Christmas tiiiime...is heeeerrre...

There are some things that just mean Christmas to me. These things make me all warm and fuzzy, and may even evoke a tear or two.

Christmas trees. Obviously. When I see a gorgeously decorated tree, I get all goose pimply like a great big pimply goose. Seriously. I just love a pretty, over the top, disgustingly holiday-ish tree. Add some snow, and I will melt. Seriously. Puddle on the floor.

Christmas movies. I am a sucker for them. I will watch "Elf" over and over, along with "White Christmas." Those are my faves. I also have to see "Little Women," which isn't traditionally a Christmas movie, but I have to see it. Then there's "A Nightmare Before Christmas," which I have likely usually already seen at Halloween, but I watch it again because, why not? And I will watch every rendition of "A Christmas Carol" there is. Twice. I love curling up on the couch, in a room lit only by my Christmas tree, and getting lost in a good Christmas movie. Any good Christmas movie.

Christmas music. This time of year, you can't go anywhere without hearing it. But I have to admit, the second I can find a station on the radio that's playing it -- usually at one minute past midnight on Thanksgiving -- I start listening to it. Yes. I am one of those people. I do not apologize. Certain songs get me in the holiday mood. I can hear "Christmas Time is Here" from the Charlie Brown cartoon, and I immediately start with the warm fuzzies. Such happy memories of my childhood, watching that special each and every year.
"Silent Night" is another one. Just thinking about the meaning of that song...that night...so long ago. I remember riding on a float in the Christmas parade when I was a kid, singing with the children's choir from church. We sang that song, and that was the first time I remember really thinking about the words. I think that was the first time that I realized that it truly was a holy night.

Presents. Oh, not for the reason you might think. I'm not going to lie...I enjoy getting a present as much as anyone. But the true joy when it comes to presents is giving them. I should go back in time and tell my 9-year-old self that. I'd probably slap me.
I have to say, I enjoy the process. I enjoy the hunt. Searching for just the right gift for each person. I have anguish each year over it. I really want to please the people I'm buying for. I love seeing faces light up when they see the gift, and are pleased with it.
Giving someone something that they love is a great feeling.

Kids in Christmas plays: Little kids in sheets with tinsel for halos. Bathrobe-clad shepherds. A little boy looking nervously and his "wife" Mary. I love it. All of it. Sweet little faces, who maybe don't even yet understand the significance of the events they're portraying. It's even better when they sing something. Anything. Just heavenly.

Manger scenes. I love them. All of them. There's one at my mom's church that's been going up as long as I can remember. It's life-size. I, sadly, don't have any photos of it, but I plan to remedy that this year. Just because it's part of Christmas to me. When I rode down that street as a kid, and I saw that scene, carefully placed, on the lawn at Lincolnton Baptist, I knew it was officially Christmas.

Mama's house: For me, there's no place to have Christmas besides my Mama's house. I can't even think about having it anyplace else, although for several years, we did. We had Christmas at my brother's house for a few years, and it was great. But it wasn't Mama's. There's just something about going home for the holidays. No place I'd rather be.
Each year, I know Mama gets ready for us to be home for the holiday, and she stresses a little. Between getting the house ready and the meals in order and the spare pillows and  blankets in place...she's got her hands full. But we don't really care if the house is ready. We can get our own pillows and blankets out of the hall closet. And as for the meals, well, peanut butter and jelly is fine, as long as we all eat it together.
Sitting around together at Mama's house each year, I remember that I am a very lucky lady. I still have my parents, my brothers are happy and have wonderful children, and I have all of them. I am blessed.

I really am blessed. Now if we could just get some snow...

Uncle Ned and Mrs. Jones....

Today is my birthday. I’m (places hand tactfully over mouth as I speak) years old.
I was thinking the other day about what birthdays used to mean. When I was a kid, it was all about the presents. Forget the cake and ice cream. I didn’t even care about the little friends at my party. I just wanted to see what was underneath all the sparkly wrapping paper.
I was a selfish little booger, wasn’t I?
In my teen years, it became even more about the presents, which became more and more expensive.
I remember on my 16th, my mother arranged a party during a youth retreat I was on. In front of everyone, she gave me a ring – but not the diamond cluster ring I had asked for. She gave me an onion ring with a note attached. It read: “Due to financial embarrassment, this is the only ring we could get.”
I’m still living that one down.
Once I reached adulthood, I realized that birthdays are not about the presents. It’s about the presence – my presence in the lives of those I care about, and making sure that presence counts for something.
It’s also about the presence of those I allow into my life, and the influence they have. I’m picky about these people. I choose very carefully.
One such person passed away this week. My uncle, Ned Conner, died Thursday afternoon. He was 83, and was married to one of my mother’s sisters, Julia.
Uncle Ned was one of those special characters that just got to your core. He was a simple and small man, but he had a big personality. When he was up to something, his eyes twinkled.
I remember those eyes. I saw them up close a lot when I was very young. Uncle Ned wore dentures, and he loved to poke them out at me to make me laugh.
Heck, he was still doing it the last time I saw him.
Our families had, at one time, a campsite that we shared. We spent lots of time there each summer, fishing, hanging out and eating lots of the fish we caught, including catfish stew, courtesy of Uncle Ned. He was also our breakfast captain.
On one particular morning, my brother, Greg, and I awoke to hear Uncle Ned singing the oldie, “Me and Mrs. Jones.” We could tell from the sound of his voice that he didn’t have his teeth in.
We crawled to the window of the camper and looked out, and there was Uncle Ned in all his glory. He was wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts, and was barefoot. Without a tooth in his head, he was swaying and singing while stirring a cast iron frying pan full of scrambled eggs.
That image still makes me giggle. But not as much as my favorite photo of him.
There’s a picture  that my mom has of Uncle Ned in our kitchen, holding his hands up to his chest. The photo makes it clear that he has something under his shirt that gives the illusion that he has breasts. And he’s grinning from ear to ear.
I can just hear him laughing every time I look at that photo.
When my Granny died, Uncle Ned was the one that made me forget my sorrow for a while. Not by anything he said or did directly to me, but by watching him with the little kids in the family. I was 17 when she died.
After her funeral, I heard Uncle Ned talking to some of the younger kids at the cemetery, and I looked around for him. I found him, down in the dirt, in his suit, playing with the kids. He had every one of them giggling and, well, filthy.
It made me forget the pain of losing my Granny for a few precious moments. I loved him for that.
I didn’t get to tell him how much he meant to me. I didn’t get to tell him that I loved his laugh or that twinkle in his eye. I didn’t get to tell him how much I loved how much he loved my aunt, and his children.
I didn’t get to tell him how much I appreciated him being there for us when we were little, and didn’t have a father figure around.
So Uncle Ned, thank you everything. Thank you for helping me, my mom and my brother laugh at a time when there was precious little in our lives to laugh about.
I sure will miss that rascal.

Je suis Charlie – not Kirby Delauter

This was my column for Jan. 11, 2015. Won a little award. Thought I should post it to my blog so I could hang onto it. I submitted three columns, and there was one about my summer in Oregon that I was sure would be the winner, but this one got it instead. Go figure.

Georgia Press Association awards aside, I still feel strongly about this.

Behold...my column...

Journalists all over the globe chuckled collectively this week at Twitter's latest punching bag – Kirby Delauter.
It seems that Delauter, an elected official in Fredrick County, Md., threatened to sue a reporter at the Frederick News-Post who had used his name in a story without his permission. He posted his comments on social media, sparking a response from the reporter, who not only owned her action, but said she'd do it again. And again. And again. Why? Because it's her responsibility to the community her newspaper serves to do so. I stood up and applauded when I read that.
The editorial that followed, well, mentioned his name an awful lot. And it went, as you might imagine, viral. 
Delauter later apologized, admitting that it is indeed the right of the paper to use his name in any article, saying "it comes with the job."
I'm betting this epiphany came immediately after – possibly during – a conversation with his attorney.
And just like with anything else the people who live in Facebook Land or in the Twitterverse find funny, Delauter became fodder for an endless stream of memes. I have enjoyed every single one of them. I mean, come on. That stuff's funny right there, I don't care who you are. 
Google it. You'll see what I mean.
I echo the sentiment of the young lady whose story mentioned Delauter (just twice by the way). It is our responsibility to report on the actions of our elected officials. And it's their responsibility to be aware that this is the case. How can you be in any kind of office and think that your name is that off limits?
As an elected official, Delauter should have known that journalists can and will use his name in the media. Just because a person doesn't want to see his or her name in print does not negate the First Amendment. 
In the wake of this ridiculousness, a series of truly heinous acts took place. Two gunmen entered the offices of Paris newspaper Charlie Hebdo and killed 11 people. All because those people had exercised their rights as journalists. A policeman was murdered as the duo escaped. On Thursday, a policewoman was shot and killed, and a street sweeper was shot – the shootings were linked to the Charlie Hebdo incident. On Friday, there was a shootout between the gunmen and police, and one of the suspects took hostages in a grocery store. French special forces stormed each of the places where the terrorists were located and killed them, and freed several hostages. In the end, 12 people were dead and many more were critically injured.
Four cartoonists from Charlie Hebdo were killed because they drew cartoons that radicals didn't want to see in print. 
Sound familiar? Of course, these two incidents are worlds apart. But what's at the heart of the matter isn't so different. 
People everywhere have latched onto the viral sentiment "Je Suis Charlie" – French for "I am Charlie."
The bigger picture is this: if this causes journalists all over the globe to censor themselves because of fear, then the Charlie Hebdo terrorists – and all who think like them – will have won. Freedom will be lost. This cannot happen.
We cannot be afraid to stand up and report the news. We cannot be afraid to poke those in power a bit and hold them accountable. We must not be afraid to stand up for what is right. In the end, we must all be Charlie. 
And not Kirby Delauter.