Water color memories.

I have just spent a few minutes reading over an ongoing diary. I don't write in if very often - mostly because I write here, now. Yet, every now and then I will jot something in the diary, that was a gift from a college friend on the occasion of my 50th birthday. (Funny. I am edging toward my final year of the 50's.) The one thing that surprises me about the diary is that I did not write so much about the year Dad was so sick. I blogged about it so much that I neglected the diary. There are a few entries that say much about that year. Sweet Daddy.
I also took the 1000 gift challenge in that diary, but am only on #50. I had better pay attention to all I have to be thankful for...because it will be November pretty soon. (If you are reading this Daughter, bring your A-game! Challenge on.)

***
The weekend was good. Our weather is atypically mild for August in Mississippi. Mr. Macho worked in his Dad's yard Saturday morning. I policed the house and put on a big pot of red beans. Birmingham sister-in-law, her husband, Mr. Macho's Dad, and family friend, Kathryn, joined us for supper Saturday night. We enjoyed all their visits.

*****
There doesn't seem to be much hope of "foreign" adventure on the horizon this year. ("Foreign" = just getting out of town!) Mr. Macho has turned into the work-aholic in these latter years. I think he is simply sprinting toward the finish line. We do get to travel back to the coast in September to celebrate a very special birthday. No. Not mine. I'll tell you about it another day.

Crochet projects are drawing my attention, again. I am reading books at my usual pace. (Insert an "argh" for Les Miserables just for fun right here.) My organizations are about to commence their new seasons.

I felt very tall wearing my new platform shoes to church yesterday. I did get several nice comments, just as the sales lady promised. Oh, she was good.

Dance party tonight. No lessons. It will be fun and relaxed. Good practice time.
Watching the tropics is on my agenda these days. I appreciated all the storm reminiscence last week. I allowed myself to sink, and wallow, and mourn. Now. Moving forward.

Be sweet.

The beginning.

Several years ago I started to write my story... I think this is all I will ever write. I lost the impetus to write any more. I want to blame the storm for physically removing my old neighborhood so that I couldn't even go back and conjure that feeling again. How many lifetimes ago was this childhood? Was it eons? Feels like it.

Growing up on Second Street.

The first breath I drew when the doctor slapped my behind was salty. Salt air.  Gulfport, Mississippi. Highway 90 ran east and west the length of the Mississippi Coast. Beach Boulevard is what the addresses read along the road. Second Street was one block north of Beach Boulevard. That’s where I grew up, Second Street. Just a walk through my grandmother’s yard and across the highway was the sand beach.  

For all practical purposes let’s say I grew up in the perfect southern Catholic family. Oh sure, we have ghosts or skeletons in our closet just like every other red blooded American family. But we lost the key a long time ago, and if we ever find it we will promptly loose it again. Thank you very much.

I was born in 1956. The year Elvis released his first gold album named “Elvis Presley”. Norma Jean changed her name to Marilyn Monroe and married Arthur Miller. The Wizard of Oz was shown on television for the first time. Dwight D. Eisenhower defeated Adlai E. Stevenson, again. The first hard disk drive was invented at IBM. And I was born. Breathing salty air.

I was the seventh child in a family that would eventually boast nine. In 1956 our house was a three bedroom, one bath house. I vaguely remember at some point my older brother sleeping on the screened in front porch. Too many bodies, not enough beds.

My grandmother lived with my bachelor uncle across the street from us. Granny. In her later years she was bird like. She was frail and tiny and small. In pictures of her in younger days she was taller and fuller than what I remember. Not too long ago one of my sisters told me that I “sashayed”. That was something my Granny did and I took it as a compliment.

When I was little there was many a summer day that Granny and Uncle Dick would have ice-cold watermelon sliced and ready for us to eat on our way home from swimming and playing or fishing and crabbing on the beach. There was a concrete table and concrete benches under a shady oak tree in her yard. We had to wash the salt water off our little bodies under the hose in our backyard anyway, so messy eating was the norm when devouring the sweet melon. 

Granny’s usual attire was a cotton housedress with a starched linen apron. On her feet she wore soft house shoes. She stepped softly.  She spoke softly. And she served the most wonderful breakfast you ever ate. Uncle Dick traveled fairly frequently and when he did one of us children was appointed the duty of spending the night with Granny. She didn’t like to be alone in her house at night. It was a treat and the reason was her breakfast and because she had milk that came in the carton. (At our house we drank powdered milk that my mother mixed up.) Not only did she have milk in the carton she also had, sent straight from heaven, chocolate milk in the carton.

So, for breakfast she would serve you milk from the carton, juice, eggs, grits, bacon, toast and ask if you wanted - cereal, too. Oh my. You wouldn’t have to eat again for days after a Granny breakfast!

Granny’s kitchen was in the back part of her house.  I remember only impressions of the rooms south of the kitchen because, as a child, I was not allowed to venture into the front part of her house very often. The divider was the dining room door. When you breached this point the house became very quiet and, as I remember, dark and cooler that the rest of the house. She must have kept the blinds closed most of the time. This was before central air conditioning became popular and was installed in every house south of the Mason -Dixon Line.

The den was the part of her house that I remember the most as being lived in. It was where we visited her on Sunday mornings. It was where she kept, behind her chair, a wicker basket with a few books and toys to occupy the younger minds and fingers because “children should be seen and not heard” -as we were continually reminded.

When I was in the sixth or seventh grade I sat in that den and Granny rolled my hair in rags so I could go to school the next day with “banana” curls. When I had asked her to help me she told me to come over that evening and bring my comb and a bunch of cut up rags about eight inches long. I did that. I sat on the floor and she had a bowl of water on a table by her chair. She would take a strand of my hair, dip my comb in the bowl of water and comb the wet into my hair. Then she would take a rag and wrap my hair around it, wind it into a knot and tie it close to my scalp. The rags close to my face were tied so tight I could feel it pulling my eyes up into an oriental expression. That night I slept with the rags in my hair and woke early the next morning and walked over to her house to let her undo the rags and fix my curls for me. It was wonderful! I was born cursed with straight hair and Granny had performed a miracle. She even told my Aunt Eleanor that my hair would be easy to “train”. I don’t know why but that made me feel very proud, to have trainable hair. 

Granny’s love and personal attention went a long way for this seventh child of nine children. I could get lost or forgotten at home, but not at Granny’s. It was good to get old enough to go across the street by myself and have Granny all to myself. It made me feel very grown up and on my own. She was the queen of many questions, always interested in what I had to say.

Granny was born Georgia Mae Shirley on May 28, 1898. She was the oldest child of George Shirley and Willie Ann West Shirley. Her siblings were Ollie (pronounced ohlee, not ahlee), Otto, Roy and Joann. Her mother died when she was 12. Her family lived in a house on 25^th Avenue in Gulfport. (Later that house would be used for her son’s dental practice.)

****

You know the rest of the story. I grew up, married Mr. Macho and lived happily ever after. 

Be tend. 

(Thanks Tucker.)

Without permission...

In keeping with emotions that have been resurrected this week I am porsting an email that I received from my sister today. My Dad always said it was easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. 

So, Sister, please forgive me...


"Thanks for your blog, I am just catching up on it today.  I awakened this morning (this week), thinking of Granny, Katrina, Dad, Uncle Dick, walking down the day lily lane that was so shady and lush.  Two-bits earned, the Baby Doll, running around the circles of boxwood, posing against the azaleas/camellias for a photograph, watermelon slices at the concrete table, juice from the colored aluminum cups, paper sacks full of pecans, acorn wars, fireworks (mosquitoes!), finding crystals after Camille, finding the pecan tree gone when I came home from college. I am just sad about parting from this property.  I think you are right, maybe I need someone to blame, but it feels like Katrina is still doing damage.

Do you remember getting your ring from Granny?  I got mine from the house on Second Street, the Doll House.  I remember walking home with it on.  We have been blessed, with love and gifts."




You see? It's not just me.
Be sweet.

Carnival ride emotions.

The roller coaster of emotions has taken off. Me? I am in the front seat. It has been 10 years since the storm. Like many in these parts, I really don't like to even say her name. She destroyed my parents' home, my uncle's home, the homes of my two sisters. She wiped many of my childhood landmarks from the earth. She relocated populations. My elementary school eventually closed. My high school was bulldozed. For years I did not recognize the landscape of my own hometown. 

Mom and Dad came to live with us for about 6 months after the storm. Oh, how I wish I could go back and do that 6 months again. I want a re-do. I will do it better the second time. I promise! Hind sight is so very clear.  I wanted so badly to not be defined by this storm. I wanted so badly for this to not be what I talked about all the time. I wanted so badly to not keep harping on what we lost. And yet. We did talk the wind out of her. I believe that Katrina not only demolished family homes, I think she started to erode family ties. 

And now this. This week we have a contract on a piece of property that was across the street from where I grew up. My grandmother and uncle lived there. Her father purchased the property. Camille took care of the house he built. Katrina claimed the next one. This property has belonged to my family for - oh, I don't know - over 100 years? And. I don't think I gave full attention to the emotions that would surface. 

It is especially poignant this week. While we still mourn what was lost 10 years ago. It feels like she is still taking away. It still feels like we are losing something to her. It feels like her fault. 

It feels like a bond is loosening. It is such a process, this letting go. Who knew? 

***

On a lighter note I will leave you with this parting shot. 

We enjoyed our date on Saturday night. 

It was a fun evening among sweet friends. We enjoyed dinner and a show! 

There was even dancing! 

Be sweet. 

Happy camper.

Does this really need explanation?

Namaste.

Catching you up.

A week and a half ago a branch of Mr. Macho's family had a small reunion. (His maternal grandmother's clan.)

Here he is with his cousin, Phil. Phil visited us years and years ago, when our children were very young. He was passing through town on his way to a job assignment. Our children called him 'Uncle Phil'. And still do. But. He is really a cousin.  Mr. Macho enjoyed reconnecting with Phil, other cousins, and especially his Aunt Thelma. 

After the reunion we scooted over to Daughter's house for a "Back to School" cookout and ice cream party with the grandchildren. Entertainment was provided by The Super Carrot Ballerina Company!

Anniversary #38 was quietly celebrated at home. Mr. Macho grilled some steaks, bubbly was consumed, and the movie de jour was "When Harry Met Sally". After this many years celebrations are becoming mellow. 

***

The very next day I travelled to the coast. For a family visit. 

The day after that Mr. Macho left for a week of school. 

I stayed with son, Beach Boy, and his family. It was fun waking up with these two. Sweet Pea slept with me every night. Except for the kicking in the middle of the night she was a great sleep partner. The kicking didn't last long. 

 Millie knows how to cheese it for the camera!

Lap full of girls! 

Beach Boy is dealing with his seasonal alergies. Besides the fact that it is the beginning of football season and that brings it's own level of exhaustion. He and his yellow friend caught a quick nap at Mimi's house. 

Peyton doesn't care for her photo to be taken too often. This was how she felt about me taking her picture. Oh well. Silly photo faces run in the family. 

***

I was delighted to spend the day with Mom on Tuesday. I see small changes since the last time I was down. I don't know how but her hearing (or lack thereof) seems even more diminished. Her participation in conversation is waining, especially with more than one person. Her physical fitness is also waining. She will be 95 next month and her body reflects her age. 

She is the energizer bunny. With a cane. 

Her love is alive. 

*****

Mr. Macho is due home tomorrow. Today I have a lunch date with my girlfriends and my night time bunko group will reconvene. I am actually one of the hostesses tonight. It will be a "Back to School" themed night. 

All of my activity groups will be starting up over the next few weeks. I am ready to get back onto the social swing of things. This summer has felt rather blasé - with no real vacation and struggling through Les Miserables - I need a little Christmas, or some happy distraction. 

*****

I have to tell you this funny story. Beach Boy faced times his sister while I was visiting. Merritt saw me and immediately asked, "Nanny, where are you?!" I told her I was at Uncle Beach Boy's house. She put her hands on her hips and, in a more than miffed voice, asked, "How shouldn't you didn't take me?!!!!" (Translation: How dare you not take me!) I am getting many miles in the retelling of this line. It still makes me laugh. Love that girl.

I am hearing the siren song of dirty towels. Must answer the call.

Be sweet. 

Love, is that you?

Love is a battlefield.

Love is a four letter word.

Love is a burning thing.

Love, it is a river.

Love, it is a hunger.

Love is an open door?

Love is a many splendored thing.

Love is like a rock.

Love is patient.

Love is kind.

Love is more than the sum of these things.

Happy #38 anniversary Mr. Macho. 

It has been worth it. 

I still choose you.

(A,B, and C - can you tell me where the title of this post originated? Text me when you know.)

Where's my trophy?

He sleeps. Although his fate was very strange, he lived. He died when he had no longer his angel. The thing came to pass simply, of itself, as the night comes when day is gone. (Vol. 5, Bk. 9, Ch. 6)

Written on Jean Valjean's tombstone. -Les Miserables by Victor Hugo

***

Oh. My. Gosh.

I am so relieved to have finished this book.

I am a better person for having persevered. 

But. 

I do not recommend it. 

Close. But no cigar.

I thought I swam a mile this morning. I swam 35 laps. 50 yards per lap = 1750 yards. So, here's the kicker. A mile is 1760 yards. I missed it by ( ) that much. Yet, 1650 is considered a mile when swimming. Or so I read on the internet. Bottom line is - I am totally owning that I swam the mile this morning. Thankyouverymuch. So there. Don't doubt me. I am feeling mighty. 

I will swim right by your heinny. 

Namaste that!

Mini road trip.

Our weekend was most pleasant. At the last minute we decided to go visit Cecilia. Instead of the usual route we drove down through Alabama. It was a low-humidity, clear blue sky day. Two lanes highways, at least half of the way. When we crossed back into Mississippi we were in Noxubee County. Now Noxubee County is good at growing things. Among them are corn, cotton, soy beans, and college football players. Only one  high school in the state has produced more college players than Noxubee. I just have to tell you how exquisite a sight it all was. Miles and miles of corn, cotton, and soy bean fields.  The corn is drying, and almost ready for harvest. The cotton is high, and blooming. The soy bean were so green they were almost black. For miles. And miles. No football players to be seen, though. They were probably all in church. I wanted to capture the wideness of it all. But. Alas, I didn't ask Mr. Macho to stop. I just soaked it in. 

This bright eyed girl kept us entertained by just being sweet and cute. All afternoon long. Her dad played the guitar for her and she just listened and tried to find him with her young eyes. 

Sweet angel asleep in her mother's arms. 

Our sense of adventure wasn't quite satisfied and so we drove home the long way...we went down country roads and one lane roads. One lanes are a little scary. And exciting. If someone had come along fast we would have had to go into a ditch!

We passed several very quaint country churches...and finally I thought to stop and snap a picture when we got to this one. 

It even had it's own historic marker. 

All in all it satisfied our adventuresome/explorer itch for the day. 

But not forever!

“As for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts.” 
― Herman Melville, Moby-Dick; or, The Whale