Daughters and Doughnuts

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

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

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

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

Cornbread in my Coobie

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hags and Czars

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Poet

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Calling Passenger #26C7D8"

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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