Who the heck is Hattie Jackson, I want to know! She called my house a couple of days ago. But I’m not crazy, y’all, and I didn’t answer it. Why? Mainly, because it’s election time (thus, lots of annoying election phone calls). For another, I don’t know her and for yet another, I didn’t recognize the area code. Case in point: I checked the Internet for 202 and guess what? It’s a Washington, D.C. phone number. But not only that, wait—it gets better! Turns out Ms. Hattie has been calling up lots and lots of voters (you know where this is going, right?) and doing some heavy politicking! I’m glad I didn’t fall for it. But then again, after all the research I’ve done, it still appears no one knows who Hattie Jackson is! The Republicans are blaming these calls on the Democrats; and not to be outdone, the Democrats are blaming the Republicans! Hey, this is beginning to sound like real life. And though the area code is 202, a D.C. exchange, it seems some folks say the call originates in New Jersey! Crumb! Who are you going to believe? If this isn’t a Politics 101 Disaster, then I don’t know what is.

But here’s the thing: I hope she calls back since I let the answering machine pick up the first time and now I WANT to talk to her. (She didn’t leave a message.) This is what I will tell her: “Ms. Hattie, honey, political pollster that you are: what do you want me to say to you? ‘Cause whatever it is, I’ll say it. What is it you want me to do for you? ‘Cause whatever it is, I’ll do it. How do you want me to vote—shoot, y’all, let’s just go ahead and call a spade a shovel and get to the dang point!—because that’s how I’ll vote. Then I’ll sit back and listen to her response. ’Course we all know just because I said it doesn’t mean I’ll do it, right? This really is beginning to sound like politics. But, back to Ms. Hattie. I think we can all agree there IS no Hattie Jackson and there will be NO human voice. This is what drives me batty: they (again, whoever “they” are), are taking a perfectly sweet and precious Southern name, Hattie, with an all-American last name like Jackson and smearing it through a campaign that will take no winners at the rate “they” are going.

About that name, Hattie. We have a dear, dear family friend named Hattie. Let me tell you about her: She lives in a big white house (no pun intended) by the water, goes to church every Sunday, has grandchildren (and children) that she spoils, is Southern to the core, and used to work in our family shoe store, the Bootery, but is now retired. She’s also a wonderful cook and she is a terrific back scratcher. I guess you know now what we did on slow days (they were rare) at the shoe store. We would eat homemade snacks and take turns scratching each other’s backs. But don’t tell my daddy because we made sure he was never around during those times.

You see my point here? Hattie Jackson, the-Republican-or-Democrat-pain-in-the-drain, is not in the same class as my friend, Miss Hattie. Not even close. But she almost (notice I say almost) fooled me. When I saw the name Hattie, I reached for the phone. Then I stopped myself saying, “Unless Miss Hattie remarried or changed her name on account of I-don’t-know-why, or moved away, this is not the same Hattie I know.”

I will be SO GLAD when the elections are over. I have nothing against elections, but I do despise these mysterious phone calls. Now here’s a different strategy on a similar subject: What about this? A judge running for election had his little old blue-haired Mama sit down and write out on a postcard in a chicken-scratch, shaky-type handwriting this desperate plea: Would we puh-leeze vote for her precious son? She told us how many Boy Scout badges he’d won, how many boards he served on and how many baseball home-runs he’d had over his sixty-some-years life span. Geez! I wonder how old his mama is? But this is the thing: I fell for that one. Having Ms. Hattie tell me how to vote scores no points. But a good-old Southern boy whose Mama wrote me a personal note (AND didn’t even bother me with a phone call at dinner time), ah, heck. Now that’s enough to make my heart melt. I better hurry out the door for early voting.

Georgetown Times

Well, I did it. I went and joined Facebook. I say joined, but it’s not exactly a club. More seasoned people would say, ‘I opened an account on Facebook.’ My friend Madelene once called it Spacebook. I once called it Facepage. Mix that all up and you’ve got Spaceage. But what is ‘our’ nickname, collectively, anyway: we people who communicate via cyberspace? Facebookers? Facers? Bookers? I guess we’re simply friends. And that’s where they get you! Everyone wants friends! Think about it: one of the most successful sitcoms ever, aptly named Friends, ran for ten solid years and now gets nine (out of ten) stars on the IMDB website.

In the beginning (I don’t know why) I fought the urge to join the rest of the crazed fans. You know, those hip, tuned-in and turned-on techie fools that are trying to friend—or, befriend, my sister, Nancy, says—as many people as possible in the shortest amount of time. It’s like a contest, but I fail to see the point.

Not too long ago I didn’t know anyone my age on Facebook. The exception is most of my writer friends. They’re the ones who hounded me. “What? You’re not on Facebook? Are you serious?” They acted like I’d crawled into a cave. Excuse me!

I felt like I had my reasons. But again, it was hard to pinpoint them. I made a mental note, then realized the biggest one was—okay, this is embarrassing—I didn’t know how. That changed, however, when my sister, Nancy, came for a recent visit and the enticement was just too much.

“Come on, Ann!” she insisted. She’d just joined and told me how she loved reconnecting with old high school friends from Jacksonville, NC and old neighbors from Johnson City, Tennessee. That got my attention since there were a few special folks I’d lost touch with over the years: Kalondia from Pensacola, Florida. Sharon from Bay City, Michigan. Sabra from Chapel Hill. Jenny from high school and Jane M. whose husband was once a professor at UNC-W. Jane was a physical therapist with Comprehensive Home Health Care and I was their office manager.

Realizing I might find these lost souls, Katie set me up an account. We answered all the questions and posted a few photos, then a curious thing happened: The more I played “Whatever happened to?” the more friends I reconnected with. I even found Mike and Larry Uzzell (old schoolmates) that started “Nantucket,” the popular rock band.

The first night I started out with a couple of friends, but in no time the number grew to 250. I’m not telling you that to brag. Hardly! If that’s what you’re after, do this: Just friend friends that have a million friends and friend them. See? Easy! That is, IF those friends accept your invitation. Here’s  the thing: What if they don’t? I asked Katie about this. What if they reject me? She said I’d never know the difference. What if I reject them? She said they’d never know the difference. I don’t know about all of this!

In many ways, Facebook is kind of cool. I’m getting the scoop on lots of old friends. For instance, who got married, who got divorced, who had babies, who adopted babies, who became grandparents. Who moved away. Who changed careers. Who retired.

But there’s a downside. People that write about every ingrown hair they discover need to get a life. Puh-leeze! People who describe the best meal they’ve ever eaten need to—Oops! That was me with the recent steamed oysters. Also, people that use Facebook to further political agendas. Dislike! People that write crazy things like, “Good morning, sun. I am grateful for the sun.” Unclear! People who change their profile picture every thirty-six hours. Why? Even worse: people who don’t have a profile picture. But get this: I have a friend named Lisa Simpson that I looked up; but, all I could find was the cartoon. This is when you’re happy to have an unusual name.

The second night I was on Facebook I knew I was in trouble. The clock struck midnight and I could NOT tear myself away. Addicted? Perhaps. Now I know why I fought joining. Every time the screen said, “11 mutual friends,” I had to check out every single one of them. I’m still confused about my wall, my profile, my account and news feeds—not to mention the chat thing at the bottom.

But if nothing else, I’m here to tell you that I did indeed find Kalondia! We’re now BFF’s like we used to be during Lamaze classes twenty-six years ago and we’re friending each other on Facebook. Now we just need to figure out how to visit each other IN PERSON.