Adult Only

Freshman girls harbor flower fantasies. In February, these feelings magnify as the 14th approaches and all around there are dorm mates who discuss at length much anticipated bouquets. Young ladies with current male companions are rarely disappointed. Though I hoped to be so remembered, I knew that the guy I longed to call my very own wasn't the flower buying type. And yet, I received a message.

"Delivery for you at the desk."

I scurried to claim my present. A bountiful bouquet of red and white chrysanthemums, beautifully arranged in a heart-shaped vase. Scrolled in gold across the front were the words, "You are my Valentine." I tore open the envelope and found no card inside. Convinced that the sender must be my much admired male friend (not yet having attained the status of 'boyfriend'), I checked the name of the florist shop and walked immediately to its location.

Once inside, I pleaded with the staff to reveal the origin of the flowers. If only I learned from which city the bouquet had been ordered, I'd have my answer. At just eighteen, I could be very persuasive. I may have shed a few tears for effect. Finally, I knew. No college boy had spent his money on this tribute. My sibling, still a high school student, was the source.

At twenty months, I'd welcomed him into my life. I couldn't master his name and began addressing him as 'Bubba.' Quickly the name metamorphosized into 'Brother' and never changed again. I was his 'Sister' always. Quaint, but quintessentially Southern.



He was a gentle person, handsome from birth. Cotton colored hair darkened to a rich brown. Always hirsute, his exhorbitant eyebrows framed an attractive face and years later, a coarse beard required attention multiple times a day. With a radient smile and deeply colored brown eyes, his countenance caused him to be noticed constantly.



As the only son, there were expectations. Living on a farm proffered opportunities to explore the pastures and ponds, mingle with livestock, and appreciate the endless availability of fresh fruit and vegetables. What he couldn't embrace was the life of a farmer. Daddy handled this relevation with dignity and championed a son whose adult interests centered upon fine dining, antiques, opera, elegant clothing and city living.

With all this physical beauty, my brother lacked physical agility. His numerous accidents were almost legendary in the family. I cringe to remember that I once shot him with a BB gun. We were visiting our Georgia grandparents at Christmas time. He'd received the gun as a gift and a group of cousins was outside testing its accuracy. One by one, we aimed at a large paper box near the edge of the yard. What I didn't know, due to darkness and my own neglect, was that my small sibling had crawled into the box. Why he sought refuge in that space remains a mystery. The only good part of the story is that I was a terrible shot and the BBs landed in his chin. They were quickly removed by an adult but shooting practice was suspended permanently.

Another time, Brother was playing with a kid who lived on our farm. They were setting up a tent behind the house. Something happened and a squabble erupted. The friend threw a tent stick and it entered the right eye. Again luck, or poor aim, caused the nail at the end of the stick to pierce the white part of the eye and thus minimize potential damage. I wish I had a photo of the rakish look created by the white eye patch which Brother wore for many weeks.

There were more scrapes including an incident where his foot got tangled in the large wooden barn gate and as it swung wide, bones were broken. Coming home on the school bus one day, he leaned forward and put his face on the iron frame of the seat in front of him. The bus stopped suddenly and a front tooth cracked immediately. For years, this tooth could only be repaired on a temporary basis until his face reached its growth limits and a permanent tooth could be set in the space.

Despite these many traumas, Brother remained a jovial individual. His natural sociability, coupled with that transcendent smile (now slightly altered), ensured a broad circle of friends. His appeal was universal and he was equally comfortable with contemporaries as with those many decades his elder. Somehow he knew just what to say, how to listen cogently, and when to employ his exquisite manners. I envied his suave decorum, gentle demeanor, and ability to laugh with abandon.



Yes, we fought sometimes. Siblings do. I thought I was his protector, he thought he was mine. We were both right.



Our mother began a school photo collage which captured our transforming faces, fashions, and haircuts through the years. Decades beyond these dates, the small pictures have begun to fade slightly. The era's memories remain significant and the oval table which encases the collection sits securely in my guest room.




He tries college and finds it exhilerating. Such freedom unchecked. He fails all his classes, even ROTC. Back home, he works at the family's dry cleaners and laundry. His winsome personality is totally effective in convincing customers to pay their bills. They even seem grateful for having been asked to satisfy these debts. His charm is captivating. One night, he and a group of friends seek some excitement. Walking along the river bluff, they arrive at the town's fountain. Someone must have suggested that adding soap might create a diversion. No problem. He knows just the source. A quick trip to the family's business and he's prepared with industrial strength detergent. Pour it into the fountain, watch for a little while and leave.

This prank might have gone unnoticed and anonymous except that the curious friends decided to return and view their mischief. Unfortunately, they arrived to find the local police coping with a massive mess. The family phone rang in the early morning. It was Brother calling from jail. He needed to have a bond posted for his release. The punishment was a fine to be used to clean the fountain. Lesson learned.





I've graduated, left the farm and the state. He does the same after some years, and finds himself, truly finds himself, in New Orleans. Surrounded by history, music, manners, and magnificent food, he flourishes. Friendships expand as he returns to college and this time, he gets his degree. A new career promises satisfaction and substantial remuneration.



I have a new life and he drives my parents to the west coast to meet my recently acquired family. The three of them are anxious, not sure I've made the right decision. Their concerns are quickly allayed once they see my joyous face and meet my husband and his precocious six-year-old. We are a family, reconstituted, but very real.



He's a busy man, enjoying living in a shotgun house on LaHarpe. On Mother's Day, he visits the farm and helps vaccinate the animals.



And then, he's gone. I'm an only. Bereft of my Brother, broken to my core. The sorrow seeps into my daily life though he left us 32 years ago. I was thinking the other day that I've spent nearly half my years without him. And yet, he's always here. I have only to remember our daughter who carries his name and realize that his legacy is intact.

As a talkative toddler, she'd ask her Grandmother when Uncle Carter was coming back from heaven. She expected him to ring the doorbell at any moment. As an adult, she's intensely proud to share his name and has heard his stories continually her whole life.

I wander around my house and see his possessions. Against the window is a 19th century gateleg table that once resided at his home.



On a shelf, a collection of his antiques add beauty to the room.




When family or friends gather at our dining room table, Brother's china and silverware sparkle. I feel as if he's supping with us still. There are moments when I'm in an airport or a stadium and I hear a deep Southern voice or notice a particularly fine head of coarse dark brown hair, and just for a moment, I imagine that it is he. My mournful mind confuses me and then I realize that the longing lasts forever.

On other days, I ponder how much he would have enjoyed e-mail or digital cameras, would have wept at his city's devastation by a storm called Katrina and how he'd have been completely enchanted with his darling niece. I picture him, ever graceful in gray, yet with taut skin and that enchanting smile. I visit the place where he slumbers eternally and share family news that he's missed. I'm convinced that his spirit has remained a part of my own earthly journey. In just four days, I'll celebrate his birthday and know that somewhere he's counting the candles. And I really promise to try and temper my anger at his life unlived and find solace in being his only Sister.

Past Pantaloons

Dark sausage curls covered my moppet head with two jaunty bows perched securely in place. From my shoulders down, I was of another time and place. New clothing, made in an ante-bellum style, adorned my small body. I could have been any of my female ancestors from a previous century. Those little girls wore similar garments and most of them endured the horrors of war which took family members and changed lives forever. I question if any of those ante-bellum girls were abolitionists or ever imagined a life where slaves might be freed. Myriad long ago relatives resided in palatial homes, surrounded by mammoth fields. All this luxury was predicated upon the horrendous practice of enslavement.

As someone just past her sixth birthday, I dwelt upon family gatherings and school activities. My social conscience had yet to emerge and when my parents asked if I'd like to wear a costume and talk to visitors, I didn't hesitate to respond with an enthusiastic affirmation. I remember not a moment's trepidation about standing in front of strangers and talking. I'd already mastered the art of talking. I was, after all, Southern. And female. Just the combination needed to be a mini-raconteur.

For the month of March, I had a job. Paid in cold bottles of Coke and plates piled with sugar cookies that, even after the passage of more than fifty years, can still be tasted. Occasionally, a tourist, fascinated by the costumes and the grandeur of the setting, requested a photo of myself and my girlfriend, Poppy. Generally, we'd each receive twenty-five cents for these poses. Though the remittance was small, we felt richly compensated.



I'd been given the honor of 'receiving' at Mount Repose, a beautiful plantation house completed in 1824. The builder, William Bisland, situated his home on property that had been part of an original Spanish grant in the 1780's. Throughout the intervening years since its construction, the venerable old home has continued to be owned by Bisland's descendants.



Because of my scant years, finding just the appropriate assignment for me must have been a challenge. As befitted my naivete, I began 'receiving' in the nursery. This comparatively small room was conveniently located adjacent to a commodious bedroom. Perhaps a night nurse slept in the room with the children while the parents slumbered undisturbed next door.

I recall the contents of the room vividly. An adult volunteer spent time with me and assured that I could recite an informative introduction to the lovely childhood artifacts which surrounded me. I was not to deviate from the prepared address. I believe that I did. Regularly. A six-year-old gets bored repeating the same words over and over, so I improvised. Not wildly, but creatively nonetheless. There's always been fiction in my veins and sometimes it just erupts.



Poppy, my colleague pictured here, was much better behaved. I'm confident that she never deviated from her script. She also had better manners and wasn't ever reprimanded, as I was, for consuming an excess of those divine sugar cookies already lovingly described. Sweet Poppy, with the angelic voice, became a successful Julliard-trained soprano. She sang at Carnegie Hall and beyond. Her self control and determination was already evident during her tender years.

A reminiscent panorama of Mount Repose's nursery reveals a beautifully carved crib in which a vintage porcelain doll sleeps peacefully. Diminuitive chairs, perfect for small bottoms, are scattered about the space. Along one wall, there is a set of Blue Willow china, child-sized. One of my tasks was to share the fable of the Chinese lovers who were changed into birds. I don't recall the specific details of the story but I can visualize the dishes precisely. Against another wall, a nineteenth century print showed a beautiful young girl descending a staircase. Below, several of her sisters awaited her arrival. When I reached this part of the room, I shared a portion of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1860 poem, "The Children's Hour," which reads in part, "...grave Alice and laughing Allegra and Edith with golden hair...." I believe the girl descending the stairs was Edith.



The owners of Mount Repose, Dr. and Mrs. Shields, attended our church. Back in 1807, our two families became intertwined through marriage. As a matron, Mrs. Shields wore her dress sweeping the ground. Not even a hint of the pantaloons underneath emerged but you can be sure they were there. The fabric of the dress, a very dark blue, was silk and she completed her costume with a lacy cotton square crowning her silver white hair. Born just after the Civil War, she could have learned hoop skirt protocol from her mother who wore the real thing.

Younger ladies had to earn longer skirts. My first dress was tea length and rows of lacy pantaloons peeked beneath the hem. I quickly learned that sitting on hoops resulted in a painful bop on the nose. The correct etiquette involves gently lifting the sides of one's skirt, careful to grasp the hoops at the same time, and then seating yourself, encircled by the fabric and metal. I practiced curtsying endlessly and after a while, I seemed almost graceful. At least I didn't fall on my face by entangling my feet and tumbling hoop over hoop to the ground. Not once.



After about five years, I migrated to a new room. The den or office was less attractive to describe, but it represented a new challenge. I recall that a huge black safe dominated the chamber. It was studded with metal knobs and must have had an historical provenance. Each time visitors entered the room, I told the story, now long forgotten, and then proceeded to use a complex series of motions to open the safe. Even the cookies were losing their allure. My days of 'receiving' were waning.

During that same time period, my hometown hosted a movie production crew. As a lifelong film enthusiast, I relished hearing my daddy say that the laundry he owned with his brothers was responsible for washing Elizabeth Taylor's dainties. She was on location, along with Montgomery Clift, shooting scenes for the movie, "Raintree County."





The already doomed, but oh so talented, Montgomery Clift is John Wickliff Shawnessy in this overlong period piece. Elizabeth Taylor portrays Susanna Drake, the conniving Southern belle, whom Shawnessy marries. Set just before, during and after the Civil War, the story wraps family and madness with merciless mayhem. Mount Repose provided a mossy environment in which Clift's character finds a signpost for the asylum where Taylor's deranged persona has retreated.

Having never known that stage fright existed, I benefitted vastly from my 'receiving' experiences. Whenever school events or classroom assignments necessitated speaking before groups, large or small, I responded with aplomb. I was a seasoned performer and truthfully, considered myself in possession of a bit of aptitude for the craft.

As my school days dwindled, I agreed once more to get in costume and greet visitors. The venue was new but also family related. Mistletoe, built in 1807, had been constructed as a wedding gift for Peter Bisland and his bride, Barbara Foster. She was my great-great-greatgrandfather's daughter. The relatively small dwelling can be best described as a planter's house. Its dimensions seem accurate for a young couple beginning life together.



Sadly, after twenty-one years of marriage, Peter was found at the bottom of a cistern. Ill and gravely weakened, he'd wandered outside during the night, looking for water. In this pursuit, he'd fallen to his death.



Last March I visited my hometown. It hasn't changed much since my moppet days. The old houses are older still. The little girls are gone, replaced by their granddaughters. Hoopskirt finesse remains an art and correctly executed curtsies are expected. That war is so remote in the past that its relevance is questioned. Generally, citizens recognize the value of humanity, albeit the color. We are all, hopefully, past pantaloons.

Dissonance and Harmony

A two-part memory lingers. Erroneous notes and charming frocks co-mingle in futile pursuit of sublime consonance. I believe I always knew the truth. I just didn't feel or hear the sounds, the possibilities of melodic bliss. I responded with rote reactions and perhaps vainly imagined that a prodigy would emerge.

My parents, with no exposure of their own, wanted their children to triumph in this tuneful world. Lessons seemed the right pathway. My brother and I began the journey early at Mrs. Kuehnle's School of Music. Piano would be our instrument. Not a profession, merely a personal gift. I was about nine, he just twenty months younger. Each lesson cost less than a dollar. About right for small town America, situated deep in the South in the mid-fifties.

At our farmhouse, a used upright piano appeared. It reposed, majestically, just behind the front door in our commodious hallway. In deep black hues, the instrument promised wonderment, but its students never conquered the keys. Yes, we did practice routinely, but without our selves actually being involved in the process. Lessons continued once a week for about eight years. Recitals punctuated each spring. We dutifully learned the pieces assigned and performed them. Our parents sat proudly in the audience. I'm not sure they realized how poorly we played.

I do know that we looked good. My sweet brother always wore proper Sunday trousers, a nice white shirt, a jacket and tie. His beautiful face charmed everyone and his endearing personality made him a favorite of all who met him. The audience most likely concentrated on his magic and ignored his less than polished playing. As an adult, he was enthralled by opera. Perhaps a musical legacy.




My outfits were carefully selected. A favorite hometown department store, Cole's, offered many choices. Some years, the attire could have easily been used for flower girl status or a fancy party.



For this particular recital, I had the misfortunate to perform with an extraordinarily musically gifted friend. Marian needed few lessons. She was infused with music and not only played the piano better than our teacher (ironically named Mrs. Horne) but also sang with absolute purity. Years later when we were in high school, she won the lead in every school play and was voted 'Most Talented' our senior year. Marian definitely deserved all the accolades.

Thankfully, there are only black and white photos capturing the annual performances. No one seemed to own a movie camera and even if they had, it would have produced a silent film. Maybe that would have been better anyway. Now, far into the future, modern day parents arrive at such events to chronicle every moment with a camera phone, digital camera or videocamera. Some may resort to tweeting family and friends to exude about their child's profound musical prowess. Photos are downloaded, edited and posted for all to admire. YouTube is the recipient of myriad moments, proudly displayed by euphoric parents. If I were a child today, my recitals might be relegated to 'America's Funniest Home Videos.'




The color was pale yellow, almost lemonade. Full length, it hid a scrawny body. My hair was tucked into a dainty bun and sprayed with half a can of Aqua Net. It didn't enhance the concert even slightly.

I think I may have chosen a part-time job at fourteen as a way to relinquish my lessons. Clearly I was not improving. I never developed a desire to sit at the piano and simply play, losing myself to the beauty being created. My primary pleasure lay within the pages of books and magazines. It was there that I could soar, vanishing into the lives of characters, relishing the art of word usage, expanding my historical repetoire. Reading was, and remains, my singular talent. I could not transfer that natural endowment to ivory keys.





This is probably my final recital. I perceive a look of determination and destiny. The lilies may herald the death of lessons. My blouse was a sateen cotton in a pallid blue. Its coordinating skirt included an overskirt of white lace. My shoes are the earliest of heels, very low and easily worn. I know I'm finished at Mrs. Kuehnle's.

For many years, I'd occasionaly sit at the piano when I visited my parents. I'd play, rather pitifully, the only song I remembered. I could hear the piano sigh. It sat silently for so long until one day Daddy decided it should be sold. I only hope the next owners demonstrated much more finesse.

My departure from the ill-fitted musical world was not complete. No, I was destined to marry someone for whom music is a mantra. His enthusiasm for the incomprable beauty of lyrics, the awesome ability of musicians, the supreme satisfaction of daily playing, and the recognition of how music intertwines with his life has profoundly impressed me for more than three decades. He's an exhaustive source of music trivia. Listen to a few notes and he'll proclaim the artist, year recorded, and maybe replicate the sound on his keyboard. I rarely answer these queries correctly. I'm able to sense how he nearly mourns for his music as we travel. Stopping by a mall, he gently fingers a few fabulous pianos on display. Is he wistful and remembering his own niche with piles of sheet music from which to choose? With a father who played professionally, worked at resorts in the Catskills, and recorded several records, he has impressive musical heritage. It is evident every day.





Having a son-in-law who's been a DJ, has his own recording studio at home, writes music and sings marvelously, provides my husband with a close confederate. Watching them perform together is endearing entertainment.

Our daughter tried the flute in fifth grade. Other instruments did not appeal and at the end of the school year, the flute, too, was abandoned. Its replacement was a guitar which went to college and eventually was packed for relocating to the northwest. Though the guitar tantalized with potential, life was just too momentous during those late teen years and her early twenties. Then she discovered Ladies' Rock Camp. A chance to perform without judgement. Just girls making music. Their music, created by the 'campers' themselves. What's not to love?




As she relates, something sensational happened. The guitar lost its temporary glory and a voice was found. She can, and does, sing. Loves the experience and has become a karoke aficioanado. Get her to a bar or simply hand her a microphone and she's instantly 'on.' Inhibitions are cast aside and the voice emerges. She has stage presence and a beautific smile. More than enough. And now she's a music journalist, chronicling performances for a blog.






I believe I've found harmony in my life. Music centers those whom I love the best. I have a mellifluous role as the audience. Mrs. Horne might be proud.