The Long Way Home

I’ve been driving the same 110 miles back and forth from the Triangle to Seaboard since I was a college sophomore in 1979. In the beginning I drove a tiny silver Chevrolet Monza, courtesy of my dad, later totaled by my then-teenaged nephew. Now I roll down 85 in a giant Ford Flex filled to the roof with Mom’s wheelchair and walker. The vehicles and passengers may change, but the drive stays comfortably the same.

So let’s do the math. That’s 35 years. Let’s say I made the drive 1.5 times a month for 12 months. So that’s 630 trips x 2 for the return trip x 100 miles per trip and that’s a whopping 126,000 miles. Or if you prefer – 2 hours a trip or 2520 hours in a car on the same road.

Some folks prefer to shoot down 95 – it’s a few more miles as the crow flies but faster, faster, faster. I don’t like all the jockeying for position and passing and rude north/south drivers tearing up that piece of asphalt. Instead, I stick to the drive that my Dad plotted out for me on a wrinkled NC map with a ruler way back in the day. My route takes me on 85 until Norlina where I hop on 158 paralleling the VA border until I take a quick hop onto 301 past Weldon to 186 in Garysburg which lands me smack dab in the one flashing light intersection of Seaboard.

It’s the long way home.

But I know every good bathroom stop. Every antique shop. Every Bojangles for sweet tea. I’ve watched buildings go up and houses fall down. I've seen crops planted, grow and be harvested: tobacco, cotton, corn, peanuts, soybeans.  I love the snow-like tufts of picked cotton that appear on the side of the road for miles around the Seaboard cotton gin. I've seen the rise and fall of a shabby juke joint named the Foxy Lady. I look for the Taylors’ sunflowers in Gumberry to stretch and reach for the sun in summer and wait for the Christmas lights in Littleton to go up one more time on the aging streetlights in winter. And I love it all.

There’s a stoplight I ran once near Weldon because I was crying with worry over my Dad’s health. I got pulled and the kind policemen took in the overwrought mom, two small boys, and a giant pink stuffed lion all buckled into a messy minivan and said only “Be more careful, you've got precious cargo in there.”

My Dad survived that crisis and when the years passed and he could no longer make the drive to visit me, I took to picking up my parents and bringing them to Durham myself. Every time we passed Lake Country Veterinary Hospital outside of Roanoke Rapids, my mom would say: “That’s where Elaine takes her dogs” forgetting that she had told us before, and before and before. So now as Mom and I cruise that same road it’s a game for us – who can see it first – who can utter that same phrase: “That’s where Elaine takes her dogs.”  Who can win.

And then there’s the athletic field halfway between Norlina and Macon where Mom and I pulled over around midnight on a Friday two years ago. Zack had been admitted into the UNC Hospital with a bruised spleen from a wretched case of mono. Mom and I had started the long drive home to be met only with a nightmare storm that pounded down so hard that we couldn't see the yellow line or even hear each other speak. We stopped and waited until the monsoon quieted and then pulled back onto the road that even in darkness was as familiar as the back of my hand.

Saturday Mom and I headed that road again on the way to a family Christmas party at Ralph’s BBQ in Weldon. The trip started out with snowflakes which changed to sleet and then rain. It was a gray, ugly day. And we looked anew at one of our landmarks: a brown aging double-wide trailer near Beef Tongue Road in Macon. The lot of this home was once filled with soaring pine trees, but then suddenly one trip they were gone, leaving a yard riddled with stumps. This worries my Mom and she usually comments on it saying “If I lived there, I would have to work on getting those stumps up. Just one at a time. I couldn't just leave them there.”

So we look, every trip, to see if there is any progress. And this trip? No progress at all. But something unexpected caught my eye. There was a fresh white strand of Christmas lights tacked to the roofline of that tattered doublewide. And they were twinkling to beat the band, a glowing reminder of the approach of Christmas, the majesty of the birth of the Messiah, hope for all, regardless of dwelling.

It gave me a warm feeling to see those lights. One I carried all the way to Seaboard and back again to Durham. And that, my friends, is why I’ll continue to take the long way home. 

Christmas Shopping with Ladies Who Lunch

Today was SALE day at the giant Belks out at the Streets of Southpoint, which is just a few miles from our house. Since our Bible study was cancelled, we decided to study the shopping opportunities nearby – especially with a 25% off of everything coupon – one day only – burning a hole in our respective pocketbooks.

So we went – we saw- we shopped – we spent. All while I pushed Mom around in her transport chair. Already the vibe at the mall was upbeat and bordering on pre-Christmas psychotic. Mary Frances is C-A-R-E-F-U-L with her budget and her gift choices. And her generally gracious demeanor, at times, flew right out the holiday-wreath-bedecked door.

Example 1:

Mom wanted some pjs for one of her best friends, Janie (DON’T TELL!!!) There was a display right where we came into Belks from the parking lot. They got a quick looking over but Mom wanted to see MORE. So I pushed her across the store to the Intimates Section. There we found many additional choices, but still not what Mom wanted. So we headed back across the store to the entry way where we looked again at the first display. She wouldn’t hear of anything but flannel. The only pair I could find in the right size was a turquoise leopard print. Mary Frances looked at me with the haughty air of a respectable Southern woman and declared “They are UGLY.”

So we traversed the store again –dodging shoppers, strollers, odd sized kiosks, to look again at the Intimates section. I could only find two other pair of flannel pjs in the right size – one in red plaid and one with Christmas Scotties. “These are right cute” she grumbled half-heartedly.

They I found a pair of pjs out of a soft, plush material – a pretty blue pair with snowflakes. I timidly handed them over – they definitely weren’t flannel. The Queen Mother brushed her hand across the nap, and declared them “Perfect.”

Thank God.  The wheels of the transport chair and my back cooled down while I paid.

Example 2:

Imagine, if you will, many other gift items purchased, involving much pushing of said transport chair. By lunch, my back was complaining loudly.

And while we shopped, I had a dream. I A lovely Ladie’s Luncheon at Nordstrom’s. With comfortable booths, subdued lighting, fresh salads, constantly refilled glasses of sweet iced tea. Ahhhhhhhhh….

So when we wrapped up about 12:30, I wheeled us to the door of the Café. We were in luck. Only one person in line. I grabbed a menu and starting reading.

Then Mom interjects: “We can’t eat here, it’s too dark.”

She is joking, but not joking.

I laugh and persist in my perusal of the menu. I see key words:

Feta?

But I know without asking, she doesn't like feta.

Shrimp?

Nor shrimp.

Avocado?

Nope.

Chipotle?

Never.

Ham.

Forget it!

And then I hear her say: “Can we just have a hamburger? How about a hamburger? “

So I face the sad truth. There is no hamburger, no anything that my mom will eat at Nordstrom’s Café.

“Okay”, I say, a bit on the irradiated side. “How about the food court?”

“Great!”she exclaims!

So, I take a deep breath and we head back across the mall to the food court. There are, technically, no hamburgers at the food court either. But back in the way back there is a Chick-fil-A. I approach the seating area, move a chair and push Mom’s transport chair up to a table nearby. And approach the line.

Except once I get there, I’m the only one in line. And a well-groomed, well-spoken, charming woman takes my order. She engages in small talk while I fumble for my debit card. And magically, by the time I’ve swiped it – the young worker in the back has our food ready to go. And then I get choice of a great varieties of salad dressing.

I carry our sack back to Mom’s table. Chicken nuggets for her, which she loves and gleefully counts out loud as she eats. I begrudgingly admit to myself that my Cobb Salad is, well, pretty darn good. By the time I’m finished I look over at Mary Frances. She’s made it to her chocolate chip cookie and there’s a look of bliss on her sweet, wrinkled face.

So maybe I didn’t get the kid glove service I’d dreamed of at Nordstrom’s, but my service was terrific, my salad was tasty, and Mom was beaming.

We were, after all, Ladies who Lunch.

Quoth the Raven

It is a sunny winter afternoon in Seaboard. Mom and I have just arrived from Durham. I have unpacked the car and I am settled in on the blue couch in the parlor talking to my sister on the phone. I hear a loud rustling in the background, but assume it is my mom in the den. We continue to talk. Mom continues to rustle.

Except.

When I get off the phone I walk into the den. Mom is sitting in a chair as still as a mouse reading a book.

“Mom, er, were you doing anything while I was on the phone?” I ask in a hopeful tone. My stomach has began to drop. I think I know the answer. It is a firm no.

Bird. In. The. Chimney

My heart is thumping. I not quite sure why I have the heebie jeebies about birds in the chimney, but I do. I once pulled a snake out of a birdhouse with my bare hands as if I were just taking mail out of a mailbox.  I have wrestled with biting dogs as if it were a walk around the AKC ring. But Birds In The Chimney are another matter.

Battlestations.

My aged mom thumps into position and balances on her cane at the door near the piano. I dash about, closing blinds to make the afternoon shadows even more shadowy. I move the flotsam and jetsam away from the front of the Buck Stove insert in the chimney and hand Mom her weapon. She grasps the broom like a gladiator.

I open the side door. I slide the latch near the piston to insure it stays open on its own, for it has a job to do. To coyly entice whatever winged dementor from hell is scrambling inside the chimney.

Next I tiptoe to the chimney. My heart is pounding though I have done this many times before. I  squat and unlatch the double doors, first the right and then the left. fully expecting to be bowled over by the desperate fluttering of a trapped bird.  The doors make a satisfying clink as they reveal the inky interior and, to my horror, the skeletal remains of a  once-trapped and now-desiccated  bird. My imagination runs wild as I picture it’s solitary death throes and my adrenal gland puts my heart on high alert.

And now to open the flue. It creaks eerily as I push it true. And, oh dear God!,  the skeletal remains of a second bird flutter to the ashes. I stumble backwards, regain my footing and unabashedly hide behind my my 88 year old mother.

Mom comments dryly “that one is not going to hurt you.”  

We pause a moment and listen. I hear nothing but the beating of my heart. We realize that this is going to be a bit of a waiting game. Mom settles down on the seat her walker still clutching the broom. I ease onto the couch and grab an afghan. (For what? to throw on the bird? To cover my head? In the dusky room I am sure my face is glowing red as I cram it back into the corner.)

Silence. Not even a rustle. Mom asks if I am SURE I heard a bird. Yes. Yes. Yes. There is a BIRD IN THE CHIMNEY. More silence.

The phone jars to life and I answer. My voice is cracking with excitement. It is my oldest nephew.

“WHERE ARE YOU?” I demand and launch into a description of our current situation.

He begins to laugh and tells me it will take him a while to get here, he’s in Richmond. Expletives begin to explode silently in my brain. “When you get here” I say “you are getting the dead ones out!” He finds this funny. I ask that he dial 911 if he arrives to find us incapacitated.

He rings off and we go back to our game. It requires nerves of steel. When we can bear it no longer, I creep back to the Buck Stove and jiggle the flue, backing quickly away.

This time SUCCESS. The blackbird bursts from the fireplace in a flutter of iridescent movement and straight and true takes flight towards the blue rectangle of the open door. The last we see of him is an inky silhouette as he moves up and out of our range of vision.

It is done. We exhale. I close the Buck Stove doors on the skeletons of the two that didn’t make it. They can wait in the dark for my nephew. I bring light back to the room, opening blinds and curtains and shutting the side door. The broom goes back to its resting place and Mom back to her perch on her favorite reading chair.

I sit on the couch in stunned and grateful silence, listening. I am quite happy to have helped this dark bird pry open the maw of death and fly away.  I hope my heart stays as brave and true as the one that got away.

Mary Frances Wears Pants

All my life, Mary Frances has been the perfect model of the perfect  Southern Woman. Or at least HER version of the perfect Southern Woman. ( If she had been my version of the perfect Southern Woman I would have learned how to make mint juleps. But that is a blog for another day.)

Mary Frances taught me that you must always wear an apron when cooking. Dresses should hit your knee and you must wear a slip underneath. Hair should be out of your face. She taught me to stand up straight, be respectful, do my part, care for those in need, and to love God, family, books, and country, not necessarily in that order. She also taught me that real Southern ladies don’t wear pants.

Mom and I in aprons, circa 1988

So to this day, Mary Frances eschews pants.

From as long as I can remember she had only one pair of side-zipped, denim pants. They were not JEANS mind you. They were fitted and tailored and tidy. When she absolutely could not avoid wearing pants she pulled these beauties out of the closet. So she wore them when our Girl Scout troop rode bikes to Ramsey’s Crossroad and when our family went tent camping on the Blue Ridge Parkway or if it snowed.  I’ve seen a photo of her wearing them at the beach. Though a bit proud of her ability to be sporty, she seemed genuinely embarrassed to be wearing them as if she were being caught in the act of doing something highly disreputable. Something like wearing eye shadow (Real Southern Woman find eye shadow vulgar.)

Mama wearing pants, but hidden behind the Impala. 

So when the temperature dipped in January on the same day as Mom’s scheduled permanent the morning went something like this.

ME: Mom, it’s 9 degrees outside. You will need to wear pants when we go to Earl’s. (YES, it is true that my beloved hair guy and my beloved husband share a name. Obviously the two most important men in my life.)

MF: I don’t need pants.

ME: Yes, you do.

MF: No I don’t.

ME: Yes. You. Do. Here is a pair of black sweat pants. You can wear them with a blouse or put them on under you skirt. But it is too cold to go without.

MF: (Pointing at her gossamer thin pantyhose) BUT I HAVE ON STOCKINGS!

ME: No, Mom. It is 9 degrees. What if we get in an accident? Then you will freeze solid in those stockings!

MF:  I am fine.

ME: (AFTER A DEEP BREATH.) OKAY. Here’s the deal. It is too cold to go outside without pants. You can either put on the pants or I am calling Earl and canceling the appointment.

MF: (genuinely horror-stricken) We CAN’T cancel my appointment!

ME: Yes. We can. And I need to know now so I can let Earl know as soon as possible!!

MF: (Thrusting out a hand, disgusted.) Give them here.  

MF: (Sweatpants are now caught on Mama’s shoes, which she did not take off.) I can’t get them on. I don’t have to wear them.

ME: THEY ARE CAUGHT ON YOUR SHOES!!!

Together we pull and tug and soon enough the sweatpants are on, under her skirt. As we head towards the door where more coats await Mary Frances again voices her displeasure:

MF: These pants are heavy. They make it hard to walk!

We march to the frigid car and drive to the salon. It is very quiet. The queen is displeased. Mama enters with a regal air but as if she has been abducted from her throne and made to wear burlap. I explain to Earl about the pants. Clearly they are beneath her. Earl gives me a sympathetic smile,  helps her into her chair, whisks a protective cape around her shoulders and proceeds to give her a humdinger of a perm. 

My "other Earl" and Mary Frances AND the pants.

Mary Frances, Mid-perm

At the end she has forgotten about the sweatpants and looks radiant with her new do.

Then she stands and realizes she is still wearing pants.  She wrinkles her nose as if she smells spoiled milk. And then fires one last volley.

MF: IF I FALL, IT IS BECAUSE OF THESE PANTS!!!