Ode to Miss Miriam

My former mother in law died five years ago, this week. She never considered me anything less than a daughter and I miss her like I'd miss my own mother. I sat with her the weekend she passed away, and held her hand. Though she was in a coma, she raised her eyebrows at my comments and twitched her hand when I rose to leave. I'm sure she knew I was there. I also noticed, on her bedside table, along with her glasses, cell phone, and Chap Stick, a 3 X 5 card with my name and two contact numbers. With all the friends and family who considered her their matriarch, that in itself was such an honor. This is something I wrote in the Atlanta Journal guest book to remember her by.


The passing of an era. Miss Miriam was the closest thing our town had to a matriarch. She was the quintessential southern lady, identifying most folks by who their Mama and Daddy were, and making sure the Lay's potato chips were always served in a cut-glass crystal bowl. All the way up into her latter years, she still made reference to skills and mannerisms taught to her by her Mama and Grandmother.

 Miss Miriam could whip up a pound cake with one hand and fill out a real estate contract with the other, all the while giving sage advice to one of her 'young'uns'. When summoning one of the boys, she would usually start out calling the name of the oldest and sift through the names, sons and grandsons, laughing when she finally got to the intended child.

 If Miriam knew someone was sick, her first response was always "What can I do?" She would bring dinner or a pound cake, and call on the phone until she was certain health was restored. Even this summer, after her car keys were put away forever, she was still asking how she could help when I came down with a summer cold. 

She was the strong tower in the storm. Everyone around Miriam was cared for, from the sons, daughter-in-laws and grandchildren, all the way out to the birds flitting around her fig bushes and magnolia trees.

 She could name every flowering bush in her yard and loved a vase of her or a family member's cut flowers. Plants that would otherwise die off under the care of another would live through the winter in her garage and warm on her porch the following spring. 

"Did you get the peonies I split off for you and left on the porch?" she once asked me. I had to laugh, as peonies were the most fretful flowers to transplant and required such particular care. I spent the afternoon working the warm soil wishing my peonies could even begin to rival her huge ruffled, pink blossoms. If there was a flower in season, it was in a vase, decorating her room.

Miss Miriam loved the history of things and could tell the origins of every decorative plate and each piece of furniture. She kept clippings of old cards and letters and cherished the memories of love shared. There wasn't hardly a question she didn't have the answer to or at least a well-thought-out opinion, whether the topic was the coming election or if Mrs. Wilkes' Boarding House in Savannah had better fried chicken than The Lady and Sons. She could walk me through the best way to make shrimp and grits, and follow up with a tale of a long-ago supper at her Mama's table. 

 You always walked away from Miriam with a gift, whether it was a story, a recipe, a jar for canning preserves, or an affirmation of love. I guess that's why she was forever propagating plant stems in a glass jar on a sunny windowsill.

 Her heart was about sharing and spreading the things she loved out to those she cared about. And because of that, the love she nurtured and invested in her family and friends will remain strong and carry on for generations to come. She lived well, loved well and we are all blessed and better people for having known her. 

The Muscadine - Part One

The humble grape.

Have you ever considered how our lives have been affected by grapes?
We all grew up eating raisins, our baby fingers prying open the cardboard lid of the tiny red Sun-Maid raisin box, the one with the dark-haired girl on the cover, holding a large basket of grapes.

We learned from our Mamas to always taste one grape at the A&P just in case they were sour. As adults, we eyed the expensive Bordeaux glasses at William Sonoma, but wisely knew they'd only last 8.4 days before crashing to the hardwood floor into thousands of tiny splinters. (Mama always said a piece of white bread is the best way to grab onto those wickedly hard-to-find shards of glass.)

Haven't we dreamt of a vacation in Napa, sipping Cabernet, Zinfandel and Port, and in church, we remembered the blood of Jesus thanks to Welch's juice in a thimble sized cup.

Over our lifetime, we've consumed hundreds of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and we've snickered at the tweed-jacketed fellow tilting back his head, while swirling a mouthful of wine, saying, "I detect a hint of black cherry and cigar, with a tinny finish of sheep wearing sweaters and celery root tea"

Why, the grape has played such a visible role in the average person's life, it's a marriage of sorts, sealed with the vow 'Till death do us part."

However, growing up Southern Baptist, we drank the 'Table Wine' of the South, sweet iced tea. Never did we sip the intoxicating juice of the fermented grape from a stemmed glass. That would have been a sin in the eyes of the Southern Baptist Convention.

We did, however, have liquor in the house. See, the way it worked was, we couldn't drink alcohol, but we could eat it. Mama loved to make bread pudding with whiskey sauce and I'm pretty sure she set her hair in rollers using beer to hold the curls. We abstained from drinking alcohol. Period.

And yet.

There was the muscadine.

 Every respectable Southern Baptist I knew, who was born south of the Mason Dixon line, kept a bottle of nectar-like muscadine wine in the pantry. While typically muscadine, it could also have been peach or blackberry wine.
Always homemade. And always thick with sweet.

 It wasn't necessarily spoken about out loud, or even served to guests. It was just there.  Even my mother-in-law, Miss Miriam, (who once told me if her son were elected President he could just serve lemonade at State dinners like Lemonade Lucy, President Hayes' wife), had a dusty bottle of  homemade, summer-peach wine hidden in the back of the cabinet, to soothe my early labor contractions.  (I'll have to admit I was shocked at the time and thought we'd have to drive north to Atlanta, leaving her Tyrone house, in the middle of the night, to find the doctor-prescribed glass of wine)

 But there it was.

After all, she was a daughter of the South, so of course, she had a bottle of homemade sweet wine hidden away. For just such a time as this.

I still remember standing in the kitchen, back in 1976, and sampling my first taste of muscadine wine. Mama and Daddy's friend, Jack, had a make-shift wine celler in his backyard, where he buried his bottles of muscadine wine in a hole in the ground, sort of like hiding the family silver from the yankees.

My own Grandmama made homemade wine, but this fact was unknown to me until many years after her passing into the Great By-and-By. She gave my Grandaddy Pop fits when his doctor advised an ounce of liquor a day for his Parkinson's. But after his passing, she'd sit with lady friends sipping her homemade wine, made from a jug of Welch's grape juice.

I guess this shouldn't surprise me. As soon as the drinking age was lowered to 18, back in 1977, she enlisted my help getting her 'medicine' at the local package store. " A little glass of Manischewitz blackberry wine helps me sleep, "she'd smile and say as she handed me a ten-dollar bill.

While we never made muscadine wine, we did make muscadine hull preserves. Daddy and I stood by the picnic table on the screened-in porch and hulled 2000 dark purple muscadines one warm, late September afternoon. There was nothing like rich, sweet preserves made with the jam and the skins. The only other place I had tasted such a treat was Calloway Gardens, and they had served it over ice cream.

Over the years, I've continued to preserve this tradition, so steeped in Southern history.  I want to share it with you, in the hopes you will also follow in the footsteps of your long-ago Southern ancestors, and 'put-up' the fruit of the woods, the humble muscadine. William Sonoma may never feature a muscadine sippin' glass, but your descendents will thank you for keeping this tradition alive.

Instructions for making Muscadine Preserves are in the following blog post.

The Muscadine - Part TWO

Instructions for making Muscadine Preserves:

Come about the middle of September, start looking for a vineyard. They'll most likely be out from the city, in a small, country town. Bring cash and expect to pay around $8 or so for a gallon of muscadines. I got mine at Brown's in Union City. If you subscribe to the Ga. Farmers and Consumers Bulletin they'll have the local listings. (Be sure to wear proper shoes. I stepped in an ant hill wearing sandels.) Also, be aware that yellow jackets love muscadines and the warmer the day, the more activity you'll see.

As you look over the vines,  choose the dark muscadines. The unripe reddish ones won't 'pop' and will be sour. There may also be scuppernong vines, the bronze cousin of the muscadine. These taste very similar, but are a golden hue instead of the dark purple.

Once you get at least a gallon, go ahead and eat a few. You may want to get a few more for eating, after you make your preserves. We picked 5 gallons, which made 2.5 gallons of preserves. I haven't done the math to break it down but that's the ratio. This batch was 8 cups of pulps and skins after popping the grapes.

Now, you're going to need some equipment. Kmart or Walmart will do as they have a canning section in the Housewares dept. Get a funnel, a magnetic stick, a jar lifter, a  big ol'water bath pot, a ladle,  and a case of 8, 12, or 16 ounce canning jars. You'll also need some white sugar, some Ball low sugar pectin and a lemon. And a food sieve. You'll use these every time you make jelly, jam or preserves so it's a great investment. Lay out your tools and keep a wet cloth on hand to wipe the rims of the jars later on.

Sterilization is the key factor in making preserves. Just keep lots of pots of boiling water for everything you're using. A bit like birthing a baby back in the day.

 About an hour before you start, fill the water bath pot with water full enough to completely cover the jars. This is where you're going to sterilize the jars while you cook the preserves. Wash your jars and gently place them into the cool water to rest on the metal rack inside the pot. Turn the heat up and bring it to a boil and keep it boiling, with the lid on. It takes a while for it to boil, and it needs to stay at a hard boil.

Place the lids in a small pot of water and bring to a boil, and keep it simmering on the back burner. I also keep my ladle in this simmering water and sterlize the funnel.

 Wash your hands, wash the muscadines and start popping the pulp out of the skins.

  Place the pulps (with their many seeds) in a decent size pot and place the skins in a separate pot after running the skins through a whirl in a food processor to cut them up a bit. I used my nifty Ninja mixer and give it four hits.

You're going to want to add some water to the skins, so it's a loose mix and begin cooking them over medium to medium high heat. This will tenderize the skins. Cook them about 20 or so minutes until they turn a pale purple color and are tender to taste. They'll still taste sour, though.

While the skins are cooking, start cooking the pulp in a separate pot. If you have a lemon, add the juice of one lemon. I mash the pulp with a potato masher a bit, and cook them on medium to medium high heat until they are all melded together into a big pot of what eventually looks like green snot. This took about 30 minutes, give or take. Make sure you're stirring both pots often.

 Once the pulps have thoroughly broken down and released their seeds, you'll gently pour the pulps into an old-fashioned sieve. I found mine at a yard sale.  Turn the handle and the pulp will easily go down into a mixing bowl, leaving the seeds behind. I tried to do it without cooking the pulp, but it has to be cooked.

This is a good time to double check that your water bath pot is still boiling.

Now, take the cooked skins and drain off the liquid. Put the pulp into a large bowl and add enough skins to bring the total of pulp and skins to 8 cups. It will all be nice and purple. Put the 8 cups of jammy mix back into a pot and add 9 Tablespoons of Ball low sugar pectin and 2 cups of water. These measurements are precise and if you are cooking less than 8 cups, refer to the pectin package for directions.  Stir this constantly, and cook over medium high heat, bringing to a hard boil, one which you can't stir down. That means, when it comes to a full boil, big bursting bubbles, stir and if it stops bubbling, it isn't boiling enough. Once it boils and you can't stir it away, boil for one minute.

Then, add 3 cups of sugar. Bring to a hard boil again and boil one minute and then take the pot off of the heat.

(This very important time....when all your hard work has come to a pivotal moment, is when the phone will ring. Not once, but twice. It happens every time. Be prepared. When it happened to me today, I grabbed the phone, saw it was Mama and Daddy, hit the button and said, "Ican'ttalkmymuscadinesarealmostdoneI'llcallyourightbackohmygosh!" and hung up.)

Okay...this is the moment. Lift a hot jar out of the water bath pot with a jar grabber and dump the boiling water out of its middle back into the boiling water pot. Place this jar on a little plate next to your cooking jam pot.
Place the funnel inside the jar and ladle the hot preserves into the jar until you have 1/4 inch of room left. This is very important.  Not one inch, not 1/16 of an inch. One. Fourth.

Next, take that wet cloth, and carefully wipe off the rim to ensure there is NO muscadine on the rim. Be careful about this. It will affect the jar sealing and whether or not you give your friends botulism.  (We should take canning very seriously and follow the recommended canning directions from your local county extension agency. Please follow safe canning so we won't all die when we eat muscadine preserves or other jams.)

When you have that little 1/4 inch left, and the rim is wiped clean, then gently lift up a flat lid out of your simmering pot of lids, using that neat little magnetic stick.

Now, while holding the jar steady with a cloth in your hand (because it is HOT) screw on the band, that's been in the simmering water, and set it aside for a moment. Is your big water bath pot still boiling? Make sure it is.
Repeat these steps for the rest of the preserves. This recipe makes six 12-ounce jars, or nine 8-ounce jars or about four pints.

Once the jars are full and the lids are screwed on, carefully place each jar, with the jar grabber, onto the rack in the boiling water bath pot and put the lid on. They should be covered by an inch or two of boiling water. Boil for 10 minutes with the lid on the pot.  When they're done, take the lid off, turn off the heat and let them sit in the hot water for five minutes.

 Carefully remove the jars and let them sit on a counter, untouched, for about 12 hours. If the seal took correctly, you will hear a *POP* from each lid and you'll notice the lid is slightly concave in the middle. Do NOT push it down yourself. If it didn't seal, you can either repeat a water bath or place this jar in the frig for eating that week. The jar must seal properly for your jam/preserves/jelly to be safe to eat.

It's very satisfying to hear the little *pop* *pop* *pop* sounds coming from the kitchen.

There. You're all done. Was this a lot of trouble? Yes, Ma'am, it was. But all things of value come at a price, and your friends will know they are cherished when you give them a precious jar of your muscadine preserves.
Enjoy it on a hot, tender buttermilk biscuit and savor the taste of the South.

Cats That Go Bump in the Night

"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked. "Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat: "we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad." "How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice. "You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here." Alice didn't think that proved it at all; however, she went on "And how do you know that you're mad?" "To begin with,' said the Cat, "a dog's not mad. You grant that?" "I suppose so," said Alice. "Well, then," the Cat went on, "you see, a dog growls when it's angry, and wags its tail when it's pleased. Now I growl when I'm pleased, and wag my tail when I'm angry. Therefore I'm mad."

Lewis Carroll

I wasn't allowed to have a cat when I was a child. Mama didn't like cats. She'd had one when she was a girl and, well, it had kittens. I can't repeat what happened, because I've heard the story once too often and it's traumatizing at best.
 But, it colored her attitude about cats and fully convinced her that if our sizes were switched, we'd be carried off in those razor sharp teeth to be consumed as a tender-on-the-outside, crunchy-on-the-inside snack.

We were dog people, fully to the core, but there was a part of me that wanted to know cats, to hold a kitty and squeeze its little paw to make the claws stretch out.

 But whenever a friend, with an armful of soft, lazy cat, would say, "Here's my kitty, Boots. Pet her", I'd trustingly reach to touch the silken fur and every single time there would be a lightening-fast blur of claws. After about the fifth time, I began to expect deviant behavior and a fear of cats was borne.

Cats couldn't be trusted and my mama was apparently right.

 

That was a lifetime ago and I now have two cats, Abby and Dark Kitty. I'll let you figure out which is which. Unlike most folks, I've had to learn about cat behavior late in life. And I must say, I'm still trying my best to give them the benefit of the doubt. While I don't necessarily agree with mama's assessment that given a size-swap, I'd be eaten, I'm pretty sure I'd be batted around and left out in the cold hallway at night, like a forgotten chewed, catnip-filled toy. And probably with bite marks.

The thing I'm realizing is that cats are unpredictable. They seem sweet and loving, arching the back with a purr and caressing your leg with a cheek but, anarchy can be one second away. 

Why just last month, I switched out the litter box, thinking I had out-smarted Dark Kitty, who was aiming her tee-tee just over the lid.

( It's quite the feat, a bit like a shot-put competition, only tee-tee.)

 I was lounging on the bed, calculating beta co-efficients, while mindlessly petting Abby, who had just returned from a stroll. I still recall how my hand was following the curve of her back and I wondered out loud, "Why is Abby arching her back?"

 I looked away from my book just in time to see her doo-dooing right next to my leg!

 Doo-dooing!  (And I'm quite sure she miscalculated the drop and was disappointed to see it missed my thigh.) 

There was no misunderstanding on my part, no ma'am. This was a premeditated, first-degree intentional doo-doo and it was in direct response to my changing out the litter box.

 And here lies the difference between cats and dogs. If a dog had done this, my response would be to jump up, shout, "WHAT in the SAM HILL did you just do!?", then chase the dog who would be running, tail-tucked, corner it, and say in a deep voice, "Be ASHAMED!!" 

But one can't respond like that to a cat. You would just be digging yourself a deeper hole and there would be much worse, creative punishment coming your way. 

More than once, I've heard a friend say the family cat had peed on fresh laundry, in direct response to something its owner had done...like gone on a business trip.

 Can you imagine?

 A dog greets you returning home at the door in a frenzied romp of wiggling licks and relieved whines of gratitude..."HE'S HOME!" 

A cat just pees in your briefcase. 

So my response to the doo-doo attack? I quickly sat up and said, "Abby....oh poor kitty, I'm sooo sorry. Sweet baby...aw, come here, let me pet you. You're feeling unloved..meow, meow...kitty, kitty." 

 

Am I disgusted at myself? Yes.

But it's the compromise I must make to live with a cat. My husband claims he would have beat the ever-lovin' *&#@ out of her and I commented it'd be a whole year before she would have spoken to him again. "So what would be different?" he asked. He's right. Years ago, Dark Kitty scratched his arms in a violent attempt to return to her sunny window.  They'd had a come-to-Jesus meeting that resulted in a solid year of her refusing to acknowledge his existence.

I admired her ability to be steadfast and true to her convictions.

And then there's nighttime. I mentioned the early-formed fear of cats and honestly, it did take me a couple of years of owning two before it fully eased away. However, when it's half past midnight and one of my cats walks up the length of my body and gets its face one inch from my face, I struggle with staying calm.

 Have you ever noticed how when the light is just right their ears look like a witch hat? And not just one, but two!

During the cold, dark nights, Abby waits for me to turn on my side. She sees it as a potential under-the-cover cuddle-hole and walks along the edge of the bed towards my face. She'll sit and stare, waiting for the intimidation to wake me up. If I play possum too long,, she'll reach out her paw and gently touch my face, (and yes,the intimidation does wake me...every time.)  This seems innocent enough, but just last week, after having a little spot nitro'ed off my face by the dermatologist, she touched my cheek right on that little sore. Realizing she may have just returned from the litter box, and remembering that late, great unpleasantness on the bed, I had to get up to wash my face and liberally apply neosporin.

If I take too long to lift up the covers, she'll extend a sharp claw to hook the edge of the blanket. At first, this seemed clever on her part, but she once caught my lip (unintentional I'm sure...or at least I'm pretty sure).  Now when she attempts to hook the edge of the covers, I move my hand to shield my face, just in case.

I guess my assessment of cats being unpredictable is incorrect. They aren't just unpredictable. Just the contrary. They are predictably unpredictable. You can count on it. 

Watch this video. It's a great example of the wonderful world of cats and why I sleep with my hand on my jugular vein.

 

The Daddy's Heart

Nov. 19, 2007

This Sunday, our pastor taught on God's kindness.  It brought to mind what I experienced last March and I wanted to share it here. 

For years, my dear mama has expressed how much she dislikes my hair.  She'd finger my tresses and say "Honey, I hate your hair."   This got repeated each time we met, if I commented I'd had a trim or highlights.  She wanted me to have electric curler 70s hair all poofy and sprayed. I know she didn't mean it in a bad way, but she just didn't care for the current styles. 

It hurt my feelings and I was constantly asking my husband if my hair looked okay.

In March,I went to a conference in Mobile to hear some good teaching and worship.  The first morning there, a woman I'd met approached me and said,"The strangest thing happened.  I was getting ready this morning and the Holy Spirit said 'Tell Dana I love how she's wearing her hair'.  

Whoa...

Then she added that she almost didn't tell me because it sounded stupid.  

Stupid!  Imagine that!  Here was the most beautiful wonderful thing God could say and she thought it sounded stupid, hahaha! 

There was a moment when I thought of all the folks dying of cancer, the wars in the middle east....all the important things that should be taking God's time and attention.  And yet, His heart was so huge and overflowing with love FOR ME that He just couldn't resist taking an opportunity to make me feel like His favorite girl! 

The Advent Jesse Tree

Many wonderful years ago, I heard about an Advent Jesse Tree.  I had never heard of a 'Jesse Tree' and even though I'd grown up southern Baptist and learned many old time Bible stories, I couldn't for the life of me place' Jesse'.  The only Jesse I knew was the girl Rick Springfield sung about and Jessie down the street who was co-accosted with my girl by the big blue Baloo at the Animal Kingdom.

So I did a little research and found out this: And there shall come forth a rod out of the stem of Jesse, and a Branch shall grow out of his roots ... And in that day there shall be a root of Jesse, which shall stand for an ensign of the people; to it shall the Gentiles seek: and his rest shall be glorious." (Isaiah 11:1,10)


Jesse was King David's daddy!  No wonder there's a Christmas tree named in his honor!
This is a great arts and crafts project for kids of all ages. (Literally all ages as I enjoyed making it as much as the kids!)  The first thing you do is order this book.  I got mine from Amazon for around ten dollars.


(I have no idea why the sentences here are all funny highlighted but they are so there ya go..)

Inside the book, there are 24 (or is it 25?) Bible stories with a prayer, a little song suggestion and a sweet story that begins the tale of God's love and redemption.  You read the story and unwrap the ornament which you've so lovingly crafted with your child earlier in the year.  By this time, everyone has generally forgotten what each ornament looks like so it's an exciting time of anticipation as the tissue comes off and everyone 'oohs and ahhs' at the handiwork of your brilliant child!

So here's what else you'll need to pull off this great craft project:

A three or four foot tree. (Hobby Lobby has a 40% off coupon in the Sunday paper)
Little bottles of scribble paint.  It comes out liquid and turns to rubber.  Get black, red, blue, green, yellow, brown
Several sheets of foam paper.  I got a whole pack of colors on clearance.  You'll need yellow, tan, brown, gray, blue, green and any other colors you like. (check the dollar store)
A small 1 to 2 inch dove.
Two sheep
one earth
sand
3 cinnamon sticks
a baby in a manger
an angel
a rubber snake (dollar store)
several (6 to 8) thin four inch wooden rectangles for the ornaments that need a foundation
2 or 3  3 inch grape vine wreaths
apple
grapes cluster (the dollar store!)
wheat (again, the dollar store! Who knew they had all these wonderful things!)
sticks
gold ribbon to make a crown
a candle
raffia
White puffy balls
tiny eyeballs so your animals can see
felt: black with sparkles to look like the night sky
a glue guns and glue
thin red ribbon cord for making the hangers
and probably a few more things.

Getting the book first is crucial to make a list.  Go to the Dollar store first, then Hobby Lobby for the rest.

Sebastian, Chase and Trey helped shape the tree and then it was time to make the ornaments. You want a tree big enough to hold all of the ornaments so don't skimp on the size.  Three foot is the minimum.

Oops, first we washed our hands.  I was sure to point out that if any fingers went into a nose, all arts and crafts instantly ceased and hands had to be washed again.  They were extremely cooperative!

We gathered all the things on a table and commenced making ornaments! ooOh, you need scissors too!  

Our first ornament was an already painted earth, so Trey added glitter to the land.  Did I mention you needed glitter?  Lots of glitter.  Green, gold, silver.  And yes, you will be finding glitter everywhere for the next six months.

Here you can see how the little wooden rectangle is used.  We swirled glue to make the tree and topped it with glitter.  And yes, the top came off the glitter jar but all was eventually well.  Did I mention glitter was found on our faces and hands and clothes all weekend? Sebastian added a scribble apple and the trunk was foam. The snake was cut to size. 

Trey added white puffy balls to Mr. Sheep.  I placed a tiny dab of hot glue and he carefully placed a puffy ball, pushing it down into the glue. "OUCH! It burned me!"  Next ball placed. "OUCH! It burned me!"  Next ball placed.  "OUCH!" and so it went.  But he never cried and Mr. Sheep was covered in puffs and was soon able to see with wiggly eyes.

We eventually finished the fiery furnace, ten commandments, dove and crown, Bethlehem town, Joseph's coat,  heart, Jacob's ladder and many more.  The kids were focused and  careful as they each took turns. 

Later, when Daddy was shown the results of their hard word, each child proudly pointed out exactly what parts they had made.  

Once all the ornaments were made, we used the glue gun and glued a ribbon loop to the back of each.  This is evidence that yes, Dacia does indeed make arts and crafts and I have no doubt will be wielding her own glue gun and perusing the aisles of Hobby Lobby in no time!

Once each ornament is dry, just wrap it up in tissue,  paying special attention to the book, and number them in the order they are revealed.  This will generally be the place you'll discover the ornament you inevitably forgot to make.  So just plug in the glue gun again and make that last ornament.  (it was the' wall' for us and Dacia did a great job! )  Now you're done!   Just put the tree and wrapped ornaments away and on December 1, read the first story and hang the first ornament.  You'll have a wonderfully interactive, fun, Christmas activity for years to come!

Where the Sun Don't Shine

If you've ever had a colonoscopy, you'll relate to this post. If you haven't, then take heed, as your day is coming.

Everyone has to get them at some point. And over a certain age, it's every five years or so. The preparation for the appointment is so traumatizing that the emotional recovery typically takes years. That's why, although you only get one every 5-10 years, it seems like it was much more recent.

"Your chart shows it's been ten years since your last colonoscopy so you're due for another one."

"Whaaat? I'm pretty sure you've made a mistake. I think it was more like 6 months ago because that salty pineapple laxative taste just got out of my mouth last Thursday."

The test itself isn't all that bad. You just lie on a table, naked, with one of those backless gowns and the doctor shoves a garden hose with a big camera on the end up your bum to have a look-see. They give you this special medicine that makes you drowsy but you're apparently still able to listen and take instructions.

In other words, you're wide awake but the trauma is so severe your brain removes the memory, so by the time you're back in recovery, (if there was ever a need for recovery!) you have no remembrance of the event.

The doctor requires someone to escort you to this appointment because there needs to be a witness for what happens next. ( I'm quite certain this part this didn't happen to me because I have no memory.)

See...all of the gas that is pumped into your down-there place in order for the doctor to 'see' has to come out. The same way it went in. I think we both know what that means.

I won't mention names here but a certain someone I know took his father to a colonoscopy and when the doctor pushed aside the recovery room curtain to review the test findings, the poor father's 'natural gas reservoir' begin to explode in a cacophony only rivaled by a late night showing of 'Blazing Saddles'. As the doctor spoke in serious tones about the results, the son convulsed in laughter until he fell out of his chair, rendered useless by the comedy show coming from his father's nether-regions.

Again, I'm quite certain this didn't happen to me. While I can't explain why, I assume my southern roots in decorum facilitated the absorption of the gas into my system which then later resulted in a tiny napkin-muffled burp.

So today, I was just sitting here going over instructions for someone's colonoscopy Friday morning. ( I shant name names, but it sure as shootin' isn't me.) He'll have to have a liquid diet all day Thursday then drink the diarrhea-inducing liquid prep early that evening, and drink it again six hours prior to the procedure, which will happen to fall at Four AM. ( I do hope I'll be able to sleep as that is quite the middle of the night!)

I emailed him these instructions and just talking about the prep he'll drink made me sick to my stomach. In fact, typing the sentence to him telling him about my nausea, made my palms sweat. There is just no brave way to face this procedure.

And then I remembered my friend's husband, Bob. I don't want to embarrass him so from this point on I shall refer to him as 'Robert'.

Bob, I mean Robert was in the hospital and it was requested that he drink a jug of colon-cleansing prep. "Uh oh", I thought when I saw the familiar clear liquid. Poor Robert! The nurse placed the heavy jug on his tray and said 'Drink up. Try to have it all gone by 8:30."

I can still see him now. He sat up a little straighter in the bed and with a look of purpose on his face, said....no, DECLARED (and with pluck!) that he was going to drink that stuff right down. Probably in 15 minutes. "Dana, I'm just like that, you know. If I have something unpleasant to do, I'll just do it fast and get it over with!" I looked at him with as innocent a look as I could and said, "That's awesome! Yes, I've heard that about you!"

My stomach lurched a little. I was still slightly traumatized by the last colonoscopy I'd had, back in 2001. I distinctly remember saying out loud that I'd rather give birth to a large baby with no pain killers than to ever drink that gallon jug of salty pineapple laxative again. I felt light-headed at the mere thought.

Robert took his first swig and I watched his face carefully. It must have been ice cold, which can delay the inevitable stomach revolt, because he seemed calm and was able to carry on a pleasant conversation.

We kept talking about Auburn and the kids and growing up stories and he would occasionally take a swig. ( I may have seen his temple twitch once or twice, I'm not sure.) The nurse came back in and asked if he was finished and he looked a little embarrassed when she picked up the jug and saw the volume had only gone down about two inches. Surely he'd drank more than that?

I shifted uncomfortably on the couch and mentally willed myself to not think about what he was drinking. Brenda and I were going to eat in the cafe later and I was determined we'd split a piece of chocolate cake and being in the same room with that colon prep was having a dreadful effect on my appetite.

(this stuff is called "MoviPrep", by the way. MOVIE prep! They want you to think it'll be like going to the new AMC theater down the road and watching a Clint Eastwood flick while passing the large bag of popcorn. I can assure you it's NOTHING like going to the movies!)

Robert had lost some of his bravado and wasn't sitting up straight in the bed anymore. There was a faint, green cast to his face and I'm pretty sure I saw sweat on his brow. He kept drinking the stuff, but honestly, the jug just seemed to stay full, like one of those magic bottles of milk. While I know he had mettle and meant to be daring and gulp it straight down, there just are no heroes when it comes to moviprep. Brenda and I eventually excused ourselves to go eat and left him alone with his magic jug and the nurse who kept peeking in and saying "Is it gone yet?"

I was nauseous for the rest of the night.

So starting tomorrow, I get to have a front row seat to a colonoscopy preparation. And until it really IS as much fun as going to the movies, I'll keep praying someone invents a simple finger prick.