Mass Murder in the Rose Bushes


Last night while listening to one of Nashville’s great songwriters at The Bluebird Café, I was once again reminded of the events surrounding my childhood in south east Mississippi that helped mold me into the Diva I am today.

My music partner and I have made a pact to hear live music more in an effort to hone our own writing skills and creativity. I was delighted to find a kindred spirit in last night’s songwriter, Marshall Chapman. Marshall has been around for years and while she does not have a string of number one hits, she has had consistency and staying power over the years. Upon meeting her, I can understand why.

She stands close to 6 feet tall, strikingly beautiful, even at the age of 56 and reminds you a lot of Blythe Danner. She has the most charming southern accent and delivery by way of Spartanburg, SC, as you’ll ever hear in these parts. She shared some commentaries that she has recently written for a program that is now airing on satellite radio. One particular commentary was entitled “Guns” and this is where my blog begins.

When I was growing up, guns were something that your Daddy used for hunting game. My Daddy, in particular, was not overly fond of deer hunting but loved to hunt for squirrels, quails, rabbits and occasionally coons. He had a few shotguns that he kept in my parent’s closet away from us kids. No one had a handgun unless you were law enforcement and even then, it wasn’t something that was readily discussed in mixed company.

Daddy decided that my Momma needed to learn how to shoot. At first she protested saying that proper southern women did not do such things but after much discussion, she relented. Much to Daddy's surprise, Momma was a natural shot. It didn't take long for her to began to get addicted to “target” practicing out in the back field. The summer she learned to shoot, she went through a dozen boxes of shells and finally Daddy had to take the gun away from her. We were thankful however, for my Dad’s encouragement. It gave us both a sense of safety after his passing, that should a need arise, we could protect ourselves.

After my sister Jill moved back home into my Granny’s house to help during those first few years without my Dad, the two of them decided to start a “rose garden” in between the two houses. They worked diligently and to their credit, started a beautiful garden and we had fresh roses most all spring and summer. All colors and smells; around 15 bushes.

Roses, while gorgeous, require a lot of care and maintenance. Both women fussed over this garden like it was Cheekwood. One constant aggravation was the armadillo’s and possums that would dig in the yard and soon found their way to the roses. The dog would go crazy at night and you knew one of the critters was digging in the yard/garden again.

My Momma, not to be undone by such critters, decided that she would “scare” them away by firing a few shots into the night. So I became accustomed to Momma going out on the carport in the dead of night and ripping off a few rounds of buckshot. Several times she had to call the neighborhood yard boy to come and “dispose” of her killings. The more she killed, the more obsessed she became.

My sister was not totally aware of Momma’s killing sprees and one particular night, not long after she moved back home, she had gone on a date with a nice guy that she had fancied for a while. They got in from their date and were enjoying a nice glass of wine on the screened back porch while listening to the night sounds.

Sadly, an armadillo decided to pick that moment to visit the rose garden which set our dog Odie to barking. I was in my room reading and Momma came to the door and announced, “I’ll be on the carport”……seeing the rifle in her hand, I knew what was coming.

She marched out on the carport, shone her 2 foot long flashlight into the garden and sure enough…there he was…digging away. WHAM! WHAM! Odie was going crazy. WHAM, another one got fired. WHAM went one last round. Momma appears in my door again. “I think I got the nasty thing but he ran off. Just in case, I’m keeping the gun next to the bed tonight. If he dares come back, he’s mine.” I wasn’t about to argue with her.

The next morning, I awoke to loud voices coming from the kitchen. Not overly anxious to find out I rolled over but the voices continued to get louder and louder and curiosity got the better of me.

Apparently, the armadillo that Momma filled full of buckshot found its way under my sister's house and passed on to the next life, but not before making horrible sounds as he was dying. The new boyfriend, having thought he was being fired at by my Momma out on our carport, had made a quick exit, just about the time the critter was running under her house. He told my sister it was all just a bit too much Walton’s for him and he wished her the best. She never heard from him again.

This practice continued for many years until Momma sold the place and moved to town. She still has the rifle but it’s kept at my sister’s house, locked in a real gun cabinet. Jill is too afraid to let Momma keep it at her house because she’s really not up for bailing Momma out of the county jail for having fired off a round and scaring the next door neighbors. You just have to know that somewhere, the armadillos and possums rejoice that the killing sprees are over.

NOTE: Attention Men - if you are not capable of hearing about, living through or reading about the trials and tribulation of the joy that is womanhood, now is where you quietly exit this particular blog and scroll to my previous blog on my position on U.S. border patrol. This is not for the weak in spirit. Consider yourself appropriately warned.


M & M's - Plain or Peanuts?

As many of you know, I recently turned the milestone marker of age 40 on my last birthday. In previous blogs I have lamented over how this has been a shock to my system and that I've even had a few bad days over having to check the 40-45 box on surveys. Will the horror never cease??

I ended a very stressful week with a trip to my OB/GYN for my yearly exam. As if my week hadn't been bad enough already I had to live through another humilating exam where you hear those three tiny words all women cringe when they hear, "scoot down more". Trust me, it's not so WE can get a better view...........

Not only did I live through that bliss of womanhood, I was told that since I was now FORTY that I may start menopause early due to my cancer history and oh yeah, I needed a mammogram. Oh joy for joy! Just what I needed. My boobs smashed in between two steel plates to the thickness of an Aunt Jemima pancake. I was happily informed by the nurse, who was frankly way too perky for 8:30 in the morning, that the Imaging Center could do it at 5:40 on Monday afternoon. Perfect. End the week on a low note; start the week on an even lower note.....well sort of.

I arrive at the Imaging Center around 5:15 thinking I'd be in and out. WRONG! Clearly the minute I stepped foot into the place, there are brats running everywhere. It had to be summer sports exam or something. Scattered throughout the slighty overdone waiting area were Spring Hill and Cool Spring Mom's with their lovely little offspring. I quickly noticed that most had not one, but THREE children in tow. One even had the audacity to get hubby to run by to sit with them when he got off work.

This insued into a huge conversation about some woman named Becky who had done some evil to the wife. Loud enough for the whole waiting area to hear, she went into grand details of the wrong and what she said and what she was going to do and what she was not going to do the next time she crossed Becky's path. What made it even worse was that the kids were running wild and the Dad seemed to be as wrapped up in the Becky story as the wife. I suspect that was a tactic to avoid having to deal with the fact his kids were brats.

I tried to focus on my game of Frogger on my cell but everytime I'd get ready to jump a log one of the brats screamed. Finally about the time I started to speak up and tell them I didn't give a rat's ass about Becky but would they please shut the f??k up.....they called my name. I breathed a sigh of relief!

I was escorted back to a dressing room, given a dressing gown and told to keep it open in the front. I was also asked if I was wearing deordant??? What the ???? I was like, "uh yeah..." I was promptly told to use a "wipe" and make sure it was all gone. OKAY. This really was no beauty contest and even your pits needed to be naked.

Next I was escorted into the X-ray room with a machine that could easily have been something from Deep Space Nine. I was explained in full detail exactly what was going to happen to my boobs and why.

All my female friends were right....it was cold steel and uncomfortable but not unbearable. It was a bit interesting to see my boobs flattened like that....but before you could ponder or gawk too much, she was telling you to step back and wait to make sure the film took. On a scale of 1 to 10 on the pain meter, it was probably a 2....I've hurt myself plucking my own eyebrows more than this hurt. I was also relieved to see the "girls" sprang back to their normal buxom shape.

As I was dressing, I thought about my experiences over the past few days. So far, you can sum up being a woman as having to endure strange and humilating events. I won't expound further, but I'm sure you can get the general idea. It either means having your legs up over your head, naked, or your boobs flattened, naked, or giving birth, with all of the above and yes, naked. At least we don't have to bend over and cough too, although I'm sure there is some medical quack somewhere in a lab at John Hopkin's inventing some test for a woman that would require this - just to make the humilation factor complete.

When I was a kid, and in fact, to this day, my favorite candy has always been M & M's. I'm usually a plain girl....but sometimes you just want the peanuts. That's when it hit me....M & M's no longer represent my beloved treat....but instead menopause and mammograms.

They no longer melt in your mouth but it IS just plain nuts!

DIVA'S REVELATION OF THE WEEK

With the recent speech by President Bush regarding border policies between the U. S. and Mexico, the media has been full of coverage, commentaries and debates over the increasing issues surrounding these problems. In true Diva fashion, I felt it was only my duty as a legally born and bred American citizen to share my thoughts on the subject.

Above is a picture of Pedro the accordian player, the blue bird of happiness and his trusty unicyle to help wheel his way to freedom. America IS the melting pot after all and this pot is full of cheese:

Guidelines for entry:

NOTE: These rules will be strictly enforced by all National Guard and Immigration Officers. Any illegal immigrant failing to comply with these rules will be restricted to White Castle hamburgers and Tab cola until you are deported back to Mexico. All bling, Tommy Hilfiger, tires and rims will be confiscated before leaving U.S. soil. Each immigrant deported will receive as a parting gift the complete boxed set of Barney.

Requirements include:

1. Sing the theme to "The Love Boat". This shouldn't be difficult since they all like water sports and motorized vehicles.

2. View the "Citizen's Arrest" episode of the "Andy Griffith Show". Self explanatory.

3. Attend one Dave Ramsey financial seminar. I feel someone should give Dave a heads-up on the section about the emergency fund as it relates to WHERE you save it....like for instance in a bank in the U.S. and not the pocket of an old Mexican in Tijuana.

4. Perform 200 hours of community service at Chuck E Cheese. This experience should make or break - if they really want to be a citizen, they will stand the test. If not, they will gladly leave for the border after a few hours of brats at a birthday shindig with bad pizza and lousy games.

5. Complete accelerated language classes on the following topics:

* How to talk redneck - Acceptance in our southern regions will come faster if you throw in a "ya'll" or a "how's yur momma and 'em".

* How to talk yankee - Acceptance in our northern and eastern regions will come faster if you throw in a "you's guys" or "get da fuck outta herah".

* How to talk hippie - Acceptance in our western region will certainly come faster if you learn how to eat sprouts and say, "like there totally cool, dude".

* How to talk ghetto - Acceptance in our urban areas will be needed if you intend on starting your own gang.....whatever you do don't call a brother "hay-zeus (jesus) or es-say" without being prepared to scrap.

6. Audition for the next season of one of the following: Survivor, Fear Factor, The Amazing Race, Nashville Star, American Idol. Anyone disqualified WILL have a slot on Big Brother.

7. Host a "Sugar and Spice" party. It's really all you need to bring the passion back to citizenship.

8. Tour the Hormel Meat Packing Plant. Some would argue this would be too much like a five course meal to them but a friendly reminder of what happens to bad animals never hurts anyone.

9. Receive instruction on the proper use of chickens. We actually eat chickens here in the U.S.

10. Pre-qualify for a Ford Metro. This would particularly be a strong message since you can only get one average white guy in one of these on a good day.

Once this qualifications are met, entry will be granted and citizenship processing will begin. Soon enough you too will enjoy the wonder of all that is American:

* income taxes

* less pay

* high gas prices

* even higher gas prices

* Hillary Clinton

*indigestion, gas, diarrhea, constipation, heartburn, migraines and hemorrhoids caused by stress of working for corporate America, paying taxes and benefits for illegal aliens and welfare babies.

Welcome to America!!

A Tribute to My Mother
Mother’s Day
May 14, 2006

I’ve heard many times that your parents make you who you become. I used to think this was a cop out for all the things in your life that weren’t exactly as you would have them be; it’s easier to blame someone else for your failings instead of yourself, right?

I turned 40 in January and while this may not mean a lot to most people, it had a profound effect on me. It was the realization that I’m at a mile marker phase in my life. A time where you are considered to be fully an adult and begin to move into the slot that your parents once filled in the eyes of those younger than you. It’s a daunting position I find myself in. My two step-sons look at me the way I used to look at my Mom and Dad. I thought they knew everything and had the answer to any question I might throw their way. The knowledge that my parents must have felt the same fears that I feel now in knowing you DON’T have all the answers and in fact, at times, NO answers.

Several years ago I wrote my mother a poem and framed it for her Mother’s Day present. She cried when she read it and every year reminds me that she reads it and is proud of its sentiment and that I’m her daughter. Truly, I am the one who is blessed. I had thought about posting it here but decided at the last minute to share what I’m feeling instead.

Jimelle Entrekin was born October 8, 1929, to Matthew and Gladys Entrekin. She would be the eldest of four and the one that her family would come to view as their rock in times of need and trouble. Anyone that is around me longer than half a minute knows that I tend to have a potty mouth. She would be so disappointed if she knew my language was as bad as it is. Mom is 76 and I have never heard one curse word cross her lips. She is ever gracious and kind; a real southern woman. She has suffered many heartaches in life but to talk to her, you’d never know it. She finds the good in everyone and if there isn’t any visible, offers up a prayer in their name. I have said time and time again, that if anyone has a direct line to the man upstairs, it’s her. Her faith and belief in God are tremendous. If you’re having a bad day, she’s the lady you want to talk with. Instantly you feel her peace and calm and strength and by the time you hang up the phone, you realize things aren’t quite as bad as you thought.

Tonight she and I had a long conversation. Our weekly “date” is Monday nights after I’m home from working with my music partner. Given today, I called her a night early to make sure she received her card and things in the mail and to tell her again, how much I love and appreciate her. As usual, she spent more time telling me how cherished I am to her. How she admires my spirit and love for adventure; how my talents delight and amaze her and how if SHE is having a bad day, I’M the one she calls.

Today just happens to be the anniversary of my Dad’s passing in 1979. We spoke briefly about that night. She and I were home with him when it happened and after other family members arrived and finally convinced Mother to go to bed, I crawled in with her. I remember her taking my hand and in the early morning hours she told me how scared she was and how our lives would never be the same again. I was scared too and no, our lives were never the same again, but they did eventually become something that was okay, even good.

For a few years after his death, it was just the two of us at home. She never left my side when I was diagnosed with cancer and spent 12 weeks in the hospital the first time. She refused to leave me and would only go home long enough to get clean clothes and come right back. Finally, my best friend Tina, talked her into going home over the weekend and leaving her with me. Even then, she called every few hours to make sure I was “okay”.

Today, as everyday, I miss my Dad but I rejoice in the fact that I still have my dear Mom who has always been my best friend. Your parents DO help mold the person you become. The direction and choices are yours to make, but the foundation is born from your experience of watching your parents and learning from them. They are not perfect and will make mistakes, but then again, so will you. You learn, as they did, to pick yourself up, dust yourself off and keep going.

I hope that as my sweet sons grow into manhood that they will look back on their life with me as times of joy and happiness. I hope they know how much I love them and how lucky I am to have been given the opportunity to be their step-mom. If I’m half as loving and kind and strong as my own Mom, I’ll be satisfied.

Diva's Revelation Of The Day