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.

Daddy!

We ate out after church yesterday, at one of the Japanese places that have the hibachi choice.

Shortly after we were seated, a young family was placed next to us. Their baby boy (I later learned he was eleven months old). was seated between them, and they entertained him with bites of cucumber, and something they  had with him. As long as he was chewing something, he was pretty content. He smiled sweetly at Daughter and me, but mostly was occupied with his mama.

But when the chef rolled in, that baby sat straight up. He placed his little hands on the table, his eyes got wide, and he stared straight at the cook.

His daddy said, "He loves this, we've done it before."

That child never took his eyes off the cook. When he juggled his knife and spatula, when he made a smiley face on the grill, when he lit the fire and singed our eyebrows. Not once.

But when the fire was lit, the child reached with his hand and held his daddy's shirt sleeve. His daddy put his arm around the baby's shoulders and said, "Here I am, Buddy."

That's all the boy needed to keep his fascination going. As long as daddy was close by, he knew he was safe, and could enjoy the show.

I've seen that so many times: When a child wants comforting, feeding, cuddling, washing, whatever; he goes to mama. But when he wants protection of any kind, daddy is the only one that will do. When my nephew was about seven, he was spending the night at our house. As it grew dark and he realized Husband wasn't going to be there, he became fearful and opined we should  not stay there without "DAHVID" due to werewolves.

I saw it in my own child. I bet you've seen it in yours, if your child has a daddy.

It saddens me that more and more children are being raised without a daddy. Maybe he's deceased, maybe he ran away, maybe he's kept away for punishments sake, maybe mama didn't want a daddy and used a sperm donor or a friend. Maybe the kid has two mamas. Whatever. 

All I  know is; it breaks my heart.

Out of Staters Once Again

So, today I had brunch with cousins I had not seen in many years. They live in Ohio. 

There's a pattern here. Texas, Indiana, Alabama and now Ohio. 

Pretty impressive, especially since I ain't living on the beach or something.

These are my second cousins and their brood. I had not seen one since 1987, when my grandmother (her great-grandmother) died. None of us could determine the last time we'd seen her brother.

So, Brother Of Many Surgeries, Other Brother, Daughter and myself gathered with the eight of them this morning and spent a few hours laughing and getting tearful down memory lane.

But why now? Why this year? It seems interesting to me that suddenly I am seeing folks for the first time in over twenty years from all over the United States.

That's a stretch, I guess, but it feels that way. I am bedazzled and befuddled.

And wished I was a dozen pounds lighter, if I take a minute to be vain.

I'm not sure any of us have seen each other clearly, anyway. 

We are looking through glasses colored with childhood memories.

Think It'll Rain?

You may have a slight problem understanding me; in fact I may sound like I'm under water.

And I'm on top of a mountain!

Geez, how much rain can fall in just a few minutes? I am impressed, Mother Nature. Really, I am.

It was raining so hard we couldn't hear each other talk in the upstairs bathroom because of the skylight being bombarded.

It was so dark this afternoon, we needed a flashlight to walk the dog. (Okay, not really, but nearly, dadgum it.)

Our dog is even lethargic; we hope she isn't sick. We think it's just the gloomy weather.

My back has developed it's on war zone, and some kind of full fledged battle is taking place. I think the only wounded is me, myself.

Seriously, I think I am beginning to mildew around the top of my socks.

A few minutes ago, there was a blinding light. I realized it was the sun. It went away quickly, so I don't think my vision was impaired.

I'm not complaining though.

Nope, not me.

In the Garden

I've known a lot of gardens in my life, if only peripherally. When I was a child, I was in my grandfather's garden a lot. Trailing after him, I listened to story after story as he worked; planting, weeding and harvesting.

I think this is one of the reasons I love to tell tales. My great-grandfather (on the other side) loved to tell stories too, as did my own daddy.

As I became a young adult, gardens more or less disappeared from my thoughts altogether. I was too busy learning how to do a job through education and work experience, and for a while I lived away, close to the city.

Both sets of grandparents couldn't wait to garden in a big way as soon as they retired. In fact, the year before my grandfather died, he gardened on his knees, using a tater sack to slide himself down each row so he could plant, weed and harvest.

My grandmother (other side) crossed the creek to tend to her garden, delighted to have one again. (After all, her daddy said she was the best hoer in the county.)

Neither of my parents were gardeners. In fact, they pretty much ran the other way if the word was said aloud.

But a lot of my friends' parents still gardened, and they learned skills that I never did.

A few years ago, we (meaning Husband) began with a small raised garden, and we've enjoyed the tomatoes, beans, potatoes, onions, cukes and a squash or two from it.

One of my best friends (the tall, blonde, talented one) has tended her own kitchen garden, as well as her ailing, aging parents giant garden. She says every year it's the last time. But she found herself once again this year plowing, planting, weeding and harvesting.

She told me the other day, "This is the last time."

I said, "Um hmmm."

She just shook her head.

Well, yesterday while working in the big garden, my friend may have broken, and  if not broken, hurt badly, one of those long legs of hers when she stepped in a big old hole.

Me, along with a bunch of others, have prayed without ceasing for her. She is the main caretaker of her parents. She works two jobs, one of them driving a school bus. She leads a vital Bible study and prayer group and about a million other things I don't have space to name.

I talked with one of our mutual friends yesterday, and we are all signing up to take over her life if necessary; and I don't mean this in a bad way. But together, we can take care of her, her house, her cooking, her parents and whatever else her poor husband can't do alone.

You may even find us in the garden.

Hair

As you may recall, a few days ago I blogged about Eli, my Maine Coon cat, being shaved.

The vet tech. said at the time that he would probably be a few pounds lighter once this was done, (The cat, not the vet tech. however; the tech worked over an hour on the cat; the tech. looked thinner at the end, too) and by looking at the mound of fur, I didn't doubt what he said.

So, we weighed him (the cat, people, the cat!). His usual twenty pound self is now a svelte eighteen pounds.

Why, oh why, have I not thought of this??

Humans have hair everywhere, too, you know.

I think we are a lot more shiny without all our peach fuzz, and certainly a bald pate is obvious.

But, still...two whole pounds!

Shine on....

Five Long Years

Five long years.

That's how long I waited to get a new, decent sidewalk.

Why the wait, you ask?

I am so glad you ask.

Many years ago (say, five) we had the original, beautiful brick sidewalk dug up because a giant root was pushing it up. All we wanted was the sidewalk to be relaid in sand so that the root could remain undamaged. It is attached to a large tree close to our house.

We had an emergency, and had to leave hurriedly while the men were repairing our sidewalk.

They were paid half, we left.

Woe is me.

When we got back we had a cement sidewalk with a brick here and there and a peculiar step down, which looked dangerous and has proven to be so. Husband's sister has fallen down it and a dear friend fell up it.

We saved furiously, then sought a professional to build a sidewalk that would not try to kill company.

I have had four men look at it, three promise to do the work, and no one to show back up.

Finally a young man said yes and actually dug up that mess and put down lovely cobblestone.

I am in love.

True love, they say, is worth waiting for.

Five long years.