Trips to the Beach

Every summer my family would take its annual vacation to the Alabama beaches. When I was not more than six or seven years old, my father started a ritual that drove all of us crazy and literally exhausted my mother. He insisted that everyone be up, packed and in the car no later than four-thirty in the morning. He wanted to get to the Grand Hotel early enough to check in and play at least nine holes of golf before dinner.

He had all five of us scurrying around like rats after cheese, trying desperately to finish our last minute packing, get dressed and load the car, while my father shouted orders like an angry drill sergeant. The sun was rising as we entered the outskirts of Jackson. Straight to the Toddle House we went for our favorite part of the trip. There would have been a mutiny if my father had forced us to drive all the way to Point Clear on empty stomachs. We loaded up on scrambled eggs, pancakes and big fluffy biscuits. Before we left the eatery, we were warned to make our bathroom runs because my father wasn't stopping until we reached Hattiesburg. Remember folks, this was when Highway 49 was still a two-lane road! We literally held it until Hattiesburg with eyes watering and legs crossed. As we entered Lucedale, my father would regale us with facts about the tunnel in Mobile, the history of the Grand Hotel and all the good seafood we would be exposed to. As we hit Fairhope, the younger siblings would start the familiar chant all parents will recognize, "Are we there yet?" "Almost" my parents would say with a terse smile.

After we had checked in and unpacked, the family would scatter in different directions. My father would hit the golf course, my sister headed to the beach, and I would explore the grounds on my rented bike. Only my mother would stay put. She collapsed in a lawn chair outside our cottage and didn't move until it was time to dress for dinner.

Everything changed with the arrival of my baby brother. No more getting up at four-thirty and no more waiting until Hattiesburg for a bathroom break. My little brother tried out every bathroom from Yazoo City to Point Clear, Alabama. It didn't matter how small the town or how inconvenient the accommodations - stop we would. My father complained bitterly but it didn't change anything. Ironically, Jimmy turned out to be just like his father. If you rode anywhere with him, it was one bathroom break per trip!

Other Christmas Memories

As I’ve stated previously, Christmas wasn’t always one of Mama’s favorite holidays. She would get herself all worked up over the decorating, shopping and planning Christmas dinner. But that didn’t mean the rest of us didn’t enjoy Christmas, pets included. Rebel’s eyes would shine when we turned on the Christmas tree lights. He knew there were presents for him under the tree – his Daily Growl and other various squeaky toys and rawhide bones. That tradition was started when he was just a puppy. It was his first Christmas, so I decided to get him a bone and a stuffed toy I wrapped them and put them under the tree. My father said I was silly – that the dog wouldn’t be interested in what was under the tree. Boy, was he wrong!

As we began to unwrap our presents Christmas morning, Rebel started jumping in place and barking. I went to the tree, picked up the toy and handed it to Rebel. What happened next was nothing short of amazing. That dog pulled the bow off with his teeth and put it aside. He then held the toy down with one paw and peeled the wrapping back with the other paw like a banana. Once he got the wrapping off, he played with his toy for a minute or so and then took it to his doghouse. He then came back and sat down next to the tree to wait for his next present. Each year, Rebel expected more and more presents just like a kid at Christmas. After all the presents were opened, Rebel would wait for us to come out in the yard. At that point, he would bring us his new toys to inspect, one by one.

My cat, Hardy, also enjoyed the holidays. But that’s another story.

THE DOG WITH THE AIR-CONDITIONED DOG HOUSE

When my brother was fifteen, he got his wish-a beautiful two month old yellow lab. Jimmy gave the family two choices for a name. It was either Fred or Rebel. We chose Rebel. This sweet-natured, fun-loving dog was supposed to be my brother's pet, but he belonged to all of us, especially my father. It was my father who fed him every night and took him for his daily walks. It was my father that drove him to the vet and picked out a dog house that was really a large storage shed for Rebel to live in. It even had a window, columns and a front porch that Rebel could stretch out on to survey his domain, a large fenced in yard.

This dog loved to play games, especially with the water hose. He thought nothing of wrapping that hose around your legs or grabbing the hose from you and spraying you from head to toe with water. But when he was tired of playing, he would let you know in no uncertain terms. When he was only a puppy, he stopped my brother from playing fetch with him by dumping the tennis ball into his water bowl.

When he was a puppy, I sincerely believed he was more mountain goat than dog. He literally ate my mother's favorite tulip tree. He even tried to tunnel his way through the family room door by eating a hole in that door the size of a large beach ball. Everyone was relieved when he grew out of the chewing stage.

Rebel would never walk when he could run instead. Whenever he was allowed inside, that dog would take a running leap and literally slide into the French doors leading to the breakfast room. After several mishaps, he learned to slow down a bit and finally made it into the hallway without banging into the furniture or doors.

Being a lab, he sniffed everything in his path with his large pink nose. This included my Chanel No. 5. He loved the smell of it! That dog would smell my wrist and drink in the scent. Unfortunately, he was allergic. The minute Rebel stopped sniffing, he would start sneezing and rubbing his itchy back against the fence. After that, I stopped wearing perfume around him.

Summers were difficult for Rebel. He didn't like the heat. So my father got him a window unit and put it in the storage shed that served as his spacious dog house. I really believe that's why that dog lived to the ripe old age of seventeen-he was the only dog in the neighborhood with an air conditioned dog house. My father said Rebel deserved it. According to my father, that dog gave him twice as much respect as the rest of the family combined. Knowing Rebel and his tendency toward doggie-kisses, my father was probably right.

Garfield Has Nothing on Blackie

My sister owned a solid black part-Persian cat named “Blackie.” Real original, right? Blackie was a very large tom-cat who would take on any dog or cat stupid enough to enter his domain. He never lost a fight! This cat weighed close to twenty pounds and looked like a small bear. Blackie was solid muscle, so it would be incorrect to call him a fat cat.

Despite his size and reputation as a fierce fighter, he was surprisingly gentle with my nephew and niece. He was also gentle with baby animals. My sister adopted a kitten that looked like a smaller version of Blackie. In fact, that kitten thought Blackie was his mama. He would play with that cat’s tail for hours and Blackie would simply endure the antics of this overactive feline until he decided enough was enough. At that point, he would put his giant paw on the kitten’s back and hold the kitten in place for about sixty seconds. Then he would release the kitten, in hopes that would settle him down. Instead, the kitten would resume his play with Blackie’s tail. After awhile, Blackie would again place his paw on the kitten’s back. This would go on all day, with laughter and amazement by everyone watching  Blackie and his adopted offspring.

Blackie never missed an opportunity to stuff his furry face. Garfield had nothing on my sister’s cat. My sister learned that the hard way. My nephew had a softball game that the family was late for; so the leftovers from lunch remained on the kitchen table. When the family returned home after the game, they discovered the leftovers had been eaten and found Blackie lying on his back, with a stomach that resembled a very round beach ball. He lay there for hours, too stuffed to move. Then there was the time my brother-in-law was cooking steaks in the back yard. Blackie sat nearby, patiently watching the entire process. At one point, that cat took a flying leap over the grill, grabbed the steak in his mouth and ran off with the steak flapping over his shoulder. His paws never touched the grill. My brother-in-law stared at Blackie, open mouthed and in shock. Needless to say, Blackie had sirloin for dinner that night.

The Pink Christmas Tree

My mother had excellent taste. Mama's style in clothes matched those on the best dressed list-simple, but elegant. She taught her daughters what styles, colors and length of dresses looked good on them; what accessories to wear. She also advised what hairstyles looked best on my sister and me. When our home was remodeled, my mother did the decorating and worked closely with the architect in the design of the house. The interior was gutted and a second story was added. It was a massive job that Mama accomplished easily. She literally okayed every doorknob and bit of paneling, crown molding, not to mention the carpeting, curtains, wallpaper, etc.

When it came to holidays, my mother would go all out with the decorations; always lovely and festive. Our dinner table at Thanksgiving and Christmas was resplendent with a linen tablecloth, napkins, numerous silver serving pieces and fine china. She really put on the dog, so to speak. Martha Stewart did not have anything on Mama.

That's why the pink Christmas tree was such a shock. It was so unlike our mother. While our home was being remodeled, we moved into a small rental house. Mama decided to limit the decorations, since our abode was so small and not our permanent residence. None of us had a problem with her plan. It meant less decorating for the rest of us. But what happened next was beyond anything my father or siblings could ever have imagined. My brother Larry had always been responsible for finding a live Christmas tree, usually from the woods nearby. My mother told him that would not be necessary because she had taken care of it.

The next day, there was a table size, very pink Christmas tree -- the color of Pepto Bismol -- in the front room. It was the room where we watched television, read and talked among ourselves. It was the main room for family gatherings. But the nausea-inducing tree changed everything. I'll never forget my father's reaction. His words were, "Bea, what the hell is that?" My family's reaction ranged from verbal outrage to shudders, grimaces, and a gentle shaking of the head and averting of the eyes.

Mama said we were acting silly about the whole thing. It was just a pink tree-nothing to get excited about. The rest of us told her it tended to put a damper on the holidays. "How do you decorate a pink tree?" we asked. It was the general consensus that a pink tree would clash with just about every decoration in Mama's possession. As a result, that disgustingly pink tree remained undecorated. by the end of the holidays, the front room was avoided by most of the family, the cat included.

When Christmas was over, that pink tree was placed next to the rest of the garbage to be picked up and carried away. It lay there in shame, for all the neighbors to see. Years later I reminded mama of that pink tree. I said if she had put pink flamingos in Santa hats in the front yard, it couldn't have been any worse than that horribly pink, undecorated Christmas tree we were forced to endure so many years ago.

A Day in the Life of Humphrey B

Some people say my dog is unusual looking but always cute. He's a Piebald Dachshund. To be more specific, he looks like a Springer Spaniel with a dachshund body. And his personality is a combination of spaniel and dachshund, as well. He has the sweetness of a spaniel, but the independence and stubbornness of a dachshund.
For example, when he was only a puppy he gave me a lesson in pretending to listen and doing exactly what he wanted to do. I was lecturing my dog about not eating his dinner due to his love of dog cookies. He cocked his head gave me a long look, and then ran into another room, where his crate was located. He dug in the corners of this crate, where he found two dog cookies. He at both of them infront of me, then turned to look at me as if to say "now, what were you saying about no more dog cookies?"
Humphrey is very clear about his likes and dislikes. He loves women and other dogs. he hats loud noise, thunder and "Dancing With the Stars." Being a fan of the above mentioned show, it's not out of the question for me to institute a routine called "Dancing With the Dogs" while watching the show. This routine consists of twirling and dipping my dog to the music. Needless to say, he hates it, and he lets me know in no uncertain terms!
One night in particular stands out. Right after a Tuesday night elemination, I put some Motown on the CD player and danced around the room. Humphrey, clearly fed up with the situation, hauled furry booty to the bedroom and hid under the bed. My dog refused to come out, despite my promises not to dance with him. Only when I turned off the music and put up my CD player did he come out of hiding. And then he only stuck his head out from under the bed to make sure it wasn't a trick. Since that episode, Humphrey has kept a watchful eye on me, and places himself safely under the living room table, beyond my reach. No more "Dancing With the Dogs!"

Pink Cadillac

When I was in elementary school, my mother had a pale pink Cadillac. She loved that car like no other. Dirt did not touch that car, inside or out. Mama made sure it was spotless. The Cadillac was kept in perfect working order with periodic maintenance. No one drove that car except Mama. It was off limits even to my father and, especially, my brother Larry.

My teenage brother wanted to drive that car in the worst way. He longed to take it out on the open road and see how fast it would go. Mama would have none of it, knowing how teenage boys were about cars; almost as dangerous as they were with teenage girls. That car was Mama’s baby and Larry wasn’t going to get his grubby hands on it.

My brother finally convinced Mama to let him drive the car to the local theater to see James Dean in Giant. The problem was that Giant was showing in Vicksburg, forty miles to the west. Larry did just what he promised Mama he wouldn’t do—he took her pink Cadillac out of town, and to make matters worse, he took four friends with him. To add insult to injury, those boys were smoking smelly cigars in Mama’s Cadillac.

Larry thought he had gotten away with his sneaky behavior when a cow in the middle of the road changed everything. Mama’s pink Cadillac and the cow made contact. Both the Cadillac and the cow suffered irreparable injuries. Luckily, no one in the car was hurt…correction; upset stomachs prevailed when everyone swallowed their cigars.

Mam knew something was up when a local highway patrolman brought Larry home. You could hear Mama screaming throughout the entire house. My father was afraid the neighbors would hear the obscenities she was turning the air blue with. He tried to calm her down. But once she realized Larry was okay, she threatened to make him not okay. “I’m going to kill him…oh, my beautiful car!” she hollered. Over and over she screamed, “I’m going to kill him!”

Finally, Mama calmed down, but she never forgot her pink Cadillac. And it was a long, long time before she forgave Larry for the demise of “Pinky.”