Author: junemathews

This story appeared in the December 9 issue of The Trussville Tribune…

I used to be one of those intrepid shoppers who, without fail, hit the mall the day after Thanksgiving. But that was before the stores started opening at the crack of midnight, and navigating Black Friday sales became a hazardous contact sport. Sustaining a concussion for the sake of a few dollars off a rice steamer or a pair of fleece pajama pants isn’t my idea of a fun way to begin the holidays.

Neither am I one of those festive early bird types who spends the day after Thanksgiving steeped in Christmas decorations. I tried it once about eighteen or twenty years ago, but by the time December 25 rolled around, I was so sick of tinsel, holly and candle wax, I could have screamed.

It’s not that I don’t decorate for Christmas. I do. Eventually. But a couple of weeks of vacuuming tree droppings and dusting around three Nativity scenes, a miniature Christmas village and a collection of Santa figurines is plenty for me, thank you very much.

So this year on Black Friday, when I found myself casting about for something more productive to do than watching Hannah Montana reruns and gorging myself on leftover pumpkin squares and sweet potato soufflé, I decided to clean out kitchen cabinets.

This compulsion to weed out and rearrange didn’t come out of the blue. I’d been considering it for several weeks and the day off gave me some time to spare. It stemmed from a comment my husband made indicating the arrangement of the spices wasn’t conducive to his work style and, goodness knows, I want to do everything I can to encourage any work he cares to do in the kitchen.

You see Jimmie, after three decades and more of marriage, is learning how to cook. Motivated by a fear of starving to death while waiting for me to produce a meal, he’s well on his way to becoming the next Iron Chef.

I was once the only cook around here. But two years ago, I moved from self-employment at home to a job back out in the real world, so my days of throwing a roast into the oven or plugging up the crock pot in the middle of the afternoon ended. And Jimmie got hungry.

It’s not that I don’t cook at all anymore. Just not during the week. With our current work schedules, it makes more sense for Jimmie to cook. He gets off work an hour before I do and can have supper well underway before I even leave the office. Fortunately, he’s willing and, like I said, hungry enough to do it.

As to my Black Friday project, the cabinet where we keep the spices, cooking oils, and other such staples seemed to be Jimmie’s chief concern, so I started there. I could hardly believe some of the stuff I found, not to mention the age of it. A tin of whole mustard seed dated 1981. A tiny bottle of black walnut extract, its white label yellowed with age. Faded parsley flakes. Clumpy popcorn salt. I had no clue where some of those things came from or why we would have bought them in the first place.

But at least the prices were right. Faded stickers still clinging to some of the items indicated we once paid a whole lot less for groceries than we do now. I knew that already, of course, but actually seeing those substantially lower prices kind of made me ill. And I remember thinking they were exorbitant back then.

By the time I finished cleaning out that first cabinet – a bigger job than I’d expected – my enthusiasm had waned. So I tossed the things I’d weeded out into the trash and instead of starting on another cabinet, I started on the laundry. Whatever has accumulated in the other cabinets isn’t going anywhere, and I’ll get around to cleaning them out sooner or later.

Come to think of it, cleaning out a kitchen cabinet could be a new Black Friday tradition for me… But on second thought, maybe I’ll just pull out the Christmas decorations early from now on. It would probably be less trouble. Surely it would be more fun.

This story first appeared in the November 25, 2010, issue of The Trussville Tribune.

A book review is not generally the kind of thing I write, but I’m making somewhat of an exception here. I say “somewhat” because this isn’t totally a review. It’s partly a tribute to a friend.

I just finished reading Clyde Bolton’s memoir, Hadacol Days, A Southern Boyhood, and loved it. With each page, he drew me into the world of his youth, and I figuratively strolled along with him through the 1940s and 50s streets of Statham, Georgia. I didn’t just read Clyde’s book; I experienced it, and it gave me a different perspective on someone I greatly admire.

I first met Clyde over three-and-a-half decades ago when I was a high school junior and briefly dated the eldest of his three sons, Mike. The Boltons had just moved to Trussville into the beautiful custom-built house they still live in today, and Mike wanted to show it off. His mom, Sandra, rightfully excited about her new home, happily gave me a tour.

An aspiring writer even then, I was in awe of Clyde. I had seen his picture and read his articles on the sports pages of The Birmingham News ever since I could remember. I couldn’t have been more tongue-tied if Mike had introduced me to yet-to-be-impeached President Nixon.

I clearly recall standing in the Boltons’ den as Mike pointed upward at the loft where his dad wrote (and still writes), but I don’t recall climbing the stairs to it. Since I was feeling a little jittery in the presence of an individual I considered newspaper royalty, it probably would have been too much for me anyway.

But that connection ended abruptly when Mike stood me up for another girl after a high school playoff game in the Fall of ‘73, a move I’m tickled to say his dad now gives him grief for. When Mike visited me at college a couple of years later and told me “the other woman” had broken up with him, I couldn’t help but be pleased in a semi-vengeful sort of way… But I digress.

Even though I’ve known who Clyde is for decades, an actual friendship between us has evolved only over the past four or five years, since he and I have been serving on the city’s library board together. Not only do I feel fortunate to have a friend who is an encourager and an example to me as a writer, I also know that Clyde is one of those friend-to-the-end kind of guys who’s always willing to lend a hand when needed. I can only hope I’m half the friend to him that he is to me.

Now don’t take this wrong, but Clyde’s latest memoir is one of those books I kept putting down because I didn’t want to finish it. I wanted to savor it. I read it slowly over the course of a couple of weeks, even re-reading passages in order to squeeze every possible drop of goodness from Clyde’s descriptive prose. Since I’m the product of a small-town upbringing in many ways similar to the one he described, his “Hadacol Days” tales charmed me.

If any of my other author friends had written such a delightful book, I’d log onto e-mail and send a congratulatory note. But I can’t do that with Clyde. He doesn’t have e-mail. Heck, he doesn’t even have a computer, much less a cell phone or any other of those newfangled gadgets with which most of my friends communicate these days. He still uses a vintage Underwood typewriter (yes, the manual kind) to do his writing, and when he talks on the telephone, he uses an old-fashioned landline.

Clyde calls it being practical; I call it being a stubborn old goat that refuses to join the rest of us in the 21st Century. But between you and me, I think he’s probably got the right idea. And truth be told, I’d take a hundred more old goats just like him.

This story first appeared in the November 4, 2010, issue of The Trussville Tribune.

Are Jimmie and I the only people foolish enough to purchase not one, but two, of those converter boxes for our extra TV? When the television world converted to high definition digital format last year, we still had an old analog TV with rabbit ears in the bedroom. The only reason we ever turned it on was to listen to, more than watch, the morning news while getting ready for work. It helped keep us on schedule, and the weather and traffic reports often came in handy.

So wishing to retain the option of a TV in the bedroom but not wishing to pay an extra charge on the monthly cable bill for so little usage, we sent off for one of those government discount coupons that allowed us to purchase a converter box for twenty-five bucks. We came home from the electronics store believing we’d made a smart and thrifty purchase. Humph.

We quickly learned the darn thing was temperamental at best. Its ability to receive a signal was marginal, and we found it horribly choosy as to which signals it would receive at all. We might get Channel 13 one day and Channel 42 the next, but hardly ever both on the same day. It would also pick up an odd assortment of channels in between (the exact lineup seemed to change every few days), affording us the ability to watch half-hour infomercials twenty-four hours a day if we so desired.

The closest thing to a constant was Channel 6, so that’s usually the channel we tuned in to, whether we liked the programming or not. But even then, the reception was good only if it didn’t rain, the temperature didn’t drop below 40 or rise above 92, and the wind didn’t blow hard enough to stir dry leaves. In any of those instances, the picture disintegrated into a fuzz of color, and the sound became spotty. Try getting accurate weather and traffic information when all you can hear is every other word. It ain’t easy, let me tell you.

When things got really bad, the screen went black, and a bouncing blue “No Signal” box appeared. Sometimes the problem would correct itself; sometimes not. But that’s usually when I’d get frustrated enough to turn off the TV and flip on the radio.

As if all that weren’t aggravating enough, the irritating little device conked out completely in just over a year – a short lifespan, but plenty long enough to outlast the one-year warranty. Of course.

But from the ashes came hope. “We just had a bad box,” I naively told Jimmie. “Let’s go buy another one. I’m sure we’ll get a good one this time.”

So off we go to the electronics store again, where a salesperson finally located a lone converter box in crinkled packaging on the back of a stockroom shelf. That should have been a clue. But feeling fortunate to find what we were shopping for, we snatched it up, headed to the checkout – and paid fifty bucks for what we’d previously paid twenty-five.

“It’s still cheaper than cable in the long run,” I doggedly told myself. “And this box is going to work better than the old one.” I wasn’t ready to give up yet.

I optimistically watched Jimmie hook the new box up, and lo and behold it did work better. For about two days. When the same old stuff started again, I was disappointed but not really surprised. Somewhere deep in my heart, I knew we were fighting a losing battle the FCC and the cable company would eventually win.

For now, though, we’re hanging in there with the second converter box, even though we’re certain that about a month after the warranty expires, the box will, too. Then we’ll have to make a decision as to whether we’ll hook the bedroom TV up to cable or use it as a plant stand.

I’m betting Jimmie will lobby for cable. He wouldn’t mind spending the money as much as I would.

I say stick a philodendron on that thing and turn up the radio.

This story originally appeared in the October 21, 2010, issue of The Trussville Tribune.

With the spring arrival of a cutie named Sam, my friend, Shirley, became a grandmother for the first time. As with most first children/grandchildren, preparations for Sam’s arrival began as soon as his due date was announced, and finding the perfect nursery theme soon became a top priority for his mom and grandmother.

A creative pair, Shirley and expectant daughter Melanie headed to a baby specialty store, hoping a stroll up and down the aisles would generate some ideas.

“Melanie wanted something fresh and different, as all her friends seemed to be decorating with the same woodland creatures or monkeys or tried-and-true bunnies and ducks,” Shirley later told me. “We didn’t see anything that ‘spoke’ to us until we were leaving the store, and she saw two plush monsters – a male and a female version – in the clearance bin.”

And the idea for Sam’s monster nursery was born.

The plush pair rode home on the dashboard of the car while the mommy and nana-to-be began plotting their decorating strategy. Before long, they’d purchased monster fabric, ordered monster-embroidered quilt blocks and commissioned original monster paintings. As friends and family members learned of the plan, they made their own contributions, including monster piggy banks, a monster beanbag chair and monster ugly dolls. Nana Shirley even made a 17-foot monster snake for Sam.

Cute, huh? Especially for a little boy.

But I have to admit when I first heard that Sam would be compelled to spend his first night at home – and many nights thereafter – amidst a collection of monsters, I was doubtful. I mean, isn’t every kid’s nightmare being eaten alive by a big hairy beast that comes alive only after bedtime? And Sam would not only have to worry about one monster; he’d be surrounded.

On the other hand, I figured, Sam’s immediate exposure to monsters might grant him a measure of immunity to monster-fright, a condition that has afflicted countless over-imaginative children since time began, including me. My monsters, like many monsters of childhood, lived under the bed.

When I was a kid, I slept in a mahogany four-poster bed that sat high enough to allow a foot or so of space between the box springs and the floor. In other words, there was plenty of room for a monster or two down there.

Until I was five or six years old, the only monster residing under my bed was the generic green kind with fangs, horns and one Cyclopean eye in the middle of his forehead. Then my parents took my brothers and me to the drive-in theater to see To Kill a Mockingbird, and a second monster that looked an awful lot like Boo Radley came along.

I imagined the two scary creatures huddled under the bed, plotting to jump out the minute I dozed off and scare the living daylights out of me. Fortunately, they never pulled any of their monster stunts – at least not any that I know of. It’s quite possible they simply never managed to wake me up, since that was back when I could sleep like a rock for eight hours at a stretch.

As you can probably guess, under-the-bed monsters aren’t a problem for me anymore. For one thing, I grew up. And for another, there are too many gigantic Tupperware-like storage boxes wedged under the beds at our house to allow much room for monsters. To fit into any leftover space, the poor creatures would have to be too small to be scary.

And as for Sam? He’s reportedly thriving among the monsters, happily unaware that his colorful nursery décor is the stuff of nightmares for other kids. Kind of makes me wish my parents had thought to decorate my nursery with monsters. It might have saved me a lot of needless anxiety.

This story first appeared in the October 7, 2010, issue of The Trussville Tribune…

I probably shouldn’t admit this publicly, especially considering the region of the United States in which I was born, raised and still reside, but I really don’t care for football. Now I’m not talking about the trimmings like game parties, marching bands, and concession stand peanuts. I enjoy all that. I just don’t like the game itself, mainly because the only thing I understand about it is that when the ball crosses the goal line, somebody scores, and then they get to kick the ball for another point. That’s it.

Try striking up a meaningful conversation about a first down or a clipping penalty or a quarterback sack in one of last weekend’s games, and all you’re liable to get from me is a non-committal comment like, “Oh, I must have missed that,” or “Wasn’t that something?” Truth be told, I’m not exactly sure what those things are, and I’m okay with that. Football isn’t my thing. My husband, on the other hand, is devoted to the game.

As I write this, Jimmie, also known as our household SuperFan, is watching the umpteenth college football game of the day, excitedly pounding the arms of his recliner and hurling the occasional victory shout or not-so-nice word in the general direction of the TV. I’m huddled with the Chihuahuas in the bedroom because I figure it’s a good time to get some writing done; they figure it’s to their advantage to hide from the scary man in the den.

Normally a fairly laid-back kind of guy, Jimmie morphs into a different person when watching football. He becomes noisy and animated, and miracle of miracles, he manages to stay awake for a full four quarters at a stretch. There’s something about the combination of a TV, recliner and remote control that usually causes Jimmie to fall asleep – unless, that is, he’s watching an NCIS rerun or a football game.

But I don’t get it. I really don’t. What’s so fascinating about watching a bunch of big guys moving an odd-shaped little ball up and down a field by tackling and making every effort to permanently maim each another? It makes no sense to me. But given the popularity of football, it evidently makes sense to a lot of other folks. And at one time – probably 25 or 30 years ago – that bothered me. I thought I was missing out on something, and I hate missing out on anything if I can help it.

So being the reader I’ve always been, I headed to the bookstore and bought a thin volume entitled “The Girls’ Guide to Football” or something like that. It’s been so long, I don’t remember the title for sure. But I do remember reading the book. I also remember still not understanding the game after I did. My comprehension skills tend to fail me when I’m reading something I truly have no interest in.

I have to admit, though, that even to a football-challenged person like me, the sport has its associated good points. When we’re home, Jimmie is happy to watch it on his own, leaving me free to do things I enjoy, like reading, writing or shopping on the Internet. And whenever we go to a game, I get to sit in the stands people-watching and eating concession stand food, which are two of my favorite pastimes. So all that being said, I guess I really do like football in a sideways sort of fashion.

But unless you want to hear a critique of the drill team’s performance at halftime or a diatribe on the condition of the ladies’ restroom at the stadium, don’t expect any post-game analysis from me. I still don’t get it. And if I don’t understand football at my age, I doubt I ever will.

This story first appeared in the September 23 issue of The Trussville Tribune…

Not so long ago, I was young. Oh, I know that compared to some people, I’m still young. But I’m a whole lot older than I used to be, and I’m beginning to see it, act it and feel it. Here are some of the symptoms I’m experiencing…

· Wearing reading glasses has gotten to be such a habit that I don’t even notice I’m wearing them. When I bought my first pair a few years ago, I thought I’d never get used to them. Furthermore, I was aggravated to pieces that the darn things were even necessary. Now I don’t even try to read a large print book without them, a sure indication that my ugly little spectacles have become a kind of security blanket. But I have to say being able to easily see what I’m reading beats the heck out of squinting and clutching a book at arm’s length.

· As far as music, I don’t know any Beyonce songs, and I don’t care that I don’t know any Beyonce songs. In my book, she’s got a long way to go before she’ll meet the standard set by the likes of James Taylor, Karen Carpenter (God rest her soul) or The Captain and Tennille. By the way, who is this Jay-Z person Beyonce is married to? Am I supposed to know him? And why don’t either of them have last names?

· Twenty-five years ago, my style motto was “Beauty before comfort.” It’s now the other way around. These days, I consider push-up bras and heels any higher than an inch-and-a-half akin to medieval torture devices. And who wants to wear tight jeans when a pair of forgiving elastic-waist pants will serve the purpose just as well? Until I’m dressing to meet the Queen (surely it’ll be my turn one day), I’ll be choosing comfort.

· Black and white TV is my visual comfort food. I’ll take “I Love Lucy” or “The Addams Family” over “Hannah Montana” or that Steve Urkel show any day. Watching the old stuff reminds me of simpler times, back when I didn’t have to pay my own bills, and off-days meant bicycles and roller skates, not laundry and vacuuming.

· I sit around the dinner table with friends discussing what antacid works best after eating a meal of spaghetti with meatballs and garlic bread. We then compare cholesterol and blood pressure levels, trade recipes for easy low-fat desserts and talk about who’s recently had a knee replacement and who could probably use one. What really blows my mind is when my contemporaries start bringing out pictures of the grandkids and passing them around the table. Aren’t grandparents supposed to be older than we are?

· I go to bed early – real early. In college, I could stay out ‘til midnight and make it to class the next morning by 8:00 a.m. – or a few minutes after, at least – then keep going ‘til midnight again. Nowadays, I can hardly wait until 9:00 p.m. to hunker down with a book and try to stay awake long enough to read for an hour or so before falling asleep. I do, however, wake up earlier than I used to – 6:00 a.m. is what I now consider “sleeping late.” So surely it all evens out somehow.

I had one other point to make, but I can’t remember what it is… Oh, that’s it – the short-term memory thing. As time goes by, I have less and less of it at my disposal. But that might not be all bad. I regularly make a fool of myself in one way or another, and forgetting stuff like that is okay with me.

And on that note, I’ll close. Writing about this aging business is getting a little depressing, to tell the truth. Besides, I’ve got to get up from here and head out on some errands. Now if I can just remember where I put the car keys…

This story originally appeared in the September 9 issue of The Trussville Tribune…

All I wanted was a pack of gum. Jimmie and I had eaten one of those grocery store gourmet pizzas for supper, and a thorough tooth brushing hadn’t eliminated the strong flavor of garlic it left behind. So on the way to my friend Cindy’s house for one of those sales parties cleverly disguised as a girls night out, I stopped at a convenience store.

I was running a few minutes early and had plenty of time. And really, how long could it take? I pictured myself scooting in and out of the store, gum in hand, in about thirty seconds flat.

But I didn’t pay attention as I pulled in and parked at the side of the building; otherwise, I would have kept going. As I rounded the corner on my way to the front door, I realized the gas pump area was overflowing with cars, and the curbside parking places were full. My vision of a thirty-second gum run faded fast.

Inside the store, people swarmed, and the line at the register extended halfway down the candy aisle. I sidled past a woman cradling a six-pack and barely managed to dodge an unkempt and rather – um – odiferous man clutching similar selections in either hand. Realizing this was going to be more time-consuming than I’d thought, I quickly found some gum. Then keeping a breathable distance, I fell into line behind the stinker.

Of the customers ahead of me, most were prepaying for gas, but they were also purchasing items to feed their habits. (Okay, I was, too. I do love a good chaw of Trident.) But by the time one customer paid for a couple of cartons of cigarettes, he’d spent the better part of a hundred dollar bill, which was a lot of money going up in smoke, if you ask me.

As I mentally calculated how many packs of gum that hundred dollars would have bought – no easy feat for this math-challenged individual – I noted my surroundings. Not too many years ago, gas station convenience stores were about the size of a refrigerator box and offered little more than cigarettes, soft drinks and candy. This one, however, was half the size of a supermarket and jam-packed with all manner of merchandise.

Did you know you can buy office supplies in a convenience store? It’s true. Oh, you won’t get the selection you’ll find in one of the office supply superstores, but if you need paper clips or highlighters on a holiday, you can get them. You can also find duct tape, bobby pins, trash bags, and even a few of those “As Seen on TV” items I love so much.

Standing among such treasures reminded me of the time Jimmie and I went out to eat with friends after church one Sunday and learned that one of the kids in the group, Andy, was turning thirteen that day. As a birthday treat, we offered him ten dollars on the condition that he immediately go and purchase a gift for himself in a convenience store next door to the restaurant. He accepted the challenge, and we eagerly waited to see what he’d buy.

Fifteen minutes later, Andy returned to the restaurant sporting a puka shell necklace like the ones you get in those souvenir shops at the beach. Apparently they were “cool” that year, and we were amazed he found something in a convenience store – of all places – with which he was so utterly thrilled. We were also pleased to have hit upon such a simple solution to the age-old dilemma of what to give a teenage male for his birthday.

The memory made me smile, and I was still smiling as I paid for my gum and headed to Cindy’s. Yes, I thought to myself, even with stinky customers, endless supplies of cigarettes, and oceans of beer, convenience stores offer a compelling shopping experience. And if Andy is any indication, they’re great places for buying gifts, too.

I’ll have to remember that come Christmas. It could save me a lot of time in the malls.

This story first appeared in the August 26 issue of The Trussville Tribune…

I work in a great office with a wonderful bunch of people, and I have proof. Based on a survey of its employees, the law firm I work for was recently named one of the Best Places to Work in Birmingham. And who knows better than the employees? I mean it’s usually us, not the bosses, who know the real dirt. So if we deem someplace a great place to work, it really is.

But truth be told, it’s not necessarily the bosses, the pay or the benefits that make our firm such a special place to work – even though all those things are appreciated. And it has little to do with personal fulfillment, the satisfaction of a job well done or the inner rewards of hard work. No, it’s something more tangible, more fulfilling, satisfying and rewarding than operating a computer or pushing papers around a desk all day. It’s the parties.

At our office, no occasion is too insignificant to celebrate, and we do our level best not to let any excuse slip past. In addition to periodic birthday cake breaks, holiday meals and wedding or baby showers, we celebrate National Cheesecake Day, Sundae Friday (an annual firm-created ice cream pig fest the week of Labor Day), We Won a Big Case Day, The Boss Is Out of the Country for Two Weeks Day (umm…maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned that last one…) and We Really Don’t Have Anything to Celebrate But Let’s Eat Cake Anyway Day.

In case you haven’t guessed, food plays a major role in our celebrations. Aw, heck, who am I kidding? Food is THE REASON for our celebrations. If not for the opportunity to overindulge in sugar-heavy, calorie-laden treats (often, courtesy of the firm) with some perfectly sound rationalizations for doing so, why would we bother?

Now don’t get me wrong. Life in our office isn’t a constant series of parties, although we probably throw more than our share. We actually work most of the time, and pardon me in advance for bragging, but we’re all pretty good at what we do.

Our four fine bosses (I’ll take that raise now) have managed to assemble a highly capable team, a mix of folks ranging from seasoned old workhorses to eager young pups ready to take on the world. And most of the time, we all enjoy each other’s company. I say “most of the time” because everybody has their “days,” right? But when you’ve got an overall friendly working environment, it makes for a pleasant place to work.

I like to think the cordial atmosphere has a lot to do with the parties. My personal theory is, you can’t help but get along with others when you’re eating ice cream or drooling over cheesecake together. And try being a bear to somebody with whom you’ve just split a brownie or shared a Krispy Kreme doughnut. It’s impossible.

Seriously, how can you not be sweet when you’re full of sweets? It certainly helps improve my attitude; I’ve heard it’s something about how sugar temporarily boosts serotonin and promotes a sense of well-being. But unfortunately, it’s also helping my hips grow bigger – and several other parts of my anatomy, as well.

So with that in mind, I had to chuckle to myself when, after receiving notice of the Best Places to Work win, I was invited to nominate the firm for Healthiest Places to Work honors. “No way!” I thought, imagining a panel of judges rolling on the floor laughing after reviewing our entry. Then it struck me that being happy on the job is healthy, so we actually might qualify.

Hmmm… I’m going to think that over while I’m making plans for the firm to celebrate National Waffle Day next week. With any luck, we can pull this healthy thing off and reel in another honor before the year is out. In the meantime, does anybody have a good recipe for chocolate waffles? I could really use one about now.

Congratulations to RichardsonClement PC for being named one of 30 metro-area Best Places to Work in 2010 by Birmingham Business Journal.

This story first appeared in the August 12, 2010, issue of The Trussville Tribune…

I love my dogs. I really do. I love their sweet little Chihuahua faces and funny ears. I love how they cuddle under a blanket at my feet on a cold evening. I love the enthusiastic greeting I receive whenever I return home, whether I’ve been gone for minutes or days. And I love the way they can be bribed to sit, stay or come with the simple offer of a cheese treat. If only husbands, bosses, and waiters in Mexican restaurants who don’t keep tea glasses full and forget to bring extra salsa were so easy to control.

But we have a bit of a situation here: The inmates have taken over the asylum. It’s no longer a case of Jimmie and me letting Shug and Dobbie live in our house. They’re letting us live in theirs. They’re also letting us sleep in their bed, sit in their recliner, mop their floors and mow their lawn, i.e., bathroom. In return, we finance their food, shelter and medical care. What’s wrong with this picture?

The ungrateful mongrels have not only assumed ownership of the house, they’ve also learned to manage the live-in human help without uttering a word. An intent stare broken by intermittent glances toward the door means, “You’d better let me out right now, or you’ll be mopping that floor again.” An upright stance achieved by propping front paws on the couch and a clipped bark means, “Move over. You’re in my spot.” A pitiful head-hanging gaze at the food bowl means, “If I don’t get something to eat pretty soon, I just might starve to death, and it’ll be all your fault.”

And there’s no question when bedtime rolls around. The pups apparently fear turning into pumpkins after 10 p.m., so at 9:55 most nights, they’re sitting at the head of the bed (yes, the same bed we used to consider ours alone), waiting for one of us servants to come turn the covers down. It doesn’t matter that the servants still have the kitchen to clean or ironing to do; the furry little princes are weary from all the lounging around they do all day while their humans are out working to support them in the style to which they’ve become accustomed.

It all happened so gradually that Jimmie and I failed to notice what was going on until the takeover had occurred, and now it’s gotten out of hand. As non-parents who, in the past, have ridiculed the parenting skills of people who let their spoiled, unruly children get the best of them, we’re now feeling somewhat abashed. We’ve been outwitted by a couple of Chihuahuas.

But we might have a strategy: We’re thinking about getting a cat. We’ve seen how it flusters Shug and Dobbie when they try to intimidate the neighbor’s cat, Layla, and she strikes back by swiping one or both of them across the nose. The dogs respond by yelping as if she were killing them then hightailing it to the front porch. So a cat could very well be our most effective weapon in this war.

The only problem is, Jimmie doesn’t particularly like cats, and I’m allergic to them, so we’ve still got a few kinks to work out of the plan. But we’ll figure something out. The takeover took a few years to occur, and we realize that regaining control is liable to take a while, too.

In the meantime, if you see me down at the Winn-Dixie on the pet food aisle at 1 a.m. looking for cheese-flavored dog snacks, you’ll know who sent me. Of course, that would probably mean you were sent there, too, which would also mean you’re as well trained as I am. And in that case, we may as well give it up and admit the obvious: It truly is a dog’s world, after all.

This story first appeared in the July 29 issue of The Trussville Tribune…

Regardless of whether or not we participate, some rites of summer never die. The annual Harper Family Reunion is one example. Until this weekend, the last time Jimmie and I attended was as newlyweds over 30 years ago, but our absence has affected the 93-year-old tradition not one whit. It just goes on and on and on, an Energizer Bunny of a gathering that continues despite the fact that many of us who showed up this year are virtual strangers to one another.

But when Cousin Kathy recently e-mailed a reunion reminder and urged the rest of Granddaddy Harper’s grandkids to attend, I thought, “Why not?” Like I said, it’s been a while, and a break from the usual weekend routine sounded appealing. So the day before, I went grocery shopping to pick up a ready-made pound cake and the ingredients for an easy fruit salad (MeeMaw Harper used to cook for hours for these things; I obviously didn’t inherit that gene), and bright and early on the fourth Sunday of July, Jimmie and I took off for Rome, Georgia, where a host of Harpers awaited.

Walking into a roomful of unfamiliar faces didn’t bother me. My job requires that I attend networking events on occasion, so to me, this was just another banquet room full of people to mix and mingle with. Jimmie, on the other hand, steps into new situations a little more cautiously than I and was, thus, a little flustered at the greeting he got.

Most Harpers are about as shy as I am, which isn’t very, so getting from the door to the serving tables to add our contributions to the potluck meal wasn’t easy. We were immediately surrounded by and being introduced and re-introduced to cousins of every age and degree of removal. We had no doubt of our welcome status.

Harpers are also huggers, and if you’re the least bit kin, you’re bound to get more than a squeeze or two in fairly short order. And Jimmie’s cuddly teddy-bearish looks invariably attract women huggers. So when a second cousin flung her arms around him as he walked through the door, I could tell by the look on his face that he was wondering what the heck he’d gotten himself into.

The same cousin later teasingly threatened to steal him away but backed off when I told her she could have him – only on a no-return basis. I’d earlier been teeth-grindingly aggravated with him for not pulling complete directions to the reunion site off Mapquest (we got lost twice on the drive over), and since a residual amount of annoyance remained, I probably sounded a little too anxious to pawn him off on the first taker. She evidently noticed and wisely declined.

The most fascinating part of the day by far was perusing Cousin Jo Ann’s family trees on which she’d separately charted the descendants of Granddaddy Harper and each of his eight siblings. The work it’s taken to develop the charts, much less keep them updated, is a priceless gift to each member of the family. I hope everyone appreciates Jo Ann’s efforts. I know I do.

The funniest part of the day was watching Kathy, appointed by Jo Ann as the unofficial (unpaid) event photographer, trying to snap photos of every person present. She must have taken a hundred pictures of various groupings, many people in various states of chewing, and all with a broken camera that had been rigged together with an oversized screw and a rubber band.

At the end of the day, the 2010 version of the Harper Family Reunion was well worth the trip. It was a beautiful, albeit hot, day for a drive, and we enjoyed a sumptuous meal in the company of a lot of Harpers – which is fine combination, if you ask me.

The reunion was also a reminder that there’s something to be said for family connections, no matter how close or distant they may be. On the strength of common ancestors and a common name, we Harpers share a unique bond, and – forgive us if we seem conceited – we think there’s something pretty special about that.