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Shelby Eatenton Is Real

“How is that baby ever going to understand how wonderful his mother was? How will he ever know what she went through for him?”

— M’Lynn Eatenton, “Steel Magnolias”

A note from author Robert Harling under the cast of character descriptions in the play “Steel Magnolias” reads: “The women in this play are witty, intelligent, and above all, real characters. They in no way, shape or form are meant to be portrayed as cartoons or caricatures.”

Robert Harling was serious. Shelby Eatenton is real.  I don’t mean real in the metaphysical way in that she’s real because I was one of the very fortunate women to bring her to life. Or the countless other women who have proceeded me in bringing her to life. I mean, and he means, she was a real young woman who really lived, and who really died.

She was his sister, Susan Harling Robinson.

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Travel–It’s a Gas!

There are a lot of things that I experienced while on a trip in Atlantic City, New Jersey last year. I had a beautiful ocean view room, enjoyed some time on the beach, good conversation with my Aunt, and finally conquered a long-held fear that the book “Jurassic Park” was too scary for me to read. 

I have a very active imagination, and while in the midst of my eyes devouring a description of a particularly gory scene, I may or may not have entertained a split second conviction that a dinosaur was outside my twelve story hotel window. It wasn’t, but I also may or may not have slept with the light on. I didn’t, but the television may or may not have stayed on while I slept…

It did.

Invisible dinosaur notwithstanding, that was not my most exciting experience or the one I’ll remember the most. The thing I will remember, and without prompting, what the other 100 people I traveled with will recall, was the plane ride home.

As in the case of most disasters, the calm before the storm was misleading. Like the tide rushing back to hug the shore, the cause of the quiet snickering in the rear of the plane bubbled forward. I didn’t realize what all the tittering was about until the wave crashed over the 5th row, where my Aunt and I were seated.

Someone, and that person will be blessedly, and forever unknown, ate something that disagreed with them.

Wait–that feels too polite. They ate something that died right before it was ingested and then that something fought back inside their intestines and escaped through their nether regions as steam heat.
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Happiness is Cake

“Good things come to those who wait.”

That’s a very encouraging sentiment, and could even be considered words to live by. I could also guarantee you without so much as a second of research that the above is a string of words first uttered by someone whose mouth was packed full of freshly baked cake. The extra ten pounds I’ve been carrying on my thighs for the past ten years is evidence enough of my own personal belief in that statement.

Think about it; has their ever been a more perfect moment than when we first partake of this warm, confectionary burst of happiness? Such simple ingredients; eggs, water, butter, cake mix (let’s be real) a dash of vanilla and a pinch of love, poured in a pan and baked to 350 degrees of golden joy. Roughly 30 minutes later, after a slathering of chocolate icing, and a scattering of sprinkles (for whimsy) the final result is a nigh on guarantee to cure any ill.

Now that we’re all hungry, what’s the point?
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