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Archive for February, 2012

The new wild

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , on February 29, 2012 | 2 Comments »

He was bad.

Not wife beating, bank robbing bad, but rebellious bad. Wild bad.

He worked at the Courtesy Food Store and looked clean-cut enough in his short-sleeved white shirt and black tie. I’d see him when Mama did her shopping and sometimes when he was walking home along the railroad tracks.

But even though I was only a little girl, I still knew it. I could tell it. He was bad.

First of all, he had dark hair and dark eyes, a sure outward sign of inner badness. With all due respect to James Dean, you can’t be bad with blonde hair and blue eyes. Defiantly cute, maybe, but not bad. This fella had the blackest of black hair, a little too long, a little too shaggy, and eyes so dark they had no pupils.

I had also heard the whisperings. He was known to drink and maybe even fight. I wondered if he went to Old Glory, the local (and only) watering hole – and a place where people went to drink and maybe even fight.

But the legs proved my case beyond a shadow of a doubt. The legs were the final, undeniable mark of a bad boy. And not his legs. Hers.

Her legs, daintily crossed at the ankles. Her legs, long long long and ending in shoes with mile-high heels. Her legs, peeking out from the beneath the snow white short sleeve of the Courtesy Foods shirt – tattooed on his bicep. Tattooed!

Had he been a Merchant Marine? In a motorcycle gang? Gone to Hawaii? Prison? Where else would one get such a thing!?

I couldn’t help but stare. What did the rest of her look like? Reckon she was nekkid?

I couldn’t tell! I couldn’t see! That damnable sleeve!

And so began my fascination with tattoos.

Used to be seeing a tattoo was almost like a rare bird sighting. Next to nobody had one. You might see the occasional Hell’s Angel in the gas station or an elderly veteran with a barely discernible greenish black mark on his forearm. But they were few and far between.

Now, everybody and their country brother has a tattoo or, better yet, tattoos. Skulls, flowers, devils, angels, aliens, hearts, koi koi and more koi, literary quotes, Chinese script (how do you really know that you have the symbol for happiness and not the symbol for slut), cartoon characters, portraits of loved ones, all manner of tribal design and emblem, family crests, Jesus, Our Lady of Guadalupe…it boggles the mind!

I’m incredibly intrigued by the artwork, the colors, the symbolism. I’m jealous of the talent it takes to paint a picture on someone’s flesh. That takes guts, and I don’t think I’d be brave enough to try. I admire those who do.

But the bad is gone. Getting inked is no longer rebellious. Tattoos are no longer hidden, taboo. In fact, it’s nearly normal.

And, quite frankly, as much as I love to look at them, I don’t think I really want a tattoo. I think I’ll just keep on being rebellious in my own little ways. Hidden ways.

Unadorned is the new wild.

 

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The f-word

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on February 21, 2012 | 2 Comments »

Lent is upon us. The bon temps have roulered and now it is time to pray, reflect, repent, and give up.

In past years I have given up cokes, sweets, and criticizing – not necessarily in that order. This year, after careful consideration and soul-searching, I have decided to give up that which calls me with its irresistibly hedonistic siren song. That which hides great pleasures not evident at first blush. That which tempts me more than sugar, alcohol, and cigarettes – the f-word…

Fried.

Yes, you heard it right. I am giving up all things fried.

You see, I have had a lifelong love affair with all that is covered in crust and floated in hot, bubbling lard. Eggplant, okra, green tomatoes, onions – all elevated to heavenly heights when battered and sizzled to perfection in a hot vat of grease. And any sort of distasteful, foul vegetable is infinitely redeemed when shrouded in a cloak of golden brown (yella squash, I’m talking about you, you mushy, sad excuse for produce).

Fried corn and fried potatoes – oops, I think I’ve drooled on the page here…

And don’t even get me started on the virtues of fried chicken, fried fish, and that most perfect of all fried bread creations – the hushpuppy, crusty on the outside, soft on the inside. Sort of like me if I was a fried wad of dough.

Heaven on plastic courtesy of Jordan's Fish Camp, Buckatunna MS

There is little I love more than to gaze upon a plate filled with monochromatic delicacies, only differing in their various and sundry shades of aureate frydacity. Maybe a dollop of red ketchup for contrast, a splash of white tartar sauce for compliment, or the tiniest hint, just a whisper, of green showing through some cole slaw, but mainly, a plate that is gloriously golden, just like the halo of one of God’s own angels.

Now Lent isn’t totally about self-denial and personal flagellation. Lent is also a time to examine activities and practices that might make you a better person. So to counterbalance my withdrawal from grease trap deprivation, I have decided to focus my attention and energy on another f-word…

Fresh.

You see, all those veggies referenced above that ultimately met their maker in a cast iron skillet of Crisco, were once vibrant, colorful treasures found most times in our very own garden. When I was growing up, we ate what was growing when it was growing, or what was canned when it was growing. There was no endless aisle of produce from Chile, California, or Thailand. Our produce came from the garden, the back of someone’s truck, or as repayment for a favor done.

I had no idea that asparagus was anything other than tinny, green goo until I was in my twenties! Who knew the pleasures of fresh brussel or mung bean sprouts? Swiss chard? Didn’t know it existed.

So for the next forty days and forty nights, I am going to set aside my sinful and singeful ways and turn to the light. I’m going to order that CSA box from Freshfully that I’ve long said I would. I’m going to embrace the flavors and textures of my dinner, long hidden behind the batter.

And I’m going to rise from the dinner table ready to meet the challenges, spiritual and otherwise, of this mortal existence unencumbered by the weight of gluttony, grease and lard.

But you know what they say, the road to Hell is paved with…cornmeal! And buttermilk! And beer batter!

Heaven help me.

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Black and white and read all over

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , on February 14, 2012 | Leave a Comment »

Today is Valentine’s Day. A day for romancing, woo pitching, undying love pledging.

And for more than one excited girl, I’m sure, her knight in shining khakis will drop down on one knee, present her with a sparkler, and say the most anticipated four words – Will you marry me?

She will scream and probably cry, all from happiness to be sure, throw her arms around his neck, and say “yes.” At least he hopes she does. Otherwise, it’s grass-stained knees, embarrassment, and rejection for him – no kind of way to celebrate St. Valentine or anything else for that matter.

But assuming she answers in the affirmative, once that ring is on her finger, the march through the registry, the showers, the photos, and the fittings toward the altar begins. It is wedding mania until you both finally drag your exhausted, indebted carcasses home from the honeymoon and over the threshold to the real world.

It hasn’t always been that way though. As you may remember from my last post, Granny Mac and Grandpa Mac got married before a judge in Mississippi. Mama and Daddy got married in Granny’s living room just as Granny had married Baw in her mother’s living room. It has only been until the last, say, thirty or forty years that weddings have gone from sweet and simple to over-the-top industry affairs.

Nowadays most every couple shares every teeninecy detail of their wedding from the initial planning stages until the last tulle-wrapped sack of birdseed hits the pavement on their own website, Facebook page, and YouTube channel. And that’s all fine and well and good for the family and friends who are included in the festivities, but, dear brides and grooms, you have forgotten an important segment of society – perfect strangers.

That is what the Sunday paper is for, y’all.

Once there were pages and pages of wedding bliss to peruse before church, but now they are few and far between. Where are the engagement announcements and wedding write-ups? Where are the fuzzy black and white pictures of glowing brides? How are we supposed to share in the happiness of myriad unknown couples when they don’t publish the details in the news?

We want to know that the bride wore a gown of ivory silk faille, highlighted with re-embroidered Alencon lace on the bodice and the flounce of her long fitted sleeves. We want to hear about the selections of nuptial music presented by soloists, harpists, and flautists. We want to know that the bride carried a cascading bouquet of roses, stephanotis, ivy and baby’s breath, even if we have no idea what stephanotis is.

Was the veil fingertip or cathedral length? How many tiers on the cake? What did the mothers wear? Is the honeymoon in Barbados or Pigeon Forge? For God’s sake were there mints served in silver compotes?

We need to know!

Now there will be those who will read through your carefully worded announcement and say things like, “Did she run an ad to find all those bridesmaids?” “They got married at the Episcopal church. I’ll bet there was some drinking done at that reception!” “Unchained Melody? Now that’s original.”

But that’s part of the fun too! Criticizing. Being catty. Serving up a heaping helping of sarcasm with a side of snark.

Don’t look down your nose at me. You know you’ve done it too!

So today, if you are one of the lucky ones now wearing a headlight on your third finger, congratulations! Shout it from the rooftops! Love is in the air and, hopefully soon, in the Sunday paper.

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Leap of faith

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on February 7, 2012 | 3 Comments »

The world was just waiting for me. My razor-sharp wit. My moonlight and magnolias charm. My blonde ebullience. Was there life before me? Hardly.

Or so I’d like to think.

But the truth is a harsh mistress. You see, but for a whim and a dance, little Audrey would not be.

Not just any whim, but the whim of a 16-year-old girl at a community dance who had set her sights on a tall, tanned, good-looking man six years her senior.

Mignonette and Geary the day they got engaged

And not just any dance, but a double rush dance, where the ladies were permitted to ask the gentlemen to take a turn around the floor without being thought of as being fast.

It was 1928, a leap year. A year where the calendar must be set right with an extra day. A year when women are given the rare privilege of courting men instead of vice versa (a tradition that hearkens all the way back to a little spat between St. Patrick and St. Bridget).

Mignonette (later Granny Mac to me) along with her widowed mother, brother, and sister had gone to one of the many local dances they regularly attended. It was not unusual for them to go out dancing several nights a week, school nights included. In fact, according to Mignonette’s diaries, it was not unusual for her to come home from school and make a dress to be worn out that very evening.

You see, my people are a social people. We like to joke. We like to laugh. We like to cut up and carry on. And we most definitely do not like to loll about the homestead when there is fun to be had. And in the Mobile of the twenties there was plenty to be had.

Whether it was the Germans or Swedes celebrating a ship from the fatherland come to port or the ladies of the Aileen Bright Literary Society hosting a social or the doors of the local fire station thrown open to the public, Mignonette and her siblings, chaperoned by their mother, who was not adverse to cutting a rug herself, were there.

Forty years later

So, on this particular night in this particular leap year at this particular double rush dance, Mignonette had her eye on one particular suitor, Geary. She knew him to be sure for she had dated his younger brother, Buddy, but Buddy wasn’t the one. She knew he was older, but that didn’t matter. All she knew was that she would ask him to dance.

Was she nervous? Was she bold? Did she have to steel herself up to march across that floor to where he was standing with his pals? I’ll never know.

What I do know is that she did it. She asked. He accepted. And a few years later they were standing before a judge in Pascagoula, MS, promising to love each other till death they did part some forty years, three sons, and countless dances later.

And all because of a school girl’s whim.

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I can drink gasoline

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on February 1, 2012 | 3 Comments »

Relolly and Brother

Leroy was Granny’s yard man.

He was jolly, always quick with a joke or a funny rhyme. He believed that if you hung a dead snake over a tree limb it would rain. He believed that garlic kept the haints away. He had biceps as big as tree trunks, or so it seemed to me, and he was the strongest person I knew.

So strong, in fact, that he could drink gasoline.

It’s true! Every day Leroy brought his lunch and a big Ball jar of clear orange liquid which he kept in the garage refrigerator. Every so often he would take a break, get the jar out of the fridge, and tell Brother and me with a wink and a big toothless grin, “I’m so tough I can drink gasoline.” With that, he would turn the jar up and guzzle it right on down.

We were slack-jawed in amazement. We had no doubt.

We knew that Leroy, or “Relolly” as Brother called him, had led an incredibly hard life. We could see the callouses and scars. We had heard the stories.

But Leroy was always on top of the world. He would often tell me “I’ve got it made in the shade down deep with a silver spade.” He had no doubt.

Many years later I found myself in the middle of a messy divorce, a single mother with a five-year-old who was depending on me. Betrayed, sad, scared. All I wanted to do was crawl into a hole and die. That is not, however, necessarily practical when one has a child to support and care for, so I muddled on.

One day around that same time I was sitting in my kitchen when an enormous “palmetto bug” decided to saunter across my kitchen floor. “Palmetto bug” sounds cute and beachy. It is not. In fact, this creepy, brown intruder was the roach that broke the camel’s back.

Normally, I would have screamed like a little girl for Daddy to come kill it. But there was no daddy. Or brother. Or husband. There was only me. And these were not normal times. I had had all I could stand.

I snatched off my flip flop and smashed that palmetto bug into a greasy spot right where it stood with probably way yonder more force than was required. “So there!,” I thought, “That’ll teach you!”

High on adrenalin and fueled with vengeful thoughts, I scraped it off the linoleum, threw it in the garbage, and lugged the whole nasty mess up to the street. Goodbye and good riddance!

Walking back to the house, I thought to myself with a grin, “I’m so tough I can drink gasoline.”

Things got better after that. The dark year finally ended. A smart, sweet, funny college classmate found me, and I now call him Husband. Sonny has turned out to be a fine and talented young man of whom I am so very proud.I have everything in life a girl could ever dream of.

Now, when I walk up to my home I think back on Leroy’s other words. “I’ve got it made in the shade, down deep with a silver spade.”

I have no doubt.

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