When There Were Six

Little girls love Easter. So do most of their moms and grandmas. Why else would females go to the trouble of buying and boiling dozens of eggs and spending much of an afternoon surrounded by squirming children? Because it is fun. Great fun. It's a time for creativity, messiness, spills galore, fingers painted accidentally and the creation of stories to pass along to future generations.

I have no memory of painting Easter eggs during my youth. I've never seen any photos of such an event which reinforces my conclusion that such activities never happened at my house. Maybe we were too busy focusing on the religious aspect of Easter to spend time on such frivolity. I do vividly recall quite a few of my Easter outfits and know that I always looked forward to dressing in a brand new ensemble, including shoes and socks, and eventually, a hat. Sometimes my dress matched my mother's. I didn't think that was weird. It was how we did things in the South. In the '50's and 60's. I treasure each photo that captures those days.

With no biological grandchildren of my own and a youngest child who recently turned 29, I must forage for egg decorating candidates. Luckily, they aren't difficult to locate. This year we gathered a half dozen young ladies on our patio where I expected gaiety to rule.



The residences of our awesome six ranged from Vienna to Washington state and from Tiburon to the house next door. These girls know each other from past parties and though the eldest is an almost 'ancient' eleven and the three youngest are merely seven, the age difference is mostly inconsequential. They're bonded by fun, buttressed by camaraderie. Two sets of sisters and two singles, ready to paint.

As the party hostess, I welcome moms, dads and grandparents. I've prepared 36 eggs and only one is imperfect. Dye tablets and dipping wands are strewn across the $1 plastic tablecloths being used to protect our ancient comforters. We're assembled at one end of our patio, safe from the spring sun.



Before the vinegar is measured into the egg cups, there's a pre-dyeing ritual. Each girl is expected to wear an oversized tee shirt to safeguard her clothes from damaging dye. These tee shirts are part of a collection of family vacation mementos from years past. I look at each one of them and fondly remember their purchase. However, realizing that some shirts are more desirable than others, I've devised a way to reduce any fussing about who receives which one. I close my eyes and toss a shirt toward the group. My instructions are that you keep what lands in your hands or trade it if somebody is willing. Wonderful cooperation ensues. They just want to get to the dyeing.

Carol deftly handles the vinegar measuring and we parcel out the tablets. Giggles accompany the fizzing as liquids turn various intriguing colors. Let the dipping begin. How about a double dip?

"Can you help me get my egg, Jackie?" Yes, I can. Again and again. Other mothers hover and offer comforting assistance. Nobody whines and not a tear is shed. Faces are focused as deep colors emerge and cries of "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh." resound across the space.

I distribute the eggs, six to a girl. Linnea gets the cracked one. I tell her it is very special and that all of us are 'cracked' in one way or another. She nods and accepts my nonsensical explanation. I breathe out. Slowly.



Fingers aid egg extraction and accumulate color instantly. When we finish the activity, I gently apply a wet washcloth dabbed with Softscrub to multicolored digits nearly erasing the tint. At least this time I won't be using the product on anyone's face.

Mom Renee has brought sparkling glitter to the party. She holds an egg, paints it with craft glue and then rolls it in glitter. The resulting mess is astonishing. I believe we'll have glitter on our patio for eternity. The glamorous eggs are stunning and well worth the fuss.



Too soon, we're done. One final ritual remains for this day. Matching tee shirts for each girl. The sizes selected appear to be accurate and soon there's a march around the pool in purple Old Navy shirts, decorated with hearts.



Early the next day, Easter Sunday, Carol, Henry and I are hastily hiding eggs all around the backyard. Henry, ever the clever one and with a bit of whimsey, uses scotch tape to affix several plastic eggs to our citrus trees. We plop more 'fake' eggs in the pool where they casually float to the sides for easy retrieval.



The sextet reassembles to hunt for their eggy treasures. Easter Baskets line the swing. The excitement is palpable. Even the grown-ups are part of the game. They provide subtle, and not so subtle, hints when a hunter is temporarily stumped.



Very soon it's decided to take all the eggs next door, re-hide them, and find them again. Why not? Multiple Easter egg hunts never hurt.



I look at the beautiful eager faces of Maddie, Drew, Linnea, Brooke, Hanna and Jessy and I see pure joy reflected. I try to imagine each one of them as adults, guiding precious children through Easter traditions. I hope they tell those special people of the future about a time when there were six.

Gray's Almost Gone

We're telling Granny stories, my cousin Nan and I. Reminiscing long distance, adding portions to our family memories. As a senior cousin, she has eleven years of tales I never lived and I eagerly listen to each one she shares. During our last conversation, there's a moment when Nan says almost pensively, "I wonder what happened to that wooden box where our toys were stored. It sat on the back porch at the farm house." She goes on to describe an incident in which she 'accidently' let the heavy lid fall on fellow cousin Frank. I can't help but giggle a bit, visualizing the scene.

In her early years, Nan was the only girl, surrounded by five very boisterous boy first cousins. From what I've heard, she more than held her own with every one of them.

I know the box which she referenced. When I was a child, it sat in a different place on the same back porch. By this time, it had been painted battleship gray, matching the porch floor. Rather than toys, an odd assortment of tools filled its roomy space. Often the smaller kids who gathered at our house sat on the box happily eating homemade peach ice cream.

This rough-hewn, almost primitive, box is solid wood. No veneers hide particle board or any other man-made product. It's heavy, substantial, built to last.



The provenance of the box is a special story. It was constructed by my Daddy in 1925, during his last year of high school. Most likely he built it in Shop, a male student course requirement for many decades. (In the 1960's, boys were still enrolled in this class while the girls, including a reluctant me, were taking Home Economics. I fared badly in that class but that's an anecdote for another time.)

When my dear brother died unexpectedly, the box was among his possessions. Stripped away was most of the gray, leaving visible modest, yet discernibly beautiful wood. With his acute artistic sensibilities, Brother sought the simple splendor of the original creation.

Nearly thirty years ago, Mother came to live with us and brought the box with her. It was moved around our house, settling briefly in different rooms. To my knowledge, no children ever climbed inside seeking a place to play. I still sense Daddy's spirit, captured in a simple box.



Today, this precious family heirloom is situated at the foot of the bed in our guest room. It is stuffed with Christmas gift bags, tissue paper, a few miscellaneous rolls of ribbon. The once secure lock has been lost for a long, long time. Heavy handles anchor each end and facilitate its transport. Stains of unknown origin mark the lid and a distinct wood aroma permeates the deep recesses of the box.




If boxes could talk, I'm certain mine would share wonderful stories. Instead, I picture Daddy with his dark black hair, leaning over tools, creating this legacy. I see rambunctious cousins cavorting around the farmhouse's back porch. Soon they are being admonished to curtail their noise because their grandfather is very ill, lying in a bed nearby. Years later, newer cousins vie for a seat on top of the box, a prime location on a lazy summer Sunday afternoon.

Yes, the gray's almost gone. The box is nearly ninety years old. I hope it lasts forever and continues to smell like home.

Words' Worth

Memories are fickle when layered with years of living. When one is experiencing something initially, it may be so ordinary as to be nearly instantly absorbed and forgotten. What I do recall is punctuated with faces, voices, scenes both profound and indifferent, woven into an imperfect tapestry. Why certain snippets cling and whole sections of one's past are absent, I cannot explain.

The classroom is ordinary, the students most definitely are not. Our teacher, the remarkable Miss McCoy, is gifting us with skills we'll truly utilize forever. We're high school freshman, newly teen-aged, knowing much and yet so little. She's seen us before, in fact, every year of her teaching career. We are not so different from last year's contingent nor unlike the youngsters who will follow us.



The subject is English, taught with brilliance and devotion. Our textbook is average but the lessons it yields from our accomplished teacher help to transform our education.

One day we are studying sentences and an example includes a phrase about apple pie topped with a slice of cheese. As a Southern girl, such a combination is puzzling to me. We put ice cream on pie, not cheese. My innate loquaciousness leads me astray as I begin conversing with a nearby student. (Clearly I had not learned the sagacity of silence.) No personal governor stops me in time and I find myself in trouble with my favorite teacher. I believe my punishment was that I had to stay after school. In-school suspension had yet to be created to handle such indiscretions. I survived the fall from grace and filed away the transgression without repeating it.

More than fifty years later, I continue to utilize vocabulary words from Miss McCoy's class. Unequivocally, I honed my language skills in that environment. While reminiscing with two long-time friends in separate conversations a few years ago, each vividly described the lifetime impact of that impeccable list. We paused to express our sorrow that a terrible disease claimed the gifted Miss McCoy before we had the opportunity to sit in her Senior Advanced English class.

Whether reading or writing, I often think of the small woman whose impact on me has been so profound. I wonder, quite narcissistically, if she'd be pleased with my words, spoken or written. After all, so many of them actually belong to her.

Lately I've been musing about words I may overuse. The list includes: seems, appears, delicious, incredible, sweetheart, honey, hope, think, believe, trust, fantastic, fabulous, extraordinary, sublime, love, feel, awesome. Do I often rely too heavily on the trite rather than striving to be more expressive?

I collect new and unusual words, use them in sentences, drop them into conversations. When I was a working person, staff members in my office asked me to teach them a new word each day. What a fun way to expand one's vocabulary. How about penchant, proclivity, excoriate, synergy, angst or audacious?

Sitting here at my desk, I know Miss McCoy's mentoring remains influential. I write with Roget's Desk Thesaurus nearby. No less important is my copy of The Oxford Modern English Dictionary. I realize that the Internet provides access to all that is contained in these two books but I prefer touching the pages, perusing the contents. I believe she would approve of my Luddite approach.

At the end of my junior year, I was genuinely surprised to be chosen as the editor of the school newspaper for the following term. I am indebted to Miss Cecil McCoy for ably preparing me to accept that assignment. Her words remain, resonating powerfully.

But I Don't Have A Bayou

My mother told stories. Most of them were true, or nearly so. During the long days, and then years, when Mother and Caitlin were together in our house, Southern stories enlivened many hours. I was quite familiar with the majority of the tales but a few were fresh, having occurred after I moved away from home at the age of nineteen.

Possibly the most popular anecdote involved a horse and a huge hole in the ground. For some inexplicable reason, this recitation of near loss and joyous recovery appealed tremendously to my little girl. In fact, the story became one that she always requests be repeated whenever she is sick or in pain or both. It produces a balm that lifts immediate hurts and transports her to a halcyon place that she visited only a few times in her life before it was sold.

My rendition is much less expressive than the original story so aptly rendered by my mother in a soft Southern voice. The reader must imagine an elderly woman gathering her only granddaughter close as she relates a pastoral saga. Essentially, the characters are my daddy, mother and a horse named Brutus. On a particular day, the colt went missing. Hours of searching produced no clues as to his whereabouts. Nor were there any broken fences or gates left unlatched. Were predators to blame? If so, where were the remains? None could be found.

With little hope that Brutus would be discovered alive and with daylight dwindling fast, Daddy and Mother looked in one last place. Far below the edge of the pasture's bayou, festooned with tangled kudzu vines, they found their horse. He'd nibbled the tasty leaves, wandered down the bank and become ensnared. I can almost imagine a smile on his face when he saw his keepers ready to rescue him.

Abundant bayous marked my family farm. Other than trapping large animals, they were useful as depositories for unwanted, extraneous possessions. My mother discarded with abandon. She felt absolutely no need to keep everything. I admired her ability to part with various items easily but disdained the fact that she exhibited little discretion in her tossing. Mother surely 'bayoued' possessions of mine that I would have elected to retain, had I been given that option.

As springtime brings impeccable days and the seasonal tendency to discard evidences itself, I envision bayous. Having lived in this house for more than a quarter century, the accumulation of debris, both precious and redundant, is significant. Sorting the categories is not easy. A while ago, I suggested to our adult daughter that I was considering destroying multiple boxes of photographs and negatives. She recoiled immediately and asked me to continue to retain those pieces of history. Understand that I was not contemplating casting aside albums filled with original photos, just the duplicates. The boxes remain intact, untouched.

In the last ten years, we have renovated every room in our house. Furniture has been replaced, kitchen utensils updated, linens refreshed. Little reluctance accompanied the departure of those possessions. I am comforted by the knowledge that most of these things, if still usable, have been recycled. For me, Angel View, a local charity, is my bayou.

Don't Go There

Advice is generally free but too often meritless. People dispense it without being invited. I am quite guilty of such behavior. Truly there are many individuals who believe their opinions are too worthwhile not to be shared. Whether concerning some ordinary situation or a profoundly important matter, advice flows from fingers and/or voices without restraint. Certainly advice, even unbidden, can make a difference in a given situation. Frequently, however, it is actually the advice ignored which is the most valuable.

In my lifetime, I've sought advice from many people. While shopping, I am inclined to ask a salesperson or fellow customer about the color or style of a garment. Doing so reveals my own insecurity and slightly paralyzing tendency to avoid decision-making. Why I think that I'll receive useful assistance from strangers is a mystery. I'm much more comfortable posing the same questions to a family member or friend whose opinion I trust.

In restaurants, I'm apt to gently quiz the server about a particular menu item. I figure that such a person is likely to have sampled many of the choices and can offer insight, if not actual advice. This type of inquiry can produce satisfying results. Or not. Generally, I'm a creature of habit who will order the same item repeatedly because I've been pleased with the results in the past. I'm trying to be a bit more serendipitous and accept that, as a result, some of my choices will be made only once.

Decades ago, I received mostly unsolicited advice at a time I was about to make a critical life-altering decision. I listened politely, but promised nothing. The most difficult conversation was with my own daddy who, being thousands of miles away from me, expressed genuine apprehension about my absolute resolve. Not one person, family or friends, thought I knew what I was doing and everyone shared that opinion with me. In this instance, advice was superfluous and dismissed. Thankfully I followed my heart and as a result I have shared this life with my amazing husband and daughter.

Whenever I need advice, I know the best source to seek. Regardless of the topic or even if the same request has been made in the past, I am unconditionally comfortable discussing the matter with my husband. He's an incredibly intelligent, logical thinker whose response will be framed in such a way that I know he's examined the issues and rendered his best judgement. Being who I am, I don't always take his advice, but I unswervingly appreciate and respect it.

On a family vacation to Nova Scotia in 1987, we stayed in Halifax for a few days. During that time, we spoke to the hotel concierge about a particular nearby locale which was touted in several guidebooks. The response was immediate, "Don't go there. It's too touristy. Try other places such as...." We left the hotel soon thereafter and drove to the beautiful beach community anyway. That cold July day at Peggy's Cove has been captured forever in these photographs. Think what we might have missed.



Maybe the advice "Don't go there." is best received and then ignored.

By Words and Music.....

Her five year old face betrayed inner thoughts at the dinner table that night. Dad gently inquired about the source of such sadness. So began a story that has become a minor legend in our family. It seems that there was a fetching young man in her Kindergarten class whom she wanted to claim as a friend. Proceeding to write him a note, she soon learned that he couldn't read. As a person largely defined by words, deftly mastering reading before she turned two, the classmate's unlettered status caused her considerable confusion and frustration. To Caitlin, reading is an elixir while writing provides the nectar which sweetens all of life's experiences.



We are reflective as Caitlin's 29th birthday approaches. The decade has brought her much to treasure, most significantly adorable Bobby. Travel adventures continue to unfold, manifesting a favorite saying of my mother's, "She has one foot in the road." The presence of dearest friends enhance her days exponentially. Roller derby is now history but once, my goodness, it permeated her spirit. Portland is the perfect place to be planted, even with its weepy winters.

Caitlin is a young woman whose courage, loyalty, curiosity, energy, intelligence, compassion and humor define her character. She consistently makes us proud and humbled to be her parents.



Among the things Caitlin loves: music, movies, books, trivia, kitties Georgia and Enid, Ice Cube, burritos, white wine (maybe also red), cider from other countries (preferably smuggled in), breakfast, clothes, Sweden, New York, cousins, swimming and sunshine, almost anything purple, purses from Queen Bee, tiaras, In 'n' Out, birthdays, roller coasters, unicorns, shoes, jewelry, polka dots and stripes (not worn together), karaoke, cupcakes, frozen yogurt, 'fakin' bacon, unturkey sandwiches, black and white cookies, being vegetarian, The South (and speaking Southern).



Throughout Caitlin's life, music has soothed difficult moments and also allowed her to soar as she watched or listened to artists who seemed to speak directly to her. With an impressive accumulation of musical knowledge, she's crafted cogently written concert reviews. Her eclectic playlist includes Dolly Parton and Johnny Cash as well as Sleater-Kinney and The Givers, among so many others.

As a young adult, she's embracing her Southern self while utilizing the Yankee component with its emphasis on personal independence and integrity, tempered with music. Having parents from two very divergent sections of the country helped create an endlessly fascinating daughter.

Caitlin has taught me many things in my years as her mom. I believe I'm more respectful of the environment. I have expanded my somewhat limited ability to exhibit patience. I'm learning not to ask too many questions, to curtail my natural inclination to suggest ...... I also now know that sleep is ephemeral and that even when it is interrupted countless times, survival is absolutely certain. (Twenty-nine years ago I would not have believed that statement.) Most of all, Caitlin touches my heart every single day and just thinking of her makes me smile uncontrollably. She is both words and music.



Happy Birthday!!

Company Of Cousins

Queen Victoria is nearing the end of a long reign when Mary is born in 1898. Hugh arrives a dozen years later, along with Halley's comet. Mary's father is a sibling of Hugh's mother and thus the two are first cousins. Though living in the same small Southern town, I don't know how often the cousins interacted. Irish heritage infuses the youngsters who claim a parent and two grandparents born near Larne, Northern Ireland.



Mary's daughter (Anne) and Hugh's daughter (me) recently spent time together, eager to strengthen our kinship. Joining us was Anne's second cousin, Bert, whose grandfather was Mary's brother. (Family lineage can be incredibly confusing.) It matters not at all that we are a crazy combination of second, third and fourth cousins. We're blood. Who's counting anyway?

We gaze at the cherished 1903 family photo, gesturing toward a parent, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins galore. There's speculation about the memorable day captured so exquisitely for posterity. Conversations abound in which we discuss the once future, now long past, lives of those who sat so perfectly still on that capacious front porch.



Familiar phrases emerge from the charming visitors' drawls and I notice that my own words are acquiring extra syllables. These native Mississippi minds are alive with an array of topics and opinions. We talk about family constantly but we're also able to explore art, music, politics, literature, travel and most especially our ingrained love for Ireland.

Colloquialisms clamor from my dusty memory when I hear cousin Bert refer to her "Daddy" repeatedly. It's a sweet Southern thing, this truly endearing appellation. The ladies are generous spirits who arrive laden with 'happys' for the hostess. Yet another cherished tradition from our birthplace. No meal is prepared without ample assistance and the constant question, "Can I help you?" Together we set the table, carry food back and forth, settle the dishes to be washed, reposition leftovers in the "ice box," and carefully dry the stemware. Our kitchen easily accommodates this cadre of cousins.

Laughter resonates against the walls as we share snippets of life stories and learn how we each of us morphed into who we are today. We can still become close companions, so we do not lament the decades when we existed so separately. There is no simple explanation for why my hometown Irish cousins weren't a very visible part of my childhood. It may be that my family already included an almost excessive number of cousins with whom we spent our leisure hours, gathering frequently for reasons profound and whimsical. Rather than rejecting the larger circle of kin, it seemed that there was simply no space to add anyone else. I'm confident these ladies feel the same.

Within several days and nights of sharing, we deftly mix Play Station III auto racing with financial acumen acquisition tutorials from Henry. Driving through town one afternoon, we introduce our guests to the bliss of a desert winter and conclude that day with a perfect Mexican meal at Rio Azul. Genealogical files unfold family history as names and faces from our past vie for attention. A measure of joyous comfort arises as our collective heritage merges.

When the visitors leave the driveway, I know there's an invisible string attached. We're a company of cousins at last.