GLORY DAYS!

So, I just joined Facebook and I got to thinking about my “Glory Days”…

I was in Heflin way over a year ago (maybe 2?) and saw a sign that said POPS BAR-B-Q was for sale. I went in and got a shake and cheeseburger and thought about my school days and old friends – even though the restaurant wasn’t at the same location as when I was a kid. The little red-haired lady who ran the original POPS in ’68 was still there, taking orders! I haven’t been back since I saw the FOR SALE sign and I wonder…do I dare go look to see if the building is still there? Oh, I don’t think I want to know!

When POPS was at its original location in Heflin, those were the Glory Days. To “circle POPS” was the ultimate Sunday afternoon experience. I tried to be good all week so Mama and Daddy would let me “go riding around” on Sunday. You could always find a girlfriend with a driver’s license who was going to POPS – it was a standard question at Sunday School: “Do you know anyone who is going to POPS today?”

Just a bunch of good old girls and boys, riding up and down the main street in Heflin and then whirling into the POPS parking lot to circle the building. Around and around we would go! We didn’t know what “loitering” meant and no one ever told us to stop circling! Waving at friends, and making new ones! You never even thought about ax murderers or kidnappings or any such nonsense in Cleburne County in those days.

If we had some change, we could stop and get something to eat. (Actually, it’s the only time we would get out of the car – we just rode and circled!) The milkshakes and the cheeseburgers were so good! Absolutely nothing tastes that way anymore.

I met the sweetest boy in the parking lot at POPS once. I was with a crowd of girls and we were circling POPs and he stuck his head out of the car window and said, in a voice I will never forget: “Hey Girl, what’s your name?” Yep, he was talking to ME! Let’s see, what did young girls do back then when a cute boy spoke to them….oh, I know - I just about had a COW! (What was that saying all about, I wonder?)

Okay, Boss Bruce, I’m gonna borrow your little ditty:

Glory days well they'll pass you by
Glory days in the wink of a young girl's eye
Glory days, glory days

Mama's Zinnias

Spot of Gold...

I remember the year Mama planted Zinnias. I was ten.

I thought about it today when I “turned my garden over”. It’s a small plot, less than ten paces long. This year I decided to plant Zinnias in my little spot. Just Zinnias.

So today I dipped my shovel into the earth. I pushed on the end of it with my foot, lifting out as much dirt as I could hold on to. I raised each scoop high and then I let it go. The clod would fall from the shovel, crumbling as it hit the ground. Over and over I did this until all the dirt was overturned. I began raking, to smooth the little mounds. It seemed there was more earth within that little rectangle than when I started. Finally it was smoothed and then, with the hoe turned sideways, dragging it along, I made rows. On my knees, I carefully planted the seeds and smoothed the dirt over them by hand. I struggled to get up – my back was weary.

I remember Mama’s Zinnias. She raked the dirt a little bit and then scattered the seeds. They landed in just the right spot. The business of planting Zinnias seemed so effortless! I wish Mama had been on Earth with me today. Maybe she would have told me her secret as I pawed breathlessly at my little spot of dirt.

I remember Mama’s Zinnias. Oh the colors! Flower heads as big as our supper plates, it seemed. They danced in the wind but always stood still for butterflies. Oh the butterflies! They flew from no-telling-where to visit Mama’s flowers. Not since that summer have I witnessed such large and colorful insects. A stunning display of flowers and wings - for the inspection and delight of anyone who walked along our dirt driveway.

My job was to water Mama’s Zinnias - before they sprouted, after they sprouted and all the way through blooming. So that year, once a week, more when it was hot, I would drag the hose from behind the house and down the driveway, making a snake pattern in the dry silky dust. During watering, something magical happened to me. I was in charge! I could make it rain! With my thumb held just right on the end of the pipe, I could put on the most dazzling show. If the green wiggly hose was held just so in the sun and my thumb was in the perfect position, a rainbow would appear through the spray of water. Either a small shower or a mighty storm was at my command. And, oh, the rain-dancing I could do as I twirled the hose high above my head! After they bloomed, the flowers would seem to sway with me, bowing and begging for a drink.

Will my Zinnias be the same? Can I recapture that moment in time?

No. I cannot imagine that that joyful event - of running barefoot, back and forth on the dirt driveway when the Zinnias were in full bloom - could ever dare happen to me again on Earth. Moments like that must surely be part of the Glory of Heaven. A moment in time, forever gone, but lingering with me forever – a startling shock of color in my mind – an explosion of hues I had never seen before - a memory picture I will always carry with me. I don’t know why Mama chose to plant Zinnias only one year – maybe it was for me. Maybe, after all these years, as I struggle with sadness, suddenly alone and longing, on my knees in the dirt, she wants me to remember the gloriousness of that one summer and the things we take for granted that can never be duplicated or recaptured.

I hope my Zinnias make it. But I know that hoping they will be like Mama's is futile. It's the same as trying to recapture my very first taste of Coca Cola. Impossible, no matter how many swigs I take. I will not try to duplicate Mama's Zinnias or even hope for such a miracle. I will hope for butterflies to visit whatever pokes its head out of the ground and enjoy the memory of that Zinnia Summer.

Blessings!

Majo

Summer leaves me...

Summer Leaves…

Through my grief I watch
Summer
waving goodbye
too.
One by one
Leaves
fall to the ground.
some lingering…
as though Summer doesn’t really want to
Leave me

too…?

Majo

I Wait for God

On Thursday, March 20, 2008 at 9:57 pm, two became one. I was alone. My husband of many years took his last earthly breath and left me alone.

I move more cautiously now. I am more careful when coming down the stairs, when I walk down the sloping yard behind the house, when I drive the car….
It is painful to realize ALONE. It is a painful, sharp, and dull black hole kind of feeling.

I am trying to move on, as my family says I should, but I do not know what I am supposed to move TO.

Every day, without fail, I ask God to show me the way, to tell me what to do, as I seem to be paralyzed and do not know what to do by myself. At the end, my husband suffered a massive stroke. The same thing seems to have happened to me – in a different kind of way. I cannot seem to step out from underneath this heavy blanket of nothingness that has enclosed me.

Grief is not kind.

My physical body is not motionless. I am busy every day doing some kind of physical work, as I cannot sit inside this house and do nothing. But my mind and spirit remain almost numb and I feel so much heaviness in my chest.

And so, I wait for God…

Joanne Saxon Hill

Looking Back...

Looking Back...

When I was five, we moved to a little country town that had a big sign planted at the city limits just before you go over the railroad tracks. It read: “The biggest little town in Alabama.”

That sign confirmed my feeling that EVERYTHING was big when I was in the first grade. My school. The trees I hugged in my yard. (Yes, I used to hug the trees.) A big cedar tree in our side yard was my favorite. The bark was rough and prickly, but the tree smelled so good I could never resist pressing my nose against it. Try as I might, I could never get my arms all the way around it.

Yes - everything did seem large when I was five. Except one tiny girl in my class. Donna was no bigger than a minute. She didn’t look tall enough to be in in the first grade. Donna had a lot of purses and a watch with a safety chain on it. I thought she was rich.

One day after school, we went downtown. I don’t remember why. But there I was, walking past the town drugstore with my Daddy when I saw her through the window. Donna was sitting at the drugstore counter, her little birdlegs crossed and swinging from the barstool. One of her black Mary Jane shoes was dangling from her toes. She was looking at a magazine and sipping something from a straw. I guessed it was a chocolate milkshake. I stopped for a minute, even though Daddy was saying “Come on now – hurry up!”, and pressed my face against the window to get a better look. Donna never looked up so I could wave at her, but I was glad. I was like a big old floppy stringy-haired doll I had seen in a coloring book one time and Donna was like those girls Elvis Presley was always kissing.

It was one of those photographs you have filed away in your memory that looks that same every time you choose to recall it.

I went back to that little town the other day. My eyes searched for something familiar – the way a baby searches for faces in everything. We had moved from the “biggest little town” when I was in the third grade. I drove up and down all the roads around the school, but I never found that little house that used to be surrounded by cedar trees. I struggled to recall the route the schoolbus took to my house - to no avail. Everything seemed so tiny now – even the school that had been enlarged by at least ten other buildings. But altogether, the school did not appear as large as it did so many years ago when I walked up the steps through the front curved brick arches to the first grade – to a fresh sea of faces and voices that I still, unexpectedly sometimes, see and hear today...

Joy!

"Her Old Homeplace"

When I was a kid, we had a neighbor named Joy. Joy lived down the road, less than a mile from us, in a little white planked house with peeling paint. She lived very simply and only wanted two things that I ever heard her talk about. The first and most important thing she wanted was to go to Heaven. The second thing she wanted was to get bricks put on her little house. "Just like that third little pig," she would say. I loved her house the way it was - a safe haven for me when I felt so alone.

To this day, I have not found joy to match the warmth and delight I always saw in that sweet lady's face.

I was just a poor little kid and thought no one really cared about me. But Joy was always glad to see me. She spent a lot of time sitting on her couch by the front window, watching the cars go down our lonely little road. She would start waving when she saw me coming across her yard. “Hey!” she would holler, and come running out of her little house. “Guess what happened to me today?” she would ask, with her eyes sparkling. She always had a little story for me. One day an angel had visited her. One day she found a special beautiful leaf – it had floated right up to the window – and she claimed the Lord had sent it to her. She had it in her Bible. And one day she realized how blessed she was to have the view of a beautiful mountain in her own back yard. “The Lord has put me in this place”, she declared with a smile.

My Grandmother told me that Joy was not right in the head after her husband ran off with some old hussie, but I had never heard Joy talk about that. She seemed to be filled all the way to the top with happiness and when she talked it sounded like laughing spilling out of her mouth. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with Joy at all. I thought it would be nice to know a lot more people just like her.

One day, I walked down the road to her house. I was sixteen and I was running away to get married the next morning. No one knew what I was planning, but Joy was one of the people I wanted to see before I left my childhood behind. I walked across Joy’s yard and she immediately popped out of her little house. She had a lace tablecloth around her head and shoulders. With laughter spilling out of her sweet face, Joy exclaimed, “Look - I am the bride of the Lord Jesus Christ!”

I hugged Joy and said, “see you tomorrow” – but it would be many years before I saw her again.

One day, a few months ago, my two sisters and I drove up into the “country” to see our childhood home. We stopped at Joy’s house. She came spilling out to greet us. Time almost stood still and, for a moment, nothing seemed different except Joy’s pretty black hair had turned to silver. And - oh yes - her little house now had red bricks on it - all the way around!

With smiles and tears, we left, each of us carrying a batch of teacakes. As we backed out of the driveway, Joy came tottering across the yard again. “Thank you for coming to see me,” her laughing voice said. “I’m going to call everyone and tell them what happened to me today. I’m going to tell everyone about my blessing!”

It was my blessing too. Oh what a joy!

Pretty Things

"Autumn Dance"

When I was in the first grade, everything was a glorious wonder. The bells, the sound of chalk on the blackboard, the sound of laughter on the playground, the feel and smell of books and the smells of the lunchroom... I did not know how Heaven itself could be more amazing. It was too much to get my thoughts around. To add to the excitement, Dianne started coming to our school. Her Grandmother brought her and they showed up one day just before recess.

It was like Dianne had popped out of a book. Everything about her looked like a picture. The whole class stared as she hung by the door while her Grandmother talked to the teacher. Her Grandmother turned to leave and the teacher took Dianne’s hand to show her to her desk. Before our astonished eyes, Dianne kicked the teacher. Everyone sat up a little straighter. If I had done something like that, I would never have made it back to school the next day. My Daddy would have killed me.

We missed recess that day, but Dianne was better than recess. She pitched a fit every time her Grandmother brought her to school and tried to leave her. So the Grandmother would sit in the back of the classroom until it was time for us to go to the lunchroom. Then she would take Dianne home. I never understood why Dianne didn’t go to lunch with us. She might have liked school if she had tried that part. You could always have an extra piece of cake, if you cleaned your plate.

Dianne had long blonde hair, which she always wore in a ponytail. She had patent leather shoes with a strap that could go across the ankle or behind it. I would have worn the strap in the back. I loved shoes and wanted a strapless pair so bad I couldn’t stand it. But I had to make do with my tennie shoes that had a hole in each one right where the big toe was. Dianne also had a real grownup wristwatch. It had a tiny silver face with sparkly things all the way around. The strap was a fragile black cord. Sometimes Dianne wore a fuzzy pink sweater with pearl buttons. All those pretties were a sight to see.

Sometimes, after school, spinning around in the yard by myself, I would think about all the pretty things I would have when I was grown. My house would be filled with shoes and sweaters and watches. There would be stacks of presents everywhere and lots and lots of cake.

One morning Dianne and her Grandmother came into the classroom. All of a sudden, without even saying goodbye, the Grandmother left the room. All eyes turned to Dianne who was still standing by her desk, waiting for her Grandmother to go sit in the back of the room. She stood there for a minute and, all of a sudden, she threw herself down on the floor. Spinning in a circle on her side, she kicked the desks all around her. Papers were flying. Dianne was screaming and having a hissy fit like I had never seen. The principal came to get her. As he led her out of the room, Dianne turned to the class and smiled. I have never, to this day, seen anyone smile that big.

We never saw Dianne again.

I don’t know why she was always pitching such a fit – I would have wanted to go somewhere and show off all those pretty things.

How Far is Heaven?

"How Far is Heaven?"

The title of this painting is that of one of the first songs I remember hearing. I was a child, sitting in my little red and white up-holstered rocking chair. Beside me, on a table, was an old record player. I was mesmerized, watching the needle gently wave back and forth on the record. A woman was singing a very sad song. It seems that a little girl's Daddy had disappeared and her Mother told her he had gone to Heaven. An older woman sang the story part and, for the chorus, a little girl's voice would break in and ask the question, "How Far is Heaven?". When the song ended, I would get up get up from my little chair, and, standing on tiptoe, place the needle back at the beginning and listen again - and again - and again. That was probably the richest I will ever be.

This original acrylic miniature painting - 2.5 x 3.5 inches - is for that precious memory.

The Promise

Blue Moon

I was in the fourth grade. My Aunt and I were under the chinaberry tree in Grandmother’s front yard. I was fiddling with Aunt Dot’s watch and talking about how much I liked jewelry and all the kinds I was going to have when I was grown. Aunt Dot pulled her arm away from me and put her hands on her hips and said, “I tell you what - when you get to the seventh grade, I’m gonna buy you a birthstone ring.”

I was beside myself with joy.

“A real ring?” I asked her.

“Yes,” she said. “A real ring. Your birthstone”.

A real ring was one that was not adjustable. It was made to fit your finger. And I was going to have one. My Daddy took us to a church that didn’t allow you to wear jewelry or any such foolishness as that, so this was BIG.

My ring would be a sapphire. I couldn’t wait.

I entered the seventh grade. Days passed and I didn’t hear from Aunt Dot. Maybe she was going to show up at my school one day with a little box so everyone would see her give my ring to me. Or maybe she was going to wait until my birthday. September passed. Surely she was going to surprise me with my blue ring at Christmas. But I didn’t even see her at Christmas. The next time I did see her, I mentioned right away that I was in the seventh grade and changing classes and making all A’s on my report card. I searched her face. I didn’t see any recognition that she remembered her promise to me. And I could not be so bold as to remind her of her promise. My Daddy might find out and he would have whipped me for having no manners.

Years passed.

I was looking in my jewelry box the other day, arranging and rearranging my rows and rows and drawers of bling. Lots of rings. Lots of foolishness. But I’m positive, nothing in there is as shiny as the sparkle of that one blue stone would have been...

Coca Cola Doesn't Taste The Way It Used To...

Lollybump Bridge

Do you remember how Coca Cola tasted when you were a kid?

We never had drinks or snacks at my house when I was a child. To get a taste of Coca Cola was something just short of a miracle. As I type, I close my eyes and inhale, and I can almost get the sensation - the cold hot burn of icy Coke rushing past my startled tonsils and down my throat. Almost a sin, it was so good.

Try as I might, I have been unable to find a Coke that tastes just that way. I switched to Pepsi. Nothing. I drink a lot of carbonated beverages now. I think it is just a habit - I'm trying to recapture the sensation of that first taste...

I drove past my childhood home a few months ago. It looked so small. The long driveway that I used to run down barefoot, all year round, was just a pitiful winding long streak of dirt. I used to think it took forever to get to the mailbox.

My paintings come from my memories. No matter what the subject, there is a tiny piece of a memory or those I have loved tucked away inside the strokes. But I cannot capture it just the way it was...

Blessings to You and Those You Love!
Majo