Cabbage Patch Craze: More Than Just a Doll, It Was a Full-Blown 80s Throwdown!

Alright, buckle up, Buttercup, because we're about to take a DeLorean ride straight back to the glorious, sometimes slightly insane, decade of my youth!

Okay, fellow children of the glorious 80s, let's talk about something that might just trigger a little flashback shiver of pure, unadulterated childhood longing: Cabbage Patch Kids. For me, personally, the yearning was real. Year after year, that adorable, slightly lumpy-faced doll made its way onto my Santa wishlist. Did it ever materialize under the Christmas tree? Nope. My mama had a very firm stance on the whole "dolls are for girls" thing. Didn't matter how much I pleaded, how many adorable adoption stories I concocted in my head – nada.

But you know what? That unfulfilled desire never really went away. In fact, it morphed into this slightly cheesy, totally GenX dream of one day making a pilgrimage to the actual Babyland General Hospital up in Cleveland, Georgia. Forget the mass-produced versions you see in stores and online today – the ones that, while still kinda cute, lack that certain something. No, I'm talking about the full experience, the "adoption" process, the whole shebang. Maybe it's the lingering rebellion against the "boy toys" and "girl toys" divide of our youth or maybe it's just a deep-seated need to finally hold one of those little guys (or gals!) in my arms. Whatever it is, Babyland Hospital is on the bucket list.

And speaking of the "real" deal versus what ended up on store shelves... remember the lengths some folks went to when they couldn't snag one of those coveted Coleco creations back in the day? The stories were legendary! Parents camping out overnight, the frantic calls to every toy store within a fifty-mile radius, the almost mythical tales of delivery trucks being swarmed. It was like Black Friday, but for dolls with yarn hair and uniquely lopsided faces.

Then there were the brave (or perhaps slightly misguided) souls who tried to DIY their own Cabbage Patch Kid. Oh, the epic fails! I vaguely recall a few girls at school who brought their family member's DIY versions of lumpy bodies, eyes that didn't quite line up and hair that looked more like a bad perm gone wrong. One poor little girl attempted to forge the infamous signature on the doll's hiney in an attempt to fool everyone to no avail, she got bullied more for that than her homemade doll. I wonder if there were even patterns floating around for these homemade attempts? It's a testament to the hold these dolls had on us that people were willing to try their hand at crafting what was essentially a soft sculpture with a whole lot of personality.

But let's not forget the darker side of the Cabbage Patch craze: the actual violence. Yes, you read that right. Grown adults, driven by the desire to fulfill their kids' Christmas wishes (or maybe their own inner child's longing?), were reportedly getting into actual physical altercations in toy store aisles. Shoving, pushing, maybe even a well-placed elbow or two – all for the chance to snag one of those limited-stock dolls. It sounds insane now, but that's how intense it was. These weren't just toys; they were a cultural phenomenon.

The brainchild of artist Xavier Roberts, these weren't just any dolls. They had a whole backstory, a birth in a magical cabbage patch, and the adoption process at BabyLand General Hospital. Originally called "Little People," these hand-stitched creations with their soft bodies and distinctive faces debuted in the late 70s and are now highly sought-after collector's items, some fetching prices that would make our 1980s allowance budgets weep. When Coleco got involved in '82 Cabbage Patch Kids mania truly took off.

It's wild to think that something as simple as a doll could create such a frenzy. But the Cabbage Patch Kids were more than just playthings; they were a symbol of the era. They tapped into something primal – a desire for connection, for something unique, for a little bit of magic in a world that often felt decidedly un-magical.

And that brings us to today. Those original dolls, and even the subsequent waves, hold a special place in the hearts of us GenXers. Whether you were lucky enough to "adopt" one, spent years yearning like yours truly, or just remember the sheer pandemonium surrounding them, the Cabbage Patch Kids are a vivid thread in the tapestry of our childhood.

So, fellow time travelers, what are your Cabbage Patch memories? Did you score one? Did your mom, Aunt or family friend attempt a DIY version? Were you a witness to the toy store wars? Spill the beans in the comments below! We'd love to hear your stories.

And hey, speaking of cherished memories and maybe, just maybe, rekindling some of that childhood magic... if you happen to stumble upon a particularly adorable vintage Cabbage Patch Kid needing a new home (perhaps a donation to adopt one that hasn't made its way from Babyland yet), well, let's just say this old GenX heart wouldn't mind giving it a loving "adoption." Just a thought! 😉

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Val Kilmer: A Life in Film and the Memories He Left Behind

 

Some actors come and go, but only a few leave a mark so deep that they feel like part of our own personal story. For me, Val Kilmer was one of those actors. My introduction to him wasn’t through the blockbuster Top Gun, as you might expect, but rather through the magical and whimsical world of Willow. And boy, was it an unforgettable start.

It was the summer of 1988 and instead of splashing around at Pensacola Beach (thanks to an unwelcome rainstorm), my day camp counselors took us to the dollar theater at Mariner Mall. As the lights dimmed and Willow began, most of the kids were glued to Warwick Davis as he carried the story forward in the title role. But my attention was fixed on someone else entirely—Val Kilmer, playing the roguish and daring Madmartigan. He was magnetic—unusually beautiful yet rugged, embodying that "older man" appeal my young mind couldn’t resist.

While the other kids chatted excitedly about him being "Iceman" from Top Gun—a movie I’d never seen and to this day don't care much for (sorry, Tom Cruise fans!)—to me, Kilmer was a revelation. He was new, exciting and I was secretly smitten. Of course, childhood crushes fade as the years go by, but every time Val Kilmer showed up in another film, it was like opening a window to that memory all over again.

Fast forward a few years—one of my exes, Tim, insisted I watch The Doors and I was blown away by Kilmer’s hauntingly accurate portrayal of Jim Morrison. It wasn’t just good; it was transformative. It was as though he had become Morrison himself and I couldn’t shake the brilliance of it. Then came his turn as Batman in Batman Forever. While opinions on his version of the Caped Crusader were certainly mixed, I personally enjoyed seeing him take on the iconic role. And let’s not forget The Saint, where Kilmer’s multifaceted performance left me wishing the film had blossomed into a series. It was the kind of fun, layered role I wanted to see him play more often.

Over the decades, Kilmer’s career was a mix of triumphs and challenges, but his legacy in Hollywood remains undeniable. From his breakout performances to his later struggles, he was a man of immense talent and complexity. Sadly, we lost him on April 1, 2025, at the age of 65. His battle with throat cancer and the subsequent tracheostomy might have taken his voice, but it never silenced his spirit. Even as he dealt with immense personal challenges, Kilmer continued to inspire those around him—and audiences worldwide.

His artistic range—from Iceman to Madmartigan, Doc Holliday to the Lizard King—was unmatched. On-screen, he brought depth and charisma to every role, while off-screen, he remained enigmatic and undeniably unique. Directors and co-stars alike have described him as brilliant, challenging and even eccentric, but always unforgettable. Tributes from figures like Tom Cruise, Cher, Jim Carrey and Josh Brolin speak to the profound impact he had on Hollywood and those he worked with.

For me, Kilmer’s story goes beyond just the films and accolades—it’s about the memories he created for fans like me, who saw a bit of themselves in his performances. Whether it was his charm in Willow, his bravado in Batman Forever or his vulnerability in Val, Kilmer's work touched lives and left indelible impressions.

So, as I reflect on the life and legacy of Val Kilmer, I can’t help but feel grateful for the art he shared with the world. His journey—filled with highs, lows and everything in between—is a reminder of the passion and resilience required to chase greatness. Thank you, Val, for every moment you gave us.

What are your memories of Val Kilmer? Whether it’s a particular film, a favorite scene or just the way he lit up the screen, I’d love to hear your thoughts! Share your stories in the comments below—let’s celebrate the legacy of this extraordinary actor together. And hey, if this tribute brought back fond memories, consider supporting my blog to keep the nostalgia alive and thriving. Every little contribution goes a long way in fueling these heartfelt stories and reviews. No pressure—just your continued readership means the world to me! Let’s keep the conversation going and remember the stars who’ve shaped our lives. 🌟💙

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From Discount Hoagie Rolls to Family Tradition: A Sandwich Story

It’s funny how some of the best family traditions start in the most unexpected ways. For my family, it all began one evening in the late 1980s, during the hustle and bustle of life with two working parents and a child (me) too young to trust near a stove. That evening, my mom’s creativity turned a humble package of discounted hoagie rolls into a weekly ritual that still makes me smile today.

Back then, my parents had just started working long hours at Hackbarth Delivery Service. My sister was juggling school and her job at KFC and my mom barely had time to breathe, let alone plan elaborate dinners. She was the queen of one-pot wonders—spaghetti, chili, anything quick and easy. But even those go-to meals can feel like too much after a long day of driving around Pensacola, Mobile, Milton and everywhere else within the vacinity.

One evening, after picking me up from the babysitter, the Jerrells who lived within a quick bike ride from our house, my mom decided we’d swing by Piggly Wiggly to grab something simple for dinner. We weren’t the kind of family to splurge on Stouffer's or TV dinners and pot pies were strictly for lunch when we were sick. As we passed a shopping cart near the bakery, my mom’s eyes landed on a package of hoagie rolls bearing that magical “reduced for quick sale” sticker. And just like that, dinner—and a new tradition—was born.

With the hoagie rolls in our cart, we headed down the aisles in search of inspiration. First stop: chips and soda. My mom grabbed a 3-liter bottle of Piggly Wiggly Grape Soda and a bag of Piggly Wiggly Barbecue Potato Chips. Fancy? Not really—but let me tell you, store-brand snacks hit differently when you’re a kid. I loved them then, and honestly, I still do.

Next, we hit the sandwich meat section. Instead of buying one big pack of bologna or ham, my mom decided to make dinner feel special. She took advantage of an 8-for-$1 deal on Piggly Wiggly’s version of Buddig meats. Turkey, chicken, ham, beef—you name it, we had it. She also bought some bologna and salami with peppercorns because she and I both loved it.

Finally, we needed cheese. My limited knowledge of cheese extended to government cheese, pizza cheese and the individually wrapped singles that were a staple in our fridge. But that night, my mom branched out, snagging sliced mozzarella, Swiss and mild cheddar from a 3-for-$2 sale. Before heading to checkout, we backtracked to the produce section for a head of iceberg lettuce. Total cost? Around $11—a small price for what would become several meals and countless memories.

When we got home, my mom sprang into action. She sliced a fresh tomato from her modest backyard garden—a garden she’d discovered didn’t need watering, thanks to an unexpected quirk of the property. Apparently, our landlord had rerouted the washing machine runoff to the far end of the yard instead of the septic tank, a convenient (if unconventional) surprise for my mom when she planted her garden after we moved in. I can’t vouch for how safe the detergents were for us, but we never gave it much thought. My parents both made it into their 60s, and my sister and I are still thriving, so I’d say it worked out fine. Anyway, with the tomatoes sliced, the lettuce washed and everything laid out on the counter in perfect assembly-line fashion, my mom hit us with the big twist: we had to make our own sandwiches.

Let me tell you, the concept of a DIY sandwich bar for dinner was revolutionary to me. Subway was not in our area, yet and I'd never been to a place that specialized in sandwiches, in fact, I’d never had a sandwich on anything but plain white bread for lunch, let alone for dinner. I grabbed an old melmac plate and started stacking—lettuce, two slices of each cheese, a little of every meat, and a dollop of ketchup (much to my dad’s horror). His exact words were, “Ketchup just ruined that sandwich.” But hey, I liked it, and that’s what mattered.

This quick, thrown-together meal made such a splash that it became a weekly event. Those almost-stale hoagie rolls had officially entered family legend. Looking back, it wasn’t just about the sandwiches—it was about the time spent together, the old scratched up mismatched melamine plates and ridiculous sandwich combinations. My mom’s ability to turn something as simple as discounted hoagie rolls into a family tradition still amazes me.

This is a tradition that I wish I had carried over into adulthood but it seems that Terry and I are all about hot meals at night, though on occasion, if we order dinner from Anthony's Pizza and Pasta near our house, I'll order one of their subs as my entree for the sake of nostalgia.

Do you have a family meal that started as a spur-of-the-moment creation? Or a tradition born from necessity that ended up being the highlight of your week? Share your stories in the comments—I’d love to hear them!And hey, if this tale brought back memories or even made you smile, feel free to pass it along or drop a little something to keep these stories alive. Every hoagie roll counts. 😉

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I'm 49 years old today: The Sweetness of Memories: Coconut Cakes and Birthdays

Today, on my 49th birthday, I find myself reflecting on the memories that have shaped my life. While I don't usually receive many gifts, your comments and shared stories would mean the world to me and add joy to this special day.

As a child, my birthdays were a time of great anticipation—not for the presents, which were usually modest compared to Christmas, but for Mama's cakes. Baking was her passion, and while the house often smelled of her favorite pecan or walnut treats during holidays, my birthday cake was something special.

Growing up, I was accustomed to Mama's delightful yellow and chocolate cakes. Occasionally, we'd have carrot cake, and in the mid-1980s, Mama began experimenting with an applesauce spice cake that had a delicious glaze-like icing. She would bake it weekly to keep on the counter for us to snack on. However, my sister and I stopped eating it after what we humorously called "the time Mama tried to kill Granny." Long story short, Granny was visiting us and had a piece of Mama's spice cake. Within minutes, Daddy was driving her to the hospital. Though the cake had nothing to do with it, we couldn't get over the incident. Despite that, Mama's cakes were generally unforgettable.

Mama had an uncanny ability to remember and cherish the little things we liked, and this was especially true for my birthday cakes. Around 1979 or 1980, when we lived in the little yellow house on Easter Lane in Mobile, Alabama, Mama baked a coconut cake for our Easter gathering at Granny's house. Easter celebrations were a feast, with Dad and my uncles manning the grill, rocking out chicken, burgers, steak and whatever else they brought from the grocery store, or hunting trips. Granny and Aunt Joan preparing side dishes, like fried okra, fried squash and onions, purple hulled peas, lima beans, cornbread and all of their specialities. A then there was my Mama contributing desserts and her famous deviled eggs, potato salad, rich with onions, hardboiled eggs, mustard, and bell peppers.

But it was that coconut cake that stole the show for me. My four-year-old self boldly declared it the best cake I'd ever had, a proclamation that Mama took to heart. From that year forward, my birthday cake was always a coconut cake. For the first few years, it was great but later on, I never had the heart to tell her I might have enjoyed a bit of variety; her love and care baked into each cake made every birthday special.

As I grew older, I realized Mama had a baker's talent that could have rivaled any professional. Her cakes, pies, and confections were family treasures. Recently, my sister sent me a trove of Mama's recipes—handwritten index cards and printed sheets that spanned decades, some even from her high school home economics class. Flipping through a recent Magnolia magazine by Joanna Gaines, I was surprised and delighted to find Mama's peanut butter cookie recipe featured on a page, a testament to her enduring culinary legacy. I had no idea Mama knew Joanna Gaines but apparently she did.

Today, on my 49th birthday, I can't help but reflect on those coconut cakes and the love they represented. While I've yet to find Mama's exact recipe, I've come close with the Duncan Hines Dolly Parton Coconut Cake Mix. I suspect Mama's version might have come from the Better Homes and Gardens cookbook, the one with the red plaid cover, eventually I will get around to finding out. I know her Thanksgiving and Christmas dressing is pretty close to what's in that book, as well as her lasagne.

I never imagined reaching 50—thought I'd check out in my late 20s—but here I am, still rocking along. As I celebrate today, memories of Mama's coconut cakes bring warmth and sweetness to my heart.

Thank you for letting me share this cherished memory with you. If it inspired a touch of nostalgia or a bit of joy, that's gift enough for me. 🎂💖

A Night with William Weekly: WrestleMania, Roaches, and Childhood Bonds

When I was a kid, my social interactions were limited to a small group of friends. Calling it a "circle" might be a bit misleading, as most of them had their own separate cliques, and I often found myself navigating these friendships alone. One particularly memorable friend was William Weekly, a boy a few years my junior, whom I met at a summer camp. This day camp was a haven of fun-filled activities and adventures. We spent our summer days basking in the sun at the beach, laughing through thrilling waterslides on Pensacola Beach, gliding effortlessly on roller skates, and enjoying the exhilaration of tubing down the Blackwater River. These shared experiences created a bond between us.

William’s mom worked for the sheriff's office, though I never knew her specific role. She was usually really tired when she got home, so cleaning wasn't high on her agenda. Their house was probably the most chaotic house I'd ever been in. They didn't have a garbage can in the kitchen; instead, there was a pile of garbage with pizza boxes and soda cans, and the sink was always full of dirty dishes. If they offered you something to drink, you had better make sure it was in a can or a sealed bottle.

Despite the mess, William and I bonded over our shared love of wrestling. Though GLOW (Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling) had ended in our area by the time we started hanging out, William's favorite wrestlers were Hollywood and Tina Ferrari. He had fond memories of them, and we often talked about the show. William had a penchant for the movie "Elvira, Mistress of the Dark," and almost every time I visited him, we would watch it, rewind the parts that cracked us up, and then reenact those scenes ourselves. William was a blast to be friends with. He even accompanied me to the fair one year and scared the life out of me on the Skywheel, my favorite ride, by rocking the seat despite the "Don't rock the seat" signage. Though we never fell out, I was terrified.

One night, William asked if I wanted to spend the night so we could rent Nintendo games and play them until we passed out. We went to the video store next to the Piggly Wiggly and rented his favorite, "The Legend of Zelda," which I never got into, and "WrestleMania."

WrestleMania was my absolute favorite Nintendo game. Eventually, my parents bought it for me just to stop me from renting it every time we went to the video store. The game featured six wrestlers: Hulk Hogan, André the Giant, "Macho Man" Randy Savage, "The Million Dollar Man" Ted DiBiase, Bam Bam Bigelow, and The Honky Tonk Man. Each wrestler had a limited number of moves, such as standing punches, kicks, headbutts, and unique running attacks. For example, Randy Savage used elbow smashes, Bam Bam Bigelow had two running attacks, and Ted DiBiase used eye gouges. Only Hulk Hogan could bodyslam the massive André the Giant.

You could play single exhibition matches or tournaments. In the single-player tournament, you’d choose one wrestler and defeat the other five to win the championship. In multiplayer tournaments, up to six players could compete, each facing every other wrestler once. The wrestler with the best record at the end of the tournament would be declared the champion.

William was always Bam Bam Bigelow or Hulk Hogan, while I was Macho Man or Honky Tonk Man. We played the multiplayer tournament matches almost the entire night. If one of us started to fall asleep, the other would make the most of the dozing off and cheat on the game as best we could. We loved playing games together, and often ended up bumping into each other, trying out real wrestling moves we saw in the game. His mom would bring us microwaved popcorn, then sit down to play "Super Mario Brothers" herself while we munched on our snack.

William was straight but very supportive of me being gay. He was a good counterpart to my friend TK, who was my friend with benefits. I only spent the night with William once because of the breakfast incident. His mom brought out cereal, and though I loved Raisin Bran, hers had something extra—roaches. I kid you not, she poured a bowl for me and what looked like raisins were moving. I wrote a song about it and might share it one day, perhaps as a fun tribute to my friend William, who tragically died in a motorcycle accident the year he graduated high school.

Despite never staying over again, we continued to hang out a lot. Every time I thought I had the courage to spend the night again, I ended up calling my dad to pick me up because I was afraid the roaches would get me. I wish I could say my friendship with William had continued throughout high school, but we drifted apart once I started the 9th grade.

I hope you enjoyed this nostalgic trip down memory lane with my friend William Weekly. If you have any similar stories or experiences, please share them in the comments below. Your feedback and shared memories help build our wonderful community of readers. If you feel inclined to support this ongoing effort, your contributions are greatly appreciated. Additionally, if you'd like to show some love and support in other ways, feel free to do so—every little bit helps in continuing this journey of storytelling and connection. Thank you! ❤️

From Mama's Kitchen: The Story and Recipe—Celebrating My Mama's Spaghetti

Hello, dear readers! (and my sister, Becki),

Today, I want to share a special entry dedicated to my mama's spaghetti, a dish that was loved by many in our family, even though it wasn't my personal favorite due to my aversion to tomatoes. This story is meant to highlight the uniqueness of my mama's cooking and to clarify that her spaghetti was truly cherished by those who enjoyed it.

A few days ago, I wrote about my humorous journey with spaghetti and how it was never really my thing. If it seemed like I was making fun of my mama's cooking, I want to set the record straight, that was not my intent. The story was not about her cooking, but rather my general dislike for the dish, no matter who cooks it. While I may have a love-hate relationship with spaghetti, I have great respect for my mama's culinary skills. She excelled in Home Economics during her junior high and high school years, and many of her recipes were based on what she learned during the 1950s and 1960s. Her spaghetti sauce was homemade, and though ketchup was added sometimes, it was never the main ingredient. This addition of ketchup was likely due to the occasional absence of tomato paste, adding a bit more acidity and texture to the final product.

To be fair, my dislike for spaghetti somewhat stems from my dislike of tomatoes, bell peppers, and onions—all of which my mama loved and used generously in her cooking. Despite my distaste for these ingredients, there were some dishes my mama cooked that I absolutely loved, like her fried pork chops, tuna casserole, and even liver and onions, which I enjoyed despite my usual dislike of onions.

Back to the tomato thing—although I didn't like tomatoes, I did love lasagna and pizza, both of which my mama and my sister were amazing at making. My sister, Becki Manning Dannelly, especially loved our mama's spaghetti. This post is dedicated to her.

Pheroldine “Dee” Manning Lyons' Spaghetti Sauce

Ingredients:

• 1 pound of ground beef (the ratio doesn’t matter because we got whatever was on sale or cheapest)

• 1 cup chopped onion

• 1 cup of bell peppers, diced

• 2 cloves garlic, minced (she usually just used minced garlic from a jar or garlic powder)

• 1 14-ounce can of whole tomatoes, drained and cut up

• 1 14-ounce can stewed tomatoes, cut up, reserve the liquid to add to sauce

• 1 6-ounce can tomato paste

• 1/4 cup parsley (I don’t think she ever had any on hand and since you don’t taste it, it’s not important)

• 1 tablespoon brown sugar (dark or light, she used whatever was on hand)

• 1 teaspoon salt

• 1 1/2 teaspoons dried oregano, crushed

• 1/4 teaspoon dried thyme, crushed

• 1 bay leaf

Instructions:

1. In a saucepan, combine onion, bell pepper, meat, and garlic; cook until meat is browned and onion is tender.

2. Skim off excess grease; add the rest of the ingredients along with 2 cups of water.

3. Simmer, uncovered, until sauce is thick, which usually takes a few hours. Your house will have a distinct tomato-ish smell; stir occasionally.

4. Remove bay leaf.

Serve over hot spaghetti pasta, or like my mama would do, just dump the hot spaghetti into the pot as a one pot wonder and stir it all together then serve on a plate…with a squirt of ketchup on top or grated parmesan cheese if we had it (and if the container wasn’t empty from my sister and I randomly eating handfuls of it).

Don't forget the garlic bread! Mama would use whatever bread we had on hand for garlic bread—hot dog buns, hamburger buns, sandwich bread, and if we were lucky, she made some from her delicious homemade sourdough bread.

This sauce recipe was sort of the same she used for her lasagna but without the bell pepper, which we didn’t get often because it involved a bit more work. But when we did, it was basically party night for our family. Especially since she doubled the ingredients to ensure she had enough meat sauce to fill her 9x13 baking pan that she used for everything from cake to casseroles. I’ll share her actual recipe for lasagna in the future, but for now, enjoy my mama’s spaghetti and feel free to make your own tweaks.

Thank you for taking the time to read this post. I'd love to hear your thoughts and memories about your own family recipes in the comments below. If you enjoyed this story and recipe, feel free to share it with your friends. Your support, whether through comments or contributions, means the world to me and helps keep this blog going!

Happy cooking!

Flora-Bama Polar Bear Dip: A 12-Year-Old's Bar & Beach Winter Adventure

The year I was in the 7th grade, Mama and Daddy became friends with a lady they worked with at Hackbarth Delivery Service named Angie. Angie was a very sweet lady of Mexican heritage who loved painting ceramic figures, a hobby my mom picked up from her. Mama loved any sort of crafts; she had learned tole painting from my classmate Kerry Ferrell's mom, Judy, years before and passed on her knowledge of tole painting to Angie.

My dad and Angie were better friends than what we all thought, but that's a story covered in my second book, if it gets published and no doubt future blog entries.

Angie was married to a biker type named Butch who was super nice. Though his name didn't really fit his stature—short and skinny but definitely rough—Butch was a cool man. He gave me my first hit of weed, and I knew even at the age of 12 that it was not for me. The smell of it reminded me of the time that I got skunked, and I just couldn't get past the odor. Every other weekend, I would stay with Angie and Butch at their house in Pensacola, riding their dirt bike and my go-cart in the area behind their house. Butch and Angie also had motorcyles, which were always fun to take a ride on.

My parents had plans for New Year's Eve and didn't want me to be alone, so they decided to send me to Angie and Butch's house on an odd weekend.

Butch had a son a few years younger than me named Chris and a daughter a few years older than me named Francine, both of whom he didn't have custody of. They would stay with him every other weekend. This was one such weekend, and I slept on the couch rather than in the room Francine stayed in during her visits.

They had all been talking about the Polar Bear Dip and how much fun it would be. I honestly didn't know what it meant, but I was all in. They made sure to tell me I needed to bring swimwear. Cool, I guess. It had been raining a little throughout the day, the high was in the 60s, but when we arrived at the bar, Flora-Bama, it was in the lower 50s.

We went inside. It wasn't the first time I had been in a bar, but it was the first time I was in a bar with other kids. Francine instructed Chris and me to secretly (not letting adults know what we were doing) look for random cups that were left around the bar that were still over half full, as well as beer cans. We found a good bit of them. Francine took it upon herself to drink from the cups with colored beverages. I chose to drink from one of the beer cans because it felt like it was barely touched. Chris' can of beer not only contained a good bit of leftover beer, but someone had obviously used it as an ashtray because his second drink from the can brought out a cigarette butt. He promptly spit it out, and I put my can down and found Angie and asked her if she could get me a Coca-Cola.

When the sparse crowd began to head out of the bar and down to the beach, we followed. Just as everyone was doing, I took my shoes, socks, and shirt off and headed into the water. It was pretty cold, but it was brown and just as dark and cloudy as the sky. I thought we were all going for a swim and that we would get used to it, but once we were all in, everyone turned around and got out. I thought there might have been a shark or something, so I followed. I was confused.

Once I got out, the cold air hit my saltwater-soaked body, and I was ready for a towel down and proper clothes. I got my shirt, socks, and shoes back on but could feel sand in my socks—a feeling I still hate. I thought we were all going to go back into the bar, but Angie and Butch headed to their truck, so Francine, Chris, and I followed them. They turned the truck heater up as far as it would go, and we were on the way to Pace, where they dropped me off before going back to Pensacola. Though it was a Thursday and I love spending weekends with Butch and Angie, I didn't car much for Chris and I didn't like sharing Angie's attention with anyone else and Francine was not really that nice to me.

I was really confused about the point of getting into the water, but apparently, I had just taken part in an annual event known as the Flora-Bama Polar Bear Dip. Did I have fun? Nope. If I were more informed, would I have done it? Nope. Would I do it again? Nope.

As an adult, I look back on that experience with a mix of amusement and bewilderment. The idea of willingly plunging into icy waters, though not exactly icy, on a cold day just doesn't appeal to me anymore. The thrill of the Polar Bear Dip is something I can appreciate from afar, but it's not an adventure I need to repeat. Some memories are best left in the past, and for me, the Flora-Bama Polar Bear Dip is one of them.

I often wonder what became of Angie and Butch after their divorce, as well as Chris and Francine. I have a vision that Francine may still be a party girl over 30 years later, and I hope they are all doing well. As I stated, I may share stories about my time with Angie before she was told that she was no longer welcome in my family's lives not too long after this day. While she was no longer welcome, she and I had some great times together.

Childhood Game Nights With A Built In Babysitter...my sister

My sister and I were very close when we were young. Despite the six-year age gap between us, I was a quick learner and could play games meant for older kids even at the age of three. This often meant that my nine-year-old sister could make up her own rules to ensure she wasn't bested by a toddler. When she was old enough to stay home alone, she became my built-in babysitter. What better way to entertain a child for hours than to play games?

At that time, the Atari 2600 was hugely popular, but we didn’t get our first one until many years later, just before they were discontinued to make way for the 5200 and 7800. Our family didn’t have a lot of money, so my mom discovered the joys of yard sale shopping. This was before thrift stores became as common as they are today, at least the ones people would actually shop at.

Yard sales, flea markets, junk markets, and trading posts were regular occurrences and treasure troves for a struggling family. New toys and games were reserved for Christmas or birthdays. Why spend $8 or $9 on a new game when you could buy the same game for $1? Aside from the tattered box, the contents were usually as good as new. These inexpensive investments became our go-to activities when we were bored, stuck inside on rainy days, or had no money for outings.

The family games, which excluded me due to my age, were Monopoly and Scrabble. Monopoly, intended for ages 8 and up, is a classic board game where players buy, trade, and develop properties to bankrupt their opponents. Scrabble, also for ages 8 and up, involves creating words on a game board using letter tiles to score points. I wasn’t interested in these games because their boards lacked the bright colors of the games my sister and I played together.

When my parents began to go out more, usually to places like the dog track or local restaurants, my sister and I would pull out the board games from the closet. These were the perfect times for her to rule supreme and beat me at games I only half-understood. We would sit in our small dining room with nicotine-stained yellow curtains that my mom made, at our round Formica table, on black iron straight-back chairs with pleather-covered cushions, playing my sister’s interpretation of the rules.
WABB blared from her top-of-the-line (sarcasm) Soundesign stereo system from K-Mart, located in her bedroom two rooms and a corner away. Our snack layout usually consisted of the cheaper version of Doritos, cheese-flavored Tostidos, along with French onion dip. Our beverages were generic sodas, not store brands but white-labeled products simply labeled COLA, GRAPE, DIET, or ROOT BEER in big, bold letters. GRAPE would fizz in three different colors as you poured it, but the liquid was always purple.

In my adult life, I've often talked to people about the games we played as children. Two games that frequently come up are Candyland and Chutes & Ladders, which my mom either never found or didn’t think we needed. Candyland, designed for ages 3 and up, is a simple race-to-the-finish game with brightly colored paths. Chutes & Ladders, for ages 4 and up, is a game of ups and downs, where players climb ladders and slide down chutes.

However, I became a fierce competitor at Yahtzee, intended for ages 8 and up. The Yahtzee cup was too loud for my liking, and my sister would shake it vigorously, knowing I hated the sound. Despite that, I loved the game. Our box was old and faded, with a bit of discolored hot glue stuck to it, which my sister convinced me was dried pee from when I was really little. I was gullible enough to believe her.

We also played:
Payday: For ages 8 and up, this game simulates a month of financial transactions.
The Game of Life: Also for ages 8 and up, this game involves navigating through life’s milestones.
Connect Four: Intended for ages 6 and up, this is a strategy game of aligning four checkers in a row.
Operation: For ages 6 and up, this game involves removing "ailments" from a patient without touching the edges.

Cousins' Games
My cousins had the Wheel of Fortune and Family Feud board games, which seemed more fun than the ones we had. Perhaps it was because they were TV games, giving me the impression of interacting with actual game shows, or maybe it was just a case of the grass being greener on the other side. They also had Simon and Perfection, but they wouldn't play those with me because I would get so anxious that I would have to pee, I actually had an unfortunate and unforgettable accident while playing Perfection.

Now that I’m almost 50, I wonder how many of those original games still exist in my sister's house from when we were kids. What do you say, Becki? Wanna challenge me now that I know the rules to all those games? 😉

Bonus Christmas Post: Recreating My Childhood Letter to Santa from 4 year old me.

If only mama kept copies of my letters to Santa when she helped me write them. This is a recreation of what I dictated to my mom when I was 4 years old, circa 1980. Not sure if she wrote what I asked but this is what I can remember saying to her...or at least most of it. Of course the stationery is not the same, she used the plain ruled writing pad she used for all of the letters she wrote to various people. My mom loved writing letters, even if she didn't get a prompt reply or even a reply at all. My requests to Santa are probably one of the many reasons I never had to come out to my family. I kinda still do want those white go-go boots but I would be happy with a white pair of Doc Martens, size 10 US. I did get boots that year but I think Santa misread or didn't hear me clearly, I got Cowboy Boots, not the same.