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Mama and Me

This is Mama and me on Aunt Lois's flowered couch.

My Mama was killed in a car accident when she was thirty-seven.  I had just turned twenty.  

I have always felt robbed.  I can never remember a single time in my life when my Mama was holding me or hugging me.  This picture brings me a small bit of comfort.  She did hold me when I was a baby.  But maybe I should be mad when I look at this picture.  Since I don't remember Mama holding or hugging me, maybe she was holding me on Aunt Lois's flowered couch only because she had to.  After all, I was helpless.

I look closely at this photograph.  There is a bruise on Mama's left leg and I wonder what happened.  I wonder if she was kind of a klutz like me, always rushing around, trying to do everything at once, bumping into things, no matter how careful she tried to be.  

Mama had just washed her hair.  She always wore a head scarf when she had just washed and done her hair up in bobby pin pin-curls.  

I wonder if Aunt Lois knew how busy her livingroom looked - with all the different patterns on the couch and the floor and the curtains.  

Although I see patterns all around me, even in Mama's dress, and in a festively decorated Christmas tree in the corner, I see that I am wearing something colorless.  I am plain against a room of swirling colors and designs.  

The Christmas tree looks as though it is reaching out to Mama and me - reaching to annoint us with a touch. 

I look at Mama's arms wrapped around me.  I realize it actually looks more like she was holding on to herself...

To this day, I love a sofa with a floral design.

Blessings to you and yours!

GET ON UP, NOW!

(My Five Observations Regarding Mat Boy)

This is a sermon that has been stewing around in me for a while.

I hear so many people moan and complain and whine and carry on about what they don't have and what they wish they had and how all they need is a little of this and a little of that and what all they could have IF ONLY someone else or something else would help them or get out of their way....

In the book of John, fifth chapter, we meet a man who has been lying on his mat for THIRTY-EIGHT years.  

When we are introduced to him, the man is in the vicinity of the healing pool.
1.  Yep - what he needs is in the neighborhood.

Jesus asks him, "Do you want to get well?" 
2.  Hint - Hint - Significant Question:  "Do you WANT to get well?"

Guess what?  The man does NOT say "Yes!".  The man who has been on his mat for THIRTY-EIGHT YEARS starts whining - yes, whining.  He whimpers that there has been no one to help him pick up his mat and get into the pool of water. 
3.  Sound familiar?  Someone else should be helping him.

 He then states that no one will help him get into the pool when the "water is stirred".  
4.  Imagine that - he thinks he has to continue reclining, waiting for just the right moment to try to change his situation.

Further, Mat Boy complains that every time he tries to get into the water, someone or something gets in his way. 
5.   Help him, Jesus - It just wasn't his fault...

Jesus said to him, 

"GET UP!  PICK UP YOUR MAT AND WALK."

Jesus didn't say, "Here, let me help you up."  He also didn't say, "Let me help you with that nasty mat you've been wallowing on for thirty-eight years."  He also didn't say, "Let me stand here and listen to your list of excuses.  And, oh yeah, Jesus did not say, "You can leave that filthy mat for someone else to pick up and clean up."

He said:  "GET UP!  PICK UP YOUR MAT AND WALK."

I wasn't there, but I love to think that Jesus lost it and yelled "GET UP!" to the top of his lungs.

How badly do you want your situation to be changed?  Do you really want it to change? If yes, maybe you need to get up and do something.  If no, keep lying on your mat.  Maybe someone will bring you a cool one.  But I hope someone who loves you dearly will scream at you, "GET UP!"

Take a step on your own and watch what happens.



P.S.  If I had a church, I would do sermons like this - short and sweet and straight to the gut - and you could eat your Sunday fried chicken with something to think about.  Just sayin'...

Ankle Socks and a Johnny Cash Concert…

Today, as I pick at my writings, I am thinking of days gone by and those I miss the most.

I miss Uncle Cecil.

When I was a child, I was fascinated by the way Uncle Cecil put on his socks.  He wore those very thin white socks.  He would pull one all the way up his leg and then, in one fast motion, roll the sock down with the palms of his hands.  It made a fine thin roll at his ankle.  I tried doing that, recently, with one of my pricey trouser socks, and it didn't work as well.  Sock-rolling may be a lost art.

I also miss that, after Uncle Cecil would "take a drink" on Friday night, he would go to the livingroom, put a Johnny Cash album on the old record player, and sit on the sofa, alone, strumming his guitar along with Johnny.  I watched, mesmerized, from behind the door.   My own private Johnny Cash concert on Buttermilk Road in Anniston, Alabama.

Even though he isn't here anymore, Uncle Cecil lives on.  He told me some dandy stories before he went to meet Johnny and the Lord.

WHEN GRIEF COMES TO CALL…

Grief doesn’t come and go

He mostly stays.

He is like a stranger who comes to call.

A big nasty stranger with mud on his shoes.

Someone frightening – someone you would not normally let into your house.

But he doesn’t even ask - he opens the door and walks through you -

like in a nightmare.

He picks your favorite chair and props his feet on the coffee table.

You don’t like this uncomfortableness in your home

And hope this stranger will leave right away so you can get on with your chores.

But he moves in without even asking your permission

Claiming closets and bathrooms and dresser drawers and even your secrets.

Un-invited, he sits in the chair beside you

No matter which chair you choose.

He watches you undress.

He watches you eat.

He hears you laugh and rushes to make you bite your lip to stop.

He mocks you when you pray.

And he stays.

   

Sara Joanne Saxon Hill

September 28, 2009

Choices and Rules....

"My Flowers" - by Majo

Yesterday, I came out of Macy’s to hear a young mom ask a 

two-ish-year-old two questions:

1.  “Do you want to put on your hat?”  

(It was the kind of weather that requires a child to wear a hat)

2.  “Can you be calm?”

(The child seemed to be behaving very nicely.)

Funny – when I was a kid, I did not realize that I had an OPTION to (A) be calm, or to (B) act like a heathen.

The one thing I would wish for today’s young parents is that you would behave like a PARENT and not like you have to be your child’s best friend.  I think the best friend part is a given – you are required to be always be there for your child.  But being a good parent is different and carries a lot more responsibility.  There are rules you have to explain and enforce - whether you want to or not.   

I am speaking this on the authority of the Bible.  Dad and Mom are required to be in charge of their household.

In some things you don’t teach a CHOICE.  You teach the RULES.  You are responsible for teaching your child what is expected and what is necessary to get along in this society.

I realize that small ones are sometimes going to have melt-downs.  Children do that.  But if they are doing it a lot, ask yourself:  By giving them choices instead of rules, are YOU causing most of the melt-downs?

"Night Sail..."

"WAIT"

“Wait,” I begged.

“Wait just a little while. 

There is more I want to say to you. 

I have some things to show you!  

We have more things to do!”

But you paid no attention. 

You ignored me quietly and then curtly,

With your eyes fixed on something I could not see nor could I be a part of – yet.

You had something else to do and it could not wait for me.

Grandmother's New View...

Grandmother has a new view.  

I wonder...

When will I?

Blessings to all those who wonder....

Joanne

WRITE ON!

There is a debate going on about whether or not cursive handwriting should continue to be taught in schools.  Some teachers say that knowing how to type is more important these days.  Okay – I understand that.  At times, I am a “mad texter” myself.  I have always loved to type, and I do love the email!  But I do hope the teaching of cursive will not be discarded.  I believe penmanship is something that is part of our identity.  The way our handwriting looks tells a story about us – how we go about doing things….

In elementary school, just learning to write in cursive, we called it REAL writing.  If the teacher wanted sentences, a paragraph, or an essay, the question always came, “Do you want it in “real writing”?

I can remember the handwriting of some of my school chums from so many years ago!  I watched my left-handed friend hunched over her desk, carefully copying something from a textbook.  I was mesmerized by the careful movement and the perfect letters that came out of the awkward way she held her hand and pencil.  And the way the little boy I had a crush on crunched up his face as he wrote.  Looking over at his paper, I fancied I could see his facial expression in his handwriting!  When I helped the teacher, I knew whose test paper I held, without looking at the name.

Oh how I loved to watch my husband write his name!  The movements were as unique as he was.  The handwriting of my children makes me happy!  I remember my Mother’s small neat script…my Father’s scrawl.  I remember the handwriting of some of my teachers on the blackboard.  One teacher stood very close to the board and wrote hard and slowly - as though the chalk were going to jump out of his hand at any moment.  Then he went back to dot all the I’s and cross all the T’s as a final job.  He performed this task as though he were mad at the letters for needing something extra.  Another teacher wrote with a flourish and used lots of exclamation points after her flowing writing.  The handwriting style said so much about who they were…

I recently helped some elderly people shop for groceries.  I watched, as each person slowly and carefully signed their name in the electronic box at the check-out counter – in cursive.  I sensed that they wanted to write their names perfectly – it was as if they were positive their signature would be seen by everyone.  “This is who I am,” their slow, spidery, crawling penmanship said to the electronic box on the counter.

I love to write letters and receive letters.  But what is a handwritten letter unless it is in “real writing”?

What will happen if they stop teaching cursive writing in public schools?  Will this technique only be taught in college under a “Special Studies” curriculum?  Will we slowly become a culture that uses only electronic devices to communicate?  (Gee – I think I already know the answer to that.)

Will the love notes that I used to put in my husband’s lunch bag be unearthed and put in a museum someday, as a rare item – perhaps called a hieroglyphic?  (Uh – I hope not….blush)

Cursive penmanship makes me happy!  Perhaps something in real writing will be in the mailbox today!

D I V O R C E and a SUNTAN

The following is an excerpt from my book,
 "Golden Slippers".

A book about coming of age
in a Penecostal environment....

Chapter 16....

D I V O R C E  and a SUNTAN...

One Wednesday night, just before church, me and Shelly were sitting out in her daddy’s truck, minding our own business and listening to the radio. All of a sudden, real quick like, Patricia Elaine Duncan yanked the truck door open and said, “Yall move over.” Julie Ann, my smart-aleck little sister, was right behind her. We all squeezed together in the front seat. “I’m trying to get away from your stupid little sister, Molly,” Patricia said. “She is worrying me to death. Tell your little shit-ass sister to get lost.”


“I will not,” Julie Ann said. “I asked you a question, Patricia. Why are you orange?”

“You little shit-ass – I am not orange,” Patricia said.

But she was. Shelly and I were staring. Patricia's hands and face and especially her elbows and knees were a rusty colored orange.

Patricia waved her hand in the air. “This is a suntan,” she said. “I went to Florida last weekend with my daddy.”

Patricia’s mama, Teresa, and her daddy, Max, were divorced. They were just about the only divorced people we knew. Talking about divorce was kind of like talking about blaspheming the Holy Ghost. It was something we didn’t know much about, but we knew it was something you needed to be afraid of. When Teresa and Max got divorced, they had to put Patricia in the hospital for three solid days. The day her daddy left her mama, Patricia stopped eating and she cried so much they had to put her in the Mercer County hospital and feed her through her veins.

The next time I saw Patricia, after she got out of the hospital, she seemed happy as a pig in a mudhole. And she didn’t look like she had missed a meal since. After that, her mama and daddy kept her spoiled rotten because they were scared to death they were gonna kill her.

Patricia’s daddy, Max, would come over to her house to pick her up every other Friday at 5 o’clock sharp. Their weekends together sounded like Heaven to me. Max would take Patricia to restaurants and they would usually go to the picture show. Max would buy her all kinds of stuff she didn’t need. Patricia got to go to the beauty shop on a regular basis too. She had an appointment at Ozella’s Beauty Shop in Mercer County every other Saturday morning at ten o’clock. Patricia’s hair was short and shiny black. She wore it straight and it was just a little longer on the sides than it was in the back so it did a pretty little swing when she moved. She had a thin streak of blonde peroxided down the right side and she was just in the seventh grade. Patricia got a TEEN magazine every blessed month and she had picked the hairdo out of one of the magazines. Ozella fixed Patricia’s hair the exact same way as the picture.

“You big stupid liar,” Julie Ann said in a mean way to Patricia. “You are orange. What is that stuff you’ve got on?”

“Well, okay, if it's any of your beeswax, I’ve got on QT. It’s a lotion that’s supposed to make you look like you’ve been to the beach,” Patricia finally admitted so Julie Ann would shut up. You couldn’t get away from Julie Ann once she started in on you.

Patricia had gone to Carrollton, Georgia to spend the weekend with her daddy and he had given her twenty dollars and she spent it all at the West Georgia drugstore. That’s where she got the QT.

Patricia was always telling us that her daddy and mama were going to get back together someday because they still loved each other. She told over and over about the time her daddy came over to pick her up and he came inside the house to talk to Teresa. “My mama was crying when my daddy left that day,” Patricia informed us. “And it wasn’t because she was mad at my daddy. It was because she is in love with my daddy. And while he was there, I saw him, with my own eyes, put a band-aid on a little bitty ole cut on my mama’s finger and it didn’t even need a band-aid. So, they still love each other,” she said smugly. “And I’m gonna to see to it that my daddy moves back in with us when the time is right.”

All I know is that Patricia Elaine Duncan could get away with more stuff than you could shake a stick at. One time she shaved all her eyebrows off and painted them back on with an eyebrow pencil. She looked downright scary. I asked her what her mama said about it. Patricia said her mama didn’t say anything except to remark that one of the eyebrows was crooked so she had to wipe it off and start all over again....

Sara Joanne Saxon Hill

Golden Slippers

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