Why Did the Ant Cross the Road? – Day 8

Day 8
Listening to: It’s like thunder….and lightening …..oooh oooh ooh oh
Thought for the day: An ant has 250, 000 brain cells. A human brain has 10,000 million. A colony of 40,000 ants has collectively the same size brain as a human. WHO KNEW?

Once when I was in the third grade, I stood at the top of the sloping playground and proceeded to shout instructions to my classmates as to why theyshould take careful pains not step on the ant hills perched on the slope like expensive condos looking over a city. As I was finishing up my passionate plea, the class bully barreled past me and proceeded to annihilate the ant hills by making sweeping motions with his feet. I was devastated. I think I may have even cried. Imagine my glee to stumble upon this bit of sidewalk art while on a walk with my dog. There is a child in my hood who is a kindred spirit.

Today, the man who rescued me from the GINORMOUS (dead) spider in my basement that I had named Newt told me I made him want to be a better person. WHAT? I don’t know about you, but hearing those words is at the top of the list of words that I want to hear. No one has ever told me that. I have a pupil y’all! Should I enroll him in “How to Capture and Release Giant Roaches Who Sneak in an Open Door 101?”

btw: The shadow in the bottom of the pic that looks kind of………ummmm……….. questionable is Pearl’s tail. :-)

The Bohemian College Hippy Gene – Day 7

Day 7
Listening to: Forever Young
Thought for the day:
Happy 21 Wes!

It’s difficult to look into the pale innocent eyes in this picture and accept that my baby boy can now go into a bar and toss back a few brews. Life has gobbled up the years like a caveman who hasn’t eaten for a week.

The last time I saw Wes was Mother’s Day weekend. The Saturday night before “my day,” he came over and we watched chick flicks together. At some point the following dialogue occurred:

Wes: I don’t wash my hair much anymore.
Me: Ewwwwwwwww

I then started studying the back of the couch where he was sitting strategizing about how I might blow torch the grease off. An hour or so later, while I was still obsessing over his hair, he got up and went to the bathroom.

Wes: Can I use your hairbrush?
Me: Wait. What? You just told me you don’t wash your hair and now you’re asking to use my hairbrush? Really?

I told my Dad about this conversation and he said, “I was the same way in college. One time it got so bad, my brother (who roomed with him) called my mom and begged her to get me to take a shower and change clothes.” I guess male bohemian college hippiness runs in the fam……………. it took me 21 years to find out!

Christmases with My Congressman – Day 6

Photo taken on Memorial Day 2012 at Old Hickory Veterans Memorial Park by Phyllis Williams.  Left:  Kris Brummett  Right:  Congressman Jim Cooper (D) 

 

Day 6
Listening to: All You Need is Love
Thought for the day: 209 days until Christmas……. 205 days until the cards HAVE to be sent…..I’m looking at you Cooper communication team!

This is Jim Cooper, my U.S. Representative. He hails from the city of my birth, Shelbyville, Tennessee. He scares the poo out of me, but not for the reasons you might think.

With a father who was once governor of my state and a mother whose name everyone knew in my family realm, I knew who Mr. Cooper was long before he began his ascent into politics.

For as long as I can remember, he sent my Granny Sally a Christmas card. Each year, upon its arrival, she would ceremoniously place the card in a very prominent place and scotch tape the crap out of it. That baby wasn’t going anywhere. Everyone KNEW Jim Cooper had sent Sally a card. I got to where I would ask her, “Granny, have you received the Cooper’s card yet?” Jim Cooper was a big damn deal. Yep. So these days, any time I’m sharing air with Cooper, which seems to happen a lot, I am attacked by Stupidzilla, conqueror of rational thought. I can’t help it. I grew up seeing him as that perfect looking politician on the Christmas card that my Granny Sally adored. Some day I’ll get over it. Some day I’ll tell him I grew up watching his family and career grow via Christmas cards. Until then…….

My Granny Sally is still alive, but has severe dementia and is blind. I miss her. I wish she could see this picture. She’d tape it over the Cooper’s Christmas card and proceed to tell everyone she knew that her granddaughter had rubbed elbows with a Cooper. It would matter to her and that matters to me.

Remembering – Day 5

 

Day 5
Listening to: America the Beautiful
Thought for the Day: We come, not to mourn our dead soldiers, but to praise them. ~Francis A. Walker

I know you’re expecting me to say this is my grandfather or uncle. The truth is I don’t know this man or any of his family for that matter. His name is John E. Isbell. John is one of the many faces from my community that was killed during WWII. As president of my community’s veterans park, I have become acquainted with all of those lost during combat. The experience is a bit haunting. I think you’ll understand why I chose to share John’s “story” as my Memorial Day 365 remembrance. There is so much pain in this story………….the sacrifices incomprehensible to me as a mother.
Taken from the Rayon Yarns -
First Lieutenant John E. Isbell

First Lt. John E. Isbell was killed in action while on a bombing mission over Austria on November 2, 1943. He was a bombardier on a Flying Fortress with the 32nd Bombardment Squadron.

“Jack” came to work at DuPont in July 1933, and was working in 2A Laboratory when he left for service in the Air Forces in August 1942. He took cadet training and graduated as a bombardier. He went to North Africa in 1943 and immediately started flying on missions over Italy in the Flying Fortress “Georgia Peach.” The “Peach” failed to return from the fatal mission of November 2, 1943, and a few months later Jack was declared officially killed in action. It has since been learned that he is buried in a small cemetery at Monich Kirchen, Austria.

Jack’s younger brother, Albert, who was a sergeant with the 104th Division Infantry, was killed in action in Holland on November 30, 1944.

The boys were the sons of Albert E. Isbell, Murfreesboro. Jack was married and his son, young Jack, was born on November 10, 1943, a week after his father’s death

When Deodorant Doesn’t Matter – Day 4

 

Day 4
Listening to: Amazing Grace
Thought for the day: Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth; Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth…
~Thomas Moore

This morning when I got out of my car to go into church I realized I had forgotten to put on deodorant. I was having a debate inside my head about whether God cared if my armpits smelled like heavenly vanilla bean fields or not when I ran smack into my pastor. He said, “Well if it isn’t Kris Brummett.” I went all deer in the headlights and started mumbling about being nervous about my role as an emcee for the neighborhood Memorial Day event.

When the service started, I couldn’t focus. The no deodorant circus inside my head intensified when we began to sing the first hymn. There was a woman near me singing so loudly that the notes spilling out of her mouth reached into my ears like some kind of ear drum ass-kicking vocal ninja. I was doomed.

Then, my pastor started the service with a Memorial Day comment. He said, “We give thanks to those who gave their lives so that we may worship here today.” I suddenly felt stupid. My mind cleared and gratitude washed over me. The price for my freedom to worship has been high. It no longer mattered that I might smell a little musty or that the woman sitting near me was parting my hair with her voice.

With that said, the today’s picture lists some of those from my village who paid the ultimate price for our freedoms. The plaque hangs in Old Hickory Veterans Memorial Park where I will help honor those who died tomorrow (10:30 a.m. if you want to come).

If Only I Could Hitchhike on a Sunbeam – Day 3

Day 3
Listening to: A Kiss To Build a Dream On
Thought for Today: If only I could hitchhike on a sunbeam and shine on the ones I love……………you’d all be sunburned by now.

Tonight, while out for a walk with my fab lab, Pearl, a lightening bug, exhausted by a night’s worth of butt lighting, decided to hitch a ride on her back. It was a risky move on the behalf of the lightning bug as Pearl has a penchant for bughetti. I wonder if the lightning bug knew.

Geek that I am, the lightening bug’s crafty landing immediately reminded me of Hans Solo and his Millennium Falcon in Star Wars. From giant monsters living on asteroids to the imperial navy, Hans was a pro at hitchhiking rides in nefarious places. The effect on me was almost akin to seeing a half-naked Colin Firth walking out of a pond as Mr. Darcy.

It’s no novel concept that like the lightning bug and the Millennium Falcon we too are, in a sense, hitchhikers on the planet Earth. I don’t know about you, but so far my ride has been good. I hope the planet Earth doesn’t get wise to my hitchhiking presence. I have no desire to get chomped up by a planet that has every right to be pissed at its hitchhikers.

We Need a Beanotini Stat – Day 2

Day 2
Listening to: That Old Black Magic
Thought for the day: If you could bottle the feeling a child has on the last day of school, you could make a million. If you could bottle the feeling a teacher has on the last day of school, you could make a billion.

What the hell is that noise? Ahhh……. yes. It is the cacophony of thousands of students and teachers contributing noise to what is known as The Last Day of School Symphony.

Today I attended a party to help a group of beloved teachers contribute their noise to this annual sound.

While at the party, my friend Bo (hiding behind the red solo cup) had a few words for me concerning my first entry into the 365.

Bo: I read Day 1.
Me: Giggle.
Bo: I don’t think farts are funny.
Me. Ahhh…..so what you are saying is you think a fart is “the other F word.”
Bo: Yes. So don’t tell any fart jokes around me.
Me. Giggle. So. Did you hear about the fart that walked into the bar?

Conclusion? I’ve decided that you’re either a fart fan or you aren’t. There is no in between. With that said, I can’t make promises, but I”ll try not to stink up my 365 with too many discussions of gas. The 365 is going to drink a Beanotini…………shaken not stirred.

The Art of Fart

Welcome to my second 365 project.  Today is my birthday and for the next year (except when I am on vacation) I will post a picture and thoughts about that picture every day.  I hope you’ll join me!

Day 1
Listening to: Alive & Kicking
Thought for the day: What do you call someone who doesn’t fart in public? A private tutor. BAHDUM-CHING

Welcome to my 365 Project Inauguration Party! We’re drinking wine, eating cookies, and telling fart stories……………. or we would be if you were here.

Check out this fartastic birthday gift bequeathed to me by my PhD-afied sister-in-law. Yeah, she’s book smart, but more than that she’s people smart. She knew this would make me laugh. She “gets” me and a large portion of my family. Stoicism is not possible when it comes to farting for many in my family lineage (biological & not). We laugh uncontrollably at the mere mention of the word. Of course there are others in the family who think “fart” is “the other F word.” In my mind, “fart” is art with an extra “F.” The same could be said for “the other F word.” If you think about it, “the other F word is just “duck” with a misplaced “F.” Why do people give so much power to words? Now if someone rips a smelly one in a small space where we are drinking wine, eating, cookies, and telling fart stories…………..THEN…………then we have a right to be offended………..after we stop laughing.

PS. One of my co-workers thought this should say “live, never trust a fart, and laugh.” He is a genius.

If God can Make a Bug’s Butt Light Up, He Can Do Anything

This is an old blog of mine, but worth repeating.  I saw my first lightening bug of the season tonight.

Painting by: Jim Trolinger

May 23, 2010

I saw my first lightening bug tonight!!! I draw faith from the complex design of the lightening bug. I figure if a God can give light to the butt of a lowly bug, He can do just about anything. What if human’s butts lit up? Would we get plastic surgery to enhance the luminescence? People already get butt implants so what’s a little added light to the procedure? The song “Baby Got Back” might take on a whole new meaning if our butts lit up.  Obviously, there is a reason God didn’t light the butt.

Photography for me is like trying to eat soup with a knife, so I didn’t attempt to capture my first lightening butt sighting. Instead, I present to you an original painting by my dad. He painted this cartoon for me after I made my lightening bug faith epiphany known.

The Tale of the Tabasco Terrorist

This is a tale of the day that I realized my mom was a hero…………
The first five and a half years of Jimmy’s life were heaven, nirvana, peace on Earth……………and then the sister was born. At first, Jimmy liked the concept of having a sister, but life as he knew rapidly declined as she grew into a prissy, annoying, hell on wheels. As peace deteriorated, a sister jihad was born.It all began one December………………. a long, long time ago. The mom brought home a box of ice cream popsicles. These weren’t your regular popsicles; each was shaped in the form of a Santa Claus with a stick up its butt. Both Jimmy and the sister gobbled them up as if nuclear annihilation was imminent.One night after dinner, Jimmy and the sister both raced to the freezer to get a frozen Santa Claus. Tensions mounted as both realized there was only one left in the box. Feuding ensued. The mom stepped in and with Winston Churchillesque diplomacy firmly stated neither child could have the last Santa Claus.

For whatever reason, as the night wore on, the mom decided that the sister would be the recipient of the last Santa Claus. Accepting defeat, Jimmy quietly volunteered to get it for the sister (plotting her demise the entire time). While in the kitchen, he covertly poured Tabasco sauce all over the Santa’s vanilla beard and strawberry body. The sister was innocent and clueless. She eagerly took the treat from her brother and began to greedily gobble it up. Jimmy knew victory was near. In a matter of seconds, the sister’s face contorted into a gargoyle-ish expression which was followed by a bratty-sister air-siren scream. The mom grabbed the uneaten portion of the Santa and immediately began the crime scene investigation (don’t mess with Mom-CSI).

Realizing what Jimmy had done, the mom (and hero) demanded that he ingest two tablespoons of the pepper sauce as punishment. He swallowed the blazing hot liquid with an evil smile………………one battle down, many more to go.

My poor mother.