Enter: Winter Apocalypse 2010

As I look out my window at ten and a half inches of perfectly powdery snow, I can’t help but thank the good Lord above that the power is still on. This time last year – and I mean EXACTLY this time last year, to the day – the infamous Ice Storm of 2009 had wreaked its frozen havoc over the whole of northeast Arkansas. This year, it’s just snow. Drifts and drifts of fluffy, white snow.

Admittedly, we never expected we’d get quite this much. Mostly because the weather reports here are always exaggerated compared to what really comes. However, I woke up this morning to such blinding snowfall that I could scarcely see out the window. It lasted all throughout the morning and into the day. Now night has fallen and it is still spitting snow. And according to the radar, it’s showing no sign of stopping until late Saturday.

It doesn’t bother me, in all honesty. Cabin fever will set in eventually, but we all have four-wheel drives. There are, however, some around me who don’t seem to care for it. My dog is one of them.

And now, a tale of winter misery. Starring Lassee.

“It’s in them genes.”

Yesterday I had lunch with a senior member from the board of directors at Bethel University. Bethel is a four-year liberal arts college in Tennessee that scouts for musicians like most schools scout athletes. I got connected with the lady from the board – Ms. Vera – via my cousin Darrin. He pilots her private jet.

I know, right?

I have a hard time relaying the experience to friends, because I don’t care who you are – if you say you met somebody because your cousin pilots their private jet, people get jumpy. Just try to say “my cousin pilots her private jet” without sounding uppity. It’s metaphysically impossible, no matter how earnest you are.

Even for me, the one who had to dress up and actually attend the meeting, it was a bit much to wrap a head around. I mean, in case you hadn’t heard, I don’t go around meeting with college board members. The way this came together was so unlikely that I just had to throw up my hands and go along with it. I certainly wasn’t going to turn down the opportunity.

And I’d say that I’m a lucky girl, but I can still hear Darrin’s speech about the importance of preparedness ringing in my head: “There’s no such thing as luck, only opportunity meeting preparedness. And you HAVE to be prepared.”

I try, Darrin. Really. I try.

Anyway.

The woman was phenomenal – 84 years old, sharp as a tack, and absolutely gorgeous. I was anxious about the visit, but I really don’t think it could have gone better. She treated me with grace and hospitality, conducted the conversation with interest and good will.

And me? I managed not to say “y’all” or “fixin’ to”.

Well, I might have said “y’all” one time – it tends to slip out when I’m not looking.

But I did NOT say “fixin’ to”. My momma was so proud.

I did, however, eat crème brûlée. My date with Ms. Vera took place at a restaurant in Springfield, MO called Fire & Ice. It’s her son’s establishment and they truly rolled out the red carpet for us. I strongly recommend you try it out if you’re ever in the neighborhood. (Order the spinach and mushroom dip. And the smoked salmon.)

The meeting itself was a success, I think, and I know it was a pleasure. By the end of the meal Ms. Vera had her arm around me and we were throwing around endearments like we were blood kin. What a sweet, genuine lady. It helped that we both established ourselves early on as distinctly Southern women.

She asked me if I’d ever eaten Pad Thai.

“Actually, no. I’m not much on Asian cuisine,” I responded tentatively.

“Oh good, dear! You’re just like me. Let’s order fried chicken!”

I started to feel more at home at that point. Maybe it’s just further proof that we’ve all got a hillbilly bone. Down deep inside. (Name that song!)

In closing, I’d like to say that regardless of whether I’m lucky or prepared, I’m most certainly blessed. As for where I’ll be attending school in a few years, who knows. Bethel certainly sounds promising.

Guess you’ll just have to stay tuned.

Dad and I, the day before Mom and I drove to Springfield.

The house that built me.

I love Thanksgiving. I don’t really feel like I need a reason why.

But if I did need a reason, I could probably provide plenty.

It’s a family holiday. That in itself is reason enough to make me happy.

Because I think, by now, you all know how much I love my family.

I mean, it’s kind of hard not to.  (Hi there, Uncle Bob.)

Beyond that, there’s the food to consider.

It’s the only time of year I feel good about eating my weight in food.

Every blessed pound of it.

Of course, I whine about it the next day. But then I sleep.

And it just gets better every year.

The haunted house industry.

I probably don’t have to tell you it’s Halloween. My family is a little odd in the way that we don’t celebrate it. We never have. No trick or treating or dressing up like a Disney princess. Ever. And I don’t feel like I missed out. In fact, when I was a little kid I thought that everyone else was weird and I was the normal one.

Cool thing is, our lack of respect for the holiday doesn’t stop us from expanding upon the annual opportunity to get a little scared. We detoured by a haunted house on our way home from the city tonight. They’re a pretty cheap thrill, but Dad and I have been finding one to stumble through every Halloween for three years running. It’s a real bonding experience when you think about it. Anytime someone in a clown mask pops out of nowhere wielding a chainsaw, trust me, we’ve never been closer.

I don’t know if everyone everywhere has the same amount of haunted houses as we do, but around here there’s one in every neighborhood. People practically make enough money off of them to retire twice. I don’t really know why, either. I guess it’s a good excuse to get off the farm. Sure, not all haunted houses are created equal, but if you’ve seen one you’ve pretty much seen them all. Same old drill every year. We get our tickets from some ghoul with a glowstick, then stand in line outside the abandoned school or warehouse until it’s our turn to go in.

It’s typically very dark and very cramped inside. The music or scream soundtrack is incredibly loud. All the classic scary things are in place, from cobwebs to the strobe-light tableau of the little old lady eating someone’s guts. There are a few “boo” moments, and I hang on to Dad’s coat. Nothing really scares me, however, until we get about halfway through the house and that guy in the jumpsuit (or Freddy mask, or zombie makeup) starts tagging along behind.

Friends, I cannot take it. I ball up on Dad’s head. It’s a tradition. This year was no different. That guy was coming at me and he meant business, even if he was dragging one leg. I nearly ate the sweater of the lady in front of us. And that’s the only part that ever bothers me.

So, we donated fourteen bucks to the small sector of rednecks getting rich off of haunted houses and drove home. The real thrill, however, was to come after we left so-called Scared City. Dad flipped into storytelling mode, and the yarn he spun was gruesome enough and true enough to keep me up till 2AM.

To be continued…

You had to be there.

My cousins are coming to visit from California. That means we’ll push our hats back and turn on our Arkansas. Maybe that’s not what they expect to see, but we know it’s what they want. The South is not a fish hook on the bill of every ball cap, but it might as well be. What we are– it isn’t a teachable art. You had to be there, and I’m talking from day one.

I hate to give you a post with no pictures, but I don’t have anything recent due to an ongoing lack of camera batteries. (I know– what good is it doing just laying around dead? Zip, zero, zilch, nadda. One more thing to dust.) I do, however, have some cool stuff in my archives from several months ago. It was daisy season, right around the first hay-cutting, and I’d taken the camera out to photograph some junk cars in my neighbors’ field before they had them all crushed and hauled away.

Observe…