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Girl From Goat Pasture Road

Musings of Susan Swicegood Boswell

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Yellow Taxi

cornfield2

As a gift to me for my sixteenth birthday, my parents bequeathed me their old 1968 Ford Fairlane 500. My friends immediately dubbed it “The Yellow Banana”. It was built like a tank, four doors, of course and completely uncool, but it got me where I needed to go. One summer afternoon, I was driving The Banana down the country roads of Davidson County to my part-time job in downtown (or as it is more recently known “uptown”) Lexington. There on a long and desolate stretch of two lane road , my car began to choke and spasm. It occurred to me that I had failed to notice the gas gauge registering near empty. As we came to an undignified stop, I pondered my predicament.  I looked around me  Although I was in central North Carolina, the landscape which rolled before me seemed more like the endless sea of cornfields and pasturelands that you might see in Nebraska or Kansas. Undeterred, I set out in the direction from where I had come.

I had not walked far, when from out of nowhere came a bright yellow taxi.

For those of us who live in the city, there is absolutely nothing unusual about a passing taxi cab, but in 1978 rural North Carolina, at the edge of a cornfield in the middle of nowhere, it was a strange sight, indeed. In fact, having never traveled to a big city, I had never even ridden in a taxi before. Somehow, perhaps from watching too many television sitcoms, I knew what to do. I held up my arm to catch the driver’s attention…

As an adult, I now realize that if you are a cute little 16 year old girl, standing in the middle of nowhere, all dressed up in a breezy summer skirt and Candies, the “hailing” part was completely unnecessary.

The taxi came to an abrupt stop. The driver was dark-skinned, not of any particular nationality I could recognize. I quickly explained my predicament and  he was kind enough to drive me back the few miles to a service station where I called my daddy to bring the gas can. I thanked the cab driver profusely, but he wouldn’t take any money.

Despite the vast numbers of memories I have forgotten over the course of my lifetime- people and years of my life on end- I can recall that day like it was yesterday. The feel of my skirt blowing along my bare legs; the July heat rising up off the pavement; the endless sea of corn blurring a smudge into the horizon; the black and dusty interior of the taxi cab; the dark hairs rising stubby and crisscrossed on the back of the neck of the mysterious driver. This memory reminds me of the many times in my life that have I been the recipient of so much undeserved grace, that I feel almost ashamed.

And yet for reasons we cannot understand, there are other times in our lives when we go through long periods of equally undeserved hardship and struggle. Every day, I hear about good people who suffer multiple and simultaneous difficulties. Perhaps they have lost their job, are facing bankruptcy or the loss of their home or their family or are coping with illness or addiction.  It seems so unfair. It  IS unfair.

The Old Testament story of Job tells of an honorable, exemplary man who faced insurmountable and catastrophic loss. Job lost almost everything: his children, his home, his wealth and his health. It is a powerful story, yet one I have never particularly liked. It makes me feel so small and unable to influence even the smallest aspect of my own destiny.How often it is that our lives feel out of control. We are like the specks of dust being blown around at the mercy of a great wind.

Yet, I also believe, mainly because I have witnessed this in my own life, that there are times in our lives when we are the beneficiaries of a comprehensively undeserved grace. Times when for reasons unknown to us, a Higher Power goes before us, spreading the cornfields like He parted the Sea, and calls forth a yellow taxi, just when we need a ride.

 

 

2

Hitting the Mark

bullseye 3

A few summers back, my sister and I ventured to the eastern part of the state where our brother had taken up residence in an old and crumbling Southern mansion in an equally old and crumbling Southern town. Our brother Tony seemed oblivious to the home’s flaking paint and rotten floorboards. Cobwebs hung in place of draperies from lifeless windows. So much plaster and lathe were missing from some sections of the home’s interior walls, we could simply walk through them instead of using a door. I marveled as I wandered from room to room, if the home was mid- construction or mid-demolition. My brother had recently fallen into “bad times”, the result of a bitter divorce, financial woes, run-ins with the law, alliances with various unsavory  and unscrupulous characters, the culmination of years of alcohol and substance abuse, latent PTSD and some undiagnosed form of mental illness which manifested itself as a predisposition for shooting guns within his homes rapidly diminishing number of upright walls.

Of all the places he could have taken up residence, I couldn’t help but think how he’s landed in this God- forsaken place with the same random outcome one might experience when throwing a dart. If he had been aiming for the bull’s eye, he had certainly hit the outer rim. One day, he was driving through this old town, plunked down some of the money from his Home Equity Line and bought himself a house. A House, in his mind, a fine old house with a capital “H”, in a place far away enough that he knew no one and more  importantly where no one knew him.

Still, my brother loved his ruins with the same affection a king might regard his palace. Like a king surveying his kingdom, he put his portable hot tub smack dab in the middle of the homes formerly grand wrap – around front porch. From this vantage point, he could observe the comings but mostly the goings of the town’s Main Street. Unfortunately, the sheriff asked him a few weeks later to please not sit out there naked with the lights on.

It was in this same grandiose spirit that on that hot August afternoon when my sister and I arrived to help him settle in, he brought out an old tarnished candelabra, elaborately placing it square in the middle of the dining room table. He beckoned me, his baby sister, to “run to the kitchen” where he had left a bouquet of summer flowers wilting in the heat on the Formica countertop. No artwork adorned the tops of the old quartersawn oak wainscoting nor chandelier glistened across the room’s plaster relief ceiling. Instead, tiny dust particles floating heavenward as the sunlight tried to stream in through the window panes now covered with a dense layer of weather-resistant plastic.

My brother had cooked “dinner” as a true backwood’s Southerner calls the noon day meal; “supper” is the name reserved for the meal of the evening. I could never get over the fact that my brother, my big ole redneck, tractor-driving, hunting and fishing and cussing kind of brother had taken to watching cooking shows in his spare time. In recent years, before he had flown the proverbial coop, we’d actually had conversations over the Christmas Dinner table about reduction cooking and parboiling and all kind of things more akin to Chef Gordon Ramsey than a Chevy kind of man. On this day, however, he had brushed most of his newly acquired cooking skills aside, settling on a traditional working class menu of roast beef, boiled potatoes, canned biscuits and pinto beans cooked with fatback.

After dinner, my sister and I took to the kitchen for what his generation still deems “woman’s work“- the clean up as our brother stepped out for a smoke. As my ever efficient sister began to wash dishes, I began gathering up the array of pans and dishes strewn across the countertop. My brother had used a decade’s old  cast iron frying pan to brown the roast and the bottom was thick with grease. “What you want me to do with the grease in the fryin’ pan?”, I called out to him. “Oh, just set it down on the floor,” he called through the screen door. “The dog’ll eat it.”

My sister, who is I might add, a bonified Junior Leaguer (a proud accomplishment if there ever was one in my redneck family) eyed the pan dubiously as I sat it on the floor of the dilapidated linoleum. My brother’s big old hound lumbered into the middle of the kitchen and began to lap up the grease. “Ick” I muttered under my breath as I continued to gather up dishes and carry them across the room for my sister to wash. The dog finally raised his head and with a lick of his chops began to turn away from the pan. As I reached down to pick up the handle, the dog quickly raised his hind leg and began to pee into the pan.

“Oh! My! Gawd!” I gasped.Behind the black dog whose awkward stance seemed to indicate it was making a left hand hand turn, my sister’s mouth and eyes were frozen into big “O”’s. That dog continued to pee such a long steady stream of piss that I swear I saw it steam up like rain on a hot summer street.

“Oh- my- Gawd- that- dawg- just- peed- in- that-frickin’- fryin’-pan!” I hollered, jumping up and down in disbelief.

“To-neeeeeeeey!!!”, I hollered “Get in here!” Menopause had left me bossy and emboldened in my later years.

My brother finally stuck his head in the back door to see what was all the commotion. In one sweep his eyes took in the dog, the steamy frying pan and his two hysterical sisters- one in shock and one shrieking. For the first time in recent months, he seemed to put two and two together and actually get four.

There has not been many times in my life I could properly use the word “guffaw”, but that’s exactly what he did. My brother uttered a guffaw for a moment then disappeared back outside to continue his smoke.

“Oh my Gawd! That DAWG, he just peed in that fryin’ pan!” I hollered again. “To-neeeey! Get in here and take that pan OUTSIDE right now!” I ordered. I could hear my brother continue to snigger sheepishly outside the door. I looked around the floor; there was not a single drop of dog pee on the floor. It was obviously not the first time that dog had peed in the pan. With the utmost precision, it seemed both my brother and his dog had hit the mark!

1

Churchland Baptist

Churchland Baptist Church
Churchland Baptist Church

From the polished oak pews of Churchland Baptist Church, I slump against the side of my mother, scribbling cartoon drawings on the back of the church bulletin. Despite my low vantage point, on any given Sunday there is much to inspire me. Sunlight filters through stained glass as fragments of light flutter around the sanctuary. Jesus as a baby. Jesus holding a little lamb. Jesus suspended from a wooden cross.

In front of me, the choir sits behind the pulpit on an elevated platform. When it is time for a hymn, everyone stands at attention while the choir director Russ Griggs moves his outstretched arms in rhythmn. In matching satin robes, the choir looks like rows of yellow goldfinches perched along the top of a fence. Russ flaps his wings preparing to fly while the others stand and chirp like obedient nestlings.

In between songs, the choir just sits there looking bored as if they aren’t really listening to Preacher Martin at all. I know how they feel; I dont like listening to him either. Every Sunday, he starts his talk all nice, like he wants to be your friend. He usually begins by telling a funny story that has supposedly happened to him during the week, but I really don’t think it’s true. By the end of his talk, he has become all worked up. He is wiping his brow with his sleeve and his face is red.I  am not sure what it is , but I am certain we have all done something terribly wrong.

I don’t think Preacher Martin likes me very much anyway. When I ask mama and daddy questions they didn’t know the answers to, like what happened to those poor little babies that didn’t get saved before they died or about the starving children in Africa, my parents invited him to the house for supper so I could ask him directly.  Although Preacher Martin sounded like he knew what he was talking about, his answers didn’t make any sense. His God seemed to have a lot of rules and regulations and mine just wanted us to try to love each other. I remember how  we sing “Jesus loves the little children…” Even then, I didn’t think it sounded right that God would send you to hell on a technicality.

The baptismal pool is recessed like a large picture window above the heads of the choir. Most Sundays, it is hidden behind a dark red velvet curtain. During special holidays or if someone is getting baptized, the curtains are drawn open to reveal a beautiful scene. Imagine this: the river Jordan winds its way serpentine into the distant horizon, which I now know is just a painting. The front part of the river looks like it is edged in grass, only Mama told me these were called bulrushes, like the reeds that grew in the river where Moses’ mama hid him in a basket. I have never seen a bulrush, but I imagine if I ever have a baby to hide, that would be as good a place as any.

In front of the river Jordan a low glass wall keeps the water (which is real) from spilling out onto the choir’s heads. Sometimes I think how funny it would be if that water would just pour out of there and mess up all those ladies fancy hairdos and wake up that old man sleeping on the back row.

I’ll tell you a secret. During the  baptismal, when Preacher Martin steps into the water, his preacher’s robe billows up. I looked real hard and I could see that underneath, he has on plain clothes like everybody else.

Ahead of me sits Patty Wafford. She was at least a head taller than me, even in pre-school. A goody two shoes, she sits up front with the preacher’s daughter Darlene. It nearly burns me up,  both of them sharing chewing gum and pretending to listen to every word he says. Patty is awfully smart but everybody knows she is a crybaby. Once, our Sunday School Class had a contest to see how many different names we could find in the Bible for Jesus. I worked really hard to come up with ten or twenty names, even the hard ones like “Prince of Peace” .

Let me tell you, Patty’’s list contained over a hundred. I know she cheated. On the back of my church bulletin, I draw a pair of horns on top of Patty’s head.

As the choir sings, I swing my black patent leathers in midair to the gentle tempo of the music …

“Blest be the tie that binds
our hearts in Christian love.”

I guess everyone is tied to something.

4

Trouble

Aunt BJ is in trouble.

From the hallway, I almost don’t recognize her as I peer through the dim light, past the hum of equipment and maze of tubes connected to the woman asleep in the hospital bed of the ICU. I enter the room, slip my hand into hers. “Julia?” she whispers and flutters her eyes, mistaking me for a moment as her daughter-in-law. “No, it’s Susan.” A faint Mona Lisa smile. I go to kiss her cheek and am overcome by a lump in my throat; it escapes and re-emerges as fought-back tears. I was clearly not prepared for this and I feel bad for letting my emotion show. I am not here to bring her down. My aunt, who at age 79 and in the intensive care unit, doesn’t miss a thing.

In this awkward moment, I am rescued by the arrival of Mary, a young friend of Aunt BJ’s and  who is instantly my friend, too. We make brief introductions. Of course, we’ve heard of each other; Aunt BJ makes a point of bragging about all of us at one time or another. I am the author, the interior designer who helped with her house and works on hotels. Mary is the niece of her friend Myra, and served our country as a colonel in the military and has a young son. At the moment, Mary is more like an angel who has come into the room to offer, in addition to love and encouragement, chapstick and hand lotion, a swab of moisture on a stick. I sit there on my stool, still in my latent state of shock, holding that hand like it’s all that is holding me to this earth. It is soft and without tubes, with elegantly painted nails. I try hard to find a brave face, to not look on the outside like I feel on the inside.

It’s very difficult for Aunt BJ to speak so Mary and I talk while Aunt BJ closes her eyes and interjects when she is able. I tell Mary that Aunt BJ is the epitome of a Steel Magnolia while Mary declares she is a lady. We are both correct. On my way home, however, I ponder what does it mean to be a lady? I only know there are painfully few out there, myself included.

I know Aunt BJ became a lady and rose above difficult circumstances despite many challenges. She was born down the road from my family on Goat Pasture Road, the daughter of my mother’s older sister Aunt Polly. I have always called her my aunt although she is actually my first cousin. These last years since my own mom passed away, she’s been as much a mother to my sister Janie and I. She grew up poor, like most of my family, but things were especially hard when she was young in the years surrounding World War 2. Until her father built their pretty little wood clad house, the one I remember Aunt Polly and Uncle Glenn living in down the road from my family, her family lived in a horrible little shack right across from my grandmother a little further down the road. Aunt BJ told me once that she was mortified her classmates would discover where she lived. She remembers trying out for the basketball team in high school and seeing the back of her legs for what seemed to be the first time; she was filthy, embarrassed that on the farm, she had not been taught how to properly clean herself.

I cannot help but think how powerful these types of circumstances are to shaping us into our adult selves. If you had only known my aunt as a grown woman, you would never imagine her as that little girl. Known for her refinement, elegance and beauty, long blonde hair pulled up in a classic chignon, her warm and gracious home, always a place of love and laughter, its crystal chandelier hanging like a brilliant sun over a huge dining table filled with family, every chance she could get- you would never imagine her ever as that dirty young girl. She married my Uncle Charlie when she was just 16 and together they created a wonderful life and family. She became a highly successful businesswoman, out of sheer guts and determination, I imagine, because there has never been a road map how to get out of poverty. Aunt Betty Jo is kind and generous and wise and I would be so happy to sit at her feet and have her tell me stories every day for the rest of my life.

“I have many more things to tell you,” she whispered as I said my goodbyes yesterday before leaving her hospital room and I agreed. We will talk again soon. My aunt is never one to break her word and I know if it is possible to beat this thing, she will be the one to do it. As I was tracing my way back to my car in the parking garage, I paused to glance out the window of the breezeway, through an appropriate deluge of rain and out over the city of Winston-Salem. One of the businesses below had posted huge letters on top of their roof facing the hospital spelling out “G-E-T  W-E-L-L.” I surmise that should I return to this place, the letters may or may not be there, so personal did their message seem to express my wishes for my aunt that they could have been a mirage.

I know well enough that the best and hardest things in life are universal; it’s only in the details there is much difference. Life and death, the challenges of growing old, sickness, worries over our children and grand-children, the disappointment in ourselves and over the mistakes we’ve made and the doubts we feel when we wonder if we did the right thing. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You just keep being Susan,” Aunt BJ had whispered to me before I left. I should have simply agreed with her, these were hard-earned breathes she was sharing with me but instead, I brushed it off, uncomfortable “I will, Aunt Betty Jo.” I said. “It’s the only thing I know how to be; I am me out of default.” I sensed a flash of her disapproval. I only hope we can have a talk about that later.

3

For Aunt Johnnie

Aunt Johnnie with my cousin Lisa at our family reunion in 2011.
Aunt Johnnie with my cousin Lisa at our family reunion in 2011.

One is fortunate if they can look back on their life and know of at least one person who only brought them joy and who loved them unconditionally. A person for whom it can be said that the lives they touched are infinitely better for their mere existence. Tonight, I lost one such precious soul and heaven gained a true angel in the passing of my Aunt Johnnie Young. She was a gentle soul, selfless, never aspiring to be the star but a gracious supporting player in my rowdy extended family on Goat Pasture Road. We celebrate with certain joy that she has joined her husband, my Uncle Frank Young and her son Bobby, both recently passed, as well as her own parents and much of our extended family who have gone before her.

It cannot be underestimated the power of love on a single life. We must remember one does not have to be a mother or the central figure in a person’s life to have a profound impact. Aunt Johnnie exemplified that for me in leaps and bounds. When my own parents had gone off their rocker, my mother in some mean, psychotic state or my father numb and oblivious to the dysfunction choking our family. When her own husband could be heard yelling and cussing a quarter-mile up the road, having what we all called a “Young Fit”. When the men of my family were off on some rampage with guns and hunting dogs trailing some would be burglar through the words in a true “posse.” When you felt lost or that you were very small and significant Aunt Johnnie was there with a hug and a smile and her steady reassurance. She personified “normal” for me, a tremendous gift in a family of eccentrics and larger than life personalities.

So loved was she by all, I don’t believe anyone in my entire family ever uttered an unkind word about her. Aunt Johnnie made the special times of my childhood even more so. She played the piano, as did I. From the time I was a little girl, remember many Christmases sitting with her on the bench at the old upright piano and playing and singing Christmas carols together. She was a fabulous Southern cook who always seemed to have something simmering on the stove when we dropped by. She made incredible Persimmon Pudding, the persimmons freshly picked from a decrepit old tree in the side yard that I imagine my grandmother must have planted decades before. Delicious cakes and rich pies. She spoiled us with her cooking.

All babies loved her. I remember her taking my own son Brennen into her arms when he was small and fussy and how she could soothe him with her calm demeanor. She loved to read my writing about the family and my adventures since our move to the city and I always sent her copies of anything that was published, especially since my own mother was gone.

Aunt Johnnie was a “healer” and was well-known in our family for skills of “talking” the itch out of poison oak and the fire out of burns. Numerous times, as a child, I would be afflicted with poison oak or ivy that I had caught playing in the woods and Aunt Johnnie would lay her hands on me gently, rubbing them so softly back and forth, whispering barely audible words that no one could understand. I found what she did fascinating. When I went to visit her last month the day after her son died, she was unable to discuss her loss and so we talked about other things. I asked her about her “healing” work. She was supposed to have passed the gift down, but never did. It had to be a man, she said, and I could only think how all the men in that part of the family were too busy hunting or working or fixing things they never wanted to learn such gentle skills. I asked her where her gift had come from, because it was not something in her younger years that she would talk about. She told me it came from the Bible, from the belief that through God a person’s hands could be used for healing. I thought about that tonight as I sat beside her holding those hands that have grown so much smaller than mine over these fifty years.

She’s been in a nursing care facility for a little over a year, but I was fortunate to visit her when she was in better health not long after my Uncle Frank died. My sister and I sat in her warm kitchen which was never especially clean or tidy, given the old wood stove that heated the house and her shy, shaggy dog “Booger” lumbering around behind the furniture shedding dog hair. It was sunny and cozy that cold afternoon but the kitchen was filled with warmth and light, even in the aftermath of her loss.

She was strong in a way different from the men of the family. She outlived her oldest, my cousin Bobby, by little more than a month. How difficult it must have been to go on, for these few years and this past month, after losing two of the most important people in her life, but she did, with the same poise and grace that exemplified her entire life. Thank God for special aunts, for special people, for loving souls and gentle spirits. Thank God for my Aunt Johnnie! We celebrate her transition to another life and know she will continue to watch over us. We love you and we will miss you.

Love, Tootie

6

Incarcerated

jail

It’s a matter of public record that my brother has been in and out  jail recently on numerous offenses. Beyond the occasional speeding ticket, my brother’s run-ins with the law and his subsequent incarcerations are a first for our mostly law-abiding family.

It’s a few hours drive for me to visit him in the small county jail where he is locked up. Beyond the drab municipal buildings and razor wire fencing surrounding the courthouse, it’s a sad depraved little town whose people seem to have not enough to do and not enough resources to do it with.

Jail visits are surreal for those of us not behind the bars. It’s difficult to know what to say or do. The thoughts that pass through my mind do not seem so appropriate or helpful. I wonder what does one wear in order to look like the little sister of a man who would not break the law? I have never been a fashionista, but it seems important for me to make a good impression, like I am a reflection of my brother’s guilt or innocence. I thumb through my assortment of formless sweaters, omitting the black and white striped one for the obvious reason. I gravitate instead towards neutrals, colorless putty tones that will not show soil or make me stand out too much as a visitor. A scarf adds some cheer and hides my ample bosom from lewd gazes. Then, my mind shifts from my wardrobe to that old familiar comfort of food. Shouldn’t I bake a cake for the occasion? Folks always did that on the old television shows, right? I think how I would not hide  a weapon inside, honest I wouldn’t. I just think it would be so very nice to take him a cake and share it with the guards. Maybe that would earn him some television time or a walk outside for fresh air.

I ride down with my nephews, my brother’s grown children. We all lead busy lives with family and work in our places of too much to do and not enough time to do it in. I enjoy catching up on their lives. We stop to eat, of course, either lunch or breakfast at a local diner or barbecue restaurant. My nephew says “Aunt Susie, this would be fun if we didn’t have to …” His voice trails. He doesn’t have to finish the sentence; I know what he means.

I am angry at my brother, angry at his choices and actions. At times I can barely contain it; at times I do not. There is a feeling that like a contagious disease, he has brought an undesirable element to our lives. I want it to go away. I do not want our family poisoned.

At the jail, my nephews and I huddle around one of three small windows just off the lobby, attempting to talk to my brother via a menacing telephone that appears left over from the 1960’s. I regret not bringing antiseptic wipes, but my mind was on other senseless matters like the outfit and the cake. The telephone line is filled with static. My brother somehow sounds miles away instead of two feet behind the glass. What cannot be heard or spoken in words is evident in the setting of the jaw, the cold dullness of blue eyes, everyone’s aching to get out of there.

Later, I make small talk with the guards.  Some of the female guards remind me of that old character “Pat” on Saturday Night Live; I am left questioning much about their sexuality. They laugh good-naturedly about my brother, who can be humorous and quite charming when he is not armed or drunk. These are traits I share with most everyone in my family, the humor and charm, that is, not the drunkenness, although many folks back home are armed to the hilt. I finally succeed in endearing the guards to please pass my brother a pair of my old reading glasses and a pen with which he can read and write. Along with a few dollars in his canteen, it is all I can offer, this weak but real connection to the outside world.

I miss the brother that I knew, my brother who is all but lost from his family and is now starring in a tragi-comedy of his own doing. His role is both antagonist and victim. The numerous charges against him include assault, making threats, discharging a firearm in the city limits, however the real crime is a life gone missing outside this jail cell.

My brother has always been a fighter but rarely, until his old age, did it get him in serious trouble. One of my earliest memories of my brother is when I was three or four and I insisted on staying up past nine o’clock to watch the I Love Lucy Show. Daddy would put me in bed and I would immediately crawl out. When my patient father finally threatened to give me a spanking, my older brother met him in the hall, one fist repeatedly slamming into the other. “Don’t hit her daddy. Don’t hit her, ” he said. I still remember him saying that. I never did get a spanking that night  although I probably should have. I hold fast to this memory of my protective older brother. I would like to return the favor now but I cannot and he will not listen. There is little I or anyone can do to protect him now against himself.

It occurs to me that whereas my brother is a fighter, I am a flyer. Over the years, this behavior has imprinted itself on me as sense of  worthlessness, of being a secret self-loather, a weakling unable to take charge of her own destiny. A woman whose very wonderful and blessed life can feel as sparse and distant as breadcrumbs dropped on a path through the woods. Most days I know the crumbs are simply the negatives of life that for years I swallowed and swallowed and swallowed. These things sit and ferment in ones stomach, then eat you from the inside out. The truth is I fear loosening the lid on my own Pandora’s box. I fear what might emerge. I fear it could be the madness and rage that has taken over my brother. I realize then that beyond charm and the same color blue eyes, I share something else with my brother. I too am both antagonist and victim in my own life. There are many crimes I commit, but what gnaws on me most is the same, that of leading a life of unrealized potential.

It is the hardest thing in the world to do, isn’t it? To free ourselves from whatever it is that imprisons us. It is so difficult to walk away from behaviors that are self-destructive and no longer serve us well, even when we know we should. We are all incarcerated, each in our own little cell, searching for a means of escape.

13

Happy Birthday, Mama Afrika

“Excuse me? How does one celebrate a birthday in Africa?”

Toasted almond eyes smiled at me from behind the sales counter. The girl was the color of coffee with a single drop of cream. Curls cascaded in ringlets around her broad forehead. Her name tag said “Hosanna”.

“How perfect”, I thought.

“We are traveling on safari tomorrow morning to Serengeti with Zablon Sunday’s group.” I explained. “One of my travel mates will be celebrating her birthday while we are there. I’d like to know if you have any suggestions for how we might celebrate her birthday. I believe she turns 73.”

The girl’s expression remained unchanged. Whether she was processing my words, a strange gibberish of simultaneous rapid-fire slow-syllabled Southern drawl or was simply contemplating the answer, I was not sure. I have a terrible habit, a tendency to fill in any silences in a conversation with mindless chatter; it’s a trait I share with my sister. “She is such a nice lady.” I continued. “Well, I really don’t know her that well, but she is soo-oo-o interesting. She is a writer, a journalist actually named Sonya. She was a war correspondent in Poland during the Communist uprising, back when there were hardly any women doing that job. She’s traveling single with two friends from the states.”

I had to pause to breathe sometime…

“You could have a birthday cake, maybe some champagne. Your guide can arrange it for you, ” the girl interjected.

“Gee, that is exactly how we would celebrate it in the US. Can you think of something that is more… ugh African?”

“Ah!”, she brightened. “You could do Mama Afrika.”

I didn’t know what she meant and said as much, but I was definitely intrigued.

“You get some fabric and wrap it around your head like a scarf, ” she explained. “Wrap it around your waist for a skirt and around your shoulders. Oh, and you could dance!” The staff at the lodge where we were staying and where Hosanna worked was always trying to get us to stay up and dance with them after dinner. We never did; we were too tired.

Mama Afrika! I liked this idea but where could I find an African wardrobe before we left for Serengeti the next morning? So far, I had not seen a single Wal-Mart or Joanne’s Fabrics since arriving in Africa. Hosanna offered to bring me her tribe’s fabrics; she would even bring them by my room the next morning and show me how to wear them.

Hosanna appeared promptly at 7 AM with three fabrics, none of which seemed to match. In Africa, there seems to be no rules about mixing patterns or colors. She wound me up like a spool, round and round from head to waist. I looked in the mirror at her completed creation. I looked like a colorful chicken, nothing like the elegant African ladies who strolled the villages.

My sister giggled.

The next few days were busy with our travel cross-country to and subsequent set-up at Serengeti. Safaris, hot air balloon rides, learning to live in a tent. I was thankful to be sharing my tent with my sister; several others like Sonya slept alone. Sonya was deathly afraid of encountering a Black Mamba and we teased her about it mercilessly. At the time, I must admit I had no idea the second most venomous snake in the world was the Black Mamba and that it made its home in our new back yard. Capable of moving at very high speeds, its bite can kill a human being in as little as twenty minutes.

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No one suspects a nice southern girl to be theif!

As Sonya’s birthday drew near, I realized the drive into Serengeti had been so thrilling, I had completely forgot to remind Zablon to get champagne. Fortunately, I was able to embezzle a bottle from the champagne breakfast that followed our balloon ride. My sister and I befriended two nice couples from Colombia. When they heard about Sonya’s upcoming birthday celebration and how I had procured her authentic African garb, they became our accomplices by helping me smuggle an unopened bottle off the table and into my jacket. They even insisted on taking a picture of it!

Sonya’s birthday came off in true Africa style, which means it was perfect but not quite as planned. Zablon had mistakenly told the chef her birthday was one day early. Since having the scent of a freshly baked  cake and a delicious dinner wafting around the tent was a likely invitation to have our food stolen by the baboons, we celebrated her birthday the first time with a dinner, birthday cake and a special surprise. We were lost in the quiet of after dinner conversation when from the darkness all the crew  from the Serengeti camp sprung into our tent beating drums and banging on pots. Enough hooping and hollering, my mama would have said to beat the band! Two men including our handsome young chef who by day was the quiet and consummate professional  now danced around us with wild eyes, faces painted with vanilla cake icing and pregnant, protruding bellies stuffed with pillows. “I have no idea what they are doing,” I said to my friend Jenny who stared in amazement. “Maybe it’s the word “birthday? Maybe they take the word literally…”

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It was one of the most remarkable things I had ever seen before. Round and round they went, chanting and beating their way into the night. Sonya laughed and danced. Suddenly I realized something so pervasive to African culture that I had never understood before. The singing, the fires, the drumming, the celebration. This was the survival of man, and woman of course, in Africa. It flows in their African blood. Rituals surrounding birth and death. Like the lions we heard roaring in the stillness of late night, the monkeys who carefully stalked lost morsels of food, this noisy celebration was our claim to our brief time with Africa.

The next day was Sonya’s actual birthday. Unfortunately, she did not feel well enough to go with us on our safari that afternoon. While driving back to camp, Zablon spotted a large egg laying in the grass beside the road. He brought it back to the jeep to show us. It was a perfect ostrich egg. He explained how sometimes the female ostrich will simply drop an egg wherever she happens to be. If the egg is not deposited safely into the nest, it cannot be transported by the mother ostrich and thus, would never hatch. Zablon would bring it back to camp to show the others and give the camp staff a treat for breakfast the next day. One ostrich egg equals about sixteen regular chicken eggs, he explained.

That night, despite not really understanding what it meant, we dressed  Sonya up as Mama Afrika. Zablon helped me tie the cloth around her head and waist. Just like me, she resembled a chicken. On African soil, we popped the cork from the stolen French champagne and shared it with everyone. We gave Sonya one of her most memorable birthdays. A great night for a great lady, for our new friend.

In the meantime, when we arrived back at camp from our afternoon safari. Zablon presented Sonya the egg as a birthday present telling her “We have brought you a Black Mambo egg!”

Sonya screamed.

Sonya with her one-of-a-kind birthday present, an egg from the Black Mamba! A special birthday for a special lady! Happy Birthday, Mama Afrika!
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Packing Up, After Christmas

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If you haven’t begun already, soon it will be time to take down the Christmas tree and pack up the decorations. Already a look-see down my street this afternoon exposed a few naked trees discarded and piled up at the curb, trash cans and recyclables filled to the brim with boxes and ribbon trailing out like ivy. Two days after Christmas, my friend Angela had the tree from her office dismantled and was well on her way to doing the same at home. So anxious is my mother-in-law to be done with Christmas, I imagine her mantle was swept bare, her artificial tree disassembled and packed away by the time we were out the driveway Christmas night.

It seems to me that it says a lot about a person by seeing who packs up Christmas immediately afterwards, who waits until the New Year and who dawdles through January. Most years, I want to enjoy my decorations for a few more weeks after Christmas. There is a peace throughout the early months of January that lavishes itself upon my household like a cake glazed with warm frosting that is simply not present in the hustle and bustle of December. I enjoy relaxing amidst twinkly lights, candles and pretty decorations. Of course, there are some years this is not always the case. In October of 1992, my father died suddenly and tragically. Despite the many blessings of that year including the glorious birth of a healthy son with ten perfect fingers and toes, I went through the motions of the holidays as best I could, although I really wanted to kick the year to the curb and simply start anew in 1993.

This year, as I was dragging down boxes from the attic preparing to decorate, I came across a Christmas Memory book my friend Kim Thompson gave me when my son was little. Every year, I was supposed to fill out what we had done that year, what special ways we celebrated the season. Flipping through the book, I could see that I had done just this for many years, but eventually I became distracted or perhaps the book was lost and I had stopped filling out its pages. It made me sad to realize how many memories of my family had been forgotten and lost.

Yet I enjoy pilfering through my box of Christmas ornaments as I prepare to decorate. I have kept many of the little handmade paper ones from my son in elementary and preschool. There are the photo ornaments and the pet ornaments that remind me of the four-legged and winged members of our family. I have a few glass and handmade ones that I grew up with, scavenged before my parents’ house was cleaned out and sold. There are many ornaments that my family picked up on our travels, the red Cowboy boot from Oklahoma, the glass flamingo from Florida.

Christmas 2014 is drawing to a close; regretfully, it’s back to work for me tomorrow. I am  so very grateful for my friends and family, my health, my mind, the good fortune and opportunities that have come my way. I try to be accepting, if not grateful, of the negatives and bumps in the road that serve to point me in the right direction.

When it’s time to dismantle the tree and take down the wreathes and garlands, pack them carefully. Store them safely in your attics.

Wrap your memories in paper and bubble wrap.

Until next year…

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Reduction Cooking Redux

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Even if you’re the most amateur of foodies, you are probably familiar with the term “reduction cooking”. This culinary technique involves simmering a liquid such as a stock or a sauce until its chemical composition has changed and its volume has been reduced. What is left in the bottom of the pan and does not boil away or evaporate becomes richer and more flavorful than its original composition or the sum of its parts.

In life, this process is not unlike “trial by fire.”

If my own chemical composition could be examined microscopically, I am certain it would look very different from how it appeared twenty years ago. It’s a time of stress and transition, these middle years. I have stood shoulder to shoulder with my women friends, as we have each come undone in our own ways. I have seen a friend who enjoyed nearly fifty years of a solid marriage watch it dissolve before her very eyes. Many of us have had health scares. Some have lost homes and incomes. We’ve lost parents to disease and old age and lost our children to everything from substance abuse and mental illness to simply growing up. The generation before us is thinning in numbers and we find ourselves emerging to the front of the line.

Our loss is not even limited to humans. We’ve had our pets now for fifteen or twenty years; even they are dying in droves. My Australian Schnauzer Shredder had a stroke last year and surgery this summer at age eighteen. In people years, he’s older than Rip Van Winkle. He can barely find his food in the bowl unless I shake  his aluminum doggie bowl. When I call his name, he looks in every direction except the one I am calling from. Since he has also lost the ability to alert me  when he needs to go outside to use the bathroom, I have begun laying down bath towels in his path, hoping I will fool him into thinking he is outside in the grass. My home looks and smells like it did when my son was a baby. The scent of chlorox permeates the air. Baby gates are secured in all the doorways and medicine droppers fill the kitchen windowsill.

During this time, we are often surprised to discover we lost ourselves along the way. We were just too busy to notice. I don’t have to tell you this is a scary place, but what I do want to assure you is that there is no need to be afraid.

This process of “trial by fire” has a secret and often overlooked component. In the midst of giving up so many false forms of security, we found surprising strength in places we didn’t even know we had. We have discovered an inner resilience. We still have the ability to learn and excel at new skills and have developed boundaries that let us take situations at face value without getting so personally involved. We have even found that stripped of much that we hold precious, we are still standing, only a little worse for wear. We’ve found support from all four corners of our lives because during those years we were serving on committees, dropping off food when someone was sick, babysitting a friend’s kid- we were really building relationships that have nothing to do with the business of life but everything to do with our own foundation.

Recently, I lamented to a friend my lack of feeling worthy to enter this new phase of life. I thought by now I’d have it all together. I thought my 401-K would have another digit. I thought I would have stayed a lifetime member of Weight Watchers. I thought I would have learned to wash the dishes as I go rather than letting them pile up in the sink. I thought I would floss my teeth every single night.

Somehow, I thought I would have accomplished so much more by now…
My friend says maybe we’re not supposed to grow up and become those older and wiser people we thought we were supposed to. Maybe we’re not supposed to grow old, but should aim to grow young. What if the secret to remaining vital is willing ourselves to stay vulnerable, to stay silly, to continue to love and have faith in the hard parts and to simply not take life too seriously? Maybe in our ideas about growing older, we have it all wrong?

I’ve seen a new beauty emerge in my friends. Not the same type of beauty as when we were younger with unblemished skin, flat tummies and breasts that didn’t sag. I am talking about a reduction cooking type of beauty. This is an essential and deeper kind of beauty that leaves behind the extraneous and radiates outward like a tree standing tall and strong in the forest, a weathered rock, the scent of fresh cucumber and grated ginger, a sunrise.

It’s a glow that comes from within. It has nothing, and everything, to do with the temperature.

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