Well, my little man started kindergarten. And I was surprisingly not-at-all sad because it was such a happy time. Seriously. Not even a hint of a tear. I think it was because he was SO STINKIN’ EXCITED that there was just no way to be anything other than thrilled to pieces about the whole big school adventure.

The back-to-school breakfast? Grits, of course. And a few minutes of Star Wars. Because OH MY SWEET MERCY the Star Wars obsession around here is somewhere around mach-five-Death-Star-Obi-Wan-warp-speed-squared levels.

(No sense I make.)

(Eluded me always science-fiction has.)

Anyway.

The first day marked the return to tennis shoes after a summer of Crocs and flip-flops. The little man was so happy to see a pair of REAL LIVE SOCKS when he was getting dressed that you would’ve sworn they were long-lost friends. Which I guess they sort of were. Since he hasn’t worn socks since May and all.

A. adores his teacher, who, by all accounts, is the Mary Poppins of the kindergarten set. I also adore her because she has more of a Southern accent than I do, and that is NO SMALL FEAT, my friends.

After the first chock-full-o-fun-day-o-school, we went to lunch with my sweet friend NK and her girls. We did this last year after the first day of preschool, and we decided to make it an annual tradition. The kids had a great time comparing notes on their kindergarten classes, and then they enjoyed a lively game of hide and seek on the restaurant’s patio.

Yes. You read that correctly. I ate a meal in the out of doors. In Alabama. In August. And somehow lived to tell the tale.

So, to recap: my child started kindergarten and I did not cry. Then we went to lunch and I ate outside. Either I’m in the midst of a profound hormonal imbalance or I experienced two miracles within six hours of each other.

It’s probably that first thing.

But even still. It was a really great day.

I have mentioned before that my mama keeps a beautiful home. In fact, her idea of heaven on earth would be to have four or five days of blissful alone time so that she could dust every single picture frame, clean vast expanses of baseboards and wash each window with her homemade glass-cleaning solution (wiping only with newspaper, girls. only with newspaper. paper towels leave pesky streaks). And then, for kicks, she would launder all her table linens, hang them up to dry, and press them to perfection with a red-hot Oreck iron.

You see, housekeeping, for Mama, isn’t so much a chore as a calling, and she does it better than anyone else I know.

If there’s any crack at all in my mama’s firm housekeeping foundation, it’s that she favors form over function. It’s not a big deal, really – it’s simply a result of her desire for everything to look pretty. She doesn’t like unsightly objects to disturb her decorative flow, and that is why she once placed a large hall tree in front of the air conditioner thermostat in my childhood home.

Now granted, the hall tree looked lovely, but there was absolutely no way to make a middle-of-the-night trip to the bathroom without slamming a substantial portion of my thigh against it. Once I limped back to my bedroom and gingerly crawled into bed, however, at least I could sleep with the assurance that Mama’s aesthetic sensibilities were preserved by keeping that unsightly thermostat out of sight. And besides, that deep purple thigh-welt was bound to fade with time.

When Mama and Daddy moved to another house about a year and a half ago, my sister and I made it our mission to give Mama more function, even if that meant sacrificing a bit of her beloved decorative form. I spent several weeks in my hometown before the big move, cleaning out closets, setting up for the mother of all garage sales, and trying to help Mama sort through over forty years of accumulated stuff.

“At the new house,” I would say, “you can streamline.”

“At the new house,” I would say, “you can focus more on function.”

But Mama just doesn’t have it in her. She would cover up the pipes on the back of a commode if Daddy would let her. Seriously. She’d go pick out some floral fabric, consult with a seamstress, and then pay somebody to make pipe cozies. She absolutely would.

And trying to convince her that it’s perfectly fine for a thermostat to be visible is like trying to teach a cat to bark. It goes against the natural order of the universe.

At least now, in the new house, the massive book cabinet that’s covering the thermostat is out of the line of traffic. You don’t have to worry about taking out a chunk of your shin while trying to walk around it, but you do have to find a flashlight and then shine it behind the bookcase in order to read the thermostat settings. This process drives Daddy to complete distraction but leaves Mama sighing with contentment, as does the sage green velour throw that’s artfully draped across an inoperable wall heater in their den.

This past weekend D. was helping me make up the bed at Mama and Daddy’s house, something he hasn’t done very often because the intricacy of Mama’s bed-making system can be a little intimidating. All things considered, he was doing pretty well; after almost ten years of marriage to me, he understands that the process is far more elaborate than pulling a bedspread over some pillows. He realizes that on my mama’s side of the family, making up the bed means that it’s time to put on your protective goggles and get ready to do some hard labor. It’s not for the faint of heart.

As we were working on pulling up layer-o-cover #4, Mama swooped into the room and picked up the pillows we’d slept on the night before. I didn’t think a thing of it because I know the routine, but D. paused for just a second and said, “Hey. Your mama just took all the pillows. What’s she doing with them?”

“Putting them in the closet,” I said.

“Putting them in the closet? Why?” he asked.

“Because she doesn’t think they’re pretty enough to be on the bed.”

D. could not quit laughing. Even when he was getting into the shower several minutes later, I could hear him chuckling across the hall.

Several years ago my friend Daphne’s husband coined the phrase Stunt Pillows^TM to refer to the purely decorative pillows, the ones that are often the very essence of form over function. They look great, for sure – but don’t you even think about using them for something as mundane as sleeping. That would never, ever do.

With that in mind, please examine the following three pictures:

Based on the photographic evidence, I feel it is appropriate – and dare I say, necessary – to christen my mama’s house as The Stunt Pillow Palace^TM of America.

If you’d like to take a tour, I can probably arrange it. I know she’d be delighted to show you how she concealed an unused electrical outlet in her kitchen by hanging a picture in front of it.

But don’t you even think about stretching out on one of her beds.

Not unless you make a trip to the Functional Pillow Closet first.

This post was originally published on January 30, 2007.

Late yesterday afternoon I saw an email in my inbox from Julia Claire, who is my sister-in-law Rose’s mother (stay with me) and one of Martha’s dearest friends.

She is also Martha’s only friend who has a computer with DSL, which means that she is pretty much Martha’s one and only link to the wide world interweb.

However, as some of you may remember, last summer Martha VOWED AND DECLARED that she didn’t think she could read my blog on Julia Claire’s computer because “it’s just for ordering things! Her computer is only for ordering things!”

Well.

Apparently Julia Claire upgraded to an internet package where she can send email, read the blogs AND order things, because that email that I got from Julia Claire this afternoon?

It was actually from Martha.

MARTHA SENT AN EMAIL, Y’ALL.

I’m thinking of having some t-shirts made.

Maybe y’all could use Julia Claire’s computer to order them.

Anyway, as it turns out, Martha was able to sit down at Julia Claire’s computer today and read my blog for the first time, and I don’t think I can even begin to articulate how deeply – DEEPLY – I would love to have a videotape of this particular milestone, mainly because I want to see what Martha was wearing the first time she surfed the ‘net.

I mean, did she wear her lime green jacket from the Steinmart(s)? Or her light lime green jacket from the Steinmart(s)? Or maybe her dark lime green jacket from the Steinmart(s)? Or the lime green jacket from the Steinmart(s) that’s really more of a yellow but not a golden yellow, OH HEAVENS NO, because that would clash with her hair and besides she would have a terrible time finding a lipstick to wear with a golden yellow jacket that wouldn’t wash her out! It would wash her out!

There’s just not a bit of tellin’.

So since I love the internets, and since the internets love Martha, I thought I would share her email with you.

It is quite a treasure.

Maybe even a future family heirloom.

Dear BooMama,

Guess who’s just been reading your Blog — Your Mother-in-Law!!!

Now that I know how to do this, you better be very careful what you say. JUST JOKING!!!

It was fun, and I really enjoyed the Rocking Reception.

Give Alex a big hug and kiss for me.

Love,
“Martie”

Now y’all have to admit that’s pretty adorable.

And I still can’t get over the fact that she called me “BooMama.” I mean, it was only a year ago when she asked me if there was a “handle” people needed to know in order to find me on the internet, and now she’s writing EMAILS with my BLOG NAME in the salutation. I don’t believe I’ve ever witnessed such staggering technological progress.

Also: you have no idea how happy the exclamation points made me.

(Not one! Not two!! But three!!!)

(Three exclamation points!!!)

(It’s more fun! So much fun! Just more fun!)

(!!!)

So welcome to the blawg, Martha / “Martie.” Who knows? There may even be a guest post in your future.

Provided that we can come up with a real cute “handle” for you and all.

So basically it was so hot here today that even the squirrels had to lie down.

I’M SO NOT KIDDING.

And I’m really trying not to be that person who TALKS INCESSANTLY ABOUT THE HEAT, but MY LANDS, PEOPLE, it was somewhere around 240 degrees in the Home Depot parking lot this afternoon.

But clearly that is an exaggeration. Because obviously 240 degrees is impossible.

In reality the temperature was only, like, 193.

Which is totally cool and refreshing in comparison.

My cousin Paige and her little boy are here for a few days, and we are having the best time watching these two cousins chase each other up and down the hallway while they make truck noises.

Tonight I made breakfast for supper, and as I watched those boys dig into their grits with great enthusiasm, I couldn’t help but think that Papaw Davis – their great-grandfather they’ve never met – must be looking down from heaven and grinning from ear to ear at the sight of them laughing at each other while they ate their bacon.

Come to think of it, Papaw Davis would be beside-himself-wild about every single one of his great-grandchildren. But I can’t talk about that anymore or I’ll cry.

So now I’m going to watch “The Next Food Network Star” and “Design Star” and if “Nashville Star” comes on I’ll watch that, too, because I’m pretty much a sucker for any sort of reality-esque TV with the word “Star” in the title.

As always, my tastes are terribly sophisticated.

Hope y’all have a great week!

Today Alex and I went to a neighbor’s pool with my cousin Paige, her hubby, their little boy, my cousin B. and his two girls. Paige, B. and I grew up together, so we have spent MANY an afternoon in the water over the last thirty-something years. I guess that’s why watching our kids together this afternoon was one of those odd, full-circle, gosh-I’m-getting-older-but-I-don’t-mind-it-so-much-because-this-is-pretty-cool moments that makes me want to sing some sort of Michael W. Smith song about cousins, cannonballs, and pools.

Assuming that he’s ever written a song that covered those particular topics.

Which, now that I think about it, is highly unlikely.

But if he had written a song that covered those particular topics, I would have TOTALLY been singing it today.

Because honestly, the kids were so much fun that it made me a little teary-eyed. Paige’s little boy is about 18 months old now, and one of the best parts of the afternoon – at least for me – was watching Paige and her husband watch him. He is absolutely adorable, and they are smitten. Every child should be so loved.

Since I am a wee bit fair-skinned, we didn’t hit the pool until the sun was low enough in the sky that being poolside DIDN’T REQUIRE ME TO WEAR A PROTECTIVE SLEEVE, and the little man and I had an absolute blast. We stayed in the water for over two hours, and we probably would have stayed until dark if supper hadn’t beckoned.

But supper was fried chicken. And nothing beckons me like fried chicken. I believe this fact has been well-established, and it should not surprise you.

So when we were sufficiently waterlogged, we walked over to my aunt’s house and ate supper in her backyard. I am typically not a person who enjoys eating in the out of doors because, well, BUGS, but tonight was perfect. There was the aforementioned fried chicken, and in true Southern fashion, we had two different kinds of potatoes (French fries and potato salad), plus onion rings, rice and biscuits.

Because here is something I want you to always remember and never, ever forget: if one starch is good, then five starches are, well, PERFECTION. The only thing that would have made those side dishes any better is if there had been a batch of hush puppies thrown in. And maybe some fried okra.

And maybe some fried dill pickles, too, but I’ll stop now because if I keep going I’ll find myself setting up a FryDaddy in Mama’s kitchen at 2 in the morning and she’ll wake up and be all, “What in the sam hill are you doing?” and I’ll be all, “SEEING WHAT I CAN DEEP FRY,” and she’ll be all, “Oh, well, wake me up again if you fix somethin’ good.”

After supper all the children ran around in the backyard, weaving in and around my aunt’s daylily beds while the rest of us visited. We talked about everything and nothing, and we laughed until we wheezed when B. told an old story about riding horses with my brother. I wished that the rest of our family was there – especially Sister, who remembers all the funny stories the rest of us forget – but we did the best we could without them. And once the sun set, we put down the sweet tea, rounded up the tired young’uns and headed back home.

Alex is sound asleep now, with a Lightning McQueen car clutched in his right hand and a stuffed green frog by his side. And I know it’s sentimental, but I really can’t help but hope that, in about thirty years, he’ll find himself right where I was tonight: sitting with cousins, eating fried chicken, and watching the next generation of our family play with leaves and brooms and umbrellas under a clear Southern sky.

Because life just doesn’t get much better – or sweeter – than that.

This much I know for sure.

The end.