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!