Big Don Visits Texas

Big Don posts seem to be my biggest hits--so why not talk about his week long trip to Texas--which was in May.


Considering my dad can barely drive down our .25 mile driveway, he did not drive here. Instead, he was a passenger in my Uncle (my mom's brother) schweet Honda mini-van--along with my Aunt Weezer (she is just like Shirley McClaine's character in Steel Magnolias), her sister Carol and husband Jack. The reason for their trip was to visit Carol and Jack's daughter and her family, who lives in Sherman, TX which is 59 miles from Commerce. Since they were coming so close to where I lived they asked Big Don if he wanted to tag along--which reminds me of a great story about when I moved to Illinois (will post that at a later date... but, I digress)

Big Don decided to leave Twinkie with Crazy Aunt so he could make the big trip down--$20 bucks says that dog has dropped 3-6 pounds after cutting out canned processed meat products that my dad feeds her. The crew rolled into Sherman about 7 pm on a Saturday night. I drove to Sherman to pick him up and bring him to my apartment in Commerce. 

He went to bed pretty late considering he had been awake since almost 3 a.m. I, of course, gave him my bed to sleep in and I took the couch. I wake up on Sunday morning to my dad coming about of the bathroom. It is at least 6 a.m. and I barely have my eyes open when he says "you need to buy better toilet paper.. the dense kind that ya fingers don't go through.. you can afford that! I don't know what kind you use but it's John Wayne toliet paper.. the kind that don't take shit off of anyone!"...      ahhh, my dad.

 For the first two days I had to keep reminding me that I in fact live in Texas... "are you sure this is Texas.. I swear Kari, this place looks just like Alabama. If you had cornfields it'd look that land up in Illinois... Well, I never thought I'd be in Commerce, Al-la-bama... I mean, Texas. There is a lot of land. I guess you could plant you a big garden down here... Alabama has a lot of flat land.".. dad, we are in Texas--not Alabama... "well it all looks the same after Tennessee. Arkansas looks like Alabama too. Illinois looks like Alabama. Kentucky looks like Alabama but with more trailer parks and KFC's.. You know, we did not pass a single KFC in Arkansas--but so many McDonald's. We stopped at one and they put 4 shreds of lettuce on my Big Mac that were no bigger than rat turd--the McDonald's in Kingsport, well now, they cover the damn thing with so much lettuce you don't even taste the meat--but not in Arkansas.. But now, I don't mind a little KFC every now and then--is there a KFC here in Alabama... Still can't believe I made it all the way down here to Commerce, Al-la-bama.. I mean, Texas"

Monday and Tuesday were spent discussing again the fact were not in Alabama and also the hay fields next to my apartment. I live on the "outskirts" of town. There are two huge hay fields by my apartment that were mowed some time during the previous week... it rained really hard, so the farmers had to wait for the hay to dry out.. I wake up on Monday morning and open my eyes. My dad is looking out the balcony window that is right behind the couch I'm sleeping on.. "do you think they are ever going to come bail this hay... it has got to be ready for them to bail it...".. dad, the sun isn't even up yet.. "well, I tell ya I don't know if that hay is going to be any good... and there is so much flat land down here in Alabama, I mean Texas, that they can get a ton of hay just out of one acre.. how many round bails do you think they are going to get out of this field? Still there is nothing like those cornfields up in Illinois... you remember that?"... I lived there for 2 years dad, I know what the cornfields looked like... can I get another hour of sleep before I have to go to work?


Wednesday was spent determining what patio furniture I wanted to purchase at Home Depot (Big Don's birthday present for me). We spent at least two hours in Home Depot sitting in every patio chair they offered. Unfortunately, the two I wanted would not if in my Lexus. My aunt and uncle came down that day and I gave them the three minute tour of Commerce. Thursday was spent determining if I should ask someone to borrow their truck, order it online, or have my Uncle pick them up in the minivan.  Friday was spent putting together the chairs my uncle so graciously picked up for us. Saturday was spent back at Home Depot determining the ultimate color and patter combo for the seat cushions and matching pillows.


In a addition to all the fun at Home Depot and such--Big Don, who can barely operate a cordless phone--much less any other form of technology, decided to purchase a disposable camera so he could take pictures to take back to show Crazy Aunt. Needless to say, he took pictures of everything--from the hay fields, to the building I work at, to the toilet in my bathroom. During his rush to complete the roll of film in his fancy camera, he went on an adventure outside to the pool and playground area. Needless to say, a nosey neighbor freaked out and called building management. "Hi Kari, this is Shala at Bradford Place... ummm, we have a man here that says he is your dad and he's staying with you.. and well, some parents were concerned because he was outside with a camera taking pictures while their kids were playing in the pool and on the playground--you know, worried he might be a creep or you know worse, and well, I just wanted to ask you about it"... Yep, that's my dad. He doesn't have a digital camera and clearly doesn't care to be a weirdo out taking pictures for random shit.


The family rolled out of town early Sunday morning and I missed them instantly. I am really looking forward to spending July 20-30 at home in Slant. I am sure it will be just as great as Big Don's visit to Commerce, Alabama--I mean, Texas.


By the way, as of last night, Crazy Aunt told me she really enjoyed seeing where I live from the pictures but Big Don couldn't tell her what all the random buildings were, that she saw some pics of what looked like a blurry playground, and didn't know they also stopped in a place called Commerce, Alabama. Ridiculous

The Sad Stuff

I never talk about the sad stuff in my blog. I, after all, have a reputation to protect. I can't be talking about anything that isn't funny--but some days, you just need to vent to everyone and no one all at the same time--and isn't this the perfect outlet for that?

To start, I grew up on a small farm. It has now been in my family well over 100 years. My great grandfather cleared several hundred acres of woods by hand with my great uncle in the late 1800s. They settled there--near a spring and on the Clinch River--and my family has lived there ever since. My grandparents had a store there during the Great Depression. My dad and aunt were both born there. My family was living there when the Methodist Church was built and helped get that started. According to my dad and local legends, this area is called Slant because of the sharp angles of the Appalachian Mountains that our house faces. My great grandparent's house still stands between my Aunt Shirley and my parents house. We still drink water from the spring just like they did. There are 2 barns on the property--one in which my dad remembers my great grandfather building in less than 2 weeks. It is beautiful and so peaceful.

A few years ago, my dad's cousin, who is now somewhere near 95, came to visit "the homestead" as she calls it. Like pretty much everyone of that generation on my dad's side of the family, she was born on our family farm in the early 1910s. Her mom died when she was a young girl and her dad moved to Kingsport--away from my great grandparents--and he remarried. The lady he remarried was horrible to her and her brother. She told me of a night when she was around 14 when she got her brother, crawled out the window, and ran away. She had enough money to buy a train ticket from Kingsport to Slant the next morning. She said the whole night when she didn't have any where to go she kept thinking "if I can just make it home to Slant, then I know everything will be okay" and told me that Slant will always be home--no matter where you go.

Two years ago, I was in my first year of living and working in St. Louis--my dad was preparing to have surgery on an aneurysm--a surgery my Uncle Dwight had died from 6 months earlier. I flew home to be with the family during Dad's surgery--which was schedule for April 2. At this point, my mom was sick with pneumonia, was on medication, and had started dropping weight. My dad survived the surgery and it was successful. I flew back to St. Louis... during the next 2 weeks my mom went to the doctor to figure out why the medications were not working--needless to say it was cancer and the diagnosis was that it wasn't looking like anything could be done. At the time I was in LA at a conference for work. The day I flew back to St. Louis from LA, I packed my things and came home. The entire 8 hour drive from St. Louis to Slant--I just kept thinking of the words from the story--if I can just make it home to Slant, everything will be okay.

I pulled in the driveway after midnight. My mom was setting on couch waiting up for me--like I was 16 and late for curfew. She had lost so much weight and had an oxygen mask on. Three weeks had made such a difference--a difference I was not prepared to face. When I walked in the door, tears started down her face... "I told the doctor if I could just get my baby home to Slant, everything would be okay..."

A week later, my mom died. She is now buried on the hill from our house--on the land my great grandfather cleared by hand and at our family church that overlooks the Clinch River and beautiful Appalachian mountains that Slant is named for...

These last few weeks have made me questioned where I am and where I want to be. The longing to go home has been in my heart--not my mind. I always felt that I needed to go explore--travel to big cities--do great things--but none of that matters to me anymore. I thought I was bigger than where I am from--that I was "too good for my raising" as people from home would say. But today, the thought of driving down 65, turning at the red barn mailbox, passing by C.E.'s old house and driving over the little hill to my parents house in Slant is where not only my heart belongs but where my soul is and will always be. My love for the place where my great grandparents settled--where my grandparents lived--where my dad was born--where I grew up--is who I am--and that is so much more important than where I am now and what I do to pay the bills.

When I imagine heaven, I see Slant on a warm spring day when the grass is green and when you can hear nothing but the river. I like to imagine that is what my mom gets to experience everyday and until my time comes to an end, I want to spend it where my heart and soul are happy and I know that isn't here. So however long it may be from today, I do know when I finally make it back to Slant, everything will be okay... it always is.

Christmas Oysters and Cocktail Shrimp

Family traditions aren't always explainable--like, how did they start? when did we start doing this every year?--but needless to say, every family has them--especially at Christmas.

Growing up, one of our traditions was to spend Christmas Day at my Aunt and Uncle's with primarily Big Don's side of the family. The menu is always the same--fried oysters, shrimp cocktail, ham, mashed potatoes, cinnamon apple rings, green beans, sweet potato casserole... just to mention a few items.

Big Don has a way of making you sample cuisine that you may not like at these types of family functions--especially with me and oysters. It starts out with a simple "do you want any oysters?"... no thanks... "you don't want any oysters?"... nah, that's okay.. I may get some later... "do you not like oysters?"... no, not really... "why do you not want any oysters--have you even tried them?"... dad, I don't want any oysters... "you sure you don't want any oysters?"... no dad, we have this conversation every Christmas for the past 20 plus years... "we do? I can't believe you don't want any oysters! you sure you don't want any? just try one.. you will like it"... *by this point, everyone at the table is getting frustrated because Big Don is holding up the flow of our clockwise plate passing pattern and holding the oyster plate hostage*...I am good dad. I don't want any oysters... "Just try it, you will like it"... dad, you made me try just one for the last 26 years and I still don't like them. it's not going to change... "oh c'mon.. just eat one. they are good..."...DAD. I don't want any oysters. I do not like them... *as he puts 3 oysters on my plate* "oh now, you don't know that you don't like them if you don't eat them.. just try them"...

Big Don also does this to other family members. My Great-Aunt Ona was always old in my eyes--but I mean, the lady died in 2007 at the age of 103--so of course she really was old my entire life. Every year without fail Big Don would force the cocktail shrimp on Aunt Ona... "Ona, do you want any shrimp?"... no thanks... "you sure you don't want any shrimp?"... no, that's okay... "just try one, you will like it!'...that's okay.. I am just sticking to ham and oysters... "you sure you don't want any shrimp?"... no, never really like the color of them... "oh c'mon.. just eat one. they are good!"... Needless to say, every time the plate of shrimp passed by Big Don he would ask Aunt Ona if she wanted any shrimp just to hear her say "never really liked the color of them" on repeat... either the lady had amazing patience or her short term memory failed her because she never got fed up with Big Don asking her to try a shrimp... and Big Don never got tired of asking her.

So, on Christmas Day, we will have the usual menu. We will laugh as the shrimp gets passed around and my sister and I will do our best Aunt Ona voices "never really liked the color of them"... I will be forced to eat an oyster and proclaim that I am still not a fan... after all, it's a family tradition.

Riding In Cars--With Big Don

Big Don wore glasses for the better part of 60 years. At the ripe age of 72, he declared his vision to be 20/20 and that he no longer had a need for glasses. The man didn't have Lasik and I am pretty sure vision doesn't improve with age--but whatever, desperate times calls for desperate measures and right now with a pinched nerve in my back that is affecting my right leg I am desperate enough to trust Big Don's "perfect vision" behind the wheel for my transportation needs... I mean, if the state of VA says he can drive, I guess I should agree... and I guess he can see the road well enough to drive... but to be honest, Big Don with or without glasses has always made me nervous driving... with good reason.

My sister and I were both in high school when Big Don picked us up after school to head to the regional baseball game--along with my mom and one of our friends. We pull up to a red light in the big town of St. Paul and bam! the car jumps about 2 feet from being hit from behind by a guy in a pick-up truck. My heart about stops, my mom is clinging to the "oh shit gripper" like it's her job, friend just has a look on her face, my sister lets out a cuss word or three, and Big Don is unphased--hands are still at 10 and 2 like the perfect driver's ed example--and there is no reaction except "do you all want to go to Burger King and get something to eat before the game?"--"Doooon, we just got hit by that truck" screams my mom... "We got hit?! is that what that was? huh.. I didn't know what that was"... No damage was done to our car and we luckily made it to the game by the second inning.

My cousin Tracy and her husband Joe live in Pennington Gap (which is about 40 minutes from our house). We had a family get together at their house for the Fourth of July one year when I was in high school. They have an extremely steep driveway that runs parallel to the highway--with only one option--back down the driveway. After a fun day of grilling and laughing with family, it was time to come home. Dad hopes in the driver's seat, mom is riding shot gun, and my sister and I are in the back. Dad begins the decent down the driveway as Tracy and Joe stand in the front yard waving... Dad doesn't look behind him, he just kicks it reverse and lets off the break... halfway down the driveway my mom screams, "Don, you are going into the grass and down the hill!"... I know I am!.. We go down the hill, hit the ditch while the car scrapes and makes god awful sounds, and then pop up on the highway... Tracy and Joe are standing mouth open with "ohmygawd" looks on their face. Dad kicks it into drive with no change in expression yet again and we take off back to Scott County. Ridiculous.

A few winters ago I was home from grad school and our mission for the day was to buy new tires for my car and a new TV for the living room. Big Don's cousin is retired from designing/building engines for Nascar and now operates a tire store/garage so we hit him up for a good deal. Instead of waiting for a few hours at the tire shop, Big Don's cousin lets us use a loaner car to go find a TV. Big Don gets behind the wheel of this sweet mid-1990s mini-van and we are off to hit up Best Buy and of course "the" Wal-Mart (people in SWVA/NETN always say "the" before Wal-Mart... as if there is only one)... After staring at endless flat screens and never buying anything (a trait of Big Don and my sister), Big Don decides it's time to go eat lunch at McDonalds. We are on Stone Drive (for those familiar) and are going to the McD's in Lynn Garden because according to him it is the best McD's in Kingsport. Dad pulls up at the red light in front of Hog Wild (a bar)... The light turns green arrow and it happens... he goes down the up ramp and is heading straight for oncoming traffic. I scream "holy shit, we are going down the up ramp DAD!"---with no change in expression he whips that mini-van into the grassy area between the ramps and merges onto the correct exit ramp with cat-like quickness... "sooo, what are you going to eat at McDonalds Kari? I think I'm gonna get a Big Mac. I like those pretty good... you like them?"... I wasn't very hungry after seeing my life flash before my eyes.

This week while I have been unable to drive we have ventured out to a MiLB game, we have visited family, and he drove me to see the doctor... luckily, we didn't get hit by any pick-up trucks, we used all the right exit ramps, and we backed out of all driveways successfully.. and he didn't fall asleep at the wheel (I wasn't present for that incident so I can't blog about it)... huge success? I think so.

Shit Big Don Says/Does

I work on a 10 month contract. Therefore, I am off work from June 1-July 31. I travel back to Southwest Virginia for those 2 months to stay with my dad aka Big Don--which is quiet the adventure, let me tell ya.

Big Don is 75 years old and a recent widower--he looks somewhat like an older Tom Browkaw with less hair--and has been declared by many of my friends as "the nicest man in the world". Everyone who meets my dad loves him and I'm pretty sure many of my high school relationship lasted a lot longer because of conversations with my dad (and my mom's cooking)--fringe benefits of dating me in high school. Big Don is 6'4, thin, and an endless source of entertainment. Additionally, my dad is the proud "Mayor" of Slant, Virginia (this is funny because only about 16 people, 32 cows, 14 stray cats, and our dogs Twinkie Louise, Ranger, and Tonto live in our community of Slant where there is an official state sign marking your entrance (welcome to) to the town on the front and your departure (now leaving) on the back (seriously--I can't make that up!)--Slant is a suburb of Fort Blackmore which has an estimated population a little over 100 people, 114 cows, 32 goats, 18 dogs, with 12 churches of every type of Baptist known to man, and unfortunately only a few dumpster kitties since they changed waste management facilities). The title of Mayor is merely a joke from childhood because my sister and I always said we lived in "downtown Slant" unlike those who lived on the "outskirts" and at the time our neighbor and oldest resident of Slant was the "Mayor"--what?! ya got to keep yourself entertained on the farm. Since our neighbor's death a few years ago, Dad was officially voted Mayor by me, Crazy Aunt, my sister, my mom, our 3 dogs, and the one-armed/one-eyed guy that lives out the road from us--clearly, it was a landslide victory for the title.

Big Don wakes up on most mornings around 6 a.m.--not only does he wake up early, but he wakes up in the best mood ever--everyday--even before drinking coffee. I look at this as being a freak--no one can be that happy to be out of bed this early without some caffeine. He makes coffee (using at least 3-4 different spoons which drives me crazy), takes Twinkie walking down the "main drag" of town (aka our driveway up to the highway that passes by three houses--which is officially downtown Slant) to get the paper, and then nods off while reading the paper and watching the weather channel for the next 3 hours--as if the weather forecast is going to change all of sudden--maybe the partly cloudy day is going to change to mostly cloudy and ruin his plans of mowing the lawn--which seems to be on his agenda everyday.

I wake up around 9 am. I defend this by saying my body thinks it 8 am because I am on central time-therefore I am not a "sleeping all day" as Big Don says. Quick as my feet hit the floor, Big Don wants to talk and make conversation. For those that know me, I am not a morning person. I do not talk and must drink myself into a caffeine buzz in order to be social. Give me an hour. I mostly just set and listen until I can function or respond to what he is saying.

This morning the conversation ranged from "well, Crazy Aunt called this morning and she has a few weeds in her garden and this, that, and the other that needed to be done out there... now, I tell ya, I got my own weeds and my own shit to worry about.. I ain't going out there to be her weed puller and I know she was waiting for me to volunteer I could sense it"... "well, the weather channel says it may rain.. doesn't look like it.. oh, here we go.. local on the 8s.. let's see what they say now... yep, hasn't changed... I can probably mow and this, that, and the other around here this evening"..."I talked to someone on the phone this morning... do you know who that was? I can't remember"... I was asleep dad, so no..."well, Nickelsville Days (a local town celebration) is coming up.. you and Cindy (my best friend) want to go to that and walk around like girls do--ya know, looking at things, going to the toilet together, courting boys--that is your alls ol' stompin' grounds there!"... in reference to my dog Twinkie Louise who by this point has crawled up on my lap "ya know, it's like she has a little soul in there.. I swear, she is lovvvvvve herself... and she acts like she loves you because you are home.. but I know I am her favorite, but she's not gonna tell you that now is she.. not with both of us sitting here because she doesn't want to make you mad... ya know, she was alseep under that pillow this morning... bout crushed her when I set down cause I didn't see her"... "welll... I think I am going to make me a fried egg and maybe some fried bologna.. I got some on sale... I think it was about to go AWOL (Absent Without Official Leave) so they marked it down.. I figure I have got a few days to eat it before it goes totally and completely bad... if Twinkie eats it and doesn't get the runs, it's still good... want me to fry ya up some too? my bay-bay needs to eat a good braaaaakfast!"... no thanks, dad... I don't want any sloppy, slimey eggs (my favorite Jesco White quote: click here Midwesterners to be exposed to The Dancing Outlaw's take on eggs)

Big Don goes into the kitchen and I see him around the corner of the fridge doing something in the spot we feed Twinkie... Dad, what are you doing?... "well, I was just feeding Twinkie some of that taco salad you made yesterday and some bologna (as he looks down at Twinkie who is shaking her tail like she is on doggy crack) she told me she wanted some for braaaaaaaakfast and bay-bay must have a good braaaaakkfast!".. dammmnit Dad! she is going to die of heart attack if you keep feeding her like that!... "well... reckon there is anything we could do for her so she doesn't have a heart attack?... umyeah.. "well, what?"... DON'T FEED HER BOLOGNA!...

A few minutes pass. "soooooooo.... you think it's okay to feed her vienna sausage?"

I love my dad.

*After this was posted I set down on the couch and Big Don has finally turned off the weather and is watching tennis. Twinkie hops up on my lap. Ugh.. Twinkie... your breath stinks. "Smells like a dead animal, huh? I think she goes outside and eats cat shit or something"... probably... "she probably smells like Venus Williams--her breath looks like it would stink just based on her teeth."

Tears follow.

Pretty Buff, Huh?

I have gone on 3 blind dates in my life. One in high school (took me 8 years to recover) and 2 since living in the Midwest—with the last being the most epic fail.

To start, I am not a phone person--just not my forte for communication. BBM and texting, now that is a different story… My bbm got exchanged pre-date with the guy we will refer to as PB. There was at least 2 weeks of conversation so I could at least established and see a profile picture of PB. He looked normal, not bad looking, plus it had been like 3 years since I had been on a date—desperate times call for desperate measures. PB works at a bank downtown. Don’t really know what he does at this bank, but he wears a suit to work. He has a job and a car—two qualities not always found in the males in the single category.

We decide on a day to go out. He gets my address and is going to pick me up (I know, but he’s friends with a mutual friend—clearly not a psycho and I took self-defense class in undergrad). He gets my digits in case he gets lost. I put on my heels, True Religions, and am looking like a drag queen by Midwest standards (on average, girls here aren’t into the fake tans, dyed hair, and the whole Dolly Parton look that is prominent in NETN/SWVA). The estimated time of arrival is here and no PB.

My phone rings.
Me: Hello?
PB: Where the f’ do you live? I can’t find your f’ing condo. I am down some gd street. Where the f’ am I supposed to go.

I should have hung up, but I have a temper and a potty mouth—plus, I am already dressed to go to dinner and I refuse to go to Chipotle to get a burrito by myself for the second night in a row—so I let it slide, finally get him to stop dropping f’ bombs and give him better directions to my condo than google maps could.

He pulls up and I am waiting outside. Decent car, I spot he is in a suit, looks pretty good until he steps out of the car—no offense to shorter men, but if I can pick you up and carry you around my coach purse like a mini-yorkie you don’t stand a chance to get with this. There is a height requirement for this ride and you do not meet it short stack. He might have been 5’6 on a good day… and I am wearing 4 inch heels and clocking in at a good 6’1. This is worse than him cussing me out because he couldn’t find my condo. Attack of the 50 foot woman--St. Louis edition.

We stand and talk—trying to decide what we are doing. I am already over this and pissed I got set up with an umpa lumpa with a bad temper, no sense of direction, and potty mouth. He asks if he can change in my condo because he doesn’t want to wear his suit to dinner. I say sure because no way is this a danger--I could kick his ass with one arm tied behind my back.

I set down on the couch and show him into my room where he can change. I text a friend for moral support about this situation and then it happens… the moment that is repeated so lovingly by my co-workers and is in the blind date hall of shame… he walks out in jeans and a wife beater and does a Vanna White sweeping motion from his chest to waist with both hands and says “pretty buff, huh?”.

Pretty buff? Are you kidding me? He goes back into my bedroom and grabs an extra large long sleeved St. Louis Blues jersey and puts on. Don’t get me wrong, I love to see a guy in a nice jersey with a backwards fitted hat on game day… but it’s not game day and PB could wear a youth small—there was no need for him to waste the extra money on a men’s extra large. His hands do not even hang out of the bottom of the sleeves. My mind immediately starts thinking—closest place to eat so I can get this over with!

We walk next door to a pizza place. I order a salad because I know that will be quick because it doesn’t have to bake. He orders a pizza. We chat. I spend a lot of time praying for one of my student workers to call me with a work emergency. The little bastards call me every night of the week with something--why not tonight? He tells me a few lies about playing Minor League Baseball. Trust me, after growing up around and working in the MiLB, I can spot a baseball player from a mile away—I am like Haley Joel Osmond and it is my sixth sense—and my baseballdar was not going off. Additionally, I know my teams, leagues, and affiliations… you can’t lie to me about that of all things. Maybe he was the bat boy? He is the size of one. Look at those midget digit fingers. I bet he couldn't palm a nerf ball. I probably have a faster fast ball than this douche. Our food comes. He doesn’t use a napkin, but instead wipes the oil/grease from the pizza on his jeans and uses the extra foot of jersey sleeve to wipe his mouth. I almost threw up.

Finally, it’s over and I return to my condo. I immediately delete him from bbm and block all future invitations and call a friend to laugh hysterically about it. Never again will I go on a blind date. Never. Feel free to share the story—everyone else that has heard it does.