Day 2: Earliest Memory
Hmmm.
While I do have a vague recollection of going to the circus as a toddler & bringing home some sort of inflatable creature…Bugs Bunny? Whatever it was, I remember racing across the basement & straddling it across the sides of my playpen.
However, I realize this doesn’t make for very entertaining reading for my evening armchair readers (I recently learned I have a following that logs in just to read my stuff!), so I will share a little more.
I remember going out once a week with my mom and great-grandmother, “Mamaw”. She couldn’t drive, & depended on someone to cart her here, there, and yon. We would go to Howard’s, which was kind of like a Kmart. It was across the road from Kmart, as a matter of fact. (Where Nova or Avalon or whatever it is is now). They had My Little Ponies priced at $4.99. My weekly allowance was $5; I could generally coerce someone to contribute the tax. In this way, I accumulated a pony a week. More if I lost a tooth or made straight A’s on my report card. I also scored an extra one for having a tee-tiny mole removed off the tip of my ear. Mom promised me if I didn’t cry I could have the one I’d been coveting, a “baby pony” complete with playpen and bottle. I didn’t cry, but the way she tells it, I had a single alligator tear roll pitifully down my cheek. I’m sure my bottom lip was protruding something fierce, too. On these excursions, we would also frequently visit the Revco next door to pick up prescriptions. Mamaw had this mustard yellow leather change purse with a pieced leather duck stitched on it. I loved that change purse, and she would let me count out the change for the clerk. Everyone was always so patient with me. Probably because I was so darned cute with my curly hair and freckles 😉 We would wind up our outing with a trip to Burger King, which was virtually the only restaurant in South Knoxville at that time.
I remember times with my great grandfather as well, time spent in the garden, following him down the row every step of the way as he stretched the string to make sure he planted in a perfect line, or picking beans, or checking cows in his old equally rust and red pickup. I remember turning the handle on the old grinding wheel to sharpen hoes, & him making us a big glass of ice water & a fried bologna sandwich. And when the microwave came along…he thought that was the coolest invention ever. I remember catching night crawlers underneath the apple tree and fishing with them the next day. And I used to ride with him in “Ol’ Blue” to the gap of the mountain to meet Mamaw’s carpool as the Union Valley crew returned from work at Bike Athletic. He had a compass on the dash that mesmerized me.
I remember when he got cancer and came back from radiation treatments with black lines under his eyes. They told me he was like a football player so I wouldn’t be scared. He died one sunny day while I swam in my pool with my cousin Tammy. She cried, I didn’t. I don’t know why.
She also cried when we got our ears pierced at Stewart’s drug store in Sevierville, but I didn’t. I was too excited to be scared.
I remember my grandmother going to get her pitch black hair set every Tuesday morning. I remember her catching me a toad in the well house one night during a gully washer. She would take me to get an ice cream on Saturdays, and she loved to eat buttermilk & cornbread from a big glass at night while watching her recorded “stories”.
I recall that I was loved, cherished, adored, and doted on every day of my life, because I was the first great-grandchild. It didn’t last forever, but it lasted a long time. I had a happy childhood and I feel quite fortunate.
Purple.
The color of the day was purple.
Where I was, anyway.
So, even though everybody else in the greater Knoxville area was wearing their best Vol orange, emblazoned with giant power T’s, drinking orange flavored beer, eating cheese dip on Doritos, & singing Rocky Top till they were hoarse, I was wearing heels & politely sipping wine. Even the mountains had turned orange in preparation of one of the oldest rivalries in SEC country.
Who gets married on a football Saturday in Tennessee? Who gets married on Tennessee versus Alabama Saturday, no less?
Crystal Allen, that’s who. A GRADUATE of the University of Tennessee, so you’d think she knew better!
But the wedding has been in the works for almost two years, and the romance since high school, so I couldn’t miss it.
Crystal is a sweet soul; nothing is more important to her than family. Her quirky demeanor makes you giggle, & she’s so plainly beautiful you can’t help but stare. So, as a few raindrops fell yesterday on her simple ceremony underneath the maple trees, I couldn’t help that a few of my few tears joined them.
I was expecting a princess gown, full tulle skirt & fitted bodice, but I was wrong. She was elegant in a lace gown with a short train adorned with sparkles. I was expecting a long veil, but she had flowers twisted into her hair. I was expecting a short reception, but there was a DJ & cupcakes weren’t till eight.
Her groom was a twitchy, jittery mess, while Crystal seemed to constantly be on the verge of nervous laughter. The ceremony was short, I guess they were ready to get it over with after all this time. It was all smiles all around, under the umbrellas & trees shedding their golden leaves. The unity candle stayed lit, always a good sign.
So even though the bridesmaids wore purple, the flowers were purple, the fairy lights were purple, and the napkins were purple, my heart was bleeding orange. Luckily, Shug was keeping me updated on missed field goal attempts & the score while Robin & I watched our former coworker get married to the only guy she’s ever loved. And after we got our hugs, we came home, forgoing barbeque & a night of dancing.
I had to watch the painful last quarter where we led for too short a time, and the disappointment of another loss due to careless mistakes. Then we were off to Seymour Grill with my favorite aunt & uncle to partake in good ole southern food. (I had chicken & waffles, which is wonderful, if you’ve never tried it).
Today I lay on the couch, licking my wounds, thinking about putting potato soup in the crock pot for this rainy Sunday. I hope the newlyweds are enjoying their first day of marriage, still riding high from the excitement of their wedding day. It’s funny: this is married life: being united, idly tapping out a story of all that makes a marriage, & hoping the day doesn’t get away too quickly.
Y’all know how I feel about kids. I don’t want any, & most of the time, I don’t care for other peoples. But I have recently learned something.
We need to be praying for mothers. Mothers everywhere. Whether they’re raising their own children or someone else’s. Whether they have one or two or ten or none and just want to be blessed with one. Or, in the case of this month’s “Awareness of the Month”, if they’ve lost a child through miscarriage or death. All these women are mother…s.
Mothers are constantly fretting that they aren’t adequate. If they spend all day nurturing their child, they feel that they are neglecting housework or their husbands. If they miss a “Mom watch this” they fear that their child will have development issues & be in therapy for abandonment when they turn 21. They feel that they can never do enough & will never be able to protect them throughout their life. Mothers have a hard time. Most of my closest friends are mothers. Some of them, it’s all they ever wanted, & they are totally immersed in the motherhood thing. But they can’t protect their children from heartbreak. They’ll do anything to avoid problems. Other mothers are living the dream too, but the kids don’t cooperate. You hear these stories of kids that NEVER sleep….apparently that’s true. So that mother definitely needs prayers, as she loses her mind a little more every day. And makes her doubt her dreams of raising one, let alone a house full.
Pray for the mothers that became mothers too young & are now re-living the part of life they feel they missed out on. Pray for the mothers who had their babies but turned them over & regret it. Pray for the ones who didn’t see it in their heart to give birth & made an irrevocable choice. Pray for the mothers that are raising a child alone, after the man who did his part is no longer around, for whatever reason. Pray for the mothers who are leaving this Earth, & question how their children will cope, if they’re ready. Pray for mothers. They don’t have it easy, no matter how big their smile.
There are few places as intimidating to me as the makeup counter. Yes, I am aware of how ridiculous this sounds. But women like me can’t just go to Walgreens & pick out a shade that you think “looks about right” because then you apply a foundation that is two shades darker than your neck & it looks like you’re wearing a mask. And it’s not because you didn’t blend it. And I need a sweat-proof, waterproof, not-coming-off-unless-you-use-a-brillo-pad makeup line.
So, that being said, I find myself at the department store makeup counters with the semi-snotty, perfect hair, impeccable makeup, & lab coated models. I beg for their assistance with my clumped mascara & poorly applied eyeliner.
They are always eager to come to my rescue.
The following is an account of last night’s session at Belk.
I beeline straight to Clinique for my foaming face wash that I’ve been out of for some time now. I keep thinking I can find a better makeup remover for cheaper.
I cannot.
I see one girl working the entire cosmetics department, currently assisting a man at fragrances, so I think I will settle in.
What ever happened to those fun springy chairs? This one is all hard and has no bounce. I’d rather stand than partake in this molded-to-look-like-a-chair-but-is-actually-a-rock-in-disquise furniture.
I circle the counter like a shark, eyeing a blonde with a ponytail in yoga pants pushing her toddler around but still is managing to look trendier than me.
The associate from perfumes breaks free & goes to help her. She was at Estee Lauder before me, so it’s okay. I wait patiently, looking at the pink stuff for Breast Cancer Awareness month (who is NOT AWARE?!?) & this tote bag that I thought was cute when I first walked up but on closer inspection is uglier than homemade sin.
Another lab coat approaches. She joins the first in assisting the blonde with the toddler. 1st lab coat comes to me. I tell her what I need, sounding like an authority on the subject. You have to, or they’ll talk you into a whole ‘nother skincare line & you’ll spend $400.
Trust me.
I pay & walk ten steps to Estee Lauder. Lab Coat Two barely glances my direction. Lab Coat One that I just departed from has decided I am invisible since Lab Coat Two is back at her post.
I eye the potions warily. I remember my last visit, getting roped into the teeny tiny miniscule bottle of wrinkle serum to the tune of $68. Not again, my friends.
Their chair is padded, but looks like they’ve been trying to darken it with foundation. Maybe they should take it to the tanning bed. I wander around the counter. Not much to see. It’s gift time. Great. I’ll have to make a decision on which “pallete” I want. This gives me an ulcer. I look at all the new red clothes displayed for fall. They look like Indian rugs with the tassels & wild prints. I get closer. Hmm, this sweater isn’t too bad. Oh, here come people, I better get back over here or I’ll lose my place in line.
Blonde in ponytail is still seeking council. Toddler is not screaming. This place is weird.
“Thank you for being so patient,” Lab Coat Two tells me.
“No problem,” I answer, scrolling through Instagram.
“I’ll sweeten your deal,” she says with a wink as she grabs a tissue.
“You’re fine, take your time,” I assure her, wishing I was anywhere but here. Like this waterfall in Northern California…or eating this praline on River Street. Why do I follow these people who live where I want to stay? Why do I do it to myself?
I put my phone away & pretend to be interested in lipsticks. I pull out the rolling tray of samples.
Lab Coat One approaches like she’s never seen me before, although I am still holding my bag from ten minutes prior, & we had a conversation about make-up removal variations. I must have looked like I was fixing to stick my un-sanitized finger in a pot of miracle goo.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, I need to get the double wear in Fresco,” I say, once again sounding like an expert. But oh…I need powder too…and I’ve never bought theirs. It’s not on my card. “I also need to get some powder. I prefer the loose.” Because the pressed makes me feel like I’m messing everything up. The loose makes me feel like Marilyn Monroe.
She’s dusting it on her hand over the base. She tries three different ones, surreptitiously glancing at me between applications, before I save her. “I’m really pale, it’s probably the lightest one.”
She visibly exhales. “I thought so.”
By now, Lab Coat Two has sent Blonde With a Toddler on her way & is ringing me up. “Sorry you had to wait so long,” she apologizes again.
“It’s really okay,” I assure her again.
“Which pallete did you want to try? The neutral or the pinks?”
“Uhhhh…” How did I manage to forget she was going to ask me this. WHY did I spend my time looking at ugly sweaters & beautiful houses in New Orleans? I should have been pondering this life altering decision. And why can’t they decide FOR me? That’s why I come here, so I won’t screw up.
“Pinks,” I answer. Her lips move like I picked the wrong one but she didn’t say anything.
“And which age-defying? The revitalizing or the resilience?”
I’m sure this was met with a blank look crossed with deer in the headlights.
“Lifting is the better deal,” she leans forward & says conspiring tone.
“Okay,” I whisper back, afraid of the people we cannot see. And wondering which “R” word meant lifting. It is a synonym not in my repertoire.
“And let me get you something for being so patient,” she adds, moving to the drawer of wonder. “What do you like? Lipsticks? Eyeshadows?”
“Oh, just whatever. You really don’t have to do that,”
She’s digging through assorted bottles & giving me a quick look. “What color do you wear?”
I dig out my favorite lipstick & tell her the name. She takes it from me & finds nothing similar, but a “nice accompaniment” in shadow. OK, great, lady, get me out of here, my head is about to explode.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I get outside but then my nostrils fill with the scent of polecat. It is almost favorable over the assaulting perfumes from inside.
Why do some men think women have it made? There is no such thing as natural beauty. Dolly Parton says so. I was in there for twenty minutes & it felt like a ten year prison sentence.
But to some…oh, it is so much more.
This is Miss MacKenzie Henry, being baptized by her papaw (preacher) Danny Henry, & her daddy, Scotty. MacKenzie is a special needs, loving, beautiful child of God.
About a month ago, her momma was tucking her in, doing the whole ritual of singing to her & reading a little bit, talking about the upcoming week. “And you know what’s happening Sunday?”
Kenzie nodded enthusiastically. Brandi told her again who all was getting baptized. Kenzie nodded more exuberantly & pointed at her chest. “Me!”
Brandi was stunned. “You want to be baptized?”
“Yes!” Nodding excitedly. She got her point across.
Now, we would like to believe that children are protected, until they become the age of accountability, but I could not find any specific verses to support this belief, which is somewhat disturbing. At any rate, MacKenzie had sat through enough Bible School lessons & church services to know that she needed to be saved & it had laid on her heart for knows how long before she was able to communicate her desire. The problem probably stemmed from her fear of water. She doesn’t like it going over her head. But Brandi patiently explained to her that that was something that would have to happen, & MacKenzie allowed that she was at peace with it.
So, it came to pass, that Sunday, the congregation, with added family & friends, gathered on the rocky bank of the river, shaded by the thick vegetation encroaching on all sides. No breeze whispered through the grasses and leaves to alleviate the stifling humid day. A hush had fallen as Danny spoke the word of God over her, his voice breaking here & there as he kept his arms around his granddaughter. Scotty remained stoic.
The plunge. She was brought right up, but she was still in a mild panic & wouldn’t let her feet touch down, kept them drawn under her, so her father carried her out, trying to remain upright on the slick river rocks that covered the bottom.
MacKenzie was a twin. Houston was born, larger than his sister, gallantly fought for a few days, and to everyone’s surprise, passed away. He opened his eyes one time. Scotty carried him to his grave & placed him there to rest.
Houston died so that MacKenzie could live. This is true. When he passed, the doctors weren’t sure exactly what caused his death. There just wasn’t enough time. He had fluid on his brain, but both of them had that. Tests were ran, & in just in the lick of time, results were back so that they could treat MacKenzie. Houston saved her life.
A baptism is a rebirth. So the fact that Scotty carried his son to his grave, but carried his daughter out of the river is enough to send me into a crying jag, shivering.
I hope you can now see the emotion in this beautiful picture. I hope that you can see the love of God expressed in these people’s faces. And my greatest desire is that you know the Lord, or come to know Him soon.
Y’all ain’t gonna believe this.
So, you know how yesterday I was telling you about dropping 500 horseshoe nails in the floor? And how I compared it to dropping toothpicks?
Well.
I’m in the kitchen, fixin’ spaghetti, the aroma of onions & garlic filling the air, pasta bubbling away on the stove. I go to get the Italian seasoning out of the cabinet. This would be the cabinet above the stove, crammed with all manner of spices, excess olive oil, Crisco, & whatnot.
It happened so suddenly, I’m not sure what happened.
I’m standing there, toothpicks raining down around me, when Johnny appears from the basement with the garlic bread I had requested from the chest freezer.
I stood paralyzed. They were everywhere: in my hair, on the stove, scattered all over the floor, IN THE PASTA.
I sprang into action, frantically scooping them out with a spaghetti fork.
Did you know toothpicks float? Well, you do now.
About that time, I smelled something burning. I hadn’t put the bread in yet (that’s what I typically burn) so it couldn’t be that.
There were several charred toothpicks lying under the eye. I turned the burner off, moved the pot, & turned the blower on, sucking away the smoke that was making my eyes water.
I think this catastrophe was somewhere in the neighborhood of 200 toothpicks. I bought one of those containers from Cracker Barrel that holds 350 eons ago, & use maybe a dozen a year.
I’ll have you know I didn’t say a single bad word…until I dropped my garlic bread in the floor.
It’s all true. Ask Shug.
Some of my customers I dearly love, some I’d dearly love to kill.
This morning, I waited on a few I love.
First thing was Hugh Manis, whom I’ve waited on for years. I attended his church (Seymour First Baptist) for awhile, & sat with him & his wife nearly every time.
When you get married, generally if it’s a Christian ceremony, the preacher will ask you to hold the couple accountable. The union of two people coming together is a Holy bond & to keep them in your prayers for a strong, healthy marriage. The people gathered include some of the ones who love you best & dearest, so it’s easy for them to make that promise. But I have found that it’s some of my older male customers that hold me accountable, that they ask how my husband’s doing, or, more commonly, “Are you still married?” When I answer to the affirmative, it’s usually followed by, “He’s a good man.”
I don’t argue with that statement.
Anyway, I’m helping Mr. Manis carry out his purchases this morning (he walks on a cane, so I help him if his son doesn’t accompany him) & he asks me, “Where are you & your husband going to church now?”
Now, Johnny & I never attended FBS together. I went alone. But he’s been on me to come back for some time.
No sense in being embarrassed. “We’re not attending anywhere. We just fell out of the habit.”
“We got plenty of room,” he tells me with a smile.
“Yes, I remember. But Johnny likes little bitty churches.” (I honestly prefer a smaller congregation, to where you don’t get lost in the scheduling, but would go anywhere I felt welcome. Honestly, we’re enjoying the lazy life.)
We stepped outside. “Well, you need to make sure you have a home church when the babies start coming,” he reminded me gently.
“Yes, sir, but there’s not gonna be any babies. We still need to go. If we ever got started back, we’d be better off.”
He started telling me about his wife being back in the hospital. We chatted for a minute by his old Ford. He is one of the ones I love, & I’m not sure how much longer I’ll get to love him.
Then I was waiting on David Sarten, aka “Nugget” for his nuggets of wisdom, when I realized my shirt was on inside out. Looks like I need someone to hold me accountable for what I put on as much as I need steered back into church.
