How Many Days Until Mama?

Mama smelling her older brothers’ lunch boxes when she was a plump little girl is one of my favorite stories. I think about that sometimes to make myself smile, after a tiring day, when I have mostly moved “to do” items to the next day’s list and not finished much of anything. Mama was amazingly productive. She helped all of us with our homework, kept a clean house full of happy baking smells, fed sick neighbors, worked part-time as a nurse, sewed and embroidered, played the piano, always looked pretty and smelled of Channel No. 5, and was never too busy to listen. She probably slept very little. I thought about Mama again last night, when I was trying to fall asleep. But this time she wasn’t sewing my pale-blue prom dress. (It was shiny and sleeveless, and Reggie said I looked like a princess when I wore it.) This time was different.

Mama’s been gone for six years now, but sometimes, when the phone rings, I still expect it to be her. Calling to see if a cloudy, chilly day has made me feel fretful and sad.

My sisters and I often talk about our own favorite “Mama stories.” My baby sister (she’s in her 50s now, so I should probably stop calling her that) loves the stories of Mama growing up in the 1930s and 40s, just outside the small town of White Castle, Louisiana, along the Mississippi River levee. She reminds us how Mama, as a teenager, ran home after school, grabbed a cold sweet potato and some crackers for a snack, and then hurried to the levee to watch for planes flying over. This was during WW2, and Mama always believed in supporting her country. My oldest sister, Marian, who insisted on getting her driver’s license as soon as she turned 15, was always amused that Mama got to drive when she was only 13 years old. Mama had explained in her matter-of-fact voice how it happened, “All the boys (her older brothers) were away fighting the War and your Maw-Maw Gert couldn’t drive. Somebody needed to drive. I just did what I had to do.” That was Mama’s life. She did what needed to be done, and without a lot of talking about it.

I like to think about Mama as a child, sliding down the levee on a sled made of boards nailed together and waxed by her brothers. Or Mama throwing a book at Uncle Lewis after he teased and picked at her until she “just couldn’t stand it anymore.” (Maw-Maw Gert, of course, punished only Mama, not having heard the teasing. Mama was the first one at the train station to pick up Uncle Lewis when he got back from the War, wounded and shell-shocked, as they called it then. She always said he was never the same after the War.) I also like to imagine Mama in high school, running to catch the school bus in such a hurry she forgot to powder her face and had to use flour patted from a huge flour sack in the old store by the bus stop. 

But, almost better than the old stories (when we were children we would beg her, “tell us about the old days, Mama.”), are my memories of how she raised her family, and was always there for us. She taught us to focus on what we could do and not what we didn’t have. “Life is simple. Just always do your best,“ she would say.  Mama could not swim and was afraid of the water, having almost drowned once as a child. So she make all of us learn to swim when we were very young. She encouraged us to do well in school, not by scolding, but by making homework an adventure for us. “See how many of your spelling words you can write in ten minutes, and then see if you can finish even more in the next seven minutes. Then we’ll play dancing pencils for five minutes.”

When I was moving 600 miles away to work on my Ph.D., Mama could tell I was nervous about leaving. She told me, “You know, when I left White Castle to go to nursing school in New Orleans, it might as well have been 600 miles. I couldn’t go home to visit and didn’t have many visitors either. For the first few weeks I was so homesick I thought I was going to die.”

“Did you think about quitting and going home?” I asked. She looked surprised, “No. Why would I do that? There was nothing for me there. My plan was to finish nursing school, and then join the Army. The Army paid for me to go to nursing school. I wanted to take care of all our boys wounded in the War. Besides, I made friends and it got easier. You’ll do fine.”

While I was away at school, Mama sent me a card every week, filled with family news, and a $5 or $10 bill, “to get a special treat for yourself.”

I never told her that I knew about the life she would have had in White Castle. Maw-Maw Gert, who had asked Mama many times to quit nursing school and come home, told me about a young man there who loved Mama. His father owned a drug store, and he wanted to marry Mama and start a family with her, there in White Castle. But Mama must have known that was not the life she was supposed to lead.

Even after Mama married Daddy and moved away, Maw-Maw still complained about her working as a nurse. But Mama was a good daughter. When I was young, we visited Maw-Maw almost every Sunday, eating a meatloaf or fried chicken dinner promptly at noon, and then cleaning dishes in the crowded kitchen before gathering in the “sitting room” for a while. Mama would play Mother Beloved and other of Maw-Maw’s favorite songs on the piano. Most days, Daddy, Paw-Paw, and Uncle Joe watched television, and we girls would sit on the always-clean linoleum floor and play cards or Chinese checkers, or cut out paper dolls from an old Sears catalog. Sometimes Paw-Paw took us outside and helped us catch “devil horses.” My brothers were babies then, and I was always sad they didn’t have the chance to know Maw-Maw and Paw-Paw before they were sickly and feeble.

Daddy always wanted to visit his parents, across the Mississippi River, near Carville, after we left Maw-Maw Gert’s. Sometimes Mama would say we needed to get home, but usually we wound up crossing the river on the ferry boat to my other grandparents’ house, which looked like a scaled-down plantation house. It was a little run down, but still nicer (on the outside) than Maw-Maw’s house in White Castle. The inside of Daddy’s childhood home smelled of cigar smoke, and not meatloaf or chocolate cake. Dust and dog hair were everywhere on the hardwood floors, and there was a mean mutt and my even meaner grandfather who used to let it jump on me (when Mama wasn’t around) to teach me not to be afraid of dogs. It never bit me but I’m still frightened of them. How do you reason with a dog? Mama always made sure we didn’t stay long.

I am something of a workaholic and often eat lunch at my desk at the library. A few weeks ago I was under deadline pressure to finish some statistical reports, and trying to eat and work at the same time. I ate my ham sandwich right from the plastic bag, so no crumbs (my door was closed and no one could see my bad manners!). There is a peculiar, but pleasant, smell that sandwiches have when closed up for a few hours. My sisters and I always call it the “lunch box smell,” from Mama’s stories of exploring her older brothers’ lunch boxes when they got home from school. 

After I ate my ham sandwich, sniffing at the empty bag reminded me of all the lunches Mama had made for her children, all through grade school and high school, and even after. My first two years of college I lived at home. She made me a lunch every day to take with me. I tried to tell her I didn’t need her to do that, but she only said, “You need to eat a good lunch to keep going. If you have it with you, you only have to worry about your studies. Here, take it. I made a ham salad sandwich for you, and I put in some plums and those bakery brownies you like. Have a good day at school.” Then she hugged me. That was Mama. She always wanted, and expected, us to succeed. I'm sure she was the only person who read my entire dissertation on the job satisfaction of reference librarians. She even asked me questions about it.

(Everything from Mama's kitchen was delicious. I don't remember one failed meal, and even her sandwiches were perfect, with everything we liked but nothing we didn't, like crusts. I once asked her what magic ingredient made all her food so special. She had only smiled. I suspect it was love.)

Thinking about Mama last night was different. I was a little girl again, sitting in the bathroom stall at school, but with all my clothes on, worried about how long it would be before Mama came home from the hospital after her back surgery. I escaped to the bathroom often, just to sit there. It was an almost-perfect place to hide away from my classmates, who sometimes teased me because I was shy and cried easily. Especially Andrea, with her new shoes, big face and tight pigtails. She even followed me to the bathroom at times, to look over the top of the stall and say, “Why are you sitting there with your panties on? Your uniform is going to fall in and get wet.” During the Cuban Missile Crisis, we had to bring non-perishable foods and other items from home, in case we had to go to a fallout shelter. Mama packed ours in some of her pretty pillowcases, embroidered with roses and spring flowers. Andrea said, “You’re not supposed to use pillow cases. You’re supposed to use plastic bags.” For once I ignored her, proud of Mama’s pretty sewing. Years later I asked Mama why she used her special embroidered pillowcases for our fallout shelter supplies. She said, “Well, if the worst had happened, and we were separated, I wanted my girls to have something of mine to hold onto."

The Cuban Missile Crisis happened when I was in second grade, but my biggest fear wasn’t the war itself. I knew nothing about war, but I was deathly afraid of being separated from Mama and my baby brothers, of us being in different fallout shelters and unable to see one another, maybe forever. That was so many years ago, but I can still picture in my mind those yellow triangles on the fallout shelter signs. Every time I saw one, or thought about the Cuban Missile Crisis at school (the nuns made us pray about it often), a hot feeling of dread would hit my stomach and pull me in. It was as if I were shrinking, about to disappear, and no one cared. What if I couldn’t find Mama and my little brothers? Then I would cry.

That was how it felt to be apart from Mama—a burning stomach, and me shrinking and feeling insignificant. After her back surgery, Daddy brought us to visit her at the hospital. She could tell I was upset when it was time for us to leave. Mama looked pretty in a rose-printed, cream colored gown, despite the dark circles under her eyes. She hugged me and I noticed her perfume. She whispered, “Just count the days until I’m home. Only a few more days. It’s already Thursday night. By the time you get home from school tomorrow, that will be another day. On Saturday, your Aunt Mattie is going to pick you up and bring you here for a visit. I’ll ask her to let you eat lunch in the hospital cafeteria. Then on Sunday I’ll be home, and Daddy is going to pick up your baby brothers from Nanny Gee. We’ll all be together again. Only a few days and they’ll fly by.” That made me feel better. Not as joyful as I felt on regular Saturday nights when it was time to watch Adventures in Paradise on television, and then pick up Mama from her weekend late shift at the hospital. But better, until Daddy pulled me away from her and out the door.

On some nights, like last night, I can’t sleep because I feel all my years in the pain in my back. Or someone I love is hurting and I can’t help. Or I’m sad about the unkind things I’ve done in my life, and the pain and sorrow in the world flashes through my mind, over and over. I don’t have Mama’s strong faith in the Church, or her belief that everything that happens is part of God’s plan. I’m once again that young girl, sitting in the bathroom stall with her panties still on, or being pulled from a hospital room. A lonely child who misses her Mama and feels like she’s shrinking.  I know if I could see her again, I would feel better. I picture Mama sitting in that rocking chair, reading her prayer book. Her pretty, black wavy hair now shaded with gray. She looks up and smiles, “How are you? Are you hungry? I have some chili in the freezer from last week. And I made cornbread this morning.”

And I wonder, how many days till I see her again?

We Missed You at Christmas!

I wrote this poem when my sister, Marian's, mother-in-law died. We all called her Mama K. She was an amazing woman who farmed strawberries and raised her children, alone, in a small town outside of Hammond, Louisiana. Mama K had a heart that was easily made glad. What a blessing that is, to be always grateful, for even the simple things, like a slice of lemon cake. She used to tell me, "You look prettier than the last time I saw you," and she was always glad to see me, even in a hard part of my life when few people were.

Mama K is one of the souls I hope to see when I cross over to the Afterlife. She will welcome me to Heaven with her sweet, delighted smile, and a piece of lemon cake in her left hand. Her right hand, of course, will be reaching out to help me get in.

I miss her still, and not only at Christmas...   Marina

To Mama K

You should be here with us

It’s Christmas

And no one else

Has your beautiful way

Of being grateful

For simple things.

Only the angels

And a few special souls

Are wise enough

To understand what’s important.

I miss your pleased smile

And bright happy eyes.

I wish you were here

To share lemon cake with me.

There was a time, long ago, you know

When I was sad about many things

And no one seemed to have much good to say
To me, or about me

But whenever you saw me

Your kind eyes looked inside of me

Seeming to like what they saw, and

You would tell me I was prettier than before.

I never thought to tell you

How much that meant to me.

But you probably knew

Wise souls always do, and

You’d had more than your share of sorrows.

Now lucky Heaven has you

And you’ve surely found

A spot for a garden

You were never one to be idle.

You always worked so hard

Probably too much

Never complaining

Just wanting to care for your family.

We miss your smile and your love

But I know you’re happy there

Were your strawberries good this year?

Perhaps when it’s my time

You’ll smile on me once more

And open a back door to Heaven

So I’ll be sure to get inside.

To My Now-Silent Son of the Sixties

To My Now Silent Son of the Sixties…

I don’t usually think of myself as strong, but after my husband died (and I still can’t believe it’s been over 20 years) I had to be. Nathan wasn’t just my love; his love made me feel special and safe. For a time after he died, there seemed to be no reason to breathe, or do anything. He was gone, and I would never again hear him sing “When I’m Sixty-four.” That was his favorite Beatles song and he sang it to me each year on his birthday.

After a week of staying in bed all day, I knew I had to start getting up each morning, to eat, and to work. I needed to care for my family, and Nathan’s family, and that is what I did, every day, until I felt alive again. I still miss Nathan, and, although I’m not nearly ready to die myself, I have this image of how he will look when it’s my time to cross into Heaven. His thinning auburn hair that the chemo robbed him of will be back, even thicker and longer. He’ll be wearing an old Grateful Dead tee shirt, looking for me and maybe singing “When I’m Sixty-four.” And when I get there, he’ll tell me, as he did so many times in the past, “you’re the only girl I know who’s as pretty as she is smart.”

Nathan died a few weeks before Christmas, all those years ago, so I think about him during the holidays. Here are the words to a poem I wrote for him and had inscribed on his headstone:

To my now-silent son of the sixties

You were somehow too good for this world.

And we loved too much for so few years
You are always in my heart.

I release your troubled spirit

That needed to be free.

May you drum with the rock stars

Father many children

Play chess, ride horses, and fly.

In a peaceful place

Of many friendships

And no partings.

All my love…

Maw-Maw and the Highwayman

It was the summer I turned 15; the summer Reggie asked me to go steady (even though I wasn’t supposed to “go with” only one boy); the summer I made my oldest sister, Marian, burn the fudge at Maw-Maw Gert’s; and the summer I met Julian, the grandson of Maw-Maw’s neighbor, Old Man Turner. I always thought that was a strange name, but that was what he called himself. I answered Maw-Maw’s old black rotary phone that afternoon and heard his voice, “This is Old Man Turner. Would you tell your grandmother I’m on my way to pick her up for choir practice. Thank you kindly.” Maw-Maw Gert had been the organist at the Catholic Church (the one down the River Road) since before Mama was born. Maw-Maw also put flowers on the altar every Sunday before Mass, from the rose bushes and flower beds in her front yard.

Marian and I were supposed to be folding and ironing clothes for Maw-Maw Gert, because Mama called every night, and she always asked if we were helping out. Marian finished ironing Maw-Maw’s black-and-white striped Sunday church dress, with the red trim, and said, “I feel like making some fudge. I won’t be long, just stay here and keep folding the clothes.” That was fine with me. The kitchen was steamy, but the bedroom where we were working had a small, noisy window air conditioner to keep it cool. How could Marian stand that kitchen heat frizzing her long brown hair?

I finished folding all the towels and washrags, still stiff from drying in the sun outside, and looked out of the window-fan window. We only used the window fan at night, so it was off, and I could see between the blades, into Old Man Turner’s unpainted wooden garage. There was Julian, wearing a tee shirt with a leaf on it (Marian later told me it was a marijuana leaf) and tan shorts, polishing the chrome on his motorcycle. Even though his blonde hair was short, he was still very cute. (Until then I liked boys with long hair, like Reggie, who had shoulder-length brown hair, was intellectual and looked a lot like John Denver.) I slipped out the side door, through Maw-Maw’s vegetable garden, and over to the fence, hoping choir practice would last a long time. Maw-Maw had already warned me not to talk to Julian, at least not alone. “That boy is always up to something. He’s not from here, you know. I feel bad for Old Man Turner, the way his daughter sent that Julian here for the summer. Probably to keep him out of trouble. You stay away from him.”

Marian must have seen me from the kitchen window. She ran over to me, her loose paisley blouse puffing out behind her, before I even made it to the fence. She loudly reminded me I was supposed to be folding clothes and I should not roll my shorts up so high. I wanted to disappear when Julian looked up from his motorcycle. But he only smiled at me. I knew then I would have to meet him one day, no matter what Maw-Maw said.

This happened years ago, back in the late 1960’s, but I can still hear Marian’s, “Look what you made me do!” when we got back to the kitchen and found her fudge boiling out of the pot and all over Maw-Maw’s clean stove. We couldn’t get that awful smell of burning sugar and cocoa out of the kitchen before Maw-Maw got home from choir practice. We opened all the kitchen windows, having to pull hard on them, since they were stuck. Maw-Maw liked them closed and locked up tight. We managed to let in more than a few flies, but, even with the old box fan trying to blow the bitter smell out into the back vegetable garden, Maw-Maw found us out.

We heard Old Man Turner helping her inside the front door. “Girls,” she called to us, more concerned than upset, “Are you all right? What’s burning?” She limped more quickly than her leg brace should have allowed and arrived in the kitchen with a worried frown. I was sorry for worrying Maw-Maw Gert, and for wanting to meet Julian so badly, despite her wishes. I loved her, and she was always so happy when we visited her. She bragged about us to her friends, and made us delicious treats, like brownies, three-layer cakes, and crème puffs. Maw-Maw even taught us how to make colorful quilts and elegant doll pillows, using Barbie dolls. She was talented and hard-working and made the quilts all year to donate to the annual Church fair. Maw-Maw was also kind-hearted and made many meals for sick, or hungry, neighbors.

Even with all Maw-Maw did for us, sometimes it was just so boring for me at her house, there along the levee past the outskirts of White Castle, Louisiana. There were no movies, no dress shops or record stores, no snowball stands, and no Reggie. There was a dry-goods/grocery store close by, but it closed early. Besides, the meat-counter guy there, who was much to old for Marian, had a crush on her, and he ate pieces of the pale-pink, fat-speckled lunch meat as he sliced it for customers.

After the fudge mess and smell were gone, Maw-Maw Gert made us a potato and cheese omelet and biscuits with fig preserves for supper. She always called the evening meal supper. After we ate, she hurried us through washing the dishes, so we wouldn’t be late for The Virginian, Maw-Maw’s favorite television show. Westerns always seemed to have the same plot to me, and I wanted to slip outside, in case Julian was working on his motorcycle again. But Maw-Maw was so taken by Trampas and the Virginian that we had to sit there with her and watch it. At least this gave me a chance to polish my fingernails a bright, pretty pink. (Besides, Maw-Maw would have known what I was up to.) She narrated and talked to the characters on the screen all through the show, especially when Trampas was involved. She usually called him Travis.

This particular night, Maw-Maw Gert was greatly disturbed that the pretty, blonde-haired young lady visiting the ranch wasn’t interested in Trampas. He took her horse-back riding in the hills and brought her flowers, all to no avail. There was, however, some shady character in town (not dangerous, a former bank robber or something) who did attract the young, blonde visitor. The Highwayman (as Maw-Maw referred to him) didn’t come calling with flowers, but the young lady met with him late at night, causing much worry to Trampas, the Virginian, and Maw-Maw, who reminded Marian and I, several times, “That’s going to end wrong. Things like that always end badly.” And in the final scene, of course, the pretty girl, after a tearful explanation to Trampas, rode away on the back of the former bank robber’s horse, her long blonde curls bouncing at her tiny waist.

Maw-Maw was appalled and complained to Marian and me as she served our nightly bowls of Neapolitan ice cream, “After everything Travis and the Virginian did for that girl, she took up with that Highwayman.”

I didn’t tell Maw-Maw, but at 15 (and even sometimes after that) I would have taken up with him myself.

Lucky Maw-Maw Gert, to have loved wisely and been married for 54 years to Paw-Paw, who was her first and only love, even after he died.

Miss Aline’s Azaleas, and Reincarnation

Miss Aline had a sad life. Of course, I never knew about her disappearing boyfriend, and the baby she had to give up, until much later. When I was a child I visited her often, in her unpainted wooden frame house across the street from us. Mama always made us ask before we went anywhere. When I asked to go to Miss Aline’s, Mama would send a bag of apples or some Jack’s vanilla wafers or butter cookies, or a big piece of cornbread with me. She would tell me as I left, “And remember that’s for Miss Aline. You have plenty to eat over here.”  (Mama knew long before I did that Miss Aline sometimes did not have enough money for food. I found out later Mama often brought meals and groceries to Miss Aline.)

I was a plump child and loved to eat, but it was so exciting at Miss Aline’s that I didn’t think about food when I was there. She had a wonderful collection of toys she actually let me play with. They were all old, but in good shape, and, to me, were unique. (Miss Aline was not like prissy old Great Aunt Josie. All she could say when we visited her was “Don’t play with your cousin’s doll collection.” Or “Be careful of that lamp, I bought it in New York.” Then she would shoo us out to the yard to play. I heard her tell Mama once, when we were supposed to be outside playing, “That’s why you don’t have anything nice. You have too many children.” Mama responded politely, but I knew she was angry, “My children are my Jewels. I don’t need anything else.” We left shortly after that.)

Miss Aline’s toy box was an old wooden crate, painted like the night sky, with the moon and stars. Inside it, she had four gray sock monkeys with clothes to dress them, a wooden soldier on a stick, a china doll with brown hair and a lavender dress, a tiny tea set, a tarnished metal kaleidoscope, and a set of wooden blocks painted with numbers and letters. On top of the toys was an antique metal musical Ferris wheel.

We never stayed inside for too long. I was always anxious to get out and see if Miss Aline had any new flowers or plants. Her garden seemed exotic to me, like something from my favorite television show, Adventures in Paradise. As I pulled her through the kitchen to the back yard, she always stopped and looked up at the brightly painted circus plate she had hanging on the wall next to her refrigerator. (I remember it bothered me that her refrigerator door didn’t close all the way.) The plate had a lion tamer working in a lion’s cage, with a small child watching the show. Miss Aline would look up at the plate for a minute, then make herself smile and walk me outside.

Miss Aline told me once that the circus plate was given to her by someone she loved, and she would leave it to me when she died. “But you can’t die!” I told her. She had only smiled, “But everyone has to die, Little Sha, it’s the way of nature. And death isn’t the end. It leads us to something happier than life on earth, life in Heaven.”

Her back yard had a huge fig tree in the center, several delicious smelling sweet olive trees, two Japanese plum trees, a magnolia tree, two pear trees, many gardenia bushes, orange, yellow and red shrimp plants scattered around, and a rose garden off to the side. Miss Aline had the usual red, pink and white rose bushes, colorful climbing roses growing on two white wicker chairs, and green tea roses, my favorite. We would make a bouquet of whatever flowers were in bloom, for me to take home.

Miss Aline’s favorite was her huge spreading azalea bush in the side yard of her house, almost to the front sidewalk. It was beautiful in the spring, after all the pale purple flowers had bloomed, with the pink centers. If you stared at it long enough, it was like looking at the inside of Miss Aline’s kaleidoscope. While the flowers were pretty we would make azalea crowns for both of us to wear, and one for me to take home to put on Mama’s Mary statue.

The only bad thing was that their beauty didn’t last. As soon as the hard South Louisiana spring rains came, the whole azalea bush would fade to ugly clumps of withered brown, with a few green leaves. Miss Aline would always say, “They’re pretty for such a short time, Little Sha, then they are gone, like happiness in life.” Then she would smile and remind me, “But the flowers come back every year.”

As Miss Aline got older, she grew feeble and seemed to shrink. The faded housedresses she wore swallowed her up, and her long blonde/gray braided hair turned white. She would sometimes stare quietly at nothing. One year after the hard rains had once again wilted the azaleas, Miss Aline stood and looked sadly at the bush. I was afraid she was going to cry. This year, she only said, “They’re pretty for such a short time, Little Sha, then they are gone.” She kept looking at the dead flowers and didn’t add that they come back. So I reminded her, “But they come back every year.” Miss Aline only said, “Even trees have to die sometime.”

As I grew up, I stopped visiting Miss Aline so often. I didn’t forget about her, but the summer I turned 14, I also turned thin. (Thanks to dieting on green beans and canned tuna for months.) Boys started calling me and asking me to movies, much to Mama’s dismay. So there was simply not as much time for trips to Miss Aline’s garden. I did stop by every Friday afternoon, to sit on her front porch rocker and tell her about school. On the Friday before Spring Formal, I brought my dress to show her. It was pale blue, shiny brocade, and sleeveless. Miss Aline loved it, “It’s beautiful! That color will look pretty with your dark hair.” I described my white gloves and the silver ribbons I was going to wear in my hair. “Reggie said I would look like a princess,” I told her. (Reggie was one of the boys I had been dating. He was gentle and intellectual and looked like John Denver. Reggie was my favorite of all, but Mama didn’t want me seeing only one boy. Sometimes I still think I made a mistake not holding on to him.)

“Just don’t let that Reggie break your hear, Little Sha. You are too special to be hurt.” Miss Aline looked sad so I changed the subject. “I know. We’ll come over tomorrow before the dance so you can see me all dressed up. The azaleas are still so pretty. We can take pictures over here.” Miss Aline tried to smile but still looked sad. Probably thinking about broken hearts.

When Reggie picked me up for the dance on Saturday evening, we walked across the street to see Miss Aline. It was still light outside, and she struggled down her porch steps to meet us by the azalea bush. She hugged me. “You look so pretty,” she whispered. Reggie agreed with her, “Yes, she’s like a princess, isn’t she?” Miss Aline suddenly looked confused, but responded. “Yes and we need to make her a crown. Come, Little Sha, remember how we used to make flower crowns. Let’s make you one now, while the azaleas are still pretty.” She tied the stems of several of the pale purple flowers with a string she took from her pocket. Miss Aline seemed anxious and confused as she tucked the flowers under my silver hair ribbon. “I’m always afraid they won’t come back, the azaleas, you know.” She looked at Reggie, who, being a kind soul and much influenced by Walt Whitman's poem, Leaves of Grass, smiled and took her hand, “They’ll always come back, Miss Aline, if not as azaleas, then as something else.”

Just then Mama walked up with her Brownie Box camera in hand. “Let’s take a picture of the three of you while it’s still light. Here, stand in front of the azaleas for me, please. Miss Aline, your yard is as lovely as ever. And you look so happy. You must be having a good day. Now everyone smile.”

I still have Miss Aline’s circus plate.

Welcome to Stories of Strong Southern Women!

The act of creating a story is exciting and rewarding, and I write because I love to! So I began this blog to share my stories, and pieces of Louise's life, with you.

I hope you will join me often! I have so many memories...

...Of being 10 years old, bored and sweaty, sitting in Church one Good Friday afternoon for Way of the Cross, and suddenly hearing the joyful sounds of a river boat calliope. And then feeling guilty for enjoying music on Good Friday...

...Of long drives down the River Road every Sunday afternoon to visit two sets of grandparents, with a ferry boat ride across the Mississippi between them. And only Maw-Maw’s house, on the White Castle side, was clean and fun, with good food smells, and a piano.

...Of living through the 1960s with a radical older sister who refused to wear makeup and constantly argued against the Vietnam War with Daddy. They would argue for hours, loudly, and then she would leave with her friends. I always wanted to be brave like her.

...Then there was the time when I was about 14 years old and stuffed the top of my bathing suit with toilet tissue (the women in my family are not overly endowed), only to have the paper dissolve in the public swimming pool and drift upward. I was beyond embarrassed, and still don’t know how I thought that was a good idea! But something of value came from watching those pieces of wet tissue float up from my swim top. I learned it’s best to simply be myself.

Sometimes you just have to be grateful for the good things that do happen.

Thank you for visiting!

Do come back soon, Marina