl in the world because his parents love me as much as they love him....well...almost.

That little boy gripping a bottle rocket with all his might and daring the camera to interfere with its launch is what brilliance looks like. I would load him up in my old Buick, trek him across "the mountain," and we'd bootleg a haul of explosives back to Balmoral many hot summer days. I loved him like Linus loved his blanket, and I kept him just as close if possible. Soon enough, he figured out that if he played his cards right, he could hang out with me and go see Van Halen while other kids his age were at home watching Nick at Night. He could go with me to a midnight premiere of a movie while his peers were home asleep before ten. Before he ever thought of being my little traveling partner, I had already declared him my permanent passenger. I had also figured out that Mom would let me go anywhere as long as he was with me because she knew I'd never put him in harm's way, and she was absolutely correct.

When I think about what his life has become and how all of his curiosity, precision, accuracy, and wisdom have come together to form a mind that far exceeds beautiful, I'm so grateful to have him in my world. I'm past the age his parents were when they learned they had one child...and a kid next door. I've been able to reflect on how they raised this precious yet precocious baby boy, and I now understand that they knew he had something amazing to offer this world, especially with regard to science and math. And all they did was love him and let him play until he couldn't play any longer. He built castles. He slayed dragons. He fixed lawn mowers. He destroyed a jungle gym. If he could slow down long enough, he watched Sesame Street. He loved Star Wars. His parents loved each other, and they loved him. From that...I got my little neighbor.

So, I'm going to, yet again, sharpen my #2 Ticonderoga and fill out another form confirming that my little neighbor is not an alien. Toward the end of the file, "they" say, "Additional information which you feel may have a bearing on this person's suitability for..blah...blah...blah...rocket science..blah...blah...blah" I always write, "I love him the most."

Respectfully Filled with Love...

2011-11-09T15:42:00.013-05:00

Nothing about today's heartbreaking news in Tazewell is about me; however, my heart is heavy and thus I find myself at this keyboard to tell a story that is long overdue.

I'd bet I learned to spell "Giles" before I learned to spell, "Doug," and that's absolutely no exaggeration. My dad was more proud of his friendship with Mr. Giles than he was proud of any relationship he ever kept throughout his life. He valued that trust, worked to keep it, and protected it with more loyalty than a pit bull would use to guard any gate. Indeed, my dad was the gatekeeper to a certain extent, and the path between a single wide and a house was worn thin over the passage of time by two buddies who couldn't have been more diverse if they had tried.

Mr. Giles was a great mystery to me as I grew up. As I've virtually already blurted out in a previous post, I convinced myself he was Spiderman when I was young. I knew he was from Tennessee, and I knew Tennessee was "between" Middlesboro and "the lake," but I didn't know much about the rest of his story. I knew he liked, no, LOVED fireworks. I knew he worked hard. I knew he had a train horn and he had trains with no tracks. I knew he traveled a lot. I knew he had a boy and a girl but they were too old to play with my Barbies at "the lake." I knew he was my dad's friend, but I didn't know to what extent. I knew he had a big boat and he tried to get my dad to water ski behind it once. I'll let you visualize that aquatic disaster on your own. In fact, Mr. Giles was much more of a mystery to me than Spiderman ever could have been.

If I wasn't complaining about Cas Walker and Jay Bazel at "the lake," I was at home in Middlesboro with the comfort of thirteen stations to watch on television. "My" Mr. Giles worked in Middlesboro. I didn't know until I was much older that he had a real job in Tazewell, too. I thought he only worked in Middlesboro because my dad worked in Middlesboro, and everybody had to do the same thing my dad did (Let us all take a moment and thank God that everybody DIDN'T do what my dad did at times...whew). I knew Mr. Giles had a big long car and a pinball machine in his office in Middlesboro. I knew he had a truck that had his name on it, but my dad didn't have his name on a truck.

I also knew that Mr. Giles did not have a vacuum cleaner and he had to send Mr. Cupp to my mom's house to borrow her Kirby to clean up work space, and I told Mr. Cupp to tell Mr. Giles (when I was four years old) to get his own vacuum cleaner because he was, and I quote, "Driving my mom up a wall!" I'll let you use your imagination about how much trouble I got in for that little statement of sarcasm. Dad NEVER let me forget it. Mom was proud of me though.

Mr. Giles gets all the credit for my love and adoration of all entertainment that has a fuse and needs a flame. Boomsday might be the biggest fireworks show in the United States now, but during my childhood, if you weren't near Lakeview Dock on the 4th at dark-thirty, then you were missing the best fireworks display ever. Mr. Giles and his family lined up enough colorful explosives to light up the entire sky and shake 33 bridge like a herd of elephants. Make that two herds. Keep in mind it's a far piece from the bridge to the holler. The show lasted what seemed an eternity, and I sat on that fence row and waited anxiously for the next burst of light while I covered my ears before the boom. Before the show started, he and my dad would blast each other with their personal train horns connected to air compressors. They'd honk back and forth forever just to antagonize those of us waiting impatiently for the show.

Mr. Giles also saved my dad's life once. If the truth be told, I'd say he saved him numerous times. This one particular act of bravery saved my dad from ME! I was very young and Easter had arrived, which sparked the typical debate as to whether or not my dear dad was going to church with Mom and me or to the flea market. Flea market won. I got three rabbits....two females...one male. You do the math. Not long after the romantic encounters began between the bunnies on Balmoral in our back yard, I had over sixty rabbits, and Dad could not take them or me with them any longer. They had fabulous cages (built with Giles supplies) and the cages occupied most of our back yard. They smelled horrible. God bless my poor mother. The rabbit debate between my dad and me grew to such a heated exchange that Mom made us vow to never speak of the bunny business again, so that meant I won. Right? Wrong.

Before I could eat a carrot, Dad was in the back yard with a chain saw cutting down a tree that was as big around as a Ford Pinto. I was just happy he hushed about the bunnies. After hours and numerous chains, Mom and I heard that tree fall, and the next thing I knew, the cages were smashed and the bunnies were running rampant through the hood. If you think I was panic stricken, just think about my poor mother. It was impossible to save one bunny from escape by the time I got to the yard, and this is the first time I truly thought that I was going to whip my dad. He claimed the crash was an accident, but I knew he did it intentionally. I vividly remember clutching the keys to the cages under my ever-famous silk pillow and sobbing for hours. Why did the cages have keys? Who was going to steal bunnies? Nobody. Dad just had key issues. He couldn't take it. My mom couldn't take it. My grandparents couldn't take it, and Mr. Giles sure couldn't stand it.

Notice the picture above with the swing set AND jungle gym. The fact that those were built meant I lost my bunnies but I won the war with Doug. By the time I got home from school the following day, a whole crew of people had constructed my new back yard. Did you look at the fine print on the truck in the picture? Now you know how the construction happened. Employees of Mr. Giles worked along side my grandfathers to assemble the sets while, no doubt, my dad sat back and "supervised." (I got that trait from him, ya know.)

I've kept that business card for decades and it's still in perfect condition. I am very thankful I've not damaged or lost it. The card at the time led one to believe that my dad had developed some sort of stable business, but that wasn't the case at all. Heck, "they" didn't even have a vacuum cleaner. There is no doubt in my mind that Dad had those cards made so he could tell the world that he loved his friend, but more importantly that his friend acknowledged him, too.

My library of often wacky and sometimes wonderful memories is filled with stories that helped make me into the character I am today. Little did I know when I was a child what a tremendous impact Mr. Giles would have on my world as an adult. This blog doesn't have enough memory for me to write all the stories in which he is a leading character throughout my first three decades. My parents did a wonderful job of letting me interact with characters that were larger than life and full of interesting tales themselves, and his name certainly rests high at the top of that list. If I have ever taught you how to wiggle your way through a math problem, how to punctuate a sentence, or how to stop a modifier from dangling, you should say a prayer of thanks for Mr. Giles, his sister, and especially their friend, Alice. I can assure you that I would have never been your teacher without their support.

While Dad was at the flea market, Mom took me to church. Every Sunday with Mom is like Easter. While Dad was shopping for razor blades, batteries, and Kodak film (that's just for you, Bill), Mom and Preacher Herb were teaching me about Heaven and all that would greet me there some day.

Today, when I heard the heartbreaking news, I envisioned what Heaven must have been like this morning. I am sure that James greeted his son, welcomed him home, and told him how proud of him he is for being a wonderful husband and father - and especially a devoted son.

Sleeping Beauty & One Dwarf

2011-11-08T11:50:00.009-05:00

This is one of my top ten favorite photos ever. As I get older, I enjoy it even more. My love of this priceless piece of Kodak 110 art has nothing to do with sentimentality; I simply love it because looking at this picture is the same as looking in the mirror.

Today, if you were to walk in my front door at any hour after sunset, this is the sight you'd likely see. I'm sure he's snoring here, and there's no question that I snore loud enough to crack sheet rock in the house. It took me 39 years to find my own perfect chair and ottoman combination, but I found it, and I love it just as much as Dad loved his.

I just can't shake the giggles about this picture. Throughout every stage of my life, I have looked more and more like him. In my teens, I was resistant to our double helix similarities; and now, I've just grown to embrace the fact that I'm his "mini me" but not so "mini," and I elaborate the obvious as much as possible. He'd be very proud of the fact that I've embraced sparkle, bling, and glitter compared to his love of cowboy hats, wing tipped shoes and big belt buckles.

I try not to sit on the chair rested in this location now at Mom's house. There's no doubt this sleeping beauty would innocently strike a similar pose as shown above. I'm afraid Mom will come down the hallway and pee her pants after an unecessary flashback.

On second thought, maybe I'll go visit and take a nap today just for kicks.

Still Standing in Cedar Fork

2011-11-07T09:48:00.006-05:00

Earlier today, I drove through Harrogate when the "Stand in the Gap" participants were prayerfully beginning their journey into Cumberland Gap, and I felt like I was supposed to stop in mid traffic like I would do for a funeral procession to show my respect. I did not participate, but witnessing this epidemic of perscription drug abuse has been a part of many aspects of my life for over a decade now, and I'm drained to my core from exhaustion and worry.

I've learned the most about prescription drug abuse from children. I've encountered children who have brought me pictures of themselves on the beaches of Florida, but they told me they were at Myrtle Beach. Some even said they had found a beach in Gatlinburg or Knoxville. Surely they had been coached to say that. To my knowledge, there is no mile marker one at Myrtle Beach, in Pigeon Forge, and in Knoxville. Totally innocent children were frolicking on the beaches of Florida when they barely had a roof over their heads at home. No parents on the beaches though. Wonder why? Those photos, of course, were more numerous before states started connecting data bases for medical information, but I still wonder if there are still children who are going to Universal Studios when they can't even go to the city pool at home.

Forgiveness is my greatest flaw. No parent on this planet has worked harder to teach her daughter the differences between right and wrong more than my mother, and no matter my age, I struggle with forgiveness the most. I feel like I hold grudges in spite of my mom's teaching, and that bothers me. I feel mature enough to handle any challenging situation that may come up, but I feel like a horrible failure when it comes to forgiveness. Letting go of disappointment is difficult for me, and I'm not sure I will ever truly live a life that is reflective of 7 times 70.

As I watched the news and read the reports about today's awe inspiring gathering of those whose faith led them to the geographical center of my life's story, I found myself prayerfully resisting the urge to be critical. I do not think I'm alone in this emotion. My first thought upon some recognition of familiar questionable faces in the crowd was to be bluntly verbal and critical, and I came so close to resisting my urge, but here I am tonight writing this blog because I feel like my heart will burst if I don't write it. It is my most sincere prayer that I will truthfully be able to express my forgiveness toward those who have harmed so many by illegally providing prescription drugs, but getting there is more than a 2+ mile walk for me.

(On a humorous note, let's all face it, if I had tried to wobble 2+ miles, I'm sure God would have carried me to the Gap, but I would have required some major oxygen once I got there.)

Among the crowd and its leaders were humble Christian leaders of our community who have worked tirelessly for months in organizing an effort to raise prayer to God and ask Him to heal our broken yet beautiful tri-state area. I have watched those leaders in interviews, observed their consistency from afar, and thanked God that they decided to do something to help from a very authentic and genuine place of prayer and faith. To say that "Stand in the Gap" was a step toward healing is true, but it wasn't until late tonight that I realized how that healing must affect me.

I know what I have to do, and I know it's going to take a while. I must foster and develop a shift in my perception. Until tonight, I have been focused on those whom I KNOW are guilty. I have been focused on those whom I KNOW are making this epidemic of addiction spread far and near. My worry has been consumed about children who are being exposed to far too much far too early, and we don't have enough safe places for them to go. My thoughts and my energy have been directed toward those doing what is wrong instead of those who are fighting for what is right. I have been emotionally and spiritually consumed with what is wrong instead of how I can do my part to make anything right.

The local paper dedicates its earliest pages to listing those who have broken the law. My name has been there before because I felt the urge to break the sound barrier as I drove north on 33. I've often wondered if that portion of the paper wasn't there, would the Progress sell any copies? What does that say about our community of readers?

I wonder if those who break the law feel some sort of empowerment and pride when they see their names repeatedly listed for dealing. What if we took that recognition away? I wonder what the result would be.

I wonder what would happen if we dedicated equal listing to positive announcements in our weekly news. The majority of the Progress is positive, and that's wonderful, but does "positive" sell papers? Goodness knows my friend, Allen Earl, does above and beyond his requirement to provide photos of student athletes to encourage their hard work. Considering that I'm not an editor, I have no idea of knowing if listing positive notes instead of negative legal reports would be feasible. But still...I wonder.

I also wonder how much effort I'd make to provide happy information to the Progress. Would I be willing to do my part and do so consistently? I'm willing to make a prediction that the Progress would suffer a great financial loss if its staff stopped listing the court records, and that says something about its audience. I'm a member of that audience, and I need to develop a shift in my thinking and start seeking out the good instead of the negative.

As a result of spectating "Stand in the Gap" for just a brief drive-by today, I have decided that I must start being attentive to what is good and positive first. I must focus my prayers and energy on those who are trying to make a change for the better in ours and neighboring counties. I know the difference between authenticity and hyprocisy, and I must let go of focusing on those who are masters of the latter.

Oh, how difficult that will be for me to do!

As with every societial movement, the question that determines its success is, "How will you do your part?" I promise; I will focus on those members of our community who are raising us up, who are doing that which is right, and those victims who are trying to start over. My focus will be on moving forward instead of lingering behind. I'm not much of one for talking about "energy," but I do truly believe that my efforts to exert positive energy through prayerful support of this work will be helpful.

Surely my small portion will help move us ahead of this epidemic that has supressed more citizens, destroyed more families, and made me question my own faith more than any crisis I have ever witnessed in my lifetime.

Today is my day one.

A Mother Always Knows...

2011-11-04T08:18:00.011-04:00

If you can't read the above photo, it says, "Sept. 3. 73 - Danna rode the cars at the carnival held on City Parking Lot by herself & loved them. Had to take her back next night."

Does this sound familiar? I had never read it until this week, and I felt my heart swell up with happy after I finished. I've read it a hundred times in the past several days, and I have smiled so very big because a mother always knows.

Twenty-four years after Mom wrote this note, I found my happy place. What do cars at a carnival do? They go around in circles. In 1997, my dear friend, Lori, invited me to Tazewell Speedway and changed my life forever at a place where cars go in circles just like they spun at the Middlesboro carnival many years before. I went back to that little piece of dirt track paradise the next Saturday and never looked back. And not long after I started working there, I met (and loathed) H.L. Smith.

Twenty-eight years after my momma wrote this simple, pink note, I received a call on a late August Saturday morning from the despicable Mr. Smith. The race track was closed that night, and Mr. Smith invited me to come to the Claiborne County Fair (which, by the way, included a carnival) where he was working like he had done since he was a kid. I didn't even know what the Fair Barn was much less where it was, a disgrace for anyone who had spent as much time in Tazewell as I had. Dad took me there as a kid, but I didn't recall him saying, "Fair Barn."

Since the mere sound of Mr. Smith's voice made my skin crawl, I drove to Knoxville, bought a pair of "Tommy" jeans (horrible fashion error), matching shirt, and new shoes (of course) to wear to the stupid fair. That's exactly what a girl does when she can't stand a man. Right? Sure. I remember being a nervous wreck, and I remember walking through that Fair Barn alone just like I rode those cars in Middlesboro as a toddler.

Before I found my host, I found Noble. That dear, sweet Noble. He had witnessed the race track battles Mr. Smith and I had exchanged, and Noble had protected me from evil. As I walked past the 4H displays, Noble smiled so big, shook his head, and knew I was headed for trouble...the kind of trouble Travis Tritt sang about.

Around the corner at the concession stand came my perfectly rotten companion for the evening. He was smiling because he knew he had finally broken me down. He was smiling because he was genuinely happy. He was smiling because he was going to get me on that Ferris Wheel at the end of the night, and my life would be changed forever.

So, my momma knew what she was doing when she took me to the carnival so many years ago. She wasn't worried about germs on the ride like so many worry about today, and she knew early that I was tough enough to get through any adventure on my own. She carefully guided me in the right direction, and then she let me go. With one simple decision to take a little girl to a carnival, she set me in motion toward my only true love.

Today is technically my birthday, but the stories of these past 40 years always lead me back to my mother. She knew me best when I was a small child, and I let her guide me. She knew me best when I was a teenager, and I shamefully resisted. She knew me best when I was a young adult, and I started to listen. She knows me best today, and I know am thankful she is and always has been right.

I'll be adding more madness here at hellofuzzy as the day progresses. The posts are set to automatically upload at various times throughout the day. Writing is what I do best, and many have known that since I was a kid. The fact that I get to write and entertain my friends on this blog brings me great happiness. Are my words a shameful promotion of me? Perhaps. Should you be shocked? Absolutely not.

In the end...nothing I write is ever going to be just about me. I'm a product of a lot of love from a lot of people for four decades.

Hang on tight while you read like you're at the top of a Ferris Wheel while feeling scared to death yet happy beyond happy, too.

The best is yet to come.

My Very First "Facebook" Visitors

2011-11-02T09:39:00.010-04:00

If you think for one second that I'm going to sit quietly by and let November 4, 2011, come and go without acting like it's a big deal, you have obviously forgotten whose words you're reading. Praise the Lord; I'm turning 40 in a couple of days! Regarding this "age," I am not sad, depressed, angry, disappointed, or remotely afraid. Four decades. That's quite an accomplishment, a tribute to my momma, a celebration of my dad, and my reminder of the many people who have helped me along life's way. Many of those names are signed on the pages above. Isn't it amazing how technology has changed the way we welcome babies to the world within an instant of their arrival?

I am the product of a lot of love with a dash of rotten and eternity of faith, and one who has been blessed with forgiveness, second chances, and a constant reminder from my parents that I am part of something much bigger than myself.

For those of you mothers who think your kids won't appreciate all the scrap books you have tirelessly worked to create, this is proof that you're giving them a priceless gift.

What You Don't Know about SMMS & Halloween.

2011-10-31T21:53:00.003-04:00

Blogging leads to confession; this won't end well.

My favorite month will come to a close in hours, and I feel as though it is time to release a great story from my soul. The names, of course, will be changed to protect the guilty. The memory will linger with me for as long as I eat candy corn.

Once upon a time I traveled to a fabulous pumpkin patch with Victoria Taylor and her pre-school class. After suffering a tragic wardrobe malfunction, Victoria saved my pride by jumping on my back to cover my ripped jeans and screaming , "Run to the bus now!" yet I found myself very intrigued by the pumpkin patch while my butt was hanging out of my jeans long before doing so was fashinable. Acres and acres of perfectly shaped pumpkins just sitting in Frakes waiting on someone to purchase them and take them in search of The Great Pumpkin. After Victoria and I rode the big yellow school bus back to civilization, I loaded up my papaw's truck and drove back to Frakes to get two. I bought one massive pumpkin for myself, and I bought another for my friend, Sally. The pumpkins weighed well over 120 pounds each, and I was so proud to have purchased them and bootlegged them across state lines to Tazewell.

As our triad of misbehaving gals tended to do, we got in a little trouble, but only in defense of my pride.

Little Sally's pumpkin had been left in my truck bed all day in the parking lot. Our fearless leader at the time thought it would be hilarious to have some of his daughter's peers get said pumpkin, haul it to the middle of the parking lot and leave it there...all the time fueling my plot of revenge, which I do not encourage anyone to ever do when wits are at play. Josh Lynch, Jeff Walker, and Dick Smith sat my pumpkin in the middle of the parking lot during snack break. They were aptly supervised...but the fearless leader forgot to check the weather report. It rained. It rained a lot, and it rained quickly. The fat pumpkin was drenched. Have you ever tried to lift a wet pumkin that weighs 20 pounds? Well, you just go try to lift one that weighs as much as a 13 year old and get back to me on that. By the time I had slipped and slid all over that darn gourd, my fearless leader and his accompliss crew decided to put it back in the truck for me...and it was skinned all to pieces...and I WAS ONE PISSED OFF WOMAN ON A MISSION!

I'll give you a minute to let the Doug factor come into play because my Bebe genes were definitely in remission by this point.

I jumped in my truck, took off to Frakes, bought the biggest, baddest, ugliest pumpkin they had. It took a tractor to load it in my truck. As I made my way back toward Tazewell, I stopped and and picked up some Maglights, gloves, and a wheel barrow/barrell/whatever they're called. I broke the speed of sound heading toward SMMS and passed the school buses filled with athletes headed to play Clairfield.

My partners in crime, Sally and Lucy, met me at school. We had co-erced the custodial staff to meet us and let us in the back door. We wrangled that big a## pumpkin out of the truck, into the wheel barrow/burro/barrell/whatever and took off into the darkness of the hallowed halls of SMMS like bandits. Our partners in crime had left our fearless leader's office door conveniently opened, and I plopped that pumpkin out and felt the earth shake. After blood, sweat, and tears, I finally got the pumpkin wiggled under his desk. The desk sat lop-sided, but he'd never notice until it was too late.

By that time, the buses were pulling in at the front of SMMS, and my triad partners and I had to get the flip out of dodge. Lights were flashing, keys were jingling, and then, we heard Danielle. Sally went out the back door and nearly got us caught. Lucy and I escaped the same way we entered. Doors were locked. Building was secure. Off we went with a Maxima covered in toilet paper, which was the least of our concerns.

At some point, my fearless leader found the massive orange pumpkin perfection under his desk, and it stayed there for some time before he and Dolly Parton's childhood friend hauled it to the lobby, where it stayed until Thanksgiving, and later Christmas.

Practically 15 years have passed since that beautiful Halloween, and the memory still makes me smile.

Lucy decorated the pumpkin in our lobby for Thanksgivng and Christmas. When we came back after Christmas break, the great SMMS pumpkin was magically gone. I guess Santa took it. We had hoped it would stay until February because we were going to decorate it for the Daytona 500.

So, as I close out another October, I remember my fearless leader and my triad with a smile.

I remember Tommy Massengill's family's tireless efforts to entertain children long before it was popular to decorate for Halloween, I remember realizing I was too old for Pumpkin Alley and being mad about that, and I remember Lawrence Bisceglia wearing a scary mask every year and getting his photo made kissing my mom on the cheek on Balmoral Road.

We are expected to "Pass it on," in many capacities. I'm certainly thankful for October and all the joy it brings me in memory and in my own wickedly wonderful ways each year. I'm off to eat my M&M's my momma gave me today. She has given me a treat for 40 years on Halloween and a blessing every day of my life.

Love to all.

The Spooky Trophy Chase Begins Tonight

2011-10-29T15:42:00.004-04:00

"Amuck, amuck, amuck!" Remember that from the movie Hocus Pocus? I am quite sure SJP's character had no clue she was casting a spell on Tazewell with those words, but I believe she did just that.

Many of you have traveled far and near for great Halloween antics during the past several weeks. You've been scared to the point of needing a Depends undergarment, you've climbed up the backs of innocent souls in front of you as you travel through haunted houses hither and yon, and some of you have even hopped on an ATV and traveled through haunted hollers in search of good ol' Halloween fun.

The end all, be all, mack daddy Halloween fun event happens in Tazewell, my dear friends, and it happens tonight.

To the best of my calculations, the spooktabulous event began five or six years ago as the masterpiece of Holly Cheek's brilliant imagination. Lover of literature and master of Poe, Holly created a celebration that would make the quote, "Nevermore," seem like "Mary Had a Little Lamb," in boogie man history. If Boo Radley lived across the street from Holly, he'd take cover tonight. Holly would walk up to his door and beat it down and then offer him a cookie shaped like a spider. Holly is, without question, the queen of Tazewell Halloween.

If you're in this town tonight, you might want to head toward the Frostee around 8:00...maybe 8:30. You're guaranteed to see full grown adults (some of whom taught you how to punctuate) dressed up in fine costumes as they race in the Frostee to complete some top secret task to complete yet another stop on Holly's brilliant Halloween Scavenger Hunt. If you're in a grocery store, be careful, spooks will be looking for Halloween themed items like Boo Berry Crunch because they're necessary for game photos. I've even played the board game Opreation in Dr. Rose's parking lot in my quest for the coveted Spooky Trophy which takes a new home every year and is protected like an Academy Award, the Stanley Cup, or the Triple Crown (not that a Triple Crown actually exists, but you get the point).

Holly's hunt has sent me far and wide in this county. I've had to tip toe for my life around Johnson's Mill, avoid the cold waters at Cedar Grove, take a flash light and a prayer through the Giles Flea Market to find a gypsy, dash through the post office to photograph an unlucky number, respectfully find a grave in the darkest of hollers, go to a dentist office and pray they didn't give me real teeth, and then head toward the electric company and hope Dracula didn't get me. Year after year, she keeps working harder and the party keeps getting better.

I know there's an assumption among many that when adults get together to dress up for Halloween at a party that the party must be some sort of libation enduced festivity of inappropriateness and such. Not with Holly. It's just plain and simple fun. She has organized, without question, the social event of the year for this town, and invited guests' grandchildren will speak of it in legendary style like kids from Middlesboro remember Tommy Massengill and Pumpkin Alley.

Trick or treaters will hit the road on Monday to work for their goodies, and watching those children have all that fun is one of the best parts of being a grown up. However, no goblin that wanders up and down any subdivision in this town is going to work harder to get a popcorn ball than the full grown folks with drivers' licenses will be working tonight to be the first to complete the scavenger hunt. They'll be zipping and zooming while conjuring up strategies just like the folks on Survivor. At one point, a perfectly harmless mother even used her minivan to block in a competitor at the Frostee so that team would fall behind in the search.

Party goers never know what's on the list for the scavenger hunt. It is a carefully guarded secret. Holly begins working on the project during the summer, and as in true Holly style, its details are perfection to the finest.

As for the actual Spooky Trophy, well, it's a former basketball trophy. Holly put a napkin over the player to make it a ghost, and she painted the basketball to look like a pumpkin. Tonight, some skillful team will win the Spooky Trophy and take it to a new home for 355 days. I swear; if I ever win it, I'll have a glass case made for it with accent lighting. My chances of winning the Powerball are better than winning the Spooky Trophy, and gosh darn it, that makes me mad. I'm such a sore loser.

I did win the prize for most original costume last year, and I felt more proud than I will feel when I win my Pulitzer.

Spider Man Came from Sharps Chapel

2011-10-19T11:01:00.000-04:00

Recent events regarding the health of someone whose name I've known all my life have led me to my keyboard today to reflect and remember a time when my entire existence revolved around PBS television.

The Electric Company, having nothing to do with PVEC, was one of my favorite shows as a child. The program came on channel 2 after Sesame Street, which was my absolute favorite show when I was a curtain climber. Believe it or not, Morgan Freeman, "Yes, Miss Daisy," got his start on The Electric Company when he ever so effectively portrayed Count Dracula. I was terrified of him. Being a child of the 70s, I was diagnosed with asthma, the trendy diagnosis of the time. I slept most nights with a dehumidifier at the foot of my bed and it made the most soothing humming sound; however, that dehumidifier also protected me from Count Dracula. I was certain that if Count Dracula came off The Electric Company and into my bedroom while I slept, the dehumidifier would suck him into its grasp and drown him.

Another fact that you may not know is that The Electric Company also ran segments of actual Spider Man action. The fantabulous super hero would ever so carefully protect the world from harm while he spun his web of protection in real surroundings instead of being limited to a comic strip or book. He was a slim, strong character in a red and blue body suit, and he had heroic characteristics. My five year old mind deducted that since he was so fabulous and had heroic traits about him, he must know my dad. I'll give those of you from Middlesboro a minute to chuckle about that. Moving on...

At some point during my time of loyal viewing, I developed a line-up in my mind of all the men my dad knew, and there were a lot. Some of them already had super hero names like "Frog" and "Wolfe." "Emmett" was purely magical in his own right. But only one of them would fit into that Spider Man body suit. Out of respect for his family, I'll call him Mr. G. and leave it at that.

Mr. G. was indeed my dad's most favorite person on the planet. Unlike some of the others who wandered in and out of the Sports Center and spread their antlers a little too far at the Elks, Mr. G. was quite "fit." For lack of a better term, he was pretty much a skinny feller. He was allusive. He liked being near the lake, and I decided that other insects liked that, too. He had dark eyes, and I assumed that Spider Man had the same. He also had dark hair, and every spider I had ever seen had dark fur. He also had a winding stair case in his house, and I decided that only a man who liked spinning webs would also like spinning stairs. Yep, I had found the real Spider Man in Sharps Chapel, and his name was Mr. G.

Considering that I had cracked a mystery that the majority of the free world must have been itching to solve, I kept this information to myself for quite a long time. I sat at the dining room table and drew Spider Man pictures making sure I was attentive to the stature of Mr. G. in the process. On the rare occasions that I was in the company of Mr. G., I made sure that I did nothing to endanger his life as an arachnid. I even hid my Charlotte's Web book because I figured he had a crush on Charlotte, and I didn't want to embarrass him. I was very careful not to step on his feet for fear that would bring up bad memories of almost being crushed on a sidewalk. When he sneezed, I was always curious as to why a web didn't come out of his nose like I saw come out of the palm of his hand on The Electric Company.

Spider Man's "house" was across the hay field from my dad's favorite playground. Due to technological difficulties, when I visited the playground, my television would not cooperate and allow me to tune in to PBS no matter how much aluminum foil I wrapped around the antennae. I longed to get back to civilization so I could watch PBS, and I developed a terrible sense of animosity toward characters known as Cas Walker, Jay Bazel, and Miss Mull. More often than not, I prayed that Spider Man would come up out of his house across the field and save me from my entertainment doom and gloom. It never took my mom long to realize I was staring at the television with empty eyes, and she typically scooped me up and led me to the picnic table with Richard Scary's ABC's in tow. My goal in life was to some day work up the courage to go across that hay field and find Spider Man's uniform.

The obsession with super heroes and Spider Man continued as I grew older but not wiser. My loyalties soon became divided between Spider Man and Barbie with Barbie winning out in the end. Neither of my parents ever broke my heart about Mr. G's true identity, and Spider Man long existed in the same ranks as Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy in my mind. My dad and I often sat on his back porch and laughed while the wind blew the hay back and forth in the field that separated his playground from Spider Man's house/web. Much too soon, Mr. G. became very sick and left Sharps Chapel. My dad's heart was broken, and I started holding this tale a little bit tighter then.

Today, I'm sharing it with you because my Spider Man's son is terribly sick. I've missed my Dad in recent days a little bit more than usual, but I'm very grateful I have this memory and many more to remind me of a childhood as magical as I chose to make it. After you finish reading this rambling from a girl who grew up to type too fast, please bow your head and say a little prayer for Mr. G's family today and in the days ahead.

epidemic

2011-10-14T22:13:00.000-04:00

I will never be a morning person, and if teaching night classes for tweens was an option, I'd certainly take it. As I came barging through the doors of my beloved institute of punctuation and capitalization this morning, I was met by a little girl whose face was soaked with tears. She was standing beside the door waiting on me because she knew I'd come through eventually. Thank goodness I had nothing in my hands; she just broke on me. The most promising eyes you've ever seen, and that broken heart that only a daughter can have. A tired, terrified child who hadn't slept, hadn't eaten, and hadn't stopped worrying.
We made our way to my happy place within the building, the furnace room. That dark, musty, enormous room was her place of peace for the moment - a welcome salvation from her own nightmare. I didn't have to ask. She barely had to explain. Another broken soul. Another statistic to add to the ever growing epidemic here and elsewhere in these hills. Her hero and her provider had fallen prey to the numb feeling so many promising futures have crashed into.
She needed to collapse for just a second. She needed to tell the story to anyone. Not once did she question why; she has come to accept it as her normal. She is one of hundreds children who have stopped asking.
They know more than adults. They are typically silent, but they seek out peers who know their fear. They rely on each other. They will find an adult to tell. We will listen. Today was my turn. My colleagues share my concern and compassion. There are no state standards that tell us how to deal with this. Nothing in college prepared me for this engulfing hell that is slowly creeping through too many front doors.
And after a few minutes, she could exhale. I reminded her that her only job was to be a smart and fabulous girl. She desperately wants to fix what is broken.
Carefully, she resumed her daily routine. Algebra. Literature. Social Studies. Science. Language Arts. Library. Homework. She won't miss a step. The things she can make perfect will be.
Surely you know; I do pray in school...and especially in the furnace room.

Ouija Confession

2011-10-11T20:15:00.000-04:00

This is my favorite season of every year. A wise 7th grader once told his language arts teacher that a term called "Halloweenian" might exist. If such a word does exist, then that's what I am. I am a Halloweenian, and I love to write. This month's blog experiment is supposed to let me vent my warped and wicked thoughts to celebrate witches and monsters and zombies, oh, my! Today, the star will be my faithful Ouija board. Oh, I miss it so.

First of all, if you're going to go down that dark and dreary Halloween road that assumes my beloved holiday is about all things evil, let me just encourage you to stop in your tracks. Seriously. My mom was and is a strong proponent of my Halloweenian lifestyle, and she doesn't do evil. Halloween, just like any other holiday, is what we make it. I choose to make it another excuse to never grow up. My mom chose to make it the most fun she could possibly provide for her daughter, and she did that very well. However, I don't think she knows about my Ouija antics...until now.

I was never a fan of slumber parties even though my poor mom hosted a couple. I was and am too set in my ways of sleeping. Slumber parties interrupted my slumber, which made me an ill and hateful girl in the days that followed. Eventually in this blog, I'm going to crack open the great Ambleside scandal of 1989, but you're going to have to wait for that one. Take the time to prepare yourselves now. But back to Ouija.

The Ouija board came into my life during middle school. I'll give you a moment to think back on your life to that time and cringe. Worse than nails across a chalk board; I tell ya. I have no clue where the Ouija board came from. I'm assuming it was either one of Doug's flea market finds or a hand me down from a KISS impersonator. Literally KISS. Long tongues, scary make up, high heels, fake blood. Yuck. I was dressed up as Casper and someone answered the door as Gene Simmons on Chester Avenue...you can figure the rest out yourself. Regardless, the board sat in Mom's basement on the top shelf in the back corner. I never played Clue, but by golly, I could rock an Ouija board.

For those of you who haven't had the Ouija experience, I probably need to tell you that there is an Ouija app for iPhone. Either download the app or Google Ouija. Ignore anything evil about the board. It's made by Parker Brothers. It's a game. It's a toy. It is not evil...unless, of course, I'm sitting there playing with you.

During middle school, I tried to believe the mystery surrounding Ouija. For many hours, I along with other silly girls, sat and held our fingertips ever so gently on the gliding needle heart. We usually sat in dark rooms with candles lit. As if candles serve some magical power to cause a piece of plastic to speak to us Halloweenians. The heart would fly over the slick surface without a bit of traction. The felt pads on the bottom of the heart prevented any sort of friction that might disturb the mighty center pin. We always had a recorder on standby...a person...not a device. We would call out the letters that were "spelled" by Ouija, and the recorder would frantically write them down. After we got tired of holding our hands up like Madge from the Palmolive soap commercials, we proclaimed that Ouija was tapped out, and the recorder would call off the letters and symbols Ouija "spoke" to us. After that, we stayed up until daylight interpreting the results. This is absoultely when I learned about the importance of elaboration in story telling.

I continued to lose my logical mind in high school, but I did have one brilliant idea. First of all, I'm terribly claustrophbic. I didn't like sitting in that close circle with all those other people while we slid the Ouija pin across the board. I could stand it for a couple of minutes, and that was all. At some point, I made the conscious decision to own the Ouija board like no other. I silently declared that I could be the power of Ouija all by myself. Depending on who was sitting with me, I could get Ouija to spell out names that would make any homecoming queen's crown tarnish. I used my fingertips to spell out pure facts that led the guilty to truly believe the powers of Ouija. Sorry guys. It was I. The more I spelled out, the more torn up people got. They could not stand to stay seated for one more minute, thus freeing me from close quarters and a game that I had learned to master.

In retrospect, the Ouija board provided my friends and me with a long list of hysterical antics and memories. The board was never about black magic or supernatural powers. The game is about someone willing to be sneaky (me) and those who are willing to believe. I think my Ouija board is still in Mom's basement in a closet. That is probably its final resting place after I dragged it to college. Ouija in Dupree? Yes, I took it with me.

Here's hoping that you find your inner Halloweenian and enjoy the weeks ahead with great fun, great friends, and glorious children.

My Happy Place...

2011-10-09T22:17:00.000-04:00

The checkered flag flew for the last time in 2011 on Saturday at Tazewell Speedway. The end of the race season is here. I need to have a beginning to even out this end, so I'm going to work my way through this blog experience as a rookie. Before long, the spring thaw will arrive, and I'll hear thunder coming from Petty's Garage to remind me that it's time to go green once again. Until then, stay tuned. This is probably the time for those afraid they'd end up in my book to take cover and hang on tight.