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