Beards and Such

When I was down south, my neice, a beautiful lady, bemoaned that she sees her great grandmother when she looks in the mirror. "Of all the relatives I could look like, why XXXX?"

True enough, XXXX wasn't the prettiest chick at the SonLight Center for Seniors, but before my neice pointed it out, I'd never thought about XXXX's looks, or her beard. As my neice told the similarities between the two of them, my brother piped in with a slice of advice. My neice of course doesn't have a beard, but just in case she followed in XXXX's footsteps, Michael told her, "Just stay clean shaven."

Females and clean shaven in the same paragraph, let alone the same sentence, are grounds for alarm.

As I've told you, my mother, grandmother and I were in a car accident. It was a cultural experience, the whole ordeal. Unfortunately the following tale doesn't capture the normal clean- shaven folk who stopped to offer assistance. There were some wonderful kind normal people at the scene, but as you know, wonderful kind normal people aren't interesting to write about. It's the other kind that practically grab my pen and scream, "write about me, write about me."

After I pushed the car up the mountain and onto the shoulder yelling, "Get your foot off the break Mama," I collapsed on the side of the road. ("Collapsed," sounds so dramatic, which is precisely what I want, but honesty dictates that I express that I really just laid down. My head felt like it was about to blow off. I simply wanted to get horizontal. But that sounds so boring, whereas collapsed sounds nice and action-filled.)

Mama and Memaw, both clean shaven, were getting all the attention. I was fine with that, really I was. I just wanted to be horizontal and under most circumstances, I don't like being horizontal with onlookers.

As people huddled around Mom and Memaw, the tiny crowd made it impossible for some to get up-close and personal with the injured. That's when I was noticed. I pulled myself - hurting head and all - into an upright position. (Where I come from, public horizontal women are tramps and I was plenty well enough to remember that detail.)

"Are you okay, are you okay?" I lifted my eyes to the voice and looked directly at the most harry woman I've ever seen. I was speechless. She had a full beard that she hadn't shaven in a few days. I am not talking a few stray facial hairs. Picture your husband, son, father, or Arnold Schwatzenegger having missed 3 or 4 dates with a razor.

"Are you okay?," she asked again. It was at the point I realized my mouth was agape and I was staring, and probably looked like I was in shock. I was in shock, but not the medical kind. I told her I was okay, I just had a headache and a bruise on my leg, which was now the size of a tennis ball. She asked about my headache, where it hurt, etc and then told me my blood pressure was probably high and that I might be on the verge of a heart attack or stroke. "I know a man who said he was okay after a wreck on 246 and that night he was dead as a hammer. Heart attack!"

"No really, I think I'm okay," I offered.

"Yeah, Harold said the same thing," she replied.

My head hurt. I didn't want to continue the conversaiton. Enter another concerned citizen. "Are you okay?" "Yes, I'm fine," blah, blah, blah. Then she introduced me to the onlookers, - complete with handshakes and all. "This is Jerry, he's cousins with Jim over there." Jerry came and shook hands and I smiled and said, "Nice to meet you Jerry, I'm Valerie."

One by one she told me who everyone was, how she knew them, and a few of the family secrets represented in the group. The tiny crowd left me for more action by Mama and Memaw. The family-and-friend-reunion lady stayed to keep me company.

After offering me a drink of her Dr Pepper, she told me in detail how she came to be part of our little conflab. Now none of this made any sense to me then or now, but she said she was at the bottom of the hill directing traffic with a flag. She had to pee, but no one was there to take her flag, "So I wet myself. Don't you just hate it when you wet yourself?"

I affirmed her, yes I too hated wetting myself in public.

My head was throbbing and my bruise continued to grow, but I wasn't in too bad shape to think, I've got to remember to write this down. This is crazy! A bearded woman, heart attack, formal introductions with the gawkers, and now talking about wetting yourself in public as if it's normal!

By now my stepdad was at the scene. As I walked to the truck, the bearded lady rejoined me. She told me I needed to get my leg - the bruise and swelling were quite impressive by now - looked at. I told her I was pretty sure it was just a bruise. "Well you'd better have it looked at still. If a blood clot sets in, you might lose your leg."

I thanked her for her kindness and climbed into the truck feeling somehow richer having experienced life of the shoulder of Hwy 71.

A Christian Affair?

If you read this blog, you may have already deduced that I grew up in a Christian fundamentalist home. (Recently I heard someone say that radical Christian fundamentalism is no less dangerous than radical Islamic fundamentalism. I've been chewing on that and I've decided I agree.)

To share a story that reveals some of the fundamentalism still flowing through the bloodlines, I want to share a line from my niece. Mind you, it was all a joke, but it's a joke only someone with fundamentalist exposure would make.

We learned about a person we know who was having an affair. It was a sad story, and we were all deeply sobered by it. But we, as dysfunctional as it may be, sooth our pain with laughter. As we learned the few sordid details that were told, we were all on brief downers.

My niece Misty knew just how to bring us out of the funk that had descended. "You know it's not even like he's having an affair with a good Christian girl. Think about it. If they get married they will be unequally yoked."

My Niece Misty

Misty and Baby Bear
December 2005

On my last blog about Stephanie, Misty jokingly commented that I suggest to her mom that she write something about Misty. Well, when I read that, I immediately thought of a few things that could be said by an aunt. Her mom, my sister, would have many more good stories, but I have a sweet memories myself.

The first time I remember seeing Misty I was struck by her chunky little body -- blue eyes, bald head with a fuzz of blond, and stocky features. Yes, there was a time, long ago, when Misty was on the chunky side. And, if I recall correctly, she weighed 9.3 when she was born. Hard to believe, eh?

I use to go spend a month with them in the summer. I was a young teenager and since Diane is years and years and years older than me and already had a family, my summer vacation always consisted of going to my much, much older sister's house. I never knew then just how much of a treat that was; I think I thought that was what everyone did. Now I realize how special it was.

Misty would have been about 9 months old the first time I was around her for any length of time. I remember how cute she was. One particular thing that I still recall with clarity is her lining her stuffed animals in the window ledge and saying "Dada, Dada" over and over. Her game with the stuffed animals went on long enough for me to go get a camera and take a picture of her.
The other thing I remember from that trip was her screaming with ferocity "NOOOOOOO" when her brothers wrestled. She was adamant in her demanding they stop.

Misty was the youngest with 3 older brothers. As I recall, she wasn't super-girly, more tomboyish. She did like to dress up and boy could she ever pull off some frightening combinations. I remember her putting on black pants, a pink Harley t-shirt, and long knitted gloves. She stood at the top of the stairs and got our attention to look up. She rounded the corner with a huge smile and proudly declared, "TaaDaa" with arms outstretched like a model. Diane about had a canniption with Misty's get-up.

Once when Stephanie and Christopher were playing with the Shreve kids, Misty ran into the house excitedly tattling on Ben. "Mom, Mom, Ben said the F word." I was startled because my darlings were being corrupted by their cousins and Diane was even more startled that her son was the corrupter. We both swallowed hard and Diane forced out, "what did you say?" Misty said it again with tremendous animation, "He said the F word!" Diane breathed deeply and as she collected her thoughts, Misty upped the ante by saying the "bad" word. "Ben said fart!" Diane and I let out a collective sigh. And suddenly "fart" didn't seem like a bad word anymore.

Misty liked to make statements, weird statements, with her hair. She had this one doo that consisted of putting in as many elastics as her thin hair would hold. Her hair looked like a matted mess of horns. She always stomped with a sigh when told to "take those out of your hair and brush it."

I moved away when Misty was 9 or 10, so unfortunately my memories end at about that time. But now when I see her I'm very struck by her carefree lifestyle, her enchanting laugh, her eyes that sparkle with joy. I understand that she has "another" side, sort of a dramatic display of emotions when things are a bit challenging. I'm glad to know it. It just wouldn't be fair for someone to always be enchanting. Misty is open, really really open, more open than me or any of her aunts, uncles, or parents. She's very fun to be around. She has a great sense of humor and always has an opinion.

There's more to Misty than I could possibly know, but I'm glad for the sweet memories of her youth that I do have. Miles and miles are between us, but it's cool every time I'm around her to reconnect. She's a sweetie.

So Misty, when I read your comment, being one who likes memories to be put in writing, I thought I'd say a line or two about my memories of you. I know I'll think of a ton more as soon as I publish this blog as that is the nature of this hobby. My last trip home was made more delightful by my visits with you and Clay and those sweet babies. I'm happy to see the woman you've become. I love you Misty and think you are very special. Bohemian is a word to describe you.

And just for the record folks, my sister Diane is only 8 years older than me. I sort of exaggerated earlier. And for the record you folks who want my recollection of memories on "you," it's only a request away. Since I know you would all feel self conscious asking, how about we use a code word. Just comment the word "sassafrass" and I'll start recalling. Why sassafrass? Just because I think it's the prettiest word in the English language.