Monthly Archives: June 2007

Festival

Views from this past weekend, weekend one of Colonial Beach’s Potomac River Festival.


Hippy Van! Right, check out the VW bus with the pretty flower.

But wait, let’s look at this van from another angle.

Not so much a hippy van. When Tony and Stacy spotted that and told me, I couldn’t believe it. Hippy + Bush/Cheney sticker? The mind, it boggles.

So, last weekend was festival. For those just tuning in here, festival is weekend (this year 2 weekends) long event parades, fireworks, music, drinking,(or there used to be drinking except now we’re all old,) carnival, etc. It’s the start of summer for most of us who grew up in this area, and really is not to be missed, even if it is really a couple lame parades, as you never know who you’ll run into.

I saw several of my high school classmates and their various and assorted children, a billion different people that I’ve known forever, and it really was a good weekend. But, an odd weekend. Tracey missed it for the first time ever as her son, Daniel was graduating from high school. Right there it was a piece of us missing. No Tracey, no Danny (her husband, not son).

We still had a good time, it just seems our idea of a good time has changed. Now it’s watching the kids’ faces or chatting with an old school mate instead of seeing how much vodka you can drink in one weekend.

It’s sitting in the sun, slathered in sunscreen, as you’ve come to realize that tanning is evil. It’s a big straw hat so you’re head that has much less hair on it, doesn’t burn.


(see I have hair again. Bad picture as I had just gone swimming with the boys and just taken my hat off, no makeup and tiredness, so ignore the scary look at the hair.)

It’s eating wraps on the point, late at night, during a wild thunderstorm, just you and your husband, stuffed in a little tiny car, giggling in awe over the lightning flashing around you.

It’s climbing into bed smelling like sunscreen, bug repellent, fireworks, and outside, with dose of sweat thrown in.

Festival is well, hard to explain to people who didn’t grow up in a small town. In fact, it is hard to explain to people who did grow up in a small town, if they don’t have something like this.

And, it’s now 3.24 AM, I’m exhausted, I’m sure this is disjointed but, I can always write more later.

have a great day,
Suzy

I am a redneck woman…

I am, no seriously, really, the redneck chick.

Now, I had denied it for years, swore up and down that I was not a redneck, regardless of the fact that I live in the middle of nowhere, own handguns, target shoot, and love country music. (sidenote, yet with all that my politics are very liberal, I am an enigma)

Back to my story though. One Sunday night, a couple weeks ago, I had Big and Rich blaring on the stereo, and I was in the kitchen with my husband, Tony. The kids were playing on the deck, running their Dale Earnhardt Jr* matchbox cars around the table out there.

I had a bottle of Down Home Punch by Jack Daniels in my hand, barefeet, a white wifebeater tanktop and black shorts on, I was straddling the two types of flooring in the kitchen as we are remodeling and have half old scary falling apart linoleum and half wood flooring in.

As I turned to holler at the boys to behave, Tony caught my eye, giggling his ass off.

“You are a redneck.”

“The hell I am, bite me.” (boy, I am not making a case for myself there, am I?)

He pointed at the stove. “Ahem.”

I had pinto beans on the stove, bubbling away, a ham bone in the middle of the pot. The smell of biscuits wafting out of the oven and the above drink, outfit, flooring, and music combination was too powerful of an evidence to deny it.

I laughed, shrugged my shoulders and proceeded to stir the beans. He piped up, from his giggling, “There is only one thing missing.”

And, I knew, before he could get it out, what he meant. I did not have a wailing child in a diaper on my hip. Before he could get the thought, entirely out, Charlie came in, whimpering a bit, “I hurt my toooooeeee.” I picked him up, and without a second thought, kissed him on the forehead and slid him to rest on my hip.

What can you do? I figure, I might as well embrace it. There are worse things to be, like a good old boy. And, if you do not know the difference between a redneck and a good old boy, well, that is a story for another day.

*I did not buy these for the boys, their Dad did.

I mean who would buy Dale Earnhardt Jr cars when there are Denny Hamlin ones out there?