ReBlogs: Simply Cappy (Sept 11, 2015): Sackcloth and Ashes

On this eleventh morning of September, we Americans turned off alarm clocks, got out of bed, put on the coffee, did morning rituals and perhaps at some point perhaps we glanced at a calendar.

That is when we recalled exactly where we were and what we were doing at 8:46 a.m. fourteen years ago. It is when we remembered exactly how we felt when we learned of the terrorists' attacks on the World Trade Center. That is when we experienced, just as we did for thirteen previous years, the same sickening feeling in our bellies, the fears, the helplessness, the unbridled anger. 

It has been a very long fourteen years.

That day made such a profound change, whether needed or not, in all of our lives. Every day since has made us look at life in a different way. Nothing will ever again be the same for any one of us. How then, do we deal with the effects of 9/11 as it pertains to us on a personal level in 2015?

Read the remainder of Cappy's essay.

Cappy Hall Rearick is a columnist, humorist and is the author a dozen books, including The Road to Hell is Seldom Seen, 50 Shades of Southern and Hey God ... Let's Talk: Days of Our Lives.  She has stories in several editions of the Not Your Mother's Book series and she writes regularly for Writer Beat, After Fifty Living, and others.  

Let There Be Light!

Last year, Babe got it into his head to buy a pre-lighted artificial Christmas tree.

“They’re much better than live trees, he said, “and they don’t leave needles all over the floor."

“There’s no substitute for fresh greens,” I pouted. He rolled his eyes.

I know Babe loves me, but he loves a good buy even more. Bargain driven, he can sniff one out from fifty miles away. Babe went whole hog into bird dog mode so that he and Mr. Google could go hunting. I shook my head and disappeared into the kitchen. 

My hands were buried in a bowl of fruitcake batter when he shouted, “Great Jumping Jingle Bells! I’ve found it!”

Costco had the best price but we would need to drive down to Jacksonville on Black Friday when no sane person can be found anywhere near a big box store. He didn’t care. 

He insisted we go together, the island causeway gridlock notwithstanding. A Category 5 hurricane evacuation would have gone more smoothly. “The traffic’s terrible. Let’s just buy a live tree like we’ve done every other year,” I whined.

He rolled his eyes again. “Not big enough.”

“Babe, we’re not the couple living in the White House.”

He said our 18 feet tall vaulted ceiling required an extra tall tree. “Last year,” he reminded me with a snide, know-it-all expression on his face, “you bought a piddly little six-foot live tree that looked like it had been in a war zone.”

He was right. The tree looked so pitiful and forlorn that we left it up until after Valentine’s Day so it wouldn’t go to the shredder with an inferiority complex. 

As soon as we got inside Cosco, Babe spied his prey. “There it is,” he said breathlessly. “Our tree. Is it magnificent or what?”

I looked up and up and up. “It’s too tall, Babe. How will we ever get an angel up there?”

He stared at me like I had been sampling bourbon-laced eggnog. “While it is true that it is tall, I am sure it will fit perfectly in the middle of our living room. Besides, if we buy it today, we’ll save eighty bucks on shipping.”

I turbo sigh. “Woohoo. Just buy the thing and let’s get out of here.” I glanced behind him. “Babe, do you remember when we were outside in the parking lot and you snuck the car into that parking space you said had your name on it?” 

He nodded his head, obviously more interested in gazing at Paul Bunyan’s answer to Fa-La-La than any discussion about parking lots.

“Well,” I whispered, “the woman who was patiently waiting on the space you stole is standing right behind you now, and she is not ho-ho-ho-ing.”  

He spun around and came nose to nose with a woman shaped like a Humvee who was toting a pocketbook the size of a BarkaLounger. If she had pulled out an AK-47 and started shooting, I would have been the only one in the store to see it coming.

Babe turned to me and whispered, “I’ll pay for the tree. You drive the getaway car.”  

Five hours later we arrived home with our direct from China Christmas tree in two boxes, each one equal to the size and weight of a Volkswagen. We somehow managed to get them unboxed and assembled into one 16-foot tall tree, complete with 2,500 pre-strung lights. Our chiropractor is our new BFF.

When finally the tree was up and plugged in, the living room lit up enough to cause corneal damage. Rockefeller Center’s Christmas tree has never been so bright. If the Rockettes had popped in for some liquid holiday cheer, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

We had a few chilly nights during the holidays so we doused all the lamps and got up close and personal with those 2,500 Chinese Christmas tree lights. Andy Williams crooned sappy songs while we pretended we were in Rockefeller Center sipping hot buttered rum and watching the skaters. I snuggled close to Babe in a genuine Kumbaya moment and before long felt the spirit of Christmas down to my toes.

“Admit it,” Babe touted. “Artificial trees are better than live ones.” He was about to add, Didn’t I tell you? 

Before he could form the words, I said, “We’ll talk about it in January after the electric bill for those 2,500 lights arrives. Meanwhile, I should make another batch of bourbon eggnog. When the Rockettes show up, they’ll be plenty thirsty.”

Merry Christmas Y’all!

~~Cappy Hall Rearick

Cappy is a columnist, humorist and is the author a dozen books, including the novel, The Road to Hell is Seldom Seen.  She has stories in several editions of the Not Your Mother's Book series and she writes regularly for Writer Beat, After Fifty Living, and others.  Check out her website: www.simplysoutherncappy.com

My “Fair” Lady

Today is my mother’s birthday and if she were alive, she would be ninety-nine years old. I am the self-appointed sentry of her memory and I think about her often as I safeguard bits and pieces of our life together. So many things remind me of the years she spent as my mother.

The South Carolina town where I grew up hosted the county fair each year. In late October or early November The Dixieland Carnival Company brought a parade of carnival rides, game booths and greasy foods up from Florida for the week. Because Daddy was a policeman, over the years he met many of the “carnies” and their families. When the midway was finally set up with tents and all manner of sucker booths, Daddy and Bernie the Bingo Man would shake hands and recharge a once-a-year acquaintance.

It was advantageous for fair folks to be on the good side of the local law and bribery was sometimes attempted, but declined by Daddy. Mama, however, was a fool for games of chance, so Bernie the Bingo Man would give her free Bingo tokens. Over time, Bernie and his wife Ava became real friends of my parents.

She was a tiny little thing, as was I back in the day, so Ava brought me her upscale hand-me-downs. She was heavy into black and totally nuts for spike-heeled shoes. Bling was her thing. 

One particular October, smack in the middle of my teenagery, I had a brush with glamour gone wild, thanks to Ava. Her hand-me-downs hugged my body as though made for me. I felt like a fashionista long before there was such a word. 

I put on her black silk blouse one day, and with trembling fingers fastened the showy rhinestone buttons. I stepped into Ava’s tight fitting red satin skirt and slipped my feet into her red sling-back high heels. Delicious!

While gazing at my reflection, I had a strong suspicion that something wasn’t quite up to code with my overall look. That something turned out to be my eyes. 

It was 1956 and I was sixteen. I may have curled my eyelashes every now and then, but eyeliner? Mascara? Not yet! On the other hand she maintained a box full of cosmetics on her dressing table. So for the next hour, I went through that box like Sherman through Atlanta. 

At last satisfied with my new look, I gingerly descended the stairs wearing Ava’s slinky clothes and her spike-heel shoes.

“I’m going to the teen dance at the church,” I said. “See y’all later.”

My mother looked up from the dress she’d been hemming, one of the many creations she often made for her only daughter. I’ll never forget the expression on her face. 

She didn’t say a word but her open mouth resembled a wide-mouth bass. 

Daddy had been reading the newspaper. When he looked up to say goodbye, the ragged breath he took sounded like an advanced case of emphysema. 

They both must have wondered why the voice of the hussy standing before them sounded so much like their daughter. They both stared at me.

Perspiration collected under my armpits and all I could think about was the sweat stains that could ruin Ava’s silk blouse. Just at that moment, the strap on my left shoe slipped off my heel and both legs began to wobble like they had been programmed. 

“Well, okay then. I’m off. See y’all later.” I wobbled toward the door but my fake bravado embarrassed even me.

Mama, having finally found her voice, cleared her throat.  “Uh-uhhh. You’re not going anywhere looking like a streetwalker, young lady. You just march yourself back upstairs and put on some decent clothes.”

How could she not like my new look? 

“Ava gave me these clothes, and she’s not a streetwalker. Or is she?”

Mama sighed. Daddy coughed. 

“No, Ava is not a streetwalker. She’s a very nice thirty-five year old carnie and carnival people like to dress ... loud. We don’t. You don’t. So get your fanny back up those stairs and take off those clothes.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Why should I,” I sassed. 

“Because I am your mother and I said so. That’s why.” 

The following autumn when the County Fair came to town, Ava brought me a light blue cashmere sweater set. Mama oohed and ahhed. I don’t believe she had ever seen cashmere up close. 

When I wore it the first time, she smiled. “Don’t you look sweet … just like a teenager.” 

~~Cappy Hall Rearick

Cappy is a columnist, humorist and is the author a dozen books, including the novel, The Road to Hell is Seldom Seen.  She has stories in the latest editions of the Not Your Mother's Book series and she writes regularly for Writer Beat, After Fifty Living, and others.  Check out her website: www.simplysoutherncappy.com

A Long Time Ago Is Just Down the Street

“If you want me just whistle. You know how to whistle don't you? 

Just put your lips together and blow.”― Lauren Bacall in “To Have and To Have Not”

When October sunsets begin to slide through leafless trees, and late afternoon breezes whistle through skinny tree branches, I am transported back to my hometown in South Carolina. 

Spiraling smoke climbs from the Thompson’s backyard and my nose stings from the lingering smell of burning leaves. I scarcely notice either the nose-sting or the burning leaves because leaf-burning is as normal as grits in my neighborhood. It is what everyone does in October.

As I ride my bike down the block, I see my friend Phyllis sweeping the driveway to earn her weekly allowance of two dollars. Her daddy is stuffing raked leaves into a wire basket to be burned Saturday morning when he’s off work and his teenage sons don’t have football practice.

I join a bunch of my friends and we chat about homework assignments, the cute boy who recently moved to town from Charleston, the latest Revlon lipstick color, my new pair of Weejuns and who we are planning to invite to the Sadie Hawkins Day Dance. We flap our hands a lot.

Before long, I hear the sound for which I have been half-listening. No, it’s not the musical tones of a cell phone interrupting our girly chatter. It is much too early in the century for microchips and fiber optics to govern almost all aspects of our lives. We can only pick up a heavy black telephone an) to say, “Number, please?” Touch-tone phones are light years away from discovery by the brainiacs at Southern Bell. Cell phones? Get serious.

Upon hearing the first sound, my friends and I stop talking and hand-gesturing in order to listen for the second one: my daddy’s whistle. It is his signal telling me to come home for supper.

All of the neighborhood fathers whistle for their kids to come home, and each whistle is different. With two fingers in his mouth, my daddy rolls up his tongue and then blows through his fingers. His whistle is unique. It has its own timbre and gains in pitch as it reaches a final crescendo. 

“Whew-a-WHEW!” No problem hearing it even a block away.

Daddy whistles twice, allowing about ten minutes in between for my brother and me to finish up whatever we are doing. After the second signal, he expects us to be on the way home. At that time of day, we are both hungry enough to jump on our bikes and get there by the time supper is on the table.

The crisp autumn weather often puts Mama in the mood to make a huge pot of chili and a full steamer of rice. She bakes corn muffins, too. My brother and I drink milk with our chili supper. We pour it from quart bottles that our milkman, Mr. Sanders, leaves by our front door before the morning sun comes up. 

We layer our corn muffins with Aunt Polly’s country butter ~ a sweet, slightly tart taste about which Land O’Lakes can only dream. 

After supper, Mama and Daddy retreat to the living room where they sit quietly reading the day’s newspaper. My brother and I remain in the kitchen to do the dishes while trying not to kill or permanently disfigure each other.

It is a ritual, an evening regimen played out by our Southern family of four. It is how we close the door on each day. It may not be what other families do, but it suits us. We say grace before eating supper; my brother washes the dishes and I dry and put them away; Mama and Daddy read the paper and don’t talk much.  

Our ritual begins with Daddy’s whistle.

No doubt cell phones provide a far better form of communication between parent and child in today’s world where everyone seems to be on the fast-track to somewhere. Immediate contact capability has proven to be invaluable. But back in the day, there was a much simpler signal that sent a message of home to me. It began when October sunsets slid through leafless trees and late afternoon breezes announced a change of seasons, or when a nip in the autumn air makes me think of chili and corn muffins.

That is when I listen for a long ago, “Whew-a-WHEW!” 

~~Cappy Hall Rearick

Cappy is a columnist, humorist and author.  She has stories in the two latest editions of the Not Your Mother's Book series....On Parenting and On Home Improvement...and she writes regularly for Writer Beat, After Fifty Living, and others.  Check out her website: www.simplysoutherncappy.com