Mighty Girls Do Mighty Things

 My grandparent's house had the guest room and the children's room. The guest room was shadowy and spooky, with a creepy picture of my grandfather when he was 2, in the little white dress and patent shoes that were fashionable in 1912. It also had the "new" cherry furniture and was strictly off limits. The children's room though -  it was a wonderland. A four poster bed we were NOT to jump on, but had the softest sheets and a bedspread with the neatest little fuzzy ball trim. There was a window unit Grandmama turned on when we slept that made it an igloo. You slept the deepest, bestest sleep of your life snuggled in that bed, woken only by the smell of homemade waffles and the whomp whomp whomp of Grandmama whipping the batter in the blue Pyrex bowl that was ONLY used for waffle batter. 

After waffles and orange juice in Scooby Doo jelly glasses, back to the children's room where there were baskets of toys and shelves of games and books. There were sliding doors that opened onto a massive backyard that was made for adventure. So many escapades in that little 12X12 room, most of them inspired by Nancy Drew. Emily and I spent hours reading those books. Grandmama had slowly acquired the entire set as well as the entire Hardy Boys.  I'm not sure if she intentionally gave us access to books that empowered young girls to not only use, but speak their minds. After all, we already had her and our mother modeling that. But boy - did those books influence me and my sister. Long live Nancy, Bess, and George.

https://www.facebook.com/amightygirl/photos/a.360833590619627/3311963592173264

Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing

I dreamed of my mother last night. 

My sister and I pulled up to a pump at a gas station/restaurant, like the ones we stopped at when we made those epic journeys across the southeast in the 80s and 90s. The passenger side door of the car at the pump in front of us swings open. “We already have gas in the car, Joe. We don’t need anymore,” the woman says. She has light brown hair with glints of auburn. It’s almost to her shoulders, in spiral curls that are half perm, half natural. She’s slim, in seersucker shorts that show off amazing calves tucked into white Keds. She turns and smiles at me. 

My heart stops. I run to her and try to hug her, but I can’t. My eyes start to burn and my lip quivers. “Don’t cry.,” she says in the voice I would recognize across time and space. “I know you love me.” She looks over my shoulder at Emily. “Be careful what you say. You’re the only one who can see me.” We walk, side by side, into the diner. 

Then I woke up. 

Some people say grief is like a series of tidal waves, crashing over you, then the waves soften,  eventually becoming still. I have found grief is more like a lazy river, slowly eroding the ground beneath me until I suddenly plummet into a deep, dark pool that seems to have no light and no bottom. The pressure pushes me further down, a weight so unbearable I feel as if I’ll never breathe again.

Then I hear my mother’s voice and my head breaks above the surface and I can breathe.  

Time as an abstract

It’s a hazy time in my memory - the early 80s. My parents were splitting up - and getting back together - and splitting up again. I spent a lot of time with my head in a book, sitting on the green carpet of the bedroom I shared with my sister, leaning against the twin bedspread my mother made for me. Green gingham with white eyelet trim, a cursive “A” lovingly stitched on the side; it’s doppelganger across the room emblazoned with an “E” for Emily. The white shutters my mother painted and installed on our windows let in beams of Louisiana sun that hit the matching pillow shams in rigid lines. The desk that matched the white bedroom suite my mother bought in installments from Dixie Furniture sat under the window that faced Mr. Poole’s house. Its drawers held stationary we used to write letters to Grandmama Butler in Oak Grove, home of magical rolls, biscuits, and tomatoes. Everything was very organized - everything had its place. A small, brown radio sat in its place on the upper left corner of the desk, a gift from our Auntie and Uncle B. Auntie, our Grandmama’s baby sister, had recently died a horrific death from cancer. A death so traumatic Mama wouldn’t let us visit her in the hospital, even though we loved Auntie almost as much as we loved Grandmama. Everytime I turned on the radio, I thought of Auntie.

It was an A.M. radio - so the only “good” station was KMLB. Every Saturday, I tuned in to hear Casey Kasem’s American Top 40. One Saturday, I was laying on that ugly green carpet, trying to ignore my life and family tearing itself apart, watching the dust drift through the sunbeams, and Casey mentioned a new band with an interesting name that was getting noticed. They weren’t on the charts yet - but look out for them. Then he played “Radio Free Europe.” I sat up and turned up the radio as loud as it would go. I may have blown the speaker.I waited, and waited, to hear that song again. I called and requested it. Nope. I guess it was too weird for Monroe, Louisiana, in 1981.

Fast forward and I’m living in Georgia in the mid-80s, not too far from Athens, actually. I knew R.E.M. was from the area but still didnt’ hear them on the radio. I just assumed they never made it. Then, someone’s brother who was a freshman at UGA forgot a mixtape one weekend which found its way to the high school. There they were. R.E.M. Bolt of lightning. Most of the songs were off Life’s Rich Pageant, which some consider a delineator in R.E.M.’s discography - the boundary between “good” R.E.M. and “new” R.E.M. I just thought it was awesome. My senior year, R.E.M. finally broke out of the college radio scene and hit the mainstream with The One I Love. That Chistams, December, 1987, Melissa gave me a cassette of Document. I still have it somewhere.

The closest I’ve ever had to an epiphany moment with music was on that lazy Saturday afternoon in 1981, hiding from the world in my room, with my radio. R.E.M.’s sound was different, so new compared to everything else at that time. I found solace and inspiration in their music. They were my Beatles, in a way, the soundtrack to my adolescence and young adulthood, when my world was turning inside out. They were nostalgic, poetic, intellectual. They reveled in ambiguity and were unabashedly political. It’s hard to pick a favorite song by R.E.M., but this is in my top five. And I do believe the poles are shifting. And change is what I believe in.

Provided to YouTube by Universal Music Group I Believe · R.E.M. Life's Rich Pageant ℗ 1986 Capitol Records, LLC Released on: 1986-01-01 Producer, Associated ...

We can't wait for June

It was the summer of the turtle. 1986. My siblings and I were staying at our Mimi and Papa’s because there wasn’t enough room for all of us at Daddy’s house.  My sister had just gotten her license. Daddy would sometimes let us borrow his truck – which was really just a conveyance for fish, fishing supplies, and newspaper crossword puzzles – to go cruising. We’d hit all the hot spots – Pecanland Mall. Forsythe Park, the Cracker Barrell at the corner of 18^th and Forsythe to replenish our Diet Cokes. We had one cassette for the tape deck which we blasted with windows down (Daddy was still too cheap to get AC in a vehicle at this point – I think he finally caved in 2002.)

I turned Sweet 16 that summer at Mimi and Papa’s – it was a beautiful beginning to one of the best years of my life. Every time I hear the Beach Boys, I remember cruising in that Mazda truck with Emily, watching out for the kooks, and enjoying being young and free.

Been A Long Time Coming

As I was walking through my neighborhood this afternoon, some one had written "This too shall pass" is vibrant chalk on their retaining wall. As I read it, the opening strains of Bob Dylan's "Times They are A Changin'" streamed through my earphones. It was an uplifting moment.
Which got me thinking on what song I would post today. I love music so there are a lot of options but the one I decided upon has special significance to me.
My parents loved Same Cooke. I mean LOVED Sam Cooke. "Their" song was "You Send Me." I grew up thinking all people loved Sam Cooke as much as my parents. Shockingly, some people don't know who he is.
He was more than a suave crooner who served as background music for my parents courtship. He was a groundbreaking force in the music industry. Cooke wanted all black artists, including himself, to reap the benefits of their work and artistry. He created his own record label, a daring move for a black man in Jim Crow America, and soon followed up with a publishing company and management arm. He set a precedent that helped others successfully navigate a complicated and often exploitative business.
He used his celebrity and acceptance in white circles as a platform to advance the civil rights movement. He funneled money to causes; he mentored other artists, encouraging them to do the same. He embraced all voices including Malcolm X and Muhammad Ali.
What Cooke would have accomplished, where he would have led, had he lived we'll never know. But in this time of crisis, his swan song is more poignant and piercing than ever. A Change Is Gonna Come.

Seeing Things Real

In an effort to not be a Cassandra 24/7, I'm going to start sharing songs and artists that always make me smile or have other special significance to me. I'm going to start with the song Brian and I danced to at our wedding.
A little backstory - when Brian and I started dating, I was obsessed with a song called Blow Me Up by Will and the Bushmen. Brian had a bootleg of the album and "lent" it to me. I loved that cassette. Brian kept telling me he knew the band and I kept telling him he was a liar. When he introduced me to Will a few months later at The Dock in Jackson, it was one of the few times I've ever been speechless.
Fast forward a couple of years and Brian and I are getting married. Will graciously agreed to play our reception. When he asked what he should play for our dance, I insisted on this song. He didn't get it - but he did it. So here it is, the oddest wedding song ever. Like Laughing by Will and the Bushmen.