Eulogy

Linda Burchfield.  How might a person describe her?

Irreverent.  Gregarious.  Childlike.  Fearless.  Maddening.  Loyal.  Loving.

To know her was to never forget her, even if she didn’t always remember your name.  Hundreds of Punkinheads and Pookiedoos would attest to that fact.

And to know her was to forever have someone on your side, in your corner, because if someone in your life needed whoopin’ (figurately OR literally) you could count on her to have your back.

Here are some other things you may know about her.  At birth, the doctors said her congenital heart defect would cause her death by age 16.  Mama proved them wrong.  In high school, her guidance counselor told her that she, quote, “wasn’t college material,” and that she should give up her dreams of higher education.  She decided to ignore this piece of snotty and unsolicited advice and earned her degree in early childhood education instead.  After she was suddenly widowed, she raised two daughters by herself, left with nothing to break her fall except faith and an obligation to survive.  And later, she moved to a different state and created a vibrant new life for herself, a happy third act as a Georgia Bulldog. 

She was the life of the party.  A ride or die chick.  The choir member who sang “Victory in Jesus” the most ebulliently - and most off-key - and the one who hollered the loudest at every graduation and wedding she ever attended.

That was Linda Burchfield.

Many of you know the last several years of Mama’s life were very difficult.  Those who knew her best knew her history of untreated mental illness.  After retirement, whatever physical barriers that had held the worst symptoms at bay broke.  Our family was tasked to shore her up and help her the best we could. 

Diagnoses were shifted and medications were rotated, decreased, increased.  Eventually, her doctors – one of the only geriatric psych teams in East Tennessee - settled on two names: schizo-affective disorder and vascular dementia.  In true Linda fashion, even her prognosis was complicated and unusual.

These health problems were part of Mom’s makeup; she did not invite them in.  Nor did she win some sort of battle in the years her illness was dormant or lose in the years her illness was active.

I share this information not to dishonor Mama’s privacy, but to shine light on the dark shame so often associated with mental illness. There is no need for shame, no need for anything except compassion and acceptance.  I have chosen to reject the despair of these last years and to deny the hopelessness that waited quietly in the shadows day after day, eager to drown me as I desperately tried my best to be her advocate. 

I will not allow grief to have the final word.  There was such an outpouring of love, such a strong presence of the divine the last week of Mom’s life that there is room for nothing except gratitude and awe.

Mama understood her time on Earth was drawing to a close.  On December 17, her nurse called to say Mama had awakened in the late afternoon and asked for help with the phone.

“Can you get in contact with my family?” she had asked.  “I need to tell them I love them.”

Her nurse dialed my number and handed Mom the phone.

“Heather,” she said softly, “I think I’m dying.”

I bit down on my lip so I wouldn’t cry.

“Yes, Mama,” I said.  “I think you are, too.  But you don’t have to be afraid.  Jesus is there with you.”

Somebody was, at least.  The week before, she’d asked me who was sitting on the couch in front of her.  There was no couch in her room, but I have no doubt someone was keeping watch.

“I love you so much,” Mama said.

“I love you so much, too.  We all do.  Mama, if you see Jesus or Daddy or someone you recognize, it’s ok to go with them.  They’ll take you to Heaven,” I told her.

“I love you so much, baby.” She said it again, and then handed the phone back to the nurse.

On January 6, Ben and I were visiting with Mama.  She asked for grape juice, and then for something else.

“Take my pictures home with you,” she said softly.  Mom’s room was covered in pictures of family and friends.  In fact, if you are listening to this service, your picture likely hung on her walls.

“Which ones?” 

“All of them,” she said, and I knew her time was short.  As we took them down, I briefly brought the pictures closer so she could see them for the last time.  Her eyes lingered the longest over the ruby-red cardinal Daddy had drawn for her before I was born.  My greatest comfort was that she would see him again soon. 

January 13 was the last time Mama told me she loved me, but that wasn’t the only thing she said.

  Rebekah, Ben, and I walked into her room that night. We had just shrugged off our coats and put our things down when Mama said, “My three angels are here.”

  She said it in a way that sounded like an announcement, like we had interrupted a visit, one in which introductions need to be made.

  “Mama, do you mean me, Ben, and Bekah are your three angels?”

  “No,” she said without hesitation or confusion, and I believed her, because she was my Mama.  If she said there were angels in her room, there were.  And that means angels will draw near to each one of us when it’s our time.  We don’t have to be scared.

  The balm that heals my shattered heart is the belief that Mama still lives, unfettered from her frail human body and utterly, joyously free, now in the presence of a loving God forever.  Free to dance with careless elation, free to worship with abandon, free to be face-to-face with the Creator who sustained her through every song of praise and every flood of anguish. 

Mama’s illness might have been the last chapter of her story, but it will not define her life. 

So, what will?

Her love for you.  Her love for me.  Her love for us all, and the fact that she loved each of us for who we are.  Mama wasn’t the judgmental type.  She accepted you at face-value, not expecting you to be anyone but your own beautiful self; only asking that you accept her in the same way.

I’d like to think that when it was Mama’s time to go to Heaven, there were so many people lined up to walk her Home that God had to send a party bus to pick her up.

I can almost hear their eager voices.  They’re the voices of people who loved her as much as we did. 

“Y’all hop on board!  We’ve got to go pick up Red!”  Uncle Ken would say.

Aunt Patsy climbs aboard, and then Mammaw.  Then my Grandmothers Willa and Retha, my Uncle Jack, Uncle Ronnie, and our friend Curtis. 

Wilma, Lori, and Leslie get on next, wearing sequined party hats under their halos and dressed to the nines.

“I can’t wait to introduce her to Elvis!” Wilma says.

Finally, Daddy climbs the stairs to the bus and takes the first seat behind the driver, leaving the seat beside him open. 

“Are we ready?” asks the driver.  “It’s time.”

Back here on Earth, Mama drew her last breath, surrounded by music. Sissy sang to Mama as she departed, a tender farewell on the way to the homegoing celebration. 

Then, Mama arrived !  

How I would have loved to see the look on her face, her instantaneous remembrance of self, her delight in reunion, and her realization of the glory of Heaven. 

This is how Mama’s earthly story ended and how I’d like to believe her eternal story began, with love upon love upon love.  This is also how I believe our stories will continue, each precious memory of Linda Burchfield a bright drop of love and affirmation in a world thirsting for something meaningful.

May each memory we share be a reminder to stand up for the little guy, to look out for one another, and to love without condition.  And may each of us leave the world a better place than we found it, just like Linda Burchfield.

Yes, It’s Real

Here is Mama’s official obituary. Yes, it’s real.

Linda Louise Moyers Burchfield, age 74, of Knoxville, TN, went Home on January 19, 2023.

Linda was born in Pine Bluff, AR, a proud plumber’s daughter, and later graduated from the College of the Ozarks (now University of Arkansas) with a degree in Early Childhood Education.  Determined to be a missionary, Linda attended Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary after college, where they taught her how not to dance or smoke instead.

After learning formal ministry was not for her, she hightailed it out of Fort Worth, TX, with a husband in tow, along with some really great casserole recipes.  She and her late spouse, Tommy Joe Burchfield, lived happily in Tennessee and went on to rear two of the world’s most sarcastic beauties.

Tommy Joe had the audacity to up and die one day, leaving Linda to finish raising their daughters alone, nothing to break her fall except faith and the obligation to survive.  She changed careers and retired years later from Knox County Schools, known as “the magic lunchlady” (a self-bestowed nickname that we still don’t understand) at Karns High School as well as the head custodian at Byington-Solway Technology Center and Amherst Elementary. 

Later, she moved to a different state and created a vibrant new life for herself, a happy third act as a Georgia Bulldog – much to the consternation of her Tennessee relatives.  Working at the O-House dining hall, she became a well-loved mother figure to scores of college kids at the University of Georgia. Athletes, geeks, theobros - she encouraged them all as they ponied up their cash or cards. "There's ole Punkinhead!" she'd beam proudly when she saw an athlete she knew on TV. "He comes through my line all the time!"

After Linda’s second retirement, things changed because of a long-term serious illness.  It eventually caused her death.  Although her illness might have been the last chapter of her story, it will not define her life.

She is best remembered for the fact that she loved each of us for who we are.  She wasn’t the judgmental type.  She accepted people at face-value, not expecting them to be anyone but their own beautiful selves; only asking that people accept her in the same way. 

And oh, how she loved Jesus. 

Linda is survived by her daughters, Heather (Ben) Ream and Rebekah (Will Malone) Burchfield, and Lois, Conrad, Alex, Lynn, Joe, Connie, Garry Ross, Kristi, Debbie, Tolliver, Kendra, Wade, Pauline, Angela, Cindy, Stephen, Joseph, James, Alicia, Adam, Larry, Spencer, Michael, Sadonna, Russell, Stacey, Hannah, and Jeremy – enough brothers, sisters, in-laws, nieces, and nephews to star in their own reboot of Hee Haw.

Services will be held on Saturday, January 28 at 11:00am at Woodlawn Cemetery in Knoxville, TN.  In lieu of flowers, the family requests that you donate to a charitable organization that has deep meaning for you, in her memory. 

The family also requests that you take a page out of the Linda Burchfield playbook and always remember to stick up for the little guy, look out for one another, and love without condition.  She will be missed, but we will see her again.

(Go Dawgs!)

https://www.rosefuneraltn.com/obituaries/Linda-Burchfield/#!/Obituary

An Announcement

Friends, please hold us close to your hearts this morning. My mama, Linda Burchfield, went to Heaven yesterday evening. She passed peacefully.

Her hospice team let us know a week ago her time was approaching. Since then, Bekah, Ben, and I were with Mama. We had time to say all the important things. Mama knew she was well loved.

Even though she had been non-verbal and mostly asleep for days, we included her in every conversation. We shared music, prayers, and memories. We laughed uproariously over old, digitized home movies and wept with pride and the deepest love for her. And when she took her last breath, Rebekah was by her side, singing to Mama as she crossed out of this world and into the next.

This past Friday evening was the last time Mama told me she loved me, but that wasn’t the only thing she said.

Rebekah, Ben, and I walked into her room that night. We had just shrugged off our coats and put our things down when Mama said, “My three angels are here.”

She said it in a way that sounded like an announcement, like we had interrupted a visit, one in which introductions need to be made.

“Mama, do you mean me, Ben, and Bekah are your three angels?”

“No,” she said without hesitation or confusion.

Despite my deep Christian faith, I don’t know what happens after we die. None of us do. What I do know, though, is my own experience. In the past week, Sacredness has been palpable. It was all over Mama’s room – tenderness, goodness, the feeling of important work to be done. The sense that we were not alone, that a company of protectors had gently cordoned off the area so we wouldn’t be bothered. And that is the blessed place where Mama’s story ends.

We will post her obituary and service information when they are complete.

In the meantime, my sorrow looms large, but my hope looms larger. Take it from me – God is real, and God is Love.

Mint Condition

A sweet holiday memory, from me to you.

Just before the start of class, my boyfriend put a plain white envelope on my desk. My heart fluttered excitedly. I opened it surreptitiously so that no one would see what was inside.

I removed a letter written on a piece of paper that had been torn from a memo pad. “MERY CRISTHMAS,” was scrawled across the page. “I LOVE YOU.”

I looked one row back and two seats over and glanced quickly at Dustin, the author. Dustin was six years old, like me. He had been my crush all year. Our affection for each other had reached its zenith. Even having one of our previous letters embarrassingly apprehended by Ms. Southern, our teacher, had done little to extinguish the spark. Shyly, I returned Dustin’s smile, captivated by his baby blue eyes and shaggy blonde hair.

Ms. Southern suddenly entered the classroom. I faced forward and sat up straight in my seat. As I slid the envelope into my desk, I noticed a shiny green object inside.

I peeked and saw a rectangular Andes mint. The mint was beautiful; its green wrapping reminded me of the lighted tree designs that graced Gay Street’s skyline during Christmas. I had never eaten an Andes mint before, but I had seen their fancy packages at the store, and I was very sure I’d like them.

My first gift from a boy! I tried to pay attention to the handwriting lesson, but my mind wandered. Should I eat the candy in one delicious gulp, or savor the flavor by taking a dozen tiny bites? I caught Ms. Southern looking at me, as if she could read my mind, and I froze. I opened my eyes widely and stared directly at the chalkboard, trying to assure her of my attention. I decided that the sweet thoughts of the morning would be better appreciated at home.

I walked to Mammaw’s house after school. I spent the entire walk trying to decide what to do with my mint. What was better - eating my candy tonight or waiting until Christmas? Or maybe, I shouldn’t eat it at all. And what could I bring Dustin in return? I wouldn’t see him again until after holiday break.

We had lived with Mammaw for months, awaiting an apartment to become available in Western Heights, a nearby housing project. I knew we were burdensome houseguests, but Mammaw had taken us in anyway. There was a lot to admire about her. She didn’t act old like other grandmothers. She wore pretty mauve lipstick and painted her nails, generous in sharing as long as Sissy and I were careful with her cosmetics. Mammaw also liked to play cards and go dancing. She had a boyfriend of her own, Bill, who had been keeping her company since Papaw passed away and who didn’t mind being a pillow when I fell asleep against his arm watching TV.

I knew my concentration would be shattered as soon as I stepped across the threshold. There were always relatives coming and going from Mammaw’s house.

I still hadn’t made up my mind by the time I got home. Mama was waiting for me on the front porch, smoking a cigarette, Daddy’s green nylon jacket draped over her shoulders.

“Hi, Heather Pooh,” she said, aiming her cigarette away from my head as I climbed on the porch to hug her. “How was school?”

“Good,” I said, but I didn’t mention my mint. Hurriedly telling Mama about it in the stinky, freezing cold would surely diminish its origin story.

“Let’s go inside and talk about Christmas,” said Mama, pitching her butt into the driveway.

Once we were inside and defrosted, Mama plunked a JCPenney catalog on the coffee table. “Have you circled what you want Santy to bring you?” she asked.

I had serious doubts about Santa’s existence. It was painfully obvious Santa’s gifts had more to do with income than behavior. Experience had taught me that the richest kids at church and school always had the best toys, whether they were brats or not.

Us poor kids usually made do with lumpy stuffed animals and off-brand Barbies, even if we got all checkmarks on our report cards and never said H.E. Double Hockey Sticks out loud during Sunday School. Santa was either fake or cruel.

I had to know the truth. “Mama,” I asked, “are you and Daddy Santa?”

Mama looked startled. “Well, Heather Pooh, all mamas and daddies are Santas, because they help with Santa’s deliveries,” she stammered. “He’s too busy to deliver all the presents in one night, so we help.” She clearly wanted another cigarette.

I was unconvinced. “Mama,” I said reassuringly, patting her hand as if I were the mama. “It’s ok that Santa isn’t real. I don’t mind.”

She relaxed a little, happy she wouldn’t be destroying a beloved childhood ritual. “When did you learn about Santa?” she asked, baffled.

I was triumphant in my vindication. I’m a good kid even if I don’t get anything but boring ole socks and board games for Christmas, I thought smugly. “I guess I’ve always known,” I said.

“Well…how about we just keep this between you, me, and Daddy,” Mama said. “We don’t want to spoil it for everybody else. You can help us play Santa.”

I liked the idea of playing Santa. “How do I do that?”

“You can wrap some presents, and then keep Sissy from peeking under the bed and finding them,” Mama offered.

Trying to keep Sissy out from under the bed was an impossible task. She was more curious than a kitten. She would discover the truth about Santa soon enough, even if we hid the presents on the moon.

“I’ll try, Mama.”

“Now, what do you want for Christmas? What did you circle in the catalog?”

I shrugged. I knew what I wanted to get and what I would get were not often the same.

“A pretend purse and pretend makeup and a pretend cash register.” I couldn’t wait to be grown.

For the sake of audacity, I added to my list the year’s hottest toy.

“Oh, and a Cabbage Patch Kid. But I know I won’t get one,” I said matter-of-factly.

“Is that the babydoll people are fighting over?” Mama asked.

We had seen plenty of news coverage about Cabbage Patch Kids. People all over the country had lost control of their senses, standing in line for hours and then pushing their way into the back of the store to buy one, or two, or five, or whatever insane number of dolls they could hold or stuff under their Members Only jackets.

“Yes. I like Cabbage Patch Kids, but I know I won’t get one. They cost a lot, and I’m scared you and Daddy would get hurt.”

Mama rolled her eyes. “Good Lord. What is wrong with folks?”

I didn’t know a lot about grown-ups, but I knew some of them were just plain weird.

“I don’t need a Cabbage Patch Kid, Mama.”

“Don’t worry, honey. You’ll have a good Christmas.”

*

I didn’t eat my special mint that night. I didn’t eat it the next night, either. I developed a routine in the days leading up to Christmas. I started by holding the mint in my hand and admiring its elegant green wrapping. Then, I would lift it to my nose and inhale deeply. Finally, I would carefully open the back of the wrapper so I could observe the thin, pale green stripe that ran down the middle of the candy. Sometimes, I ended my ritual by imagining what it would be like to give Dustin a big smooch of gratitude.

At this rate, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready to eat it, even though the aroma of the smooth peppermint and decadent milk chocolate made my stomach clinch in anticipation with every sniff.

Christmas morning arrived. Sissy and I leapt off the twin mattress we shared and clomped noisily into the living room. We beheld something wonderous. The tree was not yet lit, but so many presents encircled its base, the tree stand was no longer visible. Mama and Daddy were sitting on the couch, both sipping steaming cups of coffee. Mammaw and Uncle Mike, who worked 3rd shift, were pouring cups of their own in the kitchen.

Our parents made quick work of the gifts, sorting piles for me and Sissy. We began to rip open the wrapping paper, anxious for what might be revealed underneath. I was ecstatic that Mama and Daddy had gotten me a whole set of play makeup. Sissy got the Chatty Patty doll she had asked for, as well as a pretend cash register loaded with big plastic coins that she and I were to share.

Mama handed me another present. The box was bulky, almost too big to wrap my arms around. I tried to sit it down gently, careful not to topple forward into the other gift Mama had given Sissy.

“These are from Santy Claus,” said Mama.

I was puzzled. I had helped wrap Santa’s gift to Sissy. I didn’t think there were any gifts left for me.

Gingerly, I ripped a strip of paper off the front of the box. I saw the familiar logo of a baby’s face resting in leafy cabbage. I gasped in realization.

“IT’S A CABBAGE PATCH KID!” I cried.

I plucked the box from its paper cage and looked at my doll. She had sandy blonde pigtails and a dimpled smile.

“I LOVE HER!” I told Mama and Daddy, trying to hug them both with the box still in my hands.

Mama leaned forward to catch my embrace. She hugged me and whispered, “Mammaw got her for you.”

“Mammaw played Santa for me?” I whispered back. Mama nodded.

I wondered if Mammaw had fought off a crowd to buy my Cabbage Patch Kid, or perhaps she had won her in a high-stakes card game. Either way, I felt only pride in my grandmother. I was deliriously happy, but I didn’t know how to thank Mammaw. If I ran into the kitchen to hug her, she would know that I knew the truth about Santa. I thought quickly.

“I’ll be right back!” I hollered and ran back into the bedroom Sissy and I shared with our parents. I scooped my special candy off the dresser and pounded back down the hallway.

“Where’s the present we got for Mammaw?” I whispered to Mama. She handed me the wrapped box containing Mammaw’s new pair of slippers.

I opened my fist. By now, my Andes mint was looking a little ragged, but it still smelled good. I slid the mint under the wrinkled red ribbon, satisfied.

“Honey, you don’t have to give Mammaw your candy,” said Daddy.

“I want her to have it. I’ve been saving it for her.”

As soon as I’d said it, I knew it was true.

“Well…she’ll appreciate it very much, then.”

My special mint now belonged to Mammaw, a secret thanks for a secret gift-giver. Only I knew its true significance.

“Daddy, would you help me open my doll?” I asked. I turned my attention to the task before me, but not before sniffing my hands one last time, catching a final whiff of Christmas-scented affection as I reached for the top of the cardboard box.

1988: Me - Age 9

Cloris Holly - Age 3

“You Should Write a Book”

“You should write a book.” I’ve heard this a lot over the years. My soul pings with joy every time I do. But what should I write? My notebooks are filled with starts and stops of all kinds – love stories, how-tos, devotionals. I’ve wasted so much time trying to find the genre where my writing “fits” and then going from there, attempting to scrunch a Heather-shaped manuscript into a non-Heather-shaped publishing world.

Things changed this year. Instead of writing with my head, I decided to write with my heart. I have longed to share the story of my childhood for years. It’s a story of tenderness, of grief, of poverty, of exclusion, but ultimately, of hope. The characters are flawed and funny and beautiful in their humanity. I love them dearly.

So, I went and wrote it, my friends. I’m proud to say I wrote that book.

The stories are true and sometimes you are a part of them in small ways. “Am I in this book?” you may ask, and the answer is, yes, your essence is. A few friends and relatives make cameos under pseudonyms and are always the heroes, never the villains. In fact, there are no villains in my book except systemic ones.

If you grew up poor, if you love ‘80s and ‘90s nostalgia, if you love Knoxville, if you lost a parent, if you ever felt ignored or unloved by the church but still tried to love Jesus, or never loved Jesus at all, I think this book will resonate with you.

I have a title selected and plans to go from here, but all I know right now is that my book will be released in 2023.

Thank you for every bit of encouragement along the way. The time for celebration is almost upon us.

Love,
Heather

Extra

Inspired by true events, and dedicated to all y'all. You know who you are.

Every Southern woman is Extra. We can’t help it – it's in our DNA. Whether we’re outlining a thickly penciled pout or theatrically draping ourselves over the hood of our boyfriend’s car so that he CANNOT LEAVE THIS PARTY WITHOUT ACKNOWLEDGING HE WAS TALKING TO THAT TRASHY GIRL FROM HOUNDDOGS, we are inborn with a capacity for drama.

Occasionally, these dramatic tendencies may land us in the backs of police cruisers, but mostly, they keep life interesting and keep our aaoohga-eyed lovers panting for more. The cultivated Southern woman is filled with a wild joie de vivre that draws gentlemen from all over the globe. She will appear as delicate as a pastel green wedding mint one moment, melting into his arms with only the gentlest of nudging; her soft sigh capable of stirring her hero’s heart. A few weeks later, her beleaguered beau may find himself on the losing side of an argument about his favorite SEC team or why he’s just the wrongest man who ever lived for laughing at that little old lady at the next table over whose dentures fell out eating her trout amandine.

But it’s too late. He’s already hooked – by her tornadic charm, her tender heart for service, her leopard-print underclothes. Rings are exchanged and promises made.

A new generation of Extra is born.

Ms. Extra’s dear husband, worn slap out from years of carrying gigantic handbags and toting Baby Extra all over the pageant circuit, eventually succumbs to the sweet sleep of the grave.

Imagine his chagrin when he arrives at his final destination and sees the streets of gold and the foundations of every wall covered in precious stones.

Talk about Extra.

“What Smells Remind You of Childhood?” Audacious with Chion Wolf

My interview with the incredible Chion Wolf is up! We talk about the Kerns Bakery, Moonbeams pencils, the Lawson McGhee Library, and the smell of being poor.

https://www.ctpublic.org/show/audacious-with-chion-wolf/2022-10-13/what-smells-like-childhood-hear-eighteen-answers

“There’s one smell from childhood that by far stands above the rest, and that’s the smell of being por.  I would describe that smell as, kinda like a mix of bacon and cigarettes.  That might sound great, because you might be thinking, “Oh, like a diner at 2am where you and your friends are having breakfast and chain smoking and talking about everything from capitalism to John Waters movies.”

“But, it’s really more like, reused grease from thousands of cheap fried meals that has soaked into your pores, and the smell of stale smoke that has yellowed the walls years before you moved in, plus the fresh smoke from your Mom’s pack of Basic 100s.

It smells like the 2 housing projects I grew up in, and the series of cramped apartments, and the trailer we moved into after Daddy died when I was 11.

It smells like lack.

It smells like shame.

It smells like your name hanging off the branches of the Angel Tree.

It smells like camouflaging the stink of it with heavy-handed spritzes of Avon perfume or glugs of fabric softener in the washing machine.

It smells like self-diminishment, trying to be worthy of a someone’s charity.

But...it also smells like hope, because you know that it could always be worse, and it might even get better.

It smells like your teachers pooling their money together to buy you clothes for Christmas in 7th grade.

It smells like your mom working two jobs in order to put food on the table.

It smells like your sweet neighbor who’s a veterinarian, giving your dog, Cookie, free medical care because your mama couldn’t afford it and you and your sissy loved that dog.

And most importantly, it smells like compassion.  It smells like empathy, because almost no one who had ever smelled poor wants anyone else to go through what we did.

Many of us have become hand holders, reaching out to others to help lift them up.

Some of us are dealmakers or hustlers or whatever we need to be politically and personally to make sure that people we care about don’t ever have to smell poor.

We are chain breakers.

And that’s why the smell of being poor is my favorite, because it created something fragrant in me out of something rotten.”

MoNogRam

If there is power in a name, there must be more in a monogram.  Historically, only the wealthy could afford to heap lumps of belettered thread onto their possessions. Their monograms did not scream, “MINE!” but merely whispered the ownership of property.  This was executed mostly subtly, stitched onto a cufflink, or delicately blended into a linen bedsheet. 

  As personal fortunes increased and the cost of frippery-do-dahs decreased (such as home die-cut machines, which have turned simple photo albums into feverish visions of zebra print bubble letters), more of us gained the ability to monogram with ease. 

Modern Southern women have taken this insanity to new heights.

We have chosen to not only monogram traditional items, but to slap our initials on anything that will sit still.  You will know who you’re dealing with, from the tops of our Script-monogrammed headbands to the tops of our Block-monogrammed boots.  Or flats.  Usually, we have both.

Our monogrammed scarves wave proudly in the breeze, declaring our identities like crested banners flying high atop a castle.  We shake your hands in friendship, our grips warm from monogrammed travel coffee mugs.  As you look down at the adorable tiny children who belong to us, you notice that each outfit is embroidered with their initials, or, worse still, their whole first names. 

The only ones who remain unaffected are our spouses, who loudly threaten to have “POO,” “BUT,” or “FRT” stamped on new license plates if they are forced to wear monogrammed clothing. 

“I’ll even buy a Smart Car and call it the Fart Car,” one husband said.  “Get my t-shirts away from your sewing machine!”

Like many of my friends, I received my first monogrammed item before I was born.  My daddy had purchased a little camera that came with letter stickers, allowing for customization. 

Daddy had dreamed that he and Mama were going to have a girl.  At the time, ultrasounds were not readily used to determine a baby’s gender.  He thought the Lord had sent him the dream, and as an act of faith, he attached my initials to the camera. 

My uncles gave him a lot of grief about it.  He was one of six brothers.  In fact, I’m not sure how my lone aunt survived the testosterone tumult growing up, but I digress. 

“That little boy you’re gonna have will feel really bad when you name him Heather,” was their usual smart-mouthed retort.

Of course, I was born, and Daddy was able to claim the victory on the camera. 

Hallelujah.

We used that camera for years, until the manufacturer stopped producing the ice-tray-shaped flash bars for it.  The camera was a special reminder of God’s goodness to Daddy, and to myself.  Of course, monogramming it had predictable and sweeping results.

Nowadays, I am well-identified.  For instance, I carry a monogrammed bag in which I can fit both my monogrammed Bible cover and monogrammed stationery.  I even cut out the monogrammed parts of worn-out items I’m about to toss. 

I’m not sure what I plan to do with all of these.  Maybe I’ll design an accent wall and glue them all up there.  It ought to go great with the Fart Car.

I must draw a line somewhere, though.  I choose not to monogram our family’s ski mask collection.  Maybe it’s just me, but I prefer anonymity in some situations.   

The Pebble Package

Originally published in Edify Fiction.

It was December 8th. I had been enrolled at Asbury Christian Academy for 3 weeks. My dad had gotten a last-minute job offer to teach computer science there and surprise, surprise – I got “blessed” with free tuition.

“Dad, why do I have to go to that dumb school?” I had asked him. “Do I look like the type who sings hymns and wears plaid skirts? I mean, we’re not even Christian.”

“Because they have a great technology and communications program and other educational perks for children of employees,” he replied. “You know, Dara, someone has to pay for your college one day, and that person is me. Besides, it will do you good to interact with friends who believe differently than you.”

I had trudged through weeks of classes, but I still didn’t have any friends. I mean, people were nice and all, and my roommate was the quiet type, so we got along fine. It did leave me with plenty of time after class to work on my novel about Harvey, the crime-fighting worm (yes, really), but it was a drag not to connect with anyone. And I didn’t understand their Jesus stuff. Like, not even a little bit.

The worst was convocation. Once a week, we met in the basketball gym for a sermon and “praise singing.” Praise singing was a big deal at Asbury. Most people would not only sing but also raise their hands and faces towards the sky like they were waiting for God to give them a hug or something. I definitely didn’t get it.

As I packed up my laptop after English Comp, I noticed a small envelope of folded tissue paper sitting in my bag. It was tied with a curled ribbon. What in the world is that? I wondered.

I opened the package and saw a handful of small, amber-colored pebbles. The pebble-things reminded me of gravel. I took a small sniff. They smelled pretty good, kind of like pine tree mixed with lemon. Suddenly, I froze. Wait! What if these things are drugs? I quickly searched my brain, frantically trying to remember if my dad had ever told me anything bad about amber pebble-things. Nothing came to mind, so I relaxed. No one’s trying to give you drugs at this school, I told myself, these Christian kids are way too sweet for that. Remember the girl in Chemistry who actually cried for you when you told her you lost your goldfish to an accidental flush last year?

I retrieved a piece of paper I saw at the bottom of the pile.

A GIFT FOR YOU, I read. WE’RE WATCHING YOU!

Watching me? I thought. How boring for them. “Hope you like watching someone make hilarious comments about old movies, ‘cause that’s what I’m doing tonight,” I said aloud. Was this some kind of weird way to say hi? I mean, the note did say the pebble-things were a gift. But what were they? And who were they from? I stuffed everything in my bag and left.

The next day, I watched to see if anyone snuck anything into my backpack, but no one did. Same with Wednesday. By Thursday, I had practically forgotten the whole thing, until I saw another identically-wrapped package in my bag after Comp.

My classmates filed out after class. “Who keeps doing this?” I said angrily. Bekah, the girl who sat behind me, flinched as I yelled and threw the package on the table. “Sorry, Bekah,” I gulped, “that wasn’t meant for you.” She shook her head slowly at me as she slid past.

I opened the package. This time, I was greeted by darker pebble-things that smelled like licorice. Once again, a note was attached. ANOTHER GIFT FOR YOU! COME FIND US!

I crumpled up the note and tossed it aside. “Yes, as I matter of fact, I will come and find you,” I exclaimed. “I’d like to know who keeps sending me chicken feed!”

Determined to track down whoever was responsible, I rushed out of the classroom. I nearly knocked Bekah down. She was standing right outside.

“Dara, please wait,” Bekah said. “I heard what you said in there. Look, I owe you an apology.”

“Do you?” I replied.

“Yes,” she began. “I’m the one who’s been sneaking those gifts into your bag. I’m a member of Asbury’s creative writing club, the Skillful Scribes. We’ve been trying to figure out a cool way to get you to check us out. I’m sorry that we made you mad.”

“How did you know I liked to write?”

“Hannah told us. She said the only thing you like better than old movies is writing,” Bekah said.

I had to give my roommate credit. She was paying attention.

“Well, I’m not mad anymore, I guess,” I told Bekah, “but why not just come and talk to me in person? Why send me a bunch of driveway pebbles?”

“Sorry,” Bekah apologized, “I guess we’re not as creative as we think we are. Right now, we’re working on a project where we have to describe Jesus’ birth story through the eyes of the manger animals. We sent you frankincense and myrrh. It’s what the wise men brought baby Jesus as gifts.”

“Ok, I get it now. But wait. Didn’t they also bring Jesus gold? You could have given me that, too, you know.” We both laughed.

“So…would you like to come to our next meeting? We’d really like to read some of your stuff.”

I thought about what Bekah and other Christians believed about Christmas and decided that it was ok to check it out; to maybe get to know them better, even if I believed differently. Maybe I could learn what all the fuss was about with Jesus. I began to think about all the animals that might have been in the barn that night – sheep, donkeys, maybe even a crime-fighting worm?

Inspired, I packed up my gear and walked back to the dorms with Bekah.

Biscuits

Biscuits.

Oh, the Heavenly Host of Southern foods – warm, mealy, soft and springy as a feather bed after a long day.  Many of us pride ourselves on being the Best Biscuit Baker in the family, and my mother and grandmother were no different.

Mammaw Burchfield baked hers on a cookie sheet blackened with age and use.  Her doughy creations were huge.  Forget the so-called “cat-head” biscuit – hers were practically cougar-sized.  A single cakey biscuit and ladleful of gravy would keep you full for hours.  My daddy, the oldest of 7, was a life-long fan and a kind-hearted soul.  He praised Mammaw’s biscuits, as well as every other one of the foodstuffs offered up to him, and she rewarded him with heaping platefuls of it.  After all, he was slender – some might say skinny – so he needed it. 

  My mother was born and reared in the flat fields of Pine Bluff, Arkansas.  Flame-haired and high-spirited, she met my father at seminary, married him within a matter of months, and followed him back home to Knoxville, Tennessee.  Early on in their married life, Daddy expressed to Mama his love of biscuits and gravy. 

Biscuits, it turned out, were not a part of her family’s culinary repertoire.

My mother, although intimidated by the unspoken spectre of Mammaw’s perfect biscuits, was determined to conquer the process.  Mama cooked up a masterpiece, her biscuits smaller yet fat with butter so they could be divvied up among many but still satisfy an appetite.  Her first attempt at gravy wasn’t bad – maybe a little thick – but still salty and flavorful. 

Mama watched Daddy spear his first forkful of biscuit and put it in his mouth.  He chewed thoughtfully as Mama waited with baited breath for his reaction.

“Well,” he said matter-of-factly, “they don’t taste as good as Mom’s.”

Suddenly, a pan flew past his head. Thickened gravy coated the kitchen wall of the tiny trailer they shared.  

"If you don't like it, you can go back home to your mother," was her retort.

My father, stunned into silence, grabbed a dishtowel and started cleaning up the mess.  Because he valued his life, he did not point out that the consistency of the spilled gravy was much like wallpaper paste.

Eventually, Mama apologized to him, and they moved on as married people are wont to do.  To my knowledge, he never criticized her biscuits again - or any biscuits, for that matter.

Mama did acknowledge that Mammaw's biscuits were delicious, and I can attest to that fact.  To be honest, though, I liked Mama's biscuits more.  They were a bit less dry than Mammaw's, and were especially tasty just by themselves, fresh out of the oven.  But Mammaw's biscuits were better with jelly. 

We have room for both, don't we?  With biscuits as with life, sometimes you choose your favorites because they are familiar.  Even after you try all the biscuits at the buffet, you still may choose to return to your mother's table. 

Others, like myself, firmly believe that each biscuit is beautiful in its own way, especially if you're looking down the barrel of a loaded skillet that's ready to take flight.

Willa

My maternal grandmother's legacy could be described as tragic, but I choose to see it another way.

Her name was Willa. She was born on June 5 in Heber Springs, Arkansas. For at least part of her childhood, she was homeless. She lived in a tent city outside of town with her parents and siblings. Later, she married my grandfather, her first husband, and gave birth to my mother and my aunt.

My mother has said that Willa was troubled as long as she knew her. Willa was almost certainly abused as a child and later, by her second husband. By the time my mother was in college (the first in her family), it was apparent Willa was suffering from severe mental illness. My mother and my aunt were anguished. Mom was ready to quit school in order to take care of her, but mercifully was talked out of it.

Eventually, Willa was committed to a state mental hospital for long-term care of her illness. She died at age 57 from leukemia. I don't remember her, because I barely knew her. Yet, she was my grandmother.

There is a picture of me as an infant posing with Willa on her bed at the hospital. Her touch is tender, as is my mom’s, who is tickling my chin to make me smile. I like to think of this picture when I remember her. I wish I could have gotten to know her, to say that I was sorry that there were so few resources available to her as a girl, to hold her hand and hear her heartbreak and tell her of the good news of my Jesus.

I wish I could thank her for bearing her illness in such a way that my mother and aunt were able to create their own lives and thrive. I am so proud of each of them.

Both my mother and my aunt went on to graduate college and have families and careers. Despite my mother's own ongoing health struggles, there is a vast gratitude to God that arises in my heart when I consider the history of my family. My sister and I, only one generation removed, are also college graduates blessed with families and careers, and Sissy was the first to earn a doctorate. We continue to benefit from both social and cultural improvements in poverty eradication to this day.

Of course, I must also give praise for the dichotomous influence of my spitfire mama and my gracious, steadfast Aunt Lois. They are Willa's daughters and a credit to her name.

Willa remains a mystery to me, but she is also my heroine - an unknown someone whose legacy was hidden in her own life but apparent in mine. Mental illness might have dimmed her abilities but it did not obliterate her benefaction to me: my existence, and with it, a chance to honor her and my Lord with my actions - to serve, to love, to avail myself of the opportunities she did not have.

My grateful heart demands it!

43 Reasons

When I was 1, my mother held me in her arms and rocked me to sleep.

When I was 2, she continued to update my baby book faithfully.

When I was 3, she told me I was going to be a big sister.

When I was 4, she treated me to sweet, milky coffee, just like Daddy drank.

When I was 5, she rode the school bus to kindergarten with me almost every single day because I was too scared to go by myself.

When I was 6, I ran off the stage and into her open arms after the little girl standing beside me in the church play refused to hold my hand.

When I was 7, my mother visited the school superintendent and advocated for me and 2 other students to be tested as gifted. No such program existed at my school, since we children who lived in the nearby housing project "typically had no need for it."

When I was 8, I watched her break up a neighbor's domestic squabble by brandishing a Bible in the offender's face.

When I was 9, she let me pick out a new outfit at Kmart with some of the tax refund money. I saw another girl at school wearing the same thing, and she and I became best friends.

When I was 10, she took me to the Tennessee School of Beauty for my first perm.

When I was 11, my mother fainted in the kitchen as the paramedics asked for my late father's personal information. She quickly stood up and continued the business at hand.

When I was 12, she spent a small fortune buying Diet Sprite, just because drinking it made me feel "fancy" while lounging at the neighborhood pool.

When I was 13, she worked a second job at McDonald's and snuck home the leftover McRibs.

When I was 14, she pretended that she didn't know me, at my request, because I was embarrassed that she was a lunchlady at my high school.

When I was 15, she bought me a used bass from a pawn shop because I thought I was a musical genius. (I was not.)

When I was 16, she let me throw a disco party in our trailer. She made sure we had good snacks and plenty of space to be teenagers.

When I was 17, our A/C was busted on the day of prom. Before Mom left for work that morning, she closed all the blinds and blasted the fans, so I would be as cool as possible while getting dressed.

When I was 18, she didn't get angry with me when I admitted to her that I had purposely stopped going to class. The bigness of college scared me and I was too depressed to ask for help until I had flunked some classes.

When I was 19, she helped pay for gas. This was after I found a second college, in Kentucky, that I loved, but still wanted to spend the weekends in Knoxville.

When I was 20, my mom brought our relatives to Kentucky to watch me perform onstage in my college theatre.

When I was 21, I had to drop out of school due to an extended lung illness. To calm my anxiety, she played endless hands of gin rummy with me as I healed.

When I was 22, she became my makeup guinea pig when I started working for Clinique.

When I was 23, I moved into my first apartment. She still let me use her washer and dryer.

When I was 24, she prepared a huge spread of biscuits and gravy, fried potatoes, and fresh tomatoes for a group of my friends, just because they wanted to get to know her better.

When I was 25, I decided to return to school to finish my degree. I asked her if I could move back in while I did so. She said that I could.

When I was 26, a man broke my heart, and I sobbed in her lap while she plotted revenge.

When I was 27, she encouraged me to take a chance on a fast-paced, glamorous job with MAC Cosmetics in Atlanta. (I lasted a year.)

When I was 28, she often visited me from 90 minutes away in Athens when I began to suffer panic attacks.

When I was 29, she helped me tour wedding venues.

When I was 30, she wouldn't stop taking pictures.

When I was 31, she took me to see The Tree That Owns Itself and bought me lunch every time I drove to visit her.

When I was 32, she walked me down the aisle. When our pastor asked, "Who gives this woman to be married?" my mother replied, "She gives herself, because she doesn't belong to me or anyone else."

When I was 33, we talked on the phone every day.

When I was 34, we went for a ride in my new Ford Fiesta and yelled things out the window.

When I was 35, she colored my gigantic pile of thick, wavy hair on Thanksgiving.

When I was 36, she gave me seed money to start a volunteer litter cleanup project. Later on, my husband and I were nominated for a local award because of it.

When I was 37, she sent me pictures of the flowers she had planted with my sister.

When I was 38, a woman received the news at my workplace that her son had died by suicide. I was inconsolable. My mother prayed for me over the phone, until I felt peace.

When I was 39, she gave me the opportunity to hone my advocacy skills and strive to create dignity and equity for her and others.

When I was 40, she told me to make sure I used some of her money to buy myself a birthday present.

When I was 41, she waved from her window at me, bravely surviving 467 days without hugging any member of her family, because of the pandemic.

When I was 42, we sang, “Amazing Grace” together as I pushed her around outside in her chair.

When I was 43, she thanked me for taking care of her and told her that she loved me. It was enough, and it was everything.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mama. I love you.

Worship: A Crash Course

New to Jesus? Returning to in-person worship after 2 years of Zoom? Brushing up on the basics before Easter? Maybe my dictionary will help.

Anointing with Oil: what you have to do (discreetly) to dry pasta salad in the fellowship hall

Cologny Sandwich: back-to-back hugs from overly-perfumed church ladies

Eternal Security: the knowledge that at any time, in any church, there is an industrial-sized stainless steel container of coffee brewing for your refreshment

Fishers of Men: the act of evangelism, e.g., a single Christian lady shopping alone at the hardware store

Great White Throne Judgement: what occurs when a churchgoer in a tight dress walks past the group of Karens

Hymnastics: the happy dance/jump thing you do when you check the bulletin and see the congregation is singing one of your favorite songs that Sunday

Lord’s Supper: sometimes used as breakfast

Martyr: someone who volunteers for nursery duty, may they rest in peace

Pillar of Fire: what your mama will turn into if she has to shush you one more time

Responsive Reading: comes directly before the sermon, around the time you have to elbow your husband awake each week

Stand and Greet: shaking hands with each other in the spirit of love and friendship, or, the part of service where introverts run off to the bathroom

Water Baptism: when the kid sitting next to you dumps the contents of his sippy cup all over your outfit

Legacy

It’s common knowledge that Southerners have colorful family histories. Just about everyone has, say, an incarcerated great aunt who burned down her neighbor’s house out of spite, or perhaps a cousin who worked on the International Space Station. After all, most of us appreciate eccentrics, dramatics, and rascals, and we are eager to share our relation to them. Sometimes we even find out that our ancestors were actual villains. This is humiliating to the very depths of our souls, but does nothing to refute the stereotype that each of us is descended from storybook characters.

My family is no different. I’ve spent years simultaneously bragging on them and questioning their life choices. My paternal grandfather and great-uncle were well-liked musicians in the 1940s East Tennessee country music scene. Calling themselves the Burchfield Brothers, they signed with Capitol Records in 1947 and cut a couple of records on Capitol’s Americana label.

Later, they dissolved their contract with Capitol at the height of their popularity. Why they dissolved it has been a matter of speculation over the years. Some members of my family say that while my great-uncle wanted to focus on gospel music, my grandfather preferred country. Others say my great-uncle’s wife, a good-hearted Christian lady, didn’t want him on the road all the time where he’d be exposed to the enticing temptations of touring life. My daddy, however, suggested that my grandfather’s drinking played a role in the matter.

After the Burchfield Brothers broke up, my grandfather focused on making my daddy a star. My daddy, Tommy, was a musical prodigy. He was able to pick up any instrument and play proficiently in a fraction of the time it took the average person. By age 14, he was an accomplished fiddle player and was playing local gigs booked by my grandfather. He shared the stage with many of country music’s greats, but still dutifully handed my grandmother his paycheck after every event.

My daddy revealed that during this period, he sometimes had to drive home after playing shows because Papaw was too drunk to get back safely. Feeling the weight of responsibility on his young shoulders, Daddy began to hate the performances, the practice, the pressure.

He quit playing the fiddle, forever.

I often think about how different my life would be if either my grandfather or my father had found continued success in the country music biz. There’s a decent chance they would have hit it big. They both had the talent and both were in the right place at the right time. Maybe they would have cut another record that sold a million copies and made them radio stars. If they had, maybe I would now be zipping around Nashville in a custom candy-pink convertible, owing my lifestyle to royalties and monstrously prideful of someone else’s accomplishments.

My father became a Christian in his teens. He played rock and roll for a little while, gigging occasionally with The Elrods and other Knoxville favorites, but eventually he gave up music for the ministry. Later, he became a pastor, and at the end of his life, he was a radio announcer for a gospel AM station in town.

Many years after his death, a man and woman struck up a conversation with my cousin while shopping on Market Square. They exchanged pleasantries and my cousin introduced herself.

Recognizing her last name, the man said, “Are you related to Tommy?”

“Yes, I am,” she replied cheerfully. “He was my uncle.”

“I have to tell you how much we loved your uncle,” the man said.

“My wife and I listened to him every day when my boy was battling cancer. He would talk about the Lord and say encouraging things to us between songs. He was such a blessing.”

My cousin was touched. A remarkably random meeting with strangers revealed a family legacy more important than a record contract.

In the end, I guess the Lord wanted Daddy on the radio, after all.

Papaw and Daddy with Archie Campbell, center

Daddy with Minnie Pearl, center, and a local performer, “Mickey, WATE TV”

Hearts

Does anyone else remember Valentine’s Day, 1986?  It was practically a no-go.  The forecast had called for inches of that sloppy wet snow that leaves East Tennessee roads covered in ice and stores ravaged by Knoxvillians hungry for bread, milk, and eggs.   

      School had been canceled in anticipation of this event, and I was as disappointed as a 7-year-old could be.  Valentine’s Day was my second favorite holiday, right behind Halloween.  Both days were poor kid-friendly because they featured free food and a spirit of escape. 

       A fair amount of my Beaumont classmates lived in public housing.  So did we.  I knew I wasn’t going to be the only one disappointed by the cancellation of heart-shaped cookies and scented Moonbeam pencils.  Our party wouldn’t be rescheduled.  Valentine’s Day was on Friday that year, and there was no way our teacher would let us drag it out for 3 more days. 

      Mama was home with us, and Daddy had taken the bus to work as usual.  It always seemed to me that adults got the short end of the stick when it came to inclement weather.  More often than not, school was closed when it snowed, and work was not.

      Early in the afternoon, I heard Mama hang up the phone in the living room.

      “That was your daddy on the phone,” she said. “They’re closing the radio station because the snow is getting worse.”  I was relieved, because I wanted Daddy home safely, and I knew he was usually game for letting my sister Rebekah and I draw with his colored pencils and markers.  A cozy afternoon spent drawing with Daddy did sound nice.

     The phone rang again about an hour later.  My ears pricked up when I didn’t hear the usual fiery Arkansan cadence in Mama’s speech.  Usually she spoke so quickly she could singe a hole into the phone.  After a minute she replaced the receiver and came into the kitchen. 

     "Girls, let's pray for Daddy. He just called to tell me they canceled the buses because some of them have wrecked on the ice.  He's going to have to walk home."

     My heart sank into my stomach.  I knew it was several miles from the radio station to our apartment, and that it was dangerous to walk home on slippery sidewalks.

       I knew that each day Daddy wore a freshly ironed shirt and pair of pants from his small collection of clothing, and that each morning he put on the same pair of polished, thinly-soled dress shoes.

        I also knew that there was a hole in the bottom of one of those shoes.

       Rebekah and I went back to our playing, but I kept an eye on the clock.  I prayed that God would keep Daddy safe from falling on the snow and ice, and I prayed that Jesus would keep Daddy safe from any bad guys on the walk home. After 2 hours without any other word from him, I noticed that Mama’s face had developed a worried, pinched look.  I knew she was thinking about those shoes, too.          

      “Heather, you and Bekah help me get some stuff together for Daddy.  He’ll be cold when he gets home.”

       We approached our tasks with the thoroughness of surgeons.  Mama filled our Club spaghetti pot with warm water for Daddy’s feet.  I gathered towels to help dry him, and Rebekah dragged the bedspread from our room.  She added her Blanky for extra warmth. 

     Finally, as the sky began to lose its light, Daddy shuffled onto the front porch and into the house.  Mama pulled him over to the chair and we sprung into action.  Mama stripped off his wet shoes and socks and put his ice cold feet into the water, and Bekah and I each took one of his hands and rubbed vigorously, trying to warm them.  His hair was also wet from the snow, which had soaked through his hood.

      “Pooh Bear, take his coat,” said Mama.  “It’s dripping on the chair.”

       Daddy took off his coat and gave it to me.  I opened the closet door.  As I slipped the first shoulder of the coat onto a hanger, I noticed part of a paper bag sticking out of the top of the coat’s inner pocket.

      “Daddy, what’s this?”

      “Well, look inside,” he said.

       Inside the bag were 3 red envelopes, one addressed to Mama, one to me, one to Sissy.

       I opened mine right away and saw the valentine Daddy had chosen special for me.  It was shiny with bright foil hearts.  I heard Bekah giggling over her Garfield card.  Mama was crying over hers and kissing her husband’s rosy face.

      Oddly, the card itself was warm.

      “Daddy,” I asked, “why is my card warm?”

       "Because I kept it close to my heart on the way home, Heather Pooh.”

       And so he had, from Gay Street to Summit Hill to Central, left on 5th, past the Old Gray, up to Elm, straight on Beaumont, right to his three best girls.

I Won’t Back Down

I wrote this a few months ago, when Delta was raging. It contains descriptions of medical procedures, wrestling with faith (but clinging to Jesus), and Frank Political Opinions.

As I clean off Mama’s bedside tray, I wonder if things will ever get better.

She’s in a nursing home.  Vascular dementia.  It’s been approximately 617 days since she’s been anywhere because of the pandemic.  But who’s counting?  At least I’m able to visit inside her room now.  I couldn’t even do that for 467 days. 

I’m wearing a high-quality surgical mask, a face shield, and a gown that covers my clothes.  It is hot and uncomfortable but bearable.  Mama and I are both vaccinated, but we live in counties that have high rates of transmission.  COVID has burned through Tennessee in an epic and horrifying fashion.  At least the nursing home staff insists on proper PPE for any visitors.  Mandatory vaccination for employees was announced several weeks ago.  By my count, they lost a few workers, but I’m glad they’re gone. 

Mama’s nursing home isn’t bad – I’m not worried about her being neglected or abused – but it’s far from perfect.  I’ve never seen a perfect nursing home, especially one that takes Medicaid, like Mom has.  When I visit, I try to fill in the gaps.  I spend most of my time doing Mama’s bidding, moving a box of tissues closer, fetching a Coke, rearranging the knickknacks on the windowsill to her liking. 

Although her windowsill is full of thoughtful gifts, like homemade cross-stitches and Dollywood souvenirs, her favorite items are the rocks she has plucked from the patio garden this summer.  Technically, these rocks are only borrowed, as they belong to the nursing home landscape.  If you knew my mom even a little, that fact would not surprise you.  She’s always had an anti-authoritarian streak.  That streak prevented her from climbing the rungs of the lucrative and powerful Lunch Lady Career Ladder (/s), but it also empowered her to sneak extra food to the kids who went through her line and couldn’t afford to buy full lunches.

Even though I am the type who drives under the speed limit and always uses the crosswalk, I try to bring her a rock every now and then, since it’s gotten too cold to take her outside. 

I arrived this morning right after Mom’s shower.  She wants me to finish drying her hair, so I do.  The warmth of the hairdryer puts her right back to sleep.  Her hair is still mostly auburn, even though she is in her 70s.  I smooth the side of her hairdo and feel the weight of her head fall into my hand, softly, like she is resting on a cloud.

While she dozes, I do a dozen little chores, and I think.  As I often do, I lament that this room – or a hospital room – is likely the last place my mama will see this side of heaven.  I grieve over the fact that my mama, who sang hymns off-key but ebullient with joy, who always championed the underdog, who made my friends laugh and who walked me down the aisle at my wedding, must be sheltered and protected from so many of the people who live in the state she calls home. 

I wonder if any of the lawmakers who have politicized this pandemic ever cleaned food out from underneath their mother’s fingernails, like I have, because the nurses are too busy, too tired, too underpaid, too morally injured from the last 18 months to address the finer points of care.

I wonder if they ever lay awake at night, like I have, imagining what their mothers’ chests would look like rising and falling from mechanical ventilation, terrified that the women who nurtured them would die fast from COVID, but not fast enough to escape fear and suffering, comforted only by strangers who weep in their cars at the end of each shift because they could not save these mothers.  They tried, but they could not.

I wonder if they would wear thin t-shirts and cheap leggings if they visited, like I do, because the plastic gown feels warmer than a coat, and it is foolish to plan an outfit here around anything except stamina. Would they make sure their thick gold cross necklaces (or pins that more tastefully announce their beliefs) were still visible beneath the elastic neckbands?

After all, how else would we know how good they are?

My own Christian faith has been battered over the last 18 months.  It stuns me to hear some fellow Christians proclaim that we are still the arbiters of the moral high ground in this country.  It’s arguable that we ever were.  Parasitic politicians have sold them an illusion of this country’s past that is as fine and genteel as a Southern swimming hole.  The rest of us see it as a creek that has been dammed by racism and greed, filthy and stagnant. 

I don’t understand the war they’ve started.  In any event, people like my mama are among their casualties.

I briefly wake up Mom as I hug her goodbye.  “Love you so much, Pooh,” she whispers.  As usual, I am vibrating with anger and sadness.  How much longer is this pandemic going to rage when it could have already ended?  How can I make things better?  How can I keep going?

Back in my car, I turn up the radio as loud as I can handle it.  Tom Petty tells me that they could stand him up at the gates of hell, but he won’t back down.  Is this a reminder? 

I think it must be.  I close my eyes and envision a forest full of fireflies.  Each one glows and darkens at its own pace, in its own way.  Engage and rest, engage and rest.  I know some fireflies.  Some of them are teachers.  Some volunteer their time.  Some take care of animals.  Some are activists.  Some visit prisoners.  None of them are always engaging, none of them are always resting, yet their collective glow is breathtaking. Maybe it’s even bright enough to see that dam in the dark, so it can be busted up.  Light is the best disinfectant. 

I open my eyes, put the car in drive, and get going.  It’s time to rest, so I can engage again later.  But I will be back.  And I will keep trying to help.

Hey, baby – there ain’t no easy way out.

But you know the rest.

An Indelible Christmas

My 6th grade year of middle school had been a remarkable one. I was 11 and felt as though I was experiencing the world for the first time. Thanks to some special teachers who were gracious with their time and attention, I learned that there were problems to be solved outside my tiny, blue-collar corner of Tennessee, and that one day, I might grow up and help to fix things.

As I gained confidence in my capabilities, my introverted nature diminished. I had an opinion now, a voice – and I used it as often and as loudly as any pre-teen is wont to do. I was especially ready for our extended family’s Christmas celebration.

Two gatherings were held: a party on Christmas Eve, followed by an early supper on Christmas Day. My grandmother’s house would be filled to capacity by dozens of family members and a table groaning with delicious Southern cuisine. Late on Christmas Eve, we would open presents, and soon Mammaw’s blue carpet would be covered with a rainbow of ripped wrapping paper. Sometimes an aunt or uncle, forgetting to buy ahead but feeling generous, would press a folded bill into my hand, filling me with delight.

My uncles and cousins would set up instruments and speakers and play old Ventures and Elvis tunes. Simultaneously, conversations would overflow from every room in the house, increasingly loud laughter punctuating most sentences. Every member of my clever, extroverted family was their most sunny and attractive at Christmas time, and I drawn to the sheer brightness of them.

I couldn’t wait to go to Mammaw’s house and show off the new, “sophisticated,” 6th-grade Heather. I was shocked when Daddy said, “Why don’t we stay here and celebrate, just the 4 of us?”

Immediately, I began to cry. We had never not gone to Mammaw’s house for Christmas. The mere thought of it upset me greatly, especially since I was so eager to show off. My mama and daddy tried to reason with me, but I could not be consoled.

After almost an hour of my tears, Daddy bent down in front of the couch and took my hands in his. His gentle brown eyes were sad and resigned. He looked as though he understood that he would experience many, many more adolescent outbursts in the years to come, and that each one would try his patience.

“We’ll go to Mammaw’s house, Heather Pooh,” he said.

I had a wonderful time at Mammaw’s house that year. It seems like we had more family at that celebration than any other I can recall. I remember vividly that Daddy ate a sandwich made with pumpernickel bread. He was the only one of us who liked it.

We were stunned when he passed away 6 days later.

He died suddenly at home in the early morning hours of December 30, 1989, a mere 144 hours after sacrificing his own happiness for the sake of his daughter’s.

Our Lord is so good and so faithful – although I suffered a terrible amount of guilt over that fact for years, He began to heal me as I matured in my own Christian walk. I came to understand that what my daddy did was leave me with a singularly important memory – an incredible, indelible example of sacrificial love.

Despite the loss, despite the pain, this remains my favorite Christmas.

Daddy modeled what I, as a believer, am called to do. His choice that night caused an influential and long-lasting chain reaction in my life. I believe what our Bible teaches about Heaven – that because I believe that Jesus hung on the cross in my place, I will one day see my daddy again, and I will one day meet our Lord. My daddy believed the same. He no longer has to believe because now he knows!

Perhaps Daddy will meet me one day as the gates to my eternal home swing open, and I can thank him for the best Christmas present he ever gave me. Perhaps I will slip my hand into his, as I did in 1989, and together, we will go thank our Lord for the best Christmas present He gave us, as well.

(Originally published at Devotional Diva.)

Heathern

My friend and I sat in the pew in front of my mother one Sunday morning at church.  We were giggling immaturely over hymn lyrics, delighting in our adolescent creativity while definitively proving that we could not be trusted to act like adults.

Suddenly, I felt the thump of my mother’s finger against the back of my skull.  She pitched forward in her pew quickly, and the rush of wind from her movement briefly lifted my hair.

“Quit acting like heatherns!” she hissed in my ear. 

My mother employed that word in all situations.  She thought not of one’s religious affiliation – whether one was a heathen in the traditional sense or not did not interest her – but only of one’s behavior.  To her, acting like a heathern meant acting obnoxious or, like you didn’t have any raisin’, as we say here.  Often, she meant it affectionately, although that wasn’t the case that day at church.

Mama’s accent prevented her from correctly pronouncing the word, and her Arkansan roots were seldom more apparent than when she inserted a hard ‘r’ into the second syllable.  You can imagine the crisis of confidence I had when I realized that my name, Heather, shares all but one letter with the word heathern.  Whether my moniker was bestowed on me with loving ceremony or just Mama’s commentary on children in general, I will never know.

Cussing

For Annie, featuring an appearance by our dear one, Patsy.

This isn't something I'm especially proud of, but, I can cuss with the best of them.

Maybe it was because my grandfather was a sailor, and he taught my mother some of his most descriptive curse words. During my tender years, I absorbed each of them from her as rapidly as a clean sponge soaks up whiskey. I didn't start cussing on a regular basis, however, until after my dad died. My mother, sister, and I were thrust into survival mode overnight. Suddenly it was acceptable, and perhaps even appropriate, to use tough language. It matched the mood of my heart.

My father, on the other hand, was a shining example of Christian gentility. He would have rather bitten off his tongue than cussed. Not only did he feel that it dishonored the Lord, but he believed cussing made one seem coarse and unloving. In the 11 years that I knew him, I only ever heard him utter one swear, after an 18-wheeler nearly side-swiped us on the I-40 interchange. Never mind that we had nearly been killed; I was so stunned by his emphatic word choice that I gave him the silent treatment the rest of the day.

Oh, the irony.

After I had wandered outside of the bounds of my religious upbringing for several years, I recommitted myself to Christianity and tried to break some of my bad habits. That included cussing. I had gotten so good at it - so lyrical, so creative - that using substitute words was nearly painful. It was like going on a diet and quitting smoking on the same day while shakily tearing open packs of no-calorie sweetener to pour in a cup of decaf coffee.

I still struggle with a desire to curse, but it's gotten easier with time. My favorite swear substitute is "turkey burger." It has a fair amount of syllables and good mouth feel. Try it in a sentence:

Some turkey burger scratched my car with their buggy!

If that turkey burger grabs my rear end one more time, he's going to be wearing his turkey burgers for earrings.

After she ruined my in-home party, I told that turkey burger she could take her overpriced essential oils and shove them up her turkey burger.

Don't you feel more holy already?

I also utilize a considerably more mannerly trick that my paternal grandmother employed. Mammaw would drop the middle phonetic section of the "S" word to rob it of its impolite power. She pronounced it "shhhhh-t," which always sounded to me like a short-tempered Appalachian librarian reprimanding a noisy patron. Even then, that word was only used sparingly. I wondered if it was respect for my father that kept Mammaw’s cussing in check. He was often the placid influence on our passionate, sometimes reckless, family.

Several years after my grandmother's death, my aunt and I cleaned out the cedar chest that had sat at the end of her bed. Mammaw had saved every church bulletin, school play program, and greeting card that anyone had ever sent to her. She had even hung on to the invitation for the Sweet Sixteen party that she hosted for me. I hadn’t seen most of the things in the chest for at least 2 decades. As I reminisced, I wiped away gentle tears as I thought of her adding each memento.

Mixed throughout were cards from her longtime boyfriend, whom she had dated for many years after my grandfather had passed away. Not thinking, I opened one and glanced at the inscription inside.

Mammaw’s boyfriend had given himself a rather racy nickname that definitely included a cuss word. It was both descriptive and boastful.

"What you got there?" my aunt asked.

I handed her the card her mother had received. She read it silently. Our eyes met.

"Why don't I just get rid of that?" she said.

I nodded. Sometimes, cuss words just aren't appropriate. Especially when you’re still too young to hear them.

September 30, 2021

Highly Favor-ed

I’ve always been told I favor my Aunt Patsy. I’ve heard it for years at family reunions and funerals. It’s a nice thing to hear. We have the same ash brown hair and eyes. We share the kind of face that evolves from sweet adolescent roundness to angled sharpness, maturity settling on us as an attractive map of honed edges. Our smiles are so tall that our cheeks briefly turn our eyeballs into thin horizontal slices. And when we flash these toothy grins at others, grins are always returned.

We both have a desire to show up in loved ones’ lives and make them better – whether that involvement is requested or not. We both love Jesus. And we both miss my dad.

Aunt Patsy showed up for me countless times in my life. Sometimes, her gifts were pretty and proper but merely aspirational for a grubby kid living in a trailer - a pearly lavender Bible, a custom ring from Pardon’s Jewelers for my sixteenth birthday, an electronic Brother typewriter. She even made chicken pox bearable with a delivery of teddy bears and balloons. These were the gifts I wanted.

Other times, her gifts were more practical – like the time she and Uncle Ken bought us a dryer so that we wouldn’t have to hang up our wet laundry in the closet anymore, or when she bought us back-to-school clothes and pretty blankets for my and Rebekah’s twin beds – which were also from her. These gifts, while decidedly needed, were harder to accept. There was no need for shame, though – in Aunt Patsy’s eyes, we, and everyone else in her family, deserved the best.

The evening after Daddy died, Aunt Patsy took 11-year-old me to her house to spend the night. She did so because she understood that I simply was not ready to set foot back inside our home. She did so because she loved my daddy and she loved me. I slept back-to-back with her that night, like I used to with my own mama, shattered by grief but protected by her devotion.

She never stopped showing up for me. She made it to both of my graduations and to my wedding in Georgia. Our bond grew stronger as I began to check in with her more regularly over the last few years. They say that you should make sure the people in your life know you love them, because you never know when you might lose the opportunity to tell them. I’m glad that Aunt Patsy knew exactly how much I loved her. We often reminisced on the phone about good times from the past. I thanked her often for the influence she had in my life.

“Well, I was happy to do it,” she’d say. “Call us if you need anything.”

After Aunt Patsy had been placed in hospice care, Ben and I were invited to come over. She wasn’t communicating much the day of our visit. Uncle Ken and I tried to rally her by singing the Cas Walker theme. I don’t recall what Aunt Patsy thought about old Cas, but I do know he wasn’t the only one who gave milk to needy children – so did she, along with dryers and back-to-school clothes and pretty blankets. He also wasn’t the only one who might threaten to whoop hell out of someone who needed it (like that time she took Rebekah’s band teacher to task – but that’s a story for another time).

I looked at Aunt Patsy. It was like time-traveling to the future and seeing what I might look like in 35 years. A hospital bed had replaced the one in which I had cradled next to her all those years ago. Ben and I prayed over her.

Afterwards, I spoke frankly. “Aunt Patsy, I think you’re going to get to see Tommy, my daddy, soon. And I’m going to miss you very much, but I’m so happy for you.” And I was. Loving people inevitably means letting them go, so they can continue their journeys without us. What a beautiful thing, to let go of a balloon and watch it soar, knowing that you helped weave the ribbons that used to be tied to your wrist.

I sobbed miserably on the way home, knowing that it was the last time I’d see her this side of Heaven.

But was it?

After all, don’t I favor her?

When I glance in the mirror, I hope I will always be able to see her – not only in my features but also in the way she helped shape me. Now and in the years that follow, I will not only count her beautiful eyes to my credit, but also her evident loyalty, her constant encouragement, and her enduring love. When I smile at her, she will smile back.