Happy Birthday to Me!

It was a great day, and more fun when I visited with friends in the evening. So I’m not really having to proclaim “Happy Birthday” to myself out of loneliness – I received cards, calls, texts, e-mails, and numerous messages or timeline postings on Facebook. I have definitely not been neglected.

I have never tried to conceal my actual age (well, not once I was twenty-one, anyway.) A friend of mine says “A woman that will tell her age will tell anything,” as though it’s a bad thing. I’m to the stage when I’m glad to have made it this far. But having said all that, I was a little put off when I opened Facebook the day before my birthday and there it was “Carol Robbins Hull turning 72 tomorrow.” Somehow in cold hard type it seemed, well, I’m not sure what it seemed. Intrusive, maybe. If I choose to tell you my age, that is one thing, but for Facebook to blab it to the whole FB universe seemed a bit heartless. Of course, it probably means only that I didn’t do the settings right and their computer just spit it out to alert people that my day was coming up, and I will admit that I loved reading all the posts that people send me on my day.

I’m not quite through complaining though. In past years I’ve received birthday cards from my insurance agent and sometimes the dentist, and that was fine with me, a bit commercial, but at least I actually have some kind of relationship with them. However I received one this year that offends me. It says that I have something special just for me: a hearing test and a gift card to a restaurant when I order my hearing aids. I guess what my cousin’s husband says is true, that once we get to a certain age we are presumed to be “deaf, blind, and lame.” I am tired of being bombarded weekly with ads for those things you ride around on, hearing aids, and old-folks-friendly phones. I can still hear pretty much all I want to hear. True, I do have to ask people to repeat things sometimes, but that is usually because I wasn’t paying attention in the first place. After cataract surgery my vision is the best it’s been since I was ten years old. And I may not keep up an athlete’s pace, but I’m still getting around pretty well. Not running any marathons, actually not running at all, but then I rarely did even when younger. My mother thought that ladies shouldn’t perspire, much less sweat (a word she never used) and I’m somewhat in agreement.

There are at least a few establishments that I refuse to do business with because I really dislike their ads. Because I am getting older (I refuse to say old) it is possible that I might someday need a hearing aid, but if one more sales piece thinly disguised as a good wish arrives, this place will most certainly find itself on that list. So all you companies that bombard women ‘of a certain age,’ with unwanted reminders that we are not twenty-one any more, take note. I think I speak for most of us when I say, “Stop it!” Outwardly we may appear as youthful as we feel, but don’t count us out yet. We still know our own minds, and we are a choosy lot.

Gifts that Last

Over the Christmas holidays my nephew often brings me a pound cake. He’s mastered the method of creaming the butter and sugar, mixing the batter, and consistently turns out perfect cakes that practically melt in your mouth. The cake he brings me won’t last long in a house full of relatives. Even some of the children will pass up decorated cookies for a slice.

Why would a perishable cake be part of an essay on gifts that last? Because my nephew is part of the fifth generation to make the cake from Mary Etta Merrill’s recipe. Mary Etta, or Ma Ette as she was called, was my great-grandmother. Since she died before I was a year old I don’t actually remember her. I know of her from a single photograph, some family stories, and the pound cake recipe. She gave the recipe to her daughter-in-law, my grandmother, who then passed it down to the rest of us. It’s a simple recipe, made from ingredients found in a farm wife’s kitchen: sugar, real butter, eggs, flour, and vanilla. No fancy extra ingredients or frosting, just a plain cake. The delicate flavor is comforting; its simplicity makes it memorable.

Perhaps this came to mind because I was thinking about the treats that I make, some of them only for the Christmas holidays. As I come across new recipes, I try new things, but it is the old recipes that mean the most. They have stood the test, the kinks worked out, the seasonings adjusted, et cetera, before they were passed on. Beyond that, they have a history, a connection that the new things don’t have yet. It brought a smile to my face when I pulled out the recipe for fruitcake cookies on which my mother had noted “Recipe given to me by Pat Garner’s mother in 1964.”  I helped Mother make the cookies that year, and have made them either with her, or on my own every year since. If you do the math, you’ll see that for me this year’s batch marks fifty years, a half century of my making these same cookies.

            I’ve written before about the almost sacred ritual of making candy at the holidays with my mother, and of the sadness when the time came to make candy the first year after her death. To my great comfort, one of my sons asked to make candy with me that year, and continues to do so. His wife, my daughter-in-law, makes chocolate fudge with peanut butter from the recipe that my mother received when she was in college.

            Trends in gifts come and go, often heavily influenced by advertising agencies that produce the slick gift catalogues, catchy slogans, and glitzy television ads that bid us buy, buy, buy. But my great-grandmother, grandmothers, and mother were the wise ones. Although I received other gifts, material things that for the most part have long worn out, other than a few treasured pieces of jewelry, it is the other gifts that have endured. The gift of their patience in teaching me to cook, the lesson that some things are made special by preparing them only for important occasions or holidays. And the most treasured gifts of all, ordinary little slips of paper with recipes written in their familiar handwriting that bind me to them with memories as delicate as the aroma wafting from the oven, and as warm and sweet as the just-baked cookies and cakes.

Another V. B. R. Story

Many years ago, while studying a work in a college literature class, the professor pointed out that long after the books were published the writer took his pen to his hardbound copy, making changes and corrections. If I could remember which author this was, I could find on the internet a photograph of a page from the book complete with the scribbled additions.

Given this, perhaps I’m in good company. I hesitated to publish V. B. R.: My Mother’s Story because I knew it was incomplete. But there came a time to decide that I could sit on it another half-dozen years or go with what I had. Part of the hesitation came from my realization that there were so many questions that I had never asked, so I simply did not have that information. Another thing was that I don’t have as good a memory as I thought I had. Little details from events that I had either heard about or in some cases, been there for, escaped me. On the other hand, Mother had a remarkable memory.

In cleaning out a closet this week, I came across a notebook with notes from a trip to Bella Vista, Arkansas, we took with Mother in 1999, when she was 83 years old. By this time macular degeneration had taken most of her sight. When my husband mentioned a town we were going through, Mother said “That’s not too far from Mena. I’d love to see if that restaurant is still there.” So we went to Mena. In 1928 or 1929 she had accompanied her Grandma Christopher who was to spend the summer in Mena for health reasons. Mother’s uncle had driven them there and settled them in a house that had what were called housekeeping rooms.

I do not have Mother’s sense of direction. Can you imagine being able to direct someone to a town in another state - without benefit of a map, or sight to read it, or the ability to see the landmarks - that you have not been to in seventy years? Following Mother’s directions we drove around the town as she told us about the places she remembered: the park, the block where the house had been, the Christian Church they attended on Sundays, the library, and the post office.

And yes, we found the restaurant. The Skyline Café that opened in 1922 was still there! Mother had such fun telling the server that it was her 83^rd birthday, and she had eaten there when she was only twelve of thirteen years old, and was so pleased to find that it was still there. As she had done seventy years earlier, Mother dined on fried chicken, then ordered ice cream for dessert. Although she declared it a good meal, later she remarked to us that it wasn’t as good as she remembered it being. Then with her usual insight, she said something about things often being better in our memory than in reality.

It was good to find my notes and read what I had written about the trip, but that reality pales in comparison to the memory of Mother’s delight in finding that on her 83^rd birthday, the Skyline Café was still open.  

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

My dear friends, I realize I've been all but insufferable recently. Thank you for putting up with me while I agonized over finding a format for the book about my mother, worked on it at a snail's pace, then decided to 'do it myself' with a well-known self-publishing site. All who know me must have laughed at the thought, given my lack of competence where a computer is concerned. And did I mention that I bought a new computer and tried to go from Windows 7 to Windows 8.1 in the middle of all this?

 A rational person would have hired someone to edit, format, design the cover, etc., but then, I'm not often accused of being rational. I've learned a lot, but didn't quite get it right after all. Should have ordered that second proof copy! But it is out there, errors, flaws and all. Since Mother was an English teacher for over 35 years I really didn't want it to be full of grammatical mistakes, but you may find a few. The other mishaps in it are somewhat minor, mostly due to my impatience at the end. In a strange way that almost fits. My father was a perfectionist, and would take forever getting something done to his standards. Mother did a good job on most things, but her attitude was more of a 'don't piddle, just get it done' attitude. As for as she was concerned, perfection was not always necessary when good enough would do. So, though not perfect, perhaps it is at least good enough.

I would be remiss if I did not express my gratitude to my family and friends who have encouraged me in this project. Even as a writer, I simply cannot put into words how much the support has meant to me. I have been surprised and delighted by the number of you who have 'liked' on Facebook, commented, or sent me messages. That so many of you would be interested in something I thought I was doing only for our family humbles me.

Last, but certainly not least, I am so grateful for the support and kind comments and reviews by my fellow writers. The writers that I've had the opportunity to meet are so generous in their support of fledgling writers like me.

I cannot thank all of you enough for sticking with me through the slogging through this project,  and now my 15 minutes of, if not fame, at least celebration.

Who Knew Such a Little Thing Could be so Difficult?

On September 8, I proudly posted a photo of me holding a proof copy of “V. B. R., My Mother’s Story” on Facebook.  I admitted in the post that it was probably too soon to brag about this accomplishment. Was I ever right about that! My anticipation that the book would be available by the end of the month exhibited all the optimism of a rank amateur. I’d worked so hard on it, edited it over and over again, and was certain that when I opened the covers I would find this wonderful, perfect product. Wrong again! Not only did I spot errors, my proof reading friends found plenty as well. And though I appreciate all their suggestions other than correcting errors, I chose not to make some of the changes.

One that I did make was to number the pages, but had I known what a nightmare this would turn into for me, I might have said "Who needs page numbers? The book isn't that long." You see, the computer and I have a love-hate relationship. I love it, but it hates me. Did I mention that I am also in the process of learning a new computer, of moving from Windows 7 to Windows 8.1?  I’m certain that some nerdy kid somewhere with a serious disrespect of senior citizens is taking some twisted pleasure in my difficulty in making this switch.

But back to the insertion of page numbers. A normal person with a good working knowledge of Word might have done this with ease. Even I have done so in the past. Not so easy this time around. Two main problems: I didn’t want to number the title page and other front matter, and  I was switching the document from the old 7 to the new 8.1.  After enlisting the aid of friends, and spending untold hours on the various help sites on the internet I found that many of the things they suggested did not appear in any of my tool bars, but I finally got it done. So proud of myself, I was about to pop! Then I converted the file to a pdf for uploading to be printed. Where did that extra blank page come from? And better yet, how to get rid of it? You guessed it – the fun was just beginning. Other tries resulted in not one, but multiple blank pages that did not appear in the formatted Word document, but would find their way into the pdf. Or the numbers would start in places other than where I thought I put them.

Why did I continue to put myself through all this, rather than just scrap the idea of numbered pages? Sheer stubbornness. The more times it all went wrong the more determined I was that this was not going to get the best of me. Cross your fingers for me. An hour or so ago I uploaded what I hope is an edited version, complete with page numbers!

If it doesn't work, I'll probably snatch every grey hair out of my head trying again and again to fix it. Should that happen, and you see me running around completely bald-headed, please lend me a cute hat.

The Company We Keep

"Choose your friends carefully, you're known by the company you keep," my mother admonished. Earlier that summer we moved from a very small town where everyone knew not only each other, but pretty much all there was to know about each other's extended family back a couple of generations. Now in the "big city" of Montgomery, it was impossible to know even all the members of the large sophomore class at my new high school. I'm not sure it was so much a matter of my choosing friends as it was a matter of who befriended me, the new girl.

Now, many years later, I hope that Mother's advice is still true. In an earlier blog I jokingly questioned if I might be considered an author groupie or stalker. Hopefully they don't consider me too obnoxious, and I doubt that anyone would ever consider me dangerous. I like to be around writers. Sometimes there is a snob in the group who is very proud of their success, and can't be bothered with lesser beings like me. But, for the most part, the authors I've met are generous and encouraging to those of us who wish to enter their magic circle.

Last weekend I attended the annual conference of the Alabama Writers Conclave. The group claims the distinction of being the oldest writers' organization in continuous existence in the United States. The weekend is packed with sessions conducted by writers in various genres, times to mingle with other participants, and a ceremony during which the winners of the annual competition are announced. That writers from almost every state vie for these awards says something. Then throw in that the conference met in Fairhope, Alabama - well, what more could one want? Did I forget to mention that Rick Bragg was our keynote speaker?

It was a wonderful weekend. It is my hope that things I learned there will help me improve my writing. Being around all those people who are actively writing inspires me.

 Oh, that I would be known by keeping company with that interesting group!

The Things We Leave Behind

Although time and geography have spread our family members apart, we still consider each other close kin to about thirteenth cousin out. Actually I’m not good at all the rankings of first, second, third cousin once removed, et cetera.  So the easiest way to explain my relationship to a cousin who visited last week is that our grandfathers were brothers.

During her visit was we shared old photos, documents, and other genealogical information.  One of the unexpected treasures that she brought was an audio tape which my mother had made in 1998, when she was 81 years old. At that time Mother was visually impaired to the extent that she could no longer read, so writing letters was no longer possible. My cousin requested that, as a gift for her young daughter, my mother make a tape of remembrances about her grandmother, (the late great-great-grandmother of the child.)

Until recently I had no idea that this tape existed. Because Mother died in 2005, it was bittersweet  to hear the tape the first time. First it brought tears, then joy to hear her voice again. I barely remember the grandmother, my great-grandmother, that Mother reminisced about, because she died when I was only six years old. So hearing Mother’s remembrances was as much a gift to me as it was for the great-great-grandchild born many years later.

All this has made me wonder what I should be leaving for my children or grandchildren. Have I told them the stories of my childhood, memories of my grandmothers, of my mother? They may not be that interested now, but many years from now would they find it as interesting as I did Mother’s tape about my great-grandmother?  From all accounts, my great-grandmother did not consider herself special, and neither did my grandmothers, nor my mother. But  each of them left a priceless legacy - funny, sometimes touching, family stories, and memories of them that warm me like a hug. What could be more special than that?