Dear Chris, It's 9-11...

September 10, 2018

I think you wrote "My future's so bright...I gotta wear shades."

Dear Chris,

     It's been a year and a half since you left us, a year and a half since I heard your voice, a year and a half since you made me laugh, a year and a half since you saw something on the news about Alabama and you called me to see if I knew the person in the article (usually I knew them or was one degree away).  It's been a year and a half since I lost one of the best friends I've ever had.  It's been a year and a half since I said "Chriyyyyyaaasssss…say "Fuhgettaboutit"  and I laughed hysterically.

     I keep up with your boys via social media and I wonder every day how they get through without the center of their family- the person who held it all together- the guy who raised half of the neighborhood.  
     I wonder if they know how stressed you were raising them on your own or if they have a clue how many sets of dishes you bought that just kept disappearing in your house.  I remember the day you said you made everyone clean out their rooms, under their beds and closets, and you found baskets of socks and underwear and way too many dishes to fit into your cabinets. You said you'd just kept buying more socks, more underwear, and more dishes. I laughed so hard that day listening to your cleaning antics that I cried.

     I think about the days that followed 9-11, especially the first day you went back to work in Midtown.  I remember you calling me and saying "Can you just stay on the phone with me until I get there?  I am hearing ambulances and police cars and I am scared."  Scared?  You'd never been scared of anything in your life.   You're from Brooklyn, you're a New Yorker.  But that day, I could hear your voice quiver and I knew that 9-11 is not something you could just put behind you.  You couldn't just move on with your life without that being such a big part of you.  It changed you.

    I wonder how you kept your wits about you to help navigate five people down 90 floors, through jet fuel, sheetrock dust, debris, and God only knows what else you inhaled that day.  I wonder how you closed your eyes at night without hearing the thuds of bodies hitting the ground.  How did you sleep that first year without seeing people fall from the towers to keep from burning?  I don't know how you made it through every day and kept your crap together, but you did, and I still can't comprehend how you did that.

     Some days I wonder if that's what happened to your heart, 9-11?  I know you smoked more than you should have and, like me, you enjoyed eating junk food way more than you should have.  I wonder if your heart broke a little bit that day?  And as reality set in, I wonder if it broke just a little bit more every day until it finally couldn't take anymore.

     I am so grateful that you took me on a personal tour of the memorial.   I am so thankful that I had the opportunity to walk through it with you and have a slice downtown that day.  We found a coke that had your name on it, like it was a fated visit.  I had no idea it would be the last time I would see you.

       I cannot believe that you let that dang steamroller hit my rental car in your neighborhood and then you called me a bad driver?  All the way to Manhattan, all you could say was "It's not my fault you backwoods Alabama hillbillies can't drive in Brooklyn." 

     What was crazier is that the rental company said nothing when I returned it and said that I'd been hit- he just said "Look lady, it's New York. We don't check for scratches, okay?  Now, get outta here."

    I remember the year you were working in World Trade I,  and I sent your birthday present wrapped in hot pink paper, in a Keds shoe box- little girls, size 10.  The guys you worked with gave you hell, I knew they would.  When Ashley Banfield would report from the Fresh kills landfill on the news, I always looked for that pink box you had saved and had passed around your office as a joke.  We were probably the only people laughing in the entire World Trade Center Museum, because you said "Look, I've already been here and I have to tell you the bad news... the damned pink shoe box didn't make it, okay? Do not be disappointed."  

     You were a good friend to me.  One of the only people in the world who knew all of my secrets and never judged, never criticized,  and just told me straight.  Once you told me I was spoiled and that I expected too much from people, and I never forgot it.  You being you, you followed up your salty commentary by telling me that I gave a lot back-that I was a good wife and a great mom- so it was okay for me to expect a lot. I needed to hear that at that particular time in my life, all of it.  

     You always knew what to say to shock me back into reality when things were total crap. I never would have made it through 1998 without your friendship after my Grandfather died.  You were a sounding board and a great friend.  I bet we cried ten million tears together and laughed that many more times.

     You got a bad deal because of 9-11.  Your company moved, downsized, and you became collateral damage- in so many ways.  You never gave up hope, though, and that is the Chris we all loved- the eternal optimist, the comedian, the friend who was loyal until the very last morning you took your very last breath.

     I will never think of 9-11 without thinking of the day I thought we'd lost you, and then remember the January 16th, when we truly did lose you.  I hope you are flying high and will never have to worry about this world again.  Until I see you on the other side, rest well my friend.  You are missed.  Every day, you are missed.  You, you are an American hero- or at least the closest thing to one I will ever meet in this lifetime.  It was a privilege of my life knowing you and an even greater one calling you friend.

Until I see you on the other side,

Thankful for the life of one of my best friends in the world today, Chris Egan.

September 11, 2014

Thirteen years ago today, I was in my home office, when my husband (then fiance') called me from Troy, Alabama, to tell me that the World Trade Center had been hit by a plane.  He asked me "Which building is your friend Chris in?" I said "He's in World Trade One."  Jimbo said "Pray, because it hit around the 90th floor...and it doesn't look good."  

Chris worked on the 90th floor of WTC 1. I immediately ran and turned on MSNBC in time to see the second plane hit, while frantically trying to dial Chris's work number and cell phone.  What was weird about the timing, is that we talk almost every morning around that time- nine o'clock- always have.  Chris was really excited about the newly opened Krispy Kreme doughnuts in the food court, and I was praying that he was downstairs getting a hot glazed doughnut.  Phone lines were down and jammed all over Manhattan, and I couldn't get through, not to mention the cell tower on WTC 1 was damaged.

He worked for an international bank at the time, so I called his home office in Luxembourg, thinking that they would have  a contact for everyone there.  They informed me that Chris had made it down to the plaza with five others, but that someone thought they saw him go back inside the building to help.  They believed he was dead. I refused to believe it, and knew that if ANYONE could make it out, he could.  He smokes,  and always illegally smoked in the stairwell on the 90th floor.  I knew that he knew ALL of the exits.

My daughter, now a registered nurse, was in elementary school.  I picked her up from school, and we went straight to the Red Cross to give blood- believing that there would be survivors who would need blood.  We sat with hundreds of others also there to give blood, as we watched the horrific scenes replayed over and over on the big screen television on the wall.  

With strangers, we watched the President's address.  It was surreal.  Strangers were there together, crying and hugging one another.  People from all backgrounds and socio-economic statuses were there to truly give of themselves, to give their blood to hope and make a difference. In  Alabama, so far away,  we didn't know what else to do...and I think most people were desperate to do something, anything.  

It was 2am before it was my turn to roll up my sleeve, and the nurse couldn't find a vein.  I remember telling him "Then you'd better get a ziplock and an x-acto blade, because my friend is in that tower and you are getting some of my blood tonight!"  Finally, another tech came over and found the vein.  The Red Cross didn't close that night- they worked all night long in the Birmingham Southside office.

I called every hospital in Manhattan looking for Chris.  I called the make-shift morgue that the Port Authority had set up in New Jersey at a park, thinking that they would have so many bodies to process, yet they had hardly none.  I emailed every person on every email he had every forwarded me, hoping that someone knew where he was and had heard from one answered.  

I called the police precincts and a cop with a heavy Brooklyn accent took my number and was so kind to call me back and check to see if I had found my friend days later.  It was a frantic search that lasted for days via telephone that ended in no information to be had until Friday.

On September14th, I received a call from Luxembourg informing me that they had been in touch with Chris, and that he was indeed alive, and to tell me that he would call as soon as he could get a phone line out, because the phone lines were still so jammed.  I talked to him on the 16th, and it was the best phone call I have ever gotten in my life.  Never had I been so glad to hear my friend's voice on the other end of the line.

Chris is like a brother to me.  We became friends in 1998 shortly after my Grandfather died and he was the best friend a person could have when going through something like that.  We still talk every day and have shared every part of our lives from his divorce, to crazy stories about our children, dating and marriage, career decisions, home purchases, the whole nine yards. 

He has a new love, Karen, and they are so happy. He has such a full, wonderful life.  He has four beautiful children who would have been devastated that day, had he not returned.  One of his sons watched it all on television, while a boy at school kept saying to him "Your daddy's dead...your daddy's dead."   Chris said that for days his son, Timmy, wouldn't let go of him.

I am thankful to still have my friend with us and that I know God still has great plans for his life.  I am thankful that his children weren't orphaned that day.  I am thankful that he lived so that Karen could have the love that he has in his heart showered into her life.  With all of that being said, I cannot fathom what the families who lost their Dad, Husband, Grandfather, Mother, Wife, Grandmother, Sister, Brother, Best friend, Fiance', Neighbor, Son, Daughter, or Co-worker, went through that day and the weeks following.

My heart breaks for them all, and I vow to NEVER FORGET.
The outpouring of love in the days that followed 9-11, were like the days in Alabama following the tornadoes.  I wish that it didn't take a terrorist attack or a natural disaster for us to all truly show the love that is in all of our hearts to one another on a daily basis.  As we mourn for the dead, and celebrate the living, let's try to love one another a little more.



And the People said "Amen!".

September 6, 2018

It was July 1978,  and hotter than a six shooter.  My cousin Jason and I had made our usual escape into Pa Julian’s 1971 red Maverick immediately following Sunday school. It had snuff running down the side of it and probably hadn’t been washed since Pa bought it and the Maverick was six years old.  I was six that summer, just like the Maverick, and was spending most of the summer in Bradley, Alabama,  while my mother was completing her work contract in Daytona Beach, Florida.

I loved summers in Bradley at Bigmama’s and Pa’s house.  Bigmama played the piano like a drunk Jerry Lee Lewis trying to get right, and Pa didn’t believe in all of that Pentecostal carrying on, so he went to Sunday school, only,  and then broke the hell out of there like any good Baptist would.  He said that his daddy was a preacher, he’d gone to preaching every day at Mount Berry College in Mount Berry, Georgia, and he’d even run a revival once in Florida, so he didn’t need any more church.  Betty never fussed.

We knew like clockwork that Julian would be heading to the Maverick once preaching commenced.   Jason and I hid in the floorboard of the snuff covered car full of fish guts, worm hooks, and empty snuff cans. We hunched down in the back, giggling, and were forced to hold our noses the entire way home.  Pa pretended not to notice us, but he knew we were there.

When we arrived at home, about a half a mile around the curve in the road, we popped up to let Pa know that we were stowaways.  Like every time that we  had done it before, Julian said….”Look at you sorry bunch of hacklebacks!  Betty is gonna tan yore hide when she sees you youngins.”  We laughed, changed into our swim suits, and then headed down to the creek, across the street from the house. 

We’d been down there about ten minutes when the cars started down the red dirt road hill.  One after the other they came down and out poured the ladies in dresses, and the men in short sleeved dress shirts with pocket protectors and clip on ties.  Betty and her green Malibu were in the lineup.  OH LORD!  When we saw her climb out of the car in her Thelma Harper polyester dress, and her support stockings that connected to her girdle and garters, we immediately remembered what had been announced at church.  It was baptism Sunday!

The next thing you know...

The next thing you know, we were making a fast decision about what to do next.  Jason was 10, so he was always bossing me. Boojee and Jennifer were with us that Sunday and they were older and made the executive decision to hide We knew that if were caught "half-naked" at the creek in front of the church people- especially us girls- that Betty would take us down to Fly Flap City and  break at least three fly flaps on us.  She had quite a collection.

We ran out of the creek and hid in the trees on the other side in  he woods and watched the baptisms.  We almost went down and crossed the creek further up, and were going to sneak up to the house without ever been seen, but it was too deep, so we remained. Figuring if we could wait out the baptisms until everyone was gone, we could sneak back up the hill and go in the side door without being noticed.  By then, Bigmama would be putting dinner on the table, but we never made it to the side door before she saw us.

I don't remember anything ever taking longer in that baptism in my entire life, until Aretha Franklin's funeral last week.  Seems like when you go swimming, the minute you get wet and have a swimsuit on, you have to pee.  We were freezing wet, and we needed to pee.  On top of trying to be still, quiet, and invisible, we had to pee and were doing a rain dance in our minds while biting our purple shivering lips.

Joe and Rufus and Thomas Earle were in the creek with the people being baptized. There were a lot of hallelujahs in the air that day.  Rube Timothy was standing on the creek bank praying and smiling that huge smile of his.  That little man could pray, Lord, could he pray!  

One after the other, the baptism candidates came to the water to wash away their sins, but it didn't stop there.  Shouting commenced, hands were raised, arms were waving and everyone was praying down heaven.  The Holy Ghost had apparently come to party, because Bigmama stood on the creek bank praying and speaking in tongues for what seemed like forever, I mean forever.  

We knew Bigmama would be the last one out of there and figured once she was done, we could stealthily head back to the house and blame forgetting about the baptism on Pa and act like we'd been playing the whole time in the yard.

Finally, around 2 o'clock, after every single person had driven or walked up the hill, Bigmama stood on the creek bank in her Thelma Harper dress, her Mason catalog shoes, and her Kevlar stockings.  She yelled in the highest pitched voice you've ever heard "Hollllleeeeee, Jaaaasssssson, Boojeeee, Jennnnnnifer! You boys had better get up that hill!"

She had known we were there the whole time.  She always knew exactly what we were up to and chose the appropriate fly flap,  according to our deed.  That baptism Sunday I won my first trip ever- an all expenses paid trip to Fly Flap City.

Love y'all,


Washing Dishes

August 29, 2018

I have never been very good at washing dishes.  My Mother, however, was tops in her W. S. Neal High School Home Economics class, circa 1964.  Her teacher, Mrs. Jane Smith, probably taught her more about life and how to do things correctly than anyone else and probably, in turn,  caused me more grief than any other human on earth.

In Mrs. Smith's class, your dishwater had to be smoking hot, nearly boiling.  This was before kids complained about getting burned, before regulators were put on hot water heaters in classrooms, and when life skills were important because women actually kept house. This was before parents chastised teachers for actually teaching their children valuable life lessons and allowed teachers to run their classrooms without interference. 

I assume that Mrs. Smith is the one who taught my mother to rub her hands on the inside of each pot and each pan to make sure that they were completely clean and had no residue, because this was the ritual in our home each night after the dishes were washed.

Keep in mind, that to this day in 2018, my Mother still has the pots and pans that she received for a wedding present in 1968, and they look almost exactly like they did the day she unwrapped them.  There is some wear, but there isn't a spec of anything on them.  They are a trophy of sorts.  Even though she has collected numerous better pots and pans throughout the years, there is one boiler that is a badge of honor that she will often pull out of the cabinet and say "I've had this pot since 1968, got it for a wedding present.  Look at it, just like brand new."

Washing dishes has never been high on my list of things I enjoy.  As far as house work goes, I hate it- all of it.  I would rather chew nails than clean.  I am a wonderful party planner, great cook, and designer, but domestic chores are not my calling in this life.  

Around age eleven, I remember dragging around with chores one Saturday morning that I didn't want to do when my Mother said "Sometimes you have to do things you don't want to do in life that are necessary.  Cleaning the bathroom is necessary, and whether you want to do it or not, you will always have to do it."

None of that made sense to me.  I had plans, big plans.  None of my plans included cleaning a toilet, ever.  I imagined a home complete with a housekeeper, a cook, and a yard guy.  I had no intention of ever doing house chores, and so I responded 

"No, Mother,  I won't always have to do it, you are wrong.  You don't have to do things you don't want to do- you just make enough money to hire those things done for you.  I will never have to clean a bathroom when I grow up, because all of this is a waste of my time" to which she replied
"Well, Lizzy Louiza, you don't have that option and today you will clean this bathroom and you will stay in here until you do it."  I did it- four or five times that day I did it- until it was right.

More than anything, I hated washing dishes because it always began with some kind of game where we tested how hot we could stand the water.  Thanks, Mrs. Smith.  We had a dishwasher, but dishes weren't allowed in the dishwasher until they were properly washed.  Just because they are called dishwashers doesn't mean they actually wash dishes (at least that's what my Mother said).   

I was in the fifth grade and new to washing dishes the night that I begged for breakfast for dinner that my Mother graciously obliged me and cooked.  This was around the time that I learned the meaning of the phrase "half-ass".  My mother is not a fan of  half-ass anything and will snatch you bald-headed for half-assing any task.

I had struggled one day with a pan that I had the privilege of washing nine times because I had half-ass done it.  I should have learned at that point to do what Mother said, but I had a theory that if I did it poorly, she might not ever ask me to do it again.  I was wrong.  That breakfast-eating night, I put the pots and pans in the dishwasher and half-ass loaded it with the rest of the dishes.  I had no idea how important it was to remove grits from a ceramic boiler prior to putting it in a dishwasher, until the next morning when I was properly schooled.

6:45 a.m. my Mother began to unload the dishwasher and I heard  "HOOOOOLLLLY!!!  Get in the kitchen RIGHT NOW!"  I knew I had half-assed something, because that was the official call for half-assers.  I knew that call now, because I was preparing to win a medal in the Half-ass Domestic Olympics.  

I ran to the kitchen and she was holding the gritty pot- truly gritty- grits baked on the side.  "Give me your hand.  Give it to me.  Feel this."  She ran my hand around the entire inside of the boiler and I am quite sure my eyes were the size of saucers.   I felt it.  It was stuck.  The grits were baked on and felt like sandpaper and in her favorite boiler, oh Lord!

"Why did you put this in here without washing it like I told you?"

"Um, because I was ready to go to bed?"

"Didn't I tell you to wash it before you put it in the dishwasher?"

"Yes, ma'am,'s a dishwasher."

"Didn't I TELL YOU that dishwashers don't wash dishes?"

"Then why do we have the stupid thing?"

"Just for being a smart mouth, I should just whip your butt with this pot."

I had just received a neon orange sticker with the child abuse hotline number on it.  It was an 800 number, and I had stuck it on a notebook in my room.

I replied with "If you hit me with that pot, I am going to call the child abuse hotline."  

"You have the child abuse hotline number?  Really?  Where'd you get that?"


"Go get the number, let me see that."

I retrieved the notebook with the sticker affixed to it...

"I tell you what, Holly, why don't you call out that number to me."  She was holding the red Bellsouth slimline telephone with the long curly cord in her hand.

I asked "Why do you need the number?"

She said "I am going to dial it for you. One, Eight-hundred...  Here.  Tell them when they get here, they can identify you by your dental records."

Thankfully, my neighbor's mom pulled up and honked the carpool horn.  I jumped down the front steps of the house without even touching a single stair.  As I went out the door she said …

"And we aren't through with this conversation.  We will finish this when you get home."

It was the last day of fifth grade.  I physically was ill and by the time she got to school to pick me up.  I missed all of the parties the last day of school.  I had a temperature of 101.  I had worried myself sick, literally.  She, of course, had forgotten all about the pot in the dishwasher and washed it by the time I got home.  

I, on the other hand, am one of the best dishwashers in the tri-state area.    

***Update...I cleaned my own bathroom tonight and scrubbed the grout on the floor.  I also washed my own dishes.  My original pots and pans look exactly like they did the day that I got married in 1990. Thanks, Mrs. Smith.

Thank a teacher this week.  They are teaching your kids more than reading, writing, and arithmetic and their lessons might stick around for 50 years or more.

Love y'all,


Bigmama's Last Day

August 28, 2018

My Great-grandparents, Betty and Julian Henley, with me- 1975

I remember the Easter this photograph was taken.  My mother made the dress I am wearing and it had trim with strawberries on it.  I remember The Midnight Special being on the Friday night before Easter as Mother sewed the ribbon trim onto the white eyelet fabric.  She made a hairbow out of silk flowers and red ribbons that I did not want to wear.  My Easter basket had red cellophane to match and a red and white gingham bow.

Bigmama made chicken and dumplings, fried chicken, peas, corn, butterbeans, some kind of greens, cornbread, biscuits, a ham, the usual fare she prepared on holidays, and I am sure there was a cobbler of some kind and pies galore!  She made the best sweet potato pie in the universe.

Nine years after the Easter of 1975, Bigmama was gone.  She had been sick for years when she finally passed from a brain hemorrhage.  I tell you that she died from a brain hemorrhage, because we have to do that in the South.  Dying of old age isn't enough, we need details- how long it took once she went down, did she suffer, who was there, what'd we eat while she lingered, who brought the food, what we were wearing at the time she went to Glory,  and how many times did the preacher come by to pray before she passed- all of this somehow is important, because I have remembered it since I was twelve, nearly thirteen years old.

The Morning She Left Us

We had all been up for days sitting with her around the clock. Willie Fred had bathed Bigmama and rubbed her down with good smelling lotion.  Willie loved Gloria Vanderbilt, so I am assuming that is what she used.  I had on a boat neck, three-quarter sleeve t-shirt that was blue with skinny stripes on it that were white, red, and green.  I remember what I was wearing,  because my Mother worked as the office manager at the shirt factory my cousin Jimmy owned and he had given me two of the same shirt.  I had slept in it from the night before, in my jeans, fully dressed, because we knew the time was upon us.

I don't remember there ever being a second that one of us wasn't holding Bigmama's hand until she sat up in the bed, opened her eyes, and gasped her last breath.  What I do remember about the moment she passed, was that something woke me up, out of a dead sleep, and I ran out to where she was.  We all woke up like we had been shaken- my mother, my cousins, my Grandmother- we all were there.  It's almost like Bigmama wanted us to see her open her eyes as she left for heaven so that we would have faith that we will see her again.  She died on a Sunday morning around six o'clock, just in time to make it to the big piano in Heaven to crank out Keep on The Firing Line.

George, our neighbor, brought a sack full of biscuits from Hardee's that morning.  I remember having a steak biscuit with strawberry jelly smeared on it and thinking that I had uncovered the holy grail of culinary delights.  To this day, my favorite breakfast comfort food is a Hardee's steak biscuit.

After sitting up for weeks crying and watching our matriarch slip away, we were grateful for a biscuit and time together to love one another without the fear of impending death, because it had just come and gone like a thief.

She had been comatose for weeks, and I guess we all secretly wondered if she could hear us.  It was a relief  that Sunday morning, to know that Betty finally had her ticket to the one place she had always wanted to go- Glory. I must have played How Great Thou Art a thousand times while she lay in that bed dying.  It was all that I knew to do.  I believed she could hear it and it was her favorite song.  She had the round note version of the sheet music and could only read shape notes, so sending her off knowing that I had mastered it, was my gift to her.  Looking back now,  I can only imagine how everyone in the house probably wanted to set the piano on fire and me with it, but thankfully they did not.

Every morning as Bigmama drank her coffee in that old green mug, she would pray

"Dear Lord, I thank you for this day.  Thank you Lord for the promise of Glory.  Oh, Jesus, I want to see your face.  I want to walk the streets of gold.  Lord, if today is the day you come back, I am ready to go to Glory.  Thank you Lord for knowing that one day I will be healed and won't have the pains I have on this earth.  Come today, Oh Jesus, come today!"

I never could figure out why she was in such a hurry to go to heaven.  I was still figuring out things down here and I wasn't really excited about dying, so her prayers always perplexed me a little- until, until I saw her eyes open and her spirit leave her body, and then I knew.

Bigmama's farewell party was one of the best I had ever witnessed,  Devon Wiggins and the McKissacks sang while Miss Nelle played the piano.  Bigmama had been the piano player at the Bradley church for most of her life, so she was honored with a Southern Gospel musical celebration that the Gaithers can't rival.  My cousin Dean and I sang a song, I can't even remember now what it was, because as clearly as I can remember that Sunday morning she passed, I don't remember a thing about the Monday afternoon funeral.

Yesterday, one of my good friends lost her Mother.  It was only two weeks ago that my friend took her Mother to the hospital to find out that she had stage 4 colon cancer.  When she passed yesterday, Miss Bebe was surrounded by her family who loved her, holding her hands and loving on her,  and I have a sneaking suspicion she is having coffee with Bigmama marveling over the streets of gold.

I wish that I could walk in the joy of the unknown like Bigmama did- without stress or anxiety.  I wish I could find joy in my suffering and praise God for it, because I know it brings me another day closer to his Glory.  I wish that I had one more morning to sit on the floor in front of the space heater at Bigmama's  house while she drank her coffee from that ugly old green cup and prayed Heaven down into her dining room.

Hug your people and tell them you love them this week.

Love, y'all,



August 8, 2018

My Uncle J.B. painted this sign.  He was famous for painting homemade signs and building things.  He left the A out of Y'all, but that's alright, because he did manage to fit "Be Good" on at the end and that is something he championed, being good.  He loved his bride Betty and his children and grandchildren in a way that I have never witnessed in any other family.  He flat sure loved his tomato gravy making Mama and she sure did love him.

As much as my Uncle J.B. loved the living, he revered the dead. The Blackwater Cemetery, situated 1.3 miles off of Highway 4 in Bradley, Alabama,  is home to the graves of my great, great, great, great grandparents buried in the early 1800s.

Our people's stories are written on the 250 year old marble stones at Blackwater.   Our reason for being, it is buried there. Our blood came from the people in that sandy ground. Their struggles and their triumphs were passed down to us and we have gladly carried the mantle.

Those Henleys, Gatewoods, and Sweeneys  were strong people, with big families and even bigger hearts.  Their infant babies whom lived hours, and some days, are buried along side of their mothers.  Every time I see those tiny slabs, I wonder how many silent tears were cried in that graveyard after working the fields, cooking meals for ten plus people, tending to skirt-pulling children, and milking cows.

I cried millions of tears over a child that never was, so I cannot imagine burying a full-term infant and having to immediately go back to farm life.  Women didn't talk about their angst and pain in the 1800s,  life was about survival.  People were tougher, their wills were stronger, and there was no time to look back.  Looking back only allowed doubt to creep in, and survival had no place for doubt.  They got out of bed, made a wood-burning stove full of biscuits and gravy, and got on with living.

A short piece from the Blackwater Cemetery is the Blackwater River.   I have often wondered why cemeteries are often found near water.  I have heard spiritualist say that water is a conductor for the spirit world.  Maybe the Celts who came over in the 1600s brought that mythology with them?  I don't know much about all of that, but I do feel closer to my people at Blackwater than anywhere else.

The water in Blackwater is ice cold.  The smell of the sand is raw and fresh.  The bottom sand of the Blackwater is the purest in North America, and I can personally attest that there is nothing softer between your toes than the squishy bottom of our beloved swimming hole.

Although the name is Blackwater, it isn't black at all.  The ice cold water coursing through the perfect sand is the color of sweet tea and Baptisms on summer Sundays.  Driftwood and fallen trees, that have been in the same places since my Grandmother was a child,  have made diving boards and places to carve the initials of your sweetheart.  The rushing water of the Blackwater River is the final sound we all hear before putting someone we love to rest there.  It is the sound of our childhood memories with our cousins, the sound of picnics and cemetery cleanings, and if we do a good job passing down our heritage, it will be the place where our stories are told five generations from now.

Uncle J.B. is gone now.  He never drank or smoked, and maybe cussed twice in his whole life.  He loved one woman.  He worked every day like it was his last.  He loved with everything he had.  And still, lung cancer took him much too soon.

Ed Lee passed on a few years ago.   He must have been my fourth or fifth cousin but was one of my favorites.  He always called me "Good Looking" and when I gained weight as I entered my thirties, he would say "You're still good looking, but you need to come back looking like yourself next year."  Ed Lee had the biggest smile and maybe the biggest teeth I have ever seen on someone his size.  He beamed happiness from twenty feet away.  His grin, his laugh, and his hugs were infectious. Ed loved J.B. and J.B. loved him and together, they were the caretakers of our heritage.

Tom- Thomas Earle, passed away last year and I regret that I didn't visit him more often than I did.  Thomas Earle- pronounced Tomaserl- helped Uncle J.B. bury his best friend, Pup, in a pasteboard box.  They had a Little Rascals style funeral when they were about ten years old, complete with little girl mourners in their Sunday bests.  All of the little girls wailed and nearly fainted when the bottom fell out of that box as they laid Ol' Pup in the ground.

Thomas Earle later went on to become the song leader and fill-in preacher at the Bradley Church.  He had an infectious, happy smile and knew the words to every single song in the Red Church Hymnal. Like any good Pentecostal does, he marked the song page with two fingers, held the song book closed with his thumb and other two fingers and beat it with his other hand to keep time, old school.  He always slicked his reddish hair back in a Pompedour that curled on top like the Gerber baby.  He had a mole on his chin that I once asked my Grandmother about and she said "Why would he have that removed?  That's his personality."  I never asked again.

Riley is the last man standing.  He is my Grandmother's first cousin.  I need to check on Riley as well.  I haven't been nearly as good as Uncle J.B. would have probably liked me to be- checking on my relatives- but I am going to do better. As much as I love to visit them at Blackwater, now is probably as good of a time as any to visit the living.

I think when I go home this weekend, I will be good and wonder what J.B. would do this weekend?  He would probably visit kin folks that live near Blackwater, slip a hundred-dollar bill in some old widow woman's hand, kiss her on the cheek and say, "Now you be good- you sweet, purdy little thing."

We only have so many days, we have to love on our people while they are still here.

Amazon, Netflix, and Long Distance Dates

July 28, 2018

with the cutest boy in the world.

Isn't he precious!

Eighteen years ago this November, this precious man showed up for our first date in a pair of Liberty overalls, his hat on backwards, and kissed me like I was his.  

We had mutual friends, hung out once, but never a date. We grew up in the same hometown.  He is eight years older and I never knew him growing up.  I was closer to his brother's age.  A mutual friend introduced made plans to introduce us and before I even met him, I told her I wasn't interested- he had two kids, was in the midst of  a divorce,  had two too many kids, one too many ex-wives, lots of too much baggage, no thanks.  And then, I met him.

He lived in Troy and I lived in Birmingham - a two hour drive.   I knew he would be nuts for a while after a divorce and tried to weasel out of it when he asked me out, but didn't want to let someone so cute and smart and funny get away. Single girls know what I'm talking about.

When he asked me out, I explained that I couldn't in good conscience go out with anyone married, period, even if he had filed.  He agreed with me, but the minute the ink was dry, he started calling me. We talked on the phone for hours each night leading up to our big date. We really had a great courtship because we knew one another before our very first date.  I fell in love with him long before he ever kissed me, or showed up in those overalls in the rain that night.

I was so nervous that November, that I locked myself out of the house in the pouring down rain.  Deciding to shimmy up the back brick wall of my house while standing on one cinder block, I busted my behind and ended up covered in mud from head to toe. I fell into the bushes.  I was skint up, dirty, soaked.  and had five minutes to change clothes before he arrived.  I threw on a black turtle neck and a pair of plain jeans.  

Remember that scene in Sleepless in Seattle when Tom Hanks said he took his wife's hand getting out of a car, and it was magic?  That's how it was the first time I met him- magic.  I was so nervous thinking maybe that was all in my head?  What would happen on a real date?

When I flung open the door, I was flushed, had wet hair, probably some dirt on my face still, and there he was in a pair of Liberty overalls, his baseball cap turned backwards, and boots. His hair was curled in ringlets from the rain, and just had a Paul Newman kind of thing going that made my knees buckle.  He stepped in from the rain, took my face in his hands and he kissed me.  I mean, he kissed me- 1940's movie star kissed me!  I felt my heart  skip a beat, my head was swimmy, and I knew right there and then that I would marry this boy- the cutest boy in the world!

For a year and a half, we dated living two hours away.  We made it work.  We commuted back and forth at least twice a week and every other weekend, and finally, he moved to Birmingham and we were married.  We rescheduled our wedding twice and almost didn't get married at all because we went to pre-marital counseling with our priest for 10 months. We wanted our things worked out before we merged homes, children and lives.  It ain't the Brady Bunch, y'all, that's only on television.

On the 27th Day of April in 2002, in a blue sparkly princess gown that I sewed and he put the boning in, and in a tiara I designed that was made in Ireland, I walked in with trumpets blaring and met him at the end of the aisle at the Cathedral of the Advent, where we made our covenant.  I made a covenant with him, with our children, and most importantly with God.  And that covenant, has kept us through things that would have wiped out most marriages, destroyed them.  

We've had career changes, we've raised teenagers together and so far, we are 3/3.  Everyone has a degree, a skill, a job, and in the end, I do believe that all three will have their Doctorates.  Each is working on that as we speak.  They were teenagers, each with their own freak flag to fly for a while, but they are awesome adults.  Good people, good friends, and people that I am proud that I had a part in loving and rearing.  I am really proud of them, they make my heart burst when I think of the challenges they have all endured and have overcome as well.  

Our children are all grown now, and since the last one left for college, we have been able to have different career options, and have traveled all over the country.  Since 2011, we have lived in West Virginia, Ohio, Michigan, Pennsylvania, Virginia, Florida, Texas, and Alabama.  We've toured everything around and between those places that we could possibly see. 

This past year, I have been working for myself from home, re-establishing my design business and clientele, and Jimbo has worked from Texas.  That has all been great, except he works 6 days per week.   Most weeks, I also work 6 days per week, and that leaves traveling to a minimum for us since he has been on this project.  And I miss him- badly.  And he misses me.

So, we are back to how we began dating in the beginning- we stay on the phone for hours each night.  We laugh and tell stories and catch up on our days, and we probably spend more time together actually listening than we ever do when we are together and can tune out.  

We watch a LOT of Amazon and Netflix series together.  We synch our tv's, count down 3-2-1,  and press play together.  We give picture descriptions until we are synched and then we watch whatever it is we are watching, analyze the characters, laugh, and have movie night- just remotely.  It isn't dreamy, but we're in it, and we're doing it together.  And this gets us through to the next point in our lives where maybe one day, we can end up somewhere working in the same place again.  Maybe he stays in Texas and gets to a bigger city with his company and I go there one day?  With his business you never know, but he has a fantastic team and he is happy, and that makes me happy.  I am doing what I love and re-establishing my brand and that makes me happy, and when Mama's happy, everybody is happy.

The toughest thing about being apart is all of the little things that you do for one another that you take for granted.  I miss having him rub my back and my feet, bring me coffee or hot tea in bed without me asking.  He loves to go to the grocery store and I despise it.  He changes my oil, loves to fold clothes.  He forces me to eat healthier, lets me sleep in his lap at 6am during Squawk Box and enjoy my coffee lull and he rubs my hair while he listens to the market breakdown for the day.  There are a million more things, but I have learned how much I take him for granted by us being apart.
I schedule his appointments- doctor, dentist, you name it.  I do the major shopping and I cook fun things, I make sure everyone has gifts that are supposed to have gifts and cake, I help him write letters and thank you notes.  I make the punch lists, send him to Lowe's and we fix things together. I have his back and he has mine.

When we are apart, we have our regular lives, plus we miss all of those perks.  Those are the hardest things, and I think when we feel the most alone.  I have had Type A Flu for a week and have been home pitiful.  I said "whatever happened to in sickness and in health?"  He said "You were healthy when you got on the plane to come see me, you were sick when you got home, so...there ya go, sickness and health."

Marriage has seasons, and our lives have seasons.  And although I want to believe this is temporary, I do realize that this is our life, for now.  We have plans for  moving to the coast one day and growing tomatoes-  big fat, juicy, Big Boys that cover an entire slice of white bread loaded with mayonnaise and black pepper.  That is our crazy dream and maybe explains our obsession with overalls.

For now, we will just eat tomato sandwiches and watch Netflix, get on airplanes with a dog, and remember that covenant that holds us together.  One day, we will look back on this time as a blip on the screen  and be so thankful that we stayed true to our path and made our dreams come true.  And every day,  I pray that his day is easy to get through and so is mine.  When he has a day to take care of himself, like he did yesterday,  and do the things that I normally do for him, I feel guilty and sad and I hope that he can navigate the things that I think are much more difficult for him than they actually are.  Maybe I like to believe he needs me more than he does, because I know I need him more than he thinks I do.  

Don't take the beautiful, simple moments for granted.  Make them count and celebrate them!

Love Y'all,

And...just for the record.  When we went to Hollywood to the Chinese Theatre, his hands and feet perfectly matched Paul Newman's. 

Rule Followers with Stupid Names

July 13, 2018

There are people in this world that I like to refer to as Rule Followers.  They are the people who never break the rules.  They are sticklers, tattle tales, narcs who grow up to become compliance officers, auditors, and people who absolutely cannot EVER think outside of the box.  These people don't get invited to my Christmas party because they are the downers of the world.  

Their sole purpose is to make my life on earth a living hell and to remind me why I work in a creative field.  I cannot abide these characters who do not have the ability to look at a particular situation, see the rule that should apply,  and decide for themselves whether or not they should enforce the rule every single time. 

I suffer from travel anxiety- major travel anxiety.  Packing to go on a trip is the most overwhelming thing for me.  Laugh and call me ridiculous, I don't care.  I have an impending fear that I will never get back home.  I have always returned home, always.  I realize that my fear is ridiculous to many, but it is rooted in my truth.  I am terrified of being on a plane used as a weapon.  I have an intense fear of burning to death or drowning and I freak out when I have to fly, which is often.

After looking for one of my best friends for four days after 9/11, I will never view flying the same. Those of you who know how much I love to travel are probably scratching your heads wondering "How is this possible? Her husband travels with his job and they are all over the place."  Better living through chemistry, that is how it is possible-  medication and determination to achieve the final goal and then I get on the dang plane.

I am one of those aggravating people who travels with their dog.  Yes, my shrink certified him as an emotional support animal, and he is truly that.  I cannot imagine getting on a plane without him.  He has been with me when I cried my eyes out when three of my best friends died within one year, he has been with me when I was so angry with my husband that I could've spit nails.  He was with me when my world completely fell apart and I couldn't imagine it ever coming back together.  He has been the best friend I have ever had.  Who would want to fly with anyone else?

The other day, I was at the ticket counter, presenting my "I am crazy enough to fly with an animal letter" which really should have at the top of it- "I have been through shit that you have only seen in Lifetime movies, and some things they haven't dared to show yet because you people can't handle it..."  But, it doesn't.  Instead, it says that I suffer from PTSD and depression, and it has a date on the top.  Apparently, my date was one week expired as of a few days ago.

I was already a little bit confused when I looked at the clerk's nametag.  I thought she must be the second in charge, second shift?  Until she called her Supervisor...saying "Ummm, yeah....this is Seconda in Birmingham and we've got one with an expired letter.  I don't know if it's legit, I mean, she looks okay to me."  

Looks okay?  Did I look okay?  Thank you.  I am so glad that ticket clerks can make medical assessments by looking at travelers and how they are accessorized.  I do accessorize well, but that has nothing to do with a panic attack, mmkay? 

Robin Williams looked okay, Kate Spade looked okay.  Just because someone looks okay, doesn't mean that they aren't chasing rabbits in their head every day just to keep it together and not crack in certain situations.  She had no idea what it took for me just to GET to the ticket counter at the airport without having a melt-down.

Seconda?  What a name.  I kept wondering if she was the second child, second daughter, or if maybe she'd just been in Miss Patton's class and was second in line and Miss Patton said Secondaaaaahhhhh!  She was widely known for adding ahhhhhh!  to any name ending in a consonant.  One of my favorite teachers ever, Miss Patton.

Seconda was too old to have been in Miss Patton's class, so I surmised she was obviously the second girl in the family, the second child, the child born to hillbilly parents who were too lazy to give her a name, so they just named her Secondahhhhh?  I have no idea, but grown people, if you have a name as ridiculous as Seconda and you want people to take you seriously, change your damn name.  

Where was I?  ADD- they don't have those letters on my letter, but should.  Seconda was giving me down the road, telling me that I had to have a new letter from my doctor (which can't be emailed, by the way).  Her counterpart had looked up my frequent flier account and saw that I had flown with my dog within the past few months and that my letter was good then.  So, I was okay a few months ago, but I'm ten days past her rule, so now I'm out of the circle of trust?  Lighten up, Seconda.

Did she really think that my diagnosis changed in ten days?  I mean, in ten days did I erase trauma that caused PTSD?  In ten days was I supposed to have been to a Binny Hinn revival and been healed with a hit on the head?

I understand that people abuse the system. I had a brand new anti-anxiety script that I had picked up that morning before I got on the plane- was that not enough to go with my expired letter to show that I am still the same as I was 10 days ago?  My husband was already on the road to pick me up in Dallas and I was about to miss my flight because of Seconda who never breaks rules. 

Since 2011, I have never had anyone look at the date on my letter, usually it's just a check to verify that I have one.    Seconda, she went over it line by line to the point that I was so humiliated I was crying.  I had mascara running down my face, I was snotting.  Finally I said "How much for the my dog's ticket so I can just get out of here?"  I knew that if I ever walked out of the airport doors to go pick up a letter and take a later flight, I would be heading home and would not get on the plane.  The walk from the parking garage to the ticket counter is always the longest walk of my life.

I don't think Seconda has been in charge of many things in her life, as that is generally the case with a rule follower.  The Secondas, the people who are always second in charge of everything- almost never get to the run the show and when they do get to impose a rule on others, they do it with meanness and contempt.  She is everything that her name implies.  She is Seconda.

I do realize that if I had an up to date letter - dated ten days earlier- I would have had no problems.  So to all of you thinking I expected special treatment, I did not, just humane treatment for making a common mistake.  You can fly a year after your license has expired. 

I'm sure Seconda sits at home at night doing crossword puzzles, deciding which underwear to wear the next morning, smoking her Pall Mall cigarettes, thinking of how she never gets a promotion, and probably wondering which person with a dog she is going to mess with tomorrow.  

I hope the next person with an Emotional Support Animal that she messes with has an African Grey Parrot and teaches it to say "Seconda is a bitch.  Seconda is a bitch.  Seconda is a bitch."   

Love y'all,

Funerals, Banana Pudding, and Skynard.

July 10, 2018

Yes, we measure dead babies and take their pictures in smocked dresses and we take their little footprints and handprints.  Why?  I have never known why until today, when a friend who recently lost a baby told me "To prove that there was actually a life."  My great grandmother (Bigmama) was notorious for recording every birth and death in the family in the front of her Bible and once measured my cousin's baby in the casket and all but picked her up at the funeral home.  My Grandmother snatched the tape measure out of her hand and said "Don't you touch that baby again, Mama or I am dragging you out of here."  She needed details,  we had lost a dear, precious baby.

Bigmama was detailed, very detailed,  in her descriptions of our relatives' demise as she entered things like  "Poor ole Ethel fell dead, had her voting ballot filled out and had just ate breakfast. Straight Democrat ticket. Praise God, she had turned off the stove."  One uncle, written next to his name, just had "Hit by a truck when he saw ole so-and-so and was crossing the road and ran to get away from him."  I loved reading the notes in her Bible about relatives I had never met, because I felt connected to them through her short stories of their deaths.

I wonder what she would have written about her husband, my Pa Julian, who passed 11.5  years after she did.  I would imagine she would have written "Stingy Julian went back in the house-a-far to get out his deeds and certificates.  Suffocated to death and was burnt up. Holly foundt him in the rubble of Joy's house.  She had him a good funeral, she did."

Those of us who come from large families- meaning 50 cousins or more- seem to have a better grip on death.  Death was always as much a part of my life as living.  I learned to expect it, I learned that it wasn't the end.  I learned that the best food you will ever eat is at a funeral of someone dearly beloved and that only tacky people bring fake banana pudding and gummy dumplings to a wake.

I learned not to eat past the blue dishrag.  Bigmama and Aunt Myrtie set up their "dinner on the ground" on the concrete tables under the pavilion, and at the end of the food they prepared, they placed a blue dishrag. We never ate anything after the blue dishrag marker, cause that's where you might not know how clean the folks were who did that cooking.

I learned that legacies go on, stories are told long after your demise, and if you act right and love Jesus, there might be something more waiting on the other side.  Bigmama believed that.  She told me it was true, so I believed it too.

One year, I sang at seven funerals.  I don't think my husband has even been to seven funerals in his entire life.  When we met, he had lost one grandparent and didn't remember the funeral.  Not my family, no sir. We make the casket blanket, cook the food, do the hair and make-up of the dead, and pick out a real nice dress or suit for them to wear.  We preach our own funerals, give the eulogies, and once I rode the in the hearse of an in-law from the church to the cemetery.

My Granddaddy always said that we shouldn't be afraid of dead people, but that the living should scare the shit out of us.  Most days, the living, they do scare me like that.

The living gave my cemetery plot to Oleta, whose wreath is featured above.  She was our beloved housekeeper for over 20 years.  She is now buried next to my Granddaddy, in my spot, the spot I claimed when I was about 15 and was a dark, depressed teenager believing that my impending doom was nigh.  Now, I don't really give a damn if they put me in a mason jar, an old fruitcake tin, or ziplock bag.  I have even considered being planted as a pod to nourish a tree- the circle of life and all.

I have finally settled on letting my husband decide on where and what to do with me if I go before he does. I do hope that he will put me somewhere respectable, like Blackwater Cemetery-I mean, put me a headstone there next to my old dead relatives- my great, great, great, great Grandfather is buried there.  That's not a bad place to be buried, next to relatives born in the 1700s and their dead babies that didn't make it, their first and second wives, and brothers and sisters.  Maybe ole Griffin won't be ashamed to have me there next to him.  I would like to hear some of his stories.

If I do go before y'all and you plan on coming to my farewell party, somebody make a good chocolate cake, homemade, like the one Kelly Bell's mama makes.  Somebody make some banana pudding with the meringue, not that cool whip mess-  cool whip on that boxed banana pudding is disrespectful of the living and the dead.  Play Sweet Child of Mine, Forever Young by Dylan, Respect by Aretha, I'll Have a New Body from the old Red Church Hymnal, When Love Came to Town by U2 and B.B.King, and for the love of all holy, don't play Free Bird.  I do not need to pass on to the next life drunk on Skynard.

Love y'all,

This Flag, My Flag

July 2, 2018

When I was twelve years old, the week before Christmas, I went to the U.S.S. Arizona Memorial with my Grandmother and my Uncle who was stationed at Pearl Harbor.  That day, my twelve year old eyes saw  December 7, 1941,  through my Grandmother Lenis's twelve year old eyes.

If you've never been to the Arizona Memorial, there is a film they show to explain what happened that day.  The film begins with a camera going down under water while the names of the fallen are whispered and echoed as the camera approaches the barnacle covered ship.  As you are transported below the waters to the resting place of those 1,177 faithful servicemen who gave their all on a beautiful Sunday morning, there is an eeriness that they are present.  Above where those 1,177 men are entombed, we watched a film of their last day- footage of them fighting for their lives in what became a fiery, watery grave.

Lenis lost friends in World War II.  She lost boys she grew up with, who were older brothers of her friends, boys she'd had little girl crushes on, and boys who had helped her family out on their farm.  As the names of the Arizona fallen were called, her mascara ran down her face in streaks.  I had never seen her cry, never.

My Grandmother is 89 years old this year.  She looks 75 and until recently has always been in the best shape of anyone I have ever known.  We all begin to wear out and we grow tired.  I can tell, for the first time, that she is getting tired.  She is strong.  She is resilient. She has seen and done, fought more fights, and won more battles- in her own home, in the court room, in lease negotiations, and in her own mind- than most people could even fathom.  She is fabulous.  She is fearless.  She is a badass. For me to see her cry was overwhelming.  She is stoic.

As she told me the stories of the boys she knew who had gone away to war, she told me how she and her cousin Jody made homemade candy and sent care packages to the boys from their community- hoping that the candy would make it to the boys before the enemy did.  She cried telling me about a boy who never came home.  All she said as she wiped the black streaks off of her face was "a good boy, he was a good boy."

Three years later, at the age of 15, I saw the Arizona Memorial from a different perspective.  I rode the ferry to Ford Island quite often to the pool there with my new found friend, Chrissy.  The buildings on Ford Island still had bullet holes in them from the attack in 1941. I knew what they meant.  I knew how many men had died.  I knew that my Grandmother's heart was broken, and mine was too.  Every bullet hole and remnant of bombing was still in tact; time stood still on Ford Island.

The Arizona became real to me, as well as the other seventeen ships and their men.  I swam in the pool so many of those good boys swam in when they were enjoying Hawaii and all of its majesty.  I saw the air control tower that so many men used to launch a response to the unexpected attack on that fateful December day, the same one you see in the movies Tora, Tora, Tora! and in Pearl Harbor.

I remember one particular day, as the sun was beginning to set on our ferry as we traveled back to Oahu, we saluted the flag on the Arizona.  We stood proud.  We were silent.  We held our heads high.  Tears rolled down my fifteen year old face thinking about that boy, that good boy, my Grandmother had known.

When I graduated from high school on May 26, 1989, the Arizona Memorial flew a flag- this flag, my flag.  Maybe my Uncle didn't realize why I asked for a flag for graduation, but I am so thankful for it every day.  It was flown at the exact time that I graduated.  It is and has always been in a place of reverence in my home. A reminder to me of that boy, that good boy- that boy who wasn't much older than I was when I graduated.  This flag, my flag, is a symbol to remind me that as long as we have freedom, we have choices.  Choices yield possibilities.

As we approach the 4th of July, I pray that God will continue to richly bless us all. I pray that we don't take for granted the sacrifices of all of the good boys and good girls who have given their all, their lives,  so that we might make solid choices- choices that might yield possibilities, that in turn, could make dreams come true for generations we will never meet.

Love Y'all,

***Update- the boy's name was either Calvin or Alvin Bray

Am I sensitive or just raised in Lower Alabama?

July 1, 2018

Telephone Etiquette, Old School

Growing up, I spent a lot of time at my Grandparents' home.  Before the advent of answering machines or cell phones, they had rotary phones in their home.  The main house phone was a tan Bellsouth rotary model that sat on the wooden top counter in front of the bookshelves that were filled with the book of the month club books. 

The tan rotary phone never moved, that was its place.  There were other phones in the house, but that was the phone, THE phone.  It was the phone that everyone rushed to answer and say "Holley Residence, May I help you?"

Someone always answered the phone swiftly and answered it with a cheerful greeting.  No matter whether the housekeeper answered the phone, my grandmother answered the phone, or anyone else in our household, the greeting was always "Holley Residence, May I help you?"  Come to think of it, everyone where I grew up, regardless of their economic status answered their phones that way.  Isn't that a wonderful way to be greeted, with a 'May I help you?'

I am working on a project, where I am dealing with a lady who just rubs me the wrong way.  If I am completely honest, she has infuriated me on two occasions. I always want to believe the best in people, no matter how poor their form, until they show me that they are, indeed,  a jerk.

This morning, I saw her phone number come up on my caller id.  After my last interaction with her, I was dreading seeing her number pop up on my phone.  I answered and said "Good Morning, Sarah.  How are you today?"  First thing out of her mouth was "Blah blah blah, YOU YOU YOU, blah blah, he said, she said, you said, YOU need to blah blah, followed by "Holly, You obviously have selective hearing."


Yes, after she has already insulted my crew and me weeks ago regarding something so trivial that I dare not ever mention it again, out of fear that God will smite me for wasting another precious second of life that He has given me, I am going to let it go. 

I would like to believe that she has no intention of coming across so vile, wretched, mean and evil, but I have to wonder if she doesn't treat everyone like this.  My husband, Jimbo, swears that some people just wake up with their knickers in a knot and that I should never take it personal when someone acts this way.  His theory is that she most likely treats everyone with the same disregard as she does me and that everyone who knows her dreads her calls as much as I.

Let's not be like Sarah.  Let's learn from her ignorance and meanness.


When I am calling someone and they answer I always say "Good Morning, Sarah.  Thank you for taking my call.  Do you have a minute to talk?"  If she says no, then I immediately ask "When would be a better time for me to call you?  I just need a minute of your time to discuss abc..."

Most people are very courteous and appreciative and will either continue the conversation or give you a better time to contact them.  I often will text people and ask when would be a good time to call.

In a world where we communicate via text, email, and social media, a telephone call out of the blue isn't as common as when it was our sole immediate form of communication.  Since texting before a call is a very common practice, wouldn't it make sense that bitching at someone the second that they answer the phone isn't the way to ask a question.  To begin a conversation with "We have a problem" is absolutely uncalled for in any situation, unless someone has been in a car wreck, someone's home has burned, or a relative has passed. Those are problems.  Your temper tantrum is not my problem- not now, not ever.

I am forty six years old.  I survived an abusive first husband who beat me, I have raised three teenagers to adulthood, I have severed relationships with people whom I love because I refused to be talked down to, and I have lost and rebuilt everything twice in my life.  The very last thing that I am concerned with first thing on a beautiful Monday morning is a first world problem created in the head of someone who probably doesn't have many friends and never has, who is probably on a micro-power trip because this is the first time that she has been able to talk anyone into putting her in charge of anything?

So, what is the moral of this story?  Be kind on the telephone and, if you are going to volunteer to steer a committee or chair a charity event, don't be an ass.  That's all.  Be kind to one another.

Love Y'all,

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