When I was a child, we made summer trips to the family home in the mountains of eastern Kentucky. Upon arrival, we were greeted by hundreds of yellow daylilies blooming in my great aunt’s garden.
When all the older family members were gone, grandchildren and nieces and nephews gathered one last time to distribute the furnishings, photos, and mementos. My husband and I were the only ones to spend a few minutes digging up lilies to plant at our first home in South Carolina. Each time we move, we take just a few with us.
Soon George and I will move into what is planned to be our final house. Only the things we truly love will go with us. And, next summer, my great aunt’s lilies will welcome us each time we come home.
Tall yellow lilies,
Lush memories of childhood,
Call us to come home.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Monday, February 6, 2006
Routine Exam
In 1972, two days before my 21st birthday - the Thursday before Easter, I had a routine physical. I was home from college for spring break and had promised my mother that I would finally go to the doctor. I told him that I had a minor illness a month or so earlier and that the "townie" doctor who examined me in the college clinic was particularly attentive to my thyroid. After explaining that I had taken thyroid medication for a short while as a younger child, he proceeded to deal with the sinus infection that brought me to the college clinic in the first place.
However, our family doctor was more concerned. He checked my thyroid gland, immediately had me get up, dress, and go straight to the local hospital to take the medication that would allow me to have a thyroid scan the next day, on Good Friday. Our family doctor was a life long friend of my mother's and he called her while I was at the hospital to explain his concern and the urgency for the test.
Mom accompanied me to the hospital on Friday for the scan. My twenty-first birthday was on Saturday. My parents and our doctor insisted that I not return to school on Monday, as planned, but wait until Tuesday when the results would be available.
When the phone rang on Tuesday, I joined the conversation between my mother and doctor on another phone. My mother insisted that I get off, ordered me to get off, and wouldn’t hear anything else but that I get off the phone. Finally, I gulped and spoke straight to the doctor. "I'm twenty-one and I will not give you permission to discuss this with my mother unless I am on the phone." I've always admired the way he paused and then told my mother that he would explain the results to me while she listened, with my permission. He proceeded to tell me that the test showed that I had thyroid cancer, fortunately detected in the earliest stages. I had surgery about a month later and have had no further problems with cancer in thirty-four years.
I do still have to gulp and force myself to take responsibility to speak up occasionally but this moment reminds me of how important it might be.
However, our family doctor was more concerned. He checked my thyroid gland, immediately had me get up, dress, and go straight to the local hospital to take the medication that would allow me to have a thyroid scan the next day, on Good Friday. Our family doctor was a life long friend of my mother's and he called her while I was at the hospital to explain his concern and the urgency for the test.
Mom accompanied me to the hospital on Friday for the scan. My twenty-first birthday was on Saturday. My parents and our doctor insisted that I not return to school on Monday, as planned, but wait until Tuesday when the results would be available.
When the phone rang on Tuesday, I joined the conversation between my mother and doctor on another phone. My mother insisted that I get off, ordered me to get off, and wouldn’t hear anything else but that I get off the phone. Finally, I gulped and spoke straight to the doctor. "I'm twenty-one and I will not give you permission to discuss this with my mother unless I am on the phone." I've always admired the way he paused and then told my mother that he would explain the results to me while she listened, with my permission. He proceeded to tell me that the test showed that I had thyroid cancer, fortunately detected in the earliest stages. I had surgery about a month later and have had no further problems with cancer in thirty-four years.
I do still have to gulp and force myself to take responsibility to speak up occasionally but this moment reminds me of how important it might be.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Mornings After
The morning after my father’s funeral, the women of the family gathered around the kitchen table for breakfast and ended up talking for hours. I wondered if my grandfather’s name would come up and, suddenly, it did. Just as suddenly, my sister and cousin clutched their arms over their chests and jerked away from the table as if to protect themselves from an impending threat. My sister said, “He scared me.” My cousin said, “I never liked him.”
I was 42 and I’d never told anyone, but I decided this was the time. When I was about 5, we visited my grandfather in the boarding house where he lived in his retirement. My sister and I spent the night in his bedroom. Mom and Dad were across the hall.
I remember it as being “my turn”. I can only assume that’s what he told me, but that morning after my father’s funeral at the kitchen table, my sister indignantly said it certainly never happened to her. My mother said it couldn’t be true because my grandfather always gave her such nice presents. My cousin said our grandfather had molested the housekeeper who raised her following her mother’s death. The only other comments were on the times my grandfather was found alone with elderly women in the nursing home where he spent his last days.
My own memory is selective. My grandfather’s bed is against the wall; my sister is sleeping across the room. The bedroom is dark – the hallway is dark- the wide steps down to the front door are dark. The images from the bathroom are vivid and, thankfully, filled with light - black and white checkerboard tiles, a pedestal sink, a claw foot tub. However, the knowledge of this night is present in every second of every interaction I have ever had with every other adult male until this minute in my life, sitting at this kitchen table at age 42.
The morning after, my family walked across the street to the diner where my grandfather ate breakfast each day. He sat at the counter with other men from the boarding house. The four of us found a table in the crowded restaurant and ate while sunlight flooded through the windows.
But, light can’t expose everything.
I was 42 and I’d never told anyone, but I decided this was the time. When I was about 5, we visited my grandfather in the boarding house where he lived in his retirement. My sister and I spent the night in his bedroom. Mom and Dad were across the hall.
I remember it as being “my turn”. I can only assume that’s what he told me, but that morning after my father’s funeral at the kitchen table, my sister indignantly said it certainly never happened to her. My mother said it couldn’t be true because my grandfather always gave her such nice presents. My cousin said our grandfather had molested the housekeeper who raised her following her mother’s death. The only other comments were on the times my grandfather was found alone with elderly women in the nursing home where he spent his last days.
My own memory is selective. My grandfather’s bed is against the wall; my sister is sleeping across the room. The bedroom is dark – the hallway is dark- the wide steps down to the front door are dark. The images from the bathroom are vivid and, thankfully, filled with light - black and white checkerboard tiles, a pedestal sink, a claw foot tub. However, the knowledge of this night is present in every second of every interaction I have ever had with every other adult male until this minute in my life, sitting at this kitchen table at age 42.
The morning after, my family walked across the street to the diner where my grandfather ate breakfast each day. He sat at the counter with other men from the boarding house. The four of us found a table in the crowded restaurant and ate while sunlight flooded through the windows.
But, light can’t expose everything.
Big Floweredy Dresses
My sister and I made our first trip to California together, two undeniably Southern women in our fifties, expecting to be swaddled in the messages that we remembered as teens from the 1960’s.
My sister couldn’t wait to mingle with the hippies that she was certain would be evident on every block in Berkeley. She says she saw them – but I saw linen, khaki, shoes you wear to walk to work, people with the good sense to dress comfortably.
The two of us, however, were dressed in big floweredy dresses, the kind women our age wear all over the South. I’m talking flowers the size of dinner plates - bright reds, blues, yellows, and oranges, all splashed onto the same wearable canvas. Nothing in Berkeley was blooming as loudly as we were.
In the South, when you see women our age enter a room with bold colors and patterns, it sends a message. Not the same message as “tacky” which requires a sense of style cultivated over a lifetime and a “bless your heart” level of condescension. Just look at the jewelry my mother wears to go to the grocery store.
But, you can expect boldly dressed women to speak up freely and often. At home, at least one woman would have rushed over to me on the street to ask, “Where did you get that beautiful floweredy dress? I’ve been looking for something just like that to wear for jury duty next week.” A middle-aged Southern woman wearing a loud dress would never have a problem being the lone holdout on a hung jury.
The obvious statements I did find in Berkeley were on the T-shirts sold by the street vendors. For months after my return, my husband drove around Greenville, SC, with his souvenir shirt that read, “Born OK the first time.” Lord knows what that man will have to say when I get home after my next trip.
My sister couldn’t wait to mingle with the hippies that she was certain would be evident on every block in Berkeley. She says she saw them – but I saw linen, khaki, shoes you wear to walk to work, people with the good sense to dress comfortably.
The two of us, however, were dressed in big floweredy dresses, the kind women our age wear all over the South. I’m talking flowers the size of dinner plates - bright reds, blues, yellows, and oranges, all splashed onto the same wearable canvas. Nothing in Berkeley was blooming as loudly as we were.
In the South, when you see women our age enter a room with bold colors and patterns, it sends a message. Not the same message as “tacky” which requires a sense of style cultivated over a lifetime and a “bless your heart” level of condescension. Just look at the jewelry my mother wears to go to the grocery store.
But, you can expect boldly dressed women to speak up freely and often. At home, at least one woman would have rushed over to me on the street to ask, “Where did you get that beautiful floweredy dress? I’ve been looking for something just like that to wear for jury duty next week.” A middle-aged Southern woman wearing a loud dress would never have a problem being the lone holdout on a hung jury.
The obvious statements I did find in Berkeley were on the T-shirts sold by the street vendors. For months after my return, my husband drove around Greenville, SC, with his souvenir shirt that read, “Born OK the first time.” Lord knows what that man will have to say when I get home after my next trip.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)