Happy Birthday

Mother turned 88 years old Sunday.

We had a big spread, the cost being spread out amongst us. We aren't a big family, but when you put us all in one house, it feels pretty big. Sixteen this time, as we had two Texas cousins join in the fray.

We put the eclipse photo on the birthday cake (see previous blog), which she had not seen. She asked, "Is that me!?" We said yes. She said, "Lord, I look like I weigh 400 pound." 

Now, my mother used to be pretty chubby. She used to be about five feet five inches tall and weighed in the 160's. She has shrunk to five feet and weighs about 109, maybe. 

She blew out her candles (two large 8's).

We ate. She kept telling her great-grandson to stop dawdling and eat so she could open  her presents. This made him giggle. He's six.

Her great-granddaughter, age 2, had a love/hate relationship with Brother of Many Surgeries dog,  Elmer. (I apologize for the name.)

He's three times her size, so she was afraid of him. Yet when he disappeared, she'd look around and ask, "Where's dog?" She'd find him, and he'd get up to follow her and she'd run screaming bloody murder. I swan, I saw that dog roll his eyes. But they were fast friends by the end of the day.

She got lots of nice gifts. We ate good food. We all talked a mile a minute. We took photos.

But my favorite is of Mother, Daughter and  myself: 

I don't remember what was so funny, but we seemed to be enjoying ourselves.

And here is a group with only Niece missing, 'cause she's taking the photo and Husband as he went home puny:

A good time was had by all.

Even Elmer.

Feeling Lonely

Just before dark, I finally got around to fixin' beans. 

Daughter was at work, and, because it was such a small mess, I didn't ask Husband to help. 

Alone on the back porch, stringin' and snappin', I felt kinda lonely.

Lonely isn't something I feel much. Raised for almost eleven years as an only child, I learned to be alone, keeping myself entertained. (Which is one reason, I suspect, I am a writer.)

But somehow my mind went back to one summer afternoon, when I lived away in the big city, that I reluctantly and temporarily called home. My granny answered the phone, sounding a little irritated as well as a little out of breath.

"What ya'll doin'?" I asked her, after the usual, "Hey, it's me."

"We's out on the porch a'fixin' beans. You shore do need to be here."

I felt a pang of homesick stab me in the heart so sharp I didn't think I could breathe.

I wasn't made to work much as a child, but when it came to beans, we all worked. Everybody sat on the front porch, aproned lap full of beans ready to be fixed. On one side was a large pan for throwing the strung and broke beans into; on the other side was a waste basket of some sort to dump your strings and bug bit pieces in when your  lap got full. 

I usually had a grandmother, Mother, if she wasn't at work, and a granddaddy there. Most times my aunt and Yankee Cousin were there, too. I also  helped out on the other side, grandmother, granddaddy, Mother and myself.

Since talk was cheap, there was plenty of it to go around. Me and Yankee cousin didn't say much because if we were quiet, we could get quite the education from hearing all the adults chatter.

But last night, I was alone - missing them all. Grandparents have gone on, as has the aunt. Mother was at her own house, oblivious I even had a mess of beans.

And Yankee Cousin - well, I kept expectin' her to walk through the door and get busy helpin'.

But she never did.

Here We Go Again

I hate to bring up this subject again.

But I been thinkin' on it for days, so I might as well get to it.

When  my cousins from Texas, Indiana, Ohio and in-laws from Alabama visited, guess what we reminisced about the most?

That's correct: food.

Mama Harper's biscuits. Daddy John's gravy. Daddy John's fried chicken. Cold watermelon pulled out of the creek. Iced tea with beads of sweat runnin' off the outside of the glass because it was so dadblame hot from cookin' biscuits, gravy and fried chicken.

Walkin' to Edna's Cafe' for an ice cream cone and it meltin' down your arm till your pit smelled like strawberries and you couldn't raise your arm, cause it was stuck together.

Blackberry cobbler. Banana puddin'. Warm pound cake. Homemade ice cream. Apple jelly. Cornbread (we argued over who made it at our grandparent's  house. Some said Mama Harper, some said Daddy John.)  Fresh beans, maters, taters, cucumbers, squash, corn, onions, and peppers straight out of the garden just a few feet away. We never trusted Daddy John about eatin' peppers. He would sit there with sweat beaded up on his lip, pouring down his face and swear the peppers weren't hot, urging you to try one.

I trusted that man with my life, but never would I have taken a pepper from his hand to my lips again. (Once was quite enough.)

We talked about other things, a little. But it seems so much of our memories are tied to that kitchen table - that one and others that our families ate and talked from.

My in-laws even got in on it, when I revealed to my cousins that Maw Maw (Husband's mother) made biscuits that tasted just like Mama Harper's. There was a reverent silence, as those around me contemplated such. 

They even stopped chewing for a minute.

Of course we ate big while folks were here. In the house and out. 

We visited graveyards and old home places, tryin' to walk off some of the cornbread.

But nothin' conjured up our love for the past like the food we shared with those who loved us as children.

I guess nothin' ever will.

Returning from the War

After eight relatives, one small intestinal blockage, one severe bad back spell and a whiz bang of a time in spite of it all, I'm back.

We've had Yankee Cousin (who flew away home today), two Cowboy Cousins, one Husband's Alabama sister, husband, younger daughter and two chirren we had never laid eyes on for company plus my own, down the road folks.

Mother, once again, decided to get really sick in the midst of some of it and scare us all to death. (She has to stop doing this!)

And, of course, not to be outdone, after standing/sitting in the ER for a few hours (eleven), I couldn't stand up or sit back down without crying like a big old baby and needing help to do that.(Sitting, not crying. I cry by myself very well.)

Yankee Cousin and I had an adventure on our own, as she volunteered to drive me to a chiropractor in the next town up, IF I could get in the car, which I did.

The car decided to get in on the act and I knew something was wrong by the unusual and persistant whir it was making. So we went to the garage instead; explaining our dire circumstances.

Nephew, who I claim as "First Born" because I practiced on him before Daugther was born, declared thirty minutes to repair after parts were delivered. It was twenty minutes before my appointment, which was growing more and more needed by the second.

Gazing upon my crooked and pained self, he said, and I quote, "Drive my truck".

What he did not say was my "honking, four door, six feet off the ground, monster of a truck."

It was almost worth it when we turned the corner and Yankee Cousin gazed upon it. With a tiny voice, she said, "Oh, I can't drive that."

I encouraged her to just sit behind the wheel to get a feel for it, asked First Born nephew if it was automatic (it is), and slowly began the uphill climb into the seat in my pained state.

Yankee Cousin gulped, looked at my crumpled body and said, "I guess I'm driving it..." and away we went.

Even the chiropractor winced when she saw me, and the new tech guy got all giddy when he looked at my back and exclaimed happily about how swollen I was.

Yankee Cousin was ecstatic after her wild adventure of driving such a huge vehicle, and we dubbed her a redneck for sure, now.

She treated me like a baby the rest of the time she was here. Not used to seeing me act like one, I guess it shook her up pretty badly.

Maybe by next week I will be back to my normal every day pain, Mother will be feeling okay again, and we can resume normal as we know it.

Thank God the refrigerator stayed fixed.

Off Ya Go!

I'm reading a book wherein a grandmother gets fed up with her out-of-work-working-on-becoming-a-drunk son and shrew of a wife, plus a slew of grandchildren. She and her husband are half-supporting them to keep the children from starving, and finally she buys them tickets to America in the early 1900's and never looks back.

How harsh, you say. And yes, it was. How could  you do that to grandchildren you love, knowing their chances were slim to none of doing much but going hungry?

But I started thinking: Is there any of us who at some point in time, at least for a moment, hasn't yearned to put some of our family on a boat out to sea and give 'em the old heave ho?

An aging, tyrannical parent? A rebellious teen? Someone who has angered you, hurt you, embarrassed you and the whole dang family, made you ashamed of them? Even for just a fleeting spec of time, the vast ocean seemed the answer, right?

Sure you have.

To be shed of the problem suddenly and forever, so you can get back to your happy place and no longer worry, fret, simmer or cringe every time you thought about them.

Of course, most of us get past that moment and buck up and face whatever the issue is, but still...

You know, God did that. He put his children on a boat and sent them off to sea. Noah and his family, all that were left for God to claim.

But He did it to save them, not Himself.

That's the difference between God the Creator and His created. 

That, right there.

From One Generation to the Next

I was lying in bed last night, thinking deeply about - something or other.

That's not the point, anyway. The point is, I shrugged my shoulder and made a particular face, indicating sort of disgust and apathy.

But when I did this, in my mind's eye, I saw my mother doing it, not me.

Hmmmm.  Well, at least I know where that gesture came from.

As I began to think about this, I could also see my grandmother performing this little movement. Made me wonder if her mother did the same thing.

Tilting my head, thinking about this: yep. Daughter does the very same thing!

You know what that means, don't you?

Someday I'm gonna have a little grand youngun strollin' around and thinking deeply.

And out of the blue, she'll shrug her shoulder and get that look on her face...

Life goes on, doesn't it?

Pehaps a Better Tomorrow

I can tell you, this has been one long week.

I'm sure it's been even longer for my mother, except for the part where she was under anesthesia.

I wish I had a list of upcoming funny blogs regarding her hospital stay and her continuing at-home recuperation.

Not a one.

It has been painful to watch. Things are better now, four days out. Although we have taken turns care taking; it has taken a toll on us all.

I can only imagine what it has taken from her almost eighty-five year old mind and body.

Plus, of course, she is ruminating over a family squabble like it is war between Russia and the USA.

Me? I just wish folks would grow up.

I ain't too happy with my own body. It doesn't like unusual places to sit or stand. It really doesn't like stooping. I won't go into detail of nights of leg and foot cramps, numbness that wakes me up, stiffness that won't let me move and zipping pain that seems demonically possessed. It really makes me angry that I can't step up to the plate more and be more confident in what I am doing.

Of course, part of that is there is not one speck of nurse in me. Give me a crazy person and I'm good to go. Physical impairment? I'm good to go there, too, just in the other direction. That embarrasses me to admit. It's like I have some core value missing.

Mother hasn't hesitated to tell each and every doctor, nurse, aide, cleaning lady, and passer by what a terrible shape I am in. They glance at my she-could-plow-the-south-forty physique and mentally roll their eyes. Color me embarrassed.

Of course, Brother of Many Surgeries gets the same amount of stage time, and he looks pretty good too, as long as he ain't naked. Don't get me wrong, I ain't seen him naked, (in many years) but I've heard rumors.

All in all, I suppose we have done the best we can. We've worked and watched, cajoled and encouraged, talked and listened.

And so far, nobody's died.

Food for Thought

My family's middle name is food. If we had a family crest, it would be a carved piece of fried chicken and a biscuit.

For some reason (maybe it is because my middle name is food, I don't know), I was thinking back to Saturday nights when I was little.

My daddy loved steak. He loved crab meat, fish, shrimp, etc. too. But he really loved steak. I don't know who taught him how to eat all these foods when he was raised on beans and taters, cornbread and biscuit with the occasional piece of fried chicken or pork roast.

I remember, back to Saturday nights, I would get a few pieces of Daddy's steak. It was bloody and more or less warm. I would also get a few bites of Mother's steak, which was crispy critter dead. As you might not be too shocked to know, I can eat steak any way I can get it, but I usually eat medium well because of health safety stuff.

I know you were on the edge of your seat wondering how I ate my steak.

Since Daughter has been sick, we have obsessed about her eating: what she can tolerate, how much she can eat, how much she has eaten, etc.

Now Mother is unwell. She called my sister-in-law to come see about her. She (my mother, not my sister-in-law) ain't eating worth a flip and she's taking medication anyway, medication that she should have food in her belly before taking.

So now she's having terrible stomach pain. Maybe it's an ulcer, Daughter's is and their symptoms are similar.

Today's conversations with Brothers have been lengthy and only about the food my mother does and does not eat.

Well, her stubborn, do as she pleases no matter what you say attitude, was mentioned too.

I called to check on her a little while ago, and although she told me she was beginning to hurt again and if things got much worse she would have to "go somewhere" (ER, I reckon), she was most frustrated because she'd sent Brother to the store and he'd got chicken noodle soup instead of just chicken soup, which she had underlined twice on the list because, "I am never going to get Granddaughter's chicken and dumplins made without the right ingredients."

So you can see, dear readers, my family revolves around food, eaten and uneaten (leave the uneaten around long enough and Husband eats it).

PS: I got my birthday cake a week early. It's Italian Cream.

Soup Beans and Cornbread

I have mentioned southern cooking before, and made fun of folks getting "bean soup" and "soup beans" mixed up because they ain't from around here.

But yesterday as I ate this meal I had prepared (along with fried taters, chow chow and a sweet onion), I realized how much history it brought back to my memory.

I could sense my Daddy John sitting there, his one ring finger bent to his wrist from arthritis, the light glinting off his glasses, the easy grin he had when hearing something funny.

I could see my Mama Hill serving me 'pop taties' in my old green high chair, lots of family surrounding us, conversation all around.

I could  hear my mother-in-law's sweet giggle, laughing at something silly Husband or myself had said, as she set the kitchen table with cornbread, soup beans and fried potatoes. She always made extra potatoes because she knew how much I loved them.

I could hear my own Mother's voice on the telephone, telling me that somebody needed to come and get a pot of soup beans she'd just finished cooking. The blessing of that is, I may hear her say that tomorrow.

How wonderful it is to see Husband's eyes light up when he knows that's what I'm cooking for dinner or supper. His favorite meal, bar none.

The simple pleasures of life are what make memories and sweetness in our life.

There is nothing better.