A Paw-some Dream: When Rusty Visited Me

Have you ever had a dream so vivid, so real, that it lingered with you all day, pulling at your heartstrings and making you smile even when you didn't know why? Well, that happened to me last night and it brought back a flood of memories about a very special boy named Rusty. He was more than just a dog; he was my heart dog, my buddy, my shadow and even now, years after he crossed the rainbow bridge, he still finds ways to visit me.

Prince Rusty Ladd Fitzgerald

It started in an old amusement park, the kind with creaky rides and a certain nostalgic charm. I was just wandering, taking it all in, when suddenly, I felt a familiar bump on my leg. That cold, wet nose, that gentle nudge—there was no mistaking it. Rusty! He came barreling up from behind me and my heart absolutely soared. It was just like old times, that immediate connection, that pure joy.

Terry loving on Rusty

Thinking back to when Terry and I first met, pets weren't really on his radar. But I've always been a dog person, and for one of my birthdays, we went to the pound. I remember falling head over heels for this adorable little chow/lab mix. We were so excited, ready to bring him home, but then, the universe had other plans. Our apartment manager, without a single word to any of the residents, suddenly decided pets were a no-go. Can you imagine? I was absolutely crushed. But you know what? That disappointment turned into determination. I got us out of that lease faster than you can say "woof," and we found a much more pet-friendly, and frankly, a lot cleaner, place.

Terry giving baby Rusty a bit of love and a good brushing

Terry knew how much a dog would mean to me, even if he wasn't entirely convinced he needed one himself at the time. So, one day, I saw an ad in the paper for Scottish Terrier puppies. Not too far away, either! My amazing friend Melanie drove us over to this guy's house – Craig was his name. He had three little boy puppies. One was a handsome grey brindle, another a striking copper-colored brindle and then there was the solid black one with just a tiny dab of white on his chin. The brindle boys were feisty, all wiggles and snaps, but when I picked up that black boy, he just melted into my arms and gave me the sweetest, sloppiest kisses. I was instantly, hopelessly in love. When I put him down, the other two were still wrestling and snapping at Terry's legs, and without a moment's hesitation, that little black fella ran right up and broke up the ruckus, fighting them off like a tiny, furry superhero. It was like he knew, right then and there, that he'd found his forever daddies. Terry, who had been a bit hesitant, looked down and saw the black little boy standing between his legs and protecting him from his brindle brothers, knowing it was the perfect way into his heart. Terry just looked at Craig and said, "Is a check okay?" And that, my friends, was the day Rusty officially joined our family.

Rusty getting some love from me

He was just eight weeks old when he came home with us, and let me tell you, he was not potty trained. So, our first stop was Petsmart, where we went a little wild. Crate, dog bed, every toy imaginable, puppy food – the whole nine yards. It was close to Christmas, so our tree was already up. Rusty wasn't really bothered by it, though sometimes you'd find him snoozing peacefully underneath. We were pretty good about catching him before he had accidents, but you know how puppies are. It was all part of the learning curve for him to understand that outside was the place for business. We got on a pretty good schedule; Terry worked days and I worked nights, so there was always someone around for our little guy, giving him some much-needed routine.

If I fell asleep, Rusty was there to protect me

We even played that silly game, the one where Terry would be at one end of the living room and I'd be at the other, calling Rusty to see who he loved the most. Of course, whoever had a treat hiding in their pocket usually won that round! But truly, he loved us both fiercely and equally.

Our friend Nathan trying to get Rusty to do the "Scotty" pose.

Rusty fit in every home we had. We moved a few times – from our early days in Buckhead to our two apartments in Smyrna, then North Springs and Dunwoody, and finally, our house south of the airport. He never seemed to mind wherever we landed, as long as he was with us. I never, ever took his presence for granted. If I was on my computer, he was either in my lap, or in a chair pulled right up next to mine, his head resting on my knee. I spent a lot of time playing online games and recording music back then, and if my voice wasn't quite right, I swear Rusty would give me this look, this knowing gaze, that let me know he felt it too. He really was my buddy.

Me cuddling baby Rusty

Now, Rusty didn't have many bad habits, but there were a couple of quirks. He absolutely loved eating toilet paper, there were times where Terry and I would walk out the front door to go somewhere and almost immediately walk back into the house because we had forgotten something, to find Rusty making his way across the living room from the direction of the bathroom looking guilty...with a trail of toilet paper from the bathroom door leading up to the roll. And don't even get me started on the bathroom garbage. He'd dive in for q-tips! It took me a good minute to figure out why his poop was suddenly so colorful – it was the colored sticks from the q-tips! We also quickly learned to keep dirty socks and underwear far, far out of his reach. If we weren't looking, he'd snag them and go straight for the sweaty parts. I'll never forget coming home from work one day to find my favorite pair of Grinch boxers...crotchless. Poor guy had bright green and yellow poop for a couple of days after that!

We didn't dress him up often but when we did, he was a good sport.

Rusty was quirky, as most Scotties are, but he wasn't your typical terrier. He was incredibly well-behaved. Going back to the potty training, he was completely housetrained within his first year with us. Any accidents after that were entirely our fault, and he was merciful enough to only do it on the kitchen or bathroom floor, where there was no carpet to ruin. He was wonderful with strangers and kids alike, always ready with a lick and a kiss, never a snap, bite or growl. Even if I playfully pretended to eat his food, putting my head down next to his bowl, he'd gently move to the side and wait patiently until I was "done" before resuming his meal. He slept in our bed every single night, a furry little shadow moving from my side to Terry's throughout the night. And oh, how he LOVED popcorn! But we always knew when one of us had given him popcornl because we'd wake up in the middle of the night to him heaving. We had mere seconds to react, or we'd be spending the rest of the night washing our comforter, all thanks to Rusty's intense intolerance to popcorn. He loved it, but it just made him throw up.

Rusty's "PLACE" on the back of our couch.

After Rusty, I desperately wanted another dog, but Terry, being a bit stubborn, just wasn't ready. Then, when my mom passed away, I brought her cat, Callie, back with me. I didn't even tell Terry! Callie was a trip, a truly cantankerous kitty, but she worked her way into our hearts with her sassy charm. We had her for five months, until she, too, got sick. We discovered she had an aggressive form of cancer, and we had to make that heartbreaking decision again.

Rusty posing for the camera.

So, when Rusty appeared in my dream last night, in that old amusement park and then it morphed into this crazy huge laundromat with a tanning bed and a skating rink – I mean, how wild is that?! – I was so impressed with this bizarre business, but my absolute focus remained on Rusty. He seemed so happy to see me and that happiness was definitely mutual. Then, sadly, my alarm blared at 3:35 AM, calling me to work and my precious time with Rusty was abruptly cut short. I've been thinking about that dream all day and I just had to share the story of Rusty and his sweet little visit to my dream.

Rusty just after his first surgery for bladder stones.

Rusty loved watching TV.

Rusty was, and always will be, my heart dog. If Rusty's story touched your heart, I'd love to hear your own memories of a beloved pet in the comments below. Every share helps keep these special bonds alive and if you feel inclined to support more stories like Rusty's, any contribution, big or small, would be deeply appreciated.

Stig’s Unconventional Job Related Adventures: Lessons from a Rebel Spirit

We all have that one friend who turns life into an unforgettable tapestry of eccentric experiences. For me, that friend is Stig. From the moment I met him, he’s been this unapologetically unique force of nature who thrives on making his own fun and living without regrets. Much like me, his life has been a series of “you can’t make this up” moments, all capture his strange and loveable spirit, including this story.

Back in the day, Stig had this peculiar, self-created pastime—one that was as weird as it was oddly brilliant. You see, he didn’t need a traditional job. Between working for his Gran in her trailer park (sometimes cheekily charging tenants for services he was technically already paid to do), selling random treasures at the flea market and dabbling in the art of the occasional hustle, he had more than enough to get by. But Stig wasn’t about the money—it was about the experience.

In true Stig fashion, he invented a quirky hobby: filling out job applications for random businesses around town, acing the interviews and negotiating wages he had no intention of accepting. Why? Out of sheer curiosity and a desire to see what the job market really looked like in our little corner of the world, Pace and Milton. He wanted to know what Gran's tenants might be earning, and, well, because it was fun to him.

I’ll never forget the day he told me, while we were lounging in one of his Gran's camper trailers, that he’d interviewed at every fast-food joint in town just “for shits and giggles.” When I told him I needed a job to escape my parents’ drama and make my own money, his advice was simple: "You’ll need to look out of town because I’ve been everywhere here already."

And that’s when he shared one of his funniest stories. Apparently, he once applied to McDonald’s in Milton, handed his application to a cashier and got a call back within hours. He suited up, went to the interview and met with a “manager” who couldn’t have been more than a year or two out of high school herself. After the standard questions, she hit him with something absurd: “Would you have a problem cleaning the restroom with a toothbrush if someone asked you to?”

Most people would balk, but not Stig. With a straight face, he replied, “Can I bring my own toothbrush so I don’t inconvenience you?” Oddly enough, she loved his answer. When she offered him the job on the spot, he not only declined but also gave her an impromptu lecture about inappropriate interview questions, poor management practices and the laughable pay.

That’s the thing about Stig—he’s never afraid to call out nonsense when he sees it. He’s always stood up for what’s right, whether it’s challenging a bad boss or helping a teenager negotiate fair pay for their first job. To this day, Stig remains that guy who looks out for others, ensuring they don’t start their working lives underpaid and undervalued.

Stig’s story reminds me that life is what you make of it. Whether you’re navigating job interviews or just trying to keep things interesting, a little humor and a lot of authenticity can go a long way. He’s proof that you don’t need to follow the conventional path to make an impact—sometimes, all it takes is staying true to who you are and lifting others as you go.

What about you? Do you have a friend with an equally wild or inspiring story? Share your thoughts in the comments below—I’d love to hear them! And hey, if Stig’s tale brought a smile to your face or sparked some nostalgia, consider showing us a little love by supporting the blog. Your kindness keeps these stories alive. 💛

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Flipping the Script: Mark Manson’s “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*” Hits You With the Truth You Didn’t Know You Needed

If I’m being honest, self-help books aren’t really my thing. I’ve always considered myself pretty comfortable in my own skin and have no big regrets about the choices I’ve made in life. So when it came to The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*, my role was strictly that of a seller. I order the book pretty regularly for my stores because, no matter where I place it, it sells out quickly—which is unusual for a self-help title that’s been around for a while. That bright orange cover? It practically yells at you to pick it up.

At first, I skimmed through the book just to get a sense of what all the fuss was about. I wanted to know how to pitch it to customers and help my booksellers answer questions, especially since the title alone either pulls people in or makes them think it’s going to be a total downer. But then something unexpected happened. As I flipped through the pages, I started nodding along, finding myself intrigued enough to go back to the very beginning. By the time I hit the first chapter, “Don’t Try,” I was hooked—and, ironically, I didn’t have to try to finish it. The stories Mark Manson shared struck a chord with me in ways I didn’t see coming. Turns out, this wasn’t your typical self-help fluff.

In The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F, Mark Manson flips traditional self-help advice on its head with his brutally honest take on personal growth and happiness. Forget constant positivity and endless affirmations—instead, Manson urges us to accept life’s imperfections, confront our limitations, and, most importantly, focus on what really deserves our energy. It’s not about not caring at all; it’s about being selective with your time, attention, and—yes—your f**s.

Manson’s style is bold, relatable, and often laugh-out-loud funny (poop jokes included). He pairs real-life anecdotes with academic research, tackling topics like resilience, responsibility, and finding meaning in the messiness of life. The message is simple but profound: stop avoiding discomfort, embrace your flaws, and figure out what truly matters to you. It’s a wake-up call, a slap-in-the-face reality check, and an unexpectedly uplifting guide to living a more authentic and grounded life.
What I loved most about this book is that it doesn’t try to sugarcoat anything. Manson’s writing feels like having a brutally honest chat with your no-nonsense friend who tells it like it is, yet somehow still leaves you inspired. His approach isn’t about fixing yourself or becoming perfect—it’s about accepting your imperfect, messy self and learning to focus your energy where it counts. The rawness and relatability of his stories made me think back on my own experiences and how they shaped my priorities.

And let’s talk about the humor. It’s one thing to deliver life-changing advice; it’s another to do it with perfectly timed wit and a hefty dose of self-awareness. Manson doesn’t preach—he levels with you, balancing moments of hilarity with deeply thought-provoking insights. It’s a refreshing departure from the overly saccharine advice that saturates a lot of self-help books. Instead of offering easy fixes, he challenges you to sit with life’s discomfort and find value in it.

As someone who doesn’t usually gravitate toward this genre, I can wholeheartedly say that *The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F**** is worth the hype. It’s thought-provoking, engaging, and, dare I say, life-changing—not in a “transform yourself in five easy steps” kind of way, but in a “rethink what truly matters” kind of way.

So, what about you? Have you read The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*, or do you have thoughts about embracing life’s messiness? I’d love to hear your take in the comments—let’s chat about how this no-nonsense approach resonated with you (or didn’t). And hey, if you found this review helpful, any small contribution to fuel more late-night reads and thoughtful reviews would mean the world. 😉
Here’s to caring less about the fluff and more about what truly matters. Cheers!

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The Unforgettable Hamster Incident: A Birthday Tale of Stig Ren

Life has a way of throwing the most unexpected surprises our way, and for my long time friend Stig, one of those surprises happened a few years before I met him, on his 6th birthday. Stig’s life has been nothing short of extraordinary, filled with ups and downs, laughter and tears. Today, I’d like to share an unforgettable story from his childhood that still makes us chuckle and shudder in equal measure. Buckle up and join me as I drag you down memory lane.

My friend Stig’s life has been an epic one. His mom and dad sent him to live with his grandma unofficially when they went on a cruise to Mexico and failed to tell anyone when they got home. His gran was more of a mom to him and, by extension of Stig, me. His parents only attempted to parent during birthdays and Christmas and even then, it was half-hearted and possibly mean-spirited attempts to remind him that he was an unwanted child. Hold on tight, Stig’s 6th birthday present was one such half-baked parental moment that his parents were infamous for.

Stig's parents were wealthy by the standards of residents in Milton and Pace, Florida, but they were stingy unless there was something in it for their benefit. So Stig always got second-best or no-effort gifts from his parents. His Gran, on the other hand, while not wealthy, did better for him. They were known for their half-hearted attempts at parenting, often leaving him in the care of his loving Gran while they pursued their own adventures. Unfortunately, their selfishness and disregard for Stig's well-being went beyond mere neglect. They prioritized their own desires, frequently embarking on lavish vacations and social gatherings, leaving Stig behind with little more than a passing thought.

On Stig's 6th birthday, his parents decided to make one of their rare gestures of "affection." They picked up a bright yellow plastic cage, some wood shavings, hamster food, and the biggest, fattest hamster they could find at TG&Y in Milton. Along with this peculiar gift came carrot cake cupcakes from the Delchamps a few doors down from the TG&Y. Bear in mind, Carrot Cake is NOT something you get for a kid's birthday and in this case, they were also dangerous—since Stig was highly allergic to nuts, and the cake contains walnuts. It was a clear sign of their thoughtlessness, lack of care and evilness.

When Stig got home and saw the hamster in the cage, he screamed like a girl, terrified by the sight. Mice, rats, and anything that resembled them sent shivers down his spine. Gran, ever the caring figure, promised they would find the little critter a new home. That night, Stig tried to muster the courage to bond with the hamster, thinking that as an unwanted child himself, they might have something in common. But as fate would have it, the hamster bit him, drawing blood and leaving him in tears.

Gran rushed to his side, as he held his bloody finger and crying. She asked Stig what he fed the little guy as she noticed something unusual in the cage—the hamster was munching on something. To their horror, they realized that the hamster had given birth and, much like Stig’s own mother, lacked any maternal instincts. The hamster had killed her litter and was eating them. Gran quickly disposed of the remains, sparing Stig from further trauma.

Years later, Gran revealed the full story over dinner at Red Lobster. Instead of disposing of the cannibalistic mama hamster, she had returned to TG&Y and bought not one, but fourteen more hamsters. With Stig's parents away on another vacation, Gran released the hamsters throughout their house, turning it into a rodent playground.

When Stig's parents returned three weeks later, they were greeted by chaos. Boxes of food in the pantry and cabinets were chewed open, leaving a trail of crumbs, debris and poop. Cords to their TVs, stereo, appliances, and even their beloved waterbed heater were gnawed through, rendering many of their electronics useless. The hamsters had burrowed into the sofa cushions, leaving small nests of shredded fabric and stuffing. In the game room, Stig's dad’s prized pool table had been infiltrated, with one of the hamsters making a cozy nest in one of the pockets and the innards of the table full of collected food and the ball return with droppings. They even found hamster droppings in their shoes and closets, evidence of their extensive exploration.

The house reeked of rodent activity, with chewed-up papers and books scattered around, and small teeth marks on the legs of furniture. Stig's parents never figured out that it all started with their ill-conceived gift to their son. This incident was a turning point for Stig, teaching him that love and care come from those who genuinely value you, like his Gran, rather than those who are supposed to by default.

To this day, Stig avoids small animals, though he adores cats and dogs. He often reflects on that birthday, not with bitterness, but with gratitude for his Gran's unwavering love and support.

Thanks for joining me on this wild ride through Stig’s 6th birthday adventure. Have you ever experienced a gift-gone-wrong moment or a memorable birthday tale? Share your stories in the comments below! And if you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the blog—every little bit helps me continue sharing these amazing tales. Here's to more unforgettable moments and the lessons we learn from them.

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Locked Out and Let Down: A Summer Tale of Soup, Chaos, and Consequences

Summer days as a kid were usually straightforward—simple lunches, afternoons of play, and the occasional mishap. But one particular summer day left me with a memory I’d love to erase. It’s a tale of soup, swimming, and sheer embarrassment, with a sprinkle of chaos for good measure. If you’ve ever been locked out of your house at the worst possible moment, trust me, you’re not alone. Here’s how it all went hilariously—and horribly—wrong.

When I think back to childhood summers, I remember the predictability of lunch at 12:30. My mom always had something ready: a ham or turkey sandwich with store-brand BBQ or Sour Cream and Onion chips, or a can of soup paired with crackers. Between sandwiches and soup, soup almost always won. Our pantry was stocked with Chicken with Stars, Chicken Noodle, Vegetable Beef, and Alphabet Soup. These weren’t the fancy Campbell’s varieties, either—they were store-brand, salty and indistinguishable from one another, but I didn’t care.

Dinner, on the other hand, was less predictable. My mom would occasionally fry chicken—seasoned well but often burned on one side, with the meat near the bone still questionably undercooked. It wasn’t a gourmet meal, but it got the job done. Or so I thought.

On this particular day, I’d had soup for lunch and was invited to swim at the McKenzies’ house next door. They had a pool, and we didn’t, so I rarely said no when Kim McKenzie extended an invite—although her mom wasn’t my biggest fan. She thought I was weird, which, to be fair, might’ve been true. Her son had quirks of his own, but that’s a story for another day. Before I went over, mama told me DO NOT GET IN THE POOL.

So Kim and I were splashing around in the pool when I felt a hot rumble in my stomach—the kind that tells you you’ve got less than two minutes before disaster strikes. I told Kim I needed to use the bathroom, but her response was swift: “You’ll have to go home.” Apparently, the McKenzies’ bathroom was off-limits to me. Ironically, I’d already peed in the pool. Twice. But this was a situation that couldn’t be handled discreetly.

I bolted for home, only to find every door locked. My mom had a habit of locking us out during the day to encourage “outdoor playtime” and keep us out of her hair. I pounded on the doors, rang the doorbell—nothing. The laundry room door? Locked. The back door? Also locked. Panic was setting in, along with increasingly urgent churning in my stomach. I remembered that my sister sometimes left her bedroom window unlocked, so I ran barefoot through the pine-bark-covered ground behind the front yard bushes to check. Locked. My own bedroom window? Locked. By this point, my stomach was in full rebellion, my feet were on fire from the sharp bark, and my shorts were bone dry—thanks to the blazing summer heat.

And then it happened. Standing in those bushes, in sheer desperation, I lost the battle. Let’s just say the alphabet soup I’d had for lunch made an unceremonious reappearance, and I might’ve also peed myself for good measure. The slightly undercooked chicken from the night before had come back to haunt me in the worst possible way.

Thinking quickly, I turned on the water hose to clean myself up. As the cool water hit my skin, I started to feel slightly more human—until I realized I’d have to face my mom. I ran back to the McKenzies’, hoping Kim would still be outside, but she had already gone in. So there I was, dripping wet—not from pool water, but from the hose—and reluctantly headed home.

As I rounded the corner, I saw my mom standing at the front door, her expression a mix of confusion and suspicion. The screen door flew open, and she glared at me. “I heard the water hose come on,” she said. Seriously? The water hose was what got her attention? Not the frantic doorbell ringing, the pounding, or my desperate pleas to be let in?

Our old house on Pace Lane...though it looked NOTHING like this when we lived there.

She assumed I was trying to rinse off the chlorine smell, since I wasn’t supposed to be in the pool that day. What followed was the grand finale: an ass whoopin’ in wet shorts. If you’ve never experienced a belt on wet fabric, let me tell you—it’s an experience that stays with you.

Looking back, it’s the kind of story that makes me laugh now, though it definitely didn’t feel funny at the time. Childhood is full of these moments—embarrassing, chaotic, and sometimes downright ridiculous. If this story brought a smile to your face or reminded you of your own summer misadventures, I’d love to hear about it in the comments. And if you feel like supporting this blog and helping me keep the memories alive, I’d deeply appreciate your kindness. Thanks for taking the time to read, and here’s to all the wonderfully messy moments that make life memorable.

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Grandma Ella Ree Manning: A Legacy of Love and Lessons

My granny and grandfather with my dad

Grandma Ella Ree Bunch Manning—Granny to all of us—would be 104 today. Born on February 21, 1921, she was a remarkable woman whose legacy still resonates with our family. She married my grandfather Obdean in her teens and was stunningly beautiful, the kind of beauty that could have graced magazines had her life taken a different path. But Granny was dedicated to family, her life revolving around Alabama and Mississippi. I don't think she ever travelled further than Florida, Louisiana, Missouri or Tennessee.

Aunt Joan often shared stories of Granny's dedication long before she had children of her own. She took care of her brother Harry's twins, Ermon and Thurmon Bunch, who would later be part of the musical group The Plainsmen. Elvis Presley was a fan of the twins and later became a personal friend. Granny would walk the twins to school, carrying them when necessary because they lacked proper shoes to navigate the sandspur-lined dirt roads. All the while, her sister, Aunt Velma would trail behind, lost in her own world. Granny was the glue that held our family together for a long time, even after the death of my grandfather a day before my first birthday. She never remarried or even dated. As a kid, I watched my Uncle Mike, Uncle Gene, Aunt Joan and eventually my parents go through divorces, causing the family to fragment. But through it all, Granny remained our rock.

Granny was a phenomenal cook, specializing in Southern cuisine, and she could fry anything to perfection. She also sewed beautiful quilts for all her grandkids. I still wish I had mine, but it was lost when we were evicted from one of our houses. Granny was a master at a sewing machine and I feel like everything in her closet, except her winter coats and night gowns, may have been her own creations. She was a heavy smoker, going through about a carton a week. Granny never had cable TV—just an antenna on the side of her house that picked up three network channels and a few independents. Every morning, she would rise early, cook breakfast, and make coffee for the adults. She'd be in bed by 6:30 or 7:00 p.m., always watching the local news on WKRG Channel 5 before turning in.

Granny loved doing word searches, crossword puzzles, and variety puzzle books. She was a product of her time, a bit racist by today's standards, but it was a different world when she was growing up. She would often use the generalization of people that weren't like us as a means to keep us in line, or at least away from the wooded areas where they were lurking and waiting to kidnap us. Despite this, she cared deeply for all of her grandkids and even some great-grandkids. My cousin Crystal was especially close to her. Uncle Mike used to joke that Crystal was six but a year away from turning seventy because her best friend was Granny.

Granny slept with a gun next to her pillow and made sure all doors were locked from the inside. She was deaf in one ear, so if you got locked out after she went to bed, you were in for a tough night, or at least until my Uncle Mike or one of the other adults who seemed to always live in her house would arrive home. Once, when Granny visited us in Florida, I found myself locked out while she took a nap, oblivious to my knocking and ringing the doorbell.

While she wasn't particularly religious, she had a large Bible in her living room. She might look at it occasionally, but she never forced any of us to pray, a trait I appreciated. Granny was not a lady who cared much about looks but she did take care of herself. I remember her putting curlers in her hair and sitting under a pastel-colored tabletop hair dryer, painting her nails, doing puzzle books or reading library books my dad would check out for her.

Granny was a disciplinarian, instilling a healthy dose of respect in us with her preferred method of punishment—the switch. She would send us out to the yard to pick our own switch, ensuring we learned to choose wisely if we picked one that was too small or unwieldy. As we grew older, Granny kept a random stick in the house as a reminder for the great-grandkids. She didn't intend to use it, but our stories of the switch were enough to keep the younger ones in line. They learned from our experiences and knew Granny meant business.

Granny also had a deep love for animals and insisted we respect them. I remember the time I shot a squirrel with my BB gun. Instead of scolding me, Granny turned it into a lesson. She taught me to skin it and she then cooked the squirrel, showing me the importance of respecting life and the consequences of my actions. It tasted surprisingly like her delicious fried chicken, but the experience was enough to teach me a valuable lesson I'd never forget, I haven't eaten squirrel since.

While she had a sister, Velma, they were never close and didn't have much to do with each other unless Velma showed up for a visit. Granny would immediately instruct all of us kids to watch her and anyone she came with to make sure they didn’t take any of her belongings while she was distracted. That side of our family was wild, and I have many stories to share about them as well as my own immediate relations in the future.

Ella Ree Bunch Manning

Every Christmas, Granny could expect gifts like house slippers, kitchen items, or something to read, and she was always grateful for everything she received. The last time I saw Granny, my friend Ry (known as Stig to some of you) and I visited her at her house on Repoll Drive, on our way to the fair in Mobile. Granny didn't seem too impressed with Ry, but much like the time I invited my friend Costa to visit while I was living with her, she was the perfect hostess. She fried up some pork chops, mashed potatoes with gravy, and biscuits. Despite our intention to save room for fair food, we couldn't resist her cooking and enjoyed the meal and our visit with Granny.

Granny passed away in May 2002 after battling lung cancer, but even in her final days, she tried to sneak to the hospital roof to smoke. She was a resilient and stubborn woman, and we all loved her deeply.

Happy Heavenly Birthday, Granny Ella Ree Bunch Manning. Your legacy lives on in all of us.

Thank you for reading this tribute to my remarkable Granny. If this story resonated with you or if you have similar memories of a loved one, please feel free to share in the comments. I love hearing from all of you and learning how our shared experiences connect us. Your thoughts and stories mean the world to me, and together, we can keep the memories of our loved ones alive.

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