Eggs, Mason Jars, and Road Trips

Thanksgiving is almost here and I’ve been anxiously awaiting its arrival. I love having time off work, seeing my family, eating, watching the Macy’s parade, sleeping in, eating, napping, eating. Before a big meal (or any meal for that matter), my sister always says, “Girl, I’m gonna hurt myself”. This week, I fully intend to “hurt myself”. But before I get to the table or the couch, we have to make a road trip. And while some people would debate whether a four and a half hour drive qualifies as a road trip, I have to argue it does… because my grandparents were Effie and Lester.

When Lester wasn’t taking us to dumpster dive at the local Foodway, he was taking us with him to the Veteran’s hospital in Jackson, Mississippi. Why my younger sister and I had to make this trip every few weeks is beyond me. Then again, so were our trips to the drug store, where we were able to get out, go inside, and browse the store. But, when we went to the “medicine store” (which was oddly located in another county), we were told to wait in the car, and my grandparents “medicine” was carried out in bottles wrapped in brown paper bags. And trust me, that wasn’t Mylanta on their breaths later.

It seems like we were continually making trips to the drug store, or “medicine store”, or Veteran’s hospital. Pawpaw liked to keep his medicine cabinet stocked. And when I say “medicine cabinet,” I’m not talking about the cute little cabinets often located above the bathroom sink. Nosiree. I’m talking an actual cabinet. At least five feet tall. In the bedroom of all places. It was white… and have you ever seen those plain white birthday cakes you can get at the grocery that have the multi-colored, plastic smiley faces sticking out of them? Well, there were three smiley faces glued to the top front of the cabinet. I guess prescription drugs make you happy.

So, every month or so (when we were about 6 and 8 years old), my sister and I would have to make the trip to the VA with my mawmaw and pawpaw. And it was an event. We’d sleep over the night before because the whole process started at the butt crack of dawn. I’d wake up to the sound of eggs frying in the kitchen. I’d like to say it was the smell of food, but I’m sure my nose was still burning from the power of the Vick’s salve she would rub all over me at bedtime. Sickness was not necessarily required to get this rubdown. So, there we’d be at 5:00 a.m. Effie in the kitchen cooking up food, my pawpaw gathering up all his empty prescription bottles, and my sister still snuggled up in the bed in the leftover heat from my mawmaw’s body. And I? I was on the cot. Maybe because I was the oldest, but probably because my mawmaw couldn’t stand the smell of the salve either.

I’m sure we’d be loading the car by 7:00 sharp. It had to still be cool outside because Lester always had to rev up the engine in the Fairlane for a good ten minutes before we could go anywhere. Those harsh Mississippi winters! So, after ten minutes of racing the engine in park, we’d be on our way.

Now as an adult, one of my favorite things about road trips is being able to stop at convenience stores. And it doesn’t matter if I NEED gas, or if I NEED to use the restroom, I also NEED to get candy or snacks and something to drink. Almost every time I stop… and I can’t help it. I think it’s deprivation from childhood. On those trips to the VA, we didn’t get to stop. We didn’t get to have snacks, or cokes, or candy. Why? Because Effie had planned ahead. Hunger? She had packed sandwiches- egg sandwiches and pimento cheese sandwiches- every kid’s dream. Thirst? She’d hand us the water jar that sat in the middle of the front seat. It was a mason jar full of tap water. Community drinking, with just a hint of rust flavor from the old lid. This was one of two jars that sat on the front seat. The other? Her spit jar, because Effie dipped snuff. Man, those were the good ‘ole days!

So Jon and I will head to Mississippi on Wednesday and I officially deem it a road trip? Why? Because that trip to the VA was less than a two-hour drive. Less than two hours and my mawmaw packed up like we were crossing the Sahara. And while I won’t be making egg sandwiches or storing our drinking water in a mason jar, I can’t help but think of my grandparents. And I’ll think of them every time I stop at the store for some Sour Patch Kids and my own fountain drink!

Things that seem like a good idea at first: Paddle Boats

Do you remember how exciting it was as a kid to go out on a paddle boat? Chances are, you got to go out on it without adult supervision. What can happen on a paddle boat really? It’s not going to tip over. You’re not going to go so fast that you fall off. About the worse that could happen was having your foot slip off the pedal and having it slap you in the calf or shin. As a matter of fact, I’m not really sure where the excitement came from. I don’t know if I had short-term memory loss as a kid, but every time I had a chance, I thought it would be fun to ride a paddleboat. And every time, after a three- minute spin across the water, it would occur to me how much paddle boats sucked. Seriously. Those things are a lot of work! And your little brother or sister who ended up on that back seat after you threatened to throw them off in deep water if they didn’t let you “drive”… they’re just dead weight. So, there you are, pedaling away for the longest five minutes of your life only to realize you’ve moved three feet. But once you realize how bad this idea was, those three feet seem like three miles to get that thing turned around and back to shore so you can find some fun that doesn’t require so much dang work.

My point was made when I watched some kids a few weeks ago at a small lake. I was sitting on the far shore with some friends, out of earshot, watching these two young boys beg their dad to push them offshore in the paddleboat. He got them all secure in life vests and sent them on their way. “Watch this,” I said to my friend. “They’re about to realize what a mistake that was.” Those kids were on that thing two minutes tops before they were headed back to shore and asking to get in a canoe instead.

And people, just in case you’re thinking about taking a spin on one as an adult- because you have that nostalgic feeling- the older you are, the more torturous it is. Save the energy.

The Reason for My Absence

I know, where have I been right? Why do I even have this blog if I can’t keep it updated? Well, if it makes you (as a reader) feel better, I haven’t just been a negligent blogger lately. I’ve been a negligent housekeeper, a negligent friend, and despite my best efforts, I’m sure a negligent wife in some regards. But, before you start staging interventions for my drug or alcohol problems, I’ll just come clean. It’s just plain ole tiredness. I know, not very exciting, huh? Sure, I think about blogging. I have ideas, and stories, and random observations. But getting those from thought to typing requires something similar to energy, of which I’ve been in short supply. All of this is due to a parasite of sorts (and I mean that in the most loving way). Meet baby Stadler:

Sweet, little baby Stadler, who at the size of a grape is able to drain every ounce of energy I have. Unfortunately, I think I have to prepare for a lifetime of such exhaustion! So, I’m trying to muster up and get on with life. Blogging should certainly require less energy than say… cleaning the kitchen. We may not have clean plates… or towels… or clothes, but I’ll manage to type out more entries. At least I can do that lying on the couch!

The Finger Fork

I was at the mall food court with my sister and her kids. My sister offered some of her chicken to my oldest niece. I reached out to hand her my fork to use as she grabbed a bite of chicken with her fingers.

That’s when my six-year old niece looked at me and said, “Jennifer, we’re from Mississippi- we eat with our fingers.”

My sister rolled her eyes, and Hannah Grace said, “But mommmm, that’s what we DO.”

These are my people.

For the Love of a Ding Dong

I stood staring at the pantry shelves, wondering why we don’t keep sweets at home. There was a jar of hot fudge sauce. I picked it up and thought about eating it with a spoon, like I’ve been known to do with chocolate cake frosting. This isn’t what I want, I thought, and put it back on the shelf. I closed the pantry closet and stood staring at the door.

“I wish we had some Ding Dongs!”

Jon: “Are you having a sugar craving?”

“No. I’m having a Ding Dong craving.”

The next night, I sat in the car at Kroger while Jon went in to pick up some oranges and some cereal. Internet, there are those times in life when God seems to confirm and assure you that you’ve made the right decision about something. That moment for me? When my husband returned to the car with oranges, cereal, and a box of Ding Dongs that I didn’t ask him to get. And in that moment, my entire marriage was confirmed with those round, chocolate-coated, crème-filled cakes!

If I Had a Shovel

Jon and I recently finished the first season of Jericho on DVD. The show examines life in small town Kansas in the aftermath of massive nuclear attacks throughout the United States. As someone who grew up during the Cold War, I know a thing or two about the fear of nuclear attacks. I spent most of my childhood afraid the Russians were going to invade and attack us with nuclear bombs. Of course, movies like “The Day After” and “Red Dawn” certainly didn’t help. I don’t know where my parents were when I was watching movies like this. Probably the same place they were when I was watching “Children of the Corn” and “Cujo”. And while I don’t in any way have an aversion to corn, there may be a legitimate reason I don’t want to own a dog! But, I argue that children can watch movies like this and still grow up to be well-adjusted, mentally healthy adults. And I’m sticking to that even though you’ve read this blog and probably find that debatable.

When I was eleven, most girls my age were playing with Barbies and getting into make-up and clothes. I, however, was plotting this elaborate system of underground tunnels on our 13 acres. That I was going to dig myself. With a shovel. In about a week. The dream was alive until my friend, Tim, asked me to help him dig a fox hole in his yard and the reality of how much manual labor was involved in simply digging a hole resigned me to hope that hiding from the Russians in our barn would suffice. Why Tim wanted a fox hole in his yard is a mystery to me. Although I guess he was also preparing for the Russians to attack- just on a much smaller scale than my elaborate system of underground tunnels. I think he ended up keeping a pet raccoon in that hole. I mean, if you have a fox hole in your yard, you should use it for something.

If nothing else, I can be thankful for the shovel skills I acquired as a child- not just from the fox hole either. When I was seven, our cat died and I buried it in our backyard. Again, I’m not sure where my parents were or why a seven year old girl was responsible for burying the cat, but I was. And I know what you’re thinking after my last post where I came across as heartless toward dogs and pets in general… but, the cat WAS dead before I buried it. I promise. And I wasn’t totally heartless toward pets then either. I wanted my cat to go to Heaven. And I worried about it. So much so, that I went out and dug that dead cat back up every 30 minutes to see if it had disappeared and gone to Heaven. After digging it up 4 or 5 times, I was tired and didn’t care so much anymore. But the point is- I was worried about my cat’s soul. AND, kids who dig up dead animals, more than once, can grow up to be well-adjusted, mentally healthy adults.

Rodent v/s Shark v/s Idiot

I’m sure many of you recently heard about the Florida man who dove off a pier to fight a shark that had grabbed his dog. If you’re a dog lover, maybe you found this story endearing and inspiring. Personally, I found it disturbing. Maybe it’s because I don’t have a dog. If I did though, you can be certain I’d own a dog that could fend for itself. That’s what dogs should do. In my opinion, if a dog can’t protect ME, I don’t see the point. If your dog is… say… a rat terrier, such as the one in this story- it’s asking to be eaten by something. Rat terrier? Think about it.

So, this man- this owner of a Rat Terrier, decided to jump in the water and fight a five-foot shark to save his dog. I’m curious about his wife’s response. The story didn’t mention it, but I imagine the fight with the shark was the least of his problems that day. Or maybe she was proud of her husband for risking his own life- and potentially leaving her a widow- all to save a dog. I doubt it. The man said, “I thought Jake (the dog) deserved whatever I could do.”

How about this response next time? “Well… he was a good dog and we’ll miss him. It’s my own fault though for owning a dog named after a rodent.”