Goin' Down to Mama's

Snow Days

As the temps climb to triple digits, I'm blissfully flashing back to a few (and there were precious few) snowy winter mornings from my childhood, as I crouched by the TV in my pajamas, fingers crossed for good luck, while the school closings were announced: Morgan County Schools, Jefferson County Schools, Shelby County Schools, Coosa Valley Academy . . . OHMYGOSH!! OHMYGOSH! IT'S CLOSED! IT'S CLOSED!!!! As the mercury climbs today, just close your eyes and think of winter . . . and simple pleasures like snow days.

Kinks in the Garden Hose of Life

I have a bad habit of waiting for my life to start. As soon as I get out of high school, life will start. As soon as I graduate from college, life will start. As soon as I get a good job, as soon as I meet the right person, as soon as I make enough money, as soon as everybody's well and healthy, as soon as I get through this busy week, as soon as the cat quits meowing . . . But I don't have to tell you that these things aren't DELAYS to life—they're PART of it. Or maybe I should say working your way through them is part of it. They're like kinks in the garden hose of life—things you have to straighten out to get the right flow going. And I have a knack for kinks. I could be watering the lone plant on a vast prairie, and my garden hose would find SOMETHING to get kinked around. When that happens, you can yank and jerk and use all manner of colorful, what-would-my-Sunday-School-teacher-think language—nothing's happening until you stop, take that kink in hand, and straighten it out. Got a few kinks to work on right now? Me, too. Here's to abundant flow any day now:)

 

Daddy Says: "Self-Evident Truths"

From a recent phone call with Daddy:

Daddy: Over the years, I have found some things to be self-evident truths—things I've learned from my own experience. And I started writing them down this morning. Wanna hear the first one?

Me: Lemme have it.

Daddy: If you need a light to look inside your gas can and see if it's empty . . . a match is probably not the way to go.

Something Out of Nothing

This morning I lit the candles in the Story Shack. Sounds like a little thing, but it's not. I only light candles when I'm writing for myself—not when I'm doing a freelance job or organizing paperwork or sending emails—only when I'm writing something just because I want to. I've been a little frustrated lately with the lack of time I have to do that. But I spent yesterday watching some incredibly creative friends do a photo shoot in our back yard, and it reminded me of what it was that I missed. I missed creating something out of nothing, and I promised myself that I wouldn't let another day go by without carving out some time to do that. I guess you could say that anytime you write, you're making something out of nothing, but fiction writing is especially satisfying because you get to conjure up a whole universe that wasn't there before. You don't have to be a writer or an artist, though, to make something out of nothing. You do it everytime you cook or garden or sew or quilt or redecorate—or raise kids. I don't know why, but I think all of us need to feel like we've added a little something to the world, from time to time. And so . . . I'm committed to making these candles glow. I found them at Pier 1 and immediately knew they were bound for the Story Shack. The peacocks remind me of Aunt Callie, who used to raise these amazing birds. I remember childhood visits to her beautiful white-columned house, when I would follow the peacocks all over her yard, hoping to see them fan out their spectacular tail feathers. Aunt Callie was one of the most creative women I ever knew. She could mend her own fences, handle a schoolroom full of students and make sure they learned something, paint beautiful china . . . When the peacocks are glowing in my office, I like to think Aunt Callie's watching over me. And I can imagine her saying, in that lovely Old South accent she had: "So you wish you were writing? Well then, my deah, stop wishing and get on with it!"

Kids on a Creek Bank

The kids in this picture are all grown up now. They are cousins. When this picture was taken, they were exploring the creek at Uncle Chick and Aunt Grace's on the Fourth of July, while the adults kept an eye on them from their lawn chairs and picnic quilts under the shade trees nearby. The little boy didn't live near the two girls, and he was mighty excited to discover children to play with at our barbecue. I ran across this picture the other day, and it reminded me of so many long-ago family get-togethers, when I'd get so excited about a visit from my own cousins, especially the distant ones I didn't see very often. I hope these three cross paths again as the years go by. And I hope they all remember this golden day on the creek bank together.

Sunday Morning Serenity

I remember how I thought of Daddy when this picture was made. He was DADDY, for heaven's sake, the one with all the answers. But I've done the math now, and I know better. I was about four years old when the two of us stepped into one of those little photo booths for this picture. So he must've been 29 or 30. A kid. Just a young, clueless parent trying to figure it out as he went along. And I have to say, he did OK. You're grown before you realize that your parents are just people—in my case, just a teenage couple who met in high school and had enough love between them to stay together for . . . I think we're going on 53 years now? (I'll be in big trouble if they read this and find out I'm fuzzy on their anniversary. But I have trouble remembering how long I've been married, so there.) On this Father's Day, I would like to thank Daddy—June Bug as I sometimes call him:)—for so many things, but most of all, for putting fatherhood first, even when that was hard to do. When I was really young, he sold life insurance in Birmingham, back when Highway 280, the main corridor into town, was a two-lane road. Not an easy commute. But he would make that drive, work all day, make it again, and then sit down with a little slateboard and a piece of chalk when he got home and teach me my alphabet because I wanted to read so badly. (Later, he and Mama both had the unfortunate task of trying to help me with math, which I most certainly did NOT want to learn. Witness my expression in homework photo at right.) Daddy has always believed in making things special. When I had to have a just-so pair of sandals, he would stop by Parisian after work and bring a new pair home every night. I'd shake my head no, he'd return them the next day and bring a new pair the following night. He did that every night for a week till I finally got happy with my footwear. All of this for a preschooler. When I saw a chimpanzee on TV and decided I wanted to raise one, he actually looked into it. Until Mama found out:) I wanted to be Peggy Fleming. He investigated figure skating opportunities, even though we were living in rural Alabama with nary a rink in sight. I had a special gift, as a child, for getting deathly ill just before Christmas and upending everybody's plans, but he always tried to make me feel better about missing out on the family gift swaps. And he always tried to make sure my most longed-for present was under the tree, even though money was pretty scarce back then. He loves shopping—for me—and I admire that. He loves sharing good music with me, and I appreciate that. He loves sharing time with me, and the older I get, the more I treasure that. As a very young father, Daddy mastered the art of being there. And he's held onto it for all of my 49-and-counting years. So thanks, June Bug. I love you very much.

 

Visions of Marlo

I look at this picture now and don't find it entirely hideous. But the first time I saw it—in 3rd or 4th grade—I was completely disgusted. I had expected to look like Marlo Thomas on That Girl. But as you can see, my hair is noticeably flatter than Marlo's. Of course, I didn't realize at the time that she likely had a whole hairdo team to roll, tease, and cement her hair into that poofy flip that I so admired. This wasn't the only school picture to disappoint me. Picture day was always stressful because I knew that image was going to be plastered into the yearbook for all to see, for all eternity. There would be the packet of prints Mama would buy—one 8x10 to frame and smaller ones to clip apart and distribute to the grandparents and aunts and uncles. For days, I would ponder my outfit and hair. But then when picture day came, we all stood in that line, hopped up on a stool with classmates watching, and BOOM—in seconds, it was over. That picture was MADE. Done. Headed for a frame in the living room for the next year. Fast-forward to my magazine days. Several times, I had my picture taken by Southern Living photographers who knew how to make ANYBODY look good. And I can't help wondering how much happier I would've been with my school portraits if those school photographers could've taken the time to work with me the way my friends on the magazine did : Okay now, let's adjust the lights and try a different angle. Is it me or is that plaid a little busy? Let's get some wardrobe options in here. And fluff her hair. Or maybe a wig. Do we need props? Maybe she wouldn't look so terrified if she were holding a puppy. Hand me that beagle. On second thought, you know what would be great? Coastal light. Load up, everybody, we're moving this shoot to Florida . . .

Daddy Says: "I'd Be Skinny As A Rail"

At the Sunday lunch table with Dave and Daddy:

Daddy: I have GOT to do something about all this weight I've put on.

Dave: Wouldn't it be great if we could talk it off?

Daddy: Why, I'd be skinny as a rail!

Daddy Says: "Think how much she could be learning"

Phone call with Daddy the other day:

Daddy: I must be the dullest husband in the universe.

Me: Why?

Daddy: Because your mother reads all the time. She reads ALL the time.

Me: So she likes to read—so what?

Daddy: Think how much she could be learning by listening to me talk!

Mama Says: "You won't believe what we found."

Yesterday, Dave and I celebrated our seventh wedding anniversary. And this is what we had for dessert. Tastefully wrapped in this trash bag is the top layer of our wedding cake—from seven years ago. When we were planning our wedding, the one thing I knew for sure was that I wanted Jan Moon to make one of her Dream Cakes for the bride's table. Jan's cakes are out of this world. (And because we must've been livin' right, my friend Mary Allen Perry, who created a gazillion Christmas cover cakes for Southern Living, GAVE us a whole groom's table full of chocolate wonders, for which we could never thank her enough.) Our guests devoured all of the above while we were still in the receiving line. Write this down: Don't put food in front of a bunch of Baptists if you don't want it gone. Mother saved the top layer of the cake and froze it so we could have it on our first anniversary. We forgot. On our second anniversary, when I asked about the cake, she said, "You got that already." For years, we have argued about the wedding cake, with Mama insisting she didn't have it while I insisted she did.

Well. Last week she called. She and Daddy were cleaning out "the deep freeze." And there it was, carefully wrapped in layers and layers of plastic wrap and then wrapped again in a white kitchen garbage bag. I brought it home, and we thawed it yesterday. After supper, we broke out the champagne flutes with silver hearts on them—another wedding present—and had a bite of cake and an anniversary toast. (We thought it best not to eat an entire seven-year-old dessert—but we were tempted.) Now, the fondant was a little worse for wear in places, and Jan's beautiful decorations had gotten smudged a little, but y'all, that cake smelled DIVINE and tasted great. It was still moist even. And if I wanted to get all philosophical about it, I could say that marriage is a lot like that cake. Sure, your icing might start to sag a little over the years, but if you start with quality ingredients and handle it with care . . . it's pretty sweet.