Front Yard
Wedding Lisa Hatfield - Jason Gordon
Two months ago, or thereabout, I visited
Lee Gordon in his office at FBC, West Point. I do that occasionally whenever
my work schedule permits a half-hour delay between retailer visits and home.
Sometimes we discuss fishing trips, but sometimes we chat over a cup of coffee
as Lee updates me of the happenings in the "wonderful world" of Music Ministry.
However, on this particular occasion, Lee asked a favor after sharing a bit
of family news; his son was engaged and the bride-to-be wanted an outdoor
wedding.
"I was wondering if you’d let me borrow your canopies for the wedding,"
Lee stated. "I’m gonna’ fry fish for the rehearsal dinner, and
we may need some shelter if it rains."
I was happy to let him know the canopies were available for his use, but
one of the three had been loaned out last year and had not been returned.
I was happier still to hear that Jason Gordon (age 34) had finally found
someone to marry.
"Oh, he fell hard for this one," Lee shared. "Her dad’s a Baptist preacher,
who until recently was in the Starkville area. She’s Lisa Hatfield."
Lee didn’t share if she was related to the same Hatfields famous for
their feud with the McCoys, but he did mention the wedding would be in Iuka,
where her dad, Dr. Ronnie Hatfield was shepherding the flock at Iuka Baptist.
News of Jason’s pending marriage gave me hope that my son, of the same
age, might too find himself a wife before he gets too set in his ways.
"The wedding will be July 21st," Lee announced. "You’ll get
an invitation, I’m sure."
Two days before the wedding, Lee called to let me know when he planned to
pick up the canopies. Though our invitation included directions to the
pastor’s home, I asked if it were hard to find.
"Naw, it’s a few miles west of Iuka. Stay on 72 until you see the balloons
and turn left. It’ll be a few miles down the road. You can’t miss
it."
A week or so earlier I mentioned to Lee that my sister didn’t receive
an invitation, but would like to come with us.
"Lord, yes! Tell her she doesn’t need an invitation. We put it in the
church bulletin that everyone was invited.
Allowing for a missed turn or two, I figured we needed about two hours to
get from Pontotoc to Iuka, if we were to arrive shortly before the 6:00 p.m.
ceremony. So, I planned my Saturday errands and yard work to accommodate
a 4:00 p.m. departure. My wife made similar plans, but her schedule called
for a stop at Wal-Mart on the way out of town; mine didn’t. I made a
last minute decision to stay on four-lane roadways, rather than travel the
Natchez Trace. I reasoned I could make better time on the four-lanes than
I could on the two-laned Trace. I don’t know that I fared any better
except that the balloons were easier to spot from the eastbound lanes of
Hwy 82.
We had no trouble finding the preacher’s house, and though we got there
with less than fifteen minutes to spare, we also found a parking space a
reasonable distance away. As we walked toward a crowd already assembled on
the front lawn, I spotted the figure of Jim Hess seated on the back row of
chairs set out for the occasion. The evening sun was in my eyes, but I was
pretty sure of the sighting.
As Barbara, Sarah and I approached Jim, a bystander to our left bellowed,
"You look pretty good, but I can’t say the same for that shirt you’re
wearing."
Still squinting, I glanced in the direction of the speaker, who was responding
to the Colonel Rebel emblem on my Ole Miss red polo shirt. If one lives in
Mississippi, one learns that more than a little give and take between rival
universities is simply par for the course. I didn’t recognize the speaker
until I got closer, and by then he was laughing about the look I’d given
him.
"You sure gave me a hard look, when you walked up," he stated.
I wasn’t aware that my reaction was anything but "studied," but apparently
it was to Tom Hill, Lee Gordon’s brother-in-law who lives in Vicksburg.
I spoke briefly to Tom before pulling up a chair beside Jim Hess. Sheila
didn’t have a substitute to play the organ for her Sunday morning and
had elected to stay at home. We didn’t have long to chat before the
wedding started.
Rev. Lee Gordon, father of the groom and Dr. Ronnie Hatfield, father of the
bride conducted the wedding ceremony. Lee officiated as Ronnie escorted his
daughter to the "altar," then after the "giving of the bride," Lee stepped
aside for Ronnie to officiate for the remainder of the ceremony.
Leigh Ann Hawks, Lee’s daughter, played the piano for the wedding ceremony
and also sang "How Beautiful." I may have been told of her musical talents,
but I missed noting them in the tribute I wrote to Lee and Connie for their
recent 40th Wedding Anniversary. That’s but one more similarity
in the Gordon children and the Carter children.
After a brief picture-taking session receiving
lines were established and we, guests, were invited into the home to speak
to the bride and groom and their respective parents and then proceed to the
refreshments. Tables and chairs were setup under huge oak trees on the east
side of the house. Temperatures were moderate and the humidity was low, making
for near-perfect weather for eating outdoors.
We stayed until the bride and groom made their "getaway," but we left shortly
afterwards, for Rayanne had invited us to stop in Belmont on our return to
Pontotoc.
To Lisa and Jason Gordon, this writer and his family extend our heartfelt
best wishes to them for a long and happy marriage. Presently, the couple
resides in West Point.
Felicia’s
Birthday First Family Party
Between the pull of work and the pull of a life away from work, I’ve
been stretched quite thin this summer. June, as bad as it was, was no match
for July. For the past couple of months, my weeks have been full to overflowing
with weddings, wedding anniversary celebrations, Habitat for Humanity activities,
and parties. Had we not had such a drought for much of June and July, my
yard would probably be waist deep in grass, a result of no weekend time to
handle yard chores.
While my yard and flowerbeds are suffering from neglect, I feel that this
newsletter has had the worst of it. When there has been time for me to write,
I’ve been too tired to sit upright for the task, and for several weeks
the weekly issues of this newsletter have not been completed before Friday
night or Saturday morning. Thankfully, no one’s yelling at me to get
it done earlier, but there’s a certain amount of pressure I put on myself
to continue as in the past.
There’s a decided advantage in having a full social calendar in that
there’s plenty of fodder for this newsletter. In fact, there have been
too many events for me to cover them all in a timely manner. And, unfortunately,
by the time I get around to mentioning some of the events, I will likely
have forgotten much of what transpired.
My niece, Felicia, speed-reads this newsletter, if she reads it at all, scanning
the pages for capital Fs. If she sees her name, she’ll slow down and
read thoroughly until the portion that mentions her is completed. Once the
scanning for capital Fs is done, this newsletter is either trashed or set
aside like yesterday’s news. None of this hurts my feelings, because
I do practically the same thing with newspapers and magazines. I flip through
them, stopping to read that which interests me and often neglect the rest.
Felicia thrives on attention, something she’s had plenty of since her
engagement was announced last January and right up through her June wedding.
I am somewhat surprised she hasn’t asked me to section out all the articles
I’ve written about her this year and compile them into a pamphlet featuring
her. I still may create a trilogy of the wedding articles to give to her
for a special occasion. However, I missed the opportunity to do so in time
for her twenty-fourth birthday, but there again I was too busy.
Felicia threw herself a birthday party on the Friday night prior to her July
22nd birthday the following Monday. She invited several of her husband’s
family as well as some of her blood relatives. Sara Sue, Barbara and I, along
with Rayanne and Anson Adams, my eldest granddaughter, Anna Butler and a
friend of her’s represented Felicia’s side of the family, while
Cullen’s parents, three grandparents, one aunt and a couple of cousins
rounded out the gathering.
The party is the first for Felicia and Cullen Pollard to host in their Oxford
home. It’s actually Cullen’s grandmother’s home, but since
she now lives in nearby Taylor, she’s allowed Cullen to occupy it, first
for his college years and now as a home for his new bride.
Felicia planned a simple menu of grilled hamburgers, potato salad, and baked
beans, of which she really did make the potato salad on her own. Her
father-in-law and her husband tended the grilling chores. I’m not sure
who added grilled smoked sausage to the menu, but it was a good choice.
A downpour about an hour before dinner necessitated moving the grill onto
the roomy back porch, where several of us congregated to watch the cooks
and enjoy the cool of the evening. Of course, those of us who had not visited
the house previously found time to stroll around looking at the furnishings
and decorations.
Felicia, like the billions of newlyweds before her, will have plenty of cooking
stories to pass along to others. She may even laugh about her first attempt
to boil eggs for the potato salad she was preparing for her first-ever family
get-together at her home. She didn’t know to start the eggs in cold
water, and when she placed two refrigerated eggs into boiling water, the
shells cracked open and some of the contents spilled into the hot water.
She also didn’t know it would have been okay to use the cracked, boiled
eggs, so she tossed them before calling her mom for instructions.
One day, Felicia may make her own birthday cake, but I have the feeling that
as long as she has a mother who does a great job with birthday cakes, she’s
likely to let mom handle that task. I thought Sarah’s cake was attractively
decorated with spring flowers formed from cake icing, but Sarah wasn’t
pleased with how it looked, but then she’s her worst critic.
After dinner, we watched Felicia open her birthday presents, all of which
were appropriate, though none could measure up to the one Cullen had given
her earlier. He surprised her with a new digital camera, which, as it happens,
is the same model I’ve picked out for myself, if someone thinks I need
a new camera. I don’t really need a new one, but this model has an image
stabilization feature that reduces, if not eliminates, blurred images. Nope,
I probably don’t need a new camera, especially if I can’t remember
to carry along the one I already have for capturing the moments of special
occasions, like niece’s birthday parties.
Surprised
Buzzard A Near Collision
In what had been a routine drive along one of my numerous routes to return
home from a day at the office in Indianola, I rounded a curve and surprised
a black vulture, a buzzard, if you please. The carrion upon which he was
feeding was partly on the pavement. I can’t actually distinguish a female
black vulture from the male, but in referring to them, I always describe
them as males.
I may not have surprised the buzzard, for that matter, though I’d like
to think I did. Since the county road connecting Hwy. 9 W and Hwy. 32 is
not heavily traveled, I imagine the buzzard had managed to gorge himself
by the time I arrived on the scene. Regardless, the big bird had difficulty
getting airborne.
Picture a quarter-mile stretch of highway extending up a slight grade, perhaps
10 degrees, densely lined with trees on both sides of the road. The buzzard
was feeding at the bottom of the hill when it took flight, frantically flailing
on an uphill course, directly away from me. Having just come out of the curve
shortly after turning onto the county road, I was not up to my highway speed.
For a moment it appeared the buzzard would not gain altitude quickly enough
to avoid a collision with my car. Though each breaststroke brought him more
elevation, the road was also rising beneath him, as he continued flying uphill.
Meanwhile, I was gaining on him. I couldn’t believe he didn’t veer
off to the right or to the left, but instead flew dead away from me.
For the record, I don’t consider my subsequent actions as "animal cruelty,"
though some may differ. Instead, I prefer to think I have a weird sense of
humor or perhaps there was a redneck a few generations back in my family
tree. I suppose, I could use the excuse offered by Sixties’ comedian,
Flip Wilson, "The devil made me do it!"
At the least, it came to me that I should blow my car horn to speed the buzzard
on this way. I estimate I was less than fifty feet from the buzzard when
I "sat down" on the horn with an extended blast. He looked over his right
shoulder and fear must surely have gripped his soul when he saw I was on
his tail.
Certain motor vehicles have after-burners that boost engine performance when
engaged. Humans have adrenalin which functions in a similar capacity. Apparently,
buzzards have a coping mechanism, too.
Instantly, the buzzard boosted, perhaps doubled, his wing-beats per minute,
and instantly he began to rise at a faster rate than before. Apparently,
he deemed it necessary to jettison the contents of his lower intestines in
order to lighten his load and climb higher faster.
It may have been an involuntary defense mechanism, but it might just as well
have been his way of saying, "Take that, you old so and so!"
Personally, I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Great globules of
excrement rained down, and if I hadn’t let up on the accelerator, I’d
have ran right up under it.
"That’s all I need," I thought, "fresh buzzard poop all over my car."
I could not see any evidence on the hood, but I feared there may have been
some on the grill. So, about two miles down the road, I pulled over to inspect
the front of my car. Luckily, it was poop-free.
By my calculations, I’ve driven more than a million miles since going
on the road for SUPERVALU in 1982. I won’t live long enough to drive
another million miles, and I doubt I’ll live long enough to have a similar
near collision with a buzzard, but if I do, I plan to react exactly the same
way just to see if the outcome is the same as before.
Bodock Beau Not
So Hot Please
The following anecdote might well apply to hundreds of actual situations,
but the identity of the couple described is not known.
After being married for 44 years, I took a careful look at my wife one day
and said, "Honey, 44 years ago we had a cheap apartment, a cheap car, slept
on a sofa bed and watched a 10-inch black and white TV, but I got to sleep
every night with a hot 25-year-old gal."
"Now I have a $500,000.00 home, a $45,000.00 car, nice big bed and a plasma
screen TV, but I’m sleeping with a 65-year-old woman. It seems to me
that you're not holding up your side of things."
My wife is a very reasonable woman. She told me to go out and find a hot
25-year-old gal, and she would make sure that I would once again be living
in a cheap apartment, driving a cheap car, sleeping on a sofa bed and watching
a 10-inch black and white TV.
Shared by Vickey Murphree
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