Robert Kennedy

On November 22, 2013 I posted something in connection with remembering the death of John Kennedy. It also contained the following:

"As powerful as that memory remains, it was the news of the death of Robert Kennedy that has the most connection for me. My grandmother was visiting, and the two of us were watching television together when the news broke. She gasped and said, "Oh, poor Ethel, with all those children." To understand fully, you need to know that my mother, the eldest of five children, was only eight years old when her father was killed. When a former employee of her father came to the door, she and her brothers clustered around Grandmother and heard her tell the visitor when my grandfather would return from an appointment. The man left, but walked only a short distance from the house, where he waited out of sight until my grandfather returned. He shot him at close range. My grandmother never mentioned how difficult it must have been for her, not only lose the love of her life, but to rear five children in a depression era world. In her softly spoken "Oh, poor Ethel with all those children" she revealed perhaps more than she realized. Her expressed empathy came from an understanding that most of us will never understand."

Hearing of the events planned earlier this week  to commemorate the anniversary of Robert Kennedy's death reminded me of my earlier post, but mostly of that hour or so with grandmother. Like many, we were glued to the television upon hearing the news.  Grandmother's life was very different from that of Ethel Kennedy. She was never in the spotlight, nor did she have the same financial resources. In almost every way they had nothing in common, yet in that awful moment of hearing the news on television, my grandmother felt an instant connection to Mrs. Kennedy. 

Grandmother died four years later, and we never again talked about hearing the news that day or about the day my grandfather was murdered. Now I wish I had asked her more about her life, but even if I had, she probably wouldn't have talked about the bad parts. She was truly a remarkable woman in her own quiet way. She lived the rest of her life in the same house, alone once her children moved away after they finished college or married. 

 On that day as we watched the news, it didn't occur to me that my grandfather had been killed almost forty-four years earlier. Realizing it now makes Grandmother's quiet utterance seem more remarkable. The time that had elapsed vanished, her reaction was instant as she remembered what had happened to her and what the years ahead might hold for Mrs. Kennedy.

But now, fifty years later, I can still hear her voice in my head, as clearly as if she were seated next to me on the sofa as she was that day. As I remember her sympathetic expression and all the unspoken things it revealed, I marvel once again at the courage with which she lived. 

Oh, for Answers

There it is, available on Amazon, for $9.80, with free two-day shipping for Prime members. The Retro Edition Magic 8 Ball By Mattel. According to the description it “has all the answers to all of your most pressing questions!” I’m not sure what the difference between the Retro Edition and the regular edition might be other than the price. The regular edition is only $6.81, but does not ship free. The Tie Dye Edition is pricier at $17.22. Other than package design, they all seem to be alike, although it is fun to imagine the different answers they might give – surely the Tie Dye version will answer “Groovy, man” at least once.

            Not to be outdone by Mattel, KickFire Classics has issued a Magic Trump Ball. I shudder to think what it answers, but the site mentions that the 20 possible answers include: “You’re fired.” “Don’t be an idiot.” “Do it. I’ll pay the legal fees.” “Every poll says yes.” Somehow those don’t seem like the answers I need. Since I love books, a few years ago when Carol Bolt’s Book of Answers, a hardback version of a Magic 8 Ball was published, I bought it immediately. But I’m about to toss it, because it hasn’t given very satisfactory answers lately, despite the fact that it offers not twenty, but over 150 answers.

            What brought on my perusal of answering devices on Amazon, other than the fact that I’ve always been fascinated by the silly toy? Too many sleepless nights, or when sleep did come it was fraught with dreams, almost nightmares, reflecting my restlessness and indecision. I’m not sure what brings on the restlessness, but over the years I’ve experienced it several times. Going shopping – buying something foolish, booking a ticket to Italy, doing something drastic with my hair (yes, I became a blonde on more than one occasion,) or rearranging the furniture in my house has usually taken the edge off.

            I think it has something to do with the ticking of my biological clock – not the one about having babies – this clock is more of a reaction to how fast the years have flown by and the frequent reminders by someone who tells me often that we are now, in fact, OLD. I have not been ready to accept that, but comparing my age to that of my parents and how their lives changed once they were the age I am now has been a sobering experience.

            How many years do I have left? Beyond a guess or estimate, there is no certainty. I know that the years I have left are a mere fraction in comparison to my current age, and if they go by as quickly as recent decades have flown by, not long enough. It doesn’t weigh heavily on me that it is too late to do some things. I’ve been more active in the past, but I was never particularly athletic or daring, so it doesn’t bother me at all that it is too late for me to take up bungie jumping, mountain climbing, snow skiing, or other such pursuits.

            However, it is becoming apparent that I need to move. I love my place, but a few accidents, injuries, or other concerns have made me realize that I need a one-story dwelling sooner or later – probably sooner rather than later. Even if I can avoid any more injuries, the stairs remind me daily that these knees aren’t going to get any younger. I think I’d like something other than just different walls, but the adventure of living somewhere that I’ve never lived before. It’s not that I’m unhappy in Montgomery. Except for a few years I’ve lived here almost all of the last sixty years.

            I’ve pored over the emails a real estate agent in Fairhope sends me. I’m not sure when I became infatuated with the idea of moving there, but every time I visit the urge gets stronger. So why haven’t I done it? Inertia is such a strong force. Laziness is a bad habit. Then throw in the indecisiveness factor. In addition, such a move requires that the universe make three things coincide: the right house or condo, the right price, and the right timing. So far the planets haven’t lined up, Mercury is in retrograde, or something. The indecision factor outweighs them all. I don’t even like choosing what to wear each day. I love football season, not so much for the game and friends gathering to watch together, but because it simplifies my wardrobe selection: an Auburn shirt with a pair of jeans every Saturday of the season.

            I’ve not been a Punk Rock fan, or of the group The Clash, but the refrain of their song Should I Stay or Should I Go? keeps running around in my head. Of course they are singing about a relationship, not relocating, but their question echoes my quandary. Obviously I’m too old for this to be a mid-life crisis, but something is eating at me. Ticking clock? One last adventure? The pull of salt water? As I write this I glance at the quilted art piece hanging above my desk. It features a quotation from Isak Dinesen, “The cure for everything is salt water – tears, sweat, or the sea.” But is salt water the cure for what ails me now?

             Maybe I should order that Retro Edition Magic 8 Ball. Amazon promises delivery in only two days. It might answer my “most pressing question.” And the great thing about the Magic 8 Ball is that if one doesn’t like the answer, the ball can be shaken over and over until an acceptable answer is given. If it doesn’t, there’s always the option of hurling it across the room. I hear that throwing things, although not the best choice, can alleviate frustration, at least for the moment – until how to repair the wall becomes the question.  

 Postscript: I wrote this around September 15, on September 23 I made an offer on a condo in Fairhope. It was accepted!

Tribute for Daddy on Father's Day

The ads for DNA testing from Ancestry finally got to me, and I sent in my $99.00. Following the directions in the kit, I spit into the vial and returned it for testing. As promised, it wasn’t long before I received the results. There weren’t really any big surprises. 98% Western Europe and Great Britain, consistent with the known genealogy records from my family, links to ancestors from France, England, and Scotland.

            There were things that the test didn’t mention. That I get my body type from my mother’s, or more accurately, my maternal grandmother’s, side of the family. There is no question that my body proportions are like the Christopher side of the family, just as there is no mistaking that little of my physical appearance came from my father’s side of the family. 

            But what about the things not as easily explained by genes and chromosomes? Perhaps it is easy to explain why I sound so like my mother that people often confused us over the phone. After all, it was her voice I heard while in the womb, and Mother’s voice that I imitated learning to speak. As I get older I also find myself saying things much as she would have, using the same phrases, some surfacing from deep in my memory.

            I exhibit few of my father’s obvious physical characteristics – no lean frame, no narrow feet, no blue eyes, not the same hair, even my hands the shape of my mother’s. Because of some difficulties when I was born it was determined that I needed a blood transfusion, and was transfused with my father’s blood, so I know that his blood literally ran in my veins early on. But where are the other similarities? 

            A friend riding with me pointed out something I’d never noticed about myself. When driving, I tend to move my thumbs on the steering wheel almost constantly. I’d never given it a thought, but when it was brought to my attention I knew where it came from. Daddy. But when and how had I picked up the habit? I’m pretty sure DNA wasn’t responsible, nor had I tried to imitate the behavior. Given a choice, I’d prefer to have Daddy’s tendencies for neatness and perfection.

Because it seems to get on the nerves of my passengers, I try to control my thumbs when others ride with me. But when driving alone, I let my thumbs do their thing. When I glance at my hands, now covered with age spots just like Daddy’s and my thumbs doing their dance, I smile and am thankful, not for age spots and dancing thumbs, but for this small reminder of Daddy, of the wonderful father he was. 

How Old is Old?

After shamelessly posting a photo of the certificate (but not the check!) I received for the award I received at the Tennessee Mountain Writers Conference last weekend, some who sent congratulatory messages expressed interest in reading my submission. So, with sincere apologies to my doctor, who really was nicer than I made him sound, here it is:

Theirs was what might now seem an unusual household, but at that time it wasn’t uncommon in our small town for extended family members of different generations to live together. The house belonged to Mr. Aubrey and his wife whom, following the southern custom, I always called “Miss” Inez. In addition to them, the other occupants of the house were her mother, whom everyone called Cousin Lizzie, and her brother, Horace. The men worked, Miss Inez kept house and took care of Cousin Lizzie.

In the afternoons Cousin Lizzie liked to sit on the front porch, holding court, as the first generation, therefore oldest, resident of the house. Although she talked little, she liked having visitors, so Mother and I would often walk across the street to sit with her. Miss Inez and Mother usually sat in the swing, while I sat in a rocking chair nearby.

I don’t remember all the afternoons we spent there, however, one afternoon from the summer of 1952 or 1953 has always stuck with me because of one thing Miss Inez said. Mother was enjoying her favorite afternoon treat, an ice cold Coca-Cola, while Miss Inez read an article from The Alabama Journal, the afternoon newspaper. I don’t remember what the article was about, only that when Miss Inez, reading aloud, came to “an elderly woman of 62” she stopped, lowered the paper, turned to my mother, and exclaimed, “elderly woman of 62? Well, I certainly didn’t know I was elderly!”

They all seemed old to me because I was nine or ten at the time. Although Mother was only around 37 or 38, like most preteens I thought my mother was old. Miss Inez didn’t give her exact age, but from the way she reacted to the article, she must have been 62 or older. Except for church or special occasions, Miss Inez wore cotton house dresses, covered by a bib apron. She had always seemed old to me, but not an old old, and certainly not elderly. Like a grandmother, she always had teacakes in the cookie jar and was exceedingly patient in teaching me to cook and to grow African violets. However, Cousin Lizzie always seemed elderly to me because she wore her long white hair coiled in a braid across her head in a manner only worn by women long past their youth. She was also confined to an old fashioned wooden wheelchair with a tall caned back, a visible confirmation that she was unmistakably elderly.

The memory of that afternoon came back to me recently. After a fall, I found myself hobbling in on a walker to be treated by a very young orthopedist. He was kind enough not to use the term elderly, but from his recommendations of modifications I needed to make, he obviously thought I was.  To be pronounced old by a doctor who had never seen me before was exasperating. Didn’t he understand that I was in enough pain already without that added blow? Even though it really was a fluke accident, he didn’t exactly say it was stupid of me, he obviously thought I had absolutely no business using a stepstool for any purpose and should have known better. How dare he imply that I was too old…well, too old for almost everything, and might need assistance? Didn’t they tell him before he finished med school that just because I might be the age of his grandmother that I certainly was nowhere near elderly.

Actually, since I’m more than a decade older that the woman described as elderly in the article Miss Inez read, I suppose I am, in fact elderly. But I don’t feel old, much less elderly. I’ve accepted the term Senior Citizen, perhaps because I was so fond of going to school that senior status sounded good. And then there is the matter of senior discounts: 20% off clothing on the first Tuesday of the month at Belk, a 5% discount on groceries at Publix on Wednesday, free coffee at some fast food places, and so on. I’ve often quipped that I claim my senior status when respect, convenience, or money is involved.

But elderly? How can it be that the words elder and elderly convey such different meanings to me? Elder Statesman or Elder of the church – both of these seem to endow wisdom upon and respect for the so-named person. Yet elderly seems to mean that the person is frail, perhaps beginning to “lose it” and is old, not in a good way.

So what words would I accept to describe this stage of my life when none seem to fit? Perhaps the problem is that there has been a change in what is expected of us as we age. Neither Miss Inez nor any of the women of her day were expected to look good in a bathing suit, go to the gym, or engage in any activity such as running, playing tennis or golf, or anything that might make them break a sweat. She definitely was not supposed to wear the same fashions that younger women chose. Although it never occurred to me then to give a thought to what went on in their bedrooms, in retrospect, I realize that women of their age at that time weren’t expected appear or act sexy. The expectation was that they would age, gracefully, of course, and allow wrinkles to develop without delusions that a cream would restore their skin to the dewy texture of when they were twenty. They wore lace dresses for special occasions, and had the beautician rinse their white hair in yellow-combating solutions, which if not applied carefully, tinted their hair lavender or blue. They smelled sweetly of soap, dusting powder, and rose water.

More than labeling words stands in my way. When I think of my role models, my grandmothers, my mother, and women like Miss Inez, their then age-appropriate lives and fashions no longer fit for my generation. However, no one told us how to make the leap from their grandmotherly settling into their seventies, eighties, and nineties to what society seems to demand now. So I’m caught unprepared.

My life is little like that of Miss Inez, and for the most part that is a good thing. But once in a while, I’d like to be like that sweet, self-assured woman relaxing from her daily chores, enjoying the company of four generations sitting on the front porch. We definitely had one thing in common, even though my realization came many decades later. We both found it incredulous that at sixty-two we were considered elderly.

There are many reasons I wish she were still here. If I could visit with her again on the front porch, I’d like to ask her more about getting old, and for her teacake recipe. 

The Pleasure of Warm Water

This morning I had a shower. Doesn’t sound like a big event, does it? But it was my first shower in three and a half weeks.

An incautious stretch to reach something on a high shelf had sent me crashing to the floor when the stepstool shot out from under me. I’m very, very thankful that my injuries were not worse. But the tear when I dislocated a toe on my right foot required stitches and padded bandaging that couldn’t get wet, along with a boot to relieve the pressure while it healed. That, along with the injury to my knee on my left leg meant that there was no way I could have a shower. Believe me, if putting a plastic bag over it would have worked, I would have done it. But a having a slippery plastic bag on one foot and not being able to lift the other one to clear the edge of the tub because of the knee injury seemed like a sure setup for another fall. My only recourse was to bathe off as best I could using only a bathcloth. My children and friends have various names, some too crude to mention, for this method of ablution. I was glad I could manage that, but compared to a shower, it was unsatisfying.

For centuries people bathed from a basin or sink. For many of my younger years my family had only a tub, no shower. But once there was an option I stopped taking tub baths, favoring instead a nice warm shower. When I told a friend that I was going tent camping in a national forest on my honeymoon she warned me that this might not be my best decision. “You’re a hot shower, flush toilet girl if ever there was one,” she said. Oh, how right she was.

My daily shower had become such a given that I didn’t give it a second thought – until I had to do without one. Perhaps the longing for a shower when one was not possible made me appreciate it more today. Or perhaps it was because I have recently started reading a book on mindfulness by Thich Nhat Hahn, but the “ordinary” shower today was far from ordinary. The warm water through my hair as I rinsed away the shampoo, the soothing cascade of water over my body, the sweet fragrance of a favorite body wash, the feel of the mesh scrubbie exfoliating dead skin from my unbandaged foot – all were wonderful. Not wonderful in the usual trite way in which we have come to overuse the word, but as the word really means, full of wonder. Each part perhaps ordinary, yet exquisite, when mindfully appreciated. 

Amid the Chaos

Maybe the pain pills have addled my brain, but I swear the gaudy robed wooden figures in the bookshelf are glaring at me. If they could speak, no doubt they would chide me in a sarcastic tone, “Well, that was smart wasn’t it?”

They would be right, after all they don’t call them the wisemen for nothing.  It was indeed foolish of me to place the painter’s step stool sideways in my effort to reach something on the top shelf of the cabinet over the washer. Since I’d done exactly the same thing numerous times before, I had no idea that the step stool could suddenly shoot to the left, sending me plummeting to the floor.

The fall put a halt to my decorating for Christmas.  Only twelve Santa or Father Christmas figures found their way to the mantel, joined by two other figures of indistinct classification. The rest of the crew that weren’t brought from the storage facility in the first load will have to sit it out this year, as will many other decorations, including the Christmas pillows for the sofa.

Not only will the decorating take a hit, fewer goodies are ready. But my sons and daughters-in-law have assured me that they will shop for groceries when they arrive, and will make some of our favorite cookies and candies. Since we usually have way too many sweets around over the holidays, having to make do with less might mean we don’t have to work off as many extra pounds in January.

I am refusing to let this accident completely spoil my holiday spirit. Or at least I can say that now, but I was very angry and cried several times from frustration and pain during the first couple of days. After the doctor finished stitching up my toe, as he was padding and wrapping my foot before fitting the orthopedic ‘sandal’ he said this was not that bad. When I said that it seemed pretty bad to me because I could barely walk or get out of a chair, he reminded me that it could have been a lot worse.

Then came his reminder that as we got older we probably shouldn’t be climbing on ladders. Older. The child disguised as a doctor implied that I was getting older. Seeing my dismay he reassured me that pain pills would lessen my pain and it would be a good thing to take them for several days. In a more gentle tone he told me that this inconvenience was a message to me from the universe. That it was to remind me that Christmas comes whether we are ready for it or not, so I should relax and enjoy the coming days.

If that’s the way it has to be, I’ll try. But I’d like to have a word with the universe, so I’m sending a little note.

Dear Universe,

I realize that I don’t always listen as well as I should, but I’m working on it. I’d like to make a pact with you. How about I try to listen more and you try to send me a more subtle message next time?

Yours truly,

Carol

P.S. Merry Christmas!

Clarification: Last Thursday I had a bad fall, as referenced above. I'm now in an immobilizer on left knee and the ortho sandal on my right foot. There are a few other bruises as well. I'll be fine. And the young doctor was wonderful and kind, but I don't recommend meeting him this way.

Bangs

A recent assignment from an on-line class was to write something in the voice of a female child. My very earliest memory is of the day Daddy came home from WWII, but not for the reason one would expect. That memory is the basis of the following creative nonfiction piece. Somehow it seems appropriate to post it while I remember Daddy on Veterans Day.

Bangs

“When can I have bangs?”

“When your daddy gets home. It won’t be much longer now, we hope.”

“How long? Will he be here tomorrow? Can I have bangs then?”

“No, not tomorrow. His unit is supposed to ship out soon. In the last V-Mail he wrote that he’ll call us from New York, when they get back from France. We’ll cut your hair after he gets home, but I want him to see how your long hair curls on the ends before we cut it.”

Then Mother showed me the picture again, just like she’s done every time we talk about Daddy. There we are, the three of us. Daddy’s picture is on the left. It’s hard to really remember everything about Daddy, because I was really little when he left. Mother said Uncle Sam called him and he had to go. I still don’t know who Uncle Sam is, because he’s never been to our house like Uncle James and Uncle Warren. She said Uncle Sam gave Daddy the uniform he’s wearing in the picture. It was scratchy when he hugged me goodbye.

Mother’s picture is on the right. She has on her pretty blouse that I like, the one she wears for something special. When she holds me in her lap it feels so soft and smooth. She says it’s made of silk. When I grow up I’m going to have a silk blouse. Sometimes she lets me play with one of her old scarves. I wrap it around me and pretend it is a blouse just like hers. One time when I was playing dress-up, I took her red lipstick so I could be pretty, too, like she is in the picture. I didn’t mean to ruin it, but it broke. When I tried to put it back together, my fingers got all messy, and I had to wipe the lipstick off on the towel in the bathroom. Mother wasn’t happy about that, either.

My picture is in the middle. Before we had our pictures made, Mother washed my hair, curled it, and put a bow in it that matched my dress. Uncle James and Uncle Warren gave me the dress. Mother says it is warm because it’s made from wool. She says wool comes from sheep. I know about Mary and her little lamb, but I’ve never seen a real lamb or sheep. PaPa has cows and pigs on his farm, but no sheep. In the pictures in my Little Golden Book, Mary’s lamb is white. Are some sheep pink? My dress is pink. Grandma says the little flowers on it were ‘broidered, with a needle, like when she made flowers on my pillowcase. I don’t get to wear the dress anymore because it’s too little now. Mother says I’m growing like a weed and that Daddy will hardly know me. She sends him pictures so he’ll know how much I’ve grown in over a year.

I hope he comes home soon, because I really, really want bangs. Some of the big girls have short hair, not long like mine. Mother says we can’t cut my hair until Daddy comes home. One of the girls that stays with me sometimes has bangs. She is in high school. She has long hair, but she has bangs in front. I want some just like that.

***

 Daddy is getting home today! Mother told me that he’d be here today. She was teaching Sunday School at the Methodist Church last Sunday when the call came. Miss Bertha, the phone operator, knew where she would be, so she put the call through to the parsonage next door and sent Mr. Dewey to the church to tell Mother to go to the phone. I was in the Sunday School room next to where Mother and the grown-ups were, so I heard them clap their hands. They were glad Daddy was coming home, too.

Mother and I have been living at Mrs. Clark’s house while Daddy is gone. Two other women and their children live here, too, while their husbands are overseas, wherever that is. Robert is only a little older than me. We play together sometimes, but he wants to play soldier, and I want to play with my dolls. Everyone here is so busy today. They are making a cake because Daddy is coming home. We hardly ever have cake. Mother says it is because they can’t get sugar. She said they all saved their coupons so Robert and I could have birthday cakes. I don’t know how those little pieces of paper have anything to do with sugar. They talk about rationing, but I don’t know what that is, either. Anyway, Mrs. White put a pretty white cloth on the table, and the special plates, too.

***

Daddy got here this afternoon. When he hugged me tight his uniform was scratchy just like when he left. He danced me around and around until I was almost dizzy. “My big girl, you’ve gotten so big,” he said. He laughed when I said I was ready for my cake now, and told me that I would have to wait until the other people got here. It seems like someone is always telling me to wait. When Daddy called me his “pretty girl” and stroked my hair, Mother didn’t even tell him I was getting bangs.

In a little while the house was full of people. Everyone came to see Daddy. Mrs. Clark cut the cake and Miss Doris gave everyone punch in fancy glass cups. After I finished my cake, no one paid any attention to me.

Mother promised me I could have bangs when Daddy got home. He’d been home all afternoon but no one took me to the beauty shop to get my hair cut. So I went to my room, picked up my little scissors, then hid behind the door. I untied the bow, and held the hair that fell across my face. Snip, snip. I had bangs! I held the long section of blonde hair in my hand. Mother wouldn’t like it if I left it on the floor, but I didn’t know where to put it. Then I saw my tea set on my little table. The salmon colored teapot was perfect. I rolled the hair into a wad, hid it inside, and put the lid back on the teapot.

I went back to the living room to show everyone my bangs. When Mother saw me, she said “Oh, baby, what have you done?”

“Baby? I’m not a baby. I’m Daddy’s big girl and I have bangs like the big girls, don’t I, Daddy?”

Daddy laughed. Then he picked me up and swung me around so everyone could see my beautiful new bangs.