tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27748593051410497652024-03-05T22:48:09.206-08:00Holly Shirley's Deep South RamblingsThrough dysfunction,we can sometimes find laughter- and with enough laughter, we might finally begin to heal.Holly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.comBlogger56125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774859305141049765.post-73707753781820414022023-01-22T15:35:00.107-08:002023-01-22T18:57:20.401-08:00<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8uWmY0kNdoaFA1TgLxvmNL4pdcazT56jMxlYr81fag2w89rrQr0CxCb-XH3sEsgD6Zt0rMwr3pzM5skoJ85YYqw76d7Y9YkVwK59Hk4Koq-VZ641S-NDdneImG5lsektNK2sEZXFBagmSJI_kQPet0--3kSzz9Q00mnpX68tzWrLdWXQ-rj_m8gA4/s1018/Willie%20before%20he%20died%20groomer.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1018" data-original-width="847" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8uWmY0kNdoaFA1TgLxvmNL4pdcazT56jMxlYr81fag2w89rrQr0CxCb-XH3sEsgD6Zt0rMwr3pzM5skoJ85YYqw76d7Y9YkVwK59Hk4Koq-VZ641S-NDdneImG5lsektNK2sEZXFBagmSJI_kQPet0--3kSzz9Q00mnpX68tzWrLdWXQ-rj_m8gA4/w333-h400/Willie%20before%20he%20died%20groomer.jpg" width="333" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Willie Nelson Shirley <br />May 15, 2007 - December 26, 2022</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Willie Nelson “Willie Possum” Shirley was born on May 15, 2007,
in north Alabama to Lacy Juliet and Lucky Dee Romeo (which could possibly
explain why he had to kiss any person he was near and his love for air humping
elbows) and crossed the rainbow bridge on December 26, 2022. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is survived by his parents Holly and Jimbo
Shirley; human siblings: Mary Catherine, Forrest, and Jamie: grandparents: Kermit and Deborah, Nan and Earle, Jim and Mary; a nephew and 2 nieces: Henley, Harper, and Kiwi the bulldog; and a special friend Shannon Petty aka his "ShanShan". Willie was preceded in death by his great grandmother Lenis and his Aunt Sallie Mae George, mutt. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He was with his God parents on the side of the road in a
cardboard box with a sign that said “Maltese Puppies” for sale in front of
Target on Highway 280 in Birmingham, Alabama, when he came right toward Holly
and Mary Catherine, and they were smitten. Holly sent MC to the ATM while she held on to Willie so no one else would get him. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was adopted that day and given the name Willie Nelson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">After a stop at PetSmart for some necessities and a pirate hat, they returned home and announced to Jimbo, "Look! We got you a pirate hat!! And guess what? It came with a dog." Jimbo wasn't sold immediately and swore Willie would NEVER sleep in the bed with him (which he did for fifteen years). Willie</span> was Christened in the bathtub later that
week with a solo cup. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Willie went to work as a teenager, helping with the family
business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He enjoyed his job at Soho
Interiors in Homewood, Alabama where he served as the official greeter and rocking chair salesman until
the financial collapse of 2008 that was the cause of the store’s demise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Willie donned a cap and gown for Forrest's high school graduation and a Bo Jackson jersey to move him into the dorm at Auburn.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Although distraught, during his brief period of unemployment, Willie quickly found work as a bed tester and greeter at Generation Dog in Homewood
with his sister, Mary Catherine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Willie
also enjoyed being a nursery tester and nanny to his nephew, Henley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After the Alabama tornadoes, Willie worked in disaster
relief with Toomer’s for Tuscaloosa and enjoyed casserole drives and stuffing
trucks as well riding shotgun in U-Hauls to destinations all over the country
with his mom. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When
posts were made on social media to bring something to stuff the truck and meet
Willie Nelson, people came from all over to help and have their picture made
with “Willie Nelson”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once, when the volunteers stopped on their way
home from a trip, Willie became probably the first and only Maltese who hit the
slots at Wind Creek in Atmore, Alabama.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He and Michelle Gates ate steamed shrimp (that were several hours old)
out of a Ziplock back all the way home- neither died, although Holly and
Christina promised them it would be their undoing.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Willie was a regular comedian at family Christmas parties,
when every year, he donned a Rudolph the red nosed reindeer costume and refused
to move because of the hood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would
freeze in anything with a hood like you were playing freeze tag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> We often wondered if he might have set a world's record for a dog being still the longest amount of time without flinching. Willie a</span>lways received extra treats for his live shows as he did not work for free.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">During the years from 2011- 2013 Willie traveled all over
the country doing land-man work with this dad, Jimbo Shirley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He dined in Waffle Houses and Cracker Barrels
all up and down the I-65 corridor- and his favorite one was outside of Louisville,
Kentucky. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He also had a big time at the
Makers’ Mark bourbon distillery tour. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He tromped through snow in Ohio and Pennsylvania and ran up
and down the Neshannock River in Volant, Pennsylvania, where he loved watching
the Amish in their buggies come to town every Friday to cash their checks at
the local bank across the street from the Bed and Breakfast where he was
temporarily lodged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The owners of the BNB
weren’t fond of Willie and the feeling was mutual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The husband was a Mr. Rogers
type character who played the clarinet and wore cardigans, and his wife would
pop up from behind the half door in the kitchen anytime you went within a 20-foot radius of the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was a human
jack in the box who scared the hell out of Willie’s entire family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In a mass exodus from the BNB, and knowing Willie couldn’t just stay anywhere, his family went
to the Holiday Inn Express- because there aren’t a lot of options in Grove
City, Pennsylvania and told them Willie was a service dog for Holly, which he
was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trying to answer a question from
Jimbo, Holly (who suffers mild hearing loss in her left ear from a firecracker
incident in 1976) said “You know I can’t hear you when you talk to me on my
left side” and from that point on, the
staff of the hotel felt at liberty to say anything they wanted in front of
Holly thinking that she was completely deaf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And anytime Willie barked, the
staff would motion to Holly that Willie was conveying a message.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In 2013, Willie moved to Clermont, Florida and was only six
miles from Disney World.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He kept the local Starbucks manager on her toes while
his mom was writing, and he enjoyed fighting with a huge bushy tailed squirrel who lived in the
palm tree outside of his screened porch. Willie delighted in sitting outside at night and watching the fountain on the lake-
that was his happy place. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He became
very close friends with a Havanese named Pebbles there and a smoking hot Pomeranian who took his breath away from his screened tree house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Willie loved visiting his niece, Kiwi the bulldog, in Gainesville while his sister Jamie was in school there. He especially loved his trips to Gainesville restaurants with Jamie while she was in grad school. He lived for the end of the meal when he got tasty leftovers. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Willie wasn’t crazy about Short Pump, Virginia, and was glad
when he permanently moved home to Birmingham, Alabama.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No matter where he was in the world or how
far he had traveled, he always knew the street that turned into his neighborhood- whether
he’d been in the car for 30 minutes or 10 hours, he knew he was home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Willie would go crazy when he made the turn at his local post office and cry all the way home with an excitement
he only had when he knew he was going to HIS house.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In 2015, Willie’s great-grandmother Lenis was diagnosed with
cancer and he became a caregiver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
spent hours by her side as she recovered from sixteen different procedures she
had while staying with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a
loyal friend to her and the sweetest heating pad she could have hoped to have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">On a last-minute trip to Atlanta and South Georgia in 2017,
Willie went to President Jimmy Carter’s church and enjoyed his Sunday School
Class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The secret service let him right
in the door and he was as quiet as a church mouse until time to come out of his
bag for the photo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His mom got some looks
from the church folks, but President Carter asked, “What’s your puppy’s name?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Willie’s mom said “Willie Nelson”,
President Carter burst out laughing and said he was going to call Willie as
soon as he got out of church to tell him about Willie Nelson the Maltese.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Willie worked hard at The Holley House Bed and Breakfast inspecting construction for four years while the house was restored. Upon its reopening, he did not understand why all of the bacon in the morning was not cooked just for him. He wasn't fond of the new business model that involved feeding strangers our bacon. He was thankful to be kidnapped several times by his sister Mary Catherine for snuggles which was always a relief from manual labor. There are a lot of tiny steps for a guy to make in a 14-bedroom house! He spent a million hours rocking in his grandmother Deborah's lap and stole her beanbag pillow so many times, she finally just gave it to him. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Willie was a big gift giver- being that his only currency
was his turds, whenever someone he loved left for a few hours, he would find
his way to their room and leave a gift they would find upon their return.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It didn’t matter if he had just pooped in the
yard, he would always find a gift in there somewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a thoughtful guy that way.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Willie’s breath was not delightful- no matter how many times
he’d eaten a Merrick toothbrush that week, but his kisses were sweet, and he was
always full of love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He loved to snuggle,
and he loved big breasted women.</p><p class="MsoNormal">He traveled from the plains of Texas to the sugar canes near
Miami, up the I-95 corridor and over to the Great Lakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was an adventurer, a lover of classic
country music, Bob Dylan, Funk, Motown classics, and classic rock and was the
best road trip companion a person could ever hope to have and the best friend
anyone has ever known. He loved a good bath, having his ears cleaned out with q-tips, getting his hair dried with the hair dryer, and new clothes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> He hated vacuum cleaners, mops, the sound of the UPS truck, and mean people. </span>He will be missed
greatly, and his memory will live on in each of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Willie Nelson Shirley was cremated and will be interred with
his parents upon their death at the Blackwater Cemetery in Bradley, Alabama.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>Holly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774859305141049765.post-14851408975676067062019-06-26T17:09:00.000-07:002019-06-27T17:15:04.095-07:00Dogs Versus Kids<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAsWNqNnhHnasc9UTuoTb8LyJtO2uBdcUrTisPKYCwuFWrgLGj0CAEHnGJVYo8CGpqylJXJrn5k0P66D5pndWE7Zjdt8aGQX5mMTB7DvDnqffm4Lm0LqVKDj8B-HjAeB4qE8dHaYX2cl8/s1600/Willie+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="559" data-original-width="419" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAsWNqNnhHnasc9UTuoTb8LyJtO2uBdcUrTisPKYCwuFWrgLGj0CAEHnGJVYo8CGpqylJXJrn5k0P66D5pndWE7Zjdt8aGQX5mMTB7DvDnqffm4Lm0LqVKDj8B-HjAeB4qE8dHaYX2cl8/s320/Willie+%25282%2529.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Willie Nelson, most perfect canine ever.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
My dog has never once taken the last $20 bill out of my wallet. He has never wrecked my car, trashed my house while I was out of town having SURGERY, and he has never replaced the rum in my liquor cabinet with water. I'm not sure that he would know how to wire a bumper back on with a coat hanger, and I don't think he would pour Bombay Sapphire on my counters and set them on fire?<br />
<br />
Not one night since September 2007, has Willie ever called me in the middle of the night and said "Hey Mom, it's me...Willie...umm...I know you're going to be mad, but there's a boot on my car and I need some money." <br />
<br />
I've never had to pay $3000 to send him to summer camp to hike the Appalachian trail to force him to get off of his ass and learn to make friends. Willie Nelson has never been sent to a third world country packed with a suitcase full of macaroni and cheese and protein bars to work at an orphanage to learn to appreciate what he has- no sir, not him.<br />
<br />
In twelve years, the dog has never left his legos on the floor where I would step on them and create new curse words. He's just not crafty with legos or puzzles, Willie isn't. <br />
<br />
He's never thrown a fire poker at anyone in the family or chased one of us with a pipe wrench wrapped in an oven mitt. I hear that an oven mitt will cushion the blow, but he's never done those things. <br />
<br />
Willie doesn't even know how to use the oven and would never hide someone's year book in there, causing it to catch fire.<br />
<br />
I don't know his Mom, so I've never had to co-parent him with another woman who might not see eye to eye with me and my peculiar ways of doing things, and I'm glad I never had to negotiate with that bitch.<br />
<br />
I had Willie neutered shortly after we adopted him, so I've never had to buy condoms for him or teach him how to use them "just in case" something ever happened and he got the urge. We never had the banana lesson. Instead, he just humps teddy bears and our elbows when he catches us sleeping or sees a window of opportunity (he weighs 5 pounds). <br />
<br />
Willie is always glad to see me and has never rolled his eyes at me and said "Oh my God, Mom! You are embarrassing me. Don't kiss me. Stop acting like a geek. You are geeking out! Are you going to wear that? In PUBLIC?" <br />
<br />
But you know what else Willie hasn't done? He hasn't brought these two sweeties home. Parents raising teenagers, remember this: One day, that demon spawn that you want to send to Mars on one of Elon Musk's rockets will think you are smart again. They will become educated and gainfully employed, get married, buy a house, and bring you grandchildren. And those grandchildren will be perfect, SO PERFECT! <br />
<br />
Hang in there. <br />
Love y'all,<br />
Holly<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpRqjl0q1xbHht59DQRvG7PH9-S2Q22d4Bj6L7E6dEX4BR_Xb_B07ZxBgnm6pbtoUerfxRUCzUH5q8DRRK19UrD572nVMbZsKYFY1T9-u9sAGSIacniS5xejW4UGR7WO93y6ndmJJENng/s1600/Henley+and+harper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpRqjl0q1xbHht59DQRvG7PH9-S2Q22d4Bj6L7E6dEX4BR_Xb_B07ZxBgnm6pbtoUerfxRUCzUH5q8DRRK19UrD572nVMbZsKYFY1T9-u9sAGSIacniS5xejW4UGR7WO93y6ndmJJENng/s320/Henley+and+harper.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>
The sweetest babies I know!</div>
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</tbody></table>
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<br />Holly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774859305141049765.post-4933025729993333192018-09-10T17:44:00.000-07:002018-09-10T19:47:33.574-07:00Dear Chris, It's 9-11...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMa0VxLPscGMqV7oHgDWlvU2n1nPGui-sc4EhmSC-cTu7reRueOZ7Er0AtMMewuLX2CYZEyYAmDtnBriqLXo7690TCobSfEIckV9tR2dM2duiYkbhdZK_sKyyraBB1KEmsGtK37yxYzk4/s1600/Chris+Egan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMa0VxLPscGMqV7oHgDWlvU2n1nPGui-sc4EhmSC-cTu7reRueOZ7Er0AtMMewuLX2CYZEyYAmDtnBriqLXo7690TCobSfEIckV9tR2dM2duiYkbhdZK_sKyyraBB1KEmsGtK37yxYzk4/s400/Chris+Egan.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h3>
I think you wrote "My future's so bright...I gotta wear shades."</h3>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Dear Chris,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 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. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 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." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> 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."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 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." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 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. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> 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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Until I see you on the other side,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Holly</span><br />
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Thankful for the life of one of my best friends in the world today, Chris Egan.</h2>
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September 11, 2014</div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-size: large; line-height: 20px;">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." </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">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 him...no one answered. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">My heart breaks for them all, and I vow to NEVER FORGET.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">-Holly</span></div>
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Holly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774859305141049765.post-59580230708040688322018-09-06T21:24:00.001-07:002018-09-07T12:20:52.470-07:00And the People said "Amen!".<div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
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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.</div>
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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.<o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></o:p></div>
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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. </div>
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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,
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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!<o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></o:p></div>
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The next thing you know...</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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! </div>
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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. </div>
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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.</div>
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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!"</div>
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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.</div>
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Love y'all,</div>
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Holly</div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />Holly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774859305141049765.post-767335273455860592018-08-29T22:48:00.000-07:002018-08-29T23:26:21.077-07:00Washing Dishes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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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. <br />
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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. </div>
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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.</div>
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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."</div>
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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. </div>
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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."</div>
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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 </div>
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"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</div>
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"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.</div>
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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). </div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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. </div>
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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!</div>
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"Why did you put this in here without washing it like I told you?"</div>
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"Um, because I was ready to go to bed?"</div>
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"Didn't I tell you to wash it before you put it in the dishwasher?"</div>
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"Yes, ma'am, but...it's a dishwasher."</div>
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"Didn't I TELL YOU that dishwashers don't wash dishes?"</div>
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"Then why do we have the stupid thing?"</div>
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"Just for being a smart mouth, I should just whip your butt with this pot."</div>
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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.</div>
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I replied with "If you hit me with that pot, I am going to call the child abuse hotline." </div>
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"You have the child abuse hotline number? Really? Where'd you get that?"</div>
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"School."</div>
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"Go get the number, let me see that."</div>
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I retrieved the notebook with the sticker affixed to it...</div>
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"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.</div>
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I asked "Why do you need the number?"</div>
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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."</div>
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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 …</div>
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"And we aren't through with this conversation. We will finish this when you get home."</div>
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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. </div>
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I, on the other hand, am one of the best dishwashers in the tri-state area. </div>
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***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.</div>
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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.</div>
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Love y'all,</div>
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Holly</div>
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Holly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774859305141049765.post-80175129971748149202018-08-28T11:16:00.004-07:002018-09-01T07:34:15.350-07:00Bigmama's Last Day<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPfjlYe2meMMjKunSVfH2WTqNiCNCMNkMapBJtdii2N3P0MjMZ4wOin4imvR_IdEWF6YfAPKhcVX_lpydjr_tntQsvuoQoVwv-QtCDm2Wo08_nXlwZcn1PPTaM5QyTUZnIIp2YWoetfu0/s1600/Bigmama+and+Pa+with+Me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="516" data-original-width="502" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPfjlYe2meMMjKunSVfH2WTqNiCNCMNkMapBJtdii2N3P0MjMZ4wOin4imvR_IdEWF6YfAPKhcVX_lpydjr_tntQsvuoQoVwv-QtCDm2Wo08_nXlwZcn1PPTaM5QyTUZnIIp2YWoetfu0/s640/Bigmama+and+Pa+with+Me.jpg" width="620" /></a></td></tr>
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My Great-grandparents, Betty and Julian Henley, with me- 1975</div>
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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The Morning She Left Us</h4>
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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Every morning as Bigmama drank her coffee in that old green mug, she would pray<br />
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"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!"<br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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Hug your people and tell them you love them this week. <br />
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Love, y'all,<br />
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Holly<br />
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<br />Holly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774859305141049765.post-15005567500571053062018-08-08T11:11:00.002-07:002023-04-19T21:08:25.456-07:00Blackwater<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0jgbHrTjn4Ovsd_iRTtQUF2ud7GOrkpyXpWTDPo9vlYbSi4sUhkE_AJERjXV2JX5WGDpd8qgY5AkrWfF5T2uIBC4RLmeWxbiav5f3TgLt0QDaovNm8n6uUtmedTxVZMBTJHlLElRob5I/s1600/Blackwater+Cemetery+sign.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="624" height="409" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0jgbHrTjn4Ovsd_iRTtQUF2ud7GOrkpyXpWTDPo9vlYbSi4sUhkE_AJERjXV2JX5WGDpd8qgY5AkrWfF5T2uIBC4RLmeWxbiav5f3TgLt0QDaovNm8n6uUtmedTxVZMBTJHlLElRob5I/s640/Blackwater+Cemetery+sign.jpg" width="640" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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."<br />
<br />We only have so many days, we have to love on our people while they are still here.<br />
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Holly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774859305141049765.post-50789043823646009972018-07-28T11:24:00.001-07:002018-08-08T11:33:54.763-07:00Amazon, Netflix, and Long Distance Dates<h3 style="text-align: center;">
with the cutest boy in the world.</h3>
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Isn't he precious!</div>
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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. </div>
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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.</div>
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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. <br />
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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.<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"> 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.</span> I fell in love with him long before he ever kissed me, or showed up in those overalls in the rain that night.</div>
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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. </div>
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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?</div>
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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!</div>
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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.</div>
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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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.</div>
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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. </div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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."</div>
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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.</div>
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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. </div>
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Don't take the beautiful, simple moments for granted. Make them count and celebrate them!</div>
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Love Y'all,</div>
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Holly</div>
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And...just for the record. When we went to Hollywood to the Chinese Theatre, his hands and feet perfectly matched Paul Newman's. </div>
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Holly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774859305141049765.post-16228725152851347202018-07-13T14:31:00.005-07:002018-07-13T15:48:34.847-07:00Rule Followers with Stupid Names<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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?</div>
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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.</div>
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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." </div>
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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? </div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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. </div>
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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.</div>
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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?</div>
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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. </div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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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." </div>
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Love y'all,</div>
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Holly</div>
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Holly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774859305141049765.post-54736556887948624822018-07-10T08:49:00.002-07:002018-07-10T10:06:19.718-07:00 Funerals, Banana Pudding, and Skynard.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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."<br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Love y'all,<br />
Holly<br />
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<br />Holly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774859305141049765.post-58654410848519747662018-07-02T12:13:00.001-07:002018-07-03T12:59:17.276-07:00This Flag, My Flag<h2>
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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."<br />
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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. <br />
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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 <i>Tora, Tora, Tora!</i> and in <i>Pearl Harbor</i>.<br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Love Y'all,<br />
Holly<br />
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***Update- the boy's name was either Calvin or Alvin Bray<br />
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<br />Holly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774859305141049765.post-52334296976898974372018-07-01T17:11:00.001-07:002018-07-01T17:11:08.394-07:00Am I sensitive or just raised in Lower Alabama?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Telephone Etiquette, Old School</h2>
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. <br />
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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?"<br />
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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?' <br />
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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.<br />
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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." <br />
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What the FRESH HELL DID SHE SAY TO ME? <br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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Let's not be like Sarah. Let's learn from her ignorance and meanness.<br />
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SOME RULES I FOLLOW ON THE TELEPHONE:<br />
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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..."<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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?<br />
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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.<br />
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Love Y'all,<br />
Holly<br />
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<br />Holly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774859305141049765.post-12042997452223709812018-05-06T18:28:00.002-07:002018-05-06T20:32:27.151-07:00Manners and Common Courtesy<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"><i>Manners</i></span></div>
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Miss Emily Post</div>
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As a small child, growing up in south Alabama, I found myself in a household where manners were paramount. I spent hours at the table learning to place my napkin in my lap, which fork to use, and how to set a proper table. I once spent an entire week in a summer learning to walk with books on my head- first one, then two, then finally three. The final touch was balancing three books on my head while walking the length of house and back in heels. I mastered the task and was told that I could finally walk like a proper young lady. </div>
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The first big book that I read cover to cover was The Complete Guide to Etiquette by Emily Post. I read it cover to cover and then again. I memorized every page and knew exactly how many footmen that I should have at a dinner party. I had no idea what footmen were, but I knew that if you were hosting a proper party, they needed to be in the dining room. </div>
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I learned that you serve from the left, and clear from the right. I knew that if you did not have a staff, it was appropriate to serve things buffet style. I am still not a fan of the buffet, but it does make for a much more relaxing party.</div>
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Being that it is rare that a family sits down to a meal together, well less sets a table, we have lost a lot of the magic that existed around meals and general human interaction.</div>
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I am no saint, I use language on occasion that Saint Emily most certainly would not approve, but I do try to avoid being selfish, unless it involves self-preservation (most days). I have found that in this got to have it now, I have to win, and the "mine, mine, mine" mindset, we have lost common courtesies that were once a mandatory part of being a part of society, a part of our human community.</div>
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<i>What am I talking about? </i></h3>
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REGARDING BORROWING THINGS</h3>
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Emily Post probably would have said something like:</div>
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When borrowing serving dishes for entertaining, always make sure that your staff returns said platters in pristine condition. Make sure to send a thank you note on an engraved invitation, and make sure that a home baked gift is sent with the platter upon its return. </div>
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Translated into today's vernacular:</div>
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If you borrow your neighbor's Pyrex, don't break it, don't lose it, don't let someone else borrow it, and make sure she gets it back to the person who brought you the food. OR If you break something that belongs to someone else, replace it and maybe throw in a roll of cookie dough.</div>
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REGARDING PHONE CALLS</h3>
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Or how about phone calls, my biggest pet peeve these days. When you call someone and they answer, it is polite to say "Hi Mary, this is Holly. I hope I caught you at a good time? Do you have a few minutes to talk?" </div>
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INSTEAD OF</div>
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"This is Minerva. We have a problem, what are YOU going to do about it?" </div>
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Minerva never even gives you a second to answer her questions while she is railing on you for something that she doesn't even know is a result of something you did or did not do, because Minerva assumes things. Minerva is a bitch. Don't be like Minerva.</div>
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We live in a very assuming society these days. My Grandfather always said "You know what happens when you assume things? You make an ass out of you and me." He was right. I have been very guilty of being judgmental without truly getting to know people, but I am working on that daily.</div>
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Last manners lesson today and probably one that irks me more than anything else...</h3>
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REGARDING OVERSTEPPING YOUR BOUNDARIES WITH INVITATIONS</h3>
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If you are invited to a party, an event, a social function, or to be a part of a social club or group, unless your invitation says plus one, it means just you. That means, you don't show up to the wedding with your bestie if only you were invited on the invitation. It means that you don't get to sneak an extra person into a banquet that only has seating for you. And, you don't get to invite extra people to be a part of a social club or group that you were invited to be a part of without consulting the people within your club or group- that makes it awkward for everyone involved and creates underlying resentment long-term.</div>
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Let's all try to be nice this week and put our best foot forward, shall we?</div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">Love y'all,</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">Holly</span></i></div>
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Holly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774859305141049765.post-35565920278830184922018-02-04T15:55:00.000-08:002018-02-04T22:25:29.788-08:00Don't Let Them Get You Down!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 8px; margin-left: 205.5px; margin-right: 205.5px; orphans: 2; padding-bottom: 6px; padding-left: 6px; padding-right: 6px; padding-top: 6px; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><tbody style="margin-bottom: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
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Ever have one of those days when you feel like nothing? You wake up questioning every life decision you've ever made and feel like you took a wrong turn somewhere? That's pretty much every day for me lately, and it has been a struggle.</h4>
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I have tape recordings in my head of a former boyfriend who broke up with me because he thought if we married, we would have fat children because his parents were overweight and my mother is overweight. I was a size 6 when I was dating him, and after he said that to me, I broke it off and gained a ton of weight immediately.</div>
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At that point in my life (eighteen years ago), I felt like no matter how hard I tried, no one really saw me, so I stopped trying. Today, I am at my all-time highest weight.</div>
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(For the record, aside from the fact that his eyebrows were out of control and he wasn't very good looking then, now he IS fat and I heard he is diabetic and lost part of his foot. I'm not celebrating his demise, but I will say that he had it coming for being a pretentious ass. And, his kid is fat, so...) That was twenty years ago and I wasn't in love with him, we just dated for a little while. So why did I let that loser get into my head like that?</div>
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This morning...</h4>
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I woke up today on day 6 of Jenny Craig and all I want to do is eat a pizza and drink a Coca-Cola. I will refuse, because this is the first step to reclaiming my life. There are so many life events that overweight people skip because of fear. I am tired of feeling afraid and not good enough and missing out on my life. </div>
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I am down five pounds, but the "fat girl" part of me is so tempted to curl up in the corner with my drug of choice, Coca-Cola, and drown my sorrows with a pizza. Fat girl needs to go- get thee behind me, fat girl!</div>
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The things that people said to me in the past are just that- past. I know that none of those things are true. I know that my self-worth doesn't have to be rolled up into an image of perfection that I have never achieved- even at my best. I know that when I was a size six I was hot, smoking hot. I didn't realize it then, but when I get there this time, I will know it and I will feel good in my own skin.</div>
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Why do we let losers get into our heads? I am married to the cutest boy in the world! He loved me when I was a size 10/ 12 and thought I was smoking hot then. He thinks I am beautiful now (at least he says he does), and regardless of the size of my ass, he picked me and I picked him, and we have ridden out the storms of life together- from a size 10 to a size 18. He has never even met skinny Holly; she really might be too much for him.</div>
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Why am I telling you all of this?</h4>
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Because I know that I am not alone. As women, there is an expectation that we look a certain way, behave a certain way, and maintain standards that make us "acceptable" in the eyes of the world. Okay, so it isn't like this in New York City, but it is in Birmingham, Alabama. It may not be this way in Big Sur, but it is in Huntsville, Texas. As a society, we treat fat people differently, it's true. I do it. I have reverse of anorexia- I look in the mirror and see a thin person- so it snuck up on me, it really did. </div>
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Even though I am in the same boat as thousands of other Americans who are victims of working too many hours and eating too much fast and pre-packaged food, I still look at overweight people and assume that they are lazy or too weak to get their crap together. Since I have the same struggles, I can say that, can't I? But doesn't that make me weak and lazy? Truth is, I have been. I have allowed other people into my head (weak) and just given up on the downstairs sofa and skipped the gym and opted instead for a Crown binge on Netflix (lazy).</div>
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Accomplishments mean nothing when you feel like a cow.</h4>
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I have a list of accomplishments as long as my arm, certificates and letters after my name, but none of that stuff matters to me. I am not easily impressed by those accomplishments in my life as much as I would be wearing a size 6, having perfect hair, and feeling good in my skin. Why? Because even though I fought to achieve all of those other things in my life, they weren't as difficult for me as maintaining a healthy weight. Weight is my one major struggle and it is rooted in so many emotional hang-ups. </div>
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Many people who are overweight/ morbidly obese and "happy in their own skin" (aka liars), will say that I have my priorities out of order, but being healthy and feeling beautiful makes you feel better in your own skin. What is inside of my soul matters, but overweight people often don't get the opportunity to speak their truth because a better looking person is allowed the opportunity to speak up first. It sucks, but it is human nature. And before you get started, Millennials, just slow your roll with your kumbaya and let's just be real, okay?</div>
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So, if you are in the same boat that I am, don't give up!</h4>
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When I imagine the people in my life who have told me for whatever reason that I wouldn't make it- whether it was lose the weight, get my builder's license, or whatever else it is that I want to do, I imagine them blowing up like a gigantic hot air balloon and just floating away so far that once they hit the atmosphere, and I will never have to hear their whiney, nagging voices again. And so, as I struggle through Day 6 and try not to break every dish in my house, I think about John Wayne. He was an ardent supporter of women in Hollywood and beyond. </div>
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On several occasions, it was recorded that John Wayne sent this message to female friends:</div>
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<b><i>"Don't let the bastards get you down."</i></b></div>
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Good luck to everyone as you start your week tomorrow.</div>
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Love,</div>
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Holly</div>
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Holly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774859305141049765.post-79764155650990058432017-11-14T19:17:00.003-08:002017-11-14T19:36:31.949-08:00Holley House DressingThis is a re-post from years past. Many of my friends have made this, and just like I call my Grandmother every year for the recipe, they call me to get the recipe. Here it is. Enjoy and have a wonderful Thanksgiving!<br />
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Holley House Cornbread Dressing</h2>
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<a class="_39g5" href="https://www.facebook.com/notes/holly-hart-shirley/holley-cornbread-dressing/10150470351637835/" style="color: #90949c; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;">November 17, 2011 at 9:56pm</a><span class="timelineUnitContainer" style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
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<span class="timelineUnitContainer" style="font-family: inherit;"><a aria-controls="u_fw_0" aria-expanded="false" aria-haspopup="true" aria-label="Shared with Your friends, Vicki's friends and Amanda's friends" class="_42ft _4jy0 _55pi _5vto _55_p _2agf _4o_4 _401v _p _1zg8 _3m8n _4jy3 _517h _51sy _59pe" data-hover="tooltip" data-tooltip-alignh="right" data-tooltip-content="Your friends, Vicki's friends and Amanda's friends" href="https://www.facebook.com/notes/holly-hart-shirley/holley-cornbread-dressing/10150470351637835/#" id="u_jsonp_17_0" rel="toggle" role="button" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background: none; border-radius: 2px; border: 1px solid transparent; box-sizing: content-box; color: #4b4f56; cursor: pointer; display: inline-flex; font-family: inherit; font-weight: bold; justify-content: center; line-height: 22px; max-width: 26px; padding: 0px 3px; position: relative; text-align: center; text-decoration-line: none; text-shadow: none; transition: background-color 200ms cubic-bezier(0.08, 0.52, 0.52, 1), box-shadow 200ms cubic-bezier(0.08, 0.52, 0.52, 1), transform 200ms cubic-bezier(0.08, 0.52, 0.52, 1); vertical-align: middle; white-space: nowrap; word-wrap: normal;"><span class="_-xe _3-8_" style="font-family: inherit; margin-right: 4px;"><i class="_k_e _2930 img sp_kOaI_E7qyy8_1_5x sx_457f68 customimg" style="background-image: url("/rsrc.php/v3/yk/r/U0x3qx7-LZz.png"); background-position: 0px -200px; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: 64px 214px; bottom: 1px; display: inline-block; height: 12px; position: relative; vertical-align: middle; width: 12px;"></i></span><span class="accessible_elem" style="clip: rect(1px 1px 1px 1px); font-family: inherit; height: 1px; overflow: hidden; position: absolute; width: 1px;"><span class="_55pe" style="color: #999999; display: inline-block; font-family: inherit; overflow: hidden; text-overflow: ellipsis; vertical-align: top;"></span></span><span class="_4o_3" style="font-family: inherit;"><i class="img sp_lbWj69LqQFT_1_5x sx_fecb4f" style="background-image: url("/rsrc.php/v3/yZ/r/fI4iYhO0dj6.png"); background-position: -10px -176px; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: 24px 282px; bottom: 1px; display: inline-block; height: 8px; position: relative; vertical-align: middle; width: 10px;"></i></span></a></span></div>
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Every year, we have a few glasses of wine the night before Thanksgiving and call my Grandmother to ask for the dressing recipe. At my house, we call her the Kitchen Chemist. She has no recipes written down-all are in her head and every year the recipe is different, but somehow her dressing ALWAYS tastes the same. Go figure! After all of the years and the bottles of wine, this is the recipe that I use. I call it Holley House Dressing. There are some steps that are very important to follow according to the Kitchen Chemist, so pay close attention and do just what she says. And no kidding, my Grandmother is quite possibly (other that Paula Deen) the best cook in the WORLD. So here goes. Shopping list is at the end.</div>
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You are gonna need about twelve pieces of chicken- can be breasts for salad later (which is what I do..) or a whole chicken. It doesn't matter if you use chicken toes, just make sure that however you can come up with 12 pieces of chicken..that is the magic number. EVERY YEAR, THAT NUMBER IS CONSISTENT. In a huge stock pot, boil the 12 pieces of chicken and 12 WYLERS chicken bullion cubes. Once the chicken is all done, set aside...and do whatever you are gonna do with it later.</div>
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Now then, you're gonna need 3 cups of onion- finely chopped</div>
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3 cups of celery- finely chopped</div>
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2 boxes of Stovetop Stuffing mix- MUST BE THE CHICKEN-the regular kind is not the same.</div>
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You need to start with good cornbread or else it doesn't matter. Get Martha White Buttermilk Cornbread Mix. Follow the recipe for their cornbread EXCEPT...USE 3 EGGS INSTEAD OF ONE. BROWN EGGS ARE BETTER.</div>
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When you are preparing your cornbread, to get good crust...put a little cooking oil (I use Olive Oil) in the bottom of the pan..and I use cake pans and so does Grand. You're gonna make two pans of cornbread, so that's two recipes according to the Martha White package. Do the math and know that's gonna be 6 EGGS for your cornbread. Put some oil in the bottom of the pan...enough to cover the bottom and have enough room to sprinkle corn meal and some salt in the bottom. Let the grease get good and hot, but not burn. Take out the pans and pour the corn bread batter into them. It will sizzle! That is how you know it is gonna be AWESOME.</div>
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While the cornbread is cooking get the following things together: Here is what you are going to need:</div>
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In a skillet, saute'e your finely chopped onions and celery in butter (until the onions are clear).</div>
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Get two 9 x 13 pyrex pans together and spray them with Pam. After looking at my pictures, it makes more than that. So have some gallon ziplocks handy, because you can freeze it and thaw it out and cook it on another day with just a rotisserie chicken from Publix. ;-)</div>
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Once your cornbread is done, get a HUGE mixing bowl and crumble your cornbread finely. Add in your boxes of Stovetop- always mix dry with dry- then add your celery and onions. Now, you're going to pour in your chicken broth. You want it to be easy to mix- almost soupy, but not soupy if that makes sense. This should be the perfect amount of liquid if you don't overcook your chicken and let your broth evaporate, which is why it is important to watch the chicken. Once all of that is done, in a mixing bowl, beat 5 EGGS. Here is the trick to GOOD DRESSING.</div>
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DO NOT JUST POUR THE BEATEN EGGS INTO THIS WARM OR HOT BATTER. You want to put about a teaspoon of the dressing into the beaten eggs and then add a little bit more to warm up the eggs. You want to make sure that they don't cook immediately when they hit the dressing. Then, mix the EGG/ DRESSING MIXTURE back into the dressing. Pour into the pans. You can put into the refrigerator overnight or even freeze at this point. Bake at 350 for 45min-1hr depending on your oven. Just check it and see if the corners are getting brown. You will be able to tell when it's done. Don't overcook it though or it will be dry.</div>
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It is no joke, the best dressing ever..and comes out perfect every single time. Hope you enjoy it. If you make it, please share a note so I can tell my Grandmother you made her dressing, she'll be "just thrilled to hear" . </div>
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Love y 'all. </div>
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Happy Thanksgiving</div>
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Holly</div>
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P.S. Here is your shopping list:</div>
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12 pieces of chicken</div>
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15 chicken bullion cubes</div>
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2 packages STOVETOP CHICKEN STUFFING- MUST BE THE CHICKEN KIND</div>
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3 cups of ONIONS</div>
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3 CUPS OF CELERY</div>
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11 EGGS</div>
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Pam</div>
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Martha White Buttermilk Cornbread Mix</div>
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Milk</div>
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Cooking Oil</div>
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***SHE SAID TO ADD A LOT OF BLACK PEPPER. How much is that? I do NOT KNOW. LOL. However much you can stand...</div>
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***SHE ALSO SAID THAT INSTEAD OF MAKING YOUR OWN BROTH...YOU CAN USE ABOUT 10 CUPS OF SWANSON BROTH. </div>
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***SHE ALSO SAID DO NOT...REPEAT DO NOT get the Cornbread stuffing...make sure it is CHICKEN STOVETOP or it "won't be fit to eat" ". </div>
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Love y'all- Happy Holidays!</div>
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-Holly</div>
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Holly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774859305141049765.post-85396524333230365632017-11-14T16:37:00.000-08:002017-11-16T17:22:56.656-08:00Polishing the Silver<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>POLISHING THE SILVER</i></span></div>
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My favorite thing about the holidays is polishing silver. Not because I'm a cleanie, mind you, because my friends will assure you that I certainly am not an ocd cleaner. However, I do love the accomplished feeling that I get when I know that the silver is sparkling, and I can see my own reflection in it. There is something about the anticipation of a holiday or special event that makes me all giddy knowing that the china and silver are ready for the table. </div>
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When I was a little girl, Willie Fred, my family's housekeeper- let's just say Nanny, because she wasn't much of a housekeeper- would trick me into helping her polish the silver. She hated that job more than any other chore in the house. I would beg her to let me help, and she'd say "Chile, polishing silvah ain't no job for no little chile to be doing, you gotta know whatchoo doing, cause Miss Holley-she hard to please." I would beg and beg, and just like Tom Sawyer and his fence painting, she would let me help her polish. I can close my eyes and see Willie's gold tooth sparkle as she smiled watching me polish every single fork, knife, and spoon. And the trays, don't forget the trays!</div>
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I felt so grown and full of purpose when I would climb up on the kitchen stool to reach the sink with the gooey, pink Wright's silver polish oozing out of the sponge that made my fingers chalky and nasty. I loved putting the knives and forks down into the warm water to reveal the untarnished silver and how the weight of it felt in my hand. I would dry and polish it with a soft cloth and put it on the table. Proud, I was so proud. I knew that one day, that silver would be on my table and I imagined the dinner parties I would have and the gowns I might wear. I watched a lot of soap operas as a child.</div>
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My Grandmother's pattern is Strasbourg, my Mother's pattern is Strasbourg, and my pattern is Strasbourg. I married a man whose Mother's pattern is Strasbourg, as was his Grandmother's. I am probably the only one out of all of us who thinks about how that pattern connects us all. No matter which table is set before us, the Strasbourg is there- a reminder of holidays, special occasions from the past, and loved ones who have passed on to their reward.</div>
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And just like our crazy drunk relatives that only come around during the holidays, our silver has been a constant. Some pieces might be missing, bent or dirty, but silver cleaning was and is always a reminder to me that no matter how nasty things can get- or how dirty the situation- a sponge, some love, and a little elbow grease can make everything brand new again. </div>
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Families are messy and dirty, especially around the holidays. For some reason, holidays bring out the best and the worst in all of us. Like a tarnished place setting of Strasbourg, we can be guaranteed that if we do a little hard work and look for the sparkle, we might find the comfort that only an old fork or an old friend can provide. I hope your holiday baking and entertaining will be lovely this year. Love y'all,</div>
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Holly</div>
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<br />Holly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774859305141049765.post-64518136538840459292016-10-02T13:49:00.001-07:002016-10-02T14:29:08.199-07:0010 Things My 87 Year Old Grandmother Might Tell The Donald<br />
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10 Things My 87 Year Old Grandmother Might Tell The Donald (that he needs to hear)...</h2>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It sounded like a freight train!</td></tr>
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1. Being rich doesn't necessarily make you smart, it just means you got lucky and have surrounded yourself with other smart people. It probably didn't help that your Dad loaned you a few million to get rolling. All of that said, I respect your work ethic and what you have accomplished, but tell me what you know about Foreign policy without being a name-dropper.</h4>
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2. Son, no one is going to take you seriously until you do something with that hair. It looks like a tornado got aholt of you. Don't you know that looking good is 90% of everything? How can you run a beauty pageant and have hair like that?</h4>
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3. Having a trophy wife is difficult to overcome, I know, I was perceived to be one. People are always judging you and her and they will be wondering if she is smart enough or elegant enough to be the first lady. She married you and your 10 billion, so she can't be too dumb. I'd vote for her for sure, you, I'm not sure about yet.</h4>
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4. Why do you look so mad all of the time? Are you having problems with your bowels? Raisin Bran works wonders for me. Are you just always angry? You look angry. They make a pill for seniors that you can take a night to help you sleep, it might be just the ticket.</h4>
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5. You can never win a fight with someone who won't shut up- take Megyn Kelly for example. She can rail on you all day long, so just shut your mouth about it and she won't have more negative things to say about you or her cycle. If you don't have a period or have never had one, you have no business commenting on menstrual cycles or reproductive issues. </h4>
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6. I noticed that when they asked all of the other candidates about their faith that you weren't asked to comment. I read up that you are Presbyterian, they are nice folks. You should talk more about your faith if you want the Southern vote. And, you have a Jewish daughter, that's wonderful. The nicest boss I ever had was an old Jewish man, he and his family were always very kind to me.</h4>
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7. Instead of campaign messages that last 60 seconds, why don't you just run a picture of your daughter opposed to Hillary's daughter for 10 seconds. No one wants to look at poor little Chelsea for four more years. Your kids are beautiful, use them to your advantage.</h4>
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8. Be nice, just be nice. Bragging on your wealth, and your achievements is redundant. We all know how successful you've become, don't tell us again. Tell us how you plan to fix this messed up hell hole of a country we are living in and how you are going to get our boys out of harms' way from places we shouldn't be in to begin with.</h4>
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9. Tell me what you are going to do when you get to Washington and get the Jimmy Carter treatment because no one likes you.</h4>
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10. The job you are applying for affects a lot of lives. Make sure that you have your heart right and that you are doing this for the right reasons- that you are humble and sincere. That's what people want to see along with strength- humble sincerity. If you need a new campaign manager, I've still got some zip left in my step and I have seen every episode of Bonanza at least fifteen times, so I could be available and I might have a few strategies of how to invade a ranch or two if needed.</h4>
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Holly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774859305141049765.post-84102628555663126652016-10-01T17:25:00.002-07:002016-10-01T18:16:29.512-07:00Somehow, I have lost a year...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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How has this year just disappeared?</h3>
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This time last year I was helping my daughter plan to elope to New York City, line up a Junior's Cheesecake for their wedding cake in Brooklyn, and I was booking Broadway and Yankees tickets, all while virtual shopping with her via cell phone for wedding dresses. Through some of my beautiful friends, I found a photographer friend to meet them at City Hall to take their pictures on the Brooklyn Bridge. Meanwhile, my husband and I were in the middle of a move from Orlando to Richmond. Whew!<br />
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That made me tired writing it, no wonder I haven't blogged in such a long time. <br />
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Shortly thereafter, we welcomed the tiniest new member of our family, Miss Mallie, into our family and I became the Yaya/ mother-in-law in residence for about two weeks. I look back on that time with my daughter and granddaughter and am forever thankful that I had the opportunity to go be with them and rock that sweet, precious, newborn girl as well loving on my Henley Boo.<br />
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Shortly after we moved to Richmond, my husband's part of the project he was working on was cancelled. Within two months, I had planned a wedding in NYC, Christmas, moved us from Orlando to Richmond and then from Richmond back to our home in Birmingham. It was a hell of a year! I got to Birmingham and hit the ground running with a new job designing kitchens while my husband's industry took a turn for the worst. He once again was sent to Kentucky for two months and then that project was delayed. It has been a difficult year for him.<br />
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I have landed at an incredible company, where I work with people that I feel like I have known my entire life. I love each one of them like family- I truly do. I am very grateful and thankful for the opportunities that have presented themselves to me this year, but they have kept me very busy. I am doing everything I ever wanted to do in the design field, and know that this was a Divine placement because I saw three cardinals the first day I began there- God's sign to let me know everything is going to be okay.<br />
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Since we've been home, we've reclaimed bricks from a demo site, we've torn down our back yard, and are in the process of finishing our masterpiece designed by the incredible Rebecca Kinney, landscape designer. Hopefully soon, we will be having a backyard warming where we will literally have a fire to warm up the yard and have some fun with our friends and neighbors.<br />
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To say that I have been too busy to write is a cop-out. Sometimes when things aren't going like we want, the last thing we want to do is share them with the world. I just shut down; I quit writing. I gave up on my dream for a while, because I didn't take the time for myself to do what I love. I didn't go to Yale this summer for YWC, and I ended up working through the Archer Storytelling Conference, which I was invited to attend this year. Hoping 2017 will give me an opportunity to re-visit some of these things.<br />
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The part of my brain that tells stories and blogs is like a muscle that hasn't been to the gym in a while. The anxiety of sitting in front of the computer right now is overwhelming, yet I know that I have to put something down on this screen- anything. Stella has got to get her groove back! If you are reading this drivel, thank you. I promise to bring more interesting content once I get over the fear of hitting publish on this blog post.<br />
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Love y'all,<br />
HollyHolly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774859305141049765.post-35975787115908773852015-10-26T08:36:00.004-07:002015-10-26T10:00:10.486-07:00Like a Dandelion blowing in the wind...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXPgZGQPjJNy5jjj2_1eser_OocxIGDQqS3Cev2lvUFV5gw9wvpKBh2ao7JmxOavCT4TyhqwO7EQhfTsXnWi35sj02dxu4SFnLwgAVBJZIpRyehWbj6PiG1vZPZnsmlBbMNpV0mdbzQDY/s1600/dandelion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXPgZGQPjJNy5jjj2_1eser_OocxIGDQqS3Cev2lvUFV5gw9wvpKBh2ao7JmxOavCT4TyhqwO7EQhfTsXnWi35sj02dxu4SFnLwgAVBJZIpRyehWbj6PiG1vZPZnsmlBbMNpV0mdbzQDY/s640/dandelion.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
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"The answer my friend, is blowing in the wind, the answer is blowing in the wind." - Dylan</h3>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">I have tons of friends who are military wives and I have always wondered how they maintain their composure, manage moving constantly, and end up raising well-adjusted children. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"> I am trying to adjust to this gypsy lifestyle that we are living, but it isn't easy. I am thankful that my husband has a great job and that we have opportunities to travel and see things that a lot of people may never see. I am more thankful that our children are grown and on their own. At the same time, I am exhausted. I never know where I have toothpaste. I can't tell you where my favorite bra is. I have no idea where my winter clothes are or if I even have any left. I may have taken them to Goodwill when we moved to Florida. There are bags of unpacked clothes in my car that I live out of, and I'm almost afraid to take them out, not knowing where I may be tomorrow.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">I feel like a Dandelion that has been blown into the wind and the different pieces of me are scattered all over the place. I don't feel whole anymore and I don't feel like I have a home or a home base, even though I have two places to live.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">When we end up in a new place, I don't want to make friends or get involved in a local church or other groups, because I know that I won't be there long. Instead of looking at it as an adventure, it pisses me off and makes me so mad that this is our life. I question every decision that we've made up to this point and how stupid they all were. It makes it very difficult to put down shallow roots, knowing that they are going to be yanked up and, like a dandelion, my sanity is about to be blown all over the place.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">I should be thankful and embrace these changes with reckless abandon, but for a girl who never really had any roots or a stable place to call home, it is difficult to walk away from the only roots I have ever known. I've had the same home and lived in the same community since 1998. Those of you who know me, know how much I hate the busy bodies in this neighborhood and how I feel like I live in a three story trailer, and how this house just basically is the worst floor plan in the history of the world. But, it's home, and it's the only home I've ever known. I miss my friends. I miss knowing what is going on in my city. I am homesick.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">My husband's job has him working 14-16 hour days, plus travel time, so I never see him. It was really pointless to move all of our crap to an apartment where he is so that we could pass one another in the hall. I'm lonely and sad - and that just isn't like me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">I have an interview for a job that I really don't want, just to be around other people so that I don't go slap crazy. I feel like one of those commercials when they say "Do you feel helpless? Do you feel hopeless? Do you feel like you life has no meaning?" Yes, but not because of depression, because of the stupid choices I have made in my life (which all seemed brilliant at the time)- and maybe that can be depressing if you think about it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">My husband and I can't seem to get on the same page regarding where we want to live forever one day. As cute as the place is that I have fixed for us in Virginia- and I love it there, I really do- I could just sleep my life away right here in Birmingham eating snickers bars and watching old movies, while feeling sorry for myself. I need to be finishing my manuscript and not totally blowing every chance that I have at selling my books- and right now, I don't even care. I just want to sleep for a week with the air on 56 degrees under a pile of blankets.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Today is new day. I'm going to color my roots, see if I can find some makeup, because I lost mine in the move. I'm going to haul off things that I am sick of looking at here, and head to Richmond for a job interview and hope for the best. Then, in a week, I will board a plane on a one-way flight to Pensacola to welcome my new Granddaughter into this world. I hope and pray and believe that she will be healthy and will like to snuggle, because I need some sweet baby sugar!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Love y'all,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Holly</span></div>
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<br />Holly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774859305141049765.post-78028013984844184912015-04-25T17:01:00.001-07:002015-04-25T20:07:53.610-07:00Redefining our Paradigms<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK6FV5pGN1tUPp85ZiELap2rOy0eZw0dIJTBv_u8SJ0C5Etz6gW8hlYqu0XwfO7jvPH8SlxQS23W96jgVN_pdkjCqYfT2zvj_Cn8FmYEAWUvkJ9v-9CD_YO2_0f6vH8yt0IEdeD09TXYo/s1600/The+Dream,+Picasso+1932.jpg"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK6FV5pGN1tUPp85ZiELap2rOy0eZw0dIJTBv_u8SJ0C5Etz6gW8hlYqu0XwfO7jvPH8SlxQS23W96jgVN_pdkjCqYfT2zvj_Cn8FmYEAWUvkJ9v-9CD_YO2_0f6vH8yt0IEdeD09TXYo/s1600/The+Dream,+Picasso+1932.jpg" width="298" /></a><br />
The Dream, Pablo Picasso 1932<br />
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Lately, I have felt like the lady in this Picasso painting- half dressed, boob hanging out, maybe napping, arms disproportionately large in relation to the rest of her body. Crazy outfit. Most days, I've felt like my head was splitting open and like my brain is numb and not working, which leads me to the question:<br />
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How do we redefine the paradigms of our lives?</h3>
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<span data-dobid="hdw">par·a·digm</span></div>
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<span class="lr_dct_ph">ˈperəˌdīm/</span></div>
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<i>noun</i></div>
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<strong>1</strong>.</div>
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<span class="lr_dct_lbl_blk vk_gy" style="color: rgb(135, 135, 135) !important; font-style: italic; margin-right: 6px;">technical</span></div>
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a typical example or pattern of something; a model.</div>
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"there is a new paradigm for public art in this country"</div>
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"why should your sets of values be the paradigm for the rest of us?"</div>
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<h4>
How do we respond when our paradigms are redefined for us by someone else? Without our permission? Against our will? What do we do when people walk out of our lives unexpectedly or we have to walk out of theirs because we can no longer tolerate their behaviour and it changes the course of the life we had planned? </h4>
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Lately, I have been facing these issues in my own life. Someone whom I love dearly has made choices that I disagree with - to the point that I spent almost a year heartbroken over those choices knowing that there was nothing that I could do to change her mind. I grieve for her choices, and selfishly, I grieve for my own loss because I am no longer a part of her life and the traditions that we worked to create together. I am fairly liberal, but there are some places I draw the line.<br />
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This person was part of my paradigm, my template for my life, why I woke up many mornings and worked so hard. She defined who I am in so many ways- good and bad- my failures as a human being, a member of the human family, and my own family. I have questioned my own behaviour as well as hers, and have come to terms that there are certain things in life that I don't have to accept and that no one can legislate my feelings. However, all choices come with costs. My cost has been my disconnection with someone I love more than anything in the world, and a change in how the rest of my life will be different than I imagined. Some days I feel like I have lost a limb, or like part of my soul is missing. My heart, is shattered. <br />
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That doesn't mean that I don't wish her happiness, because I do. I hope she finds her life's joy and is fulfilled and her dreams come true. However, wishing her love and success doesn't mean that I have to be a part of those dreams if they go against the basic zeniths of my core beliefs. I don't have to condone her decisions or participate in them and continue to be abused in order to love her. I've had enough abuse in my life and I have had to draw a line to protect my own sanity. If you have to constantly bow down to someone and constantly give without receiving anything in return, that isn't love- as a matter of fact, it is the furthest thing from love.<br />
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I'm redefining my life. My holidays are different now, and they will be forever more. I take each day at a time, and instead of looking at what I have lost, I am trying to focus on my many blessings and the family that I have chosen and that has chosen me. <br />
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I've had friends have husbands leave them unexpectedly, without any idea it was going to happen. So many of my friends had to redefine their careers after 2008, and our veterans come home every day to a new world that they never imagined having to live in- some without sight, hearing, or limbs. <br />
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We all have struggles and everyone has a crossroads where we have to shift our paradigms. I hope that when you hit that place in life, whatever your paradigm shift may be, and there will be at least one in your life if you live long enough, that you are surrounded with people who love and support you. I hope that you have friend you can call when you bawl your eyes out at two in the morning. I have those kind of friends and I am blessed beyond measure.<br />
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I have had to learn a lot of lessons in Faith and this is part of my journey. I've had to learn that I can't control other people or their actions and that I can only be responsible for myself. I am not the caretaker to the world. Grown people make their own choices and they have to live with the consequences of those actions- all of us do.<br />
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I am having to put my trust in a higher power (for me that is God) to work out things that are beyond my control and to watch over the people I love when I cannot be there to protect them. Every day, I pray a little more. Every day, I find more peace and I heap blessings upon the person I've lost. <br />
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Wishing you faith and love on your journey.<br />
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Love y'all,<br />
Holly<br />
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<br />Holly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774859305141049765.post-14285018780622551032015-03-30T20:05:00.003-07:002015-03-30T20:25:14.889-07:00Shouldn't Dieting and Lifestyle Changes be Uplifting?<h2 style="text-align: center;">
So, why do I feel like I want to take all of these boxes of protein bars and put them in the road and run over them like Tammy would have done George's stuff? </h2>
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Hello, my name is Holly and my drug of choice is Coca-Cola (Hello Holly, welcome). There should be a recovery group for my people, the Co-cola people, the Mountain Dew people, the Dr. Pepper people- just like the 12 steps for alcoholics and overeaters to get off of this cracked out stuff! The withdrawals- even after three weeks, almost four now- are still killing me and I would probably shake down a little kid just for a sip.</div>
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I have passed it up, passed it by, chosen gallons of water in its place. I haven't cheated on my "diet" and after almost a month, I've only lost 6 pounds. 6 pounds might sound like a lot if you are a super model, but for me, well, it's a good beginning. </div>
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To quote G.W. from Sordid Lives when talking to Noleta about her 40 pound weight loss he said "That's kind of like the Titanic losing a few deck chairs." That's how I feel! I was so excited in the beginning; I was thinking the pounds were melting off and I was going to be my best, perfect self by my birthday this year (December). </div>
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See, I'm being reasonable, I'm not expecting this overnight. And my fat ass has a long way to go. And let's don't even talk about the redneck haircut that I had in the middle of this that almost made me snap and go straight to 7-11 for a fix!</div>
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This crap is hard! I'm an emotional eater from way back. Right now, I could devour some birthday cake, a doughnut, and drink the hell out of a Co-cola. Instead, I will drink another gigantic Tervis tumbler full of water- my seventh for the day- and go to bed. I mean, I have to be in ketosis, because I have breath that smells like it belongs to a dead cat, and could stop a train. My husband thinks that I am meaner than a bag of rattlesnakes and is doing anything he can to avoid me right now. He is working extra and playing a lot of golf.</div>
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I'm giving this program one more week. Tonight, I'm getting the books back out and will be following this thing to the letter. If that doesn't work, you can find me at The Betty. You should know, that before I check myself in to Co-cola rehab, I'm gonna suck down a six pack of Co-cola and possibly eat an entire Emily's pound cake.</div>
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Coming off of real drugs has to be some kind of nightmare, because if this is how you feel just coming off of sugar and Co-colas, I'd stab someone in the neck at rehab with the end of a shoe lace. I can't decide whether to just start going through my closet and throwing fat- frumpy things away or put on my tennis shoes and start running like Forrest Gump. Maybe I should just drink some bourbon? No, can't do that, that's not on the plan. The Forrest Gump project probably sounds like the best idea.</div>
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Singing Merle Haggard's old tune....</div>
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z-IJxTd8dCo"><span style="color: #990000;">If We Make it Through December- Merle Haggard</span></a></div>
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Love y'all,</div>
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Holly</div>
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Holly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774859305141049765.post-12206829636075421482015-03-26T12:34:00.002-07:002015-03-26T12:46:31.460-07:00Subterranean Homesick Blues- and Dylan Doesn't Make it Better.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I never imagined a grown person could be so homesick.</h2>
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These beautiful Japanese Magnolias are a part of my regular drive in Birmingham. A drive that is lush and green and lined with blossoms at all times of the year. When I am there, I am home. I searched a lot of years and a lot of miles to find home- a place where I felt loved, where I found my tribe.<br />
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I have walked a thousand miles down that magnolia-lined road and back, around the lakes, and on those sidewalks over the past 16 years. I have driven my children to practices, to sleep-overs, to the grocery store, and to school. Every time that I see these trees, it evokes the feeling that Italians must have in Tuscany when they rub the dirt in the hands and know it is theirs. This isn't my dirt, they aren't my trees, but they are my sanctuary.<br />
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I miss Vulcan towering over the city and knowing that he is always there. And for years, he called me to prayer- for those who had lost their lives in auto accidents when his light would turn red. When the light was green-I always gave thanks for another safe day in our city. It was weird that a statue could call so many to prayer, but I was very sad when his light was replaced with the spear.<br />
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I look out over the Birmingham skyline and I see the place where I had my first real job, where I kissed a grown man wearing a suit for the first time, where I broke up with that same idiot for being a cheater. I see the park where my best friend from college and I used to take a blanket and have picnic lunches.<br />
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I see the restaurant where my husband and I went on one of our first dates, it has long since changed names and owners. That restaurant is next to the building where I helped my husband move into his Birmingham office. I can look out over that skyline and see the next office where we moved him on a Sunday night- when all was quiet and still. I remember how he kissed me on the corner of 20th, across the street from the church where we were married, and how full of hope we were regarding our future.<br />
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It was like a movie- we were the only ones downtown, it was sort of rainy, and the winds were blowing, and there on the corner of 20th and 6th Avenue North, he kissed me like we were in a 40's movie, I will never forget it as long as I live. I believe my heel might have popped.<br />
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Today, I'm listening to a little Dylan and trying to get over my three week visit that I just had back home to my beloved Birmingham. It is Magic, the Magic City. There is something that gets in your blood and you are always a part of it and it is a part of you. And although I am enjoying my Florida respite, I sure will be glad when I can sing that ole Telluride song and mean it when I say "And I"ll be in Birrrrmingham tonight." Enjoy the song below.<br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_HWcMXPVtbo"><span style="color: #cc0000;">I'll be in Birmingham Tonight</span></a><br />
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Love y'all,<br />
HollyHolly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774859305141049765.post-78037910190122255312015-03-25T14:03:00.002-07:002015-03-25T15:36:05.018-07:0086 Years of Wisdom from Lenis<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Things I've learned from Lenis... You Only Live Once.</h2>
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Last week was my Grandmother's 86th birthday! It is so difficult for me to believe, because in my mind she is 44 and rocking a bikini in a way that I could never do right now at 43. She is one of the smartest people that I have ever known, and she continues to get even wiser as she gets older- as you would naturally expect. </div>
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In honour of her this month, I thought that I would share some things that I have learned from her over the course of my life, and maybe they will help you as well.</div>
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1. Read to your children and surround them with books. My Grandmother took me to far away places when new books came in the mail for me to devour every month. I read the books on her shelves and taught myself about the solar system, typing, creative writing; there was a whole world at my fingertips on the shelves of her library. Every summer we would learn something new together.</h3>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reading to me and bringing the story alive!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She still enjoys reading and finished this one by Kellie Coates Gilbert in a day.</td></tr>
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2. "Never marry a man that you wouldn't consider marrying. If you want to hang out with rednecks, then marry a redneck, but if you want to get invited to good parties and wear fine clothes, marry a professional. </h3>
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If you date a redneck, you could surely fall in love with him, and then where are you going to be? If a man can't afford to buy you at least a one carat diamond, then keep moving on down the line, because he can't afford you- no matter how much you might think you love him.</h3>
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Make sure you marry someone with whom you have things in common- things to talk about together, shared interests. And if you don't want to get married, that's okay too, because you can be anything you want to be in this world. And just because a man sends you flowers, that doesn't mean that you have to go out with him, understand?" </h3>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFj50LBvY6TpCwKdlNVJu1IE_l-UqEMy4rOwAyIHrkLidCH_R80QGpa23mmChluYAQj6LNTSH3zSpMIr8r2Cjr3GbK9BYZ-z3uDZNL5cYXP7fVVQGFJoY981kmZF_uTGdRvxwBLmmiVR8/s1600/Grandmother+with+a+flower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFj50LBvY6TpCwKdlNVJu1IE_l-UqEMy4rOwAyIHrkLidCH_R80QGpa23mmChluYAQj6LNTSH3zSpMIr8r2Cjr3GbK9BYZ-z3uDZNL5cYXP7fVVQGFJoY981kmZF_uTGdRvxwBLmmiVR8/s1600/Grandmother+with+a+flower.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She got a flower from the Knight at Medieval Times.<br />
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3. How to love and burp a baby...I'm not sure where it starts, but she puts a magical spell on little children and they all fall in love with her. Maybe because she will let you eat ice cream for breakfast and lunch if that's what you want while you are at her house?</h3>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Holding me when i was a newborn baby.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Holding my grandson (her great, great, grandson) when he was a newborn baby.</td></tr>
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4. "Be kind and loving to animals and they will always love you back. Animals aren't like people, they don't hold grudges."</h3>
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Grandmother and Willie at Christmas</div>
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Grandmother and Major on the farm around 1975</div>
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5. "My brother and sister were my best friends. I wouldn't trade anything in the world for the love and friendship we shared. You stay tight with your sisters and brothers that are close to you, because you are all going to need each other one day."</h3>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Immediate family of Julian and Betty Henley- Christmas 1980. I'm in the kid in the burgundy Chinos and the pink Izod sweater. I was pretty stoked about that outfit.</td></tr>
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6. Sometimes your family will act like this and be loving and kind to one another, having fun and actually enjoying being together... and other times you might have one child that acts like Gollum. Sometimes you just have to ignore Gollum, because Gollum has momentarily forgotten that he or she is really Smeagol.</h3>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXReUCt8Cv-gWOqT8gie_S4CF5xnX3cXLnm-hSJcaNa1mgDfH6oS0VeIWIgSgJZdcgm6HNzUcl6DbGyw93Mdf6qzRCMms3shAieSj92cj_Mu1GtnWyw9nt52vPrAP5EDEBsat8M-PoD2s/s1600/Grandmother+family+laughing+edited.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXReUCt8Cv-gWOqT8gie_S4CF5xnX3cXLnm-hSJcaNa1mgDfH6oS0VeIWIgSgJZdcgm6HNzUcl6DbGyw93Mdf6qzRCMms3shAieSj92cj_Mu1GtnWyw9nt52vPrAP5EDEBsat8M-PoD2s/s1600/Grandmother+family+laughing+edited.JPG" height="281" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Y'all are soooo funny."</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I want the precious!!!"</td></tr>
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7. You learn that you just have to roll with the flow, like Aunt Joyce would have done. "Be grateful for what you have, and don't complain about what you don't have. Just learn to improvise and be thankful for your blessings."</h3>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggu1fOaL-zS5Kzsvc909zEmCGuhKGVcdqCtvg8Y19v4x0tGAddX80pFIxsBY5GKfKPvqnOhnemtCTvyuSzAu-zmZsstpM8O_kHfPdo1rvtK5LbgSMqJzpZGUApnOUmmCfmArJ9OFTALvM/s1600/Grandmother+First+selfie+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggu1fOaL-zS5Kzsvc909zEmCGuhKGVcdqCtvg8Y19v4x0tGAddX80pFIxsBY5GKfKPvqnOhnemtCTvyuSzAu-zmZsstpM8O_kHfPdo1rvtK5LbgSMqJzpZGUApnOUmmCfmArJ9OFTALvM/s1600/Grandmother+First+selfie+2.JPG" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First selfie and we had a photo bomber in the background!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I cannot believe that I am having to wear this Minnie Mouse shirt."</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How to make a fireplace in Florida and improvise.<br />
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8. Don't live your life full of regrets. You can't change the past, just keep moving forward until something better comes along. If we all stayed mired down in the past, the whole world would be crazy!</span></h3>
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9. You have to take some chances in this life if you are going to get ahead. Sometimes you might fail, but if you don't take the chance, you will never know what you could have done. Don't miss any opportunity to better yourself or get ahead.</span></h3>
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10. Treat people like you would want to be treated, and try not to harbor resentment. It just eats you up, and the other person doesn't usually care. Don't let someone who doesn't love you destroy you. </span></h3>
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11. MOISTURIZE. MOISTURIZE. MOISTURIZE. Good skin care is very important. Neck creme is probably the most important. And never let your hair go gray, you will regret it, I'll clue you. </span> </h3>
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12. Never be afraid of plastic surgery. It is the best thing a woman can do for herself if she needs it. And always wear good foundation garments to support your body.</span></h3>
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13. Always have an account with your own money in it and don't let anyone know about it. That way, if you ever have an emergency, you can take care of yourself.</span></h3>
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14. I will never forget this one as long as I live. I think she told me this when I was about 18 and about to get married for the first time. "Don't kid yourself, when the money goes out the front door and there is none left, love will go running out the back door faster than you can say boo!"</span></h3>
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<span style="font-size: small;">15. Always treat your employees like family and they will always be there when you need them. If you are expecting someone to clean your toilet or do your taxes, the least you can do is honor their birthday and holidays and never forget that they have families too.</span></h3>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Love y'all,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Holly</span></div>
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Holly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2774859305141049765.post-76316477969968283952015-03-21T17:42:00.002-07:002015-03-21T20:22:22.685-07:00My Bad Hair ExperiencesI love the girl who cuts my hair in Birmingham, I really do. I've known her a long time and she is precious. I didn't correctly communicate that I wanted longer layers and vogue bangs...like this<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN8fTUm3gqUBPtCHdDCLy8ikXUlZ4GBs4aXGQbCHm-u7qWMcLttPJW9o_FGzq6jZdbru7qHOUVgJcyqNain_zsIfdGRKmxenI1CbNTOGcFXsel0YXZeAL2TEpttlZUaF0BFnIVMKBonTk/s1600/anne_hathaway_hair_styles_bangs1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN8fTUm3gqUBPtCHdDCLy8ikXUlZ4GBs4aXGQbCHm-u7qWMcLttPJW9o_FGzq6jZdbru7qHOUVgJcyqNain_zsIfdGRKmxenI1CbNTOGcFXsel0YXZeAL2TEpttlZUaF0BFnIVMKBonTk/s1600/anne_hathaway_hair_styles_bangs1.jpg" height="400" width="265" /></a></div>
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And so, I got my hair "thinned" with thinning shears and short layers all over my head. I look like an idiot. I cried. If Rod Stewart from 1978 and Monica from Friends had a baby, it would have looked like I do right now. I can't post a picture, because I am seriously too ugly to communicate face to face with the outside world right now. Below, I had the best hair I've had in maybe ten years and was feeling pretty happy about it. I was really enjoying my new "do". Like most happiness, it was short-lived.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSmzG81iRTBVf_BWsP1Ae_ZoJeW0z1TWpb_Hu_myY9qM2Ctzfpdk07t_ckk1pGfqFTQD0jgKhdiVtrfcAwPSExuXNu9G27dTT30Kobchsgb43LAN7fdm6pFROMuLAxyCFPEQD2hB_zR1c/s1600/Holly+with+bangs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSmzG81iRTBVf_BWsP1Ae_ZoJeW0z1TWpb_Hu_myY9qM2Ctzfpdk07t_ckk1pGfqFTQD0jgKhdiVtrfcAwPSExuXNu9G27dTT30Kobchsgb43LAN7fdm6pFROMuLAxyCFPEQD2hB_zR1c/s1600/Holly+with+bangs.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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When I was about 12, I wanted a perm- an Ogilvy perm because their commercials said that they were supposed to be the best. My mom had the perm rods at home because my step-dad was constantly getting perms. That's right, he had the 80's man perm. She rolled his hair on those small red rollers until he had the white man's afro. Lucky for me, she also had the white and grey fat perm rods from doing her Grandmother's hair. We had everything necessary except for the Ogilvy perm kit.</div>
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Every day, when we would pass the J. Randall store on our way home, I would beg her to get a perm and put one in for me. Finally, we went into the store and just like she said they wouldn't have, they didn't have the Ogilvy home perm. They did, however, carry Toni perms. Remember those commercials? All of those girls had beautiful curls! </div>
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With a Toni home perm in hand, we headed for Damascus. I was so excited! I was finally going to look like the cool girls at school with the curls and I couldn't wait!</div>
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I wanted mother to use the fat white perm rods, so that I would have fat curls, but she said that there was no point in doing a damned perm if I wasn't going to have curls, and that she was using the grey and red rods. I begged her to use the white ones because I didn't want springy, clown hair. But, she refused and used the grey and red ones. It smelled like plastic on fire while we waited the 30-45 minutes for the perm to kick in- ick just the worst smell ever.</div>
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My step-dad, Jim, had been working graveyard at the paper mill and was trying to get his nights and days straight, and had gone to bed early. He bid us good night while mother was rolling my hair and said to me "I'll see you in the morning Shirley Temple." </div>
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The timer on the oven went off, and it was time to take the curls down and rinse my hair. When I dried it, I looked like a really sad Ronald McDonald double. I have never been so ugly and awkward in my life. My hair looked like this girl's hair...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLCK6SkHdFAPlkQboFZUo1p4hciQ_3JnEH06AfplPfjJONzp-Y0ZtdZi3h3qIbnDzJ5sQ1KnrcGtQQTFK1eg414d6C211fuoiI20cg5DcS5RNiXmCXw5RDdIoF0JHvlaL6vmUFCOTc5lI/s1600/Bad+hair+photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLCK6SkHdFAPlkQboFZUo1p4hciQ_3JnEH06AfplPfjJONzp-Y0ZtdZi3h3qIbnDzJ5sQ1KnrcGtQQTFK1eg414d6C211fuoiI20cg5DcS5RNiXmCXw5RDdIoF0JHvlaL6vmUFCOTc5lI/s1600/Bad+hair+photo.jpg" height="400" width="280" /></a></div>
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I cried. I immediately went to the tub to wash out the perm. My mother snatched be up by my arm and said </div>
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"Hell no, you wanted a perm, baby, you got a perm. You aren't about to wash this out after you MADE me put it in your hair and spend all night on this."</div>
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I begged her to let me wash it out and hope that maybe the curls would relax a little bit. I was 12, already insecure about everything, and the last thing that I needed was to go to school with Ronald McDonald hair. Every time I would go toward the shower to wash it out, she would threaten to whip me.</div>
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I feel quite confident to this day, that had she used the big fat rods, I wouldn't have looked like a frazzle head. But, lucky for me, she always has known everything.- one of life's many blessings that I was granted in the parental department. </div>
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I can't quite remember how the chase ensued, but she chased me to the kitchen. I had gigantic tears rolling down my face as I begged her to let me wash the perm out of my hair. She told me that if I touched my hair she was going to get a belt and beat my ass. I told her that I was not going to school until Dean (our cousin and hair stylist) could do something with this gigantic puff of hair on my head. She let me know that I WOULD be going to school the next day and AFTER and ONLY AFTER school, she would take me to get a haircut.</div>
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I smarted off and told her that I was going to go wake Daddy, because I knew that he would let me wash my hair that she had RUINED. I do remember screaming YOU HAVE RUINED ME! YOU RUINED MY HAIR! She went to the laundry room to get Daddy's belt and said that she would give me until the count of three to turn around because she was going to whip my ungrateful, selfish ass. I told her that she was NOT going to whip me because she gave me a bad perm that I didn't like. It was the first time that I had ever stood up to her, and it felt good. </div>
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As I stood there crying, I remember her counting for me to turn around while she stood there with the belt in her hand, 1......2.......2 and a half....and on 2 and a half, I ran like a cat on fire straight to their bedroom. I woke Daddy up out of a deep sleep. He was mad that he'd been awakened, and said "What in the hell is going on here?"</div>
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I physically jumped behind him in the bed and hid behind him so that she couldn't hit me. He turned on the light in the bedroom and said "Ohhhh, I see why you're upset." and then said "There will be no whippings in this house tonight over this hairdo- do you understand me, Deborah?" She started to speak and he cut her off. I will never forget how he shut her down that night.</div>
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He sent me to bed and tucked me in and told me that it would be okay, that he would handle this. She went to bed mad because Daddy had intervened. The next morning, he told mother that he would drive me the 22 miles to school.</div>
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Unbeknownst to her, we skipped school that morning. We grabbed a biscuit at Hardee's and then Daddy took me to get my hair trimmed and straightened out as well as it could be straightened.</div>
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After I felt confident that I wasn't so scary looking and wasn't terrified of being mocked and teased, he took me to school. He was the best Daddy a girl could ever hope for in the world. And even though I wasn't really his, and I only had him for a little over five years, his love and kindness impacted my life in a way that I will never be able to put into words. He was my champion.</div>
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I went to school looking more like this after his intervention</div>
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He died five months later of a massive heart attack at the age of 42 and my world forever changed. I never asked my mother to touch my hair again in any way and that was the end of our hair-braiding, hair snatching, hair brush pops on the head, and mother-daughter hair bonding. I sure was glad that he put an end to all of that.</div>
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The bad haircut that I got today will grow out, and I won't look like Rod Stewart circa 1978 and Monica from friends had a baby in a few months. But, I sure do wish that ole Jim was here tonight to hug me and take me to the beauty shop tomorrow to fix this hideous mess. I miss him. I know that he is in Heaven having a big belly laugh at me buying a ponytail extension to fix this nightmare of a haircut. He would have gone with me to pick it out and then maybe we could have had a margarita. </div>
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Love y'all,</div>
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Never say "I want layers" until the very end and then say "just at the bottom".</div>
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Holly</div>
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Holly Shirleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06718069191702376931noreply@blogger.com1