The Geography of My Career, Part One

Since sharing my twentieth anniversary working for the Department of Veterans Affairs, last week, a number of people have asked about my career; where I lived, what I’ve done, why I’m always seemingly on the move?  I will share my career which, as you will see, is a mix of hard work, gypsy blood, false bravado masking low self-esteem, an unending search for self-development, a smattering of delusion, and a heaping portion of God’s grace. 

When I applied for my first VA job (in Biloxi, Mississippi), I wasn’t entirely sure what the VA even was.  The Dad was a veteran, but he had never gone to the VA for anything.  We hadn’t owned a home until I was in college, and I know he didn’t use a VHA loan to buy it.  I just knew I needed a temporary job to earn enough money to go back and finish the final semester of my master’s degree at Ole Miss and head off into my intended career in Student Services at a university.  I was meant to be the best Dean of Students in history, in my opinion, so this was merely a pit stop in that particular race.

In June of 1999, I applied as a clerk in the Insurance Billing department, armed with my Business Minor from MUW.  Unsurprisingly I was not selected for that position, but the manager of that department, Rebecca (Becky) Gustin, saw something she liked in my resume and recommended me to the Chief of Human Resources for a vacancy he had.  I received a phone call asking if I would like to work in HR for the VA.  I accepted immediately and prepared for my interview that next week.  

I arrived bright and early and walked into HR.  There I met two women, Elaine Cooper and Nita Gross, who would be pivotal in my life for the next four years.  I called them my Mamas  They asked if I needed assistance.  I told them I thought I was there to interview for a position, but wasn’t completely sure.  Elaine said, “Well, we were told that a new young man was joining our office.  Have a seat.  If they come in to take you to your interview, then you’ll know.  If they come in and give you paperwork to fill out, just fill it out and hush.”  A few minutes later a woman came into the office, handed me a stack of papers and told me to fill them out.  I looked over to Ms. Elaine and she put her finger to her lips to shush me and gestured that I should start filling everything out.  Apparently, I wasn’t going to have to interview.  

I spent the next 90 days trying to do a great job but also trying to figure out how to stay at the VA.  I loved my co-workers and the mission of the VA.  I liked helping people who helped people, with the added bonus of working for a ‘company’ that wouldn’t go out of business.  It’s the government, I thought, if they run out of money, they can just print more, right?

When it was time to return to school, I wasn’t in position to move to Oxford.  I told them of my degree and that I was within a semester of finishing my masters and Diane Sicuro (another of my Mamas) offered me a spot in a program called the Student Career Experience Program (SCEP).  Cindy Jackson (another of my Mamas, noted I had a bachelor’s degree and when they placed me in the SCEP program, I got my first promotion from a GS-4 to a GS-5).  I contacted the school and was told that I could transfer up to two classes from another school and still earn my MA from Ole Miss.  I registered for one class at the University of Southern Mississippi’s Gulf Coast class and registered for my last class at Ole Miss, working virtually, under the direction of the head of my department. 

The only problem was I had no car to get to class.  God took care of that as we discovered Ms. Nita lived right behind the campus and drove me to class every Wednesday night.  After class I would eat dinner and do my homework, waiting for my brother and his wife to pick me up after church.  All of this while I was also working 30 hours a week as an Assistant Manager at the McDonald’s outside the west gate of Keesler Air Force Base, where my brother was stationed.  People who say they don’t have time for things, make me chuckle.  You find time for the things that are important to you, he said from atop his unsteady soapbox.

I worked very hard to become indispensable as I had decided I wanted to stay.  Once I finished my program, I had the opportunity to be converted to a regular employee, but they had to make their decision within 120 days of my graduation.  I was nervous as things seemed to be stalled with my new boss who hadn’t known me very long.  The gentleman who hired me had left for a job at Toyota and I had a new Chief (which is what we call a department head in the VA) who was a lady, which is my preference.  I’d rather work with women than men.  I don’t know if it’s the effect or graduating from a predominately female college, but I find that women usually make better collaborators.

I know it wasn’t, but it felt like they waited until the 119^th day to make their decision.  In April of 1999, I became a permanent employee of the Department of Veterans Affairs, working as a Clerk in the Processing and Records section of Human Resources.  After about six months, I was moved to the Recruitment and Staffing section working with Diane Sicuro who I thought was just about the fanciest federal employee I had ever met.  To really date myself, one of my first tasks was to make flyers and assure applicants that the brand new USAJobs website was a legitimate recruiting platform and their resume wouldn’t just disappear into the ether.

I think God wanted me to really appreciate the opportunity I had been given because for the next year I had to tell people like me (non-veterans) every day and tell most of them that they weren’t eligible to even apply for a position.  SCEP is one of very few avenues for non-clinical non-veterans to get into the VA.

Not too long after this, I met a woman who would have the most profound impact of my career, outside of my own mother; Jackie Collins, not the author.  Jackie was the Chief of Prosthetics, a native of Arkansas and a veteran.  She was also loud and funny and generous.  She had requested someone to help her during a time when we were preparing for our triennial inspection from the Joint Commission.  My new supervisor, The Great Speckled Bird (GSB) didn’t like the fact that I wasn’t a veteran; at the time, the only male employee in HR who wasn’t.  He was clear that he didn’t think I should be allowed to work at the VA.  When I pointed out there were numerous women in HR who weren’t veterans, he countered that women were not important for him to form an opinion about their military service.  He was that guy.    

When Jackie asked HR for someone to help, GSB generously volunteered me, saying, “Take Dustin, we won’t miss him.”  GSB thought he was hurting me, but God was in control of the situation.  Jackie and I immediately bonded while we got the files for the Home Oxygen program in order. 

Prosthetic and Sensory Aids within the VA means something much broader than in the private sector.  Of course, Prosthetics means artificial limbs, but this department provides everything that a veteran would use in the home from shoes, eyeglasses and wheelchairs to artificial hips and knees, pacemakers and computers.  It includes items of daily living such as reachers, long-handled mirrors for diabetics to check their feet for cuts or sores, blood pressure monitors, shower chairs and back, knee and wrist braces.  For the wheelchairs (manual and power) we also provide lifts to carry them inside or outside of a vehicle and ramps to get you into your house.  We will also adapt a vehicle you own or helping you purchase an already adapted vehicle through the Veterans Benefits side of the VA, if you need it.  We provide oxygen for your home, CPAPs for sleep apnea and ventilators for other respiratory issues, and iPhones and iPads to those with visual or cognitive impairments who use them to communicate.  We provide wheelchairs that can be operated by hand, a finger, someone’s breath, even eye-movements, depending on the need.  These items are provided free of charge with no co-pays to any veteran.

I didn’t know then that Prosthetic and Sensory Aids, would be where I would spend the next fourteen years.  I stepped into my role as Administrative Officer (AO), which was a GS-7/9 position and it was supervisory.  I hadn’t been a supervisor in the government, so I used my supervisory experience at McDonald’s to meet that requirement.  Part-time supervision for two years is equivalent to one year of fulltime supervision.  God knew I needed that experience when I had no clue.  He provided the opportunity and the nudge, which gave me a chance to develop my skills.  I wasn’t thinking this job was anything other than a way to earn extra money and be able to customize my Big Mac using fried chicken or quarter pounder patties, if I was so inclined.  Full disclosure:  I was inclined, fairly regularly. 

The interview panel referred me to Jackie as one of the finalists and she chose me as her AO, which is something like an office manager.   She trained me on everything she knew, holding back nothing in the way of program specifics as well as mentoring on how to be a great leader and collaborator.  My low self-esteem caused me to be harsh with my staff as I felt meeting our metrics was more important than their happiness.  I was desperate to be successful in a job that, at my core, I wasn’t sure I deserved, so I had to be the best, to prove that I deserved it.  Jackie was the one who told me to “stop being a jerk” when I started using my father as a role model for dealing with staff.  He had always been a supervisor and told me that you’re not supposed to care if your staff like you, but ‘running a crew’ building oil derricks and supervising federal employees in an office setting are just the tiniest bit different.  Jackie got right to the point.  She told me, over cherry root beers from the Sonic, “You don’t need to focus on whether or not your staff like you, but you should be concerned that they respect you enough to listen to you.  You’re kind of an ass, Dustin Terryll.”  Message received. 

Around that same time, I applied for a local leadership program and was told by a member of the interview panel, they felt I didn’t have leadership potential.  I was hurt by that but decided I did, in fact, have potential and I just needed to work harder to prove them wrong.  At the same time, I resigned from McDonald’s as Prosthetics began taking over my spare time.  The department in Biloxi was in terrible shape and Jackie had been brought in to fix it.  We started working 10-12 hours a day, sometimes six days a week to get it where it needed to be, hiring the right people, training them and making sure they had the support and tools they needed to succeed. 

Jackie demonstrated servant leadership every day.  She inspired loyalty in her staff and the veterans loved her.  She was kind but firm; she expected a lot but would work right along side you, cheering you on and feeding you just like a Southern Mama does.  From Jackie I learned the value of having fun while working hard and showing appreciation to staff in small ways; something as simple as bringing in donuts or organizing a potluck lunch for team building. 

After two years working together and learning everything I could (including how to be less obnoxious), Jackie felt I was ready to run my own service and pushed me to apply as a Chief of Prosthetics, but somewhere small, so I could dip my toe into the water before taking a big plunge.  When I thought about where I wanted to live, it just so happened to be at a cook-out on Labor Day weekend in Biloxi which feels like you are roughly six inches from the equator.  “I would love to live some place where I wouldn’t sweat,” I said to myself and my cook-out companions.  Someone laughed and said, “Alaska is about the only place you wouldn’t sweat Dusty.”  I logged onto USAJobs.com and found most of the Chief jobs were GS-12s; as a GS-9, I wasn’t eligible to apply.  I needed a GS-11, but those are few and far between.  I kept checking, however, and one day, lo and behold there was a vacancy for a GS-9/11 Chief of Prosthetics in Anchorage, Alaska.  Sometimes when God shuts a door, he turns on an air conditioner, y’all.

Watergate Salad

                Being 27 and single in a Southern Baptist Church leaves you in a nebulous category unmet by the confines of Sunday School offerings.  I’m too old to feel a connection with the other members of the College and Career class, as it is more college than career; most people my age are married and in the Young Couple’s class.  I’m far too young to really fit in with what I call the Old Man class as they are, at the youngest, in their early 60s.  I am theoretically an outcast.  I could teach a class of junior high or high school boys, but what am I going to teach someone about Jesus, having only truly given my life to Christ in the last year.  I was baptized in 4^th grade, but only out of fear, when my church watched the end-times movie, Like a Thief in the Night.  I suppose I could fake it, but I don’t think that’s a great premise to share the love of God, do you?

                I attend Parkview Baptist Church and I am a full-fledged member of the Adult Choir.  I sing tenor, if that’s important for you to know.  I am the only member of the choir who is under the age of 50, apart from Christine Holly, a single young lady who shares an adjacent age bracket, which is uncommon here in Whispering Pines, Mississippi, about 20 minutes west of Hattiesburg.  Parkview was aptly named 50 years ago when there was a park to view.  These days there is only a view of the grocery store in the shopping center, but we keep the name as apparently Piggily Wiggily Baptist Church would be a trademark infringement.

                I mention Ms. Holly not solely because she is the only other junior vocalist in the choir; she is also the reason I am in the situation I currently find myself, which is a food crisis.  Ms. Holly is 25, having just completed her reign as Miss Perry County after a Top Ten placement at the Miss Mississippi Pageant last summer.  A talented vocalist, she and I frequently find ourselves partnered, especially at Christmas, being the only two young enough to convincingly portray Mary and Joseph in the duet, Breath of Heaven. 

                We often joke about being the 'babies' of the choir when we share coffee after practice at the little café across the street from the church.  I would love to share dinner or a movie or anything that would move me from ‘choir buddy’ to ‘boyfriend’ but it seems Christine doesn’t have eyes for me.  Or at least she doesn’t seem to; I’m not good at reading those things.  My mother always said I was handsome, but I’m thinking she was biased.  I once asked my older brother, Ethan, if I was good-looking and he only laughed and said, “Not as good looking as me.”  

                In an effort to appear more adult-like, I signed up to bring a homemade dessert to the potluck at church.  It seems like a line to cross from young person to adult; bringing food instead of just eating it.  I don’t want to be the one who never brings anything.  People will talk about you.  I don’t know if that will make a difference to Christine, but it’s worth a try.  And it has to be homemade.  Even bachelor’s can’t get away with bringing something store-bought to a potluck.  It’s just not done, at least not a Baptist Church.  I tried to think of something that would be delicious and easy and impressive, and I remembered my mother used to take Watergate Salad and it was a fairly simple recipe and included pecans, the most grown-up of the nut family. I wrote it on the sign-up sheet and my choice was blessed by Ms. Leotha, after she quizzed me on the origin of the recipe.  She seemed comforted to know it was from a good old Southern Baptist family. 

                Some people call this recipe Pistachio Salad, but most know it by its scandal-adjacent nickname, Watergate Salad, possibly because it was invented during the winddown of Nixon’s Presidency.  There are only a few ingredients including pistachio pudding, cool whip, pineapple and pecans.  Should be a breeze to make, even though I don’t have a recipe card in front of me.  I mean, how hard could it be?

                I go to the Piggily Wiggily and buy the ingredients and remain loyal to this recipe even though I discover pecans are really expensive.  Well, expensive to me.  I’m just starting out my career and am working as a clerk in Human Resources at the hospital.  It’s a great first job but the pay isn’t great, so I must be on a budget even though Mississippi isn’t an overly expensive state.  I set about to make the dessert, so it can refrigerate overnight as my mother did.

                After I made the pudding (per the directions on the box) and added the rest of the ingredients, I noticed something was wrong.  It looked…off.  It wasn’t fluffy and light.  It looked like green pudding with fruits and nuts; a weird unappetizing green.  This would not pass muster with Ms. Leotha, much less Ms. Minnie or any of the other members of the Hospitality Committee. 

                My mother served on the Hospitality Committee, too, and it was her I needed to call to see what was wrong.  I reached for the phone and realized I couldn’t call her; she’s been gone for almost three years.  She died at 54, way too young and it hasn’t quite registered.  I wonder if it ever will.  Every couple of weeks I need to talk to her and I reach for the phone and then realize what I’m doing.  I upsets me and embarrasses me, and I usually end up calling my sister-in-law Michelle instead.  She was close to my mother and it sometimes feels like I’m talking to my mom when I talk to her.

                Needing some cooking advice, I go ahead and call Michelle.  When my mother died, Michelle got her recipe box as she was the only female on our side, sons being the mark of the Fortenberry family.  I figured if anyone could help me with a recipe, even from five hours away in Columbus, it would be Michelle.  She and I have been friends longer than she and my brother, Ethan, have been together as I met her one night at a fraternity party at Ole Miss and I introduced them the next morning at breakfast.

                Michelle and my mother were like partners in crime; both loved Jesus, coffee and chocolate, in that order.  People sometimes ask how they were so close, as Michelle is somewhat liberal, and my mother was so conservative.  One thing people don’t realize is my mother was, in all actuality, and not for political advancement, a compassionate conservative.  She truly loved people; she didn’t get into the specifics of their lifestyle.  She always said, “That’s between them and Jesus.  We’re supposed to love everyone.”  In the early 80s, when Evangelicals abandoned the Democratic Party to support Reagan and never returned, she remained a staunch Democrat the rest of her life.  The only time she was even remotely judgmental was when it came to food, especially food that would be on display at a Baptist Church potluck, the religious equivalent of a trial by jury; not twelve angry men but twelve experienced and opinionated women, blessed by the Lord with culinary prowess.

                My mother was one of the anointed.  I know this because she was allowed to bring an entrée if she desired.  Not just anyone can do that, particularly if you have one of the Deacons who is skilled at roasting or grilling a variety of animals; vegetarians, Baptists are not.  And there is a hierarchy that plays into who can bring what and you must pass muster, or you will be denied.  Those who in the highest rankings get first right of refusal.  They are either known for their particular item (Andrea O’Quinn’s rolls, Linda Bell Moore’s broccoli casserole or Mary Nell Herrington’s potato salad) or have the ranking to bring what they want, or even, in a rare and shocking show of power, bring nothing at all. 

My mother was famous for side dishes and desserts as she was not inclined to put as much money and time into an entrée, unless it was a quick, inexpensive casserole.  When you have a reputation, people ask specifically for your dish and depending on their rank, they get what they want.  My mother’s Watergate Salad was always on the list as Fred Rushing, Chair of the Deacons, was a huge fan.  Mother always took him a small bowl to take home, just for him.  She always told him with a grin that he didn’t have to share it with anyone, even his wife, Ruth Ellen. 

                Anyone new and untested was asked to bring drinks or store-bought rolls, which is the only acceptable store-bought item besides napkins.  May God truly bless your heathen heart if you bring store-bought cookies, which will be served only to the children and only after a series of head shakes and tsk-tsking has taken place.  That I was allowed to bring a dessert was a sign that either (1) they were much more liberal here in Shady Elms or (2) they assumed an unmarried man would bring store-bought cookies, which would save them the judgment as men in the Baptist Church are usually offered a full portion of grace when it comes to such things.  However, I was determined to impress everyone, most especially the lovely, angelic Christine.  If I didn’t shame myself or my family, the Hostess Committee would tell ever single female in the church what a catch I was, and this sort of divine intervention would be more than welcomed.  

                It’s not my goal to have Trey Fortenberry’s Watergate Salad always expected at future potlucks.  I just want to show I can take care of myself and, possibly, someone else. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach but I’m hoping it’s the same for a woman.  Christine doesn’t strike me as the type who has any inclination to cook.  This will show her she doesn’t have to worry about that with me around.  Time to consult those in the know.

                When Michelle answered the phone, I asked if she had ever made Watergate Salad and she admitted she hadn’t, but said she thought she had my mother’s recipe card.  We chatted while she looked for it and when she found it, she read the instructions out loud and we both laughed when we realized I was supposed to sprinkle the dry pudding mix on the Cool Whip instead of actually making the pudding.  I winced at my mistake thinking about how much it was going to cost to but more pecans. 

                I told Michelle, “I feel so stupid for making that mistake.  I don’t want to bring shame on the Fortenberry name.”

                Michelle just laughed and said, “Your mother always told me if I made a mistake in a recipe and it was still edible and not embarrassing that I should just tell anyone who asks that it’s an old family recipe.”

                “Really?” I said, not quite believing my mother would have said that.

                “Yes.  As long as it’s delicious, it won’t (she laughed) bring shame on the family.”

                “I find it hard to believe mistakes can be yummy.”

                “Do you like my banana pudding?”

                “Well, yeah.  It’s the best I’ve ever had,” I said, hastily adding, “Don’t tell Aunt Angie.”

                “Well, it was a mistake.  I accidentally added sour cream instead of Cool Whip, way back before Ethan and I got married.”

                “Really?  It’s so delicious.”

                “Yes, it is,” she laughed.  “Your mother said to pretend it was an old family recipe from North Mississippi.”

                “Well, then I’ll just take what I made.”

                Michelle laughed and said, “Oh no, what you described sounds awful.  Don’t shame the family.”

                I’m headed back to the Piggily Wiggily now for more pecans.  I’ll let you know how it goes.  Say a prayer if you think it’ll help.

When a Belle Robs a Bank

                My son Spencer likes to compare me to Sally Fields’s character, M’Lynne (from Steel Magnolias).  All Southern women have a little bit of each of the characters deep inside, even ornery ol’ Ouiser, but out of the cast, I suppose I am most like resilient and calm, M’Lynne, with one notable exception.  My hair is not a brown football helmet; it is ash blonde, courtesy of Miss Clairol every three months or so.  I can’t afford to go to the beauty shop for anything other than a basic cut these days.  Since my husband, Mac, hurt his back working on an off-shore oil rig, our finances have been tighter than normal, and they weren’t very loose in the best of times.  We used to live smack dab in the middle of middle class, we now reside in the upper reaches of the lower class.  Fortunately, we live in a small southwest Mississippi town where few are visibly wealthy, and people are more apt to not treat you any differently if you seem ‘not poor’.

                We are what I call ‘well’; well-spoken, well-fed and well-dressed, in the sense we are always clean and pressed.  No one really knows we have money issues, except the bank, our landlord, the Treasurer at First Baptist Church (who sees our tithe check) and the secretary at the school where Spencer and Olivia, my youngest daughter, secretly eat reduced-rate lunches.  By secretly I mean, their weekly lunch cards look just like everyone else’s.  My oldest daughter, Catherine, refuses to eat lunch in the cafeteria; instead she uses the money she earns from her part-time job at Robinson’s, the only clothing store in our town of less than 2,500.  Catherine, not a big eater to begin with, subsists on Doritos and Diet Sprite because, and I quote, “Only children and dorks eat in the cafeteria.”  And, yes, she means Spencer is a dork, at least in her world, where the only people that matter are, sometimes me and Jesus, but mostly only her best friend Claire and boyfriend Joel.

                As both Catherine and Spencer are in high school (Senior and Sophomore, respectively) they are unfortunately very aware of our reduced finances and dealing with it as best they can.  Children shouldn’t have to worry about money and Mac and I try to keep it from them but there are only so many times you can hear, “We can’t afford that” before you realize something has changed.  This couldn’t have come at a worse time as Senior Years are expensive and Spencer, my little genius, keeps getting academic awards and invitations to pre-college programs and these require, at the very least, travel and money for food.  It costs money to be that smart and most honor students are from wealthier families, at the very least middle class.  I’ll be the first to admit a welder and a homemaker who didn’t finish college aren’t typically the parents of someone invited to take college courses while a sophomore in high school.

                This is where I find myself today, a reliably normal Wednesday, but normal only in the sense that in our town everything closes at noon on Wednesday, so people can attend night services at church.  I am unsure of the percentage that actually does this, but it is a tradition and we will stick by a tradition whether it makes sense or not.  I have to figure out how to pay for this program at Mississippi State University that has invited Spencer to take college classes this summer.  Mac calls it a 'Smart Kid Camp'.  Even though he received a partial scholarship due to his grades and extracurricular activities, we still have to pay for room and board as he will live in the dorm in Starkville for eight weeks and that is around $500, a lot of money in 1993.  My excitement for him has been tempered by the knot in my stomach that any talk of money continuously tightens.  Spencer didn’t want to tell me he got accepted but he was too excited.  When he did tell me, the look on his face was painful to see; like he was waiting for me to dash his hopes and tell him we couldn’t afford it.

                I’m a Christian and I pray every day and I know God provides for our needs but it’s something I struggle with especially since Mac is pessimistic and angry at our circumstances and blames himself and even God.  Trying to keep him on an even keel and putting on a smile for the kids saps my energy and normally optimistic outlook, leaving me with a lessened faith.  As my Daddy would say, “It’s hard to put lipstick on a pig”, but I am as determined as a Mary Kay consultant trying to get her pink Cadillac.  That pig will wear this lipstick, voluntarily or otherwise; not unlike my cousin Willadean on her wedding day.  I told Spencer his Daddy and I would take care of it, telling God in the same breath, “You’re up to bat!”

                Mac and I discussed the situation, behind the closed door of our bedroom, and decided we would have to go to the bank to ask for a small loan.  Even though I wasn’t experienced in doing this, we agreed I would handle the possibility of a “No” better than Mac, who might revert to his heathen ways and try to fight someone.  With his back injury, his bark is definitely worse than his bite, but that bark might make you hurt yourself trying to get away.  Mac is scary to other people, but I know how to handle him.  I have the gift of 20 year’s practice and the knowledge that he loves me and would never hurt me.  I said a prayer, got in the car and drove to Magnolia Savings and Loan, where we bank.  Even in a town of less than 3,000, there are a surprising number of banking options.  Besides Magnolia Savings, we have Walker County Credit Union and Merchant’s & Farmer’s Bank, which is one more finance option than we have for food.  Sonic and Sharla’s Burger Barn are the only places to eat in this town, unless you count the truck stop or the Kwik Mart, which I most certainly do not.  I will admit to eating my fair share of Frito Pies from the concession stand at the football field, but we're getting off track.
 
               I don’t remember why we picked Magnolia Savings when we moved here 15 years ago, but we did, and we have stuck with them.  Even though we have been in town for 15 years, we are still considered ‘new people’; more a part of the community than actual new people, but still considered ‘not from here’, which doesn’t help the situation.  Family histories, like credit histories, are long and permanent here in the South, and both of ours are populated with embarrassing stories and mistakes that are difficult to overcome.

                I knew this as I headed to keep my 10:00 appointment with Doyle Vanderlin, the loan officer at Magnolia Savings.  I don’t know him well as he attends the Methodist Church and we are Baptists from way back.  It’s not that Baptists and Methodists don’t socialize, but, well we don’t, as a rule.  So much of our free time is involved in church-related activities, outside of sports and the occasional event like Homecoming or Christmas parade, we tend to cluster in our respective religious circles.  That may be a metaphor for something; what it would be, I can’t begin to tell you.  It shouldn’t make a difference but when you have a connection, some commonality with another person, it’s easier to ask for help.  Then it’s more a favor than a handout.  It takes the stress out of it, or at least reduces it.  Anything related to money or credit scores, in the last few years since Mac got hurt, has induced anxiety.  And, yes, I know stress supposedly means a lack of faith in God but I’m not perfect, so I do worry.  This is an important event in Spencer’s life.  It could possibly alter his future.  He deserves to enjoy the results of his talent and hard work, doesn’t he?  He’s already had so many money-related disappointments.  I have to do this for him. 

                As I walk into the bank, I hope I’ve hedged my bets and Mr. Vanderlin will be right in the middle of the shortened work day; not sleepy at 8 when the bank opened but also not ready to leave around 11:30, right before they close.  I’m not scared or nervous, really, just apprehensive.  I guess that’s roughly the same thing, but I just want everything to go well, which is a hope more than a fear, so that’s different, right?

                I say a quick ‘Hello!’ to Audrey O’Quinn, who is one of the tellers and in my Sunday School class at First Baptist.  She is one of the sweetest ladies and her 1,000-watt smile gave my attitude and outlook a boost.  Audrey is such a kind soul, five feet and ten inches of Jesus coming at you, typically armed with a hug and smelling of fresh-baked goodies, from her perfume, Vanilla Fields.  I was so uplifted I was able to smile at Ramonica Dalley, who work for Mr. Vanderlin and is the only unpleasant Pentecostal I have ever met.  

               Pentecostals are usually the kindest people this side of the Amish and I always assumed they were happy because they were ‘God’s Chosen People’ (according to their church sign).  Ramonica, on the other hand, is the exception.  When she says, ‘God Bless You’ it sounds like a stranger begrudgingly interacting with a homeless person after a sneeze.  I braced myself as I approached her desk, about ten feet from Mr. Vanderlin’s door, not remembering if she was a Secretary or Assistant or whatever people call themselves these days.  The last time I worked in an office was in 1971, right after Mac and I got married and I was a stenographer at the Courthouse in West Carroll Parish in Northeast Louisiana, right across the river from Vicksburg.  We were referred to as a Secretarial Pool, but mostly the bosses just called us 'Honey'.  I hope that's changed.

                I smiled my sweetest smile and said, “Good Morning, Ramonica.  How are you?”

   “Well, hello to you, Mary Ellen McAdams,” she said with the formality of a judge or substitute teacher, with no prior knowledge of who I am, as if she only knows my name from Mr. Vanderlin’s appointment calendar.  I can’t count the number of times we’ve bought meat from her husband’s butcher shop near our house.  I mean, I turn down Butch Dalley Road on the way to town, literally every day.  It’s named after her husband, a fixture in our community.  Unnamed or numbered roads were named after the most important or longest-living residents in small Southern towns, once they instituted the 9-1-1 system, in the late 80s.  

It is a testament to our limited means and lack of local family history that we now live on Travis Fairchild Road.  If they had named it Mac McAdams Road, most people from around here would have said, “Who?”  Well known, we are not.  But it's 1993, and the South remains the South at least in our little corner of the Bible Belt.  While we are not exactly sitting on the buckle, we are at least in the vicinity of the first belt loop, responsible for holding up those Christian pants ensuring nothing untoward happens on our watch.

                Looking away from me and back at her typewriter, Ramonica said flatly, “He’s not ready yet.  You can sit over there.”  She pointed to a chair as far away from her desk as possible to still be considered sitting inside the bank.

                “Of course,” I said, still smiling as hard as I could, “I’m a little early.”  I’m glad to have a minute to gather my thoughts and organize my arguments, although I hope it’s not too long.  I don’t want to work myself into a tizzy as anticipation is often worse than the actual event.  I need to stay positive yet here I am thinking of arguments and he hasn’t even said no.  He might say yes.  I don’t know off-hand what our credit score is but I’m guessing it’s not great; lower than Mac’s cholesterol level.  I’m not sure what the lowest number you can have is but I’m betting we’re pretty near there.  When Mac got hurt, his Worker’s Comp checks were significantly lower than his paychecks and we got into a hole and we haven’t quite been able to get ourselves out.  

                I say a quick prayer, reminding Jesus He is needed in the bank at this very moment.  I look for a magazine to distract my mind but don’t see any.  Not having sat down in a bank before I don’t know if this is normal or not.  Is it different from the doctor’s office, I wonder?  It could mean that no one has to wait long so there’s no time to read or it may mean Magnolia Savings doesn’t think they’re necessary.  If they don’t spend money on magazine subscriptions, they have more money to lend mothers of smart kids of limited means.  Yes, that must be it.  See, I knew I liked this bank and Mr. Vanderlin.  Oh, his door is opening.  Maybe it’s just that people don’t have to wait.  Either way, it’s show time!  This will work!  C'mon Jesus!

                Seeing me, he bypasses what I imagine is protocol with Ramonica, based on her facial expression, and extends his hand, along with his very own 1,000-watt smile (hopefully also filled with Jesus) and takes my hand saying, warmly, “Hello, Mrs. McAdams.  Welcome.”  He leads me toward his office, asks me to have a seat in one of the comfy chairs in front of his desk, rounds his desk to take his own seat and asks, “What can Magnolia Savings and Loan do for you this fine morning?”  Such a nice man.

                “Well,” I began, suddenly realizing I haven’t done this before; ask for a loan, I mean.  I’m not sure how this works.  Why didn’t I ask Mac?  He got the loan for the car and the house and my Daddy got the loan for my first car.  It never occurred to me to practice.  Do you just come out and ask?

                “So…I, uh, we, I mean, Mac and I, would like some…money,” I manage to stammer.

                He chuckles and says, “Wouldn’t we all.”

                Startled, I laugh suddenly and say, “I mean, we would like to borrow some money.  A loan.  A small one.”  And then, remembering my upbringing, hastily add, “Uh, please.”  I laugh again and try to smile.

                “A loan?  Well, we do offer those.  What sort of loan are you requesting?  Auto?  Home?  Signature?”

                “Um…well…not a car loan or a house.  It’s only for a little bit.  My Spencer.  I mean, my son Spencer was accepted into an academic camp and even though he got a scholarship there’s still the room and board and books and we just don’t have the money.”

                ‘Ah, yes, Spencer.  He’s in the same class as my daughter Victoria.  From what I understand, he’s a very nice young man.  Very smart, it sounds to me.  Where is this camp, if I may ask?”

                It’s at Mississippi State.  This summer.  He’s going to take two classes with actual college students.  He’ll already have six credits on his transcripts when he starts college in two years.”

                “That’s wonderful.  Mississippi State is my alma mater.  I sure am glad it’s not at Ole Miss.  I’d have to turn you down flat,” he says and chuckles again. 

                Something fires in my brain and I say, “That’s right.  Go Bulldogs!”  I hope I’m right.  I started to add something about a cowbell, but I must be mis-remembering that.  Do they use cowbells?  Is that a thing?  I don’t watch college ball.  Mac does all day on the weekends and I guess it seeps into your brain simply by being in the room.  The TV is on non-stop sports and even though I spend my time reading and thought I was tuning it out, thankfully I didn’t completely ignore it.

                It must have worked as he’s still smiling.  He pulls a folder from a stack on his desk and says, “I pulled your accounts to have a look-see.  You and your husband have been loyal customers for a number of years.  We appreciate that.”

                “Oh, yes,” I replied, “Magnolia Savings is a great bank.”

                He silently smiles and then says, “Your credit score isn’t strong, however.  How much of a loan did you say you needed?”

                “Only $500.  That’s all.  Not much.”

                “Hmmm.   For that amount, we usually do a signature loan.”

                I interrupted and said, “Yes, that’s what Mac said we’d need, a signature loan.  What is that exactly?”

                “Well, we don’t require collateral.  A signature loan means you simply promise to pay us back.”

                “Oh,” I said, “Of course we’ll pay you back.  Um, how long would we have to pay it back?”

                “Normally, we give you six months. The interest is typically fairly low depending on your credit.”

                “Oh, great.  No problem.  Of course, you’ll need your interest.  That’s fair. That would work.  Thank you!”  This was much easier than I imagined.  Why do people get so nervous about asking for a loan?  I never realized it that simple.  Thank you, Lord!

                He sits back in his chair and looks at me and then at our file again.  This time he grimaces.

                “What’s the matter?” I ask, afraid to know the answer.

                “Well, Mrs. McAdams, to be honest, with a credit score like yours and without a positive loan history, it would be a risk for us.  My job is to mitigate risk.”

                “Risk?  How is it a risk?  I told you we promise to pay it back.  I’m a Christian.  Do you think I wouldn’t pay it back?”

                “It’s not that we don’t think you would pay it back.  Its…”

                I interrupt him and say, “What is it then?” a little more loudly than I wanted.

                “Mrs. McAdams, can I call you Mary Ellen?  Mary Ellen, my job is to make sure my employer is safe from losses on risky loans.  I am simply trying to decide if you are a risk worth taking.  I’m unsure.”

                He sits back again, this time steepling his hands, looking at me like my old English professor, Dr. Watkins at Louisiana College my freshman year, before I quit against Daddy’s wishes and married Mac, against Mother’s wishes.  Not so much condescending as unsure of my character; like he was deciding if I was worthy, if I could be trusted.  Rude is what is was.  

                I guess I had worked myself into somewhat of a tizzy because before I could stop myself I stood up and practically yelled, “I said we’d pay you back!  I wouldn’t lie!  I’m a Christian, Mr. Vanderlin!  I’m a Sunday School teacher at First Baptist.  I cannot believe you don’t trust me!  That you think I would steal your money!”  

                “Mrs. McAdams, please don’t be upset.  I haven’t said no, I’m simply trying to work with you.”

                “Oh, you’ve already decided.  It’s in your face and in your hands!  My Spencer will go to that program!  He’s smart and he deserves it and it’s not his fault we’re not rich!”

                “Mrs. McAdams, please sit down and let’s talk about this,” he pleaded.

                “Look, I already talked to God about this and He is on board, so unless you want to me to rob this bank, you need to get out your checkbook and give me that money!  Do you want to go against God’s wishes, Doyle, can I call you Doyle?  Do you?  You'll have to answer to God, I hope you know!  I’m going back out to the lobby and I’ll wait for my check!”  I turned and ran right into Ramonica who had opened the door and asked, “Is everything all right in here, Mr. Vanderlin?  Should I call someone?”

                We both looked at him and he stood there, open-mouthed and said, “Uh…no…Mrs. Dalley.  Everything’s fine.  I’m just going to complete the paperwork for Mrs. McAdams’s loan.  She has offered to wait in the lobby.  Can you get her a glass of water or something?”

                Looking at me like I was crazy, Ramonica said, nervously, “Sure, Mr. Vanderlin.  Mary Ellen, would you like some water?”

                Still flustered and red-faced, I answered, “Yes, Ramonica, that would be nice.  Thank you.”

                I walked out to the lobby, sat in the chair, ashamed that, apparently, the Steel Magnolias character I most resemble is Ousier.  I absent-mindedly looked for the magazines I forgot wouldn’t be there and pretended no one was looking at me and that I hadn’t just threatened to rob a bank.  Oh, I'm gonna have to pray for forgiveness tonight.  

                Mr. Vanderlin quickly brought a check and some paperwork to sign and I left very quickly, telling Audrey, “I’m fine, thank you” when she asked if I was okay.  Lord help me, I have made a fool of myself, but it was worth it.  Spencer can go to his smart kid camp. 

                I got home and told Spencer “I took care of everything, sweetie, you can go to MS State this summer.”  I didn't tell Mac anything.  He doesn't know anybody in town and rarely leaves the house, so he'll never find out, thank goodness.

               Spencer was so excited, hugging me and repeating, “Thank you, Mama!”  I couldn’t help but smile and get a little teary-eyed.  He will make something of himself, I just know it.  And in the end, it will be worth the gossip and embarrassment and all manner of things said behind my back.  At least I still live in a place where no one says anything negative to your face.   At least they better not;  apparently I have a temper.

It's about to get real up in here, y'all

                As many of you know, I have been blogging about my Dad living with me for almost two years.  I can’t believe it’s really been that long but it has.  Twenty one months to be exact.  Now, I didn’t really know what to expect when he arrived but I figured it would be blog-worthy, hence the blog; thank you Liz Shellman for planting that seed.

                Now, it has not been an easy transition as regular readers have learned but it also hasn’t been as bad as it could have been.  Granted my Dad is not the easiest person to live with and while I understand that he is still, after 13 years, grieving the loss of my mother, there are personality quirks that he possesses that I get and there are those that continue to confound me week in and week out.

                In full disclosure, I have admitted some of my own quirks like the all-consuming need to have a house that smells ‘pretty’ and feels ‘fancy’; two phrases to which my father likes to roll his eyes ever so sarcastically.  He reminds me of a dramatic teenager.  He reminds me of, well, me when I was in my mid-to-late teens.  My early teens were much more about being loved by all and sundry and I was more obsequious than anything.

                My 15 years in federal healthcare has given me insight into what many veterans of his generation think, feel and expect.  But it wasn’t until recently that I even considered that his life-long anger may have been undiagnosed PTSD.  Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is something that you read about, hear about on TV with those returning from war in the now and even the subject of a couple of movies, mostly on Lifetime and usually starring Meredith Baxter-no-longer-Birney-now-a-lesbian. 

                It had never occurred to me that he might have a legitimate reason to be angry and distrustful.  I never really gave much thought to why he is almost agoraphobic and seems scared of the world in general.  I always assumed he was just a chip off the old block as his father was someone who, for the longest time, was my frame of reference for cruel and hateful.  And I never really stopped to even think of why he would be so unhappy; that he truly hated himself, as he admitted me to me one evening.  When I asked him why he hated himself, he seemed confused and asked me, “don’t everybody hate themselves?”  To which I answered, “No, they don’t.  I don’t.  And you shouldn’t”.  What I didn’t say was, I did until I turned 40 and finally decided that I was who I was and if people didn’t like me, I was far too old to care about that.  Jesus understands me and that is all I needed to know.  That Jesus understands my Dad was something that I really put no effort into broaching as a subject.

                I know that some have asked if I feel I make fun of my Dad in my blog and I initially was defensive, stating that I was simply reporting facts, not trying to make fun of him.  When in all honesty, there was an edge to the humor; a need to distance myself from him and who I thought he represented.  For so long I didn’t want to be from where I was from.  I didn’t want to be from a family that was lower-middle to middle-middle class, depending on the job situation.  I didn’t want to have so many relatives who had been to jail, who lived in trailers, which I did and still refer to as pre-fabricated housing because it sounds funny and I can then laugh at ‘those folks’, not realizing I was hurting people who are good people in difficult financial straits.  As if money is any indication of the quality of a person.

                I always wanted to be somebody other than who I was.  I never saw what was so great about me; what was so special.  I never put much thought into whether I was smart or funny or ambitious or loyal or any of those traits that I have come to appreciate.  I was only focused on what I didn’t have, which was money, looks and self-esteem.  Truth be told, I wasn’t aware of self-esteem enough to know I didn’t have any.  Like my father, I thought everyone hated themselves.    Awareness of this destructive mindset came much later upon inward reflection due to the honesty of friends from high school and college.  You know who you are and I love you very, very much.

                Growing up gay (and so far in the closet I was almost homophobic) in a Southern Baptist family in Texas and Mississippi wasn’t the easiest thing to do, to be sure.  But when I told my Dad at the ripe old age of 24, he said he already knew and he didn’t care.  It was not the reaction I expected and for some reason I never really appreciated how hard that must have been for him.  I already wasn’t the son that he expected as his oldest; his namesake (loyal readers already know how close I came to being Terryll Odis Thompson III).  As I’ve previously discussed, I was the plaid koala bear in my family and after a childhood of trying to fit in, I have spent most of my adult life trying to not fit in with the countrier of my relatives, to the point that my nieces and nephews are apparently under the impression that I spent my childhood at boarding school or some other elsewhere and want to show me how to ride a horse or drive a four-wheeler.  When I remind them that I actually knew how to do all of those things, they seem confused as if a member of the royal family had suddenly appeared next to them at the Dollar General, buying generic aspirin and Little Debbie snack cakes.

                June is Gay Pride month, for those of you who don’t know.  And I attended the parade and festival in San Francisco, with some friends.  My surprisingly supportive father asked why I had never attended Pride and I told him, half-jokingly, that in order to attend a Pride event, one would need to be proud.  And until very recently I was most certainly not proud.  I wanted to be gay even less than those members of my family who are still not supportive and those who until this very moment didn’t have confirmation.  I apologize for springing this on you, although to be fair, how surprised could you be?  You’ve met me before.

                From the ages of 12 through 40, I was your typical self-loathing Southern Baptist homosexual the likes of who publish painfully narcissistic, poorly realized coming of age memoirs with prodigious efficiency.  This disclosure also helps explain why I talk and dress ‘like that’.  I won’t go into any memoir-y reflections today (you’ll have to wait for the publication that you know is forthcoming).  Suffice it to say, I had spent so much time thinking about my issues I never really gave any thought to anyone else’s; especially my Dad’s.

                And I realized that as much as I expected him to hate me, he didn’t.  And I never gave him credit for that.  Unfairly, I gloss over the fact that my mother went to her grave devastated and convinced that I was wrong about my orientation.  So desperate for her “sweet, precious boy” to be normal, she tried to find me a girlfriend, in the form of her nurse, as she lay dying in the hospital.  It took me more than 10 years to find it within myself to feel as if I wasn’t a walking disappointment and to actually think I was worth something.   

                 And the whole time my Dad was steadfast in his support, constantly saying he loved me and didn’t care that I was gay.  And for some reason I didn’t care that he didn’t care.  He had his role, written in my teenaged mind, and I refused to allow him to re-write it.  I took all my hurt out on him.  How do you apologize for something like that?

                As much as I expected him to toe the line when he moved in, he didn’t.  He also didn’t try to get on my nerves and has been exceptionally accepting of the changes I have forced upon him.  He eats what I cook, he voluntarily washes dishes and recycles with the fervor of a dyed-in-the-(fair trade)-wool tree hugger.  He even acquiesces to my request for him to wear something other than his house shoes (slippers to my Yankee friends; scuffs to my friends in Lafayette County) to the Wal-Mart when, truth be told, who cares what he wears?  I should just be happy he’s still around.  And I am. 

                What I wouldn’t give for one more minute with my mother.  And I am keenly aware that I have a limited amount of minutes with him as he approaches his 72^nd birthday later this month.  Why can’t I just enjoy what he wants to do?  Why do I have to put so many parameters to our relationship?  I know we aren’t what the other necessarily wanted in a father/son, but we are what we have.  And I am grateful that I got his sense of humor and his generosity.  I am less thankful that I got his temper, short legs and lack of posterior.  On another note, why can’t I just say butt?

                For better or for worse, I am what I am and before someone bursts into song, I will say that although I have sometimes begrudgingly cared for him these last two years, I hope that it still counts as love.  We’ve discussed how God doesn’t have a last nerve and I hope my Dad doesn’t either; if he does, I haven’t found it yet.  Should I one day find his or he mine, we have coping mechanisms in place.  He has Zoloft and rib eye steaks.  I have great friends, thrift stores and the location of said Zoloft and rib eye steaks.  And I don’t really think I need to say anything else.

Southern Hospitality?

I recently read an article on CNN.com that listed the most diverse cities in America.  The top 5 are all within an hour’s drive of my current home, which, as you know, is about 25 miles south of San Francisco. And diverse it is.  You wouldn't know it by my church (Menlo Park Presbyterian) but the vast majority of the citizens in this area are Asian and Hispanic.  And I have learned all manner of things about other cultures that I never knew.  Like how there are differences between northern and southern Chinese and not just in relation to height.  And how even though you have no way of distinguishing from which South and Central American country someone hails but woe be unto you if you mistakenly insinuate they are from the wrong one.  And to all you politically correct people out there, I have been assured in more than one dialect that there is no place called Hispania, so the catch all ‘Hispanic’ is not any more popular than my Daddy’s designation of “brown people”.

              This discussion of differences and accents and all reminded me of the previous post and some of the more colorful language that my, and to my horror, Honey Boo-Boo’s, family use more often than we should.  I refuse to watch that show, but grudgingly admit I have heard or used every sentence printed in those publications found by the gum, batteries and candy bars at your local grocery emporiums.  I know they recently were quoted as saying 'beautimous'.  I hope against hope that they do not use the term that I am loathe to admit I used at work recently.

Several of my managers and I were discussing something and I meant to use the term ‘tiny’ but instead, in a rare moment of letting my guard down, probably due to my mild Diet Snapple Peach Iced Tea addiction, I let fly a term that my family uses when referring to someone short of stature.  We say ‘tee-niney’, instead of tiny.   There is no way to recover from that phrase, dear friends.  You can’t simply un-say it.  You just have to “stop that train” so to speak, and redirect the conversation.  And while I was able to steer the discourse in another direction, I feel quite sure there were tongues just a wagging when I stepped out of the room.

            Recently, my new management trainee stopped by to talk and asked me about my colorful language. (Hi Susan!)  It seems that due to my dress, accent and sometimes folksy vernacular, she finds me intriguing, “like something out of Tennessee Williams”.   As she is from the Midwest, she isn’t used to Southerners outside of their native habitat or, really, inside their native habitat.  She moved here from Michigan to start her new job, not expecting to be getting such a big dose of Mississippi right here in the land of the, apparently, multi-culti heathen. 
             I have visited Michigan only once but I am a big fan due to Michigan being one of the most competitive Miss America states.  They have had five winners including the lady who was the catalyst for the social platforms that are now required for all contestants.  Kaye Lani Rae Rafko was an Oncology Nurse when she hula-danced her way to victory in 1988 and spent her year as Miss America touring the country speaking about AIDS and hospice care.  I got to meet her in 2011 in Las Vegas.  I know another Michiganian (I looked it up) named Jason Morgan, from when I lived in DC.  He will one day be President.  You heard it here first.
            And I know precisely where each of these Michiganders (also acceptable) live(d) on “the mitten”.  If you don’t know what that means, you have never met someone from Michigan as they will hold their hand up as if they are stopping you in the name of love and show you where they reside.  If you look at a map, go ahead I’ll wait, you can see that the regular part of Michigan looks like a mitten; a giant Mrs. Field’s cookie cake of a mitten (What?  I’m hungry), but a mitten nonetheless. 
            The other part of Michigan, called, I believe, the Upper Peninsula is part of their state although no one seems to know how or why.  It may have been stolen from Canada or Wisconsin.  I am imagining a frontier politician desperate for re-election, sizing up a “vacant lot” across the water and paddling over to stake claim for Michigan and using the votes of the indigenous peoples of Canada (who were kind and quiet and fond of socialized medicine and crappy music) to remain in the Senate or House or whichever one wastes taxpayer dollars.
            And I said all that to say this:  it’s no wonder Flint, MI (which is on the peninsula according to Michael Moore and it’s up to your political leanings whether or not you believe him) died a slow, tragic death as some towns do when the main employer (car factory) closes its doors.  There was nowhere to go for fun except Wisconsin and how many times can one wear a hat made of cheese before the reality of shame seeps into your unconscious?  That’s actually a bad example as I have seen these Cheeseheads (and who would voluntarily call themselves such?) each and every year in the stands at football games in the snow, bare-chested whether they should be or not.
             That just doesn’t seem to happen as regularly in the South.  Of course I’m talking about towns dying, not people who are inappropriately semi-nude in public.  The resilience of Southern towns is admirable.  These hamlets, most of which are too small to warrant inclusion on most maps, can weather any storm, literal or figurative.  They will survive when there is nothing left except a store, a church and three houses.  There may only be 5 people and two cows but they retain their identity and always with a sign.  Even if that sign states your simultaneous entrance and exit. 
             Transylvania, LA is where my Mother’s people are from.  Yes I know I just ended that sentence in a preposition.  That one, too.  Based on my last visit there in the late 1990s, there was a gas station, what used to be a cotton gin, a tiny elementary school and some houses.  But they still have a post office and a bait shop and I dare you to suggest they are too tiny to be considered a town.  Go ahead, I’ll wait.
                Cities up north lose one store and the rest of the town is immediately shuttered, all citizens fleeing as if from a natural disaster.  In the South, you close the one factory in town, someone will immediately open a business making t-shirts proclaiming “Tater Junction – Useta be the home of the Sand Road Sawmill” and selling them to Yankees who are lost on vacation trying to find the Mississippi River.  Of course those Yankees and the citizens of Tater Junction and surrounding communities will be in need of all and sundry, well, sundries.  So they will add purveyors of drinks, food and other accoutrement (like pecan logs and pralines) and the next thing you know the Sand Road Sawmill is a flourishing mini mall full of items that would have previously been donated to the White Elephant Sale at the Tater Junction Baptist Church, but are now advertised as antiquities of Southern heritage.  The manager of this antique mall is also the agent/MeeMaw of noted regional artist Lee Ellen Battenfield, who is in reality an 11-year old who placed 3^rd in watercolors at the 4-H Crafts Fair. 
                You may be asking yourself, why someone would stay in a place like that?  My answer is there is only so far most Southerners will move before they plant their feet and say, “That’s it.  We’re home.”  As someone who was informed by his parents (when he asked why they were re-locating to Mississippi) “because we said so”, I can attest to the fact that Southerners are not leaving God’s Country and that particular designation stops not too far north of Mississippi and not much further west than Dallas.  Most of Tennessee we will take; Kentucky, we’re not so sure about.  And the only thing West Virginia is good for is keeping Mississippi from being last place in education rankings.  I know, I know, that’s just downright Un-Christian.  Not untrue, but definitely un-Christian.
             And as my Mother always said, “When you start acting like that, you know it’s time to just hush and go to bed.”  And with that, I bid you good night.  Well, good night in the sense that I’m stopping this post; I’ve had more than a tee-niney bit of Snapple and shall be up way past the time decent people have called it a day.