I am mostly a Facebook failure, because I almost NEVER post anything, and only rarely do I get on there to see what everyone else is up to. I figure if I have to read it on the computer, we aren't that close to begin with.
I did get on there today, though, for the purpose of sending a message to the cousin who is in charge of this year's Nash Bash (that's what we call our family reunion, for the uninitiated). I noticed a message there that my BFF from high school, Jason, had posted on Valentine's Day.
What? I missed a message from that long ago? I would have thought I would get one of those emails telling me I had a message or something. Oh well.
Jason's message said it reminded him of a certain Sweetheart Ball and his first true sweetheart. (That part made me smile in a sort of teary-eyed way, since I had become convinced that he never wanted to hear from me again.)
When we were in high school, the Future Farmers of America sponsored a Sweetheart Ball every year. In our ninth grade year, the first year Jason went to our school, the event fell on Valentine's Day. Jason asked me to go, and I can picture the dress I wore just as clearly as if it were yesterday. I think some combination of Katydid and/or our mother made the dress, because they were both uber-talented that way. They didn't pass that talent down to me. Buttheads.
Another event also coincided with the Sweetheart Ball and Valentine's Day that year, and it never occurred to me to change the appointment. That was the day I got my braces. Not the cool ones that young people sport today, the glue on plastic kind with coordinating rubber bands and arch wires. No, these were the metal bands that had to be put on already-sore teeth with a demon of a device known as a "thumper." They provided the impetus for wonderful nicknames like Metal Mouth. Tin Grin. Railroad Tracks.
And because you had to wear spacers between your teeth for about a week before they put the bands on to make room for them, your teeth were incredibly sore.
It was customary for couples to go out to dinner before important dances like the Sweetheart Ball, but we were low on both cash and the need for a lot of drama. It was way before the days of thousand-dollar expenses rolled up by new dresses, limos, private party rooms, expensive flowers, professional photographs (although there was a photographer at the Sweetheart Ball, and I wish I could find that picture), and classy dinners at places where teenagers are bound to be outclassed. Even if they don't know it.
So Jason and I (and my friend Carol and her date...Ted?) went to Arby's for dinner. Yes, the roast beef sandwich place. And my teeth were so sore that it was impossible for me to eat anything. I was starving, but I couldn't eat. So Jason tore my roast beef sandwich up into bites that I could manage. (The back teeth weren't as painful as the front ones.)
Sometime in the course of that evening Jason told me he loved me. I remember thinking at the time that he was only saying it because he thought he was supposed to.
I didn't realize it would be for life.
Showing posts with label Jason. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jason. Show all posts
Friday, March 30, 2012
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Unexpected Text Message.....
I received an unexpected text message this past Saturday from Jason, my BFF from high school.
I've written about him a number of times:
Jason's text on Saturday read: "Hey D. Wanted to give you my new number in Atlanta. It's....."
I texted back: "Wait...What? You're in Atlanta?" And naturally I was 6 hours in the OTHER direction, in Florida.
Jason has lived in Texas for years. It's where he lived before he came to Georgia when we were in 9th grade. I knew he was a Texas boy at heart and would someday return there. So it came as quite a shock to learn that he was back in Georgia.
Naturally I want to see him. But I'm also a little ... what ... shy? Nervous? I haven't laid eyes on him since before Sweet Girl was born. Pardon me for the understatement, but a LOT has happened since then. I'm not so worried about how we pick up where we left off; my weekends with girlfriends from high school has shown that we do that very well. I guess I'm a little apprehensive about how to go about merging all these people together, people who are very important to me but would have absolutely nothing to do with one another if I weren't the common denominator. Does that even make sense?
And because I've sent Jason the link to my blog before and there's a slim chance he's reading this:
Jason - I loved you for who you were before you knew who you were. I hope you will love the person I've become as much as you loved who I was. I hope we can get together soon. Almost thirty years of catching up is going to take ... well, thirty years or so.
I've written about him a number of times:
- Why I Missed Homecoming my Senior Year
- Wrong Place at Definitely the Wrong Time
- Not a Responsible Baby-Sitter
- Another Jason Story
- When I Met Jason
Jason's text on Saturday read: "Hey D. Wanted to give you my new number in Atlanta. It's....."
I texted back: "Wait...What? You're in Atlanta?" And naturally I was 6 hours in the OTHER direction, in Florida.
Jason has lived in Texas for years. It's where he lived before he came to Georgia when we were in 9th grade. I knew he was a Texas boy at heart and would someday return there. So it came as quite a shock to learn that he was back in Georgia.
Naturally I want to see him. But I'm also a little ... what ... shy? Nervous? I haven't laid eyes on him since before Sweet Girl was born. Pardon me for the understatement, but a LOT has happened since then. I'm not so worried about how we pick up where we left off; my weekends with girlfriends from high school has shown that we do that very well. I guess I'm a little apprehensive about how to go about merging all these people together, people who are very important to me but would have absolutely nothing to do with one another if I weren't the common denominator. Does that even make sense?
And because I've sent Jason the link to my blog before and there's a slim chance he's reading this:
Jason - I loved you for who you were before you knew who you were. I hope you will love the person I've become as much as you loved who I was. I hope we can get together soon. Almost thirty years of catching up is going to take ... well, thirty years or so.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
When I Met Jason.......
This is the first installment in a series of stories about my BFF from high school, Jason. I've written about him before, and my ultimate goal is to put these stories together in a book somehow. I wrote three sections in longhand yesterday while I was administering standardized tests at school. Somehow longhand seemed appropriate for these stories. I may write them all that way.
Jason moved to our town in the summer before our ninth grade year, and I still don't know what brought him from Texas to Georgia. I suppose it had something to do with a job for one or both of his parents, but his parents were only shadowy images to me. I interacted with them only to say hello and goodbye, and that as quickly as possible. I find that ironic now, because MY mother was the one who invoked fear into the machoest of macho guys in our county (just ask the now-judge in that county, who was unfortunate enough to bring my sister home one night when she was grounded, only to find our mother sitting on the front steps). Jason was accepted as one of our family almost from the beginning. He attended family functions, he came over on Christmas Day (no one had ever done that before). He was one of us.
When he first moved into our county, though, Jason's very presence threatened my shaky little psyche to the core. I had become BEST FRIENDS only the year before with Carol, one of the prettiest, most popular girls in our school. I was a former trailer park kid, and while I fit in with the smart kids by default, I had never found my niche with the in-crowd. Carol was my ticket in. We became inseparable, sharing clothes (on the rare occasions I could wear hers) and a locker (our combination was 4-26-4), sneaking cigarettes and the occasional bottle of rum. Carol's mother, like mine, had been divorced for years, in an age when divorce was still cause for stigma. We clung to one another for comfort and for shelter from the accusing, questioning stares of those who lived with both parents. At least that was how we saw it. The fact that I now had a step-father did not make me feel any less a freak compared to my friends who lived with two people who shared their DNA.
When Jason moved to town, his family settled in Carol's neighborhood. I was already intimidated because Carol was lucky enough to live in an actual subdivision. It was close enough to our school for her (and Jason) to walk home if necessary from after-school activities. I, on the other hand, lived about a mile and a half away, the fourth house in a row of other nondescript houses that didn't even have the decency to warrant a name. I realize now what tremendous sacrifices my mother made to purchase that home, but back then I was so self-centered that all I could think about was how much better it would be if we lived near Carol.
While the distance between our homes was not great, it may as well have been the Gulf of Mexico. We didn't have sidewalks out in the country, and bicycling back and forth would have been decidedly uncool. Besides, it would have been tough to steer a bike and shift gears while holding a cigarette in one hand. My contact with Carol was limited to the few times I could convince Mom to let me spend the night at her house, and the fewer occasions she would allow me to have sleepover company.
Enter Jason. He moved into Carol's neighborhood, just a few doors down the street. They could walk home from school together, see each other on weekends. I burned with jealousy. Carol was MY friend, and I shuddered at the prospect of anyone taking her attention from me. I already lived in perpetual fear that the popular girl would discover the fraud that was me and dump me like a sack of rocks. If only I had known.
But we never know. I had no way of knowing that when Carol went off the deep end and stole money from our school and ultimately went away to a boarding school, that Jason and I would become as inseparable as Carol and I had been. That he would show up at the house where I was babysitting on New Year's Eve one year, caked in mud in nearly freezing temperatures. That he would be a groomsman at my wedding. That he would sit at my side at my step-father's funeral. That he and I would risk being arrested when we felt compelled to sit in UGA's football stadium in the dark of night. That we would lose touch and reconnect thirty-three years after high school graduation, and that we would still feel like BFF's.
Jason moved to our town in the summer before our ninth grade year, and I still don't know what brought him from Texas to Georgia. I suppose it had something to do with a job for one or both of his parents, but his parents were only shadowy images to me. I interacted with them only to say hello and goodbye, and that as quickly as possible. I find that ironic now, because MY mother was the one who invoked fear into the machoest of macho guys in our county (just ask the now-judge in that county, who was unfortunate enough to bring my sister home one night when she was grounded, only to find our mother sitting on the front steps). Jason was accepted as one of our family almost from the beginning. He attended family functions, he came over on Christmas Day (no one had ever done that before). He was one of us.
When he first moved into our county, though, Jason's very presence threatened my shaky little psyche to the core. I had become BEST FRIENDS only the year before with Carol, one of the prettiest, most popular girls in our school. I was a former trailer park kid, and while I fit in with the smart kids by default, I had never found my niche with the in-crowd. Carol was my ticket in. We became inseparable, sharing clothes (on the rare occasions I could wear hers) and a locker (our combination was 4-26-4), sneaking cigarettes and the occasional bottle of rum. Carol's mother, like mine, had been divorced for years, in an age when divorce was still cause for stigma. We clung to one another for comfort and for shelter from the accusing, questioning stares of those who lived with both parents. At least that was how we saw it. The fact that I now had a step-father did not make me feel any less a freak compared to my friends who lived with two people who shared their DNA.
When Jason moved to town, his family settled in Carol's neighborhood. I was already intimidated because Carol was lucky enough to live in an actual subdivision. It was close enough to our school for her (and Jason) to walk home if necessary from after-school activities. I, on the other hand, lived about a mile and a half away, the fourth house in a row of other nondescript houses that didn't even have the decency to warrant a name. I realize now what tremendous sacrifices my mother made to purchase that home, but back then I was so self-centered that all I could think about was how much better it would be if we lived near Carol.
While the distance between our homes was not great, it may as well have been the Gulf of Mexico. We didn't have sidewalks out in the country, and bicycling back and forth would have been decidedly uncool. Besides, it would have been tough to steer a bike and shift gears while holding a cigarette in one hand. My contact with Carol was limited to the few times I could convince Mom to let me spend the night at her house, and the fewer occasions she would allow me to have sleepover company.
Enter Jason. He moved into Carol's neighborhood, just a few doors down the street. They could walk home from school together, see each other on weekends. I burned with jealousy. Carol was MY friend, and I shuddered at the prospect of anyone taking her attention from me. I already lived in perpetual fear that the popular girl would discover the fraud that was me and dump me like a sack of rocks. If only I had known.
But we never know. I had no way of knowing that when Carol went off the deep end and stole money from our school and ultimately went away to a boarding school, that Jason and I would become as inseparable as Carol and I had been. That he would show up at the house where I was babysitting on New Year's Eve one year, caked in mud in nearly freezing temperatures. That he would be a groomsman at my wedding. That he would sit at my side at my step-father's funeral. That he and I would risk being arrested when we felt compelled to sit in UGA's football stadium in the dark of night. That we would lose touch and reconnect thirty-three years after high school graduation, and that we would still feel like BFF's.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Another Jason Story.....
My BFF Jason took me to my first UGA football game (so you can at least partly blame my obsession on him) when we were juniors in high school.
After the game we went to a fraternity party. I have no idea why or how we got there, but there we were. Jason and I got separated immediately, at least as far as I remember.
I assume my mother knew we were going to the football game. I'm guessing the fraternity party was nowhere in her knowledge base.
Some time around midnight my mother becamea little extremely concerned because her not-quite-sixteen-year-old daughter had not returned from a football game that had started some twelve hours prior. She wasn't much on sports, but she did know it shouldn't take more than twelve hours to play a game. Heck, this was in the time before college ball HAD overtime, so that couldn't be it.
This was also in the time before cell phones, so she had no way to get in touch with us.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha.
When there's a will, there's a way.
As I THINK events unfolded, she marched over to Jason's parents' house, where they told her that we were somewhere on the UGA campus and they didn't know how to get in touch with us either.
So Mother said she would be contacting the state police about her missing daughter. That certainly put a new twist on things.
I don't know how, but Jason's parents FOUND him at the frat party. And then somehow HE found ME. Because he was always chivalrous and braver than I would have been in the same situation, he walked me to the door when we got home.
When he spoke up in my defense, Mother told him to shut up. Nicely.
Then Mother said to me, "And I guess that's alcohol on your breath."
Well, she's holding all the evidence, so nothing to do but for me to agree. Nicely.
"I guess it is."
Then she asked one of those world-famous rhetorical questions, for which she was not really expecting an answer.
"And why, may I ask, were you drinking?" [Before you completely condemn me, this was when the drinking age in Georgia was 18. And Jason was almost..... Oh shut up.]
Because I was never smart enough to keep my mouth shut, because I always refused to let an opportunity for sarcasm pass no matter what the danger, because I was not quite sixteen years old, I answered,
"Would you believe because I was thirsty?"
I'm just glad this was NOT the time Mother had the butcher knife in her hand, because she was known to smack you with whatever she had handy. [She didwhip spank beat discipline me with the butcher knife once, and I don't even remember why.] This time it was just her hand. She had a cobra-like open hand slap, and my head rocked back on my neck before I knew what was happening.
I don't remember if Jason beat a hasty retreat then or if he was invited to leave at that point, but the most amazing thing is that he continued to be my BFF. And his parents continued to let him hang out with me.
Mother eventually forgave Jason, and she HAD to forgive me. She just had to put it in perspective and be thankful that I wasn't the child she was having to go see on Sundays during visiting hours. Only, however, by the grace of God.....
After the game we went to a fraternity party. I have no idea why or how we got there, but there we were. Jason and I got separated immediately, at least as far as I remember.
I assume my mother knew we were going to the football game. I'm guessing the fraternity party was nowhere in her knowledge base.
Some time around midnight my mother became
This was also in the time before cell phones, so she had no way to get in touch with us.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha.
When there's a will, there's a way.
As I THINK events unfolded, she marched over to Jason's parents' house, where they told her that we were somewhere on the UGA campus and they didn't know how to get in touch with us either.
So Mother said she would be contacting the state police about her missing daughter. That certainly put a new twist on things.
I don't know how, but Jason's parents FOUND him at the frat party. And then somehow HE found ME. Because he was always chivalrous and braver than I would have been in the same situation, he walked me to the door when we got home.
When he spoke up in my defense, Mother told him to shut up. Nicely.
Then Mother said to me, "And I guess that's alcohol on your breath."
Well, she's holding all the evidence, so nothing to do but for me to agree. Nicely.
"I guess it is."
Then she asked one of those world-famous rhetorical questions, for which she was not really expecting an answer.
"And why, may I ask, were you drinking?" [Before you completely condemn me, this was when the drinking age in Georgia was 18. And Jason was almost..... Oh shut up.]
Because I was never smart enough to keep my mouth shut, because I always refused to let an opportunity for sarcasm pass no matter what the danger, because I was not quite sixteen years old, I answered,
"Would you believe because I was thirsty?"
I'm just glad this was NOT the time Mother had the butcher knife in her hand, because she was known to smack you with whatever she had handy. [She did
I don't remember if Jason beat a hasty retreat then or if he was invited to leave at that point, but the most amazing thing is that he continued to be my BFF. And his parents continued to let him hang out with me.
Mother eventually forgave Jason, and she HAD to forgive me. She just had to put it in perspective and be thankful that I wasn't the child she was having to go see on Sundays during visiting hours. Only, however, by the grace of God.....
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Peer Pressure.....
Well, I'm back on Facebook.
There's probably only one person in the world I would have reactivated my account for. Well, two....but one of them is Billy Joel, and that'sa long shot an impossibility.
My friend Amanda emailed me today and asked, "Where are you? Jason is looking for you on FB."
Jason was my BFF from high school, the one who was there when I missed Homecoming my senior year, when I was in the wrong place at definitely the wrong time, and when I could have been deemed forever an irresponsible baby-sitter. We were also partners in crime when we could have sent his great-grandmother into apoplexy.
My sisters always hoped we would grow up, fall in love, and get married. But things don't always work out that way, and he was much more fun as a BFF anyway.
I could write an entire blog about some of our escapades from high school and beyond.
Like the time we went to see the FIRST Friday the 13th movie. It scared the bejeezus out of me, and afterward we went to O'Malley's, a popular bar overlooking the river. I was telling someone about the movie while Jason was inside. Unbeknownst to me, he came up behind me as I was telling the story, not knowing what I was talking about, and he put his hands around my throat. Keep in mind that his name IS Jason. I almost jumped in the freakin' river.
When my step-father died, Jason sat with the family. He WAS family.
We've lost touch over the years. I guess we are both at the age, however, where we reach out to reconnect with people from our younger years.
I can't think of anyone else from high school that would have prompted me to reactivate my FB account.
There's probably only one person in the world I would have reactivated my account for. Well, two....but one of them is Billy Joel, and that's
My friend Amanda emailed me today and asked, "Where are you? Jason is looking for you on FB."
Jason was my BFF from high school, the one who was there when I missed Homecoming my senior year, when I was in the wrong place at definitely the wrong time, and when I could have been deemed forever an irresponsible baby-sitter. We were also partners in crime when we could have sent his great-grandmother into apoplexy.
My sisters always hoped we would grow up, fall in love, and get married. But things don't always work out that way, and he was much more fun as a BFF anyway.
I could write an entire blog about some of our escapades from high school and beyond.
Like the time we went to see the FIRST Friday the 13th movie. It scared the bejeezus out of me, and afterward we went to O'Malley's, a popular bar overlooking the river. I was telling someone about the movie while Jason was inside. Unbeknownst to me, he came up behind me as I was telling the story, not knowing what I was talking about, and he put his hands around my throat. Keep in mind that his name IS Jason. I almost jumped in the freakin' river.
When my step-father died, Jason sat with the family. He WAS family.
We've lost touch over the years. I guess we are both at the age, however, where we reach out to reconnect with people from our younger years.
I can't think of anyone else from high school that would have prompted me to reactivate my FB account.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Not a Responsible Baby-Sitter.....
Something someone said at school today reminded me of this story. Katydid may not remember it, and it's pretty risky for me to remind her. It's not too late for her to kill me.
I was babysitting her son on New Year's Eve. That means he was seven months and two days old, and I was all of sixteen. I considered myself responsible and mature and dependable. Hah!
My friends Jason and.......I think his name was Ron....... came over to Katydid's house to see me, since I couldn't go out and celebrate New Year's with them. Only their car slid off into the ditch at the end of Katydid's looooooooooooooooooooooooong driveway. They tried to get it out of the ditch but they couldn't, and somewhere in the middle of all of this they took off their shoes and walked up the driveway to get me. They had rolled their pants up to their knees, and their legs were COVERED in mud. It was freezing cold outside.
I had to take them somewhere, although it's a little fuzzy as to where I was supposed to take them. Somewhere to get another car, I suppose. I don't think they were drunk; neither of them could drive worth a hoot on a GOOD day.
So I bundle my nephew up in his little snowsuit, put his car seat in the back seat of my car, and haul these two guys somewhere in the middle of the night on New Year's Eve. He looked like a miniature Michelin man in that snowsuit. Bundled up, all strapped in, and the only things he could move were his eyes. He didn't cry or anything. And luckily he couldn't talk yet, or I'm sure he would have asked me, "What the hell are you THINKING, taking me out in the middle of the night?"
I took Jason and maybe-Ron wherever they needed to go and headed back to Katydid's house. I was a mile away when..........she intercepted me at the gas station about a mile from her house. Damn! So close! She had seen my car and, rightfully so, stopped to see what the hell was going on. Personally, I would have killed me. I would have dragged me out of that car and beat me unmercifully. I would have cried and cursed and said in our mother's best voice, "HOW could you be so STEWPID?" (Because our mother can say that word with more venom than any curse word. I think she'd rather us be criminals than "stewpid.")
Katydid, however, was very calm and rational. She simply rolled down her window and said to me, "I'm sure there is a very good explanation for this, and I'll wait until we get to my house to hear it."
Sixteen years old. Driving around in the middle of the night. On New Year's Eve. With a baby. Good Lord.
I was babysitting her son on New Year's Eve. That means he was seven months and two days old, and I was all of sixteen. I considered myself responsible and mature and dependable. Hah!
My friends Jason and.......I think his name was Ron....... came over to Katydid's house to see me, since I couldn't go out and celebrate New Year's with them. Only their car slid off into the ditch at the end of Katydid's looooooooooooooooooooooooong driveway. They tried to get it out of the ditch but they couldn't, and somewhere in the middle of all of this they took off their shoes and walked up the driveway to get me. They had rolled their pants up to their knees, and their legs were COVERED in mud. It was freezing cold outside.
I had to take them somewhere, although it's a little fuzzy as to where I was supposed to take them. Somewhere to get another car, I suppose. I don't think they were drunk; neither of them could drive worth a hoot on a GOOD day.
So I bundle my nephew up in his little snowsuit, put his car seat in the back seat of my car, and haul these two guys somewhere in the middle of the night on New Year's Eve. He looked like a miniature Michelin man in that snowsuit. Bundled up, all strapped in, and the only things he could move were his eyes. He didn't cry or anything. And luckily he couldn't talk yet, or I'm sure he would have asked me, "What the hell are you THINKING, taking me out in the middle of the night?"
I took Jason and maybe-Ron wherever they needed to go and headed back to Katydid's house. I was a mile away when..........she intercepted me at the gas station about a mile from her house. Damn! So close! She had seen my car and, rightfully so, stopped to see what the hell was going on. Personally, I would have killed me. I would have dragged me out of that car and beat me unmercifully. I would have cried and cursed and said in our mother's best voice, "HOW could you be so STEWPID?" (Because our mother can say that word with more venom than any curse word. I think she'd rather us be criminals than "stewpid.")
Katydid, however, was very calm and rational. She simply rolled down her window and said to me, "I'm sure there is a very good explanation for this, and I'll wait until we get to my house to hear it."
Sixteen years old. Driving around in the middle of the night. On New Year's Eve. With a baby. Good Lord.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Wrong Place at Definitely the Wrong Time....
Tonight hubby and I stopped at our new, friendly package store that just opened about a mile from our house. Hubby had been there before and showed the proprietor how to open his Pepsi machine, so he's already a preferred customer. He'll probably build up a lot of frequent shopper points there. As we were leaving, hubby told the man behind the counter, "Don't ever let her come in here alone."
Which reminded me of another story from my senior year of high school. This one also involved my BFF Jason, who was sort of indirectly responsible for my not getting to go to Homecoming my senior year.
We were going to see a friend of ours, and he asked Jason to pick up a bottle of vodka for him. Now this is back when the drinking age in our state was 18, but Jason wouldn't be 18 for th
ree more months. And I wasn't even 17 yet. But there was one liquor store in the next town (we lived in a dry county, for heaven's sake) that would sell to minors with no questions asked. It was called Bubber's. Not Bubba's, which would have been Southern enough, but Bubber's. Bubber himself was on duty on this particular night, but there weren't many other customers. We were always happier when it was a little busier, just in case Bubber wanted to relieve his boredom by checking id's and busting underage customers.
We were headed to the counter with our purchase when I heard a man's voice behind me say my name. With a question mark at the end. Now keep in mind that A) I have an unusual name, so it wasn't likely he was speaking to anyone else; B) we were NOT in our hometown; and C) even if we HAD been in our own town, I shouldn't be hearing someone call my name in the liquor store.
I turned around slowly, and I almost fainted when I saw my step-brother sitting there. Out of uniform. Because not only was he my step-brother, he was a police officer in the town we were in. I hadn't seen him in a couple of months, ever since his father/my step-father died.
"Jimmy!" I said, with all the suave sophistication you would expect from a 16-year-old in a liquor store who has just been busted by her police-officer-step-brother. "What are you doing here?"
He cocked an eye at me. "Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing."
"Uh........this isn't for us." Wow, this sophistication thing was getting to be really easy. I was a natural at it. I even waved the bottle at him for emphasis.
"Uh huh," he replied sarcastically. He wasn't usually sarcastic with me. "I didn't see you here, did I?"
"NO!" I almost screamed it.
"And I'm NOT going to see you here again, am I?"
"Um, no, absolutely not."
I didn't know why he let us off so easily. Maybe he thought Jason was old enough. Or maybe he was showing his appreciation for how much Jason had done for the family during my step-father's illness and death. Whatever the reason, we hightailed it out of there (vodka bottle in hand).
The next day was Sunday, and Jason and I were off together again, as usual. He took me home, planning to stay awhile. When we drove up, Jimmy's car was in the driveway.
CRAP!!!!! Why did he let us buy the vodka if he was just gonna bust us the next day?
We went in the carport door and scooted on past the living room, barely even acknowledging that anyone was there. We went straight to my room and shut the door, planning what we would say when Mother descended with all her wrath. And boy did she have a lot of wrath. This is the same woman who once spanked me with a butcher knife, but that's a story for another post.
Jason and I cowered in my room when we heard Jimmy's car departing. I have to hand it to Jason, because if the situation had been reversed, I would have dumped him at the curb and skedaddled out of there quick like a bunny.
Mother's voice shrieked through the house when she called my name. Determined to put up a front to the very end, I opened my bedroom door.
"Yes m'am?"
"I just wanted to let you know Jimmy and Kathy were gone. Y'all can watch the Super Bowl now."
Whew.
Which reminded me of another story from my senior year of high school. This one also involved my BFF Jason, who was sort of indirectly responsible for my not getting to go to Homecoming my senior year.
We were going to see a friend of ours, and he asked Jason to pick up a bottle of vodka for him. Now this is back when the drinking age in our state was 18, but Jason wouldn't be 18 for th
ree more months. And I wasn't even 17 yet. But there was one liquor store in the next town (we lived in a dry county, for heaven's sake) that would sell to minors with no questions asked. It was called Bubber's. Not Bubba's, which would have been Southern enough, but Bubber's. Bubber himself was on duty on this particular night, but there weren't many other customers. We were always happier when it was a little busier, just in case Bubber wanted to relieve his boredom by checking id's and busting underage customers.We were headed to the counter with our purchase when I heard a man's voice behind me say my name. With a question mark at the end. Now keep in mind that A) I have an unusual name, so it wasn't likely he was speaking to anyone else; B) we were NOT in our hometown; and C) even if we HAD been in our own town, I shouldn't be hearing someone call my name in the liquor store.
I turned around slowly, and I almost fainted when I saw my step-brother sitting there. Out of uniform. Because not only was he my step-brother, he was a police officer in the town we were in. I hadn't seen him in a couple of months, ever since his father/my step-father died.
"Jimmy!" I said, with all the suave sophistication you would expect from a 16-year-old in a liquor store who has just been busted by her police-officer-step-brother. "What are you doing here?"
He cocked an eye at me. "Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing."
"Uh........this isn't for us." Wow, this sophistication thing was getting to be really easy. I was a natural at it. I even waved the bottle at him for emphasis.
"Uh huh," he replied sarcastically. He wasn't usually sarcastic with me. "I didn't see you here, did I?"
"NO!" I almost screamed it.
"And I'm NOT going to see you here again, am I?"
"Um, no, absolutely not."
I didn't know why he let us off so easily. Maybe he thought Jason was old enough. Or maybe he was showing his appreciation for how much Jason had done for the family during my step-father's illness and death. Whatever the reason, we hightailed it out of there (vodka bottle in hand).
The next day was Sunday, and Jason and I were off together again, as usual. He took me home, planning to stay awhile. When we drove up, Jimmy's car was in the driveway.
CRAP!!!!! Why did he let us buy the vodka if he was just gonna bust us the next day?
We went in the carport door and scooted on past the living room, barely even acknowledging that anyone was there. We went straight to my room and shut the door, planning what we would say when Mother descended with all her wrath. And boy did she have a lot of wrath. This is the same woman who once spanked me with a butcher knife, but that's a story for another post.
Jason and I cowered in my room when we heard Jimmy's car departing. I have to hand it to Jason, because if the situation had been reversed, I would have dumped him at the curb and skedaddled out of there quick like a bunny.
Mother's voice shrieked through the house when she called my name. Determined to put up a front to the very end, I opened my bedroom door.
"Yes m'am?"
"I just wanted to let you know Jimmy and Kathy were gone. Y'all can watch the Super Bowl now."
Whew.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Why I Missed Homecoming My Senior Year.....
First of all, you must know that it wasn't JUST that it was Homecoming. Or our senior year in high school. It was that my BFF Jason was student body president and I was treasurer, and we pretty much put the whole homecoming show on by ourselves. Not that no one else would help......we were just control freaks. Jason was a perfectionist on top of it all, and he was convinced that no one else could do anything as well as he could. In most cases he was right.
I didn't have my own car yet, and it was one of those rare occasions when Mom let me take hers to school. I was under strict orders NOT to drive it to the huge metropolis of.......Athens, Georgia. I could drive it to school and home, but not to Athens. But Jason and I had to pick up decorations. In Athens. And he didn't have his car that day either. So naturally we drove to Athens to pick up the decorations and whatever else we needed to pull off a Homecoming event.
Naturally the car picked that day to blow a hose. Or a gasket. Or something. Whatever. It ran hot, we had to call to have someone pick us up, yada, yada, yada.
I don't remember if this was one of those occasions when Mom "beat me half to death" or not. (I never could figure out that expression......why just half? But it was one of Mom's favorites.) I am certain, however, that she cursed and screamed and then declared that I could not go to Homecoming.
In her defense, let me interject here that Mom had a lot on her plate at this time. My stepfather was dying of cancer, and they had only been married four years. As it turned out, he would die the next week on their fourth anniversary. Life pretty much sucked for her then.
Not only had I been instrumental in putting together the Homecoming activities, I also marched in the band as a member of the drill team. It was a small drill team -- I was 10% of it. And it was our last home game. Of our senior year. And I couldn't go.
So I was slightly upset when I called Jason to tell him I couldn't go to the game, couldn't march, couldn't go to the dance, nothing. No......upset does not do it justice. I was hysterical. Life as I knew it had come to an end. Jason could barely understand what I was saying. In fact, he grossly MISUNDERSTOOD.
Brave soul that he was, and being almost a member of the family, Jason took the desperate measure of coming over to my house to plead with my mother. You don't understand what nerve that took. NO ONE pleaded with my mother. My friends avoided SPEAKING to her if they could. There is a judge in our hometown who is still TO THIS DAY terrified of our mother, and he's now in his 50's. All because of an incident involving Katydid when SHE was in high school. You'll have to ask her about that one.
So here's Jason pleading and me squalling (squawling?) and Mom dealing with a dying husband and my grandmother sitting on the couch pretty much clueless about anything that was going on. And that was BEFORE she had Alzheimer's.
In pretty much a miraculous occurrence, Jason convinces Mom to let me go to Homecoming. But by this time I have been crying for HOURS, my eyes are swollen SHUT, and I don't have time to make myself presentable to perform in front of the tens of people who would be at the game. All right, maybe hundreds. I refuse to go and head off down the hallway to my bedroom. Jason is now pleading with ME, at which point I say, "Look at me!" Meaning that I look so bad that I can't possibly be seen in public.
Let me back up just a tad. Remember when I called Jason and I was hysterical? See, he thought only one thing could have made me that upset. Nothing so trivial as not being allowed to go to Homecoming. He thought my stepfather had died. So before he came to my house he went by the school and told everyone there that Daddy had died. Wait, this gets even worse.
Jason gets to my house, and I'm crying, but I'm the only one. Mom is washing dishes, Grandmother is sitting on the sofa watching television, and no one else is there, not my sisters or my brother or any of my stepbrothers. When Jason follows me down the hall toward my room to try to talk me into going to Homecoming, and I say, "Look at me!" he thinks I said, "Look at him!" At which point he looks into my parents' bedroom and sees my stepfather lying there...............asleep.
In Jason's mind, my stepfather has died, we have left him in the bedroom, and NO ONE HAS BEEN CALLED. Grandmother is watching television, Mom is washing dishes, I'm crying, and the whole damn family has lost its collective mind.
Poor Jason. He had a lot of explaining to do that night. He had to go back to school and tell them that no, my stepfather had not really died, and try to explain why he thought he had. The story became funnier through the years every time we told it. I can still see the look on Jason's face when I said, "Look at me!" and he thought he was looking at a corpse in the bedroom.
But I still didn't get to go to Homecoming.
I didn't have my own car yet, and it was one of those rare occasions when Mom let me take hers to school. I was under strict orders NOT to drive it to the huge metropolis of.......Athens, Georgia. I could drive it to school and home, but not to Athens. But Jason and I had to pick up decorations. In Athens. And he didn't have his car that day either. So naturally we drove to Athens to pick up the decorations and whatever else we needed to pull off a Homecoming event.
Naturally the car picked that day to blow a hose. Or a gasket. Or something. Whatever. It ran hot, we had to call to have someone pick us up, yada, yada, yada.
I don't remember if this was one of those occasions when Mom "beat me half to death" or not. (I never could figure out that expression......why just half? But it was one of Mom's favorites.) I am certain, however, that she cursed and screamed and then declared that I could not go to Homecoming.
In her defense, let me interject here that Mom had a lot on her plate at this time. My stepfather was dying of cancer, and they had only been married four years. As it turned out, he would die the next week on their fourth anniversary. Life pretty much sucked for her then.
Not only had I been instrumental in putting together the Homecoming activities, I also marched in the band as a member of the drill team. It was a small drill team -- I was 10% of it. And it was our last home game. Of our senior year. And I couldn't go.
So I was slightly upset when I called Jason to tell him I couldn't go to the game, couldn't march, couldn't go to the dance, nothing. No......upset does not do it justice. I was hysterical. Life as I knew it had come to an end. Jason could barely understand what I was saying. In fact, he grossly MISUNDERSTOOD.
Brave soul that he was, and being almost a member of the family, Jason took the desperate measure of coming over to my house to plead with my mother. You don't understand what nerve that took. NO ONE pleaded with my mother. My friends avoided SPEAKING to her if they could. There is a judge in our hometown who is still TO THIS DAY terrified of our mother, and he's now in his 50's. All because of an incident involving Katydid when SHE was in high school. You'll have to ask her about that one.
So here's Jason pleading and me squalling (squawling?) and Mom dealing with a dying husband and my grandmother sitting on the couch pretty much clueless about anything that was going on. And that was BEFORE she had Alzheimer's.
In pretty much a miraculous occurrence, Jason convinces Mom to let me go to Homecoming. But by this time I have been crying for HOURS, my eyes are swollen SHUT, and I don't have time to make myself presentable to perform in front of the tens of people who would be at the game. All right, maybe hundreds. I refuse to go and head off down the hallway to my bedroom. Jason is now pleading with ME, at which point I say, "Look at me!" Meaning that I look so bad that I can't possibly be seen in public.
Let me back up just a tad. Remember when I called Jason and I was hysterical? See, he thought only one thing could have made me that upset. Nothing so trivial as not being allowed to go to Homecoming. He thought my stepfather had died. So before he came to my house he went by the school and told everyone there that Daddy had died. Wait, this gets even worse.
Jason gets to my house, and I'm crying, but I'm the only one. Mom is washing dishes, Grandmother is sitting on the sofa watching television, and no one else is there, not my sisters or my brother or any of my stepbrothers. When Jason follows me down the hall toward my room to try to talk me into going to Homecoming, and I say, "Look at me!" he thinks I said, "Look at him!" At which point he looks into my parents' bedroom and sees my stepfather lying there...............asleep.
In Jason's mind, my stepfather has died, we have left him in the bedroom, and NO ONE HAS BEEN CALLED. Grandmother is watching television, Mom is washing dishes, I'm crying, and the whole damn family has lost its collective mind.
Poor Jason. He had a lot of explaining to do that night. He had to go back to school and tell them that no, my stepfather had not really died, and try to explain why he thought he had. The story became funnier through the years every time we told it. I can still see the look on Jason's face when I said, "Look at me!" and he thought he was looking at a corpse in the bedroom.
But I still didn't get to go to Homecoming.
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