A woman of integrity

I ran into an old friend last week who asked me if I'd been able to sell my house yet. It's kind of a sore subject these days--I live in a beautiful home on an acre lot in a lovely neighborhood but despite two separate attempts to sell (totaling over two years on the market), I've had no takers. I'm not in distress (yet) but the house is just too big for me and much too far away from work and family to be practical. Nothing would make me happier than to sell it.

No, I told him, I haven't sold the place yet and in this economy, it's not likely that I will--maybe ever. His response caught me by surprise. "You might just have to walk away from it," he said.

Not in this lifetime. Someday they may come to drag me out of it and sell it on the courthouse steps for back taxes, but walk away from it? NEVER.

This got me thinking. I'm rocking along okay right now but it wasn't too many years ago that our financial world was in total shambles and we were in real danger of losing our home and everything in and around it. A deadly combination of unemployment, underemployment, and spectacularly stupid financial decisions left us, as my Dad was fond of saying, without a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. My toes still curl when I remember the mailbox stuffed with letters marked FINAL NOTICE and the constant barrage of collection agency phone calls. It was bad.

Of the many thousands we owed, though, I can only remember one $200 bill that we never did pay. J.C. Penney, bless their nonexistent hearts, got impatient and wrote us off while I was in the process of scraping up the last few dollars. When I tried to pay them, I found that our account no longer existed. Everybody else got paid in full. It took a looooong time and we were, unfortunately, helped along by an unpleasant windfall or two (read: somebody died and left us a little money), but things did get better. They got a lot better when Randy finally found the job of his dreams and we were both fully employed again.

One thing that helped me through the whole miserable ordeal was a story passed down through the family about my grandmother, Ruth Hardy. Growing up, I spent many weekends, holidays, and summers at the exclusive hotel she owned in Palm Springs. By the time I was born, she was well established, a Palm Springs City Councilwoman, and a shrewd businesswoman. But she didn't get there overnight. The truth was, my grandfather drank away all the profits from the hotel they owned together and by the time she divorced him in 1939, he had left the business--and her--with staggering debts. Her creditors offered her a settlement--she could walk away from her debts for pennies on the dollar.

She refused. Give me time, she told them, and I'll pay you back every cent. The "rest of the story" in her own words (as quoted in Palm Springs Life Magazine, October 1963):

"There were so many of them that finally my creditors got together and served me as a group and put a keeper from the sheriff's office at a desk (in the hotel lobby) to take in any money for bills. The keeper was a nice young man, embarrassed at the job he was doing. I soon made him a good friend. On the second day, he wore civilian clothes and for the next two weeks, while collecting money, he served as room clerk. And I never had a better one."

She did pay back every creditor in full--despite being told in 1933 that she was "doomed to failure" because Palm Springs was "way over-built" and didn't need another hotel!

I'm really lucky to have this published magazine account of that old family story. The article details many of the struggles she went through to become successful and it's a great read. But what strikes me most about the article is what she DIDN'T say. There is not one single word in it about my grandfather and his drinking. It would have been so easy (and truthful) for her to say that it was entirely my grandfather's fault for getting her in such a mess in the first place. But she didn't.

I hope I learned something from the financial mess we were in years ago. But even if I didn't, I will never forget the example Ruth set for me. I'll never walk away from a financial obligation. It may take me years to get it paid and things might get lots worse before they get better. But they will get better.

Ingleside Inn, Palm Springs, California (circa 1960)

I see dead people

Okay, I'm hooked. Thanks a lot, Maureen Keillor, for introducing me to yet another history geek obsession: Find-a-grave.com.

For those of you unfamiliar with family history research (what I like to call "Crack Cocaine for the Over-50 Set"), this is a website containing literally millions of names that volunteers have posted from cemeteries across the world. You can search for famous people or just the ordinary folks that grace your family tree and if you're lucky, find out where they're buried. This can be a gold mine if you've exhausted more traditional records repositories and still don't know enough about that elusive ancestor. Knowing where they're planted can open all kinds of doors to death certificates and obituaries and other ways to find the information needed to knit the generations together.

Such was the case with my uncle, Sidney Francis Atkins, Jr. Since I'm not posting this from home, a photograph of Sidney will have to wait, but Sidney was my father's half-brother. My grandfather, Arthur Jackson Hardy Sr. married a woman by the name of Nettie Blanche Kirby Atkins. What happened to Mr. Atkins is a mystery (hopefully, not for long), but when she married my grandfather, Nettie already had a little boy by the name of Sidney. When my Dad came along, Sidney was probably five or six years old and I've got some smashing pictures of the two of them together. The only other tidbit of info that I've ever had about Sidney is that while my Dad was stationed overseas during World War II, he was planning to meet up with Sidney (who was also in the service), but Sidney died before the meeting could take place. It didn't take much to locate a smidgen of veteran's info on Sidney--the National Archives has records showing that he enlisted in the Army from Jim Wells County, Texas, and that he achieved the rank of 1st Lt. before dying in 1945 of a "non-battle related" cause. Up until just two weeks ago that's all I knew.

Then I stumbled on his name on Find-a-grave.com. It turns out that he's buried in Lockhart Cemetery, about 50 miles south of Austin, Texas. An e-mail to the volunteer, Judy Rogers, who posted his name resulted in an almost immediate response. Yes, she lives near Lockhart and yes, she'd love to go photograph the headstone so that I can see what other information might be engraved there. It turns out she has relatives buried just over the Alabama state line in Cleburne County, so I volunteered to take photographs of those graves in gratitude for her willingness to shed some light on Sidney. Bright and early this morning I was headed west, armed with my camera, her e-mail, and a short list of photo requests from other people who have relatives in the same cemetery.

Too. Much. FUN! I only encountered two problems and the first turned out to be a non-problem, but it did make me pause to think once or twice.

First, the cemetery was 50 miles from NOWHERE, near a town that can't even be described as a "wide place in the road." A "wide place in the road" would be too big. We're talking a rusty mobile home with underwear hanging on the clothesline about every three miles or so, and that's IT. I did my best to stop imagining the faint strains of a banjo when I got out of my car to ask directions at the only retail establishment I'd seen for about 30 miles. The crumbling shack was covered in Skoal and Budweiser advertisements but the hand-lettered sign proclaimed "Yes, we're OPEN," so I ventured inside. The man behind the counter had most of his teeth and although he looked at me like I was nuts when I asked where Blake Cemetery was, he was perfectly cordial. If there was a shotgun behind the counter, at least he didn't wave it at me.

I got back in the car, headed down the road according to his directions, and promptly slowed down to avoid hitting the biggest bloodhound I've ever seen, ambling across the dusty road to the shade of a giant oak tree. Dunno if the dog belonged to the guy on the tractor at the side of the road, but I slowly cruised through the clouds of dust he was generating and forged on.

When I found the cemetery, just off Cleburne County Road #10, I ran into my second problem. I was totally unprepared for off-roading in Alabama. My car, affectionately known as The Golden Calf, had no trouble negotiating the deeply rutted, muddy hill that led to the center of the graveyard, but when I got out, I realized I was in trouble. I was wearing capris, a t-shirt, sandals, and a baseball cap. The capris had no pockets, so, ever mindful of the isolated spot I was in, I tried stuffing my cell phone in one side of my waistband and my car keys in the other. One hand held the papers and pen I needed to transcribe names and the other held my camera.

Making a mental note to bring some kind of backpack next time, I found the first grave I was looking for rather quickly and, hardly able to contain my excitement, I knelt down to frame the best shot. Now, mind you, most of the cemetery was overgrown with all manner of noxious weeds and underbrush and, unfortunately, I missed the fact that there were fire ants EVERYWHERE. It's a damn shame no one was there to film this creaky old lady, dancing all over the graves, slapping the offending bugs with my paperwork while the cell phone and car keys fell out of each pant leg. After a quick trip back to the car, I started over again with cell phone and car keys inside the camera case hung around my neck. Better.

By the time I finished with all the photo requests, I was bug-eaten, sweaty, sunburned, and dirty. What a way to spend a day off, right? But I ended up with a number of bonus shots--including the one at the top of this page. There were several other babies resting peacefully in that graveyard--this was one of the few who lived long enough to be given a name. At least now, their information will be included for Blake Cemetery on Find-a-grave.com. Hopefully someone out there will claim them and knit them securely into their own family tree. I couldn't possibly think of a better way to spend my day off.




UPDATE: Sidney Francis Atkins and Arthur Jackson Hardy, Jr.
My Uncle and my Dad....

My big brother Mike

Facebook is a pretty wonderful thing. It can be a galactic time-waster and it has, unfortunately, distracted me from working on this blog (and from cleaning my bathroom...and the garage...and paying bills...and, well, you get the idea...) But it's been through Facebook that I've become reacquainted with friends I thought I'd lost many, many years ago. I've also become reacquainted, or perhaps I should say better acquainted, with family members who live in far flung locations that I don't often get to visit.

Such is the case with my nieces, Jennie, Kristen, and Brooke. I don't often comment on their Facebook "doings," but it's been such fun to read their profiles, look at their pictures, and stay up to date with their statuses every day. I tend to think of them all as sort of frozen in time at, say, about six years old, so it's fun to keep up with their grown-up lives via Facebook.

They have something in common with my own girls, too--they lost their father way, way, WAY too soon. So tonight I just wanted to put a few memories out there--stories that they've probably heard a million times, but then again, maybe not...

Mike was nine years older than me so you'd think I wouldn't know much about his early years. You'd be right, except for the fact that I'm the designated family historian and as such, I have all my mother's papers and memorabilia. It's amazing the things that mothers keep. In her papers I found a letter from my grandfather, Colonel, dated April 11, 1947. He congratulated Mother on her "darling little boy," and refers to a check he enclosed with the letter that was to be used to attend to the back yard. As Colonel put it, "I don't want any grandson of mine, especially the oldest, to have to play in the dirt like I did, through choice, when I was quite small."

I also found a tattered Better Homes and Gardens Baby Book that contains information both funny and tender. Mike was born at 1:36pm on April 9th, 1947 in Los Angeles. He was 8 pounds, 13 1/2 ounces and 22 inches long. Under "condition at birth," Mother wrote "in perfect condition." Subsequent pages are filled with all the trivial little things mother's keep track of about their babies' first years--what they eat and when they sleep and how old they are when they giggle for the first time. One entry caught my eye under "Mental Development." Where there is space to record "Further comments," Mother wrote..."sworn into Regular Army and baby blew bubbles - August 11, 1947." Apparently at the ripe old age of 18 months, Mike was already commenting on military history!

From the second grade on, the "Interests" portion of the book contains references to Mike's love of all things having to do with airplanes, ships, and space. He excelled in science, loved to build model airplanes, and enjoyed Cub Scouts and, later on, Explorer Scouts. By the ninth grade, he was reading books on Gettysburg and the Civil War--these are subjects, along with the history of World War II, that he would study intently for the rest of his life. He was an excellent swimmer and an asset to the Canoga Park High School swim team. I can remember watching him do the butterfly--have never understood how anybody can do that stroke and he was SO good at it!

Some of my earliest memories of Mike date from his teenaged years. I remember the day he got his first muscle car--a metallic blue Chevelle Super Sport. It wasn't long before he wrapped it around a telephone pole while trying to impress a carload of girls, but boy he loved that car while he had it! I also remember when he broke his collarbone, bodysurfing at, I think, Zuma Beach. To this day, the smell of A&D Ointment takes me back to Baltar Street and I can see him standing in the den, swathed in bandages. I remember the really vicious migraine headaches he used to get and how he'd try to manage the pain by lying in bed with blankets over his windows to shut out the light. I always tried to tiptoe past his room at those times because I knew the pain made him sensitive to sound as well.

He had a temper. It may have been his skateboard that I tripped over when I was about 10 years old. I fell flat on my back, knocking the wind out of me for the first time. After laying there for a few minutes, gasping like a fish out of water, I got up and heaved the offending object into the street. I think it was Mike that chased me into the house and nearly put his fist through the bathroom door that I locked behind me. In reality, I probably deserved to be pounded. I can remember answering the phone once when his girlfriend, I think her name was Carol, called. I held the receiver out so she could hear and hollered loudly for Mike, saying that "Debbie" was on the line. When he picked up the extension, I listened just long enough to hear her say "WHO is DEBBIE!" I know, I know, but that's what punk little sisters do, after all.

He went off to college at Loyola University in Los Angeles and was a pre-med student for almost all four years until he took a computer class as an elective during his senior year and fell in love with the technology. Four years at a Catholic university and I can still remember the Thanksgiving prayers he used to offer: "Good food, good meat, good God let's eat!" Irreverent, yes, but a tad more polished than his alternate version: "Rub a dub dub, three men in a tub, thank you, God, for all this grub. YAAY GOD!"

As the years passed and he traveled the world, becoming a successful and sought-after troubleshooter for an assortment of banking institutions, he really did seem to become larger than life for me. But at some point during those years, he also seemed to realize the importance of family. Starting about the time I got married, he began a tradition of calling me on my birthday every single year. London, the Philippines, San Francisco, New York--it didn't matter where he was--or where I was--I could always expect that call. It's one of the things that hurt the most after we lost him on December 18, 1995. It's also the reason I really hate my birthdays even today. Not because I'm getting older, but because I miss those calls more and more with every passing year.

When Mike was only 18 months old, he had his first x-ray. It was a chest x-ray, taken to investigate a heart abnormality that would eventually take his life. Truth be told, there was never a damn thing wrong with his heart. The organ in his chest that pumped blood had serious problems from the very beginning. But his heart was quite perfect--and solid gold.

Boys will be boys

I've had a most excellent day today with my two grandsons, Nathan and Connor! It actually started last night with popcorn, Harry Potter, and a sleepover and continued into today with breakfast at Chick-fil-A, playtime at Monkey Joe's, toy shopping at Target, and the 3-D version of the movie "Monsters v. Aliens." We capped it off with some time at the park in Fayetteville followed by snacks and Bug Juice at the gas station store.

I think they had a really good time, but they couldn't possibly have enjoyed it more than I did. I had forgotten how much I miss dirty sweat socks, grubby hands, and giggling over phrases like "I could eat an ELEPHANT," and "Who farted?" At some point during the time we spent in the car, the conversation turned to GameBoys and what kind of games their Daddy played when he was a little boy. That got me thinking...

We traveled a LOT when my boys, Bryan and Benjamin, were little. With Dad in the Navy, it was not only inevitable, but expected. One of my favorite trips was a visit to England in the fall of 1986. We were living in southern Spain at the time, and at $10 a ticket, we couldn't resist hopping a MAC (Military Air Command) flight from Madrid to Mildenhall (by way of Aviano, Italy and Ramstein, Germany). It was a long flight in a cargo plane that I've mostly forgotten except for one memory. The Air Force crew flying the plane were some of the nicest guys you'd ever want to meet. Mindful of these three little kids they had on board, they were kind enough to invite Annike and Bryan up to the cockpit to watch as we made our nighttime flight over the English Channel (I don't remember if BJ made it up there or not--he may have been asleep at the time). Anyway, Bryan happened to take his brand new GameBoy up to the cockpit with him and the flight crew were fascinated with it. I wasn't in on the conversation, but somehow they talked Bryan into letting them borrow it and I think they put the plane on autopilot for the next hour or so while they had a go at Doctor Mario or whatever game Bryan had with him at the time!

We landed safely at Mildenhall and spent the next couple of weeks driving the length and breadth of England, Scotland, and Wales. It was a terrific trip (and the impetus for finally potty-training BJ!). After almost three weeks of stuffing five people and a massive sack of "nappies" in a car the size of a Mini-Cooper, Randy had had enough. The minute we got back home to Spain, BJ was out of diapers. But that's another story!

Suffice it to say, I can't begin to express how much I miss those days that I thought would make me nuts at the time! Here are a few pictures taken during that trip.

Thank GOODNESS boys will be boys!

Beware of falling fruit

The girls and I were hiking in beautiful Waimea Valley during our January trip to Hawaii when I spotted this sign. Naturally, my first thought was "oooh, this would make SUCH an excellent blog post title!" I've been waiting ever since for fate to hand me a day to match. It was today.

As I've mentioned in earlier posts, I work in the archives of the Atlanta History Center, smack dab in the middle of the most posh neighborhood in Atlanta. We are free and open to the public but thanks to our location, we are generally (and mercifully) free from the, shall we say, interesting patrons that find their way into many public libraries. Our patrons almost exclusively fall into one of four categories: a) elderly folks researching their family histories, b) students of all ages conducting historic research, c) absent minded professors intent on getting their next book published, and d) spouses and domestic partners of those in categories a through c that get dragged along for the ride.

I guess I need to add a new category, coined by one of my co-workers, for the woman who visited us today: Wackadoodles. We wondered if she really belonged with us when she floated to the reference desk, signed in using a made-up patron number and the name "Fatima," and proceeded directly to the computers. My co-worker walked over and asked her if he could help. She said, yes, would he bring her a cup of coffee? When he explained that we allow no food or drink, she sort of sniffed as if she'd suddenly found herself seated in a sub-par restaurant, and turned her attention back to the computer. For the next several hours, we watched as she intently surfed the internet, filled out online applications and printed dozens of real estate listings while alternately mumbling to herself, wadding up paper balls and tossing them across the table, and making odd gestures at the computer screen with her hands.

Now, I should probably point out that mumbling to oneself and making odd gestures at the computer screen is behavior that we frequently see from a lot of our patrons--in fact, it's behavior we occasionally indulge in ourselves. I think it's part and parcel with being a history geek. This woman was not a history geek. At one point, when I walked past her, I noticed that she was most definitely not conducting historic research on the net. The hot pink logo on the screen (in the shape of a bunny's head) gave it away. People may read Playboy for the articles, but I doubt they have much to do with history.

It wasn't until she started walking laps around the Reading Room and pulling books from the shelves to stack them in odd piles on the tables that we finally decided it was time for Fatima to leave. After security escorted her off the property, we found that when she wasn't with us, she had been alternately scattering papers around the atrium of our building and trying to clean the bathrooms. She left what looked like a hypodermic needle in the ladies room--further investigation determined that it did not contain a needle and that she had apparently been using it to whiten her teeth (when she wasn't cleaning the bathrooms and surfing porn sites on our computers, that is).

So. I guess it's to be expected that while working with the public you're occasionally going to stumble upon a nut or two. I could write a book about some of the wacky people we deal with on the phone and via e-mail. But this is the first up-close-and-personal experience I've had and I have to admit it was a tad unsettling. I felt sorry for her. Maybe she just has a cell phone with AT&T...

I'm on MyFace now! No wait...Spacebook? FaceSpace? Oh yeah--FACEBOOK...sigh...I'm too old for this...

It's been an odd month already. I spent a wonderful three days in Tampa with my most adorable Hannah last weekend (and her Mommy and Daddy) and Benjamin got me all hooked up with MyFace...er, Facebook, which I think might be kinda cool. I promise to post some terrific pictures of my trip and my baby Hannah in a much happier post tomorrow. And I promise to get excited about Facebook. But not now.

Right now, I'm feeling pretty much like my poor dashboard hula girl (photo above). She was a perky addition to my daily drive, wobbling at just the right moments and reminding me of our Hawaiian adventures even while I was stuck in traffic. But I guess the Florida sun was too much for her--we left the car parked in one of Tampa's mall parking lots for just a couple hours. When we returned, the glue that held her together had completely melted. One gentle turn out of our parking space and she sagged to starboard--another turn and she slipped sadly to the floor, trailing her grass skirt and wobbly spring behind her. Poor thing, I know just how she feels...

You see, I've had to do battle with the dreaded AT&T Customer No-service Department no less than TWO times in the past month. TWO TIMES. This is enough to drive anybody to drink and since I don't drink, it's been enough to drive me stark raving nuts. The thesis couldn't do it but AT&T certainly did.

It all started...well, let me back up. My pathological hatred of AT&T dates back many years and covers more altercations than I can cover in a single blog post. This most current round began innocently enough. About five inches of nonstop rain last month resulted in the need for my septic tank to be pumped. (Don't get me started on septic tanks or this huge house I own that has become the quintessential white elephant/albatross around my neck). Anyway, the tank needed pumping. To do this, the septic tank guys had to bring a small backhoe into my yard. The procedure went smoothly enough until they came across my phone line which some AT&T moron had laid right across the top of the tank. This isn't the first time normal maintenance of my home has resulted in a cut phone line. They laid the phone line about 3 inches under the soil right along the back of the house when it was built. Just after I moved in, a friend tried to rototill the ground around the foundation in the back yard so I could plant some flowers and the rototiller cut the line. THAT experience left me without phone service for days and the AT&T morons who came to fix it, completely tore up the brand new sod in my front yard. But I digress.

SO--after the great septic tank debacle, I had no phone, no internet, and was, of course $400 poorer for the whole septic tank repair thing. TWELVE calls to AT&T later, using my Verizon cell phone, I finally managed to get a real person on the line. For the first eleven calls I was only able to reach a recording--some sickeningly cheery woman's voice that continuously chirped, "I'll just ask you a few questions so that we can determine what is wrong with your phone" and then the line would go dead. The first few calls I managed to get past that question without losing it. Along about call number 5, I found myself screaming into the receiver, "I KNOW WHAT'S WRONG WITH MY F*&^ING PHONE, THE F*&^ING PHONE LINE IS CUT!!!" Anyway, after twelve calls, I managed to reach what I assume was a real person. This one had all the personality of a tree stump, but miracle of miracles, I was only without phone service for about 24 hours. By the time I got home from work the next day, the phone line was fixed.

But they weren't finished with me yet. Did I mention I have a Verizon cell phone now? That's the only reason I was able to call AT&T from my house--I previously had AT&T cell phone service and was only able to get a signal at my house if I stood in my bathtub and stuck my face through the window blinds. But that's a whole 'nother story. Suffice it to say that I changed cell phone providers last December to Verizon and have been blissfully happy ever since.

Until I tried to pay my final AT&T cell phone bill. I have always paid it online so I went online the day we came home with our Verizon phones and tried to pay the final bill. I was locked out of my online account. The message said that online services were only available to current customers. So I called AT&T to find out what I owed. They told me it was over $200. This is more than twice my normal bill, so I asked for an itemized bill to be sent to me. They said sure. Two weeks later, I get a single sheet bill with nothing but the total amount due, plus a few dollars because now it's late. I call again. Please send me a full itemized bill. Sure, no problem. Two weeks later, another single sheet. I call again. Can't you just allow me access to the online version, I ask? No, can't do that, but we will send you a full itemized bill. This time, I'm smart enough to at least write down the name of the idiot I spoke to. Almost a month passes. I get home from Tampa to a message on my answering machine. AT&T has sent me to a collection agency. After a most unpleasant conversation with the collection agent that concluded with him hanging up on me, (I confess, I was NOT nice on the phone) I call the collection agency a second time. This time I'm given to a supervisor who tells me quite frankly that AT&T will probably never send me a full bill but it would be best if I dealt with AT&T directly because there's nothing much they can do for me.

TWO AT&T customer disservice supervisors later, I still have no online access to my account, no full itemized bill, and no assurances that they will ever send one. By now, you've probably been reading long enough for Jimmy Buffet's "The Asshole Song" to begin playing. I apologize for that, since this is a G-rated blog, but I felt the song was just too perfect to pass up. It's my Ode to AT&T.

So yeah, I suppose I should be all excited about MyFace or SpaceFace or whatever the heck Benjamin signed me up for, but to be honest, I'm still too ticked off. Those of you who read this blog AND participate in Facebook, feel free to post your comments about your Customer Disservice experiences on my wall. In the meantime, I guess I should just be grateful that my toilets flush. Too bad I can't flush AT&T down my toilet...but ya know, that would SO be worth another $400 septic tank repair...

Southern comfort...

It doesn't snow very often in my neck of the woods--about 25 miles south of Atlanta--but when it does, it's an event. The joke is that whenever the local weather guessers predict even a sprinkling of the white stuff, every grocery store across the metropolitan area is immediately innundated with people who, for some odd reason, clean out the shelves of every carton of milk, every loaf of bread, and every case of beer. Bread. Milk. Beer. This is the mantra, apparently, of Atlantans and the required provisions for dealing with an inch or two of snow. I don't know what they do in Alaska when it snows, but I think it's safe to say that folks there don't careen wildly through the streets to the nearest Piggly Wiggly and then elbow each other out of the way to fill their grocery carts with bread, milk, and beer.

Anyway, what we Atlantans generally hope for is enough snow to cancel school and close businesses but not enough to have to shovel since none of us are ever prepared for the snowfall that we do, occasionally, get. Case in point: snow started falling this morning on my way to church. Big, fat, squishy flakes that immediately melted on my windshield. By the time I left services (early, by the way), it had switched over to serious snow and was about an inch and a half deep on every surface of my car. Do I have a snow scraper? No. Do I have waterproof outer garments or shoes? No. What I did have was a single stray CD case that Benjamin had given me with a collection of classical/church music. Out came the CD. I used the case to scrape the fluffy stuff from my windshield but by the time I got a small section cleared, the CD case disintegrated and my hands were nearly blue. (No gloves, either.) I realized too late that I should have done the passenger window as well but it was too cold to get out again. SO, like a complete and total moron, I opened the window and then tried to push the remaining sheet of snow out before it quavered slightly and then collapsed in a heap on my lap. Smooth...real smooth.

That's what we southerners do in the snow--we improvise. Bryan improvised with an aluminum coke can one wintry morning a few years ago. A couple hundred dollars (and MANY months later), Jacey ended up with a new windshield--it turns out coke cans are NOT intended for snow removal but they DO leave a lovely web of deep scratches on the glass.

SO. I'll curl up with my ancestors, some good old movies, and a few cups of cocoa this afternoon and enjoy it. It's STILL coming down and they're forecasting up to four inches by the time the storm heads on up the east coast. It really won't do me any good since I'm off tomorrow anyway. But it's fun while it lasts.

The only down side of the whole thing is what it does to the early spring vegetation here. My poor, poor daffodils!!