Won't take nothin' but a memory

I'm not one to live in the past. Heck, I don't even visit very often.

But sometimes you find yourself in the neighborhood ... and you just have to stop and pay your respects.

Like when Kate was driving through a sketchy part of Jackson and realized she was near the cemetery and her mom's grave. Getting out of the car felt too raw and jagged, so she just slowed down ... and maybe let a butterfly of a thought rest on her mind.

I took a little backwards trip recently while passing University Hospital in Jackson. That particular trip was not a butterfly memory at all, but a big, fat, pain-filled hornet. Post traumatic stress is a real thing. I had to pull over and open the car door because I thought, "Seriously? I am going to vomit."

I don't wanna dwell there. Not in that past. Forever on the bathroom floor with a cold rag on my forehead.

But the richness of old neighborhood memories -- bike riding, short cutting through friend yards, the Blue Bees club (a secret artistic society for girls) -- those are places you might want to go back to occasionally.

Places like Hattiesburg High School, where there are lots more bars and fences now -- but the fighting Tiger mascot is still attached to the bricks.

Or the now-filled-in Jaycee pool, where they would fish you out with a big hook during a terrifying swimming lesson.

Or the Teen Center, which could also be terrifying.

Back to the days of I C H (Independent Chicks of Hattiesburg) and the Debutante Association.

Be forewarned: visiting the past in person doesn't look a lot like the memory. It's all tiny now, and campy and drab, really.

But the mind can re-play it as rich and colorful and oh-so-vivid. Just like it used to be.

300 Dixie Avenue today

"The House that Built Me"

Tricia and Forrest at an ICH dance: Circa Seventh Grade

Scott and Kent senior year:

to make you sing Kenny Chesney's "I Wanna Go Back"

Get Crunk

I asked God NOT to give me a boy child. I promise I did.

I know it was wrong. I know you should be happy with whatever you get from God: good, bad, sickness, health, rich, poor.

But instead, out of my limited knowledge, I prayed for daughters. And God obliged... for a while. Then he gave me Russ.

I thought, at first, Russ might be God's punishment for my girl request.
He kind of showed up at my house one day, like a stray cat (sorry Russ). And he didn't leave.

I would come in from grocery shopping and he would be there taking phone calls, checking his email, asking me what we were having for dinner. He borrowed tennis shorts and shoes when he needed them. He ate what he wanted. He showered. He napped.

He introduced us to all kinds of crazy words and sayings that remain in our vocabulary:
"GET CRUNK!" (when you really just needed peace and quiet)
"Oh, that's nastificrocious!" (when finding some rancid leftover in the fridge)
"Hello, this is Shakiki." (when answering our house phone)

Dang, I miss that guy.

If you were assigning categories, he certainly wouldn't fit in mine. He has done numerous things I have not had the pleasure -- or the horror -- of doing. A few of the least dangerous:
eating an entire habanero pepper in exchange for $10,
climbing the water tower on 84 East,
irritating gang members in Heidelberg,
flying airplanes,
playing in the state soccer championship in a thunderstorm.

Russ has moved on, but I doubt he will ever grow up (please, no) or be far from our hearts.

Russ is on my top ten list of good people favorites and all-time best friends.
He's the kind of person you would pick to spend your birthday with or take on a trip to the mountains because he's so... much.... fun.

And Russ is the metaphor -- the living picture -- of a blessing you would miss if God only gave you what you asked for.

Congratulations, today is your day

Twenty five years ago today the Tooth Fairy, Little Mermaid, Rapunzel and Glenda the Good Witch got together to sprinkle a little fairy dust down on the delivery suite of South Central Regional Hospital.

There, not one, but TWO unsuspecting moms were laboring away, unaware of the floating enchantment. So the magical mavens doubled their potent gifts, bestowing them on both of the newborns.

Ariel and Glenda bestowed the gift of song and an inordinate love of dressing up,

dressing down

and dressing in costume.

Rapunzel threw in a bucket of tears for frequent use as well as a strong desire for escape.

The Tooth Fairy contributed her love for adventure and traipsing around late at night.

Thank goodness there were some hefty guardian angels assigned to supervise the results.

Both new moms named their little fairy princesses for strong women in their families to give them courage to face the days ahead.

Days of Disneyworld and disco nights

of crushing heartbreaks and captivating romance

of drama and music

of pain and sickness

of super accomplishments and sad discouragements

and, all the while,

love, love, love, love, love.

As you celebrate 25 years ladies, blow lots of fairy dust kisses around.

We can all use a little magic.

Sara-Claire Lightsey

Mary Katherine McKelroy

Born October 8, 1985

All dogs go to heaven

Our friend Mary Parker is disturbed -- and rightfully so -- because some religious authority told her there will be no dogs in paradise. She is reconsidering her plan to go there when she dies.

In all seriousness, sweet M.P., for a animal-lovers like me and you, that is a hard thing to hear. Surely "you can't take it with you" does not apply to our beloved Toby, Hershey, Eli and Sadie. The satanic, psycho-cat? Well, he made his own choice.

If good works got you into heaven, then Toby would be first and the psycho cat would be last.

Toby, a cream-colored labradoodle who dog-smiles while doing tricks for treats, visited at the hospital in Hattiesburg yesterday. And in so doing, went pro with his hobby of standing beside the road and being a friend to man.

It was a glorious day as Toby, red bandana flying, visited first floor, rehab, the oncology wing and pediatrics. Between elevator rides, he made friends and influenced people.

A precious 12-year-old surgery patient smiled through her pain as she gave Toby a treat. A one-year-old stared in awe as he watched Toby's majestic lumbering. An elderly man called Toby over to his wheelchair: "This is my dog," he said. "I raised him from a pup." Who were we to argue? All we could say was: "You did a great job!"

The nurses welcomed Toby and the patients begged him to come back soon. One doctor inquired about Toby while boarding the elevator. "He is here to meet patients and let them pet him," Toby's people explained.

Sounds like a great line of work for a dog.

Toby can't deny that. Though he knows works don't get you into heaven, he puts his hope in a higher power.

And with the love of God in his heart, he keeps on workin' for the kingdom.

Put on your red dress mama

Win or lose, there was some pretty fun game-playing on Saturday. Most of it not on the football field.

Way up north at THE University of Mississippi there was a party going on in the Grove. And, thanks to fashion directives from Coach Houston Nutt, we were seeing red.

Typically, Ole Miss is a place where we don't really dress in team colors... nothing obnoxious like those purple and gold scrubs I've seen my neighbor wearing in support of the LSU Tigers. But Coach Nutt asked the fans to wear red, so lots of fans rallied.

The Grove is a place to see and be seen, to perspire moderately and fan heartily. It is the place where we dig our manicured nails into tradition and stubbornly cling to Col. Reb, even if he's NOT an officially sanctioned school mascot. (Come on! Who wants their picture made with "muppet-like" characters Hotty and Toddy? Puh-leeze!)

At Ole Miss, we wear our dresses and high heels on game day and wonder why the rest of the country marvels -- and hates us for it. It's all part of the game: brownies and chicken strips, tabletop televisions, overworked lawn chairs, over-told tall tales and, occasionally, a fabulous little red dress.

You better shop around

Guys are always talking about learning life lessons on the football field. Pshaw, I say. The place you REALLY learn is at the outlet mall or the boutique or the fabric store ... at Dirt Cheap or T.J. Maxx.

Know what I'm talkin' about?

These are the shopping skills to live by:

examine the advertisements,

know what's real quality,

seek out a bargain,

get what you really need,

count the cost.

And here's where the shopping advice gets its best use ... shopping for a mate.

Coach Barlow was telling me the other night that, during the 70s, most every student came from two-parent homes. I lived the 70s. I had not one friend whose parents were divorced. It was another time and another place.

Today, in this place, my favorite people in the world are divorced. I could name them and put them in the top ten. I love them and the pain that has made them who they are.

I've been through hell with them and, like Winston Churchill said, "when you're going through hell, you just have to keep going."

If you want to see that hell live and in color watch "Sixteen and Pregnant." The tears and the trauma are gut-wrenching. There are joys, of course, along with the terribly difficult stuff.

But for the grace of God, I'd have been there...or my daughters.

So I ask my precious 16-year-old friends.

Will you look for flaws and cracks that weren't repaired? (Everybody has some, but some are deal-breakers.) Will you exhaust every shopping place until you are struck by the beauty of the perfect thing? Will you get the most for your money, or will you settle?

Most important, will you only buy the thing you cannot live without?

Because, in shopping for a boyfriend or girlfriend -- a husband or a wife, you need to follow the advice of that renowned philosopher, Smokey Robinson:

Gotta get yourself a bargain
Don't you be sold on the very first one
good-lookin' guys (or pretty girls) come a dime a dozen
try to find one who's gonna give ya true lovin'

True Lovin' ... now that's a priceless thing. Take your time shopping for it.

I don't want to be a raisin

My good friend Jon is "Alice in Wonderland."

She can't help it. She's beautiful and always feminine and amazed and excited. "Alice" fits perfectly on her name tag.

But when the name was bestowed, it didn't sound so adorable to her.

"Alice in Wonderland" labeled her as lost and unaware and living in a fairytale. The name hurt in the way words can always hurt you ... even if they never break your bones.

Several of my friends told of other sticky names that were clinging -- unwelcome -- to their hearts: Fatty, Jerk, Stuck-up, Liar, Irresponsible.

Just to name a few.

"Julius, the Baby of the World," could be my all-time favorite kid book. In the book, Julius's parents goo and coo over him, but his feisty sister, Lily, calls him "a raisin" and says "a raisin tastes like dirt."

We, like baby Julius, don't want to be a raisin OR taste like dirt.

If you listen to the names other people give you, you will be crippled and handicapped. Take those to heart? You'll never feel good about yourself. You will always be insecure. You will hear voices -- those seventh-grade girls whispering: "high waters" or "greasy head" or "loser with a big L."

My friends had to get some new names.

A little bit of looking revealed some welcome name tags written by the God of the Universe.

Some of our favorites:

Friend of God

Better than an Angel

Expensive

Brand New

Powerful in God

Wise Person

Extra-terrestrial

And here's one for Jon:

"Straight-up Royalty."

But please, your highness, just every now and then, can we call you "Alice"?