Pastor Paul and Carol Cannon 

It was a typical hot and steamy July afternoon in Sunny Florida when my grandmother called me and the boys to join her and the two “older” women that she took care of in her home for lunch. Since I NEVER denied her anything, I agreed to come right over, but I wasn’t looking forward to the visit. It was hot, and her home was not air-conditioned.

Imagine my surprise when I pulled into the drive and there was my 79 year old grandmother, and her two housemates, 92 year old Estelle and 94 year old Mary, sitting out in the front yard in their patio chairs, in their petticoats and bras, sipping iced tea as the garden sprinkler showered them with cooling rain. It was positively hysterical.

Nanny immediately stripped the boys down to their underwear and the children and the old ladies had a ball dancing and playing in the homemade rain shower. I remember thinking at the time, “Lord, don’t ever let me get so senile that I behave like this.” Now… at 53, I have learned that senility had nothing to do with it. Those three old ladies were just “Living For The Moment.” And you know what? I hope that when I get old, (sometime next week) I have the Pluck and Chutzpah to abandon proper protocol and do the same thing.

KIDS = 1 MOM = 0

I vividly remember the day I got the first grey streak in my hair.
Note that I didn’t say, “My first grey hair.”
This sucker was a bonified STREAK!!!

The boys, ages four and six had been happily playing in the back yard
when suddenly they began beating the heck out of each other.
I raced out into the back yard and pried them apart.
“What the heck is going on?” I yelled as I began wiping the blood off Patrick’s nose. “He called me a dummy.” Sobbed Patrick.
“OH yeah! Well first he called me a jerk.” Yelled Paul with his little hands balled up into fists at his side.
“So… he said I was stupid.” Said Patrick.
“Yeah but….. He said I was an idiot.” Whined Paul.
Back and forth the insults had flown.
“Moron” – “Kootie Head”
“Creep” – “Doofus”
“Doo-Doo Brain” – “Butthead”
Each boy tattling on the other.
“But Mom,” Paul said in a hushed tone, “He said that I was a ……,” he leaned in close to whisper in my ear, “a jackass.”
Before I could scold both of the boys for their language, the truth finally came out and I realized that the final verbal blow had been aimed directly at Patrick.
Patrick looked up at me with those big blue, tear filled eyes, his nose still bleeding and cried, “Yeah ….. but Mommy, Paul said his pee-pee was bigger than mine.”
“Oh hell! Kill each other.” I yelled as stomped back into the house to finish cooking supper.

I'm sure you'll think this is JUST a poem, but the truth is.... this really was "A TYPICAL DAY" in my life when the kids were small.. cgc

A TYPICAL DAY Written by: Carol Cannon (copyrighted)

Dirty diapers, a Snotty Nose.
Grubby hands upon my clothes.
Chewing gum in Patrick’s hair;
no-one knows how it got there.
Paul Jr., gave his dad the slip,
fell off the fence and split his lip.
Paul Sr., says, (so I can hear)
“Sure could use another beer.”
Car parts soaking in my sink.
Someone dyed the hamster pink.
And don’t you know, it’s just my luck,
Aunt Suzie gave the kids a duck.
Kate’s nightgown hanging on a lamp.
Patrick’s more than a little damp.
Lipstick squashed into the rug.
Patrick tried to eat a bug.
The phone is out, my dryers broke.
This whole day has been a joke.
And you know, I have a hunch.
It will be the same after lunch.

THE HOMECOMING (copyrighted)
From: My Journey from Sadness to Joy
By Carol Garrott Cannon
February 5, 2004

The family stood, in anxious anticipation, watching the clock and the large display board that announced the arrival times of the incoming flights. They were all there: Mother and Father, sister and brothers, grandmother and great-aunt, uncle and nieces. They gripped the small American Flags tightly. The “Welcome Home” posters were ready to be raised in an instant as the red, white and blue balloons and ribbons danced festively in the breeze. The family’s excitement was contagious. Even total strangers were standing in eagerness to welcome home the young soldier. Security Guards and Baggage Handlers were now drawn into the waiting game. It had been nine months since he had left. Nine months of prayers and worry. Nine months of unanswered letters. Nine months of tears and fears filling each day. But today, all that was not important. Today, he was coming home. Home from Iraq.

At long last the voice on the loud speaker announced the arrival of his flight. The family crowed toward the security ropes, anxiously looking down the long corridor for that familiar face. Already the stress was becoming more than the young mother could endure and she could hold back the tears no longer. The grandmother, not being able to see over the heads of her family, pushed her way to the front of the crowd. No one would stop her from catching that first glimpse of her first born grandchild. As people began coming down the passageway the air of excitement in the waiting area began to grow. Strangers now gathered with the family to search the faces of the arriving passengers. The Security Guards stood out in the middle of the long walkway watching – ready to alert the family the moment the soldier stepped off the plane. One by one, two by two, the passengers came down the corridor. Where was he? As the family searched the stream of strange faces the tension grew. Where was he? Had he missed his flight? An elderly woman made eye contact with the aunt. “Don’t worry,” she whispered, “He’s coming. Your soldier boy was on the plane with us. He’ll be out in just a minute.” Suddenly the Security Guard raised his arm and waved to the family, pointing down the long passageway. The mother rushed to the gate to be the first one to welcome home the soldier. As the young man came into view the family and onlookers burst into hearty cheers. There he was. Yes, that was him dressed in his Desert Battle Uniform sauntering ever so cockily down the corridor. One of the Security Guard snapped to attention and saluted as he passed. More cheers and thunderous applause greeted him as he stepped through the security gate and into the arms of his sobbing mother. She held him close and patted his back just as she had done years ago. This was her little boy – come home.

The father anxiously waited for his turn to greet his son. At long last the mother released the boy and the father pushed his way in between them. The big, burly man gathered his son to his chest and hung on tightly. He didn’t care who saw the tears in his eyes. All that mattered was his son was home.
One by one each family member hugged the soldier and welcomed him home. His brothers, sister, grandmother and aunt, uncle and nieces all eager for their turn to touch him, to hold him and talk to him. As the teen-aged sister hugged her big brother, she pulled back and with the sweetest smile said, “Oh…….. so that’s what camels smell like.” The soldier burst into laughter and loudly proclaimed, “I do not smell like a camel.” The tension was broken. The family was back together again, whole and complete.

As the family started to leave, perfect strangers would shake his hand and welcome him home. “Welcome Home Soldier, we’re proud of you” was spoken over and over. The mother stood back and watched in awe. Was this confident and mature young man the baby boy she held in her arms just a few short years ago? Had this war changed him? These were all question that would have to wait. Right now, she just wanted to get him home. Home where he belonged.

Let me introduce myself to those of you who don't know me. I am 56 years old, fat, frustrated and tottering on the edge of senility. My children tell me that I have begun repeating my old tired stories at an accelerated rate and that I am beginning to do strange things.... Well where the heck have they been all these years. I have always done strange things. I was a teenager in the 60's for heavens sake. And as for me repeating myself..... it's all their fault. I have had to tell them the same thing over and over for years because...... THEY JUST DON'T LISTEN TO ME! Anyway, here you will get to hear some of those stories, my views on a variety of subjects, and pages from my journal. Read and enjoy. And remember this:
IF YOU CAN REMEMBER THE 60'S - YOU WEREN'T REALLY THERE!
cgc