The Same

Oh, how I love the familiar.

I raised my children in the house that Daddy built for Mama, the house where they raised my sisters and me. My children played on the same monkey bars at the same elementary school that I attended, and we all graduated (or will graduate) from the same high school. We swam at the same pool, but it doesn’t have a high dive anymore. We worship at the same church.

I don’t rearrange my furniture and rarely even change out pictures. I wear the same clothes two days in a row, if I’m not going to see anyone that I saw yesterday. I do the laundry mostly on Mondays and try to work on the checkbook on Fridays. I keep my grocery list on the kitchen table with the Disney pen beside it. Under force of my offspring, I only recently laid my beloved flip phone to rest and upgraded to a cursed iPhone. I despise when folks get new vehicles, because I can’t recognize them in carpool line or on the Circle.

I’m not opposed to Different. As a matter of fact, I like for my friends to embrace the Different; that way, I can experience the excitement of the Different vicariously. And when my people need to be comforted by some Sameness, they can give me a call.

Life overwhelms at times and hearts break.

And the sun rises and the sun sets. And the Conners eat Sunday dinner at the Chinese Birthday with the Ramseys and the Youngbloods (yeah, I meant to say Birthday) and go home for MSG-induced naps. And I drink a Diet Coke before handbell practice.

And babies run fevers and barky cough all night long.

And the sun rises and the sun sets. And the Byrd reunion is the last Saturday in July. And I will fry cornbread.

And parents die. Or worse, get confused.

And the sun rises and the sun sets. And for a dozen years, family vacation was the week of fall break: to Disney in the even years and to Somewhere Else in the odd.

And sleep evades the small business owner during a sluggish economy.

And the sun rises and the sun sets. And we go to the lake for Thanksgiving, where we watch all three Charlie Brown holiday specials (It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown; A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving; A Charlie Brown Christmas), and we craft. (We gathered with the King Family in Pinckard on the Saturday before Thanksgiving and with the Conners in Memphis every other year, until Aunt Betty and Mok and Nana died.)

And pancreases quit working. And sugar spikes and plummets.

And the sun rises and the sun sets. And King Cousins smack-talk each other in a fierce gingerbread-house decorating contest at the Spencers’ at some point during the holiday season.

And friends move away.

And the sun rises and the sun sets. And we celebrate at the Christmas Eve candlelight service at church and stay in our jammies the entirety of Christmas Day. We eat the Memphis BBQ that Papa Chuck sent and nap to the Disney Christmas Parade.

And loved ones divorce.

And the sun rises and the sun sets. And the lake friends congregate for Michael’s Firework Extravaganza and ring in the New Year as the ball drops in New York City. The party breaks up at 11:05—but our phones usually pick up Georgia time anyway.

And grandparents’ houses burn.

And the sun rises and the sun sets. And the same lake friends assemble for an Easter egg hunt during spring break, even though most of the kids are in their teens now, and as of next spring, the oldest two won’t even be teenagers.

And shoulders have to be replaced. And replaced again.

And the sun rises and the sun sets. And Mr. Eidson greets at the Troy Street entrance at First Baptist Church, and Mrs. Sansom puts ice in the glasses for Wednesday Night Family Supper, and until the last couple of years, Mrs. Tolleson sat in her little cubby and took up money.

And the jaw won’t stop hurting, no matter the lengths to fix it.

And the sun rises and the sun sets. And birthdays are celebrated at the Japanese restaurant, preferably with Joe as chef.

And a brand-new, tacky, purple Relax Inn sign supplants the old, treasured Pine Lake Motel sign.

And the sun rises and the sun sets. 

My friend Laurel Griffith probably paints her bedroom twice a year. She welcomes The Different. Read what she has to say about that at http://laureljoycegriffith.com/feels-like-home/.)

 

Byrds of a Feather

Lovey LouEmma Andrews was 13 when she married 15-year-old Henry Isom Byrd. I was 4 years old when she died. I don’t remember her, but folks say her name fit her. She was my mama’s mama’s mama. My mama told me she sat at Mama Byrd’s bedside after her stroke and prayed that she could be a woman like Mama Byrd.

Daddy Byrd was a circuit-riding Primitive Baptist preacher. (His daddy, John Curtis Byrd, lost an arm in the Civil War.) Folks say he was a good man with a fiery temper. Mama Byrd would fret when he got angry and say, “Now, Hon.” Josie Bell, his baby, could always talk her way out of trouble with him.

They birthed 11 children. Eight lived to adulthood. Coy was murdered as a young man. The other 7 lived to old age: 2 men (both called Brother by their adoring sisters), 5 women (all called Granny by their adoring grandchildren. United, they were the Granny Squad.)

The Granny Squad was scattered from Gadsden to Tampa, but they congregated several times a year, mainly to argue about what to eat. They liked to go to the beach together. They went to the mountains a time or two. They went to Disney World soon after EPCOT opened.

“Did we eat in Mexico?”

“No, it was China. Don’t you remember the pretty girls?”

“No, it wasn’t! I think it was Mexico.”

Their favorite thing to argue about was the reunion. Mama Byrd wanted her family together once a year. She knew other family obligations pulled during the holidays, so she established the Saturday before the second Sunday in August as Byrd Reunion Day. And they argued about that. Don’t assume that the Saturday before the second Sunday in August is the second Saturday. Most of the time that’s true, but if August 1st falls on Sunday, then the Saturday before the Second Sunday is the first Saturday. Clear as gravy?

The reunion was held at Mama and Daddy Byrd’s house until their deaths in 1970, when the Granny Squad decided that each of the Byrd children would take a turn hosting: first Uncle Cecil then Aunt Gladys then Aunt Mattie then Aunt Mary then Aunt Effie then Uncle Johnny then Aunt Jo then back to Uncle Cecil. The host would bring the fried chicken, the paper goods, and the drinks. Everybody else would bring a side dish. Or 2. Or 3. However, no matter how much was brought, the Grannies fretted that we were not going to have enough to eat.

The first few years after Mama and Daddy Byrd’s deaths, the family gathered at the rec center in Enterprise. A couple of times, we met at a room in the Newton library. At about the same time, Lanell’s family and Aunt Jo’s family each purchased a house at Lake Eufaula. We have gone back and forth between the two houses for more than 3 decades. I am certain that we will be still be assembling there when Jesus comes back. (Actually, He really should take the Byrd reunion into consideration when deciding upon which day to make His reappearance.)

Since school starts earlier now, we backed up the date to the end of July. (In 2011 and 2012, there were 5 Saturdays in July. Was it supposed to be held the 4th Saturday in July or the LAST Saturday in July? Reckon we’ll ever get the kinks worked out?) The day is standard:

·        We begin to flock about 11.

·        We fret about there not being enough food.

·        Billy Brown and Jimmy May start griping about “When are we gonna eat?!”

·        We go outside and form a circle.

·        The host welcomes everybody.

·        We talk about who has died.

·        And who was born.

·        We discuss whose “time” it is next year.

·        We remember how much we loved Mama and Daddy Byrd.

·        We sing “Amazing Grace.”

·        We hold hands and pray.

·        We take a group picture.

·        Billy Brown and Jimmy May knock little children down to get to the front of the line.

We have sung "Amazing Grace" at the graveside of both Brothers and all but one of the Granny Squad. We cling to the baby Josie Bell, our beloved Aunt Jo. The hosts of the reunion are now the grandchildren of Mama and Daddy Byrd, except in Aunt Gladys’s family. Since Lanell died young-ish, the mantel of host has passed to the great grandchildren of Isom and Lovey. Mama and Daddy Byrd have a few GREAT-GREAT-GREAT grandchildren, at least two who are unborn. The firstborn of that generation attended her first reunion last July.

In 2009, we celebrated the 100th anniversary of the wedding of Isom and Lovey. There are at least 150 living Byrds, including spouses. There are usually around 50 people who show up to eat and laugh--and maybe cry--together every summer. In the youngest generation of the descendants of the Brothers, there are only 5 with the surname Byrd, and 4 are female.  We have only one Byrd left with the chance to carry on the name. But we are all Byrds.

More than 40 years after the deaths of Isom and Lovey Byrd, their people still gather. We know each other. We love each other. And there is always enough food.

Remember the days of old; consider the generations long past. Ask your father and he will tell you, your elders, and they will explain to you. Deuteronomy 32:7

This was the first reunion, held in 1959 in honor of Mama and Daddy Byrd's 50th wedding anniversary. They are in the center. He has on a jacket and tie. She has on a white dress.

Aunt Jo is to the left of center, the pretty one with the black and white jacket. This was taken at her lake house in 2012.

A Conversation

I ponder about my Blabberings a lot. I wonder if it’s good writing or just good fun. Good fun is good enough; but good writing is even better: the icing on the cake, the cherry on top, the cat’s pajamas.

Maybe it is good writing, but so what? What can I do with it? Could I earn any money? Abby craves a trip to Europe. Emma wants a big ole wedding one day. Phillip needs a car on June 2, 2014 (First World need, noted).

I think best when I’m in the bathtub (My sister, Angie, will call and say, “I need some advice. Have you bathed yet today?"), so I took a shower. I heard the Holy Spirit whisper, “Contact Laurel Griffith.”

“Who?”

“You heard me.”

“Say it again, just so I can make sure I heard correctly.”

“Laurel (pause) Griffith.” (He kinda enunciated the consonants.)

“The Sunday school teacher?”

“Yup.” (Sometimes God says, “Yup” to me when I’m acting a tad hard headed.)

“Lord, I like her and all, but . . . .”

“Mercy, you do go on.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Send her a Facebook message.”

“You know about Facebook?”

“Stop talking now, Celeste.”

So, I got out of the tub, wrapped a towel around my head and another around my torso and headed to the Facebook.

I saw my fingers type this:

Hey—

I want to pick your busy brain for a second, as I like to do.

Do you have any idea what I can do with this ability to ramble that I have? I have been having a blast with my Blabberings blog, and if that's all that I do, that's great. But I need to earn some money, and I need to figure out what the next stage of my life is going to be.

Do you have any suggestions? (Feel free to say "No" or "Go away, Celeste.") I thought of you because you have always written and often see things others don't see . . . and because you published a magazine and a book that I can't wait to get my hands on.

Ever the pest,

Celeste

I’m sure I won’t hear anything back from her. She’s busy blogging and preparing her lesson for Sunday. 

(You can get ideas for your own SS lesson at http://laureljoycegriffith.com/a-conversation/.)

Silence Is Golden, So I've Heard

I can’t think of a thing to blog about. After all that time promoting myself as having a lot to say, I’m plumb out of ideas. I have blown all my steam. I am dumbstruck. I am bumfuzzled.

Stumped.  

Why would I keep writing when I am out of words? I know I don’t like to listen to the woman seated next to me at the doctor’s office when she clearly has nothing to say, yet she cannot hush. She just goes on and on and on. I nod and feign interest. And mentally make my grocery list. I don’t want to be like that. I don’t want to bore my four friends.

Pointless.

I’ve written about my sisters and my children and my daddy, and Lord knows, I have milked the Pinckard Cow dry. So, that’s it. That’s all she wrote. (HAHAHAHA! Heavens, I do think I’m funny. But I don’t think anybody else does. They’re all just humoring me. HAHAHAHAHA!)

Rambling.

“Enough is as good as a feast,” Mary Poppins said. I think King Solomon said something like, “Hush occasionally.” I have never cared for the book of James that wants me to guard my tongue. Or fingers, as it were.

Clueless.

It’s not that I don’t know how or when to be quiet. I do. I have watched other people do it for years. Like Mama always said, “If you don’t have anything to say, don’t say anything at all.” That might have been Forrest Gump’s mama. Regardless, it is good advice that I frequently adhere to, especially when Chuck claps his hands at me and says, “Man version!”

Uninspired.

So, I will just sit here in silence. No tap, tap, tapping on the keyboard. No chuckles to myself. “Blessed are the quiet” is a Beatitude, I think. That’s me.

Speechless.