A Little Bit of Ivey
by
Lorelei Branam
Copyright 2012 Lorelei Branam,
All rights reserved.
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-1263-4
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
eBook Cover designed by eBook designs by Carey.
DISCLAIMER
Ivey Mae McFarland is a fictitious character in the mind of the author and owner of the entertaining website www.IveyMaeMcFarland.com . Any and ALL characters found in my writing, as relatives, friends, family-extended and or otherwise, co-workers,employees, employers, neighbors and such, in regards to Ivey Mae McFarland, are intellectual property and owned by me. My intellectual property is developed by me and not to be duplicated or responded to outside the creative writing of my discretion. Any and ALL current or future characters created with regard to Ivey Mae McFarland, by me, the author, are protected by my ownership and may not be fraudulently reused or recreated in any manner by any other outside parties. I am a sole legal entity. All of my writing is imaginative and fiction, regardless of any perceived coincidence to people living or deceased. My website, ebooks, social websites, screenplays and novels are a product of the author’s imagination. Ivey Mae McFarland is the star of her debut novel on sale January 2013, titled A LITTLE BIT OF IVEY. Look for it online with the paper back to soon follow.
Dedication
For Neil
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I started this journey as a quest for financial security, and found passion, through words that are written on paper.
As I reflect on the path of my writing career and the completion of my debut book, I would be amiss not to acknowledge the people who have helped me navigate my way.
Firstly, I am overwhelmed by my daughter and her consistent light of wisdom, loyalty, and love. My equaled affection is for my son. I am impressed with their ability to make me a better person. Their souls, drive the meaning and direction of my life. I am obliged to my parents, Mother and Dad, for raising my sisters and my brother to be wonderful citizens, that I am proud to call my family. I am thankful of my parents for loving us and protecting us, through time, so that we could become who we are.
I will always be grateful to my older sister, for being a role-model and treating me with consideration and kindness, while gracefully showing me how to do it right.
I am indebted to my niece for her love, wonderful wit, and dedication to my work with respect and a sensible pair of eyes.
I am grateful to my husband for being dedicated and on the right side. I appreciate him and the life we have made together.
In particular though, as my father rests in peace, I am truly thankful for my unique and attentive mother and her fabulous sense of humor, from which all else is possible.
I love you all
Call me Ivey Mae
I am middle-aged. I am staying married. I don’t want any sort of implant, and there isn’t a cougar bone in my body.
There is one thing I have been certain of from a very young age and that is boys. Mother tells a tale of me, age five, coming out of sedation from a tonsillectomy and commenting that our family pediatrician was cute.
At one point, shortly after I turned thirteen, Mother looked at Dad and asked in complete exasperation, “What is wrong with her?”
To which he calmly replied, “Aw nothin’, Slim. She just likes those boys. She has been interested in boys ever since she found out they weren’t girls.”
Today I have six children, including a set of twins, thirty pets and—no, we don’t live on a farm or even in a rural area. We live smack dab in suburbia, but my husband thinks pets are family and should not be separated from each other. Rodents and rabbits don’t understand about incest. It took nine rabbits and thirteen guinea pigs before I declared, ”Family, my ass” and separated the boys from the girls.
My mother lives right next door and doesn’t like animals. I know, hilarious.
Mother is an elderly widow-woman, still a lady to her fingertips and a very involved neighbor. Her favorite pastimes include arguing, ordering from QVC, exchanging packages with QVC, returning things to department stores, calling the police and keeping tabs on notorious criminals like Casey Anthony and Scott Peterson.
Don’t for one minute think that being related to her will protect you when it comes to calling the police or returning a gift. In fact, we relations tend to get bumped to the front of the line. Well, I’m always at the front of the line. I have a reserved parking place. But it doesn’t take much to get the second spot on the ‘mad as a wet hen list,’ behind me. You can always get a head start by simply agreeing with me about anything. When mother and I are going at it, you should just stay quiet, or you will be in hot water too.
Mother is also enjoying riding in the “I am old and can do whatever I want” boat. Eating Sunday supper at her house now gives me cause for concern because she refuses to acknowledge food expiration dates and is known to nap for hours in between food shopping and putting cold food away. She also chooses to ignore all painted lane lines and stops her vehicle whenever and wherever she wants. She will fight you, if you are foolish enough to tell her otherwise.
You can’t make this stuff up, although she’d probably tell you that I am. Our lives would make for a lucrative and real entertaining reality show, except my hot flashes could in no way take the intense heat from stage lighting, and I have enough trouble staying on my feet without all the wires and cumbersome equipment. Besides, our commotion would run off the TV crew.
One: Meet Mother
I dig Sunday evenings because they are the slow prelude to another week on the journey of life. That cozy, nostalgic feeling of being safe with the ones I love washes over me every Sunday afternoon, with the sight, smell and sound of the busy world around me. Sundays remind me of my childhood and watching the Walt Disney production of Pollyanna on TV with my sisters. We sat close together on the floor, and wind gusts would rustle the blinds, always making me sleepy. When a commercial came on, I would look out through the dining room window to our backyard and the comforting scene of dad cleaning fish while Mother took sheets off of the clothesline.
My
