Lee St. John's Blog, page 7
February 4, 2018
Live and Learn
Live and Learn
From The Newnan Times-Herald
Oh, the trial and tribulations of cooking.
I am in my 7th decade and found the secret to crisping the perfect bacon…just last week. My husband even cooked it better than I ever did. I guess I wasn’t paying attention to mama in the kitchen when she was frying some for breakfast but now, finally, I have a method that works for me.
Teri Hatcher, the actress from “LOIS AND CLARK – THE NEW ADVENTURES OF SUPERMAN” and “DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES” TV shows, once said in her book, “[Women will say] ‘…You take the good piece and I’ll just take what’s left.’” In fact, the title of her new book, "Burnt Toast: And Other Philosophies of Life," is a metaphor for women who too often take the burnt or the leftovers for themselves.
But in my case, not to be wasteful, somebody had to eat burnt food or my other missteps.
My mother was a fantastic cook and I bet several of you could say the same about your mothers. But I never watched her magic in the kitchen. The only cooking I did was to read the directions off a Chef Boyardee pizza box in the 1960s. Instructions on the Chef Boyardee Pizza Kit said “gives you a chance to make your own homemade 12-inch pizza just the way you like it.” It’s not really all that hard to make a homemade pizza but fifty years ago we also had to make our own dough. Here were the dough directions:
Spray the cookie sheet or round pizza pan with a non-stick cooking spray. Pour the dry dough mix in a bowl. Add 2/3 cups of warm water. That was the easy party. You had to knead the dough and then TRY to spread it out across the pre-sprayed pizza pain. Gooey! Sticky! In my case the dough never stretched all the way to the end of the pan. I tried different shapes: round, square, and rectangle. It never rolled out far enough even with a bit more flour sprinkled on the dough and continually pushing it to the sides of the pizza pan, which caused holes in your dough no matter how careful you were. It kept sticking to your fingers during this exercise. What took thirty minutes should have taken five.
The rest was easy. It tasted nasty but we didn’t know any better.
When I lived in my first apartment in Atlanta, I was having guests for dinner and wanted to do something fancy impressing my guests. I was 22 years old and following a marinated chicken recipe to serve my company. I was keeping it simple as a beginning cook since it was my first real foray. Reading the directions from a cookbook (a Christmas gift from mother), it was the most elementary recipe. I don’t remember everything it said but I do remember it called for the old 1970s standby - Italian dressing. After reading the instructions to marinate the meat overnight, I did just that… ON THE COUNTER. It never said to marinate it in the refrigerator! I don’t remember anything after that but crying and calling my mother who suggested I throw it out, of course.
I do remember asking her once early on, “How can you just pull a meal together like you do without a recipe?”
She answered, “When you’ve done it as long as I have, you just don’t need instructions any longer.”
But I am becoming absent-minded and wonder if I should write this bacon strategy down because isn’t that life for you: once you learn to master something, then comes the age where you forget what you did.
CONNECT WITH ME!
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/leestjohnauthor
Instagram: https://instagram.com/leestjohnauthor/
Website and Blog: http://www.leestjohnauthor.com/
Twitter: @LeeStJohnauthor
Newspaper: Newnan Times-Herald Contributor
Television & Radio: WAXC-TV Alabama Charter Cable Network; 97.5 FM;
Kowaliga Radio
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...
Pinterest: LeeStJohnAuthor
National Society of Newspaper Columnists
Atlanta Writers Club
Can be found on Amazon.com
From The Newnan Times-Herald
Oh, the trial and tribulations of cooking.
I am in my 7th decade and found the secret to crisping the perfect bacon…just last week. My husband even cooked it better than I ever did. I guess I wasn’t paying attention to mama in the kitchen when she was frying some for breakfast but now, finally, I have a method that works for me.
Teri Hatcher, the actress from “LOIS AND CLARK – THE NEW ADVENTURES OF SUPERMAN” and “DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES” TV shows, once said in her book, “[Women will say] ‘…You take the good piece and I’ll just take what’s left.’” In fact, the title of her new book, "Burnt Toast: And Other Philosophies of Life," is a metaphor for women who too often take the burnt or the leftovers for themselves.
But in my case, not to be wasteful, somebody had to eat burnt food or my other missteps.
My mother was a fantastic cook and I bet several of you could say the same about your mothers. But I never watched her magic in the kitchen. The only cooking I did was to read the directions off a Chef Boyardee pizza box in the 1960s. Instructions on the Chef Boyardee Pizza Kit said “gives you a chance to make your own homemade 12-inch pizza just the way you like it.” It’s not really all that hard to make a homemade pizza but fifty years ago we also had to make our own dough. Here were the dough directions:
Spray the cookie sheet or round pizza pan with a non-stick cooking spray. Pour the dry dough mix in a bowl. Add 2/3 cups of warm water. That was the easy party. You had to knead the dough and then TRY to spread it out across the pre-sprayed pizza pain. Gooey! Sticky! In my case the dough never stretched all the way to the end of the pan. I tried different shapes: round, square, and rectangle. It never rolled out far enough even with a bit more flour sprinkled on the dough and continually pushing it to the sides of the pizza pan, which caused holes in your dough no matter how careful you were. It kept sticking to your fingers during this exercise. What took thirty minutes should have taken five.
The rest was easy. It tasted nasty but we didn’t know any better.
When I lived in my first apartment in Atlanta, I was having guests for dinner and wanted to do something fancy impressing my guests. I was 22 years old and following a marinated chicken recipe to serve my company. I was keeping it simple as a beginning cook since it was my first real foray. Reading the directions from a cookbook (a Christmas gift from mother), it was the most elementary recipe. I don’t remember everything it said but I do remember it called for the old 1970s standby - Italian dressing. After reading the instructions to marinate the meat overnight, I did just that… ON THE COUNTER. It never said to marinate it in the refrigerator! I don’t remember anything after that but crying and calling my mother who suggested I throw it out, of course.
I do remember asking her once early on, “How can you just pull a meal together like you do without a recipe?”
She answered, “When you’ve done it as long as I have, you just don’t need instructions any longer.”
But I am becoming absent-minded and wonder if I should write this bacon strategy down because isn’t that life for you: once you learn to master something, then comes the age where you forget what you did.
CONNECT WITH ME!
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/leestjohnauthor
Instagram: https://instagram.com/leestjohnauthor/
Website and Blog: http://www.leestjohnauthor.com/
Twitter: @LeeStJohnauthor
Newspaper: Newnan Times-Herald Contributor
Television & Radio: WAXC-TV Alabama Charter Cable Network; 97.5 FM;
Kowaliga Radio
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...
Pinterest: LeeStJohnAuthor
National Society of Newspaper Columnists
Atlanta Writers Club
Can be found on Amazon.com
January 7, 2018
Geriatric Run
From the Newnan Times-Herald
(updated from published article due to strong language)
As an only child, I had all the elderly mother caretaker privileges by myself. I say privilege because it was something I was happy to do, although it was sad at the same time. My mother and father were forty when I was born and so my world was hanging around with their older friends. Had I been born to a mother who was twenty, my own parents could have been my grandparents. My friends’ mothers and fathers were anywhere from 10-15 years younger than mine. They were youthful and energetic while I visited their homes. Mine? Not as much.
I always worried that my parents would pass away long before any of my friends’ parents did. But that was not the case. I had mine for a lengthier time than I expected.
My father passed away first. After my mother died it soon became time for my friends to have a taste of what it was like to care for their aging parents. Some of them had to decide on nursing homes, hospitals, and assisted living locations. When my mother was still living in her own home after daddy died or was staying at her retirement facility, I remember how nice it was for someone outside the family to take the time to visit her in her later years. I wanted to pay back that nice gesture.
Because so many of these elderly individuals were living in the same nursing home facility in my small town, I visited three or four octogenarians all in one trip. I called it my “Geriatric Run”. I was used to having conversations with older people because of my mother and father’s age group, so I enjoyed these social calls. My own great aunts and uncles were in the mix for visitation day.
One day after visiting a friend’s parent in the nursing home, I walked down the hall toward the entrance door, first having to pass by the patients’ bedroom apartments. In this corridor was one of the sweetest looking women I had ever seen. Strolling slowly, I was about to catch up with her and it was then I noticed her sparkling ice blue eyes and her completely gorgeous white hair. She looked like an angel. She smiled at me and I wondered if she really was and angel. Then she spoke and said, “Hello” and her voice had such melody I took a liking to her instantly. She reminded me of the gorgeous Anna Lee who played Lila Quartermaine on GENERAL HOSPITAL from 1978 to 2003.
Before I could return her greeting with a “Hello”, this Wacko-Wicked-Witch-Of-The-West-Type-Woman appeared, walking fast and was about to catch up to us. This scrawny, uncombed straw-like-wild-haired hag, with a scowl on her face, spoke as she pointed to the beauty next to me and said in a raspy, scratchy voice as she passed us, “She’s been cussing at me all day and calling me names.”
First I thought – how did I get pulled in to this nursing home drama? And second – it just could NOT be true because my new friend was as adorable as she could be with the sweetest eyes and doll-face while the other wretched woman transmitted ‘DO NOT TOUCH’. One represented demure, genteel, and proper behavior while the other was crass, rude, and offensive. The ugly woman’s harsh voice continued, “I mean it. Calling me names ALL DAY!”
The sweetheart next to me lowered her head, looked up shyly like Bambi, and said timidly in her little-girl-soft-voice, “I have not. I don’t know what she’s talking about.” I looked in her eyes and said gently, “I understand. I am sure you didn’t. I don’t know why she thinks I am interested in hearing that. I really don’t want to get involved. Let’s just ignore her.”
The loud and crude woman walked on ahead of us in a huff, made a quick turn into her room, but left her apartment door open. The darling woman and I walked together a few steps down the hall but as I had to depart, I started to walk a little faster. I was not yet out of earshot when I realized the beauty of the nursing home was apparently passing by the biddy’s apartment because I had to turn and see for myself what it was I heard. That angel had directly stopped by her adversary’s room and yelled, “BITCH!”
Here was another reminder you DO NOT judge a book by its cover.
CONNECT WITH ME!
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/leestjohnauthor
Instagram: https://instagram.com/leestjohnauthor/
Website and Blog: http://www.leestjohnauthor.com/
Twitter: @LeeStJohnauthor
Newspaper: Newnan Times-Herald Contributor
Television & Radio: WAXC-TV Alabama Charter Cable Network; 97.5 FM;
Kowaliga Radio
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...
Pinterest: LeeStJohnAuthor
National Society of Newspaper Columnists
Atlanta Writers Club
Can be found on Amazon.com
(updated from published article due to strong language)
As an only child, I had all the elderly mother caretaker privileges by myself. I say privilege because it was something I was happy to do, although it was sad at the same time. My mother and father were forty when I was born and so my world was hanging around with their older friends. Had I been born to a mother who was twenty, my own parents could have been my grandparents. My friends’ mothers and fathers were anywhere from 10-15 years younger than mine. They were youthful and energetic while I visited their homes. Mine? Not as much.
I always worried that my parents would pass away long before any of my friends’ parents did. But that was not the case. I had mine for a lengthier time than I expected.
My father passed away first. After my mother died it soon became time for my friends to have a taste of what it was like to care for their aging parents. Some of them had to decide on nursing homes, hospitals, and assisted living locations. When my mother was still living in her own home after daddy died or was staying at her retirement facility, I remember how nice it was for someone outside the family to take the time to visit her in her later years. I wanted to pay back that nice gesture.
Because so many of these elderly individuals were living in the same nursing home facility in my small town, I visited three or four octogenarians all in one trip. I called it my “Geriatric Run”. I was used to having conversations with older people because of my mother and father’s age group, so I enjoyed these social calls. My own great aunts and uncles were in the mix for visitation day.
One day after visiting a friend’s parent in the nursing home, I walked down the hall toward the entrance door, first having to pass by the patients’ bedroom apartments. In this corridor was one of the sweetest looking women I had ever seen. Strolling slowly, I was about to catch up with her and it was then I noticed her sparkling ice blue eyes and her completely gorgeous white hair. She looked like an angel. She smiled at me and I wondered if she really was and angel. Then she spoke and said, “Hello” and her voice had such melody I took a liking to her instantly. She reminded me of the gorgeous Anna Lee who played Lila Quartermaine on GENERAL HOSPITAL from 1978 to 2003.
Before I could return her greeting with a “Hello”, this Wacko-Wicked-Witch-Of-The-West-Type-Woman appeared, walking fast and was about to catch up to us. This scrawny, uncombed straw-like-wild-haired hag, with a scowl on her face, spoke as she pointed to the beauty next to me and said in a raspy, scratchy voice as she passed us, “She’s been cussing at me all day and calling me names.”
First I thought – how did I get pulled in to this nursing home drama? And second – it just could NOT be true because my new friend was as adorable as she could be with the sweetest eyes and doll-face while the other wretched woman transmitted ‘DO NOT TOUCH’. One represented demure, genteel, and proper behavior while the other was crass, rude, and offensive. The ugly woman’s harsh voice continued, “I mean it. Calling me names ALL DAY!”
The sweetheart next to me lowered her head, looked up shyly like Bambi, and said timidly in her little-girl-soft-voice, “I have not. I don’t know what she’s talking about.” I looked in her eyes and said gently, “I understand. I am sure you didn’t. I don’t know why she thinks I am interested in hearing that. I really don’t want to get involved. Let’s just ignore her.”
The loud and crude woman walked on ahead of us in a huff, made a quick turn into her room, but left her apartment door open. The darling woman and I walked together a few steps down the hall but as I had to depart, I started to walk a little faster. I was not yet out of earshot when I realized the beauty of the nursing home was apparently passing by the biddy’s apartment because I had to turn and see for myself what it was I heard. That angel had directly stopped by her adversary’s room and yelled, “BITCH!”
Here was another reminder you DO NOT judge a book by its cover.
CONNECT WITH ME!
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/leestjohnauthor
Instagram: https://instagram.com/leestjohnauthor/
Website and Blog: http://www.leestjohnauthor.com/
Twitter: @LeeStJohnauthor
Newspaper: Newnan Times-Herald Contributor
Television & Radio: WAXC-TV Alabama Charter Cable Network; 97.5 FM;
Kowaliga Radio
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...
Pinterest: LeeStJohnAuthor
National Society of Newspaper Columnists
Atlanta Writers Club
Can be found on Amazon.com
December 31, 2017
Figgy Pudding
I should have served Figgy Pudding
From The Newnan Times-Herald
December 20, 2017
Now that Thanksgiving is over, I am starting to plan my Christmas dinner. I’ve been married for thirty-four years and for the first thirty I followed my mother’s traditional selections in our Christmas suppers, but in the last few years, I’ve branched out with themed-meals for Christmas.
When the TV series, Downton Abbey, was at it’s height of popularity on PBS, I implemented an entire Edwardian English meal one year. I bought edibles I had never heard of to make an early 20th century feast. My thinking was, “What would the Grantham and Crawley’s serve in their dining room for the holidays?” I am sharing it early in case you want to plan way ahead like me, because with all these specialties, you’re going to have to.
I received the Unofficial Downton Abbey Cookbook one year as a present and used it as a resource for my food preparation. It was a great gift as I am a die-hard Anglophile. I’ve subscribed to “MAJESTY” magazine for over thirty years and have followed all things royal. No shallow “PEOPLE” magazine and their royal treatment. This English publication is the real deal.
The titled Edwardians had at least 7 courses NOT including dessert. And I planned something for every one of them. All recipes can be found in this cookbook. As an only daughter and only child of an only daughter it meant my mother inherited a lot of silver, crystal, and china which I received in turn. These sentimental serving pieces for this distinguished line-up of nourishment were already taken care of and made a beautifully splendid tablescape. I am lucky in that department.
Here were my dining choices. I even typed up a menu for my family and guests and there was an assigned spot for it by their place setting.
First course: Soup
Creamy Butternut Squash Soup, p. 42
Second course: Fish
Daisy’s Mustard Salmon with Lentils, p. 56
Third course: Elegant Entrees
(Since we had fish in the second course, I chose chicken.)
Crawley Family Chicken Breasts with Caper Cream Sauce, p. 70
(And the reason for chicken in the third course was because –)
Fourth course: Juicy Joints
Stuff Leg of Lamb with Almond Fig Sauce, p. 74
(And also because –)
Fifth course: Succulent Steaks
Creamless Steak au Poivre, p. 80
Sixth Course: Resplendent Roasts, Gorgeous Game, and Accompanying Salads
Roasted Rosemary Cornish Game Hen, p. 96
~with Spinach Salad sprinkled with Goat Cheese, Toasted Walnuts, and sliced Pears, p. 104
Seventh Course: The Necessary Vegetable
Potatoes Lyonnaise, p. 108
And the finishing touch: Sweets and Desserts
Decadent Chocolate Almond Cake with Sour Cream Icing, p. 130.
Doesn’t it all sound scrumptious? You’d think my boys would not like something so fancy, but they are carnivores and you see the courses are packed with meat! Amazon was selling at that time Downton Abbey wine, so I purchased the Downton Abbey merlot for the meats and Downton Abbey Chardonnay for the fish. Although both my boys were in Cotillion, they certainly still need reminders from their mother on how to properly eat in the dining room, which is where we have all yearly holiday meals. I hope their future wives will thank me. (I don’t test them on an unique silverware’s use - promise!)
Now you see why I am giving you such heads up. It was a LOT of trouble and I have never done it twice. Next time I’ll describe the French-themed Christmas meal that I served the following year. I haven’t done that one twice either. I am looking into a Scottish-theme meal this Christmas because it will have lots of meat recipes, too. Can you say Haggis and if I serve it, will they eat it?
From The Newnan Times-Herald
December 20, 2017
Now that Thanksgiving is over, I am starting to plan my Christmas dinner. I’ve been married for thirty-four years and for the first thirty I followed my mother’s traditional selections in our Christmas suppers, but in the last few years, I’ve branched out with themed-meals for Christmas.
When the TV series, Downton Abbey, was at it’s height of popularity on PBS, I implemented an entire Edwardian English meal one year. I bought edibles I had never heard of to make an early 20th century feast. My thinking was, “What would the Grantham and Crawley’s serve in their dining room for the holidays?” I am sharing it early in case you want to plan way ahead like me, because with all these specialties, you’re going to have to.
I received the Unofficial Downton Abbey Cookbook one year as a present and used it as a resource for my food preparation. It was a great gift as I am a die-hard Anglophile. I’ve subscribed to “MAJESTY” magazine for over thirty years and have followed all things royal. No shallow “PEOPLE” magazine and their royal treatment. This English publication is the real deal.
The titled Edwardians had at least 7 courses NOT including dessert. And I planned something for every one of them. All recipes can be found in this cookbook. As an only daughter and only child of an only daughter it meant my mother inherited a lot of silver, crystal, and china which I received in turn. These sentimental serving pieces for this distinguished line-up of nourishment were already taken care of and made a beautifully splendid tablescape. I am lucky in that department.
Here were my dining choices. I even typed up a menu for my family and guests and there was an assigned spot for it by their place setting.
First course: Soup
Creamy Butternut Squash Soup, p. 42
Second course: Fish
Daisy’s Mustard Salmon with Lentils, p. 56
Third course: Elegant Entrees
(Since we had fish in the second course, I chose chicken.)
Crawley Family Chicken Breasts with Caper Cream Sauce, p. 70
(And the reason for chicken in the third course was because –)
Fourth course: Juicy Joints
Stuff Leg of Lamb with Almond Fig Sauce, p. 74
(And also because –)
Fifth course: Succulent Steaks
Creamless Steak au Poivre, p. 80
Sixth Course: Resplendent Roasts, Gorgeous Game, and Accompanying Salads
Roasted Rosemary Cornish Game Hen, p. 96
~with Spinach Salad sprinkled with Goat Cheese, Toasted Walnuts, and sliced Pears, p. 104
Seventh Course: The Necessary Vegetable
Potatoes Lyonnaise, p. 108
And the finishing touch: Sweets and Desserts
Decadent Chocolate Almond Cake with Sour Cream Icing, p. 130.
Doesn’t it all sound scrumptious? You’d think my boys would not like something so fancy, but they are carnivores and you see the courses are packed with meat! Amazon was selling at that time Downton Abbey wine, so I purchased the Downton Abbey merlot for the meats and Downton Abbey Chardonnay for the fish. Although both my boys were in Cotillion, they certainly still need reminders from their mother on how to properly eat in the dining room, which is where we have all yearly holiday meals. I hope their future wives will thank me. (I don’t test them on an unique silverware’s use - promise!)
Now you see why I am giving you such heads up. It was a LOT of trouble and I have never done it twice. Next time I’ll describe the French-themed Christmas meal that I served the following year. I haven’t done that one twice either. I am looking into a Scottish-theme meal this Christmas because it will have lots of meat recipes, too. Can you say Haggis and if I serve it, will they eat it?
December 27, 2017
Reindeer Games
The Newnan Times-Herald
Not Your Average Reindeer Games
I’m counting down the days until Christmas. I had always gone that extra mile to make it special for my children when they were little, like I feel sure you did, too.
As I set up my Christmas story, let me tell you a bit about my line of thought. You might remember, I am only child who entertained herself a lot. So when my boys finally arrived in my immediate family, I loved to play with them. My oldest, who we called THE HEIR, loved to dress up as superheroes and such. Between the ages of 3-5, you might see Popeye, Superman, Batman, or others around town. Yes, I let him go out in public in these get ups. People would say “hello” to the character de jour.
Once, while dressed as Dick Tracy, I took him to the city police station. I walked in and asked the receptionist, “Is Dick Tracy here?” all the while nodding my head in the negative.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked?
Nodding ‘no’, I reiterated, “Is Dick Tracy here?”
“Why, no, he isn’t.”
I continued, “But he has an office here, right?” This time nodding up and down to indicate ‘yes’.
She caught on. “Yes, his office is here.”
“May I just show my son his office, please?”
“Certainly,” she said. I LOVE small towns.
“Look, honey,” I said to THE HEIR. “Dick Tracy is busy out catching criminals but here is his messy desk with all his important papers.” He loved it.
And what’s with TRICK or TREATING at Halloween? I mean, no one is tricking except mostly in prepared chicanery like having to pay for tours of Haunted Houses. Very rarely are there other ruses. Many times kids ring the doorbell with no trick in sight. I decided to do something about that. Let other people serve treats. I am going for the deception. Turning off all my house lights, I rolled CRIME SCENE TAPE across my entire front yard to shoo away prospective candy begging goblins. I sure hope they were tricked. But who knows? With all the movie sets around town displaying cinematic scenes, it may just seem like another movie production company planted itself in my yard. Well, I chuckled at my machination.
Those are examples of my tom-foolery thought process. My husband says I easily amuse myself. That’s true.
So one Christmas when THE HEIR was five, I decided to make Christmas really special. I wasn’t going to just make cookies for Santa or produce a carrot for Rudolph. I went all out: I used my husband’s L.L.Bean boots and several large baking soda boxes and put my plan to work. When our son was fast asleep, I laid down a book on the rug, poured baking soda around the perimeter, lifted the boot, placed the matching boot a step ahead, and again poured the baking soda. After several steps, it looked as if Santa had sloughed off snow on the rug from the fireplace to the Christmas tree where he laid out our presents.
When morning arrived and he saw Santa’s footsteps, he was overjoyed. As friends popped by that day, and days after, he continued to brag and show them when St. Nick had been.
Nailed it.
When our second son (THE SPARE) turned five, I remembered how our first child received such pleasure from my creativity that I decided to pull this same trick. We duplicated the same scene. This second child was not the dreamer like his brother. Wise from being the second in the sibling lineup he looked at the situation and the first thing out of his mouth was, “Why hasn’t it melted?”
Didn’t think he’d catch that.
Lee St. John, a member of the National Society of Newspaper Columnists, is a #1 Amazon ranked author. Look for her on:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/leestjohnauthor
Website and Blog: http://www.leestjohnauthor.com/
Twitter: @LeeStJohnauthor
Not Your Average Reindeer Games
I’m counting down the days until Christmas. I had always gone that extra mile to make it special for my children when they were little, like I feel sure you did, too.
As I set up my Christmas story, let me tell you a bit about my line of thought. You might remember, I am only child who entertained herself a lot. So when my boys finally arrived in my immediate family, I loved to play with them. My oldest, who we called THE HEIR, loved to dress up as superheroes and such. Between the ages of 3-5, you might see Popeye, Superman, Batman, or others around town. Yes, I let him go out in public in these get ups. People would say “hello” to the character de jour.
Once, while dressed as Dick Tracy, I took him to the city police station. I walked in and asked the receptionist, “Is Dick Tracy here?” all the while nodding my head in the negative.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked?
Nodding ‘no’, I reiterated, “Is Dick Tracy here?”
“Why, no, he isn’t.”
I continued, “But he has an office here, right?” This time nodding up and down to indicate ‘yes’.
She caught on. “Yes, his office is here.”
“May I just show my son his office, please?”
“Certainly,” she said. I LOVE small towns.
“Look, honey,” I said to THE HEIR. “Dick Tracy is busy out catching criminals but here is his messy desk with all his important papers.” He loved it.
And what’s with TRICK or TREATING at Halloween? I mean, no one is tricking except mostly in prepared chicanery like having to pay for tours of Haunted Houses. Very rarely are there other ruses. Many times kids ring the doorbell with no trick in sight. I decided to do something about that. Let other people serve treats. I am going for the deception. Turning off all my house lights, I rolled CRIME SCENE TAPE across my entire front yard to shoo away prospective candy begging goblins. I sure hope they were tricked. But who knows? With all the movie sets around town displaying cinematic scenes, it may just seem like another movie production company planted itself in my yard. Well, I chuckled at my machination.
Those are examples of my tom-foolery thought process. My husband says I easily amuse myself. That’s true.
So one Christmas when THE HEIR was five, I decided to make Christmas really special. I wasn’t going to just make cookies for Santa or produce a carrot for Rudolph. I went all out: I used my husband’s L.L.Bean boots and several large baking soda boxes and put my plan to work. When our son was fast asleep, I laid down a book on the rug, poured baking soda around the perimeter, lifted the boot, placed the matching boot a step ahead, and again poured the baking soda. After several steps, it looked as if Santa had sloughed off snow on the rug from the fireplace to the Christmas tree where he laid out our presents.
When morning arrived and he saw Santa’s footsteps, he was overjoyed. As friends popped by that day, and days after, he continued to brag and show them when St. Nick had been.
Nailed it.
When our second son (THE SPARE) turned five, I remembered how our first child received such pleasure from my creativity that I decided to pull this same trick. We duplicated the same scene. This second child was not the dreamer like his brother. Wise from being the second in the sibling lineup he looked at the situation and the first thing out of his mouth was, “Why hasn’t it melted?”
Didn’t think he’d catch that.
Lee St. John, a member of the National Society of Newspaper Columnists, is a #1 Amazon ranked author. Look for her on:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/leestjohnauthor
Website and Blog: http://www.leestjohnauthor.com/
Twitter: @LeeStJohnauthor
December 17, 2017
Bonjour!
From THE NEWNAN TIMES-HERALD
Bonjour!
Pourquoi ai-je prendre des cours de français au secondaire ? Ce qu'il a été bon pour moi ? Bien sûr, je peux aller dans un restaurant français et dire, "Garcon !" quand je veux commander un verre d'eau, mais la lecture du menu ? It Ain't gonna get moi très loin.
Translation: Why did I take French in high school? What good has it been to me? Sure, I can go into a French restaurant and say, "Garçon!" when I want to order a glass of water, but reading the menu? It ain't gonna get me very far.
See? After taking French I and II in high school and a year in college, this is what it amounts to. Oh, I’ve even been to Paris… twice. It’s a beautiful romance language but they weren’t very impressed when I spoke the little French I did remember which was: “French Fries”, “French Dressing”, and “French Kissing”. And I am also crazy about Country French Décor. Maybe all this appreciation for all things French comes from my DNA. I am a descendent of French Huguenots on my maternal grandfather’s side.
Sometimes I become giddy and just break out into a French accent for the fun of it. And although in my head it sounds like the native tongue, I know it comes out just like Pepe le Pew, the fictional cartoon character from the Warner Brother’s Looney Tunes and Merri Melodies. First introduced in 1945, le Pew is depicted as a French striped skunk constantly in search of love. But his offensive skunk odor and aggressiveness in the pursuit of romance causes other characters to flee from him in fear while he hops after them in leisurely pursuit.
Pepe Le Pew’s storylines typically involve his quest of a female black cat, Penelope Pussycat, whom he mistakes for a skunk (“la belle femme skunk fatale”). This black cat squeezed under a newly painted fence and is unaware that wet white paint caused a white stripe down her back. Of course this attracts Le Pew but every time he tries to embrace her she frantically races to get away from him because of his putrid odor. He never loses confidence no matter how many times he is rebuffed. These escapades are always set in exotic locales in France associated in popular culture with romance, such as the Champs-Elysees or the Eiffel Tower.
“And zee? Ah con speek jus liake hem.”
Once when putting my best French forward, I made a rather funny faux pas. In 1976, I had been working one summer at the Omni International Hotel in Atlanta. I was answering the phone for the catering department. The Hotel’s main restaurant prepared French cuisine. Hors D’oeuveres were délicieux. Des salades were delicious. Entrees were attrait. Desserts were exquisite.
When the phone rang, I answered and a woman on the other end spoke, “Hello. Could you please read the list of the entrée choices in the main restaurant tonight?”
When I started reading from the poisson section a delicious favorite stood out. The recipe’s name, according to French lore, is referenced to a miller of wheat whose wife cooked everything coated with flour. The original French style of cooking this fish, then, was seasoned and floured, sautéd in butter, and finally topped with the brown butter from the pan. It was listed on the menu as Trout Meunière, which with my haste and poor French skills I delivered this enticing dish as TROUT MANURE.
Bonjour!
Pourquoi ai-je prendre des cours de français au secondaire ? Ce qu'il a été bon pour moi ? Bien sûr, je peux aller dans un restaurant français et dire, "Garcon !" quand je veux commander un verre d'eau, mais la lecture du menu ? It Ain't gonna get moi très loin.
Translation: Why did I take French in high school? What good has it been to me? Sure, I can go into a French restaurant and say, "Garçon!" when I want to order a glass of water, but reading the menu? It ain't gonna get me very far.
See? After taking French I and II in high school and a year in college, this is what it amounts to. Oh, I’ve even been to Paris… twice. It’s a beautiful romance language but they weren’t very impressed when I spoke the little French I did remember which was: “French Fries”, “French Dressing”, and “French Kissing”. And I am also crazy about Country French Décor. Maybe all this appreciation for all things French comes from my DNA. I am a descendent of French Huguenots on my maternal grandfather’s side.
Sometimes I become giddy and just break out into a French accent for the fun of it. And although in my head it sounds like the native tongue, I know it comes out just like Pepe le Pew, the fictional cartoon character from the Warner Brother’s Looney Tunes and Merri Melodies. First introduced in 1945, le Pew is depicted as a French striped skunk constantly in search of love. But his offensive skunk odor and aggressiveness in the pursuit of romance causes other characters to flee from him in fear while he hops after them in leisurely pursuit.
Pepe Le Pew’s storylines typically involve his quest of a female black cat, Penelope Pussycat, whom he mistakes for a skunk (“la belle femme skunk fatale”). This black cat squeezed under a newly painted fence and is unaware that wet white paint caused a white stripe down her back. Of course this attracts Le Pew but every time he tries to embrace her she frantically races to get away from him because of his putrid odor. He never loses confidence no matter how many times he is rebuffed. These escapades are always set in exotic locales in France associated in popular culture with romance, such as the Champs-Elysees or the Eiffel Tower.
“And zee? Ah con speek jus liake hem.”
Once when putting my best French forward, I made a rather funny faux pas. In 1976, I had been working one summer at the Omni International Hotel in Atlanta. I was answering the phone for the catering department. The Hotel’s main restaurant prepared French cuisine. Hors D’oeuveres were délicieux. Des salades were delicious. Entrees were attrait. Desserts were exquisite.
When the phone rang, I answered and a woman on the other end spoke, “Hello. Could you please read the list of the entrée choices in the main restaurant tonight?”
When I started reading from the poisson section a delicious favorite stood out. The recipe’s name, according to French lore, is referenced to a miller of wheat whose wife cooked everything coated with flour. The original French style of cooking this fish, then, was seasoned and floured, sautéd in butter, and finally topped with the brown butter from the pan. It was listed on the menu as Trout Meunière, which with my haste and poor French skills I delivered this enticing dish as TROUT MANURE.
December 10, 2017
She said, "Be My Guest."
And I was. Thanks for having me, Jessica Sanders, at your coffee shop for coffee and for discussing the writing process.
Being on podcasts is pretty new to me. And my voice was WAYYY too loud. But the experience was fun.
https://www.spreaker.com/user/klrnrad...
December 10, 2017
Being on podcasts is pretty new to me. And my voice was WAYYY too loud. But the experience was fun.
https://www.spreaker.com/user/klrnrad...
December 10, 2017
December 3, 2017
The Store of the South
DECEMBER 3, 2017 / BIENVENUEPRESSBLOG
The always entertaining Lee St. John stops by The FrontPorch today to share with us a hometown holiday story. Grab a cup of coffee and enjoy!
My hometown holiday memory is composed of a mother-daughter excursion to Rich’s Department Store in Atlanta. Our agenda included reveling in my ‘Breakfast with Santa’ in the Magnolia Room Restaurant where all the children squealed with delight as Santa meandered around and spoke to each of us, visiting St. Nick to have my picture taken on Santa’s knee while I whispered my Christmas desires, flying high in the Pink Pig monorail above the toy department, being able to independently shop for my parents in Santa’s Secret Shop, and becoming mesmerized by the lighting of the GREAT TREE at the end of an adrenaline-induced day.
Founded in 1867, Rich’s Department Store came to symbolize the retail shopping experience in Atlanta during the twentieth century and was inextricably linked with our capitol’s history. In the 1950s and 1960s, Rich’s Magnolia Room Restaurant was generally known for the fashion shows, called Rich’s Fashionata, which were held while ladies enjoyed a light luncheon fare including their delicious chicken salad, cheese straws, and fabulously famous coconut cake (which I learned about later when I was old enough to be included in that divine tea room). But before those recollections, Rich’s hosted their Christmas Breakfast with Santa. My favorite menu choice was rice crispies mixed with vanilla ice cream. Wearing my best green velvet dress, ruffled ankle socks, black patent leather shoes, and carrying a white faux fur muff with matching hat, my picture with the jolly ‘ole man took place after breakfast.
The lines were extremely long. I was never frightened of him because he looked just like the picturesque Coca-Cola Santa. The black and white 5” X 7” photo was mailed to your home shortly after the photograph was taken. Santa’s helpers gave the participants green Christmas tree shaped candy for sitting on his knee.
I looked forward to riding Priscilla, The Pink Pig. In 1956, the bright pink monorail excursion debuted with a piggy snout and curly tail. This magical journey around the toy department with all the toys, decorations, and sparkling lights was only 3 ½ minutes long and cost a quarter. It was later moved to the rooftop circling the GREAT TREE. Your car moved onto the Crystal Bridge, a four story all-glass bridge that stretched across Forsyth Street, connecting Rich’s two buildings. There you had an enormous view of all the glistening ornaments as large basketballs. It then carried you around the base of the tree as you looked over the city streets. I still have a white, satin sticker with Priscilla’s smiling face declaring, “I Rode the Pink Pig.”
Our activities were not over. I remember shopping at Santa’s Secret Shop on the fifth floor. The emporium allowed me to privately pick out inexpensive gifts for my parents because adults were not allowed in. Santa’s elves assisted me with what I bought while my mother shopped elsewhere in the store. Rich’s set up accounts where parents paid for their children’s acquisitions using what was then called ‘the charge plate’. All purchases were secretly wrapped, of course.
As the day stretched into dusk, mother and I, along with tens of thousands from all over the South, attended the lighting of the GREAT TREE. To generate more anticipation for the ceremony, the city lights were turned off for about thirty minutes after a complete sunset. Then the freshly-cut 75 foot tall Georgia White pine came to life with its miles of sparkle and 7-foot-tall star. Atop the Crystal Bridge, the tree’s first bedazzlement began Thanksgiving night and continued every night through Christmas Eve. Each of the bridge’s four levels provided Christmas carols from heralding choruses. Rich’s GREAT TREE was featured on the cover of Time Magazine on December 15, 1961.
New York’s tree lighting comes fairly close to the GREAT TREE but everything about Rich’s was OURS. It was home in so many ways – not just at Christmas. It was as much a part of the Atlanta landscape as the statue of the Phoenix (bought by Rich’s) which was once featured downtown and known as “Atlanta from the Ashes”, a symbol of Atlanta’s revival. This Christmas memory’s afterglow warms me since this tradition at this location no longer exists. But once there was a time that was magical and Southerners came near and far to spend a part of their holiday at “The Store of the South”.
The always entertaining Lee St. John stops by The FrontPorch today to share with us a hometown holiday story. Grab a cup of coffee and enjoy!
My hometown holiday memory is composed of a mother-daughter excursion to Rich’s Department Store in Atlanta. Our agenda included reveling in my ‘Breakfast with Santa’ in the Magnolia Room Restaurant where all the children squealed with delight as Santa meandered around and spoke to each of us, visiting St. Nick to have my picture taken on Santa’s knee while I whispered my Christmas desires, flying high in the Pink Pig monorail above the toy department, being able to independently shop for my parents in Santa’s Secret Shop, and becoming mesmerized by the lighting of the GREAT TREE at the end of an adrenaline-induced day.
Founded in 1867, Rich’s Department Store came to symbolize the retail shopping experience in Atlanta during the twentieth century and was inextricably linked with our capitol’s history. In the 1950s and 1960s, Rich’s Magnolia Room Restaurant was generally known for the fashion shows, called Rich’s Fashionata, which were held while ladies enjoyed a light luncheon fare including their delicious chicken salad, cheese straws, and fabulously famous coconut cake (which I learned about later when I was old enough to be included in that divine tea room). But before those recollections, Rich’s hosted their Christmas Breakfast with Santa. My favorite menu choice was rice crispies mixed with vanilla ice cream. Wearing my best green velvet dress, ruffled ankle socks, black patent leather shoes, and carrying a white faux fur muff with matching hat, my picture with the jolly ‘ole man took place after breakfast.
The lines were extremely long. I was never frightened of him because he looked just like the picturesque Coca-Cola Santa. The black and white 5” X 7” photo was mailed to your home shortly after the photograph was taken. Santa’s helpers gave the participants green Christmas tree shaped candy for sitting on his knee.
I looked forward to riding Priscilla, The Pink Pig. In 1956, the bright pink monorail excursion debuted with a piggy snout and curly tail. This magical journey around the toy department with all the toys, decorations, and sparkling lights was only 3 ½ minutes long and cost a quarter. It was later moved to the rooftop circling the GREAT TREE. Your car moved onto the Crystal Bridge, a four story all-glass bridge that stretched across Forsyth Street, connecting Rich’s two buildings. There you had an enormous view of all the glistening ornaments as large basketballs. It then carried you around the base of the tree as you looked over the city streets. I still have a white, satin sticker with Priscilla’s smiling face declaring, “I Rode the Pink Pig.”
Our activities were not over. I remember shopping at Santa’s Secret Shop on the fifth floor. The emporium allowed me to privately pick out inexpensive gifts for my parents because adults were not allowed in. Santa’s elves assisted me with what I bought while my mother shopped elsewhere in the store. Rich’s set up accounts where parents paid for their children’s acquisitions using what was then called ‘the charge plate’. All purchases were secretly wrapped, of course.
As the day stretched into dusk, mother and I, along with tens of thousands from all over the South, attended the lighting of the GREAT TREE. To generate more anticipation for the ceremony, the city lights were turned off for about thirty minutes after a complete sunset. Then the freshly-cut 75 foot tall Georgia White pine came to life with its miles of sparkle and 7-foot-tall star. Atop the Crystal Bridge, the tree’s first bedazzlement began Thanksgiving night and continued every night through Christmas Eve. Each of the bridge’s four levels provided Christmas carols from heralding choruses. Rich’s GREAT TREE was featured on the cover of Time Magazine on December 15, 1961.
New York’s tree lighting comes fairly close to the GREAT TREE but everything about Rich’s was OURS. It was home in so many ways – not just at Christmas. It was as much a part of the Atlanta landscape as the statue of the Phoenix (bought by Rich’s) which was once featured downtown and known as “Atlanta from the Ashes”, a symbol of Atlanta’s revival. This Christmas memory’s afterglow warms me since this tradition at this location no longer exists. But once there was a time that was magical and Southerners came near and far to spend a part of their holiday at “The Store of the South”.
November 26, 2017
Pride Goeth Before A Fall
From Newnan Times-Herald
November 23, 2017
It’s ain’t pretty to watch youth turn into old age, is it? The plusses are the wisdom one gains living life with its trials and tribulations. The negative is all that pretty wastes away. And we’re all pretty until we’re not. I don’t mean to sound morbid. I am just trying to be realistic because I sure didn’t think it was going to happen to me. No, sir.
I remember visiting the ladies restroom in downtown Atlanta’s Rich’s Department store when I was about ten years old. Never had I seen so many women in sleeveless dresses with droopy upper arms. How embarrassing for them! I remember thinking to myself, “When I get old, that’s not going to happen to me. No, sir.”
I’ve only had 4 fillings in my lifetime and never wore braces. Oh, I WANTED to wear braces because everyone else did. My teeth were so straight with no problems that as a young adult I remember my dentist telling me, “You are NOT helping me pay for this dental office.” I figured extreme services were not in my future. No, sir.
In my thirties and never having worn glasses, I was selling real estate for a regional developer. I wanted to appear older and wiser than my years suggested, so I made an appointment with my friendly ophthalmologist. He gave me non-prescription glasses to wear to make me look smart. How dumb was that? I thought I’d never have to wear real prescriptions with my 20/20 vision. No, sir.
Then my forties appeared. Guess what? It was the beginning of the end. Glasses. I bought mine at the pharmacy. What is the lowest level? 125? I started there, but I didn’t stay there. Reading glasses and I have a long history. Yes, sir.
Here came the fifties. In the early part of that decade while eating deviled crab at a local restaurant and taking that first scrumptious bite, part of a broken crab shell was in my forkful. I felt a CRACK to a back molar and a horrific shooting pain through my nerve. One of my few fillings came in contact with agony which seared through my right molar’s nerve. A year and a half later, the left mirror image molar cracked and broke. I had lived until almost sixty years and had never fractured any part of my body until now. Now I was dealing with my first real dental catastrophe and the expensive fallout - years of dealing with 2 dental implants. Yes, sir.
I remember reading Nora Ephron’s “I Feel Bad About My Neck” while still in my fifties, and thought, “What the heck is she talking about? Neck?” I wasn’t paying attention to necks because I remembered Rich’s and those bird-flapping-arm women. Neither had happened. But then – you guessed it. Here came that neck and a few years later the arms. Yes, sir.
I was falling apart. I had nothing left to be proud of. Oh, wait. I remember getting compliments on my feet. People would tell me how patrician and pretty they were. And I’d show them off wearing the prettiest of toenail polish and open toed shoes, sandals, or flip flops. My pride and joy. I saw myself in my sixties not looking like the girl of my youth. But my feet! Those toes! I still had those! I would lie in bed and raise my legs to enjoy my pretty, slim, complimented feet because that’s all I had left!
And then God gave me a wake-up call. One day soon after while in a hurry, I clumsily ran into my laundry room door and broke my second and longest toe. And there it went…my last hold-out of anything pretty left on this ‘ole body of mine. Yes, sir.
November 23, 2017
It’s ain’t pretty to watch youth turn into old age, is it? The plusses are the wisdom one gains living life with its trials and tribulations. The negative is all that pretty wastes away. And we’re all pretty until we’re not. I don’t mean to sound morbid. I am just trying to be realistic because I sure didn’t think it was going to happen to me. No, sir.
I remember visiting the ladies restroom in downtown Atlanta’s Rich’s Department store when I was about ten years old. Never had I seen so many women in sleeveless dresses with droopy upper arms. How embarrassing for them! I remember thinking to myself, “When I get old, that’s not going to happen to me. No, sir.”
I’ve only had 4 fillings in my lifetime and never wore braces. Oh, I WANTED to wear braces because everyone else did. My teeth were so straight with no problems that as a young adult I remember my dentist telling me, “You are NOT helping me pay for this dental office.” I figured extreme services were not in my future. No, sir.
In my thirties and never having worn glasses, I was selling real estate for a regional developer. I wanted to appear older and wiser than my years suggested, so I made an appointment with my friendly ophthalmologist. He gave me non-prescription glasses to wear to make me look smart. How dumb was that? I thought I’d never have to wear real prescriptions with my 20/20 vision. No, sir.
Then my forties appeared. Guess what? It was the beginning of the end. Glasses. I bought mine at the pharmacy. What is the lowest level? 125? I started there, but I didn’t stay there. Reading glasses and I have a long history. Yes, sir.
Here came the fifties. In the early part of that decade while eating deviled crab at a local restaurant and taking that first scrumptious bite, part of a broken crab shell was in my forkful. I felt a CRACK to a back molar and a horrific shooting pain through my nerve. One of my few fillings came in contact with agony which seared through my right molar’s nerve. A year and a half later, the left mirror image molar cracked and broke. I had lived until almost sixty years and had never fractured any part of my body until now. Now I was dealing with my first real dental catastrophe and the expensive fallout - years of dealing with 2 dental implants. Yes, sir.
I remember reading Nora Ephron’s “I Feel Bad About My Neck” while still in my fifties, and thought, “What the heck is she talking about? Neck?” I wasn’t paying attention to necks because I remembered Rich’s and those bird-flapping-arm women. Neither had happened. But then – you guessed it. Here came that neck and a few years later the arms. Yes, sir.
I was falling apart. I had nothing left to be proud of. Oh, wait. I remember getting compliments on my feet. People would tell me how patrician and pretty they were. And I’d show them off wearing the prettiest of toenail polish and open toed shoes, sandals, or flip flops. My pride and joy. I saw myself in my sixties not looking like the girl of my youth. But my feet! Those toes! I still had those! I would lie in bed and raise my legs to enjoy my pretty, slim, complimented feet because that’s all I had left!
And then God gave me a wake-up call. One day soon after while in a hurry, I clumsily ran into my laundry room door and broke my second and longest toe. And there it went…my last hold-out of anything pretty left on this ‘ole body of mine. Yes, sir.
November 13, 2017
Rain, Rain Go Away!
~ from The Newnan Times-Herald
November 8. 2017
With the weather changing from hurricanes, to warm temperatures, to now cool weather all in one season, I had a personal run-in with it myself… in a humorous sense. Let me bring some levity to these dire times.
While in Raleigh, North Carolina for the wedding and reception of a teacher friend in December 1982, FUTURE HUBBY and I met an older gentleman who became interested in our recent engagement and the date we had set for our upcoming nuptials. We replied that we settled on May 14th that coming year.
“May 14th, well, well,” he said. “According to the Farmer’s Almanac the second weekend in May is always the nicest weekend in the South. You should check it out and see for yourself.” The next day we immediately bought a 1983 Farmer’s Almanac before leaving North Carolina.
Sure enough, the almanac mentioned that the upcoming second weekend in May was the best weekend for farming because of the slightly warmer temps and no rain showers during that time. It was like getting the green light to a perfect wedding day from a crystal ball.
We were elated and trusted it completely.
As I counted down the days until the ceremony, I was especially concerned about the weather because my parents and I planned an outdoor reception on my front lawn on the 30 acres where I grew up. Everything for the wedding reception was to be outside – the band, the tables and chairs for guests, the tables for food, the wedding couple’s dance, pictures, etc.
All this effort made my mother and me especially nervous that the weather might not cooperate. The almanac was the only proven information that it was going to turn out well. But what if there was an off year and what if it was 1983?
As the wedding day drew closer, my fears heightened and so did the chance of rain. With only a week away and according to the Atlanta news and weather stations, it did not look all that good. If it rained, how were we going to get all those people in my parent’s house? Leaving the church to ride home, getting in and out of the car in my wedding dress, and grey skies in pictures just seemed unthinkable.
In 1983 there were no rental props in my small town. I became so concerned that I called the meteorologist at the National Weather Service. Every day. I called so much we knew each other on a first-name basis. I was totally afraid the weather was going to move in and ruin my day. He assured me that was not going to be the case. All looked clear for that week and weekend from California to Georgia.
Then it happened. There was a squall from the Gulf rumbling into Georgia just two days before the wedding. Mother and I panicked and scrambled to solve the problem. If only we knew someone whose university tailgate tents we could borrow. The only tents we knew about were the tents from our local funeral home…with their name emblazoned across the scalloped hem. They were not even in my wedding ensemble colors. And a few of them might have said, “We’re the last to let you down.” I was almost in tears.
A day later, the meteorologist and I spoke again, and he knew I was in agony. He calmed my fears and told me that there was no need to worry. The storm had moved off in another direction and the next few days were going to be perfect.
And they were.
Note to self: Always trust the FARMER’S ALMANAC.
Lee St. John, a retired Coweta County high school English teacher, is the author of five humorous books and two audio books.
November 8. 2017
With the weather changing from hurricanes, to warm temperatures, to now cool weather all in one season, I had a personal run-in with it myself… in a humorous sense. Let me bring some levity to these dire times.
While in Raleigh, North Carolina for the wedding and reception of a teacher friend in December 1982, FUTURE HUBBY and I met an older gentleman who became interested in our recent engagement and the date we had set for our upcoming nuptials. We replied that we settled on May 14th that coming year.
“May 14th, well, well,” he said. “According to the Farmer’s Almanac the second weekend in May is always the nicest weekend in the South. You should check it out and see for yourself.” The next day we immediately bought a 1983 Farmer’s Almanac before leaving North Carolina.
Sure enough, the almanac mentioned that the upcoming second weekend in May was the best weekend for farming because of the slightly warmer temps and no rain showers during that time. It was like getting the green light to a perfect wedding day from a crystal ball.
We were elated and trusted it completely.
As I counted down the days until the ceremony, I was especially concerned about the weather because my parents and I planned an outdoor reception on my front lawn on the 30 acres where I grew up. Everything for the wedding reception was to be outside – the band, the tables and chairs for guests, the tables for food, the wedding couple’s dance, pictures, etc.
All this effort made my mother and me especially nervous that the weather might not cooperate. The almanac was the only proven information that it was going to turn out well. But what if there was an off year and what if it was 1983?
As the wedding day drew closer, my fears heightened and so did the chance of rain. With only a week away and according to the Atlanta news and weather stations, it did not look all that good. If it rained, how were we going to get all those people in my parent’s house? Leaving the church to ride home, getting in and out of the car in my wedding dress, and grey skies in pictures just seemed unthinkable.
In 1983 there were no rental props in my small town. I became so concerned that I called the meteorologist at the National Weather Service. Every day. I called so much we knew each other on a first-name basis. I was totally afraid the weather was going to move in and ruin my day. He assured me that was not going to be the case. All looked clear for that week and weekend from California to Georgia.
Then it happened. There was a squall from the Gulf rumbling into Georgia just two days before the wedding. Mother and I panicked and scrambled to solve the problem. If only we knew someone whose university tailgate tents we could borrow. The only tents we knew about were the tents from our local funeral home…with their name emblazoned across the scalloped hem. They were not even in my wedding ensemble colors. And a few of them might have said, “We’re the last to let you down.” I was almost in tears.
A day later, the meteorologist and I spoke again, and he knew I was in agony. He calmed my fears and told me that there was no need to worry. The storm had moved off in another direction and the next few days were going to be perfect.
And they were.
Note to self: Always trust the FARMER’S ALMANAC.
Lee St. John, a retired Coweta County high school English teacher, is the author of five humorous books and two audio books.
November 5, 2017
It's a WONDER the relationship lasted this long
From The Newnan Times-Herald
Oct. 31, 2017
I was pleased to read about the recent Power of the Purse luncheon. Raising money for the Coweta Community Foundation’s Women’s and Children’s Fund is awesome. Congratulations to Ginger Jackson Queener, foundation chairwoman and her committee.
I was once a purse girl and I’ve had my share of fashionable ones. But today? Nah…
In the 1960s, I had to have everything John Romain. His fashion was all the rage. In the fall/winter I carried a leather-handled and wool tweed mid-sized handbag with brass and metal studs and three interior compartments. In the summer I carried his Wicker Creel Purse. It really looked like a bait basket. Today several of these vintage handbags are offered on Ebay and the description reads, “…and very clean on the inside!!!!” Four – count ‘em – FOUR – exclamation points.
Then in the 1970s, it was everything Pappagallo. The Bermuda Bag was a hit because it was button covered with interchangeable covers. The handles were tortoise shell and covers ranged in design from Scottish tartan for fall/winter change-out, frogs on lily pads for spring, watermelon pink with Kelly green piping (or vice versa), or Madras plaid for summer. I shopped at the Pappagallo store on Peachtree Road habitually! Now with these used purses selling on various sites, the copy always mentions, “Clean inside.”
By the 1980s I was earthy and carried a Kilim designed pocketbook. It was a beautiful and unique bag made by the Iranian carpet company – Matt Camron. It had a drawstring and was fully lined. Ebay’s ad repeats – “clean.”
When the 1990s came along I was back in traditional mode again and was proud of my COACH purse. NO KNOCK-OFF! I had a friend who was the rep for the company. Etsy has one just like mine and describes it this way: “Vintage Coach Willis Bag, British Tan Leather, Satchel Purse, Briefcase Style, Top Handle, Long Adjustable Strap, 1990s. Clean inside.”
The 2000s came along and, by this time, I was considering WHY I wasn’t much in a pocketbook mood any longer and bought a Vera Bradley knock-off. It served its purpose, but I was looking to break up this relationship.
By 2010s, I was using the Wonder Bra Purse. My car and I drive to my location, I step out, step back in, and eventually drive home. My car has a visor mirror, a closed compartment behind the gear shift to keep things in like my makeup, a brush and my rollers if I take them out of my hair at the last minute, a little square compartment for change that I use for lipstick, and with TWO cup holders. One holds coupons, nail file, quarters, and even a Splenda packet for any non-sweetened drink I might purchase when I drive-thru. Tissues go in glove compartment. I mean, who needs a purse?
Oh – the best part…I keep my identification/charge cards (I only charge) in a money clip nestled in my bra. Car keys? Same place/other side. Phone? I carry. I don’t want a purse for these reasons:
The bottom ALWAYS is a dirty mess whether it’s my purse or someone else’s – eww! And you can never find anything down there except what you don’t WANT to: partially wrapped gum, pennies, grit, wadded coupons, a French fry or two and such and it gives me the creeps just thinking about it.
I learned having a purse when shopping is inconvenient. What do you do with it while rummaging through clothes on a rack or display table? On your arm with a strap, it’s in your way and you have to sling it away from you a million times. If you leave it in your buggy, it might be stolen should you become distracted or walk away for just a moment.
I’m telling you, the Wonder Bra Purse IS a WONDER. Just don’t be on the receiving end watching me whip out my bank card for you to hold to charge my purchases. Let me do that.
Oct. 31, 2017
I was pleased to read about the recent Power of the Purse luncheon. Raising money for the Coweta Community Foundation’s Women’s and Children’s Fund is awesome. Congratulations to Ginger Jackson Queener, foundation chairwoman and her committee.
I was once a purse girl and I’ve had my share of fashionable ones. But today? Nah…
In the 1960s, I had to have everything John Romain. His fashion was all the rage. In the fall/winter I carried a leather-handled and wool tweed mid-sized handbag with brass and metal studs and three interior compartments. In the summer I carried his Wicker Creel Purse. It really looked like a bait basket. Today several of these vintage handbags are offered on Ebay and the description reads, “…and very clean on the inside!!!!” Four – count ‘em – FOUR – exclamation points.
Then in the 1970s, it was everything Pappagallo. The Bermuda Bag was a hit because it was button covered with interchangeable covers. The handles were tortoise shell and covers ranged in design from Scottish tartan for fall/winter change-out, frogs on lily pads for spring, watermelon pink with Kelly green piping (or vice versa), or Madras plaid for summer. I shopped at the Pappagallo store on Peachtree Road habitually! Now with these used purses selling on various sites, the copy always mentions, “Clean inside.”
By the 1980s I was earthy and carried a Kilim designed pocketbook. It was a beautiful and unique bag made by the Iranian carpet company – Matt Camron. It had a drawstring and was fully lined. Ebay’s ad repeats – “clean.”
When the 1990s came along I was back in traditional mode again and was proud of my COACH purse. NO KNOCK-OFF! I had a friend who was the rep for the company. Etsy has one just like mine and describes it this way: “Vintage Coach Willis Bag, British Tan Leather, Satchel Purse, Briefcase Style, Top Handle, Long Adjustable Strap, 1990s. Clean inside.”
The 2000s came along and, by this time, I was considering WHY I wasn’t much in a pocketbook mood any longer and bought a Vera Bradley knock-off. It served its purpose, but I was looking to break up this relationship.
By 2010s, I was using the Wonder Bra Purse. My car and I drive to my location, I step out, step back in, and eventually drive home. My car has a visor mirror, a closed compartment behind the gear shift to keep things in like my makeup, a brush and my rollers if I take them out of my hair at the last minute, a little square compartment for change that I use for lipstick, and with TWO cup holders. One holds coupons, nail file, quarters, and even a Splenda packet for any non-sweetened drink I might purchase when I drive-thru. Tissues go in glove compartment. I mean, who needs a purse?
Oh – the best part…I keep my identification/charge cards (I only charge) in a money clip nestled in my bra. Car keys? Same place/other side. Phone? I carry. I don’t want a purse for these reasons:
The bottom ALWAYS is a dirty mess whether it’s my purse or someone else’s – eww! And you can never find anything down there except what you don’t WANT to: partially wrapped gum, pennies, grit, wadded coupons, a French fry or two and such and it gives me the creeps just thinking about it.
I learned having a purse when shopping is inconvenient. What do you do with it while rummaging through clothes on a rack or display table? On your arm with a strap, it’s in your way and you have to sling it away from you a million times. If you leave it in your buggy, it might be stolen should you become distracted or walk away for just a moment.
I’m telling you, the Wonder Bra Purse IS a WONDER. Just don’t be on the receiving end watching me whip out my bank card for you to hold to charge my purchases. Let me do that.
