Knowledge

Judging by the color of them, the ceiling tiles must have been recently replaced. The walls, unevenly covered by some kind of plaster and patched in several places, unsuccessfully blocked noises from surrounding exam rooms. There was a screw missing on a panel near the ceiling that might once have featured a clock. The glass covering an innocuous aluminum-framed print needed washing.

I began to feel the chill of institutionally gray tiles through my thin cotton tee shirt, and realized the danger must have passed. To my right, viewed between assorted steel railings supporting the bed between us, the P.A.’s navy-pinstriped legs moved slightly with her efforts. Her shoes were expensively sensible. I admired her slacks; the hang of them, the color, the fine weave of the fabric from which they’d been fashioned. I wanted to ask where she’d found them, but worried I might not be heard from my vantage point on the floor beside the bed.

I considered getting up, as the floor seemed to grow colder every minute I lay there. I eyed my jacket, draped across the back of the ridiculously uncomfortable chair I’d ridden for the better part of three hours.

“You ok down there?” Her Midwestern accented voice carried no judgment.

“Yeah, I’m good.” I answered, making the decision to stay put for the time being.

The sight of his sweat-pant covered legs, dangling as they did, from a gaping hole in the ceiling, alarmed me. All sorts of maternal recriminations sprouted inside my head, and I kept them there, knowing he would consider me unnecessarily concerned, and motherly. I approached with pursed lips in anticipation of cradling the box of ornaments he would hand down, and was met, instead, with a rain of limbs. He recalls his foot slipping from the ladder he meant to jump upon. I remember a slow-motion, herky-jerky, free-fall during which my mind immediately began to catalogue possible injuries.

As my brain continued its seamless shift into “medical-mode”, I watched the way his feet met the floor and felt sure he’d done no lasting damage. He plopped to a half-sitting/half-crouching position against the wall. Raising up as I bent towards him, he held one arm with the other hand, and below that was something I’d seen only in well-worn textbooks. I immediately bent his arm at the elbow, in an effort to close the gash.

Surreally, images of pioneer women rending their skirts flashed across my brain, before training took over again, and I envisioned the gridwork of veins and arteries snaking through that part of the human arm. I had no skirt to rend. The size of the dressing seemed most important to me as I envisioned wrapping towels of every size around his arm. Discarding each of them as too bulky, I raced through the house in the direction of the rag bag. Grabbing the telephone on my way back, I dropped it twice, before successfully dialing 911.

I raced back and forth around him following, implicitly, the instructions given by the emergency operator.

“Do I have to sit here?”, he asked from his puddle of blood.

“Well…” I hesitated, conjuring something akin to a “scene of the crime” kind of vibe.

He drew his legs up to rise.

“No! Wait!” Seeing he was determined, I helped him up, observing, as taught, for any changes in his gait.

I planted him on a chair in the kitchen.

“Hey? Can you get my cigarettes and coffee?”

Complying, I placed them before him as diffused strobe lights began to play in the next room, and removed them as quickly as I’d lain them down.

“It’s not cool to meet paramedics with your cigarettes and coffee between you.”

After opening the door, I left them to their ministrations, tempered with cheerful holiday banter. They were good at what they did.

The house was quiet again. The lights continued to play while they settled him inside the rig. I took the puppy out to feed him.

An insistent rapping against glass caught my attention and I fixed my expression on my way to meet the curious neighbors I’d been expecting. Robert lives next door.

“Yeah…” The word was jovial, coming from my smile.

“Uh, look, he wants to ask you something.” This was not what I had expected. “You know, I was just coming to make sure you were alright, and he stopped me. He wants some things from the bedside table, and he wants to ask you something.”

“Ok…thanks.”

“Let me know if you need anything…”

They had him strapped onto the gurney under very bright lights. He wore the grin that always means “I need you but you’re not going to like it.”

“Did you know that if I don’t ride, there’s no charge?”

I looked at the paramedic manning the door.

“Really?”

He inclined his head.

“Yep. Joe here’s not even gonna ride in back with him. He’s only a 3 out of 3. I mean if he’d been a 10 out of 10…but he’s only a 3 out of 3.” There was a hint of apology in his voice.

I marveled, silently, at the notion that the fuel required to drive a person to the hospital had more value than medical services rendered on site, before looking again into the jarringly bright light.

The grin had widened.

“Well, sure. I can drive you….sure. Let me get some things…We’ll take your car, you’re not comfortable in mine.” Most of this was thrown over my shoulder as I hurried back inside.

“God! You just seem miserable! You’re making me miserable! Just go home!” As he said it, from his perch on a bed in the middle of a room that, at least gave the look of being sterile, he turned his head away slightly.

“You know? Here’s the thing. It’s a problem of too much knowledge. It’s knowing that while we’re in here for hour upon hour, they are out there talking about what they served for Thanksgiving and flirting with the maintenance man they called to fix a drawer that won’t open, and they don’t care. It’s just a job, you know? I mean, they don’t mean to be disrespectful, but it’s just like you in your office. You visit right? You walk down the hall and talk to Chris or Steve, right? And you think nothing of it. It doesn’t matter that you’ve got reports on your desk that need editing. You’re bored. You walk down the hall. It’s the same here. And most people don’t know it, but I do, and I just want to go out there and say “Hey! I had plans here! My son is away for four days and I had plans tonight! This was supposed to be my night! Can we hurry things up here? Can you flirt with the guy from maintenance tomorrow maybe?”” Spent, I stopped.

Save for the sounds of a lift being pushed on a bed next door, and the beeps from a portable x-ray unit, and the sound of high heels on tile, and a rough-hewn voice that sounded like a maintenance man’s calling playfully, “Hey, come here!”, it was silent inside the room until the P.A. stepped inside.

After introducing herself she set about gathering supplies and began her work; the picture of kind efficiency. Holding a vial containing clear colored liquid over her head, she inserted a needle of some proportion, explaining that the lidocaine would “deaden the area”. I saw his sharp intake of breath as the needle disappeared behind his body and felt expected to do something. Averting my eyes as I approached the bed, I took his other hand.

“Here, squeeze this.”

I stood, and he squeezed for several minutes, before the back of my knees began to tingle. I bent them slightly as taught in chorus so many years ago and focused on an array of buttons set in the opposite wall. The buttons, and even the wall, itself, became cloudy and I attempted to will it away by blinking. When I realized I could no longer hear the cheerfully kind banter of the P.A., I patted his hand, explaining I should sit down. As I struggled with consciousness, I remembered the coolness of a tile floor, and I climbed off my chair, hoping no one would notice.

Rain sheared across the windshield as I struggled to make out faded lines in the road.

“What was that about?” His speech still carried Dilaudid. “You were a nurse!”

“Now, you know.”

“What? What do I know?”

“You know the real reason I didn’t want to come.”

“But you were a nurse! You saw things like that all the time! How did you do it?”

“It’s different…when the outcome affects the picture you carry in your head, of your life.”

We rode in silence for several minutes before he spoke again.

“Did I imagine it, or did you tie a dust-rag around my arm?”

“So from the beginning the fight we were winning…”

We are not, generally speaking, a family of tradition…

Quilts and afghans, created by my great-grandmother, out of a sense of need rather than an expression of creativity, draped the top of a battered box of castaways, labeled for curb-side pick up. Decades-old ceramic dinner plates, depicting a green-hued scene of men in powdered wigs and frock-coats, were discarded as soon as the cardboard box containing geometrically patterned stoneware was opened. My favorite jelly glass, the one depicting Fred Flintstone piloting his ragtop, is gone.

For years, we shared holiday dinners with a family of Chicagoan transplants, who preferred butter over margarine, and felt like pickled peaches were a viable food choice. Until, we didn’t.

Understandably, I was flummoxed, when upon herding my burgeoning family around the massive, dark-stained dining table of my youth, a request was made for a show of gratitude. One-by-one, each anticipatory diner rattled off an item for thanksgiving. A furtive glance told me I was fourth in line. My mind fractured; one side struggled with personal performance, while the other hoped my children wouldn’t embarrass me, or, worse yet, themselves. Blessedly, we all managed to extrapolate an acceptable offering, and I made a mental note to never come unprepared, again.

For several years, we took our seats and racked our brains, as steam wafted off the stuffing. Until, we didn’t.

Today, as I danced about my kitchen to a soundtrack only I could hear, I adjusted my earphones with one hand, stirred a cheese sauce with the other, and found myself wishing someone would ask the question. For once; I am prepared.

This has not been an easy year for me. In March, I lost my best friend. He had red hair, and a goofy smile, and, as far as he was concerned, the sun rose, and set, in my eyes. He died peacefully; but, he died. Hundreds of dollars spent to insure his comfort afforded me little solace as I stood over him, willing that breath not be his last.

Two of my sons lost their jobs, and their home, in one fell swoop. For a mother, it doesn’t get any harder than this. The fact that their change of fate was hastened by a cherished family member only sweetened the blow….

I began work as a hospice volunteer this year. Within two months of my first visit I had lost two patients. Death is not an easy thing to see. “Natural causes” render a person to a most unnatural state.

Personally, I continue to ride a roller coaster I seem to have ridden so long, that the foam-enhanced seats carry a permanent imprint of my ass. And still, I grab the roll bar, finger rusty metal exposed by fidgeting fingers chipping paint, roll my lips back, and meet the rushing wind, helter-skelter.

And..it’s alright….

The roller coaster is mine to ride, or not. No matter how many times I stand on queue to ride it, it always stops. Sooner, or later, it rolls to a stop, laden with fading screams; and, as I dismount, it is my decision whether or not to rejoin the queue.

After two months of ambivalent effort, I took a leave of absence from hospice work. I have only one patient of the original three, and, some days, I am sure she will outlive me. As I stop to focus on other things, I pray she will know me upon my return.

Both of my sons found new careers. One is happy, and one, his mother’s son, works hard at it, every day.

And, tomorrow, Murphy comes to live with me. He won’t be Otis. He couldn’t be. But, he might be my best friend.

Twelve years ago, I was handed a prescription for anti-depressants, which I immediately filled with all the enormity the diminutive, curly-locked doctor imported.

“Bad” days became less bad.

“Good” days, became colorless.

I’ve tried, many times, to handle life on my own terms, only to find her overbearing…until I didn’t.

He Said, She Said

He doesn’t so much sit as drape a chair; filling it with athletic grace. His head lies cradled in the receiver as he drags one sturdy hand through a day’s growth. His eyes squint, unseeing, as his own mortality supersedes the flashing image on the other side of the room.

“Have you thought about marriage?”

I push my hair behind my ear as I cross, hurriedly, into the next room. A familiar irony fills me.

My hand holds the same telephone, in the same room, in the same chair. My daughter’s voice comes through the receiver, and, as my hand parts my hair, I ask my question.

“Is this what you really want?”

Cold

The door opens on a blast of cold air,

and you.

A relative peace, bought and paid for, by hours of contained pleasantries, shatters.

You speak, I listen, neither understands.

And this is how it is.

Washed Ashore

Born into a family of blondes, she stood, proud and straight against a hand-drawn measuring stick on the wall. Chestnut ringlets danced about a face punctuated by chocolate brown eyes mirroring the mischievousness in her smile.

I fell in love at first sight.

I was an adult before I realized how alike we were; how her path had intersected mine too many times, and how those shared experiences had built a bond of belonging.

She was rebellious.

She liked bad boys.

She led with her heart.

Life, age, children, and too many days spent on uncharted waters brought both us to shore, in different places.

And, I miss her.

Three of a Kind

For Aunt Pat…

My grandmother favored woolen suits, even in summer, over stockings, and low-heeled, sensible pumps. Her perpetually brown hair was styled in a manner that put one in mind of finger waves from the 1920’s, and when she rose in the morning, two sets of crisscrossed aluminum hair clips rode her ears. Upon entering the kitchen, she made a beeline for the large, economy sized vat of orange-flavored Metamucil she had positioned over the sink upon arrival, and downed a glass before turning to pour a cup of strong, always black, coffee.

She visited us almost every Christmas, staying, despite our protestations for more time, exactly one week, unaware that the previous week had been spent in a flurry of cleaning, in anticipation of her arrival. It was the only time my mother did a complete overhaul of our house, from baseboards to ceilings. Despite our efforts, Grandma Eakes brought her own stash of cleaning supplies, with which she scoured the ceramic bathtub, thoroughly, before bathing.

My grandmother was a card shark. Rummy was her game of choice, and my sister and I looked forward to our nightly card games with relish, despite knowing she would, most certainly, win. While she studied the hand she had dealt, we learned about her life, as she spun tales of the “no-good” boyfriend she had dated for years and years, and her “young pup” of a boss in the high-end men’s clothing store where she provided alterations. The hands that dealt the cards had made her living as a seamstress for most of her life, and she would pass that skill on to her daughter, who crafted almost every stitch I wore until I was twelve years old. I, in turn, carried on the tradition, by sewing for my daughter.

Though frugal, she liked to window-shop, and took her granddaughters to the mall every December 26th. As we approached the ladies’ hat department, my sister reached out to touch the soft felt of a dainty black-veiled hat. At Grandma Eakes’ insistence, we began to try them on. As we surveyed our reflections, she came up from behind, “Oh, Laura, you don’t have the face to wear a hat. Now, Stacye….Stacye has the face for a hat. It takes a very plain face to wear a hat.”

The woman spoke her mind. When someone at the dinner table protested that my mother was still minding the stove, my grandmother reminded us that she “didn’t look as though she has missed many meals”.

As she aged, my parents convinced her to move to Atlanta, and procured, for her, a roomy apartment in an assisted living high-rise nearby.

When she forgot where she parked her car, they found it in her usual spot, and immediately sold it. She was in the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s.

When the bank called my sister, telling her that Grandmas Eakes had walked across six lanes of traffic to insist they cash, yet another, Publisher’s Clearinghouse check, she piled her children into the back of her Suburban. When she and the bank officers began to relate on a first-name basis, decisions were made.

Everyone, tenants and family members alike, knew what it meant to make the move to the upper floors. Each of us, together and apart, made the trek to her apartment and talked jovially while discarding mountains of plastic grocery bags, armies of carefully-stacked,out-of-date canned goods, and a year’s supply of paper napkins.

We made the move piece-meal. As I clumsily maneuvered a closely-packed, well-worn cardboard box between the yawning doors of the golden-colored elevator, I turned to make sure she was following me, wondering if she knew what was happening. The elevator rose slowly towards her new home, until the doors opened, to reveal a waiting octogenarian who had, apparently, made Grandma Eakes’ acquaintance.

“Well, hello!”, she cried gaily, removing the crumpled wad of tissue in her hand before offering it.

The aged woman on the other side of the doors, took the offering while meeting my gaze.

“Oh!”, Grandma Eakes, began.

“Where are my manners?”, she asked no one in particular, as she turned.

“This is my very best friend from grade school…”, and…

“I’m sorry…what is your name?”

I smiled my reassurance as she wrestled with her memory, unknowing that these would be among the last words I would hear her speak.

Weeks later, in my sister’s basement, I walked through the remnants of my grandmother’s life. The antique, brocade upholstered dining set I had admired while boxing up her life, reminded me of the juxtaposition it had presented inside her apartment, and my vision of her singularity at one end. It now sits in my dining room, well-worn, leaves down, just as she left it. And, a superfluous collection of embroidered handkerchiefs filled one drawer of her over-stuffed, pine-hewn dresser. They now comprise a quilt that, as I draw it over my legs, brings me warmth and draws her closer.

Changing Faces

I have been feeling my Mom lately.

It started last week when I read a question posted by a member of an online community I frequent about things we “miss”. I could blame it on the time of year, what with Halloween around the corner, but, for whatever reason, a memory popped into my head, complete with holiday cobwebs, and it has brought me comfort all week.

Every year, just before Halloween, my mother piled all four of us into her Vista Cruiser “woody” station-wagon, complete with backwards-facing rear seat, to purchase our costumes. Having four children now, myself, I have only just recently begun to appreciate her bravery….

Halloween costumes, at the time, came in rectangular, yellow and black, cardboard boxes with cellophane windows, behind which lay a cartoonish plastic mask, the hallmark of any 60’s era disguise. We chose a new one every year, but I remember only one.

I must have been about 10 at the time. After perusing all available selections, I chose what I believed to be the most sophisticated Halloween costume I had ever seen. The mask, behind the shiny plastic, portrayed a gorgeous blonde, whose permanently flipped hair and matte crimson lips embodied everything I dreamed to be. Underneath the plastic face lay a swath of golden nylon fabric, featuring black markings suggesting a stylish trench-coat.

I had never missed an episode of “Get Smart”, and my fascination lay not in a shoe that doubled as a telephone. I was fascinated by “Agent 99”. She was smart. She was sexy. When she spoke, her tones were low, soft, and commanding. She was everything I could hope to be when I grew up, and now, my wait was over…

We hurried off the school bus on October 31st, running as though darkness snapped at our heels. Waiting for Mom to finish cooking dinner was sheer, restless agony. When it was served, excited legs swung wildly beneath the table as we picked, and poked, and moved our food from one spot to the other, until the admonishment; “You have to eat! If you eat all that candy on an empty stomach, you’ll be sick!” Girlish eyes stole surreptitious glances round the table to ensure everyone participated accordingly. I was probably the first to declare, “But, sheeee’s not eating!”.

As darkness fell, and time marched on, Mom relented with appropriate scorn as we scraped our dinner into the trash, before heading to our bedrooms and the precious yellow and black boxes.

As I lifted the lid of the box, I noticed a corner of cellophane had parted from the trace of glue drawn across the inside of the lid. Running one finger around the corner, I attempted a repair before removing my new face to uncover my golden garment.

October chill warranted covered legs, and costumes were drawn over school clothes. I observed my reflection in the full-length mirror behind the door, and bemoaned the lack of stockings and stilettos for a minute or two, before sighing in resignation and heading back towards the bed, and the mask.

Exchanging faces, I carefully pushed my own hair up under the flimsy rubber-band securing my disguise, before turning once again towards my reflection. I leaned in close to assess my handiwork, and secured a few more natural blonde fly-aways. Standing back, I posed.

I must have stood there for several minutes, considering my new persona. I was blonde. My lips were full, blooming red, and accented by a Monroe-esque beauty mark. My golden trench-coat featured large, round buttons, deep pockets, wide lapels, and swaying sash. I was beautiful. And, my Mom called.

Jerking open my bedroom door, my Keds barely touched the linoleum as I entered the family room, and awaited the ooohs and ahhhs I could already hear inside my 10 year-old head.

My sisters gawked. I can’t recall their masks, but I do remember their silence, which was broken only by loud, raucous laughter.

I turned in the direction of the sound, to see my mother, in full abandon, bent forward, clutching her knees; her mouth agape in deference to her mirth. She moved towards me as tears filled her jade-green eyes, and uncontrollable laughter shook her entire body. Falling to her knees, she put her arms around me, and rocked me in spasms of joy. Every few moments, she pulled back, and, as her eyes fell once again upon my unmovable façade, collapsed again.

Finally, regaining her composure, she rose, and with a smile that shone through her eyes, looked down at me and said in a barely composed voice, “You’ve got to take that thing off; at least for now. You can put it back on when you go to the door.”

It wasn’t the reaction I had hoped for, but it was a reaction. It was approval. And, it was enough. I walked towards the door, mask in hand, and happy.

And, today, as I observe my reflection over a blouse of green or blue, that same jade creeps into my own eyes, and I remember…

Knitting, through crochet…

We closed the store at noon everyday, for lunch.

As the microwave whirred, Pat hefted a large, bulky, canvas tote onto the formica table, and, in flawless imitation of a magician pulling endless, multi-hued scarves from his sleeve, removed a voluminous afghan, or a bulky sweater, or an impossibly long scarf; each, a work in progress.

Lunchtime conversation was punctuated by the sound of a crochet needle clicking against the precious metal of her wedding band, as she regaled us with stories of her errant children, their benevolent, well-loved, father, or her demanding, octogenarian mother-in-law. Her voice was soft, slow, and deeply, deeply southern, and no matter which direction the conversation took, she never dropped a stitch.

I watched, in fascination, for months, before asking her to teach me her art. As it turned out, she knew only one stitch, but one was better than none, and soon there were two bulging tote bags atop the table.

My first project, an afghan for my daughter, was fashioned from the softest yarn, in a variety of soft pastels. As soon as I had draped all ten feet of it over her modest twin bed, I began again. This time, I worked in primary colors; creating bold stripes. The yarn was thick, and difficult to work with, making the afghan tighter in weave, and much shorter in length. As I tied off the final stitch, I searched frantically for another piece of furniture to drape.

Harking back to my past, when my mother displayed my great-grandmother’s handiwork on the back of our olive-green, vinyl couch, I chose, this time, to work in rusts, and browns, and creams. Final placement on the back of our well-worn, herculon sofa was tricky, given the oblong shape my creation had taken, but, if anyone noticed, they never said a word.

And still, I stitched. My youngest son was graced with my largest effort, to date, in earth-tones of heather, khaki, blue, and white.

Two years later, as we gathered around the large, brilliantly lit, Frasier-fir in my parent’s living room, I watched as each of my family members opened the bulbous, carefully wrapped gift I had provided. One by one, they extracted an identical cream-colored throw. The stitches were perfect, and the size, reasonable, as, time and patience, had provided an opportunity to learn. Each recipient cooed, sweetly, over my efforts, and I absorbed their appreciation with the surety that none of them knew the import of what they held.

Six months later, I stood outside my sister’s apartment in anticipation of meeting my new nephew. As my brother-in-law opened the door, I was assaulted by a chic sea of white, accented by large-paned windows admitting smog-stained light.

My sister sat, indian-style, on a rambling white sectional. My eyes searched her lap for a look at the baby inside her blanket covered legs. Dark circles under weary eyes did nothing to deter the radiance of her smile as she scooped her son up, in offering.

It was when she moved, that I saw it; the only thing of color in the room. As she rose, it fell in waves, replacing her body on the seat. The stitches were perfect, and the size, reasonable, and she did know…

Attitude of Gratitude: Our Home

In two weeks time, I had quit my job, applied to college (for the third go-round), received my acceptance letter, and moved my family back to my hometown. Whew!

The five of us shared a two-bedroom duplex. The morning I parted the drapes to see a worn, herculon-covered couch adorning the muscle-car crowded front yard of the unit across the street was the first hint that, in my haste, I had, perhaps, not chosen the best of neighborhoods in which to raise children.

Practicality reasoned that moving was impossible giving our subsistence on financial aid and a part-time salary. And still, on my way home from school, or work, or both, I often detoured through the winding lanes of suburban subdivisions.

One house, in particular called to me. She sat in a cul-de-sac at the end of several gracefully curved streets behind towering pines, as though shy. Someone had, regrettably, slathered her in brick-red paint, which explained her reticence to be on display, and yet she stood. In the early morning, a thin fog caressed the pines, allowing her some dignity. As afternoon burned, worn gray shingles bore the brunt of the heat and the pines cast long shadows on her weathered face. In the black of night, she shone, as banks of unfettered windows bore witness to the lives she sheltered while lighting a set of weathered thirty-year-old handprints cast in the concrete walkway before her.

We moved in 10 years ago. Renovation has been slow, but she has been patient.

A hallway bath whose wallpaper had begun to unfurl in complaint, was stripped, sanded, and painted in a textured, earthy brown. Thirty year-old mediterranean tile was salvaged to complete the room. It is warm, inviting, cozy, and welcoming.

My youngest son spent a week with his sister in a neighboring town. While he was gone, his room was transformed to reflect his maturity. School colors adorn his walls, and his love of sports and music is reflected throughout.

The browns of the bathroom flow into the adjoining hallway and the border above my head reminds me, “All Things Grow With Love”.

In three days time, my oldest son had transformed the rooms facing the street by swabbing crimson on the walls. I marveled at his carpentry skills as he measured and sawed through the sweat dripping from his Arian forehead, to create a chair rail for my dining room.

Covering the unfortunate brick-red façade took a little more time, but, at last, she is complete. Bathed in a rich khaki that compliments her brick, she sits gracefully on the lot, and Chinese red double-doors provide a ready welcome.

The yards, too, have been transformed. Tropical plants shade the patio while providing color, and outside the sitting area, an English-style garden blooms wild, and free. Farther up the landscape, our vegetable garden yields tomatoes, squash, eggplant, cucumbers, various herbs, and an assortment of peppers during the summer, and fresh leafy greens in the winter.

I loved her, on sight, and knew I could restore her to her original beauty and grace. She has returned the favor by cradling my family and providing a warm and welcoming haven for all who come here. This house has become our home, and I am grateful…

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.