The Code ...

Okay, so now you have an inkling of my "buzz blog" about being a Buzzard Belle. It is my sarcastic look at life ... surviving those events which kick you in the tail feathers, make your beak start to quiver, and generally make you want to crawl back into the egg from which you were hatched.

Presently, there are six Buzzard Belles ... three charter members, and three who -- based upon our friendships and their survival traits -- were quickly allowed into the brood. We nest in different states and different cities, are different ages, have different educations and occupations, and have different family dynamics. And for right now, this brood remains at six ... we have voted to not even grant membership to our own daughters!

Now, there are lots of qualities which make up the character of every Belle. Each of us has her own story and events which have ruffled her feathers. We have all flown into strong winds and rough weather, have seen our nests fall apart, and have lost and gained some feathers on this journey called life.

Our "code" is simple:

I am a "Buzzard Belle."

I have survived the circling buzzards.

My wings may be showing hints of gray, my tail feathers may be getting wider, and I have certainly been plucked over.

However, I am proud, I am thriving, and I am flying high.

Like I said ... simple, sort of up there with "don't sweat the small stuff," and "BRING IT ON!" We're tough birds, veterans of life, and their aint much these Belles haven't seen, or done, or survived.

... and the buzzards keep circling!

In The Beginning ...

"The Beginning" for me was more than a half century ago! My God, half a century, how did that happen? Well, I know how that happen, and I even know when it happen. 

There is a site on the web where you can put in your birth date, then find the date of the day on which you were conceived. I put in my birth date and was surprised to find that I was conceived on my parents fourth wedding anniversary. I suppose they were celebrating.

I called my mother with this tidbit of news, and could see and feel her blushing over the more than 100 miles of fiber optics through which we were speaking.

Now I know how I was conceived and -- thanks to Al Gore's invention of the internet -- I also know when I was conceived. I'm just trying very hard not to envision the "how" and the "when" at the same time ... in other words, don't picture it!

So here I am ... a baby boomer at a cross road in life. I've turned 50, and find myself sitting at the crossroad of having it make my stomach turn, or turning a new leaf. Lucky for you, you are reading the first turning of a new leaf with the posting of my blog. Who knows, this blog may turn into something more ... but that's for later discussion.

For now, I'll just give you the lowdown on my being a "Buzzard Belle." I grew up in the South ... you know, where we turn one syllable names into three syllables, where we run the air conditioning from March through January, where General William Tecumseh Sherman was an unwelcome visitor, where everybody has at least one crazy relative proudly displayed on the front porch sofa, and where we remember that the first three letters of the word funeral are "FUN," and that's what we have following the solemn ceremony when we bury our dead.

Actually, we believe in FUN all the time ... isn't that what living is all about? To that end, a group of long-time friends have named ourselves the "Buzzard Belles."

We get together at a dignified southern hotel at least one weekend each year for an event we call the "Buzzard Belle Ball." It's a weekend of catching-up, shopping, eating, drinking, dressing in tacky garb after dark, leaving family and work behind, and generally giving the "finger" -- or wing -- to those ever-circling buzzards.

As for those ever-circling buzzards ... that's actually a fun story. One of the Belles told me the story of a summer trip to visit her grandmother on the family land. She explained a game she and her cousins had invented and name, "Drawing Buzzards." 

With nothing better to do than bake in the sweltering summer sun, they had a way to decide each day who was the bravest cousin. One would "stand guard" as the others would lay in the grass pretending to be dead. The longer the "dead bodies" were in the grass, the more buzzards would begin circling overhead. 

As the hours progressed, the buzzards would circle lower and lower waiting to feast on their prey. Please remember this was in the 1950's and 1960's when there was no thought of sunscreen, consequently, they were baking and burning everyday.  

In any case, the cousin who braved the heat -- and the closing in of the circling buzzards -- the longest, was named the "bravest cousin" of the day. This game was played each day during the summer visit ... mainly because there was nothing else to do, and maybe because they had baked themselves senseless!

For me, that story became a metaphor for modern life. While meeting deadlines, paying the bills, working on charity events, dealing with unpleasant clients and unpleasant medical procedures, going through my divorce, dealing with an aging mother, looking for a parking place at the Wal-Mart, going through menopause, and barely making it to my next birthday; the daily goal -- in most instances -- became surviving to nightfall before the circling buzzards got close enough to make me their supper! (in case you don't know, "supper" is the southern word for the nighttime meal ... some northern folks call that meal "dinner," but in the South we eat "dinner" at noon)

So this is "The Beginning" ... and unless the circling buzzards decide to bite me on the butt, it won't be the last!

... and the buzzards keep circling!