I am standing second from the left in the ever so stylish crocheted poncho made by my grandmother. With my bell bottom jeans and my boots I thought I was all that.
A friend wrote an essay about becoming sixty. She noted all the ways women attempt to defy age as they enter their seventh decade. Notorious among her hallmarks was the taking younger lovers or, gasp, buying clothes which are too young for one’s age.
I did that first back in my 30s…and now I’m onto that more daring activity: clothes which are not my type. As if I had a type. I’ve always gone in for boho, flowing, elegance and sometimes over the top things. Ah, who am I kidding – I like flamboyant. Sparkly. Sequined velvet. Or luscious silk that shimmers. There have been casualties. Such as the “car wash” purple voile trousers with beaded tunic top I wore for my older son’s wedding. Looking back at that outfit, I wonder, “What was I thinking?” Now I realize I just looked like a giant purple eggplant. And there is the burnout velvet kimono with bugle beads, crystals and glorious colors. It’s been worn, but is not the best look, however, I still cherish it. It “gives me joy.”
This spring, I started attending Pilates classes. I love it. As do most suburban devotees of Pilates, I wear fitted athletic leggings to lessons. I got my first “leggings” in 2021. I had been hesitant to wear them, but after taking off some pounds and biking a lot, I decided I wanted to try them. And I love them. They remind me of the unitards I wore to dance class in the early ‘90s. Now I’ve graduated to leggings with the integrated pockets on the thighs. What a fabulous place to stow my phone. Coupled with my array of flowing tunics, many with flounces or flowers, I feel both stylish and fit.
I felt rather daring the first time I wore them out. I asked my husband, “Do you like my pants?” He replied, “Aren’t they just like all your black pants?” He did not even see the difference. But, as a I realized upon the first wearing out, just about every woman I see wears them too…and many are more generously proportioned than I am, and the world has not stopped – yet. But still it felt dangerous to wear them so publicly!
The leggings were the slippery slope of trying to sartorialy reverse time. I’ve added more flowing kimonos to my clothing lineup. I feel elegant and very retro in them. When I went to the bank, I wore the one printed with fall flowers and secured at my shoulder with a giant amber and silver brooch. The feeling of flair was just right.
Flair. That’s who I am. What I wear must have it. Maybe others don’t dress up to go out anymore, but I have decided that in small ways, I’m going to flaunt it.
My mother at left, her brother, mother and sister. About 1971.
I was 17 before I knew about furniture stores. I blame it on my Mama.
I knew about all the other stores. The Winn-Dixie. The A&P. Smith’s Cloth Shop. John B. Lee’s for Music. And even Rice’s Office Store. I did not have an inkling that stores exclusively offering new furniture existed.
In my world, furniture was passed down. It came from an aunt. A grandmother. OK, maybe you bought some of it — at the Haven of Rest Store where you could hear a testimony and buy an old couch. There and at hole-in-the-wall cinder block buildings where old furniture was stored by tetchy men or women who ran antique stores or at least what passed for them in my small South Carolina town. When Mama and Daddy started planning their house, Mama began attending auctions. She took me with her.
We went to a lot of auctions. Mostly estate auctions. Not barn auctions. Or fancy Christies type auctions. Held on Saturdays, they attracted all kinds of folks. They parked on the grass or on both sides of the street, causing arterial clogs of a whole ‘nother kind than the one which felled the dearly departed.
Auctioneers standing on front porches hoisted crumpled cardboard boxes aloft over clusters of heads. Helpers tipped the box forward, enticing us to peek at the treasures. Box lots, the grab bag of the auction world, might hold a shepherdess figurine, a holey granite enamel saucepan and a few odd pieces of silverware. Not that the anyone ever put those things together in real life. You had to take the good with the bad.
The auctioneer pattered rapidly as hands waggled and permanent-waved heads nodded. Mama warned me not to lift my hand or shake my head. Small appliances and chairs mixed in between box lots. There were a lot of ancient appliances. Wringer washers and monitor top Frigidaires weren’t too uncommon. Once, when Mama wasn’t paying attention, my brother bid on — and won — an ancient radiant electric heater. The kind that would kill you if it fell in your bath. It was a frightening looking thing, frayed cord and all. I never knew why he wanted that. Mama got a box of Bavarian china, sprigged with blue flowers and decorated with gold. Her bonus was a bunch of assorted serving pieces. The spherical covered vegetable dish with its broad rim reminded me of Saturn. Bit by bit, the box lots petered out and the big furniture came out. I don’t know why we never got big pieces there…but I suspect it was because in the heat of the auction, prices were dearer than Mama cared to pay. Mama liked a bargain.
Afterschool, I tagged along with Mama to newly discovered antique stores. And I didn’t even think it strange. It was just something we did. I learned the difference between cabriole legs and William and Mary vase turned legs and Jacobean turned legs. I know all about ball and claw feet with eagle talons vs hairy lion’s paw feet. Then I learned the style periods of Hepplewhite. Sheraton. And the acme (at least in our household) of them all: Chippendale. I could tell a Chinoiserie fretwork from a Gothic fretwork. I knew a Japonisme lacquer finish from a cloisinee surface. I don’t know many third graders who could spot a vernacular farm-made drop leaf table and know it was walnut as opposed to cherry.
Bit by bit I could distinguish between oak and mahogany. Probably just from seeing it so much. Or maybe she explained it to me. But I think it was more osmosis. I observed the wood’s appearance and learned the difference between all the exotic species. I could tell you which dovetails were machine made and which ones were hand cut.
Mama was finding treasure and furnishing her house. And she was leading me to appreciate the beauty of line, proportion, scale. To differentiate furniture forms and know a high boy from a low boy. A 20th century neoclassical reproduction from an 18th century upholstered wing chair.
I said Mama liked a bargain. Some might have even said she was cheap, but cheap never looked so good. She had a way of seeing the beauty in the discarded. A talent she employed with people, not just furniture. As an idealistic child of the Depression, throwing something away was just not done. It was made over and done up. And it was beautiful.
One afternoon, I found her in the car shed. Her white shirt sleeves rolled up. On her hands, yellow Playtex dishwashing gloves turned orange from Old English Walnut Stain. Like Doris Day, she puffed out the side of her mouth to blow the hair up off her forehead. Refinishing furniture in the Southern summer is hot work. Now, that’s the same table where I sit when I eat dinner at my son’s house.
You see like our DNA, furniture is not purchased, it’s passed on.
My Grandmother Browne, my father’s mother, never appeared in her nightgown. Every morning, she stepped from her bedroom fully dressed wearing a shirtwaist dress; cardigan if the weather was chilly, and on her legs, nylon stockings held up with rolled garters, and shod with her signature low-heel, t-strap broghan style shoes which were generally brown or black or for Sunday more colorful. She wore bone colored ones in the summer.
Grandmother was petite…what today would certainly be a size 2. Her feet were very small, probably a size 4 quad (for you who have never purchased shoes this way, it meant 4 AAAA, which was a very narrow foot). She walked with a mincing step, causing her to slightly twist from the waist as she walked, and which appeared as a slightly affected way of moving. As she got older, she grew lots of hairs on her chin – which she shaved. She had a 5:00 shadow. She smelled of cherries and almonds from her Jergens hand cream and her face was powdered with Pond’s loose powder as she sat at her vanity, a white painted table with tripartite, articulated mirrors and a dresser scarf protecting the surface. Her vanity was part of a set of bedroom furniture with an armoire, and a double bed that had a headboard and footboard which angled around the mattress. For convenience, she kept a lidded, pale yellow, green rimmed, enameled pot under her bed – so she did not leave her bedroom to relieve herself at night. The house’s single bathroom was at the back of the house.
She was something of a prissy woman, not vain, but with decidedly precise manners and a waved coiffure, reminiscent of her youth in the early 1920s. She was one of 3 sisters. Her name was Ila Irene – and was called Irene – her sisters were Maude and Helen, all names of the era – classics. Grandmother Browne was raised by her mother and father, who was a local Magistrate and store owner, in Glendale, South Carolina. It was a mill town. My mother always said my grandmother had “airs”. Grandmother’s family were financially better off than most in their town, and she went to Lander College when it was still an all girls college. She studied French. Her parents felt she married “beneath her”.
She met my Grandfather Sidi at a Billy Sunday tent revival meeting – and all their lives they were fairly ardent in their church attendance, mostly at Triune Methodist Church, until the Methodist Church integrated and then she and my grandfather removed themselves to a branch of the Presbyterian Church that did not have integrated congregations. They were very racist.
Granddaddy Browne was 6’ 4” tall, muscular, and towered over Irene. He was a diesel bus mechanic. And possessed of a terrible temper. He loved Wagner. Particularly Tannhauser. He worked at night at the Duke Power public bus barn, and his large, rough hands, embedded with grease and grime, reflected his work on motors. How he and Irene were a match was always a mystery, but he treated her with kid gloves. She was indulged. She never had a washing machine: Their clothes, linens and all items except underwear, were sent out to the laundry. Grandmother did the unmentionables “on her hands” in the kitchen sink, hanging them to dry on the back porch. She didn’t drive. On Thursdays, he drove her to “The Dixie” for their weekly grocery shopping and he pushed the “buggy” for her. As they got older, on Sundays, they went to the “Cafeteria” for dinner, the midday meal.
Every morning, Grandmother walked into her kitchen in her newly donned, crisp dress, to cook either eggs and bacon or oatmeal. Her small kitchen table was set the night before with Anchor Hocking Jadeite plates and coffee cups turned upside down. Juice glasses were a floral pattern Anchor Hocking pressed, green glass which were also turned upside down. Where she thought the dust was going to come from, is a mystery, because she kept a very clean home. She made percolated coffee on her hulking Hotpoint stovetop in a slightly dented, large aluminum coffee pot with a hefty, black Bakelite handle. The aroma of coffee perfused the air and was the morning call to Grandaddy, or visiting grandchildren, to get up.
Later, Grandmother Browne “Hooverd” the floors and carpets of her 1920s bungalow home – with a classic machine
of the same vintage as her house and which made a crazy amount of noise. She swept the hardwood margins around the carpets with a mechanical floor sweeper. Always close by was an elongated, oval, black Fuller brush with which she groomed the upholstery of Granddaddy’s Morris Chair and her open armed rocking chair.
Following her morning work, she would sit in her rocking chair and read the morning newspaper, perhaps sipping a Coke.
After lunch, which might be a sandwich, she would “lie down”.
In the afternoon, after starting dinner, she would return to her rocker with the afternoon paper.
Following dinner and the washing up, she would watch a bit of television, enjoying a bowl of Thrifty Maid “cream” – her favorite being Neapolitan, retiring for the night around 9:00…only to begin again the next day.
Streaming up I-26 we sing along to Spotify’s Southern Rock 101 playlist… “I’m travelin’ down the road; I’m flirtin’ with disaster; I’ve got the pedal to the floor,…” reminiscing about where we were in the 1970s and how each of the list’s songs held some meaning for us in our history. Old people karaoke. Without mics or stages, but hot on the trail of joy and nostalgia.
We play this game a lot. And in 2020 we found ourselves doing it much more than in the past. Because, you know, ‘Rona.
I felt expansive. Unrestricted. Albeit, still masked when pumping gas, dashing into a truck stop for a hot dog and a pee break, but you know…free. At least compared with all of 2020. We were speeding into joy.
If this was a Hallmark movie, we would be going home for Thanksgiving and there would be a warm glow around the edges of every scene. Perhaps I live too much in idealism, but I was lost in scenes of joyous reunions. Conversation where everyone talks together. Endless time for happy lingering.
Having received my COVID-19 vaccinations, I felt freer than I had for more than a year. The plan of a family reunion and dinner at Outback — not exactly a first tier restaurant — held more appeal than our cherished annual Christmas Eve luncheon at our favorite Charleston restaurant, Slightly North of Broad.
We stayed at home. For months. Ordering pick-up groceries. Shopping the web. We came to recognize Amazon Prime delivery drivers by their signature style of delivering packages. Some tossed them a la Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, some stealthily avoided our security cam by dipping their face or pulling down their cap. FedEx drivers distinguished themselves because they always rang the doorbell, while USPS package deliveries would be tossed on the steps as if the driver was playing the kids’ game where a designated structure is a river of fire…that postal package carrier never stepped on that burning flow: preferring to simply heave the package in the direction of the porch, sometimes making it, sometimes not. Thank heavens we were not ordering china.
Our first post-pandemic trip is to see family in Greenwood, South Carolina. Not a five star resort or mountain AirBnB rental, but more beloved and longed for than any deluxe get away. I’ve never gone that long without seeing them. Greenwood is where my 92 year old mother lives in a continuing care retirement community, which was closed to family for the entire pandemic. And Greenwood is where my older son and his family live too.
For 13 months, longer than a human pregnancy, I felt as if I were gestating an elephant. Which would be named “Return to normality.”
II
That hallway is long. Walking it seems as if only yesterday I was there. Not February 2020. I knocked on the door of my mother’s apartment. Opened by the caregiver, I introduced myself, but could not contain my excitement as I rushed into the living room. Yes, she still does know my face and voice. But she was a bit confused. Like I’d just walked from the room and had re-entered. Not like I’d been away for 14 months. No time. Just immediacy. Sad that her body is feeling its age, I am happy to be reunited. Thankful for the caregivers who have nurtured her for all these many months.
I began a long exhalation…having not even been aware that for 13 months, I’d held my breath, hoping she would be there when I was able to safely visit. Now we hug and kiss. I did not weep. But felt a shimmering joy like the surface of a pond, ruffled in the breeze, as it dances along until it embraces the shore. At home at last.
III
I’ve watched surfers at Folly Beach all my life. The small, variable waves are hard to catch. Difficult to ride. They yield short rides that decline into minimal surf. But the proficient ones glide atop those waves. Finding their glory moment. Though some wipe-out before they even get started.
Our joy carried us into the lobby of the Hampton Inn. Delighted to know that we would be able to have contactless check-in via the Hilton app for our first floor room.
Our wave ran out. We bumped bottom.
Our room wasn’t ready. We were punted to a second floor room; one that proved to be at the hall’s terminus, as far from the elevator as possible. A position I would have loved in prior years, but this pandemic year has seen my basketball trashed right knee require my use of a cane to keep me from hobbling like a crone. Oh, well, at least the bed was luxurious as we splashed down onto its surface.
“Drip, drip, drip,” Bill said emerging from the bathroom.
“What do you mean,” I inquired.
“The bathroom faucet is dripping into the shower and the walls are covered with mold.” “How much are we paying for this, he wondered…”
“Far too much to endure that,” I reply.
The housekeeper in the hall was upset that this room was rented to us. She muttered, “I keep telling them not to rent this room…but they keep doing it…”
“I’m going to go get y’all new keys for a new room. Stay here and I’ll be right back.”
When she returned she carried new key cards and pushed a luggage cart to assist our moving. Our new room she prounounced, “is across from the elevator on the third floor so you won’t have to walk far.”
Delayed from our reunion, I texted my son that we would be a bit later than expected, but to bring my grandson’s bathing suit, because the pool was open. My grandma visions of a splashing child buoyed my hopes.
Room 308 proved to be clean, drip-free, but with a sticky bathroom floor due to inadequate rinsing after mopping. But undeterred, I began to unpack our cold bag of homemade-yogurt into the fridge…but it didn’t seem to be cold to me. I fiddled with the on switch, cursing it. “Bill, check to see if this is working.”
“Well, it seems to be on,” he said.
In went the yogurt, the strawberries, apples and oranges which I’d brought for our breakfast and snacks. I added in the still frozen gel packs which had kept things cold on the trip up.
“Ok, let’s go.”
The little girl who lives inside me jumped up and down as her older self surfed the wave to Outback.
Time collapsed into hugs, split-face grins and unbounded joy as I held my first-born. And his son. And my daughter-in-love.
This is the point in the Hallmark movie when they fade into a romantic montage of gesticulations, laughter and toasts. Fade to black.
Yes. It was that good.
IV
Every Hallmark movie has drama. We had ours in this our post-COVID rom-dram.
Back in the hotel room.
I forgot my pillows. (I never go anywhere without them.) Bill banged his elbows on the shower walls. We were both frustrated that in order to turn on the shower, you have to have to step into it, getting wet in the process.
“Did you see that the door’s safety latch is broken? Somebody tried to force it, so it won’t function,” notes Bill.
“And you have to shove the bedroom door into the frame to get it to latch,” he concludes.
Despite the comfy seeming bed, neither of us slept. We woke multiple times. Hot. Crampy. Kicking the hotel duvet off but immediately pulling it back. No happy medium because the AC was cool, but not enough for the heavy duvet.
Morning came. I stirred to make coffee. I’d brought my French press so I could have “good coffee.” Not hotel crap. Putting water into the microwave, I realized I could not get it to start.
First step in debugging: is it plugged in? Yes. To a power surge strip that was loaded with plugs for the television, fridge and the microwave.
“Bill, look at this.” “Can you fix it?”
He fiddles with the powerstrip, checks its connections. “It’s plugged in.”
“I think the breaker’s tripped,” he diagnoses.
“I’m going to get dressed and go get some coffee and ask for the maintenance guy,” I said.
In the lobby, I got a cup of coffee, and spent five minutes trying to figure out how to put the lid on the cup, only to realize that they were a size mismatch.
Delicately balancing the hot coffee and navigating the hallway using my cane, I approached the desk and the clerk asked, “How can I be of assistance.”
“Our fridge, TV, microwave are not working because the breaker seems to be blown. Can you have the maintenance guy come check it out?”
“No,” he replies.
“I can change your room for you because maintenance doesn’t work on the weekend,” he offers.
“I don’t want to change my room; I’ve already had to do that,” I grumbled.
“I’m sorry, that’s all I can do.”
Back up to the room.
We talked it over. Both of us were tired. Yesterday’s euphoria and good will seemingly vanished.
I said to Bill, “if I’m going to pack, I’d just as soon pack to go home.”
“I agree,” he said.
Our Hallmark movie has hit it’s critical plot line. Hampton Inn had one job. A clean, comfortable, functional, safe room. They blew that.
We were somewhat restored by the kindness of the checkout clerk who apologized in a sincere manner, abbreviating our stay for 24 hours and awarding us extra “loyalty points” for our inconvenience.
V
The spring breeze, rainbow snapdragons and rhododendrons of the gardens at the retirement community gave us a renewed sense of joy. We greeted long-absent faces and returned to visit my mama.
And got a bonus. We were surprised by my brother and my sister-in-love. An all too short visit; we left to go spend the afternoon with my son’s family.
Near sunset, we started our journey home. Bill sleeping upright, head jouncing along as the car rumbled over the rough pavement.
Our first foray out was not quite the Hallmark movie I wanted. But still. We reunited. We hugged. We shared. We laughed. And laughed some more. But there was a bitter taste in my mouth…did I want too much? Do I?
VI
I don’t know if my expectations were heightened due to the pandemic’s interruption of normal life, or if people’s ability to provide quality has been affected by business interruptions, but I know that I really was feeling the last lines of the Molly Hatchet song,
while every tree shows bright green
death inhabits.
rises into the air as poison.
life — with fetid breath — dies
and yet the cherries blossom.
tears, not rain, water our lawns
as we run circles. away
from a foe for which we have no defense.
burials wait until another season.
strangers gather our groceries,
deliver to doorsteps easter hams
for solitary resurrection celebrations.
we honor one who triumphs over death,
small comfort when we have no savior
in this war against a thief who steals spring.
Poetry, Scribblings & Thoughts 