John, Jr. Leaves a Hole in the Heart of the Camille Street Gang

 In 1967, when I was 10 and he was 15, John Jr. was the closest thing to a BIG MAN ON CAMPUS that we had on Camille Street.

Camille Street in Senatobia, Mississippi – Hometown USA.  A whole passel of kids ranging in age from six to fifteen growing up in the 1960’s in a small town in the deep South.  Possibly the last generation of totally innocent children who played outside, had a mother who worked at home, went to church on Sundays, and got our behinds whipped when we disobeyed.  We played in each others' yards; ate fried Spam sandwiches at each others' tables; and dreamed big dreams together.  We are lifelong friends, just like family.  No amount of time or distance changes that kind of kinship. 

This week we lost one of our family members, leaving a hole in our hearts.

John Jr. was in the top echelon of the Camille Street gang.  He was the elder statesman of the neighborhood who pretty much ignored the rest of us.   Oh, occasionally he would slap his little brother, Mike, across the head and make him cry or make fun of his sister, Charlotte, just to get her to yell for her mom.  Mostly, he worked on his old 55 Chevy and hung out with his friends.  

 At 15, he was a working man who got up at the crack of dawn every morning to deliver the Memphis newspaper to Senatobians who wanted news and enlightenment.   When Charlotte, Ricky, Kathy, and I were in the elementary school building at Senatobia City Schools, he was on the high school side of the campus.  How we longed to be on the high school side. 

I guess all of us neighborhood girls had a little crush on John Jr.    With his curly brown hair, sparkly eyes and dimples as deep as the Coldwater River, he was cute in a big brother way.  As we got older, Kathy was, by far, the most enamored with John.   With her red hair and fair skin, Kathy lived up to all the legends about red-heads.  She was feisty and full of fire with a quick temper, the face of an angel and a kind heart.  John had a girlfriend in high school – a black-haired beauty, the daughter of a local judge. At that time, Kathy was just a neighborhood friend like the rest of us.  A friend of his little sister. 

As time went by and our group became teenagers, John Jr. became a busy college guy and we rarely saw him.  We moved on to high school life – different friends and boyfriends – and he moved on to college life.    I saw John when he came home on the weekends and sometimes in the summer time. He was the first one of the Camille Street gang to leave our safe little nest.

In the summer of 1974, something changed.  I started seeing Kathy come across the street to talk to John while he was working on his old Chevy.  Next thing I knew, they were getting married.  Everybody’s big brother from the south side of Camille Street married the red headed, freckle-faced girl-next-door from the north side of Camille.  A perfect union based on a foundation of lifelong friendship.   They built their careers and raised their children in Oxford.  Over the years, they made trips back to see their parents on Camille Street.

This week, I joined Kathy to say goodbye to her husband; Charlotte’s & Mike’s brother; my lifelong friend.  Looking around the room, I saw pictures of John with his kids and grandkids.  His brown curls had turned as silver as moonlight; his eyes sparkling and proud as he posed at his daughter’s wedding.  There was a picture of his old 55 Chevy, still his pride and joy, which sits in a garage in mint condition. And, a shot of him with his first grandchild.   In the pictures, I saw the lifetime of happiness and family that two of my oldest friends shared.

I saw faces from 1967.  Friends and school mates, family and several members of the Camille Street Gang.  My mind was filled with memories that I had not thought of in years.  I was once again reminded  that life is a mere second in time.  Seems like just yesterday, Charlotte, Kathy and I were sitting under the tree in front of Charlotte’s house on a hot July afternoon gossiping about boys, telling secrets and planning big, fancy lives.   Today we gathered for a much different reason - to honor one of our own. 

As I stood with John’s brother, Mike, talking about old times in old places, my eyes were drawn to a young man in the corner.  He had light brown hair and his eyes – even in sadness – were sparkling like a new penny.  He was surveying the room as if looking for someone.

 “Who is that young man,” I asked Mike. 

“That’s Little John,” said Mike. 

Eventually I caught his eye and he smiled at me.  And, I noticed that his dimples were as deep as the Coldwater River. 

A Blue, Blue Christmas

It is Christmas night and my house is finally quiet and still, smells of holiday food still linger in the air and the laughter of my family echoes in my mind.  It has been a very good day, but sometimes sleep plays hide and seek with me during the holidays……so much to do; so many things to remember. Even though it is late and I am bone tired, sleep has gone out to play.   Just as I settle in with a cozy new comforter and a good book, the shiny, shimmering Christmas tree in the corner catches my eye.  I lay my book aside as favorite holiday memories click through my mind like a View Master.  Memories of a blue and silver Christmas.

I remember Christmas 1963.  I was lying in the floor in front of the television watching Mr. Ed (the Christmas episode where Mr. Ed, the talking horse, saves Christmas) waiting on my daddy to get home so that we could go cut down our Christmas tree.  It was our first Christmas in our new house on Camille Street and everything in our house was new – including the RCA color television that my mother repeatedly told me would cause me to go blind if I kept getting too close to it.

My little sister, baby brother and I were really excited about Christmas that year.  My daddy had a good job, we were living in a brand new house and my mama had a new car.  We were living big in our small town of Senatobia, MS. 

The back door opened and in came my daddy, dragging in a big, rectangular box. He lifted me up into his arms and I traced the name embroidered on his work shirt with my finger.  Ernest.  Because of this daily routine, his name was one of the first words I learned to spell.   I loved the smell of my daddy in the winter time – a mixture of Old Spice aftershave, cigarettes and frosty weather.  

Daddy pulled the big box into the living room while my mother,  a 110 pound cleaning machine, was torn between finding out what was in the box and trying to stop whatever mess her husband was about to make.   On the side of the box, in big green letters, was the word EVERGLEAM.

Daddy gently lowered the box to the floor and with his pearl-handled pocket knife, he cut the flaps of the box open so that Mama and I could see the treasure inside.

Mounds of shiny silver – aluminum, to be exact – spilled from the box.   Daddy bought us a 7 ft. tall aluminum Christmas tree – complete with a rotating color wheel that projected colored lights up through the tree from the floor. 

No mess, he explained to my skeptical mother.  No allergy problems for my asthmatic sister, he told her, pulling out a long, wooden stick that would serve as the “tree base”.  He pushed the stick tree into a metal tripod tree stand and began putting the tree together.  Each aluminum tree branch was protected in a brown paper sleeve with just the pompom-ends sticking out like a silver feather duster.  Daddy stuck each branch into a pre-drilled hole in the wooden tree, starting at the top of the tree and working his way to the bottom. 

He opened a second, smaller box and out came a little machine that looked much like a small box fan with a colored screen over the blades – red, green, yellow, and blue plastic.  He plugged the color wheel in and directed it toward the tree.  He told us to close our eyes and he turned off the living room light.

Viola!!  There before us was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.  A magnificent, glittering tree changing colors right before our eyes.  Red, green, yellow, blue – SILVER!  Beautiful, stunning. 

There were over 1 million of the aluminum trees sold between 1960 and 1969 – but I’m pretty sure we were about the only family in Senatobia with one in 1963. 

I will never forget my daddy’s face in the light of the tree. Young and handsome, his black hair slicked back with Brylcreem, green eyes shining with adventure, still in his Wonder Bread delivery man’s uniform, he was so excited to bring something new and modern to our home. Always ahead of his time, a pioneer of sorts, he suggested that we put only blue Christmas balls on the tree.  He put up blue lights all around our house and placed a blue, frosted Christmas wreath on the door.

“Why blue?” my mother asked.  “Because it’s not red or green,” he answered.

When members of the Senatobia Garden Club came by to judge for the Best Christmas Decorations contest, my mother pulled the curtains on our living room picture window wide open so that they could see our silver tree in all its glory.  My parents hid just out of sight of the judges, giggling like teenagers on their first date, and watched as car after car came by Camille Street to take a look at the magnificent display. 

My daddy’s decorations won “Best Overall Christmas Theme” that year even though we were not sure what our theme really was.  Daddy sat the little trophy beside our tree and did not move it until he had to make room for Santa’s gifts to his three children. 

Santa certainly had no trouble finding us – I’m sure our house could be seen from heaven.  Gail and I got a Chatty Cathy doll, Easy Bake Oven and an array of Barbie stuff, including Allan, Ken’s new best friend.

After Christmas, we carefully slipped each branch of the aluminum tree back into the paper cylinders and placed everything back into the box.  I believe we used the tree one more year before all of us decided that we wanted to go back to the traditional green tree with its tangle of lights, falling needles and aromatic allergens.  I don’t know what happened to the tree, but every detail of that platinum memory remains etched into my heart.

Pretty much everything I know about life, I learned from my dad. Things like the fact that change is not only inevitable but also vital.  That failure is not the worst thing that can happen to you – not trying is. That being different makes you interesting.  That the saddest four words in life are What Could Have Been.    That being true to yourself doesn’t mean that you can’t strive to do better, be better.  That you have to reach out and grab most good things in life.  That there are no wrong decisions, just different opportunities.  That we should never just follow the same old path, but blaze a new trail.     

After I was grown with a home of my own, I began searching for a silver tree.  They are very difficult to find, especially the large, pompom-ended ones.  A few years ago, my dear friend, Judy Beard, gave me her silver aluminum tree – still in the original box, an exact replica of the 1963 tree of my childhood. 

Each year I carefully take each branch out of its brown protective paper wrapping and place them in the holes on the wooden tree, starting at the top and working my way down.  I turn off the lights, place the vintage color wheel in front of the tree, plug it in. I watch as the silvery glow turns red, then green, yellow and then blue. 

 And, I think of my daddy.  It makes me smile.

Nothing Lasts Forever - Not Even BBFs

     My BBF and I parted ways this week and I am devastated.

     She and I have been best friends for most of my life.  Though thick and thin, she has been by my side to comfort me and make me feel better.  I just cannot imagine my life without her.  But, my dearest friend is going through a mid-life crisis that makes MY mid-life crisis look like a high school senior without a prom date.

     My 52-year-old best bud is now sporting a few tattoos.  A little body art to express herself - a large flower covers her chest, and a tiger curls up her neck. She has teamed up with Japanese designer, Tokidoki, who gave her a whole new look:  pink bob, skull and leopard print top and leggings, sparkly platform shoes and a faithful companion named Bastardin, who looks like a cross between a small dog and a cactus.  Barbie has always been a little edgy, but this is just a little too much.

     When we were younger, I always dreamed of being just like her, with her perfectly bouncy hair, her beautiful blue eyes, her endlessly long legs, Scarlett O-Hara waist, golden Malibu tan, and only-in-my-dreams bosom.  She was always light years ahead of me in style and fashion – wearing the latest designer clothes, driving convertibles, jeeps and even her own airplane. We spent countless hours playing together, growing up together in the 1960’s.

     My mother almost made me stop playing with her in 1967 when she wore the orange teeny bikini - modeled after the one worn by that year’s Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition cover girl.  She also learned to do the twist that year, showing up at all my friends’ slumber parties with her twistable waist and side pony tail.    Mama called her a hussy.

     In 1971, when I was a clumsy, hormonal preteen, my best friend had her first makeover.  She appeared at my house that Christmas with a sculpted face, snow white capped teeth and sparkling blue eyes that looked right at you (as opposed to looking demurely downward as she always had) – and she had on blue eye make-up – something I had to wait another four years to be able to do.

     In the early 1980’s when I was making minimum wage working as a newspaper reporter for a small town newspaper, she was offered her first acting job.  Donning skin-tight blue jeans and three inch heels, she joined Brooke Shields in declaring that “nothing comes between me and my Calvin’s.”  I could never get my Mississippi backside into a pair of Calvin’s – not then and certainly not now.  But, I loved that she could.

     Modeling was not the only career my best friend has enjoyed.  In fact, she has had l08 jobs – including flight attendant, ballerina, army officer (her uniform was sanctioned by the Pentagon), Olympic swimmer, TV chef, and veterinarian.  Some have called her flighty; I simply thought of her as ambitious.

     Ok, so, Barbie has always been a bit of a trouble maker, but she helped make my simple southern life a bit more exciting.     I stuck with her through her Harley Davidson biker years and her Beach Bikini stint.  I was there for her in 2000 when she had yet another make over, what she called her “millennial makeover” which included a little lipo for a more athletic physique and her first-ever exposed belly button.  I fretted endlessly on Valentine’s Day in 2004 when she broke up with her boyfriend of 47 years.  I was always a little leery of Ken – he was just a little bit too interested in Barbie’s clothes and shoes to suit me. I heard he has moved to Key West where he is raising Highland Terriers and working on his tan.  He just never seemed to get out of the Malibu beach scene years.  

     I admit, growing, ah, mature is not the easiest thing in the world.  The mirror is suddenly not my friend – tiny lines and not-so-tiny wrinkles glare back at me from a face that looks remarkably like my mother.  Sizes that fit me perfectly for years now seem to be tight in some places and loose in others.  I used to be able to skip lunch and lose five pounds – now I could skip food for five days and gain weight.  When I finally went to see a doctor about a severely aching shoulder, he said, “As we get older, our bodies start falling apart and we have aches and pains that we did not have when we were younger.”  The first time he said it, I was a little irritated, but when he repeated it, I almost came off the examination table to snatch his hair out.   

  

     In Nora Ephron's best-selling book, I Feel Bad About My Neck, she laments the sorry state of her 60-something neck: "Our faces are lies and our necks are the truth. You have to cut open a redwood tree to see how old it is, but you wouldn't have to if it had a neck," she writes.

     I agree.  I keep reading all about how women over the age of 40 should strive to “age gracefully.”  That’s an oxymoron if I ever heard one – like pretty ugly or clearly confused or same difference or old news or act naturally.   How is a girl supposed to “age gracefully” when her best friend is off getting all tatted up like a floozy?

     I can’t stand it when people say that getting older is great.  That older means wiser and that they look forward to being smarter, mellower.  They yearn to be old enough to understand what is important in life.  Most of those people are young folks with smooth necks.  I’ll take a smooth face, narrow hips and freckle-free hands over wisdom any day.

     I do like what Eleanor Roosevelt had to say about aging -"Beautiful young people are accidents of nature, but beautiful old people are works of art."

     So, I’ll just leave the aging gracefully to those women who choose to do that.  As for me, I’m fighting it, kicking and screaming all the way.  If getting skin art works for my friend, Barbie, and helps keep her young, then more power to her. 

     What I have learned in my 50-something years is that growing, ah, mature, does have its perks.  Like realizing that you can choose who you want to spend your time with.  You really do outgrown people and realize that some relationships are simply toxic and unhealthy.  Choose your circle of friends wisely.  My dad ( absolutely the wisest person I have ever known) told me often “Birds of a feather flock together.”  He was right.  Make sure your birds are the kind that makes you sing.

     Unlike the rest of us, Barbie is forever young.  I just cannot be friends with someone that blond, that tall, that thin, that rich, that fashionable or that hip.  

Instead, I choose to be a work of art and to age with humor just like Eleanor did.  If you can’t beat it, laugh about it.

     And, pile on the night cream.

Big Sisters are THE BOMB!

As the oldest child of the quartet of Hudspeth children, my God-given responsibility was always to make sure my younger siblings were well aware of the perils of this cruel world.  If I had to just scare the devil out of them while teaching them this valuable lesson, then so be it.  It was my job.  I was the Big Sister.  And, being the oldest child of the oldest child of the oldest child of the oldest child – yep, fourth generation elder child – I was darn good at it.

I took my obligations quite seriously.  Especially when it came to my little sister, Gail, who de-throned me as Baby of the Family after not quite two years of being in the family spotlight.  Of course, her reign also lasted only a couple of years before my brother, Andy, was born.  By the time Jeff came along three years after Andy, I had my hands full imparting all of my wisdom onto these children.

Growing up in a small town in the 1960's, we were pretty fearless.  But, we did watch a lot of television and I began to grow increasingly concerned with something we saw on the news every evening - the Vietnam War!  Like a lot of Americans of the day, we were terrified of THE BOMB. I was sure that one day Communists would come marching down Camille Street in my little town of Senatobia, MS and destroy the world with THE BOMB.  I lay awake at night thinking of all the hiding places in my house and in my neighborhood that I could jump in to when the dreaded day came.  The closet in the bathroom was my favorite hiding place.  And, if the Communists happen to come while we were playing out in the yard, my emergency bomb shelter was the ditch across the street behind Ricky’s house.  Everywhere I went – my grandmother’s house, my Girl Scout meetings, the Rexall Drug Store, Ben Franklin’s Five & Dime, Roy’s Café, the First Baptist Church – I would look around to figure out where I would hide if I ever ran into a Communist. 

I had never actually seen a Communist, mind you, but I had seen pictures of Hitler and Castro in my history book and I had watched the civil defense films at school that explained how we should “duck and cover” if THE BOMB was ever dropped over Mississippi.  I had seen the bomb shelters that dotted the countryside while riding beside my granddaddy, Pop, in his old black and white International pick-up truck. About the only time I ever saw my granddaddy with a serious face was when he talked about bad storms, bad cotton crops and the Communists.    Pop said everyone needed a bomb shelter and a storm house.  Besides, handsome Bobby Kennedy did not like the Communists and that was good enough for me.

During the summer of 1965, Chet Huntley, David Brinkley and I became totally obsessed with the Cold War.  A news junkie from a young age, I clung on to the Huntley-Brinkley Report like most kids cling to their blankies. 

Every Wednesday that summer, my mother would pile us four kids into her Dodge Dart early in the morning and off we would go to spend the day with her sister and our cousins.  We loved going to see our Wages cousins because they lived in the country and had bikes and tire swings and all kinds of cool ditches to play in.  After a lunch of cream of tomato soup and cheese sandwiches, the sisters would shoofly us kids out the door so they could spend the afternoon rolling each other’s hair and watching their afternoon stories.  Only baby Jeff got to stay inside the cool house with our mom.

One really hot July day, all five of us cousins, ranging in age from eight down to four, dressed in our summer uniforms of cut-off blue jeans and t-shirts, were hanging from the massive limbs of the big old tree outside their home trying to see who could tell the tallest tales   With about 50 cents between us and plum out of lies to tell, we decided to walk to the old store about a mile from our cousins’ house to get a Coke to share.   Our dirty, little bare feet,  accustomed to  walking unharmed across the sharp rocks and gravel, had gone about a half a mile when I noticed a small crop duster in the distance getting ready to poison the cotton field alongside the road.  Instinctively, I went into military mode.

“Here come the Communists!”  I yelled.  “Hit the dirt!  Hit the dirt!  They are coming to get us.”  I had been in cotton fields with my granddaddy many times when we watched the crop dusters, so I knew what the plane was doing there.

My sister, brother and two girl cousins screamed and dove into the ditch beside the road.  The plane got closer and closer to the cotton field, right over our heads, only a few feet from the ground before lifting back up into the air.

“It’s tear gas!”  I yelled, as I coughed and sputtered and spit.  “We gotta get out of here!”

My little sister and brother were crying hysterically as I pulled them out of the dirt and pushed them toward our cousins who were running full speed down the gravel road toward home. Before we got very far, we heard the little plane coming back for a second round of chemicals.

“Here they come again!” I yelled.  “The communists are coming back and this time I think there are two planes!  Hit the ditch!  Don’t let them see you!”

All three cousins and two siblings dove toward the first ditch on the side of the road, everyone crying for their mommas; hiccuping, the red gravel dust turning to mud and running down their faces. 

Then it got even better.  We heard a chorus of voices above the roar of the airplane.  I stood up in the ditch, my head just barely peeping over the grassy top, and saw a Boy Scout troop, dressed in their uniforms, carrying a Boy Scout flag, marching down the road as if in a parade and singing at the top of their lungs.  

I crawled back into the ditch with the terrified little ones, their eyes as wide as Moon Pies, and whispered, “They have landed and they are coming for us.”

Before I could even pull my sister and brother out of the ditch, all four younger kids shot out of that grassy hole, running with their little feet flapping like ducks down that gravel road.

For about ten minutes, the sight of my siblings and cousins, running down the road, terrified of a bunch of boy scouts and a crop duster, was just plain hysterical.  Until, that is, I saw my little spitfire mother running towards me with her hair in rollers, in her petal pushers and flip flops, fly swatter in hand. Not only had I scarred my younger brother and sister for life, I had interrupted “As the World Turns.”  I had rather have seen Hitler himself charging toward me with THE BOMB in hand than to have my mother after me with that fly swatter.  

Needless to say, I never again scared Gail or Andy with my war stories. I did learn to take better care of my siblings and to lead more by example rather than with fear tactics.  Of course, I never stopped teasing them or pulling practical jokes from time to time.  I was, after all, always the Big Sister.  Both Gail and Andy died before the age of 40 from heart disease.  Of the Hudspeth Four, only my baby brother, Jeff, and I remain.  The oldest child and the youngest child, like two bookends on a shelf with no books.

My memories of growing up with stair-step siblings are fragile and precious.  I want to remember every single day of our childhood.  By today’s standards I guess I would be labeled a bully – bossy, headstrong, demanding and sometimes just plain mean to my brothers and sister.  But, I was also very protective of them.  I could mess with my sister, but, by golly, nobody else could.  All three of the younger ones – Gail, Andy and Jeff - turned out to be amazing, emotionally grounded, secure adults – brave and strong - with equally wonderful and caring children of their own. 

As their big sis, I would like to think that I had a little something to do with that.

Train Tracks of Time

I love the distant clickety clack of the ole freight train as it slices through the early morning mist like a butter knife.  Like clockwork, the train carrying coal, lumber and grains from Memphis to Jackson and all points in between, chugs near my house in the early morning hours, often lulling me to sleep after a restless night.  The train’s whistle as it passes assures me that it is 4 am in our sleepy little town of Hernando, MS.  To me, these early pre-dawn hours are the loneliest hours of all – not quite night time but not day time either.

On this morning, I go ahead and get up, an hour and a half before my old Westclock alarm clock tells me it is time to rise.  In just a couple of hours, I will wish my son good luck on his first day of college, thus beginning a new season in our lives.  Seems like just yesterday I was wishing he would sleep through the night.

Drew seems to be riding the train of change very well, going from a small Christian school where he spent the last 12 years to the wide open road of the college bound.  But, I seem to be stuck on the little red caboose of his childhood.

For the past few weeks, I lay awake at night, my mind like a View Master, clicking through the stages of Drew’s growing up years.  Vivid, colorful images of Barney, Mr. Potato Head, Veggie Tales, and Garfield click through my dreams as snippets of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” and “You Are My Sunshine” flitter through my head.  Time has sped by so quickly, I can almost hear it as it whistles past by ears - the present becoming the past right before my eyes.  From diapers to jeans and Muppet CD’s to iTunes, the years of Drew’s childhood have raced by just like the clickey clack of that old freight train.  Most of the memories are so sweet, they bring tears to my eyes with their richness.  Others are so funny, the thoughts make me laugh out loud.

In 1995 when Drew was two years old, one of our big projects was learning to go potty.  His babysitter, Mimi, who was our expert on everything dealing with rearing well-adjusted children, had the wonderful idea of putting Cheerios into the potty and letting him “shoot” the cereal with his “water gun.”    Worked like a charm – on the No. 1 part of pottying.  Going No. 2 was a different story.  My busy little bee refused to do anything except tinkle in potty.  He would sit on the potty, playing with this cars, singing songs, playing with his toes - while I sat beside him on the bathtub reading “Raising the Strong Willed Child” by Dr. James Dobson.  Mimi assured us that he would come around and told us not to worry about it.  Emma Stewart – better known to the kids she kept as “Mimi” – was my Dr. Spock, Heidi Murkoff and Dr. Sears all rolled into one.  I often say that all the good things about Drew came from her.

The other big project in our lives during that time was our plans to build a larger home.  We were living in about 1200 sq. ft. of toy box.  Drew’s stuff was everywhere and we had outgrown our little house.  The Home Depot had just come to our area, and we spent most Saturdays walking up and down the aisles of the bog box store looking for new home ideas.  The new store was awesome in its displays of kitchen cabinets, faucets, lighting and countertops.  They set up room vignettes – complete kitchens and bathrooms to show the customer exactly what their room could look like with the materials displayed.  Excellent marketing idea.  We spent a lot of time going from “room” to “room” in the store.

One Saturday night, we were looking at the beautiful kitchen displays – rich maple cabinets, cool granite countertops, warm hardwood floors.  We were imaging ourselves eating breakfast at the breakfast bar and cooking gourmet meals on the state-of-the-art Viking stove.  Enamored with all the modern conveniences, I absentmindedly looked down and realized that Drew was no longer standing beside me.  I saw that my budget-minded husband was talking to the salesman and he did not have Drew. All thoughts of the fancy appliances vanished as I started calling for Drew and running from “kitchen” to “kitchen” looking for my child.

In tears, I walked from aisle to aisle calling his name.  Finally, I spotted a little pair blue jean overalls lying on these steps leading up to a display.  The luxurious bathroom display was so rich in detail; it had been built on a raised platform and included a Jacuzzi brand tub.  The tub was beautifully filled with scented water; red rose petals whirling around the jets. There was a tiled double shower, double vanity with makeup lighting and marble countertops.  Right in the center of the spa bath display was a magnificent Kohler-brand toilet.

And, perched right on top of the glorious pot was my two year old son, his Pull-ups dangling down around his ankles and his red Keds hanging off his little feet.

“Mommy, I go potty,” he beamed. 

I rushed up the steps to get him off the commode.  My beautiful and smart child had, in fact, gone potty.  No. 2.  He certainly brought the concept of try-before-you-buy to a whole new level.

There was lovely, scented water in the whirlpool tub, but there was not a drop in the toilet. 

I very calmly got him off the commode and took him into the bathroom to clean him up while my husband tried to figure out how to clean up the other mess. 

I was embarrassed, mortified and a just little angry that my child had decided to learn the hardest part of potty training in the middle of a busy store.  But, Drew was excited and proud that he had finally done what we had been trying to get him to do for weeks.  How could I let him know that what he had done was very good but where he had done it was not so good?

Then I remembered a favorite Bible verse, Ecclesiastes 3:1 - “To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under the heavens.”

I praised my son for the progress he had made in his potty training and I made sure he understood that there is a time and place for everything we do in our lives.

I have thought of that verse so very often in my life.  Drew’s childhood – those were the Summer moments of my life.  Moments of excitement and fun in our ever changing, busy lives.  We faced the awesome challenge of providing a solid, loving, Christian foundation for our child and we watched him grow into the outstanding young man that he is.  That was a golden season in my life.

As I lay awake this morning, thinking of sending my child to college, I know that God sent me this verse once again this morning.  Only this time, I think of King Solomon’s words as it applies to Drew’s season – the Spring Season.  His is a season of new beginnings, of finding his own way and becoming his own person. 

And, I think of my own season – the Season of Autumn, with still so very much to do and so much purpose before winter.  And, I am so very grateful that Drew is my bountiful harvest.  

A Tattoo of the Heart

When I was in the fourth grade, I got a tattoo – compliments of my little sister, Gail.

This is not Mickey Mouse on my ankle peeping out of the top of my sock or Cinderella dancing gracefully across my plump little thigh.  It is not a romantic little heart or a pretty pink rose.  My tattoo is the lead point of a No. 2 pencil jammed right into my forearm.   Over the years, the mark has gradually faded from a perfectly round black circle underneath my skin to a nice, gray, weathered look.  Matches my nice, weathered skin very well.

My sister branded me a bully very early on, after experiencing many frustrating episodes at the hands of her big sister.  Most days, I got away with my antics pretty easily.  This particular day, she just plain got lucky.

As a first grader, my sister was very small for her age.  As a fourth grader, I was huge.  She was fair, blond, and quiet with eyes the color of a creamy caramel candy.  I was dark, brunette, and loud with eyes the color of a stick of licorice. We were from the same batch, but we were very different cookies.

“Gail has a boyfriend,” I whispered to my mother one fall morning in 1966 as she pulled our 1964 Dodge Dart over to the curb to let us out at Senatobia Elementary School in our small hometown in Mississippi. 

“I do not!”  Gail cried.  “I hate boys!”

Ah, I got her!  I started singing the song I had written in my evil little mind the night before as Gail lay snoring lightly in the bed next to me in the room that we shared. When kids don’t have Wii’s or PlayStations or Nick at Night, they have very creative minds.  I was forever coming up creative and extravagant schemes to aggravate my siblings.

 “Johnny and Gail were lovers!  Johnny told Gail not to cry, his love for her would never die!” I sang at the top of my voice.

My plan was to sing that little ditty as loudly as possible and then made a run for it.  I would jump out of the car and off I’d go, laughing, leaving my sister behind to huff and puff her way into the elementary school.  I had practiced it in my head the night before.

Little did I know that she had asked my mother to sharpen her pencil that morning, right before we left the house.   We always packed our book satchels the night before and left them by the back door. With three children and one on the way, my mother was as organized as the Dewey Decimal System in making sure homework was done; school clothes were laid out the night before; school supplies packed and ready to go at 7:30 the next morning.  My mom sharpened our pencils with a kitchen knife, much like her father had whittled small pieces of wood with his pocket knife.  Gail had not had time to put her pencil in her pencil case.  So, she was armed and ready when the enemy – that would be me – attacked.

As the first born, riding shotgun was my birthright, so I had my arm on the back of the front seat as I leaned back to allow my little sister a full view of my tonsils as I belted out the malicious tune.

I heard the back door open before I ever felt the burning sting of the sword.  I saw my sister’s white cotton sweater with the Peter Pan collar dash past my window before I saw the pink eraser of her yellow pencil pointing up from my arm. 

My delightful little tune turned into indignant outrage as I realized that she had stabbed me with her freshly sharpened pencil and left it stuck in my arm. 

Our little brother, Andy, who had been sitting peacefully in the backseat waiting for his two big sisters to get out of the car, started crying.  I was screaming, my mama was trying to figure out how to take the pencil out of my arm and my sister, who usually tagged along behind me into school, was running as fast as her little legs could take her into the safety of Miss Crenshaw’s classroom.

Mama, always the comic, looked at me with her big brown eyes and said, “Gail forgot her pencil again.”

Years later when Gail and I, along with our own families, were on vacation in the Smokey Mountains, we sat around the kitchen table of the little cabin for hours and laughed about all the mean things we did to each other as kids.  When we were in our 20’s and early 30’s, both of us were so busy with our lives – she raising a family and I with my career – that we lost some of that “sister connection” that is so special between sisters.  Like two different flowers from the same bouquet, sisters share life-long memories that glue them together no matter how many miles or how much time separates them. Memories, like the strong threads holding together a patchwork quilt, weaved our lives together forever.  Memories of growing up conspirators against our parents, of dealing with little brothers, sharing everything and taking care of each other.  Of counting on, leaning on and telling on each other.  As siblings, we fought relentlessly, but we also took care of each other.  We were bitter enemies and the closest of allies.  I always found the first Easter egg, but I never found my second one until she found her first.   I don’t have a single childhood memory that does not include her. Sisters keep you honest because they, above all others, know your real story.

In a small cabin on the side of a mountain in Gatlinburg, TN in the summer of 1998, with children running everywhere and husbands napping on the sofas, we remembered how much we loved each other.   We left that vacation with promises that we would speak at least weekly and we did.  That was the first time we our families had ever vacationed together and we decided that we would do it again the next summer.  We never again got the chance.

My sister died unexpectedly in the fall of that year. I now know that God gave me a blessed opportunity that summer when I was able to spend that week with my sister. I have missed her every single day since then.  And, though I do not get to talk to her any more, I see her in her two children, who are now amazing young adults.  In her granddaughter, who, uncannily, was born eight years later on November 11, the anniversary of her death.  I see her in my mother’s eyes when she reflects back over the best days of her life, when all four of her children were at home, safe and sound.  I see her in my dreams, where she is always laughing.  And, yes, I see her when I look down at my arm and see the small dark tattoo of revenge that she left me.

It makes me smile every time.

Doing the School Supply Shuffle

There was a big commotion at Walmart last Saturday.

I dashed into the store to pick up a few things and thought I had time traveled to December 24.  The place was as packed as Christmas Eve with tired kids tagging along behind frustrated moms, trudging from aisle to aisle with a long list trailing behind them.  I immediately recognized the look….It was the annual Search for School  Supplies Trek, a time when mamas all over the country leave their homes to fulfill their duty of making sure their child has everything on their school supply list. 

 

For the first time in 15 years, I don’t have a school supply list.  No frantically running from store to store trying to find non-odorous, chisel- tipped dry erase markers, Fiskar left handed scissors, or vinyl, two-pocket folders with brads in red, yellow and purple only.  After running that race for my child, Drew, from 3K through 12^th grade, I am done with the school supply scavenger hunt.  Hallelujah, amen.

As a matter of fact, I could probably open a little school supply business on the side.  One of the best pieces of advice came to me several years ago from one of Drew’s elementary school teachers.  She suggested that we set aside one cabinet in our house and stock it with school supplies.  Pick up notebook paper, pencils, pens, construction paper – all that - when it is on sale and stick it in the cabinet.  That way you always have school supplies on hand.  I have done that for the past 7 or 8 years.   You need a purple, two pocket folder with brads?  I got it.  Need wide ruled or college ruled notebook paper?  No problem.  Poster board – what color?  Three hole punch or hand-held one-hole punch?  Composition books for one, three or five subjects.  Binders from half an inch to three and a half inches with inside pockets.  Notebook hole re-enforcers, ballpoint pens in black, blue and red, book covers, rulers, calculators – all available at Fondren School Supplies for Well Equipped Children. 

I remember when my mother took me to the Ben Franklin’s Five and Dime for school supplies when I started first grade at Senatobia Elementary School.  In 1964, we didn’t have to have a list.  We could pretty much remember what we had to have.    We left the “Meet the Teacher” meeting, walked downtown to the store and got my new book satchel, fat pencils, first grade tablet and box of fat, first grade Crayola colors.   I took an old bath towel for nap time.  We surely never had kindermats or designer backpacks or markers that smell like strawberries (I’m sure if I had a smell-good marker, I would have eaten it!).

The really big deal at back-to-school time was shopping for new school clothes.  We wiggled our dirty little toes into a pair of brand new school shoes – toes that had not been covered except on Sundays since we took off last year’s school shoes in May.  My sister and I each got new underwear, socks, and three new dresses.  In the mid-1960’s, we were not allowed to wear pants to school unless it was extremely cold – then we could wear pants under our dresses.    We wore pretty much the same thing to school every day – not because we had to wear uniforms, but because that was all we had to wear.  We had school clothes, play clothes and Sunday clothes – and never did the three intermingle.

I remember the year I desperately wanted a pair of white go-go boots.  My mother warned me that if I got the go-go boots, that would have to be my one pair of school shoes.  A fashionista even at age 8, I went with the go-go boots.  They were shiny white, patent leather, pointed-toe boots with a back zipper that just covered my ankles.   I wore those boots every single day until Christmas, when finally my grandmother gave me a pair of regular shoes.  I am still a sucker for senseless, but fashionable, shoes.  

While I am ecstatic about not being involved in this year’s hunting and gathering of school supplies, I admit that I will miss excitement of the first days of school.  I will miss checking off the list with Drew, making sure we have all that he needs for a promising school year.  I will miss tearing open the packages and organizing the supplies with him.  I’ll miss the excitement (and disappointment!) of finding out which teacher he gets and which of his friends are in his classes.  I have asked my child every single day for the past 30 school semesters, “What did you eat for lunch today?”  I will miss that.  I will even miss the nights when he suddenly remembered that he volunteered to bring sausage balls the next day to a class party.    I will miss that very special connection that mamas and their children have during their school years.  

I was in the restroom of McAlister’s restaurant the other day where a young mother was wrestling with her two young sons – a preschooler and an infant.  The three-year-old, blond curls spilling all over his chubby little face, was singing at the top of his voice while his frazzled mom changed his screaming baby brother’s dirty diaper.  Fussy children never bother me, but I could see that this teary-eyed mom was really at the end of her rope and was a little embarrassed that her children were being so rowdy.  “My children are not always so disruptive,” she told me, as she struggled to sooth the tired infant.  “We have been in the car all day and we are all tired.”  I assured her that her children were no bother and that they were both as cute as pie.  “I remember days like this,” I told her.  “Enjoy them while they are young.  Before you know it, they will be graduating high school and gone.”   The young mother smiled.

I dried my hands, patted the blond curls and left the bathroom, feeling a little bit nostalgic.   My 18-year-old college freshman son was anxiously waiting for me outside.    “Come on, Mom, we still have lots to do,” he said.

Indeed, we do.