"Band of Brothers" Museum

On the way home from a weekend with my sister, we were driving down I-85 in 101-degree heat.  I glanced up from my book just in time to see a mile marker for Toccoa, Georgia 17 miles.  I looked at my husband and asked him if he thought that was the Toccoa…you know, the one from the Band of Brothers.  As he started to shrug, over his shoulder and up in the tree line I saw a billboard with the HBO poster on it.  The one with the soldiers all standing on a hill in a row.  And the billboard read "Toccoa Museum Next Right."  So, being huge fans of the series, the book and the soldiers, we took the next right.  Drove nearly 11 miles through back Georgia roads with very little direction to go on.  It was a normal, hot, muggy day down south and the countryside was everything I remember growing up with.  Large fields outlined with enormous, brown oak tree groves.  Rundown, brick buildings that were once used as gas stations or fire houses.  There were even oblong brick buildings with dingy white awnings, drooped over a walk up window that served as a drive-up restaurants popular in the 1950s.  Sleepy, backwater Georgia.  But around a bend about 9 miles from the interstate was a brand-new Super Wal-mart and row of fast food restaurants.  Intermingled with all of this was the typical, small town Americana.  Another couple of miles, we turned down the older part of town to the train depot where Amtrak has a station on its way from Birmingham up to Washington, DC.  Inside the depot is the best treasure we've seen.  A museum dedicated to the WWII parachute men who trained at Camp Toccoa in the 1940s before shipping overseas, including Easy Company and the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment.  An old navy man, Ray Ward, took my husband, our 7-year old daughter and me around the museum and told us all the great stories and showed us all the neat stuff.  But the best part of the museum is a horse stable that was brought over from England.  Yes, a horse stable complete with stalls, thick brown walls and triangle roof.  It would have looked perfect in an English countryside and it was the last one left from WWII.  All the others had been torn down or replaced over the years.  So the museum decided it wanted to preserve it.  Why?  Because men who trained at Camp Toccoa lived in it for some time while they were stationed in England waiting for the Normandy jump or before Market Garden.  So the Mississippi Air National Guard took a C-17 and made its way over to England and brought it back to be reconstructed at the Toccoa Museum.  They refurbished it and used the stalls for displays of maps, gear, beds, flags and other memorabilia.  A great find was a letter from Denver "Bull" Randleman from his mother that was found in one of the walls.  A hand written note about life back home is now behind glass for everyone to read.  It is funny and witty and reflects what life was like for a woman in Arkansas worrying about her son's well-being.  There are so many other treasures for anyone interested in WWII history and especially Band of Brothers history.  They are holding a reunion open to the public on the weekend of 4 October.  There is even a Run Currahee event -- 3 miles up, 3 miles down!  If you are interested, the website is  http://www.toccoahistory.com/

Dinner for a 7-year old

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She wants macaroni.
I offer corn.
She wants a corn dog.
I offer green beans.
Cake.
Salad.
Chips.
My hair will fall out before she eats what I want her to. Her teeth will fall out if she eats what she wants to.
She laughs from her perch at the kitchen bar. I sigh. She grins and points to the pop tarts. I silently curse her daddy for bringing those home.
Grilled chicken?
Chicken tenders.
Fish?
Only if it's fried with ketchup.
She lowers her head and eyeballs me.
I put my hands on the counter and eyeball her right back.
Time to play hardball.
She wants a hamburger.
I have veggie burgers.
Ha!

American Idol - Jerry Springer with songs

I hate the Jerry Springer show. I can't stand Judge Judy. It's probably some deep-seated aversion to conflict but either way, I hate listening to people venting their personal issues on national television especially when it ends up with someone going to jail on assault charges. My husband loves this stuff! He can't get enough of it. And I can't even pretend to understand why this is entertainment for him. Evidently though American Idol totally gets it and that's why they always let through folks who break glass and screech like owls to sing for the American people. To me this is just Jerry Springer with a soprano slant.
Don't get me wrong, once the show gets to Hollywood, I love it. I like getting to know the contestants and seeing folks put themselves out there to make a future for themselves. It takes a lot of gumption and chutzpa to expose yourself to ferocity of Simon's caustic, blunt professional opinions.
But until then, I'll just listen to my husband hee-haw at the yodels, screams, hiccups, falls and creepiness that is what we have to endure to get to the good stuff.

The Great Peanut Brittle Escapade

Ever tried to find peanut brittle in department stores outside of the 1980s? You can't. But you also can't convince your mother that it is impossible. So I spent the weekend before Christmas sprinting from Dilliards to Belk to JC Penney and running to Target to Walmart to yes, Kohl's and racing through every supermarket in between. I reminisced with blue hairs who remembered the days of peanut brittle. I sighed at teens who wrinkled up their noses in confusion as to what peanut brittle actually is. I fought shopping carts and beat a gauntlet of red and greed-clad shoppers who were spinning in my wake as I dived toward a red box that I swear was swiped off the shelf in an utter state of ignorant bliss from the little lady who innocently put it in her basket and moseyed off in the opposite direction. I'll never know if I was close.
And why go through all this trouble? Because ever since my mother was five, she gave her father a box of peanut brittle for Christmas. The last man standing for cracking his teeth on peanuts and hardened syrup. So after days of no luck, she decides to make it.
Walmart didn't have light corn syrup. But Winn Dixie did. Bruno's didn't have fresh peanuts but Walmart did. So on Christmas Eve my mother broke out bowls and pans. Happily digging through all my cookbooks she found recipes for peanut butter, peanut souffle, peanut butter cups and cookies but not one of my thirty cookbooks had a recipe for peanut brittle. So she turned to the newfangled machine sitting on my desk and broke out the internet. Within two hours, she had a recipe and was on her way.
First thing she needed was the two cups of butter that I had just creamed with sugar for my annual Christmas chocolate chunk cookies. Snatching the phone and phone book, she furiously paged through the yellow pages for the grocery section. The first phone call ellicited nothing. The second, from my vantage, was a nice conversation about the need to close early on Christmas Eve. The third hit jackpot and my husband snatched up his keys and raced out the door.
Once ready, Mom started building her recipe with her peanuts only to realize that she had the no-salted ones. The recipe called for salted ones. Undeterred, she realized she could make microwave peanut brittle if she used whatever peanuts she had. Filling her bowl with sticky, light corn syrup, salted peanuts, brown organic sugar (because I didn't have regular), she happily put the concoction in the microwave and waited. At the beep, she jerked open the door and smiling, lifted the bowl. Pouring it on to the flat pan waiting expectantly on the stove, she grinned. Now all we had to do was watch the brown syrupy, sticky, lumpy mixture harden into cracky, crunchy, world famous peanut brittle.
Unable to wait, she checked it at the one hour mark. A little stringy.
Two hours later, a little chewy.
Four hours later, a little like taffy.
Twelve hours later, it cracked. Sucking in air in eager anticipation, she cut a small piece.
Looked up at me.
Placed it in her mouth.
Chewed.
Smiling, the taste was perfect.
Peanuts mixed with syrup. A little like peanut butter sandwiches with sugary sweet syrup instead of jelly. I can still remember when my sister and I would make them early on a Saturday morning right before cartoons.
All of a sudden, Mom frowned. Her eyes ran side to side. She pointed to her jaw. It wasn't moving. She couldn't talk.
Her teeth were sealed together.

Granddaddy got a gift card instead.

Heroes: whether they like the title or not

I just finished reading Babe Heffron and Bill Guarnere's gut wrenching book about their 63-year friendship that started during World War II with Easy Company of the 101st Airborne Division - it was absolutely overwhelming. It is a humbling experience just to read their thoughts, and the journey brings tears down my face.
My grandfather and one of his brothers fought in the Pacific Theater during the war. He was shot in the backend during the Battle of Guadalcanal, while his brother was dodging bullets with the Flying Tigers. Their four other brothers fought in the European Theater - two jumped into Normandy and the other two were in the Navy. They all died before I could hear stories from their own lips and before I could say thank you.
This book, Brothers in Battle, Best of Friends, is exactly what I've wanted from my own family. The story. The true story in a candid, forthright and sometimes funny manner.
Some of the stories are the same as in Stephen Ambrose's book and in the HBO series, Band of Brothers, but in much more vivid detail. Their illustrations put the reader right in the stream where they found water for the dehydrated boys...full of brains from a dead soldier.
I was in Bastogne one night last Christmas and saw the field that lay before the paratroopers of the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment as they held the line during the Battle of the Bulge. The forest looms over the field, dark and foreboding. The whispers of a half century ago can be heard through the wind. The blistering cold slithers and tightens around anyone it meets. As I drew my coat closer, all I could think about were the boys who lived in holes in the ground for nearly three months in this exact spot with little to no clothes or food.
There are no words to describe the raw emotion I feel when I read their words or watch their story. Our country owes them everything. And I am humbled at their generosity, their own humility and their dedication to this country and to their men. We must learn from their story. We must preserve it. And we must raise our children to appreciate every thing they have. Because nothing is free. Freedom isn't free. McArthur didn't do it alone. Patton didn't do it alone. The men of Easy Company did the dirty work and that sacrifice is worth more than all the things we could ever buy for ourselves.
My sincere gratitude goes to them and to every man who fought, every mother who lost and every wife who prayed during their war and every war this country lives through. Babe and Bill don't like to be called heroes but whether they like it or not, they will always be the real heroes that this country so desperately needs.

For my mom: a reprint

Standing on the flightline at Ramstein Air Base, Germany, I watched the fiercely blowing snow fly over the asphalt slamming into aircraft and into the med-evac personnel who were patiently waiting as the crew of the newly parked C-141 Starlifter readied the aircraft for offload.
The cold cut my bones and the night surrounded me but neither could do anything to the tightening of my chest as I watched the stretcher carrying the first wounded Soldier emerge down the ramp out of the back of the Starlifter.
The Army green blankets were wrapped tightly around him, and the large white instruments that sat on his chest blinked and whistled as his medical team walked with his gurney to the waiting evac bus – a dark-colored old school bus with a white cross on the side. His doctor, nurse and two orderlies efficiently held the various instruments that monitored his vital signs.
One, two, three, up and he was slowly lifted into the back of the bus to lay in the dark, awaiting his comrades who would join him in the ride to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center – the U.S. hospital that readies all wounded for return to their home units or for transit to Walter Reed Medical Hospital in Washington.
All I could think was that I didn’t know his name.
I knew he was wounded by a suicide bomber who penetrated the perimeter of a U.S. air base in Iraq and unloaded his devastation in a crowded mess hall. But as more and more stretchers appeared, one after another, all I could do was stare. My heart swelled with pride for these men. These are the true heroes of the war.
Behind me, news camera’s carried the story live: CNN, BBC, ABC. My job is to help the Air Force tell its story and this was one story I wanted to make sure the world knew. These heroes needed to know that Americans cared about them in spite of anti-war sentiment and constant negative war news. If my meager contribution can educate the American people about the sacrifices that real human souls are making for liberty and freedom, then other small gestures can go a long way.
The yellow ribbons, American flags and signs that are splashed all over small American towns mark a unified community. They are a genuine symbol of appreciation for the generosity of our military men and women and say that what we are doing isn’t going unnoticed. So, to the proud citizens of who show this type of appreciation, I say thank you for making each of my homecomings special and those who may not see them by displaying your personal signs of thanks.

(this was published in the Sparta Expositor two years ago and my mother asked to see it again. So Mom, this one's for you.)

My NASCAR trip

The Nashville NASCAR Cafe was my first experience with the super-cool, stock car craze. That was only because I was offered two jobs when I went to grad school -- waiting tables at NASCAR or waiting tables at Hooters. Of course it didn't help that I only applied at two places. But being the prude Southern girl that I was, I chose the one that wouldn't have my boobs and butt hanging out for all to see. That application and interview was thanks to a very close friend who was pulling strings to help me find a job fast so that would be one less worry for me with the BIG move from Cookeville to Nashville -- a 90 mile expedition that included tears and hugs for my parents, a Blue 1989 Chevy Cavalier and the smallest U-Haul on the lot.
A year later I graduated and never gave NASCAR another thought.

But while I was there, I had to choose. See no non-fans can work at NASCAR Cafe. And I was definitely a faker. Never had I rushed home from church to watch the race. Never had I played interference at Wal-mart so my sister could grab the last Jeff Gordon t-shirt on the sales rack. And never had I tail-gated in an open field outside Talladega watching tatooed-clad, barely-clothed biker types screech various rival racer names.

So as I brought sweet tea and fried cheese to the hordes of real fans the question always came, "Who you for?" With 4 enormous, television screens surrounding the walls above the wire fence that gave the illusion of being at a track blaring around me, I always smiled coyly, glanced at the eater's shirt, tatoo or hat and replied, "Same driver you're for, of course." And the tips fell. My bills were paid.
But that little ploy didn't always work. I had to have a back-up plan.

Now, this was about the time when Adelphia (as it was called then) Stadium opened and the Tennessee Titans finally played in their own home instead of the cursed one the Vanderbilt Commodores lost in. Downtown 2nd Avenue and Broadway was alive and in full swing with Titan fever. That year we actually made it to the Super Bowl and players like Eddie George and Steve McNair were gods. One afternoon during the holidays, the cutest little boy wearing a little tie, little shorts and a little boiler cap was in my section standing with his little, fat fingers on the fence looking at the stock car below. I walked up behind him and asked him who his favorite driver was. He smiled shyly up at me. From around him and at my newest table, I heard a deep voice tell him to go ahead and tell me. Little boiler hat whispered, "Dale Earnhardt." I melted. From that moment on, I had my back-up plan. I was a Dale Earnhardt fan. Little puppy dog eyes just did me in and I caved. I would stop faking. Later I would find out that the deep voice behind me urging cute, little Earnhardt fan was his father -- back up QB for the Titans, Bruce Matthews.

But finally having a driver would pay off. It certainly helped my conversations with the locals. And my co-workers stopped making fun on me. Especially snotty bartender girl who loved to tell anyone who would listen that she dated Tony Stewart once. (Who?) I even started paying attention to the screens that blared the races -- just to get a few more tidbits. But tidbits was a far as I was willing to go. This was just a job to get through school. Not an obsession. Nothing I grew up with. Some of my girlfriends loved it but I was the outsider who frankly didn't realize was an outsider. And then Daytona came. My first Daytona. The restaurant was slammed packed. Black and red and blue colors were everywhere. People came out of the wood work. Flags flew, cars honked. Fans screamed drivers' names in total fanaticism and little kids jumped up on the flag platform to yell "Gentlemen, start your engines!" Absolute pandamonium. And it lasted all weekend.

Now I grew up the daughter of a University of Alabama football player. Yes, one of Bear's boys. So I understood absolute devotion to the team, the coach, the school. Wearing crimson and white and plopping down in front of the TV every Saturday in the fall was a given. Obsession was nothing new to me. But NASCAR obsession was a sight to behold. Tatoos were my favorite new curiousity. Numbers, cars, faces adorned more body parts than I really cared to look at. But the proud displayer would roll up sleeves, pull down pants, take off shirts to let everyone have a peek. This was nothing like Tuscaloosa on a Saturday where dresses and ties were the normal wear of the student section. This was NASCAR and fans displayed their pride in extremely unique ways. As I walked among this fascination that Sunday, occasionally I would look up when the Gordon half of the room would shout for joy and the Earnhardt side would boo or vice versa. The only thing I could equate it to was Saturday football in Bryant-Denny stadium, especially at the end after the Tide won and the crowd launched into "Hey Hogs! Hey Hogs! We just beat the hell outta you! Rammer Jammer Yellow Hammer, give 'em hell Alabama!" Not very gracious for a team that was known for its class but exactly what NASCAR reminded me of. Blind dedication to your team and rubbing it in after you win. It was great.

The next fall I would graduate and leave the Cafe. The restaurant would eventually bankrupt and close up shop. And the following February, the #3 would be killed in a last turn crash at Daytona as team mate Michael Waltrip would drive on to win. I would occasionally watch the standings or to see who won the race that weekend. But not until this past Saturday would I give NASCAR more than a fleeting glance.
My husband is a huge NASCAR, Jeff Gordon fan and he convinced me to go to a race. Talladega of all races. And everything I ever saw or felt at the Nashville NASCAR Cafe came rushing back. Flags of every known size, shape and color flew over RVs, trucks, camping spots, and grills. People of all walks of life sported t-shirts of drivers, cars, racing teams, or they just sported their tatoos. Merchandise trailers were set up behind the track and my daughter hammereded away on a tool box at the Home Depot trailer (where's snotty girl dating Tony Stewart now?). We waited in line to get free t-shirts after signing up to win a million dollars in the unlikely event Bobby Labonte won. And we watched taped NASCAR races in the air-conditioned HDTV expo to see how much better the screen quality was.

Once in the track, I drank sweet tea and sat next to two tan, no shirt men drinking buckets of beer. From our vantage point I could see Kurt Busch's pit crew. The sun blazed and the gas stank. Roaring and screeching of engines and tires just about blew my hearing. But watching, in person, 43 stock cars fly single file, three wide, around the turns and into the pits was indescribable. Jr blew out an engine after leading 30-something laps. John Andretti lagged 25 laps down but kept pushing. Juan Pablo Montoya finished a respectable 15th as he raced for Rookie of the Year. And teammates Jeff Gordon and Jimmie Johnson led one lap...the last one. Gordon pulled ahead and won. My husband threw fists in the air and yelled. My first-grader jumped and down and screamed. Victory. Now the NASCAR episode in my life was over!