Deneument

Upon further reflection, and a wasted afternoon, Concrete Blonde is not all that serendipitous at all.

As you were.

And This.....

Coach Taylor

Even when he breathes like a Texas political figure....

Jesus. I needed a warning on this one.

Paradox

"Ms. Uh Uh? Can you EXPLAIN PARADOX AGAIN??!!???"

Why yes I can! It would be your teacher in her cute 50's housewife dress, pearls and perfectly-heeled mary janes singing "Flagpole Sitta" on the way to school today. Loudly. Windows down. She might have shaken her nicely flipped hair around at a stop sign, but she would have done it with a nice smile and wink from some great looking lashes.

Now "angry adorable" would be an oxymoron, as well as "cute neurosis" and, I think, "righteous indignation." But the above is paradox.

I'm not really that angry, but that song sure is and I was feeling the moment :)

I was also feeling Johnny Cash and "God's Gonna Cut You Down," but that's a bit off-topic here.

All I know is, I need a Tweet account for these moments because I forget them by five.

It Really Doesn't Suck All That Badly

My picture and bio was on the contributor's page this week for the first time in a year I believe. I didn't really notice; I only wrote one, tiny film review.

However, someone, and I think I know who, left a copy near my desk yesterday with a "my teacher" hearted caption. Even though the picture looks nothing like her teacher on day-to-day, and even if it's the shot from the night we got into the lip venom at the Best of Jackson Party.

Validation: I take what I can, when I can and where I can. I enjoy it.

My Grandmother: One That Went Unpublished But I Found While Organizing Some Writing

To celebrate the advent of summer, I’ve bought the vine-ripened tomatoes, white bread and mayonnaise. I’ve prepared farm fresh corn to the best of my ability. I’ve sliced a watermelon.

I’ve conducted this memorial silently each year, without pomp and circumstance, and without anyone in my life knowing, to remember my grandmother who died suddenly in early June of 1993.

Every other Sunday from birth, I spent the afternoon in northeast Mississippi traveling from a farm table to a formal dining area to a 1950's kitchenette between Cotton Plant and New Albany. No matter the table, the theme was the same. Southern matriarchs dishing over sweet iced tea, while the girl children listened, taking in all the wisdom and strength and love that they could carry. We sometimes had four generations of women at a time, and in my eyes, my grandmother was the most striking.

I learned to read at those tables. I learned to devil eggs and fry dumplings and that a little bacon grease makes everything taste better. I learned that the men aren’t going to help you clean up, but hanging out with the girls is way mo’ better than watching basketball anyway. Plus, we never snored in the kitchen.

Sometimes my grandmother would invite her students over for the afternoon. She loved children patiently and completely. She taught Special Education until the year before her death, and I can’t recall ever stepping into her community when someone did not approach her with a hug, smile and thank you for her teaching service.

The most special Sundays happened later on, when I was a teenager. My mother, sister, aunt and grandmother would stay in the kitchen together after everyone had eaten and everything was put away. During those years, we discussed graduation and college plans, laughed at my aunt’s personal life (that girl could wreck some cars) and planned her wedding. The time seemed to stretch longer then.

During my life, I had spent weeks at her house attending Vacation Bible School. I had spent weekends riding horses and swimming at the church camp under her care. We saw “Annie,” “Funny Girl,” “42nd Street” and “West Side Story” together. I spent my last full night with her at the age of seventeen, studying Geometry at her kitchen table, preparing for the ACT the next day.

She died a few weeks later. Suddenly. Out of nowhere.

June 3rd 1993. My grandmother was going to drive up that afternoon to see me portray Lady Bumble in some one-act play of which I forget the name. Except for she had a heart attack very early that morning instead. She had spent the day before with her girlfriends shopping and having a nice lunch at Harvey’s. They say she was very happy that day, and that she was very proud of her children and grandchildren.

So why does it hurt so much, even after twelve years? I will say it doesn’t hurt as long. The pain is just as sharp, but not as long-lasting as that day that seems so long ago, but seems like last week all at the same time.

I endured, and agreed, the she’s-in-a-better-place statements. Her pastor, who did know her as well as we did, described her spirit in a way I’ll never replicate. He described her as a time gone by; a time when silence was treasured and the hours lasted longer. Even today, I can hear her yell, “RICHARD!” when my uncle turned his Dead Milkmen up just one notch too loud. She sure did hate noise.

It hurts because we’ve had so much joy in our family since her death. We’d all love to call her up and tell her about the five children who have been born since she’s been gone. We’d love to tell her about the baby on the way. I’d love to tell her that I’ve finally gotten published.

I’d love to tell her that my dreams are coming true, just like she said they would if I worked hard and kept the faith.

I don’t know that there has ever been anyone so accepting of my life’s passions. She defended me when I would rather spend the afternoon reading a novel than playing with the other children. She ensured I’d always have reading material within my reach, including the “Reader’s Digest” subscription she renewed year-after-year. She could always hug deeply and say “I love you” right out loud no matter where we were or who was listening.

It hurts because I’m unable to express to the people who are new to my life what she meant to me. It’s difficult for me to describe her power, and to this day, I want to share her with the people who mean the most to me. I want Monkey to know the unconditional love and unwavering grace of a southern woman. I still want to make her proud.

So this quiet memorial I conduct every year is what my grandmother referred to as a “pity party.” A pity party is certainly not uncalled for every once in a while and should be acknowledged with love and affection. But then you have to buck it up and go on. It helps to hum “How Great Thou Art” while putting one foot in front of the other until you find the purpose of the situation.

So I’ve gotten the purpose, and now I can only pray that I’m able to give the same love to others in my life. We need to slow down, devil some eggs and spend some quiet time just loving one another for the people we are, no matter where the table may be.

Schadenfreud

I has it.

However, I'm not proud of it. But I bet you would have it too. Now go listen to "Like a Rolling Stone." I prefer Nancy Sinatra's version.