Month: May 2011

Suppose you have a skin ailment that is annoying and after two trips to the doctor, two different prescription ointments and many home remedies, you still have an itchy patch on your shin that Will. Not. Go. Away.  Suppose summer is coming, you’re getting pissed and you decide to do some Dr. Googling and figure this out once and for all.  Suppose you come up with a variety of possible diagnosis but aren’t quite sure.

Suppose you hit images.

You will see a screen filled with oozing, pus-filled, bumpy, red, scaly skin that will cause you to jump out of your chair and knock your coffee over.  Then you will throw up a little lot in your mouth.

I love my mom for many things.  She is calm and cheerful, loves wine before dinner and Bailey’s before bed.   At eighty three years old, she never tells you how she’s feeling, how her bowels are performing or what her cholesterol is.  She once told a joke at the dinner table and laughed until she cried about a guy whose nuts were too high.  The look on my dad’s face was priceless, seeing as how he was spending a lot of money on Catholic school so his kids wouldn’t be exposed to talk of nuts. 

As a first grader, I was more than a little slow when it came to reading.  It was suggested that I repeat the 1st grade, but with a sister right behind me, my mom would have none of that.  I wasn’t aware of that at the time, but I did figure out that staying under the the radar was a good way to get through the school day.  The summer before 4th grade, my mom took me to the local library and enrolled me in the Vacation Reading Program.  Each time you read a book, the librarian would put a point next to your name for all to see.  For someone who couldn’t master reading, it seemed like a horrible idea until the day I discovered Laura Ingalls Wilder, the Big Woods and Plum Creek.

Back in those days, we only had one car that my dad took to work every day, so my mom was home all day taking care of kids.  Six kids.  I am sure there were a hundred other places she would have liked to have gone once my dad got home, but instead she took me to the library and pushed me over my reading hurdles.

Now I love words, think long and hard about the way I use them and write every day.  That I owe to my mom, who found a way for me to spend that summer on a little house on the prairie while just a stone’s throw from Chicago.

I’m probably one of the last woman in the country to read The Help.  I  never got around to it until I read an article about the author, Kathryn Stockett.  It took her a year and a half to write the first version.  Following that was five more years of writing and 60 rejections.  #61 was the charm, more than two millions copies have been sold and the movie is coming out this summer.

At my writers group, we often discuss what the secret is to getting published.  When I wrote an essay on gardening, I sent it to a free, local magazine and didn’t care if I’d make any money off of it as long as it had an audience.  They loved it and if I cut it in half they might consider it.   Half?  Might?  I was defeated.  I edited, changed and deleted some things, but not half of it and of all the things I’ve written, that one is still one of my favorites. 

This morning I woke up at 3:00 and tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn’t stop thinking about those black maids in Jackson, Mississippi during the civil rights movement and the skinny, white girl who dared to write their stories.  Before the birds even thought about chirping, I got up and opened the book that sixty other editors thought would never sell by a writer who refused to give up on her baby.

We’ve got a family wedding this summer.  I need to start practicing my dance moves now.

We were in bed when Mallie Bee came in and told us the breaking news that Osama Bin Laden was dead.  We turned the t.v. on and stayed up until President Obama had finished speaking.  This morning we watched more coverage, including impromptu gatherings across the country in celebration.

It is unsettling for me to witness cheering for someone’s death, even for the most evil among us.  I don’t know if that makes me a bleeding heart liberal or crazy, but like each of us, this man was born into a family that had the highest of hopes for him.  Instead, his path would break their hearts in three thousand places and surely they must have wondered when they heard the news, if his God would show him any mercy.

About ten years ago, Big Daddy and I started hosting an Easter dinner for those of us who have no family in town to spend the holidays with.  Around year three, BD decided to relax with a glass (or many) of wine once the ham was in the oven.  When the ham was done, the guests had arrived and BD was carving, I told him that he should make some sort of toast before we ate.  I should have given him more notice to gather his thoughts, but until that moment it hadn’t occurred to me either.

We gathered around the tables, BD announced that he’d like to make a toast and everyone picked up their glasses.  And, geez Louise, did he start toasting.  There would be a long pause, we’d all start to lower our glass thinking it was ending and he’d start right back up.  I’m giving him the what the Frank look let’s end this thing before Memorial Day, but he’s not making any eye contact whatsoever.  Finally, he says, “Hey this reminds me of a joke.  Do you know why birds fly upside down over Kansas?  Cuz it’s not worth a shit.”  Hardy, har, har.  That’s when it dawns on me that he’s three sheets to the wind and working a stand-up routine so I jump in and take control of the situation.  Cheers, Happy Easter, God bless us everyone and BD sit your ass down and eat some carbs to soak up that red wine you’ve been knocking back. 

Since then, BD has redeemed himself and every year delivers a lovely, little speech that he has prepared for the occasion.  Now that many Easters have come and gone, the rest of us fondly look back at the Year of the Toasted as well as the start and end of a career in show biz………..Thank you, thank you very much.  I’ll be appearing all next week at the Holiday Inn located in beautiful downtown Decatur.   You’ve been a great audience and hey, don’t forget to tip your waitresses.