Cobwebs in My Hair, Not My Brain

Thank you to all of you who sent me Happy Birthday greetings. It is so nice to be remembered by all of you. Of course for the last 10 years, or more, I’ve tried to convince my family and friends to stop remembering I was having another birthday.  Nobody listened. Told Darling Daughter not to put candles on the cake. There would be so many we might catch the house on fire. It’s downright embarrassing to be the center of so much attention. I even talked the waitress at a restaurant where I was being treated for my birthday that I would crawl under the table if all those waiters and waitresses came over to sing Happy Birthday to me. And no. I do not turn birthday meals.

I try not to remember my birthday. And I’ve sort of succeeded. But remembering anything gets a bit harder as we get older. As I sit on the couch, watching TV and writing this, a car commercial comes on. Strange. That commercial took me right back to my teenage years, a long, long time ago, in a galaxy (Oops) state, far, far away. That’s when, as I remember, one of the great and most-anticipated events of the fall was the unveiling of the products of the big three – Chevrolet, Ford, and I forget who else. Those car models, introduced usually in September or October, were the discussion of many, especially we teens, the next day. And shouting matches sometimes broke out between the Chevy lovers versus the Ford lovers. Now there are so many different car companies, I couldn’t tell which car belongs to which company. And the new models aren’t kept under wraps until a much-ballyhooed reveal. New models, now days, seem to be introduced all year long. If I could go back in time, I would snatch up one of those 1950s models, cause they are worth a fortune now.

My generation was obsessed with those cars, our favorite movie stars, and rock and roll, which we invented. Rock and roll always takes me back to Elvis Presley, who is still a much-loved star to many. But I didn’t care for Elvis, strangely. I did own a 45 version of “You Ain’t Nothing But a Hound Dog.” For those in the not-know, a 45 is a vinyl record with a big hole in the middle. What was really odd was that my Mom, my gospel-singing and piano-playing Mom, loved Elvis the Pelvis. Now that was embarrassing. My singer of choice was Bobby Darin. At one point in time, I could sing all the lyrics to “Splish Splash,” “Mack the Knife,” “Dream Lover,” and my all-time favorite, “Beyond the Sea.” But Elvis and Bobby both died too soon. Then, The Beatles bandwagon came along, and I hoped right on.

All my teen crushes seemed to have died too soon. My own movie man to swoon over was James Dean, who was from the same state as I – Indiana. His was the only movie star photo ever hung up on my bedroom wall, right next to the mirror. And I would gaze at that photo every morning, totally enamored, as I prepared for school. But we lost Mr. Dean in 1955 in a car crash. I was saddened beyond sad, but stuck with him, as he was my  ”Dream Lover.” To this day, when Oklahoma’s great public television system, OETA, plays one of Dean’s movies such as “Giant” in which he plays a great villain, or “East of Eden,” or “Rebel Without a Cause,” (in which he is described as the icon of teenage disillusionment) I watch every minute.

Those teenage memories are so easy to recall because, perhaps, they were branded into our brains during the too-hot transition from childhood to adulthood, or not. One day this week I reached up to pay my unruly hair back into place. My hand came back sticky. Huh? Sticky? A few more investigative pats revealed I had a glob of cobwebs in my hair. How did I get that in my hair, I wondered. Am I growing so old I now have web-weaving spiders on top? Well, it is fall, when the industrious spiders are weaving webs everywhere. I must have walked through an airborne web I didn’t detect beforehand. But, it makes me feel really old when I literally find cobwebs in my hair. I can only be thankful that those cobwebs are not in my brain.

Crazy Critters Cause Consternation

My critters, and others, continue to bemuse me. I say others because I don’t claim ownership of the wild ones who live in my tame ten acres. And, oh joy, I get to add another bird to my bird-watchers list. For those who don’t know, those of us who retire or semi-retire, take up new hobbies. Or, you might say, I have begun to collect hobbies as a hobby. And bird-watching was one of the first. I even bought binoculars, cheap binoculars, because I wasn’t sure how long this hobby would last before I moved on to a new hobby, and a bird-watchers ID manual. Well, bird-watching is hanging in there pretty good. I reasoned that the birds I get to watch are so much like people I know, I could name them. My new bird, spied right on top of Wild Horse Mountain, is the effervescent road runner. And this one was like those seen in the cartoon. They are phrenic, crazy, and this spied road runner lived up to road-runner reputations. It spied me, when I spied it, and ran in circles as though trying to lure me in, into what, I don’t know. Maybe a good chase. I just slammed on the brakes and watched it, laughing all the way. Have a good day bird.

Speaking of birds, does anyone know anything about that big white goose that was waddling around my yard recently? He or she or it was in need of a good bath. Perhaps goose was out all night on a wild goose hunt. But the mystery remains. Where did it come from?

And then there’s my house cat Holly. Good grief this cat is weird. In the past week Holly has begun switching her tail like a mad bucking bronc. Well, I confess. She may be mad at me. That’s because of her latest flea pill. I don’t like flea pills. When you gotta stick a pill down a cat’s throat, the chances are pill pusher is going to bleed a lot more than pill patient. Yes, I bleed every time. But I got that pill down Holly’s throat the last time with little effort, or blood. But then strange things began to happen. Holly went ballistic. It looked like her tail was her motion crank, like that on a wind-up toy. And when it had wound sufficiently, Holly took off like that proverbial bat out of somewhere down below. She raced around the living room. She ran up every chair in the living room. She would pause, then take off again. Round, and round, and round she went. I wondered if she’d been watching road runner cartoons. She raced along the back of the couch. She jumped from couch to love seat. She ran up the lamp, and just launched herself into midair. Don’t worry. She did land on her four feet. Needless to say, I was a bit concerned. But all I could do was watch. I wasn’t gonna grab that crazy cat. Had I poisoned her? I got the flea pill box out of the garbage. And read the fine print. In little, tiny, teeny letters, pill box informed me that pill might cause your cat to itch uncontrollably for a few minutes. Itch? Uncontrollably? For how long? Holly’s uncontrollable itch continued for the entire afternoon. Note to self:  Never buy that flea pill again!

Ah, but Holly got her revenge. Just this past week, she took up a new hobby of her own. I don’t know how she would describe it, since I don’t speak cat. I call it Holly’s revenge ambush. And I never see it coming. For instance, she may be strolling across the living room nonchalantly, or sniffing out a corner for some odor undetected by me, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, she decides to attack me where I am sitting on the couch, at a dead run. Uh, it’s rather startling. Like, here comes this black and white cat, at supersonic speed, who then launches herself into the air from six feet away, all four legs extended outward and looking somewhat like a flying squirrel, apparently with the goal of landing in my lap. Then my survival instincts take over, causing me to instinctively raise arms and hands to ward off flying Holly. That usually disrupts her flight, but doesn’t do me a bit of good. Consequently I have scratches on my leg, where I deflected her and she tried to grab onto my calf like a tree trunk. And I have scratches on the back of my hands when I did not deflect Holly but she had to grab hold of something, that being my outstretched hands. I bled a lot that time. But there is a solution to this new and unwanted behavior, come upon accidently. When Holly does her crazy flying cat routine at me, I scream. Loudly. It’s sort of a primal thing, like I was being attacked by a hungry lion. I didn’t do it purposefully. It just happened. It turns out that primal scream scares the lion right out of Holly. When scream is heard, Holly turns and runs the other way. And I can relax. At last, I think I’ve learned at least one word in cat language.

Good Grief! or What Life Teaches Us

Good grief. When life goes south, does it have to do it all at once? So it was with my life last week. That’s when a water pipe blew up and an old tree fell down. It’s a wonder I didn’t do the same. Went to bed Wednesday night, happy with life, suspecting nothing but a soaking rain, cooler temperatures and a good night’s sleep. When I woke up in the morning I found two new life adventures. Well, not really new. My house is an old house, and it, like many of its age, has plumbing problems. As I prepared for the day in the bathroom I heard that telltale splish-splash from down under. Oops. Another water pipe gone bad. There are several things you need in this world. I figure rural residents need to count among their friends three of the good guys. That’s a good mechanic, a good veterinarian, and a good plumber. I called my plumber. They know me well. All I have to do is say, “This is Sally,” and they instantly figure out where I live and what they will have to be doing. They really are good guys. I’ve got them on my cell phone’s speed dial list. But it was still a bit early. I don’t call and I don’t want to receive calls before 8 a.m. So I made the coffee and stared out the window, counting down the minutes till I could push the speed dial button.

Uh, wait a minute. What is that outside my window? That wasn’t there before. What!?! It was a big limb. I scrambled outside. Good grief times two! A whole dang tree was laying there, just outside my window. I said out loud, “Are you kidding me?” Must have thought I should quiz Mother Nature about this new development. I got no answer of course. But yep. Whole tree. Right outside my window. I told friends that it must have been by the Grace of God that tree did not land on my roof. And it’s not a little tree. It’s a big tree. How did this happen, I wondered. Was it that soaking rain had loosened its roots? Did a gust of wind topple my tree? Why hadn’t I heard it fall? Good grief. What was I gonna do now. There’s a chain saw somewhere in my storage shed. Got it after one of our ice storms. But I’d never used it. In fact, the last time Son tried to turn it on, or pull its rope, or whatever you do to start a chain saw, it wouldn’t start. He advised me to take it to the hardware store where a new spark plug could be installed. OK. But what do I do after that. I am not a seasoned, experienced chain saw user. And Son’s a long way off in another state. Later that day I showed Darling Daughter the downed tree. She might have said something more than “Good grief.”

At my age, I have finally realized that it does no good to worry and fret. First things first, and that was to stop that leak under my house. Yes, those wonderful plumbers were right there when called, and took control of the broken pipe, successfully stopping the under-house flood. And I decided that dang tree was just gonna have to lay there until I figured out what to do about it, and that might take a while because I have no tree surgeons on my speed dial list. I may have to change that.

But the funny thing was that (or perhaps as another one of life’s lessons) as I complained to Darling Daughter and Granddaughter, they had stories to tell too. Daughter’s pickup has refused to start, three times in a row now, no matter what her fabulous mechanic can do. The Granddaughter told her tale. She related, “All summer the driver’s side window (in her old but faithful vehicle) will not go down. Not even on the hottest day. Then today when it’s cooler, it went down all by itself. And now it wants to stay down. It won’t go back up. But that’s OK.  At least we can go through the drive-through windows now.”

I like that attitude. We will make the best of this, one way or the other. I’m gonna get a saw, and maybe a refurbished chain saw, and a big bag of marshmallows, and we are gonna cut that tree up and burn it. Darling Daughter said she would help. Relieved by my family’s support and optimism, I went to bed Thursday night happy and ready for a sound slumber. Just as I lay down I heard the boom, and felt the bed shake. Good grief times three. Now what? Then I thought phooey. Whatever it is, it will more than likely still be there in the morning. Then I lay back down and went to sleep. You are never too old to learn another life lesson.

Retirement Means There Is So Much to Do

Semi-retirement has many pitfalls. You never know what is going to pop up next. All kinds of things are popping up or into my mind. I don’t understand that. It’s almost like I’m collecting hobbies. First I decided to make my own jewelry. Now I have a whole jewelry store. Then I decided I MUST crochet, mainly because all my grandkids decided to have kids of their own. I’ve got one whole living room chair full of crochet projects in progress. Hey, I did finish one baby blanket. The rest are still in the works. Then I decided to fix up the back porch for entertaining. There for a couple months all I did was buy outdoor furniture, on sale of course. Never pay full price. And the back porch does look pretty cool. That’s where I also took up my next hobby, bird watching. And then there’s my newest nemesis – the garden.  The gardening obsession, oops, I mean hobby, came out of nowhere. In the past I’ve tried a few planting projects. Two pecan trees died. The rose bush Son bought for Mother’s Day, and which he planted himself just in case, died under my watch. And then there’s the peach tree which keeps on blooming, but has not yet produced one eatable peach! What was I thinking?!? I tried that upside down tomato bag, but my one tomato came out of the bag, took a right turn, and tried to grow up toward the sun. Isn’t that what they are supposed to do? Never got one tomato out of that bag.

Just this summer I decided I must have a garden, and I will concoct a garden to be fun for the arriving great-grandkids. Uh-huh. You know, Mom and Dad had huge gardens, most of which I never set foot in. They were green-thumbers deluxe. They could grow anything. Not me. Did not get any of that green-thumbness in my genes. Nevertheless, I’m gonna do this. So, I picked a spot, and announced to Darling Daughter I was gonna grow a garden. Darling Daughter got the green-thumb gene. So she just raised her eyebrows and shrugged. “Uh-huh.” Not to be dissuaded, I dug a hole around a post in the backyard, and dropped in some marigolds. I know from experience that marigolds are hard to kill. That teeny little flowerbed turned out just fine. ‘Hey,’ I thought. ‘This is fun. I’m gonna keep going.’

So I moved on to a bigger project, a much bigger project. It’s about 50 by 10 feet. And I descended upon the flower and vegetable nurseries, both in the real world and on the Internet. My goodness, there is so much on the Internet. There’s Homes and Gardens and there’s all those shop-by-internet nurseries and there’s so much information I was overwhelmed. I am also obsessed. And sometimes, it ALL GOES ON SALE. Do I ever pass up a sale? Nope. At one such in-this-world sale I bought a whole pickup truck full of flowers. Then thought I better count all those plants. Uh, try over 100. I still don’t have them all in the ground, but I’m working on it. According to the experts, I must now “amend” the soil in my selected garden spot. But I ran out of dirt. I had to go buy dirt. It’s a good thing dirt is cheap, and sometimes on sale. I need a lot of dirt for the 50 by 10 foot flower bed. Two hundred pounds of dirt later, it finally dawned on me that a good garden needs lots and lots of dirt. And you know, this gardening thing is turning out pretty good. I’ve only killed a couple plants. Nobody told me I had to water those plants daily during Oklahoma’s hot summers. On the other hand, I only killed six mum plants. Did I know they don’t like that much water? No! I drowned by fall mums. Oh well, maybe some will go on sale soon.

Then there’s the tomatoes. I wanted yellow tomatoes. I just wanted one, but it turned out all the local plant sellers only sold tomatoes in six packs. OK. Got it. Now I have tall tomato plants tied to every one of my back porch roof posts. But, do I have any tomatoes. Uh, no. Tomato plants are growing so sky high it now looks like a jungle on my back porch. But there are no tomatoes. One day I sat and studied those plants, and I noticed something. There were no bees pollinating the tomato flowers. Oh. I guess that is important. When I mentioned same to Darling Daughter and Son, they said the lack of bees was impacting other gardens. Then Darling Daughter mentioned bee keeping, like it might be something I could take on as a hobby. Ha, ha, ha. That was me laughing out loud. So, for three years I have tried planting tomatoes. At least 14 tomato plants have been planted in various situations, some upside down, in my yard. And there are no tomatoes. But wait! What is that hanging off the one tomato plant that was planted by Darling Daughter? Oh my! I have a tomato. That makes the score three years, 14 tomato plants, and one tomato. Success at last.

On the Labor Day holiday I asked myself what I would rather do. Should I do what must be done, like cleaning house, laundry, dishes, etc., and should I do what I wanted to do. . .work in my tiny garden. Yep. I worked in my tiny garden, and loved every minute of it. Some of those plants are still alive, and I am happy and successful in my semi-retirement.

Birding is for the Soaps

Darling Daughter and I decided a long time ago that we should have been wildlife biologists. Watching wildlife of all sorts in their daily travails is better than soap opera TV. We decided that last spring when, while taking a sit-down break from the spring yard cleaning, we noticed some birds circle overhead. And they weren’t just circling, they were flying like they were in an airborne NASCAR race. “What are they doing,” we wondered. A few minutes of observation answered the question. The two subjects were woodpeckers. One was a girl. One was a boy. It was spring. But apparently, he had something on his mind that she did not favor. After a half hour of wheeling around my little oak tree patch, the two, who were not necessarily love birds, flew off to the woods. We could only hope he went to buy a diamond ring, but I couldn’t figure out how a woodpecker could get down on one knee to propose. I don’t think birds have knees, do they?

Birds have become a new hobby for the semi-retired me. I love sitting out on the back porch watching their soap opera antics in the early morning or on a just-before-sunset evening. Trying to figure out what bird is what, and what they think they are doing, is a fascinating hobby. Although I must report I had to tell two wood thrushes (I think that’s what they were) to “Get a room!” Those two made soap operas look tame.

The next bird to show up was, according to my bird book, a tufted titmouse. How this pretty little thing got such a strange name is a mystery. The tiny tufted titmouse is a joy to watch, especially since this family was nesting in my backyard shed. Mom and dad, I presume, were constantly in and out, feeding a rather large family. And they came to the bird feeder quite often, after eyeing me to determine if I was a threat. Must have been a bunch of babies in the shed. But they are gone now. Babies must have grown up and flown the nest.

Don’t have to be in the back yard to watch the bird soaps. Across from the office in Sallisaw is a large tree. This tree provided homes for two families – mockingbirds and scissor-tailed flycatchers, our state’s main bird. But dad mockingbird and dad flycatcher did not get along. It was a constant squabble that made soap operas boring. The dads occasionally went at each other feet first with tiny talons extended as though they were going to fight to the death. It was amazing. They never once hurt each other. Food, of course, was at the center of the bird squabble. The fly catcher lives up to its name. It perches on the overhead power and phone lines, searching for insects, and, when a flying insect is spotted, flycatcher takes to the air, and can hover (wow) while snapping up the tiny morsel. But mockingbird wanted some of the action, and the two birds often sat side by side, up in the air on those lines, both seeking the same lunch, and eyeing each other with chests puffed up. But a mockingbird hunts differently from the flycatcher. He waited till the insect landed and went after dinner like a bulldozer. Dinner in hand, or mouth I should say, mockingbird would fly back to that neighborhood high rise, the tree across the street, to feed the family.

Back in my own backyard, the crow family has already been reported on. I’ve fed them ever since I saw them, so now they like to visit where I’ve thrown the leftovers out. My crows can out do the flycatcher when it comes to cats. Guess I’ll start calling them the cat-catchers because they have run ever neighborhood cat out of the neighborhood. But just last week one perched in a backyard tree out of my sight. He didn’t know I was there, but I could hear every call he made. And oh my, can crows talk. On and on and on he went, telling some sort of rumor story to his fellow crows. I wish I could understand what it was all about. I finally had to go peek around the corner of the house to make sure it was a crow I was listening to. Yep, but as soon as he saw me he was gone. Hey! I’m the lady with the food! I wish I knew what the story was. I like to think it was like that old telephone game, when the rumor is repeated so often, the first story is nothing like the end story. On the other hand, I bet that crow got the whole story right.

And then there was the attack of the hummingbird. Being tiny does not mean a lack of heroism. This tiny guy got upset with me one day, maybe because I hadn’t filled the feeders, and flew right down in my face and told me what he thought of the empty cupboard nose to nose. I confess. That hummingbird ran me out of my own backyard. But, the hummingbird feeders have been full ever since. And just last week, that hummingbird and (would you believe) a butterfly had a confrontation in my tiny flower garden. Hummer won of course, and won flower-nectar sipping rights. After one of our wind storms this summer, I found a tiny hummingbird nest on the ground under a tree. I hope the family had already left, and none were injured in the storm. I’m keeping that nest. It is a treasure, just like all those birding observations made on a summer day in the back yard.

'That Dang Chicken'

Everybody who visits here more than likely knows that Delanna N., a founding member of The Lunch Bunch, can’t cook. I mean really can’t cook. It’s bad. She called me up one day to find out how to turn her stove on. To be honest, and I always am, sort of, I told her I didn’t know how to turn her stove on over the phone. I’m pretty sure she figured it out. Or not.

Recently, Delanna has decided she will learn how to cook. But she’s not using her stove. She decided to go the Crock Pot way. All you gotta’ do with a Crock Pot is plug it in, throw supper’s ingredients in, and turn one dial to either high or low. That’s all. That’s the way mine works anyway. And Delanna went whole hog with her newest hobby. She doesn’t have just one Crock Pot, she told me one day. She has THREE! THREE Crock Pots! Who needs THREE Crock Pots? Delanna does it turns out. ‘Could that possibly be because she hasn’t yet figured out how to turn the stove on?’ I wondered. But everyone was happy for Delanna. She is finally learning how to cook. And to prove it, she got more than one, possibly more than two, new Crock Pot recipe books for Christmas, including the one from me.

And we had good news. Over the past few months Delanna, through her new Crock Pot knowledge, has finally joined the I-Can-Cook conversations all women and some guys have eventually. Yes Delanna. We know that all you have to do is stick all that stuff in the Crock Pot in the morning, set the dial on low, and supper is ready when you get home. However, I’m a scaredy cat. I do not use my Crock Pot unless I’m home. This may be due to past experiences on my part. I do not claim to be one whit better than Delanna in the kitchen. I confess. I’ve set my kitchen on fire more than once. And hubby and mom-in-law joined in and both set my kitchen on fire once each. I forgave them. I’m still ahead. And still not leaving my Crock Pot all alone on its own. Nope, I Crock Pot only when I can be there on weekends.

Delanna learned that lesson last week. She related, “I put in the rice. I put in the soup. I put in the chicken breasts. And when I got home and opened the front door, I wondered where all that smoke was coming from. I found out all that was left in the Crock Pot was the chicken, and you could bounce those breasts off the floor like basketballs!” I cautiously inquired (didn’t want to interrupt Delanna’s new-found cooking skills), “You did put it on low, right?” “YES!” I was firmly told. “I swear! The chicken bounces!”

O.K. Now I’m not telling on Delanna. I would never have brought up her unfortunate episode with her Crock Pot if she had not announced herself on Facebook for all the world to see. Good Grief woman. She also announced how both her grandmothers are GREAT cooks, but that cooking gene was not passed on to her. She and granddaughter Bailey, she reported, went out to eat to that night, and several nights since I believe. But she did get many comments on Facebook. Friends were concerned. “Oh My!” said one. Another asked, “U need help?” One was conciliatory, “See, it happens to the best of us.” (Hum, same problem perhaps?) Others offered advice. “Looks like a Sonic night,” or a pizza night, or a Mexican night. That’s the advice Delanna took. She also got many hearty laughs by likes on Facebook, including mine. Don’t take this as an indictment of Delanna’s cooking. Yes, it can happen to any one of us. All I have to do is remember that pink pie I made (was supposed to be strawberry chiffon) that would have matched Delanna’s bouncing chicken breasts bounce for bounce. And still my friends in The Lunch Bunch did their best to get it down their gullets, until I finally told them to “Never mind,” and the whole thing went in the trash. And Delanna’s Lunch Bunch friends have promised her a night out of the kitchen while we cook in our Crock Pots. One is making barbecue and I’m taking on peach cobbler. We’ll report on those choices later. Until then, take a look below at Delanna’s chicken breasts, on which she reports, “When bad things happen to good chicken! No fail recipe. Easy as pie. Ha! That DANG chicken!”

Glad I'm a Southerner

My Internet friend has been busy again, sending all her humorous thoughts and philosophical thinking to her family, friends and mere acquaintances around the world. So my philosophical thinking is that if I have to suffer through them, then everybody else does too. Welcome to Nancy’s World.

Well, actually, the following, known as How to Know You Are a Southerner, fits me to a T. I was born a Yankee, in Ohio, but I have southern roots since Mom was Kentucky-born and reared. And now that I have live for 35 years south of the Ohio River, I think I’ve adjusted to Southern ways. Perhaps the following will also explain my change to being a Southerner.

Things I’ve Learned Living in the South

*Nancy: A possum is a flat animal that lives in the middle of the road. Me: Or is digging up my brand new flower bed, and hisses at me when I try to run it off, causing me to flee back into the house!

*Nancy: There are 5,000 kinds of snakes and 4,998 of them live in the south. Me: And my backyard, but I’ve got good at killing snakes. You gotta’ down here.

*Nancy: There are 10,000 kinds of spiders and they all live in the south, plus a couple never seen before. Me: Want to see me run screaming like a girl? Show me a spider. I will brag just a bit. When one showed up in the living room last week, I got on top the couch, armed with a flip flop (what else, this is the south!), and threw it at spider intruder. One pitch-Dead spider! I am so proud.

*Nancy: If it grows, it will stick you. If it crawls, it will bite you. Me: I love cutting down those little sticky- burr plants that grow in the lawn, and, please remember, that spider’s not gonna’ bite anybody. Ha!

*Nancy:  Onced and twiced are words. Me:  Huh?

*Nancy: People actually grow, eat and like okra. Me: Another confession; in my first year in the South, couldn’t figure out why anyone would eat slimy okra. I remembered that thought recently when filling my plate with fried okra at a local restaurant’s food bar. Yummy!

*Nancy:  Iced tea is appropriate for all meals, and people start drinking it at the age of two. We do like a little tea with our sugar. It is referred to as the Wine of the South. Me: Darn tootin. But, alas, I have not yet achieved the art of making Southern tea, and I’ve TRIED! Maybe Nancy will take me to the kitchen and show me how it is done.

*Nancy: Backwards and forwards mean I know everything about you. Me: Sittin’ around drinking Southern tea makes us tell all our family secrets. Remember hiding behind a door as a child so we could hear our adults talk about the family secrets? I loved doing that!

*Nancy:  You carry jumper cables in your pickup, for your OWN pickup. Me: How did Nancy know that? Oh yeah. She’s a Southerner.

*Nancy:  You know what a hissy fit is. Me: I used that very word on a phone call just today! I like that word. It’s very expressive.

*Nancy: The first day of deer season is a national holiday. Me: I thought everyone knew that.

*Nancy:  Everyone you meet calls you Honey, Sugar, or Miss (name) or Mr. (name). Me:  The first time someone called me Miss Sally, I was a bit taken aback. What? Then I realized it as what it is. A term of respect for the older generation in the South. You can call me Miss Sally anytime you want to!

*Nancy:  Ya’ll is singular. All ya’ll is plural. Me:  Several years ago I heard myself saying, “Ya’ll.” At last, I’m a Southerner, and darn proud of it.

*Nancy:  You understand these jokes and forward them to all your Southern friends and those who just wish they were from the South. Me:  DONE! And thank you Miss Nancy.