It's Me Again, Margaret

“We are not putting a live chicken under the Christmas tree.” The words barely escaped my lips when I saw the gleaming look in my husband's eyes. I quickly added, “We are not we putting a dead chicken under the Christmas tree either!”

My husband and I were walking down the aisle of Home De- pot, a weed eater under one arm, while visions of Ray Stevens danced in our heads. Ray Stevens has been one of those classic characters in our family ever since we watched the Mississippi Squirrel Revival on VHS. We sat riveted to our seats as we watched the squirrel make laps inside the dress of Bertha-Better- Than-You. She told of gossip and church dissension—but the thing that got the most attention was when she talked about their love life—and then she started naming names!

My siblings and I would quote pieces out of our favorite songs as if they were just basic vernacular. “Don't look Ethel!” was repeated so many times, that when my brother got his

first apartment, I had to make a shower curtain with those words em- blazoned onto Ethel's silhouette. Last Christmas, my mom gifted my husband pretty pink pants so he could sing and dance like the pirates of Penzance—and he did.

From Tarzan to wakes to the IRS, Ray Stevens sings it all— which means we have picked up some really odd slang. “How'd you get that Harley up there on the high dive?” Or “The Kitchen aint got no door in it...don't worry son, it will have in a minute.”

My Grandma even helped me rewrite the lyrics to “Everything is Beautiful” for my oldest son's baby dedication. Ray Stevens is just a part of life—even down to my dad's nickname. Not sure why it started, but for as long as I can remember, my husband has called my dad “Margaret.”

“It's me again Margaret,” he'll say when he calls. “Betcha can't guess what I'm doing!” It's an

other song, where a man named Willard McBane is constantly finding phone booths and calling Margaret. I can't even count the countries that we have had to stop to take photos in a phone

booth while my husband mimes “They got me, Margaret!” At the end of of the song, McBane is being arrested and he's hollering to Margaret “When I get out Margaret, I'm going to come over there with a weed-eater. And a live chicken, and some peach preserves!”

My husband sat on the living room floor. A roll of wrapping paper and duck tape next to him. The weed-eater and a jar of peaches in front—but what to do about the live chicken. I wouldn't budge on letting him wrap one up—not even a rooster. So he sat and thought. The gift just wouldn't be right without chicken feathers fluffing around when it was opened. That was it. Feathers. Thirty minutes later, amid countless sneezes and continuous laughter, we had emptied a feather pillow—and succeeded in wrapping the perfect gift for my dad. We care- fully pushed it next to the tree, and prayed the cats wouldn't tear into the wrapping before Christmas.

Let no one ever say we are not real serious about gifts at our house. It took some serious work to get those feathers in that package—and it took even more serious work to vacuum them out of the house afterwards. Next time my parents say “Betcha can't guess what I'm doing?” I'm guessing they are still picking feathers! Makes me almost think a live chicken would have been better—almost.