STARRY, STARRY LAKE

The sky was clear, the water was cool and the boat was fast.  A perfect combo for an enjoyable afternoon on and in the lake.  Just a part of the birthday celebrations that occurs in my family the last part of August.  We could say Happy Birthday to a new person for a week and still not tire of eating cake and ice cream. 

Oh the beauty of this man-made lake and it's myriad of little islands that were once hill and mountain tops.  We pulled into a quiet cove and set the anchor.  Our hosts, Burt's sister and her husband, prepared a lovely lake luncheon of grilled hot dogs, chips and fruit which we ate while sitting on towel covered rock ledges.  This is their favorite island. 

I jumped into the water from the back of the boat and did not touch bottom.  I grabbed my pink Nascar Cap for the second time of the day.  The first time my hat went flying was when the boat picked up speed.  We had to turn the boat back around so my nephew could pull it from the wake.  My side of life as "Nascar" Mama will be saved for later, maybe October.

The cool water was refreshing and relaxing.  I love to lay back and float, a little way from the splashy crowd, until my ears stop up, and I'm in the rhythm of the water.  I close my eyes and listen to my heart beating and imagine a womb-like experience.  This is the ultimate in peaceful relaxation and something I only get to do a few times a year.  I guess I'm making up for the two months I missed out on, back in my beginning.  

I do love the beach but in a lake there are not sea creatures to worry over, except for the occasional nip of a tiny minnow.  My nephew was attracting fish with a piece of hot dog.  One was nibbling on it as if it were a pet being handfed.  Of course, you couldn't do this in the Gulf.  You do have to worry about attractions in those waters.  I didn't even know where Burt was but I wasn't worried.  When we are seaside these days, I have learned not to worry (kinda') because he loves the water so very much that he doesn't seem to mind the possibility of his floating out to Cuba if a sh--- doesn't get him first.  He is a grown man and after 30ish years of marriage, he is going to do what he is going to do.  And the insurance is paid.  And it makes him gleefully happy to have the memory of floating in the salty, green water until the next time his tiptoes feel the foamy brine. 

Honey finally decided it would be easier and cooler to keep an eye on her brood by being in the water.  Anytime we are within sight distance of more than three inches of water or any Danger! Bluff! pathways, she is counting heads.  Today she was counting eight.  No one is getting lost or almost drowned on her watch.  This was also a good decision on her part because she was having too much fun skipping stones in our direction.  I will give her a G for Gumption.  We helped her climb into the mesh float, which is the best because you are floating in the water and not on top of the water.    It may have been a few years since she was on any float in the water, but she settled down comfortably, complete with Burt's hat on her head.  She relaxed so much that she was able to forget her horrible cold.  And she even giggled.  She is living proof you can have fun in the water without a swimsuit - shorts and a tee work nicely.

After a few luxuriant hours of liquid refreshment, we packed the boat up and jetted back to shore, but not before taking a jaunty tour around this part of the lake.  I was fascinated by the small islands.  The tiniest islands were usually no more than a heap of green with a little bit of shore, not the ones to be stranded on in case of a shipwreck. No trees or much vegetation.

My kind of island was the small variety.  I have spent just a little time thinking of those neat little islands.  When I was a girl, we traveled for two weeks, usually in August.  Almost all of those days were spent camping, all over the country and in and out of state parks and National Parks.  We saw much of the U.S.A.  I could write a book on camping adventures.  The only times we weren't sleeping in a tent were if we were sick enough for a doctor, the campground was temporarily closed because of bears, we were visiting family or if it was a special treat. My sister and I would have been speechless to have had a Hampton Inn experience.

But I am a tent camper at heart.  Even now, I can hear those islands calling my name, with a little tent and a campfire.  This would definitely be roughing it.  But all I could think about was to lay back on a sleeping bag, looking up into that infinite navy sky and all the stars, too numerous to count, like the starburst points of the day's waves shimmering across the moving lake's surface, reflecting the sun.               



Psalm 8: 3-4   "When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars,
                         which thou hast ordained, What is man, that thou art mindful of him?"

BLUE

I love color.  The shirt I'm wearing right now is varied stripes of blue, white, yellow, red and turquoise.  I even have snappy turquoise capris but they needed ironing and I have a meeting at the house.  I chose to clean and pick up the house instead.  Because of this, I am going to lose my Southern Belle Fashion Queen crown, made entirely of dried purple hull peas spray painted silver and rolled in glitter.  I think I have permanently lost my Southern Belle Spotless Cleaning Crown, at least for this year or until the bathrooms are finished renovating themselves.

It has just been one of those weeks when by golly, I am going to wear the white pants I carefully ironed the last week in August.  There is still some doubt as to whether I will actually leave the house and run errands after my scheduled meeting here at the house.  Though it is painful to admit, my transitional wardrobe is in almost non-existent tatters.  If you feel a slight jar around three it will mean that I, Miss Never Wear White After Labor Day Die Hard, has left the house in nicely ironed white slacks.

Every year at this time, I say "next year I'm going to work on my transitional wardrobe."  Here I am again, this year and this time and in desperate quandary over what to wear.  There are some family members who say I worry too much about what to wear but I don't think so.  That is just me and I'm fine with the shallow end of my shallowness.  Retail fashion is in my blood and proper Southern fashion etiquette is the air I breathe. 

For thirty plus years, some people have been questioning my "no white shoes" after Labor Day upbringing.  Please.  Bury me shoeless if I'm so old all of my shoes are worn out except for my white sandals, but don't bury me in white shoes if its after Labor Day even if I have to walk the streets of gold barefooted. And the same goes for binding unmentionables, beige, white or black.  I plan to be perfect in heaven. 

This is the season (although it is still summer until September 22) for khaki, black, crème, darker red, dark green, deep purple, teal, indigo, burnt orange, olive, rust, gold, charcoal and anything else that is darker.  In the area I live in, I wear my darker linen pieces into October as long as the weather holds out. 

Gone are the weather patterns when one could rush out in new penny loafers and a corduroy skirt on October 1.   The first few years we (some people) were married, I noticed a significant weather system would usually come in around our one month anniversary.  Almost like clockwork.  We may have had a mild summer but we haven't even started October.  Anyone who's lived around these parts knows that is a month for Mother Nature to show her stuff.

Speaking of.....one month anniversaries.  Dear sweet Burt started giving me a little token every month on the date of our wedding.  My very first present was a wide cinnabar bangle which I still wear.  Sometimes the gift might be a handful of flowers like those in my bridal bouquet or chocolate.  I just thought I would mention it as a nice idea.  I think I will blow his mind when it comes around in a couple of weeks and say "Happy 373 Anniversary!"  I will make sure he is sitting down or not driving a vehicle.  He's not so bad, even if he is questioning the fashion police as some people do.

This was going to be a lovely blog about blue.  But I'm still learning these ropes and the picture stuff was driving me crazy.  Some days it is good to relish the randomonium!

signed,

 

  a lady looking for her Southern Belle Spotless Cleaning Crown                                                                                                 





 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



EXQUISITE VIRTUOSO

The summer was full of goodbyes.  Goodbyes to a home, friends, a boyfriend and a grandfather.  Hello to a new city and state, a school and a church full of people yet to become friends – all because of a new job.  My family was all together but a good time was not being had by every single person.   Although people were reaching out, friendships take time.  From the beginning, we were warmly welcomed into a loving church as if we were long lost cousins.  And in the South, we aren’t always warm or welcoming.  We’d barely unpacked and my mother asked a new friend about a good piano teacher.  You never know when these things happen that it will be a life-changing event.  But Margaret Ruth Ransom would forever change my everyday existence. 

 

At fifteen, I could tell this woman was special.  I had never known anyone with two pianos in the same room.  I do remember my first lesson.  Shaded by a tall magnolia tree, the white frame house was a few empty lots away from the newest highway, which was heard but not seen as it coursed deeply through the middle of downtown.  Painted and lovingly tended, her birthplace stood out among houses that had passed glory long before the highway was even mapped.  Walking from the bright fall sun into the dim front hall, one was startled by a pair of large brass Vietnamese candlesticks acting as sentries.  On a sofa next to the only lamp, students waited for their lessons as their eyes adjusted to the shadows. 

 

The opening of the sliding panel doors signaled one lesson was over and the next student jumped up quickly, hurrying into the parlor, closing the doors behind her.  The sunny front parlor was a shocking contrast to a new student, who was still adjusting to the dark hall and the mysterious candlesticks.  A Chickering grand piano stood in one corner of the room, next to the eastern window.  An upright piano stood several feet from the grand but was on the same wall.  Light and music seemed to always fill the front room.  And so I began my lessons with the new teacher in my new town.

 

Right away, Mrs. Ransom gave me the goal of playing in the National Piano Guild in the spring, a competition with just the judge, the piano and me.  At my level, there were nine classical pieces of music to memorize, each with appropriately keyed scales.  The preparation and the participation in the Guild remains my most nerve-wracking experience.    

 

During the months leading up to Guild, Mrs. Ransom and I would struggle with each new piece, my fingers slowly learning their place on every key, plodding to learn each step in a path that soon would be just pebbles for me to skip down perfectly.  By spring, I would lay awake at night, reviewing the sheet music in my head.  The afternoon of my first guild arrived.  A missing judge delayed my session.  In my nervousness, I confessed to Mrs. Ransom that I hadn’t eaten lunch.  I was amazed to watch my strict teacher fly into action, presenting me with a chicken breast sandwich on bread and butter, salted and peppered.  That sandwich saved my day and was one of the best I’ve ever had.  And I saw my teacher in a totally new way.

 

At my age, she had been a virtuoso, performing concertos in major cities throughout the country.  Piano had always been her life.  While she connected with young people, she could hardly imagine anything more important than the piano.  I should have practiced more.  My extra-curricular school activities did not make her happy.  She did not think I should edit my high school newspaper or dance in the school play.  My fingernails were seldom short enough.  I tried to practice enough because I wanted to make her happy.  She did appreciate my little bit of talent.  Many a lesson she stood by my side, singing the timing of a phrase, or she would sit down at the other piano and play right along with me, hard pieces to me but she played without the music.  She was strict but also praising. 

 

Before my senior year of school, she was diagnosed with cancer.  I took a flower to her in the hospital, a brave thing for a seventeen year old to do.  After just two years, we had developed a special bond.  After the diagnosis, she could keep only a handful of students.  She offered to help me prepare for a senior recital but I knew it would be too much.  I was happy just to have her, once a week with two keyboards.  Being a very private person, she never discussed her illness. 

 

A week before I left for college, I took her to lunch at a tea room, finishing with a showing of exquisite Faberge Eggs, just a little gift for all she had given me.  The thrill of trills in Paderewski, the drama of “Moonlight Sonata”, the showy “Malaguena” and a glimpse of Rachmaninoff.  She had filled my head with thousands of instructions.  More than thirty years later the notes learned in slow precision would come back to my fingers, with practice.  To be her pupil was an honor of my young life.

 

By my sophomore year of college, I was once again “taking piano” through the instruction of a music professor.  Striving to be better was not enhanced by this teacher’s emphatic shock that “You have been a pupil of Margaret Ruth Ransom?!”  Afterwards, I sought solace in a small practice room where I could play the piano for as long as I wanted.   Piano keys and paper and pen had been my pressure reliever for many years.  I put a piece of sheet music up on the stand and began to play.  I turned the page, still playing.  Suddenly I stopped.  Penciled in her unique handwriting, Mrs. Ransom had written in the margin, “memorize by December 10.”  Today was December 10, but two years later.  Tears came to my eyes.  She had been dead almost a year.  She had spent her last year teaching me.  I was good, (not a prodigy) good enough for Margaret Ruth Ransom and she took the time to give.

 

A deadly tornado blew through downtown one January evening.  Mrs. Ransom’s former home was near ground zero.  The next day, with a police officer’s permission, my daughter and I walked down the barricaded street, unsure of what we would find.  I will never forget the eerie quiet in the middle of a sunny day.    

 

At first I thought all was well, until I spotted the totally de-leafed Magnolia tree.  The trunk was like a stick in the ground.  The front porch was a little crooked.  Going around to the east side of the house, to the window I had gazed from while sitting at the grand, I was barely tall enough to look in. 

 

Standing on old foundation blocks and with a tight grip on the window sill, my heart dropped.  Nothing could fix the upheaval left in the storm’s aftermath.  The crooked rooms were still standing, but mocking any hope for repairs.  I cried for the ruin of her home, which had stood proudly for more than ninety years, unscathed by “progress” or deterioration.  One of my favorite rooms in any home was now empty.  Plenty of sunshine filled the parlor, but the music had been stripped from this room like the leaves ripped from the front tree.  The pianos had been scattered many years before, after her son moved.  I cried for my regret at not seeking out their destination.  I stood there and cried because I wanted someone to know a special person had made this house alive.  Sad and happy tears because death and a storm could never take away the memory of a music teacher and four talented hands playing as one, in the sunny parlor full of two pianos.     

 

 

signed,

 

a woman waiting "in line" during the Symphony intermission behind (of all people) the lovely music professor full of gushing praise over my piano skills.  She didn't recognize me and I didn't renew our old friendship. Really happened.  Fall 2012

           

PEA SALAD FOR A TRUE SOUTHERN REPAST

  

     In our home, this scrumptious looking plate of goodness is referred to as a veggie dinner.  We come from a long line of summer vegetarians.  When the fresh summer vegetables are so plentiful and delectable why bother with meat?  Obviously, not totally meatless with the addition of a little piece or two of leftover ham in the green beans.  Both of my grandfathers had successful vegetable patches.  What I wouldn't give right now for one of their good tomatoes. 

 

In the summertime, I can hardly remember my mother cooking anything besides vegetables.  I remember going to the Farmer's Market sheds downtown and coming home toting bags of goodies.  Summer wasn't summer without purple thumbs.  Or the pop of snapped green beans falling softly into the pot.  Or the pfft of corn juice bursting from the cob and  across your face.  Sadly, I was practically an adult before I fell in love with tomatoes.  I remember the plates of tomatoes I passed around the dinner table without having the good sense to fork a couple onto my plate.  My aunt would eat a tomato like an apple! 

 

This is not the column about my cornbread (which is perfect).  That will come later when we delve into the proper method of making Cornbread dressing, close to Thanksgiving.  But you will need a mighty fine cornbread to go with this recipe.  For a little history, I will tell you that I made my first batch of cornbread one summer day when my mother had taken to her sick bed.  (This is a rarity for my mother who is the original inspiration for the Energizer Bunny.)  She had veggies cooked for lunch.  In his new job, my father was able to come home for lunch, rain or shine, which was a nice break from the stress of retail management. 

 

She told me to go make the cornbread for his lunch.  At this point in my shaky culinary career, I don't know if I had even baked a cake mix.  She told me the "Red and White Checkered Book" and the title.  Those were my instructions.  I know you are thinking this is a lot of info on cornbread, how could there be more if this isn't THE column, but I am the Cornbread Diva and my vast knowledge can't be contained here.  This is supposed to be about Pea Salad.

 

I don't know if Pea Salad is a family invention but I do know I have yet to sit down at another table serving purple hull peas and see this accoutrement. But I forgot about the purple hull peas!

 

I know I have eaten Black-eyed Peas but not by choice.  Purple hull peas are the purest choice for those of us down south just like we know the right way to pronounce  pecans (pu = pu(ff)  + cons ).  Pettest peeve - not PEECANS.  That is just rude. Not PEECONS.  Senseless. Enough.

 

Fresh Purple hull peas (which will turn your fingers purple if you shell them but that is what shelling machines were invented for so spend the extra unless you want sore purple fingers or you wish to inflict a character lesson upon a child) after shelling, must be washed in a colander to pick out any bad peas (very, very few).  Place them in a big enough pot to cover well with water and leave room for a small simmer.  It is tempting to boil but it will make them tough.  Cook them on low, very slowly.  They have a little scummy foam (nothing bad) you will need to slough off with a spoon during the first part of cooking.  They are best cooked for about an hour and a half or longer.  But not to the point of being mushy.  You may need to add a little water as the juice boils off.  You want more juice than peas. Add salt and pepper to taste.  And also add, the butter of the south, a good tablespoon of bacon grease.  It doesn't take much but flavors perfectly.  They are not to be swimming in bacon grease, just gently flavored.  This is the secret to using bacon grease, less is really more.  Once they are seasoned, you can keep them on the stove until the rest of the meal is ready.

 

My great-grandparents had several hotels in different little towns throughout their career and sons who would follow in their footsteps.  Some of these hotels also had dining rooms and hotel kitchens.  Knowing my love of cooking and family, my uncle has been so good to share with me some of my great-grandfather's cooking leaflets and recipes.  Unfortunately, I think most of the recipes were those he knew by heart and never wrote down.  But now that I'm writing about Pea Salad, I think maybe this is where it originated, for our family.  My dear sweet Burt, who was born in a border state with the Mason-Dixon running through it, loves Pea Salad on his purple hull peas and cornbread.

 

 

 

Measurements are approximate.  You need:     

1 good size green bell pepper/   1 small onion/    1 medium tomato

1 tsp. sugar(I forgot to put the sugar in the picture)/   1 tsp. salt/   1/2 tsp. pepper/ 

1/2 tablespoon Balsamic Vinegar/  Equal parts water and white vinegar

 

Clean and seed bell pepper.  I used three rings of pepper, dicing the rings into small pieces, as pictured.  /  I peeled and sliced and diced most of the onion, small pieces. /  I peeled the tomato and sliced and diced it into small pieces./  Add water and white vinegar in equal parts, more on the vinegar side.  Add salt, pepper and sugar.  For something different, I added the Balsamic vinegar and it works great.  Chill before serving.  The longer this sets, the tastier it gets.  To serve:  Slice and butter a piece of hot, out-of-the-oven cornbread.  Open cornbread up and add hot, cooked purple hull peas on top of the cornbread, with a little bit of the pot juice also.  Top this with cold Pea Salad but don't use a slotted spoon.  You will want the tangy vinegar dressing.  Add a little or a lot, depends on you.  There will be several layers of taste sensations.  You may consume another serving.  It is also permissible to make your entire meal of just cornbread, peas, and salad.  As my Pa would say, "Mighty fine, best I ever had."  You have arrived.                                              (Like the country.)

 

 

signed,

a woman with butter dripping down her hand as it melts on hot cornbread (the dessert slice)       

 

 

 

**I wonder if anyone else has a similar salad for peas?

**This is also a necessity on New Year's Day and is delicious with Prime Rib, Ham, or Fried Chicken.    

A NEW PACK OF COLORAYS

Who knew there were people spending their time and money collecting old pencils?  When I think of all the aged pencils I've thrown in the trash!  While I love a good pen (black uni-ball, nothing fancy),  I am a fancier of a proper pencil.  Not exactly a proper pencil, usually a certain mechanical pencil.  Someday, when Princess is going through all my worldly possessions, she will remember her mother kindly and my penchant for purchasing a pack of pencils anytime I even thought about a needed office supply.   

I have never bought anything on E-Bay but I have spent hours looking at things.  A friend of mine started collecting all of her childhood games.  It was like Christmas all over again being able to touch these long lost friends. Maybe for Christmas, I could ask for old pencils.

I was sitting here thinking of my favorite school supplies and decided to do a google search on my very favorite item, my Coloray Colored Pencils.  Somewhere, in one of my few boxes marked "Amy Childhood," I can see a leftover one, definitely  a blue.  Right now, I have no clue where that lone ranger is or I would take a picture to prove its existence. 

Big Hair in Texas

I don't know if it was the most expensive set of colored pencils but I know it wasn't the cheapest.  My pencils came inside of a long, clear, plastic pouch with a plastic tab top that folded down and was held in place by a white plastic, vertical strip.  Inside, I think the rainbow of colors were held in place by a lightweight cardboard tray.  I can see the colors in my head - green, light green, blue, light sky blue, red, pink, peach, brown, black, orange, purple and white.  I always kept mine in the proper sequence. 

In my early years, I loved to draw and for my age, was fairly decent.  When I was in school, we had an art class every day and a music class.  My art class was one of my favorites.  I do remember that my teacher's sister-in-law was Joan Blondell.  At the time, I didn't know much about her except she was an actress.  I still enjoy watching a Joan Blondell movie on occasion.  Afterall, this was Texas and there are a lot of famous folks from Texas.  Somewhere in that same box of childhood memorabilia is a signed photograph from Miss World.  She lived in our neighborhood.  Three of us girls walked over and rang her doorbell one afternoon.  She was pretty and very nice to us.  See, we had fame living right in our neck of the woods.  I don't think Mr. Trump was a factor in the pageant at this time.

I loved my pencils because they worked well.  My style was outline and color in.  The pencil had great control for outlining and was easy to maneuver for different methods of shading or pure coloring.  Okay, I was only in grade school.  But that modern little plastic contraption full of color(one of my favorite things in the world, color) gave me a special feeling, an imagined boost of confidence.

Today I need to go buy school supplies.  I may put it off until tomorrow.  Going to Martz anytime near the beginning of school is my least favorite thing to do.  Or on a Thursday night or Saturday afternoon.  My mother lives maybe a mile away and she just jumps in the car and makes a visit for a couple of items.  My location is not so convenient.

But I will make a list and head out this weekend.  I don't have a school supply aged child anymore.  For the second year in a row, my Sunday School class is collecting supplies for a non-profit organization.  Two ladies saw a need to feed the children in their neighborhood.  Their hard work and organizational skills have created a viable, much-needed oasis for the children living in this sea of poverty and hunger.  The positive results have also brought nationwide attention to this impoverished area of our nation.

My lovely crayon drawing is included just because I knew where it was.  I have no idea about what I was thinking at the time, maybe a Queen and Princesses? 

Soon I will be off to shop.  I will buy the standard stuff but I will keep my eyes and my ears open for that special thing the kiddos are looking for.  I know that somewhere out there, a little child has yet to discover the wonder of a new box of Crayons or the magic of a mechanical pencil and what can happen when the two meet up with fresh white paper.

Signed,

a woman standing in line (of course, despite 29 checkout lanes) with a neat box of pencils  

A DREAM EVERY DAY - FIFTY-SEVEN YEARS LATER

Martin Luther King, Jr. is one of the first people I want to meet when I get to heaven because he dared to have a dream.  The God-given hope and direction of a man who was a gifted preacher and prophet filled the nation’s Capital fifty years ago today.  What a wonderful world it would be if we could all have even a sliver of that same hope. 

The walk on Washington was not a particular memory for me at the time.  I was too young to understand.  My mother does remember watching it on television.  However, the event four months later would become my earliest, defined memory.

In my earliest years, I do remember watching riots on the television and seeing dogs attacking people and water being used to subdue and disperse crowds.  These images were disturbing for a child.  One of the best gifts my parents gave me was a love for all people and a living example of The Golden Rule.

 When Martin Luther King, Jr. was shot, I asked my mother what a “negro” was.  She told me that M. was a negro.  M. worked for my grandparents and I had known her all of my life.  “Oh, her skin is a different color.”  I was already being raised to judge a person by the content of their character.

 Although it was not for good, I have been judged by the color of my skin.  Neither were pleasant experiences and both were desperate attempts to gain power.  One was to make sure I was white and the other was because I wasn’t black.  This was at a time of great racial tension in the education system, when integration and busing were struggles in every community.  I was living in a different state each time.

 In this day and time, I think most people have been judged by the color of their skin.  Our country has a rainbow of colors.  A few years ago, my family toured The King Center in Atlanta.  For me, it was a reverent time of reflection, reminding me again of the importance of Dr. King’s message.  I felt the same feeling of reverence when I went to the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum.  These places stand as more than a monument to history but also as the twisted reflection of the human soul when hate takes anchor, pulling a nation downward.

 I stood in line that day in Atlanta, waiting to sign a book of reflection.  A young African-American woman was in front of me, writing a few sentences.  She stepped away from the book. Imagine my shock when I looked down and read her racist comments.  I wrote a few words and came away, amazed that she didn’t get the message which was all around her.

 Things have not changed. New York, Minneapolis, Ferguson, Nashville or Kenosha. Those are just a few of the sinews stretching taut across our nation. Like the South. 

 Every Sunday morning, fine Christian men tuck their shirts into their pants, held up by the Bible Belt of the South.  I have heard their ugly whisperings, directing their hate at an image on the television, judging a man by the color of his skin.  However, their judgments are made impotent by the lack of content in their character.  These same men and women lifting their praises to God on Sunday and whispering their racist bitterness at lunch the next day.

 Many years ago, a senator from Illinois came to town, stumping for a fellow politician.  My Daddy had been following the politics of this young man.  We sat on the steps of the Capital, at the foot of the casual podium, listening to this brief speech.  When you are close enough to hold eye contact with a man, in that brief second there is a bond of relationship.  My Daddy began the last year of his life watching this Barack Hussein Obama take the oath of office as President of the United States.  My father cried tears of joy.  He carried a New Testament in his briefcase and The Prayer of St. Francis in his wallet.  And Jesus in his heart.

 Hate is easy because it is natural.  Love is not easy.  But love is the answer today just as it was fifty-seven years ago.   We all want equality. Wake up from the dream and make it real.  But in the middle of a bad dream, you can't breathe. You can't breathe.  

 

 

Prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.


O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen

 

 

DOUBLE FIRST COUSINS, SOUTHERN COMFORT AND JUST DESSERTS - SOUTHERN REUNIONS

Summer in the South usually means at least one family reunion with first, second and third cousins, and sometimes double first cousins.  Double first cousins are not cousins marrying cousins, but the offspring of sisters who married brothers.  You cannot be raised in the South and not know who your people are.  You will be asked more than once, when meeting new folks, if you are related to the Judge with your last name, but you say no, because his people didn’t come from middle Tennessee in the 1870s.  Even my Yankee (anyone whose sun sets north of the Mason-Dixon Line) friends admit we tend to keep up better with family.

The origins of these reunions are often found in birthday celebrations.  Grandpa may still be rocking on the front porch but Grandma seems to get the parties.  In family pictures, Grandma is usually a severe-looking, bun wearing, snuff-toting, Bible thumping woman who has spent her better days looking out for everyone but herself.  After tending fields, making clothes, plucking chickens, nursing babies, and stirring pots; without any modern conveniences like warmed baby wipes, satellite TV, fast food fries, e-mail, or hormones in a bottle; well, you get the picture, the old lady finally gets well deserved recognition. 

Grandma’s birthday becomes a holiday when the oldest passel of kids wants to sing her praises for raising twelve surviving children.  And a good reason to party at the old home place in the country.  My two family reunions are the result of Grandmas’ birthdays in July and August.  The reunions started over seventy years ago.  My reunion memories started with big kisses from Grannie and “The Aunts”, sitting in the shade, wearing cool cotton dresses, hosiery and sturdy black shoes and sensible summer hats.  Today, the great aunts sit comfortably in the air-conditioning in their polyester pants and tennis shoes.    

***

The July reunion is on my father’s side.  There is a four-generation picture with me as a baby, sitting on my great-grandma’s lap.  She was very old.  Fifteen years ago, the last of her twelve surviving children died.  This reunion has evolved from the old home place, a city park, the air-conditioned community center, another outdoor venue due to unforeseen circumstances and a weekend reunion at a nice-sized country hotel with a pool and a big dining room complete with a kitchen for all the cooks to gather around.  For the past few years, we are now meeting about an hour south in another state, where most of the cousins now live.  We get together Friday night and have lunch at Saturday noon.  Everyone wears a nametag, which is very helpful, as you only see these people once a year unless someone dies or has a long hospitalization. Facebook has been great to help keep cousins connected. I’ll never forget driving three hours down to the family cemetery on a cold, foggy January day and turning up on the gravel road at the church to see a huge hosts of my Daddy’s cousins already standing on the road beside his grave. Most of them had travelled over three hours. That is family. 

Our fun would begin when we got to Mamaw's and Papaw’s house on Friday night.  My sister and I would run to the kitchen to see what sweets Mamaw had fixed for her baby, our Daddy.  On a sugar high, we would jump into the rollaway bed on the sleeping porch, lying right under the window unit.  The casement windows around the tiny room were adequate for a breeze but no match for a humid, summer night in South Arkansas.  Being a city girl, I loved the artificially chilled air.  On Saturday morning, the smell of bacon would wake us up.  Bacon, eggs, toast, oatmeal, juice, milk, coffee, peach preserves and sorghum.  Papaw set the breakfast table every night before retiring.     

 Sunday came early as all the cooks crowded their hips into Mamaw’s kitchen to pack up all the food and head for the community center.  The old home place is now a grazing field and not family-owned but we did have a “singing” on the property a few years back.  Spread out on tables in the air-conditioned, fly-free room are, at the very least, garden fresh tomatoes, fried okra, buttered corn, purple hull peas, squash casserole, sliced purple onions, bacon seasoned green beans, dressing, macaroni, cucumber salad and a couple of jello salads. 

 Stuffed bell peppers are lined up next to pot roasts and briskets.  Homemade fried chicken and store bought fried catfish.   A dessert table laden with caramel pie, banana pudding with meringue, jam cake, chocolate cake, peach cobbler.  Milk jugs labeled sweet and unsweet.   More than enough to feed one hundred people.  A look around the room reveals we eat what we cook because it is truly Southern comfort.  After seconds and thirds, family matters.  Births, weddings, graduations, and a moment of silence for those not with us this year.  This side of my family is more weepy but there is a lump in your throat when they say your loved one’s name.  Then we pass the hat, or plate, nowadays.  By the time you drive off, your first button is undone and you fight the tide of sugar calling you to slumber.

*** 

The Labor Day Sunday reunion is on my mother’s side.  For almost every Labor Day weekend of my life, I headed to Grandmama and Pa’s.  We would have a little family reunion on Saturday and depart on Sunday morning for the drive to see our extended family.  Ten people would fill up two cars.  I always wanted the car without my parents.  My sister and I would be dressed in our new back-to-school dresses and shoes, whatever the temperature.  If you rode with my queasy cousin, you might get a bottle coke when we stopped to get her one.  Coca-Cola is good for what ails you.

 Family still owned the farm, complete with a red barn, whispering to city children to come see the charms of the country, and the smells.  In our brand new finery, we would climb halfway up the hayloft ladder and jump into a huge pile of hay. Miraculously, no one was ever hurt.  When we were sticky, dusty and hot, the bottomless ice drink coolers offered every kind of cold coke.  In the South, Coke, not Pop, is universal for any sweet carbonated drink like Dr. Pepper, 7-Up, NuGrape, IBC Root Beer, and certainly, Coca-Cola.  Every reunion we counted up how many drinks we guzzled.  These were the days when children drank milk and water all week long and a Coke was something special.

 This reunion was still held outdoors.  The only respite was when you were standing inside, in line to use the bathroom which had been added to the back bedroom of the original home place.  The bed would be piled with purses while ladies checked their lipstick in the bureau mirror.  The men used the hall bath.  Drinking eight cokes sent me in and out of the house.  At noon, everyone gathered around another food-laden table made of sawhorses and planks.  This dinner had the addition of exotic meats.  During the prayer, everyone closed their eyes so they wouldn’t see the flies having a field day on the disrobed food.  Several ladies could not fan every square inch of food.

My Pa was always in charge of this reunion.  He spent many, many hours in genealogy studies, long before online services.  He would’ve loved having a computer and the information highway at his fingertips. His mother was born just weeks after the family jostled all of their earthly goods over hill and dale, arriving in the new state to settle on fresh land.  My sister now lives hundreds of miles away, in the same town our people started out from. In a way, she has found a new dream in this faraway land, completing the circle.

Signed,

 A lady holding a plate of southern comfort and another plate piled with just desserts      

p.s. Grab the dessert plate first and be sure and get a taste of my Pina Colada Cheesecake, it’s a special request