Something that Robert and I loved has started again. The amazing race (10), Robert and I lived for this. I hope that everyone will be able to watch this season. Are friend in chicago Bridget and Missy would always do the amazing race in chicago. Love you girls

This is just a quick note to let everyone know what’s going on with the blog. When Robert and I started this blog a little over a year ago, we wanted it to be a story of our lives together in Tifton. We both hoped it would be a long history of our lives, our love, and our families. It’s hard to believe that just over a year later so much of that has changed. But to honor Robert and our love, I’m going to keep the site up and running.

I pulled it down a couple weeks ago because the comments on my last post started showing our hurt and frustration, rather than the love and joy that Robert had always inspired in all of us. People tell me that the death of a loved one can bring out all sorts of pain; I know it has for me; I know that the Hyde family continues to grieve and miss their son/brother. And they say that we all do things we don’t mean to. I hate that I might have hurt someone unintentionally; I’m sure others close to Robert feel the same way.

But we all need time to grieve and to be with our thoughts. The Hydes are very lucky to have each other — and their extended family — and I’m lucky to have mine and Robert’s good friends and my family to support me at this time. I hope that as the weeks and months come, we will all find the better angels of our natures and be able to learn to love each other more and more. From Robert, I learned about unconditional love and trust and support; I wish that for all of mine and Robert’s readers here at Tiffadeaux.

In the coming weeks, you’ll see more posts. For now, I hope we can enjoy reading the stories and reflections that have appeared here the last year.

BTW, for months this blog has been overwhelmed with spam, which happens to blogs everywhere, I’ve been told. Robert and I had talked about getting some spam-blockers or something. Until I figure that out, I’ve put all comments into “moderation”, which means comments won’t show up immediately, but as soon as I notice them in the queue, I’ll approve them and get them out there. Love to all.

Bobo

To all I just wanted to update everyone on The Hyde Family. We all are doing good. I got Robert’s blog back up running! Shane and I are keeping it up! I will post more as time comes. Thank you all for keeping up with Roberts blog!

Hello everyone, I didn’t want to have to post another thing on here until robert came home. But I am going to have to. Robert is still in ICU. Everyday he is getting better. It is going to take a long time for pookoo to get out and do everyday normal things. His Parents and I have made the decision in taking robert out of tifton hospital and moving him to another hospital in georiga. He will get better care in a bigger hospital and have the best medicine for him, it will be there. This will be the last post for me, the next update will be from robert. Love you All
Jeff and Roy I love you both so much thank god you are in robert and my life.

Do you know-that one person in your life. The one when you wake up, and in bed roll over and they are already looking at you. The one that always makes you laugh and feel good about yourself. The one that loves you back as much as you love them. Five years ago I found that one person that dose everything and more. I love him with all of my heart. With out him I’ am nothing and won’t be nothing. Robert I love you and it hurts me so much inside to see you like this. You are my rock and my world, you are my bestfriend and my partner. You are everything to me. I know he will get better but I want him to come home now. I miss sleeping with him and waking up in his arms. With everything in me the one in my heart and body I Love you so much robert.

Robert I can’t wait until you come home I will never let you go.

I wasn’t going to post anything but I thought I should. Just wanted to let you all know that wednesday the 28th robert had to go to the hospital. He has been diagnosis with double lung pneumonia. Today on the check up he is doing much better and might be able to come home saturday. So he will get better with my love and everything will be fine. I love you pookoo..

At this point in the game of life, and given my current confusion as to what is wrong with me respiratorily, I feel a pill would make me most happy. I sometimes wish there were pills for everything, sort of the cure all. But we all know those don’t truly exist.

A little extra time would make me happy, too. If only the doctor would stretch her appointments fifteen extra minutes I could make it back to Tiffadeaux in time to see her. Do I change doctors, or just wait it out until she can see me Friday? I can’t really take off from class. The prof, I gather, is a stickler for absences. She got on to one chap the other day because he suddenly had car trouble, took his car in and was fifteen minutes late to class. Doesn’t life happen? Hypocritically, she and a group of students come late to reading groups after lunch. Reading groups start at 1. They arrived at 1.25, interupting my group’s discussion to gather their things for their own group. Hmmmmm…doesn’t life happen?

A little taste of Casillero del diablo would be so nice right now. One of the best wines I’ve ever tasted, it comes from the Maipo Valley region of Chile. Sweet cherries and dark plums, swirl ’round and ’round in your mouth, hitting the palette just tingly. A little swig or two of this beautiful Cabernet Sauvignon would make me so happy this morning. Isn’t it truly nice the gifts we receive from nature: fruits and veggies and fermented fruits?

These are just a few of the little things that would make me happy. I suppose, too, that a little toddy this morning with some lemon, tequila and honey would hit the spot. Then, again, so would rewatching portions of Capote, just to hear sharted guy say funny things in TC fashion. The BoBo and I joked what it would be like to have relations with Capote, what he would sound like in bed, if his voice changed in moments of sexual heat. We entertain ourselves.

I don’t really get into horror flicks. I see the appeal, but just don’t see me making the effort to pretend I’m not scared when I am. The BoBo, on the other hand, loves scary movies, but only as long as I’m here to watch them with him. He has the curious thing where he likes to watch horror flicks as we get ready for nighty-night. I suppose it puts him to sleep faster. Well, today, late afternoon, we watched a most disturbing horror flick called “The Hills Have Eyes.” All I can say is the movie isn’t for the faint of heart. The goor coupled with the music/sound makes for a horrible adventure. It’s worse than the newer version of the Texas Chainsaw flick. Now, we settle down for a bit of “Capote” to finish off the evening. I don’t think it’s scary, is it?

The BoBo and I would listen to the week wrap-up of Maury and Connie on the XM 130 from time to time. Hilarious stuff–news, but funny. Lots of debate on the issues in something they called “Po and Con.” Whatever side Connie took Maury had the opposite view. I can’t imagine a couple being so different in their views. Well, the show will be no more, but before the show is no more Connie decided to give a big farewell to MSNBC.

Good times, good times. Thanks Connie.

I took this online quiz this morning to test my use of colloquialism and linguistic variety. Turns out, nothing new here. The results of the quiz were:

100% Dixie. Is General Lee your grandfather?!

I’ve had people in the past question my use of the word “aunt.” I say it in the fashion like the word “ain’t.” What a rich word, but so many people have questioned my use of the word. In the past I have tried to avoid using the word because even southerners have asked why I say “aunt” as “ain’t.” I have no genuine truth behind it, except that it might be the Alabama influence in me. But, I’ve always liked “ain’t” for its richness and variety.

Ain’t is a contraction originally for “am not” and “are not”, but now typically meaning “is not”, “am not”, “are not”, “has not”, or “have not”. Recently it has also been used as a contraction of “did not”, as in I ain’t know that. Wikipedia.

I’ve often wondered if there is a deeper issue with “ain’t”, whether or not there is a pidgin/creole influence on it that hasn’t been explored. The main verb of function in French is the verb “avoir” (meaning to have) and is conjugated in first person singular form as “ai”. My simple mind wonders if pidginers and then creolers took that auxiliaric form and applied the word in as many places possible for communication’s sake, but in the negative. Many African dialects/languages don’t conjugate the copula “be”, which might explain some of the difficulty importees could have had in listening to the commands of the English/Americans: the copula “be” in English can be confusing.

How wonderful to have such a word that can be used as various forms of an auxiliary, and, apparently in the deep south, as the word for your dad’s sister. In a way I feel justified for my pronunciation of the word.

Here’s the test, if you dare test your linguistic variation.

The topic this morning is on trials/tests/tribulations. Cool topic, though I am struggling to find anything to write about. Not that I haven’t had any trials or tests or tribulations. Au contraire…life has been wrought wioth so many trials and tests and tribulations. I suppose the biggest tribulation was moving to Baton Rouge only to find the city wasn’t suited for us. A lot of that feeling is the result of not being prepared for a new job, a job which was quite demanding psychologically. The New Teacher Project out of New Orleans taught me a lot. I thoroughly enjoyed the seminars, conversing with and embracing young professionals, newbies, like myself, who were in similar school situations. That was all productive and wonderful. But, the social stigma that plagued/plagues Baton Rouge is what contributes principally, and politically, to the demise of such an education system.

Though I enjoyed the work, the tribulation was listening to the stories of young people who by my thinking shouldn’t even have stories of such to tell: stories of rape, abuse, neglect, abandonment. All stories told from the mouth of 11 to 14 (some older) year olds. Cowardly maybe, but the daily testing of my psyche was too much. I couldn’t bear to hear other stories, to see the decay of a segment of society. These kids are smart. But they have no hope of a future. It’s not that they couldn’t do something. They are certainly talented enough, smart enough. They have no energy to cry for something better. Complacency stings.

Teaching in Baton Rouge was a test of sorts. Living in Baton Rouge was one, too. The BoBo and I were out on our own, the beginning of a relationship. That in and of itself is a test. I almost thought I was going to fail that test, too. Fortunately, I didn’t; we didn’t. The test was passed. Anything is accomplished through willingness and positive energy. I just didn’t have it for the school system. But, I’ll give it my all for The BoBo.

Lately I’ve been thinking about my Daddy a lot. He keeps recurring in dreams I’ve been having, and he certainly has had a great presence in a lot of the writing I’ve been doing in the writing project. I have absolutely no complaints or regrets with Daddy. In truth, he is one of the most cherished thoughts of my growing up, even if some of the thoughts I have of Daddy weren’t always the most honorable. Nevertheless, one thing that is as true of yesteryear and today of Daddy is his genuine willingness to always be there and help. He never failed to help someone. Sure, he’s a tough ass most of the time. But, deep down he’s a little teddy bear. He is kind of like a German: He has a pineapple outer shell with a soft inside; once you break through the tough exterior he is soft and mushy.

What resonates most when I think of Daddy is promises. We were never promised anything. Momma and Daddy only offered us possibilities. “It’s possible you’ll get a horse this summer,” or “It’s possible you’ll get a new bike.” But, there were never any concrete for sures.

I don’t resent that promises were never made. That only meant there was never a promise to be broken and that meant Momma and Daddy could never be blamed for what they promised us but never brought to fruition. I suppose on the one hand if you never were promised anything, well you didn’t expect anything for sure. On the other hand, it sure made life difficult when everyone else made all sorts of promises. It was a kid thing.

When my brother had his first (and only) child, I made him make me a promise: Don’t ever have another child. I knew he hadn’t been ready for fatherhood, to be what our Dad had been to us, and quite honestly I’ve always thought Olivia was a mistake. Not planned. Just happened. That doesn’t make her any less special, but it does make her life difficult when a guy not ready to be a father, to play the role of Daddy, and who knows he isn’t ready to be a father in a matter of conception promises to give her a life he can’t.

Because we all knew my brother and history, we felt the façade of his happy life would soon crash and burn. It did. He left the girl, the child and his family. All the promise of a happy life for Olivia was no more. He did to his family what his grandfather had done to my Daddy and his siblings: abandonment.

That was a word not used a lot in family discussion. It was a sore subject for my dad, mostly because he had felt the sadness and demise of such a word growing up. He often recalled the empty promises his dad had made to the family, all before leaving them and heading to Kentucky. Frank said he’d be back. He just needed to sort through some things. He never returned.

Not returning changed the life for my dad’s family. The family was poor before Frank left them. But, they had basic necessities, decent food and Grandma was able to care for the three children single-handedly. As if poverty wasn’t difficult enough before the patriarch’s leave, it would only get harsher. Frank’s leaving sent Grandma right to full-time work. She wasn’t going to let her children go hungry. That didn’t mean Daddy and his siblings had everything they wanted, but they were nourished. William became charged with running the house. Evelyn would be responsible for the cooking, laundry and cleaning up. Daddy would take on the responsibility of outside chores and helped Evelyn after dark. William, eleven years old, would find ways to make some extra money for the family. Grandma made no promises life would be easy. And, it wasn’t easy growing up without their father-figure.

Years later, at family gatherings like Thanksgiving, Christmas and the 4th, William, Evelyn and Daddy talk openly about these hardship years. They often refer back to a picture of the family of four, sans Frank, and remark, comically, that Ethiopia today has nothing on Alabama during the 40’s and 50’s. “Look at how skin and bones ya daddy is boys,” William says every time he presents the picture. “Look at the lack of smile. That’s called hard times. Y’all don’t know what hard times are. Ethiopia had nothing on us, son,” he says. William goes on (and on and on), “Make sure you get that education and get that job. It don’t matter if you don’t like it. Take it. Make it like you. Now, son, I was always good at English and history. Those two subjects…you couldn’t stop me. Throw in some math and science, I was ok. But that Latin and that French, it grabbed a hold tight and slapped the shit out of me. Always remember, there are no promises, only sure bets.”

And just as they had never been promised anything growing up, except a hard ass childhood, Momma and Daddy’s three boys would never be promised anything. Who cared about the horse or bike after hearing these stories, the same ones over and over, year after year? We were fortunate to have what we did have.

So, it is to my Daddy that I say Happy Father’s Day. I love him, miss him and wish we could be closer, not so much in spirit or love or relationship, but in proximity. Though he may not know it, I like going fishing with him; I enjoy helping him with the chickens and animals; I cherish whatever he has left to give me. Donny, like my Daddy, also deserves a Happy Father’s Day. And, my Happy Father’s Day extends to Mr. Pullium also. He is a great father. Corey is very special and has a special Daddy, too.

As I was cleaning in the yard yesterday afternoon, I heard this whelp of a noise coming from the back yard. Lots of barks, barks of pain. I thought, “How could the children have gotten out?” My worst fear is that they get out and head for the street. Barks and yells and whelping for help. It was a horrible sound. I ran around the house and to my surprise it wasn’t any of our human canines. It was Mrs. B’s next door, her miniature poodle. The little thing was just a screaming for help. I realized what had happened, and I couldn’t imagine it my own self. Mrs. B had run over her best friend of 16 years. I scooped the little thing up and held it in my arms until Mrs. B got out and ran the course of her SUV to get to us. I felt so bad. I had no words. I could only think, “How can you run over your best friend?” She says to me, “Well, I felt a little bump of sorts, like I had run over a pine cone or something.” In fact, it was the “or something” she had run over. I was so engulfed with tristesse. I couldn’t stay any longer; I could only say to Mrs. B, “If you need anything, I’ll be in the yard.” That was that. Mrs. B’s best friend died this morning. Mr. B buried her in the back yard round 10ish. I’m still sad, for her and the family.

This piece is the mémoire I created for the writing class. Have a looksie. I had fun writing and revising and rewriting and revising. I still need more advice. Critique away.

It was a humid summer day on Dogwood Lane, that middle Georgia dirt road that gave us boys so much freedom. Ever been on a dirt road? The ditches are deep, the weeds are tall and the fields, once gotten to, are wide and open. I remember once Daddy asked us boys to go behind the barn into the woods, the woods I was scared of, to fetch some sap from the pines. “Boys,” Daddy bellowed, “go in n’em ‘er woods and fill yer jars up with some sap.” “Yes, sir, Daddy,” we echoed in unison. James, Bryan and I went into the barn and into that small musty corner was a box of unused Masons. We each dug through the box to get a Mason jar with a lid. James being the oldest, he got the biggest jar of all. Dusting off our jars, we headed off into the woods, those scary woods.

Towering pines stood blatantly in the distance. No matter how sunny it was in the field, once you reached the woods it became dark and dingy. Stepping into the woods felt like being engulfed by the unknown. What was in there? I had my suspicions. I had heard noises come from deep within: howling and creeky types of noises. I had seen lights flickering in and out, some glows, too. I even had heard that deep inside lived an old lady, all by herself. Those woods were not my thing. It sure was a good thing James was our leader.

As we approached the entrance to the woods, James repeated what Daddy had instructed: “Peel off the bark, and cut as deeply as possible into the tree.” “After a few minutes,” James reinforced, “the puss from the tree will begin to ooze out.” We seemed so far inside the woods that certainly the door had been locked by now. No turning back. We made it to a good size tree. Kneeling before the giant, James ripped the bark off the tree and dug his knife deep into the open skin like a savage. The knife made this thugging sound as it buried deep into the source. The tree cried out in pain, in fear of what was happening. I feared, too. Were we hurting the trees so much they would hurt us too? But Daddy wanted sap. Like my older brother had done, I too removed the tree skin to its pasty, fresh flesh. “James, get me some sap.” I am so selfish. But I wasn’t going back into those woods alone. James clutched the butcher knife in his right hand and with a quick motion downward dug his knife deep into the open wound I unscabbed so that I could fill my jar with the tree’s generous giving. No sooner had he removed his weapon than the tree began to bleed sap.

We collected the sap from the tree. I never really knew why we collected sap. I think the sap was professionally called turpentine and probably Daddy was going to sell it to Doc Holloman. As a fat little hungry kid, I thought the sap was used to make syrup for the pancakes we’d have Sunday morning. I know now the sap was used as a protectant on the posts Daddy put up for the fence to secure the horses. Once our jars were filled, we headed back to the house to get Daddy’s approval. If we didn’t have enough, we’d surely have to return to the woods. I always made sure I had enough. Those woods were too scary.

In our demo today, we were asked to respond to either or Kate or Petruchio in Shakespeare’s “Taming.” The passage used was Act II, Scene I where Petruchio first meets Kate and Kate sort of passes him off. The assignment was to choose a character from the tele or film and respond in that character’s voice. I chose to respond to Petruchio (Dirty P.):

Yo my blood Dirty P.,

Wadda tah-, so da may. What you need is a bit of tippi tow off ‘da hippy bow ta may. You dig? You see, if you go too far off the tippi in, you can’t get back on the sippi-tai of ‘da tash-shou-mai, blood. If you sine your pitty on the runny-kine, all’s I can say is sipi-tai to Kate. How do you know Kate ain’t tippi in off the sine of the pippi kine. Seppa-town, you dig. Dirty P., you’re a baddy daddy lamatai tebby chai. Ain’t come one but many tine chebbies. Kapa-chow! And, as Daddy Tang used to say, “Boy, you got to respeck to get respeck.”

P.T.

I was going to choose to use Vicki Pollard as a response to Kate. But, I didn’t think they’d get Vick P. Surprisingly, the majority didn’t get Pootie Tang. Sad. I thought he was a cultural icon.