Not Just Any Man

He was my daddy, and I was his little girl. Not biologically, but in every way that mattered. I don’t remember when he came into my life, I just know that he was always there when it mattered. According to my mother, I had Daddy wrapped around my little finger from the moment we met. Again, I don’t remember that. I just remember enjoying every moment I spent with him.

One of my earliest memories is of a time that Daddy and I drove together to a football game in Amarillo. From the age of four, I was Daddy’s football watching buddy. He taught me about first downs and illegal blocks, quarterback sneaks and Hail Mary passes. Living in small town Texas we were avid fans of the the local high school team, the Floydada Whirlwinds. We seldom, if ever, missed a game. Usually, we attended as a family, but on this occasion Mom stayed home in protest, saying it was too cold.

I vividly remember the drive to the game. I was standing in the seat next to Daddy (we used the old “parental arm” method of child safety restraint back then). Snow was falling in huge flakes, covering the road and making it hard for us to see. To keep me occupied, Daddy taught me to watch the odometer so I could count off the miles to Amarillo. Pretty soon, I could pinpoint a mile with my eyes closed. It seemed like a really long distance! According to family legend when we got to the game everyone was amazed that he’d brought me with him, driving into one of the worst storms in memory. My Nanny and Grandaddy were there and I snuggled into the warmth of my family to watch the Whirlwinds win. I don’t remember the cold, just the love.

Daddy managed the Piggly Wiggly grocery store in Floydada for many years. As soon as I was old enough I’d walk to the store–we only lived a couple of blocks away–to see Daddy and spend my allowance money. I got the hefty sum of $1 a week, coincidentally one could buy a 45 rpm record at Piggly Wiggly for 99 cents at the time, so I had quite the collection. No matter what he was doing, Daddy would stop and give me a hug and a kiss. If he wasn’t terribly busy he’d ask me to tag along. I got to go behind the swinging doors to smell the fresh produce as it came in. I got to watch the butchers cut meat with the huge slicer. I got to be part of his world.

That world continued to turn. Daddy had his own store for awhile, but when that didn’t pan out we moved to Dumas. The Piggly Wiggly chain closed its stores in Texas and Mom and Dad moved to Canyon and then several years later, to Abilene. My brothers and I had all grown up, moved away, and started our own families. Life was as it should be.

Then we lost Mom to cancer. After Mom passed away Daddy’s life changed dramatically. He was still working, so he could take some memorable trips. He took one to California to spend time with his sisters. He traveled to our home in Kansas and to the homes of my brothers. He’d take off and head to the casinos on occasion.

Daddy and I went to Ruidoso, New Mexico, one weekend for the most fun I’ve ever had losing money. I’d driven from Kansas to see him, and I hadn’t been at his tiny apartment for longer than 15 minutes before he said, “Sis, you want to go to the casino?” So off we went. Daddy hit a hot streak at the blackjack table while I lost at slots. Every now and then I’d wander by his table and he’d hand me a stack of chips that I’d pocket. He decided I was the best gambling partner he’d ever had since he actually took home some money. He took me to the horse races and told me I bet just like my mom, code for, “you aren’t very good at this,” but again he won some money and said I could gamble with him any time. That was high praise, indeed.

Then the grocery store Daddy had been working for closed with no advance notice. Studly invited him to move in with us. Our kids were grown by then and we’d been transferred to Florida. We had plenty of room and sunshine year round. Yet he declined. He didn’t want to be in the way. Finally Studly insisted. Daddy was sick and really needed to be closer to family. So, we had Daddy with us.

Those were great years. Daddy and I got to know each other as adults. He told me stories about his Navy days that left me speechless. Stories I cannot repeat here. Great Stories. He and Studly played golf as long as Daddy was able, and even after his COPD no longer allowed him to play he’d hang out in the garage and create the perfect bag of clubs for a particular course.

Studly earned a nice promotion that prompted Daddy to call him The Director, from that point on, and was transferred to Illinois, so while Studly worked, Daddy and I explored our new state. I started doing some substitute teaching and Daddy hung out around the house. He had his daily routines and a nice little pickup truck, but he spent a lot of time sitting on our front porch and interacting with our neighbors. No matter where he went, he made friends. And we got to talk. We still enjoyed our football games and he’d still make an occasional run to the casino in Peoria, but his lung disease was getting the best of him.

His last days were spent in the hospital. We had made arrangements for hospice care, and on the day before we were to take him home, he perked up dramatically. He and my brother Kelly and I had the best day. We talked and made plans. We reminisced and laughed. When Kelly stepped out of the room to take a call, Daddy said to me, “Sis, in case I forget to tell you, I really had a great time with you and your brother today.”

That night he had a stroke and he passed away the next evening. Today would have been his birthday. My Daddy, my love. I miss him every day.

Peace and Love, People.

Only The Lonely

Last week I gave out my email address to a complete stranger. Oh, we’d stood next to one another in the checkout line at Publix, but I don’t even know her first name. It started with a D. Dianne? Denise? Desiderata? Surely I’d have remembered that one.

Lonely people do odd things, like speaking to ourselves and answering our own questions out loud. “What do you think of this shirt?” “Nice, but it might be a little tight.” “You think so?” “Yea.” All me. All true.

We say odd things to waiters: “Is this the only menu you have?” “I really like your Muzak!” “Yeehaw, this is good!” Ok, I made that last one up.

We make odd observations aloud: “Hey, you have really cool ankles!” “I wish I had your cowlick!” “Today’s gonna be a good day!”

We try to make eye contact with people who look to be in our general age range, give or take 30 years. Yesterday I got into a meaningful conversation with a nice lady over a shoe sale at Dillards. I really think we could’ve been best friends, but then the woman’s great-great granddaughter gave me a look of pity before wheeling her out of my range.

Now, I’ve always been odd. Being lonely just amplifies it. Honestly, I like my own company, but it would be nice to have someone to hang out with at the beach or to go shopping with while Studly plays golf.

That’s all for now. I think myself and I will go to Goodwill. Lots of nice people there.

Peace, People

One Should Never Ever…

Binge watch “Criminal Minds” when one’s spouse is out of town.

Eat a double helping of refried beans before bedtime.

Text while driving.

Text while drunk.

Make small talk with crazy people.

Return to the scene of a crime.

Investigate things that go bump in the night.

Look when someone tells you not to look.

Take a sedative after eating prunes.

Spit into the wind.

Spit, period, unless the dental hygienist tells you to.

Pass gas in an elevator.

Piss off a grandmother.

Forget that all babies are beautiful in their Momma’s eyes.

Cut one’s own bangs with cuticle scissors.

Get a fit of the giggles at a funeral.

Wear hole-y underwear.

Dancing With My Grandaddy

There are people in our lives who we realize early on are so central to our well-being that if we should lose them we would struggle to go on. My Grandaddy was one of those people. He was a tall, straight-talking Texan. Square of jaw and handsome in the John Wayne mold, he was the first man I ever loved.

When I was very young, my mother and biological father divorced and she and I lived with her parents, my Grandaddy and Nanny, for a time. I know this was a very difficult living arrangement for Mom, but for me, it was heaven. As the only grandchild I was spoiled rotten by three adults. Yes, pure, unadulterated heaven.

I remember tagging along with Grandaddy to early morning coffee. We’d sit with the local farmers, ranchers, and assorted businessmen who gathered daily at Leonard’s Cafe to solve the problems of the county. Standing up in the booth beside Grandaddy, I thought I was a grown up. He’d ask my opinion and listen with respect. After coffee we would go to the Fina station he owned, where I manned the counter and tried to stay out of the way. I’d go with him to the bank and he’d let me make the deposit. I really thought I worked for him.

Grandaddy smelled like Cigars and Old Spice. He smelled like home and safety and love. There was no place on earth like his lap.

Eventually my mom remarried giving me my Daddy, the second man I ever loved, but that’s a tale for another day. My brothers came along, my mom’s siblings had children, and soon I was no longer the only grandchild. But here’s the best part. Grandaddy’s lap could magically accommodate as many grandchildren as were present. And he managed to make each of us feel special.

I asked my brothers and my cousins to volunteer their favorite memories of Grandaddy:

“I remember when he had a comb-over and got caught in a gust of wind. I thought that was the funniest thing. He and Nanny, along with the chamber of commerce came to Houston, Jack brought them all to Gilleys. We had so much fun. That’s when I discovered how hip they really were. We went to lake Sommerville, his car broke down and Bubba fixed it. From then on he thought Bubba hung the moon. I think about him all the time and wish he was here to see all our grand babies. What a legacy he started!”. –Crystal.

The smell of his tobacco, his wisdom, his wit, sitting in his lap when i was little, the way he only had to look at me with those Jarrett eyes and I knew i better think twice before i did what I was thinking..lol, so much more….but most of all.. when he and nanny came to houston with uncle jack, Richard, mom, and a few more, we were somewhere that had a dance floor, and Granddaddy and I danced (waltzed) to “Waltz across Texas with you”, something I will never forget! He was a great man and I miss him and Nanny both everyday of my life. –Trena

When he and Kelly and I went to Ruidoso and stayed in the trailer and I fell in the creek and was afraid my “dollars” wouldn’t be any good anymore!! And as Trena said his smell!!!! I miss that most I think???Brent

He let me “drive” his gas truck. By drive, I mean he let me sit in his lap and hold the steering wheel while he drove but I sure thought I was driving! –Kelly

I never did get to dance with my Grandaddy. I wish I had, but for some reason, the opportunity never arose. We thought we had forever with him, but then he was diagnosed with a malignant melanoma. He fought for eight long painful years, but the cancer stole his spirit long before it took his life. In those last years he was just a shadow of the strong, larger than life man who’d held each of us on his lap.

The Grandaddy of my youth still visits my dreams now and then. In them he is robust and handsome, and he smells like cigars and Old Spice. When he asks me to dance, I always say yes.

Peace, People.

Shopping Lust

I’ve heard it said that in the heat of battle a warrior falls prey to battle lust, ignoring injuries and damning consequences. This intense involvement in the fight allows him to soldier on until the adrenaline fades and he has either won, or lost, the day. Shopping can be a lot like that. Really.

You see, we’ve needed bedding for awhile now, and every time I’m in a department store I venture into the rows of pretty comforters and quilts hoping to find just the right thing, in the right color, at the right price. We have one of those huge king beds that requires oversize bedding. When one purchases a comforter, bed skirt, decorative pillows, and shams the cost can be considerable. Some I looked at cost more than my first car. No joke.

Today I found a sale. A glorious bedding sale at Macy’s. Fifty percent off select styles. Note the word “select.” Now, I’m not one for buying a matched set when it comes to bedding. I like to mix it up. The sales lady and I were running around her department like Vikings caught up in our glorious battle. Soon I’d found a great coverlet in an extra large size. She spotted some shams and pillows and I scored the bed skirt. We laid them out and and gloated over our finds, reveling in our shopping prowess. I might have raised my hands in drunken victory. It was all so darned pretty!

We chatted merrily as Melva (we became quite good friends) rang it all up. I paid with my credit card. We congratulated ourselves some more. Then I carried all of my purchases out of the mall and to my car. Happily I began driving away.

That’s when the shopping lust faded and reality set in. I’d spent how much? I pulled over at the Sonic drive in and ordered a large diet cherry limeade to calm me down. I dug through my purse to find my receipt. Of all the things I’d bought, only one, the deep purple decorative pillow, was “select.” Blinded by shopping lust I forgot to look for “select.” Damn “select!”

So, what do I do? Drive home and explain to Studly that I was overcome by lust and it’ll never, ever happen again? Return everything and look for “select” styles? Maybe I should sleep on it. After all, I have new bedding.

Peace, People!

Now That’s One Fine Looking Zombie

If you could see my Kindle library you might note a significant number of books totally devoted to the macabre, and a large subset dealing with the subject of Zombies. Zombies are the new black. They’re everywhere–in literature, movies, television, behind shrubbery, probably lurking around the next corner ready to eat whatever brains I have left.

Yesterday I watched an awful B movie called “Diary of a Zombie.” Did I mention it was awful? Yet, I watched every minute with my feet tucked up in my chair to prevent any skulking members of the walking dead from feasting on my prettily painted toenails. I once watched 45 minutes of an exercise infomercial because without my glasses on I mistook the title “Zumba!” for “Zombie!”

Presently I’m reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies a reworking of Jane Austen’s classic tale with a liberal sprinkling of zombies added in. A die-hard Austen fan might be horrified to find the sisters of the Longbourn family as accomplished in warfare against the “unfortunate scourge” as they are in the arts of needlepoint and the playing of the pianoforte, but I am delighted. Author Seth Grahame-Smith’s novel is soon to be made into a movie, and I cannot wait to watch Elizabeth Bennet singlehandedly dispatch a variety of zombies including the caroling Hellford family who have become “unmentionables” due to some unfortunate circumstance.

Three of my favorite books in the zombie genre (zombre?) are World War Z by Max Brooks, a much more satisfying read than the movie might lead one to believe; Scott Kenemore’s Zombie, Ohio: A Tale of the Undead; and Patient Zero by Jonathan Maberry. Have a desire to mix tales of zombies and superheroes? Then try the Ex-Heroes series by Peter Clines. Google, “Zombie Books List” for more titles than any zombie loving geek (should we be “zeeks”?) can read in a year.

No brief discussion of zombies in current pop culture would be complete without a mention of “The Walking Dead.” Even my non-zeek spouse is into the popular AMC series. I’ve almost convinced him we need to plant pointy stakes around the perimeter of our home, but he has no intention of buying me a crossbow.

Chances are I will never encounter an actual zombie. And that’s a really good thing. So, why am I, and so many like me, fascinated by the walking dead? I’ve read some research that points to an increased interest in zombie literature during times of widespread financial depression. In a way, this makes sense. After all, what lifts one spirits more than fantasizing about the dead rising from the grave in order to stalk and devour the living? Truly, an “it could always be worse” mentality. Maybe zombie stories are a way of dealing with our own mortality. “Hey, being dead could be fun! Come eat some nice intestines!”

In any case, I’m ready for zombies should they ever become a reality. My brains are filled with all sorts of nutritious grey matter and my best run is more of a fast limp. They’ll love me almost as much as I love them.

Peace, People!

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Gorenado

Imagine, if you will, the running of the bulls in Pamplona, Spain. Suddenly, a storm of epic proportions descends on the cobble stone streets. Encased within, the makings of a mighty funnel cloud barreling along and scooping up everything in its path. Angry bulls, frightened runners, petrified spectators, toreadors, picadors, and matadors enveloped in a…Gorenado!

Several days later and thousands of miles away, in Great Bend, Kansas, a group of students enjoy their after lunch recess on the playground of a small elementary school. On duty staff notice a shift in the winds and begin calling the students to wrap up their play. Darkness rapidly descends and rain drops the size of mushrooms speed the children on their way to safety.

A lone librarian rushes to assist a kindergartener who has fallen in the rush when from the sky drops a raging bull, head lowered, ready to charge. The librarian places the child behind her and they begin backing away from the bovine. The bull snorts and paws the earth. There is no way for the librarian to get the child to safety in time. Death seems imminent. Until a mighty matador descends from the cloud, waving his cape and diverting attention from the woman and her charge.

With the bull’s focus on the brave matador, the librarian scoops the frightened child into a protective embrace and runs for safety. The students and staff have gathered at the cafeteria windows to watch wide-eyed as the matador sweeps the bull under his cape of crimson. The librarian especially cannot take her eyes from the skilled Spaniard. When the bull is calmed and subdued through a variety of humanitarian maneuvers, the matador secures the now docile animal to a basketball goal.

The librarian rushes out to thank her savior, her emerald green eyes glistening with unshed tears of gratitude.

“Thank you, sir. You surely saved my life and the life of the child.”

“Que?”

Realizing the handsome matador knew no English, the librarian said the only thing she could, “Gracias! Gracias, señor!”

He bowed and took her small, white hand into his large tan one, planting a gentle kiss on her dainty knuckles. In the background, the bull snorted contentedly.

Would love follow for our librarian and her matador? Would more bulls drop onto the Kansas plains wreaking havoc and spurring desire? Would gorenados supplant sharknados as the new scourge of the earth? Questions that can be answered only in “Gorenado 2; It Only Hurts When I Sneeze.”

Peace, People!

No Bucket

There will be no bucket kicking for me when the time comes. Instead, I’ll be flinging a champagne flute and relishing the sound of breaking glass as I bid adieu to this life. All the same, I do have a list of things I’d like to do before my final day on earth. Thus…

My Champagne Flute List

1. Walk the runway in a fashion show. I’m not picky, either. Walmart, Kmart, I’m ready to strut in style.

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2. Score backstage passes for any of the following acts:
A) Huey Lewis and the News (yes, they’re old, but I still have a tremendous crush on Huey)
B) Katy Perry (she fascinates me)
C) The Rolling Stones (of course)
D) Sir Paul (duh)

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3. Sing in a rock and roll band. Preferably my own, but I’m open to suggestions.

4. Learn to play drums. Studly refuses to cooperate on this one. I can’t imagine why.

5. Tour Europe with a group of friends. None of those 10 countries in 11 days tours, either. I want a leisurely, relaxed tour with lots of wine and beer.

6. Take each of my grandchildren on individual, no holds barred expeditions to a destination of their choosing.

7. Spend a week at a spa with my daughter–one of those exclusive, all-inclusive places where we can relax and recover and talk.

8. Enjoy a drive through wine country with my son while listening to podcasts.

9. Corral my brothers and their families, my cousins and their families, and my children and grandchildren for a much needed family reunion.

10. Attend a Super Bowl with Studly, preferably with the Cowboys representing the NFC. Okay, any team. It doesn’t look like Jerry Jones plans on selling the team or hiring a real GM any time soon, and I’m not getting any younger.

11. Publish a novel and go on a major book tour.

I really need to start working on these. Cough. Cough. Another glass of wine, please.

Peace, People!

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(Un)Reality TV

So-called reality tv might just be the end of civilization as we know it. Who comes up with these ideas and why haven’t I been approached to star in one? I thought it might be fun to brainstorm some truly realistic programming. Feel free to add your own.

1) Real Couch Potatoes of North Florida
In this gripping show we’ll follow several middle aged women as they trek between bedroom and den and back again while simultaneously surfing the internet for shoe bargains. Look for spinoffs in places such as North Texas and North Dakota.

2) American Cat People
Assorted cat lovers will go through a series of auditions demonstrating their extreme interest in felines. Once the field has been whittled to 12 participants, viewers will vote each week until a winner is declared. First place gets a million dollar’s worth of catnip and an industrial strength pet hair removal tool.

3) Honey Muumuu
Follow the hilarious exploits of hula prodigy Honey Muumuu and her wacky family as they travel from one luau to another in a quest for fame based on an absolute dearth of talent and good taste.

4) American Tickers
Two guys with pacemakers go door to door looking for old microwave ovens.

5) Pawn Bars
Set in Las Vegas, New Mexico, this show highlights a pawn shop owning family in The Land of Enchantment as they drown their sorrows in a variety of local drinking establishments. Underling Bum Lee is especially captivating as the lovable loser with the wit and wisdom of a discarded gum wrapper.

6) Millionaire Matchmaker
I know, there’s already a show with this title, but in this iteration folks with a net worth in excess of a million dollars will actually be forced to work in a factory and learn to make matches.

7) Gassed and Proud
A group of strangers, all suffering from excessive flatulence will drive cross country in a 60’s era Volkswagon van to publicize, and potentially eradicate, the stigma of farting in public. At the end of their journey, the van will be auctioned off for charity.

8) Undercover Boss
In this version of the popular tv show, randomly selected employees discover that they’ve actually been sleeping with their employer for one entire pay period. Performance reviews take on a whole new meaning.

9) Judge Moody
Litigants will face off in a courtroom presided over by a judge suffering from extreme PMS. Expect judgements favoring decapitation and death by strangulation for even the pettiest of crimes.

10) Celebrity Knife Swap
D list celebrities feign interest in all things knife-related in this blatant attempt to jump start their dormant careers. Knife throwing and sharpening contests liven up this rather dull offering.

If any of these get picked up by a major network I’d like to volunteer for numbers 1 and 2 and to nominate Studly for #7. He’s a shoe-in.

Peace, People!