Freewrite of sorts: Letter to Papa, because I can

Dear Papa,

It's been really, unexpectedly busy lately.

I know you're probably wondering why I'm not writing more, Papa....well, unless you're so busy writing your book that you haven't noticed my pitiful output of words. That's probably the case, so I'm good.

You told me to treat this writing business like a job and not to piece meal my time away. What you told me not to do, I did. I gave away a ton of my time. The kids' school needed someone to do copier pool this week, and the better part of three days I've spent there. Eventually while waiting for that mightier-than-thou copier to spit out 3,020,500,019 copies, I realized I should be using the wait time to write, so I scrawled on a scrap piece of paper. What I wrote wasn't very good, though. And the copier kept jamming and moaning, asking for more toner and begging for coffee, lunch, and nap breaks and just in general being an attention hog. We now have a toxic relationship, that copier and me. I hope I don't see it again for a while, but I'm not betting on it.

Oh, funny aside: that copier can copy several pages at once into a packet and staple each one, but I didn't know that, so I copied a bazillion two-sided pages for a teacher, and then had to sort them into individual packets by page number and staple each one by hand. 75 packets of several pages each, it took me a couple hours. Not very efficient of me.

Also, your grandkids have been terrible stinkers on and off. Berto is stressed out in middle school, and snapped at me all the way home yesterday afternoon about television and homework, mad because his siblings got a half day, and he didn't. Daniel throws fits, demands stuff, and tells me I'm mean for getting after him for treating me like carp. Gabriella smarts off. Ana is fine besides putting too much pressure on herself. I do alot for those little rapscallions; they should appreciate me more instead of complaining about what I pack for their lunches.

I still want to write that mystery novel, but I'm going to check out a book at the local library on how to write a mystery novel first. I never had your gift with plots, and it would probably be best if things happened in this book instead of everybody milling around and talking to each other or getting lost in their own heads.

Right now I have three humor posts I'm working on, but I may have to ask your help with editing. I can't seem to wrap any of them up or get the tone or punch of certain lines just right. I would really hate to lose my momentum there, and that's what I fear: that I can't perform again, that I'll backslide.

Annie's visit this past weekend was wonderful. She was awesome with the kids, even letting them each paint a part of her face and buying them craft supplies for Halloween costumes. They'll never forget that! I hope she got all that paint out of her hair. We went out to eat twice in two days which amazed the kids, because they're so used to their parents being cheap.

Annie gave me a wonderful gift. I'm sure she told you about it, but I was shocked when I saw what it was: an original Beatles Abbey Road record. I couldn't wait to listen to it, and I'm also thinking about getting a really cool frame for it, so I can stare at it regularly on the wall. "Oh Darling!" is on there and "Octopus's Garden" and "Here Comes the Sun" - do you remember when Freddy died, and I listened to that one all the time? Annie gave me some of our childhood back; we used to listen to that record constantly together. It was my favorite. I even called that beautiful maple in the field on the north side of the house my Abbey Road tree, remember?

(Why is it, Papa, that my siblings always give me such amazing gifts, and I just really stink at giving them something incredible back? I never seem to find the personal and memorable treasures they do. They spoil me, and I don't deserve it at all. Maybe I'm amazed.)

One last thing about Annie's visit: I bet you'll never guess what we did? We argued and debated and almost ran for our boxing gloves. And guess what we did after that? We made up, and we laughed our heads off about how we are as a family (it all comes from your side, you know). We were drinking some Muscadine wine, the kind that Vinca introduced me to and that tastes like those muscadine grapes we used to pick in the lane, and Annie kept cracking me up by imitating how our family is when we're together like some big, crazy Mediterranean family as in Big, Fat Greek Wedding. She was witty in describing how we take someone else's business and rub it into our faces (It's not uh my business? It's not uh my business?! There! *rubs hands all over face* Now it's my business!), and how we leave our business on the other's doorstep, waiting for them to step in it. I'm starting to laugh just thinking about it. Matthew couldn't survive the debating/fisticuffs phase, so he missed out on the awesome after party. I think he goes into a temporary coma induced by exposure to overly emotional people.

Well, now you know what I've been up to. Oh, that reminds me; I want to write a humor post about our crazy family antics during reunions, too. I might have to steal some of Annie's material; I hope she doesn't mind.

I promise to work harder on my writing. When Danny first went to school, I was beside myself, craving company in the silence, and now I just wish I had the time and the quiet back once more. We always want what we don't have in the moment, huh?

Give Mama a big hug and kiss for me and tell her I miss her and often wish I could talk to her about "woman issues". She's such a calming influence, just like Matthew, Dave and Keith - haha! We really need them, all of us passionate folk.

Love,

Hoodoo

Family Music

When Daniel, my youngest, was just over six months old, I took him with me when I flew up to Idaho for my grandmama's funeral. My parents drove up, and my sister Vinca flew in from Virginia. We all had to do plenty of commuting between two small towns in Idaho, the epicenters of both sides of the family. That road was very familiar to my parents, for it was their slice of the world, where they had grown up, gone to school and church, where they'd met. They told stories and pointed out special spots from their courtship.

But my little guy hated his car seat and therefore hated the drive. Like his big sisters before him, he treated it like a torture device and cried inconsolably for most of the time that he was strapped into it. The flurry of family visits and family business that was sometimes comforting, sometimes heartbreaking but a necessary part of saying goodbye and preparing the funeral for Grandmama was hard on him.

One night we stopped at a gas station on our commute, and I comforted and nursed my distraught baby before we headed down the narrow, paved road again. Of course, he was already crying again within moments, overstimulated and exhausted, sick of being confined. My dad felt especially bad for his namesake.

Then Vinca started singing softly to soothe my Danny. It was melancholy and quite beautiful, accompanying the hum of the car and the stillness of the passing rural environment, swathed in consoling darkness.

As Vinca and I sat by my son, holding and stroking his hand and hair, he fell quiet. We were all feeling very sad, and the songs didn't serve to distract us, but simply gave voice to our grief and let us dwell in it together. I listened to Dad, Mom and Vinca sing spiritual songs, completely captivated by their voices as I gazed at my little boy's face and out the window at the trees, fields and streams, my own thoughts hushed.

The five of us on a dark road, grieving and singing hymns to my baby and for our comfort, is one of my favorite memories from that time.

It is not the only memory encapsulated in and kindled by music.

The last night of my visit with my brother Nate this past April, my friend Holly, Natie, my sis-in-law Natalie and I sat at their dining table playing cards, eating pizza and drinking wine. We told family and personal stories, debated a little (something without which my family can't survive), and Nate had a playlist on his smartphone through which he skimmed and skipped. A Gordon Lightfoot song came up, and I asked," Natie, you still like Gordon Lightfoot?"

"Of course."

My heart swelled with familial pride. Dad raised his four kids on Lightfoot's music. I knew my sisters still enjoyed it, but to know that it was honored by Nate, too, made me feel that the years with no visits and the thousands of miles between us, the distance from our own childhoods, was not so great as I sometimes felt.

Natalie and Holly didn't feel the same. Holly said it was sleepy music, and Natalie called it Country.

Nate and I protested. "It's not Country. It's folk music."

But no hard feelings. Nate and Holly sang along to 1990s tunes and made me laugh with their vocal interpretations. Natalie told a story about discovering the true meaning of a song she used to love as a young girl. I confessed that 1980s music made me nostalgic, and Natie pointed out it should be that of the 1990s, when I was a teenager. When Holly said, "Just don't play 'Breakfast at Tiffany's'," by Deep Blue Something, Nate and I banded together again. We have always loved that song.

There are songs and albums that remind me of my parents or make me think of my siblings as soon as I recognize them. "Superman (It's Not Easy)" by Train never fails to remind me of my sister Annie and all the time we spent together when I was first married and still living close to her. Gordon Lightfoot's album, Waiting For You, reminds me of going through the Blue Ridge Mountains with my sister Vinca as she drove fast and sure on those twisty roads. "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)" by Green Day will never fail to make me smile and say, "My mom loves this song!", or if I'm speaking to my children, "Grandmama loves this song!" And, of course, "Breakfast at Tiffany's" reminds me of Nate and of our time in Idaho with relatives before he left for the military. As for Dad, many Credence Clearwater Revival and Gordon Lightfoot songs connect me to him. The songs that bring Dad most to mind, however, are the ones he wrote himself and the ones I sing myself with great appreciation.

I could not name all the songs that remind me of special people or specific times in my life. It's a gift that keeps on giving. Music powerfully binds people together, weaving our memories into its melodies and lyrics by capturing our emotions, embracing, even enlarging our experiences, and expressing our culture. It transports us back in time and keeps us forever young, reminiscent of time with family and friends.

I, for one, am grateful for the memories.


 

Two Weddings

My brother-in-law Steve and my sister Annie got married a week apart on Saturdays in July. Both are the second oldest among their siblings. Both had destination weddings. For the happiness of both these family members our little family had been praying.

Steve married his longtime girlfriend Joy on a beach in Hawaii:

 

And my lovely sister Annie married her man under an enormous tree of wedding lore in San Saba, Texas:

 

 

There were no bridesmaids or groomsmen at Steve and Joy's wedding, but they asked all of his nieces to be flower girls. The girls wore Aloha dresses and shell jewelry, gifts from their uncle and new aunt. Jon's oldest daughter, Lily, flung the flower petals down on the ground by fistfuls, scowling as if she had great disdain for the flimsy things, making everyone laugh. The best part of the wedding was the look on Steve's face when he saw his bride walking down that verdant aisle toward the ocean. He cried. My husband said it was the first time he had seen his brother cry, and, I must say, Joy truly did look stunning in her gorgeous gown and white, fragrant lei with flowers pinned in her dark hair.

 

The older nieces jostled each other for the chance to take the bouquet from Aunt Joy. The look on their faces when the bride and groom kissed was comic; they all looked as if they were watching a fairytale ending. 

 

Our Danny Sam was the ring bearer. He kept scratching his sandaled feet during most of the ceremony. He even tried to lean on Uncle Steve to get better reach to his tickly toes during the presider's poignant discourse on the meaning of marriage, slipping off his sandals and attempting to balance. 

That wonderful event was the whole reason our family went to Hawaii this past July. The reception was a blast. The DJ invited all the married couples to take the dance floor, and then he started adding up years for anniversaries; anyone who had been married less than the pronounced time had to exist the floor. Matthew and I were there for a good while, we thought, but his parents stayed much longer, married now for more then 40 years. I felt a lump in my throat watching the few remaining couples; it was a beautiful testimony in a fickle age. When only one couple remained, neighbors of Steve and Joy, the DJ asked them to reveal their secrets to the newly married, and the gentleman replied, "Say, 'Yes, dear.' " It was cliché, but we all laughed. Then the wife added, "Have fun."

 

Matthew was having a good time

Fire dancers performed, making me clutch my chest and suck in my breath the whole time in fear of mishaps and in awe of their maneuvers with spinning rods of flame. It gave whole new meaning to burning your candle at both ends. The youngest one was a mere five years of age but full of bravado.

 

What was more astounding was that my oldest son Berto danced with his little sister Ella. I really wish I had gotten pictures. I would frame them on the wall in a collage as a reminder that those two do indeed love each other. Watching all my daughters and sons dance with their cousins, uncles and grandparents was precious and memorable. For me it was the best part.

 

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I was home but a day from Hawaii before flying out again for my sister's wedding. It was a small gathering of close family and dear friends. We all stayed in a quaint, tidy B&B in San Saba.

 

On the morning of the wedding, my sister Annie, Dad, Mom, and I sat downstairs and put together the bouquets, corsages, and buccaneers for the wedding. What am I saying??? My sister Annie did it all with precision, beautifully with a little help from Mom. I myself was confused by how to properly manipulate the floral tape.

 

As we dressed and primped before the wedding, the ladies had delicious mimosas. (I know, because I had at least two.) We chatted, shared feelings, laughed and cried, and the bride fixed our hair. Yes, she fixed our hair, because none of us had her crazy skills in braiding, curling and pinning.

 

We drove to the Wedding Oak down a dirt road bordered by barbed wire fences and hay fields. It was hot, but a welcome breeze followed us. My sister hid from Keith, her groom, behind her friend's SUV. Our mother was already crying. As I looked at Annie, I cried, too, because she looked so lovely. Her cascading golden hair - which she had fixed herself in intricate curls pinned back by silvery pins - embodied the rays of the bright sun.

 

The flower girl was the daughter of Annie's good friend, Jen, and her wheelchair was ornamented with pretty ribbons. Keith's dad was his best man. I was the Matron of Honor. The father of the bride was also the preacher and celebrant. He walked her down the dirt road as Keith's mother, Jan, played the violin beneath the sweeping branches of the colossal oak, and Keith's brother took pictures. Then Dad gave Annie's arm to her groom and turned to face her.

 

He asked, "Who gives this woman in marriage?"

 

My mother replied, "Her father and I do."

 

It wasn't long after those words that Dad got emotional, and as he struggled to speak, the breeze sighed through the broad leaves above.

 

And someone in a pickup truck idled just up the lane in order not to disrupt the ceremony.

 

What an unusually beautiful place for a wedding, beneath that magnificent oak! Just as Dad prepared to pronounce Keith and Annie husband and wife, the wind picked up dramatically and rushed about us for several moments, rustling the leaves. It was an impressive moment - at least I thought so. It was as if the Holy Spirit said, I make it so.

 

After much picture-taking, during which passing Texans in their trucks cried, "Congratulations!", we all went to the charming Wedding Oak Winery to celebrate. My sister designed the decorations for the reception area herself. Her gorgeous bouquets and hand-stenciled mason jars with tea lights rested atop burlap squares on the tables. She had made pretty little name tags tied on the keepsake wineglasses, and a cake topper of her own creation presided over the cake. The décor was rustic yet artsy, accented as it was by enormous wine barrels. It was completely unique, and I was amazed by what my sis had done - but not too surprised, considering all that she did for my own wedding.  

 

We ate a wonderfully filling meal with delicious wine - I particularly enjoyed the Viognier - and then Dad brought out his guitar and sang the most beautiful wedding song ever meant for a daughter: Where's The Little Girl, a song he wrote many years ago. It's the right of each of his daughters (and granddaughters someday) to hear it on our wedding day, and Annie had it sung to her for the first time. Then she and Dad danced to Landslide (Fleetwood Mac). the perfect choice, before Keith took her into his arms for At Last (Eta James). As I watched I, though missing my own man pretty badly on such a romantic occasion, was so very grateful to witness and experience it all.