It's That Time of Year

The Christmas Waltz song keeps running through my mind today...

Frosted window panes, candles gleaming inside
Painted candy canes on the tree
Santa's on his way, he's filled his sleigh with things
Things for you and for me

It's that time of year when the world falls in love
Ev'ry song you hear seems to say
"Merry Christmas, may your New Year dreams come true"
And this song of mine in three-quarter time
Wishes you and yours the same thing, too

Right.  The candles on our window sills just went off on their timers, as did the Christmas tree, and I'm eating a candy cane as I type. Check, check, and check! But, honestly people, the only way our window panes would be "frosty" today is if I went out and soaped them! I think we may have hit the mid 60's again today, after 72 earlier this week. I don't want to sound all Scroogy, but I hate December weather that feels more like May. Bah! Humbug. Still, I hope that Santa will come our way...even if he has to leave the furs in the North Pole and wear a pair of Bermuda shorts!

Maybe we should be singing my favorite song from The Muppets Christmas Carol...makes me laugh every year when I watch it:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IwahCM3mC9A. Put me in a better mood, just now.

OK! So, we are a week away from Christmas Day. How are things coming along? Well, I've most of my baking done, as you can see in these pictures of Hello Dollies and Delaware Butterballs; Banana-Cranberry muffins; and star-shaped Sugar Cookie cutouts:

 

 

 

Missy M made a batch of Nana's Nuts and Bolts (our name for Chex Mix) after Thanksgiving...which we consumed in record time. Maybe we can get her to make some more, please. Oh, and I pulled out Nana's recipe for Cheese Ball...simple but always tasty...and made both a cheese ball and a cheese log from the same batch. Must have the savories with the sweets!

We'll have M's Breakfast casserole on Christmas Day; and unless we are entirely too full (again this year), we'll roast a turkey breast with all the trimmings for dinner. Just need to make our traditional coconut cake for dessert...oh, and Monkey Bread for Christmas morning! I'll try to remember to take a picture of the finished product this year before we eat it.

I went to a wreath-making workshop a couple of weeks ago, and now my "masterpiece" adorns our front door. I'm really proud of this effort, because Missy M treated me to a similar workshop a few years ago in Louisville...and I was a complete klutz. This time, I had a better idea of what to do...and what I wanted the end product to look like. Plus, I wasn't afraid to use plenty of pins!

2015 Merry Christmas Wreath: I made it myself at Toms Creek Nursery!

We got the yard decorations out, the Sheepie tree up in the dining room window, and the aforementioned candles in the front bedroom windows:

We even got tickets to the NC Symphony's Holiday Pops, presented at High Point University. That always puts us in a festive spirit!

I've also got my annual newsletter typed, printed, and folded; and the cards are ready to be sealed and stamped (Mr. T's job this year) so we can make the mad dash to the P.O. tomorrow to barely meet the deadline. I do believe I have all my shopping done...and even more importantly, my purchased gifts are all wrapped and under the tree. I have one gift to finish knitting (so what else is new?), which should happen tonight. And then...I can sit back, relax, and enjoy the season, right? Well, it's a plan.

Why am I so far ahead of the game, you ask? Well, everything was accelerated because our Lunn Family Christmas get together was earlier than usual this year, meaning most of the shopping, wrapping, etc., had to be done by December 11. T&LaD drove down from KY, Missy M drove up from GA, and Mr. T. and I drove over from NC to meet up in Nashville last weekend. We had a wonderful time together! Breakfasts at the Bistro in the lobby of our Doubletree; dinner at Coco's Italian Market; and dessert and gift exchange at J&J's house. Superb!!

And we even got to attend "How the Grinch Stole Christmas!" at the Opry, with Stewart cousin Scott starring as Old Max (the Grinch's dog...all grown up and doing the narrating for the stage play). He has a fabulous singing voice, which he got to showcase on the song "You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch." What a great performance! His dad, cousin Mark, even joined us for breakfast, making it an all-around family weekend. Check out the interview and pictures of SS in character here: http://www.broadwayworld.com/nashville/article/BWW-Interview-Bringing-THE-GRINCH-To-Life-At-The-Grand-Ole-Opry-House-20151130

Missy M will be taking some vaca days next week, so she'll head her Mini up I-85 on Sunday to join us for the Holidays. Her dogs, Ella Rae and Dixie, have been with us since she was here for Thanksgiving (they stayed with us due to her travel schedule in early December). Mr. T., who is still catching up on work after being out for 8 weeks, isn't planning on taking any days off, but neither is he planning on leaving town for business either. It should be a joyful and peaceful approach to the Season.

I do need to head to the grocery store for this n' that, but we aren't making ourselves crazy with last minute preparations this year. It has been so hectic for the past few months (all year, really) that we are relishing a more laid-back approach.

Fingers crossed that we achieve it. Toes, too! After all, it IS that time of year. Right?

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Here are a few photos from the past weekend. And don't forget to check out my final post for the year plus pictures, over on our gardening blog. Click here to go there!

Terry joins us for breakfast at the Bistro

Dessert and gift exchange at Jack and Julie's house

Cousins Mark and Scott Stewart with Patricia

Leaving the show...heading to dinner at Coco's Italian Market



Thomas, Julie, and Jack showing off the Christmas Cracker prizes: xylophones and crowns

Random Thoughts on A Road Trip

I've stopped at the Senator Albert Gore (Sr.), Patsy Cline and Chet Atkins Rest Areas. I've driven on Sawyer Brown Road, the Andrew Jackson Parkway, and the Carl Perkins Highway. I've been to the Alvin C. York Veterans Administration Building. (OK, not really on that last one. But it was on the same exit with Whitts BBQ...:)

Forget Waldo. Where's Patricia?Three guesses...and the first two don't count.

Here are a few thoughts that have floated through my brain while driving, over the past three days and the last 1400 miles...and still counting...

1. Momma was right. She always said the roadbed of I-40 was poured, east coast to west coast, following the sun. Going from east to west in the late afternoon can be brutal on the eyes.

2. Papaw was right. If someone invented a giant vacuum to suck up all the cotton (lint) on the roadsides of West Tennessee this time of the year, he'd be a rich man. (Of course, Papaw would think it had to be a man to invent such a thing...so, maybe he was wrong, too...:)

3. I love the coast and The Beach. I love the mountains and the Piedmont. Heck, I <3 North Carolina altogether. But NC just doesn't really have a region to compare to the farms and fields of West Tennessee. And I think I need to get an infusion of it annually.

4. There is nothing like an old friend. One, who...when she receives a text out of the blue asking to meet...drops everything she is doing to make it happen. And then who picks up the conversation right where we left off, like it was 15 minutes, instead of 15 months ago. Is there something better than BFF? 'Cause that's what ATT is for me.

5. Seeing one of the last of your Mother's contemporaries frail and failing is a painful thing to witness. Not enough tissues in the car, dang it. Of course, this was the reason for my pilgrimage at this time, and to this place. Painful as may be, it was still worth it.

6. Seeing your 104-year old cousin in relatively good health and even better spirits is a remarkable thing to witness. Puts a song in my heart!

7. Having a brother & SIL who live "en route" of all my running about is a fortunate thing. Having ones who let me use their house like a B & B when they're out of town is priceless.

8. Having a husband who not only understood why I had to make this trip, but also insisted I go...and then dog-sat, painted the front porch rails, AND installed the new kitchen light fixture while I was away is beyond priceless.

9. Tennessee has, without a doubt, the cleanest Rest Area rest rooms...and the most anemic hand dryers. Three words. Paper. Towels. Please.

10. I love technology! Being able to stay in touch with everyone via my cell and texting is great. And what would I do without satellite radio?!

11. I hate technology! Just when you need to do something, you are in a NO SERVICE area. Never fails.

12. Being the driver, I can "take the road less traveled," i.e., US Highway 70, or a scenic drive...or, as Mr. T calls them "Bird Roads" (for the picture of the mockingbird, Tennessee's state bird, on the road signs). That's where you find the good stuff, like Mud Puddle Pottery.

13. I'm not so sure about technology. Mr. T said "Apple's 'Find My Friends' ap says you are about 300 miles from High Point." That's nice. Wait a minute...I wonder if it can tell I stopped at that yarn shop in Crossville? Hmmmm...

14. Mr. T is right. The slowest drivers are on those so-called scenic roads. Where is I-40?! Time to make tracks back home!

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Update: I'm back in HPNC, safe and sound...and only a bit worse-for-wear. Nothing a good night's sleep in my own bed won't cure. Glad I went...glad I'm home. No regrets.

P. O. Box 93

I was robbed.

Yesterday around 9:00 a.m., during an apparent attempted robbery, two men in a maroon Chevrolet Malibu reportedly shot and killed two women:  Paula Robinson, 33, and Judy Spray, 58, neither of whom was known to me personally. That's the who, the how, the what, the when, and possibly even the why. 

It's the where that is personal.  So very personal.  Because of where this crime occured, I spent a restless night, trying to process what had happened.  I'm hoping that writing about it will help.  Please indulge me.

Most of you know, or have figured out, that I'm a native Tennessean.  While I was born and spent the first three years of my life in the Big City 50 or so miles to the south, I grew up in the tiny town of Henning in Lauderdale County.  When I say "tiny town," I'm probably being generous.  As I recall, there were fewer than 500 residents, counting "dogs, cats, and gophers," as they used to say...although I can't ever recall actually seeing a gopher in Henning.

N/M/E...my mother...had come to live in Henning at the age of 13, from the farm of her maternal grandfather in Hardeman County.  Her father, called Jimmy by one-and-all...except for my brother, our first cousin, and me, who called him Papaw...had finally been able to provide his children with a stable home, six years after the death of his wife, their mother.  It was the early 30's and in the depths of the depression, but he was fortunate to have found a permanent job as a teacher...the profession of his Cummings ancestors and a profession he'd trained for at State Normal College (now known as the University of Memphis).  He would eventually be named the principal of the Henning School, before moving on sometime in the late 30's to the job that I identify with him.

N/M/E always said that she hated leaving the farm, hated leaving her grandfather (Nan-nanny, as he was called, since she couldn't manage "Grand-daddy" early on), and hated Henning.  Hated. It.  That she would leave there as soon as she was grown and would never come back there to live.  Never-ever.

"Never say never."  Much less never-ever.

Shortly after my brother was born, our family of four did indeed move to Henning...for a couple of very specific reasons.  My dear Daddy was then an electric lineman, climbing poles and helping keep the lights on for Memphis Light, Gas & Water.  Doing a job he loved, for sure, but still a job meant for a young man.  You can't climb poles forever.  And, at that moment in time, the U.S. Government had a mandatory retirement age of 65...which my Papaw was poised to have to accept.

You see, the job that Papaw had moved on to after teaching was that of Rural Letter Carrier for the U.S. Post Office.  A job that was steady and that paid well for the times.  A job that meant he had to have two cars...one for work and one for "town"...and that suited Papaw's sense of pride and ownership.  And a job that was reportedly a political plum, which is supposedly why my family was always identified as "Republican," when the majority of West Tennessee thought that was the same thing as saying "Damn Yankee."  I guess the powers-that-were in Lauderdale County were Elephants at the time he got the job?



Easter at Papaw's in Henning

 Anyway,  Papaw was "being forced out," as the story was told in our family, so he wanted to help Daddy get "in."  Daddy took the test, scored the highest score possible (Daddy had very little formal education, but he was a smart man), and was notified he was at the top of the hiring list.  So we packed up and moved away from the house on Lynbar.  Moved into Papaw's century-old two-bedroom house.  Moved to the town where Momma said she'd never live again.  That's a photo of me on Papaw's front porch at Easter (left).

Soon we were renting Miss Minna's house across from the Methodist Church.  I only remember five things about that house...three bad, one good, and one that still makes me laugh. 

First, I remember my brother getting so sick that he had to be rushed to the hospital emergency room...not once, but multiple times; he was sick in bed for a long time, it seems.  Second, I remember burning my fingers on the hot iron...which I had touched in spite of being warned NOT to touch by Arbella because it was hot; had to see for myself, I suppose. I tried to cool the burning sensation by hiding my blistered hand in a velvet sofa cushion; hiding the burns mainly because I was more than a little afraid of Arbella's reaction.  And third, I remember standing in the front porch swing and flipping backward, cutting my chin which bled profusely. Shouldn't have been standing, I know, but still...a bad memory, nonetheless.

The good thing I remember is so vivid that I can almost smell the flowers.  I was headed out the back door to go play with my friend Linda, who lived around the corner and down the street toward town.  It was a bright, sunny, newly-warm Spring day, and daffodils were blooming everywhere it seems.  It must have been one of the first decent days after a long, cold Winter.  Anyway, I remember being so happy.  So absolutely happy.

The memory that still cracks me up will tell you something about life in a small town.  I had gone to church with Linda.  Her father and her brother (who was my age and in the same grade with me at Henning Elementary School) attended the Methodist Church, where my family were members.  But, Linda and her sister belonged to the Baptist Church with their mother.  On this particular Sunday morning, Linda and I apparently did a bit too much chatting in the pew because the preacher called us down from the pulpit. Told us to be quiet, or something close to that. Linda's mother was appalled and told us so at the end of the service.

I thought I would get away with the transgression, though, because Momma wasn't in the congregation; she was at the Methodist Church.  But, when I walked in the back door, she let me have it.  Told me how embarrassed and ashamed she was to hear what I had done.  Talking out loud during the Service!

How had she found out?  Well, before I could walk the half-block back home from the Baptist Church, which "let out" later than the Methodist Church did, no less than 3 "helpful" neighbors had told her what had happened.  Truly, it was a lesson to be learned.  Oh, not the one about not talking in the service.  I'm talking about the lesson of "when you live in a small town, someone always knows what you are doing...and usually before you do it...and they are eager to tell your parent(s)."

We eventually made the move down the street, past the water tower, around the corner, and up the hill to the rambling house my parents bought...and devoted most of their money and time to renovating over the next 16 years.  I have many, many memories of that house, the majority of which fall in the "good" category.

What street was it on?  What was the address, you ask?  Well, that's just it.  There weren't any street names or house numbers in Henning.  It was just known that we lived in The Mann House.

[Funny aside:  my brother was at a party once.  Told someone that he was from Henning.  Oh, really?  I know Henning!  Where did you live?  Brother J described where we lived, and then fell back on "we lived in The Mann House."  You mean The Lunn House, don't you?  Apparently, we lived there long enough to have the house identified with us rather than with Mr. Mann who was the original owner and builder!]

I've mapped it on Google and found out that the streets do indeed have names now.  It appears that I lived all those years on Thum Street.  Who knew?

No, for all the years that I lived in Henning, in all three of those houses, my address was P. O. Box 93.  There was no home delivery of mail.  Just like everyone else in town, we went to the post office to get our mail.  You walked in the building on the main street (then, Highway 51), spun the dial to the correct combination, opened your box, and retrieved your mail.  I wonder if I could remember our combination if I tried really hard? 

Sometimes, especially if it was Summer or if we had a school holiday, I'd ask to walk to the post office so that I could take a detour to Turner's Cafe for some lemon ice-box pie and a 7-Up...if I still had some of my allowance left.  But, most of the time, there wasn't anything left in our box to retrieve. You see, even though there was no home delivery of mail in Henning, we had our own Mail Man in our house. 

Daddy carried the mail out of the Henning Post Office to those folks residing on Rural Route 2.  Out Highway 87 to Glimp (I kid you not...:), on to Fort Pillow and the Tennessee State Prison, and then down to Fulton and into the bottoms where the prime farming land was...and which was prone to flooding in the Spring when the Mississippi escaped her banks.  He worked from 7:00 a.m. to 2:00ish, six days a week, and he always brought our mail home with him.

During the other day-light hours, and many times into the night, Daddy cared for his coin laundry business, located on the main street, same side as the post office.  The washer and dryers were slot-operated and required quarters and dimes.  Hence, it should come as no surprise that my allowance came in change...all rolled up in tubes.

Daddy loved being a Rural Letter Carrier.  Even though he sometimes clashed with Mr. S. over some rule or regulation (hint:  if Daddy said it was written a certain way, you could take it to the bank...it was written that way], he loved delivering the mail...and he loved his patrons, as he called the folks on his route.  Heck, he even liked going to the Prison and getting a hair cut or a steak lunch for less than a $1.00.

Eventually, he transferred to the Millington Post Office, where he carried the mail on the rural route that included Shelby Forest...and the Rev. Al Green's house.  And, he retired after a few years on a rural route out of the Germantown Post Office.  But, looking back, it was the Henning Post Office that was his favorite.

Because of that post office and his job there, I got to go on vacations and do things in places that others in that county only read about.  Because of that post office and his job there, I got to get a car while I was still in high school, when I was barely 16, and charge the $.299/gallon gas at Johnson's Gulf Station for all our running around.  Because of that post office and his job there, I got to go to college and get my degree.  I owe that post office a lot.

So when the news story came across the internet yesterday that those two women...one of whom was a Rural Letter Carrier...had been shot and killed inside the Henning Post Office (which is in a different building now), I wanted to put my head down on my keyboard and cry.

Cry for the victims.  Cry for their families.  And, cry for what I had lost.

I have always had this strong sense of security, deep down in my being. I might not be sophisticated, and I had a lot to learn after leaving Henning, but I have always felt grounded.  I had a sense of place.  No matter where I lived at the present, I knew where I was from.  It was comfortable...and comforting.

And, that safe, secure, sense of place was taken from me yesterday.  I came face-to-face with what I've heard others say:  "it's just not the same as when we grew up there." 

I read a quote the other day.  "Nostalgia is the desire to repossess what you never had."  But, I tell you we had it.  We had a quiet, little town with neighbors who cared about you, where we felt safe. 

Henning may still be able to lay claim to being a little town (although I see in some of the news stories that the population has grown to 1200); Henning may still have neighbors who care; but it will be a very long time before anyone there...or from there...can feel safe.