MORE COLUMNS BY MARIANE HOLBROOK

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A COMPOSITE OF THE INFLUENCE OF OTHERS

A baby begins life with a blank slate. It is unblemished with no erasures, no smears, no cross-outs, no chalky shadows. It is perfectly clean, waiting for the impressions others will make on it, some carelessly, some intentionally, most with no forethought that these impressions are life-long and can never be erased. It is true, then, that what we are is really a composite of the influence of others.

If that is true in my life, then the reverse is also frighteningly true: that I am every day having a lasting, eternal impact on those whom I meet and on those whose lives I touch. Taken to its extreme, this thought is so sobering as to make one tremble.

Comedian David Letterman has become famous for his “Top Ten List” which is an irreverent, often caustic commentary on the political and social mores of our time. But I doubt its efficiency as a useful tool in determining who has had the most impact on us. It ‘s far too limiting. Since the average life expectancy of a woman is more than eighty years, it is more likely that hundreds of relatives, friends and acquaintances have carved their lasting mark on us.

My godly father began early to write on my life-slate. With regularity, he gathered his large family around him, read his favorite chapter from his well-worn Bible, then invited us to kneel with him for a long, inclusive prayer. My father used the Old English “thou, thee, thine” in his prayers and preferred to kneel when praying to his Lord. He taught me that God is worthy of our deepest reverence, our highest praise, our humblest obedience. He died in 1964 at the age of sixty eight of lymphosarcoma.

Mother carved the word “Jesus” on my slate. She engaged in both Mary and Martha forms of worship; loving the Lord through praise, and exhibiting the one gift of the Spirit so often overlooked: the gift of help. Mother defied all medical predictions and lived to be ninety-six-years old. Her death in 1996 was the end of an era.

My siblings in their own ways influenced me, encouraged me.

My oldest sister, Eleanor, taught me the meaning of style, of class, of achievement. (The fact that it was entirely lost on me would give her reason to laugh heartily). Eleanor was a survivor, a fighter. But she lost her battle with advanced diabetes, blindness and kidney failure in 1985.

I stand forever in awe of my brother, Dick; he intimidates me. His razor-sharp mind threw me hard-ball questions which he knew instinctively I couldn’t answer. But his achievements in the business world have filled me with uncontrollable pride.

My sister Evelyn gives new depth and definition to the word “caring.” She is everyone’s big sister. She provides the proverbial soft shoulder to family members, friends and even mere acquaintances who need comfort, solace and encouragement. Her heart and life are an open door with few, if any, restrictions. Evelyn is my personal cheerleader and I love her.

Our family has often considered cloning my sister Margie. Every family should have one. She embodies all the five “G’s” which author Elisabeth Eliot describes in her books: godly, giving, gracious, gentle and.......(.I forget what the last one was; maybe it had something to do with cleaning house). But the fact that she dutifully hangs my oil paintings year after year in her house endears her to me.

Norma, my sister, is my alter-ego, my conscience, my compass whether I like it or not. She is unfailingly supportive, defiantly protective of me, and regularly pierces my spiritual veneer and demands that I do better. I wonder how I got along without her when she spent over thirty years as a missionary with her family in Africa.

My younger brother, John, was my nemesis, the pebble in my shoe during our “growing up years.” In adulthood, he filled me with pride, with laughter, with pleasure. He would have been a domitable force as president of Standard and Poor, Inc. in New York City. He died too soon. He suffered too much. He left us all with a void too deep when he passed away in 1996, a victim of a Parkinson-like disease known as Supranuclear Palsy of the Brain.

My husband John has written lasting memories on the slate of my life. I recall early in our marriage sitting across the table from him and thinking suddenly and with great clarity: “He completes me.” And he does. His infinite patience has astounded me. His backing of my changing interests through the years and his acceptance of who I am have provided me with a solid base. Who could ask for more?

And my children; my tall, stalwart sons who bring me joy and laughter and pride have carved deeply into my slate, often exceeding the boundaries and writing on the perimeter but always making their careful and lasting mark. With their wives and families, the script is thoughtful, sometimes childlike, but invariably kind and permanent.

My friends used every imaginable writing device and varied kinds of pressure when they wrote on my life slate. They span decades and they span the country. They have provided more encouragement, more challenges, more opportunities for growth than even they realize. How blessed I have been. How much I want them to know it.

But by far, the greatest imprint and the one of which I am most proud, are the words that Christ Himself wrote all across my slate when I was eleven years old. With bold, loving script He wrote in red: “My child, I am yours and you are mine.”

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A PENNY SAVED IS WORTH ……ZILCH

Grocery shopping with my husband, John, is, to quote a friend of mine, "as much fun as pulling your spleen through your nose."

I mean, here’s a man who can’t remember my birthday, never did learn the date of our anniversary, forgets how many grandchildren we have (2), but has memorized the price of every can and box at the grocery store. His brain literally dances with "two for one’s" and net ounces.

So, we sashay into the grocery store and I toss a can of AnyBrandTuna into the cart. Who cares? A rose is a rose is a rose. And tuna is tuna is tuna.

"Hey. Wait just a minute, here." declares John, retrieving the tuna from the cart. "Let’s check the price. You can get "FreeTheTuna" brand for six cents less and it’s the same number of ounces. Good grief, do you wanna bankrupt us?"

I figure that that one savings alone just made another house payment for us, so I thank him and make a mental note to shop at 3 a.m. When he’s snoring.

We head down the aisle and I select a can of peas. The one at eye level. Who cares? A pea is a pea is a….(well you know the rest). John picks up the can and holds it beside five hundred other brands of peas on the shelf for comparison. He checks the ounces and the price per ounce. After thirty minutes, he decides Green Giant is the best buy. Oh joy. Another four cents saved. That can finance our trip to Pago Pago.

But now we come to the cereal section and I begin praying. Hard. Apocalypse Now! Please! This is where serious instruction in saving money begins. It’s a weekly ritual. Only slightly less pleasant for me than a double root canal.

He surveys about eight thousand boxes of cereal, each the size of a truck, and selects two. "Ok, listen carefully," he instructs in his former high school teacher stentorian voice. "Compare the ingredients, the net ounces, the amount of sodium, the calorie count, the percentage of fat, sugar content, the vitamins and minerals, whether there are preservatives, and tell me which is the best buy."

I stare numbly at the charts and percentages and grams and exchanges by the American Diabetic Institute or whatever and finally toss both boxes into the air and yell, "I don’t care. I just don’t care. I’ll eat bacon and eggs."

I grab the cart and rush toward the poultry section for a frozen turkey breast before John can get there. He’ll want to check what kind of mash this bird was fed, the method of slaughter, and whether it was flash-frozen. Then he’ll begin to calculate the price of turkey per pound against the price of chicken breasts per pound.

An hour later at the checkout counter, John positions himself to watch every entry on the cash register. I feel sorry for the clerk and think of a way to distract John.

"OMIGOSH, our car’s on fire." I scream as John plunges through the open doors toward the parking lot.

I grin at the cashier, press a fifty dollar bill in her palm. "Here’s fifty bucks. Keep the change. Hurry and bag the groceries before he gets back."

Hey, you hafta do what you hafta do and I hafta preserve my sanity.

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A STRAY CAT NAMED MISSY

A humor column is by design or by accident supposed to be funny. We associate humor with laughter, with smiles and hopefully an occasional guffaw. Oddly, though, one of the definitions of "Humor me" is "to soothe."

In today's column "soothe" is the operative word.

Last week I lost a precious friend. It wasn't a family member or a pal I'd known a long time. Instead, it was a little gray stray cat with a broken tail, a bent back, a scarred eye, and a missing tooth. Her name was Missy. I never saw her, I never held her, I never petted her furry coat. We lived a continent apart and before I could even hold her, she died. And I am bereft.

Missy belonged to my best friend, Dee, who lives in Arizona. Because Dee is disabled by an incurable and largely untreatable disease, Sarcoidosis, this stray cat who came fortuitously into her life took on the dimensions of a near-human friend and companion. It was through Dee that I learned to love Missy.

Last year Dee staged a birthday party for her stray cat at Epoch Assisted Living Center, a posh retirement home in Sun City West, Arizona. I laughed. I thought it was a hoot. But the residents at Epoch had grown to love Missy during Dee's frequent visits to her mother who resides at this facility. So many residents showed up for the birthday celebration and the large birthday cake which was served, that Dee scheduled a tenth birthday party for Missy this spring. The spacious living room was overflowing with well-wishers.

Missy primly wore a lace collar and posed proudly for a newspaper photographer. Party-goers were given packs of Lifesavers wrapped with a colorful printed message from Missy. Slices of birthday cake were served to the residents. An accomplished guitarist provided special music. A certificate, naming Missy "Arizona Cat of the Year" was delivered. Roses were presented to Dee and her caring, elderly mother, Mary, who had found this lonely stray cat ten years ago in her garage in Casper, Wyoming and took her by plane to Dee's residence in Arizona where she was given a warm welcome and a loving environment.

After Missy's first birthday party, Dee and I decided to self-publish "Missy's Mewspaper" a tongue-in-cheek newspaper for cat lovers as seen through the eyes of a cat. It was an instant success. Missy, as editor-in-chief, wrote an "Advice to the Lovelorn" column, reported imaginative and humorous cat events held throughout the nation, featured a Literary Section of original poetry by Missy, a classified ad page, Health, Education and Church pages, an Op-Ed page, and a Society page which detailed Missy's engagement and pending marriage to Snuggs Buggalug, a make-believe tom cat who ultimately disappointed Missy enough that she gave him the proverbial boot. Four or five editions of Missy's Mewspaper were made available to Epoch residents who eagerly mailed copies to family and friends in virtually every state in the country. Missy had become famous.

When I added Missy's Mewspaper to my own "Humor Me" web site, she became known worldwide. With links to many other cat sites, Missy's web page brought visitors from over thirty foreign countries as well as every part of the United States. The postings in my web site Guest book were full of accolades citing Missy's antics, her humor, her foibles, and above all, her sweet, cunning nature. It became difficult to separate the real Missy from the personality Dee and I had developed for her and indeed, there was no need: Missy was the Missy of Missy's Mewspaper.

Two weeks ago, Dee noticed with alarm several protruding lumps on Missy's tummy. Missy's trusted veterinarian, Dr. Tom Leber, confirmed that Missy was invaded with a very aggressive form of cancer. With little warning and with virtually no preparation for those of us who loved Missy, she laid her head down and submitted quietly to the inevitable.

When I posted "In Memoriam: A Tribute To Missy" on my web page recounting her sudden death, people from all over the world responded. Most of them I didn't know but they'd regularly visited my web site to learn of Missy's most recent adventures. All were shocked and saddened by her death.

For Dee, it is a much larger issue. Her house is quiet. Missy isn't there to open the window blinds with her large paw or to push stuffed animals from the shelves of the entertainment center. Missy isn't asleep in the linen closet. Missy isn't begging for a can of Kitty Kaviar. And hardest of all, Missy isn't curled up in Dee's arms under the covers at night, providing comfort and love and nurturing to a dear, disabled woman whose love for that little stray cat has become legend.

Will there be pets in heaven? Billy Graham was asked that question and his compassionate answer was, "I believe God will provide whatever it takes to make us happy in heaven and for that reason I believe, yes, there will be pets in heaven."

Amen.

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A $275 HAIRDO

The day started out innocently enough. You know the old routine of getting up, peering through the narrowed slits of your eyes and fumbling around for a cup of black industrial-strength buzz.

Then I remembered I had an appointment for a "do."

But as Casey Stengle said, "I shoulda stood in bed." I would've saved $275. Not to mention half my hair.

At the salon, I asked my hair stylist, "Wiggles" for a cut, a no-curl perm and a six-weeks' rinse. Okay, so I have a few gray hairs. Well, maybe thirty million.

Wiggles blew bubbles with her pink bubble gum, tapping her foot to the rock music on her tiny radio, barely listening to me. Her phone rang and she began chatting with her boyfriend, cradling the receiver between her shoulder and her ear while she washed my hair.

Wiggles' boyfriend worked as a mate on a local charter boat. It sounded like "Charter Boat Charlie" was giving Wiggles the proverbial boot. She became more and more agitated, digging into my scalp with her steel fingernails until rivulets of warm blood (mine) intermingled with the suds. Finally, she rinsed my hair with the force of a fire hose and pointed me to her barber chair where the greatest hair massacre of all time began.

Mercifully, the phone call ended but Wiggles was over the edge by this time. "Furious" is way too soft a word. She took out her pink machete and began whacking away twenty bushels of my locks which piled waist high on the floor, leaving me with the shortest haircut in the history of hair; only one millimeter above a clean shave. Any minute now the radio announcer would interrupt: "Full story of this hair travesty tonight on all local stations and on Channel 6. Stay tuned."

The soft, uncurly perm I'd requested turned into tight frizz sprouting spiral frizz. Then Wiggles dumped permanent jet black dye on my hair instead of the light brown temporary rinse I had requested.

When she finally finished, I looked in the mirror and screamed. I was Buckwheat from The Little Rascals. All I lacked was a baseball cap to wear backwards Total bill for my new "do?" $110.

Resuscitated from my dead faint, I jumped in my car and drove through four red lights at lightning speed to the store for hair straightener and color remover. Cost? $40.

But nothing worked. I couldn't bleach out the black color and I couldn't straighten my hair with a flat iron. I considered shooting myself but the thought of strangers pointing and jeering at my hair in my casket deterred me.

John came home and walked past me, thinking I was from Merry Maids. My dog thought I was a medieval apparition and whimpered her way under the bed where she remained all weekend.

Finally, in desperation I phoned another stylist and begged for help.

"I'll do anything for you if you'll repair this hair damage. Anything! I cleaned toilets in a previous life and I'll even do that."

I showed up at the new salon with a gunny sack over my head and threatened to kill anyone who looked my way. The stylist dumped everything she had onto my hair, except the Pepsi she was drinking. Then she began creative scissoring, stripping, highlighting and finally plastered on two gallons of mousse.

After two hours she handed me the bill: $125.

You know, cleaning toilets isn't all that bad.

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AMAZING VENUS FLY TRAP

Wow. I had no idea.

Carolina Beach State Park has long been designated "The Venus Fly Trap Capital Of The World" and I didn't even know it. I kid you not. In boggy areas of the park, more of this endangered plant species is found than any place on earth. Imagine that.

Maybe we should get rid of the "Pleasure Island" slogan and substitute "Venus Fly Trap Capital of the World." I mean, this is amazing. I can't believe we haven't already exploited this thing to death. There should be Venus Fly Trap symbols on every T-shirt, flag, menu, official stationary, every gift item in town and even emblazoned on the front of city hall.

I visited the new Aquarium at Fort Fisher and yawned at the Shark Tank, fell asleep watching crabs in the Touch Tank and dozed my way through the gift shop. But I leapt at military attention when I saw the Venus Fly Traps in the conservatory.

The Venus Fly Trap is my favorite plant. To me, it's the most intriguing plant on earth.

On the wide open leaves are short, stiff hairs called trigger hairs. When anything touches these hairs enough to bend them, the two lobes of the leaves snap shut in less than a second, trapping whatever is inside. The lobes form an air-tight seal to keep the digestive fluids inside and the bacteria out.

You gotta admit that's pretty cool. Most carnivorous things have to forage and stalk and chase to catch their prey. But all the brilliant Venus Fly Trap has to do is sit there looking innocent, twiddling his thumbs and pretending not to care. Then a dumb little fly buzzes by, lands on the Venus Fly Trap and WHAMMO, the trap door is shut tighter than Uncle Bert's sealed coffin.

Anything, plant or animal, which kills and eats flies and mosquitoes has my vote. Which is why I think Carolina Beach should figure out a way to cover the entire island with Venus Fly traps. We'd be the darlings of every Conservationist in the country. Tour buses full of school kids would come here with their spiral notebooks. We'd get megabucks from every left-wing Environmentalist in Washington.

And this brings me to a larger issue. Why can't we feed Venus Fly Traps inordinate amounts of Miracle Grow to increase their size by several thousand percent. Then, they could trap unwanted rats, raccoons, skunks, or other pesky varmints who raid our gardens at night. (not that anybody has a garden but you get my drift.)

Then we could increase the fertilizer intake to make Venus Fly Traps the size of Army Humvees to swallow our garbage so we could save on trash disposal costs. Each house could have a truck size plant in the back yard for our convenience in tossing in everything we wanted to discard.

And why not plant Venus Fly traps all over Afghanistan and Iraq and a few other countries. The giant plants could be programmed to trap the enemy and ingest them, saving a ton of our money normally spent on bullets. With any luck, Osama Bin Ladin would feel the fly trap lids slammed on him and the whole world would applaud the ingenuity of my favorite little plant.

Whaddya mean "when pigs fly?" Hey, they laughed at my idea that a zipper be stitched on every human abdomen for easy organ replacement, didn't they? And now look at how common that procedure is (or will be once doctors get the hang of it).

The world lacks imagination, you know it?

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AMERICANS DON'T SWEAT, WE PERCOLATE

There's good news and bad news about coffee. Ready?

Recent studies at the University of Arizona and UCLA discovered that caffeine improves and repairs memory for elderly women and is therapeutic for depression, addiction, gallstones and even skin cancer.

But the bad news is that half the population of America (100 million people) drink an average of 3 to 4 cups of coffee a day which raises their blood pressure significantly enough to put them at great risk of a heart attack, stroke or early death.

And in every single study, caffeine always raises blood pressure.

Wow.

Fifty years ago, the average cup of coffee was 5 ounces. Today, it's 9 ounces and many of us drink 32-ounce cups several times a day. That's enough caffeine to make us jumpstart our own cars without cables. We regularly outlast the Energizer Bunny.

There's no question that caffeine is the world's most popular drug. And if coffee, tea and soft drinks didn't contain caffeine, 80 percent of Americans wouldn't get their daily "fix." Maybe that's why so many of us think Folger's Crystals have healing powers. If you listen closely, you'll hear us grinding our coffee beans in our own mouths. We are one wired country.

And it's not true that coffee is coffee is coffee the way a rose is a rose is a rose. If Starbucks owns the mortgage on your house, you'll know they offer cappucinos and frappuccinos and double lattes, and espressos and heaven knows what else. My neighbor consumes so much coffee that he refers to his spouse as his "coffee mate."

People actually brag about how much they spend for coffee. We save on our light bill, we talk about buying shirts on sale, but we want the whole world to know how much we spend on a single cup of coffee. And we spare no expense. Any money that we save, we just buy more coffee.

In an age of fastidiousness, almost to the point of being persnickety, it might surprise you to know the world's most expensive coffee comes from beans cycled through the digestive systems of monkeys living in Indonesia.

Before shivering and losing your lunch, let me remind you that we use the casings of hogs' small intestines to pack our raw sausage meat in. In fact, one information sheet suggests that "hog intestines can be used as a casing but be sure to clean the insides of these innards before using." Surely that sanitary precaution must have occurred to somebody all on their own, wouldn't you think?

Why should it disturb us to know that a palm civet (a tree-dwelling creature found in Southeast Asia) picks the ripest, reddest coffee beans to ingest. The beans at this stage of ripeness are best for brewing. The animal eats the outer covering of the coffee beans, while the bean itself goes through the intestines, whole and unscratched.

The stomach acids and enzymatic action involved in this unique fermentation process produces the beans for the world's rarest coffee.

Now, on my list of preferred employment, cleaning the dung from those coffee beans would rank way below the bottom of the list and probably through the floor boards. But somebody has to do it. And I hope they get paid big bucks. A small 1/4 pound bag of this Kopi Luwak coffee sells for $75 or $300 a pound. Go figure.

Only about 500 pounds of these unique (to put it mildly) coffee beans are harvested each year so get in line. Three-fourths of the crop are sold to Japanese buyers and the rest to American buyers.

I wonder if this brand of coffee qualifies for inclusion in the "conspicuous consumption" definition proposed by Senator Fritz Hollings of South Carolina who once stood on the floor of the senate and muttered his now famous words, "Well, they iz just too much consumin' out they-ah."

Hey, Senator, I can cut back on my Kopi Luwak java and not give it a second thought. But how do I get rid of that, umm, peculiar odor in my brand new coffee pot?

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ANY FISHING IN HEAVEN?

Billy Graham once said that God will provide whatever it takes to make you happy in heaven. In my case, there had better be fishing.

There are seventy references to fishing or its derivatives in the Scriptures. Jesus’ miracle of multiplying the loaves and “a few little fishes” gives me comfort; the little boy who provided those fish wasn’t any better fisherman than I. Lots of times I catch just “a few little fishes” - (and that’s on my good days.)

And don’t overlook the importance Jesus gave to fish. He could have used lamb chops, beef steak or pork loin for this miracle of feeding five thousand people, but He chose the lowly little fish instead.

When we get to heaven and sing for about ten thousand years, ask God about a million questions and visit with our friends and relatives, then surely there’ll be some time left over for fishing.

Now, as I see it, there are some sports that just won’t make it to heaven.

Boxing, for example. Can anyone explain to me how this non-sporting event ever made it past two little boys slugging it out on the school yard? And for the life of me, I can’t picture cauliflower ears, swollen lips, black eyes, and bloody noses as part of the heavenly scene. It’s just not the stuff angels are made of.

Then there’s wrestling which is such a farce that no one takes it seriously (except its promoters and President Carter’s mother, Miss Lillian; God rest her soul). Unless you count our presidential wannabee, Jesse Ventura, with his mind that nobody cares if he wastes or not.

I have serious doubts whether calf wrestling or Brahma bull-riding will qualify as heavenly sports, either. Or leaping through a ring-of-fire in a souped-up car; or diving off cliffs into twelve inches of water. (Has anybody besides me noticed that it’s men, not women, who perform these ridiculous stunts?)

So, I submit that fishing is the most-likely-to-be-in-heaven sport. Sure, fishermen exaggerate and even tell white lies about their catch. I never said they were particularly honest. But at least they aren’t beating somebody’s brains out or being gored to death in front of a thousand cheering fans.

While I don’t know this for a certainty, I wouldn’t be surprised to see “catch and release” regulations posted wherever fishermen congregate in heaven. After all, this is heaven; not even fish will have to suffer.

There is considerable controversy swirling around fishermen who drag gill nets behind their fishing boats. They’re held in significant contempt by a growing number of people; in fact, pier fishermen often throw their bait and their obscenities at netters who come too close to the pier.

But like it or not, commercial fishermen with nets have their origins in the Bible and where can you get a better endorsement that that?

There’s the Biblical account of the disciples having a bad fishing day and Jesus’ telling them to let down their nets. They obeyed and instantly brought up so many fish that the nets broke.

I can hear all the pole fishermen out there laughing, thinking of all the fish those netters lost through their broken nets. But notice that they weren’t using Shakespeare Stick Graphite casting rods and ABU Garcia Ambassadeur 6500 C casting reels; they were using hand-tied nets.

When I get to heaven, I plan to settle in, then look for St. Peter, the great fisherman, and whisper in his ear, “I bet I can beat you to the nearest fishing pier!”
Hey! It might work.

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BAPTIST ANGELS WITH CHAINSAWS

Just as children think all dogs are male and all kittens are female, so they think all devils are male and all angels are female. It's a given. Boys wouldn't be caught dead lying on their backs in the snow flailing their arms to make snow angels and little girls wouldn't be caught dead wearing spooky devils' outfits on Halloween.

In Christmas programs, little girls fret endlessly that their white cardboard angel wings might collapse and fall during a high-pitched version of "Hark the Herald Angels Sing."

Little boys opt to be shepherds, the innkeeper, the wise men or Joseph. No boy would agree to dress in white chiffon and be an angel. They'd sooner die.

But in early December dozens and dozens, perhaps hundreds of male angels descended on North Carolina in such droves that newspaper and television coverage of the event continues even yet.

A damaging ice storm had made a wide and eerie swath through central and western North Carolina, leaving every tree branch glistening with frozen, emerald precipitation. The popping of brittle pine trees and broken limbs could be heard through the night, some falling on cars, others crashing through homes and businesses.

It looked like a war zone. Some called the scattered debris worse than that left by Hurricane Fran in 1996 when it roared inland to the surprise of nearly everyone.

A few days after the ice storm in December , my friend Vera in Randolph County, stood at her window, shaking her head in disbelief at the snapped trees, the broken limbs, the blanket of fallen branches littering her yard. How on earth would this kind, elderly widow pay someone to clean up the mess that stretched before her like the unwelcome visitor it was? Her Social Security check barely covered her essentials. Where would she find the hundreds of dollars needed for this necessary cleanup.

Later that day when Vera was visiting her daughter, a truckload of men drove slowly down the road and viewed her littered lawn. Jerry, a neighbor of Vera's, was leaving his driveway when one of the men approached offering to help in debris removal.

Jerry explained that Vera was a widow of limited resources and unable to pay for what would likely be a significant fee.

The men said they only needed a signature giving the homeowner's approval, then they would get busy. It would cost Vera nothing. Jerry signed for Vera, pleased that help was forthcoming.

The men in the truck were angels. As surely as those who heralded Christ's birth 2000 years ago. As surely as those who appear unannounced and unrecognized in our lives today when we need them for protection and comfort.

The dictionary defines angels as "typically benevolent celestial beings that acts as intermediaries between heaven and earth."

The men in the truck were part of that dedicated, selfless group called the North Carolina Baptist Men, who fanned out all over North Carolina immediately after the ice storm to help wherever they could.

They came from as far away as South Carolina and Virginia. They brought chain saws, rakes, axes and hand saws. They gathered at various Baptist churches to receive their assignments, then fanned out all over the ice covered areas to work for nothing. Nothing but a thank you and a handshake.

At Vera's house they cut down large damaged trees and sawed the limbs into manageable lengths. They stacked the wood neatly by the road awaiting trucks dispatched by FEMA (the Federal Emergency Management Agency).

The men returned a second day, eager to work in the bitter cold to remove broken bamboo, trim more branches, cutting them into firewood lengths, and raking Vera's front and back lawn with such precision that it looked like a well-maintained country club green. They worked tirelessly for hours.

When they finally finished, the ten men filed into Vera's house and handed her a New Testament with all their signatures neatly handwritten in the front. Holding hands in a circle, these Baptist angels prayed for Vera, asking God to protect this godly woman and give her health and blessing for the year ahead.

They received no remuneration and indeed, would not have accepted any. Their rewards were at that moment being placed in a heavenly vault with each name carefully recorded by a trusted Scribe.

And as the Baptist workers eagerly drove on to their next assignment, God looked down from his vantage point in Heaven and said quietly, "Those are my men. Those are my beloved men."

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BEAUTY FOR ASHES

Okay I admit it. I have a morbid interest in cemeteries.

I think it started when my sister locked my screaming eight-year-old self in a mausoleum replete with wine velvet drapes, drawers full of embalmed bodies and the overpowering fragrance of carnations. My calls for help bounced off the marble walls when I distinctly heard a cadaver in a drawer asking me to pull him out. Or something.

I've given a lot of thought to cremation since that event. I just don't think I'd be a happy camper six feet underground, with no air, no lights and no Snickers bars. So I've opted for cremation. (My sister was so disturbed at my decision that she suggested taxidermy. But somehow I can't see my stuffed self lying seductively across the mantle watching Geraldo Rivera make another fool of himself on television.)

So, now my worry is what to do with my ashes. I don't wanna litter the beaches and I don't wanna be carried in a jar 30 miles out to sea on a pink charter boat and dumped unceremoniously over the side.

I'm a recycler by nature. I save bottles to fill with candle wax for gifts for friends who toss them in the garbage the minute I leave their house. My desk drawers are full of junk I'll use for more gifts for my undeserving pals.

So, I've come up with a remarkable marketing idea. Why not have my ashes separated into tiny flecks, each one encased in a small, clear Lucite tombstone-shaped pendant to be worn around the neck as a lovely necklace? (The chains would cost extra.) This Lucite ash product could also be made into key chains, charm bracelets, earrings, cuff links. The possibilities are endless. My family and friends would always have a part of me with them and my heirs could make millions.

Or I could have my ashes mailed to a company in Lakeside California which designs and produces special fireworks that contain the ashes of the departed. I could have my choice of special colors and patterns, such as heart-shaped designs. This could be a crowd-pleaser at our local 4th of July celebration as I illuminate the skies with my little ole self, and watch children ooh and aah with delight.

Or I could be shipped to a potter in Seagrove, North Carolina who'd create a glaze with my ashes to cover a magnificent Egyptian clay urn to be placed in the foyer of my church; a thing of beauty and a joy forever.

For $3200 my family could have my ashes placed in a memorial reef ball that weighs 4,000 pounds and carried out to sea on a barge. Fish for generations could swim around to amuse me and keep me company. I could become an aid in the ecological balance of the sea.

Or my ashes could be used to create a tasteful abstract painting by a well-known artist. Perhaps a beach scene. Perhaps a mountain vista. And all this for a paltry $3,000. Imagine the dinner conversation this painting with my ashes could generate as it hung majestically over a 19th century Victorian sideboard.

Whaddya mean, I have too much time on my hands and need to get a life?

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BE PATRIOTIC. SPEND YOUR MONEY

The president said it and I believe it.

"My fellow Americans, now is the time to show your patriotism. I ask you to let your wives spend money lavishly and without restraint to bolster our economy and strengthen our national resolve."

Well, okay. So it wasn't those exact words, but you get my drift.

I love my president and I love my country. And I think women should obey our president's orders and go on a massive spending binge.

The problem with the president's advice is he neglected to engage our husbands in his grand scheme of turning the economy around. Why is it George W. Bush can endorse professional football and every man in America drops his Thanksgiving dinner fork in midair to watch NFL football ad infinitum and call it patriotism?

But let the president suggest we women spend a little and every man in America goes nuts. Raving maniacs. You'd swear we were spending Billy's lunch money.

Along with Jesse Helms, my husband's favorite patron saint is Senator Ernest "Fritz" Hollings of South Carolina, who once muttered his now famous words, "Well, they iz just too much consumin' out they-a." Hardly the stuff the Gettysburg Address was made of, but that's Fritz. What can ya do?

My particular economic frailty is the internet. I love that thing. I can sit at my computer desk, type in a few WWWs, and order anything I want from any part of the world. Since my husband, John, never reads this column, I'll share some of my more recent patriotic purchases with you.

From Germany I ordered a foot cream so expensive it erased the German national debt with my one purchase alone. It smelled like rotted railroad ties soaked in Ben Gay's Methyl Salycilate so I returned it for credit. Of course, I never heard from them again and never received credit. Don't tell John.

Then I ordered a pain killing device from Canada that cost an arm and a leg. Mine. It was guaranteed to eliminate every pain-- from migraines to mal de DeBarquement, from fibromyalgia to flatfoot, from rheumatism to rodent diseases. The only thing it did not eliminate was the hissy-fit John pitched when he opened the package and saw the price. Not only did it not work as advertised, but the company's 100 percent "guarantee" only amounted to 38 percent. Don't tell John.

I ordered a "Unique Santa Claus dressed in costly red velvet with motorized parts; an heirloom." I was thrilled with the price of $38.00. When it arrived, I carefully opened it, oohed and aahed, then gulped. Big time. The billing statement read: "You have paid the first payment of $38.00. You will be billed each month for the remaining seven payments of $38.00 each. Again, please don't tell John. He has Fritz Hollings' phone number on his Speed Dial.

But the purchase (patriotic or otherwise) which still gives me major guilts occurred when I went with my two sisters to Pennsylvania's Amish country. We admired the curtainless windows, the austere but sparkling farm houses, the well-behaved children who stayed just out of range of visitors' prying questions.

When we saw a sign, "Handmade Amish Quilts For Sale" I lost all restraint. It didn't help that my sisters egged me on, knowing my love for the Amish. In the barn shop, I selected a $650 quilt that made me hyperventilate. I had to have that quilt.

Back home, I kept the quilt hidden from John for weeks. Finally, I placed it lovingly on the four-poster cherry antique bed in the guest bedroom where John soon noticed it. He was darkly suspicious, asking where I had purchased it.

"Don't tell me you paid a hundred dollars for that quilt!" he steamed.

"No, honey, I promise you I did NOT pay a hundred dollars for that quilt," I answered truthfully. I left it at that. He still doesn't know the exact price.

Now watch me get a phone call from Fritz Hollings.

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BIG BAD BOATS

Me? Go out in a fishing boat? In a pig’s eye!

Actually, my fear of boats goes back a long way. When I was thirteen years old, my family and I were enjoying a reunion of sorts on the Susquehanna River in northern Pennsylvania. Knowing that I couldn’t swim, my older brother, Dick, invited me onto our cousin’s rowboat for a quiet, pleasant ride on the river. Since he usually only spoke to me in tones of “Get lost, kid,” I was thrilled with the attention.

I should have known better. When we reached the middle of the river, he stood up in the boat and announced flatly, “Today you’re gonna learn to swim or you’re gonna learn to drown. Take your pick.”

Before I had a chance to scream and/or kick, he picked me up and threw me into the river. Clothes and all. I went down three or four thousand feet (or so it seemed), trying valiantly to hold my breath. I could say my whole life flashed before me, but my life thus far had been pretty uneventful. I could say I repented of my terrible past, but thus far I hadn’t created much of a past. I could say I had a near-death experience, but I was so angry with my brother that I only wished for his near-death.

After several hours of holding my breath (more likely about thirty seconds), I felt my brother lift me up out of the water. Dumping me unceremoniously into the boat, he said with resignation, “Well, I guess you’d rather drown than swim.”

I still can’t swim and I’m still not comfortable with boats.

Oh, I can ride the ferry to Southport, stand along the rail feeding stale popcorn to the seagulls while looking for Pelican Island. I enjoy walking the decks of the Winner Queen and running my hands along its fine teak (when it’s in dry dock!). John and I drool as the million dollar yachts cruise by on the inland waterway, with their sleek hulls and elegant owners. But it would take a Voice From Heaven to get me on a charter boat to spend all day fishing out near the Gulf Stream.

Not that I wouldn’t want to.

I love watching the charter fishing boats return each evening to the marina, proudly displaying their colorful curtains of red snapper, grouper, king mackerel and black bass. I admire those who bravely take their Dramamine and face the billowing seas and return with suntans and enough stories to charm their families for months. I would give anything to charter the Fish Witch just for myself, so if I got the heaves I could beg the captain to bring me back to shore forthwith and he would.

So, it was with no small amount of terror that I heard my husband call to me from the garage one day, ”Come look what’s out here. Our new fishing boat, complete with flounder lights, gigs, nets and everything we need to spend all night on the water over near Bald Head Island.”

In a pig’s eye! And you can tell my brother.

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CAN SHE BAKE A CHERRY PIE, BILLY BOY?

One morning I asked my second grade class to share their recipes for pecan pies. Since they couldn't yet write, I printed their instructions on my dusty blackboard. This was Jeffrey's recipe:

Big bag of pecans. Shell 'em first or they could hurt 1 bowl of flour, maybe 8 cups 1 sugar bowl of sugar Some water Salt and pepper Some of that white stuff; yeah, Crisco. Maybe a teaspoon.

"Stir it all up and put it in that glass dish mama sometimes makes Jell-O in when her Jell-O dish is dirty. The round one. Then cook it in the oven til the bell rings. Maybe about 5 hours. Keep looking' in the oven and if there's stuff all over the bottom of the oven burnin' and smokin' then it's done. But don't eat it right away. It can burn the ''far' outta your tongue." (Maybe his mama was a Proverbs 31 woman who thought, "bringeth her food from afar," meant to remove it from the oven as a torched tart. Sort of a burnt offering.)

I was Yankee-born but Southern-fed. When it comes to pies, Yankees lack imagination. Need a pie for a church supper? Yankees head straight to their pristine Betty Crocker cookbooks and select "Blah Lemon Pie" or "Who Cares Apple Pie." It's the same recipe for both. Only the imitation flavoring is different.

Yankees shouldn't be foolin' around with pecan pies, anyway. They can't even pronounce "pea-cahn'" correctly (with the accent on the second syllable). They insist on "pea'-can" (accenting the first syllable). If they can't even pronounce it, how can they make a pecan pie that's fittin' to eat?

Pecan pies are made with only two ingredients: pecans and sugar. And lots of it. If half your teeth don't rot and fall out after one piece, it's not Southern pecan pie.

North Carolina law S-69-564-B states that anyone attending a funeral must first eat pecan pie. Since the bereaved are in mourning and have little appetite, it falls to the friends and neighbors to consume the gargantuan amount of food they brought to the home of the newly deceased. Those who brought a pecan pie walk around flipping slices on everyone's plates, smack on top of the soupy butter beans and creamed corn. The lady who first holds up her empty pecan pie dish wins.

But we Southerners enjoy many kinds of pies other than pecan. Pork barbecue demands peach cobbler for dessert. And a roast beef dinner isn't complete without coconut cream pie.

One Sunday I invited our new pastor, his wife and six other guests to dinner. I had slaved all day Saturday in the kitchen, marinating the eye of round and preparing the feast that was meant to impress. (I hoped to make a few points with God, too.)

The dinner was a smashing success. Compliments and raves made me blush. Just before serving dessert, I stood to announce with remarkable lack of humility, "I don't lay claim to a lot of expertise. But I make coconut cream pies that French chef Frederic Medique would salivate over."

With the exaggerated flourish of Marcel the Magician, I plunged my silver pie server into the pie and suddenly felt my heart stop. Nine pair of eyes were fastened on me like Crazy Glue. My coconut cream pie was full of milky liquid rather than a set custard. I had used frozen coconut instead of dried coconut. It was a culinary disaster. My whole life flashed before me.

But instantly I recovered with a smile. "What I'm serving today is a French variation of coconut cream pie called 'Croute Crème De Noix De Coco.' It's so rich it must be eaten with a spoon. Enjoy, enjoy!"

The next time I invited this group over for dinner they all had other plans.

I wonder why.

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THE CHARLIE BROWN OF FISHING

With the exception of ACC basketball (which North Carolina residents are required by law to watch), I would rather fish than do just about anything.

Why is it then, that the biggest fish I ever caught in my life weighed only two and a half pounds. And I’ve been fishing for nearly forty years.

I’ve seen little eight-year-old boys catch bigger fish than that. I’ve seen little old ladies in their eighties catch bigger fish than that. In fact, just about everybody I know has caught bigger fish than that!

It’s not that I haven’t tried. I’m the one who stays out on the pier fishing until three or four o’clock in the morning while my husband is back home snoring his symphony of contented sleep. I’m the one who stood at the end of the pier alone in a rain storm fishing for the Big One until the pier owner suggested I needed to get a life.

I’ve watched men on the pier haul up mat-size flounder in a net, drag puppy drum up on the surf, and fight fifteen pound blues on the south end of the island. Right after they finished, I stood in their tracks in the sand, cast out the same distance, used the same bait and brought in a six ounce croaker.

My sons, Johnny and Tim, are skilled fishermen and regularly bring in tuna, king mackerel and grouper. They’re grown men now, but while in grade school, Johnny caught a large enough flounder while fishing on the pier to merit his picture being printed in the newspaper.

What is it I’ve been doing wrong all these years? I once reasoned it had something to do with the fragrance on the palms of my hands which touch the bait. So I tried every kind of cream and even olive oil to attract the big fish.

One person suggested breaking open a fish oil capsule and rubbing my hands in the oil before baiting my hook. A man from Winston-Salem told me to rinse my hands in his tobacco juice (thanks; some other time). Still another suggested rubbing my hands with cod liver oil.

One day, though, while fishing on the pier I hooked onto something that nearly pulled me over the pier railing. I couldn’t believe the force of that subterranean monster. I was so excited I forgot to scream. Soon it became evident to those around me that I had indeed hooked onto something extraordinary. Several men left their fishing rods to lean over the rail to watch the fight begin.

After about ten minutes I began to tire but I held on, working the line. Suddenly, my line went slack. I had lost it. Probably the largest flounder this side of Charleston had just broken my line.

And then it surfaced for everyone on the pier to see: the largest sea turtle I had ever seen lifted its lazy self up. Hanging from the creases of his hardened shell were about a hundred rusty tackle from a hundred disappointed fishermen. And there was mine. Right smack on the top, looking shiny and new.

I have this recurring nightmare that some day in my old age, I’ll receive a special citation from the North Carolina Fish and Game Commission inscribed:

“To Marian Holbrook, who set a state record for fishing for so long and improving so little.”

Well, that’s better than nothing. Barely.

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CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE FISHERMAN'S SOUL

I'd be a rich woman today if I'd invented the pet rock. I'd be even richer if I'd invented the hula hoop. But, c'est la vie.

But I still have a chance. I could publish my own versions of the "Chicken Soup" series. You know, those soft-cover books that are in every airport terminal gift shop and every Wal-Mart in the country for $12.95.

What started out as a modest "Chicken Soup for the Soul" printing ended up selling a kazillion copies. Immediately, the entrepreneurial authors decided to push their luck and do a sequel. Sequel after sequel turned into thirty different titles, nearly all of which have lined the owners' pockets with cash-covered velvet. The authors solicited the public for cute, schmalzy little stories and didn't do a thing but print them, then carry cash by the carload to the bank.. Only in America.

The idea for calling the series "Chicken Soup" was ingenious. As one man penned, "In Jewish culture, chicken soup is not just chicken soup. It's the cure for all ills, a panacea. Chicken soup is liquidized mother love. If you're sick and your mother doesn't make you chicken soup, does she still love you?"

The "Chicken Soup" series is not without its critics who claim that authors Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen are dyed-in-the wool New Age Movement gurus who promote meditation, centering, Arica psychology, psychic pictures, yoga and spirit guides. The first volume of Chicken Soup, according to critics, contains at least 25 New Age attributions. It was rejected by 140 publishers in the early 1990s until a small publishing house, Health Communications, agreed to give it a try. It quickly found itself on the New York Times best selling list.

There's Chicken Soup for Baseball Fan's Soul, for the College Soul, The Prisoner's Soul, the Teenage Soul, the Nurse's Soul, the Cat Lover's Soul, and on and on ad infinitum. There are plans for about thirty more titles. Online submissions are always welcomed, even eagerly solicited.

So far I haven't seen one for the Fishermen's Soul. What an oversight. It would sells millions, half of them on this island alone.

I can't use their copyrighted title "Chicken Soup" of course, but how about "Chicken Broth For The Soul?" Would I end up in a tangled legal mess? I've never done hand-to-hand combat with a New Age guru before. In fact, I've never even seen one unless you count "Hairy Harry" on Broad Street who chanted in Buddha fashion over his string of plastic colored beads and rained down terror on us kids who mouthed wooo-wooo sounds in his direction.

But "Chicken Broth For The Fisherman's Soul" has a certain ring to it.

Huggy Bear Thornton could submit his knee-slapping tale about his Big Yellow Boat and the Ship of Fools in the Perfect Storm. Or his hilarious account of his boat's Epirb signal gone awry and beeping for 18 hours while the Coast Guard helicopters and boats desperately searched the sea trying to find his sinking boat (which was found safely parked behind Steve's Bait and Tackle Shop).

"Chicken Broth For The Fisherman's Soul" could contain Harry G's rib-tickling account of casting his fishing line into the surf so vigorously that his partial plate went sailing into the sea with it, forever hidden in the murky sands.

And "Chicken Broth For The Fishermen's Soul" might include homespun tales by "Willard Ferrell, The Amiable Flounder Man" who catches rug-size flounder and refuses to reveal the location of his fishing spot even under penalty of death. Or Jerry Lewis, the local boat captain who buys Pepto-Bismol-pink paint by the drum instead of by the gallon.

Maybe I should start by soliciting material for a book. I could sit on the beach relaxing while my mailbox fills up with submissions. Budding local authors would get their name in print and I'd get my name on some very healthy deposit slips at my bank.

Wow. All this and heaven, too.

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COFFEE REFILL, PLEASE

On any given morning, they’re lined up against the back wall like the twelve disciples at the Last Supper. They begin arriving about 6:30 a.m. to get the best seats and leave late so no one is left to talk about them. This tight-knit group, known only as “The Guys”, meets for breakfast seven days a week, twelve months of the year at their favorite haunt: McDonald’s Restaurant.

Nothing, but nothing, keeps these men from this social appointment carved in stone. Not illness, not inclement weather, not even their wives interfere with this jolly get-together. They pick on each other mercilessly, then worry and fret if an offended one fails to show up for a day or two.

They are a varied group, to be sure. Most are retirees or wanna-bees. Their combined work history (if they’re to be believed) includes funeral director, engineer, teacher, preacher, C.I.A. agent, millionaire, stock broker, fisherman, detective, choir director, Christmas tree grower, gambler, boat captain, dog groomer, rancher, and professional wrestler. The former C.I.A. agent, with feigned solemnity, stated that if he told the group exactly what he did with the C.I.A., he would have to kill them all. The guys bent over double laughing at this prospect.

This is a tongue-in-cheek “by invitation only” group. One man insists he waited seven years to be inducted into this private club, sitting patiently every morning at a nearby table until invited to join this elite coffee klatch.

My husband, John, fared better. After only a few weeks, he was included in the conversation and now lays claim to a preferred seat among the group. Recently, though, he had his wings clipped when, after sounding forth on a favorite subject, he was told, “John, you’re too new here to have an opinion, much less express one!” John laughed about this friendly riposte for days!

The Guys discuss everything and argue everything. High on the list is race car driving, their favorite drivers, Ford cars or Chevrolets, their favorite fishing gear and preferred fishing holes. During the last elections, their arguments reached such a fever pitch that McDonald’s management threatened to toss them all out the door.

They love to tease, pull rank and play pranks. One of “The Guys” phoned our home recently, posing as a home security specialist. He offered us $800 if we would place his company sign in our front yard. He had the youthful enthusiasm of a teenage boy doing his “Prince Albert in a can” routine so common many years ago.

Sometimes “The Guys” order McDonald’s country ham biscuits and eggs or pancakes and hot syrup, but mostly they drink coffee. And lots of it. Refill after refill causes their steady stream back to the counter like ants marching single-file toward spilled sugar. They read the morning paper, comment on everything from national affairs to yard sales and lean back and drink more coffee.

When the group reluctantly leaves McDonald’s every morning, some head straight for the bait and tackle shop where they sprawl in white plastic chairs out front and banter with customers about the best bait and fishing holes.

Around 4:00 p.m., some of “The Guys” can be found back at McDonald’s for one last round of coffee and good conversation before leaving for home.

Stretch...yawn....tough job, but somebody’s gotta do it.

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COLORING OUTSIDE THE LINES

I am a collector. In boxes stacked in our garage are an apple collection and an Amish collection, both of which were used to decorate our mountain home. Now beach living has given me ample reason to display my sea bird collection. It’s small but impressive.

And I am a collector of people. The more unusual, the better. My favorites are the square pegs who can’t be crammed into the proverbial round holes that society too often arbitrarily selects for them. These unique individuals started coloring outside the lines in pre-school and have made it part of their mission statement. Their personalities demand it; their mind- sets relish it.

They’re the pumpernickel among the white breads. They’re the wormy chestnut boards stacked beside the bland, smooth white pine. They’re the Nicaraguan Matagalpa chocolate-spice coffees in a world of store brand weak, instant decafs. They’re the rough, woven seagrass carpets in a world of boring nylon plush pile.

They are found in every segment of society. They were born this way and they will die this way. I love them. And they always make me smile and laugh.

Take one of my neighbors, for example. I remember her raucous, often inappropriate laughter. She deliberately offended nearly everyone in our small village. Her list of enemies would stretch from here to Cleveland. She violated every single moral ethic and as many of the Ten Commandments as she could get away with.

As a young girl, I thought she was the funniest thing to ever come skipping down the pike. My mother was aghast that I chose such a role model. But when this woman died, she got the last laugh - in her own ironic way. She was found at her kitchen table with her Bible open; a dying position most devout Christians would kill for. In my own mind, I could picture her laughing all the way to heaven, waving back at those who were so often confounded by her bizarre behavior.

Another prize in my collection is my friend from the Colorado mountains. This 97 pound sprite is the mother of four children who spent years living in the high country, deep in the woods in a log cabin with no electricity and no running water. Beverly is a flower child, marching not just to a different drummer but to an entirely different band. Brilliant, well-spoken, spiritual, she spends her time peering at delicate violets hidden in the fertile humus beneath the blue spruce.

When Beverly told me she played the bagpipes, I knew she was a treasure. I’ve asked her to play at my funeral. I want to leave this earthly scene doubled over with laughter, watching my family stare uncomprehendingly at this wisp whose bagpipes weigh more than she does. She’ll play “Amazing Grace” with a wail that will empty all the beaches and she’ll be unfazed by the commotion she has caused.

But the most exciting person I have ever known was my college roommate from California, a girl who pushed every single emotional button I owned. Even though we were best friends, every day she carefully drew a straight chalk line on the linoleum to divide our room and she forbid me to cross it. And every night when she was asleep, I erased it with her washcloth. We shared everything from our clothes to our boyfriends’ letters.

One day I found my high-strung friend in a fetal position on her bed, wracked with fear that she was losing her mind. (She did this with such regularity that I called them her “over-the-edge days”.)

But this conversation temporarily brought an end to her mental confusion. “I know I’m losing my mind.” she sobbed. “I can’t remember my sister’s name!”

“Which sister?” I queried, tongue in cheek.

“Rena”, she answered, then paused, realized what she had said and dissolved into peals of delightful laughter.

As for me, my own family has endured my unorthodox coloring outside the lines, if not with pleasure, at least with a measure of grace. Given a choice, they will probably chisel these words on my tombstone:

"CHAOS, PANIC, DISORDER -
WELL, HER WORK HERE IS DONE"

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DON’T SAY THIS ON THE PIER

If you’ve ever fished on a pier you know there is a sense of community like no other place. When the fish aren’t biting, there’s nothing else to do but pass the time of day with the people around you and inquire about their grandchildren. Not bad entertainment for just $5.00 a day.

While almost every topic is acceptable, there are a few things that fishermen definitely should not say on the pier.

For example: The two-hundred-fifty pound man standing beside you is dressed in a tight, black jump suit with his baseball cap on backwards. His bushy, red beard and beady little eyes tells you this lumber jack is no one to trifle with. When this dude reels in a huge, fighting bluefish and slams it on the pier floor, you definitely don’t want to peer down at it and exclaim, “Will you just look at that cute little bitty fish you just caught?” That remark could send you flying up and over the railing.

When there is a sudden run of whiting and the sea is churning with fish, you look around and can’t find any place to crowd into. People are squeezed tightly together and won’t give you an inch of room. In your eagerness to get in on the run, it’s not a good idea to run up and down the pier shouting, “There’s a fire out of control at Fort Fisher!” True, half the people on the pier will dash to their cars to see the non-fire, but you’d better not be on the pier when they return. You could be dead meat.

You’re leaning up against the pier railing and it’s a slow day fishing. One woman, with a cigarette dangling from her mouth, is yelling and behaving in an obnoxious manner. You watch her with growing concern, then turn to the man next to you and ask, “Who IS that loud, disgusting woman?” When he answers, “That’s my wife; wanna make something of it?”, remember I told you not to ask that question.

If you’re a woman, chances are you often look around to see what other fishermen are wearing. Some days the crowd looks pretty scruffy. But don’t turn to the woman next to you and complain, “Real nice people used to fish on this pier.” She’s likely to quickly retort, “What do you think I am? The dregs of the earth?” This is a definite no-no.

A woman standing beside you keeps casting out into the same spot and snags her tackle every time. She’s made repeated trips to the pier store to buy more tackle. Don’t wait until she’s spent all her money and preparing to leave before you say, “There are old, rotted pilings down there where you’ve been casting.” Most gallant pier fishermen would have told her after she’d lost her ninth or tenth tackle. Maybe.

Fishermen don’t want to hear that the fish were biting last night or last week or yesterday morning. It only reminds them that you were lucky and they aren’t. Even if you have to lie, it’s better to say, “The fish have been biting all day at the North End and they’re on the way down.” Always give fishermen hope. They’ll love you for it even if they know you’re lying through your teeth.

Oh, and one last thing. Never ask that mean-looking, two-hundred-fifty-pound fisherman in the black jumpsuit if his mother had any children who made it past sixth grade.

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FORGET NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS

Is there a statute of limitations on New Year’s Resolutions? I need to know. I mean, does somebody keep up with these things and thumb through a spiral notebook and say, “Hey, wait just a minute here. You made that same Resolution back in 1984 and you still haven’t resolved that resolution.” Or does everything prior to seven years ago gets erased by the Great Resolutions Monitor?

For instance, every single year since 1962 (the year my last son was born) I’ve resolved to lose weight and become paper-thin again. Right back down to the 97 pounds I was when I sashayed down the aisle to my waiting bride groom who weighed in at 135 pounds. (His weight gain is another gripping story which will only be printed over his dead body. Or so he says). In the ensuing 39 years I’ve made the same weight reduction resolution with the same flawed results. Come to think of it, no results. And come to think of it again, reverse results. Maybe I should just quit.

Which is what I intend to do.

Besides, what’s so great about being paper-thin, anyway? You just wrinkle faster. As you get older, your fat friends still have the smooth, silky skin of a Georgia Belle peach. And skinny people age faster, dry up quicker, go to seed quicker. They become “raisins,” a caricatured look cartoonists use to depict knobby-kneed old people stretched out in lawn chairs on the beach.

If you’re paper-thin, your fat friends hate you when you order a fresh spinach salad with no-fat dressing for lunch (40 calories) and they order Fettucini Alfredo, hot buttered parker house rolls, a side order of onion rings, a thick chocolate milkshake, three creme brullets and butterscotch pie for dessert. Total calories per person: 28,746.

If you’re disgustingly super-thin and gorgeous, no one wants to shop with you. either. Imagine trying on your size 3 sumptuous Loro Piana cashmere robe ($1,795.00) and in the next booth your size 26 best friend is trying on her brown polyester pant suit designed by Fat Igor the Tent Maker for $29.95. This exercise is hardly the tool for friendship reinforcement.

Have you noticed that every single thin person is also inordinately rich? It’s a given. And it doesn’t take a seasoned nuclear physicist to figure out why. They never eat Hostess Twinkies. You figure the average Miss Plump and Puffy consumes four packages of Twinkies a week @ $1.09 a pack, 52 weeks a year for 39 years and it adds up to very big bucks. Like maybe $8,842.08. That’s enough to add another wing on your house. Or a few more Loro Piana cashmere robes to your stash.

And if you get paper-thin, what about the guilt complex you give your husband who sports his love handles like they’re badges of war or something? You can’t do that to your marriage. You need to share Martha Stewart’s 7-Cheese Macaroni and Cheese, and Pizza Hut’s Everything-But-The-Kitchen-Sink Pizza, and Ben and Jerry’s It’s-To-Die-For-Cherry Garcia Ice Cream. Things like that are the sacred love glue that holds marriages together. It’s part of your marriage vows. Right there under the scripture verse, “Wives, obey your husbands insofar as he is wise and you are able.”

And the argument that you live longer if you’re paper-thin is another myth similar to “chocolate brownies cause zits.” It’s just not true. Most of my skinny friends are already dead, most of them from malnutrition. On the other hand, my fat friends are alive and running full speed, playing Bingo, shopping til they drop at Dillards, or just relaxing at Henri’s eating their third serving of Decadent Lemon Cheesecake with Pecan/ Apricot Coconut Crust.

Dieting is hard on your family and I wanna be a good wife and mama. One day a skinny teenage boy from a very wealthy family in our neighborhood dropped by after dinner, looked at the leftovers still on our table and asked, “Could I have some of that? I’m starved. My mom’s on a diet and I’ve lost 13 pounds. All we get to eat is cottage cheese and mushrooms.”

See what I mean? I can’t make my family suffer. And nobody cares if I don’t get to wear a size 3 Michael Kors dress from Saks. So, my New Year’s Resolution is to let everyone look hard at me and suddenly feel really good about themselves by comparison.

Hey, it’s my ministry.

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