Like Company That Won't Leave

For more than a year now, she has been held in its grasp, unable to shake loose. On occasion, the grip may lessen with an offered diversion, but it is always there, an unwelcome squatter. Although I can clearly see it, it is a demon I cannot battle for I cannot fully understand it. I have not walked in those shoes, and pray that I will not. Before its arrival, she had a self-imposed purpose, a reason to keep moving. She fought with a vengeance to keep it at bay, determined that her very existence was enough, but knowing somewhere she would lose.

It arrived in the early morning of a mid-summer day, while the air was still deceptively cool. I went with her to meet it, and the image of her stricken face when it touched her is etched in my mind. Her chest heaved with sobs she could not stifle. She was clearly its target, as if a big red bull’s eye was squarely centered on her heart. I could tell she was silently pleading with it to go away, that it wasn't time yet. For a moment, she was confused as she processed the scene around her. The instant her heart broke wide open, its aim was true.

Two days later, she buried her firstborn and only son.

Two to Tango

It is a strange dance we do. A sort of love-hate tango that I am sure has ancient ties, but is updated with personal touches. I am not sure that my partner does, but I constantly attempt to get the steps right so that we move as one with a display of great passion. I long for those watching this dance floor to be envious. But just when the years of practice seem to be paying off, the tempo changes and once again, I stumble. Each passing year adds to the complexity of this mother-daughter thing, and I am resigned to remaining out of step with her, simply unable to hear the same music.
It has always been this way, so there should be no surprise here. But each new chapter, each milestone, each new song continues to bring hope of synchronicity. That somehow we would finally find that place of absolute understanding and comfort and passion.

She is off at college, having the time of her life, meeting new challenges. I am often asked about my empty nest. Until very recently, I would lie. I would offer up the expected reply, comment on how quiet it is at home (which it is) and how much I miss her (which I don't). Actually, I relish the quiet of my home. The other part, I had to think about. Alot. What kind of mother doesn't miss her only child?
The truth of the matter is that the dance has changed tempo yet once again. But instead of trying to catch up, I must slow down. Her life is still a frenzied flurry of activity, but we no longer pass each other in the the doorway with me asking questions, trying to talk to her, be included. I am not in the middle of teenage drama anymore. She calls me several times a day now to discuss decisions that will have lasting effects on her life, to ask about cooking her favorite dishes, to complain about her roommate or a professor. Somewhere along the way, while I was trying to catch my breath, we began a waltz. I don't miss the tango.

Comfort Food

It was the beginning of September, 1970 and I had just begun the sixth grade. My mother’s mother had died. Mama, as everyone in the family called her, had lived 85 long years. She bore 7 children, had buried her husband and only son, and died in the house my grandfather had built.
As a child, the house was scary. It was quite simple, but far removed from my comfortable middle class home. My mother was the youngest of Mama’s children, no doubt a surprise to Mama at age 43. They were poor and did not have electricity or indoor plumbing until my mother was in her late teens. My mother was the only child in the family to move away after she married. The rest of the family – children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren – all lived within a few miles of their birthplace.
A couple of weeks before Mama’s death my mother, brother, and I had been there for an end of the summer visit. I usually asked to spend the night with my Aunt Opal. She lived just on the other side of the garden plot from Mama. She had been widowed at a young age and raised three children alone. Each night at bedtime, we would crawl up in the bed and before turning out the light, Aunt Opal would open her well-worn Bible and read aloud the chosen lesson for the day. As was typical of rural Alabama, lives were spent in church, and strong faith sustained all. About a half mile from Mama’s house stood Central Baptist Church, a small, white clapboard country church. I have been told my grandfather gave the land to start the church. Behind it is a small cemetery in which many of my family are buried. The inside is simple, with rows of well-worn pews. They are smooth as silk from generations of wide-bottomed women and squirming children. There are tall windows and the pulpit is made of dark stained heart pine. Mama always sat on the second row to the far right, next to a window. I am sure she chose this spot with the hope for a breeze on hot summer Sunday mornings. My Aunt Lessie played the piano for church, and while not always beautiful, the many voices that sang were strong. No one needed the hymnal – the songs had been sung a thousand times. Onward Christian Soldiers…
It was a Wednesday evening, and Aunt Opal and I were in church for Training Union. August in south Alabama is stiflingly hot, and the cardboard funeral home and propane company fans were waving in a rhythmic unison, keeping time with the preacher’s admonitions of damnation. Occasionally, one fan would change tempo to shoo a red wasp away. I looked up to see my brother scurrying down the aisle. He was red-faced and sweaty from running the half mile or so. Out of breath, he whispered to Aunt Opal and they made their way out of the church. He had been sent to fetch her. Mama had had a stroke.

In keeping with the rural south tradition, this particular one to which I had never before been exposed, Mama was brought back to her house. The family watched quietly as the hearse pulled up in the yard. The blue-grey steel casket was unloaded and carried up the steps. It was placed in what was probably the living room at one time, although it was never used. The blanket of flowers was shifted and the casket opened. There she would lie for a couple of days. A floor lamp was placed at the head of the casket and would serve as the only light in this room. I had never seen a dead person before, and I vowed that I would not go into that room. There were signs that read “Slow Funeral Zone” placed out on the road, and cars would respectfully creep past the house. Over the next two days, lots of folks stopped by bringing baskets filled with fried chicken, ham, deviled eggs, butter beans, and untold cakes and pies. I have since come to appreciate the spirituality of comfort food. I stayed on the front porch in the swing. In the early afternoon of the second day of this vigil, a frail figure appeared down the road. I watched as this thin black woman slowly walked toward Mama’s house, clutching a package. She appeared to be about Mama’s age, with deep chocolate-colored skin and gray hair. She made her way up the steps and quietly greeted Mama’s eldest children. She offered her package, a pound cake, freshly baked and still warm. In spite of the invitation to come in, she declined and sat down on the edge of the porch. I wondered why she didn’t sit on one of the straight-backed, cane-bottomed chairs. She accepted a glass of tea, and wiped her face with a handkerchief she pulled from the pocket of her apron. She didn’t engage in conversation with anyone, just sat quietly with a serene hint of a smile on her face. She sat there for a couple of hours and without any fanfare, simply stood up and walked back down the road. I watched her until she was out of sight. Years later, I realized that although I was a child and we did not speak, I learned a lot about respect from her that hot summer afternoon. Her name was Nish. I imagine her and Mama sharing a swing on the front porch of Heaven.

The Day is Done

This was written by my brother. I have always like its profoundly simple sentiment.

The Day is Done

This is just about as fine as it can get. Sitting around the fire, with a full belly. Smoking a pipe and talking in a low, lazy sort of way. The chill is beginning to fall on your shoulders, but it is not uncomfortable. If you lean back and look at the sky, there is that great splash of the Milky Way,brighter and bigger than you could ever see it in town.
In the bottom, next ridge over, a hound dog is working out a trail; when the wind lays you can hear her, bawling pure and sweet when she hits a hot spot, then dying out until she hits it again. I don’t know that it is a she dog, but her voice rings like a female bell. The music fades into the distance, but you can tell that she will stick to it; no telling where the dawn will find her.
After the digestion is well under way, the storytelling and lying begin in a desultory way. The stories are so impossible, that you have to half-way believe them. Like the woman who went into the hog lot with a sack of corn, and a sow killed and ate her. When the woman’s husband came home he killed the sow with an ax and threw all her piglets in the well. Or the one-eyed mule that would only turn to the right. If you wanted to go left, you had to circle him around until his right eye was pointed the way you wanted to go. Other than that he was said to be a pretty good mule, although plowing could get complicated getting the mule pointed right.
Simple stories that would get you laughed out of a society parlor. But their simplicity made them truer than anything you would ever hear in Paris or New York.
After awhile the stretching and yawning begin. One by one the men able away from the firelight to piss and fart, then come stretching back to the fire. One more drink and they move to their blankets to roll up and sleep, innocent as the dawn. Content in the knowledge that they have done nothing that day that will have any consequences, and tomorrow will be much the same.
The stars still shine, and the wind soars high in the pines, like the voice of God. The day is done.



Copyright 2003 G. Taylor Fitzgerald

At a Loss for Words

The at least once weekly trek to Taylor's house was made on Thursday. It's an hour and a half one way for me, and I am running late for I have had to make a trip to Wal-Mart for Sarah (I've got to have this stuff at school today!). Then I stop at the health department in hopes that the death certificate is finally ready. It takes 30 minutes to print 5 copies. So much for leaving the house at 7:30.
Our task today is to bring stuff from upstairs to the downstairs. Taylor's passion was books. All over the house there are hundreds- no, thousands- of books. Shelves cover the walls of the upstairs and are filled with books. There are boxes filled with books. There are paper grocery bags filled with books. There are books stacked everywhere. He has never thrown away or otherwise discarded a book. I know that he has read each and every one several times. The collection is varied, so one cannot decipher a particular interest. There is poetry, Louis L'Amour, college textbooks, classics, philosphy, comparative religion, AA 12 step books, travel, hunting/fishing/trapping. I suppose his favorite is Hemingway, for there are well-worn copies of everything he ever wrote. A close second may be Steinbeck or Carlos Castaneda. We have already sorted and culled the books downstairs. For myself, I have kept beautiful sets of leather bound collections that once belonged to my great-grandfather. These have been in my family since the turn of the century, and have that musty old book aroma. I have taken dozens to the used book store. I have retained many for the inevitable yard sale. Although I am ashamed to admit it, I have thrown dozens of books into the giant dumpster that sits in the front yard. He would be absolutley mortified that I have done this. But I am overwhelmed by the sheer volume of books.
I discover that he has also never thrown away a single letter or card he received. My mother finds the box that contains years of letters and decides that she will take them home and read them. There is a stack from me, most of which were written when I was in college and he was going across the country to Alaska, the place of his boyhood dreams. Many are addressed c/o general delivery in whatever town he was situated for a few weeks. My memory is fuzzy about the content of these letters, but I am sure that I do not want my mother to read them. I secretly confiscate my letters, although I know she will realize I have taken them when she gets home.
We make continuous trips up and down the stairs, out the front door to the dumpster. Box and after box, full of ten year old bank statements, power bills, and publications from the county extension office about cows, soil, weather, a variety of crops, insects, kudzu, and God knows what else, are unceremoniously thrown out. It is time for a short break and something cold to drink. My mother begins to cry. While this chore is physically demanding on me, it is taking its toll on her emotionally. She is convinced that along with each scrap of paper we throw away, we are throwing away a part of her firstborn child. If something happened to Sarah, she asks, would I throw away everything she ever had? Would I sell something Sarah felt was important to some stranger for twenty-five cents at a yard sale? She tells me I can't possibly understand what this is like for her, and I know she is right.
I now wonder if there is a way for me to do this alone, keep her away, for there is nothing I can say to her that will allow her to believe that it is ok that we are doing this, that this stuff is simply that - stuff. While it pains me to see her broken- hearted, it occurs to me that the notion of finishing this alone is selfish. I am on the verge of realizing that, for me, this is a journey of understanding and reconcilliation that requires solitude. Or maybe it's simply a matter of not wanting to share this. Most likely, however, is that we are on parallel paths, each searching for some assurance that we didn't fail him. Or absolution if we did.

The Box

This was written over a year ago, about a month after the death of my only sibling.

I went to the bank yesterday, The Peoples Bank and Trust in Montevallo. It's one of those new buildings that tries to exude old southern charm and gentility, like an antebellum relic that has stood firm for 150 years, survived Sherman's March. An old estate that has been in the same family for generations, with a colorful history to go with it. The inside is full of rich, dark wood that gets polished everyday by a white-haired black woman. It's like a church when you slip in late for Sunday services, people looking up when I walked in, speaking in hushed tones.
I'm thinking I should have waited, come back when I am cleaned up, for I have spent the day sweating in the sun, throwing things into the giant dumpster I have had delivered to Taylor's house. I wonder what he would think if he could see what I am doing. But that is for another time.
I went to the bank yesterday to get into his safety deposit box. I wondered what he could possibly have needed a safety deposit box for. He barely had a pot to piss in. One of his friends told me he had cash, that he had put his inheritance from our grandmother in the box. I cannot imagine that he had actually saved money; it would have burned a hole in his pocket, screaming to be spent on something he didn't need. I barely remember having signed a signature card for the box. I have both keys, they don't ask for identification. A woman opens the vault and removes the green box. It reminds me of those boxes the army uses for ammunition, well-worn but strong. She leads me to a small room, slightly larger than a phone booth, that contains a table and single chair. A spotlight shines down on the table. Deep breath. I feel like a voyeur, a 12 year old peeping-tom right before a glimpse of the lady next door undressing. I raise the lid of this treasure chest with trepidation and anticipation.
As I remove papers and inspect them one a time, I am struck by the unusual collection. A social security card, the receipt for a fine paid 30-something years ago on Padre Island (I have heard the story, typed it up when he committed it to paper), quite a few old coins, an envelope containing two poems written long ago and the rejection letter from Atlantic Monthly, a copy of our father's obituary. There are a dozen or so paper bands that banks use when counting currency; my notion that he would have spent the money is confirmed. I pull out several sheets of notebook paper that are neatly folded. The handwriting looks familiar. It takes only a second to realize that the handwriting is my own, the flowery script of a 15 year old girl. I could not read but the first few lines, my throat contricted. It is a letter that I wrote to my big brother as he was leaving home for college.
I gathered everything up, wishing I had brought a plastic grocery bag or something. I walk out into the steam bath that is Alabama in August, and get into my car, the leather seat burning the back of my bare legs. As I wait for the air conditioning to dry the beads of sweat on my face, I lay the papers and coins on the seat beside me. A final look at this stately building that tries to look as if it has a history, and I begin the long drive home and think of my own. Perhaps tomorrow I will be able to read that old letter and remember the heart of a woman-child.

Say It Out Loud

The phone call forced me to say it out loud.

It had been just under the surface, nagging at the fringes. I wasn't sure exactly what it was. Subconciously, I had been thinking it for awhile, but didn't dare speak it. I would be misunderstood. Or maybe I just didn't want to acknowledge it, give it credence, and admit that I must be some kind of freak.

A woman I greatly admire and respect, think of frequently but rarely see, sensed my distress. I wish she lived next door. We would sit on the porch in our pajamas every morning and have coffee and cigarettes. We'd share a dixie version of the ya-ya sisterhood. From my perspective, she and I share a sort of kinship I haven't had in 20 years, but one that I miss. She makes me think.
I had ignored her emails, thinking that I would respond tonight, tomorrow, in a few days. The phone call took me by surprise, but looking back I should have expected it. Her inquiry as to my well-being was sincere. The initial pleasantries overwith, it came bubbling forth. Suddenly, it was acknowledged.

My only child, of whom I am immensely proud, has gone away to college and I don't miss her.