Thank you

Mah "little" girl

Sheriff Explorer at 17 years old

photo taken last Friday

I was proud of her for participating in the memorial flag raising at the Sheriff's Office last week. It's hard to believe she's the little seven year old I checked out of school the morning of September 11th, ten years ago.

They raised the old flag from ten years ago, the one that flew 365 consecutive days after the attack. It made us think, for the first time in awhile, about exactly what happened that day. Then they lowered it and raised a new one. It made us think about the future.

Everybody needs a Berthy

Bettina at age 5

(not normally this neat and clean)

Two doors down from my childhood home lived a large family with two working parents. Day Care Centers weren’t thought of back then, so the parents found themselves looking for a housekeeper. What they got was a “Berthy,” fetched all the way from Toccoa, Georgia to join their household in the Atlanta suburbs. Maybe her given name was Bertha, and some little child mispronounced it as Berthy. I don’t know, but the unusual name was perfectly matched to the strong-minded little woman. She made it clear from the get-go that she was not hired-help. She was a member of that family and her word was the law, for their chilluns and the neighbor’s too.   

After breakfast, our mothers sent us out to play so they could do their housework. Unfortunately for Berthy, we all went to interfere with hers. It was exciting just waiting for her to unhook the screened door, to get a look at her spiky hair and wrinkled skin. She dipped snuff, and every part of Berthy was the exact same shade of nut-brown, including her teeth. She never minced words and shot them quick from lips that barely moved: “G’MORNIN’!” Almost always, she raised a skinny arm to let us come inside.

In colder months, we played in the basement. Our usual choices were Monopoly, school, or house, and this took place just a few feet from Berthy as she did her ironing. In nicer weather, we jumped off the roof of their garage onto the grass below, testing the wind resistance of various umbrellas and makeshift capes. She was certain we’d break an arm bone but nobody did. It may have been the only time Berthy was ever wrong about anything. The little boy who lived there broke his ankle.

In the summertime, the fenced back yard was divided with several clothes lines running parallel with the house. We played between the lines of sheets, towels, clothes, and blankets. (Berthy pinned the ladies’ unmentionables inside pillow slips so we couldn’t see them, but the boys giggled and pointed at the braziers’ shadows). In wintertime, she moved the whole apparatus indoors. Naturally it was damp and dusty, as basements go. This made the clothes dry musty. She spent hours ironing everything fresh again, with starch out of a sprinkle bottle. These days, if I walk into a Dry Cleaner’s, the smell reminds me of Monopoly and the tiny flatiron playing piece I used to be like Berthy.

We were expected to go home for dinner, so whatever wonderful-smelling thing Berthy was making was never sampled by the unfortunates who didn’t live with her. We’d sit reverently at the kitchen table, watching her stir. Sometimes she remembered we were there, and poured some Kool-Aid for us into tiny plastic cups. If it wasn’t too close to suppertime, we got an orange pop-up ice cream. It wasn’t much food, and our tummies grumbled for whatever it was she had bubbling away in that big pot on the stove.

One of her specialties was what she called “homemade helper.” Berthy wrinkled her nut-brown nose at “store-bought,” and cooked strictly from scratch. It was tough to walk home with the delicious garlicky oniony fragrance in my clothes and hair, knowing I would never get a taste. Here is my best guess for what Berthy was making on those bright afternoons:

“Berthy’s Homemade Helper”

Cook 1 lb. of wide egg noodles according to package directions. Drain and toss with a generous pat of real butter. Set aside. Sauté’ 2 lbs. of ground beef (or turkey) with the chopped white and green parts of one bunch of spring onions. Drain off fat and return to pan. Add the noodles, and 32 ounces of Hunt’s Italian canned diced tomatoes, with the can-juice. Add salt and pepper to taste. In a bowl, mix together 16 oz. of Philadelphia cream cheese, softened, with one tub of nonfat cottage cheese.

*To serve from the stove top, stir cheeses into the meat mixture and heat through. Enjoy with crusty bread and a salad, and an orange pop-up ice cream for dessert.

Alternative: For a make-ahead casserole, layer half the noodle-meat mixture, then all of the cheese mixture, followed by the other half of the noodle mixture into a well buttered 13 x 9 x 2 oven-safe pan.  Cover with heavy duty foil and refrigerate for 2 hours, or overnight. Bake covered, at 350 degrees for 45 minutes. Uncover and bake ten to fifteen minutes more, until bubbly.

Wizzywig ... or, "What you see is what you get!" as published in the Pickens County Progress on Thursday, July 14, 2011

The married couple next door hadn’t seen me in quite awhile. They were afraid that living alone had made me nuts, just because I talk to myself and kiss dogs square on the mouth.

So the husband rang my doorbell and said point-blank it was time for me to start dating. He told me to “friend” him on Facebook first, and look at pictures of all his “friends.” If I saw one I liked, he’d introduce us. My neighbor is a Fireman, so I felt pretty sure I’d like his “friends.”

Firemen are usually big, with big hearts and even bigger moustaches. The late, great Lewis Grizzard was having his own moustache trimmed when his barber explained why moustaches don’t bother most women: “They don’t mind going through a little briar patch to get to a picnic.”

 I agree. So I did what was asked and looked at all the pretty Firemen on Facebook. One had a particularly nice Sam Elliot vibe, so I messaged him. We met for dinner. At least, I think it was him. The man who greeted me at the door was completely clean-shaven. “Where is it?” I asked. “Where’s what?” He said. “Your moustache,” I answered. “Oh, that thing’s been gone for months!” He said.

I had a nice time, and he was good looking, no doubt. But he may have been disappointed with me. My Facebook photo was a quick self-portrait. I had to crop it tight to get the toilet bowl out of the background. So needless to say, Sam Elliot never called me again.

It’s awkward now, because the matchmaking couple next door is afraid to come outside. I haven’t seen them in quite awhile. We even take turns going to our mailboxes. One day, when it was my turn to go, the mail lady had left me a catalogue. Guess what the cover said? “L.L. Bean men … Summer 2011 … shipped for free … guaranteed to last … no minimum order.”

Well, heck. Facebook didn’t make promises like those. I began looking, but most of the Bean collection was too permanent-press for my taste: mama’s boys, all of ‘em, standing idle on front porches next to hunting dogs that won’t hunt.

Bean did have a ringer on page 9, with tousled black hair and sun kissed olive skin. He wore the summerweight poplin shirt in blue plaid. It hung on him to perfection. So I decided to hang onto page 9 and place an order.

Now my heart skips a few beats every time the doorbell rings. Soon the ringer from page 9 will be standing on my front porch, holding a picnic basket. I’m sure he’s on his way, because his poplin shirt got here yesterday.

Honeydew you love me? Yes, but we cantaloupe!

Ashley Banks, Amberly Brooks (sister of bride), and Tim Banks

June 25, 2011

photo by Bryan Abshear

Maybe you know this and maybe you don’t, but grocery work is grueling business. All that stuff doesn’t place itself on the shelves. My old job at the Jasper Kroger used to keep me covered in bruises and liniment. I didn’t know how the working students found the energy. But then I met Tim. He made our Produce jobs palatable with his sizeable imagination.

When we took the garbage, he pitched to the dumpster lid with rotten fruit and veggies. We discovered that pre-slitting the avocadoes yielded 75% more goo than if they remained intact. And he rolled the trash can funny, too … hobbling along like Igor, hunched over and dragging one foot. He invited me to “walk thisssssssss way …” So I did.

 It was Tim who first noticed sweet potatoes often look like seals and ducks. He drew faces on them and put them back in stock. Then he invented a new toy, the “Mr. Sweet Potato Head” using little pieces of broccoli and cherry tomatoes for eyes, noses and mouths.

When he assisted Crystal, the fruit cutter, Tim gave cantaloupes jack-o-lantern faces. If I was in a bad mood, he’d make me giggle flapping open a blueberry container and talking like Arnold Schwarzenegger: “put me in your muffin! Do it now!”

 Management soon tired of Tim and me, suggesting we find employment elsewhere. So we did. I completed the cosmo course at tech school, and Tim is on the cusp of college graduation to become a history teacher. I feel sure he’ll give it a spin that his students will never forget.

 Tim reminds me of other mild-mannered introspects like Bob Newhart; and even the loveable “Chandler” from Friends.

He’s so quiet at times it’s easy to forget he’s there, sitting on a pallet of bananas, eavesdropping. This is how he learned all about female hormones and the medicinal properties of chocolate. Such information helped him be a better boyfriend to Ashley, his then-sweetheart: who's a gorgeous blend of Pocahontas and Natalie Portman. She’s just as pretty on the inside, too. There is nobody nicer.

They were recently married by Tim’s eighty-something year old Grandpa, who wandered off-task a time or two, but effectively joined them together in the end. He asked, “Do you Tim take Ashley to be your wife? Now you say yes.”  And the smart boy did. Tim didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, you know. 

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“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Against such things there is no law.” – Galatians 5: 22, 23

Dating last century ...

This was my Mom's "dating diary" in 1947 and 1948 when she was 23 years old. I remember being 10 or so years old, and going to visit my Grandparents in Auburn. I would find this thing and read it from cover to cover.

The little diary was free if you bought something at Hills-Bootery in Auburn, Alabama where she attended Auburn Polytechnic Institute. It was published by Friendly Sports.

According to her notes, she dated 13 different fellows! It wasn't all about boys, though. She marked down other things like spend-the-nights with other girls, jobs she took, and classes she attended.

Here's an inside page from January:

One section featured "no love lost" rejects ... where my Mom put the initials of dates who acted like these losers:

Thomas Technicolor - Bright shirt and tie and checked pants make a real picture and tell at a glance the artist, by golly - must've been Dali.

Charlie Conceited - Your hair is wavy your eyes are blue, you're quite some stuff according to you.

Spencer Spineless - Sure as the vine grows 'round a stump you'll sprawl on the sofa in a lump. One thing we never can condone is the man who sits with no backbone.

Larry Be-late - The date's at eight, you come at nine. Oh, who would be your Valentine?

""What are you looking at,?" as published in The Pickens County Progress on 6/16/2011

 “What are looking at?” It’s the prepositional faux pas that makes English teachers cringe. You don’t hear it much, because nobody notices anything anymore. We’re all too busy looking at our cell phones. That is – all us older folks. Little kids still notice things. Summer is here, and they know what to do. They live in the moment, and savor each one.

Grown-ups have to pay the bills, and work hard. Although most women will take the easy way out of one job: it’s too hot to fry your own chicken. That’s probably how, many years ago, my friends Jeff and Neal managed to ruin their summer in very short order. Their Mom had stepped inside the KFC to pick up a bucket of chicken, and left the two boys in her brand new Cadillac.

Jeff was lying down in the back seat, looking at the backs of his eyelids. Neal was up front, looking at the cigarette lighter. Jeff began to notice something smelling just awful. He sat up to look, and saw twenty-seven swirly burn holes peppering the front seat upholstery. I don’t know how they were punished, but it couldn’t have been pretty.

 Not long ago, I was invited to a baby’s first birthday. Relatives slipped folding money to the proud parents, while the guest of honor sat looking at the cowbell I’d brought. Then he began to lick it. We sang “Happy Birthday,” as he looked at his cake. His fingers touched the icing and he bellowed. Then he touched his lips and tasted sugar. His tongue knew what to do next.

A different cake was cut for the rest of us. A girl cousin seemed especially determined not to waste one little bit. Once her serving was gone, she spent five minutes luxuriously licking the plate clean. I have never seen anyone work so hard at something in my whole life! And I say; good for her mom, who didn’t try and stop it. (Childhood is fleeting enough).

This precious little girl got a second helping and did exactly the same thing, again. I was told she absolutely loves food. It was plainly true. So, I decided to call her “Plate Licker,” and the nickname has stuck.

She inspired me to change how I look at life. No more multi-tasking for me. Towels are folded neatly. Letters are written thoughtfully. And I eat just like Plate Licker, even in public. When someone stares, I’ll ask, “What are you looking at?” If she says, “Where I come from, we don’t end our sentences with prepositions,” then I’m quick to tack a noun on.

Baby diapers and other loaded subjects

“Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it.” – Proverbs 22:6



Her Father, my Mom (Phyllis) and her Mother
Notasulga, Alabama 1925


Today is my Mom’s birthday. She would have been eighty six. We became as close as two people can be during her last ten years of life.

At first, she went to assisted living. Then her health declined and she moved in with us, creating a "sandwich family." As Mom became more childlike, she was content to do whatever my daughters were doing. So for awhile, I had three little girls: Missy, Amber, and their Gammaw.

My daughters got older. They wanted to help take care of their "Gammaw" and Missy even volunteered for trips to the bathroom. You haven’t seen everything, until you’ve seen your daughter chasing your mother through the house waving an adult diaper, trying to get her dressed.  It’s sad, and funny, and surreal - all at once.

Today on my Mom's birthday, I wished to be little again. She took such good care of me. But if time went backwards, I wouldn’t yet have my two precious daughters. And the challenges we faced as a sandwich family would not yet “be.” Now that it's past us I have some perspective. Living together in a jumble with all the challenges forced us to find new ways to show our love for each other.

It seems like just yesterday her Daddy and I were diapering Missy for the first time. Who could imagine that she would ever diaper my Mom? I try not to imagine this at all, but someday she may even diaper me!