The Lost Art of Being Thankful

I told a friend of mine the other day that I wanted to bring back the lost art of letter writing. I admit, I am guilty of sometimes just sending a thank you text. If truth be told, I probably am also guilty of thinking I have thanked someone when I probably thought about sending them a text, but I was in the car, and then when I got home my children were acting crazy, and then it was too late at night, and then it was too early in the morning, and then I just totally thought I had done it, but I did not really do it; so in essence I had not adequately shown my gratitude. I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want to be the one that is so busy with life that I don’t stop to appreciate the people and things that make life worthwhile.

Recently, a man in my hometown, who I used to work with but rarely see, stopped by Southern Charm and brought me a cup of coffee. It was so thoughtful and unexpected. I sent my mom a text, “Billy Houston just brought me a cup of coffee. How about that?” Oh, I thought about texting him and saying thanks, but I wasn’t sure if I had his number, or if he texted, or blah blah blah. A week or so later, he brought me another cup of coffee. And it was on a day that I really needed a lift. Text to mom: “Billy Houston just brought me another cup of coffee. What the hell? How awesome is that?” That night, I decided I must send a written thank you note. When I got home, I decided that I couldn’t send him a note on my Barbie stationary (although I did send a note to a local pastor and his wife on a Barbie card and they found it endearing, or so they indicated), but I vowed to send a note the next day. When I got to work, I pulled a card out of my stash under the counter, wrote him a note, luckily ran into his daughter who told me he had a PO Box and gave me the correct address, put a stamp on the envelope, and managed to even get the envelope into the mailbox at the post office. Boom. Mission accomplished.

Why is this important? Because when people go out of their way to show someone kindness, they do it because they want to; not because they have to. And because the minute we stop doing random acts of kindness or we stop appreciating these moments of humanity, we become empty vessels. The people who show kindness do so to bring others joy. But if they are never thanked, or at least acknowledged, their light begins to dim. It sparks a chain reaction that lessens their desire to do for others. Then before you know it, we are all just a bunch of self-centered asshats who can’t see the needs of others and don’t care to reach out even if we could.

Last week I got a lovely hand written thank you note from Haley Ates. This didn’t really shock me. Her mama is an English teacher and obviously raised her right. (In case her mama sees this, yes, I know you rear children and don’t raise them, but whatever, I think reared sounds weird. Blame it on rap music.) Not to mention she is young and engaged and more than likely trying to use up all of her stationary so she can get some new cards with her new last name printed on them. But this week I got a hand written thank you note from a man. Not only a man, from a football coach. And it arrived within a week of the event for which he was thanking me. I don’t want to act like an athletic man is less likely to hand write a personal thank you note, but in my opinion, and man is less likely to hand write a personal thank you note.

The impression this left on me wasn’t that Haley and Coach Moore are a crazy rare breed of humans who know how to hold a pencil and lick an envelope. It let me know that they are humble people of gratitude. The impact of these notes was a reaffirmation of my need to not only continue showing others, whether friends or strangers, that I care about them through small tangible acts or tokens of kindness, but to also take the time to truly thank those who show kindness to me. I needed this reminder. It’s often easier to anonymously pay for a policeman’s lunch, or (my favorite) buy the blue-collar old man’s single can of beer at the gas station after he has gotten off from an obviously long workday, than it is to thank the people who are closest to us who do so much for us every single day.

By the way, a great random act of kindness is a hand written note. Feel free to help me bring back the lost art of letter writing or to steadfastly show small kindness to others by commenting or messaging me your mailing address, or the mailing address of someone you know who may appreciate the kindness of a stranger. I’m not saying I’m going to mail you a Barbie card before the weekend is over. I mean I’ve got wine to drink and this DVR isn’t going to watch itself. But it will give me a database, if you will, of people to share life with over the course of the year.

I think I’m going start by mailing a card to my mom. She lives next door to me, but I bet she would like to read my words of appreciation instead of hearing me casually calling, “Thanks!” over my shoulder as I walk across the yard carrying a can of Fresca or masking tape or whatever item I’ve borrowed that I will never return. And to whomever is reading this… hey, thanks.

Another Man’s Guitar

With a subtle shrug of his shoulders, responsibility fell to the floor. He gently grasped history and began to strum the tune of his dreams. Timidly at first, soaking in the moment, he picked out the notes of his childhood. Soon the notes became chords and the chords became a strain – a symphony of aspirations suppressed but not forgotten. His awe of the instrument began to blend with his joy of the music and soon the two were so intertwined that he could not make a distinction between the harmony of his wonder and his revelry. Time that seemed to speed up as his body slowed down, suddenly came to a halt, and he was suspended in the moment. He clung to the old guitar just as the great ones before him. They had walked the line and triumphed through fire and fear and miles of hopeless desperation. Every sound – whether from the fingers of the man in black or the hands of the crowds that cheered for him – led up to this singular occasion in time. Every tear, every bead of sweat, every sleepless night or drunken stupor, every confession of love or rush of angry emotion; now lay softly on his lap. The melody swirled around him, awakening the child within, and renewing his passion. But time, cruel as she is, put life back into motion. And as the chorus faded into the air, he found himself back in his office. His profession beckoned; there was much to be done. Deadlines and details waited in tidy stacks for him to handle. Phones chirped and voices echoed through the halls. The guitar case was closed like a vault before he even had time to grasp his surroundings, much less bid the instrument farewell. But the strings of remembrance could still be felt on his fingertips and the contentment of his first love still rang in his ears. As he slowly stood up, dutifully ready to get back to the trappings of adulthood, the lyrics of his anthem  danced once more through his mind, “I’m old enough to have drawn blood, yet still young enough to bleed.”

My old friend, Dutch, had the opportunity to play Luther Perkins' guitar today. It was the guitar used by Johnny Cash to record Walk the Line. For one of the most incredible musicians to never make the big time, I'm sure this was an awesome experience. I wasn't there to witness it, but this is how it went in my mind.

Trucks in the Sand

She ran through the woods, breaking through beams of sunlight as her laughter trailed behind her. In the exuberance of her youth she was never winded. Her feet moved from dirt to water to leaves without thought as she chased her dreams down the slope of the ravine. Miles away, he pushed his truck through the sand. The sounds of squeaking swings and children’s voices filled the air around him. His lips vibrated with the noise of a motor and he maneuvered his vehicle across the sandbox, planning his upcoming attack. They had never met. Their eyes had never locked in a glance. He had never heard her sing to her baby doll and she had never watched as he tried to be brave after falling and skinning his knee. Yet years later as she lay in bed, twisting to find the ultimate position of comfort then drifting off to slumber as gently as a summer breeze through an open window; he stood guard in the heat of the desert, eyes alert and mind racing; as trucks rolled by in the sand. He would protect her with his life, this girl he’d never met; now a woman with children of her own. He would not question her devotion, but persevere in his. He was bound by honor, by duty, by destiny; and giving up his freedom to protect hers was as natural as the blood that coursed through his veins. She would never know him. She would never know why he chose to serve her. Some days went by and she didn’t even think of him. But in her heart of hearts she knew he was there and she took comfort in it. She prayed that a gloved hand would never pause above an officer’s brow as his mother clutched a folded flag. And whenever she saw one of his comrades in an airport or a grocery or on the street, she would thank him; even though she knew her words would never reach them all. Miles away, she was the last thing on his mind, yet he continued to fight for her as if she was in his heart.

Six Years

Six years and I still hear your voice

Booming loud above the noise of the world

Six years and I still hear you humming

Never waiting for the music to start

Six years and I feel your lap beneath me

Stroking my hair and playing with my fingernails

Six years and I still feel the floor vibrate

Rattling the window as you walk down the hall

Six years and you’re still scheming

Another gadget to slip into the house

Six years and it’s time for a jigger

Maybe a finger more

Six years and there’s no one like you

No one to fill your void

Six years and I still miss you

Forever my soul mate, my friend

Six years that feel like a lifetime

Yet only the blink of an eye

The Faded Flag

I rolled over, tucking my hands under my pillow, as the sun began to stream through the crevices around the roman shade. As I nestled into my new spot, my eyes came to rest on the faded American flag as it rose and fell with each breath of slumber. I wondered about the events seen by eyes so young. Excitement was found in a lesser man’s nightmares. Smoldering timber, burning long after the first spark, fell quiet beneath his boot as his smile cracked the mixture of dirt and soot and sweat that formed a mask on his boyish face. Comrades were made and contentment found amid endless sand and heat and waiting, a chance to validate excuses made for being a drifter. There was plenty of time for growing old after dreams had been exhausted. I was lost somewhere between the flag and his golden skin; my thoughts filled with speculation. I swam in the memory of our laughter, refreshed by the way our voices blended until they became one. Our smiles were laced with alcohol and our intentions were anything but pure. But we always lost control before we could act on our whims. We remained a comfort to the other, a place of solace and rest. For now this wandering soul lay still beneath the flag he served. He was mine completely to both lead and follow. But as ever, there was no time to revel, for his eyes fluttered open. He lifted his head and adjusted his focus and smiled to start the day. “Let’s go for a hike.” He said. “Sounds good,” I answered.

An Extra Special Night

One of the best hours of my life took place in a community college cafeteria. I was surrounded by both friends and strangers as I watched a few people that I knew and several more that I had never met bare their soul for the world to see. As the first contestant took the stage, the novice emcee and the makeshift décor took a back seat to an extraordinary gentleman singing Michael Jackson’s Human Nature. As tears started pouring down my cheeks, I repeated to myself over and over, “Don’t think about how special this is. Don’t think about how special this is. Don’t thing about how special this is.”

I was at the first annual Extra Special People Awards pageant, and the ageless black man before me was not only singing one of his favorite singer’s songs, he was baring his soul for all to see. I’ve heard of them called retarded or handicapped or handicapable, but I was there to see Bobby, and he was not any of those things to me; he was simply my friend. I managed to pull it together for a bit, until Kristen took the stage. I knew her story. She went to my father’s church. I remember going to services with my mother right after my oldest child was born and being almost ashamed to carry my perfect, healthy child into the sanctuary in my arms. She had been normal by the world’s standards. She had been everything a parent could want, until just two years into her life; fever had left her soiled by the world’s standards. I couldn’t imagine how I would feel if that was my child. She was loving and vulnerable and sweet and all things good. And now I watched her on stage, singing into a microphone, blushing and bashful as ever, but beautiful and proud of all that she is. Any thoughts I had of salvaging my makeup were long gone.

I saw contestants sing and dance and even do comedy before Bobby took the stage to perform a dance to Michael Jackson’s Thriller. I had to admit, the man had skills. He had more soul that I ever would when it came to the dance floor. He even winked at the judges before he finished his routine. He had the crowd in the palm of his hand and they were soaking up every thrust and movement that he made. But unlike any stage performance I had ever witnessed, this one was pure and true. These Extra Special People were not on stage for the applause, or for the glory or for their fifteen minutes of fame. They were there for their time to show the world who they were and what they were made of, and it was beautiful.

The personality and talent and soul that walked across that tiny stage before me was bigger than anything I had ever seen. The local beauty queens and youth that volunteered their time before and during this spectacle didn’t do it for recognition or out of duty. It was oblivious that they had seen the amazing people that stood before me as some of the purest examples of humanity, yet so often overlooked if not scorned by society.

At the end of the night, as each participant was given a sash and flowers and crown along with an award that suited what they had brought to the stage, the crowd stood and applauded and those men and women basked in the glory of it all. It wasn’t a conceited moment that they felt they deserved or a moment that they felt better or normal or good enough. It was a moment when they knew without a doubt, that the people in that cafeteria, the people that had paid money to come see them; those people not only accepted them, but loved them.

I went to a pageant for mentally and physically challenged people tonight. I went because my dear friend has a twenty-nine year old Down Syndrome child and I thought I should go support him. I went because Kristen would be there and she had worked so hard to graduate from high school recently and I knew people that didn’t go to her graduation because she was retarded. I went because I love Bobby and when I walk into his mom’s coffee shop, he stands up, steps away from his cartoon and hugs me.

A group of volunteers put together a pageant for Extra Special People so that for at least one time in their life, they could shine and be normal and have one of the most special hours of their life. Little did they know when they were making the sashes and buying the crowns that they would provide one of the most special hours of mine.

My friend, Bobby.

Two Empty Chairs

When the air begins to get crisp, they meet out at a cabin in the woods. One by one they trickle in, down the dirt road and up to the little lodge. Most of their lives and all of their pretenses are left behind when they travel that bumpy road. Each one has something special to share whether it’s food or drink or possessions or stories. Activities have become habits and habits have become traditions. The first one in will light a fire and pour a drink that will soon become a round as the others arrive. They will be well settled by the time I arrive. As I climb out of my truck I will be enveloped by the smell of smoke and whiskey and the feel of stubble and fleece. Although I was born several decades too late and am of the wrong gender, they have allowed me into their brotherhood. Most have known me since my first days. They have watched me grow from baby to girl to woman and have walked beside me though happiness and heartbreak. They stand beside me without question and when others drift they remain to tell me about how things would be if they were but thirty years younger. Their actions are those of gentlemen even when their words are not. They find me a chair and pour me a glass and we tell dirty jokes and talk about women and morons and each other. The world stands still while we sit in the cold waiting on the evening’s meal. And each night when the time comes, they offer me just one more and I decline and slip off into the night. Their jobs change, their wives change and their lifestyles change, but the bonds that have been forged in the fall night air always remain the same. And now the season approaches. The temperature is dropping and you can almost smell the weather. The tracks are fresh and the rye is green as leaves gently float to the ground. I know my next encounter is just around the corner and I’m getting excited about seeing my motley crew. But now my heart is heavy and I wonder how I will feel. I know we will have laughter. I know we will have stories. I know we will eat and drink and talk about everything and nothing. Yet this time it will be different. There will be cold beer in the cooler and fresh scallops on the stove-top, but this season there will be two empty chairs.

Thinking of Thomas Lee Shannon and Bob McKinnon. May they both rest in peace.

Princess Anne

I moved to Gulf Shores the weekend before my senior year. To me, at age seven-teen, this was very traumatic. I found myself having to take typing to graduate. I was in a class taught by “Miss K.” She was a prissy old southern gal who strolled around the room saying, “Busy your fingers! Busy your fingers!” and would then retire to her desk in the back of the class to touch up her makeup. I was nervous as could be my first day of school. I was doing a pretty good job at blending into the furniture when Miss K jumped up and ran over to me. She exclaimed, “Oh, Honey, you’re in the wrong class! This is Typing I!” I just looked at her. She went on, “There has been a mistake. We will just have to get this straight right now!”

The problem apparently was that I was typing too fast. She assumed I had taken the class before and should have been in Typing II. I explained I had indeed never taken typing and promised I would slow down if it would make her happy. She began a barrage of questions that I answered as best I could and after a few minutes, she told me that people who play the piano can often type fabulously and that I was obviously gifted. She then said there was no need to waste my time with the busy exercises, so why didn’t I find some way to amuse myself until test day. As we were talking, a girl with the curliest blond hair I had ever seen was also finished with her assignment and sat there staring at Miss K and myself. The teacher noticed she was not typing and told her to busy her fingers! Miss K noticed that she too had completed her assignment. I looked up at Miss K with my most convincing face and said, “She’s with me. We’re both amazingly gifted.” Miss K responded, “What shade of lipstick are you wearing? It’s absolutely divine! Well, you two run along, but don’t get caught on campus because I’ll sell you out faster than I would my mother!” So my friendship with Anne began.

Anne had lived in Gulf Shores a few days. It seems that it is just as devastating to move the week before your tenth grade year as it is your senior year. Anne named me The Queen since I was truly in charge of everything around me. I named her my Princess and promised her that one-day a young Prince would come and take her away from it all. Our relationship grew from there. She made what I predicted to be a terrible year a blast. I went off to college at the end of the year, but we remained as close as could be. When she graduated, she joined me at Auburn University. This is when our friendship deepened.

We were both independent and wanted our own space, but we often would stay over at the other’s house. Shortly after school started, Anne hit me with some news. She had colon cancer. She had been diagnosed as a child and was not expected to live as long as she had. She had not told many people and wanted to keep it quiet. She didn’t like the way people changed toward her when they found out about her illness. She told me, however, because she needed me. She had come out of remission. The next year was the longest of my life. Anne was the only person I knew that slept less than I did. And we had many a sleepless night. I still attended classes and would take care of her the best I could between them. We got her a puppy so that she wouldn’t be alone when I was gone. Lady was a black lab. She really perked Anne up. But there were many things Lady couldn’t do. That’s where I came in.

Although we still kept separate living arrangements, there were times when I wouldn’t leave her house for a month. Anne was the strongest person I had known. I watched her beautiful blond curls get limp and fade. I remember the night she brought me the scissors and asked me to cut her hair short. I swear I could hear that first strand of hair as it hit the floor. Anne could read faster than anything. She would go through ten to twelve books a day. I think I bought every book the used bookstore had in stock.

Chemotherapy was cruel to Anne. I watched her weight drop and her smile fade. I held her through the night while she cried until she couldn’t find anymore tears. I would cook her favorite meals and feed her only to have it thrown up all over us. I bathed her and carried her outside so she could watch Lady run. But through it all she had dignity and grace and pride. Anne is amazing. My most vivid memory of her is the two of us sitting on the bathroom floor at five in the morning; both of us covered in blood and vomit. She looked at me and smiled with her eyes. “I’m a Princess!” she said; then drifted into sleep with the corners of her mouth turned up.

She is back in remission now. She was even well enough to spend a week in Charleston with our friend, Denise, and me for my birthday the year after graduation. Having Anne back to her old vibrant self was quite the birthday gift. That Prince I promised her hasn’t arrived yet. But whoever he is, he’s the luckiest man alive.

***Anne is alive and well. She did find her Prince. She does really read like a house-a-fire. And we did get to skip every Typing I class that wasn’t a test day.

Anne and Denise and me on our Charleston trip.

My Grandfather’s Grave

Winter and death and cold and sadness do tend to go hand in hand. I feel energized when I hear the crunching of leaves beneath my feet and smell wood fires and know that fall is near. I even enjoy the winter. At some point, I will hit a wall and feel cold and not be able to get warm. I will begin to think of death and sadness. I will mentally prepare myself for the next day. I will tell myself that this is the year that I am going to cry and let it all go. And then, more than likely, on Saturday, February 7, I will go sit on the cold earth and get a chill in my toes that will stay all day. I will feel my cheeks go numb in the wind and my nose will start to run from the cold. I will talk to my love, my soul mate and friend, and will tell him how I wish I was with him, or he with me and how nothing could ever be the same. I will tell him I still long for someone to love me the way that he did. I will tell him that I desire nothing more than the simple acceptance and adoration that he had for me. And then I will sit in silence. I will sit for as long as my bones can stand the cold. And when the tears still do not come, I will rise and drop the flowers from my hand, tell my grandfather I love him and walk away as I mutter, “Maybe next year.”

An Unexpected Apology

Sometimes bad things happen to us that seem totally out of the blue. The sort of stuff that seems to knock the wind out of us and we can’t breathe. As hurtful as some of these things are, they can be equally confusing. People say that everything happens for a reason. There are times, however when it appears that there is no reason associated with our plight. After a few days or weeks or years, we move on. We heal from the pain and the need for reason subsides. We chalk it up to just being part of life. We consider it a character builder. And on the random occasion that our mind stumbles across the memory, the remembrance is fleeting and little if any thought is given to searching for answers. And then one day, for whatever raison d’être, a man sends you a message and tells you that his life has accumulated few real regrets, but that one of them is hurting you. And twenty years after the last time you spoke, he tells you that he is sorry. And then he tells you why he did what he did. And you sit there with your mouth agape and read the words again. For one of the handful of times in your life, you are speechless. You are thankful. You are overcome. You know the reasons. His vulnerability is humbling and you remember why you ever loved him to begin with. And from that point forward, on that rare instance when you hear that song on the radio that reminds you of him, you can smile.

Thank you for telling me. It means more than you know.

14 Lunches Later

In the summer of 1995, I was walking down a sidewalk in downtown New York City, New York, with some friends. As we passed an ice cream parlor, I noticed an old man sitting alone eating a strawberry ice cream cone. About a block later one of my friends noticed I was crying and asked what was wrong. I told her about the old man. It was so sad to me. I love old men. There is something so venerable about their frail bodies that are hunched over with the weight of a lifetime, their eyes full of history and their wrinkles laced with memories. I decided that night that old men should never have to eat alone. Since then, whenever I see an old man eating by himself, I ask them if I can join them. I have enjoyed the company of fourteen gentlemen since that day.

I met Sid in Union Springs, Alabama. I pumped his gas for him and then we split a pack of cheese crackers. He told me about his grandson, Darius, who was attending Auburn University. He was the first person in Sid’s family to ever go to college. He cried as he told me about him.

Farmer and I ate hot dogs in Bayou la Batre, Alabama. When I asked him how he had made his living, he told me he was a farmer. Before I could smile he said, “What else could I do with a name like Farmer?”

In Paducah, Kentucky, I ate chili cheese fries and drank a strawberry shake with Emmett. He was a retired physician. I asked him how he stayed so young looking. He told me that he always paid attention to nutrition. “I mean look at this meal. We have had all the basic food groups in one sitting!”

In the airport in St. Louis, Missouri, I met Franklin. He told me he had been in love with the same woman for fifty-seven years. “The only real problem with her” he said, “is she is married to my brother.” I told him that he was breaking my heart. “Then I guess we should order a beer,” he replied. We did.

In the airport in Newark, New Jersey, I ate cheeseburgers with Spencer. He was waiting on his grandson to arrive. He was about to meet his great granddaughter for the first time. Her name was Isabelle.

In Jasper, Alabama, I dined with Lexington. He had a twin brother who drowned when they were ten years old. He had chili and I ate a grilled cheese sandwich. It was the anniversary of his brother’s death.

George and I met at Durbin Farms in Clanton, Alabama. He and his wife Delores had been putting up peaches for over forty years. He didn’t think two less peaches would hurt, so we sat together and ate two of the most perfect peaches ever grown. While peach juice dripped from our sticky fingers, he told me about his daughter. She had become addicted to pain killers after a car accident that had taken her husband’s life. She had been addicted for years. She had tried several times to get help, but things were never the same.

Bobby and I met in Soddy-Daisy, Tennessee. His son had been killed in Vietnam. He still had the flag that the army gave him at the funeral. It was on his bed-side table. We ate ham and cheese sandwiches.

Reginald and I ate home made fried chocolate pies at a little gas station in Sand Rock, Alabama. He was a carpenter by trade. When he got married, he made his wife a bed out of cherry as her wedding gift. Two years before we met, he had built her casket.

On the river bank in Augusta, Georgia, I had a liquid lunch of cheap vodka with Sanford. We shared a game of chess and talked politics. He told me about how he learned to read sitting outside the window of the white school house. He beat me badly at chess.

Richard and I ate barbecue at the Smokehouse at the Pineapple/Greenville, Alabama exit on I65. He thought his son was gay, but was too embarrassed to bring it up to him and tell him that he loved him anyway.

Charles, “I just hate the nickname Chuck,” was finishing his meal in Fort Deposit, so I joined him for a slice of ice box lemon pie. He had been a high school football coach. The Hornets were undefeated his last season.

Robert was a “dealer of formerly cherished, fine antiquities.” He had the best junk store in Mentone, Alabama. He found early on, that if you word things just right, that people will pay more for something. “They buy the story just as much as the furniture.”

Jerry was having tomato soup in Leeds, Alabama. I just had a soda. His daughter was married to “a real jackass, but their kids are real cute.”

Fourteen lunches later, I can remember these mens faces. I can remember their stories. They are forever burned in my memory. But the face that I see more clearly than them all is the one that belongs to the story that I never knew. It is the most intriguing one of all – the cutest little man sitting quietly alone on a hot summer night in New York City slowing eating a strawberry ice cream cone. I think if I could have one “do over” in life, I would go back to that street that night, walk into the ice cream parlor and simply ask, “Mind if I join you?”

Visceral, yet deep

One of my favorite people in the world is my exact polar opposite. I would dare say that she is probably one of my best friends. We don’t chat on the phone or hang out all the time, but we get each other. More importantly, we accept each other. She is a skinny democrat from Yankee stock with big dreams and lofty ambition while I am an un-skinny republican from blue-blood Alabama with an aged acceptance that any aspirations that I once held have either come to fruition or expired. She is this little kid with big insight and I love her to death. There are some topics that we will never discuss. There isn’t any reason in it. I accept her opinion, she accepts mine and neither of us is ever going to change the others view. Futility has never been a destination either of us has longed to frequent, so we just don’t talk about these things. I think that we do have some things in common. Gender would be the most obvious. Secondly, we both find solace in the written word. There is something about expressing our thoughts through writing that we both hold dear. I don’t think that either of us is expecting a Pulitzer any time soon, but we do not write for others to appreciate or even for others to get what it is we are saying. We write because we have to. Our soul hurts if we keep it bottled inside our bodies and we do not set it free through words. Poems, songs, short stories, ramblings – it doesn’t matter; as long as we give our inner being the ability to breath outside of our bodies. If we do not write, our soul starts to shrivel up. We become more shell and less us. I think that our other common bond is subtle desperation. Not angst or fear or sadness, but a pure despair that one can only feel if they are capable of giving themselves without regard to themselves. She and I both give ourselves completely. We give ourselves entirely to our ideas, to our passions, to our families, our friends and our lovers. We hold nothing back because to do so would be dishonest to our souls and would sell ourselves short. Our despair is not so much a total loss of hope, but a total loss of control. For when you give yourself completely away to something, your fate then lies beyond your control. You are in the hands of another. It is unfortunate that few people give themselves this truly. Especially for those of us that do. For when you empty yourself out on a regular basis and nothing is given back you experience a despair that few people can really grasp. So regardless of politics and life goals and whatever else makes us two people as far apart as can be, we remain as close as any two people can be. Kindred souls…kindred souls separated by the life external yet bound together in the innermost heart; kindred souls dumping themselves out on paper for the world to see but not understand.

Polar Opposites: Me and Jamie

The Square-Head Nail

Each year on February 7, the anniversary of my grandfather’s death, I go to his grave. I don’t ever go any other time of year; until today. For some reason my car just drove me there. I am still not sure why. I sat at his grave for what seemed like forever. It was really only about an hour. I sat there in the breeze listening to the birds and the hum of the boats below the bluff on the water just a few yards away. I wondered what secrets were buried in his grave. What stories that he never told me. I wondered what life had looked like through his eyes. I wondered if things had turned out like he thought they would. I wondered how many disappointments he had weathered. I wondered how many times he laughed so hard that he could hardly breathe. What did it feel like to hold me in his arms for the first time? How sweet was the last time I kissed him? What had he witnessed during war and what had he seen during segregation? Did his lungs hurt after he had danced the night away to some of the best swing bands ever to play a tune? Did his mouth get sore after smiling so much when dating my grandmother?
I looked down and saw an old rusty square-head nail. I picked it up curiously. I wondered where it came from. As I caressed it in my fingers I thought about what it used to be a part of. There was no way I could even guess what purpose this remnant of a former whole had once served. It’s funny. I’m like that nail – a little twisted and worn with age but still as strong as ever. I tried to break it in my fingers. It didn’t even bend in the slightest. We are all but a small piece of the big picture. Like that nail, we hold something together, but you never know when you will be removed from the greater conglomerate and find yourself on your own. You still have a function but what is your purpose?
I couldn’t even hear the sounds around me anymore. All I heard was Doris Day singing Sentimental Journey. “Never thought my heart could be so yearny. Why did I decide to roam?” As the sun broke through the clouds and warmed my face I looked around me. Just a few graves over was my great grandfather. He was born in 1863. I couldn’t even start to think about what had gone through his head in a lifetime of discovery. I smiled at my Grandfather. The flowers I had left on his grave last month were still there. The roses were all brown, but they still lay there on his chest. I felt like as they continued to decompose they would just sink into the earth and one day would reach his body six feet below. I wondered if I am the person he had hoped. I shut my eyes and could still feel him beneath me as I curled up in his lap. He gently stroked my fingernails – just like my kids do now. “I love you. Sugar Foot,” he would say in his loud whisper.
And then I just stared at his headstone. There weren’t any words; just thoughts. Thoughts of what was and what will never be. As I sit here now and type this, I see the rusted square-head nail sitting on my keyboard. I don’t know where it came from or what its former purpose, but today it connected me to my grandfather.

Gentleman Jack

The anniversary of my grandfather’s death is tomorrow. His name was Jack and he was a pretty cool cat. I miss him desperately. He is the only person who has ever made me feel truly loved. He is the only person that has ever made me feel like I haven’t let them down. He knew what to say and when to say it. He had the perfect mix of honesty and tenderness. He knew when I needed a kick in the pants and needed to get over myself and when I needed someone to catch me and keep me from loosing myself. He thought I was smart and pretty and funny and all things good. He could see straight past my bull shit and into my heart and knew that I just wanted him to love me – and he did. He was my refuge and my sounding board and the one thing that I could count on. A doctor in Birmingham wanted to remove cancer from his nose that had reached the bone. His doctor here and I wanted to leave it alone; we thought that at almost 94 that he would die of natural causes before the cancer would take him. But a brilliant surgeon thought that we should remove the cancer and bone and do massive reconstructive surgery with skin graphs and all the bells and whistles. The local doctor and I got voted down by my mom and grandmother who were convinced that his face was going to “rot off and stink.” After 8 hours under anesthesia, he never regained full functions, and over the next few months I watched him shrivel up into nothing. I changed his diapers and dressed his bed sores and fed him and snuck coca-cola into his room and listened to the Glenn Miller Band and sang Sentimental Journey to him in his morbid, nasty death bed in a room that smelled like day old urine with rotating crazy room mates who cussed at me and exposed themselves to me. I stayed strong for him like he had for me. After removing most of his nose, he was too weak for any reconstructive surgery and looked so bad that I never let the kids see him after that. I looked at him like I always had and kissed his terrible face and lay in the bed with him and prayed that God would make him die. When he could no longer see, he still knew when I walked into the room even before I spoke. Until about two weeks before he died, he was sharp as a tack and never lost any memory at all. And he had some great stories. When he grew so weak and his blood pressure was so low that he wasn’t lucid, he always knew me. He didn’t always recognize everyone else, but he always knew me. He was in the nursing home from September until February and I never missed a single day, two and three times a day, I wanted to be with him in case he needed me or wanted something or in case he died. The last week he wouldn’t eat unless it was me that fed him. He wouldn’t drink unless it was me that held the cup. And in the middle of the night he would call out for me. My husband at the time wasn’t the best about helping with the kids, he had lost his mother the previous year, maybe that had something to do with it, so I would go after I dropped the boys off in the morning, again at least once during the day and then I would go back after the children were bathed and fed and asleep and stay until my dad would call me and tell me that I had to go home and get some sleep. I left his room around one o’clock on the morning of the 7th. At a few minutes after three they called and said he was gone. After I got the boys to school, I went to the nursing home and cleaned out his room. I donated anything that wasn’t personal to the nursing home and took the things that were to my grandmothers. I kept what I had given him for Christmas for myself. I went to the funeral home. I had gone just a few days before and picked out his casket and headstone and had written his obituary. I talked with the mortician about trying to make him presentable because I thought it would be good for the family if we could go by and see him look more like himself. The visitation was the next day at my grandmother’s house. I stood at the door and greeted everyone who came – a constant line of people that went all the way down the sidewalk and never stopped for over two hours. The next morning I went to work to prepare for the board meeting that the jerks at my office were nice enough to postpone for one hour. I went to the funeral, ran by my grandmother’s house where I quickly said hello, left my grieving family and went and conducted the board meeting at the chamber. The moment it was over, I got in my packed car and drove to Gulf Shores for a retirement expo. And when I came home a day later it was business as usual. Every year on the anniversary of his death, I send flowers to my grandmother. She says that she knows they are from me before she opens the card. Then I go sit at his grave and hang out with him before I leave fresh flowers on his headstone. I rarely go any other time. I just can’t really handle it. But on that one day, nothing is better than sitting down and hanging out with my soul mate. I miss him desperately. He is the only person who has ever made me feel truly loved.

My Angel

When I was a student at Auburn University, I would often go to Birmingham to see my family. Rachel was very involved in sports, with four Varsity letters her senior year. I would sometimes take Anne or other friends, but usually I would travel alone. I took the Highway 280 route, because I enjoyed the scenery. (I’ve never been much for the interstate). I didn’t really feel comfortable traveling alone all the time, however, and was always happy to reach Waverly. Waverly, Alabama, is this town the size of a dime that sits right on Highway 280. I would travel at all hours, but it never failed, when I got to Waverly, my friend would be waiting. There was a man there. He was tall and thin. He had reddish hair and glasses and appeared to be mildly retarded. Whenever I passed through, he would stand at the road and catch my eye. He would smile boldly and wave. I would, of course, return the smile and the wave. On the way to Birmingham, it was toward the beginning of my trip and it would always comfort me for the rest of the drive. On the way back to Auburn, it was toward the end of the journey and would let me know I had almost arrived safely. It didn’t matter if it were six in the morning, four in the afternoon or late in the evening past midnight. When I went through Waverly, he would be there. I noticed after a few trips, that he was only there when I was by myself. I thought maybe I hadn’t noticed him, because I had been chatting or something, so I started to look for him. The pattern continued. He was only there when I was by myself. There he would be in the graveyard, or walking a dog, or mowing a lawn, or standing by the road, but he was always there when I was alone, almost as if he were waiting for me. After graduation I moved to Birmingham. I did still go through Waverly on occasion on my way to Eufaula, but I never saw the man again. I thought about him, however, every time I would drive through with my friends. I sort of missed him. I even thought about stopping and asking a resident what happened to him. But I thought it would show little tact, even for me, to stop and ask a perfect stranger if they had seen a retarded man wandering around. Two years passed. Shortly after I married, my great-grandmother passed away. Jay and I went to Eufaula for the funeral. I remember going through Montgomery to get there. It seemed like such a long trip. I wondered if it just felt that way because of my inability to deal with death or funerals was hanging heavy in the air, or if it was just because I hated driving on the interstate. After the funeral, I was out of sorts. It had come time to leave, and I requested that we please go home via Highway 280. I sat back in the seat and cried for the first hour. It was pouring rain and cold. I put some music on to try to sooth me, but nothing seemed to help. The road we traveled was so familiar, that I just melted into the journey. No words were spoken between Jay and me until we reached Waverly. We were driving slowly due to the hard rain. I was yanked out of my daydream when Jay said, “That man is smiling at you.” I just looked over at Jay, confused. “That man, he’s standing there in the rain just smiling at you,” He repeated. I looked up and saw the smile that had greeted me time and time again. I looked up just in time to see a tall, thin, red haired retarded man with glasses standing next to the road in a driving rain grinning at me and waving with enthusiasm. I turned quickly in my seat to watch him as we drove away, but he was gone. I have never seen him again. I decided he was my angel. He was always there to guard me when I traveled alone, and he had been there to comfort me after the death of my great-grandmother. I think about him standing there in the rain sometimes and get chills. Of course, I’m not sure it it’s ironic or fitting…my angel being retarded and all.