212 Avenue Z

Mother's Day at 212

2008-05-10T23:41:00.000-07:00

How do Krystal and Mother's Day relate, you wonder? Well....let me tell you. It all began on my first Mother's Day away from home. It was my freshman year at the University of Alabama and I had a date for the Saturday before Mother's Day. So I called my mom and told her I couldn't make it in but happy Mother's Day anyway. Well let me tell you -- all hell broke loose! My mom was an extremely emotional woman and the thought of one of her children embarrassing her in front of her sisters (who would most certainly have each of their children in attendance at MomP's) was something she wasn't about to let happen -- without a fight.

So I told her I'd be there someway, somehow. Nevermind, she said. If you don't care enough about me then just forget it, she said. Now. Keep in mind that this was back in the day. Back when freshmen couldn't have a car on campus. (Can you even believe it now?!) So I was pretty much sh*t out of luck. But, as luck would have it, one of my friends from high school was in a similar situation. And she was familiar with the Greyhound bus schedule. So we decided to sneak out of the dorm after our dates and after signing back in for the night. Yes. We actually had to sign in and out when leaving the dorm at night. (Almost beyond belief, huh?)

Our plan ran smooth as silk. Thinking back I can't believe we got away with it so easily. All we did was to go to the ground floor common area (after the dorm was closed and -- supposedly -- locked up for the night) and open one of those huge floor to ceiling windows in an out-of-the-way room and just climb out. Yep. No alarm system or anything like that. Ah, those were the days. Then we walked to University Blvd and waited on the Greyhound. Got on the bus and rode it to B'ham. I still remember how the bus smelled, but....moving on....

I don't remember exactly how it happend but we ended up at the Krystal just around the corner from the Alabama Theater. I think the picture above (borrowed from B'ham Rewound) is the exact one. I remember sitting in front of those huge windows people watching as I wolfed down those yummy little square burgers as a child. I wonder if it's still there?

Anywho....Mother's Day was just dawning and we were waiting at the Krystal for my dad to pick us up. My poor father. It wasn't until years later that I understood why he was pale with fear as he made record time across town to pick us up. He never fussed at me though. I think he felt sorry for me because he knew what I was in for from my mom.

And, yes. My mother gave me the silent treatment for most of the day. I returned the same treatment to her. I mean. My thinking was: come on now. I rode a frickin' Greyhound bus to make my way to her for the day and she was still pissed?

I don't remember but I imagine the day ended with us making up. And, then, my poor father had to drive me back to Tuscaloosa. Bless him. Not a word did he say to me in aggravation or anger. I'm thinking that Mother's Day was really hard on my dad.

Easter at 212

2008-03-25T07:22:00.000-07:00

Easter's over, but last weekend, hearing the screams from an Easter egg hunt nextdoor, my thoughts traveled to Pratt City and all those Easter egg hunts held there. Of all the pictures I have of 212, many were taken at Easter -- maybe because of the new clothes? Groupings of me, my brothers, me and my brothers, me and my brothers and various cousins -- all holding Easter baskets almost as tall as us. There were such good places to hide eggs in that huge side yard. Not to mention the cememt flower pots at the foot of the steps going up to the front porch. You could aways find an egg or two there, and you could always count on finding an egg in Gindaddy's vest pocket.

Maybe we were a rowdy bunch (as J. says) because I don't remember any rules about -- let the little cousins find some eggs or the little cousins can look for eggs here. Nope. It was every boy and girl for themselves. It must not have been too bad because I have only fond memories. (J. was an only child and only grandchild for quite a while, so....things were different for him. Like....if another child looked at him, his grandfather snatched him away. Okay. Maybe not entirely true [but close], but I like to kid J. about it.) Moving on....

There was this park in B'ham. Avondale Park. I don't remember it, but I have lots of pictures of me taken there on Easters past, when I was a toddler -- in frilly dresses and hats, standing next to a lake with ducks floating by, my dad bending down next to me, his arm around me. I guess to keep me from jumping or falling in? I remember hearing that the egg hunting areas were divided into age groups with prizes for finding gold, silver, and bronze eggs. But, like many thing in B'ham, times changed and people stopped going to parks. I guess that's when the egg hunts began being held at 212.

That's where the egg-hunting screams from my neighbor's grandkids took me last weekend. Back to a city that, at the time of my memories, was already headed in a direction noone could foresee, a direction I so wish could have been changed. In my own way, I understand when Obama says he can't renounce his pastor because he's like family. I can't renounce B'ham. It's part of who I am. And because of Obama's statements I may quit thinking when I say -- I'm from B'ham -- I must follow with -- and I'm sorry for all that crap in the past. I'm just gonna say -- I'm from B'ham and if you've got a problem with that -- it's your problem.

Sheesh! Maybe my family does have that rowdy attitude?

There was this house......

2008-02-10T07:30:00.001-08:00

212 was on the corner. When you faced the house, on the left was a smallish dirt road leading up to some small houses that were in back of 212 -- waaaay away in the back. On the right of the house was another dirt road (a different kind of dirt road, almost paved), larger than the one on the other side of the house and connecting to a street going into downtown Pratt City. 212 faced a rather large paved (but not busy) street. Across the dirt road on the left was my godmother's house. Across the dirt road on the right and up an incline were railroad tracks. The only other house within close proximity was at the end of the dirt road running along the right. If I had known of To Kill a Mockingbird at the time, I probably would have suspected that Boo Radley lived there.

That's how the cousins and I thought about that house. We were suspicious of it. I don't know why. It was not run-down, but it was almost hidden by shrubbery and small trees. Shrouded in mystery. I never remember coming in contact with anyone who lived there. But I do remember standing in MomP's side yard gazing at that house, imagining all sorts of unsettling things. When we walked to the small store right across the street from that house we'd always quicken our pace.

I remember a story one of the older cousins told. The theater in downtown Pratt was still open when she was growing up. One evening she and an older male cousin went to a movie. It must have been some kind of horror flick because, as she told the story, they were scared as they walked out of the theater. It was dark and they had to walk back to 212. She said they almost ran most of the way back, until they got close to that house. And, for some reason, as they approached that house they stopped, turned back to back, locked their arms together and (somehow) ~~waddled~~ walked by the house. I still smile at this part thinking how foolish they must have looked.

It's odd to me how there are some places and some people who just give me the willies. Often, as in To Kill a Mockingbird, those feelings have no basis. My grandmother had most likely just told us kids to keep away from that house so we wouldn't bother the people and in our quest for adventure we'd just let our imaginations run wild. As long as it worked, MomP probably never saw the need to say anything different.

And....speaking of To Kill a Mockingbird. I can't believe how long it was before I knew that Dill was modeled on Truman Capote. For the longest, I didn't even know Capote spent many childhood summers in Alabama. I didn't know of Harper Lee's importance in Capote's In Cold Blood. Kind of sad for a gal born and bred in Alabama.

Troubled dreams

2008-02-05T14:19:00.000-08:00

The house on Avenue Z, and all that happened there, played such an important role during my years growing up. I can still vividly recall the details of the house and yard -- more so than any of the houses my parents, brothers and I lived in during that time. Looking back, 212 must have been a touchstone for my mom, and I guess my brothers and I (and maybe many other cousins) felt calm and secure there. It was safe. It was a shelter. If things were rocky at home, we knew we could run to 212 where all would be better. It was more than a house. It was a haven.

As happens when time passes, neighborhoods change. It happened in Pratt City. During my college years the aunts decided MomP and Gindaddy should move. The house was old. My grandparents were aging. The neighborhood was declining. So a committee of aunts, one uncle, and several older cousins decided where my grandparents should move. I was away at school when the move occured so I wasn't involved, but I can't imagine how they went through the accumulation of a life time. I remember hearing that they had a local junk dealer come and pick up all the dark mahogany, oversized furniture -- along with those well-remembered chifferobes. The ones no one wanted at the time. The ones I would love to own now.

So it was that I never had a chance to say good-bye to the house on Avenue Z. I was so busy with my life that I don't remember being bothered by this -- at the time. But, as the years wore on things started to change. Time and again I found my thoughs traveling back through the years, back to Pratt City. And I started having dreams. Dreams about going back to 212 Avenue Z. And the dreams were dark and troubling. This surprised me because all my memories are good and comforting.

Here are the details I remember of a dream I had more than once: I was old enough to drive myself up (or rather down the street) to the house. I parked in front of the house and got out. As I walked up to the steps I saw MomP standing on the front porch -- smiling and waiting for me. I started up the steps confused because even in my dream I knew MomP was dead. When I climbed the stairs to the porch I saw Gindaddy standing in the front door. More confusion because I was aware he was dead, too. I walked inside, very confused, yet hoping it was somehow true, and thinking how much I would love to feel their hugs once again.

It was dark inside the house and I couldn't see well, but I knew I was trying to make my way back to the kitchen. Here again I was aware that the house was different. It was too dark. Too unreal -- sort of. But....I wanted so much to get to the kitchen. I was excited thinking how, maybe, I could be with my grandparents again in real life. I wanted this so much. I knew they were gone, but there was this hope in me that was so real.

The dream ended as I walked into the eeriely dark -- empty -- kitchen.

I have no idea what meaning to attach to the dream. And I have no idea why it chose this unseasonably warm, muggy, windy day to trouble my thoughts.

The cousin and the baseball......

2008-01-24T06:23:00.000-08:00

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......

2008-01-17T15:42:00.000-08:00

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....

And so......

2007-11-29T18:02:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting in the beauty shop today, making an attempt at becoming beautiful and the really sweet, but really odd stylist, is talking non-stop about Christmas. Christmas. Christmas. CHRISTMAS! She wouldn't give it a break. After about 40 minutes she got on the subject of worse Christmas memories ever. !! Of course, everyone in the shop had an experience to relate. Mine is actually a non-memory because I didn't know what almost happened -- at the time. It was related to me years later, when I had children of my own, and I still tremble at how my mom must have felt.

Here goes: It started out as a typical 1950's Christmas in B'ham, AL. My brothers and I had our picture taken with Santa at the Tutwiler Hotel in downtown B'ham. I think all the kids lining up to sit on Santa's lap was even televised back then. Chilly weather. Beautiful tree. The Christmas Eve call from Santa -- I never did learn who that Santa was, but I have my suspicious that it was my uncle. Then to bed to dream of the presents that would be awaiting under the tree in the morning.

Of course, that's when the work began for my mom and dad. Unpacking the boxes of toys that had been picked up from layaway at Pizitz and then carefully hidden at the family business until pick up time on Christmas Eve. I imagine my dad drove to the store and loaded our boxes -- probably meeting up with several uncles who were there picking up their own boxes -- and then headed back home.

I can only imagine the reaction as my mom realized that my toys weren't there. Not a single thing. So what did she do? Something probably unthinkable now. She picked up the phone and called store security. And....they answered. And....the security guy looked but couldn't find anything. So....he called the store manager. And....the store manager called my mom to ask her questions about how old I was, what mom had laid away, etc. And....the store manager went to the store, loaded up some toys and delivered them to my house. This was after midnight.

I awoke to the normal present-filled living room on Christmas morning -- never suspecting the ordeal my parents (and a certain security guard and store manager) must have gone though. It still amazes me that this happened. I don't think the outcome would be anything like that today.

How you know it's lunchtime at the beach......

2007-10-02T10:45:00.000-07:00

No need for a watch, all you have to do is sit back on your balcony, or lay on the beach and look up. You'll see the lunch specials of several beach restaurants flown through the skies.

I love the beach!

At the beach......

2007-09-10T20:13:00.000-07:00

I can't decide if my favorite part of Alabama is the mountains or the beach. This week J. and I are in Gulf Shores and memories of summers spent here while growing up are flooding me. I don't know if there was a summer when my family didn't spend some time at the beach -- summer vacations spent in the sand and surf from morning to night. And there were always so many people with us. If it wasn't another family it was the aunts and the cousins. Looking back, I was always in a group of people as I was growing up. Maybe that's why I now value private space so much?

So many of those summer vacations found my mom and her sisters (along with all the cousins) renting a couple of cabins at the coast where we spent gloriously long lazy days doing pretty much what we wanted when we wanted. Schedules were suspended. Then on the weekends my dad and the uncles would come down. For a couple of days sleeping spaces for us cousins were moved around and bubble bath and perfume wafted in the air as aunts and uncles rotated who was going out to dinner with who was baby sitting. More music and laughter filled the air when my dad and the uncles were there.

Then, late on Sundays, my dad and the uncles would head back to B'ham. and things would get back to normal for my mom and me and my brothers and my aunts and cousins. Days filled with aunts napping, cousins fighting, group trips to the water, sand castle building, shell collecting, and sunburned shoulders. Then as the sun set and the sky filled with stars, the smell of soap drifted behind our group of freshly scrubbed cousins as we made our way to the store for ice cream cones. Bedtime found the older cousins scaring the crap out of us younger cousins with ghost stories. I can still remember falling asleep smiling as the aunts were fussing at the older cousins for scaring us younger ones.

Those were the good old days.

Have you put away your white patent leather shoes?

2007-09-10T20:01:00.000-07:00

It's after Labor Day.

....If you grew up in the South, you'd know what I mean.

Well, bless my soul......

2007-05-17T07:38:00.000-07:00

Yes, I forgot about this blog site. Don't know why -- unless it's because, while growing up, spring was so filled with end-of-school stuff that visits to 212 were the normal, run of the mill Sunday dinner type.

And speaking of school. Back in the stone age (aka....my years in school) why don't I remember end-of-the-year field trips and half days for the last week of school? I don't think we had all that.

But, then again, I don't remember worrying that a fellow student might run in the door with a gun, firing away. I think I prefer the stone age.

Can you ever go back home?

2007-02-18T22:43:00.000-08:00

Mardi Gras is in the air here in BR, and today I started wondering how Mardi Gras would have gone over in Pratt City. I thought about it for all of 2 seconds before admitting that there is no way in hell that Carnival would have been tolerated at 212. None. Nada. Furgitabutit.

In fact, when I go back to B'ham, I don't recognize it. I don't feel at home. It's different. And that has me wondering if I could go home/move back and be comfortable.

The whole atmosphere is different. People talk funny -- did I talk like that? Do I talk like that now? When we first moved down here I couldn't open my mouth and utter three words before someone would ask (with wide eyes) where I was from. (Shhh! Don't tell anyone, but....I thought they had some nerve, what with the accents they have down this way. They thought I had an accent? WTF!)

Anywho....As we talk about moving back to Alabama, I find myself wondering more and more if we could really move back and fit in. And....wondering if it's home that's changed, or me who's changed.

A few cousins, a brother, and a baseball......

2007-02-05T13:08:00.000-08:00

I think I've mentioned before that the cousins on my mom's side fell into three or four age groups. I had two other cousins close in age to me -- both female -- both with only sisters (no brothers). I had no sisters, only two brothers. Maybe that's why I was the one out of the three of us who ended up with the bruises, sprains, and knocked-out teeth?

And, maybe that's why I was the one who ended up with baseball phobia. To this day I have a fear of baseball and anything associated with it -- balls, bats, even the game itself. If I go to a baseball game, guess who ends up getting smacked in the kisser (or at least can count on a near-miss) with a foul ball? Yes, ma'am. Moi.

I have no trouble tracing that fear back to its root cause. It began at 212, on a spring afternoon when a few of the older (male) cousins and the oldest of my two brothers were playing baseball in the dirt road that ran along one side of 212. As often was the case, no other female cousin close to my age was in Pratt City, so I imagine I was bored and hanging out close, too close, to that dirt road hosting the baseball game.

Apparently, my older male cousins were not precision hitters, because one of the balls found its way to my face. OUCH! Now, if any of my fellow female cousins had been there, I feel sure I would have received tea and sympathy. But....being as how it was only guys, all I got was being read the riot act about how to behave (and react) around baseball games.

That's why I don't do baseball.

....I have another story that explains why I don't do golf. Anybody wanna take a guess what happened there?

Snowsuits

2007-01-10T08:10:00.000-08:00

Do children wear snowsuits anymore? I had a difficult time finding illustrations of snowsuits when I searched. Maybe they're just called something else now?

I was reminded of snowsuits while watching "A Christmas Story" this past Christmas evening. I'd never seen the whole thing before -- only the parts my daughter would call me in to watch. Funny movie -- a good one to watch with the family.

When the brother (Randy ??) appears in his snowsuit, unable to lower his arms, I remembered just how it felt. I have pictures of my brother and me in our snowsuits. Most of those pictures are from the house on Avenue Z, and in most of those pictures, we were playing in snow.

Did it snow more back then? I don't remember much snow in B'ham as a teenager. If it threatened to snow, schools would let out early. I don't think it snows much up there even now. Ummmm....maybe those pictures of us playing in the snow were taken because it was unusual. That's probably it.

Anywho....it did get cold -- not for long, but at least you could wear sweaters, gloves, and wool stuff. Not like here, where if the temps get to the fifties there is a mad rush to wear all our winter clothes (even if we have to turn the air up to be comfortable). Wonder why we even bother to buy warm stuff?

The Old Gray Lady

2007-01-03T14:48:00.000-08:00

Well! Today was the day Nick Saban made his decision to go to the University of Alabama and become the Crimson Tide’s 27th head football coach. ROLL TIDE!

This news puts me in a bit of a situation since I presently live in Baton Rouge, LA, am a graduate of LSU, and......it was at LSU where Nick Saban last coached on the college level, and......where he won for us a national football championship (ok, so it was a split title with USC, but a national title all the same).

To say the people of Baton Rouge were upset when Miami Dolphins owner Wayne Huizenga wooed Saban away one Christmas Eve two years ago, is an understatement.

And......to say the people of Baton Rouge are upset with today's news of Saban's new job, is also an understatement. :)

Therein lies my problem. Many of my fellow Baton Rougians and my fellow LSU alumni feel jilted. Ya know -- winning a national championship while coaching at a school makes for an intimate kind of relationship.

But....since BAMA owns part of my heart, I'm so happy for them!

I almost put on my BAMA t-shirt, but thought better of it. If there'd been a fire at my house or if I'd been involved in an accident, I was a tad fearful that I'd have been left to fend for myself -- if I were found in a BAMA shirt....

So....in a round-about way, that's how I started thinking about Legion Field -- or -- The Old Gray Lady.

Legion Field is where our high school football games were played while I was growing up in B'ham. At the end of the season, on Thanksgiving Day, the high school Dental Clinic football game was played. Even though I had two younger brothers, for years I was the one who went to the Dental Clinic Game with my dad.

Each Thanksgiving Day, all the family would gather at 212 for a dinner that consumed most of the day. And......for years, somewhere in the middle of the day, my dad and I would be allowed to sneak off to Legion Field and the Dental Clinic game -- no matter if my high school (Banks) was playing or not.

Now, even in my day, Legion Field was not an area where you felt completely safe. In fact, the locals made a little extra during football season by offering to watch you car -- for a price. So, my dad and I would drive to Legion Field, where (after paying to park along the curb in front of someone's house, and -- paying to have someone watch our car), we would head into Legion Field.

I have no idea what my dad did next, but I always had made plans to meet up with a group of friends. My friends and I would gorge on peanuts, hotdogs, cokes, and cocoa, while making eyes at the guys.

Afterwards, my dad and I would meet up for the drive back to Pratt City, where we'd have (more) dessert, pick up the rest of the family, and head home.

Remembering back, the Old Gray Lady was a big part of my Thanksgivings while growing up.

A Christmas Toast......

2006-12-22T10:30:00.000-08:00

May your home be filled to busting with good food, good drink, and good friends -- as I remember the house on Avenue Z always being on holidays.

A full-up house at Christmas......

2006-12-19T07:38:00.000-08:00

I remember that Christmas when a young cousin arrived at 212 on Christmas Day, took one look, and proclaimed the house to be full-up.

That was Christmas on Avenue Z. A house that was full-up with people, presents, food, love, laughter, and -- shhh! -- probably an argument or two.... (But, we won't speak of that today.) ;)

Only my grandparents and my maiden aunt lived in the house in Pratt City, so -- after Christmas morning and all that goes with it was over at our respective homes, the onslauaght would begin as each family loaded into cars and headed to Avenue Z.

I can still see MomP's roomy living room, so filled with wrapped presents that people had to perch on sofas and chairs around the edges of that wonderfully mysterious pile of glittering gifts -- not to be distributed and opened until after dinner.

How hard it was for us cousins to wait! We would tiptoe through the piles of presents looking for gifts with our names on them. And, of course, we would each keep a count to make sure things were even. This would last until an uncle or aunt would yell at us to "get away from the presents."

After a dinner that required two rooms of tables to accommodate the people and food, and after the dishes were done -- which seemed to take f-o-r-e-v-e-r because those were the days when dishwashers were humans -- after everything was done, finally, we could all gather for the gift giving.

Each year a different uncle, aunt, or older cousin was chosen to call out the names and hand out the gifts. And then the party would begin. Ohhs, ahhs, paper, boxes, ribbon......everywhere. And you know that the piles of discarded wrappings were the best gift possible for the baby cousins. We sometimes wrapped and decorated them -- whenever they -- or the aunts to whom they belonged -- would allow it.

Oh, the presents! So many presents. But, as many as each of us received, the pile of gifts stacked around MomP & Gindaddy would end up being almost as tall as they were. ....Or so it seemed to me at the time. You see, where the rest of us drew names for gift exchanging, everyone gave MomP & Gindaddy something. It was almost, almost, as much fun watching the grandparents opening their gifts as opening our own.

And then there was the tree. I actually don't remember the tree being exceptional -- it was the gifts under the tree that appealed to the greedy kid that was moi. As I remember, some years the tree was table sized, and some years it was a tall, skinny model. I guess a large tree wouldn't have fit considering the space needed for all the people and presents.

There was one mysterious aspect to the tree at 212. Each year five envelopes would be nestled in its branches -- one for each aunt, uncle (and their spouses) -- addressed in my grandfather's handwriting. Those envelopes contained money and in my mind's eye, I can still see the looks exchanged by my mom & dad, the warm smiles they shared as they opened their card.

As the day grew long, and the sun set, and the baby cousins began to nod, one by one the aunts and uncles loaded up to head home. I'm not sure how or when it started, but there were always at least half-dozen of us cousins choosing to stay behind at 212.

Cots and rollaway beds were set up as we girl cousins fed, bathed, and got our new dolls ready for bed, and the boy cousins played with various boy stuff. Turkey sandwiches, ambrosia, and several choices of cakes were sitting around for the taking.

So ended a Christmas Day on Avenue Z, with the house still pretty much full-up with love, laughter, and lots of cousins with brand-spanking new toys.

Dress Codes

2006-12-12T21:43:00.000-08:00

A few years ago one of the ladies I taught with mentioned that she had bought her oldest daughter a robe to wear over her pjs. Her daughter was coming into her teen years and my co-worker thought it appropriate for her daughter to wear a robe whenever she was lounging around the house -- even though my co-worker had three daughters (no sons). She was brought up to cover up when her body started developing.

I didn't see anything odd about her buying the robe. I understood. I was raised the same way -- only I had two brothers. I don't remember any explanation, but somehow I knew to put on my robe when I got out of bed. Just as I knew to lock the bathroom door.

I guess this incident has stayed in my memory because, that day, as we talked, both of us realized that there was no reason for the robe thing. My daughter was never made to wear a robe -- I had to actually pay her to wear dresses for a while, and then she would wear jeans under her dress. ....I guess that's one of the things that can happen to a girl with three brothers.

Yes, my daughter was raised very differently than me in many ways. To this day I still throw on a robe -- even when I'm home alone, and......I always lock the bathroom door -- I can't do anything if I don't.

I think this training started long before I lived in my mama's house. I had a grandfather who stated he'd rather see any of his four daughters with a broken leg than on a dance floor. And I had a maiden aunt who would walk by me (standing there in my mini skirt), give me one of those looks, sniff, and say, "If God had wanted people to wear a skirt that short, He'd have made knees pretty."

Yep. I think my modesty is the results of generations of men and women.

"To look sharp...."

2006-12-06T10:51:00.000-08:00

"To feel sharp..." ....and, I can't remember how the rest of that catchy little ditty goes.

Does anyone remember the Friday night fights sponsored by Gillette? I can remember my mom hurrying my dad, brothers, and me out the door of our house on Fridays so we could get to my grandmom's in time for the Friday night fights. My uncle would always come with his three daughters, and another uncle could be counted on to amble in somtime after the first round -- usually three sheets to the wind (or so I remember hearing).

As the men sat in the living room in front of the tv alternately cheering and booing, my mom, grandmom, and whatever aunts were there, would traipse from the kitchen to the middle room that was MomP's bedroom -- but also contained the sewing machine and several comfy chairs. I remember many glasses of sweet tea (in warm weather), and cups of hot tea (in cooler weather) being involved -- as well as tea cakes (for the ladies) and some kind of yummy cake for everyone. No beer. No alcohol. Uh uh! Not at 212. I don't even remember Cokes in the fridge -- even though there was plenty of syrupy sweet Kool Aid.

Many a Friday night was spent that way. Which seems odd to me now. Odd because 212 was a tightly run organization with MomP as its CEO and Gindaddy as -- er -- as.... well, he was important even though I can't think of his job description. We cousins were never allowed to run, fight -- no roughhousing of any kind. And you could bet your bottom dollar you'd never hear cuss words like "lie", "darn", "shut up" inside the house on Avenue Z . On every other day of the week everyone was expected to be quite mannerly, yet -- on Friday nights -- it was fine to sit around and watch men beat the hell out of each other.

I never realized the contradiction in this until I was telling A how warm and fuzzy I felt whenever I heard the theme song for the Friday night fights, "To look sharp...." She laughed and said, "Mom, how could you feel warm and fuzzy about a boxing match?" ....Good question.

Girlfriends of the Southern Variety

2006-12-01T09:25:00.000-08:00

Growing up in Pratt City, I was surrounded by women who had, and were themselves, friends -- women friends -- girl friends. In my mother's South it wasn't considered odd, unusual, or perverted for adult women to be friends -- even life-long friends.

My mother had a close circle of girlfriends, some were life-long friends, some were friendships made along the way. I remember these ladies gathering together to cook, eat, laugh, ....whatever it was they did. They took the time -- made the effort -- to come together and stay current, refresh their caring for each other. Their laughter, their gasps of mock-scandalization would bring smiles to the faces of their children who were playing together just out of ear shot (or so we thought). As one of the children, I remember us making up then presenting plays to our mothers, choreographing variety shows, telling ghost stories, sharing valued individual skills with each other -- such as how to pop gum, burp, fart....

Remembering back, my mom's friends were always there for her, and she for them. Even though my mom had three sisters, to whom she was close, she always had her friends. When she was sick, these friends were on the front lines for her. Being young myself at the time, I didn't realize how important they were to her. I'm just learning some of the stories as, for some reason, several of these women are, one by one, finding their way back into my life. It comforts me to know how surrounded by love she was.

My mom's friends had families of their own, but one of my aunts had a friend who was single. I don't know if it's true or something I romanticized, but I have the notion that her fiancee came to a tragic end in WWII. Whatever the reason, this friend was a huge support to my aunt -- just as I imagine my aunt was to her. I remember this friend as being competent in her job, and dedicated to her invalid mom. I also remember her being around a lot helping my aunt. She loved my cousins like they were her own. And I felt her concern and affection for me all my life.

What's the status of female friendship in today's world I wonder? Speaking for myself, it's lacking. I know it's my own fault; I'm just not sure if it's because I've not put forth the effort or because it's just the way I'm wired. Whatever the reason, I miss it -- this female friendship and support. The fleeting slices of it I have, make me want more. Do you think that I've put that desire to the universe and that's why all these wonderful women from my past are finding me? Whatever the reason, I pray that I can contiue to nurture the new/old friendships being (re)gifted to me.

I am so glad that my daughter has taken, and is still taking the time and energy to care for her girl friends. As wonderful and valuable as men are, there are some things that only another woman can understand.

I guess people shopped differently back then......

2006-11-29T11:35:00.000-08:00

Jewel Tea, Watkins spices -- my grandmother had them all sitting around her kitchen. I remember the Jewel Tea Man and MomP sitting in her living room pouring over the catalog. Sitting in her living room, with a cup of coffee or tea, perusing a catalog, deciding what to order, placing that order, and then waiting for its delivery to her door. Not too much different from online shopping, huh? Except for the fact that there was a real-live human being sitting next to her showcasing the items, taking the order, and then delivering them to her door -- instead of a computer and USPS/UPS/FEDEX....

Then there was the egg man, and the vegetable man, and (could there have been?) the meat man. These men would appear on the side of Avenue Z, selling their wares out of the backs of their trucks. I can see my grandmother along with the other ladies gathered around the back and sides of the peddlers' trucks, picking and choosing the fresh produce that would soon make its way to family tables. Even though these men must have run regular routes from farm to city, it was a bit magical to me how they seemed to just......appear.

For some reason, the egg man stands out in my mind. I can't really say what was so different about him except for the fact that I remember how he would holler out -- eeeeeegg man, eeeeeeeeeegg man, eeeeeeeeegg man's here. In the days when screen doors were all that separated the outside from the inside, that sound carried all through the house. Scared the bejeezus out of me! I'd run and hide under the table -- the one with all the butcher knives taped underneath (out of reach of anyone deciding to break in).

Today, I do lots of my shopping online, yet I still find myself dreading those stock-up trips to Target or WalMart. ......It wouldn't bother me one bit to have trucks filled with produce stopping at my door. Nope, not one bit, and you wouldn't find me hiding from the egg man anymore.

Yes, I guess people shopped differently back then. But, then again, maybe not so very differently. And......maybe it wasn't such a bad way to shop.

** The picture of the Jewel Tea cookie jar on top is just like the one resting in my china cabinet. It's one of the few items I have of MomP's.

A Little Lagniappe......

2006-11-21T16:25:00.000-08:00

I try out a new recipe each holiday; here's the one for this Thanksgiving. Looks good -- I hope it turns out to be!

APPLE CRANBERRY SALAD

- 6 CUPS DICED APPLES
- 4 CUPS WHOLE CRANBERRIES
- 2 1/2 CUPS SUGAR
- 1 CUP OATS
- 1 CUP BROWN SUGAR
- 1 CUP CHOPPED PECANS
- 1 STICK BUTTER

Spray bottom and sides of 13-inch rectangular baking dish. Layer with apples and cranberries; sprinkle with sugar. In a separate bowl, combine oats, brown sugar and pecans until crumbly. Sprinkle over fruit. Dot with butter and bake for one hour at 350 degrees.

``````````````````````````````````````````````

La Cuisine

2006-11-20T12:12:00.000-08:00

The kitchen. The heart of the home. That certainly was true about 212 -- at least for the women folk. It was there that confidences were shared, tears were dried, fears were quited, hugs were exchanged, advice was freely given, spats were begun -- and resolved, announcements of newly expected family members (by birth or marriage) were celebrated, and laughter filled the air alongside delectable aromas. And, somehow, in the midst of all this, some damn good food was prepared.

It wasn't a fancy kitchen by any means. The mismatched furniture was scarred and dented with memories of the generations who had gathered round the two tables to fill their empty bellies and -- possibly an empty spot in their hearts. The walls echoed the stories, laughter, and prayers they had been privilaged to witness over the years. The small walk-through pantry that connected the kitchen and the dining room was the perfect spot for us cousins to hide and listen to the aunts gossip. We thought we were so smart! About the time our giggles gave us away, the smell of fresh rolls or cornbread would overcome us and we would organize grab-and-run attacks on the bread. We always ended up with a special plateful of warm rolls or cornbread with butter oozing down the sides. I don't know why we didn't just ask. No, it wasn't fancy, but it was beautiful.

My grandmother had two stoves -- a gas range that in her later years we feared her using because of her habit of catching her pot holders on fire, and a wood burning stove whose oven turned out the best pot roasts, sweet potatoes, and peach cobblers anywhere. Lazing behind the wood stove was a favorite activity of the house's cats (whose job it was to catch the mice supposedly scampering around the kitchen). On cold winter days kindling was brought in from under the back porch along with a full bucket of coal to feed the fire.

Even though my grandmother was queen of her kitchen, it was not unusual to see my grandfather frying meat in a skillet on top of the wood stove. He, being a butcher, didn't trust anyone else to safely prepare the meat. That was his only job in the kitchen -- except to eat. My grandmother cooked three full meals a day, and served them on the table topped with a red and white checked table cloth. In the middle of the table (that sat at least ten), you could depend on finding jars of home-made pickled peaches, peppers, and beets along with bottles of farm-fresh honey with the comb, and Golden Eagle (soppin') Syrup for the biscuits -- hot out of the oven or cold sitting on a plate in the cabinet.

My spot in the kitchen varied. If only my family was there to eat I was allowed a place at the big table. If it was Sunday or a holiday I found myself at the children's table on the side of the room by the window overlooking my godmother's house. My chair was always the same though. It was not as high as a regular chair and it had a rounded back. It fit me just right. I sat in that chair until I married and brought children of my own to 212. By that time both tables in the kitchen were dedicated children's tables, and two adult tables were needed in the dining room. I worked my way up to one of the tables in the dining room, but never to the main table.

I guess this would be a nautural point to describe my kitchen duties, but....as it turned out, I had none. I can only assume that, over the years, my grandmother and her daughters had choreographed their kitchen routine so finely that an additional dancer would have been superfluous. From time to time, as I sat in front of the tv waiting to be called to the table, my grandfather would pass by and suggest that I check in the kitchen to see if I could help. So, I'd trudge to the kitchen and ask how I could help. It never failed that I'd be handed a potato masher. So it was that I became a master of mashing potatoes. My grandfather always found some excuse to walk through and as he passed me by, he would pat my shoulder -- as I was mashin' away. And....at some point during dinner he would catch my eye, lift his fork, and with a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face, toast me with a fork full of fluffy, snow-white mashed potatoes.

Of all the many memories I have of the kitchen at 212, one stands above all the others -- especially at this time of year. It involved my mom, me, and Christmas. My mom was always on the go, always volunteering, working on one committee or another. My mom was always busy, then she was sick, then she was gone. We never seemed to find the time to have the relationship I never knew I needed, but realize now I miss. Maybe that's why this memory is so dear to me.

It was a drab, chilly day close to Christmas. There must have been a chill in the air inside the house on Avenue Z because I remember wearing a scratchy sweater along with thick, warm, comfy socks. There was a fire burning in the wood stove and the smell of my grandmother's tea cakes browning in the oven filled the air. Even though it was cold outside and chilly in the rest of the house, the kitchen was toasty warm. My mother had decided my hair needed washing and that the kitchen sink was where it was to be done. So there we were, the two of us -- me with my head lowered over the kitchen sink and my mother gently massaging lavender scented shampoo into my hair as we sang "Silent Night".

This Thanksgiving, I hope you all create one memory that will bring a smile to your face each time you think about it in the years to come.

The China Poodle and the Rich Cousin

2006-11-17T14:55:00.000-08:00

She was the moneyed one, this cousin who was a friend as well as a relative. We were partners-in-crime on many adventures and -- misadventures. Oh, the stories I could tell on her (and me)! But......this special memory has pushed itself to the forefront of my mind. Maybe because I learned a couple of things that day.

We were meandering through downtown Pratt City that sultry summer day, my cousin and I, trying to stifle the boredom threatening to break through. And.....most probably hoping for a breeze to wash over our ~~sweaty~~ glistening bodies and produce that glorious evaporation effect -- if only for a moment.

You see, since none of us cousins actually lived at the house on Avenue Z, our frequent stays demanded that we be creative in how our time there was spent. In my younger days, I spent many long hours playing cowgirls and Indians with my brother and his friends, galloping on my stick horse . (Did anyone else have one of those?) Many long afternoons were also spent playing with my dolls under the huge trees in the side yard. I remember setting up *house* -- with doll- sized dishes, bassinette, highchair -- under those huge sheltering branches. The sidewalk that ran along the side of the house was used for the doll stroller....with diaper bag hanging from the handle. Just like my mom when she strolled my baby brother. When we felt lazy we would lie on the grass in the side yard, looking up at the clouds, defining shapes which we would bring to life by attaching stories to them. After supper, the front porch insisted we grace it with our presence until dark when we would head for the side yard and the fire flies until our mom hustled us in to wash up before the trip to the land of nod.

Unfortunately, these time consuming activities didn't endure into our preteen years. Those years saw us extending our boundaries, wandering farther from the house on Avenue Z. There were two directions we cold have wandered -- to the park or downtown. I never remember much happening at the park (except for the summer ceramics classes) so we headed downtown. A short-ish walk provided us with access to grocery stores, a drug store, a library, a cafe, and......air conditioning. There was also a gift shop, and that's where we found ourselves on this particular day.

"Oh! Look at the little china poodle in the window," my cousin said. I looked and saw it there in the midst of various and sundry froo-froo. "Mom would just love that," she said. Now she had my attention. I realized she was thinking about her mom while we were idling away the time, not the drug store with its jewelry display and its cherry cokes, or the cafe with its juicy hamburgers -- as I had been. She wasn't even thinking about the library where (because our moms knew *people*) we could check out as many books as we wanted.

Nope! She wasn't thinking about any of these things. She had someone other than herself on her mind. Even at that early age, I remember being wow-ed by that fact. And......by the fact that she had enough money of her own to just decide she wanted something and go in and buy it.

Even though I don't personally own any, I still get sentimental when I see china poodles.

And....every time my own daughter brings me a gift out-of-the-blue or a memento from a trip she's taken (as she always has -- since a wee lassie), I have second thoughts about my long-held belief in nurture over nature.

Gindaddy

2006-11-14T10:51:00.000-08:00

That's what we called him. I have no idea which of the older cousins' soft baby lips, more accustomed to forming a small "O" around a nipple (bottle or breast)-- than summoning attendance, was first to bestow that moniker upon my grandfather. Such a simple, even silly word -- Gindaddy. A child's inept attempt to mimic what he'd heard. Yet it was a word that came to take on a life of its own. A word that defined a man. A word that, when spoken, communicated it's intent -- quickly, succinctly. The way we cousins (and my grandmother, my mom, and the aunts) inflected that word when we uttered it spoke volumes to each other.

Where to begin in my attempt to describe this man who was so important in my life; this man who had such a lasting influence; this man I respect to this very day. I remember him as being strong, yet kind, gentle, soft-spoken, and fun-filled. When I bring his face to mind, I see him smiling, his eyes glowing with pride -- for me. I don't remember him raising his voice....ever, yet, make no mistake, he was king of his domain. I don't know how we cousins knew that was true, but we did. I don't know how we knew what he expected of us without him saying a word, but we did.

Maybe we gained this knowledge from our mothers -- the girls he raised. My impression from them was that they saw him as stern, a task-master, demanding excellence. Yet their impressions were loving ones. Thinking back, I cannot remember any family member in this rather large family, ever making a disparaging remark about him or MomP. Er....one slight correction here -- (you know what they say about universal statements). I do remember MomP being aggravated with Gindaddy and voicing her aggravations (IOU's) :), but not disparaging him. How has it come about that so many of todays' parents seem to think nothing about putting down the other parent in front of thieir children? I've done it myself. Did it not happen as much back then, or was I just unaware or.... out of ear-shot?

When I think about my grandfather one anecdote after another zips through my mind. Maybe relating these memories will best explain how I remember him.

Gindaddy always wore a white dress shirt, a suite vest with a pocket for the fob holding his pocket watch, and suite pants. I never remember him in anything else -- even when doing outside work, although he would sometimes roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt when working outside. When going out, he wore a straw hat if it was summer. The rest of the year a fedora crowned his head.

I remember one summer at the coast when he and MomP were walking down the dirt road in the middle of a group of family headed to the beach. Gindaddy took MomP's hand and said, "You and me. You and me. We're going to sweep the stars." As he said this he raised one arm and made a huge sweeping motion. I don't know if I remember this because it was unusual to hear him say something so personal, or because of MomP's reaction. Normally she wouldn't respond to his teasing or jokes. But on this glorious summer day, surrounded by family, with her man expressing his devotion to her, I remember a small, shy smile coming to her face as she averted her huge brown eyes slightly downward. And I remember they both had on hats.

My grandfather had a headfull of beautiful, wavy, thick, silver-white hair, which he would let me brush for minutes on end. Now, I haven't the faintest idea why I wanted to brush his hair.... But he would sit in his chair, reading his newspaper while I brushed away.

My grandfather taught me how to use the dictionary. Well....maybe he didn't actually teach me how to use it, but he insisted I use it. During my younger years my dad traveled during the week and my mom was skittish about staying home alone -- alone with me and my two brothers. So we would load up, drive to my grandparents' home to spend the night, wake up early, drive home to dress and get to school. The result was that much of my homework assignments were completed at my grandparents. MomP was always busy in the kitchen or bathroom (the snuff??) and my mom was busy with my brothers, so I ended up doing my homework in the room where my grandfather would sit reading the paper. If I needed to know the spelling or definition of a word I would ask him, and he never failed to tell me to "look it up." Aggravated the hell out of me!

My grandparents raised five children during the depression. I don't remember talk of hardship, although there must have been some. The only story I remember is the one of my Aunt B (one of the more spirited aunts) as a teenager wanting to visit a friend who lived some distance away. Apparently she was told the gas rations were low and she couldn't make the visit. So......as the story goes..she hid on the wide running board of Gindaddy's car. He was halfway to work before he noticed her. He had to turn around and take her back home -- wasting some of that precious gas in the process. BTW, this is the same aunt who really and truly received switches and ashes one year for Christmas. At least, that's what my grandmom, my mom, and the rest of the aunts insisted was true. If true, it didn't dampen her spirit.

Gindaddy had four daughters. While they were growing up he told them he'd rather see them with a broken leg than on a dance floor.

My father was olive complected with dark, wavy hair. When my grandfather met my father, Gindaddy was convinced my dad lived on "Catholic Hill." My mom's family were Southern Baptist, so....

Not often, but enough to remember, my grandfather would sit in a rocking chair on the front porch peeling pomegranates for us while singing "Clementine."

As a teenager, I was going steady with a boy from my high school and was wearing his senior ring (with a hunk of melted wax so it would stay on my finger). Somehow I found myself with a date with a different boy for a Valentine's banquet. This boy and the banquet were both in my grandparents neighborhood. So when I got to my grandparents I at least had the decency to take off one boy's ring before going out with a different boy. I put the ring on my grandparents mantle and when my grandfather saw it he was quite upset because it looked to him like it belonged to a man -- not a boy. The interesting thing is that he didn't say a word to me. MomP related all this to me.

When I was in college and would come home on weekends, my grandfather would give me a dollar to "help out next week." God love him.

In my wallet I still have a yellowed, brittle Dear Abby Q&A that my grandfather cut out of the paper and gave to me. The question was from a college freshman talking about the sexual aspect and temptations of college. How she felt as if she had to "put out" to be accepted. Across the clipping my grandfather had written, "We are not worried because we know our K would never think like this. This is NOT our K."

My grandfather had a dream about me and he woke up crying. He would never tell anyone what the dream involved, even my grandmother. Again, he didn't tell me this -- my grandmother did. To this day I wonder what the hell that dream was about!

There you have it, my strongest memories. That's him. That's my Gindaddy.

MomP passed away before my grandfather. He didn't live many years after that -- he said he didn't really want to. When he died I was in Florida visiting my mother-in-law. My mom hadn't told me he was ill because she didn't want to ruin our trip (we were students at the time, piss-poor, with few resources to do much of anything). My mother-in-law told me of his death when my husband and I came back from the Jai-Alai arena. I had been at a sporting event betting as my grandfather was dying. I imagine he would rather have seen me with a broken hand or sumpin'.

Time for a sing-along......

2006-11-07T12:48:00.000-08:00

Okay everybody...... All together now. A....one. A....two. A....three! ......"We are fa-mi-ly!"

What is it about family? What are these ties that bind us together so tightly -- or at the very least, tether us to each other. How is it that Uncle 'Who's It', or Cousin 'Bad News' is welcome to sleep on the couch at a moment's notice, no matter how long it's been since we've seen him or her -- if ever. What draws us together on holidays and special occasions? Why do we run home to celebrate, to mourn, to heal?

What the hell is it about family?

And why won't these people get out of my head?!?

Smoking......

2006-11-02T23:03:00.000-08:00

Remember your first smoking experience -- with the regular, old legal cigarettes? My first puff took place at an aunt's house just up the street and cross the rairoad tracks from 212. ......It just so happened that the cousins on my mom's side of the family naturally fell into similar age groups. There were the older cousins, then came my group, then there were maybe three age levels below me. The only female among the older cousins and I were close. An odd kind of close. Maybe an older/younger sister type relationship? (Not having a sister, I wouldn't know.) We weren't necessarily friends because she liked to boss me around -- more like a mother!

One day, when her parents were at work, and I was visiting my grandmother's house on Avenue Z, the two of us walked to her empty house. As I recall, it was close to her birthday and she was sure her birthday present was hidden somewhere in her house, and she was determined to find it while her parents were away and the house empty. ......She drug me along thinking the two of us could get the job done twice as fast (before our grandmother missed us and came looking!). Two could look twice as fast as one because as she searched, she'd yell orders for where she wanted me to search. She was one bossy bitch.

I don't remember if we found her birthday present, but I do remember that we found her parents' cigarettes. Now this cousin was in high school, while I couldn't have been more than six years old. She knew all about smoking, while candy (especially chocolate) cigarettes were as far as I had gotten. So......we find her parent's cigarettes, her eyes light up, she puts her hands on her hips, looks down her nose at me, and haughtily asks me if I've ever smoked before. Wide-eyed I vigorously shake my head from side to side.

"Well," she says, "we're gonna take care of that right now." She lit up, took a drag, handed it to me and said, "Breathe really deep and then swallow." ......Which I did.

After I figured I wasn't going to die, she looked at me and said, "Well, I bet you'll never be tempted to smoke again." Damn straight!

Yes, for some reason this cousin, for years, thought she should be my mentor. Later in life I realized that as she made mistakes, she'd become fearful that I'd make the same mistake. I guess she just didn't think about the age difference. I mean, at seven years old, I can assure you I wasn't thinking about having sex.

MomP and the Spirits......

2006-11-02T08:35:00.000-08:00

Family legend has it that my Irish grandmother was born with a veil (weren't most self-respecting Irish grandmothers?). And there are stories of her abilities to see into the spirit world, but....those are for another day. Today's memory concerns worldly spirits. IYKWIM

MomP ran a teetotaling house. It was understood that no drinking or smoking would occur at 212. Period! Out of the question. But....thinking back. I dunno....

First of all, I know a secret about my grandmother that I don't know if even my grandfather knew -- or any of the other cousins, or for that matter, my aunts or my uncle. MomP snorted snuff. Yes, she did. Now....snorted sounds a tad harsh, so let's say she was a snuff sniffer. I couldn't have been more than 8 or 9 when she began asking me to walk to downtown Pratt City and pick her up some of the stuff -- snuff. At the time, I had no idea what it was, and would never have thought about it twice (MomP could do no wrong, right?), had it not been for one glaring fact. She went to such elaborate means to hide it. The hiding place I knew about (were there more!!) was in the bathroom, somewhere in the stacks of clean, folded towels and clothes. I can see her in my mind now, reaching into that abyss of fluffy towels, clean sheets and underwear that had been brightened and made sweet smelling from hanging out on a clothes line in the sun, from which she'd bring forth that little silver can. If memory serves, she suggested that I not tell Gindaddy. I was a very obedient child.

Then, I remember those Christmas fruitcakes that were soaked in rum and wrapped like a Christmas present not to opened until the the season began. Now I ask you, what happened to the rest of that bottle of rum?

Finally, later in her life, when she developed high blood pressure, her doctor prescribed that she drink a glass of wine a day. One glass. I was either in high school or away at college by this time so I don't have all the details, but.... I do remember the brew-ha-ha among my mom and my aunts when they realized that MomP was making the rounds, calling one daughter and telling her that she was about out of her wine, and then....a few days later....calling another daughter and telling her the same. They calculated that she was going through a bottle of wine every couple of days. That might not sound bad today, but let me tell you, at the time, it was scandalous in our family.

So, I guess I'd have to say that MomP was familiar with the spirits. :)

I hope I'm not in for pay back from the spirit world....

There's money buried in the yard......

2006-10-30T13:16:00.000-08:00

That was what we grandkids believed -- that there was buried treasure in the yard of the house on Avenue Z. But....was it true, or was it just a fanciful tale, told to a house too full of children, with the hopes that some of them would dash outside and, hopefully, spend a couple of hours searching for gold -- which is excatly what I tended to do when that statement was thrown at me. I'd grab my brothers and any nearby cousins and out we'd go, with $ signs filling our eyes. What a gullible child I was. Sheesh! Yet, even now, when the bills start piling up, I think of going back for some digging in 212's yard. But.... the older I get the more suspicious I'm becoming about the veracity of the claim. :) Does anyone else like to believe in fairy tales -- even as an adult?

I can't remember who started the rumor about the buried money. Was it my grandmother? My mom? One of the cousins I was closest to? Was the motive to get us out of the house so my grandmother, my mom, and the aunts could have some peace and quiet, or was it to play a joke on us and have some fun at our expense? Who's to know.

The story was, that whoever had lived in the house before my grandparents, distrusted banks, so, of course, they had buried all their money around the yard. (As I'm typing this, I'm seeing my grandfather's face. Could it have been him who started the whole thing?) I remember thinking that whoever this person was, he went around buring piles of money all around the, rather sizeable, yard. The odd thing is, I don't think our search for buried treasure ever involed any actual digging. As I remember it, we would amble around the yard discussing where the probable sites might be -- stopping to suck the sweet nectar from the flowers on the huge honeysuckle bush in the center of the side yard. I don't know if we were too lazy to dig, or if we knew better than to dig up Gindaddy's yard.

The house at 212 Avenue Z was on a corner lot. In the front yard were two huge pink crepe myrtle trees (one on either side of the front steps). I used to enjoy squeezing the round buds to see the flowers that were compacted inside. The 10 or so front steps led to the front porch and the front door, then the porch curved around on the right side of the house. ( Like the floor furnaces, those front steps had left its own kind of brand on many a cousin. I lost my bottom baby teeth when I fell down the front steps. This earned me the admiration of the other cousins my age, and even a couple of older ones. An odd sort of badge of honor.) Walking around the yard to the right led you to the side yard (where the money supposedly was buried). There was a two-lane dirt road running along the side yard, then a small hill beyond the dirt road, and then the railroad tracks. Across the railroad tracks, it sort of leveled out and you could walk a short way to the next street where the bus stop was.

If you went to the left of the front porch, you would find the other, much smaller, side yard. There was also a dirt road (more of an alley, actually) along that side of the house leading to some houses that were up the hill in back. Just across the dirt road was my godmother's house. There was a backyard, too, but I don't remember going there much. My grandmother had a garden in the back. The road in front of the house was a paved road. There were sidewalks along the front and one side of the house.

212 had three porches, a big porch running across the front of the house and curving around and along half of the right side of the house. There were big, sturdy rocking chairs and a large swing that was hung from the porch ceiling just where the porch curved -- perfect for reading and people watching. There was a smaller side porch off the big room in the back of the house. And there was that back porch off the kitchen that I remember not being allowed to step on. I think it was rickety from age, and there was a fairly steep set of stairs from the back porch to the back yard. At the foot of the back steps was a fenced in area where my grandmother kept chickens . She would actually wring their necks when she needed to cook one -- or so I understood, I never saw it happen. Thand G-d! I did, however, eat many a fried chicken leg in her kitchen.

Speaking of chickens -- and my grandfather.... Gindaddy was quite a joker. MomP was not. I can remember Gindaddy joking at the dinner table and MomP just continuing to eat, as the rest of us laughed at Gindaddy's joke. To her defense, the time period I'm talking about is the 1950-60's and many of the conveniences we take for granted today, weren't available. MomP had raised five children and always seemed to have a house full of grandchildren and greatgrandchildren to deal with and prepare for, so maybe she was just plain tired. Having four children of my own (not to mention a teaching job), I can relate. But....moving on.... When MomP would place her platters of fried chicken on the table, my brother and I always wanted the legs. Two kids, two chicken legs. Works out, so it would seem. But, we noticed that there were extra, small 'legs' and asked about them. (Of course, they were chicken wings, but since chicken wings weren't popular at the time, we would never have touched it if had known the truth.) Gindaddy would tell us they were the chicken's third leg. I can hear his laughter as he said it. My brother, T, and I weren't that dumb. We sensed something was up, but didn't know what, so we left that 'third chicken leg' for whoever else wanted it. I did, however, sneak many a glance at the live chickens to see if any of them did indeed have three legs.

Pratt City (where my mom was from), Ensley (where my dad was from), Fairfield (where my uncle raised his family), were planned industrial steel towns. I think one uncle worked at TCI most of his life, and I think my dad worked at TCI for a short period after the war, but all-in-all, remembering back, by the time my parents entered the work force, more options were available and they moved to Birmingham. I would guess that my great grandparents worked in the steel industry, or why else would they have settled in those areas. I always thought of my family members as business owners so I was surprised when my husband once said that when he first met my extended family he thought them to be a tough breed. I still can't see that.

Here's an interesting link to the history of the area where my grandparents chose to raise their families. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ensley,_Alabama

Thinking back, the house on Avenue Z served us well. Many souls were nurtured within its walls, much fun was had on its lush green lawns. It was a shelter in every sense. Realizing now, how much my memories of this house mean to me, it hurts on an even deeper level thinking about all those an hour south of me who lost their homes--their histories, due to Katrina. My hope is that they carry whatever good memories they have with them as they create new shelters and begin anew making many, many more memories. May they all be good ones.

But, back to the yard on Avenue Z. My intelligence, of course, tells me that there is no buried money. But....sometimes....late at night....when my mind is still....my imagination is still tantalized by the possibility. Some might call it greed....

I cannot believe I found a Pratt City visual!

2006-10-30T08:03:00.000-08:00

But....there it is! The place my memories have so often been taking me lately. I don't know why it's happening. I haven't been back to Pratt City in ages -- well, not actually, physically been back. But, close my eyes, still my mind, and....there I am..back in Pratt City. In my grandmother's kitchen, reaching into the bowl for a taste of the salmon she's making into patties. Catching jars full of fireflies with my brothers on warm, starry nights. Going to the library with my mother where we would checkout arms full of books to read in the front porch swing on those long summer afternoons. Waiting at the bus stop with my grandmother for our trip to downtown Birmingham so she could visit the department stores, be ushered into dressing rooms where sales clerks would bring in suites for her to try on. She always wore a hat and white gloves -- on the bus. Can you even imagine it?!? And, back home, with her new suite/s in tow, she would always say, "I never intended to buy this/these, but K (which was/is, moi) insisted. ....I'm sure that back then (had I been familiar with the term), I'd have thought, WTF? But....never, never, never would I have uttered those words in my grandmother's house! Shudder at the thought! And before heading to the bus stop and the trip home, we'd always stop for a coney at this little hole-in-the-wall in downtown B'ham. No seats because there was no room. Standing room only. There, in all her glory -- hat, gloves (which I assume she'd remove -- I don't remember how she handled that), new suite/suites and all, my prim and proper MomP would wolf down her two coneys, with the works. I don't remember it seeming odd (or alarming) at the time, so I imagine it was an accepted way of lunching in downtown B'ham.

Yes, the memories. They keep on a comin'. Washing over me in a way that demands I stop and pay attention. So, in a quest to figure out why this is happening, here begins my attempt to put my reminiscing in words -- or am I free associating? Whatever.... I guess I'm just plain blogging.

212 Avenue Z was where my mother was born (yes, in the very house!) and grew up, along with her three sisters and one brother. So many stories involving life in that house helped mold the myths and lore of my mother's family. My grandfather (Gindaddy -- now, don't snicker, what do you call your grandparents?) [smile] owned a grocery store which went broke during the depression, due to the fact, my grandmother, MomP, could be counted on to remind the family of, that he over- extended credit to too many people during those hard times. From time to time, she could be counted on to pull paper sacks full of IOU's from a chiferobe, reach her hand inside, pull out a handful of IOU's, and go on a tanget. I was quite young and don't remember exactly what she'd say. ....Truth be told, my mom, or an aunt would most likely usher me and any other young un within earshot, out of the room until MomP was calm once again. That's how things were done back then -- at least in my mom's family. There were things children weren't supposed to hear. What I do remember is feeling proud of my grandfather. ....I guess MomP had her own reasons for feeling as she did.

212 Avenue Z housed five women (MomP and her four daughters), two men (Gindaddy and his son), yet it had no closets. This fact always amazed me. How did they manage? I've never thought to ask, and now only my uncle remains. I really should submit a list of questions for him to answer. In the spirit of full disclosure, I must admit that there was in fact one closet I remember being in the house. It was located in one of the big back rooms, but it for sure wasn't large enough for five females. Unless....and I keep forgetting this.... Unless it's true that people didn't have anywhere near the amount of stuff we have today. In another room, a middle room, there was a built-in, enclosed bookshelf (on top), and an open storage area (on bottom). And that was it. Well....except for the walk-thru butler's pantry joining the kitchen and the dining room. It was a tiny space (as I remember it) with floor to ceiling shelves on both sides. There were no built in cabinets in the kitchen or bathroom so pieces of furniture were used for storing pots, pans, towels, and the like. Big ol heavy mahogany pieces of furniture with all sorts of combinations of doors, drawers, mirrors. Big ol heavy mahogany pieces of furniture that, at the time, I rememer thinking of as too dark and ....too big and ....too heavy. But, now, I'd give my eye-teeth to have just a couple pieces for my house. It could bring a grown man -- or, in my case, woman -- to tears if he knew that when my grandmother passed, and my grandfather, and my maiden aunt who lived with him, decided to move to a more modern house neared family, that a junk dealer was called to load up and haul away so much of that furniture. What a shame.

212 Avenue Z was oddly designed, compared to today's houses. It must have been built in the early 1920's. (Another thing I sould ask my uncle.) The house had front rooms, middle rooms, and back rooms. No halls. You would walk through one room to get to another room. The front rooms consisted of an entry room?? (I really don't know what you would call this room) that you stepped foot into as you entered the house through the front door -- it was large enough for a sofa and a couple of chairs. And very sunny and warm. A nice place for a child to play. Then, if you went left you'd step into the dining room. A lovely, large room with one (maybe two ??) huge bay windows facing the main street. I don't remember this room being used much except on holidays, or when several grandkids would be sleeping over and rollaways would be set up. If you turned right after stepping through the front door you'd step into the living room, complete with fireplace (that I don't ever remember being used. In fact, I remember a sofa always being in front of the fireplace). This room had the tv, enough sofas and chairs to accommodate a large family, and it had one of the two floor furnaces to be found in the house. A grandchild's first grid-burn was a rite of passage in our family. Once you had the distinctive marks of one of the floor furnaces (take your pick) on your legs, hands, butt, wherever (take your pick), you finally belonged. 212 Avenue Z had left its brand on you.

To get to the middle rooms you'd have to pass through the dining room or the living room. Stepping out of the dining room through the lovely little pantry would lead you into the kitchen. Now, I guess the kitchen merits a post of its own. So much of life at 212 Avenue Z took place there -- at least in my memories. Suffice it to say, for now, that the kitchen was a large eat-in kitchen with a humongous (in my mind at least) table accommodating ump-teen people for meals. I can't remember how many people would fit around the table, but there seemed to always be enough room for whomever was there. There was even room for a smaller, children's table on one side of the kitchen. Sitting at that table you could look out at the small alley/dirt road separating 212 and the house next door -- where my godmother lived. I remember the view well because most of my meals were eaten at the children's table. There were no built in cabinets in the kitchen, just unique pieces of furniture fulfilling whatever need there was. Oh, and there was a wood stove in addition to the gas stove. And a door at the back of the kitchen led to a scary back porch that I don't think I was ever allowed to step foot upon. ....See why the kitchen will have its own post? Must move on.

If you were to walk through the living room, over the floor furnace (!!) you'd step into a big, er, a big room -- that had a naked light bulb hanging down from the ceiling on a long cord, with a pull chain to turn it on and off. I don't know how this room was used over the years, but I remember it as being my grandmother's bedroom. It was full of that (now remembered as being) lovely big mahagony furniture -- bed, dresser with all sorts of drawers and shelves, chiferobe (where she kept the IOU bags close by), and a cute little single iron bed (that I slept on many a night). Sheesh! It must have been a big room because it also had her, well used, sewing machine, the telephone, and (this can't be true) but I remember some kind of largish table where, underneath, MomP would tape her butcher knives (among others) in case someone broke in. ?? Lest I confuse, the table with the knives taped underneath it is factual. The only confusion I have is why it would have been in MomP's bedroom? Maybe my subconscious wil work it out and imform me of its exact location -- the table's location....not my subconscious' location. This room, being a middle room I guess, had lots of doors. A door into the living room, a door into the bathroom, a door into the back rooms, and a door onto the front porch. Count them. Four doors. I've never thought about that before. This room also had those built in cabinet thing-ies. It was also honored with being chosen as the location for the window air conditioner -- which was almost never turned on.

The only other middle room left was the bathroom. It was between the kitchen and MomP's bedroom and it was quite big. It housed the washer/dryer, a couple of big pieces of furniture used for folding and storing clothes and towels and such and (shhh! don't tell Gindaddy) MomP would hide her snuff somewhere in that area. She was so clever that I never knew exactly where. I remember two things about that bathroom. Both involve my oldest brother. One: when he had eaten quite a lot of Exlax -- thinking it to be chocolate. He was ensconced on the throne for quite some time. hehehe Two: when my mother actually washed his mouth out with soap. He had either said 'lie' (not allowed, we had to say 'fib') or'darn' (not allowed, and I don't think there was any replacement word allowed). Yes, ma'am, things were different back then. And that's about it for the bathroom. Well, sheesh! Except for the (now remembered as) piece de resistance, the claw-footed bathtub. Nice and deep. Too bad I was too young at the time to equate a bath with pleasure. It would have been a perfect place to have enjoyed a relaxing soak.

Now for the back rooms. Lord Gawd! Will I ever get out of this house -- or get this house out of my mind? Oh, well, the back rooms aren't that interesting so there shouldn't be much to say. But....we'll see. This house is surprising me. As I remember it, there were two ways into the back rooms -- through one of MomP's bedroom doors or through the door to the side porch. The back rooms consisted of one big room with two smaller rooms off the big room. I guess those rooms were used as bedrooms for the five children born and raised in the house. I remember the big room as being my grandfather's room, one of the smaller rooms was my maiden aunt's room, and the other smaller room was used for....varying things, I guess. I remember once when my family was temporarily living at 212, waiting for a new house to be finished, I slept in that room, on a rollaway bed, along with most of our furniture and packed belongings that were stacked to the ceiling. It was eerie at night. Especially the time, in the wee hours, when the bottom half of the rollaway bed decided to fold itself up and popped straight up in the air. !! Talk about a young girl being scarred for life! Could have happened to me then. Could have if my dad-- the former boxer, and my oldest brother (who's actually younger than me)-- the jock, hadn't chided me for being a 'wuss', as I recall it. I think one of my older cousins was there also and he added his laughter as well. How could I have acted like a sissy in front of all of them? Is that when I started stuffing my true feelings? Just joking. I know nothing's that simple. And, lest I give the wrong impression, my dad, my brother, and my cousin were (and my brother still is) honorable, decent, caring human beings. I was very blessed to have grown up in a family of good, solid people. But, still in all, they did laugh at me....

Ummmm....when I began this post, I didn't know I was going to describe 212 in such detail. Maybe it needed to be done in order to get the house orderd and fixed in my mind? I dunno. I can see now that this blog is fighting for a mind of its own. It's attempting to control me more than me, it. I'll try and go with the flow -- do I have a choice? What will I write about next time? Who the hell knows!

For now, bye from 212 Avenue Z.