Have I looked in my father's eyes

My father, Carl Barker

 
Deep, dark brown
More almond-shaped than any almond
Short lashes loosely-covered with saggy skin

Reading, always
Anything and everything
Day into night, sometimes into day again

Stories of rugged cowboys with guns and sweaty horses,
County, back-woods postal addresses
Political commentaries, Sunday color comics

Post-Herald
Birmingham News
Sports section first, forever and amen

Disease-invaded like an army
He fought them all with force
Passed away one night while praying that he'd continue to live

We learned what was possible
Through salty, hot tears
And smiled with happiness at the irony of his gift

Corneas, still healthy, searching for more
Traveled to someone unknown
So that they could see, they could read

Perhaps I, while on a journey to Montgomery or Mobile
Looked in my father's eyes
Though they were no longer almond-shaped and brown

They would have been reading
Anything, everything
Sports section first, forever and amen

My Thanksgiving List

Yes, I know I'm a smidgen late, but this week went by in a chaotic whirlwind of house cleaning, planning, cooking, Christmas shopping, and an-over-the-river-and-through-the-woods drive to visit Kittie and family.

Of course, it can almost go without saying that I'm thankful for my family, friends, neighbors, soldiers who keep us free, and Alabama football. These are the sources of my daily happiness. Without them....well, I don't even want to think about that.

But let's admit, there are many things we don't always remember to be thankful for. And, yes, I know I ended a sentence with a preposition. (Remember that outstanding line from Designing Women when the snobby socialite told Julia, "Don't you know you don't end a sentence with a preposition?" Julia's retort was beyond perfect and not really printable here.

So here (in no particular order) is my top five list of not so common things for which I am immensely thankful:

1. I don't have to shave my legs as often as I used to. When I was younger, leg shaving was a daily ritual. Then the need decreased to every other day. Now, the mid-50s have given me a three-day respite from the blade whose life has been extended, thereby saving me a little money. Thankful, thankful, thankful.

2. Snooze alarm. I never, never, ever jump out of bed to greet the day on the first unwanted jolt from the alarm clock. The snooze alarm feature not only allows me to wake up slowly, but it let's me kinda thumb my nose at the clock and say, "Hey, you! I'll get up when I'm good and ready. You can't make me do it! Give me seven more minutes." That feels so good.

3. Under eye concealer. Because I unequivocally trust Ellen Degeneres, I use Covergirl & Olay Simply Ageless #215. Without that tiny round container of flesh-colored magic, I would never be able to leave the house. Seriously. Ladies, have you ever thought you had leftover, smudged mascara on your under-eye area? So you grab a tissue, a little lotion or eye makeup remover, and clean the tender area only to find the tissue is clean and the smudge didn't go away? I have...several times. That's when I knew I had to depend on under eye concealer. Thankful? Yes. Everyday.

4. Hormone replacement therapy. Not having to shave my legs as often is no where near balanced by menopause. Those years (oh yes, years) have been the most miserable of my life. Hot flashes are from Satan. Or Eve. I'm certain it dates back to that foolish day with the apple and the snake. It is impossible to cool off from a hot flash. I have chugged ice water, stood in the open freezer door, turned the air conditioner to 50 degrees, and slept with the windows open in the winter. Nothing helped until my doctor prescribed  "the patch." Life became somewhat normal again. Of course, any chance of becoming a pole dancer immediately vanished, even thought the patch was clear and small. Still the audience conversation would go something like, "What's that on her tummy?" Someone would answer, "What? I don't see anything?" Another, "Yeah, right there. That little clear thing." But pole dancing was never a life mission for me, so I'm good with the patch.

5. Control top pantyhose. I haven't worn hose in maybe three years. I personally have a love / hate relationship with them. When I was experiencing #4 above, I decided pantyhose were also from Satan. Instead of bra burnings, we should have burned hose. That said, they are a true friend when those slacks are just a tad snug or you have a few little ripples of cellulite showing through that new slinky, black dress. I'm happy they're there when I need them and tucked away in the back of a drawer when I don't.

That's my list. Now, what are some of your less typical objects of thanks? I really need to know that I'm not the only quirky one out there.

Funny tings my childwen said when they was yittle

The late Art Linkletter made us laugh and lifted our spirits with his long-running television show, "Kids say the darndest things." But there's nothing quite like the "darndest things" our own children say. Since my two daughters were little tykes, I've always meant to stop and journal about how they've made me laugh and lifted my spirits. Today, I'm finally going to do just that. Here are my top five favorites:

One afternoon, when I picked up four-year-old Jaime from day care, she burst into the car with the unabashed enthusiasm that only little children possess. "Mommy, Mommy, David KISSED me!" she squealed. A boy kissed her? I wasn't even remotely prepared for this. Didn't I have at least 10, no make that 20, more years until I had to feel this? "Gee, Honey, where did David kiss you?" I asked, dreading the answer, praying that it would be cheek instead of lips. Pointing to the playground, she said, "Over by the slide!" Laughing out loud, I foolishly realized that I didn't have anything to worry about....for a while, at least.

Jaime - kindergarten graduation

As a new kindergartner, Jennifer was going on her first play date without me. As I brushed her hair, I reminded her about good table manners, no running in the house, and all the other things Moms worry their children will do, or not do, when away from home. Of course, she was rolling her eyes, muttering, "I know, I know." "Okay, what do you say when you leave to come home?" I said as a way to remind her to say 'Thank you for having me.' I received one of those looks I still get today as she incredulously said, "Bye!"

Jennifer at five

As any parent knows, storms are frightening to children, especially toddlers. But nighttime storms? They're the absolute worst. A storm at bedtime meant I would have to lay down with Jaime until she lost at fighting sleep. Unfortunately for me, this usually meant I fell asleep, too; my day ending at 7:30 p.m. I'd promised myself that I would never tell her fibs about storms and that I would try to explain to her the importance of rain, and what caused the loud booms of thunder and the brilliant flashes of lighting. But one night, I had something that had to be completed, and just couldn't fall asleep early. So, guess what? Yep, I told a little fib. Actually, I told a big lie. "Honey, that thunder is just God moving around his furniture," I explained with a serious face. I can still remember how she sat trembling on the sofa, little feet so far from the floor, sucking those two callused fingers. Just then, an incredibly loud crash of thunder rattled the windows. Looking at me with new comprehension of the storm, she said, "Oh, Mommy, there went the dining room table!"

Three-year-old Jaime

Jennifer was six and just learning to read when the new Minor High School was near completion. We rode by one day and she asked why there weren't any students or cars there. "It's not finished yet, Baby." "But it is, too, Mommy. Look! The sign out front says 'Dunn.'" (Dunn Construction was the builder.)

Three-year-old Jennifer

But here's my favorite and it needs no introduction nor explanation: three-year-old Jennifer, with a puzzled look on her face, walked into the kitchen one day and asked, "Mommy, why do Daddies have tails in the front?" If you're interested in my answer, drop me an email.

Granmom

I never had grandparents.

Well, of course I had grandparents. Everyone does. Except Adam and Eve. And their children. And Jesus.

I mean I never knew my grandparents. All four of them passed away before I was born. Neal (1946), Josie (1945), Sam (1954), and Kittie (1948) were gone before this granddaughter was born in 1955.

As a child, I don't remember missing the grandparent experience. I have memories of their grass-covered graves and gray-speckled, granite headstones, mowed and cleaned on sunny Saturday afternoons before Decoration Sundays. But I had not yet learned to miss their bear hugs and wet kisses.

As a young adult, I don't remember consciously missing the grandparent experience. I realize now that I consistently formed close friendships with older women. At 20, one of my good friends was 65, or so. She came over and spent many wonderful evenings with me while my husband was at work. Looking back, those types of friendships were the norm. Unknown to me at that time, I was seeking surrogate grandmothers at work, at church, next door, anywhere, everywhere.

Over the past few years, I've been painfully aware of missing the grandparent experience. I especially miss my grandmothers. Maybe it started when I became a grandmother. Suddenly, I was doing things with my grandchildren that I longed to have done with my grandmother. A yearning started in me that has floated in and out like the feathers that would have softened her pillows.

And so, I began think about her, wish I had known her, loved her.

Did she smell like fresh-baked bread? Pacquin's Hand Cream? Roses?

Was her lap soft and her skin hard and cracked? Did she sing like a mockingbird, or did I only think she did? And what would we have done together when I had her all to myself?

Would she have taken me down the hill to the dirt playground at the grammar school, hiking her faded, floral house dress to her knees so that we could see-saw until our legs ached? And our bellies hurt from laughter?

Would I have learned to knit much earlier than the age of 52, creating doilies that we would stiffen with sugar starch into rock-hard furniture adornments?  I'd still have a blushing-pink one today, tucked carefully away in the cedar chest. And I'd stop and smile at the faded, intertwined thread whenever I opened the strong-smelling chest to retrieve a sweater or quilt.

I would have helped her in the garden. She would have picked ruby-red tomatoes and lovingly placed them in her mother's apron, holding it out by the bottom two corners, forming a bowl at her waist. Juicy, drippy sandwiches on her freshly-made bread would then be my reward.

I'm certain she would have let me lick the cake mix bowl. As she wiped my chubby cheeks that were smeared with uncooked sugary delight, she would tell me this was our little secret and not to tell my mother.

And when my mother called to say it was time for me to come home, she would say, "Oh, Margaret, let her stay a little longer. Just let her spend the night. I promised I would braid her hair, but we've been so busy that we haven't had time. And her grandfather told her they might walk to the creek and skip stones."

But more than anything, I achingly wonder what I would have called her? My grandmother shouldn't be remembered so casually as "her" or "she" or "Mother's mother" or "Daddy's mother."

I remember that endearments of the 50s typically included "Granny," "Mamaw," and "Memaw." But for some unknown reason, those don't feel right for my grandmother.

"Mama Kittie?" Not unless I wanted the family's gestating, calico cat to come running to my side!

"Jo-Jo?" No-no.

"Granmom?" Hummmm...I like that. I think that might be it! How I would have specified whether I was referring to Kittie or Josie isn't important. I know now that I would have called my grandmother "Granmom."

And if I close my eyes and listen in the quiet, still afternoon, I can hear Granmom sweetly, oh so lovingly, calling to me, "Where is my Princess Rebecca? Come here, dear child, and we shall have a tea party."

It could just as easily have been dumplings and gefilte fish

Ok. Let's get the question of how my blog got its name out of the way.

It could just as easily have been Dumplings and Gefilte Fish. Or Cornbread and Challah. Or maybe Kraut and Wieners and Chopped Liver. But it was just before a brunch when I almost made the huge gaffe.

But, first, a little background:

I grew up in Carbon Hill, a very, very small town about 60 miles northwest of Birmingham. During my childhood, the population was approximately 4,000; currently it has dropped to 2,500. Many of the businesses that managed to survive over the years will likely have the final nail driven in their coffin by Corridor X.

Telling you that Carbon Hill is a country town is an understatement. To add that I am Southern, and confirm it every time I speak, is an even larger one. (On my first trip to NYC, someone advised me to speak as little as possible. He suggested New Yorkers might have a difficult time understanding me. Ouch!) I grew up on butter beans, cornbread, and turnip greens. Most everyone else in town was just like me; diversity was as scarce as hens' teeth.

Just after I moved to Birmingham in 1973, I met Debbie, my BFF long before BFF dropped into our alphabet-soup world. She and her family were a big part of my life for the next 25 years. By the way, Debbie's husband is Jewish, which you need to know now for later.

About a year after my 23-year marriage ended, Debbie and I were running errands.

"When you think you're better, and you're ready to go out, let me know," she slyly commented, the ever-present twinkle in her eye revved up faster than Road Runner on Saturday morning. "I think I can arrange a date for you with a nice Jewish boy."

I was deeply moved by her offer. Somewhat stunned, I replied, "I know we've been close all these years, but that you would let me go out with your husband is really above and beyond, don't you think?"

Silly me. She was referring to Alan, her brother-in-law. Over the years, I'd attended birthday parties and holiday events where Alan was also present. I didn't really see the two of us gee-hawing, if you know what I mean.

For every ounce of country in me, there are three ounces of city and culture in Alan. No dumplings, no southern accent, no small town background in his history. This is a man who grew up in Mountain Brook and is as polar opposite from me as Liberace is from Jack Bauer.

Thankfully, I was wrong about the gee-hawing. We actually found that we were the same but different, and our dating progressed to the point of me being invited to a Bar Mitzvah brunch at his mother's house. I was higher than a Georgia pine. Happier than a pig in the sunshine. Or is that happier than a pig in the mud? Oh, well, I'm sure you get the picture.

Anyway, just after the invitation, I called Debbie and was blabbering about what I would wear, what to do with my hair, and OMG, should I take something, of course I should, oh my, what do I take, do I bake something, special order something?

Just then, I remembered that I was the proud owner of the famous Hardee biscuit recipe and, if I did say so myself, made a pretty mean biscuit. I'm talking Cat Head here. And gravy? Take your pick: sawmill, red-eye, sausage. I had them all down pat.

"Debbie, Debbie, I know, I know! I've got it. I'll make homemade biscuits. I'll use the Hardee's recipe and even cut them out all nice and neat. They should really impress Alan's mom, don't you think?" I squealed.

"Uh, I don't think so, Beckster," she said. "You might want to re-think that one. This is a Bar Mitzvah brunch, girlfriend. One doesn't take BISCUITS to a Bar Mitzvah brunch. One takes BAGELS to a Bar Mitzvah brunch." She was laughing so hard, I'm sure she was crying.

After that, biscuits and bagels became a joke that made us all smile, especially after Debbie up and died, as Lewis Grizzard used to say. We've used the phrase many times over the years, and I've started, and stalled, a cookbook of my favorite recipes. It's called, you guessed it, "Biscuits and Bagels."

Today, my love of cooking has expanded beyond my beloved southern roots and I look forward to posting some of my favorite recipes here very soon. Of course, I continue to cook butter beans, cornbread and turnip greens. Unfortunately, Alan steadfastly refuses to eat kraut and wieners and chicken and dumplings, so those two have pretty much been put on the back burner, so to speak. I'm happy to report that just recently, he told me (and his mother!) that I've mastered chopped liver.

But I will forever draw the line at cooking gefilte fish. I just cannot tackle a recipe for balls of fish surrounded by congealed fish broth.

That just ain't right. Opps, I mean, that just isn't right.

I think I'll start a blog

For the past few months, I've been giving a lot of thought to creating a blog. I've teetered daily between yes, no, maybe, why, why not.

As my family and friends already know, I've recently become quite addicted to reading The Pioneer Woman's blog. She and I have so much in common: we both love to cook, we love photography, we both have red hair (no comments from the peanut gallery about the red hair), and both married a dreamboat.

So, as I was teetering, I saw PW's recent post, "Ten Important Things I've Learned About Blogging."

The number one thing that she has learned, she writes, is, "Write in your own voice. Write as if you’re talking to your sister. Unless you don’t get along with your sister. Or don’t have a sister."

Today, I'm jumping off the fence. I'm taking her advice to heart. And since I do have a sister, and we do get along very well, here's my posting debut:

     Me to my sister: "I'm thinking about starting a blog."

     Sister: "Huh.What's a blog?"

     Me: "Well, it's a kind of web site, except that a person creates entries about opinions, their daily life, cooking, hobbies. etc."

     Sister: "Why would you want to do that? Don't you already have enough to do?"

     Me: "Yes, but since I'm still in the ranks of the unemployed, I thought it would be a good way for me to practice writing, photography...you know, keep my skills up-to-date."

     Sister: "Huh. Do you ever see any of the people you used to work with? What was that woman's name....?"

     Me: "No, I don't see anyone, but I'm friends with a few on FaceBook."

     Sister: "Oh, really! Who?"

     Me: "Never mind that. What do you think?"

     Sister: "About what?"

     Me: "Me starting a blog."

     Sister: "What would you write about? You wouldn't write about me, would you?"

     Me: "Oh, no! Never! I'm just going to leave the theme open and go where it takes me. One day cooking, another day something that's happened to me. And since I'm alone most of the day, it will also be a way for me to talk to someone else....share something I've discovered or learned. I'm hoping that along the way, I'll begin to see a pattern and know where I need to go with it."

     Sister: "Huh. Well, if that's what you want to do, go for it. Just as long as you don't write about me. You really don't see anybody from your old job? Now, what was that woman's name? Seems like she had children..."

So, yes, I'll try to be a blogger, at least for a while. Maybe I won't even publish it. Maybe it'll be just for me.

But if I do publish it, please don't tell my sister.

My sister (l) and me in Quito, Ecuador.