Christmas at McDonalds

The day started out the way most of the days in the life of the Scoggins family did in those times of their lives that was the 1960s. It was December, the sun broke through a grouping of gray, listless clouds, and shown on the half closed curtains that hung with no particular purpose on the dingy windows of their house.

Inside Guy and Fay Scoggins lay in their double bed, each snoring, though Fay’s snoring was softer. Guy Jr, six, and Faylena eight, each in their own tiny bedroom, lay in their twin beds in children’s slumber.

Christmas in the mountains of Western North Carolina was a wonderful thing. Snow came softy and gently, sneaking in during late evenings, covering the last vestiges of grasses and weeds that hung on to some eternal hope that Spring would precede Winter. And this year near the highland town of Scots Hope, a McDonalds had opened. The towns people celebrated at the opening ceremony, not for the cheap burgers, or the handful of jobs that it created, but for the utter novelty of a drive through window.

For some, the real draw was a clown called Ronald McDonald.

In that small six room block house that sat at the tip end of a long winding dirt road, the idea of Christmas at McDonalds for the Scoggins had taken hold due to some strange and unforeseen events.

Guy Jr had been thinking about the clown ever since that opening day, six months earlier, when his eyes were filled from corner to corner with an image like nothing he had ever seen before. It had an enormous head of wild orange hair, a bulbous red nose and bigger feet than old man Foster; bigger feet than anyone in the whole of the world, Guy Jr was pretty sure.

The Scots Hope Elementary School, the only school in the town of nine hundred people, had planned a bus trip to the new McDonalds on the last day of school before Christmas break, when the big clown was supposed to make another appearance and “hand out special treats to all children twelve and under". Guy Jr. and Faylena had each dressed quickly that morning and ran down the dirt road to wait for the school bus.

Two things had gone wrong that day: A rogue snow storm hit the mountains of North Carolina the night before, leaving six inches of snow and hundreds of motorists stranded on the highways. The bus never came by.

Disappointed and worried, Guy Jr. and Faylena had drudged back up to the house where their mom was watching them through a rubbed out spot in the window. She had known that there would be no bus that morning, but the children would not be made to believe it. So she had seen that they bundled up good, and set them off to face a cold disappointment.

Near tears, Guy Jr., walked past his mother and went straight to the back porch and sat down next to Ol’ Nothing, their part beagle, part hound, a lot of nothing, dog.
He was still sitting there when his Daddy came up the road after working third shift at the mill.

The old Chevy truck was threatening to take control from Guy and plunge him over the side of the snow covered dirt road and into the gulley. It did just that five yards from the house.

“Lord a mercy, Guy!” Fay cried as she ran out into the cold and snow in her socked feet. “Why didn’t you park down at the end of the drive?”

“Whoo weee! Wouldn’t that something?" Guy shouted as he climbed from the cab of the truck. “Woman you gone crazy? You ain’t got one shoe on!” Guy swooped Fay up off the ground and twirled her around in the winter air.

“You could've been hurt, Guy,” Fay protested through her laughter.

“Now, me and that ol truck’s been through lots worse than this.” With that he threw Fay over his shoulders and carried her into the warm house.

He deposited her in front of the screen -less fireplace, where a merry fire danced over logs and bits of trash.

Faylena stopped chasing the bits of fleeing embers back into the fireplace, dropped the broom and jumped into her daddy’s arms. “Hey there, darling! Hmmm, something sure smells good!.” He sat her down, “I’m thinking that’s your momma’s coffee.”

As Fay handed him a cup of coffee she nodded toward the back door. Guy took three steps and peered out the window, where he saw two pitiful figures. While that wasn’t unusual for Ol Nothing, it was a bit odd for Guy Jr. to look so forlorn.

“He’s been there since he found out that the school bus wouldn’t be picking him and Faylena up this morning. Had his heart set on seeing that McDonalds’ clown. My daddy always said you can’t be too young to learn to handle disappointment; but I wonder.”

Guy placed his cup in the sink, gave Fay a peck on the cheek and stepped out onto the back porch.

Neither dog nor child looked up.

“Guess that ol rickety school bus couldn’t make it around today.” Guy said to whichever creature might listen.

“They could've sent the one that takes the big kids over to Morganton to school. It ain’t so rickety.” Guy Jr said without moving so much as a facial muscle, which had all fallen into his cupped hands.

“Doubt that one made it today either. In fact, I doubt that ol Ronald McDonald’ll make it today.”

This brought Guy Jr.’s head up and around to face his daddy. “You think he’ll come another day then?”

“Hard to say for sure. Listen, son, I think there’s something you ought to know about disappointment.”

“I know, Daddy, ‘life is full of it’. Granddaddy says that all the time.”

“Way I see it is it’s a matter of belief. And me, I don’t believe in it.” Guy said looking out over snow topped pine trees.

Ol Nothing scooted in closer to Guy Jr, and resumed whatever dream dogs have, which Guy Jr. always wondered about, but was usually content to know that the dog was still breathing.

“You see that ol dog you’re so fond of? Well, when he first come hanging around here, right before you was born, I was thinking; man, there’s me a good ol hunting dog for sure, and it ain’t cost me a dime. Then the first day I lit out over the fields with him, just dreaming about all the rabbits I was going to bring home; the only thing he hunted was the path back to the house.”
He reached down and gave Ol’ Nothing a scratch behind the ear, which the dog ignored.

“I was pretty sore the whole way back, following that ol dog, telling him what I thought of his momma, and reminding him that he was just good for nothing. Told him he could just go on down the road and find another house to live at. In fact I recommended one for him.”

“But as soon as we rounded that far patch of pines there, I heard your momma a hollering. Poor Faylena, who wouldn’t but a little twig of two, was bawling and scared to death. Scares me to this day when I think about what could’ve happened. See, you decided you was ready to come on and meet your family the very day I had planned on doing some rabbit hunting.”

The boy turned to sit full facing his Daddy now, causing the dog to grunt in annoyance.

“Well, your momma was mighty brave, but after you was born Ol Doc Jones said she wouldn’t be having no more babies. I could see the disappointment in her eyes. Truth is, we both was. But I was more worried about missing time from work, what with your momma needing help till she recovered. Your grandmas and aunts couldn’t afford to lose too much time from the mill either. Then Jimmy Sloan told me he would switch shifts with me, take my spot on first, and I could take his on third. I sure hated to give up my spot on first. As it turned out, you was a right healthy baby and took off growing like no body’s business. And Faylena took to playing with Ol Nothing like he was her toy; kept her happy and out of the way. I tell you it was something to see that ol dog lay there and take such as that. And me, well, I took to the third like I never dreamed I could.”

Fay opened the door and handed Guy a fresh cup of hot coffee, and closed it as she stepped back into the kitchen.

“Your momma was coming along real good too. She loved rocking you children when you was babies, even tho all the women folk told her she’d spoil y’all doing so. But she wouldn’t having no more, so she rocked you for the first two years of your life. I told her, the Lord done give us one of each, and perfect as they can be, I’d be plum scared to have another one anyway. No telling what we might get. I heard tell of one family had six kids, three of each, and then went and had a seventh one that looked just like a donkey!”

Guy sipped his coffee more to keep his grin from showing than to feel the warmth it brought.

The boy’s eyes were shocked wide open, but the dog snored on.

Guy continued, “One day, on my home from work, I seen a man stranded on the side of the road. He had him one of them big ol flat bed trucks and it was loaded down with concrete blocks. I pulled over to see if I could help and he says to me, ‘Friend, if you can help me get this load over to Morganton, I’ll put you gas in and pay you fair for your labor.’ I was thinking what luck for me. The mill ain’t offering no overtime, and I sure could use some extra money to get your momma’s hospital bill paid."

"Took the two of us most all day to get them blocks loaded from his truck to mine and I lost count of how many trips it took. On the last trip, we hadn’t got half of ‘em, when the man in Morganton said he didn’t need no more, that he had ordered another flat bed truck full of them yesterday, and it was pulling in now. Said we was four days late anyway. Seems this guy’s truck had been breaking down regularly for a week. We got paid for the blocks we’d unloaded, but I knew it wouldn’t gone be near enough.”

“I was more than disappointed, I can tell you straight out. That ol boy put me in one more tank of gas, and said all he could give me was the blocks he had left as the rest of my pay. A few days later he pulled up and dumped them blocks right over yonder.” Guy nodded toward a clearing.

The boys eyes followed his daddy’s nod and then came back to the view of their block house.

“That’s right,” Guy said. “With the help of your Granddad Bill, and your Uncles Joe, Don and Leon, I built this house with those very blocks. Got us out of that three room shack and kept us from giving up and moving into one them four room mill houses over in Morganton. You know a block house keeps the heat in real good, and it’s pretty cool in the summers.”

“Lots of folks had moved on to the mill town to be close to work, into them little plank houses that the mill owners had put up. But I just couldn’t see them paying me outta one hand, and me handing it back to ’em in the other. I’ll tell you another thing; helping that ol boy out gave me the idea I could pick up odd jobs during the day and come out better than working more shifts at that mill. Traded lots of work, too, for things we needed for the house and such. Sometimes I think whoever invented money did us no favor. And, your momma ain’t never had to step one foot into that cotton mill. See, you never know about how things might be stacking up to happen.”

“Now come on let’s go get some pine cuttings. Your momma won’t be talked out of dressing the mantle with them. Another thing you can say about a block house; it’s harder to burn one down.”

So they walked out into the snow covered yard, leaving Guy’s words hanging in the cold air, somewhere over the dogs head, for the boy’s head was already filling with ideas about how to get to the McDonalds when the clown showed up.

That night the fire burned sleepily in the fireplace, with Ol Nothing laid out in front of the hearth. His massive body keeping drifting embers from going any further than his back. Hardly a word was ever said about the singed spots in his fur.

Guy Jr worried through sleep and play everyday that the big clown would show up at McDonalds and he would not be there to see him. His Daddy had said that the clown was supposed to be there Christmas Eve, and probably they would go see him on the way to church.

For the next few mornings, while watching for their daddy’s truck to come chugging up the drive, the children ran wildly through the snow covered fields; Ol Nothing kept vigil from the front porch, except one morning when he lumbered off through the fields and didn’t come back.

Then it was Christmas Eve.

Two amazing things happened that day. Another blizzard hit Western NC, dumping four inches of snow on top of what was still on the ground. And Ol Nothing showed up with a puppy trailing behind him.

“It looks like we won’t be making it into town for church,” Guy remarked to Fay, but eyeing his son. “Probably be days before we can get out this time.”

“I was looking forward to hearing the Christmas songs, “ she replied.

“Is that Ol Nothing coming yonder?” Faylena yelled, rubbing at the window to see better.

They let the dog into the warm house, and the sight of that pup filled Faylena and Guy Jr. with so much excitement that they were unable to stop their legs from taking them jumping all over the room.

‘Well, look at that.” Guy said. “It’s just as well we couldn’t make it off this mountain, this lil pup can’t be but about nine weeks old. It surely would have froze to death outside tonight.”

Back near Scots Hope, the big clown did indeed show up, a little too much in his spirits, scaring most of the children to screaming fits, and somehow nearly burning McDonalds to the ground, leaving Guy to wonder later why they didn’t build with concrete blocks.

In his bed, burrowed under piles of blankets and one small puppy, Guy Jr smiled through dreams; all disappointment lay frozen on the ground outside. His daddy’s words from five days earlier had found their way back to him, and the idea that things were a matter of belief and faith begin to take hold.

And while no chorus of Hark The Herald Angels Sing would be heard that night,
the heartbeats from those in that little block house filled the Heavens with resounding joy.

In just a few months, right as Spring was arriving as promised, Ol Nothing wandered off through the fields for the last time.

Pamela H Gurule Ó December 18th, 2010.

Springtime, Frogs and Amen

The air is warming, plants are budding, frogs are jumping, and waistlines are bulging.

Spring is in the air.

Well, shout hallelujah, and pass the diet pills.

Winter's end has left many of us, moi included, with a few extra pounds that moved in uninvited. Unless you call crawling onto the couch, blanket and chocolate in hand with the television on, for the duration of cold weather an open invitation for homeless fat molecules to just come on in.

Honestly, what do the Fat Police expect? The days get darker by design, then the mystical "time" changes, and it's dark fifteen minutes after sun-up! Evolution from the Apes? I don't think so. Cave Bears maybe.

So, how to get rid of them? I guess getting off the couch would be a start. I can do that.

Or, maybe reading another self help/motivational/nutritional guide/your astrological fat sign Diet Book. Hmmm. I can do that and remain on the couch.

Better to get off the couch, grab the book, and jump on the treadmill. That might do it.

(Yawn)

No, no. Must not revert back to standard operating procedures. Must get out of the cave couch! Still that little voice we all hear, at times we least want to, is telling me there is one more thing to be done. Actually, it's a direct quote from all the self improvement books ever written and translated to all known languages. "No exercise regime is complete without a....."

Don't say it! The dreaded "D" word. Diet. Diabolical also comes to mind. And all diets, in any language, say to give up Sugar.

Well, just turn me into a frog and have me jump up Mt. Everest. It's the same thing.
Why not just say hold your breath for two hours? After resuscitation you won't feel like eating for weeks. Problem solved.

I know what you are all thinking (and possibly rolling your eyes about). You are thinking about the M word. Moderation. Hear me. There is no moderation for an addict.

And for those who of you who always, always say, "you could if you really wanted to". Why don't you just pull a Joe Biden and ask the man in the wheel chair to stand up.

Walk a mile in my addiction. Or, let he among you with the leanest BMI cast the first candy bar.

Actually, I am reading a book that I think might hold the key. The guy who wrote it is slim. The book is; Change Your Brain - Change Your Body. (ok, before you Grammar Police start mixing it up with the Fat Police, I know you are supposed to underline book titles, but I can't find an "underline" button.) The author is Dr. Daniel G. Amen, M.D. I swear I did not make up that name. But I'm taking it as a sign all the same.

Anyway, Dr. Amen says that the human brain is 80% water, so we need to drink plenty of water. OK. He also says that it uses 20% to 30% of the calories we take in.

Say what?

My brain is running a marathon right now trying to figure out if I just need to think more.

Think, think, think.....

Sort of like jumping rope. You know, jump, jump, jump. (think, think, think)Burn those calories! That's kind of good news, right? Thinking is something we can all do. Yes, some better than others, but we were not put here to judge. And you don't have to get off the couch to do it!

The good doctor Amen goes on to explain that willpower is like a muscle. (Interesting.) The more it is used, the stronger it becomes. Long-term potentiation (LTP) (I am not making this up) is an important concept to understand. What that means is; when nerve cell connections become strengthened, they become potentiated. Whenever we learn something new, (like potentiation) our brains make new connections. The more we practice this "new" learned information, feeling, whatever, the stronger it, the nerve cell connection, becomes.

I'm getting a little worried here, and Dr. Amen knows why. The nucleus accumbens. "The nucleus accumbens provides the passion and motivation that is one of the main drivers of behavior. Additionally, the brain has emotional memory centers that trigger behavior." Deep limpic system (DLS).


Oh, boy.

He says in his book that "according to addiction specialist Mark Laaser, Ph.D., 'the template in the emotional memory centers underlies many behaviors that get out of control' ". I don't know if all that punctuation is correct or not. The grammar police can just lock me up. My neurotransmitters are getting over loaded, anyway.

He further quotes Dr. Laaser as saying that intense, emotionally pleasurable experiences often lay the "neural tracks for later addictions". Before you jump to conclusions, he is talking about any addiction; food or drugs, etc. Because the first experience gets locked into the brain, and the brain seeks to repeat the experience. The nucleus accumbens, a part of the basal ganglia, is where this emotional memory is stored, so to speak. Speak, that is, if you can pronounce any of this stuff.

Now, remember LTP? That occurs, you may recall, when behavior is repeated, thus strengthening that neural pathway. As the tracks to the basal ganglia get stronger, the pathways to and from the pre-frontal cortex (PFC) can actually get weaker. Don't worry there isn't going to be a test.

This isn't a good thing because, according to Dr. Amen's book, the PFC is where the brain functions for Control are located. He actually calls the PFC the brains "Command and Control" center.

Of course the book goes into great detail about the different parts of the brain. And the different parts to the different parts of the brain. Included are pictures of what he calls SPECT scans of brains. I know you are dying to know, so here is what that stands for: Single photon emission computed tomography. For those of you poo-pooing it, that's just your deep limbic system talking.

SPECT scans highlight trouble spots in the brain.

Not to make light of all the scientific terms, here is my summary. As a child someone gives you cake, or candy. (Whatever) (And unfortunately many young people experiment with drugs) Your child self Likes it. And it could be associated with a pleasant activity, further setting and strengthening the neural track in your brain. This is where the doctor admonishes parents for rewarding children with sweet and sugary treats.

Now a new path to the center of your brain has been pleasantly established. Warm memories and candy. (Sugar/Carbs) (Unfortunately for some, drugs)

And you don't know until it's too late that you have set the stage to struggle with your weight/habit the rest of your life.

Least any of you think I was joking about the "fat police", just look at workplace policies and insurance companies. What you will find are rising insurance premiums for the over weight, and increasing job discrimination. The war on drugs now has competition; the war on fat people. Just as the war on drugs turned into a war on the addict, so has the fight against obesity turned ugly for the over weight, or Food Addict.

You know when they say "it's all in your head", they're right. At least according to this book. Dr. Amen does site scientific research and data as well as his own studies conducted at the Amen Clinics, to back his statements.

So, the next time you think you must have that candy bar/cake/drink/bread/or worse, just remember it's probably your basal ganglia screaming at your pre-frontal cortex.

I'll let y'all know what the view from Mt. Everest is like.


Pammy Jo


PS Dr. Amen is also the best selling author of Change Your Brain, Change Your Life, and Magnificent Mind At Any Age. I haven't read any of those books, but I do recommend the one I'm reading now and cited in this blog.

Fear Factor, Moma Style

This is an older musing, from a few years ago, that my online writers group got a kick out of. I did some editing and rewrites.....enjoy

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How many of you have been to one of these mega churches that seem to have sprung up everywhere? I, myself, visited one that my mother joined several years ago. Before I go any further with this story, let me say what a shocker that was. My mother, who was raised in The Church of God, and, despite raising six kids on prayer and pancakes with my dad, who never had two pennies to rub together, still sent Oral Roberts money. That woman joined a contemporary church? I tell you I thought the end was near.

I was toted to the Church of God by the people who took my mother; PaPa and MaMa. So, I have witnessed, no pun intended, the speaking in tongues; the Hallelujahs and Hell fires exploding from the pulpit. Can I get an amen, and y'all come on down to the altar now and get your fire insurance.

Nothing of this sort can be found in these new churches. They have stadium seating, for God's sake. Literally.

The church that my mother joined is huge. It sits off of I-85 in Spartanburg, and was built back in the 1970's. It was talked about at that time mainly in whispers, and with looks that made me think the Anti-Christ had decided to use Spartanburg as a base of operations, and this huge golden tinted church was their NORAD. But my mother didn't walk through those tall doors until the 90's. I'm thinking it was menopause.

I had the opportunity to visit another such church last Sunday. For a year I have been invited to go this church by a friend. But, you know, hello, it's the 21rst century, and the Antis may have decided to move their base of operations from Spartanburg to Anderson! We're only talking about forty-five miles here.


After parking the car at the bottom of what looked like a fifty acre parking lot, I had to pause and wonder if I was at a church or the Carolina-Clemson football game. We entered one of several front doors, and I had a deja-vu moment of walking into the auditorium at Clemson University for a Rod Stewart concert. But that was a blast from the past memory from the 70's. About the time it was rumored the Antis were putting the moves on Spartanburg. And there sat little o' me, in ignorance of it all, with a few thousand of similarly oblivious friends, listening to Rod singing 'Wake up, Maggie'. Talk about irony.

The church I visited Sunday looks nothing like a church, in the traditional sense. And it dwarfs my mother's church. It is a massive structure of square design. There is no steep pitched roof, no steeple reaching toward Heaven, pointing the way, as it were. There is no pulpit, no choir loft. No way to know that you are in fact in church, hoping for redemption, and not at a Rod Stewart concert hoping for things that ought not be talked about while talking about church.

Outside, policemen direct the mounds of traffic into the parking lots, and inside, ushers direct the herds of people to seats. Honestly, if they didn't do this it would be Tuesday before the Sunday services could start.

There is an enormous stage with enough lighting to illuminate a third world country.

This was turning into one big WOW experience.

After the multitudes were seated, I among them, the lights were dimmed (I swear I heard the power lines heave a sigh of relief). It was to be short lived. Suddenly the stage came to life. Wow!(Told you). No, Rod Stewart didn't take the stage, but I do believe some of his band members may have. The music was incredible. No Jim Bob, and his sister, Cindy Lou, come to sing about the Lord here. I have no doubt that those guitars and amplifiers had enough cranking amps to start the jet engines for an air strike similar to that of Desert Storm.

The preacher at this church, unlike the one my mother attended, was young and hip. As God is my witness, he had on blue jeans. I guess that's not a big deal, because as I looked around, most everyone had on blue jeans. Just like the Rod Stewart concert. And there were so many young people.

The young preacher took the stage with the energy of a man on a mission. He said that he wanted everybody all jacked up. This remark, met with thunderous applause, caused everyone else to jump up from their seats, I looked under mine for a lever.

He went on to talk about how he was turned off to Christianity as a child, in part by the fire breathing tactics of many of the ministers. I'm thinking he too was in some those afore mentioned churches selling fire insurance.

He explained the way many Christians seem to become rigid and without joy after salvation. I could see how that might not appeal to some people.

The point I took from this blue jean, T-shirt, no tie wearing young man is that once a church is full of the saved, they don't seem to want the un-saved to cross over their threshold. I pictured a sign over the doors of some churches; "Un-saved need not apply". Happy people either.

As he went on, I began to see the place in a new light, maybe a few mega-watts down from those that were presently burning. I mean, if churches are here only for those whose salvation they deem already secured, what's the work of the church about? If Jesus is tenderly calling, will those answering, and seeking forgiveness face closed minds?

Jesus wore sandals and the garb if His time. Times change. Fashion change. Only His message remains the same.

As the sermon continued, and I do call it a sermon, because he did read from the Bible and clearly conveyed the sense that there is a right and a wrong in life, there was none of the proverbial stepping on toes. That point in the sermon when a preacher would point his finger slowly around the congregation and make everyone feel a little unworthy. The "yes, I'm talking about You" moments that caused members to squirm in their pews. And has caused so much decline in church membership.

The light got a little brighter in my head. If we are all His children, are we not all worthy?

I was starting to think about wearing blue jeans myself to the next service.

The only thing missing, that my mother would probably find "troublesome" was fear. And maybe a flash of guilt. As someone who has been been scared into Heaven by the threat of Hell, I can personally vouch for it's effect. I'm thinking this might be just enough to keep my mother from repeating her menopausal slip of the 1990's, and attend this church.

My mother was no stranger to using both fear and guilt in the raising of her six children. I'm not saying that she was mean, but if someone doing our family tree finds Attila The Hun dangling from a limb, I won't be too surprised.

But it kept us in line. It allowed her to actually take us out in public.

What was it that my mother did that made us fear her just enough not to disobey her. Not openly anyway. The choice was ours. Her stern, "you're going to get it" look? Her "I will embarrass you in front of your friends, and you know it" reputation? The belt she often wore around her neck?

All of the above.

When "do it because I said so, and you love me", doesn't work; fear is the Big Gun Mother's and any religion worth it's Red Sea Salt resort to.

Did we ever disobey my mother? I plead the fifth. But, she always forgave. Most of the time lovingly. (Don't forget ol' Attila hanging from the family tree). And often we felt guilty, well, sometimes. But we never ever doubted her undying love for us. Now there's a lesson for the Fire Insurance Salesmen.

As for the young preacher and his mega church; I'm thinking he could take a lesson or two from my mother, and her great grand pappy Attila.

Just small little signs or warnings. A belt around the neck here, a parting of the Red Sea there.

We have choices, but there are consequences.

Pammy Jo

Jimmy Swaggart's Got A Hold On Me.

I dusted this one off from a past post....

I couldn't sleep past 4 am this morning, thus Sunday came early for me. I got up and decided to start the day. I wish I could say that I set down to write, that my muses were what nudged my nose out from under the covers. But no, not so. I'm not even sure if my muses are speaking to me anymore.

On weekends, when most of us get a break from the pursuit of capitalistic gain, I am at a loss as to what to do with myself in the wee morning hours when other mortals are still blinking with REM. Even the dog won't do more than lift one ear on an early weekend morning. How does he know it's the weekend?

I wandered upstairs, eggs and diet coke in hand, turned on the TV, and logged onto the computer. You never know where inspiration will come from. Certainly not from the treadmill standing and staring at me from across the bonus room. I turn my back on it.

Have you ever seen Jimmy Swaggart on a big screen? Did you even know that he was still around? I didn't. But there he was, still sitting at his piano, softly singing about the loneliness of sin. He is completely white headed now. I couldn't believe my eyes, or my ears, he can actually sing. There was no strutting around on the stage, no pounding the Bible with his hand. Just a white headed man with tan make-up, and face full of serenity, or Botox.

I could not make myself switch channels, mesmerized as I was by this fallen from Grace, and Evangelical TV, storm preacher.

Jimmy Swaggart, just the informal-ness of his name, Jimmy, not Jim, not Mr. Swaggart, makes him seem like a good 'ol boy. Barefoot and ploughing the field one day, called to sing and save the next. And that last name, Swaggart? If that doesn't conjure up images of Cadillacs in trailer parks, you ain't from the South.

The last I time I saw Jimmy he was crying for forgiveness. Literally bawling like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar; and the cookie, one bite missing.

Apparently all is forgiven, and has been for awhile, what do I know? I sort of fell from Evangelical TV myself. After PaPa died, there was no one else I visited that watched it.

Seeing him sitting there at his piano, after all these years, crooning "take my hand, Lord" (keep it out of the cookie jar?) was not the biggest surprise. A surprise that would eclipse the fact that I kept on watching Jimmy. And why did I keep watching this now soft spoken man, who had at last learned to control his facial features?

To my astonishment I realized that Jimmy Swaggart had a hold on me! His face was so earnest, his voice almost velvety. He was looking directly at me. "You don't have to be lonely, you don't. Not if you don't want to be. Not of you don't want to be, you don't." My eyes were glassing over, I could tell. I even forgot about the treadmill rolling its eyes at me. "You don't have to live a life of sin, you don't. You don't." He was slowly, sadly, shaking his head. Wait! Look around you, Jimmy, just about everything in today's society will put you in a Cadillac to Hell!

"Listen now, this is important."

What? Did he hear me? Had I talked out loud? I had to shake my head. It can be a bit eerie to watch Jimmy in the wee hours of the morning.

I came to understand that "listen now..." was his way of driving home a point he was about to make. Sort of his way of breaking the spell, or lull. Whew, I have to admit I was a little relieved.

But the big surprise, the moment that would shock the devil right out of me, which is the point, I suppose, was the next scene. There was Jimmy Swaggart standing in front of a huge color coded map of the Middle East. Not just standing there, as if the map were a nice, if confusing backdrop, sort of like Cadillacs in trailer parks, but holding a pointer in his hand. Jimmy Swaggart college professor? Where was the piano? The choir? Had he moved the show to Oral Roberts U when I wasn't looking?

With that soft voice, that now calmer face, he pointed to the map. His pointer hit on the area, color coded, that would doom us all to death. He was certain of it, serenely so.

He held in his hands a book. Listen now, because this is important. A book that would explain it all. It was a Bible of course. But not just any Bible. This Bible translated the old text using more modern terms typed in RED. Bold type too! For $75 dollars you too could have this book. There was even an 800 number to call and order it. Isn't that just like a good 'ol boy to think of providing a toll free number?

I must have fainted, or blinked, because the next thing I know the piano is back, and the map is gone.

Wait, Jimmy! What was that 800 number?

An Every Day Life. Walking With Cousins

I've been thinking about the term "everyday life", and what it means. As kids, I think it meant waking up each day and doing whatever life threw at you to do. Not whatever you wanted to, otherwise none of us would have ever gone to school. And a lot more candy would have been eaten, and no vegetables at all. Except for playing under the hose in summers, or playing in the creek, most boys would never touch water.

This, my second blog on the topic, is titled "Walking With Cousins", because my cousin, Wanda, was like my sister when we were little girls. I never had a sister, but Wanda did. Nan, if you are reading this, I love you, and I want to officially apologize for some of the mean tricks Wanda and I played on you back then.


Duncan Elementary sat on this little hill, behind D.R. Hill Jr High, in Duncan, SC. I started there my second year of school. A lot of kids walked home from school back then, my cousin Wanda and I did too most days. The problem was that she lived in one direction and I lived in the opposite direction from the school.


On some days the pull to go home with each other was too much to resist. It overpowered our fear of getting in trouble for not asking permission first. What kid can think of Everything in the fast paced mornings of school days? OK, I'm willing to admit, it was probably more my doings that Wanda's. But it was such fun to walk from the school with Wanda, and some of our friends. It's just that the walk wasn't long enough to get all that girl talk out of our systems.



School was a whole lot different back then. There was absolutely no talking in class unless you were called upon by the teacher, and she had a signed affidavit stating that you could in fact open your mouth. Kids were actually afraid to get in trouble at school in the 50's and 60's. It would not have entered our little Southern, mostly Baptist minds to disobey a teacher. And forget a quick whisper in the hallways. Teachers had eyes in the back of their heads, and radar hearing. We were like children of the Zombie's until we stepped outside on the playground. Then, there was jump rope or the merry-go-round, or swings to frantically do before the dreaded Recess Bell rang. And boys (yuk) chasing us. So the talking and dreaming had to be done after school.



The problem was that about an eighth of a mile down the sidewalk from the school, Wanda needed to go left, and I needed to turn right to continue towards home. And you know a girl can't get any serious talking done in that little space of time. Our friend, Marsha, lived across the street from the school, so we had like a nano-second with her. Another thing kids did not do was dawdle on the way home. You really didn't want your parents to come looking for you if you weren't home when you should have been, or if a sibling had already made it.



My mother always told my five brothers and me to "stay together" as we walked home. Fat chance. We all had friends to walk with. So we would meet up in a field a short distance from our house and walk the rest of the way together. That field is where we would usually lose Ronnie. He was a nature lover before it became popular to be one.



I could talk to Wanda about anything and everything. Just as I imagined you would a sister. She was a great listener too. And I have always loved to talk. Those of you reading this who know me, know that is the understatement of the history of the Earth.



On those days when the pull was too much as we reached the turning point in our journey home, I usually would make the left turn with Wanda, and cross the railroad tracks that sliced the road and led to places we never thought about.



Walking with my cousin, as young girls, I only thought about wherever she was. And maybe this place called OZ, but that was somewhere over the rainbow, not the railroad tracks.



Pammy Jo

An Every Day Life

I was thinking about the way we lived our lives as children, and the way life seemed to be lived back in the 50's and 60's, and the term "everyday life" came to mind. So I thought I would blog a few times around that concept. So, enjoy this first one, The Recess Bell.




In a time when my world was as small as I was, and my thoughts as limited as the streets and yards of my hometown, and Saturday night television, I pretty much thought I was the center of that small world. It seemed as though nothing could function without my own personal involvement.


"Pam, get up! You can't be late for school!" This from my mother pierced my morning slumber for nine months out of twelve. Maybe it was a little payback for nine months of pregnancy, I don't know. I should note that my mother never, ever called me 'Pammy'. And she was always Mother. She did the best she could with six kids and five dollars, but she just wasn't the mommy type of mother. She was more the Queen Bee type. But that's another blog.


Obviously school couldn't start without me. Otherwise, why the rush? And the ordeal continued at school. If I didn't turn in my homework (how did That work with the child labor laws?) no one got go out for recess! If I didn't line up for lunch, no one got to go to the cafeteria to eat. Fortunately, I was a trooper, and Duncan Elementary never lost a student to starvation. And speaking of school lunches, what about truth in advertising? Except for the hot dogs and chocolate cake we had every Friday, I'm not sure what food category that stuff would fall into.

Speaking of recess, I sincerely believe that the recess bell is the reason kids back then had nightmares. That shrill, shrieking, clanging, point 10 on the Richter scale bell struck terror in everyone, including the teachers. I saw with my own eyes kids jump out of a swing in mid air, from 1000 feet up, when the Recess Bell rang. No one knew what would actually happen if you didn't get back to the classroom and in your Seat by the time it stopped ringing, but, knowing my role in the universe, I was often one of those kids jumping out the swing!

By the sixth grade my world had expanded a little bit, and the burdens of the world were less frightening, except for that Recess Bell. I watched, briefly, one morning from the steps of the school as a frantic mother tried to pull her first grader from the car. The child was kicking and screaming and had a death grip on the car door. I could only smile knowingly, and with sympathy of course. I knew how hard it was to be the center of your known world.

Dirt Roads, the First Frontier

I have always had a fascination with dirt roads. If space is the final frontier, then these old rutted paths can be called the first frontier, where many men have gone before. Maybe it's really a love of the past that attracts me to the winding roads, now disappearing from most landscapes.

I titled my blog, Musings From A Dirt Road Girl, partly because I lived on a dirt road a long time ago. But, also, because to muse one must think and reflect; to redirect one's attention inward, backward, down old paths. Down some old dirt road winding through your memories.

So, many of my posts will be from a time when I was Pammy Jo to my grandparents, a barefoot girl on most summer days, and one of six kids, the only girl at that. A time when imagination was my best friend, well, along with my dog, Bobo.

Hello, Blog World, glad I found you!

Well, finally! I had my blog at Yahoo, and for the usual reasons (procrastination) I did not "migrate" or whatever I was supposed to do when Yahoo decided to blog no more. I have lost all my brilliant musings from previous posts , but I will forge ahead and look at this as a new adventure!

After all, us dirt road girls are used to over coming!

PammyJo