Homeowners

"Why don't you buy a house?"

That's how I remember it starting. Since I've moved to the Big City, I've been a non stop renter, usually only moving when extenuating circumstances encouraged it - rent went up too high, income went down too low, etc.

For the last 3 years I had shared a rental house with a good friend. Most of the pro's and con's in that situation would be the same items on 2 different lists.  I simply was too lazy to change the status quo, both in real time physical effort required to move from one place to another, and in the emotional strength needed to broach the subject with my roommate and then start looking.

Then MyFella upped the ante. "I'll go in half with you."  "I'll get you moved."

So one night sitting on the couch we logged onto a website and started looking at houses. We submitted information on line to some mortgage companies.  We had an inbound call from a realtor referred by the mortgage company (I would do that part differently.)

Most of the houses MyFella would find on line and send me the address. I would take a drive by on the way to work and if it looked OK, I would go from there. Many houses passed the drive by test. Not many passed further than that. And quite a few we lost just due to timing.

"I would rather buy a house with you and drive home to our home every weekend, than for you to keep giving rent away for years."  It made sense.  Well, to me, it made sense if someone was in it with me. I had no interest in being the only person responsible for a house.

So from my recollection, that's how it came to be that we wound up homeowners.

Standing In The Driveway

"I like it."
That's what I remember saying.  MyFella and I had been on the hunt for a house for a couple of months, when he suggested I go by this address.  On my drive by in the morning, I was surprised - for the price and the appearance that the house was in a neighborhood that looked so nice.  The realtor got me in that afternoon.  There were a few things against it - mainly that it could have used maybe another foot of space in every direction, and perhaps just a bit more bathroom. But the things in it's favor were a house that seemed to be in very good condition, with hardwood floors and an updated kitchen. There is a detached workshop/garage combo that is very spacious and set into the back of the yard in line with the driveway.

We had, I had, the realtor had, all seen so very many houses and ruled most of them out very quickly. One house I loved so much but knew would be a mistake due to it's advanced age and lack of deep care.

Looking at it, I couldn't tell you why it felt right. It is a very standard 1950's era ranch style house.  Brick outside, one floor, three bedrooms and 1 bath. Maybe that's exactly why I liked it. I seem to be drawn to vintage pieces, and perhaps this is just a great big vintage piece.

The realtor said, "If this isn't what you want, then I don't know how to help you. You'll have to tell me exactly why."  We hadn't been thrilled with her, we should have politely parted ways a month earlier. But I understood what she was saying. Aside from lacking a bit of a second or half bath, it seemed to be what we wanted.

MyFella took my word on the call that afternoon.  He said, "We've always had just one bathroom and you're there 5 days a week by yourself. Make an offer."

By the time he saw the house, all the offers had been done, all the frustrating what-if's and oh-no's had been completed.  By the time he saw the house, we were a couple of grand into inspections and earnest money that would have been thrown away if he hadn't liked it. For that reason, I'm not always sure that he does like it.  But I think he loves what it represents to us, and how it affects our relationship. I think that, like myself, he loves that it's just us and the bank, our little old island of space in this big ocean of a city.

There's plenty of room for Jamie, both to have his own bedroom and to enjoy being here with us. We have a nice sized back patio perfect for a meal or Coca-Cola, and we have the shop.  My junk seems to still fill the shop, but I've promised to get it in order, and he keeps pretending to believe my promise.

Well into our 40's and 50's, we are home owners for the very first time.

G-d Laughs

You recall the saying, “Man plans, G-d laughs”?  I think I heard him laughing at me.  You see, I often play like I’m shallow.  I pretend that I don’t think about things. I wave my hands and act like it’s no big deal.  But the problem is, sometimes I forget that I’m supposed to play like I’m shallow. Not be shallow.

I had decided that he was obstinate. Strong willed over things that didn’t matter.  I had decided that he just enjoyed being that way. I decided that every time he approached me with yet another pesky question, that he was doing it because he had nothing better to do.

Then I heard it.  The piano.  The sounds coming from down the hall.  I knew the room had a piano, but I didn’t think anyone was playing the piano.  But the song went on, and there was a key stroke mistake, so I got up to look.  There he was.

Playing a tune.  Playing it well.  Really well.  Perhaps not concert well, but I wasn’t paying for a concert seat, and he’d certainly had several years of practice on me. Fifteen years, I would find out.

I found out from a conversation I had with him.  You see, for all the times I see him, for all the times we exchange words and pleasantries, I’ve never talked with him.  After this song, after I complimented listening to a tune which I really enjoyed, we talked.  Or rather, he talked.  I had sense enough to listen.

He talked about his parents. His father had been the only person in the family to survive a horrible war. We talked about his college experience, and his career, from which he had become disillusioned and found a way for an early retirement. We talked about his likes, and his loves, and his pursuit of things he thought would make him a better person, and we talked about his joy of piano playing.  Mostly my words, not his, but that’s sort of what I took from it.

The whole time I thought I knew him, I didn’t know him at all.  I could almost see G-d looking at me, laughing at me, laughing at my shallowness.  I had thought he was one level of a person, and it turned out I was one level of a person.  He gave me a gift of listening to the song, for which he had practiced.  And he gave me a gift of a moment of insight.  Just a moment, a snapshot, nothing more.  It was enough.   It was a beautiful snapshot.

I could hear G-d laughing.  

The Boy Scouts

While debates continue to rage in social media and across religious platforms about the correctness of allowing homosexual boys into the Boy Scouts, I find myself. . . .

Completely not understanding.  In several ways.

During my approximately 4 years in the Cub Scouts, I can’t recall a single time anyone asked me about my sexuality.  I can, however, recall times I was taunted and teased in school. I can, however, recall times I was bullied as a teenager out in public. 

But not once, not ever, can I recall a moment at the Cub Scouts where anyone said anything about sex or sexuality. 

So I’m thoroughly not understanding how or why anyone involved in leadership of a Boy Scout troop or den would be interested in the sexuality of a kid. 

And to take that one step further and look at it from the kid’s point of view – I see and understand in this day and age that teenagers are sometimes coming to terms with their own sexuality earlier. So maybe there are instances of high school age kids being open about their sexuality.  But that’s just life – teenagers evolve into sexual creatures. Ask any 17 year old.  But ask them how that could possibly impact their learning and participating in Boy Scouts?  I don’t understand how it can. 

To be a little bit humorous – to me the Scouting movement seems to have been an early front runner to surviving the zombie apocalypse.  They teach you how to build fires, how to tell where mold is growing on a tree, how to tie knots. 

Or in their own words, “For over a century, the BSA has helped build the future leaders of this country by combining educational activities and lifelong values with fun. The Boy Scouts of America believes — and, through over a century of experience, knows — that helping youth is a key to building a more conscientious, responsible, and productive society.”  Who would want to deny that opportunity to any youth? Why would someone want to deny that opportunity to any youth?

One of my fondest sets of memories from the Cub Scouts involves the yearly trip out to Uncle Lawrence’s house with a small block of wood. Mom would visit Mrs. Juanita in the kitchen of the home Uncle Lawrence had built, on the farm land he owned.  And in the back in his shop, he would tool away to turn that block into something that resembled whatever Hot Wheels car that I was currently clutching in my hands. 

Now let’s put aside the question of my dubious morals that, in hindsight, seem questionable, since Uncle Lawrence did all the work.  And let’s set aside the fact that the only car I can clearly recall is a perfect rendition of the Batmobile.   In fact, let’s not set this aside and let’s freely admit that to this day I love the fact that I wanted a Batmobile pinewood derby car.  And that I loved Uncle Lawrence and still Mrs. Juanita, though in one way or another time separated us from both of them.  That’s life, change happens.  But the point is, Uncle Lawrence was happy to help (OK, make) my car. And in even that small way, he was another adult man who had a role in mentoring me that was brought on by the Boy Scouts.

I have an elementary school year picture where I was quite proud to wear my blue shirt and my bright yellow bandana with the little gold slider on it. 

Honestly, in a somber tone, I can look back and tell you that I was already acutely aware of something ‘different’ inside me, though it would be years before I could have really put it into words.  And I can tell you that certain challenges I had with my self-confidence were already in place by then.  I can’t say that, in my case, the Boy Scouts helped me to build self-confidence.  But I can tell you it didn’t hurt.  I can tell you that when I look back on after-school afternoons at the home of my friend Mark, whose mother was our Den Mother, I don’t cringe.  Certainly not like when I think about school days in Junior High.

If I try to imagine his Mother asking about sexuality, I just can’t picture it in my mind.  And do I think there might have been a few stereotypical hints available to her? Maybe.  Maybe not, I probably can’t give an objective opinion on it.  But I can’t imagine her ever being mean or cold hearted or turning away any kid who wanted to be in her Den.

If I try to imagine the boy that I was, and I try to imagine him being told that he can’t be in the Scouts because he’s gay, I cringe and cry for him.  Who would do that to any boy, to any kid, to any young man? 

Spoil Them

Recently I met a lady named Mary in passing and had a very casual conversation with her for several minutes. Mary is finishing up a successful battle with cancer, is twice widowed, smelled lightly of perfume and hair spray, and would be, I would guess, near 70 years of age in a very healthy frame of mind and body that seems closer to 60. 

During our encounter, she shared with me some highlights from her life, which included her second husband. Speaking about this gentleman made Mrs. Mary smile continuously, and her words about him were very generous.  Her words about her first husband were few by comparison.

The second gentleman had told her at some point in their marriage that he knew he would leave her widowed again.  I think she said his phrase was, "I'll go before you."  I don't know if he was a smoker, or read the actuary tables at his insurance agent's office, or just figured with his luck, he'd be the first to go.  But she had sort of put aside his worries and enjoyed the marriage.

She told me that once while she was still working, she had gone to lunch at a place she frequented and one waitress had chided Mary to another, "There's that lady that's being spoiled by her husband." And Mary replied, "Yes.  But you know what I've learned?  If you don't spoil back, they quit." 

And to that point, Mary said that she had spent the years of her marriage playing far more golf than she ever cared to.  But when the five years was over and her husband's words came true, she didn't regret a single day spent on the golf course.

Who among us doesn't like a little spoiling now and then?  Who among us doesn't like it when our other half remembers something we like, or does something nice for us?  To Mary's words, it's important to recognize when you've found a keeper, and the important part is to make yourself worth keeping, to spoil them back. Go play golf, go fishing, go to a show or a convention or an outing that's all about the other's enjoyment, and enjoy being with them.  It's not the same to say, "I don't care if you go." It's important to say, "I'll go with you.  I'll take you."

Find someone who spoils you.  And spoil them back.

. . . like Jesus does. . .

"All the crazy in my dreams, and both my broken wings, the devil man know, he don't stand a chance.  He loves me like Jesus does."

 The beautiful lady in the red dress that fades in and down during the refrain is as gorgeous in real life as on this video from the ACM awards.  I've been lucky enough to fall in love with her music and her sound, sitting on a patio on a summer day, somewhere in Memphis, Tennessee. 

In my heart, this song is Valerie June, with a guest spot by Eric Church. 

But more so, in my heart, this song reminds me of the man I love.  I think he may be a little more crazy than I am, and I love him for it.  And I know, no man has ever loved me like he does.

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mdYAm9I8Evg

Black Sunday at Big Lots

I could write an entire blog about my experience this morning standing in line at a Big Lots waiting for a no-brand-name tablet that was going on sale.  And I wouldn't write one bad word about Big Lots - but plenty about people in general, people in line, and humanity. 

And most people were perfectly nice.  But the ugly ones, they were way too ugly for an $80 no-name tablet. 

Which I didn't get.

But by the time MyFella, Jamie & I had finished breakfast, we decided that what I really want is a Kindle anyway. 

MyFella, "No, that's not enough power for you.  You want to be able to run a spaceship."

Me, "No, no, that'll be my new laptop.  The Kindle is just to look up things on imdb while I'm watching t.v. And imagine how cool I'll look reading books on the couch with my legs pulled up under me, and my new Kindle in my hands."

So the Kindle is coming, and I'm kind of excited.  And no weird people at Big Lots.*



*which remains one of my all time favorite stores.  it's the other customers I don't like.

It's a long long way . . .

from here to Hollywood, the song says. And it's a long way to Corpus Christi, Texas.

“I’ll drive,” he said.  He being MyFella.  And so our plans for a trip to Corpus Christi, Texas, began to celebrate the 50^th birthday of a friend of ours.  We planned one overnight each way, and told ourselves the trip is more about the journey, not to worry about the time. 

Probably 10 hours into a 14 hour drive, MyFella decided that if we were to ever go back, he would learn to fly. 

Our first souvenir was a young Texas State Trooper who somehow noticed MyFella had tugged and pulled his seat belt into a position under his arm, rather than over his shoulder. The Trooper told us that wearing it improperly was considered the same as not wearing it at all. He really was incredibly nice, and he gave us a warning.  It’s very official looking.  It doesn’t go on your record, and there was no monetary fee.  

Honestly, I think we caught the trooper's eye because he caught mine, and I was doing some serious rubber necking in the passenger seat to see if he was a hottie.  I didn't plan on getting such an up close look. 

Our next couple of days were a whirlwind of Mexican food, Texan food (not that impressive) and a batch of real Pork bbq that we had hauled in a cooler just because the birthday boy wanted it. 

There’s a couple of tacky group pictures and probably still some sand from Padre Island in my car as proof we were there.  And most importantly, MyFella and I survived that much cooped-up-together time.  That in itself was a gift to us. 

Life is just stories.

 ". . .and you won't even remember me. Well, you'll remember me a little. I'll be a story in your head. But that's OK: we're all stories, in the end. Just make it a good one, eh? Because it was, you know, it was the best: a daft old man, who stole a magic box and ran away. Did I ever tell you I stole it? Well, I borrowed it; I was always going to take it back. Oh, that box, Amy, you'll dream about that box. It'll never leave you. Big and little at the same time, brand-new and ancient, and the bluest blue, ever. And the times we had, eh? Would've had. Never had. In your dreams, they'll still be there. The Doctor and Amy Pond... and the days that never came."  The Doctor

That's a long time.

“That’s a long time to take care of somebody,” he said.  And that simple honesty is just him.  I’d forgotten the reasons he annoys me are the same reasons I adore him.  There was a time when we were chummy pals who hung out together.  And eventually I’d get annoyed with his ways and give myself a breather, only to rubber band back to his fun side.  And honestly, I have a lot of friends I do that way.  So he’s not different in that way.  Eventually his career took him far away and I haven’t seen him in years now.  He’s in town and reached out to me and we met for lunch.

Typical catch up lunch – checking off all the things that are said or asked. “How’s so-and-so?”  “Have you seen so-and-so?” “Are you still with so-and-so?” 

Usually when I talk to someone about MyFella and Jamie, they come back with some line like, “That’s such a blessing.”  Or “He must be a wonderful guy.” And truth be told, there is no joy like an afternoon spent with MyFella and Jamie.

But this friend for so many years, whose mother runs a home for elderly and had him employed as a teenager wiping bums and feeding others, said, with no tone of judgement whatsoever, “That’s a long time to take care of somebody.” 

MyFella hates the Christmas visitors. They take their church groups to the center one afternoon and milk a year’s worth of good feelings out of it.  We’ve seen them in the Pizza Hut on a hot summer day and they call Jamie by name and talk about their Christmas visit.  Then they’ll say something, “You’re so blessed this” and “You’re so blessed that.”  Just grinning in their Sunday best.

But never before has someone said to me so simply, so honestly, “That’s a long time to take care of somebody."

And I remembered how I can simultaneously be annoyed and love a friend at the same time. 

She didn't come home that day.

She didn’t come home that day.

Almost three weeks ago, my roommate called, clearly upset about a phone call he had received to “come over, right now” before even 8a.m.  Within a little while I received a text, “She’s dead.” And that was it, the life of a friend was over.  She and her partner had gone to a resort area over the weekend with friends, and one of them simply did not come home.

I’ve heard small pieces about what happened – a panic attack, anxiety, etc. and I think we suspect some type of heart attack was brought on.  The autopsy report isn’t back yet.  But one simple truth remains, she did not come home.

The days that followed were a bit odd.  Flip flops discarded on the porch where she had left them gave the impression she would be home any minute.  Friends calling upon her surviving partner, neighbors walking up to the porch with dishes.* I asked the partner, “Are you keeping a list of who brings what?” She said, “Am I supposed to? See, she would have known that. I didn’t.”  I said, “You can. It’s O.K.”

In the case of my friends, death was fairly quick.  No hospital stay, no agonizing illness.  No hard decisions to be made.  And likewise, no one to argue over any decisions. There simply wasn’t time to argue over life saving measures.  She was happy and enjoying life.  And then she was gone.

I did not, and do not, know the particulars of her choices in the way of a will. Nor do I have any reason to know them.  I know she had a partner who loved her.  I know she had more than one grown child and small grandchildren she adored.

And I know that the last 3 weeks I have stressed over getting my own house in order.  I’ve called a friend of mine who is an attorney and annoyed her to no end. I’ve researched laws in my state of residence.  I’ve calculated.  I’ve considered.

 I’ve walked through my home and tried to take inventory of everything MyFella has given me, or we bought together as “ours.” I’ve called or emailed my contacts where I have my modest financial holdings to remember how I’ve set up accounts. I’m making a list.  I’m checking it twice. In short, I’m doing my homework to help my attorney help me get my affairs in order.**

And I am committed to the idea that MyFella and My Family will not wonder.  They will not argue. They will not be left without an idea of what I want to happen. 

Some of the questions put before a person making decisions such as this can be uncomfortable.  It’s fine to say, “I want you to have the power to make my healthcare decisions if I become unable.” It’s another to go through the form and decide how long you want to be on life support, on oxygen, if you do or not want to be brought back.  The medical mysteries of the body are too enormous – who is to know if I would come back a vegetable or perfectly fine? Who is to say if one more day would have made the difference?  And honestly, who wants to be the decision maker,  put to the test for another person?

So I’ll do the best I can.  I’ll make of it what I can.I'll try my best to decide what should happen to me.  I’ll make an inventory of my endless collection of stuff that might make for one good day of a yard sale. And I’ll hope no one ever has to worry about it.

 

"The Rockford Files"

"They don't even allow tombstones. Just brass plaques flush with the ground so they don't interfere with the lawn mower. I think graves should be a little untidy, like our lives."
Katie Brannon

Ladies of the Church

This is sad reason for a funny story about Southern ladies of the church.

My cousin died a few weeks ago. He had been a career policeman and retired for health reasons. He was a member of the same church my parents attend, and at which my mom is employed as the church secretary.

The reverend was insistent on the ladies of the church providing a meal at the church social hall after, which is customary. Though some families opt for food to be delivered home after the service and just entertain a family meal there.

But the reverend knew that the police department was going up en mass, as well as many family members have traveled for the service. So he gave directions for food so that all family and police were welcome.

I made arrangements to be late to work to attend the funeral, but simply did not have the option of staying for the graveside service and the meal, as I work about an hour away from my hometown, and needed to come back to work.

Before the service, Mom asked one of the ladies in the kitchen if they would make for me a to-go box and I would walk over and get it after the service. Of course, it's my hometown and I visit with them regularly, so I know several of the ladies. As I ran through trying to make it to the bathroom, one lady said, "What do you want to drink?" and I was momentarily confused before she said, "Your mother asked us to get you a to go plate. What do you want to drink with it?" I delightedly said, "tea."

You know the clam shell style styrofoam to-go boxes from restaurants? The kind with 3 separated compartments inside?

Post bathroom visit, another lady walked up to me with a grocery store plastic sack that had two of the big boxes and 1 small box inside. "I've got all the hot food in one, the cold food in one, and dessert in the small one."

For the drive to work, my car smelled like a buffet restaurant. I got to work and had chicken, pulled pork with sauce and a bun, an assortment of side dishes like potato salad and cole slaw and topped off with a yellow cake.

That's one time it really paid off to have my mother working as the church secretary. And to be in the South.

Worming Horses

Yesterday I wormed a few horses. It's really rather anticlimactic, not near as fancy as it sounds, and really doesn't involve any worms. It's just a matter of a plastic syringe feeding a paste to the horse.

But still, who would have thought I would ever . . . . .

The Messengers of Death

"It was at the time when Emile Pencenat was digging his own burial plot, Sunday after Sunday. He had obtained permission, although there was no precedent for this kind of thing. The town council was not impressed by this whim, but could find nothing that formally forbade it. Moreover, there was a lack of men willing to do the low-paid work of looking after the field of the dead. Finally, to clinch the decision, Emile Pencenat had declared:
'I'll sweep your cemetery myself; I'll throw out the dead boquets; I'll weed the grass around the graves, and I'll even pick up the pots of chrysanthemums blown over by the wind.'
How could they resist the offer of so much free work? They didn't even ask him why he insisted on a separate burial place, when there was a spacious and resoundingly empty family vault, because everyone was only too aware of the reply to that question: it was to avoid sharing eternity with his wife Prudence, with whom he did not get on.
Besides, he didn't like that plot. It looked like a Protestant mausoleum in the middle of the Catholic cemetery. It was sharp-edged, forbidding, and to make matters worse, it had a mean and parsimonious view of eternity that made the afterlife seem quite unattractive. As it happened, Emile Pencenat was fortunate enough to imagine the realm of the departed in a happier light - when one has gloomy thoughts, all the more reason for them to be flowery: if it were possible, his tomb would be a small-scale copy of an eastern potentate's ceremonial tester bed swathed in gold-fringed theatre drapes. The whole thing would be dominated by an opulent canopy and surrounded by a festooned balustrade with columns. . . .
. . . On rainy days he spent his time in his shed sculpting cherubs' heads, with which he hoped to enliven the pink marble columns around his masterpiece. Not that he had reached that point. He didn't know yet where he could get pink marble, nor how he was going to pay for it. But he'd only been thinking about digging his tomb for a few months; in fact it was since his retirement, when he was wondering anxiously what he could do to lessen his boredom. And so he had plenty of time to make enquiries, he thought.
Pierre Magnan

He Comes. . . .

MyFella often, and regularly, accuses me of overbooking plans for the weekend. What I've tried to make him understand is these people aren't calling for me. They can see me any time.

The texts, calls and emails will start around Thursday.
"Is he coming this weekend or are you going there?"
"Oh good, I want to see him."
"What are you doing for . . . "

and then I end up with a weekend full of meal events with friends, and he'll huff and puff and blow on about it all. He thinks I'm just lining up time with my friends and we don't have any time alone.

It started again last night.
"Is he coming this weekend for the birthday party?"
"I want to go out for supper tomorrow night."
"Text him and tell him yaw are going out with me."

I stopped it and said, sweetly, "You text him."

A minute later I get a text from him. "Are you with her?"

And now I get to complain all weekend, "You've planned the whole weekend! There's no time alone for just us! You always do this!" I wonder if I can control the amount of sarcasm and irony in my voice.

Fort Knox

"Do you feel like Fort Knox today?" he asked. I didn't understand what he meant. He's a gentleman a little older than me, and I forget sometimes that I'm well into my 40's. I'd say he's in his 50's. And I'd say he's lived a lot. He always has a good fishing or hunting story and seems to have covered most of this part of the country with a rod and reel in his hands.

As we talked yesterday, we realized we know a few of the same people, and that he was probably doing some contract work at some places at the same times I was working there. And now he seems fine working here in a cleaning position, as long as he can get enough hours to make ends meet. He's done a lot of labor jobs, a lot of dirty jobs, climbing through ceilings and under floors, and working for "the man."

He stopped through once or twice and borrowed a dollar, and always brought it back. But still, I didn't make the connection to the statement. "Do you feel like Fort Knox today?" He said he's poor til payday. Needed 5 bucks. I had 4. In truth, I started keeping one dollar in the drawer for him anyway.

And I thought, "How bad off you must be, if you need to borrow money from me, of all people." I'm certainly not wealthy, by any means.

But I've got plenty to eat for lunch today, my bed was warm this cold morning, and I haven't borrowed any money lately.

I think when he returns the $4, I'll just tuck it back in the drawer for the next time. Maybe even find another one to go with it.

Juice Newton

I like to tell the story that MyFella and I met at a church meeting while "doing good works." Truth is, that's just the story I like to tell. But we count our face to face meeting as one of a couple of "anniversaries" we celebrate.

He was in town for a work related association meeting he attends regularly, and I left work early to drive out to a restaurant and meet him. The association meets every other month on the third Wednesday of the month. It was January.

Maybe it's a coincidence that I haven't opened my wallet this week until this morning and found a handwritten note. "I love you and have for years."

The sweetest thing I've ever known . . . .

Deer Hunting

Since I did not kill the animal, and did not have to face it, and did not have to field dress it, I can't say what, if any, revelation might have come from a clean shot and a good kill. I suspect that while I enjoy eating chicken fried deer steak with wild rice*, it would be quite another situation if I'd had to "finish off" a wounded animal.

And I don't know if my stomach would of held up to field dressing one.

But I think that in the coming year, I'm going to take an opportunity to target shoot a little and get myself a little better prepared for the hunt next year.


**That's the only way my Mom ever cooked it.

Another Family's Prayer

MyFella's extended family has a twice a year dinner that includes all sorts of cousins and in-laws and out-laws. One dinner is during the Christmas season, and another marks what they call "Decoration Day" at the cemetery.

I'll need to look back and see if I've ever done a posting about Decoration Day. The whole concept was quite new to me. But I digress. . . .

The dinner is always pot luck style, and many family members bring "their" dish. Such as MyFella's mother brings a bowl of green beans cooked in her particular style. One aunt of his makes homemade, hand breaded, fried okra. (I got the last of it this year, and no, I did not feel a bit guilty.) MyFella does this odd thing where he tries to prepare an entire meal himself - this year he took a dessert, a pork loin roasted with potatoes and carrots, and a pot of home made chicken and dumplings. Which is aside from the big roasting pan full of cornbread dressing that he indulged me in making just because I wanted to try and make it, and not including the big thing of corn he had intended to cook but forgot.

The event takes place in a community center building rented for the night, and all sorts of relatives are there, young and old, big and small. And it all begins with a prayer.

I thought the occasion deserved remembering the words. . .

P.S. I will not post this until after Christmas, because I intend to come up with a printed and framed version of this for MyFella as a stocking stuffer.