Goin' Down to Mama's

Belated Yankee Doodle Dandy

I fully intended to blog about the Fourth of July yesterday, but absolutely nothing came. Nothing. I watched news reports about our troops overseas, sending messages home to their families, and I got a huge lump in my throat—but still had nothing to say. I scanned the program lineup on Direct TV, hoping for Gary Cooper or Robert Mitchum in uniform. (That usually does the trick.) But no. And then, when everybody else was long past their barbecue and out watching the last burst of fireworks, I had a memory flash of the most patriotic moment I've ever had . . . in an airport, of all things. I was coming home from my one (and so far only) trip abroad. It wasn't as if I had been to a war zone or anything. I had been to London, easily one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen. The trip was part of a corporate exchange, so I had stayed, free of charge, in posh accommodations, learned a whole lot about publishing, and met some perfectly lovely people who made me feel welcome. No complaints about that fair city across The Pond. Not one. And yet, after three weeks, I was incredibly homesick, and not just for Dave and my folks and fried green tomatoes—I was homesick for the USA. Granted, I missed the scenery—the "purple mountain's majesty and amber waves of grain"—but there was something more.  I was homesick for something inside America. Something at the core. It took me a long time to figure it out, but I finally put my finger on it. One word: optimism. I think America is, at its heart, an optimistic country. Even now. We talk constantly about the recession and the uncertainty and the threats to our safety and the inadequacies of many of the politicians who are supposed to lead us through all that. It's not an easy world that we live in. But I would be willing to bet that most of us still believe somehow, somewhere down the road, things will get better. Not only that, we believe we can MAKE things get better. That's just part of the red-white-and-blue DNA. So what was that patriotic moment I mentioned earlier? After three weeks away, I had just landed at the Atlanta airport. And as I made my way off the plane and out of the gate in a sea of fellow travelers, I looked up to see two big signs that were about to part us: "United States Citizens" and "Visitors." A big smile went across my face as I stepped under my sign. Our sign. We're not perfect—far from it. We've got problems—huge ones. Still . . . happy and proud to stand under that sign—and mighty grateful to those who sacrificed everything to put me there.
[Image by Chance Agrella at Freerangestock.com]

"I Love to Hear Tell"

One of Eudora Welty's novels—I think it's Losing Battles—has a scene where a group of adult relatives are gathered around talking, and as one of the family kids sits down to listen, she says, "I love to hear tell." I'm right there with her. I've always loved to hear tell. The first time Dave went to a family gathering with me, years before we married, he asked me what yard games we were taking with us. I told him we didn't need any. "Well, what do you do all day?" he asked. "Well," I said, "we eat and we talk." Some of my friends knew I was hosting a family "hen party" last Saturday—our periodic cousins-and-aunts reunion—and they asked me how it went and what we did. What we did was raise the roof off my house, laughing and talking and telling stories all afternoon. When I was at Baylor, I remember a Sunday School teacher telling our class that he had decided to start an oral history project for his family—organized storytelling. And that seemed so strange to me because I grew up with oral history floating in the air all around me. You've heard the expression "if these walls could talk." Well the walls in my grandmother's house just about could. Aunt Joyce, Uncle Ferrell, and Uncle Guy—the three in the center of the picture above—are gone now, but I can hear their voices just as plainly as if they were in the room with me. Aunt Joyce's wry wit and the way she would exclaim, "Oh-good-lord!" when she found something utterly ridiculous. (That lowercase "l" on "lord" was intentional, as Aunt Joyce would never take the Lord's name in vain.) Uncle Ferrell's love of mischief and fun and "Great Scots!" Uncle Guy's innate politeness and kindness and the sound of his laughter. Those are things you'll miss in a text message or an email. And that's why I love to gather on a family porch. That's why I love to hear tell.

Easter Angels

Strange things have been happening this week. Dave and I went "down to Mama's" after church last Sunday, and I came in the kitchen door like always and headed to my old bedroom to change clothes like always. Just as I was about to walk through the living room, I expected to see my grandmother—Grandme. I don't mean I had a sudden memory of her. I mean for a split second, I was getting ready to speak to her and ask her how she was feeling today because I was expecting to see her, sitting in the recliner by the picture window. I was almost surprised when she wasn't there. And then a few days later, I was at home making lunch, pulling a shortcut rotisserie chicken off the bone. All of a sudden, I wasn't seeing my own hands, but Aunt Vivian's, working dough for a big pot of chicken and dumplings in Grandme's old kitchen. And then later, when I was planning our Good Friday program at church, I could just hear Aunt Joyce's voice saying, "You're supposed to have music during the Right Hand of Christian Fellowship." (She got a little put out one time when a preacher neglected to invite me to the piano to play as the congregation welcomed a new member:) The women in our family have always been a tight circle. You can count on them to be there when you need them. I guess I feel like Grandme and Aunt Vivian and Aunt Joyce are my Easter angels, making their presence felt when I need them most. And I sure do need them right now. The past two weeks have been . . . challenging. Right after I forked over a truckload of money for new glasses, some unexpected home repairs came our way, and THEN my car decided it needed a new fuel pump and maybe even a new transmission. I get the feeling the car senses it's almost paid for and is looking for new ways to drain our bank account. I know how lucky I am to have the abundance of freelance work that makes all this an inconvenience and not a disaster. It's just that keeping up with the pay-the-bills work doesn't leave much time for the kind of soul-feeding writing that I love to do—need to do really. So once again, I find myself struggling for balance. Do you ever stop doing that? I look at the pictures of these special women—that's Aunt Joyce in the rocker and Aunt Vivian on the car—and I wonder about their struggle. They were both such good mothers—and second mothers to me—that it's hard for me to think of them as anything else. But they were. Before they were wives and mothers and aunts, they were women. And sisters. What did they want for themselves? What tiny little piece of themselves did they keep all their own, after they had given so much to everybody else? And my grandmother—did she even have time to think about anything for herself with a farm to run and kids to raise after my grandfather died in an accident? I seriously doubt it. All three of "my angels" were huge influences on me—and an incredible support system for me. They were also some of the most resilient women I've ever known. Maybe that's why they seem so near this week. Maybe they're trying to tell me something. Bills will always be there. Cars are going to break down. Work is going to pile up. But The Sisters don't give in and we don't give up. We keep believing. Always.

Hey, Can I Have a Quarter?

 

Remember the joys of slipping a quarter into a metal slot and turning a knob to see what prize you had won? The toy rings would always be prominently sparkling in those little plastic bubbles in front, but nine times out of ten, I'd put in my quarter, hoping for a ring, only to see a rubber spider or a jaw breaker or something equally unexciting come tumbling out. Still, I had to try my luck whenever my folks had some spare change. Of course, that same quarter could also fetch a "ride" in a motorized car or airplane, which basically wobbled back and forth after you put your money in. They used to have them outside grocery stores, and I could usually score a quarter for a ride if I had behaved myself and not begged for too much on the candy aisle. But somehow, those rides lacked the thrill of the bubblegum/prize machine. Maybe it was because you knew what was going to happen. The element of surprise was lost. Cracker Jack understood that. When I was a kid, those Cracker Jack prizes were something. Nowadays, they tend to be of the paper variety—a press-on tattoo or a quiz or something. But in the sixties? Sometimes they required assembly (which is to say, they required my older cousin Richard). We're talking vehicles, fashion accessories—sometimes I couldn't wait to eat my way to my treasure and I'd dump that sticky popcorn into a bowl so I could quickly fish through it. I guess I've always been excited about loot—especially jewelry. When I was little, I had dreadful baby teeth (because I preferred orange juice to milk) and spent many long hours in the office of Dr. Ivan Smith in Childersburg. Dr. Smith was amazing—the calmest, most painless dentist you can imagine. But what made him truly wonderful is that, once you got your tooth pulled or filled or otherwise dealt with, his nurse would lead you to a special closet which held a tray of toy RINGS! And you got to pick one out for yourself. (Take that, bubblegum machine! No quarter required!) You cannot imagine how I would agonize over my choice. It didn't matter how much Novocaine I had ingested or how puffed with gauze my cheeks were, this was a serious decision, not to be rushed. I would hold my hand out and admire my selection all the way home. And so, while the bubblegum machine and Cracker Jack held a certain thrill, over time I came to appreciate the certainty of Dr. Smith and his beautiful tray of rings. I also learned to drink milk.

"A Little Help from My Friends"

Growing up, I always had so much family around me, such a huge support system of kin, that I had to leave home to understand just how important friendship is. It's when you're away from your family—from the people who love you because they have to:)—that you appreciate people who love you because they choose to. Dave and I have been blessed with many wonderful friends—next-door neighbors we adore, couples we met through his tennis leagues, the "car guys" who've helped him rebuild two vintage cars, church friends, childhood friends, and college friends who still encourage me when I'm convinced I'll never write another decent word. The women pictured with me here are three of my dearest friends from Southern Progress/Southern Living. I'm the toothy chick in red, with Carole and Jen next to me. Front and center is Jeanetta, who was our boss and mentor for a huge chunk of our careers. We were supposed to be having headshots made for an employee directory, and while we were at it, we made Jeanetta sit with us for a "family portrait." I know, without a doubt, that I will always keep up with these amazing women, no matter how far apart we might wander. Not long ago, I called my mother after a lunch with Jeanetta, who—as always—gave me exactly the pep talk I needed to keep pursuing an agent and publisher for my first book. "You know Jeanetta's right," I told Mama. "The worst thing anybody can do is say 'no,' so I've just got to get over this fear of rejection and get on with it." My mother's response: "See there? You just needed Jeanetta to get you going." Like the song says, you really WILL get by with a little help from your friends. (Just a little Beatles wisdom to kick off your weekend:)