Choices By Cappy Hall Rearick

 

At this writing, it has been over thirty years since young countrymen left the comfort and security of their homes and families to fight in the Middle East. Anxious Americans watched, transfixed, as media cameras captured them on film boarding planes that would spirit them off to a culture completely alien to our way of life. 

In all of the televised hoopla, it was easy to forget the other Gulf, the one right here in America. In contrast to where our soldiers were being taken, the Gulf of Mexico has been at peace for over a hundred years. 

I know this because I lived there once. By choice.

Each morning I awakened to the gentle swoosh of waves, not to the thunder of mortar shells. I watched the sun rise from my deck and greeted each new day with the expectation of good things to come. I never had to wonder if my house would still be standing at the close of day.  

Dressed in grubby sweats, I hiked to the beach with my dog, Dickens, and we ran because we liked to run, not because we were running from anything or anybody. I didn’t dress in camo army fatigues and Dickens wore only his signature red bandana.  

Returning home, I drank coffee bought at the local IGA (imported, so the label claimed) from South America. I had no need to ration; I was free to choose from Folgers Mountain Grown to IGA’S own Brand X.  

When I began my day’s work, I didn’t wonder if there would be electricity for my computer. I took it for granted that I would spend the next few hours uninterrupted, penning the book I had chosen to write. I did not worry whether or not my words would be censored, only if they would be accepted by a publisher and read by those people who chose to purchase the book.

I often took a sandwich to the beach. The portion I didn’t eat was fed to the gulls looking forward to my visits. Those sea birds were as clean and white as a summer cloud, not weighted down by an evil oil slick.

At the end of each day, my deck would magically transform into an arena where I became spectator to nature’s twilight performance. I watched as a quiet company of players moved silently, swiftly onto the set: the magnificent Gulf of Mexico.

Evening shades of pink, gold and blue opened the performance by executing a slow dissolve. Sea birds pirouetted with practiced grace, gently dipping into the liquid gold of the Gulf for an early supper. 

Occasionally, a dog would bark in the distance as though cheering the performance, and surrounding trees whistled for an encore. Boundless waves clapped thunderous applause as a curtained sky dropped its rainbowed hues of evening.

Captivated by the performance, lulled into near stupor by the harmonious alignment of nature, I often chose to linger on the deck-turned-arena. It was my choice to do so — or not.

Given the busy lives we lead, it is an easy thing to take choices for granted. But lest we forget, there have been too many brave countrymen who went to war in our place. Too many gave their lives. And for what purpose? Our right to choose. 

 I pray power in the Middle East today, as well as in our own country, does not take away choice.

 

 

 The Cutting Board By Cappy Hall Rearick

 

It was such an ordinary thing.

 The one item in her kitchen 

I never thought was important. 

I was so wrong.

 

Mama had left this world a week before and for the first time in days, I was alone. My brother had returned to Florida and I, being the only daughter, remained behind in our mother’s home to sort through what had been her life for seventy-four years.

I hugged and said tearful goodbyes to my family, then waved as their car disappeared for the long trip back to Sarasota. I stood rooted in place even though I could no longer see them. Why? Maybe I hoped for a change of heart, a change of plans. Maybe I hoped to see headlights instead of taillights.

Reluctantly, I went back into the house, tombstone quiet since everyone had left. Right away, I realized the emotional importance of staying busy. There was a lot to do and although my brother and his wife had helped, there was still much to get done. 

My Southern Mama had saved every edition of Southern Living Magazine ever published. The magazines were either special to her or she got so used to them being there that they became fixtures. In any case, one quick decision on my part and they were history.

Wandering into the kitchen, my resolve faded like morning fog. Mama had been a sucker for gadgets. QVC was on her speed dial. Had Amazon Prime been available back then, she’d have been one ecstatic consumer.

I took a deep breath, plopped into a kitchen chair and put my head in my hands. Where to start? My first thought was a need to find any wine left from the funeral reception and my search paid off in the form of a forgettable generic cabernet. While one of my hands held a full glass of the red liquid, the other opened cabinets to allow me access to Mama’s kitchen tsunami. 

Three hours later, seated cross-legged on the cold tile floor, surrounded by baked-on greasy cookware, I leaned my back against a lower cabinet and sighed. I should have started this project while my brother was still around to lug the heavy boxes off to Goodwill or the dump. I drained the glass of wine. 

I made a sizable dent in clearing out unwanted stuff in the room that had been the lifeblood of our family for years, but there was still so much to do. Glancing around the room, shadow memories of past celebrations held over many years flooded my soul. I fished out a heart-shaped baking pan and could almost taste the red velvet cakes Mama always baked for my Valentine birthday. Good times. She loved to cook, never followed a recipe but managed to come up with unforgettable creations, most of which were never duplicated. 

I pulled in a ragged breath and told myself if I didn’t stick to the job at hand I would start bawling like the kid I no longer was. Reaching way back into a bottom cabinet, my hand came in contact with what felt like a board. I pulled it out and gasped. 

It was Mama’s old cutting board given to her, she said, just after she got married. 

I gazed at the many indentions in the board and visualized Mama at the kitchen counter pummeling a tough piece of round steak as if it were the anti-Christ. I saw her shake salt and pepper on the battered meat and then sift it with flour. I dug around in the cabinet and found her old metal flour sifter with the green handle. I remember it turning around and around and dusting flour on whatever Mama was making— country fried steak, fried chicken or pork chops. Even biscuits.

I put the cutting board and the sifter on the floor next to me while years of ordinary days and nights came back to life. I could almost taste the gravy Mama poured over the tenderized meat after she beat it into submission, and the mashed potatoes (never instant) she served with a meat meal. I remembered the green vegetables flavored with bacon drippings she forced me eat.

 

My fingers moved over the deep grooves in that cutting board and co-mingled with years of looking back on a life well-lived while my salty tears added flavor to the memories.