Two Mothers and Cornbread

This is the story of two very different ladies and one very special dish.

In my lifetime I was blessed with not one, but two mothers. 

Long story, but my mother was schizophrenic and very unstable in an era when mental illness was swept under the rug and very strong, experimental drugs were quietly dispensed by the family doctor. 

It was not unusual for me to ride down the center our little town on my bike with the daisy seat and metal basket and pick up a prescription of thorazine, a True Crime magazine and a pack of Benson and Hedges. (It was the 70's). 

Toward the end of her life the disease had worsened and my sweet Mother had become manic and elusive more days than not. That's the dark sad side of her story. 

The light and happy side is, she was a brilliant writer, photographer, seamstress, artist, singer and when times were balanced, an awesome Mom. She was beautiful and funny and loyal to her family and those are the traits and the times I choose to remember. 

Because of her mental state, she was very dependent. Dependent on my Dad, on the drugs that kept her functioning, on her own parents. 

My mother didn't work outside the house. She was of the era that the wife stayed home and the man was the breadwinner and she was very much a part of that structure. She suffered horribly from insomnia, maybe from the meds, maybe from my Dad working the night shift, maybe from the demons that tortured her relentlessly.

She was always creating, always singing, always working in the garden and canning vegetables and sewing wedding dresses and writing poetry. Her talents were big and looking back, I wish they had been shared more often.

I saw strength in my Dad, who spent 18 years navigating the obstacles of dealing with a loved one with a mental illness. And also strength in my grandmother, who prayed for her oldest daughter to recover from her condition. 

When you have a loved one who suffers so, you tend to file away the good days to draw strength from. The day before my mother's accident was such a day. She was really good. She had smiles and hugs and made a huge dinner, complete with my favorites, beans and cornbread. We talked and laughed until later that night when there was a trigger that sent her off the deep end. I am not sure what it was exactly, but it was a bad episode, she was quite delusional and I was tired of playing the part of the nurse. 

I said some things that were less than nice (last words to my mom) and it took me quite a while to work through that guilt. Through the years and with God's grace I have dealt with those issues. Forgiven myself, forgiven her, forgiven the medical world that so failed her during those years. 

But on that last day she left a pan of cornbread on the stove. Right after her death, before everyone descended upon my house I wrapped up the cornbread and put it in the freezer. I kept that cornbread for 3 years. Not sure why, maybe just part of my process.

I have learned not to question your processes or timelines for healing. 

SO, the last meal my Mama made for me was cornbread. 

If you are from the south or part of any culture, you know that there are certain foods and dishes that are significant. Well, cornbread is one of those dishes that is part of southern heritage. To know how to make good cornbread is imperative. To make it for those around you is an act of love. A culinary song that goes best with real butter and sweet tea and if you are lucky, a slice of vidalia onion. It's a treasure. Having it as a "last dish" was a somewhat weird comfort, but somehow it helped.

Fast foward forty one years. 

In the years following the death of my mother, my Dad met and married Hilda. There could not be two women more opposite. 

Hilda was a union coordinator and tough as nails, outspoken, opinionated and fierce. 

I came to greatly appreciate those qualities, but at first it was a learning curve. It was so different than I what I was used to. 

Through the years Hilda was a driving force in my life. 

She was there when I got my drivers's license (I took my drivers test in her company car), my graduation, weddings, births of my children and their children, every holiday, baby shower, bridal shower, illness and celebration, Hilda was right in the center making sure it was special. 

While I had to learn how to process the frankness and quite brutal honesty she possessed, I came to appreciate it and even learn from it and eventually lovingly tease her about it.

She was loyal to a fault to her family and friends. What you saw is what you got-there was no pretense. She was fair, determined and expected the same from those around her. 

Having a husband with those same traits, I spoke her love language well. She loved strongly and with great intention. 

As time progressed and Hilda got older, she had some vision problems and some few minor health issues, but the care and love I saw between her and my Dad during those years was inspiring. 

They traveled around the country, spent time with family and friends and lived wonderful, full moments.

A couple of years ago we bought a farm and Dad and Hilda came for dinner, along with my stepsister. We had a good time laughing, telling and retelling old stories and having a most warm and memorable afternoon. Hilda brought her famous dish for that dinner...cornbread. It was absolutely heavenly fried cornbread with just the right amount of crust. I smiled through the whole meal. It was a special time and I will always treasure it.

Later that evening Hilda suffered a stroke and never recovered. 

Her last dish to make for me was cornbread. Once again, I wrapped it up and put it in the freezer. It's still there today.

Now if you have stayed with me this far during this story you get what I am saying. That I was blessed with two (very different) mothers in my lifetime. That both would leave me with the same dish. Cornbread. 

A while back I was featured in the local newspaper holding my very old, very heavy iron skillet and shared the recipe that I am also known for. Cornbread. 

I guess you could say it's my legacy-the sweet golden tapestry between my two, very wonderfully different mothers. 

Weary

Talk to anyone these days and the same words are said. "I am tired", "so ready to return to normal".

We aren't physically tired as much as mentally drained. My oh my what a year we have just lived. 

Right here I could insert a list of obstacles we have overcome since February 2020 as a collective nation, but I don't have to. You know. You were there with us. Together. It doesn't feel like together, but guess what? we have made our way through it as one people. 

We might have had different opinions on how to handle the virus, how to vote, how to prepare for hurricane season, but we are brothers and sisters of this nation and we all handled it our own way. I love that. I truly love that we are different. We have so much to offer as individual people with our own colors and opinions and tastes. Gosh, it's delicious. 

The differences spice up things and makes the flavors meld together and the outcome is a colorful, lovely world that only our maker could arrange. 

What a I mourn is our respect for each other. 

No longer can we sit at the dinner table and talk politics without it getting loud or personal or creating a great divide. It seems as if our opinions are not matching by as little as one or two words or ideas, it's a deep cut is slow to scab over, if it even does. 

When did this happen? tolerance is lost. Patience and empathy and listening have all but diminished. 

Our personal opinions are so strong that there isn't room for a difference. 

The leadership in our nation for the past few decades has been watered down. It's grown organically out of greed and power and a simple solution to this problem is nowhere in site. 

Or is it? 

Can we come together in our immediate relationships with our close circles and have it ripple outward?  It's possible but would be hard behind screens. I have personally been attacked on social media by family members for having a difference of opinion. It's too easy to take out frustrations on such a platform. 

I make it a point to keep anger and rudeness at bay, just for my own well being. Self preservation if you will, it's  the only way to keep balance within-to make sure what we "let in" is quality. Not the trash or spewing garbage. 

So while I am totally unsure of where our paths might be leading us to, I do know that we are going there together. Like it or not. Whether we are holding hands on the path or are in a single file line, we are on this journey one and all.

Tomorrow is a day without mistakes. I hope we can tread lightly, love each other and give each other space and respect. We owe that to each other. 

Alabama Wildflowers

Being the product of the fields, the valleys, the “hollers”, the woods, the brooks, the hay, the bees, the earth..I hear echoes of my ancestors throughout my dreams, throughout my speech, within my philosophies. 

The flowers that grow at the bottom of the Appalachian mountain trail are indeed believed to be the most fragrant, the most colorful, the wildest. Much like the people who walk among them, mostly the women.

Alabama is the end of the Appalachian Mountains, so when you meet someone from that part of the world know that they are built of a different stock. At the end of a magnificent mountain range is like being at the end of a very strong sentence, there is an exclamation point that punctuates the importance of the statement. Where I grew up is that punctuation mark. 

The Cumberland Plateau is the mountain range of the Appalachian Mountains that shaded my childhood. The rock is quartzite and as old as time. The mountains gave us a protective veil from the real world, an endless abundance of herbs, flowers, trees, earth and a beautiful setting to wake up to. I didn’t think I was blessed at the time, I grew up there in the 70’s, way before teenage angst was acknowledged and was celebrated and never tolerated in this southern part of the world. Having bonfires and peanuts in our Cokes was something I truly thought no one else tried but “us”. 

Not much penetrated the thick, humid, scented air but the smell of cornbread and fresh hay and worm dirt. Dark skies and bright stars lit our nights.

Little did I know that all that time when I had dreams of someday seeing the world away from that valley, that the wildflower essence was settling into my veins and building the strong stem inside me that would keep my spine straight through all kinds of storms.

Little also did I know that I was being initiated into the Appalachian mountain healing and folk medicine simply by osmosis and I watched the strong, wise women of my life cure simple and not so simple illnesses with herbs, flowers, berries and phases of the moon.

My grandmother, Margaret Annie Ruth “Nanny”, used catnip to fight croup and tobacco for ear infections and elderberry syrup for a cough. This was a normal treatment for us growing up and I can count on one hand how many times I visited a real physician as a child. If Nanny could not fix it then a “real” doctor was required. And I repeat, I almost never visited a real doctor. It’s not that we were cut off from modern medicine, we had total access to it, we just didn’t see the need.

My grandmother’s apron always contained safety pins, a tissue, an ink pen, a potholder and love. If she could not “bake” you better, “love” you better or “herb” you better you could not be fixed. 

Now, this practice had been passed down from Celt and Irish ancestors and while it often called Appalachian witchcraft, those who practiced it were almost always very religious and gave “God all the glory” for their gifts.

They were forced to be very pragmatic and self reliant and there was a connection between body, mind, spirit, the goodness of nature and prayer. There was no name for it really, it was just common sense rooted in the Bible, Mother Nature and a simple caring for others around us. 

When I read some of the more natural remedies on some of today’s websites I am taken back to a time when a small, strong, freckled woman with red hair seem to know it all, she seemed to love bigger than the Appalachian mountains and she grew strong crops and healthy grandchildren. How lucky can one be to have been given this gift of love and magic from women stronger than the steel that was produced nearby?

We didn’t call it magic, but my memories are magic. My knowledge is magic and the love that I feel for my own children and grandchildren is magic. This stems from the seeds planted long ago in fragrant dirt and tended by maternal love. Don’t talk to me about strong women…we cornered the market on that long ago. 

We are our own sacred space filled with caring, kudzu, magnolia and the Lord’s Prayer and we are rich with family and honor and ancient recipes and patience. 

Never underestimate a southern woman because somewhere in her family tree is a woman who knew Granny Magic and chances are she is still watching over her.

Honor is a term used much too often

Judges answer to "Your Honor", a new acquaintance might hear "it's an honor to meet you". There is even a perfume named Honor. It's a word thrown around every day, but the term took on new meaning for me after meeting our neighbor.

Henry is 94 and can always be found with a whittling knife and block of wood in his hand, sitting in the shade just inside his garage, in a folding lawn chair draped with a towel.

Every day he is impeccably dressed in linen pants pulled high on his waist and suspenders over a crisp white cotton shirt. His hair is combed over with hair gel and his broad smile lifts his glasses. He is a thin man, white hair, walks quickly and talks just as fast. His accent is New Jersey.

There is no moss growing on Henry. He builds beautiful bird houses and carves small wooden animals and knows every single neighbor within a few blocks.

Before selling his paint company, he and Sarah raised a family, built a home on the side of a mountain and were part of the society circles in Birmingham. After 70 years, they retired and move south to sunny south Alabama.

We became fast friends with Henry, mostly because he keeps a keen eye on our place. He sits directly across the street with a direct view of our front door and garage and he is quick to greet us with "Hello!" when we walk outside. 

Not long after we got into the house we trimmed a tree out front and before the limbs hit the ground Henry was picking them up and placing them in the trash. This little man worked circles around us and talked tirelessly the whole time without breaking a sweat. He never got out of breath and never took a break. It was amazing and shameful to us "young folks" who needed Epsom salt baths and a muscle relaxer afterwards.

We have lived in this house a year and we were told that Henry painted the interior of our house for the previous owner. Now, think about that..a 93 year old painted the entire house. I just hope I can open a jar of peanut butter at that age, and this man painted the entire interior of a house (including the ceilings) at ninety-three..

Sarah, his wife of 70 years sits beside him in the garage. She has alzheimer's and is out of touch as Henry is on top of things. They balance each other out. 

Sarah has a beautiful smile and a soft southern accent and asks us, as she does every day "Have you ever picked cotton?" he tells her in a gentle voice "honey, you just asked them yesterday". Of course, we always play along and answer "No ma'am, we never have" and her reply is "well, you have nevah worked a day in ya life". She is probably right. Picking cotton is known to be one of the worst ways to make a buck, and I am happy to say I have never been forced to earn my grocery money by cotton picking. Tomorrow Sarah will ask us again.

Henry pats her hand, and smiles and then she will always say she needs to "go inside and check on the girls". Their "girls" are now retired and drawing social security and they are not inside, but Henry says ok and helps her into the house to check on the children. He pats her back and helps her up the stairs and the gentleness and patience and sincerity in his touch overwhelms me every time. That's honor.

Henry is a veteran, as most of our neighbors are. We live in a place that is retirement friendly, especially veterans, with a warm climate and local military and VA medical facilities. Most every house has a flagpole in the center of the front yard and directly below the American flag you can determine which branch of service the resident served in by the second flag flying. Ours is the Navy flag.

Henry doesn't talk much of his service in WWII, but we know he was in the Battle of the Bulge at a very, very young age. When Henry speaks of his service, which has only been one time -  he mentioned his love for the German people and his shame in what happened during wartime in Europe. 

He has not spoken of it since to us, but I think to myself-this man has been carrying this darkness around inside for all these years. He carried out his orders as a soldier honorably, but in a way that didn't sit with his moral compass. He loved the enemy he was fighting, yet he loved his country more. How often does that happen?  Young men with love and tolerance in their hearts, yet their honor and loyalty to their country is as real as the guns they carry. They serve and protect out of honor.

Thank you to all the Henrys who laid their personal views aside to fight for our country. The ones that didn't get to come home and grow old with their best girls, didn't get to raise the family and retire down south. 

The honor and bravery of these soldiers kept the path clear and wolves from our doors and they deserve a day to honor them-and much, much more. 

There once was a beautiful farm that held many secrets. The family that lived on the 300 acre spread since 1942 had seen tragedy, new generations, a few wars, and the birth of 7 children and 17 grandchildren. To live that long in one place is the stuff novels are written about-especially such a place of pure beauty. But you can't have a novel without a protagonist and antagonist, tragedy and an ending.

This farm had rolling green hills and oak trees and bee hives. Ponds with catfish and bream and a garden that would make the Bellingraths jealous. It was split down the middle by a dirt road that became a dust storm when the mailman came or the tractor lumbered down the way.

The old farmhouse had a tin roof, a large front porch for storytelling and pea shelling and a huge oak tree that provoked my grandmother to write a poem to it before she moved away after 50 years of living underneath it.

Amidst the secrets and the stories, both good and bad, funny and sad, most of us 17 grandchildren found solace in the fields and the warm kitchen there. You see, the 7 children raised there in the 50's and 60's did not always do well-hence the secrets aforementioned.

Being as such, the younger generation was often in the care of our grandmother on the farm due to necessity. Spending nights, summers, weekend, sometimes months at this farmhouse that belonged to our grandparents, was something that most of us can say we had to do at certain times when our parents stumbled in life- and the stumbling happened more than it should have.

Alcoholism and mental illness plagued the family members, more so in this family than most, but as most, we placed band aids over our wounds, wiped tears and forged on. What else could we do? It was a time that "help" was not readily available- long before support groups and daily counseling was as normal as brushing our teeth. Our parents needed help, they needed medication, someone to talk to, understanding and professionals to save them. At that time mental illness and alcoholism was swept under the rug, they were told to get tough, to build a life that they were completely mentally lacking the tools to build. The results were tragic.

The magnificent setting to this sometimes tragedy was also the one place that we, as children, found safety and direction. Ironic. The one place that created the havoc for our parents after growing up here, was also the one place that we could seek refuge from their damage.

Weekends would find 4 or 5 of us kids riding bikes in the dusk when the lone street light blinked on, then catching lightening bugs near the porch. There were beetles that we tied a string to and then let fly around our heads in a circle-these were "junebugs", by the way.

Boredom was never a factor due to availability to fishing poles, livestock that needed attending, and a vegetable garden that "wouldn't weed itself". We worked, but it didn't feel like work, we wanted to help, we begged to help. We cut and hauled hay and made jams and jellies and picked okra and shelled peas. It was a productive way of life, we were learning, we were being taught lessons by our patient and loving grandmother and didn't even realize it at the time. It was generational magic and we were totally unaware.

In the late evenings was also a time to feed the hundreds of head of Angus cattle. The farm truck would bump along the edge of the green pasture with salt blocks and bails of hay, before the fancy "round" bails were even heard of. The cows would moo and snort and bellow as they followed the truck across the field. Being a daily, normal occurrence I never paid it much mind-until 40 years later.

As I sat outside in the late afternoon with my grandson a few weeks ago, I heard the cows in the field nearby. There is a farm that adjoins the neighborhood on the southwest side and the sound of the cows "crying" was so clear and pure and there I was, with an instant feeling of reassurance and peace and comfort. I smiled and thought of my grandmother, of the farm, of our lessons and our love that was found there. Funny how something so random and normal and out of the blue can trigger such emotions and ingrained memories. For some it's the smell of roses, the scent of bread baking, the sound of rain or trains or a hymn. For me it's the deep, bellowing sound of a cow and the smell of fresh hay.

My mind went back, I smiled and my inner child felt hugged..and safe.

As sad as this might sound to some, it's somewhat bittersweet. You see, this story isn't all dark-there is light. We took the lessons that we were taught by our grandmother during those years, and armed with the desire to do better, to thrive, to carve out lives that were better than our poor parent's lives-we did.

The children that came away from that farm knew what tragedy was, we knew what hard words can do to the heart, we understand that actions have consequences and safety comes from more than just love, but stability and boundaries and productivity and also faith in a higher power. We were given that gift by one woman who stood strong and believed in those things. She watched her children suffer and in some cases die, but her grateful grandchildren watched HER.

My grandson is almost two and he loves cows. Every afternoon we go to see them and we watch them follow the hay truck and listen to them bellow and moo. One day I hope he can say that his grandmother and the cows and the afternoon walks helped to shape him, and when he hears them he will feel safe and loved-and my job will be done.

being normal is not an option for us

Unlike most gentile, southern Mamas, step Mama's, Grandma's, wives, sisters, daughters, we tend to have buttons that are pushed when we are within bumping arms distance. This distant bump trips a button that allows us to dress as jellyfish, joy ride through a cemetery during Halloween (on the roads of course), and explore fascinating shoe stores in search of..shoes, find haunted mansions, muddy concert fields, paint classes, beach concerts, boats, mountains, parades, parties, showers, bonfires, jello shots from syringes,

In order for me to continue my life, my dream, my ability to grandma and garden and run a boat, and navigate waters and take group vacations and shine with my art work, these girls will have to keep our Ya Ya calendar organized.

We have much to accomplish in the next year. It will not be said that we are boring. It might be said that we were indecisive or easily distracted, but not boring. Never boring. 2015 will be my year. With the help of my Ya Ya sisters, all of them. in and around Pcola and Pcity, this can be accomplished. Without that strong barrier, the navigation would be astray, no matter how many husbands were tossing lines to save us. :)

My friends. Where would I be without them? Bored. for sure.

championships and sausage dip

I am a pure-bred Alabama Crimson Tide football fan.

When I mean fan, I mean devoted fan, as in Bama flags and emblem on the car, wearing houndstooth and crimson most every day during the fall (ok, all year) and swearing that Heaven resembles the quad in Tuscaloosa.

I didn't choose to be this way. It was by divine intervention and stamped on my forehead at birth. That's the way it is in Alabama. When a new baby comes in to the world their identification bracelet in the hospital has a Tiger or an Elephant. Look closely next time...

Some of my first words were "Roll Tide" and my Dad always drove a red truck (not by coincidence either). To this day I can tell you which of my school mates "pulled" for Auburn or Alabama. The rivalry was that intense and that much a part of our daily life. It's what defined us other than our gender. Boys on one side, girls on the other, Auburn fans on one side, Bama on the other. It's still that way. It isn't said aloud, but it's there.

When Bear Bryant died I took the day off work. I was in the crowd that attended his funeral. Not sure anyone will ever quite equal The Bear. And not sure during which championship us Alabamians decided he was a Saint, but it happened.

We don't take our football lightly in the south, but that topic has been overdone in the past. I think the world knows by now that we have no common sense when it comes to our home team dedication. Whether it is high school or college (not so much NFL-if you get paid to play ball it's just a j-o-b), there is little in our culture that gets that much attention and dedication as football with the exception of Mamas and vegetable gardens.

Last night was the BCS Championship and our team won it's 15th title. We watched the game at home in the living room with the same anticipation that we would have if we were on the 50 yard line. I didn't have to throw the remote in to the fireplace this time (yes, it happened during a loss to LSU last year). It's a sign that 2013 will be a good year. Roll Tide and pass the dip.

Hot Sausage Dip: a tailgating must have

1 package (16 oz.) Jimmy Dean Regular Flavor Pork Sausage

1 large onion chopped

1 large red bell pepper, chopped

1-2 jalapeno peppers, seeded, chopped

2 pkgs. (8 ounces each) cream cheese, cubed

1 large tomato, seeded, chopped

½ cup hot yellow banana peppers, drained, seeded, chopped

⅓ cup chopped fresh cilantro

Tortilla chips

1. Cook sausage, onion, red pepper and jalapeno peppers in large skillet over medium-high heat 8-10 minutes or until sausage is thoroughly cooked and vegetables are crisp-tender, stirring frequently. Drain sausage mixture; return to skillet.

2. Reduce heat to medium; stir in cream cheese. Cook and stir 5-8 minutes or until cream cheese is completely melted and mixture is well blended. Stir in tomato, banana peppers and cilantro; cook and stir 3-5 minutes or until thoroughly heated.

3. Serve with chips. Yum!

we found a winner

Not that we ever make biscuits, but we have obtained the BEST biscuit recipe. It's so nice having a husband that loves to cook.

Oh, and we have apple butter in the crockpot. Calorie overload! tomorrow we will be good...

we have honey!

Our first harvest. Bees are doing well and we have six more supers to extract. Tomorrow morning is biscuit time at Boat House Honey Farm!

my country and I share a birthday!

sometimes I feel like we are the same age..

my sweet daughter is always thoughtful ( note the bee on the bag ).

more beauty..in our wee ones

children make us feel things- good parts of our inner child that we bury with our daily routines.