Anywhere but hERe

Dedicated to those in the thick of it.

We’d picked the worst time to come to the emergency room. The place was packed, the air swampy from the combined fevers of the afflicted. Earlier in the evening, when we’d called Mammaw’s house to invite ourselves over for dinner, we had no idea what the night had in store.

“Your Mammaw’s got the flu,” Mom told Sissy and me, after clicking the END button on our boxy cordless phone. “She’s been sick for days and isn’t getting any better. We need to take her to the ER to get checked out.”

“Why aren’t my uncles doing it?” I asked. Daddy had been one of seven children, and one of six boys. The three of us, though, were clear across town in Karns. Geographically, we were almost as far down on the list of contacts as my relatives who resided in Texas.

“Because both of the ones who live with her are working the late shift,” Mama huffed, “and I promised your daddy a long time ago that I’d take care of Ima Lee if anything ever happened to him. Now hush up and let’s go help your grandmother.”

Mammaw’s house was on Island Home - well, the avenue, anyway. The avenue was the modest section of the neighborhood where everyone had a two-story train trestle in their backyards, not the boulevard part where fancy homes lined the Tennessee River.

“We might be back late,” Mom told Cookie, our dog. “We have to take Baloney Lady to the vet because she doesn’t feel good.”

Mammaw had been bestowed the nickname because she fed Cookie bologna every time we visited, which was often.  

Cookie wagged her tail with interest at the mention of her favorite lunch meat. Ever the optimist, she followed us closely as we gathered our things to leave. She was still wagging when Mom shut the trailer door just millimeters from her elongated snout.

Our drive to South Knoxville took thirty minutes. Once there, we helped Mammaw into the front seat of Mom’s Chevy Corsica and set off for the ER. Baptist Hospital wasn’t the largest in town or the nicest, but it was the closest. Mammaw had retired from St. Mary’s Hospital as a surgical tech, and the fact that she didn’t complain about the location told us everything we needed to know about her condition.

Sissy and I parked the car in the lot facing Chapman Highway after dropping off Mom and Mammaw at the entrance. We walked over to the ER, not prepared for what awaited us on the other side of the automatic doors.

We passed through the threshold, activating the sensor. The doors parted like a theatre curtain, revealing a pitiful tableau of patients stretched across the cheerless waiting area. Several were red-faced from coughing, and a few were bent over in pain or curled up in their hard plastic chairs trying to sleep.

Swapping illnesses during Christmas turned every January in Knoxville into a germ-filled nightmare. I knew that the only reason Tennessee was nicknamed ‘The Volunteer State’ was because ‘Home of the Wet, Productive Smoker’s Cough’ wouldn’t fit on any of the tourism material.

Sitting outside in the freezing car would be better than this. “This is not how I wanted to spend my Saturday night. Do you see Mammaw?” I asked Sissy.

Before she could answer, a man in the far corner of the waiting room began to retch. It wasn’t a normal retch. Nobody sounded good, of course, when they were about to toss their cookies, but this poor fellow was in a class of his own. He started with a guttural vocalization, like many people would. Then, the volume of his reaction somehow increased, as if he were being possessed by a malevolent puke phantom trying to manifest itself into the physical realm. The sound diminished, then once again amplified. After twenty seconds of this, he straightened carefully and balanced his pink plastic sick bucket on one knee.

“Oh my God,” I muttered to Sissy. “After all that, he didn’t even throw up.”

We spotted Mom and Mammaw sitting huddled together. Mammaw was resting her head against Mom’s shoulder with her eyes closed. Sissy and I sat down.

“What did they say?”

“A nurse took her temperature and her blood pressure. She’s got a fever. They’ll move her to a treatment room as soon as possible,” Mom answered.

I wondered where Mammaw ranked in the waiting room’s cavalcade of misery. South Knoxvillians were notoriously unpolished, even more so than our city’s average scruffy citizen, and mostly poor. Everyone seemed equally tormented, for a number of reasons.

“Does anyone want a Coke?” I asked. “There’s a vending machine outside.”

The man in the corner began to retch again.

“Never mind,” I said.

After two hours, a nurse called Mammaw’s name. Mom helped Mammaw to her feet, and the three of them disappeared behind a heavy wooden door.

“We’re praying for you, Mammaw,” I called as they retreated.

Sissy and I continued to sit. The mood in the crowded waiting room was dismal. At least a dozen more people had dragged themselves in to seek care since we’d arrived. Occasionally, a patient, or the healthier family member that had driven them there, would timidly approach the check-in desk to ask how much longer it would be before they could see a doctor. Each time, the staff member would smirk, shrug her shoulders, and send the inquirer back to their comfortless plastic chairs, suitably chastised.

There were no magazines in the emergency room, not even the dumb hospital-branded ones pretending to give health advice. Those magazines were a crock, anyway. They were nothing but thinly disguised advertisements for a hospital’s latest million-dollar MRI machine or stroke prevention center. This was just as well, since I would’ve never picked Baptist unless I was unconscious. The only Level One trauma center in town was UT Medical Center. UT was the preferred choice of ATV enthusiasts, bear petters, and whiskey-scented stuntmen, people who often had complex injuries and needed complex solutions. I figured they’d be a good match for me, too, since I’d also experienced plenty of trauma, albeit the emotional kind.

I was about as much of a risk-taker as a visually impaired nun, but I tried to align myself with any opportunity that allowed me to break free from my poverty-stricken roots. The folks in the Baptist waiting room were so much like the people in my orbit that I was sure I’d already met half of them at a family reunion.

A small TV was bolted to the corner of the room, so far up the wall that anyone attempting to watch for too long would develop neck spasms and end up needing an emergency room examination for that, as well. It was a brilliant plan, one that likely warranted a promotion to the sicko who dreamed it up.

Nothing good was on. We’d endured Wheel of Fortune, a cop drama, another cop drama, and thirty minutes of The Heartland Series. I usually liked The Heartland Series, but Bill Landry’s interview with an ancient grandmother who dried apples outdoors on old bedsheets hit too close to home. Country people were resourceful and decent, but their simple ways of doing things sometimes made my brain go tilt. I wondered if the retching fellow had eaten some of her apples. Cut fruit left exposed to the elements would be seasoned with bird droppings and air pollution in no time. Only the hardiest souls would eat a stack cake that was only a few targeted inches, as the crow flies, away from poisonous. Maybe he’d found himself in the emergency room as a result.

 I turned away from the TV with a sigh. I decided to play a game with myself. Every time the receptionist was condescending to someone, I would imagine reaching for her desk scissors (the ones unbearably decorated with gingham ribbon) and cutting off a blonde tip from her overly frosted hairdo.

Another hour crawled by. She’d lost four by then.

I hoped Mammaw was ok. I wasn’t sure if she’d be admitted into the hospital. If so, it would be monumental. Despite the number of smokers in our family and our tendency towards alcoholism, my relatives seemed bulletproof — except of course for Daddy, who’d kicked the bucket at 48, and me, who was by far the fattest grandkid and the only one with asthma.

My heart sank all the way to my toes. Sitting in the crowded waiting area, amongst the suffering, I was reminded that there was no guarantee that Mammaw, or any of the rest of us, would be ok. Even if we had access to good care — or even just adequate care, as I’d witnessed tonight — eventually, it wouldn’t be enough. We’d pass out of this world into whatever awaited us next, and many of our exits would be painful and undignified.

I tried to lean on my patchwork Christian beliefs in times like these, but I knew I’d never have the answers. Why did we have to suffer at all? I’d been taught that Jesus or God or the Holy Spirit was always with us, supernaturally holding us close during times of trouble. That was great, I supposed, but why couldn’t They just put a stop to it instead? Either God was weak, or He was a total butthead who loved to watch sinners flail painfully or, best case scenario, life, and all of its associated horrors, were some sort of impenetrable cosmic education to help us grow.

I also had to consider another tremendously sad possibility: bad stuff happened for no reason at all. After we died, we’d lay a molderin’ in the ground forever, unless someone bulldozed over our bones to build a new mall.

The thought of being trapped under a Cinnabon for the rest of time was almost too much to bear.

There were no easy answers in the waiting room; no resolutions; only constant reminders of our defective bodies and insufficiency. I thought I might go crazy if things didn’t improve soon.

Loud music sprang forth from the lobby TV. I recognized it as a car commercial that had been released right after Thanksgiving, obviously timed to make the most of the Christmas holiday. I’d seen it a zillion times, and it was even more annoying to see it still playing in January. In the commercial, an announcer blabbed about the benefits of an overpriced SUV over the strains of “Linus and Lucy,” the song more commonly known as the Peanuts theme.

Not again, I thought, irritated. I loved the whole Peanuts gang and cried happy tears every time I watched A Charlie Brown Christmas. It was gross to use a song from a cartoon that railed again holiday materialism to sell anything. The evening had already drowned me in existential dread, and this was just adding insult to injury.

I wanted to bolt. I wanted to scream. I wanted to rend my secondhand turtleneck and cry to the heavens.

I did none of those things. Instead, I began to bob my head in time to the music.

My neck, sore after hours of craning upward to stare at the TV, immediately began to ache. I continued, undeterred. There weren’t enough words in the dictionary nor time left in my life to express my grief over humanity’s loss of potential from things done to us and things we did to ourselves.

Movement to the right caught my eye. Sissy was bobbing along to the music, too. Apparently, we were of one mind on this subject.

So we bobbed, both in defiance and in acceptance of all the things we would never be able to change, looking like nothing more than a couple of psychically controlled marionettes performing for a group of tragically ill groundlings.

When the commercial was over, we laughed for a long time. I started to feel better, especially when the nurse came out soon after to collect the retching man. I was happy for all of us.

Mom and Mammaw finally returned to the waiting room around 10:00 p.m.

“Mammaw!” I cried. “How are you feeling?”

“A little better,” she mumbled.

“They gave her some fluids,” Mom explained, “and some prescriptions. She’s going to be ok. Why don’t you girls go get the car and bring it to the entrance?”

Sissy and I were back in a flash. We helped Mammaw into the back seat.

“I know you girls haven’t had any dinner,” Mammaw said weakly. “You can help yourselves to a sandwich or something while your mama goes and picks up my medicine.”

I was deeply relieved that Mammaw was feeling good enough to return to one of her default settings — hostess. I hoped that in a few days, she’d also be fully restored to the undisputed Burchfield gin rummy champion as well as the short-order cook for our battalion-sized family. “Don’t worry about us,” I told her. “We’re going to take care of you first before we worry with sandwiches.”

I drove down Sevier Avenue with a growling stomach but a full heart. Despite the turmoil in the waiting room, Mammaw had dodged a bullet tonight. Our family would remain intact, for now. I sent up a grateful prayer.

“Can you and Sissy get Mammaw to bed while I run to Walgreens?” asked Mom.

“Sure,” I said. “I’m happy you’re feeling a little better, Mammaw. We were worried.”

“I’m pretty strong,” Mammaw admitted, “but I never want to feel this bad again. That’s for sure.”

Neither did I. I was barely out of high school, and mathematically, the chances that I’d never have another rotten night like this one were slim. Trouble waited for all of us, in one form or another, as predictable as taxes or cauliflower farts.

Back on Island Home, Sissy and I tucked Mammaw into bed and made some dinner. Perhaps, in time, the worst memories of the evening would fade, although I’d be hearing the retching man’s dry heaves in my dreams for weeks to come.

Unbidden, the sound began to play on a loop in my mind, interrupting the enjoyment of my turkey sandwich mid-bite. I had to put a stop to this. I could live with endless questions and existential dread, but I drew the line at losing my dinner.

I forced myself away from the emergency room and back into the dining room, swallowing forcefully. I took another bite, keeping my focus on the crunchy lettuce and creamy cheese stacked between the soft slices of bread. As I chewed, I heard only the eleven o’clock news playing from the living room. I sighed in relief, finally able to pull the plug on such a terrible night.

Picture from Sissy’s journal, 1998

‘Tis the Season to Tamale

In memory of the women who move us forward.

Mammaw Burchfield wasn’t a typical grandmother. Even though she’d raised seven children and fixed dinner every day of her life she wasn’t in a coma or in labor, she hardly fit the gray-haired, crocheted sweater mold.

Mammaw was beautiful and she knew it. While there was no need to brag, her sartorial and cosmetic choices subtly peacocked the obvious. She was frosted from head to toe - hair tipped with blonde, shiny satin blouses tucked perfectly into no-nonsense dress slacks, and long, reflective mauve fingernails that highlighted her stack of gold herringbone bracelets – all implicative of the trophy she was.

She was also the most competitive person in the family. If you were invited to her kitchen table to play gin rummy, dice, or Rook, it was wise to lose on purpose or at least profess incredulity in the rare event you came out on top.

She viewed cooking the same way. Any daughter-in-law foolish enough to stroll into Mammaw’s house with a picture-perfect dish would often find her offering moved from the dining room into the refrigerator, relegated to relatives and stray dogs with less refined palates.

Mama had learned her lesson early on, when she’d baked a pecan pie so rich, so delectably crunchy, my youngest uncle let slip an audible word of praise. Somehow, Mammaw heard it from clear across the house and spent the rest of the evening freezing Mama out worse than a Yuletide blizzard.

“I never brought anything else to her house after that except napkins,” Mama once told me. “And sometimes, whiskey for your uncles.”

Mammaw’s cooking was technically perfect, but her insistence on dominance and passive-aggressive irritation about having to cook at all left behind a psychic residue in every meal. Still, we neither complained about nor suggested menu changes. We were simply grateful to be invited to eat, no matter how grudging the service.

The change she made that Christmas was shocking. The Burchfield holiday celebration was a two-day long extravaganza, featuring party foods, music, and presents on Christmas Eve followed by a turkey dinner with all the trimmings on Christmas Day. We hadn’t deviated from the schedule the entire seventeen years I’d been alive. In the same way Santa achieved the impossible by visiting presents upon every good boy and girl in one night, Mammaw repeatedly basted a 25-lb bird, baked desserts, and chopped ten different vegetables for three different side dishes, sacrificing sleep and sanity so her family could commemorate the birth of Jesus without a single store-bought foodstuff.

One evening, after a typical Sunday supper of roast beef and vegetables – all of which I’d slathered in ketchup, true to my plebeian taste – I stood at the sink, washing dishes and praising Mammaw’s cooking.

I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that my grandmother loved me, but I wasn’t sure if she understood me. While I loved feminine frippery as much as she, I was too poor for nice clothing, too fat to dance an endless two-step with a mustachioed sweet-talker, and too busy studying and acting to ever learn to be a card shark. She’d been my age when she’d married Papaw and gave birth to my father a year later. The trajectories of our lives were so far apart, we might as well had been born on different planets.

           Mammaw’s cooking was delicious, even spiced with irritability as it was, but I still went out of my way to make sure she knew it. I mostly did it out of fondness.

I also did it because I wanted her to like me. Mama never kowtowed to anyone, and because of it, she existed in a sort of purgatory of Mammaw’s affections. I’d been deficient in family attention since Daddy’s death; I needed all the support I could get.

            I never cared for cooking. I could scramble eggs and boil water for spaghetti, and that was more than enough education for me. I certainly enjoyed eating, but since restaurant food was affordable and Mammaw was already resigned to living out her days as a chef, I thought it just as good to lean on their expert preparations.

            On the other hand, asking Mammaw about her recipes seemed an easy way to bond. I just hoped she was willing to share and not hellbent on taking them with her when she died, as revenge for us never chipping in for a spa day or treating her to Easter brunch at Club LeConte. She was hard to read, even for a sensitive soul like me.

No wonder she was such a good card player. “You know what, Mammaw?” I began. “I think you need your own restaurant. You’re a great cook.”

She demurred, which was an excellent sign. This was a compliment every member of the family had offered up at some point.

“Why, thank you,” she replied. “Your daddy used to tell me the same thing.”

“What’s your favorite thing to make?”

Mammaw looked surprised, as if she’d never been asked the question before.

“Everything, I suppose. I like cooking for y’all.”

That was partially true. I know she didn’t like cooking without a break because I’d eaten plenty of biscuits and gravy seasoned with her annoyed puffs of exhalation, brought on by having to prepare an entire meal for whoever decided to show up after she’d already worked a full day at Watson’s Department Store. I didn’t know how else to help beyond what I was already doing, though. Cleaning and compliments were the only assistance she’d accept.

“Well, everything you make is delicious. Your potato salad, coleslaw, tamales, cornbread – somebody ought to give you a prize,” I told her. “Martha Stewart ain’t got nothing on you.”

Mammaw smirked. She may not have been as wealthy as Martha Stewart, but she certainly was prettier.

“I’ve been making tamales since I was a youngin’,” Mammaw said. “Everyone around here loves them.”

            She was right about that. Tamales had been a Knoxville staple for decades upon decades, first sold downtown in places like the Market House on the Square. In Knoxville, tamales were wrapped in a special paper rather than a husk. The meat inside the meal was either mild or hot pork sausage, and it was mixed with unique spice blends fiercely guarded by each chef. Fall was tamale season. Churches and community groups would boil huge lots to sell as fundraisers, and Mom-and-Pop eateries like the Freezo and Amherst Grocery would add them to menus for a while.

            Tamales were delicious by themselves, but aficionados would smother theirs in chili thick with beans and ground beef. This exquisite combination was called a “full house,” and it elevated the humble tamale to a hearty winter feast fit for a king. I liked to squirt plain yellow mustard on top of my full house, to add color and write my initials on top of the steaming, spicy mix.

            “You make the best tamales in town, Mammaw. Maybe you can show me how to make them next time.”

            “I’ll teach you if you want. I’ll need to go shopping first.”

            This was the first time I remembered hearing Mammaw take such a thing into consideration, and it both pleased and worried me. “Whenever is good for you,” I babbled. “You don’t have to make a special trip on my account.”

            “Well, as long as you keep coming to see me, you won’t miss them,” she said.

            A lightbulb went off in my adolescent head. Maybe the biggest reason she cooked was that she wanted us around to eat.

            “We’re always going to come see you, Mammaw,” I said tenderly. Above all, she was the genetic cord that bound us all together, despite our differences. I’d return to her house until she left the world, or I did.

            I had a flash. “Hey, what about Christmas?” I asked. “That way, you don’t have to make so much stuff, just tamales and chili.”

            She considered it. “Your uncles sure love their turkey and dressing. But I’ll think about it.”

            Mammaw was rarely so pliable. I congratulated myself on handling the situation far better than Mom could’ve, recognizing it as a win even more special than an all face card spread in gin rummy.

*

            On Christmas, Mammaw’s house was busier than Grand Central Station. Three generations of Burchfields would descend on her small Island Home house – the avenue part of Island Home, not the fancy boulevard with the river view – and festivities would last well into the evening. We took shifts throughout the day, eating, celebrating, and rearranging a dozen cars into a driveway meant only for a few. Often, a few of my uncles and cousins would be on duty, and they’d manage to squeeze their police cruisers in long enough to grab some stuffing and broccoli casserole for the road.

            Mom, Sissy, and I arrived around noon. I made my usual rounds, greeting groups of relatives on the front porch and in the living room before making my way into the kitchen.

            The table was lined with newspaper, pots, and trays. Mammaw was dressed in her favorite cozy sweatshirt, the one featuring a rockabilly swine named Piggy Sue. Her pants were stretchy and loose. It was the closest she ever came to pajamas. She was still wearing her slippers, clearly embracing her casual state.

            I peeked over her shoulder. “Mammaw!” I exclaimed. “You’re making tamales!” I leaned in to kiss her cheek.

            Her hands were full of sausage and meal. She patted the mixture into a round shape, working diligently even as she tilted her head to receive my sugar.

            “I thought we’d do a little something different today,” she said.

            “Can I watch you? Do you need help with anything?”

            “I’m good. Go get you some tea, and I’ll show you what I’m doing.”

            I loaded one of her footed beverage glasses with ice and poured the brew into it. The tea was so fresh it was still warm, the ice popping and cracking like fireworks as it cooled things to a perfect temperature.

            Mammaw moved quickly from pot to pot. She scooped a handful of meal from one, flattened it on her palm, then scooped the sausage and spice mixture from a different pot and loaded it on top of the meal. She grabbed more meal to enclose the sausage, encasing it on all sides like an envelope.

            Once the meat was sealed in meal, she laid it atop a piece of parchment paper. I already knew Mammaw was particular about her tamale paper, refusing to purchase it anywhere except White Stores on Sevier Avenue. She preferred the local business touch of White Stores over the impersonal Kroger supermarket, even though Kroger had better prices and an easier parking lot in which to navigate her behemoth copper Cadillac.

            The moisture from the meal soaked through the parchment onto the newspaper underneath. The newspaper did a good job of protecting the table, but I wondered how much ink we’d ingested over the years, and if Mammaw’s tamales were worth potentially being poisoned over.

            I relived my first bite of a tamale, imagining my teeth slicing through the delicate corn shell and finding the pleasant, muted heat of the sausage inside, and decided they were.

            Mammaw then wrapped the paper around the tamales, tied them with clean string at the top, middle, and bottom, and dropped them onto a tray to await boiling. I watched for a while, appreciating the trouble it took to assemble things. Making them wasn’t hard, but the buttache of tying a million strings and washing a dozen pans afterwards was significant.

            “Thank you for going to all this trouble, Mammaw. I hope this is easier than making a turkey dinner,” I said.

            “It’s not so bad,” she replied.

            “I learned a lot from you today, but I don’t think I’m going to be making these on my own anytime soon. I’m not much of a cook.”

            I heard the briefest delay before she answered, as if her response required more effort than usual. “You need to focus on college anyway,” she said.

            In her pause, I heard the half-century of progress the world had experienced since she was seventeen. College had been out of reach for Mammaw. She’d been a mother by then.

After Papaw died, Mammaw became certified as a surgery tech at St. Mary’s hospital until retirement. She went to work at Watson’s a few years later because she needed the money. Mammaw was bright and capable, but oddly uncurious about the world. I’d never seen her read anything except the Avon catalog and her flour-stained Mary Starr cookbook.

I didn’t know why. She loved to dance and play cards. Maybe school always bored her, and she found no joy in voluntary education.

It was also not so long ago that legally, women had fewer liberties than the male children they diapered. Hell, even the department store credit card Mammaw was required to peddle would’ve been off-limits to her without Papaw’s approval just four years before my birth. A woman’s right to vote was barely two years old when Mammaw was born. Collectively, we were nowhere near the end of the grueling march towards equality.

I wondered if the prayers whispered by my great-grandmother, who died when Mammaw was a girl, held gratitude for her baby’s potential. Mothers had been shipwrecked in one way or another since the beginning of time. They held their daughters above the swell of dangerous, oppressive waters, hoping the currents would float their precious ones to islands of opportunity the mothers would never see as they swam out too far and the waters began to cover their bellies, their necks, their fingertips.

Whatever the reason for her reading material, I hoped it was because Mammaw wanted it to be that way.

“I’ll do good in college. Promise.”

“Well, I know that,” she said simply, picking up the tray of tamales to take to the stove.

She didn’t say anything else, but she didn’t have to. Nearly every academic occasion of which I’d been a part - from the 3rd grade play where I’d been cast as a tomato to my National Honor Society induction - Mammaw had been there, perfumed, pretty, and proud of me. That would never change.

“You want me to start cleaning up?” I asked her.

“Sure, honey.”

            I stacked the pots next to the sink and removed the soggy newspaper from the table. The tamales twisted excitedly in the boiling water, ready to warm every Burchfield belly on this chilly winter day. I gathered the remaining cuts of twine, straightening them in my hand before tucking them back onto the spool.

Not every Christmas was special, but once in a while, we learned a new way to tie the strings that bound our hearts together.

Shopper News South

There was a nice little write-up about me in a bonafide newspaper today. I remember those!

STORY OF HOPE

Writer inspired by memories of mother

By Eric Woods

Shopper News

“Heather Ream started her writing journey as a means to preserve the memory of her mother, who was battling sickness in her later years. She began to blog about different experiences from her childhood, and it became a “love letter” to her mother and her family.

 Ream, a South Knoxville native, eventually turned the blog into a memoir called “Lunch Ladies Bought My Prom Dress.” The story kept the form of a love letter but developed into a broader message of hope in her journey through poverty, tragedy and a complex relationship with her faith.

 “As my mom got further and further from herself because of her illness, I was determined,” Ream said. “I did not want the last chapter of her life to be defined by this illness. So I was like, ‘I love my family. I think we have a precious story. I think we have a hopeful story. And I’ve always wanted to write it,’ but that seemed to be the time to start to write it because it’s like it became catharsis for me.”

 As a child, Ream and her family grew up impoverished in a Knoxville that was much smaller than it is today. Her family experienced tragedy and mistreatment by the church because of their financial situation.

It was difficult for Ream to form any sort of worldview due to her circumstances, leaving her feeling alone. She turned to the library as a place to escape, and it helped her learn about the world before she was a part of it.

Through her reading, she learned that she wasn’t alone. Ream could explore interests outside her circumstances such as Miss Manners’ etiquette lessons and pop culture. She also found a way to completely remove herself from her current situation with the worlds that Stephen King created.

No matter what, literature gave her the resources she needed to cope and face adversity. She hopes that her book can have a similar impact on her readers.

“What I want readers to take away from is that no matter what ridiculous season of life they find themselves in, they are not without hope, they are not alone,” Ream said. “My story is about poverty, but I think everybody has an antagonist in their life in some way where maybe the stuff just hits the fan, and they don’t know how to function. And so I just want people to know that they’re going to be OK and that if I could survive it, they can survive it.”

Ream also talks about her struggle with her religious faith in her memoir, though she “only scratched the surface” in her first book and looks to dive deeper in the sequel. She was hurt by the church many times, but she found a way to separate her mistreatment from who she knew Jesus to be.

“All I can do is I can be as bright of a light as I can,” Ream said. “I can affect the people in my, you know, in my small circle or whatever. And I can just hope that by doing that, that strengthens my faith, and it also helps to repair that tattered reputation I think that Christianity rightfully has right now.”

What started as a love letter turned into a story of hope in the face of adversity. Ream is often told that she “makes tragedy hilarious,” which she takes as a compliment because it gives people comfort in their own circumstances. With a sequel in the works, she hopes that her writing can continue to have an impact on those who read.”

The Invisible Girl

For Marnie.

I opened the metal wardrobe in my and Sissy’s bedroom, in search of the perfect outfit. The apartment’s dry air caused a pop of static electricity as I touched the doorknob, and I yelped in surprise.

The wardrobe was part of the hodgepodge of furniture inside our tiny furnished apartment. It really didn’t take up that much room, but I still hated it, even though now the three of us had more space to spread out.

I scrutinized my meager selection, sliding each piece past my eyes and wincing at the sound of cheap wire coat hangers scraping against the iron bar. Nothing looked right.

I had never dressed for a parent’s funeral before.

Mama was busy doing other things, leaving me to fend for myself. In all fairness, she never helped me with outfits, but on this frigid January morning, I needed guidance. Today we would bury Daddy, and Mama would also celebrate her eighteenth wedding anniversary. To say she was laid low was a horrendous understatement. Mama was as much of a ghost as Daddy was now, hazily outlined by the smoke from the Vantage Light 100 she sat inhaling at the kitchen table, the place where Daddy had drunk his last cup of coffee 72 hours earlier.

In the weeks before Christmas, a lady from church had given us a trash bag full of hand-me-downs. Her daughter was thinner than me but also taller, so I managed to squeeze into a few pieces since I was short. Among them was a pretty, snow-white dress. The dress was printed with a faint jacquard pattern and featured a drop waist with a sophisticated bow. I had fished it out of the bag excitedly, but my excitement turned to disappointment once I tried to zip it up.

The dress had barely fit, the bow riding low under my chubby stomach and causing unflattering lumps in the fabric. Still, it had remained in my wardrobe, beautiful but untouched, yet another motivation to lose weight. I’d been on a perpetual diet since fourth grade. Being a fat kid was tough.

All efforts to reshape my chubby body, like trying to copy Paula Abdul’s choreography for exercise and insisting on Special K cereal for breakfast, had ceased since the death of my father. My new goal, and the only one I had, was to survive the day.

I wanted to purge the grief from my body, but the feeling had settled into every one of my muscles, rubbed in deep like the skin burns jerky boys gave each other at school. I realized the best I could do was destroy as much of the evidence of this appalling event as possible.

I would wear this pretty dress, even though it made me look ugly, and then I would entomb it in the garbage can after the funeral. Once it had been removed from the vicinity, I’d never have to look at it again. I didn’t want to be reminded of either my physical flaws or my spiritual one – a new, vast feeling of separation from God, who was now totally useless to me as a loving or protective Creator. My safety net was gone forever, along with any desire to improve.

It seemed not only poetic but downright sensible to match the ugly feelings I had inside with ugliness on the outside, so I stepped into the dress and tugged the zipper into place. From the kitchen, Mama asked if Sissy and I were ready.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I told her, putting on my coat in an effort to speed things up.

Mammaw pulled into our driveway in her big, copper-colored Cadillac. She was going to drive us to Woodlawn Cemetery. Mama hadn’t driven for years because she’d once had a seizure behind the wheel. Daddy had been adamant that she not drive, in fear of her safety, but his opinion no longer mattered. Now, the idea of Mama leaning on a man was laughable. Having to rely on bumming rides and city buses when we had a perfectly good car in the driveway wouldn’t do.

Someone was going to have to start driving again, and it was going to have to be Mama.

I pulled open the Caddy’s heavy door and pushed the passenger seat forward so Sissy and I could climb in the back. Mammaw, elegantly perfumed and rouged even in the grim throes of heartache, said nothing.

How I longed for a hug or a tender word, but neither my mother nor my grandmother seemed equipped today. Sissy and I were the youngest victims, no less devastated even though we’d known Daddy for only a short time. I didn’t know how else to demand comfort except to scream at the top of my lungs, but I was afraid someone would slap me for it. This was not a fear I usually had, but the rotten contagion of grief had left my caregivers zombified in its wake, and I no longer knew what to expect.

Woodlawn was barely five minutes from our house, but we drove to the funeral home first for the procession. We pulled into Berry’s, and I saw a sea of cars. I felt a sorrowful satisfaction in the large number that had turned out to say a final goodbye.

The funeral home man attached a small blue magnetic flag on the hood of the Cadillac, and we set off in a caravan on the way back to Woodlawn. I was disappointed the procession wouldn’t take us onto Chapman Highway, where the most people were. I needed everyone in South Knoxville to know that the best daddy in the world was gone, and he was never coming back.

Our caravan wound up the narrow streets of the cemetery, finally coming to a stop at the base of the hill where my papaw had been buried sixteen years earlier. The sky was overcast; the temperature barely above freezing. I had unbuttoned my coat in the car but quickly pulled it shut once I was outside, not only to protect myself from the weather but to hide the lumps caused by my tight dress.

There was a big hole in the ground, genteelly surrounded by green astroturf, but its purpose was obvious. Mama was busy talking – finally – to some of our family. I stood beside her for a minute, waiting for instructions that never came. I decided to take Sissy, who had hardly left my side all morning, to find a seat.

Eventually, the service began. Although Daddy was a dedicated Christian, a former pastor, and a loving example of his faith tradition, he had not belonged to a church for years. Instead, he’d used his time on air as a disc jockey for a local Christian AM station to minister to others. A couple of pastors who’d known him over the years volunteered to lead the service, but Mama refused them. Daddy had been a saint and the gentlest soul in our family. Only the people who knew him best were allowed the privilege to eulogize him.

Uncle Mark, one of Daddy’s younger brothers, delivered a touching eulogy, and we prayed. Daddy’s pallbearers were his other five brothers and so many nephews there was barely enough room on either side of the casket to walk him up the hill.

During Uncle Mark’s speech, a chorus of harsh sobs had rung out – sounds amplified and uncushioned by the naked, soggy branches covering us, a counterfeit imitation of the bird songs that would pass through green trees later in the spring.

Our family would never be the same.

After the internment, I remained seated, in a daze. Sissy had gone off to look for Mama, leaving me alone under the temporary awning set up to keep the cold wind at bay. I felt a chill as I contemplated my new reality. I was only eleven, to be sure, but the last few days had taught me I’d have to learn to take care of myself - at least until the shock of Daddy’s death wore off and returned Mama and Mammaw to the land of the living.

I just hoped I’d be ok until then.

I walked back into the throng of people, trying to pick out Mama and Sissy’s auburn hair in the crowd. A figure standing alone caught my eye, slender in a black wool coat. I lifted my eyes to her face, and recognition crashed into me like a lightning bolt.

My sixth-grade Reading and Science teacher, Ms. Prescott, stood before me. Her eyes were sad, undeniably aware of my burden even as she smiled gently.

Ms. Prescott was my favorite teacher at South Middle. Her curriculum had opened up a new world outside of scruffy, humdrum Knoxville. Everything she’d taught about writing and ecology fueled my imagination and innovation, gifting me the belief I could make the planet a better place. She, like Daddy, had recognized that nurturing my sensitivity would turn it into a superpower, instead of a limitation.

Today was also supposed to be my first day back to school after the holidays, but I wouldn’t return until next week. Suddenly, I remembered good friends and lofty dreams and happier times, and my face crumbled in agony.

Ms. Prescott opened her arms, and I ran into them. I buried my head in the crook of her neck and sobbed, emotions flooding my face and wetting the collar of her coat. Her hug enveloped me. I was safe – finally able to rest my trembling limbs and briefly lay my lonely load aside. At that moment, I didn’t have to be brave or display any newfound maturity hastened by my loss. I just had to be a kid.

When I finished crying, she pulled a large manila envelope from her coat’s inner pocket.

“This is from your classmates,” Ms. Prescott said. “They wrote letters for you this morning.” She handed me the envelope, puffy with folded notes inside.

“These are for me?” I asked in wonder. I thought of all the people in my Reading class, even the jerky boys who didn’t even like me, taking the time to write messages of sympathy, and I started to cry again.

Ms. Prescott once again embraced me. “Of course they are. We’re all very sorry for your loss.” I wiped my face with the back of my coat sleeve, trying to stem the flow from my eyes and nose. “Get some good rest, and we’ll see you next week, ok?” she added.

I sniffed, happy to agree to such a reasonable assignment. “Ok.”

I felt it necessary to add something else. I hoped it wasn’t babyish. “I love you,” I said.

“I love you, too,” Ms. Prescott replied. “We’ll see you soon.”

My eyes followed her as she found Mama on the way back to her car. They talked for a minute, then Ms. Prescott waved goodbye.

As usual, I wasn’t sure if what I’d experienced had anything to do with God. Had He sent an earthly helper in my time of need? Or was Ms. Prescott showing up just a lucky coincidence?

These types of indeterminable, ancient questions had plagued me since my earliest days. I knew I’d never have the answers. Only Daddy had ever come close to answering any of them. At least I had survived the burial.

I hovered impatiently around Mama and Mammaw, wanting to get home right away. I needed to read my messages and throw my restrictive dress in the garbage as soon as I could race up the stairs that led to our front door.

But the dress would be the only thing I’d discard. Pressing the envelope close to my heart, I knew I’d keep these letters forever - an everlasting reminder I had not gone unnoticed in the permafrost of grief, but instead was kept warm by their affection, as I waited to bloom once more.

A Birthday Ballade

For Ben, who only likes poems that rhyme.

There never was a man like him

Who touched my lonesome heart;

The light I have he would not dim

Nor pierce, nor poison, nor dart

when gracious words turn tart.

He stays nearby, he is steadfast.

Though things conspire to tear apart,

We bless the mem’ries of our past.

Perched in the trees he will not die,

He refuses to be killed.

Down on the ground, his bride says hi

And wonders at his will.

His bravery is mixed with zeal

Health restored at last!

Nature is a helpful pill

We bless the mem’ries of our past.

The recent years have been most fraught,

So many can be blamed.

A fragile peace we’ve often sought

Still many storms remain.

We vow to always be the same.

Our love a plea that must be cast,

A world that burns, we’ll dance in flames.

We bless the mem’ries of our past.

I hope that in the years to come

Our joy will be vast

From our wrinkled lips, a contented hum

We bless the mem’ries of our past.

The Check’s in the Mail

One of the most important pieces I’ve ever written. Appearing in Salvation South.

“An unexpected inheritance came too late to raise her mother from poverty, but not too late for the state of Tennessee to claim the money for itself. A first-person look at how Southern states stack the deck against their working poor.”

Click here to read.

Spring Cleaning

A short recollection about my favorite season.

One of the things I’d learned in my sixteen years on Earth was that the number of people who promised to show up when they were needed was greatly disproportionate to the number who actually did. This was true whether we were borrowing money for the KUB bill or asking relatives to fix our beat-up Mercury Topaz, and it was especially true the day Dr. Jenny implored her patients to spend a Saturday morning picking up garbage along Oak Ridge Highway. 

Dr. Jenny, our chiropractor, was plenty weird but still likable. Mom, Sissy, and I had varying degrees of success with treatment, but we were no more or less odd than Dr. Jenny’s average patient. Even though two of her usual customers could fit into one pair of my pants, I felt comfortable among the wan, patchouli-scented health nuts who flocked to her office. 

Dr. Jenny had recently pledged to keep a stretch of Oak Ridge Highway free from litter as part of the national Adopt-a-Mile program. She tacked a sign-up sheet on her bulletin board and asked each patient pointedly if we wanted to volunteer. Lots of patients were interested. I was no stranger to litter campaigns, having participated in the local River Rescue in years past, so I was enthusiastic. Sissy volunteered, too, and Mom joined just in case Dr. Jenny decided to throw in a free adjustment for participating. 

The morning of the clean-up, Mom drove us to Dr. Jenny’s office. We arrived to a mostly empty parking lot. Despite her other patients’ initial excitement, we were the only ones who’d kept our word. 

Dr. Jenny invited us in. A TV and VCR were set up in the waiting room.  

“The Adopt-A-Mile program sent me this tape to play before we start our clean-up,” she said. “Let’s take a look.” 

Watching TV with my chiropractor in an empty office was weird. It was like we’d invited her over for dinner because she was alone on Thanksgiving or something. Still, I felt bad for her. She was a Michigan transplant and new to Karns, trying to make a name in the community. 

Banjo music blared fuzzily from the TV. The Oak Ridge Boys – or maybe Alabama, who looked exactly the same to me – greeted us heartily. They were grateful we’d decided to donate our time to help Tennessee stay beautiful. After all, they had driven through Tennessee multiple times on tour over the years, and The Oak Ridge Boys or Alabama knew what a problem litter was on the roadways. 

My mind drifted as the bass singer read off a list of statistics about trash in our state. I hoped Mom would take us to Weigel’s for a french vanilla cappuccino when we were done. Today was going to stay damp and chilly. March was an unpredictable month for Knoxville weather.  

I pictured putting a cup under Weigel’s cappuccino spigot and pressing the button to dispense the hot beverage. The manager had pasted a sign on the machine admonishing customers to release the button when one’s cup was two-thirds of the way full, but I liked to live dangerously. I knew I could keep pushing for exactly four seconds after the recommended release and still have enough room for three packets of sugar. Weigel’s had created a rich, creamy, 89-cent masterpiece, even surpassing the turtle cappuccino at Old City Java. I was hooked. 

“Are they gonna sing “Elvira” or what?” Mom suddenly interrupted. 

“We can skip the rest of the tape,” said Dr. Jenny, bored as the rest of us. “Why don’t we get going?” 

We got back into our car and followed Dr. Jenny down Oak Ridge Highway, passing the Bargain Barn and the E-Z Stop gas station before turning left into the Food Lion across the street from Grace Baptist. From there, we took pickers and bags from her trunk and carefully jogged to the other side of the road. 

“Do we have to stay together?” I asked Mom. 

She thought for a moment. “No,” she said finally, “but don’t you dare get your ass run over.” 

This was the kind of laissez-faire and marginally effective parenting I’d experienced my whole life. Miraculously, I was still alive. 

The four of us started together and then broke off in opposite directions. Sissy remembered to bring her no-name Walkman; I was stuck with my thoughts and the sound of muffler-free trucks barreling down the highway. 

Despite the noise, I fell into a peaceful rhythm. Cleaning up litter was extremely satisfying. My heart grew lighter with each old soda bottle or soft drink straw that disappeared into my garbage bag. After a while, Sissy’s bag was as full as mine, and I caught her eye as she nodded her head in time to Pantera or whatever was playing. She raised her picker triumphantly, and I returned the salute.  

  I wondered why no one else had volunteered. The patchouli patients loved Dr. Jenny, always slopping sugar over how much her treatments helped them and buying whatever homeopathic tincture she recommended. 

Being a visible presence for her when they didn’t have to, though, seemed almost as important to me. I wanted to think the best of the patchouli patients, like maybe they were too anemic from their meatless diets to sling full garbage bags, but I suspected it was more.  

Janitors, garbage collectors, and carrion understood one of life’s most unfair axioms – their jobs were among the least respected but the most important. Deep down, most people thought it beneath them to clean up other people’s crap. I knew this was the real reason we were the only ones there. Poor folks like us were already used to digging through whatever was left for a myriad of reasons.  

But leftovers didn’t scare us. In fact, sometimes we found treasure among the trash. 

Though we had more ground to cover with only the four of us there, I was glad we’d shown up. I was confident Dr. Jenny appreciated it, too, possibly even enough to mention it in her next Xeroxed newsletter.  

I unfurled the extra garbage bag I’d stuffed in my flannel shirt’s pocket and shook it open. A car horn tooted a friendly thanks as it drove past fast enough to puff the bag out of my hands. Luckily, I caught it on the edge of my picker. 

“You’re welcome!”  I yelled sarcastically, but I wasn’t mad. Not everyone was equipped to create new beginnings. Crushed under the faded Funyuns bags and discarded Pennzoil bottles were tiny spring buds waiting to be greeted by the sun. We were no less than the hands of God this morning, two soggy teenagers and a broke middle-aged mom, clearing roadblocks and unearthing potential. 

Is Dolly Psychic?

What a TOTALLY COOL WAY to start the new year! You may remember I've been a two-time guest on Chion Wolf's Connecticut Public Radio show, Audacious. Chion, along with her equally awesome producer, Jessica, contacted me about an upcoming show featuring celebrity relatives. I was thrilled to be asked to submit some questions to Jada Star, Dolly's niece!

The entire interview is very interesting and required listening for any Dolly fan, and Jada is obviously good people.

(PS...if you'd like to skip right to my questions, they start at 41:10.)

(PPS...if you're looking for a fascinating radio show, you must check out Audacious. Incredible subjects and a host who knows how to get incredible answers.)

Click here to listen.

Goodwill Toward Men

For Davy, who still loves Christmas.

Davy sped down Clinton Highway with single-minded purpose one cold November evening. Rain beat against every side of his mom’s red Toyota Corolla, the road temporarily obscured with each downfold of the windshield wipers.

My toes clinched inside my threadbare black Chuck Taylor high-tops. Davy wasn’t driving recklessly, exactly, but his enthusiasm for Christmas seemed a bit adventurous when contrasted against the slippery pavement.

“I love Christmas!” he said, dragging his menthol Camel down to the butt before pitching it into the rain. “Lowe’s better have some good trees.”

“I’m sure they will,” I said reassuringly, “but let’s try to get there in one piece, shall we?”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” he replied, and fished another cigarette out of the pack. “We’re gonna buy a big tree this year, and I’m gonna make decorations for it and I think do, like, a gold and silver theme.”

Davy’s devotion to the holiday season was remarkable considering his family was as poor as ours. Christmas usually brought out the worst in me. I was either grieving the loss of Daddy or angry over receiving generic charitable gifts sorted by gender, along with dusty leftover cans of peas.

Davy never shared my despair, for which I was grateful. Christmas was his favorite time of year, and I didn’t want my radioactive Grinch spirit to dampen my best friend’s joy. He was insanely exuberant about the holidays.

He had to be to buy a tree in the middle of a monsoon two weeks before Thanksgiving.

“Turn on my Mariah Christmas CD,” he said. I hoisted the heavy black canvas case that held his music collection from the backseat and unzipped it. I flipped through the bulky pages.

“Aerosmith…Beatles…Beatles, 1001 Sound Effects, Green Day,” I read. “‘Mariah Carey Merry Christmas’,” I said, and pulled the CD from its slot. On the cover, Mariah was wearing a red velvet jumpsuit trimmed in white fur. She looked pretty, but also like some pervy elf fantasy come to life.

“Can we please not objectify women at least one day a year?” I wondered aloud. “It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake.”

“I wouldn’t mind dressing up as Santa,” chirped Davy.

I chose not to reply and loaded the CD into the Discman wedged between the two front seats. The Corolla didn’t come equipped with a CD player, only a cassette player. The Discman was attached to a wire that was attached to a cassette-shaped adapter that fit inside the tape slot. It allowed CDs to be played in the car, as long as one kept the speed steady and didn’t hit any potholes, paper cups, or acorns.

We were still listening to the first song, “Silent Night,” when Davy pulled into the Lowe’s parking lot.

“There are the trees!” Davy exclaimed as we screeched into a parking space on a half-donut, extinguishing the engine as well as Mariah’s operatically endless run of the phrase heavenly peace.

I reluctantly got out of the car and walked quickly to the live tree display. The rain still poured, but the only thing that would make me run anywhere was a Godzilla attack. Davy piled into the middle of the tree selection immediately, engulfed on all sides by Fraser Firs and White Pines.

I watched quietly for a few minutes, the rustling of the trees the only indication Davy was still alive. I was cold. My flannel, Stevie Ray Vaughan t-shirt, and thin magenta bellbottoms were only warm enough for dashing from the car to inside. They weren’t cutting it tonight.

“Have you found one yet?” I yelled into the trees. “I’m cold.”

Davy emerged long enough to peel off his gray jacket. He handed it to me. “I’m still looking,” he said, and wandered back into the parking lot forest in his own short-sleeved t-shirt. I put on his jacket and tried to be patient.

After what seemed like forever, Davy returned triumphantly. “I found the perfect tree!” he said, and gestured to the Lowe’s employee that he was ready to pay. Sap, reflected by the outdoor fluorescent lamps, glistened on his forearms, and his hair pointed in a half-dozen different directions. He looked as though he had wrestled both Paul Bunyan and his ox for their holiday bounty - and won.

Davy paid and went to get the car. I stayed with the tree. He let me keep his jacket on, despite the fact we were both soggy and freezing. Somehow, he wasn’t fazed, still cheerful and comfy as a North Pole reindeer. It was sickening.

  Davy parked in the fire truck zone and pressed the trunk release. It flew open with a pop, revealing a surprise.

                The trunk was completely full of bags of garbage. Household garbage that someone, namely Davy, had forgotten to toss into the subdivision dumpster.

Rain fell from the sky and beat a rhythm on the plastic bags. Pah-rump-pah-pah-pump.

We stared in shock. “Oh my God,” Davy moaned slowly. “I forgot the trash.”

                “What are we going to do now?” I asked, taking a puff off my inhaler in response to both the damp weather and my consternation.

                “We’re gonna have to find a dumpster. I think there’s one at Kroger.”

                Kroger was all the way at the other end of Clinton Highway, near Merchants Drive. I sighed, irritated but resigned. This was a familiar feeling – between my friends and my mom, annoyed acceptance of someone else’s hijinks was the emotion I carried with me most frequently.

                “I’ll be in the car,” I said, handing Davy his jacket and leaving him to explain to the Lowe’s employee her new babysitting duty. Back inside the Corolla, I cranked the engine, and the bright intro to “All I Want for Christmas Is You” jingled festively. Instantly, I pressed the Discman’s power button to off.

                “Not now, Mariah,” I snarled. “Santa left his bags of trash in our sleigh.”

                Davy returned to the driver’s seat, and we headed to Kroger. The rain’s intensity had slowed but the windshield wipers were still needed. The interior of the Corolla had warmed up and the cozy combination of the heat and the sound of the wipers was making me drowsy. We still had so much to do – get rid of the garbage, go get the tree, take it back to Davy’s house, unload it. And we hadn’t eaten dinner yet, either.

                I tried with all my might to take it in stride. Then, Davy said, “Hey! What happened to Mariah?”

                He thumbed the power button back on and Mariah’s insistent vocals screamed to life.

                “I love this song!” he said happily.

Of course, he loved it. Everybody loved it. In fact, Mariah required it, her beautiful voice pursuing Christmas cheer as relentlessly as she did the tune’s absent beau. I was the lone dissenter – a garland-draped mannequin trapped in a Macy’s window display with two turtledoves for company.

We finally pulled into the Kroger parking lot. “See?” said Davy. “I knew there were dumpsters here.” He drove up next to them, then used his headlights to illuminate the rusty doors.

“Oh no!” exclaimed Davy. He put his face down on the steering wheel and gestured upwards with his right hand.

GOODWILL DONATION DROP-OFF was written across the dumpsters in white paint.

“I thought these were Kroger’s dumpsters,” he said with disappointment.

We sat in silence for a moment. The CD player stuttered forward to the next track. Mariah began to croon “Oh, Holy Night.”

Suddenly, Davy flung open the car door, popping the trunk once more. Surely, he wasn’t doing what I thought he was doing.

He was.

“You can’t be serious!” I called after him. “You cannot leave your household garbage in the donation dumpsters!”

“Hurry up and help me before we get busted. Lowe’s is gonna close soon. Or do you want to spend the rest of your senior year locked up in juvie?”

A mad twinkle had appeared in his eye, something akin to the look of an axe-wielding Santa in a B-movie. I knew then nothing would deter Davy from delivering his tree home that night. If I wanted to be asleep in my own bed before sunrise, I had to help. I got out of the car.

Davy opened the door of the dumpster, but it barely budged. “It’s full,” he said shortly.

Other previously donated bags, ones definitely not full of old PB&J crusts and funky-smelling paper towels, already ringed the blue metal rectangle. “We can just leave the trash propped up against it instead,” he decided.

We went around to the back of the Corolla and grabbed the garbage.

  “Fall on your knees and hear the angel voices…”

If Mom ever found out I was acting trashy at the Goodwill while listening to a song about our dear Savior’s birth, she would smack me upside the head with a stocking full of coal.

And I would deserve it.

“Sorry, baby Jesus,” I said guiltily, hurriedly setting two stinky bags next to a cardboard box full of empty Mason jars. I tried to find the silver lining. At least we would not be contaminating the interior of the dumpster. A Yuletide miracle, some might say.

Davy closed the trunk and returned to the car. “Let’s get out of here,” he said and slammed his door shut.

We peeled out of the parking lot, leaving our shameful donation behind.

Despite our fastest efforts, we caught the traffic light at the corner of Clinton Highway and Merchants anyway. Davy lit up another cig nervously, waiting for the green arrow so we could flee.

Lifelong poverty had taught me one thing about the holidays – some were good and some were bad, but every single one was a crapshoot. This Christmas would be the same. But did being a willing participant in the world’s worst charitable contribution portend calamity?

Nah, I thought. Christmas was about togetherness, peace on Earth. I was hopeful Jesus would turn the other cheek, the one not focused on the Goodwill dumpster, and forgive me.

I craned my head to the right and caught a final glimpse of the leaning garbage bags, shadowy and slick with rain. I quickly concocted a story in case we still got caught.

I would disguise my involvement as a work of outsider art, the gar-bage my general commentary on this time of year.

Davy could always blame Mariah.

The light changed and we headed back down Clinton Highway for the final time that night, racing toward a perfect holiday season.

A drawing from my 1995 journal

A Fair Proposition

The Fair’s in town. Is it carnival-house-maze-scary or local culture at its finest? You decide. A memory from 2001…

“So, are we going to the Fair today, or what?” asked Mama over the phone.

It was that time of year. The sticky days of late August had turned into the sticky days of early September, and the Tennessee Valley Fair had rolled into town. The Fair was a quintessential part of a classy Knoxville summer, like saluting the fireworks waterfall finale at Boomsday or drinking warm beer while floating on an inflatable in Melton Hill Lake.

Acres of rides, hundreds of prize-winning entries, and dozens of varieties of foods on sticks conquered every inch of Chilhowee Park during the Fair. All who attended departed with a sense of appreciation for local culture as well as heartburn, depending on how many deep-fried pickles one ate.

There was no question whether we were going; the only question was when.

“You bet,” I told her. “I guess it will just be the two of us this time.” Sissy had recently begun her second year of college, clear across the state, and I was living alone in my very first apartment. I had made some great friends working in cosmetics at the mall, but my friends and I rarely had the same days off. And when we did, we were usually nursing sore feet and sore heads caused by long nights at Cotton Eyed Joe’s.

“It used to just be the two of us before Sissy got born, anyway,” said Mama. “Your daddy had to work so much, he might as well have been on the road with the rest of the carnies.”

I wasn’t sure how to reply, but she wasn’t wrong. “I’ll be over in a little while.”

By the time Mom and I arrived at the fairgrounds, the sun was high in the sky and people were everywhere.

“Let’s start with the petting zoo,” I said to Mom. “The petting zoo is the most Broccoli place on Earth.” Broccoli was a character I invented in high school. She was part broccoli, part little girl, and completely weird. Even in my twenties, I couldn’t shake her countrified charm. She and I had more in common than I would have liked to admit. I also acted six years old, at least sometimes, and I shared Broccoli’s opinion that cows made good friends. Pigs, too, although cows were better listeners. Pigs ran away when you started complaining too much.

Mom and I entered the petting zoo tent and made our way to the middle, where a wooden pen was built on top of a ramp. The setup allowed ducklings to patter their way to the top of the pen and then slide down a plastic run into a small pool.

We watched in complete adoration as the ducklings slid down frontways, sideways, and backwards, and then plopped into the water. Although touching the baby ducks was not allowed, Mama couldn’t help herself.

She lightly mashed the fuzzy heads of the ducklings near her.

“Boop! Boop, boop,” Mama said aloud.

“Mom! You’re not supposed to touch them!” I hissed. I was a born rule-follower, much to the annoyance of my free-spirited mother.

“Ohh…lighten up, Heather Pooh,” she said. “Nobody cares.”

We had been at the Fair less than ten minutes, and Mom was already making me nuts. That was probably some sort of record.

“Fine. Why don’t we walk around for a while instead?”

“Ok,” she said. We left the tent to find out what else the Fair had to offer. We walked in the direction of the Knoxville Zoo, passing the Himalaya ride and a half-dozen game booths.

“Do ya wanna go fastahhhhh?” yelled the ride operator over a scratchy version of “Rollout” by Ludacris. I remembered the time as a kid when Sissy and I had ridden the Himalaya and almost fallen out, held only in place by my chubby fourth-grade leg and a fervent prayer.

“Absolutely not!” I yelled back, annoyed he’d even ask.

“Let’s get out of here and go play us a game,” said Mama, “although I do like this song.” She did a little dance, shrugging her shoulders in time with the beat as we walked out of earshot.

It took three games and nine dollars to pop a balloon and win a postcard-sized mirror printed with a picture of Gollum on it. The prize mirrors were Fair staples, and I had enjoyed winning a few over the years, but this year’s selection was lacking.

“Do you want this?” I asked Mom. “It doesn’t really go with my décor.”

“Sure. I’ll tell people it’s a picture of my boyfriend.”

Some people would believe her, too. “I could see that,” I told her. “He kinda looks like he would live in a trailer park and try to bum smokes off you.”

Quickly, we walked through the barn full of poultry titleholders next to the Jacob Building. It was loud and smelled to high heaven, but it saved us from having to walk up the million-or-so stairs at the main entrance to get inside.

Mom, who had grown up on a farm, made sure to respect the victors even though we were only there to cut through.

“Yay! Yay, chickens! Congratulations to you all,” she said with a sweep of her arm, gesturing to them like the grand marshal of a parade. She might have embarrassed me again, but she was barely audible over the winners’ squawks.

We left the poultry behind and entered the west side of the Jacob Building. The stuffy air of the chicken barn was replaced with the slight coolness of the large, two-story structure. The low chatter of those inside echoed off the walls pleasantly, and I took a relaxed and stink-free breath.

As far as Mom and I were concerned, the exhibits inside the Jacob Building were the highlight of any trip to the Fair. The bottom floor was crammed with booths while the top floor housed more prize-winners. Although some of the booths were business-oriented or political, lots of them were agricultural and non-profit. These were the most fun. For every aggressive Longaberger rep trying to strong arm us onto her mailing list, there were two bohemian papaws handing out free 4-H ink pens and pamphlets about fire safety.

Mom grabbed a headband with a feather attached to it off a table decorated with information about water quality. A handful of other interested parties, all under the age of ten, stood alongside her as they surveyed the items.

“You want one of these?” she yelled across the top of a kid’s head.

“Sure!” I yelled back. She handed it to me, and I put it on firmly so it wouldn’t slip off in the melee of water conservationists.

“Hey! The Army guys are doing face paint!” Mom suddenly screeched. I watched her yellow feather recede in the crowd as she bopped over to some muscular reservists wearing fatigues.

“Well, hi there!” she said cheerfully. “You wanna paint an old lady’s face, honey?” she asked, resting a petite paw on a reservist’s forearm.

I knew exactly what Mama was doing. I had learned my most awkward flirting techniques from her.

Luckily, the reservist was unfazed. “Why, yes ma’am! I’ll paint your face.” His volume dropped conspiratorially. “Now, are you gonna join the Army Reserves if I do?”

Mama honked with laughter. “You don’t want to give me a gun, honey. I’d get myself in trouble in no time,” she said, and swatted his arm lightly.

Sensing that Mom would be occupied for a while, I strolled a few booths over to the honey display. Glass jars of thick amber essence sat on a lighted display shelf. Most of the jars had prize ribbons attached, and while I wanted to get close enough to inspect them, I couldn’t, because of the bees.

The bees were the bane of my fair-going experience, even more than the Himalaya or the Pirate ship ride, where I had once puked chocolate MoonPies all over my favorite shirt. Every year, some lunatic plopped a honeycomb crawling in hundreds of bees into a plexiglass container for display.

I could never stand to watch them for more than a few seconds, and I certainly didn’t want to get too close. I also didn’t want to think about the miracle of honey and how it was made, which was nothing more than insect barfing followed by French kissing.

I steeled myself and quickly walked beside the bee table towards the jars of honey. I focused on the prize-winners, scrutinizing the jars to see what the blue-ribbon winners might have over the red. I tried to forget the crawly, stingy things behind me.

Just then, I felt a tiny dab of pressure on my back. I gasped.

I spun around, every nerve in my body on high alert, ready to sprint outside to escape the bee that had landed on me.

“Boop! Boop, boop,” said Mom.

“Oh my God, woman! You scared the crap out of me!”

“Sorry,” she shrugged and squinched up her face in an apologetic smile.

She was maddening. “You smeared your camo makeup,” I told her. I handed her my camera. “Here. At least take a picture of me with these terrifying things.”

I bent down next to the hive and pretended to scream. She clicked the shutter button.

We headed upstairs to look at more prize-winning exhibits. Everything from place settings to giant pumpkins lined the concrete floors. Unlike the honey, the second-floor winners were easy to discern, with the exception of the brown and soggy-looking tobacco plants.

“How do they pick a winner with tobacco?” I asked Mom. “It just looks like a haunted cornfield over there.”

“Let’s smoke some and find out,” she said.

I was sure anyone who ever uttered that phrase had lived to regret it.

To distract Mom, I walked to the railing and surveyed the floor below. I watched the visitors and vendors of the Jacob Building for a moment. I had looked over this railing a dozen times before during a dozen different Septembers. The lively hum of the exchanges was something familiar yet special.

All at once, affection for every sunburned patron and hustling small business owner alike swelled my heart. The Fair, equal parts trashy and sublime, was a part of me. There was no escaping it.

Mama joined me. “Hey, Punkinhead, I dare you to drop one of these blue-ribbon chili peppers on somebody,” she said jokingly.

My sensitive contemplation pulverized, I exhaled noisily. But she, and the Fair, had already won.

Accepting my fate, I gestured toward the Styrofoam plate full of peppers and pretended to dump the whole batch on a bald man below.

Almost getting kicked out was tradition, too.

Joyful One

Sissy and I designed a custom message for Mom’s footstone. We had to wait a half-year for it to be installed. I wrote a poem to commemorate the occasion.

A friend of Mama’s, fresh out of seminary and confident as only a young male pastor can be

once Told her that if she could view the world through God’s eyes, she would surely understand why bad things happen

and in fact, if she could, she would not only understand but even look forward to the anguish

“Honey, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Mama had said with a laugh

Now that Mama is gone from here

(even though I keep some of her ashes in my safe)

what I think she was trying to say was

although there will never be a Good Enough reason for sorrow and injustice

If God is there

God understands

that sometimes the best we can do is cuss and yell and rend our slub-knit garments while we grieve

until eventually our pain turns outward and flourishes into vibrant loving action

like how Mama’s did after Daddy up and died and left her with two girls to raise

So if someone says joy can’t look like defiance

or struggle

or stone-faced anger

Be sure to tell them they’re wrong

because Mama shouted a happy confirmation from far atop her new celestial vantage point that

she was right

Being joyful is supposed to look different

depending on the view  

Happy Birthday Sunshine

The story of a very special birthday party.

(Heads up - this contains spoilers from my memoir, “Lunchladies Bought My Prom Dress”)

I focused on the pink and blue fleck design of my bedroom wall early one Friday morning, trying to blink the sleepiness from my eyes. The existence of such a special day usually would have had me dressed and ready for breakfast in a matter of minutes, but this year was different.

Today was my twelfth birthday, the first one I’d celebrate in our new trailer and the first one I’d celebrate without Daddy.

The weight of grief, briefly forgotten in my first moments awake, dropped heavily once again. The grief greeted me each day with maddening routine, no less regular a visitor even after six months of salutations. I curled my legs closer to my chest and let my gaze soften and go hazy, wanting to lull myself back to sleep. Valentine’s Day, Easter, school Awards Day…I wasn’t sure I had the strength to relaunch another special occasion without my father.

Even the thought of presents didn’t spark my interest. It didn’t really matter what I’d get for my birthday, anyway. Each box I opened would be full of the same thing – Daddy’s absence.

I wanted to lay in bed forever.

After a while, Mama knocked on my door.

“I’m awake,” I told her flatly.

“Happy birthday to you,” she sang softly, “happy birthday dear Heather Pooh, happy birthday to you.”

Mom came in and sat on the edge of my bed. “There’s my Heather Pooh. God gave her to me twelve years ago today.” I kept my face turned towards the wall. She patted my hip gingerly.

“Honey, I know you miss your daddy today. I do, too. But we can still try to have fun. What do you want to do for your birthday?”

A tornado of emotions whipped around inside my heart – anxiety, sadness, sharp anger. Why was Mom just now asking me this? Why hadn’t she and the rest of Daddy’s family not already planned something special? Didn’t they know how much I needed it?

I didn’t say anything at first, trying my best to scatter the firebolts of anger back down into my hardpan of depression, like a human lightning rod. I already knew the reason Mom hadn’t planned anything. She was hunkered down under a wind-whipped tree of her own.

Rage was a useless weapon when aimed at other grieving people.

“I don’t know,” I said finally. “Is Mammaw going to throw me a party?”

My birthday was within a week of Independence Day. Often, Mammaw and the rest of our large family gathered for a cookout that celebrated both.

“She’s working today, so we’re all just going to get together on the 4th, instead.”

“Oh.” Celebrating my birthday five days late seemed pointlessly painful. Any relief I’d secure in surviving another milestone would be short-lived if we waited.

“Do you want to go see a movie?” asked Mom. “We could get some popcorn and Milk Duds.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I told her. Nothing sounded good, but I also knew I was too heartsore to be left by myself. I didn’t want to be forgotten.

“Why don’t you get dressed and I’ll make you some pancakes for breakfast? Sissy wants to say happy birthday, too.”

I brightened a little. Sissy was a cool and resilient kid. She was pretty good at helping me cheer up.

“Ok. Tell Sissy maybe we can make a radio show for my birthday.” Sissy and I loved to do impressions and record fake interviews on our cassette player. Our most impressive work to date had been an interview with ‘Alex Winter’ and ‘Keanu Reeves’ that sounded an awful lot like a Bill and Ted press junket conducted deep inside the cornfields of Hee Haw.

“I will.”

I threw on my Bart Simpson t-shirt and a pair of shorts and slid my sockless feet into my smelly canvas shoes. I tied the laces tightly so any foot odor would have a hard time escaping, or so I hoped. Summer in East Tennessee was a humid mess, leaving me hot and sweaty from May until October.

After a breakfast of pancakes smeared with peanut butter and drenched with syrup, I was treated to a birthday rap by Sissy performed under the guise of Richard, Mammaw’s endlessly interesting boyfriend. She also presented me with a Debbie Gibson cassingle she had purchased with her own money. It made me feel better for a while, even though I made my laugh bigger on purpose to seem not sad.

Soon, the grief and disquiet returned. I sat on the couch, flipping through the Knoxville News-Sentinel, trying to find something to do. I checked the Living section for the movie ads. The only ones that looked interesting were Total Recall and Pretty Woman, but I knew Mom would never let me pick between a futuristic shoot-em-up and a Cinderella story about a sex worker. I closed the newspaper and tossed it back onto the coffee table, but not before taking a long sniff of the inky picture printed on the front page.

I turned on the TV. Nothing good was on, but I left the channel tuned to The Price is Right in case they played Plinko, which was my favorite. I slid open the sheers behind me and turned to stare out the window.

“I’ve got an idea,” said Mom from the kitchen. “Why don’t we call Amy to see if she’s home?”

Amy was my one of my favorite cousins, not old enough to be my mom but older than most big sisters. She was educated, polished, pretty, and generous. She was always popping by to drop off a set of pretty postcards or a particular book she had picked out for one of us. Best of all, she lived right up the street. Maybe she could salvage this cruddy afternoon.

“Yeah!” I said with the most enthusiasm I had felt all day. “Let’s call Amy.”

Happily, Amy had just gotten home and invited us to come visit. We hoofed up the hilly road in the trailer park and cut across to her doublewide. I held back from Mom and Sissy as they rounded the last corner in order to catch my breath. I wanted to look as ladylike as possible in my sweaty t-shirt when Amy answered the door.

Amy’s doublewide trailer was much fancier than our singlewide. Her house was covered in real siding, not just printed with a wood-grain pattern, and the holly bushes in her yard were perfectly trimmed. A baby grand piano was positioned in the large front window and framed on the front deck by stylish patio furniture.

Mom rang the doorbell – another feature our trailer lacked – and Amy swept open the door, lovely and fresh-faced in Bermuda shorts and a tank top.

“Well, get in here, girls!” she said loudly, hugging Mom from inside the screen door. Mama, used to taking liberties with the personal space of anyone she loved, patted the sides of Amy’s thick chestnut mane. “Ooh, baby girl,” said Mom, “your hair looks so purty!”

The four of us made our way over to the couch and sat down. “Do y’all want some tea?” asked Amy. “I just brewed some.” We did. Amy’s iced tea was delicious. She used less sugar than Mom and Mammaw and never brewed it too long - a perfect refreshment for such a hot day.

Amy returned to the living room carrying a tray full of tall glasses brimming with crescent-shaped ice cubes, tea, and lemon wedges. She sat the tray on the table.

“That reminds me, honey,” Amy said to me. “I have a card for you around here somewhere. And a little something from Waldenbooks.” Her cheerful warmth felt like an embrace. She had remembered.

“So, what are you girls up to this afternoon? What are you doing for Heather’s birthday?” Amy asked.

Mom didn’t answer and took a long swig of tea. I tried to sound casual, and not like I had wanted to stay in bed with the covers pulled over my head in depression.

“Oh, you know, not too much. I figured it wasn’t such a big deal to skip having a party since we’re having the cookout in a few days.”

I shifted my eyes to avoid looking directly at Amy.

Amy had loved Daddy, too. She said kindly, “I can understand if you don’t want to have a party, but are you going to at least have a birthday cake? Twelve is a special birthday. I don’t want you to miss celebrating it.”

There was no mistaking the gentle concern in her voice. I shrugged my shoulders; afraid I’d cry if I said anything.

“Would you like me to make you a birthday cake?” Amy asked softly.

Mom roared back to full volume. “Oh, Heather! Let Amy make you a cake! I think that’s a wonderful idea!”

I nodded over the lump in my throat, unsure of my decision.

“O.K.” Amy said brightly. “Let’s get started, girls.”

We followed Amy into the kitchen.

“Can I watch you bake my cake?” I asked.

“Yes ma’am,” said Amy. Amy was the most gourmet cook of the family and the best one, too, although wild horses couldn’t have dragged that opinion out of me. Mammaw had been proclaimed Eternal Reigning Champion of everything culinary from biscuits to twenty-pound turkeys, but I wasn’t convinced. An unspoken air of irritation of having to cook at all outweighed Mammaw’s technical perfection, and I could taste it in her food.

I watched Amy crack eggs on top of the fluffy white flour and the other ingredients she had gathered in a big bowl. Before she poured vanilla extract onto the mound - the real kind, not the imitation kind we had at home – she wordlessly held the spoon underneath my nose for a sniff. Heavenly, I thought.

After the cake was in the oven, Amy pulled broccoli and cheese from the fridge to make a dip. “We need something to snack on while we’re waiting,” she said, and tore open a bag of scoopable Fritos.

I adored Fritos scoops. I thought they were the most sophisticated of all snack chips, matching the festive atmosphere of Doritos while omitting the orange fingers.

“Now this is starting to feel like a party.” The words slipped from my mouth. I was surprised to hear them.

Amy heated the dip and sat it on the table. I dove in immediately.

“This is delicious!” I exclaimed. Mom and Sissy agreed.

“Let me write down the recipe for you,” Amy said. “You can make it for yourself sometime.” She took a marker and yellow index card from a nearby box and sat down at the table. This was why Amy was the best cook. She had fed me, included me, and empowered me, all with a simple block of cheddar cheese.

The four of us finished the dip and waited for the cake to cool. Amy said, “What color do you want your icing to be?”

“Um…yellow. No, purple. But I like pink, too. No, wait – can it be peach?” Amy had peach-colored accessories throughout her house, a very sophisticated choice.

“Sure, we can make it peach.” I watched her open tiny jars of gel to mix into the icing.

“Is that food coloring?” I asked in amazement. The only food coloring I had ever seen came in a squeezy-top four pack and was used for dyeing eggs.

“It is. I get it from a special store called Sugarbakers.” She pinched off tiny spoonfuls of red and yellow and folded them into the creamy frosting. She let me watch until a smooth, pale peach began to emerge.

“Do you want to give me ten minutes to finish decorating your cake? Then you can see it all when it’s done.”

“May I go look please at your perfumes?”

“Yes, you may.”

I walked into Amy’s bedroom and made a beeline for the glass vanity tray on top of her oak dresser. A dozen bottles of fragrance were nestled cozily, reflecting themselves on the mirrored surface. I picked them up one at a time, sniffing each atomizer and enjoying the feel of the heavy bottles in my hand. By the time Amy called my name, I had decided I liked the grapey smell of Poison best, but I thought the floral Laura Ashley bottle was the prettiest.

“Heather! Your cake’s ready!”

My cake sat on the kitchen table, ablaze with three candles – one for the past, one for the present, and one for the future. Amy had also arranged glistening mandarin orange petals in a ring on top.

Mom, Sissy, and Amy sang enthusiastically. Making a wish seemed too fragile an undertaking, but I closed my eyes and blew out my candles decisively.

“Happy birthday, Sunshine!” said Amy, catching me up in a perfumed hug.

I cut into the pretty, peachy confection. It was the same color as the edges of an evening summer sky, the same color that kissed the rounded cheeks of the sleepy but still powerful sun when it hung low on the horizon.

This day - this very hard day - won’t last forever, I thought to myself. In time, twinkling stars would come to stand guard, and I could rest. Relief opened a window in my heart and I took a bite of cake, letting our cozy celebration warm me at last.

Here Lies Heather Ream, Bestselling Author

Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have Amazon thrust it upon them.

-Shakespeare, probably

I just wanted to drop by and say thank you. Not only did you drown me in a sea of truly kind compliments, you also made Lunchladies Bought My Prom Dress the Number 1 New Release in my Amazon category. You even bumped me to the top of the bestseller list for U.S. Southern biographies, a category whose authors have included Homer Hickam, Rick Bragg, Dixie Carter, and Jimmy Carter (no relation).

So, beginning now and only ending after my bones have a-mouldered in the ground, you may address me as “Heather Ream, Bestselling Author.”

Stay tuned. There is much more to come.

Love and Lunchladies

It’s time!  Lunchladies Bought My Prom Dress is now available on Amazon in print and e-book formats. Click here to buy!

Thank you for your encouragement over the last few days. Truly, I am deeply touched. My dream is to turn “Lunchladies” into a limited series (and write more books). I need your help to connect with as many readers as possible, so that eventually some sweaty L.A. executive chewing a stogie will hear about my book from his granddaughter’s yoga instructor’s pet-sitter and give me a meeting. (That’s how Hollywood works, right?)

Here's how to help:

1. Leave an honest review on Amazon. My short-term goal is 100 reviews.  And just as a reminder, whether you write, “Heather is a better writer than James Agee,” or “I wish I had purchased Prince Harry’s memoir instead,” please don’t mention that we know each other, if we do.  Amazon will remove it, even if you’re being honest.

2. If you have the hook up with any media, or your business would like to carry a few copies of my book, please let me know. I offer a generous distributor discount and accept returns. I will also gladly do written, voice, or video interviews, as well as in-person readings if we can make it safe for our high-risk family (which is doable). 

  However, I will not accept interview requests from “Ima Butthead” or any other child who has stolen a parent’s phone to make prank calls.  Not again, anyway.

3. Please let me know if you receive a print copy and it looks weird in any way.  It’s Amazon’s fault, I swear.

And please let me know what you think!  Virtual hugs are nice, too.

Love and Lunchladies,

Heather

PS – if you don’t have access to the link above and decide to order directly from Amazon, the easiest way to find my book is to type my name, “Heather Ream,” into their search bar.  If not, you will have to scroll through about five hundred pages of prom gear.  So, heads up.

“Lunchladies” Preview

Lunchladies Bought My Prom Dress will be released either later this week or next week, pending file approval. It will be available in print or e-book on Amazon. Here is a preview of the cover art.

You have lifted me greatly with your encouragement over the last several months. Thank you. I’m not exaggerating when I say I feel like my whole life has been leading up to this moment.

The poverty, the grief, the struggle, the Story – it will all be worth it the moment a reader closes my book and sighs with recognition or sheds a tear of compassion, remembering the only thing to do at any moment is to try to love better and be kinder. 

Stay tuned.

The Vanity

Wishing you a season full of bounty, beauty, and brass.

They say that necessity is the mother of invention, and that holds doubly true when you are broke. My limited and mostly vicarious cultural experience had taught me every woman had in her home a dedicated space for beauty potions and powders. Whether a lady’s boudoir was filled with an elaborately carved antique set-up or her bathroom cabinetry was merely stacked with precariously balanced hot tools, there was a space, and mirror, all her own.

I knew from movies that the most alluring women’s vanities dripped with ribbons and bouncy flounced fabric. Often, they delivered their most knockout lines in profile, either seductively or frostily, as they smoothly applied lipstick or held perfume stoppers to their swanlike necks. 

When these women were Southern, their cutting remarks were spoken with drawls as long and lazy as the Mississippi River. The men in these scenes were rebuked by their withering words but left quivering by their sharp beauty. Unspoken yet obvious were their streaks of self-absorption, dames as puffed-up as the powder applicators pressed to their noses. 

I wanted to be one of them. 

Determined as only a teenager could be, I marched through our trailer one afternoon on a mission to build myself a special place to apply my cosmetics and practice being fabulous. I commandeered one of our old end tables from the living area and took it to my shoebox-sized bedroom. I found a hand-me-down lighted mirror in Mom’s room that was dusty from lack of use. Mom had neither the inclination nor the patience to pay more than sixty seconds of attention to her face each day. She wouldn’t even notice it was gone.

Seating proved to be more difficult. All our kitchen table chairs were spoken for, and the piano bench was already piled high with backpacks and library books. After much thought, I dumped out a large plastic bucket that had previously stored fruit cocktail for the high school and was now being used as a magazine rack. Being the daughter of a lunchlady had its perks, even though sprucing up the front room to resemble a cafeteria wasn’t my preferred style.

I stuffed the tattered reading material into an identical bucket on the other side of the recliner. Mom could replace the one I took later. There were plenty more industrial food containers where that came from, unfortunately. 

In my bedroom, I flipped the bucket upside down and sat. My knees banged into the end table no matter what position I twisted into. I would have to make it work. I added my Wet-N-Wild 99-cent lipsticks and a Noxzema-scented powder compact to the plastic tray on top, spraying a bit of my Designer Imposters perfume canister into the air to freshen things. I swiped my hand across both sides of my Clairol-branded looking glass to clean it. The plug reached the outlet with room to spare.

Sadly, I contemplated my bucket seat. It was in desperate need of flounce. Plus, it had left a large circular indentation in my rear end, leaving me feeling like the world’s biggest biscuit.

I looked around my messy adolescent bedroom for something glamorous and comfy to add. A pretty patchwork silk skirt, hidden under a 10,000 Maniacs shirt peppered with dog hair, caught my eye. The inner layer of the skirt looked like a galaxy, a background of deep midnight blue mixed with black and maroon swirls.  Working quickly with scissors, I cut the layer off. I went back into the living room and grabbed the only throw pillow in the house. The pillow was stupidly printed with geese, an artistic abomination that cried out to be concealed.  Back in my room, I plopped the throw pillow on the bucket and draped the skirt fabric on top. The excess pooled beautifully on the thin blue carpet. 

I carefully sat down and flicked on the mirror’s light switch. 

Turning my head from side to side, I pursed my lips in the shape of a kiss meant for a future suitor. I practiced a conversation in my head, complimenting him – but not too much. In real life, I tried to downplay my Appalachian accent, but this imaginary darling hung on to every banjo-timbred word.

I felt attractive, self-assured, brilliant. Could I charm the birds right out of the trees? My mind miles and years away from this tiny, lacking space, I winked at myself. The magic was real.

I was the latest woman to succumb to The Vanity.

A Gentle Reminder

A gentle reminder to myself and others whose mothers are no longer here.
Your mama still loves you.
Your mama is still proud of you.
She knows how you miss her, my friend. She knows.
So, take this as a sign from her.

Your mama still holds you close, even from very far away.

Budding

Some of you know I was a makeup artist for years.  An origin story, of sorts.

“Mama, can I press the button?” I asked, my hand poised over the vertical yellow strip beside my seat.  The strip was attached to the bell system of the K-Trans bus where Mama, Sissy, and I were current passengers.  We had just crossed the intersection of Gay and Main, and we had almost reached our destination.

“Yes, but only ring it once.  Don’t press it over and over like some people do.”

I would never.  I was ten years old, and in my opinion, mostly grown.  Such childish behavior was beneath me.  I touched the strip once and heard the satisfying ting of the bell.  The bus slowed to a stop in front of Revco on Gay Street, and the three of us were deposited onto the sidewalk.  The Dogwood Arts Festival was just a block away! 

The city bus let out a pneumatic hiss as we started down Union Avenue, leaving a smelly trail of sulfur fumes as farewell.

“Shoo!” I commented regally, “somebody pulled that bus’s finger.”  I silently congratulated myself on using a more mature euphemism.  I grabbed Mama’s hand to hurry her along. “C’mon, we’re almost there.”

The Dogwood Arts Festival was a week-long event held every year in the spring to celebrate the blooms as well as local artists and artisans.  Most of the action happened on Market Square, but free bus tours of the dogwood trails around Knoxville helped expand the festivities all over town.  School kids were given a day off to enjoy the festival (and hopefully pump some money into the local economy), and Sissy and I were appropriately excited.

We reached Market Square.  Every inch was packed with booths, tables, and swarms of people. I couldn’t wait to take a closer look. 

Mama plucked a pamphlet from a stand at the south end of the Square.  “Now, let’s see what all’s going on today.”  She bent her head to read it as I stood impatiently on my tiptoes for a better look.  “What do you girls wanna do?”

I wasted no time.  “I want to look at the jewelry and the pictures and maybe walk over to the library, and Mama can we go on a dogwood trail ride?  And can we have a funnel cake?”

“Let Sissy pick something, too,” Mama said.

“I will,” I told her.  Sissy was an easy-going kid.  We’d agree on plenty, especially the funnel cake.

Mama consulted the pamphlet again.  “Do you girls want to watch the cloggers?  They’ll be performing.”

“Yes!” cried Sissy and I in unison.  We considered clog dancers some of the most glamorous creatures on Earth, second only to baton twirlers and Miss America.

“Ohhh,” continued Mama, “And girls, Margie Ison’s gonna be here this afternoon.  She’s gonna host a fashion show!”

“Margie Ison?” I said, starstruck.  Mama and I just loved Margie.  She was the weather anchor on WBIR.  We thought she was beautiful and the epitome of class with her snazzy suit separates and soft accent. 

“Yep!” Mama replied. “It’s almost time for the cloggers to start, too, so let’s go find a place to stand.”

Margie Ison, cloggers, a fashion show? I had better pay attention.  I would soon be surrounded by my favorite manifestations of grown-up-ladyhood.  Mama was a good mama – often yielding, fiercely protective when necessary – but she lacked the gene that made her susceptible to feminine frippery.  Mama didn’t care about hairdos, cute outfits, makeup, or earrings.  What one saw was what one got – and what one saw was a no-nonsense, flame-haired fast-talker who couldn’t hide her beautiful blue eyes or full bosom no matter how unshaped her eyebrows were or how baggy her sweatsuit was.

I, on the other hand, had been born with a predisposition for color matching and the ability to paint my fingernails neatly using either hand. While these innate characteristics gave me the advantage over someone who thought it attractive to mix yellow plaid pants with a mauve blouse, I wasn’t yet old enough for backcombing or makeup application.  I needed to learn these skills out in the wild since my mother couldn’t teach me.

I wanted to be ready when the time was right.

We snaked our way through the crowd and found a place close to the side of the stage.  There was an announcement over the stage PA, and then a recording of “Orange Blossom Special” roared to life.  Eight cloggers – six women, two men – took the stage. 

The dancers clippy-clopped in unison, the women’s purple sequined skirts bouncing and twirling like full wine glasses accidentally sloshed in celebration.  The men wore purple pants that matched the skirts; they were no less dazzling than the women.  Someone in the crowd began to clap along.  Soon, we all followed suit. 

My feet couldn’t help but tip tap out a similar rhythm.  Loafers weren’t made to clog, so the best I could do was scratch out a back-and-forth motion on the concrete, like a skier.  When the song ended, we applauded loudly and watched them take a bow.  As they clippy-clopped away, I paid close attention to the female dancers’ heavy electric blue eyeliner and frosted pink lips.  I decided to remember the color combination for later.

I exhaled with satisfaction.  “Mama, what’s next?”

After an extended bus tour around Sequoyah Hills and a sweet, crunchy funnel cake, we made our way back to the stage.  The fashion show was to be hosted by Proffitt’s, our local department store, and modeled by the Teen Board.  The Teen Board was a group of high school girls whose special talents included looking cute in shoulder pads and competing for the title of Tallest Bangs.  I couldn’t wait to see their outfits. I knew these quasi-sophisticated Southern sylphs would steer me in the right direction.

Margie Ison strolled out on stage to heavy applause.  “There she is!  There she is!” Mama and I said to each other, clapping extra hard.  “Yay, Margie!” Mama yelled.

Margie’s outfit was a stunner.  She wore a creamy blush jacket and skirt ensemble dripping with fringe and soft suede ankle boots to match.  Her brunette hair was curled and teased into the shape of a rainbow.  In contrast, her eyes were ringed in black to balance the delicate hue of her outfit.    

I was enchanted.  She was easily as dazzling as Sue Ellen Ewing or Alexis Carrington.  I wasn’t sure how any outfit in the actual fashion show could top this one.

I made up my mind to one day own a closet full of fringed get-ups and a whole dresser full of makeup, no matter what it took.  There was simply no reason not to go around looking stunning if one could dress like a fancy cowgirl. 

Margie chatted with the audience for a minute and joked about the weather.  She then announced the first model, a junior from Rule High.  The model wore a stonewashed denim jumpsuit and big purple earrings shaped like triangles - a terrific outfit.  I thought I might need a denim jumpsuit in addition to my fringe separates, something more casual to wear when I was old enough to drive and needed to run to the Handy Dandy for a Slush Puppy and deli bologna.

Next, a senior from Bearden High sauntered out in a peach dress with a lace overlay.  Her hair was sprayed four inches out on every side, defying gravity, and her eyes were coated with enough inky mascara to write a novel.  I would also need this outfit for date nights in the future – although it seemed wise to stay away from bonfires or any other romantic activity sure to fan flames. 

And I would definitely need the shiny teal prom gown and dyed-to-match pumps worn by the model from South-Young.

By the end of the fashion show, I realized I had swooned over every single outfit, even the spandex exercise set that would never flatter my chubby legs.  But I was hooked.  Makeup, fashion, hair – the opportunities for both a career and department store discounts seemed endless.

“Wasn’t that awesome?” I asked Mama and Sissy, after Margie’s closing remarks.  I was worn out from the excitement, but a glow remained.  I would have plenty to think about on the bus ride home. 

“Mmm-hmm,” said Mama distractedly.  She didn’t seem to be paying attention as she looked over my head toward the stage.

“You wanna go get Margie’s autograph?” she asked suddenly.

“Margie’s autograph?” I repeated in astonishment.  “Can we do that?”

“Heather, we can do anything we set our minds to,” Mama said.

I was torn.  I didn’t want to miss the opportunity, but I was far too shy to ask her myself.

“Mama, will you ask her for me?  Please?” I pleaded, yanking the pamphlet printed with the day’s schedule out of her purse.

“Give it to me,” said Mama, cutting through the milling crowd to get backstage.

Margie was handing her microphone back to a stagehand.  Mama moved quickly and fearlessly.

“Hi, Margie!  We just love you!” she said cheerfully, not giving Margie a chance to speak.  She thrust the pamphlet and a dusty pen fished from the bottom of her purse right into Margie’s face.  “Would you sign this for my little girl?  She’s a big fan.”

I gave a little wave from several steps away.  I tried my best to look poised, like a future Teen Board contender.

Margie Ison spoke warmly.  “Well, I’d be happy to.  What’s her name?”

“Heather,” replied Mama and I simultaneously.  I was proud to have discovered my voice, even for just a moment. 

Margie signed with a flourish and handed the pamphlet back to Mama.

“Thank you!” I exclaimed, finding the courage to grab Mama’s hand to lead her away before she started bragging on me and Sissy, like she did to everybody.

“Would you keep my autograph in your purse until we get home, Mama?” My heart was full of love for them both.

“Give it here, honey.”

I was once again filled with energy.  “Can we go to the library now?  I want to look at the fashion magazines.”  The library had paper and pencils, too, in case I needed to take notes.

“We need to get home and make some supper,” she answered, “but we’ll go to the library this weekend. I promise.”  Mama began to steer us in the direction of the bus stop.

I guess I could wait until the weekend.  In the meantime, there were other ways to get intel.

“Can I stay up and watch the eleven o’clock news?  I want to see if Margie is wearing a different outfit tonight.”

“We’ll see.”

After today’s events, I was well on my way to learning the frippery-do-dahs of style.  I was hopeful the future would bring lots of beautiful things.

I paused briefly to stand on a pink dogwood that had been painted on the asphalt.  I tilted my face to the sky and let the sun warm me.  It had been a wonderful day.  I decided I would leave Margie’s autograph on top of my dresser instead of in a drawer, as a reminder that everyday glamour was possible. 

Happy, I tippy-tapped a few steps in my loafers and ran to catch up with Mama. 

Me and Margie meet again, 2001

The Blizzard of ‘93

I always wanted one of those t-shirts that said, “I Survived the Blizzard of ’93,” because we did, with the help of a special friend.  Today is the 30th anniversary.  I present this story, in honor of her. 

“What a rip-off,” I told my friend Tony on the evening of March 12, 1993.  “I can’t believe it’s snowing on a Friday.  We’re gonna be stuck inside all weekend, and then it will melt just in time for school on Monday.”

                Tony made an excited noise.  “No.  We’re gonna get a ton of snow overnight.”

                “Then why aren’t all the weather people saying that?” 

                “They will be soon.”

                Tony was really into forecasting the weather.  He wanted to become a meteorologist after college.  He watched Matt Hinkin and Margie Ison with the same fervor some people watched televangelists.

                I knew him well enough to know he took his hobby seriously, but it was safer to stay pessimistic.

                “Anything is possible, I guess,” I told him.  “Unfortunately, I still think I’ll be trying not to fall asleep in Biology come Monday morning.”

                “I’ve gotta go,” Tony said abruptly.  “I need to get back outside and evaluate the conditions.”

                “Bye, Tony Baloney.” 

                I hung up the phone and grabbed the worn-out, coverless Stephen King paperback off my bedroom floor.  I had read it a dozen times.  For some reason, a terrifying eternal evil creature who took the shape of a clown comforted me the same way soothing music might comfort a normal teenager.  Supernatural evil seemed kind of charming when matched against the real-life horror of a half-dozen bounced checks and a whole week until payday. 

                This had recently happened because Mom had taken a chance on a full tank of gas at Weigel’s.  We had been coasting on fumes.  Stuff like this happened all the time, and I felt powerless to stop it.  I tried to look on the bright side by hoping things would work out somehow.  They usually did.

Sort of.

                I read for a while and then flipped my book face down, leaving it open on the bed.  I drifted off to sleep with the lights still on.  That clown would never scare me, God, I told Him. I would just flip him the bird and go back to worrying about the trailer payment. My prayers were always half commentary and half petition.  I praised God only when I really had something to celebrate.  Please let us be able to afford all the overdraft fees and not have any more bounced checks this month.  InJesusnameIpray, amen.

                When I woke up the next morning, my overhead light was dark.  At first, I thought Mom had come into my room during the night and turned it off, but I also noticed a chill in the air.  Why was it so cold?

                I draped my blanket around my shoulders while my feet fished for the legs of the dirty jeans I had left on the floor.  Partially dressed, I wandered into the living room with the blanket still around me.

                Mom and Sissy were curled up on the couch next to each other.  Cookie was next to Sissy, her snout resting on her haunches.  The need for warmth had transformed her long hound body from a kielbasa into a sausage patty.

                “The power’s out,” said Mom, “and it’s snowing.”

I looked out the rectangular window of our front door.  Everything was covered in snow – the deck, the car, the street.  Even our holly bushes, tough even in their brown and wilted state, were indistinguishable under the inches of powder.  There was nothing to see except cotton balls of various size.  

                “Tony was right,” I said, astonished.  “He said we were going to get a ton of snow.”

                “Well, what else did he say?” asked Mom.  “Is this gonna melt soon so KUB can get the power back on?  I need to make you girls something to eat, unless Cookie wants to share her breakfast.”

                Cookie, upon hearing her name in the same sentence as the word breakfast, thumped her tail in delight. 

                “He didn’t say, but I don’t think so.”  I began to feel worried.  Trailers weren’t as well-insulated as regular houses.  If the power stayed off for hours, or even days, we could be in trouble.  We didn’t have a kerosene heater or anything else to keep us warm, and there was no way Mom could drive our Mercury Topaz up the hill of our trailer park – or even out of the driveway.

                “What are we going to do?”  I asked.

                Mom thought quickly.  She was always good in a crisis.  It was a by-product of her hardscrabble upbringing.  “I’m gonna call Wanda before these phones go out,” she said.  “Maybe she can come get us in her mail truck.”

                Mom had met Wanda at church years before, when we were brand new to Karns and to the Methodist church.  Although the Karns Methodists were not as flashy as the Baptists we had left behind in South Knoxville, they were serious about their faith and committed to helping people in need.  Plus, their method of baptism was sprinkling, not immersion, which I preferred.  My crunchy perm behaved the best with minimal hair-washing.

                Wanda had adopted us into her already large family, inviting us for Sunday supper anytime we wanted and encouraging us to reach out if we needed anything.  We loved her and had come to rely on her. 

Wanda worked at the post office.  The three of us were delighted by her homemade mail truck, outfitted with two steering wheels so she could deliver the mail on either side of the road.  We had never known a female letter carrier before.  We considered every Lerner’s catalog or utility bill she delivered a presorted blow to the patriarchy, and we were proud to know her and call her our friend. 

Mom picked up the receiver and dialed Wanda’s number.  Each boop of the touchtone phone was louder than usual since there was no background noise.  I heard Wanda pick up and say hello.

“Hey woman, it’s Linda,” said Mom.  “Listen, the trailer lost power and it’s getting colder in here.  Me and the girls want to know if you might be able to come pick us up in your mail truck and take us over to your house.”

“And Cookie, too,” I said loudly.  I didn’t think Mom would leave Cookie behind, but I had seen her suddenly cut bait in the name of survival many times over the years.  I wasn’t taking any chances.

“And Cookie,” Mom added.  “Do y’all have power?”  She paused.  “Mmm-hmm. Yep.  Really?  Well, I’ll be boogered.  Are you sure you don’t mind?  Ok.  We’ll be ready.”  Mom placed the receiver back into its plastic bottom. 

“Girls, get ready.  Wanda’s son has a truck with a 4-wheel drive.  His family’s there because their power’s out, too.  He’s gonna come by and pick us up.  We need to pack enough clothes for a few days, just in case.”

“We’re taking Cookie, right?” I asked.

“Good Lord, Heather Pooh.  Yes.”

Mom, Sissy, and I headed to our rooms to pack.  I didn’t have a suitcase, so I dumped all the items out of my backpack instead.  I looked at the Algebra and World History books that had tumbled out on the bed.  Should I take them?  I waffled, then begrudgingly put them back.  I added some underclothes and my other pair of jeans, my Stevie Ray Vaughan shirt, and a flannel. 

My paperback wouldn’t fit, but I didn’t mind.  Wanda had an entire shelf of V.C. Andrews hardbacks and old yearbooks in her living room.  I’d have plenty to read there.

“Mom?” I yelled across the house.  “Is my Jimi Hendrix shirt dry?”  We had a washer, but our dryer was broken, so all the wet laundry in the house got hung up in Mom’s walk-in closet until it was no longer soaking.  It was a great inconvenience, one brought to us by Poverty™.

“Yes!” she yelled back, “and so is your turtleneck.” 

I made my way to the other side of the trailer and retrieved my stiff clothing.  I tossed the blanket off my shoulders and onto Mom’s bed.  I pulled the dingy white turtleneck over my head.

My Hendrix shirt crackled as I rolled it up.  There was still a touch of dampness around the neck and under the arms, but I stuffed it into the backpack’s opening anyway.  I headed back to my room and unzipped the front pocket.  I grabbed a handful of pens, pencils, and a week’s worth of notes passed between classes, replacing them with my toothbrush and our toothpaste. 

“I packed the toothpaste!”  I told them.  I would feel weird using another family’s Colgate.

After I finished packing, I helped Mom load a Kroger bag with Cookie’s wet food, and we sat and waited for Wanda’s son, Wayne.

Thirty minutes passed before we heard the truck engine outside.  Wanda’s house was normally only ten minutes away. 

“There’s Wayne!” Mom and I said simultaneously.  We locked up the house and carefully made our way to the truck.  Cookie, who had gingerly made her way down the two deck stairs, was immediately chest-deep in the soft snow.  Sissy put her backpack down and scooped Cookie into her arms.

Wayne helped us with our bags and into the truck.  Our first words were ones of gratitude.

“The news is saying this is the most snow we’ve had in thirty years,” said Wayne.

“I believe that,” replied Mom.  “Are we gonna make it up the hill of the trailer park without sliding?”

“I think so, but it don’t hurt to pray.”

Wayne’s truck made it almost all the way to the top of the hill before we felt the wheels lose their grip on the road.  My heart sunk.

Please God.  Please God.  Please God.  Please God.  I crossed my fingers and toes just in case it gave my prayer extra power.

Wayne gently pressed on the accelerator.  The wheels made a popping sound, which thankfully jerked the truck forward.  We rounded the corner and cleared the hill.

We sighed with relief.  Once we were out of the trailer park, the roads improved, though not by much.  The glistening white snow covered all, and still, it continued to fall.  Wayne’s truck slowly crept down the street until we arrived at Wanda’s house.

“Have y’all had breakfast yet?”  We shook our heads.  “Well, get on in there,” Wayne said.  “Mama made ham and biscuits.” 

Sissy toddled into the house holding Cookie.  I slung both our backpacks over my shoulders and followed.  Wanda was waiting for us in the kitchen.  She reached out to each of us with a hug, swatting the upper flanks of our backs rapidly, like any Southern mammaw would.

“Do you girls mind sleeping on the floor in the living room?” she asked.  “We can give your mama the couch.” We murmured our agreement and thanks.  “And you can sleep on the floor, too, Cookie,” she continued, and we laughed.  Cookie was used to making herself at home.  Keeping her off the couch would be a challenge.

After a late breakfast, we bundled up and walked back outside.  The snow had finally stopped falling. Wayne’s kids played in the front yard, plunging butt first into the deep drifts.  Making angels was impossible; the best they could do was leave behind rounded, kid-sized holes.  I stayed close to the door and observed the blanketed neighborhood from the porch. 

Full of biscuits and jam and surprisingly content, I went back inside and sat down to watch TV.  The noon news was on.  The only story was the snow.  There were live reports from outside the studio, people-on-the-street interviews via phone, multiple animations of the radar, and continual astonishment from the weather team.  The anchors called it, “The Storm of the Century.”

I smiled, happy for Tony.  He’d make a great meteorologist one day.

Afternoon turned into evening.  Wanda made a delicious batch of chili for dinner.  I ate so much, my stomach felt like a parade balloon.  Even so, I remained content.

  After brushing our teeth, Mom, Sissy, and I got comfortable in the living room.  Mom was asleep and snoring before long, but Sissy and I stayed up to watch Saturday Night Live.  Wanda showed us how to set the sleep timer on the TV and then retired to her bedroom. 

I shimmied off my jeans under the covers.  I had forgotten to pack my nightgown, but I’d be ok.  I propped my head to the side and rested my ear on the crook of my arm.  The skits tonight were pretty good.  There was a Richmeister sketch - the annoying office guy who sat next to the copy machine - and I knew John Goodman, the host, from Roseanne.

I started to get sleepy during Weekend Update.  The last thing I saw as I closed my eyes was Chris Farley, covered in fake snow, pretending to be The Storm of the Century.

That’s so cool, I thought.  Even SNL is talking about it.

I had a sudden urge to say my prayers.  A few drops of adrenaline flicked into my bloodstream, keeping me awake for just a minute more.

We were welcome to stay at Wanda’s house as long as we wanted, which would likely be several days.  There would be plenty of warmth and plenty of food.  We wouldn’t be using the car or burning the Weigel’s unleaded that had cost our family so dearly.  And if all our needs were met this week, we wouldn’t have to write any more bounced checks for a while.

I never understand why your provision has to be so frickin’ complicated, God. But thank you.  

I wondered if the manna that had once fallen from the sky looked similar to the feathery flakes coating every inch of our region.

The gentle hum of the heater lulled me to sleep. For now, we were sustained.

Roll Play

This is a story about a prior relationship and the road trip that pointed me in a new direction.  (Some names have been changed.)

“What are you doing on Saturday?” I asked Mama over the phone.

“Nothing,” she said.  “I might go to the salon and get my hair dyed, but I haven’t made an appointment yet.”

“I thought you were letting your hair go natural.”

“I was, but then one of those young UGA turkeys told me how pretty my white hair looked, and I said, to hell with that mess.  What do you want to do?”

“I need to drive over to Hull, Georgia to buy some toilet paper,” I told her.  “Do you want to come with me?”

“What on Earth happened?” she asked, baffled.

“Nothing. I just found out that Scott Tissue makes the pastel-colored kind. It’s so beautiful.”

“Well, you have always liked the finer things in life.”

“The only place even relatively close to me that sells it is an Ingles in Hull.”  I consulted my computer screen.  “That’s about twenty minutes from Athens.  I could pick you up on my way there.”

Marietta, where I lived, was a full ninety minutes from Athens.  If traffic on 85 North wasn’t at a standstill, and my foot felt heavy, I’d be there within eighty. 

“You really want to drive two hours to get toilet paper?” asked Mama.

My home life was getting complicated.  Lately, I was feeling crowded by my fiancé and the stuff he had dragged into my life.  Our apartment was messy and a mishmash of styles.  I needed all the beauty I could get.  And the space.

“Yes,” I replied, without hesitation.

“I’m in,” she said.

I beat my record on Saturday, making it to Mama’s apartment in 78 minutes flat.  I walked down the hall of her apartment building and knocked on the door.  I could hear Mama’s conversation with Cookie from outside.

“Lord, dog.  You need a bath.  I’ll inform the maid.”

I knocked again. 

“It’s Heather!  It’s Heather!  Cookie, it’s ole Heather Pooh come to see you.”  Mama announced excitedly. Cookie was an elderly hound mix and looked like a jumbo hot dog, shaped partly by genetics and partly by people food.  By this point, she had been in my life longer than my late father.  We adored her. 

Mama flung open the door to greet me.

“Hi Mama,” I said, hugging her tight for a moment.  I bent to pet Cookie, who sniffed my face for a few seconds and then exhaled wetly against my hair.

“Thanks, dog,” I said.  “Are you ready to go?”

“Just got to lock up.”  Mama picked up her purse off the counter and turned around to face Cookie.

“Now, if you’re good, we’ll bring you back a Wendy’s hamburger,” she said. 

Cookie stared longingly at Mama as she closed the door.

“Lord, that is the most spoiled animal in the whole world.  She knows we’ll bring her back a hamburger either way,” said Mama as we got into my car.

“She also appreciates the finer things in life,” I said in a Grey Poupon voice.  “I brought my Elvis Greatest Hits CD, if you want to listen to it.”

We sang “Hound Dog” and “Marie’s the Name” at full volume and bounced around in our seats, wearing our plastic sunglasses for full cool effect. 

“Whew! I’ve gotta rest for a minute.”  Mama fanned her face with her hand.  I turned down the stereo. 

“Do you remember how much I liked pastel toilet paper when I was little?”

“I do,” Mama said.  “You thought it was fancy.”  As a child, I had enjoyed wrapping long strips of it across my chest, imitating the Miss America sash, as well as setting it around my shoulders like a stole.  Sometimes, I would lay several passes across my head in the shape of a veil, and pretend to marry Robin, Batman’s sidekick.

Becoming a fancy, grown-up, Charmin-soft lady had been my childhood obsession.

“Why did we stop using it?”

“Honey, they took it off the market.  The pastel kind was irritating too many pooties and tooties.”

I was born with sensitive skin, asthma, and eczema.  “I see,” I said in a bored voice.  I hoped to drop the matter.  Further reminiscing would only invite trouble.  Mama was a thorough historian.

“Oh, look!” I exclaimed.  “There’s Ingles.  We’re here.”

We pulled into the parking lot, and I was out of the car before Mama could get her seatbelt unfastened.

“Slow down, Punkinhead!  That potty paper’s still gonna be there even if I take my time getting out.  Why are you so excited, anyway?”

I shifted impatiently from foot to foot while Mama climbed out of the passenger seat.  I entered Ingles a dozen steps in front of her.  I wasn’t sure why I was so excited.  The pastel colors would look pretty in my lavender bathroom, but that didn’t explain the knotted feeling in my stomach. 

I paused once inside so Mama could catch up.  Together, we walked over to the appropriate aisle.  I spotted the toilet paper right away.  Ingles had several packages of the assorted color 4-pack.  Each plastic-wrapped rectangle contained a blue roll, a green roll, a pink roll, and a yellow roll. 

“Mama, it’s so pretty!  The hues are delicate, like watercolors,” I breathed.

An Ingles employee, stocking paper towels further down the aisle, glanced over curiously but said nothing.

Not everyone understood the importance of aesthetics.  “How many packages do they have?” I asked, as I stood on my tiptoes and began pulling them off the shelves.  “I’m going to get them all.”

I handed the 4-packs to Mama one at a time.  Her eyes were covered by the fifth one. 

“I can’t hold any more of these, Heather!”  Mama’s voice was muffled by the tower of toilet paper in her arms.

Only one package remained on the shelf.  I grabbed it and took a few 4-packs back from Mama.  “This should last a while,” I said.  We started towards the register. 

“Hang on,” I told Mama, and called back down the aisle to the stocker.  “Excuse me, please.  Is it possible to call the store and order more of this toilet paper when I’m getting low?  I really like it.”

He said nothing for a moment, then replied in a Georgia drawl, “Yes ma’am, but we get new shipments every week.  I think you’ll be fine.”  He paused again.  Perhaps he was a man who weighed every word carefully, with consideration, or perhaps my passionate paper plea had simply rendered him speechless. 

“Most people just buy the regular kind.”

I bowed slightly in his direction.  “Thank you,” I said with dignity, and walked with Mama to the cash registers.

Mama insisted on paying.  “This was a lot more fun than sitting in the salon all afternoon.  Do you think Ethan will like your fancy new toilet paper?”

As soon as she said my fiancé’s name, the knot in my stomach squeezed tighter.

“I mean…sure.  You know Ethan.  He’s so easy-going.”

Mama looked at me the way mothers do.  She collected her self-checkout receipt in silence, and we returned to the car.

After we were back on the road, she asked, “Is everything ok?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer.  Ethan and I had been engaged for nearly two years and been together for four.  He was a sweet guy, a good guy, an ethical guy.  But was he the best guy?  I had been thinking a lot about that lately.

“Is this what marriage is going to feel like?”

“I don’t know what you mean, baby girl.  How do you feel?”

My feelings were a patchwork of comfort, safety, practicality, terror.

“Like this is as good as it will ever get with Ethan.  Like planning my wedding is half the fun of marrying him.  Like I’m conflicted about having his children.  But that maybe I’m being too picky and if I ever want to stop being poor, I should marry him.”

Mama protected me instantly.  “Don’t you ever worry about being poor.  As long as I’ve got breath in my body, I won’t let my baby starve or live on the street.”  This was the same fierceness she’d shown my whole life.  She was most alive when faced with a need for survival.

“I know, Mama.”

“Honey, you shouldn’t marry anyone you’re not crazy about.  You’re too special for that.”

“Were you crazy about Daddy?”

“Yes, I was crazy about him, and a lot of times he drove me crazy, but I loved him.  I would marry him all over again even knowing he’d die on me.”

Into my mind flashed an image of 4-yr-old Heather, swooping loop-de-loops of pastel toilet paper on my head and then securing it with a headband, turning myself into an elegant bride. “Wedding” had been my favorite game to play.  Even in my child’s mind, I understood that the love I had for my groom should be as exciting as it was sustaining.  No wonder my stomach had confused being tied in knots with tying the knot.

I considered Mama’s words.  The excitement of the early days with Ethan should have transformed into the burning flame of forever, but it had not.  Sadly, I would not be consumed when I fastened my veil for Ethan.               

“Is that how you feel about Ethan?” asked Mama.

“I don’t think so,” I told her. 

“Then you need to break it off with him.  It’s not fair if you don’t.”

We ended our excursion with a trip to Wendy’s for some cheeseburgers.  Mama, Cookie, and I each had one.  I said goodbye to them and drove home to Marietta.  I thought about Mama’s words the whole way back. 

Could I do it?  Should I do it?

Back home, I distracted myself by arranging a space in the linen closet for the six packages of paper.  I tore open a pack, selected a pink, and hung it up in the bathroom.  I thumped the toilet lid closed and sat down, furling and unfurling the fragile squares in a hypnotic motion.

The victory of acquiring the paper now rang hollow.  The beauty of the past could not be recreated.  I sat with the realization, knowing my days with Ethan were as numbered and disposable as the pastel squares. 

Toilet paper is a metaphor for my life, I said to myself. Toilet paper.

The absurdity and the aptness made me giggle, then cry.  After a few minutes, my tears subsided.  I had a decision to make, but I did not need to make it tonight. 

I tore off a wad of the delicate blush paper and blew my nose loudly.  I placed the tissue softly in the wastebasket, like a fancy, grown-up lady would, and exited the bathroom.