Odd Foods Make Just as Much Sense

My children have become “classic” rock fans. Classic rock NOW means what *I* listened to when I was their age. (I have an 8th grade-nearly 14 year-old. . .can you say “Land Down Under”, “Safety Dance”, Tears for Fears, Wham, Air Supply, Journey???). Thankfully, their understanding of the lyrics at this point is as clear as my understanding was long ago=NOT very clear. (It wasn’t until TWO YEARS AGO that I realized Men At Work was singing about illicit opium usage in that “Land Down Under” diddy. I’m cray like that. It’s all my swag. And the way I am a Boss.)

Alas, The Who is not asking a question to verify your identity. . .they are singing about Blue Oranges. The Steve Miller Band is not discussing sub tropical amour. . .no–it’s really Chocolate and Strawberry Mint that are making them crazy, crazy.

And who am I to correct them? They know perfectly well who they are–at least for a bit longer–and they have NO BUSINESS even THINKING about Jungle Love. Not until they are old enough to no longer know who they are. Just sayin’.

(BTW–the place where I found the blue oranges has some WAY COOL photos

Shhh. . .

When I was a child sitting in front of the television doing NOTHING, my mother used to walk in and dump loads of laundry in front of me to fold. I remember this clearly as it happened quite frequently. Somehow, folding laundry while watching t.v. is still the best way for me to get that job done. It’s like having a window over your kitchen sink. When I was in college, I lived in on-campus apartments my jr. and sr. year. The little apartment was GREAT except for the horrific fact that the sink faced a wall. And not even a wall with a window IN it somewhere down the line. I don’t particularly like washing dishes, but one day I realized the absence of a window was one of the main reasons the dishes didn’t get done very often.

Anyway–the OTHER thing I have discovered is that it’s best to watch something you’ve already seen about a million times while folding clothes in front of the television. And THAT is why, after I did a metric TON of laundry this weekend (and I am NOT EVEN KIDDING), I decided to pull out one of my all-time favorite movies, “The Quiet Man.” It stars John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara and was perfect to watch while I folded–and I’m STILL folding, by the way–the clothes. Perfect, because I can watch the parts I like best, and just listen to the rest.

This is NOT the average John Wayne movie. This movie makes me want to dye my hair red then find some sheep to herd while barefoot so maybe John Wayne will fall in love with me (and I’m a Jimmy Stewart kind of gal at heart.) Except, of course, I’m already married. And John Wayne is dead. And I would look AWFUL as a redhead.

Maybe I can just get Tony to put on a white dress shirt, then take me outside in the rain to give me a big ‘ole kiss while my non-red hair whips around in wet tendrils.

Or maybe I just need to finish folding that laundry now.

Either way. If you find yourself with some time and you have a hankerin’ for an old-fashioned love story complete with colorful characters, snappy dialogue, and gorgeous Irish scenery, then watch “The Quiet Man.” It will do you good. “And noooooooooooo patty fingers, if ya please.”

Gems

Victoria and I are in the process of planning for the Mother & Daughter luncheon, 2012. This is our tenth year. How in the world did THAT happen? We discussed invitations tonight, and decided to use a silhouette. We batted around using Victoria’s silhouette, a bird, a butterfly, a teapot, a flower, a daisy, a Gibson Girl, or just a generic little girl.

In the end, we found THIS little jewel. Victoria and I BOTH loved it. I actually ADORED it from the moment I laid eyes on it, but being the mom of a thirteen year old girl, I knew to play my hand close.

“What do you think of this one?” I asked nonchalantly.
“Oh, Momma!!! I LOVE it!!!! What do YOU think of it?”
“I love it too, sugar.”
“What do you REALLY think???” (She is, after all, a woman-in-training.)
“I think I REALLY love it. Do you know WHY I love it?”
“No. Why?”
“Well, because it reminds me of you. You aren’t a little girl any more, but you’re not yet a young woman. And this silhouette looks EXACTLY like who you are right now.”
“I think so too. She looks in between like me.”

Do you know what I love most of all? I love that my 13-going-on-14 year old daughter KNOWS that she is “in between.” She isn’t trying to grow up too fast. She isn’t trying to stay a little girl. She is in between, and she embraces her in between-ness. I was NOT one to do that.

I always wanted to do whatever it was I was too young to do. Some of this may have had to do with my having an older sister, but most of it had to do with me being “prissy.” At the age of six, I INSISTED that my leotards on Sunday morning were to be called PANTYHOSE and my open-toed, block-heeled sandals were to be called HIGH HEELS. My Granny would save empty cosmetic compacts and lipstick tubes and cleansing cream jars for me–stored in her guest room chest-of-drawers–with the STRICT understanding that I was not to APPLY anything I might find in the crevices of the containers. Even my Granny who dug EVERY LAST AVAILABLE BIT of her Merle Norman Ladybug Red lipstick from the tube with a Q-tip was bound to miss some that my enterprising prissy fingers might still reach. I DID occasionally sneak and “use” some powder. It was really just Granny’s old powder puff that smelled of face powder, but it thrilled me no end.

I wore lip gloss as soon as I was allowed. I got my ears pierced as soon as Daddy FINALLY gave up and told me if I wanted to poke holes in my ears to go right ahead. I wore make-up as soon as I had my own money and convinced Momma that I would only use NATURAL colors. (This did not last for long as my photos from high school can attest.)

I don’t think any of that was bad. I am certainly not the first little girl to do so. And if Victoria wanted, this would have been the year that mascara and face powder and light lipstick would have made an appearance in our house. As it stands, she wants none of that yet. She likes to wear jewelry but has no desire to pierce her ears. She likes to wear body spray, but has no desire for make-up. She has long had her own personal preference regarding her clothes and what she “feels” like wearing. She has her own style. . .which happens to be chock full of grace and gentleness and intuition and tenderness and beauty that is beyond me to describe. She is like a luminous strand of pearls, my girl.

Of course, I AM her Momma, so I’m a little partial.

Overheard

It’s been a busy break. Tonight, the kids and I were more than a little overly tired and giddy as I’ve been using Power Tools and Stud Finders and Laser Levels to hang things like shelves and curtains in their rooms. Both spaces having been thoroughly mucked out and straightened over the course of the week.

After I got Victoria’s pink shelf hung tonight, she was sorting and arranging her gee-gaws. I was handing her things. Thad was sitting on her bed alternating between his own world (where he was pondering the meaning of the universe) and the world in which Victoria and I were present (where he was bombing her with his Clark Kent and Superman stuffed Sonic tater tot toys). As a tot flew across the room, I reached into a basket and pulled out a heap of pink and white ribbons all strung together like a wreath.

Victoria said, “I want to keep those, because Mrs. Stephanie made it for me.”

I said, “Mrs. Stephanie from Arkansas?”

“No. Your other friend Mrs. Stephanie. She brought it to me when she and Mrs. Mary Linda came to see you.”

“Mrs. Stephanie made you this???” (Neither Mrs. Stephanie is a pink kind of girl and BOTH have two boys each and two Zanes among the four male offspring. No pink to be seen.)

“Well, whoever stayed in my room made it. She had a Kindle.”

“Oh. . .THAT was Mrs. Mary Linda,” I said as I stared at the array of pink and white ribbons trying to figure out exactly when and where Mary Linda ended up with THIS MUCH pink ribbon.

Actual pile 'o pink ribbons. . .notice the lady bugs?

Then it hit me, “OOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. . .THAT explains it–all the Phi Mu lady bugs!!!” I exclaim. (Mary Linda was and is very active in her Phi Mu chapter.)

To which Thad replies, “FIVE MUTE LADY BUGS?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!”

Evidently the portal between his universe and ours must not have good acoustics. Either that or he has NO schema for Phi Mu but DOES have some for five and mute. Or he just trolls between the two worlds waiting for something as interesting as five mute lady bugs to catch his attention.

A Day

It has been a day. It was a day full of promise that culminated in me losing my temper with my 7th period class. Granted. It was not solely their fault. It was the build-up of an entire day’s worth of whining, chattering, eye-rolling, huffing, muttering, But-I-Didn’t-Say-ANYTHINGing (except for what they said to their friend before I called their name AFTER I had said “No talking.” about ten times.) people who show me every, single day how they treat their parents by how they treat me.

I thought it was only me–alas, I was not the sole teacher with a story to tell at the end of the day. I heard bits and snatches as I stalked to the front after school to run some scan-trons. The capper was when I walked into my a.p.’s office to get some forms, and saw a teacher sitting in the chair while the a.p. was having the following conversation over the phone–presumably with a parent. “Yes. Well, he told his teacher that she did not have a brain capable of comprehending why he did not need to work in her class today. . .” Evidently it wasn’t the first time the 7th grader–who has a MUCH BIGGER CAPACITY FOR COMPREHENSION THAN HIS 30-something SCIENCE TEACHER–had chosen his reasoning skills over science.

I am not one to wish away days. . .I AM one to wish away these feelings however. The feelings of righteous indignation, exhaustion, justification, and guilt all rolled into the brain and onto the shoulders of a mere mortal. “Chill out, Miss.” I heard that three time’s today–from three different students. I very nearly punched the 3rd one in the mouth. I would GLADLY chill if it weren’t necessary for me to actually, you know, teach. . .or give directions. . .or remind students of rules. . .or do what my administrators tell me. My life would be NOTHING but chill were I able to say, “Open your book to page 56. Read the chapter than follows, then do parts A, B, C, AND the challenge questions. They are due at the end of class. If you don’t finish them in class, you will need to take it home for homework tonight.” That’s what I heard pretty much EVERY teacher I ever had say at the beginning of class more days than not. Except for my Bible teachers.

We don’t even give our students hard copies of text books anymore. The state decided it was too expensive to keep paying for all the lost ones, so now if a kid wants a book to use, they have to check it out overnight.

It’s time for me to go to bed.

But before that, I got to fill out the Scholastic book order forms that Thad brought home. You remember the excitement? Sitting down with a pencil to see what was on deck this month. . .having your mom give you a bag full of change dug from the bottom of her purse to take to school. . .watching the teacher count out the money and fill in the huge, Top Secret Teacher Order Form while we did parts A, B, and C (and feeling REALLY LUCKY if we had to do evens only) or outlined chapter 5 in our social studies books?

Tomorrow it’s back to trying to convince people who care not a whit for education why they must behave long enough to soak up directions. . .why three weeks of daily, uninterrupted class reading time should be enough to complete a middle school length novel. . .and why it is important for them to at least have a working idea of how to identify figurative language and locate text evidence to support it before they go to high school next year.

But tonight–my own two (because Thad is HAPPY to let Victoria look through his order forms too) were just glad to get to ORDER books. I don’t care that Thad’s was about BeyBlades. Scholastic book ordering was the high point of my day. And something I’m glad is still around.

Scent-imental

“Nothing is more memorable than a smell. One scent can be unexpected, momentary and fleeting, yet conjure up a childhood summer beside a lake in the mountains; another, a moonlit beach; a third, a family dinner of pot roast and sweet potatoes during a myrtle-mad August in a Midwestern town. Smells detonate softly in our memory like poignant land mines hidden under the weedy mass of years. Hit a tripwire of smell and memories explode all at once. A complex vision leaps out of the undergrowth.” Diane Ackerman
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Warning: This first paragraph is a big ‘ole list and some whining. . .it is not necessary to the post, but it made me feel better to write it. YOU can feel free to skip it.
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This afternoon and evening, I did many things. I attended a meeting after school, then stopped at Wal-Mart for chocolate and cauliflower and bananas, and two Red Box movies then stopped at Pizza Hut for. . .pizza, then stopped at Sonic to get a gift card for Thad’s teacher (to go with some of the chocolate) even though TODAY was his last day, then I called Stephanie (I think), then I called Carolyn, then I got home and changed clothes and ate pizza and chocolate and carrots with my family and watched Voyage of the Dawntreader and continued a letter and sat on the swing with Tony and downloaded “School’s Out” by Alice Cooper for Thad along with some Powerhouse 5,000 songs he wanted, and talked to Victoria about how lovely the ribbon was that she tied on the Hershey Bar/Thank you cards for HER teachers (more of that Wal Mart chocolate stop), and a little later I became very unhappy with my children because I asked them to help me by picking things up off the floor for 15 minutes (I set a timer when we do this) while I took a shower. . .and Thad’s shoulders drooped and he looked as though I has asked him to kill one of our cats, and Victoria picked up a paper off the counter and began reading it while I enumerated the many things I had done today that supported them giving me 15 minutes of their time and Thad wilted and Victoria read and I said, “Forget it. . .” and walked away to take my shower. I’m still steaming somewhat.
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BUT in between the last bit of chocolate news and the getting mad part, I was FINALLY able to go for a walk. Tony sat on the address sign while I walked the straight stretch in front of our house–about a quarter mile back and forth. We held a conversation in bits and snatches when we were in hearing/speaking distance.

I mentioned our dead pine trees, and he told me about the window-boarder-upper’s grand daughter (long story), and each time I got to the end of Lake where it runs into Clark, I smelled something from my childhood. More specifically, it was a scent from Nanny and Grandaddy’s house–but outside their house. It was sweet and pungent and not at all unpleasant, and it was swiftly followed by the scent of creosote–another childhood smell.

The creosote I could find immediately–it was some relatively new telephone and electric poles that had been in the 90+ degree heat all day long. That one was easy. The other scent was just as strong but more elusive to identify. I thought of the smells I associate with my Daddy’s parents–saffron rice, Chips Ahoy cookies and coffee, fig leaves, horses, Rosemilk lotion, Lava soap, and this sweet, flowery smell that was more than likely a combination of various country things like blackberry vines and gardenias and honeysuckle.

After my third pass on that end of the road, I mentioned it to Tony. I had been puzzling it out in my mind to no avail, so I said,

“I smell a scent from my childhood at the end of the road.”
“Skunk?”
“Nope. Something sweet and pungent with a kick to it–then creosote. I can’t figure it out,” Walk, walk, walk, walk, then over my shoulder. . .”though skunk wasn’t a bad guess.”
“Pig guts?”
“Ummmm. . .nope–no pig guts. . .deer guts, maybe,” step, step, step, step “duck feathers. . .” step, step, step, step “squirrel hair. . .” step, step, step, step “but this is sweet and flowery.” Out of distance.

On my last pass, Victoria and Thad had joined me (before the 15 minute picking up debacle of ’11). As we passed through the veil of my childhood wafting on the air, I asked, “Do you smell that? That sweet smell?” Both of them answered in the affirmative. . .they asked what it was. I told them I couldn’t place it. We even stepped onto the side of the road toward our neighbor’s fence to see if there were any blossoms that night give it away. But there were none to be found.

“It smells nice,” said Victoria. And it did. I did smell nice–and it pulled at my heart, and it made me think about all the ways God helps us to remember.

I am no longer steaming. The children are in bed asleep. I will go and kiss them and smell their heads–Victoria’s clean one and Thad’s dirty one.

Konst av Konstnären (Art by the Artist)

Last week I showed you my lovely new piece of art from Stephanie.

And there was this AWESOME portrait of our old house from June, 2006.

I’ve also mentioned the other pieces of art with which she has gifted me, but I’ve never shown them to you. . .so here they are NOW.

I met Stephanie in college. She was an art major and as such, at the end of our senior year she had an art show. I attended and fell in love with two pieces of her work. This piece of pottery was the one I felt I could afford to buy. I can’t remember what I paid for it–not nearly what it was/is worth. . .but after the show, she delivered it to me, and it is in my house to this day.

On this you’ll note, she put the title of my blog. . .I had recently been bemoaning some MAJOR drama in my life to my friend and dorm mother, Katrina,and she told me about a song, “It Be’s That Way Sometimes.” I shared the story with Stephanie, and that is what she entitled my piece of pottery. WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAy back in 1991.

At the very same art show, I also fell in love with a wonderful water color. It was just gorgeous. . .right up my alley. . .lovely, lovely, lovely. I can’t even remember if it was a piece she had for sale–and if so it was WAY out of my price range, but I told her how gorgeous I thought it was. It was entitled, “Waiting .” And I was in the midst of doing a lot of that at the time. . .waiting. . .much like “The Waiting Place” in Dr. Seuss’s book, Oh the Places You’ll Go.

One lovely May evening (central Arkansas KNOWS how to do spring) I went for a walk, and when I returned, sitting on a chair in my apartment was the painting. Stephanie had given it to me as a graduation present.

(Click to see it REALLY big.)

See? Lovely. She was about 20 when she painted this.

As I was photographing these to put on the blog, Victoria said, “Who made those?” I told her it was Mrs. Stephanie. As these are things Victoria has always seen (and it never dawned on me to tell her), she had no idea. . .and her response was, “What can she NOT do?”

Now–knowing Stephanie like I do, I know she would be the first to give you a long, exhaustive list of all the things she CANNOT do. . .but I am here to tell you that one thing she CAN forevermore do is create–wonderful meals, handsome boys, beautifully wrapped packages, and art, art, art. . .from original paintings to envelopes in which to stuff letters that are covered with her font-like hand writing.

Amazing.

When I thanked her for the most recent masterpiece, I tacked on a little note in Swedish. She is, in fact, from Sweden–was born there and lived the first 10 or 11 years of her life there. She speaks, reads, and writes fluent Swedish but you’d never know it to hear her. She sounds like your run of the mill southern-ish girl. Anyway–here is what my Swedish (courtesy of Google Translate which Stephanie assures me did a truly fine job) thank you said:

Thank you my dear, dear, dear, dear friend. Your love for and acceptance of me and my many, many flaws has been a blessing all the years I have known you, but this past year in particular. Thank you for being a sounding board, a confidant, a kick in the pants, and for being able to create things that neither my imagination nor hands can design. You are a jewel both valuable and rare, and also very, very sparkly. I love you.

And sparkle she does.

Details

My Granny had two children–both girls: Norma Jean and Glenda Sue.

Rubye Mae, Glenda Sue, Norma Jean

(By the way–I have never thought I looked like my mother until I saw this photo again today. Wish I had her figure too!)

Norma had four children (Lisa, Lynne, Warren, and Brian–which I thought was a WHOLE LOT of kids to have–my own mother only had THREE).

My mother was just barely pregnant with my brother when this was taken. I assume it was Christmas, and I was about 5 1/2 months old. Lynne is holding me.

They grew up WAY OUT in west Texas–in Fritch–so we got to see them once each year in the summer. My second oldest cousin, Lynne, was (to me) as pretty as Marcia Brady–who was as pretty as a Barbie Doll (Malibu Barbie was the standard at the time). That is some serious pretty.

Absolutely NO IDEA where Warren and Lisa are in this photo. You'll see that Hal had made an appearance though. Nice red jacket, brother. Lynne is holding me AGAIN.

I loved all of my cousins, but I loved Lynne extra special. She used to let me play with her hair–even when I ruined her perm one time and very nearly had to cut her hair out of the brush curling iron I was using. I had forgotten this, but Momma reminded me–then I had vague remembrances of this happening in Granny’s bedroom on the roll-away cot that always got set up when they were there. We also wrote letters to each other. She had scratch and sniff stationery. (And I did not notice until I went digging for these photos, that she held me a lot which may also have to do with the much-loved status.)

Lynne married Dean and had two children when I was entering Jr. high–Wesley and Amber. She let me play with and hold them too. The times she came to visit when they were babies, I would haul them around and change their diapers and give them bottles and try to put them down for their naps. They remember none of this.

A baby Amber at about 7 months, and a very nearly baby Roxanne at about 13 or 14. I guess I take after Lynne huh?

Saturday night was Amber’s wedding. Victoria and I were in attendance and got to see all of my cousins and their spouses and most of the children along with Aunt Norma and Uncle Frank. The wedding was in Galveston (hence the beachy decor). Here are some photos of the happy event.

Amber and the lucky guy who married her.

LOVED her dress. . .very bridal with the lace and sequins and teeny-weeny buttons, but just right for the beach-ish locale. AND the sun actually, for REAL shone on her. . .

Pretty

Lynne's dress

Groomsmen vests

Amber's hair

Hugging her PaPaw--my Uncle Frank.

Aunt Norma's anniversary ring. I think it was for their 25th. She one time (accidentally) painted her diamonds red. She was spray painting baskets for the rehearsal dinner for Warren's wedding. The story is very funny now. It was not so funny at the time.

Frank and Norma. Fifty-three years and counting.

Table decor. Simple, yet lovely.

Again--lovely.

We were, after all, on the island. Hello, seahorse sentinels.

Congratulations Amber and Michael!!!

I don’t get to see Amber or Lynne very much even though they don’t live far away. It’s really a shame–and we always say that when we get together. But this one thing is for sure. I love them. I love them way more than they probably even know–and a lot more than I can tell them. They are a part of me in the way only cousins can be. And Michael, I don’t know you very well. . .but you better take care of our girl. We Williamson/Bawcom/Cates/Watts women pack a punch.

Ha. Ha. Just kidding.

Sort of.

Road Trip: Louisiana

GINORMOUS oak tree at Nanny and Grandaddy's house where my Daddy grew up and where my sister now lives. I would have to take a panoramic shot to get the whole thing into one photo. It's seriously huge.

I am from Louisiana.

No, I do not:
*speak or cook “cajun”
*care very much about LSU
*hail from the southern half of the state
*celebrate Mardi Gras
*really appreciate jazz

That being said, I DO love my home state. It is lovely and green and chock full ‘o good folks including my family. We go visit at least two times each year–sometimes more–though I DID get “in trouble” from my sister for promising that THIS visit would be longer. . .and it wasn’t. Alas, I told her that I run around trying to please everyone, which is a losing prospect at best, and she agreed. Besides. . .we’d left our Daddy in Texas and kind of missed him.

The time we had there, however, was WONDERFUL. It was full of:

Swimming(at Doc Suze’s house)

Cousins

The younger with Victoria. They are 6 months apart.

The elder with Mawmaw.

Doc Suze (aka: Sissy, aka: my sister, aka: Suzanne)

Front view: The extra set of arms (in blue) behind Victoria (in white) belong to my sister. She is not tall.

Side view: Case in point

She and Thad became fast Phineus and Ferb buddies.

Plus she always has puppies. . .or kittens. . .or both. . .or baby squirrels. . .or skunks. . .or possums. . .no kidding.

And did I mention the pool?

Uncles

Uncle Tommy--Daddy's younger brother--with the kids.

He showed them his homemade, remote controlled airplane. Cool.

Uncle Hal--MY younger brother (1 year and 4 days apart) was not on some rig in the Gulf of Mexico making technological things work so we got to enjoy his company this time around as well.

He took the kids and me over to see, quote, the place, end quote, in Richland Parish. I had never been there. . .and it is lovely.

The old home place built out of cinder blocks that were carried down the river on a boat.

Playing

Walking across the pasture from Doc Suze's house to Mawmaw's house.

MORE birthday presents for Thad.

I made forts with the same wooden chairs. . .

On the swing with Mawmaw

PLUS we went to see “Despicable Me.” (Don’t waste time on the slow-mo in the clip. . .the first 10 seconds give you what you need to know.) (And also, “The physical appearance of the please makes no difference. . .”) Aside from the bathroom humor, it was much funnier and sweeter than I expected.

FOOD

Lemon Cake. . .YUM. . .made by Victoria, and her mother before her, and her mother before her, and her mother before her.

Mawmaw has no established nutrition rules. And she always has plenty of everything you like.

Oh. My. Goodness. Don't EVEN get me started on the Mer Rouge icecream. This sign TOTALLY cracked me up.

And coming back home again

What we drove into and through for most of the day

Victoria's nest

Thad's nest

Oh, dear.

Thad's leftover, melted Mer Rouge icecream dregs and my candle FIND. . .the state of the front passenger seat was appalling. And yes, Sarah, that IS a box of mini Premium crackers.

Just WHO is driving anyway???

Ahhh. . .

. . .even better. . .

It was a really, REALLY good trip. Really.

Just like flying

Freedom.

When I was growing up, I didn’t have a lot of it. Not that I needed or wanted much. I was more than content to be tied to Momma’s apron strings–in fact, she’d have cut me loose a lot sooner if I had let her. Daddy always said he’d spend his old-age rocking on my front porch. My world revolved around home and church and grandparents and school. Everything except school was within a five mile radius.

When I was 13, my sister extended that radius by beginning her freshman year of college. She went to a small, private Christian university in Montgomery, Alabama. Montgomery is, by far, not the LARGEST state capitol, but it was much larger than where we grew up. It was also very, very far away. I remember going with Momma to see Sissy that spring–there was a variety show of sorts in which my sister played a can of Spam–and our first night there she and her friends decided to take us “flying.”

This little university had a curfew (as did the one I attended). The decision to go “flying” was made somewhat close to curfew, none-the-less, we all crammed into a car (I remember being on someone’s lap) and headed to downtown Montgomery. It was late by my standards, probably 9:30/10:00–early spring–cold–wind was blowing. We parked near the capitol on one of the wide, well-lit, empty streets then took full advantage of them. I remember running willy-nilly with my big sister and her friends–comporting myself in a manner I’d here-to-fore never been allowed to behave in public. And no one was telling me to stop. Not even Momma. In fact, I was being ENCOURAGED to do so. This madcap hilarity was the standard–the norm–and I was not only included but welcomed.

We dashed up the steps of the capitol building where I stood on the exact spot Jefferson Davis became the one and only President of the Confederacy. I peered through the locked doors of the rotunda vestibule and saw the well-worn steps of the then 132 year old antebellum staircases. Even at the tender age of 13, I distinctly remember thinking about how many shoes had gone up and down those stairs to wear them so, and that many of those shoes had been on the feet of famous (and I now know infamous) people.

Secondary to the capitol building, however, was the opportunity to “fly.” A few blocks over, there were some square pillars encased in mirrors, so that if you stood with the corner of the pillar in the center of your body then raised one arm and one leg, it appeared to those who were watching just like you were flapping your wings and flying. It was hilarious to watch. Everyone–even Momma–had a turn. Then we crammed back into the car and high-tailed it back to campus to make curfew. We may or may not have stopped at Hardees on the way.

On that ride back to the dorm I experienced something for the first time in my young, small, sheltered life. More than the hilarity of the situation, more than the overwhelming thoughts of history I had knocking around in my brain, more than the amazement that my sister was ALLOWING me to go somewhere with her, more than the feeling of being included by her friends, more than the fact that my mother was letting me stay out THIS LATE in a town THIS BIG and was also WITH US (she was, at the time, one year older than I am now), more than any of that was the overwhelming sense of freedom.

It was wreckless abandon. It was heady and intoxicating and on the very verge of chaotic. Never mind that there was an adult mother with us who was closely monitoring the situation (I was in shock and awe that she had not turned us around and sent us back to the dorm). To me it seemed as though all caution had been thrown to the gusty spring winds of downtown Montgomery, and I thrilled in it.

I remember the cold. I remember the dark. I remember the cramped car. I remember the song that was on the radio (Always Something There to Remind Me by Naked Eyes). I remember the unfamiliar scent of the dorm room and the feel of someone else’s sheets on my face when I climbed into bed that night. But what I remember most was that being my first taste of what was in store. It was the first time I saw that there was a bigger world out there–one that was ripe with possibility just for me.

It was my introduction to radical freedom.

And it was just like flying.