Author Archives: Gretchen

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About Gretchen

Louisiana girl, living in a Mississippi world.

Oooh Oooh dat Smell! Can’t you smell dat (CrabBoil) smell?

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Dang you Winn Dixie.  I walked into the grocery store with my carefully made out list and coupons to stay on budget.   I planned on sticking to the list only.  I was mentally prepared.  And bang – the automatic door opens and that smell hits me.  The smell of Zatarain’s crab boil.  All of us southern Louisiana people know that smell.  It grabs you by the nostrils and won’t let go!  I must resist.  I must resist.

I proceed directly to the meat counter.  So far so good.  But then……..in the seafood department, the Winn Dixie clerk is bagging up Zatarain’s boiled potatoes and corn.  I lost all resolve.  I grab some of this southern gold, attempt to finish some shopping on budget, and make my way to the check out counter.

The boiled crawfish were in front of the store, by the door, sitting on ice, enticing you to buy this delicacy.  I start loading my groceries on the conveyor belt and tell the check-out gal I am going to grab some boiled crawfish.  She said, “You better hurry.  Folks have been snatching them up.”  I glance towards the display, and sure enough, 3 bags remained.  I ran there as fast as my metal knees would allow me and grabbed 2 bags right under the noses of potential buyers.  I ran back to the check out line and did not feel a bit of remorse.  Not a bit!  These were mine!  All mine!  They were mine the minute I walked into the store and smelled dat crab boil smell.

Some things just stick with us southern Louisiana people for life – like Zatarain’s, seafood, king cake and Mardi Gras doubloons.

Just like when I smell seafood boiling, the same goes when I hear doubloons hitting the ground at a Mardi Gras parade, I go into a frenzy.  I will knock over young and old, step on fingers, step on toes, to grab that worthless piece of metal.  I have just got to have it.

Is this instilled in us at Christening.  Is there some bayou water in that holy water the priest dumps on our head?  Does the priest say, “You are christened in the name of The Father, The Son and the New Orleans’ ghost.”?

In the early 60s, my young brother committed his life to God.  He traveled to Ohio, joined the Catholic Seminary and became known as Brother DePaul Held.  The food just about did him in he said.  It was bland and awful.  He started cooking red beans and rice and other New Orleans delicacies for the nuns, priests and brothers.  They loved him.  And he is remembered by many that were in the seminary with him, long after his 1967 death due to cancer.  In his little 23 years here on earth, Eric made a huge impact on people sharing his culture.  New Orleans just does that to you.

In 1979, I was heading out on my first venture without my family.  My high school senior trip was a cruise to the Virgin Islands.  I kept hearing about the awesome food.  Wait?  What?  Someone lied to me.  I mean, the food was okay, but it wasn’t my food.  After you live in the New Orleans area, hardly any other food compares.  It was missing something.  What was it missing?  Oh yes, Zatarain’s crab boil, McIlhenny Tabasco and such.

Oh those crawfish.  Pinch the tail, suck the heads.  And crabs!  Fat, female blue lake crabs.  Just waiting to be thrown in that boiling pot.  That smell grabs your nostrils.  Crack that shell off and look at all that orange goodness.  Oh the fat in the female crabs.  Grosses anyone out from other parts of the good old U.S. of A., but not us southern Louisiana people.  Forget your caviar.  Give me crab fat.

In the early 80s, I met a young man that could boil better than anyone I ever met.  So I married him.  Oh the seafood boils that we threw.  People would come from miles around.

Not long after we were married, the hills were calling my husband.  He wanted to move to Tennessee.  I told him he was crazy and I just could not leave my salt water seafood.  I would call him on a Friday and say, “find me seafood, I must have seafood.”  He would reply, “I am not sure what they have now….”, but before he could finish, I would be yelling in to the phone to find me seafood.  When I get a craving for that taste, I just have to have it.  I cannot think or function properly until I have that smell of Zatarain’s grabbing me by the nostrils.  We even had our own personal soft-shelled crab man who would faithfully drive into my driveway, with a tray of still breathing soft-shelled crabs for us to pick from.  Such a spoiled person I am.

Did I mention a major reason I married the man I did is because he is the best seafood boiler around?

Alas, I finally agreed to move a little ways from N’Awlins, but not too far.  I am just over the border, the Mississippi border that is.  We are just a hop, skip and jump away from salt water fishing and crabbing.  We can still get our favored delicacy readily.  I am here to stay – for the seafood.

So I come home with the booty.  My husband knew we were on a strict budget and he was shocked I went off of script.  I fixed my platter with the goodies – crawfish, potatoes, corn on the cob, but I noticed he wasn’t getting any.  I finally asked him if he was going to fix his platter.  The goofy man said, “Oh, you bought enough for both of us?  I thought you just got enough for you.”  I was shocked and appalled.  After 35 years together, did he think I would do that to him?  No, I could never eat boiled seafood in front of my beloved and not share.

But…….if there had not been enough crawfish to share, I might have sat out in Winn Dixie’s parking lot and got my fix, disposing of the evidence, and driving home with a smile on my face………….

 

 

As a Strong Woman Hovers Between Life & Death

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I get the call no one wants to hear.  You need to get to the hospital, your mom might not make it through the night.  Wait – What?  Is my Mom’s life going to end in the same hospital where she gave me life – almost to the day – 56 years ago?

I sit at my Mom’s side, 2 weeks after I buried Frank the Faux Pug.  Her breathing is terribly labored and ragged.  Her blood pressure and oxygen levels are critically low.  The doctors say the odds are stacked against her.  My step-dad is telling me I need to spend as much time with her as possible.

In a very weak voice, Momma starts calling for Eric and Donna, over and over, my dead brother and sister.  Chills run up and down my spine and I think they are coming to take her away.  Mom told Paw (my step-dad) after her kidney surgery, she had dreamed about going to heaven and Eric turned her away, saying it was not her time.  I wonder if it is her time now.  Lord, I pray, Mom’s breathing is so bad, please take her quickly.  Please don’t let her suffer.

I sit there and think about a conversation we had just the previous week.  I, as her Avon lady, supply Mom with all things beauty.  She says in her thick N’Awlins accent, “Dawlin, I need some of that Natural Beige Cream to Powder Foundation.  I’m almost out.”  I re-assured her that I had a compact waiting.  My Mom has the tiniest face, but for some reason, she sops this stuff up.  My big, round face does not use the exact same product in the short span of time she does.  Maybe her 95 years of well deserved wrinkles need extra foundation, I don’t know.  This thought carries me even further back, 37 years, to a conversation I had with my dying sister in the hospital.  I was an Avon lady back then also.  I told my sister to order anything she wanted out of the book and I was getting it for her.  I was desperate to keep the conversation as normal as possible.  My sister didn’t even look at the book.  We both knew she wasn’t getting out the hospital.  Was history repeating itself.  As with my sister, would my last conversation with my Mom be about Avon?

I am trying to prepare my sister that Mom is not coming home from the hospital.  My sister keeps nudging my Mom to open her eyes and look at us.  She tries.  She even nods sometimes to our questions.  Mom’s little hands, with her painted red nails, are so swollen, and leaking fluid.  My Mom is leaking.  Why is my Mom leaking?  Mom’s don’t leak.  The nurse explains this is her body getting rid of excess fluid.

My mind drifts back again, probably about 46 years.  My Mom came home from the doctor and said she had diverticulitis.  I grabbed our “D” encyclopedia and looked it up.  I was terrified because the encyclopedia said my mom could die.  I told her that.  She said, “No Dawlin, I just need to watch what I eat.”  When you are from N’Awlins, how do you stop eating Corn & Crab Bisque soup?  You don’t, and you end up in the hospital over the years off and on.  Then you end up in the hospital with scar tissue from severe diverticulitis, have to have a colostomy, right after you just had a cancerous kidney removed.  See Momma, I told you this diverticulitis could kill you – the dictionary told me so at 10 years old – just took 46 years – but it is happening.

We try to make sure my step-dad is eating and resting.   His daughter and family are terribly worried about him.  My husband fries him chicken tenders, mashed potatoes, gravy, Ceaser salad and deadly corn.  Paw eats and tears up as he tells us before the last surgery, my Mom told him to kiss her on the lips because she was probably going to die.  My husband said don’t count Mom out.  She is a tough little lady.  But me and Paw are not holding out hope.

That very same night, I found out a childhood friend had died.  I sit on my Mom’s porch looking across the street at my old neighbor’s house.  Another momma in this neighborhood is going to bury a child.  And this one, like my Mom, will now have lost two children.  The Angel of Death is surely lurking over our old neighborhood.  My heart is so terribly heavy.

The next morning, Paw is heading to hospital.  He picks up his WWII Veteran cap and his Retired U.S. Navy cap, holding one in each hand.  What is going on in that adorable, little bald head of his?  Is he wondering which cap will make him look most dapper?  He decides on one and heads out with tears in his eyes.  Lots of us descend upon the hospital.  Me, my sister, step-sister, her daughters, one son-in-law and our step-brother.  We are all gathered around my unresponsive Mom.

Eventually, we end up chatting about everyday stuff.  My crafty sister and the crafty niece start discussing embroidery machines and how she will go to the crafty niece’s house to show her how to use it.  Me and the non-crafty niece said we will join in and drink Bloody Mary’s that the nephew-in-law will make.  Then, a miracle happens.  Mom is turning her head this way and that, like she is trying to listen to the conversation.  We ask her to open her eyes.  She does.  She looks at all of us.  She responds to our questions – somewhat. She tries to smile.  The nurses are shocked.  The nurses said she obviously needed everyone around her.  I guess Mom wanted an audience.  Heart rate went up, oxygen levels went up. We are cautiously rejoicing.  Other family members came throughout the day – grandaughter – great grandaughters.  With each visitor, Mom responded even more.

That evening, the nurses are turning my Mom and trying to get her to respond.  Mom opens her eyes and asks, “Am I alive?  I thought I was dead.”  We leave the hospital with better spirits.  The nurse said he would call during the night if anything happened.

At almost midnight, the phone rings.  Paw and I almost have a heart attack.  Turns out it was a nun friend that didn’t realize the time.  Phew.

The next morning, Paw picks up both caps again, picks one, and said “Well, we made it through another night. I am dreading heading in.  I am afraid your mom will be unresponsive again.”  Well not so.  The drain tube was removed.  The oxygen mask was removed and replaced with the nostril tubes.  Oxygen and BP were higher.  They are feeding her warm broth through her feeding tube.  Mom was opening her eyes more, responding more, excited to see her grandson and more great-grandchildren.  Then she yells out loudly, “WATER, WATER, WATER.  Swab my mouth.”  We all almost jumped out of our skins.  The doctors and nurses are astounded at this turnaround.

Yes the odds are against her, but my Mom has met the odds many times and showed them who was boss.

Life of a Strong Woman

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Mom called me from her ICU room this morning to wish me happy birthday.  Ironically, she was in the same hospital 56 years ago today delivering me.  Her little 95 year old self sounded so frail and tired.  But I know the iron and steel behind that frail sound.  Momma has been a fighter since the day she took her first breath and has lived to witness much happiness, lots of tragedy, and almost a century of history.

Late December 1921, when Warren G. Harding was the 29th president of the United States, my mom was making a two month premature entrance into this world.  The doctor and the mid-wife were at my grandmother’s house.  A lifeless, tiny one pound baby girl came into this world.  The midwife put the dead baby into a shoe box and returned to tend to my grandmother.  Once finished, the midwife was about to prepare the baby for burial when she noticed the tiny baby kicking and full of life.  1921, no neonatal, no oxygen tents, no major medical advancements, this little miracle survived and became a full-fledged fighter.  While that little baby was making her entrance, the U.S. Supreme Court had just ruled labor injunctions and picketing unconstitutional.  People were flocking to see The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, which vaulted Rudolph Valentino to stardom (maybe because he did that sexy tango dance in a smoke filled Argentian cantina), and the kids were dancing to  I Ain’t Got Nobody by Miss Marion Harris, and Ain’t We Got Fun by Van & Schenck.

Valentino’s sexy tango was nothing compared to my mom’s parents going through a divorce in the late 20s.  Scandalous.  Her daddy left her, a little sister, a sick baby brother and a good wife, all for wayward women.  That left an impression on my mother all the way to this day.  This made her fight for everyone she loved, to keep them close and protect them from the hurt she felt as a child.

The Great Depression came, but being poor was nothing new.  After her dad left, the family, once thriving and financially fit, was thrust into a world of poverty.  But my mother only grew stronger.

In 1939, mom graduated high school at 17 and married my daddy.  Franklin D. Roosevelt was the 32nd president of the United States.  Lisa Meitner, a Jewish woman in exile in Sweden, published her discovery of nuclear fission, otherwise known as atom splitting.  The United States declared its neutrality regarding the war in Europe.  Kids were dancing to Strange Fruit by Billie Holiday, When the Saints Go Marching in by Louis Armstrong and crooning to Over the Rainbow by Judy Garland and Moonlight Serenade by Glenn Miller.  My mom and her friends flocked to see Gone With the Wind to hear Rhett Butler say that famous phrase with the curse word, “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

The 1940s came, growing my mom’s family and taking my daddy off to WWII.  My mom was told she would never have children, that her insides were too small and deformed from being a preemie.  That didn’t stop my momma.  In 1944, while WWII was raging and FDR was re-elected, making him the only U.S. president elected to serve a 4th term, momma delivered a bouncing baby boy.  The favored movie that year was Arsenic and Old Lace about two sweet old spinster sisters poisoning lonely gentlemen callers and burying them in the cellar.  The last line of the film was censored and changed from “I’m a bastard” to “I’m the son of a sea cook.”  Kids were dancing to Swinging on a Star by Bing Crosby and the Trolly Song by Judy Garland.

In 1948, my mom thought her family was complete when they welcomed a daughter into the fold.  Harry S. Truman was the 33rd president of the United States, and he ordered the withdrawal of U.S. troops in Korea (to be completed in 1949).  Ella Fitzgerald sang Tea Leaves and Judy Garland starred in Easter Parade.

The 1950s brought some surprises.  In 1956, Grace Kelly married Prince Rainier III of Monaco, and the Methodist Church opened fully ordained clergy status to women and called for an end to segregation within the denomination.  And 8 years after they thought their family was complete with a boy and a girl, mom and dad welcomed the birth of a 3rd child, their second daughter.  Surely this was the final child and the baby of the family.  Dwight D. Eisenhower, our 34th president, was re-elected.  The movies to catch that year were Invasion of the Body Snatchers, The King & I, and the Ten Commandments.  Doris Day sang Que Sera Sera and Elvis Presley shocked audiences with his grinding hips while singing Heartbreak Hotel. My mom thought he was so vulgar.

So if mom and dad thought the 50s brought surprises, they were in for it in the 60s.  Six years after their little bundle of joy, my mom was sick and not getting better.  She finally went to the doctor for tests.  The doctor later called her and asked, “Gladys, you really don’t know what is wrong with you.?”  She said “no I don’t and you are scaring me.”  He said, “You are pregnant.”  Momma cried.  She said this baby will be in kindergarten and she will be walking with a cane.  My daddy couldn’t believe he was going to have kids going on dates while a baby still played on the floor.  They accepted this fact and just knew they were having a baby boy, which they would christen Matthew.  Surprise again.  Their 4th child and 3rd girl was born.  John F. Kennedy was our 35th president, the U. S. broke diplomatic relations with Cuba and East Germany erected the Berlin Wall. Breakfast at Tiffany’s and West Side Story were the popular movies and Patsy Cline was rising to fame, signing I Fall to Pieces.

In 1962, their son graduated high school and joined the Franciscan Seminary. In 1963 a horrible tragedy struck and Kennedy was assassinated.  In 1965, their oldest daughter got married.  But a terrible tragedy close to home was about to happen.  In 1967, their oldest child, their only son, would succumb to throat cancer.  While movie goers were being shocked by The Graduate, and young girls were fainting at the sight of The Beatles, my mom was burying her first born.

My momma’s heart was pierced.  Mom had a picture of the Blessed Mother hanging in her room.  Mary’s heart was pierced by a small sword.  That picture used to scare me until my mom said it was a representation of how Mary’s heart felt after the crucifixion of her son and how her heart felt after losing Eric. Well now I was terrified by that  picture.  Whatif my mom died of heartbreak and left me?  After that I was truly protective of my mom’s heart.  I was so afraid of her fracturing.  But my mom was tough – a true steel magnolia.  In 1968, when Robert Kennedy was assassinated, I saw tears streaming down my mom’s face.  The pain on her face was so raw.  I knew she was thinking about Eric.  I was so heartbroken for her.  But she plowed on and tried to make things as normal as possible for us.

Onward to the 70s, and we were hoping for a calm decade.  In 1975, as President Ford (our 38th president) announced that the Vietnam War was “finished as far as America is concerned.” He said that “the fate of responsible men and women everywhere, in the final decision, is in their own hands, not ours.”  We were rather oblivious to this though because my oldest sister was about to give birth.  My mom and dad were having their very first grandchild, a little girl.  Such exciting times.  Jaws and Rocky Horror Picture show were the box office hits, and John Denver was thankful he was a country boy.  At the end of the decade, mom’s 3rd child was preparing to get married, and her 4th child was going to graduate from high school.  Things were looking bright (except that Jimmy Carter was our 39th president).  But fate would try to smack down my momma again.  As people were watching Alien and dancing to Michael Jackson’s Don’t Stop Until You Get Enough, my mom was burying her husband of 39 years.

In 1980 mom welcomed another grandchild, but also found out her 2nd born (and 1st daughter) had cancer.  How can that be?  How can fate deal this.  My mom lost one child to cancer, and now another had this horrid disease.  This just could not be.  But it was.  We lost Donna in 1981.  While the world impatiently waited to find out Who Shot J.R., my mom was burying a 2nd child.

Life moved on.  Mom married off her youngest child (me!) in 1982, welcomed two more grandchildren in 1985 and 1988, and married a wonderful man – our neighbor.  I told her that brought on a whole new meaning to Love thy Neighbor.  We welcomed new siblings and grandchildren to the family, faced the deaths of mom’s mother, her aunts, her sister and her brother.  Now it is just mom and her sister 11 years younger than her.  And that youngest sister has developed dementia these past few years.  My mom is the lone one standing out of her siblings – the oldest – and still kicking.

Mom was born when the United States had only seen 29 presidents and she recently just watched the swearing in of the 45th president.  She has lived through highs and death blow lows.  I truly believe had my mom not had me or my sister late in life, she would have succumbed to sadness after the death of her second child.  Eric died at 23, Donna died at 33.  The year Kris turned 43, my mom cried the entire year, fully expecting to lose another child.  Alas, the spell was broken and mom didn’t even wince when I turned 53.  Mom never expected to see me, her baby, grow up.  But she has surpassed that. She has watched me become a senior citizen and has seen her great grandchildren.

Yes she called me from ICU this morning, but she is going to recover fully and live to be 100 just like she promised me.

Frank the Faux Pug, Part 2

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For months I knew it was getting closer and closer to the time we would have to put Frank the Faux Pug down.  I dreaded that day.  I teared up every time I thought about losing him.  You see,  Frank was my constant companion for 16.5 years.  He chose me as his person.  I was his voice to defend him and protect him from ‘those mean people who tried to correct him.’  My rule was no one was allowed to fuss at Frank or correct him.  Yes, he was my spoiled baby and I was his person.

I prepared myself so much that when this day came, I was clinical, I was numb, I was ready to see Frank out of pain.  But obviously, the rest of the family was not clinical, or prepared.  My 12-year old grandson was brave enough to carry Frank in his arms and put him on the table for that final shot.  And then he was shattered.  The tears came in like the mighty Mississippi River overflowing her banks.

I am a puddle of mush when I see someone cry.  I may not know what they are crying about, but I will join in.  So my tears were more for my grandson than for Frank the Faux Pug.  I was clinical and numb to the process by now.

My husband, myself and my grandson arrived back home with our lifeless Frank the Faux Pug.  My son and granddaughter barreled out of the house with tear streaked faces to give Frank a final hug and kiss.  My 10 year old granddaughter was wailing and shaking with grief.  I cried for her and my son (who was supposed to be Frank’s person, but Frank chose me) because I was clinical and numb to the process by now.

The funeral procession marched to the backyard by the blueberry bush, Frank the Faux Pug’s final resting place.  More hugs, final goodbyes and crying.  The family group hug as Frank was being buried brought on more sobs.  I cried for them because I was clinical and numb to the process by now.

I gathered my grandchildren close as we walked back into the house.  They were a sobbing mess and I hurt so bad for them.  They were already feeling the pain of a life without Frank the Faux Pug.  I was okay because I was clinical and numb to the process by now.

By bedtime, I was more weary than everyone else.  But that is nothing unusual.  Frank the Faux Pug and I always retired first.  He would let me get about 6″ of the mattress, then he would perform his ritual of 3 turns and plop against my back.  This was our nightly routine.  I could immediately drop off to sleep once Frank was firmly planted against my back.  Then we would wake up in the morning hugging each other.  We shared a pillow.  I would lay in the darkness of my bedroom petting Frank.  This moment was always my calm before the storm of a new day.

This morning was different.  I awoke hugging a stuffed giraffe.  My husband told me our grandson brought this in after I fell asleep and tucked it up against my back.  My grandson – who is usually a terror – who always writes the word ‘poop’ on the foggy bathroom mirror after his shower – who always sticks his fingers in candle & scentsy wax and messes it up, even after constant admonishment – who poured baby powder in front of a running fan and covered the entire room with powder dust – who took Vaseline and rubbed it over all the faucets in the bathroom – who also has a heart of gold.  My grandson knew that come morning time, I would  not be clinical and numb to the process.

I was clinical and numb to the process of putting Frank the Faux Pug down.  But I am not clinical and numb to life without him.  As I lay in my darkened bedroom this morning, petting a stuffed giraffe, I was having the calm before the storm of a life without Frank my Faux Pug.

Frank the Faux Pug

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Oh how my son wanted a pug to name Frank after seeing Men in Black.  He talked about that constantly.  This was in 1997.  In 2000, we finally relented.  My son was turning 15 and someone had pug puppies for sale in the local paper.  Welcome to the family!  Frank was so tiny.  He would fit in the palm of one hand.

And he was sick. Very sick.  We did not buy him from a true dog breeder.  He was full of fleas and sick.  We almost lost our newest family member.  But thank God for vets.

Then Frank grew a nose.  What?  He was supposed to be a pug!  He had bulgy pug eyes, the curly pug tail, an adorable pug personality.  But where did the nose come from?  Oh well, something else was in the woodpile, but we loved Frank no matter what.  Who cares if our pug was a faux pug.

Like all 15 year old kids, my son’s attention span was everywhere besides Frank.  So Frank decided I was his person.  He was my constant companion, my shadow, my confidante.  If I sat, he had to be touching me.  When we lay down to go to bed he had to be touching me.  I carried Frank everywhere.  A friend jokingly said the little succor had no legs.

One day, as was usual in my house, my children had many friends over.  Three times I found either the front door or back door open and all of our dogs outside.  Three times I fussed at all the teens for leaving the doors open.  They swore up and down they didn’t.  I said, well who did, the Holy Ghost?  Who could have known Frank the Faux Pug was the Holy Ghost.  I walked into the foyer to find Frank standing on two legs and repeatedly hitting the door handle with his two front paws until the door opened – and out ran all the dogs.  Well now this became true entertainment.  Every party we held, Frank the Faux Pug had to show everyone his trick.

Frank had another trick.  I would say ‘catch your tail.’  He would glance backwards to see if his tail was watching.  If he thought it was watching, he quickly turned away.  When he thought the coast was clear, and that his tail had no idea he was coming after it, Frank would start spinning like a top.  He thought he was as sly as a fox, but he never caught that tail.

While recovering from bilateral total knee replacement starting in October 2014, I was on short term disability for 3 months.  My only job was to focus on recovery.  Frank’s only job was to be my constant companion. He cuddled me every time I cried out in pain.  I swear he cheered me on through physical therapy.  He rested when I rested.  Frank did his job well.

We held Frank’s funeral at dusk today.  He crossed the rainbow bridge at 16.5 years of age.  My two oldest grandchildren, 12 and 10, made no attempt at hiding their tears as we walked from the house to Frank’s final resting place by the blueberry bush.  Frank was their best friend.  They knew Frank their entire little lives.  Me, the grands and my son stood in a circle and cried, while Paw Paw buried his little buddy with tears in his eyes.

Frank will rest peacefully on Spooky Hollow ground, along with Furry Murray the Donkey, Precious the Yorkie, and a scattering of chickens.

Rest in peace Frank my Faux Pug.  Your person misses you more than you could ever know.

JOIN OUR MARCH – JOIN MY TEAM

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I Don’t Do Grass

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Growing up in genteel south Louisiana, I had a daddy that firmly believed girls should be girls.  He never let us near the lawn mower, or any tool as a matter of fact.  Heck, I was in my 40s before I learned the beauty of “Righty Tighty, Lefty Lucy” when using a screwdriver.

Daddy died in January, 1979, one month before I turned 18.  What an unexpected shock that was.  The man who led his family was gone.  Thank God my mom had lots of business sense so we were good in the finance world of our household.

Spring rolls around.  The St. Augustine grass Daddy so lovingly took care of is sprouting out of control.  What to do?  I was 18, I figured I could conquer the world.  Took me, Mom and Sister about 20 tries to get the old lawnmower running.  I didn’t have the beautiful straight lines my dad regarded the only way the lawn should look.  But it was done.  Next, the edging needed to be done.  These were the days before the weed eater.  Took me, Mom and Sister 20 tries to figure out how to start the thing.  I remember hearing my dad proudly discussing beveling the blade to make the grass edge slant away from the sidewalk.  I ended up digging canals instead of dainty trenches.  The yard looked terrible.  My mom hired a professional service to cut our grass after that, figuring that expense into her new monthly budget.

Fast forward a few years, I married a man like Daddy.  He did all the man stuff around the house.  I tended to the house and flowerbeds.  Fast forward another few years as Hubby is getting a little older with aches and pains of his own.  He asked, “Why don’t you cut grass like my Mom and Sisters do?”  My shocked reply was, “Dude, you knew that when we got married!  Why are you asking now?  I DON’T DO GRASS.”

Fast forward many years later.  We are grandparents with replaced hips and replaced knees between both of us.  We can probably set off alarms anywhere with all the metal in our bodies.  And we live on 3 acres of property in south Mississippi where the grass needs to be cut every 3 days (year ’round if we have a mild winter).

I STILL DON’T DO GRASS.

Hubby has been quite concerned lately about what is going to happen to me and our property should he join the dearly departed early.  He is approaching the age his dad died.  Historically, most of the men in his family didn’t make it to 60.  I used to joke and say I was going to marry someone else WHO DOES GRASS.  Now that we are this age, that joke is not so funny.

This morning, I had an epiphany thanks to an article in July 2016 edition of Southern Living magazine about returning to nature.  I am going to join our local arboretum and start looking into natural plants.  These are plants I won’t have to baby.  These plant will attract insects that feed the birds.  These plants attract butterflies and bees.

So armed with my Avon Bug Guard (I DON’T DO NATURE WITHOUT AVON BUG GUARD), I am going to select a small, small, really small section of our 3 acres and implement a natural garden.  This is all new to me because I am used to lawns that look like golf courses.  I DON’T DO WILD.  So I am going to start with a small, small, really small area for natural and see if I can stand the tall, natural grasses.

If this works out, who knows, I might implement this into other areas of my back 40 (feet not acres) and give the hubby a break in cutting grass.  Then he and I can relax on the porch, point our rocking chairs towards the west, and enjoy growing old together because I pray this man is around long after 60 to enjoy our country life together.

Wish me luck and stay tuned.

God Knew We Needed a Cat

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I never liked cats.  I wouldn’t touch one, much less own one. My two best friends from school (KB and PO) loved cats.  I’m surprised that friendship endured.  One of my more serious boyfriends, who I envisioned of marrying one day, loved cats.  That sunk that deal.  My kids never asked for a cat.  I figured they didn’t like cats either, or was it because they knew their momma would explode if they asked for a cat.

And then………grandkids come along.  My oldest grandson has persistently asked for a cat.  My persistent reply was, “No, no, no, let me think about it, no.”

He’s 12….he now owns a cat, several cats.

You see….while I was busy living my life like I thought it should be…..God was working another deal.  On Easter Eve, a very pregnant cat showed up on our porch begging for food.  We live in a rural area with only two neighbors (who did not own this cat).  We have 300 empty acres behind us.  Where did this cat come from?  But we had to feed her.  We couldn’t turn away a pregnant mommy.  I called the SPCA about bringing her in.  They said, “We don’t like taking pregnant cats.”  My reply, “Neither do I.”  They replied, “Well you have to make an appointment to bring her in, or it will cost you $20 to drop her off, and we don’t have any more appointments open today.”  My thought was, great, come Monday, I will probably have a herd of cats to drop off.

We fed and watered her.  The two grandkids living with me kept vigilance over her that day.  And guess what happened that night?  Yes, she went into labor.  The grandkids kept running to me giving me updates.  I would not go outside because I did not want to see.  My husband stayed up with her until 3:00 a.m. until all kittens were born, making sure momma cat was okay (Dear Husband doesn’t like cats either).

Easter morning.  I wake up to a basket of momma cat and 6 babies.  Good grief.  I started that moment preparing the kids that as soon as the kittens were able to go, go they would, and the momma would go too.  The momma cat didn’t like my Frank the Faux Pug.  Frank is king at my house.

And then……we named her.  Momma cat was now named Clara, after Dr. Who’s last companion.  We even said it with a British accent.  I posted pictures of Clara and her brood asking who wanted kittens in a few weeks.  One friend, a non-cat owner, immediately claimed one.  Thank you so much RHK!  The kitten would be named Begniet.

And then……one kitten died.  My grandkids had dubbed it Runt.  Runt was buried with ceremony on our property – which is turning into a regular pet cemetery.

The days were passing and the grandkids had a name for each kitten.  12 year old named one Whiney because it was vocal and full of meows.  I was furiously posting on FB for people to adopt these kittens.

And then…….I noticed my grandkids were outside more….off the computers…..off the tablet…….off the TV…….outside laughing, cuddling kittens.  I started looking at the kittens.  They were so darn cute with their antics.  We were quite entertained.  And the kittens were tolerant of Frank the Faux Pug.  12 year old resigned himself to the fact the cats would leave and asked me if I would only give them to someone we know because he wanted to know how they grew up and to make sure they were treated right.  My mind conjured an image of someone adopting Whiney, driving away, and 12 year old waving goodbye.  Broke my heart.  I spoke to Dear Husband (DH) about keeping Whiney and letting the 9 year old pick a kitten for herself.  It was agreed upon and we broke the news to the kids.  They were super excited.

I started noticing a change in my grandson.  12 year old is severely ADHD, a label I never believed in.  I always thought people who medicated their children were just lazy and didn’t want to discipline their child.  While that may be the case in some, God showed me that was not an attitude to take.  We, as his family, always saw a compassionate side in this child, but his wild streak dominated, wreaking havoc in home life and school.  My grandson’s compassionate side was growing beyond belief while nurturing these kittens.

Begneit was adpoted and is happily living with the RHK family.  No one asked for the other cats.  DH admitted defeat and said we will keep them all, including Clara.  Next order of business, spaying all the females.

While my skin still crawls when a cat brushes up my leg, and I go into orbit if one wraps its tail around me, I have resigned myself to the fact that I am now that lady – The Cat Lady.  (I liked it just being called The Avon Lady – what the deal?)

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We dropped the British accent and now Clara is just plain old Clara, the American Calico Cat.  But I added a middle name.  She is now Clara Grace.  By the Grace of God, Clara showed up on my porch, pregnant and hungry.  By the Grace of God, Clara has pulled us away from our busy lives and we now sit on the porch all together laughing at Whiney, Skittles, Rae and Nix.  By the Grace of God, my grandson is becoming this nurturing, sweet little fellow.  By the Grace of God……..

 

Arrived Alive at 55

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So I find myself at a crossroads at 55 years of age.  My job, that I truly love, is ending next week.  For the past 8 years, I have poured blood, sweat and tears into my career.  I am working for a government contractor.  Do you know who benefited from my blood, sweat tears?  The government and my company.  Sure, I benefited from a paycheck.  But I missed holidays, weekends and evenings with my family due to some task that just had to be done before – Before what?  Before we all die?  Before the company implodes?  Before the government shuts down (well, that one actually happened).  I think not.

I have ‘dabbled’ with an Avon career for 3 years now – working this only part time and halfheartedly.  In that 3 years, my team has grown to more than 30 reps and I am enjoying commissions from this.  Where would I be today had I put my blood, sweat and tears into my own business?  I bet my sales & team commissions would pay my house note – one less thing to worry about.

I will most likely find another job for insurance purposes mainly, but I am going to invest in myself and my family.  I am going to really work this Avon business because no one can pull the rug from under me. I am the only one who can sabotage myself on this.  No longer will another company profit off of breaking my back.

I am going to enjoy my Avon and get back to enjoying my garden.  I will speak with reps and customers on the phone as I am canning my veggies.

Now that’s a life I can enjoy!   And you know what – I can share this opportunity.

Start you own Avon business TODAY?  Only $15 to start.  You can work from home, set your own hours & days, no minimum order or inventory, bonuses available, FREE WEBSITE – AND – you can earn up to 50% profit.

Visit my website:

http://www.youravon.com/ghegwood

I have arrived alive at 55, now it is time to quit playing it safe, take a chance and DO SOMETHING THAT WILL BENEFIT ME AND MY FAMILY.