GO FORTH AND SIN SOME MORE

So I was up in Heaven, young again and having the time of my life (death), a fugitive on the run from St. Peter, who had grabbed me at the pearly gates, seeking to detain me because my time was not yet.

And lo, the Lord pressed upon the heart of my own preacher back home to climb up Jacob's ladder and coax me back down to earth.

He took me by the hand and he said unto me, "Come back down to earth, Trixie."

And I said to him, "Get your ole hand off me! No tellin' where it's been!"

"Trixie, please come home. We need you at South Bostic Baptist."

"You mean you need that five dollar bill I put in the plate every Sunday!"

But my mind took to thinking of some wild oats I hadn't sowed yet, a few naughty words not yet spoken, a few ugly deeds left undone, some gossip not yet spread, some **** not yet started.

And I rose up with a shout and declared, "I'll think about it."

Y'all stay tuned.

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Copyright 2008/2009 by Trixie Goforth and Sherry Austin, that gal who helps her out.

Goodbye for Now

Look at that face over there to the left. That's me in Heaven, where all things become nifty and new.

It's not the prettiest face you've ever seen, but is it not one of the sweetest and most satisfied?

"Farther along we'll know all about it," the old song goes. "Farther along, we'll understand why..."

Oh, sweet, sweet hope of the ages!

Somebody wrote in to say my face looked all peaceful like the Buddha's when he was sitting under a tree and figured out he had it all figured out, or figured out he didn't have it figured out or couldn't ever figure it out, so he just quit trying and decided to "zen out" and "go with the flow."

And to that I say "to each his own," but deliver me from having to tote around that big Buddha belly!

And look at that Clairol Loving Care helmet hair!

Every hair in place. Looks painted on, don't it?

Yes, that's me, looking again like I did in the prime of my life, when hope sprung like an eternal bed spring from my breast.

And now my hope is satisfied.

And yet...and yet, my heart longs for home and the sight and smell of the sweet earth. And for the sight and smell of y'all. Well some of y'all.

Make yourself at home until I come back. Sit in the shade of the porch or come on in--y'all don't have to knock.

Get the clothes in off the line if it looks like rain. Do you mind? And be sure to help yourself to the cornbread on the stove.

A Taste of Heaven: I Died and Went to Heaven, Part Three

{Including a recipe for Heavenly Ambrosia! Celebrity names in bold!}


I know that picture of me looking like Mother Maybelle Carter on the moon is the same one I put up last time, but there’s a reason for it so y’all keep your teeth in your mouth!

My last write-up ("Vanity, Vanity, All is Vanity") was going to be all about how I came to look like I was dressed up for the prom in that long dress and tiara, how I dropped forty years and about half that many pounds and came to look fine and lovely like I do in that picture instead of like the old white-haired, flap-bosomed granny in a Dollar Store housedress that you all know and love.

So I put up that picture with the last write-up. But then I got the idea some of you thought my write-ups were too long, so I whacked off the part of the story which you are now privileged to read. And so there's the picture again so it'll all make sense.

Meanwhile, some of you emailed to say you liked my posts on the long side! Will y'all make up your minds? Anyhow, now I know that some of you are a whole lot smarter and have a lot more patience than I’ve heretofore given you credit for.

Congratulations.

So here’s what happened next. (If you don’t know what happened before, scroll down to parts one and two or click here for part one and here for part two.)

But basicially, I died, went to Heaven, and gave St. Peter the slip. I ran past the gates of Heaven. I ran until at last the green earth under my feet became flecked with gold, and soon my happy feet bounced upon a street of gold and my heart leapt up as I beheld a rainbow in the sky, though I'd not yet seen a drop of rain, and in the distance the shining Celestial City, which glittered and shimmered like a star, danced in the never-fading light.

And I came upon a street fair on the outskirts of that city. Since I'd always loved street fairs and flea markets and parades, I was hit by the realization that Heaven is custom-tailored for each of us.

It's one thing for Billy Graham and another for the Pope. One for Dolly Parton and another for Dolly the Llama. One for Howdy Doody and another for Donald Duck. One for Tom Cruise, and yet another for Hoss Cartwright and Colonel Sanders.

(One for myself, another for Cloris Bell--I wished.)

And I realized, too, that for someone as simple-minded as I am, and as short on taste, my Heaven was probably pretty easy and economical to design.

I ran to a booth that said "Information." Two seraphim, which are six-winged angels with big muscles like the men on the covers of romance novels, were manning the booth.

"What is the meaning of life?" I asked them. "Why is there evil and suffering and death? Does everything really happen for a reason? Is there life on other planets? Was it Roosevelt's New Deal or World War II that got us out of the Great Depression? Is the Lord a Republican or Democrat or Libertarian? Is the Pope Catholic? It wasn't God who made honky tonk angels?"

And the seraphim looked at each other, then looked at me and shrugged.

And I walked away unsatisfied, remembering the old hymn we used to sing in the Baptist Church, which hymn proclaimed that all our questions will be answered when we step behind the Gates: "We shall understand it better by and by!" that song went, and that had ever been my most fervent hope.

But as I walked, I came to understand that had I learned the answer to even one of those questions, I would have got the big head and started thinking I was some kind of a prophet or something and would have gone back to earth determined to start my own political party or TV network or religion, and Lord knows there's enough of them already.

And then a voice came booming out of the sky. It said, "Oh taste and see!"

So I tried to quiet the questions in my head and simply walk along and partake of the little delights provided for me.

And at the next booth, two little cherubim held back a shimmering curtain and in little burbling voices like the Munchkins on the Wizard of Oz, they bid me step behind it, and choose the age I wanted to be and how I wanted to look and what service I wanted to perform for all eternity, although I could change it at any time, which I thought was mighty convenient.

And I chose to be thirty-nine years old because at that age, after years of being a little Tammy Wynette standing by my man, (and a little Hillary Clinton), I'd kicked my first husband out of the house and got a job making my own money at the Green Stamp Store.

And I chose to wear a long, flowing garment, and to have an oval head full of dark hair like I used to have, but piled on my head and adorned with a tiara--all because I'd never gone to the prom or had a real dress-up wedding.

And since I'd never taken piano or guitar lessons, and had always regretted it, I elected to play a harp, though in the end I chose a little lyre over a big Harpo Marx-style harp because it was lightweight and more portable and reminded me of the autoharp that Mother Maybelle Carter used to play.

And I was about to run off with my lyre in search of the perfect cloud, when scents most heavenly lured me to a big tent under which sat tables laden with squash and broccoli-cheese casseroles and those congealed fruit salads which are so popular at church suppers on earth.

And outside the tents stood booths where angels offered Angel Food Cake ("Accept no imitations!" the sign read) and white Divinity and Heavenly Ambrosia, which was far and beyond any I'd ever made or tasted.

And I ate and ate, somehow knowing I'd gain not a pound and my blood sugar wouldn't go up, and that I was not being a hog and need not feel guilty, that all the hungry in the world would be fed if we would find a way to do it, and that somehow all would be well, all would be well, all manner of things would be well.

And I realized I had learned more from eating than from all my other explorations.

And I knew if I could only remember what I learned I could go back to earth and proclaim it to the multiudes the world over who adore me and read my blog without fail, and I could use what days I had left to change the whole world for the better, and would be glad to do it, but with my mind the way it is here lately, I forgot everything within about ten minutes, except that part about tasting and seeing.

And this:

No matter what your mama told you, it is possible to make a church supper casserole without cream of mushroom soup, and fruit salad without Jello and Cool Whip, and here's proof if you need it:

Heavenly Ambrosia

Peel the sections from two or three navel oranges

or about six to eight little clementines.

It'll taste best if you peel the skin off the orange sections.

If you use clementines with their tender little membranes, don't

peel off the skin, but cut each section in half or thirds.

Throw the oranges pieces in a bowl

with a couple of cups of chopped and drained fresh pineapple.

And a cup of fresh-grated coconut (the kind that starts out as a hairy brown head you have to chase around with a hammer and crack open to get the meat)

or frozen coconut.

Mix it all up with a couple of cups of miniature marshmallows

and one carton (about 16 ounces) of sour cream.

Throw in a cup or two of chopped pecans if you want to.

Throw in some fresh cherries (do I have to tell y'all to take out the pits?)

if you've got some.

Or use maraschino cherries from a jar if you have to, drain them good.

Add a little sugar if you want it sweeter.

Stir it all up, chill it in the refrigerator and let the flavors marry,

and you'll get a taste of Heaven just like I did,

but without the hassle of travel.

(And you can use canned stuff if you want to.

It won't taste like Seventh Heaven, but it'll still be not of this earth.)

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Copyright 2008/2009 Trixie Goforth and Sherry Austin, that gal who helps her out.

You can buy THE DAYS BETWEEN THE YEARS, that book about my life, and other books by Sherry Austin, right here. They're brand new, we can autograph and personalize them for you, too.

See down below where you can vote "funny, interesting, cool"? Y'all know I'm all of the above! And over there on the left below the two chickens in bed is a place where you can give me a thumbs up. I'll sure love and praise you for it.

Vanity, Vanity, All Is Vanity--Died and Gone to Heaven, part two

I guess that's what some of y'all will say when y'all hear how much fun I had picking out how I get to look in Heaven--that's the new me right there, perched on a sickle moon) but I don't care what y'all think. I had one Hel* of a time!

Now, if you don't know the tale of how I got to this thrilling juncture, scroll down to the post below or look right here.

But to sum up, I died, then arrived at the Gates of Heaven, and St. Peter, who talked like a Presbyterian, though I had always had him pegged as a Catholic, looked me up on his Blackberry and informed me that I was one of the Elect and was destined to come here, but I was predestined to sin some more before I got to come.

And his hippy angel sidekick chimed in and said I had to go back and work off some bad karma, and St. Peter walloped him on the head with his scepter and said to him, "We don't appreciate that New Age crap up here! And what are you doing here, anyhow?"

But I told them both I was raised a Baptist and therefore believed in free will and could do as I dam* well pleased.

Forthwith, I slipped through the gate and took off running and St. Peter and the angel ran toward me and made out like they'd grab me and throw me out.

And I stopped in my tracks and said, “Look, Pete, since I’m already here, just let me look around a little bit and take some notes. I can get that girl who wrote that book about my life to write a book about how I went to Heaven and came back to tell about it, and everybody'll fall for it hook, line, and sinker, and I can knock that old hag Sylvia Browne off the bestseller list, and also that moony-eyed Deepak Chopra, and can make enough money to keep me off Medicaid, to tide me over 'til my time to come here."

And he cocked his head and said, “Well…"

And I spoke up real fast to close the deal and said, "I’ll split the proceeds with you fifty fifty."

“Well,” he said. “All right, but be back before the cock throws dice! I mean cock crows twice! Thrice!”

And I took off past the gate, with my eyes on that Celestial City in the distance.

And I ran with the speed and ease of a gazelle, with hind's feet on high places, and through golden groves and by crystal waters of flowing rivers where saints had gathered, and by a flowery field covered with ten thousand angels at choir practice, and past the green, green grass of home and Mama and Papa and Aunt Ollie Pearl, and all who had gone on before, except, luckily, my enemy, Cloris Bell--and I waved at them and they waved back, all of us knowing it wasn’t my time yet, though it would come soon and what a day of rejoicing that would be...

(to be continued...)


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Trixie Goforth Has Died and Gone to Heaven

It’s true what y’all heard: I died last night. I'm old. Y'all knew it was coming.

I was standing at the sink washing up the supper dishes, when I fell to the floor. All of sudden I was sucked down a tunnel toward a white light, and I remember thinking, “I hope it’s not a train!”

Soon I found myself standing short as a gnome in front of the mile-high gates of gleaming pearl leading into Heaven.

By the gate St. Peter sat on a high-back chair, with a cone on his head like the Pope, holding a scepter, showing an angel boy something on his laptop.

Now, it occurred to me I’d not yet cut back enough on my cussing, so if they saw me, they might not let me in.

So, noticing a little Trixie-sized crack in the gate, I stepped on through, but the angel saw me, nudged St. Peter, jumped up and pointed, and St. Peter hollered, “Come back here!”

I let a fly an ugly word, and quick put my hand to my mouth.

St. Peter ran up to me, the angel at his heels, and Peter said, “What did you say?!”

I called forth my squeaky little mouse voice. “All I said was, ‘For Pete’s sake! Where am I?'"

“Who are you?!” he bellowed. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

And I crossed my hands over my chest and smiled and caused my face to beam and said, “My name is Mrs. Trixie Goforth, and I feel like I’ve died and went to Heaven.”

“Hmm. I recognize the name. You’re the one who faked a gall bladder attack at that Oral Roberts tent meeting back in the 1930s."

And he started punching buttons on his Blackberry and said, ”I’m not sure you’re one of the elect. I think you are predestined to go back and sin some more.”

“Why, St. Peter, you’re a Presbyterian? Half my friends are Presbyterian! Can you find it in your heart to forgive me for thinking you were a Catholic?”

But about that time, he found my name on his Blackberry. “Go back! It’s not your time yet.”

And I worked up a cry and said, “St. Peter, you can’t mean that! You mean that I, Trixie Goforth, who has stored up food in my pantry so those left behind in the Rapture won’t starve to death, am not bound for Heaven? Tell me that old Cloris Bell didn’t make it! She who ran with the men, stole money from the cash register when she worked at the Picadilly Cafeteria, and hogged all the food at the church suppers, and joined the church right before she died just so she’d have a preacher to do her funeral."

"You're talking about the one you murdered by smacking her on the head with a fried chicken leg from Bojangles?" And he looked again at his Blackberry and said, “I think she is not one of the elect. If I remember right, I believe she went to Hell.”

“Well! Thank Heaven!”

“No, no. I was wrong. She’s here.”

“Well, dam*!”

“See there, Mrs. Goforth? That filthy mouth of yours! Your name is written in the Book of Life. You will come back here someday, but you’ve got some sinning left to do."

“Yeah!” the angel piped in, “You’ve got to go back and work off some bad karma!”

At which point St. Peter walloped him on the head with his scepter. “Shut your mouth! We don’t appreciate that New Age crap here!”

And I hastened to inform them both that they were both full of barn yuck. I was raised a Baptist and believed in free will, and to prove it, I took off running through the gates, my eyes afire and firmly fixed upon that Shining City on the Hill.


… (to be continued)...

More Monkey Business

That picture over there is of my son Terry Wayne when he was going through a phase in his teen years, and it’s a testimony of what a mama has to deal with sometimes. Any woman who has known the pleasure of having a young one spring pink and wet from her loins knows that a book on how to raise them right does not pop out with it. You bring them into the world but you cannot govern their actions.

Take a good long look at that picture, now, because it’s real symbolic. That means there’s a deeper meaning to it than the one that hits you in the face right off the bat, and since I've learned that there are those of you who aren’t as sharp as I am, I’m going to spell it out for you real clear.

And take a minute to gaze into those beady eyes and make note of what all you see there, and if you find something let me know it.

If you're one of my countless admirers all over the world, you know in my last write-up I got worked up over some funny monkey business. It was about this monkey in a zoo in Sweden who had worked up a mad about getting stared at all the livelong day, day in and day out, until finally at last he studied over what to do and ended up hatching a plan to store up a pile of rocks which he then proceeded to sling at the zoo visitors the next day.

The scientists watching him declared it proof that monkeys make plans, something which those of us with common sense--but no big funding to support our notions--have known ere long.

That story tickled me to death, and I got word from the world over that countless others of us who walk upright, and sometimes take excess pride in the fact, understood that monkey too.

And I learned that people all across the globe have their own words for how that monkey felt. I learned that there are some thousand different ways of saying "pis*ed off,” and that each of those ways has its own special charms.

And that story spooked me too, because I felt like I understood that monkey and his mad with a depth that was all but unnatural, what with my being brought up a Baptist.

But I read that story over and over because I felt like I'd been inside the mind of that monkey and had felt with him the pure pleasure of release when the first rock left his grubby little hand and soared in an arc and crashed like a meteor into the crowd of gawkers.

I felt like I had slipped into that monkey just as my son Terry Wayne had slipped inside that big ape suit the better to impersonate Bigfoot for a documentary movie he and some of his bowling pals made back when they were teenagers for a show called "The Truth is Out There" on the public access TV channel.

That film, with its footage of Bigfoot lurching through the woods, and even crossing a paved road, had everybody hopping until it was proved a fake and the scandal got written up in newspapers nationwide.

(That picture up there is of my son IN HIS BIGFOOT SUIT, which fact I forgot to mention until just now.)

And I was hopping mad when I found out about his part in that uproar, which I did by watching the show on TV myself, before I knew my own son was involved in it.

When the camera zoomed in on the big footprint which was alleged to be leftover from Bigfoot stepping in the mud, I recognized it as Terry Wayne’s own foot, which is oversized and with the big toe shaped just like a lightbulb, like his daddy’s.

When I cornered Terry Wayne, he denied that was his foot, but I looked him straight in the eye and pinpointed the lie. “I’d know that foot if I found it on the moon!” I told him, at which point he hung his head in shame.

“Son, you have gone and violated one of the Ten Commandents: You have borne false witness. You have spent your allowance money on a Bigfoot suit. You have pretended to be something you are not, and furthermore, you have deceived countless millions and have given them false hope.”

But he denied that he had pretended to be something he was not, which sent me into a spasm of worry, for there is on his daddy’s side of the family a strain of insanity, as one of Terry Wayne’s own cousins went away from a summer working at Disney World convinced he really was Donald Duck, and was known to wear his Donald Duck suit even years later while making presentations in the boardroom of the big finance company where he was top dog.

“Honey, you are not Bigfoot, and I hope you know that,” I told him.

“Yes, Mama, but—"

“You are my firstborn son. All I want from you is for you to do your best, to be who you are. I do not expect you to aspire to any greater heights than that."

“But Mama,” he kept on, “what I’m trying to say is, when I slipped inside that suit, it's like I BECAME Bigfoot! When I was running around the woods and peeping at people from behind the bushes, I WAS Bigfoot! It was like his mind was my mind, his big foot, my big foot!"

Well, that tickled me what he said, because Terry Wayne was a little devil of a liar in those days, but when I stared into his eyes, I picked up amongst the twinkles of deception a little fleck of something that looked like honesty, and then I got worried he’d gone and lost his mind, and would end up like his cousin Donald Duck in the boardroom.

But now, as the wheels of the years have turned a number of times, I understand what he was talking about.

And that is simply that the saying “we are more alike than we are different,” does not apply only to people of different nations and religions and races.

Looks like we’ve got kinfolk some of us don’t own up to having, which fact tickles me, and with that, I leave you with this little movie of monkeys flossing their teeth and teaching their little ones to do the same: Monkeys flossing teeth.

And for those of you who are woefully behind, here's my original write-up about the monkey business, "Science Proves Monkeys Plan Ahead."

And here's one about monkey police, for all you Law and Order fans.

And for all you Doubting Thomases out there, who still don't see how much monkey is like man and man like monkey, here's where some scientists did a study that shows monkey men will pay to see female monkey behinds. That, y'all, should leave no doubt.


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I thank you kindly for stopping by, and whichever one of you brought in my clothes off the line, I just love and praise you for it. Take a look at my Precious Memories Album! Just click and go:

Trixie's Precious Memories

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[All posts: Copyright 2008/2009 by Trixie Goforth and Sherry Austin, that girl who helps me out and wrote that book about my life called The Days Between the Years. Go on and push the envelope! (That little one down there with the arrow on it.) Forward my words of wisdom all over the globe. But all other rights (and writes) reserved.]