Blabberings

I just have a lot to say.
June 3rd, 2014 by celesteconner@comcast.net

And Now I Am 49

Like most little kids, all I aspired to be was 16 years old. I longed for it and counted down to it. I thought 16 was the greatest age possible. Even when I was older than 16, I would have told you that being 16 was as good as life gets. Oh, the independence and the freedom that comes with driving. And dating. And general flirting turned up a notch or two because of those other things. I swung my keys and flung my hair. As perfect as being 16 turned out to be, it got even better. My high school football team progressed week by week in the playoffs and eventually beat Carver High School of Birmingham for the 4A state championship at Legion Field on the first Saturday of December, 1982. The football players were my friends. Honestly, it was the all-out funnest year of my life.

A kindred spirit of Peter Pan, I wiped away a couple of tears when I turned 20. I was a little sad about turning 30. I grieved so over my 39th birthday that turning 40 was no big deal. (My friend Catherine still accuses me of partying every day for 3 weeks. So, what’s your point, Catherine?)

flocked!

The jealous Catherine flocked me!

Probably the hardest birthday for me yet was my little-big sister Starla’s 50th. I struggled with it much more than she did. “HOW CAN I HAVE A SISTER WHO IS 50 YEARS OLD?!” Starla was almost 9 years old when I was born, so our ages fall in the same decade only once every ten years.

After 16, my favorite age was 41, simply because I was the same age as Delta Dawn. All year long I sang, “She’s 41, and her daddy still calls her ba-a-by.”

At 44, I was pensive, since my daddy died when he was 43, and it’s just plumb weird to be older than your parent.

And now I am 49.

And I like it.

Generally, I have enjoyed being Celeste in my 40s. The exhaustion of the babies and the sleepless nights and the potty training and the little kids’ temper tantrums was behind me. Since my parents and grandparents had already died, I had that exhaustion behind me as well. Yes, I’d rather have a healthy-minded mama than a dead one. My point is the hard work of taking care of everybody and the Never-Ending Questions with No Answers were–as far as I know–over before my 40s began. (As Little Granny said, “Don’t nobody know.”)

Even with all that exhaustion in the past, life as a 40-something was difficult. Life is always difficult. But I like being 40-something.

I like that the older Celeste is not as quick to judge as the younger Celeste. I like realizing that everybody’s life is complicated, and I don’t know the answers to other people’s lives any more than they know the answers to mine. I like that I have learned not to raise my eyebrows and whisper, “Well, if that was my child . . .” or “What she ought to do is . . .” or “If he had only . . . .”

I like when I choose not to gossip. I’m not going to say I never do. As soon as I boasted that, someone would overhear me trash-talking a Beloved. But the desire diminishes every year, because I don’t like the way it makes me feel.

I like grasping that I ain’t no better than nobody else. I like not caring whether friends are white or black or poor or rich or skinny or fat. I don’t want to be friends with people who are selfish or angry, but that is their problem. I like comprehending that is their problem.

I like acknowledging that I am not the prettiest nor the most organized nor the best mom with the cleanest house with just the right amount of clutter to look like the children had a playful childhood and are not too stressed and WWWAAAHHH!!!! I like not minding too much that I am not those things. (I do like flaunting that my mousey brown hair with subtle highlights is real, though. *Boo-ya!* Or, as we said back in the day, *In your face.*)

I like not getting bent out of shape—quite as frequently—about things that don’t matter. Conversely, I like speaking up for things that I see as wrong or for people treated unfairly and not always fearing that I am hurting someone’s feelings by telling the truth.

I like accepting that the world would keep on turning without me. Hard as it would have been for the younger Celeste to believe, my church and my children’s schools would not have ceased to exist without my activity. I still like helping, but I like laying down the burden of fixing everything.

While I say “yes” a lot, I like that I can say “no” (when I can’t or don’t think I would do a good job or just plain don’t want to) and not feel a smitch of guilt about it.

I don’t seize the day quite so often. Frankly, I’d rather savor the day.

I am still judgmental and gossipy and competitive and controlling. But I am less than I was. Most days, I feel I am creeping in the right direction. I like me better, the older I get.

I don’t read my Bible as much as I wish nor exercise as much as I should. Really, those are the only things I regret leaving undone as I snuggle my pillow at the end of the day. I am rarely sorry that I didn’t make it by the grocery store or finish the laundry or—Heaven forbid—not have spent enough time on Facebook.

Even if I live as long as some of my King ancestors, I have less than half of my life left. To quote the wise Jerry Reed from Smokey and the Bandit, I’ve “got a long way to go and a short time to get there.”

As I cling to being 49 and ponder what being Celeste means at being 50, I’ve got to hunker down and hang on.

Two days after celebrating my 49th birthday, my son celebrated his 16th. While being 16 may have been my funnest year, I’m not sure that Phillip being 16 will rank nearly as high up my scale.

16!

 

 

May 29th, 2014 by celesteconner@comcast.net

The Road Often Traveled (or Time Well Spent)

The Conner Carpool

August 3, 1999 – May 29, 2014

 

Dear Carpool,

We have shared countless hours as we traveled a bazillion miles together along the same route from home to school to home (especially from fall 2005 to January 24, 2010, when the kids were at two different schools).

Chuck has always enjoyed taking the kids to school in the mornings, so you and I bonded every afternoon for 15 years. In the beginning, you shepherded the girls at Girard Elementary, while the little brother typically napped in his car seat. Then, the school zones changed, and I visited with you at Landmark Elementary and later at Montana Street, in the line that made the entire square around the block. I would work on my weekly Bible study lessons while waiting with you.

Remember when Emma told me she wished I would get a job, so that she could go to Extended Day and play on the playground with her friends whose moms worked?

Remember when Abby spent some of her book fair money to buy a little Cat in the Hat to hang from the rearview mirror, so my white Dodge Grand Caravan would be recognizable from all the other white Dodge Grand Caravans in your line? Remember how queasy it made me at first, swinging back and forth, but how I couldn’t take it down, because it was such a thoughtful gift?

Remember when a crying Phillip slammed the van door and declared, “This was the worst day of my life!!! First, it rained, so we couldn’t go out to recess, then I COULDN’T GET MY STRAW IN MY JUICE BOX!!!!” Remember how the girls and I held back the squalling laughter and pretended to mourn with him over his Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day?

Remember Gas Station Fridays?

Remember when Chuck got a new truck and sold my van and gave me the Yukon XL to drive? Remember all those curbs I jumped?

Remember how we listened to Miley Cyrus/Hannah Montana sing, “I’ve got the be-e-est of both worlds” on Radio Disney every day for the entire three years that the girls went to Carver Middle School? Remember how I thought I was gonna self-destruct if I ever heard that song again?

Remember that I brought Gracie home, too, and that she was the only one who would give me the middle school gossip?

Remember how the middle school girls categorized the other middle schoolers?

Plastics – The kids who think they’re all that

Paper Bags – The kids who wish they were Plastics

Normal Kids – Well, as “Normal” as middle school kids can be

Wall Ballers – The kids who are so outcast that they actually play wall ball at break or PE (and don’t care about the opinions of the kids in the “higher” categories)

Remember how embarrassed Normal-Kid Emma was that Abby was a Wall Baller?

Remember when the girls instituted the Boys in the Back rule? Remember how they hollered it every time Phillip and a friend got in the car? (The rule still exists today, even though the boys’ legs are so long that they tangle in the back seat, yet the boys have never thought to question The Word of the Sisters.)

Remember, “Sure, my mom will take you home. BOYS IN THE BACK!”?

Remember when the girls started driving and Phillip got to ride shotgun every day?

Remember how my autopilot went from band practice to Bradley’s house to home on Tuesday and Thursday evenings during football season?

Remember how I stepped out of the car and walked around to the passenger’s side each day at Northview High School this year and asked, “Do you have your permit?”

Do you remember all that, Carpool? I do. I remember every bit of it.

We’ve been a good team, you and I, for a long time. And now we’re parting ways.

I doubt I’ll miss you, but I will always remember you fondly. I sure am grateful that I had the privilege of knowing you.

Rest in peace, Conner Carpool.

Sincerely,

Mommy

The Last Carpool

 

May 15th, 2014 by celesteconner@comcast.net

The Long LA Winter

Perhaps this has been pondered before today, and I’ve missed the discussion. If so, please forgive and/or ignore me. I typically run 5 minutes behind, so I might be just be late to the conversation.

It’s not a complaint, merely a perusal. August is far too hot in Lower Alabama for it to be a complaint.

I noticed the brisk temperature this morning when I sent The Boy to school, but it didn’t occur to me until several hours later, when I ventured forth from my cozy house and was assaulted by an Alabama arctic blast. I turned around, went back inside, grabbed a jacket, and covered my springtime pedi with socks and tennis shoes.

My revelation was this: I think I know why the South is still blanketed in 50-degree temps on May 15, 2014. And I think it’s all our fault. Oh, we’d love to blame El Nino, La Nina, or even Al Gore, but the blame is not theirs.

Walt Disney is partially responsible, but not solely. Nope. I share the burden of guilt. And so do you. And not because we use aerosol sprays and drink out of Styrofoam Chickfila cups. Nope. We caused this long winter every time we sang with Elsa.

Elsa, the Snow Queen, created an eternal winter to fall on her country of Arendelle in the Disney movie Frozen. She ignited a blizzard that turned the whole place into ice.

Did we mourn for her people? Did we pause to think how we would shiver in similar circumstances?

No, we did not. Instead, we enthusiastically encouraged her to “Let it go. Let it go. Be at one with the wind and snow.” We belted out repeatedly and emphatically, “The cold doesn’t bother me anyway.” We smiled at each other and sweetly chirped “Do you wanna build a snowman?”

We wagged our mittened fingers in the face of an icy Disney princess, and now we are paying our frosty dues.

I am afraid we’re in for a chilly summer. I’m afraid that Olaf, indeed, will be a happy snowman.

Personally, I wish he were a puddle.

 

2014-04-06 16.45.08

 “Come on, let’s go and play!”

April 19th, 2014 by celesteconner@comcast.net

A Story about Angie, Daddy, and Annie Armstrong

During football season of 1971, when I was in 1st grade, the TV repair man came to the house and declared the black and white television “Unfixable.” Mama and Daddy had just finished building a house and had no money for expensive extras. So, we did without. The only memories I have from this Unfortunate Experience is that occasionally my friend Becky Byrd would say, “Did you see that on TV last night? . . . Oh, I forgot.” I played outside until dark. I guess my family actually had conversations in the evenings. Maybe Mama played piano. I know I read a lot as a kid. Back in the day, people saved for what they wanted. So, we saved. By springtime, we had enough money for a new television.

Good Baptists give to the Lottie Moon Christmas Offering and the Annie Armstrong Easter Offering. We post in the weekly bulletin how much our church’s goal is and how much we have collected. In GAs (currently Girls in Action, formerly Girls’ Auxiliary–for my non-Baptist friends), we learn about who Lottie Moon and Annie Armstrong were and why we give money to missions in their names.

Angie, the middle King Girl, has always been a Goody Two-Shoes. She cried in 2nd grade when her entire class at Selma Street Elementary School had to stand in the hall for misbehavior, and she “didn’t do anything.” She never once got “talks too much” on her report card. When the church started pushing the Easter offering, Angie told Daddy, “I think we need to give the TV money to Annie Armstrong.”

What was he supposed to do? How could he set an example for his daughters by picking “The Idiot Box” (as HE called it) over Jesus? We cried a little on the inside as Daddy put the money in the offering plate.

September came around again. Example or no, Daddy was not going through another football season without television. We went to Sears and bought a deluxe color console that took up the whole corner of the den.

Auburn beat Alabama 17-16 that season. It’s a shame the game wasn’t televised.

Easter, 1969ish
The picture is not 1972. It’s probably 1969. But it’s Easter. And we’re adorable. 😉

April 16th, 2014 by celesteconner@comcast.net

Aarrgghh and Ahoy!

I mentioned to Chuck that I thought a Disney cruise would be fun sometime. “Absolutely not,” his typical response to things not his idea. “Do you know how much those things cost?!” Then, early in the summer, the Ramseys told us that they had booked one for October. After we got the kids settled back in school, I asked Chuck where he’d like to go for vacation, which we always took during fall break. He said, “What do you think about going on that Disney cruise with the Ramseys?”

We were to sail on Sunday and drive on Saturday. The kids were out of school on Friday, too, so we had to spend the day washing, packing, and cleaning. Auburn High and Justin had a football game in Enterprise that night, and we planned to meet the Spencers there. Chuck had been out of town all week on business and was supposed to be home sometime Friday evening. I would have everything ready to go before we left for the ballgame. No problem.

Friday afternoon, I was up to my eyeballs in dirty socks and wet underwear, and I was beginning to fret. After I sent the kids downstairs to clean up the playroom, the doorbell rang. I stomped to the front door ready to shoo off neighborhood children. Instead, I looked straight into the eyes of a policeman. He rattled me a bit, because I thought he had come to alert me to some trouble in the neighborhood.

“Can I help you, Officer?”

“Are you alright, ma’am?”

“Yes, sir. What’s going on?”

“You called 911.”

“No, sir.”

“Someone in this house called 911.”

“Follow me.”

For some frazzled reason, I wanted to strangle one of the girls. The officer and I stumbled through the mess all over the floor with me explaining about vacation, my husband’s trip, yada yada, until we got to the trashed playroom, where every Lego and Polly Pocket was thrown in the middle of the floor. Suddenly, I was terribly embarrassed that he fights crime, and I can’t even keep my house clean. I threw open the playroom door and demanded of the girls, “Which one of you called 911?!” Of course, they were stunned. I looked around the room and over to the bed just as a little strawberry-blonde head sneaked under the unmade covers.

The police officer went over to Phillip and asked him for the phone, which he had not hung up and was still connected to the dispatcher. He told the dispatcher that everything was fine. I told Phillip that police officers are very busy people, and we can’t call 911 for fun, only for emergencies. Those were my words, but my tone was flustered and exhausted and humiliated. I told Phillip to look the nice officer in the eyes and to apologize to him. He refused to do it. If it were not for the presence of the law, I might have harmed the boy. I sent him to his room and coolly escorted the policeman out of my crazy house.

I couldn’t go into Phillip’s room until I calmed down. He was content in there, so about an hour passed before I remembered him and went to talk to him. He wasn’t there. Since the door to his room was closed, I assumed he was in there hiding from me. I looked in all the usual spots and couldn’t find him. I started calling him all over the house. Angry again, I went downstairs to see if he was with the girls. Nope. 

Now I wasn’t angry; I was frightened. Even though the doors to the outside were locked, I went out and called him. I looked in the van. Where else could he be?! At what point should I call Chuck and tell him Phillip was missing? I knew I couldn’t call 911, BECAUSE THEY HAD ALREADY SENT SOMEONE HERE TODAY!!!! Besides, that policeman knew how angry I was. I would have been tops on the suspect list. About the time I decided to panic, Abby hollered, “Mommy! I found him!” I went to his room where his sisters were hysterical—with laughter. He had crawled into his yet-to-be-packed duffel bag and fallen asleep.

After a not-in-the-schedule, hour-long visit with Uncle Buddy, we left for the ballgame after it had started. We arrived after halftime, and the woman at the gate made me pay full price for all four of us, including the kindergartener, who had practiced what he learned at school that week about what to do in an emergency.

That night, Chuck came home. And the next day, we went on vacation.

Disney cruise 2003

Sara Beth, 3; Rebecca, 7; Wilson, 6; Abby and Emma, 9; Phillip, 5

April 9th, 2014 by celesteconner@comcast.net

It’s Not about Mama

I’m not ready to talk about Mama. She’s been dead for 13 years, and I still feel like I’ve been sucker punched in the gut when I think about it.

You’re supposed to take care of your mama but not while you’re pregnant. That’s when she’s supposed to take care of you.

You’re not supposed to send your 6-year-old twin girls to spy on your mama on another aisle in the grocery store (even though they think it’s an adventure), in case she gets turned around, when she wants the independence of pushing her own buggy. She is supposed to be watching them.

You’re not supposed to hire a sitter to spend the evening with your mama while you and your husband take the kids out for pizza. Your mama is supposed to babysit, so the two of you can go out for pizza by yourselves.

The memory of the juxtaposition of your 2-year-old son’s mind exploding and your 65-year-old mama’s mind imploding nauseates you. Suddenly, you could tell the toddler a two-step command: “Go to your room and bring me your shoes,” while your mama could only now handle one at a time: “Let’s go to your room. Let’s put on your shoes.”

You don’t want to remember the exhaustion from listening to the two 1st graders read their library books to you while bathing the toddler and knowing you still have to undress your mama for bed.

You don’t want to remember the frustration of wanting a moment’s peace, because she always wanted to be beside you, and the only place she wouldn’t think to look for you was in your closet or behind the sofa in the playroom, so you would go hide there from time to time to catch your breath, and you could hear her looking for you.

You don’t want to remember the suffocation of having the weight of the whole world on your shoulders at 35 years old, because your daddy was dead, your mama was an only child, your grandmama was living with one sister (who had three elementary-aged children of her own), and your other sister was too far away for much hands-on help (and that still grieves her).

You don’t want to remember your self-pity that could temporarily blind you to the horror of your mama’s deterioration until you literally fell prostrate on the floor beside your bed and sobbed, “REMIND ME AGAIN ABOUT NOT GROWING WEARY!!!!”

You don’t want to remember her boredom and her restlessness, because she lost the ability to read and the attention span to watch a movie.

You don’t want to remember her fear of diminishing and her sorrow that she, who had taken care of everybody for so long, had become a burden at such a young age for both of you.

You don’t want to remember your anger at the Whole Awful Situation.

You don’t want to hear another person tell you how brave you were. You didn’t feel brave. You didn’t want to be brave. But she modeled bravery. So, what other choice did you have?

You don’t want to remember all the things you wish you had done differently, even though you know that she knew that you were doing the best that you could.

You wish you had been more patient with her as she struggled to find her words—at least in your heart, if maybe your impatience didn’t always show on your face.

You wish you could remember more times that you held her and let her cry and sang “Blessed Assurance” to her.

You wonder what advice she forgot to give you or simply ran out of time to tell you.

You wonder what treasured memories were stolen from you.

Even telling her grandchildren about the twinkle in her eyes and her smile that could light up the room and her laughter that was louder than your own causes a lump in your throat because of the way those things were silenced:  not snuffed out like a candle but dimmed a little every day like a gas light.

No, I can talk about Daddy all day long. But I don’t want to talk about Mama.

160819

 

April 6th, 2014 by celesteconner@comcast.net

Because He Lives

FBC 1976

At 43 years old, Daddy died suddenly, unexpectedly, and far too young. Mama married him when they were both 19. He was all she had known for 24 years. She had three daughters to finish raising (two in college and one in junior high) and their small business to run. How could she could she go on without him? How could she face tomorrow on her own?

At Daddy’s funeral, the mourners sang:

 

God sent His son. They called Him Jesus.

He came to love, heal, and forgive.

He lived and died to buy my pardon.

An empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives.

 

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.

Because He lives, all fear is gone.

Because I know He holds the future,

And life is worth the living, just because He lives.

 

The Gaither song was popular in the late 70s, frequently sung at the 11:00 am service at First Baptist Church. It was not a hymn, but it was worshipful enough for the old folks to like it–or not to mind it too much. At least, that’s what I remember.

For years after Daddy’s funeral, I hated seeing the song listed on the Order of Worship. I didn’t cry much then, since Mama cried all the time, but I couldn’t sing this song. Tears welled in my eyes; my throat closed up; I struggled to catch my breath. As the worshipers sang, I shut my eyes and sucked my cheeks.

Fast forward to 1997, Chuck and I lived with our twin daughters in Birmingham. Granny had just survived a quadruple heart bypass. Mama, an only child, had just received an “atypical Alzheimer’s Disease” diagnosis. While raising our own children, my sisters and I were laden with the two older generations as well. (As members of the “sandwich generation,” the King Girls were handed a hoagie.)

Starla assumed responsibility for Granny.

I assumed responsibility for Mama.

My pregnancy test was positive.

What should have been a highlight of my life–and it was–seemed an insurmountable burden. How could I do it all? How could one young woman take care of a mentally diminishing mother, two preschoolers, and a newborn?

The Sunday following the positive pregnancy test, “Because He Lives” was on the church program. I didn’t attempt to sing or worship or even pray. I grasped the back of the pew in front of me, intending to hang on until it was over. The pew supported me through the first verse; however, the second verse is this:

 

How sweet to hold a newborn baby

And feel the pride and joy he gives.

But greater still, the calm assurance

This child can face uncertain days because He lives.

I folded into the pew behind me. With folks around me standing and singing, I sat and sobbed.

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.

Because He lives, all fear is gone.

Because I know He holds the future,

And life is worth the living, just because He lives.

 

By their mere existence, babies bring newness and hope. Baby Phillip, named after my daddy, was a gift to our entire family during the nightmare, but he was Mama’s joy. He brought light and laughter to her gloom. He was her 7th grandbaby, and he was the reason she got out of bed every morning.

Mama died three years after her diagnosis, 17 months after my family moved into her house to take care of her.  Steve preached at the funeral. William spoke at the graveside. Chuck played guitar. Angie sang “There Is a Fountain.” Little Granny cried throughout, but she wasn’t really sure who died. Phillip stayed with a sitter. He told me, “Mama Nell’s dead. She got shot by a gun.” (Mama would have cackled loudly at her 2.5 year-old boy who found cowboy violence more exciting than dementia.)

My sisters and I had not asked the organist for any specific songs. We simply asked her to play uplifting music, for we were not dreary and downhearted. We were rejoicing for Mama that her struggle had ended, that she was whole at the feet of Jesus, the One who had sustained her in her agony and for many, many weary days.

And so, of course, as Mama’s worn-out body was wheeled from the sanctuary, as her friends and family rose to watch her leave, as her Beloveds followed her out, the pipe organ bellowed:

 

And then one day, I’ll cross the river.

I’ll fight life’s final war with pain.

And then as death gives way to victory,

I’ll see the lights of glory, and I’ll know He lives.

 

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.

Because He lives, all fear is gone.

Because I know He holds the future,

And life is worth the living, just because He lives.

 

I still don’t sing the song with the congregation, but I do listen and worship. I don’t cry through it anymore. Now I cry through “There Is a Fountain,” but that is a story for another blog post.

 

April 3rd, 2014 by celesteconner@comcast.net

Never the Same

Early in 1976, Daddy came home and said to Mama, “I bought something today.”

“Uh oh.”

“It’s not for us. It’s for our grandkids.” (His daughters were 10, 16, and 19.)

“Uh oh.”

“I bought that lake cabin.”

He had a wooden sign made that said, “The King’s Inn” and hung it over the fireplace (the placement of the apostrophe bothers me), and he and Mama set about teaching our friends to ski. He drove the boat, and Mama floated with a ski belt and held the skis together. They were patient. They were relentless. Mama would nag a reluctant kid to try until the kid’s only choice was to make an attempt just to hush her. And you might as well get up, because there was no quitting, even if you cried. Especially if you cried.

“How are you, Phil?”

“Man, if things get any better, I’m gonna grow hair!”

Daddy worked in the family business building church pews from the time he was yay-high until 1972 or 73. There was family drama that I was too young to understand, and Daddy left to start his own business with Mama as his secretary, office manager, Girl Friday: Phillip King Church Interiors. He was the middle man for pew cushions, baptisteries, stain glass windows, etc. His CB handle was Circle City Steeple Man. Most of his business was in Birmingham and Mobile. He received a letter from a pastor in Mobile asking for some literature. At the bottom of the letter, the man hand wrote “P.S. Are you the Phillip King from Pinckard? I used to pastor there.” As a matter of fact, he was. This man was the preacher who baptized Daddy when he was a 16-year-old new believer.

“How are you, Phil?”

“Man, if things get any better, the Lord’s gonna have to take me Home!”

Sometime in the afternoon on Wednesday, April 5, 1978, Daddy met with the preacher and his wife at the pastoriam in Mobile about redecorating their church. They caught up on Pinckard gossip, conducted their meeting, and said their goodbyes. Daddy walked to his Suburban then came back and rang the doorbell. He told the preacher, “Call an ambulance. I think I’m having a heart attack.” Daddy died in the arms of the man who baptized him all those years before.

He was 43. The King Girls were 12, 19, and 21.

Mrs. Lynn finally found me with my girlfriends in the bathroom at church, skipping whatever activity we were supposed to be participating in. Obviously flustered, she said, “You’ve got to go home; there’s something wrong with your daddy.” Angie was there, so we rode home together. Starla was in Auburn, and her roommate drove her to Dothan that night. Our preacher announced it at prayer meeting, and for the entire service, our church family wept and prayed together.

The Dothan High School Concert Choir that Mama and Daddy adored sang the Hallelujah Chorus at his funeral. Dr. Driggers played the brand new piano in the sanctuary publicly for the first time. Always composed, Dr. Marsh choked on his words once and stopped speaking for a few seconds to catch his breath. At the graveside, we sang, “Let’s just praise the Lord, praise the Lord. Let’s just lift our hearts toward Heaven and praise the Lord.”

Back at the house, Mrs. Andrews tore up the piano, and everybody sang and laughed. The frivolity angered Little Granny.

It was the most significant day of my life; not to diminish my wedding or the births of my children, but you’re “supposed to” get married and have babies. Actually, day-to-day life didn’t change that much. Mama continued to dabble in church furnishings. I went to the college of my choice and even spent a semester in London. I had a big ole church wedding. My BFF Earl Pitman walked me down the aisle, and Daddy King “stood up with me,” as he said.

We still own the lake cabin that my children and my sisters’ children like to point out was bought for them in the first place, and the King’s Inn sign still hangs over the fireplace . . . . However, life has always had an underlying sadness to it. Mama was never the same. She grieved for the next 22 years. I have no doubt that her perpetual grief contributed to her confusion and early death at 65 years old.

I am beyond grateful that I had a great daddy for 12 years. I get that. I grasp that some people crave to have for a few minutes what I had from conception. Knowing that doesn’t erase the sadness—that, of course, has eased—yet is always lurking. Chuck had to ask Mama for her blessing on our marriage. Daddy is not here to teach my Phillip to fish or to whisper to my girls separately, as he did to his own daughters, that each is prettier than the other and his favorite.

I have lived back in Dothan since 1999. Not a year has gone by that I have not heard, “Your parents taught me to ski!” My family lives in the house that Daddy built. (When I say built, I don’t mean called the contractor. I mean, he took 6 months or so off of work and poured the concrete and hammered the nails and laid the brick. Mr. Chapman and Shuck from King Church Furniture Manufacturing Company helped him, and a one-armed man built the stone fireplace.) We moved in to take care of Mama after she got confused. Mama was an only child, and Granny was still living. She moved in with Starla and her family for 3 years. She spent one year in a nursing home. She died days after her 89th birthday, 10 months after her daughter.

I enjoy something about every day. I let my children cry to me about a bad day, and then I say, “Tell me something good about it.” I can always find a silver lining. Maybe it’s an inherent gift. Maybe it’s my birth order. Maybe it’s because I learned about the preciousness and the fragility of life while still so very young.

April 5th never sneaks up on me. I always know it’s coming. But the azaleas and the dogwoods are blooming.

The Kings Inn

 

March 29th, 2014 by celesteconner@comcast.net

Reese’s Poop

Life holds delicious mysteries for mankind to dissect and debate. Often, we prefer stories for which the answers seem to be lost to history. Who built Stonehenge and why? Do Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster exist? Was Atlantis real? What happened to Jimmy Hoffa? Did Wilson eat the poop?

Wait . . . I better back up.

The Annual Lake Friends Spring Break Easter Egg Extravaganza didn’t begin as tradition. Most traditions don’t set out to be traditions. During spring break more than a decade ago, it was a just pretty day at Lake Eufaula, and it was too cold to swim. The three mommies had nine children under 10 years old. One of the mommies said, “I have some plastic eggs in the cabin. Why don’t we hide them?”

egg hunt with Phillip

Throughout the years, we have accumulated, broken, and lost dozens of eggs. Currently, about 200 mostly mismatched eggs reside in an old, large, pink plastic bag from Leon’s women’s dress shop at Porter Square Mall. In black ink that matches the handles, words on it boast, “If it’s from Leon’s, it has quality.”

While hiding the eggs each spring, a mommy finds an arrow that was lost the previous summer during target practice. While gathering the arrows every summer, a kid finds an Easter egg that was overlooked the previous spring. Scout the Labradoodle must be locked up while the eggs are out, because he likes to hunt them, too.

egg hunt 2

We have entertained a guest or two almost every year. Being our guest is an advantage, much as being an extra on Star Trek was a disadvantage. Odds were high that the extra on the Star Trek episode would be killed. Odds were pretty good that the guest at our Easter egg hunt would find the golden egg. Odds were astronomical that the only two stinky boys in our group would throw temper tantrums when the guest found the golden egg.

I’m digressing.

egg hunt without Phillip

One by one (with the exception of the twins), the children turned into teenagers. Two spring breaks ago, to make the hunt less childish, we held it at nighttime. We don’t have much outside lighting at our cabin, so the kids needed flashlights. Even the stinky boys thought it was fun, whether they would admit it or not, and were finally too old to throw temper tantrums over the golden egg–at least out loud.

One of the stinky boys, Wilson, is a middle child, sandwiched in birth order between girls. One or both of his sisters hates him at all times. For a reason no one remembers, it was the younger sister, SB, who hated him on this particular day. She wanted to play a trick on him. She thought it would be funny to put rabbit pellets (from Emma’s furry friend, Caspian T. Bunny) into an egg and drop it in his bag. (We always use high-quality Walmart bags as “baskets.”) She enlisted the assistance of her parents, who were mischievous enough to help her do it. Her dad was actually the one who deposited the poop-filled egg in Wilson’s “basket.”

After the hunt, everyone gathered at the picnic table to count eggs and to see what treasures they had picked up. When Wilson opened the egg with the poop in it, he wondered out loud what was in it and tossed it into his mouth. The horrified and thrilled crowd silently gasped and held back giggles as he chewed.

“How did it taste?” Wilson’s dad asked.

“Grassy,” Wilson told us.

SB tore into the house. The screen door slammed behind her.

Her mama went to check on her. She was terrified. Wilson was going to kill her this time for sure. He had eaten bunny poop, and everyone had watched him. He was going to be furious and humiliated. Her well-laid plans were much more fun to plot than to carry out. What had she been thinking?! What torture would she have to endure for this?! What paybacks was she going to reap?!

The Easter egg hunt was over. SB cried all the way back to their cabin.

This took place on the second Friday of spring break. The next day, the three families packed up, cleaned up, and went home.

On Sunday morning, Emma found SB at church to see if she was okay, to see what Wilson knew, to see what damage he had done to his little sister.

SB told Emma that Wilson was not angry. She said her parents told him of the plan in advance. She said they exchanged the poop with Reese’s Puffs. She said he knew he was eating cereal, not feces. She said he played along.

Emma recounted to me what SB said. Emma remembered how upset SB had been. Emma said, “I saw it. It was poop, and he ate it. They all made up a story to make SB feel better and to keep Wilson from being embarrassed.”

Did Wilson eat the poop? Emma says he did. SB says he didn’t. Tight-lipped Wilson won’t tell.

I can picture them now in a future old folks’ home, reminiscing and arguing about the details. Certainly by then, the truth will have been long forgotten.

Perhaps, the answers to mysteries do not want to be uncovered. Once the truth is known, the curious move on to other topics. No one talks about who shot JR anymore. We want Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson to solve another murder. We want Indiana Jones to unearth another artifact. We want the Pink Panther to be stolen yet again. We want Inspector Clouseau to track down the thief one more time.

Did Wilson eat the poop? I hope I never find out.

egg hunt 2013

 

March 21st, 2014 by celesteconner@comcast.net

Cheering in the Bathroom

Starla was a pee-wee cheerleader when she was about 5 or 6, so that would make Angie only about 2 or 3. I wasn’t born, so you’ll just have to trust my penchant for other people’s memories, or say I made it up. I’m fine either way.

It was Angie’s turn to spend the night with Granny and Granddaddy, which was always fun. Granny would let us play dress up with her few pieces of costume jewelry and her dressy shoes, which she kept in their boxes in the closet of the blue bedroom. (Her foot was only a size 4.5, so they weren’t too much too big for a little girl.) Hours upon hours were spent playing with large spools that she brought home from the sewing factory. But the pentacle was the closet in the apartment. It was large and oddly shaped with a top shelf big enough for 3 giggling sisters and/or cousins to have a clubhouse. Granny and Granddaddy didn’t have Squat, but the kids didn’t know it.

Granny and Granddaddy shared a bedroom but not a bed. Granny’s bed was a double, and Granddaddy’s was a single. The beds were perpendicular, meeting at the feet, so they could lie in bed and see and talk to each other. When one of the girls spent the night, we slept with Granny in her double bed. She would tickle our legs and tell us stories about The Monster and the Roachie Bug (the Roachie bug being much scarier than the Monster). 

At bedtime of this particular visit, Angie would not settle down. She talked, and she talked, and she talked. She said, “Granny, let’s go to the bathroom and do cheers.” This unusual request was acceptable to Granny, because she didn’t want Granddaddy to get frustrated, since this chatterbox was keeping him awake. So, they went to the bathroom and cheered. Angie had watched Starla cheer and knew just what to do. She stood on the side of the porcelain tub, yelled and clapped and jumped off. Repeatedly. As much fun as this sounds, Granny soon wearied of the cheering and took Angie back to bed. And told her to be quiet. And to stop wiggling. Angie said, “Granny, my head’s going in and out and up and down and around and around.”

Granddaddy’s name was Bascom Brown, but everybody called him “Bat.” Granny woke him up. “Bat, I think there’s something wrong with Angie. She’s acting crazy.” About that time, Angie asked, “Granny, can I have another piece of candy?”

Granddaddy smoked and coughed and smoked and coughed and made his own cough syrup with whiskey and peppermints—the pure sugar, porous peppermint sticks that would make that whiskey mighty tasty. It would also soak up the whiskey like a sweet, red-and-white-striped sponge.

“What candy did you give her?”

“I broke off a little piece of that peppermint from your cough medicine.”

“Gladys! You got the baby drunk!”

Angie soon was hard and fast asleep. She was not the reason that Granny didn’t sleep that night. Granny wasn’t a drinker. She was a fretter. Wouldn’t her small-town neighbors like to tell about the teetotaling granny who got the baby drunk?

When she felt sufficient time had passed, she fessed up to Mama. From the safety of the years, she loved to tell the story. She would wipe her eyes when she said, “Gladys! You got the baby drunk!”

Angie seemed no worse for her adventure. Although . . . some have said that in the springtime . . . when the pollen lies thick on the hood of your car and a tickle has settled in the back of your throat . . . if you follow her to the Little Girls’ Room and listen closely . . . you can hear her cough a few times and whisper, “2 bits, 4 bits, 6 bits, a dollar . . . .”

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