the south in my mouth

The beautiful bartender, Anna, cards Noah for the first time at the Oak Bar, Hermitage Hotel.

I will admit, I spent a lot of last night looking at baby pictures and crying. Not my proudest moment. Dammit Boy (“Dammit, boy, stop carrying the cat round like a doll….Dammit, boy, quit hiding the dirty dishes under your bed”) turned 21 today.

So I will not review the past 21 years. Noah is aghast that I might show photos. Which, of course, I would never do. I would never show the photo of Noah on our snowshoe adventure in Reno when we tried to prop him up for a photo. Alas, he toppled over face first in the snow and King Daddy had to rescue him. Who knew 6-month-olds had so few motor skills, especially when locked inside a “baby in a bag”? We did not think to brush the snow off his cap to wipe away the evidence.

And, naturally, I would not post the photo of the biscuit cutter incident. That would be so embarrassing. Who knew that a toddler could open a kitchen drawer, retrieve a biscuit cutter, high tail it to the master bathroom and manage to push it up over his kneecap? Is it child abuse that we grabbed the camera before we removed the cutter? And I just noticed a recurring theme in these photos – King Daddy’s hand propping up the afflicted child so that evidence could be recorded.

And the bathtub photos. Never show the bathtub photos. That would just be mortifying. Of course, you can look at him at the time and tell he was thrilled to have his picture made. I just flashed on that proverbial letter you write as an adult to yourself as a child, giving the younger you advice. “Noah,” Noah would write, “Never let your mother take photos of you in the bathtub.” Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!!! Got you, Sonny Boy.

Oh, let’s see. How about Halloween costumes? Those are always crowd pleasers. King Daddy has always prided himself on his make-up artistry for Halloween. I think Noah looks a little bit like Donald Trump here, but he was pleased. Halloween was always a non-starter for Noah because he hates candy. So he would dash around the neighborhood, filling up his bag, and then dump it on the kitchen counter and go play Pokemon. Can I tell you how much I hate the people who give hard butterscotch candy for Halloween? Who eats that crap?

So I always write a letter to Noah every year on his birthday. I review past accomplishments and note a few things he has to work on. But this year, I wrote him a letter with advice now that he is an Official Grown-Up. The letters are private so I won’t go into details (how unlike me!). But I will tell you the first piece of advice I gave him is this: Be kinder than you need to be.

There is not enough kindness in this world. Kindness would cure a world of hurt. Literally. Noah, I am sorry for the bathtub picture. Really. Be kind to your mother.

And, just to set the record straight, we never called Noah Dammit Boy. Not so he could hear.

Here I am at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Franklin, TN., where “The Creative Spirit: The Music, Poetry and Art of St. Paul’s” is well underway. Donna Stokes-Rogers, the ridiculously talented music minister here, put the whole thing together and asked members of the parish who are artists to display their work after a concert. Why I am here I do not know.  But my talent is blogging and I offered to blog live during the event. I hoped everyone would pull out their iPhones and just follow along with me. By the way, if you want to hear how our fabulous choir sounds today, click here.

So I’m just going to take a few photos of the other artists represented, who actually make pretty and useful things. Actually, first I’m going to take a photo of the dark-chocolate salted caramels that Donna has on the refreshment table because I’m terribly excited about those. I’m waiting for the concert to be over and the cheese tray is calling to me. It is considered extremely bad form to lift the corner of the plastic wrap and snitch a piece of cheese before the concert is over.

…Well, this is not going at all as planned. Or at least as I planned. I assumed after the concert was over, they would come back to Founder’s Hall and admire the pottery, the paintings, the jewelry and, well, me. Sitting here blogging away. And not only that, but I already put the dang concert on Facebook and Twitter. Look at me! Look at me! But they are not. They do not appear to have iPhones. They are all at the refreshment table. Hang on. I’ll go snap a photo of it if I can break through the crowd.

So, at this point, a little wine is in order. It’s not a good Episcopal reception without wine. If I weren’t in church I’d probably have a cigarette, too. And….

…and then I got booted off the Internet. Look at me! Look at me! Now I’m not blogging at all! I’m just sitting at my computer with a paper coffee cup full of Chardonnay. And, bless her heart (and I mean that in the nicest possible way), Sarah Webster comes over. “Are you on your blog?” she asks, sweetly. I start to answer and then she adds, “I don’t read blogs. I’m not on Facebook, either. I have too many other things to do.” She doesn’t know, I think. 

I smile. Why, yes, Sarah. I’m on my blog. Right this very minute. Communicating with the entire worldwide web.

So right now, I want to say to Donna Stokes-Rogers that it was a beautiful concert and a lovely reception. I will remind her that live blogging was my idea. I assumed that people would be dazzled with my technological brilliance. But I am fairly certain that they were more dazzled with the salted caramels. That’s okay. I was, too.

For those of you who do not attend St. Paul’s, I apologize for this brief and, ultimately, meaningless interlude. Tomorrow, I will post a brilliant recipe for Sriracha-marinated flank steak. By the way, obviously, I finished this from home where the wine cup got a lot bigger and there is a smoking section in the garage.