The Higher the Hair...

     Every single time JCPenney releases a list of store closings across the United States, my heart stops for two reasons.  Most importantly, I worry about the loyal employees who have stayed with the company.  Secondly, I absolutely panic about the 2nd most important thing in my mom's life:  her hair.  My mom is as faithful to the JCPenney salon in Middlesboro, Kentucky, as she is faithful to her church, East Cumberland, in the same town.  She visits each place once a week.  She deeply cares about the people who surround her with kindness at each location.  I am convinced while she plays the piano at church and while she sits under the dryer at the salon, she is praising God the whole time.  

     I don't know if I am supposed to call what we've been experiencing the Corona Virus (how many words is it) , COVID-19, a pandemic or something else far too scientifically advanced for my understanding.  All I know is in the interest of public health and safety, the salon at JCPenney was closed and so was Mom's church along with many other places of worship in the Bluegrass State.  First, I heard that the salon was closed, and I felt my knees get weak.  Because I'm a combination of two very diverse sets of DNA, I instantly thought, "I'll pay someone to go to her house and do her hair for church."  Then, when I learned that her church was honoring social distancing and postponing services until a later date, I let out a sigh of relief strong enough to shake the trees on the Pinnacle.  The attention Mom's hair demands is heavily due to the fact her church services are televised and she plays the piano and/or organ on camera.  Long before televised services though, Mom's hair has thrived in a world of its own; I pretty much consider it my older sibling. 

     Hours became days.  Days became weeks.  I won't disclose the actual amount of time she managed to live in denial that the salon remained closed compounded by the fact that her options for hair help were limited.  Day after day, she stayed at home, waited on the Governor's 5:00 report, watched reruns of the Virginian and Gun Smoke while her hair survived yet another day without proper attention.  I had begun a calendar of care in my kitchen at home to calculate the days before I knew I had to dig deep and leap out of my comfort zone to do the right thing.  I started an Amazon cart, and I didn't need a single roll of toilet paper. 

    If you're between the ages of 30 - 60 and you grew up in this part of the world, I could probably just whisper the words, "sponge rollers," to you and make you break out in hives.   I've written about those tools of torture before and won't give them too much free publicity here because I still think they are the work of the Satan himself.  Regardless of my childhood trauma - especially Easter weekend - I had to break down and go to Walgreen's and buy sponge rollers.  I stood in front of the shelf just glaring at them like I would glare at a long division math problem if it was on a shelf.  I equally loathe both.  I had tried to buy plastic rollers on Amazon, but I guess the hand sanitizer  and toilet paper hoarders had a fashion emergency, too, and bought up all of the plastic rollers like the professionals would use on my mom.  Because people I've never met before were greedy, I had to buy sponge rollers for my mom.  She deserved better. 

   The negotiation and denial about her hair continued with every Facetime discussion.  Every night we would chat about the delight of nibbling on popcorn while watching television, my dogs' antics for the day, and whether or not UT would get to play football in fall 2020.  Toward the end of those discussions, I'd find a way to ask about her hair, and she'd shut me down like a nondisclosure agreement in Beverly Hills.  Her hair was fine.  Just fine.  

   In a few days, the UPS saints of delivery dropped off a huge box at her door, and she opened it up to discover that the prize egg was a bonnet style hair dryer just like what the pros use at the salon.  This pivot served as a turning point in our relationship.  In a way, she felt like I would feel if someone sent me deodorant as a gift.  Would that mean I stink?  Did the dryer mean the end was near?  Due to the gadget Apple made for my pocket, I confirmed the dryer had been delivered.  Silence.  She said not one word.  I knew I had to wait until she was ready.  You can't help someone who isn't ready to help herself, right?  

   "It was on a Sunday..."  remember that song?   Well, let me tell you, it was on a Sunday that my mother, for the first time in my nearly 5 decades of life, told me it was time for me to wash her hair and style it.   I'll remember that day for the rest of my days.  When she ended the call, I lost my appetite.  I sat in a dark room and listened to the silence.  I prayed.  I remembered Proverbs 16:31, "The hoary head is a crown of glory, if it be found in the way of righteousness," and I wished the second word of that scripture was different.  My mom's glory had become my responsibility, and I accepted the challenge.  Within an hour of closing out the planning session, I jumped on YouTube and watched every possible video about Southern "traditional" hair.  I thought about Truvy from Steel Magnolias and wished she was with me.  Then, I thought, what a nice problem to have!

    My mom is healthy.  She is active.  She is technologically savvy and knows no fear.  She is fervent in her faith.  She still works, teaches piano lessons, and worships in the same church she attended as a child.  How blessed am I that her hair is her greatest personal concern in this time of worry for our planet?   

    All night long, I remembered going to the beauty shop with her when I was a kid.  She was faithful to a gaudy establishment decorated in red and black that reminded me of where the Brady Bunch kids' aunt Jenny may have lived.  Sometimes I'd go with Mom to her appointments, but I knew to stay out of the way.  The multiple sizes of plastic rollers were stored in huge baskets covered with dust.  I think that's why I hate baskets as decor now.  I'd grab a basket and start building structures with the rollers.  I'd use hair pins to make the creations more stable.  By the time I had built a whole community of buildings, Mom would be free from the dryer and the stylist would start sculpting her hair into something that would withstand a swarm of locusts, a hurricane, a tornado, or all three at once.   I always looked forward to the spray lacquer spewing out of a huge can because it would signal the end of a very long afternoon.  I'd bury my head in my knees or hide in another room until the spray noise stopped.  Once it stopped, I knew I'd be set free from the only Mediterranean decor' inspired business on Winchester Avenue and she'd take me to Clancy's as a peace offering.  On the days she got a perm, too, she'd even take me to Woolworth's.  No balloon on a stick was fair compensation for taking in the odor of a perm in the 70s, but I was at her mercy.  Now, at age 48, I was put in charge of creating a hair design that would withstand  the plagues mentioned in the scriptures AND a pandemic.  No one could be less qualified. 

    I woke up Monday morning and desperately wanted to pull the covers over my head and pretend to be sick like I did when I knew Mrs. Parsons was going to make us do the physical fitness test in middle school gym class.  At age 48, one does not have the option to play sick when a true need is at bay.   I got up, got ready, and I selected clothes from the closet that would be easy to remove by first responders just in case Mom killed me for failing my mission.  It's important to note that it takes me about 5 minutes to style my hair; 3 minutes if I use the high setting on my dryer.  I hugged my dogs a little tighter when I left; I knew I may not make it back.  I listened to Dolly Parton the whole way to Middlesboro because she shares Mom's philosophy.  Say it with me, Kori, "The higher the hair, the closer to God."  I arrived at Mom's house, put on my mask, put on my gloves, stepped out of my car, opened the hatch, got out my stash of black market Lysol (paternal influence) and hosed myself down from head to toe.  Mom opened the door, and in one flash quicker than thunder, I felt like my little sweet WoWo was looking back at me. 

    Not only was a large portion of my life dedicated to watching my mom's hair get "did," it was dedicated to watching my mom do her mother's hair.  There was a little white plastic basket covered in a clear plastic bag that stayed on the shelf in my WoWo's bathroom.  It was a fragile container, but she never got a new one.  Inside the container were permanent rods and hair pins of all shapes and sizes.  My mom pin curled my WoWo's hair, and those were glorious days for me.  While they had set up shop in the kitchen, I could walk the railroad tracks, play with Spiffy, or piddle with my papaw Steve in the barn.  Those days flew by and not one snack of bribery was ever needed to encourage me to participate.  Most of the time, my papaw even paid me with a Lincoln dollar for coming to visit.  

   So now...my turn had come.  What an honor!

   I remember my friend Stephanie telling me about being in mom's class as a 4th grade student.  Stephanie said one day there was a string hanging out from the back of Mom's shirt, and Mom asked her to cut off the string.  Stephanie was so honored she had been asked to complete such a tedious task located so close to Mom's hair.  I was being asked to cut off a lot more than a string, but I knew if Stephanie could handle the pressure, I might stand a chance of doing the same. 

   Mom sat still as a church mouse on a dining room chair in the middle of her kitchen.  Just like she did with teaching me how to swim and how to drive, she just turned me loose.   One by one, she'd hand me a roller, and I'd twig it up with a prayer.  A few times, I noticed her eyes were closed tightly as if she had just eaten a lemon with too much juice.  I tried really hard not to hurt her.  I just sectioned it off one part at a time like the videos showed, and in about an hour, I had her whole head in curlers.  She moved to the make shift dryer stool and together we sat in silence.  I wanted to finish this task before WalMart closed so I could go buy her some cute spring hats if I had failed.   Around 8:00, she said her hair was dry, and back to the curling chair we went. 

   Like Garth Brooks, I'm not big on social graces, but the Queen of England couldn't have demonstrated more delicate movement in any curtsy compared to how carefully I removed that first roller.  I let go of those strands of hair and they sprung right back up against her head as if they were trying to hide from me.  One after the next, "Snap, Crackle, Pop," they'd come out of the rollers and go right back into place.  Shirley Temple needed me in her life.  Every single curl stuck, and I managed to brush them out without Mom shedding a single tear.  I pulled here, tugged there, swooped a little this way, and tucked a little that way.  Eventually, she looked like my momma again.  I sent her to the bathroom to inspect the final product, and she came back with the biggest can of Big Sexy hairspray I have ever seen in my life.  I stood there still as a branch haint.  She said, "Here, spray it."  I couldn't move.  She said, "What is wrong with you? "  I said, "You're going to have to give me a minute to accept the fact that you own anything that says, 'Big Sexy,' written on it."  She laughed until she couldn't breathe;  I was in shock. 

   So, I hosed her down with Big Sexy just like I had hosed myself down with Lysol.  She seemed so relieved, and God knew I was thankful that He had carried me through yet another valley of despair.  I tidied up my work space and put all of the chairs back around the table where they've sat since I was six months old.  This was the closest I had stood to my mom in many days, and I prayed that I hadn't carried in any sort of germs to harm her health while we completed a necessary challenge.  I sprayed myself out of the house and found my way back to Cedar Fork.  As I left her driveway, I caught her smiling at her reflection in the storm door.  Friends, let me remind you, I was thankful for mercy. 

    I sincerely hope that JCPenney's salon will burst wide open and Mom can get all gussied up and resume her normal beauty routine soon, but until then, I guess we have found our new normal.  If you're a hair stylist, please know, I have more respect for your professional skill set now than I ever have had before.  Confidence is key, and you provide that for your clients.  How can anyone say, "Thank you," for that? 

   

    

       

Eleven.

    What do you remember about being eleven?  Summer has come to Appalachia, and I found myself in the company of these girls as we battled mosquitoes and found lady bugs in high grass below round topped mountains.  Eleven.  I see it as the steepest cusp.  Some may bestow that to twelve, but no, it belongs to eleven. 

    When I was eleven, we were required to become one school instead of two.  In an unlikely pairing, Vikings and Road Runners were sent into the Swarm and some how Yellow Jackets emerged at the end.  I was at the graduate level of Sunday School...ever so close to being part of the Youth Group.  I learned to love the radio, and I agreed that Mickey was so fine he blew my mind.  But, in the same month that I became eleven, I heard "Billie Jean," for the first time, and the innocence of eleven let me love it just for the sake of sound without needing to understand.  I loved Bo Duke and knew my mom would never let me dress like Daisy.  And, at eleven, the world came to Knoxville, and we had a fair.  My dad also got stuck in the traffic at Red Gate that summer after Alabama (not the Tide) came to Union County.  Hate you missed that. 

    And now, many years after eleven, I look at these girls.  Just the land where they're sitting represents so much more than a pretty, trendy back drop.  To see eleven with forty-five year old eyes is a favor from God.  These girls giggled, leaped, and spun for what seemed like mere seconds.  Elbows and knees and wrists were all over the place as they tried to select how to pose them.  The two sisters, twins in fact, would drift among their guests and always find their way back to each other as Momma delicately stepped back to take it all in because moments like this are fleeting like a blink from a lightnin' bug.  

    They were gracious, kind, and polite at all times. Their perfectly southern white tunics and tops not once showed evidence of dirt because by eleven you have that skill mastered.   At eleven now, there are selfies to be taken.  What's it like when you don't see the photo as it's being taken?  Peculiar?  Perhaps?  We figured it out, and still I found myself  wanting to beg them to love every second of eleven.  I knew each one probably had a favorite doll at home that would soon rest easy because dolls and twelve sometimes aren't pals.  I wondered if they were as confused by mascara as I still am, and I wondered if they believed how beautiful and smart they are. Without a doubt, I knew each knew she was loved far beyond the stars and back. 

    We hiked our way through a place created with, I suspect,  at least a dash of ambitious children in mind.  We didn't cover a lot of acreage, but every phase could have been a chapter.  One spot already offering fruit, one preparing to do the same, another waiting for guests, and the final housing generations of farmers' sweat in the soil.  It seemed like one complete circle mirrored life at its youngest and oldest, but I don't know if that was the intention.  The girls stood before me holding hands as they navigated a hill side.  What looked like a modern scene from Little House actually represented the years they have ahead.  It's going to take them a minute to reach that sunset, but if they hold on tight, they'll get there.  And with each step, they monitored the other, because at eleven, you start to do that at a heightened state for your friends.  They were curious yet cautious around each corner.  They preciously waited for the tiniest of the tribe to catch up. 

    I wondered about their Momma's day.  Had she cooked, crafted, entertained, and hosted to the point of exhaustion?  No. I would have been the one to expire had I been charged with such a challenge. She was yet to break a sweat.   In the same way she always has, she gracefully soaked in every image, even the ones I didn't catch.  I know she was thinking ahead.  I know she was wondering about how this would be at thirteen, then sixteen, then eighteen, and then twenty-one.  I hope to be there for those milestones, too. 

   Thankfully, there and here, I'm managing to hold back much advice to offer to an eleven year old.  If I were them, I'd focus on the unicorns today and anxiously await the arrival of more tomorrow.  This is exactly what eleven looks like.  

   

So, you're not a lake person. Welcome.

     Social media can apply some pressure where all holidays are involved, but when it comes to the 4th of July, the sense of urgency to keep up with the masses might be intense for some of you fine folks.  Let me come to you as a source of comfort.  Let me talk to you as the girl who loves air conditioning, hates bug repellent, and darn near died at the wrong end of a Roman candle once upon a time.  So you live in Appalachia, and you don't like the lake, but it's the 4th of July and you're desperate to find a ski rope and a tube.  The search is over.   It is o.k.  It is so o.k.  Join me.  Be happy in your pajamas surrounded by modern comforts and technology.   Let me explain.

   Few daughters were ever born in the tri-state area with more of a solid assumption that she'd wiggle her toes in the waters of Lakeview Dock more so than me.  For generations, my mom's family had made pilgrimages from Middlesboro to Lost Creek (now Sunset Bay) to camp, fish, and frolic during all summer holidays, with the 4th of July being the peak holiday of the summer season.  I have photos of my momma at Eastern Kentucky University social events while she wore dresses with layers upon layers of ruffles, and then I have photos of her sitting in a boat with her dad, or my dad, reeling in a smallie.  Either way, she could happily dance the night away in Richmond or fish until the sun came up in the Chapel.  That gene skipped me.  It actually hopped, skipped, and jumped me.  Totally. 

    If you're struggling trying to find your place on this holiday, and you think that you're supposed to be on a boat in Norris, or any other boat for that matter, I am here to tell you it's o.k. if you're not.  You don't have to rent a cabin.  You don't have to drag a cooler from your car to the dock to the boat and back to the dock and back to your car and then forget to empty it at home in the carport so it smells like certain death the next day.  You don't have to have a sun screen streaked body marked by mosquito bites that give out little doses of special love from the insect population.  You don't have to haul every single condiment in your refrigerator to another county.  You don't have to go to the grocery store and spend $500 on food when you couldn't afford $450 for a house rental at the beach for the very same time.  You don't have to stop at every tent between the WalMarts to comparison shop for fireworks because you're literally going to set fire to money, and yet, for some reason, we (I include myself) are o.k. with that.  You don't have to go out and order a monogrammed baseball hat because every female at the lake has one, and you don't have to pawn your high school class ring to buy a real YETI anything.  You don't have to go search for the perfect watermelon.  You don't have to search for wire coat hangers and spend half an afternoon making them perfect for roasting weenies, which means you have to let the coating burn off of them first.  You don't have to throw a horse shoe, but then again, I don't think anyone does that anymore.  You, my friend, can stay at home, in the comfort of your home, and celebrate the 4th of July without a sunburn, a mosquito bite, and a blister between your toes caused by flip flops you didn't like wearing in the first place.  Snuggle up to technology. Watch the Boston Pops on the television.  Comfort your pets as the neighbors blow up the hood.  You, do not, in fact, have to go to the lake. 

     But, if you're at the lake this holiday season (especially with children), let me offer you some advice regarding how you make those memories stick.  You take the kids to the dock and let them feed the ducks. Pick up a loaf of Wonder Bread (no other brand works).  Spend the time tearing it into small pieces.  Send your child to the ducks as if he/she were carrying the key to the universe.  Sit down on the dock and observe.  Watch your child care for another living creature.  Take it in. The smell, the sound, the joy.  Watch the child make sure every duck has a bite.  That's what my parents did for me, and to this day, the lesson has stuck.  Take care of everyone.  

   Next, teach them to respect the water.  It's no joke.  Lake water and swimming pool water are not the same.  If you're going to grow up at the lake around here, you have to respect the water and flat out fear TVA.  Then, you have to respect TWRA.  You have to define a 10/40 line (whatever the numbers are)  and know good and well you better not do anything to mess that up.  If TVA has put signs where you've set up camp, you better respect them.  Go take a peek in your baby book.  Can you find your first fishing license?  I bet you can.

    Never walk on wood with bare feet.  It may be sanded.  It may be glazed.  It may be both.  Don't trust it.  Wood that is exposed to the elements for the year of seasons will give you a splinter as a souvenir if you let it.  Protect your feet. 

    Put Swiss Rolls in the refrigerator and break them out like caviar the next day.  Little Debbie cakes on the mainland are just normal; but the same at the lake are a delicacy.  Swiss Rolls out of a box are mundane, but break them out of a refrigerator, and you'll change the mood of your entire family. 

   Drive quickly by the stores that have inflatable toys hanging from the front entrance.  My dad used to tell me that the Bible said we couldn't buy those, so I drove by many whales that I wanted to take to the Chapel.  You better drive quickly by those retail outlets and distract your children or grandchildren otherwise by talking about Jonah and the Whale and could there be a whale at the lake? 

   Keep an old suitcase filled with children's books, Barbie dolls, and Matchbox cars at the place where you're staying on the lake.  When kids show up, they'll know exactly where to go to get the good stuff.  And, when the children grow up, and you're no longer there, they'll just have to open up the closet door, grab the handle of the suitcase, and take it home.  At any time, they can open it and be greeted by a life time of memories provided by people who just wanted to give them some happy memories the summer in the mountains could offer.

    Make sure you have white Styrofoam cups.  Milk tastes different in those.  When you wake up in the mornings and fix breakfast for small children at the lake, make sure they drink milk out of white Styrofoam cups.  They'll never forget the taste or the smell, and they're guaranteed to remember the chef forever as a result. 

   Spend the money on fireworks.  Just go ahead and do it.  Teach daughters how to tape three bottle rockets together at once and shoot them from the top of a horse shoe pole instead of a bottle.  Teach them how to throw jumping jacks in the water.  Teach them how to light M-80s without looking like  a wuss.  Follow the directions on Roman Candles.  Don't hold them in your hands.  Really.   Light up the sky, set the world on fire, and write your daughter's name while using a sparkler.  She'll never forget it and she'll always be thankful.   Make sure you spell it correctly.  You know.  There are two "n's" instead of one. 

   On the night of the 4th of July, sit outside and watch until the smoke clears off the water.  Chase lightnin' bugs (we don't have fireflies here) and put them in Mason jars.  Use a Case pocket knife to poke holes for air in the lid.  Sit up late like you're waiting for Santa Claus.  Carry the children to bed, or sleeping bag, or cot.  Then, take your sun-kissed skin, your worn out bones, your empty pockets to the picnic table and recount the day's events with whomever is strong enough to stay awake with you. 

    Because, the next day, you have an obligation.  Yes, you lake people.  You must wake the children up, and you must send them out to pick up sticks.  They have to pick up the trash from the fireworks.  They have to pick up the sticks from the bottle rockets.   They have to cry, moan, and whine about the whole process.  But, be strong, and make them do it.  

    The time will come that they will either choose one of two paths in their adult lives.  They'll either choose to drag little people to the lake and teach them the same principles of respecting our Appalachian holiday, or they'll choose to sit home and watch you post photos of everything they loved the most about the lake people they once knew.  

   No matter how much of a lake person you claim to be, there is one fact that separates us all.  If you never had to leave the Chapel and drive half way to Maynardville to that little gray hotel on the right side of the road to use a pay phone, you never knew what it truly was to be roughing it during the 4th.   God Bless the USA, and thank you, Jesus, for Verizon.  

  And, now, as we are set to celebrate the 4th of July in our great nation just a few minutes away, I know that I'm just not the lake person I was intended to be.  I don't like bugs.  I don't like mud.  I don't sweat.  The lake is intended for people who are a lot tougher than me, and I'm willing to let you all wear it out.  Just make sure you post lots of photos for me while I happily relax at home while eating bon bons and watching Netflix.  

   

    

   

Oranges, Batteries, Tires, Advance and Madea.

 

     There are only three times (way too many)  in my life that I've seen my elders mistreated in a retail environment.  Once, I witnessed a wise mouth teen ( that absolutely smelled rancid) like teen spirit tell Preacher Bingham (in his later years) if he wanted different oranges, he'd have to walk on his own to get them from the cash register to the produce department because she just didn't have time.  In a humble tone, Preacher Bingham apologized for the inconvenience he had caused her because he had picked up the wrong oranges and he couldn't take the wrong oranges to his wife.  That humble man left the oranges lie on the counter and slowly left the store.

      Most of the time my Bebe genes are the dominant trait, but there are those precious moments when Big D  sneaks out of my pores despite my best effort to the alternative.  A big orange challenge was about to begin the likes of which Neyland Stadium had never seen.  I let Preacher Bingham make it safely to his car where Mrs. Mae was waiting, and at that opportune time, I took it upon myself as an educator to share a thought or two with freckled face, snaggle toothed Miss Priss behind the counter about the man she had just dismissed and the oranges I would happily wait for her to retrieve...in a buggy...full...every type they had in the store....big....small....cuties....if it was orange and citrus, her quickly moving feet better get them to me and get them quick.

    When I didn't wiggle, and I didn't raise my voice, she simply closed the line, took a buggy, and came back with enough citrus to provide vitamin C to the whole neighborhood surrounding Binghamtown Baptist Church.  She was appalled that I cared and interrupted her ever so important task of chomping gum like a calf chewing on  a cud.

     In my departure, I tried to channel Dixie Carter from Designing Women, and I simply said calmly to her, "Do your homework, child.  Do your homework.  Not only will streets in this town be named for that man but streets of gold in Heaven will be named for him, too.  If he comes in this store and wants oranges, you get him oranges.  If he wants gold, frankincense and myrrh, you get those, too, because he is serving a King that I don't think you've ever met or you'd know to respect the prophets God has sent to you for a reason."

    I was so proud I didn't cuss her like a sailor; that doesn't mean I didn't want to.   I carefully placed the oranges in my car, delivered them and I asked someone to deliver them to the church (where I am not a member) the next day.  Mission accomplished.

    Now, let's forward about 20 years later.  This time I'm pissed.  Sorry, Mom.  I'm pissed.  Last month, Mom's handy dandy Cadillac needed a little spa day.  The Cadillac that transported us to Gulf Shores for a vacation after Dad lost his battle to colon cancer.  The Cadillac that could drive to East Cumberland Avenue Baptist Church on auto pilot.  The Cadillac that could wiggle its way in Conley's and get a chili bun all by itself.  The Cadillac that got her ...most importantly...to the beauty shop.  The Cadillac that we all need to be thankful cannot speak or tell tales.

     It had been waxed, but we gave it a little spa treatment at Soapy J's.  After that, we decided it needed a new battery.  So, we cruised ever so smoothly to Advance Auto Parts in Middlesboro simply because of proximity and my late husband's employment history with the franchise.  Mom and I walked in, and we were invisible.  People with weekend warrior kits of cleaning supplies and tacky little air fresheners' needs were put before ours.  Patiently in her little pink cardigan set with pearls and matching purse in tow she waited while I circled like a shark ready to raise my fin.   After about 20 minutes, some male species asked what we needed to which we replied a battery.

     Cadillac has a new wax and shine and it might as well get a new battery, too.  Oh, the look of angst on this young male's face to consider the task before him.  He may actually have to install a battery today.  A fate worse than death; I'm sure.  He grunted and groaned until he got the battery loaded on the cart, had the audacity to ask if we expected him to install it.  I was thinking, "either you will install this in this car or I will install it in your ....I won't say it." And as we faced the door to go outside, a tire had gone flat on the Cadillac while we were in the store.

    That was the breaking point.

     I asked the grunter if he had an air compressor (not sure if he understood the term), and he quickly said, "No," with an echo from some other person standing behind the counter giving the impression of being able to make a decision while sporting a tragic hair style, too.

     I knew there was a compressor in that store.  I could have bought one, used it, and then demanded a refund.  But, I had to pick the debate I would launch carefully because Mom had reached a limit of patience, and I passed it up when the grunt started grunting.

    Not once did they offer a can of Fix a Flat.  Not once did they offer to get us someone who could help.  Not once did they even act like we had a problem that was any of their concern.  

    And then I started thinking about that list.  That list of young people who would come get my momma's Cadillac and carry it on their backs to get it where she wanted it to go.  That list of thousands of students she has taught who would help her.  And just for a little bit, I thought about calling the big dogs to help us:  Bo or Byron.  But I refrained because I knew they were busy.

   The employee of Advance finished installing the battery, left the keys in the ignition,  and said, "You all can go now."   He slammed the door shut and went back in the store.  I called on Jesus again to grant me patience.  Sure, we can "go now" with a flat tire.

    And we did the only thing we had the option to do.  We called Quality Towing, and they promptly arrived with smiling faces and kind words to help us out.  Their cost was reasonable, and most importantly, they were genuinely nice to my mom.  They got the Cadillac rolling, and we went on our merry way to make more memories in the Cadillac that had pretty much been my mom's trademark for a very long time.

    But I think the part about this that hurts the most is that my late husband worked at Advance (in Tazewell)  for a long time, and he took pride in helping people when he could for the three years shown here in his little hat pin.

  I understand that auto parts stores are not garages.  I know they're associates and not mechanics.  I get that.  But what I don't get is how in the world a young punk could refuse to help someone like my momma when she is apparently experiencing a flat tire that could easily be fixed.  I assume he has never known someone with a spirit like her and a compassionate soul like her, and as a result, he didn't know how to properly respect her.

   I'd bet my life he has seen Madea movies though, and Madea  (my alter ego) and I go way back.   If a pastor needs oranges, he's going to get them.  If my momma needs air in her tires, she will get it.  And if she goes to buy potting soil for her flower bed and you make her load it in 50 pound bags by herself,  Madea is coming to correct your poor decision making. (I'll write about that at another date.)

   Madea will let this be, and I won't be going back to Advance in Middlesboro, which will be no big loss to them.  I'm not trying to launch some big protest or make some automotive political statement.  I just thought folks might want to know about how this particular store just ignored an opportunity to do a good deed for a decent human being like my mom and put some air in her tires.  That's all.  I'm full of enough hot air about it, I think I could probably take care of that from now on. 

   Thank you Quality Towing for helping us out in our time of need in Middlesboro.



 

   

Can You Bring Me Some Coffee?

            “Can you bring me some coffee?”  In this life I’m wobbling through, that’s probably the most terrifying question I’ve ever been asked.  Only by God’s grace can I make such a declaration, but those words struck a fear in me the likes to which I have no comparison.  He had been my boyfriend for a month, and he asked for coffee.  That was over a decade ago, but it feels and smells like yesterday.   We were both too old to use words like “boyfriend.”  We were both too old to use a lot of words, but I was way too inexperienced to ever be sent to the store to get coffee. 

            I remember buying a coffee pot for my dorm room because I thought that was something we were supposed to have.  I tried to drink it.  I loved the smell of it.  I got plum crafty with the grind, and those of you who were my family in Dupree can just keep all that to yourselves.  Don’t make me tell the Ouija board stories.  Forward.

            My mom always had coffee brewing at home when I was a kid, and my WoWo (term for best grandmother ever who could rock a set of pin curls like a diva on the cover of Vogue) always had a coffee pot full of water on her coal and wood stoves.  The containers were always around, and for some reason, I thought the contents were important.  When I got old enough to share a dorm room with Steph (who deserves a Nobel prize for doing so), I thought I should perk up and drink up.  Now, at forty-two, I wonder what else children pick up just by watching.  No one ever offered me a sip.  No one ever told me I couldn’t have it.  The coffee was there, and when I got all grown up, I wanted the same. 

            I was all grown up by age twenty-one.  All grown up.  In the stages of human development that I studied in college, that’s the stage all the great psychological minds forgot to discuss.  This is the point in my blog where I’d insert some famous quote from a beautiful mind who studied human development, but I’m not going to do that.  I’d cheat and copy and paste it from the Internet, and you’d have a false sense of my intelligence.  It would look like I remembered it from some great work I read, when we all know the only book I can quote besides the Holy Bible is To Kill a Mockingbird and maybe the complete comic series of Calvin and Hobbes.   See, when I was all grown up, my ears stopped working, my mouth went into overdrive, and my mind lost all sense of reason.  It’s a common human condition, but I think my case of all grown up lasted a lot longer than other people who shared my chronological age.  My case of all grown up should have stayed hot for about the same amount of time as a cup of coffee, but it just lingered until the brew got plum moldy.  In fact, I am pretty sure that today is my last day of being all grown up.  I think tomorrow I might just enter the age of plain old grown.

            Do you know Phaedra Parks?  I’ve never met her, but she’s on (not as in sitting upon but as in performing in) The Real Housewives of Atlanta, and she is by far my favorite feisty peach.  She loves to say, “Everybody knows…..” while she looks at the camera like we’re all idiots because we don’t know.  She makes me laugh, and I think she’d say, “Everybody knows when the weatherman says ‘snow,’ we go to the grocery store in the South.”  Amen. 

            Articles have been published in bulk about that mystic behavior we demonstrate when we hear the “s” word.  Conspiracies have been derived to claim that the weatherman is in cahoots with dairy farmers to provoke a sell out of milk and eggs.  The mere grain of the earth is chopped down to the nub all for the sake of a loaf of Wonder Bread because there may never be another.  Honey, I run right to the store with the rest of you, and that’s the only time you’ll ever see me run.  Even if something is ever chasing me, I’ll let it catch me.  It won’t keep me long.  Kind of like catching what my papaw (the diva’s husband) called a gar fish.  Big ol’ fish.  Teeth for days.  After he caught it, he’d wrinkle up his nose and throw it back.  Even though I’m officially one tooth short of a full set compared to a gar, ain’t nothing gonna keep me if I get caught.  But the one thing you’ll never ever catch me buying is coffee even if the next blizzard is coming.  

            So, here I am past the all grown up stage, snuggling into the grown stage of life, and there shall be no coffee in my hand, in my car, or in my home.  For as long as I live, I will remember the day he called and said, “Can you bring me some coffee?” and the fear that followed it.  I borrowed the attached photo from that Interweb.  Just stare at that picture for a minute.  The brands are too numerous to count.  The prices are too varied to justify.  The containers are so diverse that an elementary teacher could make a learning center out of every single empty one.  The smells either make me nauseous or make me want to kiss someone on the lips.  Picking out coffee for someone I had only been kissing on the lips for two weeks…maybe a month…maybe a summer…. was way too much pressure for me even when I was all grown up.  I couldn’t ask what kind he wanted because I was too cool for that.  I was all grown up and all grown up people know that about others.  I couldn’t buy decaffeinated because that could be insulting to his well being.  I couldn’t buy the beans because I didn’t know if he had a grinder, and I couldn’t buy the instant because I didn’t know if it went in a pot or not.  I know I stood in that aisle for half an hour trying to make a decision that I was certain would determine my future from that day forward.  See, when you’re all grown up, that’s what your brain does.

            Today, I heard a colleague mention that she had checked the NOAA website.  That is all I have to hear.  Doesn’t matter what television station you pull up, what newspaper, or what airport you call to get the weather report.  When a teacher says she’s pointing and clicking with NOAA, you know someone has said, “snow.”  My colleague said NOAA and my brain thought, “FOOD!”   I putted on down the road to the grocery store and grabbed up enough goods to get me through a blizzard or the 0.05 inch of snow we might stand a 10% chance of getting tonight.  But tonight and every other time I have to brave up and go to the grocery store, I stop in the coffee aisle and just stare at all those choices.  I’ve never bought coffee again since, and I’m pretty sure I bought the right kind when I was asked to do so.  Once is more than enough.

Inside a Sparkly Pink Box

 

     I have set a few milestones over the course of my life intended to mark the possibility that, perhaps, I might have reached the point of being an adult once I met them.  Even now, I'm far from being grown up, and when I actually turned 18, doing so didn't make me feel like an adult either.  In my mother's house and under her roof, there were no magic numbers granting adulthood.  I'm sure most of you grew up with the same understanding of the law of your momma's house.  However, after I graduated from college, settled into work, and was brave enough to have my own post office box, a card similar to the one shown above came to my mailbox.  It wasn't addressed to, "Mrs. Bebe Campbell & Danna," for the first time in my life.  It was addressed to just me.  I recognized the penmanship, and I delighted in a signature that even resembled an artist's paint pallet.  Mrs. Cohenour began sending me my own Christmas cards about twenty years ago, and annually after Thanksgiving, I anxiously awaited the mail to arrive every day because I wanted to receive the year's art lesson just one more time from my beloved elementary school art teacher.

    The above card's cover is a portion of a larger work entitled Dancing Angel, the work is French from 1480.  Its composition is oil and gold on wood with three panels each being 54 x 23 inches.  It was purchased for the Metropolitan Museum of Art by Mary Wetmore Shively Bequest in memory of her husband, Henry L. Shively, M.D.  With every Christmas card has come an art lesson similar to this one.  When I was an elementary student in her classroom, I understood primary colors, texture, clay, the power of the kiln, and the importance of filling my page with color.  As I grew older, my lessons were raised beyond those elementary classroom tools; she educated me and many other students also known as Christmas card recipients about her love of true art, an "impression" that will never leave me. 

   At times, my eyes are open just enough to recognize those moments in life when connections come to me.  When I write "connections," I don't mean those that are professional, friendly or associated with electrical cords filled with twinkle lights.  I mean connections like puzzle pieces that fall from anywhere but a box.  I'm always late to see the whole picture, but when I do, I find a lesson that encourages me to look closer.

  Last week,  a bright eyed, kind, and very proud little girl delivered to me a gift that had a wall cling wrapped up in the cutest gift bag.  The cling said, "Be Who You Are."  This wall cling even had adhesive rhinestones to kick up the bedazzle factor, and you know I love words in general, but if they sparkle, then that's a whole different kind of love.  Even at forty-two, I don't have an inkling of who I am outside the traditional familial terms.  Professionally, I know I'm a teacher.  But when it comes to those adjectives that stick by my self image, I have a tendency to be hesitant to find the right ones.  The only word I know that truly identifies who I've been all of my life is a student.  So, just by being thoughtful enough to select a gift, carefully wrap it in an adorable bag, and pass it on to me, a complete stranger, a little girl reminded me about being a student of Mrs. Cohenour.  Mrs. Cohenour would have loved wall art that says, "Be Who You Are."  She would have loved the beautiful penmanship, she would have loved the sparkles, she would have loved having that conversation with me about the importance of never having just one response to that imperative statement, "Be Who You Are." She would have handed me an over sized piece of paper, some soggy paint brushes and the three primary colors and said, "Show me who you are today." And I would have drawn a huge smiling face because I was with her.

  This is my first year without a Christmas art lesson from Mrs. Cohenour.  Thankfully, I have several past Christmas art lessons from her that will be with me for many Christmases to come.  I wish I could say I had them all from years gone by, but I didn't have enough sense to keep them all tucked away in a colorful, sparkly, appropriate place as she would have loved.  For years, they've  all been carefully placed in a dark pink box, adorned with glitter and a big pink bow. It was the prettiest box I had ever seen, and I wanted Mrs. Cohenour's cards to fit perfectly inside, and they do.

  Mrs. Cohenour would want me to buy a newer, brighter, more sparkly box because the one I have needs a companion box. Something to celebrate the beauty of the Christmas cards it will hold until I fill it up, too.  She would want the new box to have even more color.  She would want me to write on its outside, "Be Who You Are," in my very best penmanship to remind me to listen to what children say, and read what they write or especially what they give.  Maybe I'll go shopping for that new box  tomorrow knowing that an angel, the beauty of whom even Michelangelo couldn't capture, will guide my selection and continue to be my beloved art teacher just one more time.

  

25th year

***Got so excited I lost track of time...literally....forgive the math...as usual.****

     I am going to a class reunion in 2014.  Twenty-five years after I graduated from high school, I'm going to do it.  Before I peck out another word, I need to apologize to my mom and Deb Brogan because I've been harshly critical of their reunion blisses for many years.  I'm not sure what it is about graduating from high school together that bonds alumni for life, but I can absolutely tell you why I've finally grown up enough to value my childhood education and the fun we all had together. 
     I will never ever meet another childhood friend's children at a funeral.  Never.  Out of all the goodness I have received in 2013, above all, I'll see those three little boys sitting on Exeter Avenue last April for the rest of my life, and I will feel that regret.  I never got to hear their giant of a dad tell their story.  I read about it on Facebook, but I never heard it in person.  Done.  Never again.  Nope.  Line 'em up, a whole decade's worth of kids, because I want to hear the stories from you, from them, from everyone.  I want to photograph a weekend full of joy.  I want to see them play and hear them laugh.  I want to show them your mullets.  I want to dare you with the secrets your teens would pay to hear, and I will beg you to keep my skeletons tucked away with cobwebs interwoven with perms and acid washed jeans.  All of these years I've thought reunions were about the graduates.  This is not the case for me.  I want to see the pieces of you that you're raising.  I want to hear you tell me why you are paying for your raising. 
     Secondary to the tearful goodbye so many of us said to Jay, is something truly reflective of my so not normal mind.  How many of you have a Michael Kors purse or watch?  Come on.  You know you do.  You've been to the outlet.  You've hunkered up to the trunk of a car.  You've been to the party.  You know you've got one or you want one.  If anyone from the MHS class of 1989 reads Facebook and carries anything with an MK label on it, you're way more committed to fashion than I will ever be.  Every single time I see that MK logo, I think about Michael Killion.  If you're fortunate enough to be his Facebook friend, then you know his logo would trump Kors in a heartbeat.  Since day one on Facebook, Michael has entertained, educated, and calmed me with his masses.  Three things my mom has tried to do for my whole life, but he has managed to do since 2009.  He consistently writes about his family, his work, and his gratitude.  Maybe his attention to the good in his life has softened my approach to the good in mine.  The only thing on me that hasn't been soft for a very long time is my approach regarding what should matter in this life.  I see a glimmer of hope.  My eyes are squinted, but it's there.
     Through the mystery of social media, this idea of a decade or longer reunion has grown.  Michael has taken the helm and led us in a...dare I say...march into middle age celebration.  The feedback has been great, but the execution will take some planning. 
     With all due respect to those who made every effort to just get our own class together in years past, I apologize for being so negative, critical, and resistent to your hard work.  Ain't nobody got time for such foolishness now.  As Jay would say, "It's time to do the 'darn' thing."  It just is. There is no need in it being fancy or expensive.  We can all fit in Fords Woods or another Middlesboro location.  We can gather up for the Fall Festival and tell the offspring how much we loved that weekend when we were kids.  Riding the Bullet in the empty lot beside Saylor's Produce will forever be my first step toward being fearless.  The sidewalk sales from downtown may have been our most adventurous municipal experiment during the 70s, but putting a full out carnival in the middle of Cumberland Avenue took a giant leap of faith, and my thanks to whomever made that decision.
     Now, let's talk about the photo I attached to the top of this blog.  That's me.  Seventh grade.  Praise the Lord we didn't have a yearbook at MMS then.  But that was the best I could do on picture day.  The wings sprouted out of the front of my head just missed taking flight.  A corduroy, fleece vest with a cotton blouse? Absolutely.  Can you imagine that kid in today's 7th grade survival camp?  I'm just as goofy today as I was then.  I'm just as awkward and quirky.  Heck fire.  I spent the last few years of my life in 7th grade again just on the other side of the desk.  That picture still is me.  My packaging is bigger, fluffier, and much more confident.  My hair has decided that wings aren't necessary.  My heart, however, is exactly the same.  And...thanks to the kindness of my Facebook friends and the people who've been brave enough to literally hold me up, my heart is happy again.
      So, if you're still not sure about the class reunion experience, let me lay down a few ground rules to help you ease your way back home.  First of all, stop looking in the mirror if you're seeking out anything other than a face that loves you back.  Ain't nobody got time to worry about losing or gaining an ounce in order to enjoy this gathering that will be here in less than a year.  I'm gonna get my wobble on and pray that someone will play music that includes "Cool Summer" (or is it "Crueal Summer") by Bananarama.  You can wobble with me.   It's o.k.  Secondly...don't see this as a point of contrast or comparison.  We're getting together because of a place that makes us all equal.  A town, a school system, and a community need us to all make the effort to come home and boost the economy.  Thirdly...quit thinking about hair you had or hair you don't.  If it leaves one place, it will show up in another.  It's all good.  I'm lucky I haven't pulled every hair on my hard head out.  Fourthly...don't be renting any kind of fancy car to roll up in because you think anyone will judge you otherwise.  If I'm lucky, I'll show up in my mom's big white car that's about the same size as the Buick I drove back when Pioneer and Alpine were about sound systems instead of historical figures and the road behind Balmoral.  And lastly...show up as you are, because that's how we'll recognize the person you were.  We'll be looking for that grin, that sparkle, and listening for that laugh.  Three aspects of our existence that seldom ever change after age five. 
      I'm not looking forward to going backward.  I'm looking forward to the potential the future holds.  I'm looking forward to helping create an experience that is affordable and charitable.  I hope we can all bring food to share with each other and a few dollars to support Cindy Wyatt's program 52 Weeks of Giving at the Middlesboro Community Library.  Most of us spent time in that library digging for help with History Day projects, and Cindy has worked with her team to make the library a truly happy place that offers a program fostering amazing citizens of this planet.  I'd much rather give the money to the kids than use it to buy a fancy dress.  I'm all fancy dressed out.
     As you get those office, secret Santa, and comical gifts of calendars this holiday season, mark off every weekend in October for now.  It's time for us all to just go home and be happy.  Can you imagine?  When Middlesboro decides to book the Fall Festival, perhaps this ambitious effort will come to be.
     When I bow my head with my mom on Thanksgiving, I think I'll say grace for the remote possibility that I may have actually grown up enough to realize how fortunate I am to just have the chance to see you all again.   'Til then....

     
Love,
Danna