The Beat Goes On

I was having babies and pretending to be Donna Reed during the provocative 60’s, so I pretty much slept through those years. Chasing two rambunctious boys left me too worn out to focus on anything more serious than Pablum. For all I knew, the Beat Generation could have been a group of tired wives and mothers like me. Hippies? They were people born with unfortunate hips.

Ken Kesey. Jack Kerouac. Neal Cassady. Allan Ginsburg. William Burroughs.

While I was changing diapers and making formula, Jack Kerouac, in a multi-colored, psychedelic bus loaded up his friends and took his first cross-country trip. He called it Further, but Tom Wolfe later named it, The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. I didn’t know squat about any of that. Longhaired hippies lived in San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury, not in my little corner of the world. By the time I was in a position to boogie with the Grateful Dead, I was too old to dance.

A few years after Kerouac’s Further, I awoke from my civic narcolepsy and did something completely foreign to the “me” I had been, I protest marched against the war. My rebellion, however, did little more than guarantee my name and photograph to be forever embedded inside a folder at FBI headquarters in Quantico, Virginia. Nonetheless, I was proud of myself for having done something. After recovering from the initial shock of breaking with tradition, my one act of defiance helped me to understand that it was okay to think outside of the Pablum Package.

About that same time, Ken Kesey took me on a journey inside his head ~ not one of his psychedelic road trips, but a much shorter one than he ever took. His movie, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest was the dawning of the Age of Aquarius for me — my Aha Moment. 

For middleclass Americans brought up in or before the 50’s, Jack Nicholson’s role in the film was seen as nothing more than the character he portrayed. Although for all of my previous adult years I had behaved more like June Cleaver than June Cleaver, I somehow saw Mac McMurphy as something else. He was the kid on the playground brave enough to stand up to the school bully. I saw the wretched nurse Ratched as the bully — McMurphy’s antithesis. God only knows how I did it, but it seemed clear to me that Kesey illustrated just how often powerful politicians try to silence the counterculture and anti-establishment groups. 

We all take freedom for granted. We are no different from kids at Christmas who are given so many toys that none of them are special. Kesey and his band of Merry Pranksters hoped that their message, drug-induced though they were, would resuscitate an apathetic people. For sure, the arrested childhood of the counterculture was a backward way to move forward, but they made some waves and ultimately made a difference. They opened up Pandora’s Box and forced cans of political worms to wriggle out. NFL players have earned the hero title for doing less.

These days I don’t march or hold up protest placards, but as an American citizen, I insist on my right to do so. I want to get back to the freedom of speech I used to know but too often take for granted, especially today. I need to trust that my right of peaceful assembly written in the First Amendment to the Constitution will always allow me to dissent against wrongdoing, no matter who commits it. I am not willing to forfeit my privileges and neither should you. The Constitution of the United States says we don’t have to. At least, today it does. Who knows how long before that gets changed too?

We have been charged with a provocative edict: to uphold the visions set in motion when early Americans defied England over two hundred years ago. If we are to make our dissenting forefathers proud, we cannot sleep through times when gluttonous games are being played by corrupt officials and we cannot remain silent when our Supreme Court fails to do the right thing. 

The freedom of speech is my right. It is your right. The freedom to rebel is our heritage and given our proud history, how can we do less? 

The Beat Goes On.

 

Writing the Memoir

EVERYBODY HAS A STORY TO TELL

Perhaps everyone has a story that could break your heart. ~ Nick Flynn

Last Saturday, the day before Mother’s Day, my brother and I went with our spouses over to Tryon for lunch. Later we spent the afternoon doing what the four of us love: antiquing. Quite by accident, we discovered an enormous antique mall hidden away off Hwy 176, so we wore ourselves out looking at things, picking up things and trying not to break any of it.

We had planned to continue the hunt in Landrum, but we needed a shot of caffeine first. Once again quite by accident, we found The Open Road, a dear little coffee place where all four of us concluded that Starbucks should be worried. Not only did The Open Road have everything our sagging body required for a caffeinated perk up they also had Susan, the resident pianist.

She grew up during WW2 and played one song after another from the war years, ones she had always loved. As it happened, they were the same songs my brother and I had heard growing up because they were also our mother’s favorite tunes.

As soon as we sat down in the cozy alcove to sip our specialty coffees, Susan played, Sentimental Journey. It was as if Mama had requested it. I glanced over at my brother when my eyes began to fill. I thought: Mama is with us right now, happy that her two children are together. She wanted us to know that she was there too.

We lingered over our coffee listening to those old beloved tunes, and just before we left, Susan played, “I’ll Be Seeing You,” another of Mama’s favorites, and one that never fails to fill my heart with memories of her.

This story is not how I planned to begin my talk today, but the events of last Saturday perfectly illustrate what I want you to do as you gather material for writing memoir. Fleeting moments, meaningful at the time but too often forgotten over time, can trigger long forgotten memories that you want to include as you recount the days of your life. 

Recollection is the first step you take when writing memoir. This is what happened for me on Saturday when I heard a certain song:

 

MY SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY

by Cappy Hall Rearick

“You may forget the one with whom you have laughed, 

but never the one with whom you have wept.”~ Kahlil Gibran

Laughter can be cathartic, but a good cry is how I cleanse the clutter from my soul.

My penchant for sad movies where heroines die an untimely death began the day Mama took me with her to see the movie, Sentimental Journey. She was crazy about John Payne and I guess because she was Irish, she believed Maureen O’Hara was her distant cousin. Mama apparently kissed the Blarney Stone at a very early age.

I was six-years-old but I clearly remember that day in the theater. Mama started to sob about five minutes into the film and I, lacking the capacity to understand her tears, cried along with her. She would pull out two tissues at a time from her pocketbook, hand one to me and then blow her nose with the other. 

Mama loved going to the picture show and it didn’t much matter if it was a drama, comedy or musical. Whatever was showing at the Carolina Theater (with the exception of Roy Rogers and Trigger) was the movie she stood in line and paid a quarter to see. For years, I went with her. 

Together we saw Pinky, Johnny Belinda, Imitation of Life and Little Women, of course. Tearjerkers, every one of them. Occasionally, she took me with her to see a murder mystery. After seeing Edward G. Robinson stab a woman with scissors in The Woman in the Window, I woke up screaming for weeks.

But Sentimental Journey set the emotional bar for Mama and me. For the rest of her life, anytime that movie was mentioned either in conversation, a recorded version of the song, or even if the movie was replayed on television, Mama would look over at me with a knowing smile. That long ago day in the theater with her when I was just a child continued to be our shared moment in time, one that lingered between us for nearly fifty years. 

Once when I was living in Los Angeles, she sent me a newspaper article about the movie. It was a tiny thing, not much more than a blurb, but I still have it. It’s tucked away in my memory box, yellow now with age. The day I got it, I opened the envelope and lifted out the two-inch square newspaper clipping and thought, “What in the world is this?” Then I read the heading: SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY. It said that TMC was running the movie again at such and such a time. 

I skimmed it and then read the note Mama attached which said: “I saw this in today’s paper and thought of you. How could I not?”

Oscar Wilde said, “Memory really is the diary we carry around with us.”

  

Ben Franklin Slept Around

By Cappy Hall Rearick

 

My 11-year-old grandson and I flew to Philadelphia during the worst heat wave in over a decade. Okay, so I didn’t think things through.

 

After breezing through baggage check-in, we approached the next checkpoint (the one preceding the 50-mile trek to Gate A-5), and that's when our troubles began. I yelled at Parker to quit leapfrogging the crowd control barriers before handing over my picture I.D. to a stoic Security Agent named Charleeka Chakendra. 

 

“Your driver’s license is expired,” she deadpanned.

 

“I wasn’t reminded,” I argued.

 

“Are you from Saluda?” As sure as I am of my birth date, that woman was thinking: ‘Gawd help us.’

 

Homeland Security thought my senior moment deserved special attention, so the contents of my purse were scrutinized by a machine resembling a blowtorch. After that, they shoved me into a stall the size of a phone booth filled with small torpedo-shaped projectiles.

 

“Don’t move,” commanded Checkpoint Charleeka, who sounded too much like my mother-in-law.

 

Warm air poofed out of the midget torpedoes and poofed until the poofs covered my body. It was kind of a turn-on. 

 

“What is the purpose of this humiliation,” I bellowed.

 

“Explosives,” Checkpoint Charleeka said, staring at me with narrowed eyes.

 

“Seriously? Seriously? You think I’ve got a bomb in my Wonderbra? I’m not a bra-bomber. I’m just a freaked-out grandmother.”

 

She rolled her eyes and waved us through.

 

We arrived in Philadelphia, but the hotel shuttle did not. I finally had to fork over the equivalent of Parker’s college tuition for an uber ride into town. The City of Brotherly Love was making me feel like a stepsister.

 

Parker threatened to lapse into chocolate withdrawal and my stomach craved something more than airline pretzels. Clutching a handful of “Kids Eat Free” vouchers, we high-tailed it to the Holiday Inn dining room. The “Kids Eat Free” program was the reason I booked the $200 a day room.

 

The kid’s menu is the biggest farce since Homeland Security poofed me for explosives. Parker took one look, visibly shuddered, then ordered fettuccini for thirty bucks.

 

Our plans for a morning tour didn’t pan out, either. We were wiped out and didn’t get to Independence Hall until noon where we bought tickets and hoped to stay awake while riding through history.

 

I hate to whine but sitting atop a double-decker bus in 200-degree heat while an actor/tour guide dropped Ben Franklin’s name every other sentence, screams equal whine time.

 

Next we rode the Duck, an amphibious vehicle promising a one-of-a-kind 70-minute ride around Philly. It concluded with a dunk in the Delaware River where the tour guide dropped Franklin’s name fifty more times. I don’t want to hear it again unless it’s linked to a hundred-dollar bill.

 

“Let’s ask him if Ben Franklin was with General Washington when he crossed the Delaware, Mammy,” Parker said. 

 

I snatched his hand in mid-wave. “Say that name aloud again, I’ll rip your lips off.”

 

Since our early flight home the next day held the possibility of more jet-poofing, we returned to the hotel and left a pre-dawn wake-up call.

 

We should have known a fire alarm would go off in the middle of the night that included evacuation orders. I thought Parker was going to wet his boxers. “We’re on FIRE, Mammy! Suuu-weeeeet!”

 

I grabbed my laptop, iPhone and the purse containing my expired driver’s license. It’s all about priorities. As it turned out, nothing was fired up except disgruntled hotel guests standing in the street sweating like packhorses at midnight.

 

At the airport, no torpedo poofers searched for grandmothers packing heat. I was treated instead to a personal pat down. Discovering no incendiary devices inside my bra or shoes, Homeland Security patted down Parker to make sure Granny wasn’t planning to blast him and everybody else into the middle of next week.

 

Parker grinned wildly during his body search, his mind busy embellishing his Philly adventure stories for when he wrote an account of, “What I Did On My Summer Vacation.”

 

Genes don’t lie. Gawd help us.

 

 

The Boneyard Bounce by Cappy Hall Rearick

 United we stand. Divided we fall. We're tighter than pantyhose two sizes small!

Recently, I almost joined a workout center where sweet young things were sporting thonga-majigs that barely covered their thingamajigs. I gawked for an entire fifteen minutes feeling years older than I am. Working their pecs and abs like NFL linebackers, they did push-ups, pull-ups and jogged in place, all while texting.

The workout center promised to make me live a few years longer. Joining up was compelling, but in the end, I decided I would rather eat dirt. I am happier taking walks each morning with women my age and physical abilities, where conversation is more important than deep stretches.

We walk in a cemetery (like pets marking territory), and nobody living there cares that we all collect Social Security or wear baggy sweats instead of thongs. The flat graveyard makes our walks easier than walking up hills. Upshot? Knowing CPR is no an issue.

It's also nice to know that if and when any one of us remains at the cemetery permanently, the sisters will be nearby, if only in spirit. We wouldn’t miss anything so they will speak loudly.

Because I work alone at my computer most days, the early morning strolls (notice I didn't say power walks) are my way of socializing. Over time, my friends and I have shared searing social commentary, movie and theater reviews and recipes, not to mention some first-rate group therapy.

Frances is our pack leader. She is the quiet one and the most constant. I don't look forward to her wakeup call at 7 a.m. each morning, but I can depend on it. By eight o'clock I am perched on the front seat of her golf cart tooling toward Reebok Ridge or Boot Hill, as the case may be.

Talley is the gracious one, energetic and determined to work out all of the body kinks collected over the years. Dressed to the nines, she huffs and puffs along with the rest of us, and then she line dances. Talley makes me feel like I'm missing out on something really big.

Sweet Altha has a smile that won't go away, and when she is not walking with us, a large hole is created by her absence.

Gloria adores garden parties, people and dogs. She hatches projects and loves sharing ideas with us.

Paula gifts us with great stock tips when she is not in Florida. Hey Paula, has my ship come in yet?

Betty's knee replacement motivated her to use her feet instead of wheels, so now she roams around like a little bear just out of hibernation. 

We try to avoid political or religious topics on our walks, and most of the time we succeed. A spirited discussion on current local affairs, however, is not totally off track. We are more apt to discuss arthritis medications than fashions, but the advent of a better-designed walking shoe is a real grabber.

Should the talk ever turn morbid, we need only to glance at the tombstones to change the subject. Like the ebb and flow of life itself, lively conversation is what fuels our pace.

Our men know better than to try joining our sassy group. They have sense enough to know that our eight o'clock walks each morning are about companionship, support and sisterhood, not sweaty exercise. 

My women friends offer me compassion when needed and pats on the back when deserved. They don't give a hoot that I wouldn't be caught dead in a thong, even after I’ve become a permanent boneyard resident. Even then, my spirit will rise at eight a.m. to stroll the perimeter with my friends.

 

Sisters By Choice

Sisterhood, sisterhood. Calling others to walk.

And come together. Where each one can talk.

About what is going on. In different parts of the world.

Sharing tales with each other. Of when we were a girl.

Now, speaking as a woman Sometimes loud is good.

When we come together. As a sisterhood should.

Inviting other sisters. Each talking from the heart.

A sisterhood grows in strength  When each sister shares a part

Of a special woman circle. Creating a strong bond.

Bringing together many. Where all become one.

© 2007  ­Maggie Lee Scott

 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.

I Break for Sunsets

I Break for Sunsets

by Cappy Hall Rearick

 

On the day I left California, I was a dead ringer for a happy/sad drama mask. Happy to be trading the complexities of the Vanity Capital of the World for what I hoped would be a simpler lifestyle, yet not so happy to be leaving my home of the past sixteen years.

 

But a funny thing happened when I arrived on the east coast: Carrabelle, a Florida Panhandle fishing village on the Gulf of Mexico happened. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that I had found my new, if temporary home.

 

Before leaving California, I bought a Jeep and named it “Toto.” I packed it solid with boxes of books, typing paper and computer essentials, all the necessary writer stuff I tend to drag along a with me wherever I go.

 

Since I was traveling by myself, it was necessary for me to unload everything all by my lonesome once I got to the cottage I’d rented overlooking the Gulf. I counted twenty-two steps straight up to the house. No wonder I was exhausted by the time all my stuff was scattered throughout my new digs. By late afternoon, I was exhausted. I looked around at the mess I had managed to create and realized that I was way overdue for a deserved break that included a nice glass of wine. From the Napa or Sonoma Valley, of course.

 

With wine glass in hand, I wandered out to the spacious deck just as the sun was beginning to set and just in time for the evening performance.

 

As I watched from my private box seat, heaven’s quiet company of players moved silently, swiftly onto the stage in preparation for Opening Night.

 

Evening shades of purple, pink, gold and blue executed a slow dissolve in front of me. Performing sea birds pirouetted with practiced grace, dipping into the liquid gold of the Gulf anticipating an early supper. Their scrawny legs gently floated down and perched on a nearby dune while they checked me out ... their audience of one on a nearby deck.

 

Every now and then, I heard a dog bark somewhere off in the distance as if cheering for nature’s twilight performance. Surrounding trees whistled their appreciation and boundless waves clapped in applause as the curtained sky slowly dropped rainbowed hues of eventide.

 

Mother Nature was performing a personal welcome just for me, one I had least expected.

 

Traffic on the Ventura Freeway in Los Angeles would be starting the four o’clock rumble. The thought intruded, then just as quickly was thrown headlong into the ocean breeze when yet another palette of colors brushed the top of the sea to capture my attention and my heart.

 

I lingered on the deck totally captivated. All my troubles seemed to vanish along with the weariness of the long cross-country drive. Lost in the moment, I was in harmony with nature, at one with God and the Universe. I was at peace in the knowledge that I had come home, and that I was breaking for a Southern sunset.