This is what it’s all about for me.
For more love, check out the gallery of photos below . . .
Archive for the ‘Holiday’ Category
What It’s All About
Friday, December 25th, 2009
Anxiety and Other Goings-On
Friday, December 18th, 2009Things we’ve been up to. . .
Bad news first:
I think I am having anxiety problems. I have no idea what is causing it, other than that I haven’t been working out. This is a new one for me. I bet it will clear up when I get more exercise. Anyone else have this problem?
On to good stuff:
Seeing Santa at Joe’s Coffee Shop in East Atlanta, just like we have every year. Even though we don’t live there anymore, we still like to go back to our favorite coffee shop, and see people’s kids growing up and talk to old friends. And hey, where else can you go where you know Santa and the elves personally? It is a nice family tradition for us, even if Rollie was kind of an ass that day.
Mr. Grumpy face
Tiller loves hot chocolate.
Mom and Dad might buy this house in the Atlanta area:
Keep your fingers crossed for them.
It would be nice to have them closer again.
We have elves. They showed up on the doorstep one morning with notes from Santa. They are full of mischief. As Rollie said the other day, “They did two mischievouses!” Or, as Tiller calls them: “Misfishes.”
The first night they were here they made a tower of presents and got into the wrapping ribbons!
The kids are wild for them. I am ready for them to go back to the North Pole.
Holiday Feast at Rollie’s school. We all went. They had turkey and dressing. Yes, school cafeteria turkey and dressing is just as terrible as you remember. THEY PUT MY ROLL SMACK DAB ON TOP OF MY TURKEY AND GRAVY; This is tantamount to holding me down and making me eat wet toilet paper.
Rollie and some classmates waiting in the lunchline.
It really captures the way that boys can’t stand still, and the kid with the shiner is really funny.
She is putting on a good face about the cafeteria lunch.
Rollie isn't bothering with putting a pretty face on it.
We made some Christmas cookies. I will never get the flour cleaned up. . . .
Rollie got a little on his face. And in his hair. And on the walls.
See that little container? She is about to take the whole container of sprinkles and dump it on one damn cookie.
Not as much fun to clean up. That is a ton of flour. It gets in the cracks of the table and turns hard and grody.
That’s about where I am. Stressed out about apparently nothing. Not feeling good. I have never really had problems with anxiety before. No clue what to do about it. Terrible feeling.
Peace and Joy and Stinky Polyester Santa Suits
Tuesday, December 15th, 2009One of the great things about being an adult at Christmas is seeing pictures like this one of my nephew. Pictures of babies bawling on Santa’s lap. Nothing says, “Peace and Joy” like children terrified of creepy guys in smelly old polyester santa suits!??
What a crybaby!
I didn’t have time to fool around with resizing the photo (deadlines yo!), but it had to be larger to get the full effect of the terror. I know, shoddy.
(For those of you who are curious, this is the Lenox Mall Santa.)
Simon the Game
Tuesday, December 15th, 2009Nope, not this guy:
Simon. The game. Thinking about Christmas in Rochester, and Mr. Mouth, reminded me of Simon. We had a neighbor named David (last name withheld to protect the innocent), who was older, but a bit of a nerd. David would use the Simon, and the rest of us little kids had to pretend to be animals, and he would “control” us with the sound of the Simon game. All of this occurred to the background soundtrack of Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust.”
Mr. Mouth
Monday, December 14th, 2009Because Lisa couldn’t remember the Mr. Mouth game pictured in my last post – Something to jog her memory.
More Toys of Christmases Past
Saturday, December 12th, 2009I love my dad. Tonight, he got into the Scotch and started talking about “what he used to get for Christmas.” This involved thirty minutes, over and over, of him talking about his toy.
A big tire, and a stick. He would get the big tire rolling, and then push it with a stick. On Stephenson Ave, in Savannah. It was a dirt road back then.
I nodded, and chugged down my red wine, and said, “yeah, that was rough. I had it rough. We had an Atari. Have you seen Warlords? That game was like living in the dark ages! Pitfall? Those didn’t even look like crocodiles! And vines don’t have jagged edges!” Oh, the travesty of an abused childhood!
And then I chugged more wine. Then I played a bunch of Bejeweled while he watched CSI, Criminal Minds, and Fox News. Then I got on Flickr, and found these. Guess sometimes there is a grain of truth to Cecil’s stories. . . .
Maybe Henry St., maybe Stephenson Ave. Need to ask Dad in the morning.
And now, take a look at these brats:
Okay, just one more. . .
Yep, we had it hard. Space Invaders? Those didn’t even look like aliens!
Don’t Puppydog It
Wednesday, December 9th, 2009I have been putting this off. Every day since Pop died, I have thought about the fact that I haven’t written about it, and I have put it off another day. It has kept me up at night. Some nights it has almost made me sick. I know that it is normal to have some kind of delayed reaction to grief, and for grief to come to me in phases is normal. But I don’t think that is the problem.
Don’t Puppydog It.
That’s what Pop used to say to me when I was learning to hammer nails. Don’t Puppydog It. It meant that you needed to aim true, hit the nail on the head, not miss and hit the wood around the nail, causing indentations where the hammer head hit. A few indentations around the nail gives the appearance of a dog’s footprint. Don’t Puppydog it means “take pride in your work.” You didn’t want to Puppy Dog it when Pop was watching. You didn’t want to hear, “You’re puppydoggin’ it!” in an exasperated voice.
And I think the reason that I haven’t wanted to write this is that I don’t want to PuppyDog it. But I also know that fear of failure is almost always worse than the doing of that thing. So here goes.
I’ve written quite a lot about Pop here on Dogwood Girl.
I wrote about him and Matilda and their bonding and his strange depression-era ways. I wrote about him reading a post I wrote on his 90th birthday. My Mom printed it out so he could read it, and he thought it was his obituary. I wrote about my heavy-hearted drive down to Warner Robins the day before Pop died. And on the day that died, this is all I could muster.
But there is more to say. I loved Pop, and as a child, I probably respected him more than my other Grandparents. I think I thought he was perfect back then. Of course, we grow up, and we learn that people are not perfect and that sometimes the people who seem perfect are the ones that are trying the hardest to cover up that they aren’t perfect. Pop wasn’t perfect. He was vain and stingy. He desperately wanted people to like him, I see now, but most people just thought he was the nicest old man they had ever met. But he could be hardest on those closest to him. He would sometimes share with friends and neighbors what he never would have shared with his own family. In later years, when I had children (and the new perspective that children bring to life), I still vacillated between anger at his disapproval, his inability to show pride and approval to my father, his tight-fistedness, and forgiveness for his ways; After all, he had never had a mother and father to teach him about right and wrong and trusting others, and to demonstrate love. He had an Uncle who beat him, and an Aunt who surely loved him, but had a son of her own and two other nephews to care for also, in a time when women were surely not able to speak up about things like unfairness to an orphaned child taken into the family.
Words of kindness from my Grandfather carried more weight with my family than those from other folks. As a child, when I left my Grandparents’ house, my Grandfather would stand rigid when I threw my arms around him for a hug. I would hug him. He would uncomfortably pat me on the back or head. He would say, “Stay off Dope” instead of “I love you.” I still remember the first time he wrote “Love, Pops,” instead of just “Pops,” on a card.
There were good things, though – he was not all cold and thrifty. He and Grandma gave us Hope Chests. I think that these used to be for a girl to keep things she made or was given, to take with her when she got married: Linens, china, silver, etc. I am not sure, because all I ever kept in mine was junk from childhood – Dead flowers from high school boys, my diploma and cap and gown, my Varsity letter, adoption dolls and Madame Alexander dolls, class photos, costume jewelry, and the blue and white blanket my grandmother crocheted for me. Very little of this would actually be useful in a marriage, and I am sure Todd thanks his lucky stars that I brought this trunk full of junk to our holy union; Every man needs a wife who keeps her baby Snoopy stuffed animal from second grade, her childhood diary, and every note ever written to her by stupid schoolgirls from 7th through 10th grade.
One year, Pop gave us a doll case. It was a handmade, wooden case, painted blue, with quilted material inside in a floral pattern. Tiller has it now and it still spills out the Barbies of my childhood. (My sister and I still want to ditch the kids one Friday night, open a bottle of wine, and play Barbies.) Another gift was a girly gilt mirrored tray, with matching brush and hand mirror. I did not keep mine, but kind of wish I had, despite the fact that I can imagine exactly what Todd’s face would look like if I brought it into my house today.
One Christmas in Alpharetta, my sister and I got a Barbie Dream House. I remember Pop and Daddy trying to put the damn thing together, and I was telling them how to do that. I did that a lot. One of their favorite stories is of me, at about age five, telling them how they should cut down the fallen pine trees on our house and porch, after the 1978 ice storm. I think of that every time one of my children tries to direct me or Todd in a task today. Kids are funny – they really do think they know how to do everything!
My other memories of Grandma and Pop were mostly of their house or the Lake. We would be at the lake for a weekend and after breakfast on a Saturday morning, Grandma would get dressed to “Go to town.” This involved putting together a well-matched ensemble of pantsuit, fancy polyester dress shirt of some sort, with corresponding matching jewelry: A necklace, “earbobs,” and a pin (she said it kind of like “peon”) which was a brooch. She would put on her lipstick and her powder and then we girls (her and Lisa and Me and sometimes Mom) would go to the Milledgeville or Houston Mall, where we would walk around and look at stuff, usually in Belk’s. By the time we got home, i would be rarin’ to go outside and hang out with Dad and Pop.
In my mind’s eye, it is cool, maybe Fall. I am wearing a navy windbreaker, with Garanimals, probably the pants are plaid, and a solid red or blue ribbed turtleneck. I am pony-tailed, and wearing Zips. I am tagging along with my dad and Pop. I am maybe six. I am the Gofer. “Mouse, fetch that bowsaw,” Dad would say. Or Phillips screwdiver. Or awl. Move that sawhorse. Get that level. Hold this piece of wood. One time, I was holding wood while Pop sawed it. The saw skipped and caught me across the finger. I was bleeding. Pop told me to hold the wood while he finished cutting and then we would go in and get Grandma to look at it. That’s how Pop was sometimes – Unsympathetic. Cold. When I catch myself being this way with my kids, telling them to “suck it up,” I try to remember that it’s okay to teach your kids to be tough, and to stick things out, but not to be unfeeling about it.
But I loved being a kid and hanging out with them, and learning to mix cement, or measure wood, or build stairs. And sometimes, after we worked, we fished, and I remember learning to clean fish with him and Dad. Or we would walk around the yard, surveying our day’s work, and Pop would point out little things for me to do, like trimming a shrub, or digging up a stump, or deadheading something, or digging up potatoes. Pop never sat still. Even when he did sit, I can remember him sitting in the middle of the grass, pulling weeds, using a pocket knife to get the stubborn ones. He would always have a pocket-knife in his pocket, for pulling weeds, or cutting electrical tape, or sharpening a pencil, or paring a pear, or cutting up meat for the dog, or cleaning dirt out from under his nails. I have his old Case pocket-knife now, and I used it a few weeks after he died to cut a piece of carpet, and then I cried. That’s the only time I’ve cried over Pop. I was like that when both Grandmas died, too. I cried over Grandma Smith when I found bottles of Early Times in her closet at Mom and Dad’s house.
I used to love to walk around the yard with Pop, him pointing out the names of plants and shrubs and trees. I owe my love of growing things to Pop. I think of him, wearing his pants and long sleeve shirts even in the dead of Summer, every time I walk around and look at the things growing in my yard. I think of being in the yard at the lake one weekend during college, wearing his old flannel work shirt, and a pair of cut-off jeans with tights and Doc Martens. He laughed in a kids-these-days way, and shook his head and told me, “We never cut up our dungarees like that.” He eyed my boots. “Those look like sturdy brogans.”
Pop started slowing down a lot in the last ten years. He didn’t go to the lake anymore. He stopped saving bread for the birds. (He still saved leftovers mom and dad brought for him in styrofoam takeout containers on the stove. There was a learning curve for Todd and the kids, where they had to learn that if pop offered you food, you probably shouldn’t take it unless it was pre-packaged. Fried chicken on the stove could have been there for a week or more.) He got to where he would only eat certain things. Canned baked beans (cold), Vienna sausages from the Dollar Store, a cereal bar, homemade pimento cheese, and some diet soda. (Generic store brand, of course, like Big K.) I am not kidding – he almost lived off this stuff for the last five years of his life.
He also got to where he would tell the same stories, over and over. Even todd could recite them: When forgetful, he would say that he “needed to download new software.” He thought it was funny when I yawned and made a loud yawning noise. He would say, “Well, you don’t have to holler!” after my yawn. He would tell a story about him telling Grandma that he was going to write a book one day when he got to be an old man. She would retort: “You’re an old man now!” He thought that was the funniest thing. He would say, “meer” instead of “come here” to the dog. He called Grandma “Ezlynn” instead of Evelyn sometimes. And she called him “The Goat Man.” “Ooooweeee! You look like the goat man, she’d say to us, when we came in muddy or dirty.” Pop and Aunt Lena Mae, his sister, and i were the three Goat men. We were the ones who always got the messiest, although sometimes Aunt Lessie was a goat man, too. Or my Daddy. I think people think Lisa and I are nuts when we use the term Goat man, but it is forever part of my vocabulary. I got my Goatmanishness from my Pop.
We knew Pop was dying. It was slow. He went from the hospital to the hospice. He was there a couple of weeks. They were about to send him home, because he wouldn’t eat, and he wouldn’t rouse, but he wouldn’t die either. Mom and Dad were freaking out about how they would care for him. And then he seemed to take a turn for the worse, almost as if he knew that going home would cost a pretty penny for his family, and he wasn’t going to waste that money on extra dying time!
On the 4th of July, Todd and I took the kids to fireworks at Chamblee. I remember looking up at them, looking over at the wonder on my children’s faces at the fireworks, remembering another time – one of my most precious memories of my Grandma Palmer – that I watched fireworks with her on Tybee, tears rolling down her cheeks. She had alzheimer’s by then, and I thought she was crying over the beauty of the fireworks. And she was, but when they were over, she turned to me, still crying tears of happiness, and said, “I haven’t ever seen fireworks before!” Of course, she had, but she didn’t remember that.
I sat on the blanket at Chamblee, and I realized tears were rolling down my own cheeks. Partly for the love of my children and their sense of wonder and the thought of their whole lives ahead of them. Partly knowing that an era in my life was gone, a whole generation was dying with the coming death of my grandfather. I was not long for the world as a girl with Grandparents. I was becoming more a mother, and a daughter, and a wife. In the big picture, the passing of my last grandparent signaled that the next generation was my own Mother and Father. It signaled that I was taking my parents’ place in the world. I was 37 years old, watching fireworks, and i was not a child myself, no matter how much i still felt like one.
I drove down that Sunday, July 5th. I went to Hospice in Perry, GA. My father, still recovering from heart surgery, could not stay. My sister and I spent the night with my grandfather, and we all thought that he would go that night. He didn’t. His breathing came shallow, but it marched on through the night.
In the morning, Lisa went home to mom and dad’s to take a shower. I stayed with Pop. I held his hand and read a book. I don’t know if he knew i was there.
Mom and Lisa came back late morning. Mom went outside and Lisa read aloud to Pop from the bible. She went outside with Mom
I was alone with Pop.
I had read in the literature that hospice gives to families that sometimes people who are dying will “hang on” out of some sort of obligation to their family, and that they need to be told it is okay to let go. It almost seemed that was what was going on with Pop. Or maybe, as we had joked a million times, he really didn’t want to leave his savings behind.
But to tell someone that it is okay to let go? He had been on this earth for 93 years. Almost a century. I had been here barely over a third of that time. Who was I to tell him how to die, if it was okay to let go? It just felt so . . . presumptuous. But I knew that it had to be said. Somehow I knew that was what he was waiting for. He was a complete control freak in life, and he needed to know that he could relinquish control.
I am a person who spends too much time thinking. Too much time typing and writing. I do not tend to voice my feelings aloud. I will tell you what I think of YOUR problem, or if I don’t like someone, i will say so. But I rarely say the big things, the heavy things, the things that will really hurt someone I care about. Spoken words have so much power for things that are so impermanent. You speak a word, and it disappears at once into the ether, but the echo of it carries on in your head after it is spoken. I have always struggled with voicing the difficult things aloud.
I sat in that room with my Grandfather, and I talked to him. I told him I loved him. I told him he had lived a good life and that he should be proud of all the things that he accomplished in his life. I told him that if his parents had lived to see him become a man, they would have been so proud of him. I told him that he was a good husband, and a good father. I told him he was a wonderful Grandfather and that I loved learning about plants and work from him, and that the moments I spent traipsing around the yard with him, getting dirty, were invaluable to me, and that one day i hoped to do the same with my own grandchildren, and that I would tell them all about him.
I told him that it was okay for him to go, that when he got to heaven, he would get to see Grandma again, and all of his siblings who passed before him, and that he would finally get to be with his parents again. I told him that Princess and Tiny, his dogs, would be there, too and would be so happy to see him, and Princess would run in wide circles around him like she did as a puppy.
I told him that we would meet him there some day, too. I don’t know if we will meet him there, but i said it anyway. Excepting possibly saying “I do” on my wedding day, or the first time I said my children’s names aloud while gazing into their brand new faces, these were the most important and heavy words that I have ever said to another person.
I sensed the peace that came over him, that came into the room. Or maybe it just came over me. I sat with him in silence after that, holding his hand, until mom, Dad, and Lisa came back in.
I left to go home and change, and get some lunch with Dad. Dad had left and “said goodbye” to Pop, and he did not want to go back to the hospital. We knew it would not be long, though, and I could tell that Dad was torn – part of him did not want to be with Pop when he died. Part of him felt he should be there. He grappled with it all during lunch. I finally told him that I was going back, and that I wanted to be there, and that everyone understood if he didn’t want to be there. He looked almost like a child as he struggled with whether or not he should go. I could tell that he wanted someone to tell him what to do, but I knew that I couldn’t tell him, and he had to decide himself.
I told him i was going and could drop him off at the house, or he could go back to Perry with me. He decided to go.
When we got there, it was apparent that Pop was letting go. We sat with him, watching his breathing, in and out, like a terrible ticking clock. Then, the nurses needed to check on Pop, and we all moved to the family waiting room, which is so nice, it’s like a parlor – Couches and a television, coffee tables with magazine and flowers, and clean bathrooms with brass fixtures.
The nurses came in and said that we better come back in. Dad went in, and he was near to losing it, I could tell, as if he was an animal trapped in a snare and he was starting to panic. In the end, he could not stay till the end. He had to leave. I thought of that scene in Steel Magnolias where the men just can’t take it and have to leave the room while Julia kicks it.
In the end, it was me, and lisa, each of us sitting with Pop. Mom was in the room, sitting on the couch, and leaving the hand-holding to us. I sat on his right, and held his right hand. Lisa stood on his left. We talked him out of this world, whispering that we loved him, stroking his head, holding his hands. It seemed that he was not in any pain when he went. He was peaceful. And somehow I felt at peace, too.
I kissed his forehead. I said goodbye.
Afterwards, we collected his things, things with an owner no more. A person can be dead and still have shoes, and you look at the shoes like they are out of place, and all the while, those shoes are screaming, “I am Walter’s shoes!” Lisa and mom got some papers and things, and i sat out on the picnic table and looked up at the sunny sky, a sky over a world with no more Pop in it.
That was back in June. I started writing this in July or August and just couldn’t quite finish it. I would work on it, and then get to missing Pop, and missing the feeling that I had a grandparent still with me, and I would put it away to finish later.
But I knew I had to finish it this year, that I owed it to Pop, and to myself, to get it all down, so that I would remember it all. Pop, I hope I got this right.
I hope I didn’t puppydog it.
And some photos of Pop’s life:
He never met him, but Pop’s grandfather, Hartwell Hamby Palmer served in the Civil War for North Carolina. What a strange link to what seems so far in the past.
And Pop’s mother’s father, John Thomas Knowles, served too, with Pop’s great-grandfather, Benager Birdsong Knowles. They served for Georgia. John Thomas Knowles is pictured below, with Pop’s grandmother, Sarah Patience Hood Knowles.
Sarah died when Pop was a teen, and I asked Pop if he remembered her, but his memory was gone by that time, and he couldn’t. If you still have grandparents around, ask them everything they can remember about the old folks who were around when they were children. I wish I had asked so many more questions of my grandparents!
This was Pop’s father, John Lewis Palmer.
And his mother, Ludie Margaret Knowles Palmer:
And Pop with his siblings at their home in Broxton, Coffee County, GA.
Pop is the baby. Not pictured is the youngest sibling, Carl, or their older half-siblings, Leta Estelle Palmer and Curtis Lee Palmer. This was not long before Pop’s parents died. A relative told Dad that someone bought this old house and is renovating it.
Pop, probably around the time of his high school graduation, Martha Berry School for Boys, Rome, Georgia. 1930s. Pop left the home of his Aunt and Uncle, Wiley Byrd, and Bettie Knowles Byrd, for Berry at age 11. He took the train from Jeff Davis County, Georgia, to Rome to go to school there and stayed until his graduation. He heard about the school from a traveling preacher who visited the farm in Jeff Davis.
Pop and a friend, playing in the snow at North Georgia Military College, Dahlonega, Georgia. 1930s.
Pop, his brother Carl, and a friend, hopping a train. I doubt they were really riding the trains, but the picture makes me laugh at its playfulness. 1930s.
Pop and Grandma on their honeymoon.
Pop and Dad. Savannah, Georgia, about 1943.
Pop and Grandma at Mom and Dad’s wedding. June 21, 1969.
My mom with her mom, Vivian Dunstan Smith, and Pop and Grandma. 1969, the year my parents married.
Pop, Grandma, and Grandma’s sister, Aunt Lessie (center), cleaning fish in FL. c. 1973
Pop, with beard. 1976. He grew it out as part of the Mason’s celebrating the Bicentennial.
Pop with Me, Lisa, Dad, and Grandma. Christmas, 1980s.
Don’t hate me because I had a pink E.T. shirt and you didn’t.
Me and Pop, sitting on the couch in Roswell. Christmas, some time in the early 90s. I didn’t just post this because it shows you that I used to be a waif, but also because you get a good glimpse of Pop giving me the “Kids these days” look. And I was a waif. Not sure what i was doing with my hair here. Must have gotten crazy and chopped it off and died it black.
Pop with me and the kids. God, I forgot how cute Rollie was at this age! Pretty special to have so many pictures of them with their great-grandfather. I hope that they will remember him, but i doubt it.
I think this was my longest post ever. Hope you don’t feel like you wasted your time if you got this far. Thanks for reading.
I still love you, Pops!
File Under PIFH
Thursday, December 3rd, 2009You know . . . Parenting is fucking hard.
One of the hardest parts of parenting for me is when the kids get in trouble, and I have to revoke a privilege that was to beneficial to me. Example A:
I am working on a work project AND the school newsletter today. Todd is working late all week, and so it seemed a perfect evening for us to attend the elementary school Spirit Night at a local pizza place. The kids love it, because they get to see their friends. Parents love it because they don’t have to cook. Restaurant gets free publicity, and the school makes money off the whole gig. A win-win-win-win, if you will.
Except that while i am trying to wrap up my work, Tiller figures out how to turn on the damn singing dog.
He sings that “City Sidewalks” song . . . “Silver Bells,” I think. He sings it in a really annoying St. Bernard voice, and there is barking in the background. My mama loves these things, and thought it would be funny to give us one.
Yeah, mom, hysterical.
So, the kids push his little paw, and he barks and sings Silver Bells. The kids love it. They love it a LOT. They love it every time they push the button, which is approximately four times a minute. Over and over.
And the gift that keeps on giving is that they then proceed to fight over who gets to push the button, who gets to hold the dog, etc. So, i am trying to finish my work downstairs in the office, and the kids are upstairs trying to kill each other over a battery-operated St. Bernard that sings (and woofs!) Silver Bells. I hear the mocking tone in Rollie’s voice. I am sure he has Silver Bells dog overhead and tiller is below, jumping to reach it. I hear the thumping on the hardwoods. I hear the shriek. Nope, not pain. The shriek of anger. Pure, unadulterated four year old ire. It is blood-curdling. I fear for Rollie’s life. Then i hear the all-too-familiar sound of tinkling glass.
I run upstairs to lift them, both in their socks, out of the wreckage of two glass ornaments they have knocked off the tree. Except that they didn’t get knocked off. Upon further questioning, it seems that Tiller, in her little temper tantrum, punched two of the Christmas ornaments.
I have to hide a smile at this. I get tickled at the thought of little Tiller – wearing a red polka dot dress with pastel-striped tights and pink dora shoes that light up, a ponytail on top of her head, and enough makeup from our earlier dressup session to work at a whorehouse – throwing a fit and then punching the Christmas tree. I manage to hold it together.
I had told them to stop fighting. I had warned them that children who fight and are mean to each other don’t get to go to Spirit Night. And now i have to put my money where my mouth is. UGH. Terrible parenting feeling. It is the same feeling i get when I have to leave a restaurant with a kid who is being a jerk. Or the grocery store when I have a full cart.
Rollie, upon hearing that they lost the privilege of going to Spirit Night, went up to his room and pitched his own fit, throwing his bobble head Braves guy (Hudson, i think) against the door so hard that it broke. He wailed even harder when I went in calmly, picked up the pieces, and tossed the whole thing in the trash. I guess he thought that if he threw his stuff, mama would whip out the Krazy Glue and fix it up again. WRONG.
So, here I sit, with two kids in their rooms, sobbing their guts out, tearing their rooms up, and me downstairs working until i have to cook them dinner. All because I have to keep my word and be consistent.
Sigh.
Tucker Tree Lighting
Thursday, December 3rd, 2009I took a few photos on Tuesday when we attended the Tucker tree lighting. Todd was working late, so the kids and I hit Matthews Cafeteria. It was great and if you haven’t had it, you should check it out. Old school southern cooking, kid-friendly, and very time-warpy. We know I love a good time warp.
Todd met us and ate the kids leftover dinners (Too much excitement! Christmas Trees! Other kids from School! Santa! Can’t eat anything, but will suck down a lemonade like nobody’s business!) and then we headed up main street, across the railroad tracks, and into the roped off section of downtown Tucker. Kids were running around willy nilly in the glow of Christmas lights. Shop owners were giving out hot chocolate and coffee and candy canes, and the Tucker Lodge (Masons, i guess?) had a tent and fires set up for roasting marshmallows. The Tucker tree was beautiful and lit in colored lights.
The kids roasted their marshmallows and went back to have smores made, and then we ate them across the street on the curb and people-watched. I ran into the new consignment furniture store run by the Tucker Arts Guild, Regroup Furniture. Pretty good selection. I came back out and the kids were running in circles, chasing each other and generally looking wild-eyed, while Todd was talking to our old East Atlanta neighbor, Howard, who is a cop and his beat is our new neighborhood. We see him at least every couple of months, which is nice.
We sat and looked at the tree lights, and then Tiller had a meltdown and we headed back for home, skipping the Santa they had set up in the frame shop. The kids didn’t even notice, thank goodness, as we would never have gotten home.
It was fun to see my friends and neighbors, and for the kids to know people walking down the street. I love that small-town community feel that we get here. The whole thing reminded me very much of the Christmas Tree they had in downtown Alpharetta when I was a little girl, all magical to my little eyes.
I just wish that Tucker had some carolers and maybe, just maybe, a bar. Or at least a liquor license. Or a glass of wine with my din din. It’s like the worst of both worlds – No Christmas Carols, no nativity scene, no menorah, and no booze. Bah humbug, Tucker, but i love ya, anyway.
