Bervin’s grandmother’s advice to K McCarthy


A petite Black woman presiding over the sixth ballot to determine the new Speaker of the US House of Representatives hammered the gavel to close the count results late yesterday afternoon with GOP Majority Leader Kevin McCarthy unable to secure the magic number (218) to win the position.

The 118th. Republican-led Congress that began two days ago has already made history: the last time multiple votes were needed to elect a Speaker was in 1923. That’s right, numbers people. 100 years ago.

My friend Bervin and I were talking early this morning about the optics of the cluster in the House, and he told me two pieces of advice his African American grandmother gave him when he was a young man – he thought they would work well for McCarthy today when the House convenes for the seventh ballot at noon.

“If you feel like you’re catching hell, let it go.”

and then there’s this one

“When the Devil is coming after you, step aside.”

Regardless of how today unfolds in the ongoing battle for House Speaker, the American people have had a front row seat in the dismantling of what was once the party of Abraham Lincoln.

Where to? What next? You got me.

Posted in Life, politics, racism, Random, Reflections, Slice of Life, The Way Life Is, The Way Life Should Be | Tagged , , , , , | 9 Comments

human frailty, mendacity, and George Santos – plus pink boxing gloves


“We all want life to be simple and our relationships to be enchanted, and then along comes human frailty. Before we know it, all will be lost,” said postmistress Dorcas Lane to Minnie her maid in one of my favorite BBC productions Lark Rise to Candleford when Minnie asked Dorcas what the phrase Happily Ever After means in affairs of the heart. I submit her answer applies equally today to political affairs including, but not limited to, the most recent admission of human frailty by GOP Rep.-elect George Santos from New York.

I cannot tell a lie, said Santos, as he admitted to lying about a few things in his campaign for serving in Congress for New York’s third congressional district. Hm. Were they little white lies like he really prefers the fresh taste of McDonald’s coffee to the more lauded Starbucks? Or he’s secretly not going to vote for Kevin McCarthy to be Speaker of the House next week when the new Congress is sworn in even though Kevin McCarthy has been mum on the questions regarding Santos. Well, no. Not exactly little white lies from Santos on the campaign trail. Go big, or go home was more his style.

He lied about having college degrees from Baruch College and New York University – he had neither. He also admitted he lied about working directly for the financial firms Citigroup and Goldman Sachs – he had an indirect relationship with them through his company but made misleading statements in his bio. And of course, there’s the whole “Jew-ish” comments by Santos that must leave the Jewish community in his district shaking their heads in awful wonder. To give the devil his due, however, Santos did say he was sorry for his “embellishments.”

“I’m human, I’m flawed, I’m not perfect,” he said in his explanation for his mendacity, but he also said he wasn’t going to step down.

Of course, why should he? Santos had the perfect political role model in another New York politician who lied his way into the White House in 2016 but now has been exiled to Florida as seemingly the only consequence of two impeachments in addition to findings of the January 6th. House Committee that laid the blame for an attempted coup of the US Government squarely on his slumping shoulders, yellow-ish complexion and orange hair. Where have you gone, Merrick Garland – our nation turns its lonely eyes to you, woo woo woo…you who?

I’ve tried to check out of politics during the holiday season by binging The Great British Baking Show and Wednesday on Netflix instead of my usual nerdy news programs, but last night I made the mistake of checking in with them just in time to see the Santos Song of Shame as performed by the singer himself on national news. On top of that disgraceful dissonance, the guy is gay. Which made a sad song sadder for me personally.

Truth telling is a lost art easily manipulated by the words we say and the words we don’t. As the year 2022 makes a loud exit, I commit to continue to honestly call it like I see it in 2023 with a more powerful punch than ever because of my renewed belief in Santa.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus – Pretty’s sister Darlene and her partner Dawne gave me a brand new pair of boxing gloves for Christmas! I was overjoyed!

Darlene asked me if I thought my mother would have permitted boxing gloves in our home when I originally asked Santa for them as a child if they were pink, and Pretty spoke up for me. I doubt it, she said, but she did always love for Sheila to wear pink.

Happy New Year from Pretty and me – may all your wishes become possibilities, may peace cover the earth, may all those who wander find safe shelter with food to eat and water to drink, may all those who mourn heavy losses be comforted, may the eyes of the blind be opened and the ears of the deaf unstopped. Hallelujah. Amen.

*******************

Slava Ukraini. For the children.

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last train from Gun Hill – and Ukraine


In 1959 when I was thirteen years old, my daddy decided unexpectedly to take my mama and me to a movie in Houston, Texas. This was HUGE for me because (1) my daddy never wanted to spend any money on entertainment other than what entertained him which was bird hunting, fly fishing and shooting hoops (2) we lived in a small rural town in Grimes County where the nearest movie theater was 20 miles away in Navasota so movies were not just around the block (3) an excursion to Houston was 90 miles from our home – not an easy trip on back country roads leading to the big city. But Daddy knew that Mama and I loved the movies which seemed to be the magnanimous reason the three of us got “dressed up” to go to one of the theaters in downtown Houston that I thought was really a palace with a gigantic movie screen.

Daddy parked our Chevy sedan a short walking distance from the theater district – Mama didn’t mind walking in her high heels; I was excited and did a fast trot to see the Loew’s marquee.

Wow, I thought. A Western. Totally unexpected but Daddy and I watched westerns together every Saturday on our 14-inch television set – Tom Mix, Gene Autry, Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. Those westerns were a staple in our weekend activities.

Mama, on the other hand, was not a western fan. When she clicked her high heels on the pavement to the theater, her expression seemed to change from smiling to frowning. I knew she thought Doris Day/ Rock Hudson in romcom was the surprise picture Daddy had for us. Instead here she was at Last Train from Gun Hill with Kirk Douglas and Anthony Quinn in what turned out to be not at all akin to Tom Mix trying to catch train robbers.

Anthony Quinn portrayed the wealthiest and most powerful man (Craig Belden) in the Wild West town of Gun Hill. Kirk Douglas was U.S. Marshall Matt Morgan from a nearby town on a mission to catch two men who raped and killed his Native American wife. Spoiler alert: Belden’s son was the villain. Belden thought he was above the law, wouldn’t allow Morgan to arrest his son. The key question in my teenage mind was how could anyone be above the law? Was that possible?

In the end, a woman of questionable occupation named Linda (Carolyn Jones) saved Marshall Morgan’s life by clandestine means including stealing a shotgun she hid under her scarlet red dress with wide hoops. She stood up to the most powerful man in Gun Hill which precipitated success for the Marshall in a tragic shootout when he was so close to the last train.

I was enthralled and stole occasional looks at Daddy’s face which seemed less enthusiastic in his movie selection. Must have been the rape scene – mild by today’s standards, but probably a bit grownup for his thirteen year old daughter. Oh, well. No retreat, no surrender for him to Mama’s pouting.

The Wild West images of America were exported and transported around the world via our movies in the Golden Age of Hollywood throughout the mid twentieth century. Guns were seen as necessary to preserve Good over Evil; maybe those images were partly responsible for the gun violence in real life six decades later that threatens American communities.

Last night I saw another version of our hero Marshall Morgan recreated in the person of the Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy when he addressed a meeting of the joint houses of the US Congress to eloquently thank the American people and our Allies for our support of the Ukrainian defense against the tyranny of Vladimir Putin of Russia and to ask for additional aid from the United States to continue the fight to preserve democracy in his home country.

Vice President Kamala Harris and House Speaker Nancy Pelosi

(this image a symbol of the success of the women’s movement)

Historic meeting on many levels – prior to Zelenskyy’s speech I was immediately struck with this image of two women who in the past six years have been the “Lindas” of their respective offices, two women who have stood for upholding the laws as set forth in their constitutional oaths. No shotguns required – their words are enough to cut through the spinelessness of their male colleagues who refuse to stand against a treasonous former president hellbent to be the equivalent of a modern day Craig Belden who is disrespectful of the law and those who seek to uphold it.

During the past year I have had friends and family argue that Ukraine is a long way from our homes, that the billions of dollars we have used to help them in their resistance to Russia should be spent on the problems we have in America. I believe President Zelenskyy addressed this thinking in one of the most impressive manners in the first speech to Congress by a war time president since Winston Churchill on December 26, 1941.

The Russians’ tactic is primitive. They burn down and destroy everything they see. They sent thugs to the front lines. They sent convicts to the war. They threw everything against us, similar to the other tyranny, which is in the Battle of the Bulge. Threw everything it had against the free world, just like the brave American soldiers which held their lines and fought back Hitler’s forces during the Christmas of 1944. Brave Ukrainian soldiers are doing the same to Putin’s forces this Christmas

Ukraine — Ukraine holds its lines and will never surrender. So, so, here the front line, the tyranny which has no lack of cruelty against the lives of free people — and your support is crucial, not just to stand in such fight but to get to the turning point to win on the battlefield

Your money is not charity. It’s an investment in the global security and democracy that we handle in the most responsible way...

The lessons learned in Last Train from Gun Hill sixty-three years ago remain the same. Might does not, nor will it ever, make right. From Craig Belden to Donald Trump, from Marshall Matt Morgan to President Volodymyr Zelenskyy, from Linda to Nancy Pelosi and Kamala Harris – these are the courageous stories that must be told, that must be heard. No one was above the law in the fictional Wild West in days of yore; no one is above the law in democracies today.

Slava Ukraini. For the children we want to see become adults in a free country.

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twas the week before Christmas…


and all through the house just one creature was stirring, for sure not a mouse.

The colorful papers were wrapped into shape by Pretty whose hands never made a mistake.

Her gifts were bought with the greatest of care throughout the year from here, there and everywhere

But now came the question that brought such a fright amidst wrapping papers in the morn’s early light:

What on earth did I do with all of those gifts for 2022?

******************

Meanwhile, I offer support without stirring in front of the fire but cheering on Pretty whose care I admire.

Ok. That’s enough. Somebody stop me. The Grinch in me is done.

*************

Pretty has always been the heart of our holidays.

Pretty at Christmas on Canterbury in 2012

Slava Ukraini. For the children.

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I hope you dance


(I looked over my posts in 2022 to determine which ones were favorites as decided by my followers in cyberspace, and then I picked one from your favs that was in my top three to post again. Enjoy.)

I hope you never lose your sense of wonder,
You get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger,
May you never take one single breath for granted,

God forbid love ever leave you empty handed,
I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean,

Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens,
Promise me that you’ll give faith a fighting chance,

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance.

I hope you dance… I hope you dance…

I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance,
Never settle for the path of least resistance,
Livin’ might mean takin’ chances, but they’re worth takin’,
Lovin’ might be a mistake, but it’s worth makin’,

Don’t let some Hell bent heart leave you bitter,
When you come close to sellin’ out reconsider,

Give the heavens above more than just a passing glance,
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance.

I hope you dance… I hope you dance.

(Time is a wheel in constant motion always rolling us along,
Tell me who wants to look back on their years
And wonder where those years have gone.)

lyrics to “I Hope You Dance” by Tia Sillers and Mark Sanders

For my actual birthday this week, Pretty took me and our granddaughters to the zoo. She carried Molly in her car seat, diaper bag on her back, often carrying Ella in her left arm while I tagged along with my two bionic knees. We had a small parade of our own. Please know that I offered to rent a stroller when we entered, but Pretty said the line to rent one was too long to wait. There were two people ahead of me.

The day was a memory maker, and Pretty deserves an award for creating a magical time for the four of us. I love all my girls.

I hope they both dance…

*****************************

Slava Ukraini – for the children.

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a child’s question


the Pride flag and the broom

Last week I saw our 3 year old granddaughter Ella trying her best to strike our Pride flag with a broom she found in the back yard. I watched as she struggled to swing the broom handle several times in the air with increasing agitation each time she flailed without success.

“Ella,” I said. “What in the world are you doing? That’s our Pride flag – it’s very important to your nanas.”

“I’m waiting for the candy to fall,” she answered with a withering look in my direction.

Lol.

Ella and Pretty at the Gamecock Women’s basketball game several days later

“Nana, did any candy ever fall out of your Pride flag?”

We had to report no candy yet.

****************************

Slava Ukraini. For the children.

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dear Santa, send boxing gloves


Before you ask yourself whether you’ve read this story before, I can say possibly – it’s a seasonal favorite of mine. This year my good friend Ed Madden’s annual holiday letter included a fabulous vintage Christmas card of a boxing Santa because it reminded him of my story. Perfect – thanks so much, Ed. 

*********************

“Dear Santa Claus, how are you? I am fine.

I have been pretty good this year. Please bring me a pair

of boxing gloves for Christmas.  I need them.

Your friend, Sheila Rae Morris”

“That’s a good letter,” my maternal grandmother I called Dude said. She folded it and placed it neatly in the envelope. “I’ll take it to the post office tomorrow and give it to Miss Sally Hamilton to mail for you. Now, why do you need these boxing gloves?”

“Thank you so much, Dude. I hope he gets it in time. All the boys I play with have boxing gloves. They say I can’t box with them because I’m a girl and don’t have my own gloves. I have to get them from Santa Claus.”

“I see,” she said. “I believe I can understand the problem. I’ll take care of your letter for you.”

Santa Boxing Gloves

 

Several days later it was Christmas Eve. That was the night we opened our gifts with both families. This year our little group of Dude, Mama, Daddy, Uncle Marion, Uncle Toby and I walked to my paternal grandparents’  house across the dirt road and down the hill from ours. With us, we took the Christmas box of See’s Chocolate and Nuts Candies that Dude’s sister Aunt Orrie who lived in California sent every year, plus all the gifts for everyone. The only child in me didn’t like to share the candy, but it wouldn’t be opened until we could offer everyone a piece. Luckily, most everyone else preferred Ma’s divinity or her date loaf.

The beverage for the party was a homemade green punch. My Uncle Marion had carried Ginger Ale and lime sherbet with him. He mixed that at Ma’s in her fine glass punch bowl with the 12 cups that matched. You knew it was a special night if Ma got out her punch bowl. The drink was frothy and delicious. The perfect liquid refreshment with the desserts. I was in heaven, and very grownup.

When it was time to open the gifts, we gathered in the living room around the Christmas tree, which was ablaze with multi-colored blinking bubble lights. Ma was in total control of the opening of the gifts and instructed me to bring her each gift one at a time so she could read the names and anything else written on the tag. She insisted that we keep a slow pace so that all would have time to enjoy their surprises.

Really, there were few of those. Each year the men got a tie or shirt or socks or some combination. So the big surprise would be the color for that year. The women got a scarf or blouse or new gloves for church. Pa would bring out the Evening in Paris perfume for Ma he had raced across the street to Mr. McAfee’s Drug Store to buy when he closed the barber shop, just before the drug store closed.

The real anticipation was always the wrapping and bows for the gifts. They saved the bows year after year and made a game of passing them back and forth to each other like old friends. There would be peals of laughter and delight as a bow that had been missing for two Christmases would make a mysterious re-appearance. Ma and Dude entertained themselves royally with the outside of the presents. The contents were practical and useful for the adults every year.

My gifts, on the other hand, were more fun. Toys and clothes combined the practical with the impractical. Ma would make me a dress to wear to school and buy me a doll of some kind. Daddy and Pa would give me six-shooters or a bow and arrows or cowboy boots and hats. Dude always gave me underwear.

This year Uncle Marion had brought me a jewelry box from Colorado. He had gone out there to work on a construction job and look for gold. I loved the jewelry box. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any jewelry; equally unfortunate, he hadn’t found any gold.

“Well, somebody needs to go home and get to bed so that Santa Claus can come tonight,” Daddy said at last. “I wonder what that good little girl thinks she’s going to get.” He smiled.

“Boxing gloves,” I said immediately. “I wrote Santa a letter to bring me boxing gloves. Let’s go home right now so I can get to bed.”

Everybody got really quiet.

Daddy looked at Mama. Ma looked at Pa. Uncle Marion and Uncle Toby looked at the floor. Dude looked at me.

“Okay, then, sugar. Give Ma and Pa a kiss and a big hug for all your presents. Let’s go, everybody, and we’ll call it a night so we can see what Santa brings in the morning,” Daddy said.

*********************

“Is it time to get up yet?” I whispered to Dude. What was wrong with her? She was always the first one up every morning. Why would she choose Christmas Day to sleep late?

“I think it’s time,” she whispered back. “I believe I heard Saint Nick himself in the living room a little while ago. Go wake up your mama and daddy so they can turn on the Christmas tree lights for you to see what he left. Shhh. Don’t wake up your uncles.”

I climbed over her and slipped quietly past my sleeping Uncle Marion and crept through the dining room to Mama and Daddy’s bedroom. I was trying to not make any noise. I could hear my Uncle Toby snoring in the middle bedroom.

“Daddy, Mama, wake up,” I said softly to the door of their room. “Did Santa Claus come yet?” Daddy opened the door, and he and Mama came out. They were smiling happily and took me to the living room where Mama turned on the tree lights. I was thrilled with the sight of the twinkling lights as they lit the dark room. Mama’s tree was so much bigger than Ma’s and was perfectly decorated with ornaments of every shape and size and color. The icicles shimmered in the glow of the lights. There were millions of them. Each one had been meticulously placed individually by Mama. Daddy and I had offered to help but had been rejected when we were seen throwing the icicles on the tree in clumps rather than draping them carefully on each branch.

I held my breath. I was afraid to look down. When I did, the first thing I saw was the Roy Rogers gun and holster set. Two six-shooters with gleaming barrels and ivory-colored handles. Twelve silver bullets on the belt.

“Wow,” I exclaimed as I took each gun out of the holster and examined them closely. “These look just like the ones Roy uses, don’t they, Daddy?”

“You bet,” he said. “I’m sure they’re the real thing. No bad guys will get past you when you have those on. Main Street will be safe again.” He and Mama laughed together at that thought.

The next thing my eyes rested on was the Mr. And Mrs. Potato Head game. I wasn’t sure what that was when I picked it up, but I could figure it out later. Some kind of game to play when the cousins came later for Christmas lunch.

I moved around the tree and found another surprise. There was a tiny crib with three identical baby dolls in it. They were carefully wrapped in two pink blankets and one blue one. I stared at them.

“Triplets,” Mama said with excitement. “Imagine having not one, not two, but three baby dolls at once. Two girls and a boy. Isn’t that fun? Look, they have a bottle you can feed them with. See, their little mouths can open. You can practice feeding them. Aren’t they wonderful?”

I nodded. “Yes, ma’am. They’re great. I’ll play with them later this afternoon.” I looked around the floor and crawled to look behind the tree.

“Does Santa ever leave anything anywhere else but here?” I asked. Daddy and Mama looked at each other and then back at me.

“No, sweetheart,” Daddy said. “This is all he brought this year. Don’t you like all of your presents?”

“Oh, yes, I love them all,” I said with the air of a diplomat. “But, you know, I had asked him for boxing gloves. I was really counting on getting them. All the boys have them, and I wanted them so bad.”

“Well,” Mama said. “Santa Claus had the good common sense not to bring a little girl boxing gloves. He knew that only little boys should be fighting each other with big old hard gloves. He also realized that lines have to be drawn somewhere. He would go along with toy guns, even though that was questionable. But he had to refuse to allow boxing gloves this Christmas or any Christmas.”

I looked at Daddy. My heart sank.

“Well, baby,” he said with a rueful look. “I’m afraid I heard him say those very words.”

*******************

(This is an excerpt from my first book Deep in the Heart: A Memoir of Love and Longing  published in 2007 when I was 61 years old. The following Christmas one of my best friends Billy Frye gave me a pair of boxing gloves – better late than never, Santa.)

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Slava Ukraini. For the children.  

 

 

 

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a case of mistaken identity


We all make mistakes, and here’s one of mine.

This is the cat formerly known as Bully Cat.

When Carport Kitty (may she rest in peace) first started hanging around in our carport more than a year ago, a larger comparatively healthy looking gray cat which I now know is a type of Tabby attacked the smaller frail Calico we named CPK when she walked toward her food bowl one afternoon. I then jumped to the conclusion that the larger gray cat was malicious so I named this interloper Bully Cat. Later on I found it strange that CPK always left Bully Cat some of her food – she seemed to be friends with this cat I chased off every time I caught him lingering over her food bowl. And when I say chased off, I’m not talking about chasing in a nice way.

How could Bully Cat be mean if CPK liked him?

Regardless of my high drama trying to scare him away, the Bully Cat stayed close to CPK for as long as she lived. Since her death five weeks ago, Bully Cat and another CPK amigo I dubbed Tuxedo Cat have wandered through our carport periodically. I told Pretty they were grieving for her, but turns out they were interested in the reliable food chain that once belonged to Carport Kitty.

No one will be surprised I put out a small amount of kibble in the morning for Tuxedo Cat when she triggered our security lights the way CPK used to do. Sigh. I miss that little creature every day.

Tux usually shares with Bully Cat like Carport Kitty used to do.

This morning, however, I looked out my kitchen door and saw the Bully Cat hissing at Tux, his back arched for battle, teeth bared. What in the world had gotten into him? And then I saw it: a pink rhinestone infused collar around his/her thick neck. A light bulb went off in my tiny brain that I had just seen Bully Cat sharing a morning meal with Tux in our carport. No sign of a pink rhinestone collar five minutes before.

The only explanation I could think of when I told Pretty the story was the Bully Cat I had berated for months was really Carport Kitty’s friend – there was a mean Tabby in our neighborhood, but it wasn’t him. I felt awful for my mistake, my unwillingness to change my original judgment which was a simple case of mistaken identity. (Bully Cat has been renamed Belli Cat by Pretty, same initials BC.)

No one lives to be seventy-six years old without making blunders, but this one was a doozy. I have no excuses, but I hope I’ve been reminded of a valuable lesson about looking twice before I jump to judgment…sometimes our mistakes have a ripple effect that hurts the innocent.

If we’re lucky, we get a second chance.

******************

Today is the 1st day of December. Pretty and I want to share a miraculous Christmas cactus we somehow managed not to kill in the five months since she brought it home from one of her treasure hunts. Enjoy.

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Thanksgiving Dinner with Pretty – 2022


“Do these need to be cooked, like really cooked?” Pretty asked as she took the three large catering size aluminum pans from our fridge Thanksgiving afternoon. She placed the pans on top of our stove – they were so big they covered the top. I had come into the kitchen to help because I was really hungry. Old people like to eat their noon meal at noon, and it was already 1:30 by the time the pans, which were to be our meal, were rescued from the fridge. We both stared at the contents: dressing, mashed potatoes, mac and cheese.

“I think they might need to be cooked,” I answered. “I can’t believe there were no instructions for people like us.” People like us meaning those who never cooked anything except breakfast with a menu of grits and toast. White bread toast.

“Oh, wait!” Pretty exclaimed. “I think they gave me a sheet of paper when they handed the pans to me, but I left it in the car.” She promptly turned and hurried to the car, returning with an 8 x 11 sheet of typewritten Thanksgiving Dinner Cooking Instructions. The word microwave wasn’t mentioned anywhere which meant we were in trouble.

Macaroni & CheesePreheat oven to 350. Loosen foil cover. Bake 15-20 minutes covered, then remove foil and allow to finish cooking another 20-30 minutes, until bubbly. If macaroni looks dry during cooking, add a little milk and stir.

Uh, oh, I thought as I mentally calculated the nearly an hour amount of time required to cook the mac and cheese. Hm. Dressing cooking instructions were actually a few minutes longer than mac & cheese which left us with mashed potatoes as our only hope for something quick. (Why just three choices? Because we are going to a Friendsgiving the day after Thanksgiving and we were assigned to bring the “sides.”) To Pretty who is a pescaterian the word “side” is a synonym for carbs, although I was asked if these three sounded good. I was quick to say yes; I liked everything.

I made a spur of the moment decision to work on the mashed potatoes because they offered an option to be removed from the aluminum pan and heated thoroughly on the stove top in a different pan. So we took three spoonfuls of mashed potatoes from the huge aluminum pan and put them in a pot on a large burner on top of our stove. I tried to speed up the cooking process (remember I was the one who was already starving) by adding a splash of half n half. Pretty came up with the idea to add butter, but she added so much butter I thought I should add more half n half to counteract it. Which I did. Unfortunately, by the time we finished adding things, we ended up with potato soup.

Pretty grated cheddar cheese for me to add to the smashed potatoes because she knew I loved all things cheddar cheese. She heated the gravy the Cafe had supplied and added to hers. Delicious. Not exactly what we had expected, but an important lesson for our Friendsgiving contribution. We will definitely need to get started much earlier on the sides than we originally thought…plus beware tampering with the cooking instructions.

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Our granddaughters were with us the day before Thanksgiving when we drove up to Pretty’s antique empire in Little Mountain to meet Ella’s favorite Aunts Darlene and Dawne. We had a wonderful family time together with lunch in the Cafe and shopping in Pretty’s booths before we loaded up our aluminum pans in the grannymobile for the short trip home. Dawne always captures the fun with her camera, and I would have added her fab pictures if only I knew how to send photos from my new iPhone. Will add later!

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where did I put that memory? ask Pretty


‘Tis the season, and Pretty’s antique empire has “spruced up” for the holiday season.

Pretty offers the unique, the unpredictable items throughout her antique empire – who’s surprised? Pretty is one of a kind herself, and always unpredictable.

Visit Little Mountain Unlimited and Cafe at 1528 Main Street, Little Mountain, SC 29075. When you’re downstairs in the cafe trying one of their fabulous homemade desserts, look around. Pretty’s empire covers almost the whole downstairs. It’s HUGE. Look for dealer #221 on the tags. That’s her.

Pretty’s pieces tell old stories preserved for posterity as well as collectibles for treasure hunters. She has made great efforts to embody the familiar adage we have something for everyone.

facebook.com/littlemountainantiques/

Where did you put that memory? Why, it’s waiting for you at Pretty’s antique empire – please visit!

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