Blabberings

I just have a lot to say.
March 6th, 2014 by celesteconner@comcast.net

“I Don’t Want to Listen to Johnny Cash Today, Daddy” (and Other Country Music Songs Beggin’ To Be Written)

They each have 3 stanzas, like all good country songs.

“The Prom Dress in Pictures”

the prom dress 1

A Night in Fantasyland, Northview High School, 1983

the prom dress 2

Dress Up Finery, Conner Playroom, 2005

the prom dress 3

Pageant Set Decoration, Northview High School, 2012

“Mama, Don’t Be Funny (You’re Driving Me Nuts)”

“She Doesn’t Look Like She’s Wearing Clothes (She Looks Like She’s Been Bedazzled)”

“It’s Just Like Ozark (Just a Little Farther Away)”

“Santa Claus Ain’t Coming (If You Don’t Clean Up Your Room)”

“He Was an Outcast among the Rejects (In the Shade of the Penske Truck)”

“I’m So Excited about Sleeping Late (I’m Going to Bed Early Toni-ight)”

“It’s Laundry Day and My Kitchen’s a Mess (Play Me a Sad Country Tune)”

“Man, I’m Really Thirsty (Actually, I Just Want a Pop Tart)”

“Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend (‘Til You Find Out What They’re Worth and Cash ‘Em In)”

“Tide Hoopla Never Dies Down (It Just Ebbs and Flows)”

“When the Cute Wears Off (She Will Still Be Rich)”

“Mama, You’re Embarrassing Me (and There’s No One Even Around)”

“It’s Not Always about You, Rebecca Ramsey (Sometimes It’s about Me)”

“The Problem with Math Teachers (They’ve Never Had a Problem with Math)”

“You Better Not Make Eye Contact (He’ll Tell You Something to Do)”

“Hold On a Minute (Let Me Tweet My Blog)”

“It Would Be Hilarious (If It Wasn’t Happening to Me)”

“He’ll Have to Marry Before My Funeral (So He’ll Know What to Wear)”

“We Had to Write Down Our Strengths (So I Lied My Little Heart Out)”

“Hell Is Just a Waiting Room (and the Doctor Never Calls Your Name)”

“It Was Just a Little Salty (It Was Like Your Mama Made It for Me)”

I overheard every one of the titles in conversation, including the four I heard myself say. (Figure ’em out.) Simply because a girl talks a lot, doesn’t mean she is not listening as well. (And that sounds like a country song, too.)

 

February 22nd, 2014 by celesteconner@comcast.net

Pinch Me, Mrs. Patmore

Mama probably had to mortgage the farm, but she let me spend the spring semester of my junior year in college at the then-new Samford University Study Centre in London, England. (Now, it is called Daniel House.) The students took classes through Samford and lived and traveled with a dozen other Samford undergrads, chaperoned by a Samford professor. Our tuition included two weekend trips (to Paris and Dublin) and a weekly trip to the West End theatre. We watched Evita before it closed and Les Miserables soon after it opened. We attended Guys and Dolls performed by a bunch of Brits and Agatha Christie’s Mousetrap. We saw one of Michael Crawford’s last performances in Barnum, before he starred in Phantom of the Opera, which did not begin until after we returned home. I still have a playbill from each of the shows and a cassette soundtrack of several of them.

I remember gathering frequently for a basket of French fries at lunchtime in a pub around the corner from the Centre. It had an American name. I think it was Lone Star.

I spent most of my time with Pat and Little Pat. “Pat” would not allow us to dub her as “Big Pat” merely because “Little Pat” was little. I have lost touch with both of them, but if I were to see Little Pat today, I would hug her and introduce her to my children as Little Pat. They would have to call her “Miss Little Pat.”

I remember studying occasionally and viewing BBC television frequently. We visited all the sites and rolled our eyes at American tourists. (We were students–not tourists!) We learned early on that Americans are quickly spotted by their shoes. Brits don’t wear tennis shoes. (Think Harry Potter.) We bought some ugly shoes at a flea market and ditched the white leather high top Reeboks. We whispered to each other on the tube, because Americans are loud.

Mr. Tait was an Englishman who was the liaison for Samford and the London centre. Since we spent the majority of our time in London with the other Samford students, he wanted to introduce us to some “real” English people.  He arranged an out-of-town weekend for us through friends.

We toured the English countryside. We went to Stonehenge and Salisbury Cathedral. I remember seeing the grave of child who was “born in March and died in January of the same year” (on the Julian calendar). We went to New Forest National Park, near Nottingham, and wished for a glimpse of Robin Hood.

It was like an old-fashioned youth choir tour. We divided into groups of 2 or 3 and stayed in the homes of members of the local Baptist church. I remember talking late into the night and swapping American/English stories with the delightful couple who hosted me for the weekend. They liked to listen to me drag out my vowels as much as I enjoyed their quick consonants. I remember eating beef stroganoff for dinner and tackily picking out the mushrooms. They lived in a cottage with a thatched roof. I remember freezing all night long.

On Sunday morning, we went to church with our new friends.  The old church had typical English cathedral architecture; however, the modern members felt the high ceilings were wasted space, so they had the church divided in half horizontally and had a floor built over the sanctuary. I remember going upstairs to Sunday school.

What I didn’t remember was the name of the town.

Recently, I was reminiscing with my daughters about my European adventure. Nostalgic, I pulled out my scrapbook. I savored the dark, almost 30-year-old (gasp!) pictures. Since my camera was a cheap Instamatic, I bought postcards everywhere that I went. Fortunately, I bought one at the town while we were there.

Imagine my astonishment.

I honestly had no idea. Not a tidbit of a recall. Not a morsel of a remembrance. 

Blimey. 

Looky where I’ve been.

Downton

 

February 13th, 2014 by celesteconner@comcast.net

Some Things I Like (And Some Things I Don’t)

Some Things I Like

Lists – I don’t click on every list I see of “17 Things You Don’t Know about This Person You’ve Never Heard of Who Is In Fact a Big-Time Celebrity and So Uber-Cool that Your College-Aged Daughters Might Not Have Heard of Her Either,” but I click on a lot of them. (You had me at 17 Things.)

High school reunions – Nobody cares how fat other people are at 50 years old. They are fat, too. I have made new friends with former classmates while AT the reunion. (Stop making excuses. Go to your reunions.)

Cluttered bookshelves – Not Southern Living bookshelves. Real life, dust-covered bookshelves . . .

  • Stacked with new releases, old classics, and a travel guide to Jamaica
  • Overflowing with textbooks, scrapbooks, and Playbills from touring Broadway productions
  • Laden with favorite pictures, children’s books, and Granny’s salt and pepper shakers encrusted with sea shells and a pink flamingo painted on the front
  • (Bunnies are optional.)
IMG_0173

Bathroom heaters – Brrrr! Ahhhh!

Christmas cards – If Christmas cards become obsolete in my lifetime, I’m not putting a tree up. I’m cancelling Christmas and going on a cruise. I want to hold my own pictures of my friends’ children and grandchildren. Is that too much to ask?

Skinny jeans

American Top 40 replays on 70s on 7 – “The hits from coast to coast.” All over again.

350 degrees for 30 minutes

Poseidon – One Saturday last May, Phillip appeared at our lake cabin with a tiny yellow-bellied slider. He spent the day with his buddy Brett. They found the turtle at The Island. Brett’s parents thought it would be a great idea for Phillip to KEEP the turtle, “because he is so cute” (the turtle, not the Boy). I don’t do critters very well. If I do a critter, I prefer a store-bought one. I would NEVER have allowed anybody on my watch to take a lake critter home with him. Nobody really asked me. Brett’s mama came over later with a hand-me-down tank and some turtle food and put blood worms in my freezer. (WHAT?!)

Phillip named him Poseidon, because Brett’s yellow-bellied slider that he found in a parking lot at the zoo in New Orleans was named Zeus. AARRGGHH!! “Did you feed the turtle?” “Turn the tank light on.” “Turn the tank light off.” “Did you feed the turtle?”

By Thanksgiving, the second-hand tank was dying. Poseidon lived all day long downstairs by himself. It is dark downstairs, and the tank light finally broke. So, for Christmas, as a gift TO ME from the children, I asked for a new tank. And that we put it upstairs. So Poseidon wouldn’t be lonely. And could get some sunshine.

Presently, Poseidon splashes in his new, big tank. He swims frantically in the bubbly water cascading from the filter like he is Crush in the EAC. He climbs on the rocks that Brett’s mom stole from the lake and sticks his little turtle head out of the water. Chuck feeds him by hand. I watch him frolic and listen to the water gurgle. Everything about Poseidon soothes me and makes me happy. (Don’t tell Brett’s mom. She thinks I’m still mad.)

“My Favorite Things” – Is it redundant to put the song “My Favorite Things” on a list of my favorite things?

Words with a q – antiquated, loquacious, bequeath

REESTER EGGS!!!

“I may be ignorant, but I ain’t stupid!” – Loretty to Doo, Coal Miner’s Daughter

Party pictures with multi-colored friends

christmas  (1)

Old hymns recorded by contemporary musicians – Listen to “Nothin’ but the Blood” by Alan Jackson and “Fairest Lord Jesus” by Amy Grant and try to hold back a hearty “Amen!”

A hearty “Amen!”

Hard copies, large print, blue ink pens

Kathie Lee and Hoda – I will never be Fan of the Week. They will never give me an Ambush Makeover. But if I’m at home at 10:00 am, and I remember, I’m gonna look for some laundry to fold in front of the TV. KLG and Hoda are funny and kind, and their show makes me smile.

Old cemeteries

Alliteration – “Good Golly at the groceries, Girlfriend!” (I especially like p.) “Pass the peas, please, Penelope.” (I don’t know a Penelope, but if I were an old British woman, I would like to be named Penelope. I would be peculiar, persnickety, and punctual.)

A worn out copy of Go Dog, Go! – “A dog party! A big dog party! Big dogs, little dogs, red dogs, blue dogs, yellow dogs, green dogs, black dogs, and white dogs are all at a dog party! What a dog party!” (Please see above references to high school reunions and multi-colored friends.)

(And Some Things I Don’t)

Makeovers – Once a week, Katie Lee and Hoda have an Ambush Makeover. Almost every single time, I prefer the “Before” picture to the “After” picture. In the “After” pics, the women don’t look like themselves. I think women are prettier without so much makeup and hair color. I think most women just need a cute haircut, eyebrows and mustaches waxed, and a good bra to pull the girls back up closer to where they were to begin with.

Self-checkouts – It’s not so much that I hate them; it’s that they hate me.

Separate – Can we just agree to spell it seperate?

Affect/effect – UGH! WHO CARES!!!

French-Fry-Free February – It is a self-imposed alliterative diet, and I hate it.

Diet Pepsi – Why, oh, why, oh, why, oh, why, oh, why?!

Coconut – It’s a good thing I wasn’t on the Minnow. I would never have survived on Gilligan’s Island.

ALL CAPS –ALL CAPS ARE ONLY TO BE USED FOR EMPHASIS! AND EASY ON THE EXCLAMATION POINTS, TOO!!!!

The live-action Grinch movie – Excluding “Where Are You Christmas,” the makers of the movie Missed. The. Whole. Point.

A laser pointer in the hands of a boy (regardless of age)

“Just sayin’” – Obviously. It was just said. I’m just sayin’ that since it was just said, I get that whoever is “just sayin’” is just sayin’. And “just sayin’” doesn’t cover the sin of whatever was just said. To cover the sin of whatever was just said, one must just say, “Bless your heart.” (Just sayin’.)

 

February 12th, 2014 by celesteconner@comcast.net

When the Roof Caves In

I met Laurel at church, but I got to know her in Jamaica.

(That would be a good opening line for a murder mystery, wouldn’t it?)

For several summers, the youth group from our church went to Ocho Rios, Jamaica to teach Vacation Bible School for local churches. Laurel had gone once before. I heard all about that trip.

 

Jack's River Baptist Church

Laurel’s group taught up in the mountains at Jack’s River Baptist Church. On Monday, about 50 children came to VBS, but each day the Good News spread and more and more children came. By Friday, there were 200 children in a one-room church with no ac or sound system and very little wiggle room. It was loud and sweaty as Miss Laurel yelled that day’s lesson to the children.  Afterwards, she wanted to allow the children who were interested in Jesus to have an opportunity to learn more. She hollered and waved her arms in different directions, “ALL YOU WHO WANT TO GO TO HEAVEN, FOLLOW MR. JIM. EVERYONE ELSE CAN GO TO CRAFTS WITH MISS KIM!”

I doubt those words were written in the lesson plans.

What if someone wanted to do both? (I’m thinking 10-year-old Celeste would have gone home with a brightly beaded necklace that day.)

It was on the next trip that I got to know Laurel. She went back to Jack’s River and the atmosphere was worse. There was much-needed construction taking place on the roof of the church, so in addition to the 200 sweaty kids crammed into the church, the Bible story was punctuated with hammering and falling ceiling tiles. The adults wouldn’t let the kids go outside to play for fear of the nails that covered the ground. (I’m not even going to mention about the roof caving in on a leader while she was tinkling in the bathroom, because it wasn’t Laurel—but it should have been.) It was crazy and chaotic and fantastic. I imagine they let the kids talk about going to Heaven AND make crafts!

I was at nearby Hamilton Mountain Baptist Church. My envious friends called it Hamilton Mountain Resort, because we had a bathroom and a kitchen (albeit without running water in either).

 

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So, it was on the bus rides to and from our churches or back at the condos as we prepared for the following day or over shared stories during dinners and delightful desserts at Glenn’s across the street or in the evening Bible studies by the Caribbean where I learned to love Laurel.

I loved her quick wit and loud laugh. I loved her wild, curly golden locks (about which her grandmother told her, “I don’t have much, but I’ll give you everything I own, if you’ll do something about that hair.”) I loved that she had the wisdom of a mom who had raised three godly young men and was willing to share it with the mother of a preteen boy who was thirsty for her knowledge.

Now, almost four years later, I find I am still thirsty for her knowledge. Fortunately for me, she has written a book.

Laurel asked me to write a review of Lean Forward  for Amazon. (I still haven’t done that!) She emailed the book to me on October 31st. I pulled it up on my laptop just to skim while the trick-or-treaters came and went. Except for answering the doorbell, I didn’t get up for several hours. I nibbled on bite-sized Snickers and read the whole book in one sitting. I quickly discovered that I wasn’t reading it for the Amazon review. I was reading it for my sinking and struggling and seeking soul. She didn’t know it, but she had written the book for me.

Or maybe she did know it. She told me, “We spend most of our time trying to make the pain go away: we eat, we hide, we take drugs, we shop, we drink, we get really busy and try to feel important. The list of what we do goes on forever.  But all those things are just symptoms of the problem. The problem is the human condition. Life hurts for many reasons. We need to experience God on a moment by moment basis.” 

(I’m not going to tell you the means I use to escape life, because that’s too personal. Just leave me alone and pass me the Cheez-Its.)

In 2011, Laurel and her husband, Jim, faced an unexpected and unwelcome move. Once the boxes were packed and later unpacked, with her three boys all grown, she had time on her hands to write down what she had learned through the difficult experience. Much of it, she had already learned just by living and striving for godliness most of her life.

“Sometimes a wilderness experience is not dramatic at all.” She readily admits in the book, “Our problem faded into insignificance when compared to what many people endure; however, I have come to this conclusion: whether a circumstance is desperate or merely difficult a believer must make a choice.”

Truth is Truth, regardless of whether we are surviving a move or drowning in the grief of burying a loved one.

“This book is neither a formula nor a set of religious rules,” she writes in Lean Forward .

She emailed me, “The disciplines (that this book is about) are biblical ways, proven-through-the-centuries ways, to encounter God. My prayer is that my experiences help others. I think that is finally what the pain is all about.” 

My favorite line from the book is “When you don’t know what to do, go to church.” Not because “the devil will get you,” like the sign says on I65 north of Montgomery, but because a commitment to church brings connection and companionship and, occasionally, a casserole.

Are you weary or fearful or angry or depressed or lonely or despairing (or all of the above)? If not, chances are you will be at some point.

Let my friend Laurel Griffith share with you how she learned to Lean Forward .

(Now, I’m off to write that Amazon review!)

The kindle edition of Lean Forward is available on Amazon for $2.99. The paperback is $8.99.

 

 

February 10th, 2014 by celesteconner@comcast.net

Ode to Critters

“I am 18 years old. Can I PLEASE have a bunny?”

Emma had begged for a bunny for a decade. “NO! NO! NO!” What was the purpose of a bunny as a pet? She would play with it for a week and then tire of it, and I would be stuck with trying to get rid of a nasty bunny and its stinky cage when she left for college.

But, an 18-year-old is different from a 10-year-old:

“It will be all your responsibility.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“You will buy it all of its food with your own money.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“I will not clean the cage.”

“Yes ma’am.”

After the pinkie promises, I caved. Jessie found a cute Dutch Bunny in Auburn. A War Eagle bunny. Jessie hid it in the dorm on the night before she brought it to Dothan. Her name was Ruby. I didn’t expect to hate her, but I didn’t expect to like her, either. However, that nose was pretty cute. 

To quote J.K. Rowling, “All was well.”Ruby

Except that Phillip had some Christmas money burning up his pocket. Now, evidently, Phillip needed a guinea pig:

“It will be all your responsibility.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“You will buy it all of its food with your own money.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“I will not clean the cage.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Abby took him to Pets R Us. He found a black guinea pig with a white stripe on his face and a perfect little French mustache. His name was Pierre.

They had such happy little lives. Emma and Phillip would let them out of their cages to frolic together in the playroom. (I must have misplaced my spine.) Biscuit was certain we had all lost our minds. We kept the critters in the playroom behind closed doors on a table out of Biscuit’s reach.

“All was well.”

Pierre

Until one dark and gloomy Wednesday night about a week later. I was helping with youth supper at church when I received a text from Abby: “Biscuit killed Pierre.” I uttered some mild swear words under my breath (I was at church!) and called Abby. 

Apparently the attack was premeditated. Biscuit watched us leave for church (Abby was in her room, so maybe Biscuit thought she went, too). She discovered the door to the playroom at least cracked. Pierre’s cage was on Granny’s Hoosier cabinet. Biscuit jumped up on a nearby chair, leaped towards the cabinet, and knocked the cage to the floor. The cage door flew open! Pierre squealed a terrified squeal! He ran for his short life! Biscuit snatched the rodent and snapped his neck.

Abby heard the racket and knew EXACTLY what had happened. She hurried downstairs with hopes of saving his life. Alas, Biscuit was standing over the broken Pierre, looking guilty . . . and yet proud.

I told Abby to leave the body for Chuck. “It’s a man’s job to kill the bugs, and a Daddy’s job to bury the pets.”

Back at church, I showed Abby’s text to my friend sitting next to me. And her son. And his friend. And Emma. And all the other moms. Soon, everyone on the youth floor—except Phillip—knew of the homicide.

There are things you instinctively know when you find out the baby is a boy. You know you will genuinely grieve when he doesn’t make the Team or when the Team loses the Big Game. You know you will pretend to grieve when Miss Priss Who Thinks She’s All That breaks up with him. You never imagine when you see the tally on the ultrasound that you will some day have to be The One to tell The Boy that The Dog murdered The Guinea Pig.

But I did. And I did. And I promised my sadder, wiser, now worldlier son that Daddy and I would buy him a Second Guinea Pig.  

Although he could never replace Pierre in our hearts, the next night, Chuck and Phillip returned to Pets R Us to purchase another guinea pig. Phillip named him Hardison, after a favorite character on a TV show. The cashier at the store told them that there is a two-week return policy on animals. If the animal died of natural causes, we need only to return the body for an exchange . . . .

We all made sure the door to the playroom stayed tightly shut. 

Again, “All was well.”

Hardison

Until Hardison seemed lethargic. As the days progressed, he got stiller and stiller and stiller. Until he quit moving all together.

The moment Hardison ceased breathing, I was at a funeral with 89-year-old Aunt Betty for her first cousin that I don’t remember ever having met. It was on a Saturday. Chuck was at the office. The kids were all at home. Phillip came upstairs to find his sisters, cradling his Second Dead Guinea Pig, who had died in his arms. They didn’t know what to do. They texted me at the funeral. (I only checked my phone because we had spoken to everybody and were sitting in silence waiting for the service to begin. I PROMISE!) I told them to call Their Daddy.

We had been googling about lethargy in guinea pigs. We discovered a parvo-like illness that is passed around in pet stores.

Emma immediately began to fret about Ruby. She thought she noticed some lethargy. She texted me—still at the funeral—that she was concerned that Ruby (a RABBIT!) was not pooping. Emma said her tummy was swollen and hard. Weary, I texted back, “THEN SQUEEZE HER!”

That afternoon, after the funeral of the cousin I didn’t know, they all three took Phillip and Hardison’s corpse back to Pets R Us with the receipt and came home with the Third Guinea Pig in as many weeks. Meet Trip.

Trip

By now, Ruby really did seem a little lethargic.

Emma was an editor for her school yearbook. The yearbook staff went to a local photographer to have pictures taken. They could take fun things with them for their photos. Emma took Ruby, but she just didn’t seem herself. She died later that afternoon. She is forever memorialized in the 2012 edition of the Northview High School Spectrum.

The day Ruby died was sad. A guinea pig is a rodent, but a rabbit is a mammal. There is a kinship with a rabbit. Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail, and Peter were rabbits. The Easter bunny is a rabbit. Pooh’s friend, Rabbit, is a rabbit.  Emma cried, and I sighed, and Chuck disposed of the body.

Trip was living on borrowed time. We waited. And checked his breathing frequently.

On the Saturday of Disciple Now weekend, two weeks to the day of the death of Hardison, the seniors came to our house for lunch. They were briefed on the dire situation. In hushed whispers, they asked, “Is he dead yet?” Chuck offered to give him a shot of insulin to hasten the dying. I wasn’t sure if that was morbid or kind, but I didn’t let him. Trip finally died. And Chuck disposed of the body.

The whole Critter Episode took place over the course of only about a month.

After the cages were cloroxed and Emma’s wounds had healed, we found another Dutch bunny at a different pet store. Her name is Cas, and she lives a happy, hoppy life to this day. She has a cute lime green leash and an Instagram account. Phillip’s guinea pig need had been sufficiently met. He likes to watch his turtle, Poseidon, splash around in his tank. Abby, not to be left out, has a betta fish named Bailey that she won in a vicious game of Dirty Santa. (She stole him from Bailey.) Biscuit suspiciously tolerates the current arrangement. 

All is well. (Knock wood.)

IMG957500

 

 

February 6th, 2014 by celesteconner@comcast.net

Clothes in the Kitchen

Jordan Lee had just decided she wanted to be a girl and moved into her pretty pink bedroom.

When JL was born, Starla moved Justin to the twin bed in his room and put JL in the crib. That way, she was able to keep the 3rd bedroom as a guest room for Mama and Granny. When Jeremy was born, she was able to fit another twin bed in the large-ish bedroom. She moved JL to the new bed and put Jeremy in the crib. When Jeremy was ready for a bed, Starla moved JL’s clothes to the front bedroom and told JL it was hers now. But she wasn’t budging. So, Starla moved the twin beds out of the shared room and bought a bunk bed with a queen mattress on the bottom. Six-year-old Justin got the top; 4-year-old JL got to share the bottom with her 2-year-old baby brother (and their daddy at bedtime, who used to pray them to sleep–himself included).

By the time JL was about 8, she decided maybe being a girl was a good thing after all. Wasn’t she lucky to have a pretty pink bedroom of her own? She slung her hair and stomped her feet and declared herself moved out.

Mama was an only child and had just been diagnosed with “atypical Alzheimer’s Disease,” which only meant she was confused, but she acted differently than someone with “typical” Alzheimer’s Disease. Other than her perpetual grief over Daddy’s early death, no one really knew what she had or why she had begun deteriorating at such a young age.

She was so young that her own mother was still living. Starla and I were in the car one day, and in a Rock-Paper-Scissors manner, I said, “I want Mama.” Starla said, “Good, ‘cause I want Granny.” And that was that.

I don’t remember how Granny ended up in the hospital with a quadruple bypass at 85 years old. I do remember the doctor saying afterwards, “Mrs. Brown, you have the heart of a 40-year-old.” Forty-one-year-old Starla said, “Granny! You’re younger than I am!!”

Since Starla had “dibs” on Granny, she had to go to Auburn to recover from her surgery. We were suspicious that she would never leave, but we didn’t share that with her. 

JLs scrapbook 1 - Copy (4)

Where was Starla going to put her? The little grey house was stretched to capacity and was liable to start popping nails any second. There was nowhere else to put her other than Jordan Lee’s pretty pink bedroom. But where could she put JL’s clothes? 

The little grey house had a laundry closet in an L-shaped kitchen. There was a smidge of room there. JL’s clothes got moved to the kitchen, and she went back to the boys’ room. At least this time, she got the top bunk by herself.

 

At 8 years old, when she was trying to grow up, when she had decided maybe she was a little tired of her brothers, she was stuck with them again. Indefinitely. And not by her own choice this time.

JLs scrapbook 1 - Copy

Granny lived in Jordan Lee’s room for 3 years. When Starla just couldn’t take care of her anymore (which is way past the limit for mere humans), she moved Granny to a nearby nursing home where she lived for one year, but she was confused by then and didn’t really even know it.

An 11-year-old Jordan Lee finally moved into her pretty pink bedroom. Without brothers. Without an old woman and a hospital bed. But with plenty of time to finish growing up.

Today, Jordan Lee is married to Peyton and is mommy to Harper. I asked her about Granny recently. She said, “I miss her. We had so much fun when she lived with us. We laughed all the time.”

Dear children, let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth. 1 John 3:18.

JLs scrapbook 1 - Copy (2)

 

 

February 4th, 2014 by celesteconner@comcast.net

Meet Whitman and Rose

Whitman and Rose

To misquote Pinocchio, “I’ve got a real blog!” In celebration of this magical occasion in the life of a chatty, nap-loving, middle-aged mama, I am hosting a giveaway.

Whitman and Rose are Valentine’s babies that were lovingly handmade by Emma Conner, Crafter Extraordinaire.

Whitman and Rose need a forever home. Wouldn’t you like for them to live with you? Even better, wouldn’t you like to gift them to a child you cherish or a female you favor or a sensitive man who’s your sweetheart?

To win these treasures, you must comment on one of my blog posts. You must comment on Blabberings, not Facebook. You will receive one (1) entry per comment. You may comment on more than one blog post.

You may say anything you like, as long as it’s not unkind or Roll Tide or Roll Tide Roll or any combination or abbreviation of said words. For example,

 I read your blog to my granddaddy, and he laughed until his teeth fell out.

You are by far the prettiest King Girl.

Gee, I must get back to the laundry.  

The contest will run until 12:00 pm (noon) CST, Sunday, February 9. Prepare to be pestered ad nauseam via Facebook or just block me.

A low-tech strip of paper with the entrant’s name on it will be placed (1 per comment, as stated above) in this cute little Valentine’s heart bowl and will be drawn at random by Emma Conner, Crafter Extraordinaire.

bowl

The winner will be announced sometime that afternoon (probably after my nap) and must pinkie promise to take good care of the babies. Whitman and Rose will be taken to the post office on Monday morning and mailed to the winner. (And by “Monday morning,” I mean “Tuesday afternoon.”) Unless there is another big snow storm in LA (Lower Alabama), the babies will be on the winner’s doorstep in time for Valentine’s Day.

CUTIE PIE!   LUV U!   BE MINE!   FOREVER!  TRUE LOVE!

January 31st, 2014 by celesteconner@comcast.net

The Little Yellow Rain Boots

Little Yellow Rain Boots 1 (3)
 

He called them “my boats.” Aunt Angie gave them to him for Christmas 1999. She picked them up at a yard sale for about a quarter and thought he might like them. He was 18 months old.

He didn’t love them immediately, but day by day, week by week, his love grew until it was complete, devoted, and faithful. Before long, he wouldn’t wear anything else. He wore them to “school” with his play clothes and to Sunday school with his pretty clothes. He wore them to the grocery store with Mommy. He wore them until they were difficult to put on and take off. He wore them until he plainly said, “My boots.”

 

Little Yellow Rain Boots 1 (1)

“They’re too little, Phillip. You’re a big boy. You need to wear shoes that don’t hurt.”

 

He wore them until little calluses grew on his tiny toes. He wore them until his piggies squealed in agony. Finally, he took them off and didn’t put them on again.

 

Aunt Angie had already found pair #2 at another yard sale. She was willing to pay whatever it took to save his feet—or at least a dollar. He graciously accepted the replacements, but he rarely left the house in them.

Everywhere he went, concerned grownups asked, “Where are your boots, Phillip?”

They were at home, displayed on the top of the cornice board over the front window in his bedroom. They’re still there, covered in more than a dozen years of dust.

In the summer of 2010, I took Phillip and his BFF Bradley to Toy Story 3. They carried Phillip’s Buzz and Woody dolls with them. (They call them “action figures,” but they’re not.) One of my great regrets in life is that I don’t have a picture of the two 12-year-old boys, sitting spellbound at the movie, wearing their 3D glasses, holding those dolls.

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At the end of the movie, Andy gave his toys to Bonnie, because he knew she would play with them. On his way to college, he stopped by the little girl’s house. She was outside in the yard with her parents. And she was wearing yellow rain boots.

Eleven years had passed since I had nursed the Boy, but I swear my milk came in.

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January 25th, 2014 by celesteconner@comcast.net

Sittin’

As I’m prone to do, I spent most of the month of July at the lake. This year, all I did was sit.

I sat on the old vinyl couch on the porch and delighted in a Chilton County peach, entertained by diligent redheaded woodpeckers and Biscuit as she barked and barked and barked at whatever critter she had cornered up underneath the house.

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I sat on the swing–but did not swing–and talked on the phone to Starla and Angie and Jordan and Aunt Jo. Cell service goes in and out when the swing goes back and forth and the clock on the phone changes from Slow Time to Fast Time (Central to Eastern) and back again.

I sat at the kitchen table with the laptop and recorded one notebook of Mama King’s treasured minutia–every single day of 1961, 1962, 1963, and 1964.

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I sat beside My Favorite Son, oftentimes with his head (or his feet) in my lap, and read his summer reading out loud to him. (I know, I know, but it was Cold Sassy Tree, for Heaven’s sake, not Lord of the Frickin’ Flies. Besides, the seconds are TICK-KING!)

I sat on the back of the jet ski for long, late afternoon rides with that same Favorite Son. (He drives calmly when I’m on the back, not like an idiot as he does when Brett’s on the back.)

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I sat on my huge sectional sofa piled high with Conners and Youngbloods for an inside cookout on a dark and soggy Fourth of July.

I sat another time on that sofa and watched The Andy Griffith Show and quoted every word uttered by Ernest T. Bass in “Mountain Wedding.” And, bless my soul, my babies can quote every word, too. (“I’m a little mean, but I make up for it by being REAL healthy!”)

I sat on the Ramsey’s porch and ate the pig that Henry cooked and drank a bottled Coke and llaauugghheedd.

I sat outside on a lawn chair on the night of July 6th and swatted mosquitoes and hummed “Stars and Stripes Forever,” once it stopped raining long enough for the Annual Lake Friends Firework Extravaganza and Near-Death Experience.

I sat in the lake and pulled those ugly water weeds near the lake’s edge that have consumed our beach. It is a losing battle, but I’m not surrendering. (Remember the Alamo!)

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I sat at the game table and lost Every Stinkin’ Time to my daughters at Rummikub. 

I sat in my brand-new Cracker Barrel rocker and listened to the rain and caught up in my book journal and confessed to my prayer journal.

I sat cross-legged on the floor and listened to my almost-2-year-old friend Wiley as his vocabulary exploded. (“Op’n dat door!” “Abby’s house!” “Hi, Bliblup!” “’weet Bunny, Emmy!” “’mere, Bi’cuit!”)

I sat in and gripped the edges of the passenger seat when The New Driver and I went to Dothan or Eufaula to run errands.

I sat backwards in the front of David’s boat as he cheerfully tubed his 3 long-legged, ponytailed, squealing daughters, and then I saw his demeanor change when the 2 young men climbed on the tube for their turn. 

“May I have your permission?” he asked me.

I said, “Have a good time.”

The orthopedic surgeon had glee in his eyes as he unleashed his pent up testosterone on my sunburned son and his black buddy.

“You were never in any mortal danger,” he told them afterwards.

I sat in a folding chair at a folding table covered with a plastic red-and-white-checked tablecloth at the Byrd family reunion and cherished Isom and Lovey’s descendants and tasted the love that they brought to the potluck.

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I sat again on the old vinyl sofa on the porch and made Angie laugh (that’s easy) and touched her to make sure she was really there and smiled because she was.

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I sat at the picnic table and tapped my toes to some priceless picking of “Pow’r in the Blood,” while surrounded by Beloveds who helped us celebrate Chuck’s 50 years, and pondered the blessing of loving them.

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I sat on my king-sized bed and snuggled all 3 of my teenagers at bedtime and shared the same old stories about when they were little. They still let me stroke their hair and kiss the tops of their heads.

I sat in the bathtub and sipped my sweet tea and took my own sweet time.

I sat on the worn-out dock and marveled at the sunset, thankful to have Biscuit to protect me from the geese.

Occasionally, I stood up. But only to move to a different seat.

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January 22nd, 2014 by celesteconner@comcast.net

And Then They Were 20

Long before we had children, Chuck and I said several times that we thought it would be fun to have twins. After the initial shock of seeing TWO heartbeats on the ultrasound, I looked at him, bewildered, and said, “We knew.” We didn’t know everything, though. Our pre-pregnancy twins were named Phillip and Paden.

Back in the day, there were no gender reveal parties. With the fairly new ultrasound technology, my generation debated whether or not to even find out the gender of the baby. Chuck and I agreed we didn’t want to know before the birth. “It’s like opening your presents before Christmas” was our oft-quoted opinion. Until we saw the second heartbeat. I told Chuck I wanted to know the sex of the babies. He said, “But we want to be surprised.” I said, “We have been surprised.”

So, we had our gender reveal party in the tiny ultrasound room where I lay with KY jelly slathered on my swelling belly. When the technician said, “That one is a girl . . . and . . . that one is a girl, too,” Chuck hollered, “TWO WEDDINGS!” and flopped down in the nearby folding chair.

We teased that their names were Dollie Gladys (after our maternal grandmothers) and Eva Irene (after our mothers, but with the names they didn’t use). I told Chuck’s Nana (Dollie) their “names” on a visit to Memphis. She said, “Oh, I li-ike Eva Irene, but I don’t li-ike Dollie Gladys.” So, we quit teasing.

Since we didn’t have our hearts set on a family name, we decided to make up some new family names. We named Emma fairly easily. Chuck liked Emily, but I knew several Emilys. I suggested Emma, because I hadn’t heard it used in a generation. We thought Caroline just sounded pretty with it.

We couldn’t agree on a name for the second baby. Soon after Christmas, I began to fret. Chuck suggested, “You name her, and I’ll name her, and we’ll see what works.” He named her Abby Rachel. I liked Abby, but I didn’t think Rachel fit. I named her Anna Claire. Chuck said “no” to Anna but “yes” to Claire. Finally, we were ready for Abby Claire.

In the wee hours of the morning after they were born, Chuck told me, “I named the little one Emma. She looks like an Emma.”

The little one. Like Abby was an 8 pounder. The “big one” weighed 3 lbs, 10 ozs. The “little one” weighed 2 lbs, 11 ozs. They were due on March 9 but were born on January 23. They spent 5 days in NICU at SAMC before transferring to the well-baby nursery, where they spent another 2 weeks in isolettes. I spent all day every day in the nursery and took care of my babies as the pediatric nurses petted me. I went home and slept all night while they grew.

The babies were supposed to maintain their body temps in a regular baby bed, continue to gain weight, and weigh 4.0 lbs before they could be released. Abby was up to 4.5 lbs, but Emma weighed only 3.5 lbs. The pediatrician on call over the 3rd weekend was younger and more relaxed than the older doctors in the group. The least compromising one was about to come on call. Unbeknownst to Chuck and me, the nurses nagged the younger doctor relentlessly over the weekend to let us take our babies home. They reminded him that if he didn’t let the babies go home, they would have to spend another week in the hospital away from their mommy and daddy, because of the strictness of the upcoming on-call doctors. They insisted that the girls go home at the same time. They badgered him on the unfairness of letting one baby go home and making the other one stay and the impossibility of mommy nurturing two babies at two different places.

On Monday morning, February 14, 1994, the phone woke me about 7:00 am. The younger doctor was about to go off call. He said, “Mrs. Conner, come get your girls. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Chuck is holding Abby. I am holding Emma.

What followed was a two-decades-long whirlwind of after-school activities, spelling tests, and long summer days at Azalea.

It was a colorful twister of party balloons, VBS tee shirts, Mrs. Grossman stickers, and 2 sets of mouse ears.

Tucked into the tornado were class pictures, library books, scholarship applications, and patent-leather Sunday school shoes.

Underneath the roar of the cyclone was music from piano lessons and high school football games, giggles from sleepovers and slinging on the tube at the lake, crying from boo boos and broken hearts and exhaustion.

As the winds died and the dust settled, the baby girls each smiled, took a deep breath, and blew out the candles on her birthday cake.

Emma is my green girl. Abby loves blue.