Journal of a Living Lady #370
Nancy White Kelly
The dogwoods are blossoming. I am coming alive again after a seemingly long, depressing gray winter. Friends are helping.
One special couple took Buddy and me to a rousing musical in Franklin to celebrate our 45th anniversary. Another friend, with Buddy’s blessing, will soon be taking me bass fishing on Lake Chatuge.
This reminds me of childhood days. My daddy would awaken me at three a.m., throw some minnows in a rusty bucket and head to Lake Tunica in Mississippi. He could have taken any of my three brothers, but he took me.
My daddy and I were always close, but our fishing adventures strengthened that bond. Catching fish was sort of irrelevant. Being with my jovial father as the sun rose at daybreak is the fond memory that remains.
My oldest brother Charles is the family fishing fanatic. His love of fishing comes in a close second to his enthusiasm for hunting. In his living room, dining room, and every other room wife number five permits hang trophies from years of fishing and hunting. Actually he has married only four women. One he married twice. The last one, a keeper for twenty years, obviously loves my brother dearly.
I asked her once how many more animals Charles would have to hang in the house before she threw him out. She said she didn’t know for sure, but that the experiment was almost complete.
Everybody loves Charles. He is a comedian on par with the late Jerry Clower. He entertains us all with exaggerated tales from his fishing and hunting escapades. And, of course, he has a huge repertoire of jokes. This is one of many.
Two fellows are out fishing on the lake. A hearse and funeral procession passed the boat on a nearby road. One of the fellows stood up and held his fishing hat over his heart as the hearse passed. His buddy commented, "Golly, Harry, that was really nice and respectful."
Harry replied, "Well after all, we were married for 40 years."
nancyk@windstream.net
Friday, April 23, 2010
Friday, April 09, 2010
Journal of a Living Lady #369
Nancy White Kelly
Spring sprang. It’s hot already. Seems like each year we skip our highly anticipated season of spring. Now it seems a straight shot from winter to summer. I have been bagging up our winter clothes and trying to find the summer stash. Buddy thinks he put them in the attic, but they aren’t there. My creaky knees barely carried me up the ladder this year. Most likely it was my last trip ever to that space over the garage which houses a treasure trove of memories in cardboard boxes. In the hunt for the summer wardrobe, Buddy keeps finding pictures of younger, happier days.
There is a bit of sadness about growing old and knowing you aren’t going to ever have the energy or strength of days gone by. Buddy is twelve years older than I. Since the turn of the millennium, I have noticed an obvious decrease in his physical agility and endurance.
A decade ago he could work from sun up to sun down and barely break a sweat. Now he requires a nap every two or three hours. That would be okay except he insists that he can’t rest without me by his side. I don’t have time to take that many naps especially since I am not a morning person anyway. His day is half over before I am semi-conscious. By four in the afternoon I am at my peak and he is beginning his shut down mode. That would not be a problem except my Buddy insists he can’t sleep unless I am in bed beside him. What a dilemma. Do I wash clothes, do dishes and write out the bills or do I give in and go to bed with my lonely man at eight thirty?
Sometimes I lull Buddy to sleep at night and slip out of the bedroom to write, read or just do my own thing without interruption. That wouldn’t be a problem except he has this inner alarm that goes off when he can’t feel my body. Many a night he has wandered into my office sanctuary to tell me I need to come to bed and get my rest. Good grief. I’ve already had three naps since sun rise.
I still haven’t found the summer clothes. Buddy insists I gave them to either the Humane Society or Safe House for re-sale. I don’t think so, but it looks as if we will be shopping there ourselves for something to wear as the temperature edges higher each day.
The birthdays and the seasons come and go year end and year out. Once we were young and now we are old. Once we were the children, then the parents, and thereafter the grandparents. The cycle will continue after we are gone just as it has for centuries before.
Charlie just turned 30 and Noah, his youngest son, 3. Seems like only yesterday Charlie was 3 himself. Then we blinked.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
Spring sprang. It’s hot already. Seems like each year we skip our highly anticipated season of spring. Now it seems a straight shot from winter to summer. I have been bagging up our winter clothes and trying to find the summer stash. Buddy thinks he put them in the attic, but they aren’t there. My creaky knees barely carried me up the ladder this year. Most likely it was my last trip ever to that space over the garage which houses a treasure trove of memories in cardboard boxes. In the hunt for the summer wardrobe, Buddy keeps finding pictures of younger, happier days.
There is a bit of sadness about growing old and knowing you aren’t going to ever have the energy or strength of days gone by. Buddy is twelve years older than I. Since the turn of the millennium, I have noticed an obvious decrease in his physical agility and endurance.
A decade ago he could work from sun up to sun down and barely break a sweat. Now he requires a nap every two or three hours. That would be okay except he insists that he can’t rest without me by his side. I don’t have time to take that many naps especially since I am not a morning person anyway. His day is half over before I am semi-conscious. By four in the afternoon I am at my peak and he is beginning his shut down mode. That would not be a problem except my Buddy insists he can’t sleep unless I am in bed beside him. What a dilemma. Do I wash clothes, do dishes and write out the bills or do I give in and go to bed with my lonely man at eight thirty?
Sometimes I lull Buddy to sleep at night and slip out of the bedroom to write, read or just do my own thing without interruption. That wouldn’t be a problem except he has this inner alarm that goes off when he can’t feel my body. Many a night he has wandered into my office sanctuary to tell me I need to come to bed and get my rest. Good grief. I’ve already had three naps since sun rise.
I still haven’t found the summer clothes. Buddy insists I gave them to either the Humane Society or Safe House for re-sale. I don’t think so, but it looks as if we will be shopping there ourselves for something to wear as the temperature edges higher each day.
The birthdays and the seasons come and go year end and year out. Once we were young and now we are old. Once we were the children, then the parents, and thereafter the grandparents. The cycle will continue after we are gone just as it has for centuries before.
Charlie just turned 30 and Noah, his youngest son, 3. Seems like only yesterday Charlie was 3 himself. Then we blinked.
nancyk@windstream.net
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Journal of a Living Lady #368
Nancy White Kelly
Think of a four-letter word. Gotcha!
No doubt your mind just conjured up something ugly that would have gotten your mouth washed out with soap in by-gone days. My parents weren’t prudes, but damn and hell were the two worst words I ever heard them say. Those rare utterances always surprised me.
After we married, Buddy became a walking lexicon for his naive wife. Being a Mississippi country boy who went straight from high school to the Navy, he was well acquainted with what I call gutter language.
Some unfamiliar words he interpreted had more than four letters. Buddy taught me that a “broad” was a non-complimentary term for a worldly woman and that a bitch was not only a mother dog but an uncomplimentary description of a nagging female. It didn’t take long for me to fondly attach myself to the term “lady.”
Toilet talk isn’t humorous to me either. When I was a teen-ager, my friends would tease me because I blushed at the slightest suggestion of anything lewd. Half a century later I still blush.
Some things were just meant to be private. Start talking about constipation or gassy exuberances and likely you’ll lose your audience. What occurs in the bathroom ought to stay within the confines of the necessary room built for that purpose.
I must now confess that a new four-letter word has entered my vocabulary…“Crud.” It isn’t in the dictionary, but I can define it easily because Buddy and I have both had this convoluted cold in the past few days.
He got the crud first. For days I endured his sneezing, coughing, laryngitis, dirty tissues and ill mood. Just as he was getting over the worst of his crud, my head started buzzing. Nasal passages dripped like a broken faucet and my voice sounded like a man’s.
Nothing about me is simple. I have had metastatic adenocarcinoma, histoplasmosis, renal azotemia, and an acute myocardial infarction. How could the four-lettered crud be so bad? Memory fades at my age, but I do believe this crud was the most complicated, congestive, cotton-picking cold in my lifetime.
While lightening may not strike twice in the same place, the crud does. We had hardly changed the bed sheets when Buddy relapsed. Round two of crud for him.
Buddy and I are polar opposites in many ways so it should not be too surprising that we handle illnesses differently. I prefer to suffer in silence. Should an unexpected sickness require that I disturb my doctor’s golf game you can be sure I am nigh unto death. Buddy, on the other hand, has his doctor’s cell phone number on speed dial.
My philosophy regarding something like the common crud is that “this too shall pass.” Buddy’s isn’t known for such optimism. When he picked up the phone last week, I quickly intercepted his call and sent the hearse back. As much as I dislike throwing money away on a cold that would likely cure itself, a doctor’s visit had to be cheaper than a funeral. It is always possible that this crud could be masquerading as the Swine flu.
The smiling doctor, who knows Buddy quite well, obliged him with a double-barreled shot, a prescription for antibiotics and a steep bill for sympathetic services.
CRUD!
Nancy White Kelly
Think of a four-letter word. Gotcha!
No doubt your mind just conjured up something ugly that would have gotten your mouth washed out with soap in by-gone days. My parents weren’t prudes, but damn and hell were the two worst words I ever heard them say. Those rare utterances always surprised me.
After we married, Buddy became a walking lexicon for his naive wife. Being a Mississippi country boy who went straight from high school to the Navy, he was well acquainted with what I call gutter language.
Some unfamiliar words he interpreted had more than four letters. Buddy taught me that a “broad” was a non-complimentary term for a worldly woman and that a bitch was not only a mother dog but an uncomplimentary description of a nagging female. It didn’t take long for me to fondly attach myself to the term “lady.”
Toilet talk isn’t humorous to me either. When I was a teen-ager, my friends would tease me because I blushed at the slightest suggestion of anything lewd. Half a century later I still blush.
Some things were just meant to be private. Start talking about constipation or gassy exuberances and likely you’ll lose your audience. What occurs in the bathroom ought to stay within the confines of the necessary room built for that purpose.
I must now confess that a new four-letter word has entered my vocabulary…“Crud.” It isn’t in the dictionary, but I can define it easily because Buddy and I have both had this convoluted cold in the past few days.
He got the crud first. For days I endured his sneezing, coughing, laryngitis, dirty tissues and ill mood. Just as he was getting over the worst of his crud, my head started buzzing. Nasal passages dripped like a broken faucet and my voice sounded like a man’s.
Nothing about me is simple. I have had metastatic adenocarcinoma, histoplasmosis, renal azotemia, and an acute myocardial infarction. How could the four-lettered crud be so bad? Memory fades at my age, but I do believe this crud was the most complicated, congestive, cotton-picking cold in my lifetime.
While lightening may not strike twice in the same place, the crud does. We had hardly changed the bed sheets when Buddy relapsed. Round two of crud for him.
Buddy and I are polar opposites in many ways so it should not be too surprising that we handle illnesses differently. I prefer to suffer in silence. Should an unexpected sickness require that I disturb my doctor’s golf game you can be sure I am nigh unto death. Buddy, on the other hand, has his doctor’s cell phone number on speed dial.
My philosophy regarding something like the common crud is that “this too shall pass.” Buddy’s isn’t known for such optimism. When he picked up the phone last week, I quickly intercepted his call and sent the hearse back. As much as I dislike throwing money away on a cold that would likely cure itself, a doctor’s visit had to be cheaper than a funeral. It is always possible that this crud could be masquerading as the Swine flu.
The smiling doctor, who knows Buddy quite well, obliged him with a double-barreled shot, a prescription for antibiotics and a steep bill for sympathetic services.
CRUD!
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Journal of a Living Lady #367
Nancy White Kelly
The ides of March have special meaning to me and not just because Julius Caesar was killed on that fifteenth day of the third month in 44 B.C.
In my family there are more birthdays in March than should be legally allowed in a single month. My only sister, eldest grandson and son Charlie have March birthdays. Until his death, we celebrated my father’s birthday on the 31st. All this translates into lots of cards, presents, parties and, yes, money in a period of just four weeks.
Of all those significant March dates, it is the ides that is circled in red. My grandmother, Claudia Lee Smart, and her identical twin sister, Maudie Mae, were born on March 15, in a small Mississippi town following the conclusion of the Civil War. Claudia and Maudie would be 122 years old this year. Claudia played the harmonica and the guitar and Maudie the mandolin. I can still here the harmonious strains of “In the Sweet Bye and Bye.”
Of all my heroes and heroines, my maternal grandmother ranks number one. She was the early widowed mother of five children. Without modern conveniences, she worked hard feeding and clothing her kids. For a few years, during the late forties and early fifties, she lived with my parents which was common then.
Grandma was one of eight children. She lived to be 99 and out-lived her siblings and buried three sons and a daughter. Though she grieved deeply at each passing, Grandma recharged quickly knowing that life goes on for the living.
Grandma had so many good characteristics. Never did I hear her say a foul word. She always looked for the good in people and found something positive to say. Her only alleged vice was to drink a shot of diluted whiskey when she took a cold. Her “hot toddy” she called it.
My grandmother wasn’t one to seek attention. Often her good deeds went unnoticed except by the family. I know of one instance where she gave every penny she had to help a family in need who promised to repay. Though she never got the money back, she wasn’t bitter. Her philosophy was that the Lord would provide for her needs and He did.
Before I could even read, I began accompanying Grandma to church every Sunday. The spiritual became very important to me also. Grandma never taught Sunday school, but because of her persuasive life I have. For more than fifty years I have taught the Bible to hundreds of individuals, young and old. I still teach Sunday school to this day. Grandma deserves the credit for that.
Who would have thought a little woman born in the late 1880’s with a big heart, sweet smile and kind spirit could reap influence in 2010?
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
The ides of March have special meaning to me and not just because Julius Caesar was killed on that fifteenth day of the third month in 44 B.C.
In my family there are more birthdays in March than should be legally allowed in a single month. My only sister, eldest grandson and son Charlie have March birthdays. Until his death, we celebrated my father’s birthday on the 31st. All this translates into lots of cards, presents, parties and, yes, money in a period of just four weeks.
Of all those significant March dates, it is the ides that is circled in red. My grandmother, Claudia Lee Smart, and her identical twin sister, Maudie Mae, were born on March 15, in a small Mississippi town following the conclusion of the Civil War. Claudia and Maudie would be 122 years old this year. Claudia played the harmonica and the guitar and Maudie the mandolin. I can still here the harmonious strains of “In the Sweet Bye and Bye.”
Of all my heroes and heroines, my maternal grandmother ranks number one. She was the early widowed mother of five children. Without modern conveniences, she worked hard feeding and clothing her kids. For a few years, during the late forties and early fifties, she lived with my parents which was common then.
Grandma was one of eight children. She lived to be 99 and out-lived her siblings and buried three sons and a daughter. Though she grieved deeply at each passing, Grandma recharged quickly knowing that life goes on for the living.
Grandma had so many good characteristics. Never did I hear her say a foul word. She always looked for the good in people and found something positive to say. Her only alleged vice was to drink a shot of diluted whiskey when she took a cold. Her “hot toddy” she called it.
My grandmother wasn’t one to seek attention. Often her good deeds went unnoticed except by the family. I know of one instance where she gave every penny she had to help a family in need who promised to repay. Though she never got the money back, she wasn’t bitter. Her philosophy was that the Lord would provide for her needs and He did.
Before I could even read, I began accompanying Grandma to church every Sunday. The spiritual became very important to me also. Grandma never taught Sunday school, but because of her persuasive life I have. For more than fifty years I have taught the Bible to hundreds of individuals, young and old. I still teach Sunday school to this day. Grandma deserves the credit for that.
Who would have thought a little woman born in the late 1880’s with a big heart, sweet smile and kind spirit could reap influence in 2010?
nancyk@windstream.net
Friday, February 26, 2010
Journal of a Living Lady #366
Nancy White Kelly
Leather and lace. Is that an oxymoron or an example of material incongruence? Probably both.
Guns and curls reflect my personality which can run the gamut from seriously somber to insanely silly. Today I perpetuated that persona. I got a permanent at the beauty shop and a gun permit from the court house.
I enjoy being a girl, but I learned early on to hold my own among the guys. I had three brothers and no sister until the month I graduated from high school.
My oldest brother Charles and I wrestled, spit watermelon seeds, threw rocks and exchanged blows frequently while growing up. Charles wasn’t going to let his closest sibling be too girly. It was the era that Daddies worked, Mamas stayed home, and the kids played outside until dark.
Charles kept me busy doing his favorites things: street skating, hide-n-seek, and cork ball. We even played backyard football. That was until my Daddy snatched me out of a touch game at the age of twelve. He threatened my life if he ever caught me displaying my quarterback skills with the boys again. I didn’t understand then. I do now.
Nevertheless, my macho brother taught me many guy things. Thanks to him I can ride a motorcycle, gig frogs, and yes, even shoot a gun. Charles has killed hundreds of deer in his lifetime. I married my dear.
While Buddy is not an avid hunter, he is adamant about being capable of defending oneself. Our older son Charlie had his black belt at the age of twelve.
It wouldn’t behoove any evil-doer to attempt doing me harm. While a baseball bat is my weapon of choice, Buddy insists I keep my gun handy in the Ye Old Coin Shop. He vigilantly watches customers via a remote camera. If I couldn’t shoot an assailant, assuredly Buddy would.
And if Buddy or Charlie were not around, I take comfort that Rocky, our German shepherd, would protect me. His teeth can rip through leather. Any attacker had better guard his throat. It’s nice to be so loved.
Here I am in my twilight years wearing gray-tinged curls and packing heat. Reminds me of President Theodore Roosevelt’s famous quote,” Speak softly and carry a big stick.”
I enjoy being a lady and living. I have waylaid cancer and escaped hospice twice. They don’t call me the Living Lady for nothing.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
Leather and lace. Is that an oxymoron or an example of material incongruence? Probably both.
Guns and curls reflect my personality which can run the gamut from seriously somber to insanely silly. Today I perpetuated that persona. I got a permanent at the beauty shop and a gun permit from the court house.
I enjoy being a girl, but I learned early on to hold my own among the guys. I had three brothers and no sister until the month I graduated from high school.
My oldest brother Charles and I wrestled, spit watermelon seeds, threw rocks and exchanged blows frequently while growing up. Charles wasn’t going to let his closest sibling be too girly. It was the era that Daddies worked, Mamas stayed home, and the kids played outside until dark.
Charles kept me busy doing his favorites things: street skating, hide-n-seek, and cork ball. We even played backyard football. That was until my Daddy snatched me out of a touch game at the age of twelve. He threatened my life if he ever caught me displaying my quarterback skills with the boys again. I didn’t understand then. I do now.
Nevertheless, my macho brother taught me many guy things. Thanks to him I can ride a motorcycle, gig frogs, and yes, even shoot a gun. Charles has killed hundreds of deer in his lifetime. I married my dear.
While Buddy is not an avid hunter, he is adamant about being capable of defending oneself. Our older son Charlie had his black belt at the age of twelve.
It wouldn’t behoove any evil-doer to attempt doing me harm. While a baseball bat is my weapon of choice, Buddy insists I keep my gun handy in the Ye Old Coin Shop. He vigilantly watches customers via a remote camera. If I couldn’t shoot an assailant, assuredly Buddy would.
And if Buddy or Charlie were not around, I take comfort that Rocky, our German shepherd, would protect me. His teeth can rip through leather. Any attacker had better guard his throat. It’s nice to be so loved.
Here I am in my twilight years wearing gray-tinged curls and packing heat. Reminds me of President Theodore Roosevelt’s famous quote,” Speak softly and carry a big stick.”
I enjoy being a lady and living. I have waylaid cancer and escaped hospice twice. They don’t call me the Living Lady for nothing.
nancyk@windstream.net
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Journal of a Living Lady #365 (posted early for newspaper deadline)
Nancy White Kelly
Valentine Day has come and gone. We don’t celebrate that day anymore though I still have the first Valentine card Buddy ever gave me. It is sweet. He promised to love me forever.
When we were engaged, but not yet married, I would sneak into his empty mobile home while he was working and leave love notes under his pillow. Soon he got the idea to leave me notes under his pillow so that I would find his first. Those days were fun and romantic.
We still give cards occasionally, sometimes silly and at other times serious. The ones that Buddy likes best are those that I make myself with a list of 21 things I love about him.
When God made Hiram Edward Kelly, He threw away the mold. If it were possible to talk the horns off a Billy goat, Buddy could. Last month our long distance bill was for 868 minutes and only one call was mine. If he can’t find somebody far or near to engage in conversation, he will talk to the dog. Rocky pretends to never tire of an old man’s tales.
Buddy is not only a non-stop conversationalist. He is comedic too. I guarantee he can get a laugh out of the sourest soul. When he transformed from the shy, Mississippi country boy to reincarnated Johnny Carson on steroids I cannot say. In spite of the evolution of his personality, I am still quite fond of the man.
How many men are the first to get up, raise the heat, fix two cups of steaming coffee and then nudge his wife awake? How many men start calling friends and family in a panic if their spouse is five minutes later than expected? How many men come through the kitchen and stop to put up the dishes before snacking? How many men put the toilet seat down every time? How many men compliment the cook after nearly forty-five years of eating the same recipes? Not many.
Buddy is as practical as he is witty. This last Valentine Day I asked him what expensive place he was going to take me. Without missing a beat he replied, “the gas station.”
We didn’t go anywhere. Who need a fancy restaurant, a box of candy, or a dozen roses when you have my Buddy?
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
Valentine Day has come and gone. We don’t celebrate that day anymore though I still have the first Valentine card Buddy ever gave me. It is sweet. He promised to love me forever.
When we were engaged, but not yet married, I would sneak into his empty mobile home while he was working and leave love notes under his pillow. Soon he got the idea to leave me notes under his pillow so that I would find his first. Those days were fun and romantic.
We still give cards occasionally, sometimes silly and at other times serious. The ones that Buddy likes best are those that I make myself with a list of 21 things I love about him.
When God made Hiram Edward Kelly, He threw away the mold. If it were possible to talk the horns off a Billy goat, Buddy could. Last month our long distance bill was for 868 minutes and only one call was mine. If he can’t find somebody far or near to engage in conversation, he will talk to the dog. Rocky pretends to never tire of an old man’s tales.
Buddy is not only a non-stop conversationalist. He is comedic too. I guarantee he can get a laugh out of the sourest soul. When he transformed from the shy, Mississippi country boy to reincarnated Johnny Carson on steroids I cannot say. In spite of the evolution of his personality, I am still quite fond of the man.
How many men are the first to get up, raise the heat, fix two cups of steaming coffee and then nudge his wife awake? How many men start calling friends and family in a panic if their spouse is five minutes later than expected? How many men come through the kitchen and stop to put up the dishes before snacking? How many men put the toilet seat down every time? How many men compliment the cook after nearly forty-five years of eating the same recipes? Not many.
Buddy is as practical as he is witty. This last Valentine Day I asked him what expensive place he was going to take me. Without missing a beat he replied, “the gas station.”
We didn’t go anywhere. Who need a fancy restaurant, a box of candy, or a dozen roses when you have my Buddy?
nancyk@windstream.net
Friday, January 29, 2010
Journal of a Living Lady #364
Nancy White Kelly
It is said that to laugh is better than to cry…or in my case to murder. Last Thanksgiving my Buddy gave our dog the raw dressing awaiting its turn in the oven. The dressing was in the plastic bowl that usually houses our meal left-overs. These scraps are eventually added to Rocky’s dry food. I merrily laughed at that holiday fiasco. Everybody is entitled to one mistake.
Yesterday I decided to make my hubby a chicken and rice casserole. I boiled the chicken on the stove top and removed the pan so the chicken could cool for later de-boning. While the broccoli and rice cooked in the microwave, Sam, our Siamese cat, and I grabbed a quick afternoon nap.
Sure enough, Buddy did it again. He gave Rocky the big pan of chicken parts sitting in succulent broth. My delusional husband wrongly concluded that I had been so compassionate during that cold streak as to boil fresh chicken for our German shepherd. I am generally a nice lady, but not that nice.
I held up an imaginary butcher knife in the fist of my hand imitating Norman the maniac in Psycho. I teasingly told Buddy that I felt like doing him in. Hack. Hack. He laughed and I laughed.
Mark Twain says it well:
"The human race has only one really effective weapon, and that is laughter. The moment it arises, all your irritations and resentments slip away and the sunny spirit takes their place."
Buddy has been forgiven, but hopefully an acquaintance I shall call Sue will not repeat her faux paus.
Sue was waiting for a friend in a busy restaurant when her body told her that she desperately needed to pass gas. Sue didn’t want to leave her table empty while searching for the restroom. She glanced around to access her surroundings. Seated guests were chatting and the house music was playing really, really loud.
The petite and usually discreet Sue timed the expulsion of pressing gas to the rhythmic beat of the music.After a couple of songs, Sue began to feel better. She daintily unwrapped her cloth napkin and noticed that almost everybody in the room was glaring at her. It was at that moment Sue realized, to her chagrin, that she was listening to music on her iPod.
So my advice to all the Sues in Readerland, laugh aloud, say Mia Culpa, and observe your surroundings before you pass gas. And to my Buddy, the third time you mistake my grub for dog food, you will not be laughing.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
It is said that to laugh is better than to cry…or in my case to murder. Last Thanksgiving my Buddy gave our dog the raw dressing awaiting its turn in the oven. The dressing was in the plastic bowl that usually houses our meal left-overs. These scraps are eventually added to Rocky’s dry food. I merrily laughed at that holiday fiasco. Everybody is entitled to one mistake.
Yesterday I decided to make my hubby a chicken and rice casserole. I boiled the chicken on the stove top and removed the pan so the chicken could cool for later de-boning. While the broccoli and rice cooked in the microwave, Sam, our Siamese cat, and I grabbed a quick afternoon nap.
Sure enough, Buddy did it again. He gave Rocky the big pan of chicken parts sitting in succulent broth. My delusional husband wrongly concluded that I had been so compassionate during that cold streak as to boil fresh chicken for our German shepherd. I am generally a nice lady, but not that nice.
I held up an imaginary butcher knife in the fist of my hand imitating Norman the maniac in Psycho. I teasingly told Buddy that I felt like doing him in. Hack. Hack. He laughed and I laughed.
Mark Twain says it well:
"The human race has only one really effective weapon, and that is laughter. The moment it arises, all your irritations and resentments slip away and the sunny spirit takes their place."
Buddy has been forgiven, but hopefully an acquaintance I shall call Sue will not repeat her faux paus.
Sue was waiting for a friend in a busy restaurant when her body told her that she desperately needed to pass gas. Sue didn’t want to leave her table empty while searching for the restroom. She glanced around to access her surroundings. Seated guests were chatting and the house music was playing really, really loud.
The petite and usually discreet Sue timed the expulsion of pressing gas to the rhythmic beat of the music.After a couple of songs, Sue began to feel better. She daintily unwrapped her cloth napkin and noticed that almost everybody in the room was glaring at her. It was at that moment Sue realized, to her chagrin, that she was listening to music on her iPod.
So my advice to all the Sues in Readerland, laugh aloud, say Mia Culpa, and observe your surroundings before you pass gas. And to my Buddy, the third time you mistake my grub for dog food, you will not be laughing.
nancyk@windstream.net
Friday, January 15, 2010
Journal of a Living Lady #363
Nancy White Kelly
My church is a comforting place. It is nice to know that not only is my spiritual heart covered, but my physical one as well. When I look upward over my left shoulder on Sundays, I quickly spot my cardiologist smiling down from the balcony.
If either Buddy or I have a heart attack while straining on the high notes of Beulah Land, our mutual heart doctor could be performing CPR in less than sixty seconds. If he were busy doing quadruple by-passes somewhere in Atlanta, it is reassuring to know that our backs (and hearts) are still covered.
In our church, there are more nurses per square foot than inches. Our former family doctor, now retired, sits just a few rows behind us each week. Another physician friend, a retired obstetrician, also sits in the congregation. It is highly doubtful that Buddy or I would need his special services.
But, our hearts…well, maybe. Buddy and I both have had a few problems with our tickers. If cardiac arrest were to occur at church, I suspect that half the congregation would immediately be on their hushed cell phones dialing 911.
Being that the parking lot of the church adjoins the parking lot of the local hospital, it would seem impractical to call an ambulance. The men who drive the courtesy carts could deliver a victim to the ER faster than an EMT could start his engine, that is, if the patient was conscious. Jenny Craig and I have never met so pity the guy who might try to carry my dead weight over his shoulder.
One of these days the death angel will succeed in ushering one of us out of this world. Buddy and I have no concerns.
Our former Sunday school teacher has become a masterful funeral coordinator. He and his wife can pull together a meal for an extended family in hours.
While our current pastor is relatively new to the area, I knew his fine family in another era of my life. Even if he weren’t available, our former pastor should be. He would have plenty of colorful stories to tell, especially if it were Buddy in the casket. My favorite is the time Buddy suddenly donned my Easter hat and hugged the startled pastor in front of God, cable TV, and everybody.
When the church bell tolls for either Buddy or me, we are ready. An attorney friend in the congregation has already prepared the Kelly’s last will and testament. We will be buried in our pre-paid plots in the nearby church cemetery.
Yep, Hiram and Nancy Kelly can sit in church and not worry a smirching bit about the now or the hereafter. When the roll is called up yonder, we’ll be there by the wonderful, but undeserved grace of our sovereign God.
And that’s the truth!
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
My church is a comforting place. It is nice to know that not only is my spiritual heart covered, but my physical one as well. When I look upward over my left shoulder on Sundays, I quickly spot my cardiologist smiling down from the balcony.
If either Buddy or I have a heart attack while straining on the high notes of Beulah Land, our mutual heart doctor could be performing CPR in less than sixty seconds. If he were busy doing quadruple by-passes somewhere in Atlanta, it is reassuring to know that our backs (and hearts) are still covered.
In our church, there are more nurses per square foot than inches. Our former family doctor, now retired, sits just a few rows behind us each week. Another physician friend, a retired obstetrician, also sits in the congregation. It is highly doubtful that Buddy or I would need his special services.
But, our hearts…well, maybe. Buddy and I both have had a few problems with our tickers. If cardiac arrest were to occur at church, I suspect that half the congregation would immediately be on their hushed cell phones dialing 911.
Being that the parking lot of the church adjoins the parking lot of the local hospital, it would seem impractical to call an ambulance. The men who drive the courtesy carts could deliver a victim to the ER faster than an EMT could start his engine, that is, if the patient was conscious. Jenny Craig and I have never met so pity the guy who might try to carry my dead weight over his shoulder.
One of these days the death angel will succeed in ushering one of us out of this world. Buddy and I have no concerns.
Our former Sunday school teacher has become a masterful funeral coordinator. He and his wife can pull together a meal for an extended family in hours.
While our current pastor is relatively new to the area, I knew his fine family in another era of my life. Even if he weren’t available, our former pastor should be. He would have plenty of colorful stories to tell, especially if it were Buddy in the casket. My favorite is the time Buddy suddenly donned my Easter hat and hugged the startled pastor in front of God, cable TV, and everybody.
When the church bell tolls for either Buddy or me, we are ready. An attorney friend in the congregation has already prepared the Kelly’s last will and testament. We will be buried in our pre-paid plots in the nearby church cemetery.
Yep, Hiram and Nancy Kelly can sit in church and not worry a smirching bit about the now or the hereafter. When the roll is called up yonder, we’ll be there by the wonderful, but undeserved grace of our sovereign God.
And that’s the truth!
nancyk@windstream.net
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Journal of a Living Lady #362
Nancy White Kelly
The year of 2009 may go down as one of Tiger’s worst years, but it will certainly be remembered as one of my best ones. With metastatic cancer, any full year past diagnosis can be considered a good year. In spite of the big C, I look back and think of all that transpired these last twelve months and I am truly grateful. Nobody in my family died. Granted, Buddy and I lost a couple of good friends, but only temporarily. My Christian faith keeps me up-beat, knowing that this life is not the end, just a new beginning in foreverland.
We now enter the second decade of the new millennium. Remember Y2K and all the up-roar ten years ago? Most people were hoarding beans and rice. My unsuspecting spouse never knew that I had cases of diet cola in the attic, my one addiction that he has never liked. My response to his nagging is “Choose your poison.”
At least my obsession is fizzy caffeine in a can and not some gritty-orange fiber drink that you must mix. The last sound I hear every night, and certainly not a romantic one, is that of a rattling metal spoon in a glass of water. Gulp. Gulp.
A decade ago the Y2K bug was considered a clicking time bomb for all major computer programs. When the minute hand ticked Jan 1, 2000, no great catastrophe occurred. Almost every bank worked fine, no major power outages were reported, airplanes still flew and the whole world went on with its normal life. The sky didn’t fall after all.
Now I hear buzz about the year 2012. True, the Mayan calendar ends on 12/21/2012. The dooms-day speculation is surging. While I do believe in an up-coming apocalypse, we must part ways when discussing dates. My Bible says that not even the angels know when this event will occur.
Until then, I live day by day, appreciating the good that occurred in the past year. There were several notable markers. My cancer scans were stable. No new tumors were found.
I wrote a short essay and won a trip to London and to the Holy Land, accompanied by son Charlie. The Ye Ole Coin Shop had its best year thus far. A fresh coat of paint improved the look of our aging house. We made several new friends. The list could go on and on.
I dare not gloat. We have several family members and acquaintances who have lost jobs. Some may lose their homes. It is our Christian duty to help the truly needy. I had much rather be the giver than the givee any day.
In my six and a half decades of living, I have come to believe that some of the most generous people are among the poorest. A true judge of character is how a person treats the down-and-outer and the least among them. To whom do we readily speak? Where do we sit when there is a choice of seats?
Recently a customer bought a widow’s mite from our coin shop for a friend. It was a tiny piece of embossed metal, a genuine, but crudely stamped Roman coin from the historical era of Jesus. The mite was all the poor lady had to give and she gave it cheerfully. Compare that to the ostentatious announcements of generosity by our contemporaries. Giving to worthy causes is good, of course, but must celebrities promote their philanthropy so publically?
Two of the best gifts I received this year were semi-anonymous, no recognition wanted. One was a check for $500 that helped a young man fulfill a dream. The other was a donation to use for heat which brought grateful tears from the sick recipient. You can’t out-give God.
Happy New Year, readers. In 2010, dare to share.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
The year of 2009 may go down as one of Tiger’s worst years, but it will certainly be remembered as one of my best ones. With metastatic cancer, any full year past diagnosis can be considered a good year. In spite of the big C, I look back and think of all that transpired these last twelve months and I am truly grateful. Nobody in my family died. Granted, Buddy and I lost a couple of good friends, but only temporarily. My Christian faith keeps me up-beat, knowing that this life is not the end, just a new beginning in foreverland.
We now enter the second decade of the new millennium. Remember Y2K and all the up-roar ten years ago? Most people were hoarding beans and rice. My unsuspecting spouse never knew that I had cases of diet cola in the attic, my one addiction that he has never liked. My response to his nagging is “Choose your poison.”
At least my obsession is fizzy caffeine in a can and not some gritty-orange fiber drink that you must mix. The last sound I hear every night, and certainly not a romantic one, is that of a rattling metal spoon in a glass of water. Gulp. Gulp.
A decade ago the Y2K bug was considered a clicking time bomb for all major computer programs. When the minute hand ticked Jan 1, 2000, no great catastrophe occurred. Almost every bank worked fine, no major power outages were reported, airplanes still flew and the whole world went on with its normal life. The sky didn’t fall after all.
Now I hear buzz about the year 2012. True, the Mayan calendar ends on 12/21/2012. The dooms-day speculation is surging. While I do believe in an up-coming apocalypse, we must part ways when discussing dates. My Bible says that not even the angels know when this event will occur.
Until then, I live day by day, appreciating the good that occurred in the past year. There were several notable markers. My cancer scans were stable. No new tumors were found.
I wrote a short essay and won a trip to London and to the Holy Land, accompanied by son Charlie. The Ye Ole Coin Shop had its best year thus far. A fresh coat of paint improved the look of our aging house. We made several new friends. The list could go on and on.
I dare not gloat. We have several family members and acquaintances who have lost jobs. Some may lose their homes. It is our Christian duty to help the truly needy. I had much rather be the giver than the givee any day.
In my six and a half decades of living, I have come to believe that some of the most generous people are among the poorest. A true judge of character is how a person treats the down-and-outer and the least among them. To whom do we readily speak? Where do we sit when there is a choice of seats?
Recently a customer bought a widow’s mite from our coin shop for a friend. It was a tiny piece of embossed metal, a genuine, but crudely stamped Roman coin from the historical era of Jesus. The mite was all the poor lady had to give and she gave it cheerfully. Compare that to the ostentatious announcements of generosity by our contemporaries. Giving to worthy causes is good, of course, but must celebrities promote their philanthropy so publically?
Two of the best gifts I received this year were semi-anonymous, no recognition wanted. One was a check for $500 that helped a young man fulfill a dream. The other was a donation to use for heat which brought grateful tears from the sick recipient. You can’t out-give God.
Happy New Year, readers. In 2010, dare to share.
nancyk@windstream.net
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Journal of a Living Lady #361
Nancy White Kelly
Thanksgiving has passed. I secretly vowed to transfer the joy of preparing Thanksgiving dinner to my two daughter-in-laws since it is written in stone that everybody comes to Granny’s for Christmas.
For genuinely good reasons, the daughter-in-laws escaped the intimidating task of cooking the big meal. I was again the main chef. Buddy did his part to make sure that it was a memorable day. Late Thanksgiving Eve, he gave Rocky, our German Shepherd, the huge bucket of sage-covered cornbread, minus the cooked celery and onions that remained in the fridge.
It was an honest mistake. I use that same pink plastic pan everyday to hold our meal left-overs which Buddy adds to Rocky’s dry food in the evening. That pink bucket was a take-home gift from my last stay in the hospital.
A trip to the grocery store for corn meal and some hasty cooking at high temperature brought a new batch of cornbread in time to make the dressing. In spite of the tenuous beginning, Thanksgiving turned out to be a good day full of good food and laughs.
For two weeks Buddy has dutifully finished every version of turkey casserole imaginable without complaining only to see me bring in another big bird for its turn in the oven next week. Tori and Ginger may get their chance to cook in 2010. Perhaps I could lighten up the occasion by doing what a lady friend did one year.
Susan was asked by daughter Lisa to help prepare her first ever Thanksgiving turkey. On the big day, Lisa found she had no cranberries in the cupboard. She rushed to the store to get some.
As if on cue, Susan mischievously took action. She removed a Rock Cornish hen from her big purse. She hastily removed the raw stuffing from the turkey and placed the little Cornish pullet inside. She packed the open hole with some of the displaced dressing.
When Lisa returned from the store, she placed the turkey in the oven. Mother and daughter merrily chatted while the men watched football. Soon Lisa’s sister arrived with her husband and two children. The magic hour arrived.
Susan placed the green beans and assorted dishes on the table. Facing the counter, Lisa began to scoop out the cooked stuffing from the turkey breast into a fancy bowl. Her spoon wouldn’t go further. She couldn't figure out what was stopping it. Susan gleefully offered assistance. She put her hand in the turkey and pulled out the Rock Cornish hen. Lisa screamed and jumped back.
“What have I done?" Lisa wailed as tears welled.
”I just cooked a pregnant turkey.”
As the laughter roared Lisa’s husband explained that turkeys lay eggs. Besides, Tom Turkey was a male!
Every Thanksgiving there ought to be a dog house handy for the likes of Buddy and Susan.
Merry Christmas!
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
Thanksgiving has passed. I secretly vowed to transfer the joy of preparing Thanksgiving dinner to my two daughter-in-laws since it is written in stone that everybody comes to Granny’s for Christmas.
For genuinely good reasons, the daughter-in-laws escaped the intimidating task of cooking the big meal. I was again the main chef. Buddy did his part to make sure that it was a memorable day. Late Thanksgiving Eve, he gave Rocky, our German Shepherd, the huge bucket of sage-covered cornbread, minus the cooked celery and onions that remained in the fridge.
It was an honest mistake. I use that same pink plastic pan everyday to hold our meal left-overs which Buddy adds to Rocky’s dry food in the evening. That pink bucket was a take-home gift from my last stay in the hospital.
A trip to the grocery store for corn meal and some hasty cooking at high temperature brought a new batch of cornbread in time to make the dressing. In spite of the tenuous beginning, Thanksgiving turned out to be a good day full of good food and laughs.
For two weeks Buddy has dutifully finished every version of turkey casserole imaginable without complaining only to see me bring in another big bird for its turn in the oven next week. Tori and Ginger may get their chance to cook in 2010. Perhaps I could lighten up the occasion by doing what a lady friend did one year.
Susan was asked by daughter Lisa to help prepare her first ever Thanksgiving turkey. On the big day, Lisa found she had no cranberries in the cupboard. She rushed to the store to get some.
As if on cue, Susan mischievously took action. She removed a Rock Cornish hen from her big purse. She hastily removed the raw stuffing from the turkey and placed the little Cornish pullet inside. She packed the open hole with some of the displaced dressing.
When Lisa returned from the store, she placed the turkey in the oven. Mother and daughter merrily chatted while the men watched football. Soon Lisa’s sister arrived with her husband and two children. The magic hour arrived.
Susan placed the green beans and assorted dishes on the table. Facing the counter, Lisa began to scoop out the cooked stuffing from the turkey breast into a fancy bowl. Her spoon wouldn’t go further. She couldn't figure out what was stopping it. Susan gleefully offered assistance. She put her hand in the turkey and pulled out the Rock Cornish hen. Lisa screamed and jumped back.
“What have I done?" Lisa wailed as tears welled.
”I just cooked a pregnant turkey.”
As the laughter roared Lisa’s husband explained that turkeys lay eggs. Besides, Tom Turkey was a male!
Every Thanksgiving there ought to be a dog house handy for the likes of Buddy and Susan.
Merry Christmas!
nancyk@windstream.net
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Journal of a Living Lady #360
Nancy White Kelly
I don’t remember the title, but I recall the line: “When he was good, he was really good. But when he was bad, he was really bad.”
Charlie’s boys are still very young, just two and four. Like most grandmothers, I dote on them and Bobby’s two as well. I have never had a serious confrontation with any of them. Just fun, games and secret Granny snacks. M & M’s are a special treat. All four grandchildren know about my long, blue surprise box kept in the den. It holds a variety of boy toys and glitzy baubles that a ten-year-old girl couldn’t resist. Unusually good behavior or exceptional manners can earn a trip to Granny’s box. Sometimes it doesn’t take a reason at all.
Last week Tori needed to take Micah to a doctor in Atlanta for a follow-up visit. Buddy and I were enlisted to keep two-year-old Noah in Cornelia. We had a delightful time making snakes out of clay, threading large beads and just romping around the house.
Later that afternoon, Micah and Tori returned from their tiresome day. While listening to Tori tell about the recommendation of the neurologist, Micah took advantage of our inattention. He slipped out the back door into the carport and mounted his Daddy’s parked motorcycle. Amidst adamant protest, Tori removed the pint-sized Evel Knievel from the bike. I explained how sad I would be if that heavy motorcycle fell on him. Nothing that I said registered positively with Micah. My usually complacent grandson kicked me. It wasn’t a premeditated kick, just poor impulse control.
Tori scolded Micah and sent him to his room. A few minutes later I asked Tori’s permission to talk with him privately thinking that he had settled down by now and could be reasoned with. That turned out to be wishful thinking.
Micah wasn’t in a peace-making mode. He attempted to kick me again, this time intentionally. Instinctively, I swatted his bottom a couple of times with my hand. Though he looked shocked at my first-ever spanking of a grandchild, he gave no evidence of remorse. If he had been my son, I would have carried it a step further. But I know my role as grandmother isn’t chief disciplinarian and backed off. I told Micah I was disappointed in his behavior and left him to sit in his room.
Though Charlie would be home very soon from his moon-lighting job after teaching middle school, Buddy and I decided to postpone visiting with him this day. We wanted to get over the mountains before darkness settled.
We told Noah good-bye and asked our frustrated daughter-
in-law to tell Micah that we loved him and hoped our next visit would go better.
Hardly two hours had passed when our phone rang at home. It was Charlie. He said Micah wanted to tell me something. I sensed what was coming. After a brief silence, the words came.
“I am sorry, Granny.”
I am not sure what it took to get Micah to this point and never asked. He sounded so sweet and sincere. I took the opportunity to remind Micah that it was never okay to kick, especially his grandmother. I thanked Micah for apologizing and emphasized that I still loved him and would always love him no matter how badly he acted. However, good behavior pleased me more.
It was over now. Lesson learned. Clean slate.
For some reason I don’t think Micah will kick me again. When he is good, he is very good.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
I don’t remember the title, but I recall the line: “When he was good, he was really good. But when he was bad, he was really bad.”
Charlie’s boys are still very young, just two and four. Like most grandmothers, I dote on them and Bobby’s two as well. I have never had a serious confrontation with any of them. Just fun, games and secret Granny snacks. M & M’s are a special treat. All four grandchildren know about my long, blue surprise box kept in the den. It holds a variety of boy toys and glitzy baubles that a ten-year-old girl couldn’t resist. Unusually good behavior or exceptional manners can earn a trip to Granny’s box. Sometimes it doesn’t take a reason at all.
Last week Tori needed to take Micah to a doctor in Atlanta for a follow-up visit. Buddy and I were enlisted to keep two-year-old Noah in Cornelia. We had a delightful time making snakes out of clay, threading large beads and just romping around the house.
Later that afternoon, Micah and Tori returned from their tiresome day. While listening to Tori tell about the recommendation of the neurologist, Micah took advantage of our inattention. He slipped out the back door into the carport and mounted his Daddy’s parked motorcycle. Amidst adamant protest, Tori removed the pint-sized Evel Knievel from the bike. I explained how sad I would be if that heavy motorcycle fell on him. Nothing that I said registered positively with Micah. My usually complacent grandson kicked me. It wasn’t a premeditated kick, just poor impulse control.
Tori scolded Micah and sent him to his room. A few minutes later I asked Tori’s permission to talk with him privately thinking that he had settled down by now and could be reasoned with. That turned out to be wishful thinking.
Micah wasn’t in a peace-making mode. He attempted to kick me again, this time intentionally. Instinctively, I swatted his bottom a couple of times with my hand. Though he looked shocked at my first-ever spanking of a grandchild, he gave no evidence of remorse. If he had been my son, I would have carried it a step further. But I know my role as grandmother isn’t chief disciplinarian and backed off. I told Micah I was disappointed in his behavior and left him to sit in his room.
Though Charlie would be home very soon from his moon-lighting job after teaching middle school, Buddy and I decided to postpone visiting with him this day. We wanted to get over the mountains before darkness settled.
We told Noah good-bye and asked our frustrated daughter-
in-law to tell Micah that we loved him and hoped our next visit would go better.
Hardly two hours had passed when our phone rang at home. It was Charlie. He said Micah wanted to tell me something. I sensed what was coming. After a brief silence, the words came.
“I am sorry, Granny.”
I am not sure what it took to get Micah to this point and never asked. He sounded so sweet and sincere. I took the opportunity to remind Micah that it was never okay to kick, especially his grandmother. I thanked Micah for apologizing and emphasized that I still loved him and would always love him no matter how badly he acted. However, good behavior pleased me more.
It was over now. Lesson learned. Clean slate.
For some reason I don’t think Micah will kick me again. When he is good, he is very good.
nancyk@windstream.net
Friday, November 13, 2009
Journal of a Living Lady #359
Nancy White Kelly
Seems as if I just finished carving the pumpkin. Next on the agenda is Thanksgiving. Then, of course, comes Christmas. I do wish the holidays were spaced further apart. If I were appointed Czar of Holidays, the dates for Thanksgiving and Christmas would be at least six months apart. I would eliminate the witchy motif of Halloween.
Thanksgiving is my favorite annual holiday. No presents needed, just the presence of loved ones. What a special time to re-focus and reflect on life’s blessings. Indeed I am grateful. Once you lose your health and regain it, each day becomes a special addition.
Spending time outside the United States this year reminded me of how fortunate I am to be an American. Any of us could have been born in a remote tribal village on the other side of the world. Buddy and I feel privileged to live in the mountains half-way to heaven. What else is there to desire?
Sure. Who wouldn’t want a million dollars in small bills? But our needs are met and we are content.
What adult with a child doesn’t love Christmas? Being born on Christmas Eve destined me to love that season. If only there was a wand to zap the commercialism. Finding scarecrows and reindeer competing for shelf space in the summer time does not jive with my reminiscence of Christmases past.
If Christ was truly born in December, I might relish the spiritual aspect even more. Biblical scholars insist that Jesus was born in the spring. Well, we can always pretend and we do, from the fantasy of Santa Claus to the exact December 25th birth date of baby Jesus.
There are some things that are certain. We can depend on the I.R.S. to bring us back to earth in January with those dreaded tax forms. Seems like we just did those darn things a month ago. Buddy and I have receipts for 2009 jammed into an over-flowing cardboard box with no semblance of order. The good intentions of being more prepared for the next tax season are turning out to be just that…intentions.
But, like dear Scarlett, I’ll think about that tomorrow. I’m off to find a dead turkey before the family comes. My wish for you:
May your dressing be tasty
May your Tom turkey plump,
May your potatoes and gravy
Have nary a lump.
May your yams be delicious
And your pies take the prize,
And may your Thanksgiving dinner
Stay off your thighs!
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
Seems as if I just finished carving the pumpkin. Next on the agenda is Thanksgiving. Then, of course, comes Christmas. I do wish the holidays were spaced further apart. If I were appointed Czar of Holidays, the dates for Thanksgiving and Christmas would be at least six months apart. I would eliminate the witchy motif of Halloween.
Thanksgiving is my favorite annual holiday. No presents needed, just the presence of loved ones. What a special time to re-focus and reflect on life’s blessings. Indeed I am grateful. Once you lose your health and regain it, each day becomes a special addition.
Spending time outside the United States this year reminded me of how fortunate I am to be an American. Any of us could have been born in a remote tribal village on the other side of the world. Buddy and I feel privileged to live in the mountains half-way to heaven. What else is there to desire?
Sure. Who wouldn’t want a million dollars in small bills? But our needs are met and we are content.
What adult with a child doesn’t love Christmas? Being born on Christmas Eve destined me to love that season. If only there was a wand to zap the commercialism. Finding scarecrows and reindeer competing for shelf space in the summer time does not jive with my reminiscence of Christmases past.
If Christ was truly born in December, I might relish the spiritual aspect even more. Biblical scholars insist that Jesus was born in the spring. Well, we can always pretend and we do, from the fantasy of Santa Claus to the exact December 25th birth date of baby Jesus.
There are some things that are certain. We can depend on the I.R.S. to bring us back to earth in January with those dreaded tax forms. Seems like we just did those darn things a month ago. Buddy and I have receipts for 2009 jammed into an over-flowing cardboard box with no semblance of order. The good intentions of being more prepared for the next tax season are turning out to be just that…intentions.
But, like dear Scarlett, I’ll think about that tomorrow. I’m off to find a dead turkey before the family comes. My wish for you:
May your dressing be tasty
May your Tom turkey plump,
May your potatoes and gravy
Have nary a lump.
May your yams be delicious
And your pies take the prize,
And may your Thanksgiving dinner
Stay off your thighs!
nancyk@windstream.net
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Journal of a Living Lady #358
Nancy White Kelly
This concludes the travel log of the fantastic trip Charlie and I received as a result of my winning an essay contest sponsored by British Airways. After a greatly anticipated journey from Atlanta to New York to London, we were finally in historic Jerusalem.
The first day was a bust. The narrow streets that were originally intended for donkey travel have not improved much in 2000 years. After returning the rental car to the airport terminal in Tel Aviv, we walked or took taxis driven mostly by Middle Eastern mad men. Communication with drivers was in Southern Anguish. Jerusalem is not laid out in orderly fashion. We paid mucho shekels for each ride and no doubt were exploited for our directional ignorance.
One exception was a Messianic Jewish man named Adam. He observed red-faced Charlie huffing while climbing the Mount of Olives. He offered our out-of-shape son a free ride to the top which he readily accepted. If either of us had known how much walking this tour of Israel would require, we would have prepared by running the Boston Marathon.
Adam was quite knowledgeable of biblical geography and rattled off fascinating facts. Charlie jotted notes. An hour later he rushed into our motel room demanding that I come immediately. Even though I had taken the day off to recoup, I was reasonably dressed. As we hustled down the forty-four stairs, Charlie explained that Adam was going to take us on a personal tour of Bethlehem and connect us with two of his friends. I quietly sat in the back seat trying to decipher Charlie’s earlier cryptic notes. Even though I am a retired educator, it was difficult deciding if his writing was ancient Arabic or the scribbling of a dyslexic second-grader. As we traveled to Bethlehem, the two young men talked enthusiastically and non-stop about the geography, people and events described in the Bible.
A heavily armed guard at the entrance to Bethlehem recognized Adam and waved him through security. Because of the known political and religious unrest in this region, this casualness briefly raised my antennae, but I remained quiet. As the taxi maneuvered narrow streets, the poverty in this quaint historical town was noticeable. Beggars sat on street corners and scraggly children explored the trash piles.
Adam stopped the cab in front of a tiny storefront that looked more like a cave. He honked his horn and out came the proprietor, a small Jewish man who welcomed us like old friends. His aunt offered us cold drinks. I admired the jewelry and the knick-knacks made of intricately carved olive wood. Several times I asked prices, but the aunt was evasive. Instead she offered an obviously well-practiced spiel regarding the artistic skill required to make the souvenirs. This was frustrating because I had no idea of a price range. Was the silver necklace with purple stones five dollars or five thousand?
Adam waved the man and his aunt away and said we would shop later. He wanted to take us to meet other friends. One was the over-seer of the stable site where Jesus Christ was believed to have been born. Many years of renovation had turned the building into an ornate, church-like sanctuary. Long lines of people awaited an opportunity to see the spot where the manger once was. To our surprise, Adam spoke to another friend who shooed all the other visitors back. He motioned for Charlie and me to touch the large, ruby-colored star that marked the historical spot of Christ’s birth. The aggressive manager then grabbed our cameras and photographed each of us. I was puzzled and embarrassed by the preferential treatment. There were many old and lame who obviously had stood in the line for hours for their turn to view the stable site.
Adam must have much influence in Bethlehem. My guess is that he routinely brings in supposedly rich customers from America. Unfortunately, this time he picked a young school teacher and his retired mother who couldn’t give the $3000 requested later that day for “the cause.” When Charlie finally convinced Adam, the stable manager, and the shop owner that we brought little money with us, they offered to take a credit card.
While the needs of the poor in Bethlehem are legitimate, Charlie and I felt like gullible puppets who just had our strings rudely jerked. We rode back to our hotel in Jerusalem in noticeable silence. Charlie paid Adam and we never saw him again.
By the week’s end, we were able to visit most of the sites that are significant to Christians. The one site that impressed us both was the burial tomb of Christ which was provided by Joseph of Arimathea at the time of his death.
During a small span of time between tour groups, Charlie slipped into the stone tomb alone. He remained in solemn solitude for several minutes reflecting on the awesomeness of the moment.
In describing that experience to me later, Charlie beamed as he reported, “Jesus was not there.”
Mother and son smiled in agreement.
“I know,” I responded with a nod. “He is risen.”
Being a newspaper column limits me from giving all the details about our trip. I could fill a book about our inspiring journey to the Holy Land. However, it is time to move on to other adventures of this Living Lady.
Shalom, ya’ll.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
This concludes the travel log of the fantastic trip Charlie and I received as a result of my winning an essay contest sponsored by British Airways. After a greatly anticipated journey from Atlanta to New York to London, we were finally in historic Jerusalem.
The first day was a bust. The narrow streets that were originally intended for donkey travel have not improved much in 2000 years. After returning the rental car to the airport terminal in Tel Aviv, we walked or took taxis driven mostly by Middle Eastern mad men. Communication with drivers was in Southern Anguish. Jerusalem is not laid out in orderly fashion. We paid mucho shekels for each ride and no doubt were exploited for our directional ignorance.
One exception was a Messianic Jewish man named Adam. He observed red-faced Charlie huffing while climbing the Mount of Olives. He offered our out-of-shape son a free ride to the top which he readily accepted. If either of us had known how much walking this tour of Israel would require, we would have prepared by running the Boston Marathon.
Adam was quite knowledgeable of biblical geography and rattled off fascinating facts. Charlie jotted notes. An hour later he rushed into our motel room demanding that I come immediately. Even though I had taken the day off to recoup, I was reasonably dressed. As we hustled down the forty-four stairs, Charlie explained that Adam was going to take us on a personal tour of Bethlehem and connect us with two of his friends. I quietly sat in the back seat trying to decipher Charlie’s earlier cryptic notes. Even though I am a retired educator, it was difficult deciding if his writing was ancient Arabic or the scribbling of a dyslexic second-grader. As we traveled to Bethlehem, the two young men talked enthusiastically and non-stop about the geography, people and events described in the Bible.
A heavily armed guard at the entrance to Bethlehem recognized Adam and waved him through security. Because of the known political and religious unrest in this region, this casualness briefly raised my antennae, but I remained quiet. As the taxi maneuvered narrow streets, the poverty in this quaint historical town was noticeable. Beggars sat on street corners and scraggly children explored the trash piles.
Adam stopped the cab in front of a tiny storefront that looked more like a cave. He honked his horn and out came the proprietor, a small Jewish man who welcomed us like old friends. His aunt offered us cold drinks. I admired the jewelry and the knick-knacks made of intricately carved olive wood. Several times I asked prices, but the aunt was evasive. Instead she offered an obviously well-practiced spiel regarding the artistic skill required to make the souvenirs. This was frustrating because I had no idea of a price range. Was the silver necklace with purple stones five dollars or five thousand?
Adam waved the man and his aunt away and said we would shop later. He wanted to take us to meet other friends. One was the over-seer of the stable site where Jesus Christ was believed to have been born. Many years of renovation had turned the building into an ornate, church-like sanctuary. Long lines of people awaited an opportunity to see the spot where the manger once was. To our surprise, Adam spoke to another friend who shooed all the other visitors back. He motioned for Charlie and me to touch the large, ruby-colored star that marked the historical spot of Christ’s birth. The aggressive manager then grabbed our cameras and photographed each of us. I was puzzled and embarrassed by the preferential treatment. There were many old and lame who obviously had stood in the line for hours for their turn to view the stable site.
Adam must have much influence in Bethlehem. My guess is that he routinely brings in supposedly rich customers from America. Unfortunately, this time he picked a young school teacher and his retired mother who couldn’t give the $3000 requested later that day for “the cause.” When Charlie finally convinced Adam, the stable manager, and the shop owner that we brought little money with us, they offered to take a credit card.
While the needs of the poor in Bethlehem are legitimate, Charlie and I felt like gullible puppets who just had our strings rudely jerked. We rode back to our hotel in Jerusalem in noticeable silence. Charlie paid Adam and we never saw him again.
By the week’s end, we were able to visit most of the sites that are significant to Christians. The one site that impressed us both was the burial tomb of Christ which was provided by Joseph of Arimathea at the time of his death.
During a small span of time between tour groups, Charlie slipped into the stone tomb alone. He remained in solemn solitude for several minutes reflecting on the awesomeness of the moment.
In describing that experience to me later, Charlie beamed as he reported, “Jesus was not there.”
Mother and son smiled in agreement.
“I know,” I responded with a nod. “He is risen.”
Being a newspaper column limits me from giving all the details about our trip. I could fill a book about our inspiring journey to the Holy Land. However, it is time to move on to other adventures of this Living Lady.
Shalom, ya’ll.
nancyk@windstream.net
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Journal of a Living Lady #357
Nancy White Kelly
After an adventuresome beginning in New York City and London, Charlie and I finally arrived in Tel Aviv at 5:00 in the morning. While the plane ticket was the prize of the essay contest, all other expenses in Israel were mine. Of top of that, the IRS gets to tax the total value of the prize package which is estimated at $5000.
Charlie seamlessly transitioned to the lead role on this trip. Now that he is grown, the dynamics of our relationship has changed. While still Mother-Son, we presently function on an adult-adult level. Knowing that Israel is a predominantly male-oriented culture, I gave him the credit card and cash to handle. Charlie didn’t take advantage of his parent’s money, but I did sense a bit of unfettered joy as he slid the card for one transaction after another
To rent a car or not rent a car…that was the question. The pro was that we could travel at our own pace when we wanted. The negative was that we weren’t sure of the geography. That turned out to be the least of our transportation problems.
We went with plan A which was to rent a car in Tel Aviv and return it in one week. My first inclination that this might be a mistake was when the car rental representative noted the many dings on the sedan that we were renting. This was to ensure that we would not be charged for previous damage when the car was returned. So many dings on a virtually new vehicle raised my internal antenna.
I signed the papers and handed Charlie the car key. Driving in modern Tel Aviv wasn’t bad, but when we arrived in Jerusalem, navigating the roads became a nightmare. Road signs were very poor and neither of us read Hebrew. Lanes were practically non-existent. Cars, only inches apart, moved ahead sporadically. Honking horns jangled my nerves. This was normal “get moving” communication for Israeli and Arabic drivers but still seemed rude to this southern lady. Motor scooters zigzagged through the tangled traffic.
After a few close encounters, Charlie made the decision to take the rental car back to the terminal and start over. I concurred. Afterwards, we rode a public bus thirty miles to Jerusalem. Charlie handed the bus driver a map. He motioned for us to exit the bus a few stops later. We had no clue which direction to walk. We stopped several pedestrians, but none spoke English well enough to understand our request for directions. In exasperation, Charlie hailed a taxi that cost us $20 for six blocks. We learned quickly that we would need shekels as the American dollar was not a popular item.
Score a minus for Day one in Jerusalem. All we accomplished was to find our modest bed and breakfast inn which was recommended by a friend. The cost was $130 a night in American dollars which is reasonable here in the states, but on the low end in Old Jerusalem. Our accommodation was a simple room with two single beds and a tiny bathroom. The surprise was that there was 44 steps to our second floor abode. We found that elevators were considered a silly, unnecessary luxury.
Walking and climbing stairs became our mandatory daily exercise. Pounding hearts and sweaty bodies hid behind two-day-old clothes. We had elected to travel light due to the $20 per bag surcharge by the airlines which adds up when you change planes eight times round-trip from Atlanta to New York to London to Tel Aviv.
Tourism is the main source of income in Old Jerusalem. Whether they like each other or not, the Arabs and Jews cooperate enough to keep the area calm enough that people continue to visit. We encountered busses full of tourists from many other countries including Australia.
We learned a lot from our taxi drivers. There are certain cities that most Jews will not go. For example, Bethlehem. There were also some sites that Jews were not permitted to visit like the contentious Temple Dome. Years ago Buddy and I were able to enter the sanctuary of the Dome of the Rock. Presently it is controlled by Muslims.
Charlie and I staked out our itinerary for the next day. It would start at the sacred sites in the Old City. Finding our way there was a challenge. What the colorful inn brochures described as a ten minute walk would actually be three miles.
The next morning I was awakened by the distant morning prayers of Muslims droning the chilly air. Breakfast at the inn was a bit unusual for us southerners. No eggs, bacon or biscuits. Certainly no grits. On the buffet were olives, onions, various non-descript greenery, a vinegary dressing, boiled eggs in the shell, and always bread. I was thankful for the toaster. I could at least have toast and jelly with my stout coffee.
One morning the toaster was noticeable absent. When I inquired about it, the Jewish owner shook his head vehemently saying, “Shabbat! Shabbat!” Apparently no electrical appliances are allowed on the Jewish Sabbath. Charlie and I had much more to learn.
Shalom, Ya'll - Part III (to be continued.)
Nancy White Kelly
After an adventuresome beginning in New York City and London, Charlie and I finally arrived in Tel Aviv at 5:00 in the morning. While the plane ticket was the prize of the essay contest, all other expenses in Israel were mine. Of top of that, the IRS gets to tax the total value of the prize package which is estimated at $5000.
Charlie seamlessly transitioned to the lead role on this trip. Now that he is grown, the dynamics of our relationship has changed. While still Mother-Son, we presently function on an adult-adult level. Knowing that Israel is a predominantly male-oriented culture, I gave him the credit card and cash to handle. Charlie didn’t take advantage of his parent’s money, but I did sense a bit of unfettered joy as he slid the card for one transaction after another
To rent a car or not rent a car…that was the question. The pro was that we could travel at our own pace when we wanted. The negative was that we weren’t sure of the geography. That turned out to be the least of our transportation problems.
We went with plan A which was to rent a car in Tel Aviv and return it in one week. My first inclination that this might be a mistake was when the car rental representative noted the many dings on the sedan that we were renting. This was to ensure that we would not be charged for previous damage when the car was returned. So many dings on a virtually new vehicle raised my internal antenna.
I signed the papers and handed Charlie the car key. Driving in modern Tel Aviv wasn’t bad, but when we arrived in Jerusalem, navigating the roads became a nightmare. Road signs were very poor and neither of us read Hebrew. Lanes were practically non-existent. Cars, only inches apart, moved ahead sporadically. Honking horns jangled my nerves. This was normal “get moving” communication for Israeli and Arabic drivers but still seemed rude to this southern lady. Motor scooters zigzagged through the tangled traffic.
After a few close encounters, Charlie made the decision to take the rental car back to the terminal and start over. I concurred. Afterwards, we rode a public bus thirty miles to Jerusalem. Charlie handed the bus driver a map. He motioned for us to exit the bus a few stops later. We had no clue which direction to walk. We stopped several pedestrians, but none spoke English well enough to understand our request for directions. In exasperation, Charlie hailed a taxi that cost us $20 for six blocks. We learned quickly that we would need shekels as the American dollar was not a popular item.
Score a minus for Day one in Jerusalem. All we accomplished was to find our modest bed and breakfast inn which was recommended by a friend. The cost was $130 a night in American dollars which is reasonable here in the states, but on the low end in Old Jerusalem. Our accommodation was a simple room with two single beds and a tiny bathroom. The surprise was that there was 44 steps to our second floor abode. We found that elevators were considered a silly, unnecessary luxury.
Walking and climbing stairs became our mandatory daily exercise. Pounding hearts and sweaty bodies hid behind two-day-old clothes. We had elected to travel light due to the $20 per bag surcharge by the airlines which adds up when you change planes eight times round-trip from Atlanta to New York to London to Tel Aviv.
Tourism is the main source of income in Old Jerusalem. Whether they like each other or not, the Arabs and Jews cooperate enough to keep the area calm enough that people continue to visit. We encountered busses full of tourists from many other countries including Australia.
We learned a lot from our taxi drivers. There are certain cities that most Jews will not go. For example, Bethlehem. There were also some sites that Jews were not permitted to visit like the contentious Temple Dome. Years ago Buddy and I were able to enter the sanctuary of the Dome of the Rock. Presently it is controlled by Muslims.
Charlie and I staked out our itinerary for the next day. It would start at the sacred sites in the Old City. Finding our way there was a challenge. What the colorful inn brochures described as a ten minute walk would actually be three miles.
The next morning I was awakened by the distant morning prayers of Muslims droning the chilly air. Breakfast at the inn was a bit unusual for us southerners. No eggs, bacon or biscuits. Certainly no grits. On the buffet were olives, onions, various non-descript greenery, a vinegary dressing, boiled eggs in the shell, and always bread. I was thankful for the toaster. I could at least have toast and jelly with my stout coffee.
One morning the toaster was noticeable absent. When I inquired about it, the Jewish owner shook his head vehemently saying, “Shabbat! Shabbat!” Apparently no electrical appliances are allowed on the Jewish Sabbath. Charlie and I had much more to learn.
Shalom, Ya'll - Part III (to be continued.)
Thursday, October 01, 2009
Journal of a Living Lady #356
Nancy White Kelly
Shalom, ya’ll – Part I
The Living Lady is back in America! In spite of internal squabbles, the USA is still the best country in the world. Kiss the ground and thank a soldier.
Charlie and I flew over 13,000 miles, changed planes 8 times, and walked at least 25 miles. That would be quite a feat even if my medical records didn’t include metastatic cancer, kidney failure, two heart attacks and a pair of artificial knees.
Let me briefly up-date you on the reason for this adventure. As a Bible teacher for some fifty-plus years, I have become somewhat familiar with the geography of the ancient Middle East. Twice Buddy and I have made the journey to the Holy Land, first in 1972 and then again in 2003. It is impossible for a tourist to absorb such rich history in two visits. I have longed to return one more time.
There is a spiritual connection to this cradle of civilization that is difficult to explain. The Holy Land is both a physical and vicarious crossroad of the heart and mind that bridges humanity’s past and future.
Through a casual entry in a business-related essay contest provided by British Airways, I won the Grand prize trip to London as well as a ticket to the destination of my choice. That other location was an easy decision– Israel.
In addition, I could take a traveling companion. That choice was easy too. Buddy and I agreed that this should be our older son, Charlie, who has often expressed a desire to visit those biblical sites that he also has taught about.
The awarded trip started in New York City, so Charlie and I had to get there on our own time and dime. Wouldn’t you know that the first flight we were planning to take out of Atlanta was over-booked? The one other plane leaving at night was a hopper through Indianapolis and would land at an alternate New York airport. It was a no-brainer. If we were to make the gifted trip that started at 7:00 a.m. the next morning, we had would fly to LaGuardia and then take a taxi to J.F.K. We arrived with no sleep and yet six hours to kill.
Charlie and I wearily walked around the JFK airport, baggage in hand, looking for a quiet place to park our bodies. We came upon an empty, ecumenical chapel and made ourselves comfortable on the floor. I am sure God didn’t mind that we caught a few winks in that dark and quiet refuge. It has been my observation that people sleep in church quite often.
We arrived in London on the chartered flight and were chauffeured to a five-star hotel. Business and political dignitaries addressed the group of winners. They enthusiastically encouraged us to consider expanding our businesses to London and other world cities. This courting was amusing to Charlie and me as the Ye Old Coin Shop isn’t exactly a Fortune 500 business. Far from it. Buddy and I operate a small coin shop located in a tiny mountain town of north Georgia. On a really good day we may have five customers.
By noon Charlie and I completed our contest obligations and were free to tour London before our late evening flight to Tel Aviv. We navigated the bus system through odd-sounding streets such as Castle & Elephant.
Charlie has long been an admirer of Charles Haddon Spurgeon, the great London preacher of the 1800’s who is still known as the “Prince of Preachers.” It is estimated that Spurgeon preached to around 10,000,000 people in his lifetime, often up to 10 times a week. Charlie wanted to see the Metropolitan Tabernacle that Spurgeon pastored for 38 years as well as his grave site. Mission accomplished.
With that site crossed off our short London list, it was my turn to pick. I chose Buckingham Palace. The queen was not available for tea, but we did enjoy observing the red-coated guards as we ambled the 350 acres of Hyde Park.
Charlie and I both desired to see Big Ben, but there was no time to spare. We hurried to the hotel, gathered our luggage and headed to Heathrow Airport for the last portion of our trek. We arrived in Tel Aviv, Israel, at 5:00 a.m.
Next destination: Jerusalem.
To be continued…
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
Shalom, ya’ll – Part I
The Living Lady is back in America! In spite of internal squabbles, the USA is still the best country in the world. Kiss the ground and thank a soldier.
Charlie and I flew over 13,000 miles, changed planes 8 times, and walked at least 25 miles. That would be quite a feat even if my medical records didn’t include metastatic cancer, kidney failure, two heart attacks and a pair of artificial knees.
Let me briefly up-date you on the reason for this adventure. As a Bible teacher for some fifty-plus years, I have become somewhat familiar with the geography of the ancient Middle East. Twice Buddy and I have made the journey to the Holy Land, first in 1972 and then again in 2003. It is impossible for a tourist to absorb such rich history in two visits. I have longed to return one more time.
There is a spiritual connection to this cradle of civilization that is difficult to explain. The Holy Land is both a physical and vicarious crossroad of the heart and mind that bridges humanity’s past and future.
Through a casual entry in a business-related essay contest provided by British Airways, I won the Grand prize trip to London as well as a ticket to the destination of my choice. That other location was an easy decision– Israel.
In addition, I could take a traveling companion. That choice was easy too. Buddy and I agreed that this should be our older son, Charlie, who has often expressed a desire to visit those biblical sites that he also has taught about.
The awarded trip started in New York City, so Charlie and I had to get there on our own time and dime. Wouldn’t you know that the first flight we were planning to take out of Atlanta was over-booked? The one other plane leaving at night was a hopper through Indianapolis and would land at an alternate New York airport. It was a no-brainer. If we were to make the gifted trip that started at 7:00 a.m. the next morning, we had would fly to LaGuardia and then take a taxi to J.F.K. We arrived with no sleep and yet six hours to kill.
Charlie and I wearily walked around the JFK airport, baggage in hand, looking for a quiet place to park our bodies. We came upon an empty, ecumenical chapel and made ourselves comfortable on the floor. I am sure God didn’t mind that we caught a few winks in that dark and quiet refuge. It has been my observation that people sleep in church quite often.
We arrived in London on the chartered flight and were chauffeured to a five-star hotel. Business and political dignitaries addressed the group of winners. They enthusiastically encouraged us to consider expanding our businesses to London and other world cities. This courting was amusing to Charlie and me as the Ye Old Coin Shop isn’t exactly a Fortune 500 business. Far from it. Buddy and I operate a small coin shop located in a tiny mountain town of north Georgia. On a really good day we may have five customers.
By noon Charlie and I completed our contest obligations and were free to tour London before our late evening flight to Tel Aviv. We navigated the bus system through odd-sounding streets such as Castle & Elephant.
Charlie has long been an admirer of Charles Haddon Spurgeon, the great London preacher of the 1800’s who is still known as the “Prince of Preachers.” It is estimated that Spurgeon preached to around 10,000,000 people in his lifetime, often up to 10 times a week. Charlie wanted to see the Metropolitan Tabernacle that Spurgeon pastored for 38 years as well as his grave site. Mission accomplished.
With that site crossed off our short London list, it was my turn to pick. I chose Buckingham Palace. The queen was not available for tea, but we did enjoy observing the red-coated guards as we ambled the 350 acres of Hyde Park.
Charlie and I both desired to see Big Ben, but there was no time to spare. We hurried to the hotel, gathered our luggage and headed to Heathrow Airport for the last portion of our trek. We arrived in Tel Aviv, Israel, at 5:00 a.m.
Next destination: Jerusalem.
To be continued…
nancyk@windstream.net
Thursday, September 03, 2009
Journal of a Living Lady #355
Nancy White Kelly
Why is it that we pray for something and then act surprised when those prayers are answered? Maybe because we believe the blessings of God aren’t deserved.
In spite of short-comings, I have been blessed immeasurably during my lifetime, especially during the last half of it. Hospice didn’t get the opportunity to ease me into eternity. My metastatic cancer wasn’t as imminently terminal as predicted.
A couple of years ago a new problem occurred. It is rare that a person in total kidney failure gets to kiss dialysis good-bye. Having a date with a machine three times a week was more discouraging to me than the cancer. My kidneys defied the odds as God adjusted my earthly graduation date. It has been my goal ever since to make use of this extended time.
On Sunday mornings I teach an adult Bible study class. Several times I have mentioned that I was praying for one more opportunity to go to Jerusalem. While God was fully aware of my desire, I did not truly expect the fulfillment of such a lavish request. After all, Buddy and I have been to the Holy Land twice. The last trip was a surprise gift from a reader who assumed he was granting the last request of a dying lady.
Several weeks ago I read a newspaper ad announcing an essay contest that a major airline was offering. Small business owners were invited to write an essay explaining the benefits of face-to-face interaction with customers.
Buddy and I own Ye Old Coin Shop, so I dashed off an essay of less than 500 words promoting the benefit of doing business with hand-shakes rather than using impersonal technology.
It was a hurried entry. Apparently I didn’t have much confidence in my writing ability or my chance of winning an international writing contest. In my haste, I failed to save the essay to the hard drive. If I printed a hard copy, only God knows where it is now.
Yes, I won. There were more than 10,000 entries. The Grand Prize was a trip for two to England, consultation with top business leaders, and then a ticket to any other destination of choice. That was an instantaneous decision: Jerusalem, here I come.
Since Buddy has seen the Holy Land, he offered his seat to our son who is a serious Bible student and sometimes writer. Charlie has expressed his desire to go to Israel many times. Being a school teacher with two small sons, the likelihood of that was slim unless he won the lottery which he doesn’t play. Since neither Tori nor Buddy can accompany us on the magic carpet, this trip will be a one-to-one, mother-son experience that most moms of adult children can only imagine.
This will be my last column for September. Charlie and I leave soon for the first leg of our journey from Atlanta to New York City to London. He wants to see the church where Charles Spurgeon preached. I want to have tea with the queen. Then, shalom, we are off to Tel Aviv and Jerusalem.
No doubt Buddy will be lonesome while we are away. If you are in our phone directory, expect a call. While he is talking, Charlie and I will be walking on hallowed ground.
Be sure of what you pray for. God moves in mysterious ways.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
Why is it that we pray for something and then act surprised when those prayers are answered? Maybe because we believe the blessings of God aren’t deserved.
In spite of short-comings, I have been blessed immeasurably during my lifetime, especially during the last half of it. Hospice didn’t get the opportunity to ease me into eternity. My metastatic cancer wasn’t as imminently terminal as predicted.
A couple of years ago a new problem occurred. It is rare that a person in total kidney failure gets to kiss dialysis good-bye. Having a date with a machine three times a week was more discouraging to me than the cancer. My kidneys defied the odds as God adjusted my earthly graduation date. It has been my goal ever since to make use of this extended time.
On Sunday mornings I teach an adult Bible study class. Several times I have mentioned that I was praying for one more opportunity to go to Jerusalem. While God was fully aware of my desire, I did not truly expect the fulfillment of such a lavish request. After all, Buddy and I have been to the Holy Land twice. The last trip was a surprise gift from a reader who assumed he was granting the last request of a dying lady.
Several weeks ago I read a newspaper ad announcing an essay contest that a major airline was offering. Small business owners were invited to write an essay explaining the benefits of face-to-face interaction with customers.
Buddy and I own Ye Old Coin Shop, so I dashed off an essay of less than 500 words promoting the benefit of doing business with hand-shakes rather than using impersonal technology.
It was a hurried entry. Apparently I didn’t have much confidence in my writing ability or my chance of winning an international writing contest. In my haste, I failed to save the essay to the hard drive. If I printed a hard copy, only God knows where it is now.
Yes, I won. There were more than 10,000 entries. The Grand Prize was a trip for two to England, consultation with top business leaders, and then a ticket to any other destination of choice. That was an instantaneous decision: Jerusalem, here I come.
Since Buddy has seen the Holy Land, he offered his seat to our son who is a serious Bible student and sometimes writer. Charlie has expressed his desire to go to Israel many times. Being a school teacher with two small sons, the likelihood of that was slim unless he won the lottery which he doesn’t play. Since neither Tori nor Buddy can accompany us on the magic carpet, this trip will be a one-to-one, mother-son experience that most moms of adult children can only imagine.
This will be my last column for September. Charlie and I leave soon for the first leg of our journey from Atlanta to New York City to London. He wants to see the church where Charles Spurgeon preached. I want to have tea with the queen. Then, shalom, we are off to Tel Aviv and Jerusalem.
No doubt Buddy will be lonesome while we are away. If you are in our phone directory, expect a call. While he is talking, Charlie and I will be walking on hallowed ground.
Be sure of what you pray for. God moves in mysterious ways.
nancyk@windstream.net
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Journal of Living Lady #354b
Nancy White Kelly
Huh? What did you say?
The dog needs braces? The dog is a racist? The dog likes to race.
Bingo.
Ever had a similar dialog with your spouse?
Buddy’s hearing loss over the last few years has gotten progressively worse. It passed the funny stage long ago. Spousal frustration is more like it, especially when my lovable, but stubborn husband won’t wear his hearing aids.
Sometimes Buddy nods when I am speaking to him, pretending to hear but knowing better than to ask what I said the third time. My patience wears thin with Buddy when he doesn’t cooperate by wearing those hearing devices that he just had to have.
Three years ago Buddy went on a tangent about wanting hearing aids. I didn’t doubt that he needed them. But I know my man. We’d buy those expensive ear plugs and in no time the volume-enhancing gadgets would end up in the bureau drawer.
Buddy promised that he would wear them faithfully. Though it was a lot of money for us retirees, I gave in. It might save our other-wise stable and happy marriage.
Buddy got the hearing aids. He hated them from the start. He said that they didn’t fit right and he had difficulty adjusting the tiny knobs. One Sunday, in the midst of the pastor’s sermon, the annoying aids repeatedly screamed worse than a high-pitched little girl.
Sure enough. Just as I predicted, the hearing aids stayed in Buddy’s underwear drawer most of the time. Thereafter, Buddy insisted that I mumbled. I complained that he wasn’t listening. Our daily communication suffered.
Finally I consented to his getting a better set of hearing aids. It took a few weeks, but they finally arrived. He liked them. I liked them.
Then I suddenly noticed the incessant “huhs” again. He meekly admitted that he had lost the new pair. To add insult to grief, he had also misplaced his cell phone.
The hunt began. We checked anywhere he might have stuck the little black pouch that housed the hearing aids and for the little blue case that housed his cell phone. No success.
This usually jovial husband of mine became depressed. No cell phone. No hearing aids. For a non-stop, talkative man like my Buddy, life was intolerable.
Last week the hearing specialist fitted Buddy with hearing aids, pair 3. They are exactly like the second pair. For now, Buddy is a happy camper. I am a happy spouse who again enjoys hearing humor.
During a January revival an evangelist asked the people in line what they needed. One man's request was for his hearing. The evangelist put his hand on the man’s ear, prayed for him and then asked him, "How's your hearing?"
The man replied, "I don't know. It's not until next Tuesday.”
Nancy White Kelly
Huh? What did you say?
The dog needs braces? The dog is a racist? The dog likes to race.
Bingo.
Ever had a similar dialog with your spouse?
Buddy’s hearing loss over the last few years has gotten progressively worse. It passed the funny stage long ago. Spousal frustration is more like it, especially when my lovable, but stubborn husband won’t wear his hearing aids.
Sometimes Buddy nods when I am speaking to him, pretending to hear but knowing better than to ask what I said the third time. My patience wears thin with Buddy when he doesn’t cooperate by wearing those hearing devices that he just had to have.
Three years ago Buddy went on a tangent about wanting hearing aids. I didn’t doubt that he needed them. But I know my man. We’d buy those expensive ear plugs and in no time the volume-enhancing gadgets would end up in the bureau drawer.
Buddy promised that he would wear them faithfully. Though it was a lot of money for us retirees, I gave in. It might save our other-wise stable and happy marriage.
Buddy got the hearing aids. He hated them from the start. He said that they didn’t fit right and he had difficulty adjusting the tiny knobs. One Sunday, in the midst of the pastor’s sermon, the annoying aids repeatedly screamed worse than a high-pitched little girl.
Sure enough. Just as I predicted, the hearing aids stayed in Buddy’s underwear drawer most of the time. Thereafter, Buddy insisted that I mumbled. I complained that he wasn’t listening. Our daily communication suffered.
Finally I consented to his getting a better set of hearing aids. It took a few weeks, but they finally arrived. He liked them. I liked them.
Then I suddenly noticed the incessant “huhs” again. He meekly admitted that he had lost the new pair. To add insult to grief, he had also misplaced his cell phone.
The hunt began. We checked anywhere he might have stuck the little black pouch that housed the hearing aids and for the little blue case that housed his cell phone. No success.
This usually jovial husband of mine became depressed. No cell phone. No hearing aids. For a non-stop, talkative man like my Buddy, life was intolerable.
Last week the hearing specialist fitted Buddy with hearing aids, pair 3. They are exactly like the second pair. For now, Buddy is a happy camper. I am a happy spouse who again enjoys hearing humor.
During a January revival an evangelist asked the people in line what they needed. One man's request was for his hearing. The evangelist put his hand on the man’s ear, prayed for him and then asked him, "How's your hearing?"
The man replied, "I don't know. It's not until next Tuesday.”
Thursday, August 06, 2009
Journal of a Living Lady #354
Nancy White Kelly
The saddest part of living in a retirement area is seeing your older friends grow even older. Fifteen years ago we moved from the southern suburbs of Atlanta to the north Georgia mountains. Except for a work acquaintance, we knew nobody.
In the ensuing years, new acquaintances evolved into dear friends. We have shared meals, laughed, cried, traveled, and worshipped with our substitute family.
Lately, we have noticed that our inventory of cherished friends is dwindling. If mortuaries offered frequent funeral miles, we would have enough for a trip somewhere far away.
Old age and death fascinate me. I suppose that is because I have managed to postpone the dying part thanks to or in spite of doctors. Wish I had a remedy for taxes. Unfortunately one must die to escape them. That is a lose-win situation.
Recently an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in Nebraska. It was believed that he had nothing left of any value. Later, when the nurses were going through his meager possessions, they found a poem he had penned. It spoke volumes to me and deserves to be shared.
THE CRABBY MAN
What do you see nurses? What do you see?
What are you thinking when you're looking at me?
A crabby old man, not very wise,
Uncertain of habit with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food and makes no reply
When you say in a loud voice, “I do wish you'd try!”
Who seems not to notice the things that you do
And forever is losing a sock or a shoe?
Who, resisting or not, lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding the long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking? Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse .You're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am as I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of ten with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters who love one another.
A young boy of sixteen with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now a lover he'll meet.
A groom soon at twenty, my heart gives a leap.
Remembering the vows that I promised to keep.
At twenty-five now, I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide and secure a happy home.
A man of thirty, my young now grown fast,
Bound to each other with ties that should last.
At forty, my young sons have grown and are gone,
But my woman's beside me to see I don't mourn.
At fifty, once more, babies play 'round my knee,
Again, we know children, my loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me. My wife is now dead.
I look at the future and shudder with dread..
For my young are all rearing kids of their own.
And I think of the years and the love that I've known.
I'm now an old man and nature is cruel.
Tis jest to make old age look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles. Grace and vigor depart.
There is now a stone where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass a young guy still dwells,
And now and again my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys. I remember the pain.
And I'm loving and living life o’er again.
I think of the years, all too few, gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people. Open and see.
Not a crabby old man. Look closer. See ME!!
Readers, I am off to the nursing home. Will you come too?
Nancy White Kelly
The saddest part of living in a retirement area is seeing your older friends grow even older. Fifteen years ago we moved from the southern suburbs of Atlanta to the north Georgia mountains. Except for a work acquaintance, we knew nobody.
In the ensuing years, new acquaintances evolved into dear friends. We have shared meals, laughed, cried, traveled, and worshipped with our substitute family.
Lately, we have noticed that our inventory of cherished friends is dwindling. If mortuaries offered frequent funeral miles, we would have enough for a trip somewhere far away.
Old age and death fascinate me. I suppose that is because I have managed to postpone the dying part thanks to or in spite of doctors. Wish I had a remedy for taxes. Unfortunately one must die to escape them. That is a lose-win situation.
Recently an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in Nebraska. It was believed that he had nothing left of any value. Later, when the nurses were going through his meager possessions, they found a poem he had penned. It spoke volumes to me and deserves to be shared.
THE CRABBY MAN
What do you see nurses? What do you see?
What are you thinking when you're looking at me?
A crabby old man, not very wise,
Uncertain of habit with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food and makes no reply
When you say in a loud voice, “I do wish you'd try!”
Who seems not to notice the things that you do
And forever is losing a sock or a shoe?
Who, resisting or not, lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding the long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking? Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse .You're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am as I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of ten with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters who love one another.
A young boy of sixteen with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now a lover he'll meet.
A groom soon at twenty, my heart gives a leap.
Remembering the vows that I promised to keep.
At twenty-five now, I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide and secure a happy home.
A man of thirty, my young now grown fast,
Bound to each other with ties that should last.
At forty, my young sons have grown and are gone,
But my woman's beside me to see I don't mourn.
At fifty, once more, babies play 'round my knee,
Again, we know children, my loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me. My wife is now dead.
I look at the future and shudder with dread..
For my young are all rearing kids of their own.
And I think of the years and the love that I've known.
I'm now an old man and nature is cruel.
Tis jest to make old age look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles. Grace and vigor depart.
There is now a stone where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass a young guy still dwells,
And now and again my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys. I remember the pain.
And I'm loving and living life o’er again.
I think of the years, all too few, gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people. Open and see.
Not a crabby old man. Look closer. See ME!!
Readers, I am off to the nursing home. Will you come too?
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Journal of a Living Lady #352
Nancy White Kelly
Breaking news from Bill Couterie, legendary movie producer: Economic hard times have hit Hollywood.
Bill bought the rights to my book, Journal of a Living Lady, a couple of years ago with plans for making a movie or documentary of my roller-coaster life. Cancer had hit his family big time and he wanted to spotlight the battle and the warrior.
Several months ago Bill wrote that he was shopping around for financial backers, but the timing isn’t right. Bankers are holding tight to purse strings. A story about a cancer survivor, whose faith helped her beat tremendous odds, not once, but twice, can be inspiring, but not enough for backers to ante up several million dollars in a struggling economy. The money people Bill had hoped would make the project happen have backed down, at least for now.
“Making a living” has become top priority,” Bill says. “But I haven’t forgotten you.”
It was no big surprise that the documentary is on hold. I have always believed the most appropriate time to name a street or make a movie about a person’s life is post mortem. That way, the facts are all in and nothing embarrassing will happen down the road to cause regrets.
It was fun thinking about it being on the big screen. Yet, being a movie star has never been an ambition of mine. Well, maybe once. While taking tap dance lessons during my elementary school years, I pretended to audition as the new Shirley Temple. Unfortunately my hair was too straight to make the cut.
I have been on television a few times. The receiving of the George Washington Medal of Honor for journalism from the Freedom Foundation in Valley Forge was televised. WSB asked me to do a commentary once. Local affiliates of NBC and ABC did a brief news item about my notorious appearance on the Oprah Winfrey show. The telling of that humorous experience is in my book and on the original blog: www.angelfire.com/bc/nancykelly
I don’t think any of this has gone to my head. I am just a southern lady who happened upon notoriety of sorts. I still speak to everybody and give spontaneous hugs. Buddy and I joke about the paparazzi lurking everywhere.
I may not make the movies, at least not in my lifetime. It will be a fun story to tell the grandchildren when they get older.
“Once upon a time your Granny was known as the Living Lady.”
Nancy White Kelly
Breaking news from Bill Couterie, legendary movie producer: Economic hard times have hit Hollywood.
Bill bought the rights to my book, Journal of a Living Lady, a couple of years ago with plans for making a movie or documentary of my roller-coaster life. Cancer had hit his family big time and he wanted to spotlight the battle and the warrior.
Several months ago Bill wrote that he was shopping around for financial backers, but the timing isn’t right. Bankers are holding tight to purse strings. A story about a cancer survivor, whose faith helped her beat tremendous odds, not once, but twice, can be inspiring, but not enough for backers to ante up several million dollars in a struggling economy. The money people Bill had hoped would make the project happen have backed down, at least for now.
“Making a living” has become top priority,” Bill says. “But I haven’t forgotten you.”
It was no big surprise that the documentary is on hold. I have always believed the most appropriate time to name a street or make a movie about a person’s life is post mortem. That way, the facts are all in and nothing embarrassing will happen down the road to cause regrets.
It was fun thinking about it being on the big screen. Yet, being a movie star has never been an ambition of mine. Well, maybe once. While taking tap dance lessons during my elementary school years, I pretended to audition as the new Shirley Temple. Unfortunately my hair was too straight to make the cut.
I have been on television a few times. The receiving of the George Washington Medal of Honor for journalism from the Freedom Foundation in Valley Forge was televised. WSB asked me to do a commentary once. Local affiliates of NBC and ABC did a brief news item about my notorious appearance on the Oprah Winfrey show. The telling of that humorous experience is in my book and on the original blog: www.angelfire.com/bc/nancykelly
I don’t think any of this has gone to my head. I am just a southern lady who happened upon notoriety of sorts. I still speak to everybody and give spontaneous hugs. Buddy and I joke about the paparazzi lurking everywhere.
I may not make the movies, at least not in my lifetime. It will be a fun story to tell the grandchildren when they get older.
“Once upon a time your Granny was known as the Living Lady.”
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Journal of a Living Lady #351
Nancy White Kelly
I haven’t screamed so loudly since I was a ten-year-old running away from a charging bull in a Mississippi pasture. My voice is still squeaky. It all happened so suddenly.
I was sitting at my computer catching up on email when Chipper, our vocal Cockatiel, starting shrieking new bird talk from his front porch perch. Sam, the cat, was purring on my lap so I knew those two were not engaged in claw and beak warfare.
Our small harem of pet hens and the sole rooster roam freely in the yard during the day. From the frantic commotion, it was obvious that something bad was happening or about to. I pushed Sam from my lap and ran out the back door.
Rocky, our sixteen-month-old German shepherd, was having the best chase game of his young life. He had the upper paw. Henny Penny was hemmed up against the fence with no place to go.
I hurried to the creek edge, yelling and running at the same time. It was time for an instant battlefield decision. Charge through the muddy creek water to pull Rocky away from the defenseless hen or hope he would obey the new “come” command we had been practicing.
“Come.” Rocky glanced toward me, obviously annoyed.
“Rocky, come,” I screamed again.
He cocked his head again. What nerve I had to ask him to stop playing and return to his mistress. After the third vocal command in an octave I didn’t know I had, Rocky obeyed. He released the chicken and jumped across the creek. Feathers flowed from his smiling mouth as he sat before me.
I know I was supposed to congratulate him and get all mushy about his canine obedience, but I wasn’t in the mood. Do you give a lollipop to a two-year old who returns to you rather than run into the street in front of a coming car?
I was glad Rocky came, but mad at the same time. My heart was still pounding as I drug him by his collar to his night pen behind the Coin Shop. He was confused at my lack of affirmation and affection, but his psychological well-being wasn’t too concerning to me right now. Henny Penny needed my attention.
I rushed back but was unable to get to her without wading the creek. The little red hen was alive, but sat motionless in obvious shock. Other than a vacant patch of naked skin on her back, there didn’t seem to be any serious damage done.
I decided Henny Penny could wait there until Buddy returned from town. I headed for our cool bedroom to recuperate. What an unexpected, adventurous morning.
I remembered the last time I had such a rush of adrenaline. Buddy and I were ruthless tennis players at the height of the tennis craze in the 70’s. We enjoyed week-end amateur tournaments. The most memorable one was when we dueled with an 80-year-old tennis player and her friend. It was a random draw. Buddy and I smugly grinned, assured that the first round of doubles would be a rout.
The hunched-back little lady and her senior friend could have passed for escapees from the Old Folks Home. No problem. They beat us handily. We meekly left the court in disgrace with a life lesson well-learned. Never underestimate an opponent.
Rocky is fine. The trainer comes tomorrow to help us teach him that chicken-chasing is a “no-no.” As for Henny Penny, we haven’t found her yet.
Nancy White Kelly
I haven’t screamed so loudly since I was a ten-year-old running away from a charging bull in a Mississippi pasture. My voice is still squeaky. It all happened so suddenly.
I was sitting at my computer catching up on email when Chipper, our vocal Cockatiel, starting shrieking new bird talk from his front porch perch. Sam, the cat, was purring on my lap so I knew those two were not engaged in claw and beak warfare.
Our small harem of pet hens and the sole rooster roam freely in the yard during the day. From the frantic commotion, it was obvious that something bad was happening or about to. I pushed Sam from my lap and ran out the back door.
Rocky, our sixteen-month-old German shepherd, was having the best chase game of his young life. He had the upper paw. Henny Penny was hemmed up against the fence with no place to go.
I hurried to the creek edge, yelling and running at the same time. It was time for an instant battlefield decision. Charge through the muddy creek water to pull Rocky away from the defenseless hen or hope he would obey the new “come” command we had been practicing.
“Come.” Rocky glanced toward me, obviously annoyed.
“Rocky, come,” I screamed again.
He cocked his head again. What nerve I had to ask him to stop playing and return to his mistress. After the third vocal command in an octave I didn’t know I had, Rocky obeyed. He released the chicken and jumped across the creek. Feathers flowed from his smiling mouth as he sat before me.
I know I was supposed to congratulate him and get all mushy about his canine obedience, but I wasn’t in the mood. Do you give a lollipop to a two-year old who returns to you rather than run into the street in front of a coming car?
I was glad Rocky came, but mad at the same time. My heart was still pounding as I drug him by his collar to his night pen behind the Coin Shop. He was confused at my lack of affirmation and affection, but his psychological well-being wasn’t too concerning to me right now. Henny Penny needed my attention.
I rushed back but was unable to get to her without wading the creek. The little red hen was alive, but sat motionless in obvious shock. Other than a vacant patch of naked skin on her back, there didn’t seem to be any serious damage done.
I decided Henny Penny could wait there until Buddy returned from town. I headed for our cool bedroom to recuperate. What an unexpected, adventurous morning.
I remembered the last time I had such a rush of adrenaline. Buddy and I were ruthless tennis players at the height of the tennis craze in the 70’s. We enjoyed week-end amateur tournaments. The most memorable one was when we dueled with an 80-year-old tennis player and her friend. It was a random draw. Buddy and I smugly grinned, assured that the first round of doubles would be a rout.
The hunched-back little lady and her senior friend could have passed for escapees from the Old Folks Home. No problem. They beat us handily. We meekly left the court in disgrace with a life lesson well-learned. Never underestimate an opponent.
Rocky is fine. The trainer comes tomorrow to help us teach him that chicken-chasing is a “no-no.” As for Henny Penny, we haven’t found her yet.
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