Gone Greene!

Oh, my bleeding ears

If I could have a beer with Jesus

Heaven knows I’d sip it nice and slow

I’d try to pick a place that ain’t too crowded

Or gladly go wherever he wants to go

 

I heard this song on the radio on my way to lunch today, and when I got back to the office the first thing I did was look up the lyrics because I wanted to be sure I’d heard what I thought I’d heard.

 

Sadly, I was right.

 

The song is called “Beer with Jesus,” and it serves as proof that while we didn’t have much farther to go, we’ve now reached the bottom of the country music barrel. Country music, the genre that’s supposed to represent the everyman, whose path was blazed by the likes of Waylon Jennings, Loretta Lynn and Merle Haggard, the music that BUILT THE HONKY-TONKS OF THE WORLD and made tight-fitting Wranglers and cowboy boots a national phenomenon, is dead. Stick-a-fork-in-it done. Gone. And what’s left over is a bunch of over-produced, under-talented drivel that is so cliché it makes me want to rip out my own hair.

 

Have Nashville’s songwriters run out of ideas? I mean, it’s like they all gathered in a room and wrote down every word they could imagine that relates to country living. Then they put them in a bag, shook it up, and began writing based on whatever they pulled out.

 

Mason jars!

 

Sweet tea!

 

Lightning bugs!

 

Mama!

 

Pickup trucks!

 

Dirt!

 

Roads!

 

Cutoff jeans!

 

Creeks!

 

Grandpa!

Look, it's a dog! Better add it to the list!

Then, after they came up with Every Possible Combination of those words, they scratch their heads and said, “Aw, shucks, y’all. These here ideas are purty good. But we’re missing something. Yessir, something is just not right. We gotta figger out the things that are nearest and dearest to a redneck heart.”

 

And then, from somewhere in the back of the room erupts a victorious cry. “Yeeeeeee-haaaaaaawwww, y’all! I got it!” The voice drops to a whisper. “Beer, and …

 

…JESUS.”

 

For those of us who actually like country music, this trend is maddening. Yeah, yeah, it sells. Throw a pair of boots and a cowboy hat on some young rabble-rouser, give him a shirt with gothic-looking cross decals, toss him a guitar and a song about sweet tea and BOOM! You’ve got yourself a commercial sensation. Bonus points if you can PROVE just how authentically country he is by working the names Johnny Cash and George Jones into the lyrics.

 

Is it just me? Have I simply reached the age where my ears just can’t take hearing the new stuff that the young whippersnappers are into? Does this mean that next week I’ll be throwing apples at the neighborhood children, demanding that they get off my lawn? Could be, I guess. But I really thing it’s just evidence that (most) commercial music these days is complete and utter crap, created more to make a quick buck than as any kind of valuable artistic expression.

 

Don’t get me wrong. Not all new music is this way, and even I have to admit to enjoying some of the country-pop that’s come out lately (and if Luke Bryan ever walked into my living room I’d climb that man like a telephone pole). I have nothing against tea or jars, and Lord knows I have a deep affinity for Jesus and even beer. But for the most part, the stuff you hear on the radio is just plain tired.

 

What say you, country girls and boys?

I'm still here

The cobwebs were starting to get a little thick around here, and since the three people who actually read this blog (hi mom and Denise and Lori!) asked me when I was going to start writing again, I thought I'd pop in and make an update. I hope you aren't expecting anything profound or thought-provoking because it's getting late and I just cleaned my bathroom and am now all hopped up on cleanser fumes.

• There are few things in this world as wonderful as the healing power of friendship. I went back to my hometown Saturday and spent the evening with my best girls, two people who came into my life during one of it's darkest times and have been with me ever since. We ate, we drank, we laughed, we said inappropriate things and shared some truths. Anytime I put nearly 100 miles on my car and stay out so late I have to crash in someone's guest bed is a good time indeed. The night was topped off with a midnight trip to Huddle House, which was enough to make me feel like I was in college again. My soul SO needed that.

• Today I saw a man on a motorcycle who was so hunched over his knees touched his ears. Time for a bigger bike, there, Ponch.

• I went for a run this evening. I know, I know, hold your applause. There's a cemetery down the street that turned out to be quite a nice spot for running. Or jogging, really. I'm pretty slow. But it's ok! The people there don't judge. They're just jealous that I can still move.

• Did I tell you I joined the choir at my church? I'm the youngest member by a good 20 years, but I LOVE it. I could sit all evening and listen to those ladies (and one fella) talk and laugh and argue with each other. They're all so sweet and funny -- I feel like I have grandparents again.

• My beautiful friend Staci set up an Etsy shop for her exquisite artwork. Check it out -- and I dare you to not be jealous of her talent.  She's making me want to like birds -- and that is no small feat.

• It's 9:30 p.m. and my neighbor is mowing grass.  I live in the loudest place on earth.

• It's finally spring. The trees have bloomed, the air is warm, and my heart is happy. Can't ask for much more right now.

Until next time ...

Auld Lang Syne

Whew. Thank goodness that’s over.

I’m not going to talk about just how badly 2011 kicked my butt. It’s quite sufficient to say that it did, indeed, kick me harder than was necessary, and the fact that there are only six hours left has me already breathing a little easier. When midnight comes I’m going to open my mouth and GULP in the freshness of the new year. I’m going to suck in so much air I’ll probably hyperventilate in my eagerness to expel the stale air and inhale the new.

This seems to have been a difficult year for a lot of people, and I pray that they, too, will find relief from their heartaches and struggles in 2012. I’m looking forward to a year of health and happiness, and hopefully a few personal triumphs. I’m going to devote more time to friends and family, and less time on the people and things that don’t matter. And I’m going to keep on counting my blessings, because despite the crappy year I was handed, I still have so much for which to be thankful.

Happy New Year, y’all. May it be your best.

Gone

Well, NaBloPoMo didn't work out for me this year (at least not completely). I was back in my hometown all last week, and the Internet connection at my parents' house isn't the greatest. I didn't even take my laptop -- not that I would have had much time to post, anyway.

My grandmother passed away Monday morning. We knew it was coming, but the death of a loved one is not something for which you can ever fully prepare. It had only been a year or so since Granny's health had deteriorated enough to necessitate a move into the assisted living facility. Before that, she was so independent and healthy -- and stubborn -- that I think we just presumed she'd be around forever.

Because she always had been around forever.

Until she began having small strokes, Granny never experienced any life-threatening illnesses, even though she smoked for years -- a habit she kicked a few years ago after having her hip replaced. The rehabilitation facility didn't allow smoking, so she quit and didn't pick it back up. That in itself is a testament to Granny's attitude -- whatever she decided to do, she did. My cousin Jay, in his beautiful eulogy, said one of the things he appreciated most about our grandmother was that her yes was YES, and her no was NO. There were no grey areas with Granny.

There was "no time for foolishness," as she would often say. She was the middle daughter of a man with a long last name (Feasenmeier, we think -- there are debates over how it's actually spelled) who moved to rural West Virginia from the Cincinnati area to work on the railroad. Gertrude Louise was nine years old when her mother died, and at that young age she stepped into a caretaker role and was also expected to lend a hand on the family's farm. Hard work was her way of life.

At 14 she ran away with a handsome young man to the next county over, where the officiant was either blind or accepting of bribes. Granny's new husband was 24; the marriage certificate claims she was 21.

Two years later she gave birth to a daughter, the same day Poppaw got his Army orders for World War II. Four years later, a son. Then another daughter, and another son. Granny was a caretaker. My father and aunts tell stories of the folks she took into their home, and she took care of her baby sister, Anna Mae, who suffered through an awful ordeal with cancer that took her life more than 30 years ago. She nursed her two oldest children through polio and helped raise God knows how many nieces, nephews and neighborhood children.

But her joy was her family, and she took care of all of us so fiercely that at times it was almost overbearing. Sometimes she said too much, or took over, or did without asking. But there was not a single need that any of us had that she didn't meet if it was within her power. Her determination, strength, and capacity to love are the legacy she leaves us.

I remember her standing in the garden early in the late summer mornings, at the start of the school year. She'd be out there checking on the vegetables, and I'd stick my hand out the bus window and wave as we rambled by her house on that narrow back road. I buckled her handmade teddy bears into the backseat of her station wagon on the Saturday mornings she got me up early to help her at craft shows. One Black Friday, she got me up at 4 a.m. to go with her to buy deeply discounted Scotch tape at our Big Lots store. She sometimes let me wrap her Christmas presents, and usually waited for my cousin Susan and me to choose a weekend to put up her holiday decorations.

Granny loved having fun. She sang silly songs and danced, and reveled in telling stories about her younger years. Her doors were always open, and her table was the gathering place for family, friends and neighbors. She was a lady who danced in the streets and liked a sip of whiskey every now and then. Her favorite game was Chinese checkers, and it didn't matter how much she loved you -- she never let you win.

She HATED politics. Democrat, Republican, didn't matter. They were all horses' asses to Granny.

One of her last requests was that the family have a party in her honor when she passed, and we did, for at least three days. You wouldn't believe the amount of food that appeared -- there was so much that we ended up donating a lot of it to the nursing facility that took such good care of Granny in her last year. And so many people attended her visitation service. She would have loved seeing so many friends and neighbors.

I am so proud to have been born into her family. I'll miss her so much.

 

Gratitude 3 & 4: A List!

I'm totally being lame and squeezing two posts into one because I missed yesterday. Even lamer? I'm copping out and making a list. It's Sunday night, it's late, I'm tired and this is all I've got, folks.  Here's what I'm thankful for today (and yesterday):

• Sunny autumn afternoons. I've taken a late evening walk the past two Sundays and think it might become a weekly "thing." The sunset over the Ohio River tonight was amazing.
• A loving and faithful God.
• Vacuum tracks in my carpet.
• New friends and the kindess of strangers.
• Dill pickle potato chips. Even better than salt and vinegar. What?
• Good hair days. My (stubborn, crazy, will-not-cooperate) hair actually allowed me to wear it in its naturally curly state today. I'm so sad I have to sleep on it and mess it up.
• Raspberry AND peach sorbet in my freezer. Yeah, I know it's almost winter. No, I don't care.

Oh, I wish I felt more inspired this evening.

I don't.

But I'm still grateful.

Gratitude Day 3: Home

Every October, my hometown hosts an event celebrating fall and the beauty of our West Virginia hills. It's the largest festival in the state, and it's sort of a big deal because it completely takes over the entire town for an entire week. There's arts and craft shows, woodchopping competitions, three parades, a carnival, street food vendors, petting zoos, concerts, talent contests, sporting events and all kinds of other stuff -- including a pageant (coronationa, actually) that involves a queen and 40 princesses descending a giant hill wearing velvet dresses.

Yes, I was one of those princesses. Shut up.

If you live there, you are one of two types of people: You either love the festival or you hate it with the heat of 7,000 suns.

I belong to the former. I LOVE the Forest Festival and I always have, and while I enjoy all the events it brings, it's the family time I like best. For as long as I can remember, my parents have hosted family from out of town over the weekend - from both sides of the family. Their house is small, so this usually means the beds are crowded and someone ends up sleeping on the floor (or in a tent or a camper parked in the driveway), but it's always so much fun. We all pile in cars and attend the coronation and parades, and I'm usually lucky to squeeze in a dinner and some quality time with my best friends while I'm there.

But the true highlight is our annual Saturday night bonfire. My dad gathers firewood for weeks in advance, and we all meet on the hill behind the house for hot dogs, s'mores and just good time together. We sit on hay bales and sip beer and sometimes even tell ghost stories and I'm not at all ashamed to tell you that I look forward to this almost as much as I do Christmas.

This year the crowd was a little smaller, but we still had a great time. The night was beautiful -- still and perfect, and as I stood on that hill beneath the trees silhouetted in the glow of the moonlight, I experienced this overwhelming sense of connectedness. It was as if my feet were part of the earth beneath them, twisted and rooted and strong.

It's the same patch of land my dad has lived on his entire life. The tiny little white house, the fields and woods and pond that were the best playground we could have imagined. I haven't lived there in about six years but it's so comforting to know that there's a place where I will always feel at home. And that I have "people."

Last weekend I drove back there to see my Granny, and I stayed at the nursing home until just past midnight. When I got back to my parents's house I crawled into bed in my old room and promptly fell asleep. Despite all the heavy, emotional events of the day I proceeded to have the best night of sleep I've had in a long time.

I was home. And sometimes that's just what you need.

 

Gratitude Day 2

I've started this post about 16 times and am having trouble finding the right words to express how I feel., so here's the shortened version.

*     *     *

They thought my Granny was going to die Sunday night. When I got the call that evening, they predicted it would only be a matter of hours before she was gone.

 

You don't have to come. There isn't anything you can do. We don't know if you can make it in time.

 

I had to.

 

I did.

 

She was alive, and remains so today having improved somewhat throughout the night.

 

I made it. I held her hand, stroked her hair and heard her say my name.

 

Maybe for the last time.

 

And for that, I'm thankful.

 

 

Two birds, one stone, a day late

Last year many of my Facebook friends participated in a sort-of-meme where during the entire month of November they posted about things for which they are thankful. Obviously this is connected to the celebration of Thanksgiving, but it's a really nice gesture and helps remind us to spend a moment each day in gratitude for the good things in our lives. 

Gratitude has become a big theme in recent years, from Oprah Winfrey and her gratitude journal from a few years back to popular blogger Karen Walrond and her Chookooloonks Path Finder self-discovery course, which encouraged participants to write down one thing -- anything -- good that happened to them throughout their days (I participated in this course a few weeks ago and it was awesome). Just today I read a quote (can't remember from where or by whom) that said the key to true joy in our lives is to find at least one thing every day for which we can be grateful.

So with so many folks talking about gratitude and thankfulness, and given that my life right now is as crazy and as difficult as it has ever been, I thought this would be a good way to bring a little more calmness, centeredness, into my life. And incidentally, November is also National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo for short), a time when bloggers try to post something at least once a day for the entire month.

November is National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo for short), where bloggers try to post at least once daily for 30 day. Sooo ... you can see where I'm going with this. I haven't been writing here much (due to aforementioned life craziness), so this might be a good way to get back into that habit, too.

I can't promise that I'll write every day (I mean, I'm already starting a day late), but I'm going to try. And I'd love it if you'd share some of the things that make you feel grateful, too. We'll just be one big happy grateful family up in here.

What It's Like Inside My Brain

• According to People magazine, most of the world's Most Beautiful women attribute their prettiness to sleep and hydration. I slept 22 hours over the weekend and have been drinking enough water to make a catheter seem like a good idea but I still look dry and tired. 

 

• I don't like using abbreviations in text messages. I'd rather take an extra few seconds and type out y-o-u and t-w-o. Shortening them to u and 2 makes me feel like someone trying to come up with a not-so-clever title to a bad hip-hop album.

 

• Lunch today? All-you-can-eat salad. Not shrimp, not ribs, not even a buffet. Salad. Who does that?

 

• I took a bubble bath last night for the first time in three years, because up until yesterday neither of the tubs in our house would hold water. Steve fixed the master bath tub and now my skin feels soft and smells like lavender. I am afraid this is the beginning of an addiction.

 

• The kid finally made a decision on prom. He's going. We stopped into the Workingman's Store on Saturday afternoon so Steve could check out some steel-toed (I accidentally just typed open-toed and laughed my head off at the thought of open-toed work boots) shoes for work. Turns out the store also rents tuxedos, so we had Nate measured up for his monkey suit. Or is it penguin suit? Anyway, he's going to the prom but still doesn't know where it is or what time it starts. Hey, at least we know the day.

 

• I lost a letter at work today. Or maybe Friday. Possibly Thursday. All I know is that I planned to respond to the letter first thing this morning, and then I couldn't find it. I searched for 20 minutes until I finally gave up. Fortunately I still had access to the important information and got it taken care of, but sheesh. I'm sure it will turn up later this week, just like that long-lost cd I found the day after I re-purchased it from iTunes.

 

• I'm going to be 30 in 41 days. The little girl I used to babysit is having her high-school graduation party the same day. I am old. Also, I had to use my fingers to count the number of days between now and my birthday. So I am not only old, but I misplace things and can't do math in my head.

 

• I'm going to go sign myself into a nursing home now.

 

Caution: Do Not Enter

It occurred to me that in the "about" area of this site I claimed that I write about stuff like why I won't use the guest bathroom in my house, weird things I've had to pull out of my dog's butt, and my unabashed love for  Conway Twitty.

 

 I don't know if you've noticed, but I haven't actually written about any of that. And I know there's probably a good percentage of you sweeping the backside of your hand across your forehead, sighing in relief because, I mean, good God, who wants to read about that?

 

Well, I do. And to prove that I'm not some sort of fraud or hypocrite or liar, I'm going to dive right in and explain to you, today, just exactly why I won't use the guest bathroom in my house.

 

Because boys use it.

Not just any boys -- adolescent boys. Teenage boys. The kind of boys whose bodies are still changing, and whose minds, when it relates to bathroom-type behavior, haven't quite evolved at the same maturation rate. Which is to say, the grossest kind of boys.