A Girl Named Doris.

And at the edge of the bar sat a girl named Doris and ooh, that girl looked nice. 

Lazy Sunday afternoons after church, my sister and I would seclude ourselves in the club room basement my dad finished himself, complete with rich panelling, red carpet, and a  wall full of their books. We acted out our fairy tale dreams through our Barbie collection, fought over who had to be Ken, married ourselves off, and birthed a bevy of adoring children.

Unaware, we created our lives.

And on the console stereo, Jim Croce would lead us through missives for which we had no understanding.

Leroy Brown was Mom’s song.  Singing her line at the top of our lungs, we’d then wait for Dad’s line . . .  the men just called him sir. We liked that idea.

 

Mom taught me a thing or two about a thing or two.

 Here’s a partial list.

When life gets hard, keep moving. Forward, preferably.

Never depend on another person to make you happy. Do that for yourself.

Be your own best friend. Kind, honest and forgiving.

Never write anything you don’t want the whole world to see.

I get some of them right, some of the time.

 

Mom’s birthday was a celebration of indulgence. Emily Michael’s  truffles,  food prepared by Chef Jerry Edwards, a steady stream of Alison Krauss,  Mom’s two besties and our family. Of course my dad made it all happen . . .  heavy lifting, setup, and clean up , you name it.

One more  admission . . . when Jerry said yes to , “will you come make beautiful food for my family?,” he had no idea that he’d be entertaining and teaching a culinary class. But the whole family wanted in on the action. Can you blame them really?

 

 

 

 

Jerry:   ” Now, what do you think will happen when I pour club soda into the tempura batter?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Happy birthday, Mom. I LOVE YOU!  Mwahh!!

 

 

 

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