Voodoo Priestess Conjurs Polar Vortex

The Estate Sale ad in the Commercial Appeal promised “Selling Mother’s Things. Attic Emptied. Everything Must Go.”  My friend and I fortified ourselves with early-bird McDonald’s coffee and were certain we’d be first in line for this promising sale.  As we pulled up to the house of treasures, we were excited about a great parking place.  Something was amiss, though. The sign in the yard:  Sale Cancelled.

“Doooo…not…sell…my…things…,” intoned Mama who must have risen up to add some clarity to the situation. Enough said.

It’s been a few years since that adventure with antiques and archeological finds, so many years that I must have forgotten the lesson from Mama, the voodoo priestess. I’m currently researching the possible sale of my mother’s furs. She unloaded the fox stoles belonging to my grandmother, the stoles that had kept my grandmother fashionably warm and me occupied in church during my single-digit years.  It was the chomping mouth hanging on to a fox tail or a little girl’s finger that provided the entertainment.  PETA, forgive me for thinking it quite hilarious and glamorous.

I wore Mother’s coat once (a stroller, it’s called) in a NYC blizzard and felt both quite warm and quite unfashionable. Looking like an “autumn-haze” polar bear cloaked in what Mother purchased in the mid-1980’s, I sported no Coca-Cola smile and felt out of sync with fashion and the eco-friendly world.

 I wonder how much I could get for her stroller and the fitted stole?

A trip to Memphis and a noted furrier explained the racket.  I can’t get squat.  The trade-in venture for a nice stroller-length coat with modern style or a possible remake is a daunting procedure and almost price prohibitive since I don’t play the lottery.  Ebay or Etsy pricing is ridiculously low for these pieces. Driving home, I felt pin pricks. 

I think Mother has decreed what will be. When she moved in with me, she brought two moving vans to Memphis, each loaded with her treasures and family heirlooms. Regardless of the era to which these treasures belonged, heirlooms are not to be sold.

Consideration of such a capitalistic venture calls forth the voodoo priestess who wags her finger and says, “You might be glad you have that coat. What if there’s a polar vortex?”

“Ouch!”

Waiting for Snow

           

Waiting for snow requires patience.

The silence of falling snow is a powdered sugar dream, making all things new and fresh. A silver-white glow radiates across the landscape. Window expanses reveal a frosted field, just as delicious in appearance as ice cream atop a warm dessert.  The white vision, the quiet of a snowy blanket beg for a cup of hot chocolate, topped with whipped cream. 

It'll be worth the wait.

New Year’s Day: Now is the accepted time to make your regular annual good resolutions. Next week, you can begin paving hell with them as usual. (Mark Twain)

              Mother believed my arrival would come a full month earlier:  December, 1948.  I refused, I guess, bullheaded and stubborn within the womb. Instead, I greeted 1949, 13 days in, 1 day after my mother’s own birthday. We share the warm, bright garnet as a birthstone, in contrast to this cold month.

                              The Roman god Janus reigned at the passage between then and yet to be.  His faces, two of them, looked to the past and to the future simultaneously. His name is etched into the Gregorian calendar that we use:  January, the first month of the New Year celebrating opportunity for fresh beginnings.
                    Perhaps it is because I’ve spent the better part of my life with a school calendar that I treasure January.  Shutting down the old and starting up the new is a pattern inherent within school calendars. January boasts opportunity to start anew.
                       I look for opportunity to right the wrongs of yesterday with a chance to get it right “next year.” Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow, according to Albert Einstein(e=mc²).
                   The traditional Southern New Year’s Day meal will be served all day January 1 with ham and cornbread on the side.  White beans with ham, boiled cabbage, black-eyed peas are mainstays each New Year’s Day.

 According to folklore, this Southern tradition dates back to the Civil War, when Union troops pillaged the land, leaving behind such as might be used as animal fodder. Rich in nutrients, these were the humble foods that enabled Southerners to survive. Each dish combines to celebrate a communion bound by grateful hearts and renewed hope for good things yet to come.
                       Today, January 1, 2014. I look back and am grateful. I’ll correct what went awry. No “do-overs” but a chance to “do-right,” or at least better. Being realistic, I rarely make resolutions, for I know my tendency toward weak will-power.  I do, however, plan to learn from yesterday’s goofs and attempt to do a better job regarding health and relationships.
                       When my birthday arrives, I’ll follow the trail blazed by friends’ footsteps, friends whose encouragement will continue to shout that age is just a number.  I will glide gracefully into age 65, displaying that Red, White, and Blue ID the next time I’m “carded.”

Feeding Sons

                 When they were little, I worried if they were getting enough of the “right” food, and milk, and vitamins.  How can PBJ and fish sticks be adequate for healthy, growing boys?
                 

                 Today, they are men at my table. They eat plenty, probably making up for the years of PBJ and fish sticks. Announcing requests – “Can we have chili one night, and chicken casserole, and meat loaf?”  “Can we have BBQ and catfish?” I know their favorites and had planned accordingly.

                 I also watch them interact: as men, as brothers.
                 How they seem to admire each other, how they collaborate and communicate. They are 8 years apart in age, but they relate in a closer way.
                  Feeding sons is an important task, one a mother takes seriously. 
                  Feed them well, but always, with more than food.

Never Too Old: Christmas Stockings

Too old for a stocking? Never.

Apples, Oranges, Candy, and Nuts…(www.pittypatter-pitterpatter.blogspot.com). Not so much the nuts, but the other items were staples in my stocking- with a gi-normous candy cane!

What’s this “stocking stuffer” propaganda encouraging me to fill a stocking with $50 cologne, keys to a Land Rover, and an IPhone 5?

Mother and Daddy would bring us our stockings, first thing! No getting out of bed on Christmas Morning! That’s the rule. Stockings started the festivities and provided a hint of jubilation to follow.  

I did the same for my sons, but they’re men now, and that’s rather creepy. Besides that, they roll their eyes. But, no Scrooge here, they’ll have a stocking on Christmas morning.

This year, the stockings will be hanging, but on the tree, not above the fireplace. Apples and Candy and always Batteries, because they are “not included.”

Problem is, as the recipients have grown, the stockings have not. They are the same ones as always, matching mine from the 1950’s. They tell me that Green goes well with Red on Christmas. How Boring. Stockings should be a creative delight!

My Christmas wish for you: Go forth and stuff stockings-Forever!

Merry Christmas to All and to all, a Good Night!

Ice Dome

Coleridge’s Pleasure Dome of Kubla Khan:

It was a miracle of rare device,	35
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

One cold day freezes into the next.
Sunshine momentarily warms ice droplets, refreezing in saber-tooth jaws.
Hazy-hued dome of white reveals naked branches casting stark on the horizon.
White tomorrows promise rare pleasures Kubla Khan cannot know.

Darth Vader Invades the Sports Universe

            After reading my friend Talya’s Blog post from Grace, Grits, and Gardening about fanatic response to Alabama's defeat, I was motivated to comment. Many  fans breathe in relation to their sports teams victory or defeat. So do the universities, themselves.
            The Sunday morning headlines might acknowledge that the Razorbacks  lost. As a teenager, ups and downs swung radically and any loss was a downer. Sometimes, though, I did not want to get out of bed to face the disappointment: Texas came from behind to win.  Once, a hometown man died of a heart attack in the stands at War Memorial Stadium when Ole Miss got 2 chances to kick an extra point for the win. This was serious football.
                    

Memphis basketball is loaded with the  passion of Louisville, Cincinnati, and Final Four.  Tuesdays and Saturdays focus community attention on each bounce of the ball: victory or defeat.  The city holds its breath when the Tigers take the hardwood. Serious basketball for serious fans.

                Things have become  too charged with fanaticism, gotten out of hand in many respects.  Sports should be a positive enterprise:  competitive fun and economic fuel for a community, university, or state.  In my opinion, however, it hasn't been "just a game" for a very long time. Ask a coach who is fired if he thinks the sport "is just a game."  Check the financial contributions to the university in the name of this "game."  When did sport become so serious?  Young men still in their teens and early twenties are lining up for football or basketball with much more to lose than a game.  And that mentality filters down to babies in uniforms, and their parents. 
                 Taking a game seriously and being a fan-fanatic, in proper perspective, can be exhilarating. But, death threats? I’ve heard news reports of such after the Auburn win over Alabama.
                 Winning and losing.  That's life. We learn to rebound from fender benders or family tragedies and face the next day. People who do not learn to balance life can become bitter and jaded. And make threats that turn our stomachs.

                 Darth Vader must be their father.