The Place Where My Heart Lives

It’s a desolate stretch of highway that connects western Georgia with Alabama. The stark white of concrete stands in sharp contast to the large metal boxes posted every few feet, affording stranded motorists a chance to call for help. Undecorated exits veer off endlessly and the occasional fellow traveler is a welcome break in the horizon. The time spent is filled with peaceful anticipation.
Perched on the same corner for over 50 years, the Smoky Pig in Phenix City, Alabama doubles as our “Welcome Center”. The small, concrete block building makes no attempt to hide it’s decay and despite it’s uninviting appearance, the tiny, crumbling parking lot is always filled with cars driven by those enticed by the pork-scented smoke billowing from the back of the building. Inside, the menu is mounted above the heads of family members scheduled to work that day. The choice is easy as long as you realize that each of the 5 or 6 items offered, including the cole slaw, will be coated with barbeque sauce. With a pound of pork and a bottle of sauce secured under each arm, we are ready to resume our journey.
Once out of the city, the roadways are old, narrow, and winding. Rural beauty peeks out from behind the mobile homes and barbeque stands that seem to line the pavement like rebel soldiers. Entrepeneurs offer “boil peanuts”, artistic tin renderings, exotic southern plantlife, and the usual used clothing and household goods. Even the putrid smell emitted by the paper mill is a welcome reminder.
The road widens into a “bullahvaard” as we enter Eufaula. Grand, stately mansions fill carefully landscaped green carpets striped with walkways. As we pass, each whispers her story. Soon the sound of hooves striking cobblestone and the whine of rusty carriage wheels fill my imagination. Silky hoop skirts swish over oriental carpets. A shadowy widow’s walk looms high above the house that holds her and keeps her secrets.
Miles later, as we pass the tiny, white clapboard church, I strain to see the totem pole bearing the names of those who belong here. Pavement gives way to granite studded red clay as we bump and wind our way toward the lake. Wild azaleas dot the landscape in varying shades of pink and purple and water birds dart and swoop.
The house is large and imposing, not really a cabin at all. She is surrounded on either side by an eclectic mix of quaint white cottages and sturdy metal buildings, all patiently waiting for their occupants to return. Dark and cool, the interior is decorated in circa 1970’s with it’s inevitable rusts, avocados, and golds. Cotton throws rest casually on the backs of chairs; a guard against the plastic cushions. The large paneled bar on one end of the room looks out of place until one remembers why we are here. The only rule here is that there are no rules.
The lake calls, glad to see we are back. As I walk the winding path toward the dock, she ripples in anticipation. Creaking, groaning, and swaying across the shore, I reach the platform that will serve as our playground. A deep breath fills me with all that I love about being here; earthy, sweet contentment.
Mornings are best. Cool fog blankets everything in softness. Rythmic water sounds accompany the birds, squirrels, and occasional stray dog laying claim to the lake. It is a beautiful sort of quiet that one not dare disturb. Steaming coffee and flannel provide warmth against the watery air as I observe from my plantation rocker on the screened-in porch. This is my sanctuary. This is where I worship. This is where God lives.
The rising sun spreads her warmth with a swiftness that always surprises me. As she climbs over the horizon, squirrels scatter, birds quiet, flannel is shed, and bedcovers become cloying. Wake-up sounds come from inside the house. The worship service is concluded.
Now is the time that memories are created; canoe rides that begin in fits and starts as the shore sucks voraciously at the bottom of the metal craft, catfish that fight mightily and then cry like newborns when wrested onto the dock, golden brown piles of those fish on platters and learning that the crispy tail is the tastiest morsel, flying high into the air and bouncing higher still with the next jump onto the trampoline, enormous quivering azalea blossoms dappled with dew, and a large, furry stray who smiles as he walks towards you and promises to always be your best friend.
Nights belong to the adults. As dinner concludes, the blender grinds, and children are settled for a welcome rest. Music plays and the fun begins. Rocking and laughing on the porch, we are lit by the reflection of the moon on the lake. Hours pass as we reminisce. Drink flows, as do bodies, in spontaneous dance. Board games are brought out and never finished. As laughs settle into yawns, we wander towards sleep.
On Friday, the ageless owner/hostess of the “Hungry Fisherman” shows us to an antiquated wooden table set with condiments. Year after year, the same faces take our orders and point with pride at the salad bar, complete with bagged salad and grocery store dressings. “All You Can Eat” catfish and shrimp, with a freshness that belies their setting, bring us here. The only change to the decor in the many years we have enjoyed our dinners, is the big screen TV in the corner. Having gone days without that convenience, the canned noise and colorful images it emits are almost welcomed.
As is always the case, we are happy to arrive and happy to leave. As clean-up begins, “real” life intrudes with thoughts of work, and home, and obligations. With the last towel folded, and the last bag loaded, I take one last walk towards my watery heaven. The sun tickles the surface and bounces against my skin. She promises to wait for me. Always.

>The Place Where My Heart Lives

>It’s a desolate stretch of highway that connects western Georgia with Alabama. The stark white of concrete stands in sharp contast to the large metal boxes posted every few feet, affording stranded motorists a chance to call for help. Undecorated exits veer off endlessly and the occasional fellow traveler is a welcome break in the horizon. The time spent is filled with peaceful anticipation.
Perched on the same corner for over 50 years, the Smoky Pig in Phenix City, Alabama doubles as our “Welcome Center”. The small, concrete block building makes no attempt to hide it’s decay and despite it’s uninviting appearance, the tiny, crumbling parking lot is always filled with cars driven by those enticed by the pork-scented smoke billowing from the back of the building. Inside, the menu is mounted above the heads of family members scheduled to work that day. The choice is easy as long as you realize that each of the 5 or 6 items offered, including the cole slaw, will be coated with barbeque sauce. With a pound of pork and a bottle of sauce secured under each arm, we are ready to resume our journey.
Once out of the city, the roadways are old, narrow, and winding. Rural beauty peeks out from behind the mobile homes and barbeque stands that seem to line the pavement like rebel soldiers. Entrepeneurs offer “boil peanuts”, artistic tin renderings, exotic southern plantlife, and the usual used clothing and household goods. Even the putrid smell emitted by the paper mill is a welcome reminder.
The road widens into a “bullahvaard” as we enter Eufaula. Grand, stately mansions fill carefully landscaped green carpets striped with walkways. As we pass, each whispers her story. Soon the sound of hooves striking cobblestone and the whine of rusty carriage wheels fill my imagination. Silky hoop skirts swish over oriental carpets. A shadowy widow’s walk looms high above the house that holds her and keeps her secrets.
Miles later, as we pass the tiny, white clapboard church, I strain to see the totem pole bearing the names of those who belong here. Pavement gives way to granite studded red clay as we bump and wind our way toward the lake. Wild azaleas dot the landscape in varying shades of pink and purple and water birds dart and swoop.
The house is large and imposing, not really a cabin at all. She is surrounded on either side by an eclectic mix of quaint white cottages and sturdy metal buildings, all patiently waiting for their occupants to return. Dark and cool, the interior is decorated in circa 1970’s with it’s inevitable rusts, avocados, and golds. Cotton throws rest casually on the backs of chairs; a guard against the plastic cushions. The large paneled bar on one end of the room looks out of place until one remembers why we are here. The only rule here is that there are no rules.
The lake calls, glad to see we are back. As I walk the winding path toward the dock, she ripples in anticipation. Creaking, groaning, and swaying across the shore, I reach the platform that will serve as our playground. A deep breath fills me with all that I love about being here; earthy, sweet contentment.
Mornings are best. Cool fog blankets everything in softness. Rythmic water sounds accompany the birds, squirrels, and occasional stray dog laying claim to the lake. It is a beautiful sort of quiet that one not dare disturb. Steaming coffee and flannel provide warmth against the watery air as I observe from my plantation rocker on the screened-in porch. This is my sanctuary. This is where I worship. This is where God lives.
The rising sun spreads her warmth with a swiftness that always surprises me. As she climbs over the horizon, squirrels scatter, birds quiet, flannel is shed, and bedcovers become cloying. Wake-up sounds come from inside the house. The worship service is concluded.
Now is the time that memories are created; canoe rides that begin in fits and starts as the shore sucks voraciously at the bottom of the metal craft, catfish that fight mightily and then cry like newborns when wrested onto the dock, golden brown piles of those fish on platters and learning that the crispy tail is the tastiest morsel, flying high into the air and bouncing higher still with the next jump onto the trampoline, enormous quivering azalea blossoms dappled with dew, and a large, furry stray who smiles as he walks towards you and promises to always be your best friend.
Nights belong to the adults. As dinner concludes, the blender grinds, and children are settled for a welcome rest. Music plays and the fun begins. Rocking and laughing on the porch, we are lit by the reflection of the moon on the lake. Hours pass as we reminisce. Drink flows, as do bodies, in spontaneous dance. Board games are brought out and never finished. As laughs settle into yawns, we wander towards sleep.
On Friday, the ageless owner/hostess of the “Hungry Fisherman” shows us to an antiquated wooden table set with condiments. Year after year, the same faces take our orders and point with pride at the salad bar, complete with bagged salad and grocery store dressings. “All You Can Eat” catfish and shrimp, with a freshness that belies their setting, bring us here. The only change to the decor in the many years we have enjoyed our dinners, is the big screen TV in the corner. Having gone days without that convenience, the canned noise and colorful images it emits are almost welcomed.
As is always the case, we are happy to arrive and happy to leave. As clean-up begins, “real” life intrudes with thoughts of work, and home, and obligations. With the last towel folded, and the last bag loaded, I take one last walk towards my watery heaven. The sun tickles the surface and bounces against my skin. She promises to wait for me. Always.

Concerning calves

I would be remiss if I didn’t share another story concerning my calves.
As high school ended and “real life” began, I embarked upon my father’s dream for me of attending nursing school. For a person who, despite making good grades, had never cracked a book, a career involving the sciences might not have been the best choice. But, I digress.
With the help of several older women who were “finding” themselves and 1 dear, gay man who provided comic relief, I made it through my first year of college. Year 2 would bring formal nursing educaiton and THE UNIFORM. On my commuter college campus, the nursing uniform was the equivalent of a letter jacket. I remember watching in awe as ethereal visions swathed in varying shades of blue and white moved from one class to another. Wearing a folded peice of cardboard proudly perched atop my head, I would now glide just a little above the sidewalk as I moved about the campus. Ah, bliss!
My first clinical assignment was to a medical ward wherein most of the patients were either elderly, chonically ill, or both. These people had assimilated the hospital experience and actually enjoyed the social mileau provided by the staff. Nursing students were particularly engaging.
I spent the morning attempting to arrange the stiff polyester upon my body. To call the dress shapeless is really too kind. Pale blue, with an enormous white placard down the front, held down by large, cheap, clear buttons, my costume did not provide the angelic feeling I had expected. I shopped for days for the large white shoes that would complete my ensemble. As we received our assignments, I struggled to pay attention as I studied the other girls and wondered if I looked as shapeless as they. I cursed my size 8 feet.
Clipboard in hand, I plowed down the hall toward my charges. With feigned confidence I grabbed the cold metal latch of my first patient’s door and pushed it open. A forced smile hid my discomfort as sweat trickled down my spine and “Don’t let me spill the urine.” played like a mantra in my head. The large African-American woman sat up eagerly in the bed as I entered. “Well, ain’t you got some pretty, big legs!” she bellowed.

>Concerning calves

>I would be remiss if I didn’t share another story concerning my calves.
As high school ended and “real life” began, I embarked upon my father’s dream for me of attending nursing school. For a person who, despite making good grades, had never cracked a book, a career involving the sciences might not have been the best choice. But, I digress.
With the help of several older women who were “finding” themselves and 1 dear, gay man who provided comic relief, I made it through my first year of college. Year 2 would bring formal nursing educaiton and THE UNIFORM. On my commuter college campus, the nursing uniform was the equivalent of a letter jacket. I remember watching in awe as ethereal visions swathed in varying shades of blue and white moved from one class to another. Wearing a folded peice of cardboard proudly perched atop my head, I would now glide just a little above the sidewalk as I moved about the campus. Ah, bliss!
My first clinical assignment was to a medical ward wherein most of the patients were either elderly, chonically ill, or both. These people had assimilated the hospital experience and actually enjoyed the social mileau provided by the staff. Nursing students were particularly engaging.
I spent the morning attempting to arrange the stiff polyester upon my body. To call the dress shapeless is really too kind. Pale blue, with an enormous white placard down the front, held down by large, cheap, clear buttons, my costume did not provide the angelic feeling I had expected. I shopped for days for the large white shoes that would complete my ensemble. As we received our assignments, I struggled to pay attention as I studied the other girls and wondered if I looked as shapeless as they. I cursed my size 8 feet.
Clipboard in hand, I plowed down the hall toward my charges. With feigned confidence I grabbed the cold metal latch of my first patient’s door and pushed it open. A forced smile hid my discomfort as sweat trickled down my spine and “Don’t let me spill the urine.” played like a mantra in my head. The large African-American woman sat up eagerly in the bed as I entered. “Well, ain’t you got some pretty, big legs!” she bellowed.

Super 8 Childhood memories

I realized today, as I traveled across Atlanta to share lunch with my sisters, that my past has become a dark cave. I am fascinated and sad at once. Fascinated, continually, by the swiftness of the process, and sad, because what I always feared must be true.
Growing up as one of 4 female children proved challenging for me, given that I have always preferred my own company to that of others, and I enjoy the company of other females least of all. Being the oldest of 4, only served to sharpen the challenge.
I never understood until recently why my childhood memories are so patchy. On the rare occasions I have sought to replay the images, I have found them so blurred and lacking in detail as to be almost indescribable. I listen, as my sisters recount the funny/sad struggles we faced as we experienced childhood “together”. While I appreciate the humor and empathize with the pain, the stories are new. All my life, the stories they share bear no resemblance to those that play in fits and starts in MY brain. I’ve often remarked that it is almost as though we were raised in separate households. I listen as they laugh at the absurdity of an event, and smile to cover my confusion.
Remarkably, my memories are mostly singular ones. I can remember sitting beneath an enormous oak tree whose roots had, in my mind, formed the shape of an equally enormous tortoise. Despite the fact, that by the age of 8 or 9 I already had 2 sisters, this tortoise was my best friend. I literally spent hours under that tree, talking to my friend. The importance of this tortoise, whose name escapes me, is obvious by the brilliant colors contained in this memory. It seems I wore a lot of pink. I can feel the hot Atlanta sun on my bare arms as I lean against the tree and absentmindedly draw in the sandy soil with a crooked pine twig while I pour my heart out to a root.
I also took great joy out of tormenting our really ugly little dog, Jo-Jo. My parents always proudly announced to anyone listening that Jo-Jo was a Manchester Terrier, and I’m sure he was but what he mostly was, was ugly. I have distorted visions of poking a gnarled stick towards his pointy little snout, and rejoicing at his growling. When tired of the stick game, the front tire of my bicycle produced the same results, to equal enjoyment. I don’t remember my mother ever discouraging my aberrant behavior, but I definitely remember her mentioning it years later at a family gathering, and I remember feeling myself shrink in my usual way under her tongue.
I can’t remember my mother smiling. None of the “Super 8″memories of my childhood include a smiling mother. That might be all I need to say about that.
My father, on the other hand, fills the screen of my mind, not with his physical presence but with his emotion and spirit. Strong words echo even today, “Remember who you are! You are a Howell, and nobody is better than you are.” countered by “Look at your calves! They’re as big as my thighs!”. Of course, they weren’t, and years would pass before I realized my father had chicken legs.
I spent those years, covering up my calves.

>Super 8 Childhood memories

>I realized today, as I traveled across Atlanta to share lunch with my sisters, that my past has become a dark cave. I am fascinated and sad at once. Fascinated, continually, by the swiftness of the process, and sad, because what I always feared must be true.
Growing up as one of 4 female children proved challenging for me, given that I have always preferred my own company to that of others, and I enjoy the company of other females least of all. Being the oldest of 4, only served to sharpen the challenge.
I never understood until recently why my childhood memories are so patchy. On the rare occasions I have sought to replay the images, I have found them so blurred and lacking in detail as to be almost indescribable. I listen, as my sisters recount the funny/sad struggles we faced as we experienced childhood “together”. While I appreciate the humor and empathize with the pain, the stories are new. All my life, the stories they share bear no resemblance to those that play in fits and starts in MY brain. I’ve often remarked that it is almost as though we were raised in separate households. I listen as they laugh at the absurdity of an event, and smile to cover my confusion.
Remarkably, my memories are mostly singular ones. I can remember sitting beneath an enormous oak tree whose roots had, in my mind, formed the shape of an equally enormous tortoise. Despite the fact, that by the age of 8 or 9 I already had 2 sisters, this tortoise was my best friend. I literally spent hours under that tree, talking to my friend. The importance of this tortoise, whose name escapes me, is obvious by the brilliant colors contained in this memory. It seems I wore a lot of pink. I can feel the hot Atlanta sun on my bare arms as I lean against the tree and absentmindedly draw in the sandy soil with a crooked pine twig while I pour my heart out to a root.
I also took great joy out of tormenting our really ugly little dog, Jo-Jo. My parents always proudly announced to anyone listening that Jo-Jo was a Manchester Terrier, and I’m sure he was but what he mostly was, was ugly. I have distorted visions of poking a gnarled stick towards his pointy little snout, and rejoicing at his growling. When tired of the stick game, the front tire of my bicycle produced the same results, to equal enjoyment. I don’t remember my mother ever discouraging my aberrant behavior, but I definitely remember her mentioning it years later at a family gathering, and I remember feeling myself shrink in my usual way under her tongue.
I can’t remember my mother smiling. None of the “Super 8″memories of my childhood include a smiling mother. That might be all I need to say about that.
My father, on the other hand, fills the screen of my mind, not with his physical presence but with his emotion and spirit. Strong words echo even today, “Remember who you are! You are a Howell, and nobody is better than you are.” countered by “Look at your calves! They’re as big as my thighs!”. Of course, they weren’t, and years would pass before I realized my father had chicken legs.
I spent those years, covering up my calves.