Mama Lost Her Marbles

After a quick rap, I just walk right on in and straight back to the kitchen. I know that’s where Zilla’ll be.

“Plum smells mightly fine back here! What’s in the pot, beans?”

Zilla turns away from the steam over her range to take a glance at me, “Yessim, hand me that spoon yonder there would ya?”

Handing off the spoon, I hear the stomping of boots, “’bout ready I hope, directly those young ‘uns will be piling up in here.”

“Naw, you know they’ll have to mess and gaum some first. Come on to the table, we got time to set a spell. Tea?”

Sipping that cold sweet tea loosed my tongue some cause afore I knowed I was jawing about Hank’s retarment. “He ain’t got nary a thing to do but aggervate the dickens out of me. Me and him took to exchanging some words last night over dern marbles.”

“I knowed you was all tore up right off.” Zilla eyed me. She has a head for readin’ people.

“Firstly, them is Mama’s marbles. Next off, she likes colors mixed – like in each jar. Last off, Hank gave ’em a good sort’n. Blues with blues, reds with reds and the like.”

“Lawd, Lawd, I bet your mama was all fired up.” Zilla loved a good tangle.

“The worst of it ain’t even been told. Mama took up her jars went back yonder behind the fence and hid ’em but good. So good she cain’t find ’em. It’s likta kilt her. Hank’s out there a-hunting them marbles everhow he can.”

Always thinking, Zilla spoke the gospel, “You better get you some more marbles. Likely, your mama won’t be right with her marbles lost and all.”

* The way my Virginia family spoke. Retirement=retarment; Wire= ar; Tire=Tar etc.Adding “ly” to some words: Migthly, Firstly, etc. Mixing up the word “ever” with “every”  everway; evertime, everhow. It was a colorful and musical way of talking to my ear. I miss it.

 

Cat Got Your Tongue

“My husband never does the dishes, he eats plenty but never does the dishes! He also won’t go grocery shopping! I have to set the trash in front of the door to get him to take it out. Hitting the toilet while standing up is apparently an Olympic event he never got a medal in. One other thing…blah, blah, blah.”

I sit staring blindly at my oldest friend. I have heard it all before. She starts in on a topic, today it is her husband. My mind runs to the taste of my tea, it seems a little bitter. Picking up a pink packet, flicking it with my finger, about to add it to my tea when my reverie is broken.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue today? You haven’t said a word. I asked you a question.” Her red lips purse.

“Oh sorry, I was taking in all you are saying.” Thinking. “No, I don’t think it’s too much to ask, he should help with homework,”  I replied.

 

Origins of “cat got your tongue” are attributed to two vague references. The first references a whipping with a cat-o-nine tail as punishment on a ship. The whipping was so severe that the receiver was often rendered speechless for some time. The second and even older explanation goes back to ancient Egypt. It seems that liars and those who spoke against the Gods might have their tongues cut out and fed to the royal cats.

My family often uses this phrase as a humorous way to get someone back on track with what is often hectic conversation amongst a table full of many generations.

 

Vera’s Last Night

Y’all know that spooky look faces take on when sitting around a fire at night? Well I guess as good as I can recall that’s how we all looked. Maybe it reckoned in what happened that night, maybe it didn’t. I do know what I’m about to relay is best told around a fire just like the night we all remember as Vera’s last.
They was three brothers born to the same mother and one brother born to the second wife of their daddy. Born Georgia farmers during the great depression little coin passed through any of their hands. Food was what they grew or killed or traded for. They worked hard and early on their daddy included the scarcely bearded boys in is his nightly liberation. Weren’t much to do after dark but drink a drink and play a tune in the firelight.
Daddy always called it liberation, “heah them croakers? Gettin’ on ta liberation, lawd, lawd, I’m a ready.”
Now is the time I think I should name these folks, else you won’t know who is who. Raiford was the oldest, followed by Eugene, EB and Clarence. Their daddy, Ezekiel Boston, was knowed by most folks as Boss. Boss had a sweet young wife who gave him six children before she was 25. Four of ’em made it to be grown but by that time their mama, Annabelle, had joined her two little angels. Next Boss chose a coarser, sturdier wife, she gave him nine more young un’s. Her name was Gussie. She liked to dip snuff with a pretty spoon, I cain’t never forget that. The only naming left is the wives, Vera went with Raiford, Gladys went with Eugene, EB didn’t have no wife then and Clarence had Nell. Oh and me, I am the baby sister of Raiford, Eugene and EB. Clarence is my baby, Gussie had him but gave him to me cause I cried over how pretty he was.
On that night, my brother’s was full grown men. They had took to selling corn liquor across the state line up in South Carolina and had just came back from a real good run. Daddy had the fire lit and he were just getting his old banjo turned up. Vera was a little put out because the boys (they got called boys till our Daddy was gone from this earth.) was late and missed supper. So she and Gladys was back in the kitchen cleaning. They wanted me to help, but I didn’t. Though I was mostly grown none had picked me as a bride yet. Daddy said I was too pretty for pawin’ at.

Daddy was red-faced and singing a tune I ain’t never heard. I  could see Vera bent over the sink through the little window on the front side of the house. She looked like she was singing along, I remember thinking how she knew the words. Mostly Daddy sang songs we all knew, my favorite, Keep on the Sunny Side, that Carter family just made me so happy ever-time I got to listen in. Our uncle had a radio at his house, he was a dentist, not a dirt farmer.
Back to that last night…
In the middle of that new song a sharp crack rang out, it echoed in my head for a good bit after. My brother’s and my daddy tore off into the woods, shouting for us to get back in the house.

Daddy hollered, “Make sure Vera is alright.”

Nell, me and Gussie run up on the porch just as Gladys was running out the door. She looked white as a ghost and the cat had got her tongue. She fell into a faint right then.
Gussie screamed out, “Gladyses been shot!”
But it weren’t Gladys, it were Vera.
Nell told us the news,”Vera’s dead, shot right through the head!”
Never did know what happened, my brother’s reckon some revenuers was trying to send them a message. Maybe they followed ’em back after the run. I keep thinking about that song, I never heard it again, but ever time I hear a love song it reminds me of Vera’s last night. Daddy died a few months later after a bout of melancholy. Raiford ain’t ever been right since. I take care of him now.  I never did find no husband.

The narrator is my grandmother, she was actually married four times. My great-aunt really did got shot in her kitchen.  The rest…?

 

This World and One More

“What that boy done was the furtherest thing I could imagine. Lawd, Lawd, this world and one more.”

The eighth decade of her life finds her living alone for the first time.  Her fourth husband uncomfortably settled into the home a few weeks ago.  She welcomes the solitude and the little things like tossing out the plastic sheet under the dining room chair. His chair, the one where he ate his last home cooked catfish dinner. That last supper flits into her awareness, a prickle of loss nags. Still, replacing the recliner, headrest stained with years of vitalis softens the sharp edges of regret.  Theirs was no great love affair. An odd companionship to stave off both loneliness and financial hardship. And yet – you don’t live with someone for two and twenty years without some attachment of heart, good and bad.

The quiet house calms her twitchy nerves. She can eat when and what she wants. The volume on the console television set just for her ears. Windows wide open, or a little heat on according to her needs only.  A few weeks into this new found contentment she notices the yard needs mowing. The last storm  brought down a few tree limbs and the water pipes are shaking the house down. Her years have not been easy. Born poor, early tangles with pneumonia, bronchitis, and lack of health care, left her attached to supplemental oxygen around the clock.

Help arrives in the healthy form of one rakishly handsome nephew straight out of back country Georgia.  Actually, a grand-nephew, the youngest grandson of her niece.  He is sweet and makes quick work of the chores. He eats like a half-starved colt. This makes her happy, feeding people is one of her joys, especially people who know how to keep food on fork from plate to mouth, no plastic sheets necessary.
He enjoys watching the afternoon stories with her (General Hospital, One Life to Live, and All My Children). He also laughs along with Hee Haw and The Carol Burnett Show.  He takes her fishing. He fills her portable Oxygen tanks.  The least she can do is encourage and fund the occasional night out with his friends. The once a week night out does not worry her, he is always home by sun up and never complains of being tired.  She never meets his friends.

Six months pass. The police come after dinner and arrest him.  He and his friends have accepted payment from a man. In return they will shoot his wife.  The wife lives, they are caught and the nephew is sentenced to 13 years in the penitentiary.

My grandmother called to tell me the news. “What that boy done, was the furtherist thing I could imagine. Lawd, Lawd, this world and one more,” she said in shock, disbelief and sorrow.  Soon after, my mother moved in with her. Her peace was gone, but the chores were done.

*”This world and one more,” a phrase I heard often growing up in Georgia. I can’t seem to find a lot about the origins of this idiom. When I heard it, it often referred to amazement or sorrow over a thing that had just happened. Sometimes, it could be used to refer to an oddity, such as a calf born with two heads.  I think it must have some relation to the idea of an afterlife. If we can’t understand this life, how will ever understand the mystery of the next life? A Google search reveals that a Jazz band out of Chicago recorded an album of nine songs, the album title is “This World and One More.” I do not know if any of the band members have southern origins but I do find confirmation that my southern grandmother was not the only one to say this.

Crack the Winda and Cut the Lights

We owned a prescription for the languid days and close nights of summer in 1960’s rural Georgia. I dare say you may still find people filling it up and down red clay byroads and sandy lanes even now. We lived our days with iced tea, porch sitting and cold dinners. Nothing exceptional about this really, except the tea was sweet, the porches were shaded by ancient oaks and dinner was served midday.

Early evening found the folks gathering on the porch. The young’uns less tractable to muggy ran through the cooling damp grass. We caught lightning bugs or played statue tag, (no freeze tag in Georgia, no siree). One or two of the grown folks always had a banjo or guitar handy. Twanging beats and acoustic melodies joined the drone and clicks of night bugs. My grandmomma had a reedy voice common to mountain women. She was neither from the mountains nor with perfect pitch. She listened to a lot of radio and we thought her voice rivaled the likes of Loretta Lynn or June Carter Cash. Her lyrics were mostly sad if taken alone. It was the lilt in her voice rising out of the strumming that put the tap in our toes. Those verdant days were fragranced with warm honeysuckle born on the shimmer of heat waves. I need only a whiff of green or floral hot to transport back. It is the night I remember best.

Not long after everyone packed it in for their own nearby homes, grandmomma would line us children up to clean our feet. Running barefoot made for filthy feet. No one tolerated sand and dirt on the sun bleached cotton sheets carefully tightened over soft mattresses. There was no better remedy for tired as found in clean feet slipping into cool smooth sheets. The tucking in accomplished, my momma and grandmomma would sit idly for a while. Their faint whispers trailed into our almost asleep ears, our lullaby. The last dose readied. This remaining bit was heard before being enveloped in a cooling breeze of sleep. Over the hum of a large attic fan, grandmomma called softly to momma, “crack the windas and cut the lights.”

The Colloquialisms

Cut the Lights: Several sources seem to agree that the origin of this phrase may lie in the early use of electricity before main power switches. A disconnect or break in the power between source and recipient was manual. You can get the idea of this break in power being referred to as a “cut.” The continued usage into modern times has grown primarily in the south and some rural areas in the north. It is interesting because not only can it be used to tell someone to turn on the light-cut on the light but also to convey turn off the light-cut the light. This does not sound at all strange to my ears having grown up in the deep south. However after a 30 year stint in the north it does take me by surprise when I see it in print. I recently returned to the south and have noticed road signs warning drivers to cut on your headlights when raining. I have also witnessed road signs urging drivers to burn headlights when raining.

Crack the Window: Meaning to open the window to a small sliver of an opening. It is descriptive in its intention. It does not refer to any previous cracking of glass that may or may not have been done to let air in. Southerners use the term to distinguish between opening the window just a little or a lot. A wide open window is accomplished by throwing open the window. Again, this term sounds most familiar to me. I am hard pressed to think of asking if I should roll the car window down just a tad. I without fail ask, “Want me to crack the window?”

Brown As A Berry

Okinawa 1964

Splashing out of the water, I heard my grandmother exclaim, “that child is brown as a berry.” My earliest memories of the proclamation filled me with happiness.  Now I am a grandmother and I have used that same phrase more than a few times. I can not think of any brown berries. A little research and I found the first usage is credited to Geoffrey Chaucer (14th century England), in at least two of his Canterbury Tales. In The Cook’s Tale,”Happy he was as goldfinch in the glade, Brown as a berry, short, and thickly made…” And in his description of the Monk, “He was not pale as some poor wasted ghost.A fat swan loved he best of any roast. His palfrey was as brown as is a berry.” Some scholars attribute this idiom to a description of grains or nuts possibly referred to as berries in the 14th century. In both cases it does seem to mean tanned skin or fur. Which is what it still means to this day. I am in love with this idiom which has survived mostly intact for 6 centuries!

The picture attached to this post was taken in 1964.  It is a picture of me (I am in the swim cap in the background), and two of my friends, Kim and Susie. Our fathers were stationed in Okinawa. We played at the beach often and so began my love of being “brown as a berry.”