Thanks to everyone who came out to hear me read last night. What a great group of beautiful and fun women. This blog is dedicated to my cousins, Ellen Dunlap Linton and Iris Dunlap Davis.
Dear Mom,
On Saturday, I stood among your flowers. The azaleas have peaked and fallen but the Irises are blooming strong. When you were alive, I never noticed your bend towards purple, but I see it now and it is my favorite too. The things you planted in your yard and family live on without you. Well, except for your rose bushes, only the durable climbers have survived my brown thumb.
We are remodeling the house at your farm. Most of what we are using is rescued or recycled. Having lived through the Depression, I see you rolling your eyes at my infatuation with old barn doors and wash boards which don’t carry the same appeal when you used them by necessity rather than displaying them for fun and nostalgia.
Riley’s favorite job at the farm is mowing. She rides on the lawn mower and makes careful circles, her skin turning Indian brown just like yours. Ryann plays with sticks and sand and swings on the old tire swing that you and Daddy hung on the big maple. Winchester and Fergie run wide laps around the property. Free from fenced-in yards and leashes, they charge forth with reckless abandon, ears back and flapping. I wish I could say they are useful animals, but at the farm they reveal their city dogness as they try to muscle their way into the house for a cool rest on the kitchen floor. We drive back to Greensboro, dirty and tired and sleep the hard-earned sleep of farmers.
John is there too. He knows how to use a chainsaw, drive a tractor, and rip hay string with a jerk of his hand. We stomp through the tall grass of the pasture, comfortable in the quiet of the country. He is a good man and those are indeed hard to find.
Aunt Nannie died last week. I guess you know this by now through either running into her spirit or if Daddy is indeed up there with you, there has to be a “News & Record” for him to read or it wouldn’t exactly be heaven. Her obituary was a tribute to a life well lived. I know she was your favorite sister-in-law.
At Aunt Nannie’s funeral, Ellen and I shared a memory of Stevie playing the guitar at his going away party before he left for the Coast Guard. The rattling news of his death came shortly after he reported for duty. That was almost forty years ago. I thought he played “Rocky Top,” but Ellen remembered later that it was “Country Roads.” She YouTubed that song to me and as I listened to John Denver’s voice on my computer, I was transported back to that party, frozen in the moment when our family was young and the dead were alive, before time and circumstances ripped through us tornado like leaving the remnants of what was once a bright and strong fabric. I downloaded that song on my iPod and sing the chorus now when I am out for a run … “Country roads, take me home, to a place I belong.”
Riley got her learner’s permit. It is unfortunate that the imaginary brakes that I keep jumping on don’t work on the passenger side. She is an amazingly cautious and good driver with a tendency to hug the white line and just enough hesitation at intersections to make me sure we are all going to die in a fiery crash. I don’t think hesitation and cautiousness will be the case with her sister.
Ryann has two speeds, high gear with accelerator to the floor, and deep sleep. She is relentless in energy and conversation. Everyone says she is just like I was when I was little. I wish you were here for me to apologize in person. I am sure you would just laugh and take Ryann’s side. Such is the way of Grandmas.
At your funeral, Preacher Bill said that now that you had passed over to the other side and seen heaven that you wouldn’t come back, even if you had the chance. He told your funeral attendees that you would want stay there, basking in all things holy. Aunt Betty and Miss Margaret “Amened” when he said this. I didn’t tell Preacher Bill or Aunt Betty or Miss Margaret this, but I think they are wrong. You would come back if you could … to hug your grandchildren, coax some rose bushes back into bloom, and sherpa me through life as my guide and confidante. That is what you always did. That was always the way you rolled.
Though time has enabled me to speak and write of you and taught me to grab hold of a peace that passes understanding, I still miss you.
If a Genie gave me three wishes, the first would be for just one more day with you. The other two would involve ridding the world of cellulite and a reality that really paid out dividends on the promise of flat abs in just 15 minutes a day.
So, I will wait for my Genie to arrive on his magic, flying carpet. Until then, I will hold tight to my memories and get by with a little help from my friends.