REAL MEN DON'T WATCH TELEVISION

 Here's another one of those stories I used to tell in another life in another place. People always ask how much of it really happened, and how much I imagined. The answer is, I'm not sure I can remember anymore.

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, I was a little girl in Alabama. Many things were the same then. Mamas and Daddies loved their children. Summer came every year. Elvis was the King of Rock and Roll.

Some things were different then. People did fun things that were sometimes dangerous. And sometimes they let their children do them, too.

At least my father did. He was always doing something. He was the most exciting man in Alabama. And the best looking. And the smartest. He was tall.  He was strong.  He was tough.

And he had scars.

L Uncle Ralph, R Daddy, M Rattlesnake

He had a scar on his face from a motorcycle accident.   He had a scar on his hand from wrangling a horse.  He had a scar on his back from surgery.  He told me he had some other scars, but that I didn’t need to see them.

Now, my daddy was very different from my mama in many ways.  But the most important one to me was that he didn’t say no nearly so often as she did.

My daddy said things like, “Sure, I guess you can take your shoes off.  It’s almost April.  Just watch out for the snakes and the fire ants and the sand spurs and that broken glass right over there.”

Or, “Well, why not?  You’re almost four. I guess it’s about time you learned to use a pocketknife.  Here.”

Looking up at me through leaves and branches, he’d say, “No, not yet.  You’ve got about eight feet to go. No, you’re not too high. Keep climbing.  Don’t worry. I’ve got you if you fall.”

My daddy was an optimist.  He believed that whatever happened, most things would turn out all right.  My daddy liked to have fun and take risks.  He liked to drive fast and zigzag a lot.

He was not the least little bit afraid of getting hurt.  But he was terrified of getting bored. 

 

R Daddy, L Tug

One time my daddy said to me, “The hole is not that big.  I’m going to row real hard, and if you bail real fast with your worm can, I believe we'll make it to the other side of the lake in this old boat, easy.”

Another time he said,“Find you a stick.  Not that one, here, get this big one.  Don’t scare him. Now try to work your way up around to his head and distract him with that stick.  See can you get him to clamp down on it.   I’ll slip up on him from behind and grab him by the tail.”

One day he said to me,“Don’t look down.  Just keep on sliding out on your bottom, like me.  Now put one foot on this side of the roof and one foot on that side.  Good.  Now hold this bag of nails for me and hand me one when I ask for it. “

Another day he said, “We're not going to drive all that long way around to post this sign just over there.  Look at that big old log over the gully.  As long as I don't lose my balance, I believe I can just walk right over.  Hold your daddy's jacket.  Watch this.”

Later, in the emergency room when they had patched him up, he’d say things like:

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“It don’t hardly hurt at all.”

“I believe this might be a little sore tomorrow.”

Lots of other times my daddy said things like:

1945

“We don’t have to mention this to your mother.  I don’t mean for you to lie to her.  Don’t ever lie to your mother.  That would be wrong.  It’s just that we don’t have to give her all the details if she don’t ask for them.  I mean, if she sees my bandage and asks what happened, we should just say I had a little accident.  And if she notices your shoes are missing, we should say we lost them at the lake. That’s all true.  And it is just the right amount of information.

But now, if your mama says,

‘Did your daddy get that bandaged hand from trying to catch an alligator by the tail while you distracted it with a stick you were trying to get it to bite, and then after it whipped around and bit him, he let go of the tail and he had to grab you up so quick your sandals fell off and the alligator ate one and you left the other one behind in the mud?’

Well then, you’ll have to give her a straight, “Yes, ma’am.”  You cannot lie to your mother.”

I had lots of adventures with my daddy climbing rocks and swinging on muscadine vines, avoiding skunks and catching snakes.  He really was the most exciting man in Alabama.

There were only two things my daddy and I didn’t agree on.   But the first thing was a big one.  It was terrible.  It was so bad I tried not to think about it. 

With Buddy and Bubba

My daddy did not like Elvis.

One time we were driving along in my daddy’s pick-up truck when Elvis came on the radio.  My daddy said, “Here, baby, take the wheel so I can fix that.”

So I took the wheel and steered the truck.  Daddy had to feel around under the seat and find the pliers to change the station because the radio knobs were missing.

Later at Billy Parker’s Garage, while the dents got banged back out of the truck fender, the insurance man came to talk to my daddy.

“You ought not to let that four-year-old drive the truck, Frank.  Her legs are too short to reach the pedals.”

 My daddy’s sucked his teeth and shook his head.  “I had to change the station, Earnest.  That rock n roll music is dangerous.”

The other thing we didn’t agree about was something that my daddy didn’t like me to do.  He didn’t like me to eat grass.

I pulled up grass for our horses and fed it to them through the fence--clover and false nettles and loosestrife.  One time I tried some and it tasted pretty good, so I kept nibbling it now and then. One day, I just got down on my hands and knees and started eating it like the horses.

When my daddy noticed me doing this the first time he told me to get up from there and go on and play.

When he saw me the second time, he asked me what I was doing.

“Eating grass,” I said, spitting out green bits in between words.

“Well stop it,” he said.  Then he looked at me like Mama sometimes looked at him.

The next time he caught me eating grass he said,“Stop that.  Don’t you know grass is for horses, not people?  That grass might be poison-- it might make you sick. You need to stop that so you can grow up to be a big strong girl.  Don’t you want to grow up to be a big, strong girl?”

“No, sir, ” I said, “ I’d rather grow up to be a horse.”

With Michael

“Go inside the house,” he said, “and don’t come back out until you know better than to eat grass.”

But I really wanted to be a horse when I grew up. So I kept eating grass. When he caught me doing it again my daddy was very angry. And he did the scariest thing he could think of.

He took me to my mother.

She was, as usual, at her sewing machine.  Daddy pushed me in the door and said, “Honey, you got to do something with this child. I just caught her eating grass again.” 

Then he limped away.

My mother’s sewing machine stopped whirring.  She turned to me and sighed.  She told me to sit down on a chair. She said, “Sometimes things turn out different than what we plan.  Do you understand what that means?”

I said,  "No ma’am."

 She said,“Let’s think this through together.”

“Do you remember when you and your daddy rowed the boat across the lake?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did that turn out the way you planned?”

“No, ma’am.”

“What happened?”

“We got wet.”

My mama clasped her hands and rested them on her knees.“Do you remember when you and Daddy tried to catch that alligator?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did that turn out like you planned?”

“No, ma’am.”

“What happened?”

“He got bit and I lost my shoes.”

My mother smiled and continued.

“And do you remember what happened when I caught you helping Daddy patch the barn roof?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did that turn out like you planned?”

“No, ma’am.”

“What happened?”

“That was a bad whipping.”

“Yes, it was,” my mother said. She held up her hand with her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. She said, “And you came this close to getting one, too.”

I stayed real quiet.

“Now. Do you remember when Daddy decided to cross the gully on the hollow log?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did that turn out the way he planned?”

“No, ma’am.”

“What happened?”

“We had to get a rope and the mule to haul him back out. And an ambulance.  But it was exciting.”

Mama gave me a hard look. I stopped smiling.

“The point is, can you see that things don’t always turn out the way you plan?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We’ll now. Let's think about this.  What else eats grass besides horses?”

 I thought. “Cows?”

“That’s right.  What if you keep eating grass and you don’t grow up to be a horse like you plan?  What if you keep eating grass and you grow up to be a cow instead? Do you think it would be fun to grow up to be a cow?”

I thought again. No, I didn’t. Horses were graceful.  Horses were fast.  Horses had flowing manes and tails.  Cows were heavy.  Cows were slow.  Cows had bottoms all covered in poop. 

I answered my mother’s question. 

“No, ma’am.”

“Good,” she said, “because I don’t want you to grow up to be a cow, either.  Just so we both understand -- you will not be eating any more grass.”

“No, ma’am, I won’t.”

“That’s just fine.  Because you need to understand that if I catch you eating grass again, you are going to get what your father got when I walked outside and saw you sitting up there on top of the barn handing him roofing nails.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s my good girl,” my mama said. She gave me a big, long hug with a little pat on my bottom at the end.

Then with a loud screech, the screen door banged open and there was my daddy, smiling wide enough to eat a banana sideways  He had a big stick in one hand and a bucket of feed in the other.  He had a rope coiled around his left shoulder.

 He said to my mama, “If you’re done correcting that child, can you give her your apron, please?  No, not that one. The other one. The red one.”

Then he said to me, “Come on, girl, we got to get moving. We got some work to do. That old bull’s done broke through the fence again. Me and you got to go get him.”

 

Still her daddy's girl

 Happy Father's Day. Thanks for coming. 

 Come again, soon.

Leann

With him, still

Not so long ago and far away in another life, I was a storyteller. Here’s one of the stories I often told this time of year:

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, I was a little girl in Alabama. Some things were the same then. Mamas and Daddies loved their children. Spring came every year. Elvis was the King of Rock and Roll. Some things were different. Little girls almost always wore dresses. My mother made all of my clothes. Everybody we knew went to the same church every Sunday. Twice.

I was the youngest child in the family by many years, almost as young as a grandchild. I was not unappealing to look at, with blonde hair, blue eyes and a ready smile. Unfortunately, I also had a busy brain and a mouth to go with it, and was forever asking inconvenient questions at inconvenient times.

            My mother, God bless her, loved dressing me up for church on Sundays. So did my teenaged sisters. I guess they thought they might as well have some kind of fun out of me in exchange for putting up with my behavior for the rest of the week.

So on Saturday nights they picked out my dress and slip and shoes and socks and underwear. They bathed me and washed my hair. They slathered my hair with Dippity-Do and filled my head full of itchy, pokey brush rollers. It was all more of a trial than any four-year-old should ever have to endure.

            But on the Saturday night before Easter, these ridiculous rituals would go into overdrive. My mother would have been working for weeks by then, making her idea of the perfect Easter outfit for her baby. One that that bristled with lace, embroidery, puffed sleeves, ribbons and bows. My mother and sisters would turn me into a pastel petit four for the day, an overly frosted little pink and white cupcake with blonde hair. An Easter confection.

            Of course, I did not want to be a little pink and white Easter confection at that time in my life. Back then, my goal was to someday, eventually, grow up to be a horse and/or marry Elvis Presley. His magazine photos were plastered all over the walls of the bedroom I shared with my big sisters.

To that end, I got together with my imaginary friend, Darlene, every day. And when Darlene arrived, it was the easiest thing in the world to pretend Elvis up for a visit to our house, as well. Once there, he would very obligingly play whatever game Darlene and I had gotten going, with my dog, Chipper, and my pet chicken, Irmengarde in tow. Darlene and I could always count on Elvis to liven up an otherwise dull afternoon.

But, oh, those Easter weekends! The newness of those clothes! I hated the scratch of lace. I hated the binding of ribbons and elasticated puffed sleeves. And the unforgiving white patent leather shoes. And white cotton gloves, for goodness sake. And a straw hat with an elastic strap under my chin. Horrors.

I failed to understand how the wearing of castoff boy's britches and tennis shoes and a t-shirt to church on Easter Sunday could prevent the Easter Bunny from coming or Jesus from rising from his tomb. It was all very confusing.

But my mother and sisters were on a mission. A mission to try to make me the cutest little Easter brat at Mamre Baptist Church. So, with my hair let down and combed out, they worked me into new underwear, socks, shoes, gloves, and confectionery dress. Then I was made to stand on the little bench in front of my mother’s dressing table, where I could see myself in the big, round mirror from head to toe, and be admired by all the females of the family.

So there I stood on the Easter Sunday morning of my fourth year, a successfully potty-trained human being who had left her high chair far behind. Stuffed into itchy, binding clothes, my stiff, sprayed hair in a perfect “flip” around my shoulders, I felt like some sort of sacrificial lamb to fashion. Oh, the indignity.

I stared in the mirror, feeling my pre-school gorge rise, until finally, I exploded. First I kicked off the shoes and wrenched off the gloves and socks. I threw the hat across the room and began to tug at the ribbon around my waist. Next I pulled the hated dress over my head, that object of all those hours of my poor mother's loving work.  As I tugged and wriggled and twisted off those clothes, I growled and whimpered like a caged animal.

And then there I was on the little bench, staring up at my mother, wearing only my little white cotton slip and panties. My face was blotchy, my hair enmeshed in tangles from the struggle to disrobe. Without a sound, my sisters melted out of the room.

From the doorway, my mother stared back at me, outwardly calm, inwardly seething. But she had been a mother much longer than I had been a child. She was much smarter than I was. And more patient. As she opened her mouth to say something, the kitchen phone rang.

“You stay right there and don’t you move, young lady. I’ll be back to deal with you in a minute.”

So I stood, sniffling and trembling with anger. Darlene appeared. I began to tell her my troubles. My mother soon returned and stood at the door, watching me talk to the empty air around me. My abandoned clothes had come to rest in various unlikely places around the bedroom she shared with my father.

Curiosity being one of my foremost character flaws, I turned my attention to her. “Who was that on the telephone, Mama?” I asked, still sniffling.

My mother’s expression changed then. Her eyes took on a shrewd look. She was wise enough to recognize an opportunity when one presented itself.

“Who that was on the phone, young lady,” she said, “was Elvis.”

I stopped sniffling. Darlene disappeared back from whence she came in an instant. My mother had my full attention now.

“Elvis heard about the outfit I’ve been sewing for you this Easter. He wanted me to take a picture of you wearing it.” Here my mother nonchalantly studied the nails on her left hand. “I told him I’d see what I could do, but not to expect too much, because you were cutting up such didoes about it.”

I exploded again, this time into action. Running around the room, I gathered up the hated clothes, talking a mile a minute about how I’d have them on before she knew it, how I’d comb my own hair and buckle my own shoes, and if she would just go get my brother’s camera, I would stand very, very still, and smile real pretty, and be good the rest of the day. No. I’d be good forever and ever. And ever. Amen.

Mother disappeared down the hall and shortly returned with the camera and my sisters. They made a couple of adjustments to my ensemble and took me outside. Darlene waited for me there in front of the camellia bush. And that’s where my mother snapped my photograph. For the King.

Then my family piled into the car and headed to church like every other Sunday of our lives. Darlene waved us all the way down the road to the turnoff.

I’m sure my Easter basket was lovely that year. I’m sure I hid eggs and ate candy and had a wonderful day. But what I remember most about that Easter is imagining the look on Elvis’s face, all the way up in Memphis, when he got my picture in the mail. At Graceland. Who really wants to be a horse when they grow up anyway?

I have lived through a fair few Easters since that one. I think about those years sometimes, of my family, and the world we knew then. I think about Darlene. She must surely be getting as long in the tooth as I am, these days. I miss her.

Not long ago, I visited Graceland. I did not see my photo there. I’m sure it must mean that Elvis carried it with him always, perhaps in his wallet. I like to think he could see Darlene in that picture with me. That Elvis Presley had the only existing photo ever taken of the two of us together, all those years ago. I like to think that somewhere out there in the cosmos, it’s with him, still.

Still hates breaking in new clothes.

Happy Easter. Thanks for coming. 

Come again soon.

Leann

 

             

This is How

It began to rain the morning after that long night. Rain in the daytime, something I didn’t see much in southern California. I was homesick for it. 
There was an atrium in the middle of the ward. You and I walked around it a long time, watching the sky. Listening to the drops fall from leaf to leaf. I leaned on a handrail when the pains came. 
One after another the other babies appeared until there was just one name left on the board at the nurses' station. Mine. Your father went to check on your sister, then to pick my mother up from the airport. In between he held my hand, letting go only when I grabbed that handrail.
 You were born late in the afternoon. You answered a question I’d been asking myself for months. How will I ever love this one as much as I love the first one? 
This is how. Like this. Just like this. Here you are. Just as much. Always have, always will.  

Happy Birthday

   

Becomes a happy mother three times

                        

                          Thanks for coming. Come again soon.

                               Leann