Sour Grass

May 24, 2013 By Leave a Comment

 

 

When I was a kid, I used to forage in the wild. Okay, it was usually my backyard, but it was still an adventure.

 

Generally, I ate known food. You know – plums, chestnuts, pears. Those things were familiar. And they never tasted so good as they did back in the day.

 

But sometimes, when I was feeling particularly daring, I would try other things. I had a lovely spell where I dined on my next door neighbor’s roses. And they were darling. I would have continued eating those roses, but the neighbor caught me and had a bona fide hissy fit. She told my parents and made sure I got in beau-coup trouble. Bummer.

 

That wasn’t as odd as another forage find: sour grass. I don’t know what possessed me (or my sisters), but I decided to try it. It was sour, in the very best way. And it was fresh, and even tasted green. Because our yard was basically a big weed field, it was also plentiful.

 

Now, if you’re thinking “Sour grass? What the?”, I understand. As kids, we didn’t know how to identify anything horticulturally. I never knew that what we were munching on was probably some form of clover or shamrock. To us, it was just a weed. A sour weed. That didn’t make us sick. We liked it, so we kept eating it.

 

I don’t remember when the foraging stopped, but it did. I guess it was some time around the 3rd grade, when my family moved away from Spencer Street. No more plum trees, no more chestnut or pear trees, either. Sour grass may have been in our new weed field, but the thrill was gone. Or maybe I was just growing up. Either way, that part of my adventurous self was gone.

 

My adult culinary adventures tend toward restaurant experiences now. I don’t remember the last time I ate something out in the wild. But when I passed by a front yard the other day, a front yard that wasn’t much more than a weed field, I spotted a patch of sour grass. And I slowed down to look at it. And to remember. I’m not gonna lie: I was mighty tempted to reach down and pull up a handful, for old time’s sake. But I didn’t. I took a photo, then I moved on down the sidewalk.

 

Remembering will have to do.

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Cougar Memories

February 11, 2013 By Leave a Comment

 

 

When I was a kid, I had a friend named Chris. She was a year older than I and she was pretty danged cool. She was a runner, she was pretty and she was popular. She was also crazy.

 

It was at the hands of Crazy-Chris that I ended up with a bald spot on top of my head. She convinced me to trust her to give me a perm. That’s when I learned to never again use an at-home perm.

 

My favorite Crazy-Chris story involved her old car. She had this fantastic Mercury Cougar, and I loved that car. Even though it didn’t always turn over when she hit the engine, it was a great ride. Anyhoo, Chris had a crush on some guy from another school. She’d met him briefly at an all-ages club, and she’d tracked down his address. She wanted to see him again, but didn’t want to be alone with him. So she dragged me along to his house one night.

 

Now, Crazy-Chris wasn’t a shy girl. But for some reason, on that particular night, she didn’t have the ovaries to knock on that guy’s door. So she begged me to do it. And, being that gal’s friend, I went right up to the boy’s door and knocked. I had practiced what I’d say – how I was Chris’ friend and how he’d made quite an impression on her, and would he like to come outside and say hello to her. I was all ready, and when I heard the door’s lock turning, I took a breath. A high-school-aged chick answered the door. She was tall. She was pretty. She was pissed.

 

Turned out, that chick was the boy’s girlfriend. As it also turned out, she had heard about Crazy-Chris having been at the all-ages club, and she was none-too-happy. She was also super-jealous.

 

That chick had also never heard the old adage, “Don’t shoot the messenger,” because she took a swipe at me and I barely dodged her. I took off running toward the street, yelling, “Start the car! Start the car!” That chick was only a few steps behind.

 

God bless Crazy-Chris, and God bless that old Cougar, because she managed to get the engine running somehow. I yelled, “Start driving!” and she did. And just as that chick was about to take me out, I dove into the passenger side window and Crazy-Chris floored it. We got away, barely, but we did get away. After we were sure we weren’t being followed by that chick, we laughed our heads off. We were still laughing when we reached the safety of our suburban homes.

 

I haven’t heard from Crazy-Chris for decades. I have no idea how her life turned out, or where she settled. But I do know that whenever I spot an old Mercury Cougar, I remember my friend and I smile. And usually, just a little bit, my heartbeat quickens. I guess memories of running for one’s life will do that to a gal.

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Lunch Boxes

December 12, 2012 By Leave a Comment

 

 

When I was a kid, I envied the girls who brought their lunches to school. For example, Sharon – pronounced “Shay-run” – brought hers everyday, and her mother often packed in some Cheetos. I wasn’t a Cheetos nut, but I still envied her post-lunch orange fingers. I watched other girls unpack their lunches, and I longed for the day I would do the same.

 

We were school-lunch-kids. Sixty cents a day. I ate whatever I was served and I ate heartily. It was a square meal. And honestly, I was happy to have it. It wasn’t always great, but it was always filling. I probably complained about it, to go along with my friends in their complaining, but I didn’t mind the food. I really didn’t.

 

 

Sixty cents doesn’t sound like a lot, I know. But there came a time – I was in the 10th grade, I believe – when it was more than my family could afford. Without my consultation or consent, my parents signed me up for the free/reduced lunch program.

 

I’ll never forget the first day it took effect. My homeroom teacher was calling the roll. At the end of checking our collective names off her list, she told the free-lunch-kids to come up and get their tickets. A couple of regulars approached her desk and took the paper. I sat, paralyzed. I couldn’t get up and yet I knew that if I didn’t, I wouldn’t eat that day. I gripped the desktop, anxious, frightened. My teacher asked if there was anyone else, and looked me in the eye. I didn’t blink. She waited a few seconds more, then closed her ledger. She must have felt my fear and embarrassment. She probably also felt pity. God bless her, she didn’t give me away. Not that day, nor any other after.

 

That’s when I stopped eating lunch at school. At first, friends asked questions and I said either I wasn’t hungry or I was dieting. I was already a skinny teenager, but girls do whack-job things all the time. After a while, no one asked anything more.

 

 

I’d be lying if I told you I never experienced the joy of opening a packed lunch. It didn’t happen when I was a kid, but as an adult, Mister has – on more than one occasion – made sure I had something to eat on super-busy days. And you know what? Those sandwiches have been the best I’ve ever eaten. And from time to time, he has even packed some chips.

 

That guy knows me pretty well, and is fully aware I’m still not a Cheetos nut.

 

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Nancy, With the Laughing Eyes

December 3, 2012 By 1 Comment

 

 

 

Today is my friend Nancy’s birthday. To me, she is “Nance” and forever will be.

 

We’ve known each other since high school, and to this day,  I smile when I think of her. Due to our living in different parts of the country, years pass between our get-togethers. And yet it doesn’t seem to matter.

 

Nance and I sure did get up to some hi-jinks back in the day. If I told you about stalking a certain driver of a “Super Sport,” you wouldn’t believe me. If you heard tell of what happened after we went to see a theater-of-the-deaf production of “Animal Farm,” your sides might split. And don’t even get me started on that Halloween. That old story is a permanent part of our shared memories.

 

She still makes me giggle. She (somehow) keeps me grounded. She has a beautiful family and honestly, I don’t know how she does it – 4 kids! But there she is, doing it all while maintaining a hot bod and a killer sense of humor.

 

When you make a friend, you have no way of knowing how long that person will be in your life. Another friend once told me he’d seen a refrigerator magnet that read, “A friend comes into your world for a Reason, a Season or a Lifetime.” I’ve known friends from all those categories. I could be sad about that, as some good people are no longer in my life, but I think the greater choice is to be thankful. Thankful to have known those souls at all.

 

Anyhoo, my teenage self didn’t know Nance would end up being a “lifetime” friend. But she is. And I love that gal. So today I send her oodles and oodles of birthday cheer. Just thinking of her, I’m smiling…

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Mr. and Mrs. Melvin

November 8, 2012 By Leave a Comment

 

 

When I was about 4 or 5, I lived out in the country in Monroe, Georgia. The house we were renting sat on a huge plot of land, with a cotton field behind it and a swamp beyond that. Getting to the house across the road required quite a trek. And though there were no neighbors on one side of the house, there was an old house on the other side, though it, too, was quite a ways off.

 

There weren’t any kids living anywhere near us. I had two younger sisters, but they were no good for hanging out and playing. My youngest sister was a new-born and my other sister was completely occupied with being a boy. (She insisted we all call her “David.” I don’t know what to tell ya on that one.)

 

Anyhoo, in the far-away house to the side of ours, lived Mr. and Mrs. Melvin. They were both born before rocks and I think they may have had great-grandchildren older than me. I wasn’t allowed to cross the road alone, but I could wander all over our side of the road by myself. Mr. and Mrs. Melvin’s house became a natural destination.

 

They were typical country folk, and spent most of their time just sitting on their front porch, watching the day go by. When the occasional car drove past, they would wave, as country folk are wont to do. They didn’t talk a lot, unless they had something particular to say. They ate when they were hungry, and never out of boredom. They probably had a television, but they didn’t turn it on unless there was a program they wanted to see. When it was cold outside, they sat in their living room while the day went by. Their life was simple. And for some reason, they accepted me as their friend. Which was good, because they were the only friends I had on that lonesome road.

 

As it turned out, Mr. and Mrs. Melvin were good friends for a little girl to have. I learned a lot from them. For instance, they taught me to keep my distance from snapping turtles. I learned that on the day they had two giant turtles in their front yard. Friends, I do mean giant, as I could have ridden those monsters. I watched Mr. Melvin place a hoe handle in front of one of those big boys, and wouldn’t you know it – the turtle snapped that piece of wood right in two. In the end, those turtles ended up in a delicious stew that I remember to this day. Nobody in my family thought turtle stew was a very good idea, but Mr. and Mrs. Melvin showed me the light. And it was good.

 

On many a hot afternoon, Mrs. Melvin gave me Vanilla Ice Milk as a cool treat. It was “ice milk” and not “ice cream” because ice cream was too expensive. These were poor people (just like us), and they lived within their means. And while I wouldn’t buy “ice milk” for anything now, I loved it then. I associated the taste with my old friends. And I accepted that gift each time Mrs. Melvin offered.

 

Their old front porch was also the sight of one of the greatest learning experiences of my kid life: tying my shoe laces. On a still summer day, I sat on the edge of the porch, swinging my legs over the side. Mr. Melvin was in his rocker, about 5 feet from me, near the front door of the house. He never got up to come over to me, and I never got up to go over to him. He just sat there, patiently, and told me what to do. Over and over again, I followed his directions. He didn’t lose patience with me and he didn’t talk down to me, either (no “the rabbit jumps over the fence” sort of talk). Maybe that’s why I stayed calm and didn’t lose patience with myself. I just listened and learned. Listened and learned. Listened and learned. And in the end, I got it.

 

By the time we moved away from Monroe, I was 6 years old. I don’t really remember my goodbyes with the Melvins, but I’m sure we shared words. Truth is, they weren’t just my friends. I was also theirs. All those hours I spent with the Melvins provided company for all of us. They got to teach me about life, and I got to teach them about, well, I suppose, a little girl’s mind.

 

I won’t lie – all this reminiscing has gotten me choked up, so I’ll close this post. But know this: I always carry with me the memories of snapping turtles and cold vanilla ice milk. And each and every time I tie my shoes, a part of me is on that front porch – watching the day go by – with two old people who were my friends.

 

I’m still listening and learning…

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Civics (And I Ain’t Talking Cars…)

November 6, 2012 By Leave a Comment

 

 

When I was in 8th grade, I was required (along with all the other people in my grade) to take a civics class. Other than learning the Preamble to the U.S. Constitution (which I’d already memorized from Saturday mornings on “School House Rock”), I don’t recall a damned thing from that class.

 

Well, that’s almost true. I remember the old coot who taught us was an out and out racist. How do I know this? On the first day of class, he proceeded to give us seating assignments. That shouldn’t have been a big deal, as a lot of teachers assigned seats. But as the old man moved us about the room, we kids started looking around in an attempt to understand his methodology. Once he had finished his task, we all took one final gander and saw quite clearly that our jack-ass of a teacher had segregated our civics class. Both sides of the room knew, and we all just looked at each other incredulously. I mean, really.

 

 

I don’t know why I’m remembering that now, but I do know that here in America, it’s election day. And I’ve learned far more about civics and government as an adult than I ever learned as a kid. Things like how when our country was founded, only white men who owned land (or possessed taxable wealth) were allowed to vote. Or how non-white men were finally allowed to vote in 1870 (though women and Native Americans were still screwed until 1920 and 1924 respectively). And how in 1971, the age of voting eligibility was federally set at 18 years. This was done in response to soldiers being sent to Vietnam at such a tender age. They were old enough to fight, but not to vote.

 

Maybe old Cootie Cooterson did cover some of this in that 8th grade civics class. I can’t say for sure. I only know I’m grateful my classmates and I were open-minded enough to look around that room and know that the one adult in attendance was wrong. In fact, he was the most ignorant, childish one there.

 

 

If you live in America and are registered, please vote today. It’s an amazing privilege, and we are truly blessed to know such an honor.

 

Class dismissed.

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Rose-Colored Glasses

September 18, 2012 By Leave a Comment

 

 

Sometimes in the course of conversation, I or a friend will say something about the blessings of ignorance. These conversations are usually about politics or conflicts in the world, maybe about human frailties or failures. Sometimes we’re talking about our own barely-there awareness. Sometimes we’re just talking about nothing. Inevitably, one or both of us will say that ignorance truly is bliss.

 

I know people who live their lives like a well-known ostrich myth: they bury their heads in the sand. They avoid dealing with life, with tribulation, with reality. And though they paint a smiley face on every danged day, they are the most challenged people I know. Health, money, relationships, business – you name it. I’ve watched so many friends struggle more than the rest of us seem to, if only because they don’t acknowledge their problems honestly.

 

We all face trials in life. And dear Lord, I know a few people who are traversing so much life, you’d think they were going through Dante’s 9 circles of hell. But I’ll tell you something, they are at least facing their lives. They are struggling beyond belief, but they don’t deny it or pretend otherwise.

 

But I digress. I meant to write about how I often wish I could don rose-colored glasses and view the world – and my life – through a lens of ignorance. How some days find me wanting to pretend the world is okay, if only so I can smile for a while. And feel like smiling. But I can’t fake it. No matter how I might try, I just can’t lie to myself.

 

I grew up in a house of cards, a series of houses really. When we lived on Westchester Drive in Barnesville, GA, the house had what might be called a formal living room. We didn’t use it, however, and it sat empty. Well, almost empty. In the middle of the room’s floor, there was a huge pile of old clothes and trash. It smelled awful, as the cat would occasionally get in the room and treat the pile like a litter-box. The house’s front door opened from that room, but because of the pile, we never used that door. Instead, we came and went from the carport door. If friends came over – which rarely happened – the living room was closed off. I don’t know how the pile came to be, and I don’t know why it was never cleaned up. For the most part, my parents pretended the entire room didn’t exist. As for us kids, we always wanted to go in there. I don’t know why, but that big pile of waste was intriguing. But we were no dummies – we knew better than to talk about it. Not in public, nor in private. Turned out we were being trained and taught to bury our heads in the sand. I was 10 years old.

 

Why am I going down this lane of memory today? Maybe it’s because I’ve been doing laundry, tidying up around the hotel. Maybe it’s because I’m processing feelings about people who’ve dealt with me dishonestly. Maybe it’s because of nothing. Nothing at all.

 

Whatever the reason, I am left to deal with my reality. To face my life as honestly, as earnestly as I am able. But I’ve gotta tell ya, if I had a pair of rose-colored glasses, I’d probably use them for a while. But only for a while. And then I’d be right back where I am: in the real world. Facing my life while standing on my own two feet. Trying to keep an open mind. Trying to grow and evolve as a human being. All the while, listening, listening…  just in case there’s a knock at the front door. A door I gladly open into my clean living room.

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Another Mind Trip

August 18, 2012 By Leave a Comment

 

 

I’m sensing the end of this dark tunnel of moving. I can’t claim to see the proverbial light yet, but my gut tells me it’s just around the corner. My gut never lies, friends.

 

Anyhoo, I think another little mental road-trip is in order, if only for the sake of my fragmented sanity. And today I’m thinking of a TV show I loved as a kid – “Mork & Mindy.” (Talk about fragmented sanity…) I loved everything about that show when I was little. The characters, the humor, the lessons. And Mindy’s apartment! The exterior was so beautiful, and I so wanted to live there. Alas, that hasn’t come to pass.

 

But I did visit the house used in those exterior shots. I walked all over Boulder, Colorado, in search of that gorgeous house. And when I found it, I wasn’t disappointed. In fact, I couldn’t do anything but smile. That moment was yet another where the kid in me got to see a dream come true.

 

I got to visit Mork’s & Mindy’s house. What a trip.

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Jumping Off Cliffs

August 8, 2012 By Leave a Comment

 

 

That’s me at sixteen.

 

I was on a camping/float trip in the hills of Missouri. It was only a couple of days, but it was a trip to remember. I paddled a canoe, found $20 snagged on a rock deep in the river, laughed, sang and jumped off a cliff into the cool, cool water.

 

What happened to that girl?

 

I haven’t jumped off a cliff since, well, since that float trip. And there have been opportunities, though mostly figurative. How many times have I let some experience pass me by because my fear overtook my excitement? What might my life be if I’d held on to the drive of that sixteen-year-old?

 

Don’t assume she wasn’t afraid; she was terrified. But she jumped anyway. Again and again. Somehow, she understood how important jumping off cliffs can be. Disagree? Remember “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid”? Jumping off a cliff allowed them to live to see another day.

 

And that can be true in our real lives, too. Sometimes we need to jump off a proverbial cliff. If life is kind, when we don’t take our chances and jump, we’re often shoved.  It isn’t always easy to see in the moment, but the gift of hindsight usually reveals it was all for the best. I’ve lived this more times than I can count, and believe me – I could have saved myself a lot of time and anguish if I’d just gone ahead and flippin’ jumped.

 

We often speak of what we’d say to our younger selves, if given the chance to go back in time. For me, when I look at that sixteen-year-old Mikki, I can’t imagine having any wisdom to impart. I think that if I were able to visit that girl, I’d do best just to listen. If I were lucky, she’d spend some time with me. And If I were really lucky, maybe she’d tell me about jumping off cliffs. Heaven knows, I could sorely use a refresher.

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Honeysuckle Memories

June 9, 2012 By Leave a Comment

 

 

I was out on a bike ride, contemplating life, when I was hit in the face by a familiar smell on the wind: honeysuckle! It snuck up on me fast and left me in a near-aroma-coma.

 

When I was a kid in Georgia, I’d go walking and playing just about any old place I wanted in the summer. (It was a different time.) And it seemed like I always came across honeysuckle. It grows like a weed really, and it just sort of pops up randomly. In the woods. Along the side of the road. And, I have to make clear, some people do actually plant it.

 

Anyhoo, I would pull the blossoms from the vine and suck the sweet nectar. I guess I only ever picked about 10 or so flowers at the most. The amount of nectar in each flower is negligible. But it’s tasty, just the same. After a few minutes, I usually moved on to whatever great adventure my kid-day held. That’s the thing about being a kid: there’s always something more to do. To discover. To see. In the end, you sort of take the small things for granted. Small things, like honeysuckle.

 

Back to my present-day bike ride… I somehow convinced myself I did not need to lie face-down in the honeysuckle patch along the bike path. Instead, I tucked away my memories and rode on home.

 

Okay. I did pull a couple of blossoms…

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