The Monsters That Lurk In The Shadows

People say red hair and hot tempers go hand in hand. Not necessarily so; in spite of my auburn tresses, I have never been one given to easy anger. However, I make exceptions for people who intentionally hurt other people or animals: my blood boils and I make no attempt to hide my rage.

Phillip Garrido is one of those rare individuals who has had this blood boiling effect on me. You may remember my post about Jaycee Lee Dugard and the couple who kidnapped her at age eleven and kept her as a sex slave for eighteen years. I called her accused kidnapper, Garrido, a monster, and I stand by that description. I yet withhold any opinion of his wife, who not only stood by her husband's side during the entire ordeal, but reportedly was the person who snatched Jaycee from the street, and is speculated to have delivered Jaycee's two babies - both allegedly fathered by the monster, himself. And now, it has come to light that Mr. Garrido was sent back to prison (or jail) for somewhere between six weeks and five months (depending on the source,) for parole violation, early in Jaycee's eighteen year incarceration, and Nancy Garrido continued to hold Jaycee prisoner. According to one source, she has said she "tried" to free her, but, unable to uncover any details, I frankly doubt that actually occurred. How difficult would it have been to open the door and say, "Go home?"

I doubt that she tried because, by that time, she was already in over her own head. To free the girl would have meant admitting that fact to her husband, whom she probably greatly feared, and most likely, bringing the police down upon herself, resulting in a certain prison sentence. No, I don't think Mrs. Garrido would have had the courage to "do the right thing."

I cannot at this time, though, call Nancy Garrido a monster, because I believe she may have been a victim of her husband, herself. I've even wondered if her husband may have promised her something she may have desired more than anything else on Earth: children. Maybe she was unable to conceive, and, with her husband a sex offender, knew she would never have the opportunity to adopt. Maybe he convinced her to go along with his diabolical plan by telling her she would finally get the babies she so deserved. I don't know.

I'm not trying to excuse her behavior at all, but we all react to fear and intimidation differently, and certainly she was afraid...of her husband...of retribution...of the unknown. As I said, I haven't enough information as yet to label her a monster, and although I certainly feel she deserves punishment, I cannot feel rage for the woman who may or may not be a victim of Garrido's warped sense of...everything.

But I can feel rage at the first inklings I've seen of exploitation of Jaycee's situation.

I saw the first on the National Enquirer. No, I do not subscribe and I do not browse through it at the newsstand. I saw it at work when bundles of the dubious news magazine came through the mail. ENQUIRER EXCLUSIVE - JAYCEE SUICIDE SHOCKER, the headline read. There were also stories about Oprah in some sort of crisis, President Obama's gay lover, and the "truth about Dolly Parton's chin" - all the sort of nonsense we're accustomed to seeing on the Enquirer covers - but this story about Jaycee immediately enraged me.

Jaycee is 29 years old. She lived most of her life in captivity, enduring repeated rapes, childbirths when she, herself, was merely a child, and primitive living conditions. She was forced to live a lie to her own children, instilling in them the belief that their monster father was kind and loving, that she was their older sister, and that the monster's wife was actually their mother. These are the few details of Jaycee's last eighteen years that we know; there are many other horrors which have been speculated upon, there will be many more to come to light, and there will be some that are forever kept locked away in the minds of only those involved.

She's been through enough! For God's sake, leave her alone! Leave her alone!

ONLY for research for this post did I access the Enquirer article online. Never once did I believe the headline, and my instincts were correct: Jaycee has not knowingly attempted suicide. There is no suicide shocker. The entire gist of the article is that poor Jaycee has been through so much, it is not unreasonable to accept that she may, MAY, be headed down a rough road, a road that includes depression, alcohol and/or drug abuse, thoughts of suicide, and perhaps even suicide attempts.

Well, DUH!

Common sense and a modicum of empathy tells any reasonable person that of course, these routes are possible. They're possible for any human being upon the face of this Earth; why in the world should we expect that Jaycee, with all she's endured, would be immune from such possibilities?

To drive their point home, and increase the dramatic effect, the Enquirer quotes three accredited individuals, each of whom have essentially the same reasonable opinion; I suppose, though, the more high-falutin' names the Enquirer can throw out there, the more authentic and grandiose the article appears. It even sounds, upon a quick read, as if these persons are personally involved in Jaycee's case; as if they are treating her. Not so. Point number one: Jaycee's personal treating physicians would not be allowed to divulge information about their patient; and point number two: IF they did divulge information, why in the world would they relay that information to a sleazy rag like the National Enquirer?

I actually did a bit of research on each of the quoted doctors and found their listed accreditations true: Dr. Naftali Berrill, executive director of the New York Center for Neuropsychology and Forensic Behavioral Science; Dr. Katherine van Wormer, professor of social work at the University of Northern Iowa; and Dr. Cara Gardenswartz, UCLA lecturer in abnormal psychology. After each quote by these persons, it is stated explicitly that they "told the Enquirer." WHY? Why would these highly accredited professionals tell the National Enquirer anything other than, "Get lost?"

I have no idea. Maybe they didn't know they were speaking to an Enquirer employee. Maybe said employee also works for a more responsible media outlet, and presented himself as a representative of such. I know if I worked for both the Enquirer and, say, The New York Times, I'd list the Times as my employer at every opportunity. Maybe these accredited individuals were duped into giving out information.

But if they gave this information knowingly and willingly, I say, shame on them. Shame on them for exploiting Jaycee's situation. Shame on the Enquirer. And shame on one Mr. Shane Ryan, the second exploiter of whom I've heard tale.

A producer of adult films, Mr. Ryan is planning a movie about Jaycee, reportedly entitled, "Abducted: An American Sex Slave -- The Jaycee Dugard Story." He also acts in some of his films, with titles such as, "It's My Turn Bitch!," "Warning!! Pedophile Released: A Love Story" and "Amateur Porn Star Killer." He has said publicly that he doesn't intend the movie to be exploitative and that it would focus on the relationship between Jaycee and Phillip Garrido.

Not exploitative? Oh, come now, Mr. Ryan.

And the sad fact is, this would probably be a huge financial success. People are curious about this most celebrated story; as the Enquirer says, "Inquiring minds want to know."

Shame on you, Mr. Ryan.

Jaycee and her family are, understandably, in seclusion, reconnecting, trying to repair the damage. They give bits of information to valid news sources, and Jaycee and her daughters most graciously permitted People Magazine a story and current photos. The pictures reveal a healthy looking, beautiful young woman, smiling, laughing with her mother and younger sister. The story often quotes a spokesperson for the family, who gives brief, non-invasive accounts of the family's routines, therapy, and readjustment to each other and the world. She acknowledges that the road ahead will be long, but for now, Jaycee and her two daughters, Starlit, age 11, and Angel, 15, are happy, healthy, intelligent, and seemingly adjusting well.

And the feature ends with a most poignant photo, a photo of Jaycee, her arms about her two daughters, looking toward a fence, deep woods beyond. But the photo was shot from behind the three ladies: Jaycee, the term "mother" new to her, showed her protective instincts and didn't want her daughter's faces shown to the world just yet. That photo brought tears to my eyes. It seemed to quietly say, "Here we are. We're happy, and we're free, and together we'll face whatever lies beyond the barriers ahead. But, please, please, give us our privacy for now. Just for now, let us be."

I hope everybody listens to that photo. Please, leave Jaycee alone. Please, just let her be.

Thanksgiving Week

The best laid plans...

Why in the world did I think that I would have the time to write five separate blog posts in this busy, busy week? I've already cut back from two posts per week to one; and in Thanksgiving week, I thought I'd be able to do five? In addition to the prelude?

There's something wrong with me.

I will continue outlining my thanks to the remaining four influential persons in my life, but...not tonight.

Thanksgiving week didn't go exactly as planned. I suppose I aimed a bit too high. I always imagine idyllic Americana settings, like Norman Rockwell covers from the Saturday Evening Post: the two sisters working happily together, in smudged aprons, feather dusters in hand, as they whisk through the house, leaving spotless floors and furniture in their wake; smiling and appreciative as they adorn the Christmas tree with family heirloom ornaments; the ladies wandering wide-eyed, dreamily, throughout Patti's 1880's Settlement, thousands upon thousands of twinkling lights reflected in the eyes of the children, tossing pennies in the wishing creek, petting the llama, feasting in the gingerbread dining room, and singing Christmas carols all the way home; family and friends shedding coats as they step in out of the cold Thanksgiving morning, laughing and hugging, little ones rushing ahead to see all the wonderful Christmasy decorations throughout the house; ladies in aprons gathered round the kitchen island, cutting and dropping dumplings into boiling chicken broth; the table set with glowing candles and a perfectly golden turkey ready for carving, the Cary Grant father smiling in anticipation, as he proudly wields his carving knife and fork; smiles and hugs and laughter all around; men in tryptophan-induced stupors in front of the tv, and the ladies working together amiably to clear the table and return the kitchen to its' pre-dinner order; the Cary Grant father and Myrna Loy mother shopping early on Black Friday, Myrna grabbing bargains, and Cary following haplessly behind, laden with boxes and bags.

And a couple of yapping dogs. My Norman Rockwell image of a harried Cary Grant just doesn't look right without a couple of yapping dogs.

WRONG.

Somewhere along the way, Norman Rockwell met Tim Burton and Roseanne and maybe even that artist who painted the dogs playing poker.


The image: two sisters working together in aprons and feather dusters. Yeah, well I wore my Andy Griffith Bible Study apron a couple of times, but the feather duster never saw any action until Thanksgiving morning, when I rushed around giving tabletops and book edges a lick and a promise. The tree took three days to put up; sister Caroline (whom I had HIRED - VERY LONG STORY - to help me decorate and clean) takes frequent and ridiculously lengthy cigarette breaks, (up to three hours!) half our lights from last year didn't work, and one strand of the brand new ones from an emergency run to Dollar General Store also refused to light.
The poor tree looked like this for well over a day.

The image: the ladies wandering wide-eyed, dreamily, throughout Patti's. The reality: the Patti's adventure was delightful, but I struggled to keep up with Caroline's very active grandchildren, while Caroline trailed far behind, texting on her cell phone. The girls are natural little models, and posed willingly for hundreds of photos.

The image: the little girls, bundled in coats, fuzzy hats, and mittens, standing on tiptoe to pet the soft, curly fur of the llama's head. The real picture: There was a sign next to the llama's enclosure: Our llamas like to spit. Be careful! The girls kept a respectful distance.

We were entertained by the ostrich, who stretched his long neck up over the fence, an extremely vocal rooster, and the peacocks, busy attracting the peahens. We visited the petting zoo twice, while waiting more than an hour for Caroline to spend her last $15 in the shops. In the restaurant, we were seated in the trophy room, spectacular in design and decor, but definitely more adult oriented than the gingerbread room, or the Santa room, or the snowman room, or even the angel room. The girls threw their pennies and made wishes, ate heartily, and pointed out one treasure after another. But the drive home was torturous, as my lack of sleep finally caught up with me, and I struggled to stay awake for the 90 mile trip. Tinkerbabe slept soundly while Tinkerbell posed inane 9 year-old questions, like, "Would you rather marry Edward or Jacob?" and "What would you rather be bitten by - a vampire or a werewolf?"

Yeah. She's already seen New Moon twice.

And toward the end of the drive, she delved into unexplored territory, such as, "Would you rather date...a chair, or...a ladder?" and "Would you rather live in...the Haunted Forest, or...on Jupiter?"

90 miles. Yep.

The image: family and friends laughing and hugging. Nope. With Mama still not fully recovered from shingles, she was reluctant to dispense hugs and kisses, and suffered long periods of silence and a general unwell feeling. Eric was ill with an awful ear infection, and Charming was experiencing flu-like symptoms. And, even though I've had both my flu shots, I haven't been feeling well myself for several days; rather feels like a mild case of flu.

The image: the perfectly golden turkey, ready to be carved by Cary Grant. Okay, the turkey WAS beautiful. If I do say so myself, I know how to cook and present a turkey. But the problem came about in the carving. Cary Grant was nowhere to be found, and Fred is not about to be bothered with carving a turkey. I decided on a new tactic, a carving method I had seen just that morning on Good Morning America or some such program, wherein the chef removed the entire breast in three easy cuts, transferred it to a plate, and sliced it in perfect thick sandwich sized portions. Problem number 1: my chef's knife refused to slice the turkey cleanly. Ariel: "You're using the wrong kind of knife. Here, use this one." Me: "No, this is what the guy on tv used." After three disastrous attempts, I said, "I'm using the wrong kind of knife. Lemme have that one." Ariel didn't even try to hide her smirk as she handed over the knife. Problem number 2: While removing the breast, the turkey wants to slide around on the platter, forcing the decorative kale, turnips, squash, and carrots to jump out onto the countertop and even onto the tile floor. Ariel: "Don't remove the breast, just slice it at an angle." Solution: I handed the knife back to Ariel and instructed her to do it herself. Ariel: "Leave it to the vegetarian to end up carving the bird."

The image: the men napping before the football game while the women gossip and clean the kitchen and dining room. The reality: Caroline, Ariel and Mama napped during the game, I set Cinderella and Charming to making their Christmas lists, Drop Dead Gorgeous left with the girls immediately following dinner, and I ended up spending most of the night washing every dish, pot, and pan in the house.

The image: Black Friday shopping with Cary Grant. Oh, good grief. Fred is NO Cary Grant. Of course, I'm no Myrna Loy, either, but Fred is SOOOOO not Cary Grant. The day began with me finishing all those dishes just in time for Fred to awaken, so that we could take breakfast for Charming and his friends waiting outside Best Buy. Mama had suggested that we stop by McDonalds to get the hot chocolate and biscuits, a suggestion I thought excellent, but Cary/Fred objected, RUDELY AND LOUDLY, with the result being that 3:30 am found me pouring boiling water and packets of Swiss Miss hot chocolate mix into the only available insulated containers we had: a Wizard of Oz tall sippy cup and two old thermoses from the kid's elementary school lunch boxes. There were hundreds of blanket-wrapped bargain hunters lined up outside Best Buy, their warm breath plain in the freezing night air, and we spied Charming and party about thirty people back from the entrance. And as we were walking toward them, I tripped over a speed bump and went sprawling in the concrete parking lot. Not just a simple trip and catch myself. No, I had to do a full, awkward, flat on my face fall. In front of hundreds of people. I was completely humiliated. Cary Grant would have been right beside me, holding my elbow, and would never have allowed me to fall, but Fred was quite a ways ahead of me. Cary Grant would have dropped the box of thermoses and rushed to my side, cradled me in his arms, and picked me up and carried me to safety. But Fred...he turned, said, "Are you alright? Didn't you see that speed bump? There's a car behind you." And he only offered me his free hand after I had requested it.

The magic of Black Friday was lost.

But there were some images that remained true and unspoiled: the girls, big and little, in various aprons, learning the fine art of dumpling making.


The little girls, in long-outgrown dress up costumes, placing ornaments carefully on the tree.

My patient granddog, Maggie, sans her pink fleece hoodie, as she is carted about the house in Tinkerbabe's arms.

The smell of roasting turkey and sage dressing, the sounds of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade, and the sight of my family together on a national day of thanks.

The refrigerator full of containers of leftovers: turkey, honey-glazed ham, dressing, dumplings, green beans, sweet potato casseroles, asparagus, gravy, cranberry sauce, yeast rolls, and parts of two pies.

The sound of music...from Charming on guitar and almost everyone on Fred's new piano. And the sight of Fred patiently teaching Mary Had a Little Lamb to Tinkerbell, and her joy at performing it for her great-grandmother.



And the enduring awe and pleasure on Tinkerbabe's face each time she watched the magic Wizard of Oz ornaments.


So...no, it wasn't a perfect week...but who wants perfection? A perfect Thanksgiving this year leaves nothing to strive for next year. No, I'm quite pleased and thankful for this week...and all the many, imperfect family members who made it memorable.

Happy Holidays to all, and to all a good night.

Giving Thanks, Part I

"I'd like to thank my producer, my agent, my parents for giving me life, my wonderful husband, God and my country, and most of all, the fans..."

Yes, as in the standard celebrity acceptance speech, we all have many, many people to whom we give thanks, people of the past and the present, people we love, people we admire, and people to whom we are indebted. This year, my thanks go not only to my usual long list of loved ones, but to five persons who never knew me, five persons who influenced my life, and to whom I owe my sincere gratitude.

Today, my thanks goes to Mr. Alfred Mosher Butts.

Who? you ask. Well, Alfred Mosher Butts was an American architect and artist. Born in 1899, he became unemployed in New York during the Great Depression and set forth to create something; a board game; something unique. He studied games and decided on one that would combine chance AND skill, something at that time quite rare; most games were either chance OR skill. The first version of his game was called Lexico, then New Anagrams, Alph, Criss-Cross then Criss-Crosswords. After rejection by several game producers, including giants Parker Brothers and Milton Bradley, he was approached by entrepreneur James Brunot. Brunot manufactured the game, working with his wife in their Connecticut living room, where they painstakingly hand stamped figures on wooden tiles. During their first year of production, the couple manufactured and sold 2251 games...and lost almost $500. After three years, Brunot was almost ready to give up the venture, when Jack Strauss, the chairman of Macy's, happened to play the game while on vacation. He fell in love with it and ordered it for Macy's...and launched a promotional campaign, which sent sales through the roof.

The year was 1952, and the Scrabble craze had begun.

Sales nationwide soared from 4,853 in 1951 to 3,798,555 in 1954.

In my youth, I was introduced to Scrabble, and I, too fell in love. Elementary words, cat, sat, star, quickly gave way to two and three syllable words, and the challenge was on. Oh, how many times did Free Spirit and I play well into the night, pondering our choices, seeking the perfect play to keep ahead of the other? Free Spirit, a year my junior, had the better vocabulary, but the Scrabble Players Dictionary equalized us. My latest copy of the dictionary long ago lost its' cover, but still commands a place of honor on the bottom shelf of the coffee table.

How many Scrabble sets have I owned in my life time? I can count three in my home now, in three different versions: classic, deluxe, and travel. I took my deluxe edition over to Mama's and Daddy's a year or so ago, and brought Daddy to tears of laughter when I accused him of cheating: he had accidentally turned over an "n," making it a blank tile, which, of course, may be used for any letter, to the speller's benefit. I never would have thought to question his play, except that I happened to have both blanks on my tray at the time he played his. My father wouldn't lie to save his life, and the idea of him trying to cheat at a simple board game was too much for all of us. It was one of the best times we've had in years.

I have played myself on countless occasions, keeping score as two fictional characters. (Mickey and Minnie, Lucy and Ethel, Andy and Barney, Boris and Natasha.) I sharpened my vocabulary on Scrabble, forming words like yurt (a portable dwelling used by certain nomadic groups of Central Asia) and dhow(a traditional Arab sailing vessel.) I learned words with no vowels, such as nymph and tryst, and Q-without-U words, like qat and qintar. Jailbird yielded my greatest one-word score ever, (239 points) with the word stretching over two triple word scores, the "B" on a double letter score, and an extra 50 points for using all my letters.

The Scrabble board was always set up on the coffee table in our little single-wide trailer, in the days when Fred had a garage band that practiced at our house twice a week. The game was the ice breaker for conversations with the wives and the girlfriends, who frequently accompanied their men to practice. "Oh, I've always wanted to learn how to play that," they'd say, and before we knew quite how it had happened, Tuesday and Friday nights would find us four ladies sitting crosslegged in the floor, concentrating on forming high-scoring words, and totally unaware of the raucous rock music reverberating through the paper-thin walls of the trailer.

Scrabble filled a void in my life before I had children, when Fred was on the road with the band, and the internet was merely a twinkle in Al Gore's eye.

(Yes, I know, I know, but that's another story.)

Scrabble became such a force in my world that I see high score possibilities in everything. Like license plates. Fred can be in the middle of a long, boring explanation of...who knows?...maybe how to write a song, or why cars need oil changes...when a car will pass us, and I'll say, with excitement high in my voice, "WHOO! Look at that! 010 QJZ! That's a twenty-eight pointer!"

Fred has never been one to share my enthusiasm for Scrabble.

Mr. Butts reportedly created one other game, Alfred's Other Game. I kid you not. He was 86 years old when the first boxes rolled off the assembly line. Obviously, Alfred's Other Game did not gain the fame of Scrabble.

Mr. Butts played Scrabble right up until his dying days, at age 93.

Through Scrabble, I increased my vocabulary and gained an appreciation for the simple word. I learned patience and strategy. I learned that skill is but one part of the big picture; the perfect play may present it to me on my tray of seven letters, but without a spot to place it on the game board, that play means nothing. I learned that it's sometimes best to sit back and do little or nothing, and wait for an opportunity to present itself, than to play your best hand for a mediocre return. And that a simple move, such as placing an "X" on a triple letter score, can yield big returns. I learned that sometimes it's not about always being THE BEST, always winning, but about the knowledge you gain, and the people you play with. And I learned that, as in life, there will always be someone better than I, there will always be someone worse, and there will always be those who don't want to play.

And so, in this week of giving thanks, I thank Mr. Alfred Mosher Butts, whose gift has greatly enhanced my knowledge and appreciation of all that life has to offer.

A Prelude to Thanksgiving

Ah, Thanksgiving. That day of feasting and family, of lazing in front of the tv, of napping in recliners and across sofas. The morning's jolly Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade gives way to raucous football in the afternoon. Mouthwatering aromas emanate from kitchens, and seldom-used dining room tables groan under the unfamiliar weight of huge stuffed turkeys and honey-glazed hams, cornbread dressing, cranberry sauce, gravy, green bean casseroles, sweet potatoes, and hot yeast rolls. Family members come and go: "Oh, no, we couldn't eat another bite. We've just eaten over at Billy Bob's Meemaw's and we've still gotta go eat dinner at Aunt Fannie's. Well, maybe just a nibble." And before you can say Jack Robinson, they've fixed a plate and wrapped another in tin foil to take home.

It's the same at our house. At this moment, my Honeysuckle 19 1/2 pound bird is resting comfortably on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. Everything has been purchased except for the fresh fruits and vegetables, and the ham. There'll be no long nocturnal trips to the Nashville post office for me this week: I'm on vacation, and sister Caroline is spending this time with me; she and I will have the house gleaming, the pies cooked, and the turkey in the oven before the first guests arrive on Thursday morning. The week will be a busy one, but I anticipate each moment eagerly. The shopping, the cleaning, the decorating, the baking. We'll pull out the Winterberry dishes and set up a buffet on the bar, polish Mamaw's old silver, and hand wash goblets. We'll watch Andy Griffith and I Love Lucy and play Scrabble. And on Tuesday night, Caroline's granddaughters, Tinkerbell and Tinkerbabe, will join us, and we'll decorate the big Christmas tree in the living room. Tinkerbabe will be enchanted with the new Hallmark Wizard of Oz ornament I bought last year with her in mind - the one from the scene outside the Emerald City, in which the doorman says, "Who rang that bell?" It was her favorite scene as a toddler; she watched it for hours on end, giggling sometimes uncontrollably, and repeating the line whenever prompted.

On Wednesday, the four of us ladies will drive to Grand Rivers, Kentucky, and we'll lunch at Patti's. It will be the first visit for the three of them, and I can already visualize their awe and excitement as we venture from room to room in the big, old restaurant; the angel room, the gingerbread room, the snowman room, the Santa room. We'll time our visit so that it's fresh dark when we finish dining, and Patti's quaint complex will be aglow with half a million white lights. Patti's does Christmas like nobody's business, and these little girls (and big girls) will be in holiday heaven.

Daddy will drop Mama off at my front door on Thursday morning, their arms heavy with pecan pies and fixin's for the dressing and dumplings. There's no use in trying to encourage Daddy to stay: he doesn't do Thanksgiving. Ariel and Eric will arrive early, and Eric will disappear into Ariel's old bedroom, where he'll try to grab a few hours of sleep, following his night shift at the Embassy Suites Hotel. I asked Ariel if he wouldn't be more comfortable in Charming's darker bedroom, or upstairs, away from the noise. She said no, Eric has no trouble sleeping during the day. I'll have to ask him for some pointers.


Charming and Cinderella will come sometime during the morning, with their "baby," Maltese Maggie. Spooky will probably sniff Maggie disdainfully, then flounce to the backdoor, where she will request (loudly) to spend the remainder of the daylight hours outside.

At some point, Charming's best pals, Mickey and Donald, will pop in, and...who knows how many others? Perhaps Drop Dead Gorgeous One and Two and their families. At this point, we anticipate up to twenty-one people. I'm not worried about the food. We always have more than enough.

On Thursday night, Prince Charming, Mickey, and Donald will pack up sling chairs, hand warmers, and blankets, outfit themselves in long johns, hats, and gloves, and head to Best Buy. It's become a tradition for the three of them: camp out all night, in anticipation of being the first in line for the incredible Black Friday deals. They'll take guitars and drum practice pads and sticks, and no doubt, they'll keep the other die-hard Black Friday shoppers in good spirit, as they play music and laugh their way through the long cold night. Fred and I will wake early and take hot ham and cheese biscuits and thermoses of hot chocolate to them. At a forecast 36 degrees, they'll be quite chilly, but I know those boys: they'll still be laughing and singing and generally entertaining the 200 or more people in line.

The Black Friday sales will lure us, too, but we'll be finished with our shopping long before the streets become impossible to navigate and the hoards descend upon the stores of Nashville. We'll call Charming's cell phone, and if the timing's right, we'll meet the boys at Cracker Barrel or Waffle House for a late breakfast before heading home for a nap.

Leftover dinner will be the order of that day, and on Saturday, we'll have turkey pot pie, followed by turkey a la king on Sunday. And by Monday, Fred will say, "Aren't you gettin' tired of turkey?" and we'll head to Logan's Steakhouse.

And sometime during the week, we'll remember to stop and give thanks.

We'll thank the Pilgrims for having the courage to leave their comfortable homes and journey across the ocean to a new world. We'll thank our elder family members and remember those who've gone on before them. Mama, Caroline, and I will be thanked for cooking the dinner, and we'll thank those who enjoy it.

But thanks isn't always expressed verbally. I'll thank my children and their new spouses with bear hugs and insistence that they take food home with them. I'll say thanks to Mr. Macy by tuning in on Thursday morning, watching for Underdog to take his tethered helium form to the skies; waiting anxiously for Santa Claus to appear, signaling the end of the parade...and the beginning of the Christmas season. Tinkerbell and Tinkerbabe will thank me with their laughter and bright smiles. I'll see their appreciation in the reflected glow of Patti's lights in their wide blue eyes. And Charming and company will receive thanks in the form of close-knit camaraderie and laughter from all those frozen folks who brave the weather outside Best Buy.

When I began this post, I had in mind five people who have greatly influenced my life, five people who are totally unaware of my existence, and yet, have had a huge impact on the way I present myself to the world, the person I have become. But, as is my custom, I got a bit carrried away with plans for the week. Thus, I will endeavor to post my thanks several days this week. I may miss a day or two, but I'm sure gonna try. And I thank you all, my dear friends and family, for being there, for sharing in my tears, my fears, my fortune and misfortune, my rants and raves; my LIFE.

The happiest of Thanksgivings to you all!

The Teddy Bear

The night was like any other. 8:30 and already midnight dark . Few stars shown in the sky, the moon completely lost in thick clouds. I drove the familiar route to work, down Interstate 24 and onto Briley Parkway. Tallulah, my Garmin satellite navigator, implored me yet again to take the interstate all the way around Nashville; apparently this route would shave a minute off my travel time; but she calmly reassessed the situation when I veered from her recommended path onto Briley.

Recalculating. Continue...eleven miles.

My mind was filled with details of the week, thankfully almost over. It had been an emotional roller coaster, both at home and at work, and I was ready for a new week, a new beginning. I faced the night with dread, knowing that it would be another long one at the post office, full of heavy Christmas catalogs, and my arms and back would be aching well before my eight-hour shift was completed.

Suddenly, my headlights shown on a pale mass on the roadside. A dead dog, I thought, and a whimper escaped my lips. But a second later, as I drew alongside it, I realized with a start that it wasn't a dog at all; it was a large stuffed teddy bear. It wore a red ribbon around its' neck and was lying face up, staring at the dark moonless sky. My whimper turned into an audible, "OH! A teddy bear!" and I felt keenly for both the lost bear and the child who belonged to him.

What could have happened? I wondered, as I continued on. I glanced in my rearview mirror, and pondered doubling back and rescuing Mr. Bear, but doing so would cost me perhaps ten minutes, and I couldn't risk being late for work. I pictured the conversation as I explained my tardiness. "Yes, I know I'm late, but this poor bear was lost, and I had to rescue him." "It's...a stuffed bear," my supervisor would say, unbelieving. "But he was lost," I would plead. And then his eyebrows would go up and the corners of his mouth would go down, and he would pull out a form 3971 and tell me to sign right here, where it said "unexcused absence."

Poor Mr. Bear. Maybe the child had been playing with him in the back seat and he had accidentally tumbled out the window. Maybe an angry sibling or (shudder) parent had grabbed him and thrown him out. Or perhaps he had been an unwilling passenger in the back of a pick up truck, a family moving across town, and the wind and a sudden bump in the road had dislodged him.

Did his young playmate realize he was gone? Would the family come back for him? I worried all the way to work and well into the night. It was cold out there, and Mr. Bear lay helpless on the gravel roadside, cars and heavy tractor-trailers stirring up the chilling wind and dust, as they rushed past him. Norman Rockwell vignettes played out in my mind: I saw a little girl, her hair full of riotous curls, tears spilling from her wide brown eyes onto her cheeks, as she desperately tried to convince her father to search for her beloved bear; I saw the mother, in puffed sleeves and frilly apron, spatula in hand, helplessly soothing her daughter, as she shot a scolding glance at the father; and the father, unyielding, unwilling to come from behind his newspaper and go out into the cold night in search of a child's plaything. Before my little drama ended, I saw him unsuccessfully trying to convince his daughter that a new bear would be far better than the old one, and the mother narrowing her eyes as the child burst into renewed tears.

"I'll double back in the morning and rescue him," I told Mamacilla, who suppressed a smile. She knows me well enough than to try and dissuade me from an errand clearly foolish and unnecessary.

The ad I would place in the Lost and Found section of the Sunday newspaper would read: Lost Teddy Bear. Cream with red ribbon. Found on Briley Parkway. He is unharmed, but misses his family.

I imagined the phone call I would receive, the grateful family who would step into my living room, and the elation of the child as I presented her with a freshly cleaned Mr. Bear. She would cry. The Norman Rockwell parents would cry. I would cry. It would be a joyous occasion.

Thankfully, it hadn't rained during the night. The sky was just beginning to lighten in the east, and even though all the drivers still utilized their headlights, the road was clearly visible. I turned around at Dickerson Road, made a complete circle, and reentered Briley Parkway.

Recalculating, said Tallulah. Turn right.

"Sorry, Tallulah," I said aloud, as I pulled her power supply and scanned the roadside for the bear. Where was he? I thought he had been right there, just after Dickerson Road. Maybe he was closer to Ellington Parkway.

But no, he wasn't near Ellington Parkway, either, and by the time I had gotten to Gallatin Road, I knew he was gone.

Maybe the family had come back for him. Maybe another family had rescued him, or a kind stranger, who wasn't afraid of being a few minutes late for work. Or maybe a police officer, a kind officer, who had a young child of his own, and would take Mr. Bear home and tell her of how he had rescued him on the roadside...

Dear Mr. Bear, wherever you are, I hope you are happy and safe, and that life, from here on out, will be a little less adventurous for you.

My Invitation Into Society

I have finally made it.

Socially speaking, that is. No, I'm ages beyond having a coming-out party. And no, I've not been invited to the Swan Ball, or asked to join the Belle Meade Country Club. And I'm still waiting for my invitation to the inauguration.

It must have been lost in the mail.

But I WAS invited to apply for the exclusive Visa Black Card.

Oh yes, I am among the elite one percent of the US population, according to the invitation, who are asked to join this exclusive limited membership. One percent! Now, THAT makes me feel special.

My normal response to credit card invitations and applications is to throw them haphazardly onto a special pile on the kitchen desk until that pile gets so big it tumbles over, and then I haul the shredder out from its little nesting spot under that same desk and proceed to make confetti out of all those humdrum offers. But this invitation was...intriguing. It was in an over-sized matte black envelope, with the words BLACK CARD printed in gold, and my name and address on rich cream showing through the window. Invitation enclosed, it stated on the back flap. I felt its satisfying heft, weighing it almost unconsciously, like a head of lettuce, in my hand. I pondered, turning it over again and affirming that it had not made it safely through the hands of the US Postal Service via first class mail; no, like all credit card applications, this one had been mailed presorted standard rate. But still, there was something...

The angel on my right shoulder whispered into my ear to add it to the pile on the desk, but the devil on my left (sorry, Willadean) encouraged me to open it.

I sliced into the envelope with no difficulty and withdrew the contents: a business reply mail envelope, the three page application, and my invitation, on heavy cream cardstock.

Dear Ethel Mae Potter,
By invitation, you have been PRE-QUALIFIED to receive the exclusive Visa Black Card. Limited to only 1% of U.S. residents, Black Card members are insured the highest caliber of personal service. Cardmembers enjoy a 24-hour Concierge Assistant, Exclusive Rewards program, and Luxury Gifts from some of the world's top brands. Made with carbon, the Visa Black Card is sure to get you noticed.

Concierge service? Luxury gifts? This might be worth looking into, I thought, as I ignored the muffled cry from my wallet, where my faithful old Disney Visa card lay trapped between my driver license and Kroger Discount Card. My right shoulder angel whispered urgently to put it down, but the devil, his voice now silky smooth, crooned, "read on, read on."

Now I looked at the application. It was folded into three pages, the page facing me a gigantic replica of the card itself. Impressive, tasteful, distinctive. Black and gold. My bright red Disney card with the Mickey Mouse ears suddenly seemed garish and ordinary. "But you love Mickey Mouse," the angel pleaded. "Yeah," I said to her, "but look at this..." "Luxury gifts, concierge service, one percent," the deceptive voice in my left ear murmured.

I flipped the application over. "For those who demand only the best of what life has to offer, the exclusive Visa Black Card is for you," I read aloud. "... ultimate buying tool...not for everyone...only 1% of US residents...
highest caliber of personal service...annual fee only $495..."

WAIT!! What was that? Yep, there it was...annual fee of only $495. $495!!!???? Are they kidding me??? There are still cards out there that carry an annual fee, a $495 annual fee??? Surely not. There must be a decimal point in there. It HAS to be $4.95. I peered more closely. Maybe my eyesight was beginning to go, after all. I carried the invitation into the bathroom, where I rummaged through the bottom drawer until I felt the cold brass handle of the old magnifying glass we'd had for ages. Holding it a few inches above the invitation in my hand, I adjusted the distance slightly and confirmed in huge bold white letters: $495.

Not only that, I discovered upon further investigation, but to add Fred to the account and provide him a copy of my card would cost an additional $195. Per year.

These people are NUTS, I concluded. The angel on my right shoulder assumed a smug expression and stole a look at the dejected devil on the other side. I felt my Disney card breathe a sigh of relief.

But I just couldn't get over that fee. I did a little online research and found that this thing is for real, and apparently a lot of people are falling for it. Not only that, but it's not the most expensive card out there: from what I could gather, the American Express Centurion Card, with a $5,000 initiation fee and yearly dues of $2,500 is THE card to carry for the uber-rich. Good grief. I hope I'm not stepping on any of my readers' toes, but...COME ON!!!! Why in the world would anybody pay that much money to carry a charge card?

Well, it's the benefits. The Centurion Card carries with it some real benefits, including a PERSONAL concierge, upgrades on flights and rental cars, access to airport lounges, and some hotsy totsy splurges like a limousine program, private jet services, and a discount on the Tour GCX13 membership, whatever that is. I even found one site that claims the Centurion Card permits you to schedule private shopping at high end stores, such as Gucci and Neiman Marcus.

There are forums where people tout the benefits of the Centurion Card the same way I rave about couponing and Disneyworld discounts. And other forums that have people wondering if it's really worth that ridiculous price, compared to the Visa Black Card.

I got to wondering just how exclusive the Visa Black Card really is; after all, if Fred and I have been invited...well, I regret to say, but the thing just can't be THAT exclusive.

Do these people not know that we don't have a six-figure income? Do they not know that I am a lowly postal worker and Fred frequently comes home sweaty, dusty, and covered with grease? Do they care that most of our clothes come from Walmart, that the nicest place we regularly eat is Logan's Steakhouse, and the closest we've ever come to touring other countries is a one-mile trip around Epcot's World Showcase at Disneyworld? Do they know about my car, my thirteen year-old Nissan Altima with the dent in the trunk and 400,000 miles? Or Fred's $900 Sentra and pick-up truck with the cracked windshield? Have they taken a look at my jewelry, like my engagement ring - 1/16 carat, with the set bent slightly from a direct hit on the flat sorting machine at work? Are they aware that we have only basic cable, a twelve year old 19 inch tv, and a desk door held in place by duct tape and chewing gum?

Wrigley's Spearmint. It's temporary.

The requirements allegedly state that one must have a great credit score, be a US resident and in possession of a Social Security number, and be able to pay the $495 a year.

...that's it?

And then I figured up what one percent of the US population actually is: 3,000,000 people. Doesn't sound quite so exclusive now, does it?

Well, I reckon I'll have to send my regrets to the Visa Black Card people. And if y'all get one of their fancy schmancy invitations, just remember it may not necessarily elevate you to a higher class, but you're in good company - with Fred, me, and 3,000,000 more US citizens.

In Living Color

The autumn leaves are falling like April rain as I write. From the comfort of the worn old recliner in the living room, Spooky snuggled cozily beside me, I watch their frenzied descent to the earth. The French doors on the far side of the room frame the rapidly changing landscape, a landscape filled with vivid colors I've seen heretofore only in photographs and Thomas Kinkade paintings.

For we simply don't have this saturation of color in Tennessee autumns. Perhaps it's because we usually experience extremely hot, dry summers; the leaves on the trees sometimes yellow and then brown before August. Fall normally presents itself with muted yellows and washed out oranges; never do we have the brilliant reds and golds that New England folk witness. But this year is different. This year is spectacular.

The air is warm, unseasonably so, and will usher in rain and possibly storms. And, inevitably, tomorrow will be cold. I count myself lucky that I was able to get out last week and capture some of these incredible colors with my little Fujifilm camera.

Into the country I drove, past barns, tobacco hanging and drying,..


...tumbledown old houses, nestled in the shade of towering oaks,..


...and bales of hay, rolled and ready for winter feed.


Along a narrow winding path through a creek.


The colors mesmerized me...


...the reds and oranges,


...the yellows and golds,


...and the bold pinks and burgundies of bradford pears.


I looked up into trees ablaze in the bright sunlight,..


..down at fragments of gold,..


...and through heavy branches, resplendent with color.


I passed pastures enclosed in barbed wire,


some almost obscured by heavy wild growth;


pristine whitewashed fences;


cattle fences, faded to gray in the bright sunshine;


and others in need of a fresh coat of paint.


Beyond a chain link fence, I walked through a cemetery,


the leaves a thick, brilliant patchwork quilt on the ground.


I walked carefully, respectfully, among the graves, and a small, simple stone marker, laid flat upon the ground, caught my eye.


No story, no details, no first name. As my eyes filled with tears, a single golden, pink-tinged leaf floated gently from the tree overhead and came to rest on the marker. Cry not for this little one, the leaf said; for all living things must die, and beautiful memories are left to those behind.

And so it is. The brilliant colors are leaving this part of the earth, maybe never to return. My own back yard, so radiant last week, is now dull,


dreary, leaves covering the grass.


Storm clouds are brewing.


The wind has left the trees bereft of their magnificent coats of leaves, but has revealed hidden treasures.


Yes, the residents have left already, perhaps flying to Alabama or even further south, but the cardinals, crows, finches, hawks, and our two resident doves will remain here for the winter. And the others will return in the spring, when the trees sprout new tiny pale green leaves and the grass begins to grow, the shadows shorten and the days lengthen. And they will refresh their nests with twigs and new grass, and they'll lay their eggs and raise their babies until they're ready to fly off on their own.

And maybe, just maybe, they'll remember the autumn when Tennessee was alive and drenched in living color.