January 8, 2023
Elvis’ birthday. I didn’t need a calendar reminder or social media ping to remember. I’m a southern girl and I was raised on three kings: Jesus, Richard Petty (dirt track days,) and Elvis.
I was ten years old when Elvis died. Shades lowered and blinds closed as tears flowed down cheeks and turntables circled in tribute. Damn, that was a sad time.
It’s been cold – just as it should be the week before Christmas. In the evenings, Fergie and I bundle up in the quilted down of old ladies and amble around Beaufort. The decorations and lights twinkle with hope and promise. I’m a real sucker for holidays as I love a fancy frock and fun party, but the stillness of our evening walks in our quaint village fills me with joy. Not of the manufactured commercial variety – real, levitation of spirit, soul kind of joy.
On Wednesday, a car pulled alongside us and the passenger window lowered in a jerky fashion. It was a Ford sedan of the previous century. The car was clean, and the seat had been repaired in neat straight rows with dark gray duct tape. There was a quilt on the floorboard. The driver’s eyes were cloudy from cataracts, and his beard was snowy white, but he had a spark about him. The fact that his greeting to me began with “hey there young lady” confirms his senior status.
While riding my bike this week, I rode by a man and three young children piling limbs onto a trailer. My estimation has the children between the ages of eight and eleven. The man looked to be in his early sixties. He could have been an older dad or a younger grandpa. I’m going to gamble here with young gramps.
The children were working diligently. No one was whining or complaining even though it was hotter than a wool sock inside Satan’s dryer on the fourth of July. They were piling their sticks in neat formation with pleasant demeanors.
“You got some good-looking kids working mighty smart there,” I commented as I pedaled by. (Working mighty smart is high praise in the south.)
“You want one of them?” he replied.
“No, not today. I’m all good in the young’un category.”
I’ve been having trouble turning ideas and thoughts into complete [...]
Smokin Hot Love Biscuit serves our household as chief meteorological officer. He has NOAA, Ventusky, and FishWeather. He has alerts. We recently got a call at 3:00 AM about tornado warnings across northern Guilford county. I remarked that those possible tornadoes are four hours away and we haven’t lived there for three years. My feedback does not deter him. He compares forecasts and conducts overlays what may or may not happen in the next seventy-two hours. He hasn’t yet gone so far as to build a weather dashboard, insert a weather satellite, or conduct an analysis of year over year weather patterns. (That I know about.) Weather data is his jam.
His bend toward weather watching becomes heightened this time of year - hurricane season. Over morning coffee, he wants me to examine tiny tropical disturbance cells forming off the coast of Africa. “We live in North America,” I say, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, trying to focus on the swirling pattern on the screen. “Alert me when it gets to Miami.”
“That might be too late. These things can turn without warning.”
“Can I finish my coffee, or should we evacuate?”
Michele with one L attends flights from Miami to Dominica. Think Mrs. Doubtfire with a slightly better wig. Perhaps in a previous career she worked prison intake or maybe border control, or possibly she ran the high profile, repeat traffic violation wing of the DMV. Let’s just say that now that she is adorned with attendant wings, she is highly engaged in her job.
Smokin Hot Love Biscuit’s travel guitar rode comfortably in the front closet on the first leg of our trip from Raleigh to Miami, but not on Michele with one L’s flight. Nope, not on her watch. That’s not what that compartment is designed to carry so into the overhead bin with the guitar and any passengers that might be so brave as to smart off about her regulation interpretation. She also had us power off all devices, including hearing aids. (Not really, but I would keep my hair tucked around my ears if I were you.)
After studying Michele with one L for the three-hour flight, I decided to try to make chatty as we began our descent into Dominica.
“What a beautiful place to fly into.”
“It used to be better when the airline only went in from San Juan. With direct daily flights from Miami, this place is being overrun by tourists. They spoil everything.”
“Oh.”
I am dressed in On Cloud sneakers, white jeans, a pink tee with flamingos on the front, and a brown straw Wallaroo beach hat. I am carrying a Bagallini for heaven’s sake. If you google tourist, my face will pop up in Wikipedia. I smiled brightly at Michele with one L, hoping that she will catch the irony of her statement. She doesn’t.
Travel is a language that SHLB and I speak. We [...]
Bag of Bones
Guy Clark
He said, this old bag of bones ain't really me
There's a lot more standing here than what you see
He said my back is bending low but my spirits flying free
This old bag of bones ain't really me
Last week, Smokin Hot Love Biscuit and a handwritten letter drove to Knoxville. The letter’s recipient, the great Frank Bryant, has Alzheimer’s. It’s early in this sucky diagnosis of the A word and there are moments - days even - of clarity and lucidity. There are also times when Frank is lost in his mind - lost in his body - lost to accomplish simple tasks - lost to those who love him.
Santa brought Riley, Ryann, and me skates for Christmas. An elf disguised as Smokin’ Hot Love Biscuit stuffed our stockings with protective gear and for good measure he included a personalized directive asking Santa for harmonicas - not skates. Because he’s been such a good boy, he got three harps and nothing with wheels. That’s how he rolls.
My skating vision involved a former version of myself as a seventh grader. Back then, I was a smooth operator, cruising into the skate bathroom to check my spiral perm and fix the rubber bands on my braces. I could turn with the cross over and sling friends. I coupled up in a sweaty hand hold, singing along to, “Once, Twice, Three Times a Laaaaady.” On occasion, I skated on one leg, crouching down into the famous “shoot the duck” of early eighties skate culture.
The fifty-four-year-old reality was not the sugarplum and candy cane fantasy that I envisioned. My inaugural experience on Christmas Day resembled a big rig contemplating the runaway truck ramp. At the wide-eyed horror and hilarity of my children, I tore through some mulch and shrubs to slow me down before a hard stop on my arse. After that, I clued into a fundamental law of physics, a continued parable that I must learn and relearn in my life – anticipate how and when to brake.
I’ve been practicing, cutting a swarth around the perimeter of a newly paved and sparsely populated parking lot. Once I was joined by a boarder and cyclist. They fell into my route and chatted about bearings and truck turn radius and getting gnar air when they caught the stoke. I listened and tried hard not to fall down. They liked my skates which means Santa out purchased my talent, but they dig me cause I’m no poseur. That’s what we say down at the black top rink.
Though not yet ready for roller derby, the repetitive motion has given me space to put my mind in neutral and reflect on the past year. Away from technology, outside and moving is when I meditate and pray. I have always been this way – motion is my zen and I’m grateful that God meets me and skates beside me. Righteous, dude.
My 2021 word of the year was tides and I have not been disappointed in this north star. There have indeed been tides - highs, lows and even kings. And, as with the ever-moving ocean, the word has been a reminder that as good or bad as it gets, it’s important to clean the slate and move ahead with a forward-thinking mind.
For the first time since I got my soul rattling health diagnosis in 2018, I was able to say out loud to my inner circle of friends last week, “I’m better. I think I am going to be okay.” While those sentences sound simple, the moving tide of life and acceptance helped me get here, helped me rise and fall around making peace with the uncertainty of mortality.
Santa brought Riley, Ryann, and me skates for Christmas. An elf disguised as Smokin’ Hot Love Biscuit stuffed our stockings with protective gear and for good measure he included a personalized directive asking Santa for harmonicas - not skates. Because he’s been such a good boy, he got three harps and nothing with wheels. That’s how he rolls.
My skating vision involved a former version of myself as a seventh grader. Back then, I was a smooth operator, cruising into the skate bathroom to check my spiral perm and fix the rubber bands on my braces. I could turn with the cross over and sling friends. I coupled up in a sweaty hand hold, singing along to, “Once, Twice, Three Times a Laaaaady.” On occasion, I skated on one leg, crouching down into the famous “shoot the duck” of early eighties skate culture.
The fifty-four-year-old reality was not the sugarplum and candy cane fantasy that I envisioned. My inaugural experience on Christmas Day resembled a big rig contemplating the runaway truck ramp. At the wide-eyed horror and hilarity of my children, I tore through some mulch and shrubs to slow me down before a hard stop on my arse. After that, I clued into a fundamental law of physics, a continued parable that I must learn and relearn in my life – anticipate how and when to brake.
I’ve been practicing, cutting a swarth around the perimeter of a newly paved and sparsely populated parking lot. Once I was joined by a boarder and cyclist. They fell into my route and chatted about bearings and truck turn radius and getting gnar air when they caught the stoke. I listened and tried hard not to fall down. They liked my skates which means Santa out purchased my talent, but they dig me cause I’m no poseur. That’s what we say down at the black top rink.
Though not yet ready for roller derby, the repetitive motion has given me space to put my mind in neutral and reflect on the past year. Away from technology, outside and moving is when I meditate and pray. I have always been this way – motion is my zen and I’m grateful that God meets me and skates beside me. Righteous, dude.
My 2021 word of the year was tides and I have not been disappointed in this north star. There have indeed been tides - highs, lows and even kings. And, as with the ever-moving ocean, the word has been a reminder that as good or bad as it gets, it’s important to clean the slate and move ahead with a forward-thinking mind.
For the first time since I got my soul rattling health diagnosis in 2018, I was able to say out loud to my inner circle of friends last week, “I’m better. I think I am going to be okay.” While those sentences sound simple, the moving tide of life and acceptance helped me get here, helped me rise and fall around making peace with the uncertainty of mortality.
Saturday night held the invitation to a Christmas party. Knowing the hosts to be fashionable, festive, and fun, I was sporting velvet britches and platform Fly Londons. I had a hostess gift and a dessert, and my White Elephant stuffed into an oversized gift bag. Smokin’ Hot Love Biscuit was fighting the cough due to cold, so I was flying solo.
Having never been to the couple’s house before, the address, West Railroad Street, baffled Siri. First, we went to a Taqueria, and then we drove for a few hot seconds on the actual train tracks before common sense me told Siri to calm the hell down and use critical thinking skills for goodness’ sake. Luckily, I spotted the hostess in her kitchen window and did a U-y. Siri did not like that, so she had to sit in the car during the party and think about what she had done.
Even though I’m extra on the extrovert scale, walking into a party involves risk. What if I’m dressed wrong or confuse social cues? Velvet pants and platform shoes? Am I dressed like Thelma from Good Times? What if I’m too quiet or too loud or too nerdy or too shallow? What if I use the wrong utensil or spill wine or knock someone down or trip on the carpet? Look at me, I can’t even maintain a relationship with Siri.
