In earrings….

For some women that “finishing” touch that makes them feel complete when they’re ready to face the World-is their trademark shade of lipstick.  For others it’s a scarf, a ring or maybe a necklace.; but for me… it’s earrings.

They complete me.

Without my earrings, because of my short hair, challenged looks and mannish hands (thanks to what I refer to as a double dip of male hormones from my fathers DNA contribution) -I resemble Bill Murray way more than I care to admit. For me, I need that dash of flair to offset my comedic doppleganger. So I put a lot of attention towards my ears.

When it comest to earrings, or “Ear-rangs” as we say in Kentucky, I usually make my own. Found objects from closeouts at the craft store, homemade beads, charms or doodads fashioned onto hooks that will never be found in an aisle at Wal-Mart or even behind the fanciest glass cases in the most expensive jewelry stores. While none of them are expensive or costly, to me, they are priceless and I remember when and how I felt when I made each pair or placed them on the hooks they now hang from.

So, for me, when I recently got sick and took my earrings off for a week or so…I was definitely not feeling like myself.

It seems almost pitiful that I am so simple that a missing pair of seahorses or antique keys dangling from my ears could alert the world to my mood or my state of mind. But it’s true.

It’s true and I didn’t even recognize it myself until today.

These past few weeks, I have had such a hard time finding myself at peace.

Just finishing a week of the flu, then having a close family member hospitalized was difficult. I felt as if I had hit the ground running after a really difficult illness and then moving  down to the basement guestroom temporarily for a houseguest brought  up emotions I thought I had rid myself of years ago when I spent two weeks in quarantine there after radiation treatments kept me isolated from my family.

I had some serious self inventory to do.

After getting dressed today, I found myself looking for my earrings. I couldn’t even remember when the last time I had worn any and even which ones they were. Sometimes I tuck pairs of seahorses or silver hoops in the corners of the junk drawer or my side table drawer, where I will pick them up the next day. But I couldn’t remember where I had put my last pair, which made me realize the extended time line of my lack of  auditory fashion.

Today I made breakfast for the first time in a long time. I had my two iron skillets out, one with sausage and one with eggs I was ready to whisk into a scramble. It felt good to be back in my apron and in front of the stove. Life seems at times as if it exists in the kitchen more than anywhere in the house.

My husband walked in rubbing his eyes and checking out what was cooking and with a flip of my spatula I smiled at him and said, “I’m Baaackk” …. He knew exactly what I meant. He knew I had been struggling some and he smiled back at me and gave me a sweet pat on the back as he passed to get a coffee mug.

It felt good to realize that I knew myself so well that I knew when I had returned, when I had worked through whatever I needed to, just to arrive back at simply me.

Whatever it is that makes us retreat to our dark corners for a bit; Whatever it is that God places on us to work out and figure out, I’m thankful for it.

If for no other reason than because this sidestep into the shadows passes. It comes in and it shakes us up for a moment and just when we think we may break, we find out we bend and in no time… we’re in our earrings again.

 

 

Got Game? Playtime for the forty-somethings…

“We do not remember days; we remember moments.”  ~Cesare Pavese

 

One of my favorite memories as a child occurred in our formal living room. I was just barely tall enough to see over the folding card table my parents put out in the center of the room for special occasions.

 

I loved it when my Mom and Dad would have friends over to play Rook or a game of cards there at that vinyl covered square table. Most of the time it was my Granny and Papaw Miller or Aunts and Uncles, but it was always interesting to me.

 

I remember sitting on the steps that led to the living room and peeking through the spindles. I’m sure my mother knew I was there, but I thought I was sneaking. It wouldn’t be long before my Papaw would shout out “Black cat is BACK!” and slam down his Rook card on the table and everyone would break out laughing. His humor and his personality were the things family legends are made of.

 

I’m not even sure if game nights happened that often or if only a few select times that I hold on to, but I do know that it must have been fun because I can remember the way the atmosphere changed in the house. Like the way it feels when out of town family comes to stay or you begin to pack for a vacation; That tummy tingly anticipation when you realize something special is about to happen because there is an electricity in the air.

 

I grew up at a time when the living room was rarely used for anything other than the Insurance Man or the Preacher. The house felt different when the living room was used. At different points in our lives we had a television in there, but it was a floor model and a certain formality existed in the living room. You didn’t eat there, or lay about. As kids we watched television from the carpet on our stomachs or sat cross legged as the early American style furniture was mainly for grown ups.

 

When company would come to play cards, the TV was off in the den and I remember the radio echoed the cool sounds of the sixties from its place in the kitchen throughout the house. Special snacks were made by my aproned Mama earlier in the day; Fresh cut vegetables laid out in a rainbow of colorful reds, oranges and greens surrounding a dish of green onion dip on a beautiful plate. Maybe a few small sandwiches and a bowl of Ruffles would be in attendance. Drinks were served in fancy embellished glasses we rarely used.

 

I was just a wee one, but even then, I knew it was special.

 

As I got older, got married and Dave and I had kids of our own, we found ourselves pandering more to our kids needs and put our own social lives to the side without even realizing it.

 

We found that we needed time for us to have fun too, but didn’t want to travel too far or leave the kids home alone. So “Rigney Game Night” was born.

 

These events began as a spur of the moment invitation to a few family members and close friends and before long we began celebrating and holding “Game Nights” at our own place fairly regularly. In no time, I too was channeling my inner “June Cleaver” in my own full apron and delivering a bowl of homemade spinach dip set amid a spectrum of fresh cut vegetables.

 

My resolution this year is to make the time to keep Rigney game night alive and well. Because of life, and how things get side tracked, it’s been a while since our last game night and I miss it.

 

I’m looking forward to fetching those special cocktail glasses for company from the cabinet, making a bowl of dip and listening to Tony Bennett echo throughout the house on the stereo.

 

Who knows, maybe if I play my cards right, even the Black cat will come back to my own table

Meals From Wheels…Bringing Roadkill to the dinner table

“If you can’t feed a hundred people, then feed just one.”  ~Mother Teresa

Maybe it’s because I was raised by a father that was a hunter and a mother that was a great cook, but it really bothers me to see good meat sitting on the side of the road rotting and going to waste. 

I’m not talking about squirrels, raccoons and skunks, I’m no Granny Clampett; but I am talking about healthy, well fed, unfortunate deer that end up on the gravel scattered shoulder of highways and roads that wind through Scott county and our beautiful Kentucky landscape. 

When we moved here to Georgetown over twelve years ago, I was thrilled to see so many deer roaming through pastures and green space on the way home. 

I’ve been in love with wildlife, my entire life and so has my husband. I grew up floating on the lakes and rivers of Kentucky every weekend possible thanks to wonderful parents that love and appreciate the great outdoors. I drove a boat before I drove a car, baited my own hook before I was five, dodged deer feet and antlers hanging in my fathers garage just to retrieve my bicycle and grew up learning how to soak the “game-iness” out of Deer roasts, Buffalo and Elk in the kitchen with my mother. 

My hopes were to pass that love onto our children and I think we have. In fact, I have a son studying Environmental Science in college with hopes of pursuing a career in Wildlife Management or Veterinary Medicine. Our kids probably have spent more time learning about the life cycles of frogs, fish and animals than most kids spend sleeping. We feel that everything serves a purpose. 

Even dead animals. 

At least once or twice a month in the summer I see deer that have met their end on the bypass near our house. During the Fall and Winter months I see even more scattered throughout the Scott county side roads. Deer that have come face to face with headlights after being spooked by hunters out of hiding or in search of food because of the limited resources they have in colder weather. Regardless of how they have arrived at their demise, they are there. Waiting to decompose or feed vultures and coyotes or any other critter that crosses their trail. 

While driving past a freshly hit deer this past Tuesday it sparked an idea. Why let that meat go to waste? With so many families that could benefit from an entire deer it seemed such a sad end for the old furry fellows. So I emailed the Department of Fish and Wildlife inFrankfort.

I got an email back from a conservation officer named Mark and a number to call. 

So I did call. In fact, I called immediately. 

The conservation officer was very informative. It seems that there is a way to take that fresh meat to a processor and it’s even legal! You just simply have to call 1-800-25alert or call your local Conservation Officer or the Kentucky Dept of Fish and Wildlife and they can issue you a “Disposal Tag” for the deer. Because possessing deer meat out of season and without a hunting and tagging permit is illegal. In fact, if you have a hunting license and a tag, you can pick up freshly killed deer yourself for processing if it is during Deer Hunting season. But in order to be legal, it must have a tag. 

Most importantly, you must know what you are doing. It is imperative that the entrails be removed as soon as possible, so it is of vital importance that you know this is a fresh kill before you attempt to get a tag and process the deer. 

This roadkill retrieval is not for amateurs. But I think there are plenty of hunters out there that know what to do and maybe just need some more information on how to make it legal. 

If you hit a deer or saw one hit and killed, call the 1-800-25alert number and notify them of the time and place so they can send someone out to get it before the meat expires or report it so you can get your own disposal tag and take it for processing. 

Even if this information only gets one Roadkill deer to the dinner table, that is one deer that didn’t go to waste; One family that will have a full freezer and one less hungry belly at the end of the day. 

When I was a child, our freezer in the basement was a meat lovers paradise. Tightly wrapped, white bundles of Crappie, Bream, deer roasts, grouse, frog legs, deerburgers and home made sausage filled the shelves. 

I thought everyone lived this way. 

It wasn’t until I got older that I realized how fortunate we were and what a sportsman and provider my father was; What he hunted, we ate and nothing went to waste. He never shot tiny birds for fun or shot animals only for sport. He did it all legally and bought the tags and licenses necessary. In fact, because of people like my father, including my husband and myself who purchase fishing and hunting licenses, together we help keepKentuckybeautiful by providing funds for Wildlife Conservation. 

So the next time you see a deer hit by a vehicle, call the 1-800-25alert or your local Conservation officer and help bring dinner to the table. If not for yourself, for someone else.