My Some Kind of Purgatory

I'm sitting on my grandmother's front porch. On the rusty, old glider where I whiled away countless hot, Southern evenings as a little girl. Sitting here brings back so many memories. Memories of a time when I had no worries. Memories of a time when my only concern was what my grandmother was cooking for dinner. I feel as if my grandmother should be sitting in the rocking chair across from me. Instead, sadness, loneliness and disorientation stare at me from the other side of the porch. Right now, it's 7:45. If my grandmother were here, we would have finished our dinner and washed our dishes over an hour ago. We would be sitting on the front porch drinking iced tea. Talking. Or reading our books. I can see, feel, hear and taste everything that we would be doing.

But my grandmother is not here. I am alone. I am not drinking her delicious, syrupy iced tea. I am drinking wine. I am drinking wine out of a "kinda wine glass". My grandmother did not much approve of alcohol. And she didn't own any fancy crystal stemware. But after an intense search shortly after I arrived here on Saturday night, I finally found a glass that somewhat resembles a wine glass. I feel guilty drinking alcohol in my grandmother's house. However, I do not feel guilty enough to not drink alcohol in my grandmother's house. After a day like today, a refreshing glass of chilled Pinot Grigio while sitting on my grandmother's old-fashioned front porch is extremely soothing to my soul.

The only thing that could be more soothing is to have someone with whom I could share this time and this space. Today, the loneliness crept in and enveloped me in a hot, dark and heavy blanket. Maybe it's because it is Monday. Maybe it is being in my grandmother's house without my grandmother being here with me. Maybe it is because my friends feel so far away right now. Maybe it's because I left Atlanta as I was falling for... (uh, nevermind that one). Maybe it was the splitting headache and nausea that plagued me all day. Maybe it was my ex's phone call today (he seems fine with being friends, but I am just not quite there yet. I try to pretend, but I'm not very good at hiding my true feelings).

Or maybe it's the curtains.

To be quite honest, I feel a bit like I am in purgatory. My old life is behind me. I have leased my house to a friend and her son. I have given away a lot of my possessions and put the ones that I simply could not part with into storage. The days of granite countertops, Wolf ranges and Viking hood vents are gone. I no longer desire any of those things, and I'm so fucking lying because I miss my Wolf range like a motherfucker!!! I'm looking forward to my future. And I'm trying to be content with my present. I now know my passions. I know what sustains me. I know what I need to do in order to follow my heart. But, for now (and it's really not THAT long, but I want everything NOW!! I SAID NOW, GODDAMIT!), I have to accept where I am. And I have to accept who I am. I have to accept my fears. and my envy. and my insecurities. and my loneliness. and my sadness. Because, as much as I would love to deny them, these things are all part of me.

and…
For now (in my some kind of purgatory), I will appreciate being in my grandmother's space. I will delight in sorting through the contents of her closets, cabinets and drawers. I will marvel at the beauty of her gardens. I will find joy sitting quietly on her front porch. And I will just try to be.

Marvels and discoveries:

Pretty turquoise drain. I think that's what years of Comet does to a drain. Yay, Comet, you make things pretty.

Pawpaw's garage. Many, many license plates (more than just these) are nailed to the walls.

And my mom said, "I cleaned out the bathroom, but I left some stuff in the medicine cabinet because it's retro and I know you like retro." Good call, mom. and please quit using the word, retro.

Retro blackhead remover.

A rose in my grandmother's rose garden.

Itty, bitty baby apples on my grandmother's apple tree. When i was little, my grandfather would hand me a baseball glove and a bucket. Then, he would climb the tree and toss the apples down to me.

More roses.

My grandmother loved green onions. She planted these before she became ill. They have (obviously) gone to seed and are now beautiful flowers.

Remembering My Grandmother

There was no person on this earth like Lucy Bryant. Lucy Bryant was still able to dance the Charleston well into her tenth decade of life. She was able to grow the most beautiful vegetables and flowers in the hardest, seemingly most unproductive corners of the earth. She cooked delicious Southern dinners like nobody’s business. Lucy Bryant sewed the finest, most fashionable clothes for many generations of little girls’ Barbie dolls. Lucy Bryant could entertain a whole room of people with stories from any period of her life. Lucy Bryant was my grandmother. I called her Mammaw.

Some of my fondest childhood memories are of the summers that I spent with Mammaw and Pawpaw. Several weeks out of the summer, I would pack up my Barbies and my clothes, and head to Mammaw and Pawpaw’s house to stay while my parents went off on some exotic vacation. As my mom waved goodbye to me, I was a little sad, but I knew I had a week of hard work and play ahead of me. I had no time to be sad. There were apples to pick, freshly tilled gardens to trample upon, mud pies to make, button and ribbon jars to pilfer, dead Junebugs to collect, Barbie fashion shows to plan, and delicious meals to eat. An exotic vacation sounded nice, but a week in the summer with my grandparents was so much better.

Summer days with my grandparents were busy. Each morning, I would awake to garbled voices coming from my grandfather’s radio in the bathroom and the smell of sausage or bacon coming from the kitchen. I would spring out of bed and run into the kitchen to see what Mammaw was cooking for breakfast. My mom always told me, as she drove me to Mammaw’s house, “Now don’t ask Mammaw to cook your breakfast. If she asks, tell her that you are fine eating cereal.” But Mammaw never had to ask. And I never had to tell. Because we both loved to eat. The saltier, sweeter, creamier and more fattening the food, the better. While the sausage and bacon and eggs were cooking, Mammaw would make me a small cup of coffee with lots of milk and sugar. Then, she would smear copious amounts of butter on slices of her homemade Sourdough bread, wink at me, stick the slices of bread in the toaster oven and, finally, turn to me and say, “That’s going to be goooo-ooood.”

And it was good. Everything that she ever made was good.

After breakfast, Mammaw would clean the kitchen while Pawpaw read the newspaper and I watched cartoons. Then, the day really began. Some mornings, we would just hang around the house. I would play with my Barbies while Mammaw sewed or started cutting, slicing, chopping and dicing what would become our second hearty and delicious meal of the day. Other days, there were errands to run. If I remember correctly, Thursday was grocery day. Thursday was the day that we went to every single grocery store within a 5-mile radius of my grandparents’ house so that we could get the best deal on our food for the week. It was tiring, but it was fun. I never once asked Mammaw to buy me candy or store bought cookies. Because whatever she was going to make for me was bound to be a million times better than anything that you could buy at the store.

Friday was Pound Cake day. Every Friday, Mammaw made a pound cake. I would patiently wait at the kitchen table while her electric mixer blended the eggs, sugar, butter and flour into a smooth and creamy batter. Once the batter was transferred from the mixing bowl to her bundt pan, she would set the bowl and the spatula in the floor for me. I would jump down off of my chair, run over to the bowl, plop down on the floor and start licking the sweet, creamy batter from the shiny silver bowl. Several hours later, after the cake was baked and cooled, Mammaw would turn the cake out onto the flowered “pound cake plate” (as far as I know, that plate never held anything else besides the weekly pound cake). Once again, I was waiting patiently at the kitchen table and Pawpaw was standing nearby. We all knew what would happen next. Pawpaw would sneak up behind Mammaw and break off the heavenly, chewy bits that clung to the edges of the cake. Then Mammaw would say, “Now you go on and get outta here.” Whereupon, I would giggle as Pawpaw handed me half of the chewy bits of cake that he was able to collect before being shooed away. And then, since we both knew what was good for us, we would get out of Mammaw’s kitchen.

Afternoons were spent on the front or back porch. Mammaw and I would either read our books or tell each other stories. Eventually, one of us, if not both of us, would fall asleep. I would often wake up to find myself alone on the porch. I would groggily lift myself from wherever I was sleeping and stumble into the house where I would find Mammaw in the kitchen, busily preparing our dinner.

Mammaw’s dinners were the best. I have never had a dinner better than a dinner prepared by her. Most of the time, when my parents called from their exotic location, I would spend several long minutes telling them about every single thing that I had eaten at every single meal since they had seen me last. Cornbread, pinto beans, cabbage, mashed potatoes and gravy, fresh green beans and tomatoes from the garden, country ham, chicken pie, country style steak, biscuits, fried flounder from Pawpaw’s last fishing expedition, strawberry shortcake, peach cobbler, popcorn while watching HeeHaw on TV, vanilla ice cream while watching the Laurence Welk Show… and on and on and on.


Lucy Bryant was a beautiful, engaging and inspiring woman. She has been the inspiration for many of the things that I truly love in my life. From a very early age, she fostered my love of flowers, plants and fresh foods. She inspired me to want to be a good cook. Her stories make me want to be a better writer so that I can bring joy to people as her stories have to so many others. Her honesty, freedom, sense of adventure, unwillingness to compromise her values, and her wicked sense of humor have encouraged me to be my authentic self.

I feel very blessed to have had such an amazing woman in my life for all of my 36 years. I feel even more blessed that this amazing woman was my grandmother.

Dear Kaya

Dear Kaya,
I woke up this morning. Thinking of you. I fell back to sleep. Thinking of you. I eventually awoke, crawled out of bed and headed to the kitchen to make my morning coffee. As I approached the living room, I expected to hear the familiar "thump" of your tail as you realized that your mama was awake and headed in your direction. But I didn't hear the "thump". And your bed sat cold and empty by the fireplace.

I miss you, Kaya. I will miss you signally the end of my work day. I always knew that the work day was ending when you started bugging me for your walk. Around 4:30 every afternoon, you would start alerting me that “walk time” was fast approaching. You would whine, beg, plead, dance, walk away, march a loud, whiney lap around the house and return to my feet. And then do it all over again. Sometimes I would lose my patience and tell you that you had to wait. Most of the time, you were a good girl and would go sit on your bed and wait. Eventually, when I couldn’t take your sad face and dagger-shooting stare any longer, I would head to the bedroom to get my shoes. It was a mortal sin for me to stand up between 4:30 and 5pm without the intention of going to get my shoes (I learned that a long time ago). So, if your mama stood up from her desk after 4:30pm, you knew that you would be joyfully walking down Willow Lane in a matter of minutes.

Over the past few weeks, your afternoon walks were long. You often got tired on your walks and sat down. I sat down on the curb with you, rubbed your ears, waved at neighbors going home from work, and waited for you to regain your energy. Eventually, we would make it home. We would grab the mail and head inside to prepare your dinner.

You would hate me right now. You always hated it when I cried (my god, what a rough year and half you have had!). Friday, I was strong for you. I didn't want you to see me crying. As the doctor, pushed the deadly pink serum into your vein, I didn't cry. For you. I didn't cry until you were gone. Until the vet left the room. Then I cried. I cried a million salty tears into your golden brown fur. I cried until your papa said he didn't want to see you laying there anymore. He asked if I was ready to go. I said that I wanted to smell your ears one last time. I loved your ears. They were so soft and velvety. And they smelled like...well... they smelled like your ears! I lifted your ear and stuck my nose into the soft, pinky-white folds. And inhaled. Ah... Kaya ears! Your papa and I walked to the door. I turned and looked at you. I ran back to you and stuck my nose in your ear again. You were already gone, but your ear was still soft and warm.

As your papa and I got in the car, through tears, i said, "I have no one to run errands with me anymore." Through tears, he smiled.

You and I went everywhere together. I think that I will miss our weekly trips to the Farmer's Market the most. Each week, after my work day was over, your walk was finished and your dinner devoured, I would load you up, roll down the windows and we would head to the Farmer's Market. You sat in the car while I was inside picking out all of the wonderful things that we would eat throughout the next week. When I would return to the car, I would greet you through the open window, load up the car, return the cart, get in the car and then tell you all about the delicious food that I had just bought for us.

Liberté Greek Yogurt was one of your favorite things on our grocery list. It seems that you would always get excited when I grabbed a container of Greek yogurt from the refrigerator. You sat by me, vigilantly. Watching each spoonful as it disappeared into my mouth. When I was finished (I always left a good bit for you), I would hand the container to you. With one edge of the container securely in your mouth, you would delightfully run outside or to your bed so that you could enjoy your very own container of yogurt and the ecstasy of the sweet cream on your tongue (and nose).

You were always excited about almonds, too. It was one of our late afternoon snacks. I would eat two or three and then give you one. To be honest, I never really planned on sharing almonds with you (organic almonds are expensive), but I couldn’t open the almond jar without you hearing. I would try to quietly open the jar so that I wouldn’t have to share with you. But you heard every time and would come running into the kitchen where you would impatiently wait for a bite of whatever your mama was eating. Eventually, I quit trying to be sneaky about my almond snack time, and included you. That’s how it became a ritual of ours.

You don't know this, but i usually gave the ones that looked like rats had been gnawing on them to you. Certain things about the Farmer's Market made me nervous. In the past, I have arrived home from a Farmer’s Market shopping trip with containers of bug-ridden grains. Birds fly freely among the many rows of fruits and vegetables. I even spotted a cat (“A CAT!?! Where’s a cat?” you ask) in the wine section one time. So I, sometimes, was a little wary of the almonds whose skin was slightly scraped off in places. I knew you wouldn't mind. You ate cat shit for chrissake; eating an almond that could have been nibbled on by a rat was nothing to you.

Dear Kaya, what a rough week you had. Unexplained anemia, sudden seizures and then the dreaded gastric torsion. I hope you’re happy now. I hope you are with your bossy sister. I hope she’s licking your ears and you are moaning in ecstasy. I hope you have a big, nasty compost pile to pilfer for rotten heads of cabbage, blackened banana peels and slimy remnants of lettuce leaves. I hope you are peeing in a mountain lake. And sticking your head out of a car window. I hope you are dining on endless amounts of peanut butter, almonds, yogurt, chicken, and leftover cereal milk.

Thank you for being my friend for the past 11 years. You were a good one.
I miss you.
I love you, Kaya Boo Shnapple.

Relics

While preparing for my move, I came across several boxes of letters and mementos that I have saved for the past 15-20 years. I've (somewhat) added to the boxes over the years with new mementos, but in all of these years, I've never revisited or explored the contents of the boxes. I've thought about several items that could possibly be among the contents of the boxes (specifically, my "Boys That I Have Kissed" list) and, maybe, performed brief, cursory searches. But no major excavations or explorations. Until this past weekend.

This past weekend, I didn't get dressed or leave my house. I made a decadent chocolate pie on Friday and subsisted on chocolate pie, coffee, red wine and leftovers from my neighbor all weekend. I pulled out the boxes of letters, dumped the relics of my past on my living room floor, drank lots of wine and took a rollicking trip down memory lane.

Interested in the Boys

This is a letter from my grandmother.

Apparently, judging from the postmark on the letter from my grandmother, 1997 was the year that I became interested in "the boys."



Shakespeare He Was Not

Here is some poetry from a poor lad who had a crush on me freshman year at Emory. I eventually went on a date with him. The poor lad (he's probably not poor now as he is a brain [or heart... one of those big, important organs] surgeon these days) dumped a glass of red wine all over his beige blazer (it was a designer blazer. he told me the designer, but I can't for the life of me remember) and was very upset about the mishap. Not because he was embarrassed, but because it was a designer blazer. blazer? sports coat! it was a designer sports coat! and it was beige!

There is a part of me that feels guilty for posting his heartfelt poetry for the world to see. But then there is the part of me that feels that I would be doing the world a great disservice by not sharing his heartfelt poetry. So here it is:
"Poem" 1:

"Poem" 2:
Never underestimate the power of the word, "Please"...
Him: Will you go out with me?
Me: No
Him: Will you go out with me?
Me: No
Him: Will you go out with me?
Me: No
Him: What about now? Will you go out with me?
Me: No
Him: Will you go out with me... please?
Me: Absolutely! (and wear your beige, designer blazer... please.)




Pete Had a Girlfriend


(phone number recorded on an Eats napkin)
We got a 6 pack of Molson Gold and watched The Empire Strikes Back on my twin size bed for our first date. I was in love. He introduced me to 2 of his friends the next day. I tried to hold his hand. That is when he told me that he had a girlfriend.


The Older Man

A letter from a friend.
She said that I was lucky.
He could afford to buy me dinner.
I was dating an older gentleman.
He was 31.



Love Letter Mad Lib

This is one of my favorite love letters. I guess he couldn't think of any other wonderful qualities to put in the blank.

Whenever I'm feeling low, I fill in the blank...





The Italian Stallion Landlord

And the award for most romantic last paragraph of a love letter goes to...



Your Kiss is on my List

I made this list of "boys that I have kissed" when I was in my early 20s (I swear). I've been looking for it for many years. I can't believe I found it.
My, my, my...look at all of the space that I have left to fill up.

oh wait, now look at all of the space that I have left. Thank you, Photoshop!

I could probably write quite a bit about each of these young men, but I won't. I'll write about Ben because Ben was a little famous. After his show in Atlanta, he ended up at my house. We talked. I was so happy to be telling the finer details of my life to a boy...
"And then when I was 10 years old, I think that I was almost kidnapped [giggle, giggle]... I got my period when I was 15 years old [giggle, giggle]... When I was 16 years old, I was selected to attend a summer program at the FBI Academy in Quantico [wait for him to express amazement]... When I graduate from college, I want to start a dog rescue group and save bunnies too! [giggle, giggle, giggle]"
After what must have felt like an eternity to him, Ben finally asked, "So, shall we make love, mate?"
Since, at that point in my life, I had not yet even rounded 3rd base, I politely declined and learned a valuable lesson:
Stay away from musicians.
Ok, I failed and continue to fail miserably at that so I narrowed the lesson down to:
Stay away from touring musicians who are only in your city for one night.

At that, I give myself an 'A'!


One Time... at Smart Kid Camp

The summer before 8th grade, my parents sent me to a camp for "smart" kids (booooring)... i don't think you really needed to be smart. I think your parents just needed to have money and the desire to feel that their kid was gifted.
I hated... hated... HATED... FUCKING HATED that fucking camp! I tried to run away multiple times. I would make it into the woods and get scared. or pick up a pay phone to call a cab and realize that I had no money. But I did have a huge crush on a fellow, smart camper kid named Jeremy.
Years later, my friend's roommate in college was from the same town as Jeremy. I tried to rekindle something with smart camper kid Jeremy, but nothing ever came of it.

Jeremy made this friendship bracelet for me in smart kid craft class

---

It's a bit sad that we don't do anything on paper anymore. We don't send a letter to a friend; we email them. We no longer write our phone number down on a grocery store receipt for a potential love interest. We recite the numbers while they enter it into their cell phone. I feel sorry for the people born a decade or more after me. They will, most likely, never be able to spend a weekend in their pajamas rereading letters and reliving random phone number exchanges from their past. tsk tsk.

*Don't let this little blog dissuade you from writing me a love letter (if you were planning one). I have a 15-20 year statute of limitations on love letters. I will respect your privacy for at least that long, i promise.

Random Relics