The Carolina Anole

The Carolina anole lizard is not a true Chameleon, although, it does change colors. Variations can range from shades of brown to hues of green. A Chameleon has a much wider range including blues, reds, oranges and more. Being called a Chameleon in human form is usually an insult. I won’t go so far as to say I am a Chameleon; but, I feel like a Carolina anole this election season. For ease of understanding in my own mind and probably yours: donkey/democrat = brown and elephant/republican = green. My basic foundation of beliefs remain donkey but sometimes I feel more elephant. I have spent most of my life in several shades of brown with hints of green. Most of my election history has been for the donkey. This election I find my head is brown but my heart is green.

Now that you are thoroughly confused, I have you caught in my web of also thoroughly confused; hopefully, that will be the right frame of mind to relate to what I am about to say. I think I should vote for Hilary Clinton but Donald Trump is tempting my vote.

I have watched and read many, many, many opinions and facts, ( I hope they are fact). Here’s the crux of my problem – I find myself agreeing with both sides and disagreeing with both sides almost equally. James T. Harris, google him if you don’t know him, makes good points and I start to turn into a bright green elephant. Then again, I watched Frank Schaeffer and my brown donkey started kicking, yeah!

This is the first election in my voting history that I don’t feel a deep conviction towards either candidate. The first election I was old enough to vote in was 1980, Jimmy Carter, the incumbent democrat vs. Ronald Reagan, Republican. I am not ashamed to say that I voted for Jimmy Carter. I was nineteen-years-old, very excited to vote, highly influenced by my mother and grandmother from Georgia, and had done my homework. To this day, I think I made the right choice. Since then, I have never voted for a Republican for president, though I have for some state and local elections.

Tonight’s debate has been on my calendar since it was announced. I’m excited, afraid, expectant and ready! I’m feeling brownish, but oh jeepers, I am afraid I will look down and be bright green all over. I wish I was a Chameleon, I’d like to be pink or purple sitting on a beach chair somewhere rotating my eyes between Jimmy Buffet and Kenny Chesney.

Mama Ciele

Rangy, rows of Pecan trees drip over my rural route,
sweeping me along in a direction there about.
A blush of red peeks just ahead,
my destination marked by roses, memories from my head.
A tiny clapboard washed in hints of green,
the crowning glory a porch now seen.
Delighted wings take my heart I am home, I am home.

Wrapped in the comfort of a time-worn chair,
She gently combs and plaits my hair.
Joining the buzz of night bug, cicada, and katy-did,
comes the rain on tin answering prayers most bid.
She hums a tune without words ’bout leavin’
‘If we never meet again this side of heaven…”
Peaceful wings take my heart I sing, I sing.

Work-worn hands yet easy and fine,
smoothing  cool sheets  on the line.
Flashing blue eyes twinkle and spark,
with tales of fantasy, I hate when it gets dark.
Time for bed, falling asleep counting knots on pine walls,
her soft snoring just down the hall.
Shining wings take my heart I dream, I dream.

 

Epilogue:
Gone now, an emptiness left in time and space,
progress stands in her home’s place.
I hum a song with no words, a little blonde boy,
snuggles close with his toy.
I look at my own hands, work-worn, nails torn,
I am content yet I mourn.
Gentle wings took her home, took her home.

Royal Rose

The bar-b-ques were one of the few chances Lucy had to glimpse a tangible piece of her past – her grandmother’s dishes. One of her cousins could always be counted on to flounce in flourishing one of the coveted dishes laden with corn bread or freshly sliced tomatoes. The dish would claim a prime location on the table in spite of its humble holdings. A whole set of Royal Rose china belonged to their beloved grandmother. Every time Lucy saw them tender memories of her grandmother and her own dear mama engulfed her heart.

The last memory of both her grandmother and mother together was Christmas day when she was five. The glow of the candle-lit table provided the perfect backdrop in her mind. Nine places were set. Her grandparents sat at each end of the large oak table, her mother to the left of her grand-dad and her father to the left of her grandmother, she and her siblings filling in the rest. The table was covered in finely embroidered white cotton cloth. She was given the honor of carrying the gravy dish to the table, she remembered carefully placing one foot in front of the other in an effort to not spill a drop. Her mother and grandmother smiled quietly as she successfully placed the dish on the table. The memory ends there. Her sweet mother would be dead by Valentine’s Day and both her grandparents would be claimed by influenza Christmas Eve four years later.

When her grandparents passed, her uncle – her mother’s brother – a dentist and only surviving child of her grandparents swooped in and packed up “the good stuff.” This included the lovely set of pre-depression china. After her mother’s death her father, a farmer, had sent her and her only sister to live with her grandparents. This arrangement lasted for two years until her father found another wife. Those two years turned the five-year-old Lucy into a stoic and mature almost woman. She was the one who had lovingly washed the china each Sunday after dinner for the last year. Now her silly, childish, spoiled cousins, one a year older, one a year younger than Lucy would possess the precious dishes.

At age thirteen Lucy gave birth for the first time to a son, she was unwed, her father forced her to give the baby away. Lucy had been raped by the neighboring farmer, who was married with children of his own. At fifteen she was married for the first time. She quickly gave birth to a son and a daughter all before her third wedding anniversary and her nineteenth birthday. The bar-b-que was scheduled for the day after her 20th birthday. Already showing with her next child she did not really feel like going; but, she could not miss the opportunity to see which dish would appear on the table in a mocking gesture made by her ninny cousins. They could never know that what they thought of as a stab to her heart was really a gift. A gift filled with the shimmering glow of candles on a table abundant with love and food.

She stopped cold when she saw the chipped edge of the square moss rose serving bowl. Over her shoulder, she heard the grating whisper of her cousin. She learned that many of the dishes had been broken during their recent move to a bigger house. This was the last bar-b-que with her mother’s relations she ever attended.

She told me this story  when I asked why her oddly matched serving bowl had a chip in it. She also told about her quest to collect rose patterned dishes; over the years collecting two different sets of rose patterned china, each called Royal Rose, one from Japan, one from Germany. She never did find any to completely match the original china made in Poland. As for the chipped dish, she stole it at that last bar-b-que, unable to bear the thought of any more harm befalling all that the dish represented.

I am Lucy’s granddaughter and I have just passed on sixteen place settings complete with three serving bowls, one with a chip; two serving platters; salt and pepper shakers; and a gravy bowl to my daughter along with this story. While telling the story my four-year-old granddaughter wandered over, sat down and listened with wide eyes.

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…?

 

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?”

Ezekiel Amos Adams

Ezekiel Amos Adams is my maternal great-great grandfather.

Born September 29, 1846   Died August 8, 1927

• The Butler Herald, September 1, 1927

Death claims Mr. E.A. Adams, Confederate Hero

In the death of Mr. Ezekiel Amos Adams marks the passing of another Confederate
soldier, leaving only twelve others of his noble band in Taylor County
to wear the badge of honor so worthly bestowed.

Mr. Adams was a native of the county, being born in the eastern part of
the county 81 years ago and was named for his father, Mr. Ezekiel Adams.

The death of Mr. Adams occurred at 1:20 Sunday morning, August 8th at his
home near Bethlehem church in the southern part of the county. He had been
in declining health since November of last year and recently his condition
had been critical.

Mr. Adams had a very large number of friends in Taylor County who will
be grieved to learn of his passing. He was a man of sterling worth and
integrity and held the confidence of all who had the pleasure of his acquaintance.
He put his every trust in his Maker and professed Christianity to a marked
degree. He believed firmly in the doctrine of the Primitive Baptist faith
and order and attended services at a church of that denomination regularly.

His faithful companion for many years was called to the Great Beyond April
7, 1919 leaving him with three sons and three daughters who still survive
towit: Mr. E.B. Adams and Mr. S.C. Adams of this county, Mr. H.V. Adams
of Jacksonville, Fla; Mrs. C.B. Barfield of Macon County; Mrs. Y.J. Garrett
of Jacksonville; and Mrs. Kate Stalnaker, of this county.

Funeral and interment of the remains of Mr. Adams took place at Bethlehem
cemetery Tuesday morning at 10 o’clock, services being conducted by Rev.
J.T. Adams.