Hit Me With Your Best Shot

Mrs. Carnell

2008-06-04T23:39:00.002-05:00

Second grade. She was my teacher. I didn’t understand Mrs. Carnell which gave her a mysteriousness that a second grade mind could do wonders with. I don’t remember her ever being mean; being mean would have made more sense to me. She took on the persona of being connected to the dark spiritual world. I imagined her concocting brews and potions after school hours to use on bad little kids; therefore I was angelic to escape her spells.

My memories of her were always in black with a Bible close at hand. Bible/dark spiritual world?? I was seven for goodness sake, the contradiction made it all the more eerie. She wore black lace up shoes with a boot look to them and support hose. A very matronly woman to say the least.

I remember her emotional nature. Very stern until one of her students crossed the line; then she would begin to cry as she tried to drive her point home of the importance of good behavior. Looking back I believe that teaching was a real passion for her. This made controlling her emotions difficult at times. She also had difficulty controlling the number of times we had to write our spelling words weekly. Jimmy Gunnels and I would race to see who would finish first. The end result was the same; a very sore hand from writing. Every student that passed her class is a good speller to this day. It’s incredible.

In high school I began having a dream; a recurring dream. In the beginning it was a nightmare; eventually I could talk myself out of the fear and focus on the details of it after having it several times. While sleeping, a pair of black lace up shoes with a boot look to them would walk into my room… no person… just shoes; inching closer and closer to me. I instantly knew whom they belonged to. My closet door would open and close; items move around in my room. Then the closet door remained open… instead of a wall enclosing the closet there was an opening to the backyard. The black shoes walked to my bed and a broom floated into my hand. My only means of escape from the shoes was to make a run for it through the closet opening. I ran holding tight to the broom as the shoes followed me. I felt a weightlessness and looked down at my feet—-they were no longer on the ground… I was flying. I abruptly woke up shivering.

I continued to have this dream on a consistent basis. In time I realized that the black shoes never once tried to hurt me. I no longer had a dread of the black shoes. The shoes became familiar to me and I would talk to them as though Mrs. Carnell was standing before me. The flying became incredible; stealing my stomach as I would swoop through the air.

Maybe those black lace up shoes were never chasing or threatening me; maybe they were coaxing me to FLY. Could that have been Mrs. Carnell’s intent way back in the second grade, but being misunderstood got in the way? I like to think so anyway.

Fly Away From Here
Aerosmith

Those Ole Windows…

2008-05-31T06:59:00.001-05:00

Windows. Three floor to ceiling windows. Side by side. Overlooking a peaceful pond; slightly unkept. A majestic tree on the bank strapped with a wooden slat swing that echoed with laughter from soaring.

Windows with a view of a crystal blue sky; marshmallow clouds; storms brewing; birds in flight; starry skies. I wonder what they were to the rest of the household?? Just windows… I don’t know.

For me it was the only place in the house where I was not alone; even if I was home alone. I visited these windows several times a day; on my knees—-always in awe of the endless sky. I talked and prayed and felt I was being listened to. I would always say, “If you hear me; just give me a sign.” A bird would fly over the pond and out of sight every time.

I laughed, cried, begged, cussed, asked why, and said thank you in front of those ole windows. I was weak and I was strong there. I found a picture of them the other day and realized how many pages of my life they were on. Page after page there was time I spent in front of them.

The house sold a few months ago and I went there for the last time. In the front door; straight up the stairs; and into the bedroom with those ole windows. I felt the tears begin to roll down my face as I gazed at the peaceful pond and majestic tree. My daughter asked why I was crying… “Because this is where I came everyday and prayed for us all.”

Now they belong to someone else; maybe they need them more than I did. In any case I hope they take the time to stop and gaze through the glass at what’s on the other side… beauty, tranquility, and a page in the book of their life.

When I Look To The Sky
Train

Chasing the Elusive

2008-05-21T07:34:00.002-05:00

Chasing is in our nature… practiced at a very young age. Remember the childhood games of tag? The adrenaline flowing through your body as you ran from the chaser; the intense desire to tag a playmate in order to become one of the group again instead of the lone pursuer.

As we grow into adulthood the chase continues while the prey evolves with age. Sometimes we chase the tangible; other times the elusive. Chasing the tangible is acceptable and can easily be backed up by logic. When we capture our tangible prey there is instant gratification and reward. Jobs, homes, vehicles, partners, children…we can easily relive the chase and capture in our minds.

The elusive chase is different. It combines two childhood games… tag as well as hide and seek. Instead of running full speed ahead, the chase is cautious and unpredictable. The elusive has no logic to the masses; only to each individual chaser. Instant gratification and reward is replaced by skepticism.

There’s a difference between the illusive and the elusive. The illusive is a form of an illusion; something not real but has the ability to be seen if it’s the vision of choice in your mind. This is what I call a dream chaser. We all chase dreams… as we should. The elusive is very real; dodging, disappearing, out running us. Many times we are scorned for this chase.

As I grow older I realize the significance of chasing the elusive. Seeking dreams fulfills the wants in life; capturing the elusive fulfills the needs. The inability to articulate this chase or back it up with logic is irrelevant to me. For you see…I’ve felt it; seen it; touched it… only to blink and have it elude me again. The capture will be complete when wisdom guides me there and adrenaline is replaced with peace.

Dream On
Aerosmith

Closing And Opening

2008-05-19T17:35:00.002-05:00

All of my life I have had my own ‘golden rule” I guess you could say. No one ever sat me down and said, “now Gaye, never close a door or bad things will happen. Or worse. It will make you a bad person”. Instead I took lessons on loyalty and unconditional love and applied them to doors opening and closing. In my mind it meant one thing and one thing only—-never close a door. It’s the equivalent to giving up; turning one’s back on a person or situation. I recently discovered the truth about doors.

Doors are meant to be opened and closed. Why else would they be mounted on hinges? I don’t determine IF a door is closed; only WHEN it is closed. If one has done all that they can do to improve a situation that remains sour; or is consistently hurt then it is time to close the door. No good is coming of either of those scenarios and won’t. For miserable people seek to make others miserable; and hurt people hurt people. You become part of their vicious cycle that goes nowhere; running in place in a sense.

Doors don’t have to be closed with stomping feet, loud voices, and a super-sized slamming that rocks the foundation. Instead they can be closed with compassion and wishes of all things good. Bitterness may continue to exist; but it doesn’t have to be yours. Of course there’s disappointment; especially if you put your heart and soul in it. But relationships of any type have to be nurtured by both parties.

To open a door requires reaching out; reaching towards the handle or knob. Moving forward to pass through its opening. No guarantees. Pass through carrying lessons learned never abandoning the concept of loyalty and unconditional love that is reciprocated.

There are so many open doors still ajar in my life. It’s time to close them; with quiet compassion. Reaching forward and knowing I did all I could possibly do. It is a shame though… don’t you think?

Open Your Eyes
Alter Bridge

Insomnia

2006-09-25T19:00:00.001-05:00

Last week I could count on one hand how many hours I slept the entire seven nights. Just for the record; I am a very patient person… just for the record; this past weekend I was NOT!
I work 40 hours in 3 days with 8 teenage girls in a therapeutic foster home. I’m Ms. Easygoing Gaye; they can’t ruffle my feathers. At least they can’t ruffle Ms. Easygoing Gaye; but they sure as hell can ruffle the feathers of Ms. Sleep Deprived Gaye. I’m ashamed…

The new girl made me want to claw my eyeballs out. How many freakin’ times do I have to repeat the freakin’ menu… and yes YOU have to eat what’s on it… and NO it’s not going to change if you ask me 14 trillion more times. Good Grief!!!! I wanted to do something creative with that damn menu but I was too tired to be creative. At one point I found myself trying to get in the last word with her… I never do that!… And hell she was winning for crying out loud!

I CAN cook; I HATE to cook. So sleep deprived Gaye got to cook every meal all weekend for 10 people. I come from a small family damn it! I tried to be clever and wait my co-worker out to see if she would go in the kitchen and start the meals… just ONE. No such luck… Groceries!!! Sleep deprived Gaye got to go pick those up at Campus… crates, boxes, ice chests full of food… a weekly massive undertaking. Lucky me!

It gets better! I was hand picked to take 4 of the girls shopping at Target. This was AFTER cooking 2 meals, catching up on paperwork from the day before, picking up after the messy girlies all day (I’m not supposed to do that but I’m a rebel!), and dealing with "new girl". OH!!! By the way!!! New girl calls me Ms. Gayle… not because she doesn’t know my name, but because she doesn’t LIKE the other word (Gaye). Sleep deprived Gaye wanted to call her a name; and so I did; her name… darn it!

Just in case you think this is exaggerated or that I was the only one that was nuts that day consider this… one of the other girls walked over and plopped down beside me while I was counting backwards from a zillion to calm down and whispered to me, "I need a xanax!" I said, "WHAT??" She said, "I mean it. That girl is driving me crazy!" We both laughed.

Okay, back to Target… if they take $100.00 they want to spend $110.00. I can’t let any of them out of my sight… 4 teenage girls… all different sizes… different interests… shopping together… FUN! The checkout line is unbelievably exciting. It’s always exhilarating to wonder if the people behind you in line are going to shove their carts up your ass because the girls have more items in their carts than they have money. So they stand there; hold up the line; and decide what they want to put back… it’s a group discussion you see… they value the opinion of their peers.

Finally Sunday arrived and I was all psyched up when I got to work… just 15 more hours and I’ll be off for 4 days… HEAVEN… well it was heaven while it lasted. A co-worker needed me to come in early for her Monday morning for a few hours and then I received the added bonus of having to go to Training all Monday afternoon.

I’m hoping for good sleep between now and Friday because Ms. Gayle has got to be at the top of her game; I’m gonna win this time "new girl"! Insomnia… sigh~~~~

Sleepy Time Time--Cream

Her Mansion In The Sky

2006-09-11T18:44:00.000-05:00

My Grandma Fox was a unique woman. She was a tiny red-head with a fair complexion , and not so grandmotherly ways. That’s not a bad thing by any means. She was true to herself; feisty; vivacious; social. I never once saw her in a bad mood, a frown, or complaining. Cooking was foreign to her; in other words… don’t eat it!

Grandma Fox had a life… a life of her own… a life that she enjoyed to the fullest. She had a circle of devoted friends that stayed on the road traveling from Bingo parlor to Bingo parlor. The woman was addicted. She also had a knack for winning… and that meant the grandkids got some of that good ole money.

Grandma also played cards weekly… for money of course… and she just loved the taste of beer… only for the taste mind you!

Her and my Grandpa divorced after my Dad got married to my mother. From that time on she lived with her dad and sister until they both died; then she lived alone until she entered the nursing home—it was short-lived due to her death.

Grandma never spanked her four kids; this petite woman carried them around on her hip until their feet would drag the ground. As far as the spanking goes… well, HER kids never needed it… so there! This woman was fixated on Lawrence Welk! I swear it was on her tv every time I went to her house; she must have had a secret crush on him.

She never asked for anything. Always minded her own business. Let our family function the way we chose to function without getting involved. Grandma loved babies; and they loved her. Everything they did was grand; even when they would be getting a little rowdy.

She started suffering mini strokes which affected her memory. She knew what was going on and would get frustrated when she couldn’t remember… she tried so hard. This is when her voice; the voice she had always chosen to remain silent emerged… it emerged in song. At the nursing home she would sing LOUD in her room. Of course the grouches complained, but that didn’t stop her because she couldn’t remember… the memory loss came in handy there! We thought it was funny.

Staff loved her. She was so cooperative… wanted to do everything just right for them. Before she went to the nursing home she would tell me about her "mansion in the sky" and how very beautiful it was going to be. "He promised me you know", she would say. "I know Grandma; it’s going to be everything you’ve ever dreamed of." Once in the nursing home she would repeat over and over while she was sitting in her wheelchair… "Is this where I’m supposed to be? Am I in the right place?’

At her funeral a beautiful memorial was read that was written by one of her daughters. It ended with…"yes Mom, you’re where you’re supposed to be… you’re in exactly the right place… your mansion in the sky. We love you."

I miss you Grandma Fox; I love you so much… Happy Birthday!

Not A Day Goes By--Lonestar

I Met “Just Jack”!

2006-09-06T11:22:00.000-05:00

You know the guy… "Just Jack" on Will and Grace. Actually this wasn’t him, but he acted so much like the character that this is the name I gave him. We met at Reagan International Airport in DC on my way back to Arkansas… it was a HOOT! And this is how it went… classic!

"Just Jack" approached the ticket counter all perky making sure he was in the correct location. He walked over to me and jumped in the chair beside me… he didn’t sit in it… he pounced in it. Did I mention he was in his sock feet? Yes he was. Before he pounced he dropped his shoes on the ground and they went rolling. "Just Jack" was a wee bit tipsy!! Then he proceeded to speak… I managed to get a word or two (maybe) in the conversation.

"Just Jack"---"I like you!!!"
Me—"You do."
"Just Jack"—"Yes I do because you let me sit beside you. You see I missed my plane earlier and I’ve been stuck at this airport for four hours!!"

Actually "Just Jack" was in the airport bar for four hours!

"Just Jack"—"I’ve been visiting my friend in DC for his birthday. I got him a gold ring with 7 diamonds in it. It was HIS birthday but he gave ME presents too---this Gucci coat; a Versace bracelet; and this gold ring with a diamond."
Me—"WOW!!"
"Just Jack"—"I bet you’ve never seen a Gucci coat before…" (as he stood up and modeled it)
Me—"No I haven’t, and it’s beautiful."
"Just Jack"—"Here’s the Versace bracelet and the ring."
Me—"That’s a good kind of friend to have."
"Just Jack"—"Yeah, I love visiting him…. You have the whitest teeth; and a tan… I have a tan too."
Me—"It’s all about the tan, huh?"
"Just Jack"—"And you have the cutest stupid southern drawl…"
Me—"Stupid????"
"Just Jack"—"Um no I mean simple; no I mean you never say simple to people because then they know you really mean stupid."
Me—"First of all I’m not simple. And second of all I’m not stupid." (smiling)
"Just Jack"--He started to laugh… "Seriously, I’m from Memphis… I talk the same way! By the way, what’s your name?"
Me—"Gaye."
"Just Jack"—"Oh my God; you’re kidding… I am TOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! This is incredible!"
Me—"You’re hilarious!"

The ticket guy made the last call to board "Just Jack’s" plane. He decided he’d better hop on before he missed his second flight in one day. As he walked down the "tunnel" to the airplane he stopped in his tracks… everyone behind him had to stop too. He bounced in the air, waved his arms and screamed…

"Just Jack"—"Bye Gaye… have a safe flight!"
Me—"You too!"
I’m still smiling… this guy was a joy… and that Gucci coat was mighty fine too!

Just a side note…
When I arrived at the airport in DC I went through security. I’ve been through security many times. But this time instead of walking through the metal detector first I had to stand inside of a device that looked like a metal detector. While standing inside, this machine shoots air all over your body; I wasn’t expecting it. The security guard on the other side started laughing and told his buddy that from the look on my face the machine had scared me to death. As I approached him on the other side I said, (in my stupid southern drawl) "I’ve never been blown at an airport before." Good grief… what was I thinking…. He started dying laughing. I immediately tried to correct myself telling him that I’m sure that didn’t sound very good, huh? He assured me he had heard much worse. Oh well… he got his laugh for the day and I got a good one too. I just love airports!!! Up, up and away… hey, hey, hey!!

I'm So Fly--Lloyd Banks

You Don’t Know Me…

2006-07-20T08:06:00.001-05:00

So many different sides to me; different angles; story lines in my everyday existence that never intersect. I feel as though I am several characters rolled into one. Some of these characters I kind of like; the others only complicate my life. Instead of eliminating the complications I seem to thrive on them. I’ve chosen to see these characters within me as complications for now with the potential for creating a better ME in the future. I could be completely wrong… it’s a definite possibility that I use this as an excuse in my ever twisting mind.

I don’t know me… maybe it’s the stage of my life I’m in… the situations that led up to my here and now… constantly having to deal with change on a grand scale. I don’t know??? So if you don’t know me and I don’t know me… who does? Does it matter? What if it does matter? Well, if it does matter I’m in a heap of trouble! Damn… I despise trouble… hope that’s not the scenario in store for this ole gal.

When I’m alone and all of these characters are forced to look at one another I realize that they have one thing in common. Their constant desire for me to learn to trust again. These characters want to be revealed to someone other than myself. Not just a few here and there to this person and then that person. But truly revealed so they can come together as one.

Keeping the characters in my mind separate is a defense mechanism I use to protect myself from deception. I KNOW deception well… it creates a bitterness in me that is self-defeating. To avoid deception; I tossed trust to the side. I trust no one; nothing. This feeling is equally self-defeating. In my mind the lesser of the two evils (upfront distrust vs. trusting then being deceived); I’ve chosen distrust.

Maybe some day all of me will come together as one… maybe not… maybe it doesn’t really matter after all.

Who Did You Think I Was--John Mayer (opening act for Sheryl Crow concert--YAY!)

Teenage "Logical" Concepts

2006-07-10T10:06:00.000-05:00

Teenage confidence. We all had it. Remember?… If that particular memory is fading for you just hang out with a teenager for about 5 minutes and it will instantly be revived. They know EVERYTHING! Remember now?…

When I was a teenager I had all of the answers. I loved my parents dearly, but they were… stupid… (bless their hearts!). How could they possibly understand me? How could they have a clue about the issues I faced… peer pressure, education, sex, drugs? I mean after all, they weren’t people; they were parents.

With this, and other "logical" concepts implanted securely in my brain, I waltzed through my teenage years. Actually I tripped over my own feet and followed instead of leading most times, but that didn’t matter… I was a teenager; I knew EVERYTHING! As I tripped and stumbled I barely noticed; it was only when I fell on my face that I would entertain the notion of hmmmm… and that would last a brief moment because I knew EVERYTHING… I had teenage confidence.

It’s funny how confidence and the wonders of being naïve go hand in hand. I guess it’s a good thing that teenagers are consumed with confidence; believing that you are a bionic genius is much less disastrous than realizing you’re clueless…

Which brings me to the here and now… again I am waltzing through my life… tripping and stumbling… but this time WITHOUT teenage confidence. This time I notice every little misstep and fumble; question myself constantly. You know what? It sucks!

I want those "logical" concepts implanted in my brain again. I want to live in ignorant bliss. Teenage confidence… I think I could tweak it a little and make it work in my life now. And I thought I was sooo smart for ridding myself of it years ago… what a know-it-all!!!

Don't Stop Believing-- Journey

If Spiderman Can... So Can I

2006-06-19T17:56:00.000-05:00

I'm not an authority on Superheroes, their powers, backgrounds... none of that. If I had to choose my favorite I guess it would be Superman. There's just something about a man that can pull off wearing tights and still be macho that earns my respect.

And then there's Spiderman... powerful webs spring from his wrists (or is it his hands?... see I never paid attention) and, and, and, that's it. Granted these webs are strong enough to catapult him from object to object and can entangle the enemy until help arrives. Underneath his suit of disguise he's a little on the wimpy side... not the muscular physique Superman has to offer.

Hang in there people I actually do have a point to make. Do you ever feel like you're hanging by a thread? I do........... it's not a very comfortable feeling; it can make one feel weak and vulnerable. But Spiderman hangs by a thread(s) everytime he's on a mission. The threads that make up his powerful web are his source of saving the day.

Maybe we start out with threads and gradually build up to webs of our own. Maybe hanging by a thread isn't so bad after all...

(Check this song out by Nickel Creek--"Hanging By A Thread"-- the lyrics are below; you can download it on iTunes.)

Hanging By A Thread

There's a kind of emptiness that can fill you
There's a kind of hunger that can eat you up
There's a cold and darker side of the moonlight
And there's a lonely side of love

[chorus]
With you here
Baby I am strong
No sign of weakness
With you gone
Baby I am hanging by a thread

There's a certain kind of pain that can numb you
There's a type of freedom that can tie you down
Sometimes the unexplained can define you
And sometimes the silence is the only sound

[chorus]
With you here
Baby I am strong
No sign of weakness
With you gone
Baby I am hanging by a thread
With you here
Baby I am strong
No sign of weakness
With you gone
Baby I am hanging by a thread

The Bridge

2006-01-12T18:17:00.005-06:00

I have no sense of direction; maps mean nothing to me (just a bunch of squiggly lines winding in and out all over the place); even written directions confuse me. I usually end up arguing with the Mapquest piece of paper doubting its accuracy; thus I end up lost. When I get lost I don’t realize it immediately; that would be too easy—instead I drive for miles and miles. It doesn’t have to be an unfamiliar route for me to lose my way—familiarity and getting lost have nothing to do with each other. How does this happen in familiar territory you ask?—simple; I don’t pay attention… isn’t that comforting to all of you fellow travelers that may meet me on the road one day?… Just steer clear of all the silver Pontiac Vibes and I’m sure you’ll be okay…

Like I said, when lost I drive for miles never realizing I’m on the wrong path—totally unaware of my surroundings. THEN something fascinating happens every time; I approach a bridge. The bridges are always different; no two alike. These bridges snap me back into reality and make me realize I’m going in the wrong direction. Unfamiliar scenery; road signs---none of the usual signals that cause most people to question their direction have an impact on me; only bridges.

Instead of turning around at the sight of the bridge, I always keep traveling towards it and cross. Something about its presence draws me in its direction. After crossing, I turn around and backtrack… I am a professional at backtracking—go figure…

When this “phenomenon” first happened I became nervous and wondered if I would find my way; you know that “lost forever” kind of feeling—okay I’m overly dramatic, but it freaked me out. Today I cross the bridges with confidence; laughing at myself for yet another traveling blunder.

Have you ever noticed the magnificence of a bridge? The strength it must have to endure...vehicles of all sizes crossing it; the way it connects one side to another with beauty and debris flowing underneath… I am convinced that a bridge holds the answers to all of my questions in life.

You see, I’m on one side of the bridge doubting my strength; am I strong enough to carry the load that has been placed upon my shoulders (whether this load is of my own doing or someone else’s is beside the point)? This doubt separates the ME that people perceive me to be and the ME that is thriving in my soul—two different people. One that I allowed to be molded by society; the other that is alive, vibrant, and yearning to be set free.

Will I allow myself to be drawn to this bridge of my life? Will I have the courage to cross over to the other side appreciating the beauty that life has bestowed upon me and letting go of the debris that continues to weigh me down? Will I be able to leave this illusion of myself far behind and embrace the person I hunger to be—imperfections and all?

Crossing over into unfamiliar territory with a sense of direction instead of disorientation; a sense of humor; and a feeling of accomplishment. Yes, I love bridges; I no longer fear them, but embrace their presence. As I cross the unfamiliar bridges in my travels I imagine crossing my own bridge and what a glorious day that will be…

LIKE A BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED WATERS--simon and garfunkel

Marbles/Life?

2005-12-28T07:58:00.000-06:00

Think way back now… remember the days of serious marble playing? I remember the days; but I never took it serious—-mainly because my marble shooting skills never exceeded the beginner’s level. Because of this I never bothered to learn the rules; I still don’t know them. I do remember cute little boys searching out sticks on the playground so they could draw the perfect circle in the dirt. Of course these same cute little boys usually got in trouble with the stick they gathered for drawing because they couldn’t resist poking innocent kids that passed within reach.

My upper elementary school had large trees on the campus—not many; but a few. Under these majestic trees is where we would gather when we wanted to shoot marbles or simply be a spectator and watch the pros. The perfect spot for dirt and shade; along with a cool breeze. Most of the time I was a spectator except for the occasional game I would play (by my own rules of course) with my not so pro friends.

I remember the looks of pride as these cute little boys reached into their pockets and pulled out their prized bag of marbles. These rough and tumble boys handled the marble bags with delicacy; moments earlier they may have had their finger up their nose or adjusting their underwear—but their bag of marbles was serious business.

Have you ever really looked at a marble? All sizes, colors, swirls; no two are alike. They really are beautiful. I always wondered how something so beautiful and made of glass could withstand the beating they took during a game and not break. I loved to hold them towards the sun and watch the light shine through. I loved to line them up side by side and notice all of the differences between them. But most of all I loved to see them roll; the swirls and colors blending into one.

We’re a lot like marbles aren’t we? All beautiful; unique; delicate; made to withstand hard knocks if we choose to; have our moments in the sun; and then we ROLL. We roll through this life blending with one another; bumping some; steering clear of others. As we roll our colors become one; but in the stillness of the marble bag the colors are distinct. It’s in our own moments of stillness that we discover ourselves and the uniqueness we possess; and such is the beauty of a simple marble.

I still love marbles and remembering cute little rowdy boys as they venture out on their quest for the perfect drawing stick so they could show off their marble skills. Some things never change…

Miracle--Bon Jovi

Mayberry

2005-11-21T06:34:00.001-06:00

Remember the Andy Griffith Show? The reruns continue today; the show aired from 1960-1968. Mayberry was not a real place in the Carolinas; rather a "state of mind"—-based on Andy’s real life hometown. I remember as though it was yesterday sitting in front of the tv waiting to be entertained by this group of eccentric folks. I watched it because it made me laugh; simple enough reason huh?; simple because I was a kid and that was a simpler time. Another reason I watched was to catch a glimpse of my favorite character. I waited in anticipation wondering if he would have a role in that night’s episode. (I’ll reveal him in a bit…)

Today I realize it wasn’t just the laughs that kept me so intrigued with this fictional town; it was the personalities of the characters that I now identify with. If you take each character and roll them into the next and the next and so on, it will pretty much give you the sum of me at different stages of my life. It’s fascinating!!

Andy was sensible, responsible, fair, polite. Barney humored us with his goofiness, fragility, and fears; yet he had fierce affection and loyalty. Opie was respectful, honest, and tried to be a good son in spite of a few slipups. He learned as he grew. Aunt Bea nurtured everyone around her; maintained organization; and took her role in the household seriously. Floyd made conversations difficult at times due to his scattered brain; the world confused him causing his thoughts to drift. The faraway look in his eyes was the look of a "thinker". Howard Sprague gave straight laced a new dimension as he lived to please his mother and others around him; a perfectionist by nature. Emmitt realized he was no longer youthful, but tried to keep up the best he could. His "Fix It" shop is a place I can easily identify with. Otis acknowledged problems in his life and took matters into his own hands by locking himself up instead of counting on others to deal with his shortcomings.

AND THEN…My Favorite—Ernest T. Bass—“It’s me; it’s me; it’s Ernest T.!!” When he entered the scene I would bounce up and down, rolling in the floor in laughter! Why Ernest T? He ran through life barefooted while everyone else wore socks and lace up shoes. His excitement to see friends always called for a jump on their back for a quick piggyback ride. The joy for life; the ability to be himself; the simpleness of his soul. In spite of all of his childlike qualities he also possessed a moral and ethical standard of accountability. Mess with Ernest T. and get ready to be held accountable—-thus the launching of rocks and bricks in the direction of the guilty—-no questions asked—-he just aimed and let the suckers fly!!

Howard Morris was Ernest T. Bass’ real name. He died in May of this year from natural causes in Hollywood. His son, David, set up a web site for remembering his father-- http://www.ernestt.com/ . Comments of remembrance are welcome on the “memorial page”. In an effort to share more of his father with the public, he also provides his dad’s home phone number. He encourages fans to call and leave a voice message; the voice you will hear is “Ernest T.” before his passing. David listens to the messages periodically and clears them so there will be room for more callers. I think this is a remarkable tribute to his dad and an effective tool his son can use in his own grieving process.

Andy, Barney, Opie, Aunt Bea, Floyd, Howard, Emmitt, Otis, and Ernest T. (there were also others added to the cast along the way)—-take all of these characters and form them into one person and that creation would come pretty darn close to being ME at different times of my life. Hear that whistle? That’s the Andy Griffith theme song; so I think I’ll drift back in time when things were simple and enjoy that “state of mind” known as Mayberry. Oh! and Ernest T. (Howard Morris) to use your quote--"I love you; I love you; I looovveee YOU!" Rest peacefully my dear man...

Photograph--Nickelback

Deciduous or Evergreen?

2005-11-11T06:30:00.001-06:00

I recently purchased a digital camera and find myself "seeing" things from a different perspective. The lens zooms in and allows me to focus on the object at hand with intense specificity. Wandering around the backyard attempting to capture the perfect shot of the colors of autumn... a thought occurred to me---am I a deciduous tree or an evergreen?

For you see, I realized at that moment that people are like trees... think about it... Deciduous trees are green and thick in the summer; explode into magnificent color in the fall; release their leaves to the earth in winter; only to replenish their branches with the return of spring. Evergreens on the other hand remain steadfast, various shades of green, and lush year round.

Deciduous people don't resist change. They wear their colors for all to see regardless of the season. They know just when to explode into color and touch those around them with their inner beauty. Deciduous individuals also have the intuitiveness to know when to "fade" away, if just for a moment; and then return with the newness of spring.

Evergreens represent people that remain the same throughout their lives other than subtle changes equivalent to different shades of the same color. They are dependable, protective, predictable; change comes in the form of physically growing older. Their true selves are masked by the lushness of their loaded branches and revealed to a numbered few.

My favorite tree is the River Birch. It is deciduous and grows best along the water; even though they can be found virtually everywhere today. This tree is special to me because of the connection I have to my RIVER and because of its unique trunk. It not only produces green leaves for summer, changes beautiful colors in the fall, releases its leaves in the winter, becomes reborn in the spring; but it also sheds its bark---a steady rough peeling that reveals a smooth skin underneath.

As I focused the camera in on the colorful autumn trees I noticed something else. No matter what angle I turned the camera; no matter what position I stood in the yard; every frame included the beautiful deciduous trees AND the majestic evergreens. Side by side; growing from the same soil; so different in appearance and stature; yet trees nonetheless.

As people we walk on the same soil; some of us are deciduous; some of us are evergreens; and others are a combination of the two. We're so very different, yet living side by side just as trees do. What kind of tree am I? My intention is to strive to be a River Birch---growing, changing, colorful, finding peace close to the water, "fading" when it's appropriate, and most important continuously shedding my personal baggage while always leaving a layer of protectiveness behind to nurture the newness of me slowly being revealed. What kind of tree are YOU?

Dodge Ball

2005-11-03T06:23:00.001-06:00

Lined up against the wall
The other team taking aim
I’m the target; I can sense it.

Trying to distract with wit
The glare only becomes more focused
Waiting me out, time standing still…

Adrenaline rushing inside
Outwardly remaining calm
Wondering if I can dodge the inevitable.

The speeding ball makes contact
Taking my breath away
The glare remains focused.

This is not a game; it’s life
Dodging is not an option
The keeper of the ball will claim victory.

Seizing the ball
Readying my aim
Finding safety in holding it.

Dodge ball was never my game of choice
It made me feel powerless
As does life, everytime I release the ball.

Dust In The Wind--Kansas

Kellogg’s Corn Flakes

2005-10-21T12:24:00.001-05:00

I LOVE cereal! Give me a big bowl first thing in the morning with bananas and strawberries, always making sure to add EXTRA sugar, and I’m happy—gotta love that sugar boost! Walking down the cereal aisle in the grocery store can be an overwhelming experience; sooo many to choose from these days. Whoever came up with the freeze dried fruit (bananas, strawberries, blueberries) that softens when milk is added deserves a big kiss on the lips—that shit is delicious!! As I stroll down the aisle I narrow my choice down to two—I always buy two. When my eyes scan passed the Kellogg’s Corn Flakes I forget where I am (just for a second) and remember…

It’s Christmas time and my sister and I are getting antsy to open presents. Actually I don’t know why she’s antsy because she would hunt the hidden presents down every year and find them—she hated surprises. I loved them!!—she would try to lure me to the treasure of gifts but I always resisted the temptation. She could not understand how I could be so stubborn; but as long as I didn’t snitch on her for discovering the gifts she was good with it.

Every year, like clockwork, there was a knock at the door. It was my Grandpa Fox—he stood in the doorway with four boxes of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes held snugly in his arms-- “Merry Christmas!” My sister and I lunged towards the doorway and grabbed our box of cereal—I told you I LOVED cereal; now didn’t I? Grandpa stood there with the sweetest grin on his face—Christmas was his favorite time of year. His grin caused the skin around his ice blue eyes to crinkle—I can still see him standing there today. As he handed a box of cereal to Mama and Daddy, my sister and I proceeded to rip open our boxes. You see we knew the routine; it was the same every year; and every year was just as much fun as the last.

Cardboard tearing, cereal flying, and THEN…I found one!!! My sister was close behind waving her prize in the air as I was. More cereal flying; more prizes!! Grandpa left the corn flakes in the boxes and put money inside for us to discover. Lots of dollar bills; which was a wad of money to a kid—of course he put 20’s in my parents’ cereal which sucked royally—but I didn’t care at the time. This Christmas tradition continued until his health declined and he eventually passed away.

When I see Kellogg’s Corn Flakes I ALWAYS think of my Grandpa with his beautiful ice blue eyes standing in the doorway with a grin on his face. I never buy them though—this particular cereal is for remembering; not for eating. This particular cereal reminds me of a time when life was simple; when a box with a rooster on it could bring nothing short of sheer joy to two little girls; a time when the love of a Grandpa meant everything.

So if you see me in the cereal aisle a thousand miles away in my thoughts…ease quietly on by while I remember…my life was good; and I am thankful.

I'll Remember--Madonna

Robert Pate

2005-10-02T23:03:00.000-05:00

When I was very young I had a best friend; probably the best friend I have ever had. He loved to do everything that I did—we had tea parties; played hide and seek; watched the Red Skelton Show; and sat down together for long talks. He was such a good listener; never interrupted; never judged; just loved me for me; and I totally adored him. His name was Robert Pate and he was my imaginary friend; or was he? I’m beginning to believe he was much more than imaginary; he was my “guide” and I want him back.

Robert Pate and I drove my parents and sister CRAZY! I would be totally insulted if the table was not set to include him; very irritated if they talked when he was talking; and stomped my feet if they had the audacity to sit on top of him knowing perfectly well that he ALWAYS sat by me where ever I was. Robert Pate received many apologies for being sat on; I couldn’t understand what was so difficult about sitting in an unoccupied space! Jeesh!!

My mother eventually called our pediatrician to see if her baby daughter’s behavior was “normal”. My doctor said that having an imaginary friend is very common; the uncommon part was that my friend had 2 names—this he said showed extreme intelligence. Thank ya very much Dr. G…Now this revelation made Robert Pate much easier for the family to take. The Doc said that in time he would disappear…

I shared everything about myself with my friend. I talked to him constantly and he answered me; sometimes he would make me laugh; other times he would comfort me when I was sad. Even as a small child I sensed the discomfort that having this friend caused the people around me. I didn’t understand it; I just knew that sometimes I would notice perplexed looks and irritation when we walked into a room together.

Robert Pate was my companion; he served as a clue to my future friendships. This companion could easily have been a girl; instead it was a boy, as have been my best friends to this day. I was never alone. He followed me everywhere I went; side by side; watching over me as I grew.

One sad day my parents heard me crying in my room and they came to see what was wrong. Robert Pate had died; I offered no explanation—the funeral service was fitting of a fine friend. Today I wonder if I turned my back on my “guide” because of the perplexed looks and irritation that seemed to be mounting because of his existence.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Robert Pate these days…and I want him back. I don’t believe he was imaginary at all; I believe he was more real than most people I have known in my life. I miss the way he listened; made me laugh; comforted me; never judged me; and always forgave people when they would sit on him. If you’re listening dear sweet friend I could sure use your guidance; companionship; and devotion—I am so sorry for betraying you and I promise I will never turn my back on you again—please guide me Robert Pate like you used to…

You've Got A Friend In Me--Lyle Lovett and Randy Newman

Boys Start Early These Days...

2005-05-26T19:49:00.001-05:00

How was your day? Mine was the usual cleaning, washing, sweeping, putting clothes away, checking out blogs, taking care of dogs; oh! and the Revenue Office.

It was time to renew my tags. I thought I'd beat the crowd by going today instead of waiting until Friday or Tuesday. Well everybody had the same idea as me because it was full--only one employee working--the wait was on!

I sat down to wait my turn and instantly made friends with the cutest little boy--he was probably between 2 and 3 years old. His smile was precious--he had a dimple on both cheeks. He clenched a brochure on boats in his hand and never let go of it--he loved boats! He had been waiting since 7 in the morning to go fishing--it was now 2 in the afternoon. I'm sure his patience was wearing thin, but he was surprisingly taking it rather well.

He told me a story that involved boats--actually that's the only word I understood, but I pretended to understand completely--even adding to his story--he liked that. His grandmother told me that his favorite part of fishing was playing with the fish in the boat after they caught them. He would play with them until they died. If they didn't watch him really close, he would throw the fish back into the water--that meant no fish for supper...

During our wait me and the cute little boy became more and more comfortable with each other--undoubtedly too comfortable. This sweet little innocent baby reached for my boob and made contact--this was his intention. The next reach was not for contact, but rather to grab it--he was successful!! He was grinning from ear to ear--just like a damn man--and I was anticipating his next move. I had everything under control. I took his hands in mine and restarted the boat story--his weapons (his hands) were in mine so the embarrassment was over, right? HELL NO!!

His mother drew attention to the whole incident by getting on to him and threatening to spank him. He had already forgotten all about it until she reminded him of my boobs again. Well here he came; straight for them. This was not the first time this cute little boy had "felt up" the opposite sex. Another grab--damn! (thinking) Please keep your mouth shut cute little boy's mom--didn't happen--got on to him again. Everyone in the Revenue Office witnessed me getting sexually harrassed by a toddler--I was mortified!

Finally, the cute little boy's mom got her car tags and off they went fishing. I think I'll mail my renewal in next year--I'm not fond of being groped; especially by a toddler.

Titties and Beer--Jeff Foxworthy

Thinkin' About Shit...

2005-05-05T21:34:00.000-05:00

The title of this post may be misleading--I'm not actually thinking about this and that--but rather just plain ole shit. Shit is a funny thing--it smells really bad, makes a big mess, can make even the strongest of stomachs weak--yet in the correct form can be used in a beneficial way.

Think about it...Cow manure is nothing more than just plain cow shit; yet when worked into a flower bed or garden it can help make beautiful things grow. Who would've ever thought something coming out of a cow's ass would come in so handy?! Hell, we even pay money for it--go figure...

Shit gets a really bum rap I think. The word itself is so fun to say, but its use is discouraged because it's naughty. When you ram your toe into a corner, what's the one thing (I mean the only thing) that makes you feel better right away--you got it--scream the word "SHIT!" It works way better than neosporin and a bandaid. It's medicinal value is priceless.

My philosophy on shit is as follows--if the smelly kind of shit can be used in a beneficial way, then why can't we take life's shit that is thrown at us and figure out how to make it work for us in a positive way? WAIT A MINUTE--I think this is called "learning a lesson"--shit, and I thought I was on to something here...

Caleb

2005-04-22T22:03:00.001-05:00

Caleb Currie was a friend of mine back in my hometown--we graduated together. His father was a preacher and died when Caleb was young; his mother raised him and his older sister--Twimeter Enzyme Currie--I will never forget that name as long as I live. Caleb was my friend, and he was black.

You have to remember that this friendship began 37 years ago. Whites had their place and blacks had theirs. The tolerance level was very low then, even when it came to basic friendship. BUT we were 7 and oblivious to the harshness and prejudice of the world--man, I miss that...All I knew was that he was sweet, and all he knew was that I was too. We didn't know all of these other things that complicate life as you grow older. For us, he was Caleb; I was Gaye; plain and simple.

I continued to be naive until one day Caleb said something to me that even a 7 year old found unsettling. Caruthersville is a river town. Every year the students of the elementary school would walk from school to the river and tour the Delta Queen while it docked there. Mrs. Carnell, our second grade teacher, arranged us into two's for our walk to the river. We were given instructions to hold hands with our designated partner--Caleb was my partner. Before he took my hand he asked me if I wanted him to put on a glove. Dumbfounded, but innocent...I grabbed his hand and we skipped hand in hand, arms swinging, down main street to the river. I thought to myself, why would he think I would want him to wear a glove--his skin felt the same as mine?...

As we made our way to the Delta Queen, my dad was standing in the window of the AP&L building where he worked, waiting for his baby girl to walk by so he could wave. Me and Caleb skipped and waved; daddy just waved. He wasn't mad; just confused maybe; confused the same way Caleb was that day. Both of them had the same goal in mind; to protect me from the intolerance in the world.

Caleb never mentioned the glove again--he knew that I saw him as a person, not a color. I learned a very important lesson that day--grab hands and skip--skip past the intolerance and prejudice in the world; and holding hands with someone along the way--well, that's just icing on the cake!

Hope--Faith Evans and Twista

Flying With Angels

2005-03-17T20:07:00.002-06:00

The beauty of this intimate conversation with our toddler was in the sheer innocence of it all. We never tried to guide or direct the information she was sharing with us. We only talked about her memories on a couple of other occasions--her story never changed.

Our family chooses to believe that we have all flown with the angels, and that time has a way of fading those precious memories. We encourage everyone to ask their young children about heaven--but hurry!!--before they forget...

It was a beautiful spring day. The sky was full of marshmallow clouds and singing birds. Flowers were in full bloom and their sweet fragrance filled the air. This was a perfect day for Sydney's favorite thing--let the SWINGING begin!

As Sydney and her Daddy strolled towards the tree swing, her tiny finger pointed up to the sky. "Do you remember when I used to fly in the sky with the angels?" Our baby asked this question with an innocent bluntness beyond her years. It was as if she expected everyone to remember since she did.

Her Daddy was speechless as he lifted his youngest daughter into the wooden tree swing. The conversation quickly shifted to Bubba, the beloved cat, and the day faded into night.

As I tucked Sydney into bed for the evening, I asked her to tell me about flying with the angels. And so she did...
Sydney told me about Jesse, an angel, who dressed in green and had long red hair. Jesse was very sweet and took good care of her.
Jesse's job in heaven was to teach all of the children how to behave. She liked to play too. Everybody loved Jesse!
Sydney's "special angel" enjoyed flying with the children over the houses where they would live when they were born. A sneak peak was all she would allow.

Jesse was fun, but Sydney's favorite part of heaven was storytime with Jesus. He loved to tell them stories about when he was a child. They would gather at his feet and listen to every word--he was such a good storyteller.

I felt a chill from head to toe as my "angel" recounted her experience in heaven. I thought to myself, what a comfort this memory must be for her.
As another spring day was in bloom, our oldest daughter, Lindsay, volunteered to swing her little sister. Gently lifting her into the seat of the swing she whispered, "Syd, remind me what it was like to fly with the angels"...

Since this experience many years ago my daughter now has a toddler of her own. Sarah and her dad were walking through the yard and she pointed to the sky with her own tiny finger..."I flied with the angels." He had never heard the story but found it interesting...he told Sydney and she called me. I told her to ask about it when the day was ending and Sarah was winding down. Sydney didn't recall the details after all of these years. She didn't want me to tell her just to see if there was a comparison.

Later in the day she questioned her baby and was given the same look of confusion I received...both thought it was something we all naturally either knew or remembered. Sarah's angel's name was Jesse...she had red hair...wore pink with green wings. Jesse played with the children and flew them over their houses. Jesus told stories and was fun. This was all volunteered information with no coaxing or questions. UNTIL...Sarah was asked if Jesse watched over her..."no...mamaw Cora held my hand and brought me here. Liza was there too but mamaw Cora didn't take care of her...she was with Bud and Mama "Feeder" (Wheeler). Sarah did not know Cora, Bud, or Mama "Feeder". (Bud and Mama Wheeler were my grandparents; Cora was her Dad's). The conversation stopped here...

I urge you to ask your children without putting words in their mouths to tell you about angels and heaven. Please...before they forget. gayefox

Crazy James

2005-03-08T18:24:00.001-06:00

This one goes way back to my elementary school days. Don't ask why I thought about it--I guess because thoughts constantly rush through my mind. Our playground at Southside Elementary was completely enclosed in a fence. Everyday during recess the same man walked by our campus. He was referred to in our town as "Crazy James". James always wore blue jean overalls and walked with his hands held behind his back. James had no teeth and chomped as he walked. He was probably in his 40's, but mentally still a child. When he walked by the fence he would be called names, made fun of, and kids would throw things at him. This went on everyday--teachers never intervened. I remember sitting in the swing wondering about James' feelings. I wanted to stand up and scream for it all to stop, but I was afraid--and to tell the truth I was afraid of James too--ignorance I guess.
Why did this man subject himself to meanness everyday? Why didn't he just walk somewhere else? Maybe his mind didn't comprehend this viciousness--maybe he was just lonely.

Fast forward--in Hamburg there's a man referred to as "Jumpin' Joe" or "Highstepper". You've probably seen him if you live here. He walks everywhere, speaks to everyone, and like James is made fun of. BUT today I'm not afraid. If Joe wants to talk I'll talk as long as he wants. I listen to what he says and let him know I care. I wave with the same enthusiasm as he does. It's the least I can do for James' sake. I believe there's a lot to be learned from James and Joe.

Today the Caruthersville (my hometown) walker is Mark Skelton. I never knew James; Joe is an acquaintance; but I grew up with Mark--we graduated together. He is intelligent and incredibly talented. I never had a doubt that he would be a famous cartoonist--his work was amazing. But Mark was different, made fun of in a vicious way, and gave up somewhere along the way. I admired him and I guess he sensed it because he was comfortable around me. Oh don't worry, every time the school needed something drawn they would play nice to him--it made me sick to see him be used. Not long ago on a trip back home I saw Mark walking down the street. It broke my heart. He was large, dirty, and so so lost. I wanted so bad to pull over and talk to him; but again I was afraid. I don't know his state of mind today or if he is in touch with reality.

Does anybody out there care? Why can't the James', Joe's, and Mark's be cared about too? If there's one thing in this life I am completely sure of it's this--EVERYONE has something special to offer. Thanks to close-mindedness we'll never know the gift James, Joe, and Mark were put here to share. That's our loss...
Hold On--Good Charlotte