A Life Remembered in Greeting Cards

There are more than 7 billion greeting cards sold each year in this country.  I found 6.9 billion in boxes under my mother’s bed just last weekend.

It all started when my mother needed a new roof on her house.  That led to repairing the leaky spots inside her house, which led to the painting of said repairs, which led to the near demolition of the interior of her home, which led to me having to put it all back together and finding thousands of keepsakes and what-the-heck-is-this things all over my old childhood home on Camille Street in Senatobia, MS.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m as sentimental as the next gal, but my mother has kept every scrap of paper I’ve ever written on and every shoulder pad I ever wore.  Multiply that by 4 Hudspeth kids’ keepsakes and you will see the perfect picture of my mother’s hoard…I mean, house.

What started out as a simple new roof has turned in to weekends of mediation between my mother and me, with my brother sometimes acting as a mediator. 

It usually goes something like this:

Me:  Mama, do we have to keep these green Liz Claiborne pumps? I wore these when I worked at Hernando Bank in the 1980’s.    

Her:  YES!  They MIGHT come back in style.

Me:  Why are you holding on to this empty Vick’s Vapor Rub jar?

Her:  That was the last Vick’s my daddy ever used!  You know he always kept Vick’s salve by his bed.

Oh, ok.  I guess that makes sense…In my mother’s world.

Her:  What did you just put in that garbage bag?

Me:  Nothing…. 

Strangely enough, the “nothing” in the garbage bag often finds its way back into the house. 

One of the reasons it has taken so long to get everything cleaned up and put back together is because both of us get caught up in the memories tucked away under beds, in underwear drawers, behind what-nots and stuffed in closets that haven’t been opened in years.  Every single scrap of paper, picture, stuffed animal, and do-dad has a history and a story to tell. 

Especially the greeting cards she hangs on to.  Each one chosen with just the perfect touch of corny – some funny, some sentimental.  They are from friends and family for all occasions – birthdays, Christmas, Mother’s Day.  There are boxes of sympathy cards sent to my parents when my sister passed away and again when my brother passed away.   All she has carefully dated and cataloged.  I have called her several times this week and found her re-reading some of her cards.  They bring her such joy mixed with a little sadness.  Her favorite ones are from her children and grandchildren.

From my brother, Andy, to my mother for Mother’s Day:  Thank you for all that you do for me.  Can you keep Heather this week? (My sister-in-law, Ann, always put pictures with the cards they sent)

From my brother, Jeff, to my mother on Valentine’s Day:  I love you, Mom. You mean so much to me.

From my sister, Gail, on her birthday:  Love always, Gail, Buster, April and Brandon

And, of course, the ones from me.

In 1972 at the age of 15, I wrote:  “Mama, I know we don’t get along too good, but I love you anyway. XOX.”

In 1979 at the age of 22, I wrote:  “Mother, we don’t always see eye-to-eye, but I do love you.”

In 1992 at the age of 35, I wrote:  “Mom, you are my best friend and I will love you always.”

Maybe greeting cards allow us to express ourselves in a way we would not do in person, but today I want to make sure I am not just sticking a card into an envelope for my mother’s birthday.  How many times have I run into Walgreens and picked up some random card without even really reading the message.  I want the message I send to my mother to be spoken and not read; to be handed out in hugs and not envelopes.  To be held in her heart for safe keeping and not just in boxes under her bed. 

I love that my mother has a little Hallmark history of our family in the form of cards and notes.  Each card forming a patchwork quilt of expressions of love and appreciation for my mother from her family. I love that she took the time to date each card and that she cannot bear to part with them.  I love that she has a continuing love affair with the written word. 

My mama and I are so very different...And so much alike.  The proof is in the cards.

Cousin Love

I am No. 6 of my grandmother’s 20 grandchildren.  She is No. 20, the runt of the litter.

She is as hard headed as she is tender hearted.  Her dark hair fames an angelic face with her dad’s full lips, her mom’s porcelain skin and eyes that sparkle blue when she laughs and deepen to blue/ green when she is daydreaming.

She does a lot of daydreaming.  

At first glance, she seems exotic. A wisp of a girl, so naturally beautiful she seems otherworldly.    Her molasses-rich drawl reveals southern roots as deep as the Mighty Mississippi.  Her dream car is a big black pick-up truck.  The epitome of a Mississippi girl.

She is fiercely loyal, slow to anger, forgiving, humble.  A true, blue daddy’s girl as only southern girls can be.

My baby cousin, Summer.

In a huge North Mississippi family of Alewine grandchildren, Summer is the baby of my grandmother’s baby boy.   While the rest of us Alewine cousins were named solid baby boomer names like Martha, Pam, Jeff, Gail, Rhonda, Dianne, and Sandra,  Summer was named, well, Summer. 

Her name describes her perfectly.  She is warm, loving, breezy.  She is drawn to the lost, mistreated, and misunderstood. She is forever “collecting” people she believes need saving.  She offers her ear, her heart and her home to anyone who needs it.

She is a shining light in a troubled world.

Summer doesn’t just talk about Jesus to anyone who will listen. She shows them who he is. 

The Alewine people are a rowdy outgoing, family of folks who love to spin a good tale, laugh and have a good time. Summer is different.   A true introvert in a huge family of extroverts, Summer loves spending time with her dogs, close family and a few special friends.  She is quiet and guarded.  She will tell you she is blessed.

Even the most blessed of God’s children do not escape the ugliness of life on this earth.

On a cold winter night in February 2009, Summer lost her precious mother in a car wreck. 

I remember that dark day. I grew up with my Uncle Stevie and love him like a brother, but I barely knew this young cousin of mine.  I did not know what to say to this damaged girl who had just lost her mother.  I sat outside her bedroom and prayed for the right words to say.  I asked God to use me to comfort her in some way.

Her door never opened; I did not find the words.  I left my uncle’s home without even seeing her that day.

I prayed.   God had a plan. 

While I was praying for her and seeking God’s plan for her, she was challenging me with Biblical questions that I would have to research in order to answer.  This girl makes me think.

While I was convincing her that she is strong and resilient and independent, she was showing me how to find joy in the simple things in life – a new puppy, a playful child, an old time gospel singing.

While I searched for the perfect Christmas gifts for her in a multitude of stores and websites, she quietly gave me the most precious gifts…. Things of her mother’s that she knew I would love.  Arthur Court serving trays, a precious handmade canister set, a wall clock that is perfect for my home.  Things that mean something to her that she wanted to share with me. Priceless gifts from her heart.

We talk about the simple things of life, her job, her daddy and my mama, our shared love for our family.  One minute we may be discussing the pros and cons of vitamin supplements and the next we could be talking about the meaning of life.  Many times, our messages back and forth go on for hours; some days we just say hello.  We rarely ever go a day without connecting in some way.

Sometimes there are tears, but there is always laughter.

On that tragic day in 2009, this heartbroken girl captured my heart.  She continues to teach me so much about life, loss, joy, and family.  

Even though she has shown me things I could no longer see, I watch her searching for answers, for truth, for the way back from the darkness.

She may not be able to see her light just yet, but I see it shining brightly in the lives of the children she keeps at daycare and their parents she invites to church.  In the lives of people who need a meal, a bed or just a pat on the back. In the eyes of her beloved daddy.

And, in the life of an older cousin who loves her like a sister, prays for her like a mother and is blessed to be with her on this lighted path we call life.

Matthew 5:16

My Hero Wore Fur

Not all super heroes wear a cape. Mine wore a mink coat.

First grade Christmas party.  My mother, then 22 years old, brought snow white cupcakes with red sprinkles to a room full of rowdy ready-for-Santa first graders on the last day before Christmas break in 1964.  She looked like she stepped off the pages of Teen Magazine dressed in pink stirrup pants, fluffy sweater, gold sparkly shoes and a mink coat.

Actually, she wore a mouton coat, but in the eyes of these first graders, it was a mink coat.  Like the one Marilyn Monroe wore when she surprised the world and up and married old Joltin’ Joe.

My friends asked me if she was a movie star.  Simple answer:  How could she be a movie star when she’s my mama?

She was 16 years old when I was born.  Just 10 months and 13 days after she married my daddy.  Standing in front of a justice of the peace in a gray suit borrowed from her sister, my mother was a child bride.  I have pictures of me as a baby with my teenage mother’s favorite doll, Annie Oakley.  My daddy gave her that doll… and me.  They went on to have 4 more children and Annie Oakley was forgotten somewhere along the way.

Standing just north of 5 ft. tall, mama was not like all the other mothers.  She was pretty with her dark curly hair, perfect complexion and twinkling eyes. She painted her lips in Avon Red Velvet and always smelled like Evening in Paris perfume.  On Saturdays, we watched American Bandstand and sang and danced around the living room with Dick Clark and the American Bandstand Dancers.  When it came time for my daddy to get home from work, she washed our faces and combed our hair and stood at the window waiting for him to drive up.   He came home to her every single day for 55 years.

Super heroes do cry sometimes.   My mama has lost 3 of her 5 children and 7 of her 11 siblings.  Her beloved husband passed away suddenly six years ago.  She doesn’t laugh as much and her brown eyes are a little less bright.

American Bandstand has been replaced with The Young and the Restless as must-see-TV and her glamorous mouton coat is in storage at my house.  The last bottle of Evening in Paris that my daddy gave her sits on my dresser, empty now.  I still occasionally take the top off just to get a whiff of my childhood.

My mama is no less a hero today than she was that day she made her 6 year old daughter the envy of all the other first graders.  She is still beautiful with dark curly hair, a perfect complexion and, yes, sometimes Red Velvet lips.

 

 

Lessons on Black Leather

He was clad in typical motorcycle garb – black leather vest, leather chaps, motorcycle boots, dew rag hanging out of his helmet, hugging a big black Harley.  A rugged, bear of a man.

Stopping next to him at the red light gave me an opportunity to critique him like a New York Times book reviewer.  My southern mama’s mind went to work immediately.  That is nothing but trouble. 

Then I saw him.  Riding shotgun was a miniature replica of Mr. Motorcycle Dude.  Little black leather vest, a red, white and blue bandana tired around his neck.  I could see shiny brown eyes peeping from underneath wind-blown silver and brown hair. A tiny pink tongue darted in and out to the rhythm of the distinct rattle of the V-twin engine.  Seeming to grin from ear to ear, the little Yorkshire terrier was sitting pretty in a rigged up safety seat built especially for him.   Four or five pounds of best friend. 

Puppy dogs and babies soften even the hardest shell of a person.

Why do we judge people on how they look?  How they dress?  Even what they drive?

On second glance, maybe he is a doctor who cares for terminally ill patients every day except Friday’s when he rides his Harley through the back streets of DeSoto County to unwind.

Maybe he is a fireman who worked most of the night putting his own life in danger to save someone else’s family and is headed out of the city for a break.

Maybe he is a teacher who gets through to the ignored, abused, forgotten children of our world because they can relate to him.

Maybe he is the butcher, the baker or candle stick maker.  He is someone’s son, dad, husband, friend.   

Whatever he does or whatever he drives or however he is dressed does not determine who he is.  Except when he is stopped at a red light next to a somewhat set-in-her-ways, self-proclaimed southern belle with a really hard shell who is learning new lessons on humanity.  (Matthews 7:1)

Every.  Single.  Day.    

This I know to be true:    Anyone who takes his Yorkie for a ride on his Fat Boy on a beautiful, sunny Friday afternoon is a hero in my book. 

Birthday Special

A purple balloon floated out in front of my car this morning on my drive to work.  Bright and shiny and new.  Announcing the beginning of a birthday week for some lucky child, I’m sure.  Probably that little blond haired girl who lives just beyond the curve at Pine Tree Loop near my house.

Birthdays now a days are big business.  Inflatable bouncies, gourmet cupcakes, gift bags filled with goodies to take home, limo rides to the newest arcade or overpriced pizza place. 

Mothers have to be creative and come up with “special” and “different” ways to celebrate their little one’s birthday.  Kids surely don’t want their special day to be less fun than their friends’ parties. Birthday parties are a very big deal.

That stray balloon made me think of my sixth birthday party.  My mother baked a cake decorated with six pink candles and sugar sprinkles.  My little sister, who was four at the time, and I patiently waited for my daddy to come home so we could have my party.  After supper, my mother sat the cake and us in the middle of the table and let my sister and I blow out the candles while they sang happy birthday to me.  She took pictures of  both of us sitting on the table, arm-in-arm, blowing out my candles and fussing over whose wish would be granted. I felt special and loved because I was the center of attention – rare for the oldest child. 

That was the same year we moved to Camille Street in Senatobia, MS.  Camille was a street filled with kids of all ages where all birthdays were celebrated with a cake, ice cream and Kool-Aid for every kid on the street who came by.  We might get a coloring book or an army man or a can of PlayDoh, but the main treat was always the birthday cake. The best part of any birthday party in the 1960’s was the cake that our moms made.  For one day during the year, the birthday kid was the most special of the Camille Street gang. 

As I got older, my parties became more elaborate.  For my 13^th birthday, I had a sleep-over at my grandmother’s house in a little country Mississippi town called Strayhorn, about 10 miles west of Senatobia.   We went to my grandmother’s house partly to get away from my sister and brothers and partly because her house was big enough to accommodate a bunch of squealing junior high girls.  Mainly we went there because my grandmother was way cooler than anybody else’s grandmother and she let me have a sleep-over.

The old house was a creepy, Victorian that was the perfect party setting for a bunch of giggling, dramatic girls. We ate all the chips and hot dogs we could hold before my grandmother brought out the cake - a gigantic store bought birthday cake with 13 candles gloriously announcing that I was finally a teenager.   

We listened to Mr. Bo Jangles (the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band version) over and over again on my new record player singing every word at the top of our voices.  We talked about boys we liked and girls we didn’t.  We talked about freezing a girl’s bra and hanging it on the light fixture or putting her hands in cold water to make her pee her pants if she dared go to sleep.

The last thing you would ever want to do at a sleepover was to go to sleep.  So, right about the time we were starting to get a little sleepy, someone - I cannot remember who – came up with a brilliant idea to keep us awake.   “Why don’t we try to raise someone from the dead?”   

Sure, why not…

We didn’t have a dead person handy, so we had to convince one of the girls that she was dead in order to raise her up.  (We had a volunteer and I won’t mention any names here because she is now perfectly alive, living a very normal life with her family.)

So, we laid out our friend in the middle of the parlor floor and proceeded to convince her that she was, in fact, dead.  In the midnight darkness the drafty old house whispered and taunted us with its creaks and groans as we gathered around the victim and commenced her “wake.”

In high pitched, dramatic voices that only 13 year old girls can muster, we went around the circle saying,   “She looks dead.”  “She feels dead”  “She acts dead”  “She IS dead!” 

And, by golly, within just a few minutes that sweet girl was good and dead.  We had to get to work raising her up.

We all gathered around our dead friend and “laid hands” on her.  We were all straight laced Baptists, Methodists and Presbyterians who had never laid hands on anyone without getting in trouble, but we had work to do. We called her forth.

“She doesn’t look dead.”  “She doesn’t feel dead.”  “She doesn’t act dead.”  “She’s not dead!”

“Rise!” we all shouted in unison.

Slowly, our dead girl started making ‘coming alive” sounds, shaking and groaning, her arms lifting up like Frankenstein.  She was coming to life!  We had convinced her she was dead and raised her up within a matter of just a few minutes.  Slowly she opened her eyes, whispering, “What happened?”  She was dizzy, weak…and, yes, yawning.  Being dead is hard on a person.

I don’t think any of us had ever been so scared in our lives. Shaking and crying (remember DRAMATIC 13 year olds), we woke up my grandmother and told her the whole story.  My grandmother – who was a special, amazing and funny woman – chastised us severely and told us to NEVER kill and raise from the dead anyone else again.  Raising folks from the dead is not your business, she told us.  She was right.

None of us went to sleep that night, not even my grandmother.  The next morning, in the light of day with biscuits baking in the oven and bacon frying in the black skillet, we were much calmer, even a little subdued.  Nobody got their bra frozen and nobody’s hands were plunged into cold water, but we sure made some memories that night that would last a lifetime for some of us. 

For the next several weeks, my birthday party was all the talk at Senatobia Junior High. Everyone wanted to be my friend and come to my next party.  Those who were there told the story so much, it had morphed into a pretty scary episode of the Twilight Zone.  I felt so special.

The next year we were all turning 14.   We were hosting boy/girl parties, kissing boys and going to the movies. We had much more exciting things to do with our time than raise a friend from the dead.

Over the years, some of us have talked about what a fun party that was. No limo rides, just carpooling to Strayhorn with our moms; no live DJ, just Mr. Bo Jangles on the record player; no high tech pizza/arcade, just hot dogs and chips. We didn’t go back with a sack full of goodies; we went home with a sack full of memories.  Oh, but how delightfully scared we were!  What trouble we could have gotten ourselves into!!   The power of suggestion is a mighty thing to a group of 13-year-old girls. 

The purple balloon followed me a ways down Robertson Rd. and when I last looked in my rearview mirror, it was floating back towards the home of the birthday girl.  My birthday wish for that child is that she makes the kind of memories that I have.   Of simple birthday parties with lifelong friends. Of fun times that require some imagination and little else. Of giggles and laughter and silliness.  And, maybe even a little fear.  Of a cherished grandmother. Of sugary birthday cakes and bright, shiny purple balloons.

Most of all, I pray that she always feels special.  Birthday special. 

These Things I Know for Sure

I have had a pretty tough time the past few years. I have lost loved ones, become a 50-something-year-old single empty-nester, changed churches, changed jobs, and learned to run a household all on my own.  Through it all, I have laughed a lot, cried a lot and learned a lot. 

I still don’t know everything, but these are the things - Life Lessons, if you will - that I now know for sure….

1.    Duct tape fixes everything. And, it now comes in pretty patterns.

2.    Everything in your house is synchronized to fall apart at the same time.

3.    As you enter into your 50’s, your horizons continue to widen…and so does your backend

4.    Nobody loves you like your mama

5.    My daddy was the most brilliant man that ever lived

6.    Contrary to my southern upbringing, I don’t have to be sweet to everyone.  And, everyone does not have to like me.  I can say what I think.  Much like a man does.

7.    To get children to listen to you, whisper

8.    To get appliance repair men to listen, bark like a big dog

9.    The best food you will ever eat, you eat at your mama’s table.  Be careful what you put on your table.  Do you want the best food your children will ever eat to be chicken nuggets and spaghetti-o’s?

10. One morning you will wake up and you will have experienced a role reversal.  Your children will be “taking care” of you. That means they will be telling you what to do.

11. I can pray for the people I love, the people I don’t much like, world peace, forgiveness, healing, grace, mercy and a good parking spot – and God blesses all my prayers

12. Simple things like watching the deer in my back yard make me as happy as a new pair of shoes

13. When you have a closet full of clothes with the price tags still on them, you got too many clothes.  YES!  I said it!  I HAVE TOO MANY CLOTHES! 

14. I don’t have to speak with a fake, slightly Northern accent to appear to be intelligent.  I can and do embrace my southerness whole heartedly and I am an intelligent, experienced, successful professional.  Dadgumit!

15. The best things I have done in my life I did not do at work.

16. I cannot always control everything. (Whew! Made me sweat to even type that!)

17. I don’t always have to win. But, I sure do like to.

18. The best antidepressant is to do something for someone else.

19. My best memories come from my hardest times.

20. Nobody can make me happy.  Only I can do that. Happiness is a choice

21. My mother lives in my head and often pops out of my mouth

22. She also lives in my mirror

23. My son is smarter than me, but I am wiser

24. I can go anywhere, be anybody and do anything.  I choose to be me right here doing what I am doing now.  That is freedom.

25. Just because you go to church with someone, or you have known someone your whole life doesn’t mean they are your friend.  You only get a couple of true-blue friends in your lifetime and they do not leave you.

26. I have no patience for stupid

27. Most times comfort trumps cute

28. I can no longer skip lunch and lose 5 pounds.

29. My happy place is my recliner on an early Saturday morning with a cup of coffee and my Yorkie, Zeke, in my lap watching Lifetime movies. I am woman enough to admit that.

30. The ocean is the best tranquilizer in the world.

31. Children do not have to be born to you to be your kids

32. All the rules you need in life are in God’s word.

33. I would give anything to spend one more hour with my daddy

34. Who you know gets you in the door; hard work keeps you there.

35. Bad deals rarely get better (Thank you, Steve Ballard)

36. Ice Cream is good for the soul.  Cookies help, too.

37. When you look at things differently, the things you look at change.

38. Live in a state of gratitude and you will be grateful for everything that comes your way.

39. The most I ever had in my life were the times I had very little.

40. Everyone needs someone they can count on.  Someone to listen, give advice, and give an opinion.  Someone who doesn’t judge you, understands you, knows who you are and loves you anyway.  Someone who makes you laugh, wipes away tears, stands up for you, and always has your back.  Someone who tells you that you are beautiful when you don’t have on make-up.  Someone who is proud of you when you do good and still proud of you when you don’t.  Someone who loves your mother even when she is driving you nuts. Someone who hugs you for no reason.  Someone who prays with you and for you. When you find that person, hold on tight and never let go. This is the most important thing I want my son to know.

 

Learning to Let Go on Camille Street

I watched a little girl learn to ride her bike on the hot pavement of Camille Street last week.  In the

shadow of the massive glittery pink helmet, I saw in her tiny bronze face wonder, pride, fear and excitement. 

During my weekly visit to my mother, I was walking to my car to fetch more grocery bags when I saw them.  Dad, his willowy frame wrapped around his little girl to make sure she was securely attached to her new princess bike.  The little girl – afraid but excited.  Determined.   “Don’t let go, Daddy, don’t let go.”

Instantly I was transported back to another summer and another bicycle – this one red with a white basket with big yellow daisies on the front.  In the same spot on the same street in the same small hometown more than 50 years ago, another girl and another dad share this rite of passage.  I can hear this little girl say, “Don’t let go, Daddy, don’t let go!”

My dad assured me that he never would.

Camille Street, Senatobia, MS, USA.  Like many other small southern neighborhoods, Camille Street has seen many youngsters who were planted here bloom over the past half century.  The original Camille Street Gang members are now grandparents with long and rich resumes, retirement plans, nice homes and photo albums filled with lives we never thought possible during our hot summers on Camille Street in the 60’s and 70’s.

We all learned to ride our bikes on Camille Street.  No shiny helmets or knee pads for us.  We hopped on our bikes, bare footed with unprotected extremities, and never looked back. 

I sat on my mom’s front porch and watched this little girl’s story unfold - a moment in her life that she will never forget.  Precious memories layered one on top of the other to build the story of our lives.   Makes us who we are.

Dad lets go of the bubble gum colored bike.  He reaches out to steady it as it starts to slow down, wobble and then straightens up and gains speed.  He proudly watches his little girl as her tippy toes push the peddles of the bike and her tiny brown hands grip the handle bars to hold the bike steady.  Past the Copeland’s house, past the Alexander’s, almost all the way to the corner she rides.    The first of many, many times he will see her spread her wings and fly.  Sometimes she will crash and sometimes she will soar, but always he will be there to reach out and steady her. 

I go back to bringing in the groceries and I cannot stop thinking about the scene I just witnessed.  I can hardly believe it has been more than 50 years since all of the first generation Camille Street kids were learning to ride bikes, skate, swim, play baseball, drive cars and steal kisses under the big tree in the McPhail’s back yard.  I glance over at the Alexander’s house and see Charlotte and me sitting on a quilt under her shade tree making clover necklaces.  I see Ricky walking across the street to borrow an encyclopedia to do his science report.  I see Gail and Jackie walking to the community pool, flip flops flopping and bright colored towels hanging around their necks, giggling over secrets only they share.  These are the layers that build my story.

As I leave my mother’s house on Camille Street – my home for 22 years of my life -- I think of my dad.  I think of all the times he steadied my journey and pointed me in the right direction.  I realize that he did, in time, let go of my bike.

But, he never let go of me.