Dear Audrey....A Love Letter

Dear Audrey,

Mommy misses you more than words will ever explain! You were my puppy from the very first time I held you! I knew you were special, and I knew you had to be my puppy! I remember how excited I was when Daddy brought you home. You were the prettiest and most precious dog I had ever seen!

I know sometimes I got angry at you, like when you chewed up my brand new Rainbows, but I always loved you, Audrey.

I miss your face when you knew you had done something wrong. I miss your bark when Drew or I would run with your toys. I miss your licks on my face and hands. You always comforted me when I was upset or scared, and at the end of the day, no matter how much I had yelled at you, you were always standing right beside me, making sure I was safe and happy.

You were my little fighter puppy, Audrey. You fought so many near-death experiences. I guess you were just too tired to fight anymore. I am sorry I left you at the vet that night. I know you were probably calling for me and wondering why I didn't come help you. I'm sorry I promised you I would always keep you safe and never let anything hurt you, then broke that promise.

I love you so much, Love Bug, and NO dog will ever replace the paw print you left on my heart. God picked the sweetest and prettiest puppy to join Him!

Love,
Kate

PS: I hope God had you plenty of toys and Chick-Fil-a beside Him when you entered heaven.

Daughters and Doughnuts

Last week-end, I had the opportunity for a quick dash to Durham. My sister and I think it had been over a year since we were last together at her home in the Old North State, though I find that quite impossible to believe. But admittedly lives get busy and time flies by, so perhaps it had indeed been that long.

We had a hectic but fun week-end, shopping all my favorite stores, and most especially shopping and swapping my sister's closet. The moment, however, I may remember from my visit, this week-end's "moment in time" as it were, came on Saturday night. Two sisters, two Clemson grads, found time to squeeze in the Clemson/Duke game. It had been one of the reasons for my trip, but a day of shopping had left us with sore feet and serious contemplation of watching the game in our pj's at home. We eventually found a second wind and headed over to the beautiful Duke campus and the intimate stadium the Devils call home. As we made our way toward the sizable seated contingent of Tiger faithful, we passed a stand-alone concession advertising warm homemade mini doughnuts. We could not pass it by. After a quick stop to purchase our doughnuts and coffee and cocoa, we continued on our way.

As we slid into our seats, and opened our bag (all right, more correctly bags) of mini doughnuts, we looked at each other, both thinking the same thing. Almost simultaneously, two sisters said, "Mother would have loved these." The moment froze. There we were.... I in Mother's orange coat snared from her closet after she died, my sister and I each wearing rings that had been hers, warm cinnamon and sugar from our doughnuts blowing ever so slightly in the chilly Triangle breezes, much like Mother's popcorn always blew over everyone around her at Death Valley. Here we were in Durham, surrounded by Clemson Alums, looking out on stands of and a field of Tigers that she loved as if she had been one herself...probably because she loved one particular Tiger so much and so long.

Mother treasured her treks to Tobacco Road....to Wake and Duke, to Chapel Hill and Raleigh. She loved the away games and the week-ends they brought. She loved her trips anywhere near Durham and the opportunity they presented to visit her precious Diane. And yes, on last Saturday night, she would have loved the doughnuts.

Cornbread in my Coobie

Before readers dissolve into disbelief upon seeing this post title, and as surely they wonder whatever happened to the oath that Dee would Definitely...at least usually... be PG13, give me a moment to expound upon my title. As you wonder if it is a really, really bad country song title or a personal or proprietary problem I definitely would not or certainly should not be writing about, I have to say that although he makes me crazy on occasion, there are a couple of things my better half does pretty much....well.... better than anyone else. And, once again, stay with me for a moment as I am quite sure the minds of some have gone straight to the gutter.

Backing up a step, perhaps the first explanation due is exactly what is a coobie. As many have discovered, some perhaps not, a coobie is quite simply the greatest bra ever! I think I and a generation of women of all degrees of endowment are hooked on these comfortable cotton wonders.....great under tee shirts, great under anything. They in my humble opinion have liberated women in the most needed of ways.

But, on to my second clarification. Not what some were surmising I am sure. My husband makes THE best fried squash I have ever tasted, yes even better than the famed Wagon Wheel. And secondly, he may bake up the best cornbread I have ever eaten. Hejust doesn't do either often enough. And again, please, I ask that we may all guard against taking single sentences of this blog out of context.

Finally this week, after repeated requests from my hubby that I stir up some chili beans, I relented. But, only if he agreed to provide the requisite cornbread to accompany my soup. I am not quite sure what makes his cornbread better than mine. It is a mystery much like that of my friend's fabulously decadent homemade chocolate cake. I have her recipe....I have attempted the cake. Mine just isn't the same.

Yesterday, as his warm muffins came out of the oven, I couldn't wait to dig in. Who needs the chili? I just wanted the bread. And warm as it was, my digging in was slightly messier than expected. So glad no one was around with a camera as I not so daintily stuffed the muffins into my mouth, tiny cornmeal bites fluttering down my shirt, and right into....well into my coobie.

Funny isn't it, how favorites seem to find each other.....Soup and salad.....grits and gravy....beans and rice....cornbread and coobies....

Hags and Czars

I have blogged before that a friend got me H-O-O-K-E-D on the Facebook Zynga Game Words with Friends. And it's been a good thing and a bad thing.....good because this newest and wordiest of obsessions has helped me from somewhere pull really great and otherwise long since forgotten words back into my vocabulary. On the other hand, when I look at some of the words I have recalled I wonder if it is possible that I might need therapy. Today, when I cleverly built hags onto my previously inserted czars and note both tzar and czar are accepted spellings of this strong scoring word....(how does my mind jump like that), I just had to wonder where do these words come from?

I have known for awhile that I have lots of words floating aimlessly around in my head......lots of words....did I mention LOTS of words? Blogging has helped me exercise some of those suckers, as has Words With Friends. Oh, and look, as tonight I play T-E-A-R-S and M-A-T-H, my friend offers up H-E-A-T and T-O-U-C-H. Guess her night is going a little better than mine....I am wondering if B-I-T---- will play. (Just J-O-K-I-N-G, of course.) And anyway, I can't bring myself to play that word, no matter how sometimes I would want to. I know SH-- will play. Although there have been a few days lately when that was the most perfect and fitting word for my mood, I haven't been able to bring myself to play that one either. After all, even a WWFer (now that doesn't sound quite right) has a certain....je ne sais quois.... to uphold.

So, my friend plays P-O-L-E-S; I play H-A-I-R-Y. Maybe I am getting into the swing of things after all. She plays S-L-U-T-S; I play G-N-O-M-E-S. I know, I know. I got nothing.....

I am truly hooked. I can't go to sleep some nights until I check to see if my words with friends friend has played. Her entries tease me, begging for words in response. I can't wait for the litte crossword boxes to populate with their for me tantalizing teasers. I can't leave her hanging; I just have to have that one more play before bed. And there it is...she did it....oh no she didn't(as Kate says 'diunt' totally minus that second 'd') she posts S-E-X-Y....That's it. I'm done. I sigh. I post the sad but true S-L-E-E-P-Y and close my computer.

You Say 'Tomatoes'......I Say 'Teenagers'

One of my favorite seasons recently wound to its sad end. No, not summer.....not exactly anyway. I am already missing this past and counting down to next........drum roll, please.....tomato season. There aren't many things better in my book than fried green tomatoes, tomato sandwiches, fresh tomatoes in my salads....shall I go on?

Adriana Trigiani wrote in her novel Very Valentine that "growing tomatoes is all about patience and process." Gosh, Ms. Trig, I never realized the art of growing tomatoes was so similar to growing children. Had I read that quote out of context I would have been uncertain whether it was teenagers or tomatoes the authoress was discussing.

I suppose both tomato plants and children require just the right and oh so important foundation, grounding, if you will, to prevent unwanted acidity or bitterness. Tomato plants often also require just enough of a binding to keep them growing and going in the right direction, but not so much so as to stunt their growth and development. Sound like anyone we know?

There are days and times I know I fail miserably at both the patience and process Trigiani noted as relate to tomatoes. Only barely into Kate's second year of teenagerdom, I find my patience nearly non-existent. I love her so hard it hurts, but often times that just doesn't seem to be enough.

I have such trouble finding balance between reining her in and letting her go. I know she wants to be treated more like a grown up, but when I look at her I still see my little girl. I want to pull in and protect, while she wants freedom and the chance to fly. Much like tomato plants that at times may need a degree of training them upward, I feel a need to direct my teen's growth. The truth be told, I would like to pause that growth....just long enough that is for me to catch my breath and start again.

I saw such a great metaphor in this character's tomatoes. You may have presumed, as I did, that they grew and thrived in some southern vegetable garden or farm. Valentine's tomatoes actually grew on a New York rooftop. The message....well cared for tomatoes (or teens) might flourish in even the most challenging surroundings.

My patch is small.....I am concerned about the job I do with two growing 'plants'. I like to think I have given them every chance to thrive and produce wonderful fruit of their own.....but who can be certain. With teenagers as with tomatoes, can one ever know for sure?

The Poet

In the spring of 2008, so she would have either been nine or just turned ten years old..... I am guessing 4th grade..... Kate The Poet wrote

The waters blew a salty breeze
And rose above our knobby knees,
then ran away
like a bashful tease.

We ranged across the sparkling sand
with ocean lapping all of the land,
A sunny, funny, happy band.



I found this poem when cleaning out some shelves the other day. Here it is, finally, confirmation that this is my daughter after all.....a beach lover and wordsmith after my own heart. I see alliteration, metaphor.....I would check for iambic pentameter, but I cannot remember exactly what it is. Nevertheless, wow!

FF......that's fast forward as opposed to fairly fantastic.....to August 2012. I am taking Kate to 9th grade registration I ask about her AP classes, to which she responds, "Momma, that's 'After Practice.' We don't get those until 11th grade." Perhaps this child is not mine after all. Really, Kate? Do you honestly think you "practice" in ninth and tenth grades, then get to the 'real stuff' ....the advanced placement....in the eleventh?

I have to believe....or at least fervently hope....sometimes things just slip out of this perfectly beautiful, orthodontically engineered mouth before my always entertaining daughter thinks her thought through. I recall back to Kate's 6th grade announcement that she was in the bachelorette program at her Rucker Middle School, to which I quickly responded that I believed that was a baccalaureate program. I definitely hope it was not a bachelorette program, though some days I might have wondered.

So pretty, so sweet, so funny.....so scattered. She is now one of 387 members of Lancaster High School's Class of 2016. I, like many of the roughly 774 Class of '16 parents have to be wondering, "Are they and more importantly we ready for this?" Why do I have this nagging premonition that there are many more shall we say less than poetic Kate moments to come?

Lions, and Tigers, and Duck Snorts....Oh My!

Duck Snorts. My South Carolina friends, family, and fanatics will appreciate the tip of the hat....or feather as it were..... to their remarkable former baseball coach, now Athletic Director, Ray Tanner and his personally coined phrase.....I assume it is his; I had never heard it before.

Tanner deemed duck snorts those special bounces of a ball your way, the sometimes unexpected, often unearned little pieces of luck that when combined with undeniable talent and preparation turned his teams into NCAA champions twice over and oh so close to a third. I love that. Tanner is too smart not to know that it takes a few 'duck snorts' to accomplish something special. It always does.

This morning, I heard an old, really really old....I would guess circa 1950.....interview with favorite of mine the late, great Andy Griffith. Andy was asked by the wonderful Edward R. Murrow what it took to make it, as Andy had, in a relatively short period of time. Andy's response with his slow southern drawl, perpetually twinkling eyes, and huge toothy grin was, "You've gotta have the talent when the time comes to carry the ball. But there's a lot of luck involved....being in the right place at the right time...being ready."

Ray Tanner would agree with Andy's homespun wisdom, and with possible exception to Andy's reference to football instead of baseball, they may be saying the same thing. What Andy called luck, Tanner called duck snorts. Either way, they can make all the difference, can't they? Both Andy and Ray were wise enough, and honest enough, to admit it.

Football season is upon us, and although first articulated by a baseball man, I "dee"-finitely think the duck snort will transfer, or should I say waddle, easily over to the pigskin setting. What's the saying, "If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck...." I am thinking this season it might be a duck snort that is that makes all the difference. I am hoping it might be possible for a Tiger team to experience a few of those sometimes elusive duck snorts....that call that maybe shouldn't have gone your way but did.....that ball that bounces off three defenders into the hands of your receiver for a touchdown.....the extra point blocked that gives you a one point win. Surely Gamecocks and Panthers are hoping the same. Per Andy's recipe, our big three may be in "the right place at the right time, ready with the talent when their time comes to carry the ball." In these parts, they carry more than a football. They carry the nearly frenetic hopes of hundreds of thousands of rabid fans. The question just might be are they lucky enough to garner a duck snort or two. At any rate, let's tee it up, kick it off.....my favorite time of year. Go Ducks.....Go Teams. Let's Do This!

"Calling Passenger #26C7D8"

Dedicated to Aunt Di, Uncle Mark, Matt, Carr, Fielder, Mishi, and Sadie for giving Kate a memorable summer break.



After much deliberation and first a no, then yes, then no again, I was finally persuaded by my more worldly sister to let her put Kate alone on the Amtrak for a train trip from Durham to Charlotte. And since Diane didn't want to bring Kate home, and I didn't want to go get her, we were quickly running out of other available options...unless of course Diane was interested in adopting.

I was told when I called to purchase the ticket that my daughter would be interviewed, and the station supervisor would determine if Kate would be allowed to travel alone. I hesitated at this revelation, for Kate has been known to on occasion stretch the truth, tell tall tales, etc. I thought back over the many, many stories born in that limitless imagination of Kate's that she has told me and others over the years. What questions would the supervisor ask, I wondered. More importantly, what responses would Kate give? I would learn that her interview consisted of one question......"Do you follow instructions well?" Kate answered yes, yet another of her tall tales, to be sure.

At 11:45 am.....Kate was to board the Piedmont 75 in Durham at 12:10 pm .... I received my first in the very predictable series of phone calls. Kate, in a hushed voice..."Mommy, I'm in the custody of a weird woman." Well, I thought, that should be easy. My daughter is in the custody of a 'weird woman' every day of her life.

Kate proceeded to share that she had an ID bracelet with numbers and must constantly report her whereabouts (restroom, snack bar, etc.) to the....ummmm.....'weird woman.' I'm liking this person already...I cannot get Kate to constantly report her whereabouts to me when she is at home. You go, Weird Woman!

Kate's next comment was that she wouldn't be surprised if they made her change into a uni with her numbers across the front.....surely a phobia birthed from three years of middle school required uniforms. But alas, to the great relief of my suddenly fashionista child, that request never came.

The next call was classic Kate. "Mommy, the only things they have in the snack bar are cookies and crackers, and I waited to eat lunch until I was on the train." Well, Kate My Darling, did you expect prime rib? Undoubtedly, when Aunt Di mentioned Amtrak, Kate heard Orient Express.

Next call, also predictable..."Mommy, why can't I ride in first class?" Does Amtrak have first class? No matter, coach is fine on a plane....coach will do on the train.

Periodically during her trip, Kate says a booming voice over the intercom announces "Kate Pettit, report your whereabouts," at which time Kate as instructed presses a button from whatever location she currently occupies. I am telling you, Dee Readers, I think there is something to this system.

Kate also called to report that she had never seen so many pigs, cows, and corn fields as she did on her rail adventure through rural North Carolina. Surprising with her roots in Pageland and Lancaster, but I guess I have a city girl on my hands. I had to wonder if that was really corn, to which Kate would respond, "I know it is corn. I saw the scarecrow." That's my girl!

Flash forward two hours in real time. I have, I might say, in most uneventful fashion, made it to the Tryon Street Amtrak station to meet Piedmont 75 bearing its very special and, as previously noted, hungry passenger Kate. Those who know this realtor and that she gets lost going around the block can appreciate the magnitude of that accomplishment. And, other than seeing unbelievably few people wearing pants on their waists.....sorry, I shouldn't judge.....I am very comfortable here. Granted, it is not Grand Central Station, but I find myself wondering why more people don't travel by train. Except for the station location a little too close to Charlotte's infamous intersection of Trade and Tryon, this really is pretty great.

Admittedly, before today, I had pictured Charlotte's Amtrak Hub to be exactly like Chicago's stunning Union Station just as I remember it from one of my favorite movies The Untouchables , so I am a little disappointed in the decided lack of architecture, missing sweeping staircases, or especially the notably absent Kevin Costner and Andy Garcia who should certainly be here to protect me. But, it is fine.

And making it even better, just then an announcement. "Piedmont 75 is approaching the station." And with it, my suddenly so very grown up daughter.....Passenger #26C7D8.

August 1

August 1....my stepson Joseph's birthday.......our Miss Ruby's birthday.....and my mother's birthday. Odd that three such integral and important people in my life shared the same birthday.

I have told my dad and my sisters that my "mother blogs" will be happier now, not the tear jerkers of a year ago. But my mother's birthday....her day....August 1 continues to bring me overwhelming feelings of love and loss and what might have been and worst of all what was.

Caught amidst scattered remembrances of her laughing so hard she cried.....Drew once commented, "Grandmommy smiles so hard she squints" (isn't that a great phrase; good job, Drew)..... I am haunted by remembrances of my mother's final cries to go home, upstairs, to her bed.

But then, I also remember at 16 years old, those teen years when I know I so often disappointed her, looking out from the stage where I had won a hometown high school pageant. The pride and excitement in my mother's face were such that one might have thought I had just been crowned Miss Universe. I guess mothers are like that, right?

Mother had a weak stomach and often when the issues to be dealt with were of the sick children variety, it was Daddy who got the duty call. It was indeed fortunate that my mom was blessed with the physician husband who had seen it all before. But, I recall when so nauseated during my labor with Drew that I couldn't hold my head up, it was Mother there beside my hospital bed, holding my hand while Daddy, my OB-GYN, and even Adrian checked a ballgame score on tv. Note to Dee....I am glad I remembered that one......another blog for another day.

From decades back, I vividly remember Mother's agony as she shared with me the horrifying news that she had accidentally backed over and killed my sweet English Setter Scamp. I remember with equal agony how completely unforgiving I was as we sat at the little round table in the close confines of her Garden City condo and she broke the news to me.

More recently, I and my sisters will recall a Christmas gift of a "fake fur" jacket to my mother. Remember those? And the way she reacted, you might have thought it was mink. Mother broke into one of those squinty smiles Drew had noticed and happily modeled the Target .....that's Targe' of course....coat for us all.

Pastor Joel spoke of prisms during Mother's funeral services. I think again of that description as I have so many times since. My mother's strength, stubborness if you will, versus her weakness and frequent dependence on my dad......my mother's love of clothes and shoes and fashion but the cruel irony of her later near inability to dress in anything other than sweatsuits.......my mother's frequent tardiness but her arrival at Matt's graduation a full hour early.....my mother's sedentary life and yet her childhood chore of watering turkeys (ongoing apologies to my mom that I was so sure in her confusion she had somehow inexplicably inserted herself into an episode of "Little House on the Prarie")....my mother's seeming few friends..... yet her impassioned love of those she had....my mother's unending correction of my/our grammar....my doing the same with my children today.....my mother's oft evident disdain for the kitchen.....mine today.....my mother's fierce devotion to her family.....my lioness like protection of my children.....my mother's love of Clemson and football....my hopes that Drew will attend or even play there.

When did the torch pass? When did I absorb so much of my mom? Why is that suddenly less bad than I once thought it would be? Instead of rebuking the piles of newspapers in her den that drove us all crazy, I now think of how voraciously she read and how much she absorbed of two newspaper publications and numerous magazines every day. I remember the maddening two and a half hour meals because she ate so interminably slowly, but now my wish would be for just one more dinner that might last who knows or who cares how long.

Sunday afternoon I sent Kate off for a few days with Diane. Likely my precious daughter and this one of my beautiful and beloved sisters will be together this Wednesday when Diane's and my mother's, Kate's grandmother's, birthday rolls around. Perhaps this daughter and granddaughter can share an August 1 story, a memory, a laugh, a tear, a "Patism."

We are still missing you, Mother.....still figuring it all out with you gone. But it is getting better. I stood alone for a moment at your grave on Sunday. I know my sisters and our dad had been there earlier, but this was my minute, our minute, yours and mine......our moment in time. Diane, Donna, and I think of you all the time, but never quite so much as on August 1.

Photo by Frank Mottek. A quick post script, I chose this photo for my post, then noticed yesterday, August 1, 2012 there was a full moon. Happy Birthday, Mother.....

Catfish and White Chocolate

I have blogged before that I find nicknames fascinating and fun. My feelings about nicks versus propers have definitely evolved. In my earlier years I always said that I would never want my children to have nicknames. I thought their given names should be the names they were called. Why go through the stress, time and trouble of choosing the perfect name only to use a different one I thought? But, as they.....whoever they are....always say and as fate would have it, you can never say never. Alas, both my children are called nearly exclusively by their nicknames. And I have come to think there is something about a nickname that says you have arrived. So many iconic sports figures had the great nickname to complement their game. Great generals, world leaders, CEO's so often sport befitting nicknames. The beguilingly beautiful Kate Middleton now taking the world by storm has seemingly embraced a nickname. Even our newly adopted pup Audrey aka Batgirl, Wonder Woman, W is now, courtesy of our 21 month old grandson, Aubeeeeeee. She has 'dee'finitely arrived.

Yesterday, Drew and I watched new Today show cohost Savannah Guthrie proudly report on her brother's Green Mountain Boys air national guard unit. In addition to the famous nickname of their group as a whole, all the flyers had individual nicknames, some decidedly less than flattering. Let's see, there were Catfish, Pooter, and Booger.....shall I continue? My very quick son very quickly said, "Ooh, I would want Catfish." Good choice, My Little Man, considering the other alternatives.

This week at our local high school mini football camp for youth, Drew was dubbed "White Chocolate." White Chocolate..... I've had to think about that. He is definitely sweet enough is my precious boy. We are often complimented on his polite mannrs and respectful attitude. And, isn't it true that there is no nicer compliment for parents than to hear their child's manners are what they should be. But White Chocolate ? What does this mean? Fast, runny, slow, goopy? Aromatic.....Drew does have a decidedly boy odor at times. I might call it odiferous rather than aromatic. Thick.....I believe anyone who knows my super slim Drew would find that a definite misnomer. Gritty.....now there's one I hope Drew is or will be. Smooth.....he certainly can be. Melty.....I think not. They called Walter Peyton "Sweetness." Is that where Coach was headed? Are we talking here about Drew's moves or his personality or perhaps both?

Lancaster's legendary African American football coach Bennie McMurray thinks my son is White Chocolate. Wonder how he would have felt about Catfish?

Mamma Mia Mayhem

So my fourteen year old daughter is definitely looking nineteen these days.....not a good situation from any point of view. Saturday, a new twist. She and I were walking through South Park, the mall of choice (her choice, that is) in nearby Charlotte. A kiosk operator shouted and motioned in our direction, as he called, "Sisters, come on over. I have something you will love." Kate was mortified and nearly ran past the smiling.... then not so much .... kiosker. Once I managed to catch up, I asked my oh so sensitive, not to mention still quickly moving, daughter what was the problem. "Momma," she said, "I can't believe he thought we were sisters. That makes me so mad." "Why?" I asked. "I should think you would be pleased, maybe even proud if someone thought you and I were sisters. Wouldn't you like to think you had a younger looking mom?"

Kate hesitated, then said, " Well if they think you are my sister that might be okay. But if they think I am your sister....that would be horrible." What did she say? My Junior Beta Club President, AP Honor Student daughter (ummm except perhaps in algebra), certainly you might think in line for the "words gene", sometimes has trouble putting an even remotely logical thought together. But after continued and determined query we finally understood each other. If I look young enough to be her sis, that is okay. But if she looks old enough to be mine, that in her mind is another and totally different matter altogether.

At Kate's high school orientation night last spring, a Lancaster High School assistant principal asked Kate if I were her sister. Kate decided then and there she should attend Indianland High...or AJ....or Buford....anywhere but Lancaster.

I sympathize with Kate's conundrum. It is hard to be a barely teen caught in a college coed body. I think I was in a similar predicament, although with me it was not so much the body that looked older than my age, it was my face. I was often in my high school years mistaken for an older girl. Kate is finding, as I did, that can be a blessing and just as easily a curse.

What I didn't tell Kate was that the kiosk person wanted to sell something and the assistant principal was trying to score points with a prospective parent. She wouldn't have wanted to listen anyway. Her humiliation was total and complete. Someone said she and her mother looked like sisters. The motivation didn't matter. That they simply dared to publicly utter the words was more than enough devastation for my teen daughter.

The trouble is I am not sure who is having the greater identity crisis in this symbiotic mom and daughter thing. Kate tells me on the one hand, as in when she wants her nose or belly button or ear cartilage pierced, that I should be more cool, more hip. But, on the other hand, if I look kind of...well, sort of.... with it, that is totally unacceptable to her.

So, as my teen and I continue to navigate the often treacherous waters of a mother/teen daughter relationship, I find myself wondering not so much who she will become, but who I at the moment am. Funny, I thought I had this figured out years ago.....

Que Pasa.....

So, it was not our best night at the local cantina Mexicana. Allow me to set the stage. We eat there twice a week....at least twice a week. Waiters, hostesses, owner, probably dishwasher know us by name. Kate actually grabs the marker from the hostess and ceremoniously circles her own table and waiter selection as we arrive in the tiny lobby. Of course, Kate probably earned the privilege as she has done everything from 'shadowing' there for a school assignment to, on a recent visit, teaching the owner 'The Wobble.' That wasn't pretty, but she definitely is doing her part to share a touch of Americana with this Mexican contingent. Perhaps a career in the UN is in her future. But back to the blog......

Last night happened to be one of our bi-weekly Mexican dinner nights. We had a delicious meal, including our new favorite guacamole prepared tableside. All had gone well. Adrian had even asked if they would be willing to sell their mucho good margarita mixer to go, and they graciously complied. I think as much as we are there if we had asked to be given the youngest child of the owner, the affable Fernando would have graciously complied.

As we rose to leave our favorite table and our favorite waiter, Adrian with jug in hand, and indeed it was a large jug of mixer....Fernando said it would make 125 margaritas....of course we saw not just one but several parishioners of our church. May I say as a child of a Baptist upbringing, some days it can be a benefit to be Methodist.....

One friend, enjoying the Mexican cuisine minus the margaritas, looked over at the jug somewhat disapprovingly, or perhaps jealously, and coyly remarked that the party must be at our house. Then, as she glanced at me, she commented...."Looks like maybe the party has already started!" Puzzled, I followed her gaze and glanced downward only to see that both of the meager two hooks and eyes on my new shirt had somehow become disconnected. My lovely new summer blouse was entirely, and I do mean entirely open.

Our friend gamely commented, "I guess your dinner was free tonight." Trying to make the best of an increasingly bad situation, I verbally responded, "Actually, since my shirt came undone, we had to pay double," while internally questioning por que' I seem to be experiencing so many wardrobe issues of late.

Why do nights like this and wardrobe malfunctions like this and other embarrassments like these always happen at places you frequent and never in those spots whose doors you will never darken again? I noticed in entertainment news recently that Madonna had flashed both her upper and lower endowments during concert appearances. I had wondered upon reading the story why a fifty something singer would feel a need to do this. I stopped myself to consider if I tonight, in one of my twice weekly cantina appearances, was just as bad. With my sometimes ADD thought processes, my mind flashed.... so to speak... to the country song, "Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off." Scary, isn't it, how true to life country music can be?

Well, the blouse is off to the tailor for more, many more snaps. Adrian is planning a margarita party, and I am sure next week will bring our usual two visits to Mariachis. I can't wait!

Banana's and the Beach

All who read Dee or know me know that the beach is in my blood. In this sense, I am truly my mother's daughter. The sand and sea revitalize me. I feel my spirits soar whenever I can grab a few days at the coast. So it was that, although not exotic or luxurious, I could not wait for our mini Memorial Day vacation. Much of our trip was business as usual....the pool, the sand, the surf, the fights over who would sleep where or whether it was Dunkin or Krispy for doughnuts.

This year, in the midst of the madness, I discovered a new spot....one that reminded me what it is and why it is that I love the South Strand of the Carolinas. Nestled in the Wachesaw area just south of Murrell's Inlet but not quite to Pawley's Island, specifically at the Wacca Wache Landing.....I am not kidding.....the Wacca Wache Landing, was Hannah Banana's Sunshine Cabana. I just knew driving the long road in canopied by beautiful Southern trees (wish I had a more thorough description than 'tree' but an arborist, I am not) that we were on the path to somewhere special. And special it was. Surrounded by boats.....some more accurately yachts.....and elegant southern oaks....and moss.....and decks for outside dining, a two man band playing guitar and harp guitar, supposedly one of only twenty six harp guitarists in the western hemisphere (who cares if it's a tall tale), and harmonica and belting out everything from Steely Dan to Jimmy Buffett, from Making Whoopie (not sure how to spell whoopie...) to Cheeseburger in Paradise I loved it! We sampled crab bites and potato pancakes. I savored a Wacca Wedgie Salad with blue cheese, bacon, skewered grilled shrimp and, of course, a margarita.....who could resist with Buffet...well, almost.... in the background.

Go in shorts or swimsuit at lunch, almost as casual at dinner. Note the menu entry that a grilled cheese can sink their tiny kitchen into total chaos in the on season, so a $25 surcharge will be assessed and the "Life is Good" signs because here it truly seems to be. Sitting at our deeply shaded table and peering out across the still as glass water, it almost looked like Deliverance .....as a friend of mine says, "the good Deliverance, not the bad Deliverance."

After our sumptious summer supper, we explored the Wacca Wache....love writing that.... Marina with its fidgety resident new momma cat and the weirdest turtles I have ever seen. Unfortunately, and I shall blame the one margarita, I failed to realize until after the purchase that Kate's new tee shirt referenced 'everything being legal at Hannah's unless you get caught'....oh well. Maybe this one can mysteriously disappear in our washer..... I cannot count how many of her clothing items have mysteriously been eaten in the rinse cycle......those disgraceful cut off jeans, that way too bikini bikini, her deep vee tee. Someday she will catch on.....

Back to the beach.... sandwiched between the oh so touristy kids' arcade and slick track, the pier and the cafeteria, the outlets and the mall, even Dunkin and Krispy, we found a southern coastal treasure....thank you, Hannah Banana! You are a local secret no more.

The Tassel Tradition

I am a traditionalist. I love classic clothes, classic homes. I love pen in hand and beautiful note paper as opposed to the keyboards and e-mails of today's writers. I suppose I am a throw back of sorts. I love the graduations of spring, ceremonies always seeped in the traditions of decades. From the music to the march to the tassels, I love it. And so I looked forward to this year of 'graduation' ceremonies as Kate finished middle school and Drew elementary.

First on our busy Graduation Tuesday itinerary was Drew's primary school graduation. I proudly attended the early morning ceremony. Sitting between Daddy and Adrian, I eagerly awaited the pageantry. Yes, even for 11 year olds I never imagined that I shouldn't expect graduation tradition. As the principal asked attendees to stand and honor the graduates, I steadied myself for the always emotional but especially so when one of your own is pro- or re-cessing Pomp and Circumstance. As the doors swung open and the 5th grade processional began, I stood a little straigher, head held a little higher and thought.... and thought.....what is that music? Is it....surely it isn't.....but it is Fame. You know, " Fame! I'm gonna live forever; I'm gonna learn how to shine. I'll catch the moon in my hands. Baby, remember my name......Fame." I suppose on some level it was inspiring and probably far more familiar to these fifth grade fledglings, but where was my pomp...my circumstance....my tradition?

Same day, now evening. As we drove to Kate's graduation ceremony, she excitedly announced, "Mommy, you know that Tim McGraw song you like so much? That is what they are playing as we enter the gym." Kate, surely you don't mean, "Live Like You Are Dying? "That's it...that's it, Mommy! I knew you liked it." Like it, I do, I love it....but where is my Pomp and Circumstance? Even for middle school, I should think a processional just isn't a processional without "P and C."

All week as we celebrated both Kate's and Drew's accomplishments, I had this nagging feeling. Something just wasn't as it should be. Something was amiss. Something had changed. One of life's most recognizable rites of passage had seemed a little....well....unrecognizable.

As Friday evening, the end of the work week, school week, and in this case school year arrived, I sat outside enjoying the beautiful late spring early summer night. I thought back, considering the oddities of this season of graduations. Suddenly, I heard it.....faint at first.....then building.....building with the growing breezes as a summer shower approached. There it was, rising above first bleachers, then homes, then trees.....Pomp and Circumstance emanated softly but clearly from the local high school football stadium as graduation began. Here finally was my tradition, and with it that moment I had fought all week ...that first of quite a few tears as I thought of my son and my daughter and their own tradition of tassels to come.

Maybe it is just as well that this year, my Pomp and Circumstance came in the privacy of my own back yard.

Memories, Mirrors, and Mother

Mother's Day, 2012....the second Mother's Day that I and my sisters have been without our mom. And anyone who has, as we have, experienced this particular loss knows that Mother's Day is one of the most difficult of the holidays that follow.

Mother's Day and the season of spring in this our year two are beginning to bring me happy memories. The disconsolence and despair of 2011 are beginning to be replaced by remembrances of moments with my mother. It's God's cycle of healing and hope...."a time for every purpose" as my memories become mirrors, reflecting my mother back to me.

Mother's Day had a very specific, almost ritual like routine in our mother's world. We daughters did not miss church with my mom on Mother's Day. In some years, one or more of us drove in excess of 150 miles to arrive just in time to hurry down the church aisle, rushed family in tow, and slide into our designated pew at Pageland First Baptist for the 11:00 Mother's Day service. We grumbled sometimes as the years went on that our mom seemed to forget we too were now mothers and that this special day was in our honor as well as hers. But, Mother's Day was her day. And as my sisters' and my families grew, on this day to honor all moms, we each year faithfully filled that center pew, the Blakeney pew, to overflowing with Pettits and Bonners and Joyes. Mother loved it. She basked in it. I honestly believe she informed Pastor Joel that she expected him from the pulpit to single out her family, her visiting daughters, because he always did. I am certain other parishioners had family present. They were all around. But the minister almost always welcomed us by name.....Denise....Diane....Donna....and my mother's Mother's Day was complete. For it was in her daughters that she found her sense of self.

Memories.....mirrors....

Service over and it was home for Sunday lunch. Our Hickory Street home always greeted us on Mother's Day with the competing scents of our mother's fragrant long stem roses, a gift from my dad, and southern green beans (you know the soft ones) on the stove. Unfailingly, some generous Pageland soul provided other vegetable sides or a decadent dessert or salad to complement the core menu my mother had planned. Planning the menu, up until her last year or so, was Mother's job and no one else's. I remember a couple of times my sisters and I tried to take that responsibility. Mother quickly let us know that she wasn't sure who had put us in charge of her Mother's Day Sunday dinner. As my mother's health began to fail and she allowed, however reluctantly, my sisters and me to do some of the planning, we were ever more appreciative of what our neighbors and friends in the Watermelon Capital always contributed to our menu.

Memories...mirrors....

Mother's Day signalled oncoming especially special times in the life of my family. Graduations from whatever school, and with the wide disparity in ages of grandchildren, someone was always graduating....from high school, from middle school, from elementary school and kindergarten.....I even graduated from real estate school...... graduations were ever on the horizon in May. Most recently, Mother was so proud to be a part of Matt's graduation from high school that she was in her designated seat an hour before the ceremony started. All who knew my mother knew what a feat and more importantly what a gesture of love and pride that was. This year as both Drew and Kate 'graduate,' the former from elementary school, the latter from middle, I find myself wishing Mother were here, wondering if she would have found a way to their ceremonies and shared in their mother, her daughter's pride of passage.

Memories...mirrors....

Hannah Our Dancer's recitals often closely follow Mother's Day. This was another occasion my mother simply refused to miss. In later years, when she attended such a select few events, this one remained always on Mother's calendar, circled in red and never to be overlooked. Hannah's recitals took Mother back to the days of Diane's and Donna's dance. Yes, it was her granddaughter's amazing performances, but even more, I believe Hannah's recitals transported Mother back to days she felt better and did more, back to the days her own dancer daughters were young.

Mother loved all her grandchildren in ways special to and different for each. But I think there was a unique and singular place in her heart for Matt, her first, and for Hannah, who inherited Donna's love of dance and whose talent brought joy and pride and memories to my mom.

Mirrors....

Mother's Day for us also heralded the soon to be arrival of summer and, in days of her better health, more frequent trips to Garden City Beach. Especially on more recent trips, my mother hardly left the condo. It didn't matter. She was there, at the beach, in her tiny corner of the world, and she was happy. She found a contentment there in the smallish condo that changed notably little in thirty years. Now this, this is the gene I inherited from my mom.....that is along with the hips and hair I might prefer that she had passed to another sis. But my mom and I were and are decidedly kindred spirits in our shared love for the coast.

Memories....

And, of course, right around the corner from the summers kicked off by Mother's Day......the start of Clemson football. Whether Mother was walking with cane or wheeled in a chair, if the Tigers were playing she wanted to be there....there in the Valley as Hartwell breezes blew her popcorn all over herself and surrounding fans.....there even when weather advisories forced stadium evacuation......there when the inconsistent Tigers had their heads handed to them by visiting opponents..... there so that long time stadium friends could hear her precious Davis sing the alma mater and national anthem almost before he was talking. And, on those Saturdays when she absolutely couldn't make it, Mother still wanted Daddy to drive to their Anderson hotel, so they could be closer to Clemson even if only able to watch the game on TV. Of course, Daddy did just that.

Thank you, God, for sending Mother's Day memories to mirror my mom. I wish this Mother's Day could find Diane, Donna, Daddy, and me back on that crowded Pageland pew with Mother as, my apologies to Pastor Joel, her mind wandered to thoughts of her green beans on the stove for lunch, Hannah's recital and Garden City, of her beloved Tigers and graduations to come. O Mother, I so wish......

For better or worse, she's a Pettit.....

One last Audrey pic...for awhile anyway. The white star on her chest that soon after her adoption became a 'W', as we surmised she was a Republican following in the heralded Bush tradition, now looks like a double 'W'. I have dubbed the amazing little lady Wonder Woman. Kate calls her Wild Woman... perhaps more appropo. And, Adrian, who may have had a beer too many, noted that the 'birth'mark to him looked like a bat (I would love to see what he did on the Rorschach Ink Blots) and has nicknamed our Audrey Bat Girl. I love the nicknames. After all, isn't a nickname the true indicator that someone or something belongs?

Landen The Cat is on a hunger strike. Our slightly irritable and sleep deprived family is rotating every 4 - 5 hour (day and night)potty trips. My house is a disaster. But, all is right with our little world as Bat Girl or Wild Woman or Wonder Woman or Audrey has seemingly twice kicked the Grim Reaper in the teeth. Now, if only she can survive her upcoming introduction to our 150 pound Newf Joe.....

Photo by Kate.

She's Home!

With Apologies to Marilyn, "My Week With... Audrey"

Last Thursday, we took the plunge. We rescued a lab mix puppy from our local shelter. We rescued Audrey and in doing so rewarded Kate for a nothing short of miraculous turnaround in algebra.


My sister says rescue dogs are grateful, and that's why they make such good pets. Maybe. Sounds like a bit of a stretch to me, Banker Sister. But admittedly, my sister had perhaps the most wonderful dog I have ever known. She rescued Bogey, and in return, he brought smiles to her family for more than ten years. Bogey and My Banker Sister inspired me to adopt. And seemingly following in Bogey's footsteps, Audrey definitely was well-behaved, smart, sweet, loving, happy....playful. At least until Tuesday.....some five days post rescue......she was well-behaved, sweet, loving, happy...playful. Suddenly, Tuesday night, everything changed. Audrey changed. Audrey became violently sick. She stopped eating or drinking. Even scarier, Audrey stopped playing. She was, almost instantaneously, a different dog. We all knew. We knew before the adoption that she might have been exposed to parvo. We knew, but five days with this pup made us forget. This sweet, playful dog couldn't possibly be sick. But suddenly, she was. We couldn't bear to think it. No one dared to say it. But we knew.......



Wednesday morning at 6:00 am found me calling every vet in the area. Who opened earliest? Who could see us soonest? I had a scheduled meeting. It would have to wait. Audrey and I were at the vet at 7:45. The usual check-in questions. Roll call of our other pets. Yes, we still have Joe, Satchmo, and Landen. Sadly, Koko passed away. How old is Audrey....I don't know. What breed is she......lab....I don't know....lab something. They gave up with questions. I couldn't answer them anyway. They tested. They didn't need to. I already knew. And when they confirmed the worst, I still broke down. A fifty year old woman in sweat pants and no make-up before 8:00 on a day she is scheduled to be in a meeting crying as if there were no tomorrow....over a puppy I didn't know a week ago. How could this baby pup who had in a week brought so much joy to Kate and to our family be sick and fighting for survival? How could my Kate Bug be faced with yet another of life's catastrophes? How and why is so much thrown in one young girl's....in my girl's.... direction?



I barely heard the vet say 50% chance of survival. In the back of my mind I remember him asking if we wanted to try....if we wanted to treat. I wasn't about to give up on Kate's pup, on Audrey, without a fight. Yes, of course, they would do all they could. I vaguely remember a veterinary assistant saying perhaps Audrey's mom was a floosie. How do you spell that anyway, and was it absolutely necessary to question Audrey's lineage at this particular point in time?



I left Audrey at the vet. I clung to the empty blanket I now carried, wondering what the next few hours and day would bring. I tried to imagine how I could explain to Kate if Audrey didn't survive the treatment. I knew there simply would be no words. I dreaded the prospect. She and I have had far too many of these conversations already.



Thursday, one week post adoption, brought us a new outlook and a little hope. Audrey is improving. Still not eating, but no longer nauseous. Now standing, where yesterday she could or would only lie. And is that a wagging tail....yesterday, I wasn't sure we would ever see that.


We aren't there yet. We have a ways to go. But today is a day of optimism and hope for more "weeks with Audrey" in our future.

We're Expecting!

No, no, it's not what you're thinking. I promised Kate if she pulled her algebra grade up, we would consider a puppy. I know I need my head examined, but I honestly thought that was a pretty safe bet. Who knew that once motivated (and tutored), her D would become a B and ever so close to the elusive A? It is so like Kate to make me pay for my bribes and promises. I am again reminded that one of the best ways to move Kate to action is to tempt her with proving her mother wrong.

So, the search was on. We followed a lead provided by a favorite cousin to a 'pawsitively' precious lab litter. But timing and location just didn't seem to work out for us. From that litter, however, we did 'adopt' a name for our puppy to be....Audrey.

Next stop the animal shelter. I really encouraged Kate to at least consider a rescue. A totally unconvinced Kate and her only slightly less enthusiastic Daddy headed over to Lancaster's shelter. Once there, Kate was smitten with a lab spitz mix. I don't think I even know what a spitz is, and it didn't matter. Before the required waiting period for adoption passed, another shelter picked up the pups.

With a restart on our search, a friend who does great work with rescue pointed us toward a couple of pups as well as showed us a beautiful litter she was holding until they could be relocated. Precious puppies, but still not quite right.

Not to be dissuaded or defeated, a few days later, Kate, having cajoled transportation from her dad who is always a pretty easy target where this child is concerned, was back to recheck the shelter, and there she was. A black lab mix, female, star on her chest. Kate had found her star....it was Audrey. Now, I often think female labs are a little more homely (is that the right description for a pup) than males. Those female snoots just aren't as boxy as the boys'. I think back to a female yellow lab pup Adrian and I bought years ago after the seller assured us that her head would indeed box as she grew older. In real estate, the term is puffing....not sure what it is called in the canine world. The bottom line is, he lied. Ten years after bringing her home, we were still waiting for Sunni's perpetually pointed nose to box. Audrey, like Sunni, isn't the most beautiful lab pup I've seen. In Audrey's case, shall we say her pedigree is at least a little in question. She most assuredly has a ways to go to live up to the legacy of beauty and grace her Hollywood Royalty name would imply. But Kate loves her. We again have a waiting period, yet another six day waiting game. The countdown begins.

Five Days Until Release....I am officially introduced to Audrey. Nevermind that I have 2000 things on my mind and on my plate, or that I actually backed my car into a tree (the same tree I have hit with three different cars on three different occasions..... Note to self: Call Davey Tree. This target is soon to be removed....) as we left for the shelter. But when I saw Kate cuddle this leggy, lanky little lab, I agreed. This could be our Audrey.

Four Days Until Release..... just as we think we see a glimmer of the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel....shocking news. The puppy, our puppy, may have been exposed to parvo during her time at the shelter. We are utterly helpless...because of regulations, the puppy cannot be removed until the requisite waiting period expires. But every day she is there increases her risk of exposure, illness, or even death. We have told ourselves if it's meant to be....if this is indeed Audrey....it will be. Time is standing still.

Three Days Until Release.....calls to everyone I can think of to beg for reason and Audrey's release. Let us get her to a vet for check-up and treatment if needed. But continued and staunch refusal from the sometimes bureaucracy of agencies frustrates my efforts. I know they are doing what they have to do. But, where is the sense of reason? Keeping a puppy in a risky situation when a potential owner is begging to adopt.....I don't get it. Meanwhile, each day seems to last a month.

Two Days Until Release.......I call the shelter. Audrey and her litter are doing well today with no worrisome symptoms. They are playful and eating....so far so good. Will we make it 48 hours?

One Day Until Release.....Kate, Daddy, and Friends again visit the shelter. Audrey and her litter are still seemingly doing well....playful. Maybe as she shows her tricks, she knows this family, my family, might be hers. Twenty four more hours.....come on, Audrey, let's do this, Girl!

It's here....D Day. Or should I say A Day or perhaps W Day...as in what was I thinking. That star on her chest is actually beginning to look like a "W". Maybe she's Republican, right? Nonetheless, Audrey is set to arrive. After last minute trips to Petsmart for puppy supplies and chow, we are ready. Audrey is coming home! I am very proud of Kate for rescuing. Maybe we saved just one puppy out of millions, but it seems we did the right thing. Stay tuned for her unveiling.....we're just waiting for that head to box!

I'll have the Battle Hymn of the Republic and a Sponge Bob Popsicle

It's beach vacation time again...and with it one of those precious rites of a southern coastal spring and summer....the Garden City ice cream truck! Blaring, or tinkling may be more accurate, its crazy musical menu ranging from The Battle Hymn of the Republic to Love Story to Rock a Bye Baby....all blasting from the same unlikely source...an ice cream truck. There is something decidely southern about pairing Sponge Bob popsicles and the awe inspiring Battle Hymn, don't you think?

Two, three ...sometimes four times a day ....the ice cream truck approaches. Whether inside or outside, on the beach or at the pool, kids stop, kids listen. You see them putting fingers up to their mouths in the universal shushing gesture. Then suddenly mahem and the excited squeals of children whipped into an almost frenzy pierce the South Strand calm. Frantic races for parents' pocket change ensue. The music....whatever medley is offered today, faint at first then a little louder, then clearly recognizable.... tiny customers in a true tiz by now.

Drew, most certainly an expert in such things, tells me the yellow truck is the bomb. The orange one, at least in the world according to Drew, is a rip off. My occasionally thrifty son has noted this latter vendor charges $2.50 per ice cream while the sweet treats of the yellow are an even $2.00. I think I must vote that the yellow also has the best, albeit slightly eclectic, perhaps incompatible and, okay, probably downright weird musical offerings as well. Today, on Easter Sunday, I actually heard Jingle Bells.....a perfect fit for an April Sunday, don't you think....blaring from the slightly hippie yellow van that is the preferred truck of my ice cream connoisseur Drew.

No matter the musical offering, kids come running in every direction as the ice cream truck approaches. Giddy with anticipation for their treats as only slightly wary parents look on shouting their cautions, the 2012 children of the beach can barely contain themselves. Faint strains of Daisy, Daisy ride the beach winds and I find myself wondering if these Ohioan and Canadien children have ever even seen an ice cream truck before.

As I once again count the blessings of my southern heritage, I oversee Drew's race to catch up with the truck before it pulls back onto the Waccamaw stretch in search of more petite patrons.

You've gotta love the South Strand Summer, early as it may be, and the simple charm of ...whether orange or yellow.....the neighborhood ice cream truck as it injects its quirky music, its snow cones and sicles into our treasured days at the beach. We can't wait for our next trip!

Glad It's Behind Me

Such a frustrating week.....they happen to us all at one time or another. Mine was last week. First on Sunday, a shopping excursion with my teen who has discovered Victoria's Secret. This trip, sure to result in all the usual arguments about underwire and thong and writing across the rear....who ever thought that was a good idea.....this trip at least had a silver lining. Perhaps I should say a cotton lining as I, I was lucky enough to have a coupon for a free panty! At least this trip, I should get something for myself besides a headache.

In we went to the store where all the sales persons are size one. I proudly presented my coupon and asked to be directed to the panties that were indeed free. Little Miss Size One walked me to the appropriate rounder and loudly announced that the "hipsters" and the "full coverage" styles were the choices for the current free panty promotion. And then in an even louder voice, she leaned around in the general direction of my derriere and announced, "For you, I would suggest the full coverage." Gathering my dignity and my free full coverage panty, I made my way to the cashier. Could things get any worse than this?

Fast forward to the next day at work. I am the agent on duty, rushed, late, generally disheveled. At almost lunchtime, my work sister, who replaces my absentee biological sisters in that she can and often does tell me most anything that few others could, rushes out of her office to whisper that I might want to check into the ladies room, as she frantically points to my derriere. Oh no, not my backside again. I just went through this yesterday. "What is it, S, did my pants rip, are my undies showing, what is wrong?"

"I think you have a trail of tp following along behind," she says. No, no, no. As I hastily exited to our ladies lounge, I thought back over the clients, several in fact, I had oh so professionally led to this office or that office in the last three hours. How many people had looked me over in approval....until they noted the toilet paper trailing behind as they followed me to their various appointments. Always a super sexy look, right? Victoria's Secret would be most proud. I wonder had I worn those recently acquired full coverage undies, might they have at least kept the tp in? Another beloved agent, she the practical and pragmatic one, wanted to know what brand I used that was quite apparently strong enough to hang on "through it all" so to speak.

I thought back a few years to an experience a biological sister (readers to choose which one) had shared with me. She left a restroom in a crowded restaurant and proceeded across the densely tabled dining room in her knock out outfit with the back of her skirt tucked firmly inside her panty hose. She thought she sensed a number of appreciative stares as she passed patrons along the way, only to learn they were actually making note of her fully exposed bottom. Are genetics at work? Or simply the frantic and frenetic pace of all our lives these days?

Are you as glad as I that last week is behind us?

Paper Airplanes

Picture credit to Jennifer Holmes, Cousin of Blake Hubbard.

In life, there are those moments, those singular experiences that leave one totally and completely without words. Even for this want to be writer so rarely without words, recent experiences have put me in a totally....well... wordless frame of mind.

Over the last three weeks, I have on more occasions than I can count sat down to write a note or card, to blog, to get ideas of some description on paper. I find...... nothingness. I sit with pen in hand....waiting. Nothing comes to mind. There is only silence. My words float and flutter aimlessly just out of reach in my writer's mind. Like paper airplanes I cannot quite rein them in.

Three weeks ago, a child was lost....a child I once met but didn't really know.....a child who seemingly sometimes preferred the security and solace of small places and yet on that day sought out the wide open expanse of a boy's imagination....a child playing paper airplanes......a child who simply wanted his plane to soar higher. Out with two friends, enjoying one of the unlikely days of this unusual Carolina winter. These children of science and of creativity meticulously fashioned their airplanes and set out to take advantage of the breezes created by the mighty and majestic pines of North Carolina's Triangle. But how to get the best flight, the highest soaring....should we climb?

How can the innocent play of children take such a fatal turn? How can the beautiful amateur flyer be here one moment and gone the next? Parents, family, friends turn to God for answers but in the end must rely on their faith, simply trust that God is in control, and pray that He will somehow comfort all left behind.

They do find great comfort in the knowledge that the child, the paper airplane pilot, is without doubt in the arms of God. They know he had accepted and even reaffirmed Jesus as his Saviour; that though young of age, he strove diligently to be a child of God.

Three years ago, another eerily similar moment took my words. This time a beautiful girl.....a mother concerned about illness, a trip to the hospital, and suddenly and inexplicably an entire town left with no words. This child I did know. This child I did love. This precious dancer child of beautiful words and pictures and thoughts and movement, quite unlike any I know or have known. Such a grown up heart in such a little girl. This child of the liberal arts.....a reader and writer who loved to draw, another indeed remarkable and imaginative child gone so, so soon. This one, too, a young but without doubt true child of God. And again, those left behind find comfort and strength in their faith and in her faith and the absolute knowledge that this beautiful, forever young angel is with her Saviour.

Amidst the innocence of paper airplanes, the unimaginable happens. For a child of so much heart, it is the heart that ultimately gives out. Loved ones on two fronts left with cherished memories. His flight of the paper airplane.....her heart. I am left with mental pictures.....of a charming smile, dancing eyes, a breathtakingly handsome boy, breezes and paper airplanes.....of an astonishingly beautiful girl....a ballerina, the biggest, deepest blue eyes I ever saw and a heart more open than even any adult I know. Yes, I am left with pictures, but the words.....like paper airplanes .... flutter just beyond my reach.

He Left Me

Oh yes, he did. He left me with two children, two dogs, a cat, and a bottle of wine. Sounds a little like a bad country song, doesn't it? He left me. Nevermind that it is only for five days. My day today......6:00 AM.... Up preparing breakfast for Drew. 6:50 AM....... Drive Drew to elementary school. 7:50 AM...... Drive Kate to Middle School. 9:00 AM...... Appointment for Mommy. 11:00 AM...... Back home because I remembered that I forgot to put the cat out. 2:00 PM Drew from elementary school. 2:40 .....Hair stylist calling to find out why Drew missed his 2:30 PM haircut. Really? 3:15 PM.... Kate from Middle School. 4:30 PM....... Kate to tutoring. (All who read Dee know of the 8th grade algebra challenges.) 5:30 PM.....Kate from tutoring. 6:30 PM...... Drew's basketball game. Previous game went into overtime.....It'll be the Chick Fil A drive-through again for late supper. Can you believe a car dies in the drive thru? Finally home at 8:30 PM. Check Drew's agenda. Oh great....Drew has a test tomorrow. Obvious as I begin calling the material out to him that he is just too tired tonight. Oh wait, is that Drew reading himself to sleep in the cat basket? Note to self....must do quick test review tomorrow morning while he eats breakfast.....and check for cat hair.

Oh no.....tomorrow .....rinse....repeat......

I am so reminded of why I actually enjoyed working a full time and often extended hours job....someone else had to run the taxi. Additionally and more importantly, I find myself wondering if one bottle of wine is going to be nearly enough for this week-end.

There was that moment though, that moment in time as I like to refer to them. I was letting Drew out at school, slowly pulling through the drop off line, still half asleep and not even half dressed. A new addition to my prayer list.....thank you, Lord, that I had no flat tire, no speeding ticket, or any other malady that would have had me out of my car in this particular morning's state of disrepair. But, back to my moment, Drew unbuckled his seat belt, leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, not once, not twice, not three times, but repeatedly all the way down the line. He must have given me half a dozen of those sweet kisses only a son and his mom can share. And if that weren't enough to make my day, as we reached the drop off destination, Drew swung open his car door and shouted back over his shoulder, "I love you!" These are the times, the moments of motherhood that I adore. I truly revelled in the moment. I soaked it in. I was so busy soaking it in that I missed his next question... "Mommy, did you hear me? Do you have a dollar?" Guess I should have known. Oh well, my perfect moment of kisses and "love yous" was only partially spoiled. So what if he had an ulterior motive. It worked. Dollar in hand, huge smile and wave, my soon to be middle schooler was off to his day. And I to mine.

Crazy ....And A "C" Cup

What a crazy week. I have had changed appointments, misscheduled appointments, totally missed appointments and so on. What is it with this week? The first full school and work week in nearly a month....actually no, thanks to the Monday celebration honoring Dr. Martin Luther King. Yesterday came the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back. I was one more time in this hectic week rushing out to an apppointment and so very late. I wore a crocheted skirt that I love and found myself puzzling as to why I so seldom wear it.

Five minutes after slipping into the slip on skirt, my much beloved charm bracelet had picked it three times. And not just tiny picks, these practically ripped the skirt in thirds. Now in full on damage and time control, off came the bracelet. But as time would tell, sadly on stayed the skirt.

I rushed out of the house, now in a total tiz, but finally at least on my way. How late am I....eight....ten minutes already? But I am on my way. I jumped into my car, more accurately into Adrian's car as I am currently carless. I screamed into the Tate parking lot, on two wheels I am sure. I jumped out of the car....deep breaths.....composure.....smile.... much better now. Just as I reached the office door, from the very corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of ...something....what is that hanging on the hem of my skirt? Oh no, it can't be, but it is....a bra......trailing me across the parking lot, hanging on by its tiny clasp hopelessly entangled in my 'oh now I remember why I never wear it' skirt. This has to be my worst fashion flub since I one day wore pajama pants under my regular pants to work at Springs. Having not yet entered the Tate office and fervently hoping this happens only once per career, I was thankfully unseen by at least most of my colleagues. But, across the way, how many patrons of the bustling January tax office saw my contraband? How many do I see pointing, smirking, laughing?

Were the bra an ample 36 D or more, maybe I could laugh this off. I could perhaps even proudly drag such a brassiere hanging on my cute skirt into work or anywhere else. As it were, my 32 B....okay... maybe A .... just didn't allow that luxury. Maybe I could blame this on Kate....yes, yes, this must be her lingerie clinging to the hem of my crocheted skirt. But anyone who has seen Kate lately knows that she has, how shall I say, blossomed far beyond the dimensions of this delicate undergarment.

What's the old saying, "Momma said there'd be days like this." What did Momma say about weeks....and bra sizes?

Word Up

So, my dear friend recently invited me to play the Zynga game "Words With Friends" on Facebook. Fancying myself a bit of a word guru...is that a wuru.... I thought it might be good fun and possibly a way to remind myself of some words with Dee possibilities.

I think my first word entry was around 4:30 pm that first day. My friend, apparently having much more fun than I this week-end, responded with her first word around 7:00 pm. What am I missing? What I thought would be a lively back and forth brain teaser with a good friend seems to be instead mostly me playing with myself. Ooops....for someone pretty good with words, that last sentence needs work. But, if you play this game, you know what I mean. Either that or I am most "dee-cidedly" missing something.

The crossword game is great....but I find my thoroughly inquisitive self wondering just what my friend is up to that keeps her from responding to my words. Is she with a client? Not fair if she is and I am not! Is she at the movies? Did she get an offer too good to be true for dinner? Just what could she be doing that keeps her from such an important competition?

I may be too nosy for this game. Or maybe just too impatient. Or both. I am so full of .....of words. (You thought I was going somewhere else with that, right?) But my playing partner can't get back to me fast enough for me to use them.

And then her words.....they are just so much more fun that mine. I have recipe and axle. She has broad and yeah and something else that just said fun to me. Where does she get those fun letters? I did come up with food but then couldn't bring myself to build on the obvious fa-t, even though that gassy follow up to food might have given me 30 points. I do have standards to uphold, even in this game. I did manage to use the letter 'z' in one of my favorite words gaze. That was a nice one, if I do say so myself.

The jury is still out on Words With Friends. I am just glad to be able to call this one who invited me f_r_i_e_n_d.

Mais Oui, She is Her Mother's Daughter......

She is her mother's daughter......and maybe not in a good way. For my children, the second semester starts this week. Today, I logged onto the parent portal of Kate's middle school website, in an effort to prepare myself for what promises to be not the best of news in my eighth grader's first semester grades. I was prepared for trouble in algebra. I knew things were touch and go in honors English and Language Arts. I knew Kate has been shall I say a little too social in social studies, and her grade might reflect that. But, there it was. It stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb....a 60 on a French History project ! This was a subject in which she had a 98 average at the end of the last nine weeks. I racked my brain. I could not remember any discussion of a French history assignment.

"Kate, could you come down, please?" Bam, bam, bam as Kate's gait is part jump, part bounce, part bang down our stairs. "Kate, what is this French history project, and what happened?"

First came the long, deliberate pause, the one I have so come to dread. Then, "Momma, you could have told me Louis Vuitton was not really a French historical person." Kate, surely you did not do a French history paper on a handbag designer. Even worse, on a handbag designer who I believe collaborated with the German Nazi regime. I am sure that went over well in a French class. But she did. She did her first semester term paper on The House of Vuitton! Aunt Teeny, My Expert On All Things French, at moments like these, where are you? More importantly, where is your influence on my daughter?

I haven't seen the paper. I haven't had the pleasure of reading Kate's slant on how Louis Vuitton became a French hero. I pray that she didn't write about our Canal Street explorations in New York City, searching for the perfect knock off bag, though I would not be altogether surprised.

Kate, like her mother, loves the perfect handbag. And somehow that trait, that blasted Blakeney characteristic took over her brain as she postulated her semester project in French.... on the House of Vuitton. Needless to say, whatever she wrote, her teacher was not impressed.

I wish I could remember just one of the French curse words I once knew. Moreover, I wish I could translate the English, "Will we survive second semester?" into impeccable Francaise.

Auld Lang Syne

Fitting somehow that my and our 2012 began in my parents' Garden City condo on the Carolina Coast. Dee readers know how I love the beach. Sixty five and seventy degree days and mild nights this trip gave us simply unbelievable December/January weather. I have decided I especially love beach jaunts in the winter.....no swimsuits required! (Ummm....note to readers: reference the previously penned "Jiggly" blog!)

I yet do not understand how or why the beach revives my spirits and feeds my soul. I simply know that it does. And, I know I am not alone in feeling the somewhat and sometimes inexplicable pull of the ocean. Herman Melville wrote, "As everyone knows, meditation and water are wedded forever." And it is true. Here I find time to think, to remember, to write.

I recall the too numerous to count beach trips of my early years, the sandy summer vacations with my family in this very Garden City spot. On those early trips there were first the four of us. Then Donna's arrival meant five shellseekers, soaking up the subdued fun of the sunsplashed south strand. The times and trips were easy and uncomplicated. A night out might consist of nothing more than putt-putt or, on a special night, the tiny local amusement park. Many a day ended with scrumptious shrimp dinners and those "dee"cidedly decadent hush puppies and honey butter for dipping. Surely my more than ample hips and thighs can be traced at least in part to origins here at the bountiful tables of Lee's Inlet Kitchen...still in business to this very day.

JFK, whose great love of and respect for the ocean is well-documented, wrote, "We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea, whether it is to sail or to watch, we are going back from whence we came." Particularly on this visit, one year to the day removed from my mother's passing, I felt this sentiment. I felt the pull of returning to that from whence I came. I felt the pull of the Atlantic. I felt the pull of a place my mother loved.

And indeed, my mom did love this place. Though her family complained frequently in later years that updates were definitely needed, I believe she found comfort and a sort of solace in its never changing. I commented to Drew that I regretted my mother, his grandmother, never saw the beautiful facelift we finally gave her beloved beach getaway place. In response, Drew pointed upward and said, "But Mommy, she did see." Ah yes, even eleven year old Drew "gets" that there is something very special here.

I think, for me, in this year, the most powerful and needed emotion to be drawn from the ocean is hope....hope for a brighter year ahead, for the success and health of my children, for the continued strength of my family. Perhaps my favorite ocean quote should then be, "The sea will grant each man new hope." From a true daughter of the sand, sea, and surf to one who most definitely knew the power, hope, and majesty of the ocean, I thank you, Christopher Columbus. I trust the sea will keep its promise and grant a new year...... of hope.

(Photography by Kate)