Southern Porches

I recently lost my last connection with my past. The only person who could answer questions and fill in the gaps about my family passed away. Her physical health had deteriorated in the past few years, but Aunt Agnes never failed to send birthday and anniversary cards to everyone she loved. She would sit down with her calendar and address book at the start of each month and get them all ready. They would be lined up on a shelf over her desk in the kitchen in the order they were to be mailed. She stayed connected with her family and friends in such a special way.

As a young child I always saw Aunt Agnes either washing clothes on the back porch or cooking for her family. She took great pride in keeping a clean house and taking good care of her children. She wanted to improve her vocabulary and with the help of Readers Digest made a point of using new words frequently. This played a big part in my love of words and their power.

As a young married woman, I would drop in to have a cup of coffee. She would brew Maxwell House and it was strong and wonderful. We would sit at the kitchen table, sip our coffee, nibble on something sweet, and discuss our family and cooking. Our conversations usually drifted back in time and she would talk about growing up with her brothers and sisters . I was always hungry for stories about that people she and I both loved. Aunt Agnes was known for her pound cakes and banana bread. She always had several in the freezer and there was usually one for me to take home. As the years passed, she switched to freeze dried Tasters Choice, which was pretty dreadful, but the love and conversation was what I came to drink in and I always went away satisfied with that.

A few months ago I had my last good conservation with my aunt. She was in the hospital and preparing for her move to a nursing home. She had dictated to her daughter, Mary, things that she wanted taken care of for her move. She had packed a box for each of her children with things she wanted them to have. A few years ago she had given me several pictures that she knew I would love to have. Most were of my Mother when she was a small girl. She remembered another one that she wanted me to have. It is of my Grandfather sitting in his rocker on the front porch. He is wearing a sport coat and the drying kudzu is still clinging to the end of the porch. You can see the daybed, where I used to read and play with my paper dolls, in the background. I am on the floor, peeking out from behind his legs. It is a wonderful picture that I had never seen before. My cousin, Mary, had enlarged and framed it for me and it is where I can see it every day. I will treasure it forever.

I was working on a story that my Grandmother had told me, about something that had happened when her children were young. The essence of the tale was clear in my mind, but I couldn’t remember who the culprit was. Aunt Agnes smiled as I recounted the story and laughed as she told me she was the one who had done the dirty deed.

“I did it.” she said. “I was a mean child.”

I can’t imagine my Aunt Agnes ever being mean. She must have grown out of that early on. She raised six children and one grandchild, mostly by herself. They were all in attendance with their children and grandchildren when she was laid to rest. My cousin Dan read a poem he had written about her. It was lovely. She would have been so proud of Robbie, her grandson, who was a special light in her life, as he gave her eulogy. He spoke of her tenderness and her strength and included memories that were only his. Now they are a part of mine. Hers was a life well lived and filled with love and family. She will always be a part of me, and I will forever be blessed with the time I spent with her.

My grandmother was a great storyteller. She loved to talk about growing up on a farm in Yadkin county, and I loved listening to her tales of long ago. Some of her stories were about ghosts and witches and they were my favorite even though they made me afraid to enter a dark room until I was almost grown. My cousin, Toni, reminded me of the following one of Mama’s tales. I will try to tell it just as she did.

When I was a young girl on the farm, we all had to do our part. I would help with the feeding of the chickens, cows, and pigs, planting the garden and later weeding and harvesting it, and help Mama in the house with the cooking and cleaning. It was a harder life than the one you will know, but I got along. Sometimes I would hire out to help a neighbor who might be feeling poorly and need an extra hand around the house. It gave me a change of scenery and a little piece of money, so I never minded.

Such was the case when a man who lived a few miles away came riding up in his wagon. His wife had just given birth to their fifth youngun and she had taken to her bed. They needed someone to look after the children and do the cooking. He asked Papa if he could spare me for a week or two. The deal was struck, so I packed my satchel and climbed on the wagon for a trip to an unfamiliar place. I was excited.

I was taken aback a little when we arrived at the farm. The house seemed big and foreboding even in the sunlight. It stood amidst a stand of large oak trees and there was a porch that wrapped around the dwelling. It looked like a lonely place and my first impression was that it was unfriendly. The atmosphere changed when we entered the house and I was surrounded by a herd of small children. Most needed noses wiped and faces washed and all were hungry, so I went to work. By late afternoon, I had things in hand and had a nice visit with the lady of the house. After supper, I settled the children in their beds and retired to my room.

The small space was filled with an iron bed, complete with a feather mattress, a small chest, a straight back chair, and a chamber pot. I suddenly missed the room at home that I shared with my sisters and having my brothers bedded down just across the hall. I waited as long as I could before putting out the oil lamp. I had to get up early the next morning, so I needed my sleep. I was just dosing off when I heard a noise in the hall. Old houses always creak and crack in the night, soI  wasn’t alarmed, but I felt a little uncomfortable.

Just as sleep was coming to take me, I felt the covers moving slowly downward. Thinking that the older boys had slipped in and were playing a trick, I sat up and grabbed the quilt. Not a sound, no rustling or giggling did I hear. I sat up in bed for a few minutes, and when nothing else happened, I settled back into the soft feather bed. In a quick, sudden movement the covers were yanked off me. I lay there totally uncovered except for my nightgown. The moon was full that night, so by it’s light, I got out of bed and walked around the room. There was no one in there but me. I even looked under the bed. I was alone, or so I thought.

I spread the quilt and sheet back up on the bed, tucked them tightly at the foot, and climbed back in. As I lay down, I pulled them over and underneath my head. “Now pull them off.” I sternly said.

What happened next is something I will never forget. The covers were jerked from the bottom of the bed and flung right in my face. I don’t know how I did it, but I cleared that room in seconds and raced up the hall. I threw open the door to my employers room and jumped right in the middle of their bed.

“I will sleep here tonight, and in the morning you can take me home.” I informed them. And he did.

“Well, it’s time for bed. Don’t forget to say your prayers and be sure you pull the covers up real tight. You never know.” she would usually say after relating this tale.

And I still do.

We have escaped to our favorite refuge- the beach. We came down Friday evening and will be here till next Sunday. A friend owns this wonderful oceanfront retreat, and is kind enough to let us use it occasionally. We had a week with no auctions, so it was perfect timing. This house is large and well equipped, with all the comforts of home, plus a back yard containing sand, sea oats and endless salt water. This is my favorite place on earth so I am happy, happy, happy. The Carolina weather is spectacular, with temps in the eighties and the beach is full of late sunbathers and shell seekers. We brought our beach essentials. Butch brought his shorts, snacks, and binoculars- the sunbathers, don’t you know. Anne, Butch’s mom, came with her famous chicken salad and chocolate cake, her Bible, and jigsaw puzzles that she will work at a table with an ocean view. I came with a stack of books, notebooks, and my laptop. I always bring light reading to the shore. I call them “beach books”. I start off with something really light, that I can put down at short notice when Butch calls me from the porch, to show me a group of toddlers, who reminds him of our grandchildren, or a dog frolicking in the sea. I read almost all of Saturday. There is a chaise by the doors leading to the upper porch, where I can see and hear the ocean, while I lose myself in a mystery. This day it was Mary Higgins Clark’s- Night Time Is My Time. I usually have a handle on the culprit early on, but this time I had no clue. Guess it was all the interruptions from the porch. As Saturday came to a close, I had read a book, walked on the beach with the man I love, and ate way too much. A perfect day at a perfect place.

Sunday, I awoke early, as is my custom- I am afraid I will miss something if I go to bed too early or sleep too late. I worked on Anne’s puzzle for awhile, fleshed out a story in my mind, and considered my other reading material. I brought Iris Johansen’s Firestorm, Grisham’s Bleachers and The Last Juror, and Dennis Lehane’s Shutter Island. I am looking forward to walking in the characters shoes and going to another place in my mind.

I have always loved books, poems, and songs, and the people who write them. I want to be able to touch someone’s heart with what I write. If someone reads my ramblings and feels like they can connect with me in even a small way, then I will be content. If my friends and relatives, who visit my journal, can share my memories  of my family, then I will feel successful in this project. But this is a new day at the beach and I am going to cram as much into it as I can. I think I will travel with John.

Some of my most vivid memories as a small child revolve around death. My first exposure to the last goodbye was going to sit-ups with my Grandmother. I can remember curling up on the sofa with my head in her lap. My eyes would be closed and I would be in that twilight stage, half asleep and half awake. There were several older women in the room. They were all there for a “sit up”. A neighbor had passed away and the body had been brought home until the funeral. It was the custom for someone to sit with the body through the night and grandmother was always available to lend a hand. She knew that someday she would be laid out in a front room and would need someone to do the same for her. It was only fitting that she pay her dues.

I had been through this ritual before and knew that the ladies would talk quietly about their gardens, sewing, grandchildren, and church, and when they were sure I had fallen asleep, they would bring up the good stuff. The creepy stories about past sit-ups and tales they had heard about scary nights watching over the newly departed. My favorite was the one where the corpse sat straight up in the coffin as the ladies sipped their ice tea and spun their tales. I always looked forward to someone telling that one. No matter how creepy the stories, and the thought that there was a body in the room, I never felt frightened. My Grandmother was there and I always felt safe and protected in her presence.

I would lie very still and take in the sounds and the smells of the night. The smells of the funeral flowers and the mixture of talc and snuff from the old ladies would be stored in my sensory memory bank forever and the soft Southern voices would soon lull me to that warm, soft place where I would dream my dreams.

This ritual has been abandoned and replaced with the newly departed resting at the funeral home, where we all gather to pay our respects and say our last goodbye. My son and his children will never get to experience this first hand, so I wanted to share this memory. It is a nice one that was my first experience with a natural, inevitable process that I have come to see as a transition to a new place and not just an end to this one.

Today I saw a young woman wearing a red coat. I never see a coat that color that I don't think of my Mother. She was twenty-two when I was born and was always like a movie star to me. She had thick dark hair, olive skin, and my Grandfathers laughing eyes. Mother had a proud way of carrying herself and that with her great figure, had necks snapping when she walked down the street.

I can remember hearing the front door opening and running up the hallway as Mother in her red coat swept me up in her arms. I vividly recall the smell of her, a mixture of cologne and cigarettes and the brisk cold clinging to the crimson wool. That small episode is one of my favorite memories of her. As I grew older, my Mother grew more beautiful. At twelve, I had a crush on the Grit paper boy and he had a crush on Mother.

On a December day in 1999, I stood with my son, Jonathan, at Mother's bedside and related these memories to him. Mother listened and smiled. We had no idea that this would be her last day. She died early that evening. She left us as she had lived, gently.

Mother once told me that she wished she had been able to do more for all her children. She regretted that we had not had financial advantages. I told her that she had given me things that money could not buy. Moms love and encouragement gave me self confidence and a belief in myself. She gave me the courage to look at the world and my fellow man in a positive way, and to always expect the best. My life has not been a disappointment and I try to look at each day and each person I meet as a learning experience. Life is full of wonderful moments if we are open to them. The woman in the red coat reminded me of one.