Moving On...

We are in the apartment of the Eldest Unnamed One. It is the big, final Move In Day and the time has come to say goodbye. He sits in the swivel armchair he’s spent the morning assembling while I lean against the doorframe beside him.

“You know,” he says. “It’s weird. One minute you live at home and the next you’re in some apartment on your own.”

My heart snaps right in two. I can’t help myself. I reach over and pretend to flick a piece of dust from a lock of his hair. I won’t make this any harder than I know it already is- for both of us. After all, this is the brave boy who finally burst into tears on his fifth birthday after I’d said for the millionth time that day, “Now you’re Mama’s Big Boy.”

“I don’t want to be your Big Boy!” he’d sobbed. I want to be who I am!



I realize now it was my adjustment to make- my baby was no longer a toddler. It was time to let go of that phase and begin the next one. I was the one who had to remind myself of that, over and over again, until I could find some peace with losing my treasured baby to a more independent child- the child who marched up the steps of the Kindergarten bus and never once looked back.

I know now how hard that must have been for him, what inner strength my child uses to make those big transitions seem easy. Funny how we learn so much, often in retrospect, from our precious children.

Lately, more so than ever, I try and think what my own father would do- or did do- when faced with one of these life-altering situations. I summon up memory and try to respond as I imagine he would. This one is easy. We had so many goodbyes, so many times, and always he made the parting easy on me.

Once, after I’d moved 800 miles away to live in the South, I asked him how he stood the long times between our visits because I was so homesick.

“Oh,” he said. “I create my Nancy in my head and even when you’re not here, when I miss you, I just summon her up and there’s “my” Nancy. I store up our times together and play them back and it’s like you’re right here.”

I believed him then. I felt much less guilty about having chosen to run off to the far away south. I had more strength to live my new life.

Every single leave-taking was the same, even his dying. He always smiled but he always walked us out to our cars then stood watching until we were out of sight. The last image we would have in our rearview mirrors was always that of him standing there, smiling and waving goodbye.

Later, when the boys were teenagers and I knew how much our visits meant, I would drive around the bend in the road, stop and cry because it was always so hard to leave him.

He would always be sure, at some point in our visits to tell me how proud he was of us, how great it was to watch us becoming the people we were. Dad packed us full of confidence and unconditional love- the sent us back out into our worlds without one string attached.

And we always came back home.

“It’s weird. One minute you live at home and the next you’re in some apartment on your own,” he said.

“I know,” I answered. “It’s gotta feel a little strange but cool, huh? I mean, your first apartment. College. Wow! I am so proud of you. You guys are gonna be fine.”

“I know.”

“Besides,” I can’t help but add. “We’re only an hour away and you know how us moms are, always looking to feed you or maybe even pop in now and then, just to maybe bring you a casserole or something. It’s not like you can get rid of us so easily.”

The Wench Beloved, having just been through all of this with her mom, studies the screen of her laptop with fierce intensity, pretending not to be a part of this conversation but I know her by now. I see the quick blink of her eyes and feel the emotion that sits just on the edge of spilling over.



I stand up; look at the Youngest Unnamed One and Mertis and say, “Well, we’d better get on the road and let these two get settled in.”

“I’ll walk you out,” the Eldest said. There is so much of his grandfather in this child. I love him so very much.

We walk out to the parking lot and he watches us from the top of the fire escape. I remember suddenly all the times he’d ride off to school with his father and I would come running out at the last minute in my bunny slippers and bathrobe, my hair sticking out at all angles and cry, “Bye-bye, Honeycakes!”

“Wait!” I instruct. “Don’t move! I need a picture!” A picture just like every other first day of school, a picture to remember the passing of yet another year. A picture that doesn’t need to be taken because the memories are etched forever in my heart.

Cabin Life- The Search for History

Yesterday I took the day off from the nursing homes to come up to the cabin. I wanted to be present for the passing on of my great walnut tree.

Actually, I didn’t want to be present. I just felt I should be, since I’m the one who’s responsible for giving the order.

Well, the tree guys didn’t come. Turns out they said they thought I couldn’t take off work Tuesday, so they decided to start on Wednesday and “finish the week out” at my house. This was per Mertis who had to call them as my cell doesn’t work at the cabin.

Later Marti reminded me my last words to the tree guys were, “I’ll see you Tuesday!”

Ahem.

Anyway.

I used the time “wisely” by heading off to research the cabin. I hit the Blue Ridge Institute first where the very nice director gave me the number of a local historian and told me to call her.

On the phone. You know how I am about phone calls!

So instead I went to the Franklin County Historical Society. “You should’ve called Edith,” they told me. “She really knows that area. That’s where you should start.”

“Well, I didn’t want to appear completely stupid, so I thought I’d find out as much as I could from y’all first,” I lied.

This completely threw them. “Well,” the sweet, gray-haired, volunteer said. “Linda’s in the basement. I hope she comes back up. If she does, she’ll be able to help you.”

And if she doesn’t? What happens in the historical society basement that decides whether Linda gets to come back up or not? I never did find out. Had I been a really good investigative reporter and been rude enough to ask, I might’ve found the real story. As it was, I gleaned enough to make me think perhaps she was doing her own research as she is on a book deadline. When I’m on a deadline, I look for whatever quiet space I can find and the basement of the historical society sounds perfect.

Linda did re-emerge and she was as sweet and delightful as the volunteer. And very helpful. Linda said, “You really should call Edith. She hasn’t been in good health and she is getting older…”

I know I should call Edith.

“She’s very nice and she’d love to talk to you,” Linda added, perhaps knowing the look of phone phobia when she sees it. “But you can also go to the courthouse and search through the records. Go back as far as you can. Once you have a family name, we can help more. Just go to the Clerk’s office and act dumb- they’ll help you. They’re really very nice and they love to help but if you act like you know what you’re doing, they won’t help you a bit.”

“Oh, it won’t be an act. I really am dumb about all this.”

So I drove to the little courthouse and prepared to throw myself on the mercy of the Clerk.

The Historical Society ladies were totally right. A stern-faced, gray-headed, woman named Mary turned out to be amazingly helpful. She reminded me of my junior high school librarian and intimidated the heck out of me with her no-nonsense insistence that I “Get closer so you can watch how I do this.”

The great thing about Mary is that she does not suffer fools gladly and assumes you will be watching so you can then complete the search on your own. She is a natural born teacher. When people do things for you, it’s almost a vote of no confidence- it’s an unconscious message that they feel you’re too dumb to do it yourself. So Mary gave me a great gift.

Three hours later, when I was still hard at work but totally into it, Mary walked by, munching on a cracker left over from her break. “You’re having fun, aren’t you?” she said.

I didn’t even need to look up to hear the complete change in Mary’s voice. She was smiling and happy. Apparently, I’d passed muster.

“I love this,” I told her.

“Just wait until you get to the books on the top row,” she said, indicating the earliest deed records. “You’ll really love that.”

And I did, and I do. It was the greatest fun in the world. I was reading about people I’d researched, looking at their signatures, or in most cases, X’s and feeling as if I could almost reach out and touch the past. It is an awesome feeling- to see history coming to life before you.

Attorney’s researching cases swirled around me, busily accumulating information for upcoming cases or real estate ventures. The paralegal from my closing came in and settled her papers on the long wooden stand next to where I was working.

“Well, how are you?” she asked. She wanted to know all about what I was doing there, maybe worried some glitch had turned up in the property.

When I told her, she nodded wisely. “You really should call Edith,” she said. “She knows a lot about that side of the county.”

“I know,” I answered. “I’m just doing the groundwork first.”

So when I do finally call Edith I will ask her all about the Wade family- from Posey Wade on back to Royal Wade. I will ask about Thomas Jones who bought land on the branches of Turners and Nicholas Creeks in the late 1700s. But while I know the “facts” of my property and some of the lore, I don’t have a true feel for what is true and what is fiction.




Is a Confederate soldier buried here? Are those the remains of stills in the woods? Are there really photographs of my cabin from long ago? What gives this place such a special and warm feeling? It’s more than the cozy style of the cabin. It is the place itself, the land that gives off such an inexplicable aura.

Trouble in Paradise

It's beautiful, this walnut tree.



It sits beside the cabin, its limbs shading the ruins of an older, smaller cabin- perhaps the blacksmith shop.

A huge limb hangs over the cabin.



I love that...the graceful way the tree seems to caress the house, wrapping its protective "arm" around us.

But my tree is very sick.





This rot eats almost all the way through the trunk and even Joe, the man who knows just about everything and owned the cabin before me, regretfully agrees the tree has to go before it falls on the house.

So, I called a tree service and they're coming Tuesday. They came out Friday to give me an estimate- Mike and Eddie.

Eddie's a little guy maybe in his late 50s, wearing an NRA ball cap. He stepped out of the truck, eyes wide. "How did you find this place?" he asked.

I told him all about it- right down to the rumor of the Confederate soldier buried somewhere on the property in an unmarked grave.

By this time Eddie was digging through the remains of the little cabin, crowing over the bits of old harnesses and tools he found, and caressing the handmade chain we'd recovered earlier.

"You know," he said, straightening up and looking at the old Walnut. "In the old days when they didn't have a grave marker, they planted a tree." He studies the tree with an appraising eye.

"Mike, you think this tree's old enough? I think it's mighty old. I bet...Hey look at this hump of ground here...Do you think?"



Mike, a tall skinny man with dark hair and bright blue eyes, shakes his head dismissively. "Nah. Probably not."

"Still..." Eddie murmurs, ignoring Mike's answer. "It just could be." He looks up into the overhanging limbs and sighs. "You know, I always thought I lived in another time, you know?" He says, checking to see if I'm open to this sort of musing. Well, you know me...of course I am!

"Yeah," I say. "Me, too. I feel so drawn to this place."

This is all Eddie needs. He tells me about finding finger bones in the yard of an old cottage he restored once. "It belonged to a doctor and in those days they didn't dispose of..." He breaks off, uncertain how to phrase what he wants to say in an inoffensive manner. "Well, they just didn't," he finishes.

He slowly walks around the perimeter of the cabin, eyes fixed on the ground. "What you need here is a metal detector."

"I know," I say. "I wish I had..."

"Well I've got one at home," Marti says.

This is a fact I didn't know about Marti and I about jump her to borrow it ASAP.

Eddie's eyes light up.

"I bet Mike won't just show up and cut the tree down straight away," I say to Eddie. "Maybe we can dig around in the old cabin a little bit before he drops it."

Eddie is all over this idea. His eyes light up as he studies the ruined cabin site. "You should hang some of this stuff over the mantle of your fireplace," he says. "But you need to have balance. Symmetry. It's very important."

I nod. Balance. Yep, I could use a little bit of that.

When Joe comes over later he promises me he'll be there when they come Tuesday. He offers without my asking and I am so grateful to have someone who feels like I do there to witness the passing of this brave tree.

Joe thinks he can use some of the wood from the tree and Mertis suggests maybe my kitchen table can be made from some of the wood. This way the old tree would live on as part of the cottage.

This, I think, would be a fitting tribute to an outstanding tree.

Cabins, Caves and Confederates

Okay, so I'm having a love affair with my little cabin. In fact, I'm so besotted I'm trying to find out everything I can about it. Thus far, my neighbors have been as helpful as they possibly can be...but they can't quite remember everything they've heard about the area and this house in particular.



But that doesn't stop me. The other week I learned my cabin may have been a cobbler's shop. I already knew my lane was once a main thoroughfare during the Civil War but this weekend I learned my little house might've been part of a small community called Shoat's Gap or Choate's Gap. And then my new neighbor, Margie, dropped the bomb.

"You know," she said. "I think there's a Confederate soldier buried on your property."

She said this just like you might say "You know, I think that's a lilac bush in your backyard."

My eyes widened and I thought, "I knew it! I knew there was something about this place!" But I said, "Where? Where is he buried?"

Margie shrugged. "I don't know but there's lots of books written about the area. There's a cave on the top ridge of your property, I think that's where it is, and there used to be a cave there. That's where the Confederate soldiers hid."

She could see my interest piquing and added "And bears. There's lots of bears up there too."

I also learned that if I'm ever riding in the hills and I come across moonshiners, I'm to nod, look away and ride on. No problem...other than I'm so curious I'd love to stop and learn all about it!

As soon as I got back to town, I started searching the internet for information and quickly found out that my area is chock full of stories of caves and Confederates, moonshiners and revenuers.

I read or listened to accounts until my eyes hurt and my brain has, of course, managed to mangle everything I've gleaned into a stew of facts and legend- but it's absolutely fascinating.

I seriously doubt Franklin County's ready for this much enthusiasm from a newcomer- otherwise I'd be running down the street of Ferrum yelling "Hey everybody, I'm here! Now- tell me everything and don't spare the details! Which one of you guys has the closest still to my place?"

Oh, yeah...that'd get me run out of town on a rail real fast.

So, I'll just keep on reading my internet accounts and try not to ask too many questions of mysterious strangers I meet in the woods...that is, until they come to realize I'm quite harmless and terribly gullible.

By the Light of the Silvery Moon

Four days in a tiny mountain cabin with teenagers...

I thought they would be bored. After all, this is my "get away" cabin...away from T.V, the Internet, video games and even phones. I figured I'd better have a list of activities of all types to keep them occupied, to keep the techno withdrawal from becoming so painful it sent them screaming back to Greensboro post haste.

To complicate matters...It rained...A constant gentle summer rain that made outdoor activities impossible for 2 of the scheduled 3 days.

They wound up staying four days.

Apparently the novelty of the simple, country life so enthralled them, it made computers and TVs seem mundane and...perhaps even a little boring.




We played cards and board games. We tromped through the woods. We looked for bear and found deer. The Guinea hens next door screeched like the hinges on squeaky screen doors. And then, on the last day there was a run-in with a huge cotton mouth.

But it was the beautiful yellow lab, Shannon, who charmed them most of all. She played fetch endlessly, followed them everywhere and best of all, displayed none of the annoying, yappy habits of the little dogs back home. And no one had to worry about taking care of Shannon- letting her in, letting her out, making sure she'd been fed and had water- because Shannon belongs to Joe, the cabin's former owner.

The kids were as enamored of Joe as they were of Shannon. Joe was pronounced "so knowledgeable and about everything too!" I think they thought he was even better than their current hero, Bear Grills, on "Man Versus Wild."



We had nightly bonfires with popcorn and s'mores...One night there were even roasted potato chunks and onions buried in the coals for late night munching.







Fresh wildflowers in colorful cans sat out on the big picnic table. We drank fresh lemonade and iced tea out of quart-sized jelly jars. There were big country breakfasts, fresh vegetables with dinner, barbecued ribs and chicken...It was slow, easy living at its very finest.



All in all I would have to say it was a big success.

Holding My Breath...

I didn't want to say anything until I closed on it...bad luck, karma, the fear that someplace this wonderful would somehow evaporate if I talked about it before it was truly mine...But as of last Tuesday, this sweet little cottage is really mine.






It is as true as the wish I made for it...A tiny, pre-Civil War cabin set in the foothills of South Central Virginia, down a long and winding gravel lane that follows a meandering creek, surrounded by low-lying mountains.



I could not have asked for a better haven, could not have imagined any place this idyllic or peaceful.






And I found it by accident...sort of...

After months of looking online on realtor.com and on various realtors websites, I tried Cragislist.org. One paragraph written by the cabin's owner, 3 pictures to prove his point and I was hooked.

Mertis came to see it and she was so besotted, she bought the mountain (okay, big hill) across the lane!

Marti's thinking about building something here, too.

In fact, I could see a few of my women friends building little cabins in the woods- it would keep us all sane in our old age. What better than to have a little space to call your own where everything goes just the way you want it to...You don't have to cook supper if you don't want to, you don't do anybody else's laundry, you don't hear the blare of the TV or get sucked into the vast chasm that is the internet (oh, like it's just me wasting hours of my life looking up useless tidbits of fascinating information?)






There is no E-bay here. No mall. Hell, there isn't even a place nearby to buy a mop (Lord knows I tried!)



Instead there are more stars in the sky than I thought possible- so many they look like snowflakes and whispy clouds instead of the Big Dipper and Orion's Belt. I sat outside on a tractor last night, drinking beer and staring up at the sky, wishing my Dad who knew the name of each and every single constellation could be there with me.

And then I realized of course, he is.

Pickup Trucks and Pennies From Heaven

We miss Dad.

My brother and I are standing outside in the dark beside our trucks, talking in low voices about our dreams of Dad.

"Yeah," my brother says. "The day I bought my banjo, that night, I dreamed Dad and Papa Lee were laughing and dancing. Dad was doing that thing he used to do, you know how he'd hunch his shoulders up and go in those circles?"

"Like Bill Cosby?"

"Yeah, I always thought he danced just like Bill Cosby."

We love Bill Cosby,too.

"I think he and Papa Lee were happy I got the banjo," my brother says.

That would be like them, I think. Dad's father, Papa Lee, had a banjo, used to play in Vaudeville theaters before my father was born and then continued to entertain his family by playing the ukulele. I could see him dancing with happiness that the musical gene has continued on through the generations.

I tell my brother the dream I had where Dad comes and hugs me. But I realize in the moment that he takes me into his arms, he's dead. This isn't real.

I say this and my brother begins to cry. I look at him and dissolve myself. We stand between our two pickup trucks, crying, our children clustered around us, awkwardly patting our backs.

"I'm sorry," I tell my son later. "I didn't mean to do that."

"That's all right," he says, hugging me. "It was bound to happen. Every time you get together with your brother or your sister, you guys wind up crying."

Yeah, true that.

It's bedtime. Tomorrow is a new day, I think. No more tears for the rest of the trip, I promise myself...but I feel like I could cry forever.

I reach into my bag for pajamas. There is a penny resting on top of the bag. Another penny from Heaven.

It is Weekend Roadtrip # 2- With the Youngest Unnamed One.

I am sharing a few of his impressions...

The Road to Roanoke






But then, in the middle of our wanderings through Virginia, we arrive in the town of Natural Bridge, at the best of all possible tourist attractions. Surely one of the tackiest roadside attractions ever to collect money from unwitting touristas- The Haunted Monster Museum, Dark Maze and Dinosaur Park...Forget the Natural Bridge itself and the wax museum. The Monster Museum is well worth the $7 price of admission, for the photo ops alone.







We are lost here for over two hours, investigating the terrifying unkown...





This is terrifying, no?...



Until the creature moves his head and you can see...the stick.



It wasn't enough to save this poor lad.



Yes, even in the land of make-believe, the Civil War is still never far from the minds of some people...




The lad tells me the dinosaur museum alone has made this a trip of a lifetime.


And to think we have only just begun our epic roadtrip!


Tomorrow we take New York! Then on to Philadelphia and The Nightwatchman Concert.

Don't You Worry, I'll Take Care Of You...

My Day...Part Two

Her son drove Maimie down from Detroit, moved her into the nursing home and then disappeared. He didn't leave a number for the social worker to call in case of emergency. He didn't tell his mother he was leaving, or that he wouldn't return. He did manage to tell Social Security to forward her monthly check to him, though, but they aren't authorized to release his address.

He's a drug addict.

He returns a month later with her handicapped son, dumps him in a neighboring facility and disappears again. No forwarding address. But he's that boy's financial power of attorney too.

Maimie has no shoes, none of the special soap she uses for her dry skin, no pocket change, no T.V, nothing. She is trapped in a strange town trying to remember which of her children and relatives don't have a drug problem, then trying to remember their names and phone numbers.

And she cries because she wants to go home. She misses her grandbabies.

She is not even my patient...yet.

The social worker looks at me. "I was walking past her room yesterday and I heard her talking to herself. She was standing in the bathroom, looking into the mirror and just talking away."

"What was she saying?" I asked.

The social worker gives me the saddest look in the world.

"She was saying, 'Just you hang in there. Don't you worry. I'll get you out of here somehow. I just don't know why he done this to you but don't worry, I'll take care of you."

The Queen Is Not Amused

This is my day...Part One

Sitting in the day room at the nursing home, filling out a mountain of progress notes and utilization reviews while the T.V up on the wall in the corner blasts out an old black and white movie.

"Hey girl, you know who that is, don't you?" He demands.

He looks like a roly-poly Weeble...you know, "Weebles wobble but they can't fall down"? His pants circle the high-middle of his egg-shaped torso, white crew socks slip into black, thick-soled shoes. His short sleeve shirt needs only a pocket protector to scream "Geek!" He is the Teacher's Pet, the brown-noser, the tattle tale from elementary school only now he's grown into an old man with a thin mustache.

I look up because other than the Weeble, there is only one other woman in the room- an overweight black lady wearing a curly-haired wig and sighing because she's obviously constipated and trying to correct the situation.

"Uh, no," I answer. "Who is it?"

We are ignoring Betty's distress because it should be a private matter anyway.

"Audie Murphey. That's him when he was young."

"No it ain't!" Betty says, inspecting the screen carefully. She casts a doubtful glance at me and says, "It ain't him, is it?"

"He's playing Billy the Kid. I seen this movie a million times. I should know!"

I try to bow out of the discussion but then I have to mediate between them over whether or not the female lead is Jane Mansfield or Betty Hutton.

I think it is neither but I wouldn't swear to this in a court of law, so I ask the Weeble where my favorite lady, Jane, is.

"Aw, she had that bandage on her side changed and the doctor don't want her out of bed for a few days."

"Ah," I nod, understanding everything now. Jane is the Queen of the Dayroom but as she is temporarily away from the kingdom, The Weeble is taking over, bullying Betty and anyone else who comes in to the room.

"Betty!" The Weeble barks. "Cover your mouth when you cough!"

Betty looks at him. "I'm not elderly!" she tells him. I think she means to say she's not a child, but it's too late, the gauntlet has been cast down.

"You are too! I'm 70 and I'm elderly, so I know you are!"

"I'm 71 and I am not elderly." She looks to me for validation. "I'm not elderly, am I?" she asks.

"She's a hell of a lot older than 71," The Weeble mutters. "Why she's 85 if she's a day!"

But Betty isn't deaf. "I am not! I'm 71! Aren't I?" she asks me.

"You're as young as you feel," I say diplomatically. "And you sure don't look 85."

Now she looks offended and The Weeble is bristling. Obviously this wasn't what I was supposed to say.

"Well, what do you call a 71 year old virgin?" The Weeble demands suddenly. "I'm a 71 year old virgin. I'd call that elderly."

I'd call it a damned shame but I don't say so. Later when I visit the Queen in her room I tell her The Weeble is looking to usurp the throne.

"Aw, that little shit!" she says, annoyed. "He's only doing that because he knows I'm not there to keep him in line. You know, he never married. Lived with his mother all his life. He's a Mama's Boy, that's what he is!" The Queen is not amused.

I do not tell her The Weeble is a virgin. I just can't. It would somehow be like giving a shotgun to a cat facing down a tiny mouse and even the Weeble doesn't
deserve that.

"I'll git him back in line when the doctor lets me out of here. The nerve of him! She hunches herself up onto her elbows and fixes me with an imperious gaze, made more powerful by the way she has to peer over her glasses, down her nose to stare into my eyes. "Now, tell me again...What all did he say about me exactly?"

A Rainy, Penny Weekend With the Unnamed Eldest

To celebrate the Eldest Unnamed One's graduation from high school, we took a trip- just him and me.

I told him we could go anywhere he wanted to go...within reason.



He told me it couldn't involve a lot of driving or a long time away from The Beloved.

"The mountains," he offered. Then, just as I'd begun seriously looking for cabins- "Washington, D.C."

At the last minute I mentioned there was a bluegrass festival in Cherokee.

"Book it!" he cried.

I was shocked. Who thought the child would look back on his earlier years camping at the Fiddler's Convention every Memorial Day weekend, with such fondness?

Who knew we could even find the tent up in the attic, let alone remember how to set it up!

But we did.

We arrived in a pouring rain, took stock of our situation and went shopping...for another tent, a cheap gazebo, screened monstrosity we used as a staging area for setting up the real tent.

We didn't argue. Voices were never raised. We worked like a crackerjack team to assemble our weekend home and it all went off without a hitch.

I'd show you pictures but the card reader died.

My boy and I stood under umbrellas in the rain and listened to IIIrd Tyme Out and a host of others. We sloshed around to look at the vendors tents. We explored Dillsboro and Sylva. We laid up in our Aero beds and passed the crossword puzzle back and forth. We prepared feasts. And never once engaged in that "What are you going to do with your life?" stuff I'm sure he was expecting.

We just remembered who we are at the best of times and reconnected as two human beings who have a great fondness and mutual respect for each other.

It was wonderful- even though it rained and rained and rained.

And you know me and the penny thing?

We arrived and there in the middle of our campsite, was a penny.

We set up the tent and two pennies fell out into the middle of the floor.

There were pennies on the picnic table, pennies in our bags and finally, as we were leaving, we picked up the tent and there was a bright shiny new penny lying beneath the tent.

Pennies from Heaven and Dad- who would've really approved of our weekend happening.

So I Haven't Written in Awhile...

Okay, so I haven't written in awhile- Neither has Shakespeare!

I've been a little busy. It's the end of the school year and the Eldest Unnamed One is graduating from high school. Who knew there was so much parental responsibility involved?!

I suppose I should've anticipated this well in advance and planned accordingly but I am just not always that type of mom. So that means racing down to the finish line, always feeling like I've forgotten something.

There are the parties, given by parents and students; the ceremonies; the invitations and announcements; the last minute college stuff; the out-of-town relatives and most of all- the emotions. My biggest boy is taking yet another step toward adulthood and away from the safe and cozy nest where I have been able to keep a watchful eye on him.

That probably accounts for the fog surrounding my brain these days...Denial.



And then there has been another little distraction...



But I will have to tell you more about that in my next installation...

There You Are- There You Go...

In my dream I am lying on my bed. It's Saturday morning and the Youngest Unnamed One has come in to beg for a chicken bisquit breakfast. We are lying there laughing when suddenly my Sister Flea pokes her head around the corner of the bedroom door.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, surprised.

She explains she and her friend are going to another psychotherapy conference and stopped by to say hello. "Hey, did you see Dad yet?" she asks.

"What?"

"Dad," she explains patiently. "He's in there." She gestures to the Youngest's room.

I get up, round the corner, and there stands my father. He's wearing his plaid pajama bottoms and a maroon t-shirt. He's just standing there, grinning and opening his arms to hug me. He is very happy, like we're sharing a delightful reunion or a secret surprise. But he's also very, very pale I think.

"Dad, it's you!" I fly into his embrace but as I do I suddenly realize this can't be happening. Dad is dead. The pain this realization brings twines around the joy at seeing my father, at having him back. I am losing him, I think. I have lost him. I am sobbing as he strokes my hair. "Oh," he soothes. "Ohhh."

He knows I know. He is only here to let me know he's fine and really, really happy. He's here to let me know he is always with me. He doesn't say this. Somehow this is already in my head. But it's too late. I am waking myself up with my crying and he is fading, fading, fading away again.

Moonshine Madness at the Rest Home

It's Nursing Home Week. In one of the three facilities I visit, the staff has decided to celebrate this with five days of of festivities that center around a "Mayberry Days" theme.

What is it with North Carolinians and Andy of Mayberry?

I walked in this morning to find the social worker dressed as Goober, right down to the high-wader pants, white socks, black shoes and wacky black felt cap. Her face was smudged with gray and green grease stains and when she smiled, well, I hate to say this but she "favored" old Goober right well.

But when the maintainence man walked by with a still on a cart, I had to stop.

It was copper. It even worked, dispensing apple juice through copper tubing.

"Any residents wanting a little moonshine report to the day room," a cheery announcer called over the loudspeaker.

The Director of Nursing was Barney Fife.

It was all just a little too real for one of my old guys.

Laura was sitting in her room when I found her, slowly nibbling on her lunch and shaking her head back and forth, clucking and frowning her disapproval at the day's festivities.

"You know," she said. "This is the heart of Baptist country." She looked at me, making sure she had my attention before she clarified her statement. "Now, I'm not one of them. I'm Methodist. But I'm just sayin' there's lots of Baptists here and they don't approve of drinking."

Laura takes another nibble of her chicken casserole and looks out into the hallway carefully, like she's being careful not to be overheard.

"You know," she says. "I don't think they gave this very careful consideration before they decided to do this. What if word of that still thing gets out into the community? I think there'd be big trouble then. And Sheriff Andy and Barney and the whole lot of them were there, standing right alongside that still, handing out the cups to everybody."

I try to explain the reality of the situation. "Oh, but they were just the staff members dressed up as..."

"Oh, no," Laura says, shaking her head. "It was them alright. I was right up there next to them when they started pouring the juice into those cups. I asked the man where did he get that machine and he said he made it! Well, I said those tubes are copper. How do you know what's coming out hasn't been poisoned from the tubing?"

Laura is now raising questions I hadn't even considered.

"Andy Griffin isn't going to be very happy about this," she says, absolutely certain. "I bet they didn't even call him about it. If they had, he would've told them it wasn't a very good idea. Not in Baptist country."

I try again. "I'm sure they didn't mean any harm," I demur. I try to explain the moonshine is apple juice and it's all make believe but Laura seems to feel this is irrelevant.

"Tell that to the Baptists!" Laura says. She pushes the bedside table away so she can lean closer to me. Suddenly she barks, "Where are we?"

"What?" I stammer, momentarily confused.

"Where are we? What is the name of this place?"

Boy, I think, Laura's really losing it.

I carefully ennunciate the answer, as if I might be breaking bad news to her, in case she thought perhaps we were at her old home or Mars or somewhere else. But when I name our location, it's Laura who beams at me like I'm the prize pupil.

"That's right!" she crows. "And where is Mayberry?"

"In Mt. Airey?" I answer uncertainly.

"Co-rect! This is not Mt. Airey! So how do you think they'll feel up in Mt.Airey if it gets out Andy, Barney and the rest of 'em are all down here drinking out of a moonshine still?!"

I am speechless.

Laura leans in close again, checks the hallway and whispers, "Do you know, one of them standing up there handing out the cups is a minister's daughter?"

I give up.

"No!" I gasp. And here I thought I was the only minister's daughter in the building.

Laura nods. "Yep. A minister's daughter." She shakes her head again. "Poor man! I just hope he's not Baptist!"

Let Them Eat Strawberry Cake...You Too!

Like I told you, the old guys love their strawberries. I promised them a strawberry cake this week, made from berries handpicked by me and my friend, Ellen. We picked the berries from a field the old guys declared grows some of the best strawberries in the county...although this nearly drew blood as the old ones debated with a newcomer resident about the relative merits of Rudd's Farm over The Berry Patch.

I brought in the cake because Benny, the assistant activity director, said they weren't doing anything special on Thursday. "Bring us something sweet," Benny begged.

But the activity room was dressed for a party when I arrived.

No one was there in the room, so I set down the cake on the table next to the other platters and went in search of the old guys and their fearless leaders.

I found them in the dining room playing Nursery Rhyme Trivial Pursuit.

"This old man, he played..." Benny paused, waiting as the others called out "One!"

I sat down at a table with Ruby and Geneva. We rolled our eyes at the questions and made faces when we couldn't remember the answers. I got into a debate with Benny over the fate of Peter, Peter Pumpkin Eater's wife. Benny said she ate pumpkin and I said I thought she was a victim of domestic violence.

"Didn't Peter beat her?" I asked Ruby.

"Well, I suppose if she ate all his pumpkin, he had every right," she answered. "I would've. Hey, did you bring us something to eat?"

"Yeah," said Benny, losing interest in the game we'd all lost interest in a long while back. "Is it sweet?"

I tell them I left it in the activity room with the other party food and Benny's eyes widen. "Oh, no! You shouldn't have done that! That's for the nurses' party. They'll get it!"

I had been gone 10 minutes, tops. But when I ran into the activity room, half the pan was empty.

"You made that? Girl," one nurse says, turning to the others. "You got to get you some of that strawberry cake. It taste like my grandma makes."

Oh, this is high praise indeed. I almost hate that I have to take it away from them.

The look on their faces is priceless when I say, "That's not for you. It's for the old guys." They look like I've caught them stealing from the church collection plate. In fact, they are so appalled that they've eaten so much of the cake, I have to spend a couple of minutes reassuring them that I made too much anyway and everything will be fine.

Sure enough. Like the loaves and the fishes, everyone eats cake, even Benny, even the nurses who didn't get a piece the first go round. Even I get a piece.

It's a miracle, especially when you consider that they keep coming from everywhere to eat some "granny" cake.

So, here's the recipe, sanctioned and approved by the old guys...

STRAWBERRY CAKE

1 pkg. white cake mix (Okay, so I was in a hurry...but a cake mix is a good jumping off point)

1 package Dream Whip

1 stick melted butter

1/2 package strawberry jello

4 eggs

1 c. mushed up strawberries and their juice.

1/2c water

Combine cake mix, Dream Whip, jello in mixer bowl; add everything else and beat on low until blended, then on high for 4 mins. Bake at 350 in well greased pans for @ 30 min. or until the toothpick comes out clean. Remove to cool. Ice and chill until serving time.

Frosting for Strawberry Cake

1 stick softened butter
1/2 package strawberry jello
@ 1/3 c. mushed up strawberries
1-1 1/2 lb. confectioner's sugar.

Cream sugar and butter, add the other stuff and mix until it's spreadable.

I am not a scrupulous measurer, so if you need more sugar or strawberries, play with it.

Eulogizing Life

My old guys love homemade food...any homemade food. But it's Strawberry season and the old guys love strawberries it seems, more than anything else.

They were making quilt squares when I saw them Tuesday, sitting around the table, some sleeping, others just hanging on to their fabric pieces and staring past them at something or some time none of us were privvy to.

The assistant director and I have bonded in one of those soul deep ways that transcends who we are on the outside. We love our old guys. She likes to tell me that on her worst day, coming to work always makes her feel better- that they give more to her than she does to them...but I don't know about that.

Once she and the director drove Pearl all the way to the beach...five hours away, and stayed in a hotel, just because blind Pearl had never "seen" the ocean. That picture is taped to the side of the assistant A.D's file cabinet.

Last month, when we lost so many, the Assistant A.D had to give their eulogies at the memorial service. The hospice chaplain was late and as it so often does, the job fell to Benny.

I had slipped into the room, filled with residents and family...but oddly enough, not staff. Benny's eyes met mine. In front of everyone she said, "I don't know if I can do this y'all, but I'm gonna try."

I have never heard anyone so eloquently capture the essential spirit of a human being like Benny does.

Last week Benny sat in her office, crying with me. She was mad at the staff for overlooking her partner, the Activity Director. "She's done so much for them, and now, when she needs them, they can't even get up off their asses to sign a damned card!"

And then she cried for "Papa Franks." "I don't know if I can let myself get that close to anyone again. He was like my father, Nancy. He was!"

But we are too alike, me and Benny. We will look into a resident's eyes and take them into our hearts without a second thought about the cost later- when we lose them. I tell her this. I tell her we have been given such a gift to have these old guys in our lives and that there is never a guarantee, with anyone we love, that they will be around tomorrow. "We will all die," I tell her.

But I don't tell her that when I go, I hope she does the eulogy.

Good Morning From the Garden...

Good Morning from the garden...





It's off to work and then strawberry picking with my friend, Ellen...It's a tradition. We try to go every year.

Last year was the first in my convertible...so when I drove us through the sprinklers and only put up the top when we stopped, the man running the place came out and said, "Hey, ain't that a little like closing the barn door after the cows are out?"

I get out, trying to act casual. "Oh, no- I meant to do that," I say.

Not this year! It's right nippy out...too nippy for sprinklers.

Life in Miniature at the K & W Cafeteria

The Eldest Unnamed One is drunk on being 18, in love and his impending high school graduation. He is brash and goofy, a know-it-all and a kid again...and it is only Tuesday.

We are in line at the K & W Cafeteria, trying to pretend we don't know each other. I ignore his silliness. He ignores Mertis's silent disapproval. I talk to the Youngest Unnamed One and wish the line wasn't so long.

It has been a hard day in Old People Land. The social worker at one place, one of the young, good ones, may not quit after all, but only because her heart's been broken by the new boyfriend. I am selfishly glad.

I am thinking about this when I hear a voice say, "You know, you keep chewin' on that pen and you'll wind up swallowing it. You don't want to write your name that way, now do you?"

I turn and catch my breath. Hell. A frail old man in an orange ball cap, his jeans loose and cinched tight around his waist with a canvas belt, a frayed hole in the back of his pants exposes his shirt tail. His smile is disarming, his eyes gray-blue and too happy for what I am sure is about to come.

He has taken on the Eldest, the one who is never wrong, facing off against the kid with a happy smile and the clear expectation that this is going to be a wonderful conversation.

The Eldest chuckles, sticks the pen in his pocket and says something I don't hear...but the Beloved smiles, so I know he can't have insulted the old man.

"She your sister?" the man asks.

The Eldest smiles indulgently while the Beloved explains, "Girlfriend."

"Girlfriend, eh?" He gives the Eldest a collegegial smile. "Well, you favor, that's why I asked."

"I graduated high school in 1947," I hear the old man say. Two women I take for his wife and daughter try to pretend they're not with him, turning their attention toward the cafeteria line and murmuring to themselves about what they'll have and what will disagree with their tricky stomachs.

The Old Guy is oblivious. "1947," he says. "That was probably before your time, huh?"

The Eldest chuckles. When the Old Guy asks where The Eldest will be going to school, he feigns mock indignation. He's a State grad.

"What was your major?" I hear the Eldest ask. He seems truly interested.

I decide maybe I won't disown him after all.

The Old Guy tells the Eldest every parable and bit of advice he can think of and fit into the ten minute trip down the food line...And all the while my son listens, nodding and commenting, smiling and agreeing...even when I'm fairly certain he doesn't truly agree.

I look at the Old Guy and do the math. He is my father's age...were he here. I think of the Eldest and my Dad, of the way my father loved that boy and of how the boy loved his grandfather.

I remember the dream I had the night before. I am in my father's parents' living room. Both my grandparents are there, sitting enjoying the cocktail hour just as they did every afternoon. Only, I know they are dead. I know they are dead and I know my father is dying. He is with me, following me into the room. In my dream, dad is much younger. He is the same age he was when I was five.

He walks into his parents' house, sees his father sitting in his favorite arm chair and Dad's knees buckle and give out as he sags against me. I am trying to hold my father up and he is crying. He knows his father is dead. He knows he is dying. But I think he cries because he is so glad to have him back.

I am standing in the line at the K & W, watching my son and the new friend who needs to pack every bit of his life into the Eldest's awareness before they come to the end of the line and there is no more time.

I am following the two of them, half-attending to Mertis and the Youngest Unnamed One, pretending I care what we eat when all I want is my dad.

The Eldest Unnamed One realizes none of this, surely doesn't know what a microcosm this cafeteria has become for our lives and probably would care less if he did know.

Some days I wonder how the world can keep spinning without Dad. Missing him takes my breath away.

And then I see him in the Eldest or in the Youngest and I realize he is here after all...Dad would've listened to the Old Guy. He would've smiled indulgently at the Eldest, found his way into the heart and soul of the Youngest and made Mertis laugh.

He would've understood life in miniature at the K & W on a Tuesday evening.