Switched At Birth

Store Bought Teeth

Have you ever looked through a raggedy old family photo album that's been dragged from pillar to post and wondered if you are descended from the Tribe of People with Huge Teeth? It took me a few minutes to figure out why my handsome Daddy's smile looks so strange in some of the pictures. It's the false teeth. He had to have been young when he got them. I see the same thing in some of the smeary black and white snapshots of his brothers.

My Daddy grew up near Jay, Florida, on a farm in a wide spot in the road known as Dixonville -- so close to the state line that a crooked crayon line of overzealous gerrymandering would create new Alabama voters. W. T. had nine brothers and one poor girl sister.

In 1991, a year after selling Aladdin Communications, I registered at the University of West Florida in Pensacola and finished the degree in psychology that I had started 24 years earlier and left a third incomplete.  What a blast. I was an "old lady" of 40, hanging out with a bunch of 18-25 year old kids. The learning was one hundred percent mind candy. I loved walking the rangy campus, using my library card, buying supplies, sitting in the cafeteria with my stack of books, drinking coffee, writing and immersing myself in the buzz of life finding itself.

There was a blind girl from Jay in one of my classes. It was an organizational development class. We formed small groups to work on a project. That gave us a chance to get to know one another. When this young woman found out I came from the Jones family in Jay, she wanted to know "which" Joneses. When she found out, she said, "Your Uncle Gordon was the sweetest man in the world. He came over all the time to cut my mama's grass." (Ya'll hush, now, she didn't mean anything by that.) She went on to tell me what "everybody" said: "Those Jones boys were sweet as sugar, but they sure were a wild bunch."

I think of that when I see those faded photos of those good men, holding up a line of fresh caught shellcrackers , or dressed up for Easter church and striking a pose, smiling big to show off their store bought teeth.

 

W. T. and Nettie Jones, Miami Springs, Florida 1954 

Fire Lines

Buck talked to the Division of Forestry last week to make arrangements for them to come out and re-plow some of the fire lines around Longleaf. Before Hurricane Ivan knocked us for a loop, back in September of 2004, we could walk a circle of fire lines all around the property. There were circles within circles and connecting lines. It was not quite a labyrinth, but was, for me, the perfect place for a walking meditation.

The forester will come out once the ground has dried enough so his brand new equipment doesn't bog up and run the risk of getting stuck. We're into a pattern of daily thunderstorms and showers right now, and the ground has been too wet to plow.

Hurricane Ivan took about 350 of the old growth Longleaf pines and hardwood trees around here. A good number of them wound up strewn across the fire lines.

Exigencies of life intervened in 2005 and 2006 to put path clearing not only on the back burner, but forgotten for a long time. Our son (my stepson), Darryl, died of a heart attack. He was 45 years old, much loved, and greatly missed. The trauma of his passing has developed scar tissue on our hearts, but as anyone who has experienced loss knows, the open wound never really goes away. His mother, Buck's first wife and the natural grandmother of my grandchildren, had died from complications of a stroke almost exactly 60 days earlier. Darryl's brother and sister lost both mother and brother within two months.

We were smack in the middle of a huge home building project -- sort of like being in the center of a bridge with both ends on fire and no where to go but through the fire.  It was an awful time.

The year 2006 brought surgery for me for a strange fibroid outside the uterine wall that no one was sure was a fibroid, rather than something else far more scary, until it was out and examined by pathologists.

I've been sitting here trying to remember what took 2007. Oh, yeah. No wonder I forgot. I put it into the File 13 of my memory bank. Buck's friend of 35 years, a retired two-star Air Force general, died in February of 2007, leaving Buck the personal representative of his estate. He had also made Buck trustee of a trust that Buck didn't know existed. The twisted plot line of the unfolding of this messy situation would make a Southern Gothic novelist drool. I'll leave it at that.

Life is a beautiful, horrific braiding of events. We stand at the mouth of the river and the eye of the storm, that place where rainbows are seen. Difficult days, we tread water. Glorious days, we fly.

When the forester clears the path and the circle is once more unbroken, Buck, Maggie and I will walk it again and again. Maybe we'll find anew the pitcher plant prairie where I took these photographs in May of 2004.

Fly with me. Let's soar above it all for a sweet while.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Half A Bubble Off

My father was a building contractor. He had a carpenter's level that helped him to know when a surface was "plumb;" that is, true 90 degrees horizontal or vertical -- the sine qua non of construction.  A strange wind blew through our woods late yesterday afternoon, and ever since, I have been half a bubble off.

Buck and I had been to town and were headed back home when the wind began to pick up.  I saw one of our neighbor's yard ducks standing on an overhanging oak tree branch. He looked like he didn't know whether to fly or go hide under the neighbor's porch.     

A tangled green cluster of mistletoe blew down the center of the blacktop like tumbleweed, and the tall pines dipped and swayed.

The sun was still shining when the first fat rain drops began to hit the asphalt.We pulled into the porte cochere (known in the vernacular as a carport) and were hit by slantwise rain as we unlocked the front door and shut it before the wind could slam it back like an umbrella turned inside out.

Buck went out to swim, despite the storm. Not me. I felt cold, and wrapped the walls about myself for warmth and comfort as I made dinner: a small plate of raw veggies, braised pork chops, mushrooms and brown rice.

After the brief, intense storm, the sun came out again, and I was entranced by the tall oats, wheat and rye out front. Their seed heads were full of water, heavy with promise. I saw Indigo Buntings feasting on the pale green stalks, grabbed my camera and quietly opened the glass front door.

It hardly seemed possible, but just to the right of this grassy scene, a flamboyant sunset had begun to play out. It grabbed my attention, and I snapped, snapped and snapped.

 

The storm that blew me into the weeds continued to play out in my head today, making me feel slightly out of round. I had dreams, premonitions and worries. A heaviness formed into a cloud, and I felt responsible for all the losses looming on tomorrow's horizon that I am impotent to prevent.

Tonight, Buck fed me wild honey, and got my small boat back on course.

I've Read It's A Curse To Be Related To A Writer

A public apology is called for when a couple of sentences, too clever by half, hurts a dear person who held me in her ten year old arms when I was still womb warm, red and wrinkled.

I implied once, in a useless scrap of printed words, that she was perhaps a few fries short of a Happy Meal and thought our mother wasn't suffering from an organic brain disease that caused her to halucinate and suffer other delusions, but rather was possessed by demons.

Fact is, I had my hopes pinned on the demon idea -- seemed more optimistic than the alternative.

For the record: my brothers and sisters have always said I was a prissy kid who didn't like to sweat, who sucked up to our mother so I could stay indoors and "practice" piano while they raked leaves for her in the sweltering central Florida sun.

I publicly invite them to add their own comments about any remembered shortcomings, embarrassing stunts or general lowness of mine that they would enjoy seeing about me in print.

I'll start:  I'm insular, sometimes think more highly of myself than I ought, am sometimes emotionally lazy or just plain unavailable, am a show-off, if not actually prissy, and I still hate to sweat.

But I love you, my sister, Flo, and beg your forgiveness.

Thanksgiving Day 4:30 PM

Some very good friends bring us expensive champagne every time they come for dinner. Usually two bottles at a time. Often it's 5:00 p.m. when they arrive, ready for a gin martini (he) and a Crown Royal manhattan (she), and the champagne goes unopened. We are building quite a stash.

The last two bottles have been chilling in the fridge for more than a month, festive red mylar hiding the French Taittinger within.

Our son-in-law popped a cork on one of them at Noon today, and we toasted our generous friends and each other. Bubbly at its best.

We gathered around the dining table, the day cool enough for a fire, even here on the Florida panhandle, a classic Thanksgiving day, with blue skies, boisterous robins, colorful hardwoods, exuberant children, and mellow adults. This time last year, we ate in this same dining room, but in far different circumstances. It was still a construction zone, dried in, but bare concrete floors and no sheetrock. Buck and I covered picnic tables with cloths, brought in pumpkins, candles, flowers, and a table lamp on a long extension cord.

We were all still in mourning from the death of our son, brother and uncle, Darryl, only the month before, and that of Buck's first wife -- mother and grandmother to all these kids -- three months earlier. None of us could bear to celebrate Thanksgiving, but we couldn't bear not to, either.

We held hands in a circle, read a brief Thanksgiving litany from the Book of Common Prayer, acknowledged our absent family members, cried, and before the evening was over, told stories and laughed. In the mysterious way of healing, our broken places began to knit . . .together.

Today we shared our feast and walked together in the woods.

Dark has fallen now and the house is quiet. Maggie is curled up by me on one side, Buck stretched out on the other. Life. What a concept. What a big, beautiful idea.

November 23, 2006 in Mary Beth's Kitchen | Permalink | Comments (1)

Some very good friends bring us expensive champagne every time they come for dinner. Usually two bottles at a time. Often it's 5:00 p.m. when they arrive, ready for a gin martini (he) and a Crown Royal manhattan (she), and the champagne goes unopened. We are building quite a stash.

The last two bottles have been chilling in the fridge for more than a month, festive red mylar hiding the French Taittinger within.

Our son-in-law popped a cork on one of them at Noon today, and we toasted our generous friends and each other. Bubbly at its best.

We gathered around the dining table, the day cool enough for a fire, even here on the Florida panhandle, a classic Thanksgiving day, with blue skies, boisterous robins, colorful hardwoods, exuberant children, and mellow adults. This time last year, we ate in this same dining room, but in far different circumstances. It was still a construction zone, dried in, but bare concrete floors and no sheetrock. Buck and I covered picnic tables with cloths, brought in pumpkins, candles, flowers, and a table lamp on a long extension cord.

We were all still in mourning from the death of our son, brother and uncle, Darryl, only the month before, and that of Buck's first wife -- mother and grandmother to all these kids -- three months earlier. None of us could bear to celebrate Thanksgiving, but we couldn't bear not to, either.

We held hands in a circle, read a brief Thanksgiving litany from the Book of Common Prayer, acknowledged our absent family members, cried, and before the evening was over, told stories and laughed. In the mysterious way of healing, our broken places began to knit . . .together.

Today we shared our feast and walked together in the woods.

Dark has fallen now and the house is quiet. Maggie is curled up by me on one side, Buck stretched out on the other. Life. What a concept. What a big, beautiful idea.

The Tie That Binds

It's been a rough year. We lost two family members to sudden, unexpected death. Circling the wagons, spending more time together, forgetting about the small stuff of old parent-child scripts, sibling jeolousies, and the misadventures of parents intuitively seemed right for this moment in our lives together.

Our time in the barrel started just over a year ago: a hard hit in August and a deeper cut 60 days later in October.

We hug more now, and the "I love yous" are thick as dragonflies on an August afternoon. Not syrupy sweet; just recognizing the mindful moment and the brevity of our existence.

The remaining son became blessedly insistent on a Sunday visit with his dad. His wife, children and his sister and her family also began to converge more often at Longleaf.

We began to eat together, swim together, talk and then, to laugh.

Pasta Sundays were born.

The first was August 12. The menu was lasagne bolognese, caponata, a raw veggie antipasto, garlic-stuffed olives, garlic bread and vino. Dessert was a huge bowl of green and red grapes.

We ate outside on the patio, kids and adults together, talking like there was no tomorrow.

August 23, 2006 in Mary Beth's Kitchen | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)

It's been a rough year. We lost two family members to sudden, unexpected death. Circling the wagons, spending more time together, forgetting about the small stuff of old parent-child scripts, sibling jeolousies, and the misadventures of parents intuitively seemed right for this moment in our lives together.

Our time in the barrel started just over a year ago: a hard hit in August and a deeper cut 60 days later in October.

We hug more now, and the "I love yous" are thick as dragonflies on an August afternoon. Not syrupy sweet; just recognizing the mindful moment and the brevity of our existence.

The remaining son became blessedly insistent on a Sunday visit with his dad. His wife, children and his sister and her family also began to converge more often at Longleaf.

We began to eat together, swim together, talk and then, to laugh.

Pasta Sundays were born.

The first was August 12. The menu was lasagne bolognese, caponata, a raw veggie antipasto, garlic-stuffed olives, garlic bread and vino. Dessert was a huge bowl of green and red grapes.

We ate outside on the patio, kids and adults together, talking like there was no tomorrow.

Eulogy For Our Friend

Buck's formal name is Frank. He wrote the following eulogy for our great friend, Grace. I read it aloud to her family and friends -- more than 200 -- assembled at the United Methodist Church of Gulf Breeze for a service in celebration of Grace Futch Grider's remarkable life.

The organist played a medley of good old hymns, followed by the exquisite Pachelbel's Canon. Our mutual best friend, Frank Faddis, delivered a personal tribute, as well. Then, on legs that felt to me like a shaky colt's, I walked to the front of the church and up two steps to the lectern, speaking into the live microphone. . .

My name is Beth Westmark. What I am about to read is a letter written by my husband, Frank, to our dear friend Grace’s family. Frank and I talked about it last night and we agreed that if he could write it, I could read it. My own thoughts and feelings about Grace are mirrored by his words.

………………………………………………………………………

"I knew Grace mainly by reputation 20 years before we actually got acquainted. That happened in 1988 when we were both elected to the Board of Directors of American Bank and Trust of Pensacola.

Something clicked between us and we just hit it off from the outset. She helped maneuver me into the chairman’s job before I realized what I was doing.

I asked her, “Are you going to support me in this?” She replied, “You can take it to the bank, honey.” I asked her that question many times during the ensuing years, and always got the same answer.

When we were elected to the board, neither of us knew the bank was losing north of $50,000 a month. We were also surprised to learn that the bank had no insurance to indemnify us from personal legal and financial liability for our actions as directors. Suddenly, this was not an altogether fun job. There were very serious problems, but Grace was no shrinking violet.

I learned early on that when the shooting started, Grace was the one you wanted in your foxhole. She had a lot of steel, and a strong gravely voice that she used very effectively to express her views in a pretty straightforward way.

She got that in the course of her successes in the rough and tumble real estate profession that was dominated at the time by male competitors. She had to be tough to succeed. Being smarter than the guys helped, too.

By 1996 the bank was earning more than a million dollars annually, We subsequently sold it to Whitney National Bank of New Orleans, and our shareholders, who stuck with us during the tough times, recovered their original investment plus a handsome profit.

Absent Grace’s strength, wisdom and sheer will, I doubt it would have happened. I count it as another signature achievement in Grace’s remarkable career.

In the process, Grace and I formed a profound bond of trust, friendship and affection that included my wife, Beth, and her husband, Cecil. We spent a lot of quality time together, the four of us, both here and at our summer homes in North Carolina, where we were neighbors across the mountain.

Our frequent visits began and ended with hugs and kisses, with a lot of great conversation and fun in between. We talked about business, politics, religion, family, personal experiences, whatever – nothing was off limits. Sometimes Grace’s laughter would fill a big room, sometimes the whole place.

Through it all, Grace remained Grace. She was in the game to the end with both courage and resolve.

“Getting old is not for sissies, honey,” she would say.

I talked to her at length New Year’s Eve, where she was at home recovering from a relatively mild stroke. She still had some paralysis in her right arm.

“I’m going to get over this stroke, honey,” she said. “In the meantime, I’m not out of business. I can lift a glass of scotch with my left hand, so y’all come to see us.”

We had a good belly laugh about that and wished each other Happy New Year.

That was vintage Grace. She looked at life with optimism, always a glass half full, never half empty. She loved her family, talked about them all the time. She loved her friends. She loved her community. She loved the gift of life, and she lived it to the fullest.

She was truly, amazing Grace."

An older gentleman came up to me after the service, took my hand in his big paw, and told me he knew reading those words was a tough job. Said he had to do that once for a friend, and didn't make it. Then, he shook Buck's hand and thanked him for writing the words.

We all thought Grace would be with us -- that there was time enough, and to spare. Losing her is a hard hit for her family and friends.

In the future, I'll tell some "Grace" stories, but they'll be ones to laugh by, ones that stir the juices of full-out adventure living, and remind us all to do it, do it all, do it now.

Thanks for listening.

09:26 PM in Love and Loss | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0)

Amazing Grace

Grace was not a woman who ran with the wolves. Grace was the wolf. A she-wolf. Leader of the pack. Buck's good right arm when they were on the bank board together. His loyal ally during tough times and good times. Our friend. My third mama.

Gracie died last night about 9:30 in Baptist Hospital. Her sweetie, Cecil, a gentleman of unparalleled excellence, also our dear friend, called this morning with the news.

What a loss. She needs to be written about. I have so many Grace stories. But not tonight. Not tonight.

 

Sweet dreams, honey. God's got a hand-full now, for sure.

07:43 PM in Love and Loss | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBack (0)