The One Finger Salute

I’m not sure how old I was when I first saw someone flip the bird. Most probably it happened on the school bus when I was in elementary school.  Most definitely it was succinctly explained by my best friend’s older sister.  Though only two years older than us, she was oh-so-much-more-knowledgeable about everything.  She looked down her nose at us with distaste.

“It means “Go to Hell”” she said and promptly shot us the gig, followed by the bang of her bedroom door in our faces.   Our response was to create a crudely drawn picture of a hand with the middle finger extended  which we then shoved triumphantly under her door.  We marveled at our new found ability to communicate such a powerful and scandalous message without having to utter a word.

And so it was that I found myself in my front yard with Richard, whose family had moved into the Barbee house across the street.  He was also a few years older than me. I found him an interesting playmate, whether we were playing  Monopoly on my grandma’s front porch or donning formal gowns from my dress up box.  Richard was very thin and pale with a rash of freckles and often found himself the object of much teasing by the older kids. I was just happy that he didn't seem to mind that I was younger than him.    

That afternoon though he started teasing me. Being a round child left me open for such as that from time to time. Luckily, after first grade much of the teasing had stopped and only rarely appeared, usually in  painful use of the name “Jackie Gleason”. Which is what Richard chose to call me that momentous afternoon. 

My response was to shoot him the bird.

“You don’t even know what that means!” he mocked.

“Yes, I do!” I yelled.

“Prove it!” he said. “Your daddy will beat your hide if you say it!”

I didn't hold back. For the first time in my life I opened my mouth and let out the beast out of the cage.

“Go. To. Hell.”

Richard was a quick thinker. I will tell you that. He didn't miss a beat.

“I am going to tell your father what you just said.” With that he turned and strode out of sight, towards the side door that was hidden by a large Camellia.

My heart sunk! I was in such trouble. I was going to get a spanking for sure.  I had not gotten one for a while, and truly only got them when I deserved it. I loved my Daddy so much! He often made time for me, letting me scramble up into his pickup truck and go ride with him. My mind darted to my last spanking which I richly deserved.  I remembered afterwards writing a little note that said:  “Do you forgive me? “  With two boxes. One to check for Yes and one for No. I didn’t want to go through THAT again. I held my breath.

Soon Richard reappeared and said “Your Daddy wants you”.

My pent up breath exploded into sobs and I raced inside already crying “I’m so sorry Daddy! I will never say those bad words again!”

My Dad was caught totally unawares, sitting in his big chair in the den, catching the evening news after working at the bank and then the farm.  He looked at me askance as I continue to blurt out my sorrow and beg for forgiveness.

When he made sense of what I was saying, he looked at me, stood up and said “Don’t go anywhere. I will be right back.”

My heart thumped in my chest. I dreaded the spanking, but far far worse was the knowledge that my Dad would be so disappointed in me. That I had willingly and knowingly used words I knew I shouldn’t. Where had he even gone? Had I gotten old enough that I needed to spanked with a switch? Was he cutting a switch even now?

Finally, he came back into the den.  I had about cried myself out and was ready to accept my fate.

Instead my father amazed me. 

He said. “Richard won’t be giving you any more trouble. I’ve been over to his house and he is not allowed in our yard anymore.”

To say I was relieved is an understatement. My Dad had taken my side. Rather than seeing my “sin”, he saw the circumstance and loved, forgave, and protected me. 

I never did play with Richard Cox again, though when we crossed paths, he no longer teased me.  As an adult I understand that because he was the subject of bullying, it was natural for him to make me a target of the same.  

But I learned a bigger lesson that day. About forgiveness and unconditional love. About being cared for and protected, even if that protection is a little messy and might offend the neighbors. And that I was important enough to protect. Even if I was on the round side.

I ran into Richard’s brother not long ago, now a preacher and in talking with him, this memory resurfaced. Its message is sure and true and easy to extrapolate.  If our earthly fathers forgave and loved us so, imagine how much our heavenly Father does too…

Though it’s been 7 years, I still miss my dad.

And you know,  I never did get another spanking.

My family, circa 1968

Leaving Home

I am really bad with goodbyes.

I was terribly close to my parents when I was a little girl. In fact, literally a few feet. From the time I was born until the time I left for UNC, I lived in the room next to them, a cheerful Carolina blue bedroom with an adjoining door.  Once, in a fit of 13 year old independence, I gathered up my courage and moved upstairs. I didn't like it. After a few months without hearing the hushed voices of my folks and their footsteps up and down the hall, I gathered up my pride, threw independence out the window, and and slunk back downstairs.

At ten, when I was packed off to Camp Rainbow with my best friend Kathryn, my mom had reassured me that I would LOVE it! My older sister told me I would LOVE it! It'll be great! You and Kathryn can swim, do crafts, meet other girls, fun, fun, fun, all the time!

I HATED it. Kathryn HATED it. We wrote letters to my parents to PLEASE come get us. They were mailed to a campground a few miles away in the mountains of North Carolina, where my parents sought some much deserved privacy. We begged, we wrote multiple missives in our one short week of camp but when the letters didn't find their target, we were forced to tough out our week. We were ever so glad to be picked up. Such martyrs for staying the whole week!

When the day came to be dropped off at UNC, I was both excited and terrified. My parents remained upbeat and encouraging (they had been waiting for that empty nest!) but Kathryn's mom sobbed as our parents pulled out of the parking lot. That kept my own tears somewhat at bay.

I adapted well, but the phone calls to and from home were tough. I stayed busy with classes and made new friends and loved Chapel Hill, but speaking to my folks just pulled those heartstrings. No texts and the scarcity of calls made them even more precious and more than once my voice thickened and cracked before I could say goodbye. It made my dad crazy. Finally he felt he must address it head on.

"Boots" he said.
"It's not so bad. You could have caner. Or be in a concentration camp."

Words to live by.

When my boys were little, they were just as bad as I had been.

In preschool a 3 year old  Nat had a very understanding and supportive teacher. Which is good, because he cried. He cried EVERY day. The only way I could leave him was to let him figure out a way to deal with it. He did. He took his baby blanket, spread it in the corner of the classroom, laid down on his stomach with his head on his baby pillow  and looked at a photo of our small family while I left the building.

Zack's preschool drop-offs were equally bad. He had to have his stuffed Barney. He would stand at the window crying and holding onto Barney until he could no longer see my car.

But they both managed to grow up. And though they went to school in-state, they've journeyed to Belize, England, Germany, France, Japan and more, each with a semester study abroad.

And now it is time for Zack to leave home. In the morning he is leaving to drive to California where he will hop a plane bound for Japan to explore more of the country he fell in love with while studying abroad. At the end of the that time, he will have a leisurely drive back across county - all told about 9 weeks away from home.  Plans for the summer are up in the air but are decidedly not in North Carolina. And in the fall he will most likely be leaving for graduate school in California.

One of the richest gifts my mom gave me was to never shed a tear when I left home. Oh she missed me, as evidenced by the reams of letters I have tucked in a box under my bed, but as a kindness to me, she never cried, or insisted I come home, or acted upset if I celebrated holidays away. She let me live my life on my terms, which I have always deeply appreciated.

And now, with the anticipation of watching the little blue Toyota leave my driveway tomorrow morning, I know how expensive that gift was and what a price she paid! My tear ducts seem to have a mind of their own and I wish I could say I have been as stalwart as she, but from time to time this week my eyes have overflowed and my chest has felt as though it would surely burst.  But I will try to be brave and smile and wave and be happy for this great adventure!

After all, it's not cancer or a concentration camp.

Zack and I the day before his great adventure!

Ghost Walk

I went on a ghost walk today.

The March wind pushed me forward.

First to Miss Vera’s House.

Miss Vera,

Who taught me 2^nd and 3^rd grade.

A neighbor,

Whose daughter was one of my mother’s best friends in Seaboard’s halcyon days.

She was a Grand Southern Woman who settled me into reading,

Who click clacked on the wooden classroom floor

In shoes a size too small.

Her house, once also a Grand Southern Dame, soon to be torn down for a tractor store next door.

I snapped the jonquils still blooming.

Who planted them and when?

I snapped her back doorknob, a crystal beauty that beckoned my childish hands many times.

Then the ghost wind pushed me further, to grandma’s house nearby.

Where Maggie and Edward lived, and before them maiden aunts Lillian and Eva.

The doors and knobs were old friends too.

And many a bright day I banged them open and called out to whoever was inside.

One didn’t knock,

One banged and called 

“It’s me!”

And still those doors reach out to take me back.

But a funny thing,

Around the decaying house the daffodils still bloom,

Whipped about by a great spring wind, but bursting still.

Brilliant yellow,

Straight and tall beside a crumbling house.

And all around Camellias and Forsythias and Japanese quince

Ask “remember when?”

But also reassure me that life begins again

In Spring.

Jonquils at Miss Vera's House

Back Door Knob at Miss Vera's House

Key at Grandma's Back Door

Grandma's Side Door

Daffodils at Grandma's Side Door 

Red Camilla at Grandma's

White Camilla at Grandma's House

Forsythia at Grandma's House

Mary Frances Takes a Shower

     If you haven't met my 87 year old mom, let me tell you about her. She is gently rounded, slightly stooped and moves carefully. She has an apple doll face topped by snow white curls. She has a charming smile, a quick wit and a passion for the News and Observer, mystery novels, chocolate, and the Methodist Church. She could talk to the President or to a murderer on death row and find good things to say about each. She disdains  wearing slacks as real women only wear skirts and dresses. She lives with me most of the time now as forgetfulness and limited mobility slow her down a bit, but she is a vibrant, alive and a joy.

Except. Tonight. Mama needed a shower.

I feel sure if researchers tackling the human genome took a gander at her curly stands of DNA they would be surprised. Somewhere within the double helix that makes Mama Mama, they would find  a section that is decidedly mule.

I time my invitation perfectly. Fifteen minutes before Antique Roadshow I say casually "Mom, let me help you get a bath before Antiques Roadshow comes on. We'll be done in no time".

Why, she asks.
I don't need a bath, she says.
I bathe off everyday.
I'm not dirty.
He-haw.

Yes, Mama, I say.
Sister will give me a fit if you go to Seaboard to stay with her and you haven't had a bath.
It's quick, I say.
No problem, I say.

How about tomorrow, she says.
Tomorrow is plenty of time, she says.
He-haw she says.

No, Mama, You must Mama. I'll help you Mama. It will be fast. Mama.

Okay, she grumbles. He-haw.

We gather what is needed and head to my bathroom with the shower stall.

She looks at the garden tub.
How am I going to get in that??! she asks. I can't get in that! HE-HAW!

No, Mom, the shower.

I've never noticed it, she says.

She undresses. She looks at the shower.
Too high to step in she says. I can't do it. She says. He-haw, she says.

The lip to the stall is 2 inches high.

You can do it Mom, I say.
It's not high, I say.
I will help you. I say.

This is hard, she says.
I don't like it, she says.
I don't want to do it, she says.
He-haw.

She sits down on the built in seat. I take the shower wand and start the water.

COLD! she says.

Wait, I say.

No washcloth! she says.

I hand her one.

No soap! she says. He-haw!

I point out the Dove soap touching her leg.

Oh, she says.

The water warms up and she soaps and lathers, grumbling and groaning. I man the shower wand and rinse and rinse again.

We are done!

I hope I don't fall down and break my neck in the shower before I can get out of here, she says. HE-HAW! HE-HAW!

Don't joke! I beg. Come on, I urge.

At last, she steps back over the edge, and grasps her faithful cane. We get on nightgown and glasses. Bedroom shoes and bathrobe, back to the couch. I can hear the lead-in to Antiques Roadshow. She sits.

I must admit, she says in a small voice, it does feel good to be clean.

She settles in to watch her favorite show.

 I don't have my ears, she says. He-haw.

I bring her the hearing aids.

I am going now. To take a bath in my garden tub. With a big glass of water to drink which I will pretend is wine. And Epson Salts I will pretend is the finest bubble bath money can buy. With a book, that I can't wait to read. And I may not come out. Ever. Or at least until the end of Antiques Roadshow. (He-haw! I say. The apple doll's daughter  doesn't fall far from the tree!)

Why I can't sleep late (and how Jordan's Mill Pond figures into it....)

IBM ruined me.

When I worked there fresh out of college, they had this MARVELOUS arrangement called flex-time. If you got in a 7:00 am, you REALLY could leave at 3:30pm! And people ACTUALLY left at 3:30 pm! Home by 4:00 pm! 

Well maybe my nephews ruined me.

In the long hot summers of high school, they’d swarm in our house around 7:00 am, and BANG, throw open my bedroom door and lunge into my bed to wake me up, bouncing and yelling. 

Whatever it was, I am ruined for good. I can’t manage to sleep late and any attempts to do so leave me feeling slovenly and out of sorts. Today even my Saturdays go a little like this:

3:30 am: Pug #4 AKA “Little Girl” takes a post directly beside my husband’s head. In the dim light I notice her posture, which can only be likened to a vulture. 

4:00 am: Husband twitches a muscle, somewhere, anywhere.

4:00:01 am: Little Girl frolics in our king sized bed “My Lord and Master is awake, my Lord and Master is awake!!!”

4:00:02am: Husband stumbles out of bed and heads for shower.

4:00:03am: All four pugs (in bed) migrate over me to the two inches of mattress between me and the edge of the bed. They sit and watch intently for their Lord and Master to get out of the bathroom.

4:20 am:  In the bathroom I can hear The Lord and Master put his shoes on the floor prior to putting them on. This soft sound is followed by whoops of joy from the bed (but not from me) as the pugs practically shiver in anticipation of his return. 

4:30 am: Coast is clear. Pugs and Husband OUT of the bedroom. Turn over for blissful sleep.

5:30 am: Husband comes into bedroom asking “Are you awake?” Well, yes.

And so my days begin. And now, I am in this habit, which can’t seem to be broken. Though I am slow to get going and I complain heartily, I love knowing the day will stretch ahead of me full of opportunities.

Back in the day I do remember something I most definitely WOULD have missed if I had slept in.

I was on a youth retreat – one of many I enjoyed with the Seaboard Baptist Church. They were held at Jordan’s Millpond – a gorgeous, distinctly Southern oasis. Central elements were the Mill House and the Mill Pond, complete with cypress trees from which Spanish moss hung like so many wispy gray beards. At times, there were peacocks, screeching their distinctive laments. There were flat-bottomed wooden boats for rent for fishermen, and wooden boardwalks, some criss-crossing from bank to bank and some mysteriously dead ending. And always, always, a musky scent of decay or as I know now, the scent of rich soil being born.

The overnight retreat was held at an appropriately quaint location. Around the millpond’s dogleg and just out of sight, was a cottage, owned by the Howell family I believe and built AROUND A SCHOOL BUS! I loved it! There was a great den with plenty of chairs, long sleeping porches, a full kitchen, bathrooms and a  fabulous bus in the middle with cots for sleeping!

The retreat usually consisted of a few very intense bible study sessions held by the handsome, earnest, young Baptist preacher determined to save our souls, especially the Methodist kids since though we were baptized, we were not immersed, so we weren’t really saved.  We had volleyball, cookouts, and lots of giggling. We all stayed up WAY to late talking and walking in this enchanted place, and finally one, by one the Howells, the Davis’s the Maddreys, and the few Methodists (me and Dean) with assorted guests (including my dear friend Jill), would find an empty cot and give it up to Morpheus, drifting off to sleep.

After one of these nights I woke up on the sleeping porch in the silent cottage at the first hint of sun. I remember crawling out of bed and stepping outside. The grass was wet with dew on my bare feet. The morning air was still cool as if just waking up itself. I drew closer to the end of the Mill Pond, to watch the first rays of light dance across the brackish sleeping water. A fine mist rose from its surface. And then I heard a gentle splash and to my astonishment saw a huge buck, with a fine multi-pronged rack slide into the millpond not far from where I stood. The swell of his shoulders as he swam through the pond to the other side hinted at both the power in his strokes  and the depth of the pond where he traversed it.  He swam straight across, slipping in and out of shadow and brilliant rays of  morning light, then reaching the other side, hauled himself effortlessly out of the water and  then silently vanished into the woods.

For once, I am quite sure I was at a loss for words.

Even now, I am overwhelmed just remembering this most beautiful of sights. And even now, I have the feeling that, I, well, really might miss something if I sleep too late…….

Bring back the State vs UNC Rivalry! ( Sorry to see you go Sidney Lowe! )

Sidney Lowe, I am sincerely sorry to see you hang up your red jacket. I believe you were earnest, and I for one hoped you would be the man to bring back the glory days of NCSU basketball! 

Because when I grew up. It wasn't the Duke-Carolina rivalry. It was the State-Carolina rivalry. And I was on the side of red.

Well I had to be. Before I broke my father's heart and went to Blue Heaven I was a Wolfpack girl all the way.  NCSU was my dad's Alma mater and the favorite team of my nearest and dearest friends. It was crazy really and as KIDS  we were RABID about our rivalry. If I dust off a few mental cobwebs, I am right back on the bus, on the way to Northeast  where all of us obligated to the hour drive would sort ourselves among blue and red lines - writing on our notebooks, on the moisture of the windows, on the back of the seat on ANYTHING what school team we KNEW was the best. David Thompson, Monte Towe, and Tommie Burleson were the guys to watch and Norm Sloan took them ALL THE WAY beating GIANT UCLA to win the NCAA in 1974! They WERE BASKETBALL! We went WILD!

 I am a big fan of writer Malcom Gladwell. He has written a series of fascinating books including The Tipping Point, and Blink.  Another of his books focuses on Outliers and it occurs to me (and I am sure I will be corrected if I am wrong) that among the sea of soft blue and brilliant red there was a single outlier, a stalwart soul who despite the draw of the State-Carolina rivalry, was stoic in his support of...gasp...dare I say it - Duke! This was Jimmy Edwards and I remember thinking...well WHO cares ANYTHING about Duke??? 

Flash forward 4 years or so. I had visited NCSU in person and been intimidated by the sea of bricks and the lack of fellow females. I had visited my friends at UNC and admired their graceful rolling campus and classic buildings and amazing library and I applied early decision and was accepted. I was thrilled, though somewhat uncomfortable with switching sides.

And then an unexpected  thing happened. At the huge freshman convocation we are herded into the gym and taught these words:

I'm a tarheel born and a tarheel breed and when I die I'll be a tarheel dead!
So rah-rah Carolina-lina, rah-rah Carolina-lina,  rah-rah Carolina-lina go to hell DUKE!

DUKE?!?!?!?! It was amazing. Here was an even larger rivalry and I didn't know it! Oh yes, the UNC-State rivalry had legs, but the UNC-DUKE rivalry whipped the campus into a fevered state! And all these years it still does Jimmy knew something all along that I didn't! But after almost 30 years of games later, you can bet your sweet ass that I do now!

When I married my husband, I took great pride in the fact that he didn't watch sports on TV. After spending much of my pre-college life avoiding my Dad's football games, I didn't miss it one bit. Over the years we managed to sneak in a few March Madness games and a few Duke-UNC games to stay in touch with the thrill of ACC basketball - including when my oldest son was born and we watched the games from the hospital TV.

As I've grown older, and started work at UNC. I am right back to cheering on those Heels! But alas and alack - though my now grown boys enjoy staying fit (running, working out, biking, etc.) they are not into organized sports. So that has left me yelling on the the couch at Roy and his boys alone, with an occasional support of husband dearest.....until.....UNC played Miami this March 11th. After trailing at times mightily the WHOLE GAME we won at the buzzer. The game was on at work and....on at EMC where my youngest son Zack works part time. (He has transferred form NCSU to UNC by the way, seen the error of his ways.)  He likes to rib me a bit about my devotion to UNC so his texts to me are a bit of a jab at first...

Zack - UNC getting toasted
Me -  Only first half! Give them time!
Zack - 25-20 Mama not lookin good
Zack - Make that 28-20 :(
Zack -  Lol UNC gonna get first round eliminated
Me - Techincally second round
Zack - good lord
Me - Okay, just stepped back into game again good lord is right!
Zack - Looking a little bit better
Me-Trying
Zack - Oh well
Me-Sad
(Here we lose our connection - it  freezes at UNC, when it reconnects UNC has turned the game around)
Me - Holy crap check the game
Zack-Whoa! Shame I can't watch it, internet filter.
(He walks out to the cafeteria where a handful of diehards are watching the final seconds of the game)
Zack - whoa
Me- Holy Crap
Zack- Holy Sh**
Zack - Man like, .1 second left on the clock.
Me- and THAT my son is basketball!
Zack - I saw the last 10 seconds in the cafeteria. Some ten seconds
Me - Hell yeah. Unbelieveable!
Me - I have a meeting at 3 and another at 4. I have to settle down.
Zack - p intense though
Me - Awesome! Go Heels!

So there you have it friends. I got what I wanted for my birthday this year and wasn't even something I knew I wanted - that my son now gets it - why I rant and rave and why I love Roy's boys. It will take more time, but I'm hoping that what I witnessed was the birth of a Tarheel fan. It's never too late.

Now if only NCSU can reclaim their former glory.......It's never too late.....

How Walmart is turning me into a Vegetarian - or Why I miss Charlie Painter, Carl Price, and Ben.

I know I lament about cooking, but this recipe is a cinch and perfect to cook at my mom's: Swiss Steak a la Fannie Farmer, a recipe I've prepared successfully multiple times. To paraphase Ms. Farmer:

1. Buy rump, round, or chuck steak.
2. Beat with a meat hammer, er, meat tenderizer.
3. Brown.
4. Stick in oven for 2 hours with stewed tomatoes and onions. 

When Mom and I were at Ralph's I should have heeded the foreshadowing:  2 of our favorite waitresses  started a diatribe about how much they hated Walmart. I scoffed - the one in Roanoke Rapids is certainly better than the one in Durham......

Fast forwad to me at Walmart at the meat counter. Any beef other than hamburger appears to be in very short supply. Choices are slim, and I pick the only slab of beef that meets the critera for Swiss steak.

We bring it home, I beat the hell out of it with a mallet, brown it and pop it in the oven. 

So when I removed 2 hours later, my hopes for a melt in your mouth roast is dashed to bits when I realize that EVERY MOLECULE OF THE BEEF is HELD TOGETHER BY TWO MOLECULES OF GRISTLE. It was wretched - the fattiest, gristliest hunk of beef you can imagine. I didn't remember it going INTO the oven like that. I sawed and searched until I found a piece of barely edible beef about the size of a deck of cards and put on mom's plate - another even smaller one for me.

Mom ate hers. Well after all, she did live through the depression. I myself, a child of the sixties, raised in the day of "if it feels good, do it" decided it DID NOT feel good, so I WASN'T GOING TO EAT IT. I could hear a cow laughing somewhere in heaven.holding his sides and chortling "Disgusted another one!!" And disgusting it was. Gristle - the most hideous sounding word is indeed the perfect sounding word for the most wretched meat I have ever seen or tried to eat. Walmart should be ashamed of labeling  it for human consumption.

And is there a butcher to complain to? Was it cut in Roanoke Rapids or far far away? I suspect somewhere in the bowels (another apt word) there is a butcher in the back, but I don't think they come out very often, they only dash in and out when the produce guys give them the "all clear."

And that is why I miss Charlie Painter, Carl Price and Ben. When I was a kid Charlie Painter ran the absolute perfect version of the country store just a 1/2 a block away from my house with every conceivable item a small town family could want. (Most memorably cookies in large jars 2 for 5 cents handed out WITHOUT rubber gloves by whoever was working the register. )Mr. Charlie was a nice man and the town's pubescent boys would count on him for their first job bagging groceries.

When you entered the small, store (which was bursting with stuff) and headed straight back, you'd come to the meat section where Mr. Carl (who always called me "Meanness" )  and Mr. Ben always had fresh pork, beef, and chickens. And sausage - the BEST homespiced sausage you can imagine. Country hams wrapped in their sacks and hoops of sharp chedder cheese. We knew WHERE our meat came from, we accepted that these good men dealt with it properly, and we appreciated the good quality and care given to any meat bought on the premises and wrapped up in crisp white butcher paper.

Today that individual touch seems to have gone the way of hoop cheese and jars of cookies, pushed aside by the big boys of Walmart. There is one good way around it....

Just pass the vegetables, please!