Actually, here it is more of a pssssssssssss. Instead of the rotating sprinkler heads these just spew water once a day in all directions. It took me about a week to figure out what the noise was. I would wake up in the morning (early morning, 4 or 5 am) and hear this noise outside.
Artificial rain… so I don’t live in a desert.
I got a little change in my pocket going jingle lingle ling
Want to call you on the telephone baby I give you a ring
But each time we talk I get the same old thing
Always no huggin’ no kissin’ until I get a wedding ring
My honey my baby don’t put my love upon no shelf
She said don’t give no lies and keep your hands to yourself
As I sit on the sidewalk enjoying a Carmel Machiatto and pondering where the Starbucks logo came from and if the woman on it is indeed a mermaid (that’s what she looks like to me), I hear the first twangs of the guitar from this classic Georgia Satellites song. Every time I hear this song I get a little smile on my face.
The year was 1986 — and I had somehow ended up on my way camping with my uncle and dad. Camping means you have a tent and a sleeping bag, a cooler and some matches in my world — not a campground with bathrooms and electrical outlets and RVs. We were in the white GMC van, me perched in the center on top of the engine hood/cover that was between the two front seats. We had my small boombox (one of my prized possessions as a child, along with my Mickey Mouse phone and small Sony TV) as the radio wasn’t working. I was pouting because they wouldn’t let me listen to my Thriller tape as this song came on the radio, it was the first time any of us had ever heard it. Now, despite the fact that I like this song, I would never, ever let my dad and my uncle know that — so I continued pouting and holding out to hear Thriller.
They didn’t give in to my pouting. It’s late, and it’s late fall, so it’s pretty cold in the mountains. As we’re driving up, some of the higher altitude roads have been closed because of ice. We finally find the area we want camp in, and I sit in the van, watching my dad and uncle in the headlights. They pull up the barriers at the edge of the parking lot so we can drive right down into the forest.
We set up camp and get the fire going. I’m starving, and given the fact that I’m 6 or 7 years old, I’m used to my mom’s meals while we camp. Hotdogs, steaks, baked potatoes. The only thing the guys had brought were a can of pork n’ beans. The night was getting worse from this 6 year old’s perspective. Pork n’ beans!! Uggh! We sit around the fire, listen to the radio (still not Thriller) and they probably played “Keep Your Hands to Yourself” two or three more times that night — which, of course was accompanied by me stating loudly and with complete exaggeration, “I hate this song!” (I don’t give in easily).
The next morning we pack up to leave. As we start to drive out of the parking lot the van dies. Kaput! After a few tries of the engine, my uncle and dad decide the best thing to do is jump start the van So as they each jump out the the van and start pushing, I sit on the engine hood and the Georgia Satellites come on yet again. At this point, I’ve had it. I’m upset that I’m the only one in the van and I’m still listening to this song I have to pretend to hate and I had pork n’ beans for dinner (if, in fact, I had even eaten). I start screaming at the top of my lungs, so I’m sure they hear me, “This is the worst camping trip I have ever been on!” (I’m six, really, how many did I have to compare it to?) “I will never ever ever go camping with you again!!!”
Of course, looking back on this later, I realize this was one of the best camping trips I had ever been on, just chillin’ with my dad and uncle. The Georgia Satellites’ song has a lot of other great, albeit tumultuous, memories attached to it, but every time I hear the first few notes I start thinking of the small, blonde me yelling at the top of my lungs at my dad and uncle, fists clenched, eyes closed. And I smile… 🙂 I’m such a pain in the ass.
When I was little, my Nin had a weiner dog named Tigger, and he hated me. Really, the dog was jealous of me the way siblings are of each other. Only instead of pinching me and tattling, he liked to growl and bite.
We came home from the grocery store, and we had stopped at Gage’s Market at the bottom of the hill. Gage’s was your little mom n’ pop family owned gas station – a couple of gas pumps outside and everything you could want inside — candy, bottled soda (the nice, thick glass bottles), and Mrs. Gage behind the ancient cash register (the kind with the push buttons – no electronic things here). I remember there was also a pool table in the back, and of course, it was a bait shop too.
My favorite things to get at Gage’s were Cheerwine and suckers. They had one of those platic displays that held a ton of suckers inside and also had a plastic top that held the sticks on the sucker. This display was usually full of 3 kinds of great suckers: Chupa-Chups (which you can still find today), a sucker that was the consistency of a Smartie (it was 2 colors – one flavor on the top, another flavor on the bottom, my fave combo was red and blue), and Life Saver suckers. On this day I got a Life Saver sucker that was white with red and green swirls in it.
So as my Nin unloaded the groceries, I went into the house. It was summer, so of course, I had my shoes off — running around barefoot. I headed for the rec room, through the swinging, old-western-bar-style doors. As I came through the door, Tigger bit my big toe. I was probably only 3 or 4 at the time, definitely not in school yet. My sucker dropped to the floor, and as Nin would describe it, my eyes welled up with big crocodile tears. I cried, and I reached for my sucker. Every time I reached for the sucker, Tigger would bite my big toe again. Luckily, even though this seemed to drag on forever, Ninny came through with another load of groceries, yelled and screamed at the tigger-dog, and proceeded to spray my toe with antiseptic spray, the kind that stung sooooo bad.
What I find really amusing is despite the fact that I had many episodes similar to this with Tigger, I really wanted a tigger-dog of my own – only not mean. You would think that I would have been scared of dogs for the rest of my life instead of loving them as much as I do. My Nin, being the wonderful granny that she is (I’ll post a story on that comment sometime)– or maybe just being the wonderful dog lover that she is, did get another tigger-dog (read: 3 year old speak for mini dachsund) and he was for me. His name was Odie William Hobson, and he loved me. He would attack other people, but never me 🙂
So this picture is for my Nin, who now has two more mini-dachsunds – Max and Baby-dog (the only other dog who’s ever bitten me), along with a slew of other dogs and animals. If Tigger were still around we could dress him up in this outfit — though Baby might make a fine Tigger-replacement.
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