Tag: memories

Sometime last century, No. 4

It’s been a while since I did one of these, but she’s on my mind these days.

I can remember like it was yesterday the first time I ever saw Terri. She wasn’t the first girl who ever sat in the Dodge Dart’s passenger seat when my brother picked me up from school during my fifth grade year. In fact, a couple of the former ones had been good friends of hers. It was a small town, after all. But somehow, she seemed different. I’m sure all his girlfriends were nice to the little sister who was encroaching on their time with David, but this one seemed more…real. Nice without being gushy. (I never did well with gushy. Still don’t.)

Her hair, in the style of those California girl times, was bleached this color. Seriously! It was long and straight, falling just to her shoulders. She would prop her elbow on the back of her seat, and whenever her fingers caught in her hair and ruffled it, the most divine scent would waft toward me. And her clothes were wonderful. In fact, maybe she was a little like the Barbie dolls I had just begun collecting. A life-sized Barbie doll who loved to laugh and could be not only David’s girlfriend but another big sister for me.

I might have some of the occasions mixed up, but as I recall, the first time she ever came to the house as The Girlfriend was on Thanksgiving. My mother had just had surgery but was determined to lay out the traditional feast. That may have been the year the turkey wouldn’t get done no matter how long it stayed in the oven. But it was definitely the year we knew David was getting serious about Terri.

Another time, on a Sunday, she spent an afternoon with us. Before I went to church that night, she took the time to sit with me and put my hair up in some older girl style–definitely something my own sister would never have done, because those were the years when I was the bane of her teenage existence. (Her name for me was “The Snitch,” and I deserved it.)

In due time, Terri and David graduated. He went off for his Air Force basic training. Our family moved to Alabama. And that December, we went back to South Carolina for David and Terri’s wedding. After a few days, they came to Alabama for a wedding reception, and then he was shipped off for an eighteen-month tour overseas. Terri went back to South Carolina, and sometimes she and her little sister, Jerri, would come visit us.


I have a ton of photos of her, of course, but this may be one of the earliest of just the two of us. I was around thirteen or fourteen, and her hair was back to its natural color.

Then David came back to the States–a lot of their classmates weren’t so fortunate. As family legend has it, miscommunication kept David out of Vietnam. My father was slated to go there, so the Air Force sent David to Okinawa. Meanwhile, the Army had information that my brother had been ordered to Vietnam, so they sent my father to Korea. Sometimes crossed signals are a good thing.

For a while after his return, they were stationed in Denver, then David left the Air Force and they moved to Alabama. Terri was pregnant. These were the days before you could find out your baby’s gender before it was born, so we all followed her lead and referred to the baby as “Goose.” Sometimes Lynne still calls him Goose.


Leaving the hospital with her new baby.


Newborn Daniel with Terri’s mother, Frances.

From the day he was born, I felt like I’d been given the most amazing gift. For the first few days of Daniel’s life, Terri and David stayed at my parents’ house with him. One night Daniel struggled to see me, too young to keep his head up but trying so hard that I swooped him out of the bassinet and held him so we could gaze at each other. I can still hear Terri saying, “Look at him staring at you. I feel more like he’s yours than mine!”

It wasn’t true–they were a great mother and son from the beginning.


Terri and Daniel.


Daniel and David.


Daniel with my parents, “Oompah” and “Grandmother Dear.”


Daniel with his Aunt Jerri and his grandmother Frances.

There were struggles–like so many couples who married too young with a war going on, Terri and David eventually divorced–but to this day, she says that Daniel never gave her any trouble.


Well, mostly. 😉 Daniel on the far right with his cousins Josh, Sarah, and Gina. Bunch of miscreants.


Daniel the kid.


Daniel the teen.

Terri always remained a vital part of our family: a sister to Debby and me, another daughter to my parents. She was in both my weddings.


Terri and Debby primping in the bathroom together on one of countless holidays when we all gathered at my parents’ house. There’s a twin standing in the background. That bathroom was huge!

Terri and my mother had a great relationship apart from the daughter-in-law/mother-of-my-first-grandchild thing. That friendship was a rock for my mother after my father died; they even lived together for a while.

Wherever Terri lives, I have always been sure of a safe harbor–a place where I can be me and know I’ll be loved and accepted–not to mention given good Southern cooking, the loan of books to read, lots of lively conversation, and a bed to sleep in. I have watched her cope with some of the same challenges that I faced when my mother got sick; Terri’s mother Frances died the beginning of this month after many years of living in Terri’s care. And I realized by the way my brother and sister reacted to the news that despite all our years of living scattered far and wide, and regardless of all the changes we’ve been through, we are still solidly the family we became on the day she and David said their vows.

Or maybe even that first day she came with him to pick me up from school. I love you, Tut.

They shoot horses, don’t they?

Though many others have come and gone, these two work horses have helped me study the world for more than half my life. I’ve turned my iPhone on them in honor of World Photography Day. All the crappy photos I’ve ever taken have been my fault, not theirs. I never took the time to truly understand them, but they’ve stuck with me in spite of a few scrapes, falls, and bangs along the way.

Mama calls…

If there’s anywhere in Alabama that still feels like home to me, it’s that town where I spent the most time, had such a rich variety of experiences and friends, and see a memory or a ghost everywhere I look. Lynne and I took a brief drive through Tuscaloosa to see what progress has been made on clean-up since the devastating tornados in April. A lot has been done. And even though I told Lynne that all the destruction I saw in post-hurricane coastal cities robbed some of the power from images of stripped, mangled, and downed trees, buildings reduced to rubble, entire businesses missing, and houses with those telltale blue tarps, I was wrong. By the time I got back to Houston and was able to look at my photos, my heart was heavy, not only by what we saw in Tuscaloosa, but in Cullman and next to some of the roads we traveled.

I shot this photo in Tuscaloosa’s Forest Lake neighborhood and looked up the back story today. A woman with her five-month-old was in this house owned by her parents. She took the baby to the basement during the tornado. When they emerged–safe–later, she found all that was left of her home: a baby crib, a kitchen wall with a refrigerator, and her parents’ piano.

This field used to be a church. All gone.

Poor trees, left naked and then cut without thought for their health and future growth.

And sometimes, in the midst of nothing, a healthy tree remains.

Family trivia: The building on the hill on the far right is DCS Medical Center, formerly known as Druid City Hospital. It was built just after my brother and sister were born. They were both delivered at the old Northington facility, which also offered student housing to returning war vets (my father and his bride).

Many houses wear this sign.

“We’re coming back!”

And even where leveling and replacing are more likely than repairing and rebuilding, humor can be found.

“Roll Tide.”

The first lines of the University of Alabama’s alma mater are, “Alabama, listen, Mother, to our vows of love.” When the legendary Bear Bryant was once asked why he returned to the school to coach after having played there as a student, he said, “Mama called. And when Mama calls, you just have to come runnin’.” Well, Mama–the beautiful campus with its stately trees and gracious buildings–is as beautiful as ever, and her stadium and surrounding streets are already busy, already looking forward. She will help bring life and energy back to the town, and just as it healed itself after a war and other disasters, Tuscaloosa will again be a lovely and welcoming home to countless people–as it once was to me.

Sunflowers

I’ve taken almost 300 photos in the past three days. I’m sharing them all!

Kidding. I’m sharing this one. The scent and heat and sounds around me when I took photos of this sunflower field were exactly what I remember from sitting on my grandfather’s front porch. In fact, I took a video just so I could hear it again, but I’m not on my iMac now so that’ll have to wait.

Imagine yourself under near-hundred degree sun with more bees than you’ve ever seen buzzing to warn you to stay the hell away from their picnic.

(Click here to view larger version on black background.)

From Canvas to Couture

If you’re interested in seeing my Canvas to Couture series that’s hanging this month in the original Barnaby’s Cafe in Houston, I have photos on my art pages. You can view the works by clicking this link. This series would never have come to be without all the support and encouragement I’ve gotten since I started doing the Project Runway challenges in 2008. Though some people might think I’m only “playing with dolls,” I’m awed at everything good that’s come of this project. I’ve been contacted by people I’d otherwise never have known who are bright, creative, and who have their own artistic passions that are often misunderstood. I’ve been accepted into an amazing community of designers and doll fans on Flickr. I’ve conquered my fear of sewing machines and taught myself new skills. I’ve learned again that creating can and should be fun sometimes.

Specifically, I have to thank the people who boldly took that first “Runway Monday” adventure with me: Marika, who had the idea; Mark G. Harris and Timothy J. Lambert, who also participated and whose work compelled me to keep trying to be better; all the people who were judges, particularly permanent judges Greg Herren and Rhonda Rubin, who had some laughs but (maybe to their own surprise) began to understand that what we did was work that required a lot of time, thought, and energy; and Lynne, who was always available to answer my dumb sewing questions and who rewarded my perseverance with my wonderful sewing machine and lots of supplies and materials. There are several people who’ve donated fabrics, notions, and doll accessories to me to help with the creations. Finally, I thank all of you who take your time to look, still, at my attempts to do the weekly challenges, and who comment or email me.

A shout out to the Art Elves who did all the tough work the other night at Barnaby’s: Y’all are terrific.


Tim, very focused.


Lindsey, taking on the back wall.


Rhonda, adding final touches.


Tim and Tom survey their work.


Tom gets a shot that takes in all the paintings and Elves–and me, skulking in the corner.

Button Sunday


This button was given to me by someone who got it from an employee of Morrison’s Cafeteria. It was part of a Morrison’s ad campaign, no idea what year. I share it because it gives me an opportunity to divulge another humiliating childhood experience!

I don’t know what the cafeteria was, but I remember my family going to one in Greenville, South Carolina, when I was around nine–my post-traumatic years after The Most Evil Teacher In The World turned me into a social basket case (thanks, Miss Wills!). I was overwhelmed by the entire process of cafeteria-style dining; having questions hammered at me from the people slapping food onto plates, unable to make my terrified responses heard over the noise. So when it came time to order a meat entree, I pointed at what I thought was some variety of steak. When we arrived at our table and our trays were set in front of us, my mother realized I’d received liver. She was none too nice about it, to tell you the truth, probably exasperated because she knew I’d take one bite and spit it out. But before she could make a big deal out of taking me back and getting me something I’d eat, my father graciously offered to trade meals with me. (Hero!)

It’s clear this event traumatized me not only because I remember it [number redacted] years later, but because it was almost a decade before I’d agree to enter a cafeteria-style establishment again. In fact, it wasn’t so much that I agreed as that I had no choice. That’s the way food was served in my freshman dorm. I had to get over it or go hungry. A girl can’t live off popcorn and Sunday night pizza or sandwiches from Uncle Andy’s Deli.

Still don’t eat liver, though.

Kind of adorable

I received an email from a reader who’s turning 25 today (July 31). He jokingly asked what songs I was listening to when I was “ten.” We all know I wasn’t really ten in 1986, but I will divulge what my favorite songs were that year (not that all of them were released that year; they are just what I was listening to). Happy birthday, M., and here are 25 songs I enjoyed in 1986. I think you may be surprised.

    1. Addicted to Love – Robert Palmer
    2. Amarillo By Morning – George Strait*
    3. Boys of Summer – Don Henley
    4. Broken Wings – Mr. Mister
    5. Diggin’ Up Bones – Randy Travis
    6. Everybody Wants to Rule the World – Tears For Fears
    7. Everytime You Go Away – Paul Young
    8. Grandpa (Tell Me ‘Bout the Good Ol’ Days) – The Judds
    9. Guitars, Cadillacs – Dwight Yoakam
    10. I Fell In Love Again Last Night – Forester Sisters
    11. KISS – Prince
    12. Kyrie – Mr. Mister
    13. Life In a Northern Town – Dream Academy
    14. Mama He’s Crazy – The Judds
    15. Missing You – John Waite
    16. On the Other Hand – Randy Travis
    17. Pancho and Lefty – Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard
    18. Pink Houses – John Mellencamp
    19. Small Town – John Mellencamp
    20. Take Me Home Tonight – Eddie Money
    21. Talk To Me – Stevie Nicks
    22. True Colors – Cyndi Lauper
    23. West End Girls – Pet Shop Boys
    24. What Have You Done For Me Lately – Janet Jackson
    25. Why Can’t This Be Love – Van Halen

    *To illustrate: He’ll be looking for eight when they pull that gate…

    In the kitchen: a lot of someones

    I’m a good cook. That isn’t bragging, because what I mean by it is that I have a few dishes I’ve learned to do well over the years. I can follow the directions of a recipe. I rarely attempt anything that’s too complicated, because it doesn’t usually end well. I’m a good cook of simple Southern fare, and fortunately that’s okay, because most of the people who come to The Compound table want simple Southern fare.

    I found myself thinking this morning that today, I cooked much like the generations of Southern women who taught me. I slow-cooked a roast overnight and put it in the refrigerator when I woke up, then added potatoes and carrots to its juices also to cook slowly. My sides of black-eyed peas and salad were done before the worst heat of the day set in and made the kitchen intolerable.

    I’d planned to bake brownies anyway, so since I had an overripe banana, I also put a loaf of banana bread in the oven to bake.

    Now it’s all done and I just need to do a bit of light housekeeping before I can shower and read or write or pester the dogs in some way (brushing–only Rex truly loves the Furminator–or singing to them, or withholding treats because they think they’re entitled to those 24/7).

    While I was cooking, I thought of my first husband’s grandmother, Granny. I’ve said before that I was lucky both times I married to acquire grandmothers, since my own died either before I was born or when I was very young. Though I remember sitting outside my grandmother Miss Mary Jane’s kitchen door while she cooked, I wasn’t old enough to be of any help. But as an adult, I visited Granny at her house in the country and learned all kinds of helpful kitchen tips. Every single Sunday she laid out a feast for her children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, including at least a couple of meats (roast, ham, chicken, game), endless bowls of vegetables, biscuits, cornbread, rolls, and an entire table just for cakes, cobblers, and pies. Granny did it all by hand and from scratch–yes, including her cakes. I would watch and marvel and assure her there was no way I’d attempt a cake without a mixer, and she’d hold up her wooden spoon with her strong right arm and say, “I’m stout.” What she taught me has become so ingrained that I’d have a hard time differentiating between what I learned from her, my mother, my sister and sister-in-law, my friend Debbie, and Lynne and her mother, aunts, and sisters. A couple of things I do remember about Granny: She would make a yellow cake layer in a skillet just like cornbread and leave it unfrosted. Her grandson called it “corn cake” and would eat the entire thing if she’d let him. I also remember that the secret to her mashed potatoes was replacing milk with mayonnaise.

    My father could not cook–he burned everything–but I think there was a method to his madness, because he’d much rather have eaten his wife’s or daughters’ meals. In his defense, he was a masterful maker of sandwiches, and no cole slaw I’ve ever had has been as good as his. Tom can cook but would rather not, so he mostly just gets stuck with steaks, checking fish for doneness, and cooking stroganoff. I dated one guy who had what I think are true culinary skills–he was inventive and intuitive. I still have one of his recipes for crab au gratin, but mine never turns out like his and has at times even been a spectacular failure, so I don’t cook it anymore.

    I would not trade all those times in kitchens with the women in my life for anything. I often wonder if young people now are so into cooking classes because they were raised in families where both parents worked, grandparents lived far away, and dinner was likely to be something that was picked up or taken from the grocer’s frozen prepared foods section to the oven. I think reality shows have helped encourage people to see cooking as something more than drudgery. I see lots of magazine kitchens with a computer handy for looking up and saving recipes online. Smart and efficient, but the other thing I wouldn’t trade are my recipe boxes. Whenever I open them, it’s like opening a door to wonderful memories. There is Mrs. Lang’s delicious sour cream chocolate cake recipe, way too ambitious for me to bake, but written in her beautiful cursive writing over several index cards that she ingeniously taped together to unfold like a little book. Cards for Toota’s cheese straws, Uncle Austin’s brownies, Aunt Audrey’s hushpuppies, Katie’s chocolate chip oatmeal cookies, Lynne’s rum balls, Vicki’s fruit pizza, Mary’s pumpkin pie, Mother’s pecan pie, summon up endless scenes of baking and laughing and arguing about ingredients and taste testing.


    The yellow box is my mother’s and contains a completely unorganized batch of her recipes. I leave them the way she had them because then they’re like clues to a life–what she cooked most, which ones got shuffled to the back in cooking exile. The green box is the one she bought me when I took Home Ec in ninth grade, and it got so full over the years that I had to separate some categories into that bright cardboard box. I could easily thin them out, because they include all the recipe cards I had to fill out by hand in all the categories assigned to us by Mrs. Woods, but that would feel like saying goodbye to a young girl who still lives inside my skin. I remember my mother rolling her eyes at some of the recipes I copied from her cookbooks–who, after all, is going to make chocolate pudding from scratch when there’s Jell-O?–but I was just doing my homework, not planning future menus (the point of the assignment, I’m sure). When I look at my recipe for chocolate pound cake, I remember that’s what I was making for a class assignment at home on the night I got my first migraine ever–the whole event including aura, numbness over half my body, unbearable headache, trembling hands, disorientation, and nausea. I don’t think the two events were connected, it was just chance. I was certain I was having a stroke or brain aneurysm or something soap-opera fatal, and my mother ordered me out of the kitchen to bed and finished the cake for me. It wasn’t deliberate on my part, but it was a move I’m sure my father would have applauded.