Say it out loud and it’s what our three boys used to call Gregg Russell.  Way back when they were too young to have fully formed their R’s. 

All the way from Ohio to Hilton Head, every year, all we’d hear was: “When are we going to see Gwegwussell?”  Over and over and over again.  ‘Til we’d finally give up and drug them just to get a little peace and quiet.

Once we got here, of course, we went to see Gwegwussell.  Doesn’t everyone?  And since we were from Ohio we knew that if one of ours was chosen to be on stage with Gwegwussel, he would eventually ask them: “What color is your van?”

Forty-four years, he’s been doing this.  Sitting under the Oak Tree in Harbour Town every evening, all summer long, singing, laughing, making children and adults happy and glad to be on this Island.

He’s charmed four generations of our family.  I’m not sure I can say that about anybody else on this earth. 

I would like to use this little space to thank his family for loaning him to so many of us over the years.  There had to be nights when his own kids, his wife, friends and family, just wanted him for themselves.  But that was not to be.  He had, and still has, another place to go, songs to sing, stories to tell, families to laugh with and enjoy. He is, after all, Gweggwussel. 

If any of you, from far away, would like to see him in action, just click here.

It should never have happened at Columbine. But it did. It happened on April 20, 1999.  12 students and one teacher.  Shot and killed.  

And it happened again at Virginia Tech.  On April 13, 2007.  32 Students and faculty. Shot and killed.

And yet again at Sandy Hook.   On December 14, 2012.  20 elementary school students and 6 teachers.  Shot and killed.

And then again in Charleston, SC.  On June 7, 2015.  9 adults at church, in a Bible Study class.  Shot and killed.

And, it happened again, just four short days ago, in San Jose, CA.  On May 26, 2021.  9 adults at their workplace.  Shot and killed.

Those are just some of the “highlights” through the years.  We won’t forget any of them.

There have been 232 mass shootings so far this year.  “Mass” being defined as three or more fatalities in a single incident.  And it’s bound to just keep on keeping on.

It’s feels like there’s a knee on America’s neck.  Choking us ‘til we can’t breathe.

We’ll remember. Again and again.

Yes, I know.  Mother’s Day was last Sunday.  And I hope everyone had a lovely one.

Mother’s Day has never been my favorite day.  There are reasons for that which are no longer relevant but some things never change and it’s still not my favorite day.

For some reason, this year I started looking around our house and found, somewhat to my wonder, much evidence of my mother.  There are “rules” which she had that I follow, to this day, without so much as single thought as to why. Some examples follow:

Those colorfully artistic jackets on hard-back books are pitched before they’re permitted to take up residence in book shelves.

One would never, ever, under pain of death, put just two flowers in a vase.  Even numbers aren’t artistically correct.

New candles are lit, their wicks blackened and then carefully tended as a little wax dribbles down their sides. All of this before they appear in public.

First thing in the morning the front door needs to be opened, just a smidge, no matter the weather, to allow for a small waft of fresh air.

Feign would a cocktail be served without a proper napkin.

Those new, fancy, back-up mirrors are for sissies. Rather, you crack open the driver’s door, look down and back up by following the line of the curb ’til you can straighten out the wheel and go forward again.

All of this reminds me of one of my favorite poets, Ruth Zardo. She said, and I quote: “Long dead and buried in another town; my mother isn’t finished with me yet.”

Candle images from Ryan Gander “Shadows Go The Wrong Way”

It’s that all-important first step to freedom. The path to all things fun and un-chaperoned. It’s a requirement for the ticket to ride in the driver’s seat. And it’s usually forgotten once the license is in hand, but there are exceptions, of course.

Back in our little town, when oh-so-many years ago our group became of-driving-age, we did as expected. We took driver’s ed.  The leader of our pack was the first up.  Her name was “Mary Blair.”   A lovely, southern, double-name, she was always, always, “Mary Blair.”   Occasionally MB, and maybe sometimes just Blair but never, ever, just Mary.

The driver’s ed teacher didn’t get that and he called her Mary.  She was in no position to correct him since she really, really wanted to pass the course.

We’d hang on to every word as she’d tell us about her “sessions” with the instructor and the art of turning, parking, and passing.  We all knew we’d all have to go down that road some day and she was our canary in the cave.

Driver’s ed teachers are, understandably, deeply concerned about intersections.  That’s where bad stuff can happen to anyone, let alone a newbie.  So every time our friend Mary Blair and her instructor happened upon an intersection, he’d say:  “Now ease out to your vision point, Mary. “  But we lived in West Virginia and the teacher was a bit of a hillbilly with a slow, easy drawl and a serious touch of twang, so it came out more like: “Eeeeze on out to your veee-zhun point, Meery. “  Which may not sound funny now, but let me tell you, it was funny back then and the Mister and I still use that little phrase for many things.

Like right now.  It says it all as we carefully ease back out to our vision points and hope, like crazy, that there won’t be any mishaps along the way and that life, as we knew it, is just right around the corner.

(Please click on pic for full image)

It’s that rarefied space on the first page of any newspaper.  It’s always the BIG news of the day.   It’s what you need to know right this very second and in print so big you couldn’t possibly miss it..   

It’s also, almost always, about loss.  People and things lost in wars, earthquakes, tornadoes, and more.  Not the jolliest way to start one’s day.

But, it’s what we expect and when it’s different, we sit up and take notice.  And so, just this last week, when the Above the Fold headline was: “Bluffton Students Break World Record for Cereal Box Domino Chain, I stopped cold.  Could anyone really give a hoot about a cereal-box domino tournament?  Surely it’s a stretch to greet us with that headline, even for our little paper.

But, if you read the article, like I did, you’d soon find out that 6,000….yes, 6,000….boxes of cereal were donated to the project. Nearly 5,000 of them were carefully lined up and subsequently toppled in domino form to grab the record for such an activity.  That’s a serious number of cereal boxes and a lot of hard work.  Those kids beat the record of 3,416 boxes set in New York in 2017.  Now we’re talking a big deal.

But they didn’t stop there.  Each box was then donated to a local food pantry.  And each box was tagged with a personal, handwritten note from a student.  How cool is all that?

It’s a win, win, win situation.  There’s a lot more Life (Quaker Oats), Kix (General Mills) and Vive (Kellogg) in that story than in our standard gloom and doom. 

So let’s give some Cheerios (General Mills) and Honey Smacks (Kellogg) to our little paper for giving them the above-the-fold space they deserved.

Picture from the April 6, 2021 issue of the Island Packet

I’d put money….and you should, too…..on the odds that I’ve played bridge longer than just about anyone you know.  Let’s be clear.  That doesn’t make me a better bridge player, by any means.  It just means I’ve had my feet under a bridge table for slightly over 70 years at this point.

My parents played bridge most Sunday afternoons.  There were usually six of them.  Four at the table; two to do other stuff.  They cut in and out as the afternoon went on.  The sit-outs were in charge of libations, nibbles and gossip. The sit-ins obviously played bridge, until, as my father always warned: “Move your feet, you’ll lose your seat .”

I sat on the kitchen stool and kibitzed during those afternoons.  I learned Goren, the system used to bid way back then.  My mother had a book or two on the game and we dealt hands together.  That’s a nice memory for me.

But what I really learned at their bridge table had nothing to do with cards. 

Primarily, I learned that bridge is fun.  That the game of bridge is also one of manners and respect.  That frowns, tsk-tsks, and  harrumphs were unacceptable.  That friends at the beginning of the game were even better friends at the end of it.  That scores meant nothing.  Even if you were playing for high stakes like a tenth of a cent per point.

I went forth into the world believing that.  And I still cling to that position even though some hard-core gamers tried, in vain, to disprove me of that notion.

As I enter my 8^th decade of “playing” bridge, I, now more firmly than ever, refuse to give up the fun.  While that seemingly steadfast position may decrease the number of people who’ll play with me, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Bridge my way, anyone?

And what a long, and sometimes bumpy, road trip it’s been. 

It all started with the foot.   The broken one.  People with heavy casts on their right foot shouldn’t drive cars.  And thus began Phase One of the Mister’s “Driving Miss Sallie” program. It was, simply, a concept born of necessity.

As we entered Phase Two, and the cast was off, we didn’t totally trust the foot to respond as needed in matters of traffic and so forth.   Thus, Phase Two of “Driving Miss Sallie” became a “better safe than sorry” kind of thing.

Then, there was Phase Three.  The foot had been released from care and pronounced completely healed by the docs.  But we still had Covid in our midst.  And so it was deemed prudent and wise to for the Mister to continue to Drive Miss Sallie.  That decision had no basis in reality or necessity so we simply referred to this period as “Miss Sallie’s preference.”

Now here we are at Phase Four.  I guess we should call this one “she’s back in the saddle again.”

It’s been a year and a touch more since I’ve been in the driver’s seat and it’s little like getting back on a bucking horse.  All those little bells and whistles in the car still startle me.  The flashing lights in the rear view mirror confuse me.  I know they’re there for my safety but don’t they know I’m still adjusting?  Couldn’t they come up with some soothing, reassuring sounds?

I’m slowly gettin’ my groove back and, in the meantime, I am very grateful for the Mister’s willingness to Drive Miss Sallie around during this strange time.