Eavesdropping

I remember the summer I discovered that my mama wasn’t just my mama. She was a woman of mystery and secret whisperings and sly glances and cold aloofness and wild energy. Every summer we returned to her beloved home state of North Carolina, and as we crossed the state line and left the cool mountains of Tennessee and sped through the interstates lined with tobacco and collard green fields planted in sandy Piedmont soil, she seemed to loosen and relax before our eyes-not quite so mean tempered or impatient as before-as she leaned on the accelerator urging those miles to disappear with feverish intensity. Once in the bosom of her girlhood home, she took to hours of wild whooping with my aunts and her childhood girlfriends. They drank TAB soda, smoked menthol Newports, applied and reapplied their frosted lipstick, went barefoot, wore plaid Madras sundresses, listened to Barry and Elvis on the transistor radio, and took long drives in the country-without the children. They pored over yearbooks and photo albums and talked about old boyfriends and distant, unknown relatives as if they might show up for supper any minute. And mostly we children stayed out of their way. If you got too close or interrupted, you were likely to get a slap that would make you think twice next time. Best to let grandma solve your problems. Until the summer I turned ten-which was my eavesdropping year-I never really noticed or cared about “lady talk.” That was the summer I first noticed that barely perceptible division between the world of women and men. Why did all those ladies throw sideways, (barely disguised) faintly disgusted glances at those oblivious dads/husbands who were standing by the grill drinking beer from brown bottles? What did those low murmurings and derisive snorts mean? What had those dads/husbands done to deserve their cold disdain? Did those men not see they were being studied under the shadow of dark glasses and faintly arched eyebrows that clearly pointed to their shortcomings? So I went on the prowl, determined to discover my mother’s secrets. I hung back on staircases; skulked around the darkened hallway in listening distance of the wall mounted phone; and slunk around her lounge chair pretending to be bored and indifferent. And for all my sneaky efforts, I only managed to hear more garbled whispers as well as suffer a series of vengeful, stinging slaps for my sneaking around. My mother, totally exasperated with my pathetic, thinly veiled detective skills, actually made me go sit with the dads-who were totally oblivious to the dark undermining dangers those women posed to them. And after suffering the boredom of their man-talk about oil prices, war, and car troubles, I felt too peevish to even warn them-so I wandered off to play with my cousins who had found a broken Easy Bake oven in the neighbor’s garbage can-leaving those pitiful sitting duck men to their future doom.

My mother felt distant to me that summer-although I could feel her watching me like a hawk-as I did her. And in spite of my persistence, I never did learn her secrets that summer. Instead I discovered that my mama was more than my mama. She was capable of covert operations and murky subterfuge and shifting alliances. And there were parts of her that her children and husband had no claim to. With the arrogance of well-loved children, we thought we owned her body, heart and soul. But this I can attest to: there was a piece of herself that she kept for herself-this mysterious, hidden garden of a woman’s heart.

Good Grief!

by Norman Rockwell

I caught the tail end of Dr Phil's show this afternoon and as the credits were rolling, Dr Phil announces in the VOICE OF DOOM: DO YOU SPANK YOUR CHILD? HAVE YOU EVER THOUGHT OF SPANKING YOUR CHILD? HAS SPANKING YOUR CHILD EVER GOTTEN OUT OF CONTROL? WELL THEN-CONTACT THE DR PHIL SHOW! WE WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU!

Seriously?!? Really?!? Clearly Dr Phil has never taken lil brother to Wal Mart and chased down 57 cans of cream of chicken soup down three aisles or ran after him in the parking lot as he swerved the buggy around the blue haired lady in her Cadillac or had to pick yourself off the floor of aisle 7 and pry the riding toy from his enraged, sweaty grip as his flailing legs kicked you in the back of the head...in front of strangers.

Here's a short, simple rule my boys know: If you embarrass me...in front of strangers...you're gonna GET IT!!!

Good grief, Dr Phil....I am done...spit!... DONE WITH YOU.

Update

Thanks for checking back in with me. Sorry I've been remiss in my blogging duties. But I've been reading Bernard Cornwell's Saxon series (historical fiction is my fav!) and have been pretty much ignoring husband, house, kids, and laundry so I can lie around and read all day in my nightgown. As a matter of fact, I only do laundry when the kids start complaining about needing boxers and socks. But only after I've sent them to their brother's room and he doesn't have any either. Looks like my days of being the laundry slut round these here parts are numbered.

Also, I signed up for a week long writer's academy. WHAT WAS I THINKING??? I could have stayed home in the bathrobe writing up my own pack of lies, using f-bombs galore and looking up nasty stuff on the Internet. Now I have to write all proper and "nice" so I don't make anyone "uncomfortable." Oh for f*#k's sake!!! BTW-I have been overusing this expression lately. Maybe because my nerves are raw since I actually have to get up at the butt crack of dawn, dress appropriately, listen to others politely, take notes, and pretend to give a... My Methodist friends probably need to put me on the prayer list.

Oh!!! Mr B bought me two retro green velour chairs from a hole in the wall antique store. I am SO excited. Mr B says they're appalling and remind him of Elvis's Graceland. But I adore them! I did take a picture of them to post so you could see them (I KNOW you will love them too!) but somebody has misplaced my camera chord so I can't upload them and I am so pissed...oh, for f*#k's sake!

Hope ya'll are enjoying the last few weeks of July. Summer sure is flying by. And the blogging is only going to get more bitter...

WWHD-Part Deux

Honey took big kid to the farmer's market to buy him some local honey. She believes a dose of local pollen will help with his allergies... Of course lil brother didn't want to be left out of this medicinal experiment. So Mr B gives him a spoonful too. And after grimacing and gagging the sticky gob down, lil brother says, "Dat tastes nasty in my neck!"

Paging Nurse Blither Blather...WWHD???

Everything I learned about nursing, I learned from Mr B's mama-Honey. For years now I have seen her in Florence Nightingale action-and am even a survivor of her nursing attempts. She's a natural. And actually genuinely cares about sick people. I, on the other hand, find them worrisome, offensive, overly needy, and irritating. Which is why I usually holler for Mr B to get out the medicine kit when a minor medical emergency arises at our house (or pretend like I don't hear you). So tonight when big kid's sneezing took on epic allergic proportions, I kicked it into high gear and asked myself: WWHD??? (what would Honey do???)...

Step 1. I burst into action by immediately running a wash cloth under scalding water that is hot enough to scorch the skin off a scorpion before plastering it against big kid's face-totally ignoring his muffled screams of agony...
Step 2. The patient survives the hot cloth, so I move onto the next phase of Honey's triage treatment plan: I offer him a banana-which according to Honey is the cure-all for all your ails such as allergies, high blood pressure, low potassium, depression, headache, bad attitude, broken limbs, or low energy. Only problem-we don't have any bananas at our house. So I improvise...on to step three...
Step 3. ...I thickly smear Vick's Vapor Rub on everything from big kid's belly button to his eyebrows-which causes big kid to yell, "YOU POISONED MY NOSE!" Which is completely ridiculous because everyone knows that VVR cures allergies, high blood pressure, low potassium, depression, headache, bad attitude, broken limbs, or low energy...
Step 4. At this point big kid has become a belligerent, unappreciative patient bordering on the downright disrespectful. So I decide to teach him a lesson (let him suffer the consequences!) for rejecting my honed nursing skills by omitting step four of Honey's triage treatment plan: microwaving a polyester blanket until it catches on fire and then beating out the flames in the sink before plastering it onto your victim...I mean-patient. Smart mouthed patients don't deserve the toasted blanket.

Good news: big kid reports he's feeling better....or at least he isn't complaining anymore. Thank goodness... this nursing business is exhausting. But thanks to Honey, I'm ready if he relapses.

Summer in the South

Yes-it's pretty dang hot outside, and I've got the air conditioner cranked down low. But I still love summer in the south...

Kids play outside-even when it's a 100 degrees.

Watching birds in the back yard is a sporting event.

Growing and weeding and watering-it's a way of life.

Home grown tomato sandwiches-manna from heaven.

Gossiping with neighbors in the yard-the original social networking site.

Sunday service followed by a church potluck-filled with the spirit!

Growing up Southern is a privilege, really. It's more than where you're born, it's an idea and state of mind that seems imparted at birth. It's more than loving fried chicken, sweet tea, football, and country music. It's being hospitable, devoted to front porches, magnolias, moon pies and coca-cola... and each other. We don't become Southern - we're born that way. anonymous~

Groovy Man...

On our way home from Honey's, we pass the tattoo parlor and in front is a skinny man with a long black scraggly beard. Lil brother spies this interesting character and exclaims, "Das a hippie! DAS A HIPPIE!! I DUS SAW A HIPPIE!!!" And he is totally stoked. I mean to see your first hippie at the tender age of 7...well, not many have those braggin' rights.

Not to be outdone, big kid chimes in. "Yeah, well I've seen a hippie BUM. And he had a sign that said 'Live by the Bong! Die by the Bong!' " And we're all pretty impressed by that. And we all just kinda silently contemplate that rad' thought for a groovy beat or two...

Of course after all that money I spent to send big kid to our nation's capitol, nothing can top the hippie bum experience...figures. And of course lil brother now wants to see a hippie bum too... He can't wait til it's his turn to go on the 6th grade trip.