My condolences to those who have lost lost their parents young; and even bigger condolences to those who still have their meddling, know-it–all and told-ya-so, annoying human beings around to dote and fuss over us.
I know that being a parent is a life-long challenge, I am one, but sometimes being the middle-aged progeny of Southern parents can be trying at best, like trying to wrestle a baby hippo from the jaws of an anaconda.
For the relatively youthful among us, what this means is that the story of your birth will be repeated each and every birthday for the rest of your life. whether it was a dramatic, notable event or a yawn-inducing fest of crossed legs and tapping toes in a hospital waiting room.
Just be prepared for it.
As our parents age into their70s, the ability to instinctively know when to end a visit politely flies out the window and it seems that they will desperately search their recollection for any more stories to tell about their “boy” that illustrate how they raised a budding prodigy who now has a few lines of grey hair that adds them an air of distinction, lest the guest leave without knowing that you tested “genius level” in kindergarten.
Trying to end a visit requires a lifetime of practice and you will never seem to master it as they come up with clever new ways to keep the conversation going about you.
My parents used to be outgoing and engaging, but now they never, and I mean never, meet a stranger. Cashiers, the lady behind them in line, other patrons and really anyone within earshot can become their new best friend.
I sat amazed as my mother managed to pick a restaurant server clean of information about her life. Turns out the server is originally from Lithuania and is taking part in the Augusta University foreign student program. While mom talked, dad methodically did a google search to find out information about the country of Lithuania.
Before the meal was over, I though my parents were going to invite the young lady over for dinner.
Inching towards the door only adds more time to the process of trying to respectfully leave, and it only gets one closer to the door, not outside to freedom.
Once outside, it takes even more finesse to get down the driveway.
“Ya’ll drive careful,” even though you live less than a mile away. According to the National Institutes of Health, 88% of injury accidents occur within 10 miles of a person’s home, so they think they are saving your life by standing between you and the Buick.
In their eyes, you will always be a child, so they expect you to “call us when you get home!”
What hath Alexander Graham Bell unleashed!?!
My dad, Jim, used to be a sunflower, he would patiently wait to the side for mom to finish gabbing and escort her away. Now Jim is even worse than my mom, reminding me that it was he that taught me to drive and that he was right about that girl in high school, “Chrystal,” she truly was up to no good…and she wasn’t.
I realized the other day that I grew up living with Ned Flanders and I swear the man sits up nights memorizing a pun for every conceivable situation.
Today, instead of dad being the sunflower, he tag-teams mom in keeping the conversation flowing even though the sound of crickets outdoors has long subsided.
Then there are the parents asking if they can bring over some ice cream from the store, so you ask them to bring you by a gallon of Moose Tracks and they show up with Breyers mint chocolate, claiming, “Breyer’s is better for you, it will help you gain weight!”
But, I wanted Moose Tracks!
Of course, I jest, but it is the honest to God truth. If you are lucky to be middle-aged and still have your parents around to drive you crazy, you are indeed lucky. My parents have been absolutely wonderful to me, fussing and carrying on over me as if I still think peanut butter and jelly make for fine dining. If there is anything painful about my health challenges, it is watching them watching me grow weak. However, just like they gave me genetically a love for Moose Tracks, they also instilled in me the stoicism to try and handle adversity with calm.
If your parents are still around, give them a big hug from me! We are both truly blessed.
Fave memory of the week
If you get the opportunity to travel to Charlotteville, Va. and tour Thomas Jefferson’s home, Monticello, you most definitely should.
My best friend Duane Brown and I toured the plantation home in 2001. The home, designed by Jefferson himself, has been lovingly restored and has features on display that you will only see once in a lifetime, such as Jefferson’s dumb waiter which served his wine and his library displaying the Holy Bible he “cut” and “pasted” to have the passages fit more to his spiritual interpretation of the book.
The front parlor has the nation’s second president’s home displays of the relics brought back to him by Lewis and Clark from their famous Western Expedition.
We took the tour around this time of year, so the leaves in Virginia were turning color making for a beautiful mountainous backdrop to the home. Also, amid the mementos like Jefferson boots and riding crop sit among his inventions such as his revolving “easel” that allowed him to read three or more books at a time, his specially designed clock that is so large that the pendulums and weights extend down into the cellar and his design of the house allowed him to wake and have coffee in his breakfast solarium and spend the afternoon recording the temperature and reading books in one room adjacent to where luminaries of the time gathered to break bread in the evenings.
Unfortunately, the home was in the middle of a massive renovation when I toured, so both the second and third floors along with “dependencies” on the very bottom floor that were tucked under the mansion were all off-limits and not a part of the tour.
The small bedroom of Sally Hemings, Jefferson’s slave and the mother of several of his children, was unknown to history at the time; however, all of those areas are now restored and open to the public. The docents of the tour have successfully included Hemmings into the narrative of Jefferson’s life, showing how he and Hemmings lived along with a roster of slaves as well as Jefferson’s daughter Martha and her 11 children.
You can truly spend a full day at “T.J.s” place and fail to see it all.
Remembering Harley Drew
Harley Drew passed away this week at age 82 after a life well-lived.
Like many of you, I grew up listening to Harley on WBBQ. As a kid, I wanted to be just like Harley. He wasn’t the funniest DJ on the air, but he was the coolest by far.
It was such a privilege to work for him for five years at WGAC and I honed my craft in both radio broadcast and writing as the investigative reporter for “Great 58” under his tenure. He was very generous with his time when Debbie and I were writing “Augusta’s WGAC: The Voice of the Garden City for 70 Years.”
For those of us who remember or were around for Tiger Radio, Q-Cards and “WBBQ Mobile One,” his passing was the end of an era. There will never be another one like good ole’ Handsome Harley.
Scott Hudson is the semi-retired senior investigative reporter, editorialist and columnist for The Augusta Press. Reach him at scott@theaugustapress.com
