The cousin and the baseball......

There was this one special older cousin. His two younger sisters were around my age and we spent lots of time together, so I was around him a lot, too. He was also very close to my mom and dad. He and his dad had lots of problems. In fact, at my dad's funeral, this cousin told me that he'd always felt like another son of my dad's. So, even though we didn't hang out together, we hung out around each other enough that we were close.

This tale is about that cousin, the park a couple of blocks from the house on Ave. Z, and what happened there one warm summer day. It must have been summer because I, along with other cousins, was at MomP's. We were probably watching that cartoon show with the bunch of colorful balloons floating in the air. The host would ask -- in a voice filled with anticipation -- "Which cartoon will be next!?," as the camera panned the balloons. Then, as we held our breath, wondering which color he would choose, he would finally pop one and a cartoon would be shown. Thinking back, I don't know what I enjoyed the most -- the cartoon or the anticipation of which color balloon would be popped.

But, back to the story. I guess the cousin involved in the incident was too old for cartoons. He was old enough to walk to the park by himself. That's where he was on that particular morning. Playing baseball in the park. Until he showed up outside MomP's front door -- standing next to a policeman.

MomP must have uttered an unusual sound when she went to the door and saw what she saw -- her trembling grandson and the neighborhood cop. That exclaimation must have drawn our attention away from the balloons and the cartoons, because in my mind's eye, I can still recall the scene at the front door. Viewed through the screen door, my big (football-star-in-the-making) cousin looked scared sh*tless, and the policeman looked freakin' huge.

I can only imagine what the policman saw from his side of the screen door. My slight grandmother, probably wringing her hands in her ever-present apron -- because I'm sure she had been interrupted from one of her endless meal preparations. And behind her, big-eyed and trembling as much as the cousin-in-trouble, a gaggle of little faces gaping back at him.

As it turned out, my cousin had been caught (along with some other boys) throwing baseballs at the park's arc lights. They had managed to break a couple before someone living near the park noticed and called the authorities. I don't remember what happened next. I think there was some talk of money to replace the broken lights. But once we cousins on the safe side of the screen door realized the offending cousin wasn't going to the electric chair, we probably lost interest and went back to the balloons and cartoons.

It did provide for the afternoon's entertainment. As the older cousin sulked, we younger cousins excitedly talked about what we would have done if he'd been taken to jail. We came up with all sorts ideas of how we'd break him out. We even went outside and used the huge crepe myrtle tree as a practice jail. A cousin, the smallest, would be pushed into the branches so we could try out our schemes. That didn't last long because the crys from whoever was chosen to be locked up brought MomP outside.

We soon learned that planning jail breaks was no more acceptable behavior at the house on Ave. Z than breaking lights in the park.

Godmothers......

Maybe it's the cold weather we're having. Maybe it's that my house is empty of children and their energy once more. Maybe it's the way the moon and stars aligned. I don't know why, but today brought thoughts of my godmother. Off and on all day. I couldn't escape them. The thoughts and memories that popped into my mind. I haven't seen or heard from her in years, yet she was here with me all day today.

In the traditional sense, the title godmother may have been used quite loosely in my life. I was told at some point in my young years that this strong, out-going, fun-loving, opinionated woman was my godmother. We were Southern Baptist, so I don't think there was ever any ceremony or anything official. Maybe that's why there never seemed to be any specific rules for her -- or me. She grew up with my mom and was just always there.

A., my godmother, lived next door to my mom while they were growing up. Just across the dirt road. A.'s house was a house of women. Three generations of women -- A., her mom, and her grandmom. A.'s house, like that of my mom's, was one of those big old houses that in later years lent themselves to being subdivided into separate apartments. And that's exactly what happend in A.'s house. Her grandmother, Ida (I still love that name) had her own rooms -- complete with kitchen. A. and her mom had their own rooms -- complete with kitchen. If memory serves, when A. married, she and her new husband started out in the same house with their own rooms -- complete with kitchen. One house, three kitchens.

Most of my memories of my godmother center around my early years. She was just -- there. She never hesitated to reprimand me. In fact, one of the last memories I have was when I was around ten years old. It was during that confusing period of months when my family and I moved in with MomP and Gindaddy. Maybe we were waiting on our new house to be finished? Whatever it was, it was a baffling time for me.

I was plopped down in a new school. An alien school, in a small town, with quite different attitudes than I was used to. Girls were punished for playing marbles and swinging on the rope that hung from the ceiling in the gym. Each classroom chose May Day King and Queens. I actually won for my room. It wasn't a vote-type thing. It was a money-type thing. Jars with contestants' pictures pasted on were placed by the cash register in local businesses. Whoever collected the most money won. My grandfather owned a local business. I never realized the power my mom's family had in that small town until then.

But, as I was saying, one of the last strong memories of my godmother was during that time. Girls in my classroom held Coke Parties. I had never heard of them before. They were held after school, girls only. All we did was drink cokes and dance to records -- very tame. On this particular afternoon, the party was being held at a girl's house who lived downtown. After school, those of us invited gathered and were walking through town with the girl giving the party, to her house.

As we walked through the downtown streets, all of a sudden a car came to screeching halt. Out of it popped my godmother. "Where are you going," she yelled at asked me. "What are you doing in this part of town?" I told her. "Does your mother know this?" she asked. When I replyed -- yes, she said my mother must be out of her mind, grabbed me (or, more likely, told me to get in her car), and off we went.

I was delived to my mom. My mom received the same tongue-lashing I'd received on the way home. I remember this because my mom didn't take tongue-lashings from no body! so I was very surprised when sparks didn't fly between her and A.. As it turned out, the part of town I was heading to was not one where I would normally have been allowed. To this day I don't know how it all transpired that I had managed to escape so far out of my comfort zone. I don't know if my capture was a blessing or a set back for self-discovery. I do remember how horrified I was at being yanked from the midst of a group of friends.

The rest of my Coke Party experiences were at MomP's. Under the watchful eyes of my mom, my aunts, my godmother, etc, etc, etc....