Category Archives: Stories

Family Farms

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I love farms.

Every summer as a kid, when I visited my extended family in Kentucky, I loved to ride around with Papa and my cousins and check out the family farms.  Because I only saw the farms once a year, I never really knew them that well.  Now that I live closer and can visit more often, I have asked Papa to take me around and show me the farms more thoroughly as well as some of the really beautiful spots around the county.

Last week, he took me to one of the farms that has been in the family for several generations.  Most of it is covered in trees, but it’s still fun to drive around hear Papa tell me the history of it.

Apparently, before there was a paved or gravel road to the farm, this was a back way through the creek to get to the farm.

I see you hiding back there, little barn.

Papa said this hollow goes for a mile or two.

Maybe I can convince my cousin Lauren to explore up to the head of the hollow with me this summer.  Perhaps we could fix up Julio for our journey. I’m thinking “Ain’t Skeered: Part 2” might be in our future.

Now, let me tell you a story about me and this fairly moderate incline.

Growing up, I was obsessed with cars and driving and could not wait to get my license.  In the summers before I was 16, I always looked forward to driving Papa’s truck around on the farm, where no other parties were subject to harm.

One day, I was having a grand old time driving up and down the gravel road when I decided I needed to go across this little ditch and up the hill to this barn on the left. I didn’t (and still don’t really) know how to drive a truck on this mixed terrain.  Evidently, I did not give the truck enough gas because I proceeded to get stuck just past the ditch as my wheels slid on the gravel/grass/dirt hill.  Scared for my life, I yelled to my Uncle Brian who was standing nearby and he instructed me on how to put the truck in 4-wheel drive.  After a few dicey moments, I made it up the hill, all 50 feet of it.  Thank goodness I didn’t start to slide backward because I could have been seriously injured as I ran into…..a grassy field.

Ok, so maybe it wasn’t really a life-threatening situation.  It seemed very serious at the time.

For my farm touring adventures, I’m going to let Papa do the driving.

Y’all be careful,

Sugarlump

Rite Aid

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When my sister and I would visit our family in Kentucky in the summer as young kids, we had a bit of a ritual.  My cousins, my sister and I would make the long-awaited trip to….

RITE AID!

To the average person, that may not seem very exciting.  In fact, for many people it falls into the category of “errands,” thus making such a trip dull and uninteresting.

My cousins, my sister and I, however, lived for Rite Aid in the summer.  Papa would give us each $10 or $20 and take us to Rite Aid, where we really knew how to stretch a buck.

My sister, Eugene (who is 4 years younger than I am), and my cousin Kristen (who is 5 1/2 years younger than I am) were still pretty small when we would go to Rite Aid so they bought toys and bubbles and things.  My cousin Lauren (who is 2 ½ years younger than I am) and I, however, were quite serious about our purchases that would entertain us for the next three weeks.  We spent our money on…

OFFICE SUPPLIES!

Exciting, no?!

No?

Oh. Ok.  Well, Lauren and I thought it was exciting.

We would play “passport service,” a game we invented and probably spent hundreds, if not thousands, of hours playing when we were young.  To play passport service, we needed paper and index cards and pens and highlighters and hole-punchers and paper clips and lots of office-y things.  And gum.  We always left room in the budget for a package of bubblicious gum.  That was our one splurge.  Other than that, our purchases were strictly business.

You probably think I’m making this up, but I have evidence:

See how proudly we were displaying our Rite Aid bags? We were very serious and enthusiastic about Rite Aid.  Papa was just glad to have his polecats together.

Sadly, about 10 years ago, the Rite Aid went out in Burkesville.  We wore black for a month.

Not really, but we certainly took it hard.

There is currently a cowboy store in the former Rite Aid location and I can’t bring myself to go in there because I haven’t gotten over Rite Aid closing yet.

R.I.P. Burkesville Rite Aid.   Thanks for all of the good times and practical purchases.

Y’all come back now, ya hear?

Sugarlump

Southern Vibes

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Please forgive my cat-heavy content lately.  I swear I’m not a crazy cat lady; I just get a real kick out of these fur-balls.  That and I’ve been cramming in a lot of work and packing in the past week and there’s only so much to report on that front.

I have so many pictures of my cats now as they are the only subjects that tolerate me trying to learn how to take portraits with my new camera.  I figured I might as well share these pictures and stories instead of the seemingly endless piles of things in my life at the moment (because even thinking about them gives me heart palpitations).

While the last few days have been fairly uneventful, I did have an interesting exchange this weekend as I was buying a bottle of wine to take to my friend’s housewarming party.

I walked up to the register and the cashier asked me how I was doing with a big ol’ Southern drawl.

Looking for something to confirm that I was indeed still in Massachusetts, I replied that I was doing just fine and asked how she was doing.  She was just dandy.

She kind of looked at me knowingly and I thought maybe she was trying to figure out if I was old enough to be purchasing the wine (which I am, thank you very much) but she was actually sensing some Southern vibes.

She complimented my ring as I showed her my ID.  I said thank you.  She said she’s been trying to get her boyfriend to buy her one like it because she just loves the design.  I told her it was definitely a good purchase and I wear it every day.

She then paused and said, “Where are youuu fruum?”

I said, “Well, here I guess.  I grew up in the Northeast.”

I could tell by her face that she wasn’t satisfied with that answer.  So I said, “But, my family is from southern Kentucky and I’m actually moving to Nashville next week.”

She beamed, “I knew I heard a Southern acce-yunt in they-yere!” (which is funny because I don’t really have a Southern accent….yet.  I do, however, have many family members with Southern accents so I can speak Southern fluently and often catch a drawl when I’m around them.)

I asked her where she was from (obviously not the Northeast).  She said proudly, “I’m fruum TEHHH-xas.”

At this point we were friends.

She then wished me luck in my move, I told her I hoped she got the ring from her boyfriend soon and we both smiled as I walked out of the store.

Thank goodness there was no one behind me in line or he/she would have been very confused by our sudden kinship.

I think it was a sign that I am making the right move.

Y’all come back now, ya hear?

Sugarlump

P.S. Thank You

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The great thing about cleaning out my parents’ house as I prepare to move is finding little treasures like old pictures, cards and papers dating as far back as kindergarten.

The bad thing about cleaning out my parent’s house as I prepare to move is cleaning out my parents’ house.

We have accumulated a lot of stuff that has not been thinned since…..ever.

(WARNING: tangent ahead)

I’ve decided I like organizing, but not “cleaning out.”  Give me a closet full of items tangled up and in a heap and I will gladly put like with like and in nice boxes and baskets, all labeled, color-coded and sorted by occasion/season.  After all, I used to organize the silverware drawer just for kicks when I was in elementary school.  I know, I’m weird.  I can’t help it.

I do NOT, however, care for “cleaning out,” which includes deciding what to throw away, give away or keep, because this involves many messy (and HEAVY) piles, bins, trash bags, nosy cats and 459 trips up and down the stairs from the warzone to the garage.

After completing this process in several rooms this past week, I still have to organize and store what is NOT going with me to Nashville AND pack what IS going with me.  And THEN I have to drive 18 hours, haul the “keep” pile (mountain?) up TWO flights of stairs and UNpack it.  YIIIIKES!  Maybe I’ll just stay in Boston.

Oh wait, nope.

My love for the South is greater than my hatred for “cleaning out,” so I’m sticking to my plan (but apparently not to the point of this post.  My bad.)

Anyway, back to my first point: I have come across some real treasures in this “cleaning out” process, such as this card from my little seeester, Eugene:

Although she has no recollection of this card, judging by its content, her lovely cursive handwriting, and the fact that this card was created using a card program popular in our household at the turn of the century, I have concluded that this card dates back to the day after my sister tried to amputate her arm.

That may be an exaggeration.  It was her finger and it was unintentional (allegedly).

It was just after her 10th birthday, the height of her horse phase.  She had received several toy horses as gifts.  These particular toy horses come packaged as if they are going to gallop off the shelf, with layers and layers of cardboard, molded plastic and lethal plastic ties that keep the horses’ legs bound to the cardboard.  My sister was in the family room trying to free her toy horses from their boxy oppressors when her scissors slipped from the lethal plastic tie and launched into her left index finger which was holding up the box.

I was up in the attic on the computer when a calm voice and a trail of blood drops made its way toward me.  Upon processing this scene, I realized that this was not good but tried to keep my cool.  I was 13 at the time and obviously could not legally drive my sister to the emergency room.  Oh and my parents weren’t home.  Did I forget to mention that?  My mom was on a business trip and my dad was at a dinner in Boston and somehow in the 2 hours between when our nanny left and when my dad was due to arrive home, my sister and I found ourselves in a situation requiring professional medical attention.

After calmly escorting my sister down to the bathroom, I pulled the scissors out of her hand (turns out I should have left them in there, but I thought she might contract tetanus or something terrible) and wrapped her finger up tightly in a towel.   As she sat tight and with very few tears, I called my dad and asked him what I should do and he told me to call my neighbors to see if one of them could drive us over to the emergency room where he would meet us as soon as he could.

I then called one of my neighbors.

Ring, ring, ring…ring… “We can’t come to the phone right now, please leave a message.”

I figured maybe they were having dinner or something so I tried again immediately, hoping these back-to-back calls would communicate a sense of urgency.

Ring, ring, ring…ring… “We can’t come to the phone right now, please leave a message.”

Hmmm (translation: AHHH!).  I tried one more time and then decided they must not have been home.  Then I called my other next-door neighbors.  They did not pick up after several calls either.  I was about to lose my cool, but remembered that my sister was watching me very closely so I called my dad again and asked him what to do.

He told me to call 911.  All of the sudden, this seemed very serious and scary, but somehow I called 911 and the ambulance arrived a few minutes later.  As we were getting into the back of the ambulance, the second neighbor I called came running out of her house, got in the ambulance and traveled with us to the hospital.  At this point, I started to tear up, but my sister (the injured one) kept her cool.

We arrived to the hospital quickly and the doctor checked out my sister’s wound.  My dad got there shortly after.  After seeing my sister’s wound under fluorescent light and hearing the doctor say she needed stitches, I started to feel a little light-headed and had to go back to the waiting room until Eugene was all stitched up and released from the ER.

Even though she was the brave one for not freaking out when she stuck a pair of scissors in her finger, she made this very nice card to thank me for taking care of her.  The card was very sweet and thoughtful, but the P.S. note cracks me up:

As if I didn’t catch on to the sentiment on this card, she just wanted to be sure I got the message in the postscript.  I don’t know why I find this so funny, but I do. Even though that was not an evening I would like to relive (and I’m sure Eugene wouldn’t either), I’m so glad I found this card because it is so Eugene and it makes me smile.

To help you make sense of this post, I have put together a list of takeaways:

  1. Always answer your phone because it might be your panicking 13 year old neighbor calling about a scissors accident
  2. Deliberate long and hard before deciding to have children
  3. Packaged toys (particularly horses) pose a threat to your life and opening them may result in stitches
  4. Don’t move to a new place or you will be subject to some “cleaning out”
  5. “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”
  6. (what?)
  7. P.S. Thank you

Y’all come back now, ya hear?

Sugarlump

“Eugene”

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I have mentioned my sister, Eugene, in several of my posts.  You may be wondering if her name is really Eugene since that is not a girl’s name nor has it been popular since 1950.  It’s not technically her given name, but it’s what I call her.

Her real name is Petunia.

Just kidding.

It’s actually Gloria…..

Ok, fine.  It’s Julia.  But there was some confusion about her name as an infant so for a few seconds it was Gloria.

My great great aunt (my great-grandmother’s sister-in-law. I promise I’m not lying about that one) stopped by my grandparents’ house when my family was visiting just after Eugene/Gloria (Julia) was born.  My great great aunt sat down on the sofa and my mom handed her Eugene/Gloria (Julia).  My great great aunt looked at the new creature adoringly and asked her name.

My Mom: “It’s Julia.”

Great great aunt: “Oh GLORIA! What a beautiful name!”

Everyone in the room: “No, JULIA.”

Silence. The child was then handed back to my mother.

Just kidding.  Everybody moved on pretty quickly and my great great aunt still thought my sister was precious.  But you see the beauty of her being born in the 90’s is that we have this gem on tape and I like to watch it whenever possible for a good laugh.  What really sends me over the edge is that Gloria is not in the top 99% of names my mother would choose for her child.

So now you’re probably wondering why I call her Eugene.  If you knew her, you would realize that she is such a Eugene.  I think the name actually originated from me morphing her name from Julia to Uja, which naturally then became Eugene (duh, isn’t that an obvious progression? No? Well, humor me then).  Needless to say, it stuck and I can’t remember the last time I called her Julia or Gloria.   She is even listed as Eugene in my cellphone.

You may also be wondering if my sister appreciates me calling her Eugene.  I don’t think she minds and she responds to it when I call out to her in public, so I’m going to continue calling her Eugene.

We share a very bizarre sense of humor that only the two of us seem to understand and I believe me calling her Eugene falls into that category.  It’s just part of our special sisterly bond.

If you saw us together, it would be clear instantly that we are sisters.

We’re practically twins!

Not.

(Heels? Really Eugene? Throw me a bone here, would ya?)

So that’s how Eugene got her name.

And every Southerner knows you need a good country name.  You’re welcome, Eugene.

I LAH-ve you.

Y’all come back now, ya hear?

Sugarlump

Getting Glasses

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I decided it was finally time to go to the eye doctor after about a decade (I know, bad bad bad) of not going to the eye doctor.

Diagnosis:  My vision is uneven.  Basically, my right eye is a weakling and my left eye is a champ.

Prognosis:  I’m going to live.

I have to get glasses to be worn for “close work,” which includes looking at a computer screen, reading, drafting, or anything else that requires me to focus my eyes on something within the general vicinity of my face.

I have known for a long time that my left eye is stronger, but apparently the difference in my eyes has gotten more severe.   I frequently “suffer from” (as they say) headaches and migraines, likely the result of me doing a lot of “close work” and thus exhausting my left eye because my right eye has no idea what to make of the screen in front of me.

So, I’m getting glasses that I will wear part-time.  Not so bad.  I think I can handle it and hope it will improve the throbbing head situation.

For a year or so when I was younger, I had to wear a Band-Aid-like eye patch over my left eye for a few hours each day after I got home from school in an attempt to strengthen my right eye.  I think I handled this unconventional eyewear pretty well for a 5 year old, but I’m glad this time I will be getting glasses instead.

Though this wasn’t my best look, at least I had my kitten for emotional support.  His name was Truder. I loved him very much.

Seeing (hahaha) as this whole glasses thing is a noteworthy development in my life, I felt the need to share the news with my sister, particularly since she once faked the need for glasses.  She was 6.  We had just moved to Boston and she was the “new girl” in her class for the first time in her life.  I suppose she was feeling left out or wanted to attract some attention (for having glasses?) or wanted to hide behind something.  I really can’t say why she faked the need for glasses, but the eye doctor caught on to what was happening when one day my sister told my mother that she couldn’t see and started squinting a lot.  He subtly conveyed this message to my parents by winking as my sister pretended to be unable to read the lower half of the letter chart.  He then told them that this was probably just a cry for attention at school given her age and that we had just moved to a new place and a new school.  My parents, being the sensitive and supportive parents they are, played along and invested in Eugene’s desperate cry for attention to the tune of several hundred dollars. God bless my parents.

So given her complicated history with her vision, I thought she would be a good person to tell about my new glasses.

It was late the other night after I returned from the eye doctor, ate dinner, watched some TV, wrote a post, dilly-dallied, and pondered life a bit, so I opted to text my dear sister instead of calling her to tell her my glasses news in case she was asleep (hahaha) or in the library (surprisingly, much more likely at 11:00 PM on a Tuesday for a college student named Eugene).

Before you read the verbatim text conversation that is to follow, I want you to know that my sister and I are very mature and well-mannered young women.  In public.

Me:  Guess what?

Eugene:  chicken butt!

Me: Yes!

(Long pause to appreciate that my sister just guessed exactly what I was thinking.)

Me: I have to get gafas.

(side note: My sister and I often speak in Spanglish because we’re weird and took a lot of Spanish in high school)

Eugene: What?! For reals?

Me: Yes. For reading and “close work” because one of my eyes is stronger than the other (which I knew) but the doctor thinks that’s exhausting my eyes to try to focus so I have to wear glasses for that stuff.  I picked out some real sassy ones.

Eugene: oh la laaa! Slash kinda sounds like daddy.

Me: Getting sassy glasses?

Eugene:  hahahah no no the stronger eye thing!

(End Scene.)

So as my sister mentioned, this whole uneven eye strength thing (and not surprisingly the migraine thing), runs in the left side of my family.  Almost all members of this side of my family (that I am biologically related to) wear glasses.  I guess it’s now official.  I am a for sure my father’s daughter.

One point of divergence, however, is the type of glasses we will be sporting.  His glasses are rectangular, simple and subtle.  My selection is none of those things.  I went for cat-eyed, sassy and bold.  Here is my selection:

I am very pleased with my choice, but I also considered another more rectangular, tailored and professional looking pair.  I selected these after asking the nice man who helps people pick out glasses if there was any section I should avoid since I was “trying not to break the bank” on my new glasses.  He responded that the glasses were arranged by manufacturer and there was a range within each of them so there wasn’t really any section to avoid.  Being me and having a specific arrangement with gravity to pull me towards expensive items, I of course selected one of the most expensive pairs in the whole place.  The nice man saw what was happening and politely mentioned to me that “The Fendi options are probably not as budget-friendly.”  Oh.  Darn.

So then I found my lovely sassy glasses that had a much more agreeable price tag.  And I was pleased.

I am now waiting (not so patiently and with a slight headache) for my glasses to arrive because I (unlike someone in my family who is younger that I am and named Eugene) actually need them.

Y’all come back now, ya hear?

Sugarlump

Glasses photo courtesy of framesdirect.com