Press On, Kevin Skinner!

Since wowing judges on America's Got Talent early this month, Kevin Skinner's video, If Tomorrow Never Comes, has been viewed on YouTube more than a million times. And he is now one of the forty quarterfinalists.

"I'm not gonna put you through misery," David Hasselhoff told Skinner tonight, "I'm gonna tell you straight. You're going through. And you deserve it! We'll see you in Hollywood!"

Overwhelmed, Kevin was close to tears.

"Bless his heart," I said, "Makes me want to hug him."

"Hope he makes it to the top," said Bill.

Press on, Kevin Skinner! Nothing can stop you now.

Published!

I was thrilled when I went to the mailbox today. My contributor's copy of Birmingham Arts Journal had arrived containing my personal essay, The Southern Way.

Birmingham Arts Journal is supported by the Alabama School of Fine Arts and other literary-minded organizations. And it is published without profit by passionate volunteers, which makes it even more special to me.

It is also available in its entirety online (click on "latest edition"). My essay is on page 37.

The Unpardonable Sin

People are talking about President Obama. And it's not about bail-outs, health care, or other hot topics.

They are accusing him of wearing Mom jeans!

When he threw out the first pitch at the 2009 Major League Baseball All-Star Game last week, he was wearing a large, oversized pair. Unlike me, his were "borderline," so that's not as bad. But they were a tad on the short side. And he almost showed sock! Just walking across the field!

Our president must be appalled, as was I when Suzanne pointed out my fashion faux pas.

But, like me, he hates to shop. Had we gone to the mall more often, we might not have committed the unpardonable sin.

Maybe I can convince Suzanne to accompany us to Kentucky Oaks Mall next time he's in Paducah.

Second Fiddle

Pitty came for a visit and brought her new dog.

.

So now I'm playing second fiddle to Maddox.


He even took over my favorite napping place.


I'll just go ahead on and sleep on the floor.


But I don't mind telling you this situation makes my tail curl!

Morning Glory Rituals

I love Morning Glories.

Bill planted some for me under two big trees in our yard, and now they are climbing those trees at breakneck speed. One morning not long ago, I was thrilled to look out our dining room window and find two blooming.

I thought of Maw Maw George.

Pitty Pat and I spent a lot of time with our maternal grandparents, Maw Maw and Paw Paw George, when we were children. Especially during the summer.

We slipped between crisp ironed sheets, giggling and whispering late into the night to the Katydids' chants. We woke to the sounds of sizzling bacon and gurgling coffee, the familiar creaks of the worn linoleum floor as Maw Maw moved from stove to sink to table.

We meandered down the gravel lane to the mailbox, after breakfast, the air heavy with the scent of the Honeysuckle vines shrouding the fences on either side. Later, we spent time in our playhouse behind the Hollyhocks and rosebushes, stirring up exotic concoctions of leaves and weeds in the old pots and pans. Sometimes we paraded around the house in old dresses and high heels Maw Maw kept for us in the closet.

Other times, we played paper dolls on the big screened-in back porch. When we decided they needed a place to live, Maw Maw dug out file folders and showed us how to cut out pages of furniture from Sears Roebuck and glue them on the folders. After that, our voluptuous, long-legged beauties had homes, complete with living rooms, kitchens and bedrooms.

When we tired of other activities, we climbed high in the huge Oak tree in the front yard. We sat gazing through the fluttering leaves at the scene below, like sentinels in search of secrets, reveling in our anonymity: Nobody knows we’re here…

On Decoration Day, Pitty and I helped Maw Maw prepare the flowers for transport to our ancestors' graves in various cemeteries in Carlisle County. Each year, she planted two rows of flowers of all kinds in their garden just for Decoration Day.

That morning, she carefully snipped the flowers and placed them in big cardboard boxes, damp newspapers between the layers. Then Paw Paw carefully loaded them in the trunk, fired up the little black coupe, and we were on our way.

Pitty and I loved following Maw Maw through the quiet, peaceful cemeteries, watching her place bouquets on the graves. Every now and then, she pointed out various relatives' graves: Here are my grandparents’ graves; over there are Paw Paw’s grandparents, his little sister, Katie.

She always stood quietly, a faraway look in her amber eyes, before two small graves: Catherine, who died at five, and J. T., who was eighteen months.

One evening at twilight we were strolling through the back yard. Maw Maw was pointing out various species of flowers and telling us their names when I spotted a cluster of the brightest flowers I had ever seen. They were a startling violet, and seemed to glow.

I was enchanted.

"Maw Maw," I said, "What are those?”

"They're Morning Glories," Maw Maw said, "They don't open until twilight, and they close when the sun hits them."

"Do they always do that?"

"Always."

For some reason, I couldn't believe they always bloomed at twilight.

Thus began our Morning Glory Ritual. Regardless of what we were doing or how tired we were, Pitty and I raced to the back yard to check them out. I had a sneaking suspicion that we would come upon them one evening and find them hanging limply, heads bowed.

We never did, of course.

Now, I have my own Morning Glory Ritual. I gaze at them just outside my window as I have my morning coffee. And I think of Maw Maw, who will always bloom in my memories.

Still Going Strong

* * *

It was the year of big hair and shoulder pads. George Herbert Walker Bush was sworn in as president, and Oliver North had been convicted in the Iran-Contra affair. Unemployment was 5.3 percent; the cost of a first-class stamp was 25 cents, and gas was 97 cents a gallon.

Popular movies were When Harry Met Sally, Driving Miss Daisy, and Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Anne Tyler's Breathing Lessons won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction; Rain Man won the academy award for best picture, and Bobby McFerrin's Don't Worry, Be Happy was song of the year.

It was 1989, the year the first meeting of the George-Wilson Literary Club was held. And after 20 years, we're still going strong. Especially Mother.

She has never missed a meeting.

You GO, Kevin Skinner!

Kevin Skinner hails from Mayfield, Kentucky, which is only a skip and a jump from Paducah. And I was thrilled when he wowed the judges and audience of America's Got Talent with his rendition of "If Tomorrow Never Comes."

I was disgusted, though, by the judges' reactions when Kevin walked onstage...the shaking of their gleaming dyed heads, the smirky smiles, cracks about his Southern accent. And his job as a chicken catcher. (They had a ball with that one!)

"I am sick and tired of this," I said, "They are always making fun of Southerners. They think we're all ignorant, toothless hillbillies!"

"Yes," Bill said, "They do it every time."

"But no one ever complains about it"

As it turned out, I was wrong.

When I opened The Paducah Sun yesterday, there was a piece about Kevin by Adam Shull, entertainment reporter. "By the time the esteemed judges introduced Skinner to let him sing," he wrote, "I wanted to roast them in a barbecue cooker."

Fire up that barbecue cooker, Adam, I'm here to help.

And you go, Kevin. We're rootin' for you here in Paducah!