A "Tid Bit" of Chapter 68

The first part of Chapter 68 "Just Shoot Me Now"

We were not sure we would make it through the week. The jury was out. My brother, his family, and I were all trying our best to keep my mother happy and so far we were not doing very well. It seemed everything needed to revolve around Mama. I could not speak for anyone else, but I was getting dizzy with the revolving activity.

If Mama was not talking nonstop about subjects she knew nothing about, she was muttering under her breath. My fifteen-year-old niece bravely agreed to accompany her to the post office, knowing full well that was guaranteeing her a forty-five minute jaunt around the island visiting several rubber snake emporiums, all the while being a captive audience to Mama’s non-stop monologues. My niece returned with a sarcastic smile and announced, “OK, someone else has to go next time; I just took one for the team.” (At least she had maintained a sense of humor.)

The cooler under the back porch that housed the wine and vodka fueled our sanity. My poor nephew was chastised every time he went in or out of a door – “too much coming and going.” The ceiling fans needed to be kept off. (Our theory there was too much movement.)

Small paper plates needed to be used during the day. The large ones needed to be saved for supper. The fact we had 200 large plates was irrelevant, much less the possible use of “real” plates given we had a dishwasher. (God forbid.) The lasagna had to be reheated for lunch. My theory here was cold lasagna falls in the same category as bad beach water – it was sure to bring on serious illness or certain death.

(to be continued when the book is published.)

The beginning of Chapter 28

The first three paragraphs of Chapter 28, "High Acres, A Holiday Inn"

Visiting High Acres was not for the faint of heart.  Although it was a great place to relax and get away from it all, Daddy always wanted to make sure everyone was taken care of.  He loved High Acres and loved nothing more than to share it with friends and family, making sure everyone had a great time. And this would start with Bloody Mary's as soon as you rolled out of bed ('Hair of the Dog' as Daddy called them) and the consumption of libations continued throughout the day until bedtime. 

Regular guests learned early to pace themselves, lest they suffer undue bodily harm. It was not unusual to have someone fall off a horse when the horse was standing still or, worse yet, fall off the back deck and roll down the mountain through the apple orchard. Yes, it happened more than once but we would always send the jeep to procure them. 

Daddy had this, apparently, God-given talent to be able to drink all day and rarely get drunk. There were a few people who had the reputation of keeping up with him and that reputation preceded them. Every guest may as well have accepted the fact that there was going to be at least one great embarrassing story at their expense. It was a rite of passage and most guests took it in stride. Heck, some took pride in Daddy’s recount of whatever mishap they had suffered earlier, almost as if it were a badge of honor. And if they couldn't handle it, probably they would never feel comfortable returning. But then chances were they would not be invited back. 

While most guests . . .(The story continues when the book is published)

A Few Paragraphs From Chapter 21

Chapter 21, Our House on High Acres

From Chapter 21, "Our House at High Acres"

When my parents bought High Acres, the farm in the mountains of North Carolina, they immediately wanted to build a house on it. The location was not an issue. The house site offered a 360-degree view of hills and valleys that included three states. Although the sunsets were spectacular, the winds could also be quite stiff at times. But my parents had their heart set on putting their house on top of that hill. Stanbury, the farm overseer, just stood there, scratched his head, put his cap back on, and said, "Warll, we'll have to nail the shingles on real tight."

Now my mother, being very practical, found a grand old 

Victorian house in our home town they were razing to make room for a bank. She took it upon herself to purchase the home and have the company that was tearing it down number the pieces (that is the windows, the staircase, the doors, doorways, arches, mantles, and any other architectural pieces worth saving). Then she informed my father that it was up to him to get it transported to the farm. My father's response was, "Then what?" 

"We'll use the pieces to build the house," was my mother's 

reply.

So the numbered pieces were loaded and transported up to the There was the ornate archway leading into the great room which had all the windows stacked on the floor. Perhaps, I thought, it was going to take some time to come together. I could tell by the look on my mother's face this was not what she had in mind.

"Where are my white columns?" my mother asked quietly. My father pulled her aside for a conference, where he explained that due to the exact location she had chosen to build, unless they had done some very expensive excavation, which was not in the 

budget, the footprint of the house was relegated to its square shape. "But, it's so plain", she said. 

"It just looks that way now", my father assured her. "We just got started. Give it some time."

A month or so later  . . . .

(and the story continues, soon to be published, "Sterling Silver and Dollar Stores")

First paragraphs of Chapter 6 "A Broken Hone"

When I was just a lass in the south (in the 1960s) in my 

mother’s eyes, a social fate worse than death was to be from a 

divorced family. Her term was a "broken home". Just the way she said it made the very thought of it sound as if it were the root of most sins in life and doomed one to a destiny of social purgatory. Like many of her views, it did not take me long, as a young adult, to realize that no matter how off base, how out of date, or how far south she was, it wasn't funny.

The grand irony was that she and my father divorced after 

thirty two years of marriage and I, too, sank into that lowly social abyss and joined the ranks of those poor lost souls from "broken homes." And in my irreverent way, I never failed to play that card with her when she scolded me for some social sin I had committed.

Every time my husband and I had a difference of opinion over some issue and my mother happened to learn about it she, more often than not, took his side. One day, I was so peeved at 

something he had done, I told her if she continued to take his side, I would divorce him. The look on her face was worth the threat.

Misc Chapter Titles

Other Chapters that can be found in the book include:

Heat, Cold, and Miracles
Hampton's Legion and a Houseboat
From the Bowels of Antique Stores

Hint, one of these chapters is about childhood trips to the beach, one involves a cannon, an Oldsmobile, and the Tennessee River, and the other is a question about space heaters. If nothing else, let's say the content is eclectic. But, then so was my childhood.

A Conversation from Chapter 37

A few paragraphs from Chapter 37 "A New Doctor"

        I remember that argument well.  She had been seeing Dr. Smith for years and saw no reason to see anyone else. I failed to agree.
          "Mama, you really need to start seeing Dr. Brunson." 
          "But, I'm fine. Dr. Smith takes good care of me. He has for years." 
          "I know, for something like 50 years. He must be in his 80's." "He is 81." 
          "How are you seeing him any way, he closed his office years ago?" 
          "Oh, I see him in Sunday School. If I ever need him, he is always there." 
          "What happens if you need him any other day of the week?" 

(Of course the rest of the Chapter can be found in the book, due to be published soon.)

And, Then in Chapter 47 . . .

THE UNIMAGINABLE ACCOMPLISHING THE UNHEARD

Mama was telling this grand story about my Aunt J'Nelle being the Dean of Women at the most prestigious boarding school on the East Coast and how she was "removed" because she was caught buying beer one night while wearing a rain coat. Well, that was not quite the story. Yes, in the 1960s, my dear Aunt was the Dean of Women at a girl's boarding school in Virginia. And while, it was (and still is) very well thought of, I do not think the royal family sends their daughters there.

She was "seen" one evening by one of the professors purchasing beer off campus while dressed in a rain coat. The issue was more that of her attire than her purchase. And, her employment at the school was never threatened by that incident. Later, she left the school simply to get another degree (and most likely because being Dean of Women was a type of "employment" - something she shied away from most of her life, much to my grandparent's dismay.)

To say my mother had the flare for the dramatic was an understatement. Just as my father faithfully waited for the South to rise again, my mother pined for the old days of chivalry and calling cards, which is fairly ironic given how she prided her independence - quite the conundrum. It is amazing that I managed to make it into this century without all that baggage (my love for Victorian silver aside).

Whenever there was a lull in the conversation, my mother felt the need to fill it in with a story, that generally had just enough truths in it for my brother and I to vaguely identify the cast. However, once the tale started to unfold, we were as rapt as everyone else, because rarely did we recognize the plot line, even when we were the main characters. And, if we called her out on it, she got irritated, so we stopped commenting until the slight exaggeration became the ridiculous.

Over time, we had just rolled with the stories and only offered corrections when it was obvious that she had moved into another realm - that of the unimaginable about the unlikely accomplishing the unheard of. Then the madness needed to stop. For example, she started a story (about my wedding) directed at my daughters, "You know that your mother had more bridesmaids in her wedding than . . ."

(Once again, the rest of this chapter and many more can be found in the book when it is published.)

And, the Cover, Please . . .

A Taste of Chapter 36

Chapter 36

Mother Nature’s sense of Humor

My mother and I showed up at a friend's wedding in the same dress. Now, I'm not talking about same color or similar design - I'm talking same dress. And, my mother was not one to try to hide her age by dressing a generation or two younger than she was. Let's just say her style was not "hip" as my youngest daughter would say. This meant that if she was not trying to achieve a "younger" look, then I had achieved a matronly look - by default.

Would anyone notice? Would anyone notice? Are you kidding?  We were at a hometown wedding in a small town and it had often been said that my mother and I resembled each other. Well, on that day, that was an understatement. To make matters worse, she looked better in the dress than I did. The good news was the reception had an open bar. The bad news was that I had to attend the wedding ceremony first. Certainly, the church was big enough for me to slink into the back row, unnoticed. Or, better yet, go home and change clothes.

There are two things a southern woman can always change - her mind and her clothes (and of course her hair color - but that is for another day). Unfortunately, in this case, when I made the former, I had no back-up plan for the later.  It wasn't like I had a nice selection of dressy wedding frocks hanging in my closet. Then, it just got worse. A friend of mine approached me.

"I just saw your mother and she looks so good." Then she stopped. "Y'all are wearing the same dress."

"No kidding."

"You didn't do that on purpose, did you?"

"Sure, I enjoyed the mother-daughter outfits so much when I was six I just couldn't resist doing it again." I said sarcastically. If I killed her now, where would I put the body? I asked myself, not referring to my mother but my busybody friend who was about to turn my evening into reality show Hell. 

Then my youngest daughter came over to me. "Do you realize that you and ZeeZee have on the same dress?"

"Yes, it's hard not to."

"You are worse off than I thought."

(And, as they say, the rest of the chapter is in the book . . .)

A Bit of Chapter 32

This is the first part of Chapter 32

THREE DEGREES APART AND SOCIALISM

I have always said that where most of the universe enjoys six degrees of separation, in the South we only have three – at most. If I wasn’t aware of it before, it became painfully evident my sophomore year in college. I started dating a young man who just happened to be from the small the town nearest the farm my Mama grew up on. The first time I brought him home, naturally she was curious to find out who his family was. 

Of all the nice young men at college, not only did I manage to pick one from my Mama’s home town, I found one whose mother was in school with my mother. To make things even more interesting, they were mortal enemies. When Mama realized whose son I was dating, even her good upbringing did not keep her from making snippy remarks.

And the feeling was mutual because when my beau revealed the identity of my mother to his own mother, apparently the reception was not much kinder. In the two and a half years we dated, I never got invited home with him. We would visit his parents at their place at the beach, but never at their home. 

Needless to say he dreaded coming home with me. If dealing with my mother wasn’t enough,  . . .

(You'll have to wait for the book to see how it unfolds.)

CreateSpace Preview

If you wish to preview the book, below is the link to a Preview of it on Create Space. If you know of anyone you think I may benefit from their comments as well, please forward them the link. I need as much input as I can get.

Sterling Silver and Dollar Stores Preview

Welcome

To help introduce my book, this labor of love, I thought I would share bits and pieces here. For those readers who follow my Blog: My Life a Bit South of Normal , you will recognize some of this because I have been writing about Mama for years. And in total frustration when she was driving me crazy, like all our mothers do at times, I always said I'm going to write a book about this, but she'll have to die first. Unfortunately, she died way too early. 

So, a year or so after her death, I decided why not? Perhaps I would find it cathartic. What I found when I started pulling the memories of her from my childhood, my teenage years, and my adulthood was not exactly what I expected. She was much more complicated than I realized. And the more I wrote, the more I realized how much she meant to me and how much I miss her.

Yes, she was smart and talented. She was southern to the core. She was a raging alcoholic for years. She overcame incredible odds to sober up, and never looking back or wallowing in self pity, moved on with her life. She was a mother, a grandmother, and a friend. 

Introduction to the Book

If anyone asked, Mama would tell them she was raised on “a tobacco farm in Marlboro County." (That is pronounced mawlboro, if you didn't know.) Although she did not articulate it in so many words, in her mind it may as well been a “tobacco plantation”. But her memories were wistful. Even as a child I can remember the farm. Pictures I have today corroborate those memories, which differ a bit from those Mama claimed. Depending on her state of mind and time in her life, there were vague references to the farm somewhere between the dust bowl of the depression and Tara. There was the narrative of their family on the homestead trying to get by, like everyone else, during the days of the depression. Then there was the stately farm reminiscent of the land and homes in their glory days before the war, akin to those grand homes Margaret Mitchell penned about so well.

To the best of my recollection there was no long avenue of oaks, no Greek revival home, or some grand lawn in the back that gently sloped down to the river. But, whatever. I guess those are just minor details. Like so many other "details" that interfere with Mama's romantic memory, for her it was just better to overlook some realities. Although it was a rather large working tobacco farm where Granddaddy also raised cattle, corn, and cotton, I still do not think the Oxford dictionary would use it as an example for the word "plantation". As I mentioned earlier, it was lacking some of the more basic elements. 

Friends I have made as I have gotten older often comment, "God, you are southern." My usual response is "You should have known my Mama, she was the poster child." And if they did, they were rarely disappointed. I'm not sure if it is a romantic longing for something that never existed or just believing in the legend you became. Margaret Mitchell was responsible for a lot of this nonsense. 

Mama lived her life with “vim and vigor”, as my Daddy used to say. She was a truly beautiful person inside and out. Looking back on all her years, I realized few people would have survived what she did. She not only endured, but came out a stronger person, looking forward and holding no grudges. Often she told me that she was thankful for every day she had because she knew it was a miracle she was still around. She was strong and never gave up, not only on herself but on all those around her. There are many people today who owe their sobriety and possibly their lives to her. So that day in the hospital, when she looked at me and said, “This is more than I can take,” I knew the end was near.

They say there is a thin line between comedy and tragedy. Looking back on my life, I choose to stay on the right side of that line. Yes, there were some hard times with her as we were growing up. And there were issues I had to deal with that extended far beyond those that usually come between a mother and a teenage daughter. After years of drinking and depression, when the dust settled, what emerged was a wonderful, smart, talented, quirky, devoted person whom I loved very much.

This is the story of her life, as I remember it.

The Successful Award Winning Book

Some one commented, after reading the preview of the book, that my Mama would be proud of me for writing this book. That got me to thinking. First, there was a reason I waited until she died to write the book - I do not believe in reincarnation. 

And, if she had read the book, obviously the end of the story would be unfinished. That said, here is how it would play out: Mama would start reading it, maybe get as far as Chapter 32, get mad (maybe get her feelings hurt)and call me to tell me how ungrateful I was. Then, if I could ever persuade her to finish the book, I think she would be OK.

Of course by then, friends of hers would be commenting on the book. She would take full credit, telling them when I first approached her with the idea, she was hesitant, but realized perhaps the story would help some one (showing that you could recover). Mama would then tell everyone, in confidence of course, that I had second thoughts, but she was the one who encouraged and supported me through the whole process. 

Then she would go on to tell them how many awards the book had won . . . And, before I knew, I would have the makings of a sequel, "The Incredibly Successful Award Winning Book I once Wrote that No One Ever Heard Of".

The Cover

The next part of the process is the cover. There will two - one for the eBook and one for the paper back. A wonderful friend suggested that I use the Magnolia painting Mama did on the cover. While I think this is brilliant, it is a long story, but since it is in the room formerly known as my dining room, there is much stuff in front of it and I fear it would hard to get a decent picture of it. 

My next thought was a picture of sterling silver and on a blue background - Tiffany blue. I would appreciate some thoughts on this idea or any other ideas you may have.

I have engaged a professional, in the meantime, to see what they would produce, so we'll see what they come up with. Meanwhile, I still would like some input.