When I was growing up, this short poem was painted on a fancy plate that hung in the entryway to our house.
As a kid I thought it was a little too simplistic, a bit silly.
I have lost both the plate and my mother but not the enduring truth of the “silly” poem’s sentiment.
This morning HR and I drove up from Savannah to my tiny north Georgia hometown of Ball Ground. Why? To “decorate” the Saye family plot in the old Ball Ground City Cemetery.
I’m trying to follow in the tradition of my parents and grandparents by regularly visiting family gravesites laden with seasonally appropriate flowers. (The pandemic slowed down that ritual.)
But it’s about so much more than flowers. The soul—and souls—of yesteryear make their presence known in cemeteries. And to me there is such joy in walking and sitting among the graves and remembering the lives of my loved ones. Feeling the peace of the place.
Even sensing the sacredness of the dirt.
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Let me introduce you to a few of the ones I had a little sit-down with.
My father and mother, Harold (“Tub”) and Geneva, married 71 years …
I wished my mother the Happiest of Mother’s Days! And she told me she loves the new flowers.
My brother Jimmy who only lived a week …
I wonder if the fullness of life might perhaps best not be measured by longevity alone.
My great-grandfather J.P.. (Ball Ground’s first doctor) and his wife Angie …
My younger brother Danny, who died the same day as my mother back in 2016 …
My paternal grandparents, Dollie and Maynard …
Then walking through flowers to the other side of the cemetery to reach my maternal grandparents, Dora and Veto …
Veto was actually Granny’s second husband. Her first died in his twenties in a railroad accident.
Veto used to tell the same joke every time we were riding together past a graveyard: “You know how many people are buried in there?” Someone had to answer, “No.” Then he’d give a big belly laugh and reply, “Ever one of ‘em!”
Robert and I threw the old faded flowers away and walked back to the car, pleased with the decorating. I looked back to the plots and smiled when I heard them, all my family in unison, thank me for coming.
A blog category looking at a topic we white folks usually don’t like to talk about.
I SO wish all my childhood memories were fond and happy. They should be, right? Some of mine, many of mine, maybe most of mine are joyful. Going into the woods to pick out and chop down our Christmas tree. Such fun. Summer vacations at a tiny, inexpensive motel at Jacksonville Beach. Neighborhood fish fries after softball games. I could go on.
But, if truth be told, not all of my early childhood memories are so happy.
I remember cowering under my bed, after watching The Wizard of Oz, thinking that those flying monkeys were absolutely horrendous. And might be up in the skies outside my window.
I remember purposefully and loudly falling off my bed as a little kid when I would hear my parents fighting in their nearby bedroom. I sometimes pretended to sleepwalk for the same reason.
But one of my most harrowing early memories is an uglier, impossible-to-understand one, a darker one, even though it involves such unforgettable hot and fiery light.
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I am a skinny, freckled, awkwardly sensitive little kid in hand-me-down shorts. My parents, four brothers and I live in a crowded small house in the Peach Orchard section of Cochran Field on the outskirts of Macon, Georgia.
It is summer, a sweltering night in the South. It is probably 1957 or 58.
I’m in the backseat of our ancient station wagon, dad driving, mom directly in front of me, at least one brother also in the back.
No air conditioning, of course. No seat belts. Windows down. Warm night air blowing my hair and keeping my outstretched hand standing up as we make our way down the road. Incredibly, I can occasionally hear the tires make sticky, sucky sounds as they roll over tar-patched cracks, still oozing from the day’s unmerciful Macon sun.
It’s a sultry night in Georgia.
“Something’s on fire,” one of my folks say.
We get closer. The fire appears on my side of the car. I can feel the heat before I can see what’s burning. I quickly pull my hand inside the window.
I am mesmerized. A cross, unbelievably tall, is on fire! I have to crane my neck up to see the top of the flames. I hear dogs barking. I see people in white Halloween costumes mulling around the cross. I smell gas. And see smoke around the flames. People are yelling. A weird party.
The cross is just SO big. Way too big for Jesus to carry up a hill. And the cross was’t on fire in the Bible, I’m sure of that. It is summer, and I go to Vacation Bible School.
“Neal, roll your window up!”
I’m scared. But I don’t know why I’m scared.
“NEAL, ROLL YOUR WINDOW UP NOW!”
I obey. But it’s like the heater is on full blast.
My father starts to speed past. But why? I’ve never seen anything like this. Why can’t we watch? I have to turn around quickly to see the cross get smaller and smaller. It finally morphs into a tiny lighted dot behind me.
It’s hotter than it’s ever been in the car. The heater MUST be on. It’s sizzling. Suffocating.
And it’s quieter than it’s ever been. Our car is usually loud with rambunctious boys yelling to be heard over one another.
Finally, I feel slightly cooler air begin to blow in from my mother’s window.
“Neal, roll your window down.”
We ride in silence till my father turns on the radio. I hear quiet music.
“What WAS that?” I ask.
“That was bad people doing something bad.”
I don’t understand.
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Over six decades later, I look upon that night as one of those loss-of-innocence junctures. I can’t remember exactly how my parents explained what was really happening at that “weird party.” But I did find out, at some point, that the cross was being burned in a white couple’s front yard to warn them about being sympathetic to the struggles of black people. Vigilante hatred. Burning on the cross.
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I wish I could say that the temperature has gotten so very much cooler in the South—or elsewhere in our nation. That the tar doesn’t still melt and stick to our tires. That air conditioning has decreased the scorch. That there are no more “weird parties.” But I cannot.
Just look at yesterday’s “Real Feel”:
Another “weird party” just down the road that stretches from my Savannah to Brunswick. You probably know the horrific story of that hot day in Georgia when vigilante hatred burned anew …
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May we somehow as a people learn how to live.
1. Our new salt and pepper grinders!
(It doesn’t take much to make me excitedly happy.)
2. Pretty in purple.
3. The belief that our United States of America is still a democracy, despite the extremists (even seeping into the Supreme Court), who want to declare it — and make it — not so.
4. HR’s (Husband Robert’s) creative culinary expertise. Here’s a recent breakfast bowl …
5. Robert, dogs and me.
May You Have a Happy First Weekend in May!
Since we’re nearing Mother’s Day 2022, here’s an old post from back in 2012 about the power of motherhood. Both my parents have since passed away.
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“Mama.” Perhaps no other word in our language evokes such tender and loving feelings.
My mom turned 85 on May 2. Here she is with my dad (88). They have been married for 65 years!
If I had to answer the question, “Neal, what’s the greatest lesson your mother has taught you in life?” I would have NO problem at all answering. I learned the lesson so, so early: the power and authority of humor and laughter. Some of my greatest memories growing up consist of roaring with giggles and laughter at some of the silliest things. My mother is a master at seeing the lightness in situations.
The Christmas when I was about six, I asked for a real juke box, and FOUND IT it my parents’ bedroom closet on Christmas Eve. Mama thought it was hilarious when I started yelling in confusion, “WHY is my juke box in your closet??!!” She said, through fits of unrestrained laughs, “Santa wanted your dad and me to try it out first.” (That Christmas began my distrust of Santa.)
Or the time when I asked for (and finally got) a rocking chair for my sixteenth birthday (don’t judge me), and she (like you probably) laughed and said, “WHO wants a rocking chair on their birthday?!” I still get teased about that very practical and emotionally calming gift.
Or her ongoing confusion with the words “veterinarian” and “vegetarian.”
Or the Christmas when I was about eight and had this obsession with making sure the ornaments were placed perfectly (in my opinion) on the live tree branches. I had gone to bed, but thought that maybe I should check the tree one more time for spatial accuracy of the bulbs and tinsel. A big round glass ornament on a limb just out of my reach needed attention. Reaching up, I grabbed the branch, too hard, and pulled the ENTIRE tree on top of me, electric lights and all. Screaming in holiday terror, I flailed at the evergreen monster till my mom and dad ran into the living room. I distinctly remember my dear mother hooting with laughter and saying to my dad (far too loudly), “Just look at what Neal’s done now!”
Or her ongoing advice throughout the decades: “It’s really not that important, Neal. You’ll laugh about it soon.” And I usually did. (Except for early Christmas memories.)
What an incredible privilege and joy to have a mother who taught me when I was younger and who continues to teach me to this day that happiness is a choice. That laughter is an answer, a solution, a medicine. That humor is a gift to get and to give.
My advice on this glorious Mother’s Day: Don’t wait till your mom and dad walk out of your lives forever to tell them, show them, how very much they mean to you and how much you love them.
HAPPY, HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY 2012!
I dedicate this beautiful version of the song “Mama” by Il Divo to my mom and to yours. And remember to tell her now!
“She”
May
we
respect
a
woman’s
right.
Great Good to mothers everywhere as Mother’s Day approaches!
Today was the first day of Early Voting in the primaries here in Georgia. In your state too? So Robert and I hightailed it to the Savannah Civic Center to cast our ballots
