Never Buy a Tiffany Lamp

Posted on August 15, 2016 by Sheila Moss

lamp

I confess. I have a weakness for online auctions. I used to become caught up in auction fever and stay up all night in order to bid at the final moment. I am happy to report that I no longer lose sleep or bid on items I don’t actually need to buy. However, did you know that not everything on an auction is an auction item? Some things have a set price, especially better things that have to bring a fixed price in order for the seller to make a profit.

What this all is leading up to is my latest addiction. Last week I decided I really needed a Tiffany Lamp. Now in case you don’t know what I’m talking about, these are lamps made of hundreds of small bits of stained glass, soldered together with lead. The glass of the lamp shade is hand-crafted into gorgeous patterns of flowers, dragon flies, or other patterns, similar to a stained glass window.

They are called Tiffany lamps because they were created by a fellow named Louis Tiffany in 1895. These lamps usually have a heavy metal base to prevent tipping and the glass shades are bowl shaped. When the light is turned on, the transparent glass creates a glowing work of art. Tiffany lamps were popular in the art-nouveau age and go well with period style furniture. In other words, they are not suited to the taste of people who prefer a more modern style. I am not one of those people. When I see a Tiffany lamp, my heart does a flip and I am drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

Now, there are authentic Tiffany lamps and there are imitation lamps called Tiffany-type lamps. The real McCoy is very expensive, so naturally I go for the knock-offs which are much cheaper. They are still quite lovely and unless you are an expert, you probably would not notice the difference.

This is where the problem begins. I have long wanted to replace the somewhat shabby lamps in my living room. One was broken when my kids were small, so I glued it back together and painted it. A similar lamp was purchased on sale – on sale because it was bright orange and no one else wanted it. I painted it too.

I’m not certain my living room is Tiffany-worthy, but I wanted… I mean needed… a pretty lamp. It was an easy matter to find and select one as I liked all of them. When it arrived, I carefully put it together and turned it on. It was gorgeous – so gorgeous that it made my other lamp look worse than ever. So, I bought another one. Naturally, it was even prettier than the first. So, I did it again. First thing you know, I had purchased four new lamps.

Ironically, when my fourth and final purchase arrived, the base of the lamp was cracked. I wanted to return it, but apparently I did not read the description carefully enough and the hostile seller refused to give me a refund. Now I am stuck with another broken lamp. I will glue it together and paint over the repair — some things never change. I would like to buy a replacement, but I’ve spent so much already that my Pay-Pal account is on life support.

One lamp is good, two is twice as good, three is better, but four is one too many. Maybe I can check second-hand stores and look for a lamp without a shade. But if it doesn’t work out, I’ve always got my glue and paint to fall back on.

2016 Sheila Moss

Do you shop on eBay?  What is your experience, good or bad? If you happen to see a nice vintage Tiffany light base for dirt cheap, please let me know. The lamp is extra large, so it has to be tall and have two lights with a pull chain… not that I’m particular.

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Recovering Momacholic

Posted on August 13, 2016 by Sheila Moss

books

The kids have grown up now. They are gone – but not forgotten. Some people lament the fact that children become adults and leave the nest. Not me! I still remember how it was when my three urchins were small. If I ever forget, all I have to do is look at my mother’s ring with a different color of birthstone for every child. Other women have diamond jewelry, mine is a rainbow hue.

While other people have children that make them proud, the bumper sticker on my car always read: “My child is a wannabe honor student.” After they were finally all gone, it took years for me to wear out the old television and get a new one with a remote control that was not stuck at the Saturday morning cartoon channel.

I guess it wasn’t so bad, if your idea of eating out is spending an hour pondering the earth shaking decision of whether to get chicken nuggets or a burger in the Happy Meals. For a while, I could go to PTA meetings for an evening away from the brats, but soon they got wise to that and they wanted to go too. For vacations, we always ended up at theme parks.  I’ve covered endless miles pushing a rented baby stroller.

Sometimes I wonder how I made it without a nervous breakdown, but I suppose it is because it just never did fit in my schedule. Now that the kids are gone, the cockroaches that boycotted their rooms are petitioning me to come back. They probably think the peanut butter sandwiches under the bed are still there.

If I feel lonesome, I just sit on the sofa and imagine that candy wrappers are crackling under the cushions or drink my coffee from a training cup instead of a coffee mug. When the kids were home, we called our furniture the upholstered trampolines. The cracks of the furniture can still produce lost lunch money or a sticky Popsicle stick.

I have paid off the second mortgage that we took out to get the kids dental braces. Now I can actually go to the bathroom without locking the door and take a bath in something besides Mr. Bubbles. Now I have name other than “The Moss Kids’ Mother.” I used to threaten to change my title from mother to one the kids didn’t know so they couldn’t yell at me to find things for them.

“Mom!!! Where’s my shoes?”

“I don’t know – I didn’t wear them last!”

The medicine cabinet no longer has glow-in-the-dark band aids, or M & M’s for imaginary illnesses. When I go out, I do not have an entourage of backseat drivers in car seats. Best of all, I can go shopping at stores other than Walmart, real stores that do not even have shopping carts. I can now stay up past 8 p.m. without worrying about falling asleep before the kids do.

I still have a hard time remembering life before children – it seems as if the kids were always there, born before I was. My goal in life was just to get ’em raised and get rid of ’em. Now that they are gone, you really think I miss ’em and want ’em back? Hardly!

I have finally reached my biggest goal as a mother. I can send the brats home and it’s someplace else. I gleefully pass the gauntlet from Toy R Us to the next generation. But I can’t deny knowing every word of the Dr. Suess ABC book by heart. There are some things a even a recovering mom just can’t forget.

Copyright 2000-2016 Sheila Moss
Edited for length
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Big Hair

Posted on August 12, 2016 by Sheila Moss
big hair
Beautiful Curls by Martin de Witt (CC BY 2.0) 8/16/11
I don’t have BAD hair days– I have BIG hair days!
My hair is so BIG that it gets tangled with my eyelashes.
My hair is so BIG that I had to buy a car with a sunroof.
My hair is so BIG that it stays up all night while I’m sleeping.
My hair is so BIG that I need a wide-angle lens for my photos.
My hair is so BIG that I need a time management plan when I comb it.
My hair is so BIG that Country Music stars are jealous.
My hair is so BIG that my friends think I’m both of the Judd sisters.
My hair is so BIG that I have to sit on the back row in the movies.
My hair is so BIG that my cat hisses at it.
My hair is so BIG that I had to open a charge account to buy shampoo.
My hair is so BIG that I brush it with a fuzz buster.
My hair is so BIG that I blow-dry it with the ceiling fan.
My hair is so BIG that I skateboard without needing a helmet.
My hair is so BIG that my beautician took out disaster insurance.
My hair is so BIG that a windstorm can turn it inside out.
My hair is so BIG that I need KY jelly to wear a hat.
My hair is so BIG that my wallet-sized pictures are 8×10.
My hair is so BIG that it has more body than Dolly Parton.
My hair is so BIG that it doesn’t wave, it surfs!

My hair is so BIG that I have to bully it instead of teasing it!

Copyright 2000 Sheila Moss
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You Can’t Get There From Here

Posted on August 11, 2016 by Sheila Moss

I-24

People are lamenting the traffic congestion on the local Interstate and wishing it could be widened. If they think it is bad now, they should have been out there the last time the road was widened. Traffic flow? Ha, what’s that?  There was no such thing as traffic flow getting in and out of the city. The construction reduced traffic flow to near zero.  Traffic “trickle” is a more descriptive term — traffic hell, if you really want the truth.

Creative drivers were sneaking off the highway and using frontage roads. They were driving on the shoulders, going out of their way to take back roads, and all sorts of inventive driving to get through. Alternate routes were jammed by those who gave up on the Interstate. I always thought, “This is what it would be like if there were a disaster of some sort and the city had to be evacuated.”

The traffic experts said it is our fault, we commuters, for not carpooling. Increased traffic causes the need for construction, and construction makes the traffic congestion worse than ever. Well, experts, couldn’t you plan ahead a bit instead of waiting for gridlock and then deciding to build a road?

Anyhow, they are now attempting to force us to carpool. There are signs marking the new center lane as an HOV lane.  No, an HOV lane is not a special lane for people with AIDS. It means “High Occupancy Vehicle”– a lane for cars with more than one occupant. That’s a method they have invented for punishing those who insist on driving their own car to work instead of carpooling.

These high occupancy special use lanes congest the traffic even more by effectively closing the center lane except to the few who happen to have a spouse or friend who also works in the city — or those who choose to ignore the difficult-to-enforce law and drive in the center lane anyhow.

In the meantime, fellow commuters, be happy there are no construction workers there; get your butt in gear and drive!  The problem is that during construction people wanted to slow down and look at the construction workers who look exactly like all the other construction workers we’ve been seeing for years. They were still as dirty as ever. People need to drive and quit rubbernecking. A giant sigh of relief went up when the construction workers finally got those orange barrels out of the road and let us have all the lanes to drive in.

As far as those who drove on the shoulder of the road, it is illegal — even for those getting off at the next exit. It seemed inevitable that one day the cops would be brave enough to venture out in rush hour traffic and stop it. We hoped the cheaters’ days were numbered, but there were too many to stop them all. And, when the highway patrol tried to enforce lane usage and ticket those using the HOV lane illegally, there were a traffic jams and backups for miles.

In spite of a wider road, traffic still crawls, road rage is becoming epidemic; chain collisions are becoming frequent, and HOV lane signs are ignored. Better roads means more cars using them. Maybe we should just park it and forget it. Maybe it’s true – you really can’t get there from here.

 ©2009-2016 Sheila Moss
revised & updated

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Olympic Prodigy

Posted on August 10, 2016 by Sheila Moss

gymnastics

I have been to the mountain – Mt. Olympia, that is. I have seen the Olympics. And now I have a dream. My granddaughter can do that! She could be an Olympian. She is already almost potty trained, exactly the right age to start gymnastics training.

I talked to her mother just the other day. She is looking for a place to start her in ballet lessons. However, no one seems to want to take children under the age of four years old. What is the matter with these dancing schools? She needs to start developing her poise and grace early to help with her gymnastic routines.

We need to be searching for a gym and a good gymnastics trainer for her. Hopefully, we can find one nearby so my granddaughter and her family do not have to move too far away. Most Olympic athletes live at their training center so they can get in more practice time. Do you suppose she can take her pacifier and stuffed animals?

Until we can get her in a good gymnastics program, we will have to settle for a backyard swing set for her to start learning on. Her daddy has already promised to buy her one for her third birthday, a big one so she can get started in the right direction. After all, champion athletes must have the right equipment.

Athletes are getting younger and younger, you know. The younger they are, the better, according to what I’ve read. They are much more flexible at a young age, have a lower center of gravity, and can fly through the air more easily if they are small. Also, they are fearless, not having developed the common sense of a 16 year old.

The minimum age to be in the Olympics is 16, so in four more years, she will exactly the right age to complete. Of course, she will be actually be six – not sixteen.  But we will not worry about that small detail. We will just put a 1 in front of the 6 on her passport and the judges will look the other way. If anyone asks questions, we will say she is very small for her age.

What about the danger of stress injuries and the extreme intensity of training regimens for young children?  Don’t you know that no sacrifice is too great to bring glory to our country in the Olympic Games? We only need to be sure to use a child’s car seat for safety when traveling to the competitions.

We will need to be very careful what we put on the internet, of course, in case someone notices that she looks more like a kindergartner than a teenager. Other countries are jealous, you know, and always looking for ways to bring down a winner. Some hacker might start digging things up about how old she really is. (I plan to delete this column right after you read it.)

We need to work on the potty training a bit more and start teaching her to wear her hair in a very tight pony tail. We can always add lipstick and glitter to make her look more like a pre-adolescent and less like a toddler doing tricks on the playground. Yes, Olympic glory is just around the corner. Her face will be on a box of Wheaties before we know it.

There is just one tiny thing that concerns me. She doesn’t seem to understand why the Olympic medal looks just like one of those chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil. We may have to make her give up eating candy. It could really be embarrassing if she tried to eat her gold medal during the National Anthem.

©2008 Sheila Moss

What is your favorite Olympic sport?

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Let the Games Begin

Posted on August 9, 2016 by Sheila Moss

Have you been watching the world’s biggest beach party? They are calling it the Olympic Games, and the event is being held in Brazil in spite of complaints about the dangerously polluted water and spats about doping.

As NBC covers one event after another in a marathon of television coverage, I’ve become bleary eyed from watching it all. My remote control skills are being subjected to a test of endurance greater than the skills of the athletes.

After days and days of it, one swimmer looks pretty much like another and those black and white blobs splashing back and forth just don’t have the thrill of, say, NASCAR. I’m waterlogged and worn out and have discovered swimming strokes that I didn’t even know existed outside of an aquarium.

Athletes spend most of their waking time practicing, and getting ready for the Olympics, we are told. Some spend an entire lifetime training and becoming physically fit. And they still have the guts to call it “games”?

All this physical exertion leaves a dedicated couch potato sweaty and out of breath. I know it’s important to have national pride and for young people to be physically fit, but it sort of makes me wonder if we are training the physical body at the exclusion of everything else. For the few that win, I suppose it pays off in big monetary ways with product endorsements and paid performances.

“The important thing is just to be here and to be able to compete,” say the athletes to the camera. Right – and that’s why we tally up each country’s medals to see who got the most. Somehow it always seems to be the losers who are saying it doesn’t matter. Everyone else is too busy counting.

Many of the sports were never really intended to be spectator sports. Watching someone throw a discus is entertaining? I don’t think so. My shoulder has been out of joint ever since I saw the first throw. Bet the original Greek’s ashes would turn over in their Grecian urns if they could see what their simple competitions have become.

The most watched event as a spectator sport seems to be women’s beach volleyball. Even the players admit that the spectators are not there to look at a volleyball game. It’s supposed to be sexy. So, I suck in my tubby tummy and hope no one notices the varicose veins. The way some of those Amazons look, however, we must be pretty desperate to see babes in bathing suits.
.
The cutest participants are the gymnasts, of course, bouncing around with glitter in their hair and on their eyelids. Why is it that looking cute in sequins enhances their performance, but the female swimmers don’t wear a stitch of mascara or lipstick? For the sake of womanhood, I hope someone invents waterproof eye glitter before the next Olympic Games.

Actually, the gymnasts make me nervous. Holding my breath and doing a mental balancing act right beside them, I always think we will fall off and hurt something important. The announcers always see things that I don’t. “Oh, look at that! Her toenail is hanging off the beam. You can’t do that in Olympic level competition. And she bounced when she landed! She’s out of it!”

Picky! Picky! Picky! May the gymnast with the cutest outfit win, I say!

Does all this sports coverage really do much to inspire us to athletic fitness? It certainly does inspire us to baggy, bloodshot eyes from too much television watching and helps us to understand the intricacies of offbeat sports like canoe slalom that we never have, and never will, give a whit about.

The new endurance record will be that of the dazed television viewers who have suffered through more hours of coverage than we ever imagined possible and without any purple circles to help our sore buttocks. When they start giving out gold medals and olive wreaths for couch potato participation, I’ll be there!

©2004-2016 Sheila Moss
Updated

Are you watching the Olympics on TV? What is your favorite event?

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The Complaint Department is Open

Posted on August 8, 2016 by Sheila Moss

popart

Everyone seems to have something to complain about.  They don’t like politics or politicians and think we would all be better off without having to hear so much about them, or from them.  They don’t like Hillary they don’t like Trump or they want to complain about Obama.

They don’t like the latest movies, which are not fit to watch, and they don’t like what’s on TV.  And what’s the deal with satellite TV and cable being so expensive anyhow?

They don’t like movie stars, rock stars, or celebrities in general, and they don’t like hearing about their lives: who is in rehab this week, who is sleeping with whom, or who got arrested — as if it mattered or anyone cared about their worthless existence.

They don’t like old people who do nothing but complain about their aches and pains and operations. They don’t like young kids, and the way they dress with their pants down to their knees and their tattoos and piercings.

They don’t like traffic, there is way too much of it, and they don’t like the high price of gasoline. They don’t like SUV gas hogs and they don’t like crowded small cars.  They don’t like depending on foreign oil and they don’t like anything spoiling the environment.

They don’t like the weather. It’s either too dry, or it rains too much. There is always a hurricane, a blizzard, a flood or an earthquake somewhere to complain about.  They definitely don’t like the weather.

They don’t like football, or baseball, and they don’t like the Olympics. They don’t like wasting time watching people play games. Professional athletes are paid too much, and they don’t like anyone who thinks otherwise.

They don’t like being overweight, but they don’t like dieting. They don’t like smokers.  They don’t like health nuts who talk about nothing but physical fitness, as if it is some kind of national obsession.

They don’t like workaholics who do nothing but work and don’t have a life. They don’t like those lazy butts who won’t get a job, wouldn’t keep it if they had one, and are just looking for a handout.

They don’t like the slowdown in the economy, and they don’t like the high interest on everything but savings. They don’t like paying taxes — sales tax, property tax, and income tax — which are always way too much.

They don’t like traveling; it’s too expensive and there’s no place worth going. But they don’t like doing nothing either.

They don’t like the food in restaurants. You can’t get a decent meal for a reasonable price. They don’t like to cook, so eating at home is out of the question, especially with the price of groceries these days.

They don’t like shopping.  You can’t find a place to park without having to walk a mile and when you finally get inside the store you can’t find anything worth spending your money on anyhow except stuff that is overpriced.

They don’t like summer as it is too hot and the air conditioning is too cold.  They don’t like winter as it is too cold and the weather is bad.  They don’t like spring as the grass has to be mowed.  Fall is depressing because winter is coming and there is all that pollen in the air.

They don’t like smart alecks, and they don’t like stupid people.  They don’t like people that are different and not exactly like them. They could go on all day about that one, but they don’t like people who talk too much and are too opinionated.

Now, my ears are burning from all these complainers, and I don’t like complaining about complainers. On the other hand, if there were no complainers I wouldn’t have anything to complain about. So, the complaint department is open. Go ahead and complain.

©2008 Sheila Moss
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Who Am I?

Posted on August 6, 2016 by Sheila Moss

blancheYears ago, my mother, growing older and, I suppose, becoming more aware of her own mortality, decided to write a “book” of her memories about childhood and growing up in rural Tennessee.  She made copies of her completed manuscript and gave them to various family members. I read it and put it aside, but did register a copyright on it so that there would be a record of its existence some place.

The other day my daughter visited grandma and came back asking me about grandma’s book, so I dug out the yellowing manuscript and made a copy for her.  I looked at the manuscript again myself, a simple telling of the story of one family, and thought how lucky I am to have such a record.

I have always known my history. It is surprising how many people “don’t know who they are.” People seem to have an inert need to know whom their natural parents are, where they came from, even if they are unable to directly contact them.

My mother told us tales about our grandparents and great grandparents over and over as children so that we would not forget. Nevertheless, as I read thru the pages of her manuscript, I realized that there were many details given that I did not recall. The retelling of the stories has not been too important to me, and so my children will have less to tell, and my grandchildren probably nothing at all. How fortunate that she has taken the time to write this down.

The stories are simple:  childhood games, working in the fields, washing in wash pots, making lye soap, pea picking, quilting, going to church in the wagon, all the things that made up rural life in the ‘20s. But more importantly, stories of love, pride, honesty, belief in God, and basic values that were passed along with the stories.  The manuscript is a special treasure to our family. In the retelling of events, there is much accounting of community activities, events and lifestyle of years past. While it is not something that would interest a publisher, it is too good not to share with others.

So, I took a giant leap and called the Tennessee State Archives.  I had heard that they sometimes accept family histories and keep them in the archives on permanent retention. When I called, they said that they would be happy to consider accepting my mother’s manuscript. I’ve taken the manuscript to them and asked for it to be placed in the record. It seems there is a committee that decides. The committee will meet again in a few weeks and decide whether it has significant enough value to retain.

Why are so few people doing this?  The person with whom I spoke said that many families try to get older family members to make records of their memories before it is too late.  But more often than not, it is too much trouble or they never get around to it. When they die, their memories die with them and are lost forever. It is exciting to me to know that my family’s story will live forever and be available for future generations of scholars doing research or learning about history or for decedents trying to find their roots.

It really isn’t so hard. If you don’t write, buy a little tape recorder. Get grandma talking about the olden days. Ask her a few questions. She will love the attention, and you will get a record of the past that will probably be invaluable to your children. You may decide to have it transcribed and put on public record as I did. Or you can copy it and give it to other close families for a meaningful gift they will never forget.

Copyright 1999 Sheila Moss
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Between Lines

Posted on August 5, 2016 by Sheila Moss

long-lines

I really love standing in line! Isn’t it great to spend all the time that you could be spending doing something important simply standing and looking at the back of someone else’s head?

Although there are lines everywhere and many different options to choose from, my favorite line is the one in the grocery store. I get to stand in it at least once a week, and, boy, I can hardly wait to hurry up and fill my shopping cart to get to the front of the store and wait.

If it were not for grocery store lines, just think of all the fun I would miss. I would probably never get to see that penny pinching shopper with a hundred discount coupons. I would never get to wait while someone else writes a check. I would never get to see the people that try to use the bank machine to pay for their groceries but don’t know how to use it.

Heck, I would never even have the fun of waiting for the checker to call some invisible person in the back of the store to find the price on an item that is not marked. Of course, the thing I would miss most is the person whose credit card is not approved. Now that is definitely something I really would not want to miss.

Actually, I sort of have a gift for getting in the slowest line. Regardless of  what line I am in, it is practically a sure thing that it will be the one where the cash register runs out of tape or the manager has to be paged for some reason. I really am not sure how I do this. I guess they just know that I am a person who loves standing in line and go all out to make me a happy customer.

Standing in line is so much fun that sometimes I will even switch lines to get from a fast one to a slow one. Can you believe it? As soon as I switch lines, the broken cash register in the old line instantly begins to work, all items have prices, and the customers begin to whiz through while I stand in the other line and wait for the cashier to get more change.

You probably are thinking by now that I must be a very boring person. Not at all – I mean, lines were made to stand in, weren’t they? Since everyone has to spend some part of their life waiting, why not use your cell phone and make the most of it?

Once upon a time, you were able to unload your groceries on to the conveyor belt when you got to the front of the line.  I try to look for stores where I can still do this. Can you believe some stores have those boring baskets that you just push up to the cashier who unloads the groceries as they are scanned thru the register?

Honestly, it is getting to where you just can’t have any fun at all any more. Why, some stores actually have people that take the groceries out and put them in the car. Avoid these at all costs! After spending 30 minutes in an exhausting checkout line, you are always ready for a bit more exercise – right?

You are probably secretly thinking that I should change stores. It doesn’t seem normal to you for one person to have so much fun, I suppose. Actually, I’ve tried that – many times. They are all the same. They have marketing experts, you see, that spend hours figuring out how to keep the lines long. They measure success by the length of  the lines.

Anyhow, let’s forget about lines for a while. I’m going to go out and relax. Wonder what’s playing at the movies?

©1999 Sheila Moss
Edited for length
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The Truth About Tennessee

Posted on August 4, 2016 by Sheila Moss

Front Porch

I have decided to let the rest of the world in on a secret that they have always suspected anyhow. It is the truth about Tennessee.

The truth is we are all rednecks here. Some claim the name comes from working out in the sun and getting sunburned, but most of us don’t really work too much any more since we all started getting welfare checks from the government.

We all wear straw hats, plaid shirts and overalls. Of course, we do not wear shoes. Most of us do not even own a pair.  Yep, just like you thought, we are all a bunch of barefooted hillbillies.

Everybody in Tennessee drives a pickup truck. It is a required by law. A driver’s license, however, is not required. We usually just drive a vehicle until it wears out then we put it out to pasture, so to speak, and get another one. This comes in real handy as you always have spare parts in the yard in case you need them.

Nearly everyone who is anyone has at least 3 or 4 old junk cars parked in the yard although you can’t always see them due to the grass growing so high. Working on the old junk cars and trucks is what really makes us appreciate a good fast car, which is why we are all NASCAR fans.

Tennesseans are all illiterate, or close to it, though many have finished the fourth grade and can read the Bible. For the most part, we don’t trust book learnin’ or those that have  it. We can learn all we need to know just from life.

A lot of our intelligence come from the good food we have here. We eat grits, turnip greens, hog jowl and cornbread – three times a day. These are really good vittles and if you’ve never tried ’em, don’t knock ’em.

We are all like kinfolk here. In fact, most of us are kinfolk since nearly everyone marries a cousin. This keeps us really close and friendly with each other. We don’t like outsiders and everybody keeps a shotgun behind the door, just in case we need it.

The shotgun also comes in good for squirrel and coon hunting. We all have an old hound dog around. The population of hound dogs is about the same as the population of Tennessee.

Of course, the best thing about Tennessee is the country music. Everyone in the state is either a songwriter or a musician. We all know how to play the guitar, banjo and fiddle and never miss an opportunity to have a shindig. Although the entire population lives in log cabins with outhouses out back, we do have a few barns which come in really handy for square dances.

We drink a lot of moonshine right out of the jug. Every family has someone with a moonshine still in the woodshed or basement, so there is never a shortage of liquid refreshment. The number of stills is exceeded only by the number of coon dogs.

Well, I sure hope I’ve exploded some of the myths and stereotypes about Tennessee. Funny thing about those exaggerated and untrue beliefs about a group of people called sterotypes, They always have an element of truth just to make ’em believable.

Guess everybody pretty much knew the truth about Tennessee anyhow. I just figured it was about time that we set the record straight. If y’all ever come to Tennessee, be sure to come by. We can set on the front porch and rock and ponder it. We might even ask you stay for supper if you don’t talk too much like a Yankee. Can’t you just smell those turnip greens cooking now?

©1999 Sheila Moss
Edited for length
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