Would You Rather

Would you rather have a wooden nickel or a Yankee dime? For some reason I always thought both terms meant roughly the same thing—fake money. Surprise, surprise! They don’t.

In the United States, a wooden nickel is a wooden token coin, usually issued by a merchant or bank as a promotion, sometimes redeemable for a specific item such as a drink.

A Yankee dime is a quick, innocent kiss. A peck. A child-like term used by/for children in the Southern United States. (More common in countryside-raised, ‘older’ southern families). Often it’s used as payment for a service: “I’ll give you a Yankee dime if you’ll bring me a glass of lemonade.”

Now that I know the difference, I think I’d prefer a Yankee dime to a wooden nickel, but I guess it depends on who’s offering.

My cousin, Effron White wrote a song about a Yankee Dime. I vaguely remember having a conversation with him about the meaning of the phrase back when we were kids. But we never discussed wooden nickels. I’m blaming him for my lack of understanding.

Here’s his song. Enjoy!


Peace, people!

Lay, Lady, Lay

My cousin, Effron White, is an accomplished singer/songwriter in Nashville. He’s also a big Bob Dylan fan, and recently posed the question on Facebook, “What’s your favorite Bob Dylan song?”

I’m not that knowledgeable about Dylan’s body of work, but me being me, I had to weigh in. My choice? Lay, Lady, Lay.

Why? Because it’s one of the sexiest songs ever, and as I attempt to write a light romance novel, I’m in need of some sexy inspiration. The song paints quite a picture. Just close your eyes and listen.

Oh, and check out Effron White at Effronmusic.com.

Peace, people

Beach Combers (reblog)

A vintage photo of my cousin and his friends playing music on the beach inspired me to write this poem a couple of years ago. I’d forgotten about it until today when the photo showed up in his Facebook feed.

Rock on.


Musical Oasis 

After driving over 1100 miles I reached our daughter’s home in Rapids City, IL, a small town situated on the banks of the mighty Mississippi. I always think I’ll come up with a better adjective for this father of American rivers, but nothing suits it quite as well.

I guess we could say HUGE, but thanks to the current presidential elections the H word is so overworked. And it fails the alliteration test, so there’s that.

Last night I stayed at a dump of an inn in Nashville, Tennessee. I might’ve slept for three hours. But earlier in the evening I did get to go visit with my cousin, singer/songwriter Effron White who hosted a songwriter’s round at the Millennium Maxwell House. It was the first time in a decade that we were able to hang out.

The evening’s company and entertainment more than made up for a poor night’s rest. In fact, since I couldn’t sleep I just played all the songs back in my head. 


Effron and me and some groovy catsup.
I’m not even going to try and tag these guys. They were a talented bunch.

More photos from the evening. I was blown away by the level of talent in the room.


 Check out one of Effron’s songs as performed by Phil Lancaster. I just love the French introduction! 

Peace, people!


I’m a souvenir junkie. Last week when we were motorcycling in northwestern Arkansas I picked up this little piece. Its elegant plastic curves embellished with the aggressive Razorback mascot of The University of Arkansas just screams “class!” Don’t you agree?

Tequila Mockingbird

Remember the old antacid commercials where an actor would say something along the lines of, “I like tamales, but they don’t like me?” Then the camera would show said actor’s face turning green and his tummy rolling in that special effects thing they do. Well, that’s the relationship I had with tequila. Except that tequila felt more than a dislike for me. It was more of an “I hate you, stupid old woman, and you should die a painful gut-wrenching death” kind of emotion.

I’ve had several run-ins with tequila, but one of the most notable occurred the year I turned 50. To celebrate my milestone birthday I decided to embark on a solo motorcycle trip from our home near Champaign, Illinois, to our son’s home in Dallas. Now, to me that was a big deal. I know other women who have made major solo trips, but I’m not an adventurous woman. I’m a “stay home and read a good book about adventurous women” woman.

It took all of my courage to mount my bike and head down the interstate that summer morning in 2006, but I did it and soon relaxed and enjoyed the ride. I’d divided the route into a three day/two night expedition with the second of those two nights to be spent in Fayetteville, Arkansas. My cousin is a singer/songwriter who was living there at the time, and I planned to spend an evening at a restaurant listening to him perform.

The restaurant served good Mexican food and even better frozen margaritas. I sat with my cousin’s wife and daughter, and we chatted while listening to the mellow music as we ate and drank and then drank some more. I was feeling happy. So very happy. And so glad I’d taken a cab from my hotel to the venue. At the end of the evening we parted ways and my cousin dropped me off at the hotel. Good times. Until, they weren’t.

I knew I was in trouble when the automatic doors at the hotel seemed to be moving up and down instead of back and forth. Whoa! That was a new one. Somehow I got them to hold still long enough for me to lurch into the lobby and on to the elevator, even though the lines in the carpet kept rising up to greet me. I successfully found my room and slid the key card into the door. Always a stickler for cleanliness, I washed my face, brushed, and even flossed my teeth before falling into bed. In retrospect, such a waste of time.

Anyone who has ever had too much to drink knows exactly what happened next. Whee! The bed started a raucous spin, less like a carousel, more like a tilt-a-whirl. Oh, and I knew the worst was about to happen. Frantically I scrambled out of bed, one hand clasped over my mouth. I made it to the bathroom, but then the dam broke. And it was Hoover Dam. A damn big dam.

The worst part was my dam burst onto my toiletries bag, and I spent a good half hour cleaning it up. I took a shower and went to bed which had been tamed considerably by then. When I packed up the next morning I felt like I’d been in a wrestling match with a large, scared skunk. I stuffed everything into my bike’s storage compartment and headed down the road.

The last leg of my trip from Fayetteville to Dallas was brutal. I was riding severely hungover in 104 degree heat through dusty, dirty, windy Oklahoma. Think blast furnace. At one point I called Studly and confessed my sins. I desperately wanted him to say, “honey, you stay right there and I’ll come get you.” Instead, he laughed uproariously, called me a knothead and said something about hoping I’d learned a valuable lesson. He was right of course. ;#^;@$%#!

At the end of that very long day, when I unpacked my bike, the smell that rose from my corrupted toiletries bag had me gagging anew. It seems that drunken cleaning is little better than no cleaning at all. Oh, the humanity!

I’d like to say I never had another drink of tequila ever again, but I’d be lying. I can truthfully say, though, that I don’t drink it anymore. Maybe wisdom does come with age. Yes! Finally something about aging to celebrate. I’ll make another solo trip one day, maybe to celebrate my 60th birthday in a couple of years, but neither Jose Cuervo nor any of his ilk will be invited to tag along. Good riddance.

Oh, here’s a clip of my cousin Effron White, singing one of my favorite songs, “Yankee Dime.”

Peace, People.

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