Goin' Down to Mama's

Entertaining . . . the Only-Child Way

This morning, as Dave innocently tried to pour himself a cup of coffee while I cooked breakfast, he made the mistake of getting into my floor space. And as I gave him The Glare, he said, "I know, I know!" and retreated to the living room. He used to take kitchen banishment personally, until (with a little help from Mama), I convinced him that I have been "like that" since I was a small child. Would I wash the supper dishes for my mother? Happily. Willingly. As long as nobody came anywhere near the sink while I did it. But you try tossing so much as a spoon into my dishwater, and you could bank on The Glare. You might think a glare wouldn't be too scary, coming from a six-year-old, but mine must've had a certain deranged quality because I was usually successful in running the adults out of the kitchen.

Fast forward to my magazine career. Every year, I'd participate in a big planning meeting with the foods staff at Southern Living. Occasionally, one of the editors would pitch a story idea along the lines of "relax and enjoy your guests by making food prep part of the fun and letting them participate." At which point, I would forget that those editors knew enough about entertaining to fill the Britannica, while I knew virtually nothing, and I would cry out, "Are you CRAZY? Let GUESTS into my KITCHEN while I'm COOKING?" Patient and forgiving souls, those foodies. I imagine they already knew what it took me a while to figure out. I want to be alone in the kitchen because I'm not all that confident there. The first time we hosted the family Thanksgiving, I didn't want Mama 'n 'Em to know how nervous I was, getting that turkey into the oven. Likewise, I never want the church choir to see me burn the first batch of whatever and scramble to make a second. I don't want Miss Billie Darby to see my detailed notes on doubling her mac and cheese recipe (because when I try to do it in my head, I invariably forget to double something). And so I opt for culinary solitude. I guess you could say that I think of my kitchen as a theater. If you saw what happens backstage . . . you might not believe the show.

Sunday Morning Serenity

 

The wilderness and the solitary place shall be glad for them; and the desert shall rejoice, and blossom as the rose.    It shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice even with joy and singing; the glory of Lebanon shall be given unto it, the excellency of Carmel and Sharon, they shall see the glory of the Lord and the excellency of our God.

Isaiah 35: 1-2 

A quiet prayer this Sunday morning that we will help each other find joy in our own wilderness, in our own solitary places, and that the joys we share will "blossom as the rose."

Beware Close Friends

Ever notice how your oldest and dearest friends have the longest memories? Yesterday, I popped open the mail box and spotted an intriguing package from my friend Ann in Lubbock, Texas. That's the two of us flanking our friend Julie (Ann's on the right), when we were all at Baylor a hundred years ago. Back then, my hair was the heaviest part of my body. This is no longer the case. (Sigh.) Ann and I talked on the phone a week or so ago, and she said, "Do you remember the Harpersville travel brochure? I think I have the only copy. I'll mail it to you." I had forgotten all about the brochure until I opened that yellow envelope. There it was, in all its glory, Harpersville: Experience the Dream.

Daddy Says: "Might Be An Earthquake"

Excerpt from a discussion after lunch down at Mama's yesterday: 

Daddy: I'm telling y'all, something's comin' and it's gonna be big. I don't know what it is, but you better get ready. Might be an earthquake. Might be El Nino. All I know is, the spirits are working in this house.

Mama: What are you talking about?

Daddy: Did you clean the shower head in the bathroom?

Mama: No.

Daddy: See there.

Mama: See what?

Daddy: It used to be all clogged up. You'd have one stream of water shooting this way and one shooting that way and some not spraying at all. And here, just outta the blue, it's like something blasted 'em outta there. It's like a rain shower in that bathroom.

Mama: So?

Daddy: So it's just not NORMAL! We've got all that pressure in the bathroom and none at all in the kitchen. And they're on the same line. How do you explain that?

Mama: Well, there might be a leak somewhere . . . 

Daddy: Nope. I'll bet you could go look at that water meter and it would be spinning like crazy—just flying around and around like something had ahold of it. Get ready for anything. I'm just telling you.[To my visiting uncle] You better get home and see about your family.

 

"Fire Up! With Spirit!"

Last Friday I went back home to see my teenage cousin—who is fast as lightning, I might add—play high school football. In my youth, I would've been in the "spirit line" at the goal post, cheering the Coosa Valley Rebels onto the field at the beginning of the game. But I am old now. And it was cold. So I sat in the stands with a blanket over my lap, just like the parents did when I was a student there. I can remember screaming my head off at those games when I was a teenager—and cheering with all my heart at the pep rally to try and help my class win the spirit stick. I don't think I'd put forth much effort now to win what might well have been a sawed-off mop handle painted red and gray—our school colors—but back then, it seemed a worthwhile endeavor to claim that stick for the eighth grade. Or the sophomores. Or whatever class I happened to be in.  I went to school with the parents of some of the current cheerleaders. My class has made the transition from "running for homecoming queen" to "running the concession stand." There's a certain comfort in that kind of continuity. Nowadays the cheers are pretty straightforward—you know, "Fight, Rebels, Fight!" I still remember the theatrics of the old cheers, parts of which didn't have anything at all to do with football, as in "Hey, hey, baba-reba." I have no idea what that means. But I screamed it till I couldn't talk. I think it eventually worked its way around to "Let's-have-a-vic'try-to-night!" I challenge you to rummage around in your closet, dig out that crumpled shaker stuffed into a box with your yearbooks, and see how many of your old high school cheers you can remember. Ready? O-KAY! Two bits! Four bits! Six bits, a dollar! All for . . . 

Sunday Morning Serenity

a thrill of hope the weary world rejoices

Our world has grown so very weary. I wouldn't know what to do if I turned on the TV or radio and heard good news for a change. Maybe you're a little weary yourself. I was the other day, and since nothing seemed to pull me out of the dark cloud that was following me around, I did what I always do in a state of unrelenting bleakness—I played the piano. Not only that, I played Christmas music—specifically, "O Holy Night." I was so focused on the melody that I wasn't paying attention to the words—not until I reached "a thrill of hope." I had never thought much about that particular phrase before, but now it sort of floated out in front of me. And it's true—hope is a thrilling thing. It can bring a spirit of joy to the most world-weary souls. My prayer for you this week, especially if you're wandering in your own personal wilderness, is a thrill of hope. Hold onto it. Share it.

The people walking in darkness have seen a great light;
on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned. Isaiah 9:2

[Photo by Bruce McDaniel@FreerangeStock.com; "O Holy Night," lyrics by Placide Cappeau, trans. by John Sullivan Dwight; music by Adolphe Charles Adam]

 

 

Still Like Winter

I know we haven't even had time to enjoy fall yet, but I'm already dreaming of winter, which I never EVER do. I am a lifelong summer person. I live for beaches. And tops down on convertibles. And cookouts and tomato season and fresh corn and green beans. But when I woke up this morning and felt a serious nip in the air, I actually got excited about winter. (Ask Dave. It won't last a day past Christmas. But for now, I'm revelling in it.) I think it's because this year, winter, for me, means slowing way down. And thinking a few things over. Friends and family keep asking me what I'm doing since I left the magazine, and the truth is, I'm still figuring that out. After years of knowing exactly where I was going to be, I'm now just following the roads I feel led to travel and trusting that they'll take me to the right place. And I'm trying very hard, after years of working and pushing and juggling and racing the clock, to just . . . be still. Still like winter. I want to take the time to see the true shape of things, the way you see trees completely differently once the leaves are gone and their trunks and branches stand out against a clear sky. (Thank you, Southern Living Gardens friends, for teaching me that:) Should be interesting. And if all else fails, I'll take a cue from Hank the Cat—when in doubt, nap.

Under the Table

I know just how Hank the Cat feels. When I was in college, my friend Missey was going through a situation so stressful that, as she told me about it, she kept backing up into a corner of our tiny apartment and scrunching down till she was literally talking to me from under the kitchen table. I don't even remember what drove her under there, but from then on, when one of us would call the other in full-stress mode, we'd say, "I'm under the table!"  Hank was there because of the 20-something women who had invaded his personal deck and patio. (Eventually, he grew to love them:) I used to think it was a bad thing to be under the table, but now I've decided it's perfectly healthy. Sometimes you just reach a point where you have to escape all the demands on your time and energy (and sanity) and regroup for a minute. There's nothing wrong with hitting the brakes and throwing a table cloth over your head (figuratively speaking . . . or not). You can peek out at the world and take in your situation a little at a time till you're ready to put it all together and deal with it head-on. Hank told me so—and that cat doesn't lie. (He stalks, kills, and de-feathers, but he doesn't lie.)

Daddy Says: "It's Harder Than It Looks"

And now, a new bit of DRW (Daddy's Recliner Wisdom):

You know, this writing business is harder than it looks. Soon as you get something down, you see stuff you need to change, and then you change it and change it again. And then about the time you think it's finished, you come up with something else. And THEN somebody reads it and doesn't like it. 

On behalf of every writer who ever stared at a blank piece of paper or a blank computer screen, Daddy, we feel your pain.

Sunday Morning Serenity

You will notice we say brother and sister 'round here,
It's because we're a fam'ly and these folks are so near.
When one has a heartache we all share the tears,
And rejoice in each vict'ry in this fam'ly so dear. 

[from "The Family of God" by Bill J. & Gloria Gaither]

I am so thankful today for family and for the gift of reunion. Yesterday I had the opportunity to renew ties with all the women in my mother's family, to laugh over memories with aunts and cousins I see far too little and get to know a whole new generation of "kinfolks.":) What a blessing. And what a reminder that family is a gift from God, something to be treasured always. Take a minute this week to call a long-lost cousin, or book an afternoon with Great Aunt Thelma so she can teach you how to make her famous sour cream pound cake. I promise it'll be time well spent.