I know our problem…Punch Cups!!!

“Drink because you are happy,
but never because you are miserable.”

G.K. Chesterton, Heretics

I have finally figured out our problem…the reason for all the current lack of civility,
violence, looting, hating that is sickening our nation…

It’s PUNCH CUPS!!!

Yep punch cups…

We no longer have, let alone use, punch cups!!

You know, those demure little glass cups that accompany a crystal punch bowl?

You know…those little glass cups your grandmother always used during the holidays
when all the family gathered together…at her house.

Be it wassail, eggnog, or Chatham’s artillery punch…

Oh and don’t forget that floating ice-ring.
My mother just did a flip flop in her grave over my mentioning ice-rings.
She tried her best…but Lord knows, they never popped out as they should.
More slushie and unattractive vs the pictures in her SoutherLiving cookbooks.
Bamming and Bamming that mold on the counter trying to loosen the ring…
but I digress.

And I would bet that you were probably too little and don’t really remember
those little punch cups…
And because you were little, the grown-ups didn’t let you use those little cups–
they were fearful you’d drop one and Heavens forbid, you’d break Grandmother’s
special glass cups.
You were relegated to a jelly jar or dixie cup.

And if the punch was alcoholic, you were offered chocolate milk
or perhaps some kool-aid or Hi-C punch or maybe a Coca-Cola.
If they were feeling festive, you may have even gotten ginger ale with
a single bright red maraschino cherry floating festively amongst the bubbles.

Punch cups speak of day’s gone by…
they whisper of afternoon teas, luncheons, showers, and special gatherings.

This all came to mind when I was cleaning out the laundry room.

We’ve started the arduous task of purging.
We are beginning to clean out this 37-year life of ours with 21 on those 37 years
in our current house.

It’s time to lighten the load in anticipation of a potential spring
change—relocating, downsizing, tightening the ship!

So as I began this insurmountable task this morning, I found an old punch bowl…
not the nice one mind you, but more of a backup…it was one of my grandmothers…
my mom’s mom seems more like the previous owner vs my dad’s mom as she was a bit more frufru.
I’ve got that pretty one in the dining room…this one was the battleship
vs the cruise liner…heavy and sturdy rather than frilly and delicate.

And as I was gathering the cups from various cabinets and hiding spaces…that’s when
it hit me like a ton of bricks…our current culture’s entire trouble is they/we
have no punch cups…or no real knowledge, let alone experience, with punch cups.

For punch cups harken to a time when we celebrated holidays and occasions with
those dear and near-sacred family heirlooms, be they cut class, crystal or pressed glass
or even something really special…silver or more likely silver plate.

They were pulled out of storage, washed and even polished to participate
in a generational ritual…the sharing and celebrating of our lives as a family.
Christmas, Chanukah, births, showers, birthdays, weddings…

And thus these innocuous little punch cups are equated to something so much more…
they represent family and the celebration of family.

We have sadly forgotten such.
We have become entirely too angry, too self-consumed, too divided.

What happened to punch cups?
What happened to celebrations?
What happened to family?

Long live the punch cups!

Train up a child in the way he should go;
even when he is old he will not depart from it.

Proverbs 22:6

Happy 2nd birthday…or a life as seen through cake

The great thing about getting older is that you don’t lose all
the other ages you’ve been.

Madeleine L’Engle


(the festive table of the day /Julie Cook/ 2020)

Our lives have been forever changed because of you.

It began with a subtle announcement in September of 2017

Followed by an exciting sense of anticipation later in October as seen through a cake.
(baby shower)

Then came the exuberance of the marking of a milestone,
the first Birthday…complete with a cake in February of 2019

And so today, with the blink of any eye and the whirl of time, we now find ourselves having
moved from life with a baby to life with a little girl…as seen through the festivities
of a 2nd-year-old birthday cake

And always with your trusty sidekick is by your side…

And whereas you will not remember these early days of cakes and festivities or
presents and toys…
nor will you remember the early days of our handholding, our sleepovers, our kisses,
our laughter, our tender embrace…
I do pray, however, that you will always be filled with both joy and wonderment
not to be contained by limits or disillusionment…

I pray that you will always know that when I am long gone,
my love will transcend both time and space.

And I pray that you will always remember that no matter what,
God will always hold you by the hand and He will never leave your side.


(The first snow / Julie Cook/ 2020)

Start children off on the way they should go,
and even when they are old they will not turn from it.

Proverbs 22:6

Shenanigans, BBQ and the Mayor… along with her Sheriff

“Life is what happens to us while we are making other plans.”
Allen Saunders


(the Mayor is about to get wet / Julie Cook / 2019)

Sunday we drove over to see the Mayor and her new Sheriff.

Lunch sounded like a plan so we headed over to the Battery…
otherwise known as Suntrust Park, the new home of the Atlanta Braves Baseball team.

The team actually wasn’t home but had traveled up to Philly in order to play ball—
so we opted to take advantage of their absence and visit their vacated home
for a fun-filled and much less crowded afternoon.

My husband likes to say that they built a baseball stadium inside
of an outdoor mall.

The Stadium is surrounded by a live, work, play, visit, eat and drink area known as
the Battery.

There are greens for kids to play on, fountains of water for kids to run and jump in,
restaurants galore…from cheap eats to galm good. A hotel, apartments, shops,
bars, ice-cream shops…giant screen TVs showing the latest game…you name it,
The Battery has it.

Something Atlanta was in great need of.

Clean and family-friendly on the more northern and western side of the city
And technically it’s not in the city of Atlanta but rather in Cobb County,
north of the city and closer to Marietta.

One of the myriads of restaurants is actually an outpost to one of Atlanta’s more
famous BBQ joints…Fox Brothers.

(http://www.foxbrosbbq.com/fox-bros-home.html)

And you should know that I rather fancy myself as a bit of a rib aficionado.

Smoky, sweet, salty, savory, spicy, tangy, fall off the bone and melt in your mouth…
type of aficionado…
Of which pretty much sums up a good plate of BBQ ribs from Fox Brothers

It was just about a month ago when my son first introduced me to Fox Brothers and
I must confess, I’ve never looked back.

Fox Brothers is just that, a place owned and operated by two pit master brothers
from Texas who made their way to Atlanta.
They’ve been featured on Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives, The Travel Channel,
The Today Show,The BBQ Trail, etc.

They’re that good.

So we loaded the kids up in the car and all 6 of us trekked over to The Battery
for lunch and a bit of fun family time.

Following a heavenly meal, The Mayor was most keen to visit the water fountain.
Not so much to throw in 3 coins to the fountain, but rather to partake in
a splashing good time…of which she did—as in we had to change her clothes before
we headed back home because she was soaked to the bone.

A smashing good time indeed!!

Meanwhile, the poor Sheriff just didn’t know what to think!

Train up a child in the way he should go;
even when he is old he will not depart from it.
Proverbs 22:6

Growing up

“The mark of the immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of the mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one.”
― J.D. Salinger

That’s one of the things we learn as we grow older — how to forgive. It comes easier at forty than it did at twenty.”
― L.M. Montgomery

DSC01099
(Guinea Wasp among the flowers / Julie Cook / 2015)

When did you know that you were all grown up?
Really grown up. . .
As in no longer childlike but rather the designated, tag you’re it, authority of all things known and those things yet known. As in you are now the expert, the one everyone has decided to turn to for help, advice, strength, guidance, knowledge, direction, responsibility. . . the one who had now been taxed with the hard decisions, the tough choices, the yeses and the nos. . .??

For some of us it was perhaps a catastrophic event early on in life. A harsh reality thrust upon us far too early and much too soon.
For others it seemed to come at the cold uncaring hand of fate, the economics of our world, the poor choices of others.

Some of us mark the milestone in much the same way as certain ethnic tribal groups who have ceremonial rites of passage. The hoopla of a 21st birthday, the last hooray of a bachelor or bachelorette party before one’s impending nuptials. Some of us know the passing of the torch occurs the moment our first child is born. . .

I thought my moment came at age 25 when my mom died and I had to care for a father who was suddenly a lost child, readily foregoing adulthood while wrapped in his utter grief. I was pretty certain it hadn’t come at 23 when I married—as I was still so green and terribly wet behind the ears back then.

I think it also happened again when my son was born. I had to put my wants and needs aside as I was now responsible for the well-being of another. Resposiblilty should equate to growing up, should it not? There was just something about losing a parent and then becoming a parent. . .
Surely that was it, the time. . . the time of losing a parent and becoming a parent that signified life as a grown up.

At 55 I figured I was pretty grown up.
No doubt about it, grown.
I had retired had I not?
One has got to be pretty old to be able to retire right?
One would think.

My son got married last year.
I have a daughter-n-law.
My hair is turning rather silveresque.
My bones are a bit more brittle.
My eyesight is eluding me.
My mind may not be exactly as sharp as it once was.
My husband keeps reminding me I’m not as young as I once was.
I’m not keen upon hearing that.

Yet events of recent weeks have once again reminded me, that I’m still not totally grown up. . .
not by a long shot.

It slowly dawned on me, as I sat splayed legged on the floor of my old bedroom, of which now acts as Dad’s office, sorting through a myriad, or more like a mountain, of unpaid bills, forgotten tax information, past due this and that, a plethora of saved junk mail, folder upon folder of the years past all while spending countless hours on the phone sorting out the disaster he had slowly created when, on the fateful day we can’t seem to recall which was which, that he woke up and his mind decided it no longer wanted to be the grownup mind of a dad, my dad.

It may have come when I began writing countless checks, signing my name where his name should have been. When I called the numerous insurance companies seeking help. When the nurse came from the insurance company to evaluate his needs. When I called a care service. When I had to tell him NO or YES to his insistence that there be no care service, that he indeed needed “help”.

Maybe it was today when we sat filling out the healthcare questionnaire for the new doctor. The personal, oh so personal, questions I had to ask, had to listen to his answers. Questions you never imagined asking your dad or having to have him explain. Maybe it was when I had to explain to him about how he had to work the blood occult test kit as he politely told me, “no thank you, I don’t want to do that.”

As he now looks to me, or rather at me, for reassurance, for direction, for help, for rescuing, with questioning rummy eyes, which now look while pleading and searching for answers. . .answers I don’t readily have. The same eyes that were the ones I looked to when, as a little girl, I would call out each night for the various stuffed animals elected to guard and protect me throughout the night, as he’d throw them to me from across the room from their daily resting spot, thrown to my excited open arms in order for me to catch them, one at a time, as we performed our nightly ritual. . .

We all know parents aren’t exactly human. . .they’re a lot like the teachers I’ve spent a lifetime alongside–superhuman, not like mere mortals. They don’t have the same ills or issues as others. They are invincible and beyond the ordinary.
That’s their role is it not. . .?

Theirs is to provide, to guard, to protect, to lead, to guide, to always be there. . .

. . . as now the child reluctantly finds herself becoming the parent,
the lonely role of grown-up. . .

Train up a child in the way he should go;
even when he is old he will not depart from it.

Proverbs 22:6