Snow at the Bungalow.

Or Bunga-snow.  Or Snow-galow.  Anyway, we had a snow event in Alabama yesterday.  A snow event that will, no doubt, last for at least another couple of days.  I know of folks who are still stranded out there...stranded since 2PM yesterday.  It is 6:30AM right now.  I feel for my southern brethren (and sistren).

Being a southerner, but also being a southerner who has lived outside of the south, I can see both sides of a snowy situation.  And I feel that the south always takes a beating (both literally and figuratively) when it comes to snow.  This morning I felt compelled to rant a little on Facebook.  For those of you who are not on Facebook:

"I just have to say this in defense of the south and how we deal (or don't deal) with snow.  We don't get snow very often.  I lived in upstate NY for a year and in Denver for six years.  I made it through two blizzards in both places (and also one here in Gadsden, the one in ’93).  So, I am familiar with driving in snow and ice.  But from my experience, what happens here in the south is quite different from what in either of those places.  When snow begins to fall in Denver or NY, the snow plows and salt trucks come out in force.  Ordinary people are always armed with ice scrapers/brushes, de-icers, blankets, snacks, flashlights and maybe even a bag of sand in their trunks.  And homeowners have roof rakes, snow shovels and snow blowers in their garages…because they get snow (a lot of it) every winter.  We do not.  So, when we do get snow, it requires that we get into our motor vehicles and try to navigate a situation that most of us are not in the practice of navigating.  And then people make fun of us trying to do the best that we are able to do considering the circumstances.  I think we do, and have done, alright.  There were lots of good people out there yesterday offering me rides when I was walking (by choice) to the Gadsden Times.  I saw so many folks in trucks, and some on foot, helping to push distressed drivers up hills or out of the roadway. I know many friends who opened their homes up to stranded families. And that is all that matters. 'Do unto others...' or, more accurately, 'There but for the grace of God...'"

Extraction of Teeth

A young friend of ours recently lost several of his baby teeth.  And seeing his smiling gap-toothed mug set my mind to reminiscing about the natural process of losing teeth.

As a child, I was not terribly afraid to loose a tooth, but I was more than happy to hold on to them as long as I possibly could.  The ability to rock a tooth back and forth with one's tongue for any willing audience was worth almost as much in attention as the money I was sure to gain in my piggy bank from the tooth fairy once the tenuous thread of skin holding the tooth in my head gave way.  No need to rush the process, I usually let nature take its course.

But I also can recall a more grim image of what I consider less-natural tooth extraction, one that involved my grandmother, my sister, a door knob and a piece of string.   It was a hot summer day.  We were at my grandmother's old farm in Kentucky (the farm built by my grandfather, Chester Padgett).  Sister had a loose tooth.  Gran had some string, one end of which she tied to Vicki's tooth, the other end to the knob of an open door.  Then, she slammed the door shut.  What resulted from THAT tooth extraction was less like a Saturday-Morning-Cartoon-tooth-pulling (which, as a child, was what I was expecting), and more like a Ralph Eugene Meatyard tableaux (this would be a black and white photograph of two girls, one with mouth and eyes open in shock, hands on cheeks, looking in disbelief at her sister.  The other with eyes wide, hands clapped tightly over her mouth, too late to save the tooth exiting her head, more likely keeping in a scream.  Both stand in front of a door moments ago slammed shut.  A door with a string hanging from its knob.  Dark stain upon the floor.).

Jane

And this morning, in my inbox, photos of Jane, from her son George. 

 First, this one:

And then, this one, which may be my favorite because I see George's features in Jane.  And I see George.

A few of Jane's things...

Eric's late paternal grandmother's name is Jane.  I have yet to see a picture of Jane, but I have an image of her in my mind based upon knowing her husband Buford (Eric's grandfather, George's daddy) and based upon some of the lovely possessions of hers and Buford's that have made their way into our home.

Pre-New Year's Eve 2013

In the photo above, you can see Jane & Buford's salt and pepper shakers as well as their silver butter dish on our New Year's Eve table.  The rest of our silver serving pieces are items that have been found (the silver meat platter was discovered left behind in Eric's old duplex), given to us (silver ice bucket is from the Catoes), or purchased on the cheap from thrift stores.  I have a bit of a thing for mismatched and tarnished silver.  It makes me think of Miss Havisham, poor dear.

Jane's quilt.

We also received a beautiful quilt of Jane's.  It is a Wedding Ring design.  And, as my mom recently pointed out, this is serendipitous.