Scooter vs. Old Scratch

The Devil came down to Dixie two weeks ago and he was looking for a pug to steal. He was in a bind cause he was way behind and he was willing to make a deal.

I coulda spared him the trip ‘cause my boy Scooter won’t ready for no deal.

‘Cause Scooter  has had more dances round that Devil than any dog has a right. When he was a tiny handful of glossy black pug puppy, four, count’em FOUR vets in Virginia said “Put him down.” But somehow a kindly couple saw past his malformed legs, they saw his immense spirit and ran Old Scratch off. And delivered the tiny guy they crowned Scooter into the hands of Midatlantic Pug Rescue.

Scooter on the day he arrived at the MacHardy house.

But no-one remembered to tell Scooter he was different. His front legs had no “elbows” and they couldn’t support the front end. His back legs, were in better shape and held up his little rump and curly tail up at an awkward angle. But boy could he get around. He looked like a bit like a grasshopper and his powerful back legs pushed him around - so he scooted here and there.

Yep, Scooter arrived with legs out of whack but with so much personality that dear husband said within two days of his arrival “If (Dr.) Monce can’t fix him, I’ll carry him around on a pillow the rest of his life.”

At Scooter’s first assessment Dr.  Kevin Monce and I stood looking at the xrays of Scooter’s malformed limbs. “Is there hope?” I asked worriedly. Kevin replied “There’s always hope.”

And so Scooter, the wonder pug, began his quest to have four functioning legs. Dr. Monce put pins through the top and bottom of each leg (external fixators), banded them together and over time pulled the bones together. Scooter’s body did the rest - making bone out of what had been cartilage and creating function where before there had been none.

You might think “Oh, poor little puppy!” Save your breath. Again Scooter wasn’t interested in the details of his deformation. The day after his first surgery he was up and walking on his casts - “sticks” my son, Zack, called them. At his frequent day visits with Dr. Monce he was “too good” for a kennel and settled down in his own dog bed positioned behind the receptionist's desk.

Scooter walking on his "sticks." 

He grew and so did his personality. He quickly became the alpha of our household pack, an imp who delighted in annoying the older dogs and a vocal opponent of delayed meals. He insisted on the best lap and being the first one out the door for walks.

And so after many, many trips to the vet, many orthopedic exercises, we became foster failures. He and we were so bonded the very idea of placing him in another home was unthinkable. We made it official. We adopted him. Or maybe it was the other way around.

So nine years later, which was two and a half weeks ago. Scooter got sick. He started throwing up at 11pm and didn’t stop. By 4 am I was at the emergency vet to see if he was dehydrated. And this guy, this sick, sick, sick boy - perked up at our arrival like we were visiting a steak house. No, they said, but get him into your regular vet pronto. By 8:00 am we were at our local Durham vet, New Hope Animal Hospital, where he was soon sent back to the Veterinary Speciality Hospital with an IV already in place. I had imagined a simple GI upset, but somewhere along the way his immune system went into overdrive and destroyed his platelets - within a few days he had 0. Dogs can’t live with zero platelets. Old Scratch was coming.

But somehow, with the dedication of round the clock nursing and round the clock vet care and round the clock credit card charges,  little Scooter said “Get Thee Gone Satan!” And, somehow,  with the administration of one, then two steroids and finally an immunoglobulin infusion, Old Scratch started to doubt his chances. Oh, it was dicey for a while and it was close.

Our family decided together not to go to visiting hours because we didn’t want to upset him. We needn’t have worried, because while Old Scratch was knocking at the door, Scooter was playing the field, he was jumping into the arms of the vets and vet techs. He was being hand fed. He was wagging his tail. He was Hugh Hefner at the Playboy Mansion.

Finally, Old Sctatch just plum gave up and went back to whatever Hell hole he climbed out of.

Scooter returned home after five days and nights in the hospital with five different medications and the need for close supervision and much followup. But we give it willingly. It’s why I’m up at 4:12am writing- to give him a tummy protectant an hour before he eats breakfast.

Because he’s family. Because he believes himself whole. Because he is the love of our lives and we see courage and strength and humor in him everyday. Because he is truly a life-affirming gift from a divine Creator.

So, we’ve got a message for Old Scratch: when Scooter’s time comes, don’t come sniffing around here again. Because, this one, this little black pug with the hobbled-together legs and the oversized ego?

He’ll be going to Heaven.

Scooter recuperating in prime real estate. 

Cute Nails

In the chaos surrounding the week prior to our annual beach vacation, I wanted one thing for myself prior to departure. I wanted cute toenails.

It was a crazy week, my sister visited for a doctor’s  appointment, my son returned after completing his master’s from Berkeley, and I was coughing my head off. I had at least 100 items on my PRIOR TO THE BEACH LIST and was near to bawling all week.

This is nothing new from me and in fact my annual pre-beach meltdown is a prerequisite for vacation. As one spate of tears appeared, two of my menfolk laughed together at the predictability of the event.

Despite all this,  for once, I wanted a nice pedicure for the beach. Forget lumpy legs or droopy middle aged….parts, wouldn’t it be nice to have  lovely toes luxuriating in my new sandals?

I made and kept my appointment at the Nail Spa. RK, “my guy”, soaked my feet and started work. I fell into a casual conversation with the lady in the chair next to me and a bit later, realized that RK had fallen into a quiet, thoughtful repose. I looked at my toenail, and I knew why.

Many years ago, preparing for Vacation Bible School, some friends and I were carrying heavy foldable tables. I lost the grip on one and it slammed into my right big toe, filling the classroom with a haze of profanity and necessitating a trip to the ER. My toes wasn’t broken, but my toenail sure was. It never really grew in properly, instead in came in thick, crooked and discolored.

At my last (and actually my first) pedicure, RK had masterfully painted this ugly toe and it shone proudly with pink polish - right in line with the others. This pedicure, he was trying to dremel it down a bit and it just sheared off.  He was horrified and did his best to patch it up - certainly not his fault and I left satisfied and a little amused.

That night I went swimming with two of my girlfriends and donned my swim fins per usual. by the end of our session that right big toe was feeling a little iffy and when I finally had the nerve to look, another piece of toenail had sheared away. I was left with a truly uglyhalf- toenail! So much for cute toenails. I was disappointed.

With no time for a toenail touchup, I searched for matching polish at the local CVS. Found some that would do and painted what was left of my toenail.

Then I continued to prepare for the beach - a whirlwind of washing clothes, packing, checking items off the list.  The morning before we left,  I found myself so sick that I arrived at Duke Urgent Care before it opened! I was quickly diagnosed with, as the PA said, a “rip-roaring sinus infection” and loaded up with prescriptions.

Back home we packed the car and hit the road and at last, on Sunday, I felt the relief, the relaxation, the soothing AHHHHHH that is vacation. I parked myself under the beach cabana with a book and a diet Coke. My idea of heaven.

Being Sunday there was a usual crowd of beachgoers and between chapters of Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell I enjoyed a bit of people watching.  The beach is like the state fair - all sorts and sizes of folks to see. I soon noticed two women walking up from the ocean. They were in wet swimsuits and had  enjoyed a  brisk dip. They were laughing together and soon I realized one was holding on the other. Next I could make out that they were from two generations, with the younger woman being lead by the older. And finally, as they neared our cabana, I saw the unmistakable facial features of Down Syndrome.  More importantly, I saw acceptance, pride, grace, love and JOY! Life had turned out a little different than expected, but this mother and daughter drank it in - with no worries about perfection.

I admit that I looked at my toes then as I dug them in the sand. They worked just fine and so what if one toenail looked a bit pathetic. It is in the chaos and imperfection that we learn to reach for God and in doing  reach for grace and joy!

I can’t say I won’t have a meltdown come beach time next year, but I can say I will I will embrace it when it comes. After all, after every storm comes the blissful morning after.

I Gotta Guy...

I’m not girly. I’m still a tomboy. Hair has got to be easy.

So getting my hair “done” for the first part of my life was a squirm-inducing proposition. It is so INTIMATE. It has to be someone with whom you be up close and VERY personal.

And then, the year Zack was born, there was the grey hair – lots of it – and it came fast. By 35, I was almost completely grey.

And the comments started…

In an elevator with a four year Zack, someone said “Isn’t it wonderful you can spend so much time with your GRANDSON!”

And TWICE– Earle was mistaken for my son: “I see your son is home from college, I saw him out riding his bike”. My sons were in ELEMENTARY SCHOOL.

So finally I found a chick I liked to do my hair. She had this glorious mane of riotously curly black hair and a New York accent. And finally – over many months – she gently persuaded me to color my hair.

And I loved it!

(Aside: I met Zack at the bus stop that day – he was in Kindergarten – he saw my “new hair” – hated it – ran home – threw himself on his bed – and sobbed for the rest of the afternoon that he wanted his “old” mother back! But I digress…)

And I liked the chick – Janice saw me regularly – tried different shades of color – was steady and patient and kind. And finally I had someone for the long-term who could deal with my hair AND with me. And my boys.

Until life got in the way. Marriage – kids – and somehow she thought HER FAMILY needed her more than MY FAMILY. I don’t get that, but luckily she had a husband who could do my hair.

So her husband took over. And Earl, a man’s man, Air Force veteran, started doing my hair. And soon he was doing mine, Earle’s, Nat’s and Zack’s. (And yes, that’s right – the two most important men in my life are named Earl(e).)

And he’s good too – really good – precise, creative and patient. And really kind.

He listens so well that once teenaged Nat went for a haircut at an appointment before mine. Earl trimmed Nat’s hair a wee bit, just as Nat asked. And I then I arrived and Earl had to cut it all over again to suit me…

And so time has passed and our family has had the care of this wonderful couple from 1994 to present – they've been in our lives 20 years – during this time we've  all worked hard on our families and shared the same dreams, goals, and faith.   Our family has been just been so blessed to know theirs. “My” Earle and I were recently invited to the B’nai Mitzvah for their children – what a mountaintop experience! What a privilege! 

The Glass Family  (photo courtesy of me stealing from Janice's FB page.)

And now, Earl even does Mary Frances’ hair. She was hesitant at first to have a male stylist, but now she’s head over heels.

And so – yeah – I gotta hair guy….and I couldn't be happier…

Recently I had my nails done for my son’s wedding – for the first time in my life. I tried out a local nail place just this week to have them redone. By chance, a man did my nails – he’s an ex-trucker and electrician. He is a reader – and can recount by title, character, setting and plot of all the novels of LaVyrle Spencer. I liked him – he was patient and kind. And I was at ease with him.

So maybe, just maybe,

 I gotta nail guy….

10 things I learned from being the Mother-of-the-Groom

My older son got married a few weeks ago. It was a small, beautiful wedding. The bride was lovely, the groom couldn't stop smiling, the late October day was sunny and unseasonably warm and the vows were heartfelt. But I learned some very important lessons.

1.       This is not my wedding.

 As a Southern woman with a traditional wedding, I thought I knew best how it was done.  In fact, I recently helped with a girlfriend’s daughter’s wedding. And the Mother-of-the-Bride was also organized and eager. We were ready to rumble.

Except, after I generated a spreadsheet of questions, the groom, kindly, gently, told me “It’s not your wedding. We got this.”

What? After all those dirty diapers, PTA nights, reading “How Things Work” for the 1,100^th time and it’s not my wedding!

The MOTB had been gently told the same thing.

We gnashed our teeth a bit and held on tight.  Would they remember this? Would they remember that? How about….

But  gradually we came to accept that it really wasn’t our wedding.

And that it really was their wedding.

And that it was perfectly done.

And that was, in fact, a gift to the both of us.

2.       You will forget someone.

When I realized I accidentally left a cherished couple off my list of potential invitees after the invitations were mailed, I sat down and cried. The wedding was small, and I thought they were on the list and when I double checked, I found I left them off.  I was devastated.

I told my son, with great remorse. 

He said “It’s okay, Mom. I probably would have included them, but it’s no big deal.”

And it wasn’t. 

They loved him before his wedding.

They still love him after.

3.       That kid that always waits until the last minute is always going to wait until the last minute.

When he was in elementary school, you told yourself he would grow out of it. When he was in middle school, you told yourself he would grow out of it. When he was in high school, you told yourself he would grow out of it.  With every 9:05 pm request for poster paper, every midnight science project, every “I left my book at school and the book report is due tomorrow and I haven’t read it, will you drive me back to school and maybe the custodian will still be there…”, I comforted myself with the conviction that my kid would grow out of it.

My younger son was tapped to serve as best man. He flew from California to stand by his brother’s side. His brother and future sister-in-law purchased a jacket, pants, and an orange bow-tie for him. So he gets off the plane with only his backpack, white shirt inside, and smiles and asks if I will take him to buy shoes.

Of course I’ll take you to buy shoes. Do you need any poster paper?

4.        Good shoes are important.

The MOTB and I got the incredible opportunity to dress shop together for our dresses. It was a blast and I found my dress quickly. But the shoes…..

I can’t wear heels. I sprained my ankle decisively as a teenager playing volleyball at a youth retreat. (I literally stepped in a little hole – can you hear the crunch?)

On Saturday before the wedding, I set out to find the perfect shoes. I warned the Father-of-the-Groom that it was going to be all out warfare until I found THE SHOES.

But then a little voice whispered in the back of my memory: try COMFORTABLE SOLES.

So I did. First. In fact I threw myself on the saleswoman and explained my plight. She asked for a description of my dress. Once I did, she smiled, winked and reached down to pull up the legs of her longish jeans. Behold. The perfect shoes – ones she could stand in all day – ones they had in my size and in black – Danskos with a perky ankle strap.  Sold.

In fact, I loved them so much, I went back this week to tell her how much I enjoyed wearing them at the wedding. She was so overjoyed she embraced me.

Never underestimate the value of good shoes.

5.       Good friends will always be there for you.

The wedding was small and everyone on the bride’s side was from out of town. I wanted to do something for them, but let’s face it, my house with three pugs just wasn’t the right venue.

So my friend Fran stepped in. She opened her house and her heart up to a group of folks she didn't even know! Not only that, she enlisted many of my bookclub friends and more to decorate, cook, serve and clean up. Friends that WEREN’T EVEN INVITED.

The night of the dinner her home and the menu oozed Southern charm. The atmosphere was warm and friendly and the food was delicious. And so much more intimate (and tasty!)  than a meal in the backroom of a restaurant.

Another gift given to me: the care and effort that Fran and my friends put into this event. The pugs are pissed to have missed out, but I’ll be forever grateful.

Me, my shoes, Fran, Zack and his shoes

6.       You can’t please all of the people all of the time.

Nat and Lilly’s wedding was held at the Walnut Creek Wetlands Center in Raleigh. I was delighted when I visited the venue for the first time. This contemporary center has versatile meeting (wedding) space, a covered porch perfect for vows or conversation and is nestled in among a lovely stand of trees. In late October this provided a natural, colorful backdrop for an intimate wedding. It was charming.

This is a conversation I actually had immediately before the wedding.

Friend: Boy, you will be glad when this wedding is over, I’m sure it cost you a lot of money.

Me: No, actually, Lilly and Nat paid for everything themselves!

Friend: Oh. Guess that is why they held it here.  

7.       How not to be a mother-in-law.

I do believe my mother-in-law loves me, but she is not always a gracious woman. I remember one trip to the beach in which she said to me: “Jackie, I don’t know why you are so self-conscious about being out here in your bathing suit. There are plenty of women fatter than you are.” 

The post wedding comment after the slide show which displayed pics of me as a young mom went something along these lines: “Boy, Jackie sure packed on the weight after she had those children.”  Yes, I guess I did, TWENTY FOUR YEARS AGO…..

I promise not to judge my daughter-in-law on looks. In fact, if my perfectly sized daughter-in-law grows to be the size of a freak show fat lady, I will never comment on it. Because I love her. And because I know what’s important. She loves my son. And what could be more important than that?

The Bride

8.       You will bond with the Mother-of-the-Bride

Frankly, and with no offense to the dads, no-one loves the Groom like the Mother-of-the-Groom and no-one loves the Bride like the Mother-of-the Bride.

And then someone does.

And it’s magic.

And the Mother-of-the-Groom and the Mother-of-the-Bride both know it. And their hearts are warmed. And no-one, no-one can really appreciate that as much as they will.

The MOTB and the MOTG

9.       Take tissues

I have the reputation of being the crybaby in the family. Hallmark commercials, puppies, old couples. They all get to me. Don’t even get me started about BIG HERO 6.

So when the Mother-of-the-Bride handed me a gift the night they arrived for the wedding week I was grateful to find it was a UNC tissue holder, perfect to have Earle tuck in his pocket for me.

And I did need them. And Nat took a few and tucked in his coat sleeve, just in case.

Lilly can attest (she was facing me during the vows ) that I had big old salty droplets just rolling down my face. There was some audible crying coming from across the aisle, so I did the adroit, let-me-rub-these-tears-in-my-face-and-no-one-will-be-the-wiser-cause-like-I’ve-just-been-peeling-some-onions-in-this-fancy-purple-dress move and I’m sure no-one was the wiser.

But I knew those tissues were there. Ready. Even if maybe I was going to have a post vow meltdown.  

Tissues=good planning.

10.   It’s all just frosting.

Two people meet. They fall in love. They decide they want to spend the rest of their lives together. That’s the cake – whipped up with love, commitment, joy and hope.

Everything else is just frosting.

Good cake doesn't really need frosting. If it’s there – that’s great. But it’s not essential.

So to future MOTGs and MOTBs everywhere: RELAX and ENJOY.  They got this.

The Bride and Groom

To Men Everywhere: CALL YOUR MOTHER!

Let me say, first off, I apologize to all my friends who have daughters. Yes, I was smug. I did say raising boys was easier than raising girls. I did call all boys wysiwygs (what you see is what you get), devoid of female teenage manipulations and periodic whirlwinds of inexplicable emotions. Instead, I crowed, boys are solid, steady, honest and forthcoming.  They don’t worry about what their friends are wearing, they don’t spend hours fixing their hair. They don’t run up the phone bill. They talk to their mother.

The implication I missed was this: they don’t run up the phone bill BECAUSE THEY DON’T USE THE PHONE.

Yep, when they left home (and they continue to do this in varying stages: home to college, college to grad school, apartment to girlfriend’s condo, North Carolina to California, California to Japan…) they somehow became almost completely incapable of using their phones.

Oh, yes, their phones are technological marvels and when held in their hands, my sons have the options of calling, texting, emailing, Facebooking or Skyping AT NO COST TO THEM WHATSOEVER.

When I left home for the faraway burg of Chapel Hill, I loved my new college life: the hustle and bustle of thousands of students, the classes, the independence, all of it! But a part of me inside missed my parents. When the dorm phone rang for me – I was so happy to talk to my parents. In fact, so happy that during freshman year, I would invariably tear up with emotion and, well…, cry a bit. This wasn't to say that I was sad, not at all, just nostalgic and filled with love and a touch of longing for my parents. This, in fact, this broke my Dad’s heart. And he finally said to me “Boots, it’s not so bad. You could have cancer or be in a concentration camp.”  He nailed it. The tears stopped but not the calls to my parents.

In fact, as the years progressed and I married, had kids, and paid my own phone bills, those calls became daily. We talked every morning – with my mom and dad each on an extension – they caught me up on Seaboard doings, I told them about the boys or asked for advice. Those calls were gifts – and each one buoyed me up to meet the day that would then rush in with the breathless force of a tidal wave.

By contrast, when my older son left for college, I pretty much didn't hear from him for SIX weeks, despite the number of times I checked my phone for messages.  I got a line of email here or there but not much else. And when the younger son left for college he embarked on a new relationship at the same time so, shall we say, his thoughts were elsewhere. Not with home and hearth.

A friend of mine told me this is how we raised them, to see the back of their heads and I know in my heart that is true. The apron strings are cut. But STILL I hold out hope that my sons will use those handheld wonders and think of their mother.

And so it was that my older son and his fiancé’ headed to California a couple of weeks ago; Lilly had a conference in San Francisco which is quite close to my younger son at Berkeley. (Which let me pause here briefly, and say thank God for Lilly. If I can’t get Nat to respond to a text, I add her to the thread and magically he responds.) Anyway, as I was saying, I envisioned both my boys and Lilly together, romping in sunny California. Before I dropped the couple at the airport, I asked for photos. (Those phones have built in cameras, don’tyaknow?)

Then I waited. And waited.

At last, a picture came. My phone chirped happily at midnight EST. I excitedly opened up my message and got this:

Those are Nat’s feet because I recognize the orange NERD socks. And I THINK that is Zack’s arm because of the freckles. But how did they get in that position? Later, I showed the picture to one of my girlfriends who said that with the apparently detached arm and legs, I should  probably call CSI San Francisco.

So, to the mothers of daughters out there: enjoy the texts, enjoy the calls, enjoy the Facebook posts.  Simply enjoy.

To the mothers of sons: keep the faith. They do love you. Enjoy simply.  

Full Circle

I loved Eric. He was my my colleague, my confidant, and my cheerleader. In the early 80’s world of white shirted, black tied, pocket protected IBM he was my best work buddy. Both of us were in our 20s, but he seemed older, wiser and more worldly. Perhaps it was because he smoked with a casual, practiced air, had a bit of a receding hairline, wore tidy pleated twill slacks, white shirts with bowties and had an attractive trimmed beard. He was smart, admired technically despite his youth, and a company man who was always willing to go the extra mile.

In a world of men, men and more men, he dared to strike up a friendship with a female and we took most breaks together, wandering out to the coffee and drink machines in the shady recesses of our large building. Every trip was sure to include some wicked remark on the corporate culture or our coworkers. He had a distinctly slow pattern of speech which hinted at his rural upbringing and flashing eyes that never missed a thing. Once when I had to work overnight to install new software, he insisted that he work  those hours too; he didn't want me in an uncomfortable situation with third shift (all male) operators I didn't know.

I introduced him to my husband, Earle, and when we learned Eric was from Stokes County, NC we were quick to tell Earle’s grandmother who was also from Stokes County. Upon telling her that we had met “the Woods boy”, we were amazed to learn that Eric’s father, a barber, had given Earle his first haircut when he visited his grandmother as a baby.

Eric suffered from severe headaches and I would occasionally catch him in the office with his head on his desk. He sought medical care and was told his headaches  were from work stress. They got worse, so he sought other specialists. At last, when I was away at a business meeting, a neurologist ran an imagining test that finally got to the heart of the matter:  brain tumor. (Eric worked tobacco as a youth and had a tobacco allergy - his family doctor told him to start smoking - did it factor in to this diagnosis?)  I returned from my trip on Friday night and was called by my team leader and apprised of the situation. I was shocked and barely slept all night.

The memory of our visit with Eric in the hospital that weekend is as fresh in my mind as if happened yesterday. I even know what I wore: a crisp white blouse with a periwinkle jumper.  I took Eric a silly stuffed pink hippo to break the tension in the hospital room, which was as  thick and stifling as a heavy wool blanket. The tumor was to be removed. No need to be at the hospital during surgery, he said, go to work, and my family will call when it is over.

Time drug by the day of the surgery and my stomach was tied in one hundred knots. The whole department was on pins and needles. Everyone else loved Eric, too. Finally my desk phone rang - it was a relative telling me  the tumor was much larger than the surgeons expected; they did their best, and had stitched him up. He needed a lot of blood and  they weren't sure of his prognosis. 

I wailed. Joe Shoulders, a friend who was as tall and broad as a barn, heard my cry. He clasped me in a giant bearhug and when at last my sobbing stopped, I pulled away and we looked into each other's face His red rimmed eyes and tear streaked cheeks mirrored my own.

After the storm passed, I thanked Joe for his compassion and cleaned myself up a bit. My boss stopped by and asked if I wanted to go over to the hospital, on behalf of our group. I agreed and Earle and I headed over. There was little to be done while Eric languished in ICU, but we took his nephew and niece out to see “The Never- Ending Story” to offer them a respite from the sad assemblage of relatives.

Eric died shortly thereafter. Earle and I made the pilgrimage to Stoke County for the funeral, up the curving mountain roads to a little primitive Baptist Church. I stepped up to the casket to say goodbye beforethe pastor settled into a sing-songy chant as he was filled with the spirit. Before we knew it, we were at the graveside, and it was done. 

Eric’s story was over….except -

Except...I stayed in touch with his mother, who mourned him with a bruised and broken heart. I worried she would never get over her loss until at last she called and told me Eric had visited her that night  in a vision and had told her he was all right and not to worry about him any more. It eased her heart and it eased mine too.

Except...every time March 18th,  when Eric’s birthday rolls around I think of him, all day.

Except...I pledged to give blood in his memory and still do thirty years later. Today, my youngest son went with me to the UNC Blood Drive and we both gave a pint. As I reclined in the blood donor chaise I remembered Eric’s smile, his laugh and his love of life.. He was one of the good guys and I miss him still.

Except… Eric’s full name was Eric Zachary Woods and he is my Zachary’s namesake. When I am gone and forgotten, Eric will still be remembered. The love Eric gave so freely to his friends and  his family is really the ultimate “Never-Ending Story.” 

Live on Eric, Live on.

Zachary and I after giving blood at the UNC Blood Drive. Yes my eyes are completely closed. Somewhere in heaven, Eric is laughing. 

The Great Doughnut Quest

Last time Mary Frances and I visited Seaboard we discovered a cute little bakery on Roanoke Avenue in Roanoke Rapids called Simply Divine Cakes and friends, their cupcakes were simply divine!  Their doughnuts? Not so much.

Then we heard tell of the new Doodle Bug Doughnuts on Julian Allsbrook Highway. But then we heard “too pricey”, “too small”, “too long a wait!!!” And though we give them bonus points for a great name, we heeded the warnings of friends and loved ones and drove right past with our noses in the air.

My Seaboard buddy, Laura Brown asked innocently “Have you ever had a doughnut from South Hill?” Friends, I’ve never BEEN to South Hill. So despite Laura’s mothers admonition that we neither one NEEDED a doughnut we set out on the Great Doughnut Quest at 7:30 am. It seems the holy grail of doughnut shops is open only UNTIL THEY RUN OUT OF DOUGHNUTS.

The route from Seaboard to South Hill, Virginia is off the beaten path. It is off the unbeaten path too. In fact you have to look hard to see a path at all.

But gorgeous! And green! Fields of soybeans and tobacco, rolling hills, giant hardwoods, stately pines! Morning sun burned off the wisps of fog and slanted through the grove of trees lining the (very) narrow byway. So beautiful in fact I had to stop the Queen Mary (my Ford Flex) and take a photo. It’s a bit shaky as I shot it with my phone prior to jumping back in the car to avoid being flattened by a stately old Buick that came roaring around the corner.

On to South Hill where Laura guided me to the S and B doughnut shop. The unassuming building was tucked away on a side street, but the parking lot was jammed! 

A line waited patiently inside and the smell of sugar filled the air. We had made it in time, still plenty of doughnuts left! Laura bought 3 dozen, I bought 4 plus a chocolate covered beauty of a crème puff. We stumbled over to the American Legion park and reverently ate a doughnut each. (Mine washed down by Diet Coke. Saving calories don’t ya know?)

Bliss. Sugar so thick and sweet I was instantly transported back to the old “Daily Made” bakery of my youth. Delicious satisfaction!

In a sugar coma Laura and I stumbled down the street to visit the South Hill Doll and Train Museum. We were greeted by a lovely docent who gave us a grand tour. I was astonished by all the doll eyes peering at me from shelf after shelf of vintage dolls.  I saw everything from Shirley Temple dolls to china head dolls to Campell’s Soup Kid Dolls. Dolls from around the world and of every imaginable country – two from New Zealand! It was a small room, but obviously full of love. The dolls were the gift of Virginia Evans, now 99, who carefully researched and labeled each one.

Around the corner was a fabulous train layout. It was a world in miniature and I spotted (in addition to speeding trains) a tiny cemetery, Ferris Wheel, rock quarry, merry –go-round, Kentucky Fried Chicken and yes, ladies and gentlemen, even a nudie show!

We bid our docent good bye and made the short walk back to the Queen Mary. We took a DIFFERENT scenic tour on the way home, driving for miles over curving twisty roads. And around each corner we found so many things to gaze and wonder about.

I’ve seen my share of country stores, but never one with birds for sale in front! We turned one corner and stopped to visit with beautiful young parakeets and an insouciant pair of creamy yellow cockatiels. (They liked us and wanted to come home with us.)

I didn’t even know the Rosemont Winery existed and it necessitated another stop-in-the-middle of the road occasion as I tried to photograph the rows and rows of grapes disappearing into the distances. Rich purple grapes were draped from the vines begging to be picked. (No, OF COURSE WE DIDN’T! REALLY!)

Laura took me down one remote road named DROMGOOLE. Turns out a gentleman preacher named Edward Dromgoole settled in the area in 1786 and was an early Methodist circuit rider. 

And just when I thought I was well and truly lost I had one last surprise in store. We approached another country store and Laura said casually that we were in Ebony, Virginia. Ebony! Lake home of my good friends, Anne and Al Hartley. Back in the day, my cub scout den camped on their lakefront many a night. A happy place with many happy memories!  Around the next curve, the Kenan House – where Earle and I had our rehearsal dinner many many moons ago.

So with a backseat full of doughnuts and a hearts full of joy, we made our back to more familiar territory: Gaston, Garysburg, Gumberry and finally home to Seaboard. I’m so happy we stepped off the beaten path in search of the ultimate sugar fix. The sweetness will last me a long time.