A Christmas Story...

It was Tadg’s first Christmas… the Yellow Lab I got in October 2003, who grew by the hour those first several months.

To answer the question I know you're thinking… Tadg was the name of one of 14 sons to King Olliol Ollum who ruled Co. Tipperary in Ireland around 1000 B.C. My great grand mother had gotten me started on our genealogy by having our family roots researched and had traced our family back to this King. I always thought it was a cool name, and therefore named my dog Tadg (rhymes with badge). So…

I had traveled to my parents for the holiday to spend the usual every other Christmas celebration with family arriving from all over. Many of us stayed at mom and dad’s while the main day celebration was at another relative’s home about two hours away. With the large number of people for the main dinner Tadg was left at home to protect the tree, and hopefully not water it in our absence. As the dinner feast settled in my stomach I kept a close eye on my watch as it ticked closer to the expiration of a young dog’s bladder. Those in Turkey comas were awakened and given coffee and a rush of sugar on a plate. After the gift exchange was conducted by the youngest in the family, adorned with a Santa hat of course, I signaled the family traveling with me it was time. Leftovers were divided up and everything packed back into the bags they came in. Coats gathered at the door, the engines were running and we were back on the road. The drive home reminisced the previous hours spent with the family. The “Did she tell you about,” “did you hear he,” and “hasn’t he grown” conversation made sure everyone was on the same page. The time passed with conversation and music and we eventually pulled into the drive at my parents home. I made it quickly to the house through the garage to give the young pup his reprieve.

I got as far as the kitchen island and I could already hear him galloping around the living room with his tags jingling like he was some sort of reindeer. You’d have thought he was in some sort of race as he dashed around the couches, his nails just gripping the Berber carpet. I noticed from the corner of my eye something on the floor kind of strewn there and not recognizable... small pieces of wood and what looked like tree branches. My dad escorted Tadg outside and left me to reveal the identity of what ever this was. After closer inspection and utilizing skills learned from the few CSI shows I have seen in my life, I reached my verdict. In all my life under the Christmas tree sat a nativity scene and a clay animal. The clay adolescent artwork I had made for my mom I think in elementary school. Although I can’t remember what animal it was supposed to be, to me it always looked like a brownish-orange rat with a shinny glazed coat. But I made it for mom one year, and so there is sat every holiday to protect the holy icons of the nativity scene. That year though the rat or what ever it is (I've been informed it's a donkey) failed miserably. Now with mini-mom and Auntie M (that’s what I call them) helping me, I gathered the pieces of the nativity scene that was given to my dad by the priest that presided over the church he grew up in… the church in which he was an altar boy… and the same priest that married my parents. The search party looked through the room and collectively came up with Mary… with a little drool… Joseph… a bit chewed up… and three wise men. After running Tadg for a bit my dad came back in the house and questioned as to the mess the dog had made. When the mystery was revealed you could see in his eyes the disappointment, and my heart sank. We still though were on a search… our young savior was missing.

The search went on into the night but came up empty as the baby Jesus was no where to be found. However a partially eaten bag of Christmas colored Hershey Kisses was discovered near the fireplace. This latest discovery alarmed me as everyone knows chocolate is no friend to dogs. The hunt for baby Jesus quickly went cold and I made my way to a computer to find the number of the nearest vet, or any animal care giver that could be reached at 10 pm on Christmas night. With the size of Tadg and the amount he ate I was assured he would be alright, just a little hyper, and to keep an eye on him. Now take one sixty pound- four month old lab… then add some Hershey’s kisses, Christmas colored of course… and you’ve got yourself a big mess! For the next day or so it was like having a drooling Tasmanian devil running amuck. Well, time went on as the family was put on an amber alert for the still missing baby Jesus. Everyone who has ever had a puppy knows what a handful they can be, even little terrors at time. It was now evident though that my precious little puppy was indeed the anti-Christ. Walks with Tadg turned investigative to see if maybe baby Jesus would show up in the gifts he left in the yard, now sparkling from the candy wrappers. Days turned into nights, and still no baby Jesus.

A few nights later while we played Turbo Cranium at the dinner table, Tadg laid at my feet as he always does. The game was suddenly interrupted as a noticeable sound came from under the table. That recognizable heaving sound that every parent and dog owner knows. Suddenly the search was over as Tadg yakked up the baby Jesus, reborn unto us three days after he had gone missing. Now I’m not sure if you would consider it a joyful moment, but at least our questions and days of searching were over. With the family living so far apart it’s rare that we can all get together, but this Christmas Tadg made it special by giving us a two for one on our holiday celebrations. Happy Holidays!

A few of my favorite things...

I heard that song yesterday somewhere between usual Saturday errands and some last minute holiday shopping. The following is an excerpt from a book I've been writing for the last four years entitled "Great Grand Dad's Rocking Chairs." One of these days I'll finish it but it seems the only time I ever find to write is when I am there. I'll trade in rain drops on roses, and whiskers on kittens any day for this...

"It’s often said that a single smell can sometimes conjure up certain memories. But in this case, for me, it not only encompasses memories of times spent here but also a mental and physical state of mind. The journey in getting here is a long and somewhat tedious one but once here the senses trigger the mind into an altered state. Since no one lives here full time she is often left to her own, closed up tight to weather the elements, also sealing in her own unique smell… a rustic bouquet of early American wrought iron beds, decade old goose down pillows and the muskiness of old fishing equipment. To some it may seem unpleasant. Heck even I have tried to cover it up with a quick trip through the house with a spray bottle of Febreeze, and the urge to open a few windows and give her a breath of fresh air. But in a nearly century old cottage with a skin of cedar shake and interior lined with knotty yellow pine it’s just one of the natural characteristics of this old country girl. Once those initial aromas process in my mind a second group begins to release immediately from my memory, or it is from the kitchen? Even in their physical absence I can smell the lingering hints of country breakfasts with fresh baked biscuits, smoked sausage, and old fashioned mill grain grits… shrimp and crab boils, regional style barbeque, iron skillet corn bread and the fresh baked chocolate chip cookies that send all the relatives into a frenzy like sharks at a feeding. In some ways escaping the daily rat race of living in Atlanta and coming here is like escaping time itself… a quick journey back to a time when things were simpler… easier. There’s not much need for modern conveniences and you learn what human life truly needs in order to thrive. Over five generations of family and friends have set up camp here. Images in both color and black and white portray a lot of the same activities, and the images of the people only a slight aged mirror reflection of each other. Whether it’s lounging on the porch, fishing off the piers or swimming in the breakers some things never change. It’s become a lazy man’s paradise out here born on tradition. And knowing that generations before me have gazed out the same windows or felt the same breezes rush by them makes me feel while here alone for now, I’m at home and in good company."

~this last photo through the trees is the view from my room~

"When the dog bites
When the bee stings
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad"

A few weekend sights...

On a weekend hiking trip I got stuck behind a truck on the swaying hills just north of Dahlonega. I took a side street and off I was into another weekend adventure.

Oakland Cemetary

On an autumn stroll through the historic graveyard with residents the like of Margaret Mitchell and Bobby Jones, the sometimes too obvious shows you there is so much life and expression where most people only see death. Statues come to life as one mourns yet another shows its innocence in the arms of St Anthony. Children are protected from skies that bear so little rain these days, and even the water lines are weary.

Christmas in a small town....

As my family and friends know, there is a little corner of the world where I like to get away from it all. It’s a place where you can almost escape time itself, and certainly the rat race of living in a big city. No need for modern conveniences. No need for much of anything except a good rocking chair and a cup of French roast in the morning to watch the water weave between tides and currents. Life is shared and family history told as Brown Pelicans, Blue Heron and Seagulls fight over real estate on the storm battered piers. The caffeine rush here does nothing more than maybe get that rocking chair to go a little faster, and even that can be a stretch of wishful thinking. It’s been an escape for the family built on tradition, and the last several years our Thanksgiving has made itself home on these banks.

Through some back country roads on Saturday evening, passing corn and cotton fields with the speckling of yards piled high with crab traps, I find my way to a waterfront community rich in history. Down the main drag lined with historic turn of the century homes raised for protection from storm surges, a prominent old brick building sticks out piercing the sky with an American and North Carolina State flag. The five story brick and cedar shake structure hovers over the town housing their City Hall, the local Police Department and a museum all in one. A few feet further the intersection of Main and Pamlico Streets… and you’re in downtown Belhaven. Last year was the first time I got to attend the Belhaven Holiday Parade. Even with a “Nor Easter” pounding the area the day before most people were carving their birds, dozens showed up to the parade zigzagging through the still partially flooded streets. Hot apple cider was served out of a store with its pink and silver decorations more a testament to big city living in contrast to the bait and tackle, hardware and other water front shops beside it. I must say I was in awe last year as I watched the parade of this small community go by. Very few of us will ever get to enjoy the down home holiday celebration of a town so down to earth and basic in its needs.

This year I observed the parade in a much different light. Not so much a comparison, but to enjoy the down home goodness of a people celebrating the season in their own unique style. People begin to gather on the corners while others park their cars facing the street to avoid getting out and into the cold. The white glare of fluorescents spills onto the sidewalk from a “laundro-mat” while a mother and her daughter sit in the window watching the commotion. Cops act like barricades and emergency vehicles from the neighboring towns help start the parade, ending the live nativity scene paired with the bluegrass sounds of the season from a local band. This year a twelve piece marching band made its way down Main, each member with their own illuminated instruments. I’m thinking these were the same kids from last years R.O.T.C. squad, as there was no marching band last year, but a musical collaboration of elders riding on a trailer pulled through town. A bright yellow Hummer from an obviously prosperous real estate agency and mobile pews from various religious beliefs trickle through under the sparse decorations of the main intersection. In the distance the bellowing horns of semis rumbled towards me as a faint glair of their decorations came into sight. Seven in all with lights, bows and every other holiday decoration imaginable, crept passed me with a mechanical purr. I waited in anticipation as I knew Santa was the usual grand finale. Last year he glided through town at the helm of a twenty two foot fishing boat being pulled by a Dodge, a true sign of the lively hood of these people. But this year Santa was high atop the crane of a utility truck… passing by, barely clearing the traffic signals and power lines. The modest crowd cheered, Santa passed by waving, and in less than twenty minutes after the first siren squalled, it was over. The spectators quickly returned to their cars and within minutes the faint celebration resembled the passing pirate ghost ships of folklore that sail these same waters. Glancing back to the main brick structure the brilliant full moon peered through the clouds in an early night sky.