Sharing
Obama has said that McCain will soon “be accusing me of being a secret communist because I shared my toys in kindergarten.” No wonder Obama insists that his programs aren’t “socialism,” he doesn’t even know what it means. Listen carefully, Obama. When you made the choice to give your toy to someone else that was “sharing.” If your kindergarten teacher had taken your toy away from you and given it to someone else, she would be considered a “communist” enforcing “socialist” classroom policy. Evidently, Obama believes that adult American citizens are less capable of making “sharing” decisions than he was in kindergarten.
I don’t need the federal government to distribute my income. I do that every time I turn on the lights, buy reading material, or shop for groceries and other items for my household. I distribute my income to the power company, publisher, and merchants who then distribute it to their employees. Obamaites cry, “Not fair!” because some of those employees receive more of my income than others. What’s not fair about it? The difference between $100 an hour and $10 an hour is education, skills, natural ability, gumption, supply vs. demand, and a willingness to assume risk.
I’ll tell ya what ain’t fair. It ain’t fair that I don’t look like Britney, sing like Mariah, and dance like Paula. When is the government going to do something about that, huh? (insert snap, snap, chicken-neck here)
bananas
Friday was a rainy, rainy day so no outside work. Naturally, Friday is my weekly errand running day so I still got wet. My plans were to break out the sewing machine after my running around but Harvey’s had other ideas. First of all the weather was perfect for chili so I grabbed the ground beef and ground turkey (2 pounds each) then noticed some funky sausage buy one get one free! Woohoo can’t pass that up so throw in four pounds (2 for the chili, 2 for the freezer.) Grab a few cans of kidney beans mmmmm black beans we’ll try a couple of those, too. Dang all the chili seasoning is sold out. Guess all of Terrell County had the same idea. Gotta be flexible. Taco seasoning! Pass through the produce, not shopping for that today, but wait……bags of ripe bananas 49 cents a pound! Banana bread. Yummy. Mmmm about a dozen or so in a bag might as well get two.
Okay, got six pounds of meat browning on the stove, got the dishwater ready to clean as I go, time for the bread. Peal the bananas, dump them in a bowl, mash ‘em up. Mmmm that’s a lotta mashed banana. Oh well. Get the recipe. One cup of bananas? One cup? That’s ALL? Martha we have a problem. Go to the freezer for the pecans. What pecans? I thought I had some pecans. Guess not. It’ll have to be plain bread. Mix it, pour it in my one and only loaf pan, and stick it in the oven.
Now what? Helloooo there’s a clump of what used to be semi-sweet chocolate morsels. That’s almost pecans. But forget this one loaf business we’ll make a double batch with grated semi-sweet chocolate clump instead of pecans. That’s four mini-loaves, one nine-inch square loaf, and one 8-inch square loaf of banana chocolate bread.
The meat is ready. Drain it, dump it in a bowl with the seasoning and let it set a while. Wait a minute. I just had a brilliant idea. Put four packs of seasoning in the meat. Chop the onions and smash a few garlic cloves and saute them in some oil with the other two packs of seasoning. Hey there’s some cider vinegar. Throw some of that in there too.
Meanwhile, back at the banana bowl, it doesn’t appear to have diminished at all. Another double batch. Hey I saw a recipe for banana oatmeal cookies so why not bread. Banana oatmeal it is! All the pans are in the oven. Time to drag out the pyrex casseroles. Done and done just in time to take out the first two batches.
Still more bananas! Why are the bananas never gone?!? Ha, sorry, that was for Hailey.
Raisins! I got raisins! Double batch banana raisin bread coming up! Uh-oh no more eggs or sugar. Send Jesse to the store. Fill a 30-quart stock pot half full with chili fixins. Dang too much meat and five cans of beans not enough. Dump in a couple cans of baked beans and a bunch of canned tomatoes and tomato sauce.
Back in the bread business. Banana raisin done. Still more bananas. MMM the banana chocolate is fabulous. Use the last of the semi-sweet chocolate clump and make another double batch.
Arg! Mashed banana still in the bowl. I can’t do it. There are 15 loaves of banana.* bread in various shapes and sizes all over the kitchen. Stick the mashed banana in the fridge and make banana pancakes tomorrow. Or the next day. Or wait till they grow mold and throw them out. Whatever. I’m sick of bananas. It’s six o’clock for cryin’ out loud and I started at eleven.
Supper’s ready! Chili and Banana-Whatever Bread!
Never did get to sew. Oh well, there’ll be other rainy days. Not too soon I hope. This one wore me out.
the life of riley
When did I ever find time or energy to go to a job? I’ve been home full-time for about 2 months and the list is longer at sunset than at sunrise. Of course, it’s much nicer when it’s your own list rather than someone else’s. I can’t believe Glenn put that horrid picture up for the world to see, but yea I got a new toy. It’s been a learning experience for sure. First of all, I’m not sure parts and supply stores are accustomed to women asking for 90 weight gear oil, sway bars, or hitch pin thingys. I get some odd looks but maybe it’s the hat. It has not been without its adventures. The field was horribly overgrown, at least five feet tall, and the first time a goldenrod slapped my leg I almost bailed because I was constantly on guard for a snake or rat ambush. Then, I broke the PTO drive lifting the mower too high, which I will add is apparently not uncommon since all the men I talked to said they had done the same thing. Threw the old one (both pieces) in the truck, drove to Tractor Supply, dumped it in a shopping cart, pushed it inside and said I need a new one of these, and they were thrilled to oblige (keep on cuttin’ lady.) Carried it home and two hours later was back in business and feeling pretty proud of myself. The next day I learned my fuel gauge didn’t work and that when a diesel runs out of fuel you can’t just fill it back up. My brother-in-law came by and showed me how to prime it back up. Good to have but don’t intend to ever use that bit of knowledge. Yesterday used a grease gun for the first time. But, the field is cut, now comes another first. Swap the mower for the box blade and drag down 40 gazillion tons of peanut hulls piled up in the field; hopefully by next spring so’s I can plant me some corn. If not, maybe I’ll run up to the tech school at night and study diesel mechanicing. That would be hilarious if I had any energy after dark anymore.
granny
Oh the things you find while cleaning. I’ve been on a mission since leaving the ranks of the gainfully employed. Although, my current occupation provides its own gains – sore muscles, aching feet, stove up back, sprained wrist (pulling laundry from the dryer, of all things,) borderline dehydration aka profuse sweat dispensation (ewww.) The Bank of Terrell won’t cash that check but the bed certainly will, with interest. There’s also something satisfying about total physical exhaustion; knowing that I’ve pushed myself as far as I can. If nothing else, I sleep good. But, back to my mission, which will take some time because, as you see I am easily distracted. I have been floor-to-ceiling cleaning house, tossing stuff, reorganizing stuff, blah, blah, blah. I’ve been stuck in the computer room about a week or so because I decided to plant a fall garden so the comp room gets about five minutes a day. Anyway, where was I, oh yeah, stuff you find.
I found something I wrote almost 20 years ago that I don’t even remember writing. Some of it reads kind of cornball but who is the same person they were 20 years ago? I think I just wanted to get some things written down before I got to old and senile to remember them. So, I thought mmmm, I’ll post this and not have to think of something new to write then I can get out of this house, go sit in Granny’s swing with Daddy and a cup of coffee, and watch my garden grow. Probably needs weeding, though…..
A Letter to My Sons
To this day, Sunday night is my favorite night of the week. I am convinced this is due to an attitude left from my childhood. My grandparents lived in a small apartment; part of a government housing project. They filled it with things they had owned for decades; some of which still exist in the homes of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.
Every Sunday night, after church, my parents, two brothers, sister, and I visited Granny and Granddaddy. The front porch filled with plants and rockers, baked beans and banana pudding in the kitchen, the back porch filled with the wringer washing machine, the banana tree in the back yard. Walking through their door was like going back fifty years.
Granddaddy lay on the couch, a dirt-filled coffee can spittoon on the floor beside him, whittling cigarettes with lipstick on the end for us. Granny made sure we ate enough to last until the next Sunday (all the butter cookies we could hold.) I can’t remember if they had a television or radio. If they did, it didn’t make an impression. The playground did. Having a playground right outside my back door would have been wonderful.
When Granddaddy died Granny refused to let him go to the funeral home. He was going to stay at home where she could sit with him until the funeral. I don’t remember if anyone convinced her to let him go. I loved being there and would have lived with them if I could.
Six days ago Granny’s body finally gave out at the age of eighty-seven, 20 years after Granddaddy had gone. But, the real Granny has not died. The real Granny, her spirit, has been re-born. Her body had gotten so tired and weak, she was not able to do all the things she enjoyed. Her spirit was like an unborn baby, struggling, kicking, squirming inside his mother. Granny’s spirit wanted to get up and go but her body was too old and weak; probably the reason she moaned all the time.
When Granny’s body finally gave out her spirit burst out like a baby being born and shouted, “Man, this feels good! Show me the way then back up!” That spirit shot straight up to heaven where Granny is now free to do all the things she enjoys and more.
One of her favorite things to do was watch you boys play. When we visited her she would bring out her shoe box full of “play-pretties.” Plastic bowls with lids, spoons, cups, wooden spools, milk bottle caps, egg cartons; all that your imagination needed. She would set that box on the living room floor and watch you play. Sometimes she would clap her hands, pat a foot, and say, “Dance for me.” You guys would dance and dance to the best kind of music.
She knew what to do when you got into the cactus and when the wasps chased you from the playground. She gave us tomatoes grown outside her back door. She could whip up lunch for all of us at a moment’s notice (with all the butter cookies you could eat.) When she gave me her freezer there were probably twenty pounds of chicken necks inside. When she was seventy-something she took a switch after your Papa because he was being a pest. She could shell peas and butterbeans long after her eightieth birthday. She didn’t like the butterbeans; they made her thumb sore.
Right now, she’s found herself a soft, comfortable cloud with a view so she can look down on you boys and watch you dance and play. But, you’d best behave or else she’s likely to drop a switch down to me and I’ll have to use it because I sure don’t want her after me.
i have the powah
Bill Clinton (1998): “It depends on what the meaning of the word ‘is’ is.”
“It depends on how you define “alone.”"
Ten years later – new quarterback, same play book.
Barack Obama (2008): “They have yet to define victory.”
Democrats have perfected the art of the non-answer: simply request a precise definition of all words in the question until you hear, “that’s all the time we have, now.”
Of course, that depends on the meaning of the word “that’s” and its object of reference relative to the definitive concept of “time” and the specificity of “the.”
Awesome! The ultimate relativity!
IRS: “Ms. Tindol, you neglected to file your income tax return.”
That depends on your definition of “file.” It’s right here under “Stupid Stuff I Don’t Want to Fool With.”
Loan Officer: “Ms. Tindol you have not made a mortgage payment in six months.”
That depends on your definition of “made.” See, all the checks are in this box labelled, duh, “Mortgage Payments.”
Oh the freedom of limitless possibility! I can never go WRONG as long as I control the definition of RIGHT!
WOOOOHOOOO!!!!!! I AM INVINCIBLE! THE WORLD IS MINE DEPENDING UPON YOUR DEFINITION OF WORLD AND/OR MINE! MWAAHAAHAAHAA!!!!!! MWAAHAAHAAHAA!!!!!!
Uh-oh. Modus Interruptus.
Mike: “Honey, is supper ready yet?”
Hunh. Like I’m gonna touch THAT one. He has yet to define yet, much less supper, ready, or honey.
You talkin’ to me or that stuff in the plastic bear jar?
I received an e-mail from Wynelle today concerning the fight for women’s right to vote, which I passed on to many of you. Here are a few links for those interested in the history:
http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/3604
http://memory.loc.gov/ammem/collections/suffrage/nwp/tactics.html
http://memory.loc.gov/ammem/collections/suffrage/nwp/brftime3.html
As I was reading about those brave women, an interesting perspective occurred to me. Among my direct ancestors – parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, etc. – Mama is the first female born with the right to vote. Wow. First generation natural born female voter.
I got Jake’s family history book and compiled a genealogy of female voting eligibility. Thank you Gayle and Kenneth for your diligent work recording our family history!
I’ve listed my fore-mothers and the age at which they were legally allowed to vote for their own leaders. Needless to say, it didn’t take long. The brevity itself forms a stunning portrait that further commentary would only diminish.
Grandmothers:
Rosa Lee Pearce Martin – 27
Ruby Dews Loyless Jarrett – 17
Great-Grandmothers:
Virginia Melton Pearce – 59, died 2 years later
Lula Land Martin – 54, died 16 years later
Albina Louvina Fannie Singletary Loyless – 43, died 17 years later
Samantha Ella Sparks Jarrett – never, died 5 years before amendment passed
Great-Great-Grandmothers:
Annie Ella Allen Loyless – 66, died 9 years later
Margaret Susan Sapp Singletary – unknown, if living would have been 81 when amendment passed
Martha A. Pearson Pearce – never
Sarah Amanda Brooks Land – never
Allie Wicker Martin – never
Mary Owens Jarrett – never
Beyond this point – never
odious
talons on a chalkboard
swine with pearls adorning
aluminum patio lounge
travels the concrete flooring
e-string along my spine
plucked asunder without warning
dreamed of you last night
had a headache in the morning
iris
many many moons ago joyce ann gave me a handful of bulbs
white iris bulbs
they survived magnolia street and on to smithville road
scoffed at the trip to foxhound
arrived at scrap israel with a sigh of relief
we are home let us be fruitful and multiply
they will not be destroyed
they get no special treatment
water from the sky
nutrients from the earth
mow them down
ha! we will rise up stronger
neglect them
ha! we will bloom more profusely
give em your best shot
ha! we will overpower you with our beauty
nevermore will they be generic white irises
they are joyce ann irises
resilient
immovable
hit em with the worst you got and they rise up to do battle for the ones they love
icons of strength
foundations of fortitude
i wanna be a joyce ann iris
i doubt i ever will be
but if ever existed a dream worth fulfilling, a goal worth achieving, that would be it
High Court, Low Blow
The Supreme Court’s Boumediene v. Bush decision is wrong. Dead wrong. And the dead will be Americans.
Consider the number of military facilities around us in South Georgia, as well as Hartsfield, a major international hub, number one on the 2005 list of Top Airports-Passengers Enplaned. Add to the equation Georgia’s number 10 Gross Domestic Product ranking that same year and its substantial contribution to the country’s agricultural production.
Conclusion – Georgia is a prime target of significant national impact and we have serious cause for concern when avowed enemies are allowed to use our own courts as part of their war strategy. Absolutely appalling.
alfred
once upon a time there was a frog named alfred* every night his mama gave him mosquitoes for supper* alfred hated mosquitoes* he preferred teriyaki stir fry* his parents hopped him to countless therapy sessions* he was viewed with disdain by his community* ostracized* neighbors would hop to an adjacent lily pad to avoid passing him in the pond, fearing contamination or, worse yet, their own ostracization by association* every day at school alfred was abused and beaten by his padmates* teachers and other assorted administrative minions turned a blind eye to alfred’s peer-inflicted conditioning in compliance with the accepted reptile educational philosophy of conform or be destroyed* a gang of toadal miscreants invaded alfred’s lily pad, absconded with his supply of teriyaki sauce and dumped it into the pond, where it was naturally absorbed by the mosquito larva, causing a chemical reaction in the developmental whatnot of the mosquito* the mosquitoes then became radioactive and when eaten caused the other frogs to mutate into pathetic half mosquito/half frog creatures decidedly unpleasant to look upon* unfortunantly the mutation consisted of their top halves being frog and their bottom halves mosquito* naturally, being traditional conformists, the fromoses proceeded to consume their bottom halves and, also naturally, bled to death, leaving alfred to enjoy his teriyaki stir fry in peace, which is all he wanted to do in the first place* the moral of the story is, if you meet a frog who insists upon eating only teriyaki stir fry it’s best to allow it, otherwise you’ll end up eating your own ass off*
