First Kiss

The only one who could ever reach me
Was the son of a preacher man,
The only boy who could ever teach me,
Was the son of a preacher man,
Yes he was, he was, ooh, yes he was

Dusty Springfield. “Son Of A Preacher Man”

The year was 1977, December 4th. I opened my eyes, instantaneously cognizant of the fact that I was waking up a 14 year old. I was also very aware that my whole world, the world I had known for the last 14 years at any rate, was irrevocably changing. Mom had just driven us over 1200 miles to a small, odoriferous southern town in Georgia named Jesup. Less than 24 short hours ago I had said goodbye to my best friends, my family, and the hometown I didn't realize I loved so much until forced to leave it. Yes, me and my brothers were forced to leave. What can you do when you are only 13, 11, and 4 years of age...besides cry and pout a lot...not much else and it didn't work anyhow. I had lived a somewhat sheltered life until then; I didn't realize how sheltered but I would soon become very aware of it. But that is another story.

Jesup, smelled. I had never smelled anything quite so disqusting, and I had definitely been exposed to some pretty rotten smells even at the tender age of 14: namely, my baby brothers diapers. I was nine years old when he was born. Changing his diapers became one of my chores, funny thing is...I didn't mind. He was such an adorable baby. At any rate, Jesup's odor was entirely alien to me. The worst smell I had ever been exposed to in San Antonio came from Mitchell Lake...the sewage plant. But this malodor was entirely new. I soon learned that the smell was produced by the Rayonier Paper Mill and on humid mornings, and it seemed most mornings were, when the wind was heading in the right direction, it would waft through the tall Georgia evergreens, permeate the thin walls of our shack, and furtively seep into our lungs. I kid you not, it was a veritable shack of a house we lived in. Talk about an open floor plan...step through the front door and bam...you were in the livingroom, diningroom, and kitchen all at the same time, all in about 900 (maybe 1000) square feet. Needless to say, our new living arrangements were going to take some getting used to. The rest of the shack consisted of two bedrooms and a bathroom. I lost my virginity in that bathroom (well sort of). It was in that bathroom I first learned how to use tampons (don't gross out girls, it's a part of my history)...little did I know: there were plenty more firsts to come.

I was sad. I missed my friends, my old room in our modern brick home, and my family...grandma Monie, great-aunts: Lala and Maya, and my cousins. I would be starting school with strangers in a few days time and this knowledge made me sadder, and more homesick each day. I spent a lot of time in my cubby-hole-of-a-bedroom (as bad as I thought I had it, my brothers had it worse: their bedroom was the livingroon/diningroom/kitchen) writing in my diary, reading, and trying not to hate my parents too much (that didn't work out too well...I blamed them for all the misery in my life). My saddness quickly lessened though when I met the boys next door...brothers, Sonny and Greg.

I first met Sonny one warm afternoon as I played a little one-on-one basketball with Darlene (a girl who lived down the street from us and would eventually become my middle brother's wife). He was all of 6 ft. and gangly as a 17 year old boy could be. He already knew Darlene but he was curious as all get out to find out who the new girl was. And once he fixed me with those emerald eyes I didn't waste any time showing off my mad basketball skills. I stole the ball from him as he dribbled to the basket, he hadn't seen that coming and complimented my abilities. I pretty much knew I had piqued his interest at that point. So, we started talking, getting to know about one another. Funny thing was, he was taking things slowly, which was fine since I liked him quite a bit but then I met his younger brother, Greg.

Now Greg was quite a few inches shorter and stockier than Sonny, and his eyes were the same brilliant blue as the waters of the Meditteranean Sea (swoon) and he wasn't the least bit interested in taking things slow. One fine warm Georgia day, the boys were outside, behind the church their father was pastor of, lifting weights. Our little shack sat directly to the left of the church so I had a good vantage point to take in the exhibition. I had only briefly spoken to Greg outside of church after service at least once so we really weren't as well acquainted as Sonny and I were. As I looked out my bedroom window, Sonny noticed me and waved for me to join them. I walked over to them and Sonny came to stand by me, it was Greg's turn on the weights so I turned to Sonny and we talked while Greg impressed me with his muscles. The boys cast each other looks that made me feel there was some undercurrent of competition going on between them that had nothing to do with who could lift more weight. When Greg was done with his set he came to stand by me while Sonny took his turn at flexing his muscles. This went on for some time, the boys taking turns, coming to stand by me, talking, lifting, competing.

Finally, the boys were finished. Their mother had called out to them to let them know that supper was ready so I began to pull away from them so that they could go in to eat. I waved goodbye to Sonny and Greg then began to walk to the front of my house to the front door. I don't know exactly how it happened though as I walked away I heard the small sounds of a scuffle and suddenly Greg was running up behind me to walk part of the way with me. He rushed past me and stood directly in front of me so I came to a complete stop and wondered what he was doing. It was at that moment that he leaned forward and very softly, as I watched in wonder, lips parted, kissed me. I felt it down to my toes. It was my first kiss and I knew right then and there that I would definitely want to do some more of that. Later I learned that the boys had scuffled with each other because Sonny had also wanted to kiss me. Well, it may not have happened that night with Sonny, but he definitely got his turn. Very quickly, I learned to like my new home.

A Brief Letter To My Girls

Dear Daughters,



I'm currently reading "Things I Want My Daughters To Know" by Elizabeth Noble and it put me in mind of the reason why I started this blog. I had actually been wanting to do this for almost 2 yrs now...I know, I'm a procrastinator. Anyhow, I don't want to wait to tell you (my girls) things about myself until I am on my death bed or dead and gone and possibly not have the opportunity to answer any questions you might have. I know that I could kick myself for not ever asking the "old ladies" (my great-aunts and grandmother for those who don't know the affectionate moniker) about their lives. I wish I had. I miss them so much and wish I had stories of their youth that I could pass on to you girls. So, I promise not to leave you behind without leaving a little piece of me to pass on to my grandkids (I'm just saying...for the future you know...no hurry). :D



Love, Momma.

Out With The Old...In With The New.

The annual girls only weekend has come and gone. Every year in August my three daughters, my mother, and myself pack a few bags (my mother packs one too many) and head out to the quaint and quiet town of Rockport, Texas. These trips are always so much fun once we actually get there and get situated. But there is an inevitability that is inherent in these types of gatherings...a clash of the Titans...an overthrow of the old regime.

Five years ago, when I blithely imagined the wonderful memories we would create and accumulate (and we truly have created quite a few), it never once crossed my mind that I would (several times a day over the entire weekend) want to strangle my mother. I love the woman, I'd take a bullet for her, but she drives me bonkers from the moment she arrives at my house at the start of the trip (with way too many bags for a two night stay) until the moment we get back to my home and start unloading our bags (much too slowly in her opinion, and boy is that woman opinionated): what time we should get up, what groceries we should buy, where she wants to go shopping, who should get in the shower first, how my daughters should have their boyfriends on lock, what kind of boys my girls should date (geeks, they'll make big bucks one day), how I drive too slow, how I drive too fast, well; you get the picture. I guess she can't help it...she's been the one in control for a very long time but now I find that I am slowly but surely wresting that control from her, and let me tell you...she's not liking it one bit because if looks could kill...I'd be six feet under.

Our first morning together was a defining moment. There we were, the first borns of three generations, stuffed in the galley-sized kitchen trying to get breakfast made for five bodies. Too many Titans in the kitchen but no one recognized that little fact or if anyone did well we just weren't about to relinquish control. So we bumped into each other, stirred each others pots and generally went about our breakfast-making business. Now, the night before, as we shopped for groceries, my oldest daughter let us know that she would make breakfast in the morning. I was pleasantly surprised and thought I would enjoy having her cook for us but Grandma had plans too. She wanted sausage with her eggs and by golly we were going to have sausage and eggs for breakfast come hell or high water. So there went my daughter's plans for whatever recipe she had had in mind. The old regime had asserted itself and won. But then, as we all sat around the table eating the grease-laden meal, the woman actually began looking at her watch and she uttered the words that swung the pendulum the other way, "You girls need to start getting in the shower, it's getting late and y'all know how long it takes y'all to get ready. It doesn't take me long but you girls (this includes 47 year old me) take forever and the whole day'll be gone before we've had a chance to get in the ocean!" It was 8:30 in the AM and it was at this precise moment that the new regime rebelled. Slack-jawed and gape-eyed, she listened as I interjected my own edict: "We are not about to start rushing around. We want to relax; there's no reason to be anywhere at any particular time. We'll get there when we get there." Silence. I watched. All held their collective breaths but no thunerbolts were flung. The elder, quieted and supplanted, closed her mouth, picked up her fork, and continued to eat. And it was over, just like that. As we all resumed eating and talking and making merry... I realized as I looked around the table, this would happen to me before too long...in fact, in small ways and at various times and situations it has already begun.