What Are We Going to Do About Mama? By Cappy Hall Rearick

 

Dr. Frank Crane (1861–1928) penned a set of ten volumes of "Four Minute Essays." One of them touched my heart.

“She is my mother, said the young man, but I call her my baby. She is 85 years old. Old people are very much like babies, and we ought to love them, for such is the kingdom of heaven. 

I have an idea that life evens things up. When I was young and helpless she took care of me; now I take care of her. I am paying my debt.

She never left me alone when I was an infant. Now, I do not leave her alone. She was patient with me then; now I am patient with her. 

She fed me; now I feed her. I clothe and keep her. “She sacrificed her young life for me; now I am glad of every chance I have to sacrifice for her. She loved me when I was ignorant, awkward, needing constant care and all because I was hers, born of her body and part of her soul. Now every feebleness and trait of childishness in her endears her to me for no other reason except that she is my mother. 

By so much as she is a tax on my time, attention and money, I love her. She shall not triumph over me on the day of judgment for my tenderness shall equal hers.

She watched with me until I grew up; I shall watch with her until she steps into heaven.”

 

Not so long ago, it was normal for Mama to live out her golden years with her grown children. Her role would be that of looking after small children or helping out around the house. Family responsibility was shared back in the day.

But times they are a’changing. For many reasons, Mama’s option to live out her last years surrounded by a devoted daughter or son may be a thing of the past, her presence more of a tempest in a teapot than a calm transition. Factor in her potential for stroke, broken bones, or God forbid dementia, Mama’s tempest has the makings of a perfect storm. 

While she may be happy living with her son or daughter, it is a huge adjustment for everyone. In the beginning, Mama is self-reliant and capable of taking care of minor aches and pains. In time, however, her small issues will become large problems. 

One of my friends told me that her eighty-seven-year-old mother took a bus to a barbershop and told the barber to shave off all of her hair. I asked if she was on chemo. My friend said, “She doesn’t have cancer. She just wanted to look like Sinead O’Connor.”

Another friend complained that her mother-in-law wanted to cook her son’s favorite meal but ended up catching the kitchen on fire. When she was subsequently banned from cooking, she became belligerent and blamed my friend for the accident— in four-letter words, no less. 

My friend confessed that living with her husband’s mother was a nightmare, that everything revolved around her quirks and mood swings. “I love her,” she said, “but she makes my life so hard. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I resent my husband because he’s an extension of her. We argue over the things we dismissed as trivial in the past. The stress is killing our relationship.”

Sharing one’s home with another woman is tough duty. It’s even more difficult feeling helpless as your other relationships disintegrate before your eyes. 

The question remains: What are we going to do about Mama?

Do we hire a qualified caregiver to live with her in her own home, or in our home? 

Back in the day, Mama would have lived with one of her grown children until she died. That may still be a possibility if Mama’s growing needs do not tear apart the fragile fabric of the Twenty-first Century family.

Do we ship Mama off to a reliable facility with the promise to visit every Sunday afternoon? If so, who pays for it?

Mama ain’t getting no younger. Let’s encourage her to maintain some independence by planning her own future. If she wants to remain in her home with a caregiver, tell her to carve it in stone. 

If she prefers to live with her grown children, they need to have conversations about what her role in the family structure should be. 

If Mama chooses to live out the rest of her life in a graduated living facility, the choice needs to be made early enough so that when the time comes, it’s a done deal and she can make the move knowing she has the support of her loving family.

“She watched with me until I grew up; I shall watch with her until she steps into heaven.”

 

 

 

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.

 

Kindness Counts by Cappy Hall Rearick

Thanksgiving was just three days behind us, and the Charleston South Carolina weather was surprisingly warm. My thirteen-year-old granddaughter decided to go for a walk, but as is often the case with Maggie, she walked too far and wore herself out which necessitated a call to her mother on her iPhone, the one permanently attached to her.

“Mom, I walked all the way to Harris Teeter and I’m way too tired to walk home. Can you pick me up at the store?”

She clicked off and then, like any other teenager, immediately began texting. Right in the middle of a message to her bestie, Maggie felt a tap on her arm. She jumped. Images of Freddy Krueger quickly produced her fight-or-flight reflex.

When she turned to face the person tapping her arm, there was no monster. The sad eyes gazing into Maggie’s belonged to a frail, homeless woman wearing a frayed mask.

“I was wondering,” the woman said, “if you would buy me a slice of pizza.”

Maggie might have turned away. She might have replied with a loud NO! GO AWAY! She might have ignored the woman.

But she didn’t.

“Sure,” she said to the woman. “I’ll buy you a slice.”

Before Maggie got into the store to buy it, the woman called out to her, “Tell ‘em to put lots of onions and pepperoni on it, but no anchovies.”

The woman’s last-minute order tickled Maggie and made her grin as she walked into the store. Then she did something I don’t think many kids her age would have thought to do. Turning back, she asked the woman, “How about a Coke or a Pepsi to go with the pizza?”

The woman grinned. “Oh yes. A Coke would be good.”

When my granddaughter told me about the incident, I was proud of her, so glad that in a world gone crazy with greed, her generosity of spirit was and is, alive and well. 

Socrates must have had a low opinion of youth when he said, “Children today love luxury; they have bad manners, contempt for authority; they show disrespect for elders and love chatter instead of exercise.” 

He had more to say on the subject about kids in his ancient world. I quote him now only to illustrate how easy it is, even today, to criticize and give up on our young people, especially teenagers. Maggie’s good heart and her generous spirit negated what Socrates said. Maybe adults need to look deeper into the hearts of our young. After all, they are the future.

For over four years, we have lived by a different set of rules than we did BC (before Covid). None of us are likely to admit it, but due to the pandemic and the need to stay safe, it was often easy to adopt a “Me Attitude.” Maybe we didn’t completely forget about other people, but out of necessity, we concentrated on family and friends in our personal orbit. It’s time to change that. 

A few years ago, people all over our country participated in Random Acts of Kindness. They didn’t do it because it was good for them or made them feel better about themselves, but because it was the right thing to do. Books were written recapping experiences of people who randomly paid it forward by helping total strangers when they saw a need and fulfilled it. Simple as that. The world was made a little kinder by their random acts. 

We have lived through, and even now still struggle with viruses that curb the lifestyles of people in our world. Perspectives shifted and forced us to change our way of thinking about so much when Covid-19 hit. It is important for us to remember that we are all in this thing together. Although there is not a total solution to all the woes of the world, we can still make a difference by incorporating kindness in our lives. 

Let’s bring back Random Acts of Kindness. It's the kind thing to do.

What the world needs now is love, sweet love.

It’s the only thing that there's just too little of.

What the world needs now is love, sweet love

No, not just for some, but for everyone.

 

 

Big Mama Pulls the Plug

By Cappy Hall Rearick

Hello! Thank you for calling the UAM, Universal Answering Machine, the official replacement for a human voice. Press 1 to leave a message. Press 2 to leave a callback number and a machine will get back to you hopefully before you die.

Beep!

(Sigh) “This here is Big Mama Nature calling and I’m tired of leaving messages for you. I’ve got plenty to say so listen up ‘cause I’m not gonna to say it again.

“FYI, I’m not going to be Big Mama Nature any more ‘cause y’all have done wore me out. I am so outta here.

“Just so you know, I’ll gather up a few of my things before I leave. They go with me because they were always mine, never yours. You took for granted that my things belonged to you, but you were dead wrong! They were a loan. Today is your personal Chapter Eleven Day.

“I’m taking all of the birds with me, every last one of them. Sparrows, ducks, egrets, gulls, especially the egrets and gulls. OMG! What you’ve done to my seabirds is unspeakable. To make matters worse, you gave my little chickies and piglets the Flu. Well, you won’t get any more chances to hurt my babies ‘cause Big Mama Nature takes care of her own.

“I’m reclaiming the rain forests and all of its inhabitants. You never “got” their simple logic no matter how many times it was explained, so forget about the rain forests. They’ll be well protected under my personal supervision.

“The Mississippi River is high on my list of retrievable things. How can I not take back the Mighty Mississip after the way you’ve treated her? She’s crying out for my healing touch. The Great Lakes, the Colorado River and the Pacific Ocean will be coming with me, too. You can have New Yawk City and every drop of water surrounding it; it’s too far gone for me to fix.

“Originally, I’d planned to leave you the Gulf of Mexico because I thought you’d learned from my Katrina wake-up call. Something so devastating should have gotten a big blip on your unconscious radar, but that didn’t happen. Instead of helping with the clean up, you whined and carried-on like a bunch of wussies and then let BP come in and turn the entire Gulf into a deep fat fryer. I’m taking the Gulf. You don’t deserve it.

“The United States East Coast beaches are mine, mine, mine. It’ll take a millennium before even I can get them clean again, but I’m not called Big Mama for nothing.

“There are some mountain ranges I’ll collect on my way out, the ones you haven’t gotten around to leveling. You won’t miss them since you stripped away their natural resources long ago. I intend to rescue what’s left of them before your bulldozers turn them into cornmeal mush.

“I am also taking back the air you’ve been polluting for the last century. I need what little is left so that my birds can keep flying and my rain forests can flourish again. Chances are, even I won’t be able to undo much of your damage, but I’ll give it a shot.

“I should remind you that the minute I take back the air, clouds will vanish before you can say Boo Hoo! That’s a fact, Jack. There will be no more clouds, but you won’t miss them because you never bothered to look up anyway.

“I’m willing to leave the moon for now, but the sun goes with me. Don’t even think about giving me any lip about it. I created sunrises to wake you up and get you going every morning. Those gorgeous sunsets? They were there for you to reflect on the beauty surrounding you. But you blew it, Bubba, when you took me and my gifts for granted. I am so not happy.

“You figured the sun would come up and the sun would go down forever, didn’t you? Well, you figured wrong. Now you’ll have to remember what that lucky old sun looked like and how your skin tingled from its warmth. It can’t replace the real deal but you can text the memory of it to your grandkids.

“I’ll be back for other things later. You won’t realize they’re gone until you need them, then you’ll be shocked to discover that they are no longer available for you to abuse. If history is any indication, you’ll be more inconvenienced than sad. (sigh)

“I loved you from the beginning of time, loved you with all my heart. For eons, I forgave you your negligence and overlooked your ignorance. I even chalked up your indifference to human evolutionary learning deficiencies. I’m ashamed to say I forgave you for your folly.

“But I will not forgive you for the shambles you’ve made of my beautiful earth. I trusted you to love, nurture and protect it. I didn’t think for a nano-second that you would destroy it. You have broken my heart. (Sigh)

“There’s no doubt that the human blueprint needs tweaking. I wish I had it in me to take you back to the drawing board, but you have drained me bone dry.

“Don’t bother trying to get in touch with me. (Sigh) You couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge my many call outs, so we are so done.

Like the Big Guy says, “It’s not nice to fool Big Mama Nature.”

Bleep!

Heads Up!

 

By Cappy Hall Rearick

Welcome to the Church of the Holy Cabbage. Lettuce pray. ~Author Unknown

I loved the sound of my mother’s voice. It was pure Southern, magnolia smooth. I heard it as she was wheeled into surgery. She told me not to worry, that she would be back. She was wrong about that.

One day last week while grocery shopping, I heard her voice again. She told me to buy brown sugar. As clearly as if she had been wheeling my buggy herself, she said, “Go over to aisle six and pick up some brown sugah.” When she wanted to, my mama could smooth out the end of a word and cradle it in mid-air for five minutes. Listening to her talk was akin to snoozing in a Pawley’s Island Hammock. 

Right after the brown sugar episode, I heard her singing an Irish ballad one day while I was making up my bed. I remembered that song from my childhood — a sad tune. I used to go to bed with tears in my eyes after she sang it to me. But last week, when I heard the familiar soprano melody drifting throughout the house like elevator music, oddly enough, I didn’t feel sad. It felt like slipping my feet into a pair of old Weejuns.

Cooking supper that same night, (chicken and dressing, butterbeans, rice and sliced tomatoes), I heard her voice again. She told me to put more sage in the dressing. So! We were back to the Seasoning War, were we? Too many cooks in the kitchen, blah, blah, blah.

The next day while driving to Asheville, she broke into the Oldies But Goodies on the radio. 

“Turn around and go home.” The voice said it as if asking me for a second helping of that cornbread dressing (the one that needed a touch more sage). 

Up to that point, I had not responded to this odd communication from my mother. After all, she had been dead for over thirty years and besides, I never talked back to her even when she was alive. But the idea that I should deep-six my shopping trip based on a voice only I could hear? Well … that wasn’t going to happen.

For the rest of the ride, her voice Xeroxed itself in my ears. Go back home! Go back home! Go back home! By the time I got to the mall my head was splitting from the pounding in my eardrums. 

Glancing in the car mirror, I saw that I was turning green around the gills, so I decided to forget shopping and go back home. The thought of wrapping up in a blanket cocoon in my own little nest felt right, so I left the mall and headed home without one single purchase. 

I boogied down I-26 thinking Ibuprofen thoughts washed down with a dry martini when Mama’s voice suddenly blurted out again. “Slow Down!” 

Since I was going over eighty, I said, “Yes ma’am.” But my headache did not slow down when the car did. Can’t win ‘em all.

I closed my eyes for a moment and when I opened them, I saw an overturned eighteen-wheeler only a nanosecond in front of me. I braked as fast as I could and was barely able to avoid broadsiding a truck full of iceberg lettuce. 

I watched in horror as hundreds of small green heads rolled off the truck and down I-26, bouncing onto unsuspecting cars. Grateful that my aching head was still attached, I gulped air (lots of it) while my heart did a 1950’s shag step. 

Back home, I grabbed a soft blanket and snuggled down in a fetal position. Could Guardian Angles be real? Was Mama my personal G.A.? Had she just saved me from becoming an Interstate Tossed Salad? 

So now, any time I hear her voice, I listen up. My personal G.A. might be giving me winning lottery numbers. Even angels know that writers don’t earn squat.

One Tacky Thanksgiving

The following is Celie’s Livingston's latest Thanksgiving story:

 

Daddy insisted we go to his mother’s house for Thanksgiving last year. Mama pouted for Lord knows how long because she’s Jewish and my grandmother is a bonafide born-again Christian.

You can’t create a more perfect storm.

Granny tries to make her point by collecting small Pilgrim figurines so she can put miniature halos on their heads. She’s first in line at the Hallmark store on Black Friday in order to add to her collection. She calls them God’s little angels and she’s certain that the black garments worn by the original Pilgrims were actually Nun’s habits. 

Granny talks her head off about those stupid knick-knacks of hers while we do a lot of yawning that has nothing whatsoever to do with the Tryptophan-ladened turkey. 

Last year, right in the middle of Granny’s long Thanksgiving blessing (I watched the turkey getting frostbite and the dressing and gravy turn to Jello), my little brother escaped one. Yep. The little monster farted. Granny stopped in the middle of her Thanksgiving prayer-slash-sermon giving thanks to God for sending Christopher Columbus to America. In no time at all, she turned a bright shade of blue. I thought it was due to my little brother’s sweet potato after effects — he had sneaked a mouthful way before Granny finished blessing it. Granny was having a tacky-cardia that scared her so bad she sat straight up and held her breath till she turned the color of a blueberry. 

Daddy jumped up and dialed 911 on his cell and by and by two unhappy paramedics left their own turkey table and showed up at Granny’s front door. After they left, Daddy covered Granny with a crocheted Afghan on the sofa and told her to hug her Bible. 

Then he put Mama in charge of reheating everything in the microwave which was a serious mistake. Mama doesn’t cook because she’s a Jewish Princess who claims to be electronically challenged. When she gets within three feet of a microwave, she turn into a pillar of salt.

Mama reminded Daddy of the last Thanksgiving fiasco, but he was able to convince her that Granny could be looking at her last turkey day. He said she needed to show off her little pilgrim nuns one more time before the Rapture that she was so looking forward to, whooshed her up to be with Jesus.

Mama agreed to go to Granny's but on one condition: he had to promise her that we would eat Thanksgiving dinner at the Japanese Restaurant downtown because it was right next door to the fire station and the paramedics. If Granny's tacky-cardia acted up again, rescue would be, if not a piece of cake, then maybe a slice of pie.

Who knew that daigakuimo was a Japanese sweet potato specialty, or that it had been a featured menu item every Thanksgiving since we won the big war? 

Who knew that the paramedics in the building next door had decided to eat turkey at home? 

Two weeks later, my little brother suggested that we plant a sweet potato vine next to Granny’s tombstone. He felt sure it would produce a full crop. I told him it was a tacky-cardia idea, but Mama grinned real big and said, “I’ll get the shovel.”

 

A Random Act of Kindness

 Children Learn What They Live 

by Cappy Hall Rearick 

I dashed into the Dollar Tree for one item. One bottle of Dawn Dishwashing Liquid. Thirty minutes later, I looked down at a shopping basket full of needed things that had quickly become necessary mere minutes after sashaying down Aisle One.

     Hallmark cards were two for a dollar. Such a deal. 

     Quart size zip-lock bags? Gotta stock up.

     Snicker’s in a giant bag. Babe’s favorite. 

By the time I rolled the buggy with the wonky wheels up to the checkout counter, I was looking at a bit more than an uptick on my debit card. Oh well, what else is new?

A heavy-set woman was ahead of me in line, but I was in no hurry so I smiled and thought about what I was going to cook for supper. After several minutes, I noticed that the woman seemed to be having difficulty settling up for the items in her buggy. I was not sure what was going on, so I went back to trying to decide between fried pork chops or fried chicken for supper.

It was about that time that I noticed two young boys, around eleven years old, tow-headed and adorable, both grasping candy bars. They headed to the next checkout line but the cashier told them she was cashing out so they should go over to the other lane, the one I was in. 

The boys were eager to pay for and eat their booty, so they switched lanes over, albeit reluctantly, to where I was waiting for the woman ahead of me to get her act together.

I told them that since they each had only the one item, to get ahead of me. They flashed me a beatific grin and zipped behind the other woman. 

When I looked  again at the woman still struggling to pay for her goods, I saw that she was physically challenged and perhaps mentally challenged as well. I also realized that she didn’t have enough money to pay for all the things she’d bought. She was trying to decide what to put back and what she could do without and still be able to pay for what was left.

It was at that moment when I saw the grandmother of the two boys who had been waiting near the door for them to pay for their candy. As soon as she became aware of the poor woman’s dilemma, she quickly walked over to the cashier.

“How much does she need,” she asked.

The cashier could not have looked more disinterested if she had written instructions in front of her. “A dollar and thirty cents,” she said. She sighed and rolled her eyes up to her hairline.

Granny opened her purse, took out the required amount and paid the difference. When she did that, she looked at the distressed woman and gave her a smile to match the one her grandsons had given to me.

It was a privilege for me to be in that particular space at that particular time and to be privy to such a lovely random act of kindness. All I could think was that everyone needs to do nice things for others every chance we get. We too often overlook the opportunities given to us. One of the young boys turned to me just then, smiled again and handed me a shiny quarter. 

“Here,” he said. “This is for letting me go ahead of you in line.”

I wanted to hug that child, but I thanked him instead and suggested he give it to the lady having trouble paying for her stuff. His smile got even wider as he whipped around and handed the quarter to the woman. Her eyes filled with tears (as did mine) when she thanked the boy and said, “Things are not going so good in my life these days. I’m having a real hard time.”

When I looked up at Granny, the pride and love pouring from her eyes was overwhelming. 

It occurred to me then that children constantly learn from what we do and that Granny had given those boys a life lesson to remember. The boy wanted to give me one off his quarters for the simple act of allowing him to get ahead of me in line. What a lovely thing to experience. I haven’t stopped smiling since.

“When children live with sharing, they learn generosity.”