Cleansing

I have read there are several stages of grief.  I believe that.  I’m not sure if I’ve gone through all of them.  Just when I think I’m ready to move on with my life, I see a red bird.  Just when I’ve grown accustomed to being totally alone, I see him peek around the corner of the bedroom door, just to see if I’m still there in my chair.  When I read a post on Facebook that I want to share, I remember that I can’t tell him.  And when I hear of a friend passing or the birth of a new child, I realize he isn’t there to share those precious memories or rejoice for the new life.    It wasn't all without tears, petty disagreements, big disagreements, and hurtful misunderstandings.  Far from it.  But, in the big scheme of things, we pouted, but we never gave up on each other.   

Putting my life back together after so many years is almost an impossible task.  I laugh, I joke, I talk to people, but my mind no longer focuses on the “now”.  I wonder about the “what if’s” and the "it is what it is."    I berate myself for not doing enough to overcome this immense sadness.  I hate myself for things I have said, that can never be unsaid.  I remember the times of my selfishness and pious thoughts.  I’m angry that the times we waited for, will never come and I want to say, “I told you so!”  "Why, why?"   

Things that weren't said, are just as important as things said.  It breaks my heart that we didn’t get the chance to say our sweet way we always told each other, even if just to go to the grocery store.  “If I don’t come back, I love you.”   We said it in jest, but now, I know just how much it really means to have spoken those words to each other.  It happened so fast.  Our quick parting words, “see you later” haunt me.   Oh God, how I miss him. 

I need a cleansing of my spirit and soul.  I need to know it's ok to cry, but I need peace and joy and laughter.  I need to move away from the past and look to the future.   I need to know it’s ok to be sad or mad.  I need a purpose for living.  I long for the desire to enjoy life.  I need to know he's ok,  peaceful and happy, and I need strength and determination to realign my thoughts for a meaningful life and happiness again,  wherever I may be.  I don't ask for pity, I ask for healing of mind and body.    It will take time.

TENT MEETINGS, GOAT MAN AND GYPSIES

Growing up in my house, attending the church was not optional.   It was a given.  No matter how much I fussed, cried, or feigned sickness or injury, I was going to Sunday School and church right up until I got way bigger than my little Momma.  Then, I had a little leverage, but not much.  Daddy didn’t go much to morning services but occasionally he went to the evening services.  He was a good man; he just didn’t go with us to church so he and Uncle Aubrey went off to fish.  And he didn’t tolerate me not going with Momma.  I still don’t understand that, but I sure never asked.

From time to time, Big Momma would see in the Forest Blade about a tent meeting coming up, and she and Momma hauled me off with them to get a little extra religion.   I don’t remember the denomination of any we ever attended, but what I do remember is, the weather would always be hot and sticky.   I don’t sit still very well as an adult, so you can just imagine how miserable this little girl was sitting on the folding chair, under a steaming tent, with only a funeral home fan to swat the gnats and mosquitoes.  How Big Momma could sit there and get any religion in her corset and voile dress, stockings and white shoes is beyond me.  The meetings would last for hours, with singing, prayers and preaching and more singing and prayers and Jesus calling the sinners home.  I remember one of these meetings on the south of town where the tent sat in a cleared grassy area, and the cars parked all around the tent.   I never hear of tent meetings anymore….  I guess we don’t need extra religion now.   

The old man who traveled through town with his Billy goats pulling his wagon with pots and pans clanging, was a novelty that everybody in town talked about, passing the word from one to the other, and folks would get in their cars to take a ride just outside town where the old man would be camped.  He never seemed to mind the attention, and neither did the goats.  You could smell the sight long before you could see him.   He traveled all over the eastern seaboard, but made his home place in Jeffersonville, Ga. 

Sometimes, there would be a band of gypsies camping outside town.  They didn’t like for you to get too close to their camps where they played music, banged tambourines, and danced, but I always wanted to talk to them to see where they were going, and why.  Momma didn’t let me go see them, but I usually heard about them being in town.  Sometimes, I would catch sight of some of the women with brightly colored skirts and lots of dangling bracelets and big loop earrings.   Their hair would be dark and long, streaming down their backs and sometimes they would have kerchiefs on them to tie back the long hair.  I thought they were beautiful when I did see them.   I often wondered why their children didn’t have to go to school.   They camped for a day or two and moved on.  Some people said they were thieves.  I’ve often wondered why they said that.   I’m sure there must have been honest gypsies. 

Sometimes, the local paper would advertise that there was going to be a “sing” at a local country church.  They were very popular, always with a crowd of hardy music loving Christians, who would listen to the quartets, soloists, and duets from popular gospel singing groups that came from all over the state. Gospel music was a staple for the old timers.  Sometimes, these “sings” could go on all night, or at least till the wee hours of the morning.  I don’t remember ever going to many and when I did, they fell into the same category for me as the tent meetings.  Sitting still wasn’t then, and still isn’t, my forte. 

     

SITTING UP WITH THE DEAD

         

I haven’t mentioned my Big Daddy Scott too many times in my memories.  That’s because he passed away when I was seven years old.  He was only 71, but to me, he seemed like a very old man, as did most people over the age of 50.   Now, being very old has graduated to a whole new level. 

What I remember most about Big Daddy was that he was always happy or appeared to be.  He played games inside the house with us children, and Big Momma sat in her wooden rocker next the window and crocheted.   When it was cold, we would laugh and have fun with a stupid game we called “hide the comb”.  That’s all the game was about.  Hiding a comb.  But we did it with such enthusiasm in that one little bedroom which had a small black potbellied, coal fired stove.   After several rounds of the game, Tommie and I would sometimes spend the night and sleep in the extra bed in their room which was piled high with feather mattresses.   On the mantle stood a large mantle clock that ticked and ticked so loud it made me crouch under the covers to keep from hearing it. 

The front bedroom was frigid with no heat that I remember, except maybe a fireplace, so it was always cold.   It was seldom used.  I remember Big Daddy and Big Momma sitting on the front porch with the plant stands loaded with pots of ferns and various plants, rocking and watching.  The dirt road was dusty in front of the house and we children always liked to try to catch a ride on the back of the big yellow road scraper, which got us in heaps of trouble with Biggie, saying we were going to get killed.   I think we proved her wrong, thank the Lord.

In April, 1945, I remember coming home to a somber, quiet house.  Mother was next door where Big Momma and Big Daddy lived and soon she came over and told me that Big Daddy had died.  She said he had a blood clot in his leg.  At seven years, I guess children don’t have much of a handle on what death means and it intrigued me that people were coming and going and bringing food, and saying “bless your heart” and “he’s in a better place” and all the kind of things that are said to family when someone dies. 

The next evening, Mom took me over and the cold bedroom door was opened to the hall and living room and there were folding chairs lining the room.   A big casket was there in the center and there was Big Daddy looking fine, in his best suit with that sweet, kind expression on his face that was always present.  It was dark, and there wasn’t much light.  Probably a single bulb hanging from the ceiling like the rest of the house, but people would come and sit and stay for long periods of time.  Then another “crew” of people would come in and take over.  There was always someone there.  Day and night.  Sitting with Big Daddy.   

The tradition of sitting with the dead has pretty much been eliminated now due to the modern conveniences and beautiful funeral homes.  People still go and visit with the families and pay their respects, both at home and at the funeral home.  But as I think of this time now, I remember this time worn tradition with a lot more reverence.

 

WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN

I cried again this morning, Lord.

I know you heard my prayer.

But Lord, I’m not at peace today

I still need for you to care.

I cry for what might have been,

The years that we have lost.

While searching for the rainbow

We paid an enormous cost.

We took our eyes off the prize

And through the years we stumbled,

When all that time we might have been

More grateful and much more humbled.

Now I sit in quiet solitude and

Think about our past,

Still yearning for what we lost

And remembering the cost.

MORAVIAN STAR AND BROKEN PINKIES

Losing your eyesight and ultimately your independence, is a terrible thing at any age.  It forces you to take a hard look at your circumstances and make some hard choices for your future.  And it’s especially hard when you live alone with no family close by.

My sweet little Momma had made a new life for herself when she left the hometown where she grew up, married, and raised me and my brother.  She had become accustomed to having lots of people her age around her that loved her, had become active in the church, volunteering at the nursing home, visiting her friends, shopping, and her favorite, going out to eat with her friends.  She had been diagnosed with macular degeneration earlier in the year, but I don’t think any of us realized the extent of the disease.  When she didn’t see a stop sign, crossed through the intersection and drove into someone’s front yard, it was time.  Change was imminent. 

Teresa had driven Mom to Virginia for a visit so she knew we had the perfect situation for her to live with us having her own bedroom, bath, and the “run” of the house downstairs.    She also knew it meant she would have to give up her “ride.”  Now, Momma wasn’t one to stay home if she could drive.  She’d get in her car, put that Grenada in drive, and whiz downtown or wherever she wanted to go, for that matter.  She nabbed a couple of concrete pillars at Covington Square when she could see good.  She earned her nickname,  “Fireball Roberts.”  (Only old racing fans will appreciate that one)   

And so it was, that my brother, daughter, me and Sol, packed every little piece of newspaper clipping, sermons on cassette tape, several hymnals, old sheet music, trinkets, art supplies, and a recent gift of a beautiful glass Moravian Star.   Oh, and her shrouded in a plastic bag, completely decorated Christmas tree with the handmade ornaments from the “home” residents where she lived.  We loaded up a U-Haul van and off we went to her new home in Blackstone.  The Moravian Star went missing during the move.  Mom pilfered through boxes for years looking for it.

Momma was thrilled to be able to live with us.  She decided that her job was going to be that of chief cook and bottle washer.  She didn’t know I knew it, but she did this because she ate her main meal at noon.  We had always eaten ours at night.  So, if she cooked, she had some assurance that she would be fed on time.  That worked out well for her and made her feel good that she could contribute to the household.   I loved it.  I could spend my mornings in the yard, planting and replanting, going to club meetings, playing bridge, or whatever, and Sollie could come home at lunch since he was just two miles away, straight shot.

Now Mom was about the most resilient 80-year-old I have ever seen.  She could fall, roll over on her all fours, and walk her way back up to a standing position really good.  It’s amazing that in all her life, she only broke two bones.  One day, as I’m hoeing in the tansy (which I hated ‘because it had an awful smell), sweat dripping from me like a faucet, and I look up to see Mom coming down the walkway towards me.   She yelled that dinner was ready, and promptly toppled over on the walkway.  I see her when she stumbles, throw down my hoe, and start running through the tansy patch towards her hoping to catch her, but instead stumbled on my own big feet and did a number plowing through that black dirt.  The fall wasn’t pretty.  I rooted up the dirt with my face and snout looking like a hog in a pen.   So, there we were, both of us sprawled out in the yard, stunned.  I yelled for her to stay put until I could get up and then slowly crawled and scratched my way over to her.

After we laughed a few minutes, we decided we better see if we could get up.  She was the first up and she helped me.  Now, we’re both looking all over ourselves to see if we were ok, and decided that the only thing that hurt was our little pinkie fingers.  I called Sollie who came in two minutes and took us to the local clinic where they x-rayed our hands.  Yep.  We both broke the same finger on the same hand.   We sported our splints on our pinkies for several weeks.  My pinkie is still crooked to this day!  Hers was straight.  We made the local newspaper the next week, after young Billy came over and took our picture, sitting in the porch swing holding up our left hands, for his Dad’s paper.   Young Billy is now the Mayor of the town, and Editor of the paper.  His Dad and Mom were great friends of ours.  She and I did a great “fall” together while practicing on the set of a Rotary Musical production a few years later.  I ‘bout broke my leg trying to break the fall for her!  Ah, what precious memories…. But, more changes are on the horizon.

STRANGERS ON GOSPEL HILL

We came as total strangers.  Local folks had no idea of our background, education, or financial status.  They went out of their way to welcome us to town.  The “money pit” was in the older neighborhood, “Gospel Hill,” but to us, it was a mansion where we could live out our dreams.  Our immediate neighbors were friendly and polite to us, salt of the earth.  It proved to us, that people don’t always judge a person by the color of their skin or social status in life, (which we already knew) but sometimes small towns have a way of scrutinizing a person’s background before they form a valid opinion of their worth.

Our first encounter with acceptance came from our Landlords, Danny and Gloria, who invited and took us to the beautiful old Crenshaw UMC and afterward to the local restaurant, Slaws, for the best home cooked food around.   They made sure we were introduced to everyone in both places on our first visit, where we were warmly welcomed. 

Later after we moved into our home, one of the local oil dealers, Mr. Robertson, made a special trip to see Sollie at his office.  He welcomed him to town, invited him to go to the Rotary Club with him the next week, and said he sure would like to have our business.  (Our steam heat was fired by fuel oil).  In a few days, his wife, brought over a baker’s dozen of homemade rolls.  We thought we had died and gone to Heaven!  Some of the best rolls anywhere, ever!

I mentioned to someone at church that I needed some mulch for my garden and asked where I might purchase some, and wouldn’t you know it, a few days later, I discovered a big pile of mulch in my yard that had been delivered and shoveled by this dear man, Richard Lee.  Richard was a jam up “stew master” for the Men’s Bible Class, who was forever doing good for somebody.    At Christmas, a whole box or oranges and some apples were brought by the local retired Dentist, Dr. Bradshaw.  One of the kindest men on earth who had been paralyzed by a stroke, but with his caregiver John, he always was spreading good cheer to anyone in any way he could.  I had met him and his wife while I was walking one day.  They invited me in and I immediately fell in love with them.  We received a plate of warm homemade cinnamon rolls from the dedicated “communion bread” maker for Crenshaw, who was a wonderful baker!   The Yancey’s owners of a local pharmacy delivered one of her famous Coconut Pound Cakes, greeting us and welcoming us to town.   

The old house did not have central air conditioning.  There were some small units in a couple of rooms, and one barely cooled the room it was in.  The weather that first summer was steamy and hot.  We sweated like hogs while we worked in the house sanding and painting, working our way up the stairs.   One day, a former AG at Fort Pickett, said he had a huge window unit just sitting outside in his barn, and he wanted us to use it if we could.  Would we?  You bet! 

It is impossible for me mention the names of every thoughtful gesture to us during our first few months in Blackstone.  What I can mention is, that we immediately knew we wanted to live right there in Blackstone and be part of this little piece of Heaven where pride in the community, love of neighbors, and businesses appreciated our business. What’s not to like about a community of caring and friendly people who make you feel like you belong?     

Junker to Scarlett O'Hara

The next ten years were the happiest years of our lives.  While we had moved away from family and friends, we were destined to enjoy new experiences and friends that made an impact on our lives forever.   Everything about our move was new.  New job, new home, new church, new opportunities, and a new life as a married couple of some 40 + years.   Now in mid-life, we were still young enough to enjoy travel, hard work became a pleasure, and new people and places were welcome changes. 

We worked together scrubbing, sanding, painting, wallpapering our new home.  It was huge and while we thought we had a lot of “stuff,” it looked like doll furniture in those rooms.  Always the “junker,” I quickly learned how and where to find the best bargains.  I shopped auctions, flea markets, estate sales, yard sales, consignment shops, and came home with treasures that only needed a little spiffing up to fit into that spot that was bare.   

Slowly, but surely, we went room by room.  I chose a vivid green climbing ivy wallpaper on white for the kitchen and painted the ugly birch cabinets white.  The floor was re-done in a black and white vinyl.  My new friend, Gloria, taught me to make Roman shades and how to save money by lining them with old sheets.  A local fabric weaving factory up the road in Crewe had an outlet where I found a small ivy print accented with little violets.  The oak table and chairs and antique china cabinet we already owned fit perfectly in the room.  It was beautiful.

The once yellowed walls in the living room became a vivid Geranium red and I shopped until I found just the right fabric of red on beige toile fabric.  From that I made beautiful swags and jabots for the tall, wavy glass windows.  The large foyer was papered with a subtle toile, pineapple print of neutral beige.   The color became a novelty for conversation in town since it was a rather new concept in paint at the time and everyone wanted to see it.  Or, maybe just curiosity to see what the crazy couple that bought the old place at auction had done with it.

The dining room, approximately 20 x 26 was huge!   We left it for a while because I loved the old Revolutionary print toile green on cream wallpaper and dark oak floors.  But, alas, eventually we had to redo the entire ceiling and some of the walls with sheetrock because of the crumbling and cracked plastered walls.  It eventually wound up with a magnolia print above the chair rail and a rich green paint below.  All woodwork in the house was painted a creamy ivory color.

The floor in the foyer, staircase and living room had been carpeted over the oak floors years before and we left it for the time being, eventually removing it and refinishing the floors to the beautiful patina that had been covered up.  A beautiful flea market find chandelier replaced the unimpressive foyer and dining room fixtures.  

The bedroom and bath were scrubbed and painted and the existing vintage drapes that I loved remained at the windows.  We spent the first year working and living in the downstairs area. Changes were on the horizon for the coming year, but we were optimistic for the future and never wavered in our decision to make this our home and hung a swing on the porch to prove our resident status.  I felt like Scarlett O’Hara!