Celebrating Symmetry

Clustered around the calliope, we answer his question and call out our states. Tennessee, Mississippi, California. Soon the river reverberates with The Tennessee Waltz, Mississippi Mud and California, Here I Come. With cousins gathered in Natchez for Thanksgiving, we're touring the docked Delta Queen.


Our host, Vic Tooker, is the man in charge of the steamboat's music. He's a curious character whose floating life is replete with adventures. Traveling with him is his mom, a spry octogenerian. She, too, is a multi-talented musician.



With a resident as our guide, we've delved into the bowels of the boat, seen the tiny cabins where the Tookers reside, been to the wheelhouse and met the august captain. All the passengers have gone ashore to enjoy Natchez history and charm and indulge in holiday fare.

Though we are very grateful for this family gathering, a specter of sadness surrounds us. It is barely two months since we've lost my only sibling. Grief tinges our days but, for the sake of our eight year old son, we focus on traditions bounded by thankfulness. The boy is viewing the mighty Mississippi for the first time, meeting countless kin, and sleeping in the massive oak bed where his late uncle spent his childhood.



What none of us knew is that far away in Oregon, a baby boy has just been born. He will grow up to marry the daughter who is, at the time, four years, four months, and four days in our future. For both these remarkable people, we are incredibly thankful.

It is thirty-three years later and Thanksgiving is being celebrated in the desert.




This particular holiday seems especially designed to blend with the dominant colors of the region. In fact, our house is awash with shades of cream, taupe, chocolate, khaki, camel, and pale umber. The palette covers our walls, floors, carpet, and most of the furniture. It appears in bedding and sheets.



One saucy opinion (that of our dear daughter) contends that the hues (or lack thereof) are consistently boring. We smile indulgently and proceed to purchase more of the same. Perhaps I should respond that we're simply coordinating for Thanksgiving year-round.

Our house is decorated with pumpkins a-plenty, russet-colored candles, several sets of Pilgrims, baskets overflowing with gourds and seeds, and assorted colorful turkeys. Each item is carefully spaced and continually admired by the neighbor girls.





The last two days have been reserved for holiday meal preparation. Cranberry relish multiplied by three infused the rooms with delicious fragrance. Two batches have been distributed to the neighbors. The third will be gently placed in Granny Foster's pickle dish for our dinner tonight. Double pecan pies rest in the frig for evening consumption shared with special friends.



Separate stuffing is almost ready. One version includes sauteed celery, onion, and bits of apple. The other is unadorned, maybe ordinary. It's easy to guess which one of us will be consuming each recipe.

Thanksgiving is a soothing holiday. It is a time to reflect, to appreciate the gifts of family and friendship. People who inhabit our history are remembered with unending joy, both those who remain with us and all those whom we've lost along the way.

As we enjoy our Thanksgiving meal, I'll pause to acknowledge the awesome impact these people have on my truly blessed life:
Henry
Caitlin
Bobby
Carol
Steve
Di
Keith
Jackie L.
Mike
Nan
Barbara
David S.
Jeanelle
Dottie
Kenny
Weatherly
Alex
Laura Jean
Lois
Susan
Josie
Denise
Jo Ann
Connie
Bob
Davene
Shawn
Gilly
Hanna
Jessy
Rick
Renee
Madison

Evil Elves

In outfits rife with pale pink, they prance around the workshop. A comely young lady dances through and smiles beguilingly while touting a cell phone plan. The commercial message is nearly subsumed by the cuteness quotient. I'm not buying but I bet others do.

'Tis the season of elves, those consistently cheerful helpers who assure that holiday gifts get transported across the globe to eager children. At least that's what we've been told and maybe what we want to continue to believe. Elf images abound in print, commercials, movies and books. They're benign, harmless, friendly and appear to be infinitely huggable.

Recently my opinion of elves has evolved into a negative stance. I've decided that a colony of elves has invaded my computer. Somehow they gained access and are creating a maddening array of devilment.

The other morning, I looked at my e-mail account and discovered that it had changed overnight. Not one of the endless updates that promises to improve the service but never does. Not the annoying messages that calmly report the site is not working right now and to check back later. Not the frozen status when no amount of clicking will change the screen.

My list of Favorites, carefully composed and constantly utilized, had vanished from the left side of the screen. Given that the list was in place when I went to bed the previous night, how could this have happened? Truthfully, I wasn't responsible. No errant clicking caused the list to disappear.

With my level of frustration escalating, I tried a secondary e-mail site. The same condition greeted me. Fortunately the altered screen configuration isn't a total disaster. I can locate my precious list by clicking on 'Favorites' in the tool bar. Why should I have to add another click when I was quite content with the previous iteration? There is no choice.

By now, my audible sighs are attracting the attention of my techno adept husband. He offers to rescue me. I relinquish my desk chair and stand to the side, ready to absorb any nuances that might restore the favored page. Even he is unsuccessful in this quest and he gently suggests that the annoyance is minor. Of course he is right but my change averse self is still rebelling.

I trust that the elves who reside within my desktop PC don't read blogs. I wouldn't want them to know how stymied I am or my level of disdain for their unwelcome activities.

Though technology inhabits that part of my brain where the lack of math acuity also dwells, I've made an effort to become, if not exactly facile, at least less hopeless. I'm much more comfortable with technology, particularly computers, than I'll ever be with mathematics.

I am able to send and receive e-mail easily. That is, assuming that the browser is cooperating fully. (I know that I must transition to Firefox and abandon Internet Explorer altogether.)

Downloading photos, scanning documents, making DVDs and CDs, I perform all of those tasks. My Flickr account is active, my blog updated regularly. I've certainly left the novice category behind.

There are days, however, when I look at my office window and wonder if it would shatter should I lose control and attempt to hurl the CPU or computer screen. These thoughts are very fleeting and totally fanciful. My usual solution is to leave the room or ask for assistance.

Maybe I should make peace with my imaginary elves. Perhaps they need attention much like small children. Soothing talk, a letter perhaps?

Dear Elves: While I may appreciate your presence, do remember that I am somewhat technologically inept. Please consider my condition when toying with my system.

Yours sincerely,

I'm not a swearing person, even when provoked. A favorite expression is 'horsefeathers,' hardly profane. Shall I create a special computer oath? It can be uttered when sanity is slipping and sighing is useless.

It may be easier to request a tutorial from my daughter whose eminent technology acumen can surely eliminate all elves.

Not Just Another Monday Evening

He's calling from the San Francisco airport and tells his uncle that he'll arrive around 7:30. "Could we meet for dinner?" he inquires. There's really nowhere to eat at our airport but we live only a mile away. "Why not come here?" the uncle suggests.

It's complicated. This constantly traveling businessman will be met by a driver who'll take him to another town about an hour to the east. A very early meeting is scheduled for the morning and hours of preparation still hover.

"Just tell me what you'd like to eat and we'll have it here waiting for you when you arrive." says the accommodating uncle. That does it. The nephew can't resist a meal from his favorite local restaurant. The order is taken, a time fixed for his arrival. The driver will leave him at our house for an hour and then whisk him away to his hotel west on Interstate 10.

I'm unaware of these developing arrangements as I chat on the phone with a Southern cousin in another part of the house. Henry interrupts the conversation and says, "In about an hour, there'll be a surprise visitor." My mind shuffles. Who could it be? Surely not Caitlin on a week-day evening. Not the dear cousin to whom I am speaking. She is at least 1500 miles away, right? No other family members or friends are expected just now.

It's Keith, our nephew. Through a fluke in his flight plans, he's going to be in town just briefly and we'll get to see him. What serendipity! A wonderful surprise.

Hastily concluding my cousin conversation, I locate the Las Casuelas menu and call the restaurant. One Chicken Burrito Ranchero and an order of chips and salsa. I'm informed that chips and salsa come with the meal. Great. I'm thinking that Keith will probably be famished, so I order sides of black beans and Mexican rice. (It's a 'Mom' thing.) A carb feast for one.

Over to the sink to make more iced tea. He specifically requested that popular beverage.

Soon we've picked up the delectable Mexican food and made a stop at Fresh & Easy for a super-sized slice of chocolate cake.

The food reposes in a warm oven and emits tantalizing fragrances throughout the house. Keith'll be more than pleased by this culinary welcome.




The doorbell rings and he's outside. Looking slightly weary, Keith's wearing a handsome suit and perfectly striped shirt. The driver leaves. Not much time, but it will suffice. People in our demographic cherish every moment with the younger generations. Lucky for us, most youthful members seem to enjoy our company as well.

After generous hugs, Keith changes into jeans and a tee shirt. Now he can relax for a brief interlude, protected from the expectations of his demanding career.

In this house, we will always glimpse that adorable young man whose athleticism, ever-present smile, academic acumen and bounteous nature make us proud to be his uncle and aunt. Though he's now in his forties, married and dad to two special little girls, we fondly remember when he moved across country to our town immediately after graduating from college.

Keith, age 22, and his first cousin, Caitlin, age 7, became an improbable duo. He gamely rode with her on bumper cars, played mini-golf, and unwound as both of them spent time reading. She affectionately called him "Keefee." With her own brother off at college and a vast number of cousins living great distances away, Caitlin enthusiastically embraces the availability of a same-generation relative. The fifteen year age difference matters not at all. While Keith lived in our area, he ate spaghetti with the family at least once a week and joined us for holiday celebrations and birthdays.




During this most recent visit, we chat about his daughters' school year, the family's plans to return to the desert in the spring and his cousin Caitlin's latest exploits. Uncle Henry demonstrates newly acquired magic skills which are already pleasing audiences young and older. (He'll be even more facile by next April when Keith's family arrives.) There's just enough time to explore the latest electronic toys.



Too soon,the hour elapses. The driver returns. Dishes are empty, two glasses of tea have vanished. He's gone.

As Keith is so fond of saying, "Sweet."

A Fall in the Desert

In a Texas guidebook, I read a litany which some residents cite to describe the weather in that behemoth state. Each season included the word 'hot,' with a few qualifying words such as 'a little less...' or 'soon to be....' I completely understand the sameness of sunshine. No doubt my town gets more sunny days than any part of Texas.

It is, therefore, with great joy that I welcome a season which is generally a little less hot. The ubiquitious sun remains fixed on our locale but there are intermittent cloudy moments. Why, it even rained the last two days. Almost nowhere else in this country is rain worth mentioning. There are even places where inexorable rain is endured with disdain.

My office window faces a formidable mountain. During much of the year, its surface nearly disappears from view because of the dusky shades of its crevices. It appears as if the rocks are unfinished, awaiting the addition of vibrant color. If there is an unusually wet winter, greenery will often speckle the lower portion of the peaks.



Clouds give the mountain character. They herald weather. Not just sunshine, heat and repeat.



Sunsets crest the jagged edges closest to the sky with brilliant shades that range from umber to scarlet.



The mountain changes as residents below begin to put away tank tops and shorts and embrace light cotton sweaters and jeans.



Finally, a fall in the desert.

Not Right

She gave two reasons, my mother did. Rationale for why she wouldn't be teaching me to cook. Recall that it is the early '60's in the South and thus her words may seem intemperate. First, there is the matter of my husband. No, I didn't have one at the time, but she was sure that I would.....eventually. Therefore, no need to teach me any culinary secrets as I would surely be concentrating on preparing whatever my husband liked to eat. I can't remember if I were incensed by this statement but surely I fumed just a bit. Secondly, if she tried to impart her cookery knowledge, she'd have to do so upside down. All the tasks would be alien to her right-handed brain. Fair enough, I suppose.

Those of us whose dominant hand preference is shared by a mere 10-15% of the population encounter such challenges routinely. With twice as many men exhibiting the trait as women, I'm part of a rather rarified group. If you seek definitions for left-handiness, you will find a collection of uncommon words. Sinistromanuality. Sinistrality. Mancinism. Hmmm. All sound inauspicious to me.

There's more. The French word for left is gauche which means 'clumsy,' 'awkward,' or 'graceless.' In Chinese, left means 'improper.' Could it be that these words were created by right-handed people?

Research indicates that the elite (as I like to think of the demographic) left-handed population is rife with above average high achievers. Of the last seven United States Presidents, four have been left-handed. Some might argue that among those seven, at least a few skewed the high achievers appellation.

Traditionally, left-handed students were unacceptable and every effort was made to 'correct' this problem. Extreme measures, including physical force, were often employed. The young child could but submit. The physical and psychological effects of such a major change to one's functions are profound.

At the age of five, I began first grade at a small country school. Almost immediately, my otherwise very competent teacher began to try and change the way I wrote. My mother, not a person to challenge authority, arrived in my classroom shortly thereafter. She made it very clear to Mrs. Hays that I was left-handed and left-handed I would always be. Thanks Mother.

I've noticed that men generally turn their left hand to the right and then proceed to write. I do not. My left hand remains perpendicular to the paper as I begin to form letters. The difference is demonstrated in the photo of President Obama signing a document and a high school photo taken when I was editor of the school paper.



Because there are so few lefties in the world, products are designed for the majority. Left-handed golf clubs can be purchased, as well as scissors crafted for ease of use. Try using a hair dryer whose buttons are on the wrong side. Or an iron. It is always necessary to turn the ironing board around in order to use it successfully.



When sitting at the table, lefties try to sit next to a fellow left-handed diner or select a position where nobody is sitting to his/her left. Otherwise, the potential for bumping a dinner guest is greatly enhanced.

I've wondered if I'd be a more competent driver if I lived in a country where people traditionally drive on the 'wrong' side of the road. Would my consummate left-handedness be an asset?

In homage to my dominant hand, I wear my watch on my right wrist. The face is turned inwards and therefore I can access the time quickly if I am busy writing or performing some other task at the moment.

My dear husband, who has grown accustomed to my left-handed quirks, designed our kitchen island to oblige this trait. He set the stovetop off-center and created a small area closest to the refrigerator for depositing items extracted from the cold. The genius of the island is that the commodious workspace is located to the left of the stovetop.



Computers offer opportunities for frustration. My mouse must be reconfigured each time the CPU is activated. For some reason, the wireless Logitech mouse will not retain the 'secondary' aka 'left-handed' position. Curious.

Have you ever noticed that left-handed people appear to clap backwards? Well, they do. We hold our right hand steady and use the left hand to slap its palm. Generally, left-handed people can be identified at an event simply by observing their clapping technique.

During my pregnancy twenty-nine years ago, I created a list of desirable traits for my daughter. Being left-handed made the list but she most definitely is not. I thought perhaps the gene might transfer but I'm much happier that she has her daddy's blue eyes.

How I came to be left-handed is a mystery. Both my parents were right-handed as was my brother. Three of my grandparents were right-handed and most likely also the grandfather I never met. A sprinkling of cousins manifest the trait and it's present in the next generations as well.

With all the necessary life concessions which left-handiness requires, I rather like the distinction. Somehow it sets me apart. Makes me different. I always notice others who are left-handed and feel a sort of transitory kinship.

Though my life has been minimally impacted by injuries, I have had a few accidents. A broken kneecap. Hyper-extended fingers requiring a cast. Broken toes. Bruised arch. All on the left side. Wonder what that means, if anything? Maybe I am truly gauche as the French would say.

No, that's not right.

Two Left

Family stories form the fabric of relationships. Some bring laughter or tears, others chagrin. Too often these stories metamorphosize until their origins are obscured, the facts muddled and the content mythologized. In our particular family there's only agreement that one reason we bought the lot on which our house resides is that I wanted to be close to my favorite grocery store, Vons, nestled in a nearby mall. One could stand in the middle of our street, look to the left, and two blocks away, grocery nirvana. Well, maybe not quite, but a serviceable store nevertheless.

The small mall occupies an easily accessible corner. When we first moved to town nearly thirty-five years ago, a bowling alley anchored the westernmost front section of the mall. The eastern neighbor was a local grocery called Market Basket. At the southern edge of the complex, J.C. Penny thrived. It was so popular that citizens occasionally saw Frank Sinatra (yes, that one) strolling through enjoying an ice cream cone.

In the middle of the space, a hometown department store, Walker Scott, provided for area families' needs with reasonable prices and fifties type friendly service. From bedding to toys, kitchen gadgets to clothes, the two-story business flourished. One Sunday, as I entered the store from the mall side, I nearly collided with a compact gentleman, clutching a man purse. It was Liberace. Truly. I'd noticed his splendid white Rolls Royce with personalized plates in the parking lot but did not expect such an encounter. Once inside the store, I found the sales staff excitedly chatting about their famous customer. It's just that kind of town.

When we first moved here, Thrifty drugstore was situated in the center of the north face of the mall. Very often we'd stop there for delectable ice cream at a nickle a scoop. A small barber shop nearby offered reasonably priced services and a talented staff never too busy to serve the drop-in customer.

During the years when I required many baby-associated items, I shopped with delight at the Watermelon Seed. Unique baby and little girl clothes, cuddly toys, lacy pillows. Each purchase promised many smiles.

New stores appeared, old ones vanished but for quite some time, every storefront was filled. Occasionally I thought that the array of businesses blended well with my family's needs at the time. KB Toys sold age-appropriate products and True Value kept us supplied with Terro ant killer. Claire's collected many dollars as earrings, bracelets and necklaces were purchased for a stylish teen-ager. Miller's Outpost often carried just the right jeans for Dad or daughter. A bookstore was welcomed and all too soon disappeared. The same fate befell a very nice shoe store.

Small restaurants specialized in comfort food and attracted devoted customers. Among the favorites were Karla's and the Red Kettle Grill. A minuscule food court included a McDonald's which may have the distinction of being the only outpost of that chain ever to be shuttered.

I cannot imagine how much money I spent at the Hallmark store. Cards, ribbons, gift bags, holiday decorations. I bought them all. In fact, I was such a frequent customer that the staff recognized me instantly and often gave me suggestions, knowing my particular tastes very well.

Several times, an unexpected occasion required a quick trip to Payless for inexpensive shoes that, even if worn only once, were worth the investment. Radio Shack provided the same service for endless extension cords, batteries, power strips and the like.

One of my favorite stores is Office Max. It's not quite as good as Target for simply losing oneself in the aisles, but it is geographically closer. I can walk there. The print shop has faithfully prepared my holiday letter and family reunion newsletter for years. Computers, furniture, printers and their ink, envelopes of every type, jewel cases for CDs/DVDs, and reams of printer paper have migrated to our house from Office Max. The staff is friendly, accessible, and almost always very knowledgeable.

With the country's dire economic condition, it is easy to understand that 'our' mall would not escape. The dwindling of stores began slowly. The donut shop-gone. Claire's-vacant. Food court-empty. Gottschalk's (Walker Scott's replacement)-closed. Karla's-serving no longer. Vons-abandoned. Rite-Aid (Thrifty's replacement)-moved to another part of town. Payless-locked. True Value-now located on the south end of the city.

This week, the death knell. It's Office Max's turn. A battered sign proclaims, "40% off everything but furniture and computer related products" "Store closing November 18th." My husband and are not surprised, but certainly saddened. We visit, load up our basket, perhaps for the last time, and chat with the staff. Charlie, someone we've known for years, says that the mall is in foreclosure. With the store's lease expiring, an attempt was made with the bank handling the foreclosure to reduce the monthly lease payment. Disappointingly and maddeningly, the representative indicated that the bank did not have the authority to reduce the lease amount. How can this approach make any sense? Isn't it good business to have a property occupied, even with less revenue being received, than empty, with no money forthcoming? I guess not.

For years, our daughter, who has an often wry way with words, has referred to our local mall as the 'dirt mall.' Perhaps she is prophetic. Dirt is what it is becoming. Only two stores left.

A Novel Name

They were older soldiers, Southern farm boys already in their thirties. Within three days of each other, they enlisted at Camp Shelby, their futures fractured by conflict. Maybe they met immediately and sensed a comradeship that gave them comfort as they faced unfamiliar trials and eventually, terror.

Reading his enlistment document, I learned of a 1907 birth date, an unknown first name (Nathaniel) and that he'd graduated from high school. Personal particulars included his height (70") and weight (137 pounds.) A scrawny serviceman no amount of rations could make plump.

His new buddy was a bit younger, having been born in 1910. His education had ceased after two years of high school when full-time work life commenced at a commercial laundry in his hometown. Despite regular physical labor, this 67" tall man weighed 175 pounds according to his enlistment papers.



It's March 1942 and maybe the two men wondered, just for a moment, if they'd survive the Army's arduous basic training. After an additional stint at Camp Polk, Louisiana, the twosome is sent to the Desert Training Center in southeastern California. Living in tents, coping with scorpions, and enduring nearly unyielding heat, they prepare for the African campaign.

By the time the men are ready, Rommel has been routed and no more American soldiers are needed in north Africa. The younger man is sent to Georgia and eventually to France. His buddy's military journey is not known. What is important is that somehow both soldiers survived horrific experiences and returned home safely.

The younger man was my daddy. He was a person who communicated quietly, worked an excessive number of hours every week despite his service-related injuries, and never ever complained about anything. From an early age, I knew that the war was not a topic to be discussed. Rather, Daddy chose to focus on the friendship he'd enjoyed with the gangly Alabama native.

A few years after the war ended, with my brother and I having been born, trips to visit Daddy's good friend became part of our family's schedule. Often we'd stop by his house on our way back from visiting my mother's people in Georgia. It was only natural to address our host as 'Uncle' and his delightful mother as 'Aunt.'


I love the sound of his name. It's almost as if it were created by an author seeking to define a hero character for a short story or novel. Perhaps William Faulkner or Tennessee Williams could have incorporated the name into their works. Maybe even Eudora Welty. His unique middle name must have originated somewhere in his ancestry. Combining it with his surname created a perfect amalgam. Dupree Bibb, aka 'Uncle Pree.'

The Bibb family home stood on a small rise in the countryside outside Aliceville, Alabama in the western part of the state. The house itself was not new but almost surely post-ante-bellum. Possibly built in the 1890's or early 20th century, its small porch was topped by a balcony, festooned with decorative woodwork.



Inside, a wide hall provided room for a staircase ascending to the second floor. To the left, a parlor, never used during our visits. On the right, a bedroom occupied by a maiden aunt whose name might have been Florence. Walking through the central hallway, a formal dining room was situated to the left. A long screened-in back porch offered respite from the summer sun and a grand space in which to play. An old cistern was enclosed at the end of the porch, providing cool, clear water for drinking and household uses.

The heart of the house was the spacious kitchen. The stove might have been wood-fired and most certainly it was in constant use. A large wood table with six or so chairs commanded the center of the room. I recall a calendar with Norman Rockwell prints heralding each month.

From the busy stove, Aunt Hattie produced the most delectable biscuits ever eaten and divine Lemon Icebox Pie. I'm certain that my young self showed no restraint and ate far too many of these treats.



Uncle Pree was a 'Watkins' man. He sold the company's products from his pick-up truck, traveling country roads to reach his isolated customers. The Watkins line included vanilla extract, vitamins, and other products that any family might want or need.

He was also a quiet man whose frame remained nearly gaunt. With no children of his own, Uncle Pree delighted in our visits. We always felt like family.



Did the two former soldiers talk about their Army days? It's likely that they did not for they belonged to a generation who saw their service as a duty. Once completed, it necessitated no further discussion.

I last visited the Bibb household as a college freshman. The hospitality I enjoyed in that setting remains with me today.

Recently, I searched Ancestry.com for additional information about Dupree Bibb. Amazingly, I discovered someone whose great-grandfather was a sibling of Aunt Hattie's. The Bibbs were included in her posted family tree. There was also an infant's photo which is identified as possibly being Dupree himself.



Energized, I contacted the family tree's owner and explained my connection to her relative. Shortly thereafter, I received an enthusiastic e-mail from Peggy. Apparently intrigued by my story, she shared her own memories of Aunt Hattie. I responded with several historic photos which her sister will show to their 85 year old father.

As I am writing these words, I believe that Daddy's spirit is pleased that I remember his best Army buddy with great affection almost seventy years after their Camp Shelby days.