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.

Won't You Be My Knitter? The Cozy Tale Behind Mr. Rogers' Beloved Sweaters

Hey everyone! This topic is especially close to my heart because not only did I grow up watching Mister Rogers, but I also have a deep love for all things related to knitting and needlework. A few years back, I stumbled upon an article that delved into the origins of the sweaters Mister Rogers wore and the beautiful reason behind them. I can’t recall exactly where I came across it, but it left such an impression that I felt inspired to write about it and share the story with you.

Remember that warm, fuzzy feeling you got every time Mister Rogers slipped on his cardigan and sneakers at the beginning of his show? It wasn't just a routine; it was like he was wrapping us all in a big, comforting hug through the TV screen. For so many of us kids (and let's be honest, grown-ups too!), that little ritual was a signal that for the next half hour, everything was going to be okay, a safe space to let our imaginations run wild and explore all those big feelings.

My own memories of watching Mister Rogers are so vivid. I can almost hear that gentle piano intro and see him hanging up his jacket, ready to chat with us like we were right there in his living room. It turns out, that simple act of changing into his cardigan was a super important cue for us kids. Hedda Sharapan, who worked at The Fred Rogers Company for ages, explained that it gave us a multi-sensory signal – we saw it, we almost felt it – that we were entering a special, safe place. Even Koko, the amazing gorilla who could sign, totally got it! When she met Mr. Rogers, she immediately reached for his sweater. How cool is that?

But here's where it gets even sweeter: those weren't just any old cardigans. Each and every one was knitted with so much love by his mom, Nancy Rogers Flagg. Isn't that just the most heartwarming thing? Mr. Rogers himself once shared on the show, holding up one of his colorful sweaters, that it was "one of the ways she says she loves somebody." Every time he put on one of those cozy sweaters, he said it helped him think of his mother. Talk about a tangible expression of love!

Nancy kept her son stocked with her handmade cardigans until she passed away in 1981. It just goes to show how much she cared. After that, the folks behind the show really understood how important that sweater tradition was. They went out of their way to find old-fashioned cardigans and even dyed them in those classic Mister Rogers colors to keep that comforting visual going.

It's incredible to think that one of these very cardigans – a cherry-red one with those snuggly ribbed cuffs and collar – is now hanging in the Smithsonian's National Museum of American History. It's like a little piece of our childhood, a reminder of the kindness and connection that Fred Rogers brought into our lives. It makes you realize just how much of an impact one gentle soul and a simple, loving gesture can have.

What are your favorite memories of Mister Rogers' Neighborhood? Did that cardigan ritual mean something special to you too? Share your thoughts in the comments below! And hey, if this story warmed your heart and brought back some good memories and you'd like to help keep the spirit of kindness and connection alive (maybe even help me share more stories like this!), well, every little bit helps. Just a thought! 😉

You can also find me on the following social media platforms:
https://www.facebook.com/adrianduarte
https://bsky.app/profile/adriansknitwits.bsky.social
https://www.instagram.com/adriansknitwits
https://www.threads.net/adriansknitwits

GenX Dreams Deferred: The Stuff We Yearned For (But Never Got)

Remember the ache? That deep, yearning feeling for something you just had to have as a kid, something all the other kids seemed to possess with effortless ease? For my sister Becki and me, growing up GenX with baby boomer parents, that feeling was a constant companion. Our worlds, it seemed, were separated by a chasm wider than just a few years on the calendar.

Our folks, bless their hearts, operated on a different wavelength entirely. They didn't quite grasp the social currency woven into the fabric of our childhood – the unspoken hierarchy dictated by the logos on our sneakers or the labels peeking out from our jeans. My mama, with her down-to-earth wisdom, would declare, "If someone doesn't like you for your shoes, they ain't worth your time." And while there's a beautiful truth to that, in the suburban Florida landscape of our youth, K-Mart kicks and hand-me-downs often placed you squarely on the lower rungs of the playground pecking order and in middl and high school, dictated who your friends were.

Looking back, it's a wonder we navigated those years at all. What we didn't realize until adulthood was the tightrope our parents walked financially. Mayonnaise sandwiches for dinner weren't a quirky culinary choice; they were often the stark reality of a paycheck stretched thinner than day-old bread. Mama would cry while she slathered mayo on sandwich bread while Becki and I were saying we loved mayonnaise sandwiches, or as I called them "bandaid" sandwiches as the word mayonnaise never rolled off my tongue as easily as it did for others. Grilled cheese, made with that legendary government cheese so many of us remember with a strange fondness, felt like a feast. We were oblivious, in our innocent childhood, thinking it was all perfectly normal, while Mama carried a silent burden, especially on those days when Daddy's payday vanished before he even made it home, thanks to the calling of the greyhounds at the track or a few rounds for him and strangers at the local bar across the bay. No bitterness lingers now, just a quiet understanding that their own upbringings likely cast long shadows. I do often remember there was never a shortage of coffee and cigarettes in our home though, even before they switched to generic brands.

Despite the financial constraints, Becki and I harbored a deep love for browsing in stores. Even without the promise of a purchase, the brightly lit aisles and neatly arranged merchandise held a certain magic. We both also loved looking at sales papers and catalogs that would find their way in our home. But as we grew older, the stark contrast between what we had and what others flaunted became impossible to ignore. The requests started – for name-brand clothes, for the coveted toys and even cereal advertised on TV. Mama was a master of deflection, the "maybe for your birthday" or the hopeful whisper of "maybe Santa will bring it." Daddy, however, was a brick wall of "NO," a definitive end to any and all negotiation. If it was something he deemed frivolous or, heaven forbid, expensive – like Becki's teenage yearning for a pair of Nikes – he'd dissect the absurdity of the cost with anyone who dared to listen. (Bless her resourceful GenX heart, Becki eventually earned the money herself for those Nikes. Take that, Dad!) BTW, even though she paid with them with her own money, he still made it a topic of conversation.

The move to Florida amplified the brand consciousness. Gone were the days in Mobile where shoes were just shoes and clothes were simply clothes. Suddenly, the K-Mart tag was a scarlet letter, while kids sporting Gayfers, JC Penney and even the slightly more aspirational Sears and Montgomery Wards were the cool kids. This brings to mind my buddy Stig and the infamous Payless shoes his mean-spirited mom, Barb, bought him – a story I’ve shared before about ill-fitting footwear and public humiliation.

As the years marched on, pop culture seeped into our young lives like a persistent tide, while our parents remained anchored in their own generational experiences. Mom did eventually grasp the memo, realizing that Becki couldn't navigate high school in whatever happened to be on the sale rack at K-Mart. I vividly recall one back-to-school shopping trip at the sprawling University Mall in Pensacola, when University Mall was actually the largest mall in Pensacola. Becki disappeared into the dressing room of a trendy store called "Rita's," and Mama and I perched on a little bench in the center. The moment Mama lit up a Winston 100 and took her first couple of drags, a saleslady swooped in, a look of horror on her face, demanding she extinguish it immediately. Ever the rebel, Mama pointed to the ashtray beside her (which probably wasn't an ashtray at all), flicked her ash onto the floor and stubbed out her cigarette with a defiant huff just as Becki emerged with an armful of clothes. "COME ON," Mama declared, grabbing the chosen garments and dropping them into the floor before marching us out of the store, leaving a bewildered Becki in our wake. To be fair, indoor smoking was still somewhat commonplace then, but even I knew lighting up in a clothing store was a questionable move, I mean, who wants to buy clothes where one can smoke?

That year, though, Mama did come through, for me, in her own unique way. She unearthed a pattern and some fabric at Moores and sewed me a couple of pairs of "Jams" shorts. I genuinely loved those shorts; they were comfy and cool in their own homemade way. I never did own a real pair of Jams, though. By the time I had my own money, the moment had passed. Still, every now and then, I stumble upon the Jams website and feel a nostalgic tug and am tempted to buy a few pairs, even if the current patterns don't quite capture the magic of the originals.

There were those perennial requests, the things we yearned for year after year, met with parental bewilderment. This isn't a comprehensive list of all the longed-for treasures, but a few stand out in the hazy landscape of childhood desires:

A BMX or Mongoose bike: "You have one already!" though in reality, a Huffy is not the same even though it would get you from point A to B just the same.

Name-brand sneakers (Nike, Adidas, Pumas – especially those elusive blue suede Pumas in a size 10.5, hint hint): The standard reply was a variation of, "You have perfectly good shoes already!"

Cereal: Becki loved Cap'n Crunch and mama would usually buy it but I never cared for it and wanted Frosted Flakes because "They're GREAT!" but Mama would always point out she is buying Corn Flakes which are the same....no mom, they aren't. 

Clothing from mall stores: "You have a closet full of clothes you haven't even worn yet!" Mama was a strategic clearance shopper, often buying out-of-season clothes in larger sizes, practicality trumping style every time. And her classic line, "I could make that cheaper at home," while occasionally true (hello, Jams!), usually wasn't.

Decent haircuts: Oh, the dreaded dining room haircuts! Thirty to forty-five minutes of forced stillness, the incessant snip snip and the horrifying reveal of yet another bowl cut. I lived with haircuts that Mama could have saved time on by just putting a salad bowl on my head and cutting around until the day my daddy took my to Fantastic Sams in the 6th grade, where I chose a "spike" from a magazine with Billy Idol on the cover, his looked much better than mine. Becki, with her long hair, fared better with quick trims. Like seriously, Mama wanted to be a beautician like her mom and my awesome Aunt Beverly but never managed to get into beauty school. But Mama did have one hairstyling superpower: perms. She could create the most glorious curls and actually had random ladies in our dining room receiving a Lilt or whatever brands of perms were the thing back then. Meanwhile in the modern day of today, on my own hair, or shall I say my hairpieces, I still wrestle with a curling iron and rollers, a skill that eluded me despite Mama's expertise.

Cool sodas: Only if they were on sale and cheaper than the generic brand. End of discussion.

Cabbage Patch Kids: Apparently, those were strictly "for girls."

Garbage Pail Kids: I knew better than to ask Mama. Daddy's reaction was a dismissive wave and a pronouncement that they are stupid and baseball cards were a far superior investment. He even started a collection for me, which I mostly ignored, more interested in the cute players than the stats. Daddy eventually took them away from me and continued collecting cards throughout the years. I think Becki still has daddy's card collection. As for Garbage Pail Kids, much like every other kid showing theirs off, they likely would have been confiscated by my teachers anyway.

Records and tapes, especially anything by Madonna: While occasional musical gifts did materialize, they were rare. Becki, ever the savvy one, joined the RCA tape club in the 6th or 7th grade and kept her account in good standing. I, along with my partner in crime Stig, gamed the RCA/BMG and Columbia House clubs for all they were worth, signing up repeatedly for the freebies with zero intention of paying. Stig even made a business of his free tapes and records. Our parents simply didn't understand that the radio didn't play all the good songs.

Barbie: Another toy deemed exclusively for the fairer sex.

Light Brite: Becki had one, a casualty of Mama's vacuum cleaner after a rogue peg incident. When I dared to ask for my own, Mama simply suggested I inquire with my sister as to why that wouldn't be happening.

Coloring books: "You have some at home," or "I have a lot of typing paper at home you can color on."
It's a funny thing, looking back. Television, magazines and the burgeoning world of media became our windows into a pop culture our parents often seemed oblivious to. Now, scrolling through my Instagram feed, I find a tribe of fellow GenXers who not only remember those coveted items but continue to celebrate the nostalgia.

What about you? What were the must-have items of your childhood that remained just out of reach? What generational gaps did you experience? Share your stories in the comments below – I'd love to hear them! And hey, if you happen to stumble upon a cool pair of new blue suede Puma in a men's 10.5 that's just gathering dust on a shoe store shelf...well, let's just say a fellow GenXer with a lifelong longing would be eternally grateful. Just a thought!

You can also find me on the following social media platforms:
https://www.facebook.com/adrianduarte
https://bsky.app/profile/adriansknitwits.bsky.social
https://www.instagram.com/adriansknitwits
https://www.threads.net/adriansknitwits

The Quirky Doodle Diaries: My Daddy's Rainy Day Antics

Ever had one of those random family memories that make you laugh every time you think about it? Today is my daddy's birthday, he would have been 82 years old. He passed away in 2010 and my sister and I think of him often. He left so many stories behind, but we never truly knew our parents very well, or at least their lives before we were born.

One of my fondest memories of my daddy involves his unique way of spending rainy days. He was quite the character, though he would never admit it. His creativity often bordered on the crazy, much like me. This particular memory still brings a smile to my face every time I recall it.

Daddy had a habit of doodling on anything he could find—bits of paper, notebooks, envelopes, and even paper towels. Despite having plenty of drink coasters, he'd always tear a paper towel in half, fold one half, and use it as a coaster. These little paper towel halves were scattered all over our house, driving us nuts, a habit he had until he passed away.

One rainy day when I was about six years old, living in our cozy little yellow house at the end of Easter Lane, someone—perhaps one of the lovely ladies in the neighborhood like Mary Williamson, Karen Richardson, Mrs. Moon, our next-door neighbor Edna, or maybe even my Aunt Joan—dropped off a huge stack of magazines for my mom: Family Circle, Ladies Home Journal, Better Homes and Gardens, Southern Living, Good Housekeeping, Redbook, and a few old issues of my favorite at the time, Smithsonian Magazine. Before my mom had a chance to flip through them, Daddy—armed with a blue ink pen from AmSouth Bank—had already commandeered the stack. He sat at the kitchen table, flipping through the pages and clicking away with that pen.

As he read, he added his own artistic touch to the magazines. By the time my mom got to them, she discovered that most of the models and smiling faces had a few or all of their teeth blued or blacked out. It was hilarious! My mom was both pissed and humored. How could you be completely mad at someone after seeing Cheryl Tiegs looking like she had a gummy bear stuck to her teeth or another model looking like she ate a toilet deodorizer?

The magazines were destined for the trash after my mom read them, so it wasn’t a big deal. But after that, she made sure to read every donated magazine before Daddy or the copycats inspired by Daddy's creativity got a hold of them.

Daddy's doodling didn't stop with magazines; the Sears Wishbook and JC Penny catalogs were also filled with his random blue ink dental work. And remember those bits of paper towels I mentioned? Well, not only would Daddy use them as coasters, but sometimes he would doodle on them before folding them up to set his drink on. Occasionally, the ink would bleed, but nothing severe enough to ruin the table or the cup. Now that I'm older, I realize that my quirkiness isn't entirely my fault—it's in my genes.

Thanks for taking a trip down memory lane with me. Do you have any quirky family traditions or funny memories? I'd love to hear about them in the comments! And if you enjoyed this story and want to support my creative endeavors, any contributions would be greatly appreciated. Just know that your support means the world to me. 😊

You can also find me on the following social media platforms:
https://www.facebook.com/adrianduarte
https://bsky.app/profile/adriansknitwits.bsky.social
https://www.instagram.com/adriansknitwits
https://www.threads.net/adriansknitwits

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.

Stay connected by following me for more stories and updates, and don't forget to like and share if you enjoyed this post. Until next time, take care and cherish the moments with your loved ones.

Childhood Sleepovers: Friday Nights At Aunt Joan's House

Back when my sister and I were too young to stay home alone, we were always dropped off at Aunt Joan's whenever my parents went out for the evening, usually to the Mobile Greyhound Park. I never understood their fascination with the dog track, but I always looked forward to spending the night at Aunt Joan's house. She knew how to make sleepovers special for me. As long as she had plenty of Coca-Cola and potato chips, I was set.

When we arrived, Aunt Joan and her daughters would usually be putting the finishing touches on dinner. It was often fried chicken or pork chops, accompanied by fried okra or fried squash, cornbread or biscuits, and fresh peas or beans from Joan's fields, all served with a big glass of sweet tea. My mom's cooking was hit or miss, aside from a few dishes she did well, so Aunt Joan's meals were always a treat. Her fabulous country cooking filled the void.

Aunt Joan was one of the most special people I've ever met, showing unconditional love for her kids, siblings, and their kids. Growing up, I often wished my mom could be more like Joan, especially when it came to cooking. We were a close-knit family back in the day, despite some unfortunate incidents involving unruly family members. I'll touch on those stories, including holiday brawls, in future posts.

After dinner, we kids would hang out on the patio, play in the fields, or jump on the trampoline. Being the smallest, I mostly got bounced around by everyone else. We had free rein of the 13-acre property, except for the swampy area known as "The Branch," which was off-limits due to snakes and other dangers. As night fell, we'd take turns in the two bathrooms. I can still remember the smell of Aunt Joan's soap, similar to Coast Pacific Force. Once clean, we’d head to the den, a large, cozy room with minimal light, a TV in the corner, a fireplace, a huge console stereo, and a Fun Machine Organ. We’d make pallets on the floor with blankets and pillows, play board games, and watch TV with an endless supply of chips and soda. Friday nights were all about watching "Dallas," to see JR’s next move and if Sue Ellen could stay sober for an episode.

At some point, Aunt Joan would bring out the pickles—her bread and butter pickles were the absolute best. She grew her own vegetables and preserved them, filling a small room with mason jars of pickles, blackberry jelly, and other goodies. I wasn't big on veggies back then, but at Aunt Joan's, everything was delicious. By 11 PM, I’d usually pass out watching TV, except for one memorable time when my cousin Lynda’s hamster, Herman, escaped. Waking up to my sister and cousins trying to catch Herman was quite the adventure.

The next morning, I'd wake up to the smell of bacon or sausage and eggs, signaling that mom and dad would be picking us up soon. Those mornings always passed too quickly. When my mom arrived, she never asked how our night was—probably because she didn’t want to hear how much more fun we had at Aunt Joan's compared to home. Our routine at home was similar, minus the den, soda, chips, great food, pickles, and the occasional hamster on the loose.

Chicken Pox...Chicken Pops....Chicken Pocks...and a Family Barbecue

Throughout my life, I've been blessed with the ability to remember things that most people forget. My childhood could be described in two ways: 1) a series of traumatic and dramatic events, or 2) colorful and eventful. This story fits those descriptions to a T.

Before children could receive vaccinations for chicken pox, the only way to ensure you wouldn't suffer from the illness as an adult was to catch it and endure it as a child. Healthcare officials claim that the symptoms and severity of the illness are far worse if contracted as an adult, leading many parents to expose their children to the illness as early as possible. Once you have the virus in your system, your body builds up immunity, and you shouldn't suffer from it again—unless your immune system is weak, which leaves you susceptible to shingles.

It took me years to figure out where I contracted the chicken pox. Aside from the 20 kids in my class and the 30 that rode my bus, I didn't have much contact with the outside world. Don't worry; the discovery of where I caught the virus figures into this story later on.

I was in Mrs. Herring's second-grade class at Tanner Williams, sometime around Easter of 1983. My mom had been preparing for a complete hysterectomy for a few weeks. Mamma was pretty much the one to help my sister and me when we were sick, unless it involved vomit—then it was my dad's department.

Mamma had been in the hospital for a few days when she called, and I was so excited to tell her about the banana scratch-and-sniff sticker Mrs. Herring gave me for the excellent grades I'd received the previous week. I told her it would be waiting for her when she got back home. It smelled JUST like real bananas, and I thought Mamma just had to smell it for herself. I'm sure she wasn't exactly interested, but my excitement over something so small was enough to cheer her up for the moment.

The following morning, I woke up with a sore throat, an itchy back, feeling groggy, tired, and visibly sick. But my dad, an old-school Marine, had the motto to suck it up and go to school. He preached that perfect attendance was crucial to our education. In reality, thinking back, it had more to do with the fact that he would rather cut off his hand than call out from work. He HAD to go to work, and the only other person who could watch me was my sister, but she was in the 8th grade and couldn't stay home from school.

Why didn't Daddy take me to work with him, you ask? Daddy's job at the time was with a company called Leak Repair Incorporated. While it sounds like he was a plumber, he was not. He was a technician who repaired industrial steam leaks at large facilities and plants like Monsanto, Cyanamid, Air Products, Scott Paper, and various power companies like Mississippi, Gulf, and Alabama Power. Daddy's office was based in Pensacola, Florida, about 45 minutes across Mobile Bay. Even if he went through the office each day, it wouldn't have been a good environment for a sick child—it was small, barely had enough room for the secretary and his boss, Dave Croft. Pretty much Daddy's office was his work truck, and it wouldn't have been suitable for a sick child as it reeked of industrial sealant that looked like a thick slurry of ground-up asphalt, lead, and other metals mixed with thickeners and solvents.

He gave me an aspirin, and off to school I went, sick with an unknown illness. Had he looked at my back and stomach, he would have likely known that something was up, but he didn't—live and learn. For anyone who went to Tanner Williams Elementary School back in 1983, rode Mrs. Horton's bus to and from school, had lunch with Mrs. Herring's class, or was in Mrs. Herring's class, you were definitely exposed to chicken pox thanks to my dad.

Being raised the way we were, my sister and I knew better than to complain about being sick unless we REALLY were sick because it meant several things: Mamma's medicine cabinet contained nothing we wanted to take, many of the medicines were either for adults or so old that no one could remember when they were purchased. If we had a cold, we ended up with a tablespoon of Creomulsion. Little did Mamma know, it did nothing other than suppress a cough. It contained no fever reducers, pain relievers, antihistamines, or expectorants—in other words, it did nothing but taste bad and kept you from coughing, and many times, we didn't even have a cough.

To this day, I keep a bottle of it in my medicine cabinet because it is an excellent cough suppressant. So, needless to say, I didn't complain to Mrs. Herring because I didn't want her to call Daddy and have him give me the horrible medicine when I got home. For anyone who remembers chicken pox, you'll recall the unending urge to scratch and the low-grade fever all over your body as it comes on. As I sat at my desk doing my schoolwork, the itching became unbearable, my muscles began to feel crampy, and my entire body felt like it was flushing. But the itching was the main pain—so much so that I used my lead-tipped pencil to poke and scratch the little bumps all over my back that I noticed while in the bathroom during recess. I popped something with my pencil, but it didn't hurt. I was too afraid to say anything to Mrs. Herring because I didn't want anyone to know something was really wrong. I was also afraid I'd get in trouble or that she would embarrass me in front of the class over making a big deal out of hardly anything, so I just endured it.

About an hour before school let out, I discovered my voice was scratchy and almost gone, so I remained silent for the rest of the day and kept to myself on the bus instead of sitting with my friends Jay and Monica. When I got home, Grandma Manning, my dad's mom, was in the kitchen cooking dinner for us and had a pot of tea boiling on the stove. Mamma was lying on the couch. I was surprised because no one told me she was coming home. I grabbed the scratch-and-sniff sticker I'd been obsessing over and scratched it and sniffed it, but it didn't smell as good as it did the other day. In fact, it smelled rancid to me. I later discovered everything smelled funny to me because I was sick. Anyway, I handed my mom the sticker so she could share in my excitement over the prize I'd been given. She was as excited as she needed to be.

Granny didn't have her overnight bag with her; usually, she would have it if she was staying the night since she only lived about 5 miles from our house. She was just there to cook and make sure we had provisions for the next few days while Mamma rested after her hospital stay. My throat was scratchy, but the excitement of Mamma being home masked the fact that my voice was not 100%. After my dad took Granny back home, he returned with a 2-liter bottle of Sprite, a 2-liter bottle of Tab for Mamma, a box of crackers, and a bunch of cans of Campbell's soup.

A couple of minutes after Daddy came home, it was time for me to take my nightly bath. I mentioned to Mamma that I felt weird and my back was itchy, knowing that she would put her long fingernails to good use. She was a master at back-scratching, but the second she saw my back, she must have put two and two together, and it clicked in her mind, especially since my voice sounded scratchy. She asked my daddy why he let me go to school looking and sounding like I did. Daddy was dumbfounded and said that he had to work and I wasn't throwing up, so I couldn't have been that sick. She had him look at my back, and I still remember him saying, "What did he get into?" Mamma replied, "He didn't get into anything, he's got chicken pox." My sister Becki had the chicken pox a year or so before I was born, around the same time of year. Thinking back on the basic care I received, I'm sure Becki got the sort of care where a parent would try anything from aspirin to bourbon to appease the child, and I'm sure she had fewer medication options than I did.

Mamma called the doctor to ask what she should do. He told her to stay away from me because, being so soon after her operation, she could get shingles due to her compromised immune system. He also advised her to give me plenty of liquids and not to give me any aspirin. I'm sure he mentioned that antihistamines and cold medicines would help relieve my symptoms, but I don't remember being offered any medicine, and I would have remembered if I had been. I do recall her mentioning calamine lotion while on the phone, but that never happened either.

What I do remember is Mamma giving me lotion from a pink bottle and trying to convince me it was good for itching, although it did nothing. To this day, I remember that bottle of lotion with a pink label made by Avon. It definitely did not contain calamine.

Feeling bad about sending me to school, Daddy went back out to grab a few more groceries since there were two sick people in the house. He not only brought back Chicken with Rice and Alphabet Soup, but he also brought back my favorite, Chicken with Stars. Daddy also knew I'd need something to pass the time, so he bought a coloring book featuring the Superfriends and a box of store-branded crayons from K&B Drugs. I loved those crayons more than words can express. Not only did they color well—believe it or not—they were my favorite because the box and paper wrappers were my favorite color at the time, purple—K&B purple, to be exact.

Becki might have made a good daytime helper for me while I was home sick, as she was immune to chicken pox after having them over seven years ago. However, she was just 13 and had to go to school herself. When she was home, she still kept her distance—hanging out with a spotty, cranky 7-year-old isn't fun for a 13-year-old girl. Occasionally, she would stop by the couch to leave me a cold washcloth, a cup of tea, or just to mess with me like an older sister would do with her younger brother.

So, there we were, the following day, stuck at home in separate rooms. My mom, home from the hospital and still recovering from surgery, and me, sick with chicken pox. The timing couldn't have been worse. Being a mamma's boy, I just wanted to cuddle up with my mamma or love on my Springer Spaniel, Pickles. Affection is better than any medicine to me, whether from my mamma or my dog, but I was secluded from both. I’m not sure if it was just me or if it happens to everyone with chicken pox, but my sense of smell became rather bizarre—things just didn’t smell right, and my sense of taste was really off. There was a particular smell that I kept sensing, which I can only describe as acidic, like apple cider vinegar blended with whatever aroma was in the air.

Throughout the two weeks that I had the chicken pox, I remember not wanting to eat anything but butterscotch or chocolate pudding and Campbell’s soup. The only thing I wanted to drink, which felt good on my throat, was sweet tea, but Mamma didn’t keep sweetened tea in the house nor did she drink it herself; that was a holdover from when Granny was there the day before.

The house we lived in had a kitchen with a bar that overlooked a den, which we used as our main living room, and our dining room was actually part of what was built to be the actual living room. I spent my days lying on the couch, watching Nickelodeon in its early years. Children’s programming back then included a few shows like Today’s Special, featuring an actor named Jeff Hyslop (whom I would later enjoy as the Phantom), and a show that seemed to run for three hours called Pinwheel.

Pinwheel always put me to sleep, and I remember waking up to find a bowl of chicken with stars or alphabet soup on the coffee table, accompanied by a cup of sweet tea and a few crackers. Despite needing to keep her distance, Mamma still took care of me. After finishing my lunch, I'd take the bowl and cup to the kitchen and leave them in the sink. My dad did the dishes when he got home from work because Mamma couldn't stand and do the dishes due to her stitches. Daddy helped her with quick sponge baths, and for a change, instead of my usual nightly bath, Mamma and Daddy let me bathe at night and in the morning. I remember lying in the water, wishing I could stay in it all day long because it was the only time I didn't itch.

By day 5, I was covered in blisters from head to toe—on my eyelid, all over my back, front, legs, in my mouth, nose, butt, and everywhere. I was miserable and itchy and couldn't stop scratching. Mamma made me wear my winter mittens to keep from scratching, which only made me want to scratch more. My nights were spent in my bedroom with the door open, a nightlight on, and a cup of water next to my bed. I never drank the water; I used it to wet my mittens and rub on the bumps all over my back, which were the itchiest. Anything was better than the Avon lotion. My bedding, from the time I got my first bed, consisted of a fitted sheet, flat sheet, and two rough acrylic blankets from TG&Y, Wool-co, or Woolworth. The blankets were so rough and itchy that you didn't want them to touch your bare skin. This was one time I couldn't bear to have a blanket over me, even with a sheet between me and the blanket, and I'm someone who has to have a thick blanket when I sleep for security reasons. So, I settled for the thin blue sheet as my cover. Somehow, I managed to sleep despite being itchy, in pain, and feeling unsecured.

Saturday morning arrived, and I woke up still infected, but it looked like the blisters were almost gone. After a week of illness, I was ready to get better. I headed to my spot on the couch and started watching cartoons. My dad was already up, and I remember seeing him fill his ice chest with cans of beer. I asked if he was going fishing because that's usually what he did before going fishing. He told me the neighbors were grilling out, and the beer was for that. I love cookouts; it meant we were having barbecued chicken—my favorite. After a week of condensed canned soup, anything sounded good to me.

I opened the refrigerator door and saw a big bowl of butterscotch pudding chilling—HELL YEAH! Despite everything, I was still sick and likely stuck inside. As the day progressed, Daddy headed to the backyard, fired up the grill, and I could smell the barbecue permeating through our open window. It was a beautiful day, and I heard the chatter of the neighbors, their kids, my sister, and my parents in the backyard. The windows were open, and I could see, hear, and smell everything but wasn't allowed outside. All I wanted, more than anything, was to go outside, eat a chicken leg, sneak a beer from the cooler, go back inside, and enjoy some pudding. Becki occasionally passed the window and teased me, knowing I was stuck inside. Mamma came inside with a chicken leg for me and asked if I wanted some soup. I told her I wanted pudding. She brought me a bowl of pudding and sat next to me for the first time since she got out of the hospital. She felt my head and told me I still had a fever but might be ready to go to school on Monday.

Mrs. Herring sent some work for me to do with Monica, my friend who lived two doors down from us. It wasn't as extensive as our classwork but enough to keep up with her lesson plan. Funny how things work—I got sick and still managed to keep my grades up with minimal work. I never got my beer, but the pudding made up for it. My throat was still itchy, but the pudding was soothing, and I told my mom I wanted more because it felt good. Sunday passed, and Mamma was feeling better, up and moving more, possibly just tired of lying around. I know I was tired of lying around, but when you're itchy and hot from a fever, it's best to stay still and relaxed. The bumps looked like they might be gone by morning, and my fever was just a low-grade fever. My voice was back to normal by the time my 8 PM bedtime arrived.

Monday came around, and as ready as I was to get out of the house, I woke up still not feeling better. The bumps had begun to clear up the day before, and I would have done anything to get dressed and go to school. But there was no faking it—I looked in the mirror, and the bumps were back in full force. I'd had them for 7 days, and the average duration is 5 to 7 days. The general consensus was that I might have had a relapse or gotten them a second time because my infection lasted longer than usual. I just wanted to get out of the house for a little while. I didn't know what I was missing, but it had to be better than 3 hours of "Pinwheel" followed by "The Price is Right," "Days of Our Lives," and "Another World." At least I could sit up, color, and do things to keep busy while watching TV.

The same thing happened on Tuesday and Wednesday. Later on Wednesday night, Mamma helped me get out of the bathtub. She looked at my back and asked if I'd scratched myself with something other than my hands. I told her I used my pencil at school. There was one lesion that was healing slower than the rest, possibly because it had burst and become infected. She cleaned it with peroxide and said I might get to go to school in the morning. I was super excited—I was sick of staying home sick. When I woke up Thursday morning, I was still a bit itchy but thought it might just be mental. Mamma told me to take a bath, and while I was in the tub, she took my temperature. She said if it was normal, I could go to school. I wished as hard as I could that it was normal, trying not to touch the tip of the thermometer with my tongue, hoping to coax it into being normal. Unfortunately, I had to stay home, but Mamma said I didn't have to lay on the couch if I didn't want to.

I spent most of the day following her around as she did household chores and laundry. Our washing machine was in a room just outside our back door in the front of our carport. We didn't have a dryer, as it wasn't an expense people could justify back then, so we hung our clothes to dry on a clothesline that spanned the side of our backyard. I helped Mamma hang the laundry, handing her the clothespins as she hung each item. Our dog, Pickles, was strictly an outdoor dog. Mamma didn't believe in having animals in the house, and now that I'm older, I can't imagine keeping a dog outside. Anyway, Pickles followed me around, nudging my leg with her cold, wet nose. She was as excited to interact with me as I was with her. Over a week of not seeing Pickles except through the window made me happy to finally play with her.

After the laundry was on the line, Mamma said she was tired and needed to lie down, as she was still recovering from surgery. She headed to bed, and I followed. Taking a nap anywhere other than my room or the couch felt like a vacation in itself. We both fell asleep until Daddy got home from work. He brought in the laundry and folded it while Mamma cooked dinner. She took my temperature just before my nightly bath but didn't say anything.

I woke up the next day, Friday morning, to find my clothes for the day laid out on the little table next to my bed. I got dressed and went to the living room to find all the schoolwork I'd done over the past two weeks in a neat pile. Mamma gave me a bowl of cereal and told me to hurry up so I wouldn't miss the bus. It was Friday, and I finally got to go to school. I was so excited. I wasn't itchy or sick, and I felt good and ready to see my friends at school. I hurried up, ate, brushed my teeth, put on my shoes, grabbed my Masters of the Universe lunchbox and the papers I had to turn in to Mrs. Herring. I headed out to the bus stop where Monica usually stood, but she wasn't there—just the two weird girls who never talked to me and lived across the street from Monica. Mrs. Horton's bus pulled up, and I was all smiles and happy to see her. I noticed that a fourth of the kids who were usually on the bus weren't there.

When I arrived at school and went to my class, I set my papers on Mrs. Herring's desk and put my lunchbox in my cubby hole on the wall. When the bell rang, I looked around and saw that at least a third of my class was absent. It seemed there was an outbreak of chicken pox in my class, in the cafeteria, and on the bus over the past week. While I can't be 100% sure, I have a feeling that my dad's decision to send me to school the day I complained about feeling bad might have impacted a bunch of kids in my class, lunchroom, and bus. I guess the silver lining is that none of those kids will suffer from chicken pox as adults.

Remember how I mentioned discovering years later how I contracted chicken pox? Mamma finally came clean and told me that she exposed me to the chicken pox about three weeks before she was supposed to go into the hospital. She sent me to play with the girl next door, Angie. Angie wasn't exactly an ideal playmate; she was a known bully, and most neighboring parents encouraged us to avoid her. However, on this day, my mom, along with Monica and her sister Meredith's mom, Ms. Karen, sent us all over to Angie's to play together. Angie wasn't very interested, so we ended up sitting in her living room, watching Fraggle Rock on HBO, drinking Kool-Aid, and eating chips and dip.

As most know, kids are notorious for double-dipping, except for me—I hate that, but I can't resist Doritos and French Onion dip. The plan was to expose Monica, Meredith, and me to the chicken pox that Angie had at the time. None of us had a clue because, unlike my parents, Angie's mom had her on adult-strength Tylenol with codeine throughout her infection.

The idea was that I would get the pox a week and a half before Mamma went into the hospital and be rid of them within 5 to 7 days. Meredith got the pox within a few days, but Monica and I didn't, leading our parents to think we were immune. Mamma went into the hospital, and then the virus finally took hold when it was least expected. My immune system must have been stronger than they thought. Unfortunately, the plan backfired due to the unpredictable timing of my infection. Monica got the chicken pox the weekend of our barbecue and missed school for a week plus three more days.

Did you get vaccinated or endure the chicken pox? What's your story? Please share in the comments below.