There Are No Words......

I love you.

Santa, Can You Calculate Slope....

Eighth grade honors algebra......it has kicked Kate and now Mommy in the teeth (and elsewhere, but I try to keep things PG). She just doesn't get it. Today is her first semester exam. She (and I) studied..... I would estimate conservatively 15 hours from Thursday of last week until today. I expect her grade to be perhaps a 60. The problems in math are deeply rooted and go way back for Kate. Her first and only elementary school B was in 3rd grade math. What I wouldn't give for a B today.

Last night, it all came tumbling down. Five years of fraction frustration festered and festooned into full on mother/daughter war. As we worked our way through the chapter 5 linear equations.....can you say y=mx+b, the raised voices became all out shouts; the beautiful eyes first welled up with water, then emptied into a steady flow of crocodile tears. From somewhere in the innermost recesses of my home I heard Drew singing "Kum Ba Yah." I am not making this up. I suppose I, like Drew, hoped The Good Lord might 'come by here.'

Kate told me again she was sorry she wasn't a perfect child, that she is sorry she isn't as smart as Drew. I'm just sorry she has this math mental block. Is it at least partly attributable to effort or a lack thereof? Absolutely. But, I think part of it is truly heredity. I kept hoping at some point the light would come on and the algebraic anomaly would fall into place. Five years after her first math blip....that of the 3rd grade variety.....I am still waiting. And here is Kate, demonstrating in yet another way how very much like her mom she is. For the mother of this eighth grader, math was a constant battle of wills. From my middle school math teacher who rapped my knuckles with a ruler as she passed my desk when she noted incorrect calculations to collegiate mathematics at Clemson, I have always found numbers both puzzling and confusing. Somehow I found a way to make decent grades, but now, 20 years later (okay, okay, for those counting it is probably closer to 40 years.....I've already shared my difficulty with numbers), trying to remember what and how I did it.....well let's just say Santa will be bringing Kate a tutor. And I kick myself that I didn't find one sooner. Teaching one you love so much....one for whom you want so much.....well, it's not always the best idea.

So as Drew finishes his soulful and sad rendition of Kum Ba Yah and I literally close the books on my attempts to determine the equation of a line that passes through such and such a point, we will hold our collective breaths and say a little prayer that from somewhere, Kate finds a flash of understanding and a passing performance on her exam.

Just Sayin'.......

Family conversations around my home generally go something like this:

The Age 11 Inquisitor Drew: "Mommy, did you know Marco Polo travelled the Silk Road?"

The Age 13 All Teenager All The Time Kate: "Polo.....Polo......didn't he have a house somewhere near where we stayed in Jamaica?" Well, you are close, Kate. This would be Polo of the Ralph Lauren Polo who owns a home near the very beautiful Round Hill in Montego Bay, Jamaica.

Five minutes later.....

Kate: "Did you hear that Justin Bieber has a baby?"

Drew: "How old is he? If he is 17, how could he have a baby?" Anyone up for answering that one?


Watching a college football game with Drew....

Drew: "Mommy, have you ever seen a player run right over a referee?"

A Distracted Mommy: "Sure."

Ten seconds later...

Drew: "Mommy, do you know anybody with a unibrow?"

Mommy (shocked back to reality and now wondering if I need to wax): "I'm not sure Drew; I don't think so."

Note to readers: Never was the Women are from Venus, Men are from Mars theory on truer display than in my son and my daughter.

Drew is my "spiritual one." He prays fervently, reminds us of blessings before meals, speaks frequently of God. But, it was Kate who said today, "Mommy, if I just 'give it to God' do you think my grades would be better?" Well, yes and no, My Love, yes and no.

'Tree'logy

Well, our 2011 Christmas Saga officially began yesterday. The day after Thanksgiving, the day before Carolina/Clemson. As predictable as Santa and right on cue, Tree Wars III began. What is it about getting a tree and getting it decorated that elicits the worst in everyone in my family?

It all started some years back. We loaded the family and drove thirty miles enjoying Christmas caroles emanating from the radio, off to get the perfect tree. We spent an hour making just the right choice. We carefully oversaw the trimming and drilling and wrapping in net of the tree. We safely secured it and headed to a nearby bistro for peppermint hot chocolate. We returned home. Five minutes later, the world changed. Well, at least the mood did. As Adrian tried to dislodge the beautiful tree from the top of his car, he did the unthinkable....the unforgiveable. He broke the top, the all important tip of the tree off. His solution.....nail the two pieces of our beautiful tree back together. Note that this is the same husband who repaired the toilet tank workings at the beach house with kite string. You have to give him something for ingenuity, I suppose. Returning to the now at hand broken tree, in his words, "It'll last through Christmas!" Not so fast, My Tree Scrooge Husband. We WILL have a whole tree, not one nailed together. So back he went, this time alone, back to the same tree tent, mumbling I'm sure all the way. This time no family, no caroles, no chocolate. And, in keeping, the owners of the tree farm showed NO mercy. Not even a discount and absolutely no sympathy. After paying for a second ten foot tree....not cheap, mind you....within two hours the replacement tree was on its way to its designated spot in our den. But the trimming adventures had just begun. The first problem....the tree leaned and leaned and leaned. Each day, the leaning became a little more decided. Second problem, as the leaning intensified the ornaments understandably found it harder and harder to hang on. Why is it always the favorites that break? And the lights, by Christmas Day the lights were barely even on the tree. They hung in loose loops from the sadly tilting tree. I will say that year's pine was a beautiful one...if you held your head at a roughly 60 degree angle when you looked at it.

Every year I think it will be better. Every year I promise myself there will be no tree tiff or decorating drama. But, every year it happens. We don't even have to be in the continental United States for it to happen. One year, we were on a quick Caribbean Christmas trip. Our entire trimmed tree toppled to the floor in our empty home. Are we jinxed, haunted, or both? Not in 20 years of marriage has anything driven us so perilously close to Tammy Wynette's D-I-V-O-R-C-E than the d--- tree.

Last year I was forced to call my brother-in-law and his colleague in the construction business to even convince my hubby the tree was again leaning and enough to be at risk of falling. Only when it was confirmed by a contractor and a blood relative did Adrian relent to agree that yes, we had better address the crooked tree issue or else.....

Again, yesterday, all went well with the buying trip, the purchase, the after lunch, and the removal from the car. The move and placement of the tree in its designated spot were even surprisingly uneventful. But, wait, can it be...... no way....the 2011 tree is too tall for my ceiling! And here we go again....

The Tiny Tree

Last year's holiday season found my mother away from home in a rehab/nursing facility. I had often thought that the holidays must be the very hardest time for the elderly, sick, and/or afflicted to be in nursing care. I saw and experienced just that with and through my mom last year. My mother lived for the holidays and special occasions. She adored any happening that brought her family together, any event that brought her children and grandchildren home. Only last Christmas she was not home. She wasn't delaying the start of family gatherings with her notorious tendency for tardiness. She wasn't fretting that the table wasn't precisely as she wanted it or that the youngest grandchildren were too intent on opening presents to enjoy their holiday dinner.

Friends and family were oh so generous with gifts of food, flowers, plants, cards, and other attempts to cheer her. But my mother just wanted to be home. We told her repeatedly last Christmas that the coming year and the next Christmas would be different. We never imagined how different they would be. We certainly didn't intend 'different' to be in this way.

One of my dearest cousins, truly one of the most thoughtful people I have ever known, bought and decorated a small artificial tree for my mother's hospital room. With its ample plaid bow and gold ribbon, festive white lights, and glittery red ornaments, the little tree brought light and hope and a tiny spot of brightness to an otherwise dark room and dark time in my mom's life. I went into her room several times when the light from the tiny tree was literally the only visible light. I asked my mother on several visits if I could have the tiny tree when she left the hospital. She told me repeatedly that it was hers, and I couldn't have it. She loved that little tree. She didn't want to part with it. But, in a few short weeks, days following the holiday the tree was dressed to mark, my mom was gone. In a cruel and ironic twist, it was the little tree that remained.

After my mother's passing, my father instructed the nursing staff to distribute the plants, decorations, etc. from my mother's room as they saw fit. And the little tree temporarily disappeared. But my dear cousin remembered my infatuation with the tiny pine. She remembered that I, like my mom, had loved it. So, on a mission and after multiple phone calls and visits to track down the tree, my cousin found and delivered it back to me.

In the somewhat surreal year that has followed, the tiny and still trimmed tree has occupied a particularly poignant corner in my living room.....and in my heart. Many times, I have gone in, turned on the tiny lights..... and sat.... and thought...... and wondered. I have never in these many months been able to put the tree away. I suppose I am clinging to a last memory.

I am sure visitors to my home must have thought I was lazy or inattentive or both. Those who knew the story of the tiny tree may have recognized a daughter's last tribute. I am sure others wondered why a simply but beautifully decorated Christmas tree stood in my home through winter, through spring and fall, and now winter again.... through a school year, summer vacation, birthdays of grandchildren, passing days, passing months, a passing year.

How is it that the little tree both haunts and soothes me? I frequently despair that if only we had known what was so soon to be, we would have somehow gotten my mom out of the hospital, if only for Christmas Day. My dad mentioned it. It was I who thought it would be unbearably cruel to move her, only to have to take her back. But I mourn that my mother's last Christmas was in a hospital bed she had grown to dread in a chenille robe that had become her wardrobe staple.

I've recently heard a country song. I don't know who sings it. I don't even know the title. It may not be a current hit. But the lyrics have stopped me in my tracks more than once ..... "There are holes in the floor of heaven, and her tears are pouring down. That's how I know she's watching, wishing she could be here now."

There is more than a bit of impending dread among my sisters and me, three daughters without their mom, as this Christmas fast approaches. And I yet and still may not store the tree, my mother's tiny tree. For I am not quite ready to store the memories.

From a niece she adored, it was a tiny tree she loved, a point of light in a room she hated in a place she desperately wanted to leave, that so specifically defined my mother's last Christmas. And it is a tiny tree now standing in my living room that may one year later define mine.

In Black and White

What a great birthday week! I do love it when circumstances dictate that birthdays become birth weeks. Such was the case this year. My week started with two of my favorite people, my sisters, and a quick birthday weekend getaway. The times we spend together always bring laughter, sisterly sarcasm, shopping, and food. This trip was no exception.

Saturday afternoon following a short shopping excursion and a football game on tv (you'll remember that we three are football fanatics), one sister, who shall for her protection remain nameless, asked if I would like to take a nap with her. Now, I had to tell her that I have had lots of birthday offers over the years, some good and some bad, but none quite so....well so..... weird as hers. I declined. Off she went to catch her power nap alone.

Not to overlook my other sister's contribution to the week-end, this one was smartly dispatched to the ABC store while other sister and I grocery shopped. The ABC mission......margarita fixings. This sis triumphantly returned. Great mixer....check, limes.....check, tequila...how do you forget the tequila? Yes, you read correctly....one sister is offering me a birthday afternoon nap while the other is offering up margaritas of a virgin variety. What party animals we are!

All was well, however, when time for presents arrived and my sisters had, as they so often do, done the impossible and tracked down a Tory bag I've wanted for two years but only just mentioned in the last few days. I do love my sisters!

I am reading Very Valentine by Adriana Trigiani. (Note to readers: As you may have already surmised, my birthday week-end left me plenty of time for reading.) The opening sentences of the book are...."I'm not the pretty sister. I'm not the smart sister either. I'm the funny one." As the years of my life and those of my sisters have passed, I think the three of us have at one time or another each been the pretty one or the smart one or the funny one. I also think all three of us have been the ugly duckling, or the foolish one or the anything but funny one. But the thing is, no matter who each of us is individually, together we are and always have been sisters, bound as such by our dna but so much more importantly by our love and loyalty. So, though on this week-end I might have called them the sleepy one and the virgin one (oops, may need to rename that one), they are my precious sisters and among my richest blessings.

My actual birthday arrived and began with a rousing happy birthday performance from The Trio Pettit, definitely not to be confused with The Band Perry. With flowers and song and a 5:50 am curtain call, my day was off and running to the point that the previous week-end's offer of a nap with my sister was sounding better and better. Work commitments and a football game for my son's team meant no birthday dinner this year. Adrian graciously offered to take me for a sumptious Ruth's Chris evening. He thought we could probably go week-end after next. Really????

I was dazzled and humbled by an unending list of facebook well-wishers. I received many wonderful cards. I loved a great lunch/party with my work friends who truly are some of my best friends. However, the moment of my birthday....this birthday's moment in time , as it were, came when I realized Kate had once again hijacked my facebook account, something we have discussed on numerous occasions, but this time to post the following:

My Mother is a special gift,
A special gift that God gave to me.
I'd be lost and lonely without her,
If God took her away you see.
I love her so very much,
... That I couldn't bear to live without her healing touch.
Thank-you God for giving me such a loving Mother,
For I wouldn't want to be a part of any other.

Happy birthday mommy bug I love you so much!!!!!!!!

And there it was in black and white. Suddenly the margaritas minus tequila or the fact that my sexiest offer of the week came from my sister or the birthday dinner two weeks late didn't matter. This was a great birthday!

Cheeeese

Say "cheese." Immediately everyone knows what's happening. Dee has broken out her trusty and I'll admit occasionally bothersome camera. Over the years, I have taken some pretty amazing pictures.....and okay....some duds. But, the best part of photography for me is the memory. I glance at a photo and am instantly transported back in time to that moment when it was taken. Making memories....pretty special, I think. Preserving memories, reminding us of times almost forgotten.....even more special.

Anyone who knows me even slightly knows that I am rarely if ever without my camera. Even for someone who loves the written word as I do, there is just something about a photo. I am apt to pop off that lens cover most anywhere if I see a picture happening and shout the obligatory, "Cheeeeese!".

A professional will admonish that a photographer should never, never say, "Say cheese!" when taking a picture." I beg to differ. And since I am not a professional photographer, in differing I am clearly well within my rights. In the youngest of children, "Say Cheese" or the shortened version "Cheeeeese" or even the new wave "Cheeseburgers" rarely if ever fails to elicit a smile. Kid subjects stop what they are doing, pose, and smile. Candids, maybe not. Precious, perfect, happy smiles worth saving .....almost always.

Even for adults, the slightly silly but effective 'say cheese' wins a smile almost if not every time. Perhaps the famous photo phrase brings back memories of childhoods long since gone. Indeed, it seems almost a universal indicator, an expression familiar enough that it is understood the world over. At Atlantis recently, an Asian woman of apparently very limited understanding of the English language offered in her gestures to take a picture of my family so that the four of us could appear together in one..... indeed a rare occurrence. Her smiling instruction as she snapped the picture.....you guessed it....."Cheeeeeese." I never knew the word has Asian roots....

I wonder why cheese. Seriously, why not bologna or tacos, fries or steak beans or greens. I'll have to check that out. Meanwhile, I'll continue 'bugging' family, friends, and coworkers as my shameless shutterbug gene demands. I'll continue to take pictures I love that remind me of favorite people and places and memories and blogging the stories my photos help tell.

Hmmmm.....almost forgot I ever had curly hair!

Never mind that it was nearly 80 degrees today. It's October, the end of October. It matters not what the thermometer says. I for one am looking to the calendar. It is definitely time, so tonight we built a fire. Not the gas log kind. We built a real old fashioned wood fire with all the smells and dirt and heat and soot. I love a warm fire with its dancing lights, wafting flames, blues and yellows, it's mellow magic. I love a fire.

I love a good book or a good tv show, a great ballgame or a good movie with a fire crackling in the background. I love to see my children sitting on the hearth, soaking up the scents and sensation of the fire. I love to see the reflection of the flames and the fascination in their eyes. I understand it, for after all these years, the fire still holds a fascination for me.

We have gas logs in our living room, but in the den, in the heart of our house, are the hearth and the heat and the magic of a "real" fireplace.

I see such emotion in fires....the raging and racing flames.....the dwinding of the soon to be extinguished fire, the sleepy seductive shimmery of the last hot logs. If it sounds like romance, in a way, I suppose it is.

I have blogged previously that fall is my favorite time of year. Perhaps the return of the fire in the fireplace is another reason why.

Things Every Young Gentleman Should Know

Several years ago, my stepson Joseph gave Drew a book entitled 50 Things Every Young Gentleman Should Know. It extolled the importance of such virtues as, "A gentleman does not stop making the best effort halfway through a competition, even if he thinks it is obvious he is going to lose." "A gentleman knows his dad's favorite cologne and his mom's favorite authors." "A gentleman takes off his cap during the National Anthem, during the Pledge of Allegiance, or whenever the American Flag is passing by." And of course, the crucial and all important, "A gentleman flushes every time he uses the toilet."

Chapter 35 is devoted to the imperative skill....how to use chopsticks. According to the book, "If a gentleman feels uneasy about trying to use chopsticks, he asks for a knife and fork instead. He would rather eat his meal without dropping his food than try to use equipment he hasn't mastered yet." Last week-end we took Drew and a few of his friends to Nakato Japanese Steakhouse. As I looked around our table at these eleven and twelve year old boys sipping their soup and successfully, yes successfully, maneuvering their chopsticks, I was amazed at how quickly they are growing up and becoming young gentlemen. There was great conversation and laughter. There were nice manners and smiles. They asked great questions about the customs and the traditions of Japanese dining. I heard lots of please and thank you as they ordered and reordered drinks and dinner. They were absolutely charming. For this, albeit brief, moment in time, they seemed like savvy..... if slightly short.... college students instead of the primary schoolers they are. I truly saw my future....their futures.

Drew was recently asked to construct a biocube for his Eagles class. I was interested to see at age 11 how he would describe himself and what his 3-D autobiography would look like.

The opening sentence of his background was, "I like to play football." His favorite quotation as indicated was, "Protect this House." As his greatest obstacle, and I had to laugh at this one, he listed, "Huge football players." (I believe an.......umm..... 'biopattern' may be emerging.) For personality traits, Drew said, "I am athletic. I am fast. I am entergetic." And yes, he wrote 'entergetic.' I suppose that's an energy that comes from an even deeper place within. But I knew what he meant. And for his significance, Drew wrote, "Being well known as an adult."

So what do I gather about my young son from his biocube....at this particular point in his life, in the days surrounding his eleventh birthday? Much of how he sees himself is defined through sports, particularly football. I love that his biggest obstacle is huge football players. If only that would remain so.

I think my child wants to be someone special; someone well-known. I think he today thinks that may be in sports. I don't know what Drew will do. I, like he, believe he will be successful and special. This Opie Taylor look alike, this lean, lanky boy, this curious, questioning, quirky kid really amazes me with his warmth, wisdom and wit. He still cries but laughs so much more often. And he so often makes me laugh.

Last week, I observed him with his friends in a somewhat grown up Asian setting. I saw yesterday's little boys rising to the occasion. I found myself sighing with pride at who my son is and looking expectantly forward to who he may become.....to the young gentlemen they all may become.

Back to our evening out in Charlotte, as we sat in an after dinner movie and I proudly thought back over our very successful dinner, I had to wonder.....what are those strange and rather obnoxious sounds coming from our theater row? Oh well, perhaps these boys are still a work in progress. Meanwhile, I'll check to see if there is an appropo chapter in the book!

Edge of Glory?

I love fall. I love sweaters and coats, boots and tights. I love turning and falling leaves and cooling temperatures. I love those amazing blue skies of autumn. I love football.

A couple of years ago appropriately in the fall, Size Four Banker Sister and I visited the ESPN Zone in New York. Yes, while many visitors to the great shopping mecca that is New York find their way to Fifth Avenue or Lexington, we instead were drawn to the multiple screens of the best place in Times Square to watch, as Kenny Chesney would espouse, the 'boys of fall'. Of course, we purchased the obligatory tee shirts. And of course, we chose the same tee, screen printed on the back with something like, "Yes, I'm a woman.... Yes, I know the game.... Yes, I watch ESPN." Great tee, isn't it....or at least it was until Size Four's son accidentally wore it to school without reading the back. That may be subject for another blog and definitely subject for some teenage harassment to this very day. Luckily, my nephew is totally comfortable in his own skin; otherwise we could be dealing with scarring that might have lasted a lifetime.

This year's football season is off to a most exciting start as three teams of great local interest seem poised..... in the immortal words of Gaga (one thing about this blog, you never know where I might pluck a quote)..... "on the edge of glory and hanging on a moment of truth." It's interesting that two of the three are doing it with the exuberance and excitement of youth.....freshman and sophomores or first and second year players who have shown up with swagger to beat out more senior teammates for shots at greatness. The third team is doing it with a tested group of seasoned and savvy players led by a 5th year quarterback. This latter team clearly has all the pieces with talent rarely if ever assembled on one team in this area. But will it all come together?

All three of these teams may make it if not to glory then definitely to a special place. Or all three may fail. One, two, or all three could achieve a greatness that has been more than a little elusive for all in recent years. And for each, the definition of a great year, of glory as it were, may be a little different. Clemson fans hope to compete for a conference championship. Gamecocks may still hope to be in the hunt for a national title. The Panthers' goal is probably to make the play-offs. One thing is for sure.....Tigers, Gamecocks, and Panthers everywhere are more than a little excited. And that is most definitely a good thing for all three organizations, for their rabid fans, and for football in general.... all the way down to the tiny mite leagues of the Carolinas.

I heard a story on ESPN last Saturday of an Oklahoma State (I think) player who befriended a nine year old leukemia patient. Sporting a pink bracelet in her honor on game day and as part of his game uniform, he pays tribute to his young and seriously afflicted friend both in his play and with his ever important hospital visits. I think one of the things I like most about football is the inevitable story of character, of class, of going above and beyond that we fans learn about a player. And in most years, we hear many more than one such story.

As these gridiron athletes amaze us with their talent, size and strenth, it is worth noting that many, many of them set an example far more important than what they do on the field. More special than having the skill to catch, to throw, to run, to kick, many of these elite athletes get it. They care. They care about the world around them. They care about their schools and organizations. They care about those who cannot run, throw, play as they do.

As for this fall and this sports season, I'm hoping for fun, fantastic football finishes, the perfect tee shirt, and a great pair of tall boots!

Pettit Fours

From time to time I may cop out on my blog. Instead of telling a story or developing an idea, I'll drop a quick bite of the random wackiness of my world.... with sincerest apologies to the scrumptious petit four, a Pettit Four, if you will.

Pettit One: Adrian called me at work this afternoon. He was preparing dinner....nice, right? He said he had forgotten cucumbers and really, really , did I say really wanted some cucumbers. Would I go by the grocery store (after twenty years, he knows how I hate grocery stores) for cucumbers? Thinking it rather strange that I had never in all these years of marriage realized he had such a compulsion for cucumbers and totally failing to understand their absolute necessity in his dinner plans, I reluctantly agreed. At that point, he sheepishly added, "Oh by the way, could you pick me up a 'suitcase' of beer? It's on sale at Bilo." Ahhhh.....as they say, the rest of the story.

Pettit Two: Kate was this week asked to write a memoir for AP ELA. She chose to write a "meowmoir", an ode to her beloved cat Landen. Should I be worried about this child? Pretty good writing, I must say, but is her entire self portrait defined by a feline?

Pettit Three: As Kate and I recently drove through our neighborhood, quite suddenly a doe and three fawns ran across Rugby Road in front of us. I commented to Kate that I wasn't sure I had ever seen a doe with three young, to which my true daughter of a blended family readily responded, "Mommy, she has a step deer!"

Pettit Four: Drew won $250,000 the other night....well almost. He and I eagerly watched the "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire," contestant climb through the questions to the $250,000 level. The quarter million question was, "What Native American's Name Roughly Translated Means 'Playful One?'" Drew nearly fell off the couch with excitement, jumping and stuttering as he yelled, "Pocahontas, Pocahontas!" Of course, neither the contestant nor I had the foggiest idea, but my "Are you Smarter than a 5th Grader" 5th grader knew immediately! Pocahontas, it was. Thank you, Mrs. W! If we could only cash in!

Pulling the Trigger

I am going to learn to "pull the trigger." No, I am not taking shooting lessons....there's a scary thought. I am going to do some of those things I say I am going to do but just never seem to get done. Coming to this resolution is at least partly a result of losing my mother suddenly and without warning. I will always regret things I did not say or do while she was here. Oddly, it's that very tendency to procrastinate, to put off doing both the big and little things, that I saw in my mother and my relationship with my mother and frequently see in myself.

For purposes of this blog, I am thinking more about those fun things...at least they should be fun.... the sometimes material things that we all postpone for every possible reason. We don't have time. We don't have the money. We don't know if it's the right thing. We worry about the economy. We just can't decide to "pull the trigger."

As a realtor, I see this kind of thinking all the time. And, although as an analyzer myself I understand it, I do worry that buyers who overanalyze today's market may miss out on one of the best home buying opportunities in years. Just pull the trigger, right?

Recently my sisters and I helped my dad remodel the beachfront condo he shared with my mom for nearly forty years. In all that time, the only upgrading they did was when hurricane water damage forced a few minor improvements. I commented to my sister that it made me sad to think that our mother never saw the "new condo" and never had a chance to enjoy it. To that my sis commented, "Mother talked about it all the time. She just would never pull the trigger." That is so....well so....Dee.

I talk with my husband all the time about making memories with our children. Those camping trips we continue to postpone, the Disney discussions, the promises to go here or there or do this or that are so well-intentioned but just never seem to happen. One day soon we will be begging the children to go somewhere with us, and they will simply be too busy or have better things to do. It's the circle of life, I suppose.

Speaking of children, there is no doubt, no room for discussion, no discourse whatsoever....my Baby Girl Kate is a trigger puller. Her "Ready, Fire, Aim" attitude drives her mother crazy at times. But it is probably going to take her places I can only imagine. My tendency to get hung up in analysis paralysis is most assuredly a character trait I inherited from my mom and just as certainly, thankfully, one my daughter missed.

Whether buying jeans or furnishing a house, I just have trouble making up my mind. There are so many choices out there. Why is it so easy for the "Kates" of the world to make a choice while others of us wrangle with the details of a seemingly endless game of pros and cons. I never could have been a guest on "Let's Make a Deal." Three weeks after stepping up to the mike with Monty Hall (or whoever this new guy of the new version is) I would still be trying to rationalize the decision to choose door number one or door number two.

We have postponed for years doing some needed things in our home. Again, I am proving to be my mother's daughter. I either don't have the money or time or can't decide what I want to do....always some excuse, some reason for delay. But, this fall, I am stepping out of the seeming comfort of indecision. I may not have the money or the time, but By George, I will have a master bath! Look out world......I'm pulling the trigger!

Sheets, Snoring, Sleepwalking, and Things That Go Bump in the Night

Labor Day week-end at the river left me lazy, listless, and longing for a nap. It wasn't supposed to be that way, but there were more than a few adjustment problems as we experienced our very own version of 'Sleepless in South Carolina.' One culprit....high thread count sheets. Yes, that's what I said....high thread count sheets, a recent gift and much more expensive than those to which I am accustomed, proved so slick that I literally slid off the bed at least twice. Where were my scratchy 250's when I most needed them?

Drew chose the week-end to contribute to this increasingly sleepy scenario by starring in his version of the infamous Blakeney sleep walks. Exhausted after a day of play, he had fallen asleep on the couch. I woke him up to move to his room upstairs. In only slightly slurred syllables, Drew told me he had something he had to do first. Thinking perhaps he was being discreet about a needed trip to the bathroom....I should have known any explanation involving discretion on the part of my son was unlikely....I watched him walk instead to the kitchen counter, pick up the phone, begin furiously dialing, then just as suddenly put the phone down and walk away. The obligatory fast and furious phone beeps ensued. I stepped over, replaced the phone, turned, and asked my befuddled son who he might be calling at this late hour. He looked at me with the unmistakable confused and dazed look of a sleep walker who had no idea why he was doing what he was doing or where he was or even for a moment who I was. I needed a camcorder because, of course, the next morning Drew was sure my story was pure fiction. I didn't tell him that I easily recognized sleepwalking, having early and frequently been exposed to his aunt on occasion actually leaving our house in various and sundry states of sleepwalking. More than once, our dad found her halfway up Hickory (Street, that is), walking who knows where, but definitely sound asleep. To this day, at least one other of the grandchildren's generation and now apparently Drew, carry on the great sleepwalking legacy of the Blakeney (or could it be Griggs) family.

Also at issue on our river rat week-end....that is if 800 thread count sheets and river rats aren't mutually exclusive.... was a soundly snoring member of the family, who shall at least for now remain nameless, further complicating my attempts to catch up on the definite lack of sleep brought on by the first weeks of school. I was 'dee-cidedly" delighted....note the sarcasm....that someone was getting some sleep. Only my mildest muttering could have been heard as I descended the steps to replace my recently relocated son on the den couch. At least there I found a little traction and a tiny window of opportunity for sleep.

Don't you love the restful relaxation of holiday week-ends? Does anyone else need a nap?

A Kindle Conundrum

I love to read. I'm not as prolific a reader as I once was, but to this day I do love to read. Reading is an integral part of my vacations and a vital ingredient in my relaxation regimen. Now dawns the birth of a new age in reading and the unavoidable question....to Kindle or not to Kindle. You've seen them....the sleek, portable personal e-libraries for avid and thoroughly modern readers.

I know and freely admit that I sound like a voice from the Dark Ages. But I think I will (or would) miss holding my book! I would miss... am I actually going to write this.... turning my pages. Is that silly? Looking back over the past five years, I have most definitely experienced a personal technology transition. I, quite reluctantly at first, moved from a "dumb" phone to a blackberry to a (drum roll, please)droid! Now I even wonder if there could there be an i-phone in my future? I also, again quite reluctantly, moved from film cameras to digital. And, although I miss the artistic side of catching that perfect picture the old fashioned way, this move has most definitely cut down on the boxes and boxes and yes more boxes of photos I was accumulating in my home. I will also have to admit that it is much easier to locate a photo from years back with the digital/computer storage system. My technological transition is yet further evidenced by the fact that my computer savvy is much, much improved as I excel and word and google and power point and search and e-mail through life as a real estate agent.


Back to the books. I laughed as I read from the friend of a facebook friend that she wondered why everyone was talking about wood...... kindling.....get it? I suppose I am at least one step beyond her point of view.

I have heard the late night comedians and the recent commercials making fun of the same "excuses" I above offered, and I suppose even more of the people who make them. I am sure Steve Jobs and other techie gurus are laughing all the way to the bank. But I struggle to decide to give up my books!

Last year, Size 4 Banker Sister caught a wiff that her hubby and sons were thinking of giving her a Kindle for Christmas. In typical sisterly fashion....we do have to stick together.....she called me to put the skids on that idea. That didn't go so well. Deciding the best and safest course of action was the direct approach, I called my nephew to tell him his size 4 mom wanted no part of a Kindle. Period. End of discussion. Nephew, also deciding the direct approach was best, told his Dad, Size 4's husband and coincidentally the originator of the Kindle gift idea. Household chaos ensued, matrimonial malaise temporarily set in, feelings were hurt, etc. etc. But you know, when a crisis, such as the wrong Christmas present for your sister, is about to occur, what else can one do but spring, or in this case sprint, into action?

Now, again to the current quandary as I face the perplexity head on....does my reading need to step into this amazing new century of technological advancement? Or is there some justification for staying the course in the comfort, the soothing simplicity of the pages , the tactile experience of a good old fashioned book?

I began to lean a little more toward giving "Kindling" (does that even sound legal?) a try when during our recent vacation I dumped an entire of course brand new bottle of tanning lotion all over and through a book I had borrowed from my sister. So, yes, there is one sticky, gooey, smelly, twenty-five dollar argument for.

A second potential argument for.....no one knows what you are reading. Now there's a good argument for all of us who, on occasion, find time for guilty pleasures of the literary variety. Where was kindling when thirty years ago I wanted to read..... or at least view the pictures in.... "The Joy of Sex?"

The debate with myself continues and the question remains. Will next year's vacation pics include a shot of a Kindling Dee? I suppose only time, technology, and tanning lotion will tell the tale.

The ABC's of Cousins

My dear sweet cousin called and left a message the other day that the Jackson 5 classic ABC was playing on her car radio. She had to call to say she thought of me. I know what you are thinking....Dee and Michael Jackson.....what is the connection?

I knew exactly what my now grown up and gorgeous cousin referred to. We were elementary school age. My family and I were living in Greenville, and my cousin came for a summer visit. During her stay she, My One Day To Be Size 4 Banker Sister, and I worked tirelessly to reprise the famous Jackson moves and music in the basement (or should I say studio) of our home. As you might imagine, it was quite a show! I am sure there is video somewhere....we can only hope it never surfaces!

Oddly, the only additional memory I have of my cousin's visit that year is my mother insisting that she (the visiting cousin) remain in her chair and at her place at the table until she completely finished eating something, possibly pancakes or peas .....memories can be fuzzy and fleeting, can they not..... that my cousin simply wouldn't eat. Sadly, 'The Jacksons' lost quite a substantial bit of rehearsal time because of that culinary stand-off.

A couple of years passed. My dad finished his residency, and my family relocated to Pageland. But the simple matters of location and logistics couldn't keep the aspiring Jackson 3 down. After all, we thought, why should Pageland miss out on the amazing performances to which Greenville had already been treated? Our dreams of being Jacksons, albeit somewhat blonde Jacksons, absolutely refused to die. We same three, two sisters and our cousin, and now a third sister only just toddling (we may not have been getting better, but at least we were getting closer to the requisite 5), again put together a Jackson show for the ages, this time on the front porch that ran the length of our Pigg Street, umm yes that's Pigg Street , home. I should note here that there was in fact another cousin, only a little older but older enough that our concerts were anything but cool to her. As "I'll Be There and "Everybody is A Star" (at least those were slow and we didn't have to dance...much) and "I Want You Back" (ooh ooh baby) rang out on Pageland's Pigg St, we were sure we would one day find ourselves front and center on the Motown Stage. Neither race nor sex nor a decided and definite lack of Motown moves....you know, we danced like white girls.... would stand in our way. You have to love the, with apologies to Justin Bieber, "never say never" attitudes of the very young. (Perhaps we should have saved those videos after all.....I think JB turned his home movies into an empire.) Now, anyone who knows me or especially Size 4 Banker at all knows there is nothing about us that remotely resembles what Adam Levine of Maroon 5 would today call 'moves like Jaggar' or that later to become King of Pop Jackson himself might have applauded for that matter. And I should add here that our cousin and littlest sister would eventually become quite the dancers. But, in those early days, what we lacked in talent and moves, we more than made up for in enthusiasm.

My sisters and I were discussing last week-end that we have relatively few memories of our childhood. But the Jackson 5 shows......now those, I will remember always. And, as for my cousins, those relationships are among the ones I treasure most. They are definitely as the Jacksons said "easy as 1 - 2 - 3!"

The Dance

This summer brought me a special performance with several encores, and I didn't even travel to see it. (Note to readers: if your mind is in the gutter, get it out....this has nothing to do with.....that!) Outside my bedroom bay window on most evenings, particularly earlier in the summer, I watched with fascination the dance of the fireflies. With simple but beautiful choreography and an almost lyrical light show, this display of nature's tiny dancers will this year be added to my list of summer loves.

Fireflies or lightning bugs....I believe but am not completely sure they are one and the same.....are truly a sign of the Southern summer. And what a treat! I don't know if other regions experience the firefly. I think not, and if I am correct, it is truly their loss and yet another reason to love the south. A little break from the sweltering summer heat, a little simplicity in a world of craziness, a little light in the evening darkness, don't miss the dance of the fireflies to be appearing in a location near you.

As do many in these times of uncertainty, I go to bed often with countless things on my mind. This summer, my lightning bugs brought a delightful distraction and a sense of relaxation that on numerous nights lulled me into a sweet sleep.

In the beginning, on a June evening when reading didn't hold my attention and nothing on tv caught my eye, I happened to glance toward my window and into the fallen darkness of our backyard just in time to catch a command performance..... the dance of the fireflies. In the days and weeks that followed, I found myself watching for and eagerly anticipating the show that I hoped was to come. On days that had been tinged with sadness, and this summer there were many, I fancied the fireflies blinking as if to say, "We see, we understand." On days that could only be described as crazy, I imagined the lightning bugs were winking and encouraging me to keep my sometimes elusive sense of humor. On some nights, I saw in those lights my mother's lovely but tired eyes, twinkling as she listened intently to some story of the grandchildren one of my sisters or I was sharing. At times, the show was frenetic, almost wild with motion. At others, there may have been only a lone firefly sharing a quiet and singular dance for my enjoyment. It was as if they knew and noted my mood and provided the dance that would best soothe my soul.

Adam Young wrote the beautiful lyrics for the hit Owl City song Fireflies...."You wouldn't believe your eyes if ten million fireflies lit up the world as I fell asleep......to ten million fireflies I get misty eyes as I say farewell....."

I will miss the tiny lights of my southern summer of 2011. Until next summer, I will miss my fireflies.

Lumps, Bumps, and Bahamas Bits and Bytes

Just back with suitcases full of dirty clothes, still a little sand between my toes, and an ever so slight longing for a cool 'miami vice' at poolside, but I just had to blog a little.

Great trip and great vacation...I cannot help but comment on a few observations.....definitely what you would expect from Dee, right? Although it was hard, it was very good I think to leave my cell phone at home. As a realtor, I am never 'disconnected.' To avoid any possible misunderstanding I will define disconnected for my purposes here as no text, no e-mail, no calls, no computer. Some might argue that I am quite frequently disconnected in one manner or another. But that's for another blog. This week I, for the first time in months, had a chance to take a deep breath and relax. It felt good, and I highly recommend it if you possibly can temporarily disconnect yourself. Of course, the Monday after finds me painfully crashing back to the reality of our all access all the time world. And I do mean painfully as I found it incredibly hard to push my feet, now so accustomed to flip flops and flats, back into heels for work. I nearly fell out of bed this morning when my screeching alarm clock began doing its part to get me back on schedule and in my routine. I am definitely longing for 'island time' today.

Now to the trip......


My daughter's rapid maturity and take charge attitude again, as is so often the case recently, surprised me this trip. Our flight out of the US was sold out, and as a result my family of four was seated separately on the plane. At least, it all started out that way. Five minutes after taking our seats, Kate had maneuvered herself from her assigned center to a window seat...she loves the window... then convinced the person now next to her to swap seats with me ten rows back so that Kate and I could sit together. I would happily and comfortably have remained in my assigned seat ten rows back, avoiding any possible rejection that might have come from asking an unwilling traveller to relocate, and read. But not my Kate! I think she would have rearranged the entire plane if necessary to achieve her objective. If only she showed such determination in her math classes!

My first vacation with a teenage daughter definitely had other moments. This year, horror of horrors, she met dare I say.... boys. Imagine my surprise, or should I say chagrin, when she and we travel hundreds of miles and out of the country only to meet a boy from Charlotte who previously lived in our hometown. That was only the beginning. This trip, Kate wanted to "club." Now, before everyone gasps in disbelief, this is a 13 - 17 teen club in the hotel, very tightly controlled from what I could see. As Kate, nearly beside herself with shame and disgrace, stood beside me I grilled the greeter at the Club Crush receiving desk with an onslought of parental questions....what supervision was provided....could the kids leave....was there any alcohol....what id were they checking...other rules....etc, etc. I did feel much better (yeah, right) when I read one of the posted club rules that stated "public displays of affection that might be considered sexual in nature such as prolonged kissing, suggestive dancing, groping (does a thirteen year old even know what groping is) as well as any other potentially offensive PDA would not be allowed." Why is it that I thought a PDA was a phone or even a reference material for a doctor? Nevertheless Kate was, I suppose, clubbing, and I was most assuredly not ready for this.

As for me, I was dealing with a little reality of my own. On Day 2, noting my struggle to climb a high and somewhat awkward (meaning there was absolutely no way whatsoever to maneuver it in a genteel and/or lady like manner) step up from the beach onto a hotel walkway, a young Bahamian male commented my direction, "Beautiful Lady, the step will build your core... is good for you...will work your six pack....I think you have an eight pack." "Why, thank you," I said. But, as I turned, I suddenly horrifyingly realized that unlike being rated an eight or a ten as opposed to a six, being told you had an eight pack versus a six pack probably wasn't a compliment at all. What is it about the island winds blowing through your hair, the shimmering turquoise water and the glistening white sand that lead you to believe you are the most famous of all 'tens' Bo Derek, perfect braids and all, romping down the beach? Couldn't the guy just have stopped with the "beautiful lady" part? Of course he couldn't. Much as was documented in a previous blog after my son told me I was "jiggly," I found myself desperately digging through my beach bag for the cover up I should have been wearing to begin with. When will I learn...

And that brings me to Drew. I noticed that my son may have a few more of his mother's genes than I might have previously thought. To all appearances, Drew is all and I do mean all Daddy. From the way he walks, to the way he talks, to the way he thinks, Drew is all Adrian all the time. Readers who know Adrian will join me as I pause to think OMG! But this trip, as Drew and I stood at a photography kiosk choosing vacation pictures to purchase, I finally saw that elusive flash of Mom. As the operator pulled up a particular photo, Drew said, "Can you please zoom....note I might have said crop, but no matter....that one so I look bigger, and can you make it brighter, and what other choices in borders do you have?" I looked at my pint sized ten year old and thought, "That's my boy!" The clerk looked at me as if to say, "Really....you must be kidding me." As I looked over with pride I mumbled that you can never spend too much time or effort on your vacation pictures. Never mind that the kiosk operator totally disagreed, you go, Drew! A camera just may be on your Christmas list this year. By the way, I have 350 of my own pics from this trip! Surely at least a few more Dee stories will be found there!

A Daughter's Song

Tomorrow is your birthday. I find myself immensely relieved that it will be a busy day for me. It will be a travel day, full of all the hustle and bustle travel always entails. Maybe I won't have time to stop and think of you and how much I miss you. Maybe I won't remember those last days and hours and wonder what if. Maybe I won't recall all those birthday celebrations, all those times you told us that we had done too much, or those occasions we knew how very much you loved having your family around you.

This year has been a year of firsts, and not the firsts for which I might long. My first New Year's without you, my first Mother's Day without you, our first Father's Day, Daddy's first birthday.....the list seems endless. I am so glad I won't be here to experience this next, and possibly hardest first ..... your birthday.

Even as I am away, it will indeed be another and inescapable first..... a vacation when you aren't checking on us and fretting about us the entire time we travel. We are flying out of the country on your birthday, and this trip will be without your never fail parting instruction, "Be sure to call me as soon as you are there." Sometimes I did, sometimes I didn't....I would give anything if I could call you this year just to say, "We are here and safe. We are okay."

We continue to wear our brave smiles. We press on with our busy lives. Rarely a day passes that there is not a memory trigger for something you said or did. And those triggers still occur in the oddest of circumstances and the most surprising of times. They devastate me. At the same time I pray they will never stop. One of life's oxymorons, I suppose.

Do you know how I feel when I slip into your Lilly dress altered to fit me just so I might wear something that was yours? Or that I cry when I wash things that were yours because I know I am losing those last lingering traces of your scent.....Elizabeth Taylor's Passion, I believe? Do you see my eyes well up with emotion each time Kate wears one of your necklaces, the ones your daughters chose for mine? Do you know my smart phone contacts still read 'Grandmommy and Pop', not just 'Pop'? Do you see that tears have become an ever present ingredient in my peach cobbler because it's your recipe I make and love best? And no, Mother, mine is still not as good as yours always was. Do you know that I have not yet been able to make the frozen pink salad you loved so much, the one Daddy learned to do so that you could have it anytime you wanted instead of just on holidays and other special occasions? Do you know what I'm really thinking when I stop for a moment at your grave?

Have you seen your father, My Granddaddy Griggs? Have you found Aunt Gail and your mother? Have you seen my precious Olivia? Have you met Sharon's mom? Have you seen your Republican hero Ronald Reagan? I have so many questions, and frighteningly few answers.

Things will never be the same. I will never be the same. I do not so easily take for granted things I once did.

I never believed we were losing you, Mother. Why didn't you tell us you were leaving, that your fight was ending? I think you knew, so why didn't you let us say a proper good-bye? Why didn't you give me a chance to say those things that now I wish I had?

It is easier, but it's not. It is better, but only sometimes. We are moving on, but not completely. This week-end, as was often the case for your birthdays, Daddy bought you flowers. But this year, your blooms and greenery grace the FBC Sunday sanctuary in your memory. Daddy is here. Your girls are here. You should be here. You should be here for your precious Matt's graduation from Wake and for the first wedding of a grandchild. You should be here when your great grandchildren arrive. You should be here for your birthday. You should be here for our trip.

You were such a worrier if any of the three of us were travelling. I can recall you so often saying, "I can relax now. My girls are all home."

I know you still watch over us. You must know how much we miss you. There were moments, many moments in fact, when I was so frustrated with you I could not stand it. Now, I would love to have just one more of those moments. I will have to find a degree of comfort in knowing this year it is you who are safe and "at home." On this your birthday, I do hope there is frozen pink salad in heaven.

Heroes, Bird Watching, and Other Musings

Isn't it always about having the right tool for the job? I, the pragmatic one, the planner would certainly have thought so. Yesterday, a bird flew into our house. Why is the movie title "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" rolling around in my head? No matter, at any rate, I arrived home from work to find Drew in quite the tiz. It seems this afternoon a bird had flown into our house. Although no one was admitting who let the wren in, Drew with ten year old chest out and head held high proudly took credit for trapping the feathered intruder in his (that's Drew's) room. Drew, ever the thinker...truly his mother's son....had also tried putting Landen the Cat in the room with the bird thinking perhaps the cat would or could chase the bird out. I gathered that plan failed.

As I started up our stairs to ascertain the fowl situation, Drew on my heels quickly interceded to tell me Daddy was on the way, and Daddy would handle the bird. This I had to see. I retreated down the stairs nearly plowing into Adrian determinedly rounding the corner with...no, I couldn't believe it....a Clemson orange kid's crabbing net! Are you kidding me? I laughed and laughed. I told Adrian to hold everything. The bird would simply have to wait while I found my camera. Some moments just cry out for photographic documentation. Hands shaking severely from the laughter and eyes full of laughing tears, I barely managed to snap the photo, but photographer that I am, I did. And then up Adrian went, fittingly past my beloved antique bird prints that line our stairway, to save the day....with a crab net! I could almost hear the "Rocky" score as I watched the purposeful ascent. (Two cinematic references in one post.....good for me!)I am not quite sure whether my husband was saving us from the bird or the bird from us. I am also not certain what happened or how it happened in my son's upstairs room. But, quite unbelievably, after about 75 seconds, down came Adrian with his orange net and, flapping furiously inside, the wren! Why didn't I go upstairs to see the rescue mission? Why did I doubt that Drew's hero Daddy would again save the day? How does he do that?

Yes, quite obviously, it is critically important to have the right tool for the job.

My Inner Zen

Kate told me last night that she wished I would find my inner zen. I agree with her. What I don't know is how my thirteen year old knows these things. And what makes her think my zen is misplaced?

I will admit, Kate, that I lose my zen from time to time. Busy schedules, children going fifty different directions, a house without a housekeeper for now, it is no wonder that I occasionally forget where I have put my zen...along with my car keys, my office keys, the toaster, and my earrings. Some days are just like that, aren't they?

This year has simply not been my most zenful, and my zen state has most dee-cidedly been a work in progress. Indeed, I am still working at it. Definitely Dee has helped....an outlet I suppose. A week at the beach helped, but I think the benefits of that vacation are long gone. A couple of great books have helped me achieve at least a few zen moments. A quick post script...readers must check out The Help and The Art of Racing In The Rain.

Zaxby's did away with their Zen-sation salad and with it most definitely went some of my zen. I loved that salad! And yes, I know it probably had 1000 calories, precisely why it was so zen-sational. How is it that every promotional fast food menu item I find and like is done away with as soon as I realize I have found something I really like. The same is true for nail polish and lipstick. My favorite colors are always discontinued!

Well, now that I have vented about my frenetic schedule, my proneness to misplace, my long forgotten vacation, my lackluster lunch options, my no longer available nail polish and lipsticks, what is that feeling coming over me......could it be zen?

The Help

I read and loved the novel The Help by Kathryn Stockett. I most loved the book because it reminded me so vividly of my beloved Ruby.....Ruby who was far beyond my help but became my lifeline, my confidante, and almost a second mother to me.

I met Miss Ruby in the pasture in front of our house shortly after Kate was born. I’m sure I must have previously met and spoken to Ruby, but my first strong memory of her came that early spring day in, of all places, our Shiloh Unity pasture. Kate refused to settle down. Every new mother knows the sense of helplessness bordering on hopelessness of those days, and with Kate there were many.   I was exhausted. I simply could not get my crying baby calm. Ruby had sat rocking on her own front porch across the street, arms crossed, shaking her head disapprovingly, watching me from a distance as I walked laps with a crying child for as long as she could. Finally, I suppose at her wits end, she rose from her rocker, crossed the street, walked into the pasture and up to me, took Kate out of my arms and held her up to her large and loving and experienced bosom. (I thought for a minute she was going to smother my baby.) But Kate almost instantly was calm, and I distinctly and embarrassingly heard cooing.  Miss Ruby glanced at my shall I say somewhat lacking upper body, especially in comparison to hers, and said, “Honey, all that baby wanted was a big bosom to find comfort in.” Well, on that count, I quite honestly and obviously needed help.    I instantly knew we had to hire Miss Ruby.  And just like that, she became part of our family and part of our lives. With utmost respect I will say she became my help.

Time passed.  Drew was born. Miss Ruby remained totally and completely a part of us. My children may have said “Roo Roo” before they said “Mommy.” Years passed. They first crawled, then walked, then ran to her for comfort, for congratulations, for hugs, for love, dare I say for lunch. Ruby was always ready with whatever they needed. She took them everywhere. She rocked them, cooked for them, played with them, sang with them, slept with them. More than once after Drew was born, I walked back to Ruby’s bedroom in the late afternoon to find Kate, Drew, and Ruby cuddled up sound asleep in her big bed, tummies full of whatever good cooking Ruby's magical kitchen had rendered that day. She refereed their arguments and restored the peace. Ruby may yet be the only person who has ever effectively handled ‘Miss Kate.’ She told stories of them having to go get their own switches for a spanking.  I knew they were only stories, for Ruby could never have disciplined these children in that manner.  I do think she scared them straight! It was tough love, and somehow Kate adored her. And Ruby's bond with Drew, "My Little Man," as she called him was unmistakable.

We travelled fairly often in those early years with the children. Kate frequently would ask Miss Ruby what we could bring her from our trips. The single Miss Ruby always answered, “Bring me a man.” (That's 'mayan' of the two syllable variety.   Miss Ruby must've thought those were even better than  the one syllable version.) It never failed that when we returned home,  Ruby would ask Kate if she had brought her a man. I did catch Kate on a couple of Caribbean trips trying her best to talk a young Jamaican into coming home with us to be Ruby’s ‘gift.’ Oh my, wouldn’t Ruby have been surprised? Then again, maybe not. The wily Ruby may have known exactly what she was asking.

Miss Ruby had a large and extended family with many children of her own lineage. But, there was never any doubt that she loved mine as if they were hers. Any visitor to Ruby's home saw pictures of my Kate and Drew mingled with her own children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, nieces and nephews and other children actually related to Ruby.

Ruby was a woman of strength, a woman of conviction, a woman of compassion, a woman of God. In her darker moments and in her happiest, she held fast to her faith. She lived an example that spoke far louder than her words.

I still see little bits of Ruby in things Kate and Drew say and do. I thank God for the memories of Ruby that I will have in and with our children. This remarkable woman enriched our lives in so many ways. She was far beyond my help. She was my friend.

Day 3

So, here I am in Lancaster, worrying about Kate, her injured ankle, how she's doing, where I might generate a sale, what I'm having for dinner..... shall we just leave it at worrying. Suddenly my daughter texts, and no, she is not supposed to have a cell phone, that the amazing chef Mr. Wilkie has tonight served the campers pork tenderloin, potatoes, veggies, and yogurt parfaits for supper. And now Kate is waiting to go to "spa night." Where do I sign up for Camp Springmaid Mountain? Pork tenderloin and pedicures for my and thirty other thirteen year olds. Why did I think she may be 'roughing it' just a little? There is 'dee-cidedly' something wrong with this picture!

The Next 24

The clothes were unpacked, the Bieber posters hung, the roommate met, and the fun began. But, did I mention that Kate, much like her mother, is not the most graceful or balanced or athletic child? Perhaps Springmaid Mountain Camp was a questionable judgement call on my part.

As I should have predicted, the second twenty-four began with Kate, seemingly graceful as a cheetah, happily running on a mountain trail, somehow falling and injuring her quite oft injured ankle. Yesterday's snake expert Stephania morphed into today's medic. By the way, you could not pay me enough to be a camp counselor for thirty teen and tween girls. Stephania's initial diagnosis....the ankle might be broken....the camper was in serious pain....the recommendation.....a trip to the local hospital for an X-ray. But first, a call to mom, three hours away, for an opinion.

Now, I love my daughter more than life itself, and she is quite a special girl. But, the reality is, she has a flair for the dramatic and has on some number of previous occasions cried 'wolf' when perhaps 'puppy' might have been more appropo. Take it from someone who has fallen for her impassioned cries and crocodile tears before. Sometimes the injury is far less serious than the cries and tears might lead one to believe. And, for some reason, for Kate, trips to the ER seem to be social events.

After conversation, all (with the notable exception of Kate) decided that we would try over the counter pain medication, rest, and a wrap before transporting the injured to the hospital.

With several hours sleep and a little breakfast, morning brought Kate's request to saddle Kanawha, the horse she already loves. Yes, the ankle hurts. Broken....I doubt it. Please, Lord, don't let me be wrong in betting that a little injury is just that.... a little injury, made worse by the fact that she is away from home and Mom isn't there to tell her everything will be okay.

Supposings On Springmaid

It's the end of Kate's first day of her week of Springmaid Mountain Camp. I think she is fine. I am a little lonely.

Kate wrote that she saw a snake in the river. Her counselor Stephania told her not to worry; it was not 'poiseness'.... Kate's word. Is that 'poiseness' as in possibly a state of poise, or 'poiseness' as in get the heck out of there? You will remember that Kate is the child who believes spelling doesn't matter; what matters is if you are communicating. Well, I guess she communicated successfully. I knew what she meant.

Her encounter with the snake notwithstanding, I hope Kate has exhibited a state of poise....a 'poiseness'... on this trip. Whether riding her horse Kanawha (folks knowledgeable of the Springs umbrella of companies will appreciate the fitting name for her paint) or tubing on the river of thankfully non-'poiseness' snakes or eating the delicious delicacies prepared by Master Chef Wilkie, whom I grew to love during my Springs days, Kate will find her groove, and campers and counselors will more than likely remember her.

I have worried about how she will deal with her alopecia and the common shower area. I have worried that she might lose her wig in the river on the tubing trips. I have contemplated how Kate might handle her hairpiece falling off in the most inopportune of circumstances. But, you know, my heart and my head tell me she will handle it. She just does.

Ah yes, the first twenty-four hours of Springmaid. All is well.

A Brief Catastrophe

There are days I feel like such a bad mother. Today was one of those. I was almost dressed and ready to leave for work when Drew walked in. He hesitated a second; he knew I was hurrying to get my day started. When I asked if he needed me, Drew responded, "Well, I was just wondering if I was good, can I get some new underwear? All of mine is too little. And, Mommy, I don't want the tight kind. Get me the loose ones." (Aka boxers, I supposed.)

I looked long and hard at my son. If I'm good, can I have underwear.....I ashamedly looked down at my brand new dress and shoes. I stopped my preparations for the day, running late as I were, and went to his room to check the underwear drawer. I already knew what I would find. I have no idea when I last bought this child underwear! His cousin gave him hand me down boxers and briefs (guess I should be ashamed for that as well) for awhile, but when was our last batch...2007....2008? The worst was indeed confirmed when I found that this ten year old child, my silent and long suffering son, had a drawer full.....of size 6 underwear. No wonder he wants the "loose ones."

I have said often that I have one child who asks for, no expects the world and another who never, ever asks for anything. Most Dee readers will easily know which child is which. But to allay any possible question, the perfectly content child who needs absolutely nothing is the one with underwear four sizes too small and the, some might say, slighly higher than usual voice pitch....surely there couldn't be a connection. I thought about the spring MAP or PASS or whatever testing South Carolina schools are doing these days. Was Drew's less than spectacular performance last semester related to the fact his circulation was being cut off by his ummm.... shall I say 'under armour'? I started thinking of all the times I have told Drew to stop tugging on his pants.....he may have had good reason. I thought back to flag football and how he seemed less interested in playing the game than in adjusting his....well.... in adjusting. I must stop. My guilt has my mind going places it definitely shouldn't.

Tomorrow's first order of business.....TJMaxx to return those shoes I didn't need and exchange for the boy's boxers I hadn't noticed we did. Ah, the sometimes wacky world of working women...and the sons who love us even though we might on occasion forget the basics.

A Southern Voice

I have only recently begun sharing my blog with a few friends, colleagues, and acquaintances. I have so appreciated their feedback. Yesterday, one of those new readers commented that there was an air of "southerness" in my blog. She could hardly have paid me a nicer compliment.

I am a true daughter of the South. Tim McGraw had a hit country song....Southern Voice. Well now, perhaps there's a contender for the name of my dream vacation house, the subject of an earlier blog. Yes indeed, Southern Voice.... a great name for the beach bungalow of a blogger! I smile (and try to sing) every time I hear McGraw's Southern Voice. I cannot help but identify with its soulful southern rock lyrics.... "Hank Williams sang it, Number Three drove it, Aretha Franklin sang it, Dolly Parton graced it, Tom Petty rocked it, Hank Aaron smacked it, Michael Jordan dunked it, Pocahontas tracked it......Dr. King changed it, Bear Bryant won it, Billy Graham saved it." And with a refrain that's, "smooth as a hickory wind that blows from Memphis down the Appalachian Trail," I'm thinking Rhett and Scarlett, camellia bushes, the Cooper River, magnolias and pine, giant oaks, moss and sand. Surely the it is my south, right?

Often as my family travels out of our native south, some new friend will inevitably overhear me (or Drew) speak and ask, "Georgia or Texas?" For a time, my response was, "Excuse me?" Now, with a smile, it's a quick and sincere, "Thank you." After all, both states are 'dee-cidedly' southern. More importantly, a true daughter (or son) of the south simply embraces the accent. What else can one do?

Along with Tim singing, "Sweet Iced Tea and Jerry Lee, Daytona Beach, that's what gets to me," I will proudly flaunt my southern voice and my southern roots. Wish I could do it in song as McGraw has. Anyone who has heard me sing will most 'dee -finitely' appreciate my promise to stick to the written southern word.

I might have added a few of my own joys of the south to Tim McGraw's list.....Sunday snow cones and chicken after church....grits...what was I thinking, shrimp and grits......mimosas on holiday mornings.....hummingbirds and hydrangeas....country music, Hootie, blues, and jazz. Yes, that's my south.

God richly blessed the south and those lucky enough to live here. There are God Sightings (as my children are discussing this week in Bible School)everywhere, from the beautiful and distinct southern seasons to the vast diversity in topography, from her Bible Belt foundation to the Triangle of cutting edge research, from an almost perfect climate to some of the best cooks anywhere, from authors Anne Rivers Siddons and Dorothea Benton Franks to Pat Conroy and John Grisham, this is my south and I love it!

I will admit to more than my fair share of wanderlust. Although travel always recharges my batteries, I also always find my spirit soaring as we touch down in beautiful Charlotte, and I know I am almost home.

I am, after all, most at home in the home of fierce football and basketball and budding baseball rivalries, breathtaking Carolina beaches, spectacular southern design and architecture, stately southern college campuses, church steeples everywhere. And if this 'Song of the South' should inspire a move to our lovely area, I even know a 'dee-finitively' Southern realtor!

A Healer in Honduras

In the last weeks, we have celebrated my father's birthday and, of course, Father's Day. June is my dad's month. This June has been a special one as he excitedly prepares for a mission trip to Honduras. He has had to work for this trip. Something funky occurred with his application for a passport. How could that be for a man who grew up in Pageland, has lived only in the Carolinas, attended Clemson and UNC, served his country, not to mention a man of medicine who has been in the USA all his life? Oh well, I guess things happen. A tip of the hat to Congressman Mick Mulvaney who lent a hand to help correct the problem.

My father had no luggage. He has for the most part been unable to think of travelling over the last ten years as he gave everything to the care and needs of my ailing mother. Size 4 Banker Sister proposed that we three daughters take care of the luggage issue for Daddy's birthday. So, we did. (Note to readers: we don't often say no to Size 4 Banker. In all fairness, that is because she usually has pretty good ideas.)

By the way, Daddy, surely you are filling one of those new travel bags with Tiger Rags and orange pom poms. I want to see your Honduran friends doing 1-2-3-4-C-L-E-M-S-O-N! No doubt, you and Pastor Joel will find a way to spread the gospel according to Dabo. I'm just saying.....

Next problem....oops, Drew tells me there are no problems, just opportunities..... Daddy had no camera. Now, you might surmise that predicament is easy enough to fix. Harder to address was the issue that he had absolutely no idea what to do with one. My precious, patient, undoubtedly one day to be a teacher niece provided a "photography for camera challenged photographers" Father's Day tutorial, complete with her trademark encouraging and supportive demeanor...."You turn it on here, Pop....Good, Pop....You did it, Pop," etc. She at least got him started. He actually took two pictures! But being the intuitively astute person that I am, I quickly took note of his look of total bewilderment...you see, in real estate, I see that look often. As by far the ....ummm most helpful sister, I brightly told Daddy that if all else failed, he should just hand the camera to a Honduran and let him or her take the pictures. Again, being the astute daughter that I am, I am quite sure Daddy failed to appreciate that remark. He is, after all, not only a physician, but a credentialled civil engineer, and most importantly, a diplomaed Son of Clemson. This is a learned man, a holder of multiple advanced degrees from.....my Gamecock friends will appreciate this.....the most respected halls of higher learning. But, I digress. Suffice it to say Daddy was not particularly pleased that I questioned his ability to manage a point and shoot. I do hope that he was not so offended by my remark that he will not provide me with some blog worthy photo journalism. And Daddy, don't worry. We will learn the art of downloading (or is it uploading...why can I never remember) when you return.

At last, all hurdles overcome, we believe Daddy is set to go to Honduras. As a physician, my dad will bring a special set of skills to patients often and sadly lacking for medical attention. More importantly, my amazing father will bring them the power of his testimony in action. You see, before he was a doctor or a husband or a father, or a Clemson or UNC grad, he was a man of God. My father lives his faith. Beloved in and by the town he calls home, my often introspective dad casts a giant and imposing shadow without trying to do so. Size 4 Banker Sister says he is a rock star. That may be so, but he certainly doesn't want to be. He doesn't need or want or enjoy hoopla. Likewise, he doesn't trumpet his faith; it just is who he is .

The Hondurans whom my daddy meets and who are lucky enough to meet my dad will not soon forget his healing hand, his kind spirit, his warmth and compassion, or his faith. His medicines and bandages and knowledge will bring them relief. His smile and his Christianity will win their hearts.

The people of Honduras are soon to know what Pagelanders and residents of surrounding counties have known for decades and what his three daughters know beyond doubt. This man is special. We are truly blessed to call him our father. We are so humbled by the man that he is. He set an impossible standard for the men who would marry his daughters, simply in being exactly who he is.

I wish you health and peace and success on your trip, Daddy. I love that you are sharing your most special gifts with a country in such need. I can already hear you saying upon your return, "I was the one who was blessed by this trip." And, my sisters and I will know, without even having been there, that is only a part of the truth.

The Blind Puppy

A young friend recently took care of our dogs (and yes, Kate's cat) while we were away. He fell in love with our sweet black, brown and white cocker spaniel....our blind puppy. Today, sadly, our blind cocker left us for doggie heaven.

Now there is a small freshly dug grave under my bedroom window. My blind cocker is at rest. His grave is near those of Kate's bunnies Flopsey and Grey Bird. There is no marker. I will work on that.

Koko was one of the sweetest dogs I have ever known. He wasn't an inside dog, though sometimes we thought he should have been. When cataracts or some similar malady took his vision, he almost seemed to get happier. His tail was in perpetual motion, wagging anytime anyone was in proximity. He shuffled around our yard and did pretty well finding whatever it was he was looking for. He did occasionally run into a tree or a swing. He adjusted. He overcame.

My husband thinks Drew named Koko. If that is so, Drew must have been barely talking when he did. Drew couldn't have been more than two years old when Koko joined our family. I do know that we spelled the name with K's and actually registered him as Kate's Koko. I also know that today it was Drew, not Kate, awash in tears as he heard the news of Koko's passing.

Koko deserved better than he got from us. As our children grew bigger and our time for pets grew shorter, Koko had to fend for himself much of the time. As the eldest of our canine crew, Koko tried to rule the roost, or should I say rule the kennel, in our little dog kingdom. And for much of the time, he had things under his cocker control. Lately though, I just don't think he felt like being bothered with leadership responsibilities. After all, being in charge is not always everything it is cracked up to be.

We will miss you, Koko. We already do. I hear your dog brothers barking for you. I know they don't understand.

I hope this day you are running and romping and seeing everything you've been missing. But when I think about it, Koko, I am not sure you missed much. I so hope you saw and knew how much we loved you.....