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Putting my face on

May 16, 2013 by Audrey

I need to put my face on.

That’s what Granny called putting on her makeup — putting her face on. When I was little and we lived with Granny and Baw, I would lie on her bed and watch her while she stood in front of her bedroom window and put on her face. Now Granny didn’t wear a lot of “paint,” but she did wear powder, a little rouge, and lipstick.

I remember watching Mama do the same thing, in front of a day-home-office magnifying mirror that she still uses. As a child pretending to put on makeup in front of Mama’s mirror, I always preferred the rosy glow of the home light as opposed to the harsh fluorescence of office. I still do. A pink light bulb is always your friend.

Like Granny and like Mama, I put my face on every day. Without fail. Unless I’m throwing up my feet. I just do.

Three months of bathroom and bedroom renovations has, however, put a hitch in my gitalong. I’ve had to move my dressing table into the dining room along with all the rest of my bedroom furniture and put on my make-up in the guest bathroom, which I share…with a teenage boy. I have to stand. There’s no rosy glow.

I know, I know. What a hardship. Oh, poor pitiful me.

Husband keeps making reference to bootstraps. I roll my eyes. He doesn’t understand.

You see, putting my face on every day is much more to me than slapping on some eyeliner and blush and heading out the door.

Every morning, I sit at my dressing table. I drink a cup of coffee. I spend a few minutes just staring into my own eyes. While I go through my little beauty routine, I think about the day coming up — what I have to do, where I’ll go, how I’ll handle different situations. I have a couple of Bible verses that I stuck in the mirror during a particularly dark time. I still read them every day. I’ve gotten some of my best ideas while contemplating a stray eyebrow hair magnified 10 times its normal size.

It’s my quiet time to get my mind right. To put my face on — my made up face and my public face. To put on the face the world will see and the face that can cope with what the world sends my way.

At least for that one day.

You can’t put your face on while you drink a diet Coke, apply mascara, talk on the phone, and drive through morning traffic. You can’t put your face on in the ladies room at the office. And you can’t put your face on standing in a guest bathroom surrounded by a cloud of Axe fighting for mirror time with a teenager.

I am seven hard wood steps and a few feet of quarter round away from being able to put my face on again.

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Give me convenience or give me death

May 11, 2013 by Audrey

In a grand experiment just to see if we could, about a month ago Husband and I decided  to try our level best to avoid genetically modified foods, processed foods, and soy. Folks, I’m here to tell you it ain’t easy. And it ain’t cheap.

You see, nowadays most of our food is trying to kill us, and not in the caveman chased by a sabre-toothed tiger sort of way. When you look at the sweeteners, artificial ingredients, preservatives, dyes, and Frankenstein-like  lab creations that are in most all of the food that is readily accessible and affordable for most of the populace, it’s no wonder that we, as a nation, have grown fatter and sicker in just the last 20 years. We are slowly being killed by convenience.

So what’s a girl to do?

Get informed. Was your food created in a lab or grown in a garden? Are the chickens that laid your eggs part of a monumental commercial production or did they every get to go outside and eat a bug? Is your meat full of growth hormones and antibiotics? I remember when the only thing genetically different about the produce I ate was which farmer we bought it from.

Read the box. Husband and I have become label readers of the worst sort, clogging up the aisles at the grocery store while we scan ingredients and nutritional claims. Sometimes I have to whip out the old smart phone and Google something. What is xanthan gum really? Cyanocobalamin? A good rule of thumb is to buy products with the least amount of ingredients possible. And if you can’t pronounce it and don’t know what it is, chances are you shouldn’t eat it.

Shop local. Patronize your local farmers’ markets. Be part of a community-supported agriculture group (CSA). Get those summer tomatoes that are still warm from the sun and get to know the person who grew them.  You don’t have to march up and down the road in front of Monsanto in protest. Just spend your money elsewhere, like in your own neighborhood.

Grow your own. You’d be surprised how much food you can get from just a small garden! My one fig tree yields more than I can preserve, pickle, and dry. If you have too much, share with your friends or learn to can. It’s easy. Freezing is even easier.

Cook. It’s just as easy to bake a potato as it is to microwave a cardboard container of a frozen something that claims to be food. And it’s a whole lot more satisfying. If you think every meal has to be a gourmet extravaganza, get over it. I have fallen victim to marthastewart-itis in my day, admittedly. But I’ve come to realize that sometimes a fried egg and a piece of toast is really all you need.

Now I’m not claiming that I’m all that and a bag of chips cooked in genetically modified corn oil. We’ve strayed over to the white bread side of life a time or two. We still frequent our local Mexican restaurant with alarming regularity. (They hug us we go there so much.) And I’m pretty sure that tonic water is not considered a health food, nor is the gin I mixed with it. It is, after all, summertime.

The point is we’re trying.

Say you find yourself at a Shell station in Livingston, Ala. And say it’s been a while since you had a salad for lunch. It’s easy to find a healthy snack even there. Look past the honey buns and Bugles. Avoid the 100 Grand, the wax lips, and the jerky. I have found the perfect snack with only two ingredients. Plus it has a Bible verse on the package so it must be alright.

IMG_0516 2 IMG_0517 1IMG_0517

Well, what did you expect from a Southern girl?

(Note: Notice anything about the Bible verse?)

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Mother, may I?

April 17, 2013 by Audrey

I buried my cousin today.

Teddy and me

Teddy and me

I stood with dozens of family members, and hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of friends as his mother, his wife, and his daughter returned his ashes to the earth, his soul, I’m sure, already in Heaven.

Two months my senior, Teddy was a true golden boy — an adorable tow-headed child who turned into a funny, mischievous, athletic teenager and grew into a smart, gregarious, loving, devoted husband, father, and friend. What seemed like all of Baldwin County turned out today to pay their respects, share their stories, shed their tears, and celebrate a life that touched so very many in what seems like a very short time. Just like they did for Teddy’s dad, who also left us before we were ready to let him go twenty-four years ago.

When my Uncle Ted died at the ripe old age of 44 and I was only 21, it didn’t seem quite as young as it did today. When I was in college, 44 seemed like it would never arrive. And it didn’t for Teddy, who would have been 44 this coming July.

Before death (and school, and work, and life) separated our family, we would regularly gather at my paternal grandparents home in Chickasaw, Ala., for big gumbo dinners — my daddy and his two brothers, their wives, the five grandchildren. We always had a high old time.

There would be piping hot gumbo, shrimp salad, West Indies salad, potato salad, and Saltine crackers. There would be cold Cokes for the kids, a rare treat then, and sometimes Grandpa Mac might give you a little sip of Bud when no one was looking. Granny Mac always kept a full candy dish, and we could have all the sweets we wanted.

Teddy and me

Celebrating our 40th birthdays

After the big meal, the adults would sit around visiting, and all of us kids would usually head out into the yard to play. One of our favorite games was “Mother, may I.” We played it over and over and over and over…

If you are not familiar with “Mother may I,” it goes something like this: One child is “it” or the “mother.” Teddy would always call “it” first, claiming he was the oldest and, therefore, entitled to be first. He would stand on the back steps while the rest of us lined up across the far end of the driveway.

Teddy would scrutinize us, ostensibly planning his elaborate strategy. Then he would say, for example, “Audrey, take two giant steps forward.”

The response, “Mother, may I?”

“Yes, you may.”

Then I would take two of the biggest steps I could muster.

Then he would eye the remaining cousins.

“Martina, take four bunny hops.”

“Mother, may I?”

“Yes, you may.”

“John, take three baby steps.”

“Mother, may I?”

“Yes, you may.”

“Ricia, take six jumps — only on your left foot.”

And so it would go until one of us got close enough to tag Teddy and become “it.” Then the game would start all over.

It was a silly game, but we loved it. We always played it. We always had fun.  We always wound up giggling hysterically at all the crazy antics Teddy could think up to put us through.

I wish I could go back thirty-odd years and play “Mother, may I” with my cousins one more time. Only this time, I’d get to be “it” first because I’m the oldest now.

And the first thing I would say?

“Teddy Boy, take one more day.”

 

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When you wish upon a star…

March 31, 2013 by Audrey

I have just returned from a week in the land of all things magical — Walt Disney World.

The Magic Kingdom

The Magic Kingdom

Walt Disney envisioned a place where parents and children could have fun together, an idea he got while trying to find activities to do with his own two daughters. His idea was realized with the 1955 opening of Disneyland in Anaheim, California. Disney World followed, opening in Lake Buena Vista, Florida, in 1971.

Disney World is a marvel of fun, fantasy, imagination, and excitement. Sonny and I spent Spring Break down there, and it was magical. Well, mostly magical.

Let me tell you what I mean.

Not magical: Waiting in line. And waiting. And waiting…

Magical: The line sometimes moves so fast that you don’t have time see all the interesting things along the way, like Hidden Mickeys, especially if you have a FASTPASS.

Not magical: Shoulder to shoulder crowds trying to push toward a parade, a show, an exit…good Lord, where is the exit?

Magical: Sharing a lunch table with two absolutely delightful families at Epcot‘s Biergarten Restaurant in the Germany Pavilion. One family had an Irish mama, and American daddy, and a precocious five-year-old. The other family of three was actually from Germany. Across language barriers, we all shared our vacation experiences and enjoyed a show. Sonny and I ran into the German family later in the trip, and they greeted us like old friends.

Not magical: Rental scooters zooming through the crowd at warp speed. Just because you’re on wheels doesn’t mean you can play Mario Andretti in a pedestrian crowd.

Even less magical: Rental scooters zooming through the crowd at warp speed with a half dozen young ‘uns clinging onto the driver and all waving plastic swords and trailing helium balloons.

Magical: If there is anything magical about the accursed scooter, except for maybe they do allow some people to get around Disney World who might not otherwise be able to, it’s that some brilliant mind saw the humor (or the tragedy, as the case may be) in our ever increasing dependance on technology and created the social commentary movie Wall-E.

Not magical: You can tell when Mama is as mad as all get-out no matter what language she speaks.

Magical: You can tell when Mama is enjoying her family and loves them to pieces no matter what language she speaks.

Not magical: Realizing the world is covered in snot. I can’t tell you how many rug rats I saw wipe a big glob of snot off their sunburned little noses with their bare hands, then run that same hand all up and down the railing.

Magical: Hand sanitizer.

Not magical: Motion sickness from rides that spin, dip, soar, swoop, and drop.

Magical: Running cool water over your wrists will make you feel better. Every time.

Not magical: Public restrooms.

Magical: Paper toilet seat covers. Greatest invention ever.

Not magical: Manners, the niceties of polite society, and general civility seem to get left at home sometimes (along with bras, sunscreen, and common sense).

Magical: Seeing a little boy run after a lady to return the $20 bill that dropped out of her pocket.

Not magical: Oblivion.

Magical: Attention. Attention to where you are, the people around you, and how your actions may affect others.

Not magical: Sullen teenage girls who would rather spend their time in the Magic Kingdom texting on their iPhone while plugged up to the only public electrical outlet in Lake Buena Vista, Florida, which happens to be in the public bathroom near Space Mountain, than enjoying all the sun and fun their parents have spent thousands of dollars on.

Magical: A son who still enjoys spending a whole week with his mother.

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My love is like a green, green collard…

February 12, 2013 by Audrey

February brings two things to my mind: love and collards.

Love because of this month’s celebration of St. Valentine’s Day and all things mushy, gushy, sweet, and sentimental. Collards because now is the peak season for this mighty green, my personal favorite of all the greens in the green family. And as I have contemplated love and collards, and believe me there has been some serious cogitation of late, I have come to find that the two have much in common.

Collards, like love, can sometimes be sweet and sometimes be salty. The key is to find the perfect balance. If you bring constant contention to the marital table (or the living-in-sin table or the mr.-right-right-now-table), you will create a completely unpalatable situation for your beloved. That is not to say, however, that you should be completely milquetoast and mooney.  A dash of salt here and a pinch of sugar there will lead to equilibrium, harmony, happiness.collards

Collards take a lot of work to get them just right — wash, wash, wash, rinse, rinse, rinse, cut out the stems, check for bad spots, stack the leaves, roll them up, slice, slice, slice. So too does love and marriage. Once you get that ring on your finger, you can’t expect to just lay back, eat bonbons, and let the chips of bliss fall where they may. It is a lot of effort to maintain a happy home, and don’t let anybody tell you different. But just like a mess of greens, if you are willing to put in the time, effort, and a heaping spoonful of patience, oh, what a sweet reward in the end.

Collards are a tough green but they can be easily bruised and damaged. You have to treat your collards gently, tenderly, compassionately. Even the biggest, toughest outside leaf is in danger of being broken if treated carelessly. Do thoughtless, irreparable damage to your collards, and you will wind up with not so much as a spoonful of potlikker. And then where will you be? Staring at a plate of dry cornbread all by yourself.

Collards ain’t nothing but collards no matter how much you try to church them up. You can call them “braised winter greens,” you can cut them into a chiffonade, you can even try to put them in a gratin or some other such nonsense, but they will still always be just plain collards. Likewise, if your honeypie was a threat to go to the store in a wife-beater and sweat pants, leave his drawers on the bathroom floor, and drink milk straight from the carton before you were married, chances are he will continue to do all those same things once you jump the broomstick. No matter how you try to dress him in Brooks Brothers and Cole Haan, no matter if you douse him in Old Spice and pomade, he’ll always be the collard you fell in love with underneath. Don’t try to turn him into Swiss chard.

Collards are good for you. Collards make you healthy. They provide comfort, make you feel all warm inside, and give you strength to carry on from day to day. Collards should bring nothing but happiness. If your collards make you miserable, if your collards make you sad, if your collards are in someone else’s pot, well…you might want to consider Swiss chard.

So come this Valentine’s Day think of love. Think of collards. I’ll have a heaping helping of both, please. I can’t get enough.

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Roll Tide! Amen!

January 2, 2013 by Audrey

There comes a time in every man’s life when he is confronted by a crisis of faith. Faced with serious doubt, questions with no conceivable answers, and soul-deep introspection, he (or she) may find this burden too heavy to bear. What to do? What to do?

Hopefully you will never be so conflicted, but many an Alabamian will be on January 7.  You see, in a state where football is nigh unto a religious experience for the majority of the populace, this year’s BCS National Championship match-up between the University of Alabama and Notre Dame has many a local Catholic on the horns of a dilemma — can you be a fan of the Crimson Tide and a good Catholic when you feel driven by a force you cannot deny to cheer against Notre Dame ( French for “Our Lady”, the Virgin Mary, patron saint of the University)? In other words, if you boo the Blessed Mother, are you automatically on a fast track to the hot place?

So great was the anguish of the Catholic fan base, that the bishop emeritus for the Diocese of North Alabama felt the need to assure his flock in a recent homily that the faithful can indeed root for Bama without sin or regret. Can I get a HALLELUJAH?

You see, we here in Alabama are serious about not only the game, but its venerable coaches and sacrosanct championship trophies.

Paul W. "Bear" Bryant(Photo from Wikipedia)

Paul W. “Bear” Bryant
(Photo from Wikipedia)

We drape ourselves in crimson and houndstooth to honor not only the college, but the man his ownself, Coach Paul W. “Bear” Bryant, who led Alabama to six national championships and thirteen conference championships during his 25 years on the sidelines. The Bear once said, “Mama wanted me to be a preacher. I told her coachin’ and preachin’ were a lot alike,” and he certainly made believers out of many a young player. His grave in Birmingham’s Elmwood Cemetery is still the site of frequent pilgrimage with devoted fans leaving mementos even though this month will mark the thirtieth January since his death.

In recent years, the University has taken its two National Championship trophies on a whistle-stop tour through our state’s WalMarts. Like pilgrims to Canterbury, droves of devotees traveled to that cathedral of savings to lay eyes on the crystal wonderment, greeting fellow worshipers in the only acceptable manner — with a hearty “Roll Tide.” Pictures were made, thanks were given, and, I’m sure, more than one soul gazed reverently upon this ultimate prize through the blur of a tear.

So come the 7th, when crimson and white takes on gold and green on the gridiron, let us raise a joyful noise without fear of damnation, without anguish, without apology. Yea, Alabama! Roll Tide! Amen.

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Southern Living makes me sad

December 20, 2012 by Audrey

Because of Southern Living I contemplate the purchase of Christmas topiary.

Because of Southern Living I recognize beachy pastels as possible holiday colors.

Because of Southern Living I find my self uttering words like “table-scape” and “disco-ball-esque.”

Because of Southern Living I am sad.

This year’s Christmas issue, a “special double issue,” found its way to my mailbox in November to taunt me, to mock me, to make me feel vaguely inferior and sort of shabby. Page after glossy page featured showplace rooms with every imaginable bit of color-coordinated holiday finery. The coral drapes match the coral and teal tree that match the coral and teal gifts that match the stockings hung by the chimney with more than just a teensy bit of care. Everything is “punchy.” It all must “pop.”

Editor M. Lindsay Bierman must have had me in mind as he watched this issue come together. In what appears to be an attempt to empathize with the common reader, he shares a dark secret with us — that his own Christmas won’t look like the pages of the magazine either, that his kitchen will be messy, that his presents will not be works of wrapping art. The magazine is to inspire, he writes, to bring out the “dreamer,” the “doer.”

I don’t buy it. My suburban ranch-style home, a product of the late 60s just like me, is not now and never will be a decorator show home — no matter how much I dream or do. It’s just not, well, it’s just not…Audrey. My decorating style can only be characterized as eclectic (read inherited, free, antique and/or thrift combined with a variety of local art work and sundry little collections of things that please me).

And you know what? I like it that way.

A couple of weeks ago, I put down the Southern Living and set about my own Christmas decorating as I do every year. My holiday style, much like my decorating style, can only be described as eclectic (read not matching, inherited, free, antique, gifts). I don’t have a snowy white tree. None of my decorations necessarily match, or mismatch. And I could not care less about seasonal napkin rings.

But here’s what I do have.

Elves in a Styrofoam and glitter hot-air balloon

Elves in a Styrofoam and glitter hot-air balloon

I have elves in a Styrofoam and glitter hot-air balloon. Every year, me and Sarah, Granny’s housekeeper and my constant companion, would unpack Granny’s Christmas ornaments, every one carefully wrapped in tissue paper from the year before. This was my favorite. Where were the little elves going? Are they going home to the North Pole? Running away? Were they like the Jumblies, which my mother read to me over and over at my behest, off in search of adventure and Chankly Bore? The elves are hanging on my tree right now, and every time I see them, the same thoughts still run through my mind.

Wax Christmas balls

Wax Christmas balls

I also have Granny’s wax Christmas balls which, after many, many years of hot Southern attic summers, have melted into the very tissue paper that was supposed to protect them. Even though they can no longer be used, I still keep them, and admire their misshapen beauty every year. I guess the Alabama heat eventually gets the best of all of us.

Paper chains

Paper chains

I have the paper chains Sonny and I made with dime store construction paper and Scotch tape. They’re a little faded, but the memory of the afternoon we spent making them has not.

boot

Ceramic Santa boot

I have a ceramic Santa boot given to me by my third grade Sunday School teacher, Miss Bobbi. It has my first and middle name painted on it in gold. It came filled with candy. I’ve had it for thirty-five Christmases now.

Baby's First Christmas

Baby’s First Christmas

I have a Baby’s First Christmas ornament given by Daddy to Sonny for just that. I have thirteen more ornaments, each one different and special, that Daddy has given Sonny every year since the first. One day Sonny will have them on his own tree.

Santa and Mrs. Claus

Santa and Mrs. Claus

Did you know that Santa and Mrs. Claus lead secret, double lives? In addition to all that toy making business, the also serve up salt and pepper every year on my dining table. I can’t remember a Christmas without them.

Grapevine wreaths

Grapevine wreaths

I have grapevine wreaths made from grapevines I grew. Sometimes I put ribbons on them. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I leave them up all year ’round. Wish I could do the same thing with my Christmas lights, but the neighbors would talk.

My Christmas extravaganza

My Christmas extravaganza

Speaking of lights, here are mine! White lights are elegant and all that, but I like the colored ones better and lots of them. I wish I had more lights this year. I also wish I had an extension ladder. And a staple gun. And the courage to climb up on the roof.

Here’s what I have.

Real Southern living. And that doesn’t make me sad at all. In fact, it makes me rather happy.

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