I’ve often extolled the charms and advantages of living in the South. Being practically located on the buckle of the Bible Belt, you find yourself surrounded by an abundance of decent, God-fearing folks who are always willing to lend a hand, even when they find their own to be full. It was these very folks, upstanding and honest as the day is long, who perpetrated one of the biggest, most elaborate tricks I’ve ever seen orchestrated. It was a masterful stroke, pulled off by a gentlemen called around these parts by the unassuming moniker of Poppy Bill. Old Scratch himself would’ve been proud of the delicate layers of subterfuge Poppy Bill laid out one hot July afternoon, on God’s own day… right in His own house.

It all began a few weeks before, as summer was just fully realizing her vibrant hues of red and pink… as the heat went from oppressive to downright unbearable. Poppy Bill found himself with the onerous task of mucking out his rather large chicken coop. Layers of foul-smelling (or perhaps fowl-smelling) crud had accumulated over the Spring months and heavy rains had compounded the filth, with interest. Poppy Bill had asked his brother, known as Tall Jim, to give him a hand with the task. On this particular Saturday, Poppy Bill found himself alone… not really surprised considering Tall Jim wasn’t known for keeping his promises to help. His promises came quite easily… the actual instances of giving a hand… few and far between.

After several hours of nasty, messy, very hot labor, Poppy Bill had loaded his rickshaw style wagon with the giant mess and was finishing up the task by transporting it over to his garden. He was looking forward to using the hard-gotten but rich fertilizer on his prize-winning tomatoes. As he hefted the wagon’s handlebars, he could almost taste the succulent beefsteak tomatoes he would produce. Satisfied with a job well done, he pulled the wagon along behind him.

Now Tall Jim chose this very time to pull recklessly into the gravel drive of the farmyard. His big old pickup truck was throwing gravel all this way and that… and his less-than-careful gravel displacement shot a particularly sharp rock right into the flank of Blue Dog.

Now Blue Dog wasn’t a dog at all… but a grumpy old billy goat Poppy Bill had staked down that morning by the shed to eat up the weeds. Old Blue Dog was so startled by the pain in his rump, he let out a bray and pulled that stake right out of the ground, taking off at a dead run. Poppy Bill would have been impressed at the old goat’s burst of speed… had Blue Dog not been heading right for him. As the goat’s head made contact with Poppy Bill’s gut, out went a whoosh of air… up went Poppy’s arms… down came the wagon, forward to its 45 degree resting position… and down with it, the 75 or so pounds of foul chicken manure… right on top of a prone Poppy Bill.

Now Tall Jim had seen all of this from the cab of his truck, and like all good brothers would do, he jumped out, threw back his head and roared with laughter. Now it would be impolite of me to go telling what words were then exchanged between those brothers, but suffice it to say, Tall Jim DID mention changing Bill’s nickname to Poopy Bill… and Bill ended it all with a vow to exact revenge on his unreliable and troublesome sibling.

Now as any good prankster knows, timing is everything. Poppy Bill spent the next few weeks keeping Tall Jim wondering when it was coming. For a while, Tall Jim jumped at every shadow. After a little bit of that, he just stewed a bit in his own anxious juices. But as summer moved on, he relaxed, figuring old Bill had gotten over it and he could quit worrying.

That was when Poppy Bill chose to strike. Knowing it was Jim’s birthday that next Sunday, Bill set about visiting with every member of their church congregation as he could muster. He carefully laid out his plan… and without exception, convinced each one of them to help with his plot, up to and including several Deacons and the Pastor himself. It seemed that Tall Jim had made many unfulfilled promises of help around the rural community and hadn’t really come through on many.

That Sunday, Poppy Bill picked up Tall Jim on the way to church. Jim spent the short drive grousing about his theory that church shouldn’t start so early on what was supposed to be a day of rest. He had always been a reluctant church-goer at best and this day was no exception.

When they arrived at the little church, sweet ladies in calico and flowery bonnets were bustling in and out of the attached Fellowship Hall, giggling and whispering. They would each one glance at Tall Jim, blushing and stealing glances at each other with knowing smiles. Tall Jim seemed taken a bit off guard. As they entered the sanctuary to visit with the men folk as was the custom before the service proper, each group they approached hushed suspiciously when they came near. By now, Tall Jim was quite sure something was afoot but before he could ask too many questions the time came to take seats for the service.

As he and Bill took their seats, he leaned over and whispered to his brother, “ What’s goin’ on today, ya think, Bill?”

With just the right amount of casual indifference, Bill let go with “ Don’ rightly know… maybe they remembered it was yer birthday, Jim.”

A pleasant dawning came over Tall Jim’s face as they settled in for the preaching. Self-satisfied as a coyote in a chicken coop, he nodded more vigorously, sang more fervently and Amen’d louder than anyone at that day’s service. At the close of the sermon, the Pastor announced “Now I think everyone knows about the special doings in the Fellowship Hall today. In 15 minutes, everyone please gather so we can get this special day underway!” He then gave a broad, knowing smile and chanced a wink, right at Tall Jim.

By now, old Jim was about to burst. He preened and smiled at every lady and shook every man’s hand twice. As usual, after any Sunday service, folks milled about visiting and hugging… and though his usual manner was to hightail it out as soon as the last Amen was said… Jim didn’t have any trouble sticking around on this particular Sunday. He was quite generous with his hugs and well wishes… what we folks down here call ‘being in a Big Way.’ He expansively winked and laughed with everyone… as if he was in on whatever was brewing. He was practically crowing.

At the appointed time, the congregation began filing into the Fellowship Hall. Poppy Bill laid a hand on Tall Jim’s arm. “Best to wait a sec… let everyone get ready, don’t you reckon?”

Tall Jim nodded. Poppy Bill was well pleased as he took a last glance at this brother before going on in. Tall Jim was schooling his expression, practically already reciting a thank you speech and tying on his feedbag. If hubris had a picture next to it in the dictionary, there would be Tall Jim, smiling and waving.

Taking a deep breath, Jim waited another heartbeat and entered, bracing for the yell of ‘surprise!’ as he walked through the door. He visibly deflated as he saw most all of the congregation seated sedately around the tables, with notebooks open and pens in hand. No supper and fixings lay out anywhere in sight. Confused and red-faced, he took a quick seat by Poppy Bill. Before he could get out a whispered bewilderment to his brother, the Pastor went up to the front of the hall to stand by a chalkboard. Jim squinted to make out the half-dozen or so phrases written on it’s dusty surface; ‘Johnsons need new hog pen’ and ‘Ellis family needs a new well dug’ among them.

“I’m so pleased at such a big turn out for this exciting day!” the Pastor began. “I’m so excited about our new project and feel so blessed that Brother Bill has suggested such a wonderful new community program!”

Amens and pats on Poppy Bill’s shoulder only seemed to confuse Tall Jim more. The Pastor continued.

“As you all know, this is a great opportunity for our little church to make a big impact on this community. We can do God’s work and feel blessed in our heavy labor for others! Every Saturday, a chairperson and group of volunteers will visit the farms and homes of families in need. We’ll labor joyously, filling their needs in the Lord’s name and do the hard work that needs to be done! Praise Him!”

A hail of Amens and beatific smiles followed this statement. Tall Jim shifted in his seat.

“Now the first order of business, brothers and sisters, is to elect that chairperson to spearhead this effort… someone whose commitment and tireless service will lead us to salvation through good works! Any nominations?”

Poppy Bill, now grinning openly at his brother’s expression of dawning horror, spoke clearly and plainly. “I nominate Tall Jim.”

Sputtering, but knowing he couldn’t refuse, Jim’s eyes narrowed at his brother’s suggestion… widening again when the whole congregation, speaking on one voice, intoned “Seconded!”

“In favor?”

A chorus of Ayes resounded through the hall.

“Any against?” the Pastor spoke.

Silence.

The Pastor smiled widely as he announced, “Passed unanimously, then! Tall Jim.. thank you for your commitment to this, the Lord’s own work! Rest assured, God wil;l see everything you do!”

Applause and Amens rose to the rafters as the first ever Rose Hill Baptist Church Labor of Love Committee got underway… with Tall Jim, red-faced at the helm… and Poppy Bill grinning broadly, right by his side.

There is such a thing as peace. It’s elusive… comes in small doses. It dances around your peripheral mind. The tasks of the day pile up and you are immersed in the drudgery of getting on with the act of living. And yet peace is there… its found in diverse ways for each individual but the natural world provides myriad opportunities for finding that peace.

Peace isn’t something that comes easy to me… I struggle against the tide of HAVE TO, NEED TO, WANT TO… obligations, responsibilities… I can’t ever seem to escape them. Finding a moment to paint… to write… to be easy… it isn’t’ something I can schedule.

So of course, in the way of the Universe… it finds me. Stolen moments of tranquility, courtesy of the one Force more formidable than me on a mission…. I am gently caressed in fragments of beauty, practically imperceptible, except that the thirst of my spirit gives me a heightened sense of them. A determined natural energy gives me pause, against my will… forcing my senses to stop for a fraction of time… freezes a moment and makes me take heed to the exquisite beauty of simplicity…

…I sit at a red light wondering if I’m going to be late for my son’s class party. The light seems to be taunting me; I can’t remember it ever taking this long to change before. I cast useless glances around the intersection, willing the light to change… and a wind stirs the air. A red maple leaf blows into my open window and lands on my steering wheel. Its veins are ruddy roads, minute pathways surrounded by crimson fields. It’s perfect in its death… promising a verdant return in Spring. I find myself traveling through them, wondering where they lead… A horn honks and breaks my reverie. The light has changed and I race on into my day.

…I am walking, not for my health. I carry a car seat, purse and backpack with one hand and drag a reluctant and whining pre-schooler along with the other. I scan the busy morning traffic for signs of my grandmother… awaiting rescue from my second flat tire of the week. Moms busily drive by, rushing to get their kids to school as I wonder if John will be late. I didn’t plan on any walking this morning and my impractical shoes are making each step an agony. As I walk up the sidewalk with my burdens, I wonder from where the money to repair this tire will come… what will I have to let go unpaid just to be able to drive my kids to school. The angst mounts as my grandmother STILL isn’t in sight and I have 7 minutes left to get John to school on time. As we round the corner to wait at the stop sign as agreed, the air takes on a familiar fragrance and I find myself awash in the scent of wild wisteria. As I seek the source, I can barely see a ragged hillside, covered in fallen trees and neglected cars. Appliances litter the ground and the few trees left standing seem almost angry in their postures. Then I see it. Obscuring the ugliness with a determined vigilance, vines of healthy green, drip with vibrant purple blooms… daring the passerby to see anything but beauty in its resolute attempt to reclaim the hill. I take deep breaths, drawing in the sweetness offered and feel the worry melt from my shoulders. I relax my grip on angry thoughts and let the wisteria wash over me. I am utterly calm in a sea of rushing cars and insistent, impatient commuters. I can’t even see them anymore.

…I am trying desperately to clean my house. The floors are covered in the clothes my family seems to shed like snakeskin, left lying where they fell. I can’t get the vacuum to work, damn belt is probably off again. I find that I am out of powder for the dishwasher, haven’t made it to the store for beverages. I burn the first batch of biscuits and my boys are waging war over whose turn it is to melt their brain on the Playstation. The only pair of jeans I own that fit are in the hamper and I find myself staring in the mirror wondering if I should just give up and eat a cheesecake a day so I will have to be buried in a piano case. I go outside to my car, hoping to scrounge enough change to send my husband for a pack of cigarettes, even as I berate myself over putting even more nails in my coffin. As I am mounting the steps clutching the enabling coins in my hand, a whippoorwill begins its evening song… filling the woods around my house with a mournful beauty. His song seems to enter my heart… joining with my sadness, telling me I am not alone. I take heart as his cry rises. It drowns out the thoughts visited upon me by my own frustrations. As he falls silent, I enter my home, smile at my husband and get on with my chores without the grousing. After all, the whippoorwill understands.

As a child, I never knew we were poor.  I’m sure the signs were there.  I grew up in the economically depressed rural South, so surely there were glaring clues that my family wasn’t keeping up with the Joneses… hell, I’m pretty sure we didn’t even know where the Joneses lived.  Oddly enough, it really didn’t figure in to my picture of our lives.

I saw my childhood as a series of family gatherings, church socials and a cornucopia of delights… all handmade or homemade.  To this day, I see quilts as treasures with concern in every stitch… pies as labors of love… a hand-sewn shirt as a triumph over big business.  Wrapped up in hugs and kisses from family, I was secure.  Hands that patted my head (or swatted my behind) were the same ones that toiled endlessly to make sure I never knew just how tough life was.

Certainly, in retrospect, it is apparent to me now.  Our homes were never fancy (though always neat as a pin, thanks to my wondrous grandmother)… my clothes were more handmade than store-bought… getting anything new from a store was an adventure.  I feasted on poor man’s fare daily… pinto beans, stewed potatoes, turnip greens, biscuits, cornbread, fried baloney and pimento cheese.  Fast food was a rare treat… rare enough that I was unfamiliar with most of the fast food menus until much later in my childhood.  We gardened, fished and hunted nearly all the time… though I didn’t know then it wasn’t because we wanted to, but more from necessity to augment our family meals.

And yet… I never knew.  Why?  This is a question I have pondered many times over the years.  I am pretty sure the answer lies in one word:  SMILE.

Smiling… laughing… enjoying ourselves… this is something my family never lacked, never hesitated to perpetrate at the drop of a hat.  On crowded porches while inescapable summer heat drenched us, anecdotal tales of comic misadventure were related in honeyed southern drawls.   Handheld fans would swish furiously as the ladies would try and beat back the heat… but it was really the laughter that kept that famous Southern humidity at bay.

Practical jokes were played, with paybacks growing exponentially into elaborate schemes and hoaxes.  One of my favorites is about my grandpa… whose main job in the auto industry had him working long hours at a carburetor plant.  To this day, folks who worked with him back then like to tell me of his penchant for practical jokes.  One of his famous pranks was a simple gorilla mask… donned at particularly rough times.  He’d wait just around a corner or behind a machine and pop out at unsuspecting folks.  Of course, they couldn’t let it go unanswered.  Retributive strikes of hidden fish in the cab of his truck, stuffed monkeys left in compromising positions on his windshield… and other random, escalating tales of misadventure fill the stories of his 26 years at the plant.

And why?  How could those folks celebrate the drudgery that is factory assembly?   They did it just to get that belly laugh going.  Oh!  That belly laugh…the kind that starts in your throat and spreads until it wraps your spirit in joy… it was our currency.  We bought and paid for our lives with jokes, silly songs and what some folks call ‘poetic license’ sprinkled quite liberally over even the most mundane of tales.

If you’ve ever heard a true Southern storyteller relate a tale then you can understand what I’m pointing at… even a frustrating, overlong work day full of bounced checks and flat tires can turn into a real side-splitter. 

Last year, a friend of mine who is employed as a bus driver for a local school system related a tale of a workday that had us rolling.  All day long, he sees the failures of parents, the school system… sees things that would dishearten anyone concerned about the future of our youth.  But his story?  It bought us a few moments of release… which is worth a thousand rants about social reform.

He was driving along, doing his best to maintain control over these middle-schoolers… and as happens often, a few kids were attempting to finish their homework on the bus ride home.  Always one to pitch in, he was assisting a girl with her English.  He answered her with questions, trying to make her think… use her own knowledge to extrapolate the answer.

“Mr. Billy?  What’s a metaphor?”  Before he can answer, another kid speaks up.

“Sheesh!  You have to ask that?  We learned that in 4^th grade!  A metaphor is when an animal or bug turns into another animal!  Like a butterfly!”

Now this kind of gap in knowledge is a crying shame… but rather than harp on the inadequacies of the school… Billy wove a tale of comic mishap, heroic re-education and delightful wordplay… until we were almost crying with hilarity.  Even now, we reference that story in wordplay of our own, just to revisit that laughter.  (We’ve even determined that a simile must be some sort of Ape species.)

There’s pretty much nothing we hesitate to point at and laugh, including and most especially ourselves.  It’s not uncommon for me, even now, to relate my day to my friends with a joyful glee… though the living of it could never have been called entertaining. 

I suppose, in a way, that currency of my youth has become the inheritance I took with me into the trials of adulthood… always willing to point at misfortune and just laugh in its face.  Most days, I still don’t notice if I struggle to pay my bills… or add another item to the long list of things we need but can’t yet afford.  I just do the best I can and find the joke in it that I can pass along. 

This very morning, I found myself falling back on that ability to process sadness and stress by paying it out in humor and comedic tales.  A long standing hometown restaurant… the kind where you can still get a hearty Southern breakfast for just over three dollars and a meat-n-three at lunchtime surrounded by old men reading newspapers… had brown paper over the windows when my bestie and I arrived for our weekly breakfast.   Over 40 years in business, I’d guess and just like that… gone.  Another victim of today’s economic downturn… It was a place tied inexorably to my youth… where my grandpa and his cronies would pass the mornings talking politics and family life.  I learned more there than in any classroom in which I’ve been.  But though a piece of my childhood perished with its closing, we were able to pass the morning steeped in nostalgia, telling funny stories of times spent there and laughing over its hometown charms.  It’s just our way, to pay for peace of mind with that familiar currency of humor.  After all, what can you do, but just keep going and smile?

Empty Gestures

January 6, 1987…

The world fell silent.  Faces, distorted with swirls of madness and colors that don’t exist, mimed inappropriate words at me as my mouth filled with sawdust and bile.  I may have given a response… I can’t tell you even now.  What I know for certain is how my arms and legs became leaden and I fought tooth and nail hold onto my will.  It was the only thing tethering me to sanity.

My grandfather was dead… had shared his last moment on this Earth in a sterile room surrounded by people who were practically strangers as my aunt and I had pulled out of the parking lot on our way home for a few brief moments of rest.   We sat in quiet vigil for weeks as his pancreas shut down and finally pulled his consciousness into Morpheus’ realm.  We kept quiet reserve as the harpies clucked and screeched their trite pessimism at us… lording their ‘power’ over the life of my beloved Grandpa.  We stood steadfast as they attempted to cut us off, cut us out… cut us down.  Barring a few from even visiting his room, they sunk their talons into him and shrieked their evil words at us

And yet, we stayed

You see, this is no quiet passing of a lovely man surrounded by his wife, children and grandchildren.  Oh no… the reality was much less poetic.

My grandmother and grandfather were married for over 26 years.  He adopted her first child, my mother, and then they produced three more… my aunts and uncle.  In his mid-fifties, my grandfather left my grandmother and married a woman with whom he had been having an affair.  It’s all very sordid, really. 

He was married to this woman a bit over four years and one of her adult children made it her life’s mission to conspire with her mother to cut him off from his natural family.  It was they who tried banning my grandmother from the hospital as the man with whom she shared four children lay breathing his last.  It was they who connived to have Sandy and I cease our vigil ‘for a little while, you look so tired, we’ll hold down the fort”… and turned off the life support before we had even left the hospital grounds.  It was they who turned the funeral of quiet, dignified man into a circus of hackneyed trailer trash.

But all of this is only the prologue to the saga.

It was the day of the funeral.  I stared with blurred, aching eyes at the monstrosity in which my grandfather was to spend eternity.  I fought down the urge to let go of my breakfast as his ‘wife’ sat down beside me.

“Aren’t’ you glad we didn’t get that old pine box you were so set on?  This is so much more fancy.  And Ralph hated pine!”

Quite suddenly, I smelled the oils he rubbed so lovingly over the cabinets he built by hand in our house… the house of my youth.  Yellow pine with fine details… they were solid construction with simple beauty.  It came over me like a heavy perfume.

“Yes,” I managed to croak at her.  “I suppose you wouldn’t know.”

She looked confused and walked away.  So much the better.

Her daughter approached as I stood later among my cousins, each holding me up in different ways.  I tried to project an aura of GO AWAY but apparently in my weakened state I wasn’t up to the task.  For there she was, with her twisted bulldog face and screeching voice, belching empty platitudes.

“He looks so peaceful, so natural.  They did a wonderful job with his embalming, don’t you think?”

No.  No I don’t think he looks natural, you mewling goat.  And thanks for reminding me he’s irrevocably dead.

“Sure.”  I managed as my cousin’s arm tightened around my shoulder with protective ferocity.

“I think we should have a more personal touch.  We want you to sing “Amazing Grace” at the end of the service, ok?  It was his favorite.”

“In the Garden.”  I said flatly.

“Oh, well, it doesn’t really matter which one does it?”

My cousin spoke up then.  “She can hardly stand.  Get someone else to sing, for Chrissakes.”

A venomous glance crossed her face briefly, and then the subterfuge was back.

“Oh I suppose you’re right.  It’s ok sweetheart, your grandfather won’t know the difference.”

That arm tightened even more around me as I started to lunge.  She turned on her heel and walked away… humming.

The blurred hours that followed numbed me.  I wandered about, accepting hollow condolences as I felt the connection to my grandfather slipping away.  I was losing him.  He was getting lost in empty platitudes and clichéd responses.  He barely knew the eulogists in life and they obviously had no idea of the man when they spoke.  Strangers professed undying love and loyalty as his own children were told they would be ‘allowed’ to sit with the family during the service.

Then it came.  Earth hit coffin, time froze.  And all I could think was ‘thank God they will cover that hideous thing with dirt.’  Another frozen moment.  The overpowering smell of fresh flowers.  The red clay dirt.  One heartbeat.  Bleak gray skies.

And it was done.

I turned to his ‘wife’ a bit later and asked, with as much sincerity and civility as I could muster, “Could I come by later and get a few things… my dad’s old reel to reel that Grandpa loved, a few pictures maybe?”

“Oh no, honey.  I couldn’t let go of anything.  I’m sorry.  You have so many years of memories.  His things are all I have left.  I’ll see if I can find something you can have but not anything like that.”

I was stunned.  I waited until the next morning and went to her house.  She had already practically cleaned out his old house in town and moved it all to her trashy family home in the country.  When I showed up at the door, she said “Oh, I’m so glad you came.  I found this for you.”

It was a postcard, blank.  The scene on the front showed a kitschy dive somewhere out West.  I had no idea how it connected to my grandfather.  I stared at it and barely held it in limp hands.

“Ralph loved it there.  We stopped there once on a trip.  I thought this was the perfect thing to show you that he was so happy when he died.”

I didn’t say another word.  I dropped it on the porch and walked away.

A couple weeks later, I drove by and saw the sign on his house in town:  For Sale.  Later that night, with the help of a dear friend, I crossed the field between the Vocational School and Grandpa’s backyard and jimmied the lock on the back door.  A few scattered remnants of my Grandpa’s things were left behind… the butter dish with a speaker inside that he held against his deaf ear when he watched Hee Haw at night… an old work shirt splattered with paint that still carried the Old Spice he always wore… crumbling leaves fallen from the tree of his life.  I gathered them with reverence.

The statute of limitations has long run out and I was a minor… so I have no problem telling you now that I vandalized that place as well.  Why?  Well, I suppose I was angry.  But more than that, I was spiteful.  She took everything from me and wouldn’t even throw me some table scraps.  I wanted to cause her troubles.  I wanted her to suffer.  I hope she did.  It meant nothing then, though… and means nothing now.

I live now in the house I bought this last Spring… a mere 3700 feet from where my grandfather’s remains are spending eternity.  I am a long way past that angry girl who lost her mind when a mere mortal man left her.  I take my children to stand at his feet and hope my stories are enough to keep him living in their hearts in some way.  I push the past away, hoping this bitterness might die down… but after 22 years, I guess that is a pipe dream.

My best memory of that time has to be when, despite their best efforts to keep her away, my grandmother came to sit that long, dark vigil with us at the hospital.  They couldn’t deny her when shortly before he slipped into his coma, he asked to see her.

When approached by his ‘other family', spouting barely concealed jibes at her and talking of him in empty clichés as if he was already dead… she mustered all of the dignity I have seen her wield in pieces over the years.

“Ralph was so kind to us, better than our own Daddy.  He was such a good man… I believe he was as good to us as if we was his own children.”

She nodded sagely, and with a calm, clear voice, stated simply “Yes, Ralph was kind to stray dogs too.”

******

This is an entry into the creative writing contest over at

therealljidol

To introduce myself, I could state the facts:

• I’m 38 years old.
• I have an irreverent quirky husband that I’ve loved for 20 years.
• I have two best friends (of 20+ years)
• We have no pets currently.
• I have two wonderful boys, aged 4 and 9, and am their SAHM.
• I am a very active member of the SCA (Society for Creative Anachronism, www.sca.org) and an officer in my Shire.
• I am a dyed in the wool Southerner.
• Sci-fi and Fantasy are my favorite genres of books, movies and TV shows.
• I am a room parent and PTO mom.
• I have been trying desperately to quit smoking.
• I have been trained as a Chef’s Tourant as well as in the hospitality industry.

…but would you really get to know me that way?

Perhaps it would be of more assistance to know that I love the feeling of grass on my bare feet… that I have a fierce loyalty to my loved ones that borders occasionally on fanaticism… that I am silly and sacrilegious… have wandering down to an art form… revel in junk shops and antiques… take life in stride because what else can I do?

Even better would be to layer the information with the scents I love… rain and wisteria, wood smoke and fresh turned earth, libraries and cloves … I could add the tinkling of wind chimes or low moan of the bagpipes… freshen my words with breezes of a warm ocean wind whose salt lingers on your lips for hours afterward…

I could embrace you and twirl you into my madness to the beats of swing and jazz, turn my ebony eyes upon you and beg you to see the heart that swells behind them… 

…or…

…I could just say “It’s excellent to make your acquaintance.  Please sit back and get to know me through my entries.  I put myself into each one.”

_________


This is an entry to therealljidol .  Keep an eye out for further entries and shameless groveling for votes!

1. When and where was he born? May 30, 1967 in Mississippi
2. Who are his parents? Emmit and Marne (but they aren't together, step mom is Micki)
3. What is his zodiac sign? Gemini
4. What's his middle name? Melvin
5. What color are his eyes? a gorgeous cloudy green with goldish flecks
6. What color & style is his hair? golden brown with strawberry highlights, long and unruly with shaved sides
7. How is he built? crooked LOL... and in some ways, rather equine-like
8. How many kids does he have? three... one son and two step sons (these are the ones he knows about LOL)
9. What religion is he? Is there a Church of the Unrepentant Asshole?  That's the one.  He's an Assholian.
10. What languages does he speak?  English, Stick Jock, Geek and Asshole
11. Who is his best friend? Hmmm.. I would say Jack, Ken and Billy.. and Tony... and me
12. What kind of work does he do? he's the cable guy!
13. What does he want to be when he grows up? a pirate... but no one really has to worry about him growing up too much
14. What does he hate the most?  psychotic people, people who hurt children, people who give me a hard time
15. What is his biggest fear?  something bad happening to me or the kids, not being able to work
16. What is his favorite kind of movie? action, but he has a secret soft spot for musicals and sappy love stories
17. What is his favorite kind of book? mostly fantasy
18. What is his favorite kind of game? pen and paper RPGs, because I whip his ass at cards
19. What is his favorite kind of music?  the heavier the better
20. What is his favorite kind of food? MEAT...
21. What is his favorite movie? My Favorite Year
22. What is his favorite color? green
23. What is his favorite alcoholic beverage? Jamesons Irish Whiskey
24. What is his favorite TV show? Bones, Terminator SCC, Heroes, True Blood, Leverage, Psych
25. What is his favorite vacation spot? Lumberton MS
26. What is his favorite hobby? hitting people with sticks
27. What is his favorite song? OK, whoever made this quiz must not be old enough to realize that there are too many to choose from...
28. What are his bad habits?  How long can I make this list?  Ummm, suffice it to say that no one is perfect.
29. Does he snore? like a freight train
30. How long have you known him?  20 years now... wow...
31. When & where did you fall in love? July 4, 1989 in Pt St Lucie Florida
32. What is 'your' song? Back in the day "Nights in White Satin"... these days, it varies... but he loves it when I sing anything to him... especially "Baby I Love You"
33. What ringtone has he set for you?  (this is so embarrassing)  Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off
34. When is the last time you kissed him?  this morning around 6 am
35. When is the last time you MORE than kissed him?  last night around 11 pm *waggles eyebrows*
36. Does he like to snuggle?  more than any man I've known
37. How is his sex drive? Randy enough that I sometimes think I should drug him so I can get a good nights sleep
38. What are his turn ons?  Oh sheesh... this is a little personal here... lets just say I know them... trust me...
39. What are his turn offs?  bad hygiene, ugly faces, whiny, needy women... cold women
40. What is his favorite position? any one in which I am there... LOL... 
41. Does he love you?  like you wouldn't believe...

I am finally making great strides forward.  I am letting loose the dogs of war and fighting for health.  I am desperate to clear up my life and make it what I know it can be as opposed to what it has become.  To that end, I am going to place the ideas I have for better health ‘on the record’.   I have had a long, harsh discussion with myself over the last few weeks and bullied same self into compliance.  This is the make it or break it portion of my life.

Your result for Goddess Future Test...

Your Goddess is Venus

29% Venus, 0% Artemis, 0% Brigit, 29% Tai_Yuan, 29% Laksmi, 0% Hekat and 14% Romi_Kumu!

Take Goddess Future Test at HelloQuizzy

I wake at 5 a.m.; the sultry summer night is still wet on my body.  The barest of breezes is rustling the sheer curtain over the open window.  A box fan in the corner thrums with the pulse of the summer morning.  The earliest of birds sing their songs while the crickets still chirp.  The rhythmic cacophony of Tennessee nights is a comfort… but the night is fading and its music being replaced by sprinklers and warblers…

I lay awake in my bed, inhaling the heady scents that permeate my room.  All honeysuckle and jasmine from the flowers outside the window, I luxuriate in the heaviness of the perfumed air.  We had a late night last night, which requires a cat stretch and contented smile.   The rumpled bedclothes and remnants of a midnight snack of fresh strawberries and cream tell the story of our unexpected tryst.

I turn and see his sleeping form, sweat beaded on his brow from the heat.  His face is that of a rogue, rakish and angelic all at once.  Laying a kiss on his forehead, it amazes me that even in sleep he turns his face to me when he feels my touch.

Rising easy, so he doesn’t stir, and successfully navigating down the dark hall is a test of my grace.  Shoes and clothes are strewn from the living room to the bedroom and I chuckle softly to myself at the urgency we felt last night.  After a moment in the bathroom and a splash of cool water, I am morning new.

In the kitchen, knowing I haven’t long until he awakens to start his day, I make a plan.  I start my coffee, and on a whim pull out the lard, the flour and the buttermilk.  I haven’t made him homemade biscuits in a while.  I smile to myself, knowing he won’t expect them on a weekday.

I pull the country ham out of the refrigerator and cut off the rind as I go.  After its frying up with Coke and brown sugar, I tiptoe down the hall carefully.  I peek into our room, see his nose wrinkling up to sniff… won’t be long now.  I watch his sexy stretch as he tries to convince himself to get up.

Returning to check on breakfast, I pour a cup of coffee.  The hearty brew mixes its aromas with breakfast making an almost irresistible combination.  I slice fresh tomatoes, mix honey in sweet cream butter and dig out a jar of homemade pear preserves.  Feeling mischievous about the surprise I’m cooking up, I even set the table.

I get the biscuits out when they are golden, laying the ham off to drain.  The grease looks good and I stir in some brown sugar and coffee, humming.

Red Eye Special gets him up… I can hear him padding down the hall just as I’ve cracked in the eggs to fry.  His eyes squint in the light, but pop open on sight of the biscuits and gravy. 

As he sits down at the table, I take him in all at once, sight… smell… sound.  His stomach grumbles audibly and I giggle as he gives me a sheepish look.  I make his eggs and pour his milk, fix his plate and deliver it all with a kiss.   His only comment is a throaty moan at the first bite, rolling his eyes back and savoring the ham.

We both dig in earnestly now; with a full mouth he smiles and mumbles, “S’good, baby.”

After a full belly, he plods off to the shower, with a kiss for me on his way.  I pour another cup of coffee and head to the porch, sitting in the worn swing.

Dawn is chasing the grays and pinks from the sky, pulling the birds out in full.  Their songs fill the air; I sip my coffee.  I hear the jingle of keys and creak of the porch screen door.  The earthy smell of morning dew hasn’t faded and I soak it in as he shuffles over for a kiss.  A small smile plays on his lips as I notice the biscuit wrapped in a paper towel he’s holding in his hand.

As he looks at his watch, his eyes pop and he steals another quick kiss before dashing down the stairs and hopping in his truck.  I can see him munching on the biscuit as he pulls out of the drive.

He waves the half eaten biscuit at me as he drives away.  Another sip of coffee, another breath of the Southern morning… “Love you too, baby.”  I say as his taillights disappear around the bend.

25 Random Things About Me

1. My musical tastes run all over the world… at any time I might listen to Alison Krauss, Alice Cooper, Anoushka Shankar, Celtic Underground, Hank Williams, Sr. and Black Sabbath in one listening set…

2. My favorite movies include Real Genius, Princess Bride, Much Ado About Nothing, Evil Dead, Baron Munchausen, Meaning of Life and Remains of the Day.

3. I am an insatiable reader and read most anything I can get my hands on, but when my life gets very stressful, I read from my much cherished and beloved Complete Works of Shakespeare.

4. I have an unreasoning addiction to Art Galleries and Museums.

5. Quilting is what I would do if I had scads of time… instead I only get to it sporadically.

6. I am a member of the SCA

7. I’ve been married four times but to only three men.

8. Both of my children have identical skin tags on their right ears… I marked them from birth!

9. I had a chance to study in France as a chef through my training as a chef tourant at Club Med… but turned it down to be with my current husband…

10. I can’t eat chocolate brownies unless they are hot and slathered with real butter.

11. I am addicted to vivid jewel colors

12. I once quit smoking for five years because I am stubborn.  A close, beloved friend pretty much dared me to…. (*sticks tongue out at Dennis*)  Of course, now I am struggling to quit again…

13. I love even the cheesiest sci-fi/fantasy movies…. I cried when they made The Lord of the Rings Trilogy… (from joy)

14. My relationship with my ex husband (father of my oldest boy) is very good… so good that he even stays at our house on his weekend visits and is here with us on every holiday… including Christmas morning… it’s refreshing.

15. I love Easy Cheese on Chikin in a biskit crackers.

16. I wasn’t raised by my parents but I’m far from an orphan… I was passed between my grandparents and several great aunts and uncles… however, it blurred relationship lines for me… my aunts and uncle (mother’s siblings) are MY siblings in my mind… it confuses folks often.

17. I have an addiction to Sim games… the ones like Sim City, Civ and Age of Empires.

18. I think its far better to be smart than pretty.

19. I have had the same best friends for over 20 years.

20. I love roleplaying games (AD&D style) and have been playing them for 25 years, including Dming my own games.

21. I spent an entire year drunk and now hardly drink, usually on New Years and a few other ‘occasions’.

22. I love to fish, hunt and camp.

23. Seeing my man on the battlefield is a big turn on (he’s an SCA heavy fighter)… I also love hockey… see a theme here?

24. I am a raging insomniac and haven’t slept more than 4 hours a stretch in about 8 years.
25. I am in a group of folks lovingly called Cryptic Toast with whom I make an annual pilgrimage to Dragon Con every year... It's like home to me.

Quilting is a long-standing tradition within my maternal family, going back several generations.  Even today, in a time where quilting has become more like modern graphic art, the women of my family still sew every stitch by hand, from piecing to quilting to binding… all without the aid of any machine.  The quilts they turn out are coveted by all who see them.  Each milestone event is usually met with a hand-sewn testament of love.  I have been wrapped it in my whole life.

Literally.

Two days before my birth, my grandmother completed my baby blanket.  In tones of light yellows and greens, blocks of cheerful Humpty Dumptys wrapped me up and saw me home. My first tactile experience of note was being wrapped in her labor of love.  I cannot remember ever being without it.  As much as I traveled, and believe me, I did… as many things that have gone AWOL over the years… I have never been without it.

Among my earliest memories were long days spent in the company of my great-grandmother and her sisters, cousins and daughters as they gathered around sawhorse frames to quilt.  My Great-Great-Aunt Leoda’s house was my favorite place to attend a quilting.  She was my great-grandmothers mischievous older sister, the oldest living member of my family until just a few years ago. 

We would rise very early, my grandmother and I.  The only ones up that early on a Saturday, we would enjoy a special breakfast of biscuits and gravy, sausage, eggs and grits with butter and salt.  My grandmother’s huge sewing basket would be loaded into the Green Giant (a huge Ford LTD, also called the La-Tee-Da by my aunts).  I would proudly trundle it out, though it out-sized me quite a bit, happy to be a part of a special day.  Summer days were the best for this journey, when the whole world smelled of honeysuckle and the hot sun was tempered with the wind through the open windows.  After picking up my great-grandmother and her even more gigantic sewing basket, we’d drive the 30 minutes out into rural Tennessee where my Aunt Leoda and Uncle Red made their home on a converted 18th century farmstead.

The drive was always a solace for me.  As the ladies in the front talked of patterns and fabrics I would drift away, staring out the window into the countryside of the lands I knew and loved so well.  I would slip in and out of sleep, lulled by the cadence of their Southern speech, warmed by the presence of the strongest women in my life.

When we’d arrive, most everyone else was there, as we'd had the furthest to drive… sometimes upwards of twenty women, each bearing their own basket of thimbles, thread, needles and patterns.  Many of my cousins would also be among the throng.  We’d hop out of cars as soon as they stopped and begin our adventures on the huge farm while the ladies went inside and got down to business.

We trekked through creeks, hunted for crawdads, stripped down and plunged into icy swimming holes… Our days were punctuated by piracy, crime and punishment and gunfights… our games of pretend seemed endless.  When our tummies overpowered our play, we’d march into the huge  farmhouse to petition for lunch.  Of course, it would already be laid out… bologna sandwiches, homemade sweet pickles, chunks of rich cheese and mustard and big glasses of sweet tea… the fare of my youth.  It was then that the quilting would sooth us into rest. 

After filling our bellies, we’d take up various posts around the room, snuggled two and three on couches, and on pallets on the floor anywhere there was space enough.  The sweet voices of the women lulled us to sleep.  After napping, we’d help with chores, assist the ladies as they sewed… and as we got older, we were taken into positions of apprenticeship.  Sitting at their feet, learning from the masters, we’d piece our own simple blocks and listen to the instruction and history regarding such named patterns as Drunkard’s Path, Log Cabin, Pineapple, Card Tricks, Cathedral Windows, Irish Chain and Double Wedding Band.

I soaked in their teachings much as my nut-brown skin soaked in the rays of the sun…  I couldn’t get enough.  It made me feel important, connected, secure… to receive this knowledge made me understand that I was a confidant, sharing the secrets of the past with these extraordinary women who shaped my life.  Even as a child, I felt privileged.

As the years passed, the quilting group was sadly diminished in size… we lost my great-grandmother, Aunt Leoda and many others.  A few more drifted off to other states, other places.  My older cousins grew up, went to college, moved away.  Then my gypsy whispered to me and even I went walkabout for a while.

When I returned to finish high school, I was gifted with my first quilt since my baby blanket… a beautiful light blue Double Wedding Band that my grandmother had pieced when she was younger and my great grandmother and Aunt Leoda had quilted.  There is a spot on the back where my great-grandmother pricked her finger badly and bled onto the quilt.  It is my most prized possession to this day.  I once ran into a burning building, resisting the hands of those holding me back, to retrieve it and my Humpty quilt from the fiery destruction that consumed almost everything else I owned.

But not my blankets.  Not while I draw breath.

Later, in my late twenties, I was told to pick any pattern I wanted and fabric colors as well.  I chose a black and white Card Tricks.  My grandmother created it, adding her own touches and special fabric from the stash she still had of my great-grandmother’s things. She gifted me with it on my 27^th birthday.  It represented a year’s worth of work, made entirely by the hands of my grandmother, easily one of the five most precious people in my life. I wept openly.  Not long after, she gave me a plaque with a piece of my Great Uncle Ricky's baby quilt (it is 60 years old) under glass with the quilters engraved as well as a pillow made from what was left of it.  He was my favorite and I couldn't be here when he passed... its so special to have that part of him with me.

When she learned of my pregnancy, she surprised me at my shower with a blanket done in colorful Humptys for my son… then another when my next child was born, this one in baby blue Humptys.  The tradition was carried on this past month when my niece gave birth to her first and received a Humpty blanket for Marley.  This is the warmth and love that surrounds us when we are born into this family.  We carry it with us through life.  You only need to wrap yourself in the colorful comfort of these handmade heirlooms to know that someone loved you that much.


 

LJ Idol Topic 18:  It’s Not What You Think

Much of my life has been spent nurturing an adventurous spirit.  Of course, that’s the complimentary way of saying that I’ve spent my life leaping into any situation that piqued my interest without a thought for self preservation or an inkling at just how much trouble I could get myself into… all this while harboring the attitude of ‘that which does not kill me will only make me laugh like a loon’.

It is this very penchant for trouble that saw me sailing out of a tiny Florida harbor on a fishing boat… the Señora de los Dolores.  Of course, having only bastardized Spanish phraseology at the time, my translation of the name was the Lady Delores.  Only later did I realize that the literal translation meant Lady of Sorrows.  It was apparent almost immediately, if not known intellectually.

Now, I must say, for an Earth sign, I am a real water baby… perhaps it is that I am on the cusp of Aquarius… perhaps that is all hooey and I just love the water.  Whatever the case, I had my sea legs almost immediately, though the waters were choppy on that overcast March morning.

The boat itself was a wonder.  By wonder, I mean I wondered how it ever even stayed afloat.  It was rickety and needed a serious facelift.  Peeling paint, warped decking… it was a nightmare.  However, I was undaunted and quite happy to be out on the waters with some of my favorite people.

Now this was back in my younger days, before children and hard living made my wearing a swimsuit prohibido and so on this day, my compatriots and I were decked in our Florida local finest… Ron Jon bikinis and trunks, surf shoes and not much else but our shades.  There were 8 of us that day, and we had rented out the entire boat on a lark.  Compared to the other prices in the area, the rental had been a song… perhaps that should have been a clue.

We weren’t long out of the harbor, just past the ability to see land, when the storm hit.  I say THE storm; because it wasn’t just A storm… it was massive, unexpected and ferocious.  The crew of the boat, a three man Cubano team, seemed unconcerned, and simply continued on about their business with seeming nonchalance.  Of course, the calm could have been contributed to by the massive amount of Khola we had smoked with them while preparing for the trip.  We had about a half-pound in our duffel along with drinks and snacks… lots of snacks.  Of course, it could also have been the rum.  I can’t be certain, really.

This is the part of the story where I DON’T tell you what kind of people I hung out with when I lived in Florida.  I will say, for anyone who read my last entry about Club Med, that one of my companions that day was the massive Jamaican with which I worked , Tong.

As the storm intensified, waves almost overtaking the tiny vessel, a bit of alarm began to seep through the haze of our collective mind.  The crew was shouting in Spanish, to be heard over the crashing din, and I got about every third word.  For example, I understand peligro (danger), nadar (swim), and oh mierda (oh shit).  It was a very difficult reality to grasp but I had that moment of clarity when I realized we were in real trouble.  It was right about the time that one of my friends, James (called ‘Sweet Baby’ by all those who knew him well), began to feel the effects of the tossing waves and stressful situation.  By feel, I mean he began to be sick… all over the deck… and the gear… and us… and well, everywhere.

Luckily, the driving rain washed away most of the evidence of his weak stomach… but just as the storm raged on, so did his illness… unabated.  I thought perhaps I could calm his nausea if I took him below decks, into the small hold/cabin where the crew stored their gear and ate meals.  The crew had no objections, or if they did, had no time to stop me, so I escorted Sweet Baby to the small cabin and sat him down.  I found a jug of water and poured him a cup, barely keeping my footing in the tossing boat.

And speaking of tossing… that’s what Sweet Baby did just then… all over me, him and the bench on which we were seated.  After a moment of EWWWWW, I was able to rouse myself into finding a way to clean us up.  I grabbed the jug of water and poured it over us, trying to slosh it over the worst offended areas.  Of course, the rocking boat did nothing to steady my aim and I ended up making a worse mess than before.  I jumped up to find a towel or something akin to wipe us down.

I could vaguely hear shouting from above and Tong yelling into what I assumed was the radio.  Then I realized I was standing in a couple of inches of water.

We were taking on water.  I had a very clear moment of panic.

I turned to get Sweet Baby so we could go above.  I didn’t want to get caught down here if the boat went down.  When I reached to grab him, I saw that he was naked.  Starkers.  Completely in the buff.

“Whoa.  Man, I gotta find a towel or something.  God, I’m wasted.”

He began to giggle.  I saw our lives flash before my eyes.  Jesus. I’m going to die on a boat full of Cubanos, a half-pound of primo pot, a naked drunk surfer and two gallons of rum. I pushed the thought away and started to drag him above.  We weren’t THAT far from land and if the Coast Guard was nearby, they would have heard Tong on the radio.  Surely we would be rescued.

As I grabbed for his arm, the Lady of Sorrows gave a lurch and I was thrown to my knees... head first into Sweet Baby’s crotch.  He yelled out and grabbed me by the head.  I was thrashing around, attempting to regain my feet and extract my head from Sweet Baby’s hands.  He was stumbling about, holding on to me in a drunken bid for assistance, and yelling “My balls! My balls!”

Tong chose this moment to retrieve us from the hold.  Apparently, what he saw was shocking enough to momentarily dampen his fear.  He laughed out loud.

“You two zeen wi gahn down, yah?  Or mebbe you not.  Wa mek yu galaan so?  Wi gwaan die wi don step!”

As I finally extracted myself from Sweet Baby’s grasp, I saw what Tong must have seen.  I stammered at him.  “No!  NO!  No… it’s not what you think… we were… I was… Oh shit.”

I allowed myself to be dragged above and Sweet Baby followed, still dazed and holding himself, naked as the day he was born.  The storm was raging on and everyone was ashen and fearful.  A few glances at Sweet Baby had everyone a bit confused.

Tong yelled out “Dey tink dey kin tek time to tan pon it lang when wi gonna sink!”

“No! It’s not that!  I swear!  We just…”

I didn’t have time to finish my explanation.  Just then a large thunder crack of wood splintering got our attention.  Everyone screamed and the crew was scrambling to right the boat.  What I thought at first was lightning turned out to be the searchlight of a Coast Guard cruiser.  A bullhorn voice thundered over the storm.

“Ahoy the boat!  We are responding to your call!”

The next twenty or so minutes were a blur of yellow and orange bedecked rescue workers, transferring us over to the cruiser.  Shouts and screams and a few near misses and we were safely aboard.  The captain and crew of the Lady of Sorrows watched aghast as she was pulled under a wave and listed over to begin her descent.  I looked around at my friends, silently counting heads and thanking the Fates we were all safe.

My eyes fell on Sweet baby, clutching our duffel as if his life depended on it and grinning like a loon.  A naked loon.  Tong caught my glance.

“Don you be lookin’ at he no mo.  You gwaan keep dat glamity* to you self.”

---------------------

LJ Idol: Topic 16:  Wherein I Am Colored by the Happy Accident of My Birth


There’s nowhere that I want to be more than in the South; nowhere I belong more, fear less or want so simply and lovingly than here.  Oral tradition, both formal and informal, is the earmark of our society.   We revel in tall tales, vivid description and the tragic comedy that we all share daily.  Each Southerner could be considered the microcosm to the macrocosm of this beautiful culture in which we dwell; expansive, generous, quick to anger, steady and trustworthy, unlikely to forget trespasses, hospitable, likely to dole out harsh Justice, vibrant, etiquette so strict it’s almost mercenary, sultry hot and dripping with colloquial truisms.  Southerners are like people, only more so.  It’s who we are as well as where we are.

I can FEEL my history, both personal and regional.  Tradition and culture are extremely important to me.  When I am hit by inspiration, whether in art or writing or even in daily drudgery, you can bet it came from some one-on-one time with the Southern girl dwelling inside this abused old ‘temple’ of mine.  I draw from the people around me, the land, its history and all the lovely, disjointed neuroses that come from being who I am, where I am, WHEN I am.

See, as much as I belong here, am OF here and have no desire to be anywhere else… I am a bit of an oddball when laid against the Southern template.  The mold was already broken when they poured in my primordial goo for shaping, I think, for though I am definitely a product of traditional Southern raising, I came out a bit cracked… somewhat left of center and not at all in the earthy tones (tinged with pink) of a true Southern deb.

My Southern Baptist raising bled into my irreverent take on worship, which reads more like sophistry.  The manners and propriety, which came to me from long lines of strong traditionalist women, became a bit skewed by my own personal brand of cheek.  Though at times you are sure to find biscuits and gravy, country ham or fried catfish at my table you would be just as likely to see chicken vindaloo, colcannon or chermoula fish.  The thick earthy tones of red clay, cotton and hickory wood were gleefully edged with colors so bright they offend the eye.  Like a parrot sitting amidst sparrows or a Salvador Dali hanging in a gallery of the works of Thomas Kinkade, I sort of stand out… and not always in a good way.  And I am both consciously and otherwise making sure my kids turn out just as lovingly skewed.

Take for instance a recent family gathering.  Over 30 people are in my grandmother’s small house.  The food… oh gods, the food.  I could expend all my vocabulary to describe its richness and depth and still not do it justice.  In attendance are all my sisters, brother, nieces, nephews as well as my mother, grandmother, a great aunt or two, a few of my cousins… the list goes on.  My grandmother’s tastefully decorated home is filled to the brim with folks who have shaped me as well as those wondering why some of their loving strokes missed the mark. 

The youngest generation, in which my sons are members, are gathered round the gorgeous red oak Cochran table over plates of mashed potatoes and gravy, fried chicken, green beans with bacon and cornbread.  A beautiful print of Heinrich Hofmann’s portrait of Jesus in a carved wooden frame hangs over them watching their attempts at bonding in the way only 8 year old boys can.  Their chosen mode of bonding this day is the telling of tales… each boy attempting to outdo the next with simple scary stories often called ‘campfire’ tales.

I listen from the kitchen with half an ear, anticipating my oldest boys turn at it.  He if often teased by his cousins as ‘weird’… an event to which I can relate from repeated experience… so I am hoping he will acquit himself well.

When the others have relayed their tales of lurking lake monsters and hook handed killers, my son takes the floor.  And by that I mean he fully steals it, demanding in his demeanor that all eyes fall upon him and listen to his tale.

“Well I will tell you a tale… one so horrifying that you will wonder if you can ever forget it… and its so horrifying because <dramatic pause> it’s TRUE!”

He waits a heartbeat and launches into the relation, with dramatic voice and movement, of the story of the famous Prince of Wallachia… none other than Vlad III… the oft forgotten Vlad Dracula.   My son weaves in the gory historical facts, even if some of them are shaky.  He leaves no bones about why good old Vladdy got the nickname ‘Tepes’ (the Impaler)… he revels in telling them about the Prince’s proclivity for consuming the blood of his enemies as a show of ruthless superiority.

The atmosphere at this point is subdued.  Where most of the kids had laughed and exclaimed during the other stories, my son’s story is met with silence and mouths agape.  Even the adults have hushed their conversations and begun to listen.  He finishes his tale on a flourish with “And so THAT is where the stories of vampires were started!  From a real man who REALLY LIVED a bloody life!”

Silence.

And as they have become accustomed over the years, when my vivid colors have bled all over their earthy world… they all looked straight at me with eyebrows raised in emotions ranging from confusion to outright disgust. 

I didn’t even have the humility to look abashed.  As a matter of fact, I am sure my pride was apparent in my glowing face and approving eyes.  The silence was broken by one of the campfire storytellers disbelieving “Uh uh!  No way is that true!  You made that up!”

Without missing a beat, and somehow tinged with the voice of his beloved Aunt LA (my bestie), my lovely, ‘different’ little boy defended his tale with a defiant and somewhat derisive “You’d know it was true if you’d read a book!”

I fell into hysterical gales of laughter.

After placating my family somewhat by half-heartedly telling Alexander to not tell such gory tales over a meal as well as assuring my nephews that Vlad Tepes did indeed exist… I took my son aside and gave him kudos for a tale well told.

As I looked into his warm brown eyes, pleased with his own triumph… I couldn’t help but think how much like me he really was becoming.  Apparently, my vivid colors have run into his.  I can’t say I’m not pleased.  After all, if he can blend his vibrant colors with the lovely tones of the South, just think what a diverse palette from which he’ll have to choose!

LJ Idol~ Week 15~ Cracking Up

Those of you that know me know that I am not disinclined towards farming.  It has strong roots in my family background and there isn’t much that would please me more than a working farm.

It was the TYPE of farm I should have heeded when my newly minted hubby and I threw our lot in with several of his family members (father, step mother, brother, sister in law, step sister) and purchased a 20 acre piece of land in Sedro Woolley Washington in the nineties.

For those who have never had the pleasure of living in the American Northwest, let me break it down for you.  It is lush and green, almost primeval.  And it is wet.  Very, very wet.  Soggy is a way of life.  The moisture permeates every part of your body until you are certain a giant pair of hands could wring you like a cloth and get a lake’s worth of water. I was NOT prepared for that level of climate difference (in comparison to the Southeast, where I was raised). 

My first issue, of course, was that I was low man on the totem pole so to speak, and never got any help or support in getting my ideas implemented.  I wanted a garden, livestock for meat, eggs and dairy products, fruit trees, nut trees… and a nice cutting flower garden to supplement income.

Instead, most of the family became obsessed with riding horses.  They rode in drill team competitions, rodeos and the like.  They traveled all over with hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of equipment and horseflesh and became completely and utterly lost to using any of our land for productive use.  I was one little woman with two jobs.  I couldn’t do it alone and so was sucked into their world, leaving mine far behind.

The entire ill-fated endeavor came to a head one day when all of my bottled up anxiety, anger and frustration bubbled over and I lost my ever-lovin’ mind.

The day started at two a.m. when a mare we had bred decided it was time to give birth to her eagerly (by some) anticipated foal.  She screamed from her stall like a panther, waking the household from sleep.  Only Bobbi (SIL) and I were willing to actually get up, so we dressed quickly and made our way down the creaky stairs of the 6-bedroom farmhouse we all shared.   It was raining.  Of course.  A steady, beating rain was turning our little mountain farm into a mud pit. 

I didn’t have waders so I went out in my Nikes.  The mare was skittish, this being her first foal and chose me as her unlikely Lamaze partner.  Every time a contraction hit, she laid her huge head in the middle of my chest and leaned.  I am only 5’3’’ at my best and at the time weighed maybe 150.  Big for my frame?  Yes.  Big enough to hold up a huge mare in terrible pain?  Not likely.  With every push I sank further and further into the mud.  I was almost to my knees when the nag finally gave birth to a scrawny little thing.  It was daylight by then, a hazy gray morning saturated with cold, drizzling rainfall.

I got to the porch at around 7 am.  The rest of the family was just stirring, coming out to have coffee and check on our progress.  I reported on the little one and turned to go in to my beckoning warm shower and bed.  I was chilled to the bone, aching and covered in mud.

It was then that I was reminded that almost everyone else had to work that morning.  I was turned from the house with a hastily poured mug of coffee.

It was feeding time.

I slogged back out into the rain without ever experiencing the warmth of the house, cursing the animals I felt were superfluous.  Nine eager heads bobbed over their pens, awaiting my arrival.  It could have been the lack of sleep, the cold, scary night… or the fact that I had been afraid to speak my mind for the year+ I had been with these folks.  I cracked.

I began to imagine that the horses were against me.  They hated me.  Watching with soulless eyes, they waited for the moments they could humiliate or torture me.  See that one?  Tango, the haughty Tobiano paint gelding… he lived to nip at me as I came to fill his manger with sweet hay.  I watched him watch me.  I snarled.  He softly whinnied back.  As I unlatched the gate, taking two steps inside and latching it behind me, one of my Nikes slogged in the mud and popped off my foot with a sucking noise.  He laughed.  I know he did.  His hay hit the ground as I bent over to retrieve my shoe.  He darted in for a taste, colliding with me, knocking me to the ground.  I fell right into a steaming pile of horse dung.

As I righted myself, I stared at his laughing eyes.  They said, “I made that one just for you, bitch.  Enjoy!”

I screamed at him.  He threw back his head, whinnying loudly.  His cry of alarm made the other horses join in, and soon, all of them were pacing their pens, throwing back their heads… mocking me.

That’s right.  They were mocking me.  Laughing at this ridiculous southern girl in this even more ridiculous situation.  Afraid to speak her mind, terrified to tell the truth… weak… ineffectual.

I got out of Tango’s pen as quickly as I could while still acting as if I had a shred of dignity left.  I moved on to Smokey’s pen, deciding to get this all done as quickly as I could.  The rain pelted my face.  Even the weather was egging me on as the rain increased to a steady downpour.  I went to struggle with his gate, as it stuck most of the time.  Unbeknownst to me, the gate had been fixed and I yanked too hard, overcompensated and ended up flat on my ass again, outside the pen.  The green broke Arabian mix was skittish on a good day, and was positively crazy on this one.  He bolted.

I grabbed a lead rope and chased him into the pasture, falling several times before I finally caught up to him by the shed.  His eyes rolled back as he bucked and whinnied in fright.  After I had several attempts to get the lead rope over his neck, he backpedaled, lost his footing and scared himself into a run.  I gave up, deciding that the rest of the family could yell about him being left in the pasture if they wanted.  I was done.

I quickly threw some hay over the fence to each pen, not caring that it landed in muddy ground.  They wanted to laugh at me, huh?  See how you like soggy hay you old nags!  I was storming worse than the skies by the time I reached the porch.  I was halfway up the stairs before I realized I was covered in mud and grass.  Angry hot tears were steaming down my worn, muddy face as I burst through the door of the bedroom I shared with my husband.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, calmly cleaning his fingernails with a small pen knife, about the size of a half-dollar, all told.

“Kill me!”  I shrieked at him.  I ranted and sobbed. “Just kill me!  It would be a better death than pneumonia or some freakish equine ‘accident’.  They have it in for me!  They are going to do me in!  I swear it!  I can see it in their eyes!  They want me dead!  So why don’t you just kill me!  If you ever loved me! Kill me!  KILL ME!”

He took it all with a stoic face.  He looked from his pen knife, to me, the knife, to me again… and said “OK, baby.  If that’s what you want…”  He held up the pen knife.  “But this is going to take a while.”

One heartbeat.

Two.

And I began to laugh.  All the frustrations left as I plopped down, mud and all, onto my quilted coverlet.  He didn’t even flinch away from the grime, held me in his arms as I sobbed and laughed and sobbed some more.

That man has always cracked me up.

Tuesday’s Child Is Full of Grace

Oh Katherine, you were so aptly born.  From the Tuesday I stood at your mother’s side as she brought you into this world to this very moment as I commit it to paper, I have been in awe of you.  There is rarely grace in human form so apparent as it is in you.  I watched you today as we sat for a family meal, next to the man with which you have chosen to share your life… and I saw it more clearly perhaps than in the almost 22 years I have been blessed to know you.

At first, I cringed when they asked him… thoughtlessly, I felt.  The queries came from a place of love and I know you knew as much.  But I watched as your hazel eyes changed to a melancholy brown… a slightly furrowed brow, the way you leaned toward him as if closing the physical gap between you would drive away the pain of the conversation.

It was a fair question, I suppose.  But the smile you had been wearing faltered… and I felt myself reaching out for you, barely stopping my hands from grasping yours, for surely if I had, that grace would have broken.  I know that isn’t what you want.  You straightened your back, recovered your smile and watched this incredible man answer.  When your soul mate is a Marine it takes backbone to hold that head up in the face of his job.  Your poise never cracked.

But I saw it, dear one.  I could hear the shattering glass as the delicate balance was dashed and you had to face the harsh reality.  For the second time, you’ll be sending your man off to war.  I wondered how you stopped yourself from yelling out, raging against Fate… then I realized your heart was screaming “It isn’t fair!  Don’t take him from me!” even as your mouth was professing its pride in Noah’s service to our country.

It’s okay baby.  It’s okay to feel selfish.  It’s alright.  You can rage against the pain.  I know you hold up, hold out, hang tough for your man.  He knows it too.  His eyes follow you and his head turns to your voice as if healing flows out with every syllable.  You held up when he was sent to Iraq.  You held down the fort, stayed constant and true to your promises to him… and he knew you were here.  It’s still okay to hate it.  He held his best friend in his arms, watching the life ebb from his eyes.  He is haunted and troubled, yet you wrap him in your grace and heal him.  You are his rock… but who is yours, sweet girl?

I am eternally in awe of you.  An elegant creature with the resolve to bring down mountains in the name of love… you make my heart swell with pride.  It’s a dangerous thing to love a warrior.  Most would caution you to take it easy, take it slow.  For six years, you’ve seen into his heart.  You know better than anyone, it’s worth it.  Keep that resolve… be steadfast.  Carry him when he needs you to… and when you have to let him go, know that he will move those same mountains to return to you.

“How long until you leave for Afghanistan, Noah?”

It hung in the air for the barest of moments, but an eternity passed over your lovely face.  I have often compared that face to Ingrid Bergman… a classical beauty that can’t be denied.  It pained me to watch storm clouds behind your eyes.  It couldn’t mar the beauty, but it makes it so bittersweet.

Tuesday’s child is full of grace…
 

LJ IDOL TOPIC 12 My Favorite Story

For me, being eighteen was an exercise in rampant freedom and experimental survival.  When that magic number arrived for me, I had been ‘on my own’ for over a year, having married while still in high school and divorced right after graduation (yeah, another story, another time).  I was, in my own estimation, a seasoned traveler and expert adult.  I paid my own bills (barely and late), fed myself (by going to my grandmothers at least four times a week for dinner), worked for a living (at four jobs in 11 months)  and lived a sophisticated life of leisure (tequila shooters and Monty Python at my place, y’all).  Yes, I was naïve.  It was this type of naivety that found me stranded in Chicago, 450 miles from home, with three of my best friends, no money, little gas and empty tummies. 

We had tooled up to the Windy City in the Citation of Doom (referenced in this post in Season 4) at the behest of a damsel in distress.  She was far from home and asked us for a lift, promising that if we would just drop her at her Aunt’s house in Winnetka, she would be able to give us money for gas home and the trouble.  Liking nothing better than a road trip, we loaded her suitcase into the hatch and readied for take-off.  We got a little more than we bargained for when the two ‘enforcers’ of our group, Moody and T-Dog,  decided that LA and I shouldn’t undertake a trip to a metro area without protection.  So with a wisp of a Northern girl wedged between 600 pounds of redneck man flesh, we undertook the journey that became a lesson of a lifetime.

The trip up was fun, but unremarkable.  We were full of candy bars and bullshit.  Tarah, the damsel, was quiet during the trip, but that wasn’t uncommon when we had a stranger among us.  We were ten feet tall, bigger than life.  It was just another adventure.

I had been to Chicago before, for baseball games, a wedding and other various happenings, but never as a driver.  Luckily, we arrived late at night so traffic was only nighttime dreadful as opposed to daytime hellish.  Giving directions as we went, she guided us quite well to the North Shore and into the heart of Winnetka.

For those unfamiliar with this little slice of Chicago’s suburbia, the village of Winnetka stands as a monument to success.  Affluence is in the water up there.  What I saw with my rural eyes were well lit rows of huge brick homes, expensive cars and prosperous business fronts.  It was quiet at night and it seems every turn brought nicer homes and more apprehension.  After all, my little Citation looked out of place with all the Audis, Beemers and Porsches… and our enforcers didn’t exactly give off that Ivy League vibe. 

Still, we had made a promise and I was looking forward to whatever ‘reward’ was coming for helping out a chick with such wealthy relatives.  She guided us into the driveway of an ivy covered Anglo wet dream and told us to wait in the driveway and she would use her key to go in the side door.  She didn’t want to startle her Aunt who was probably in bed by now.  She grabbed her bag from the hatch and went around to the side of the house.  We waited.

And waited.

We were still waiting 30 minutes later when the police cruiser pulled in behind us, with bubblegums rolling like Christmas lights (but no siren of course, wouldn’t want all those doctors and lawyers to be alarmed).

Approaching with flashlights and hands on pistol butts, the officers told us to exit the car.  Dazed and confused, we did as we were told.  For 30 minutes or more, these kind officers patted us down, searched my car and asked us all manner of questions.  I’d like to say I was glib and witty, rebellious to the end.

That would be a lie.

I was scared witless.  And my companions fared no better.  After some questions of our own that the disturbingly polite officers were kind enough to answer, we realized that the occupants of the house had called after seeing us parked in the well lit driveway.  Worried we were casing it for robbery, they called the police immediately.  When we explained our situation, the officers knocked on the door and talked briefly with the owners.  They had never heard of a Tarah, had no nieces, even. 

We’d been had.

After a cursory explanation, the officers told us to be on our way, advising us to drive back into the city and on home, post haste.  If we didn’t vacate, or caused any trouble, the owners would prosecute us for trespassing.  They seemed amused.

I wasn’t.

I had quite a temper in those days and it was bubbling inside, calling out for justice.  There wasn’t any to be had here though, so we hopped in the car as told and went on our way.   It was already brimming daylight when we stopped at a Dunkin Donuts in Wilmette, to recharge on sugar and life-giving java.  We couldn’t afford a real meal if we wanted to have enough gas to get home, so we settled for doughnuts and coffee.  Being the adventurous sort, we decided that since we were on the North Shore, we should take in a glimpse or two of Lake Michigan.  Asking directions from the poor man’s barista, we actually made it to a nice little park area on the water and exited the car for a better look.  It lasted all of two minutes as the chilled, biting winds of November ripped into our tender Southern flesh.  Piling back into the car, practically having to use vaseline and a shoehorn to get our round fellows securely into the backseat, we headed out.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever traveled with two, three hundred plus pound twenty somethings before, but if you have, you know that doughnuts will only hold the natives at bay for a short while.  Before we pulled out of the little park, the men folk were bawling like lambs about their hunger.  LA opened my wallet for me and counted out our loot.  With gas at around $1.15 a gallon, I estimated the cost of gas home and saw that we had a few bucks left.  It wasn’t a high price to pay for an end to the caterwauling, so I pulled into a Wilmette McDonalds, figuring to feed the backseat in the hopes they would sleep off a greasy high all the way home.

This was the fanciest McDonalds I’d ever seen.   The parking lot was reminiscent of a Cadillac dealership.  Money and affluence veritably oozed from the Mickey D’s clientele entering and exiting the pristine building.  Inside, was a vast sea of the Privileged in pink polos and khakis.   As we pulled into a spot, an electric blue Mercedes pulled into the opposing spot in front of us.  Both cars gave up their occupants and the driver of the Mercedes sniffed… actually SNIFFED the air and said “You aren’t parking THAT here, are you?”

I was aghast, agape… surprised into silence, even.  T-Dog, apparently was not. 

“I was gonna park it at your mama’s house, but she said you might get jealous.”

The Brooks Brothers snob quickly herded his family inside like a shepherd guarding his sheep from a wolf.  We all burst out laughing.  The man turned around and actually shouted “You don’t belong here!” before disappearing into the McDonalds.

That little ball of rage I’d been suppressing bubbled over and a red calm descended over me.  LA recognized it immediately.

“Mist… what are you doing?”

“Getting a little J for the team, LA, that’s all.”  I reached into my glove box, which was still disheveled from the nice officers very thorough search, and pulled out my vice grips.  (It was an old car, it needed a little encouragement sometimes.)  I calmly walked over to the precious Mercedes, under cover of Noon, and snapped off the hood ornament.  Just as calmly, I placed both the grips and ornament into my glove box and said, “You two hungry or what?  I want to get home.”

I spent most of the food stop in the bathroom, scraping off road grunge and freshening up.  The guys were finished when I came out, so I grabbed my coke and we got back on the road.  I noticed the gauge was dangerously low, but wanted to get off the Shore before stopping for gas.

When we did stop it was closer to the South side of Chicago.  Though seedy in its own way, I was relieved to be away from the unwelcoming land of Privilege.  We pulled into the station and I reached for my wallet.  It was then that I had a flash of placing it on the back of the toilet when I was freshening up.

Thunder boomed in my head and then car-wide panic ensued. 

“Empty your pockets.”  I finally managed to gather coherent thought.  Pooling our resources netted us exactly three dollars in change, a condom and a slightly used Dunkin Donuts napkin.

“Will three dollars get us home?”  Moody asked hopefully, but with the fear in his voice telling me he already knew the answer.

“No, but it will get us the hell out of Chicago.”  And it did.  It got us all the way to the lovely hamlet of Kankakee, Illinois where we unceremoniously ran out of gas in the parking lot of the Kankakee Public Library while looking for a pay phone (remember those?).  We sat in defeated silence for a while. 

Then we remembered who we were.

“Surely we can come up with a few bucks, enough to get us home.  What can we do?  C’mon people, think!  I’m not calling my Grandmother and telling her about this!”

It was then that we made our plan.

We would panhandle.  Just for a few bucks.  LA said we needed a gimmick, a hook.  We decided to set out T-Dog’s ever present baseball cap and act out scenes from Shakespearean plays.  It was, after all, a library parking lot.  Surely we could fleece a couple rubes before they figured out it wasn’t a library sanctioned entertainment.  The guys were out on this one, deciding to nap in the car.  They weren’t exactly down with Willie Shake.

We took up a position on one end of the nicely landscaped green space by the sidewalk and warmed up.  Of course, being sleep deprived, defeated and down… not to mention not having any scripts with us, we were more comical in a sad way than entertaining.  Those few that stopped to listen were slightly amused in a disturbed sort of way by our paraphrasing of the Bard’s work. When LA’s Desdemona said to my Othello: “Kill me tomorrow! “  and I could only stutter “No, now is good.” while I pantomimed smothering her, it all fell into a fit of hysterical giggles that scared away our prospective benefactors.

Cue the police car.

Yep, there they were again.  Only this time, a very nice officer listened to our story and instead of performing perverse acts of rifling upon our persons, discreetly handed us a twenty dollar bill and said “For God sakes, kids, go home.”

I almost cried with relief.

I drove ninety to nothing all the way back to Paris, Tennessee; home of the World’s Biggest Fish Fry, Allegro Marinade and Clifty Farm Country Ham… and I’d never been so glad to see my front door.  Upon getting inside, Billy was waiting on my couch.

“Hey!  How was the trip?  What’d ya get me?”

I tossed him a Mercedes hood ornament without a word and collapsed on the couch.  Sleep took me like a hammer blow to the face as I vowed to never leave home again.

Until the next time.

___
This memory was recalled for

therealljidol