About An Angel and Good Spaghetti...

Mae Evelyn Canada Roberts made really good spaghetti.  Odd that out of ninety years of life so devoted to her family, faith and country the first thing that comes to my mind is her spaghetti.  But Lordy it was good spaghetti.  I suppose there were nights that its job was to simply be supper for her family. But when I remember that spaghetti, I remember it feeding a small army.  Her family, my family and anyone else that showed up hungry.

 She and her husband were friends with my parents going back to when Moses wore short pants. We lived on one end of the town and they lived on the other.  But once or twice a year we made the trek from East Atlanta or Stone Mountain (depending on where we were living at the time) to Riverdale to spend an evening visiting, laughing and digging back into stories that went on long after our plates were empty.  They were stories from days that seemed like a thousand years ago to me but were clearly just yesterday for the parents and grandparents at the table.  Listening to them, the evolution of what we later called "the greatest generation" was quite evident. If not then, certainly later in life when I had sense enough and life experience enough to appreciate what these people had lived through. Along the way I wasn't ever the kid yawning and watching the clock in U.S. History classes.  Because of those evenings at the Roberts' supper table (and that heavenly spaghetti) the places and people taught through textbooks and lectures were days I felt I'd lived myself.
   
Evelyn was the very embodiment of everything we've come to know about that generation:  Loving those in  their life with a deep,  functioning love - "...not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth." (1 John 3:18.  You have no idea how proud it'd make her that I quoted scripture in my effort to pay tribute to her.)  Never living above their means.  Never complaining about a day's work, whether at a job or at home, keeping a house full of young 'uns  in clean clothes and with full bellies. Hardships endured weren't refined into fuel for martyrdom - they were transfigured into ways to make the world a better place.

When I was a child and at home during the summers, it was usually just Mama and me, as my sisters were older and either married, on their own or going to summer classes.  The phone rang a few times a day.  I learned Mama's demeanor well enough to know who was on the other end.  If it sounded like she was talking family business (" I went to the bank..."  "Insurance company called..."  "That faucet is leaking..."  Tim's been in the backyard all day with the dogs...") it was Daddy, checking in from his office to see what was shaking. If she was laughing out loud, making jokes, being happy and assuring the person on the other end it was good to hear from her, then I knew it was Evelyn.  Mama would be in a good mood the rest of the day after a call from Evelyn.  

I don't think she ever forgot a birthday.  And stand back when you opened her card - confetti or glitter was going to fall out and make you laugh.  She sent me and my sisters birthday cards whether we were 10 years old or grown, married folks.  There are a few still around my house somewhere, I'm sure.  I'll never throw them away and someday - when my time comes and someone is going through stuff I've kept - they'll wonder where the confetti is coming from and go home with a speck of glitter somewhere on their body.

I was there at the hospital the last time Evelyn came to visit Mama, shortly before we had to relinquish the matriarch of our family to hospice care.  Mama was near the end, not talking much.  When she did talk it was not something one could understand . She recognized very few of us and was clearly ready to go home.  A stare was all she had to give.  But when Evelyn approached her bed, grabbed her hand and said "Hey sweetheart..."  Mama smiled a big smile.  Evelyn said "I came by to see you how you're doing and to tell you how much I love you."  For the first time in a while Mama opened her mouth and said "well ok then."  They kept holding hands for more than just a few minutes, simply exchanging smiles.  I could see a thousand unspoken sentiments being expressed by two people who KNEW each other, down to the core of their souls.  When she left Evelyn kissed Mama on the jaw and walked away from that bed and told her son "I reckon we'd better go."  She gave me a kiss and a hug and told me everything was going to be alright.  I knew she didn't mean that Mama wasn't going to die - it meant that Evelyn firmly believed she'd better off than all of us when she did die and wanted me to believe it too.

Because of a pandemic attacking the country she loved, only a few us were able to sit out in the sun and say goodbye to Evelyn as they laid her to rest right next to her beloved husband.  Though we're not blood relatives I'll be forever grateful to her family that they consider us such and allowed us to be there. Speaking of being laid to rest, I hope Evelyn's able to get some.  See on the other side she's going to be quite busy helping my Mama keep my father and her husband in line.  And I sure hope she has time to keep an eye on me and all the countless souls that gained an angel when she left us.  Mostly, I hope that heaven has a kitchen - I'm gonna' need a plate of spaghetti when it's time for me to head that way.   

If Daddy came back to visit me and 2020

     "So people pay...FOR WATER?" (Which would be followed by "if you put a $1.25 in that machine for a bottle of water we're going to have a talk.")

     "So essentially if you BREATHE near a quarterback it's 'roughing the passer' now?"

     "Seriously?  The Braves WON a World Series and the Falcons WENT to 2 SUPER BOWLS?"

     "Tech won a National Championship in 1990?" 

     "You're paying someone to change your oil?   WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU??"  (After an explanation that vehicles are a bit more complicated now and have computers and you can really screw up stuff by working on them yourself - "Well then I'd walk wherever I had to go.  NOT paying people to work on my cars.")

     "Gas costs WHAT a gallon??  Well then I'd walk wherever I had to go"

     "Central air-conditioning?  Did you find a gold mine on your property?  Buy an attic fan, open the windows and turn off the a.c."

     "I'm right proud of the woman you married. She's a good girl.  But, seriously....YOU do the dishes AND COOK sometimes?  We're going to have a talk."

     "Pandemic or not, I'm siting on the left side, third row of that sanctuary come Sunday morning if I'm alone and have to preach to myself."

     "So you're telling me this pickup truck we're riding cost more than the house you grew up in??  Turn off the A.C. and roll down the windows!  I'm freezing! And why in the world does the radio keep saying 'subscription updated.'  You PAY for radio???"

     "I guess if you insist on making the gas companies rich don't wait on some little bell to tell you when you need gas.  It hits half a tank you go to the gas station and fill it up...after you go to the bank and take out a loan!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

     "They just let that person use that word?  ON THE NEWS?"

     "YOU HAVE HOW MANY CHANNELS ON THIS TV?  AND HOW MANY DO YOU ACTUALLY WATCH?  UNPLUG THAT THING AND GO BUY SOME RABBIT EARS."  (this could be the only argument I MIGHT win by explaining that with that many channels you can get up on Saturday mornings in the fall and watch college football games until the wee hours of Sunday morning.)

     "NO! There's only one Varsity.  And this ain't it and I ain't going in...but if you are bring me a chili dog."

     "This chili dog ain't nowhere near as good as the ones at the real Varsity."

     "This is not a grocery store.  It's a small town.  I bet they got their own zip code.  And why is that woman letting her young 'un climb those shelves?  If she won't jerk a knot in him I will! 
And what is that...a...a...PHONE in her hand?   I don't like talking on the one at the house! Not taking one to the store with me!  How much you pay for that?"

     (Still at the grocery store) "That woman on the cereal aisle is talking to herself" 
Me - "Daddy, she's got a bluetooth."
Daddy - "well she oughta get a crown..it's obviously making her nuts."

     "Red Man chewing tobacco is offensive?  To who?  I'm the one chewing it and not hurtin' a soul!"

     (Speaking of phones)  "So you just took a phone out of your pocket and paid your light bill.  Well isn't that fancy DICK TRACY?!!  How much do you pay for that?"

     "So you take your kids to all these different places where they can play with other kids?  Our kids always had a place to play with other kids.  IT WAS CALLED THE BACKYARD!!!!!!!!"

     "The dog spends all his time in the house and sleeps in here, too?  Well that's a good thing."  (animals - his Achilles Heel.) 

    "So you're a man. A pretty good one I reckon. You married a good girl, you got a good home and a good dog.  I'm right proud..............I'm not used to men talking to each other this way.  I'll shake your hand if that's ok."

     

    

   

    

Thursdays In East Atlanta

     Eight O'clock Coffee.  I paused when I saw the name on the little pod of coffee I was about to put into our space age coffee maker.  You know you've made a considerable number of trips around the sun when a routine erupts into a very random memory.  Then you find yourself back in a time when we didn't have space age coffee makers and one had to wait on a percolator to quit bubbling before the coffee was ready. 
     I had a psychology professor who described our minds as filing cabinet drawers (ok, so I went to college back when people used paper and the filing cabinet industry flourished.)  The files we use a lot-phone numbers, passwords, our address, the way home to that address, how to tie our shoes - are always at the front of the file drawer.   The files seldom or never used - your locker combination in eighth grade, EVERYTHING you learned in algebra, the questions on your learner's permit test - get pushed to the back of the drawer.  Also back there are very good things.  Conversations, sights, sounds, smells, tastes, days spent on inner tubes and playing in creeks.  This morning the Eight O'clock Coffee pod reached way back in the drawer and pulled out the file labeled "Thursdays in East Atlanta."
     Mama didn't learn to drive 'til she was 40-something.  So when I was a child and grocery store day arrived we had to take a long walk.  We went up Fayetteville Road and took a right on Mary Dell Drive.  We'd walk past East Atlanta High School and Peterson Elementary, all the way to the bus stop at the top of the hill. At the bus stop we got on the Gresham Limited and rode to East Atlanta.  I remember those old buses having straight-shift transmissions.  So depending on your driver, you might have a rough ride.  And if it was damn hot outside, it was hotter in that bus.  You could slide open the window and blow some hot air in on you if you liked.  But the passenger next to you might put up a fuss about it if she'd just been to town to have her hair set.
    Back to our destination.  East Atlanta is in the city limits of Atlanta yet it behaves like a small town inside that large city (then and now.)  Now they call it East Atlanta Village and it's a trendy, Bohemian little stretch of Flat Shoals Avenue.  There's restaurants, coffee shops and funky stores of all kinds.  But back then it was just the main street of our little town in the city and where we did our "trading."  There was a Trust Company Bank on the corner of Glenwood and Flat Shoals. There was also a bakery, a drug store, a movie theater, a barber shop and an A&P grocery store down that little 1/2 mile of street.  On those Thursdays, our trips on the Gresham Limited had two primary destinations:   The Trust Company Bank to cash a check so that we could buy groceries and then up the street to the A&P to buy them.
     When we arrived at the A&P I was already in pretty good shape, thanks to a lollipop courtesy of the teller at the bank.  Mama would lift me up and put me in the seat of the buggy and we'd head for the Coke machine.  Soon I was armed with a lollipop in one hand and a cold "Co-Cola" in the other (glass bottle of course.)  This was the 1960-something equivalent of letting a young 'un watch "Sponge Bob" on your iSomething so that you could shop in peace.
     Back to Eight O'clock Coffee.  The reason that little pod of coffee took me back to simpler days was that Eight O'clock coffee  grinder that sat in the middle of that old store. To a small child it seemed as big as a Volkswagen.  The coffee was sold whole bean and there weren't 90 brands from which to choose.  I remember Eight O'clock and Luzianne (which had chicory root in it and could walk on its own.)  Since coffee grinders were not household items in those days one had to pour your choice of coffee  in the store's grinder and grind it there. I'm firmly convinced the beautiful smell coming out of that huge coffee grinder led to the coffee addiction I carry with me still today.   I started drinking it when I was around 5 or 6 years old.  Mama used to put an ice cube in it so it wouldn't burn my tongue.  Daddy fussed that it would stunt my growth.  Well thank God I drank it...
     Without fail we would see someone we knew while shopping.  We always ran into Anne Bullock as Thursday was also her grocery day. Other than being patrons of the same grocery store we also went to church with Anne. This was at the Methodist church that sat at the corner of Moreland and Metropolitan and was named after Martha Brown (I never really knew who Martha Brown was...but there hung a very unflattering portrait of her in a hallway at the church.)  Every Sunday Anne sat on the second row of the left side of the sanctuary and we sat right behind her on the third row.  I can remember thinking she must be the richest woman in East Atlanta 'cause of the way she dressed. And she was always dressed as nicely at the A&P on Thursdays as she was at church on Sunday.  On the day of my baptism she was wearing a hat full of flowers.  Before they could get me up there to sprinkle my head, I'm told that I picked a few of the flowers out of that hat.  Later in life I had the opportunity as a young adult to visit with Anne.  Though much older, it was apparent that she still never left her house without looking good enough to take to Chinatown.  I reminded her of the stories I'd heard about me ruining her hat the day of my baptism.  She had no recollection of it but got a good laugh nonetheless.  She couldn't remember the hat incident but she did share something with me  that had managed to stay with her into what were, by then, the latter days of her life. "I can remember seeing you sitting in that buggy at the A&P, a lollipop in one hand and a Co-Cola in the other.  I used to think 'we should all be as content as that child is right now.' "
     Contentment.  It seems to come naturally in your early years but has to be hunted down later in life.  I think that old A&P store is some type of hipster art studio now.  Reckon it might cause a stir if a 50-something-year-old man came and sat in the middle of the place, a Coke in one hand and a lollipop in the other and asked what they did with the coffee grinder?
    
   
     

Black Hearts (not associated with Joan Jett...)

There was one black-construction paper heart and one red-construction paper heart that sat on the table behind Miss Lutrell's chair.  She was a legendary second grade Sunday School teacher at the Methodist church on the corner of Metropolitan and Moreland Avenue.  The church was named after Martha Brown and the neighborhood was called East Atlanta.  When she wasn't teaching us songs we'd remember the rest of our lives - "THE B-I-B-L-E, YES THAT'S THE BOOK FOR ME!" and the song about the "church in the wildwood" (which fondly brings to mind the "Man In A Hurry" episode of the "Andy Griffith Show")  - she was teaching us the significance of those construction paper hearts. 

Miss Lutrell told us that the red heart represented someone fortunate enough to know Jesus.  I'm not being sarcastic when I say that I was always afraid I didn't know Jesus because in my juvenile mind one had to be in the physical presence of someone before you could say you knew them.  The black heart, on the other hand, was representative of someone who didn't know Jesus.  I was fearful that was me as I'd never actually met the man.  But through her lessons I would soon learn that one knew Jesus through the good things in their lives like sweet mamas and daddies and roofs over our heads and food to eat and sunrises and full moons and warm beds to sleep in and hamburgers from Charlie's Place (which was down at the corner of Glenwood and Moreland.)  Jesus manifested himself in many happy ways and if you knew and loved Him your heart was that beautiful red.

So who, then, possessed the black hearts?  I reckoned they lived in the people I saw on the news, the ones that stole,shot, stabbed and murdered.  THOSE were the black hearts.  Unfortunately, growing older I came to realize that the black heart manifests itself in many ways and not all of them have a thing to do with religion or whether or not you know the Son of God.  As my dearly-departed mother put it, "there's just a lot of meanness in the world."

I think it's sad that they've had to come up with a name for "shaken child syndrome".  I think it's sad that here in 2018 people are marching under Nazi flags and harbor a hate based solely on color or ethnicity. It's even sadder that there's people in high places that defend them.  Speaking of those in high places I'm sad that they're rounding up humans that have lived nowhere but here and separating them from family and sending them to a country that's never been home.  I'm sad that power is not used to keep us safe but to feed self-interests and egos and that's now the definition of leadership.  There are no more statesmen, only politicians.  "There's just a lot of meanness in the world" but I never expected it to be manifested in those who swore constitutional oaths to protect the average folks.

I think it's sad that hearing words like "human shields", "human trafficking" and "sex trafficking"on the news no longer cause our jaws to drop.  They elicit a response no more dramatic than we give to car wrecks and snowstorms.  People are hungry and can't get health care in the richest country on the planet.  When hurricanes and natural disasters hit there are those who leave dogs tied to trees or cats locked in the basement to drown or become miracles.  "There's just a lot of meanness in the world."

Beyond the "meanness" quote one of my mother's other favorites was "he's quit preaching and gone to meddlin' " whenever a preacher got personal.  And it's quite likely I've quit preaching and gone to meddlin'  But I am sad that the black heart has outgrown second grade Sunday School theology. I'm sad that it's so mainstream.  I'm not sure what the solution is but I think my father-in-law had what would be a good start.  He was an elementary school principal and I'm told that he greeted students at the door every morning at the front door of the school, be it rainy, cold or hot.  And he gave each student a thumbs-up and told them to "do something good today."  It might be a start if we'd all just do something good today. And  I know that I do far too little good when I see the picture that floated around the Internet of an old man taking a bag full of tennis balls he'd collected to an animal shelter so that  homeless dogs had something to chase.  Good may make a comeback yet.  Having a few more Miss Lutrells and a few more old men wanting to make dogs happy would be a start.

3 Men In Heaven.....

      "I loved him and was proud of him.  But you saw how I was raised and what I had for a father - I never learned how to show pride or affection," said the first man.  "I feel bad about that now."
     'I know," said the second man.  "The way you were raised wasn't your fault. That was obvious when I married your sister." The second man  (with skin turned leather from years working in the sun and fingers busted from so many missed hammer strikes)  then got pensive - " I cared about you and I cared about your son - that's why I  worked so hard to take care of your son/my nephew. Men of our generation didn't tell each other how we FELT.  We just dealt with what we had to deal with....usually a day at work."  He then leaned back in his chair and took a long draw on a Winston...."He's good people and I always enjoyed having him around.  You'd be right proud of the man he grew up to be.  Married a real good girl.  She takes good care of him."
     The first man looked off towards the horizon that I assume is always blue sky, puffy white clouds and where the sun is always rising.  "It really wasn't fair - you had a boat and God knows he loves boats and water and fishing."
     The second man laughed - "It's because I knew how to play AND work.  All you worried about was work."
     "I reckon," said the first man though the answer didn't make him all that comfortable.  Even in the hereafter, he worries about who's  making sure Atlanta streets aren't falling in on themselves and who is cutting the grass at houses he no longer owns..   Even here, he doesn't know how to completely relax.  A restless soul is a restless soul wherever it resides.
     "I think I've been looking for y'all."   There was suddenly a third man in their midst. He was all manners, perfectly trimmed moustache and sideburns.   "I think y'all must be Daddy and Uncle Ralph?"
      "You found us..."  said the second man  (who we now know is Uncle Ralph.)  "You're the one who took the biggest chance of all."
      "How's that?" said the newcomer.
      Uncle Ralph laughed "You had one child.  And you let him marry that only child....a DAUGHTER!"
      "Well," said the newcomer. "I told him early on that he was raised to have character.  And now I'm sitting here with the folks that taught him character.  My name is Charles...but I already know your names - Sam and Ralph.  I've heard many stories."
      They sat without saying a word for while.
Sam -  the father - said "I'm just glad they let you drink coffee and chew tobacco up here"
Ralph - the Uncle - said "I'm just glad they let you drink coffee and smoke Winstons up here."
Charles - the father-in-law - said "I don't drink coffee and hate tobacco."
Ralph-"Well, there's somebody over there smoking pork shoulders and making sandwiches"
"I'll be right back..." said Charles.  
   

    
 

"Ma" Goddard and the Greatest Generation

     We should all be as lucky as Helen Goddard.  Her obituary notes that she died at 96 while vacationing in Mexico.  I could handle leaving this world while sipping on tequila slammers in some ocean front cantina, dining on another bowl of ceviche (heavy on the jalapeno)  I have no evidence that she was enjoying tequila or ceviche....those are my own vices thrown into the story.  I do know, though, that whatever she was doing there in Mexico someone near her was smiling.  You had to smile when in her company.  An individual who loves life that much rubs off on those around them.  An individual who loves everything and everyone around her more than she loves herself is a gift from God.

     I saw her at church and in the classroom.  That's one of the perks of growing up in the "touch of country in the city" that Stone Mountain, Georgia was at the time.  Those of us raised there were, truly,  raised by a village.  There was always someone to feed you or give you a ride or ask how your family was doing.  Helen Goddard was the epitome of the guardians that surrounded us.  When at church she never asked if I'd done my homework.  When at school she never asked if I'd gone to youth choir practice.  She was a rare soul that cared about US in whichever venue we were lucky enough to be near her.  She was the first person (outside of my family) that I ever discussed plans I wished to pursue in adulthood.   I remember the room, the afternoon, the smile on her face and the chalk dust on her hands when she grabbed my face and said "Timothy.....you can do whatever you want.  You being you is important to everyone that knows you.  Don't live life in terms of income.  Just live life...."   I think she practiced what she preached, given that she died in Mexico after nearly a hundred years on this planet.  She knew how to live life. 

     It's no wonder that my generation spends so much money on therapy, self-help books, medication and tequila slammers.  Just look at the people against which we had to measure ourselves.  A work friend - in his 60's - once told me "Thank Christ your generation didn't have to fight World War II - we'd all be speaking German."  I couldn't disagree with him.  I've not accomplished any of the things I discussed with "Ma" Goddard that afternoon.....but I have lived life.  I hope she'd be proud....

Okra

     "Do you want  your Aunt Nell to cook some fried okra tonight?"  Uncle Ralph asked this question about 2:30 in the heat of the afternoon, while I was scraping weeds out of the okra and beans and tomatoes and anything else he'd chosen to grow that summer.  I figured I was earning me a trip out on the lake in his boat to catch some fish that Aunt Nell could also turn into a religious experience.  I didn't know I was placing my vote where supper choices were concerned. 

     "Yes sir, that'd be good."

     "Use 'Sir' when talking to your daddy.  I don't need that.  If  you want some fried okra, look on the porch, get a bucket and come back out here and pick some."

     Okra - for those not afraid of hot weather and home-grown anything- tastes like someone picked heaven, cooked it and served it up fried, boiled or pickled.  To this day I not only enjoy its taste but realize it's part of what makes me, well,,,,,ME.  It has much in common with the way I pronounce certain words and love hot weather. 

     I ran to the porch, grabbed a bucket and picked as much as I could.  "If it ain't as long as your middle finger, don't pick it"  he said.  I cheated several times and picked some way short.

     "That's enough for supper...go back there and wash off unless you and Alan are going  swimming after while..."   ("After" probably being pronounced "Atter" and Alan a reference to the cousin I spent most of my formative years following around on lakes and in woods and anywhere else he went.)  

     But before I made it to the shower, Aunt Nell stopped a shirtless me and screamed at her husband "PA!  You didn't tell him to wear a shirt before he went out and picked okra???!!!"  I had welts up and down my chest, stomach and back where I'd been picking.   As was par for the course, my dear uncle just laughed and said "Well, he won't do that again."  Okra, you see, has this fuzz on it that's very much akin to the  insulation we use to  secure our houses from the elements.  If you're not careful while picking it, you'll soon need a bath of Witch Hazel or Calamine Lotion (I vote for Witch Hazel because Calamine makes you look like you took a bath in Pepto Bismol)  I didn't care if acted like battery acid upon my skin.  A taste of okra is worth any hardship that you have to endure to get it on a plate.

     I see a lot of commercials these days dealing with "What do  I feed my kids??!".  There's great mention of chicken fingers because they're so easy..  The women that I grew up around would've said "chickens don't have fingers....what do you want for supper?"  I know times are different.  Both parents have to get out and make a living.  So I reckon 2:30 p.m.  inquisitions about "what do you want for supper?"  are as antique as turntables and VCR's.   This makes me sad...and also makes me want okra for supper....