Jerry Ain’t Got Nothing

Springer, that is.

Lori: Aunt Magie, how’s Karl (another relative, early 20s) doing?

Magie: Well, good ‘nough, with all the c’motion goin’ on.

L: Huh? What are you talking about?

M: You didn’ know ’bout him and Karoline?

L: No. Who’s Karoline?

M: His wife. Um. No, ex-wife. That Justin (Karl’s cousin) done made a baby with.

L: Wait a minute. Justin got Karoline, Karl’s wife, pregnant? How’d that happen? No, no, no. I know how it happened. But, are you sure?

M: Mm. Well, see, Karl went and found a letter in Karoline’s pocketbook, from Justin, when that baby was only 2 months ole. They divorced now.

L: So, Karoline has custody of the baby?

M: Mm hmm. And that baby is the spittin’ image of Justin. (Justin is the adopted son of Aunt Magie’s daughter, the illegitimate son of the daughter’s college roommate at Bob Jones University…)

L: So, will Karoline and Justin get married?

M: Mm. I don’ think so. They datin’ and all but they don’ get along. Don’ know what’s gone happen.

L: (thinking to myself – they must’ve gotten along at one point….)

What’s so amazing about this is that *I’m* the one they are constantly “witnessing” to. Because I’m divorced. Because I live in San Francisco. Just makes me want to shake my head and say, Mm. Law…

Phone Call

Sis: Are you gonna try to come visit?

Me: I thought so. Maybe this weekend. I was thinking of visiting Grandma (in South Carolina) on Saturday.

S: Oh, good! We were gonna visit Grandma on Saturday, too.

M: Well, I could come to your house (in Georgia) either before we go visit her, or after.

S: Well, I don’t work Fridays. Sunday, we’re teaching Wonderland Two’s Sunday school class, so we could all go to church from say, 9 am til 1:30 pm.

M: Mmm. I see. You know…, I think it will work out better for me to come visit you first….

China Stories

They’re done. No, not done. There is no possible way to transfer to paper the magic that China held. A few memories…

Who Knew? (our arrival into Beijing)

Baby In The Forbidden City

The Great Wall

The Summer Palace

Beijing Opera

To Market, To Market

Bird

That’s Some Sightseeing!

Soldiers

Laosunjia

A Day In Xi’an

Leaving Xi’an

DragonAir

A Moment Of Silence

For Melissa. For all whose lives were taken. Amen.

Ode To Krispy Kreme

I grew up in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, home of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. (Okay, technically, I grew up in Rural Hall, just a couple of towns over from Winston-Salem, but anyway…) There was always something magical about going “into town” to the original Krispy Kreme store. A true diner, with the gold flecked Formica countertops. Swivel stools. Worn, forest green plastic seats. Old men in hats with small feathers drinking coffee. A little dirty, a little apathetic. Just the way a diner should be.

Nowadays, there’s a new store. I miss the old one. The one of my girlhood. The one of trips into town with my daddy. The one of drunken nights in high school (sorry, mom). The one I returned to, longing, during college, even though I was only 90 minutes away, an eternity, in Chapel Hill.

I visited the new store today. I had to. See, there’s a phenomenon here, Winston-Salemites will tell you about, it’s the neon red, “Hot Doughnuts Now” sign. When it’s lit, it means exactly that. Hot doughnuts, now. Come on in, or drive through the drive-thru. And get the melt in your mouth, like nothing you’ve ever tasted before, absolutely tantalizing sensation of a Krispy Kreme doughnut.

Now, I realize that Krispy Kreme is in its heyday now. They’ve opened stores all over the country. I’ve been to the one in Union City, CA. I’ve been to the one in Las Vegas, NV. I’ve bought them in the various grocery stores across the country. It’s not the same.

There is something magical about visiting the place where Krispy Kremes were born.

As I sat there, basking in the late afternoon sunshine, enjoying my hot glazed doughnut, my creme filled, chocolate covered doughnut, and my cup of Rich, hot coffee, I watched the production process. The magical production process. The process I will never tire of observing.

Perfectly round circles of dough squirted onto ventilated trays. The trays go up, and down. Up, and down. Up, and down. Slowly, ever so slowly, allowing the yeast to work its magic. Allowing those soon to be perfect doughnuts to rise. Rise, baby, rise. Then, just at the right moment, they are flipped, turned over, dumped on their back, into hot, sizzling, grease. They sizzle, they brown. They bobble, they float. Then they rise up onto a lever, of sorts. And, BAM! flipped over. Back into the sizzling grease. Browned on the other side. Floating along, ever so aimlessly. Bob, bob, bob. Then, my favorite. The waterfall of iced sugar. A solid coat. Creamy white, evenly pouring, thick, sweet sugar. Oh, how I would love to be under that waterfall. It coats the manna, slowly, carefully, every bit of surface exposed, then covered with heavenly sweetness. That epitome of perfection is then lifted onto a slotted conveyer belt, moving, still slowly, no hurry here, towards the college girl, idly chatting with a co-worker, ready with a straw to lift that sweet sensation into a flat cardboard box, ready to sell to the next customer who comes in, saying, “I’ll take a dozen of the glazed. Hot, now, ya’ hear….”

I Don’t Think So…

I am so not cut out for retail. Witness.

In my haste to pack, I left my pajamas in San Francisco. Not a problem, since Winston-Salem is the home of Sara Lee/Hanes Mill Outlet, clothiers extroidinaire.

I browsed through the pajamas. And was utterly unimpressed. All polyester. All with “cute” designs of teddy bears and other cuddly animals. I want something simple and elegant. 100% silk or cotton, please.

I was browsing through the racks of sleepwear when a sales associate approached me. “You need any help?” she said without looking at me and walked off. “Um. No, not really,” I muttered to no one in particular.

Since I found no sleepwear, I decided to look through the bra selection. I need a bra to wear with tank tops. One with either very small straps, or very pretty straps. Yes, I’m vain.

As I was purveying the bra selection, the same sales associate approached me. “You doin’ okay?” she asked as she walked away.

Well, actually, I’d like some help. I’m looking for a bra, size 36D, with pretty straps. Something like that over there, on the mannequin.

She looked at the mannequin. Then looked at my chest. “Lady, that’s a bra, for, um, average sized people. It don’t come in D cup.”

Well, what *do* you have?

“Look here. Look at this Wonderbra. People loooooo-ve this. It gives you such a nice shape. It gives you curves. And some cleavage. Um-hum. Yeah, it do. ”

I looked at the Wonderbra. I looked at her. Maybe she just didn’t understand.

Okay. Look at me. I don’t need extra curves. I need support. With pretty straps. What do you have?

“Uh. You gonna be sorry you didn’ try the Wonderbra. Have it yo’ way.”

She led me around, pointing out various bras, none with pretty straps. I tried them on anyway. At one point she burst into the dressing room (privacy, anyone?) and said, “Did you know 75% of women wear the wrong bra size? Are you one of them?”

I was so shocked I didn’t know how to respond. Next thing I know, there’s a tape measure around my bust.

“Well, you got the right chest size. Let’s see about your cup.” Measure, measure, measure. “Hm. That’s right, too. Why ain’t any these bras fittin’ you?”

Yes, I was wondering the same.

She was tenacious. I’ll give her that. And pleasant, for the most part.

As I was checking out, with sports socks and a camisole (no sleepwear, no bras), she came bounding up. “Did you see this one?” In her hands she held a bra, size 36D, with thin, dainty straps.

I completed my transaction. I walked back onto the sales floor. No, I didn’t. Does it come in black?

“Oh, yeah, honey. You jus’ try this.”

I did. It fit. She wanted me to come out of the dressing room and show her, but I just couldn’t. She took my word for it.

As I was checking out, again, she turned to me. “Now, this don’ work out, you don’t like, you jus’ bring it back. Ev’rything gonna be okay, ya’ hear?”

If only life were that simple….

Grandma

L is me, Lori. G is Grandma. On the phone, today.

L: Hey, Gran’ma, how are you?

G: Honey Chile, you back in the United States?

L: Yes, Grandma. I came to North Carolina last night.

G: Where your mom n’ dad? Did you leave them? Did you leave them on they own?

L: Well, um, yes. We parted in Hong Kong. I think they are in France now.

G: Uh. All that mish-nay they do. I thought after that storm in Korea they’d turn ’round and help them folks. They always chasin’ after disaster.

L: No, I think they already had plans.

G: So, you stayin’ here?

L: Well, for now. I’m in Winston-Salem.

G: You goin’ back tah San Francisco?

L: Um hmm.

G: You going back tah be with your boy Steve?

L: Um. Grandma. We got divorced 3 years ago.

G: Oh. Well. He shore is a nice boy. I want him a pahrt of ahr family.

L: Mm. (silence)

G: Yeah. Well, you find you uhnodhah nice boy, ya’ hear?

L: Um. Yeah. Hey, Grandma, I thought I’d come see you on Saturday.

G: Well, Shucks! You come on down, now, ya’ hear?

This is the epitome of my relationship with my grandmother. Since I was a child, she has wanted me to have kitchen appliances and a good husband. As much as I hate her badgering me about finding a “good” husband, I’m looking forward to seeing her, and her sisters, who have visited her every Saturday for the last 50 years, on Saturday.

North Carolina

That’s where I am now. After hours of flying (again), I am at my parents’ condo in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. I will have solitude for a few weeks while they are on their around the world expedition. I believe at the present time they are in the south of France.

Things I noticed upon my arrival:

**They have the most non-food food products in their pantry that I’ve ever seen. Fake butter, fake seasonings, non-fat crackers. Just reading the labels transported me back to high school chemistry class.

**White wine is not meant to be aged. I’m not sure anyone has explained this to them.

**My mother will freeze anything. There was a very sweet note on the kitchen counter, instructing me where to buy groceries, when to water the plants, who the neighbors are (“You be sure to drop in now, ya’ hear…”), and that there was food awaiting me in the freezer in the utility room. This surprised me. They departed over a month ago. I scurried to the utility room, quite hungry after my transcontinental flights (on which meals are no longer served). I was greeted by frozen bread, individual frozen portions of chicken, frozen soup, frozen raisins, frozen Craisins, frozen nuts, frozen crackers, frozen pound cake (individual portions), frozen cookies, pretty much anything that was left in the pantry was put in the freezer. This will be interesting…

34 E, F

Those are the seat numbers of the world’s loudest children. Really. I was sitting right in front of them on the flight to Chicago this morning.

Before taxing to take off, I heard 37 different renditions of the ABC song, as well as the Happy Birthday song, in varying pitches and tones.

I always wear my seat belt, even when the seat belt sign isn’t illuminated. Today it paid off. I had drifted to sleep sometime shortly after takeoff. The lull of movement, any movement, really, car, train, plane, boat, beckons me to sleep. Today was no exception. I was almost to that point of unconsciousness, that point where I can tell I can’t feel anything, when a loud, “Bang!” pierced my ears. 34F had decided to cross that slight boundary between his row and mine. I felt myself jumping out of my seat, jerked back into place by my seat belt.

It was a long flight.

The Thrill of Brazil

That is the red that now adorns my toes. As I was sitting in the salon, carefully pondering which color I should choose for my first pedicure in what feels like forever, I wondered, Who is the person that names nail polishes? How does one qualify for that job? I mean, these were a few of my many choices: I’m Really Not a Waitress, Color My Heart….Red, All Rose Leads to Rome, Chick Flick Cherry, Fiji Weejee Fawn, Grape Wall of China, Muave-a-rita, Por Favor, Queen of d’Nile, the list goes on. It’s incredible. And these were only the OPI colors…. It makes me want to get a pedicure everyday, just so I can say, Hey, can you guess what I’ve got on my toes today?