Christmas Memories-Part 2

This happened when I was about eight/nine and we were living in a dinky mobile home park in Florance, SC. I guess things were lean that year because there was not much under the tree that I can remember. But on Christmas eve we all got a great surprise. A knock came on our door that night with a merry ho, ho, ho. OMG, It was Santa! At our door! With a big bag of toys! He came in and gave out presents all around. I can't remember what they were, just that we had a personal visit from old St. Nick.
Years later and really to this day we have no idea who it really was, but I have a suspicion that it was a dentist that work with my dad's dental lab.

Any special memory you have of Santa?

Christmas Memories-Part 1

I thought that since Christmas is only a week away that would share some past Christmas memories of mine this week.
I think my earliest memory was when I was five or six years old and was in my hometown of North Wilkesboro, NC. We were in the parking lot of a grocery store (probably a Piggy Wiggly) in my grandmother's Chevrolet surrounded by all the shiny decorations that were so popular in the sixties.. I remember looking up and seeing a light going by in the sky. Being just three I just knew it was Santa and that he was going to my mammaw's house and that he would leave without delivering presents because we were not there. That upset me bad.
Of course, it was a plane, but my youthful, Innocent self did not know that. My grandma explained to me that Santa would come back because it was still early and he had to go to other kids houses, too.
What did I get that year. The only present I remember I got (though I'm sure there were more) was a red cowgirl outfit complete with hat and boots (my favorite song that year was These Boots Are Made For Walking by Nancy Sinatra) and a pony. Yes, I really did get a pony. I named him Silver after the Lone Ranger's horse even though he was brown.

How about you? What is your earliest Christmas memory?

$40 Million Dream

The other day at work my co-workers and I were discussing a sports star two year forty million dollar contract and what we would do with that kind of money. Of course there were the normal dreams of big houses and travel and kids' college funds. One lady wanted to start a foundation for underprivileged kids. But it got me to really thinking-what WOULD I do with that kind of money?
Besides making sure my nieces and nephews were taken care of and college bound/paid for, my bills paid off, and make sure I never have to work a "real" job again, this is what I want...
I am downtown Johnson City alot. While roaming the streets I run into the homeless. Contrary to what people believe these homeless aren't mental, druggies, or criminals. There is a large veteran's hospital here in Johnson City. For the most part these homeless are veterans coming here to the hospital for help and just have no where to stay. The local shelters just do not have enough room or resources to deal with them all. With $40 million I could buy up some houses around the hospital and turned them into places for them to stay, staffed with caring people. And set up a foundation to keep it going. It is only what they deserve.
Next, set up a annual donation to the arts for kids programs in this area. Children need to be exposed to the visual arts, music, writing. Studies show that they do better in other areas when they are.
Another thing I would wish to do is buy up one of the old abandon warehouses downtown and convert it into studios for artists who have no place or little space to work. Believe you me, this is an issue for me as my house is quite small and I would love to do larger works. The is an excellent college near by-East Tennessee State University-with a great arts program, but I bet most of the arts students don't have much space to create outside the classroom. Just the thought of a large warehouse space filled with artists of all ages and styles exchanging ideas, critiques, info, and coffee makes me shiver. With delight. And, of course, there will have to be a gallery space to show all that work.
If there was anything left over I would want my own gallery to show my and others' work.

Ok, done dreaming. Time to start the laundry. And a new painting.

Luvs and happy creating!

Fireworks, Watermelons, and Rain

This July 4th I was forced by the economy to make a decision has how to celebrate. I’m sure a lot of people had to make the same decision. How to celebrate…or more to the point how much to spend to celebrate. I only had so much to spend. Did I want to have a great spread for the family picnic? Or did I want to have a fireworks display? How about a little of both…a small backyard cookout and lesser fireworks? In the end I opted for the fireworks. Why? 1-Because the only ones to show up for a cookout was my sis and her crew and they couldn’t be there until late because her man had to work late. So what was the point? 2-because I’m an unabashed firebug. I love playing with fire and explosives and fireworks. 3-because of the kids in my neighborhood. I wanted them to have a great fireworks display without their parents having to have the hassle of trying to get to the downtown display. So with my fireworks and the display of the neighbors on either side of me we had a great street wide fireworks.

Afterwards I cut up a watermelon for my niece and nephews and we ate it on the deck in the rain. Such fun!

It rained all night and is still raining. This always happens after fireworks around here.

A Short-Story, The Honeysuckle Incident

I shut off the vac. In the absence of it's industious roar I could hear the squeals of little boy delight and the screams of abject terror. Sighing deeply I left off the never ending housework when there are childern around.
I went out onto the porch, stepping over my black chow Pudgin (don't ask), and looked up just in time to see one of my nephews, Patrick, careen around the corner of the house, his face pale and tears in his eyes. Behind him in hot pursuit came his four year old baby brother, Dalton, giggling that evil laugh that you only hear in a Stephen King movie. He had something in his hand raised up as if to throw it at his fleeing brother.Pat rushed up the steps and hid behind me.
"What is going on out here?"
"Dalton's trying to kill me!" Pat wailed. "He's throwing honeysuckles on me."
I looked at the white blond-haired, big blue eyed mini demon in front of me and saw that in his hand he indeed held a tiny honeysuckle blossem. The wooded area behind my house was covered in them.
Normally the throwing of honeysuckle blossems would not matter, but recently we found out that Pat was allergic to the nectur inside. He had sucked it out along with his brothers last summer and blew up like he had been bee stung. Which resulted in a trip to ER, many doctor visits, and shots. Understandably he was very paranoid about honeysuckles.
"Dalton, why are you chasing your brother with that?"
"Fun!"
I shuddered. I swear Dalt sounded just like that kid off of Pet Semetery.
"Dalton, sweetie, I want you to find something else to entertain yourself besides terrorizing your brother."
"No!"
Why is it that that is the first word every child learns first?
"Do it or you will come inside for a nap."
He started to cry.
"Don't want nap." He stomped his little dirty feet. "You're mean. Going tell my mommy."
"Yeah, right. I'm shaking in my flip-flops."
He stomped his foot again, threw down the blossem as if to make a dent in my porch, and ran off toward the swingset, Pudgin right behind him.
"What if he does it again?" Pat said, sniffling.
I looked at the red-headed eight year old. Time to nip this paranoria in the bud, pun intended.
"Patrick, did Dalton force you down and stick the honeysuckle in your mouth"?
"No."
"Did the honeysuckle spit evil sweet-smelling goo at you?"
"No..."
"Did the blossem sink little teeth into your skin to suck out your blood?"
He just stared at me.
"Then I don't think you'll fall over dead if a honeysuckle should hit your skin. Now, go play-quietly-while I finish the housework."
He shuffled off the porch and headed in the other direction from Dalt. Somehow, though, I knew was not the end of this. I fully expected to be back out here breaking up another fight within the hour.
As I turned to go back inside my eyes landed on their older brother, Cory.
"Why didn't you stop this?"
He shugged.
"I knew it wouldn't hurt him and it was fun to watch."
I let out an aspirated sigh and headed back in with a slam of the screen door.
And it was only alittle after ten am.

The Honeysuckle Incident

I shut off the vac. In the absence of it's industious roar I could hear the squeals of little boy delight and the screams of abject terror. Sighing deeply I left off the never ending housework when there are childern around. I went out onto the porch, stepping over my black chow Pudgin (don't ask), and looked up just in time to see one of my nephews, Patrick, careen around the corner of the house, his face pale and tears in his eyes. Behind him in hot pursuit came his four year old baby brother, Dalton, giggling that evil laugh that you only hear in a Stephen King movie. He had something in his hand raised up as if to throw it at his fleeing brother.
Pat rushed up the steps and hid behind me.
"What is going on out here?"
"Dalton's trying to kill me!" Pat wailed. "He's throwing honeysuckles on me."
I looked at the white blond-haired, big blue eyed mini demon in front of me and saw that in his hand he indeed held a tiny honeysuckle blossem. The wooded area behind my house was covered in them.
Normally the throwing of honeysuckle blossems would not matter, but recently we found out that Pat was allergic to the nectur inside. He had sucked it out along with his brothers last summer and blew up like he had been bee stung. Which resulted in a trip to ER, many doctor visits, and shots. Understandably he was very paranoid about honeysuckles.
"Dalton, why are you chasing your brother with that?"
"Fun!"
I shuddered. I swear Dalt sounded just like that kid off of Pet Semetery.
"Dalton, sweetie, I want you to find something else to entertain yourself besides terrorizing your brother."
"No!"
Why is it that that is the first word every child learns first?
"Do it or you will come inside for a nap."
He started to cry.
"Don't want nap." He stomped his little dirty feet. "You're mean. Going tell my mommy."
"Yeah, right. I'm shaking in my flip-flops."
He stomped his foot again, threw down the blossem as if to make a dent in my porch, and ran off toward the swingset, Pudgin right behind him.
"What if he does it again?" Pat said, sniffling.
I looked at the red-headed eight year old. Time to nip this paranoria in the bud, pun intended.
"Patrick, did Dalton force you down and stick the honeysuckle in your mouth"?
"No."
"Did the honeysuckle spit evil sweet-smelling goo at you?"
"No..."
"Did the blossem sink little teeth into your skin to suck out your blood?"
He just stared at me.
"Then I don't think you'll fall over dead if a honeysuckle should hit your skin. Now, go play-quietly-while I finish the housework."
He shuffled off the porch and headed in the other direction from Dalt. Somehow, though, I knew was not the end of this. I fully expected to be back out here breaking up another fight within the hour.
As I turned to go back inside my eyes landed on their older brother, Cory.
"Why didn't you stop this?"
He shugged.
"I knew it wouldn't hurt him and it was fun to watch."
I let out an aspirated sigh and headed back in with a slam of the screen door.
And it was only alittle after ten am.