>You Know?

“I watched this movie, you know…”

I’ve come to realize that “you know” is anyone within listening distance. Sometimes, “you know” is his Dad. More often than not, it’s me.

We’re in a car. My son is strapped in on the right side of the backseat. Occasionally, his breath bends around the headrest into my hair. He balances a cardboard tray of medium-sized sodas on his thigh pads. We stopped for burgers after the game.

“And this guy was in college. And he made, like, really good grades, and he was the captain of the football team, and he killed himself.”

The smell of things fried in oil that had already fried many other things wafted up from the floorboard where the bag of burgers warmed the insides of both my ankles. I remained silent while reaching down to make sure the top of the bag was folded closed.

“They tried to help him. I mean, you know, he wasn’t acting like himself and his friends were like, “Hey are you ok?”, and he said yes, but they knew he was depressed so they tried to help, but it was too late, and he hung himself.”

The night is cool. The windows are down. He raises his voice in competition.

“They didn’t believe him, you know.”

Realizing he addressed me directly, I respond with an equally loud “Uh-huh..”

“They told him “Oh, you’ll be alright.”, and they, like, patted him on the back and stuff, and they just left him in his room, and then they found him and he had hung himself.”

I allow for several seconds of windy silence before speaking.

“That’s pretty common, actually.”, I begin. “You take someone like Carlton, on your football team. He’s a great student and a star athlete. It’s hard to imagine he has any problems.”

“I was like that.” The words come out in a rush. He isn’t done yet.

“I was like that last year in basketball and baseball. Everyone thinks you’re so great and you’re such a great player and they think you make really good grades and everything, and I was having a hard time. And, I didn’t want to tell you ‘cause I knew you’d be disappointed and so I hid it all through Christmas. And then, at Christmas, I got everything I wanted and more, and I felt so bad. And, I was going to tell you then, but I couldn’t. And then you got the report card, and you saw the C’s, and you, like, grounded me and stuff.” He pauses, giving us both a chance to catch our breath.

“And you know the funny thing? I was so glad! I felt so much better when you did that, you know?”

Yeah, I know.

>Not Fit To Be Around

I’m surly when I’m sick. I don’t whine. I’m not demanding. I’m surly.

I don’t know if there is such a thing as a Southern Dictionary, but if there isn’t there ought to be. For my purposes, let’s pretend.

If you looked up “surly” in the Southern Dictionary, the word would be defined as “not fit to be around.” And, while I don’t remember hearing my mother use the word “surly”, she threw the definition around quite a bit. And, not just when we were sick…

Bad behavior would get a “not fit to be around”, as would poor hygiene. And anyone who “pitched a fit”, was definitely “not fit to be around”.

Demonstrating our unfit status, she required us to spend sick days in our bedrooms; in the bed with the lights out, creating a strangely comforting atmosphere, almost like another layer of blanket.

After successfully seeing my sisters off to school, mother eased my bedroom door open. Light in the hall glinted off a chrome television stand as she attempted to navigate shag carpeting. As long as I didn’t move, her progress continued quietly, albeit slowly. If I so much as opened an eye though, she burst forth with a string of whispered epithets that seemingly propelled the stand over the bumpy surface. She plugged it in. She turned it on, and after several seconds, the tiny light in the middle of the screen burst open to reveal Bob Barker and “The Price Is Right”. It was never anything different. It was as though he waited for my mother to plug him in. I dozed as buzzers buzzed, wheels spun, and curtains opened. “But wait, Bob! That’s not all!”

The next time I saw her, my mother held my lunch tray. Lunch was always chicken noodle soup and saltines. And, no matter what ailment waylaid us, we drank ginger ale. The only other time I ever had ginger ale was in the Shirley Temples I was allowed to order with my birthday dinner. Ginger ale became important.

The sound of my sisters’ excited voices accompanied blinding sunlight splitting the curtains. The room grew warmer. I shucked blankets, wishing for a break in their footfalls, a hand on the doorknob. Their voices faded as they dispersed.

Smells of supper seeped under the crack between my bedroom door and the floor. I could always tell what she was cooking. I could also tell it was time for Dad to come home.

He always stopped. He opened the door with his shoulder, his head turned in the other direction. He slipped inside, closing the door softly behind him. His weight on the edge of my bed pulled me towards him.

“Well!” To this day, he starts many sentences with a hearty “well”.

“How’s my girl?” Awkwardly, he stroked my hair from my forehead.

“Okay,”, I squirmed, delighted at the attention and unable to contain a smile that might be interpreted as a “Get Out Of Jail Free” card. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be sprung.

He answered my word with a pat to my head and a “Good”, before turning to leave the way he had come.

I continue my mother’s tradition with my own kids. A sick day means a day spent in the bedroom. Wheeling in the television would be much easier over hardwood floors, but I don’t have to. The television is always there, behind the doors of an imposing armoire, and the remote control is within easy reach. What with all we’ve learned about food in the last forty years, I’ve altered the sickroom menu by substituting broth for soup and foregoing crackers altogether. Perhaps some nice yogurt if you’re still hungry?

And, no matter how much time passes, nothing pacifies me as well as a darkened room and a softly playing television.

Don’t open the door unless you’ve got food.

>Sorry, We’re Closed

“El Porton” sat a little off the beaten path. You didn’t stop there on your way to somewhere else. You went there. It wasn’t my first choice for Mexican food. My first choice was “Fajitas”. But “Fajitas” was small and situated just feet from a busy highway. Closely spaced wooden tables didn’t allow for the bulk of construction workers and landscape laborers who regularly filled the place. In contrast, “El Porton” was large and well appointed. Ambient lighting showcased the sheen on highly-polished, hand-carved booths.

Yesterday, I learned “El Porton” has closed.

“Eagle’s Landing” was a gift given to our community by Katrina. The founders of the restaurant resettled here, bringing with them their best Cajun recipes. They fashioned a restaurant out of a former bank building, leaving much of the interior intact. Large parties were often seated inside the vault which featured the original foot-thick, steel door. Formal white linens belied the casual atmosphere. And the food! “Eagles Landing” introduced me to barbequed shrimp which isn’t really barbequed at all. Instead, medium-sized shrimp are cooked to perfection in a savory, herb-infused butter sauce and served in a large bowl decorated with crispy chunks of fresh french bread. I found a recipe that comes very close. My family loves it, but it’s not the same…

“Eagle’s Landing” closed six months ago.

“Miss Priss” was a specialty shop that was everything the name implies, and more. If a man shopped there, he was sure to be tailing his woman, picking up hints as fast as she could drop them. Mine usually involved jewelry. The owners, two savvy women of a certain age, catered to a community caught up in school sports. If it came in orange and blue, they carried it. If it didn’t, they had it made. Over the years, I’ve been presented several variations of orange handbag. One is fur trimmed, one is quilted, and I have a straw bag for summer. I own a white scarf featuring orange paw prints. I have orange and blue necklaces, earrings, and bracelets. And, every game day, I don a large-faced, rhinestone-encrusted watch featuring a wide orange band. Serving as Team Mom, four years running, had its perks.

“Miss Priss” closed just after Christmas.

Boris is a crotchety old man. Many times, as I perused shelves of herbs and vitamins, I cringed while he scolded a customer who expected magic from a pill bottle. He titled himself a holistic healer, and I can’t argue the point. From herbs to soothe an anxious child to mineral management of mid-life malaise, Boris’ advice has served me well.

“The Herbe Shoppe” closed last fall.

There’s a Kroger less than a mile from my house. My buyer’s reward card entitles me to a ten-cent-per-gallon savings on Kroger gasoline, but I don’t use it. I gas-up where I always have, at a small convenience store just around the corner. The business is owned by an Indian family who, until recently, were always there en masse. Last month, their daughter left to attend Columbia University. She has a full scholarship and plans to use it to attend medical school.

Very often, when I go inside, her mother and father are the only people in the store. Both of them welcome me warmly, often with words I don’t understand but, we get by. One day I hope to take Geeta up on her offer of henna tattoos. Trailing her arm, or the length of her caramel colored neck, they provide a beautiful contrast to her Americanized style of dress.

I can’t help but wonder how long they can hold on. As I pull up to one of the antiquated pumps, I peer inside to assure myself they are there. They lack the flash of the convenience store on the corner, the one serving five dollar pizzas. And, they can’t compete with the prices charged by chains with big box buying power. How long will they remain a part of our community?

Because that’s what all of these businesses were. They weren’t just merchants. They weren’t just buildings filled with items for purchase or food to eat. They were people, people who’d invested in our community, people with whom we’d enjoyed a symbiotic relationship. Some of them offered items we won’t easily replace. Many of them supported community programs. A few became friends. All of them generated tax revenue, providing green space, parks and recreation, and emergency services. And they had families. Their kids go to school with my kids. We’re neighbors…

I hear it often. The arrangement of words may differ but the message is always the same, “Our economy is in trouble.”

And, it’s costing us much more than money.