Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

This has been a hard, hard weekend but a blessed one, too, as our family came together for a visitation and funeral service honoring Daddy's brother, my Uncle Jimmy. I couldn't resist sharing one of my favorite family pictures—Uncle Jimmy and his wife of over 50 years, my Aunt Linda, back in the day:)

When we gathered at the church late Friday afternoon, none of us was thinking about food. Most of us were surprised when the pastor's wife called us back to the fellowship hall for supper. And I honestly can't explain why that particular meal meant so much to me. But there was something about coming together as a family, offering thanks, and sharing food that was both prepared and served to us with loving hands—it just telegraphed, "We'll help you get through this." 

If you're from the South, you could probably guess the menu: fried chicken, roast beef, baked ham, potato casserole, macaroni and cheese, green beans, potato salad . . . There's a reason why they call it comfort food. Those familiar dishes take you back home, where you can believe everything's going to be all right. And that brief time around the table together fortifies you—not just physically, but spiritually and emotionally—for what's coming. One of my dear Southern Living friends, Susan, used to say, "Food is how Southern people love on each other." 

Sometimes you don't know how empty you feel until someone feeds you. When other families are grieving, it's easy to think,"What could I possibly do that would help them get over such a great loss?" Maybe we can't help them get over it, but we can help them get through it—sometimes with small kindnesses that seem like nothing to us at the time but might mean the world to them.

Thank you, Pelham Church of God, for showing so much love to our family. I'm so proud of my cousins, who planned the perfect service for their dad, and of sweet Fraser Lee for honoring his grandfather so beautifully. I could imagine Uncle Jimmy looking down on us with that mischievous grin of his and saying, "Man, I musta been somethin'!" You sure were—and always will be.

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

Late Friday night, we lost Uncle Jimmy—Daddy’s baby brother, his only sibling, and the beloved owner of a big piece of his heart. That's the two of them, photographed by my cousin Amy while they were watching one of her boys play ball.

Daddy called to tell me early Saturday morning, and as I was leaving to go see about him, Dave said, “It’s okay to cry, you know.” I’ve felt a little sick ever since I walked into the CCU last week and found Uncle Jimmy’s daughters crying, and his pastor praying, and doctors and nurses preparing to send him home so he could be with his family. I know he's in a better place. And as sad as the rest of us are, there are two sisters—Granny and Aunt Mac—who are rejoicing to be with him again. (If there's a kitchen in heaven, Aunt Mac is in it right now, making Uncle Jimmy some tomato gravy.)

The truth is that I can’t wrap my brain around life without my mischievous, fun-loving uncle. Without his laugh and his funny stories and the banter that he, Daddy, and their like-a-brother cousin, my Uncle Billy Dave, used to carry on. Without Mama looking out the kitchen window and calling to Daddy, “Jimmy just pulled up!”

Uncle Jimmy “pulled up” a lot because he was a great brother. He lived his life his own way, played by his own rules, and never let anybody tell him what to do. But he would do anything and everything for "Brother Junior," which is what he called Daddy.

They didn’t always have an easy time growing up, and they had a bond like you wouldn’t believe. Daddy was so much older that he felt more like a father, I think, than a brother when they were kids. But as they got older, he leaned on Uncle Jimmy so much. It was his brother who could make him laugh when he was down, make him believe everything was going to be okay, remind him that you didn’t have to take life so seriously. Daddy’s closet is full of things Uncle Jimmy gave him—never for any special occasion, always just because.

I've seen an entire hospital waiting room break into laughter because they couldn't resist whatever story Uncle Jimmy was telling to lighten the mood while we waited for a family member to come out of surgery. One time, a pastor who was waiting with us mentioned some little town in Tennessee, and I saw a gleam in Uncle Jimmy's eye before he said, "I know that town—I think we used to run a little whiskey through there." No doubt, he did it just to see my mother's horrified expression and hear her scolding "Jimmy FRASER!" Never could there be two more opposite human beings than my mother and my uncle, but she adored him, and he was always there for both of my parents.

Sometimes, people are special to us because they completely get us. I’m pretty sure my adventurous, go-big-or-go-home Uncle Jimmy didn’t get me—a timid, rule-following bookworm who couldn’t ride a horse if her life depended on it. But he always made me feel like I was A-okay. And the notion that somebody as cool as he was seemed to think I was fine just the way I was—geekiness and all—that meant so much. It always will.

Crying now. I love you, my uncle.

Sunday Morning Serenity

I imagine one of the hardest things about being a parent is actually helping your kids do things that terrify you. Mama spent my junior year of high school unraveling the bureaucratic maze of college applications and student loans and financial aid—because as much as she didn't want me to leave home, she wanted me to have an education. She drove me to Auburn and stood in line with me—correction—MANY looooong lines as we tried to register me for classes and pay my fees. (I try not to feel bitter toward Auburn students today, who can register on the internet and never have to endure those lines, which sometimes wrapped around the coliseum.)

When I moved to Texas (you can guess how Mama felt about that) for graduate school at Baylor, she helped me load all my worldly possessions into a Ford Mercury Monarch, and the two of us struck out for Waco. It was 107 degrees when we got there, and the electricity to my apartment hadn't been connected. We had to go to the Sheraton downtown for air conditioning and hope no thieves spotted the clearly visible portable television in the back seat, as it was worth $200, and we couldn't afford to replace it. Daddy and Granny came to pick her up about a week later. It was a hard departure for all of us, but somehow we made it through.

Needless to say, she inspires most, if not all, of my Mama stories for Southern Living. I always call her and read them to her before I turn them in. She'll laugh (if it's funny) but then she'll say, "Where do you GET this stuff?" I just pull it outta thin air, Mama:)

I so respect her strong faith, her generosity, her compassion for people in need, her strength and determination—and her green thumb and ability to duplicate Aunt Vivian's chocolate icing. There's only one Nannette. I am blessed to have her by my side and on my side. And I'm blessed that she has such good taste in husbands. 

Happy Mother's Day, Mama!