Author: dailyparrscription

There are things in life that aren’t fair. Like not winning the billion dollar pot last night (I know, preacher. I’ll see you Sunday), how men get to stand to pee, a pimple the night before your wedding day, and losing a damn good dog.

We weren’t ready today when we got the phone call that our dog couldn’t live on this side of heaven any more. I know you aren’t ever ready, but we just weren’t expecting to take him in to the vet today only to have him taken on home instead.

Tonight, there’s a new hole in my heart that wasn’t there this morning.

Frasier came to us six years ago by aer-o-plane from the grand countryside of Mississippi. Cute as a puppy can come, that white furred baby was snuggled up in his crate covered in cedar shavings and dog poo when Alan picked him up from the Albany Airport. It was late that night, but he got a scrubbing and snuggles and a snack, and that baby slept all night. Good as gold.

His name came about from an affinity of my husband’s: reruns of the prime time show Frasier that stars Kelsey Grammar as a radio psychiatrist who would help others with their troubles and always ending his show with, “I’m listening.” Reruns saw us through and cheered us up through some trying times in our life- watching both our Dads diminishing on earth, growing a business and babies, mourning the loss of our first fur baby, Fletcher. So it seemed only fitting that our newest addition would have a moniker appropriate- Frasier- our labrador retriever, who helped us with our troubles, and who had eyes when they looked at you, looked at your very soul, and seemed to say, “I’m listening.”

For six sweet, sometimes stinky, always hairy years, Frasier was ours. We loved him and he loved us more. He was the best good dog, just like yours is to you. That dog taught us many lessons among them being:

the Dyson DOES lose suction. Frasier hair vs. the Dyson vacuum and the vacuum lost.

the more money you spend on a rug, the bigger the vomit stain. You could have every square inch of your floor covered in hard wood, with a rug the size of a postage stamp tucked under the rear leg of your 1 ton couch, and this dog would vomit on that.very.spot. Everytime. At 1:00 AM. Music to the ears, that heave.

your balls aren’t safe here. Stop laughing ladies. Yes, he was neutered. I’m not talking those. Frasier destroyed every ball that managed to land on the ground within a mile of him. Footballs, blitz balls, tennis balls, softballs, baseballs, meatballs. Gone.

the dog walks you on the leash you just think he’s wearing. You are the fool letting him drag you by the loop around your wrist. Humans.

love.

lots of love.

unconditional love.

Add to the list of things that aren’t fair above: how much he loved us. We didn’t deserve that boy with the worst case of the good boys you’ve ever seen.

While my heart is a little holey-er tonight, it’s a little holier, too. If you put the word DOG up next to a mirror, GOD is reflected back. May that reflection be reflected in me. Rest easy, Fraiser Blue. We’ll see you again one day. Until then, tell my Daddy and Alan’s we said hey. Bet they’ll scratch your chin like you like.

Good night, everybody. Frasier has left the building.

P.S. Guess what show did a reboot and came out today, of all days? Frasier. I love how God winks like that. ❤️

Well, I’m pretty sure (along with 11 other mamas) I know what Stetson Bennett’s mama felt like the morning of the National Championship. ‘Cause our babies just played in THE Dizzy Dean World Series.

Southaven, Mississippi wasn’t on my bucket list. (Sorry to all the citizens of the fine town.) But it just wasn’t. Wasn’t even on my Google maps as a suggestion when I typed in S-O-U…, even suggested that I add an ‘h’ in there because Southaven doesn’t look like SouthHaven but more like SouthAven, but I guess they figured they had enough doubled consonants in their state’s name, so they left it alone, but I digress.

So, as I was saying, Southaven wasn’t on my bucket list. I wouldn’t even say I was “excited” or “looking forward” to going. (Let me be the first to say: I’m a changed woman as this goes to post, hallelujah and praise the Lord for the miracles He produces.)But, this time last week, there I was, with that husband and baby boy of mine, rolling a luggage rack full of baseball paraphernalia and desert heat survival gear in to the Comfort Suites of Olive Branch, MS, ready to set up a makeshift locker room slash clubhouse in the hotel room of ours. Slugging it all down the hall after waiting an eternity for the one elevator to procure, I see baseball signs with names of kids on paper thin doors. Lots of ’em. And then I realize, I ain’t in Kansas, Dorothy. I’m in Miss-a-freakin-ssippi and we ’bout to play some ball, y’all.

Southaven is home to a baseball complex known as Snowden Grove, and this is where the Dizzy Dean World Series is held every summer in the hottest part of the year that it can possibly be scheduled. Seriously, I believe they look at the Farmers’ Almanac, the National Weather prediction center, global warming stats, and then pick the days that will be akin to hell’s fire when scheduling the tournament. Outside the fences to enter the complex would be a great place for baptisms and repentance to occur, ’cause this heat will scare the hell out of you. And as crazy as it sounds, it is possible to have chill bumps in 105 degree weather. It’s a phenomenon that happens when you watch a precious group of 8 and 9 year olds band all the way together and pull out a win and jump up and down in a great big huddle with the love just oozing out all over the field.

The complex is packed out with bands of traveling gypsy-esque pods, who can tear down and reassemble camp quicker than a pitcher can strike somebody out. Tailgate tents, YETI coolers full of hydration and melted ice (yep–those YETIs are no match for this heat), fold up chairs, and battery operated fans; generators for portable cooling units, and bags packed down with snacks and sunscreen and a towel or two, all wheeled in wagons dragged by baseball capped moms and dads. Like a well-oiled machine, camp is set up around the field where your team plays, and the cheering section is thusly formed. Have ball, will travel.

In the air there are roars of cheers, screaming mammas: “Keep your eye on the baaawwwll, Tyyyysoonn!!” “Breathe deep baby, you got this!!” “Get him oowwwwt, soooon!!”, measures of music from “Turn Down for What” to “Put Me in Coach”, and whaps of balls smacking metal and punching leather. You can smell Coppertone and steaming astroturf and hotdogs-both kinds- the ones you eat and the armpits of most. It’s a dadgum country fair atmosphere!

There are all kinds of people here, and all want to watch some good ole baseball. There’s the Daddies, all discussing strategy and leaning against fences or pacing dugouts and cheering loud and tossing some advice to their respective boy. There’s the mamas, all discussing the rude coach on the team they just played, jumping up and down out of their seats, cheering loud and tossing water and gatorade and sunscreen to their respective boy. Then there are the ballpark babies and brothers and sisters who are absolutely in the running for sainthood of some sort. They brave the heat, cheer their hearts out, test the run limits on a diaper, and risk being picked up and tossed in the air when there is a victory of some sort. They snap pics, run after fouls, and perform any mascot duties as necessary. When giving out MVP awards, they must not be forgotten.

Before play begins, I always run to empty the nervous bladder, like I’m the one that’s about to get pitched a ball. Let me just say, some of those ball mamas in the latrine act like skint cats in heat with a set of hemorrhoids and the hissing and slanty eyes when they see the logo on your hat is enough to make me want to tuck tail and run. Now mind you, I said some-because most of these ladies are just pleasant as you please and remember that it’s just a game and these boys are kids and ain’t none of ’em getting scouted by the Braves any time soon if ever, but just to be on the safe side, I don’t wear my child’s number on me where anybody can see, because I can just hear it now: Some mean ole’ mama in the outfield yelling out at my boy: “Hey #12! Yo mama smells like a sack of Jimmie’s hotdogs!” and I ain’t got time to fight a grown woman who may be speaking some truth.

Our boys played their little hearts out and we walked away the runners-up in the World Series. While we were short of the first place, we were long on memories and good times and victories and pride and love. Our fellas played with character and guts and team attitudes. None of ours needed pacifiers and a spanking when they got called out or made a mistake or pop flied like some 8 and unders we witnessed. They were kind on and off the field and showed sportsmanship and character, and THAT my friends, is what it really is all about. Our parents showed character, too, even after some natural disaster of a team wanted to destruct everything in their path with nasty words and selfish behaviors. (That’s why I referenced those hotel doors as paper thin- ’cause you could hear every ding dong thing those opposing team youngsters were spewing and screaming at 12:00 AM Central time which is 1:00 AM Eastern time when we have to be up in mere hours for our first game, making us adults (or at least me) want to go out and Rambo/school teacher all over them. Obviously I’m over it.)

We were a TEAM. And guys, I’m going to tell you something. If you’ve never been a part of one- one where you felt supported, included, celebrated, and LOVED, then you ain’t living. The joys and disappointments and meanies all handled TOGETHER. It just feels…good.

Is this heaven?

No, it’s Mississippi.

Proverbs 22:1 A good name is more desirable than great riches; to be esteemed is better than silver or gold.

What’s in a name?  We’ve all heard that question a time or two.  Merriam Webster defines name as : a word or phrase that constitutes the distinctive designation of a person or thing.  That’s a lot to swallow.  The watered down, first grade teacher version would be: it’s what people call you.  

What did people call Robert Alan Parrish?

When he was younger, I was told he was called Bobby.  The quintessential middle child, he had an older brother Joe and the baby, Charlie.  They say Bobby was quiet and a little bit sneaky (hiding cigarettes in the graveyard and bolstering up a bed he and his little brother had broken after some horseplay, carving the knotholes out in his pine bed frame, and shooting BB’s that ricocheted only to land square in his eyeball) and a little bit lucky, too, considering that the BB in his eyeball popped itself out one day so he didn’t have to tell his Dad what had happened, and surviving being hit by a telephone truck while riding his bike.  Thankfully Bobby’s oldest brother was able to revive him, and he lay in traction for some time in a hospital bed after that.  That Bobby- his mother, Mie, earned a few gray hairs from him, I’m sure.  Years ago, at a family reunion, Mie told me that Bobby was a sweet one, a good boy, and he loved his mama, too.  And I also heard that he would answer-no come running – to Joebobchar, a muddled combination of all three of her boys’ names, when his mama yelled it.  They all knew to answer to Joebobchar, especially that middle one, Bobby.  

When he got a little older, he was Bob.  Bye, bye, “BY” Just Bob. That was him.  He was a Bob if God ever made one.  And what about Bob? Bob was a “Steady Eddy.”  His cage never rattled, his pace never quick, with a contagious from the belly chuckle, his mouth-open grin…that was Bob.  You could count on Bob.  He was the quiet one in the room, but his presence was not.  A man of routine and self discipline, deep faith, and even deeper love, that was Bob.  He avoided conflict and boat rocking, and was content being wrong even if he really was right, just to keep the traffic flowing.  Bob was peace.  Easy.  Actually, he even said that very word often, “Easy,” when someone was taking a harsh tone with someone else, when the glass of wine was filled too much, when one was slinging the fishing rod a little too close to his ears.  Blueberries and bran in the morning, cup of yogurt at night.  Predictable in the best way, but up for a fun time anytime.  Ole Bob.  

And then there was Dr. Parrish.  The gentle dentist.  He was quiet, but when he did talk, none of the patients could understand him.  I kid, I kid.  That low, deep voice would soothe many as they were riddled with nerves about the dental work they were about to endure.  I know from personal experience that his injections didn’t hurt- and I mean it- he could give a shot like no other.  I’ve heard many others say the same.  But Dr. Parrish wasn’t just a dentist- he became a friend to many- Dr. Bob as they’d call him.  When you really stop to think about it, dentistry is quite an intimate field.  There aren’t many people you or I let in our personal space, let alone put their hands in our mouth!  (And as Alan pointed out, not many men would let you gaze at their nostrils for minutes on end and be comfortable with it- like a dentist does.)    But with him, people didn’t seem to mind all that personal space business so much, as his presence put them at ease.  Emerging from behind the beautiful 70s jungle mural behind the bubbling fountain his office manager had spray painted black, and fake ficus that had just a little bit of tooth dust on them, he would pad into the room in those Tommy Bahama loafers of his.  He would ease up next to that patient in the chair and ask how he was, how his mama and them was, and tell him how sorry he was about his dog that he knew had been put down since the last visit.  Dr. Bob knew the patient’s name.  He made sure of it- but not just the name, all about him, too.  He would file all of that information in the Rolodex of his mind, and when a need arose, he knew a patient that could help. Need a plumber?  He had a guy.  That Jeep Wrangler he drove back and forth to work? Wrangled that purchase from a patient of his.  Find out you worked at the tire store?  He was going to use you when he needed tires, and then he’d ask you for a discount too.  Not only did the patients love him, his staff did, too.  Especially that office manager of his- Bobbie.  We’ll get to her in a minute.  He was a compassionate and kind boss, who believed in early mornings, even though that belief wasn’t embraced by all the girls at work.  He valued them and their families, who, if they weren’t already (like Dee, Robin, and Nola), became his family.  When Dr. Parrish was forced to retire due to his Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis diagnosis, he didn’t like it one bit– but the patients and staff even more so.  The practice he worked so hard for could never be replicated, even with the girls still there, because it wouldn’t have him. Dr. Parrish.

Then there’s the names of Boba, Chief, Fozzie Bear- Bobbie’s other half.  What a husband he was!  Wherever Bobbie was, there was Bob. The Bobbsie Twins, as I called them.  He adored her and you could tell by the way he treated her.  Actions do speak louder than words.  He didn’t need to profess his unending adoration for her with his words because the whole world knew it with his deeds.  They weren’t always grandiose, but the everyday ones…the respect he had for her, the way he thought about her first in all his decisions, the way he would make her happy, the way he would let her go first out of the door, the way he would wash the dishes after she cooked, the way he would give her “a squirt” of coffee.  The way he would defer to her, “Ask Bobbie,” in simple decisions and big ones, too.  The only time I think that really drove her crazy was when it was time to decide where to eat dinner.  If you are from around here, you’d see them on Tuesdays at Mikatas, Thursdays at the Catch- he courted her until he couldn’t any more.  In the later years, he showered her with gifts from Amazon, his favorite store.  She’d be surprised by all the delights that would show- a Pandora bracelet charm or two, an Air Fryer, cookbooks, and a beautiful plastic owl for the mailbox.  Her Fozzie Bear loved her big, as she did him.  They were the Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton of Albany, Georgia.  Best friends.  Bob and Bobbie.

There’s Dad, probably his most favorite name of all.  Father to Robert and Alan, the man loved them with his whole heart.  That’s the thing about him.  If he loved you, he loved you all the way…chili, mustard, AND onions.  Those boys of his.  He tried to tame them, God love him.  They were wildcats, who just now seem to be settling down, I think.  Dad loved them no matter what they did.  Like that time Robert…just kidding, wouldn’t do that to him.  But when Alan– here’s my chance– I’m just kidding.  He cooks too well for me to mess things up on that end.  See that’s the thing, and I know this now as a parent myself– you’ve got to let grace be the first thing when you love– and Daddy Bob did that well.  The boys knew when he wasn’t happy about something, but he didn’t dredge it up and remind them of it once it had passed.  He really did forgive and forgive and forgive some more…and although maybe he didn’t forget, the rest of us thought he had.  That was the thing about him– he was a forgiving Daddy. Hmmm.  I think that might preach…

And since we are on the name of Dad, let’s not forget Big Daddy, which really might be the mostest favoritest name he was called.  Big Daddy always had a lap to lend, a chest to sleep on, the lure of ice cream on his lips…he loved his grandchildren.  The Lord saw fit to bless him with six of them in five years.  Yes.  I know.  God bless us daughter in laws.  

Trey, Biz, Landon, Cannon, Grant, and Wilkes were lucky to have Big Daddy as theirs.  Not many people can say they had a granddaddy like him.  And to get an idea of how fun he was, I’d like to present this little clip for you from his two granddaughters…

Big Daddy. Though retired, still letting people gaze into his nostrils…

So what’s in a name?  

A good name is more desirable than great riches, to be esteemed is better than silver and gold.  

Bob Parrish.  Now that’s a good name. 

This time a few weeks ago, I was attending the world’s largest family reunion. You were invited, too, though you may not have gone. Invited, that is, if you bleed red and black and part of your DNA is bulldog, if Kirby Smart is your Daddy (looking at you, Nicky) and Athens on a Saturday is a place you call home. THAT family reunion.

Sitting in Sanford Stadium on metal bleachers as cold as the tip of an iceberg and being surrounded by like minded people clad in the most lovely shade of red celebrating the National Championship after years and years of trying was nothing short of a spiritual service. Being in a stadium with no fans of any opposing team but full up of your very own brethren was enough to leave you sort of breathless and giddy and just full up yourself. The Battle Hymn of the Republic followed by Grandpa Larry’s booming voice made of silk left chill bumps and wet eyes on everybody. I don’t think a soul there sat unaffected. Smells of hot chocolate and screwdrivers combined and were wafted around by swooshing pom poms. The family all called the Dogs and this time, this time- oh, it sort of felt like a prayer of thanksgiving as we could all finally say WE were the champions. Sort of like the Lord’s Prayer for the Bulldog Nation…we waited a looooong time on it, Glory, Glory be to God!

The last time it could be said, I was swimming around on a leash, a new Bulldog being knit up in my Mama’s belly. Georgia born and Georgia bred, Georgia Bulldog ’til I’m dead, ya know? And by golly, 41 years and some change later, here we are. It was about time for that family reunion, a long time coming. There was no fussing at this family reunion; the Druncles were embraced and the kids didn’t have to sit at the kids table. We didn’t have to have matching t-shirts, though a lot of the garb had a similar looking family crest that read “National Champions 2021” encircled by a dog collar and an Indy skyline. But we didn’t need any of that to know we were family- we just could look at each other and know. “You’re a Dawg and you’re a Dawg and YOU’RE a Dawg…” That gleam in the eye- we fam y’all.

After the reunion was over, nobody wanted to go home. We couldn’t stay at Sanford’s house, so we scooted over to the downtown, where most of our Druncles roost. If you know, you know. THE DOWNTOWN, mecca of all tomfoolery and cute clothes and fine edibles, the lights are much brighter there; you forget all your troubles, forget all your cares… (How many of y’all have sung that off key in the back of a taxi before Uber was invented on a dark, late night? If you have, we’re family. We’re the fun cousins,by golly and we are not old. At least in our minds. Our wrinkle creams and livers say otherwise.)

As my girls and I celebrated by shopping and the fellas of mine were in hot pursuit of a jersey and a good time, I had to make a quick pit stop at a watering hole. I had the girls wait outside as they were not of age, but don’t pity them because they are young and their bladders are in much better shape than mine. The cute little hostess just let me right on in and didn’t ask for my ID because, duh, we’re family, and it had nothing to do with my crinkles. While exiting the men’s bathroom (ladies, I ain’t got time to wait on y’all’s mile long line and you and your cute wrinkle free selves will understand what Aunt Betsy means one day), mine eyes fell upon one Georgia son of ours. The one they call the Mail Man. Well y’all, I can’t leave a stone unturned or a letter undelivered, and I just marched up like the Auntie Betsy I was and told Stetson my 8 year old son was just crazy about him. I’m not real sure that his adorable girlfriend liked this Auntie, but I just couldn’t help myself. This was a family reunion, honey! 40+ years in the making! I resisted the urge to pinch his cheeks, and asked if I could take a selfie with him. (I invited his lady to get in with us, but again, she wasn’t a fan. I’ll have to have her talk to JB and the rest of the Widespread Panic peoples about my visit with them at DePalma’s to show her I show no favoritism in whom I bother at dinner…)

And so, in all the Glory, Glory of the day, I snapped a photo with our QB.

Right there, in my red sweater with sheep all over it, except for one black one that you can’t see. The irony…

I’d be totally cool with another family reunion same time, same place next year. Y’all are invited, too, ’cause fam. If I’m a betting woman, we will have a few new Bulldogs, too- aptly named a beautiful name like Kelee or Ringo. We welcome them all to the family.

Aunt Betsy will be there, good Lord willing…the black sheep of the family…the one who instead of bleating, barks. And if you are famous or semi famous or rocketing that way, be prepared for a selfie with your Auntie, ’cause that’s what family does!

Go Dawgs!

There’s a fire at my slippered feet, and It’s a Wonderful Life on the TV. The Christmas tree that is now parched and droopy and standing on its last branch is lit beautifully in the corner. One more day– you got this Frasier Fir! My little family is all tucked in our house, though not under covers. The bigs are sort of grown and the baby who isn’t really a baby at 8 don’t bed down so early any more. The hubs sits on his throne (the living room one) and I imagine thinking how lucky he is that the days of Santa’s midnight toy shop are gone. No more screwdrivers and drills and curse words and super glue when all else fails anymore– praise be! Though a change, it’s ok. We aren’t sad. Drinking my (decaf) coffee from the Waffle House to go cup at my side, I can’t help but really feel Christmas.

Every year at Christmas since I can remember, I take a minute to survey the room the morning of– all the faces around me. For some reason, the thought always falls on me that all the same faces may not be present the next Christmas. “How morbid!” you might think; but it’s really not. It helps me be present and realize the best of the presents that morning aren’t wrapped in paper, but in skin. That one sits with me a bit different this year because it’s a reality. Though my Daddy left this earth December 21st of last year and our first Christmas without him was then, I don’t think I really felt it then like I do this year. I’ve lived an entire year without a Daddy here on earth, missing him every day. Christmas is just sort of the bow on top of a present I didn’t want. It looks pretty, but when it comes Christmas morning, untying that bow of emotions, the box is empty. And it will stay that way.

But because I believe, and I don’t mean in Santa this time, empty isn’t bad. It actually means hope. Everlasting hope. Hope that all will always be alright. Not easy, not perfect, not painless, but alright. Like the tomb was at Easter. Like the stable was for Mary. Empty.

How appropriate that it was a stable that was empty for the little baby to come. Hope entered the world in a very empty place. A very dirty place. A very unholy-ish place. A very animal-y place. Holy couldn’t come where everything was all full up–there wasn’t room. The star led the Magi to a baby in a feed bin, not a Sleep Inn. Can you even imagine? Our King came Holy lowly, in an empty place, and believe it or not, that makes me feel Christmas.

Tonight we ate our traditional Christmas Eve Waffle House meal. I took one of those Christmas pauses. The place was bustling! There was no room for us to sit at first, but five seats at the bar eventually opened. A most pleasant man tended to us, wiped the greasy table tops so that they were fit to serve, smile upon his face– even though he was working on Christmas Eve. His voice even had a charming lilt to it. The girls were buzzing around taking orders and if you closed your eyes and listened, it sounded like this, “drop two bacon, drop three hashbrowns, two eggs over easy…” and the line cooks were moving in such a rhythm that I was mesmerized. These people are working on Christmas Eve! For people like little ole me! How am I worthy enough to be served while they miss out on family time, or rest, or celebration on the most Holy night? Perhaps it was out of choice, out of necessity, out of obligation, but the lesson wasn’t lost on me. This is Christmas.

As we wrapped up our meal, I realized that I had just had one of the best meals I’ve ever had. No, it was not a Michelin Star restaurant meal, but a Christmas Star meal-even more precious and rare. I didn’t need a reservation, there was room made for me, I was served with a smile and a plate full-not some months long wait list to be served minuscule morsels upon fine china.

Guess what? You can have that, too.

Feeling empty? There’s hope, and plenty to fill you full.

Thank you God for the empty. I’ll take it smothered and covered, and if you will, please make it over easy this year.

Merry Christmas, y’all. All my love.

It’s Mother’s Day, and what better day to reflect upon how OLD I’m getting. No sweet mushy gushy Mom blog here about my blessings and all the joy and the tears and the love. Nope. Talking ’bout getting OLD.

For instance, I’ve gone from “Mommy” to “Mooooooom.” Sweet little voices dripping with adorableness to my moniker vacillating between a four second drone of three phonemes to a staccato-ed punctuation of “MOM” and dripping with disgust and ticked-off-ed-ness is what you get if you live long enough. Just nothing but a blessing.

I’m getting old. I now spend money on hair growth products and eyelash serums. Yes, Virginia, your hair does thin as you approach the halfway to 80 mark. And the cruel irony of it is that every time you lose a hair on your head, it grows back somewhere it DOES NOT BELONG. It’s so very savage. (And I am using ‘savage’ in not the cool kid way, but as a very grown up adult. Ugh.) I get targeted ads for Hair Regrowth vitamins and tweezers and bleach in my social media feeds. I’m not okay with any of this. I will tell you, however…that eyelash serum is the bees knees. Grow those eyelashes long, bat them like you’re fanning the devil and people won’t notice the bald spot on your head or the woman beard that looks like a pre-pubescent, testosterone laden lad that’s sprouting as we speak because you’ve oscillated a hair follicle off your head with all that lash flapping. Aside from using them as a deterrent from these markers of old age, these eyelashes come in handy, too. My most recent eye check resulted in my eye doc suggesting I try cheater frames. I asked him if he kissed his mama with that mouth of his as I was squinting to read the bottom row of letters. I can’t read them cause duh, my lashes are in the way. I’m not buying any cheaters…yet.

I’m getting old. I’ll be happy to get rid of wearing face masks the correct way. But once they are completely no longer necessary, I’ll sort of miss the chin sling that hides my second and third one. It’s a good cover up until I can get a face lift. Also, it saves on lipstick and makeup. Saving money is a very grown up thing. Also known as “what old people do.” Sign me up, AA(can’t Retire yet)P.

I’m getting old. I eat Bran Buds every morning. And I like it. WHAT IS HAPPENING? I really enjoy the taste and predictability they bring. If you’d have told 16 year old me that I’d be texting my one day husband to not forget the Buds on the way home because we were down to just the sawdust (if you know, you know), I’d have rolled my eyes with non-performance enhanced lashes at you and squinted while biting my honeybun and googled “irregularity” because it sounded like something a MawMaw would say.

I can see 40 Mother’s Days from now, sitting in my rocking chair, talking to one of my grandchildren…”I lived through the pandemic of 2020,” I’ll say, as I’m tugging on my beard in a reminiscing sort of way. “That’s why I wear this facemask under my chin, honey, to commemorate the terrible times we were in and so I never forget. Now go be a sweetheart and get MawMaw some of her Buds I like so much, and when you get back I’ll give you a butterfly kiss with these eyelashes of mine…”

Happy Mother’s Day, y’all. And may it be just nothing but a blessing to hear your name called out no matter the style. Sweet as an angel’s voice like a baby, sour and uncertain like a pre-teen, “good-bye-ish ’cause I’m using the wings you gave me” like a graduating senior, loving and slightly apologetically like a 20something who finally ‘gets it,’ or feeble and cracky like an almost, but not quite, 40 year old…

And if you need any tips on eyelash serum as you wipe those tears of motherhood off your face with that facemask parked under your chin, I’m your old lady. You can find me on the cereal aisle reaching for my bran.

You know things are sort of feeling like they are getting back to a little bit like normal, whatever that is. We ran in late to church today. Got my tires rotated and balanced. Put up a carrot on the front door for Easter. The kids have had some playdates. I’ve cussed at a few insane drivers. Normal-ish stuff. Though all of these “normal” things came with a face mask in my clutches, hand sanitizer at my hip, and a weight on my heart.

I glanced at my watch on the way to church this morning because I needed to calculate how many seconds we would have to slide in to the doors of the church before the preacher started talking, and I gave pause. It wasn’t the time that did it, (’cause y’all know I ain’t never been scared of no time constraint) but the date that barbed my eye and made my heart sort of twinge. It’s been 3 months today…why that weight is hanging there on my heart.

It’s sort of an anomaly to me. It takes nine months for our lives to form in the comforts of our own private water bed but a breath for them to be taken away. We wait for what seems like eternity to greet a new life, only to have that life gone in a whisper for an eternity. It’s a truth I’ve been feeling on a personal level and has been unfolding on me these past three months, when my Daddy took his last breath on this side of life.

You know, he would have loved his funeral. The people he loved most were there, though distanced, and we had his bud Bo Henry play a beautiful acoustic version of This is My Father’s World. The sky was perfectly blue, and his fourth grandchild was baptized at his service. It was the most perfect illustration of the circle of life. But I know he already knew that. I imagine he called up all his family and friends with him to have them listen to THE Bo Henry playing just for him, and I suppose that W.T. pulled up a chair and said, “That’s MY boy,” and I feel certain that the Lord himself was pleased as it is, indeed, His world. And then I imagine they all stayed around to watch my precious niece be promised to God by her precious parents, and that’s when my Daddy said, “That’s MY boy,” as he looked down at my brother and the wonderful Daddy he himself has become.

He would have loved to watch MY boy play ball on the ball field being coached by his Daddy right now. It’s three strikes and you’re out now and there’s nary a tee in sight. It’s big time, at least to my son. He’s been in a little bit of a hitting slump, but he’s getting better. They’re the A’s this year, and W is lucky #7, and he loves this game so, so much. There’s even hamburgers being sold at the concession stand with one or two cute Parrish girls grinning and selling them to you. I’m keeping the book again because I actually like it. I do. It’s just an all around family affair at the field. But my Daddy already knows that. I can see him as a shadow-his tall, lanky, self- following behind as my Mama comes to be a cheering section of one for this little man of theirs. Add in my in-laws, and it really IS a family affair. All of us together.

I’ve taken to quoting my Dad more. I was, after all, his little protege for many years of life and no I’m not telling you how many years because that’s my business. A couple of days ago, I used one of his infamous sayings with a beloved coworker of mine who just happens to teach my child and happens to understand my humor because she has a beautiful sense of one herself. However, I couldn’t even believe I used it, and I don’t shock myself easily. While recalling the story to my mom, she chagrined and groaned and I think I heard my Dad smile his goofy grin he always did when he thought something was really funny and especially when he knew he had horrified my mother. But he already knew I was going to say that because he saw exactly what the meal was that we had been served. I imagine Dad then thanked God face to face that food like that wasn’t served at heaven’s buffet. And if it ever was, rest assured Dad would let God know…

One day not too long ago, I was feeling a little heavier than normal, and not just from all those Cadbury eggs I’d been consuming. Just moving through the paces of life knowing my Dad wasn’t a phone call away anymore, thinking about my Mom being alone. It was hurting my heart in a particular spot that day. I was just missing him and thinking about really real his death was. While letting myself sort of feel a way, I started tidying up my classroom to keep me from staying that way. There was a pile of CD’s that had been bothering me and so I figured it was time to get them looking better. As I was placing the bootlegged discs in their respective sleeves (yes, I’m a teacher and yes, I’ve ripped off a few CD’s, but only for personal use, I promise, but again, I’m a teacher and that’s what we do) one caught me that was adorned with sharpie marker and John O’Brien font. “We All Live Together,” was written on it and it gave me pause. That Greg and Steve album (Sorry Greg. Sorry Steve. I do own some of your originals, so there’s that.), burned many years ago by my Dad, would serve as a message to me all these years later. Those four little words comforted me and confirmed my very imaginings: We are all living together. Though some not in the realm the eye can see, they are here. Where the heart can feel.

We all live together. Man, that makes me feel good.

But my Daddy already knew that.