Number of posts: 10
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By Darby Britto:
“Cool, there is a trail of blood all the way to the door!”
As my young second cousin Shawn uttered these words, I was still feeding small bunches of cranberries into the blender for relish, and making quite a trail of red looking blood myself.
The evening before we had suspended the no slurping the noodles rule on spaghetti night and that may have been our undoing. The kids were primed for fun with adults who were willing participants in the antics. Thanksgiving morning started early with my being the only one who wasn’t too grossed out to clean the icky stuff out of the turkey. Truth be told, I was completely grossed out and very angry with myself for forgetting to bring food handling gloves…
On Political Spam
Soon, but not soon enough, it will be safe to open my email from friends I don’t hear from regularly. I hope the nonsense will stop Wednesday Nov. 7th, the day after the presidential election. Meanwhile, I dread opening email from anyone except my regular corespondents. I keep hoping the odd email will be good news like an impending visit from a far flung friend, but noooooo it is usually some political diatribe.
Why do people, who should know me better, insist on sending me some of this stuff?
“By the rivers of my memory…
That keeps you ever gentle on my mind.”
Many of us have seen the poignant news coverage that Glen Campbell, recently diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, will soon embark on a farewell tour. As we watch him on stage, a star slowly dimming, he remembers the words to this song — and others — that had so many of us singing along over the years. And, because he made the courageous decision to take his diagnosis public, he is — for now — the newest face of Alzheimer’s. But, soon he won’t remember the words.
General Patton said, “Let me not mourn for the men who have died fighting, but rather, let me be glad that such heroes have lived.”
The names of soldiers who died in service to our country are etched on marble stones. Their names are chiseled at the base of monuments, and 58,267 names glisten on the face of a black granite wall. Memorial Day is set aside for us to honor those who have given their lives for our country. We should do something on this day besides pausing for a moment of silence to remember …
As we observe Memorial Day it is time to stop thinking of it as a day off from work, or the opportunity to catch up on chores, or as a day to fire up the grill. It is time… we observe Memorial Day as a fitting tribute to those who serve our country. I say we must go beyond Memorial Day and pay tribute to these men and women every day.
Movies, advertising, and story books have influenced generations of American children in how to visualize the ideal American Christmas. The iconic Coca Cola Santa comes mind; after all it is the south who introduced the world to Coke. Bing Crosby introduced the song White Christmas to the world in the movie by the same name. A classic tune in a movie studded with classic images of Christmas in New England.
Acres of white ground are seen in the south just before the cotton fields are harvested, long before Christmas. Our trees bloom with white magnolias not freshly fallen snow. Outdoor ice skating is only seen clumsily executed by cars on a hill during the rare ice storm.
While most of you are trying to decide on a Halloween costume I will have just had Thanksgiving dinner. This too is something you can blame on TV. November, otherwise known as stunt month in television land, is an all hands on deck affair. The odds of getting time off for Thanksgiving are a lot like being asked out to dinner by George Clooney; not going to happen.
Thirty some years ago a colleague’s family decided to take matters into their own hands. The fixed date for Thanksgiving is, after all, a political decision not a phase of the moon …
“Take this box of sand with you; it needs to get to Washington DC.”
If you are a young enlisted man charged with the security of getting a general, and everything that goes with him, safely out of Afghanistan the last thing you need to be in charge of is a box of dirt. Also, if you are an enlisted man and a colonel tells you to safely escort a box of sand, you may be thinking, “Say wha?!” but you respond with a crisp, “Yes sir.”
In my work as a volunteer at the National Infantry Museum at Ft. Benning Georgia, I hear a lot of good stories. This young man’s story was spreading through the museum that day like kudzu on the nearby trees. You see… he was here to see the sand.
Anyone who has ever spent time living in the South has encountered them. No one ever forgets them. Everyone wants to forget. No one can ever really get rid of them. I am talking about those huge, awful, gross flying roaches. They find their way into your house somehow, someway, despite everything you do.
In my euphoria of once again enjoying all things Southern, the Spanish moss dripping from the trees, fried green tomatoes, and the song of the cicada; I have had enough of the roaches already. Leaping on a chair at midnight with a can of smelly bug spray is hardly conducive to restful sleep …
There is something about the Gulf Coast beaches that calls you back. The sand there doesn’t just get into your shoes, hair and any other crevice on your body it gets into your soul.
Southerners are mourning the damage done do our Gulf beaches. It seems to go deeper than sorrow for the loss of human and marine life. It is more than seeing the anguish on the faces of those who lead the life we can only dream of; making a living in our gulf waters.
I asked friends why they have a special love for some of the Gulf Coast beaches.
“Darby, you are not in Portland anymore.” My friend in Atlanta felt compelled to remind me of this because I actually expect traffic to stop for pedestrians in cross walks. I left Georgia in 1982 on the “see America and get someone else to pay for it” plan …
I spent the last fourteen years living in Portland, Oregon, before returning to Georgia recently. What the heck happened while I was gone? Clearly I am no longer in the South where courtesy ruled the day in all circumstances. Outside of their cars I have to hand it to Georgians, you really are nice people. Stepping into a motor vehicle, however, starts a transformation worthy of the Incredible Hulk.