Attention, readers under 50: get thee some life insurance and long-term disability insurance NOW. And you might want to think about getting some that isn't attached to the company you work for because believe me, once that AARP membership application lands in your mailbox, insurance underwriters can be a tad on the standoffish side. Our own little adventure began when I woke up one morning a couple of months ago and suddenly realized that I am now, like Dave, self-employed—and I had inadequate life insurance and no disability insurance. Every other day, Dave had to listen to my panicked barrage of what-ifs: "What if I have a car wreck? What if I get sick? What if I get hit by a train like that that respectable judge Holly Hunter made such a to-do over in O Brother Where Art Thou?!!!" Fortunately, my good friend Shari heard of our plight and sent us her husband's contact information. John is an outstanding insurance broker who sat down with us at our kitchen table and painstakingly walked us through the giant tangle of options and riders, somehow maintaining his composure and amiable attitude as Dave and I debated which one of us needs to cross Jordan first in order to maximize our financial stability and maintain our property value. We felt so good about the decisions John helped us make that we asked him to handle our homeowner's and auto coverage. And THERE is where the great injustice occurred. What did I have to do to apply for life and long-term disability? Submit income tax records, answer a ton of health questions, and rendezvous with a paramedic who took my blood pressure, WEIGHED ME TWO WEEKS AFTER CHRISTMAS, measured me, and collected an assortment of body fluids. To her credit, she did all of the above as painlessly as possible. Still, at one point during the application process, I asked John if there was any danger that the underwriters might try to hold my cat hostage till the lab results came in. What did DAVE have to do to handle his part of our insurance package? Why, he had to submit pictures of his cars, including the engines. That had to hurt. Still, I'm so happy to be on the road to financial security that I'm trying not to be bitter. I did, however, intentionally shoot that Buick from an unflattering angle. [We highly recommend John Wimberly at Country Financial. If you'd like to reach him, just send me an email or a Facebook message, or post a comment.]
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January 2013
January 31, 2013
January 30, 2013
Chompin' at the Purefoy, 1947
I call this picture "Chompin' at the Purefoy" (not to be confused with "Stompin' at the Savoy"). It was taken at the annual Wyatt-McCranie Christmas dinner, held at the old Purefoy Hotel in Talladega, Alabama. (My grandmother was a Wyatt who married a McCranie, hence the name:) That’s “Grandme,” third from the left, at the horizontal table in back—the one just right of the American flag, wearing a hat, and looking a little aggravated. Look to the rear right, at the little girl with a flower in her hair, seated underneath the "Feed Hungry Europe" poster. That's my mother. And if you follow a diagonal line from her to the left front corner, you'll see a little boy—our cousin Jimmy, who gave me this picture. He and Mama were constant playmates back then, especially in the summertime, when Wyatt's Lake was open for business. She is still quite proud of the fact that she and Jimmy could swim the length of the lake underwater. No word on whether snorkels were involved. The lady next to Jimmy is his mother, my Great-Aunt Margaret, who is repsonsible for making me play my very first congregational hymn in church. I was probably 12 or 13, and the pianist was absent that Sunday. I was at the piano, waiting to play my offertory (which was all I played back then), when Aunt Margaret, the interim choir director, marched down to the piano and whispered forcefully: "We're having trouble hearing with just the organ. Can't you help us out on 'I Am Resolved?'" Turns out, I could and I did. I am resolved no longer to linger, charmed by the world's delight; things that are higher, things that are nobler, these have allured my sight. I won't go around the whole table (though I'd like to), but I MUST point out the gentleman next to Aunt Margaret, Jimmy's dad and my Great-Uncle Clyde. He called my grandmother "Sister," actually "Sistah," which I always thought was sweet. And he called ME, with a wink of mischief, his "old-maid niece" (I married at 43), and delighted in reminding me, "Now you just let me know when I need to get my weddin' suit pressed." I love this circle of parents and grandparents, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles and cousins. I love that the ladies all have on corsages and the men are wearing boutonnieres (somebody check my spelling on that one). To me, those flowers say that this was a special occasion and that my family honored their special time together. We SHOULD honor our time with the people we love. It's a gift.
January 28, 2013
January 27, 2013
Sunday Morning Serenity
Last Sunday, our choir began practicing Easter music, and as I prepare to lead those rehearsals each week, two Old Testament truths are speaking to me. (By "speaking to me," I mean hitting me over the head like a divine skillet.) First, leaders often pray AFTER the fact, when what they need to do is pray BEFORE. They follow their own direction, with no thought to what God would have them do, and when it doesn't go so well, THEN they cry out for help. (Put a big ole check in the GUILTY box next to my name on that one.) I heard somewhere that, when Billy Graham was asked if he had any regrets in life, he responded that he wished he had prayed more. Billy Graham feels that he hasn't prayed enough. What on earth does that say about somebody like me? The second of my "divine skillets" is that some of the greatest leaders in the Bible felt ill-equipped for, and unworthy of, the challenge God gave them. Moses' initial response, when God called him to deliver Israel, was "Who am I, that I should go to Pharoah and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?" (Exodus 3:11). This was followed, shortly, with "What if they do not believe me or listen to
me . . .?" (Exodus 4:1). I became our choir director, not because I have such great vocal ability (I'm a so-so singer with a limited range) or because of my extensive training in voice (I have some vocal exercises a collge buddy was kind enough to mail me, but that's about it). I became our choir director because we needed one. And we didn't have a budget to hire someone. So I do my best, and bless them, our choir members bear with me when I can't figure out what exactly the altos are supposed to do here or what the basses are supposed to sing there. Leading them is very rewarding, but it's also frustrating because, as I recently bemoaned to my friend Shari, I know enough about music to know how much I don't know about music. Someone with the right training could take this group places that I can't. But back to "skillet truth" one: I've begun praying about choir in a whole new way—not "please help ME do what I'VE decided the choir should do" but "please show US what YOU want US to do." I'm also trying to embrace my limitations. Yes, someone with vocal training could make everybody in the choir a better singer. And I don't know how to do that. On the other hand, it's our mutual dependence on each other—they need me to teach them what I can, and I need them to understand there's a limit to what I know—it's that mutual dependence, or maybe the right word is acceptance, that makes us a special choir. This is a group that truly cares about each other. Instead of competing for favorite pieces, the soloists suggest them for each other. And when we sing in the right spirit—a spirit of worship and prayer—the music is wonderful. Lesson learned: you don't have to be fully prepared to accept whatever challenge God gives you; you just have to be willing.
January 24, 2013
Stuff We Like: Southern Living Feel Good Food
I have to say, this was a moment—watching Daddy read a cookbook with my name in it:) And to all of my cousins who are laughing at the notion that I contributed to a cookbook (I'm not exactly a gourmet chef), the food is all Southern Living. My friends at Oxmoor House, which publishes SL cookbooks, gave me an amazing opportunity to write the foreword to this terrific recipe collection, plus short little "Sit A Spell" essays about some of the Southern food included. It was so much fun to share memories of family get-togethers and church fellowships and the foods that make Southern gatherings memorable. It was REALLY fun to hear Daddy's commentary, which went something like this (and I'm sure you'll agree, he's a completely unbiased reader):
Daddy: This is SO good. But you know, if they wanted this book to sell, they should've put that foreword you wrote right inside the front cover instead of letting this food stuff get in front of it.
Me: But it's a cookbook, Daddy . . .
Daddy: I know, but I'm just saying your stories are what's gonna sell it.
Me: Don't you think a FEW people might buy it for the recipes?
Daddy: What's this mufuletta thing you wrote about? Have I ever had one?
Me: No, I don't think so. It's a sandwich made
on really crusty bread. You start with a layer of olive salad . . .
Daddy: I hate olives. I don't want anything with olives. The minute you put an olive on something, you can't taste anything but the olive.
Me: Yeah, but some people LIKE the taste of olives—
Daddy: Not me. And I ain't got time to learn how to love 'em. This pie over here looks pretty good though . . .
Many thanks to Susan Ray and the Oxmoor House editorial staff for making me a part of Southern Living Feel Good Food. (If y'all could mock up a book jacket with a portrait of me on the cover instead that yummy dessert you chose, we might be able to appease Daddy. FYI, he's especially fond of my fourth-grade school picture.) In the spirit of shameless self-promotion, here's a link to the book on Amazon:
January 21, 2013
Hank's Book of Cat Philosophy: #20
[Editor's Note: On behalf of Hank the Cat, we at Goin' Down to Mama's would like to express our gratitude to Dr. Darcy Schofill at Cahaba Mountain Brook Animal Clinic for outstanding care. We would also like to apologize for what could, on the surface, appear to be a poor attitude on Hank's part."]
January 20, 2013
Sunday Morning Serenity
I'm about to tell you the kind of story that makes my cousins call me "Aunt Eva." Our Great-Aunt Eva was, without question, the greatest animal lover in our family. Her dog, Poochey, was her constant and beloved companion. Back then, most of my family had more of a farm mentality: Animals were animals and people were people. My mother never allowed me to bring pets inside the house (unless they were really young and it was really cold outside, in which case, I could usually guilt her into it). Aunt Eva treated Poochey like a human. I confess, I'm the same way with Hank the Cat. In the wee hours this morning, when I was mustering the wherewithal to crank the coffee pot, I heard a loud animal noise outside—the kind of sound you hear when creatures with paws and claws are having a word with each other. Hank had just gone outside, so I ran out to make sure he was okay. Couldn't find him. Grabbed a flashlight and hurried down the driveway, in the direction of what sounded like a troubled "meow." Still no Hank. I went back to the house, ready to panic, when my wayward cat suddenly hopped up on the deck, looking a little rattled but unharmed. Now, I KNOW he's just a cat. Still, I'm not sure which one of us was happier or more relieved. This being Sunday, and the beginning of our Easter choir practices, I guess I've got church music on the brain because Hank's disappearance and safe return made a couple of great old hymns pop into my head. They're about the pain that comes from our human wanderings—from our own "going astray"—and the joy of returning safely back home:
I've wandered far away from God—now I'm coming home.
The paths of sin too long I've trod—now I'm coming home.
Coming home, coming home, never more to roam.
Open now Thine arms of love—Lord, I'm coming home.
[from "Lord, I'm Coming Home" by William J. Kilpatrick, based on Luke 15:18]
Come, ye sinners, poor and needy,
Weak and wounded, sick and sore;
Jesus ready stands to save you, full of pity, love, and pow'r.
I will arise and go to Jesus, He will embrace me in His arms;
In the arms of my dear Savior, O, there are ten thousand charms.
Let not conscience make you linger,
Nor of fitness fondly dream;
All the fitness He requireth is to feel your need of Him.
[from "Come, Ye Sinners, Poor and Needy," lyrics by Joseph Hart,
refrain unknown]
January 18, 2013
January 17, 2013
When Good Fluff Goes Bad
Our friend Frances first introduced us to "Green Fluff." It's actually the Watergate Salad from that yellow Calling All Cooks cookbook, renamed by Frances's youngest son in honor of the dish's mint-green hue and Cool Whip fluffiness. It quickly became a most-requested favorite at all our get-togethers. And then Frances threw us a curveball and made a strawberry version, which was also delicious—so much so that my mother flagged the recipe. After lunch last Sunday, the men took their usual posts in the living room, while Mama and I stayed in the dining room to visit with my cousin, Vivian Ann. Suddenly, my mother gasped and said, "I forgot to serve the Fluff!" Vivian Ann assured her that we still had coffee in the coffee pot and were, therefore, fully prepared to take on another dessert. That's when Mama brought out the lovely dish you see here. Something looked amiss. I took a bite. Something tasted amiss, but still I didn't say anything—until I saw the look on Vivian Ann's face when she took a bite. It was a look that said, "This is not horrible, but it's not wonderful either, so I'll just have to get through it somehow." In the spirit of hospitality, I had to come forward. "Mama," I said, "I think there's a problem with the Fluff.""What are you talking about?" she said. "Well," I said, "it's sort of . . . grainy." "I made it right by Frances's recipe," she said. I took another bite. "I don't think so," I said. Mama took a bite. She frowned. She took another bite. Then she sprang from the table and went to retrieve her recipe box. Back in the dining room, with recipe in hand, she presented her defense: "See, it says right here, one package of . . . oh." I pressed for details. "I guess I thought it said gelatin . . . instead of pudding. I think I might've made an accidental substitution." And so, we can now add to the storied history of Fluff my mother's famous Grainy Pink Fluff. Lessons learned from Fluff? (1) Disaster-prone cooks like me can take heart in knowing that even a pro like Mama can have a mishap, and (2) anything tastes just fine if you serve it with love. And really strong coffee.
January 16, 2013
Apples for the Poor
During the Great Depression, my granddaddy supported his large family by working for Shelby County, sometimes overseeing workers with the WPA. One of his assigned jobs was delivering baskets of fresh apples to needy families. Actually, in that little farm community, just about EVERYBODY was struggling, whether Uncle Sam realized it or not. One day, when Grandaddy came home for lunch and parked his apple wagon in front of the house, my Uncle Leck tried to talk him into bringing some apples in with him. "No," Grandaddy said, "those are for poor families." Uncle Leck thought about that: "Well, what do you think WE are?!" He had a point, given the many mouths they were trying to feed, with precious little money coming in. Still, Grandaddy refused to break the rules—but he did say something about how apples might disappear while he was in the house, and how there wasn't a thing he could do about something like that. Nobody knows what happened when he left Uncle Leck alone with the wagon. But my mother, who was about seven at the time, has fond memories of fresh apples—a rare treat—that would just appear for a little while after that. And when Daddy took a final look around Grandme's attic before the house was torn down, he found this solitary basket.:)
Come On In And Meet Everybody
I come from a long line of feisty Southern women—women with wit and wisdom, faith and strength.