Make 'em laugh, make 'em have a good time and point out the absurd....do all that and they won't take notice of everything you hate about yourself. That's not a quote. That's the way I lived a lot of my life. Self-confidence never my forte, I lived looking for a thousand diversions to take people's attention away from what I thought they saw and put it, instead, on how darn entertaining and funny I can be (even if, on the inside, I thought myself to be one pathetic creature.) As long as they thought I was fun I could fight my own demons.
And that's a word I've heard thrown around a lot in the last 24 hours - "Demons." Very trendy. Very psycho-babble. . But something I fear that, sadly, is only associated with poor souls that have taken drastic measures. "They were fighting demons." "Here he is, discussing his own demons." Hell! We're ALL souls living inside very finite, physical vessels! I would think that we're ALL fighting enemies that would seek to destroy by trying to teach us to define ourselves in very temporal terms.
I grew up in a suburb of Atlanta that in a lot of ways was the "touch of country in the city" about which the Atlanta Rhythm Section sang so eloquently. I went to school, to church, to Boy Scouts, to the grocery store, to the barber shop and to the doctor with a lot of the same folks. But, in each of those locales, there existed different caste systems, each independent of the others. For instance, there were folks that would worship, sing and pray with me at church. But at school - there in the world of student councils, cheerleaders, drill teams, exclusive lunch tables, clubs and homecoming dances - they were forbidden from recognizing me as a living creature. I warranted a fleeting glance in hallways between classes - "I know you, but you understand I can't talk to you here, right?" It was in THAT world I learned to entertain people. It was in that world that a literature teacher first taught me the concept of the sad clown. Sad that - at such an innocent age - I could closely identify with what being a sad clown was all about.
Often the price of a creative mind is that it's nothing but a sponge. It absorbs all that it sees and hears and there are no barriers to what it will let inside itself. Unfortunately, the downside to that is that often the sad creeps in along with all the good stuff. Even if you can hear the laughter and the accolades you can also hear the jeers, coming mostly from yourself and the aforementioned demons. And sometimes the bad stuff wins. Sometimes you believe them when they tell you you're fighting battles you'll never win and that - despite the applause - you ain't about all that. If you've fought them your whole life, sometimes you don't want to fight anymore.
So, yet again, we're burdened with sadness because someone whose day to day existence is light years from our own is now gone. We wonder why we're so sad. But then we realize that it's because their craft became something that diverted our attention away from our own realities. Thanks for that, Robin Williams. Maybe you were tired and had no more craft to give. Maybe the sad clown just wanted to go somewhere and smile just for the sake of smiling...not because it was his job to make the rest of us smile.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Monday, June 2, 2014
'...cheer the living, dear...."
Some days, you wake up with your brain too damn full. Today a good friend of ours would've celebrated a birthday. I wrote a blog when back when she died. She loved the woman I love the most. She was the friend I was most worried about meeting, I knew her her opinion meant a lot to this sweet soul, the one I'd just started dating- the one with the world's cutest dimples and sweetest smile. And hers was the death I watched that sweet soul grapple with the most, wondering why it had to happen. I wish, still, I could tell her why.
Then, when this hit my mind, I started thumbing through yesterday's local paper. There was a story about about a gentleman that was the public address announcer for one of the local high schools for twenty-something years. He'd taken the job voluntarily when his sons started school there. He was 62 and out playing golf and had a heart attack. For this high school, it was Tech losing Al Ciraldo or Georgia losing Larry Munson (still the only thing I've ever like about the evil empire in Athens.) 62? That's 12 years from where I am right now! Hell, the flip-flops I'm wearing are probably more than 12 years old...12 years go by right quick! And 12 more years ain't NEAR enough time to build the life I want to build with the girl with the cutest dimples and sweetest smile.
And then I started thinking about the first time I experienced an unexplainable death. We found out my cousin Alan was sick when I was 16 years old. Until I got married, nobody on the planet knew me as well as Alan did (even if I was only 18 when he died.) I've never written much about him because it still hurts too bad. His is the only grave I ever go to and talk out loud.
The first vehicle I ever drove (even before I was old enough to drive) was his 1970-something big, black Silverardo. I now drive a big, black Ford F-150 with a lot more bells and whistles than his Silverardo had (he'd be shocked to know that I can answer my phone by pushing a button on my steering wheel!) When I do go and talk to his grave, I always try to irritate him with a little truck envy.
He taught me to love dogs, I think. When the world's most beautiful Irish Setter died he dug a hole big enough to bury a Volkswagen, crying the whole time. He'd be glad to know that since I ran into the kitchen for more coffee, scribbling notes for this blog on a piece of paper (and shedding a few tears myself) a Labrador Retriever followed me to find out what was wrong.
When I was a small child he called me "Monkey." Years after I was small child (when I was a teenager and he was pretty sick) I was talking to him in the part of the day he and I used to always find ourselves talking. The late hours of a summer day when the sun had gone down but the air's still hot and the lightning bugs and cicadas have come out to play. "Monkey, just because this has happened to me doesn't mean that bad things are out there, waiting to happen to you. Don't live scared..." I wish to God that teen-aged awkwardness hadn't kept me from saying something more meaningful than "Ok, I won't." I now know that those few words represent some of the greatest advice ever given me by anyone.
He'd be most disappointed if he knew that I STILL live very much afraid of many things. I rationalize it by saying "well, if he'd lived longer, he would've found out how scary life can get!" But somewhere, deep in my soul, I also know that he'd smack me upside the back of my head and throw me in Lake Lanier - "QUIT WHINING! LET'S GO SWIMMING!!" That's how I learned to swim, after all. (He'd also probably be disappointed to find that you can't discipline a knucklehead in the waters of Lake Lanier anymore without a soccer mom calling 9-1-1 from the cul-de-sac that now resides where our woods and our playground used to grow.)
I said all of that to say this - I was most confused by Alan's death and - at 50 years old - I'm still pretty confused. If we leave here for a much better place, whey does everyone get so sad when someone dies? I reckon it's because they're no longer here to help US figure out what's taking place in our very temporal neck of the woods. I don't much care if I never walk the "streets of gold." The only gold I've ever owned is the gold I purchased when I got married. I'd just like to think that when my time comes, I'll spend eternity pulling fish out of a lake with Alan and his father, my Uncle Ralph (who was more a father to me than my biological father.) And then, when the girl with the cutest dimples and the sweetest smile comes along later (you know, statistics show that's what will happen!) I can say "Come over here and meet Alan..."
And he'll grin... "You did good, Monkey."
Then, when this hit my mind, I started thumbing through yesterday's local paper. There was a story about about a gentleman that was the public address announcer for one of the local high schools for twenty-something years. He'd taken the job voluntarily when his sons started school there. He was 62 and out playing golf and had a heart attack. For this high school, it was Tech losing Al Ciraldo or Georgia losing Larry Munson (still the only thing I've ever like about the evil empire in Athens.) 62? That's 12 years from where I am right now! Hell, the flip-flops I'm wearing are probably more than 12 years old...12 years go by right quick! And 12 more years ain't NEAR enough time to build the life I want to build with the girl with the cutest dimples and sweetest smile.
And then I started thinking about the first time I experienced an unexplainable death. We found out my cousin Alan was sick when I was 16 years old. Until I got married, nobody on the planet knew me as well as Alan did (even if I was only 18 when he died.) I've never written much about him because it still hurts too bad. His is the only grave I ever go to and talk out loud.
"I cannot buy you happiness, I cannot buy you years. I cannot buy you happiness in place of all the tears. But I can buy for you a gravestone, to lay behind your head. Gravestones cheer the living, dear, they're no use to the dead."(Steve Noonan/Greg Copeland - Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, 1967)
The first vehicle I ever drove (even before I was old enough to drive) was his 1970-something big, black Silverardo. I now drive a big, black Ford F-150 with a lot more bells and whistles than his Silverardo had (he'd be shocked to know that I can answer my phone by pushing a button on my steering wheel!) When I do go and talk to his grave, I always try to irritate him with a little truck envy.
He taught me to love dogs, I think. When the world's most beautiful Irish Setter died he dug a hole big enough to bury a Volkswagen, crying the whole time. He'd be glad to know that since I ran into the kitchen for more coffee, scribbling notes for this blog on a piece of paper (and shedding a few tears myself) a Labrador Retriever followed me to find out what was wrong.
When I was a small child he called me "Monkey." Years after I was small child (when I was a teenager and he was pretty sick) I was talking to him in the part of the day he and I used to always find ourselves talking. The late hours of a summer day when the sun had gone down but the air's still hot and the lightning bugs and cicadas have come out to play. "Monkey, just because this has happened to me doesn't mean that bad things are out there, waiting to happen to you. Don't live scared..." I wish to God that teen-aged awkwardness hadn't kept me from saying something more meaningful than "Ok, I won't." I now know that those few words represent some of the greatest advice ever given me by anyone.
He'd be most disappointed if he knew that I STILL live very much afraid of many things. I rationalize it by saying "well, if he'd lived longer, he would've found out how scary life can get!" But somewhere, deep in my soul, I also know that he'd smack me upside the back of my head and throw me in Lake Lanier - "QUIT WHINING! LET'S GO SWIMMING!!" That's how I learned to swim, after all. (He'd also probably be disappointed to find that you can't discipline a knucklehead in the waters of Lake Lanier anymore without a soccer mom calling 9-1-1 from the cul-de-sac that now resides where our woods and our playground used to grow.)
I said all of that to say this - I was most confused by Alan's death and - at 50 years old - I'm still pretty confused. If we leave here for a much better place, whey does everyone get so sad when someone dies? I reckon it's because they're no longer here to help US figure out what's taking place in our very temporal neck of the woods. I don't much care if I never walk the "streets of gold." The only gold I've ever owned is the gold I purchased when I got married. I'd just like to think that when my time comes, I'll spend eternity pulling fish out of a lake with Alan and his father, my Uncle Ralph (who was more a father to me than my biological father.) And then, when the girl with the cutest dimples and the sweetest smile comes along later (you know, statistics show that's what will happen!) I can say "Come over here and meet Alan..."
And he'll grin... "You did good, Monkey."
Sunday, May 11, 2014
Baseball and the pretty little black-haired girl....
Ham & Effie could do anything for the mill families - their wash, their cooking, their babysitting, their grocery shopping, any odd jobs that would make them a nickel or two to keep food on their own table. The only thing they couldn't do was come up on the porch. Wouldn't be proper for black folks to come up on white folks' property like that. So when the wash was delivered you met them on the sidewalk. When they delivered your groceries they left them there on that same sidewalk. When the young un's were kept they walked to the corner to meet the old black couple that were at the same time family, employees, and outsiders. When caring for this gaggle of mill children it was sometimes decided the afternoon could be best spent watching the Crackers play at Ponce de Leon Park. At that time it was probably still called "Spiller Park" or "Spiller Field." The only glitch was that for the children to remain in Ham & Effie's care they would have to sit in the "Colored" section of the old ballyard.
In this group there was this one little black-haired girl perched there in the segregated seats watching baseball (if, in fact, there WERE seats..it might've been a standing only area.) I imagine the other children pulling ponytails, begging for peanuts (if, in fact concessions were even afforded the "coloreds." ) and running circles around themselves, keeping themselves entertained during those long, slow summer games. But in the midst of that childish chaos, I'm almost certain that little black-haired girl stood and stared at the game in front of her. It would've been a sight to see, a little white girl being given a tutorial by the old black man, pointing out every nuance of a game that for her was a natural attraction, a first love, not just sport or entertainment. There were superstitions, tendencies, chess-like moves a manager makes in anticipation of the pitcher's spot coming up in the next inning, thousands of things you could see taking place, if only you knew what to watch for. Folklore about the stars of the game visiting kids in the hospital and then pointing at outfield walls to make good on a promise to one of the sick kids....or superstars playing stickball out in the street with kids after making history-making basket catches on the biggest baseball stage of all, the World Series. The other children probably found it boring. That little black-haired girl absorbed all of it and baseball grabbed her by the soul...turns out, it never turned her a' loose.
Later,you see, a pretty black-haired teenager walked across the street from her part-time job at Sears to watch games in the same old revered venue. This time, though, she could sit where she chose and could probably afford to buy herself a bag of peanuts or a cold Coca-Cola. World War II started and her brother went off to war and got shot down by the Germans. They finally found him in a German P.O.W. camp after being listed M.I.A. for 13 months. I like to think that the only solace she found during such a terrifying ordeal was the afternoons spent in the old ballyard. One could put aside your problems and the world's problems when trying to guess what a pitcher had up his sleeve or hoping for a fly ball deep enough to score that runner on third.
The pretty black-haired teenager fell in love and was married when she was 19. She gave birth to 4 children, and lost 3 others (2 to miscarriage, 1 was stillborn.) Learning to live life as a mother and a wife is a growth one lives through, sometimes not noticing that it's taking chunks of personality that make a woman an individual. Moving from house to house, (each one a little bigger than the last) watching her and her husband's parents age, some passing on, one moving in and becoming part of the household she worked to support. The husband's job became a career as the municipality for which he worked became a CITY instead of a TOWN. She saw children grow and start driving and having cars of their own and start college and leave home, sometimes getting married, sometimes coming back home. But in the midst of the chaos that is raising a family, one very important thing happened.
In 1966 the Milwaukee Braves decided they wished to become the Atlanta Braves. The black-haired lady now had a team of her own and could quit following the Dodgers. Years earlier, she had listened to a thousand Brooklyn games on the radio with her father, long before they moved west (and became "a different sort of a team." as she put it. Asked one time what that meant she said "Brooklyn was a neighborhood, loyalty, the team belonged to the people. But L.A. Hmph! Hollywood, stars, flash and glitz don't mix with baseball...") She went to a lot of those games in the old Fulton County Stadium, her husband's career with the city affording her pretty good seats there in aisle 119, atop the home team's dugout. Most of it was pretty awful baseball but she never, ever gave up hope, enduring rain delays, extra innings and double-digit routs. She'd never leave before her team had won or lost, unless Mother Nature made it impossible. And when it was Mother's Day, her family left church very quickly (sometimes while they were still singing the final hymn!) to get her to the stadium before first pitch. She wasn't one to want flowers, brunch or frill of any kind. A program, a bag of peanuts, her family around her, everyone in their seats on time was gift enough.
As the pretty black-haired lady became a pretty gray-haired lady, she lost a husband and was living in an empty nest and walking with a cane. Thank God for cable television and the chance to watch not only her boys, but also boys in other cities play her favorite game. She developed quite an affinity for the Cubs, based mostly on her love for the character that called their games, the guy with huge glasses. She took a trip to Wrigley Field once and later said the only thing she'd seen more beautiful was Venice, Italy. I would imagine, if pressed, she'd admit to liking the 'friendly confines' even more than that jewel of Italy.
As she grew older, mobility issues made it harder and harder to get her to baseball games. Until one opportunity for very good tickets - "close enough to hear guys cuss!" as she exclaimed - presented itself and her extended family of children and childrens' spouses and children's children all came up with a plan to get her to those seats. There were only 2 tickets so everyone couldn't go. One would drive, one would walk her to the gate, one would get someone to get a wheelchair from stadium personnel, and finally one would walk her to her seat and watch the game with her. After the game, reverse the process. It would be worth the trouble. When she got to her seat she started crying, saying she was sure she'd never watch another game in person. Tears went away, though, when they sang the National Anthem and got down to business.
As the bottom of the 4th started and the home team began it's second trip through it's lineup, trying to get that zero off the scoreboard, the gray-haired lady made a very bold proclamation to anyone who would listen. "UH-OH!!! WE'RE ABOUT TO BEAT HIM UP!!" (talking about the other pitcher.) "Why?" she was asked. "BECAUSE HE ISN'T CHANGING A THING HE DID THE FIRST TIME THROUGH THE LINEUP!!! WATCH HIM, FAST BALL, BREAKING BALL, CHANGE SPEEDS, AND IF THAT DOESN'T WORK HE'S PUTTING ONE UP IN THEIR EYES TO MAKE THEM CHASE IT!!!" Suddenly, a dozen or so advance scouts for other teams in the surrounding seats turned to see who it was making such declarations. A few of them chuckled when they saw it was that gray-haired lady, leaning up in her seat, chin propped on her cane. She wondered why there were staring...."Watch! You'll see!" By the time the inning had ended the home team no longer had a zero on the board. There was a 4 there, courtesy of one solo home run, a walk, a single and a 3 run shot. And in that moment the tutorials given her by an old black man 60-something years earlier paid off when a few of those scouts put down their clipboards and stopwatches and gave the gray haired lady a round of applause. Once again, tears came to her eyes. It's good to have some part of you that survives when all else falls prey to change. I doubt, until that moment, the pretty little black-haired girl, the pretty black-haired teenager, the pretty black-haired lady or the pretty gray-haired lady ever realized it was something she should have been proud of, something that was HERS.
"The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again."
In this group there was this one little black-haired girl perched there in the segregated seats watching baseball (if, in fact, there WERE seats..it might've been a standing only area.) I imagine the other children pulling ponytails, begging for peanuts (if, in fact concessions were even afforded the "coloreds." ) and running circles around themselves, keeping themselves entertained during those long, slow summer games. But in the midst of that childish chaos, I'm almost certain that little black-haired girl stood and stared at the game in front of her. It would've been a sight to see, a little white girl being given a tutorial by the old black man, pointing out every nuance of a game that for her was a natural attraction, a first love, not just sport or entertainment. There were superstitions, tendencies, chess-like moves a manager makes in anticipation of the pitcher's spot coming up in the next inning, thousands of things you could see taking place, if only you knew what to watch for. Folklore about the stars of the game visiting kids in the hospital and then pointing at outfield walls to make good on a promise to one of the sick kids....or superstars playing stickball out in the street with kids after making history-making basket catches on the biggest baseball stage of all, the World Series. The other children probably found it boring. That little black-haired girl absorbed all of it and baseball grabbed her by the soul...turns out, it never turned her a' loose.
Later,you see, a pretty black-haired teenager walked across the street from her part-time job at Sears to watch games in the same old revered venue. This time, though, she could sit where she chose and could probably afford to buy herself a bag of peanuts or a cold Coca-Cola. World War II started and her brother went off to war and got shot down by the Germans. They finally found him in a German P.O.W. camp after being listed M.I.A. for 13 months. I like to think that the only solace she found during such a terrifying ordeal was the afternoons spent in the old ballyard. One could put aside your problems and the world's problems when trying to guess what a pitcher had up his sleeve or hoping for a fly ball deep enough to score that runner on third.
The pretty black-haired teenager fell in love and was married when she was 19. She gave birth to 4 children, and lost 3 others (2 to miscarriage, 1 was stillborn.) Learning to live life as a mother and a wife is a growth one lives through, sometimes not noticing that it's taking chunks of personality that make a woman an individual. Moving from house to house, (each one a little bigger than the last) watching her and her husband's parents age, some passing on, one moving in and becoming part of the household she worked to support. The husband's job became a career as the municipality for which he worked became a CITY instead of a TOWN. She saw children grow and start driving and having cars of their own and start college and leave home, sometimes getting married, sometimes coming back home. But in the midst of the chaos that is raising a family, one very important thing happened.
In 1966 the Milwaukee Braves decided they wished to become the Atlanta Braves. The black-haired lady now had a team of her own and could quit following the Dodgers. Years earlier, she had listened to a thousand Brooklyn games on the radio with her father, long before they moved west (and became "a different sort of a team." as she put it. Asked one time what that meant she said "Brooklyn was a neighborhood, loyalty, the team belonged to the people. But L.A. Hmph! Hollywood, stars, flash and glitz don't mix with baseball...") She went to a lot of those games in the old Fulton County Stadium, her husband's career with the city affording her pretty good seats there in aisle 119, atop the home team's dugout. Most of it was pretty awful baseball but she never, ever gave up hope, enduring rain delays, extra innings and double-digit routs. She'd never leave before her team had won or lost, unless Mother Nature made it impossible. And when it was Mother's Day, her family left church very quickly (sometimes while they were still singing the final hymn!) to get her to the stadium before first pitch. She wasn't one to want flowers, brunch or frill of any kind. A program, a bag of peanuts, her family around her, everyone in their seats on time was gift enough.
As the pretty black-haired lady became a pretty gray-haired lady, she lost a husband and was living in an empty nest and walking with a cane. Thank God for cable television and the chance to watch not only her boys, but also boys in other cities play her favorite game. She developed quite an affinity for the Cubs, based mostly on her love for the character that called their games, the guy with huge glasses. She took a trip to Wrigley Field once and later said the only thing she'd seen more beautiful was Venice, Italy. I would imagine, if pressed, she'd admit to liking the 'friendly confines' even more than that jewel of Italy.
As she grew older, mobility issues made it harder and harder to get her to baseball games. Until one opportunity for very good tickets - "close enough to hear guys cuss!" as she exclaimed - presented itself and her extended family of children and childrens' spouses and children's children all came up with a plan to get her to those seats. There were only 2 tickets so everyone couldn't go. One would drive, one would walk her to the gate, one would get someone to get a wheelchair from stadium personnel, and finally one would walk her to her seat and watch the game with her. After the game, reverse the process. It would be worth the trouble. When she got to her seat she started crying, saying she was sure she'd never watch another game in person. Tears went away, though, when they sang the National Anthem and got down to business.
As the bottom of the 4th started and the home team began it's second trip through it's lineup, trying to get that zero off the scoreboard, the gray-haired lady made a very bold proclamation to anyone who would listen. "UH-OH!!! WE'RE ABOUT TO BEAT HIM UP!!" (talking about the other pitcher.) "Why?" she was asked. "BECAUSE HE ISN'T CHANGING A THING HE DID THE FIRST TIME THROUGH THE LINEUP!!! WATCH HIM, FAST BALL, BREAKING BALL, CHANGE SPEEDS, AND IF THAT DOESN'T WORK HE'S PUTTING ONE UP IN THEIR EYES TO MAKE THEM CHASE IT!!!" Suddenly, a dozen or so advance scouts for other teams in the surrounding seats turned to see who it was making such declarations. A few of them chuckled when they saw it was that gray-haired lady, leaning up in her seat, chin propped on her cane. She wondered why there were staring...."Watch! You'll see!" By the time the inning had ended the home team no longer had a zero on the board. There was a 4 there, courtesy of one solo home run, a walk, a single and a 3 run shot. And in that moment the tutorials given her by an old black man 60-something years earlier paid off when a few of those scouts put down their clipboards and stopwatches and gave the gray haired lady a round of applause. Once again, tears came to her eyes. It's good to have some part of you that survives when all else falls prey to change. I doubt, until that moment, the pretty little black-haired girl, the pretty black-haired teenager, the pretty black-haired lady or the pretty gray-haired lady ever realized it was something she should have been proud of, something that was HERS.
"The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again."
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Peggy Sr.
We walked to the end of the hall, neither of us saying a word. We'd just been down to her room, and my mother-in-law knew it was going to be the last time she could hold my Mama's hand, ask her how she was doing, brush her hair back off her forehead and give her a kiss on the cheek. It was the last time she'd make her laugh by giving her a wink and a grin and asking her "does he belong to you?" pointing at me on the other side of the bed. By this time all Mama could do was just nod her head and chuckle when the woman I call "Peggy Sr." said "well, he's a pretty good fella'...I think we ought to keep him around." It was the last moment they shared together.
Her daughter and I had already been married twelve years but it was there in that hospital at the end of that hall that I realized how much this woman loved me and how much I loved her. She didn't say a word before she got on that elevator, she just held my face in her hands and gave me a smile that said everything I needed to hear - "This is bad...this is sad. but you're going to make it...'cause I'm right here." I put my head on her shoulder, feeling like the gravity of this whole episode was knocking me to my knees. But she was there to catch me. My hands were still shaking....moments before I'd signed a DNR just like I always promised I would do when the time came. But in that embrace there was a rub on my back and a kiss on my own cheek...and my hands quit shaking. She took her arms from around me and put her hands right back on my face and stared hard into my eyes. Again, without words, I knew what she was asking. "I'll be ok," I said out loud. "I'll be ok." Later that afternoon Mama was moved into hospice care and the next morning she was gone.
A couple of weeks later we were standing in their driveway, saying good-byes after a good meal and a relaxing evening together. I got in my truck and rolled down my window, waiting on my wife to finish a chat with her dad. Seeing an opportunity to speak to me privately she came over and leaned in my truck and said "I need to tell you something. I would never, ever pretend to take the place of your mother. But I want to make sure you know how much we both love you. I know you miss her but you're not alone. You've still got a mom when you need one." I assured her I needed one most everyday and then I cried like a baby all the way home.
Mother-in-laws have long been punchlines and cliches. But the only thing you'll hear me saying about mine is that I thank God for her everyday. I call her "Peggy Sr." and my bride "Peggy Jr." because they're birds of a feather. (It's amazing the Good Lord could create two such beautiful women but even more amazing that they're both in my corner!) Peggy Sr. spoils me rotten, she makes me laugh, she has the most extensive "Crimson Tide" wardrobe of anybody living east of Tuscaloosa. She'll holler "Roll Tide" anywhere from the grocery store to church. She makes the best deviled eggs on the planet and has a hat collection that would shame any of those women parading around Churchill Downs. She loves gospel music and can sing it right well, too. But the thing she does best is what she did there in that hallway at the hospital - look right into your soul with a mother's tender eyes and calm whatever storm she finds brewing.
Her daughter and I had already been married twelve years but it was there in that hospital at the end of that hall that I realized how much this woman loved me and how much I loved her. She didn't say a word before she got on that elevator, she just held my face in her hands and gave me a smile that said everything I needed to hear - "This is bad...this is sad. but you're going to make it...'cause I'm right here." I put my head on her shoulder, feeling like the gravity of this whole episode was knocking me to my knees. But she was there to catch me. My hands were still shaking....moments before I'd signed a DNR just like I always promised I would do when the time came. But in that embrace there was a rub on my back and a kiss on my own cheek...and my hands quit shaking. She took her arms from around me and put her hands right back on my face and stared hard into my eyes. Again, without words, I knew what she was asking. "I'll be ok," I said out loud. "I'll be ok." Later that afternoon Mama was moved into hospice care and the next morning she was gone.
A couple of weeks later we were standing in their driveway, saying good-byes after a good meal and a relaxing evening together. I got in my truck and rolled down my window, waiting on my wife to finish a chat with her dad. Seeing an opportunity to speak to me privately she came over and leaned in my truck and said "I need to tell you something. I would never, ever pretend to take the place of your mother. But I want to make sure you know how much we both love you. I know you miss her but you're not alone. You've still got a mom when you need one." I assured her I needed one most everyday and then I cried like a baby all the way home.
Mother-in-laws have long been punchlines and cliches. But the only thing you'll hear me saying about mine is that I thank God for her everyday. I call her "Peggy Sr." and my bride "Peggy Jr." because they're birds of a feather. (It's amazing the Good Lord could create two such beautiful women but even more amazing that they're both in my corner!) Peggy Sr. spoils me rotten, she makes me laugh, she has the most extensive "Crimson Tide" wardrobe of anybody living east of Tuscaloosa. She'll holler "Roll Tide" anywhere from the grocery store to church. She makes the best deviled eggs on the planet and has a hat collection that would shame any of those women parading around Churchill Downs. She loves gospel music and can sing it right well, too. But the thing she does best is what she did there in that hallway at the hospital - look right into your soul with a mother's tender eyes and calm whatever storm she finds brewing.
Monday, April 7, 2014
Talking about smells...in a good way!
"I was right back at their house! I could smell Pa' Pa's pipe just as plain as day!" We decided she must've smelled someone driving by and smoking their pipe while she was looking at the outside flower display there at the Home Depot. ( It had to be someone in the privacy of their car, after all, because I think that smoking in public is now grounds for execution by firing squad.) Thus began a lengthy conversation about the fact that the sense of smell is the one sense most closely associated with memory. We discussed some of our favorite smells that reminded us of favorite places and times. My mother's kitchen the day before Thanksgiving. Fresh cut grass at a ballpark, prior to the great American pastime taking place between the white lines. Or fresh cut cilantro and limes, the beginning of many great summer meals in our house (my wife gets positively giddy over the smell of fresh cilantro.) Coffee and cigarettes, the first thing to hit my nose waking up to summer days spent at my Aunt Nell and Uncle Ralph's farm. Books and their unmistakable mustiness, a smell which will always take me back to Aunt Jean's house. (Never married, always living alone, books were her life.) Even hardcore mobsters can be soothed by the smell of a fireplace on a crisp autumn evening. Remember Tony Soprano telling Christopher (taking pause right after gunning down 2 guys from a biker gang and stealing their expensive wine) "Smell 'dat? It's like the first chilly night of fall when everybody lights their fireplaces." "Yeah, Halloween" responds Christopher, putting a recently fired revolver back in his pocket and looking wistfully towards the sky.
So we finished our errands and our conversation and, upon returning home, the Registered Nurse that lives in my house (and pulls double duty as my sweet bride) ordered me back into my recliner and told me to rest. We've been fighting a cold and sinus thing that's been hanging on seemingly for a month. I was given a reprieve to get out of the house and accompany her on errands but she said I'd done enough. Now, let me give some background on what transpired next....
Back a hundred years ago when my sisters were all living at home and we all went to church together (whether we wanted to or not!) our mother got out of bed early enough to put a pot roast in the oven every Sunday morning. I think she partially cooked it, kept it wrapped and in the oven and let it stay warm while we were at church. When we got home she warmed up the the sides (which often included peas she'd snapped and cooked the day before) and managed to have Sunday dinner on the table by the time we'd all gotten out of our church clothes (everyone except her, of course...I can still see her sweating and darting around a kitchen in whatever she'd worn to church.) Like most little boys, getting me presentable for church was putting lipstick on a pig. Cowlicks had to be tamed, smudges of whatever I'd been into in the backyard the day before still lived on my face and a little clip on tie rarely sat the way it was supposed to. While she was doing all that fussin' and straightening and combing I could smell the onions, potatoes and meat on her hands from her early morning labor in the kitchen. It sounds odd, I'm sure, but it was a comforting smell and one I'll remember 'til the day I die.
Now, back to our Saturday afternoon in the recliner. The afternoon turned to night and for the first night since I'd gotten sick I was actually able to fall asleep, even if it was still sitting up in the recliner (because lying down started the coughing and congestion all over again.) In the midst of my slumber, I felt someone behind my chair scratching my head and rubbing my neck and shoulders and assumed my bride was giving me one last moment of pampering before she went off to bed (something she does quite well when I'm sickly....ok, she does it all the time, I'm spoiled rotten.) But the hands that were scratching and rubbing and sending me deeper into sleep suddenly came over the top of my head and rested on my forehead, checking for a fever. And there they were - the onions, the potatoes, the meat- those hands I remembered well, wearing all the wonderful smells of Sunday dinner. It was so real that I reached up and behind me and tried to grab those hands, thinking the woman I miss so much was there checking on me. There wasn't anyone there of course. The dog had woken up and was standing in the middle of the floor with a very puzzled look on her face so I reckon I must've been talking during what had to have been a dream. But it sure didn't feel ........or smell.......like a dream.
So we finished our errands and our conversation and, upon returning home, the Registered Nurse that lives in my house (and pulls double duty as my sweet bride) ordered me back into my recliner and told me to rest. We've been fighting a cold and sinus thing that's been hanging on seemingly for a month. I was given a reprieve to get out of the house and accompany her on errands but she said I'd done enough. Now, let me give some background on what transpired next....
Back a hundred years ago when my sisters were all living at home and we all went to church together (whether we wanted to or not!) our mother got out of bed early enough to put a pot roast in the oven every Sunday morning. I think she partially cooked it, kept it wrapped and in the oven and let it stay warm while we were at church. When we got home she warmed up the the sides (which often included peas she'd snapped and cooked the day before) and managed to have Sunday dinner on the table by the time we'd all gotten out of our church clothes (everyone except her, of course...I can still see her sweating and darting around a kitchen in whatever she'd worn to church.) Like most little boys, getting me presentable for church was putting lipstick on a pig. Cowlicks had to be tamed, smudges of whatever I'd been into in the backyard the day before still lived on my face and a little clip on tie rarely sat the way it was supposed to. While she was doing all that fussin' and straightening and combing I could smell the onions, potatoes and meat on her hands from her early morning labor in the kitchen. It sounds odd, I'm sure, but it was a comforting smell and one I'll remember 'til the day I die.
Now, back to our Saturday afternoon in the recliner. The afternoon turned to night and for the first night since I'd gotten sick I was actually able to fall asleep, even if it was still sitting up in the recliner (because lying down started the coughing and congestion all over again.) In the midst of my slumber, I felt someone behind my chair scratching my head and rubbing my neck and shoulders and assumed my bride was giving me one last moment of pampering before she went off to bed (something she does quite well when I'm sickly....ok, she does it all the time, I'm spoiled rotten.) But the hands that were scratching and rubbing and sending me deeper into sleep suddenly came over the top of my head and rested on my forehead, checking for a fever. And there they were - the onions, the potatoes, the meat- those hands I remembered well, wearing all the wonderful smells of Sunday dinner. It was so real that I reached up and behind me and tried to grab those hands, thinking the woman I miss so much was there checking on me. There wasn't anyone there of course. The dog had woken up and was standing in the middle of the floor with a very puzzled look on her face so I reckon I must've been talking during what had to have been a dream. But it sure didn't feel ........or smell.......like a dream.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Wednesday...
Running errands at lunch yesterday, the fine folks at Sirius XM Radio ("80's on 8" channel) graced my truck with this song:
So, after work, I had to do a quick YouTube search and watch this video for the millionth time in my life. I'm not sure what makes this video more epic - the throwback Braves jersey on one drummer, Artimus Pyle being the other drummer, Donnie Van Zant wearing that black hat or the fact that it's the very first song that was "our's." (is it "ours" or our's? anyway..) On our third or fourth date this song came on the radio in my little '94 Ford Ranger. She hollered "I LOVE THIS SONG!!!!!!!!!!" and reached for the volume. Though I went down some bad roads to find her, I'm happy that I did. Jeff Foxworthy is laughing somewhere because, truly, if a .38 Special song puts you in a romantic state of mind you miiiiiiiiiight be a redneck.
http://djournal.com/news/six-state-breweries-beer-festival/
This Saturday would be a good Saturday to be in Tupelo. (yeah, I'm a frequent visitor to Daily Journal.com, your source for Northern Mississippi news and information.......no, I'm not sure why.) They're holding their craft beer festival and six Mississippi breweries will be featured. And, because I'm a "word nerd" and like appropriately named places and things, I'm not sure which participating brewery's name I like the most - "Southern Prohibition Brewing" or "Lazy Magnolia." After a visit to the Lazy Magnolia Brewing Company's website, though, we have a winner. Whether it's their "Southern Pecan Nut Brown Ale" ("the first beer in the world, to our knowledge, made with whole roasted pecans...") or the grace and genteelness evoked by the image of a magnolia tree (possibly shadowing a wrap-around porch with a ceiling fan and an old dog lying on the step) there seems to be plenty to like. What? I should actually taste their goods before I act like they're the second coming? C'mon - "We love great beer, great food and all things southern...cheers y'all!" They sound like pretty good people to me.
http://djournal.com/lifestyle/leslie-criss-best-spring-breaks-past-time-books/
Also in my semi-regular visit to the Daily Journal, I ran across this piece from Leslie Criss. It took me straight back to that little East Atlanta Library (next to the fire station if I remember corrrectly) and my favorite story about my other favorite story. "Mike Mulligan's Steam Shovel" was my favorite story. But then I graduated to "Mike's House" which was a story about a little guy in whom (who?) I found much in common. He loved my favorite story so much that he called the library "Mike's House" because that's where his favorite story lived. Though I didn't have the luxury of being within walking distance of the library (as did Ms. Criss) I usually did jump in a big blue '64 Chevrolet leaving the library with both of those books under my arm. Until, that is, Santa was gracious enough one year to bring me a copy of both. They're probably still in this house somewhere and held together by a lot of tape. Wish I could find them and sit cross-legged (not sure if it's correct anymore to call it sitting "indian style") in the middle of the living room floor with some cherry kool-aid and a handful of those butter cookies with holes in the middle that you can wear like rings. I'd cancel a couple of already scheduled conference calls to go down that road again. (and then take some Tylenol to alleviate the after-effects inflicted upon 2 arthritic knees that sitting cross-legged in the floor would cause...)
"You know, you might consider taking Jesus Christ as your personal Lord & Savior..."
"I like Jesus very much...but he no help with curve ball."
"Are you trying to tell me that Jesus Christ can't hit a curve ball?"
Great baseball quote from a great baseball movie ("Major League") I ran across more great baseball dialogue this morning while reading an interview with Arthr Idlett, a member of the Atlanta Black Crackers.
"Pitchers had to play outfield and catchers had to alternate at third base. Most teams carried about three pitchers. Well, that pitcher could pitch every third day. We didn't know about tired and all that kind of stuff. They would get sore arms and they would rub the other down with mustard roll and we made a concoction of alcohol and black pepper, rubbed him down."
Talk of pitchers' arms and pitchers' elbows are things modern day baseball fans in Atlanta have heard way too much of here in the early days of this spring's training. Perhaps there needs to be more mustard, alcohol and black pepper in the modern day pitcher's regimen. So to more pleasant thoughts - I learned in the same interview that "Spiller Field" (which was at the Ponce de Leon Springs Amusement Park) was the original home of the Crackers (both black and white.) There was a lake at the amusement park and the original stands of what became Ponce de Leon park were built where the lake was drained. It's funny to read about baseball in Atlanta during that time and learn that baseball FAR eclipsed football in popularity in Atlanta. Industrial, school and league teams dominated much of the city's summer leisure time. In the early part of the twentieth century, one found games being played anywhere you found grass.
"The visiting team furnished two balls and the home team furnished two balls. That was four balls. Okay, we've stopped many a game until they found the balls..."
So, after work, I had to do a quick YouTube search and watch this video for the millionth time in my life. I'm not sure what makes this video more epic - the throwback Braves jersey on one drummer, Artimus Pyle being the other drummer, Donnie Van Zant wearing that black hat or the fact that it's the very first song that was "our's." (is it "ours" or our's? anyway..) On our third or fourth date this song came on the radio in my little '94 Ford Ranger. She hollered "I LOVE THIS SONG!!!!!!!!!!" and reached for the volume. Though I went down some bad roads to find her, I'm happy that I did. Jeff Foxworthy is laughing somewhere because, truly, if a .38 Special song puts you in a romantic state of mind you miiiiiiiiiight be a redneck.
http://djournal.com/news/six-state-breweries-beer-festival/
This Saturday would be a good Saturday to be in Tupelo. (yeah, I'm a frequent visitor to Daily Journal.com, your source for Northern Mississippi news and information.......no, I'm not sure why.) They're holding their craft beer festival and six Mississippi breweries will be featured. And, because I'm a "word nerd" and like appropriately named places and things, I'm not sure which participating brewery's name I like the most - "Southern Prohibition Brewing" or "Lazy Magnolia." After a visit to the Lazy Magnolia Brewing Company's website, though, we have a winner. Whether it's their "Southern Pecan Nut Brown Ale" ("the first beer in the world, to our knowledge, made with whole roasted pecans...") or the grace and genteelness evoked by the image of a magnolia tree (possibly shadowing a wrap-around porch with a ceiling fan and an old dog lying on the step) there seems to be plenty to like. What? I should actually taste their goods before I act like they're the second coming? C'mon - "We love great beer, great food and all things southern...cheers y'all!" They sound like pretty good people to me.
http://djournal.com/lifestyle/leslie-criss-best-spring-breaks-past-time-books/
Also in my semi-regular visit to the Daily Journal, I ran across this piece from Leslie Criss. It took me straight back to that little East Atlanta Library (next to the fire station if I remember corrrectly) and my favorite story about my other favorite story. "Mike Mulligan's Steam Shovel" was my favorite story. But then I graduated to "Mike's House" which was a story about a little guy in whom (who?) I found much in common. He loved my favorite story so much that he called the library "Mike's House" because that's where his favorite story lived. Though I didn't have the luxury of being within walking distance of the library (as did Ms. Criss) I usually did jump in a big blue '64 Chevrolet leaving the library with both of those books under my arm. Until, that is, Santa was gracious enough one year to bring me a copy of both. They're probably still in this house somewhere and held together by a lot of tape. Wish I could find them and sit cross-legged (not sure if it's correct anymore to call it sitting "indian style") in the middle of the living room floor with some cherry kool-aid and a handful of those butter cookies with holes in the middle that you can wear like rings. I'd cancel a couple of already scheduled conference calls to go down that road again. (and then take some Tylenol to alleviate the after-effects inflicted upon 2 arthritic knees that sitting cross-legged in the floor would cause...)
"You know, you might consider taking Jesus Christ as your personal Lord & Savior..."
"I like Jesus very much...but he no help with curve ball."
"Are you trying to tell me that Jesus Christ can't hit a curve ball?"
Great baseball quote from a great baseball movie ("Major League") I ran across more great baseball dialogue this morning while reading an interview with Arthr Idlett, a member of the Atlanta Black Crackers.
"Pitchers had to play outfield and catchers had to alternate at third base. Most teams carried about three pitchers. Well, that pitcher could pitch every third day. We didn't know about tired and all that kind of stuff. They would get sore arms and they would rub the other down with mustard roll and we made a concoction of alcohol and black pepper, rubbed him down."
Talk of pitchers' arms and pitchers' elbows are things modern day baseball fans in Atlanta have heard way too much of here in the early days of this spring's training. Perhaps there needs to be more mustard, alcohol and black pepper in the modern day pitcher's regimen. So to more pleasant thoughts - I learned in the same interview that "Spiller Field" (which was at the Ponce de Leon Springs Amusement Park) was the original home of the Crackers (both black and white.) There was a lake at the amusement park and the original stands of what became Ponce de Leon park were built where the lake was drained. It's funny to read about baseball in Atlanta during that time and learn that baseball FAR eclipsed football in popularity in Atlanta. Industrial, school and league teams dominated much of the city's summer leisure time. In the early part of the twentieth century, one found games being played anywhere you found grass.
"The visiting team furnished two balls and the home team furnished two balls. That was four balls. Okay, we've stopped many a game until they found the balls..."
Monday, March 3, 2014
Stuff on a Monday...
Amazingly, the funniest thing I've read in a long while comes from my March, 2014 issue of Outdoor Life. In the "Monkey Business" section (a monthly feature, providing "Good, bad and weird news from the outdoors that you might've missed") There's the story of a guy walking into a liquor store, trying to trade a live alligator for a 12 pack of beer. He was, obviously, arrested, and made the rest of us who have an affinity for brewed beverages feel much better about ourselves. "At least I've never tried to trade an alligator for beer!" It reminds me of the funny pic (or meme or whatever you call these things that float around the internet) of Johnny Cash sitting in some shrubbery eating cake. It says something to the effect of "You've been high, but you've never been 'Johnny Cash sitting in a bush eating cake' high." So, thankfully, the Good Lord puts people on earth that make us feel better about our own existence. A lot of them are frequently found in Wal-Marts and Waffle Houses. (aaaaaaaaaaaand now I want a patty melt plate, some Heinz 57, scattered, smothered and covered and peppered.)
Speaking of funny, the lady of the house and I had the opportunity to see B.J. Novak at the Atlanta History Center. He's a writer, actor, director, producer and probably most recognizable for his Emmy-winning work on "The Office." I've also heard tell that he was in the cast of Quentin Tarantino's "Inglourious Basterds" though I don't know because I'm old and don't see many movies. He was in our hometown to promote his new book "One More Thing - Stories and Other Stories." We felt right cultured having Friday night dinner there on West Paces Ferry and then going to a book launch affair. (I STRONGLY recommend the "fisherman's stew" at Coast Seafood on W. Paces diagonally across from the History Center. When my bride read the description of it on the menu she said "Oh, that's got 'YOU' written all over it...") Anyway, Mr. Novak was FUNNY. The first inclusion in his new book is a very comical depiction of what would happen if "The Tortoise and The Hare" had a rematch. I've read it three times since we got home (a copy of the book was included in the price of our ticket.) It's funny to read - but it was hilarious when Mr. Novak provided his reading of that chapter. Just, DANG! I work hard on my written word and my creativity but when you're exposed to some folks you realize that you're a pinch-hitter in single A ball and some folks are batting lead-off for the Yankees.
And, while we're on the subject of that night and my bride, the evening was an anniversary celebration. Seventeen years ago she took on the monumental task of spending the rest of her life with this loose cannon. Through the miracle of social media (Lordy, I HATE using such trendy terms!) I've reconnected with a lot of people who have roots in the same ground as mine. And I know that some of those people are thinking "Holy crap! HE found someone to marry??!!" Trust me, I think the same thing. In one of my earlier blogs, I mentioned the moment at the funeral home when I overheard her whispering to the woman that raised me (who was wearing the same dress she'd worn on my wedding day and was "laid out for burial" as the old folks used to say) "Don't worry, Erfy....I'll always take care of Tim." If she can hear me, I'd like to reassure my saint of a mother that her daughter-in-law is living up to that promise. From the countless "I can tell you're worried - what's wrong?" moments to the "I bought you some more Sweetwaters but I didn't know you still had some in the fridge- don't drink them all just because they're there!" moments she is, most definitely, taking good care of me. Life often gets in the way of our free time together. So - as sappy as it sounds - Edwin McCain says it all better than I ever could. Happy Anniversary and, truly, "everything you are, is everything to me..."
Speaking of funny, the lady of the house and I had the opportunity to see B.J. Novak at the Atlanta History Center. He's a writer, actor, director, producer and probably most recognizable for his Emmy-winning work on "The Office." I've also heard tell that he was in the cast of Quentin Tarantino's "Inglourious Basterds" though I don't know because I'm old and don't see many movies. He was in our hometown to promote his new book "One More Thing - Stories and Other Stories." We felt right cultured having Friday night dinner there on West Paces Ferry and then going to a book launch affair. (I STRONGLY recommend the "fisherman's stew" at Coast Seafood on W. Paces diagonally across from the History Center. When my bride read the description of it on the menu she said "Oh, that's got 'YOU' written all over it...") Anyway, Mr. Novak was FUNNY. The first inclusion in his new book is a very comical depiction of what would happen if "The Tortoise and The Hare" had a rematch. I've read it three times since we got home (a copy of the book was included in the price of our ticket.) It's funny to read - but it was hilarious when Mr. Novak provided his reading of that chapter. Just, DANG! I work hard on my written word and my creativity but when you're exposed to some folks you realize that you're a pinch-hitter in single A ball and some folks are batting lead-off for the Yankees.
And, while we're on the subject of that night and my bride, the evening was an anniversary celebration. Seventeen years ago she took on the monumental task of spending the rest of her life with this loose cannon. Through the miracle of social media (Lordy, I HATE using such trendy terms!) I've reconnected with a lot of people who have roots in the same ground as mine. And I know that some of those people are thinking "Holy crap! HE found someone to marry??!!" Trust me, I think the same thing. In one of my earlier blogs, I mentioned the moment at the funeral home when I overheard her whispering to the woman that raised me (who was wearing the same dress she'd worn on my wedding day and was "laid out for burial" as the old folks used to say) "Don't worry, Erfy....I'll always take care of Tim." If she can hear me, I'd like to reassure my saint of a mother that her daughter-in-law is living up to that promise. From the countless "I can tell you're worried - what's wrong?" moments to the "I bought you some more Sweetwaters but I didn't know you still had some in the fridge- don't drink them all just because they're there!" moments she is, most definitely, taking good care of me. Life often gets in the way of our free time together. So - as sappy as it sounds - Edwin McCain says it all better than I ever could. Happy Anniversary and, truly, "everything you are, is everything to me..."
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