Priceless Pics of My Pretty Peeps at the Peanut Parade

Prelude
The parade route still went north on Foster, turned right at the old Houston Hotel, and proceeded south down Saint Andrews. Perhaps my sisters were old enough to drive. They were at least old enough to participate with peers. I was in a pickle. Mama was too pooped to plod through the plentiful crowd, and Daddy was back peddling. “Do you want me to call the Pitmans and see if you can go with them? How about Becky or Evelyn? Are they going?”

“If I can't go with you, I don't want to go."

“Lemme get my hat.”

The Southeast Alabama Community Theater had just performed its first play, The Unsinkable Molly Brown, starring my friend Sandi’s mom, Jo Peterson. She was a passenger on the SEACT float. Daddy hollered, “Are you down yet, Molly?!” She piped back, “NOT YET!”

I remember Kenny Rogers posing in a convertible. Possibly, it’s a phony memory. If so, please don’t reprimand it. I prefer to keep it. 

Mama (on left) as Miss Newton (1952)

Mama's dress (that Mama Byrd made) preserved for posterity in the playroom (present day).

"The parade was fun for two smiling sisters, Angie (left) and Starla King. The daughters of Mr. and Mrs. Phillip King, 1304 Decatur St., used a coat against the chilly morning air," stated the Sunday Dothan Eagle (1965).

 

My cousin, Brittany Shepard Pugh, rockin' her Byrd blood (2005).

 

Rowdy Boltons (and Halla and Jordan Lee) make everything, well, rowdier (2005).

Abby marched with Northview High School band from 2008-2011. She did not march with an instrument, because she played the marimba.

Emma and Briana sold concessions for FBC youth to raise money for summer missions for a half dozen years or more.

Phillip's first parade (November 9, 2013)

Katie and Jeremy came to cheer for Phillip!

Postlude
In 1977, particular personnel at Dothan City Schools pondered how to penalize the upcoming 8^th graders. They purposefully changed the present junior high schools to middle schools and put all the kids who had finally arrived in the big league back with the babies.

Although my classmates and I are still perturbed over this puddin-head decision, that’s not the year that this post is set. This story takes place in that practically perfect 7^th grade year. (7^th and 11^th were my 2 favorite grades, and not just because they rhyme.)

Mama pressed her babies to perform with the band in junior high. She permitted us to our own preferences regarding high school, pending our knowledge of an instrument. So, there I perched in 7^th grade Beginner Band at Girard Junior High School. We had skills tests and theory tests and competed for first chair. 

Most importantly, we partook in a primo competition. GJHS provided 2 classes of Beginner Band. The student who possessed the highest cumulative points in each period was picked to portage the pennant for the 8^th and 9^th grade Advanced Band in the National Peanut Festival parade. I pronounced spit spot that if I had to be in the band, by golly, I would be proudly prancing in the procession.

I pulled it off! Alan Lopez procured the other spot. We both played alto sax, and neither of us pursued our saxophone potential post Girard. The parade premiered on West Main Street that year. We passed right by my church. 

Here’s the pathetic part of the parable: I don't have a picture. It was my prized parade appearance, and I have no proof.  

But I got one of Bradley.

Daylight Savings Time and The Night I Missed Carol Burnett

“Y’all have to go to bed early tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because the time changes, and we have to move the clocks forward an hour."

“No, we don’t. We turn them back an hour. We get to stay up an hour later.”

Evidently in the mid-70s, spring forward and fall back had not been coined yet. If so, my daddy had never heard the phrases.  

Kristi was spending the weekend with me. She moved to Dothan when we were two-year-olds. Her daddy was the minister of music at our church. Her mama played piano, taught children’s choir, sang in the soprano section and an occasional solo, and did about 1000 other things. We lived near each other and attended the same elementary school. We were sidekicks, soul mates. We were both the babies in our families, so we had that in common. We were babies with a big age gap between us and the next older sibling, so we had that in common, too. We probably had the same personality, because we argued with every breath. Mama said about us, “They are miserable when they are not together, and they are miserable when they are.” Folks often called us the other’s name. Old folks at church occasionally slipped and called me Kristi even as a young adult, long after Kristi and her family had moved.

They moved the summer after we completed second grade at Girard Elementary School. Church members were saddened by the news. Kristi and I were heartbroken. Our parents vowed we would stay in touch. Many times, we make promises in life that with every fiber of our beings we intend to keep, but life pushes in and good intentions get pushed to the side.  Our parents were true to their word, though. If Mama heard of someone going to Birmingham for the weekend, she would call Mrs. Andrews while she was packing my bag, and vice versa.

So, Kristi and her doll Humpty were with me this particular weekend. Daddy let us watch The Mary Tyler Moore Show and The Bob Newhart Show, but he sent us to bed BEFORE The Carol Burnett Show. We were outraged. He had NEVER sent me to bed before Carol Burnett. We slung our hair and stomped our feet down the hall to my room. We snuggled in my double bed and took turns tickling each other’s backs.

Sunday School began at 9:30. To our neighbors, the Pitmans, that meant leave for church at 9:00. To the Kings, that meant leave for church before 9:30. Yet, the next morning, as Kristi and I climbed in the rear-facing backseat of Mama’s blue station wagon with the brown paneling down the side, we noticed that the Pitmans’ cars were still in their driveway. Somebody was obviously sick. But why would everyone stay home? Why would both cars be there? Hmmm.

“Sissy, go call Time,” Daddy said.

I ran to the kitchen, to the only phone in the house (the one attached to the wall, the one with the long curly cord), and dialed the numbers on the rotary phone. I knew them by heart: 794-8441. I heard the familiar voice say, “"Don't bank it in a sock; sock it in the bank. Your Colonial Bread time is 7:27. Temperature—.” I slammed down the phone. I didn’t care about the temp.

“DADDY! IT IS 7:30! I TOLD YOU WE TURNED THE CLOCK THE WRONG WAY!!!”

Angie got out of the car and returned to bed. Starla probably went to study her Sunday School lesson. Kristi and I went to downstairs to play Barbies. I imagine Mama started lunch or called Little Granny. I picture Daddy sitting in his chair, sipping a bonus cup of coffee, reading the Dothan Eagle, and grinning from ear to ear over the new tale he had to tell on himself.

I bet you money (to quote Little Granny) that we were still late to church. 

Kristi and me at my cousin's birthday party.

Gee, If I Could Only Lose My Two Front Teeth

Abby lost her first tooth!

Abby lost her first tooth in kindergarten. Emma’s pearly whites were practically cemented into her perfectly pink gums. She was speechless with jealously, since Abby had slam dunked her in this milestone. Tooth Fairy showed kindness to her. As she put a Sacajawea gold dollar under Abby’s pillow, she left this note for Emma. 

 12-19-99

Dear Emma,

I am sure that your time for tooth money is coming. Be patient and obey your parents. If you are good, your teeth will fall out, and I can bring you some money, too. Be a sweet girl.

Love,

Tooth Fairy

901-386-XXXX

Oddly, Tooth Fairy had the same telephone number as Chuck’s mother. Neither 5-year-old realized this as they excitedly dialed the number for a chat. Tooth Fairy praised Abby’s accomplishment and encouraged Emma’s patience.

And the next time . . . . 

Abby lost her first top tooth!

Dear Emma,

C

U

SOON!

Love, 

Tooth Fairy

And the next . . . . 

A snaggletooth Abby!

Dear Emma,

Don’t give up and eat lots of apples!

Love, 

Tooth Fairy

Thirteen months after the first note, a desperate Emma wrote back.

January 20, 2001

Dear Tooth Farey,

I need to ceepe you besey (keep you busy). Come to visit me soon.

Love, 

Emma

It seems that’s what Tooth Fairy was waiting for all along.

Hallelujah!!!

Dear Emma, 

FINALLY!

Whew,

T.F.

She lost the first two on the bottom. The others weren’t budging. It was Abby who kept Tooth Fairy busy. Emma didn't need her services again for quite some time.

Dear Tooth Feriey,

Come back. Wer are you? I miss you. Do you miss me? Plees breg me something. Don’t come for Abby that much iny mor.

Love,
Emma

Catching up!

Dear Emma, 

It’s about time! I thought you would never lose another tooth. By Christmas all you will want is your two front teeth.

Love, 

Tooth Fairy

 

At last, a snaggletooth Emma!

Dear Santa, 

All Emma needs for Christmas is her two front teeth.

Love,

Tooth Fairy

For some reason, Tooth Fairy struggled to dispose of the precious lost teeth. She stashed them into Ziploc bags labeled with each child's name and left them in my closet to be forgotten about until 3:00 one morning in the fall of 2012, when the shelf over my hanging clothes let loose from the wall and came crashing down. 

All things work together for good, so over the course of the next week, I cleaned out and sorted and got rid of . . . and stumbled across 3 sets of baby teeth (and one of my nephew Jeremy's that he lost when he was with us one weekend). Tooth Fairy had tucked them away in an old jewelry box. 

What do you do with 61 baby teeth?  I suppose I could have found an amazing craft on Pinterest that would have immortalized them for all eternity--or until the kids moved me into an old folks home and tossed it. Instead, we sprinkled them near the hydrangea bush while we sang "Kum Bah Yah" and "The Circle of Life."

I hope a future homeowner doesn't get his backyard dug up because an assumed major crime scene is uncovered or that one of my grandchildren doesn't have to have a tooth pulled out of her barefoot. If she does, I'll tell her about when her granddaddy was in 1st grade and he came home from school and told his mama, "I have a tooth in my ear." She thought, Silly boy and ignored him for a while, but concern built in her. She decided to take him to old Dr. Wooley in Memphis, Tennessee. Dr. Wooley said, "Mrs. Conner, there's a tooth in his ear." Evidently, he lost his tooth at school, got bored, and dropped it in his ear.

Reckon Tooth Fairy takes teeth from ears? Maybe I should write her a letter and find out. I have evidence that she's a pretty good correspondent. 

Because I Said So

In this era of political correctness, tolerance, and “Blurred Lines,” boundaries are disappearing. Distinct black and white blend to a murky grey. More and more, we make our own Truth these days.

But not at my house.

At my house, certain long-standing, non-negotiable, hard-and-fast rules exist and must not be broken.

At my house, we attempt to have gratitude in our hearts every day of the year, and we do not listen to Christmas music until the day after Thanksgiving. We devour it for the season, promptly pack it away before school returns to session, and do not pull it out again for 10.5 months. (Wiggle room exists for choir or band practice, but we are not to enjoy it.)

My mama’s rule was No Cheering in the Kitchen. She did not care that the beautiful plate glass window showed a brilliant reflection of a perfect hurky.

Another Conner canon states The Book Must Be Read before the Movie Is Watched and/or Series Are to Be Consumed in Order. My friend Jordan is a willy-nilly book reader/movie watcher. She WATCHED HP and the Goblet of Fire before she ever READ HP and the Sorcerer’s Stone. This is unacceptable behavior. One comes before 2; a comes before b; doe comes before re. (At times I struggle to fathom how I can befriend someone with such a blatant disregard for natural order.)

Fried chicken must be eaten at family reunions and washed down with sweet tea. (I believe this to be a universal truth.)

At the lake, you don’t wear makeup. Or, you don’t wear makeup at the lake. (Either rule is acceptable.)

When Jeremy showed up for a funeral with a five-oclock shadow (probably more of about a 4:30 one), Starla decided then and there, “If you’re wearing a tie, you have to shave.” These are words to live by.

When I told Little Granny that the ultrasound detected TWO heartbeats, she wisely instructed, “You know their names have to rhyme.” I am a rule follower most of the time, but I didn’t obey this one. I just wasn’t sure who was going to enforce it. However, I did look over my shoulder for a while and whisper my newborns' names when in public, because you never know who is eavesdropping in the next booth at Larry’s BBQ.

I have a new decree that needs to have the kinks worked out. It is called No Drumming until You Are Dressed. Every morning, the Boy gets out of the shower, puts on his clothes, and begins to drum on every imaginable surface. I holler, “No drumming until you are dressed!” He replies, “I am dressed!” While his hair is not combed nor his teeth brushed, he is technically dressed. I haven’t given up on the wording of this mandate yet, because No Drumming until You Are Ready to Walk Out the Door and Your Backpack Is Packed Up Like It Should Have Been Done Last Night When I Told You To Do It just isn’t catchy.

I don’t care if you wear white after Labor Day, but at my house, you are not allowed to talk smack about High School Musical; you will help at Vacation Bible School; and you had better kiss your mama goodnight.

Period.