An Officer and A Gentleman.....and A Realtor

It's Veterans Day weekend.  I am out this Friday morning placing signage on a property.  A lovely older gentleman with a soft spoken manner, a visible hearing aid, and perhaps the deepest eyes I've ever seen walks up from a nearby home.  He asks about my listing.  He asks if I am a "realtOR," as he says, "not just a realtor."   I assure him that I am indeed a "realtOR." He says he is a veteran.  He served in Viet Nam.  I thank him for his service and give him my card.  He says he may one day soon be in need of real estate assistance.  I tell him I would be very pleased and honored to help him.

He shares that his mother (at least I think he said mother, but in hindsight, perhaps he said wife) suffers from Alzheimers.  He says she went out of their home during the night, turned on their car and apparently left it on all night.  He has been trying without success to reach someone to help.  He comments that he has cables.  I ask if he would like to try to jump his car off from mine.  (Note that I remembered a lesson  learned from a car trouble experience of my own when in my mid twenties I caused quite a stir by asking if any of a group of young guys could jump me.  Clear communication can be a wonderful thing, can it not?)

The charming, distinguished veteran asks if I'm sure I have time and don't mind helping.  I assure him I have time to help.  He hooks up the cables and a few minutes later we hear the welcome sound of his engine turning over.

He shakes my hand and thanks me profusely.  Really....he thanks me?  He says, "God sent you my way this morning, Young Lady."  That may have been the best part...being called "young lady" after my recent birthday, but I digress.  I think maybe God did send me, but not in the way this gentleman meant.  Thank you, Lord, for giving me a Veteran's Day opportunity to interact with one who proudly served this nation, and to maybe in a very small way lend him a grateful hand.

                                                   

In the Spirit of Spring Cleaning, Or Not....

I opted out of the shower I probably needed in the wee hours of January 10.  And after what seemed only minutes of rest...definitely not sleep....I again elected not to shower before Drew and I began our long drive home.  I just couldn't yet wash it away.... the sights, smells, sounds, and feelings of a National Championship.  I still today close my eyes, and I'm back....back to the smells of highway fumes from a procession of tens of thousands of Tiger fans rolling toward Tampa where orange would paint the town..... back to the group of Tiger Lettermen of the late 80's and early 90's and their families who allowed Drew and me to share their experience.....back to the smell of chlorine as our fearless kids would not be denied a dip in the pool...even in the unusually chilly 40 - 50 degree Florida weather..... back to the unmistakable and pervasive odor of pot wafting toward starlit skies at the Usher concert and the chill sounds of an amazingly soulful performance by Gavin McGraw.... back to the unmistakable aromas of fried chicken and beer at a tailgate that for all intents and purposes looked (and smelled) like a Clemson home game... back to a stadium crowd owned by those wearing orange and smelling of hot pretzels and pizza and, yes again beer... back to the frenetic amped up passion for a beloved team in anticipation of what might lie ahead...

I had worried about bad omens as my superstitions sometimes get the best of me.  I forgot my trusty Original Tiger Rag, the one that had with me made so many huge games over the years, the one I saved from Clemson's first Natty in '81.  I also forgot to pack my mom's orange walking coat, a wardrobe staple for me for cool weather games...partly because it's one of the few pieces of orange clothing I actually have, but mostly because I know how much Mother would have loved these games.  I worried yet again when an early January snowfall in the Southeast twice cancelled my sister Di's flight into Tampa.  She barely made the game.  I knew we couldn't do it without her, just as we couldn't quite do it last year without my little sis Donna who had to miss that amazing game of "almost."

David Hood, Clemson Sportswriter noted that during pregame, Tiger staffers on the field were singing the Back Eyed Peas classic, "I've got a feeling....that tonight's gonna be a good night!"  Raymond James stadium speakers blared the same tune just before the game got under way.

It was fittingly appropriate that in the end Clemson's remarkable offense led by a true star, a star in both talent and character yet somehow shunned by Heisman voters would not be denied his championship.....appropriate that in the game's final minutes two stunning drives into the heart of Bama's vaunted defense were directly into the "Clemson end" of a stadium where Tiger band and Tiger fans were totally coming unglued... especially appropriate that the winning play was a pass thrown by a collegiate icon who had been if not THE then certainly one of the faces of college football these past two years to a baby faced Myrtle Beach walk-on who toiled away to even earn a scholarship.

Yes, I've finally showered, and I'm pretty sure Drew has.  But washing away our memories...the smells, sights, sounds, feelings of  the year and the game that was...that's another matter altogether.  I hope, especially for my son, they outlast a lifetime of showers.

Sweet Peek

Once upon a time in a land of milk and honey....or perhaps watermelon and sand....there lived a beautiful lady.  Such a sweet and warm hearted lady was she, but unimaginably saddened by love unexpectedly lost.  On many days, this lovely, lonely lady found peace and a best friend in a sweet and precious pup. During long, sad days, the devoted girl pup never strayed far from her lady, and the lady rarely left her pup.

Time passed.  A kind and gentle man in the same land ...of watermelon and sand (work with me here; this is my first fairy tale).... found himself also lonely.  Needing companionship,  he found his way to the lady and her pup, and together the three forged a new happiness.  As the lady began to love the man, the puppy began to love him too, for in a dog's way the pup understood the man made her lady happy again.

Time continued to pass.  A funny thing began to happen.  Although first drawn to the lady, soon the man also strongly loved the lady's sweet dog.  He cuddled and shielded the pup, just as he did the lady.  The man and the pup would sometimes share a recliner and watch the Tigers play.  Most days, they took long golf cart rides and short walks.  As the man talked, the pup listened closely and understood.  At night, a tired but happy girl pup crawled into her basket bed and dreamed of the happy new life she and her lady had found with the man.  She came to be his...just as much as she was her lady's.  She loved this man.

As age crept up on the pup, the man tended to her ailments and comforted her, for he knew something of the ways of healing.  When he was unable to cure her ills, he carried her to the vet.... in time increasingly often.  He sat up with her at night.  He helped her through hard days and encouraged her and soothed her, just as he had the lady, because he had come to so love them both.

One day, as is sadly always the case, the end came.  The man and the woman he loved lost their sweet devoted pup. The void seemed unbearable.  Their tears flowed.  The puppy basket bed was empty.

But the sweet puppy now once again had strong legs and a young pup's heart on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge.  And she would always and forever happily remember and watch over the lady she loved and the man who came to love them.

(Photo Cred to Di who also suggested I try to put impossibly intimate feelings into words....I did my best for you, Sweet Peek.)

What A Ride to the Edge of Glory

A few years ago, I posted a blog entitled Edge of Glory.  My beloved Tigers were in the midst of a promising season....about to face Florida State.  I had this feeling it was our time, but things did not pan out that year.  Flash forward to 2015.  All season that phrase and, I'm ashamed to admit, that Gaga song popped in and out of my mind....Edge of Glory.  I wanted to post a second blog on the subject, but my superstitions got the best of me, and I waited.

I waited as all year we were doubted, all year sold short.  The underestimaters were out in force...for every test, every big game.  But The Orange persevered.  Notre Dame in a sunami, Florida State in weather almost as bad..... through the Division Championship, "State Championship,"  Conference Championship, and the Orange Bowl, these Tigers pressed on like David slaying Goliath.... again and again.

It was time for a National Championship trip to Arizona.  I knew I shouldn't go, but I couldn't stay away.  I was there following the '81 season to see another young, overlooked, underestimated Tiger team take a national championship.  I couldn't not be there when it happened again.

Those who know me know it's always all about the moments.  And there were definitely crazy moments...Di and I arriving in Phoenix nearly forgetting we had checked bags.  Had our brother-in-law not remarked about how well and surprisingly light we were traveling, two sisters would have walked right out of the airport without our luggage.  Pre-game jitters, I guess.  And the luggage...my goodness, we packed for cold, we packed for warm, we packed for cool...honestly we could have stayed in Phoenix for a month and had all the clothes we needed, no matter the weather.

Speaking of staying a month, a first intro to Desert Donuts had me wishing we could.  I think in three days, we made about four runs to the local DD.  One bite of a bacon donut, and it was over for me.... and for my hips and thighs.

Walking the even if temporarily orange dotted streets of Scottsdale's Arts and Shopping area, stopping to greet horses and ogle cacti, and eat the self proclaimed 'best sandwich in America', it continued to seem as if we had stepped into some surreal spaghetti western dream.  But it was real. The Tigers were on a business trip, and so were we.  Note to self:  check with accountant about writing off.....

Game day arrived and with it all the nervousness.... the rolling tummies, the biting nails, the silly chatter.... two sisters and their niece, Tiger Girls lying in bed watching Gameday.  We were anxious to start the day but anxious about the outcome as well.  There were key wardrobe decisions (sadly as usual, Di and I had packed several of the same outfits, so that took a little coordination moderated deftly by Niece Hannah), face painting, margaritas (when in Arizona, right?), clapping along to Tiger Rag being piped in to a local bar and singing Sweet Caroline along with hundreds of other Tiger faithful following their team.  Note:  Not sure if the look on our niece's beautiful face was horror, shock or something else as Diane and I joined with great gusto in a boisterous group sing of The Captain and Tenille's "Love Will Keep Us Together."  How could Hannah not know that one "....Think of me, Babe, whenever"....Oh well.  It was craziness of the best kind.

The epic game has been well documented.  Again, it's the moments within I'll most remember.....seeing at least two thirds of the "neutral" stadium decked out in orange, hearing the deafening cadence count...at an away, indeed far away game, watching a young Houdini in Orange slice through the vaunted Bama defense over and over and over again, runs of sheer determination from the Wayne Train, enduring a no pun intended 'kick in the gut' of an Alabama on sides kick, hearing forty thousand proud Clemson fans still cadence counting as they exited with the loss, having come oh so close to that natty championship, seeing two Heisman finalists share the field in competition and even more an after game hug filled with oh so obvious mutual respect, our exhausted team still lifting helmets to salute the amazing road crowd that had followed this team...to the edge of glory.

What a ride...what an amazing ride.

Hope it's nowhere close to 35 years before I am back....

A Southwest Selfie Saga

                                                            

Selfies.... the craze that has changed the face (pretty clever, Dee) of photography.  So why is it that I....camera geek that I am.....just cannot get the hang of it?

I would say in my lifetime I may have taken...well, maybe half a dozen selfies.  A couple at least were accidental selfies.  Yes, accidental.  Who knew if I hit that camera button a second time my phone lens was suddenly, magically facing in instead of out.  Imagine my surprise when more than once, I pointed and shot my phone camera at some desired subject only to review the photo and find I had a beyond horrendous shot of myself.  Happy to report I now I understand that part.  Fool me once.... you know the rest.

Many times during Clemson's remarkable 2015 season, I wanted a selfie or two of my sisters and me as we made this incredibly magical journey with our Tigers.  I wanted to document our nerves, our joy, our determination to share some of the incredible twists and turns of following our team as sisters.  And a selfie...it can't be that hard.  Everybody does it.  Game after game, we would stand, in perfect unison turn our backs to the field, hold the phone up (as I have read usually should provide the most flattering angle) and smile the Tiger Girl smile....only to preview the most gosh awful selfie ever.   Sometimes, or should I more accurately say usually, at least one of us wasn't even in the shot.   And usually after three or four failed selfie attempts we could glance up into the stands to see a friendly, okay usually laughing face...connected to a shoulder.... to an extended arm.... reaching down for my phone sympathetically offering to take the photo for us.  A pity picture....but alas there was no choice.  I am a selfie failure.

Oddly Diane, who rarely if ever takes photos, is suddenly a selfie expert.  How does that happen? Photography may be the very one thing in life I am better at than she, and if not better then definitely more experienced.  So, Sunday in Arizona, as Di, Hannah and I took out on our Great Southwestern shopping expedition, the selfie spirit moved me.  I decided it was time to try again.  I refuse to let this shortcoming get the best of me.   With Diane driving, Hannah in back and I in the front passenger seat, I pulled out the trusty iPhone, ready to try again.  It's a car selfie....  I see dozens posted on facebook every day. Even my five year old "Baby Hoppa" can take a selfie.  So, with a determined deep breath, I held up the phone, made sure Hannah and I were both in the pic and clicked.....only to have both Hannah and Di burst into uncontrollable laughter.  "Why can't you look here...don't look at the home button...look at the camera lens...your eyes are always almost closed..what is the matter with you......hold the camera up....no down....are you thinking too much..." Well, imagine that.... who can possibly remember all these instructions? And their last correction..... may I quickly insert that at this point I was ready throw my phone and possibly my middle sibling out the window of our rental SUV..... "look natural."  Really?  This isn't that hard.  And yet, I couldn't argue the point.  This selfie was simply not acceptable.  All I can think is how much I truly miss my Nikon dinosaur. I actually pulled my favorite Nik out at one of this year's tailgates only to hear a fellow and much younger tailgater exclaim, "What the heck is that?"  Stand down, Young Whippersnapper.  I'll match my photos from a camera that requires at least a modicum of skill against the point and clickers from your phone any day!

Fast forward to Championship Monday and the game, and I, well I was still determined to get the perfect selfie. Fourth quarter....final game of the season.  It was now or never.  Pressure was ON. Diane and I stand....in unison turning our backs to the field (and by the way at that point to a Tiger lead).  I raise my right arm, lift the phone, say a quick prayer for a successful selfie (don't judge; my minister says to pray about all things), woops.... almost drop the phone, recover nicely, look at the lens....correct spot...check, click.  Preview....positively terrible.  Try again.  Again the worst.  And suddenly there she was...three rows up....the laughing but trying to hide it Good Samaritan Lady Tiger Fan...holding her hand out...gesturing and snapping for the phone.  And suddenly, thanks to that nice woman, we had our prize picture.  Another glance back, a quick thank you wave up to the laughing lady who saved the day.  Wait....didn't we see you in Raleigh?

                                                         

"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.

Christmas God Sightings

At least twice in the days leading up to this Christmas, I have experienced God sightings.  I have no doubt. The first was last Sunday.  Looking for something, as I always am this time of year, I walked into my drawing room after church.  A single stream of light shone through our front window. As directed and specific and pronounced as a spotlight, the beam settled perfectly on the manger scene topping my bombay chest.  I grabbed my camera; I got the shot.  The photo may not do justice, but I had to try to capture the moment.  I didn't want to forget.  I didn't want to let it go.

Today, one week later, in a not so quiet way, God touched me again.  This blessing began well  before the 'Sunday Before Christmas' sermon.  I am so sorry, Pastor Brian, but today, the messenger was not the minister; the message did not belong to the pulpit.  For, one row up from me, in the congregation trimmed in red and green, a tiny angel with long dark curls and a big red bow, sparkling red skirt brushing this way and that, eyes glistening with the reflections of the enormous decorated trees to her left and right and lungs filled with true joy, threw her animated little head back and sang with a conviction the likes of which I am not sure I have ever seen or heard.  Yes, Pastor, you were upstaged, if unintentionally, by this little lamb as she sang of the silent night and a sacred manger.  She sang with the passionate fury of a Child of God....she sang with joy...with a child's joy....the true joy of Christmas.  As she sang, she smiled, her sweet spirit filling the place.  I and several others around me stopped our suddenly inadequate singing to lean toward this littlest of angels, she of the second pew, stealing the show for all those blessed to be close enough to share this moment with her.  She once or possibly twice reached up toward the heavens.  Still singing, she smiled again and nodded toward the minister who himself had now turned to take in this tiny songstress, perhaps already realizing his message today could have waited.  His work was done.  His sermon was already delivered for many in the form of this little one.

I felt my own emotion welling up...I knew my drug store mascara was about to let me down. The tiny princess, somehow an irresistible cross between Shirley Temple and Jackie Evancho, sang on, throwing her head, or perhaps more accurately her very soul, back even further as she sang....so far in fact that I feared her neck might pop.  She twirled and swayed from side to side as her seated mom rocked what must have been  a younger sister.  A third child, a son, draped his arms sweetly around his mother's shoulder.  This mom's eyes closed, as she seemed to bask in the moment, and I thought this is this woman's Christmas, surrounded by her children breathing in the caroles her totally uninhibited daughter provided, celebrating the birth of a King.

I am so thankful for these little moments in the midst of  the usual seasonal craziness.  I am so very thankful that last Sunday and today, I saw....and heard....the Christ in Christmas.

The Man....The Myth....The Music (or at least the iPod)

I've been walking a few times a week, and with no iPod of my own, I have commandeered Adrian's. Not just the fact that I usually walk first thing in the morning, but also the fact that this particular iPod houses a very wide array of music ... well the combo has led quite literally to more than a few eye opening experiences.

This iPod, like the man, is a mystery of the highest order, and listening to its quite extensive playlist has been....enlightening, to say the least.  Perhaps confounding is a better description.

I am, using the term in its loosest possible translation, working out one day, enjoying a spectacular seasonal morning as I walk, smiling, waving at passers by (you  know the queen wave, right...although I must say it doesn't come off quite the same with sweats and sleepy eyes), and listening to the inspiring strains of  "Here I Am, Lord "  from the Ipod.  Truly getting in touch with my inner zen, I breathe deeply.  Again in the spirit of full disclosure, more truthfully I pant a little.  I travel on, taking in my beautiful neighborhood, thanking God quietly for all my many blessings when suddenly and most unexpectedly, Clarence Carter bursts into my "in touch" moment with his anything but zen "Stroking".... more accurately "Strokin".  And, trust me, this was not CC's PG version, if he even had one of this particular blush worthy masterpiece.  I was so suddenly and shockingly jolted back to reality from my almost meditational state that I stepped off into a ditch and barely maintained any balance...or propriety...at all.  The 'queen wave' became a frantic swat as I simultaneously tried to pull out the ear buds and find the change button all while keeping myself at least semi upright.  But, the iPod run amuck had already moved seemlessly on from "Strokin" to ...."Skanking."  With the now fascinating change ups between beer and blues country and R if not X rated Tupac rap, between Billy Joel's prolific and poignant piano and Marley's soulful reggae, from the King of Pop to Reba, from "Cover of the Rolling Stone" to "Fat Bottom Girls" (this latter definitely not a favorite backdrop to my walking workout), I find myself wondering what possibly could be next. But then I think...with this man, I often wonder exactly the same thing.

There have been a few golden moments...my discovery of  the studio version of  "Rainy Nights In Georgia" by Sam Moore and Conway Twitty took my breath away.  Marc Cohn's "Walking in Memphis"....do I detect a bit of a traveling theme in the man's iPod?  I definitely identify with that.  And I LOVED finding jewels like "Jesus and Momma Always Loved Me....even when the devil took control"  I could have written that one myself....ah, yes, not the easiest child was I.  You just have to love country music for its uncanny ability to hit the nail on the head, don't you?

Speaking of  'Momma', Pastor Joel rightly compared mine to a prism, but I find myself currently convinced by the iPod that Adrian, at least as go his musical inclinations, is even more a prism. His downloads have both delighted me and mortified me.  One note, just please tell me that with volume full on, no one else can hear what I am listening to, for I have discovered.... forgive me, Pastor Joel... that "Strokin" does indeed have a great beat for walking.

I am not sure what the proper iPod etiquette is here.....do I tell Adrian that much of his music is vastly inappropriate?  Or do I just 'let it be.'  (Yes, the Beatles classic is on the playlist. along with the incredible "Imagine.")  This is, after all, Adrian's music.  He is, out of some probably delusional support of my half-hearted efforts to shape up, letting me borrow his device because I do not have one of my own. Hmmm.  Finally deciding to broach the subject I ask my hubby where on earth he found this eclectic assortment of music and why is it on an iPod that our probably not as naive as I would like to think children can easily access.  His answer....short and sweet....."Joseph did it."  Ahhhh, another question to ponder....when did it become so easy for a father to sell out his eldest son?

Photo Credit to Internet

Mamma Had A Six Pack

When does that time come.  When exactly does it happen that so many things seem suddenly to be in 'past tense'?  We were so looking forward to our summer vacation...a return trip to gorgeous Round Hill in Hanover, Jamaica...a place we all love and the site of some of our most favorite vacations ever.  As we so often do, we pulled out old photo albums to remind ourselves of past trips and favorite spots in this special resort.

So, we were gathered around the coffee table....flipping through albums, laughing and recalling, excitement building as our travel day drew near when Drew suddenly pointed at a pic and exclaimed,  "Momma (that's me) HAD a six pack!"  Well that's just great.  Already wondering why we didn't choose a diving vacation requiring full on scuba gear...... or better yet,  that ski vacation where appropriate attire would have been snow suits instead of the unavoidable swimsuits for this trip, I suddenly felt very inadequate.  Momma HAD a six pack....yes, it hurt a little, and reminded me not fondly of a trip to Garden City a few years back, when the then ten year old Drew proudly announced to everyone poolside on that particular day, "Mommy's jiggly!"  Reference Definitely Dee blog of  April, 2011....yes, it happened just the way I recorded it.              .

Recently, ironically also occurring as we looked through old photo albums, we came upon pics of a litter of pups we had while living in our previous home in North Lancaster.  Photo after photo of precious cocker spaniel pups...all curly eared and nub tailed.  I thought Drew would be fascinated by the puppies.  His comment..."Momma, we HAD grass then?"

Not quite sure when the "has" and "haves" becomes "hads".....probably about the same time things get jiggly..... and the grass dies.

Hose and Toes

(Photo cred to internet)

I n-e-v-e-r  wear hosiery.  Hose pinch, run, rip and ruin my day.  They are a fundamental scourge on all of womanhood and quite simply an expense and a bother I think I can do without.  At least I thought I could.  But recently, the liver marks...I think that is what they are called.....guess I have gotten to the age I need to know for sure.......and various and sundry other signs of aging are telling on my legs.  So, I told myself a pair of hosiery might be in order.

It has been many moons (and the lunar theme from my last post continues) since I last bought hose.  I  first asked Kate to go to Belk and buy the hosiery now deemed necessary by her mom.  Kate's response, "Momma, what are hose?"  With that, I quickly knew this one would be on me.  I honestly had to ask someone where in the department store I might find hose.  And, after searching and searching for what I was looking for, even though I had no idea what in fact I was looking for, I found a seemingly lovely toeless pair of almost nude stockings.  (Interesting how I wanted to cover up, but didn't want it to look like I was covering up.  Again, welcome to aging, Dee.)  Proud of my shopping prowess, I bought two pairs.

Now, and perhaps this too is a symptom of the many years that have passed since I last bought hosiery,  I interpreted toeless to mean no reinforced toe.  Wouldn't anyone?  Imagine my surprise when upon opening the packaging, I learned toeless meant absolutely no toes...notta....nothing.....big holes in the 'foot ends' of the hose! 

As I told Diane in one of those conversations you can only appropriately have with a sister.... or in a blog.... I could think of absolutely no use for hose with no toes that did not involve a decided measure of kink.  I mean seriously, other than having those suckers available for....pardon me, sucking.....why would anyone want hose with no toes?  I will be the first to admit, this world is changing, and I am not always at the very forefront of the change continuum.  But, Ladies, if you want to show off that new pedicure, legs, feet, and toes must be bare.  Not just toes.  If, on the other hand.....or should I say other foot....you choose to wear stockings, the classic pump with toes demurely hidden is the choice for you.

I LOVE .....oh who is the band with the Toes song.....oh yes, Zac Brown.  And I think Kenny Chesney also had a "toe" hit a while back.  But, I can't imagine that either was envisioning the lingerie anomaly that is toeless hosiery when he crooned about toes in the sand or wherever. 

I cannot  fathom hosiery covered legs and feet and naked toes.  If you are willing to bare your toes,  you must be willing to bare your legs.  This toeless hose contraption undoubtedly was invented by a man.

Today, when I journeyed back to the store to return the one unopened pair of toeless hosiery, I just had to ask the sales associate, "Who buys these things, and why?"  She just  looked at me with an all-knowing smile and nod.....and that was it. 

A Lunar Valentine

(Photo Credit to Frank Mottek.....)


A very young Drew always called her Luna....that especially beautiful, most brilliant  moon that always captured his imagination, as she always has mine.  And, yes, I saw her the other night....the if not full then almost full Luna rising in majestic glory amongst our tall backyard trees.  She has become and forever will be Uncle Check's Moon.....Uncle Check's Moon thanks to a story his beloved wife told me. 

My Dear Aunt Teeny recently 'wrote' with her words a Valentine....a Valentine with imagery so beautiful I could not possibly hope to match.  For she told a story of intimacy....a story of love.....a story of friendship.....a story of what marriage should be.  It was a story of a moment and of a gorgeous moon that rose on one of Uncle Check's last evenings.  As this wife of sixty plus years sat carefully, quietly on the edge of her ailing husband's bed, she chatted softly, not sure what he heard and what he did not.  She soaked up each remaining moment with her very best friend, trying to remember everything said and done in those precious minutes, minutes she, in her own word, held sacred.

Suddenly, rising outside the window, there she was.....the breathtaking, almost magical Luna.....perfectly framed in the glass beside my uncle's bed....Luna.....bright beyond belief.  My aunt blinked.....then breathed a quiet sigh.  She prompted Uncle Check to lean or turn or at least look up as he could to see the spectacular moon in the window, so he could just once more share one of nature's most spectacular shows with her.  He declined at first and again....weak and tired, eyes almost closed.  But, his wife and soul mate persisted and continued to prompt until.... finally.... her weary husband looked out the window and upward.  His eyes lit up with the wonder of this moon.  A near twinkle.  A weak smile.  A momentary peace.  A moment in time......

Years before when his beloved grandsons were young, Blake and Louis had astounded us all by recognizing and identifying a waxing from a waning moon. Even earlier, Andi declares that Louis' first word was not Mama, not Dada, but moon.  I suppose Luna had already cast her spell on this next generation of young Blakeneys, these boys so adored by their doting granddad.

Many years later, in the weeks after losing this special man, I see a television commercial.  I am not even sure what is being advertised....a car I suppose.  But a quiet Dad and his very young perhaps sleepless son ride along a winding road, Dad driving,  boy behind in his car seat.  Suddenly through the vehicle's front window, a massive moon rises on the horizon ahead.  The wide-eyed wonder in the little boy's eye....the enormity of this creation of lunar marketing, but more originally of God, well it is simply stunning.....

And now, for now and forever, each and every time I see that stunning moon, waxing or waning, a lover's moon or a harvest moon,  even the much beloved Goodnight Moon ......whether in print, on screen, or in person, I will think of my Uncle Check, and I will know beyond any doubt that my precious aunt will be doing the same.  This special woman with whom I share so many memories and so many bonds will share yet another with a niece she taught French, albeit French with a 'dee-cided' Southern twang on my part, and Advanced Composition and, much more importantly, lessons about intimacy and love, and friendship and what marriage should  be.  This aunt and her niece will now share this precious Valentine moment....our moment in time.

I know my Uncle Check is out there sharing the singular magic of the moon....just from the other side.  To my beautiful aunt and my amazing cousins, Happy Valentine's Day.......

Caramel, Cousins, and Hard Conversations

Today I visited with my 'Blakeney Cousins'.  On most occasions, that would be reason for joy, for eager anticipation of the stories, laughter, and love, even of the Carolina Clemson banter we would share.  Not today.   Although I treasure every moment spent with these girls, today is quite different.  Today is surreal.  Today is heartbreaking.  Today, there just aren't words.

We've tred this path before, have my cousins and I.  We have plowed this ground together.  It never gets easier.  I think of how oddly often such visits and conversations as these  are accompanied by caramel cake.  Perhaps not so odd,  for Pageland folks know that many of the Blakeneys love caramel cake.  So, when the hardest, most trying of times hit, caramel cake is frequently part of the equation....part of the talking through....part of the tears.....part of the nervous laughter....part of the memories.....part of the healing....part of the love.

My cousins are ALWAYS there for me.  I want to be there for them.  We are a generation of all girls...only girls.....five girls......five Daddy's Girls of two brothers.  We face an unbearable loss.  We aren't ready.

Too many of these most painful of losses for my cousins, my sisters, and me have come at Christmas.  The holidays will never be quite as they once were.  Years later there is still the widower husband who cannot bear to decorate a Christmas tree.  Years forward, there will be the wife of more than sixty years who searches for the simple joys of Christmases past, the daughters who find it so painful to remember yet so impossible to forget, and the cousins who wish to make it better but can't.

Uncle Check was (and is) my 'Uncle' crush,' you know....in the vein of a girl crush or boy crush or star crush.  Handsome, impeccably well-dressed, wonderful laugh, great smile, athletic, special.  Even this week as I visited, still that almost chiseled face; that one forehead curl.  Love..... my dad's only brother.....my dear uncle.  His stories over the years of panning for semi-precious stones and of elderberry wine, of travels and  memories delighted and intrigued me.   To him, I was always "Neesie;" never ever 'Denise.'  Somehow, I always found such peace and happiness in that.

So often when spoken words aren't there for me, I turn to the private time with my keyboard and my blog, to say what it hurts too much to say out loud......yet another good-bye.  We understand if you have to leave us, My Sweet Uncle, and it is okay.  But, we so wish you didn't have to go.  Family will never be quite the same.  Christmas will never be quite the same.  I will never be the same.

I left my visit with my cousins.  I've cried 'til there are no more tears.  I shudder every time the phone rings, for I know a call is coming.

Three cousins will try to comfort two cousins.  Three without their mom, two without their dad.....five girls will find a way to share the hard conversations and maybe some caramel cake this Christmas.

PS:  On my last visit, I wondered if my uncle knew who I was.  Just as I determined he probably did not, Uncle Check grinned at me and mumbled that I needed a good spanking.  I had to smile.  Clearly, he knew exactly which of his nieces was visiting that day.

DMV Due Diligence

This morning, I dutifully arrived at the local DMV to renew my license.  In all fairness, in South Carolina, this process is only required once every ten years.  You'll forgive me if I have forgotten some of how it all goes down.   I was given the required paperwork and a number.....number 307 to be exact.  Knowing that couldn't be good, I took my seat, completed my form, and waited....and waited....and waited....

Finally I heard the computerized and weirdly sexy voice, "Number 307, we are ready to serve you at Window 8."  Okay, now we are in business.

Dee to DMV Person:  Good morning.  Hope you are having a good day.  I need to renew my license.

DMV Person (not smiling):  Who is your insurance with?

Dee (smiling):  I really don't have any idea.  Luckily, I haven't had to use it....knock on wood.....

DMV Person (not smiling and interrupting):  M'am, I will have to know who holds your insurance.

Dee:  Oh, well that would be George.  (Reaching for my cell), I can call him if you would like to speak with him. 

DMV Person (sighing):  M'am, I can't speak to anyone on your phone.

Dee (beginning to smile less):  Ok, well I will talk to him....Minutes later, we have insurance information.

DMV Person:  You'll need an eye test.  Press the bar at the top of the machine.

Dee (pressing furiously with my finger):  I'm sorry; your machine doesn't seem to be working.

DMV Person:  M'am, press your FOREHEAD against the bar; not your finger.

Dee:  Oh, well I guess that would  work better, wouldn't it?

DMV Person (now seriously tapping his pencil and clearly frowning):  Read Line 5, please.

Dee (reaching for readers)....

DMV Person:  M'am, this is distance reading.  If you don't wear glasses or contacts, you should be able to read it without your readers.  Line 5, please.

Dee (feeling both readerless.... which for me borders on nudity.... and totally intimidated):  Okay, Okay.....PAQ  TRE  YOL  MTV  ODB

DMV Person (still frowning):  You're missing one....

Dee (feeling VERY successful):  Only one....that's pretty good; I am surprised because....

DMV Person (again interrupting):  I MEAN you are missing one out of every group of three.  Would you like to try again?

Dee:  PAQ

DMV Person:  That is NOT a Q!

Dee (looking again):  PAO  TRE

DMV Person (exasperated):  M'am, that is not an R.

Dee (equally exasperated):  P then, is it a P?

DMV Person:  M'am, I cannot tell you if each letter is right or wrong.

Dee (under my breath):  SOB

DMV Person:  Excuse me?

Dee:  ODB

DMV Person:  M'am, are you sure you don't wear contacts?

Dee:  No, are you sure you don't have the slightest sense of humor?  (Alright, alright, Dee Readers, I didn't say it, but I thought it.)

Finally DMV Person (sighing):  M'am, would you step down to the lady at the last counter for your new photo?

Dee (thinking to self,  finally  the opportunity to speak with someone a little more laid back....Geez).  Just as I step up to the appropriate window, the DMV photographer says, "Honey, it's my break time; could you wait just a moment for my relief?"  "Sure," I respond, just as I glance over my shoulder to see Guess Who making his way down to take my photo.

So glad to be wearing my Keller Williams name tag today.  Think he will ever be calling me for a listing?  Oh well, it's only once every ten years.......

When Dreams Die......

It's so hard when dreams die, isn't it?  This past week-end was one of dying football dreams all over the state of South Carolina.  Football isn't just a sport here.  It is almost a religion and most definitely a way of life.  It fosters both love and hate.  It bears pride and shame.  It is nearly indescribable in its wicked hold on the Sandlapper State for thirteen weeks each fall.

South Carolina will get over its almost certain loss at their shot at the SEC East Division title.  Clemson will get over its certain loss at an outside shot at the National Title and their goal of an ACC Championship.  South Carolina's dying dream came amidst a gritty performance by an improving Tennessee team.  Clemson's loss came at home, before legions of Tiger fans, in The Valley they hold almost sacred.

That either team lost was not totally unexpected.  But the way in which the Dreams of the Orange died....that was the surprise.  The Tigers did not even show up.....in their own house.   Over and over silly mistakes, penalties, and miscues doomed Clemson's efforts to get back in.  The truth was it was over, completely over,  just a few minutes into the game.  And the Death Valley crowd knew it.

Some had speculated the team would make their breathtaking appearance at the top of the hill wearing all orange.  It didn't happen.  Some thought the Florida State Freshman Phenom would fold under the pressure of a hostile road stadium and a senior led high energy Clemson team.  It didn't happen....the high energy or the folding.

All day the dream had built......built....built toward a fevered crescendo when the beloved Tigers would finally appear at Howard's Rock.  All day building.... building, and yet something seemed a little different from the Georgia atmosphere of six weeks prior.  Maybe it was the sheer magnitude of what was about to happen....maybe it was everything riding on this one....Divisional Championship, ACC Championship, outside shot at a National Title Game.  Maybe it was the endless pre-game hype.

ESPN Gameday back in Tigertown......Guest Prognosticator Bill Murray tackling Lee Corso for Lee's most unpopular pick of the Seminoles......Press everywhere.....Drew's frantic search to buy a sharpie, just so he could get Tajh's autograph after the game......A frenetic Tiger Walk for Clemson's 'Boys of Fall'.... Band Parade past Johnstone toward the stadium.....massive 'fan jams' at the gates.  Clouds and cool yielding to that orange sun peeking through just in time for gametime.

Suddenly, the moment was here.  Here 'where the Blue Ridge yawns its greatness,' the awaited blue lights appear at the top of the hill.......buses of Tigers chomping at the bit to show what they could do....Tiger Band marching, almost skipping, toward the end zone and the hill........Memorial Stadium aglow in orange....fire batons in air....massive bouquets of orange balloons straining at the seams of the wrappings trying almost hopelessly to contain them.  The crowd was amazing; the stadium nearly shuddered with the weight and tension of the moment.  A thunderous rendition of "We Will Rock You" sung by 85,000 would be musicians.  The cannon fires.  The run down the hill....the roar was "pawsitively" deafening.....kick-off....and suddenly in only minutes....it ended.  The crowd was out. The Tigers trailed by 17.  Flashback to West Virginia two years ago.  This just was not going to be a Clemson night.  A rattled and possibly injured quarterback.  Skill players way off their game.  Defense gashed for big play after big play.  And an opponent the likes of which we had not seen and were not at all ready for.  Who ever would have thought a freshman quarterback and the grandson of the elegant Jack Nicklaus would combine to be the total undoing of the Tigers in their own den on this day when dreams became nightmares?

We will find out who this Clemson team is next week.  We really wanted to know last.

Dreams die so hard sometimes.....

 

Why Not Believe.......

Lee Corso, how could you not believe....

On this Saturday when not only hundreds of thousands of Tiger faithful but also America's 5th and 8th ranked teams, ESPN's College Gameday, and a national prime time television audience converged at The Valley?  On this Clemson day that started Southern sunny and hot, then turned silver gray with rain and lightning (Thunder and Lightning, maybe?) then just in time for kickoff  became clear, a little less steamy than before, breezy and beautiful with  could it be a pale orange sky? As an aside, I for one was most glad for the clouds and cooling showers, as I had begun to worry that my stick on brassiere was not going to remain....well "stuck on" in the sweltering August heat. 

Lest I digress, on this day when historic Bowman Field, where soldiers once drilled and where Homecoming Floats have for 100 years since welcomed Clemson masses back, turned into a sea of Solid Orange?  On this day when, decades overdue, Danny Ford joined the Clemson Ring of Honor?  On this day when my middle sister, who bleeds just as orange as the other two of us but never, ever wears it showed up in her own orange ensemble....thank you, Janie, for making sure there was at least something orange in Di's wardrobe........Lee, how could you not believe?

There were moments I will admit that made me wonder if the football gods were actually smiling on Clemson....when, for instance,  the stadium announcer brightly announced during Pre-Game festivities that sadly our stadium flag flew at half staff tonight because of a "polling malfunction."  What?  Surely not on this night.

Or when the...no pun intended.... 'cocky' Georgia fans strolled through with signs and decals reading....."They couldn't even protect the rock!"  Even I will have to admit that one was pretty good.....

Or when the inebriated fan three rows back from Pop and Grandmommy's seats, seats on this auspicious day occupied by daughters and a granddaughter, became overly excited and fell four rows forward, taking down the gentleman behind us, my lovely and hopefully future Clemson coed niece, and two young men in front of us in a frightening version of vertical human dominoes,  one after another, row after row, plunging frantically forward.

Or when a live ball bounced frighteningly loose in the Clemson end zone just waiting for a Bulldog to pounce.  Or when a back named Herschel or Gershel or Gurly or something of the sort ran all over our defense.  Or when the Dogs lined up for a tying field goal....

But somehow, even if Lee didn't know it, somehow even if he couldn't find it in himself to believe, on this  day, a coach, a staff, a team, nearly 100,000 of Tiger Nation in the stadium and possibly that many more again in the 'parking lot party' crowded around tailgates and coolers and TV's did.

We knew.  We believed.  Today, tonight, could be special.  And it was. The Tigers  managed to do enough.  Tonight the glow in Death Valley was dee-cidedly orange.... from the famed run down the hill into a Clemson crowd this day worked into a frenzy from the heat and the wait and the moment,  until the final gun sounded, it was something special indeed.

Work to be done?  Absolutely.  A couple of breaks that clearly tonight went Clemson's way.  Yes, indeed.  But, on this day, at this moment in Tigertown, Lee Corso, how could you not believe?