I Think I Know What Kind of Kool-Aid I Drink

               The Dad has never been big fan of religion, other than the potluck lunches at whatever Baptist Church we attended.  Trust me when I tell you that every tiny town in the South has at least one, if not multiple options for Southern Baptists, be they Primitive, Friendship or First.  I don’t think he could tell you about any of the denominational peculiarities as he doesn’t follow dogma, much less pageantry; however, the one Baptisty thing he has always adhered to is not drinking alocohol.

                The Dad hasn’t touched a drop of any kind of drink since he and my mother started dating in 1963.  That substantial belly of his is not from beer, dear friends, it is from fried chicken, steak, taters, chocolate ice cream, pork rinds, and the occasional chicken gizzard.  What does this particular redneck drink, you may be thinking?   Well, the answer is (sugar free) Kool-Aid.  There is no other liquid in his diet.  When I told him he should be drinking more water, he asked me, “What do you think Kool-Aid is, JD?  It’s made outta water.  Didn’t they teach you that in college?”

                Suffice it to say, I told my sister she would need to have a ready supply on hand because, to his mind, having only one unopened container is the same as having no container and he will get all wound up until he has the requisite amount.  And when he gets his mind on something, he will not let it go.  He’s like a racoon with a shiny penny, y’all; like a televangelist with a dollar.

                 I spoke to my sister this past weekend and she shared that he had gotten “on her last nerve” on Saturday when she headed into town to run some errands.  Town is Amarillo, Texas, as the only place to buy things in Vega (where she lives) is Dollar General, a fancy boutique and two truck stops.  The Dad asked her to get more Kool-Aid as he only had one container left and he was afraid he would run out.  “Don’t forget,” he said when she left. 

                On the 30-minute drive to Amarillo, The Dad called her to tell her “don’t forget the Kool-Aid”.  She assured him she wouldn’t forget. Less than five minutes after she hung up, he called her again and asked, “Did you just call me?” When she said, “No, I just hung up with you,” he said, “Oh.  Ok.  Well, since you’re on the phone, don’t forget the Kool-Aid.  I like Hawaiian Punch or Grape.”  She replied, “Yes, I know.  It’s on my list.  I won’t forget.”  He hung up.  As a side note, who on earth likes grape Kool-Aid?  It the worst flavor; by far, the worst Jolly Rancher as well. 

                He called her two more times while she was running her errands.  After she had gone to The Wal-Mart and gotten all her items, including both Grape and Fruit Punch flavored Kool-Aid, she was headed home when he called again.  “Sissy,” he said, “Did you get the Kool-Aid?”  She had reached her limit and decided to mess with him, so she said, “Dammit, I forgot.”   He bellowed, “What?  How did you forget it?  You went to The Wal-Mart just to get my Hawaiian Punch Kool-Aid!”

                She said, “Oh, calm down, I got your Kool-Aid, but just so you know, It’s not Hawaiian Punch, it’s Fruit Punch.” 

                “I think I know what kind of Kool-Aid I drink.  It’s Hawaiian Punch.”

                “Hawaiian Punch is a different brand.  You drink Fruit Punch Kool-Aid.”

                Enunciating, like he does when he’s irritated, he said, “I.  Drink.  Hawaiian. Punch.  Kool.  Aid.”

                Always one to help people manage their expectations, she said, “I’m gonna give you a Hawaiian Punch, if you don’t stop bothering me.  I’ll be there in a minute.”

                He very wisely hung up.  He's all about survival, y’all.  True story.

God, and Queen, may be skittish

               I grew up a Southern Baptist and an unabashed Anglophile.  These may sound like mutually exclusive interests but as I’ve been watching Season 2 of both The Crown and Victoria, I realized there are many commonalities amongst Baptists (in church) and British (in the Peerage), the most interesting being the apparent belief that God and royalty (be they King, Queen, Prince, Princess) are on edge and, therefore, one must not make sudden moves or appear to enjoy oneself in their house and/or presence.

                Southern Baptists, at least those of my youth and young adulthood, show no demonstrable joy while inside the church; no clapping, no movement other than mouths to sing, no hands lifted.  It felt somewhat somber, but more formal, as you are required to wear dark clothes, remember obscure rules concerning proper conduct and always nervous to have a misstep, as it could result in unbelievable and often creative punishments.  Not unlike being in a judicial court, except you had no lawyer in church unless you count the preacher as a sort of intermediary; an intercessor, if you will. 

Of course, Baptists believe we can talk to Jesus directly should we desire.  To be honest, I was always afraid I’d misspeak and the “Angry God” (introduced by British Colonial Theologian, Jonathan Edwards) would smite me.  At least Catholics are lucky enough to have the Mama of Jesus to request an intervention or whatever was deemed necessary.  As a note: Baptists are fond of, but do not pray to, Mary.   

Comedian Eddie Izzard is famous for talking about the Anglican Church, or the Church of England; a denomination created by Henry VIII, so he could divorce and marry another of the women unfortunate enough to have wandered into his orbit; an inauspicious origin to a church where Queen Elizabeth II is the head and the American arm (Episcopalians) are typically the well-to-do in the cities and towns where they congregate.   That is to say, it's a pretty sketchy start to a very fancy group.

In his routine, Mr. Izzard talks about the marked lack of happiness when singing songs of faith and miracles and hope.  Now, Southern Baptists aren’t mournful in church.  They are more reserved than anything else, especially when it comes to the practice of clapping.  Old Guard Southern Baptists do not clap at any point during the worship service, unless there are children who are singing in a special performance.  They, and only they, receive applause, and even then it is restrained to the point that the allotted “Amen” from the Chairman of the Deacons, could easily drown it out, depending on whether or not the battery in his hearing aid is working. 

Even though I have been singing in church pretty much since I broke forth into this world, I never received applause after a performance, between the ages of seven and twenty-nine.  The first time, as an adult, that people clapped after I sang, it caught me off-guard and I will admit that I flinched and looked confused; skittish, I suppose, if you had to assign a word.

When I was in high school, we attended a very small church outside a very small town in Mississippi.  There were 50-60 attendees on a regular Sunday, as many as 80 if there was a dinner on the grounds afterwards.  The youth group was small (my sister and two cousins comprising a good 40%) and the activities were few and far between.  I was resigned to this fate as we lived only a few miles from the church itself.  However, by my senior year, we had moved into town and lived only three blocks from the very large and very active First Baptist Church.

There were so many activities and so many young people in their youth group that I desperately wanted to be a part.  When I spoke to my mother about a trial run at the new church, if not for the whole family, at least maybe for me, I was told in no uncertain terms, “We are not shopping for a new church.”

                I responded, “But our church is boring…and small.  First Baptist is much more fun.”

                “We don’t go to church to have fun,” she replied in a very British way, except with a Southern accent, like if Queen Elizabeth had graduated from Ole Miss.  She couldn’t have sounded more Anglican if she had added, “It’s just not what we do; it's not who we are.”

                I attended my sister’s little Baptist Church in Texas over Christmas and I must tell you, the sense of déjà vu was strong.  The floor plan was so similar that I was able to find the restrooms without assistance, and even though I found a used adult diaper lying in the middle of the floor of the men’s room, which I then had to dispose of lest someone think it was mine, it didn’t dampen the nostalgia. 

                While I prefer the TV-version of Anglican services (morning coats, fascinators, the random minor royal), I did enjoy the comfortable familiarity of a Baptist service, with the men and boys wearing starched jeans, the women in their turquoise jewelry and outfits from Dillard’s and little girls with bows as big, if not bigger, than their heads.  Of course, the only difference between me as a teen and me as an adult was the fact that I was wearing plaid pants and sitting between my sister and my Filipino boyfriend.  As there were no strange looks or sharp intakes of breath when we entered, my guess is they assumed he was a foreign exchange student.

                And, true to form, we didn’t clap at any time during the Christmas service.  No need to startle Jesus on His birthday, I suppose.

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.

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.

If your duck doesn't speak Spanish, will it still answer?

                Prayer has been in the news a lot lately from Oklahoma to the people on ‘Duck Dynasty’.  And I have felt a connection to both.  You see for one-half of third grade, my nomadic family lived in Moore, Oklahoma.  And someone recently asked me if ever watched ‘Duck Dynasty’.  I have to admit that I had not up to that point but I caught an episode the last time I was in DC at a conference.  As a side note, am I the only one who pictures a duck in a sequined gown with huge shoulder pads when someone mentions the name of that show?  Yeah, that’s what I thought.

                I didn’t really know what to expect other than familiarity seeing as how the Robertson family is from where I’m from.  West Monroe, Louisiana, is about 75 miles from my birthplace of Lake Providence, Louisiana, and I must admit that their family is not unlike mine except the Thornton/Thompson family has more funny stories and less facial hair but about the same amount of camouflage.  And prayer.  My much more famous not-really-a-cousin, Shelley Rushing Tomlinson of All Things Southern (visit her website) fame, is a friend of the Robertson family and that makes them okay in my book.

                Now I am about to tell on myself but I feel in the interest of full disclosure I must admit that I did not attend church this past Sunday. And it wasn’t to watch football either.  Is that on right now?   I was tired and various other things that are not very good excuses but I simply did not go.  Luckily God does not have a last nerve.  So, my backslidden-but-forgiven-self went to meet my new friend Julie (Hi, Julie!) for brunch.  We met at Starbucks when I complimented her gorgeous robin’s egg blue purse.  Isn’t it interesting the people you meet when you have no filter coupled with the mindset to be ‘met’ on any given day?

                Over brunch we talked about many things one of the being my father’s lifelong aversion to church.  As we have previously discussed, The Dad has not been the greatest of fans of the church itself.  While he professes to believe that church and loving Jesus are good things, he won’t go so far as to actually support either one in word or deed unless the words are “no pancakes (if you don’t go)” or the deed is “eating at fifth Sunday dinners on the ground”.  And while Presbyterians will have coffee and doughnuts before the service, there hasn’t been a time in the last two years where I have witnessed a cheese covered casserole and that hurts me to my very core, y’all.  Although I do not have to have the promise of food to get me to the church on time, it doesn’t hurt to have access to some groceries every now and again.  Can I get an amen?

                To be fair, The Dad has attended about 3 times in the last two years which is quite the feat considering he attended about the many times in the previous 20 years.  The first Sunday he attended in the land of the heathen, I took him to our 9:30 contemporary service, whereupon he accused me of joining a cult as the worshippers had the gall to clap along with the singing and actually seemed to enjoy themselves. 

                Old guard Southern Baptists are like Anglicans who sweat in that they believe in their heart of hearts that anyone who shows any emotion in church other than wretched heartache over their sins is secretly aligned with the unclean and that raising your hands in worship is akin to speaking in tongues and rolling around on the floor like they do at those “other churches” like Assembly of God and Seventh Day Adventists.  No offense.  Now I don’t know what Adventist actually means, and neither do they, but from what I gather it is definitely not “to frown while singing”. That’s what Baptist means, people; you heard it here first.

                And speaking of prayer, My Dad needs some right now as, unlike Jesus, I do have a last nerve and he is clog dancing on it, do you hear me?  Not only did he wake me up this morning by cooking pinto beans with a hambone at 5 o’clock in the AM, but I just discovered he ate my leftover quesadilla for his snack between breakfast and his “official” snack even though he admitted, “wudn’t too good, but [I] ate it anyway”.  And to top it all off he apparently decided he prefers my Garden Salsa Sun Chips to his pork skins and tried to sneak-switch the bags on our respective pantry shelves as if I wouldn’t notice I was eating chicharrones because even when I’m angry I’m at the very least bi-lingual and that is all I’m saying.

Isn't this a Tom T. Hall song?

             At 4:45 the other morning I awoke to such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.  Then noise seemed to involve wood, ceramic and metal.  I was soon to discover it also included denim and whatever material constitutes a tractor supply hat.  My Daddy had fallen; like a Redwood in the forest, except with more cursing and shame.  This couldn’t have come at a worse time as when I awoke I realized I had been sleeping on my right arm; it was numb and I couldn’t move it.  I am a typically conservative sleeper.  Until my significant weight loss, I used a CPAP machine to help me breathe and had to learn to sleep (1) on my back and (2) without moving.  Making my bed in the morning is not an exhaustive task.  My sister has said it's slightly creepy how I don't move; like a dead person.  However, for the past month or so I have been tossing and turning  like Bobby Lewis.  Some of you will get that joke; others will need to ask their parents.

                Anyway, I rush into my Daddy’s bedroom and see him on the floor, having somehow taken the entire contents of his bookshelf full of crochet yarn and the top of his dresser except for the TV, thank goodness.  When I attempted to help him up he insisted that he could get himself up and lurched away from my one good arm and proceeded to get up on one knee and summarily collapse onto the floor, emitting more curse words than a truck stop waitress who has “been done wrong” by some no-good trucker with a double name. 

                Trying to help him with the good arm, while flapping my other arm around to get the circulation flowing and him wiggling all over the floor threw Lulu into a state of confusion and happiness as she bounded from her doggie bed wanting to play.  Have you ever tried to help lift an overweight man who is trying to fight you using your one good arm and fending off the dog?  No, Dustin, just you.  And while it may be funny now, it was most assuredly not funny then.  Well, except maybe to Lulu.  If she could talk, I can only imagine what she would say.  Probably, “I’m hungry!” “Please pet me!” “Squirrel!”  “You’re Awesome!” and/or “The old fat one sleeps a lot, what breed is he?” although not necessarily in that order.

                I felt bad about him falling and I know that older people can break things when they do fall.  He complains about aches and pains nonstop so I knew I could look forward to an uptick in the woe-is-me-ing later that night and especially the next day and the day after that.  As someone who knows (somewhat) the pain of working out, I can tell you the next day is not as bad as the day after that.  And although his falling and my working out are not the same, they both involve sweating and someone on the floor cursing.  And they are both usually followed by someone regaling all and sundry with the specifics of the incident and detailing the aches and pains long after interest has waned and the even the memory of the pain has subsided.  Full disclosure:  I did kick boxing for about 5 months (from October 2009-February 2010).  I still talk about it.  Yes, Virginia, I see the irony.   

                Of course, he is still talking about the fall and the aches and pains and it’s been like a week and a half.  His toe hurts, his ankle hurts, both knees hurt, his ribs/thigh/shoulder/lungs/kidney/uterus hurt.  Ok, that last one I may have misunderstood, but you get my drift.  This is in addition to his typical refrain of “my back, a double s and neck hurt”.  When I ask if he has taken a pain pill, for which he has a prescription, he always says, “Nah.  It’s not THAT bad yet.”  Really?  To hear him you would think his pain was mind-numbing.  He has likened it to child birth.  He has actually said, “On a scale of 1 to 10, this is a 25”, but in his estimation it is not enough to take a pill.  Get over yourself old man. 

What do you think is going to happen?  Just because more than your fair share of relatives (on the Thompson side) have become pill addicts doesn’t mean you will.  I am hardcore anti-drug but even I’ve started acting like the sketchy best friend in a coming of age movie saying things like, “Come on man, it’s no big deal.  It’s just the one pill.”  I have even resorted to just getting one out and putting it in his hand and giving him a bottle of water.  No questions, no judgments.  Just like one of those meetings you see on TV where you tell your name and your addiction.  They don’t have one for thrift store shopping; I checked.  They should have one for gossiping (or fellowshipping depending on your denomination), but those kind of meetings usually take place in church and although we’d talk about how we feel guilty talking about people, we’d end up talking about people while describing why we felt we had to and it would be sort of a breaking even situation and nobody wants that.  Not even for really good chess pie.  Ok, maybe for really, really good chess pie.

                And although he is prone to exaggeration, I really do think he is “stove up” a little as he has turned down the last two invitations to breakfast at Jason’s, his favorite place, as well as the latest trip to Wal-Mart leaving me to navigate the waters of Little Guatemala, mano-a-nada.  Como se dice, ‘Alone’?  I felt like the hero in an action film who has been abandoned at the gates of the castle/den of thieves/cave, on a mission from some hard to please despot who requires things I wouldn’t normally buy like yarn, XXL underwear, Stetson cologne and denture adhesive.  I can only imagine what people were thinking when they looked into my cart.  I used to say buggy but that can be shamed out of you by New Englanders who call them carriages. 

                What?  You mean you don’t look in other people’s carts, scoping out their items and using what you see to parse out their back story?  No, Dustin, just you.  I guess it is true what my mother always said, “Just because you’re talking about people doesn’t mean they are talking about you.”

                Well said, nomadic Southern Baptist.  Well said indeed.