WWF

What type of person are you? 

Do you open yourself up like a book, revealing each and every sentence of your life? Or are you the type of person that keeps people guessing and second guessing about who you are?  I, probably like very many of you, fall somewhere in the middle.   

I open up to those I know, but don’t reveal too much.  We all have our secrets and I certainly have my share. It’s not that they are necessarily all bad.  Some are embarrassing, some too personal that only people who are really close to me should know, and others are just too insignificant that I’ve never bothered to tell anyone because the subject never came up. 

Today I thought it would be fun to reveal something insignificant about myself that might give you a little insight into who I am.

I used to watch and enjoy WWF Wrestling!  OMG!!  I can’t believe I just revealed that about myself!!  But it’s true. 

Back in the early 90’s when Rick and I were married just a short time, we met Bob and Peg who lived in our apartment complex in Orlando, Florida.  They loved the WWF and would watch it on television.  Peg frequently invited us over on Friday nights to watch with them.  We instantly became hooked. 

We were so hooked that we started watching on our own whenever we saw WWF playing on TV.  We tuned in to the likes of Hulk Hogan and Randy “Macho Man” Savage and a host of many other wrestling stars of that time.  They became our new virtual friends. 

One time we, along with Bob and Peg and another couple, chipped in and purchased a WWF Wrestlemania extravaganza playing on HBO as a pay-per-view event.  I think it cost somewhere around $50 to purchase.  I remember we were all sitting around the TV munching goodies, drinking cokes and yelling for our favorite wrestlers.  This sounds insane to me now! 

AND…we even took it a step further.  The four of us actually paid and went to a live performance of the WWF at the Orlando Convention Center.  The tickets we purchased were great—a few rows from the front.  But this turned out to be a negative once the show started. 

I could see with each move made and each stunt pulled how it was all staged and choreographed.  I was mortified to be sitting there in the midst of a thousand screaming fans.  Did they really believe The Hulk was beating the heck out of Macho Man?  That did it for me.  It was over.  I had seen too much to ever go back to cheering for The Hulk or any of them for that matter. 

Today there is no more wrestling in my television lineup.  But there is Survivor.  I have seen every season of Survivor since it began in the year 2000.  While I am a fan of the show, I am glad that I am not able to go and see it in person.  You see, I am not so sure that IT isn’t a little bit staged and choreographed. 

So now you know a little known fact about me.  What do you think?  Are you shocked?  If you are, it’s ok.  We all have things in our life that we are not real proud of. 

♥

 

~ P

 

The Year of Asparagus

I’ll be the first one to admit it—I’m a picky eater. I’m not proud of this fact and I didn’t set out to be this way, but it’s who I became over the last 60 years. I sometimes wish I was more like Rick, he’s like Mikey, he’ll eat anything! 

Whenever we go out to eat, it takes me forever to decide what I want to order. I look and look for something that I know I will like. Most of the time, I’ll find something only to read how it’s cooked or what accompanies it and there will be something about it that I’m sure I won’t like.  There’s nothing worse for me than ordering something that I end up not liking. 

Rick, on the other hand, will frequently look for a menu item he’s never tried before and then order it just to see what it tastes like. So far as I know, he’s only been burned once—when he ordered chili relleno’s stuffed with crawfish at a Mexican restaurant back in 2007 when we were living in Baton Rouge. It was the ONLY time Rick didn’t finish his meal. The smell of the crawfish mixed with the Mexican smell just about made him sick. I was surprised he ate half his meal! 

I have been burned many times—the food tasted too spicy, I didn’t like the sauce on top, the chicken (or whatever) tasted funny, they didn’t remember my request of no butter or no sour cream or no guacamole on my plate anywhere, etc. With me there is always something. I eventually labeled myself a high maintenance diner.  Waiters beware! 

Sometimes I blame this on my mother, but in reality I know that it’s not her fault. She did the best she could to provide us with nutritional meals. When I was a young child, there were some items on Mom’s menu that I didn’t like very much. One meal in particular was fried eggs over easy with creamed spinach. Can you imagine the runny yokes and creamed spinach running together? Scary!   

Another was liver. I would chew and chew until it became pate in my mouth but I would not swallow it.  I would tuck it away in the side of my cheek and take the next piece in. Often I would be the last person at the table looking like a little chipmunk.  Eventually, Mom would tell me to spit it out and go to my room. Ahh, memories!! 

I haven’t tried any new foods in quite a while.  Mushrooms came on my list of things I will eat back in the early 70’s followed in the 80's by broccoli and cauliflower; zucchini came much later in the 90’s.  This year, 2012, is the year of asparagus. 

I went to a wedding last Saturday. The wedding reception was held at the Del Frisco’s restaurant in Charlotte, NC—very fancy and very chic. The menu was salad, steak or fish or chicken, asparagus, mashed potatoes and dessert. 

After the waiter placed my steak in front of me, he asked if I would like some asparagus. Hmmm. I thought about this for a few seconds. You see, I don’t eat asparagus. Why? Well, they look funny, like little trees and they’re mushy (or so I thought just by how they looked) and I don’t do mushy. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself so I told him to put just two stalks on my plate.  

Now that they were on my plate I said to myself, “What the heck! Step outside of the box and try something new.” And you know what? I liked them!! They were in a buttery sauce and had sliced almonds on top and not mushy at all! They were yummy! Lucky for me, the waiter put down a whole plate of them right in front of me so I helped myself to seconds. 

I gave myself a big pat on the back for trying something new that day and I know my sister-in-law Debbie will be proud of me also. She’s always telling me to broaden my palate and try new foods. Maybe it was her I heard whispering in my ear: Patty, try the asparagus. They’re good. 

Gee! All those non-asparagus years gone that I can never get back. What a waste. Oh well. What’s done is done. I can only look to the future. I’m not saying that asparagus has changed me for all foods.  I’m still a picky eater.  But just maybe I won’t be so close minded the next time I’m presented with the opportunity to try a new food.  

Brussel sprouts. Lamb. Kiwi. Salmon. Artichokes. Eggplant. Escargot. Avocado. Who’s next? 

♥

~ P

GPS Back Talk

Rick and I decided to take a drive yesterday.  We never know where we are going to end up, so we are happy that we have our trusted Garmin GPS to guide us home.  However, it is not always easy to communicate with it.   

Our Garmin is voice activated (it has a female voice so I call it a her) and that makes programming her a breeze.  She will verbally respond to our requests sometimes even when we don’t ask her anything.  More than once as we were driving and talking, she would suddenly blurt out, “Say a command.”  We can only figure we said something to trigger her response, but we are never able to duplicate the trigger word. 

Most of the time the GPS works just fine, but sometimes she understands Rick’s Texas accent better than she does the New Yorker in me.   Other times she doesn’t understand either of us and comes up with a suggestion that appears to be completely out of the blue.

So here we were on a drive that took us from South Carolina to North Carolina heading to Tennessee then north to Virginia and then back home.  We thought it would be fun to drive in four states in one day.  It was about a 6 ½ hour drive which would get us home at about 7 p.m. 

We wanted to stop for lunch at a non-chain restaurant, something local, so in Boone, North Carolina I engaged the GPS.  This is how the exchange went. 

Pat:   Voice command.

GPS: Say a command.

Pat:   Find by category.

GPS: Say the name of a popular category.

Pat:   Food

GPS: (no response)

Pat:   Food

GPS: (no response)

Rick: FOOD!!

GPS: Searching for Food and Drink 

At this point we browse through the listed restaurants that are approximately within 2 miles of our location.  We selected Tucker’s Café.  It sounded local so we thought we would give it a try.  As we got to the end location per the GPS, you guessed it, there was no Tucker’s Café in sight.  Frustrated, we decided to stop at a restaurant we passed a few blocks back called Come Back Soon, a burger and fries joint.  Not exactly what I was hoping for, but the food was good. 

After lunch, we got back in the car to head to our next destination.  We were going to pass through the northeast corner of Tennessee and then drive north to Virginia.  I looked on the map and saw a town that was near the border of Tennessee and Virginia so I decided to program the GPS to get us to this town and then I would reprogram it to someplace in Virginia.  Here was my conversation with the GPS. 

Pat:   Voice Command.

GPS: Say a command.

Pat:   Find City.

GPS: What city in South Carolina? (This was the state we were in for our last GPS trip)

Pat:   Change state.

GPS: What state or province?

Pat:   Tennessee.

GPS: Did you say Rhode Island?

Pat:   No.  Back.  (Back is the command to go back to the previous screen)

GPS: What state or province?

Pat:   Tennessee (I said it more slowly this time, but just at that time Rick chimed in)

Rick: Tennessee.

Pat:   Rick, let me say it.

GPS: Did you say Maine?

Pat:   Grrr!!  No.  Back.

GPS: What state or province?

Pat:   Tennessee!!

GPS: What city in Tennessee?

Pat:   (Finally!)  Mountain City.

GPS: Did you say Johnson City?

Pat:   Back!!

GPS: What city in Tennessee?

Pat:   Mountain City.

GPS: Did you say Mountain City?

Pat:   Yes.

GPS: Searching for Mountain City.  Begin navigation.

Pat:   Navigate. 

I had my trusty map book in front of me so I knew we were going to turn on to Route 91 going north to Virginia.  This was the easiest way, but the GPS had a different idea and kept telling us to turn on to little roads that weren’t on my map so I couldn’t tell where she was taking us.  We decided to ignore her requests to turn around in an attempt to get us back on track until she finally reprogrammed herself and had us turn north on Route 91. 

By the time we got home I was exhausted from being in the car and from talking to my GPS (there were several more of these conversations), but I wouldn’t change a thing.  I remember years and years ago before we ever thought of having a GPS when I had to plot our trips and figure mileage by looking at the map (I didn’t get my nickname Navigator for nothing) and searching for gas stations and restaurants.  This is much easier, even if she doesn’t get it right all the time. 

Our GPS does take some abuse for not getting it right (mostly from Rick—he tells her to shut up quite a bit), but we can laugh at her and the way she pronounces names of streets and locations and how she doesn’t always understand what we are saying and makes crazy suggestions preceeded by, “Did you say ___?”  Sometimes it can get downright hysterical and it gives us a good laugh.  But we still love her, uh, it and are so glad for the technology!!

Stop Route!!

~ P

Fresh Air ~ Part 3

It took me a few days to settle in to living with the McCorkles.  

I wanted to hang around Mrs. McCorkle more than I wanted to play with Nan and Peter.  I’m not sure if it was because of the age differences between us or because she was a mom and I missed mine.  It was the only time I remember being homesick.   Mrs. McCorkle consoled me and told me to go outside and play and I would feel better.  I did.

Back side of the house.

Their house was big (fourteen rooms on three stories) and the yard was even bigger. 

That's Nan being towed as Mrs. McCorkle paddles.

Down from the house was a small pond.  I couldn’t swim, but I did go in the water and Mrs. McCorkle took me for a ride in a small boat, towing Nan behind in a floating raft.

Didn't remember that there were ducks in the pond. 
Too bad they "ducked" their heads down for my glamour pose!



In the pond with Mrs. McCorkle and "Lassie!"

I did not remember the McCorkles having a dog until I saw these pictures of the large Collie. His name also escapes me.  We were cat people and we wouldn't get our first dog, Teddy, until we moved to Long Island.  He was part Collie.  

Sunning by the pond.  Peter has his back to the camera.
We played under the weeping willow behind me.

There were two willow trees, but we played only under the right one.

Next to the pond were the biggest trees I’d ever seen—weeping willows.  We played underneath the one on the side of the pond closest to the house.  It was like our own private clubhouse. 

It's hard to tell from the picture just how large those trees were.  In my memory they were as tall as buildings and as big underneath as a city block!    Weeping willow trees continue to remind me of this place and this time.  Mom planted one in our front yard in 1962, two years after we left the Bronx.  I wonder if I had any input in her decision?

Bordering the yard was a cow pasture.  I remember running with Nan and Peter in the pasture.  That is where I saw my first cow patty after being warned not to step in them and me asking, “What’s a cow patty?”  Peter pointed one out to me.  I poked it with a stick.  Gooey!!  After that I was very careful not to step on one!

Besides playing in the yard and down by the pond, I remember the three of us walking down the lane a short way to a little Mom and Pop store and buying candy.  We also went to town a few times where I got to sit down to watch my first country auction. 


One time we went to a small local festival and I got to take my first hayride.  I was fearful riding in the haywagon.  We sat in mounds of straw.  It was just me and Nan and some other kids.  I didn't know where the wagon was going, but in the end, nothing "bad" happened and we returned safe and sound to the waiting McCorkles.  Trust is earned in small doses and they did earn their share during those two weeks.

Front side of the house showing
the large screened in porch on the left.

Another memory I have is being in the living room when Mr. and Mrs. McCorkle were watching the Democratic National Convention on television.  This dates my trip to the time around July 15, 1960 when John F. Kennedy won the Democratic presidential nomination.  I don’t think Mr. McCorkle liked Kennedy very much because I remember him saying, "I hope a Catholic doesn't get in the White House.”  Thankfully, I didn't know about such things as prejudice and discrimination so I did not take offense, even though I was raised Catholic.

Nan and Lassie coming into the living room.

The day finally came for me to go home.  Mrs. McCorkle picked a large bouquet of snap dragon flowers for my mother.  I don’t remember the return train trip but do remember giving my mother the flowers, which were a little worse for wear after the trip.

My mother kept in touch with the McCorkles via Christmas cards and such.  Mrs. McCorkle sent me a Paul Revere whistling tea kettle as a wedding present when I married Don in February, 1970.   Her generosity prompted me to go and see them again.

We drove up for a visit later that summer.  Nan and Peter weren’t there so it was just the four of us.  The McCorkles of ten years ago were gone.  These new McCorkles were once again strangers and the uncomfortable feelings of being in the midst of strangers all came back to me. Too much time had passed.  I never heard from them or saw them again after that, but to this day I do wonder about them.

All in all, my memories of my time as a Fresh Air Fund kid are good ones.  I am thankful that the McCorkles opened up their home to me that summer and gave me a taste of country living.  It may be why I have always preferred to live in the country rather than in a big city. 

My thanks go out to the McCorkles wherever you are!  Thanks for the memories!

~ P

Fresh Air ~ Part 2

My first day with the McCorkles didn’t go very well.

It started with their two children.  I can’t remember their names so for the sake of this story, I will call them Nan and Peter.  Nan was a few years younger than me and Peter was a few years older.  Nan seemed too immature and wanted to play childish games while Peter wanted to play rough-house and do boy things. 

I can see the reasoning behind Mrs. McCorkle picking someone my age, someone in between the ages of her children.  She may not have wanted to favor either child, but I don’t feel I was a good fit for this family.  However, this was an obstacle I eventually overcame.  After all we were kids.

When we arrived at the house, I was taken upstairs to put my suitcase away.  I had a bedroom all to myself.  This was different for me as I always shared a room with my brother.  The room was small and contained a twin size bed and a dresser for my clothes.  There was one window just behind the bed.  I liked the room.

In the days that followed, Mrs. McCorkle had us go to our rooms to rest in the afternoons and I came to enjoy these quiet times by myself.  We could sleep or read as long as we were on the bed.  Peter would usually come and get me when it was time to get up.

That first day was overwhelming with leaving my mother, the train trip and now these new people.  Imagine how a shy little girl would feel in the midst of strangers and you might guess the emotions I was feeling.  It would take a few days for me to warm up to everyone.

That first night I had a problem getting into bed.  My legs would not go all the way down the bed, only halfway.  Something was wrong and I couldn’t figure it out.  I started to cry.  Outside in the hallway, I heard Peter laughing.  Mrs. McCorkle came in to see why I was crying.  After I explained, she told me that Peter had played a prank on me and it was all in fun.  He had short-sheeted my bed!  I didn’t even know what that was, but it wasn't funny and I didn’t like it!  Apparently, I had no sense of humor as a nine year old.

I thought Peter was mean.  I thought that he didn't like me and didn't want me there.  I felt all alone.  I wanted my Mommy!

In the final installment tomorrow, I will post some pictures my mom recently sent me from my time with the McCorkles and you'll find out the rest of the story.

~ P

Fresh Air ~ Part 1

July, 1960.

I was at Grand Central Station in New York City ready to begin a two week vacation away from home, away from the Bronx, away from my family and toward something that was totally foreign to me—the fresh air of the New York countryside. 

Mom took me to the train station that morning, the biggest one I’d ever seen, big like a city.  I had my small suitcase with me containing everything I would need.  A tag was pinned to my dress containing my name, the name of the family I was visiting and the name of the station where I was to get off—Croton Falls, NY. 

In my mind’s eye, I can still see it all—getting on the train, being told where to sit, looking out the window at the passing buildings and landscapes, watching as we pulled into each station wondering if it was THE one, being fearful that somehow the people in charge would forget about me and I would miss my station, and then finally getting off and being escorted to the strangers whose names were on the card: Mr. and Mrs. John McCorkle.

And so began my journey as a Fresh Air Fund kid.

In 1877, the Fresh Air Fund was created for the purpose of giving underprivileged New York City kids a taste of fresh country air.  A minister in a small rural town in Pennsylvania asked members of his congregation if they would volunteer as host families for New York City’s neediest kids.  And so it began for the more than 1.7 million kids that followed.

The train ride would take me to the northern most part of Westchester County, to the hamlet of Croton Falls in the town of North Salem.  It seemed like I was on the train for a long time, but looking up the train schedule on Google, I see it is only a 47 mile trip that takes about 1 hour 16 minutes and passes through 27 stations before getting to Croton Falls.  Time is so abstract to a child that an hour can seem like forever, and so it was for me.

I was just nine and a half.  This was my first trip.  My first time away from home.  My first time on a train leaving the city.  My first time traveling without my parents.  My first time staying with strangers.  It was a time of many firsts, and there would be more to come.

Tune in tomorrow to find out what happened to me on my first day in Croton Falls.

~ P

Musicality

Yesterday I woke up from a dream where I was singing Islands in the Stream.  Today, I woke up dreaming I was playing a black and white cowhide guitar.  Don’t ask me!  I don’t know where these dreams come from!  What I do know is that music has been a part of my life ever since I was a child.  I guess it seeps out in my dreams every now and then.

I believe I inherited my musicality from my mother and my father.  Dad was a guitar player.  He didn’t play much but he had a pretty nice acoustical guitar and he would bring it out at every birthday we kids had and serenade us with the birthday song.  He would also play some Latin music when he was on a roll and he would sing to us in Spanish.  I miss that.  Those were happy times.

Growing up in the Bronx, we had a piano in our apartment that was given to Mom by a friend of hers.  Mom could play a little.  I remember her playing the beginning part of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.  I loved it.  It has such a haunting melody that has stayed with me all these years.  When I hear it, I think of Mom.  I always enjoyed when she played it.  I thought she was good. 

Mom was musically inclined.  Her stepfather tuned organs for a living and as a young girl he taught her how to read the notes on a music sheet.  When she was around twelve, he signed her up for lessons with a music professor, but he eventually dropped her as a student because she didn’t take it seriously and didn’t practice, something my mother regrets to this day.

My oldest brother, Bill, purchased a small organ when he returned home from the service.  I would go up to his room and play.  It had different colored cheats on the keys that matched the notes in the song book that came with the organ.  Even with the cheats, I wasn’t very good but I always enjoyed playing.  However, like my mother, I didn’t take it seriously. 

Two of the things on my “I want to learn how to do this before I die” list, besides learning to swim and learning to knit, are learning to play the piano and the guitar.  I don’t know if I will ever accomplish either, but they are still part of my dream.  I think my fingers are too short and now with age, they are a little stiff with arthritis.  But I haven’t given up the dream…yet.

My main contribution to music has been through singing.  I love to sing.  I was always part of the chorus in grade school and it continued on through junior high school.  Singing was always something I did in a group.  I was too shy to sing by myself, unless I was alone or with Gail, my best friend back then.  When we were together we would sing out like rock stars. 

In the early ‘90’s, I joined the choir at the church I attended and have sung in several church choirs since that first time.  When I lived in Pittsfield, Illinois, I was part of a women’s gospel group, WinGS (Women in God’s Service) at Calvary Baptist Church.  We ladies got together weekly to practice and we would sing at church every so often.  I sang soprano.  On occasion, we sang at other churches in the county.  We also sang at the local nursing homes and for the shut-ins from our church.  It was very rewarding to bring joy into these people’s lives.

Being in this group gave me the confidence to step out of my comfort zone and sing solos and duets at church.  It’s amazing what you can do if you do it for God.   The Bible says, “O come, let us sing unto the Lord: let us make a joyful noise to the rock of our salvation.” Psalm 95:1.  I like that I can make a joyful noise for God.  No matter what I sound like, I know He is pleased.

If I did inherit my musicality from my mom and dad, then just maybe I passed a little along to my granddaughter, Lexi.  She performed for me when I was in San Diego one time singing and playing the piano.  I recorded it on my phone and it is something I will keep and cherish forever. 

Lexi is heavily involved in dance (she's good too!) and I believe that is where her passion lies.  Her singing and playing are just two of the many talents she has.  They will always be something she can fall back to or do just for her own enjoyment.

I am glad that I have something I can share with my mother and my granddaughter.  So many times the generational gap is too wide to bridge, but music spans generations and the beat goes on...even if it is to a different drummer.

What will the next generation bring?  Another Beethoven, perhaps?

Love and Hugs xoxo, 

~ P

My Definition

What defines you?  Is it the stuff that happens to you or what you make it of it?  Is it the experiences that you’ve had or what you’ve learned from them?  Is it what people think of you or how you relate to them?  Is it your loves, your emotions, your beliefs or is it all or none of these things?

I think you can let yourself be defined by the wrong things.  You can let others tear you down until you believe that is who you are (my second husband was real good at this).  You can let mass media show you, through millions of TV and magazine ads, that you are ugly or fat or not up to par with everyone else until you start to believe it to be true (try watching a Lifestyle Lift commercial and not think you could use one).  You can poison yourself with outside influences until pretty soon you treat them like your own.

This is so wrong.  Our definition should come from within with no outside authority.

So what’s my definition?   If I could look myself up in a dictionary, this is what it would say about me:

PATRICIA OTERO FULLER  \ pə-tri-sha \ o-te-ro \ fů-ler \

1.   Noun:  Blogger, Christian, Full-time RVer, Cat-Lover, New Yorker, Picky Eater, Wife/Mother/Daughter/Sister/Aunt/Grandmother, Puerto Rican/Austrian, Conservative, Storyteller

2.   Verb:  Loves/Hates, Reads, Sings, Imagines, Thinks, Questions, Wonders

a.   Loves: Jesus, her family, reading, cats, reality TV, McDonald’s ice cream cones, singing in church, action movies, writing in her blog, traveling, visiting new places, change, music that moves her, playing Bejeweled Blitz, eating out, word puzzles

b.   Hates:  Dieting, exercising, cooking, talking on the phone, being away from friends and family especially her grandchildren, asking stupid questions, waiting in line, waiting in general

c.   Reads: Nook-books, who-done-its, political thrillers, historical fiction, science fiction, Christian fiction, Left Behind, Harry Potter, Jeffrey Deaver, Michael Crichton, Twilight, C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, any good story

3.   Adjective:  Curly-Headed, Short, Chubby (I'm being kind), Faithful, Loyal, Insulin-Dependent, Thankful, Ordinary, Sensitive, Serious, Shy, Honest, Retired, Happy

I’m sure there’s more, but you get the picture.  What defines me is the combination of what I am, what I do, what I love or hate, and what I feel.  It is compounded by what I believe and what I know to be true.  It’s a very complex formula and trying to figure it all out today has worn me out!  It’s not often I take such a deep, long look at myself.

I believe if you want to define who you are, you better be ready to dig deep.  The deeper you go, the more you will find out.  Have you noticed I left out pretty much everything negative about me?  A girl has got to have some secrets, doesn't she?

~ P

Pretty?

Roaming around the internet recently, I found a video of a woman reciting a poem called “Pretty.”  She talked about a time when she asked her mother, “Will I be pretty?”  You see, life had left her with a crooked nose, teeth that needed braces, and bad skin.  Her mother’s reply,

“Don't worry.  We'll get it fixed!”

In her mother’s eyes, pretty was all about the outward appearance.  A pretty face.  Pretty teeth.  Pretty skin.  In reality, being pretty goes much deeper than that. 

If you look at the word ‘pretty’ you will see that there are two main ways it can be used: as an adjective (pleasing or attractive to the eye but less than beautiful) and as an adverb (to hold to a fairly or moderately high degree).

So which would you rather be, an adjective or an adverb?

The practical side of my mind tells me it would be better to be adverb pretty.  There are many ways I am adverb pretty:  I’m pretty considerate, pretty courteous, pretty forgiving, pretty friendly, pretty honest, pretty optimistic, pretty positive, pretty responsible, pretty sincere, pretty serious, and pretty trusting, just to name a few because I am so much more.

To be adjective pretty is to be, well, pretty.  That’s it.  You’re just pretty.  Boring!!  Right?  Hmmm.  Let’s see about that.

I like the way the poet summed up her poem.  She said if her daughter ever asks, “Mom, will I be pretty?” she will reply,

“I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer, “No! The word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be, and no child of mine will be contained in five letters.  You will be pretty intelligent, pretty creative, pretty amazing. But you will never be merely 'pretty'.”

Perfect answer!!

 

Honorable Mention

When I was a little girl, my aunts and uncles told my mother that I was pretty.  Maybe I was…to my family.  Mom must have thought so because when I was about three, she entered me in a beauty contest for children held by some local photography studio.  I placed “Honorable Mention.”  My prize—an 8x10 portrait. 

Such is life.  We all can’t be winners.  Mom never entered me in any more contests after that.  What does that say?  Did she, like me, think that Honorable Mention meant I wasn’t pretty enough so why bother?  Why did I let some silly little no-name beauty contest peg me for life with a “you’re not pretty enough” label? 

I understand that being adjective pretty is very subjective.  What’s pretty to one is not necessarily pretty to another.  A few months back when I was still pinning on Pinterest, I posted a picture of myself showing off my curly hair for other curly-haired enthusiasts to see.  A perfect stranger, a woman looking to be in her late 20’s, commented on my picture and said, “You are so pretty.”  What?  Did she just say I was pretty?  OMG!!  That comment had an immediate effect on me.  My mood lightened.  I smiled.  It made my day.  No one had called me pretty since I was a little girl!

So there it was.  I finally had my day in the sun, the moment I had been waiting for ever since I received that “Honorable Mention” from all those years ago.  On that day, at that time, to that person I was pretty, and to that I reply,

 “I’m so pretty, oh so pretty.  I’m so pretty and witty and gay.  And I pity any girl who doesn’t feel that way.”

Smiles,

~ P

P.S.  Please, no comments telling me how pretty I am.  It’s too late.

To view the poem quoted in this post, please click the link http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M6wJl37N9C0

A Picture is Worth...

I took my camera with me today as I did errands in Blacksburg and Gaffney.  Gaffney is about ten miles from Blacksburg heading west and where I go to do banking and Walmarting.  There are some sights around this area that only a picture could do justice.

Sometimes, when I am in a new area, I will see something that reminds me of someone or some place I’ve been to before.  It's so cool when this happens.  It's like a surprise visit from an old friend.  So far I've had two such surprises.

There is a street I pass on my way to the Post Office that reminds me of two great people who were leaders in our Bible Study Group when we lived in Mobile, Alabama.  Chuck and Sharon Whisonant are the nicest people you could ever meet.  They immediately took Rick and me in as friends when we started going to Cottage Hill Baptist Church.  We feel blessed to know them. 

I think of Chuck and Sharon whenever I pass by WHISONANT STREET.  I don’t think it’s a very common name.  They are the only Whisonants I know.  Chuck and Sharon have come to this area of South Carolina on vacation in the past, to visit family I think, so it could be a distant relative of Chuck's that this street is named after.  You never know.



I am curious to find out if this sign has any connection to Chuck.

Another person I think about often is my best friend, Barb Bergstrand.  She lived in Pittsfield when I lived there.  I miss her dearly and haven’t seen her since May of 2008 when we passed through Pittsfield on our way to a job in Gillette, Wyoming.  However, when we talk on the phone, we pick right up from where we left off.  Friends do that. 

Lots of changes have happened to Barb this year.  She retired from teaching elementary school and she recently moved with her husband Kevin to Indiana.  They sold a great home near Pittsfield that Rick and I dubbed “The Bed and Breakfast.” We loved staying there whenever we came to visit. 

Their cabin-style house with its huge front porch was located on Ambrosia Hollow Road.  Barb would often say they lived in the “holler,” just like a hillbilly from Appalachia would say.  [No Barb, I am not calling you a hillbilly.  I would never do that!]  Now they live on Possum Trot Road in Indiana, another unusual street name. Don’t you think? 

Besides naturally thinking about Barb because she is my friend, I also think about her whenever I pass this historic landmark in Gaffney.  It’s a one room schoolhouse that was built in 1880.  It’s a double whammy reminder of Barb because it’s a schoolhouse and because of its name, Possum Trot School.  As soon as I saw it, I knew Barb would love it, so this picture is for you Barb!

This one-room schoolhouse was restored in 1969.

According to information I found on the web, the name “Possum Trot”
mostly like came from the fact that the students reached the school by following
an existing possum trail through the nearby woods.

   

There are a few other pictures I want to share with you that don’t remind me of anyone or any place I’ve been.  They are just cool pictures of things I found interesting in this area.

The first is a water tower, but it’s not your typical water tower.   It is in the shape of a giant peach. They call it the Peachoid. The peach is South Carolina's state fruit.  There are several peach farms near Gaffney and this may be why they decided to build this unique water tower.



The Peachoid looking east. 

It is listed as one of the state’s famous roadside attractions.

  

The Gaffney Peachoid was built in 1981. 
It's an awesome sight as you drive along I-85 between Exit 90 and 92.

Looking straight at the peach is not the best way to view it.  Rick

says it looks like a fat butt, crack and all!!  [Pardon my French.] 
I think the Fatz sign is very appropriate considering!!  LOL



Part of my errands today included stopping at the Work Boots Plus store to pick up some Boot Guard for Rick's work boots.  It’s in a quaint little shopping center.  Next door to Work Boots Plus is the Bargain Shoes store.  What I particularly like about the Bargain Shoes store is not necessarily their shoes, it's what they have added to their sign.  See picture.

What a blessing to see this bold statement of faith!!

After leaving here I went to Walmart to shop for groceries.  I passed by McDonald’s and I noticed their marquee sign was flashing this message: “Blessed is the nation whose God is the Lord.”  I am happy to see more and more Christians taking a stand for what they believe in. 

So there you have it!  This completes our mini tour of my little corner of the globe.  I firmly believe you have to make an area your own.  You must claim it for yourself.  If you have no family or friends around, that's all you can do.  I claim Whisonant Street, Possum Trot School, the Peachoid, Bargain Shoes and Jesus.  What do you claim?

Peace and Love,

~ P