Word of new job ruins Mother's Day

I ruined Mother’s Day last weekend. After three years of living at home, I announced that I was leaving Epsom.

And The Daily Dispatch.

The move developed a month ago, when I noticed a job posting in the Dispatch break room. As the microwave heated my Healthy Choice meal, I scanned the posting for an advertising director position at our sister paper, The Sanford Herald.

“I think I’m going to apply,” I told my boss, Deborah Tuck. “What’s the company procedure for doing this?”

Deborah handed me a form to sign, which likewise required our publisher’s signature – a corporate legality for those seeking jobs at other newspapers within our company.

James Edwards was on the phone when I flung the form onto his desk and scurried away with, “See you later!”

I’m not sure why this formality made me so nervous. But it did. As did the subsequent conversations between my boss and me, in which I explained my desire to professionally grow within our company.

“Good luck, kiddo,” James replied in his usual motivational tone.

After three interviews and numerous conversations, The Sanford Herald’s publisher offered me the job.

“Well, did you accept it?” Mama groaned when I phoned her and Daddy to deliver the news.

“Yes,” I said – answered only by silence.

“Don’t be disappointed!” I begged, despondent that my promotion had destroyed Mama.

“Well … congratulations!” she feigned a hearty, high-pitched reply. “I’m going to hand the phone over to your father now.”

I knew I was in the doghouse when she referred to Daddy as “my father.”

I talked to Daddy, whose reaction was tantamount to Mama’s. After I ended the phone call, I quickly dialed my baby sister Audrey.

“Well, I’ve ruined Mother’s Day,” I moaned.

“Uh, oh,” Audrey replied, all too familiar with Mama’s laments during such transition times.

“She’s devastated,” I sniffled, re-enacting the full-fledged mother/daughter drama.

“She’ll be OK,” Audrey consoled me, reminding me that Mama had survived my leaving home twice before.

“I don’t know, sister. She’s really upset.”

After a moment’s silence, Audrey joked: “Well, I guess I really am the favorite child!”

Granny Virgie didn’t handle the news any better.

“New job!” she pouted. “You don’t need to leave your granny!”

Acting fast, I appeased Granny by promising she could visit me in my new apartment.

“Good! I’m gonna come stay with you for a few weeks,” she smiled.

Visions of Granny’s extended trips to Sanford, well … they incited a panic-attack.

“Oh Lord, what have I done?” I gasped as Granny’s spirits soared with our moving truce.

I still haven’t figured out how to undo that deal. And I doubt I will.

In a week, I’ll uproot myself from my Franklin County home and The Daily Dispatch.

But as the familiar adage goes, “Home is where the heart is.” And as I expand my heart to a new home in Lee County, be assured I’ll carry you all with me … the many friends I’ve gained while sharing my stories each Sunday in The Daily Dispatch.

A moment's whim leads to a weekend on the road again

I took a road trip last weekend — the spontaneous type that throws caution to the wind and is planned on a moment’s whim.

I credit my best friend Kris for this impromptu getaway, a trek into the Virginia wilderness that was devised in an hour’s time. Her weekend proposition came by way of a text message that Friday afternoon.

“U want 2 meet 1/2 way this w/end?” asked my Pittsburgh, Penn., friend.

Within minutes, Kris had e-mailed me links to Luray Caverns and Natural Bridge, mid-point locations that, according to their websites, provided scenic settings for a weekend away from home.

As the workday gave way to 5 p.m., I drove home to grab my always ready travel bag.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Mama asked as I scurried out the back door, my faded green bag slung over my shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” I hollered back as I flung the patch-covered bag into my Ford Escape. “I’ll be back by Sunday.”

“Oh, Lord,” Mama sighed, shaking her head as I backed out of the driveway and waved goodbye.

Now, Mama and Daddy gave me a GPS last year for Christmas. So thanks to these jolly ol’ elves, I simply typed my destination — the budget-friendly Cardinal Motel — into my GPS. But I failed to do something all GPS-dependent drivers should do – examine the satellite-generated route.

As the sun set over I-95, I listened to my favorite road trip CD’s.

“On the road again!” I sang along with Willie Nelson. And as I belted out his famous chorus, I exited I-95 and began a 30- mile stretch on Virginia Hwy. 3.

My night vision’s not the best, so I was thankful for the few outlying businesses on that otherwise lonesome highway. Truth be told, I was dependent on them and, likewise, the headlights of passersby.

Yet a few miles into that route, both businesses and oncoming traffic disappeared.

“Uh, oh,” I said, calling Kris to check on her whereabouts.

“I’m out in the middle of nowhere,” Kris replied as she described her desolate route. “And I’ve still got a few hours to go.”

“I’ll call you back in a bit,” I said, ending our call – unaware I was bidding my best friend farewell for the remainder of my drive.

I lost cell phone service soon thereafter.

All signs of civilization disappeared as my Ford Escape edged its way into the Virginia mountains.

“What in the devil!” I said as my vehicle was swallowed into the bowels of no man’s land. Its engine roared a boondocks ballad as it continued to climb those unlit, winding mountain roads. I leaned onto the steering wheel, squinting at the unmarked path before me.

Driving that backwoods route was tantamount to riding a recoiling boa constrictor while blindfolded. I rode that snake until I it slithered into the Shenandoah Valley and finally arrived at the Cardinal Motel.

“How was your drive?” I asked Kris as she greeted me in Room 112.

“Terrible!” she hollered back.

Later that night, we piled onto my bed to study our respective routes via Google maps. It was then that we learned our GPSs had forgone a conventional interstate course for an adventurous cruise across the Blue Ridge mountain range. Despite the danger of that late night drive, we both agreed it was thrilling. In fact, it was downright fun.

The next two days were a fast track through wooded trails and area caves, where waterfalls and rock formations provided the scenic setting promised in Friday’s Internet marketing claims.

Yet all great getaways must come to an end.

“I’ll see you soon,” I smiled as I said goodbye to my best friend.

“We’ll do this again!” she replied.

And with that we drove our separate ways — Kris to Pennsylvania and me to North Carolina — forgoing conventional freeways for those backwoods Virginia roads.

Protesting productivity becomes post-career pastime

Daddy retired from the Henderson Post Office this past February, ending his 30-year tenure as a rural mail carrier. And since his retirement, things aren’t quite the same in the Eaves’ household.

“Gina, I’m all out of flour,” Mama said a few weeks ago, flustered as she fried up some chicken for dinner. “Can you fetch some from your sister’s house?”

“I’m working on a deadline,” I sighed from my laptop, revising ads for the next day’s paper. “Can’t Daddy get it instead?”

“Well ...” Mama mumbled, checking the cabinets one last time for the missing provision.

“Daddy’s been home all day,” I argued, pointing towards the living room where he lay snoring on the couch. “And we’ve been slaving away at work.”

Daddy fetched the flour that night.

While napping is among Daddy’s favorite pastimes these days, he’s also pulling a first, second and third shift at “the store” on N.C. 39 in Epsom.

“Where’s Daddy?” I asked Mama the next morning, my eyes still puffy from the previous night’s sleep.

“At the store,” she replied, as she does most times this question is asked.

Sure enough, I spied Daddy sitting on an outside wooden bench as I passed by the store on my way to work, smoking a cigarette and shooting the breeze with a posse of retired riffraff.

“And they accuse women of gossiping!” I said, shaking my head as I drove towards the Dispatch.

Nine hours later, Daddy was perched on the same storefront bench, dragging on another cigarette as I drove home from work. And I’d be willing to wager my paycheck that he hadn’t budged from that bench all day, except to buy another pack of cigarettes or a Diet Pepsi.

I’m sure I shouldn’t give Daddy such a hard time on his post-career pastimes, which sometimes consist of protesting all forms of productivity. Heck, I envy the man.

And I miss him.

Before Daddy retired, he and I were the only members of our Franklin County family who worked in Henderson. And because our jobs required in-town travel, we’d drive past one another throughout the day. Our routine meeting spot was Snackers on Dabney Drive, where Daddy would stop for a morning snack around 10 a.m. Although he didn’t know it, I’d time my sales calls to catch him there. We’d talk for a minute or two, and then we’d depart on our respective routes.

And occasionally, I’d drop by the post office to visit Daddy and his crew of co-workers who’d watched me grow from a hyperactive child to an attention-deficit disordered adult. These post office visits gave me a glimpse of my reserved daddy’s “other side.”

“I see where I get my work ethic from!” I laughed one morning, catching Daddy in storytelling mode among his post office friends, slapping his knee in riotous laughter.

I considered these moments our special time, exclusive to Daddy and me. And selfishly, I miss those work-day moments, whether waving at one another on Dabney Drive or sharing his smoke break on the post office steps.

I’ve teased Daddy about being an old retired man. And truth be told, he is. But reflecting on his working years, I’m convinced he’s earned his retired lifestyle.

A family man of few words, Daddy pledged his love to us with 30 years at the Henderson Post Office, financially providing for my sisters and me while at times forfeiting his own needs. I’m forever thankful for this sacrifice — and for the moments he and I shared while working the same streets of Henderson.


Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Eaves column Protesting productivity becomes post career pastime

Making the best of a real birthday bust

My birthday was a bust this year.

To be fair, my parents gave me a cash-filled birthday card at my request. And Granny Virgie bought me a heart-shaped locket engraved with the letter “G.”

Yet two folks forgot the joy of gift-giving on April 13.

“It’s my birthday,” I said to my newsroom buddy, Dylan Shawn Wilson, as he arrived to work that Wednesday.

“I know,” he grinned. And then he turned toward his computer screen, where his day’s work awaited him.

“Well,” I sighed, simultaneously tapping my fingers on his cubicle wall. “Where’s my present?”

After a moment’s silence, Dylan responded with a “Hmmm ...”

And that was it.

I returned to the advertising department, sulking as I slumped into my swivel chair. And while I should have resumed my sales calls, I dialed Dylan’s extension instead.

“Yes?” he answered, the sound of his computer’s keyboard clicking in the background.

“So, you really didn’t buy me a birthday gift?” I asked, motioning my sales colleagues into my crowded cubicle.

“No,” Dylan snickered, followed by a dumbfounded: “Did you expect me to?”

“Dylan!” cackled one of my co-workers, humored by his typical male response.

“Hey, am I on speaker phone?” my birthday adversary asked.

Now, that’s about the time my boss approached the cubicle gathering. And that’s when my co-workers scurried to their desks, deserting me.

“Uh … uhm,” I stuttered, ending the conversation.

As I resumed my sales calls, I plotted ways to punish my former Dispatch friend. In fact, I made this my birthday mission, scribbling threats in the margins of news pages and ad proofs. Despite my schemes, including a swift kick to his rear, Dylan responded with ambivalence.

“You haven’t heard the end of this,” I vowed to him as I backed out of our Pettigrew Street parking lot at 5 p.m.

On the drive home, I decided that Dylan wouldn’t ruin my birthday, even though he’d dodged buying me a gift.

And so, I smiled when my sister Wendy greeted me at home with a “Happy birthday!”

“Thanks,” I said, noticing her empty hands. “Where’s my present?”

“You don’t get one this year!” Wendy laughed.

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said,” she replied. “You didn’t give me anything for mine!”

“That’s not true,” I frowned.

“Maybe not,” she thought, recalling the festive door wreath I’d given her when she turned 37 years old. “But it was two weeks late.”

“Now girls,” Mama interrupted. “Let’s not fight. This is a family gathering.”

At that moment, Mama pulled forth a frozen, frosting-coated delight – a Dairy Queen ice cream cake.

“Yay!” I cheered as Mama served me a slice of my favorite dessert.

And that’s when Wendy committed an infraction most folks would consider unforgivable.

“Let me cut my own piece,” she said, grabbing the butcher knife from Mama’s hand. And with that, Wendy carved a slice that spanned the width of that Dairy Queen ice cream cake. And then she scraped the cake’s edges, claiming the whipped frosting for herself.

“Wendy!” I screamed as she smeared pink frosting onto her plate. “You’ve ruined my birthday!”

“I can’t help it,” she whined, licking the sticky sugar from her fingers. “It’s the best part of the cake.”

A sisterly squabble ensued over that Dairy Queen ice cream cake until Mama mandated a cease-fire.

“Girls, you’re acting just like children,” she scolded both of us. “You need to grow up.”

The party ended soon thereafter.

And so, I was cheated out of two gifts and a birthday cake this year. While Dylan made amends by buying my lunch the next day, Wendy has yet to give me anything. At this point, though, she’s probably forgotten all about my birthday – and last week for that matter.

That’s to be expected of a much older sister.


Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Eaves column Making the best of a real birthday bust

Smooth moves mark Saturday night at Epsom Country Club

There’s a dance hall hidden down a dirt path in these parts. Landmarked by a flashing road-front sign, this southern Vance County clubhouse is a converging spot for couples and singles alike. Its white washed walls are crowned with a green tin roof. And on Saturday nights, its wooden dance floor is graced with slick dance shoes.

This community building, located on N.C. 39, is known by area natives as the Epsom Country Club.

Established in 1981, the Epsom Country Club was founded by its current owner, Epsom native Ronald Renn.

“It’s not a money maker,” Ronald chuckles of the club, which years ago was funded by membership dues. “But it’s somewhere for senior citizens to get together.”

These days, the club is open to anyone seeking a family friendly environment, a Saturday night dance partner – and of course, live country music.

Last weekend, I attended my first community dance at the Epsom Country Club. I attribute this inaugural visit to Lois Eaves, who corralled me and most of Epsom to the Saturday night soirée because “the boys” were performing.

Now, “the boys” are my older cousins, Jimmy and Tony Eaves, who along with David Boykin and Bernie Long comprise a country music band named Destiny. And it was the muffled strums of their guitars, and likewise David singing lead, which guided me to the clubhouse steps that night.

Curtis Strickland, who coordinates the club’s weekly dances, welcomed me at the door with his customary, “Hey girl!” His greeting soon transitioned to club talk.

“Some of these folks will walk in here with canes,” Curtis said of the Saturday night crowd. “But once they get out on that dance floor, they’ll forget all about those canes.” And then smiling, he added: “Sometimes they’ll leave here without them!”

Once inside, I stood spectator to the scene Curtis had moments ago described. Women twirled in the arms of their partners – gentlemen who, unlike my generation’s male gender, could lead their ladies in a waltz, foxtrot or cha-cha.

“These folks can dance circles around me!” I said to the Eaves clan, joining them at a nearby table.

Like an awkward teenage girl at her high school prom, I gazed at the skilled dancers who stepped to the beat of each country song. And like that same awkward teenage girl, I found comfort in those few non-dancers seated around me. Cousin Jimmy then approached the microphone, leading the band in its next set as his wife Kelly cheered him on.

“He can’t remember to take out the trash, but he can remember all the lyrics to these songs!” Kelly shouted to our table, shaking her head as Jimmy belted out a Johnny Cash classic.

And that’s when someone tapped me on my shoulder.

“Would you like to dance?” asked the older gentleman named Charlie.

“Sure!” I smiled. “But I don’t know how to dance,” I warned Charlie as he escorted me onto the crowded floor.

“That’s OK,” Charlie assured me as he positioned my arms in appropriate dance posture. “Just relax.”

And from there, Charlie led me in a foxtrot. Well … he tried.

“Not too fast,” Charlie chided as I twirled double time to no beat but my own. “Move with the music.”

Fighting my internal fast-forward mode, I slowed my pace to my dance partner’s approval.

“Much better!” Charlie grinned after a successful second twirl, which ended our foxtrot.

As the evening concluded, the dancers bid farewell until the next Saturday night, when they’d congregate once more on that wooden dance floor. And after saying my own goodbyes, I slipped out the club’s front door, stealing one last glance at its golden-aged patrons and an era of grace that’s fading away.

Rockin' and rollin' with Aunt Stacey and a dark-haired stranger

It’s been said there’s no better ice breaker than a cigarette — between a woman and a man, that is. And last Saturday night, luck matched me with a Marlboro Light and a dark-haired man, proving this adage true.

It was my Aunt Stacey 25th birthday, an age she’s celebrated since I was a kid. And I was attending her annual birthday bash with my best friend Kris, hosted at downtown Raleigh’s Berkeley Café.

Truth be told, Stacey is my “adopted” aunt. She’s married to Kris’ uncle, Epsom native Frankie Winn, whom I likewise claim as my kin. Both musicians, the pair met decades ago when big-hair bands were the rock and roll rage. Stacey’s guttural vocals and Frankie’s electric guitar forged their 80’s rock group, Driver. And today their band still performs at local venues, as it did last Saturday night.

“Happy birthday!” Kris and I cheered as Aunt Stacey approached our booth at the Berkeley.

“I’ve gotten my birthday wish!” Aunt Stacey smiled as she hugged Kris, who’d made the eight-hour drive from Pittsburgh, Penn., for the concert.

While the band conducted its pre-show sound checks, Kris and I joined cousin Melissa and her husband James near the stage. Moments later, multi-colored lights flashed as electric guitars and drums introduced the birthday dame. Leaning toward her microphone, Aunt Stacey roared the lyrics of her opening song.

“My mom’s a rock star,” Melissa posted on her Facebook page.

Aunt Stacey screamed into her microphone, stomping her black boots onto the stage as she entertained the crowd of Driver fans.

And that’s when I saw him. No, not the dark-haired man …

The bald-headed man.

Now, I have nothing against bald men. My dad’s practically bald himself. But this bald-headed man, who was likewise celebrating a birthday, had an agenda that night — to dance with every woman in sight.

“Oh no,” I grimaced as he grinned in my direction and then dropped to the floor, crawling on all fours.

Aghast, I turned toward the exit door, eager for an escape. And that’s when I noticed a nearby guy carrying a pack of cigarettes.

“Can I bum a smoke?” I asked the dark-haired man in desperation, accompanying him onto the smoking porch.

“Sure,” the stranger smiled, pulling forth a Marlboro Light from his front pocket.

I’m not a frequent smoker. Therefore I wasn’t convinced I could masterfully light my cigarette beside of my new friend, let alone smoke it. So I did what any non-smoking gal would do — I leaned towards his lighter’s flame, dragging on my cigarette until its orange glow gave way to ashes.

And then came the small talk: Where do you work? Where do you live? Have you ever been married? Do you have any kids?

After I’d successfully answered his questions, the dark-haired man asked for my phone number.

“It’s cold. I’m going back inside,” I replied.

As the concert concluded, Aunt Stacey summoned her family and closest friends to the stage. And as we belted out the lyrics to her final song, I beamed at my rockin’ and rollin’ aunt, who’d cracked the mold of a male-dominated music genre back in the ‘80’s — and continues to do so today.

And still smiling, I slipped my phone number to the dark-haired man, whose Marlboro Light had rescued me from a dancing disaster at the Berkeley Cafe on my Aunt Stacey’s 25th birthday.

Mrs. Butterworth takes on the MUFA diet

Four months ago, I made one of the most universal New Year’s resolutions – to lose weight. Like most folks, my post-Christmas gut was the catalyst for this diet decision.

“Good Lord,” I sighed, poking at my midriff pooch and ham-sized thighs. “I’m a 5’8” Mrs. Butterworth.”

And so began my diet search, as I skimmed several websites for a convenient, budget-friendly weight loss program. While mail-delivered meals like Jenny Craig fit my busy lifestyle, they didn’t comply with my fixed income. And point-counting weight loss groups like Weight Watchers, although economical, meant yet another weekly meeting or online subscription. I’d all but abandoned my diet search until I stumbled onto a fairly new plan designed by Prevention Magazine, The Flat Belly Diet.

“Eat the foods you love and never go hungry” read this New York Times bestseller, written by Prevention Magazine editors Liz Vaccariello and Cynthia Sass. “Zero exercise required!”

A glutton who’d skipped several months at the gym, I was dubious of these marketing claims. Wasn’t my ample fluff the result of these very behaviors? Yet I was seeking a painless strategy to shed 15 pounds, so I committed myself to the fad diet.

The Flat Belly Diet, a modified Mediterranean diet plan, starts with a four- day cleanse that’s all but painless. This “anti-bloat jumpstart” targets belly fat by banning salt, excess carbohydrates, sugars, fried and spicy foods, carbonated drinks – everything that tastes good. The 1,200-calorie cleanse is complimented by a beverage called Sassy water – a homemade concoction containing water, sliced lemon, cucumber, grated ginger and mint leaves.

I’d read reviews that this “anti-bloat jumpstart” was a hunger-free cleanse.

Well, that wasn’t true.

Ravenous, I suffered through small servings of steamed carrots, green beans, low-sodium turkey breast and cream of wheat for four long days.

When the cleanse finally ended, the real adventure began.

On day five, I graduated to a 1,600-calorie diet that consisted of four freshly prepared meals. Served every four hours, these meals included a staple ingredient – a MUFA (pronounced “moo-fah”).

Purporting a 91 percent success rate, The Flat Belly Diet attributes its waistline reduction to MUFAs, commonly known as monounsaturated fats. Said to suppress hunger between meals, these MUFAs include dark chocolate, olives, oils, nuts and seeds, which are incorporated into all of the plan’s recipes.

While I’d never been much of a cook, preparing meals became a creative adventure for me, discovering MUFAs that magnificently blended themselves into dinner plate masterpieces. Whether the creamy meat of an avocado, the buttery taste of toasted pine nuts, or the bitter-sweet morsels of dark chocolate chips, I embraced these MUFAs as necessary staples to my daily meals.

Admittedly, I didn’t follow this plan precisely. Despite the diet’s claims, my hunger was rarely satiated by the MUFA-rich meals. And so, I modified it to my satisfaction, still maintaining a monitored eating routine. And after three months, I reached my weight goal of 135 pounds.

Although I’m no doctor or nutritionist, I’m convinced the best weight loss plan includes a produce-packed diet with limited saturated fats, such as those found in animal products and meats. Likewise, I’m convinced that some marketed diet programs are unhealthy, such as The Flat Belly Diet’s “zero exercise required” motto. Be careful what you believe — exercise is important in a healthy weight loss routine.

My best advice is to consult your doctor or nutritionist before embarking on any weight loss program. And for a successful diet, delve into healthy meals that you’ll enjoy as you eat. Bon appetit!

Rockin' and rollin' with Aunt Stacey and a dark haired stranger

It’s been said there’s no better ice breaker than a cigarette — between a woman and a man, that is. And last Saturday night, luck matched me with a Marlboro Light and a dark-haired man, proving this adage true.

It was my Aunt Stacey 25th birthday, an age she’s celebrated since I was a kid. And I was attending her annual birthday bash with my best friend Kris, hosted at downtown Raleigh’s Berkeley Café.

Truth be told, Stacey is my “adopted” aunt. She’s married to Kris’ uncle, Epsom native Frankie Winn, whom I likewise claim as my kin. Both musicians, the pair met decades ago when big-hair bands were the rock and roll rage. Stacey’s guttural vocals and Frankie’s electric guitar forged their 80’s rock group, Driver. And today their band still performs at local venues, as it did last Saturday night.

“Happy birthday!” Kris and I cheered as Aunt Stacey approached our booth at the Berkeley.

“I’ve gotten my birthday wish!” Aunt Stacey smiled as she hugged Kris, who’d made the eight-hour drive from Pittsburgh, Penn., for the concert.

While the band conducted its pre-show sound checks, Kris and I joined cousin Melissa and her husband James near the stage. Moments later, multi-colored lights flashed as electric guitars and drums introduced the birthday dame. Leaning toward her microphone, Aunt Stacey roared the lyrics of her opening song.

“My mom’s a rock star,” Melissa posted on her Facebook page.

Aunt Stacey screamed into her microphone, stomping her black boots onto the stage as she entertained the crowd of Driver fans.

And that’s when I saw him. No, not the dark-haired man …

The bald-headed man.

Now, I have nothing against bald men. My dad’s practically bald himself. But this bald-headed man, who was likewise celebrating a birthday, had an agenda that night — to dance with every woman in sight.

“Oh no,” I grimaced as he grinned in my direction and then dropped to the floor, crawling on all fours.

Aghast, I turned toward the exit door, eager for an escape. And that’s when I noticed a nearby guy carrying a pack of cigarettes.

“Can I bum a smoke?” I asked the dark-haired man in desperation, accompanying him onto the smoking porch.

“Sure,” the stranger smiled, pulling forth a Marlboro Light from his front pocket.

I’m not a frequent smoker. Therefore I wasn’t convinced I could masterfully light my cigarette beside of my new friend, let alone smoke it. So I did what any non-smoking gal would do — I leaned towards his lighter’s flame, dragging on my cigarette until its orange glow gave way to ashes.

And then came the small talk: Where do you work? Where do you live? Have you ever been married? Do you have any kids?

After I’d successfully answered his questions, the dark-haired man asked for my phone number.

“It’s cold. I’m going back inside,” I replied.

As the concert concluded, Aunt Stacey summoned her family and closest friends to the stage. And as we belted out the lyrics to her final song, I beamed at my rockin’ and rollin’ aunt, who’d cracked the mold of a male-dominated music genre back in the ‘80’s — and continues to do so today.

And still smiling, I slipped my phone number to the dark-haired man, whose Marlboro Light had rescued me from a dancing disaster at the Berkeley Cafe on my Aunt Stacey’s 25th birthday.

It’s been said there’s no better ice breaker than a cigarette — between a woman and a man, that is. And last Saturday night, luck matched me with a Marlboro Light and a dark-haired man, proving this adage true.

It was my Aunt Stacey 25th birthday, an age she’s celebrated since I was a kid. And I was attending her annual birthday bash with my best friend Kris, hosted at downtown Raleigh’s Berkeley Café.

Truth be told, Stacey is my “adopted” aunt. She’s married to Kris’ uncle, Epsom native Frankie Winn, whom I likewise claim as my kin. Both musicians, the pair met decades ago when big-hair bands were the rock and roll rage. Stacey’s guttural vocals and Frankie’s electric guitar forged their 80’s rock group, Driver. And today their band still performs at local venues, as it did last Saturday night.

“Happy birthday!” Kris and I cheered as Aunt Stacey approached our booth at the Berkeley.

“I’ve gotten my birthday wish!” Aunt Stacey smiled as she hugged Kris, who’d made the eight-hour drive from Pittsburgh, Penn., for the concert.

While the band conducted its pre-show sound checks, Kris and I joined cousin Melissa and her husband James near the stage. Moments later, multi-colored lights flashed as electric guitars and drums introduced the birthday dame. Leaning toward her microphone, Aunt Stacey roared the lyrics of her opening song.

“My mom’s a rock star,” Melissa posted on her Facebook page.

Aunt Stacey screamed into her microphone, stomping her black boots onto the stage as she entertained the crowd of Driver fans.

And that’s when I saw him. No, not the dark-haired man …

The bald-headed man.

Now, I have nothing against bald men. My dad’s practically bald himself. But this bald-headed man, who was likewise celebrating a birthday, had an agenda that night — to dance with every woman in sight.

“Oh no,” I grimaced as he grinned in my direction and then dropped to the floor, crawling on all fours.

Aghast, I turned toward the exit door, eager for an escape. And that’s when I noticed a nearby guy carrying a pack of cigarettes.

“Can I bum a smoke?” I asked the dark-haired man in desperation, accompanying him onto the smoking porch.

“Sure,” the stranger smiled, pulling forth a Marlboro Light from his front pocket.

I’m not a frequent smoker. Therefore I wasn’t convinced I could masterfully light my cigarette beside of my new friend, let alone smoke it. So I did what any non-smoking gal would do — I leaned towards his lighter’s flame, dragging on my cigarette until its orange glow gave way to ashes.

And then came the small talk: Where do you work? Where do you live? Have you ever been married? Do you have any kids?

After I’d successfully answered his questions, the dark-haired man asked for my phone number.

“It’s cold. I’m going back inside,” I replied.

As the concert concluded, Aunt Stacey summoned her family and closest friends to the stage. And as we belted out the lyrics to her final song, I beamed at my rockin’ and rollin’ aunt, who’d cracked the mold of a male-dominated music genre back in the ‘80’s — and continues to do so today.

And still smiling, I slipped my phone number to the dark-haired man, whose Marlboro Light had rescued me from a dancing disaster at the Berkeley Cafe on my Aunt Stacey’s 25th birthday.


Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Eaves Rockin’ and rollin’ with Aunt Stacey and a dark haired stranger

Life lessons learned on the way to St. Paddy's Day parade

If there’s one lesson this life has taught me, it’s to plan for the unexpected. And last weekend, this truism made the long trek to Pittsburgh, Penn., with me for the city’s annual St. Patrick’s Day parade.

I departed Franklin County early that Friday morning, a Kodak camera strapped onto the side pocket of my faded travel bag. And as the sun rose high above I-85, I cheered my retreat from my daily routine.

The day-long drive was filled with fuel stops and Starbucks coffee. And as I crossed the mountainous northeastern countryside, I phoned my Pittsburgh hostess, best friend Kris Edwards.

“I’ll be there soon!” I said, smiling at the upcoming state sign: “Pennsylvania Welcomes You.”

Now, with that warm weather came a cold reality — a winter storm. The next two hours were a slow and snowy drive up the Pennsylvania Turnpike toward Allegheny County, which concluded with a $10 toll fee.

Moments later, I sounded my arrival with a “knock, knock, knock” on Kris’ apartment door.

“I’m here!” I screamed as we leapt about her living room. We continued our caper until collapsing onto the floor.

“Look what I found,” I then said, pointing to a “Kiss me, I’m Irish” button that was pinned onto my travel bag.

“That’s great!” Kris replied as she pulled forth her own leprechaun gear. “You know, Pittsburgh has the second largest St. Patrick’s Day parade in the U.S.”

“Really?” I asked, growing more eager for the next day’s festivities.

“Yep,” she affirmed. “And there are several pub parties after the parade.”

Much later that night we headed to bed.

“What time should we wake up?” Kris hollered from her bedroom.

“Not too late if the parade starts at 10 a.m.,” I hollered back. “How about 8 a.m.?”

By 9 a.m., we dragged ourselves from our respective sleeping spots. And after brushing our teeth, we grabbed our festive garb and drove towards downtown.

“I slept hard,” I said as I sipped on a cup of black coffee.

“Me too,” Kris replied while pointing to the car’s clock. “It looks like we’ll make the parade just in time.”

Now, perhaps this is a fitting time to mention the recent rainfall in Pittsburgh, and likewise its geography. You see, “The Steel City” is the converging point of the Allegheny and Monongahela rivers, which form the Ohio River. Heavy rains can cause this river to flood some of Pittsburgh’s most traveled streets. And that’s exactly what happened last weekend.

“This isn’t good,” I said, staring at the bumper to bumper detoured traffic on I-376. “I’m supposed to write a column on this danged parade.”

“Well, no one’s moving,” Kris remarked of the parked cars on the one-lane street.

“Oh, Lord,” I sighed. “I thought I’d be writing something of significance this week!”

By 10:30 a.m., I’d accepted my failed writing assignment. By 10:45 a.m., I’d acknowledged my dwindling journalistic dreams. And by 11 a.m., I started praying that the luck of the Irish would somehow save me.

In my last ditch column efforts, I leaned from my open car window to snap a photo of the distant parade.

“You know you’re in trouble when you can’t even hear the bands!” Kris laughed.

“No,” I sighed, shaking my head. “You know you’re in trouble when your camera battery is dead!”

And so, there you have it. I didn’t make the nation’s second largest St. Patrick’s Day parade. I didn’t even get a good shot to share with you in today’s paper. But I did learn a valuable lesson. Don’t rely on the luck of the Irish. And next year, buy extra batteries and walk to the parade.

Meal on the town leads to sisterly spat, bad karma

It’s been said that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. And while I wasn’t in hell last Sunday, I would have traded my curse-worth quandary for a date with the devil himself.

Well … maybe not.

Point being, I was in a predicament, perhaps the closest kind to hell on earth — a family feud.

“Can we eat out for lunch?” my sister Audrey asked that morning during a visit home.

“Yes!” I agreed. “And let’s leave early enough to beat the lunch rush.”

“Well, we’ll miss church,” my guilt-laden Mama sighed. “But hopefully the good Lord will forgive us.”

And so it was settled. Or so we sisters thought, until Mama approached us later at the breakfast table.

“Sweetie,” Mama said as she stroked my sister’s hair. “Would you rather I fry up some chicken for lunch?”

“No,” I replied, barging into the mother/favorite daughter conversation.

“Well, what if I picked up something from town?” Mama then asked, naming every drive-through restaurant in Henderson.

“I thought we’d already discussed this?” I interrupted Mama once more. “Why are you making this so difficult?”

“I’m just offering some suggestions!” Mama sharply replied, causing a fear-induced shiver to shoot straight up my spine.

Suddenly Audrey spoke, ending the dispute.

“Mama, I’d rather go out to eat.”

And with that, my mama morphed into a modern day Jekyll and Hyde.

“Yes, my darling. We’ll do whatever you want.”

Audrey soon excused herself from the kitchen table, leaving Mama and me to finalize our plans.

“Let’s leave at 11:30,” I suggested. “That way we’ll beat the church crowd.”

“That sounds good,” Mama replied. “Just make sure that works for your sisters.”

Mama then moseyed to the bathroom to begin her morning make-up regime.

“Be ready at 11:30!” I bellowed out to Audrey while dialing our oldest sister Wendy with the same message.

“11:30?” Wendy answered the phone with a yawn. “I don’t think I can make it that early.”

“Well, wake up and get ready!” I ordered.

And that’s when all hell broke loose in the Eaves’ family living room.

“Give me that phone!” Audrey said as she stormed into the room. And after jerking the phone from me, she asked Wendy: “What time can you meet?” Some back and forth bickering ensued since no time seemed to please my sisters and me.

“We need to compromise!” Audrey snapped. “Gina can’t always have it her way.”

“I’m just trying to avoid the church crowd!” I hollered back. “You know how long that buffet line gets.”

“We’ll be fine,” Audrey huffed. “Let’s leave Epsom at noon.”

Our morning spat settled, I sauntered upstairs and into Mama’s bedroom.

“I can’t believe Audrey!” I whispered, apparently breaking Mama’s first commandment: “Thou shalt not slander your perfect sister.”

“No, Gina,” Mama rebuked. “I can’t believe you.”

Being the middle child, I’m accustomed to such abuse. So I forced myself to comply with the mother/favorite daughter coalition and kept quiet. That is, until we reached our restaurant of choice, where the church crowd had already resumed its Sunday morning fellowship at its many tables and booths.

“Hey Mama, isn’t that the preacher?” I asked, spying our Methodist minister in the popular pizzeria’s buffet line.

And as the pastor made her way to our table of church-skipping sinners, I whispered to my mortified Mama and Audrey:

“You know, we’d have missed the church crowd if you’d listened to me.”

Solitude is so overrated

Seldom do my weekends grant me solitude. Although an appealing notion, achieving such would involve a vacation from my family. And since I’m serving a debt-induced life sentence with Mama and Daddy, there are few escapes from my crowded living arrangement.

Yet last weekend offered a reprieve with a pet-sitting post in Drewry. The Warren County residence was a welcome pardon from my parents despite its 18 pets, which greeted me with barks, meows and a few nips and scratches. And while I was corralling Shih Tzus and calico cats at the animal ranch, I received a phone call from the other end of the county.

“Gina!” came the cheerful voice of my friend Sears Bugg. “Do you have any dinner plans?”

Sears explained that he and his fianceé Michelle were hosting a dinner for Kinston native Boyce Cheek and his lady-friend Laura. And although I’d befriended Boyce a few years back on Facebook, I’d never met the man.

“I’ll be there!” I affirmed as I finished the phone call and rounded up the four-legged herd for its feast of Kibbles ‘n Bits.

The rural route from Drewry to Warrenton was winding and GPS dependent. Yet I made my way to the town’s historic district and then to Country Club Road.

“Downtown Warrenton is so charming,” I said, smiling at Sears as I climbed forth from my Ford Escape. “It’s absolutely picturesque.”

As I commended Sears on his hometown’s appeal, Boyce greeted me, bearing a broad grin.

“Gina?” he asked before hugging me hello. “It’s so good to finally meet you.”

“I know,” I said as I sidled up to Boyce. “It’s about time!”

Our trio approached the kitchen door where another mutual pal peered through the paned window.

“Hi Robert!” I said, surprised that our evening was evolving into a Warren County reunion.

Moments later, we gathered in the kitchen and sliced chunks of homemade cheese, compliments of Laura.

“This is so good,” I said as I savored a sample of Gouda. “It’s the perfect ending to my work week.”

Our conversation then convened by the dining room table. Draped with a cream-colored cloth, the table was set with gold-rimmed china and miniature berries bundled together as napkin holders. Yet these ornate embellishments couldn’t outclass the centerpiece — chicken marbella marvelously prepared from The Silver Palate Cookbook.

“This is delicious,” I sighed with my first bite of the artistically adorned fowl.

I soon realized Sears was engaged to a fashionable, physically fit Martha Stewart.

“I’m going to prepare dessert,” Michelle said as she excused herself from the dinner table.

And that’s when Sears sabotaged Michelle’s elegant meal.

“Uh-oh,” he said, after accidentally knocking over Laura’s glass of red wine. Despite his cleaning strides, Laura’s place setting was stained with purple streaks.

“I did that on purpose,” Sears then laughed, lifting his glass of ice water to our party, “because I wanted everyone to feel comfortable!”

While dubious of Sears’ declaration, I didn’t doubt his sentiment. For as we toasted our friendship with fudge brownie desserts and a serving of spirits, I realized that fellowship exceeds even the most exquisite culinary presentations.

And solitude is overrated.

Keeping my commitment to "not commit"

A few years ago, I made a life-altering decision that would liberate me from a future of unnecessary stress. That decision, made in my late 20’s, was to never get married — to sustain a single-status lifestyle. Following my commitment to “not commit,” I was released from that stifling, societal expectation of maintaining a spouse.

I was finally free.

My first summer as an established bachelorette was filled with Friday night trailer parties with some fine, redneck friends. Saturday nights were often an encore, and were liable to take place by some Franklin County tobacco field or cow pasture. My single-status proclamation had proved itself a success.

That is, until my inner-circle of single friends started to disappear.

“I’ve met this guy,” my friend Jamie confided to me one day during an after-work phone call. And so began the details of her man-friend, who would soon become her boyfriend and naturally the new focus of her social life.

A few weeks later I sighted another single friend of mine at a local restaurant. Yet, he didn’t appear so single sitting beside of his opposite-sex seat mate.

“Hey there, Chris!” I waved as I approached his booth.

“Uh, uh ... hey, Gina,” he replied. And then he introduced me to his girlfriend, whose glaring stares served as a “stay away” warning.

As I drove home that afternoon, I pondered the curious confrontation with my guy friend Chris and his leery lady-friend. And I wondered what was to become of my inner-circle of single friends.

Four years later, I can testify to the fate of that crew of companions.

“They’re all married!” I lamented to my best friend Kris last Saturday night — my sole friend who espouses the same non-matrimonial decree as me, yet who lives in Pittsburgh, Penn. “And if they’re not married, they’re engaged.”

“Or they have kids,” Kris replied, as we pulled into a local restaurant during her weekend visit home.

To salvage our social lives, Kris and I have done what many a man suffering from a mid-life crisis has done — we’ve scouted out younger, single companions. And surprisingly, we’ve reconnected with a few friends from the former inner-circle who, despite a few detours, stayed the single course.

“So I met this girl on New Year’s Eve,” our guy friend Chris said over a drink that Saturday night. “And we went out a few times. But then, she gave me the ‘just friends’ speech,” he sighed, while simultaneously winking at an approaching waitress.

“Chris, I really don’t see you as the relationship type,” I laughed as my bachelor friend scanned the bar for available ladies.

“You know the only day of the week I buy the newspaper?” another friend, Jason, said to me of my livelihood. “Sundays ... so I can check that wedding page to see who’s officially off the market.”

While we all laughed about our dating disasters, I wondered what would become of my remaining single friends. Would time transform them into married men, as it has so many of my pals? Would kids come along, taking my cohorts captive until their retirement years?

And then I wondered what would become of me. Would time make a mockery of my anti-marriage proposal? Would I someday succumb to love, forfeiting my freedom as I vowed before both God and my partner, “Till death do us part?”

Since I can’t lie to the Lord, I guess not.

Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Eaves Keeping my commitment to not commit

In search of broken chairs and caution tape

I once had this roll of yellow poly caution tape. Fascinated by the slick resilient plastic, I hid it beneath my bed, saving it for some special occasion. And while I can’t recall what happened to that hazard tape, I remember it was sorely missed when I searched for it during one of my many childhood play dates.

“I can’t find it,” I cried that day to my best friend Kris. And so we resorted to a toy box packed with Barbie dolls.

“Let’s cut their hair!” Kris giggled as she grabbed a pair of Crayola scissors and snipped away at Barbie’s blonde tresses.

Twenty-five years later, we’ve traded our Barbie dolls and play dates for laptop computers and careers. And while the former was more fun than the latter, we’ve appeased our adult lives with an occasional pass-time that, oddly enough, involves yellow caution tape.

“I wonder what’s playing at the movies?” Kris asked last Saturday while on a weekend reprieve from her Pittsburgh, Penn., residence.

“Let’s find out!” I said as we made plans for her lone night home.

Now, over the years Kris and I have developed a bizarre obsession with low budget films. We’ve frequently driven an hour’s distance to see the most recent release of these independent flicks. And that’s exactly what we did last Saturday night.

“Two tickets, please,’” we said as we slipped $20 to the attendant at the cash-only establishment. As our show time approached, we strolled down the cinema’s sloped aisle in search of our favorite seats – located behind a row of broken chairs wrapped in yellow caution tape.

“It’s been so long since we’ve been here,” I said as we sauntered alongside the theater’s retro-carpeted walls.

“Too long,” Kris sighed, stalling for a moment as she turned towards me.

“Where’s the caution tape?” she asked, suddenly aware of the absent seat marker.

“I don’t know?” I replied. “Have they finally fixed that row of broken seats?”

After unsuccessfully scanning the cinema for the missing landmark, we settled into what we believed were our two seats.

“This doesn’t feel right,” I sighed. And Kris agreed. After a moment’s deliberation, we decided to climb over a row of empty seats.

“I think this is it,” Kris said as she sipped her diet cola with satisfaction.

“Well I’m not so sure,” I replied, squirming on my chair’s squeaky cushion.

A few miserable minutes passed until, still unsatisfied with our seating arrangement, we crawled backward to our original row.

“Why can’t we figure this out?” I mumbled while a few fellow moviegoers stared at our pre-show spectacle.

“I don’t know,” Kris replied. “But I think we need to slide over a few seats.”

And so we shifted to the left. And then back to the right. We climbed over more rows of cushioned chairs until we were stilled by the dimming lights.

As the cinema silenced for the feature presentation, Spanish film credits flashed across the movie screen.

And it was then that I whispered to my best friend: “It doesn’t matter where we sit after all, because I can’t understand anything.”



Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Eaves In search of broken chairs and caution tape

Granny succombs to the alluring call of the Kit Kat

Families tend to be honest, at times to a fault. And while their candid observations can be beneficial, dispelling the farcical perceptions we possess of ourselves, their delivery can be a bit, well … brutal. Growing up in a female- dominated family, I’m accustomed to such rebukes.

“Stop walking around with your nose in the air,” my oldest sister Wendy has scolded me on many occasions, tilting her own nose upward in a mean-spirited mimic. “You’re going to run into something.”

“Well, at least I don’t shake my hips when I walk,” has been my typical reply, swaying my own hips from side to side in a rhythmless rendition of my sister’s strut.

Now, these straight-forward criticisms aren’t solely confined to my sisters and me. As last weekend confirmed, Granny Virgie, too, can be frank when she speaks.

Granny had just finishing frying up pork chops when I called on her last Friday night. And as we settled around her kitchen table to eat, she told me of a recent transgression.

“Oh my goodness,” she sighed. “I went Valentine’s Day shopping yesterday and bought some chocolate.”

“Well that’s good, Granny,” I smiled, sensing there was more to her story.

“I’m ‘shamed,” she then confessed. “I opened a big pack of Kit Kats and ate the whole thing.”

“Granny!” I cried, barely containing my laughter.

“I know,” she frowned. “And I didn’t even buy those Kit Kats for me. They were a Valentine’s Day gift!”

The Kit Kat conversation transpired into community talk. And after I’d heard of all the Epsom happenings, I hugged my granny goodbye.

“Shug, lemme show you something before you leave,” she then said, motioning me to her refrigerator door. Pointing to a recent photograph of me she remarked, “You’re big boned.”

“I see,” I grumbled.

“And if you don’t work out and watch what you eat, you could grow up to be a big woman,” Granny said as she handed me three Valentine’s Day bags packed with Hershey’s chocolate labeled for Mama, Daddy and sister Wendy.

Scowling another goodbye, I scurried out of the kitchen door and dismissed Granny’s assessment.

The next day, Wendy stopped by for an afternoon visit.

“Let’s go grocery shopping,” she suggested.

And so I joined Wendy for some Saturday sister bonding at a local grocery store.

The shopping trip began with a bump, squeak and rattle as I retrieved one of the many metal carts stationed at the grocer’s front door. I scooted down the first few aisles, immediately spying my favorite chocolate candy – Kit Kat bars.

“Hey Wendy, guess what Granny Virgie told me last night,” I said as my sister strolled along to a shelf of Ragu pasta sauce.

“Hmmmm?” she replied, placing a jar of the Ragu into the cart.

And so I told her of Granny’s comical feast with the Kit Kat bars, ending the tale with:

“She said that I’m big boned! And that I’m going to grow up to be a big woman if I don’t watch out!”

“Oh, I know,” my sister sardonically replied. “She’s told me the same thing about you.”

Wendy appeared giddy as she sauntered ahead of me to inspect the expiration dates on pre-packaged meat. And while Wendy stocked up on Italian sausage and hamburger, I pushed my rickety grocery cart forward and considered Granny’s indictment. Yet I dismissed her big-bone theory when, returning to the Kit Kat shelf, something finally dawned on me.

Granny had eaten my Valentine’s Day treat!



Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Eaves Granny succumbs to the alluring call of the Kit Kat

Just who is that naked cherub?

Last Monday night, a couple of my colleagues and I convened by our cubicles to discuss Valentine’s Day. Since none of us has suitors, I was curious to hear how my cohorts would celebrate the approaching romantic holiday.

“For the first time in five years, I don’t have to buy anything!” cheered reporter Jason Huff, waving his arms as though he’d scored a Packers’ touchdown in last Sunday’s Super Bowl.

“Well, how about you?” I asked our newsroom bard and long-time bachelor, Dylan Shawn Wilson.

“Hmmmmm …” he mused, before popping his head above his cubicle in a comical Jack-in-the-Box fashion. “You got any plans?”

“You know, girls claim they don’t care what they get for Valentine’s Day,” Jason said, interrupting Dylan’s date proposal. “But it’s not true. They’re never satisfied.”

“Well, what sorts of gifts do you give them?” I asked my co-worker, settling onto an empty desktop for the developing discussion.

“Flowers,” he replied. “And always a nice dinner.”

“The dinner alone sounds good enough to me,” I said, glancing at the clock and realizing I was long overdue for my own supper.

“Me too,” Jason sighed, turning toward his computer screen to resume his night’s assignment. “Anyway, Valentine’s Day is just a commercial greeting card holiday.”

As I drove home from the Dispatch that night, I contemplated that newsroom conversation. Likewise, I questioned the concept of this commercialized lovers’ holiday. But mainly, I wondered where that little naked cherub came from – the one who floats about with a bow and heart-shaped arrow.

And so, I decided to do some Valentine’s Day research.

Early into my online investigation, I could understand Jason’s commercialized theory of the sweethearts’ holiday. According to History.com, a subsidiary of the History Channel: “Approximately 141 million Valentine’s Day cards are exchanged annually, making Valentine’s Day the second most popular card-sending holiday after Christmas.”

Yet, as I delved into various sources, I discovered there’s more to Valentine’s Day than a bouquet of red roses, a gold-wrapped box of Godiva chocolates and an expensive dinner.

For instance:

• While legends differ, Valentine’s Day is believed to date back to the early Christian church, when numerous Christian martyrs were named Valentine. Today’s Catholic Church recognizes at least three of these as saints: Valentine of Rome, Valentine of Terni, and a third Valentine whose background remains a mystery other than his demise in Africa. Some traditions state that these saints were martyred on Feb. 14.

• One legend cites Saint Valentine as a priest who lived around 270 AD and served during the rule of Emperor Claudius II. According to this legend, Claudius II argued that single men made better soldiers than their married counterparts, whom he deemed emotionally attached to their families. Thus, he issued an edict banning marriage. In opposition to the emperor’s rule, Saint Valentine performed secret marriage ceremonies until he was arrested and executed. Although doubtful, Saint Valentine is said to have written a card to a young girl, identified as his beloved, the night before his execution, signing the card, “From your Valentine.”

• Other popular legends state that Saint Valentine was executed for assisting the escape of imprisoned Christians and for refusing to renounce his Christian faith.

• Saint Valentine’s Day has likewise been linked to Lupercalia, an ancient Roman fertility celebration that commenced in mid-February. It is believed that this pagan holiday, along with many others, was Christianized with the rise of the early church.

• The first romantic elements of Saint Valentine’s Day emerged, as did the concept of courtly love, in the high Middle Ages. Geoffrey Chaucer is cited as first recording a romantic reference to Valentine’s Day in the Parlement of Foules (1382): “For this was Saint Valentine’s Day, when every bird cometh there to choose his mate.”

• The oldest archived Valentine was written in the 15th century by Charles, Duke of Orleans. Addressed to his wife, the valentine was written while the duke was held prisoner in the Tower of London following his capture at the Battle of Agincourt.

• Just 400 years later, Esther Allen Howland, a native of Worcester, Mass., pioneered the American Valentine’s Day card industry with her colorfully crafted cards, adorned in hand-made lace. Today Howland is considered the “Mother of the American Valentine.”

• As for the tyke in diapers who pierces his predators with a love potion, he’s a product of Greek and Roman mythology. In Greek mythology, he’s known as Eros and is the son of Aphrodite, the goddess of love. Yet, he’s more commonly known by his Roman name, Cupid, which is derived from the Latin word “cupido” and means “desire.”

A messenger for his mother, the mischievous Cupid is said to strike the most unsuspecting victims into spellbound lovers.

So steer clear of little naked cherubs this week. Otherwise, you’ll soon be signing your own hand-written, heart-shaped cards, “From your valentine.”



Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Eaves Just who is that naked cherub

Milk and honey: it sure beats the alternative

“Go up to the land flowing with milk and honey.”

— Exodus 33:3

I wasn’t a bad child. I just wasn’t a good one. And while I strived to maintain satisfactory conduct in most social settings, I failed — as do most hyperactive children. My mother was confronted with my rambunctious repercussions during kindergarten registration.

“Mrs. Eaves, we don’t believe your daughter’s ready for the classroom,” the test administer said as I snickered from underneath a nearby table.

And so it was preschool for me, detained a year due to my misbehavior that day. But failure would be my fortune, for passing would have prevented me from meeting many of my childhood playmates — namely Keisha.

Keisha lived in the Franklin County community of Rocky Ford with her great-uncle Bill and Aunt Rose. Both long-standing members of Liberty Christian Church, the parental pair preached “the good word” to their slightly mischievous 6-year-old niece. And one day, while visiting their abode on Sims Bridge Road, the elderly couple likewise educated me.

“Mama,” I hollered that Saturday morning, standing beside our kitchen telephone which had only moments ago rung. “Can I go to Keisha’s?”

“Did Uncle Bill and Aunt Rose say it was OK?” Mama asked as she reached for the phone.

“Yes,” I said, squirming at Mama’s suspicion.

The good Lord must have willed that play date with Keisha. For moments later, Mama cranked our family’s Ford Granada and drove that sputtering clunker to downtown Rocky Ford.

“Behave yourself!” Mama warned as I waved goodbye to her and that gray Granada.

Aunt Rose greeted me at the door with a grin and then pointed towards a table topped with mid-morning snacks.

“Keisha!” she called to my friend, who soon scurried into the kitchen for her share of Sun Maid raisins and Hershey’s chocolate.

Snack time passed, and playtime commenced with a competitive round of Scrabble, and then Super Mario Brothers. Yet the Nintendo rivalry was paused when Aunt Rose rallied us for lunch.

We crowded around the kitchen table at high noon — Uncle Bill, Aunt Rose, Keisha and me. And while I can’t recall what Aunt Rose cooked for lunch, I remember a basket full of buttermilk biscuits and a controversial condiment.

“Here’s some honey,” Uncle Bill said, sliding a sticky, beehive-shaped bottle towards my friend.

“I don’t like honey,” Keisha frowned, forgoing the golden goo parked beside of her place mat.

And that’s when Uncle Bill taught me a lesson I’d never learn in any Franklin County public school.

“Well, you better learn to like it,” he said, squinting at both me and his niece. “Because when you get to heaven, that’s all you’ll be able to eat.”

“Nuh uh!” we girls giggled in disbelief.

“ ‘Tis true,” Uncle Bill grinned from above his bearded chin. “You’ll be in the land of milk and honey.”

Not long after lunch, Mama’s gray Granada crept up Keisha’s driveway. And as I crawled onto its burgundy back seat, I considered Uncle Bill’s bible lesson. Like Keisha, I didn’t like honey – or milk for that matter. And since I didn’t deem the land of milk and honey a happy hereafter, I decided I didn’t want to go there.

That is, until I researched the alternative. Fortunately, I acquired an affinity for both biblical provisions soon thereafter.

Many years have passed since that Promised Land lesson — as have Uncle Bill and Aunt Rose, who both bid this world goodbye when I was still a child. Yet, every time I scoop a spoonful of honey onto a buttermilk biscuit, I think of that elderly pair who raised their niece, Keisha, while well into their golden years. And with each bite of my honey-filled biscuit, I have no doubt that Uncle Bill and Aunt Rose are both eating honey-filled biscuits in the sweet bye and bye — in the land of milk and honey.

Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Eaves Milk and honey it sure beats the alternative

Bathroom beaver sends this scared sister scurrying

I was calling on my kinfolk the day I heard about the beaver.

Before the beaver, it was an otherwise ordinary Saturday — breakfast at Granny’s, a necessary nap following my breakfast at Granny’s, and an afternoon sojourn at my sister Wendy’s abode.

But all normality faded with the aforementioned animal.

The beaver saga began on my sister’s back door step, where I bounced about in an old overcoat to fend off the frigid winter air. And while it took several knocks at the door for my sister to save me from my freezing wait, Wendy eventually welcomed me with a Houdini-style towel wrapped around her head.

“Follow me,” the Great Houdini said as she moseyed to her bathroom mirror, where the magic of makeup awaited her.

Like most Southern women, Wendy administered foundation and rouge to her freshly cleaned face, soiling her skin from forehead to chin. And after blotting her color-stained lips with a Kleenex, she led me into her bedroom.

“Sit still,” she said, freeing her head from the Houdini’s hold. “I’ve got a surprise for you!” And with that, Wendy escaped inside of a nearby closet.

“Aha!” she cried, snatching the surprise.

“Aaaaaagh!” I screamed as my sister emerged from the closet, a dead fox dangling from her right hand.

And then she returned the pelt to its resting place, a wire clothes hanger.

“That’s just disgusting,” I scowled while Wendy settled into a nearby seat for a diet soda and some sister talk.

“I agree,” she said with the twist of her plastic bottle cap. “But it was a gift from my man-friend.”

“Well, at least you keep it in the closet,” I commended her.

“I told him enough was enough,” my sister sighed. “But then he caught me a 50-pound beaver.”

“Do what?!” I cried, skeptical that such a thing existed.

“Yes,” she affirmed of her man-friend’s find. “A 50-pound beaver. And he delivered the dead beaver onto my back door step. That is, before he transported it into the bath tub!”

Wendy then gestured to the guest bathroom down the hall.

“It’s nasty,” my sister said of the beaver. “It has these long, yellow teeth …”

As my sister described her beaver bathroom companion, I decided to cut my visit short that afternoon. And as I drove away from my sister’s dwelling, I did what all women with two sisters do.

I called the other sister.

“It’s just like a cat dragging up a dead rat!” I complained to my baby sister, Audrey.

“What’s she going to do with it?” Audrey asked, aghast that a beaver now resided in our older sister’s bath tub.

“I don’t know,” I laughed. “You don’t think she’ll try to cook it, do you?”

I couldn’t see my sister cooking beaver meat for dinner, despite her fondness for the man-friend. But as my conversation with sister Audrey concluded, we both agreed to steer clear of Wendy’s kitchen. At least for a few weeks.

I took the long route home that afternoon, if such a thing exists in these parts. And while I drove those Epsom roads, I wondered what I would do with a 50-pound beaver. Would I serve up some beaver stew for my man-friend?

“That would mandate an act of magic,” I said, reflecting on my sister’s sacrifice of sanity as I pulled into my drive. “Why, that would take the Great Houdini.”



Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Eaves Bathroom beaver sends this scared sister scurrying

Like a doe in the headlights, sister blinded by affection for man-friend

Initially, this week’s column was going to be on the topic of New Year’s resolutions. And while it was a timely piece for the small percentage of people who have yet to break their annual, all-too-often unattainable goals, another current event caused me to scratch the story. It all began last Monday evening ....

“I wonder what Wendy’s doing?” I asked Mama and Daddy while we watched the evening news. Mama shrugged her shoulders as she stretched her feet forward onto a stack of pillows. And Daddy – well, he flared his nostrils and tuned me out by turning up the TV’s volume. Since neither of them knew, or responded, I decided to call my older, unwed sister to get the scoop.

“I have something to show you,” my sister said after we’d exchanged our “hello” and “how are you.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to wait until I’m invited into your kingdom,” I replied to my somewhat reclusive sister, who hadn’t solicited my visits since last Easter.

“Why don’t you come on over now,” she responded, rallying me forth from my recliner and out the back door.

And so, I set forth for my sister’s abode.

Now, perhaps this is a fitting time to report that my sister now has a “man-friend.” And it was her man-friend who welcomed me at the door that evening.

“So what’s the surprise?” I asked the man-friend as I stepped into my sister’s sanctuary. But neither Wendy, nor the man-friend, needed to reply.

“What the devil!” I bellowed out at the brown beast that loomed above me on the living room wall.

“It’s kind of scary,” Wendy agreed, while we both stared at her latest fashion fixture – a mounted deer’s head.

“I thought you were opposed to hunting!” I reminded my sister. My sister responded only with a smile to the man-friend who’d hung his hunting trophy on her living room wall.

That’s when the man-friend flexed his muscles for us and began to speak of the manly sport of hunting wild beasts. The man-friend told tales of setting up snares and tracking down all sorts of woodland creatures. When he finished, the man-friend beamed at his stuffed trophy – that ol’ buck who’d run out of luck.

As I stared at that decapitated deer’s head hanging above me, I got the ghostly feeling that it was glaring right back at me.

And that’s when I said goodbye.

“What was the big surprise?” Mama asked as I trudged into the Eaves’ homeplace a little later. And so I told Mama of the man-friend and his mounted deer’s head hanging on my sister’s living room wall.

“She doesn’t even agree with hunting!” I scowled, as I sat down at Mama’s kitchen table for a piece of fried cornbread and some sought-after counseling.

Mama explained to me that a “man-friend” can do that sort of thing to a woman. That even my sister’s philosophy on hunting could fade away for the likes of a man-friend.

When I crawled into bed that night, I thought about my sister and the man-friend. And then I thought about that dead deer’s head – and its ghostly, glaring stare that had scared me home that evening.

“Mama?” I hollered from my bed, where I was tucked unusually tight. “Do you have a night light?”


Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Like a doe in the headlights sister blinded by affection for man friend

Trip to Tulum leaves much to be treasured

According to Daddy, there’s nothing worth doing outside of Epsom. So when baby sister Audrey announced that she was getting married in Tulum, Mexico, Daddy was caught in quite the quandary.

“Mexico,” he frowned as he lit a cigarette.

For months, Daddy protested Audrey’s plans for a destination wedding. He flat out refused to go.

“I think your father’s afraid to fly,” Mama confided in me one night as we discussed the wedding plans turned disaster.

“He better go,” I replied. “Audrey’s the only daughter he’ll ever marry off.”

Perhaps Daddy realized the ramifications of his wedding day absence. For a few days later, he grudgingly agreed to the Tulum trip.

“I’ll never hear the end of it if I don’t,” he conceded, as he closed his eyes for an afternoon nap.

Now, while Daddy dosed up on sedatives for his first flight, another member of the Eaves clan likewise prepared for the international nuptials.

“I can’t stand pale skin!” Granny said as she snagged a can of sunless tanning spray.

And thus began Granny’s pre-trip tanning session. Granny sprayed her fair legs from top to bottom with that can of sunless tanner. And then, she rubbed the quickly drying spray onto her legs. For a grand finale, Granny dried those dyed legs by the fireplace.

“I’ve got this bad habit of not reading instructions,” Granny confessed to our troop of travelers the next day at the airport.”That is, not until I’ve already used something.”

“Granny Virgie!” we all screamed as she showcased a pair of bronzed palms.

“The directions said, ‘Do not rub,’” Granny frowned. “And flammable!”

As my family took flight for Mexico that morning, we thanked the good Lord that Granny’s legs hadn’t burst into flames the night before.

We didn’t reach our resort until nightfall. So, sunrise and excitement were our alarm clocks the next morning.

“Look outside!” I hollered to my best friend, Kris. “Can you believe it’s the middle of December?” I gasped as I pulled our patio door open to a garden of palm trees and yucca plants.

While Kris climbed onto an outdoor hammock, I tiptoed to Mama and Daddy’s room.

“Have you looked outside of your window yet?” I asked a fully dressed Daddy who greeted me with a smile and a cigarette.

“I’ve already been to the beach,” he replied.

While Daddy described the birds he’d seen and the gardens he’d walked, I stared at this man who was suddenly as foreign to me as the country we were visiting.

The rest of the day was filled with similar surprises.

“Where’s Granny Virgie?” I wondered aloud while Kris and I strolled the resort that afternoon.

“Look!” Kris pointed ahead at a nearby balcony where Granny Virgie stood, sipping a strawberry daiquiri and wearing a t-shirt that said, “What happens under the mistletoe stays under the mistletoe.”

“I think Granny Virgie likes the Mexican men,” my older, unwed sister Wendy giggled as we greeted both her and a very tan Granny by the balcony. Granny smiled, and then took another sip of her cocktail.

Meanwhile, some male bonding had begun by a nearby table.

“You’re the son I never had,” Daddy said as he hugged his soon-to-be son-in-law, Justin.

It was then, at that very moment in Tulum, Mexico, that I realized my dad was delirious.

The next day, we all gathered under a Mexican sunset for my baby sister’s wedding. And as my childhood playmate passed from Daddy’s arms one final time as Audrey Denise Eaves, I couldn’t help but cry.

Nor could the bride and groom.

“It was sweat,” Justin later explained to an unconvinced crowd during the reception.

As with all weddings, there are toasts to be shared. But of all that was spoken that night, perhaps Audrey said it best.

“I had my reservations about this destination wedding,” she began as she toasted the wedding travelers under a Mexican full moon. “But this has been such a blessing.”

And for the Eaves family, it certainly was.

Gina Eaves is an Epsom native, a Peace College graduate and an advertising representative at The Daily Dispatch. Her columns appear on Sundays. E-mail her at geaves@hendersondispatch.com.

Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Trip to Tulum leaves much to be treasured