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Goggy and Papa have spent the past 42 years in Dickerson, Maryland, and are leaving this week to spend their remaining years in North Carolina.  This past Sunday was their final worship at the tiny little Dickerson Methodist Church they’ve attended here in the country all that time.

Goggy has even been a Lay Minister there for several years.  It’s more than a church, it’s a family to them.

I can’t begin to imagine all of the milestones in their lives they’ve celebrated here.

This little country church has been their home as much as, well,  their actual home!  Goggy has given sermons, and Papa has done all kinds of work on the building and grounds all of these years.  They’ve been a huge part of the support system for this church.

Why, My Captain and I were married at this very alter by none other than Goggy herself!

Believe me when I say that there is nothing sweeter than marrying your best friend in his parent’s country church, by his own MOM!

So when I say that Goggy and Papa leaving is a big deal, I’m not just whistling Dixie.   The church family got them gifts, and threw a good old-fashioned church pot-luck to send them off right.

Now, you and I, we keep things real, don’t we?  So I can be honest with you, and you won’t judge me when I tell you that even though I totally GET that this was about saying goodbye.

And I understand that this was about fellowship, and love, and closure.

And I KNOW it was absolutely NOT about ME.

When you look at this picture, and see me standing there (long brown duster, cowboy boots, and bedhead on the right) looking for all the world like I’m intensely listening, you won’t love me any less when I confess that I was actually…..

…guarding the homemade fudge. (You’d be amazed how much fudge you can hide in a full length duster.)

Because you and I know that there ain’t NOTHIN’ more beautiful than a church Pot-Luck to say ‘Hello,’ ‘Good-bye,’ ‘Congratulations,’ or ‘With Sympathy.’

And the more food, the greater the love.

It’s safe to say that Goggy and Papa are well loved!!!

“Burp!”

Sit back and enjoy a story of intrigue and suspense.  A mechanical crisis hit the Ladder Truck of 31-C shift, and I was on hand to witness the drama.  But since I couldn’t 1) hear or 2) understand their lingo, I’ve had to ad-lib a bit.  The following is my understanding of what went down…….

Something in the Engine Bay didn’t smell right.  An acrid stench of hot rubber and grease filled the air like a sleazy carnival on a sweltering August day.   With his super-human strength, Gravy heaved the cab off the axle and engine so the shift could better sleuth the problem.

Capt: You’re right. This doesn’t smell good.  Something is burning.

Capt:  Something is hot.  Very hot.  Hotter than a two-peckered alley cat.  Let’s get this cooled down.

Connor (to himself): How does the Capt. know how hot a two-peckered alley cat is?????

Capt:  And let’s get as many eyes as possible on this, so we look like we’re fixing it.  We’re County workers, for God’s sake.  We need numbers, men!  Get everyone out here.

Capt:  And Craig, go ahead and send a prayer up.  Between that and Simple Green, we should be able to handle this.

Capt:  Oh good, more people.  Let’s gather around here and hem and haw, and feel generally testosteronie.

Capt:  And scratch a lot. Scratch something.  You know that always helps.  Well done, Caleb.

Craig:  Connor, I don’t know what you’re sniffing, but stop it.  It’s weird.  Unless by sniffing you actually diagnose the problem, in which case it’s cool.

Gravy:  Hmmm.  This water hose can cool off many things…..a hot engine, a hot pump, a hot-headed Captain….

Capt:  What the heck just hit my head?  Was that water?  Gravy?!  Did you just spray me??

Gravy:  Er, what do you mean?

Craig: Capt., is that thing over there supposed to be dangling like that?

Caleb:  You’re kidding me, right Craig?  It’s called a Dingle-Dangle Transmogrifier for a reason.  Of course it is supposed to dangle.

Connor:  I think the Dingle-Dangle Transmogrifier needs more Simple Green.  Ain’t nothin’ worse than a dirty Dingle-Dangle.

Craig:  And what the heck would YOU know about dirty Dingle-Dangles, Connor?

Connor (under his breath.) : Enough to know that they like to be clean.

Lt. Tom:  I’m going to go check in the bunk room, under my bunk, to see if we have any spare Dingle-Dangles.  I might be a while….say, 8 hours or so.

Capt:  Hey!  What’s this!

Connor: It’s not something I’ve ever seen before, sir.

Capt:  I haven’t seen one in a long time.  Sure makes sense, though.

Capt:  Damn. Never thought I’d see one again.

Capt:  Gravy, pretend I can see you, and try to show  – even if you have to fake it – a modicum of repsect for me.  Or if not for  me, how about my pate?  And Gentleman, what you are looking at here, is none other than a two-peckered alley cat. Which, of course, explains why it smells so damn hot.

Caleb: Should it be dangling like that?

Gravy: l think we need to spray it with more water.

Craig:  I wonder if I could sell that on E-bay.

Connor: Do you think we ought to clean it with Simple Green?  Do two-peckered alley cats like Simple Green?

Craig:  Son, I’m about done with you and your Simple Green. If you’re so hell-bent on cleaning, I’ve got a job for you.

Connor (Under his breath): At least I know a dirty Dingle-Dangle Transmogrifier when I see one.

Gravy:  Hey…Capt., is your wife going to put us in that crazy blog again?

Me:  Ah…um…er….Exit! Stage Left!

THE END

***Author’s note:  Any likeness of these characters to any real person is purely coincidental.  The views expressed herein are solely those of the author.  No two-peckered alley cats were harmed in the writing of this drivel.

I don’t ask for much in the way of affirmation.   As Mama, one of the many responsibilities expected of me is exhortation of the clan.  I am the ‘Jack Handy’ of our home and family.  Feeling low?  I’ve got a lap and a hug for you.  Achieve something noteworthy?  I’ve got a high five and a celebratory dinner for you.  Angry at your sibling?  I’ve got an admonition of patience for you.   Have an aspiration or dream?  I’ve got the push to keep you trying.  I’m all about support.

And in return, all I ask is a little grace.

Like, when I attempt to make a low-sugar version of homemade cranberry sauce to go with a fantastic chicken and stuffing dinner, and it is maybe a little on the sour side, that you don’t have to turn it into a dare at the table.

I’m not saying that you have to fall over with untruthful flattery about it.  And heck, you don’t even have to eat it.  But I don’t think it is necessary for each person at the table to challenge the person next to them to see if they can ‘man up and eat a bigger spoonful’ than the person before them.  And no, the extra credit for seeing if you could hold it in your mouth longer before you swallow it was not cute.

And I don’t think it’s necessary to compare my culinary attempt to Warhead Candy (the one with the triple ‘X’ on the wrapper).

And the jokes about burning ulcers in your esophagus are unwarranted.

And the selfie you took with your cranberry-puckered duck face is not attractive.

I’m not asking for much, you don’t need to ask for the recipe, as if you want to make it too.  And you don’t have to lie to me that you are allergic to Cranberries.  But the crack about your urinary tract never having been healthier was uncalled for.

And no, I won’t make a batch for you to take to the firehouse as a prank.

But I know some people who, when opening their lunchboxes at school and at work tomorrow, will find NOTHING BUT jars of homemade, low-sugar Cranberry Sauce from Hell.

With love, your favorite Sour Puss.

My Captain’s parents, lovingly known as Goggy and Papa, are moving away to North Carolina.  They’ve lived here on Peach Tree Road for over forty years, just four doors down from The Little Cottage.   My Captain grew up in the house that they are selling.  In  a couple of months, he will have to pass his childhood home nearly every day, and know that their comforting presence is not there.  He insists that he is fine; and I’m sure he is, being a big boy and all.

Still, if we could have swung buying that house, we would have.  But for now at least, The Little Cottage is our home.   And to be honest, even though Critter and Varmint often lament how tightly we are packed here, they would not leave this little Sears Craftsman house for all the tea in China.

My Captain, feeling more than a little bit sentimental, took Critter out for a lap around Goggy and Papa’s acres last week.   It was a cold and snowy day, and Papa’s little red Gator had to traverse some nasty ice.

Of course, it was beautiful, as it always has been.  My Captain never takes it for granted, even though he has been here since he was so little.

Critter could not fathom what it is like for My Captain, who has always been so close to his parents, to suddenly not have them just four houses away.  It’s hard for Critter to imagine not having his parents at his beck and call.

“It’s a little different,” explained My Captain.  “I’ve had nearly fifty years with them.  I’m ready to strike out on my own,” he chuckled.

“How would you know?” challenged a boy far wiser than his 12 years.

It bothered him.  Critter didn’t like to think about such a time ever happening in his own life.  A time when his ‘safety net’ was not immediately under him.

And he seriously doubted if My Captain had any real understanding of what was about to happen.

“I’ll be okay,” My Captain reassured him, and winked.  “I’ll still have your mom, Varmint, and you with me.”

“Won’t be the same.” Critter shook his head.

“No.  And that’s okay,” My Captain reached over and corrected Critter’s steering wheel. “You don’t always want me holding on to your steering wheel, do you?”

“I guess we’ll know the answer to that if we get stuck in the snow,” mumbled my little pessimist.

What Critter has yet to understand is that Goggy and Papa leaving is in some ways a good thing….because they will be entering a new and exciting time in their lives, because change is healthy for all of us….

…and because you can’t learn how to steer on your own without getting stuck in the snow every now and again.

Yes, we are a family who swims deep into the Campy, the Corny, and the Cliché.  But, like any other family, we have our traditions that are completely unique to our little circle of love.  I’ll admit, from the outside, they might actually seem to run past ‘unique,’ and land somewhere in the realm of WEIRD.  I’ll grant you that.  But anything you want to call singularly your OWN must be different from the rest of the herd, right?

Christmas Eve.  Most people are doing their Christmas Eve-y things.  Roasting Chestnuts.  Watching The Polar Express.  Singing Christmas Carols.  Icing Christmas Cookies and putting them out for Santa. Going to church. Having large family dinners that include that one weird Uncle who always wears the Hawaiian Shirt, and spills gravy on one of the Grass-skirted hula dancers’ boobs…you know, the usual.  These are all perfectly wonderful American Christmas traditions and I love each and every one of them.

But Critter, Varmint, and My Captain have another, less socially accepted Christmas Eve tradition.

The Smackdown.

It goes like this:

Critter begs for the Smackdown.  He cajoles his sister into joining the begging.  My Captain says ‘no’ about a dozen times, knowing full well that the evening WILL end in a total family wrestling match.  A wrestling match that won’t stop until someone starts crying, or a cat goes flying.

Most of the time it is the kids vs. My Captain, but sometimes I get in the fray, just to mix it up.  I did it more often before the kids had gotten so rough.  Now I’m content to watch, take pictures, and move any family heirlooms out of the way.

For Critter and Varmint, the goal of each match is to get to My Captain’s head, in order to put a full fledged raspberry on it, slobber and all.  The goal for My Captain is to not only prevent this from happening, but also to tickle Critter’s sides until he looks like he might puke, and to tickle Varmint’s ultra-sensitive tootsies until she nearly pees herself.

Critter and Varmint, in all of these years, have NEVER won one of these matches.

You have to wonder WHY they keep coming back for it!

But they will again.  Time after time, after time.

I suppose there will come a day when they are too great for My Captain, and he will end up getting his pate good and slobbery.   And I suspect he won’t want to wrestle anymore after that.  Maybe the brats know this.  Maybe they could have won years ago, but they don’t, because they never want this to end.

I wouldn’t put it past them.

Is that a foot on My Captain’s butt?  Technically, it looks like this year Varmint Kicked My Captain’s …………