“Coughing up” My Latest Post…

Hi, all.  I’m back from the depths (again).

This little fella has been giving me a hard time for the past month or so. Living in North Carolina during the spring sure is pretty, but it SUCKS for those of us with highly-reactive sinuses and lungs.

When I can’t type because I drip all over the keyboard, or the ink from my pen starts to mix with post nasal drip to create “art on paper,” I know I need to surrender for a while…

But this week, I loaded the “big guns” and am fighting back with more meds than I’d really like to have in my system, but hey – it’s starting to do the trick.

So, the oxygen level’s starting to climb, the snot’s less-snotty, and the drips are less-drippy. And I’m feeling like writing again. Yay!

So, please stay tuned for some interesting stories.

There’s the one about a desk named Flossie…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and fishing in the cemetery pond.

 

See ya soon!

Star-Spangled… Me?

When I was young, I spent lots of time at Granny’s house.  She was a career public school music teacher and, after retirement, taught voice and piano privately. Even had a “musical kindergarten” called Rhythm Band. In her small town, everyone knew her as the spunky, creative… and slightly nutty…  lady who brought joy and beautiful music – and a bit of the unexpected – to nearly every holiday gathering in town.

Aside from Christmas… and Halloween… and Valentine’s Day… well, hell, she loved every holiday, who am I kidding? It seemed that July 4, 1976, was a challenge for her.  She went nuts, decorating EVERYTHING in sight with red, white, and blue, and honing up on her piano versions of all things patriotic.  It was insane but really amusing to watch.

Tonight, thumbing through a box of old photos, I came across one that truly represented just how geared up she was for our 200th birthday celebration. Okay, so let’s build a giant birthday cake out of boxes, wipe out the local dollar store of its miniature flags, stick the thing in the back yard, and get the oldest grandkid to dress up like Uncle Sam to pose for pictures.

Geez, the other two grandkids were BOYS, for crap’s sake!  At least she didn’t make me wear a beard. Well, they were only about four and two at the time… they weren’t tall enough to peer over the top layer yet.

Yep, that’s me.  Nine years old.  The curse of being the oldest was always serving as “guinea pig” for photo shoots like this. I think she secretly enjoyed this – thank goodness she never showed it to any of my friends. Ugh.

Truth is, this year, I would have given my left, er, ovary, to have climbed up on that damn cake, listening to her direct with more finesse than a Hollywood producer, “Now, wave the flags and smile, Leigh,” as she snapped the photo.  I would have sung every patriotic song I knew, if it would have meant a little more time with her.

Well, except for that awful “God Bless the USA” song.  Forgive me — if you were subjected to that song as often as I was as a kid, you’d feel the same way.  Seriously, you would. (Sorry, Granny.)

July 4, or any holiday for that matter, doesn’t quite have the same sparkle as it did when she was in charge of making them fabulous.

Throwback Thursday — Life in the “Ghetto”

Everyone seems to enjoy sharing their best “Throwback Thursday” photos on the Internet. I do, too, but this time, I wanted to do something a little different — dig in a box of old photos not yet organized (shame on me!), pull out a random one, and write the next post about it.

Well, the first random photo was so badly deteriorated, I decided to cheat a bit and flip through a few more.  Then, these little jewels appeared… from life on Mosby Drive in Greensboro, NC.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That’s me and my friend, Lloyd, whose last name escapes me right now. I’m guessing we’re somewhere between 4 and 5 — about 43 years ago. We had this thing about getting into costume and doing impromptu parades around the complex.  That costume I had on, along with the boots, were my Momma’s.  The costume she wore when she was probably the same age, and the majorette boots she wore in high school.  I loved them and really wish I had them now.  They made the best “clomping” sounds when I marched, and it made the performance all the more convincing — we were serious marchers.

Oh, and any of you hard-core Hardee’s fans from the early 1970s recognize Lloyd’s Speedy McGreedy t-shirt?  Killer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next one is of me and Marcy.  She lived in that building directly behind her. The greatest thing about the “Ghetto” was that it had a super cool playground and a huge yard.  It had a couple of see-saws, this climbing bar, and a swingset with a slide that must’ve been about 12 feet tall.  You know, the kind that, when it was the middle of summer, would stick to and burn the back of your legs when you tried to slide down it?   Marcy had a younger brother who everyone called “Bubba.”  Actually, his name was Stoney. I remember that he used to come barreling out of his front door, wearing nothing but a diaper. I’ll bet he grew up to be a biker dude.  Or a pro-wrestler.

Life in “the Ghetto” was great.  I always remember my parents referring to the complex that way.  Back then, it was a relatively safe neighborhood.  People from all walks of life lived there — attorneys, nurses, hippies, semi-pro golfers, cemetery managers (my Dad), and all my friends — we were white, black, Native American, mixed-race, but the great thing was, back then, none of that mattered.  We’d gather out on the front stoop in the early evenings, put some charcoal in the Hibachi, pull out the lawnchairs, and have jam sessions.  The only bad times I remember were when someone was arrested for driving drunk around the complex and the day that Marcy and Bubba’s dog had the mange and their parents washed him in creosote to get rid of it (somehow, I just don’t believe that was safe).  The dog got loose and took off through the complex, stopping at each door to shake off that awful stuff.  I remember my Momma trying to corral us all inside and shut the door before he was able to get inside the apartment.  We thought it was funny.  The adults didn’t seem to see it the same way.  To this day, it escapes me whether that dog was finally caught or how many front doors had to be scrubbed down.

We moved from Mosby when I was about seven — to a nice new neighborhood about 5 miles away.  The really neat thing was that several of my friends’ parents moved to the same place. Made for a much easier transition.  Years later, the neighborhood deteriorated, and crime around the surrounding area increased.  As much as I wanted to check in on how it looked, I never could force myself to go there.

The Internet can be a wonderful tool for those of us who are nostalgic but a bit “chicken.”  I looked up the address on Google Maps… and there it was…  

This photo was taken about two years ago, and I’m amazed at how good it looks, given its age.  Still looks the same — our apartment was in that middle building (can’t remember exactly which one it was).

Looking at this photo immediately takes me back to those carefree times, and I wonder where Lloyd and Marcy are these days.  Does Bubba still have the urge to run wild and free in his tighty-whities?  Did that poor dog ever recover from the trauma of the creosote bath and everyone running away from him? It’s getting close to a half-century since those days (gulp).

Although it now has a sign, labeling it as “Mosby Oaks,” it will always be my beloved “Ghetto.”

 

Life (and Rocking Chairs), Remembered

It’s no secret.  I love porches.

When I was young, my front porch was “home base” during heated games of tag.  It was the safe place where neighborhood parents knew we would be until late at night in the summer.  It was the place where my friends and I would camp out and watch Monty Python episodes on a battery-powered mini TV.  The place where I sat and talked with my dad the day I decided to leave an alcoholic, narcissistic husband.

I also loved my Grandmother’s front porch.  The way the gigantic Boston ferns swayed in the hot summer breeze was almost hypnotic.  Comforting.  When the house was filled with family members (and too much cigarette smoke), I would slip outside to sit on the white wicker loveseat.  It had puffy cushions and was the best place to catch a quick nap… at least until my cousins came outside to pick on me or to try and steal my spot.

The first Christmas after Momma died, I spent a good deal of time sitting out there on my own, just attempting to understand all the feelings that were overwhelming my twelve-year-old heart and mind.  Someone came out and captured this picture of me, sitting in one of Grandmother’s rocking chairs. For many years, I learned how to smile, even though inside, I was far from happy.

One of the things I love the most about my current home is the “farmhouse” porch that spans across its front.  It reminds me so much of Grandmother’s — a comforting retreat to clear my head, to consider the day’s tasks, or to do some reading and writing.  Of course, a nice cup of coffee or hot tea is mandatory.

My seat was a tan Adirondack chair.  One of those plastic ones that had a comfort duration of only about 30 minutes because it didn’t have that fancy lower back support thing that the more expensive versions did.  Yeah, I was a cheapo when I bought it.  Its twin didn’t fare as well, breaking one night after a summer wine-drinking session.  The back just broke off… instant recliner.  Thank goodness for wine, or that might’ve really hurt.

Finally, after about six years of serving me through 100-degree days, being brutalized by windstorms, and enduring several butts — mine, my husband’s, my stepkids, and my dog’s — the Adirondack finally called it quits.  I felt lost — the other chairs we had just didn’t fill the vacant space.  So began my search.  When my dad heard that I was looking for a good porch-sitting chair, he offered one that couldn’t have been more perfect…

…or any uglier. It was a wicker rocker that my Momma had purchased when I was little.  Over the years, it was neglected.  Abandoned in the dark corner of my dad’s living room.  It had been painted cream and accessorized with a nondescript cushion. A perfect candidate in need of some well-deserved TLC.  This thing is probably over 40 years old, and boy, did it look it.

As I painted it, the project took on an even bigger meaning to me, as I recalled brief memories of sitting in it as a young girl.  While I don’t really remember when it was purchased (my dad told me about it), restoring it to a new life also helped restore some happy memories as well.  Couldn’t help but think that my Momma would approve of the quirky choice of colors and patterns.

It’s amazing what a fresh coat of paint, a comfy new cushion, and a whimsical pillow can do to brighten up a forgotten treasure. I cleaned up a cool daisy table that was hiding in the corner of the porch.  Now, all I needed was the perfect pillow to coordinate the colors…

…and, thanks to a friend’s help, I was able to locate it!

Now, my favorite spot is almost complete.  A place to relax, read, write… and remember.  Once again, as an adult, I’ve found my “safe place.”  Just need that huge Boston fern.

There’s something about a front porch…