Why I Didn't Get to Work on Time

The gentleman who is painting our house is a gem. I just love MC. As we like to say around here, he is country. That’s not an insult. That just means he’s a simple man of simple tastes who works hard, cares about the quality of his work and is a plain talker. MC cuts right to the chase. He doesn’t waste a lot of words, and he wraps that strong southern twang around those words in a way that I could listen to all day long. When he likes something, he says, “Coooool”. MC is my age, but his slang is straight out of the 60’s. It doesn’t sound old fashioned or out of date when he says it. Just quaint. Here lately I’ve caught myself saying, “Coooool” when something pleases me.

As I was driving to work this morning, I saw that MC and his crew were painting at the new house, and that put me in a good mood because that means we’re making progress on this remodeling mayhem we began seven (yes, seven) weeks ago. I flipped the iPod on to shuffle and started humming. My mind was busy planning the day and the week ahead so I didn’t pay much attention to the music until about three miles later when I rounded a curve. Greeting me on the other side of the bend was a beautiful sunrise glowing over the Tennessee River. The opening strains of Dion’s Abraham, Martin and John hit my ears at the same time. It’s one of my favorite songs, and I never get tired of it. The sun was warming up the sky nicely and bouncing off the grain elevators sitting on the river. After driving three blocks in fifty mile an hour traffic, checking the sun in my rearview mirror and debating whether it was worth being late to work by taking a picture, I turned the car around and went back. I bailed out, left the car running and with the faint strains of Dion in my ears I dashed across the wet grass for a couple of photos. When I was finished I stood there for a moment soaking up the sights, sounds and smells of the morning and felt very alive. It was just one of those moments that pop up every now and then and make you feel extra sensitive to your surroundings and very glad to be alive. I took one last look at the sun, which was already changing and smiled. Coooool.

Old School

The Hula-gen's are all over class reunions these days. Last weekend we attended my elementary school reunion. Yesterday, we took Papa T. and Mama J. to Papa T.'s 57th high school reunion. We drove an hour and a half to a city in Tennessee where the class gathered, passing through the tiny town where they attended school so many years ago. There were twenty one students in Papa T.'s graduating class, and his was a big class. There were six seniors in the group that graduated before them. Ten members of his class gathered yesterday, as they've done for the last several years. It was great fun to listen to them swap stories and tell lies on each other. Hubby and I were the youngest people in the room, and we didn't mind at all. We listened to a lot of wisdom and soaked up some character. The grilled shrimp wasn't bad either.


Papa T. grew up in a farm town. It's the kind of town that still has grain bins on the main drag, a little BBQ joint and a handful of homes on the "other side of the tracks". The old storefronts with big glass windows are still there and tell you exactly where the bank, the post office and the hardware store used to be. Not much has changed there in the seventy years since Papa T. trudged to school down dusty dirt roads in sturdy brown brogans. In his time, everybody farmed, nobody had any money and you ate what you raised. School was important, but it was a level playing field, since no one had fancy clothes or expensive backpacks. People made do with what they had.

The school he graduated from still stands. It's closed now and sits abandoned at the edge of town. It housed elementary grades AND high school students. It was actually built when Papa T. was in third grade. The original school burned one day while the students were in class. Papa T. remembers being ushered out of the building and a frantic search for a missing first grader who was later found at home two miles away. He remembers spending the next two years scattered around town where the grades were divided among the local Baptist, Methodist and Church of Christ churches. Classes were held in Sunday school rooms and sanctuaries with dividers placed in the main aisle, separating grades. By the fourth grade, he was in the brand new building where he would spend the next nine years with the same small group of kids. This is their senior picture.

Papa T. is the third from the left on the back row. Apparently, he and his classmates were close. A symptom of being a small group, I suppose. They still seem to enjoy each other's company.

This lady looks like a Hollywood glamour queen in her yearbook photo.

This fellow helped Papa T. to get into a fair amount of trouble way back when.And this guy used to keep a $2 bottle of Four Roses bootleg liquor bought out of the the back door of the local funeral home hidden in the corn crib. The boys slipped out there for a snort every now and then.

There were tales about old cars and watermelon stealin' and stolen kisses. And most interesting of all, they each stood up individually to give everyone an update on what had happened to them in the last year. Most of them told of their RV trips and their grandchildren's achievements. One lady remarried after being single for 26 years. Papa T. was last, and I held my breath a little when he stood to speak. I looked at Hubby and made eye contact with Mama J. They were nervous, too. It's been a terrible year for Papa T.. Losing your eyesight and a grown child to suicide are not things you want to share with the whole world, but everyone in the room was somewhat aware of his situation. His blindness had been an elephant in the room up to that point. He rose slowly, his bad knee causing him to grimace a little. He smiled and as he always does when he has to deal with something difficult, he met it head on. He talked about his eye problems as a young man and explained that his last surgery was the last operation possible for him and that it didn't really do anything to stop the blindness. I caught the tear that started to squeeze out of my right eye before it slid down my cheek. He explained how life sometimes hands us obstacles and we just "have to deal with them". And then he said something that took me by surprise. He told his fellow classmates how much he cared about them and that the one good thing about blindness was that in his eyes, they would never grow any older. That they were standing still in time to a certain degree and that he liked that. They liked it, too. They all smiled and then rolled with laughter when he broke into a story about him and James on the court square with a loud muffler and a police officer.

I breathed a sigh of relief and marveled over the way he had handled the situation. And I smiled at the warmth those folks still feel for each other after 57 years. How remarkable. I found it especially comforting on the heels of a national day of remembrance for the folks lost in the worst terrorist acts on American soil. While there is still turmoil and hate around the world, in its small corners there are folks who love each other and nurture each other through the years. They toil the soil, walk down Main street and keeps things rolling in small town America, generation after generation. Hubby and I enjoyed our visit with the Class of '52. Those Puryear Hornets gave us quite the education yesterday.

When Those Franklin Lancers Fall In Line

This past weekend we had a class reunion. Not the usual high school reunion, but an elementary school reunion. That’s right, the Franklin Elementary class of 1978 and its teachers gathered to reminisce and catch up with each other. The idea grew out of a thrown together dinner a few of us had last year at a local restaurant. It was more fun than a barrel of preschoolers on a Mountain Dew high, and you can read about it here. In fact, you should probably read it to understand why we have such a strong attachment to our grade school and each other. Essentially, we grew up in a Mayberry like atmosphere that’s pretty unheard of these days. Some of us don’t want to let go of that memory. And that’s okay.

Madd Maxx, M. and me started planning the event last fall, and it culminated with Saturday’s wing ding. For months, Maxx emailed and called from Louisiana with ideas. He would text over a worry about food or RSVPs, and I would text back “Chill” or “Dude, it will be fine.” He (thankfully) reminded me to check on various things, and I did. Well, except for that CD player I was supposed to bring to the reunion. He took it upon himself to locate each and every one of our classmates, spending who knows how much time on the phone and computer. He’s a whiz at tracking people down. He should work for the CIA. Or a repo company. M. works at a bank in our hometown, so she knows where people have been hiding out for the last three decades, too. She collected reservations and money. Together, we managed to gather together many of our classmates and teachers for a Labor Day weekend reunion.

There were people there whom I hadn’t seen in thirty-one years. We all looked a little older than we did in 1978.

For four and a half hours Saturday, we laughed and told stories of spankings and classroom antics. We laughed at ourselves and our childhood goofiness. And for a little while we got to relive our innocence and the simplicity of a time when our biggest dilemma was whether or not mama was going to let us buy a metal Tom and Jerry lunchbox. Or whether the boy or girl sitting next to us was going to circle “yes” or “no”.

As I was reviewing the pictures from the reunion, I realized a common theme: Madd Maxx. He’s in most of them. Now, when I’m taking pictures I just look for a good moment to capture. I don’t really think about how many I’m taking of one person or another. And there were plenty of photos of smiles.

And laughter.
And storytelling.

But over and over again, there was Maxx.
During the school trivia game.

And the picture discussions.
With teachers.
And fellow classmates.
He was all sit by me.
And do you remember.
And while I think most of us had a really good time during that walk down memory lane, for him it was even better. It was a chance to relieve a very special time that came to a traumatic end when he had to move out of state immediately after our 1978 graduation. While he’s always stayed in touch with me and a few other childhood buddies, he has missed the 35 other kids he made memories with so long ago. It gave him a chance to catch up and gave the rest of us an opportunity to stop and appreciate how good we had it back then or finally realize how difficult of a time some of our classmates had at home then even though they didn’t show it. I now know life wasn’t all Mayberry all the time for some kids.

So Maxx, thanks for the fun during the last few months. I love ya’ more than my luggage. And thanks to my fellow Franklin Lancers for giving me an evening of laughs and smiles. More importantly, thanks for the nine years of friendship and life lessons.

Look Who's Cookin'

Teen Angel's prayer parent at church bought her a really cool Williams-Sonoma book on baking. It was so inspiring she baked all weekend.

She made apple pie with crust from scratch, homemade rolls and biscuits and best of all cinnamon rolls.

I think this book is gonna come in real handy for me....I mean her.

So Long Summer

As the sun sets on this holiday, the unofficial end to summer, I am stunned at how fast my favorite season has flown. While I should be grateful for the cooler temperatures and beautiful foliage that's just around the corner, I am, as always, sad. No more bare feet. No more pool. No more smell of freshly cut grass. Summer is drawing to a close, and all I can think about is how long it will be until it rolls around again. Sigh.

Family Fun Fact #842

Mama J. has long had issues with keeping her stockings up. Apparently, it began at an early age. (right)Someone call Barney Fife. His hat is missing and I found it.

Aunt Flow Has Left The Building

And I don’t care if she never comes back. It is official. My doctor confirmed today what I’ve suspected for a while. I am in menopause. And that thud you heard was my pride hitting the floor. Or my sagging butt. For a decade I’ve labored under the delusion that everyone but me was getting older. I’d see a childhood classmate and think, “Wow, he’s really been living hard,” or “What happened to her?” never seeing in the mirror what they see when they look at me. Heck, I’m no spring chicken either. I have my fair share of wrinkles and rubbery skin. Today’s diagnosis, delivered with a comforting smile and a discussion about hormones, smacked me in the forehead. I can no longer deny the truth. I AM going to get old. In fact, on the ladder of aging, I’ve climbed more than half the rungs. As my Aunt Annabelle once said during a disappointing moment, “S**t, s**t, s**t!

Oh, I could pretend I don’t mind aging and throw out all kinds of pearls about how age brings wisdom and wrinkles only go where the smiles have been, but the truth is I’m just vain enough to mourn the loss of my youth and my perky boobs. I do NOT mourn the loss of my period. (And THAT sound was the male readers clicking away to another site, any site that doesn’t talk about menstruation. Sorry guys.) I’m actually pretty excited about Aunt Flow’s disappearance. She’s been a pain in my backside (snort) for years. That news didn’t bother me because of the obvious perk. The news that did was that because of my hormonal changes I need a bone density test. Bone density test?! Isn’t that for women my mother’s age? Why no, Hula. Now’s the time for you to do this because you are a prime candidate for osteoporosis, bony girl. I got the calcium talk, too. Oh, and I need another mammogram. I made an appointment for both tests later this month, so I’ll get squeezed and radiated all on the same day. Can you see the sunbeams of happiness radiating out of my butt?

It was actually my second smack on the forehead in the last week. I went to the dentist last week because of a hot cold sensitivity thing going on in the back on my mouth, and he handed me this.“Noooo, not the Sensodyne,” I groaned. “That’s for people who are getting older.” My dentist, who is my age, thought it was quite funny and suggested we compare knee and foot problems. Which brings me this.
If the foot doctor recommends these on my next visit, I’m outa there. I’ll be off to some breezy Caribbean island where I can go barefoot and I won’t notice these hot flashes.