Try to Remember

I love song lyrics. Between all the useless trivia and the song lyrics that I have floating around in my head, it's amazing that I can carry on a sensible conversation. And I have to admit that I am pretty well known for stopping in mid-conversation to follow a shiny thought that catches my mind's eye. As well as for bursting into song when a situation reminds me of particular lyrics. My friends choose to find that habit charming and eccentric. People who don't know me well just think it's weird. Whatever you think, I double-dog dare you to come up with a situation or story that I can't think of an applicable song to accompany. It's hard to stump me on lyrics to songs written before 1980.

Right now I can't get the old song "School Days, School Days, good old Golden Rule days. Readin' and writin' and 'rithmetic, all to the tune of a hickory stick..." out of my mind. I'm probably the only person still alive who knows at least some of the rest of the words to that song (You were a maid in calico, I was your bashful barefoot beaux, I wrote on your slate "I love you so" when we were a couple of kids. So there, ha!)

It's September once again. When every advertisement is a reminder that school is starting. I hated school. Every day of it. Every bell ring, every iota of chalk dust and every ounce of floor wax -- the scent of which mixed with old books, sweat and vomit seem to permeate the halls of every school I've ever walked into. I maintained almost a perfect GPA. I was a model student. I was the girl that every boy's mother wanted them to date, and the one that every teacher was certain was destined for greatness. And I'd rather have been picking cotton in the sun wearing a fire ant bikini (one made out of fire ants, not one made for them) than to have been there. Thirty four years later and I still can't think about those days without literally shuddering.

This month also brings back memories of going to sleep with a stack of 78 rpm records on the stack, playing scratchily the songs that my mom and dad had fallen in love to. "Try to remember the kind of September, when life was slow and oh so mellow...." I can't hear that song now without fretting over whether I should shudder over thoughts of school or drop off to sleep. (Play Love Letters in the Sand for me and I promise I'll be snoring and drooling by the time the last notes fade.)

September should be my favorite month. It's the time of year when our record high temperatures are behind us and the mercury in the thermometer is dropping faster than panties on prom night. Before long there'll be a frost, and I'll have an excuse for why the yard and herb garden looks like crap. And that excuse will last me all the way until next March. Like I said, September should be my favorite month.

Unfortunately September has never inspired a song of great cheer. There are no "Roll out the barrels, let's have a party, it's September Oh!" songs. Songs that mention September are either about people who are sadly parting after a summer romance, or those facing the autumn of their lives as Willie sang...."Oh it's a long long while from May to December, but the days grow short when you reach September....And these few precious days I'll spend with you."

This year September started with a bang with having to take care of my recently-deceased dad's affairs, getting the news that I'm going to have to schedule a fairly serious surgery for myself very soon, and having one of them fancy New Yawk agents ask to take a peek at one of my novels. As my grandaddy used to say "I'm so flustered I don't know whether to wind my watch or go blind."

Once again September is a mixed bag of dread and elation. I am sure that in the years to come I'll look back on this one, and I won't have any trouble all when I "Try To Remember The Kind of September." And there are still twenty seven days of it to go!

A Legacy of Love

I know love isn't just a Southern thing, but in my family, it has definitely been a tradition.

My mom's parents had their golden wedding aniversary and then lived together another 20 years before my grandfather had his final heart attack. Frankly, I couldn't have lived with my Grandmother Ruth for 70 days, much less 70 years, but she and my Grandpa Myron (Morris) happily coexisted with only a few minor apparent squabbles. I think early on he learned the danger signs (Grandmother had a way of cocking an eyebrow that let you know that there would be hell to pay for somebody) and he knew when to walk the straight and narrow. They were both Methodist ministers and they shared life and a pulpit while they raised 4 children, and then seemed sort of amazed when those children procreated and brought home a houseful of noisy grandchildren.

I always knew my grandparents loved me, and since I was the one who lived closest to them and got to spend more time with them, I was sure that I was their favorite. I can't remember them ever doing anything particularly "grandparently" with me. My grandmother would sometimes make divinity candy but it was never something we did together. She would just get up and start puttering around in the kitchen and when I'd ask to help, she'd find some sort of busy work (one time she set me to cutting photographs out of the newspaper, which I was horrified to later see her toss into the garbage can) to keep me out of her way. When the candy was done, I got to have the first piece but then the rest went up in a cookie jar on a shelf too high for me to climb to and she went back to her piano or reading. Grandpa and I spent a lot of time together, but he seemed a little uneasy with my affection. He wasn't much of a cuddler and once when I was hurt and started crying, instead of holding me close and telling me it was all going to be better soon, he suggested we both pray together that I'd feel better soon. Prayer is nice, but it can't beat a grandpa's strong arms.

He and my grandmother started out as evangelists, going from church to church for revivals until the Alabama Methodist conference offered them a circuit of churches and they moved to Alabama from Indiana and for a while at least, stayed put long enough to be influential in my life.

I can remember the small touches between them, the shared glances and I have no doubt that they loved each other. It wasn't a demonstrative love and it wasn't a love that I could always feel spreading out around them, but it was love. And it lasted almost 8 decades.

My Burgess grandparents also celebrated their golden anniversary and about 20 years past. When my grandfather fell and broke his hip, and then during the subsequent surgery something went wrong so that his previously very sharp mind never completely woke up, he had to go into a nursing home. My grandmother moved in with her daughter, my Aunt Leo and her family, but she was grieving herself to death. Finally, arrangements were made for her to be able to share a room with Grandpa Joe at the nursing home and they lived there throughout the rest of their years. Grandpa Joe died suddenly, and Grandmother Gussie never drew another normal breath. She followed him into death just weeks after. My Aunt Lucille was sitting with her when she died. According to her reports, Grandmother sat up, and with her arms stretched out reaching for something that no human eyes could see (she herself had been blind for 20 years), a huge and glowing smile on her face said "oh, Shorty!" and then she laid back, dead before her head hit the pillow.

She had called my grandfather "Shorty" for as long as I could remember, but she was the only one that was allowed to do so. They had gotten married quite young and started a family fairly rapidly. They sharecropped together while raising 3 children, never missing a chance to go to a church event, and serving on every possible committee. They never had any money but they never seemed to mind. They had each other and that was truly all that either of them wanted or needed. Everyone who met them left feeling warm and happy and realizing that they had been in the presence of "real love."

My grandfather catered to my grandmother's needs for as long as I could remember. Grandma was always in bad health, and each year's holiday season was heralded with my family saying in whispers "This will probably be Mama's last year with us, let's try to make it a good one." Maybe that's why the start of the holiday season always makes me sad and weepy for weeks. That feeling of the time being a mile marker of sorts, a feeling of need to make this the best season ever, for we may not be together for the next one.

Grandpa brought Grandma some little token every morning of his life. It might be nothing more than a shiny pebble he had picked up on one of the walks he took every day, or a flower, or a pretty button that he'd bought when they were in town, or just some lavender soap or (her favorite) a small bottle of perfume. The day he broke his hip, his last lucid moments were filled with pain and agony and a plea for "someone stay with Gussie, I don't want her to worry 'til I'm back home",. He had been going down the big rock steps off their porch to pick the first rose of the year to put beside her breakfast plate. Before he went into surgery, he asked my dad to please go back and cut that rose and give it to Gussie for him. By the time the rose was cut and given to her, we had been told that Grandpa, as we knew him was gone. It was one of the saddest days I can remember.

All in all, I grew up knowing that love came in all shapes and sizes and was recognizable in a hundred different ways. My mother and father loved each other, in a jealous, clingy type of devotion that at the time seemed totally normal to me, but after being in the "real world" for a while, I now know was very unhealthy for them and for me. There was no doubt that they loved each other though and when my mother started showing symptoms of Alzheimer's my father was bereft. When she eventually went into a nursing home, he stopped living. Every day was nothing more than waking up, driving to the nursing home, staying until he couldn't stand it any more, then driving home and drugging himself (prescription painkillers) until he didn't hurt any more. When my mother died, I hoped he would 'wake up' and start living again, but he refuses to face a world that doesn't have my mother in it.

My father's two sisters married two brothers and they were married to them until their deaths, neither of them remarrying or 'dallying' with any man afterwards. 2 of my mother's 3 siblings had lifelong marriages to the same person, the 3rd surprising everyone when, after almost 40 years of marriage and raising 4 children, he asked for a divorce.

Like I said, I know that being southern isn't a prerequisite for love, but I've been blessed to have been given a legacy of love from both sides of my family, throughout my entire lifetime.

This is part of a song I penned in my grandparent's memory.

Now I live in their house, with a husband of my own
When we have our children, we're sure that when they're grown
they'll know that they were raised with love
the way that it should be....
Oh, Grandpa and Grandma, your legacy of love lives on in me.

Smiling Through Tears

For some reason, I keep thinking of the old poem "There is no joy in Mudville, Mighty Casey has struck out." There is no joy on our farm today, for its patriarch is gone. After a long hard battle with multiple health issues and the side effects of prescription drug addiction, my dad, Howard Burgess finally gave up the fight and went gently into that good night. As he had asked in so many prayers during the past weeks, he simply went to sleep and didn't wake up.

The last years had been very hard on him, and he had become someone that was at times hard for me to love. Very much changed from the Daddy that I loved so much. The last few days spent with him in the hospital and then here at our home, he became more "Daddy" and less "Howard." I have to say, I won't miss Howard very much, but I am grieving my heart out for my Daddy.

Throughout my life I have made many decisions that Howard didn't agree with. And most of the time he expressed that disagreement in a way that my therapist agrees was strange and controlling. For the most part, the big decisions I have made in my life have been made because it was what I knew would make him happy and thus would avoid conflict, but there have been many small revolts on my part over the years. I hope that my actions during the last few days will make up for those revolts and I can still be in the running for Daughter of the Year.

First, I brought him home to his farm for one last time after a stay in the hospital that had included a fall that broke his nose and gave him 30 stitches and a heart attack. The doctors told me they could keep him alive for a while, in the hospital, but his body was simply giving out. I made the decision to bring him home. And he was grateful beyond belief. He died 20 hours after he arrived back home, and I have zero regrets at the knowledge that he might have lived a couple of weeks longer if he'd stayed in the hospital, that was to him a terrorizing prison.

And, today, I wrote his eulogy. Anyone who knew my dad in the first 70 years of his life, remembers him for his laughter. He could turn tears into smiles and could retell the same story a hundred times and still elicit a belly laugh from listeners. In his final days, he made me promise that I would not a) let anyone preach over him at his funeral and b) that I would write something personal that would make everyone attending his funeral smile. "I don't want to be surrounded by a bunch of people crying over me." I hope that if he's able to attend his funeral he will think I did a good job. And I hope he smiles.

A Eulogy For My Father

It was Howard’s wish that his death be memorialized in the same way as his wife, Trudy’s… in a simple graveside ceremony. He said he wanted to be remembered as he was in life, not by how he was in death. In typical Howard fashion however, any discussion on death was begun with the words “If I WERE to ever die….”

The one thing Howard will always be remembered for was his ability to laugh at almost any situation and make other people laugh with him. No matter the occasion, wherever Howard was, there was always a circle of people and the swell of laughter. He rarely told traditional jokes, but he could tell even the saddest tale in a way that turned tears into laughter.

One of the jokes that he is remembered as telling was:

“A woman went into the newspaper office to place an obituary for her recently deceased husband. The editor told her that the fee for the obituary was 50 cents a word. She said it should read simply “Bill Jones died.” The editor told her that there was a 7-word minimum. The woman was quiet for a minute, counting on her fingers then she said, "Well, then, let it read "Bill Jones died. 1983 Pickup for sale'."

One of the true stories that Howard loved to tell and one that was always met with belly laughs no matter how many times everyone had heard it, was about going to the home of a recently deceased neighbor to sit with the body overnight as it was done in those days. The widow was distraught, sitting by the fireplace rocking back and forth. At one point, she looked into the flickering flames and said sadly “Elmer was so cold-natured. I just hope wherever he is now they have a good fire going.”

Howard’s sister, Lucille, had a serious car wreck from which she escaped without injury. She was telling everyone all about the harrowing experience at the family Thanksgiving supper. She finished the story by saying “I’ll tell you the Lord was riding with me that day.” Everyone else nodded in agreement, Howard replied simply, “It sounds to me like you should have let Him drive.”

His daughter inherited a little of that gift of laughter which serves her well in her career as a writer. She penned this poem for him today…

MY DADDY
By Babs

You taught me how to ride a horse
You taught me how to read
You always showed me right from wrong
And you filled my every need.

You slayed my childhood dragons,
You fought on my behalf.
But the thing that I’ll remember most
Is that you taught me how to laugh.

In his final days, Howard urged his daughter and sons-in-law to “enjoy life, do the things you have dreamed, and when you remember me, smile.” He knew his life was coming to its end, and he welcomed it. He reminisced a lot about his youth and adult life and, in what should be a lesson to us all, his regrets were mostly about things he hadn’t done, instead of the things he had. Things he hadn’t said rather than the things he had.

Although we are gathered today to say goodbye, we should realize that saying goodbye here is simply another way of saying “I remember”. Death is a part of life; memories are a part of living. If you are here today, you are here because you have memories of Howard that you cherish; memories that make you smile or laugh or remember him as the gentle, kind, generous man that he was. People always say “He will be missed” when someone dies. In this case, it was never truer words.

Howard hated funerals and made jokes about being glad he wasn’t ever going to die, so there would be at least one funeral he’d never have to attend. He made his family promise that “if he was to ever die” they wouldn’t bury him in a suit so that, as he said “I can at least be comfortable at one funeral.” Howard’s casket will remain closed today, also according to his wishes, but if you could see him you’d see that as he requested he is dressed for eternity in clothes that he enjoyed wearing.

The biggest part of Howard was buried 4 years ago along with his wife of almost 50 years. Howard grieved for Trudy when she went to the nursing home, and again when she died. Someone asked why he continued to go to the nursing home every day when it was obvious Trudy didn’t remember who he was. He replied, “Because I still know who SHE is.” It is comforting to believe that in some way now they are together again.

Howard was very ready to die and many times said that he would be happy if he could “just go to sleep and not wake up.” He had no fear of death, and he was very lucky to have that last request granted. He passed into death quietly and painlessly. He had fought a long hard battle with prescription drug addiction that had battered his body and his mind for years. He prayed for peace, and his prayers were answered.

God looked down on your body,
So tired from hanging on,
From a life that was overwhelming you,
So He took back His son.
He took away the air you breathe,
And gave you what was best,
A place to be at peace at last,
A final place to rest.

PRAYER:
Lord help us to remember that our lives are short and can end in the blink of an eye. Give us the courage to live our lives in a way that when we face death it will be filled with glad memories instead of sad regrets.

Help us remember that the measure of a man is not determined by his show of outward strength or the volume of his voice or the pronouncements of his success. It should be seen, rather, in terms of the strength of his commitments, the genuineness of his friendships, the sincerity of his purpose, the quiet courage of his convictions, the gentleness in his hands
and heart, his capacity to suffer, and his willingness to always continue to learn and to grow.

Help us always remember that our true character is proven by what we do when no one is looking.

Not how did he die, but how did he live?
Not what did he gain, but what did he give?
These are the units to measure the worth
Of a man as a man, regardless of birth.
Not, what was his church, nor what was his creed?
But had he befriended those really in need?
Was he ever ready, with word of good cheer,
To bring back a smile, to banish a tear?
It’s not what the words in the newspaper say,
But how many were sorry when he passed away.

In placing the earthly remains of our father, brother, uncle and friend Howard Burgess in this hallowed ground, we think again of all that he has meant and will always mean to us. We dedicate this simple plot, amid these natural surroundings, to every beautiful and precious memory we have of him. We lay his body in that gentle earth which has been the support of humankind since first they walked beneath the sun. To all human beings, to all living forms, the soil has ever provided the sustenance that is the staff of life. To that good earth we now commit the body of our friend. May he rest in peace for eternity in the arms of His Maker.

After the clouds come sunshine, after the winter comes spring,
after the shower, the rainbow, for life is a changeable thing.
After the night comes morning, bidding all darkness cease,
after life's cares and sorrows comes the comfort and sweetness of peace.

***

Rest in peace, my beloved Daddy. You will be missed. And my life will never ever again be the same. PS: Please tell Bookie and Dixie and Charlie and Rose and Grandpa & Grandma Morris and Burgess, and Leonel and Beverly and Aunt Lucille that we're all ok, but we miss them. And we hope we don't see them anytime soon. :)

Can You Hear Me Now?

I can't think of any one technological advance that has made more difference to our lives than the cell phone. The microwave was a big boost in meal prep time, and certainly it made Orville Redenbacher's life easier, but it didn't have the impact on society that the advancement of cell technology has made.

When cell phones first became the rage, I can remember having a conversation in which I stated firmly that I would NOT be getting one. "If someone wants to talk to me, they can call me at home. I can't imagine anything important enough that I have to talk about it going down the road." Everyone in the conversation rolled an eye or two and agreed that it was surely just a phase that would quickly die.

Fast forward a few years and I have once again learned the lesson about "never saying never." I made the mistake of leaving the house without my cell phone the other day and I would have been far more comfortable on my shopping errand if I'd forgotten to put on pants. I felt positively naked and vulnerable. Lonely roads that I usually travel with nary a fret now made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I thought of at least a dozen things I needed to take care of that now would have to wait until I got back home. I needed to call home to ask for a quick measurement of a window so I could pick up a curtain for it, and I couldn't find a pay phone. I was desolate. I cut my trip short and hurried home where I reached for my cell phone with the eagerness of a child reaching for a long-promised lollipop after a nasty medical treatment. Aaaaaah. Civilization.

When Verizon put a tower near our home and our cell signal in the house became stable, I took great joy in calling AT&T and telling them to cut our umbilical cord. Years ago they reran lines in our community, cutting our dial-up internet speed in half. "Not to worry," they said with fake toothy smiles, "this is just so we can bring you DSL. Within six months." Four years later SOME of our neighbors were able to hook up to DSL, but not us. We can see homes that have full DSL capability from our porch, but AT&T refused to bring it to our door. So.... @#$% you AT&T. And your little phone too!

Unfortunately, a few weeks after we had our land lines disconnected, Verizon merged with someone and at that exact moment (although they continue to assure me that it cannot be connected) we started having dropped calls, poor connection and unstable service from home. Since we have Verizon wireless internet, that really curbs our connection to the outside world.

Still, it will be a phoneless day in hell when I ask AT&T to rehook up our homes. I'd rather depend on a soup can and a string.

My first cell phone was a big cumbersome thing that barely fit in my pocket. It had keys like Chiclets and a ring that would shake the skin off a watermelon. I thought it was the very peak of technology. Today, it's a dinosaur. My newest cellphone is an LG Chocolate Touch. It's ruined me for "traditional" cell phones. It's handier than having a third arm (without the pesky problem of where to put it while you sleep) and I use it as an alarm clock, a calender, a calculator and sometimes I even make calls on it.

I can remember the first time I saw a cell phone without buttons, just icons on a screen and I pffffted to myself and thought "that will never last." Today I make a phone call my touching a picture of a little green phone, and I send text messages (another marvel that I was sure would wear out its 'new' quickly) by tapping on a picture of an envelope. It all makes perfect sense to me now and I can't imagine having it any other way.

Just when you think that technology has certainly, as in the words of the song from Oklahoma, "gone about as far as it can go" someone comes up with yet another gadget to make life easier. Computers quickly went from being the size of small houses to being small enough to wear on your wrist. We sent men to the moon using computers with less power than that of the weakest consumer product on the market. Even the book market, which has survived for centuries, is in jeopardy as the new generation finds it easier to read books via a computer than sitting and holding a book in their hands. We have become a nation of addicts. We no longer buy the newest and bestest because we think it can simplify things, we buy it because we NEED to own it. It's hard to remember that just one generation ago it was considered a marvel that you flipped a switch and the room flooded with light, or that you could pick up a piece of equipment and talk to friends and family from far away. The generation before that considered owning a vehicle a luxury and to get an ice cube you had to go to the ice house, scrape away the sawdust and chip off a piece. Before that.... well, I'm just amazed that, considering all the things we consider "necessities" today, the human race survived.

The mind boggles at what we'll NEED next.

Size DOES Matter

Have you noticed that we have a universal size chart for shoes, for car engines, for clothes, for hats, for sheets of paper, for paperback novels, for cups and tablespoons and teaspoons and syringes... and yet, with all the combined genius of our great nation, no one can come up with a universal size for soft drink cups!

On a recent road trip I went to a fast food place and ordered a small drink. It came out to me in a cup that looked like the one they give you to pee in at the doctor's office. So, a few hours and miles down the road later, I pull into a different fast food place and, having learned my lesson last time after running out of drink in my specimen cup before finishing up my burger, I order a medium drink with my meal. It comes out in a cup I could use to water my horses. The thing is the size of a five gallon bucket. It won't fit in my cup holder and I can't hold it with one hand so I have to wait until the car is stopped before I can drink. Lord help me if I'd ordered a large! I'd have had to strap it on the roof. There wouldn't be room for it inside. What with me being in there too and all.

Fast food joints, unite! Come up with a universal cup size. Let us know when we order a small we will get x- ounces and that we won't get a bucket unless we ask you to super size it.

I also wish that clothing manufacturers would get serious about their dress sizes. I find it hard to believe that people have now started coming in a miniature size...just like poodles and schnauzers. When I was in high school (and no, we didn't have to drive our covered wagons there avoiding the dinosaurs and icebergs) the smallest girl in my class wore I think probably a size 6. Now, we have size 1? 00? Going by the sizes from 25 years ago, there wouldn't be room in a young adult's body for adequate organs in a size 1. Where would you put her liver? And if she drank a medium soft drink from some places, her kidneys would explode.

For the last time, repeat after me, One Size Does NOT Fit All. It may fit some, it may fit most, but I have tried on many items of clothing with the clever OSFA instead of SML (or in my case several X's large) and they did not fit. And, I am not the biggest woman in the world. I am positive of that. I see pictures of women bigger than me on the front page of the Inquirer giving birth without knowing they were pregnant, or having to be cut out of their homes when they have a heart attack and EMTs can't get them through a door. My wedding dress was a size 11. If I weighed now what I weighed then, taking into account the shifting of body parts thanks to Newton's law, I would be in a size 14 at least. (Not that I've gained THAT much weight since high school....I can still get one leg completely in my cheerleader uniform from 9th grade. And I can still wear the earrings I wore when I graduated!)

Size also matters when you're talking about cars. Have you ever noticed that the tiniest little soccer moms drive the biggest SUVs and vans? And you see big tall lanky men unfold themselves out of the economy minis and racy convertibles?

As far as what you thought this was going to be about when you read the subject line, I will say that in that case, size does NOT matter. It doesn't matter if you're hung like a needle if you can move like a sewing machine. And it ain't the size of the pen, it's how purty you can write with it.

Y'all come back now!

The Kindest Cut

I just got back from the beauty shop. It's actually called "Changes Salon" but I live in the South. No matter what cute and classy name you come up with for the place you do business as a hair stylist it'll still be described by everyone who frequents you as "the beauty shop." You can be "Cut and Curl Salon", "Hair Styles by Dora", "Fashionista Chic Salon" "Hair and There Designs" or any of the million other choices you pondered and abandoned and bored folks sitting under the hair dryer will still pick up their cell phones to call their friends and preface their conversation with "...I'm here at the beauty shop."

Nowhere is there a better place for catching up on gossip, sharing household hints, discussing books and movies and just plain old girl talk. And you can do it while your perm curls, your grey turns magically blonde or your mustache gets waxed (not that I know about those personally, all I ever have done is get my naturally curly dark blonde hair trimmed). It was once noted that no one needs a phone or telegraph if they have a beauty shop nearby. That's silly. How else would we share with our friends what we've learned? Especially the really good stuff that we were

sworn not to tell.

You should always choose someone to "do" your hair that you like. Personally, I love LaDore. She's seen me through long hair and short, bald (chemo) and fat, divorce and remarriage and the rise and fall of two businesses. Even when the powers that be sent me the wrong hair when it finally started growing back after cancer treatments (from its appearance I'd say there was a brunette Maltese somewhere wondering what the heck happened) she never gave up on finding a color and perm that would "stick."

One of the worst things about getting your hair "done" is having to sit in front of a mirror. Let

me tell you, if everyone had to sit in front of a mirror and look at themselves for an hour every day, we'd all be on a diet... and we'd smile more. After about three minutes of staring at myself, looking like Jabba the Hut on a bad hair day and I'm convinced that I need a magician more than I need a beautician!

(I love that clip art ----> It looks more like a catfight gone bad than someone getting their hair sprayed.)

Today I got a perm and a trim. Is there anything worse than a new perm? It never looks good for the first week or two. About the time you can finally say "Ohmigod, I LOVE my hair" the perm has grown out to the point that you have about thirty seconds before it starts looking lank and unkempt again. And the cycle repeats. I've tried to avoid getting this perm for a very long time. Clark never likes the way my hair looks when it's permed. And I'm not a big fan of spending that much money just for an appearance change. But, straight hair is flat hair. And flat hair shows roots when it parts. And, ok, you caught me. I lied up there about that whole color thing. And the perm thing too. My name is Bobbye and I get my hair permed, colored AND I get my mustache waxed. (The mustache arrived with the silky white head-hair after chemo. It was part of a package deal with Groucho Marx eyebrows and chin hairs that have the consistency of piano wires).

It's a wonderful perm. Beautifully done. Didn't damage my hair at all. And I hate it. Exactly the way I've hated every perm I've had since I was in first grade and my mom listened to one too many "Which twin has the Toni?" advertisement. She became obsessed with getting a picture of me made in which I would have a stupid curl on my forehead. More times than I want to recall I was permed, globbed with Dippity Do and forced to sleep in pin curls (ever spent the night on a headful of bobby pins?) and still my hair looked lank, lusterless and any curls you see are more like cowlicks than that oh-so-desired pin curl on my forehead.

The first time I got a perm after Clark and I were together, he (who should have known better, I'm not his first rodeo) asked me "And you paid someone to do this to you?"

So, for the next few days I'm going to stay close to home. I look like a stray poodle. And I smell like a poodle that slept with a family of well-perfumed skunks.

I'll see you in a couple of weeks. And you can help me enjoy the thirty minutes of gorgeous before I have to go through this all again.

I'm Meeeeellllltttttting

We had a heat index of over 110 degrees yesterday. Today, at 10:00 a.m. the index is already hovering at 100. There isn't any rain in the foreseeable future, and I can't think of a thing to smile about. I feel like a candle sitting on a stove eye every time I take a step outside. I can almost feel myself melting down to a puddle. It's like trying to breathe underwater with all this humidity in the air.

Even Buford the Big Blue Dog is feeling the heat (he says whoever calls these 'dog days' never talked to a dog) and is ready to come back inside as soon as he's made one circle of the yard instead of his usual meandering. Of course, he still hasn't figured out that he lives at OUR house and he goes next door to Pete's house and howls at the door until I go to our door and call him over. He trots over happily and I can't figure out if he's really just too stupid to live, or if he's got it in his head that for some reason he is supposed to follow that protocol. The goats are pretty much living under the shade of the big oak tree in their pasture, and the horses seem to be the only living beings on the farm that are mindless of the heat. They still spend their day grazing away in the sunshine.

Whenever I talk about temperature and hating to be hot it always brings back a faded memory from when I was probably 5 or 6 years old and one of our neighbors passed away. In those days, it was customary for everyone in the valley to go to the home of the deceased and "sit with the family." We arrived and went inside to talk to the widow. She was sitting in front of the fireplace, rocking and crying and in the middle of her tears she said "I hope wherever Elmer is there's a good fire going, he hates to be cold." I stifled a giggle, looking around the room to see if the adults found that amusing. Nobody else so much as cracked a smile. It's one of the first times I remember realizing that my sense of humor wasn't on the same wavelength as everyone else.

Elmer would probably love it here today. We've definitely "got a good fire going."