Home Sweet Home

You might be surprised to know that the biggest dilemma I faced while readying myself and the chirren for our cruise last week was not how to accommodate eight bathing suits, twelve pairs of flip-flops, 30 pairs of underwear and a mountain of other foolishness in the mere three pieces of luggage allotted to me by my Dear Mother, but rather what reading material I should take with me to the Bahamas.

I did a little research, looked into suggestions made by other travelers, contemplated classics like Treasure Island.  I even considered something frivolous—I was going to be on vacation after all.  Celia Rivenbark’s new book You Don’t Sweat Much For a Fat Girl was especially tempting, but me sitting on the deck of a cruise ship snorting…and I mean through both nostrils and choking on my own saliva the way all Ms. Rivenbark’s books are known to make me do…didn’t fit very well with my fantasy of lounging on the Serenity Deck, cocktail in hand, with the sound of the massive ship gliding smoothly through the royal blue waters of the open ocean lulling me into total relaxation.

What to read was the hardest decision I made about my trip.  Harder than deciding which fine meals I would indulge in at the formal dining…would it be Baked Alaska or another serving of Warm Chocolate Melting Cake?... harder than deciding whether I would bother to get dressed for the day at all or just frolic around in my bathing suit for twelve straight hours, harder than deciding how I would gamble in the casino…the slot machines lit up and made delightful noises when you won, but the dealers at the tables would flirt with you for tips.  Can you see the predicaments I faced?

Any-who, what I chose in the end came as quite a surprise.  After much research and thumbing through many books at Books-A-Million and the Anniston Public Library, I was drawn to and ultimately selected Rick Bragg’s The Most They Ever Had, a collection of stories about the mill people of my very own home town.

I’ve loved all of Pulitzer Prize Winner Rick Bragg’s books—if you’ve never read All Over but the Shoutin’, Ava’s Man or the Prince of Frogtown, each a separate telling of Bragg’s family history, then you don’t know what you’re missing—and The Most They Ever Had didn’t disappoint.  It was especially interesting to see from a literal distance the people of the mills Bragg writes about, the people I have lived with and alongside while taking them for granted my entire life.

I never made it to what I am beginning to believe an invention of my Aunt Gwen and Dear Mother, the fabled Serenity Deck.  I couldn’t escape all those kids of mine for long enough.  Truth is, I barely had time to read while actually on the ship and I was too worried about one of the little beasties drowning while at the beaches.  I did, however, have occasion to read on the ride home from Jacksonville, FL thanks to Aunt Gwen’s desire to always be the driver and never the passenger on road trips.  As punishment for keeping me otherwise engaged most of the cruise, I read the majority of The Most They Ever Had aloud to the chirren in the van.  “Shut up and learn about the culture of your people!” I could be heard shouting over the den of noise between chapters.  It was great!  They listened, reluctantly at first but eventually with interest.  It didn’t hurt that I’d threatened them with the additional torture of an actual book report if they didn’t cooperate.  God, I love being a mother.

In the words of Mr. Bragg, The Most They Ever Had is “a mill story; not of bricks, steel and cotton, but of the people who suffered it to live.”  It’s the story of my people, my great-grandmother Aggie, my grandfather Jack, my grandmother Rosa and the town where I was raised.  It is a story I may not have appreciated fully if I’d read it just five miles down the road from the now silent and dismantled mill of its pages.

Storm of Memory

Last week I was asked for the second time in my life to write an obituary.  The first obit I ever wrote was for the 96 year-old father of my future brother-in-law and the second for his 88 year-old mother who survived her husband of 73 years by a mere 99 days.  Little Sister and her fiancé wanted something more personal than the fill-in-the-blank style paragraph the funeral home typically draws up for publication in our local paper, and I was honored—on both occasions—when they asked me to help.

I knew Mr. Roy Hardy and his wife Mrs. Jewell Hardy only briefly (we’d spent a few holidays together at my sister’s place) but during my short acquaintance with them, I found them to be lovely people—charming and endearing in a way that people of a certain age often seem to me.  It was through the process of writing their obituaries and later Mrs. Hardy’s eulogy with my sweet sister and aunt, assisted by notes from various family members and photo albums, that I truly came to know the lifelong partners—to understand how hard-working, generous, funny, loyal, steadfast, honest and loving they each were in their own way.  I wish that I had known them better while they lived.

Writing the obits set me to wondering what people might have to say about me when I’m gone.  Will they stick to the basic facts: place and dates of birth and death, a list of survivors?  Or will they be compelled to say more as the family of Mr. and Mrs. Hardy were?  I confess that I hope for the latter.  It would also be nice to leave them with 90 or so years of biography to work with, too.  But you never know.  The devastating storms that racked my state and the entire Southeast the day before Mrs. Hardy’s funeral are proof enough of that. 

The tornados of April 27, 2011 resulted in tremendous loss.  The small community where I live and adjacent small towns were hit hard.  Neighbors lost their lives, friends and co-workers lost their homes and all their worldly possessions, people were hurt and some remain missing.

I weathered the storm hunkered down with some of the children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren of Roy and Jewell Hardy in the large and comfortable house of my sister and her soon-to-be hubby.  Inwardly I agonized over the fate of my own small home in The Valley, but I was relieved to be safe with my children—if I’d lost everything I owned that night, at least I’d still have them…the little people I strive every day to give something to that they’ll be able to recount at the end of my days.

We all made it safely through that night and I have to say that the ordeal, in addition to my work on the eulogy my sister delivered at Mrs. Hardy’s funeral service the next morning, has made me feel a lot closer to the Hardy Family.  We’ll all remember that night forever…the people we sat next to in the dark huddled around laptops, smart-phones and radios, eager for the latest news…and the dear lady whose passing brought us all to the same place of safety.

I received my first “review” for the obits, by the way.  One of the directors at the funeral home said to my sister, “You write the best obituaries.”  Little Sister just smiled—for arguments sake let’s assume she was grieving and unable to form the appropriate response of, “My fabulous older-but-only-by-ten-months-and-twenty-seven-days sister wrote them and I’ll be sure to pass your compliment on to her,”—but one of the other family members interjected and put forth my name so that they (the funeral home) know who to call if they ever get tired of faking it with those pitiful, half-hearted remembrances they send in to the paper.

I hope anyone who happens to read this also made it through the terrible storms of last week safely and that each of you will do at least a little something for someone who didn't.  A few hours of your time, clothing or household items, blood or cash.  Whatever you can spare.  Find an organization you trust--the American Red Cross or local churches--and give.  I myself have donated to the family of a classmate of my 2nd grade son, whom were badly injured and lost their home.  I'm also looking into book donations for twelve Alabama public libraries that were badly damaged.  Please leave word if you have books you'd like to donate as well.