Snake bit: luck of the Green's

Saint Patrick’s Day is almost upon us, and the little leprechaun that my children try every year to catch with elaborate traps, is already creating mischief. Just today, in fact, I began to brush my teeth and bleach! realized someone had dropped a big dollop of hand soap on its bristles.

“Son! Did you accidentally drop soap on my toothbrush?” I yelled.

“No, ma’am! I didn’t do it.”

“Well, then, who did?”

“I don’t know. Nobody!” Apparently, that’s our leprechaun’s name.

Not only that, Nobody likes brownies. He likes them so much, he stashed one way up high in the cabinet. I mean, waaayy up high, as in “I have to stand on the counter to reach that cabinet” high. Methinks this was quite the extraordinary leprechaun. Not only that, he must have stashed them up there last March 17 and forgotten them because they were hard as door stoppers.

Yeah, Nobody’s been busy wreaking havoc on the household, dropping everything behind but what I could use a little of – luck. Of course, luck isn’t something I’m used to. Growing up, my sister had all of it, and I used it to my advantage.

“Christie, here take my tickets and win a cake for me,” I’d say at fall festivals.

“Lucky number 21!” the announcer would call.

“Leigh, what kind of cake do you want?”

I’ve seen her win three in a night – easy.

Sometimes we’d go to auctions and talk our parents into buying us grab bags. I don’t remember much about what was in mine, but I know what my sister had in hers – cash. Always. Every time.

I hope I don’t come across as jealous. I wasn’t. She was/is just plain lucky. Some people are, and others are like me, my dad and his father before him are what my dad calls “snake bit.”

Instead of “Rockabye Baby,” my dad used to sing the song, “Gloom, despair, and agony on me.” I loved it because I felt like our “misery” was something we shared and still do.

And, in case you are wondering, snake bit means that the day after vacation when you have an early a.m. meeting, expect your tires to be flat - on both cars! Snake bit means you cure your headache and then your eye swells. Snake bit means you play tennis fighting off sweat bees in your yellow skirt that you wore backwards while all the other women look as cool as cucumbers. Snake bit means you’ll break the light bulbs or the eggs or drop the milk before you get out of the store. Snake bit means you’ll never win the lottery, a raffle, or those concerts tickets. But, you’ll come to live with it because, occasionally, something wonderful will happen.

When my grandmother, whom we called Mama Dot - whose husband I inherited my bad luck from - passed away, the six granddaughters were instructed to draw for her wedding bands. Piggy Green, whom I’m working on a book about, had given it to her in the early 1920s. It is a beauty, white gold with diamonds, and though he died well before Mama Dot did at 99 years, she never took it off.

My snake bit daddy drew on my and my sister’s behalf, and, guess what, I won. So, though I have my frustrating days, days when I wish things would go smoothly, and I wouldn’t find brownies in the cabinet and soap on my toothbrush, I know deep down that I am actually a very lucky girl. And I won't let Nobody tell me any different.

Another bouncing birthday

Botox, barbells, a blood pressure cuff and a bigger purse -- can you guess by my wish list how old I'll be? If you guessed 4-0, you are wrong! I had a small birthday party recently with my family. My mother bought me a big, black bag with silver studs on it, and large, clunky earrings and a necklace to match.

"Kelly Ripa wears these, so I thought they would look good on you," she said.

Well, what's good for Kelly Ripa is good for me, I thought.

"It can be a new style for you," said my mom.

Why, yes, it could, I thought. Kelly Ripa and I could look like twins!

"You could call it a pre-40 style," she said. "Because you know you are pre-40 now."

Well, that took a little oomph out of it. (Surprisingly, Kelly Ripa is 40. I could have sworn she was about six years younger than I).

I know a lot of women who treat 40, or pre-40, as if it were New Year's, and not the party-till-you-drop part -- the resolution part. I do not.

In fact, I told my girlfriend recently, "Yes, I have a birthday coming up, and I do not want to run a marathon! I do not want to drink less, go to bed earlier, or even exercise more. I just want to go out to dinner to a nice restaurant and eat creamed cauliflower. I don't want you to pay for my meal; I don't want you to buy me any gifts. I just want to go on a girls' night out to my favorite restaurant, the expensive one that I never get to go to."

"Do you want us to donate money to Haiti in your honor like Melinda had us do on her birthday?" asked my friend,

"Well, no, I'm not that good," I said. "I just want you to show up!"

My other treat for my birthday was gluten-free cake. Betty Crocker has a version, and I was so excited that I bought it months ago and have kept it on the shelf just in case the store stopped carrying it.

As I bit into the wheat-free cake, I recalled how when I was a kid I couldn't wait until I was grown. I could eat whatever I wanted when I wanted, drink anything anytime, stay up as late as I desired and shop until I dropped. Money would be no object. I guess I still could (except for the money part) but now I know the consequences are mighty.

So, I'll stick to my gluten-free cake, and perhaps a little ice cream, chased down with some water since I can't have caffeine past 6 p.m. I guess I'm striving for a happy medium. You know, somewhere between marathon running and walking to the mailbox.

Oh, and that nice restaurant? We went, and do you know what happens when you're pre-40? You trip over the black high heels that you wore to match your pre-40 bag and fall face forward toward the sidewalk. And, suddenly, you find your chin within an inch of the pavement, and you are balancing only by your left hand (the right one is still clutching your new bag). Your wrist is sprained, and your pride is bruised, but you've discovered the best part of your new age -- pre-40 women bounce.

Diggin' the bunny slope

My family made it to the snow-covered town of Beech Mountain, North Carolina (a mean misnomer) in the midst of what the locals call a winter storm and this Georgia girl calls a blizzard. Despite our trepidation, neither snow, nor ice, nor my migraine would stop us from having a good time.

"Can we make it from here?" my husband asked a lone man walking on the side of the road through what appeared to be a ghost town.

"I've been stuck for days in my two-wheel drive," he said, "but you can make it to the resort. Just whip it into the first parking lot, gun it so you can get up enough speed to make it over the hill, and then be prepared to hike up six flights of stairs."

"Is our truck four-wheel drive?" my son asked. It's not, in case you are wondering, but when you have a headachy wife who drank a whole pot of tea that morning, plus two anxiously chattering children, somehow you overcome these obstacles.

"Are you ready to ski?" asked the man at the ski rental counter once we, particularly, me, had finally located "the facilities."

"Well, I'm a little out of my element," I confided. "I've only skied three times in 20 years. I'm pretty nervous about the slopes. I'm really not sure I can do this."

"Here are your skis. Feel free to trade them in for a faster pair later."

Boy, that man was a lousy listener.

Yet another flight of steps later, and we were ready. But first we had to put our skis on. Did you know that if your ski boot has snow on the bottom of it, it won't fit into your ski? Talk about a design flaw!

Thanks to my husband prodding the snow off my boots with his ski poles, I was finally ready to hit the slope -- the bunny slope -- that is. Unfortunately, my first move toward it resulted in my falling flat on my face, with my boots popping out of my skis; hence, more prodding from my husband's poles while I balanced precariously on one foot.

"Come on, mom," said my son as he zipped effortlessly up the hill to the metal handle tow.

I willed my skis to move. They did -- backwards.

"Just walk, mom!" said my son on his second round down. "Put your skis like mine"

I complied and soon found myself sweating through my seven layers with the lift just out of reach.

"Is this your first time skiing?" asked the twenty-something girl manning the bunny slope bar tow.

I moved my ski, slid back, moved my ski, slid back.

"Noooo," I said.

"Have you taken lessons before?"

"Yes," I said, my pride making it sound like, "Duh?"

"Hmmm ..." she said. She might as well have added, "'Well, they didn't take."

She reached her hand out to pull me toward the tow. I moved my skis, and then slid back. Recognizing a pattern here?

"You've got to dig into the snow," she said. "Don't use your poles! Bend your knees! Turn sideways!"

I tried again -- and failed.

"Here, like this! Dig in like this," I heard a man behind me say. I looked back and that's when I realized there was a crowd of 25 people waiting for me to learn to dig.

"Oh, y'all just go around me," I said, on the verge of tears.

"No," said the darn ski tow girl. "You can do it."

About that time, the crowd started to chant "Dig! Dig! Dig!" and so did my son.

What could I do? I dug in the snow, much to the protest of my knees, and grasped the handle of the bunny slope lift with one hand, squatting like I learned to do with water skis.

"Stand up!" the young lift girl yelled. I did, but not before I dropped my poles.

"Now what do I do?"

"Let go when you get to the top!" my son said.

I did, and promptly fell again on my way down. That's when I realized I had no idea how to get up. By the way, why do other skiers gawk? Isn't it common place to see folks on the ground?

I eventually separated my boots from my skis and made my way to a vertical position. My knees, shoulders, and pride aching, I decided I would become my family's official photographer -- without my skis, that is. But, first, perhaps a little more hot tea, for medicinal purposes, of course ...

Facebook, Mrs. Faires, and fun music

My husband doesn't understand Facebook -- the social networking Web site that allows one to connect with almost anyone and everyone. He has no interest in it and doesn't see why I love it so.

"Isn't there one person in the world whom you're interested in, one person you'd like to contact, to check on and to see what they are doing now?" I asked.

He put down his paper and looked me in the eye.

"Anyone?" I asked, encouraged.

He hesitated and then responded, thoughtfully, "Nope," before picking up his paper again.

Perhaps that's because he never had a Mrs. Faires. Thanks to the magic of Facebook I've reconnected with her. Mrs. Faires was one of the best teachers I've ever had. And I was her very favorite student. I knew I was because she put my picture on the top of her door; she took a personal interest in me; she loaned me books; she showed off my projects to students studying to be teachers at the local college; she encouraged me to write, and she sent me cards and letters affixed with stickers, some of which I still have today.

Mrs. Faires turned what could have been an awkward fifth grade year for this skinny girl with braces into a magical time -- a time free of worries about boys, peer pressure from other girls and the fact that I can't sing a lick.

In fact, the best part of fifth grade, and I think all my former classmates would agree, were Fridays. Each Friday, Mrs. Faires would pull out her record player and albums and pass out folders with the lyrics to a variety of songs, and we would sing -- loudly and happily.
I had lunch with Mrs. Faires recently -- almost 30 years later -- and I must confess, though I was extremely delighted to see her, I couldn't help but debate whether to call her by her first name or last name. Anyway, she confided in me that since she's been on Facebook, she's had many a student recall those Friday "fun music" sing-a-longs.

During Austell's flood this fall, one former student remembered singing "Bridge Over Troubled Water" during Mrs. Faires' class. Another said her husband started whistling "Tom Dooley," and she surprised him by singing every word. During our lunch, I admitted to her that I've impressed my children with my ability to sing every word of "Purple People Eater" and "The Unicorn Song." Well, impressed or perplexed one!

I remember once my fifth grade class talked Mrs. Faires into playing Pink Floyd's "Another brick in the wall." When we got to the "we don't need no education" part, Mrs. Faires pulled the plug. She loved and appreciated music but valued education more.

But most of all, she valued her students -- each and every one. I learned through Facebook that every student Mrs. Faires taught felt they were her favorite. As we lunched, I told her what a wonderful thing that was. While many teachers show favoritism, it's very few who show it to each and every single student in her class and mean it.

And, in case you were wondering, I did try calling her by her first name, Gayle. And when I told my 8-year-old son about it, he said, "You mean you called her by her first name? I would be scared!"

But, the truth is, no matter which name I chose, I am thrilled to be able to now call her not only my teacher, but my friend.

Even 30 years later, teachers still make the difference. Thank you, Mrs. Faires

King for the day

I always tell my youngest that he is my favorite son. He used to beam with pride until one day it dawned on him, "Hey, wait a minute, I'm your only son!"

Now I hear a lot of jokes about how I'm his favorite mom.

I read somewhere that if every child thinks the other is the favorite, then you've done a good job as a parent. So far, so good at my house. There's been many a time my son has asked why his older sister gets to do so and so. There's only one answer to the question, by the way: "Because she's older!"

Yes, most of the time, I pride myself on keeping the checks and balances in order, but, occasionally, even I find myself shaking my head at something my favorite son has talked me into doing.

And no matter what it is, his big sister (not to mention his daddy) will call me on it every time. Like yesterday, for example:

"You mean to tell me you are going to buy him an Elvis wig just because he doesn't have any hair to comb?" asked my daughter, incredulously, from the back seat.

"Why, yes, I am," I said, shaking my head in wonderment and thinking, how did this happen?

Then I remembered. It all started with a note from his school.

"You have 1950s day at school on Friday," I said.

"Yippee! I get to wear an afro."

"No, that's 1960s; this is 1950s."

"Oh, I thought you said Hippies day," he said. "What's 1950s?"

"You know, like Elvis."

"Oh, what did he look like?"

"Well, he always had his hair slicked back," I said. "You know, like Uncle Bill."

"The tall one?"

"Yes."

"I need some hair gel then," he said.

"You don't have any hair," pointed out my daughter.

I think it was then that I started feeling guilty. I've been giving my son a crew cut since he was 2, and every time he says he wants it to grow out. And every time I try to explain the definition of a cow lick to him. Not to mention, during his last haircut, I was multi-tasking, left the guard off and scalped the poor kid. As a result, somewhere around this time I MAY have mentioned buying a wig. The next thing I know we are at Party City looking at a wall of hair.

"Do you see an Elvis wig that you want?" I asked my son.

"Do you?" he said.

It was at this point I realized he had no idea what Elvis' hair looked like.

"I see hairy chest hair," he giggled.

"I don't think that will be necessary," I said, and $29 later, Elvis Jr. had left the building.

The next day, after a stern warning not to share it with anyone, my son left for school wearing his new wig along with an old pair of blue jeans, a white T-shirt and some sunglasses. As he was brushing his teeth, I told him to make sure he didn't let anyone step on his blue suede shoes.

"Ma'am?" he said.

"That's an Elvis song," I explained.

"Do I need those kind of shoes to go with my hair?" he asked.

"Oh, no, son, I think the hair and sideburns are plenty," I said.

"Thank you, thank you, very much," he said in character and happily went to school.

He reported back later that his hand hurt from signing autographs, and he had to employ several bodyguards to keep the groupie girls away. His teacher wrote me that he entered the classroom and said, "I have a comb, and I'm not afraid to use it!"

Perhaps my daughter and husband were right. Perhaps the wig was silly for me to buy, but after all, doesn't everyone deserve to be a king for the day -- especially when you are 8 years old?

Elvis and the mythical creature

Bear with me, gentle readers (I've always wanted to say that). I have been asked to write a column for my local paper. It will debut next week, and I have two written, which I will post here ASAP. Btw, my first two are on Elvis and the mythical creature I'm married to, though not necessarily in that order. Once I get my column up and running, I will fill in here with shorter, daily(ish) blogs, I promise.

Bye-bye, Bob Bob

We said good-bye to a gentle giant today - my father-in-law - known affectionately as Bob Bob by his grandchildren (and me, his only daughter-in-law). I had the honor of writing his obituary. We were being charged by the word, and though he’d probably admonish me for going over my budget, it still wasn’t enough.

Bob Bob was one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. He was quick-witted and liked to tease. If he teased you, he liked you, and you could tell it immediately by the mischievous look in his kind eyes.

After my husband and I were married, and I was pregnant with my daughter, whom I just knew would be a boy (I even decorated the nursery in blue. My first lesson in mother’s intuition), Bob Bob informed me that 12 lb. babies ran in their family. And even though his mom was my size (5’2ish and petite), she managed to have five boys on their Kentucky farm all weighing over 12 lbs. Bob Bob would surpass his older brother and father by nearly a foot, eventually reaching 6’7.”

I guess I could have laughed this comment off, but my daughter had her foot planted squarely in my ribs. Not only could I feel how large it was; I could see it. Each night, I’d trace the perfect outline of a baby’s foot – a foot that I had no doubt belonged to a 12 lb. baby.

Bob Bob enjoyed teasing me about it mightily. In the end? I had a long, skinny little baby girl weighing 7 lbs. 8 oz. with the largest feet you’ve ever seen. In fact, she’s still trying to grow into them. If she follows in her grandfather, great-uncles and cousins’ footsteps, there’s no doubt she will.

I am quickly becoming the shortest in the family as height does not run on my side. In fact, I’ll never forget the first time my dad met Bob Bob at my daughter’s cowboy and Indian-themed birthday party. Bob was sitting in a chair, and my dad (5’8 ¾) walked up, stuck out his hand and introduced himself. Bob Bob stood up and extended his hand, and my dad almost got whiplash looking up. It was a priceless moment. They soon put on their cowboy hats and bonded over ice cream and cake and grandchildren.

Speaking of grandchildren, Bob Bob loved his dearly, and it was mutual. My daughter, in particular, spent many hours sitting his lap. She was his girl. When my son came along, we quickly realized he had inherited a bit of his grandfather’s good-natured personality and wit. There’s been many a time I’ve heard Bob Bob tease him about something and witnessed my son’s innocently funny response leave him shaking with laughter, often to the point of tears.

I sat next to my son today and felt him shake with tears, too. This time they were tears over the loss of his dear Bob Bob, the one who kept him supplied with nutty-buddy ice creams, the one who let him punch him as hard as he could, the one who encouraged him to ask his mama impossible questions just to tease her.

Though we were sad, there were many moments Bob Bob would have loved, including the one when my son, all on his own, went over and peered into the casket. He came back and pulled me over to look as I fretted over what his reaction would be.

“They put a suit on him!” he said, shocked.

At this remark, I’m sure Bob Bob - in heaven, shirtless in his swim trunks, the way we remember him from so many times at the beach and the lake - was shaking silently with laughter.

(We love you, Bob Bob. May you rest in peace.)