Lee St. John's Blog, page 8
October 30, 2017
You've Been BOOzed
From The Newnan Times-Herald, October 25, 2017
My neighborhood plays the game, “You’ve Been BOOed.”
Some might call it “Ghosting” or “The Phantom.” It’s a friendly, innocent prank for Halloween fun. We have a lot of children in our neighborhood, so the game starts early in October.
Someone clandestinely starts the game – I know who– by secretly leaving a small Halloween-themed gift bag of treats – and maybe some tricks! – for each child in the selected home. It also contains instructions for the partaking of the fun, a “You’ve Been BOOed” sign, and a “BOO” poem.
After a household has been BOOed with the above goodies, they, too, must in turn secretly pay it forward. Those participating will know when a house has already been BOOed because the sign with the goody bag will be placed on the front door. That way the person dropping off Halloween surprises can move on to another neighbor.
Part of the fun is HOW the rewards are delivered to the chosen homeowner. This is where the covert shenanigans come into play. You must drop off the loot, ring the doorbell and scamper away before being caught. The children have so much fun with this part.
Day by day, “BOO” signs proliferate, and soon the entire neighborhood’s front doors are sporting “You’ve Been BOOed” evidence that indicate someone mysteriously visited them before Halloween night.
Here’s what the sign says:
You’ve Been BOOed
The air is cool, the season fall,
Soon Halloween will come to all.
With ghosts and goblins, and spooks galore,
Trick-or-Treaters at the door.
The spooks are after things to do,
In fact, a spook brought this to you!
The treats that come with this short note,
Are yours to keep. Enjoy them both.
Excitement grows when friends like you,
Decide to share this little BOO,
Neighbors will have smiling faces,
None can guess who’s BOOed which places.
A day or two to work your spell,
But keep it hidden! Hide it well!
Join the fun, the season’s here,
So, spread these ‘BOOs’ – and share the cheer!
Share the CHEER? Wait a minute.
Why should the kids have all the fun? Let the grown-ups in on it, too. Except, this time, as we share the CHEER, the adult version is called, “You’ve Been BOOzed!”
You’ve Been BOOzed!
Poem by GUESS WHO?
It is now October,
There’s something’s in the air,
But it’s just for adults,
So all the rest beware.
This special Halloween
Is different don’t you see?
Isn’t just for children,
It’s just for YOU and ME!
There’s someone you may know –
A (name your subdivision here) neighbor –
Who’s brought you some bubbly,
I bet you will savor.
When it is all consumed,
It may give the right kick,
You might find there’s a treat,
Or might find there’s a trick.
Yes, now it is YOUR turn,
To pass along delights,
For someone else to sip…
BEFORE Halloween Night!
You have my permission to borrow.
Happy Halloween!
My neighborhood plays the game, “You’ve Been BOOed.”
Some might call it “Ghosting” or “The Phantom.” It’s a friendly, innocent prank for Halloween fun. We have a lot of children in our neighborhood, so the game starts early in October.
Someone clandestinely starts the game – I know who– by secretly leaving a small Halloween-themed gift bag of treats – and maybe some tricks! – for each child in the selected home. It also contains instructions for the partaking of the fun, a “You’ve Been BOOed” sign, and a “BOO” poem.
After a household has been BOOed with the above goodies, they, too, must in turn secretly pay it forward. Those participating will know when a house has already been BOOed because the sign with the goody bag will be placed on the front door. That way the person dropping off Halloween surprises can move on to another neighbor.
Part of the fun is HOW the rewards are delivered to the chosen homeowner. This is where the covert shenanigans come into play. You must drop off the loot, ring the doorbell and scamper away before being caught. The children have so much fun with this part.
Day by day, “BOO” signs proliferate, and soon the entire neighborhood’s front doors are sporting “You’ve Been BOOed” evidence that indicate someone mysteriously visited them before Halloween night.
Here’s what the sign says:
You’ve Been BOOed
The air is cool, the season fall,
Soon Halloween will come to all.
With ghosts and goblins, and spooks galore,
Trick-or-Treaters at the door.
The spooks are after things to do,
In fact, a spook brought this to you!
The treats that come with this short note,
Are yours to keep. Enjoy them both.
Excitement grows when friends like you,
Decide to share this little BOO,
Neighbors will have smiling faces,
None can guess who’s BOOed which places.
A day or two to work your spell,
But keep it hidden! Hide it well!
Join the fun, the season’s here,
So, spread these ‘BOOs’ – and share the cheer!
Share the CHEER? Wait a minute.
Why should the kids have all the fun? Let the grown-ups in on it, too. Except, this time, as we share the CHEER, the adult version is called, “You’ve Been BOOzed!”
You’ve Been BOOzed!
Poem by GUESS WHO?
It is now October,
There’s something’s in the air,
But it’s just for adults,
So all the rest beware.
This special Halloween
Is different don’t you see?
Isn’t just for children,
It’s just for YOU and ME!
There’s someone you may know –
A (name your subdivision here) neighbor –
Who’s brought you some bubbly,
I bet you will savor.
When it is all consumed,
It may give the right kick,
You might find there’s a treat,
Or might find there’s a trick.
Yes, now it is YOUR turn,
To pass along delights,
For someone else to sip…
BEFORE Halloween Night!
You have my permission to borrow.
Happy Halloween!
October 22, 2017
Vivesepulture
Vivesepulture
OCTOBER 22, 2017
http://times-herald.com/news/2017/10/...
If you were not able to attend the TombTails & ArtFest Oak Hill Cemetery Tour on Oct. 14, you missed an early Halloween treat – pun intended.
Storytellers and guides captivated guests with lively, engaging tales while dancers, musicians and artists contributed to this yearly event that celebrated living, history, and the arts.
For my part, I hosted a stop-over to discuss vivespulture. What the heck is that? If you are a young reader, you must stop now and get permission from your parents to continue reading. The remainder of this article is rated PG-13. Go ask your parents if you may continue. I’ll wait.
(waiting…)
Vivesepulture means being buried alive. Taphophobics means the FEAR of being buried alive. Maybe you are asking how could someone be buried alive and why would there be a fear of it?
Before the 20th century’s established death identification and before there was embalming, “The London Association for the Prevention of Premature Burial” was established in 1896. There was such a fear of being buried alive that many preventive measures were taking place in the 19th century to prevent premature burial.
People fell into comas and such that were misunderstood by doctors who pronounced them dead. The story I relayed at my stop dealt with a young Argentinian woman who was buried once but died twice. In 1902, this young woman was getting ready to enjoy her 19th birthday when she lost consciousness and collapsed.
Three doctors declared her dead. She was placed in a coffin, given a funeral, and sealed in a tomb. A few days, according to legend, a cemetery worker noticed that the coffin had moved and suspecting a grave robber, he opened the casket and discovered scratch marks on the inside. Buried alive, she awakened in her tomb, attempted escape by smashing and scratching the lid before she died of cardiac arrest.
If doctors were getting this all wrong in the 1800’s, how else could a premature burial be prevented? Their solutions were to keep bodies in mortuaries for an extended period until the beginning of putrefaction as to make sure the person really was dead. Or they established hospitals for the dead to wait it out in the same way.
To deal with it, they placed loads of flowers around the beds of dead patients. There was once a location called the APPARENT DEAD HOUSE where they placed feathers or mirrors under the nose of a person to check for breathing. A disgusting practice they also used to test for signs of life among the apparent dead was to give tobacco smoke enemas. This was mostly practiced in Europe in the late 1800s.
Smoke – blown through a pipe into the rectum – was thought to bring people back from the brink of death. Maybe that’s where the saying, “Blowing smoke up my ***” came from.
If there was still any doubt, they created safety coffins for the dead. They tied a string around the deceased’s finger that was inserted through a hole in the coffin and up through the ground in a tube and again tied above ground to a bell hanging on a hook. If the person came back from the dead, they could ring the bell for the cemetery watchman making rounds day or night.
Such sayings from this invention were “Dead Ringer,” “Saved by the Bell” and “Graveyard shift.” Those buried in vaults used spring-loaded lids to crawl out. However, there are no such reported cases of the left-for-dead being saved by such contraptions.
The thought and fear of being buried alive encouraged Edgar Allan Poe to write the short story, “The Premature Burial,” in 1844 about a man being obsessed with the idea of falling into a trance and mistakenly interred.
With our modern day science, we do not have this fear. We have others. And as Jerry Seinfeld said, and I paraphrase, the number one fear these days is public speaking. Number two is death. So, a person would rather be IN the coffin than giving the EULOGY.
OCTOBER 22, 2017
http://times-herald.com/news/2017/10/...
If you were not able to attend the TombTails & ArtFest Oak Hill Cemetery Tour on Oct. 14, you missed an early Halloween treat – pun intended.
Storytellers and guides captivated guests with lively, engaging tales while dancers, musicians and artists contributed to this yearly event that celebrated living, history, and the arts.
For my part, I hosted a stop-over to discuss vivespulture. What the heck is that? If you are a young reader, you must stop now and get permission from your parents to continue reading. The remainder of this article is rated PG-13. Go ask your parents if you may continue. I’ll wait.
(waiting…)
Vivesepulture means being buried alive. Taphophobics means the FEAR of being buried alive. Maybe you are asking how could someone be buried alive and why would there be a fear of it?
Before the 20th century’s established death identification and before there was embalming, “The London Association for the Prevention of Premature Burial” was established in 1896. There was such a fear of being buried alive that many preventive measures were taking place in the 19th century to prevent premature burial.
People fell into comas and such that were misunderstood by doctors who pronounced them dead. The story I relayed at my stop dealt with a young Argentinian woman who was buried once but died twice. In 1902, this young woman was getting ready to enjoy her 19th birthday when she lost consciousness and collapsed.
Three doctors declared her dead. She was placed in a coffin, given a funeral, and sealed in a tomb. A few days, according to legend, a cemetery worker noticed that the coffin had moved and suspecting a grave robber, he opened the casket and discovered scratch marks on the inside. Buried alive, she awakened in her tomb, attempted escape by smashing and scratching the lid before she died of cardiac arrest.
If doctors were getting this all wrong in the 1800’s, how else could a premature burial be prevented? Their solutions were to keep bodies in mortuaries for an extended period until the beginning of putrefaction as to make sure the person really was dead. Or they established hospitals for the dead to wait it out in the same way.
To deal with it, they placed loads of flowers around the beds of dead patients. There was once a location called the APPARENT DEAD HOUSE where they placed feathers or mirrors under the nose of a person to check for breathing. A disgusting practice they also used to test for signs of life among the apparent dead was to give tobacco smoke enemas. This was mostly practiced in Europe in the late 1800s.
Smoke – blown through a pipe into the rectum – was thought to bring people back from the brink of death. Maybe that’s where the saying, “Blowing smoke up my ***” came from.
If there was still any doubt, they created safety coffins for the dead. They tied a string around the deceased’s finger that was inserted through a hole in the coffin and up through the ground in a tube and again tied above ground to a bell hanging on a hook. If the person came back from the dead, they could ring the bell for the cemetery watchman making rounds day or night.
Such sayings from this invention were “Dead Ringer,” “Saved by the Bell” and “Graveyard shift.” Those buried in vaults used spring-loaded lids to crawl out. However, there are no such reported cases of the left-for-dead being saved by such contraptions.
The thought and fear of being buried alive encouraged Edgar Allan Poe to write the short story, “The Premature Burial,” in 1844 about a man being obsessed with the idea of falling into a trance and mistakenly interred.
With our modern day science, we do not have this fear. We have others. And as Jerry Seinfeld said, and I paraphrase, the number one fear these days is public speaking. Number two is death. So, a person would rather be IN the coffin than giving the EULOGY.
Secret Agent
Secret Agent
OCTOBER 8, 2017
OPINION
SECRET AGENT
By THE NEWNAN TIMES-HERALD
by Lee St. John|
Oct. 05, 2017 – 10:08 PM
I have been playing bridge now for about eight years.When I say, “playing,” I really play AT it. It is a very hard game to maneuver. It’s harder than Old Maid. It’s even harder than Go Fish, which means it’s a pretty hard game to grasp.
It was created by a VANDERBILT, for crying out loud. Well, it wasn’t really created by a Vanderbilt, but one improved it. The history of contract bridge may be dated as early as the 16th century. Contract bridge is just what it means – you enter into a bidding contract with your partner.
And Harold Stirling Vanderbilt changed the rules from the former game into what it is today. I’ll spare you from having to hear all those archaic rules of yesteryear. I’ll even save you from hearing about the rules that have been in place since 1925.
It is the second most popular card game in the world. It can be a serious tournament game – duplicate bridge – or you can play it for fun socially – kitchen bridge, social bridge. It is always challenging.
Bill Gates said, “Bridge is the King of all games.” (http://kitchenbridge.co.uk/)
Oh, the joy of playing bridge: “Playing duplicate bridge is the ultimate social game for thinkers.”
“Kitchen bridge has a great sense of rumor.” Get the picture? What had you rather have? Seriousness or fun?
I suppose a golfer has the same quandary. He wants to seriously play well but on the other hand wants to have fun doing it. Of course, it is fun winning at bridge, but you are in a nightmare sometimes until you do.
If you have the slightest touch of masochism, you’ll love this game.
After the cards are dealt, players place them from high to low – sometimes low to high – in their particular suit. Some ladies from my neighborhood bridge club came down to the lake to play cards one weekend, and I ran to the restroom while the cards were being dealt. I returned, picked up my cards to organize them in my hand, and that step was already completed.
Had anyone touched my cards? NO! They were in perfect order from high to low by suit and high to low by number. CREEPY! What are the statistical chances of that happening? I should have played the lottery that week.
Here’s the thing about bridge which absolutely cracks me up: there are codes. You and your partner are bidding – coding back and forth – and your opponents are just decoding as fast as you bid them. I mean why can’t one gal say, “I have an equal amount of cards from each suit, my total points equal between 14-16, and I want to know what my partner’s best 5 card suit is in her hand.”
Instead this is what is said: “One-no trump.” Now that answer is not so bad. But it’s the responses that get me. In Kitchen Bridge one can just ask, “Are we playing ‘Jacoby’?” but in Duplicate Bridge you had better know that convention because one can’t talk. Then when ‘Jacoby’ play is established, the bid turns into something else all together which is known by everyone at the table!
So what’s with all the secret codes? If ‘Jacoby’ is out in the open, there IS no secret in the bidding after that.
There are other ‘secrets’ to bridge that everyone knows about. If you play ‘Blackwood’ or ‘Gerber” conventions (codes) you’re asking your partner for how many aces and kings they have. They answer in a bid, everyone knows and so it goes. So, what’s the big deal with trying to be discreet and yet everyone playing at the table knows what kind of cards you have?
Forget being a good sleuth and thinking you are some Secret Agent discovering hidden bidding clues in bridge. EVERYONE knows.
But here’s a clue: Eye Donut Kerr.
OCTOBER 8, 2017
OPINION
SECRET AGENT
By THE NEWNAN TIMES-HERALD
by Lee St. John|
Oct. 05, 2017 – 10:08 PM
I have been playing bridge now for about eight years.When I say, “playing,” I really play AT it. It is a very hard game to maneuver. It’s harder than Old Maid. It’s even harder than Go Fish, which means it’s a pretty hard game to grasp.
It was created by a VANDERBILT, for crying out loud. Well, it wasn’t really created by a Vanderbilt, but one improved it. The history of contract bridge may be dated as early as the 16th century. Contract bridge is just what it means – you enter into a bidding contract with your partner.
And Harold Stirling Vanderbilt changed the rules from the former game into what it is today. I’ll spare you from having to hear all those archaic rules of yesteryear. I’ll even save you from hearing about the rules that have been in place since 1925.
It is the second most popular card game in the world. It can be a serious tournament game – duplicate bridge – or you can play it for fun socially – kitchen bridge, social bridge. It is always challenging.
Bill Gates said, “Bridge is the King of all games.” (http://kitchenbridge.co.uk/)
Oh, the joy of playing bridge: “Playing duplicate bridge is the ultimate social game for thinkers.”
“Kitchen bridge has a great sense of rumor.” Get the picture? What had you rather have? Seriousness or fun?
I suppose a golfer has the same quandary. He wants to seriously play well but on the other hand wants to have fun doing it. Of course, it is fun winning at bridge, but you are in a nightmare sometimes until you do.
If you have the slightest touch of masochism, you’ll love this game.
After the cards are dealt, players place them from high to low – sometimes low to high – in their particular suit. Some ladies from my neighborhood bridge club came down to the lake to play cards one weekend, and I ran to the restroom while the cards were being dealt. I returned, picked up my cards to organize them in my hand, and that step was already completed.
Had anyone touched my cards? NO! They were in perfect order from high to low by suit and high to low by number. CREEPY! What are the statistical chances of that happening? I should have played the lottery that week.
Here’s the thing about bridge which absolutely cracks me up: there are codes. You and your partner are bidding – coding back and forth – and your opponents are just decoding as fast as you bid them. I mean why can’t one gal say, “I have an equal amount of cards from each suit, my total points equal between 14-16, and I want to know what my partner’s best 5 card suit is in her hand.”
Instead this is what is said: “One-no trump.” Now that answer is not so bad. But it’s the responses that get me. In Kitchen Bridge one can just ask, “Are we playing ‘Jacoby’?” but in Duplicate Bridge you had better know that convention because one can’t talk. Then when ‘Jacoby’ play is established, the bid turns into something else all together which is known by everyone at the table!
So what’s with all the secret codes? If ‘Jacoby’ is out in the open, there IS no secret in the bidding after that.
There are other ‘secrets’ to bridge that everyone knows about. If you play ‘Blackwood’ or ‘Gerber” conventions (codes) you’re asking your partner for how many aces and kings they have. They answer in a bid, everyone knows and so it goes. So, what’s the big deal with trying to be discreet and yet everyone playing at the table knows what kind of cards you have?
Forget being a good sleuth and thinking you are some Secret Agent discovering hidden bidding clues in bridge. EVERYONE knows.
But here’s a clue: Eye Donut Kerr.
Serenity Now
Serenity Now
OCTOBER 5, 2017
By Lee St. John
Serenity Now
THE NEWNAN TIMES-HERALD
If you are/were a Seinfeld junkie like me you will remember “The Serenity Now” episode. It aired in the United States on October 9, 1997. Frank Costanza, Jerry’s oldest friend’s father, was advised to say “Serenity Now” every time he got angry in order to keep his blood pressure down.
This episode’s plot was inspired by Seinfeld writer, Steve Koren’s real-life events. While driving with his arguing parents, Koren was bewildered to hear his father shout “Serenity now!” at the top of his lungs as part of a rage controlling exercise his doctor had told him about.
He then questioned his dad if whether or not the phrase was meant to be yelled as Frank Costanza also does on the show.
Perfect design for fans of Seinfeld who just want a little peace in their lives. Serenity Now! Just picture this quote being yelled by Frank or George Costanza on Seinfeld.
I need some serenity in my life. For many years, I have sporadically attended yoga, which is a group of physical, mental and spiritual practices of disciplines that originated in India.
It has become popular as a system of physical exercise across the Western world.
I’d say it helps.
I now have a waterfall in my sun room and wind chimes right outside on my deck. I am trying to get there.
I also say the Serenity Prayer:
– Reinhold Niebuhr (1892-1971)
“God grant me the serenity�to accept the things I cannot change; �courage to change the things I can; �and wisdom to know the difference…”��
Then there is Karma, derived from India meaning action, word or deed and which also refers to the spiritual principle of cause and effect where intent and actions of an individual (cause) influence the future of the individual (effect).
Good intent and good deed contribute to good karma and future happiness, while bad intent and bad deed contribute to bad karma and future suffering. Well, it must be real. Karma took a bite out of me.
Once, in the late 1980s while having an early morning breakfast at McDonald’s, I spotted an attractive older gentleman. This refined man with his bald head was with a darling little girl who I supposed to be his granddaughter because of the age difference.
Thinking I was complimenting him on his descendant, I commented, “What a darling grandchild.” He shot back, “Shame on you. This is my daughter.” I hadn’t expected that.
Even with those good intentions, Karma came knocking in 1993 to get back at me. I was 40 when our second child arrived.
My dear, dear friends who knew how long we attempted to have a second child were thrilled for us and gave a baby shower for me which included so many girlfriends from far and wide. I was overwhelmed by the number who arrived and with the outpouring of happiness and love for my family.
I brought our two-month-old addition for everyone to see. We already had an 8-year-old son, I had returned to my teaching position. I was tired all the time, and I looked it. And I cried a lot. That shower was no exception as my heart was so full – and exhausted.
Getting low on diapers for the following week, I stopped at the grocery store on my way home. I looked a mess. My make-up had dripped down the front of my face and I hadn’t slept much the night before from dealing with a two-month old during the previous night.
When I checked out, a young man bagged my groceries and then asked if he could assist me to my car as it had started raining.
He had an umbrella and I had a baby and buggy full of groceries. Of course he could help. As he pushed my cart for me while I’m holding the baby and the umbrella for all of us, he said,
WAIT FOR IT…
“Is this your grandbaby?”
Although he never knew why, all I said to him was, “I deserve that.”
OCTOBER 5, 2017
By Lee St. John
Serenity Now
THE NEWNAN TIMES-HERALD
If you are/were a Seinfeld junkie like me you will remember “The Serenity Now” episode. It aired in the United States on October 9, 1997. Frank Costanza, Jerry’s oldest friend’s father, was advised to say “Serenity Now” every time he got angry in order to keep his blood pressure down.
This episode’s plot was inspired by Seinfeld writer, Steve Koren’s real-life events. While driving with his arguing parents, Koren was bewildered to hear his father shout “Serenity now!” at the top of his lungs as part of a rage controlling exercise his doctor had told him about.
He then questioned his dad if whether or not the phrase was meant to be yelled as Frank Costanza also does on the show.
Perfect design for fans of Seinfeld who just want a little peace in their lives. Serenity Now! Just picture this quote being yelled by Frank or George Costanza on Seinfeld.
I need some serenity in my life. For many years, I have sporadically attended yoga, which is a group of physical, mental and spiritual practices of disciplines that originated in India.
It has become popular as a system of physical exercise across the Western world.
I’d say it helps.
I now have a waterfall in my sun room and wind chimes right outside on my deck. I am trying to get there.
I also say the Serenity Prayer:
– Reinhold Niebuhr (1892-1971)
“God grant me the serenity�to accept the things I cannot change; �courage to change the things I can; �and wisdom to know the difference…”��
Then there is Karma, derived from India meaning action, word or deed and which also refers to the spiritual principle of cause and effect where intent and actions of an individual (cause) influence the future of the individual (effect).
Good intent and good deed contribute to good karma and future happiness, while bad intent and bad deed contribute to bad karma and future suffering. Well, it must be real. Karma took a bite out of me.
Once, in the late 1980s while having an early morning breakfast at McDonald’s, I spotted an attractive older gentleman. This refined man with his bald head was with a darling little girl who I supposed to be his granddaughter because of the age difference.
Thinking I was complimenting him on his descendant, I commented, “What a darling grandchild.” He shot back, “Shame on you. This is my daughter.” I hadn’t expected that.
Even with those good intentions, Karma came knocking in 1993 to get back at me. I was 40 when our second child arrived.
My dear, dear friends who knew how long we attempted to have a second child were thrilled for us and gave a baby shower for me which included so many girlfriends from far and wide. I was overwhelmed by the number who arrived and with the outpouring of happiness and love for my family.
I brought our two-month-old addition for everyone to see. We already had an 8-year-old son, I had returned to my teaching position. I was tired all the time, and I looked it. And I cried a lot. That shower was no exception as my heart was so full – and exhausted.
Getting low on diapers for the following week, I stopped at the grocery store on my way home. I looked a mess. My make-up had dripped down the front of my face and I hadn’t slept much the night before from dealing with a two-month old during the previous night.
When I checked out, a young man bagged my groceries and then asked if he could assist me to my car as it had started raining.
He had an umbrella and I had a baby and buggy full of groceries. Of course he could help. As he pushed my cart for me while I’m holding the baby and the umbrella for all of us, he said,
WAIT FOR IT…
“Is this your grandbaby?”
Although he never knew why, all I said to him was, “I deserve that.”
September 24, 2017
Hurricane Season
from THE NEWNAN TIMES-HERALD, September 17, 2017
A hurricane by any other name may not sound so sweet...
OPINION
9/24/2017 - What’s with the hurricane names like Harvey and Irma? If they were named something more destructive like Hurricane Death-Megatron-500, everyone would evacuate immediately.
In 1950, the formal practice for storm naming was first developed by the U.S. National Hurricane Center for the Atlantic Ocean. Storms were named using the alphabet (i.e., Andy, Bill, Charlene), and these names were the same for hurricane season. When a new season of hurricanes came came around, it was always the exact same names and same order.
To avoid the repetitive use of names, the system was revised in 1953 so that storms would be given female names. The National Weather Service was mimicking Naval meteorologists who name storms after women just like ships.
I used to think they were named after women because of this quote I once heard, “I’m not as cooperative as you might want a woman to be.” That sounds like a ‘HER’-ricane to me. In 1979 the system was revised again to include both female and male names
I was in a hurricane in Destin, Fla. in 1995. Her name was Erin. Our 1995 Erin was pretty tame by comparison to these in the news lately. It was the fifth named tropical cyclone and the second hurricane of the unusually active 1995 Atlantic hurricane season. When it made landfall on the central eastern Florida coastline on Aug. 2, it came in as a Category ONE.
But moving up to the Florida Panhandle, it struck again on Aug. 3 as a Category TWO, causing a moderate amount of damage because of its peak strength of 100 mph winds and 973 millibars in central pressure just prior to the second landfall.
We owned a condo in a mid-rise development. The building was swaying, I suppose to give instead of break. Our sliding glass doors were bowing in. In 1995, we did not have hurricane doors, which we eventually replaced because of Opal two months later.
But Erin didn’t have much of a surge and therefore didn’t cause much damage. As a matter of fact, after it passed, we went outside and took pictures on the beach, and Alvin’s Alley, a locale at many resort towns, printed T-shirts right off the bat that we wore the next day saying, “I survived Erin.”
Our oldest child was 10 at the time, and he and his cousin were participating in a week-long Marine Biology Camp at the Gulfarium in close-by Fort Walton. Erin hit on a Wednesday. They were able to get in their first two days of camp, then the hurricane, and finally the last two days. What was so interesting about the last two days of camp was they saw marine life they hadn’t seen in their first two days. I guess we got our money’s worth after all.
Although a Category TWO , we didn’t lose power, but two months later, in rolls Opal, a Category 4. It destroyed our condo. Our condo’s roof was made with tar and pebbles (really rocks), and they were displaced by being blown into our glass sliding glass doors and windows. And then, of course, the rain came in and made a mess. Boardwalks, landscaping, balconies, and railings were destroyed as well. The pool had crazy stuff in it.
After more than 30 years, we sold our second home this year. After this week, I might be extremely glad we did.
*** Luck and prayers to the Southeast. Stay safe.
Lee St. John, a retired Coweta County high school English teacher, is the author of five humorous books and two audio books.
A hurricane by any other name may not sound so sweet...
OPINION
9/24/2017 - What’s with the hurricane names like Harvey and Irma? If they were named something more destructive like Hurricane Death-Megatron-500, everyone would evacuate immediately.
In 1950, the formal practice for storm naming was first developed by the U.S. National Hurricane Center for the Atlantic Ocean. Storms were named using the alphabet (i.e., Andy, Bill, Charlene), and these names were the same for hurricane season. When a new season of hurricanes came came around, it was always the exact same names and same order.
To avoid the repetitive use of names, the system was revised in 1953 so that storms would be given female names. The National Weather Service was mimicking Naval meteorologists who name storms after women just like ships.
I used to think they were named after women because of this quote I once heard, “I’m not as cooperative as you might want a woman to be.” That sounds like a ‘HER’-ricane to me. In 1979 the system was revised again to include both female and male names
I was in a hurricane in Destin, Fla. in 1995. Her name was Erin. Our 1995 Erin was pretty tame by comparison to these in the news lately. It was the fifth named tropical cyclone and the second hurricane of the unusually active 1995 Atlantic hurricane season. When it made landfall on the central eastern Florida coastline on Aug. 2, it came in as a Category ONE.
But moving up to the Florida Panhandle, it struck again on Aug. 3 as a Category TWO, causing a moderate amount of damage because of its peak strength of 100 mph winds and 973 millibars in central pressure just prior to the second landfall.
We owned a condo in a mid-rise development. The building was swaying, I suppose to give instead of break. Our sliding glass doors were bowing in. In 1995, we did not have hurricane doors, which we eventually replaced because of Opal two months later.
But Erin didn’t have much of a surge and therefore didn’t cause much damage. As a matter of fact, after it passed, we went outside and took pictures on the beach, and Alvin’s Alley, a locale at many resort towns, printed T-shirts right off the bat that we wore the next day saying, “I survived Erin.”
Our oldest child was 10 at the time, and he and his cousin were participating in a week-long Marine Biology Camp at the Gulfarium in close-by Fort Walton. Erin hit on a Wednesday. They were able to get in their first two days of camp, then the hurricane, and finally the last two days. What was so interesting about the last two days of camp was they saw marine life they hadn’t seen in their first two days. I guess we got our money’s worth after all.
Although a Category TWO , we didn’t lose power, but two months later, in rolls Opal, a Category 4. It destroyed our condo. Our condo’s roof was made with tar and pebbles (really rocks), and they were displaced by being blown into our glass sliding glass doors and windows. And then, of course, the rain came in and made a mess. Boardwalks, landscaping, balconies, and railings were destroyed as well. The pool had crazy stuff in it.
After more than 30 years, we sold our second home this year. After this week, I might be extremely glad we did.
*** Luck and prayers to the Southeast. Stay safe.
Lee St. John, a retired Coweta County high school English teacher, is the author of five humorous books and two audio books.
September 10, 2017
Kissing Cuzins
9/10/17- I am their guest blogger today: https://bienvenuepressblog.wordpress....
Author Lee St. John stops by The Front Porch today to tell us a story. Grab a cup of coffee and enjoy!
Found in the Closet: 1971 Bass Saddle Oxford Shoes
I’ve been kissed by a President. Yup. You read that correctly.
After high school graduation and before attending college, I didn’t have a summer job. I tried to enjoy those last free days before leaving home. That summer of 1971, I volunteered to help my county’s Chamber of Commerce participate in the STAY AND SEE GEORGIA campaign. The Georgia Department of Industry, Trade, and Tourism planned celebration activities at Lenox Square Mall (which in 1971 was an open air mall with breezeways connecting the stores). They planned to bring together partners in Georgia’s tourism industry to showcase Georgia’s assets and spread a message of “Stay and See Georgia.” Don’t spend your travel dollars elsewhere. With 159 counties to choose among, they wanted travelers to stay and see what Georgia offered.
The campaign was one week long and several of us YOUNG GIRLS manned the booth for our county. We wore our high school’s matching cheerleading outfits so we would all look uniformed. The uniform top was a solid red vest with an Oxford cloth white Peter Pan collared shirt, which the length of the sleeves came to our elbow. We had on white knee socks with still-in-my-closet Bass Saddle Oxford shoes. The knee socks had a tassel at the fold at the top. The skirt was mighty short. It was only as long as your fingertips by your side. The uniform had a red and black pleated plaid skirt for our school colors.
Our county’s only treasure which we promoted was a Roman Catholic Church. Our Lady of the Holy Spirit Monastery belonged to the world-wide Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance, or more commonly known as Trappists. This tourist attraction had individuals of all faiths flock to the monastery. The Monastery is sustained through The Abbey Store, a stained glass manufacturing business, a bonsai garden plant and supply business, donations, a green cemetery, and onsite retreats. One can experience this serenity of restful recollection and spiritual renewal retreat on the 2,100 acres for a day, or as long as a week.
Later, in October, 1990, a Conyers, Georgia homemaker by the name of Nancy Fowler claimed that the Virgin Mary appeared and instructed her to relay Mary’s message to all citizens of the United States. The directive ranged from admonitions to prayers to warnings of war. The Virgin’s supposed visits made Conyers one of the longest-lived Marian apparition sites in the nation. Roads going to Mrs. Fowler’s home were clogged with pilgrims yearning to hear Mary’s message. Crowds as large at 80,000 were not uncommon and Fowler had to broadcast her messages over loudspeakers. The overflow of people finally expanded from her yard to her next door pasture. There they prayed in their native tongues (English, Spanish, Russian, and Chinese), filled bottles with water from the Blessed Well, and they opened a bookstore, they even made and sold their own bumper stickers at the store that read, “Eat, Drink, and See Mary!” Not really. But the bumper stickers did exist.
Local government official became wary of the traffic, health, and safety problems and the Archdiocese of Atlanta became concerned that these unconfirmed visions might distract from the true faith. After 1998, pilgrimages to Conyers became less frequent.
But in 1971, we finished our week chatting with buyers at the mall and handing out brochures of information. It came to a climax when the Governor’s Mansion held a reception for all participants. They feted us to munchies and punch for our week of hard work. We also stood in the receiving line to meet and thank our host and hostess, the Georgia governor and his wife.
Telling my aunt about our upcoming reception, she mentioned we were related (in the South we call it kin) to Jimmy Carter. While in line, I approached the couple. I shook Rosalyn’s hand first and then when I was in front of the Governor, I said, “My aunt researched our family tree and found out we are cousins.” I moved on to the next person to shake his hand. From my peripheral vision, I saw Jimmy Carter leaning in closer to me and then he planted a big kiss on my cheek and said, “I always kiss my cousins!”
Telling this story years later in the 1990’s to a classroom full of high school students, I prefaced my story with “I have been kissed by a President.”
Their response? “Who was it? Bill Clinton?”
lsjAuthor and humorist known for her Southern Charm, Lee St. John writes for the Newnan Times-Herald in Georgia – the same newspaper where her idol, Lewis Grizzard started. A popular stand-up comedienne and lecturer, she has published 5 books/2 audio books in the SHE’S A KEEPER! series. A Georgia Peach by birth and an adopted Alabama Camellia, Lee splits her time and humor between her Georgia newspaper column and as a radio and TV-contributor for the Charter Cable Network in Alabama.
While most of Lee’s roguish memoirs are inspired by the family funnies of Erma Bombeck, by the down-South flavor of humorist Lewis Grizzard, by the honesty of Ali Wentworth’s entertaining memoirs, and by the inappropriate frisky behaviors of any SEINFELD episode, she also expresses sentimental anecdotes. This she-devil with a halo, Southern Belle who doesn’t play by the rules, and prankster setting her next trap, inflicts her mayhem but she does it with a heart. The mementos found in her closet, attic, basement, and even her former school classroom unleash her secrets about mothers, husbands, former boyfriends, children, friends, jobs, families, students, and more.
Lee St. John is found on every dang social media outlet. She continues to rank #1 on Amazon’s Best Sellers under Humor & Entertainment Essays Kindle e-books short reads. Married for 34 years, Lee and her husband have 2 grown sons, a tater-tot dog, OBIE, and a kitty, BOO. Oh, and Lee LOVES to laugh.
Social Media Links:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/leestjohnauthor
Instagram: https://instagram.com/leestjohnauthor/
Website: http://www.leestjohnauthor.com/
Twitter: @LeeStJohnauthor
Newspaper: Newnan Times-Herald Contributor
Television & Radio: WAXC-TV Alabama Charter Cable Network; 97.5 FM
Kowaliga Radio
Blog: www.leestjohnauthor.com/blog/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...
Pinterest: LeeStJohnAuthor
Author Lee St. John stops by The Front Porch today to tell us a story. Grab a cup of coffee and enjoy!
Found in the Closet: 1971 Bass Saddle Oxford Shoes
I’ve been kissed by a President. Yup. You read that correctly.
After high school graduation and before attending college, I didn’t have a summer job. I tried to enjoy those last free days before leaving home. That summer of 1971, I volunteered to help my county’s Chamber of Commerce participate in the STAY AND SEE GEORGIA campaign. The Georgia Department of Industry, Trade, and Tourism planned celebration activities at Lenox Square Mall (which in 1971 was an open air mall with breezeways connecting the stores). They planned to bring together partners in Georgia’s tourism industry to showcase Georgia’s assets and spread a message of “Stay and See Georgia.” Don’t spend your travel dollars elsewhere. With 159 counties to choose among, they wanted travelers to stay and see what Georgia offered.
The campaign was one week long and several of us YOUNG GIRLS manned the booth for our county. We wore our high school’s matching cheerleading outfits so we would all look uniformed. The uniform top was a solid red vest with an Oxford cloth white Peter Pan collared shirt, which the length of the sleeves came to our elbow. We had on white knee socks with still-in-my-closet Bass Saddle Oxford shoes. The knee socks had a tassel at the fold at the top. The skirt was mighty short. It was only as long as your fingertips by your side. The uniform had a red and black pleated plaid skirt for our school colors.
Our county’s only treasure which we promoted was a Roman Catholic Church. Our Lady of the Holy Spirit Monastery belonged to the world-wide Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance, or more commonly known as Trappists. This tourist attraction had individuals of all faiths flock to the monastery. The Monastery is sustained through The Abbey Store, a stained glass manufacturing business, a bonsai garden plant and supply business, donations, a green cemetery, and onsite retreats. One can experience this serenity of restful recollection and spiritual renewal retreat on the 2,100 acres for a day, or as long as a week.
Later, in October, 1990, a Conyers, Georgia homemaker by the name of Nancy Fowler claimed that the Virgin Mary appeared and instructed her to relay Mary’s message to all citizens of the United States. The directive ranged from admonitions to prayers to warnings of war. The Virgin’s supposed visits made Conyers one of the longest-lived Marian apparition sites in the nation. Roads going to Mrs. Fowler’s home were clogged with pilgrims yearning to hear Mary’s message. Crowds as large at 80,000 were not uncommon and Fowler had to broadcast her messages over loudspeakers. The overflow of people finally expanded from her yard to her next door pasture. There they prayed in their native tongues (English, Spanish, Russian, and Chinese), filled bottles with water from the Blessed Well, and they opened a bookstore, they even made and sold their own bumper stickers at the store that read, “Eat, Drink, and See Mary!” Not really. But the bumper stickers did exist.
Local government official became wary of the traffic, health, and safety problems and the Archdiocese of Atlanta became concerned that these unconfirmed visions might distract from the true faith. After 1998, pilgrimages to Conyers became less frequent.
But in 1971, we finished our week chatting with buyers at the mall and handing out brochures of information. It came to a climax when the Governor’s Mansion held a reception for all participants. They feted us to munchies and punch for our week of hard work. We also stood in the receiving line to meet and thank our host and hostess, the Georgia governor and his wife.
Telling my aunt about our upcoming reception, she mentioned we were related (in the South we call it kin) to Jimmy Carter. While in line, I approached the couple. I shook Rosalyn’s hand first and then when I was in front of the Governor, I said, “My aunt researched our family tree and found out we are cousins.” I moved on to the next person to shake his hand. From my peripheral vision, I saw Jimmy Carter leaning in closer to me and then he planted a big kiss on my cheek and said, “I always kiss my cousins!”
Telling this story years later in the 1990’s to a classroom full of high school students, I prefaced my story with “I have been kissed by a President.”
Their response? “Who was it? Bill Clinton?”
lsjAuthor and humorist known for her Southern Charm, Lee St. John writes for the Newnan Times-Herald in Georgia – the same newspaper where her idol, Lewis Grizzard started. A popular stand-up comedienne and lecturer, she has published 5 books/2 audio books in the SHE’S A KEEPER! series. A Georgia Peach by birth and an adopted Alabama Camellia, Lee splits her time and humor between her Georgia newspaper column and as a radio and TV-contributor for the Charter Cable Network in Alabama.
While most of Lee’s roguish memoirs are inspired by the family funnies of Erma Bombeck, by the down-South flavor of humorist Lewis Grizzard, by the honesty of Ali Wentworth’s entertaining memoirs, and by the inappropriate frisky behaviors of any SEINFELD episode, she also expresses sentimental anecdotes. This she-devil with a halo, Southern Belle who doesn’t play by the rules, and prankster setting her next trap, inflicts her mayhem but she does it with a heart. The mementos found in her closet, attic, basement, and even her former school classroom unleash her secrets about mothers, husbands, former boyfriends, children, friends, jobs, families, students, and more.
Lee St. John is found on every dang social media outlet. She continues to rank #1 on Amazon’s Best Sellers under Humor & Entertainment Essays Kindle e-books short reads. Married for 34 years, Lee and her husband have 2 grown sons, a tater-tot dog, OBIE, and a kitty, BOO. Oh, and Lee LOVES to laugh.
Social Media Links:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/leestjohnauthor
Instagram: https://instagram.com/leestjohnauthor/
Website: http://www.leestjohnauthor.com/
Twitter: @LeeStJohnauthor
Newspaper: Newnan Times-Herald Contributor
Television & Radio: WAXC-TV Alabama Charter Cable Network; 97.5 FM
Kowaliga Radio
Blog: www.leestjohnauthor.com/blog/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...
Pinterest: LeeStJohnAuthor
September 3, 2017
Name Calling
9/3/17 - Did you have a hard time naming your children? When I hear from teachers, they especially find it hard to name one of their own after teaching a few rascals so they wouldn’t dare use the names of those students for their own. They might turn out like those little hooligans.
I enjoyed the book, “Freakanomics” by Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner. The subtitle is “A Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden side of Everything.” It redefines the way we look at the modern world.
Chapter Six’s title is, “Perfect Parenting, Part II; or: Would a Rhoshanda by Any Other Name Smell as Sweet?” The focus is on names.
“The belief in parental power is manifest in the first official act a parent commits: giving the baby a name,” the authors write. “As any modern parent knows, the baby-naming industry is booming, as evidenced by a proliferation of books, websites, and baby-name consultants. Many parents seem to believe that a child cannot prosper unless it is hitched to the right name; names are seen to carry great aesthetic or even predictive powers.”
Is naming destiny?
With our firstborn, we had a heck of a time. I found the book, “Parents’ Book of Baby Names” by Martin Kelly. It contained the origins, history, meanings, nicknames, and derivations of hundreds of female and male names. But then Freakanomics made me think, can a name be damaging to one’s psyche?
I asked my friends on Facebook to tell me about actual people they know or knew that I could add to the list. These are real people, remember. Here they are:
Crystal Fountain was a school mate.
Miss White married Mr. Green and moved to Gray, Georgia.
Another White gal, Bonnie, married Ken Knight. Did you figure out she was then Bonnie White Knight?
Dr. Strait is a Cartersville orthodontist.
Jimmy Shivers’ father was in the refrigeration business.
A friend’s parents’ actual names are Dick and Jane.
Someone knows a Jay Bird and Sonny, Dusty, Wendy, Stormy, and Misty Williams.
A friend worked with a girl named Holly Bush.
My Jazzercise instructor had an aunt named Kat Knapp and her daughter-in-law was Nita Knapp.
A neighbor knew a girl in high school named Polly Sachs (pronounced socks). Her middle name was Esther. Now say it all together…that’s right – polyester socks.
I went to college with a Twinkle Starr. Twinkle was born April 1.
A preschool teacher said she went to school with a guy named Rusty Carr.
A high school teacher graduated with a Honey Buns.
A flight attendant knows a Lulu Bob from Tyty, Georgia.
An octogenarian in the neighborhood went to school with Ima June Bugg.
A former choir member of mine knew a Safety Furst who was a doctor in Oklahoma.
A high school girlfriend knew a Brick Stone.
And here’s a grand finale name:
A good friend mentioned to me about their friend, Bubba. You know, Bubba is a great Southern name. It usually comes from someone younger in a family calling a male sibling, a brother, “Bubba” because they can’t say “brother.” And so it sticks.
If you live in the South, you know lots of Bubbas.
But these brothers grow up. Johnny turns into John. Ricky turns into Rick. Billy turns into Bill. But what do Bubbas do?
This Bubba turned into a Delta airline captain. He realized how unprofessional it would be if he kept his common name as they announced over the speaker to the passengers, “Ladies and gentlemen, today you will be in the good hands of Captain Bubba…”
I enjoyed the book, “Freakanomics” by Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner. The subtitle is “A Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden side of Everything.” It redefines the way we look at the modern world.
Chapter Six’s title is, “Perfect Parenting, Part II; or: Would a Rhoshanda by Any Other Name Smell as Sweet?” The focus is on names.
“The belief in parental power is manifest in the first official act a parent commits: giving the baby a name,” the authors write. “As any modern parent knows, the baby-naming industry is booming, as evidenced by a proliferation of books, websites, and baby-name consultants. Many parents seem to believe that a child cannot prosper unless it is hitched to the right name; names are seen to carry great aesthetic or even predictive powers.”
Is naming destiny?
With our firstborn, we had a heck of a time. I found the book, “Parents’ Book of Baby Names” by Martin Kelly. It contained the origins, history, meanings, nicknames, and derivations of hundreds of female and male names. But then Freakanomics made me think, can a name be damaging to one’s psyche?
I asked my friends on Facebook to tell me about actual people they know or knew that I could add to the list. These are real people, remember. Here they are:
Crystal Fountain was a school mate.
Miss White married Mr. Green and moved to Gray, Georgia.
Another White gal, Bonnie, married Ken Knight. Did you figure out she was then Bonnie White Knight?
Dr. Strait is a Cartersville orthodontist.
Jimmy Shivers’ father was in the refrigeration business.
A friend’s parents’ actual names are Dick and Jane.
Someone knows a Jay Bird and Sonny, Dusty, Wendy, Stormy, and Misty Williams.
A friend worked with a girl named Holly Bush.
My Jazzercise instructor had an aunt named Kat Knapp and her daughter-in-law was Nita Knapp.
A neighbor knew a girl in high school named Polly Sachs (pronounced socks). Her middle name was Esther. Now say it all together…that’s right – polyester socks.
I went to college with a Twinkle Starr. Twinkle was born April 1.
A preschool teacher said she went to school with a guy named Rusty Carr.
A high school teacher graduated with a Honey Buns.
A flight attendant knows a Lulu Bob from Tyty, Georgia.
An octogenarian in the neighborhood went to school with Ima June Bugg.
A former choir member of mine knew a Safety Furst who was a doctor in Oklahoma.
A high school girlfriend knew a Brick Stone.
And here’s a grand finale name:
A good friend mentioned to me about their friend, Bubba. You know, Bubba is a great Southern name. It usually comes from someone younger in a family calling a male sibling, a brother, “Bubba” because they can’t say “brother.” And so it sticks.
If you live in the South, you know lots of Bubbas.
But these brothers grow up. Johnny turns into John. Ricky turns into Rick. Billy turns into Bill. But what do Bubbas do?
This Bubba turned into a Delta airline captain. He realized how unprofessional it would be if he kept his common name as they announced over the speaker to the passengers, “Ladies and gentlemen, today you will be in the good hands of Captain Bubba…”
August 27, 2017
Bobcats & Cougars & Bears, OH, MY!
Bobcats, and Cougars, and Bears. Oh, my!
8/27/17 - Not to mention armadillos, fox, deer, coyotes, birds, and our various normal house pets. We’ve got us a regular nature preserve over here. Or petting zoo - *Pet At Your Own Risk*.
My neighborhood has been in the news lately because of the black bear sighting. The Wildlife Resources Division hasn’t found such, as yet. But I can tell you for certain, I KNOW there was a bobcat. He was in my backyard. About a month ago. Around 6:15 a.m. I heard this screeching noise and awoke from one of my few sleeping-through-the-night chances. I walked outside thinking it was a screech owl. The shriek was heard first on the right side of my wooded back yard, then middle, and then moved to the left all within about five minutes. Because of foliage from the trees and bushes, I did not see anything that early morning. But I heard it.
My youngest son was ah, hem, visiting and came outside to join me. He also heard the sound. Then it was over. He thought it was a bobcat. And sure enough, he researched it and there was an audio to what sound a bobcat makes and without a doubt, it was. (I googled screech owl. Guess what? Screech owls don’t screech. What the …?)
One early morning while walking her dog, my neighbor SWEARS she saw a cougar. I can’t dispute her. She’s a close friend. But, really? Let’s describe a cougar for minute. Its height is 2-3 feet with the male weighing 120-220 lbs. and the female weighing 64-140 lbs. as adults. They are tawny brown in color and have a long tail.
My friend’s across-the-street-neighbor has two Rhodesian Ridgebacks secured by an electric fence. Let’s compare. The Ridgeback doesn’t usually bark. The cougar did not bark or growl. The Ridgeback is athletically built, as the cougar. The dog is of the same height as the cat and if female, the same weight. The breed is signified and reserved with strangers, hence no need for her hollering for “HELP” when she first saw the big kitty. Ridgebacks are confident and I’d say so are cougars. Both are brown, short haired animals with long tails. I’m just saying. Could it be? But don’t tell her I doubted that she saw a mountain lion in Newnan. I heard a bobcat, so who am I to judge?
Black bear? Well, that’s different. One could have visited from Mississippi. You know that ‘Ole Miss changed their official mascot from Colonel Reb (looking like Colonel Sanders) to the Rebel Black Bear in 2010. The state is home to two types of black bears – the American black bear and the Louisiana black bear. I don’t know which one was seen here and spotted by my neighbors in their cars (thank goodness). Around lunchtime it walked along the side of my house –another one? - crossed the street in front of my home, and joined a tree-lined sidewalk, then continued on toward the tennis courts, pool, clubhouse, and lake until out of sight. Pretty courageous. Oh, and when seen, it was trash pick-up day. Now we know what lured him.
To this day the WRD has no surveillance. But I am telling you, like in the movie, “Poltergeist”, when the little blonde daughter turned to her parents and said, “They’re here,”… they are.
8/27/17 - Not to mention armadillos, fox, deer, coyotes, birds, and our various normal house pets. We’ve got us a regular nature preserve over here. Or petting zoo - *Pet At Your Own Risk*.
My neighborhood has been in the news lately because of the black bear sighting. The Wildlife Resources Division hasn’t found such, as yet. But I can tell you for certain, I KNOW there was a bobcat. He was in my backyard. About a month ago. Around 6:15 a.m. I heard this screeching noise and awoke from one of my few sleeping-through-the-night chances. I walked outside thinking it was a screech owl. The shriek was heard first on the right side of my wooded back yard, then middle, and then moved to the left all within about five minutes. Because of foliage from the trees and bushes, I did not see anything that early morning. But I heard it.
My youngest son was ah, hem, visiting and came outside to join me. He also heard the sound. Then it was over. He thought it was a bobcat. And sure enough, he researched it and there was an audio to what sound a bobcat makes and without a doubt, it was. (I googled screech owl. Guess what? Screech owls don’t screech. What the …?)
One early morning while walking her dog, my neighbor SWEARS she saw a cougar. I can’t dispute her. She’s a close friend. But, really? Let’s describe a cougar for minute. Its height is 2-3 feet with the male weighing 120-220 lbs. and the female weighing 64-140 lbs. as adults. They are tawny brown in color and have a long tail.
My friend’s across-the-street-neighbor has two Rhodesian Ridgebacks secured by an electric fence. Let’s compare. The Ridgeback doesn’t usually bark. The cougar did not bark or growl. The Ridgeback is athletically built, as the cougar. The dog is of the same height as the cat and if female, the same weight. The breed is signified and reserved with strangers, hence no need for her hollering for “HELP” when she first saw the big kitty. Ridgebacks are confident and I’d say so are cougars. Both are brown, short haired animals with long tails. I’m just saying. Could it be? But don’t tell her I doubted that she saw a mountain lion in Newnan. I heard a bobcat, so who am I to judge?
Black bear? Well, that’s different. One could have visited from Mississippi. You know that ‘Ole Miss changed their official mascot from Colonel Reb (looking like Colonel Sanders) to the Rebel Black Bear in 2010. The state is home to two types of black bears – the American black bear and the Louisiana black bear. I don’t know which one was seen here and spotted by my neighbors in their cars (thank goodness). Around lunchtime it walked along the side of my house –another one? - crossed the street in front of my home, and joined a tree-lined sidewalk, then continued on toward the tennis courts, pool, clubhouse, and lake until out of sight. Pretty courageous. Oh, and when seen, it was trash pick-up day. Now we know what lured him.
To this day the WRD has no surveillance. But I am telling you, like in the movie, “Poltergeist”, when the little blonde daughter turned to her parents and said, “They’re here,”… they are.
August 20, 2017
Oral Gratification
8/20/17 - I am not a dentist. Although I am a regular on a morning TV show on Alabama’s Charter Cable Network, I do not play one on TV either. I just play one at home. And I promise you I can save you some money for yourself or your children. You dentists out there reading this, stop now. You don’t want to know the information I am passing on to the readers.
I don’t fear dentists now, but as a little girl growing up my hometown dentist was terrifying. If you are of a certain generation like I am (they call us BABY BOOMERS), you will remember that dentists worked on Saturdays. Mother was a teacher and I was in school. So, except for the summers, we made one of our twice a year dental appointments on Saturdays during the school year.
This hometown dentist had a stomach ailment that caused his lower torso (which was leaning in close to my ear as he worked in my mouth) to erupt in a cacophony of intestinal sounds. He was miserable and made me miserable because he yelled at me a lot telling me to “Breath through your nose. Breathe through your nose!” Yeah, that was going to help me relax. When he yelled one too many times which upset me, I threw up on him.
But I digress.
Let me give you my ‘how to play dentist’ techniques that worked fabulously for me. You CAN try this at home. I say go for it.
I inherited my mother’s diastema, which is the space between your front teeth caused by the muscle behind them. Mother’s and mine were on the upper front two teeth. I wanted to rid myself from this Alfred E. Newman-Mad-Magazine-Cover-gap. The rest of my teeth were perfectly straight and I never had to wear braces and only had a few cavities. One dentist told me once, “You are not going to help me pay for my dental practice.” And, readers, you too, will now have the Lee St. John’s DO-IT-YOURSELF-DENTAL-GUIDE to help you avoid costs as well. Dentists – stop reading now!
With the help from a high school classmate who did wear braces and who contributed the rubbers bands from his roll (again you BBoomers should know about this) during our French hour-long-class, I attached 2 rubber bands around my 4 front teeth and forced those upper incisors together. It only took 2 weeks, too. One hour a day for two weeks. Think how much money you are going to save! There’s your first lesson.
Second lesson is a little trickier. When I told my students this story, because they were underage, I referred to my long neck glass container as a Coca-Cola bottle. But since you all are over the drinking age, YOU KNOW what that amber bottle was in reality. Let’s begin from the top: I was in an establishment that served ice-cold foamy refreshments in tall bottles. While holding mine in my right hand, someone pushed by me, hit my elbow causing the long neck to bump into my front tooth. Hurting, I rubbed my tongue over the spot and realized there was a crevice along the bottom edge.
When I returned home, I looked in my bathroom mirror and saw the arc in my front tooth where just the hour before there wasn’t one. OMGosh! Now what? Can you guess? Since I am a do-it-yourselfer, I took my angel hair nail file and….WHY NOT? I was already numb. I had to be careful not to take off too much to keep it pretty even with the twin tooth. Or hit a nerve.
Don’t let your dentist know about these dental tips. I am trying to help you out here with obviously saving the big bucks for such little problems. I mean, I’ve been figuring out my own teeth dilemmas for years. At this moment, I’ve lost my tooth-grinding protector and am using pacifier. So, you’re welcome.
I should have gone to dental school but grades wouldn’t let me.
I don’t fear dentists now, but as a little girl growing up my hometown dentist was terrifying. If you are of a certain generation like I am (they call us BABY BOOMERS), you will remember that dentists worked on Saturdays. Mother was a teacher and I was in school. So, except for the summers, we made one of our twice a year dental appointments on Saturdays during the school year.
This hometown dentist had a stomach ailment that caused his lower torso (which was leaning in close to my ear as he worked in my mouth) to erupt in a cacophony of intestinal sounds. He was miserable and made me miserable because he yelled at me a lot telling me to “Breath through your nose. Breathe through your nose!” Yeah, that was going to help me relax. When he yelled one too many times which upset me, I threw up on him.
But I digress.
Let me give you my ‘how to play dentist’ techniques that worked fabulously for me. You CAN try this at home. I say go for it.
I inherited my mother’s diastema, which is the space between your front teeth caused by the muscle behind them. Mother’s and mine were on the upper front two teeth. I wanted to rid myself from this Alfred E. Newman-Mad-Magazine-Cover-gap. The rest of my teeth were perfectly straight and I never had to wear braces and only had a few cavities. One dentist told me once, “You are not going to help me pay for my dental practice.” And, readers, you too, will now have the Lee St. John’s DO-IT-YOURSELF-DENTAL-GUIDE to help you avoid costs as well. Dentists – stop reading now!
With the help from a high school classmate who did wear braces and who contributed the rubbers bands from his roll (again you BBoomers should know about this) during our French hour-long-class, I attached 2 rubber bands around my 4 front teeth and forced those upper incisors together. It only took 2 weeks, too. One hour a day for two weeks. Think how much money you are going to save! There’s your first lesson.
Second lesson is a little trickier. When I told my students this story, because they were underage, I referred to my long neck glass container as a Coca-Cola bottle. But since you all are over the drinking age, YOU KNOW what that amber bottle was in reality. Let’s begin from the top: I was in an establishment that served ice-cold foamy refreshments in tall bottles. While holding mine in my right hand, someone pushed by me, hit my elbow causing the long neck to bump into my front tooth. Hurting, I rubbed my tongue over the spot and realized there was a crevice along the bottom edge.
When I returned home, I looked in my bathroom mirror and saw the arc in my front tooth where just the hour before there wasn’t one. OMGosh! Now what? Can you guess? Since I am a do-it-yourselfer, I took my angel hair nail file and….WHY NOT? I was already numb. I had to be careful not to take off too much to keep it pretty even with the twin tooth. Or hit a nerve.
Don’t let your dentist know about these dental tips. I am trying to help you out here with obviously saving the big bucks for such little problems. I mean, I’ve been figuring out my own teeth dilemmas for years. At this moment, I’ve lost my tooth-grinding protector and am using pacifier. So, you’re welcome.
I should have gone to dental school but grades wouldn’t let me.
I AM NOT SWEET
8/13/17 - My neighborhood has a Sunshine Committee. My school had one, too. The intent of the Sunshine Committee “gifts” is to provide a small token of esteem and consideration when faculty members/neighbors are celebrating a happy occasion or facing a challenging time in their lives. I was once the captain of the neighborhood group. To learn about our residents’ concerns, needs, or happy events, I asked for 12 volunteer co-captains of various ages, interests, and different address locations throughout my community so that we might hear about where our committee was most needed in our growing neighborhood.
Another reason for 12 co-captains was to have each lady only be in “charge” (personally responsible) for one month of their choosing throughout the year. I just kept the machine running during the year by little reminders about their volunteer commitment. These co-captains in turn had a sign-up list of residents who offered their services and were willing to look after any of their near-by residents during especially trying times. With the 13 of us listening out to help others, we covered the ‘hood pretty well.
When I signed up to cook an entire meal for someone and as I dropped it off, over the years when the homeowner answered the door, I heard, “You are so sweet to do this…blah, blah, blah.”
I AM NOT SWEET! I may be nice, considerate, kind, friendly, welcoming, courteous, gracious, helpful, or well-mannered (no, I am not that either – I mean as a Southern Belle I know better but I can’t help myself sometimes), but I am certainly not SWEET! And I would say so immediately after I received that compliment, which took the receiver of my kind-heartedness aback. I would say, “I am NOT sweet.”
Now let me tell you what SWEET stereotypically is: Someone who is good-natured. They are generally upbeat. They are admired. They are amiable, pleasant, and genial but are often naive individuals who can be something of a pushover and rarely stands up for oneself. And sometimes icky SWEET people make me sick. Just like real sweets to eat, how much can one take and how can someone be THAT good and perfect all the time? YUK!
So I stop that idea of being SWEET in its tracks. Because let me tell you who is sweet: Rose Nyland from the “Golden Girls” TV show. You can’t help but love, Love, LOVE her but, I swear, the rest of her roommates could really run all over her. Am I right? Luckily for her, she didn’t always know it (is that another description of SWEET?).
I’d rather be NICE. I think NICE is the same as sweet without the ‘run-over part’, or a cheerful-disposition-all-the-time part, or maybe even a stupidly-happy-part. I wish I could use the other Betty White performance as Sue Ann Nivens as the NICE personality. Although “…Sue Ann presented an image of a sweet, perfect wife and homemaker on-screen, she was actually sardonic, man-obsessed, and very competitive, with a tumultuous home life off-screen. Always with her trademark dimpled smile, she was cruel and snide toward people she did not like or considered a threat.” Wikipedia
I can’t but at least they made her REAL.
As a wordsmith, communication matters. Using the right words matter. Description matters. And I am telling you for the last time, don’t ever call me sweet. I AM NOT SWEET.
Another reason for 12 co-captains was to have each lady only be in “charge” (personally responsible) for one month of their choosing throughout the year. I just kept the machine running during the year by little reminders about their volunteer commitment. These co-captains in turn had a sign-up list of residents who offered their services and were willing to look after any of their near-by residents during especially trying times. With the 13 of us listening out to help others, we covered the ‘hood pretty well.
When I signed up to cook an entire meal for someone and as I dropped it off, over the years when the homeowner answered the door, I heard, “You are so sweet to do this…blah, blah, blah.”
I AM NOT SWEET! I may be nice, considerate, kind, friendly, welcoming, courteous, gracious, helpful, or well-mannered (no, I am not that either – I mean as a Southern Belle I know better but I can’t help myself sometimes), but I am certainly not SWEET! And I would say so immediately after I received that compliment, which took the receiver of my kind-heartedness aback. I would say, “I am NOT sweet.”
Now let me tell you what SWEET stereotypically is: Someone who is good-natured. They are generally upbeat. They are admired. They are amiable, pleasant, and genial but are often naive individuals who can be something of a pushover and rarely stands up for oneself. And sometimes icky SWEET people make me sick. Just like real sweets to eat, how much can one take and how can someone be THAT good and perfect all the time? YUK!
So I stop that idea of being SWEET in its tracks. Because let me tell you who is sweet: Rose Nyland from the “Golden Girls” TV show. You can’t help but love, Love, LOVE her but, I swear, the rest of her roommates could really run all over her. Am I right? Luckily for her, she didn’t always know it (is that another description of SWEET?).
I’d rather be NICE. I think NICE is the same as sweet without the ‘run-over part’, or a cheerful-disposition-all-the-time part, or maybe even a stupidly-happy-part. I wish I could use the other Betty White performance as Sue Ann Nivens as the NICE personality. Although “…Sue Ann presented an image of a sweet, perfect wife and homemaker on-screen, she was actually sardonic, man-obsessed, and very competitive, with a tumultuous home life off-screen. Always with her trademark dimpled smile, she was cruel and snide toward people she did not like or considered a threat.” Wikipedia
I can’t but at least they made her REAL.
As a wordsmith, communication matters. Using the right words matter. Description matters. And I am telling you for the last time, don’t ever call me sweet. I AM NOT SWEET.
