I'm Glad Elvis Never Met Her

Prepubescent and teenage years are tough. Hormones, weight fluctuations, braces, etc. Come to think of it, it's kind of like mid-life without the braces.

This is going to come out wrong. I mean it as a compliment but I also want it to be a lesson to young girls and a tribute to the older ones.

For the young ones: You may never live up to your mother's beauty and that is OK.
For the older ones: You are as beautiful today as you were then.

In the late 60s and early 70s, we were divided. It wasn't Democrat v. Republican. It was a worship fest for Elvis or the Beatles. (That is my memory -- don't mess with me.) The Beatles had split. Elvis had gotten fat and drugged out. My mother used to tell me stories about lying on her bed as a teenager and listening to Elvis. She was certain that if they had met, he would have chosen her over Priscilla. Trust me on this one -- she's right.

The oldie's home in Mississippi was less than an hour from Graceland. In every visit I can remember, the daughter took the opportunity to go there.

Priscilla Presley looks a little odd these days. Meanwhile, my mother has managed to age gracefully.

Why I live in Indiana

After Hangdog's funeral, my favorite cousin-in-law gave a small book to the husband. The title is "Why I live in Mississippi ... 101 Dang Good Reasons." The author is Ellen Patrick. It's a lively tribute to the south and I recommend it.

I won't give you 101 reasons why I live in Indiana, but I'll give you a few:

I was born and raised here.

My parents and friends are here.

The seasons change --we witness winter, spring, summer and fall.

The state fair.

Indiana corn and tomatoes.

Elvis performed his last concert here. (Don't tell me I have no southern connections!)

On national television we are portrayed as buffoons. It's my personal mission to correct this image.

We play Euchre.

College Basketball and Professional Football.

Did I mention corn and tomatoes?

We have multiple weirdos from our state: Michael Jackson and Jim Jones (don't drink the Kool-Aid) --just to name a couple.

Our baby senator (Dan Quayle) became Vice President. Potato or Potatoe?
Our baby governor (Evan Bayh) is now on the short list for possible vice presidential candidates.

Hoosier hospitality. It's not a myth.

The husband and I love to travel. I also like the feeling when I'm back home again in Indiana.

Walk the Walk

My mother and her sisters had two sets of parents. The first were their birth parents (Wild Bill and my Wacky Grandmother.) The second were their aunt and uncle (Bobbie and Pa.) Have I told you that Pa and Wild Bill were brothers AND Wacky Grandmother and Bobbie were sisters? Is this something that just happens in the hills? Having no siblings, I have escaped this fate.

It's the holiday season and I am flooded with memories of my grandparents. This is mostly about my mother's side of the family but I actually spend a teensy bit of time thinking about my dad's father and his wife. Then I get the willies and move on. (That's probably not fair. I do have some fond memories but they are overshadowed by the way my father and his sisters were treated.)

So, this is about Bobbie. Technically, my great-aunt but really and truly my grandmother. (The sane and stable one.)

In my childhood, holidays meant we went to Bobbie and Pa's... Christmas, Easter, etc. Farm living instilled in her that there had to be five kinds of meat and at least twelve side dishes.

As she aged, we were more likely to find something forgotten in the oven.

Forgetfulness also came in other visits. One year she gave my father and both of my uncles beautifully wrapped nightgowns. Some years she couldn't remember where she stashed the presents so we got them later.

Pa was in charge of the tree. As he grew older (and more creative) he could find the most interesting way to erect his version of a tree. My personal favorite is the year he found a gnarled tree limb, painted it and hung various ornaments on it. We have an absurd amount of ornaments and Christmas decorations in this house -- nothing will replace my memory of the gnarled, painted tree.

Bobbie and Pa lived in a house that was originally purchased by her father. As time went by, urban issues (like theft and murder) came to visit and my mother was often concerned about her safety, especially after Pa died. She was not fazed.

She was not only my grandmother -- she was the neighborhood mother and grandmother. She didn't just read the bible every day. She lived the lessons every day.

When my mother tried to explain that she shouldn't open the door for unknown people or let the errant neighbors in, she was adamant:

"It might be Jesus at the door."

At my house, it's more likely to be Elvis at the door but I still remember the lessons she instilled and modeled for me.