Goin' Down to Mama's

Imagine That

My younger cousin Marie still marvels at "that big red ball" the older kids in the family used to entertain her with. (For readers under 45, it was called the Hippity Hop—or Hoppity Hop?—and it was sort of like an exercise ball with a handle on top. You sat on it, jumped up and down, and convinced yourself that the bounce you were, for the most part, generating was created entirely by the ball. It was "a ride.") That's Marie and Stanley in the saddle, with Kathy and me on foot. Heaven knows what we were telling the youngsters to pretend: "You're a cowboy! You're on Rawhide! You're on a buckin' bronc! Yee-ha!!"

In our rural Alabama of the 60s and 70s, there was no cable TV or internet. There were no video games or hand-held electronic gizmos and certainly no cell phones with unlimited texting. You needed some serious imagination. You had to improvise. Kathy and I used to set up a supermarket in Grandme's kitchen. There was a long bank of metal cabinets under the sink, where my mother stored canned goods. We'd take the cans out and put them in my doll stroller—that was our shopping cart. I had a toy cash register, which we put on the only tiny counter in the kitchen. The emptied-out cabinets became our station wagon (because Mrs. Brady and all the other women on TV who went grocery shopping had station wagons). One of us would be the shopper, the other "the check-out girl." We'd slide the cans across the counter, ring them up on the register, pile them back into the baby stroller, push them across "the parking lot" (which was a foot-wide stretch of kitchen floor), then unload them into the back cabinet under the sink. The shopper would then climb into the front cabinet and drive away, using a pie tin as a steering wheel. 

My parents' bedroom was our play office because we could envision Mama's sewing machine cabinet and dresser as our desks. In the woods behind the barn, our Barbie dolls became secret agents, climbing trees to hide from the bad guys and swinging through the jungle on hay rope we tied to pine trees. Our bicycles were horses or cars or motorcycles or whatever form of transportation we dreamed up for the day. Laying Mama's ironing board flat on the floor, we have stood (make that wobbled) on it and surfed many an imaginary wave while singing the theme to Hawaii Five-O. (It went like this: dunh-dunh-dunh-dunh duuunh, duuunh; dunh-dunh-dunh-dunh duuuunh.) We built forts and rocket ships out of stuff we found around the farm and played General Hospital in a back bedroom/storage catch-all at Grandme's house. That game ramped up considerably when Kathy's older brother, Richard, showed us how to turn my Suzy Homemaker bonnet hair dryer into an anesthesia machine. He also drew us some ribs to tape to my light-up tracing board so we could have X-rays. (Aren't the advances in modern medicine just amazing?) We strung Christmas lights over my old upright piano so it would light up like Donny Osmond's, and when my mother finally—FINALLY—got to buy a new refrigerator, well, I don't have to tell you what kind of possibilities a box that size held for us. We played with it for weeks.

Imagination is a good thing. When friends hear that I'm trying to publish my first novel, they sometimes ask how long I've been writing fiction. I guess the answer is . . . with a little help from my cousins . . . for a while:) 

Married Woman Away from Home

I used to be baffled by the way my parents could drive each other bananas on the one hand and yet seem absolutely lost without each other. But I get it now. Dave and I have been married less than 10 years to Mama and Daddy's 50-plus, but I get it. Especially when I travel without him, as I'm doing (against my will, for business) right now. I can remember when I used to invite Mama on Southern Living trips with me, and she'd be so excited to "get outta that house!" But we wouldn't be five miles down the road till Daddy was calling her cell to see "where are y'all at?" and "are ya havin' a good time?" or she would be calling him to make sure he remembered that there was plenty of leftover ham in the refrigerator or to remind him how to turn on the washing machine. There's a vast difference between GETTING married and BEING married. Getting married means putting on the most expensive dress you'll ever own, fillng up your china cabinet, and planning your honeymoon. Being married means learning to live—every day of your life—with another person (who, by the way, has to learn to live with YOU). It's knowing exactly what size tea glass crosses him over from one Sweet N Low to two. Or that he's never going to like peas, ever. And that he'll listen to Ray Charles and Elvis 24-7 if you'll let him. I never appreciate Dave more than when I travel without him, mostly because we like traveling together so much. Dave's idea of a good time on the road is showing ME a good time on the road, and a person can get spoiled to that. The picture above was taken on Hatteras Island, on North Carolina's Outer Banks. We had struggled on that trip because those particular beaches just aren't very wheelchair accessible. But Dave is a problem-solver, so once we realized that you can drive on some of the beaches there, we spotted this place that rented tiny off-road 4-wheelers. The sweet young couple who owned it were determined to help us get to the Atlantic—and get there, we did. All afternoon, we drove on those gorgeous beaches, right beside the ocean. Those are the kind of snapshots that stay etched on your brain forever—the times you worked a problem together and turned it into an adventure. Yesterday, I was one blue old married lady. But today, I hear birds chirping outside, I'm optimistic about the work I'll get done, and I have a little spring in my step. Why? Because tomorrow morning, as soon as there's the first hint of daylight in the sky . . . I'm going HOME!

Wind Chime Weather

My wind chimes were really singing yesterday. The ones pictured here hang from the Story Shack porch, but I also have a tree limb beside our deck that's loaded with them. One of these days, I'm going to invest in a serious set—those huge chimes that sound like church bells. Singing wind chimes are a sign of blustery weather, which I've always loved. My mother used to have to drag me into the house (and sometimes into my uncle's storm cellar) to get me out of a storm because I loved to feel the wind and watch the sky turn purple and smell the rain stirring up dust as it came across the cotton fields. Don't get me wrong. I saw "tornadic activity" up close and personal last spring and hope never to see it again. And the first pop of cloud-to-ground lightning will send me under the bed. But as long as the end result isn't damage or injury, I love a good thunderstorm. I felt a little less odd about that when a good friend from Charleston—someone I consider perfectly sane—confessed an affection for hurricanes (low categories, of course). During a recent work trip, I met a writer from California's wine country, so being a typical Southerner, I had to ask, "What's the weather like there?" He said it almost never storms. I couldn't imagine it. Here, storms usher the seasons in and out. I wouldn't know how to get from winter to spring without one. They're especially dramatic down on the Gulf, where, in a matter of minutes, a bright blue sky can turn an ominous shade of Armageddon—and then clear again just as quickly. I didn't realize how much Southern weather colors the way I see things till I started writing fiction. There's heat (and humidity) and pouring rain on tin roofs and rumbling thunder and blustery winds all through my first book. And if it ever gets published, there's going to be a hurricane in the second one. Yet another reason for writers to love the South: We don't have to create drama—it's already here. It's in the air.

Mississippi Palm Trees

Something about palm trees on the Mississippi coast reminds me of that cousin visiting from out of town—she's just as sweet as she can be and perfectly fine company, but bless her heart, you can just tell she's "not from around here." It's not that you won't see palms all over this coast. It's just that they will forever be overshadowed by the granddaddy of all Southern trees . . .

Behold, the live oak. I confess to a live oak obsession, but not in general—just in Mississippi. These massive, majestic, craggly trees line the beach highway from Biloxi to Bay St. Louis and arch over downtown streets in Ocean Springs. In some spots, you'll see whole groves of them—acres of them—fronting Mississippi Sound. It's the live oak that gives this coast what songwriter Kate Campbell would call "Southern noir." There's something a little bit haunted and romantic about this stretch of the Gulf, something a little bit mysterious, especially at night, when the live oaks reach up to a darkening coastal sky, backlit by the glow from beautiful homes—either survivors of Katrina or rebuilt since she did her worst. Formidable as they are, some of the live oaks didn't survive the standing saltwater after that storm, but Mississippi being Mississippi, she made the best of it and turned fallen trees into sculptures. It might be too late for me to become a multimillionaire, but on the off chance that it happens, my very first purchase would be land. Here. Among these trees, overlooking this water. I can picture Dave and me sitting in antique wicker rockers brought over from New Orleans, watching shrimp boats go by from the shade of our grand front porch, with the ceiling painted haint blue and Louis Armstrong playing on the outdoor sound system. I've given this just the tiniest bit of thought—can you tell? 

Reflections on Dwight Yoakam: Part 2

"You know in some ways, I think I'm probably a lot like Daddy," I told Dave last night, after spending the day with my folks. For some reason, this made my husband smile. "In some ways?" he said. Point taken. We're alike in a lot of ways. For example, neither one of us ever wants to be very far from a CD player. (Yes, I know—the world of technology has evolved and left us behind. We still buy CDs.) What we like best is discovering great songs and playing them for each other. This has sometimes caused embarassment at Barnes & Noble, where they have those "listening points" with headphones and selections of CDs to sample. Daddy would put on a pair, find something fabulous, and—forgetting that he was in a store full of people who were not wearing headphones and could, therefore, hear—he would shout across the store to me: "HEY C'MERE AND LISTEN TO THIS GATEMOUTH BROWN RECORD!! GATEMOUTH CAN REALLY SING IT, CAN'T HE?"

Yesterday, we took a drive together. "Got something I think you'll like," I said, popping Dwight Yoakam's If There Was a Way into the CD player. (I was apparently living under a rock when Dwight first came on the scene, but a friend played his acoustic CD for me a year or two ago, and I've been a rabid fan ever since.) I assured Daddy that he was about to hear The Real Deal. "I'll bet he's got a lotta songs about pickup trucks," Daddy said. "Nope," I said. "Dwight sticks to the essentials—heartache and heartbreak and, well, occasionally drinkin'—but no odes to the pickup truck." A mournful fiddle had barely cranked up on "The Heart That You Own" before Daddy said, "This is gonna be good. I can tell already." By the time Dwight and Patty Loveless hit those harmonies on "Send a Message to My Heart," Daddy was a bona fide fan. I sent him home with my CD because that's how it is when you stumble onto a great record. You want to listen to it again and again. (Daddy took over dishwashing when he retired, and I was pretty sure Dwight would be singin' him through the pot and pans that night.) The way I see it, I owed him that much. If he hadn't introduced me to Patsy Cline and Hank Williams, I wouldn't have sense enough to appreciate Dwight. I'll just make sure never to play his greatest hits for Daddy at Barnes & Noble. Might cause a scene.

My Beloved Alarm Clock

"Why, he's been waking her up for years." That's how my mother explained Daddy's wake-up calls to my cousin Grey, who wanted to know why I was booking a 5 a.m. call with Daddy for one day this week. And I had never thought about it, but she's right. This has been a ritual of ours for a good 20 years. Whenever I've had an early meeting or a red-eye flight to catch, I would ask Daddy to call me that morning and make sure I was awake. Why? Because he's the earliest riser I know, so no matter what time I had to get up, I knew I could count on him to be wide awake and ring that telephone till I answered. The funny thing is, I can't remember ever oversleeping for anything (especially now, when I'm often awake myself in the wee hours). But I've always been afraid that I would sleep through something important. So Daddy's my safety net—in more ways than one. You see, most of the time, when I have to get up really early, it's for something I'm anxious about—a trip I have to take without Dave, an interview I have to be prepared for, a meeting I hope will go well . . . So yes, I do want that assurance that I'll wake up on time. But I also want reassurance that everything's gonna be okay. And Daddy always includes that in his wake-up calls. Free of charge:)

Carpe That Diem

I still can't believe Granny and I made this trip, even though I've got the pictures to prove it and have written about it a time or two. I guess I can't fathom how the two of us—who had never traveled together before—began our series of journeys with, of all things, Birmingham to Key West by car. I didn't realize, when we left, that what Granny really wanted was not a vacation. What she wanted was to leave and never come back. She wanted to stay on "The Big Road," as she called it, forever. Nester that I am, I eventually wanted to come home, and she used every trick in the book to extend our stay. But in between driving each other a little crazy, we saluted the sunset at Mallory Square, road the Conch Train, shopped till we dropped, and took a cruise on a pirate ship, where Granny persuaded the captain to let her drive. We also took a ride on a glass-bottom boat to look at the coral reefs. The ride to the reefs was exhilarating, but then we dropped anchor, and everyone gathered around the glass viewing area, where the boat was slowly rocking back and forth, back and forth . . . and I turned absolutely green. Granny found me on the upper deck, where I had retreated to breathe some fresh air and spare the other passengers what promised to be a ghastly sight. When I told her what was wrong, she laughed till she couldn't catch her breath. "You mean I'm in my eighties and I'm perfectly fine, but you're seasick?" We took many trips after that one, and Granny told my mother that traveling with me was "just like traveling with Sustah." "Sustah" (that's Sister) was her sister, my Aunt Mac—who was as maternal as Granny was mischievous. And when they traveled together, Aunt Mac—like me, apparently—was the voice of reason and caution. (Granny got thoroughly put out with me when I refused to rent us a sailboat, even though I can't swim very well, she couldn't swim at all, and neither one of us knew the first thing about sailing.) Once, when we were heading to Ocean Springs, Mississippi, Granny spotted a little waterside park. "You know what I'd love to have?" she said. "I'd love to have a picture of myself in a red bra standing by that water." I laughed. "Yeah, Granny, that would be something." "No, you don't understand," she said. "What I mean is, I've got ON a red bra, and I want you to pull over there and take my picture by the water." I've got the red bra pictures tucked away.  Every time I look at them, I'm reminded that there's some serious spunk in my gene pool. And that's a good thing to have.

Time to "Grace It"

A while back, I was on the phone with my Uncle Chick, and I had let suppertime slip up on me. I told him I didn't know if I'd have food on the table when Dave got home. And he said, "Uh-oh. Time to Grace it." Aunt Grace—his wife—has a knack for shortcuts. She can cook an entire meal in the microwave, have a tasty pot of spaghetti ready in 20 minutes, de-salt stuff that's oversalted . . . she's got a million kitchen tricks up her sleeve. She and our friend Patti are also the go-to flower arrangers at our church. So when Mama and I decided we wanted to make our own Christmas arrangements, we asked Aunt Grace to come down and give us a lesson. I wanted something natural—a pine wreath. Mama wanted silk flowers. (She and Aunt Grace are both great gardeners, but they have no problem with "permanent botanicals," as my friend Sarah J. calls them. They consider pretty silks to be perfectly serviceable, practical, and economical. And you've gotta admit, your fertilizer bill goes way down.) The idea was that Aunt Grace would coach while Mama and I arranged. But really—who were we kidding? We're both a little challenged in this area, so we happily gathered pine cones and floral picks and snippers and vases and watched Aunt Grace go to work. Here's what I learned: (1) start arrangements in the center and work your way out; (2) florist's tape, picks, and wire are musts for your toolkit, and it doesn't hurt to have a glue gun, either; (3) straw, moss, and other cover-ups can hide most of your snafus, so arrange without fear; and (4) if you want your wreath a little on the loosey-goosey side, you'd better hide the wire from Aunt Grace because she cannot BELIEVE you want her to leave it that way. (It's OK, Aunt Grace. It'll look fine once I add a bow. And I promise to fill in any gaps. And I'll wire down any branches I add so it doesn't look messy. And I won't forget to . . . )

Co-Cola and Taxidermy

Hmmm. Co-cola, taxidermy, and a '63 Buick. Yep, we're in the South alright. This is one of my favorite shots from Cruiser's photo album. (Cruiser is currently being overhauled in Dave's garage, but hopes to be road-worthy next year.)

Daddy Says: "There's Hope for This Country"

After church on Sunday, I drove my parents to Fincher's, our favorite post-worship house of catfish in Childersburg. On the way there, we were still talking about our Saturday, which we spent in my cousin's cotton field with two of my Birmingham friends and the four children they have between them—three girls and a boy, all under the age of 8, all from the city, and all mighty excited to be turned loose to pick cotton with their very own hands. (Thank goodness Mama had the foresight to toss some Walmart bags in the truck, or we would've had cotton-storage issues.) Reflecting on our little adventure en route to catfish, my parents and I talked about how well the kids played together, how much fun they had trying to outpick each other, and how they didn't seem afraid to try something new. Daddy got downright philosophical about it: "You know, I saw a lot in that bunch that made me think there's hope for this country after all. I saw independence. I saw kindness. I saw courage. I saw competition. I saw compassion. I saw respect and good manners. Those are the kinda things that made this country great. And those kids will carry them on when they grow up." So thanks, you sweet kiddos, for giving Daddy a much-needed shot in the arm. You have restored his faith in the U.S. of A!