In Lieu of Photos...Stories

My mother recently showed me a picture from her college days.  She is with her friends, Katie and Hazel, on the lawn of Morris College in Sumter, SC.   Like most college students, they look happy, carefree and hopeful.  Mom was so happy to receive this picture from Hazel over the summer.  She said that Hazel’s husband, and college sweetheart, had taken the picture.  Hazel came across the picture and sent it to Mom, along with a lovely handwritten letter.

I have not seen photos of my parents when they were young– no bundles of joy, no pigtails and missing teeth, no pimples and no diplomas in hand.   The most youthful picture I have of my parents is from their wedding day.  When they married in 1962, they were in their late twenties.    Over the years, as their family expanded, more pictures were taken.  As a school teacher, Mom would have her picture taken each year.  They were like my school pictures, a frozen smile and a stiff body perched in front of a bland background. These pictures served their purpose but didn’t reveal much.   

What I know of my parents, prior to their meeting, comes by way of stories they’ve told. My father is more of a historian and storyteller, so in some ways, I know more about his early life.   He could paint a good picture, like the day he left the South and headed to New York.  He went to the bus station with one suitcase and determined how far he could go based on what he had in his pocket and the location of his relatives.   I can see him in the bus station with a hat on his head and a brown suitcase by his side, asking “How much to get to New York City?”

  

My mother’s storytelling presents as brief commentary but her reenactment is quite compelling.  A few times a year, especially on her birthday, she tells of the inaccuracy of her birth certificate.   She reenacts the words of her much older sister, Parthenia:  Your birthday is on August 19th and not the 18th. Momma kept saying “I’m gonna die today…I’m gonna die today!”  You were born on August…the 19th!   Soon after, Mom breaks out into laughter – as if she is hearing of the day of her birth for the first time.  By the way, my grandmother did not die on that day but lived to be 89 years old.    My grandmother, born in 1889, had my mother at the age of 44.  Mom was her 11th and final child. 

These stories are not presented to me like a well-crafted biography that I can pull from a shelf.  As stories do, they arrive when they are ready to be told, often triggered by a present-day experience that takes them back to another place and time. These stories provide a glimpse into the times in which they lived, those they loved and experiences that shaped them.  In this way, I have come to know my parents.  

Katie, Rudell (Mom), Hazel - The College Years (1954-1957)

Lost In a Book

I’ve rediscovered my love of reading.  Once again, I feel like that little kid sitting on the floor of her pink bedroom.   My long and sometimes ashy brown legs would be stretched way out against the light green carpet.   I was lost in a book.

I remember this intensely pleasurable reading taking place during the summer of my childhood.  My mother, a school teacher, would be home with us during the long summer months.  As soon as we mentioned that we were bored, Ma would say Bored?  Ok.  Go get your things.  We’re going to the library.  Her tone suggested that we were in some sort of trouble.  I loved to read so I was always a little confused by this parental display.  She piled her 3 kids into the back of the green Chevy Nova and off we went. 

The authors of my childhood were Beverly Cleary, Maya Angelou and Judy Blume.  Not too long after that I discovered James Baldwin.  I don’t remember my mother scrutinizing my stack of books which is why I could slip in James Baldwin at a fairly young age.  At that time children were really children.  This was before cable and the only source of corruption was the Brady Bunch, Threes Company and Fat Albert.  Even if my mother saw me reading James Baldwin she probably thought I was trying to learn about my black history.   

Somewhere along the way I lost my love of reading.  It probably started with all of the volumes of required reading for college and graduate school.  This was followed by jobs that required more reading.  When I got home in the evenings, the last thing I wanted to do was deal with more words.   But I kept reading anyway.  There were moments that I enjoyed but it felt a lot like laundry.  The main difference is that I could remember a time when I loved reading and that memory buoyed me along from book to book. 

It made no sense for me to approach a book like a kid trying to get through a plate full of peas. So I stopped trying.  I would read what I wanted and when I wanted.  I would read an article here and a blog there.  Sometimes I would read parts of books with no goal of completion.  This went on for a few years. 

Last May, I was with my walking buddy Arlene and we decided to visit a new library we noticed on our way to Arabia Mountain.  We casually walked around the library marveling at the architecture.  Eventually we got to the books to check out their selection.  Suddenly I had this urge to read which took me by surprise.   I ended up choosing Jonah’s Gourd Vine by Zorah Neale Hurston which was first published in 1934.  I loved the wonderfully flawed main character of preacher John Pearson.  The dialect was challenging and delightful.

I then turned to my own bookshelf for the next selection, Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin.   I savored every word.  When I finished the last chapter, I declared once again that Baldwin is the best.  Now, I’m reading Anne Lamott’s book – Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life.  She has some very practical suggestions that I find quite helpful.  I’m amused by her use of lavish sarcasm.

I continue to read as I can.  I take my time.   I lay across my bed with only a night lamp on and sometimes I burn a candle.  And the sensation is the same as it was a long, long time ago.



Note:  First posted on breakfastatkarens.blogspot.com on 9/18/12  

This is how we traveled (down south)

Mom got up early that morning.  She cleaned, cut up, seasoned, floured and fried a whole chicken.  The chicken was wrapped in foil and placed in a tote bag, one she acquired from a conference or from teaching.  To this bag she added a loaf of white bread and fruit.  There was another bag with 2 packs of Pringles potato chips and cookies; the thin butter cookies in clear cellophane trays that were under a dollar.  There was one roll of paper towels, styrofoam cups and a yellow jug of ice water.    Preparing the food was her final act.  The last few days she had spent washing clothes.  The clothes were folded, rolled and packed into a large, heavy suitcase that the family shared.  She placed our clothes in quadrants in the suitcase for each member of the family.  We were going down south.

  

We travelled in our 1976 Chevy Malibu.   Leaving Maryland, we would soon be on I-95 on our way to South Carolina; first to visit my mother’s hometown of Cheraw and then on to my father’s in North Augusta.   There was more than 500 miles ahead of us.  The first part of the drive was easy; the air was as cool as it was going to be.  I could keep myself entertained with mile markers and crossing the first state line.  I knew that once we got past Richmond, Virginia, I could begin to think about lunch and that fried chicken.   It was too early to begin to ask Are we there yet?  

Lunch was always at a rest stop.  In those days, rest stops offered bathrooms and picnic tables beneath the canopy of large trees.   We were glad to be free of the car and ran to an empty picnic table.  Mom would methodically remove our food from carefully packed bags.  She would then ask us which piece of chicken we wanted.  Greg, what you want?  Kenny, what you want?  Karen, what you want?  Thomp (my father), what you want?  Hollering out what we wanted, before we were asked, did not change her method, nor did she move any faster.   One by one, we would receive.  It was a most loving act; a piece of fried chicken wrapped in white bread from the hands of one’s mother.   

It was late summer and the sun was most formidable.  Wrangled together, we were rushed back to the car by my father.  He was motivated to reach Cheraw by a particular time.  This means nothing to children as we tried to avoid the burn of hot vinyl seats.  Mom found towels or something for us to sit on.  For the remainder of the trip, windows were rolled up and down to change the temperature in the car.  From the backseat, we would proclaim the obvious, “It’s hot!”  And from the front seat, “Roll down the windows!” Other times, the front seaters would ask “Is that too much air on you?” At some point, in response to our restless demands, my mother would yell “Take a nap!” 

For entertainment, there were comic books, coloring books and library books.  Just books.  And when that wasn’t enough, backseat brawls would break out with arguments and a few elbows.  This was the natural occurrence when siblings are sausaged together for hours in a hot car. Sometimes my mother would intervene with telling one of us to move over as if there was space to move over to.  Usually we were frozen in place by a single line from my father “Now stop all that fighting back there!”   We traveled on; eating snacks, reading, making up games.  We began to ask Are we there yet?  All questions about the distance between cities were answered by my father.  Somehow, we reached our destination by the early evening.  

The coming days were full and simple.  Relatives were visited, telling us how much we had grown.  We played with cousins in yards and ran in and out until we were told “Stop running in and out of this house!”   I ate peaches, larger than the size of my hand; warm and delicious.   We made homemade ice cream with my North Augusta grandma; taking turns churning the ice cream.  My father would tell stories of his childhood and Sunday dinners at big Ma’s (his grandmother) house.   At night, I would fall asleep by an open window, listening to strange night creatures and staring out into the blackness.  Each day had its own adventure. 

Soon, all too soon, my mother would be up again early, frying chicken.  Clothes had been washed and repacked.  We knew our visit down south had come to an end.  We headed back north, the same way we came; together.  

The Pleasant Aroma of Fall’s Decay

Fall is my favorite season. I like everything about the fall - the colors, the coolness, traditions and celebrations. My favorite holiday, Thanksgiving, is in the fall. It is the one holiday where nobody really wants anything from anybody other than their love, friendship and maybe their food.

I enjoy walking in the fall and the crunch of leaves beneath my feet. Sometimes I walk alone and other times with a friend. I have a walking buddy, Arlene. We walk the Arabia Mountain Trail as it winds behind neighborhoods and into woods, alongside streams and wildflowers on granite outcrops. We pause to admire a flower, leaf or tree. We take photos as if visiting for the first time.

There’s a wonderful woodsy smell in the air that shows up in the fall. I expect the alluring sweetness of spring blossoms. Yet, I can’t deny the welcoming and pleasant aroma from fall’s decay.

The chill in the air, short dark days and the smell of fireplaces sends me straight to my kitchen. Soups, chowders and stews are often on the stove or in the slow cooker. I’m inspired to try out new and savory recipes from seniors lingering in the produce section of the grocery store. But if it should rain, I would forget these things and head to my sofa with hot cider, a blanket and a good book.

As a child, my mother would send me to the basement to retrieve fall and winter clothing. She would be in the kitchen taking down the yellow and white curtains. I remember their whimsical movements against the open window. Their replacements were brown, white and joyless. In my own way, I do the same. I move clothes from one closet to another. I place a fall wreath on the front door and just below, two planters full of mums.

Some are sad when the long summer days end, and with it, our summer play. But, there is a time when we must gather together and come inside. We need things to begin. We need things to end. And fall is that reminder.

“Autumn…the year's last, loveliest smile." - William Cullen Bryant

My Father's Papers

Growing up, there were always newspapers in the house. There were usually three newspapers delivered to the house.  These papers arrived daily for my father’s enjoyment.  As kids we poked around with the Sunday paper after my father had gone through it.  I read the Parade and my brothers the comics.  My mother bypassed the news in search of sales.  She mostly used old newspapers to capture the skins of peeled potatoes and shucked corn when cooking.   Sometimes I was able to amuse this deeply religious woman with the daily horoscope, “Ma, today you will find love in unexpected places.”  But it was my father who thoroughly read the newspapers. He would read them at the kitchen table, from his big chair in the den, while sitting on the front porch or by the wood burning stove in the basement. 

The papers lived in various parts of the house which annoyed my mother.   There’s nothing more unruly than a paper once opened.  It can’t be returned to its former pristine state.  It’s easier to leave them opened and disheveled all over the place.  Sometimes my mother expressed her frustration, “I’m so tired of Your Father’s Papers.”   She always said Your Father’s Papers as if to mockingly announce a great novel or play.  But what was she to do?  All things considered, this is just the byproduct of a man that likes to read newspapers.   Still, the papers were just one more thing she had to corral to maintain some semblance of order at home. 

I’ve always been amused that my father involves my mother in the reading of his newspapers.   He doesn’t seem to notice her shoddy rapport with his papers.  Sometimes he would suddenly appear from another part of the house with his paper “Rudell, look at this!  I told you…they going to jail!”  They were usually a political figure that he had been following.   He would monitor their hopeful rise to office all the way to their ruinous end.   Mom would acknowledge his five alarm news with a slight nod or lift of the eyebrow.   He would walk away muttering his convictions into the air and shaking his head, ”Naw, uh-uh…you just can’t do that.”  

I often think of my parents as I try to manage reading and taming the Washington Post I have delivered to my apartment once a week.   I know there is no great mystery or feat in reading a newspaper.  If I were speaking to a therapist, she would look over me closely and say “Mystery…hmmmnnnn….let’s explore this a little more…”   Obviously I don’t rely on this once a week delivery, that I pick through, as my primary source of information.  So, why do I have the subscription? We all do things that tie us to our childhood.  We desire to have a better understanding of it or want to relive a feeling or experience that we know we can’t get back.  Sometimes it’s a conscious choice and other times not.  Maybe that’s why I have them living with me in my small space.

There are still a lot of papers in my parent’s house.  I wasn’t sure which ones so I asked my dad.

“Dad, what papers do you get at the house?”

 “The (Baltimore) Sun and The (Capital) Gazette”

“I thought there was another paper like the Afro American or did it go out of circulation?”

“Oh Yeah, I get the Afro American but that’s just once a week.  They still around.” 

“You read these papers every day!” 

 “Yeah.  Why?” 

“I was just wondering.”

Of course, I wasn’t just wondering.  I was just amazed.

Labor Day Nostalgia & Considerations

Although special to me, I haven’t always understood the purpose of Labor Day.  Yes, I knew that Labor Day had something to do with labor, i.e. work.  I probably learned about it in history class in middle school.   I didn't pay much attention to the history being taught because I often felt detached or excluded from it. Even as a child, I knew that there was history and then there was the retelling of history.  As a result, my response to American holiday fanfare is always accompanied by a slight roll of the eyes. 

By the way, according to the U.S. Department of Labor, the first Labor Day celebration was in the city of New York on September 5^th in 1882.   Labor Day didn't become a national holiday until 1894.  About 28 states had adopted legislation to celebrate the holiday before Congress passed legislation to make it a national holiday that would be celebrated on the first Monday of September.  Labor Day was created out of the American labor movement and is meant to celebrate the American worker and achievements made to our country’s prosperity.   

"Woman's Work is Never Done "-   From My Kitchen

I often feel nostalgic and even whimsical about Labor Day.   Growing up, Labor Day meant the end of summer and going back to school.  In Maryland, we didn't go back to school until after Labor Day.  My mother would take us shopping to get us ready for school.  Of course, as the only girl in the house, this was a much greater production for me than for my two older brothers.  Every year, there was the constant negotiation with my mother in terms of how many new outfits I really needed for school.  I would try to tell her what some of the popular kids would be wearing and Rudell (ma) would say “Karen, those kids aren't going to do anything with their lives.”  But at some point, the negotiations would end when Rudell said, “Karen, you have enough.”  At home, I would model for my mother – as if she hadn't already seen every piece I tried on in the store and again at the register when she paid for them.  I was pleased and she was exhausted. 

I learned that I’m not supposed to where white after Labor Day.  But when I was in college at Spelman, I met a lot of women from California and they were unaware of this fashion rule.   My roommate was from California and she thought that was the funniest thing she had ever heard.  She was still laughing in December as she was putting on her white pants before heading out to class.   I figured this must be an unwritten rule for certain parts of the country.   I still like the idea of putting away light and airy clothing to make way for fall clothing, cooler weather and the smell of sweet potato pies in the oven. 

Beyond the end of summer, going back to school, wardrobes and shopping – Labor Day is a day in which we should pause and reconsider our work.  Many struggle with work life balance.  This isn't to say that we can ever achieve balance.  Most people spend at least 8 hours at work and 2 hours commuting.  This doesn't account for evening, job-related functions and part-time employment.  Still, there should be time in which we work and time in which we don’t work.  We need to leave, get rest and then return more focused.  We should also consider whether or not we like our work.   If the job isn't fulfilling, does it at least help to accomplish some of your life goals at this stage of your life?  No one should stay on a job that is physically and emotionally draining resulting in un-wellness.     While you may not be able to leave immediately, you can plan your great escape.  I've done it a few times and it was worth it.  Either way, it’s up to us to figure it out - how we work and don’t work –perhaps this is the real significance of a holiday that celebrates the American worker.