I called this one “culinary creations” because that’s what often happens when I cook — I get creative.

More specifically, I get freestyle creative.

“Free” being the operative word here.

Like when I really wanted a coconut cream pie and there wasn’t one to be found in the house. Since I was all out of fresh coconuts, I opted for making waffles instead. I think I really just wanted something sweet. I did a search for waffle recipes and found one that looked easy enough. A check in my cabinets turned up most of the ingredients, so I decided to go for it.

Time out while I explain something:  having only some of the ingredients to make food doesn’t stop me. As long as I have the key items I’ll try it!  I sort of take a recipe and make it my own. I’ll substitute different ingredients and try add-ins that sound good.

Back to my homemade waffle mix: so, I almost gave up after reading over the suggested recipe and realizing I didn’t have everything. Almost… I wanted a waffle and I would have a waffle. I could see it covered with butter and syrup. I could taste it. It would be mine.

Armed with flour, an egg, baking powder and all the other yummy stuff for my tasty creation, I whipped up the batter and poured it in my waffle maker. Then I waited. While I watched, the lid on the waffle maker started to rise.

I wasn’t expecting that.

Apparently, I had stirred up a super colossal Belgian waffle. I checked my bag of flour again to make sure it was plain and not self-rising. The online recipe didn’t mention this. Oh wait — I hadn’t followed the advice on Allrecipes. You can always expect the unexpected when you don’t follow the tried and true written instructions. However, it does keep things interesting…

The waffle maker finally clicked off. I leaned away from it as I raised the lid. I honestly didn’t know what to expect. It smelled like a waffle and, to my relief, looked like a waffle. I put it on a plate and covered it with butter and syrup. Eureka! It actually turned out to be better than the waffles I make with the commercial boxed mix. Score!!! I was pretty proud of myself. I don’t remember exactly what all I mixed up in the bowl or how much, but it was good.

My poor husband — anytime he asks what’s for supper and the reply is “I’m experimenting,” he starts to look for the pizza delivery number.

My theory is, if you have the key ingredients to build on, what can really go wrong? My homemade bread experiment turned out ok. I won’t say it was the best bread I’ve ever had, but it wasn’t the worst! It made really good toast. 🙂

This way of thinking carries over to other areas of life. Like the time my hair-do person accidentally got the color mixture for my hair a little too thin. Being the improvising, and brave, soul that I am, I suggested using a little cornstarch to thicken it up. (yes, this concoction was going on my head) We tried it. It worked. I walked out of there looking well coifed and oh, so chic. Did I mention that I’m brave?  My hair motto: it’ll grow back!

But I digress – back to the food. This particular creation is not an original one, but it is something we used to fix when I was growing up. It’s really easy and helps make sure no donuts will ever go to waste again! All you need is some butter, a frying pan and stale Krispy Kremes! Any glazed donut will work, but there’s something about those yummy krispity creations.

So, you heat the pan and let the butter melt away. Then add the donuts and fry until they start to brown and the sugar caramelizes a little. There you have it – those little brown pillows of buttery sweetness are ready to enjoy! Surely this is a glimpse of heaven on earth.

Ok, so I’m hungry for one now and I don’t have any donuts. Maybe I can make some — I wonder if I have the right ingredients…

Think way back to when you were a kid in Sunday School. Remember hearing your favorite Sunday School teacher talk about the Bible stories of old? You could imagine Jesus and the disciples walking down  all those dusty roads, discussing everything they’d seen and done.

I have so many memories like this from years spent growing up in church. My favorite one has to be when  my Aunt Shirley (Sister Shirley to everybody else) and Sister Powell  taught us Bible stories using a flannel graph board that sat on a rickety wooden stand with little paper cut out figures of Jesus and all the disciples.  They would move the colorful paper “actors” across the board like they were traveling to some distant town, while explaining how people were healed and set free of various diseases and demons. I was mesmerized.

We didn’t have big screens with animation and lights and sound like the computer age has brought us. But they will never replace the simple authenticity of Aunt Shirley and Sister Powell sharing from their hearts while handing out cookies and paper dixie cups of red Kool Aid in that little Sunday School room at the Gravely Apostolic Church.

Reminiscing about those days gone by got my wheels turning — what if Jesus and the disciples, and all those other people  in the Bible had been in the South instead of the Middle East?  I’ve never been to the Holy Lands, so I can somehow better visualize them in East Tennessee. What would that have been like?

Certainly the miracle healings would have been happening — Jesus is the same no matter what country, century, time zone or time frame. There were a lot of fisherman back then  (almost all the disciples liked to throw a line in the water) — another proof positive that the Lord must be a little bit Southern! Fishing is pretty much a way of life in the South too.

I think the scenes where Jesus fed the multitudes might have been a tad different. Southerners love to eat — we’re usually eating or planning what we’re going to eat next. Nearly everything we do here involves food. I can imagine the people sitting around on the hills while they were waiting on Jesus to teach, talking about what they were going to have for lunch. The conversation might have gone a little like this if it had happened in the South:

“Now, I’m gettin’ hungry, y’all. You mean to tell me that we came all the way out here with no food?!”

“Hey Jesus — what’re we having for lunch? Some fried baloney would be real good right about now. Got any pork rinds? Oh, sorry…”

“They got this buffet down at the chicken shack. All the wings and taters you can eat for $5.99.”

The list goes on — there are even more Bible happenings that might have played out a little differently with a Southern spin.  Imagine all the lamb casseroles and fig cakes on the table when Lazarus passed away. Jesus got there after Lazarus had been dead a few days, so people  had plenty of time to pay their respects with macaroni and cheese. Poor Martha, trying to sort out everything and make sure all the dishes were matched with the right lid. Do you still have to send ‘thank you’ notes if the dearly departed doesn’t stay dead?

If that had happened here, people wouldn’t have laughed and made fun when Jesus said Lazarus was only sleeping. I think the men would have all removed their hats and bowed their heads while somebody played organ music in the background. You have to build up to the big moment. Then there would have been the biggest cook out ever known to man, to celebrate Lazarus coming back to life!

There’s something in a name. Driving around the Southern states, you’ll see plenty of places named after towns in the Bible, like Damascus, Lebanon, Athens, Goshen and Mars Hill. It makes us feel closer to the Lord. I did a search and actually found biblically named towns all over North America (Southerners don’t have a corner on the market). It’s pretty interesting.

I know heaven isn’t divided up between the North and the South, but then again, you might be surprised when you get to the Pearly Gates and hear St. Peter say “ya’ll jump in the truck, we goin’ up to the Big House!”*

So that’s my humorous look at the Bible set in the South. I’m sure my northern friends could offer a different point of view of those stories set above the Mason-Dixon line. I’d love to hear some ideas – feel free to comment!

*line borrowed from  comedian, Jeff Foxworthy

January brings snow,  cold temps and memories from the presidential inauguration I went to nearly 30 years ago.

During some of my newspaper days, I lived and worked in Kentucky. I was part of a small staff that put together the Whitley Republican and Corbin! This Week newspapers. We ran around the mountains interviewing and photographing people and their grandpaws and grandmaws, along with writing stories about their kids in beauty pageants and various and sundry other things that happen in small Kentucky towns. Covering the wrecks and killings and politics was no fun, but there were more fun moments than bad.

One year the Corbin high school band was invited to play for the elder Bush’s inauguration festivities. We were invited to go along to document the story for the rest of the town to see. So our photographer, another reporter and I boarded a bus with band members and their moms and headed toward Washington DC — traveling all night long.

Besides going to the inauguration to report on the band, we were also scheduled to meet with hometown hero, Cecil Moses, at the FBI building. He had made it out of  Whitley County, Kentucky to work for the big guys. Our appointment was first thing in the morning after we arrived. There I was, half asleep, wearing the same clothes from the day before, with my hair looking like who-knows-what. I managed to wake up enough to talk intelligently and take notes for my story. Our photog got some great pics (that’s news lingo) and we managed to put together a pretty good feature for the paper.

That evening we finally made it to our hotel and found out who our rooming buddy would be. Somebody else had the list of names and figured out who would room with who.  I was young and not too concerned about it. Thank goodness I was put in a room with a band mom and not a weirdo! We got to our room to find out there was only one bed… it was a fairly large bed, but still. Only one bed. We didn’t know each other from Adam, by the way. I was tired from the trip and my FBI excursion, so all I remember was being decked out in my fuzzy pj’s and falling asleep by the time my head hit the pillow. The next morning we got up in a cold room, used a really cold bathroom to shower and then went out into the cold to explore. Washington DC in January is… well, cold.

There were bright spots though– it was fun and I got to see a few monuments, though it felt more like a flyby than a sightseeing tour. It was so cold that night, we ran from the bus to the site, looked for a minute and then ran back. I’m sure I could have qualified for a marathon right there. Incidentally, that’s the only time you’ll see me running — to get out of the cold. Abe Lincoln was a blur and we made fairly quick work of the Vietnam Wall. I want to go back up there to get a better look at everything, but when it’s way warmer! We also rode the subway, watched the presidential motorcade go by and tried out some good restaurants.

If somebody invites me on a trip like that again, things will surely be different. (what is it with me and bus trips?) I would go — with some modifications. First in my list of demands, I’d have to have a car. None of this bus riding stuff. Then I would need time allotted to get myself together before meeting FBI people. If I’m driving up there, a hotel stay along the way will be included. It’ll at least include coffee and a continental breakfast. I may have to have my own room — or approve the person picked out to share my room. The lady I was paired with 30 years ago would be fine too. I remember her being really nice.

This year I’m content to watch the inauguration from somewhere warm. It’s on a Friday, so I won’t get to sit at home on my comfy couch in my fuzzy pjs. Now that’s my idea of acceptable inaugural attire. 🙂 Wouldn’t it be hilarious if everybody at the inauguration was in their favorite flannel pj’s?! Too funny. I’m gonna send that to the big inauguration committee suggestion box.

Referring back to my blog from last year about running for pres — I need to add something. When I’m inaugurated, we will definitely be wearing comfy pjs  and everybody will sit in a big ol recliner or overstuffed chair with a mug of hot chocolate. Now that’s my idea of fine living.

So, the Doublewide husband has outdone himself. I think. Let me explain.

This all started a couple of months ago. When hunting season rolls around, there’s a small flurry of activity to gather up the necessary equipment. All the camo clothing in the house has to be washed in special detergent that apparently makes you smell like a deer so the real deer can’t detect you. Or at the very least, you smell like a tree.

Let’s pause for reflection. I thought that was the whole idea – wearing camo so you look like a tree. Then deer will somehow associate you as being part of the landscape and not realize you’re there until it’s too late. I guess smelling like a tree is important too. I’ll get to doe urine a little later.

Well, I guess we could go ahead and talk about that now. Did you know they actually sell the stuff? I’m not really sure I get it, but I think using doe urine is important when trying to lure a 7 point buck close enough to shake hands. It’s a little like what a girl does when she’s “fixing up” to go out on the town to find a guy, except this is in the middle of the woods with snack crackers and potted meat, and you don’t necessarily go in pairs to the bathroom. In this scenario the intended male ends up being shot. Now for all you animal lovers who may be reading this — I love animals too, but this is a Southern male thing. It’s a tradition. My dad hunted, my uncles hunted – everybody either used to hunt or they still do. I still have memories of deer heads hanging throughout my aunt’s house. Note: Deer eyes will follow you around a room, no matter which chair you sit in while trying to visit and find out how everybody’s doing.

My husband and his brother are like two girls getting ready for the spring prom. First they plot out their strategy, discuss which places are best to go and when they’re likely to actually go to the woods. Then they spend time texting and calling each other in the meantime. An early morning Waffle House stop on the way to the hunting destination goes without saying. I think that’s an unwritten rule of hunters everywhere.

In the process of all this getting ready to go out and fool the animals so  you can bring home dinner and a trophy, it’s important to consider every detail. Part of that includes a place to sleep should you decide to stay overnight in the woods. This is where my husband’s backwoods ingenuity comes in. Tent camping is one way to do it. Or you could build your own rolling room that will go  just about anywhere you might need a night’s lodging.

So, my husband (who I think may, in some way, be kin to the Duck Dynasty gang) decided to recycle pieces and parts to put this thing together. An old trailer frame with wheels, leftover siding from our neighbor, some extra particle board from another project, foam insulation and some new lumber all came together to  become what is now parked on the back 40 – a small rolling room that can be used for a hunting trip in the woods, or extra room should a death in the family bring in out of town guests. It’s a win-win!

This mobile Motel 6 has almost all the comforts of home — two wooden cots that clip to the wall when not being used, a propane heater,  plastic lights you can push on and off, a card table bungeed to the wall between meals and a couple of plastic yard chairs. What more could you ask for? Well, plumbing is not included. But when you’re in the woods you kind of expect to have to balance against a tree anyway. Camping in the back yard? No problem — the house isn’t too far away. I guess we could install an outhouse  in the back there somewhere, but I’ve used one in my day and they’re no fun (that’s another blog topic). This thing really is a redneck’s paradise.

Redneck Rolling Room

They haven’t actually taken it out in the woods yet, but we sat in it a couple of times to test the heat holding capability. The real test will not even be seeing how it does with  freezing temps overnight in the middle of nowhere. Let’s see what happens they have to withstand each other’s snoring in the small confines of that box.

Film at 11.

Funeral food is probably some of the best there is — it represents church lady cooking at its best. I know that sounds kind of weird. I’m not sure where the whole tradition started with people taking food to the home of the bereaved during a death in the family. I say “during” because this isn’t a little one day, let’s-get-it-over affair. A funeral or time of mourning can be drawn out over several days if you do it right. All the aunts, uncles,  in laws and a few outlaws will be there – with food. Then it’s time for church food! Every congregation connected to the family will take turns providing a meal. Chicken takes center stage, along with macaroni and cheese, roast beef, mashed potatoes, potato salad, green beans, a sweet potato dish or two and there’s always something with gravy in it or on it. You’re really riding “high cotton” if somebody  just brings a big ‘ol pot of homemade gravy. (it has to be homemade — I tried the stuff in the packets that you make with milk and/or water…. use only in emergencies).

I didn’t even mention the desserts. Big cakes slathered with icing and pies of all kinds  stacked high with meringue will be delivered direct to  your door as soon as friends and neighbors find out someone has passed. I guess they figure that a good hunk of chocolate cake or a piece of coconut pie is just the thing to provide comfort in the time of need.

I’ve been on the receiving end of the food and I’ve taken food to someone’s home before. Funeral food is supposed to be homemade, but since our days are filled with jobs outside the home and running everywhere else, it’s ok to buy your banana pudding at Winn Dixie. Nobody’s going to hold it against you if there’s a price tag  stuck on the side of the plastic container. (It’s also quite alright to put your store bought dish in a bowl, cover it with a nice lid,  write your name on a piece of masking tape stuck to the bowl, and deliver it to the bereaved).

Now I’m not trying to make fun of a sad occasion. It’s not nice to laugh during a time of mourning. Although some of funniest things happen during and at funerals. I just started thinking about our traditions and how each generation has sure done it’s part to uphold the ones involving food, and I had to write about it. I’m going to do some research to see how this all started. Stay tuned for part 2!

There’s one thing about it no matter where you are – food brings people together. I’ve been to many funerals that turned into more of a family reunion. After the service several of the family members will always gather at the home with the most food, and sit around eating and talking about old times. Then the photo albums come out and you’re there till midnight. After that, everybody gathers up their paper plate full of food for the road and heads home. The next morning  you get up and have butterscotch pie and coffee for breakfast before heading out to the cemetery.

All in all, I’d say we have it down pat below the Mason-Dixon Line.  I would love to hear from my northern readers, though. Tell me about funeral time in your neck of the woods! I know this is gonna be good.

I’ve just about decided to run for president in 2020. It’s too late to throw my boot in the ring this time, unless I could get a write-in campaign going. (hmmmm…. that gives me an idea)

Military experience seems no longer important to the masses and you don’t really have to have a long, illustrious political career. I’m just as qualified as anybody else. I’ve thought about it quite a bit. With the right advisors, I could provide award winning leadership! We could have a presidential team of three or four co-presidents, instead of a pres. and vice pres. Can I still be the Grand Poobah, though?

Presidential Promises (aka Poobah promises):

As president, I promise to whip Congress into shape — everybody from the bottom to the top – staff, aides, all of ’em. I’d jerk a knot in their tails. I’ve thought about this too. There’s no need for high-minded political talk to tickle the ears and lull people into a stupor. Just a little common sense delivered with love from Tennessee. (I’ve been working on my inaugural address) Here’s an excerpt from my first talk to the congressional bunch: Hello ladies and gentlemen. I hope all is well with you, and your mama and ’em. First of all, you need to grow up. Put on your big girl britches and get something done, instead of fighting, scratching and moaning about everything. Learn how to get along and do the job you were sent here to do, for crying out loud. All of you need Jesus – if you already know Him, then act like it. Now get to going –  and no holiday or summer breaks until you get something accomplished.

My message to the terrorists, should they be listening – you’re not allowed here, don’t even try it. Most of us have guns and we know how to use them. Talk about people who need a knot jerked in their tails… Actually, my mama had the right idea years ago. When I was growing up, she kept a perm in my hair almost all the time. The curlier the better (her motto, not mine). I had so much hair, it just expanded into a big ‘ol puff of some sort. In her world, it worked for any dilemma that came down the pike. If  you want world peace — just give all the bad guys perms. It would solve everything.

My dad’s fix-all wasn’t duct tape or WD-40 — it was brushing your teeth. I don’t know  how or why – it just seemed logical to him. Every time I had a problem, he would advise me to brush my teeth. Bless his heart and rest his soul — I bet they’re all brushing their teeth in heaven right now.

Then I would organize a big banquet of church lady food. There’s nothing that will bring people together and soothe harsh tempers like sweet potato casserole, mac-n-cheese and banana pudding. Before long, you’d have people  gathered around, telling stories and planning the next get-together.  Pass the chicken and dumplings! I’m telling you, it would work. Think of the money this would save – no more high level power meetings with fancy, overpriced catered food. (I work at a college — I know what I’m talking about)

All drama zones would be abolished. I don’t like drama of any kind, unless it’s in a late-night movie. This doesn’t need further explanation. It is what it is. The media outlets wouldn’t need to do anything but bring us the weather, public service announcements and sweet animal stories. Or better yet, have them report on the really important things, like local heroes who help their communities instead of tearing them apart. Any media person caught instigating a riot would be tarred and feathered, and fined!

On second thought, being president must be pretty hard on you — the last two have had lots of gray hair before their first term was even through. I have enough trouble keeping up with mine now! I think I’ll just settle for being queen of my double wide.Pass the chocolates and sweet tea, please!

This happened a few years ago, but the memory is still vivid. I had the bright idea to take my mom, board a tour bus and travel to Graceland. Elvis was always her favorite singer and I’ve been known to belt out my own rendition of his tunes, but without the jumpsuit. What better way to travel than by bus, right? Boy, that wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had.

I wrote in for the brochure from our local version of Trailways. This would be a fun, relaxing time. I could just picture me and mama taking advantage of photo ops in the Jungle Room. It seemed like the deal of a lifetime. Travel in air conditioned comfort and nap your way down Interstate 40 (didn’t want to say “sleep” your way down 40 – that would be a whole different story not suitable for mixed company). In other words – “take the bus and leave the driving to us”.  They neglected to mention a few things up front.

For instance, as soon as we got on the bus, “Dolly”  our tour guide welcomed us and quickly laid out the bus tour rules and regulations. This included instructing us not to use the bus bathroom, because we would have to “carry it with us the whole trip.” Apparently no one explained to them that there were stations with big ‘ol hoses for taking care of that. I’m pretty sure there are – how else would you clean the thing out? I know the person who invented the bus bathroom thought of the emptying part too.

The bus driver made a few stops along the way to let us rest and relax on our way across Tennessee. Mama and I yakked with the people in the seats all around us and had an enjoyable trip. You could pick out the bus tour vets. They were the ones who sat back, relaxed and left the details to the pros. Or so we thought…

As we worked our way through Memphis, I noticed we kept passing the same landmarks, old dilapidated apartments and such. My razor sharp mind deduced  that we were going around in circles. Sure enough, “Dolly” got up at one point and asked if any of us had ever been to Graceland before. The bus driver needed a little help.  Ok, time out – if I sign up for a bus trip, pay my money and board your bus; I expect you to know the way there. Don’t they make maps for times like this? (don’t even ask about GPS)

I’m gonna have to shorten this or it will be a novel. But this is where it just keeps getting better. I remember that big bus somehow going through a drive-thru at some fast food joint. Apparently the driver got the directions from the cashier, because we were Graceland bound after that.

We arrived at our destination about an hour behind schedule. Our tour was supposed to be there at a certain time, so it was cut a bit short. We had to  quickly pose in front of the house for a photo, tour the inside and take pics without benefit of flash lighting, wind through the museum and out to the lovely Elvis Presley cemetery by the pond where the King, his mom, dad, several other family members and (I believe) a beloved family pet were buried.  To round out the experience, we walked through Elvis’s plane and even had time to buy a little wooden guitar magnet with his name on it for about five dollars. It looks quite nice on my refrigerator  perched next to the Florida souvenir of an alligator jumping out of a commode. I didn’t buy that one. It was a gift from somebody who apparently loved me.

We went to our hotel after the tour and had about five minutes to check in, change clothes and make it out to the banks of the Mississippi to board a lovely riverboat for an evening dinner cruise It came complete with barbecue dinner and dancing.  Mama and I don’t dance. After we ate all the barbecue there wasn’t much to do but watch the party people getting’ down and see Memphis go by as we paddled on down the river. Finally, the boat turned around and we were on our knees thanking the Lord that the end of the trip was near.

The ride back the next day started early and soon the big tour bus was rolling up I-40 toward home. Apparently the driver wanted to get us back and unloaded as soon as possible, because he would hardly stop to let us “rest” and we were afraid to use the bus facilities for fear they’d set us out along the road. At least we did get a 30 minute stop at an outlet mall. A bus full of women and he  thought 30 minutes of shopping was sufficient. I don’t know what planet he was from, but our schedule could have used some work.

Long story shortened a bit, but not too much — -the next time I decide to visit a dead singer’s house, I will gas up Harold (my HHR) and do the driving myself.

I spent my hard earned vacation time and money on a conference this year. You know, one of those where you go to classes and listen to people talk all day.

Boring, right? (don’t leave me now — keep reading)

You will never see this offered on The Price is Right as one of the grand prize packages. Vanna (or whatever the blonde girl’s name is) won’t be standing on the stage rubbing her perfectly manicured fingers over a picture of a conference group, while the voice-over tells the contestants what they’ve won.

Picture it:  the show host says something like this (in his best commentator t.v. voice), “Feast your eyes on this 2016 model conference! It comes complete with writing classes, mentoring, nationally and internationally renowned guest speakers, daily worship sessions, classes taught by award-winning faculty, special friendships you’ll cherish for a lifetime, lodging in comfy rooms and plenty to eat – all at one of the loveliest conference centers in the South!”

If they knew about THIS conference, they would surely offer it as a prize.

An all expense paid trip to the Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference (BRMCWC) would make a wonderful game show award — I’d run up on stage dressed as a chicken for it! Actually, I think that’s a whole other show. My point is, if you have the least bit of interest in writing this is the conference for you. They welcome you in, teach you, richly bless you with resources, offer encouragement and then applaud your every writing achievement. And there’s lots of food! (did I say that already?) All you have to do is register (the price can’t be beat), show up and absorb all there is to take in.

That’s not all, folks! Friendships are waiting as soon as you drive onto the Ridgecrest campus. No one stays a stranger for long. I have some treasured friendships and look forward to seeing them every time I go — especially my friends from New York, Cynthia and Dwayne. I’ve had to help them navigate being in the South. Bless their hearts. Everyone is friendly, so lone travelers never eat alone and you will always find a late night group hanging out in the hotel foyer. Simply follow the laughter, hootin’ and hollerin’ down the hallway to one of the lobbies — then settle into a comfy spot on one of the couches or perch on an ottoman and join in the fun!

Did I mention the chocolate macaroons? Oh wonderful, decadent, delightful chocolate macaroons, how we love you! Enough said — I’ll leave it there. You have to go to a conference to find out what that’s all about. If you’ve been to the conference and haven’t had a macaroon, I just don’t know what to say to that.

No matter why you go — the experience will leave you wanting more and probably registering for the next conference before you leave. Come to learn — stay for the fun of it all.

Almost everybody was doing it the day we walked into the corner Roadrunner Market. In fact, the air had kind of a frenzy feel. People weren’t lined out the door or anything, but you could tell — it was on everybody’s mind and hopes were high. The lotto with it’s promised billion dollar prize was the talk of beer joints, gas stations and local grocery stores everywhere … for days. On  a lark, we decided to give it a whirl. I was determined not to spend more than two dollars. It was because of some money I lost on the Kentucky lottery years ago. I decided then that I would sink no more of my hard-earned cash into that bottomless money pit.

My husband had other ideas, though. He got all caught up in the frenzy. Well, actually there were only a couple more customers in the store at the time, but they looked frenzied. We were pretty much creating our own hubbub as he handed the money across the counter. With that, we were the proud owners of 5 lotto tickets. (it was only supposed to be one $2 ticket, but … well…)

Those lovely pieces of colored paper dangled their shiny baubles in front of us, taunting us – visions of big ticket items danced in our heads on the way home. I thought of all the new computer stuff I could buy and the scholarships I could establish at our local university, and made plans to open up my own animal rescue. My husband could just see that shiny, new, metallic blue Chevy truck sitting in the driveway.

We made our way back to the doublewide and put the tickets up. The drawing was scheduled for 11 that night and we promptly fell asleep way before that watching tv.  I think it was a hunting or fishing show. We’re real party animals on lotto night!

Next morning, I woke up to find out we were not the new billionaires in the neighborhood. I don’t think there are any billionaires down this way, but you never know. I really would have done some good with that money. I wished the winners well and hoped they would help feed and clothe the homeless in their communities.

Then I got to thinking (Tennessee way of saying: “I then pondered all of this”). I realized that I can give and help someone else even if I’m not holding a winning ticket. I can use the resources that are already in my hand. It doesn’t even have to be as grand as building a new housing complex for the less fortunate (even though that’s great if you can do that). Something as small as paying for the guy’s coffee sitting behind me in the Dunkin car line counts too. That may not seem like much, but it’s a big deal to the person you’re blessing. Giving comes from the heart — we are never more like God than when we’re giving.  He is the ultimate, abundant giver. If you’re a giver,  then you’ll practice that no matter how much you have or don’t have. (how many times can I insert the word “giver” in one paragraph?! I making a point here.)

I don’t normally make new  year’s resolutions, mostly because I never keep them. But this year, when the calendar flipped over to January 1, 2016 I felt compelled to make a few resolutions. One being — I want to be an even bigger giver than last year (I don’t mean gaining weight from eating more donuts and fried potatoes). My aim this year is to be even more extravagant in my giving. I love it. Being generous surely makes me feel good, but it’s much more than that. I know that I’m helping somebody else, whether it’s a friend who needs cheering up or a complete stranger standing on the corner holding a cardboard sign. I’m also participating in God’s plan for this world when I’m being like Him.

If you want to know the meaning of life — that’s it. To be like Jesus in loving and caring for others and be a willing participant in His plan for all of us.

Ever go to a mobile home lot to tour the doublewides? You should seriously try it sometime. It’s fun, you can pick up some decorating tips and ideas for planning your next house, and you get to eat. It’s a given that you and your pals will go somewhere to eat after the grand tour. Well, yeah. You have to take some good friends to look at the homes – and an outing always involves food. It does in the South. Don’t question the logic.

The lovely, fun, mysterious, quirky, cold, hot, cold and hot at the same time South. I mean, it can be extremely warm in the Deep South in February and as cold as a well digger’s butt in the Tennessee/Virginia/North Carolina area. (we will punch each other out during SEC football season, but don’t mess with us otherwise. We’re all kin)  That’s where you’ll find me. I’m a Tennessee native with deep roots in Virginia and a penchant for North Carolina exploring on the Blue Ridge Parkway. We’re a bit different in this part of the South. Not in a bad way — just different. We’re cornbread and beans and fried baloney sandwiches. On the frying note, you can fry stale Krispy Kreme donuts, too. Oh. My. Goodness. You have to try that — and use butter. That’s another thing to add to the list that everybody doesn’t know about.

I learned how to fry potatoes, stir up a pan of cornbread and grow tomatoes from my momma and my aunts. They taught me the finer points of Southern cooking, including how much lard to melt in the iron skillet before pouring the cornmeal mix in. These women made sure that I knew how to take care of myself and any future family I might have. I’ve done pretty well with that, except I’ve pretty much abandoned lard for healthier cooking oils. They got a little worried when my early twenties rolled around and I wasn’t sporting a diamond and asking them to make my wedding cake. All was not lost though — I was just a late bloomer (after carrying me for “almost 10 months”, my mother declared that “I was late getting into this world and I’d been late ever since”). I caught a man at 29. Glory be.

After living in a rented house for the first five years of wedded bliss, said man and I decided to get a little piece of property out in the country and set a doublewide on it. That was almost 20 years ago and I have acquired quite a bit of knowledge during that time. It could be the influence of my doublewide or it could be the fact that the world has lost a lot of the sense God gave it to start with. Whatever the reason, I have decided that living in a mobile home can give you a different perspective on the world. So, Wisdom from the Doublewide was born. I hope you enjoy my blog and my new website: doublewide wisdom.com