Mother's Day at 212

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

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......

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

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......

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....

And so......

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.