Gina’s post about her beloved Cubs going to the World Series triggered memories of those exciting years in the early 90s when the Braves went from worst to first.
John and I had been married a few years, were childless and lived 10 minutes from Atlanta Fulton County Stadium.
I commented to Gina that I should have one of those early Braves’ World Series tickets somewhere.
Here’s what I found in my bedside table. Not a World Series ticket, this was for a playoff game against the Pirates. They lost this game but Game 7 was one of the all time great Brave finishes with Francisco Cabrera’s two out bottom of the ninth hit scoring David Justice and Sid Bream.
Hence, the Braves made it to the 1992 Series against the Toronto Blue Jays.
Dad came up for a game. The one clear memory I have of that night was looking down and thinking something is not right with the maple leaf on the Canadian flag.
But why wasn’t the World Series ticket crammed in the back of the drawer to my bedside table?
You see Gina, World Series tickets are big and very fancy. Just the kind of sentimental keepsake a reformed Pack Rat such as myself couldn’t bear to throw away.
Then I remembered.
Upon entering the stadium in the crush of folks, I went to the bathroom. (Some women tend toward paranoid at the notion of being trapped in the middle of a long row of seats at important sporting events and having to excuse themselves over and over to the bathroom.)
I went to the bathroom, waited in a very long line of women, took care of business, washed my hands, came out, met dad and up we went. Arriving at our section in the upper deck, we pulled out our tickets.
Alas I had no ticket.
Blood rapidly drained from my face through my throat — pooled in my stomach — and I became very sicky.
My dad had driven seven hours. We stood inches away from our seats. And I had lost any proof that Seat 113, Row 14, Aisle 312 was my very own.
No one in the universe felt worse than I did at this moment — with the possible exception of the person who attached the Canadian flag to the pole upside down.
No memory remains how we talked our way to our row.
Once seated, I constantly checked the entrance to our section for a character clad in dark leather wearing a grimy, bent-to-hell New York Yankees cap. The specter who was sure to march up to our row, motion at me saying, “Hey, missy get your @** out of my seat.” Then Braves’ Security would arrive to escort dad and I in the walk of shame back down the ramp to probable arrest.
I didn’t relax till the seventh inning. If that.
Thankfully nobody in the crowd coursing through the cement ramps of Fulton County Stadium found a trampled ticket face down in a sticky pool of Budweiser.
And messed with my World Series memory.
So hold on to those tickets all ye Cubs and Indians. And enjoy the show.
The Lord has his eye on the sparrow —
and those of us scattered-of-mind at the most inopportune times.
After first seeing the Facebook announcement for my 35th High School Reunion, I looked at it. Then I looked at it again.
The passage of 35 years was so hard to conceive and my arithmetic so weak, I took out paper and pen and subtracted 1981 from 2016.
Gag me . . . it had been 35 years.
I vowed to lose 5 pounds. Take every yoga class for the next four months. Pick out a dress. Face lift. Butt lift. Skin-on-my-legs-especially-the-skin-above-my-knees lift.
Months passed and it was two weeks till the reunion. I weighed about the same. I’d made it to three yoga classes the month of August. Nothing had been surgically lifted, so I packed some make-up, a pair of Spanx and rubbed self-tanner on my legs. Though I did think it the perfect excuse to get a facial.
Reunion photo credit to Ricky Silva. Can you find me?
Random thoughts on attending your 35th High School Reunion.
— Commit to going. Don’t think about it. No one ever gives birth or adopts children, signs up for a marathon or goes to a class reunion if they ruminate on it.
— Note to the venue. For the love of Mike, when most party-goers are over 50 — dim the lights on the dance floor.
— Try on the dress you decide to wear before the night of the party. I bought a dress last spring and never once had it on again until the night of the reunion. Whatever mojo I felt in the dressing room wasn’t there reunion night. Didn’t like it. At all. Thankfully, I did bring another dress. But logic says to try the dress on before leaving your closet in the rear view mirror six hours down the road.
— To those who went to high school in Florida and haven’t lived there in a while. HAVE A BACKUP PLAN FOR YOUR HAIR. I completely forgot about the Florida humidity. It was raining as well. My hair went up in a coated rubber band.
— Your mother can show up at the party before you, talk to people, and you laugh about it. If my mother would have shown up to a high school party 35 years prior, I’d have dropped out of Winter Park and enrolled at Edgewater under an alias.
My 83-year-old mother dropped by the party before I arrived. (She was eating in the adjoining restaurant.) She walked in and started talking to all my high school friends, and some of their children. When I arrived my friend Ann said, “Did you know your mother was here?” She laughed saying, “I looked up and thought that’s Jamie’s mother . . . this is wild.”
This photo is Facebook credited to Ann who is in the middle of this pic. Ann who talked with my party-crashing mom. (I think her husband must have had the phone.)
High School Reunions are wild in a Twilight Zone sort of way.
Facebook is for cowards. Nothing can substitute the authenticity found in a face-to-face conversation after 35 years.
I heard a great phrase today. Out having breakfast in Madison, we were approached by an acquaintance we hadn’t seen in a while. He asked the standard “How are things?”
We gave the standard reply, “Things are great.”
To which he said with a smile, “Things are great with us too . . . with an asterisk.”
By the time you’re heading to your 35th High School Reunion, everybody can say, “Life is great . . . with an asterisk.”
Asterisks don’t discriminate. They are equal opportunity offenders in the form of losing loved ones, of divorce or divorces, children heartbreak. Financial struggles or collapse. Job traumas. Battling illness as if our lives depended on it. And the universal of challenge of experiencing our young selves — becoming not so young at all.
We’ve have lost the urge to play the comparison game to feel better about ourselves. If I asked you what you’ve been doing the last 35 years, I was truly interested in finding out your journey. Not to boast on my superstar decades headlining as wife, mother — and writing a blog.
On Facebook you get a bunch of amazing photos. Ones people post after they deleted the first fifteen they took.
It is a great way to keep up but,
With Facebook you can’t throw your arms about somebody’s neck in a squeeze or learn how fun life can be with a sugar monkey. Or giggle with friends you giggled with 35 years ago.
Thanks to Michelle for this snapshot.
So as Nike said back in the day,
Just do it and go to that reunion.
What’s to lose? It was quick. Just a few hours and then done.
The first rule of blogging is immediacy. Or is it frequent posting? Then there’s good content.
Lately, I haven’t done much of anything with my blog. So I’m going to invoke the Erma Bombeck Rule.
To be fair, this is my personal Erma Bombeck Rule. One that resulted from something I heard she said.
Later in her writing career when asked if she made notes of possible column ideas while on an extended trip with her husband, she replied no. Whatever was interesting enough to write about would be there — without notes — when she got home.
That idea intrigues me. Does it work with blogging? So many posts never get posted if I’m not able to write immediately.
It seems old news.
Who am I kidding? Old news?
That applies to CNN not my blog.
So I’m invoking Jamie Miles’ Erma Bombeck Rule on future blog posts for a while. Especially, since my WIP takes the majority of my writing time these days.
Things that happened yesterday, last month or last year — events that I wanted to write about and should have blogged about — I’m going to post about in an untimely manner.
It will be interesting to see the stuff that stuck with me without referring to notes to jar my memory.
First up . . . my 35th High School Reunion last August, which I should have written about last August.
This isn’t my first rodeo raising money for Ronald McDonald House Charities (RMHC), so you wouldn’t expect a rookie mistake.
Wait. I’m getting ahead of myself.
Two years ago, my son Joe (then 11) and I joined TeamRMHC to raise money for the RMHC of Central Georgia. We trained for the RunDisney Princess Race Weekend with approximately 200 other runners from around the country. Joe and I ran the 10K on Saturday and I ran the half on Sunday. We raised $1,8oo for the RMHC in Macon. Here is our group at a meet-and-greet in 2015 at the Walt Disney World McDonald’s, of course. The group raised over $165,000 to be used when families with children receiving care at Children’s Hospital Navicent Health cannot afford the $15 per night fee.
It was a lot of fun and a great experience. So when I received an email this July about joining again I asked Joe if he was up for it in 2017.
“I’ll think about it,” he replied.
Joe is my gamer. This would be a good way to get him outside as he prepared for 6.2 miles in February and hopefully reinforce the need to help out others experiencing tough times.
Have to say, I was a little surprised when Joe came to me a month later and said he’s ready to run and fundraise. This time, we talked Dad into joining our Running Miles for RMHC team.
So back to how I started this post.
Having been a part of the 2015 team, I knew each team member needed to raise at least $750.
No problem, right?
Last time, one of our more successful efforts was a Lemonade and Sweet Tea stand. So, while it was still warm we planned the same on the one weekend in September we all were available. I dropped the tea and since a few batches of cookies last time were very popular — this year I made tons of them.
No matter that the Georgia game kicked-off at 12:30.
Build it and they will come.
Well, come showtime — our now 13 year old wasn’t thrilled with standing out on the street, saying that last time kids at school said they had seen him.
Joe in September 2014 reeling in the donations.
Two years later, this is how the Lemonade Fundraiser went down.
Give us a half a point for effort — but John and I agreed — something looks a little odd about grown-ups with a Lemonade stand. So whether it was the University of Georgia game or the creepy adults-asking-for-donations-with-cookies factor, business was slow.
Where’s Rent-a-Kid when you need it?
I did the next best thing and texted my neighbor to ask if her son could help.
With a buddy by his side, the reluctant Running Miles for RMHC team member hit the streets.
And what started as a trickle. Got a little less tricklely.
A few of our fabulous donating folks.
Yoga instructor Shawn.
Our daughter woke up and donated money for a cookie breakfast.
Young lads after playing their first football game.
Mary, yoga instructor. And an amazing artist. She uses her hand and paint and a brush to do these things called paintings. I do too occasionally . . . Only difference is that hers are amazing and mine more kindergartenesque. (Not that I’m jealous, cause I’m totally going for that kindergarten vibe.) Lots of folks are into it. Granted, the vast majority just display paintings by their own kindergarteners. But I’m confident with time, the stigma associated with adult kinderart will erode and I will sell a painting. Or maybe my husband will agree to hang one in the shed with the lawnmower?
Good neighbors stopped by on way to Georgia Tech game.
With the boys pulling them off the streets, and me clogging my Facebook feed with photos, and begging — it ended up being a very successful outing.
But we did have lots of cookies and brownies leftover.
So I bagged them up and team member Johnny Miles took them to his Sunday School class the next day, and his Tuesday morning Men’s Bible Study.
Guess the total amount received for all those cookies.
Four hundred seventy dollars and seventy-eight cents — $470.78.
Do you believe it?
A huge success!
It sure didn’t feel that way when I was doing my best Johnny Carson impression.
Johnny Carson. That’s what I think when I see this photo. Maybe David Letterman. I’m not going to lie and say this photo makes me think Jimmy Kimmel or Jimmy Fallon. I’m old and remember staying up late when I should have been asleep and watching Johnny.
Too old to be sitting at a stand asking for donations, but where there’s a will and a most excellent cause — the good Lord will provideth a generous Sunday School class and Men’s Bible Study — as the way.
While John and I sat there watching the grass die, we talked about new money laundering raising strategies in light of the changing Miles RMHC team dynamic — two middle-aged adults and one soon-to-be teenager.
So be on the lookout for ways to join the giving.
One last thing.
Look beyond the dead grass (we are having a drought here) and see the balloon.
The balloon I bought last Friday, the day before our event, in hopes of attracting attention our way.
That’s why I’m doing this again for Ronald McDonald House Charities.
Or the story behind the balloon. I’ll get to that next post.
And as long as I have your attention, any fundraising ideas?
I used to lie every now and then, like at show-and-tell. Because what I did in my mind over the weekend was a lot more interesting than sharing what I watched Johnny Quest do on Saturday mornings.
So this lying thing comes naturally. If no one gets hurt. And I believe it in my heart.
Okay. That’s stupid.
I’m very content with life right now so I don’t feel the need to lie — even about age. But if I’m tagged by another blogger, why not rise to the challenge?
What was the falsehood in my last post on why I haven’t been blogging?
True. I have been writing on my WIP. I figure it takes me 90 minutes to write 500 words. Three hours for 1000. I hate that there is only so much creative time and energy the good Lord provides me with every 24 hours.It still is my goal to post at least once a week — and set aside time to read other bloggers. But I’ve fallen short of late. I do miss the community of blogging and I’ll be back.
Between the other two, becoming a yoga instructor or falconer — seems most folks think I’m on the road to certifiable yoga.
Not that I am not enjoying the flush of new love with yoga. I just have no interest in leading anybody anywhere.
I check my responsibilities at the door. Lie on my mat and leave the driving to Mary or Shawn or Grace — or Elise. I’ll get to your class someday.
Anyone. But me.
Yesterday, during savasana after Mary’s intense Vinyasa class, I fell asleep. I can’t do that if I’m making sure everyone else relaxes. Or massaging their temples like Shawn, or singing like Grace.
I want to exert and check out mentally. Yeah, I know. Concentrate on my breath, keep my heart higher than my hips, try not to fall on my neighbor during anything . . . but
A girl’s got to know her limitations.
I would not be a good caring yoga facilitator.
I’m selfish with my yoga.
On the other hand, the thought of spending hours on end with a hawk, a dead rodent and traipsing in the woods excites me.
A girl’s got to know her limitations. I know.
The eagle has always been my favorite animal on those stupid personality quizzes, except age 14 — 18 when I went through a dolphin is my favorite animal phase.
I know Auburn’s mascot is a Golden Eagle. War Eagle VII is named Nova. There is no reason on God’s green SEC turf that I would know that (or post a photo on my blog) except that I love, love birds of prey. And he’s the George Clooney of birds of prey. Gorgeous.
Writer, blogger, photographer — all around great person and friend Julia Munroe Martin challenged me to a two truths and a lie blog post after completing the same. I met Julia online many years ago. Happening upon her blog, I became spellbound by her weekly video reports from a perch overlooking a beautiful bay in Maine. Through sun, wind, snow and freezing cold, I got to know her along with her legion of writing friends and fans. I’ve read advance copies of her novels and cried when she lost her dear black lab, Abby. She’s completed novels and keeps a WIP forever on her laptop. Be sure to check out her blog and follow her photos on Instagram. Someday I will make it to Maine, to the coffee shop where she writes. We can peck away on our laptops while sipping our favorite hot beverage (what is yours Julia?) and my standard — coffee, black.
Two truths and a lie why I haven’t been blogging.
1. I’ve fallen in love. With yoga. Finally, a way to stretch out the knots and kinks three decades of running inflicted on my muscles and tendons.
I love it so much that I’ve decided to become a certified yoga instructor. When I informed John of my desires, my plan, he rolled his eyes and said, “Another endeavor of yours that will take lots time and money and result in little or no income to our household. Go for it!” I’ve been able to work on my novel by dictating while on the drive to my classes. The mental toughness acquired by twisting my arms into a pretzel hath unleashed abilities to multitask that for most of my life remained dormant. As I concentrate on the higher mental and emotional aspects of warrioring and downward-dogging, my mind relaxes and my creativity expands.
2. Thenthere’s theever-looming WIP. As I inch toward a finished first draft. School started August 1. You’d think I’d have gotten more done, but finding time to sit and write has been scarce. Other than the dictating I’ve done on my way to yoga, nothing much has found it’s way out of my brain. I have the story’s end wrapped up in my head and it needs to get out on paper. Trying to make that happen by Labor Day.
I did have a productive word count stint with my writing group on Friday. Now to leave the dishes undone and the beds unmade and find consistent, disciplined butt-in-chair, fingers-on-keyboard time in the next two weeks. Once the first draft is done, I’ll set it aside for a month or so and start ruminating and outlining novel number two. Because that’s what would be novelists do to take up lots of time and effort and result in little or no income to their households.
3. And there’s my bird thing. Blogging has taken a backseat to my desire to be a falconer. Okay that’s a teensy untruth in this truth. I’m not allowing myself to go full throttle on the falconry gig till I complete the first novel. Notice I didn’t say until I get the first novel published. Unlike my new passion of becoming a yogi, my falconer evolution requires a daily commitment of seven years. On the short end. Yes, 365 days times seven.
And no, I don’t mean I’ll actually transition into a falcon. Why does it take seven years of mentoring to become a person to whom a majestic bird of prey trusts to return to for food? Guess it’s not like getting a dear parakeet to light on your finger. A hungry hawk might decide to take the finger off. Falconry is another massive project that will take resources that I haven’t earned and time that I don’t have and result in no income to the household.
My husband is behind this falconry thing one hundred and ten percent. That’s not a lie. It’s sarcasm.
Which one is the lie?
And . . . I challenge Kenya Johnson to try her hand at Two Truths and a Lie. I’ve been reading Kenya’s blog for many years and I love her no nonsense humorous look at her life. Her book, The Christopher Chronicles, written about her son and his unique look on life, brings me smiles every time I pick it up. Soooo, let’s see if she’s game to try and fool us. I’ll post my follow-up reveal-the-lie post in the next few days and link to Kenya’s blog. And Kenya, you need to select the next blogger to carry on with their two truths and lie.
In her memorable debut novel, My Sweet Vidalia, Deborah Mantella explores the supernatural symbiotic cord tethering mother and daughter.
Above is the first sentence to my Goodreads review of My Sweet Vidalia. For me it sums up my friend’s first published novel.
I used it to start this post. No use spending a half hour trying to come up with a better sentence.
Because writing — writing what you want to say, struggling over the best way to present an idea — is hard work.
That’s why I’m so proud of Deborah Mantella and the success of her baby, her novel My Sweet Vidalia. And thrilled with the boatload of literary recognition it has received. Set in 1955 rural Georgia, Mantella’s story has spirit-born child, Cieli Mae, narrate the turbulent life of her young mother, Vidalia Lee Kandal.
Mantella graciously agreed to answer some questions to inspire writers and hopeful novelists such as myself. A look into a writer’s mind for anyone who loves the crafted written word.
You’ve lived so many places and been exposed to lots, how did you decide on writing this story? And in the Southern gothic style?
Mantella: This story, or a version of this story, has been with me for some time. I’ve always been fascinated by the intense nature of mother-daughter relationships, be they good or bad. Water rarely runs lukewarm when it comes to anything parent-child, particularly of the mother-daughter variety. Most folks don’t seem to notice how often the child is called upon to raise the parent. This was the scenario I’d wanted to examine from an omniscient and otherworldly point of view.
As well, I grew up in the Northeast. Attended a catholic elementary school where we didn’t know what segregated meant. Where the effects of what was going on in the world outside of our own didn’t affect our interactions. We just were. My friends, my best friends, were of every hue. I was as traumatized by news of the Sixteenth Street Church bombing in Alabama, the assassinations of those four little girls, as I was by the murder of JFK. Maybe even more so because of what they represented. They were me, or as my character Ruby Pearl says of her relationship with Vidalia, “a different wrapper is all.” They were my besties. Someday, in some way, I will pay homage to them. Thus seeds of another fascination took hold for this strange era, that tragic moment in time.
As to the voice of Cieli Mae? Once I decided upon message and that the story could be best conveyed via this particular style, spirit child Cieli Mae’s voice with her impractical yet pragmatic presence and her no-nonsense approach to what it means to be human, just came to me. Organically. As for the rest, I opened my mind further and the voices poured in. Or would it be out…?
Having lived in the Atlanta area for several years, I’d already become enamored of all things southern, particularly those stories which appear simple on the surface but lend nicely to larger messages.
I’m a first-born, and a practicalist. And a bit of a skeptic. I believe in common sense and common courtesy. I also believe a story well told has the potential to change another person’s POV.
Did you find that you write a first draft quickly, then take time with subsequent drafts or do you labor intensively on that first draft?
Mantella: I labor over every draft. I liken it to my inability to leave a room where a picture hangs crooked. If I am inviting a reader into a world of my making, my creation, I am responsible for that readers experience. I need to get it right. Which may go back to that oldest child thing. I work hard so that, hopefully, my reader won’t have to.
Domestic violence and poverty are the only life Vidalia knows. How did these difficult subjects help the theme (themes) unfold?
Mantella: We are the sum total of the choices we make in this life. Coming by way of a relatively sheltered, middle-class, supportive, and fairly stable family, and the protections that combination enabled I took much for granted. Working with at-risk-youth as a college co-ed shed a different light on the value of my privilege. I saw first hand the effects of some type of support, be it from a family member, a teacher, a religious person, a neighbor—just the belief that someone, somewhere, has your best interests at heart, really is that important. It is something Vidalia never had before the nature of Cieli Mae entered her life, soon followed by Ruby Pearl Banks with her own enlightened version of advocacy and comfort. And common sense. Sometimes all that is needed to free inherent strengths long-denied is a prompt from a proper source.
That some women tolerate domestic abuse, endure endemic poverty, unaware of their choices was as foreign a concept for me as it was for spirit child, Cieli Mae, and in need of further consideration and exploration.
A favorite Harper Lee quote is posted over my writing desk, “You never really know a person until you consider things from his point of view.” I consider crawling around in someone else’s skin an author’s biggest perk. That we get to be that other person. As a writer yourself you know that process, that getting to know your characters, giving up all pretense of self, immersing in another’s psyche, one with a different background, different innate personality traits, different life experiences, is as intense an experience as parenting, as giving birth, as anything I’ve come to know. In many ways, even more so.
Any current projects?
Mantella: Well this whole social media thing is a game changer so I am working on that as well as making myself more available for presentations and local book clubs. As far as current writing projects, I am working on a collection of short stories and a new novel, another mother-daughter saga though the relationship involved is very different, quite manipulative, and far less loving, than those portrayed in My Sweet Vidalia!
Thanks so much Deborah. Excited for you and the well-deserved success of My Sweet Vidalia. Can’t wait to hear more about future works-in-progress.
Mantella: Thank you Jamie.
My Sweet Vidalia is available from your favorite bookstore or online retailer. In metro-Atlanta, the book is stocked at FoxTale Book Shoppe, Eagle Eye Book Shop, and many Barnes & Noble stores– including Northpoint, GA Tech, and The Forum.
Well Jamie, if you’d give us something to read, maybe we’d stop by more often.
Oh yeah. Sorry about that.
But I have been writing. On that first draft of that first novel. We won’t call the 50,000 words I worked on about five years ago a novel. Nope.
My daily writing goal is 500 words per day hopefully stretching it to 1000+ words like I did a few days last week. *Fist bump* Those days make up for the days I can’t write at all.
My revised deadline for first draft is Labor Day. Right now Scrivener says I have 86,257 words.
The perfect length for a novel. Only problem is those are 86, 257 first draft words.
Words I will slash, wring my hands and shake my head at how bad some of those 86,257 words are. Some of those 86,257 — big clumps and clusters — will be removed because they don’t fit how the story ended up.
Plan is to add another 40,000 to 50,000 words by September 5th and have a complete and utterly riveting first draft.
Can of corn.
I’ll have completed the first step. Of how many, only the Lord knows.
Is that like 12 in dog years? Or 12 human years that seem to last as long as whatever 12 x 7 is?
It does happen though.
The published novel. <insert angelic choir voices>
It’s happened to many of my friends.
Like author Deborah Mantella. My next post features an interview on her writing journey and debut novel My Sweet Vidalia. She’s racking up well-deserved literary praise for her story of Vidalia Lee Kandal’s becoming. Her awakening into a woman who refused to accept a life of abuse and poverty in 1955 rural Georgia.
An exert of Mantella’s words from my question: You’ve lived so many places and been exposed to lots, how did you decide on writing this story? And in the Southern gothic style?
This story, or a version of this story, has been with me for some time. I’ve always been fascinated by the intense nature of mother-daughter relationships, be they good or bad. Water rarely runs lukewarm when it comes to anything parent-child, particularly of the mother-daughter variety. Most folks don’t seem to notice how often the child is called upon to raise the parent. This was the scenario I’d wanted to examine from an omniscient and otherworldly point of view.
Good stuff, right?
So check back later in the week and I’ll have the complete interview.
Yes. Deborah did it. Woo! Her way with words comes by divine gift —
that and while in her mama’s womb, her dang chromosomes for readin’ and writin’ must have linked up darn near straight perfect.
Deborah applied that talent and worked hard. For years. Turning each sentence, each phrase, twice maybe three times, (and knowing her a fourth and a fifth twist) to find the best expression of what she wanted to say.
I’m not there yet. Not where her talent is . . . cause all us writing birds are cloaked in different feathers.
But most importantly, I’m not to the second edit. Or the third or the fourth revision. Just please not 12 years worth of revisons.
So ta ta for now. Hope head out to the porch and peck out a few words in on the WIP.
Can’t remember if it was the $10,000 college tuition check or a $100 insurance refund — but I vowed never to let a piece of mail go in the trash un-opened.
Well . . .
* * *
I don’t watch much television except HGTV. The Property Bros, Fixer Upper, Flip or Flop, Beachfront Bargain. I’m all idiot savant about it.
The one exception being PBS’ Antiques Roadshow. I know. The show that’s been on since Jesus walked the earth. I hadn’t watched it for years, but for some reason — maybe because I’m now antique status — we started watching it again a few years ago.
Monday nights, 8 pm. Sacred.
“We need to go,” I said to my husband last summer. Looking on the PBS site, I learned that you don’t just show up with your grandmother’s faux shark tooth bracelet. No ma’am. In January, you select from the cities scheduled for the next season and enter a lottery. Winners to be notified in May.
Fastforward to this May.
The email said I was a WINNER. And that two tickets would arrive by mail.
Except the arriving by mail part.
You’d think with my sketchy history of tossing away life savings in unopened mail, my guard would be up.
* * *
Last weekend, I reread the email and noticed the tickets should arrive two weeks prior to the event. Which meant, I should have seen them by now. Uh oh.
New Jamie didn’t panic. She waited for the mail to come on Monday. Surely it would be there.
No mail delivered to our basket on Monday.
No mail delivered on Tuesday. At this point, I did something I’d never done. Went down to our post office to ask if they were holding our mail. Had my mail basket finally been condemned by the postal service? It is pretty beat up.
“No. There was nothing back there for you,” the clerk replied with a smile.
New Jamie didn’t panic. She went outside to the trash and rifled through five large bags and a few smaller grocery bags on our driveway. No luck.
Surely it will be in Wednesday’s mail.
That’s when I knew.
I’d thrown it away unopened.
You know the saying I turned my house upside down looking for . . . . I did that and shook it sideways too.
Nothing. Well, a lot of cr@p like bills but no tickets.
In tears, I was so angry.
Here’s the irony.
I don’t really care about antiques. Well, except my husband. I don’t have anything of value to take. If I hadn’t been selected for tickets in the first place, I’d have been a tad disappointed but thought we’ll get it one of these years.
It was that my unfocused, mindless shuffling of paper mistake cost me a weekend away with John. A weekend staying at one of my favorite hotels. It cost me the possibility of meeting a Keno.
For the love of Primitive Windsor Chairs Painted with the Alaskan Flag in Gold Relief!
This called for OYKP. On Your Knees Prayer.
Bending down on the carpet, I clasped hands with fingers entwined.
Dear God. People are in heartbreakingly courageous battles with cancer and others have seemingly insurmountable financial woes. All so very worthy of your power and might. But dear Jesus, if those tickets have not left this property in a garbage truck and aren’t sitting in the Morgan County landfill — please help me.
Search the garbage again.
I got up, headed outside and went through the trash.
First was a small bag containing Chick-Fil-A wrappers. Second bag was bigger. Some mail was on top. Took out a nondescript envelope with a odd stamp. Junk.
Then I saw station call letters as the return address. Opening the envelope, seeing a clock and old stuff —
I thought — cr@p — a letter advertising one of those foreclosure sales on mountain property.
Then I turned it over.
God hears our prayers.
Even those that seem to be taking a bit long to answer.
As far as the Roadshow, I don’t really have anything of value to take, but I’ve got tickets.
I’ve been silent here for a while and nothing like the potential catastrophe of tectonic dinner plates smashing together to draw me to my blog dashboard.
Granted I planted late this year.
But it was so cool till mid April.
Only to turn so very hot.
Eight out of 10 of my Clemson Spineless plants coded.
A prime example pictured above. Alright, a miracle might happen but it is on life-support.
This is very, very bad.
A quick, non-scientific google of my blog post library revealed I’ve blogged on okra more than any other vegetable.
I guess you don’t know how much you love someone till they are gone or continue to shrivel up in spite of all attempts to help them thrive.
In 2014 it was yellow squash. Usually squash sprouts forth like Legos on the floor of a 7-year-old’s bedroom but in 2014 — nothing. The first sentence of that blog post read: Don’t ask me to choose between going all summer without sex or without a squash casserole.
This year the squash potential looks good. So I’ll need to come up with another excuse about the other.
But a summer without roasted okra for lunch? No fried okra for dinner? A pain to fix but something I endure because the kids love fried okra so very, very, very much. (Did I say how much the children love to eat fried okra?)
We’ve had a very hot, dry two weeks. But I’ve watered every night. And yesterday it became apparent, only three okra plants might make it.
Three okra plants in summer does not a happy Jamie make.
So I put on my old, crumpled farmer’s hat and thought . . . Gryffindokra.
No silly. I thought . . . seed.
Maybe a seed cracking open, pushing its roots down into that clay, lapping up my water, growing bit by bit, stretching its leaves, unfurling those yellow flowers. Maybe with seed the odds of having more plants mature would be in my favor. And less expensive.
For those wondering, Clemson Spineless has been around since 1939. Genetically engineered at Clemson, logic infers that Tiger scientists thought spineless was moniker of pride.
With okra it is. As for a football team not so sure.
While buying these pictured seeds today, I mentioned to the woman ringing up the purchase.
“Every okra plant I’ve planted this year has shriveled up. Burnt to a crisp. Anyone else having problems? Any idea why?”
“Soil’s too hot,” came from a tall bespectacled fellow standing beside her, behind the counter.
“I’m going to plant seed hoping it will do better,” I offered in a hopeful chirp.
Silence from the tall fellow in the baseball cap. Well, silence and then he walked away.
Sometimes you get sucked into being the city-slicker-with-faux-dirt-painted-underneath-her-fingernails-in-the-farmer’s-store asking questions looking like the city-slicker-with-faux-dirt-painted-underneath-her-fingernails-in-the-farmer’s-store asking questions —
but I’ve done this a while and realize he’s probably right.
It has been too hot. Too early. But it’s worth a shot.
For pity’s sake, I found a recipe for okra casserole that I’ve got to try.