Never the Same

Early in 1976, Daddy came home and said to Mama, “I bought something today.”

“Uh oh.”
 “It’s not for us. It’s for our grandkids.” (His daughters were 10, 16, and 19.)
 “Uh oh.”
 “I bought that lake cabin.”

He had a wooden sign made that said, “The King’s Inn” and hung it over the fireplace (the placement of the apostrophe bothers me), and he and Mama set about teaching our friends to ski. He drove the boat, and Mama floated with a ski belt and held the skis together. They were patient. They were relentless. Mama would nag a reluctant kid to try until the kid’s only choice was to make an attempt just to hush her. And you might as well get up, because there was no quitting, even if you cried. Especially if you cried.

“How are you, Phil?”
“Man, if things get any better, I’m gonna grow hair!”

Daddy worked in the family business building church pews from the time he was yay-high until 1972 or 73. There was family drama that I was too young to understand, and Daddy left to start his own business with Mama as his secretary, office manager, Girl Friday: Phillip King Church Interiors. He was the middle man for pew cushions, baptisteries, stain glass windows, etc. His CB handle was Circle City Steeple Man. Most of his business was in Birmingham and Mobile. He received a letter from a pastor in Mobile asking for some literature. At the bottom of the letter, the man hand wrote “P.S. Are you the Phillip King from Pinckard? I used to pastor there.” As a matter of fact, he was. This man was the preacher who baptized Daddy when he was a 16-year-old new believer.

“How are you, Phil?”
“Man, if things get any better, the Lord’s gonna have to take me Home!”

Sometime in the afternoon on Wednesday, April 5, 1978, Daddy met with the preacher and his wife at the pastoream in Mobile about redecorating their church. They caught up on Pinckard gossip, conducted their meeting, and said their goodbyes. Daddy walked to his Suburban then came back and rang the doorbell. He told the preacher, “Call an ambulance. I think I’m having a heart attack.” Daddy died in the arms of the man who baptized him all those years before.

He was 43. The King Girls were 12, 19, and 21.

Mrs. Lynn finally found me with my girlfriends in the bathroom at church, skipping whatever activity we were supposed to be participating in. Obviously flustered, she said, “You’ve got to go home; there’s something wrong with your daddy.” Angie was there, so we rode home together. Starla was in Auburn, and her roommate drove her to Dothan that night. Our preacher announced it at prayer meeting, and for the entire service, they wept together and prayed for our family.

The Dothan High School Concert Choir that Mama and Daddy adored sang the Hallelujah Chorus at his funeral. Dr. Driggers played the brand new piano in the sanctuary publicly for the first time. Always composed, Dr. Marsh choked on his words once and stopped speaking for a few seconds to catch his breath. At the graveside, we sang, “Let’s just praise the Lord, praise the Lord. Let’s just lift our hearts toward Heaven and praise the Lord.”

Back at the house, Mrs. Andrews tore up the piano, and everybody sang and laughed. The frivolity angered Little Granny.

It was the most significant day of my life; not to diminish my wedding or the births of my children, but you’re "supposed to" get married and have babies. Actually, day-to-day life didn’t change that much. Mama continued to dabble in church furnishings. I went to the college of my choice and even spent a semester in London. I had a big ole church wedding. My BFF Earl Pitman walked me down the aisle, and Daddy King “stood up with me,” as he said. 

We still own the lake cabin that my children and my sisters’ children like to point out was bought for them in the first place, and the King’s Inn sign still hangs over the fireplace . . . . However, life has always had an underlying sadness to it. Mama was never the same. She grieved for the next 22 years. I have no doubt that her perpetual grief contributed to her confusion and early death at 65 years old.

I am beyond grateful that I had a great daddy for 12 years. I get that. I grasp that some people crave to have for a few minutes what I had from conception. Knowing that doesn’t erase the sadness—that, of course, has eased—yet is always lurking. Chuck had to ask Mama for her blessing on our marriage. Daddy is not here to teach my Phillip to fish or to whisper to my girls separately, as he did to his own daughters, that each is prettier than the other and his favorite.

I have lived back in Dothan since 1999. Not a year has gone by that I have not heard, “Your parents taught me to ski!” My family lives in the house that Daddy built. (When I say built, I don’t mean called the contractor. I mean, he took 6 months or so off of work and poured the concrete and hammered the nails and laid the brick. Mr. Chapman and Shuck from King Church Furniture Manufacturing Company helped him, and a one-armed man built the stone fireplace.) We moved in to take care of Mama after she got confused. Mama was an only child, and Granny was still living. She moved in with Starla and her family for 3 years. She spent one year in a nursing home. She died days after her 89th birthday, 10 months after her daughter.

I enjoy something about every day. I let my children cry to me about a bad day, and then I say, “Tell me something good about it.” I can always find a silver lining. Maybe it’s an inherent gift. Maybe it’s my birth order. Maybe it’s because I learned about the preciousness and the fragility of life while still so very young.

April 5th never sneaks up on me. I always know it's coming. But the azaleas and the dogwoods are blooming.

Reese's Poop

Life holds delicious mysteries for mankind to dissect and debate. Often, we prefer stories for which the answers seem to be lost to history. Who built Stonehenge and why? Do Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster exist? Was Atlantis real? What happened to Jimmy Hoffa? Did Wilson eat the poop?

Wait . . . I better back up.

The Annual Lake Friends Spring Break Easter Egg Extravaganza didn’t begin as tradition. Most traditions don’t set out to be traditions. During spring break more than a decade ago, it was a just pretty day at Lake Eufaula, and it was too cold to swim. The three mommies had nine children under 10 years old. One of the mommies said, “I have some plastic eggs in the cabin. Why don’t we hide them?”

Throughout the years, we have accumulated, broken, and lost dozens of eggs. Currently, about 200 mostly mismatched eggs reside in an old, large, pink plastic bag from Leon’s women’s dress shop at Porter Square Mall. In black ink that matches the handles, words on it boast, “If it’s from Leon’s, it has quality.”

While hiding the eggs each spring, a mommy finds an arrow that was lost the previous summer during target practice. While gathering the arrows every summer, a kid finds an Easter egg that was overlooked the previous spring. Scout the Labradoodle must be locked up while the eggs are out, because he likes to hunt them, too.

We have entertained a guest or two almost every year. Being our guest is an advantage, much as being an extra on Star Trek was a disadvantage. Odds were high that the extra on the Star Trek episode would be killed. Odds were pretty good that the guest at our Easter egg hunt would find the golden egg. Odds were astronomical that the only two stinky boys in our group would throw temper tantrums when the guest found the golden egg.

I’m digressing.

One by one (with the exception of the twins), the children turned into teenagers. Two spring breaks ago, to make the hunt less childish, we held it at nighttime. We don’t have much outside lighting at our cabin, so the kids needed flashlights. Even the stinky boys thought it was fun, whether they would admit it or not, and were finally too old to throw temper tantrums over the golden egg--at least out loud.

One of the stinky boys, Wilson, is a middle child, sandwiched in birth order between girls. One or both of his sisters hates him at all times. For a reason no one remembers, it was the younger sister, SB, who hated him on this particular day. She wanted to play a trick on him. She thought it would be funny to put rabbit pellets (from Emma’s furry friend, Caspian T. Bunny) into an egg and drop it in his bag. (We always use high-quality Walmart bags as “baskets.”) She enlisted the assistance of her parents, who were mischievous enough to help her do it. Her dad was actually the one who deposited the poop-filled egg in Wilson’s “basket.”

After the hunt, everyone gathered at the picnic table to count eggs and to see what treasures they had picked up. When Wilson opened the egg with the poop in it, he wondered out loud what was in it and tossed it into his mouth. The horrified and thrilled crowd silently gasped and held back giggles as he chewed.

“How did it taste?” Wilson’s dad asked.

“Grassy,” Wilson told us.

SB tore into the house. The screen door slammed behind her.

Her mama went to check on her. She was terrified. Wilson was going to kill her this time for sure. He had eaten bunny poop, and everyone had watched him. He was going to be furious and humiliated. Her well-laid plans were much more fun to plot than to carry out. What had she been thinking?! What torture would she have to endure for this?! What paybacks was she going to reap?!

The Easter egg hunt was over. SB cried all the way back to their cabin.

This took place on the second Friday of spring break. The next day, the three families packed up, cleaned up, and went home.

On Sunday morning, Emma found SB at church to see if she was okay, to see what Wilson knew, to see what damage he had done to his little sister.

SB told Emma that Wilson was not angry. She said her parents told him of the plan in advance. She said they exchanged the poop with Reese’s Puffs. She said he knew he was eating cereal, not feces. She said he played along.

Emma recounted to me what SB said. Emma remembered how upset SB had been. Emma said, “I saw it. It was poop, and he ate it. They all made up a story to make SB feel better and to keep Wilson from being embarrassed.”

Did Wilson eat the poop? Emma says he did. SB says he didn’t. Tight-lipped Wilson won’t tell.

I can picture them now in a future old folks’ home, reminiscing and arguing about the details. Certainly by then, the truth will have been long forgotten.

Perhaps, the answers to mysteries do not want to be uncovered. Once the truth is known, the curious move on to other topics. No one talks about who shot JR anymore. We want Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson to solve another murder. We want Indiana Jones to unearth another artifact. We want the Pink Panther to be stolen yet again. We want Inspector Clouseau to track down the thief one more time.

Did Wilson eat the poop? I hope I never find out.

"I Don't Want to Listen to Johnny Cash Today, Daddy" (and Other Country Music Songs Beggin' To Be Written)

They each have 3 stanzas, like all good country songs.

"The Prom Dress in Pictures"

A Night in Fantasyland, Northview High School, 1983

Dress Up Finery, Conner Playroom, 2005

Pageant Set Decoration, Northview High School, 2012

"Mama, Don’t Be Funny (You’re Driving Me Nuts)"

"She Doesn't Look Like She's Wearing Clothes (She Looks Like She's Been Bedazzled)"

"It’s Just Like Ozark (Just a Little Farther Away)"

"Santa Claus Ain't Coming (If You Don't Clean Up Your Room)"

"He Was an Outcast among the Rejects (In the Shade of the Penske Truck)"

"I’m So Excited about Sleeping Late (I’m Going to Bed Early Toni-ight)"

"It's Laundry Day and My Kitchen's a Mess (Play Me a Sad Country Tune)"

"Man, I'm Really Thirsty (Actually, I Just Want a Pop Tart)"

"Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend (‘Til You Find Out What They're Worth and Cash ‘Em In)"

"Tide Hoopla Never Dies Down (It Just Ebbs and Flows)"

"When the Cute Wears Off (She Will Still Be Rich)"

"Mama, You're Embarrassing Me (and There's No One Even Around)"

"It's Not Always about You, Rebecca Ramsey (Sometimes It's about Me)"

"The Problem with Math Teachers (They've Never Had a Problem with Math)"

"You Better Not Make Eye Contact (He'll Tell You Something to Do)"

"Hold On a Minute (Let Me Tweet My Blog)"

"It Would Be Hilarious (If It Wasn't Happening to Me)"

"He’ll Have to Marry Before My Funeral (So He’ll Know What to Wear)"

"We Had to Write Down Our Strengths (So I Lied My Little Heart Out)"

"Hell Is Just a Waiting Room (and the Doctor Never Calls Your Name)"

"It Was Just a Little Salty (It Was Like Your Mama Made It for Me)"

I overheard every one of the titles in conversation, including the four I heard myself say. (Figure 'em out.) Simply because a girl talks a lot, doesn’t mean she is not listening as well. (And that sounds like a country song, too.)

Do You Downton?

(No secrets from the show were spilled in the recounting of this tale.)

The year was 2012.

One hundred years after the sinking of the Titanic, the unsinkable ship sank all over again. The tragedy brought upheaval and grief to the Crawley family at their ancestral home in Downton, England and spellbinding heartache to middle-aged women across the United States of America.

The DVDs for seasons 1 and 2 were forced upon me by our lake neighbors during spring break. Abby and I laid on the swing bed in the yard, enjoying sunshine and fresh air as we fought The War to End All Wars, while watching back-to-back episodes of Downton Abbey on the laptop.

We met Lady Mary and her younger sisters, the modern Sybil and the mean, misunderstood, middle-child Edith. We swooned over the dapper Lord Grantham and the handsome Matthew. We cackled at the quips that the Dowager Countess of Grantham and Cousin Isobel tossed at each other. We seethed at the wicked Thomas and his sidekick O’Brien. We cheered for the romance between Bates and Anna. We relished every delicious disagreement between Daisy and Mrs. Patmore.

The war, the 2 seasons, and the week at the lake regretfully ended. Soon after, we learned that we would have to wait until JANUARY 2013 for more news from Downton.

Blimey.

As season 3 approached and excitement overflowed to Facebook, my friend Sharon suggested we gather for the first show. I said, “You’re quite a plotter when you want to be aren’t you?” (Not really. Carson said that.) I said, “Come on over.” Lori came, too.

We posted our picture on Facebook to see if anyone else wanted to watch with us the following Sunday. Laura, Janet, and Kim exclaimed, “Goody! Goody!” Janet found some spare tiaras at her house to adorn the lovely participants.

Norbert, Carol, and Mary Lise thought we looked like frolickers. They wanted to frolic, too.

Laura offered to host the viewing the next week. I had 3 children at home, and her children were all at university. With the chalk signatures on the ceiling and an Avengers movie poster consuming half a wall in the playroom, I have a perfect spot for church youth progressive dinners at Christmas and silly-girl sleepovers. Laura’s tasteful, classy house seemed the proper place for our Downton doings.

The dressing up began in earnest. (“I suppose she has an appropriate costume for every activity.” - Violet Crawley, Dowager Countess of Grantham)

Because “nothing succeeds like excess,” we did “something jolly” with our hair and celebrated the finale full monty. (It means everything which is necessary, appropriate, or possible. "Oh, get off with you, you cheeky devil.")

Vicki joined us. And Mike indulged us.

Then, poof, the craic was over.

Our terribly defeatist, middle-class attitudes set upon us. How would we survive the gloomy year ahead without one-liners from our favorite Brits?

Well, some of us thought they bloody well couldn’t. Charla united with our primrose pals and skedaddled across the pond with Laura, Vicki, and Janet. They toured Highclere Castle (the filming location for Downton Abbey) and were served tea underneath a tent on the vast lawn. They visited the village of Bampton and saw the church and cemetery and Crawley House, where Cousin Isobel lives.

(To remind us weekly, they holler, “We’ve been there!” and “We saw that!” and “That’s our bench!” in case the underlings left behind might not have heard the taunting last week—or the week before. But I bitterly digress.)

We muddled through the dreadful wait until at long last January 2014 peaked forth from the new calendar. Laura graciously welcomed us back to Everett Manor.

Susan wanted in!

 

And Annetta!

And Balto! (Maybe Balto didn’t want in as much as we wanted him in.)

And Melissa and Melanie and Pat! (Our very own dowager countess, who has to call both of her daughters to check in once she gets home.)

Laura even has a posh millinery collection for us to raid every week!

Again, we approached the season finale with a mixture of anticipation and dread. We dined in high style for high tea as we savored each scene. The moments were bittersweet, “both irritating and beguiling in equal measure."

Alas, we are Downton-less once more.

We are gobsmacked, clueless as to what to do next. How will we go on? What do we have to look forward to? Should we change our pills?

Carson told us, “The business of life is the acquisition of memories. In the end, that is all there is.”

So, we shall sit for 10 months and remember. We shall while away, twiddle our thumbs, and bugger about.

I suppose the dowager countess would tell us as she told Edith, “You’re a woman with a brain and reasonable ability. Stop whining and find something to do.”

Yes, m’lady.

(See you in January 2015.)