To assist myself and maybe some of you who have reached the senior citizen discount arena, here is a little humor to lighten your day.

You are a senior soul if:

You look forward to the adrenalin rush of your 50+ vitamins.

You’ve read all the magazines in more than one doctor’s office.

9:00 pm is past your bedtime

You’re looking forward to a nap by 9:00 am.

Your grandchildren want to use you for a report on fossils.

The highlight of your day is your annual checkup

You buy drugstore glasses to help you find your glasses, lose those,

then have to have your thirty something neighbor

drive you back to the drugstore to get another pair.

You are a senior soul if:

6 am is late in the day.

The centerpiece on your dining room is your new blood pressure kit.

You know the ambulance drivers by their first names.

You tape the medicine commercials for later viewing.

When the commercials announce the side effects of the medicine you are on

it throws you into a panic attack, resulting in more medicine.

And finally, you don’t dread birthdays when you consider the alternative!

     Just to let you know, I didn’t borrow these fun facts from a website, internet jokes or any of my friends. They are the product of a warped senior brain…mine!

Note:  This is the time of the year that heralds band concerts and end of school activities for my grandchildren. Three months of the summer I travel in order to see these six wonderful grands before they grow up, up, and away. I will be reducing my story contributions to once per week, unless I have a break in action.   Have a grand day!

After the party was over the events below were the unusual signs that Stephanie noticed from all of us. Our art of surprise still needs fine tuning because:

1. Joy became very interested in how Stephanie’s day had gone.
2. Just like the CIA, chatter from party central (aka, my house) to Clay’s phone was on the increase.
3. Faith, Joy, and Stephen huddled in Joy’s room. Stephen never huddles in Joy’s room!
4. Clay McMann has an ‘open’ face. His eyes and whole demeanor told her that something was up.
5. Clay made visits to the high school after work.  He volunteered to help in Stephanie’s room then visited with some of the school staff and invited them to the festivities.

The final two weeks before the party were the most difficult. Stephanie knew we were going to spend time together on our birthdays. We have done that since she turned one. I was playing it too cool by not calling her at all. I became paranoid about letting the cat out of the bag with just my voice. The other grandmother, Sara, ceased phone calls as well. The final three days were tense while Brer Rabbit (that would be me) was ‘laying low’. I looked over my shoulder during every trip from the motel. My sister and I ate in the nearby town of Newberry to keep our presence hidden.

Clay’s plant manager decided the plant needed to run the day of the party. I contemplated homicide of said manager. I like orange, but not enough to wear it for twenty-five years to life. Clay was the chieftain in getting Stephanie to the Hampton. She thought she was going straight to Fatz Café to eat. The manager later decided that Clay didn’t have to come in unless a machine malfunctioned. The cursed machine broke around 7:30 Saturday morning, P day for the party. We were T minus five hours and counting.

Just like the President of the United States consults advisors in a crisis, I turned to my sister and three grandkids. A scheme developed. Stephen would drive Stephanie to the grocery store. Upon their return we would edge her to get dressed and ready to eat lunch at Fatz. I would fake losing my cell phone at the Hampton, blaming it on my ten year-old granddaughter. We would all go into the Hampton’s breakfast area to look for it.

The plan worked and as we walked into the corridor of the motel, forty friends and family members aimed their cameras like the paparazzi trained on the red carpet at the Academy Awards. Finally, after more than fifty days we could exhale. We enjoyed roasting, toasting laughing and remembering. Stephanie and Clay’s anniversary was remembered and celebrated. The March birthday babies had their day.

The theme was Spanish to honor Senora Stephanie McMann, Spanish teacher

Brer Rabbits 'laying low', the Lewis Sisters in Newberry

Clay lighting trick candles placed too close together, do not attempt this bonfire at home.

My children, Mike Massey and Stephanie McMann

This really is a true story!  I will have trouble getting through this, because I crack myself up every time I get a picture of this episode in my brain. The names have been changed because I don’t know how to get in touch with these folks and one of their relatives might sue me.

Sam was a guy in our Calvary Bunch who stayed in trouble on a regular basis. His parents had long given up on him and were checking off the days on their calendar until he turned 18.  I’m sure his mother loved him somewhere deep inside, but had forgotten where that was hidden.

Sam’s best friend was Charlie.  He and Sam were joined at the breastbone. Charlie wasn’t as adventurous, but Sam could talk him into anything. The activity they enjoyed most was not only cutting Sunday School, but cutting 20-30 minutes of church.

One Sunday they decided to grab two hot dogs at a local eatery before returning to church. Those of you in Oconee County and surrounding parts must realize that Winston-Salem is a big city. Hot dog joints stay open during church.

Meanwhile back at the church, a visiting pastor was welcomed to the pulpit. His name escapes me, so we’ll call him Reverend Burke. The Moravians have a very quiet and loving service. There are times when a pastor can get a bit forceful, but never ‘over the top.’ The good Reverend Burke had just reached a point in his sermon warning the congregation of the need to toe the mark in life. “Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to hell, and many enter through it.” Matthew 7:13.  Charlie and Sam were knocking on hell’s gate. The partners in church crime returned and climbed the stairs into the balcony. The first row of the balcony at Calvary has chairs close to a railing that overlook the sanctuary below. At the time, this historic church still made use of steam radiators in the sanctuary area.

The guys were placing their hot dogs on the railing over the sanctuary so they could reach their drinks.  About the time they thought they were getting their feast settled, one of the guys knocked the hot dogs to the sanctuary below. One of the dogs ended up on the steam radiator, another landed in an elderly woman’s lap—mustard, catsup, and onions were free to her also. This lady was one of the long standing matrons of the church who was a ‘heavy hitter.’ The term ‘heavy hitter’ is the late Bill Coogler’s terminology for a big tither to the church.

The hot dog cooking on the radiator was retrieved by one of the ushers, but not before the area began to reek with the smell of a burned frankfurter.  There was a lot of confusion. Charlie’s mom looked up and spotted her offspring leaving the balcony. I don’t think he got too far before his mom and dad intercepted him.  What followed wasn’t pretty, but they did take it to the street—outside that is. Those of us in the Calvary Bunch eased outside to see if Charlie’s parents were drawing blood, but he survived.

Another amazing fact is that Reverend Burke just kept on preaching through the entire ordeal. From catsup clean up to a hot footed mama running the aisle, he kept on truckin’.  If you’ve ever done any public speaking you can appreciate how hard that must have been!

The whole sorry incident proved to be a sobering experience not only for Sam and Charlie, but for the rest of us. We had another escapade in the planning stages, but decided to abort that mission! The elderly lady remained a member until she met her final reward and Reverend Burke agreed to revisit probably the most interesting pulpit in his memory.

We didn’t see Charlie or Sam at any socials for months after that. But they finally returned to a Youth Supper one Sunday night. No kidding, the menu was hot dogs with mustard, catsup, and onions—served away from the steam radiator in the fellowship hall!

You can visit hot dog heaven aka the Calvary Moravian Church website. When you go to the site click on The Moravian Church tab at the top. When it opens you’ll see some musicians on the page, my sister is the one in the green hat playing a clarinet.  An unpaid commercial for my sister Jean, I love you!

During our high school years, we attended a Sunday School class overseen by a prominent political figure from the North Carolina State Legislature.  His bowler hat, bow tie, pipe, and horn-rimmed glasses added to his intellectual aura.  He knew the Bible like the back of his hand.  Upon entrance to class, we were quizzed verbally and on paper.  The previous week at R.J. Reynolds High School was no walk in the park.  Academia was intense as we were all involved in the foreign language credit of our selection. The Calvary Bunch was scattered throughout Latin, French, German, or Spanish.  Other classroom obstacles to hurdle were: Calculus, Algebra, Chemistry, Biology, Geometry, Economics, and a stellar English Department involved in a passionate romance with Shakespeare.

On Sundays we brought a tired countenance to our third floor table in the Senior High Sunday School room.  Mutinous thoughts began to take shape.  It’s not clear who spoke these thoughts into action first. I have an idea that it could have been our resident class character, a guy we called “Chipper.”  His fun-loving antics were always a source of great entertainment in an otherwise static atmosphere.

Under Chipper’s influence, we as one body, decided to start skipping Sunday School.  In the beginning, we skipped one Sunday a month so as not to arouse undue suspicion.  We left the church one-by-one and met along our route at a small doughnut shop near the Winston Theater.  This was a highly successful ploy for about six months.  The eight of us became so proud of our feat that we began to walk together, to our favorite rebel rendezvous.  It was a sunny, autumn day when the winds of capture found us.Sparked by the nip of fall, we lingered over our doughnuts and sodas. The shop’s doorbell signaled the arrival of one of our older siblings.

“Your jig is up, everybody’s parents are looking for y’all. You better say your prayers.”

We all surmised that grounding us from church social activities would be a sacrilege, but we underestimated parental authority.  After a month of only seeing each other over blue ditto sheets in Sunday School, we were finally allowed to attend a church hayride.  The refreshments were, you guessed it, doughnuts and soda.

Part of the Calvary Bunch: Ann Lewis Coogler, Fred (Chipper) Crouch, Patti Trivette Malspina, Amanda Bullins Crabtree

I love this time of year and the panic that envelops the grocery stores when snow or ice is forecast. Sometimes even the mention of a snow flurry clears the bread shelves. In my growing up years I lived in Winston-Salem and we had some great snowfalls. One year it snowed every Wednesday until the first week in April. That year my birthday fell on Wednesday March 19, I remember making a large snowman with a hat and a red ribbon that day. I also remember sledding, and driving…yes, driving in the ice and snow. My dad wanted his girls to learn to drive in bad weather. He took us out for snow driving lessons, much to my mother’s chagrin. She held her breath at home until we returned.

I can still hear him, “Steer in the direction of your slide, don’t use the brakes, don’t panic, and you’ll come out of your slide.”  If Daddy could make it over to my cousin’s house in Greensboro I spent the night and her brothers took us sledding. We even found a neat place to bury our cigarettes in Bandaid cans for future consumption.

I moved to South Carolina in 1974 with my late husband and our toddler daughter.  In 1987, we moved to Walhalla, with two teenaged children. The Winter of ’88 I got to use my snow skills.  We moved to an area of Walhalla with a wonderful hill for sledding, nicknamed, “WE-E-E-HAH HILL.”  At the age of 40, I boarded a snow dish with the rest of the teenagers and hit the bottom of the hill with my hair flying.  When the teenagers grew tired, they stood at the top of the hill shaking their heads at the only mother in the neighborhood playing in the snow.

It was great until the groceries ran out.  Hungry and wet, six teenaged boys began to starve from the bottom of their toes. The snow had banked to 17 inches in the driveways of our neighborhood.  Not only did these folks refuse to drive in the snow, they also refused to walk in it.  It was going to be up to two families to get rations for the entire neighborhood. We collected grocery lists by making phone calls, but the next problem would be getting out of our subdivision with its steep, winding hills.

As I pulled on my snow boots, I heard the rumble of the only snow plow in the county.  It looked as if it had been sitting in dry dock for thirty years, but it did the job as my husband and I followed the plow accompanied by another brave friend who came along to help fill the neighborhood pantries.  Later, I was able to share with my dad how my North Carolina snow driving skills saved a starving neighborhood.

To my current neighbors, it’s time to stock up, I’ve retired from sliding through steep hills to purchase food.  I heard some snow flurry rumors on the television, support your local grocer.

There were lots of good parts to being a stay at home mom, but the downside was that money was scarce. Steak wasn’t on the menu when Max(ine) was around. That summer of ’82 we were growing Leonard the Goat. The rest of the provisions would be field peas and cornbread, field peas and cornbread and…..Steve provided for us well throughout his career as Ma Duke’s child, but sometimes the money almost ran out before the month did.  Our 15 acres of land included a Russian boar, goats, steak on the hoof[1], chickens, and a garden. Our land was our grocery store.  

With the advent of Max(ine) and Vivy, we decided that Leonard the Goat was going down. Steve and two of his neighbor friends took poor Leonard to the abattoir[2] at Fountain Inn outside of Greenville. They waited while Leonard was executed without benefit of a trial. Leonard died so that we could host a goat b-cue.  When Steve and I had a pig pickin’, goat b-cue or anything related to eating we invited the neighbors. They came bringing covered dishes and loads of young ‘uns. Our 6 ft. aluminum table went up for the food. Steve had a hole in the side yard to heap coal into, and a grate. We covered the hole with part of an aluminum roof to trap the heat from the fire. The goat was sandwiched between the aluminum roof and the grate.

Forty eight hours before Leonard was to be grilled, Steve marinated him to ‘purge the wild’ out of the meat.  See Marinade below.[3]After Leonard was fully marinated he was moved to the grilling site and was mopped intermittently with eastern North Carolina mopping sauce. [4] The mop had to be a sturdy stick as long as your arm with cheese cloth or a torn up sheet tied around the end.  Mop the inside and outside of the goat. Men, women, and children took turns and soon Leonard was a crispy critter with barbecue flavoring.

We were now nearly four weeks into Max(ine’s) visit. Steve’s mom, Grandma B.B. used to say, ‘fish and company smell after three days, our company was really stinkin’.

Steve developed a plan to send Max(ine) and Vivy back from whence they came. “I’ll go and get some cheap wine, and after the goat b cue, load the cooler with goat sandwiches and wine. I’ll ease Max(ine) into the notion of getting home sick to see his roots in the Lowgrounds.” He asked me to check our food money for the rest of the month to find out if we could buy him a bus ticket. I checked and reported, “We can only get them as far as Salisbury, NC, then they’re on their own.” Steve chuckled, “Well, if I get them relaxed enough they won’t pay any attention to the ticket, until the bus driver tells them they have to get off in Salisbury.”  That’s how Max(ine) and Vivy left the goat b-cue, very relaxed and full of goat meat. Steve put them on the bus in Greenville, of course, the bus would stop in Kings Mountain before it landed in Salisbury. We held our breaths through the next day. One dreaded thought was, ‘What if he cashes in his ticket at Kings Mountain and comes back?’

Apparently they did make it back to the Lowgrounds, Max(ine) called a few times after that. I would say, “Steve isn’t home” whether he was or not. Steve realized that Max(ine) in the house could become a permanent condition. This now infamous Massey event is a good lesson for not wearing out your welcome in somebody else’s house. You might end up with a wine headache and goat sandwiches.

I don’t know if Max Massey is dead or alive, but I pray that he made it from the Lowgrounds to the highest ground of all if he has passed.

In memory of a brown-eyed soft hearted man: Steve Massey

December 9, 1940-January 31, 1996

I do chase a lot of rabbits in these stories. They are necessary for the telling of the story, stay with me here!

Dateline—Hot as a firecracker August, 1980 on Blacksnake Rd. Easley SC—aka Coon’s Creek (the nickname for our 15 acre farm, complete with cow pond and a snaky creek.

“Hey Stevie, howsa boy!” Max Massey’s voice boomed over the phone.  “Long time, no hear from Maxine!”  Using their nicknames for each other was standard when these two first cousins exchanged greetings.

Ohhhh, I groaned in my head, “not him, not another marathon visit.”  Max and the rest of Steve’s extended family lived near the Princeton and Smithfield areas of North Carolina. The nearest town of any size was Goldsboro. Princeton was Max’s exact location, known as the Lowgrounds, along the Neuse River.  Smithfield has two claims to fame.  Ava Gardner[1] and Al Massey[2], see Boxrec for Al’s picture and bio. Incidentally, Al used to run in some of the same circles as Ava and Frank Sinatra[3] during their brief and stormy marriage.

Back to Blacksnake Road– Cousin Max(ine) was always down on his luck. I never knew him when he wasn’t. He roamed from his brother, John’s to ‘Tommy-tommy’ Massey, a first cousin, to his poor Aunt Lanie, to Steve, then back through the circuit again. Once upon a better life, Max(ine) had a house, a good job, and a family.  This was until he fell in love with a host of immoral, illegal, and fattening behavior.

One day, upon arriving home, his wife, Cissy, had dumped all his belongings in the front yard. He would have tried to get in the house, but found himself staring down the barrel of Cissy’s newly purchased shotgun. Cissy said she got it for squirrels and rabbits, but I’m thinking she was preparing to run Max(ine) off in grand fashion.

With no wife and young’uns, and all his earthly goods piled up in his rag tag car, he finally found a boarding house.[4]  Beset by his latest difficulties Max(ine) turned to strong drink and laying out of work. You guessed it, he lost his gainful employment and became the vagabond cousin of the Princeton, NC branch of the Massey family.

I wasn’t the following man’s schoolteacher! We had to have the garage door repaired.  The Sears repairman told us that one of our problems was that we did not have a ‘large’ enough motor on the opener.  I thought for a minute, and said that we had the largest one Sears made at that time, a 1/2 horsepower.  He shook his head and said, “Lady, you need a 1/4 horsepower.”  I responded that 1/2 was larger than 1/4.  He said, “No, it’s not. Four is larger than two.”  We haven’t used Sears repair since.  

The Dense Diner:   
My daughter and I went through the McDonald’s take-out window and  I gave the clerk a $5 bill.  Our total was $4.25, so I also handed her a quarter.  She said, “You gave me too much money.”  I said, “Yes I  know, but this way you can just give me a dollar bill back.”  She sighed and went to get the manager who asked me to repeat my request.  I did so, and he handed me back the quarter, and said “We’re sorry but we cannot do that kind of thing.”  The clerk then proceeded to give me back $1 and 75 cents in change.  

Space Cadet Crossing: I live in a semi-rural area.  We recently had a new neighbor call the local township administrative office to request the removal of the DEER CROSSING sign on our road.  The reason: “Too many deer are being hit by cars out here!  I don’t think this is a good place for them to be crossing.”

A Real Happening in Alabama: I was at the airport, checking in at the gate when an airport employee asked, “Has anyone put anything in your baggage without your knowledge?”  To which I replied, “If it was without my knowledge, how would I know?”  He smiled knowingly and nodded, “That’s why we ask.”

She has a job?: The stop-light on the corner buzzes when it’s safe to cross the street.   I was crossing with an intellectually challenged co-worker of mine.  She asked if I knew what the buzzer was for.  I explained that it signals blind people when the light is red.  Appalled, she responded, “What on earth are blind people doing driving?”
Sworn to protect us: I work with an individual who plugged her power strip back into itself and for the sake of her life, couldn’t understand why her system would not turn on. She’s a deputy with the Dallas County Sheriff’s office, no less.  

A Ford dealership in Mississippi: When my husband and I arrived at an automobile dealership to pick up our car, we were told the keys had been locked in it. We went to the service department and found a mechanic working feverishly to unlock the driver side door.  As I watched from the passenger side, I instinctively tried the door handle and discovered that it was unlocked.  ”Hey,” I announced to the technician, “It’s open!”  His reply, “I know. I already got that side.”

The last one is a classic: When I left Hawaii and was transferred to Florida , I still had the Hawaiian plates on my car, as my car was shipped from Hawaii . I was parking, and a guy asked me “Wow, you drove from Hawaii to here?” I looked at him and quickly said, “Yep. I took the Hawaii/San Francisco Bridge.” He nodded his head and said “Cool!”

Stay alert, these people walk among us, they vote, and reproduce!

Happy Friday!

      As I skid downhill past sixty and begin the climb to the next decade, sleep becomes a rare and luxurious event.  My late husband, Bill Coogler, could sleep in a straight chair with a loud television in the background, I must have complete quiet.  In addition to quiet, all conditions must be right.  Bill would cut down large forests of trees with his snoring apparatus nightly. I called it, “The Salem Chainsaw Massacre.”  Earplugs muffle the ongoing machinery somewhat.  The only real cure was to roll my sleeping husband to a side position.

In order to sleep, I must start on my right side, covers drawn under my chin with my ergonomically correct pillow placed smoothly under my right ear. I’ve been accused of being a “blanket robber” by both my late husbands and a few grandchildren as I pull and toss to gain the exact position necessary for my nightly nap.

A discussion of sleeping styles at a recent social event brought some interesting conversation.  One lady’s husband fights burglars in his sleep twice a year.  While in his dreamlike state, he pummels her face and grabs her shoulders. Since she never knows when the biannual event will occur it has led to separate sleeping arrangements in an otherwise happy marriage.  Another lady discussed the habits of a sleepwalking husband who gets up during the night to go to work.  She, very gently, leads him back to bed, then locks and barricades the bedroom door.

Also part of our discussion was a new sleep disorder called restless leg syndrome.  The affected person breaks into a run while sleeping and pedals as if on a treadmill. Needless to say, the other person in the bed is awakened by this nocturnal track meet.

However, I’m not convinced that restless leg is a new disorder, twenty years ago sleeping with my daughter was a gymnastics event.  Occasionally, she would spend the night in our bed when my late husband’s job took him out of town.  She flopped arms and legs into my face as I clutched the edge of the bed for safety. The day of her wedding, I expressed my sympathy to her husband and wished him well.  However, my lovely daughter is now experiencing her own version of my son-in-law’s snoring with the “Clinton Chain Saw Massacre.” I suppose each one of us has our own “sleep cross” to bear—may we rest in peace!

In every packaging engineer’s heart there breeds revenge against a mother who kept him out of the cookie jar.  Now it’s his turn to keep all mothers out of vacuum-sealed, shrink wrapped household items.  We are expected to prepare a meal on time while cutting, punching, and zipping our way into various cans, cartons, boxes, and bottles.

I now have family members who are doing laundry with their feet while wrestling with “E-Z” open containers and small children. Front loading washing machines are experiencing a boost in sales.   All of this happened because a dark-hearted packaging science major was banished from the cookie jar.

One night, in the tomb of midnight darkness I reached for a pill for my headache.  Trying not to disturb my late husband, I felt for the arrow I was supposed to line up, squeeze, and then push upward to release the contents.  POP! He woke up, next time, I’ll take it downstairs.

Life was simple before packages required engineers.  There was only one way into a container.  Now we must: push down while turning, line up at arrows, squeeze, zip tab at corner, pull tab to open envelope at perforation, and wrestle with shrink wrapped DVDs (my personal favorite). All of these contortions are supposed to be accomplished while some of us are being treated for arthritis, tendonitis, and carpal tunnel syndrome.  Send a care package of steel encased cookies to your nearest packaging science department.  The revenge should be wonderful!