“I tricked my body into thinking its thinner. SPANXS!” - Miranda Hobbes
Last year, I got together with some high school friends for an impromptu mini-reunion. I hadn’t seen several of the people who where planning on coming in almost twenty years. And, like we all do when faced with seeing people from the past, I wanted to look my best.
Laura’s Check List for Quick Make-Over
Hair Cut? Check.
Hair colored, grey gone? Check.
Eyebrows trimmed? Check.
Wrinkles not visible? Check.
New Outfit? Check.
Proper support?
Proper support?
Proper support?
Like many of you, my shape has changed over the years. The way my body used to look or the way I THOUGHT it looked has ceased to exist. I bypassed that exit three states ago. However, with better living through chemistry, I am told, that I can adjust my body to make it look better. It was time to explore the world of Spanx.
Now, I wasn’t looking for a miracle here, just something to smooth the lines out. So off I went to get spanxed.
I start pursuing the Spanx section and even the knock off Spanx section. Nothing. Didn’t find anything that would work. I looked and I looked, but nothing looked like a solution. And then I noticed a pattern. All the Spanx were for small, petite women. This didn’t make sense to me. I was under the assumption that America is suffering from an obesity problem, so logically there should be equal number of Spanx per overweight woman. Right? WRONG!!
So then I thought to myself: “Laura, maybe you have the right size. Go try. You won’t know until you try. Stacy and Clinton from What Not to Wear are always saying that you need to try. Go try!” So I grabbed the largest size I could find and headed to the changing room.
So there I was, me and the Spanx. I looked at the Spanx, looked at myself in the mirror, back to the Spanx. I thought to myself “Not even Moses could pull off a miracle this big!” But then, there were Stacy and Clinton circling my head saying “Try it on!”
Now, let me be frank with you about me and trying on clothes. I don’t like to make noises when trying on clothes. It makes me feel like I’m losing. I don’t want the chick in the changing room next to me to know that I’m having problems. It’s like I’m losing the game, and she wins. So I have a “No Noise” policy that I follow when trying on clothes. This also applies to my mother standing outside the changing room wanting to know “How’s it going in there?” If it was going good, then I would come out. If it’s going bad, then I don’t come out. It’s that simple.
Now let me describe the scene for you. My plan was to try on a two-piece Spanx set: camisole and mid-thigh shaper. I decided try the camisole first. It looked like the safer of the two.
Here we go. Camisole with spaghetti straps. Piece of cake.
Here we go……..
Camisole with spaghetti straps………
Piece of cake.
Cami…..……….ssole………………(pant)…………withhhhh……..(pant, pant)………ssssspppaaaa….. (pant, pant, pant) ...........gggghhhheeeeetttttt…….tttttttiiiiiiiiiii……..(pant, pant, pant, pant)............str.......aaaaaaa............ppppppsssssss (pant, pant, pant, pant, pant, pant, pant)......Ta ..(pant).. da!! (breathing very heavily now) Not so bad (gagging). This..... might ......work! (pant, pant, pant)
Oh crap. I only had one strap on. So I had to start again.
Cami ........ssole ......(pant).......withhhhh ........(pant, pant)......sssspppaaapa........pant,pant,pant) ...........gggghhhheeeeetttttt…….tttttttiiiiiiiiiii……..(pant, pant, pant, pant) ………………str…..aaaaaaa….pppppppsssssss (pant, pant, pant, pant, pant, pant, pant).
So I finally get the camisole with spaghetti straps on and realize that the bottom of the camisole is slowly starting to roll up. Have you ever seen the cartoon when Elmer Fudd’s shirt comes undone and hits him in the face? Yeah, it was like that.
And if that wasn’t punishment enough, I decided continue on and try on the mid-thigh shaper! I won’t continue with the torture, but let’s just say that the camisole with spaghetti straps WAS a piece of cake compared to this torture devise!
So there I was, all spanxed out looking like someone had taken the world’s smallest balloon and stretched it over a good sized watermelon and shaped it into banana. But my brain still refused to listen to reason (I think this was because the blood circulation was cut off to my brain) because I started thinking that I could pull this off. “No lines! Looks like you lost 10 pounds! Lookin’ goooooood, Laura!”
Then, from the very, very, very back of my brain (which incidentally was the only part of me that hadn’t been squeezed into torturous shape wear) something said “Hey stupid! How are you going to sit down? How are you going to breath? How are you going to go to the bathroom?” It was then that I started to think “You know when you fill a trash bag with too much stuff, it breaks and trash goes every where.” I could totally see it, me at the reunion trying to be cool and then SNAP!!! My Spanx have taken out half my high school class. I didn’t want to be responsible for the safety of others, so I decided that the Spanx must go.
And to make matters worse, I violated my “No Noise” policy, because as I looked at myself in the mirror and let out the biggest laugh that I could muster while being bound and gagged. But I don’t think anyone heard me because I had squeezed the air out of my lungs!
But this brings up a good point: obesity and proper support in America. Yes, we have an obesity problem and it’s not going away as quickly as we would like for it to. So, in the meantime, shouldn’t America look its best until we get there? Shouldn’t we support our country? I say we start supporting the good ole US of A by providing more shape wear for every citizen of every size! I think I’ll call this program “No Tummy Roll Left Behind.”
Monday, June 14, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
Greetings from Pascagoula!
Friday, May 28, 2010
Dear Blog:
Last week I had a wonderful surprise: I stopped by the mail box to get the day’s mail, which usually consists of offers for pizza, insurance and/or bills, but this time I found a letter. An actual handwritten letter! Addressed to me! And not even a fake letter with a computer font to resemble handwriting. I felt like Charlie Brown receiving a letter from the little red-head girl! It was a letter from my beloved friend Bradley, who was on vacation in San Diego.
When did the mailbox get so depressing? We all know the answer to the question, but think about it. The mailbox was once a place of information, a source of joy from a loved one across the seas, a postcard from your Aunt Myrtle sending you greetings from Saratoga, a weekly letter from Mom wanting to know how you are doing and telling you how you how Uncle Earl is getting along. Please don’t get me wrong. I love e-mail, the speed of text and the power of social networking but there was great comfort and joy in Bradley’s letter. It was tangible.
Let me share with you about my friend Bradley. Bradley is truly an old soul and often I wonder if he was born in the wrong time period. I think he’s about 100 years late. But that is Bradley’s charm. He is thoughtful when many are not. He writes handwritten letters and takes joy in finding good stationery and fountain pens. He has a bountiful collection of hats to match his mood or attire. He is my partner for afternoon tea. Then he’ll tell me that he has purchased a silver tea service because it would be a crime to serve tea to the Queen of England on a wooden tray. So my letter from Bradley was nothing less than wonderful. Good stationery, fountain pen and wonderful words of the beauty of the beaches at San Diego.
Letter writing is a lost art form. When I think of letter writing, my mind goes automatically to the Victorians and Edwardians. Not only were they avid letter writers, they took great pride in their handwriting with wonderful flourished and embellished script. Me, being a true geek, has even tried my hand at this script, known as Spencerian script. But with the advent of the technological age, there seems to be a resurgence of interest in letter writing, and that is a wonderful thing.
Last year, Time magazine did an article about the decline of cursive writing. Due to standardized testing, many kids aren’t being taught how to write in cursive. The article stated that, if this trend continues, many students won’t be able to read the Declaration of Independence or the United States Constitution. This bothered me greatly. I knew in the 3rd grade we would learn 3 new things: multiplication, division and cursive handwriting. I was so excited to learn this. Cursive writing was one of the ways I expressed myself.
Cursive writing? Expressive? Really Laura? Were you that deprived as a child? Well no, but let’s just say that I don’t have those “talents” to draw or paint, but I do have wonderful penmanship. So, while other kids doodled in class, I practiced writing my A-B-C’s in cursive. This is a habit I still have today. I even came up with my own script. What did it look like? Well, basically, it looked like my hair. Very, very, very curly! While other students were learning about “World Religion,” there I sat, practicing my A-B-C’s. The other kids must have thought I was off my rocker but I didn’t care. I was expressing my curly, wonderful penmanship self. Take that conformist!
So I want to encourage you to get out there and grab and pen and send a letter. The good people in the Postal Service I’m sure would love to deliver something other than pizza ads.
No? Still resisting letter writing? Say that holding a pen for more than 5 minutes causes your hand to cramp up? Can’t get off the grid? Let me offer you a simple 4- step program to get you to letter writing status again.
Step 1: Start by sending a postcard. Send one to Aunt Myrtle and let her know that the weather in Pascagoula is fine.
Step 2: Send you’re mother a birthday card. Your mom will be so thrilled that she’ll run to tell Uncle Earl!
Step 3: Send a “Thinking of You” or “Just Because” card to your friend Betty. She’s got 2 kids, doesn’t get out to see the adult world much and she would love to know that somewhere, someone in the world is thinking of her.
And finally you’re ready to make the next and final step:
Step 4: Send a handwritten letter to your grandmother. Let her know how life is treating you, what funny antics the grandkids have been up to. Trust me; you’re gold when you do this. Your grandmother will have bragging rights in her Sunday School class for the next week.
Well, I need to close this blog. Off to see the wonderful sights in Pascagoula. Give my best to Uncle Earl!
Respectfully yours,
Laura
Dear Blog:
Last week I had a wonderful surprise: I stopped by the mail box to get the day’s mail, which usually consists of offers for pizza, insurance and/or bills, but this time I found a letter. An actual handwritten letter! Addressed to me! And not even a fake letter with a computer font to resemble handwriting. I felt like Charlie Brown receiving a letter from the little red-head girl! It was a letter from my beloved friend Bradley, who was on vacation in San Diego.
When did the mailbox get so depressing? We all know the answer to the question, but think about it. The mailbox was once a place of information, a source of joy from a loved one across the seas, a postcard from your Aunt Myrtle sending you greetings from Saratoga, a weekly letter from Mom wanting to know how you are doing and telling you how you how Uncle Earl is getting along. Please don’t get me wrong. I love e-mail, the speed of text and the power of social networking but there was great comfort and joy in Bradley’s letter. It was tangible.
Let me share with you about my friend Bradley. Bradley is truly an old soul and often I wonder if he was born in the wrong time period. I think he’s about 100 years late. But that is Bradley’s charm. He is thoughtful when many are not. He writes handwritten letters and takes joy in finding good stationery and fountain pens. He has a bountiful collection of hats to match his mood or attire. He is my partner for afternoon tea. Then he’ll tell me that he has purchased a silver tea service because it would be a crime to serve tea to the Queen of England on a wooden tray. So my letter from Bradley was nothing less than wonderful. Good stationery, fountain pen and wonderful words of the beauty of the beaches at San Diego.
Letter writing is a lost art form. When I think of letter writing, my mind goes automatically to the Victorians and Edwardians. Not only were they avid letter writers, they took great pride in their handwriting with wonderful flourished and embellished script. Me, being a true geek, has even tried my hand at this script, known as Spencerian script. But with the advent of the technological age, there seems to be a resurgence of interest in letter writing, and that is a wonderful thing.
Last year, Time magazine did an article about the decline of cursive writing. Due to standardized testing, many kids aren’t being taught how to write in cursive. The article stated that, if this trend continues, many students won’t be able to read the Declaration of Independence or the United States Constitution. This bothered me greatly. I knew in the 3rd grade we would learn 3 new things: multiplication, division and cursive handwriting. I was so excited to learn this. Cursive writing was one of the ways I expressed myself.
Cursive writing? Expressive? Really Laura? Were you that deprived as a child? Well no, but let’s just say that I don’t have those “talents” to draw or paint, but I do have wonderful penmanship. So, while other kids doodled in class, I practiced writing my A-B-C’s in cursive. This is a habit I still have today. I even came up with my own script. What did it look like? Well, basically, it looked like my hair. Very, very, very curly! While other students were learning about “World Religion,” there I sat, practicing my A-B-C’s. The other kids must have thought I was off my rocker but I didn’t care. I was expressing my curly, wonderful penmanship self. Take that conformist!
So I want to encourage you to get out there and grab and pen and send a letter. The good people in the Postal Service I’m sure would love to deliver something other than pizza ads.
No? Still resisting letter writing? Say that holding a pen for more than 5 minutes causes your hand to cramp up? Can’t get off the grid? Let me offer you a simple 4- step program to get you to letter writing status again.
Step 1: Start by sending a postcard. Send one to Aunt Myrtle and let her know that the weather in Pascagoula is fine.
Step 2: Send you’re mother a birthday card. Your mom will be so thrilled that she’ll run to tell Uncle Earl!
Step 3: Send a “Thinking of You” or “Just Because” card to your friend Betty. She’s got 2 kids, doesn’t get out to see the adult world much and she would love to know that somewhere, someone in the world is thinking of her.
And finally you’re ready to make the next and final step:
Step 4: Send a handwritten letter to your grandmother. Let her know how life is treating you, what funny antics the grandkids have been up to. Trust me; you’re gold when you do this. Your grandmother will have bragging rights in her Sunday School class for the next week.
Well, I need to close this blog. Off to see the wonderful sights in Pascagoula. Give my best to Uncle Earl!
Respectfully yours,
Laura
Saturday, May 15, 2010
The Cope Girls Go Fishing
The hubs and I went fishing last week. The hubs is an avid fisherman, and a good one at that. Though maybe he’s tales are better than his catches, but that is par for the course for any fishermen. Anyway, he has been asking me for a while to go fishing with him and for the sake of our marriage, I went. Now I have been putting off going fishing for several years now. My reason is legit: it’s not because I don’t like to fish or know how to fish, quiet the contrary, it always aggravates my allergies when I go. But this year, my allergies have been better and feeling like I was almost immune to nature’s toxic air, I went. Heck, I even offered to go!
The hubs takes his fishing very seriously. He studies it and is always looking to improve. He scoffs at me because I have to fish with a bobber. He tells me that real fishermen don’t use bobbers. What does he know?! Have you ever looked at a bobber floating on the water? Its a beautiful scene.
As soon as we got to the lake, the hubs hooked me up (no pun intended) and I was ready to go. Then he quickly got to the fish. After a few minutes he looked up and noticed that I wasn’t fishing.
“Why aren’t you fishing?”
“I will. I’m just enjoying being outside, sitting in a lawn chair, taking it all in. Do you think this hat looks good with my outfit?” (It is a totally awesome pink, floppy hat! It totally rocked!)
He didn’t respond and just focused on the fish.
I did eventually fish. I cast the line about 12 times and caught 2 fish. Statistically, I rock! And I was ready to focus on something else, like taking a nap, reading a book and taking some pictures. The point was for us to be together and have a good time. Which we did. He doesn’t know how good he actually as it. Let me tell you why…..
When I was a kid, my Dad would take Bec and me fishing frequently. For my 10th birthday, my father actually took me to Wynn’s Sporting Goods Store in Maryville and bought me a fishing pole, which I still have. Heck, my grandmother even bought me a tacklebox. We would always go fishing above the dam at Melton Hill lake. Dad would set me and Bec up, and then he would try to get in some real fishing, while Bec and I just “played” fishing.
Sounds like a Hallmark card or a Folgers Coffee Commercial, yes? Ha! Anything but! Let me give you a real fishing trip with the Cope girls.
When we started really going fishing, I was around 11 and Bec was 6. At 11, I was a HUGE music lover. I was always with my tunes - be it ghetto blaster or walkman -but somewhere “America’s Top 40” was on, and I wasn’t going to miss it. So when we went fishing, I would take my walkman and get about 50 yards from Dad and Bec. I would put my own worm on and I was fine. The only thing Dad had to do is take the fish off of the line.
My sister, well, she was 6 and sitting on the bank waiting for a fish to bite didn’t keep her entertained for long. So most of the time, Bec was running up and down the bank playing or telling Dad “I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM, DADDY!” Now, the logical thing would be that Dad would put Bec’s rod up. But noooo! Not our Dad. He always left her rod in the water, cause a fish might bite. Maybe Dad was really trying to bait Bec into being still and creating a love in her to fish. If that was the case, he was using the wrong bait. She only nibbled at the bait, never fully took it.
So here’s the scene: one daughter shunning her totally uncool family while she listens to Wham! on her walkman, the other daughter yelling for a Dad to take her to the bathroom, and a father who really wanted to fish but had to do something with his kids. Naturally, by the time Dad got a nibble on his rod, both me and Bec’s rod would catch a fish and Dad would have to put down his rod to help us. All the while, Bec is just running up and down the bank yelling “I GOTTA GO TO THE BATHROOM!”
So as I sat there on the dock with the hubs, I just had to smile and laugh. I might not be fishing as much as he was, but I wasn’t listening to “America’s Top 40”nor did I say that I needed to go to the bathroom. Oh, and yes, nature’s toxic air did a number on me! I had the mother of all allergy attacks and was sick for 2 days after our fishing excursion. The hubs has it made! Marriage saved!
The hubs takes his fishing very seriously. He studies it and is always looking to improve. He scoffs at me because I have to fish with a bobber. He tells me that real fishermen don’t use bobbers. What does he know?! Have you ever looked at a bobber floating on the water? Its a beautiful scene.
As soon as we got to the lake, the hubs hooked me up (no pun intended) and I was ready to go. Then he quickly got to the fish. After a few minutes he looked up and noticed that I wasn’t fishing.
“Why aren’t you fishing?”
“I will. I’m just enjoying being outside, sitting in a lawn chair, taking it all in. Do you think this hat looks good with my outfit?” (It is a totally awesome pink, floppy hat! It totally rocked!)
He didn’t respond and just focused on the fish.
I did eventually fish. I cast the line about 12 times and caught 2 fish. Statistically, I rock! And I was ready to focus on something else, like taking a nap, reading a book and taking some pictures. The point was for us to be together and have a good time. Which we did. He doesn’t know how good he actually as it. Let me tell you why…..
When I was a kid, my Dad would take Bec and me fishing frequently. For my 10th birthday, my father actually took me to Wynn’s Sporting Goods Store in Maryville and bought me a fishing pole, which I still have. Heck, my grandmother even bought me a tacklebox. We would always go fishing above the dam at Melton Hill lake. Dad would set me and Bec up, and then he would try to get in some real fishing, while Bec and I just “played” fishing.
Sounds like a Hallmark card or a Folgers Coffee Commercial, yes? Ha! Anything but! Let me give you a real fishing trip with the Cope girls.
When we started really going fishing, I was around 11 and Bec was 6. At 11, I was a HUGE music lover. I was always with my tunes - be it ghetto blaster or walkman -but somewhere “America’s Top 40” was on, and I wasn’t going to miss it. So when we went fishing, I would take my walkman and get about 50 yards from Dad and Bec. I would put my own worm on and I was fine. The only thing Dad had to do is take the fish off of the line.
My sister, well, she was 6 and sitting on the bank waiting for a fish to bite didn’t keep her entertained for long. So most of the time, Bec was running up and down the bank playing or telling Dad “I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM, DADDY!” Now, the logical thing would be that Dad would put Bec’s rod up. But noooo! Not our Dad. He always left her rod in the water, cause a fish might bite. Maybe Dad was really trying to bait Bec into being still and creating a love in her to fish. If that was the case, he was using the wrong bait. She only nibbled at the bait, never fully took it.
So here’s the scene: one daughter shunning her totally uncool family while she listens to Wham! on her walkman, the other daughter yelling for a Dad to take her to the bathroom, and a father who really wanted to fish but had to do something with his kids. Naturally, by the time Dad got a nibble on his rod, both me and Bec’s rod would catch a fish and Dad would have to put down his rod to help us. All the while, Bec is just running up and down the bank yelling “I GOTTA GO TO THE BATHROOM!”
So as I sat there on the dock with the hubs, I just had to smile and laugh. I might not be fishing as much as he was, but I wasn’t listening to “America’s Top 40”nor did I say that I needed to go to the bathroom. Oh, and yes, nature’s toxic air did a number on me! I had the mother of all allergy attacks and was sick for 2 days after our fishing excursion. The hubs has it made! Marriage saved!
Saturday, March 27, 2010
It’s not you. Its Me.
(Ring)
(Ring)
(Ring)
Hello?
Oh…..hi blog.
Yes. It has been some time.
Well, no…..it’s just… well….I haven’t been in the mood to blog.
No, no! Its not you! I promise. Its me.
No I haven’t been with another blog! I promise! I haven’t blogged for anyone. It’s…..its just me. You know, its one of those phases, you know?
No, no. You’re absolutely right. What we have is special…..and I should blog. You’re right. You are absolutely right.
Yea, I would love to get together and blog soon.
Yea, that sounds great! Ok! I look forward to it. Ok. I’ll see you soon.
No I mean it! I promise! I promise I’ll post soon. Ok, alright then. I’ll soon. See you then! Ok, bye-bye.
(Click).
(Editor’s note: in the mean time, enjoy this entry from last Palm Sunday!)
The Word of God, in tongues.
So, a while back, I was asked to be the lector at church for the month of April. The lector leaders the congregation and also reads the scripture for that day. I was thrilled to do this! I have sung in church all my life, but reading felt different for some reason.
Nonetheless, I'm excited to do this. And April is no small potatoes, people. Its the big dance: Easter. Why, this April is a big month: there's Palm Sunday, Easter, the week following Easter, etc. Christianity is founded on these principles alone. High attendance, important scripture, its important that I don't flub up.
I talked with the church secretary and she said she would send me the verses by the end of the week. Well, the secretary got called for jury duty. So no verses. So I'm thinking I still have time and will cram during the children's sermon to look over my "lines" so I don't mess up. I might have to read something like "And Hepapel begat Zepo, and Zepo begat Sgralmel, and Sgralmel begat ........." yada, yada, yada. I wanted to be prepared!
So as I'm reviewing my lines during the children's sermon, I hear the pastor talk about Jesus riding into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday on a donkey. I look at the scripture I'm supposed to read and its about Jesus on Palm Sunday but no mention of a donkey. My version says "colt." Colt?! Holy crap!!! What version do I have? A special Baptist version? Do I say what version I'm reading from when I go up there? Ok Cope, just role with it. A bible is a bible. Word of God. No worries. A colt. Really?
"Today's New Testament Lesson comes from Mark Chapter 11, verses 1 through 11.
Now when they drew near to Jerusalem, to Bethphage and Bethany, at the Mount of Olives, Jesus sent two of his disciples and said to them, “Go into the village in front of you, and immediately as you enter it you will find a colt tied,
(Woo-hoo!! Your doing great kid!! Pure poetry. Verses are flowing off your tongue like honey.)
on which no one has ever sat. Untie it and bring it. If anyone says to you, ‘Why are you doing this?’ say, ‘The Lord has need of it and will send it back here immediately.’” And they went away and found a
(STUMBLE, STUMBLE, STUMBLE)
colt tied at a door outside in the street, and they untied it. And some of those standing there said to them, “What are you doing, untying the colt?” And they told them what Jesus had said, and they let them go. And they brought
(stumble, Laura says "Blah!" makes a weird face, eyes bug out and stick out her tongue in nervous twitch, stumble, MAY-DAY!!! MAY-DAY!!! stumble, stumble)
the colt to Jesus and threw their cloaks on it, and he sat on it. And many spread their cloaks on the road, and others spread leafy branches
(STUMBLE. OMG!! Did I really just say blah in front of the church?)
that they had cut from the fields. And those who went before and those who followed were shouting, “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of our father David! Hosanna in the highest!” And he entered Jerusalem
(STUMBLE. OMG!!! I stuck my tongue out as I was reading the Bible!! In front of the entire church?!)
and went into the temple. And when he had looked around at everything, as it was already late, he went out to
(STUMBLE. Oh, Lord, help me!! I just had my eyes pop out of my head, made a weird face and stuck out my tongue in front of the entire congregation on Palm Sunday and there are a lot of people here!! Who is that family in the back??!! Oh man, visitors. They're going to think we speak in tongues. Awe man!! )
Bethany with the twelve.
"The word of God, for the people of God. Thanks be to God."
(Ok Laura. Maybe no one heard you. Just play it cool. Beeeeeee cooooooool.)
Mary Joe - "Psst. What version were you reading from?"
(Oh, man!)
(Ring)
(Ring)
Hello?
Oh…..hi blog.
Yes. It has been some time.
Well, no…..it’s just… well….I haven’t been in the mood to blog.
No, no! Its not you! I promise. Its me.
No I haven’t been with another blog! I promise! I haven’t blogged for anyone. It’s…..its just me. You know, its one of those phases, you know?
No, no. You’re absolutely right. What we have is special…..and I should blog. You’re right. You are absolutely right.
Yea, I would love to get together and blog soon.
Yea, that sounds great! Ok! I look forward to it. Ok. I’ll see you soon.
No I mean it! I promise! I promise I’ll post soon. Ok, alright then. I’ll soon. See you then! Ok, bye-bye.
(Click).
(Editor’s note: in the mean time, enjoy this entry from last Palm Sunday!)
The Word of God, in tongues.
So, a while back, I was asked to be the lector at church for the month of April. The lector leaders the congregation and also reads the scripture for that day. I was thrilled to do this! I have sung in church all my life, but reading felt different for some reason.
Nonetheless, I'm excited to do this. And April is no small potatoes, people. Its the big dance: Easter. Why, this April is a big month: there's Palm Sunday, Easter, the week following Easter, etc. Christianity is founded on these principles alone. High attendance, important scripture, its important that I don't flub up.
I talked with the church secretary and she said she would send me the verses by the end of the week. Well, the secretary got called for jury duty. So no verses. So I'm thinking I still have time and will cram during the children's sermon to look over my "lines" so I don't mess up. I might have to read something like "And Hepapel begat Zepo, and Zepo begat Sgralmel, and Sgralmel begat ........." yada, yada, yada. I wanted to be prepared!
So as I'm reviewing my lines during the children's sermon, I hear the pastor talk about Jesus riding into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday on a donkey. I look at the scripture I'm supposed to read and its about Jesus on Palm Sunday but no mention of a donkey. My version says "colt." Colt?! Holy crap!!! What version do I have? A special Baptist version? Do I say what version I'm reading from when I go up there? Ok Cope, just role with it. A bible is a bible. Word of God. No worries. A colt. Really?
"Today's New Testament Lesson comes from Mark Chapter 11, verses 1 through 11.
Now when they drew near to Jerusalem, to Bethphage and Bethany, at the Mount of Olives, Jesus sent two of his disciples and said to them, “Go into the village in front of you, and immediately as you enter it you will find a colt tied,
(Woo-hoo!! Your doing great kid!! Pure poetry. Verses are flowing off your tongue like honey.)
on which no one has ever sat. Untie it and bring it. If anyone says to you, ‘Why are you doing this?’ say, ‘The Lord has need of it and will send it back here immediately.’” And they went away and found a
(STUMBLE, STUMBLE, STUMBLE)
colt tied at a door outside in the street, and they untied it. And some of those standing there said to them, “What are you doing, untying the colt?” And they told them what Jesus had said, and they let them go. And they brought
(stumble, Laura says "Blah!" makes a weird face, eyes bug out and stick out her tongue in nervous twitch, stumble, MAY-DAY!!! MAY-DAY!!! stumble, stumble)
the colt to Jesus and threw their cloaks on it, and he sat on it. And many spread their cloaks on the road, and others spread leafy branches
(STUMBLE. OMG!! Did I really just say blah in front of the church?)
that they had cut from the fields. And those who went before and those who followed were shouting, “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of our father David! Hosanna in the highest!” And he entered Jerusalem
(STUMBLE. OMG!!! I stuck my tongue out as I was reading the Bible!! In front of the entire church?!)
and went into the temple. And when he had looked around at everything, as it was already late, he went out to
(STUMBLE. Oh, Lord, help me!! I just had my eyes pop out of my head, made a weird face and stuck out my tongue in front of the entire congregation on Palm Sunday and there are a lot of people here!! Who is that family in the back??!! Oh man, visitors. They're going to think we speak in tongues. Awe man!! )
Bethany with the twelve.
"The word of God, for the people of God. Thanks be to God."
(Ok Laura. Maybe no one heard you. Just play it cool. Beeeeeee cooooooool.)
Mary Joe - "Psst. What version were you reading from?"
(Oh, man!)
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Meet Your Friends Here
Recently, I went home for a week’s vacation to spend some quality time with my family and old friends. Due to the rock slide near the Tennessee/North Carolina border, I had to take an alternative route home. My inner “Cope” decided to take a bit of the scenic way to get there.
The hubs and I used to live in the country. Whenever we went to the small town just north of where we lived, we would pass this beautiful old country home. It is a typical, early southern home, in the early classical revival style probably built around the mid nineteenth century. It has a wood frame, two chimneys on either side of the home, columns and a balcony.
(Yeah, I know. I’m a dork. What you read was “blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, chimneys, blah, blah, blah house.” But hang with me.)
What really made this home great, was that there was a family that took pride that they were its current caretakers, particularly at Christmas. Every Christmas it always looked like a Hallmark card. I could visualize grandparents welcoming their children and grandchildren into their warm and loving home with delicious homemade goodies just out of the oven waiting on them. They always tastefully decorated the home with natural garland and simple red bows hanging from its balcony. It always warmed my soul when I drove past this home.
It has been about two years since I had been out this way, so I was glad to see this old friend. I was looking forward to seeing how she looks. Sadly, my friend is not looking well. I don’t think anyone currently resides there. The house is looks very worn and tired. The yard has been eaten up due to the road expansion and the newly created, easy access road to the new Wal-Mart and Lowe’s that is now in her back yard. And when I say “backyard” I mean literally in the backyard. This sweet county home now looks as if it has cancer and I don’t know if it can be saved from roll-out prices. I was outraged when I saw this! I raised my fist in air and shook it like an old man, cursing at Wal-Mart & Lowe’s. How could this happen? Didn’t the community try to fight this from happening? Didn’t they care about this lovely home that was part of their community fabric? Was the buy-one-get-one-free sale on tube socks really worth it?
Slowly, my frustration subsided and as I was coming into Knoxville, I called my aunt and uncle to see what they were doing for the night. Mom and Bec had commitments that night and I wasn’t quiet ready for a night of solitary confinement. Rhonda and Eddie had just been seated for dinner and so they were going to wait for me. I was going to meet them at a restaurant that I had never been to, the S&W Grand - in downtown Knoxville.
Now for those of you who aren’t familiar with Knoxville, the downtown area used to be the hub of all town activity. For almost 200 years, from the time it was settled in 1780’s until after World War II, downtown Knoxville was THE center of town. My grandfather and my mom would tell wonderful stories about going downtown to shop at JC Penney‘s and Millers, have lunch at the Blue Circle, watch a movie at the majestic “Tennessee Theater” and look at Christmas lights in the shops along Gay Street. I always longed for those days because it sounded so ideal. After WWII, people began to move further out from the downtown and into the suburbs with its modern stores and malls. Soon, the downtown area looked old, dated and anything but modern. Many restaurants had closed. The shops moved out to the suburbs. We could now go to multiplex theater for the latest movies. And the Christmas lights were nothing to come see. Not an uncommon story.
I worked downtown for several years and let me tell you, the downtown then was nothing to write home about. There was little activity going on. During the weekdays, there was people downtown, but only to work. At 5:10pm on a Friday afternoon, you would think it had turned into a ghost town. My first job after I graduated from college was giving tours at Blount Mansion. My co-workers and I would joke about the fictitious tumble weeds that would pass by because that was the only thing down there. No people were to be found, except for the occasional tourist who was shocked that nobody was down there.
I longed for the downtown to be what it once was. For people to be apart of it and for it to be a active again. During my time in downtown Knoxville, it never changed. Then the hubs and I left Knoxville and we hadn’t been back to the downtown area in years. So when Rhonda told me that they were eating downtown, I was a taken aback.
I exited off I-40 and was easily steered toward the downtown area. I made a left turn from Summit Hill Dr onto Gay Street and I was amazed at what I saw. Gay Street was filled with people, shops, lights, a new multiplex theater, and restaurants. And parking. FREE PARKING! The downtown was filled with life again. And there next to the new theater was the S&W Grand.
I had never been to the S&W. It closed in 1982, so I didn’t have to opportunity to experience this wonderful Knoxville landmark. The S&W was THE place to eat during the mid 20th century in Knoxville. The façade greeted you with a wonderful exterior than only art deco can do. When you entered the S&W, you would have been greeted by a two story restaurant with lots of open space. To the left of the entrance was a grand curved staircase that took you to the second floor dining area. At the base of the staircase, was a organ with organist to entertain you while you ate. Above the organ was a sign that read “MEET YOUR FRIENDS HERE.“ Behind the staircase was a check room for your hat and coat. Next to it, was a alcove for a special select party. The S&W served cafeteria style food, with waiters that would carry your food to your table in first or second floor dining areas.
I have memories of walking by this grand building during my time downtown. It sat empty for almost 30 years, until now.
When I walked in to the S&W Grand, I was immediately whisked back to those days that I dreamt of, but also very aware that I was in a very modern restaurant. I met my aunt and uncle and their friends at the bar, which included Stephanie Balest, co-owner of the S&W Grand.
Stephanie and her co-owner brother are from Pittsburg, PA - above the Mason-Dixon line. When her family moved to Knoxville several years ago she always had hopes to open a restaurant in the old S&W, but the downtown wasn’t ready for it. So instead, they opened the Northshore Brasserie. Few year pass by and as fate would have it, she met the man who owned the S&W.
Its not often that I meet others who share the same passion that I do for historic preservation. We are a small and dedicated tribe! But after I greeted Stephanie with the secret historic preservation handshake, I knew that I was with like people.
She shares with me that only thing that is original from the old S&W is the ceiling and floor. That’s it. Honestly, they had me fooled. It looked too accurate to be a reproduction. What I thought was wallpaper with a shell-like design was actually real shells. Real shells! A guy in Asia who made the shell wall paneling. It took over 14,000 shells!
The alcove, the "MEET YOUR FRIENDS HERE" sign, the music, the check area, the curved staircase - its all there! The staircase alone thrilled my aunt! When she was a little girl, she begged my nana to let her go up the stairs. Nana agreed but under two conditions: she could not run and she must act like a lady. Well, 1 out of 2 ain’t bad! (Kidding! I kid. She didn’t run. She walked actually)
It takes a dedicated soul to do the work that Stephanie and her partners did to resurrect of this wonderful restaurant and Knoxville landmark. Restoration demands that you to be faithful to what was, not what you would do or your personal decorating preferences. You have to seek out what did the previous caretakers did. I’m so proud to say that the S&W Grand did just that. The gathering place of my grandfather is now a gathering place for me.
I think it is within our American DNA to want that which is new, modern and particularly, convenient, in our hometowns. Too often, we travel to other cities and seek out their history but don’t have a clue about our own hometown histories. When I worked at Blount Mansion, I used to joke that I took confession from local residences. It was not uncommon to hear locals say “I’ve lived here all my life and never been here.” Sometime it takes someone with fresh set of eyes and appreciation - someone not from the area - to bring back the beauty that once was.
So to my Knoxville homies, if you haven’t been downtown lately, go. Make it a part of your life again. For those of you in other parts of the county, look and see where your history is. Run and embrace it. Make it a part of your life as well. Take some advice from the S&W Grand and “MEET YOUR FRIENDS HERE” wherever that historic "here" is in your town.
Meeting my dear friend Carrie at the S&W Grand for lunch.
Oh, and for those of you needing to confess, I still hear confession every Friday afternoon from 5-7pm.
The hubs and I used to live in the country. Whenever we went to the small town just north of where we lived, we would pass this beautiful old country home. It is a typical, early southern home, in the early classical revival style probably built around the mid nineteenth century. It has a wood frame, two chimneys on either side of the home, columns and a balcony.
(Yeah, I know. I’m a dork. What you read was “blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, chimneys, blah, blah, blah house.” But hang with me.)
What really made this home great, was that there was a family that took pride that they were its current caretakers, particularly at Christmas. Every Christmas it always looked like a Hallmark card. I could visualize grandparents welcoming their children and grandchildren into their warm and loving home with delicious homemade goodies just out of the oven waiting on them. They always tastefully decorated the home with natural garland and simple red bows hanging from its balcony. It always warmed my soul when I drove past this home.
It has been about two years since I had been out this way, so I was glad to see this old friend. I was looking forward to seeing how she looks. Sadly, my friend is not looking well. I don’t think anyone currently resides there. The house is looks very worn and tired. The yard has been eaten up due to the road expansion and the newly created, easy access road to the new Wal-Mart and Lowe’s that is now in her back yard. And when I say “backyard” I mean literally in the backyard. This sweet county home now looks as if it has cancer and I don’t know if it can be saved from roll-out prices. I was outraged when I saw this! I raised my fist in air and shook it like an old man, cursing at Wal-Mart & Lowe’s. How could this happen? Didn’t the community try to fight this from happening? Didn’t they care about this lovely home that was part of their community fabric? Was the buy-one-get-one-free sale on tube socks really worth it?
Slowly, my frustration subsided and as I was coming into Knoxville, I called my aunt and uncle to see what they were doing for the night. Mom and Bec had commitments that night and I wasn’t quiet ready for a night of solitary confinement. Rhonda and Eddie had just been seated for dinner and so they were going to wait for me. I was going to meet them at a restaurant that I had never been to, the S&W Grand - in downtown Knoxville.Now for those of you who aren’t familiar with Knoxville, the downtown area used to be the hub of all town activity. For almost 200 years, from the time it was settled in 1780’s until after World War II, downtown Knoxville was THE center of town. My grandfather and my mom would tell wonderful stories about going downtown to shop at JC Penney‘s and Millers, have lunch at the Blue Circle, watch a movie at the majestic “Tennessee Theater” and look at Christmas lights in the shops along Gay Street. I always longed for those days because it sounded so ideal. After WWII, people began to move further out from the downtown and into the suburbs with its modern stores and malls. Soon, the downtown area looked old, dated and anything but modern. Many restaurants had closed. The shops moved out to the suburbs. We could now go to multiplex theater for the latest movies. And the Christmas lights were nothing to come see. Not an uncommon story.
I worked downtown for several years and let me tell you, the downtown then was nothing to write home about. There was little activity going on. During the weekdays, there was people downtown, but only to work. At 5:10pm on a Friday afternoon, you would think it had turned into a ghost town. My first job after I graduated from college was giving tours at Blount Mansion. My co-workers and I would joke about the fictitious tumble weeds that would pass by because that was the only thing down there. No people were to be found, except for the occasional tourist who was shocked that nobody was down there.
I longed for the downtown to be what it once was. For people to be apart of it and for it to be a active again. During my time in downtown Knoxville, it never changed. Then the hubs and I left Knoxville and we hadn’t been back to the downtown area in years. So when Rhonda told me that they were eating downtown, I was a taken aback.
I exited off I-40 and was easily steered toward the downtown area. I made a left turn from Summit Hill Dr onto Gay Street and I was amazed at what I saw. Gay Street was filled with people, shops, lights, a new multiplex theater, and restaurants. And parking. FREE PARKING! The downtown was filled with life again. And there next to the new theater was the S&W Grand.
I had never been to the S&W. It closed in 1982, so I didn’t have to opportunity to experience this wonderful Knoxville landmark. The S&W was THE place to eat during the mid 20th century in Knoxville. The façade greeted you with a wonderful exterior than only art deco can do. When you entered the S&W, you would have been greeted by a two story restaurant with lots of open space. To the left of the entrance was a grand curved staircase that took you to the second floor dining area. At the base of the staircase, was a organ with organist to entertain you while you ate. Above the organ was a sign that read “MEET YOUR FRIENDS HERE.“ Behind the staircase was a check room for your hat and coat. Next to it, was a alcove for a special select party. The S&W served cafeteria style food, with waiters that would carry your food to your table in first or second floor dining areas.
I have memories of walking by this grand building during my time downtown. It sat empty for almost 30 years, until now.
When I walked in to the S&W Grand, I was immediately whisked back to those days that I dreamt of, but also very aware that I was in a very modern restaurant. I met my aunt and uncle and their friends at the bar, which included Stephanie Balest, co-owner of the S&W Grand.
Stephanie and her co-owner brother are from Pittsburg, PA - above the Mason-Dixon line. When her family moved to Knoxville several years ago she always had hopes to open a restaurant in the old S&W, but the downtown wasn’t ready for it. So instead, they opened the Northshore Brasserie. Few year pass by and as fate would have it, she met the man who owned the S&W.
Its not often that I meet others who share the same passion that I do for historic preservation. We are a small and dedicated tribe! But after I greeted Stephanie with the secret historic preservation handshake, I knew that I was with like people.
She shares with me that only thing that is original from the old S&W is the ceiling and floor. That’s it. Honestly, they had me fooled. It looked too accurate to be a reproduction. What I thought was wallpaper with a shell-like design was actually real shells. Real shells! A guy in Asia who made the shell wall paneling. It took over 14,000 shells!
The alcove, the "MEET YOUR FRIENDS HERE" sign, the music, the check area, the curved staircase - its all there! The staircase alone thrilled my aunt! When she was a little girl, she begged my nana to let her go up the stairs. Nana agreed but under two conditions: she could not run and she must act like a lady. Well, 1 out of 2 ain’t bad! (Kidding! I kid. She didn’t run. She walked actually)
It takes a dedicated soul to do the work that Stephanie and her partners did to resurrect of this wonderful restaurant and Knoxville landmark. Restoration demands that you to be faithful to what was, not what you would do or your personal decorating preferences. You have to seek out what did the previous caretakers did. I’m so proud to say that the S&W Grand did just that. The gathering place of my grandfather is now a gathering place for me.
I think it is within our American DNA to want that which is new, modern and particularly, convenient, in our hometowns. Too often, we travel to other cities and seek out their history but don’t have a clue about our own hometown histories. When I worked at Blount Mansion, I used to joke that I took confession from local residences. It was not uncommon to hear locals say “I’ve lived here all my life and never been here.” Sometime it takes someone with fresh set of eyes and appreciation - someone not from the area - to bring back the beauty that once was.
So to my Knoxville homies, if you haven’t been downtown lately, go. Make it a part of your life again. For those of you in other parts of the county, look and see where your history is. Run and embrace it. Make it a part of your life as well. Take some advice from the S&W Grand and “MEET YOUR FRIENDS HERE” wherever that historic "here" is in your town.
Meeting my dear friend Carrie at the S&W Grand for lunch.Oh, and for those of you needing to confess, I still hear confession every Friday afternoon from 5-7pm.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
The Ice Age Cometh
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When I was in the 2nd grade, I remember learning in science class about the Ice Age. That thousands of years ago, the world was very cold and there was these HUGE glaciers that came deep into North America. I so clearly remember my teacher, Ms. Handley, telling us that another Ice Age could happen again. This was one of my fears when I was a child. That during my lifetime, I would have to live in an Ice Age. Do you have any idea how much this would affect my life? You never know when those pesky ice glaciers would attack!! When I was older, I realized that an Ice Age COULD happen, but it would take thousands of years for this to happen. Glaciers move slower than I do going to a gym. Fears, schmears.
Well, my fears came true two weeks ago. The ice age had finally cometh.
Just days before Christmas, I had 12” of snow at my door. TWELVE INCHES!! If you aren’t from the south, let me explain one brief fact to you: we don’t get snow. If we get half an inch of snow, schools close. Heck, schools have closed just for the mere threat of snow. So imagine what our lives were like here since we had twelve inches of that stuff.
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When we did have snow, my experience growing up in East Tennessee taught me two things:
1. You need the snow storm survival food group: milk, bread and eggs.
2. Darwin’s theory of survival of the fittest is actually fact.
In East Tennessee everyone runs to the grocery stores to stock up on the snow storm survival food group. I recall the first time it snowed just months after the hubs and I just got married. I immediately rushed out of the office and headed to Kroger’s for Rule #1: “the snow storm survival food group.” As I stood in the long line, I realized that back home we had plenty of the “the snow storm survival food group.” Why was I getting stuff we already had? It wasn’t going to snow that much. Dare I leave the store without milk, bread and eggs? Everyone else in Knoxville was getting their “snow storm survival food group” so something MUST be wrong with me that I didn’t need any. My thoughts were the only parts of me that were rebellious. I clutched onto my “snow storm survival food group” but also applied Rule #2: survival of the fittest. I rushed ahead of others to the video counter that had just opened and had the clerk there scan my milk, bread and eggs. Ha, ha, suckers!! Sorry grandma!
So as the snow fell last week, the hubs and I take off for the grocery store.
The hubs sees the last snow shovel in the store window. You would think we were on Supermarket Sweep. Quickly, he grabbed it and held the prized snow shovel close to his chest. Later, a mother with her child in a stroller made a derogatory remark about us and our snow shovel. Say what you will lady, but we still have a snow shovel and you don‘t. I don’t care how many kids ya got. You and your kids keep away from our snow shovel! No glacier is going to eat my house!
As we maneuvered our way into the store (snow shovel in hand), the hubs motions that we go to produce first. Produce? Yeeeeesssss. Produce would be a good move. We could be in the house so long that there could be a threat that we might develop scurvy. However, the dairy section implores us! “To dairy” I say. So with snow shovel in hand, we fight our way into dairy section. We reach the milk. The hubs venture in and surfaces with 1 gallon of milk. He sees me shaking my head. He goes back in. He soon surfaces yet again with two gallons of milk. He puts them in the cart, but alas, he can tell that two gallons isn’t enough. Three, I tell you!! Three gallons of milk!! We don’t know how long this storm is going to last. Its man versus nature.
Fighting off the natives to protect our snow shovel and milk and we successfully grabbed the eggs and the bread. We still have time for more supplies. So we gathered cookie dough, ingredients for chili, chips, some frozen pizzas and a several day of supply of Cheerwine. I think we will survive this Ice Age.
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Later on that night, a neighbor, we will call Mr. Crazy Neighbor, was trying to leave and got his car stuck in front of our house. Mr. Crazy Neighbor came very close to hitting our car. The hubs grabs the snow shove and digs the guy out. But the snow was too much for Mr. Crazy Neighbor, and he parks his car on the side of the road and hangs his head in shame and walks back home.
The next morning, Mr. Crazy Neighbor, knocks on our door and ask to borrow the snow shovel to try to get his car out one more time. Feeling safe from glaciers, a moment of weakness came over me and I let him borrow our snow shovel. He said that he would return it as soon as he got his car out. Three hours later, his car is long gone and so is our snow shovel. I was no longer the fittest. Survival was not looking good. The glacier was coming after me.
Later, the hubs gets up and needs to shovel his way out so he can get to work. He comes to me looking for the snow shovel. Frustrated by my weakness, I explained what happened. We put on our snow clothes and plow our way through the foot of snow, and walk to Mr. Crazy Neighbors house. I was told to remain at the end of the driveway so that I don’t scare off Mr. Crazy Neighbor with my eyebrows of doom. Mrs. Crazy Neighbor answers the door and quickly realizes why we are there. She informs us that Mr. Crazy Neighbor was just a few minutes away, helping get a friend out of the snow, WITH OUR SNOW SHOVEL. This was not part of our contract! The contract was for car only. Not car and friend. She graciously offered us her garden shovel until Mr. Crazy Neighbor returns. With my eyebrows of doom, I shake my head “NO” from the end of her driveway. The hubs gently tells Mrs. Crazy Neighbor that he needs to get to work and needs the snow shovel as soon as possible.
So you ask, am I still scared of living in a Ice Age? Yea, I still have my fear, particularly with global warming. It MIGHT happen. Don’t even get me started on the Little Ice Age that ended in the 1850s. But even if a glacier does appear at my door, I have milk, bread and eggs in my kitchen. Oh, and our snow shovel? It is now back home and has a nice warm spot near our front door….inside! With the threat of glaciers everywhere, you can never be too careful.
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Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Church of our Lady Scarlett O'Hara
Lately, the subject of tradition keeps coming up, particularly southern traditions and our kooky, southern ways. I think Ouiser from Steel Magnolias summed it best
Ousier: Here. (Throwing a bag of homegrown tomatoes at the ladies in the salon) Tomatoes. Somebody’s gotta take em. I hate em.
Arnelle: Then why do you grow ‘em?
Ousier: Because, I’m an old southern woman. We are supposed to wear funny lookin’ hats, ugly clothes and grow vegetables in the dirt. Don’t ask me those questions. I don’t know why! I don’t make the rules!
How true! We don’t know why we do them, we just do. Recently, I was going to a potluck and a dear friend of mine asked if the people coming to the potluck made normal food. I wasn’t sure what she meant. She said “Do they mess up food, like deviled eggs? Deviled eggs are not supposed to have smoked salmon and capers on them, Laura! Good southern women don’t mess up deviled eggs!” Now I’m not a fan of deviled eggs, but my friend has got a point. There are just some things we southerners just don’t do.
When I got married, a sweet Southern Lady gave me a deviled egg dish. She said “Laura, every good Southern women needs one.” Graciously, I accepted this sweet gift (without telling her that I HATE deviled eggs). For some reason, I could not get rid of the dish. For years I had this deviled egg dish sitting in my cabinet, just taking up space, but couldn’t let it go. I kept asking myself “Why I’m holding on to this thing?“ The only reason I could come up with is because you never know when you MIGHT need it. What if I needed to do an Easter Egg display? Shabam! Deviled Egg dish to the rescue. So after many years of struggle, I finally gave up the deviled egg dish. But gave it to another true southern lady, my sister, who loves deviled eggs.
Often, I take for grated the reason we do things and our southern heritage. I just assume that the rest of the world does things like us to. A good friend of mine, who will remain nameless because she is a Yankee, is always asking me why we do the things we do. She thought that all southerners were evangelical Christians. Not true. There are many degrees of the Christianity in the south. So I explained to her the degrees of evangelical Christians in the south, based on denomination. Your list may vary, but here’s mine, from least evangelical to the “bible thumping, snake-handling, you ain’t going home till your right with God” Christians:
Catholic
Episcopalian
Presbyterian
Methodist
Baptist
Church of God or Church of Christ (tie)
Southerners are religious people. We come from a long line of Protestant, Scotch Irish, English and German stock. Mention revival to a southerner, and they know that that means a week of church, usually in the summer time, often under a tent and there is a empty KFC bucket being passed down the rows for the offering. Whereas in other parts of the world, a revival could mean to them the reopening of a beloved Broadway play like “Fiddler on the Roof” or a furniture style like “Oh, Brad, I love that Greek revival settee” But in the south, revival means your going to be praying. All. Week. Long.
When my dad died, I learned more about us southerners. We are good people, but in times of crisis, we shine. We will supply you with more casseroles, sandwiches, cole slaw, fried chicken, pies, cookies, cakes, cokes, lemonade and sweet tea than you will ever need. Then we will follow up with a note, usually on our personal stationary, just letting you know that we are thinking of you and keeping you in our prayers. Do you know that mother personally keeps all the Hallmark stores in her town going? As long as my Mom is around, they will do great business. When Mom realizes that she forgot to send the sweet lady at church a card because it’s the 39 anniversary since her husband died, she runs out, gets a card, fills it with meaningful, thoughtful words and puts it in the mail by the end of the day and then says “Whew! That was close! I almost forgot! Thank goodness I put it on my task reminder!”
I kid you not, the week Dad died, someone was reorganizing the refrigerator at Mom’s 2 times a day, trying to fit the wonderful gifts of sympathy into it. And when John and I got home, for 6 weeks, our mail box was full of sympathy cards and notes just letting us know they were thinking of us.
I could go on and on. Yeah, I know, we are kooky group of people. But y’all keep moving to the south, so we must be doing something right! And we’ll be by your house later on this week with a green bean casserole and some deviled eggs to welcome you to the neighborhood! Did you know we have several church in the neighborhood? First Methodist, First Pres, First Baptist and the catholic church - the Church of our Southern Lady Scarlet O’Hara. Yep, they are just a few blocks down…..
Ousier: Here. (Throwing a bag of homegrown tomatoes at the ladies in the salon) Tomatoes. Somebody’s gotta take em. I hate em.
Arnelle: Then why do you grow ‘em?
Ousier: Because, I’m an old southern woman. We are supposed to wear funny lookin’ hats, ugly clothes and grow vegetables in the dirt. Don’t ask me those questions. I don’t know why! I don’t make the rules!
How true! We don’t know why we do them, we just do. Recently, I was going to a potluck and a dear friend of mine asked if the people coming to the potluck made normal food. I wasn’t sure what she meant. She said “Do they mess up food, like deviled eggs? Deviled eggs are not supposed to have smoked salmon and capers on them, Laura! Good southern women don’t mess up deviled eggs!” Now I’m not a fan of deviled eggs, but my friend has got a point. There are just some things we southerners just don’t do.
When I got married, a sweet Southern Lady gave me a deviled egg dish. She said “Laura, every good Southern women needs one.” Graciously, I accepted this sweet gift (without telling her that I HATE deviled eggs). For some reason, I could not get rid of the dish. For years I had this deviled egg dish sitting in my cabinet, just taking up space, but couldn’t let it go. I kept asking myself “Why I’m holding on to this thing?“ The only reason I could come up with is because you never know when you MIGHT need it. What if I needed to do an Easter Egg display? Shabam! Deviled Egg dish to the rescue. So after many years of struggle, I finally gave up the deviled egg dish. But gave it to another true southern lady, my sister, who loves deviled eggs.Often, I take for grated the reason we do things and our southern heritage. I just assume that the rest of the world does things like us to. A good friend of mine, who will remain nameless because she is a Yankee, is always asking me why we do the things we do. She thought that all southerners were evangelical Christians. Not true. There are many degrees of the Christianity in the south. So I explained to her the degrees of evangelical Christians in the south, based on denomination. Your list may vary, but here’s mine, from least evangelical to the “bible thumping, snake-handling, you ain’t going home till your right with God” Christians:
Catholic
Episcopalian
Presbyterian
Methodist
Baptist
Church of God or Church of Christ (tie)
Southerners are religious people. We come from a long line of Protestant, Scotch Irish, English and German stock. Mention revival to a southerner, and they know that that means a week of church, usually in the summer time, often under a tent and there is a empty KFC bucket being passed down the rows for the offering. Whereas in other parts of the world, a revival could mean to them the reopening of a beloved Broadway play like “Fiddler on the Roof” or a furniture style like “Oh, Brad, I love that Greek revival settee” But in the south, revival means your going to be praying. All. Week. Long.
When my dad died, I learned more about us southerners. We are good people, but in times of crisis, we shine. We will supply you with more casseroles, sandwiches, cole slaw, fried chicken, pies, cookies, cakes, cokes, lemonade and sweet tea than you will ever need. Then we will follow up with a note, usually on our personal stationary, just letting you know that we are thinking of you and keeping you in our prayers. Do you know that mother personally keeps all the Hallmark stores in her town going? As long as my Mom is around, they will do great business. When Mom realizes that she forgot to send the sweet lady at church a card because it’s the 39 anniversary since her husband died, she runs out, gets a card, fills it with meaningful, thoughtful words and puts it in the mail by the end of the day and then says “Whew! That was close! I almost forgot! Thank goodness I put it on my task reminder!”
I kid you not, the week Dad died, someone was reorganizing the refrigerator at Mom’s 2 times a day, trying to fit the wonderful gifts of sympathy into it. And when John and I got home, for 6 weeks, our mail box was full of sympathy cards and notes just letting us know they were thinking of us.
I could go on and on. Yeah, I know, we are kooky group of people. But y’all keep moving to the south, so we must be doing something right! And we’ll be by your house later on this week with a green bean casserole and some deviled eggs to welcome you to the neighborhood! Did you know we have several church in the neighborhood? First Methodist, First Pres, First Baptist and the catholic church - the Church of our Southern Lady Scarlet O’Hara. Yep, they are just a few blocks down…..
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