Sweet Home Alabama

Were it only that my passion for Lilly Pulitzer remotely rivaled an affinity for fireworks for I have arrived in the Promised Land of explosive enthusiasts. You see, we have been afforded an all-expense paid government relocation to the Confederate bulwark of Huntsville, Alabama for the next month. Fortunately for this Yankee “sparkler” fanatic, I have unlimited (and un-litigated) access to less pathetic pyrotechnics at copious fireworks supercenters which all magnanimously boast of being the “largest in the state.” Apparently, pluralism and superlatives enjoy a wonderful marriage down here in the rebel states. Quite necessarily, I am armed with an arsenal of Southern Living magazines to help navigate the sea of “The South’s Best Of…” restaurants found just on route 72 alone.

Our fourteen hour jog down route 81 was remarkably scenic and personally cathartic, as I felt welcomed back to the land where pink lipstick and white bread are neither vilified nor extinct. Apparently, the ubiquitous smoker at each rest stop has registered on Eowyn’s birthday radar, prompting the observation: “Mama, look, that woman is blowing out her candle!” To which I cautioned her never to be caught with one of those particular birthday candles if she wants to reach another birthday. Sigh. The innocence of youth. Amazingly, the children were nearly perfection en route and we thank the makers of Benadryl for their sanity preservative.

In the spirit of federal benevolence, we are tucked away into an intimate suite- which I affectionately refer to as “A La Maison Barracks.” The quality family time has been ensured by the absence of privacy (often overrated anyhow) and the opportunity to all sleep together in two full beds, Little House on the Prairie style. Can a 30 year old still sport two braids? Almost daily now, Eowyn apprises us that she is “consipated” – a condition which stems from her conviction that rice and Chick Fil-A are the only palatable sustenance- collard greens resembling too closely the Jersey seaweed. Sadly for Jason, however, and his stoic JAG bravado, she often elects to provide this bowel-update in the presence of his decorated compatriots. Even so, I am determined to infuse our days with antebellum charm and good ole’ boy (Christian) revelry.

Plying the fish and ducks at a downtown pond with stale food has become a cultural highlight for my diminutive entourage. The aggressiveness of each species (fish/duck/toddler) has made such occasions a veritable crapshoot- as to whether the ducks will run screaming or whether Eowyn will run screaming from the ducks. Clearly disadvantaged by not having our Trader Joe’s whole grain Ezekiel bread at our disposal, we have-admittedly- slummed it with stale pretzels- knowing that the chances of a PETA paparazzi capturing such inhumanity was as likely as finding – well- a Trader Joe’s in Huntsville. (See picture)

Though the weather has been blissfully temperate- reducing my North Eastern tundra-attired children to sweaty beasts- the rain has been a damning fixture, for providing opportunity to exercise and/or engage Eowyn (like a hamster on a wheel) is integral to the sanctity of our marriage and the prevention of my incarceration. Thus, we took the Eowyn and Kincaid to their first movie –The Princess and the Frog- at the dollar cinema. The genteel ticket-booth associate crooned, “Oh, y’all only need to pay for two adults – the lil’ girl is free.” So overwhelmed by the Southern hospitality was I that for the first time ever, I wanted to make a charitable contribution to an archetypal Starbucks-inspired tip jar. And, you know what? They did not even have one. Why? Because it is the Bible Belt full of lovely conservatives who recognize the audacity of explicitly requesting gratuity for simply performing their JOB and would not add insult to injury by placing a tip jar beside the Venti Skinny Vanilla Latte that cost you as much as the expense of feeding an African orphan for a year. I digress. Eowyn’s elation at being in a theater was palpably contagious- with the immunity exception of Jason, who immediately fell asleep. Every few moments, Eowyn turned and offered me a dazzling smile. I am in love with that kid. However, much to my horror, Disney’s whimsical G-rated production soon became a Voodoo tribute. Outrage. Yes, Voodoo- the pin, the doll, the dead and New Orleans. I was aghast. Immediately, I mentally reviewed my notes from every Dobson book relative to the topic of preserving the innocence of youth etc…concluding that an abdication of our two dollar seats was in order. Fortunately, however, after exuberantly applauding yet another musical number, Eowyn turned to me with her precocious wisdom and asserted, “I am all done with this movie.”I did not have to be the bad guy. Hugging her fiercely for the moral discernment and burgeoning godliness that I have convinced myself undoubtedly prompted her impatient dismissal of the film, we escaped. Incidentally, whatever happened to the villain just being “criminal”- who raised the stakes to cartoon necromancy with a Voodoo witch Doctor? What the heck?

In close, as I sit composing this loquacious narrative, serenaded by the aged radiator spewing stale air, watching my babies nap this solitary hour away, I am enthused for the impending adventures and heartened by the graciousness of our rebel hosts and hungry for the “Bests of the Bests” of the South…confident that one of these best meals will make me “want to slap my Mama.” Stay tuned (all four of you).

***As a caution for my readers with an impulse for thievery: our home’s security system was inspired by our Southern neighbors’ 2nd Amendment stewardship coupled with the assistance of our vigilant friend, ADT.)