Now that my children are gone, I have decided to become a foster parent for tech savy teens. That way I will have an onsight consultant to guide me through the rapidly advancing technology that so overwhelms and baffles me.
It is pitiful when you are so far behind the times you have to send an e-mail to your daughter-in-law and ask her how to do something on the computer. That is just what I had to do when I decided to embed a photo in my blog.
I have no idea how I even got the photo to the blog. I just kept doing stuff over and over and suddenly it appeared. I was a bit uncertain I would even have any success because Kim, my daughter-in-law, began her reply with "easy". Boy, if that isn't a red flag!! "Danger! Danger Will Robinson!"
It is all Greek to me. I come from a time when a blackberry was something you picked in the summer and ate with cream and sugar. When I was in college a computer room housed only the computer -- a monstrosity of a machine three or four times larger than my dorm room -- not desks full of laptops. We had bites back then. Mosquito bites. Dog bites. A bite of food. The net was what you caught fish with and the only website we had was the one in the corner of the living room made by a pesky spider.
Whenever the neighbor's sons come over to play with Will's old Ninetendo I am in fear and dread that I will have to call him at college and ask him how to get the television back to television mode. I have a two year old cell phone for the simple reason I haven't yet learned how to use all of its functions. About the second day I had the phone Jim and I went to see a movie and I had to borrow a teen from another mother to show me how to turn it off in the theater.
Reading the instructions is generally no help to me because they are written in the vernacular of technology. If they had words and phrases like 'thingy dooley' and 'little square thing' and 'squiggly line' I might have a fighting chance of learning how to use the 'whatchamacallit'.
On our last move we bought a new condo. A new condo comes with new appliances. I have learned how to use everything. I had to. Eating is a matter of survival. I guess when your life depends on it, you can learn something new.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Good Day for Baking Cookies
Some days are just better suited for baking cookies than other days and today is one of them. The snow is gently falling, a prelude to a predicted winter storm on the way. Jim came home early and he and George (our dog) are napping on the sofa by the fireplace. The soundtrack to 'Brokeback Mountain' is playing -- country music is a great accompaniment for baking cookies. And, the aroma of freshly baked cookies fills the house.
There is something comforting, satisfying, and happy about freshly baked cookies. That smell is what I think love must smell like. I don't just enjoy baking cookies, I LOVE baking cookies. I love the synergy of cookies. I love how each little part contributes to an amazing end product. I love the individuality of each cookie and their rustic aesthetic. I love the portability of cookies.
I guess I must get my love of baking cookies from my grandmothers. They both had quite a repetoir of cookie recipes. Christmas just wouldn't have been Christmas without the hundreds of cookies they baked.
My grandmother Koehler would fill dozens of the largest Tupperware containers with homemade cookies and she would make up trays of cookies to give to friends and family at Christmas. She would put homemade fudge and Hershey kisses and foil wrapped milk chocolate bells on the trays, too.
My grandmother Holk was a diabetic and never ate any of the cookies she baked. She was amazing at baking cakes, too, which she never touched. She made the most heavenly divinity, an art that is lost to most modern cooks. And, just knowing she would be making orange glazed pecans almost made the task of having to pick up all the pecans in the fall bearable.
I know many people swear cookies from a mix or refrigerated roll are just as good as homemade, and I will confess I have used the refrigerated rolls on occasion. On those occasions I could have just as well baked them from scratch by the time I got finished embellishing them. The sugar cookies are pretty good if you roll them in chopped almonds before cutting them and then baste the tops with a little almond extract prior to baking. Or, roll them in yellow sugar, split the roll lengthwise, cut the cookies, and baste with lemon extract to make lemon slice cookies.
Southern Living, the Bible of gracious entertaining for the Southern woman, had a recipe for cookies that looked like slices of watermelon. They were adorable and tasty. I made them only once. The dough had to be colored bright red and then shaped into a roll. By the time I had colored the dough, rolled it out, cut it into circles, and cut the circles in half I looked like I was wearing red gloves. As soon as the cookies came out of the oven I had to work rapidly to put each tiny mini chocolate chip 'seed' in place and when the cookies had cooled I had to dip the round edges in green frosting to make the 'rind'. Like I said, I made them only once.
Christmas of 2006 we were in Birmingham, AL. James and Kim came down from Connecticuit to celebrate with us. I thought it would be fun for James and Kim and William to decorate the Christmas tree shortbread cookies I had made. I made a big batch of royal icing and divided it into three decorating bags. I assumed I had nothing to worry about because they were all adults. It was a flashback to the old "I Love Lucy" shows. They had fun and I cleaned up the mess, like a good mother. It made a great Kodak moment for my Christmas photo of the three of them.
That's what cookies are for. Fun. Cookies are unpretentious. They don't have to be perfect like other pastries. They are user friendly. I love baking cookies!
Footnote: (February 13, 2008) This morning as I read the comics section of the newspaper I had to smile as my theory about cookies being the smell of love was confirmed. In the first panel of the comic Born Loser the husband is seen sniffing. Panel two has him saying, "AHH... Love is in the air!" And the last panel shows the wife with a pan of piping hot cookies saying, "He says that every time I bake cookies!"
There is something comforting, satisfying, and happy about freshly baked cookies. That smell is what I think love must smell like. I don't just enjoy baking cookies, I LOVE baking cookies. I love the synergy of cookies. I love how each little part contributes to an amazing end product. I love the individuality of each cookie and their rustic aesthetic. I love the portability of cookies.
I guess I must get my love of baking cookies from my grandmothers. They both had quite a repetoir of cookie recipes. Christmas just wouldn't have been Christmas without the hundreds of cookies they baked.
My grandmother Koehler would fill dozens of the largest Tupperware containers with homemade cookies and she would make up trays of cookies to give to friends and family at Christmas. She would put homemade fudge and Hershey kisses and foil wrapped milk chocolate bells on the trays, too.
My grandmother Holk was a diabetic and never ate any of the cookies she baked. She was amazing at baking cakes, too, which she never touched. She made the most heavenly divinity, an art that is lost to most modern cooks. And, just knowing she would be making orange glazed pecans almost made the task of having to pick up all the pecans in the fall bearable.
I know many people swear cookies from a mix or refrigerated roll are just as good as homemade, and I will confess I have used the refrigerated rolls on occasion. On those occasions I could have just as well baked them from scratch by the time I got finished embellishing them. The sugar cookies are pretty good if you roll them in chopped almonds before cutting them and then baste the tops with a little almond extract prior to baking. Or, roll them in yellow sugar, split the roll lengthwise, cut the cookies, and baste with lemon extract to make lemon slice cookies.
Southern Living, the Bible of gracious entertaining for the Southern woman, had a recipe for cookies that looked like slices of watermelon. They were adorable and tasty. I made them only once. The dough had to be colored bright red and then shaped into a roll. By the time I had colored the dough, rolled it out, cut it into circles, and cut the circles in half I looked like I was wearing red gloves. As soon as the cookies came out of the oven I had to work rapidly to put each tiny mini chocolate chip 'seed' in place and when the cookies had cooled I had to dip the round edges in green frosting to make the 'rind'. Like I said, I made them only once.
Christmas of 2006 we were in Birmingham, AL. James and Kim came down from Connecticuit to celebrate with us. I thought it would be fun for James and Kim and William to decorate the Christmas tree shortbread cookies I had made. I made a big batch of royal icing and divided it into three decorating bags. I assumed I had nothing to worry about because they were all adults. It was a flashback to the old "I Love Lucy" shows. They had fun and I cleaned up the mess, like a good mother. It made a great Kodak moment for my Christmas photo of the three of them.
That's what cookies are for. Fun. Cookies are unpretentious. They don't have to be perfect like other pastries. They are user friendly. I love baking cookies!
Footnote: (February 13, 2008) This morning as I read the comics section of the newspaper I had to smile as my theory about cookies being the smell of love was confirmed. In the first panel of the comic Born Loser the husband is seen sniffing. Panel two has him saying, "AHH... Love is in the air!" And the last panel shows the wife with a pan of piping hot cookies saying, "He says that every time I bake cookies!"
Traditional Dance
Today my friend, Dick McCreight, sent me an e-mail with photos he had taken on a recent mission trip to South Africa. I loved living in South Africa. The red earth seems to settle on your body and soul like a ceremonial robe passed down through the family of humankind connecting you with the very beginnings of our collective history. From the time I stepped on the continent of Africa I felt a primative sense of being home. Thinking about South Africa and seeing the people and places I loved represented in Dick's photos really tugged at my heartstrings.
In some of the photos I saw children dancing and it reminded me of a time we visited some native African friends from our little Methodist church in Lichtenburg, RSA. We were invited for dinner and as we were having something to drink and starters (appetizers) I asked the little girls to show me some of their traditional dances. They tried to teach me some of the steps and girations and I soon became tired. They have such a natural sense of rythm and movement and when the music begins everyone seems to instinctively know what to do.
For a while we were entertained by the dancing of the little girls. As they wound down, I asked them if they would like for me to teach them a traditional American dance. They were very excited to learn something new. The adults were interested, too.
We all laughed and laughed as I taught them how to do the Hokey Pokey!
In some of the photos I saw children dancing and it reminded me of a time we visited some native African friends from our little Methodist church in Lichtenburg, RSA. We were invited for dinner and as we were having something to drink and starters (appetizers) I asked the little girls to show me some of their traditional dances. They tried to teach me some of the steps and girations and I soon became tired. They have such a natural sense of rythm and movement and when the music begins everyone seems to instinctively know what to do.
For a while we were entertained by the dancing of the little girls. As they wound down, I asked them if they would like for me to teach them a traditional American dance. They were very excited to learn something new. The adults were interested, too.
We all laughed and laughed as I taught them how to do the Hokey Pokey!
What a Difference a Year Makes
Last year at the end of January I had been in South Alabama for a month as my father began his courageous battle with cancer. After Christmas 2006 he had exploratory surgery which confirmed he had Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. Armed with my mom as researcher, translator, interpreter, advocate, and mediator, he decided that doing nothing was not an option. With the assistance of my brother, Henry, who works closely with local physicians (Director of the Imaging Department -- South Baldwin Regional Medical Center -- Foley, AL), Daddy was able to confidently select a surgeon and oncologist to see him through the process.
As was the case when he battled and conquered Prostrate cancer some years back, my father adopted the attitude that treatment may kill him, but he was not going down without a fight. He was 81 years old at the time of this decision. The prospect of dying did not frighten him. If there was even the slightest chance he would live to enjoy his family a little longer it was worth the effort.
Mentally, my father was prepared. That was a good start. I don't think he ever expected to be taken to death's door in the process. He was aware of everything he might have to face. I don't think he knew it would be so bad. When the little things, like just walking out to get the mail, or getting up to the table to eat, or holding his tiny twin great-granddaughters became overwhelming tasks I think he was truly surprised. He expected not being able to mow the grass, or work in his shop, or do the grocery shopping. It was the little things he never expected that were initially difficult for him to deal with.
Fighting cancer is a rollercoaster ride to hell and back. At some point I think one becomes resolved that cancer and the process whereby it can be cured is in the driver's seat and he or she has to focus all his or her attention and energy on that. It was painful for those around my father to see him go from determination to resolve in so few months. To see him just managing to get up at some point during the day only to be able to sit in his chair, wrapped up in his prayer shawl, sleeping most of the time was heart wrenching. To see an illness rob this once vibrant man of his vitality was crushing and was the catylist for many secret crying sessions.
It was difficult to be upbeat and encouraging every day. My mother and I vowed that anything my father wanted we would get for him. We were desperate to find foods that he might enjoy because nothing tasted good to him. I don't know how many orders of chicken and dumplings we got from Cracker Barrel because that was about all he had a taste for and they were very filling. He couldn't even stand to eat anything sweet and that is when we knew he was really sick because he has always had a sweet tooth. I got up and made eggs and bacon and grits and toast and juice and coffee for days on end because he would eat that in the morning. He even shocked us by going through a hot pepper jelly phase when he thought a little hot pepper jelly might taste good with eggs, etc. He isn't a hot and spicy kind of guy.
Thankfully, I was living in Birmingham, four hours from my parents, when my father's cancer was diagnosed and I was not employed. James was married and in CT and Will was a freshman at the University of Alabama in Birmingham, so I didn't have any child related duties. Jim is resourceful and told me to do whatever I felt was best. Just knowing I was married to a loving and generous man who understood where I felt I needed to be gave me freedom and peace to deal with the daunting tasks ahead.
I spent half or more of February with my parents, sometimes going back within days of arriving home because Daddy had to go back into the hospital for one reason or another. I tried to make a schedule that would allow me to be there about every other weekend to take him to Pensacola for his weekend treatments on Saturday and Sunday so my brother, Henry, wouldn't have to do it all the time. On those weekends we stopped for Hardees steak biscuits after the treatment because it was something daddy seemed to enjoy. If we ever run out of oil reserves, we can just run things on those steak biscuits.
Daddy's oncologist didn't offer the ongoing treatments for its patients on the weekend, so the patients had to go to Pensacola for their Leukine injections. Many of the patients just didn't take their treatment on the weekend because it was too hard to travel that far. My father's attitude was that he had to do everything required to fight his cancer wether he felt like it or not.
On the long drives to Pensacola and back -- usually spending less than ten minutes getting the injection -- I would engage Daddy in talking about his life and family and being in Korea and farming and friends and many other things just to keep him from focusing on how bad he felt. My philosophy is that you need to keep your mind busy with something other than how bad you feel. We would take various routes back from Pensacola, winding through back roads familiar to our youth and observing how some things had changed and how others hadn't. If we saw something interesting, like the day we passed a row of blooming aloe vera plants, we would turn around and look at whatever it was that had caught our eye. Once we stopped at my nephew's to see the progress he was making on the new house he was building. Another time he told me about all the robberies at the bank where he worked for over fourty years, including the time the sheriff and chief of police caught the guys on the way in to the bank and had my father follow them to the police station in the robbers car. My Daddy worked long, hard hours when my brothers and I were young, so I regarded the time I had him all to my self as a great gift.
In the midst of everything, Jim decided to quit his job. He did have another one lined up, thank goodness, or I would have come totally undone, I am sure. A new job meant moving again. Moving meant I wouldn't be able to be readily accessable to my parents on a moments notice. My heart was being torn up. I knew my place was with my husband and I felt I needed to be with my parents. We put our house on the market the first of March 2007. We moved in June. I was still able to continue my trips to my parent's house up until a few weeks before we moved when I needed to get everything prepared to go.
My father's last treatment roughly coincided with the time I was to move, so I knew that would allow my parents to settle down again and, hopefully, not need me. It was still a difficult move. Pennsylvania, where we were moving, seemed so far away.
In August we took William back to Birmingham to school. Jim and I went down to see our families and pet sit for some friends while they took their daughter to school. My father was still frail and ashen looking and had no hair. He had some energy, but nothing like before his illness. I suggested they think about coming to stay with me at Christmas. They could ride up and back with William and James and Kim would come for a few days and we could celebrate Christmas together. It was tentative, but viable if they felt they could travel by Christmastime.
As it turned out, that is just what they did. The trip up even got routed through Tifton, GA., to see my brother and his family and through Rock Hill, S.C. to see my daddy's sister and her family. William was a good sport because all he wanted to do was just come home a.s.a.p.
One day, while my parents were with us, I looked up from what I was eating and started crying as I watched my father. "Daddy," I said, "do you realize that the last time I saw you you had no hair?" He had his color back, his strength was returning, and he had his georgeous wavy white hair back. The twinkle was back in his amazing blue eyes and he was eating all the sweets I could bake!
Although I never had any doubt my father would get a good prognosis when he had his PET/CT scan in January to confirm the status of his cancer and the success of his treatment, it was awesome to get the call and hear my mother's extatic voice telling me Daddy is in remission.
I almost never catch my father at home these days. He is back out doing something for someone and running errands for Mama. When I do talk to him it is a strong healthy voice I hear on the other end of the line. I have never known my father to waste much time, but it is as though he got another chance to squeeze in a little more life and he isn't about to waste it.
When I was little and we sang 'Jesus Loves Me' I thought the part where it says "They are weak but He is strong" was talking about the children of our Methodist Church Sunday School being the weak and my daddy, who was the Sunday School Superentendant, was the strong. When I watched my father become weak (physically) everything seemed out of kilter. My father is getting stronger with each passing day and the world has been set right again for me.
As was the case when he battled and conquered Prostrate cancer some years back, my father adopted the attitude that treatment may kill him, but he was not going down without a fight. He was 81 years old at the time of this decision. The prospect of dying did not frighten him. If there was even the slightest chance he would live to enjoy his family a little longer it was worth the effort.
Mentally, my father was prepared. That was a good start. I don't think he ever expected to be taken to death's door in the process. He was aware of everything he might have to face. I don't think he knew it would be so bad. When the little things, like just walking out to get the mail, or getting up to the table to eat, or holding his tiny twin great-granddaughters became overwhelming tasks I think he was truly surprised. He expected not being able to mow the grass, or work in his shop, or do the grocery shopping. It was the little things he never expected that were initially difficult for him to deal with.
Fighting cancer is a rollercoaster ride to hell and back. At some point I think one becomes resolved that cancer and the process whereby it can be cured is in the driver's seat and he or she has to focus all his or her attention and energy on that. It was painful for those around my father to see him go from determination to resolve in so few months. To see him just managing to get up at some point during the day only to be able to sit in his chair, wrapped up in his prayer shawl, sleeping most of the time was heart wrenching. To see an illness rob this once vibrant man of his vitality was crushing and was the catylist for many secret crying sessions.
It was difficult to be upbeat and encouraging every day. My mother and I vowed that anything my father wanted we would get for him. We were desperate to find foods that he might enjoy because nothing tasted good to him. I don't know how many orders of chicken and dumplings we got from Cracker Barrel because that was about all he had a taste for and they were very filling. He couldn't even stand to eat anything sweet and that is when we knew he was really sick because he has always had a sweet tooth. I got up and made eggs and bacon and grits and toast and juice and coffee for days on end because he would eat that in the morning. He even shocked us by going through a hot pepper jelly phase when he thought a little hot pepper jelly might taste good with eggs, etc. He isn't a hot and spicy kind of guy.
Thankfully, I was living in Birmingham, four hours from my parents, when my father's cancer was diagnosed and I was not employed. James was married and in CT and Will was a freshman at the University of Alabama in Birmingham, so I didn't have any child related duties. Jim is resourceful and told me to do whatever I felt was best. Just knowing I was married to a loving and generous man who understood where I felt I needed to be gave me freedom and peace to deal with the daunting tasks ahead.
I spent half or more of February with my parents, sometimes going back within days of arriving home because Daddy had to go back into the hospital for one reason or another. I tried to make a schedule that would allow me to be there about every other weekend to take him to Pensacola for his weekend treatments on Saturday and Sunday so my brother, Henry, wouldn't have to do it all the time. On those weekends we stopped for Hardees steak biscuits after the treatment because it was something daddy seemed to enjoy. If we ever run out of oil reserves, we can just run things on those steak biscuits.
Daddy's oncologist didn't offer the ongoing treatments for its patients on the weekend, so the patients had to go to Pensacola for their Leukine injections. Many of the patients just didn't take their treatment on the weekend because it was too hard to travel that far. My father's attitude was that he had to do everything required to fight his cancer wether he felt like it or not.
On the long drives to Pensacola and back -- usually spending less than ten minutes getting the injection -- I would engage Daddy in talking about his life and family and being in Korea and farming and friends and many other things just to keep him from focusing on how bad he felt. My philosophy is that you need to keep your mind busy with something other than how bad you feel. We would take various routes back from Pensacola, winding through back roads familiar to our youth and observing how some things had changed and how others hadn't. If we saw something interesting, like the day we passed a row of blooming aloe vera plants, we would turn around and look at whatever it was that had caught our eye. Once we stopped at my nephew's to see the progress he was making on the new house he was building. Another time he told me about all the robberies at the bank where he worked for over fourty years, including the time the sheriff and chief of police caught the guys on the way in to the bank and had my father follow them to the police station in the robbers car. My Daddy worked long, hard hours when my brothers and I were young, so I regarded the time I had him all to my self as a great gift.
In the midst of everything, Jim decided to quit his job. He did have another one lined up, thank goodness, or I would have come totally undone, I am sure. A new job meant moving again. Moving meant I wouldn't be able to be readily accessable to my parents on a moments notice. My heart was being torn up. I knew my place was with my husband and I felt I needed to be with my parents. We put our house on the market the first of March 2007. We moved in June. I was still able to continue my trips to my parent's house up until a few weeks before we moved when I needed to get everything prepared to go.
My father's last treatment roughly coincided with the time I was to move, so I knew that would allow my parents to settle down again and, hopefully, not need me. It was still a difficult move. Pennsylvania, where we were moving, seemed so far away.
In August we took William back to Birmingham to school. Jim and I went down to see our families and pet sit for some friends while they took their daughter to school. My father was still frail and ashen looking and had no hair. He had some energy, but nothing like before his illness. I suggested they think about coming to stay with me at Christmas. They could ride up and back with William and James and Kim would come for a few days and we could celebrate Christmas together. It was tentative, but viable if they felt they could travel by Christmastime.
As it turned out, that is just what they did. The trip up even got routed through Tifton, GA., to see my brother and his family and through Rock Hill, S.C. to see my daddy's sister and her family. William was a good sport because all he wanted to do was just come home a.s.a.p.
One day, while my parents were with us, I looked up from what I was eating and started crying as I watched my father. "Daddy," I said, "do you realize that the last time I saw you you had no hair?" He had his color back, his strength was returning, and he had his georgeous wavy white hair back. The twinkle was back in his amazing blue eyes and he was eating all the sweets I could bake!
Although I never had any doubt my father would get a good prognosis when he had his PET/CT scan in January to confirm the status of his cancer and the success of his treatment, it was awesome to get the call and hear my mother's extatic voice telling me Daddy is in remission.
I almost never catch my father at home these days. He is back out doing something for someone and running errands for Mama. When I do talk to him it is a strong healthy voice I hear on the other end of the line. I have never known my father to waste much time, but it is as though he got another chance to squeeze in a little more life and he isn't about to waste it.
When I was little and we sang 'Jesus Loves Me' I thought the part where it says "They are weak but He is strong" was talking about the children of our Methodist Church Sunday School being the weak and my daddy, who was the Sunday School Superentendant, was the strong. When I watched my father become weak (physically) everything seemed out of kilter. My father is getting stronger with each passing day and the world has been set right again for me.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Some Things You Just Shouldn't Mess With
At our last Dinners for 8 get together I related a story about the only time I can recall calling the police on a neighbor. They committed a heneous crime and I just couldn't let them get by with it.
Let me give you a little background: My plate was very full at the time of the incident. I was back and forth to my parents while my father battled cancer. It was a four hour trip down to Magnolia Springs (AL), where my parents live, and, at this point in his battle, I generally stayed for at least a week at a time and went down about every other week. After the stress of the stay I had to turn around and make the four hour trip back.
Add to that the fact Jim had resigned from his job and taken another one in Pennsylvania. That meant being responsible for everything around the house and keeping everything in perfect order so the house could be shown for sale at any time.
After one trip to South Alabama I was particularly exhausted and looking forward to relaxing and going to bed early. The neighbors across the lake were not so inclined. As I drove into the subdivision around five in the afternoon I saw cars parked up one side of the street and down the other. Cars parked in the cul de sacs. Cars on side streets. Cars everywhere.
William had come home from college to welcome me back and spend the night. As the evening wore on, we could hear the voices of the occupants of the cars get louder and louder.
We could hear more and more laughter. We could hear the music get louder and louder. Could it be copius quantities of alcohol impare one's hearing?
We sat on our lovely deck overlooking the lake and enjoyed some of the music until I decided I was too exhausted and getting a good night's sleep is what I needed most. The master bedroom in our Birmingham house opened to the deck via a large, sliding glass door which, on this evening served to capture and amplify the sounds coming from across the lake. Try as I might, I could not block out the sound and get to sleep. I tossed and turned and finally just got out of bed to otherwise occupy my mind.
William and I finally agreed there was nothing we could do except ignore the noise as much as possible and make the best of it. We reasoned that since the party had started so early they would probably run out of steam, food, and booze around midnight and everyone would go home. The bewitching hour came and went with no signs of the party letting up. "O.K." we said, "The party will surely be over by 1 a.m." By one the karaoki was well under way and, true to form, the singers were far more talented in their mind than they were in reality. We decided to just laugh about it and let the revelers have their fun.
The straw that broke the camel's back was when, nearing 2 a.m., a party goer decided to do his karaoki rendition of 'Sweet Home Alabama'. And the rest of the revelers chimed in with the "Ooo. Ooo. Ooooo." portion. Before long everyone was involved. Some things you just shouldn't mess with. 'Sweet Home Alabama' is one of them.
Although this was certainly an emergency in my mind, I only dialed the Sherriff's non-emergency number. In my weariest voice I explained about my dad, and my exhaustion, and the party showing no signs of stopping. They promised to respond. William and I turned off all the lights and watched in darkness so no one would suspect we had registered a complaint.. We knew when the deputy arrived because the singing was interrupted with a collective "Awwwwwwwwhhhh."
Some things you shouldn't mess with. 'Sweet Home Alabama' is one of them.
Let me give you a little background: My plate was very full at the time of the incident. I was back and forth to my parents while my father battled cancer. It was a four hour trip down to Magnolia Springs (AL), where my parents live, and, at this point in his battle, I generally stayed for at least a week at a time and went down about every other week. After the stress of the stay I had to turn around and make the four hour trip back.
Add to that the fact Jim had resigned from his job and taken another one in Pennsylvania. That meant being responsible for everything around the house and keeping everything in perfect order so the house could be shown for sale at any time.
After one trip to South Alabama I was particularly exhausted and looking forward to relaxing and going to bed early. The neighbors across the lake were not so inclined. As I drove into the subdivision around five in the afternoon I saw cars parked up one side of the street and down the other. Cars parked in the cul de sacs. Cars on side streets. Cars everywhere.
William had come home from college to welcome me back and spend the night. As the evening wore on, we could hear the voices of the occupants of the cars get louder and louder.
We could hear more and more laughter. We could hear the music get louder and louder. Could it be copius quantities of alcohol impare one's hearing?
We sat on our lovely deck overlooking the lake and enjoyed some of the music until I decided I was too exhausted and getting a good night's sleep is what I needed most. The master bedroom in our Birmingham house opened to the deck via a large, sliding glass door which, on this evening served to capture and amplify the sounds coming from across the lake. Try as I might, I could not block out the sound and get to sleep. I tossed and turned and finally just got out of bed to otherwise occupy my mind.
William and I finally agreed there was nothing we could do except ignore the noise as much as possible and make the best of it. We reasoned that since the party had started so early they would probably run out of steam, food, and booze around midnight and everyone would go home. The bewitching hour came and went with no signs of the party letting up. "O.K." we said, "The party will surely be over by 1 a.m." By one the karaoki was well under way and, true to form, the singers were far more talented in their mind than they were in reality. We decided to just laugh about it and let the revelers have their fun.
The straw that broke the camel's back was when, nearing 2 a.m., a party goer decided to do his karaoki rendition of 'Sweet Home Alabama'. And the rest of the revelers chimed in with the "Ooo. Ooo. Ooooo." portion. Before long everyone was involved. Some things you just shouldn't mess with. 'Sweet Home Alabama' is one of them.
Although this was certainly an emergency in my mind, I only dialed the Sherriff's non-emergency number. In my weariest voice I explained about my dad, and my exhaustion, and the party showing no signs of stopping. They promised to respond. William and I turned off all the lights and watched in darkness so no one would suspect we had registered a complaint.. We knew when the deputy arrived because the singing was interrupted with a collective "Awwwwwwwwhhhh."
Some things you shouldn't mess with. 'Sweet Home Alabama' is one of them.
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