Old Women and Pink

My daddy had two older sisters. They were 12 and 16 when he was born in Pinckard, Alabama, in 1934. Aunt Betty never married and except for a few years working at Ft. Benning in Georgia and coming home every, single, weekend, she never moved from the house my Daddy King built, where my daddy was born. Aunt Helen married and moved to Pennsylvania until Uncle Dick died, when she came back to live with Aunt Betty. They adored being together in their old age. Aunt Betty was healthy. Aunt Helen had emphysema because Uncle Dick smoked, and she was on oxygen all the time. It didn't slow her down much. She could hustle all over the house with the long hose attached to her nose. 

In the middle of the night on the day of the National Peanut Festival parade in 2001, the house in Pinckard caught on fire. (I don't know if we ever really found out how.) The security system on Aunt Helen's oxygen detected the smoke, and the alarm woke Aunt Betty, age 78, up. (Kings notoriously cannot hear. It is a miracle that she did.) Aunt Betty went into the den and saw the 20-year-old, heavy, floor-length curtains burst into flames. She ran out of the room and into the bedroom that the women shared to wake Aunt Helen, age 82. The only way out of the house was through a window in their bedroom. Aunt Betty was stronger, so she went first. It was farther to the ground than she thought. She fell and broke her arm, then helped her weaker sister out the window. There was a chain-link fence around the backyard, and the gate was locked. A portion of the yard was contained by a cement block wall (that my daddy built when a porch was added in the mid-60s). The two old feisty things—one with a broken arm and one without her oxygen—climbed that wall.

By this time, neighbors had noticed the fire and called 911, so help was on its way. The women were in an ambulance on their way to Flowers Hospital when the fire got to the oxygen tank, and it exploded. The fire found the natural gas line that ran up under the house. It spread "like fire" and destroyed almost everything.  

Their brother, Uncle Buddy, called me later in the morning. He told me they were fine but were going to be in hospital for a couple of days. I went with my family to the parade, sent Chuck home with the children, and went to the hospital to see my aunts. Aunt Betty's arm had been cast. Her face was scorched and blistered. She was mourning her house and grateful to be alive. Aunt Helen, oddly, since she was weaker, fared better. They escaped, as they say, with the clothes on their backs. And those clothes were nightgowns.

I told them that I was going to spend the afternoon shopping for them. I got Uncle Buddy's credit cards, their sizes, and instructions: "We buy our undergarments at the Dollar General." Aunt Betty was a couple of sizes larger than Aunt Helen, even before Aunt Helen started to shrink. I got the bras and panties and other sundries at Dollar General. Then I went to the mall for clothes. It was cool that day, and old women are always cold, so I picked out for each of them a warm, comfortable, let's say "pleasure suit"; jogging suit would be a stretch. I can't remember what color Aunt Betty's was. It might have been pink. Aunt Helen's was red.

I went back to the hospital so proud of all I had accomplished. (My 2 sisters lived elsewhere; Aunt Betty had no children; Aunt Helen's children lived in Maryland and were getting here as fast as they could. I was the only soul out hunting for clothes for those poor creatures who had none.) I proudly displayed the treasures I got for them when I returned to the hospital several hours later. I knew they would love those pretty "jogging" suits. Aunt Betty opened hers, "Thank you so much." Aunt Helen opened her red "jogging suit" and said (drum roll, please), "But I wear pink."

Can't you just hear Scarlett O'Hara saying, "I . . . will . . . nevah . . . wear . . . any color . . . other than pink . . . AGAIN!"

So, I took the clothes back to Parisian. And bought her something pink.

The two old women undertook the rebuilding of the house. It was very similar in layout to the original. Aunt Helen lived about 5 more years. Aunt Betty lived alone for about 5 years after that. They both looked very pretty in their coffins—in pink. Aunt Helen is buried in Pennsylvania next to Uncle Dick. Aunt Betty is buried in the family plot in PINcKard.

Aunt Betty with my children at Uncle Buddy's house. On the back she had written "Day after the fire, Nov 1, 2001."

Don't She Look Na'trul

My sisters and I used to tease Little Granny about getting excited when somebody died, because she had a funeral to attend. Possibly, we were a bit disrespectful, but we were truthful. She loved gathering with Beloveds, especially ones she hadn’t seen in a while. She loved exercising her spiritual gift of cooking and the camaraderie of the women in the kitchen. 

Little Granny always denied loving a funeral, but I’m going to admit it: I love a funeral. 

I might have inherited the trait, because I think Daddy loved funerals, too. Every Christmas when the Dothan High School Concert Choir that he adored sang “Hallelujah Chorus,” he whispered to Mama, “I want them to sing that at my funeral.” He was simply expressing the pure joy that the experience was giving him. He had no idea that Mama would have to make such a call when he was 43 years old, but the DHS principal gave the choir permission to leave school to sing their respects to one of their favorite chaperones.

A few years later, Daddy’s parents (who had been married 72 years) died within 48 hours of each other and had a double funeral. It was a glorious celebration of life and commitment, and it was hard to be sad.

Six of Little Granny’s great-grandchildren (Phillip stayed with a sitter) sang “Amazing Grace” at her ceremony.

Chuck’s Nana worked at McDonald’s for years after she retired from Kimberly-Clark. She would steal Beanie Babies by the handful to give to her great-grandbabies and Elizabeth. They each placed one on the pillow at her visitation as the 8mm movies that she made of her grandchildren with her Brownie movie camera played on the TV in the background. She is buried with a wreath of Beanie Babies around her head.

The funniest funeral I’ve ever been to was for Dr. Wells. We gasped for breath and wiped tears of laughter from our faces that afternoon while Frank and Earl told tale after tale after tale.

Mrs. Woodall’s funeral was pretty funny, too. It was said of her that she was opinionated and often wrong—but never in doubt.

Morris wanted to sing Dr. Driggers’ signature song, “Amazing Grace, How Can It Be?” at the gentle pediatrician's funeral. He was afraid he wouldn’t make it to the end, so he prerecorded it, and we listened to it while we looked at family photos on the big screen.

I’m not sure the word funeral can be used in the description of what I attended for Becky. It was a Gala with a reception. 

Even in the gut-wrenching agony of Brittany and Shep’s funeral, there was laughter and fellowship. When the 2 doves were released at the very end, there was a glimmer of peace. I didn’t want to be anywhere else at that moment.

I’m not going to overly pontificate on this peculiarity of mine. I believe as Granny Blakeslee does in Cold Sassy Tree by Olive Ann Burns, “The dead body was sacred, it having been a house for the mind and soul, and as such it deserved proper respect. ‘A nice funeral is a sort of thank-you.’” I am fascinated by the variety of ways the family chooses to applaud the life of the Guest of Honor, who—except for Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn—doesn’t even get to be there.

Chuck wants “Amazing Grace” played on the bagpipes at the graveyard for his funeral. He says it’s the saddest sound ever, and he wants everybody to be real sad.

Personally, I want my people to party at my obsequy. I want my ashes scattered in the muddy water of the Chattahoochee River at Lake Eufaula, Alabama. (If it’s illegal, I want my Beloveds to do it anyway.) Afterwards, everyone is invited to the King’s Inn on Thomas Mill Creek for Big Doin’s. A descendant of Henry’s (I plan to be here for a while yet) is going to fry some catfish. Instead of flowers or a donation, bring a dish (homemade not store-bought). I'll be parting this world with a potluck!! Bring your quilts and lay them on the ground to recline on for the festivities, including a Gospel Guitar Pickin’. Be prepared to sing “Pow’r in the Blood,” “In the Sweet By and By,” “When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder” and, of course, “Amazing Grace.” Everyone will laugh loudly and discuss my rapier wit, stunning beauty, intuitive fashion sense, and humble spirit.

It’s gonna be a super send-off. A fine farewell.

'Til Death Do Us Part. Or Maybe Not.

Given the opportunity for time travel, I’d set the destination on the DeLorean for New Brockton, Alabama, 1917. I would spy on my paternal grandparents’ courtship. He was 23 when they married. The US had just entered WWI. I don’t know why he wasn’t fighting in Europe. I think she was kind of an old maid. She was 21.

I wonder what they saw in each other. My little girl memories of her are kind but unsmiling. I remember him as playful. I think her daddy had a little money. I always heard that my great-granddaddy King never had any money, just a passel of rowdy redheaded offspring.

They raised 4 children: 2 girls, then a decade later, 2 boys. They built a house and a business. They buried a son. He was grown with children of his own, but I can't imagine that diminished their tears.

They were 38 and 40 when my daddy was born. They were 68 and 70 when I was born. They were the same age as my maternal great-grandparents—an entire generation older than Mama’s parents. They were always old to me. My sisters and I felt we had to behave at their house, despite the twinkle in Daddy King’s eyes.

I was in the 11th grade in 1982 and going away for the weekend with my church youth group when Mama King had her first stroke. I asked Mama if I should stay home. She told me to go. She said she would come get me if I needed to come home. I didn’t. Mama King stayed in a vegetative state for years. She stayed at home with Daddy King, Aunt Betty, and a couple of sitters caring for her. Aunt Helen came from Pennsylvania frequently and stayed for long periods of time. Mama King was in and out of the hospital a lot.

Angie got married. Starla got married. I got married. Daddy King gave all 3 of us away. Justin and Jordan Lee were born. Daddy King grew old waiting for Mama King to die. She was a lady, and she didn’t like public displays of affection. So, now that she couldn’t fuss at him (“Oh . . . Charles!”), he couldn’t keep his hands off of her. He petted her and kissed her and sweet-talked her.

She finally died on a Sunday night in March in 1989. I lived in Birmingham. I left mid-afternoon on Tuesday to get to Holman Funeral Home in Headland in time for visitation that evening. I stopped to get gas and spilled some on my dress. It smelled so strong that I decided to go on to Mama’s house and wait until the funeral the next day to see Daddy King.

Daddy King went to bed with a relieved—but broken—heart and did not wake up the next morning. Mama King’s funeral on Wednesday was postponed to Friday, until Daddy King’s body could be prepared. We went again to Holman Funeral Home in Headland on Thursday evening for Daddy King’s “viewing.” Someone had put a box of Whitman's Sampler chocolates under his arm. I unconsciously touched his hand and recoiled at the coldness of it.

After 72 years of marriage, he evidently decided he could not or would not live without her. He loved her and took care of her until his job was done. They had a double funeral at Pinckard Baptist Church. It was sweeter and more joyful than a wedding. It remains one of my all-time favorite days.

Aunt Helen, Aunt Betty, my daddy, Mama King, Daddy King, Uncle Buddy

An Open Letter to the Individual Parts of My 48-Year-Old Face

To my "dirty dishwater blonde" hair, 

Thank you for staying with me this long. Only a few of you have given in to the grey-er side. My friends tell me that you’re a cost-effective blessing.

To my wrinkled brow, 

I wouldn’t look like me without you.

To my disappearing eyebrows, 

Any idea how soon I can expect to be drawing you in?

To my circles under my eyes, 

I think you make me look older than I am and tired-er than I feel. Then I remember the sleepless nights with three babies, including a set of twins and one who just wanted to be held. And I remember the tears as we buried Daddy then Mama then Granny then Nana then Mok. And I remember the stress from Chuck’s 3 shoulder surgeries and Emma’s 3 jaw surgeries and Aunt Betty’s 3 week-long hospitalizations and follow-up trips to rehab in one year. Then I think, yup, you are just about the right shade of purple.

To my pug nose, 

Why, you’re just as cute as you’ve ever been!

To the 2 acne scars on the same place on either side of my face, 

Did I literally turn the other cheek?

To my large teeth, 

Sweet tea and Diet Coke--not age--have yellowed you, and that is all my fault. However, without those 2 vices in my life, I probably would have ground you to dust by now.

To the 2 little hairs that grow on the right side of my chin, 

I play with you when you need plucking, and that reminds me of Mama and the way she played with her 2 little hairs in the same place with her thumb, too.

To my mistreated skin, 

Oh, how I abused you as a teenager, and you have not paid me back with too many wrinkles and dark spots yet. Please forgive me for not sunscreening. I don’t know why I thought a sunburned face and flaky skin was so darn cute.

To my flabby neck, 

I hate your stinkin’ guts. I will have you surgically tightened and toned just as soon as financially possible. I hope to goodness that you are not in my children’s wedding pictures. 

My head shot as a contestant in the 1972 Little Miss Dothan Pageant.

My head shot as a contestant in the 2013 Mother Who Thinks She Is Funny, But She Is So Not Funny Pageant.

Say It Ain't So

After the Northview football game, during the week of the National Peanut Festival in 11^th grade, the year we won the state championship (I think it was the Dothan High game, but it could have been Enterprise or the first round of the playoffs; regardless, a BIG game and we WON), a crowd of us spent the night with Dana. We had her mother’s permission to go to Midnight Madness at the fair. I didn’t ask Mama’s permission, because I knew she wouldn’t let me go. I kinda just didn’t mention it and crossed my fingers. It was very important for my social standing that I be there. And it was a lot of fun.

In college, I didn’t always wear a slip with my sundresses. I would tell my roomies, “Don’t tell Starla.” 

Whenever my elementary school neighbor and BFF Becky Byrd came to my house to play, she ALWAYS asked for a drink of water. Mama told me not to ask for things when I went to a friend’s house to play, and it greatly annoyed me that Becky was thirsty all the time. So, one time, I told her that she had to memorize all the verses of “Amazing Grace” before I would get her some water. AND SHE DID IT! I would have hopped on my 10-speed and slung my hair the whole way home if she had required the same of me. But she was much nicer than I was. And she liked to play with me, so it was kinda her fault, too.

I broke Rule #4. I kissed Chuck in the laundry room at Lake Forest Ranch.

I cried when I heard Princess Diana died. I sent Chuck and the 2 three-year-olds to the Conner family reunion in Mississippi without me and stayed home and watched the funeral all by myself. I had gotten up at 3:00 am for her wedding, so I was invested.

When I was 6 years old, my family went to Homecoming and Dinner on the Ground with my grandparents at Pinckard Baptist Church. In Sunday school, the teacher asked all the children how old they were. EVERYBODY was older than I was. When the teacher asked me, I said, “Seven.” I was immediately overcome with fright (not guilt). I couldn’t sit still in Big Church for fretting that the teacher was going to come to my parents at lunch and say, “I can’t believe that Celeste is already SEVEN!”

“She’s not 7; she’s 6.”

“Well, she told us in Sunday school that she is 7.”

“Young Lady! YOU LIED IN SUNDAY SCHOOL?!?!”

I fretted every time I went back to church there—until I turned 7. To this day, I’m not a very good liar. I wish I could say it was the condition of my heart, but actually, it’s just too stressful.

And then there was the time that a bird flew over and pooped right on Evelyn’s head. She was squealing for me to get the poop out of her hair when Becky Byrd rode up on her bike. I told her it was whipped cream and asked her to get it out. Of course, she did.

I color in coloring books . . . a lot . . . with Sharpies. My daughters don’t mind that I color, but they think it’s a sacrilege that I use markers.

I never owned Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors, but I did own Andy Gibb's Shadow Dancing. 

A few years ago, when my children were in the same elementary school together and I still drove a van, I dropped them off at school and headed to Chickfila for a biscuit and sweet tea. I got rear-ended merging onto the Circle. During morning rush hour traffic, I had to get out of my car when the police got there to check my bumper. I had on my flannel rubber-ducky jammies.

I’m a little in love with Alton Brown, the nerdy chef on Food Network. I used to love Mike Rowe from Dirty Jobs and Deadliest Catch, but I’m so over him.

Mama’s first cousin, Sue Ann, tied a little girl to the railroad tracks by the sashes of her dress just because she was pretty. I wish I could lay claim to that story. I bet Becky Byrd sure is glad that I can’t.

The summer after Chuck and I got married, we went to Amelia Island with Mark and Jordan for several days. We used the time share with her dad’s work. While the boys golfed one afternoon, the girls shopped, and . . . I bought a bikini. It was really more of a two-piece, but my belly button showed:

[I] was afraid to come out of the locker.

[I] was as nervous as [I] could be.
[I] was afraid to come out of the locker.
[I] was afraid that somebody would see.

I never wore it in public.