Love Them While You Have Them

I do my best thinking when I'm doing yard work.  I'm sweaty, dirty and smell like a pig, but I can't get my friend off my mind.

My friend's mother has Alzheimer's.  This friend, though her father is still living, is the main caretaker of her mother.  She and I have talked about this a lot lately as I've been helping my elderly in-laws through an illness myself.  This disease has robbed her mother of lots of things  - the ability to really take care of herself, the ability to cook for her husband, the ability to sew like she once did, the ability to drive and most of all the ability to love on her daughter the way she once did.

This friend is going through a lot right now in her own family.  She is about to become an empty nester and is having to deal with all the emotions that come with this new chapter in her life.  Believe me, this chapter might be hardest one of all for mothers who have given their lives to raising their children. 

She said that she usually doesn't invite her mother over for dinner anymore as it is just too hard, but this particular night she just needed her mother.  She said that when she got there that she just laid her head on her Mama and poured her heart out to her.  Sadly, her Mama didn't understand what was going on, but she did tell her, "It will be alright." 

No matter how old we get, we still need our Mamas/Grandmamas.  I remember so well after my grandmother had her stroke, she was sitting on the couch and I went and laid down on the couch and put my head in Grandma's lap.  I didn't care that I was in my forties, for a brief moment I was ten again.  I remember thinking that I may not ever get that chance again.  And I didn't.  I can almost still feel that soft lap that had held my head so many times, but especially that last one.

I guess the lesson we can learn from this is just to love them while we have them.

Check out http://www.alz.org/.  This website has lots of information on the disease.

Heritage

Today's Sunday School lesson was about remembering our religious heritage and to keep that heritage going for our families.  I got to thinking about growing up and going to church with my own grandparents.  My Mama and I would pick up my Granddaddy and Grandma and take them to Martin's Congregational Holiness Church in Double Branches.  Grandma would always wear a pin in front of her dress and would wear her hair in a bun on the back of her head.  I remember her hair being very thick, long and gray and always up in that bun.

We would arrive at church in time for Sunday School.  My shoes always, always, always hurt my feet.  It seemed my feet grew faster than Mama bought new ones.  I wore those frilly socks with patent leather shoes.  Mama would pin curl my hair and on Easter I would even wear a hat and gloves.  I still love hats and gloves! 

We never sat with Grandma and Granddaddy at church.  Grandma sat on the left of the church with women her age over near the piano and Grandaddy would sit on the right near the front doors with some of the men his own age.  Mama and I usually sat on the right of the church a few rows from the back of the church. 

Cullen Hicks was the preacher there.  I just loved him.  He wasn't a large man, had crow black hair that was always slicked back in his preacher's do.  I remember him being so kind and even though he was human, I couldn't imagine him any other way than the way I saw him on Sunday. 

The choir was located on the far left of the church. The choir pews actually faced the pulpit and not the congregation.  Back then folks didn't wear choir robes, but all the members were polished in their Sunday best.  Being a pentecostal church, the songs were nearly always upbeat and spirit filled.  I still love the old hymnals and find myself singing them even now. 

After the choir had sung a song or so, Brother Cullen, would come to the pulpit and preach a fire and damnation sermon.  After the sermon there was the alter call.  Folks from all over the church would go forward and kneel around the alter and pray.  I can't remember if the piano player was Shirley Holloway or if she played the organ, but I do remember she was a Godly spirit filled woman.  The other musician was Nan Wallace.  Boy, oh, Boy....I can remember her getting the spirit!  There seemed to be somebody dancing in the spirit or speaking in tongues every service.  No one was particularly eager to get home to Sunday dinner.  I don't ever remember getting home early.

The churches during the seventies were different than today.  Today we are "tolerant" of behavior, dress, and customs unlike those we grew up with.  Then, the churches weren't "tolerant" of anything outside of what the church doctrines professed.  Women couldn't wear makeup, they all wore the beehive hair-dos and gays surely would have been thrown out on their heads.  Football games were frowned upon and mercy to your soul if you were ever caught tasting whiskey.  While we may have gone too far in the other direction, that old church failed their members/attenders by maybe just not loving them enough.  I sure hope God doesn't throw me out of heaven due to my choice of wearing makeup or going to a football game.  God's love and mercy are so very great.  I had to have children of my own to even gain some minute insight into how much we are loved.

Granny Mae

Grandma, my maternal grandmother, holds a special place in my heart. Mama worked in a sewing plant all of my growing up years and my brother and I stayed with Grandma while Mama worked. She lived a mile or so from Mama's so the arrangement was quite convenient for Mama.

Mama had to be at work by 7:00 a.m. so she would take us to Grandma's on her way to work. If the mornings were cold, she would take a blanket to the space heater and warm it up and wrap it around us before carrying us out to the car. Once we got to Grandma's, we would go behind her old wood stove and take a quick bath out of the old tin pan Grandma would have ready for us. Grandma made sure that we were spit shine clean and then feed us breakfast. Now, breakfast was a BIG breakfast. She always had grits, eggs, bacon or sausage and biscuits or toast. One thing that I do remember her feeding us occasionally mixed up in our eggs was brains. Had I known just what I was eating I probably would not have been able to choke them down! The grocery stores actually sold brains (pig) in a can! They probably still do, but I don't remember seeing them and I certainly haven't been looking for them.

After breakfast we brushed our teeth and got ready to get on the school bus. In the winter the bus ran before the sun came up. We lived in the country and were some of the first on the bus. My brother, Thomas, hated school. My uncle had helped him make a couple of rabbit boxes. For those of you who don't know what that is...it is a rectangle shaped wooden box made with a trap door. Food (lettuce or something like that) would be placed in the box as bait and the unsuspecting rabbit would hop in for the food and trip the door. The rabbit would then be supper that night. Well, Thomas knew that Grandma couldn't drive. He would on occassion run to check on his rabbit boxes when he heard the bus coming. Needless to say, the bus left him and he got the day off. I don't ever remember him being punished for this. I really don't think that he would have cared what the punishment was as long as he got to stay at home!

After school the bus dropped us off at Grandma's house. When we got there she always had us a banana sandwich and a bowl of Campbell's chicken noodle soup. She never heated the soup. I didn't know until I was old enough to buy it and fix it for myself that it really could/should be heated. After our little snack, she would help us with our homework. I remember her drilling the multiplication table, vocabulary words and the states and capitols until I finally got them. The one capitol that I just could not remember was Madison, Wisconsin. No matter what I did I just couldn't remember that one. She would not give up. She drilled and drilled and even made a little song to help me remember it. In my early twenties I actually had the chance to fly to Madison. I just had to bring her back a little memento of the city. She got a real chuckle out of it.

Summers were also spent with her. We made houses out in the woods by piling up pinestraw for walls and using rocks for sofas and tables. In my mind, my house was always glamorus! Grandma would give us old pots and pans and we would cook up mud pies and mud tea. Yum! I always had my dolls in my beautiful house and Thomas always had his trucks and tractors.

Behind Grandma's house was a creek. It was at the bottom of a hill well out of site of the house. She just never seemed to worry about us. I would be horrified to think my grandchildren were playing in a creek! We would re-arrange the rocks in the creek to dam up certain parts of it so we would take a splash. Thomas would fish and would occassionaly catch a small brim. God had to have been watching over us as I don't ever remember seeing the first snake! Don't tell me miracles don't happen! Our imaginations were allowed to roam free and we soaked up all the sunshine and fresh air possible.

Grandma and Granddaddy

You know they say that all of your life experiences are what help make you who you are. I am sure that is so, but people have always been interesting to me. My maternal grandmother and I use to "people watch" all the time. Because of her intense interest in folks, I am still a "people watcher".

My relationship with my paternal grandparents was not as close as the one I shared with my maternal grandmother; however, I did spend some time with them and did love them.

On Sunday mornings my Mother and I would go to my grandparent's house and pick them up for church. I don't know if we were always early or if they were always late, but inevitably we always had to wait on them and many times help them finish dressing.

Granddaddy was about 5'8" or so and very round. It was my job on Sunday mornings to help him put his belt on. It seemed to little six year old me that the loops were endless. Once he buckled his belt, he would grab me and rub his nubby whiskers on my face, making me screech and kick driving my Mama crazy.

Grandma had long, thick, silver hair that she would brush and then put up on the back of her head in a bun. She was a large woman and always wore a dress. In the middle of the dress was a brooch of some sort. They didn't always match her dress, but she wore one anyway. She had big calves and ankles that seemed to lay over the top of her shoes (which were always very sensible and not necessarily fashionable). There was something about her that always scared me just a little.

I would occassionaly spend the night with them and with my cousin that lived with them. The house was an old one with open rooms, no hallway, they all were connected by doorways. You might have to go through one bedroom to get to another bedroom. The bathroom was on the back porch. Grandma kept a slop jar under her bed in case she needed to "go" during the night. My cousin and I slept in a room that had two beds in it that she shared with her mother. My grandparent's room joined it and the door was never shut.

One night in particular that I spent the night, my cousin's Mama got us ready for bed and tucked us all in. The old floors in the house creaked under the weight of Grandma and Granddaddy as they got ready for bed. I could hear them talking in their room and hear the bed creak as they both plopped down. The lights were out and I was almost asleep when I heard one of them let out a rip roaring fart followed by a, "Huh". A few minutes later the other one let out a fart louder than the first one, followed by another, "Huh". This kept up for a least fifteen minutes. My cousin was used to this and didn't pay it any attention, but my giggle box was turned on and I couldn't stop giggling! I had never heard tell of a fart competition, and sure didn't expect one from my grandparents!

Now Grandma was a praying woman. In the morning she would get in the kitchen and before starting breakfast she would get down on her knees and pray. Her prayers were loud enough to wake up everyone in the house as she intended for God to hear her! Lord knows with her family she had lots to say to God and he sure didn't need to miss a sylable.

In his older years, Graddaddy was a little hard of hearing and was a rascal. He loved to play checkers with me. Of course he did! I was six or seven and he could beat the fire out of me! He was quite the competitor. He showed no signs of pity on his little granddaughter. He would laugh and laugh when he beat me as if he had beaten the King of England.

Strange what you remember as a child. Their house always seemed so busy. People were always coming and going. It was if there was always an undercurrent of restlessness. It was as if no one in the house was content being there, yet no one seemed to know how to get out. Bitterness always seemed to be lurking just beneath the surface. As a child I just didn't know about all the skeletons that were hiding in the closet.

Getting on with Life

Since Daddy died in June, we had all summer to "get back to normal". Normal would actually never be again.

Finally time ticked on and it was time to go back to school. I was entering the tenth grade. I tried so very hard to leave home problems at home.

One of my favorite classes, Journalism, was taught by one of my favorite teachers, Mrs. Estes. We interviewed new teachers and football players, published the menus, and covered any of the other important things that happened in our small little high school.

In October (1973) Mrs. Estes decided that we should cover some of the current events taking place in the community. The high school was only a few blocks from the courthouse and what better place to give all of us the real life experience of covering a trial.

Mama had decided that it was best that my brother and I not attend the trial of Ronnie Morrison. We went to school the week the trial was going on as if nothing was happening.

On the very last day of the trial, my Journalism class took a field trip to the courthouse. This was all before the day that parents had to sign permission slips and such. As we left the classroom headed for the courthouse I felt sick on my stomach. I knew what was going on in that courtroom. I also knew that I really, really didn't want to sit through this with my peers. I was so embarrassed and ashamed.

When we entered the courtroom we were ushered upstairs as the downstairs was full of onlookers. I took my seat between two other classmates and looked down at the judge. He was talking a bunch of "lawyer talk" that I sure didn't understand at the age of fifteen. At the prosecutor's table sat my mother and the prosecutor. Mama looked so out of place and small. At the defendant's table was Ronnie and his attorney.

It turned out that we came in on what was the end of the trial. The jury had already been out and had just been ushered back in to render their verdict. I didn't get to hear the actual trial part. As the foreman began to read the verdict, I remember holding my breath. The verdict was innocent!

As I said I didn't get to hear the trial and Mama sure didn't fill in the blanks, but someone said that it was all self-defense. It was told by the murderer himself (and just who in the world wouldn't believe him!) that Daddy was throwing rocks at him. I guess back in those days that emptying a gun into someone was just cause for rock throwing. I have thought about the outcome a great deal in the last thirty plus years and the verdict didn't seem right then and it still doesn't. People now days get stiffer sentences for speeding!

After the trial I went to Mrs. Estes and told her that I would not be going back to the classroom that day, but I was going to go home with my mother. It wasn't until then that she made the connection. You could just see it in her face.

When we left the courtroom, I don't know why, but Mama drove by Ronnie's house. He was standing on the porch and gave us a big hearty wave. We drove home in silence.

That night the phone rang and Mama answered it. It was Ronnie. He simply wanted to know if we were alright. Mama answered, "Yes" and hung up. To my knowledge he never called our house again.

The next day in school the class had to discuss the field trip. I thought I was going to die. After class Mrs. Estes pulled me over in the hall and apologized profusely. What was I to say? I was learning the hard way that life is not fair. This was just another chapter.

The Next Few Days

There are things about the next few days that I remember vividly and some things are just a blur.

If you are from the south you know that once someone dies the community immediately begins to fill the house with food. Well meaning folks would come in with their casseroles and chicken and say things that made no sense. I remember one woman that Mama worked with told her that she was young and could marry again. Yes, Mama was only 37, but who in the world tells someone something like that? Besides if your husband’s lover’s husband had just killed your husband, would you even want to think about another man? Other folks would just look at us, some would just sit, and some would go in and out of the house and smoke. It was all a lot to take in.

The day of the viewing or wake at the funeral home was awful. Back then they put the dead folks in the very back room for viewing. It is a tiny little room and really not a good place for the flow of folks to come and go while paying their respects. The new owners of the funeral home, Jack and Joy, put the corpse right out in the big room where everybody can visit and swap old stories comfortably.

(I’ve told Jack and Joy that they had better put my make-up on and have Ricky fix my hair if something should happen to me. I sure don’t want folks looking at me and saying that I look like I’m sleeping! I’m not real sure what exactly is on the other side, but I want it to be a party every day and I want to look my best when I show up!)

Back to the story…Daddy was in the small backroom of the funeral home. When we went in I freaked. Embalming fluid was draining out of the bullet holes in his neck and onto his shirt. Looked like pink blood to me. The funeral director did some high stepping to get it corrected. I had seen dead people before, but I had never touched one before, but I had to touch him. I still remember the feel…stiff…cold…hard. Well, flowers were everywhere. I occupied some of my time there by looking at the cards on the flowers and remember being surprised by some of the people who had sent them. Grief is a strange thing. Everybody deals with it in a different way. I thought thoughts that normally I wouldn’t. I began to grieve for all the things that my Daddy would miss…my graduation, wedding, children, etc. I remember thinking that soon all this would be history and I would be 20 (five years down the road). My heart wouldn’t hurt anymore.

Daddy is Dead

The next few hours seemed like days. About an hour after Daddy left my uncle came and picked up Mama. She said she had to “go to town”. Well, my brother and I knew something was really wrong. I kept playing over and over my conversation with Ronnie in my mind.

When I am upset I clean. I did even back then. I cleaned everything in sight. My brother had an old motorcycle which he mounted and began going as fast as it would go up and down the road in front of our house. Now Daddy never really cared much for me. After all, I was a girl and not much use for anything in his eyes. My little brother was everything to my Daddy. Daddy took him everywhere with him – even to work during the summer. They had a special bond that I didn’t share. I never felt as if I fit in. In hindsight, my brother was probably the reason Daddy stayed at home as long as he did.

Cars began going up and down the road in front of our house slowing to a rolling stop when they approached our driveway. Our great aunt and uncle pulled up in the driveway and asked if Mama was home. When I told her that she had gone to town she looked at my uncle and said, “She doesn’t know.” Well, she was right. I didn’t know the particulars, but I was fifteen and was old enough to know something was very wrong. My brother just kept riding the motorcycle up and down the road, dust billowing behind him. I was afraid that he was going to surely wreck.

After several hours Mama and my uncle pulled up in the yard. Mama got out and I remember asking her “if he was dead”. She simply said yes. By this time the motorcycle had stopped and my thirteen year old brother was sobbing. We just sort of all looked at each other. What were we to do?

We, of course, wanted to know what had happened. It turned out that Ronnie had told Daddy to meet him down a deserted dirt road a few miles from home. They each got out of their vehicles to talk. I’m not sure what was said, but Ronnie emptied a pistol into Daddy’s neck, face and chest. After he killed him, Ronnie went straight to the sheriff’s office and turned himself in.

I was really dirty from the day of piddling around the house and in the yard. I went inside to take a shower. When I went into the bathroom it still smelled like Daddy. I tried to take in the smell of the soap that he had showered with and his aftershave. I was keenly aware that I would never smell his smell again. His towel was still wet. I began to cry.