My sister and I grew up together in Fort Valley.  Age separated us by three years and one month.  Although we were as different as night and day when it came to our looks, abilities, and personalities, we had a fairly normal relationship as far as siblings go.  Sometimes we would be best of buddies, entertaining ourselves for hours on end playing childhood games, and sometimes we would argue as only siblings can do. 

            Once when we were teenagers, Daddy, who was one of six children, asked us why we referred to each other as the big sister or the little sister.  After all, by this time in our lives my younger sister was a little taller than I, and age wasn’t as noticeable as it had been when we were in elementary school. We both shrugged our shoulders.  Neither of us had ever given our references to each other any thought.

            Being older, I always thought of myself as a protector of my little sister.  She probably thought of me as being a bit bossy.

            While I was in college, I joined a sorority. My sister was still in high school and didn’t really understand college life or sororities.  She heard me use the terms “big sister” and “little sister.”

            Apparently, Doris didn’t want me to forget that she was my real little sister so when she wrote letters to me, she got in the habit of signing her name, YRLS.  I liked her acronym and reciprocated by signing my letters to her with YRBS. Years passed, but from that point on, we always signed letters, Christmas cards, tags on Christmas gifts, sticky-notes, anything we wrote with YRBS and YRLS. I think it got to the point that we didn’t even sign our names.

When our children were young, but old enough to read, they wondered about the special letters, and my sister and I explained our special letters to them. Other than our own children, I’m not sure anyone ever noticed our special signatures.

            The last time I used those letters, YRBS, was the day I signed them on a floral card to go on a vase of flowers and a funeral blanket that went on my sister’s casket. 

It wasn’t supposed to be that way.  She and I were supposed to use those special letters when we became little old ladies and corresponded with each other using scraggily handwriting.

On September 20, 2006, a single well-planned bullet pierced my little sister’s head, killing her instantly, two days after her 39^th birthday.

            The case is still under investigation by the GBI.  While there is a good bit of evidence on the case, we would rather wait to have all the evidence we need.

            The Easter basket project I began in her memory has helped heal the hurt of losing a loved one in an untimely death. I only wish her children could be a part of our lives, something that would have helped stop the hurt. But that is not to be.  They live with their father in Costa Rica.

            Many of you in this area remember Doris, a 1985 graduate of Westfield. I would be remise if I didn’t keep me little sister’s memory alive during this week. I ask that you join me in keeping her memory alive by wearing purple on September 20. ©

In Memory of Doris Spillers Worrell

Sep 18, 1967 – Sep 20, 2006

Congratulations to the Class of 2010

appeared in Houston Home Journal     May 22, 2010

           In the chest in my den sits a little book of keepsakes.  There is an invitation dated June 5, 1998, which says “Kindergarten Graduation Celebration.” This invitation was for my daughter’s first spend-the-night party which took place the night after a few members of the Class of 2010 graduated from kindergarten.

            Last night many of the same members of the Class of 2010 moved their tassels from right to left, this time as they graduated from high school. The time span between these two graduations has passed too quickly and picked up speed as the years have rolled along.

            This year’s class holds the distinction of being the fortieth class to graduate from Westfield. Twenty-two of the class members spent all thirteen years at Westfield. Twenty of them have parents who are members of the school’s alumni.

            This group of young adults is one of the most well-rounded classes to have ever walked through the green and gold hallways together. This class has a special bond of friendship that is almost unheard of in today’s society. Collectively the class will be remembered for great characteristics it displayed- intelligence, good citizenship, a sense of humor, and an all-around great personality. Although the class has its own persona,   each of its fifty-seven members is unique like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle. When all the talented members are together, they make the whole picture complete.

            Besides reading, writing, and arithmetic, the Class of 2010’s elementary years were filled with penguin and pilgrim programs as well as Grandparents’ Day performances of “Surfin’ USA” and “God Bless Texas.” Easter egg hunts and memorable field trips such as the overnight one to Atlanta with Mrs. Beeland and Mrs. Ray made a great beginning to the memories.

            In addition to learning to change classes throughout the day in middle school, the students enjoyed some great educational experiences that took place outside the traditional classroom walls. Some of the highlights during those years included trips to Rock Eagle, Cumberland Island, and Washington, D.C.

            And the high school accomplishments of the Class of 2010 are far too numerous to name them all. Highlights include the girls’ basketball team becoming region champs and making it to the final four. The football team, which was 10-2, made it to the play-offs.  The girls’ tennis team won the region championship. The literary team won the state championship for the first time in the school’s history with Will Walton bringing home an individual trophy for his writing skills. Ashton Leavengood became the state champion in wrestling, and Garrett Baker was selected as a member of the All-State Chorus.

            This talent doesn’t stop with the turning of the tassels. Cole Crouch signed on to wrestle at Georgia Southern University. Nic Bekkers will be playing football at the University of Southern Mississippi, and Katie Cartwright will become a member of the equestrian team at Sweet Briar College.

            As the graduates come to an end of this chapter in their lives and turn the page to begin another, may they always cherish the special friendships and memories they’ve made together.

            Here’s to the Class of 2010. May all of your dreams come true. ©

            For whatever reason, probably a delayed chastisement from the Good Lord, I am no longer immune to the urushiol, the rash-causing oil in poison ivy. When we first moved into our house, the wicked weed covered our backyard.  I spent many hours outside clearing the yard from the wild and learned quickly that I was no longer immune to the plant. In fact, I was highly allergic to the plant that grew hardily in our backyard.

            I suffered several severe outbreaks from the leafy plant that caused my doctor to have to administer shots and prescriptions of sleep-depriving, appetite-inducing steroids.

            I finally learned to run the other way when I saw poison ivy.  If I even thought my gardening gloves had touched the beastly plant, I would discard them and head to the store to buy another pair, and if I met up with the plant by mistake, I would quickly run inside and wash my arms with an oil-dissolving dish detergent and cold water.

            Well, I had learned my lesson, and had a healthy respect for poison ivy, but one of my young neighbors had to learn the lesson on his own.  One afternoon, several years ago, I looked out the window in time to see my son and his friend playing in the backyard.  I ran to the door and cautioned the boys not to play on the fallen log because it was covered with poison ivy.  My young neighbor, who has rarely ever been at a loss for words replied, “It’s not covered with poison ivy.  It was covered with vines, but I took them off.”  Poor fellow.  A great lesson learned from an experience that I bet he will never forget.  He was as allergic to poison ivy as I am and spent the next few days in bed, covered head-to-toe with the horrible, unforgettable rash.

            I know I am highly allergic to poison ivy and avoid it like the plague, but I learned a new lesson about the great outdoors two weeks ago.  I went down to our pond with my family to pick blackberries, a favorite summertime tradition since I was a young girl.  Of course, I had on my gloves and had a pair of gardening snips with me, just in case there were some plump berries down below the briars.  I could hear my mother’s words echoing in my head from my childhood, “Watch out for snakes.” 

            I didn’t encounter any snakes, but by the next evening, a Friday evening, when all doctors’ offices were closed, I noticed two large whelps on my arm where I had been scratched by blackberry bushes.  I googled the medical situation and found out one could have an allergic reaction to blackberry bushes.  Next, I googled the home remedies which rendered a host of possibilities including banana peels, ice, and oatmeal baths, none of which worked.  Only after a Monday visit to the doctor, followed by a shot and a prescription did I find any sort of relief a week later.

            For those of you blessed with a wonderful immune system, consider yourselves lucky.  Also, consider how much you could charge to eradicate poison ivy from other people’s yards.  Those like me would consider you priceless. ©

            As I’ve mentioned before, I have a high school senior in the house, and her final year of school is flying by too quickly.

            The last couple of weeks have been both busy and fun. The first of those weeks was homecoming, and I enjoyed watching both of my children and their friends have a great time with all of the extra activities.  Last week culminated with Senior Night before the football game Friday night and both a cheerleading competition and a senior cookout on Saturday.

            But the tear-jerker event of the last two weeks was Friday’s pep rally. Thursday afternoon after school my daughter called to check in.  She said, “You ARE coming to tomorrow’s pep rally, aren’t you? It’s my last one.”  Oh, that conversation took me totally by surprise.  I guess I’d been too busy with other activities to stop and think that this would be her last pep rally.

            I reflected back to my daughter’s first year of cheering when she was in the seventh grade.  She was the only one in her grade that wanted to cheer that year.  She was adopted by the “big girls,” and they taught her the ropes.  Not only did she learn the traditional game cheers, but she learned how to compete. During the early years of my daughter’s cheerleading career, the girls cheered for both football and basketball games.  In fact, I think she cheered at the first basketball game she ever attended.

            She became a flyer, which in the cheerleading world refers to the girl that is held high above the rest of the girls in a pyramid.  I learned what it means to be up before dawn dressing for a competition after cheering at a ballgame the night before. I learned about “full downs” and “lib offs” and have done my best to explain those terms to parents of the younger cheerleaders as they’ve attended their first competitions.  I learned that cheerleading competitions are very much like the Olympics; you only get one three-minute shot at doing your best to outscore the other teams.

            I’ve learned that competitive cheerleading has as many as, if not more than, injuries than football.  I’ve learned that cheerleaders have to be able to lift weights, run a mile or more, and be in great physical shape.  I’ve learned that you are taking a big risk by telling a cheerleader they are anything other than an athlete.

            I’ve learned that game cheerleaders spend a lot of time and effort making signs, “run-throughs,”, and goody bags with homemade cookies for their football players each week.  And, I’ve learned that the cheerleaders have the awesome responsibility of keeping the crowd motivated during all sorts of Georgia football weather- sweltering August heat, frigid November evenings, and torrential downpours.

            I’ve also learned that whether the team wins or loses, the cheerleaders are always the winners. And, that’s why I had a very hard time last Thursday afternoon hearing the words “my last pep rally.”  Thank you, Kaki, Hannah, Brenna, Courtney, and Meagan for a job well done. We are going to miss you.  ©

            When I was about two years old, Mama and Daddy decided to build a house in Fort Valley.  They sold the house we lived in and moved to a smaller house in the center of town while our new house was being built.From that little house I could look out the front windows and watch the trains go back and forth several times a day.  I can still picture train cars full of sand being pulled up the tracks towards Atlanta. I’m not sure exactly how my fascination with trains developed, but I know I learned at an early age to hear a train whistle miles away.

            Mama said one train came by each afternoon.  If we were at home or at Granny’s house when I heard the train whistle, I would head to the nearest window to watch it.  If we were visiting any of Mama’s friends when I heard the whistle, we’d have to end our visit and head towards home so I could watch the train.  Mama also said that sometimes, much to her dismay, I would wake up late at night and rush to her bedroom window to watch the midnight train rumble down the tracks.

            Soon after I turned three, our house in Fort Valley was completed, and I got my fill of trains.  Those who lived or worked in Fort Valley before there was an overpass remember how the trains could paralyze the town at the most inconvenient times.  I learned at a young age to recognize the sound of a train coming to a stop to switch tracks, a noise that made everyone sitting in a
vehicle groan. Unless I was watching the trains from the loading dock at my daddy’s store, I had grown old enough to realize that the trains were often considered a nuisance.

            While growing up, I learned to sleep through the late night trains.  If I did awaken, the sound of the whistle coming from several blocks away was a comforting one. 

            Years later, after college when I was living in New Orleans with my friend Nancy and her girls, I thought I heard the faint sound of the trains after I had gone to bed. I finally asked my friend how far away we were from the nearest tracks.  For once I was mistaken about the familiar sound of the whistle.  It turned out I was hearing the foghorns on tugboats in the mighty Mississippi.

            I could probably count on both hands the number of times I’ve seen a train in Perry in all the years I’ve lived here, quite a difference for a girl who had lived in towns with lot of trains.  But, a couple of times a week, at certain times of night, I can catch the faint sound of a whistle as a train rumbles through Clinchfield as it reminds me of childhood memories when all the world was right.©

           Football season is underway, and all the football fans out there have their choice of games to watch each weekend, whether they are high school games or college games. 

            I know more about the game of football than some do and a whole lot less than others. I understand the basic concept of the game. Each team gets four attempts, called downs, to move the ball ten yards. And, I know the various ways to get points on the score board. When it comes down to the nitty-gritty, like the different kinds of plays and the various positions, my attention wanes with all of those details.

            If I were a sports writer and had to choose a game of the week, I’d have to say it was the one between my son’s team and one of its opponents from Macon. Those fellows, many who have played together since elementary school, had a great game. They led during the first half.  But I’ve learned over the years that anything can happen after a half-time locker room talk, and even more can happen in a fourth quarter.

            Our opponents pulled ahead during the third quarter, and things seemed a little bleak for our boys. Finally, in the fourth quarter, one that seemed to last longer than the other three combined, the tide turned as we scored on a turnover.  We gained momentum and scored again as the fans became wild with enthusiasm.

            During the game, my daughter had been texting her daddy and me for updates.  With only a minute left on the clock, I did something I never should have done.  I called my daughter and said, “We are about to win!  We’ve come from behind, and now there is not enough time for the other team to drive down the field and score!”  I should’ve known better.  I’ve seen enough ballgames to know that anything is possible.

            With seconds left in the game, we were up by eight.  Our opponents had the ball and were driving towards the end zone.  The last play was set in motion as the final buzzer sounded.  When we began to celebrate our win, we noticed a flag had been thrown against our team for holding.  With no time left on the clock, there was one final play. Our opponents drove down the field and scored. Now we led by two, and if the other team scored two points, the game would be tied.         The final score of the game rested on the last play.  Fans on both sides were on their feet, cheering for their teams.  The ball was snapped, our boys kept the others from scoring, and we won the game 20-18. Incredible!

            If this game is any indication of others to follow, the season should be well worth the price of admission.  And the lesson these boys taught themselves, their coaches, and the fans that day was one we should all remember.  Never give up, and no matter what the circumstances, stick with the job until it’s done. ©

How Peacock Pages Got Its Name (Part 1)
Houston Home Journal      Saturday, November 21, 2009

Some of my readers have asked how I came up with the name “Peacock Pages.”  Good question.

            When I was young, we had a family farm between Fort Valley and Roberta.  For the most part, we raised beef cattle, but at one time my daddy decided to have a collection of somewhat exotic birds.  As part of his unique collection, he acquired some Indian blue peacocks.

            By the way, the peacock is actually the correct name for a male peafowl.  The female is referred to as a peahen, and a group of them is called a bevy.  It is known as the “bird of a hundred eyes” because of its feathers.

            The peacocks would strut through the barnyard and fan their feathers or fly to the top of a barn and let out a blood-curdling scream that sounded like a human.  The peacocks would shed their feathers during the year, and the caretaker of our farm would help me find the feathers on the weekends. I had a huge vase of feathers in my bedroom, although a superstition was that peacock feathers inside a home were a sign of bad luck because they had “evil eyes.”

            The peacocks remained on our farm for several years.  Then, the caretaker of the farm had some health problems. The last time I saw two of our peacocks was when I was in college and was driving to Roberta.  They had wandered away from the farm and were crossing the highway, probably in search of food.  I pulled my car over on the side of the road and tried to “shoo” the peacocks back to the farm, but they ignored me.  That’s the last I saw of them.  I couldn’t blame them for moving on in search of food, but I had developed a fondness for the flamboyant bird.

           
            For the next several years, I didn’t own a peacock or any feathers.  But the next
time I had some of the iridescent feathers, I came up with an interesting way to use them. I decorated a Christmas tree with both the feathers and miniature paper peacocks at a local school library where I was a librarian.

            One of my husband’s best friends knew of my affection for peacocks and offered to find me one on numerous occasions.  In fact, I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised to come home one day and find one sitting in the yard.

            That never happened, but one Christmas Eve not long ago, Rob and I came home to find a strange car in our driveway.  Rob’s friend walked out of our house grinning from ear to ear as Rob exclaimed, “Where is he?” When I walked in the house and looked in the den, I saw a tremendous mounted peacock that was probably about six feet long from his crown to the end of his tail feathers.  It was beautiful!  And, while I loved it, Rob was disgusted with his friend.

            I have no history of the bird, no idea where he came from.  Perhaps he screamed one too many times. I decided that I will enjoy my peacock for another twenty years or so and then donate him to a museum.   Until then, just call me the “crazy lady with the peacock in her house.” ©