"I Believe That We Will Win!"

I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord
And I've been waiting for this moment for all my life, oh Lord
Can you feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord.....

Clemson versus Notre Dame 2015

I wonder if  Phil Collins was thinking of this night when he wrote this lyric.  Probably not, but he missed a good chance.  David Hood, Senior Writer with Tigernet, would write, "The numbers of people who will say they were there will grow as the years pass, but only the ones that were there will understand what it was like....."

It simply cannot be described.  I've been to games....many games....night games.... huge games.  I was in fact there in '77 when Joe Montana broke the hearts of tens of thousands bleeding orange with a dagger of a drive to win the last match-up of these two for the Irish.  I remember to this day the agony and the tears of that loss.  But this, the 2015 version, from its very beginning was.... other worldly.

As we pulled into our puddled but luckily paved parking space, our tailgate neighbors' speakers blared Garth Brooks', "Bring me two pina coladas...," as all within earshot dreamed of a little more island-like weather for this epic matchup.  It was not to be.  Two bewildered Notre Dame fans wandered up to our meager weather affected tailgate to ask if they could pay us $2.50 each for a beer for, in a twist of irony, in the deluge, they couldn't manage to find a watering hole.  Tiger Kids big and small nervously tossed their footballs back and forth in every possible paved opening, having been driven from their favorite play fields by the flooding rains.  We sat in the car for most of hours....my sister knitting one, pearling two, dropping stitches....pregame jitters, I suppose, for she never drops. Nervous sister small talk filled the minutes.... Donna's new job, Di's trip to Florida, Dee's birthday wish list, kids, recipes. (Obviously, I contributed little to that last talk point.)  But, it never changes...weeks can pass without us seeing each other, and even awkwardly crammed into an SUV in a torrential downpour, we pick up where we left off.  We just do.

Little victories are won in the challenges of games like these. Bad hair days become baseball cap days, for me a definite step up.   Fashion decisions become no brainers as we happily find we all look just the same in a poncho.  Mom jeans sliding down exposing body parts no longer worthy of exposure are now covered completely by the afore mentioned orange poncho.  I am finding balling in the rain can be, well,  glorious.

The ESPN Gameday crew gushed lavish praise upon the unbelievable crowd that even South Carolina's worried Governor could not warn away.  Dabo was to proclaim the Tiger Walk unlike any he had ever seen.  Defensive Mastermind Brent Venables would say this was one for the ages.  Again quoting Tigernet, for all "the fans who unified in their defiance against the weather, for those who wanted to keep these tickets forever but watched them disintegrate in the unrelenting rain, this was just that.....one for the ages." BTW, thank goodness the same dissolution does not happen to memories.

An hour until game time.  Death Valley already filled with 83,000 drenched frenetic fans. Plastic ponchos melted into the fog and blur of steady blowing rain to create an eerie orange film over the stands.  Buses rounded the corner onto Stadium Road.  We could barely see them, but the crowd noise was unmistakable.  Suddenly, through the gloom, players and coaches appeared at the rock.  I could barely contain myself.  I was not alone.  And when Collins' "I can feel it coming in the air tonight'" belted out over the stadium sound system, it was almost an afterthought.  The scoreboard tiger's eyes flashed.  I already knew.  My sisters knew.  These fans already knew.  The rabid, most faithful of the faithful knew, all of us brave enough to brave the elements knew, this was to be the night....a night for the ages.

Kickoff, and I see #4 trot excitedly onto the field.  Funny, as Deshaun appears, I still sometimes see Steve Fuller.  I know...I'm dating myself....remembering one of the heroes of Clemson's rebuilding. Today's players weren't yet born when Fuller dazzled Tiger fans and opponents with his talent and football intellect. And now an engaging young kid with mad skills..."the new face of college football" according to Herbstreit... is at the helm, a player so talented that Fuller himself allowed his jersey to come out of the hallowed halls of Clemson's retired, so that a Georgia phenom could start a new tradition of Clemson prowess wearing the number "4."  It's a collision of the past and present, of a passer and a runner, of ebony and ivory, of Danny and Dabo, of Clemson past and Clemson future.

Two quick scores for the Orange, and although tested, the Tigers would never really look back in taking this classic rematch by two. It seemed at some point the fans took over to protect the lead, causing penalty after penalty and delay after delay, willing their beloved Tigers to victory. Finally a masterful defensive play would seal the fate of the visitors from South Bend.  All too fast in the furious rain it was over.  No one left; we barely breathed.  No one dared believe it was complete, that we had done it.  But we had. As fans flooded the field to celebrate and sing, we knew without doubt...this was one for the ages.

Fast forward, and now a week later, game day without Gameday starts much the same...it's raining, pouring actually. Could this be another 'one for the ages?'  Somehow, I really don't think so.


Artwork credit to the Internet.  Quote credit to Tigernet and Writer David Hood.




 

Pom Pom Paranoia

So, my adorable four year old Harper asked his mom yesterday where I went to school. Clemson, of course.  I thought he knew.  Being as we are in the 'there's always a follow up question stage,' I knew there were more inquiries to come.  According to his mom, the next question, "Was Dee a cheerleader at Clemson...." followed immediately by ".... 'cause she looks like a cheerleader."

The first thought in my mid 50 year old brain was, " You Go, Girl!  You look like a cheerleader!" But as often is the case, the more I thought about it, the more I wondered if this observation really represented good news.

Did my pony tail look as if I had been turning cartwheels?  Should I have even been wearing a pony tail at this age?  Was my skirt a mite too short yesterday....too tight.....too pleated?  Worse, did he catch a glimpse of what he thought were cheerleader bloomers when I leaned down to give Gray a kiss?  Was my tee shirt a little tight? Were my converses a little young?

Did Harp think my squeaky vocals were the result of a few too many "1-2-3-4-1-2-3-4-C-L-E-M-S-O-N cheers?  Or did he hear me yell at Drew for his 80 on the algebra test and decide that must the voice of a former cheerleader?

One thing I am learning..if this kid thinks it, he says it.  He definitely has me on my toes....and has me looking at life from the four year old perspective.  His mom says not to worry....all these questions are just a stage and will pass.  Not so sure my paranoia will.  Love this kid, but just when does he turn five? 

Photo Credit to Harper's Mom.....

F is for.... Fantasy

Foreword:  At this the start of the 2015 season, this post is dedicated to football fanatics everywhere.  May all your teams win and all your "fantasies" come true.

My first foray into Fantasy Football has been...shall we say...less than what I imagined it would be.  As an aside, isn't that often the way with fantasies?  But that's another blog for another day, right Girls?  For now, are we ready for some football?

Being the total football crazy that I am, this year I decided to take the plunge, my virgin plunge (is that even appropriate) into the world of Fantasy Football.

I was invited to join a "league."  I have been invited before but have always said no.  This year I thought, well, why not?  So... for no other reason than that, I said yes.  Let me say it has been..... quite different from the fantasy for which I hoped.

Lesson 1:  The appointed day and time arrived for...drum roll, please....our league draft.  Draft....that word just made me tingle with football excitement from my head to my toes.  I have watched Roger Goodell with anticipation (clarification....not that kind of anticipation) over the last few years, have seen some of my very favorites drafted into the NFL, and I was ready for this time..... MY time....MY first draft.  Suffice it to say, things did not go according to plan.

As is often my modus operandi, I was juuuuust a couple of minutes late for the draft. Those who know my lineage know that no matter how hard I try to overcome, it just seems to be in the DNA.  But, who knew they....supposed friends, and more importantly, my first draft party... could start without me?  In the couple of minutes I was delayed, I totally missed my first round pick and the opportunity to land at least one of my favorite players.  I was "autopicked."  Really?  Oh well, I will keep my head up.  Not to worry....second round was yet to come.

Lesson 2:  No one told me that I needed to be set up with preferably a lap top, ready to roll with my selection in I think it is 90 seconds after I go "on the clock."  Now, wait a minute, doesn't the NFL give something like ten minutes at least?  Still recovering from Round 1 humiliation and sensing my precious seconds would be slipping away, I frantically tried to pull up the site on my i phone before my appointed second round selection time like the first passed me by.  Four picks until mine....three picks until mine....two...I gave up when my phone insisted that without an i cloud password, I could forget choosing in the second round....or even being part of this league for that matter.  Autopick again.  Darn it!  I was beginning to think my league "mates" may have taken some slight advantage of the ummmm virgin in the room by not properly explaining how all this would go down.  But, since I am a big girl after all, and since there is absolutely no crying in football....except of course after Clemson's fifth consecutive loss to the Gamecocks...I decided to stick it out and shoot for Round 3.  After all, this could only get better.

Lesson 3:  One of my sweet colleagues and friends...and apparently the only one in this draft with any heart at all....gave up his laptop and moved to another device (yes, he brought two of them....who knew) so that I could at least play.  Play...is that what this was?  I had really thought so, but some of these guys seemed oh so serious.  Beginning to decide perhaps fantasy just isn't going to be my thing (I think I already knew that), I reluctantly persevered.  Round 3.... Yay, I did manage to make a selection, and I thought Cam Newton was a pretty good one...until I heard the little wave...yes, there it was....snickers of laughter floating around the room.  Someone leaned over and whispered....you might want to think about receivers or running backs first.  Who knew?  I always thought it was the quarterback who made things go.  Not, as it were, in Fantasy Football.  How could I be flubbing this so completely? After all, I am a college educated woman, have held numbers of responsible jobs, am a mom, a volunteer.....What is the freaking (hate to put that in but I am seriously running out of f words) big deal with fantasy football?

Lesson 4:  My draft buddies were definitely sniffing blood in the water by now.  Drew had made me a list of about 35 skill players he thought I should "draft" (many of them former Clemson players, surprise, surprise), but by now they were long since gone.  Without my fourteen year old's template and quickly realizing I knew far fewer NFL than college players, I found myself in even more of a snit.  What to do what to do....looking feverishly down the list, I finally saw a name I recognized.... Jordy ....Jordy Nelson.  Alleleuia, Praise Be....the Green Bay Superstar.  How could he still be on the board?  Sold!  I proudly and with much ado "drafted" Jordy, all the while thinking I was truly getting the hang of this after all.  Again snickers.   What now?????  Ohhhhh....oh that's what that little yellow message box means....out for the season....you have got to be kidding me!  I thought my next question was a very knowledgeable, pertinent, and timely one...."Guys, Guys, excuse me, Guys.  How do I trade???"

Lesson 5:  When someone asks if you would like a beer...the answer might be, "Yes, yes I would."  Somehow the partakers in the room were doing much better than the non.... at least better than this non.

Lesson 6:  What do you mean I cannot draft defensive players?  Clemson had the #1 defense in the nation last year, and half a dozen of those guys went pro?  And I can't draft them?  Worst of all, they made up nearly half of Drew's suggested draftees.  I am so screwed....oops, Dee is definitely crossing that PG line again.  Forgive me.  Fantasy frustration is setting in.

Lesson 7:  Just how was I supposed to know "drafting" someone with zeroes in the points column beside his name might not be recommended?  I thought that was just because they hadn't started yet!

Lesson 8:  It is never a good sign when your two "autopicks" are your highest rated players.  Did I really just hear somebody say that I had the option to autopick my entire team?  Are you kidding?

I toil on....fearlessly pursuing my team.  But you guessed it.... final fantasy results:  my draft is rated 14th out of 14 with a grade of ...yep..."F"!   Have a little respect, Guys.  Have you ever heard of overachieving?  I am now looking for a team slogan.  I'm thinking maybe "Diamonds in the Rough," and let me emphasize it was (and is) really, really rough.

In closing, other than the fabulous "f" ing alliteration, I thus far fail to find much fun in fantasy football.  But, stay tuned...it is still preseason, after all.  I refuse to "finish" last!  Go Diamonds!

When Realtors Cry

I tell people often...being a realtor is not just a job.  I find myself invested and involved with buyers and sellers in their most personal, most joyous, and most difficult times.  They tell me secrets.  They tell me fears.  They look for counsel.  One told me once she believed God had sent me into her life.  But never in the eight years I have devoted to this profession has the investiture been more profound, more personal than this week.  For this week, I close on the "house that built me."  With a nod to Miranda Lambert, lyrics have rarely spoken to me as did hers more times than once through this process.

There's a common and symbolic thread running through the history of this house that built me.... built by a man with three daughters, sold to a man with three daughters, and now, decades later, selling again.... to one of three sisters.  It feels.... as it should be.  And yet.....

Cleaning out this house of ours over the past weeks brought three daughters to laughter and brought us to tears.  Most importantly, it brought us home together....one more time.  Together, we laughed when Daddy failed to understand why none of the three of us wanted his beautifully framed Water Wastewater treatment certification...whaaaat... I suppose part of his Master's Degree work at the University of North Carolina (perhaps a little ironic with the s@#* currently enveloping UNC). 

We found laughter and a bit of poignancy when Daddy said, " If you don't want it, throw it away, I won't question," only for his three girls to look out the carport window and see our father peering over the rim of the giant thrice filled and emptied dumpster hauled in to hold it all, shaking his head in disbelief, occasionally actually reaching in to pull something out.

Diane and I had to laugh when we each discovered our own reasonable....not perfect but reasonable...baby books, then to find that in Donna The Favorite Child's book, there was nothing except...are you ready.... vaccination records.  Perhaps she was adopted from some illness stricken third world country, a feared carrier of some dreaded disease, and we simply never knew!!!

As usual, the teasing of my baby sister came right back to me when shortly we would find a letter penned by my favorite professor at Clemson to my parents.  I couldn't wait to read the wonderful ode to their eldest daughter Professor Berger must have written to Mother and Daddy.  I was totally disillusioned to find that he had written to advise he could only wish every student he taught were as charming and intelligent as....wait for it.....Diane.  How could this be?  Both Donna and Diane found to my way of thinking much too much humor in that silly letter.

We tried in vain to imagine locations or destinations for the seemingly endless oil portraits of the three of us...images of three daughters together and of each of us alone.  There was just no way, for our mom used portraits of her children the way most people use paint... some will no doubt say I may have inherited at least a bit of that gene.  Sadly, much of this art landed in the afore referenced dumpster.

We were reminded this house wasn't perfect.  This home wasn't perfect.  But from it a family grew...a family of  three sisters....that common, symbolic thread of this home.  Through holidays and birthdays and weddings and births of grandchildren and passing of loved ones, this house was our rock. In it we experienced the circle of life.  The address began as 607 S. Hickory and somewhere along the way became 703 S. Hickory.....Diane says that makes all this cleaning and purging and selling easier for her.  Somehow not for me, for it's the same brick and mortar that kept us safe and warm and drew us in.  It is...the house that built us.

To our buyers, we now entrust to you and to your precious family a jewel...a piece of our history.... a piece of who we are. 

Outside this house, we leave with you the stunning lot that to this day takes my breath away.  The beautiful pond lined setting that hosted wedding receptions and cook-outs with equal grace will give you moments to remember....I promise.

We leave to you the pears and dogwood,  the gorgeous azaleas of Hickory Street springs.  It is fitting I think that soon a swingset will dot that lovely landscape as well, and a child (believe it or not, a boy) will run and romp and revel in the wonderful play space.

We leave the sprawling private lawn where we as teens worked on our tans and where particularly Donna and Mother shared secrets and stories as they soaked up the sun.

We leave with you the grave of our precious Scamp, the Setter who we three would agree was our best growing up dog ever.  If you listen closely, you may hear his bark at times in the quiet winds.

We leave with you the wonderful interior spaces and places we loved....the kitchen where we always seemed to gather, the dining room where we shared those meals Mother loved to plan and prepare, the living room that Santa always found...even when three girls were long since grown and gone from home.  You'll put your own personality into those rooms.  They will become yours....hallowed halls and nooks and crannies of the memories your family will make.

I leave my bedroom swing especially to your precious Connor.  In it, I laughed and cried and read and prayed through the perils of teenagerdom.  I hope in it, he swings away from all the cares of school and grades and occasionally mean children and frequent growing up stresses and toward nights of peaceful sleep and mornings of new dawn as he begins to figure out life as I did.

From this house, I absorbed lessons of strength (many would say stubbornness) from my mother.  She taught and I learned to value family above all other possessions. In this house and from my father, I learned about integrity, faith, accomplishment, becoming all I can be.

The most enduring possession from the house that built me  I keep with me always and everywhere.  It's the singularly important relationships with my sisters.  In good times and sad, when I'm at my best or worst, they were and are with me without judgement.  Yes, that thread...that common thread in the history of the house that built me...that built three sisters...that's the one I'll treasure most.

Yesterday, we closed.  This morning, I awoke to chirping birds, the promise of a new day, another client, another home to represent, and a repeating refrain that I just can't shake... "Won't take nothing but a memory from the house that built me."


I know they say
You can't go home again,
But I had to come back one last time
You may not know me from Adam
But those handprints on the front steps are mine.
Up those stairs in the little back bedrooms,
We did homework and learned who we are.
And I'll bet you didn't know
That under that live oak
Our favorite dog is buried in the yard.

When I touch this place or feel it,
The brokenness inside me might start healing.
Out here it's like I'm someone else
But in this house I find myself.
You leave home, you move on, and do the best you can.
At times I'm lost in this old world; I forget who I am.

Now, I won't take nothing but a memory from the house that built me.

The Ties....or The PJ Drawstrings....That Bind

The Olde English Christian hymn reminds "Blest be the ties that bind..."  I find that I am more and more grateful, yes blessed, for and by traditions.  They are the ties that bind me to those I love most, particularly to my sisters.

Our mother was stubborn.  I can say that.  No one else had better, even though I am quite sure everyone knew.  Stubborness is a terrible affliction.  I am well aware, for I inherited that trait.  I am quite sure many readers will be stunned by that admission, and yet, I must say I respect that my mom was stubbornly committed to tradition.  From when presents were opened (and how) to where we sat for our Christmas meal (Diane, did you ever once sit beside Mark for Christmas dinner), from attending church as a family on certain special days and sitting always on the right side of the second row from the front to the order that the bereaved should enter the church to celebrate the life of a loved one lost, tradition and protocol were important to my mother.

Over many more years than I would care to count, one of my favorite yuletide traditions  became the comfortable certainty that three awkwardly wrapped presents with stick on bows would be found under the Blakeney tree each Christmas....awkwardly wrapped because Daddy usually had been pressed into last minute gift wrapping responsibility.  Somehow the surgical precision of this healer's hands did not always translate to his Christmas wrapping endeavors. Sorry, Daddy.

These three perhaps awkwardly dressed but decidedly precious packages held three perfectly identical pairs of pj's...one for Donna, one for Diane, and, yes, one for me.  Okay, okay already, maybe not perfectly identical....Donna's extra smalls, Diane's smalls, and my mediums....oh alright, sometimes larges.  As my mother required, we synchronized our gift opening so that three sisters unwrapped our "surprise" simultaneously, and no one sister could ruin the moment of discovery for the other two.  Should one sister inadvertently get ahead of the other two in the unwrapping process, she was quickly admonished by the ever watchful, ever anticipating mother overseeing it all.  Christmas happenings had usually come to an almost stop in the Blakeney living room, by now strewn in torn paper and unravelling bows and ribbon.  The younger grandchildren and often the husbands had long since moved on to playing or watching tv or a little more post dinner nibbling or dessert.  Daddy was out looking for trash bags.  Often, by the moment of the great annual pj reveal, only Mother, Donna, Diane, and I were still sitting and chatting and opening that last, looking back, most special gift.

Pj's now open, oohs and ahs and 'I love thems' complete, sometimes we modeled...sometimes not.  We laughed and joked....about Donna preferring the slightly more bare cami styles and about Diane's and my favorite and preferred flannels with long pants and long sleeves.  Is anyone really surprised by that?

Later every Christmas, clean-up complete, tummies full, eyelids heavy, cars loaded, three sisters left my parents' home and headed to our own. I always found a lingering joy and an extra little smile in thinking about those pj's.  Via the usually quite cute, but on rare occasions not especially so, pajamas,  I felt linked to my sisters and knew that although we each ventured separately on these Christmas Day nights back to our own homes, in fact back to different states, we were and always would be bound, as much so as if our pj drawstrings literally tied us together.

So, on this Christmas Day just past, when suddenly three mysterious gifts magically appeared....one for each of us...for Donna....for Diane...and for me....I caught my breath.  I vaguely remember hearing one of the grandchildren ask why Aunt Di, Aunt Donna, and Aunt Neesie had an extra gift...one more than everyone else.  (I would guess that query came from one of my all-knowing, all-counting children.)  I barely heard the wise Hannah respond that it was a "tradition"....a tradition my mom clung to as now, in her absence, so did her daughters.  My hands shook slightly as I opened my gift, but I already knew....it had to be....the pj's.

The trees are now down, the Christmas china put away.  The exchanges are made, the kicking myself for how much I have eaten begins.  The new year hangs on the horizon.  But, for now, for just another moment or two, I think I'll crawl back into my cozy Christmas pj's and nap... and remember....three awkwardly wrapped presents.....three perfectly identical pairs of pj's......ties that bind three sisters.  How about it, Girls?  Shall we?  I love you.....


PS: To Pat, for your ever present respect for and understanding of our past traditions, we love you.  We three look forward to building new traditions with you and Daddy.