Laughing and Storytelling

My dad died in the fall. He got lung cancer and it swept through his body like some kind of virulent tsunami, sweeping through organs and seeping into his very bones.

He was a good man. A quiet, taciturn man. A strong, loving family man. My family is very lucky. We are really close. We laugh until we cry, we like to eat and we are big storytellers. When we tell a story, we want every single, last detail. My mom is the champion storyteller and Dad always sat back and let her tell the stories. About how they almost froze in Minneapolis because she had on a fur coat but just stockings on her legs. About how she got the worst sunburn of her life on a cloudy day. About not knowing how to make biscuits from scratch. He never said much. But he always listened to the rest of us. And he laughed when the rest of us laughed.

My mom came to take me to lunch one year for my birthday and she presented me with a card, after she had given me some gifts. "It's from your dad." she said. I was surprised to find a hundred dollar bill inside. My family was far from affluent when I was growing up. My dad was in the Marine Corps and, with four kids, things were tight. So I had never been given that amount of money for a gift. "He said it's for a coat. You said you needed a coat." I had said that. He had remembered. I bought a coat.

We liked to travel together as a family. We often went to Pensacola and rented a place right on the beach. Dad cracked us all up one year when we played Win, Lose or Draw. He kept adding sound effects to his drawings. We couldn't stop laughing long enough to make him stop.

One Thanksgiving, Dad stood up and tried to give a little speech about his feelings for his family. He started speaking but got so choked up he couldn't speak. He couldn't finish the speech. That was OK. We knew what he meant.

When he was in the hospital and the morphine was really strong and he was sleeping all the time, we were all there. One night we sat and told stories and laughed until we cried. I don't think we disturbed him. I think he enjoyed it.

I wasn't there when he died. I was pulling into the hospital parking lot with a big picnic basket full of food for the others who were on duty in the room. My cell phone rang and I knew.

After we had made all the arrangements, we all came back to my house. We ate all the food in the picnic basket. We told stories. And we laughed.

Dad would have approved.

The Poofy Recliner

We have two Lazy Boy recliners down in our family room. We bought them, along with the couch, when we moved in and finished the downstairs. One is closer to the door, so that's the one I automatically took as my chair. Tom, of course, takes the couch. This is not even up for discussion. Sometimes, when he is working at the computer, I will lie on the couch to watch tv and it's comfortable...but not quite right. I need my chair.

The chairs are those big man Lazy Boys and when we first got them, I thought we had made a mistake and they were too big. But if I put a big pillow on one side, I fit perfectly. I can pull up my feet, tuck them under me, lean on the pillow and be cozy and comfy. And we can reach each other. Tom always reaches back to my chair from the couch and we have this sliding hand movement thing we do when something is particularly moving or funny or an inside joke on tv. This has been the status quo for us for several years now. Tom lies on the couch, I sit in my chair and we watch tv.

But, the other night he was working at his computer and I sat down in the other chair to talk to him for a minute and...oh, my God!...that chair is so much softer and poofier!! I have totally smooshed mine down! Well, this wouldn't do. I decided to switch chairs. I began my chair-switching campaign the next night. I could actually see the big screen tv better, but the lamp was reflected in the screen. Patiently, Tom turned it off so I could see. He did ask why I was sitting over there and, when I told him, he didn't say anything. But he sighed when he turned the light off.

The next night, when I headed for the poofy chair, he just sat on the couch and looked at me. "What?" I said. "Well..." he said. "When you sit over there...I can't reach back and touch you." I looked at him. My unromantic husband of almost 30 years who always buys me everything on my Christmas list. Never anything else. Never anything spontaneous or surprising. And I moved back to the other chair. So he can reach back and touch me.

Tonight, I think I'll just switch the chairs. Duh.

Kentucky Fried Chicken

We are worldly and cosmopolitan. We know you are supposed to use that itty bitty fork for shrimp and that sorbet is served to cleanse your palate, not to slather with chocolate sauce. Although we were a LITTLE intimidated by the sheer number of utensils on the table at our first truly formal dinner, we have learned a lot from cruising the last few years.

And what we have learned is that when people hear you are from Kentucky, they think "Kentucky Fried Chicken".

We like sitting at big tables for dinner on a cruise, with a bunch of strangers. We didn't know if we would like it. We are not incredibly social, friendly people, although we have good friends and do socialize some. But we have met the most interesting people. A sweet, young newlywed couple on their honeymoon. A former Vietnam helicopter pilot who mailed us an autographed copy of his book after the cruise. A table of New Yorkers who apparently lost their "r's" somewhere around Houston Street. (Only tourists say Houston like the city in Texas. If you are wordly like us, you say House-ton. Odd but true) We were snorkeling around these people in the turquoise tropical water and snorted with laughter when they kept repeating "Don't snoakle ovah theah. Snoakle ovah heah." Of course, this is at the same time we were saying "How're y'all doin this mawnin?", so I shouldn't judge.

Anyway. It doesn't seem to matter who we meet or where they are from. When we say we are from Kentucky, they invaribly reply with "Oh, Kentucky Fried Chicken!". We met a lovely young couple from Italy in the airport. They could barely speak English. Guess what they said when we told them we were from Kentucky? Nothing about our great basketball team, our smooth bourbon, our fast horses - nope. "Oh, si, Kan-tuck-ee. Kentucky Fried Chicken, si?" Whew.

So, I have decided how I'm going to introduce myself from now on, to anyone from anywhere on any trip we take. "Yes, I am from Kentucky. Great basketball. Smooth bourbon. Fast horses."

Yeah. And I know what the inevitable reply will be.

"Oh, Kentucky. Kentucky Fried Chicken!"

The Wesley Waltz

I've always liked to dance. I danced in high school (Let's do the twist, the pony and the swim. Now, don't hurt that hip with the arthritis trying these today.) and in college and even took some modern dance classes as a college student. I danced at parties and discos (Oh, yeah, let's have a shout out for those who remember Stingle's in Chevy Chase and doing the bump!) and loved it. Tom and I still dance ocasionally. We go to parties where there is dancing and we dance when we go on cruises. But we have just recently discovered a new dance.

It's called the Wesley Waltz.

The Wesley Waltz is not hard to do. It does require patience, some dexterity and a grandchild. Or possibly your own child would do. It's best done in the kitchen on the linoleum. Here's the directions, for those of you who want to support me in starting a new dance craze.

The (insert any child's name here in place of Wesley) Wesley Waltz

1. Slide, slide slide your feet. (Slide because you don't want to step on the tupperware, pots, refrigerator magnets or water bottles Wes has scattered on the floor.)

2. Hop, hop, hop when you step on the sharp magnet because you forgot to slide.

3. Jump, jump, jump and grab the baby before he pulls the kitchen chair over.

4. Pirouette and slide the baby into the high chair.

5. Slide, slide, slide to get the cookies for the baby.

6. Do a lean and pick the baby from the high chair, toss him in the air and tickle him all in one smooth move.

7. Dip, dip, dip the baby and kiss his warm, sweet-smelling neck when his head falls back with belly laughs.

8. Slide, slide, slide in to the living room.

9. Flop, flop, flop in the chair. Now, rest.

Tom and I were dancing at a cook-out a couple of summers ago. It was a great location by a beautiful lake house and we were slow dancing on a patio to a romantic country song. I was in my bare feet and he was holding me close. We smiled at each other. The girl who was taking pictures snapped one of us, then leaned forward and whispered "Y'all are the happiest couple here." We smiled again, I leaned my head on his shoulder and he held me a little tighter. At the time, we thought that was a highlight. One of the best dances ever.

That was before we knew about the Wesley Waltz.

Sleepwear at Walmart

Did y'all get the memo that it's now OK to wear your slippers to Walmart? You didn't? Hmm. Neither did I. But, apparently, SEVERAL other people got that memo. Every time I go to Walmart, I see some lady (I use this term loosely) with her bedroom slippers on. Now, these are not, like, slides or thongs, that you could get away with wearing as slippers at home. No, I'm talking about fuzzy slippers that can not be mistaken for anything else. It doesn't seem to matter what season it is, either. I have seen them worn in high, hot summer and icy cold winter. Saw some just the other day.

What's next? Will it become OK to wear your pajamas to the mall? (On second thought, maybe that's not a bad idea. I do love pajamas. OK, get a grip.) Your underwear to the grocery store?

This is an issue that bothers me. It does not bother my husband. He is just waiting for me to tell him it's OK for him to wear his sleeping pants and gray t-shirt when we go out to eat. And that reminds me of another dressing down or barely dressing issue.

What happened to dressing up to go out? To go to the movies, to a restaurant, to the mall, to travel? I'm not talking about jeans. Everyone wears jeans now. I wear jeans now. Although, I do think wearing jeans to a Broadway show is a little tacky, as we witnessed in New York. But there are jeans and there are jeans. There are clean, nicely fitting jeans worn with a pretty top or sweater and cute boots or slides, depending on the season. Then there are dirty jeans that some guy wore to work at the construction site, then sashayed on into O'Charley's to grab a bite to eat. Possibly some road-kill possum.

Do people even put any thought into this? When I go out, I take a shower, do my hair, put on makeup and dress in the outfit I have selected. Apparently, this is just WAY too much effort for some people.

I have seen people at the movies in sloppy sweatpants and a too-big t-shirt and dirty thong sandals. Did you LOOK in the mirror before you left home? You are not watching a move on the DVD player in your living room, you know.

And don't even get me started on how people look when they are travelling now. My mama taught me you always look presentable when you are travelling. You wear something nice that matches. You do not wear torn blue jean shorts. You do not wear old sandals that show your dirty feet. You do not carry your clothes in a brown paper grocery bag. (OK, I haven't actually seen that, but it wouldn't surprise me.)

Maybe it's my age. Maybe everyone dresses more casually now. But I know that's not really it. My daughter and my nieces always dress nicely, even when they are dressing casually. I don't know what it is.

Do you?

Going in the Hall

I've had to go in the hall from a hospital room twice in the last couple of years to cry a little and get control of myself. Both times, my beloved sister-in-law was there to hold me while I cried. Both times, went I went back, things began to get better. My father was bad. He was not going to ever get better. I had to go in the hall to deal with it. But he was not in pain, he was surrounded by loved ones and he slipped away peacefully. My daughter was in premature labor. They were concerned about her and the baby. She had pre-eclampsia and was put on magnesium which is a horrible, wonderful drug that helps but causes almost unendurable symptoms while doing so. I was losing control of my emotions, so I went in the hall. This was my baby, my girl, my blood, my bone, my life. I didn't know Wesley then. He was not the darling boy, the center of our lives, the chuckling, endearing center of our lives. I couldn't worry about him. It was all about my daughter, the baby I had birthed.

My sister-in-law was there. She held me for a while, both times. Then we went back in.

What do people do who have to go back in that room and get even worse news? That they and their loved ones have to endure more unendurable pain. That it will go on for a long time. That they may never get better. That their child may die. And they have nobody to hold them in the hall?

How do they stand it?

Love And Nicknames

My birthday was last weekend. Strange how birthdays change over the years, along with your priorities. I still like presents and cards (who doesn't?) but my priority is being with my family on my birthday. I just love to see them. My son and daughter have grown up into sweet, caring adults who still enjoy spending time with their parents. And my son-in-law has become such a part of the family that I can't imagine our family without him. Wes got to stay with his godmother since we were doing dinner and a movie and he's not quite ready for an outing that does not allow him to crawl on the floor.

Later in the evening, after everyone had gone home and it was just Tom and me, he gave me my present. My sweet, thoughtful, loving husband had given his pudgy, Weight Watchery wife - a Whitman's sampler.

To give him credit, I have always loved Whitman's Samplers. I LOVE that you can look on the top of the box and see what kind each one is - it's like a prize in every candy. And I did check the points and I can have two for three points. So, I'll just eat two and close the box. I think I can do it. I'm still in my determined dieter phase.

With the box was a card he had obviously spent some time picking out and had signed lovingly. But it wasn't the present or the card or even that he had signed it "I love you with all my heart, baby." that made it special. (Yes, he is pretty fabulous.) It was the fact that the card was addressed to Fran.

Now some of you are puzzled. You are well aware that my name is not Fran. No, it's not. But this is just one of the many, many nicknames my husband has for me. At Christmas time, under the tree, I have lots of presents from him. Each one has a different name on it. My children laugh every year as they hand out the presents labeled with some of these names.

Fran: Somehow, some of Tom's relatives got my name wrong and we were both too polite to correct them. So, I was Fran for a long time.

Bob: My kids called for me when they were sick with very stuffy noses. Mom became Bob.

Darnell: This is a good one. We had a limo driver pick us up at the airport in Seattle when we were on our way to Alaska. He stood there yelling for "Darnell". We looked at each other and said "Darnell? Darnell?" It turned out he was saying my name with a Middle Eastern accent. This was the same driver who drove approximately 204 miles an hour to get to our hotel. I hope he could get those indentations from our fingers out of his seats.

Fuzz: A bad perm. 'Nuff said.

There are actually more that I can't remember at this moment. But he can. He remembers every one. He labels my cards and gifts with different nicknames and calls me by those names with teasing affection. Someone told me once that a child who has a nickname is a child who is well loved.

If that is true, I am extremely well loved. And isn't that wonderful?

That's Not Right!

There are a few things worse than never having a snow day off from school. Fires, floods, earthquakes, famines, droughts. Awful things. Many things.

But there is only one thing worse as fas as I am concerned.

And that is taking a shower, putting on makeup, getting dressed, packing a lunch, getting in your car and driving to work. THEN hearing on the radio that there is no school. Sigh.

(I had a post planned for this morning, so you get two-for-one. Yippee!! Enjoy.)

Slowly, Slowly, Slowly

I mistakenly thought I could get away with not wearing my retainers for several nights. I had braces put on my teeth as an adult. I had always hated my crooked teeth so, when I was in my late 40's and we had paid off braces for two kids, I had them put on. The didn't come off until I was 50, but I didn't care. I knew everyone was super-aware of my crooked teeth. In reality, nobody noticed them but me. I had to keep telling people that I got braces because of my crooked teeth. "Really? I never noticed." This is why people get Anorexia. They see a fat person in the mirror, no matter how thin they get. I saw nothing but my crooked teeth. People do notice how straight and white they are now, though. My hairdresser commented on them the other day. Of course, she does like a tip, but...

Anyway. I have to wear retainers every night to keep them straight. I got kind of casual about it just recently. I went one night. Then two. Then several. When I put them back in last night...ow. They kinda hurt. And this morning. Yeah, my teeth were sore. Apparently, as soon as the retainers are forgotten, my teeth make a valiant effort to return to their previously crooked state.

This is not something one could observe. It happens slowly, slowly, slowly. Like your hair turning gray. The leaves changing color on the trees. The years slipping away.

My daughter called last night to tell us Wes took his first steps. I rocked him to sleep when he was a newborn. Wasn't that just recently? I took him to the pool when he was a few months old and dipped him as he smiled. Wasn't that just recently? I watched him learn to smile, sit up, crawl, laugh out loud, eat pancakes and beat a spoon on the tupperware. Wasn't that just recently? He was bald, then he had some blond hair, then his hair was thick and soft, soft, soft when you buried your nose in it.

Time passes slowly, slowly, slowly. But Wes is walking.

And time is going too fast.

Fruit is SO not a dessert

So I am fat. Yeah. Fat. I have more than one roll on my stomach. My thighs rub together when I walk. And I have dimples on my thighs. Cellulite dimples. Don't ya hate those?

When you read those diet help articles in EVERY magazine, most of the women talk about how they have fought their fat for years - like since they were in elementary school. Not me. I was skinny, skinny, skinny for years. I weighed 100 pounds when I went to college. I didn't start getting fat until I was in my late 30's and my bad eating habits and aversion to exercise of any kind which did not involve reading a book in a lazy boy recliner, finally caught up with me. I know everyone overweight struggles with it. I know it's a battle. But I kinda think it's harder for those of us that used to be thin. Effortlessly thin.

So I'm on Weight Watchers. It has worked before. In fact, it works beautifully. Right up to the point I stop being on Weight Watchers and start eating homemade butter cream frosting with a spoon.

But I am serious this time. I am determined. My friend Hazel says I seem determined. I am. I'm tired of being fat. And I had to buy a bigger size in pants!! Uh-uh. No way am I heading up that road.

When you check the Weight Watchers online site, they have menu ideas. I'm trying to use them. They are good, sensible and very helpful. But...they have fruit for dessert. It's like - eat this and this and this - and finish with a tangerine. Huh? That's not dessert. Dessert is chocolate. Dessert is cake and pie and cookies. Dessert is good and sinful and wicked. Dessert is NOT FRUIT. But it should be. And it will be. It will be.

I'm working on it.