Oh, there were a small smattering of successes, but there were also disappointments seemingly lurking around each corner just waiting to take the place of those successes. And right away, I tried to throw my long-used  self diagnosis in the ring.

Quite a few years ago, I was stricken with a terrible malady of epic literary proportions. I, in fact, gave myself the deadly diagnosis of Jo March Syndrome. Jo March — the tomboy, writer, next to oldest sister in Little Women, dreamer, always longing for adventure, travel, etc. That one. Oh, trust me. I went through the list of Little Women characters and picked out traits I shared with each one, but Jo fit me to a tee. Never would I realize how perfect of a fit it was if events of the first half of the year hadn’t unfolded as they did.

Very early in the year, well, in fact, late last year, my closest friend announced her forthcoming marriage inside the walls of a local florist/coffee shop. Amidst the wonderful caffeinated and inspirational smells and sights, I felt a dark, loneliness creep in. Sure, I was happy for her, but just as Jo finds it difficult to let her sister Meg make the leap to marriage, I found this difficult as well. Just as Jo longed for everything in her life to remain the same and she didn’t want to be left behind, I longed for life to go on as it had before.

Soon after, Jo, through no fault of her own, falls into restlessness, growing pains, dissatisfaction and discomfort. Over the next few weeks and months, I found myself shunning the things I used to enjoy. I stopped blogging. I cut out Twitter. I couldn’t stand reading about the successes and failures of others as they didn’t help me any. I longed for close friendship, support, empathy and concerned phone calls. Truthfully, none of this ever came and when in late March a beloved piano teacher passed away, a part of me died with her and terrible, unmentionable thoughts crossed my mind. To me, all hope and inspiration had suddenly vanished.

After I’d finally gotten the worst-case scenario out of my thoughts, I vowed to run away. During all this stress, turmoil and uncertainty, though, I failed to realize there were people — people not having the diagnosis of Jo March Syndrome — who were going through the process with me. My boyfriend suffered too. Having spent a month with my friend, he’d gotten to know her as another sister and ironically enough, my friend’s wedding was to take place just two days after his sister celebrated her 10-year wedding anniversary. As I fidged and pulled myself out of yet another bout of depression, his mother always reminded, “This too shall pass.”

And it did. In much the same way that all dreaded and feared events pass, it soared to new heights of perfection. One step came right after the other in a smooth and natural way and nearly six months of dread and worry culminated into one weekend of new memories and fresh snapshots of the future — a future not to dread, but to embrace.

Now, I’m writing about it which, I suppose, is satisfying another symptom of Jo March Syndrome.

But, as I was leaving the wedding reception and all  the events of the past weekend and months came back to me, I made maybe the most important realization of all. If I was, in fact, living out Jo March Syndrome, then I was nearing the end of it because after all my longing, writing, dreaming and depression, everything felt complete and all I wanted to do was go home and get on with life.

In much the same way many literary heroines realize — Jo March, Dorothy Gale, Scarlett O’Hara — I was ready to go home and start up the next chapter.

There’s much more to come.

Story Teller

Since the installation of a revolutionary tool designed to bring long-absent church members back into the sanctuary and keep them interested and awake while they worship, the attendance of the Hogswallop Trinity Beautification of the Baptist Church has nearly doubled in the past month of Sundays.

HTBBC pastor Rev. K.K. Culvert designed and patented the device himself and, no pun intended, has seen it work miracles in his church.  The power pulpit comes equipped with a remote control zapper for all the back pews in order to make sure everyone sits towards the front of the church as well as several hidden mirrors so that Culvert can see all angles and make sure no one is napping.  Culvert got the idea to design the pulpit when a visiting couple slept through his famous Christmas sermon and managed to go for a sleep walk through the Christmas pageant during its most crucial moments.

“It was there, after that terribly embarrassing event, that I decided I’d better be doin’ something to keep my dignity and the dignity of the church intact,” he commented. “I built the new pulpit for the purpose of keeping everyone thoroughly alert throughout the course of an average marathon sermon.”

Allowing the PG to see a quick run-through of how the pulpit works, Culvert pointed out how each pew is wired with a microphone that detects snoring and the pulpit reacts automatically to any sort of sleepy-sounding noise coming from the church members whether it’s a snore, a yawn or even an ADHD-induced sigh. And tithing is a must.  A refusal to tithe when the offering plate is passed results in a quick slap on the wrist.  Culvert refused to comment on a recent attempt to sue the church made by a visitor who was stabbed by the tithe-maker-taker.  Overall, he’s very happy with the results and finds he can now preach longer and with more enthusiasm than before.

So, what’s next for this preacher who refuses to give up on his congregation and will use whatever means necessary to keep them “up and at em”?   Plans are now in the works to turn the baptistry into a hot tub complete with bubble bath for comfort and to ensure that all sins are completely washed away.

will remain a secret fur now. Until I’ve perfected it, that is. You see, I made it directly as soon as we arrived home from Floridy and it sent RP and Grizelda to they sick beds for quite a while, so I really must do some major tweakin’ on it.

Also, the good pastor has agreed to write a column this afternoon after church on the efficiency of his power pulpit and how it improves the overall atmosphere of the church.

Maybe a little later on this week, I’ll have some serious additions to the paper as Scout will be writin’ about her experience in her friend’s wedding and the cascade of emotions she felt in bein’ a part of it. And mebbe, just mebbe, she might get brave and share some quite excitin’ information that should make all the readers happy.

Like I said, though, jest hold on about the resippie. Gotta work out the bugs. Those danged Japanese beetles….

As I said before, my faithful assistant Rendered Posterior was gettin’ feedback from subscribers who said they’d like to see me leave the great area of Bell Bottom Creek and take on the wilds of somewhere else and if I lived to tell the tale, well then so be it. I gladly accepted the offer and waggoned myself, RP and Grizelda Jane out to the Sunshine State in search of the elusive and insidious rabid wrasslin’ croc. After much speculatin’ and arguin’ over where to set up camp, we picked a spot close to Disneyworld, a place Grizelda got all teary about seein’, and planned to go there to find our crocs.

Though it managed to rain everyday, we trudged through it and kept our eyes on the prize. The first day, we took the bus over to a Epcot. We found no crocs there, but managed to sink our teeth into some good eatin’ and visited many different places in the world within the walls of that one little park. Rendered Posterior gobbled up so many lime margaritas in Mexico, though, that he climbed all the palm trees and flung his extry large self down on poor, unsuspectin’ visitors, so we was throwed out with no success.

The second day, we headed over to the Magic Kingdom and Lord, did we ever hit paydirt with all those rides. For jest a moment, those rides took our minds off our main goal, but only for jest a moment. We saw many animals in the wilds of Africa, but still no crocs.

The next day brought us our biggest chance yet to spot the crocs — Animal Kingdom! We found a map and quickly pointed our areas that seemed like they’d give us the best chance to spot one of them fightin’ large lizards, so we split up and promised to meet back and share info if we found anything. Rendered Posterior quickly forgot his goal and beelined straight for the info desk to inquire about whiskey and goat cheese vendors, but Grizelda proved to be a little more helpful. She got sidetracked by several rides, but quickly hurried to my side when she spotted some evil lookin’ creatures confined up in little incubators. At first, she scared half the park when she claimed she’d spotted belly-crawlin’ dinos over at the north gate, but when I came over to investigate, I found the actual culprit to be not crocs, but gators. That figgers. Only in Floridy.

After three long days of adventure plus two more of drivin’, the weary travelers headed back to the Creek, bearin’ no real stories of croc wrasslin’, but plenty of other things to tell and memories that’ll last for a lifetime. Of course, fur yer delicate ears, I only included all the good parts and left out the many evils of three cantankerous old crazies travelin together in the small space of a wagon and needin’ to go the bathrooms at jest about every rest stop on the path.

On an unrelated note, I was so ahopin’ that Pastor Red J. Plumwood could be entertainin’ all of you with his sermons on his new revolutionary power pulpit he purchased so recently, but as our press has been down for so long, that didn’t happen.

I’ll open the opportunity back up to him real soon.

In the meantime, keep your eyes out for wrasslin’ crocs and if you ever need to reach me, jest drop a line.

Jest wanted to let you know that more possum goodness will be comin’ soon and please don’t give up on me. Not yet. I will share that souffle resippy. I will.

The latest big news to take a bite out of city hall has everyone’s stomachs a’churnin’. And that ain’t no yolk.

It began when long-time revered and admired Creek citizen and town council member Lester Dodum perished from his wife’s cookin’, or as good ol’ Lester would say his wife’s burnin’, and begat ever last ounce of his belongin’s to his prized Guernsey Gertrude. As Lester’s been a member of the town council for over 40 years, he also proudly beqeathed his spot on the board to his half-ton heifer.  

In the beginnin’, everthang was goin’ well. Gertrude showed up to all the meetin’s, even givin’ up valuable time in the pasture and in the dairy to come out and hep in the decision-making process of this town. She good-naturedly supplied all the eats and drinks, pints of milk, slices of cheese, gallons of ice cream and all was well. But pretty soon, as all new council members tend to do, bovine, human or otherwise, she tried to shove around a little bit of her weight. Trouble is, she carries a might bit more weight than the average council member.

She come in to one meetin’ one fateful night with a long list clenched in one hoof and a look of pure determynation in her eye. She mooed out her business and the more she demanded, the wider folks’ eyes got.

For the privilege of the Gazette, her list has been provided for all to read. And remember, the public hearin’s set for next month on these items:

1. There shall be no more grillin’ out hamburgers of any sort as a fund raising event, includin’ the fire station’s annual bbq, as it’s no less than an abomynashun to me and my kind. All places of eatin’ that serve beef shall be closed down by the board of health.

2. The town’s water line will no longer run water, but will be tapped with milk as it’s the nectar of the gods.

3. Town meetin’s will be moved to the Co-op where fresh hay and decent bathroom and sleeping quarters are never far away.

4. The town’s song will be changed from “Bell Bottom, My Beatiful Bell Bottom” to “Hey Diddle Diddle.”

5. At least fer our neck of the woods, the food guide pyramid shall be shimmied up to have milk and dairy at the base and beef and all other meat that don’t matter so much placed at the very top.

6. Every good citizen will learn to chew his or her own cud. Um, crud? Um, s.p.?

People has already been speculatin’ how to git old Gertrude out of office, but hate to do any harm to Lester’s memory. However, as far as research can tell, commitin’ first degree cowslaughter carries no sort of jail sentence, but whets many folks appetites. 

Until then, Gertrude’s stuck in office, our little town’s been put on the map for something else and all our folks will be continuin’ to put up with meetin’s that last until the cow comes home.

As you know, I had a full plate of monstrosities and wasn’t dealing well with any of them. In the middle of the deaths and neverending suffocation from growing pains, I lost all motivation to write and just up and quit my blog. Just like that.

But now, I have to tell you about something that happened recently and though I took it the hardest of any of the bad news I’d experienced this year, it ultimately motivated me to start blogging again.

It all started with a few notes and ended with a complete song. Or, at least, I have to make myself believe that it will.

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I never really wanted to take lessons from her. Never had the desire to start back with piano. So, when it was time to go over to her house, I ran away and climbed a tree. I thought I’d learned all I’d ever need. As luck would have it, I got tired and came down.

Mrs. P wasn’t the most traditional of piano teachers. Her stubby fingers looked better suited for the constant baking she did rather than the running over of the ivories, but she had been making magic on the keyboard for years. I came to her small house on Etheridge Street expecting a review of  the usual chords and measures and left with the knowledge that I’d gained a grandmother.

Mrs. P didn’t only teach piano. I found that out from the very first lesson. She had been successful in the business for over 40 years because she taught life and she taught it to people from all over our area. A visit to her house brought the unique mixture of Clair de Lune, homemade coconut pie, pictures of her children and grandchildren and conversations on topics ranging from church to the best place in the area to eat catfish.

The piano served as the centerpiece and learning the notes served as the driving force behind each and every Tuesday afternoon and the person I’d once dreaded meeting became the person who made my week. We began venturing out her home and on two occasions she invited me to be her “daughter” at her church’s mother/daughter banquet. I beamed at the thought that out of dozens of ”pupils” (her word for ”students”) I’d been picked to be her “daughter.” 

Then she moved away. She moved to Lexington to be with one of her daughters and then later moved to Cordova. Initially, I never forgot her birthday and made sure I sent regular letters. Always always at the tip of my tongue hung the phrase, “I need to go see her.” And then I missed a couple of birthdays and as I knew she was approaching 90, my phrase changed to, “I need to go see her before she dies.”

                                                                                                          ***

A couple of Saturdays ago, I attended the funeral of Mrs. P.  The service was long and full of wonderful piano music and was attended by many friends and family members. Mrs. P’s nephew got up to read a ”work by a former student” and the work turned out to be something I’d written for Mrs. P 13 years ago.

Walking back down the street after the funeral, I was inconsolable.

                                                                                                      ***

Over the past few days since the funeral I’ve been reliving these overwhelming feelings of depression that come over me every time I go over those words, “I need to go see her before she dies.” I feel as though the funeral served as closure for so many people. The usual, “Oh, she’s in a better place.” But that’s not been so for me. I’ve felt nothing but regret, guilt and sadness that I didn’t act quickly enough. As I told my boyfriend, I feel like a part of me is dead. That simple yet powerful inspiration that was my guiding force for the better part of my growing years.  The hearkening back to happier days. So many thoughts, terrible thoughts, have been running through my head lately. Unspeakable thoughts.

How will I ever get over this? I have no idea. But, my dear friend  is right and I’ve been thinking about her advice a lot lately. Never ever pass up the opportunity to go see someone and tell them you love them. Please do it before it’s too late.

And Mrs. Pritchett wouldn’t want me to stop blogging. She wouldn’t want me to stop practicing. For writing. For piano. For life.

In mah short time here a’foolin’ around with this interweb thingy I’ve already discovered somethin’ of rather large importance. There’s no way possible I can print up an entar isshoo of this paper on the web, but I can cut out porshuns of the paper and put them here as I see fit to do. And today just so happens to be the day that all you lucky ‘ens gets to read one of my loud and rambly editorials. Our beloved society columner, Jane Jones Juniper, is out all week heppin’ her grandson compete in the Mr. Sweet Potato Casserole pageant so all you hard copy perscribers will be a’missin’ out on yer daily shot of Up the Creek with the Triple J, but I’m gonna do mah best to fill in for her and tell ya a bit about what’s been happenin’.

First of all, thanky for yer pashence. Yer dear and faythful editor had herself a little ticker episode yestiddy mornin’ and our electrisitie has just now come back on. If that waren’t enough, yestiddy afternoon, we farred our copy editor, well, no, ackshully she up and killt herself. Right in front of the coffee pot too. No denyin’ she was a bit fidgety and nervous-like for our tastes, but we felt so plumb awful about it that we’s now attemptin’ to name somethin’ after her. Our sports editor suggested the copy machine because it reminds us of her, but we turned that down right quick. Then I suggested maybe we oughta just name her after the place where the doin’ was done, so if you happen to stop by our headquarters, don’t ferget to visit Betty the Editor of Copy’s Sacred Coffee. Grab a cup or two if you so desire.

Now most of you who’ve read the front page of our paper copy will know what I’m talkin’ about here.  Big doin’s in our little Creek. While plowin’ in his cabbage fields, Farmer Harve Hewens’ prized John Deere, Green Girl, done up and struck what most of us Creekians know as oil. Lots of it. And the dangdest thing is, it happened to other farmers around the area too. Jest mindin’ their own busness, they up and struck black gold. We brought in the expert and he studied our little area up and down and said somethin’ to the effect of “You people’s just a brimmin’ with this black stuff, but hold on to yer britches just a bit ’cause hit ain’t oil.” While that heavily darkened the spirits of all our good folks, we invite all of you to come out today to see our new sign bein’ put up. Come join Mayor Downin’ Dumplin’ and the rest of us as we raise “Bell Bottom Creek: A Great Place to Live and the Tar Nation of the South” up to the skies.

Whew. I’m plumb tarred. I’d like to thank my faythful assistant, Rendered Posterior, for heppin’ me with this new-fangled technology whatchacallit. Stay tuned fer more and write in to us as you see fit. And remember, we’re here to serve you, “Spoonfeedin’ the gist of what’s good to the great citizens of Bell Bottom Creek for 203.7 years!”